fcr-3 1B1 T*! CISl ■ ■■■■■ in'n .JH& -^Wi. »*sV*!r-"?B:: .e.'Sfc r"ijk.< C^.^J-'JIM.. :r^.:--:is:.„.t,„-;v#. S#E£!KS33iviK; b^S M ^^Sl^^r CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY GIFT OF THE HART MEMORIAL LIBRARY Cornell University Library PN 6013.L69 1896 Library of the world's best literature, a 3 1924 009 055 306 Cornell University Library The original of tiiis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924009055306 C^^f^ &\^cjuu^ fy2^ CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER PirOTOGRAVURE — FROM LiFE. LIBRARY OF THE WORLD'S BEST LITERATURE ANCIENT AND MODERN CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER EDITOR HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE LUCIA GILBERT RUNKLE GEORGE HENRY WARNER ASSOCIATE EDITORS Special Edition FORTY-SIX VOLUMES VOL. I. ^^^^mu,u,,^ NEW YORK ,^<;.; "-'"..,.,__ '%^ THE INTERNATIONAL SOCIETY >/ '" \ ^ I' i <■ Copyright 1896 By R. S. Peale and J. A. Hill All rights Reserved PREFACE Jhe plan of this Work is simple, and yet it is novel. In its dis- tinctive features it differs from any compilation that has yet been made. Its main purpose is to present to American households a mass of good "reading. But it goes much beyond this. For in selecting this reading it draws upon all literatures of all time and of every race, and thus becomes a conspectus of the thought and intellectual evolution of man from the beginning. Another and scarcely less important purpose is the interpretation of this literature in essays 'by scholars and authors competent to speak with authority. The title, "A Library of the World's Best Literature," is strictly descriptive. It means that what is offered to the reader is taken from the best authors, and is fairly representative of the best literature and of all literatures. It may be important historically, or because at one time it expressed the thought and feeling of a nation, or because it has the character of universality, or because the readers of to-day will find it instructive, entertaining, or amusing. The Work aims to suit a great variety of tastes, and thus to commend itself as a household companion for any mood and any hour. There is no intention of presenting merely a mass of historical material, however important it is in its place, which is commonly of the sort that people recommend others to read and do not read themselves. It is not a library of reference only, but a library to be read. The selections do not represent the partialities and prejudices and culti- vation of any one person, or of a group of editors even; but, under the necessary editorial supervision, the sober judgment of almost as many minds as have assisted in the preparation of these volumes. By this method, breadth of appreciation has been sought. The arrangement is not chronological, but alphabetical, under the names of the authors, and, in some cases, of literatures, and special cv IV subjects. Thus, in each volume a certain variety is secured, the heaviness or sameness of a mass of antique, classical, or mediaeval material is avoided, and the reader obtains a sense of the varieties and contrasts of different periods. But the work is not an encyclo- pasdia, or merely a dictionary of authors. Comprehensive information as to all writers of importance may be included in a supplementary reference volume; but the attempt to quote from all would destroy the Work for reading purposes, and reduce it to a herbarium of specimens. In order to present a view of the entire literary field, and to make these volumes especially useful to persons who have not access to large libraries, as well as to treat certain literatures or subjects when the names of writers are unknown or would have no sigjnificance to the reader, it has been found necessary to make groups of certain nationalities, periods, and special topics. For instance, if the reader would like to know something of ancient and remote literatures which cannot well be treated under the alphabetical list of authors, lie will find special essays by competent scholars on the Accadian- Babylonian literature, on the Egyptian, the Hindu, the 'Chinese, the Japanese, the Icelandic, the Celtic, and others, followed by selections many of which have bpen specially translated for this Work. In these literatures names of ascertained authors are given in the Index. The intention of the essays is to acquaint the reader with the spirit, purpose, and tendency of these writings, in order that he may have .a comparative view of the continuity of thought and the value of tradition in the world. Some subjects, like the Arthurian Legends, the Nibelungen Lied, the Holy Grail, Provengal Poetry, the Chansons -and Romances, and the Gesta Romanorum, receive a similar treat- ment. Single poems upon which the authors' title to fame mainly -.rests, familiar, and dear hymns, and occasional and modern verse of -value, are also grouped together under an appropriate heading, with reference in the Index whenever the poet is known. It will thus be evident to the reader that the Library is fairly comprehensive and representative, and that it has an educational value, while offering constant and varied entertainment. This com- prehensive feature, which gives the Work distinction, is, however. supplemented by another of scarcely less importance; namely, the critical interpretive and biographical comments upon the authors and their writings and their place in literature, not by one mind, or by a small editorial staff, but by a great number of writers and scholars, specialists aiid literary critics, who are able to speak from knowledge and with authority. Thus the Library becomes in a way representa- tive of the scholarship and wide judgment of our own time. But the essays have another value. They give information for the guidance of the reader. If he becomes interested in any selections here given, and would like a fuller knowledge of the author's works, he can turn to the essay and find brief observations and characterizations which will assist him in making his choice of books from a library. The selections are made for household and general reading ; in the belief that the best literature contains enough that is pure and ele- vating and at the same time readable, to satisfy any taste that should be encouraged. Of course selection implies choice and exclusion. It is hoped that what is g^ven will be generally approved; yet it may well happen that some readers will miss the names of authors whom they desire to read. But this Work, like every other, has its necessary limits; and in a general compilation the classic writings, and those productions that the world has set its seal on as among the best, must predominate over contemporary literature that is still on its trial. It should be said, however, that many writers of pres- ent note and popularity are omitted simply for lack of space. The editors are compelled to keep constantly in view the wider field. The general purpose is to give only literature; and where authors are cited who are generally known as philosophers, theologians, pub- licists, or scientists, it is because they have distinct literary quality, or because their influence upon literature itself has been so profound that the progress of the race could not be accounted for without them. These volumes contain not only or mainly the literature of the past, but they aim to give, within the limits imposed by such a view, an idea of contemporary achievement and tendencies in all civilized countries. In this view of the modern world the literary product of America and Great Britain occupies the largest space. VI It should be said that the plan of this Work could not have been carried out without the assistance of specialists in many departments of learning, and of writers of skill and insight, both in this country and in Europe. This assistance has been most cordially given, with a full recognition of the value of the enterprise and of the aid that the Library may give in encouraging and broadening literary tastes. Perhaps no better service could be rendered the American public at this period than the offer of an opportunity for a comprehensive study of the older and the greater literatures of other nations. By this comparison it can gain a just view of its own literature, and of its possible mission in the world of letters. CJy^AJ. THE ADVISORY COUNCIL CRAWFORD H. TOY, A. M., LL. D., Professor of Hebrew, Harvard University, Cambridge, Mass. THOMAS R. LOUNSBURY, LL. D., L. H. D., Professor of English in the Sheffield Scientific School of Yale University, New Haven, Conn. WILLIAM M. SLOANE, Ph. D., L. H. D., ! Professor of History and Political Science, Princeton University, Princeton, N, J. BRANDER MATTHEWS, A. M., LL. B., Professor of Literature, Columbia University, New York City. JAMES B. ANGELL, LL. D., President of the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, Mich. WILLARD FISKE, A. M., Ph. D., Late Professor of the Germanic and Scandinavian Languages and Literatures, Cornell University, Ithaca, N. Y. EDWARD S. HOLDEN, A. M., LL. D., Director of the Lick Observatory, and Astronomer, University of California, Berkeley, Cal. ALCEE FORTIER, Lit. D., Professor of the Romance Languages, Tulane University, New Orleans, La. WILLIAM P. TRENT, M. A., Dean of the Department of Arts and Sciences, and Professor of English and History, University of the South, Sewanee, .Tenn. PAUL SHORE Y, Ph. D.. Professor of Greek and Latin Literature, University of Chicago, Chicago, 111. WILLIAM T. HARRIS, LL. D., United States Commissioner of Education, Bureau of Education, Washington, D. C. MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN, A. M., LL. D., Professor of Literature in the Catholic University of America, Washington, D. C. NOTE OF ACKNOWLEDGMENT ^wiNG to the many changes in the assignment of topics and engaging of writers incident to so extended a publication, as the Library of the World's Best Literature, the Editor finds it impossijjle, before the completion of the work, adequately to recognize the very g^eat aid which he has received from a large ftumber of persons. A full list of contributors will be given in one of the concluding volumes. He will expressly acknowledge also his debt to those who have assisted him editorially, or in other special ways, in the preparation of these volumes. Both Editor and Publishers have endeavored to give full credit to every author quoted, and to accompany every citation with ample notice of copyright ownership. At the close of the work it is their purpose to express in a more formal way their sense of obligation to the many publishers who have so courteously given permission for this use of their property, and whose rights of ownership it is intended thoroughly to protect. !■ i ■ ^.— d o I- o z X u} 5 OS UJ (£ o Z o o UJ I IX TABLE OF CONTENTS VOL. 1 LIVED PAGE Ab^LARD and H^LO'lSE IO79-II42 I'/ BY THOMAS DAVIDSON Letters of Heloise to Abelard Abelard's Answer to Heloise Vesper Hymn of Abelard Edmond About 1828-1885 34 The Capture ('The King of the Mountains') Hadgi-Stavros (same) The Victim () The Man Without a Country (same) Accadian-Babylonian and Assyrian Literature 51 by crawford h. toy Theogony Adapa and the Southwind Revolt of Tiamat Penitential Psalms Descent to the Underworld Inscription of Sennacherib The Flood Invocation to the Goddess The Eagle and the Snake Beltis The Flight of Etana Oracles of Ishtar of Arbela • The God Zu An Erechite's Lament Abigail Adams 1744-1818 84 by lucia gilbert runkle Letters — To her Husband: May 24, 1775; June 15, 1775; June 18, 1775; Nov. 27, 1775; April 20, 1777; June 8, 1779 To her Sister: Sept. 5, 1784; May 10, 1785; July 24, 1784; June 24, 1785 To her Niece LIVED PAGE Henry Adams 1838- no Auspices of the War,, of 18 12 (< History of the United States >) What the War of 181 2 Demonstrated (same) Battle between the Constitution and the Guerriere (same) John Adams 173S-1826 127 At the French Court (< Diary >) Character of Franklin (Letter to the Boston Patriot) John Quincy Adams 1767-1848 135 Letter to his Father, at the Age of Ten From the Memoirs, at the Age of Eighteen From the Memoirs, Jan. 14, 1831; June 7, 1833; Sept. 9, 1833 The Mission of America (Fourth of July Oration, 1821) The Right of Petition (Speech in Congress) Nullification (Fourth of July Oration, 1831) Sarah Flower Adams 1805-1848 146 He Sendeth Sun, He Sendeth Shower Nearer, My God, to Thee Joseph Addison 1672-1719 149 by hamilton wright mabie Sir Roger de Coverley at the Play (The Spectator) Visit to Sir Roger de Coverley (same) Vanity of Human Life (same) Essay on Fans (same) Hymn, (same) .^lianus Claudius Second Century 173 Of Certain Notable Men that made themselves Playfel- lows with Children Of a Certaine Sicilian whose Eysight was Woonderfull Sharpe and Quick The Lawe of the Lacedaemonians against Covetousness That Sleep is the Brother of Death, and of Gorgias draw- ing to his End Of the Voluntary and Willing Death of Calanus Of Delicate Dinners, Sumptuous Suppers, and Prodigal! Banqueting XI LIVED PAGE ^LiANUs Claudius — Continued: Of ' Bestowing Time, and how Walking Up and Downe was not Allowable among the Lacedasmonians How Socrates Suppressed the Pryde and Hautinesse of Alcibiades Of Certaine Wastegoodes and Spendthriftes ^SCHINES B.C. 389-314 179 A Defense and an Attack ('Oration against Ctesiphon') ^SCHYLUS B. C. 525-456 184 BY JOHN WILLIAMS WHITE Complaint of Prometheus (< Promfetheus *) Prayer to Artemis ('The Suppliants') Defiance of Eteocles ('The Seven against Thebes') Vision of Cassandra ('Agamemnon') Lament of the Old Nurse ('The Libation-Pourers ') Decree of Athena ('The Eumenides') ./Esop Seventh Century B. C. 201 BY HARRY THURSTON PECK The Fox and the Lion The Belly and the Members The Ass in the Lion's Skin The Satyr and the Traveler The Ass Eating Thistles The Lion and the Other Beasts The Wolf in Sheep's Clothing The Ass and the Little Dog The Countryman and the The Country Mouse and the Snake City Mouse The Dog and the Wolf Jean Louis Rodolphe Agassiz 1807-1873 211 The Silurian Beach (' Geological Sketches >) Voices (' Methods of Study in Natural History ') Formation of Coral Reefs (same) Agathias a. D. 536-581 224 Apostrophe to Plutarch Grace Aguilar 1816-1847 225 Greatness of Friendship (' Woman's Friendship ') Order of Knighthood ('The Days of Bruce') Culprit and Judge ('Home Influence') LIVED PAGE 1805-1882 237 I72I-I77O 253 Xll William Harrison Ainsworth Students of Paris () Mark Akenside From the Epistle to Curio Aspirations after the Infinite ('Pleasures of the Imagina- tion >) On a Sermon against Glory Pkdro Antonio de Alarc6n 1833-1891 263 A Woman Viewed from Without ('The Three-Cornered Hat>) How the Orphan Manuel gained his Sobriquet (< The Child of the Ball >) Alc^us Sixth Century B. C. 269 The Palace The Storm A Banquet Song The Poor Fisherman An Invitation The State •* Poverty BaltAzar de AlcAzar i53o?-i6o6 273 Sleep The Jovial Supper Alciphron Second Century 276 BY HARRY THURSTON PECK From a Mercenary Girl — Petala to Simalion Pleasures of Athens — Euthydicus to Epiphanio From an Anxious Mother — Phyllis to Thrasohides From a Curious Youth — Philocomus to Thestylus From a Professional Diner-out — Capnosphrantes to Aris tomachus Unlucky Luck — Chytrolictes to Patellocharon Alcman Seventh Century B. C. 282 Poem on Night Louisa May Alcott 1832-1888 283 The Night Ward ('Hospital Sketches') Amy's Valley of Humiliation ('Little Women') Thoreau's Flute (Atlantic Monthly) Song from the Suds ('Little Women') LIVED PAGE Alcuin 735?-8o4 296 by william h. carpenter On the Saints of the Church at York () The Dove and the Serpent (same) Death and Sleep (same) The Parable of the Prodigal (same) Thomas Bailey Aldrich 1836- 313 Destiny Broken Music Identity Elmwood Prescience Sea Longings Alec Yeaton's Son A Shadow of the Night Memory Outward Bound Tennyson (1890) Reminiscence Sweetheart, Sigh No More Pere Antoine's Date-Palm Miss Mehetabel's Son Aleardo Aleardi 181 2-1878 350 Cowards (< The Primal Histories >) The Harvesters ('Monte Circello*) The Death of the Year ( Blossom Gatherings from St. Augustine Where to Find True Joy () A Sorrowful Fytte (same) Charles Grant Allen 1848- 399 The Coloration of Flowers (< The Colors of Flowers') Among the Heather (' The Evolutionist at Large ') The Heron's Haunt (< Vignettes from Nature >) James Lane Allen 1850- 409 A Courtship () God's War Johanna Ambrosius 1854- 446 A Peasant's Thoughts Do Thou Love, Too! Struggle and Peace Invitation Edmondo de Amicis 1846- 453 The Light (< Constantinople ') Resemblances (same) Birds (same) Cordova ('Spain') The Land of Pluck ('Holland and Its People') The Dutch Masters (same) FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS VOLUME I FACING PAGE Charles Dudley Warner (Photogravure) Frontispiece Congressional Library IX Abelard's Visit to Heloise 25 Capture of the Guerriere by the Constitution 122 John Adams ^ 127 John Quincy Adams 135 Joseph Addison 149 Prometheus Bound 192 J. L. R. Agassiz 211 Home of Louisa May Alcott 284 Vittorio Alfieri 371 King Alfred the Great 392 VIGNETTE PORTRAITS Pierre Abelard William Harrison Ainsworth Edmond About Mark Akenside Abigail Adams Alcasus iBschines Louisa May Alcott ^schylus Thomas Bailey Aldrich ^sop Jean le Rond D'Alembert Grace Aguilar Edmondo de Amicis ryOOKS are not absolutely dead things, but do contain "^^^ a potency of life in them to be as active as that soul was whose progeny they are ; nay, they do preserve as in a vial the purest efficacy and extraction of that living intellect that bred them. I know they are as lively, and as vigorously productive, as those fabulous dragon's teeth ; and being souun up and down, may chance to spring up armed men. And yet on the other hand, unless wariness be used, as good almost kill a man as kill a good book : who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image ; but he who destroys a good book, kills rea- son itself, kills the image of God, as it were in the eye. Many a man lives a burden to the earth; but a good book is the precious life-blood of a master-spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life. John Milton. 17 ABELARD (1079— 1 142) BY THOMAS DAVIDSON JiERRE, the eldest son of Berenger and Lucie (Abelard?) was born at Palais, near Nantes and the frontier of Brittany, in 1079. His knightly father, having in his youth been a student, was anxious to give his family, and especially his favorite Pierre, a liberal education. The boy was" accordingly sent to school, under a teacher who at that time was making his mark in the world, — Roscellin, the reputed father of Nominalism. As the whole import and tragedy of his life may be traced back to this man's teach- ing, and the relation which it bore to the thought of the time, we must pause to con- sider these. In the early centuries of our era, the two fundamental articles of the Gentile-Christ- ian creed, the Trinity and the Incarnation, neither of them Jewish, were formulated in terms of Platonic philosophy, of which the distinctive tenet is, that the real and eternal is the universal, not the individ- ual. On this assumption it was possible to say that the same real substance could exist in three, or indeed in any number of persons. In the case of God, the dogma- builders were careful to say, essence is one with existence, and there- fore in Him the individuails are as real as the universal. Platonism, having lent the formula for the Trinity, became the favorite philoso- phy of many of the Church fathers, and so introduced into Christian thought and life the Platonic dualism, that sharp distinction between the temporal and the eternal which belittles the practical life and glorifies the contemplative. This distinction, as aggravated by Neo-Platonism, further affected Eastern Christianity in the sixth century, and Western Christianity in the ninth, chiefly through the writings of (the pseudo-) Dionysius Areopagita, and gave rise to Christian mysticism. It was then erected into a rule of conduct through the efforts of Pope Gregory VII., who strove to subject practical and civil life entirely to the control of Abelard ig ABfiLARD ecclesiastics and monks, standing for contemplative, supernatural life. The latter included all purely mental work, which more and more tended to concentrate itself upon religion and confine itself to the clergy. In this way it came to be considered an utter disgrace for any man engaged in mental work to take any part in the institutions of civil life, and particularly to marry. He might indeed enter into illicit relations, and rear a family of "nephews" and "nieces," with- out losing prestige; but to marry was to commit suicide. Such was the condition of things in the days of Abelard. But while Platonism, with its real universals, was celebrating its ascetic, unearthly triumphs in the West, Aristotelianism, which main- tains that the individual is the real, was making its way in the East. Banished as heresy beyond the limits of the Catholic Church, in the fifth and sixth centuries, in the persons of Nestorius and others, it took refuge in Syria, where it flourished for many years in the schools of Edessa and Nisibis, the foremost of the time. From these it found its way among the Arabs, and even to the illiterate Muhammad, who gave it (i) theoretic theological expression in the cxii. surah of the Koran: "He is One God, God the Eternal; He neither begets nor is begotten; and to Him there is no peer," in which both the funda- mental dogmas of Christianity are denied, and that too on the ground of revelation; (2) practical expression, by forbidding asceticism and monasticism, and encouraging a robust, though somewhat coarse, natural life. Islam, indeed, was an attempt to rehabilitate tjie human. In Abelard's time Arab Aristotelianism, with its consequences for thought and life, was filtering into Europe and forcing Christian thinkers to defend the bases of their faith. Since these, so far as defensible at all, depended upon the Platonic doctrine of univer- sals, and this could be maintained only by dialectic, this science be- came extremely popular, — indeed, almost the rage. Little of the real Aristotle was at that time known in the West; but in Porphyry's Introduction to Aristotle's Logic was a famous passage, in which all the difficulties with regard to universals were stated without being solved. Over this the intellectual battles of the first age of Scholasti- cism were fought. The more clerical and mystic thinkers, like Anselm and Bernard, of course sided with Plato; but the more worldly, robust thinkers inclined to accept Aristotle, not seeing that his doctrine is fatal to the Trinity. Prominent among tl-ese was a Breton, Roscellin, the early in- structor of Abelard. From him the brilliant, .fearless boy learnt two terrible lessons: (i) that universals, ^instead of being real substances, external and superior to individual things, are mere names (hence Nominalism) for common qualities of things as recognized by the human mind; (2) that since universals are the tools and criteria of ABELARD I^ thought, the human mind, in which alone these exist, is the judge of all truth, — a lesson which leads directly to pure rationalism, and indeed to the rehabilitation of the human as against the superhuman. No wonder that Roscellin came into conflict with the church author- ities, and had to flee to England. Abelard afterwards modified his nominalism and behaved somewhat unhandsomely to him, but never escaped from the influence of his teaching. Abelard was a rationalist and an asserter of the human. Accordingly, when, definitely adopting the vocation of the scholar, he went to Paris to study dialectic under the then famous William of Champeaux, a declared Platonist, or real- ist as the designation then was, he gave his teacher infinite trouble by his subtle objections, and not seldom got the better of him. These victories, which made him disliked both by his teacher and his fellow-pupils, went to increase his natural self-appreciation, and induced him, though a mere youth, to leave William and set up a rival school at Melun. Here his splendid personality, his confidence, and his brilliant powers of reasoning and statement, drew to him a large number of admiring pupils, so that he was soon induced to move his school to Corbeil, near Paris, where his impetuous dialectic found a wider field. Here he worked so hard that he fell ill, and was compelled to return home to his family. With them he remained for several years, devoting himself to study, — not only of dialectic, but plainly also of theology. Returning to Paris, he went to study rhet- oric under his old enemy, William of Champeaux, who had mean- while, to increase his prestige, taken holy orders, and had been made bishop of Chalons. The old feud was renewed, and Abelard, being now better armed than before, compelled his master openly to with- draw from his extreme realistic position with regard to universals, and assume one more nearly approaching that of Aristotle. This victory greatly diminished the fame of William, and in- creased that of Abelard; so that when the former left his chair and appointed a successor, the latter gave way to Abelard and became his pupil (1113). This was too much for William, who removed his ■ successor, and so forced Abelard to retire again to Melun. Here he remained but a short time; for, William having on account of Unpop- ularity removed his school from Paris Abelard returned thither and opened a school outside the city, on Mont Ste. Genevieve. William, hearing this, returned to Paris and tried to put him down, but in vain. Abelard was completely victorious. After a time he returned once more to Palais, to see his mother, who was about to enter the cloister, as his father had done some time before. When this visit was over, instead of returning to Paris to lecture on dialectic, he went to Laon to study theology under the then famous Anselm. Here, convinced of the showy superficiality of 20 ■ ABELARD Anselm, he once more got into difficulty, by undertaking to expound a chapter of Ezekiel without having studied it under any teacher. Though at first derided by his fellow-students, he succeeded so well as to draw a crowd of them to hear him, and so excited the envy of Anselm that the latter forbade him to teach in Laon. Abelard accordingly returned once more to Paris, convinced that he was fit to shine as a lecturer, not only on dialectic, but also on theolog^y. And his audiences thought so also; for his lectures on Ezekiel were very popular and drew crowds. He was now at the height of his fame (1118). The result of all these triumphs over dialecticians and theo- logians was unfortunate. He not only felt himself the intellectual superior of any living man, which he probably was, but he also began to look down upon the current thought of his time as obsolete and unworthy, and to set at naught even current opinion. He was now on the verge of forty, and his life had so far been one of spot- less purity; but now, under the influence of vanity, this too gave way. Having no further conquests to make in the intellectual world, he began to consider whether, with his great personal beauty, manly bearing, and confident address, he might not make conquests in the social world, and arrived at the conclusion that no woman could reject him or refuse him her favor. It was just at this unfortunate juncture that he went to live in the house of a certain Canon Fulbert, of the cathedral, whose brilliant niece, Heloise, had at the age of seventeen just returned from a convent at Argenteuil, where she had been at school. Ful- bert, who was proud of her talents, and glad to get the price of Abelard's board, took the latter into his house and intrusted him with the full care of Heloise's further education, telling him even to chastise her if necessary. So complete was Fulbert's confidence in Abelard, that no restriction was put upon the companionship of teacher and pupil. The result was that Abelard and Heloise, both equally inexperienced in matters of the heart, soon conceived for each other an overwhelming passion, comparable only to that of Faust and Gretchen. And the result in both cases was the same. Abelard, as a great scholar, could not think of marriage; and if he had, Heloise would have refused to ruin his career by marrying him. So it came to pass that when their secret, never very carefully guarded, became no longer a secret, and threatened the safety of Heloise, the only thing that her lover could do for her was to carry her off secretly to 'his home in Palais, and place her in charge of his sister. Here she remained until the birth of her child, which received the name of Astralabius, Abelard meanwhile continuing his work in Paris. And here all the nobility of his character comes out. Though Fulbert and ABEL.ARD , 2 1 his friends were, naturally enough, furious at what they regarded as his utter treachery, and though they tried to murder him, he pro- tected himself, and as soon as Heloise was fit to travel, hastened to Palais, and insisted upon removing her to Paris and making her his lawful wife. Heloise used every argument which her fertile mind could suggest to dissuade him from a step which she felt must be his ruin, at the same time expressing her entire willingness to stand in a less honored relation to him. But Abelard was inexorable. Taking her to Paris, he procured the consent of her relatives to the marriage (which they agreed to keep secret), and even their presence at the ceremony, which was performed one morning before daybreak, after the two had spent a night of vigils in the church. After the marriage, they parted and for some time saw little of each other. When Heloise's relatives divulged the secret, and she was taxed with being Abelard's lawful wife, she "anathematized and swore that it was absolutely false." As the facts were too patent, however, Abelard removed her from Paris, and placed her in the convent at Argenteuil, where she had been educated. Here she assumed the garb of a novice. Her relatives, thinking that he must have done this in order to rid himself of her, furiously vowed ven- geance, which they took in the meanest and most brutal form of personal violence. It was not' a time of fine sensibilities, justice, or mercy ; but even the public of those days was horrified, and gave expression to its horror. Abelard, overwhelmed with shame, despair, and remorse, could now think of nothing better than to abandon the world. Without any vocation, as he well knew, he assumed the monkish habit and retired to the monastery of St. Denis, while Heloise, by his order, took the veil at Argenteuil. Her devotion and heroism on this occasion Abelard' has described in touching terms. Thus supernaturalism had done its worst for th^se two strong, impetuous human souls. If Abelard had entered the cloister in the hope of finding peace, he soon discovered his mistake. The dissolute life of the monks utterly disgusted him, while the clergy stormed him with petitions to continue his lectures. Yielding to these, he was soon again sur- rounded by crowds of students — so great that the monks at St. Denis were glad to get rid of him. He accordingly retired to a lonely cell, to which he was followed by more admirers than could find shelter or food. As the schools of Paris were thereby emptied, his rivals did everything in their power to put a stop to his teaching, declaring that as a monk he ought not to teach profane science, nor as a lay- man in theology sacred science. In order to legitimatize his claim to teach the latter, he now wrote a theological treatise, regarding which he says: — 2 2 ABELARD «It so happened that I first endeavored to illuminate the basis of our faith by similitudes drawn from human reason, and to compose for our stu- dents a treatise on because they kept asking for human and philosophic reasons, and demanding rather what could be understood than what could be said, declaring that the mere utterance of ■words was useless unless followed by understanding; that nothing could be believed that was not first understood, and that it was ridiculous for any one to preach what neither he nor those he taught could comprehend, God him- self calling such people blind leaders of the blind. » Here we have Abelard's central position, exactly the opposite to that of his realist contemporary, Anselm of Canterbury, whose prin- ■ciple was "Credo ut intelligam" (I believe, that I may understand). "We must not suppose, however, that Abelard, with his rationalism, ■dreamed of undermining Christian dogma. Very far from it! He believed it to be rational, and thought he could prove it so. No won- der that the book gave offense, in an age when faith and ecstasy were placed above reason. Indeed, his rivals could have wished for nothing better than this book, which gave them a weapon to use against him. Led on by two old erfemies, Alberich and Lotulf, they caused an ecclesiastical council to be called at Soissons, to pass judg- ment upon the book (ii2i). This judgment was a foregone conclusion, the trial being the merest farce, in which the pursuers were the judges, the Papal legate allowing his better reason to be overruled by their passion. Abelard was condemned to burn his book in public, and to read the Athanasian Creed as his confession of faith (which he did in tears), and then to be confined permanently in the monastery of St. Medard as a dangerous heretic. His enemies seemed to have triumphed and to have silenced him -forever. Soon after, howe'ver, the Papal legate, ashamed of the part Tie had taken 'in the transaction, restored him to liberty and allowed liim to return to his own monastery at St. Denis. Here once more Tiis rationalistic, critical spirit brought him into trouble with the big- •oted, licentious monks. Having maintained, on the authority of Beda, that Dionysius, the patron saint of the monastery, was bishop of Cor- inth and not of Athens, he raised such a storm that he was forced to flee, and took refuge on a neighboring estate, whose proprietor. Count Thibauld, was friendly to him. Here he was cordially received by the monks of Troyes, and allowed to occupy a retreat belonging to them. After some time, and with great difficulty, he obtained leave from the abbot of St. Denis to live where he chose, on condition of not joining any other order. Being now practically a free man, he retired to a lonely spot near Nogent-sur-Seine, on the banks of the Ardusson. There, having received a gift of a piece of land, he estab- ABfiLARD 2^ lished himself along with a friendly cleric, building a small oratory of clay and reeds to the Holy Trinity. No sooner, however, was his place of retreat known than he was followed into the wilderness by hosts of students of all ranks, who lived in tents, slept on the ground, and underwent every kind of hardship, in order to listen to him (1123). These supplied his wants, and built a chapel, which he dedicated to the "Paraclete," — a name at which his enemies, furious over his success, were greatly scandalized, but which ever after designated the whole establishment. So incessant and unrelenting were the persecutions he suffered from those enemies, and so deep his indignation at their baseness, that for some time he seriously thought of escaping beyond the bounds of Christendom, and seeking refuge among the Muslim. But just then (1125) he was offered an important position, the abbotship of the monastery of St. Gildas-de-Rhuys, in Lower Brittany, on the lonely, inhospitable shore of the Atlantic. Eager for rest and a posi- tion promising influence, Abelard accepted the offer and left the Par- aclete, not knowing what he was doing. His position at St. Gildas was little less than slow martyrdom. The country was wild, the inhabitants were half barbarous, speaking a language unintelligible to him; the monks were violent, unruly, and dissolute, openly living with concubines; the lands of the monastery were subjected to intolerable burdens by the neighboring lord, leav- ing the monks in poverty and discontent. Instead of finding a home of God-fearing men, eager for enlightenment, he found a nest of greed and corruption. His attempts to introduce discipline, or even decency, among his " sons, " only stirred up rebellion and placed his life in dan- ger. Many times he was menaced with the sword, many times with poison. In spite of all that, he clung to his office, and labored to do his duty. Meanwhile the jealous abbot of St. Denis succeeded in establishing a claim to the lands of the convent at Argenteuil, — of which Heloise, long since famous not only for learning but also for saintliness, was now the head, — and she and her nuns were violently evicted and cast on the world. Hearing of this with indignation, Abelard at once offered the homeless sisters the deserted Paraclete and all its belongings. The offer was thankfully accepted, and Helo- ise with her family removed there to spend the remainder of her life. It does not appear that Abelard and Heloise ever saw each other at this time, although he used every means in his power to provide for her safety and comfort. This was in 1129. Two years later the Para- clete was confirmed to Heloise by a Papal bull; It remained a con- vent, and a famous one, for over six hundred years. After this Abelard paid several visits to the convent, which he justly regarded as his foundation, in order to arrange a rule of life 24 ABfiLARD for its inmates, and to encourage them in their vocation. Although on these occasions he saw nothing of HeloTse, he did not escape the malignant suspicions of the world, nor of his own flock, which now became more unruly than ever, — so much so that he was compelled to live outside the monastery. Excommunication was tried in vain, and even the efforts of a Papal legate failed to restore order. For Abelard there was nothing but "fear within and conflict without." It was at this time, about 1132, that he wrote his famous ,a collection of (often contradictory) statements of the Fathers con- cerning the chief dogmas of religion, (2) < Dialectic,' (3) <0n Genera and Species,' (4) Glosses to Porphyry's 'Introduction,' Aristotle's ^Categories and Interpretation,' and Boethius's 'Topics,' (5) 'Intro- duction to Theology,' (6) 'Christian Theology,' (7) 'Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans,' (9) 'Abstract of Christian Theology,' (10) 'Ethics, or Know Thyself,' (u) 'Dialogue between a Philosopher, a Jew, and a Christian,' (12) 'On the Intellects,' (12) 'On the Hex- ameron,' with a few short and unimportant fragments and tracts. None of Abelard's numerous poems in the vernacular, in which he celebrated his love for Heloise, which he sang ravishingly (for he was a famous singer), and which at once became widely popular, seem ABELARD 2- to have come down to us; but we have a somewhat lengthy poem, of considerable merit (though of doubtful authenticity), addressed to his son Astralabius, who grew to manhood, became a cleric, and died, it seems, as abbot of Hauterive in Switzerland, in 1162. Of Abelard's philosophy, little need be added to what has been already said. It is, on the whole, the philosophy of the Middle Age, with this difference: that he insists upon making theology rational, and thus may truly be called the founder of modern rationalism, and the initiator of the struggle against the tyrannic authority of blind faith. To have been so is his crowning merit, and is one that can hardly be overestimated. At the same time it must be borne in mind that he was a loyal son of the Church, and never dreamed of oppos- ing or undermining her. His greatest originality is in < Ethics,' in which, by placing the essence of morality in the intent and not in the action, he anticipated Kant and much modern speculation. Here he did admirable work. Abelard founded no school, strictly speaking; nevertheless, he determined the method and aim of Scho- lasticism, and exercised a boundless influence, which is not dead. Descartes and Kant are his children. Among his immediate disciples were a pope, twenty-nine cardinals, and more than fifty bishops. His two greatest pupils were Peter the Lombard, bishop of Paris, and author of the * Sentences,' the theological text-book of the schools for hundreds of years; and Arnold of Brescia, one of the noblest cham- pions of human liberty, though condemned and banished by the second Council of the Lateran. The best biography of Abelard is that by Charles de Remusat (2 vols., 8vo, Paris, 1845). See also, in English, Wight's < Abelard and Eloise' (New York, 1853). H^LOiSE TO ABELARD A LETTER of yours sent to a friend, best beloved, to console him in afifliction, was lately, almost by a chance, put into my hands. Seeing the superscription, guess how eageriy I seized it! I had lost the reality; I hoped to draw some comfort from this faint image of you. But alas! — for I well remember — every line was written with gall and wormwood. How you retold our sorrowful history, and dwelt on your inces- sant afflictions! Well did you fulfill that promise to your friend, 28 ABfiLARD that, in comparison with your own, his misfortunes should seem but as trifles. You recalled the persecutions of your masters, the cruelty of my uncle, and the fierce hostility of your fellow-pupils, Albericus of Rheims, and Lotulphus of Lombardy — how through their plottings that glorious book your Theology was burned, and you confined and disgraced — you went on to the machinations of the Abbot of St. Denys and of your false brethren of the con- vent, and the calumnies of those wretches, Norbert and Bernard, who envy and hate you. It was even, you say, imputed to you as an ofEense to have given the name of Paraclete, contrary to the common practice, to the Oratory you had founded. The persecutions of that cruel tyrant of St. GUdas, and of those execrable monks, — monks out of greed only, whom notwith- standing you call your children, — which still harass you, close the miserable history. Nobody could read or hear these things and not be moved to tears. What then must they mean to me ? We all despair of your life, and our trembling hearts dread to hear the tidings of your murder. For Christ's sake, who has thus far protected you, — ^write to us, as to His handmaids and yours, every circumstance of your present dangers. I and my sisters alone remain of all who were your friends. Let us be sharers of your joys and sorrows. Sympathy brings some relief, and a load laid on many shoulders is lighter. And write the more surely, if your letters may be messengers of joy. Whatever mes- sage they bring, at least they will show that you remember us. You can write to comfort your "friend: while you soothe his wounds, you inflame mine. Heal, I pray you, those you yourself have made, you who bustle about to cure those for which you are not responsible. You cultivate a vineyard you did not plant, which grows nothing. Give heed to what you owe your own. You who spend so much on the obstinate, consider what you owe the obedient. You who lavish pains on your enemies, reflect on what you owe your daughters. And,, counting nothing else, think how you are bound to me ! What you owe to all devoted women, pay to her who is most devoted. You know better than I how many treatises the holy fathers of the Church have written for our instruction; how they have labored to inform, to advise, and to console us. Is my ignorance to suggest knowledge to the learned Ab^lard ? Long ago, indeed, your neglect astonished me. Neither religion, nor love of me, nor the example of the holy fathers, moved you to try to fix my ABELARD ^g struggling soul. Never, even when long grief had worn me down, did you come to see me, or send me one line of comfort, — me, to whom you were bound by marriage, and who clasp you about with a measureless love! And for the sake of this love have I no right to even a thought of yours ? You well know, dearest, how much I lost in losing you, and that the manner of it put me to double torture. You only can comfort me. By you I was wounded, and by you I must be healed. And it is only you on whom the debt rests. I have obeyed the last tittle of your commands; and if you bade me, I would sacrifice my soul. To please you my love gave up the only thing in the universe it valued — the hope of your presence — and that forever. The instant I received your commands I quitted the habit of the world, and denied all the wishes of my nature. I meant to give up, for your sake, whatever I had once a right to call my own. God knows it was always you, and you only that I thought of. I looked for no dowry, no alliance of marriage. And if the name of wife is holier and more exalted, the name of friend always remained sweeter to me, or if you would not be angry, a meaner title; since the more I gave up, the less should I injure your present renown, and the more deserve your love. Nor had you yourself forgotten this in that letter which I recall. You are ready enough to set forth some of the reasons which I used to you, to persuade you not to fetter your freedom, but you pass over most of the pleas I made to withhold you from our ill-fated wedlock. I call God to witness that if Augustus, ruler of the world, should think me worthy the honor of marriage, and settle the whole globe on me to rule forever, it would seem dearer and prouder to me to be called your mistress than his empress. Not because a man is rich or powerful is he better : riches and power may come from luck, constancy is from virtue. / hold that woman base who weds a rich man rather than a poor one, and takes a husband for her own gain. Whoever marries with such a motive — why, she will, follow his prosperity rather than the man, and be willing to sell herself to a richer suitor. That happiness which others imagine, best beloved, I experi- enced. Other women might think their husbands perfect, and be happy in the idea, but I knew that you were so and the universe knew the same. What philosopher, what king, could rival your ,0 ABfiLARD fame? "What village, city, kingdom, was not on fire to see you? When you appeared in public, who did not run to behold you? Wives and maidens alike recognized your beauty and grace. Queens envied H^loise her Ab^lard. Two gifts you had to lead captive the proudest soul, your voice that made all your teaching a delight, and your singing, which was like no other. Do you forget those tender songs you wrote for me, which all the world caught up and sang, — but not like you, — those songs that kept your name ever floating in the air, and made me known through many lands, the envy and the scorn of women ? What gifts of mind, what gifts of person glorified you ! Oh, my loss ! Who would change places with me now ! And you know, Abelard, that though I am the great cause of your misfortunes, I am most innocent. For a consequence is no part of a crime. Justice weighs not the thing done, but the intention. And how pure was my intention toward you, you alone can judge. Judge me ! I will submit. But how happens it, tell me, that since my profession of the life which you alone determined, I have been so neglected and so forgotten that you will neither see me nor write to me ? Make me understand it, if you can, or I must tell you what everybody says : that it was not a pure love like mine that held your heart, and that your coarser feeling vanished with absence and ill-report. Would that to me alone this seemed so, best beloved, and not to all the world ! Would that I could hear others excuse you, or devise excuses myself ! The things I ask ought to seem very small and easy to you. While I starve for you, do, now and then, by words, bring back your presence to me ! How can you be generous in deeds if you are so avaricious in words ? I have done everything for your sake. It was not religion that dragged me, a young girl, so fond of life, so ardent, to the harshness of the convent, but only your command. If I deserve nothing from you, how vain is my labor ! God will not recompense me, for whose love I have done nothing. When you resolved to take the vows, I followed, — rather, I ran before. You had the image of Lot's wife before your eyes ; you feared I might look back, and therefore you deeded me to God by. the sacred vestments and irrevocable vows before you took them yourself. For this, I own, I grieved, bitterly ashamed that I could depend on you so little, when I would lead or follow ABELARD ^I you Straight to perdition. For my soul is always with you and no longer mine own. And if it is not with you in these last wretched years, it is nowhere. Do receive it kindly. Oh, if only you had returned favor for favor, even a little for the much, words for things ! Would, beloved, that your affection would not take my tenderness and obedience always for granted ; that it might be more anxious ! But just because I have poured out all I have and am, you give me nothing. Remember, oh, remember how much you owe ! There was a time when people doubted whether I had given you all my heart, asking nothing. But the end shows how I began. I have denied myself a life which promised at least peace and work in the world, only to obey your hard exactions. I have kept back nothing for myself, except the comfort of pleasing you. How hard and cruel are you then, when I ask so little and that little is so easy for you to give ! In the name of God, to whom you are dedicate, send me some lines of consolation. Help me to learn obedience ! When you wooed me because earthly love was beautiful, you sent me letter after letter. With your divine singing every street and house echoed my name ! How much more ought you now to persuade to God her whom then you turned from Him ! Heed what I ask ; think what you owe. I have written a long letter, but the ending shall be short. Farewell, darling ! AB^LARD'S ANSWER TO H^LOISE To JIdoise, his best beloved Sister in Christ, Abdard, her Brother in Him: IF, SINCE we resigned the world I have not written to you, it was because of the high opinion I have ever entertained of your wisdom and prudence. How could I think that she stood in need of help on whom Heaven had showered its best gifts ? You were able, I knew, by example as by word, to instruct the igno- rant, to comfort the timid, to kindle the lukewarm. When . prioress of Argenteuil, you practiced all these duties ; and if you give the same attention to your daughters that you then gave to your sisters, it is enough. All my exhortations would be needless. But if, in your humility, you think otherwise, and if my words can avail you anything, tell riie on what subjects you would have me write, and as God shall direct me I will instruct ,2 ABfeLARD you. I thank God that the constant dangers to which I am exposed rouse your sympathies. Thus I may hope, under the divine protection of your prayers, to see Satan bruised under my feet. Therefore I hasten to send you the form of prayer you beseech of me — you, my sister, once dear to me in the world, but now far dearer in Christ. Offer to God a constant sacrifice of prayer. Urge him to pardon our great and manifold sins, and to avert the dangers which threaten me. We know how powerful before God and his saints are the prayers of the faithful, but chiefly of faithful women for their friends, and of wives for their husbands. The Apostle admonishes us to pray without ceasing. . . . But I will not insist on the supplications of your sister- hood, day and night devoted to the service of their Maker; to you only do I turn. I well know how powerful your intercession may be. I pray you, exert it in this my need. In your prayers, then, ever remember him who, in a special sense, is yours. Urge your entreaties, for it is just that you should be heard. An equi- table judge cannot refuse it. In former days, you remember, best beloved, how fervently you recommended me to the care of Providence. Often in the day you uttered a special petition. Removed now from the Para- clete, and surrounded by perils,' how much greater my need! Con- vince me of the sincerity of your regard, I entreat, I implore you. [The Prayer :] " O God, who by Thy servant didst here assem- ble Thy handmaids in Thy Holy Name, grant, we beseech Thee, that he be protected from all adversity, and be restored safe to us, Thy handmaids." If Heaven permit my enemies to destroy me, or if I perish by accident, see that my body is conveyed to the Paraclete. There, my daughters, or rather my sisters in Christ, seeing my tomb, will not cease to implore Heaven for me. No resting-place is so safe for the grieving soul, forsaken in the wilderness of its sins, none so full of hope as that which is dedicated to the Paraclete — that is, the Comforter. Where could a Christian find a more peaceful grave than in the society of holy women, consecrated by God? They, as the Gospel tells us, would not leave their divine Master; they em- balmed His body with precious spices; they followed Him to the tomb, and there they held their vigil. In return, it was to them that the angel of the resurrection appeared for their consolation. ABELARD , Finally, let me entreat you that the solicitude you now too strongly feel for my life you will extend to the repose of my soul. Carry into my grave the love you showed me when alive; that is, never forget to pray Heaven for m,e. Long life, farewell! Long life, farewell, to your sisters also! Remember me, but let it be in Christ! Translated for the < World's Best Literature. > THE VESPER HYMN OF ABELARD OH, WHAT shall be, oh, when shall be that holy Sabbath day, Which heavenly care shall ever keep and celebrate alway, When rest is found for weary limbs, when labor hath reward, When everything forevermore is joyful in the Lord? The true Jerusalem above, the holy town, is there, Whose duties are so full of joy, whose joy so free from care ; Where disappointment cometh not to check the longing heart, And where the heart, in ecstasy, bath gained her better part. O glorious King, O happy state, O palace of the blest! O sacred place and holy joy, and perfect, heavenly rest! To thee aspire thy citizens in glory's bright array. And what they feel and what they know they strive in vain to say. For while we wait and long for home, it shall be ours to raise Our songs and chants and vows and prayers in that dear coun- try's praise; And from these Babylonian streams to lift our weary eyes, And view the city that we love descending from the skies. There, there, secure from every ill, in freedom we shall sing The songs of Zion, hindered here by days of suffering, And unto Thee, our gracious Lord, our praises shall confess That all our sorrow hath been good, and Thou by pain canst bless. There Sabbath day to Sabbath day sheds on a ceaseless light, Eternal pleasure of the saints who keep that Sabbath bright; Nor shall the chant ineffable decline, nor ever cease, Which we with all the angels sing in that sweet realm of peace. . Translation of Dr. Samuel W._ Duffield. 1—3 34 EDMOND ABOUT (1828-1885) !|arly in the reign of Louis Napoleon, a serial story called a vivid study of social life in Rome, delighted the readers of the Revue des Deux Mondes. When published in book form in 1855 it drew a storm of opprobrium upon its young author, who was accused of offering as his own creation a translation of the Italian work had a con- spicuous success, and were followed by a companion volume, « O T ! St ! » O I raised my eyes. Two thickets of mastic-trees and arbutus inclosed the road on the right and left. From each tuft of trees protruded three or four musket-barrels. A voice cried out in Greek, "Seat yourselves on the ground!" This operation was the more easy to me, as my legs gave way under me. But I consoled myself by thinking that Ajax, Agamemnon, and the fiery Achilles, if they had found themselves in the same situation, would not have refused the seat that was offered. The musket-barrels were leveled upon us. It seemed to me that they stretched out immeasurably, and that their muzzles were about to join above our heads. It was not that fear disturbed my vision; but I had never remarked so sensibly the desperate length of the Greek muskets! The whole arsenal soon debouched into the road, and every barrel showed its stock and its master. The only difference which exists between devils and brigands is, that devils are less black thaii they are said to be, aiid brigands more dirty than people suppose. The eight bullies, who packed themselves in a circle around us, were so filthy in appearance that I should have wished to give them my money with a pair of tongs. You might guess, with a little effort, that their caps had been red; but lye-wash itself could not have restored the original color of their clothes. All the rocks of the kingdom had stained their cotton shirts, and their vests preserved a sample of the different soils on which they had reposed, Their hands, their faces, and even their moustachios were of a reddish-gray, like the soil which supports them. Every animal is colored according to its abode and its habits: the foxes of Greenland are of the color of snow; EDMOND ABOUT ,» lions, of the desert; partridges, of the furrow; Greek brigands, of the highway. The chief of the Httle troop which had made us prisoners was distinguished by no outward mark. Perhaps, however, his face, his hands, and his clothes were richer in dust than those of his comrades. He leaned toward us from the height of his tall figure, and examined us so closely that I felt the grazing of his mous- tachios. You would have pronounced him a tiger, who smells of his prey before tasting it. When his curiosity was satisfied, he said to Dimitri, " Empty your pockets ! " Dimitri did not give him cause to repeat the order: he threw down before him a knife, a tobacco-pouch, and three Mexican dollars, which compose a sum of about sixteen francs. " Is that all ? " demanded the brigand. «Yes, brother." *' You are the servant ? " "Yes, brother." "Take back one dollar. You must not return to the city without money." Dimitri haggled. " You could well allow me two, " said he : "I have two horses below; they are hired from the riding-school; I shall have to pay for the day." "You will explain to Zimmerman that we have taken your money from you." "And if he wishes to be paid, notwithstanding?" " Answer that he is lucky enough to se^ his horses again. " "He knows very well that you do not take horses. What would you do with them in the mountains ? " " Enough ! What is this big raw-boned animal next you ? " I answered for myself: "An honest German, whose spoils will not enrich you." "You speak Greek well. Empty your pockets." I deposited on the road a score of francs, my tobacco, my pipe, and my handkerchief. " What is that ? " asked the grand inquisitor. i "A handkerchief." " For what purpose ? " "To wipe my nose." " Why did you tell me that you were poor ? It is only milords who wipe their noses with handkerchiefs. Take off the box which you have behind your back. Good ! Open it ! " ,g EDMOND ABOUT My box contained some plants, a book, a knife, a little pack- age of arsenic, a gourd nearly empty, and the remnants of my breakfast, which kindled a look of covetousness in the eyes of Mrs. Simons. I had the_ assurance to offer them to her before my baggage changed masters. She accepted greedily, and began to devour the bread and meat. To ray great astonishment, this act of gluttony scandalized our robbers, who murmured among them- selves the word " Schismatic ! " The monk made half a dozen signs of the cross, according to the rite of the Greek Church. "You must have a watch," said the brigand: "put it with the rest. " I gave up my silver watch, a hereditary toy of the weight of four ounces. The villains passed it from hand to hand, and thought it very beautiful. I was in hopes that admiration, which makes men better, would dispose them to restore me something, and I begged their chief to let me have my tin b.ox. He imposed silence upon me roughly. "At least," said I, "give me back two crowns for my return to the city ! " He answered with a sardonic smile, "You will not have need of them." The turn of Mrs. Simons had come. Before putting her hand in her pocket, she warned our conquerors in the language of her -fathers. The English is one of those rare idioms which one can speak with a mouth full. "Reflect well on what you are going to do, " said she, in a menacing tone. " I am an Englishwoman, and English subjects are inviolable in all the countries of the world. What you will take from me will serve you little, and will cost you dear. England will avenge me, and you will all be hanged, to say the least. Now if you wish my money, you have only to speak; but it will bum your fingers: it is English money!" "What does she say?» asked the spokesman of the brigands. Dimitri answered, "She says that she is Enghsh." "So much the better! All the English are rich. Tell her to do as you have done." The poor lady emptied on the sand a purse, which contained twelve sovereigns. As her watch was not in sight, and as they made no show of searching us, she kept it. The clemency of the conquerors left her her pocket-handkerchief. Mary Ann threw down her watch, with a whole bunch of charms against the evil eye. She cast before her, by a movement full of mute grace, a shagreen bag, which she carried in her belt. The brigand opened it with the eagerness of a custom-house EDMOND ABOUT ,„ officer. He drew from it a little EngUsh dressing-case, a vial of English salts, a box of pastilles of English mint, and a hundred and some odd francs in English money. " Now, " said the impatient beauty, " you can let us go : we have nothing more for you." They indicated to her, by a men- acing gesture, that the session was not ended. The chief of the band squatted down before our spoils, called "the good old man," counted the money in his presence, and delivered to him the sum of forty-five francs. Mrs. Simons nudged me on the elbow. " You see," said she, "the monk and Dimitri have betrayed us: he is dividing the spoils with them." "No, madam," replied I, immediately. "Dimitri has received a mere pittance from that which they had stolen from him. It is a thing which is done everywhere. On the banks of the Rhine, when a traveler is ruined at roulette, the conductor of the game gives him something wherewith to return home." " But the monk ? " " He has received a tenth part of the booty in virtue of an immemorial custom. Do not reproach him, but rather be thank- ful to him for having wished to save us, when his convent was interested in our capture." This discussion was interrupted by the farewells of Dimitri. They had just set him at liberty. " Wait for me, " said. I to him : " we will return together. " He shook his head sadly, and answered me in English, so as to be understood by the ladies: — "You are prisoners for some days, and you will not see Ath- ens again before paying a ransom. I am going to inform the milord. Have these ladies any messages to give me for him ? " "Tell him," cried Mrs. Simons, "to run to the embassy, to go then to the Piraeus and find the admiral, to complain at the foreign oifice, to write to Lord Palmerston! They shall take us away from here by force of arms, or by public authority, but I do not intend that they shall disburse a penny for my liberty." "As for me," replied I, without so much passion, "I beg you to tell my friends in what hands you have left me. If some hun- dreds of drachms are necessary to ransom a poor devil of a nat- urahst, they will find them without trouble. These gentlemen of the highway cannot rate me very high. I have a mind, while you are still here, to ask them what I am worth at the lowest price. " ■ 40 EDMOND ABOUT " It would be useless, my dear Mr. Hermann ! It is not they who fix the figures of your ransom." « And, who then?" "Their chief, Hadgi-Stavros. » HADGI-STAVROS From ! like those in which our soldiers roll up their discharges, served as a depository for the archives. The paper was not of native manufacture, and for a good reason. Every leaf bore the word BATH in capital letters. \ The King was a fine old man, marvelously well preserved, straight, slim, supple as a spring, spruce and shining as a new sabre. His long white moustachios hung under his chin like two marble stalactites. The rest of his face was carefully shaved, the skull bare even to the occiput, where a long tress of white hair was rolled up under his hat. The expression of his features ap- peared to me calm and thoughtful. A pair of small, clear blue eyes and a square chin announced an indomitable will. His face was long, and the position of the wrinkles lengthened it still more. All the creases of the forehead were broken in the middle, and seemed to direct themselves toward the meeting of the eyebrows ; two wide and deep furrows descended perpendicularly to the comers of the lips, as if the weight of the moustachios had drawn in the muscles of the face. I have seen a good many septuagenarians ; I have even dis- sected one who would have reached a hundred years, if the dili- gence of Osnabriick had not passed over his body : but I do not remember to have observed a more green and robust old age than that of Hadgi-Stavros. He wore the dress of Tino and of all the islands of the Archipelago. His red cap formed a large crease at its base around his forehead. He had a vest of black cloth, faced with black silk, immense blue pantaloons which con- tained more than twenty metres of cotton cloth, and great boots of Russia leather, elastic and stout. The only rich thing in his costume was a scarf embroidered with gold and precious stones, which might be worth two or three thousand francs. It inclosed in its folds an embroidered cashmere purse, a Damascus sanjar in a silver sheath, a long pistol mounted in gold and rubies, and the appropriate baton. Quietly seated in the midst of his employees, Hadgi-Stavros moved only the ends of his fingers and his lips; the lips to dic- tate his correspondence, the fingers to count the beads in his chaplet. It was one of those beautiful chaplets of milky amber which do not serve to number prayers, but to amuse the solemn idleness of the Turk. He raised his head at our approach, guessed at a glance the occurrence which had brought us there, and said to us, with a ., EDMOND ABOUT gravity which had in it nothing ironical, "You are welcome! Be seated. " «Sir,» cried Mrs. Simons, «I am an Englishwoman, and — » He interrupted the discourse by making his tongue smack against the teeth of his upper jaw — superb teeth, indeed! "Presently," said he: «I am occupied. » He understood only Greek, and Mrs. Simons knew only English; but the physiognomy of the King was so speaking that the good lady comprehended easily without the aid of an interpreter. Selections from used by permission of J. E. Tilton and Company THE VICTIM From : by permission of Henry Holt, the Translator L^ON took his bunch of keys and opened the long oak box on which he had been seated. The lid being raised, they saw a great leaden casket which inclosed a magnificent walnut box carefully polished on the outside, lined on the inside with white silk, and padded. The others brought their lamps and candles near, and the colonel of the Twenty-third of the line appeared as if he were in a chapel illuminated for his l3mig in state. One would have said that the man was asleep. The perfect preservation of the body attested the paternal care of the mur- derer. It was truly a remarkable preparation, and would have borne comparison with the finest European mummies described by Vicq d'Azyr in 1779, and by the younger Puyniaurin in 1787. The part best preserved, as is always the case, was the face. AH the features had maintained a proud and manly expression. If , any old friend of the colonel had been at the opening of the third box, he would have recognized him at first sight. Undoubtedly the point of the nose was a little sharper, the nostrils less ex- panded and thinner, and the bridge a little more marked, than in the year 18 13. The eyelids were thinned, the lips pinched, the comers of the mouth drawn down, the cheek bones too promi- nent, and the neck visibly shrunken, which exaggerated the prom- inence of the chin and larynx. But the eyelids were closed with- out contraction, and the sockets much less hollow than one could have expected; the mouth was not at all distorted, like the mouth EDMOND. ABOUT 4, of a corpse; the skin was slightly wrinkled, but had not changed color, — it had only become a little more transparent, showing after a fashion the color of the tendons, the fat, and the muscles, wherever it rested directly upon them. It also had a rosy tint which is not ordinarily seen in embalmed corpses. Dr. Martout explained this anomaly by saying that if the colonel had actually been dried alive, the globules of the blood were not decomposed, but simply collected in the capillary vessels of the skin and sub- jacent tissues, where they still preserved their proper color, and could be seen more easily than otherwise on account of the semi- transparency of the skin. The uniform had become much too large, as may be readily understood, though it did not seem at a casual glance that the members had become deformed. The hands were dry and angu- lar, but the nails, although a little bent inward toward the root, had preserved all their freshness. The only very noticeable change was the excessive depression of the abdominal walls, which seemed crowded downward to the posterior side; at the right, a slight elevation indicated the place of the liver. A tap of the finger on the various parts of the body produced a sound like that from dry leather. While L6on was pointing out these details to his audience and doing the honors of his mummy, he awk- wardly broke off the lower part of the right ear, and a little piece of the colonel remained in his hand. This trifling accident might have passed unnoticed had not Clementine, who followed with visible emotion all the movements of her lover, dropped her candle and uttered a cry of affright. All gathered around her. L^on took her in his arms and carried her to a chair. M; Re- nault ran after salts. She was as pale as death, and seemed on the point of fainting. She soon recovered, however, and reas- sured them all by a charming smile. "Pardon me," she said, "for such a ridiculous exhibition of terror; but what Monsieur Leon was saying to us — and then — that figure which seemed sleeping — it appeared to me that the poor man was going to open his mouth and cry out, when he was injured." L^on hastened to close the walnut box, while M. Martout picked up the piece of ear and put it in his pocket. But Cle- mentine, while continuing to smile and make apologies, was overcome by a fresh access of emotion and melted into tears. The engineer threw himself at her feet, poured forth excuses 44 EDMOND ABOUT and tender phrases, and did all he could to console her inexpli- cable grief. Clementine dried her eyes, looked prettier than ever, and sighed fit to bre;ak her heart, without knowing why. " Beast that I am ! » muttered L^on, tearing his hair. " On the day when I see her again after three years' absence, I can think of nothing more soul -inspiring than showing her mummies ! " He launched a kick at the triple coffin of the colonel, saying, " I wish the devil had the confounded colonel ! " "No!" cried Clementine, with redoubled energy and emotion. " Do not curse him, Monsieur L6on ! He has suffered so much ! Ah ! poor, poor, unfortunate man ! " Mile; Sambucco felt a little ashamed. She made excuses for her niece, and declared that never, since her tenderest childhood, had she manifested such extreme sensitiveness. . . . "This will teach us," Said the aunt, "what staying up after ten o'clock does. What! it is midnight, within a quarter of an hour! Come, my child; you will recover fast enough .after you get to bed." Clementine arose submissively; but at the moment of leaving the laboratory she retraced her steps, and with a caprice more inexplicable than her grief, she absolutely demanded to see the mummy of the colonel again. Her aunt scolded in vain; in spite of the remarks of Mile. Sambucco and all the others present, she reopened the walnut box, knelt down beside the mummy- and kissed it on the forehead. "Poor man!" said she, rising. "How cold he is! Monsieur Leon, promise me that if he is dead you will have him laid in consecrated ground ! " "As you please, mademoiselle. I intended to send him to the anthropological museum, with my father's permission; but you know that we can refuse you nothing." THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY From : by permission of Henry Holt, the Translator FORTHWITH the colonel marched and opened the windows with a precipitation which upset the gazers among the crowd. "People," said he, "I have knocked down a hundred beggarly pandours, who respect neither sex nor infirmity. For the benefit EDMOND ABOUT 45 of those who are not satisfied, I will state that I call myself Colonel Fougas of the Twenty-third. And Vive I'Emp^reur !^'' A confused mixture of plaudits, cries, laughs, and jeers an- swered this unprecedented allocution. L^on Renault hastened put to make apologies to all to whom they were due. He invited a few friends to dine the same evening with the terrible colonel, and of course he did not forget to send a special messenger to Clementine. Fougas, after speaking to the people, returned to his hosts, swinging himself along with a swaggering air, set himself astride a chair, took hold of the ends of his mustache, and said: — "Well! Come, let's talk this over. I've been sick, then?" "Very sick." "That's incredible! I feel entirely well; I'm hungry; and more- over, while waiting for dinner I'll try a glass of your schnick." Mme. Renault went out, gave an order, and returned in an instant. " But tell me, then, where I am ? " resumed the colonel. " By these paraphernalia of work, I recognize a disciple of Urania; pos- sibly a friend of Monge and BerthoUet. But the cordial friendli- ness impressed on your countenances proves to me that you are not natives of this land of sauerkraut. Yes, I believe it from the beatings of my heart. Friends, we have the same fatherland. The kindness of your reception, even were there no other indica- tions, would have satisfied me that you are French. What acci- dents have brought you so far from our native soil ? Children of my country, what tempest has thrown you upon this inhospitable shore ? '* " My dear colonel, " replied M. Nibor, " if you want to become very wise, you will not ask so many questions at once, j Allow us the pleasure of instructing you quietly and in order, foi: you have a great many things to learn." The colonel flushed with anger, and answered sharply: — "At all events, you are not the man to teach them to me, my little gentleman ! " A drop of blood which fell on his hand changed the current of. his thoughts. « Hold on ! » said he : « am I bleeding ? » "That will amount to nothing: circulation is re-established, and — and your broken ear — " He quickly carried his hand to his ear, and said : — "It's certainly so. But devil take me if I recollect this acci- dent!" g EDMOND ABOUT « I'll make you a little dressing, and in a couple of days there will be no trace of it left." « Don't give yourself the trouble, my dear Hippocrates : a pinch of powder is a sovereign cure!" M. Nibor set to work to dress the ear in a little less military fashion. During his operations L6on re-entered. «Ah! ah!» said he to the doctor: «you are repairing the harm I did.» « Thunderation ! » cried Fougas, escaping from the hands of M. Nibor so as to seize L^on by the collar, "was it you, you rascal, that hurt my ear?" L6on was very good-natured, but his patience failed him. He pushed his man roughly aside. "Yes, sir: it was I who tore your ear, in pulling it; and if that little misfortune had not happened to me, it is certain that you would have been to-day six feet under ground. It is I who saved your life, after buying you with my money when you were not valued at over twenty-five louis. It is I who have passed three days and two nights in cramming charcoal under your boiler. It is my father who gave you the clothes you have on. You are in our house. Drink the little glass of brandy Gothon just brought you; but for God's sake give up the habit of calling me rascal, 6f calling my mother 'Good Mother,' and of flinging our friends into the street and calling them beggarly pandours!" The colonel, all dumfounded, held out his hand to Leon, M. Renault, and the doctor, gallantly kissed the hand of Mme. Renault, swallowed at a gulp a claret glass filled to the brim with brandy, and said, in a subdued voice: — " Most excellent friends, forget the vagaries of an impulsive but generous soul. To subdue my passions shall hereafter be my law. After conquering all the nations in the universe, it is well to conquer one's self." This said, he submitted his ear to M. Nibor, who finished dressing it. "But," said he, summoning up his recollections, "they did not shoot me, then ? " "No." "And I wasn't frozen to death in the tower ? » "Not quite." "Why has my uniform been taken off? I see! I am a pris- oner I " EDMOND ABOUT 47 " You are free. " "Free! Vive I'Empdreur! But then there's not a moment to lose ! How many leagues is it to Dantzic ? " " It's very far. " " What do you call this chicken-coop of a town ? '* " Fontainebleau. " *< Fontainebleau ! In France ? " " Prefecture of Seine-et-Marne. We are going to introduce to you the sub-prefect, whom you just pitched into the street.*' " What the devil are your sub-prefects to me ? I have a mes- sage from the Emperor to General Rapp, and I must start this very day for Dantzic. God knows whether I'll be there in time ! " " My poor colonel, you will arrive too late : Dantzic is given up.» " That's impossible ! Since when ? " "About forty-six years ago." "Thunder! I did not understand that you were — mocking me!» M. Nibor placed in his hand a calendar, and said, "See for yourself! It is now the 17th of August, 1859; you went to sleep in the tower of Liebenfeld on the nth of November, 1813: there have been, then, forty-six years, within three months, during which the world has moved on without you." "Twenty-four and forty-six: but then I would be seventy years old, according to your statement!" "Your vitality clearly shows that ypu are still twenty-four." He shrugged his shoulders, tore up the calendar, and said, beating the floor with his foot, " Your almanac is a humbug ! " M. Renault ran to his library, took up half a dozen books at haphazard, and made him read, at the foot of the title-pages, the dates 1826, 1833, 1847, and 1858. " Pardon me ! " said Fougas, burying his head in his hands. "What has happened to me is so new! I do not think that another human being was ever subjected to such a trial. I am seventy years old ! " Good Mme. Renault went and got a looking-glass from the bath-room and gave it to him, saying: — "Look!" He took the gl$.ss in both haiads and was silently occupied in resuming acquaintance with himself, when a hand-organ came into the court and began playing *Partant pour la Syrie.' 48 EDMOND ABOUT Fougas threw the mirror to the ground, and cried out: — " What is that you are telling me ? I hear the little song of Queen Hortense ! " M. Renault patiently explained to him, while picking up the pieces of the mirror, that the pretty little song of Queen Hor- tense had become a national air, and even an official one, since the regimental bands had substituted that gentle melody for the fierce * Marseillaise ' ; and that our soldiers, strange to say, had not fought any the worse for it. But the colonel had already opened the window, and was crying out to the Savoyard with the organ : — " Eh ! Friend ! A napoleon for you if you will tell me in what year I am drawing the breath of life ! " The artist began dancing as lightly as possible; playing on his musical instrument. " Advance at the order ! " cried the colonel, " and keep that devilish machine still ! " "A little penny, my good monsieur!" "It is not a penny that I'll give you, but a napoleon, if you'll tell what year it is." «Oh, but that's funny! Hi— hi— hi! » "And if you don't tell me quicker than this amounts to, I'll cut your ears off ! " The Savoyard ran away, but he came back pretty soon, having meditated, during his flight, on the maxim "Nothing risk, noth- ing gain." "Monsieur," said he, in a wheedling voice, "this is the year eighteen hundred and fifty -nine." "Good!" cried Fougas. He felt in his pockets for money, and found nothing there. L^on saw his predicament, and flung twenty francs into the court. Before shutting the window, ,he pointed out, to the right, the fagade of a pretty little new building, where the colonel could distinctly read: — AUDRET ARCHITECTE MDCCCLIX A perfectly satisfactory piece of evidence, and one which did not cost twenty francs. Fougas, a little confused, pressed Leon's hand and said to him ; — EDMOND ABOUT , ^g "My friend, I do not forget that Confidence is the first duty from Gratitude toward Beneficence. But tell me of our country! I tread the sacred soil where I received my being, and I am ignorant of the career of my native land. France is still the queen of the world, is she not ? " "Certainly," said L^on.) " How is the Emperor ? " «Well.» "And the Empress?" "Very well. » « And the King of Rome ? » " The Prince Imperial ? He is a very fine child. " " How ? A fine child ! And you have the faCe to say that this is 1859!'* M. Nibor took up the conversation, and explained in a few words that the reigning sovereign of France was not Napoleon I., but Napoleon III. " But then, " cried Fougas, " my Emperor is dead ! * «Yes.» "Impossible! Tell me anything you will but that! My Em- peror is immortal." M. Nibor and the Renaults, who were not quite professional historians, were obliged to give him a summary of the history of our century. Some one went after a "big book, written by M. de Norvins and illustrated with fine engravings by RaflEet. He only believed in the presence of Truth when he could touch her with his hand, and still cried out almost every moment, "That's iin- possible ! This is not history that you are reading to me : it is a romance written to make soldiers weep ! " This young man must indeed have had a strong and well-tem- pered soul; for he learned in forty minutes all the woful events which fortune had scattered through eighteen years, from the first abdication up to the death of the King of Rome. Less happy than his old companions in arms, he had no interval of repose between these terrible and repeated shocks, all beating upon his heart at the same time. One could have feared that the blow might prove mortal, and poor Fougas die in the first hour of his recovered life. But the imp of a fellow yielded and recovered himself in .quick succession like a spring. He cried out with admiration on hearing of the five battles of the campaign in France; he reddened with grief at the farewells of Fontainebleau. 1—4 ro EDMOND about The return from the Isle of Elba transfigured his handsome and noble countenance; at Waterloo his heart rushed in with the last army of the Empire, and there shattered itself. Then he clenched his fists and said between his teeth, «If I had been there at the head of the Twenty- Third, Bliicher and Wellington would have seen another fate ! » The invasion, the truce, the martyr of St. Helena, the ghastly terror of Europe, the murder of Murat, — the idol of the cavalry, — the deaths of Ney, Bruno, Mouton-Duvemet, and so many other whole-souled men whom he had known, ad- mired, and loved, threw him into a series of paroxysms of rage; but nothing crushed him. In hearing of the death of Napoleon, he swore that he would eat the heart of England; the slow agony of the pale alid interesting heir of the Empire inspired him with a passion to tear the vitals oui of Austria. When the drama was over, and the curtain fell on Schonbrunn, he dashed away his tears and said, " It is well. I have lived in a moment a man's entire life. Now show me the map of France ! " L^on began to turn over the leaves of an atlas, while M. Renault attempteii to continue narrating to the colonel the history of the Restoration, and of the monarchy of 1830. But Fougas's interest was in other things. "What do I care," said he, "if a couple of hundred babblers of deputies put one king in place of another? Kings! I've seen enough of them in the dirt. If the Empire had lasted ten years longer, I could have had a king for a bootblack." When the atlas was placed before him, he at once cried out with profound disdain, « That France ? " But soon two tears of pitjring affection, escaping from his eyes, swelled the rivers Ardfeche and Gironde. He kissed the map and said, with an emotion which communicated itself to nearly all those who were present : — " Forgive me, poor old love, for insulting your misfortunes. Those scoundrels whom we always whipped have profited by my sleep to pare down your frontiers; but little or great, rich or poor, you are my mother, and I love you as a faithful son! Here is Corsica, where the giant of our age was bom; here is Toulouse, where I first saw the light; here is Nancy, where I felt my heart awakened — where, perhaps, she whom I call my ^gl6 waits for me still! France! Thou hast a temple in my soul; this arm is thine; thou shalt find me ever ready t6 shed my blood to the last drop in defending or avenging thee!" SI ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITER- ATURE BY CRAWFORD H. TOV JECENT discoveries have carried the beginnings of civilization, farther and farther back into the remote past. Scholars are not agreed as to what region can lay claim to the greatest literary antiquity. ■ The oldest historical records are found in Egypt and Babylonia, and each of these lands has its advocates, who claim for it priority in culture. The data now at our command are not suf- ficient for the decision of this question. It may be doubted whether any one spot on the globe will ever be shown to have precedence in time over all others, — whether, that is, it will appear that the civili- zation of the world has proceeded from a single centre. But though we are yet far from having reached the very beginnings of culture, we know that they lie farther back than the wildest dreams of half a century ago would have imagined. Established kingdoms existed in Babylonia in the fourth millennium before the beginning of our era; royal inscriptions have been found which are with great probability assigned to about the year 3800 B. C. These are, it is true, of the simplest description, consisting of a few sentences of praise to a deity or brief notices of a campaign or of the building of a temple; but they show that the art of writing was known, and that the custom existed of recording events of the national history. "We may thence infer the existence of a settled civilization and of some sort of literary productiveness. The Babylonian-Assyrian writings with which we are acquainted may be divided into the two classes of prose and poetry. The former class consists of royal inscriptions (relating to military campaig^ns and the construction Of temples), chronological tables (eponym canons), legal documents (sales, suits, etc.), grammatical tables (paradigms and vocabularies), lists of omens and lucky and unlucky days, and letters and reports passing between kings and governors; the latter class includes cosmogonic poems, an epic poem in twelve books, detached mythical narratives, magic formulas and incantations, and prayers to deities (belonging- to the ritual service of the temples). The prose pieces, with scarcely an exception, belong to the historical period, and may be dated with something like accuracy. The same thing is true of a part of the poetical material, particularly the prayers; but the -2 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE cosmogonic and other mythical poems appear to go back, at least so far as their material is concerned, to a very remote antiquity, and it is difficult to assign them a definite date. Whether this oldest poetical material belongs to the Semitic Baby- lonians or to a non-Semitic (Sumerian-Accadian) people is a question not yet definitely decided. The material which comes into consid- eration for the solution of this problem is mainly linguistic. Along with the inscriptions, which are obviously in the Semitic-Babylonian language, are found others composed of words apparently strange. These are held by some -scholars to represent a priestly, cryptographic writing, by others to be true Semitic words in slightly altered form, and by others still to belong to a non-Semitic tongue. This last view supposes that the ancient poetry comes, in substance at any rate, from a non-Semitic people who spoke this tongue; while on the other hand, it is maintained that this poetry is so interwoven into Semitic life that it is impossible to regard it as of foreign origin. The majority of Semitic scholars are now of the opinion that the origin of this early literature is foreign. However this may be, it comes to us in Babylonian dress, it has been elaborated by Babylonian hands, has thence found its way into the literature of other Semitic peoples, and for our purposes may be accepted as Babylonian. In any case it carries ug back to very early religious conceptions. The cosmogonic poetry is in its outlines not unlike that of Hesiod, but develops the ruder ideas at greater length. In the shortest (but probably not the earliest) form of the cosmogony, the beginning of all things is found in the watery abyss. Two abysmal powers (Tiamat and Apsu), represented as female and male, mingle their waters, and from them proceed the gods. The list of deities (as in the Greek cosmogony) seems to represent several dynasties, a concep- tion which may embody the belief in the gradual organization of the world. After two less-known gods, called Lahmu and Lahamu, come the more familiar figures of later Babylonian writing, Anu and Ea. At this point the list unfortunately breaks off, and the creative function which may have been assigned to the gods is lost, or has not yet been discovered. The general similarity between this account and that of Gen. i. is obvious: both begin with the abysmal chaos. Other agreements between the two cosmogonies will be pointed out below. The most interesting figure in this fragment is that of Tiamat. We shall presently see her in the character of the enemy of the gods. The two conceptions of her do not agree together perfectly, and the priority in time must be assigned to the latter. The idea that the world of gods and men and material things issued" out of the womb of the abyss is a philosophic generalization that is more naturally assigned to a period of reflection. ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE cj In the second cosmogonic poem the account is more similar to that of the second chapter of Genesis, and its present form originated in or near Babylon. Here we have nothing of the primeval deep, but are told how the gods made a beautiful land, with rivers and trees; how Babylon was built and Marduk created man, and the Tigris and the Euphrates, and the beasts and cities and temples. This also must be looked on as a comparatively late form of the myth, since its hero is Marduk, god of Babylon. As in the Bible account, men are created before beasts, and the region of their first abode seems to be the same as the Eden of Genesis. Let us now turn to the poem in which the combat between Tiamat and Marduk forms the principal feature. For some unexplained reason Tiamat rebels against the gods. Collecting her hosts, among them frightful demon shapes of all imaginable forms, she advances for the purpose of expelling the gods from their seats. The affrighted deities turn for protection to the high gods, Anu and Ea, who, how- ever, recoil. in terror from the hosts of thp dragon Tiamat. Anshar then applies to Marduk. The gods are invited to a feast, the situ- ation is described, and Marduk is invited to lead the heavenly hosts against the foe. He agrees on condition that he shall be clothed with absolute power, so that he shall only have to say "Let it be,*> and it shall be. To this the gods assent: a garment is placed before him, to which he says "Vanish," and it vanishes, and when he com- mands it to appear, it is present. The hero thert dons his armor and advances against the enemy. He takes Tiamat and slays her, routs her host, kills her consort Kingu, and utterly destroys the rebel- lion. Tiamat he cuts in twain. Out of one half of her he forms the heavens, out of the other half the earth, and for the gods Anu and Bel and Ea he makes a heavenly palace, like the abyss itself in extent. To the great gods also he assigns positions, forms the stars, establishes the year and month and the day. , At this point the his- tory is interrupted, the tablet being broken. The creation of the heavenly bodies is to be compared with the similar account in Gen. i. ; whether this poem narrates the creation of the rest of the world it is impossible to say. . In this history of the rebellion of Tiamat against the gods we have a mythical picture of some natural phenomenon, perhaps of the con- flict between the winter and the enlivening sun of summer. The poem appears to contain elements of different dates. The rude char- acter of some of the procedures suggests an early time: Marduk. slays Tiamat by driving the wind into her body; the warriors who accom- pany her have those composite forms familiar to us from. Babylo- nian and Egyptian statues, paintings, and seals, which are the product of that early thought for which there was no essential difference ,CA. ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE between man and beast. The festival in which the gods carouse is of a piece with the divine Ethiopian feasts of Homer. On the other hand, the idea of the omnipotence of the divine word, when Marduk makes the garment disappear and reappear, is scarcely a primitive one. It is substantially identical with the Biblical «Let it be, and it was." It is probable that the poem had a long career, and in success- ive recensions received the coloring of different generations. Tiamat herself has a long history. Here she is a dragon who assaults the gods; elsewhere, as we have seen, she is the mother of the gods; here also her body forms the heaven and the earth. She appears in Gen. i. 2 as the Tehom, the primeval abyss. In the form of the hostile dragon she is found in numerous passages of the Old Testa- ment, though under different names. She is an enemy of Yahwe, god of Israel, and in the New Testament (Rev. xii.) the combat between Marduk and Tiamat is represented under the form of a fight between Michael and the Dragon. In Christian literature Michael has been replaced by St. George. The old Babylonian conception has been fruitful of poetry, representing, as it does, in gfrand form the struggle between the chaotic and the formative forces of the universe. The most considerable of the old Babylonian poems, so far as length and literary form are concerned, is that which has been com- monly known as the Izdubar epic. The form of the name is not certain: Mr. Pinches has recently proposed, on tl}e authority of a Babylonian text, to write it Gilgamesh, and this form has been adopted by a number of scholars. The poem (discovered by George Smith in 1872) is inscribed on twelve tablets, each tablet apparently containing a separate episode. The first tablet introduces the hero as the deliverer of his country from the Elamites, an event which seems to have taken place before 2000 B. C. Of the second, third, fourth, and fifth tablets, only frag- ments exist, but it appears that Gilgamesh slays the Elamite tyrant. The sixth tablet recounts the love of Ishtar for the hero, to whom she proposes marriage, ofEering him the tribute of the land. The reason he assigns for his rejection of the goddess is the number and fatal character of her loves. Among the objects of her affection were a wild eagle, a lion, a war-horse, a ruler, and a husbandman; and all these came to grief. Ishtar, angry at her rejection, complains to her father, Anu, and her mother, Anatu, and begs them to avenge her wrong. Anu creates a divine bull and sends it against Gilgamesh, who, however, with the aid of his friend Eabani, slays the bull. Ishtar curses Gilgamesh, but Eabani turns the curse against her. The seventh tablet recounts how Ishtar descends to the underworld seeking some better way of attacking the hero. The description of the Babylonian Sheol is one of the most efiEective portions of the ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE ee poem, and with it George Smith connects a well-known poem which relates the descent of Ishtar to the underworld. The goddess goes down to the house of darkness from which there is no exit, and demands admittance of the keeper; who, however, by command of . the queen of the lower world, requires her to submit to the condi- tions imposed on all who enter. There are seven gates, at each of which he removes some portion of her ornaments and dress. Ishtar, thus unclothed, enters and becomes a prisoner. Meantime the upper earth has felt her absence. All love and life has ceased. Yielding to the persuasions of the gods, Ea sends a messenger to demand the release of the goddess. The latter passes out, receiving at each gate a portion of her clothing. This story of Ishtar's love belongs to one of the earliest stages of religious belief. Not only do the gods appear as under the control of ordinary human passions, but there is no consciousness of material difference between man and beast. The Greek parallels are familiar to all. Of these ideas we find no trace in the later Babylonian and Assyrian literature, and the poem was doubtless interpreted by the Babylonian sages in allegorical fashion. In the eighth and ninth tablets the death of Eabani is recorded, and the grief of Gilgamesh. The latter then wanders forth in search of Hasisadra, the hero of the Flood-story. After various adventures he reaches the abode of the divinized man, and from him learns the story of the Flood, which is given in the eleventh tablet. This story is almost identical with that of the Book of Genesis. The God Bel is determined to destroy mankind, and Hasisadra receives directions from Ea to build a ship, and take into it provis- ions and goods and slaves and beasts of the field. The ship is cov- ered with bitumen. , The flood is sent by Shamash (the sun-god). Hasisadra enters the ship and shuts the door. So dreadful is the teinpest that the gods in affright ascend for protection to the heaven of Anu. Six days the storm lasts. On the seventh comes calm. Hasisadra opens a window and sees the mountain- of Nizir, sends forth a dove, which returns; then a swallow, which returns; then a raven, which does not return; then, knowing that the flood has passed, sends out the animals, builds an altar, and offers sacrifice, over which the gods gather like flies. Ea remonstrates with Bel, and urges that here- after, when he is angry with men, instead of sending a deluge, he shall send wild beasts, who shall destroy them. Thereupon Bel makes a compact with Hasisadra, and the gods take him and his wife and people and place them in a remote spot at the mouth of the rivers. It is now generally agreed that the Hebrew story of the Flood is taken from the Babylonian, either mediately through the Canaanites (for the Babylonians had occupied Canaan before the sixteenth cen- tury B. C), or immediately during the exile in the sixth century. S6 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE The Babylonian account is more picturesque, the Hebrew more re- strained and solemn. The early polytheistic features have been excluded by the Jewish editors. In addition to these longer stories there are a number of legends of no little poetical and mythical interest. In the cycle devoted to the eagle there is a story of the struggle between the eagle and the serpent. The latter complains to the sun-god that the eagle has eaten his young. The god suggests a plan whereby the hostile bird may be caught : the body of a wild ox is to be set as a snare. Out of this plot, however, the eagle extricates himself by his sagacity. In the second story the eagle comes to the help of a woman who is struggling to bring a nian-child (apparently Etana) into the world. In the third is portrayed the ambition of the hero Etana to ascend to heaven. The eagle promises to aid him in accomplishing his design. Clinging to the bird, he rises with him higher and higher toward the heavenly space, reaching the abode of Anu, and then the abode of Ishtar. As they rise to height after height the eagle describes the appearance of the world lying stretched out beneath: at first it rises like a huge mountain out of the sea; then the ocean appears as a girdle encircling the land, and finally but as a ditch a gardener digs to irrigate his land. When they have risen so high that the earth is scarcely visible, Etana cries to the eagle to stop; so he does, but his strength is exhausted, and bird and man fall to the earth. Another cycle of stories deals with the winds. The god Zu longs to have absolute power over the world. To that end he lurks about the door of the sun-god, the possessor of the tablets of fate whereby he controls all things. Each morning before beginning his journey, the sun-god steps out to send light showers over the world. Watch- ing his opportunity, Zu glides in, seizes the tablets of fate, and flies away ^nd hides himself in the mountains. So great horror comes over the world: it is likely to be scorched by the sun-god's burning beams. Anu calls on the storm-god Ramman to conquer Zu, but he is frightened and declines the task, as do other gods. Here, unfor- tunately, the tablet is broken, so that we do not know by whom the normal order was finally restored. In the collection of cuneiform tablets disinterred at Amama in 1887 was found the curious story of Adapa. The demigod Adapa, the son of Ea, fishing in the sea for the family of his lord, is overwhelmed by the stormy south wind and cast under the waves. In anger he breaks the wings of the wind, that it may no longer rage in the storm. Anu, informed that the south wind no longer blows, summons Adapa to his presence. Ea instructs his son to put on apparel of mourning, present himself at Ann's gate, and there make friends with the por- ters, Tammuz and Iszida, so that they may speak a word for him to ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 57 Anu; going into the presence of the royal deity, he will be offered food and drink which he must reject, and raiment and oil which he must accept. Adapa carries out the instructions of his father to the letter. Anu is appeased, but laments that Adapa, by rejecting heavenly food and drink, has lost the opportunity to become immor- tal. This story, the record of which is earlier than the sixteenth century B. C, appears to contain two conceptions : it is a mythical description of the history of the south wind, but its conclusion pre- sents a certain parallelism with the end of the story of Eden in Genesis; as there Adam, so here Adapa, fails of immortality because he infringes the divine command concerning the divine food. We have here a suggestion that the story in Genesis is one of the cycle which dealt with the common earthly fact of man's mortality. The legend of Dibbarra seems to have a historical basis. The god Dibbarra has devastated the cities of Babylonia with bloody wars. Against Babylon he has brought a hostile host and slain its people, so that Marduk, the god of Babylon, curses him. And in like manner he has raged against Erech, and is cursed by its goddess Ishtar. He is charged with confounding the righteous and unrighteous in indis- criminate destruction. But Dibbarra determines to advance against the dwelling of the king of the gods, and Babylonia is to be further desolated by civil war. It is a poetical account of devastating wars as the production of a hostile deity. It is obvious that these legends have many features in common with those of other lands, myths of conflict between wind and sun, and the ambition of heroes to scale the heights of heaven. How far these similarities are the independ- ent products of similar situations, and how far the results of loans, cannot at present be determined. The moral-religious literature of the Babylonians is not inferior in interest to the stories just mentioned. The hymns to the gods are characterized by a sublimity and depth of feeling which remind us of the odes of the Hebrew Psalter. The penitential hymns appear to contain expressions of sorrow for sin, which would indicate a high development of the religious consciousness. These hymns, apparently a part of the temple ritual, probably belong to a relatively late stage of history; but they are none the less proof that devotional feeling in ancient times was not limited to any one country. Other productions, such as the hymn to the seven evil spirits (celebrating their mysterious power), indicate a lower stage of reli- gious feeling; this is specially visible in the magic formulas, which portray a very early stratum of religious history. They recall the Shamanism of Central Asia and the rites of savage tribes; but there is no reason to doubt that the Semitic religion in its early stages contained this magic element, which is found all the world over. g8 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE Riddles and Proverbs are found among the Babylonians, as among all peoples. Comparatively few have been discovered, and these pre- sent nothing of peculiar interest. The following may serve as speci- mens:— "What is that which becomes pregnant without conceiving, fat without eating?" The answer seems to be «A cloud. » «My coal- brazier clothes me with a divine garment, my rock is founded in the sea» (a volcano). «I dwell in a house of pitch and brick, but over me glide the boats" (a canal). «He that says, draws from a waterless well, and rubs the skin without oiling it.» «When sickness is incurable and hunger unappeasable, silver and gold cannot restore health nor appease Jiun- ger.» «As the oven waxes old, so the foe tires of enmity." «The life of yesterday goes on every day." "When the seed is not good, no sprout comes forth." ; The poetical form of all these pieces is characterized by that paral- lelism of members with which we are familiar in the poetry of the Old Testament. It is rhythmical, but apparently not metrical: the harmonious flow of syllables in any one line, with more or less beats or cadences, is obvious; but it does not appear that syllables were combined into feet, or that there was any fixed rule for the num- ber of syllables or beats in a line. So also strophic divisions may be ob^rved, such divisions naturally resulting from the nature of all narratives. Sometimes the strophe seems to contain four lines, some- times more. No strophic rule has yet been established; but it seems not unlikely that when the longer poetical pieces shall have been more definitely fixed in form, certain principles of poetical composition will present themselves. The thought of the mythical pieces and the prayers and hymns is elevated and imaginative. Some of this poetry appears to have belonged to a period earlier than 2000 B. C. Yet the Babylonians constructed no epic poem like the * Iliad, ' or at any rate none such has yet been found. Their genius rather expressed itself in brief or fragmentary pieces, like the Hebrews and the Arabs. The Babylonian prose literature consists almost entirely of short chronicles and annals. Royal inscriptions have been found covering the period from 3000 B. C. to 539 B. C. There are eponjrm canons, statistical lists, diplomatic letters, military reports; but none of these rise to the dignity of history. Several connected books of chronicles have indeed been found; there is a synchronistic book of annals of Babylonia and Assyria, there is a long Assyrian chronicle, and there are annalistic fragments. But there is no digested historical narrative which gives a clear picture of the. general civil and political situatioil, or any analysis of the characters of kings, generals, and governors, or any inqjiiry into causes of events. It is possible that narratives having a better claim to the name of history may yet be discovered. ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE eg resembling those of the Biblical Book of Kings; yet the Book of Kings is scarcely history — neither the Jews nor the Babylonians and Assyrians seem to have had great power in this direction. One of the most interesting collections of historical pieces is that recently discovered at Amarna. Here, out of a mound which repre- sents a palace of the Egyptian King Amenhotep IV. , were dug up numerous letters which were exchanged between the kings of Babylo- nia and Egypt in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, and numerous reports sent to the Egyptian government by Egyptian governors of Canaanite cities. These tablets show that at this early time there was lively communication between the Euphrates and the Nile, and they give a vivid picture of the chaotic state of affairs in Canaan, which was exposed to the assaults of enemies on all sides. This country was then in possession of Egypt, but at a still earlier period it must have been occupied by the Babylonians. Only in this way can we account for the surprising fact that the Babylonian cuneiform script and the Babylonian language form the means of communication between the east and west and between Egypt and Canaan. The literary value of these letters is not great; their interest is chiefly historic and linguistib. The same thing is true of the contract tablets, which are legal documents: these cover the whole area of Babylonian history, and show that civil law attained a high state of perfection; they are couched in the usual legal phrases. The literary monuments mentioned above are all contained in tablets, which have the merit of giving in general contemporaneous records of the things described. But an account of Babylonian liter- ature would be incomplete without mention of the priest Berosus. Having, as priest of Bel, access to the records of the temples, he wrote a history of his nsttive land, in which he preserved the sub- stance of a number of poetical narratives, as well as the ancient accounts of the political history. The fragments of his work which have been preserved (see, Cory's 'Ancient Fragments') exhibit a number of parallels with the contents of the cuneiform tablets. Though he wrote in Greek (he lived in the time of Alexander the Great), and was probably trained in the Greek learning of his time, his work doubtless represents the spirit of Babylonian historical writ- ing. So far as can be judged from the remains which have come down to us, its style is of the annalistic sort which appears in the old inscriptions and in the historical books of the Bible. The Babylonian literature above described must be understood to include the Assyrian. Civilization was first established in Babylonia, and there apparently were produced the great epic poems and the legends; but Assyria when she succeeded to the headship of the Meso- potamian valley, in the twelfth century B. C, adopted the literature 6o ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE of her southern sister. A great part of the old poetry has been found in the library of Assurbanipal, at Nineveh (seventh century B. C), where a host of scribes occupied themselves with the study, of the ancient literature. They seem to have had almost all the appa- ratus of modern critical work. Tablets were edited, sometimes with revisions. There are bilingfual tablets, presenting in parallel columns the older texts (called Sumerian-Accadian) and the modern version. There are numerous grammatical and lexicographical lists. The rec- ords were accessible, and often consulted. Assurbanipal, in bringing back a statu^ of the goddess Nana from the Elamite region, says' that it was carried off by the Elamites 1635 years before; and Nabonidus, the last king of Babylon (circa B. C. 550), a man devoted to temple restoration, refers to an inscription' of King Narata-Sin, of Agane, who, he says, reigned 3200 years before. In recent discoveries made at Nippur, by the American Babylonian Expedition, some Assyriologists find evidence of the existence of a Babylonian civilization many cen- turies before B. C. 4000 (the dates B. C. 5000 and B. C. 6000 have been mentioned) ; the material is now undergoing examination, and it is too early to make definite statements of date. See Peters in American Journal of Archasology for January-March, 1895, and July-September, 1895; and Hilprecht, * The Babylonian Expedition of the University of Pennsylvania,' Vol. i., Part 2, 1896. The Assyrian and Babylonian historical inscriptions, covering as they do the whole period of Jewish history down to the capture of Babylon by Cyrus, are of very great value for the illustration of the Old Testament. They have a literary interest also. Many of them are written in semi-rhythmical style, a form which was favored by the inscriptional mode of writing. The sentences are composed of short parallel clauses, and the nature of the material induced a divis- ion into paragraphs which resemble strophes. They are characterized also by precision and pithiness of statement, and are probably as trust- worthy as official records ever are. zM\ ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE gi I. THEOGONY IN THE time when above the heaven was not named, The earth beneath bore no name, When the ocean, the primeval parent of both. The abyss Tiamat the mother of both . . . The waters of both mingled in one. No fields as yet were tilled, no moors to be seen. When as yet of the gods not one had been produced. No names they bore, no titles they had, Then were born of the gods . . . Lachmu Lachamu came into existence. Many ages past . . . Anshar, Kishar were born. Many days went by. Anu . . . [Here there is a long lacuna. The lost lines completed the history of the creation of the gods, and gave the reason for the uprising of Tiamat with her hosts. What it was that divided the divine society into two hostile camps can only be conjectured ; probably Tiamat, who represents the unfriendly or chaotic forces of nature, saw that her domain was being encroached on by the light- gods, who stand for cosmic order.] II. REVOLT OF TIAMAT TO HER came flocking all the gods. They gathered together, they came to Tiamat; Angary they plan, restless by night and by day, Prepare for war with gestures of rage and hate, With combined might to begin the battle. The mother of the abyss, she who created them all. Unconquerable warriors, gave them giant snakes. Sharp of tooth, pitiless in might. With poison like blood she filled their bodies. Huge poisonous adders raging, she clothed them with dread. Filled them with splendor . . . He who sees them shuddering shall seize him. They rear their bodies, none can resist their breast. Vipers she made, terrible snakes . . . . . . raging dogs, scorpion-men . . . fish men . , . Bearing invincible arms, fearless in the fight. Stern are her commands, not to be resisted. 62 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE Of all the first-born gods, because he gave her help, She raised up Kingtt in the midst, she made him the greatest. To march in front of the host, to lead the whole. To begin the war of arms, to advance the attack, Forward in the fight to be the triumpher. This she gave into his hand, made him sit on the throne: — By my command I make thee great in the circle of the gods; Rule over all the gods I have given to thee. The greatest shalt thou be, thou my chosen consort; Be thy name made great over all the earth. She gave him the tablets of fate, laid them on his breast. Thy command be not gainsaid, thy word stand fast. Thus lifted up on high, endued with Anu's rank. Among the gods her children King^ did bear rule. [The gods, dismayied, first appeal to Anu for aid against Tiamat, but he refuses to lead the attack. Anshar then sends to invite the gods to a feast.] Anshar opened his mouth. To Gaga, his servant, spake he: — Go, O Gaga, my servant thou who delightest my soul. To Lachmu Lachamu I will send thee ... That the gods may sit at the feast. Bread to eat, wine to drink, To give the rule to Marduk. Up Gaga, to them go. And tell what I say to thee: — Anshar, your son, has sent me. Told me the desire of his heart. [He repeats the preceding description of Tiamat's preparations, and an- nounces that Marduk has agreed to face the foe.] I sent Anu, naught can he against her. Nudimmud was afraid and turned cowering back, Marduk accepted the task, the ruler of gods, your son. Against Tiamat to march his heart impels him. So speaks he to me: If I succeed, I, your avenger. Conquer Tiamat and save your lives. Come, ye all, and declare me supreme. In Upsukkenaku enter ye joyfully all. With my mouth, will I bear rule. Unchangeable be whate'er I do. The word of my lips be never reversed or gainsaid. Come and to him give over the rule. That he may go and meet the evil foe. ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 63 Gaga went, strode on his way, Humbly before Lachmu and Lachamu, the gods, his fathers, He paid his homage and kissed the ground, Bent lowly down and to them spake: — Anshar, your son, has sent me. Told me the desire of his heart. [Gaga then repeats Anshar's message at length, and the narrative pro- ceeds.] Lachmu and Lachamu heard and were afraid. The Igigi all lamented sore: What change has come about that she thus hates us? We cannot understand this deed of Tiamat. With hurry and haste they went. The great gods, all the dealers of fate, . . . with eager tongue, sat themselves down to the feast. Bread they ate, wine they drank. The sweet wine entered their souls. They drank their fill, full were their bodies. [In this happy state they were ready to accept Marduk's conditions.] To Marduk, their avenger, they gave over the rule. They lifted him up on a lofty throne. Above his fathers he took his place as judge: — Most honored be thou among the great gods, Unequaled thy rule, thy word is Ann. From this time forth thy command be not gainsaid; To lift up and cast down be the work of thy hand; The speech of thy mouth stand fast, thy word be irresistible. None of the gods shall intrude on thy domain, Fullness of wealth, the desire of the temples of the gods. Be the portion of thy shrine, though they be in need. Marduk, thou, our avenger, Thine be the kingdom over all forever. Sit thee down in might, noble be thy word. Thy arms shall never yield, the foes they shall crush. O lord, he who trusts in thee, him grant thou life, But the deity who set evil on foot, her life pour out. Then in the midst they placed a garment. To Marduk their first-born thus spake they: — Thy rule, O lord, bfe chief among the gods. To destroy and to create — speak and let it be. 64 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE Open thy mouth, let the garment vanish. Utter again thy command, let the garment appear. He spake with his mouth, vanished the garment; Again he commanded, and the garment appeared. When the gods, his fathers, saw thus his word fulfilled. Joyful were they and did homage: Marduk is king. On him conferred sceptre and throne. . . . Gave him invincible arms to crush them that hate him. Now go and cut short the life of Tiamat, May the winds into a secret place carry her blood. The ruler of the gods they made him, the gods, his fathers, Wished him success and glory in the way on which he went. He made ready a bow, prepared it for use. Made ready a spear to be his weapon. He took the . . . seized it in his right hand, Bow and quiver hung at his side. Lightning he fashioned flashing before him. With glowing flame he filled its body, A net he prepared to seize Tiamat, Guarded the four corners of the world that nothing of her should escape. On South and North, on Bast and West He laid the net, his father Anu's gift. He fashioned the evil wind, the south blast, the tornado. The four-and-seven wind, the wind of destruction and woe. Sent forth the seven winds which he had made Tiamat's body to destroy, after him they followed. Then seized the lord the thunderbolt, his mighty weapon, The irresistible chariot, the terrible, he mounted. To it four horses he harnessed, pitiless, fiery, swift. Their teeth were full of venom covered with foam. On it mounted Marduk the mighty in battle. To right and left he looked, lifting his eye. His terrible brightness surrounded his head. .Against her he advanced, went on his way, To Tiamat lifted his face. They looked at him, at him looked the gods. The gods, his fathers, looked at him ; at him looked the gods. And nearer pressed the lord, with his eye piercing Tiamat. On Kingu her consort rested his look. As he so looked, every way is stopped. ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE ge His senses Kingu loses, vanishes his thought, And the gods, his helpers, who stood by his side Saw their lea,der powerless . . . But Tiamat stood, not turning her back. With fierce lips to him she spake : — Then grasped the lord his thunderbolt, his mighty weapon. Angry at Tiamat he hurled his words: — When Tiamat heard these words, She fell into fury, beside herself was she. Tiamat cried wild and loud Till through and through her body shook. She utters her magic formula, speaks her word, And the gods of battle rush to arms. Then advance Tiamat, and Marduk the ruler of the goda To battle they rush, come on to the fight. His wide-stretched net over her the lord did cast. The evil wind from behind him he let loose in her face. Tiamat opened her throat as wide as she might, Into it he sent the evil wind before she could close her lips. The terrible winds filled her body, Her senses she lost, wide open stood her throat. He seized his spear, through her body he ran it. Her inward parts he hewed, cut to pieces her heart. Her he overcame, put an end to her life. Cast away her corpse and on it stood. So he, the leader, slew Tiamat, Her power he crushed, her might he destroyed. Then the gods, her helpers, who stood at her side. Fear and trembling seized them, their backs they turned, Away they fled to save their lives. Fast were they girt, escape they could not. Captive he took them, broke in pieces their arms. They were caught in the net, sat in the toils. All the earth they filled with their cry. Their doom they bore, held fast in prison. And the eleven creatures, clothed with dread, A herd of demons who with her went, These he subdued, destroyed their power, Crushed their valor, trod them under foot; And Kingu, who had grown great over them all. Him he overcame with the god Kugga, [his. Took from him the tablets of fate which were not rightfully I— S 66 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE Stamped thereon his seal, and hung them on his breast. When thus the doughty Marduk had conquered his foes, His proud adversary to shame had brought. Had completed Anshar's triumph over the enemy. Had fulfilled Nudimmud's will. Then the conquered gods he put in prison. And to Tiamat, whom he had conquered, returned. Under his foot the lord Tiamat's body trod. With his irresistible club he shattered her skull. Through the veins of her blood he cut; Commanded the north wind to bear it to a secret place. His fathers saw it, rejoiced and shouted. Gifts and offerings to him they brought. The lord was appeased seeing her corpse. Dividing her body, wise plans he laid. Into two halves like a fish he divided her. Out of one half he made the vault of heaven, A bar he set and guards he posted. Gave them command that the waters pass nol through. Through the heaven he strode, viewed its spaces. Near the deep placed Nudimmud's dwelling. And the lord measured the domain of the deep, A palace like it, Eshara, he built, The palace Eshara which he fashioned as heaven. Therein made he Anu, Bel, and Ea to dwell. He established the station of the great gods. Stars which were like them, constellations he set. The year he established, marked off its parts. Divided twelve months by three stars. From the day that begins the year to the day that ends it He established the station Nibir to mark its limits. That no harm come, no one go astray. The stations of Bel and Ea he set by its side. Great doors he made on this side and that. Closed them fast on left and right. The moon-gpd he summoned, to him committed the night. [Here the account breaks off; there probably followed the history of the creation of the earth and of man.] ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 67 III. FRAGMENTS OF A DESCENT TO THE UNDERWORLD TO THE underworld I turn, I spread my wings like a bird, I descend to the house of darkness, to the dwelling of Irkalla, To the house from which there is no exit, The road on which there is no return. To the house whose dwellers long for light. Dust is their nourishment and mud their food. Whose chiefs are like feathered birds. Where light is never seen, in darkness they dwell. In the house which I will enter There is treasured up for me a crown. With the, crowned ones who of old ruled the earth, To whom Anu and Bel have g^ven terrible names. Carrion is their food, their drink stagnant water. There dwell the chiefs and unconquered ones, There dwell the bards and the mighty men. Monsters of the deep of the g^reat gods. It is the dwelling of Etana, the dwelling of Ner, Of Ninkigal, the queen of the underworld . . . Her I will approach and she will see me. Ishtar's Descent to the Underworld [After a description substantially identical with the first half of the pre- ceding poem, the story goes on: — ] TO THE gate of the underworld Ishtar came. To the keeper of the gate her command she ad- dressed : — Keeper of the waters, open thy gate, Open thy gate that I may enter. If thou open not the gate and let me in, I will strike the door, the posts I will shatter, I will strike the hinges, burst open the doors, I will raise up the dead devourers of the living. Over the living the dead shall triumph. The keeper opened his mouth and spake, To the Princess Ishtar he cried: — Stay, lady, do not thus, Let me go and repeat thy words to Queen Ninkigal. 6g ACCADIAN-BABYI.ONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE [He goes and gets the terrible queen's pennission for Ishtar to enter on certain conditions.] Through the first gate he caused her to pass, The crown of her head he took away. Why, O keeper, takest thou away the great crown of my head? Thus, O lady, the goddess of the underworld doeth to all her visitors at the entrance. Through the second gate he caused her to pass. The earrings of her ears he took away. Why, O keeper, takest thou away the earrings of my ears ? So, O lady, the goddess of the underworld doeth to all that enter her realm. [And so at each gate till she is stripped of clothing. A long time Ninki- gal holds her prisoner, and in the upper world love vanishes and men and gods mourn. Ea sees that Ishtar must return, and sends his messenger to bring her.] Go forth, O messenger. Toward the gates of the underworld set thy face. Let the seven gates of Hades he opened at thy presence. Let Ninkigal see thee and rejoice at thy arrival. That her heart be satisfied and her anger be removed. Appease her by the names of the great gods . . . Ninkigal, when this she heard. Beat her breast and wrung her hands, Turned away, no comfort would she take. Go, thou messenger. Let the great jailer keep thee, The refuse of the city be thy food, The drains of the city thy drink. The shadow of the dungeon be thy resting-place. The slab of stone be thy seat. Ninkigal opened her mouth and spake, To Simtar, her attendant, her command she gave. Go, Simtar, strike the palace of judgement, Pour over Ishtar the water of life, and bring her before me. Simtar went and struck the palace of judgment. On Ishtar he poured the water of life and brought her. . Through the first gate he caused her to pass. And restored to her her covering cloak. [And so through the seven gates till all her ornaments are restored. The result of the visit to the underworld is not described.] ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE IV. THE FLOOD 69 [The hero Gilgamesh (Izdubar), wandering in search of healing for his sickness, finds Hasisadra (Xisuthros), the Babylonian Noah, who tells him the story of the Flood.] HASISADRA spake to him, to Gilgamesh: — To thee I will reveal, Gilgamesh, the story of my deliverance. And the oraele of the gods I will make known to thee. The city Surippak, which, as thou knowest. Lies on the Euphrates' bank, Already old was this city When the gods that therein dwell To send a flood their heart impelled them, All the great gods: their father Anu, Their counsellor the warlike Bel, Adar their throne-bearer and the Prince Ennugi. The lord of boundless wisdom, Ea, sat with them in council. Their resolve he announced and so he spake: — O thou of Surippak, son of Ubaratutu, Leave thy house and build a ship. They will destroy the seed of life. Do thou preserve in life, and hither bring the seed of life Of every sort into the ship. [Here follows a statement of the dimensions of the ship, but the numbers are lost.] When this I heard to Ea my lord I spake: — The building of the ship, O lord, which thou commandest If I perform it, people and elders will mock me. Ea opened his mouth and spake, Spake to me, his servant: — [The text is here mutilated: Hasisadra is ordered to threaten the mockers with Ea's vengeance.] Thou, however, shut not thy door till I shall send thee word. Then pass through the door and bring All grain and goods and wealth, Family, servants and maids and all thy kin. The cattle of the field, the beasts of the field. Hasisadra opened his mouth, to Ea his lord he said: — O my lord, a ship in this wise hath no one ever built , . . yo ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE [Hasisadra tells how he built the ship according to Ea's directions.] All that I had I brought together, All of silver and all of gold. And all of the seed of life into the ship I brought. And my household, men and women, The cattle of the field, the beasts of the field, And all my kin I caused to enter. Then when the sun the destined time brought on, To me he said at even-fall: — Destruction shall the heaven rain. Enter the ship and close the door. With soiTOw on that day I saw the sun go down. The day on which I was to enter the ship I was afraid. Yet into the ship I went, behind me the door I closed. Into the hands of. the steersman I gave the ship with its cargo. Then from the heaven's horizon rose the dark cloud Raman uttered his thunder, Nabu and Sarru rushed on, . Over hill and dale strode the throne-bearers, Adar sent ceaseless streams, floods the Anunnaki brought. Their power shakes the earth, Raman's billows up to heaven mount. All light to darkness is turned. Brother looks not after brother, no man for another cares. The gods in heaven are frightened, refuge they seek. Upward they mount to the heaven of Anu. Like- a dog in his lair. So cower the gods together at the bars of heaven. Ishtar cries out in pain, loud cries the exalted goddess: — All is turned to mire. [evil. This evil to the gods I announced, to the gods foretold the This exterminating war foretold Against my race of mankind. Not for this bare I men that like the brood of the fishes They should fill the sea. Then wept the gods with her over the Anunnaki, In lamentation sat the gods, their lips hard pressed together. Six days and seven nights ruled wind and flood and storm. But when the seventh day broke, subsided the storm, and the flood ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE yi Which raged like a mighty host, settled itself to quiet. Down went the sea, ceased storm and flood. Through the sea I rode lamenting. The upper dwellings of men were ruined, Corpses floated like trees. A window I opened, on my face the daylight fell. I shuddered and sat me down weeping, Over my face flowed my tears. I rode over regions of land, on a terrible sea. Then rose one piece of land twelve measures high. To the land Nizir the ship was steered. The mountain Nizir held the ship fast, and let it no more go. At the dawn of the seventh day I took a dove and sent it forth. Hither and thither flew the dove. No resting-place it found, back to me it came. A swallow I took and sent it forth. No resting-place it found, and back to me it came. A raven I took and sent it forth. Forth flew the raven and saw that the water had fallen. Carefully waded on but came not back. All the animals then to the four winds I sent. A sacriflce I offered, An altar I built on the mountain-top, By sevens I placed the vessels. Under them spread sweet cane and cedar. The gods inhaled the smoke, inhaled the sweet-smell- ing smoke, Like flies the gods collected over the offering. Thither then came Ishtar, Lifted on high her bow, which Anu had made: — These days I will not forget, will keep them in remem- brance. Them I will never forget. Let the gods come to the altar. But let not Bel to the altar come, Because he heedlessly wrought, the flood he brought on, To destruction my people gave over. Thither came Bel and saw the ship, Full of anger was he Against the gods and the spirits of heaven:— What soul has escaped ! ,2 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE In the destruction no man shall live. Then Adar opened his mouth and spake, Spake to the warlike Bel: — Who but Ea knew it? He knew and all he hath told. Then Ea opened his mouth, Spake to the warlike Bel: — Thou art the valiant leader of the gods. Why hast thou heedlessly wrought, and brought on the flood ? Let the sinner bear his sin, the wrongdoer his wrong; Yield to our request, that he be not wholly destroyed. Instead of sending a flood, send lions that men be reduced; Instead of sending a flood, send hyenas that men be reduced; Instead of sending a flood, send flames to waste the land; Instead of sending a flood, send pestilence that men be reduced. The counsel of the great gods to him Idid not impart; A dream to Hasisadra I sent, and the will of the gods he learned. Then came right reason to Bel, Into the ship he entered. Took my hand and lifted me up. Raised my wife and laid her hand in mine, To us he turned, between us he stepped, His blessing he gave. Human Hasisadra has been. But he and his wife united Now to the gods shall be raised. And Hasisadra shall dwell far off at the mouth of tha streams. Then they took me and placed me Far off at the mouth of the streams. V. THE EAGLE AND THE SNAKE TO Samas came the snake and said: — The eagle has come to my nest, my young are scat- tered. See, O Samas, what evil he has done me. Help me, thy nest is as broad as the earth. Thy snare is like the heavens, Who can escape out of thy net? Hearing the shake's complaint, Samas opened his mouth and spake: — Get thee on thy way, go to the mountain. A wild ox shall be thy hiding-place. ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 73 Open his body, tear out his inward parts, Make thy dwelling within him. All the birds' of heaven will descend, with them will come the eagle. Heedless and hurrying on the flesh he will swoop, Thinking of that which is hidden inside. So soon as he enters the ox, seize his wing, Tear off his wing-feathers and claws, Pull him to pieces and cast him away. Let him die of hunger and thirst. So as the mighty Samas commanded. Rose the -snake, went to the mountain. There he found a wild ox. Opened his body, tore out his inward parts, Entered and dwelt within him. And the birds of heaven descended, with them came the eagle. Yet the eagle, fearing a snare, ate not of the flesh with the birds. The eagle spake to his young: — We will not fly down, nor eat of the flesh of the wild ox. An eaglet, keen of eye, thus to his father spake : — In the flesh of the ox lurks the snake [The rest is lost.] VI. THE FLIGHT OF ETANA THE priests have offered my sacrifice With joj'ful hearts to the gods. O Lord, issue thy command. Give me the plant of birth, show me the plant of birth. Bring the child into the world, grant me a son. Samas opened his mouth and spake to Etana: — Away with thee, go to the mountain. . . . The eagle opened his mouth and spake to Etana: — Wherefore art thou come? Etana opened his mouth and said to the eagle : — My friend, give me the plant of birth, show me the plant of birth. Bring the child, into the world, grant me a son. . . . To Etana then spake the eagle: — My friend, be of good cheer. Come, let me bear thee to Ann's heaven. 74 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE On my breast lay thy breast. Grasp with thy hands the feathers of my wings, On my side lay thy side. On his breast he laid his breast. On his feathers he placed his hands, On his side laid his side, Firmly he clung, great was his weight. Two hours he bore him on high. The eagle spake to him, to Etana: — See my friend, the land, how it lies, Look at the sea, the ocean-girded, [waters. Like a mountain looks the land,' the sea like petty Two hours more he bore him up.' The eagle spake to him, to Etana: — See my friend the land, how it lies, The sea is like the girdle of the land. Two hours more he bore him up. The eajgle spake to him, to Etana: — See my friend the land, how it lies, The sea is like the gardener's ditches. Up they rose to Ann's heaven. Came to the gate of Anu, Bel and Ea. . . . Come, my friend, let me bear thee to Ishtar, To Ishtar, the queen, shalt thou go, and dwell at her feet. On my side lay thy side. Grasp, my wing-feathers with thy hands. On his side he laid his side. His feathers he grasped with his hands. Two hours he bore him on high. My friend see the land, how it lies. How it spreads itself out. The broad sea is as great as a court. Two hours he bore him on high. My friend see the land, how it lies, The land is like the bed of a garden. The broad sea is as great as a [.] Two hours he bore him on high. My friend see the land, how it lies. [Etana, frightened, begs the eagle to ascend no further; then, as it seems, the bird's strength is exhausted.] To the earth the eagle fell down Shattered upon the ground. ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE ,e VII. THE GOD ZU HE SEES the badges of rule, i His royal crown, his raiment divine. On the tablets of fate of the god Zu fixes his look. On the father of the gods, the god of Duranki, Zu fixes his gaze. Lust after rule enters into his soul. I will take the tablets of fate of the gods, Will determine the oracle of all the gods. Will set up my throne, all orders control, Will rule all the heavenly spirits. His heart -was set on combat. [of day. At the entrance of >the hall he stands, waiting the break When Bel dispensed the tender rains. Sat on his throne, put off his crown. He snatched the tablets of fate from his hands. Seized the power, the control of commands. Down flew Zu, in a mountain he hid. There was anguish and crying. On the earth Bel poured out his wrath. Anu opened his mouth and spake. Said to the gods his children: — Who will conquer Zu? Great shall be his name among the dwellers of all lands. They called for Ramman, the mighty, Ann's son. To him gives Anu command: — Up, Ramman, my son, thou hero, From- thine attack desist not, conquer Zu with thy weapons, [gods. That thy name may be gfreat in the assembly of the great Among the gods thy brethren, none shall be thy equal. Thy shrines on high shall be built; Found thee cities in all the world; Thy cities shall reach to the mountain of the world; Show .thyself strong for the gods, strong be thy name ! To Anu his father's command Ramman answered and spake : — My father, who shall come to the inaccessible mound? Who is like unto Zu among the gods thy sons? The tablets of fate he has snatched from his hands. Seized on the power, the control of commands. Zu has fled and hides in his mountain. [The rest is lost.] 7 6 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE VIII. ADAPA AND THE SOUTHWIND UNDER the water the Southwind blew him Sunk him to the home of the fisjies. O Southwind, ill hast thou used me, thy wings I will break. As thus with his mouth he spake the wings of the South- wind were broken. Seven days long the Southwind over the earth blew no more. To his messenger Ila-Abrat Anu then spake thus: — Why for seven days long Blows the Southwind no more on the earth? His messenger Ila-Abrat answered and said: My lord, Adapa, Ea's son, hath broken the wings of the Southwind. When Anu heard these words, " Aha ! » he cried, and went forth. [Ea, the ocean-god, then directs his son how to proceed in order to avert Anu's wrath. Some lines are mutilated.] At the gate of Anu stand. The gods Tammuz and Iszida will see thee and ask: — Why lookest thou thus, Adapa, For whom wearest thou garments of mourning? From the earth two gods have vanished, therefore do I thus. Who are these two gods who from the earth have vanished ? At each other they will look, Tammuz and Iszida, and lament. A friendly word they will speak to Anu Anu's sacred face they will show thee. When thou to Anu comest, Food of death will be offered thee, eat not thereof. Water of death will be offered thee, drink not thereof. A garment will be offered thee, put it on. Oil will be offered thee, anoint thyself therewith. What I tell thee neglect not, keep my word in mind. Then came Anu's messenger: — The wing of the Southwind Adapa has broken. Deliver him up to me. Up to heaven he came, approached the gate of Anu. At Anu's gate Tammuz and Iszida stand, Adapa they see, and « Aha ! » they cry. ACC AD IAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE yy O Adapa, wherefore lookest thou thus, For whom wearest thou apparel of mourning ? From the earth two gods have vanished Therefore I wear apparel of mourning. Who are these tw6 gods who from the earth have vanished ? At one another look.Tammuz and Iszida and lament. Adapa go hence to Anu. When he came, Anu at him looked, saying, O Adapa, Why hast thou broken the Southwind's wing? Adapa answered: My lord, 'Fore my lor/i's house I was fishing. In the midst of the sea, it was smooth. Then the Southwind began to blow Under it forced me, to the home of the fishes I ^ank. [By this speech Anu's anger is turned away.] A beaker he set before him. What shall we offer him? Food of life Prepare for him that he may eat. Food of life was brought for him, but he ate not. Water of life was brought for him, but he drank not. A garment was brought him, he put it on. Oil they gave him, he anointed himself therewith. Anu looked at him and mourned: — And now, Adapa, wherefore Has thou not eaten or drunken ? Now canst thou not live forever . . . Ea, my lord, commanded me : — Thou shalt not eat nor drink. IX. PENITENTIAL PSALMS I The Suf pliant: 1THY servant, full of sin cry to thee. The sinner's earnest prayer thou dost accept. The man on whom thou lookest lives. Mistress of all, queen of mankind. Merciful one, to whom it is good to turn. Who acceptest the sigh of the heart. The Priest: Because his god and his goddess are angry, he cries to thee. To him turn thy face, take his hand. 78 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE The Suppliant: Beside thee there is no god to guide me. Look in mercy on me, accept my sigh, Say why do I wait so long. Let thy face be softened! How long, O my lady! . May thy kindness be turned to me! Like a dove I mourn,' full of sighing. The Priest: With sorrow and woe His soul is full of sighing, Tears he sheds, he pours out laments. O mother of the gods, who performest the commands of Bel, Who makest the young grass sprout, queen of mankind. Creator of all, guide of every birth. Mother Ishtar, whose might no god approaches, Exalted mistress, mighty in command! A prayer I will utter, let her do what seems her good. O my lady, make me to know my doing. Food I have not eaten, weeping was my nourishment. Water I have not drunk, tears were my drink. My heart has not been joyful nor my spirits glad. Many are my sins, sorrowful my soul. O my lady, make me to know my doing. Make me a place of rest, Cleanse my sin, lift up my face. May my god, the lord of prayer, before thee set my prayer! May my goddess, the lady of supplication, before thee set my supplication ! May the storm-god set my prayer before thee! [The intercession of a number of gods is here invoked.] Let thy eye rest graciously on me. . . Turn thy face graciously to me. . . . Let thy heart be gentle, thy spirit mild. O lady, in sorrow of heart sore oppressed I cry to thee. O lady, to thy servant favor show. Let thy heart be favorable, ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE yg To thy servant full of sorrow show thy pity, Turn to him thy face, accept his prayer. To thy servant with whom thou art angry graciously turn. May the anger of my lord be appeased. Appeased the god I know not! The goddess I know, the goddess I know not. The god who was angry with me, The goddess who was angry with me be appeased! The sin which I have committed I know not. May my god name a gracious name. My goddess name a gracious name. The god I know, the god I know not Name a gracious name. The goddess I know, the goddess I know not Name a g^racious name ! Pure food I have not eaten. Pure water I have not drunk. The wrath of my god, though I knew it not, was my food, The anger of my goddess, though I knew it not, cast me down. lord, many are my sins, great my misdeeds. [These phrases are repeated many times.] The lord has looked on me in anger. The god has punished me in wrath, The goddess was angry with me and hath brought me to sorrow. 1 sought for help, but no one took my hand, I wept, but no one to me came, I cry aloud, there is none that hears me. Sorrowful I lie on the ground, look not up. To my merciful god I turn, I sigh aloud. The feet of my goddess I kiss [.] To the known and unknown god I loud do sigh. To the known and unknown goddess I loud do sigh, O lord, look on me, hear my prayer, O goddess, look on me, hear my prayer. Men are perverse, nothing they know. Men of every name, what do they know? Do they good or ill, nothing they know. O lord, cast not down thy servant! go ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE Him, plunged into the flood, seize by the hand! The sin I have committed turn thou to favor! The evil I have done may the wind carry it away! Tear in pieces my wrong-doings like a garment! My god, my sins are seven timesp seven — forgive my sins! My goddess, my sins are seven times seven — forgive my sins! Known and unknown god, my sins are seven times seven — forgive my sins! Known and unknown goddess, my sins are seven times seven — forgive my sins! Forgive my sins, and I will humbly bow before thee. May the lord, the mighty ruler Adar, announce my prayer to thee! May the suppliant lady Nippur annotjnce my prayer to thee! May the lord of heaveii and earth, the lord of Eridu, announce my prayer to thee ! The mother of the great house, the goddess Damkina, announce my prayer to thee! May Marduk, the lord of Babylon, announce my prayer to thee! May his consort, the exalted child of heaven and earth, announce my prayer to thee! May the exalted minister, the god who names the good name, an- nounce my prayer to thee! May the bride, the first-born of the god, announce my prayer to thee! May the god of storm-flood, the lord Harsaga, announce my prayer to thee! May the gracious lady of the land announce my prayer to thee! X. INSCRIPTION OF SENNACHERIB (Taylor-cylinder, B.C. 701. Cf. 2 Kings xviii., xix.) SENNACHERIB, the great king, the powerful king. The king of the world, the king of Assyria, The king of the four zones. The wise shepherd, the favorite of the great gods. The protector of justice, the lover of righteousness, The giver of help, the aider of the weak. The perfect hero, the stalwart warrior, the first of princes, The destroyer of the rebellious, the destroyer of enemies— Assur, thfe mighty rock, a kingdom without rival has granted me, ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE gi Over all who sit on sacred seats he has exalted my arms, From the upper sea of the setting sun To the lower sea of the rising sun. All the blackheaded people he has cast beneath my feet, The rebellious princes shun battle with me. They forsook their dwellings ; like a -falcon Which dwells in the clefts, they fled alone to an inaccessi- ble place. To the city of Ekron I went. The governors and princes who had done evil I slew, I bound their corpses to poles around the city. The inhabitants of the city who had done evil I reckoned as spoil ; To the rest who had done no wrong I spoke peace. Padi, their king, I brought from Jerusalem, King over them I made him. The tribute of my lordship I laid upon him. Hezekiah of Judah, who had not submitted to me. Forty-six of his strong cities, small cities AYithout number, I besieged. Casting down the walls, advancing engines, by assault I took them. Two hundred thousand, one hundred and fifty men and women, young and old. Horses, mules, asses, camels, oxen, sheep, I brought out and reckoned as spoil. Hezekiah himself I shut up like a- caged bird In Jerusalem, his royal city. The w&lls I fortified against him, Whoever came out of the gates I turned him back. His cities which I had plundered I divided from his land And gave them to Mitinti, king of Ashdod, To Padi, king of Ekron, and to Silbal, king of Gaza. To the former tribute paid yearly I added the tribute of alliance of my lordship and Laid that upon him. Hezekiah himself Was overwhelmed by the fear of the brightness of my lord- ship. The Arabians and his other faithful warriors Whom, for the defence of Jerusalem, his royal city. He had brought in, fell into fear, With thirty talents of gold and eight hundred talents of silver, precious stones, 1—6 82 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE Couches of ivory, thrones of ivory, And his daughters, his women of the palace. The young men and the young women, to Nineveh, the city of my lordship, I caused to be brought after me, and he sent his ambassadors To give tribute and to pay homage. XI. INVOCATION TO THE GODDESS BELTIS TO Beltis, the great Lady, chief of heaven and earth, Queen of all the gods, mighty in all the lands. Honored is her festival among the Ishtars. She surpasses her offspring in power. She, the shining one, like her brother, the sun. Enlightens Heaven and earth. Mistress of the spirits of the underworld, First-born of Anu, great among the gods, Ruler over her enemies, The seas she stirs up, The wooded mountains tramples under foot. Mistress of the spirits .of upper air. Goddess of battle and fight. Without whom the heavenly temple None would render obedience. She, the bestower of strength, grants the desire of the faithful, Prayers she hears, supplication receives, entreaty accepts. Ishtar, the perfect light, all-powerful. Who enlightens Heaven and earth. Her name is proclaimed throughout all the lands, Esarhaddon, king of lands, fear not. To her it is good to pray. XII. ORACLES OF ISHTAR OF ARBELA (B.C. 680-668) ESARHADDON, king of lauds, .fear not. The lord, the spirit who speaks to thee I speak to him, I have not kept it back. Thine enemies, like the floods of Sivan •Before thee flee perpetually. I the great goddess, Ishtar of Arbela Have put thine enemies to flight. ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE g* Where are the words I spake to thee ? Thou hast not trusted them. I, Ishtar of Arbela, thy foes Into thy hands I give In the van and by thy side I go, fear not In the midst of thy princes thou art. In the midst of my host I advance and rest. O Esarhaddon, fear not. Sixty great gods are with me to guard thee, The Moon-god on thy right, the Sun-god on thy left. Around thee stand the sixty great gods, And make the centre firm. Trust not to man, look thou to me Honor me and fear not. To Esarhaddon, my king. Long days and length of years I give. Thy throne beneath the heavens I have established; In a golden dwelling thee I will guard in heaven Guard like the diadem of my head. The former word which I spake thou didst not trust. But trust thou now this later word and glorify me. When the day dawns bright complete thy sacrifice. Pure food thou shalt eat, pure waters drink, In thy palace thou shalt be pure: Thy son, thy son's son the kingdom By the blessing of Nergal shall rule. XIII. AN ERECHITE'S LAMENT How long, O my Lady, shall the strong enemy hold thy sanctuary ? There is want in Erech, thy principal city; Blood is flowing like water in Bulbar, the house of thy oracle; He has kindled and poured out fire like hailstones on all thy lands. My Lady, sorely am I fettered by misfortune; My Lady, thou hast surrounded me, and brought me to grief. The mighty enemy has smitten me down like a single reed. Not wise myself, I cannot take counsel; I mourn day and night like the fields. I, thy servant, pray to thee. Let thy heart take rest, let thy disposition be softened. 84 ABIGAIL ADAMS (1744-1818) BY LUCIA GILBERT RUNKLE |he Constitution of the State of Massachusetts, adopted in the year 1780, contains an article for the Encouragement of Literature, which, it declares, should be fostered because its influence is "to countenance and inculcate the principles of humanity and general benevolence, public and private charity, industry and fru- gality, honesty and punctuality in dealings, sincerity and good humor, and all social affections and generous sentiments among the people.* In these words, as in a mirror, is reflected the Massachusetts of the eighteenth century, where households like the Adamses', the Warrens', the Otises', made the standard of citizenship. Six years before this remarkable document was framed, Abigail Adams had written to her husband, then engaged in nation- making in Philadelphia : — « I most sincerely wish that some more liberal plan might be laid and executed for the benefit of the rising generation, and that our new Constitution may be distinguished for en- couraging learning and virtue." And he, spending his days and nights for his coun- try, sacrificing his profession, giving up the hope of wealth, writes her: — «I believe my children will think that I might as well have labored a little, night and day, for their benefit. But I will tell them that I studied and labored to procure a free constitution of government for them to solace themselves under; and if they do not prefer this to ample fortune, to ease and elegance, they are not my children. They shall live upon thin diet, wear mean clothes, and work hard with cheerful hearts and free spirits, or they may be the children of the earth, or of no one, for me." In old Weymouth, one of those quiet Massachusetts towns, half- hidden among the umbrageous hills, where the meeting-house and the •school-house rose before the settlers' cabins were built, where the one elm-shaded main street stretches its breadth between two lines of self-respecting, isolated frame houses, each with its grassy dooryard, its lilac bushes, its fresh-painted offices, its decorous wood-pile laid ABIGAIL ADAMS ABIGAIL ADAMS 8S with architectural balance and symmetry, — there, in the dignified parsonage, on the nth of November, 1744, was born to Parson William Smith and Elizabeth his wife, Abigail, the second of three beautiful daughters. Her mother was a Quincy, of a distinguished line, and her mother was a Norton, of a strain not less honorable. Nor were the Smiths unimportant. In that day girls had little instruction. Abigail says of herself, in one of her letters: — "I never was sent to any school. Female educa- tion, in the best families, went no further than writing and arithmetic ; in some few and rare instances, music and dancing. It was fashion- able to ridicule female learning. » But the household was bookish. Her mother knew the « British Poets" and all the literature of Queen Anne's Augustan age. Her beloved grandmother Quincy, at Mount WoUastOn, seems to have had both learning and wisdom, and to her father she owed the sense of fun, the shrewdness, the clever way of putting things which make her letters so delightful. The good parson was skillful in adapting Scripture to special exi- gencies, and throughout the Revolution he astonished his hearers by the peculiar fitness of his texts to political uses. It is related of him that when his eldest daughter married Richard Cranch, he preached to his people from Luke, tenth chapter, forty-second verse: *And Mary hath chosen that good part which shall not be taken away from her." When, a year later, young John Adams came courting the brilliant Abigail, the parish, which assumed a right to be heard on the question of the destiny of the minister's daughter, grimly ob- jected. He was upright, singularly abstemious, studious; but he was poor, he was the son of a small farmer, and she was of the gentry. He was hot-headed and somewhat tactless, and offended his critics. Worst of all, he was a lawyer, and the prejudice of colonial society reckoned a lawyer hardly honest. He won this most important of his cases, however, and Parson Smith's marriage sermon for the bride of nineteen was preached from the text, *For John came neither eating bread nor drinking wine, and ye say. He hath a devil." For ten years Mrs. Adams seems to have lived a most happy life, either in Boston or Braintree, her greatest grief being the frequent . absences of her husband on circuit. His letters to her are many and delightful, expressing again and again, in the somewhat formal phrases of the period, his affection and admiration. She wrote seldom, her household duties and the care of the children, of whom there were four in ten years, occupying her busy hands. Meanwhile, the clouds were g^rowing black in the political sky. Mr. Adams wrote arguments and appeals in the news journals over Latin signatures, papers of instructions to Representatives to the General Court, and legal portions of the controversy between the 86 ABIGAIL ADAMS delegates and Governor Hiitchinson. In all this work Mrs. Adams constantly sympathized and advised. In August, 1774, he went to Philadelphia as a delegate to a general council of the colonies called to concert measures for united action. And now begins the famous correspondence, which goes on for a period of nine years, which was intended to be seen only by the eyes of her husband, which she begs him, again and again, to destroy as not worth the keeping, yet which has given her a name and place among the world's most charm- ing letter-writers. Her courage, her cheerfulness, her patriotism, her patience never fail her. Braintree, where, with her little brood, she is to stay, is close to the British lines. Raids and foraging expeditions are immi- nent. Hopes of a peaceful settlement grow dim. «What course you can or will take," she writes her husband, «is all wrapped in the bosom of futurity. Uncertainty and expectation leave the mind great scope. Did ever any kingdom or State regain its liberty, when once it was invaded, without bloodshed? I cannot think of it without hor- ror. Yet we are told that all the misfortunes of Sparta were occas- ioned by their too great solicitude for present tranquillity, and, from an excessive love of peace, they neglected the means of making it sure and lasting. They ought to have reflected, says Polybius, that, » Thus in the high Roman fashion she faces danger; yet her sense of fun never deserts her, and in the very next letter she writes, parodying her husband's documents: — "The drouth has been very severe. My poor cows will certainly prefer a petition to you, setting forth their grievances, and informing you that they have been de- prived of their ancient privileges, whereby they are become great sufferers, and desiring that these may be restored to them. More especially as their living, by reason of the drouth, is all taken from them, and their property which they hold elsewhere is decaying, they humbly pray that you would consider them, lest hunger should break through stone walls." By midsummer the small hardships entailed by the British occu- pation of Boston were most vexatious. «We shall very soon have no coffee, nor sugar, nor pepper, but whortleberries and milk we are not obliged to commerce for,» she writes, and in letter after letter she begs for pins. Needles are desperately needed, but without pins how can domestic life go on, and not a pin in the province! On the 14th of September she describes the excitement in Boston, the Governor mounting cannon on Beacon Hill, digging intrenchments ABIGAIL ADAMS 87 on the Neck, planting guns, throwing up breastworks, encamping a reg^iment. In consequence of the powder being taken from Charles- town, she goes on to say, a general alarm spread through all the towns and was soon caught in Braintree. And then she describes one of the most extraordinary scenes in history. About eight o'clock on Sunday evening, she writes to her husband, at least two hundred men, preceded by a horse-cart, passed by her door in dead silence, and marched down to the powder-house, whence they took out the town's powder, because they dared not trust it where there were so many Tories, carried it into the other parish, and there secreted it. On their way they captured a notorious "King's man," and found on him two warrants aimed at the Commonwealth. When their patriotic trust was discharged, they turned their attention to the ' trembling Briton. Profoundly excited and indignant though they were, they never thought of mob violence, but, true to the inherited instincts of their race, they resolved themselves into a public meeting! The hostile warrants being produced and exhibited, it was put to a vote whether they should be burned or preserved. The majority voted for burning them. Then the two hundred gathered in a circle round the single lantern, and maintained a rigid silence while the offending papers were consumed. That done — the blazing eyes in that grim circle of patriots watching the blazing writs — " they called a vote whether they should huzza; but, it being Sunday evening, it passed in the negative ! » Only in the New England of John Winthrop and the Mathers,, of John Quincy and the Adamses, would such a scene have been pos- sible: a land of self-conquest and self-control, of a deep love of the public welfare and a willingness to take trouble for a public object. A little later Mrs. Adams writes her husband that there has been a conspiracy among the negroes, though it has been kept quiet. «I wish most sincerely," she adds, "that there was not a slave in the province. It always appeared a most iniquitous scheme to me — to fight ourselves for what we are daily robbing and plundering from those who have as good a right to freedom as we have." Nor were the sympathies of this clever logician confined to the slaves. A month or two before the Declaration of Independence was made she writes her constructive statesman: — «I long to hear that you have declared an independence. And by the way, in the new code of laws which I suppose it will ' be necessary for you to make; I desire you would remember the ladies, and be more gener- ous and favorable to them than your ancestors. Do not put such un- limited power into the hands of the husbands! Remember, all men would be tyrants if they could! If particular care and attention is not paid to the ladies, we are determined to foment a rebellion, and gg ABIGAIL ADAMS will not hold ourselves bound by any laws in which we have no voice or representation. That your sex are naturally tyrannical is a truth so thoroughly established as to admit of no dispute; but such of you as wish to be happy willingly give up the harsh title of master for the more tender and endearing one of friend. Why, then, not put it out . of the power of the vicious and the lawless to use us with cruelty and indignity with impunity ? Men of sense in, all ages abhor those customs which treat us only as the vassals of your sex. Regard us, then, as being placed by Providence under your protection; and in imitation of the Supreme Being, make use of that power only* for our happiness," — a declaration of principles which the practical house- wife follows up by saying; — "■! have not yet attempted making salt- petre, but after soap-making, believe I shall make the experiment. I find as much as I can do to manufacture clothing for my fainily, which would else be naked. I have lately seen a small manuscript describing the proportions of the various sorts of powdei" fit for can- non, small arms, and pistols. If it would be of any service your way, I will get it transcribed and send it to you." She is interested in everything, and she writes about everything in the same whole-hearted way, — farming, paper money, the mak- ing of molasses from corn-stalks, the new remedy of inoculation, * Common Sense ' and its author, the children's handwriting, the state of Harvard College, the rate of taxes, the most helpful methods of enlistment, Chesterfield's Letters, the town elections, the higher education of women, and the getting of homespun enough for Mr. Adams's new suit. She manages, with astonishing skill, to keep the household in comfort. She goes through trials of sickness, death, agonizing sus- pense, and ever with the same heroic cheerfulness, that her anxious husband may be spared the pangs which she endures. When he is sent to France and Holland, she accepts the new parting as another service pledged to her country. She sees her darling boy of ten go with his father, aware that at the best she must bear months of silence, knowing that they may perish at sea or fall into the hands of privateers; but she writes with indomitable cheer, sending the lad tender letters of good advice, a little didactic to modern taste, but throbbing with affection. «Dear as you are to me,» says this tender mother, «I would much rather you should have found your grave in the ocean you have crossed than see you an immoral, profligate, or graceless child." It was the lot of this country parson's daughter to spend three years in London as wife of the first American minister, to see her husband Vice-President of the United States for eight years and Pres- ident for four, and to greet her son as the eminent Monroe's valued ABIGAIL ADAMS 89 Secretary of State, though she died, "seventy-four years young," before he became President. She could not, in any station, be more truly a lady than when she made soap and chopped kindling on her Braintree farm. At Braintree she was no more simply modest than at the Court of St. James or in the Executive Mansion. Her letters exactly reflect her ardent, sincere, energetic nature. She shows a charming delight when her husband tells her that his afEairs could not possibly be better managed than she manages them, and that she shines not less as a statesman than as a farmeress. And though she was greatly admired and complimented, no praise so pleased her as his declaration that for all the ingratitude, calumnies, and misunder- standings that he had endured, — and they were numberless, — her perfect comprehension of him had been his sufficient compensation. My Dearest Friend: TO HER HUSBAND Braintree, May 24th, 1775. OUR house has been, upon this alarm, in the same scene of confusion that it was upon the former. Soldiers comihg in for a lodging, for breakfast, for supper, for drink, etc. Sometimes refugees from Boston, tired and fatigued, seek an asylum for a day, a night, a week. You can hardly imagine how we live; yet — "To the houseless child of want. Our doors are open still ; And though our portions are but scant, We give them with good will." My best wishes attend you, both for your health and happiness, and that you may be directed into the wisest and best measures for our safety and the security of our posterity. I wish you were nearer to us: we know not what a day will bring forth, nor what distress one hour may throw us into. Hitherto I have been able to maintain a.) calmness and presence of mind, and hope I shall, let the exigency of the time be what it will. Adieu, breakfast calls. Your affectionate Portia. no ABIGAIL ADAMS Weymouth, June isth, 1775. I HOPE we shall see each other again, and rejoice together in happier days; the little ones are well, and send duty to papa. Don't fail of letting me hear from you by every opportunity. Every line is like a precious relic of the saints. I have a request to make of you; something like the barrel of sand, I suppose you will think it, but really of much more importance to me. It is, that you would send out Mr. Bass, and purchase me a bundle of pins and put them in your trunk for me. The cry for pins is so great that what I used to buy for seven shillings and sixpence are now twenty shillings, and not to be had for that. A bundle contains six thousand, for which I used to give a dollar; but if you can procure them for fifty shillings, or three pounds, pray let me have them. I am, with the tenderest regard, Your Portia. Braintree, June i8th, 1775. My Dearest Friend : THE day — perhaps the decisive day is come, on which the fate of America depends. My bursting heart must find vent at my pen. I have just heard that our dear friend, Dr. Warren, is. no more, but fell gloriously fighting for his country, saying, "Better to die honorably in the field than ignominiously hang upon the gallows. " Great is our ' loss. He has distinguished himself in every engagement by his courage and fortitude, by ani- mating the soldiers, and leading them on by his own example. A particular accotmt of these dreadful but, I hope, glorious days, will be transmitted you, no doubt, in the exactest manner. "The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong; but the God of Israel is He that giveth strength and power unto His people. Trust in Him at all times, ye people: pour out your hearts before Him; God is a refuge for us." Charlestown is laid in ashes. The battle began upon our intrenchments upon Btmker's Hill, Saturday morning about three o'clock, and has not ceased yet, and it is now three o'clock Sabbath afternoon. It is expected they will come out over the Neck to-night, and a dreadful battle must ensue. Almighty God, coyer the heads of our countrymen, and be a shield to our dear friends! How many ABIGAIL ADAMS nj have fallen we know not; The constant roar of the cannon is so distressing that we cannot eat, drink, or sleep. May we be sup- ported and sustained in the dreadful conflict. I shall tarry here till it is thought unsafe by my friends, and then I have secured myself a retreat at your brother's, who has kindly offered me part of his house. I cannot compose myself to write any further at present. I will add more as I hear further. Your Portia. Braintree, November 27th, 1775. COLONEL Warren returned last week to Pljonouth, so that I shall not hear anything from you until he goes back again, which will not be till the last of this month. He damped my spirits greatly by telling me that the court had prolonged your stay another month. I was pleasing myself with the thought that you would soon be iipon your return. It is in vain to repine. I hope the public will reap what I sacrifice. I wish I knew what mighty things were fabricating. If a form of government is to be established here, what one will be assumed ? Will it be left to our Assemblies to choose one ? And will not many men have many minds ? And shall we not run into dissensions among ourselves ? I am more and more convinced that man is a dangerous creat- ure; and that power, whether vested in many or a few, is ever grasping, and, like the grave, cries, " Give, give ! » The great fish swallow . up the small ; and he who is most strenuous for the rights of the people, when vested with power, is as eager after the pre- rogatives of government. You tell me of degrees of perfection to which human nature is capable of arriving, and I believe it, but at the same time lament that our admiration should arise from the scarcity of the instances. The building up a great empire, which was only hinted at by my correspondent, may now, I suppose, be realized even by the unbelievers; yet will not ten thousand difficulties arise in the formation of it ? The reins of government have been so long slackened that I fear the people will not quietly submit to those restraints which are necessary for the peace and security of the community. If we separate from Britain, what code of laws will be established ? How shall we be governed so as to retain our liberties ? Can any government be free which is not administered ABIGAIL ADAMS by general stated laws? Who shall frame these laws? Who will give them force, and energy? It is true, your resolutions, as a body, have hitherto had the force of laws; but will they continue to have ? When I consider these things, and the prejudices of people in favor of ancient customs and regulations, I feel anxious for the fate of our monarchy, or democracy, or whatever is to take place. I soon get lost in the labyrinth of perplexities; but, whatever occurs, may justice and righteousness be the stability of our times, and order arise out of confusion. Great difficulties may be sur- mounted by patience and perseverance. I beUeve I have tired you with politics. As to news, we have not any at all. I shudder at the approach of winter, when I think I am to remain desolate. I must bid you good-night; 'tis late for me, who am much of an invalid. I was disappointed last week in receiving a packet by post, and, upon unsealing it, finding only four newspapers. I think you are more cautious than you need be. All letters, I believe, have come safe to hand. I have sixteen from you, and wish I had as many more. Your Portia. [By permission of the family.] Braintree, April 20th, 1777. THERE is a general cry against the merchants, against monopo- lizers, etc., who, 'tis said, have created a partial scarcity. That a scarcity prevails of every article, not only of luxury but even the necessaries of life, is a certain fact. Everj^hing bears an exorbitant price. The Act, which was in some measure regarded and stemmed the torrent of oppression, is now no more heeded than if it had never been made. Indian com at five shil- lings; rye, eleven and twelve shillings, but scarcely any to be had even at that price; beef, eightpence; veal, sixpence and eight- pence; butter, one and sixpence; mutton, none; lamb, none; pork, none; mean sugar, four pounds per htmdred; molasses, none; cotton-wool, none; New England rum, eight shillings per gallon; coffee, two and sixpence per pound; chocolate, three shillings. What can be done? Will gold and silver remedy this evil? By your accounts of board, housekeeping, etc., I fancy you are not better off than we are here. I live in hopes that we see the ABIGAIL ADAMS „, most difificult .time we have to experience. Why is Carolina so much better furnished than any other State, and at so reasonable prices? • Your Portia. Braintree, June 8th, 1779. SIX months have already elapsed since I heard a syllable from you or my dear son, and five since I have had one single opportunity of conveying a line to you. Letters of various dates have lain months at the Navy Board, ' and a packet and frig- ate, both ready to sail at an hour's warning, have been months waiting the orders of Congress. They no doubt have their rea- sons, or ought to have, for detaining them. I must patiently wait their motions, however painful it is; and that it is so, your own feelings will testify. Yet I know not but you are less a sufiferer than you would be to hear from us, to know our distresses, and yet be unable to relieve them. The universal cry for bread, to a humane heart, is painful beyond description, and the great price demanded and given for it verifies that pathetic passage of Sacred Writ, *A11 that a man hath will he give for his life." Yet He who miraculously fed a multitude with five loaves and two fishes has graciously interposed in our favor, and delivered many of the enemy's supplies into our hands, so that our distresses have been mitigated. I have been able as yet to supply my own family, sparingly, but at a price that would astonish you. Com is sold at four dollars, hard money, per bushel, which is equal to eighty at the rate of exchange. Labor is at eight dollars per day, and in three weeks it will be at twelve, it is probable, or it will be more stable than anything else. Goods of all kinds ate at such a price that I hardly dare mention it. Linens are sold at twenty dollars per yard; the most ordinary sort of calicoes at thirty and forty; broadcloths at forty pounds per yard; West India goods full as high; molasses at twenty dollars per gallon ; sugar, four dollars per pound ; Bohea tea at forty dollars; and our own produce in proportion; butch- er's meat at six and eight shillings per pound; board at fifty and sixty dollars per week; rates high. That, I suppose, you will re- joice at; so would I, did it remedy the evil. I pay five hundred dollars, and a new Continental rate has just appeared, my pro- portion of which will be two hundred more. I have come to this determination, — to sell no more bills, unless I can procure hard p4 ABIGAIL ADAMS money for them, although I shall be obliged to allow a discount. If I sell for paper, I throw away more than half, so rapid is the depreciation; nor do I know that it will be reeeived long. I sold a bill to Blodget at five for one, which was looked upon as high at thai time. The week after I received it, two emissions were taken out of circulation, and the greater part of what I had proved to be of that sort; so that those to whom I was indebted are obliged to wait, and before it becomes due, or is exchanged, it will be good for — as much as it will fetch, which will be noth- ing, if it goes on as it has done for this three months past: I will not tire your patience any longer. I have not drawn any further upon you. I mean to wait the return of the Alliance, which with longing eyes I look for. God grant it may bring me comfortable tidings from my dear, dear friend, whose welfare is so essential to my happiness that it is entwined around my heart, and cannot be impaired or separated from it without rend- ing it asunder. . . . I cannot say that I think our affairs go very well here. Our currency seems to be the source of all our evils. We cannot fill up our Continental army by means of it. No bounty will prevail with them. What can be done with it ? It will sink in less than a year. The advantage the enemy daily gains over us is owing to this. Most truly did you prophesy, when you said that they would do all the mischief in their power with the forces they had here. My tenderest regards ever attend you. In all places and situ- ations, know me to be ever, ever yours. AuTEUiL, sth September, 1784. My Dear Sister: AUTEUIL is a village four miles distant from Paris, and one from Passy. The house we have taken is large, commodious, and agreeably situated near the woods of Boulogne, which belong to the King, and which Mr. Adams calls his park, for he walks an hour or two every day in them. The house is much larger than we have need of,; upon occasion, forty beds may be made in it. I fancy it must be very cold in winter. There are few houses with the privilege which this enjoys, that of having the salon, as it is called, the apartment where we receive com- pany, upon the first floor. This room is very elegant, and about ABIGAIL ADAMS nc a third larger than General Warren's hall. The dining-room is upon the right hand, and the salon upon the left, of the entry, which has large glass doors opposite to each other, one opening into the court, as they call it, the other into a large and beauti- ful garden. Out of the dining-room you pass through an entry into the kitchen, which is rather small for so large a house. In this entry are stairs which you ascend, at the top of which is a long gallery fronting the street, with six windows, and opposite to each window you open into the chambers, which all look into the garden. But with an expense of thirty thousand livres in looking- glasses, there is no table in the house better than an oak board, nor a carpet belonging to the house. The floors I abhor, made of red tiles in the shape of Mrs. Quincy's floor-cloth tiles. These floors will by no means bear water, so that the method of clean- ing them is to have them waxed, and then a manservant' with foot brushes drives round your room, dancing here and there like a Merry Andrew. This is calculated to take from your foot every atom of dirt, and leave the room in a few moments as -he found it. The house must be exceedingly cold in winter. The dining- rooms, of which you make no other use, are laid with small stones, like the red tiles for shape and size. The servants' apart- ments are generally upon the first floor, and the stairs which you commonly have to ascend to get into the family apartments are so dirty that I have been obliged to hold up my clothes as though I was passing through a cow-yard. I have been but little abroad. It is customary in this country for strangers to make the first visit. As I cannot speak the lan- guage, I think I should make rather an awkward figure. I have dined abroad several times with Mr. Adams's particular friends, the Abb6s, who are very polite and civil, t— three sensible and worthy men. The Abb6 de Mably has lately published a book, which he has dedicated to Mr. Adams. This gentleman is nearly eighty years old; the Abbe Chalut, seventy-five; and Amoux about fifty, a fine sprightly man, who takes great pleasure in obliging his friends. Their apartments were really nice. I have dined once at Dr. JFranklin's, and once at Mr. Barclay's, our con- sul, who has a- very agreeable , woman for his wife, and where I feel like being with a friend. Mrs. Barclay has assisted me in my purchases, gone with me to different shops, etc. To-morrow I am to dine at Monsieur Grand's; but I have really felt so g5 ABIGAIL ADAMS happy within doors, and am so pleasingly situated, that I have had little inclination to change the scene. I have not been to one public amusement as yet, not even the opera, though we have one very near us. You may easily suppose 1 have been fully employed, beginning housekeeping anew, and arranging my family to our no small expenses and trouble; for I have had bed-linen and table-linen to purchase and make, spoons and forks to get made of silver, — three dozen of each, — besides tea furniture, china for the table, ■ servants to procure, etc. The expense of living abroad I always supposed to be high, but my ideas were nowise adequate to the thing. I could have furnished myself in the town of Boston with everything I have, twenty or thirty per cent, cheaper than I have been able to do it here. Everything which will bear the name of elegant is imported from England, and if you will have it, you must pay for it, duties and all. I cannot get a dozen handsome wineglasses under three guineas, nor a pair of small decanters for less than a guinea and a half. The only gauze fit to wear is English, at a crown a yatd; so that really a guinea goes no further than a copper with us. For this house, garden, stables, etc., we give two hundred guineas a year. Wood is two guineas and a half per cord; coal, six livres the basket of about two bushels; this article of firing we calculate at one hundred guineas a year. The difference between coming upon this negotiation to France, and remaining at the Hague, where the house was already fur- nished at the expense of a thousand pounds sterling, will increase the expense here to six or seven hundred guineas; at a time, too, when Congress has cut off five hundred guineas from what they have heretofore given. For our coachman and horses alone (Mr. Adams purchased a coach in England) we- give fifteen guineas a month. It is the policy of this country to oblige you to a certain number of servants, and one will not touch what belongs to the business of another, though he or she has time enough to per- form the whole. In the first place, there is a coachman who does not an individual thing but attend to the carriages and horses; then the gardener, who has business enough; then comes the cook; then the maitre d^ hotel, — his business is to purchase articles in the family, and oversee that nobody cheats but himself; a valet de chambre, — John serves in this capacity ; a femme de chambre, — Esther serves for this, and i^ worth a dozen others; a coiffeuse, — for this place I have a French girl about nineteen, whom I have ABIGAIL ADAMS n» been upon the point of turning away, because madam will not brush a chamber: "it is not de fashion, it is not her business." I would not have kept her a day longer, but found, upon' inquiry, that I could not better myself, and hair-dressing here is very expensive unless you keep such a madam in the house. She sews tolerably well, so I make her as useful as I can. She is more particularly devoted to mademoiselle. Esther diverted me yesterday evening by telling me that she heard her go muttering by her chamber door, after she had been assisting Abby in dress- ing. "Ah, mon Dieu, 'tis provoking" — (she talks a little Eng- lish). — "Why, what is the matter, Pauline: what is provoking?" — "Why, Mademoiselle look so pretty, I so mauvais?^ There is another indispensable servant, who is called a frotteur.\ his busi- ness is to rub the floors. We have a servant who acts as maitre d'hotel, whom I like at present, and who is so very gracious as to act as footman too, to save the expense of another servant, upon condition that we give him a gentleman's suit of clothes in lieu of a livery. Thus, with seven servants and hiring a charwoman upon occasion of company, we may possibly make out to keep house; with less, we .should be hooted at as ridiculous, and could not entertain any company. To tell this in our own country would be considered as extravagance; but would they send a person here in a public char- acter to be a public jest ? At lodgings in Paris last year, during Mr. Adams's negotiation for a peace, it was as expensive to him as it is now at hpusekeeping, without half the accommodations. Washing is another expensive article: the servants are all allowed theirs, besides their wages; our own costs us a guinea a week. I have become steward and bookkeeper, determined to know with accuracy what our expenses are, to prevail with Mr. Adams to return to America if he finds himself straitened, as I think he must be. Mr. Jay went home because he could not support his family here with the whole salary; what then can be done, curtailed as it now is, with the additional expense ? Mr. Adams is determined to keep as little company as he possibly can ; , but some entertainments we must make, and it is no unusual thing for them to amount to fifty or sixty guineas at a .time. More is to be performed by way of negotiation, many times, at one of these entertainments, than at twenty serious con- versations; but the policy of our country has been, and still is, to be penny- wise and pound-foolish. We stand in sufficient 1—7 98 ABIGAIL ADAMS need of economy, and in the curtailment of other salaries I suppose they thought .it absolutely necessary to cut off their foreign ministers. But, my own interest apart, the system is bad; for that nation which degrades their own ministers by obliging them to live in narrow circumstances, cannot expect to be held in high estimation themselves. We spend no evenings abroad, make no suppers, attend very few public entertainments, — or specta- cles, as they are called, — and avoid every expense that is not held indispensable. Yet I cannot but think it hard that a gentle- man who has devoted so great a part of his life to the service of the public, who has been the means, in a great measure, of procuring such extensive territories to his country, who saved their fisheries, and who is still laboring to procure them further advan- tages, should find it necessary so cautiously to calculate his pence, for fear of overrunning them. I will add one more expense. There is now a court mourning, and every foreign minister, with his family, must go into mourning for a Prince of eight years old, whose father is an ally to the King of France. This mourning is ordered by the Court, and is to be worn eleven days only. Poor Mr. Jefferson had to hie away for a tailor to get a whole black- silk suit made up in two days; and at the end of eleven days, should another death happen, he will be obliged to have a new suit of mourning, of cloth, because that is the season when silk must be left off. We may groan and scold, but these are expenses which cannot be avoided; for fashion is the deity every one worships in this country, and from the highest to the lowest, you must submit. Even poor John and Esther had no comfort among the servants, being constantly the subjects of ridicule, until we were obliged to direct them to have their hair dressed. Esther had several crpng fits upon the occasion, that she should be forced to be so much of a fool; but there was no way to keep them from being trampled upon but this, and now that they are (I la mode de Paris, they are much respected. To be out of fashion is more criminal than to be seen in a state of nature, to which the Parisians are not averse. AuTEUiL, NEAR Paris, loth May, 1785. DID you ever, my dear Betsey, see a person in real life such as your imagination formed of Sir Charles Grandison ? The Baron de Stael, the Swedish Ambassador, comes nearest to that character, in his manners and personal appearance, of any ABIGAIL ADAMS op gentleman I ever saw. The first time I saw him I was prejudiced in his favor, for his countenance commands yovir good opinion: it is animated, intelligent, sensible, affable, and without being per- fectly beautiful, is most perfectly agreeable; add to this a fine figure, and who can fail in being charmed with the Baron de Stael ? He lives in a grand hotel, and his suite of apartments, his furniture, and his table, are the most elegant of anything I have seen. Although you dine upon plate in every noble house in France, I cannot say that you may see your face in it; but here the whole furniture of the table was burnished, and shone with regal splendor. Seventy thousand livres in plate will make no small figure; and that is what his Majesty gave him. The dessert was served on the richest china, with knives, forks, and spoons of gold. As you enter his apartments, you pass through files of servants into his ante-chamber, in which is a throne cpvered with green velvet, upon which is a chair of state, over which hangs the picture of his royal master. These thrones are common to all ambassadors of the first order, as they are immediate representa- tives of the king. Through this ante-chamber you pass into the grand salon, which is elegantly adorned with architecture, a beauti- ful lustre hanging from the middle. Settees, chairs, and hangings of the richest silk, embroidered with gold; marble slabs upon fluted pillars, round which wreaths of artificial flowers in gold entwine. It is usual to find in all houses of fashion, as in this, several dozens of chairs, all of which have stuffed backs and cushions, standing in double rows round the rooms. The dining- room was equally beautiful, being hung with Gobelin tapestry, the colors and figures of which resemble the most elegant painting. In this room were hair-bottom mahogany-backed chairs, and the first I have seen since I came to France. Two small statues of a Venus de Medicis, and a Venus de (ask Miss Paine for the other name), were upon the mantelpiece. The latter, however, was the most modest of the kind, having something like a loose robe thrown partly over her. From the Swedish Ambassador's we went to visit the Duchess d'Enville, who is .mother to the Duke de Rochefoucault. We found the old lady sitting in an easy- chair; around her sat a circle of Academicians, and by her side a young lady. Your uncle presented us, and the old lady rose, and, as usual, gave us a salute. As she had no paint, I could put up with it; but when she approached your cousin I could think of nothing but Death taking hold of Hebe. The duchess is near jQQ ABIGAIL ADAMS eighty, very tall and lean. She was dressed in a silk chemise, with very large sleeves, coming half-way down her arm, a large cape, no stays, a black-velvet girdle round her waist, some very rich lace in her chemise, round her neck, and in her sleeves; but the lace was not sufficient to cover the upper part of her neck, which old Time had harrowed; she had no cap on, but a little gauze bonnet, which did not reach her ears, and tied under her chinj her venerable white hairs in full view. The dress of old women and young girls in this country is detestable, to speak in the French style; the latter at the age of seven being clothed exactly like a woman of twenty, and the former have such a fan- tastical appearance that I cannot endure it. The old lady has all the vivacity of a young one. She is the most learned woman in France; her house is the resort of all men of literature, with whom she converses upon the most abstruse subjects. She is of one of the most ancient, as well as the richest families in the kingdom. She asked very archly when Dr. Franklin was going to America. Upon being told, says she, "I have heard that he is a prophet there ; » alluding to that text of Scripture, "A prophet is not without, honor," etc. It was her husband who commanded the fleet which once spread such terror in our country. TO HER SISTER London, Friday, 24th July 1784. My Dear Sister: I AM not a little surprised to find dress, unless upon public occas- ions, so little regarded here. The gentlemen are very plainly dressed, and the ladies much more so than with us. 'Tis true, you must put a hoop on and have your hair dressed; but a com- mon straw hat, no cap, with only a ribbon upon the crown, is thought dress sufficient to go into company. Muslins are much in taste; no silks but lutestrings worn; but send not to London for any article you want: you may purchase anything you can name" much lower in Boston. I went yesterday into Cheapside to pur-- chase a few articles, but found everything higher than in Boston.- ■ Silks are in a . particular manner so ; they say, when they are exported, there is a drawback upon them, which malkes- them lower with us. Our country, alas, our country! they are extrava-^ gant to a,stonishment in entertainments compared with what Mr. Smith and Mr. Storer tell me of this. You will not find at a ABIGAIL ADAMS loi gentleman's table more than two dishes of meat, though invited several days beforehand. Mrs. Atkinson went out with me yes- terday, and Mrs. Hay, to the shops. I returned and dined with Mrs. Atkinson, by her invitation the evening before, in company with Mr. Smith, Mrs. Hay, Mr. Appleton. We had a turbot, a soup, and a roast leg of lamb, with a cherry pie. . . . The wind has prevented the arrival of the post. The city of London is pleasanter than I expected; the buildings more regu- lar, the streets much wider, and more sunshine than I thought to have found: but this, they tell me, is the pleasantest season to be in the city. At my lodgings I am as quiet as at any place in Bos- ton; nor do I feel as if it could be any other place than Boston. Dr. Clark visits us every day; says he cannot feel at home any- where else: declares he has not seen a handsome woman since he came into the city; that every old woman looks like Mrs. H , and every young one like — like the D — 1. They paint here nearly as much as in France, but with more art. The head-dress disfig- ures them in the eyes of an American. I have seen many ladies, but not one elegant one since I came; there is not to me that neatness in their appearance which you see in our ladies. The American ladies are much admired here by the gen- tlemen, I am told, and in truth I wonder not at it. Oh, my country, my country! preserve, preserve the little purity and simplicity of manners you yet possess. Believe me, they are jewels of inestimable value; the softness, peculiarly characteristic of our sex, and which is so pleasing to the gentlemen, is wholly laid aside here for the masculine attire and manners of Amazonians. London, Bath Hotel, Westminster, 24th June, 1785. My Dear Sister : I HAVE been here a month without writing a single line to my American friends. On or about the twenty-eighth of May we reached London, and expected to have gone into our old quiet lodgings at the Adelphi; but we found every hotel full. The sit- ting of Parliament, the birthday of the King, and the famous celebration of the music of Handel, at Westminster Abbey, had drawn together such a concourse of people that we were glad to get into lodgings at the moderate price of a guinea per day, for two rooms and two chambers, at the Bath Hotel, Westminster, Piccadilly, where we yet are. This being the Court end of the lo^ ABIGAtL ADAMS city, it is the resort of a vast concourse of carriages. It is too public and noisy for pleasure; but necessity is without law. The ceremony of presentation, upon one week to the King, and the next to the Queen, was to take place, after which I was to pre- pare for mine. It is customary, upon presentation, to receive visits from all the foreign ministers; so that we could not exchange our lodgings for more private ones, as we might and should, had we been only in a private character. The foreign ministers and sev- eral English lords and earls have paid their compliments here, and all hitherto is civil and polite. I was a fortnight, all the time I could get, looking at different houses, but could not find any one fit to inhabit under ^200, beside the taxes, which mount up to _;^5o or ;^6o. At last my good genius carried me to one in Grosvenor Square, which was not let, because the person who had the care of it could let it only for the remaining lease, which was one year and three-quarters. The price, which is not quite two hundred pounds, the situation, and all together, induced us to close the bargain, and I have prevailed upon the person who lets it to paint two rooms, which will put it into decent order; so that, as soon as our furniture comes, I shall again commence house- keeping. Living at a hotel is, I think, more expensive than housekeeping, in proportion to what one has for his money. We have never had more than two dishes at a time upon our table, and have not pretended to ask any company, and yet we live at a greater expense than twenty-five guineas per week. The wages of servants, horse hire, house rent, and provisions are much dearer here than in France. Servants of various sorts, and for different departments, are to be procured; their characters are to be inquired into, and this I take upon me, even to the coachman. You can hardly form an idea how much I miss my son on this, as well as on many other accounts; but I cannot bear to trouble Mr. Adams with anything of a domestic kind, who, from morning until evening, has sufficient to occupy all his time. You can have no idea of the petitions, letters, and private applications for assistance, which crowd our doors. Every person represents his case as dismal. Some may really be objects of compassion,, and some we assist; but one must have an inexhaustible purse to supply them all. Besides, there are so many gross impositions practiced, as we have found in more instances than one, that it would take the whole of a person's time to trace all their stories. Many pretend to have been American soldiers, some have served ABIGAIL ADAMS joj as officers. A most glaring instance of falsehood, however, Colonel Smith detected in a man of these pretensions, who sent to Mr. Adams from the King's Bench prison, and modestly desired five guineas; a qualified cheat, but evidently a man of letters and abilities: but if it is to continue in this way, a galley slave would have an easier task. The Tory venom has begun to spit itself forth in the public papers, as I expected, bursting with envy that an American min- ister should be received here with the same marks of attention, politeness, and civility, which are shown to the ministers of any other power. When a minister delivers his credentials to the King, it is always in his private closet, attended only by the Minister for Foreign Affairs, which is called a private audience, and the minister presented makes some Uttle address to his Majesty, and the same ceremony to the Queen, whose reply was in these words : " Sir, I thank you for your civility to me and my family, and I am glad to see you in this country ; * then she very politely inquired whether he had got a house yet. The answer of his Majesty was much longer; but I am not at liberty to say more respecting it, than that it was civil and polite, and that his Majesty said he was glad the choice of his country had fallen upon him. The news-liars know nothing of the matter; they represent it just to answer their purpose. Last Thursday, Colonel Smith was presented at Court, and to-morrow, at the Queen's circle, my ladyship and your niece make our compli- ments. There is no other presentation in Europe in which I should feel as much as. in this. Your own reflections will easily suggest the reasons. I have received a very friendly and polite visit from the Countess of Effingham. She called, and not finding me at home, left a card. I returned her visit, but was obliged to do it by leav- ing my card too, as she was gone out of town; but when her ladyship returned, she sent her compliments and word that if agreeable she would take a dish of tea with me, and named her day. She accordingly came, and appeared a very polite, sensible woman. She is about forty, a good person, though a little mas- culine, elegant in her appearance, very easy and social. The Earl of Effingham is too well remembered by America to need any particular recital of his character. His mother is first lady to the Queen. When her ladyship took leave, she desired I would let her know the day I would favor her with a visit, as she should be jQ. ABIGAIL ADAMS loath to be absent. She resides, in summer, a little distance from town. The Earl is a member of Parliament, which obliges him now to be in town, and she usually comes with him, and resides at a hotel a little distance from this, I find a good many ladies belonging to the Southern States here, many of whom have visited me; I have exchanged visits with several, yet neither of us have met. The custom is, how- ever, here much more agreeable than in France, for it is as with us: the stranger is first visited. The ceremony of presentation here is considered as indispens- able. There are four minister-plenipotentiaries' ladies here; but one ambassador, and he has no lady. In France, the ladies of ambassadors only are presented. One is obliged here to attend- the circles of the Queen, which are held in summer once a fortnight, but once a week the rest of the year; and what renders it exceed- ingly expensive is, that yoii cannot go twice the same season in the same dress, and a Court dress you cannot make use of any- where else. I directed my mantuamaker to let my dress be ele- gant, but plain as I could possibly appear, with decency; accord- ingly, it is white lutestring, covered and full trimmed with white crape, festooned with lilac ribbon and mock point lace, over a hoop of enormous extent; there is only a narrbw train of about three yards in length to the gown waist, which is put into a rib- bon upon the left side, the Queen only having her train borne. Ruffle cuffs for married ladies, treble lace lappets, two white ■plumes, and a blond lace handkerchief. This is my rigging. I should have mentioned two pearl pins in my hair, earrings and necklace of the same kind. / Thursday Morning. My head is dressed for St. James's, and in my opinion looks very tasty. While my daughter's is undergoing the same opera- tion, I set myself down composedly to write you a few lines. "Well,*' methinks I hear Betsey and Lucy say, "what is cousin's dress?" White, my dear girls, like your aunt's, only differently trimmed and ornamented: her train being wholly of white crape, and trimmed with white ribbon; the petticoat, which is the most shovry part of the dress, covered and drawn up in what are called festoons, with light wreaths of beautiful flowers; the sleeves white crape, drawn over the silk, with a row of lace round the sleeve near the shoulder, another half-way down the arm, and a third upon the top of the ruffle, a little flower stuck between; a kind ABIGAIL ADAMS log of hat-cap, with three large feathers and a bunch of flowers; a wreath of flowers upon the hair. Thus equipped, we go in our own carriage, and Mr. Adams and Colonel Smith in his. But I must quit my pen to put myself in order for the ceremony, which begins at two o'clock. When I return, I will relate to you my reception; but do not let it circulate, as there may be persons eager to catch at everything, and as much given to misrepresent- ation as here. I would gladly be excused the ceremony. Friday Morning. Congratulate me, my dear sister: it is over. I was too much fatigued to write a line last evening. At two o'clock we went to the circle, which is in the drawing-room of the Queen. We passed through several apartments, lined as usual with specta- tors upon these occasions. Upon entering the ante-chamber, the Baron de Lynden, the Dutch Minister, who has been often here, came and spoke with me. A Count Sarsfield, a French noble- man, with whom I was acquainted, paid his compliments. As I passed into the drawing-room. Lord Carmarthen and Sir Clement Cotterel Dormer were presented to me. Though they had been several times here, I had never seen them before. The Swedish and the Polish Ministers made their compliments, and several other gentlemen; but not a single lady did I know until the Countess of Effingham came, who was very civil. There were three young ladies, daughters of the Marquis of Lothian, who were to be presented at the same time, and two brides. We were placed in a circle round the drawing-room, which was very full; I believe two hundred persons present. Only think of the task! The royal family have to go round to every person and find small talk enough to speak to them all, though they very prudently speak in a whisper, so that only the person who stands next to you can hear what is said. The King enters the room and goes round to the right; the Queen and Princesses to the left. The lord-in-waiting presents you to the King; and the lady-in-waiting does the same to her Majesty. The King is a personable man; but, my dear sister, he has a certain countenance, which you and I have often remarked: a red face and white eyebrows. The Queen has a similar countenance, and the numerous royal family confirm the observation. Persons are not placed according to their rank in the drawing-room, but promiscuously; and when the King comes in, he takes persons as they stand. When he came jo6 ABIGAIL ADAMS '^ to me, Lord Onslow said, "Mrs. Adams;" upon which I drew off my right-hand glove, and his Majesty saluted my left cheek; then asked me if I had taken a walk to-day. I could have told his Majesty that I had been all the morning preparing to wait upon him; but I replied, «No, Sire." "Why, don't you love walking?" says he. I answered that I was rather indolent in that respect. He then bowed, and passed on. It was more than two hours after this before it came to my turn to be presented to the Queen. The circle was so large that the company were four hours stand- ing. The Queen was evidently embarrassed when I was presented to her. I had disagreeable feelings, too. She, however, said, " Mrs. Adams, have you got into your house? Pray, how do you like the situation of it?" While the Princess Royal looked com- passionate, and asked me if I was not much fatigued; and ob- served, that it was a very full drawing-room. Her sister, who came next. Princess Augusta, after having asked your niece if she was ever in Engliand before, and her answering " Yes, " inquired of me how long ago, and supposed it was when she was very young. All this is said with much 'affability, and the ease and freedom of old acquaintance. The manner in which they make their tour round the room is, first, the Queen, the lady-in-waiting behind her, holding up her train; next to her, the Princess Royal; after her. Princess Augusta, and their lady-in-waiting behind them. They are pretty, rather than beautiful; well-shaped, fair complex^ ions, and a tincture of the King's countenance. The two sisters look much alike; they were both dressed in black and silver silk, with silver netting upon the coat, and their heads full of diamond pins. The Queen was in purple and silver. She is not well shaped nor handsome. As to the ladies of the Court, rank and title may compensate for want of personal charms; but they are, in general, very plain, ill-shaped, and ugly; but don't you tell any- body that I say so. If one wants to see beauty, one must go to Ranelagh; there it is collected, in one bright constellation. There were two ladies very elegant, at Court, — Lady Salisbury and Lady Talbot; but the observation did not in general hold good that fine feathers make fine birds. I saw many who were vastly richer dressed than your friends, but I will venture to say that I saw none neater or more elegant: which praise I ascribe to the taste of Mrs. Temple and my mantuamaker; for, after having declared that I would not have any foil or tinsel about me, they fixed upon the dress I have described. Abigail adams ic,y [Inclosure to her niece] My Dear Betsey: 1 BELIEVE I once promised to give you an account of that kind of visiting called a ladies' rout. There are two kinds; one where a lady sets apart a particular day in the week to see company. These are held only five months in the year, it being quite out of fashion to be seen in London during the summer. When a lady returns from the country she goes round and leaves a card with all her acquaintance, and then sends them an invita- tion to attend her routs during the season. The other kind is where a lady sends to you for certain evenings, and the cards are always addressed in her own name, both to gentlemen and ladies. The rooms are all set open, and card tables set in each room, the lady of the house receiving her company at the door of the draw- ing-room, where a set number of courtesies are given and received, with as much order as is necessary for a soldier who goes through the different evolutions of his exercise. The visitor then proceeds into the room without appearing to notice any other person, and takes her seat at the card table. "Nor can the muse her aid impart, Unskilled in all the terms of art, Nor in harmonious numbers put The deal, the shuffle, and the cut. Go, Tom, and light the ladies up. It must be one before we sup." At these parties it is usual for each lady to play a rubber, as it is termed, when you must lose or win a few guineas. To give each 4 fair chance, the lady then rises and gives her seat to another set. It is no unusual thing to have your rooms so crowded that not more than half the company can sit at once, yet this is called society and polite life. They treat their com- pany with coffee, tea, lemonade, orgeat, and cake. I know of but one agreeable circumstance attending . these parties, which is, that you may go away when you please without disturbing any- body. I was early in the winter invited to Madame de Pinto's, the Portuguese Minister's. I went accordingly. There were about two hundred persons present. I knew not a single lady but by sight, having met them at Court; and it is an established rule, though you were to meet as often as three nights in the week, never to speak together, or know each other unless particularly Io8' ABIGAIL ADAMS introduced. I was, however, at no loss for conversation, Madame de Pinto being very polite, and the foreign ministers being the most of them present, who had dined with us, and to whom I had been early introduced. It being Sunday evening, I declined playing cards; indeed, I always get excused when I can. And Heaven forbid I should "Catch the manners living as they rise." Yet I must submit to a party or two of this kind. Having attended several, I must return the compliment in the same way. Yestferday we dined at Mrs. Paradice's. I refer you to Mr. Storer for an account of this family. Mr. Jeiferson, Colonel Smith, the Prussian and Venetian ministers, were of the com- pany, and several other persons who were strangers. At eight o'clock we returned home in order to dress ourselves for the ball at the French Ambassador's, to which we had received an invi- tation a fortnight before. He has been absent ever since our arrival here, till three weeks ago. He has a levee every Sunday evening, at which there are usually several hundred persons. The Hotel de France is beautifully situated, fronting St. James's Park, one end of the house standing . upon Hyde Park. It is a most superb building. About half -past nine we went, and found some company collected. Many very brilliant ladies of the first distinction were present. The dancing commenced about ten, and the rooms soon filled. The room which he had built for this purpose is large enough for five or six hundred persons. It is most elegantly decorated, hung with a gold tissue, ornamented with twelve brilliant cut lustres, each containing twenty-four candles. At one end there are two large arches; these were adorned with wreaths and bunches of artificial flowers upon the walls; in the alcoves were cornucopiae loaded with oranges, sweet- meats, and other trifles. Coffee, tea, lemonade, orgeat, and so forth, were taken here by every person who chose to go for them. There were covered seats all around the room for those who chose to dance. In the other rooms, card tables, and a large faro table, were set; this is a new kind of game, which is much practiced here. Many of the company who did not dance retired here to amuse themselves. The whole style of the house and furniture is such as becomes the ambassador from one of the first monarchies in Europe. He had twenty thousand guineas allowed, him in the fiirst instance to furnish his house, and an ABIGAIL ADAMS j^q annual salary of ten thousand more. He has agreeably blended the magnificence and splendor of France with the neatness and elegance of England. Your cousin had unfortunately taken a cold a few days before, and was very unfit to go out. She appeared so unwell that about one we retired without staying for supper, the sight of which only I regretted, as it was, in style, no doubt, superior to anything I have seen. The Prince of Wales came about eleven o'clock. Mrs. Fitzherbert was also present, but I could not distinguish her. But who is this lady? methinks I hear you say. She is a lady to whom, against the laws of the realm, the Prince of Wales is privately married, as is universally believed. She appears with him in all public parties, and he avows his marriage wherever he dares. They have been the topic of conversation in all companies for a long time, and it is now said that a young George may be expected in the course of the summer. She was a widow of about thirty-two years -of age, whom he a long time persecuted in order to get her upon his own terms; but finding he could not succeed, he quieted her conscience by matrimony, which, however valid in the eye of heaven, is set aside by the laws of the land, which forbids a prince of the blood to marry a subject. As to dresses, I believe I must leave them to be described to your sister. I am sorry I have nothing better to send you than a sash and a Vandyke ribbon. The narrow is to put round the edge of a hat, or you may trim whatever you please with it. HENRY ADAMS (1838-) Jhe gifts of expression and literary taste which have always characterized the Adams family are most prominently rep- resented by this historian. He has also its great memory, power of acquisition, intellectual independence, and energy of nature. The latter is tempered in him with inherited self-control, the mod- eration of judgment bred by wide historical knowledge, and a pervas- ive atmosphere of literary good-breeding which constantly substitutes allusive irony for crude statement, the rapier for the tomahawk. Henry Adams is the third son of Charles Francis Adams, Sr.,— the able Minister to England during the Civil War,— and grandson of John Quincy Adams. He was born in Boston, February i6th, 1838, graduated from Harvard in 1858, and served as private secretary to his father in England. In 1870 he became editor of the North American Review and Professor of History at Harvard, in which place he won wide repute for originality and power of inspiring enthusiasm for research in his pupils. He has written several essays and books on historical subjects, and edited others, — 'Essays on Anglo-Saxon Law' (1876), 'Documents Relating to New England Fed- eralism' (1877), 'Albert Gallatin' (1879), 'Writings of Albert Gallatin' (1879), 'John Randolph' (1882) in the 'American Statesmen' Series, and 'Historical Essays'; but his great life-work and monument is his nine-volume 'History of the United States, 1801-17' (the Jefferson and Madison administrations), to write which he left his professorship in 1877, and after passing many years in London, in other foreign cap- itals, in Washington, and elsewhere, studying archives, family papers, published works, shipyards, and many other things, in preparation for it, published the first volume in 1889, and the last in 1891. The work in its inception (though not in its execution) is a polemic tract — a family vindication, an act of pious duty; its sub- title might be, 'A Justification of John Quincy Adams for Breaking with the Federalist Party.' So taken, the reader who loves historical fights and seriously desires truth should read the chapters on the Hartford Convention and its preliminaries side by side with the corresponding pages in Henry Cabot Lodge's 'Life of George Cabot.' If he cannot judge from the pleadings of these two able advocates with briefs for different sides, it is not for lack of full exposition. But the 'History' is far more and higher than a piece of special pleading. It is in the main, both as to domestic and intertjational HENRY ADAMS jjj matters, a resolutely cool and impartial presentation of facts and judgments on all sides of a period where passionate partisanship lies almost in the very essence of the questions — a tone contrasting oddly with the political action and feeling of the two Presidents. Even where, as toward the New England Federalists, many readers will consider him unfair in his deductions, he never tampers with or unfairly proportions the facts. The work is a model of patient study, not alone of what is con- ventionally accepted as historic material, but of all subsidiary matter necessary to expert discussion of the problems involved. He goes deeply into economic and social facts; he has instructed himself in military science like a West Point student, in army needs like a quar- termaster, in naval construction, equipment, and management like a naval officer. Of purely literary qualities, the history presents a high order of constructive art in amassing minute details without obscuring the main outlines; luminous statement; and the results of a very powerful memory, which enables him to keep before his vision every incident of the long chronicle with its involved group- ings, so that an armory of instructive comparisons, as well as of polemic missiles, is constantly ready to his hand. The history advances many novel views, and controverts many accepted facts. The relation of Napoleon's warfare against Hayti and Toussaint to the great Continental struggle, and the position he assigns it as the turning point of that greater contest, is perhaps the most important of these. But almost as striking are his views on the impressment problem and the provocations to the War of 1812; wherein he leads to the most unexpected deduction, — namely that the grievances on both sides were much greater than is generally supposed. He shows that the profit and security of the American merchant service drew thousands of English seamen into it, where they changed their names and passed for American citizens, greatly embarrassing English naval operations. On the other hand he shows that English outrages and insults were so gross that no nation with spirit enough to be entitled to separate existence ought to have endured them. He reverses the severe popular judgment on Madi- son for consenting to the war — on the assumed ground of coveting another term as President — which every other historian and biogra- pher from Hildreth to Sydney Howard Gay has pronounced, and which has become a ' stock historical convention ; holds Jackson s campaign ending at New Orleans an imbecile undertaking redeemed only by an act of instinctive pugnacity at the .end; gives Scott and Jacob Brown the honor they have never before received in fair meas- ure; and in many other points redistributes praise and blame with entire independence, and with curious effect on many popular ideas. 112 HENRY ADAMS THE AUSPICES OF THE WAR OF 1812 From <■ History of the United States ' : copyright 1890, by Charles Scribner's Sons THE American declaration of war against England, July i8th, 1812, annoyed those European nations that were gathering their utmost resources for resistance to Napoleon's attack. Russia could not but regard it as an unfriendly act, equally bad for political and commercial interests. Spain and Portugal, whose armies were fed largely if not chiefly on American grain imported by British money under British protection, dreaded to see their supplies cut off. Germany, waiting only for strength to recover her freedom, had to reckon against one more element in Napo- leon's vast military resources. England needed to make greater efforts in order to maintain the advantages she had gained in Russia and Spain. Even in America no one doubted the earnest- ness of England's wish for peace; and if Madison and Monroe insisted on her acquiescence in their terms, they insisted because they believed that their military position entitled them to expect it. The reconquest of Russia and Spain by Napoleon, an event almost certain to happen, could hardly fail to force from England the concessions, not in themselves unreasonable, which the United States required. This was, as Madison to the end of his life maintained, "a fair calculation ; * but it was exasperating to England, who thought that America ought to be equally interested with Europe in over- throwing the military despotism of Napoleon, and should not con- spire with him for gain. At first the new war disconcerted the feeble Ministry that remained in office on the death of Spencer Perceval: they counted on preventing it, and did their utmost to stop it after it was begun. The tone of arrogance which had so long characterized government and press disappeared for the moment. Obscure newspapers, like the London Evening Star, still sneered at the idea that Great Britain was to be "driven from the proud pre-eminence which the blood and treasure of her sons have attained for her among the nations, by a piece of striped bunting flying at the mastheads of a few fir-built frigates, manned by a handful of bastards and outlaws," — a phrase which had great success in America, — but such defiances expressed a temper studiously held in restraint previous to the moment when the war was seen to be inevitable. . . . HENRY ADAMS jl. The realization that no escape could be found from an Ameri- can war was forced on the British public at a moment of much discouragement. Almost simultaheously a series of misfortunes occurred which brought the stoutest and most intelligent EngUsh- men to the verge of despair. In Spain Wellington, after win- ning the battle of Salamanca in July, occupied Madrid in August, and obliged Soult to evacuate Andalusia; but his siege of Burgos failed, and as the French generals concentrated their scattered forces, Wellington was obliged to abandon Madrid once more. October 21st he was again in full retreat on Portugal. The apparent failure of his campaign was almost simultaneous with the apparent success of Napoleon's; for the Emperor entered Moscow September 14th, and the news of this triuniph, probably decisive of Russian submission, reached England about Octo- ber 3d. Three days later arrived intelligence of William Hull's surrender at -Detroit; but this success was counterbalanced by simultaneous news of Isaac Hull's startling capture of the Guer- rifere, and the certainty of a prolonged war. In the desponding condition of the British people, — with a de- ficient harvest, bad weather, wheat at nearly five dollars a bushel, and the American supply likely to be cut off; consols at ST%, gold at thirty per cent, premium; a Ministry without credit or authority, and a general consciousness of blunders, incompetence, and corruption, — every new tale of disaster sank the hopes of England and called out wails of despair. In that state of mind the loss of the Guerrifere assumed portentous dimensions. The Tiines was especially loud in lamenting the capture: — «We witnessed the gloom which that event cast over high and honorable minds. . . . Never before in the history of the world did an English frigate strike to an American; and though we cannot say that Captain Dacres, under all circumstances, is punishable for this act, yet we do say there are commanders in the English navy who would a thousand times rather have gone down with their colors flying, than have set their fellow sailors so fatal an example." No country newspaper in America, railing at Hull's coward- ice and treachery, showed less knowledge or judgment than* the London Times, which had written of nothing but war since its name had been known in England. Any American could have assured the English press that British frigates before the Guer- rifere had struck to American; and even in England men had not forgotten the name of the British frigate Serapis, or that of the American captain Paul Jones. Yet the Times's ignorance was less 1—8 JJ4 HENRY ADAMS unreasonable than its requirement that Dacres should have gone down with his ship, — a cry of passion the more unjust to Dacres because he fought his ship as long as she could float. Such sensitiveness seemed extravagant in a society which had been hardened by centuries of warfare; yet the Times reflected fairly the feelings of Englishmen. ' George Canning, speaking in open Parliament not long afterward, said that the loss of the Guerri- hre and the Macedonian produced a sensation in the country scarcely to be equaled by the most violent convulsions of nature. « Neither can I agree with those who complain of the shock of consternation throughout Great Britain as having been greater than the occasion required. ... It cannot be too deeply felt that the sacred spell of the invincibility of the British navy was broken by those unfortunate captures." Of all spells that could be cast on a nation, that of believing itself invincible was perhaps the one most profitably broken; but the process of recovering its senses was agreeable to no nation, and to England, at that moment of distress, it was as painful as Canning described. The matter was not mended by the Courier and Morning Post, who, taking their tone from the Admiralty, complained of the enormous superiority of the American frigates, and called them " line-of -battle ships in disguise." Certainly the American forty-four was a much heavier ship than the British thirty-eight, but the difference had been as well known in the British navy before these actions as it was afterward; and Cap- tain Dacres himself, the Englishman who best knew the relative force of the ships, told his court of inquiry a different story: — "I am so well aware that the success of my opponent was owing to fortune, that it is my earnest wish, and would be the happiest period of my life, to be once more opposed to the Constitution, with them [the old crew] under my command, in a frigate of similar force with the Guerribre." After all had been said, the unpleasant result remained that in future, British frigates, like other frigates, could safely fight only their inferiors in force. What applied to the Guerrifere and Macedonian against the Con- stitution and United States, where the British force was inferior, applied equally to the Frolic against the Wasp, where no inferi- ority could be shown. The British newspapers thenceforward admitted what America wished to prove, that, ship for ship, British were no more than the equals of Americans. Society soon learned to take a more sensible view of the sub- ject ; but as the first depression passed away, a consciousness of HENRY ADAMS jj. personal wrong took its place. The United States were supposed to have stabbed England in the back at the moment when her hands were tied, when her existence was in the most deadly peril and her anxieties were most heavy. England never could forgive treason so base and cowardice so vile. That Madison had been from the first a tool and accomplice of Bonaparte was thence- forward so fixed an idea in British history that time could not shake it. Indeed, so complicated and so historical had the causes of war become that no one even in America could explain or understand therii, while EngUshmen could see only that America required England as the price of peace to destroy herself by abandoning her naval power, and that England preferred to die fighting rather than to die by her own hand. The American party in England was extinguished; no further protest was heard against the war; and the British people thought moodily of •revenge. This result was unfortunate for both parties, but was doubly unfortunate for America, because her mode of making the issue told in her enemy's favor. The same impressions which silenced in England open sympathy with America, stimulated in America acute sympathy with England. Argument was useless again^ people in a passion, convinced of their own injuries. Neither Englishmen nor Federalists were open to reasoning. They found their action easy from the moment they classed the United States as an ally of France, like Bavaria or Saxony; and they had no. scruples of conscience, for the practical alliance was clear, and the fact proved sufficiently the intent. . . . The loss of two or three thirty-eight-gun frigates on the ocean was a matter of trifling consequence to the British govern- ment, which had a force of four ships-of-the-line and six or eight frigates in Chesapeake Bay alone, and which built every year dozens of ships-of-the-line and frigates to replace those lost or worn out; but ajthough American privateers wrought more in- jury to British interests than was caused or could be caused by the American navy, the pride of England cared little about mer- cantile losses, and cared immensely for its fighting reputation. The theory that the American was a degenerate Englishman — a theory chiefly due to American teachings — lay at the bottom of British politics. Even the late British minister at Washington, Foster, a man- of average intelligence, thought it manifest good taste and , good sense to say of the Americans in his speech of February i8th, 1813, in Parliament, that "generally speaking, Il5 HENRY ADAMS they were not a people we should be proud to acknowledge as our relations." Decatur and Hull were engaged in a social rather than in a political contest, and were aware that the serious work on their hands had little to do with England's power, but much to do with her manners. The mortification of England at the capture of her frigates was the measure of her previous arrogance. . . . Every country must begin war by asserting that it will never give way; and of all countries England, which had waged innu- merable wars, knew best when perseverance cost more than con- cession. Even at that early moment Parliament was evidently perplexed, and would willingly have yielded had it seen means of escape from its naval fetich, impressment. Perhaps the perplexity was more evident in the Commons than in the Lords; for Castle- reagh, while defending his own course with elaborate care, visibly stumbled over the right of impressment. Even while claiming' that its abandonment would have been *< vitally dangerous if not fatal" to England's security, he added that he "would be the last man in the world to underrate the inconvenience which the Americans sustained in consequence of our assertion of the right of search." The embarrassment became still plainer when he narrowed the question to one of statistics, and showed that the whole contest was waged over the forcible retention of some eight hundred seamen among one hundred and forty-five thou- sand employed in British service. Granting the number were twice as great, he continued, ''would the House believe that there was any man so infatuated, or that the British empire was driven to such straits that for such a paltry consideration as seventeen hundred sailors, his Majesty*s government would needlessly irri- tate the pride of a neutral nation or violate that justice which was due to one country from another ? " If Liverpool's argument explained the causes of war, Castlereagh's explained its inevitable result; for since the war must cost England at least 10,000,000 pounds a year, could Parliament be so infatuated as to pay 10,000 pounds a year for each American sailor detained in service, when one-tenth of the amount, if employed in raising the wages of the British sailor, would bring any required number of seamen back to their ships? The whole British navy in 181 2 cost 20,000,000 pounds; the pay-roll amounted to only 3,000,000 pounds; the common sailor was paid four pounds bounty and eighteen pounds a year, which might have been trebled at half the cost of an American war. HENRY ADAMS jj» WHAT THE WAR OF 1812 DEMONSTRATED. From < History of the United States': copyright 1890, by Charles Scribner's Sons PEOPLE whose chief trait was antipathy to war, and to any A system organized with military energy, coitld scarcely develop great results in national administration; yet the Americans prided themselves chiefly on their political capacity. Even the war did not undeceive them, althotigh the incapacity brought into evidence by the war was undisputed, and was most remarkable among the communities which believed themselves to be most gifted with political sagacity. Virginia and Massachusetts by turns admitted failure in dealing with issues so simple that the newest societies, like Tennessee and Ohio, understood them by instinct. That incapacity in national politics should appear as a leading trait in American character was unexpected by Americans, but might naturally result from their conditions. The better test of American character was not political but social, and was to be found not in the government but in the people. The sixteen years of Jefferson and Madison's rule furnished international tests of popular intelligence upon which Americans could depend. The ocean was the only open field for competition among nations. Americans enjoyed there no natural or artificial advantages over Englishmen, Frenchmen, or Spaniards; indeed, all these countries possessed navies, resources, and experience greater than were to be found in the United States. Yet the Americans developed, in the course of twenty years, a surprising degree of skill in naval affairs. The evidence of their success was to be found nowhere so complete as in the avowals of English- men who knew best ■ the history of naval progress. The Ameri- can invention of the fast-sailing schooner or clipper was the more remarkable because, of all American inventions, this alone sprang from direct competition with Europe. During ten centuries of struggle the nations of Europe had labored to obtain superiority over each other in ship-construction; yet Americans instantly made improvements which gave them superiority, and which Europeans were unable immediately to imitate even after seeing them. Not only were American vessels better in model, faster in sailing, easier and quicker in handling, and more economical in working than the European, but they were also better equipped. The English complained as a grievance that the Americans Ijg HENRY ADAMS adopted new and unwarranted devices in naval warfare; that their vessels were heavier and better constructed, and their missiles of unusual shape and improper use. The Americans resorted to expedients that had not been tried before, and excited a mixture of irritation and respect in the English service, until "Yankee smartness" became a national misdemeanor. The English admitted themselves to be slow to change their habits, but the French were both quick and scientific; yet Ameri- cans did on the ocean what the French, under stronger induce- ments, failed to do. The French privateer preyed upon British commerce for twenty years without seriously injuring it; but no sooner did the American privateer sail from French ports than the rates of insurance doubled in London, and an outcry for pro- tection arose among English shippers which the Admiralty could not calm. The British newspapers were filled with assertions that the American cruiser was the superior of any vessel of its class, and threatened to overthrow England's supremacy on the ocean. Another test of relative intelligence was furnished by the battles at sea. Instantly after the loss of the Guerrifere the English discovered and complained that American gunnery was superior to their own. They explained their inferiority by the length of time that had elapsed since their navy had found on the ocean an enemy to fight. Every vestige of hostile fleets had been swept away, until, after the battle of Trafalgar, British frigates ceased practice, with their guns. Doubtless the British navy had become somewhat careless in the absence of a danger- ous enemy, but Englishmen were themselves aware that some other cause must have affected their losses. Nothing showed that Nelson's line-of-battle ships, frigates, or sloops were, as a rule, better fought than the Macedonian and Java, the Avon and Reindeer. Sir Howard Douglas, the chief authority on the subject, attempted in vain to explain British reverses by the deterioration of British gunnery. His analysis showed only that American gunnery was extraordinarily good. Of all vessels, the sloop-of-war — on account of its smallness, its quick motion, and its more accurate armament of thirty-two-pound carronades — offered the best test of relative gunnery, and Sir Howard Douglas in commenting upon the destruction of the Peacock and Avon could only say: — «In these two actions it is clear that the fire of the British vessels was thrown too high, and that the ordnance HENRY ADAMS ^^ of their opponents were expressly and carefully aimed at and took eiiect chiefly in the hull. " The battle of the Hornet and Penguin, as well as those of the Reindeer and Avon, showed that the excellence of American gimnery continued till the close of the war. Whether at point- blank range or at long-distance practice, the Americans used guns as they had never been used at sea before. None of the reports of former British victories showed that the British fire had been more destructive at any previous time than in 1812, and no report of any commander since the British navy existed showed so much damage inflicted on an opponent in so short a time as was proved to have been inflicted on them- selves by the reports of British commanders ' in the American war. The strongest proof of American superiority was given by the best British officers, like Broke, who strained every nerve to maintain an equality with American gunnery. So instantaneous and energetic was the effort that accprding to the British historian of the war, «A British forty-six-gun frigate of 1813 was half as effective again as a British forty-six-gun frigate of 1812;" and as he justly said, "the slaughtered crews and the shattered hulks" of the captured British ships proved that no want of their old fight- ing quahties accounted for their repeated and almost habitual mortifications. Unwilling as the English were to admit the superior skill of Americans on the ocean, they did not hesitate to admit it, in certain respects, on land. The American rifle in American hands was affirmed to have no equal in the world. This admission could scarcely be withheld after the lists of killed and wounded which followed almost every battle; but the admission served to check a wider inquiry. In truth, the rifle played but a small part in the war. Winchester's men at the river Raisin may have owed their over-confidence, as the British Forty-first owed its losses, to that weapon, and at New Orleans five or six himdred of Coffee's men, who were out of range, were armed with the rifle; but the surprising losses of the British were commonly due to artillery and musketry fire. At New Orleans the artillery was chiefly engaged. The artillery battle of January ist, according to British accounts, amply proved the superiority of American, gunnery on that occasion, which was probably the fairest test during the war. The battle of January 8th was also chiefly an artillery battle: the main British column never arrived within fair I20 HENRY ADAMS musket range; Pakenham was killed by a grape-shot, and the main column of his troops halted more than one hundred yards from the parapet. The best test of British and American military qualities, both for men and weapons, was Scott's battle of Chippawa. Nothing intervened to throw a doubt over the fairness of the trial Two parallel lines of regular soldiers, practically equal in numbers, armed with similar weapons, moved in close order toward each other across a wide, open plain, without cover or advantage of position, stopping at intervals to load and fire, vmtil one line broke and retired. At the same time two three-gun batteries, the British being the heavier, maintained a steady fire from posi- tions opposite each other. According to the reports, the two infantry lines in the centre never came nearer than eighty yards. Major-General Riall reported that then, owing to severe losses, his troops broke and could not be rallied. Comparison of oificial reports showed that the British lost in killed and wounded four hundred and sixty-nine men; the Americans, two hundred and ninety-six. Some doubts always affect the returns of wounded, because the severity of the wound cannot be known; but dead men tell their own tale. Riall reported one hundred and forty- eight killed; Scott reported sixty -one. The severity of the losses showed that the battle was sharply contested, and proved the personal bravery of both armies. Marksmanship decided the re- sult, arid the returns proved that the American fire was superior to that of the British in , the proportion of more than fifty per cent, if estimated by the entire loss, and of two hundred and forty-two to one hundred if estimated by the deaths alone. The conclusion seemed incredible, but it was supported by the results of the naval battles. The Americans showed superiority amounting in some cases to twice the efficiency of their enemies in the use of weapons. The best French critic of the naval war, Jurien de la Graviere, said:— "An enormous superiority in the rapidity and precision of their fire can alone explain the differ- ence in the losses sustained by the combatants." So far from denying this conclusion, the British press constantly alleged it, and the British officers complained of it. The discovery caused great surprise, and in both British services much attention was at once directed to improvement in artillery and musketry. Noth- ing could exceed the frankness with which Englishmen avowed their inferiority. According to Sir Francis Head, "gunnery was HENRY ADAMS ^^i in naval warfare in the extraordinary state of ignorance we have just described, when our lean children, the American people, taught us, rod iil hand, our first lesson in the art." The EngHsh text-book on Naval Gunnery, written by Major-General Sir How- ard Douglas immediately after the peace, devoted more attention to the short American war than to all the battles of Napoleon, and began by admitting that Great Britain had "entered with too great confidence oh war with a marine much more expert than that of any of our European enemies." The admission appeared "objectionable" even to the author; but he did not add, what was equally true, that it appHed as well to the land as to the sea service. No one questioned the bravery of the British forces, or the ease with which they often routed larger bodies of militia; but the losses they inflicted were rarely as great as those they suf- fered. Even at Bladensburg, where they met Httle resistance, their loss was several times greater than that of the Americans. At Plattsburg, where the intelligence and' quickness of Macdonough and his men alone won the victory, his ships were in effect sta- tionary batteries, and enjoyed the same superiority in gunnery. "The Saratoga," said his official report, "ha^ fifty-five roimd-shot in her hull; the Confiance, one hundred and five. The enemy's shot passed principally just over our heads, as there were not twenty whole hammocks in the nettings at the close of the action. " The greater skill of the Americans was not due to special training; for the British service was better trained in gunnery, as in everything else, than the motley armies and fleets that fought at New Orleans and on the Lakes. Critics constantly said that every American had: learned from his childhood the use of the rifle; but he certainly had not learned to use cannon in shooting birds or hunting deer, and he knew less than the Englishman about the handling df artillery and muskets. The same intelli- gence that selected the rifle and the long pivot-gun for favorite weapons was shown in handling the carronade, and every other instrument however clumsy. Another significant result of the war was the sudden develop- ment of scientific engineering in the United States. This branch of the military service owed its efficiency and almost its existence to the military school at West Point, established in 1802. The school was at first much neglected by government. The number of graduates before the year 18 12 was very small; but at the 122 HENRY ADAMS outbreak of the war the corps of engineers was already efficient. Its chief was Colonel Joseph Gardner Swift, of Massachusetts, the first graduate of the academy: Colonel Swift planned the defenses of New York Harbor. The lieutenant-colonel in 1812 was Walker Keith Armistead, of Virginia, — the third graduate, who planned the defenses of Norfolk. Major William McRee, of North Carolina, became chief engineer to General Brown and constructed the fortifications at Fort Erie, which cost the British General Gordon Drummond the loss of half his army, besides the mortification of defeat. Captain Eleazer Derby Wood, of New York, constructed Fort Meigs, which enabled Harrison to defeat the attack of Proctor in May, 18 13. Captain Joseph Gilbert Totten, of New York, was chief engineer to General Izard at Plattsburg, where he directed the fortifications that stopped the advance of Prevost's great army. None of the works constructed by a graduate of West Point was captured by the enemy; and had an engineer been employed at Washington by Armstrong and Winder, the city would have been easily saved. Perhaps without exaggeration the West Point Academy might be said to have decided, next to the navy, the result of the war. The works at New Orleans were simple in character, and as far as they were due to engineering skill were directed by Major Latour, a Frenchman ; ■ but the war was already ended when the battle of New Orleans was fought. During the critical campaign of 181 4, the West Point engineers doubled the capacity of the little American army for resistance, and introduced a new and scientific character into American life. THE BATTLE BETWEEN THE CONSTITUTION AND THE GUER- RlllRE From < History 6i the United States >: copyright i8go,"by Charles Scribner's Sons As Broke's squadron swept along the coast it seized whatever it met, and on July i6th caught one of President Jefferson's sixteen-gun brigs, the Nautilus. The next day it came on a richer prize. The American navy seemed ready to outstrip the army in the race for disaster. The Constitution, the best frigate in the United States service, sailed into the midst of Broke's five ships. Captain Isaac Hull, in command of the Constitution, had been detained at Annapolis shipping a new crew until July 5th, HENRY ADAMS j2, the day when Broke's squadron left Halifax; then the ship got under way and stood down Chesapeake Bay on her voyage to New York. The wind was ahead and very light. Not until July loth did the ship anchor off Cape Henry lighthouse, and not till sunrise of July 12th did she stand to the eastward and northward. Light head winds and a strong current delayed her progress till July 17th, when at two o'clock in the afternoon, off Bamegat on the New Jersey coast, the lookout at the masthead discovered four sails to the northward, and two hours later a fifth sail to the northeast. Hull took them for Rodgers's squadron. The wind was light, and Hull being to windward determined to speak the nearest vessel, the last to come in sight. The afternoon passed without bringing the ships together, and at ten o'clock in the evening, finding that the nearest ship could not answer the night signal, Hull decided to lose no time in escaping. Then followed one of the most exciting and sustained chases recorded in naval history. At daybreak the next morning one British frigate was astern within five or six miles, two more were to leeward, and the rest of the fleet some ten miles astern, all making chase. Hull put out his boats to tow the Constitution; Broke summoned the boats of the squadron to tow the Shannon. Hull then bent all his spare rope to the cables, dropped a small anchor half a mile ahead, in twenty-six fathoms of water, and warped his ship along. Broke quickly imitated the device, and slowly gained on the chase. The Guerrifere crept so near Hull's lee beam as to open fire, but her shot fell short. Fortunately the wind, though slight, favored Hull. All night the British and American crews toiled on, and when morning came the Belvidera, proving to be the best sailer, got in advance of her consorts, working two kedge anchors, until at two o'clock in the afternoon she tried in her turn to reach the Constitution with her bow g^ns, but in vain. Hull expected capture, but the Belvidera could not approach nearer without bringing her boats under the Constitution's stern guns; and the wearied crews toiled on, towing and kedging, the ships barely out of gunshot, till another morn- ing came. The breeze, though still lights then allowed Hull to take in his boats, the Belvidera being two and a half miles in his wake, the Shaniion three and a half miles on his lee, and the three other frigates well to leeward. The wind freshened, and the Constitution drew ahead, until, toward seven o'clock in the -evening of July 19th, a heavy rain squall struck the ship, and by J 24 HENRY ADAMS taking skillful advantage of , it Hull left the Belvidera and Shan- non far astern; yet until eight o'clock the next morning they were still in sight, keeping up the chase. Perhaps nothing during the war tested American seamanship more thoroughly than these three days of combined skill and endurance in the face of the irresistible enemy. The result showed that Hull and the Constitution had nothing to fear in these respects. There remained the question whether the superi- ority extended to his guns; and such was the contempt of the British naval officers for American ships, that with this experi- ience before their eyes they still believed one of their thirty-eight- gun frigates to be more than a match for an American forty-four, although the American, besides the heavier armament, had proved his capacity to outsail and out-manoeuvre the Englishman. Both parties became more eager than ever for the test. For once, even the Federalists of New England felt their blood stir; for their own President and their own votes had called these frigates into existence, and a victory won by the Constitution, which had been built by their hands, was in their eyes a greater victory over their political opponents than over the British. With no half- hearted spirit the seagoing Bostonians showered well-weighed .praises on Hull when his ship entered Boston Harbor, July 26th, after its narrow escape, and yrhen he sailed again New England waited with keen interest to learn his "fate. Hull could not expect to keep command of the Constitution. Bainbridge was much his senior, and had the right to a prefer- ence in active service. Bainbridge then held and was ordered to retain command b^ the Constellation, fitting out at the Wash- ington Navy Yard; but Secretary Hamilton, Ju|y 28th, ordered him to take command also of the Constitution on her arrival in port. Doubtless Hull expected this change^ and probably the expectation induced him to risk a dangerous experiment; for without bringing his ship to the Charlestown Navy Yard, but remaining in the outer harbor, after obtaining such supplies as he needed, August 2d, he set sail without orders, and stood to the eastward. Having reached Cape Race without meeting an enemy, he turned southward, tintil on the night of August i8th he spoke a privateer, which told him of a British frigate near at hand. Following the privateersman's directions, the Constitution the next day, August 19th, [1812,] at two o'clock in the afternoon, latitude 41 deg. 42 min., longitude 55 deg. 48. min., sighted the Guerrifere. HENRY ADAMS j^- The meeting was welcome on both sides. Only three days before, Captain Dacres had entered on the log of a merchantman a challenge to any American frigate to meet him off Sandy Hook. Not only had the Guerrifere for a long time been extremely offens- ive to every seafaring American, but the mistake which caused the Little Belt to suffer so seriously for the misfortune of being taken for the Guerrifere had caused a corresponding feeling of anger in the officers of the British frigate. The meeting of Au- gust 19th had the character of a preconcerted duel. The wind was blowing fresh from the northwest, with the sea running high. Dacres backed his main topsail and waited. Hull shortened sail, and ran down before the wind. For about an hour the two ships wore and wore again, trying to get advantage of position; until at last, a few minutes before six o'clock, they came together side by side, within pistol shot, the wind almost astern, and running before it, they pounded each other with all their strength. As rapidly as the guns could be worked, the Constitution poured in broadside after broadside, double -shotted with round and grape; and without exaggeration, the echo of these guns startled the world. " In less than thirty minutes from the time we got alongside of the enemy," reported Hull, "she was left without a spar standing, and the hull cut to pieces in such a manner as to make it difficult to keep her above water." That Dacres should have been defeated was not surprising; that he should have expected to win was an example of British atrogance that explained and excused the war. The length of the Constitution was one hundred and seventy-three feet, that of the Guerrifere -was one hundred and iifty-six feet ; the extreme breadth of the Constitution was forty-four feet, that of the Guerrifere was forty feet: or within a few inches in both cases. The Consti- tution carried thirty-two long twenty-four-pounders, the Guerri- hve thirty long eighteen-pounders and two long twelve-pounders; the Constitution carried twenty thirty-two-pound carronades, the Guerrifere sixteen. In every respect, and in proportion of ten to seven, the Constitution was the better ship; her crew was more numerous in proportion of ten to six. Dacres knew this very nearly as well as it was known to Hull, yet he sought a duel. What he did not know was that in a still greater proportion the American officers and crew were better and more intelligent seamen than the British, and that their passionate wish to repay old scores gave them extraordinary energy. So much greater 126 HENRY ADAMS was the moral superiority than the physical, that while the Guerrifere's force counted as seven against ten, her losses counted as though her force were only two against ten. Daeres's error cost him dear; for among the Guerrifere's crew of two hundred and seventy-two, seventy-nine were killed or wounded, and the ship was injured beyond saving before Dacres realized his mistake, although he needed only thirty minutes of close fighting for the purpose. He never fully understood the causes of his defeat, and never excused it by pleading, as he might have done, the great superiority of his enemy. Hull took his prisoners on board the Constitution, and after blowing up the Guerrifere sailed for Boston, where he arrived on the morning of August 30th. The Sunday silence of the Puritan city broke into excitement as the news passed through the quiet streets that the Constitution was below in Xhe outer harbor with Dacres and his crew prisoners on board. No experience of his- tory ever went to the heart of New England more directly than this victory, so peculiarly its own : but the delight was not confined to New England, and extreme though it seemed, it was still not extravagant; for however small the affair might appear on the general scale of the world's battles, it raised the United States in one half -hour to the rank of a first class Power in the world. 127 • JOHN ADAMS (1735-1826) |oHN Adams, second President of the United States, was born at Braintree, Massachusetts, October 19th, 1735, and died there July 4th, 1826, the year after his son too was inaugu-. rated President. He was the first conspicuous member of an endur- ingly powerful and individual family. The Adams race have mostly been vehement, proud, pugnacious, and independent, with hot tempers and strong wills; but with high ideals, dramatic devotion to duty, and the intense democratic sentiment so often found united with personal aristocracy of feeling. They have been men of affairs first, with large practical ability, but with a deep strain of the man of letters which in this generation has outshone the other faculties; strong-headed and hard-working students, with powerful memories and fluent gifts of expression. All these characteristics went to make up .John Adams ; but their enumeration does not furnish a complete picture of him, or reveal the virile, choleric, masterful man. And he was far more lovable and far more popular than his equally great son, also a typical Adams, from the same cause which produced some of his worst blunders and mis- fortunes, — a generous impulsiveness of feeling which made it impos- sible for him to hold his tongue at the wrong time and place for talking. But so fervid, combative, and opinionated a man was sure to gain much more hate than love; because love results from compre- hension, which only the few close to him could have, while hate — toward an honest man — is the outcome of ignorance, which most of the world cannot avoid. Admiration and respect, however, he had from the majority of his party at the worst of times; and the best encomium on him is that the closer his public acts are examined, the more credit they reflect not only on his abilities but on his unselfish- ness. Born of a line of Massachusetts farmers, he graduated from Har- vard in I7SS- After teaching a grammar school and beginning to read theology, he studied law and began practice in 1758, soon becoming a leader at the bar and in public life. In 1764 he married the noble and delightful woman whose letters furnish unconscious testimony to his lovable qualities. All through the germinal years of the Revolu- tion he was one of the foremost patriots, steadily opposing any J28 JOHN ADAMS abandonment or compromise of essential rights. In 1765 he was counsel for Boston with Otis and Gridley to support the town's memorial against the Stamp Act. In 1766 he was selectman. In 1768 the royal government offered him the post of advocate-general in the Court of Admiralty, — a lucrative bribe to desert, the opposition; but he refused it. Yet in 1770, as a matter of high professional duty, he became counsel (successfully) for the British soldiers on trial for the "Boston Massacre." Though there was a present uproar of abuse, Mr. Adams vvas shortly after elected Representative to the General Court by more than three to one. In March, 1774, he contemplated writing the "History of the Contest between Britain and America!" On June 17th he presided over the meeting at Faneuil Hall to con- sider the Boston Port Bill, and at the same hour was elected Repre- sentative to the first Congress at Philadelphia (September i) by the Provincial Assembly held in defiance of the, government. Returning thence, he engaged in newspaper debate on the political issues till the battle of Lexington. Shortly after, he again journeyed to Philadelphia to the Congress of May 5th, 1775; where he did on his own motion, to the disgust of his Northern associates and the reluctance even of the Southern- ers, one of the most important and decisive acts of the Revolution, — induced Congress to adopt the forces in New England as a national army and put George Washington of Virginia at its head, thus engaging the Southern colonies irrevocably in the war and securing the one man who could make it a success. In 1776 he was a chief agent in carrying a declaration of independence. He remained in Congress till November, 1777, as head of the War Department, very useful and laborious though making one dreadful mistake: he was largely responsible for the disastrous policy of ignoring the just claims and decent dignity of the military commanders, which lost the country some of its best officers and led directly to Arnold's treason. His reasons, exactly contrary to his wont, were good abstract logic but thorough practical nonsense. In December, 1777, he was appointed commissioner to France to succeed Silas Deane, and after being chased by an English man-of- war (which he wanted to fight) arrived at Paris in safety. There he reformed a very bad state of affairs; but thinking it absurd to keep three envoys at one court (Dr. Franklin and Arthur Lee were there before him), he induced Congress to abolish his office, and returned in 1779. Chosen a delegate to the Massachusetts constitu- tional convention, he was called away from it to be sent again to France. There he remained as Franklin's colleague, detesting and distrusting him and the French foreign minister, Vergennes, embroil- ing himself with both and earning a cordial return of his warmest JOHN ADAMS ^ dislike from both, till July, 1780. He then went to Holland as volun- teer minister, and in 1782 was formally recognized as from an inde- pendent nation. Meantime Vergennes intrigued with all his might to have Adams recalled, and actually succeeded in so tying his hands that half the advantages of independence would have been lost but for his contumacious persistence. In the final negotiations for peace, he persisted against his instructions in making the New England fish- eries an ultimatum, and saved them. In 1783 he was commissioned to negotiate a commercial treaty with Great Britain, and in 1785 was made minister to that power. The wretched state of American affairs under the Confederation made it impossible to obtain any advantages for his country, and the vindictive feeling of the English made his life a purgatory, so that he was glad to come home in 1788. In the first Presidential election of that year he was elected Vice- President on the ticket with Washington; and began a feud with Alexander Hamilton, the mighty leader of the Federalist party and chief organizer of our governmental machine, which ended in the overthrow of the party years before its time, and had momentous personal and literary results as well. He was as good a Federalist as Hamilton, and felt as much right to be leader if he could; Hamil- ton would not surrender his leadership, and the rivalry never ended till Hamilton's murder. In 1796 he was elected President against Jefferson. His Presidency is recognized as one of the ablest and most useful on the roll; but its personal memoirs are most painful and scandalous. The cabinet were nearly all Hamiltonians, regularly laid all the official secrets before Hamilton, and took advice from him to thwart the President. They disliked Mr. Adams's overbear- ing ways and obtrusive vanity, considered his policy destructive to the party and injurious to the country, and felt that loyalty to these involved and justified disloyalty to him. Finally his best act brought on an explosion. The French Directory had provoked a war with this country, which the Hamiltonian section Of the leaders and much of the party hailed with delight; but showing signs of a better spirit, Mr. Adams, without consulting his Cabinet,- who he knew would oppose it almost or quite unanimously, nominated a commis- sion to frame a treaty with France. The storm of fury that broke on him from his party has rarely been surpassed, even in the case of traitors outright, and he was charged with being little better. He was renominated for President in 1800, but beaten by Jefferson, owing to the defections in his own party, largely of Hamilton's producing. The Federalist party never won another election; the Hamilton sec- tion laid its death to Mr. Adams, and American history is hot with the fires of this battle even yet. Henry Adams's great History is only a small item in the immense literature it has Jjroduced. 1—9 I JO JOHN ADAMS Mr. Adams's later years were spent at home, where he was always interested in public affairs and sometimes much too free in com- ments on them; where he read immensely and wrote somewhat. He heartily approved his son's break with the Federalists on the Em- bargo. He died on the same day as Jefferson, both on the fiftieth anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. As a writer Mr. Adams's powers show best in the work which can hardly be classed as literature, — his forcible and bitter political letters, diatribes, and polemics. As in his life, his merits and defects not only lie side by side, but spring from the same source, — his vehemence, self-confidence, and impatience of obstruction. He writes impetuously because he feels impetuously. With little literary grace, he possesses the charm that belongs to clear and energetic thought and sense transfused with hot emotion. John Fiske goes so far as to say that "as a writer of English, John Adams in many respects sur- passed all his American contemporaries." He was by no means with- out humor, — a characteristic which shows in some of his portraits, — and sometimes realized the humorous aspects of his own intense and exaggerative temperament. His remark about Timothy Pickering, that ** under the simple appearance of a bald head and straight hair, he conceals the most ambitious designs," is perfectly self-conscious in its quaint naivete. His_ 'Life and Works,' edited by his grandson, Charles Francis Adams, Sr. , in ten volumes, is the great storehouse of his writings. The best popular account of his life is by John T. Morse, Jr., in the 'American Statesmen' series. AT THE FRENCH COURT From his Diary, June 7th, 1778, with his later comments in brackets WENT to Versailles, in company with Mr. Lee, Mr. Izard and his lady, Mr Lloyd and his lady, and Mr. Franeois. Saw the grand procession of the Knights du Saint-Esprit, or du Cordon Bleu. At nine o'clock at night went to the grand convert, and saw the king, queen, and royal family at supper; had a fine seat and situation close by the royal family, and had a distinct and full view of the royal pair. [Our objects were to see the ceremonies of the knights, and in the evening the public supper of the royal family. The kneelings, the bows, and the courtesies of the knights, the dresses and decorations, the king seated on his throne, his JOHN ADAMS j,j investiture of a new created knight with the badges and orna- ments of the order, and his majesty's profound and reverential bow before the altar as he retired, were novelties and curiosities to me, but surprised me much less than the patience and perse- verance with which they all kneeled, for two hours together, upon the hard marble of which the floor of the chapel was made. The distinction of the blue ribbon was very dearly purchased at the price of enduring this painful operation four times in a year. The Count de Vergennes confessed to me that he was almost dead with the pain of it. And the only insinuation I ever heard, that the king was in any degree touched by the philosophy of the age, was, that he never discovered so much impatience, under any of the occurrences of his life, as in going through those tedious ceremonies of religion, to which so many hours of his life were condemned by the catholic church. The queen was attended by her ladies to the gallery opposite to the altar, placed in the centre of the seat, and there left alone by the other ladies, who all retired. She was an object too sublime and beautiful for my dull pen to describe. I leave this enterprise to Mr. Burke. But in his description, there is more of the orator than of the philosopher. Her dress was everything that art and wealth could make it. One of the maids of honor told me she had diamonds upon her person to the value of eighteen millions of livres; and I always thought her majesty much beholden to her dress. Mr. Burke saw her probably but once. I have seen her iifty times perhaps, and in all the varie- ties of her dresses. She had a fine complexion, indicating perfect health, and was a handsome woman in her face and figure. But I have seen beauties much superior, both in counte- nance and form, in France, England, and America. After the ceremonies of this institution are over, there is a collection for the poor; and that this closing scene may be as elegant as any of the former, a young lady of some of the first families in France is appointed to present the box to the knights. Her dress must "be as rich and elegant, in proportion, as the Queen's, and her hair, motions, and curtsies must have as much dignity and grace as those of the knights. It was a curious entertainment to observe the easy air, the graceful bow, and the conscious dignity of the knight, in presenting his contribution; and the corresponding ease, grace, and, dignity of the lady, in receiving it, were hot less charming. Every muscle, nerve, and 1^2 JOHN ADAMS fibre of both seemed perfectly disciplined to perform its func- tions. The elevation of the arm, the bend of the elbow, and every finger in the hand of the knight, in putting his louis d'ors into the box appeared to be perfectly studied, because it was perfectly natural. How much devotion there was in all this I know not, but it was a consummate school to teach the rising generation the perfection of the French air, and external polite- ness and good-breeding. I have seen nothing to be compared to it in any other country. At nine o'clock we went and saw the king, queen, and royal family, at the grand convert. Whether M. Frangois, a gentleman who undertook upon this occasion to conduct us, had contrived a plot to gratify the curiosity of the spectators, or whether the royal family had a fancy to see the raw American at their leisure, or whether they were willing to gratify him with a con- venient seat, in which he might see all the royal family, and all the splendors of the place, I know not; but the scheme could not have been carried into execution, certainly, without the orders of the king. I was selected, and summoned indeed, from all my company, and ordered to a seat close beside the royal family. The seats on both sides of the hall, arranged like the seats in a theatre, were all full of ladies of the first rank and fashion in the kingdom, and there was no room or place for me but in the midst of them. It was not easy to make room for one more, person. However, room was made, and I was situated between two ladies, with rows and ranks of ladies above and below me, and on the :;igh,t hand and on the left, and ladies only. My dress was a decent French dress, becoming the station I held, but not to be compared with the gold, and diamonds, and embroidery, about me. I could neither speak nor under- stand the language in a manner to support a conversation, but I had soon the satisfaction to find it was a silent meeting, and that, nobody spoke a word but the royal family to feach other, and they said. very little. The eyes of all the assem,bly were turned upon me, and I felt sufficiently huipble and mortiged, for I was not a proper object for the criticisms of such. a company. I found myself gazed at, as we in Anierica used to gaze at the sachems who came to make speeches to us in Congress; but' I thought it, very hard; if I.; could not epmrnand as much power of face as one of the chiefs of the. Six Nations, and therefore deter- mined that I jvould assume a cheerful countenance, enjoy the JOHN ADAMS „, scene around me, and observe it as coolly as an astronomer con- templates the stars. Inscriptions of Fructus Belli were seen on the ceiling and all about the walls of the room, among paint- ings of the trophies of war; probably done by the order of Louis XIV., who confessed in his dying hour as his successor and exemplar Napoleon will probably do, that he had been too fond of war. The king was the royal carver for himself and all his family. His majesty ate like a king, and made a royal supper of solid beef, and other things in proportion. The queen took a large spoonful of soup, and displayed her fine person and graceful manners, in alternately looking' at the company in vari- ous parts of the hall, and ordering several kinds of seasoning to be brought to her, by which she fitted her supper to her taste. J THE CHARACTER OF FRANKLIN From Letter to the Boston Patriot, May 15th, 1811 FRANKLIN had a great genius, original, sagacious, and inventive, capable of discoveries in science no less than of improve- ments in the fine arts and the mechanic arts. He had a vast imagination, equal to the comprehension of the greatest objects, and capable of a cool and steady comprehension of them. He had wit at will. He had humor that when he pleased was delicate and delightful. He had a satire that was good-natured or caustic, Horace or Juvenal, Swift or Rabelais, at his pleasure. He had talents for irony, allegory, and fable, that he could adapt with great skill to the promotion of moral and political truth. He was master of that infantine simplicity which the French call naivete, which never fails to charm in Phsedrus and La Fontaine, from the cradle to the grave. Had he been blessed with the same advantages of scholastic education in his early youth, and pursued a course of studies as unembarrassed with occupations of public and private life as Sir Isaac Newton, he might have emulated the first philosopher. Although I am not ignorant that most of his positions and hypotheses have been controverted, I cannot but think he has added much to the mass of natural knowledge, and contributed largely to the progress of the human mind, both by his own writings and by the controversies and experiments he has excited in all parts of Europe. He had abil- ities for investigating statistical questions, and in some parts of 124 JOHN ADAMS his life has written pamphlets and essays upon public topics with great ingenuity and success; but after my acquaintance with him, which commenced in Congress in 1775, his excellence as a legis- lator, a politician, or a negotiator niost certainly never appeared. No sentiment more weak and superficial was ever avowed by the most absurd philosopher than some of his, particularly one that he procured to be inserted in the first constitution of Pennsyl- vania, and for which he had such a fondness as to insert it in his will. I call it weak, for so it must have been, or hypocritical; unless he meant by one satiric touch to ridicule his own republic, or throw it into everlasting contempt. I must acknowledge, after all, that nothing in life has morti- fied or grieved me more than the necessity which compelled me to oppose him so often as I have. He was a man with whom I always wished to live in friendship, and for that purpose omitted no demonstration of respect, esteem, and veneration in my power, until I had unequivocal proofs of his hatred, for no other reason under the sun but because I gave my judgment in opposition to his in many points which materially affected the interests of our country, and in many more which essentially concerned our happiness, safety, and well-being. I could not and would not sacrifice the clearest dictates of my understanding and the purest principles of morals and policy in compliance to Dr. Franklin. 135 JOHN QUINCY ADAMS (1 767-1 848) ^HE chief distinction in character between John Adams and his son is the strangest one imaginable, when one remem- bers that to the fiery, combative, bristling Adams blood was added an equal strain from the gay, genial, affectionate Abigail Smith. The son, though of deep inner affections, and even hungering for good- will if it would come without his help, was on the surface incom- parably colder, harsher, and thornier than his father, with all the socially repellent traits of the race and none of the softer ones. The father could never control his tongue or his temper, and not always his head; the son never lost the bridle of either, and much of his ter- rible power in debate came from his ability to make others lose theirs while perfectly keeping his own. The father had plenty of warm friends and allies,— at the worst he worked with half a party; the son in the most superb part of his career had no friends, no allies, no party except the group of constituents who kept him in Congress. The father's self-confidence deepened in the son to a soli- tary and even contemptuous gladiatorship against the entire govern- ment of the country, for long years of hate and peril. The father's irritable though generous vanity changed in the son to an icy contempt or white-hot scorn of nearly all around him. The father's spasms of acrimonious judgment steadied in the son to a constant rancor always finding new objects. But only John Quincy Adams could have done the work awaiting John Quincy Adams, and each of his unamiable qualities strengthened his fibre to do it. And if a man is to be judged by his fruits, Mr. Morse is justified in saying that he was "not only pre-eminent in ability and acquirements, but even more to be honored for profound, immutable honesty of pur- pose, and broad, noble humanity of aims." It might almost be said that the sixth President of the United States was cradled in statesmanship. Born July nth, 1767, he was a little lad of ten when he accompanied his father on the French miss- ion. Eighteen months elapsed before he returned, and three months later he was again upon the water, bound once more for the French capital. There were school days in Paris, and other school days in \Amsterdam and in Leyden; but the boy was only fourteen, — the ma- ture old child! — when he went to St. Petersburg as private secretary and interpreter to Francis - Dana, just appointed minister plenipoten- tiary to the court of the Empress Catherine. Such was his appren- ticeship to a public career which began in earnest in 1794, and lasted, J, 6 JOHN QUINCY ADAMS with slight interruptions, for fifty-four years. Minister to' the United Netherlands, to Russia, to Prussia, and to England; commissioner to frame the Treaty of Ghent v-hich ended the war of 1812; State Sen- ator, United States Senator; Secretary of State, a position in which he made the treaty with Spain which conceded Florida, and. enun- ciated the Monroe Doctrine before Monroe and far more thoroughly than he; President, and then for many years Member of the National House of Representatives,— it is strange to find this man writing in his later years, "My whole life has been a succession of disappoint- ments. I can scarcely recollect a single instance of success to any- thing that I ever undertook.'' It is true, however, that his successes and even his glories always had some bitter ingredient to spoil their flavor. As United States Senator he was practically "boycotted," for years, even by his own party members, because he was an Adams. In 1807 he definitely broke with the Federalist party— for what he regarded as its slavish crouching under English outrages, conduct which had been for years estranging him — by supporting Jefferson's Embargo, as better than no show of resistance at all; and was for a generation denounced by the New England Federalists as a renegade for the sake of office and a traitor to New England. The Massachusetts Legislature practically censured him in 1808, and he resigned. His winning of the Presidency brought pain instead of pleasure: he valued it only as a token of national confidence, got it only as a minority candidate in a divided party, and was denounced by the Jacksonians as a corrupt political bargainer. And his later Congress- ional career, though his chief title to glory, was one long martyrdom (even, though' its worst pains were self-inflicted), and he never knew the immense victory he had actually won. The "old man eloquent," after ceasing to be President, was elected in 1830 by his home district a Representative in Congress, and regularly re-elected till his death. For a long time he bore the anti-slavery standard almost alone in the halls of Congress, a unique and picturesque figure, rous- ing every demon of hatred in his fellow-members, in constant and envenomed battle with them, and more than a match for them all. He fought single-handed for the right of petition as an indefeasible right, not hesitating to submit a petition from citizens of Virginia praying for his own expulsion from Congress as a nuisance. In 1836 he presented a petition from one hundred and fifty-eight ladies, citizens of Massachusetts, "for, I said, I had not yet brought myself to doubt whether females were citizens." After eight years of per- sistent struggle against the "Atherton gag law," which practically denied the right of petition in matters relating to slavery, he carried a vote rescinding it, and nothing of the kind was again enacted. He JOHN QUINCY ADAMS j,. had a fatal stroke of paralysis on the floor of Congress February 2ist, 1848, and died two days later. As a writer he was perspicuous, vigorous, and straightforward. He had entered Harvard in the middle of the college course, and been graduated with honors. He ha,d then studied and practiced law. He was Professor of Rhetoric and Oratory at Harvard from 1806 to 1809, and was well drilled in the use of language, but was too downright in his temper and purposes to spend much labor upon artistic effects. He kept an elaborate diary during the greater part of his life, — since published' in twelve volumes of "Memoirs" by his son Charles Francis Adams; a vast storehouse of material relat- ing to the political history of the country, but, as published, largely restricted to public affairs. He delivered orations on Lafayette, on Madison, on Monroe, on Independence, and on the Constitution; pub- lished essays on the Masonic Institution and various other matters; a report on weights and measures, of enormous labor and permanent value ; Lectures on Rhetoric and Oratory ; a tale in verse on the Con- quest of Ireland, with the title * Dermot MacMorrogh > ; an account of Travels in Silesia; and a volume of 'Poems of Religion and Society.' He had some facility in rhyme, but his judgment was not at fault in informing him that he was not a poet. Mr. Morse says that «No man can have been more utterly void of a sense of humor or an appreciation of wit»; and yet he very fairly anticipated Holmes in his poem on 'The Wants of Man,' and hits rather neatly a familiar foible in the verse with which he begins < Dermot MacMorrogh': — «'Tis strange how often readers will indulge Their wits a mystic meaning to discover; Secrets ne'er dreamt of by the bard divulge. And where he shoots a duck, will find a plover ; Satiric shafts from every line promulge, Detect a tyrant where he draws a lover: Nay, so intent his hidden thoughts to see. Cry, if he paint a scoundrel — The motive of this tragedy, constructed on what were then held to be classic lines, is found in the two lines of the Pro- logue: it was an endeavor to portray «A brave man struggling in the storms of fate, And greatly falling with a falling. State, » 158 JOSEPH ADDISON The play was full of striking lines which were instantly caught up and applied to the existing political situation; the theatre was crowded night after night, and the resources of Europe in the way of translations, plaudits, and favorable criticisms were exhausted in the endeavor to express the general approval. The judgment of a later period has, however, assigned a secondary place, and it is remembered mainly on account of its many felicitous passages. It lacks real dramatic unity and vitality; the character of Cato is essentially an abstraction; there is little dramatic necessity in the situations and incidents. It is rhetorical rather than poetic, declama- tory rather than dramatic. Johnson aptly described it as "rather a poem in dialogue than a drama, rather a succession of just senti- ments in elegant language than a representation of natural affections, or of any state probable or possible in human life." Addison's popularity touched its highest point in the production of * Cato. ' Even his conciliatory nature could not disarm the envy which such brilliant success naturally aroused, nor wholly escape the bitterness which the intense political feeling of the time constantly bred between ambitious and able men. Political differences separated him from Swift, and Steele's uncertain character and inconsistent course blighted what was probably the most delightful intimacy of his life. Pope doubtless believed that he had good ground for char- ging Addison with jealousy and insincerity, and in 1715 an open rupture took place between them. The story of the famous quarrel was first told by Pope, and his version was long accepted in many quarters as final; but later opinion inclines to hold Addison guiltless' of the grave accusations brought against him. Pope was morbidly sensitive to slights, morbidly eager for praise, and extremely irritable. To a man of such temper, trifles light as air became significant of malice and hatred. Such trifles unhappily confirmed Pope's sus- picions; his self-love was wounded, sensitiveness became animosity, and animosity became hate, which in the end inspired the most stinging bit of satire in the language: — « Should such a one, resolved to reig^ alone. Bear, like the Turk, no brother hear the throne, ' View him with jealous yet .with scornful eyes, - ' Hate him for arts ttiat caused himself to rise, ' Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,- And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer.{ Alike unused to blame or to commend, A timorous foe and a suspicious friend, . . Fearing e'en fools, by flatterers besieged, And so obliging that he ne'er obliged; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike." JOSEPH ADDISON '59 There was just enough semblance of truth in these inimitable lines to give them lasting stinging power; but that they were grossly- unjust is now generally conceded. Addison was human, and there- fore not free from the frailties of men of his profession; but there was no meanness in him. Addison's loyalty to the Whig party and his ability to serve it kept him in intimate relations with its leaders and bound him to its fortunes. He served the Whig cause in Parliament, and filled many positions which required tact and judgment, attaining at last the very dignified post of Secretary of State. A long attachment for the Countess of Warwick culminated in marriage in 17 16, and Addison took up his residence in Holland House ; a . house famous for its association with men of distinction in politics and letters. The marriage was not happy, if report is to be trusted. The union of the ill-adapted pair was, in any event, short-lived; for three years later, in 1719, Addison died in his early prime, not yet having com- .pleted his forty-eighth year. On his death-bed. Young tells us, he called his stepson to his side and said, " See in what peace a Christ- ian can die." His body was laid in Westminster Abbey; his work is one of the permanent possessions of the English-speaking race; his character is one of its finest traditions. He was, as truly as Sir Philip Sidney, a gentleman in the sweetness of his spirit, the cour- age of his convictions, the refinement of his bearing, and the purity of his life. He was unspoiled by fortune and applause ; uncorrupted - by the tempting chances of his time ; stainless in the use of gifts which in the hands of a man less true would have caught the con- tagion of Pope's malice or of Swift's corroding cynicism. hU^^^jJilZZ kJ,hrM^ SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY AT THE PLAY From the Spectator, No. 335 MY FRIEND Sir Roger de Coverley, when we last met together at the Club, told me, that he had a great mind to see the new Tragedy with me, assuring me at the same time that he had not been at a Play these twenty Years. The last I saw, said Sir Roger, was the Committee, which I should not have gone to neither, had not I been told beforehand that it was a good Q\iVir(^-oi-England Comedy. He then proceeded to enquire of me who this Distrest Mother was; and upon hearing that she was Hector's Widow, he told me that her Husband was a brave l6o JOSEPfl ADDISON Man, and that when he was a Schoolboy he had read his Life at the end of the Dictionary. My friend asked me in the next place, if there would not be some danger in coming home late, in case the Mohocks* should be Abroad. I assure you, says he, I thought I had fallen into their Hands last Night; for I observed two or three lusty black Men that follow 'd me half way up Fleet- street, and mended their pace behind me, in proportion as I put on to get away from them. You must know, continu'd the Knight with a Smile, I fancied they had a mind to hunt me; for I remember an honest Gentleman in my Neighbourhood, who was served such a trick in King Charles the Second's time; for which reason he has not ventured himself in Town ever since. I might have shown them very good Sport, had this been their Design; for as I am an old Foxi-hunter, I should have turned and dodg'd, and have play'd them a thousand tricks they had never seen in their Lives before. Sir Roger added, that if these gentlemen had" any such Intention, they did not succeed very well in it: for I threw them out, says he, at the End of Norfolk street, where I doubled the Comer, and got shelter in my Lodgings before they could imagine what was become of me. However, says the Knight, if Captain Sentry will make one with us to-morrow night, and if you will both of you call upon me about four a Clock, that we may be at the House before it is full, I will have my own Coach in readiness to attend you, for John tells me he has got the Fore-Wheels mended. The Captain; who did not fail to meet me there at the appointed Hour, bid Sir Roger fear nothing, for that he had put on the same Sword which he made use of at the Battel of Steen- kirk. Sir Roger's Servants, and among the rest my old Friend the Butler, had, I found, provided themselves with good Oaken Plants, to attend their Master upon this occasion. When he had placed him in his Coach, with my self at his Left- Hand, the Captain before him, and his Butler at the Head of his Footmen in the Rear, we convoy'd him in safety to the Play-house, where, after having marched up the Entry in good order, the Captain and I went in with him, and seated, him betwixt us in the Pit. As soon as the House was full, and the Candles lighted, my old Friend stood up and looked about him vnth that Pleasure, which a Mind seasoned with Humanity naturally feels in its self, at the « London « bucks* who disguised themselves as savages and roamed the streets at night, connnitting outrages on persons and property. JOSEPH ADDISON l6i sight of a Multitude of People who seem pleased with one an- other, and partake of the same common Entertainment. I could not but fancy to myself, as the old Man stood up in the middle of the Pit, that he made a very proper Center to a Tragick Au- dience. Upon the entring of Pyrrhus, the Knight told me that he did not believe the King of France himself had a better Strut. I was indeed very attentive to my old Friend's Remarks, because I looked upon them as a Piece of natural Criticism, and was well pleased to hear him at the Conclusion of almost every Scene, telling me that he could not imagine how the Play would end. One while he appeared much concerned for Andromache; and a little while after as much for Hermione: and was extremely puz- zled to think what would become of Pyrrhus. When Sir Roger saw Andromache's obstinate Refusal to her Lover's importunities, he whisper'd me in the Ear, that he was sure she would never have him; to which he added, with a more than ordinary Vehemence, You can't imagine. Sir, what 'tis to have to do with a Widow. Upon Pyrrhus his threatning after- wards to leave her, the Knight shook his Head, and muttered to himself, Ay, do if you can. This Part dwelt so much upon my Friend's Imagination, that at the close of the Third Act, as I was thinking of something else, he whispered in my Ear, These Widows, Sir, are the most perverse Creatures in the World. But pray, says he, you that are a Critick, is this Play accord- ing to your Dramatick Rules, as you call them ? Should your People in Tragedy always talk to be understood? Why, there is not a single Sentence in this Play that I do not know the Meaning of. The Fourth Act very luckily begun before I had time to give the old Gentleman an Answer: Well, says the Knight, sitting down with great Satisfaction, I suppose we are now to see Hector's Ghost. He then renewed his Attention, and, from time to time, fell a praising the Widow. He made, indeed, a little Mistake as to one of her Pages, whom at his first entering, be took for Astyanax; but he quickly set himself right in that Par- ticular, though, at the same time, he owned he should have been very glad to have seen the little Boy, who, says he, must needs be a very fine Child by the Account that is given of him. Upon Hermione's going off with a Menace to Pyrrhus, the Audience gave a loud Clap; to which Sir Roger added. On my Word, a notable young Baggage! 1 62 JOSEPH ADDISON As there was a very remarkable Silence and Stillness in the Audience during the whole Action, it was natural for them to take the Opportunity of these Intervals between the Acts, to express their Opinion of the. Players, and of their respective Parts. Sir Roger hearing a Cluster of them praise Orestes, struck in with them, and told them, that he thought his Friend Pylades was a very sensible Man; as they were afterwards applauding Pyrrhus, Sir Roger put in a second time; And let me tell you, says he, though he speaks but little, I like the old Fellow in Whiskers as well as any of them. Captain Sentry seeing two or three Waggs who sat near us, lean with an attentive Ear towards Sir Roger, and fearing lest they should Smoke the Knight, pluck'd him by the Elbow, and whisper'd something in his Ear, that lasted till the Opening of the Fifth Act. The Knight was wonderfully attentive to the Account which Orestes gives of Pyr- rhus his Death, and at the Conclusion of it, told me it was such a bloody Piece of Work, that he was glad it was not done upon the Stage. Seeing afterwards Orestes in his raving Fit, he grew more than ordinary serious, and took occasion to moralize (in his way) upon an Evil Conscience, ^dding, that Orestes, in his Mad- ness, looked as if he saw s'omethitt^. As we were the iirst that came into the House, so we were the last that went out of it; being resolved to have a clear Pass- age for our old Friend, whom we did not care to venture among the justling of the Crowd. Sir Roger went out fully satisfied with his Entertainment, and we guarded him to his Lodgings in the same manner that we brought him to the Playhouse; being highly pleased, for my own part, not only with the Performance ■of the excellent Piece which had been Presented, but with the Satisfaction which it had given to the good old Man. L. A VISIT TO SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY From the Spectator, No. io6 HAVING often received an Invitation from my Friend Sir Roger de Coverley to pass away a Month with him in the Country, I last Week accompanied him thither, and am settled with him for some time at his Country-house, where I intend to form several of my ensuing Speculations. Sir Roger, who is very well acquainted with my Humour, lets me rise and go to Bed when I please, dine at his own Table or in my Chamber as I think fit JOSEPH ADDISON 1 63 sit Still and say nothing without bidding me be merry. When the Gentlemen of the Country come to see him, he only shews me at a distance: As I have been walking in his Fields I have observed them stealing a Sight of me over an HedgeJ and have heard the Knight desiring them not to let me see them, for that I hated to be stared at. I am the more at Ease in Sir Roger's Family, because it con- sists of sober and staid Persons: for as the Knight is the best Master in the World, he seldom changes his Servants; and as he is beloved by all about him, his Servants never care for leaving him: by this means his Domesticks are all in years, and grown old with their Master. You would take his Valet de Chambre for his Brother, his Butler is grey-headed, his Groom is one of the Gravest men that I have ever seen, and his Coachman has the Looks of a Privy-Counsellor. You see the Goodness of the Master even in the old House-dog, and in a grey Pad that is kept in the Stable with great Care and Tenderness out of Regard to his past Services, tho' he has been useless for several Years. I could not but observe with a great deal of pleasure the Joy that appeared in the Countenances of these ancient Domesticks upon my Friend's Arrival at his Country- Seat. Some of them could not refrain from Tears at the Sight of their old Master; every one of them 'press'd forward to do something for him, and seemed discouraged if they were not employed. ' At, the same time the good old Knight, with a Mixture of the Father and the Master of the Family, tempered the Enquiries after his own Affairs with several kind Questions relating to themselves. This Humanity and good Nature engages every Body to him, so that when he is pleasant upon any of them, all his Family are in good Humour, and none so much as the Person whom he diverts himself with: On the contrary, if he coughs, or betrays any Infirmity of old Age, it is easy for a Stander-by to observe a secret Concern in the Looks of all his Servants. My worthy Friend has put me under the particular Care of his Butler, who is a very prudent Man, and, as well as the rest of his Fellow- Servants, wonderfully desirous of pleasing me, because they have often heard their Master talk of me as of his particular Friend. My chief Companion, when Sir Roger is diverting himself in the Woods or the Fields, is a very venerable man who is ever with Sir Roger, and has lived at his House in the Nature of a 1 64 JOSEPH ADDISON Chaplain above thirty Years. This Gentleman is a Person of good Sense and some Learning, of a very regular Life and obliging Conversation: He heartily loves Sir Roger, and knows that he is very much in the old Knight's Esteem, so that he lives in the Family rather as a Relation than a Dependent. I have observed in several of my Papers, that my Friend Sir Roger, amidst all his good Qualities, is something of an Humour- ist; and that his Virtues, as well as Imperfections, are as it were tinged by a certain Extravagance, which makes them particularly his, and distinguishes them from those of other Men. This Cast of Mind, as it is generally very innocent in it self, so it renders his Conversation highly agreeable, and more delightful than the same Degree of Sense and Virtue would appear in their common and ordinary Colours. As I was walking with him last Night, he asked me how I liked the good Man whom I have just now mentioned ? and without staying for my Answer told me, That he was afraid of being insulted with Latin and Greek at his own Table; for which Reason he desired a particular Friend of his at the University to find him out a Clergyman rather of plain Sense than much Learning, of a good Aspect, a clear Voice, a sociable Temper, and, if possible, a Man that understood a little of Back- Gammon. My Friend, says Sir Roger, found me out this Gentle- man, who, besides the Endowments required of him, is, they tell me, a good Scholar, tho' he does not shew it. I have given him the Parsonage of the Parish; and because I know his Value have settled upon him a good Annuity for Life. If he outlives me, he shall find that he was higher in my Esteem than perhaps he thinks he is. He has now been with me thirty Years; and tho' he does not know I have taken Notice of it, has never in all that time asked anything of me for himself, tho' he is every Day soUciting me for something in behalf of one or other of my Tenants his Parishioners. There has not been a Law-suit in the Parish since he has liv'd among them: If any Dispute arises they apply themselves to him for the Decision; if they do not acquiesce in his Judgment, which I think never happened above once or twice at most, they appeal to me. At his first settling with me, I made him a Present of all the good Sermons which have been printed in English, and only begg'd of him that every Sunday he would pronounce one of them in the Pulpit. Accordingly, he has digested them into such a Series, that they follow one another naturally, and make a continued System of practical Divinity. JOSEPH ADDISON iQc As Sh Roger was going on in his Story, the Gentleman we were talking of came up to us; and upon the Knight's asking him who preached to morrow (for it was Saturday Night) told us, the Bishop of St. Asaph in the Morning, and Dr. South in the Afternoon. He then shewed us his List of Preachers for the whole Year, where I saw with a great deal of Pleasure Arch- bishop Tillotson, Bishop Saunderson, Doctor Barrow, Doctor Calamy, with several living Authors who have published Dis- courses of Practical Divinity. I no sooner saw this venerable Man in the Pulpit, but I very much approved of my Friend's insisting upon the Qualifications of a good Aspect and a clear Voice ; for I was so charmed with the . Gracefulness of his Figure and Delivery, as well as with the Discourses he pronounced, that I think I never passed any Time more to my Satisfaction. A Sermon repeated after this Manner, is like the Composition of a Poet in the Mouth of a graceful Actor. I could heartily wish that more of our Country Clergy would follow this Example; and in stead of wasting their Spirits in labo- rious Compositions of their own, would endeavour after a hand- some Elocution, and all those other Talents that are proper to enforce what has been penned by greater Masters. This would not only be more easy to themselves, but more edifying to the People. THE VANITY OF HUMAN LIFE copyright 1895, by Harper and Brothers THE DOVE AND THE SERPENT THE Dove flies, and the Serpent creeps. Yet is the Dove fond, while the Serpent is the emblem of wisdom. Both were in Eden: the cooing, fluttering, winged spirit, loving to descend, companion -like, brooding, following; and the creep- ing thing which had glided into the sunshine of Paradise from the cold bosoms of those nurses of an older world— Pain, and I — 20 3o6 HENRY M. ALDEN Darkness, and Death — himself forgetting these in the warmth and green, life of the Garden. And our first parents knew naught of these as yet unutterable mysteries, any more than they knew that their roses bloomed over a tomb: so that when all animate creatures came to Adam to be named, the meaning of this living allegory which passed before him was in great part hidden, and he saw no sharp line dividing the firmament below from the firmament above; rather he leaned toward the ground, as one does in a garden, seeing how quickly it was fashioned into the climbing trees, into the clean flowers, and into his own shapely frame. It was upon the ground he lay when that deep sleep fell upon him from which he woke to find his mate, lithe as the serpent, yet with the fluttering heart of the dove. As the Dove, though winged for flight, ever descended, so the Serpent, though unable wholly to leave the ground, tried ever to lift himself therefrom, as if to escape some ancient bond. The cool nights revived and nourished his memories of an older time, wherein lay his subtile wisdom, but day by day his aspiring crest grew brighter. The life of Eden became for him oblivion, the light of the sun obscuring and confounding his reminiscence, even as for Adam and Eve this life was Illusion, the visible disguising the invisible, and pleasure veiling pain. In Adam the culture of the ground maintained humility. He was held, moreover, in lowly content by the charm of the woman, who was to him like the earth grown human; and since she was the daughter of Sleep, her love seemed to him restful as the night. Her raven locks were like the mantle of darkness, and her voice had the laughter of streams that lapsed into unseen depths. But Eve had something of the Serpent's unrest, as if she too had come from the Under-world, which she would fain forget, seeking liberation, urged by desire as deep as the abyss she had left behind her, and nourished from roots unfathomably hidden — the roots of the Tree of Life. She thus came to have conversa- tion with the Serpent. In the lengthening days of Eden's one Summer these two were more and more completely enfolded in the Illusion of Light. It was under this spell that, -dwelling upon the enticement of fruit good to look at, and pleasant to the taste, the Serpent denied Death, and thought of Good as separate from Evil. "Ye shall not surely die, but shall be as the gods, knowing good and HENRY M. ALDEN -q» evil." So far, in his aspiring day-dream, had the Serpent fared from his old familiar haunts — so far from his old-world wisdom! A surer omen would have come to Eve had she listened to the plaintive notes of the bewildered Dove that in his downward flutterings had begun to divine what the Serpent had come to forget, and to confess what he had come to deny. For already was beginning to be felt "the season's difference," and the grave mystery, without which Paradise itself could not have been, was about to be unveiled, — the background of the picture becoming its foreground. The fond hands plucking the rose had found the thorn. Evil was known as something by itself, apart from Good, and Eden was left behind, as one steps out of infancy. From that hour have the eyes of the children of men been turned from the accursed earth, looking into the blue above, straining their vision for a glimpse of white-robed angels. Yet it was the Serpent that was lifted up in the wilderness; and when He who "became sin for us" was being bruised in the heel by the old enemy, the Dove descended upon Him at His baptism. He united the wisdom of the Serpent with the harm- lessness of the Dove. Thus in Him were bound together and reconciled the elements which in human thought had been put asunder. In Him, Evil is overcome of Good, as, in Him, Death is swallowed up of Life; and with His eyes we see that the robes of angels are white, because they have been washed in blood. From copyright 1895, by Harper and Brothers THE PARABLE OF THE PRODIGAL I STANDING at the gate of Birth, it would seem as if it were the vital destination of all things to fly from their source, as if it were the dominant desire of life to enter into limitations. We might mentally represent to ourselves an essence simple and indivisible that denies itself in diversified manifold existence. To us, this side the veil, nay, immeshed in innumerable veils that hide from us the Father's face, this insistence appears to have the stress of urgency, as if the effort of all being, its unceasing travail, were like the beating of the infinite ocean upon the shores of Time; and as if, within the continent of Time, all existence were forever knocking at new gates, seeking, through some as yet untried path of progression, greater complexity, a deeper involvement. All the children seem to be beseeching the Father to divide unto them His living, none willingly abiding in that Father's house. But in reality their will is His will — they fly, and they are driven, like fledglings from the mother-nest. The story of a solar system, or of any synthesis in time, repeats the parable of the Prodigal Son, in its essential features. It is a cosmic parable. The planet is a wanderer {planes), and the individual planet- ary destiny can be accomplished only through flight from its source. After all its prodigality it shall sicken and return. Attributing to the Earth, thus apparently separated from the Sun, some macrocosmic sentience, what must have been her won- dering dream, finding herself at once thrust away and securely HENRY M. ALDEN held, poised between her flight and her bond, and so swinging into a regular orbit about the Sun, while at the same time, in her rotation, turning to him and away from him — into the light, and into the darkness, forever denying and confessing her lord! Her emotion must have been one of delight, however mingled with a feeling of timorous awe, since her desire could not have been other than one with her destination. Despite the distance and the growing coolness she could feel the kinship still; her pulse, though modulated, was still in rhythm with that of the solar heart, and in her bosom were hidden consubstantial fires. But it was the sense of otherness, of her own distinct individua- tion, that was mainly being nourished, this sense, moreover, being proper to her destiny; therefore, the signs of her likeness to the Sun were more and more being buried from her view; her fires were veiled by a hardening crust, and her opaqueness stood out against his light. She had no regret for all she was surrendering, thinking only of her gain, of being clothed upon with a garment showing ever some new fold of surprising beauty and wonder. If she had remained in the Father's house like the elder brother in the Parable — then would all that He had have been hers, in nebulous simplicity. But now, holding her revels apart, she seems to sing her own song, and to dream her own beautiful dream, wandering, with a motion wholly her own, among the gardens of cosmic order and loveliness. She glories in her many veils, which, though they hide from her both her source and her very self, are the media through which the invisible light is broken into multiform illusions that enrich her dream. She beholds the Sun as a far-off, insphered being existing for her, her ministrant bridegroom; and when her face is turned away from him into the night, she beholds innumerable suns, a myriad of archangels, all witnesses of some infinitely remote and central flame — the Spirit of all life. Yet, in the midst of these visible images, she is absorbed in her individual dream, wherein she appears to herself to be the mother of all living. It is proper to her destiny that she should be thus enwrapped in her own distinct action and passion, and refer to herself the appearances of a universe. While all that is not she is what she really is, — necessary, that is, to her full definition, — she, on the other hand,' from herself interprets all else. This is the inevitable terrestrial idealism, peculiar to every individuation in time — the individual thus balancing the universe. 212 HENRY M. ALDEN In reality, the Earth has never left the Sun; apart from him she has no life, any more than has the branch severed from the vine. More truly it may be said that the Sun has never left the Earth. No prodigal can really leave the Father's house, any more than he can leave himself; coming to himself, he feels the Father's arms about him — they have always been there — he is newly .appareled, and wears the signet ring of native prestige; he hears the sound of familiar music and dancing, and it may be that the young and beautiful forms mingling with him in this festival are the riotous youths and maidens of his far-country revels, also come to themselves and home, of whom also the Father saith: These were dead and are alive again, they were lost and are found. The starvation and sense of exile had been parts of a troubled dream — a dream which had also had its ecstasy, but had come into a consuming fever, with delirious imaginings of fresh fountains, of shapes drawn from the memory of childhood, and of the cool touch of kindred hands upon the brow. So near is exile to home, misery to divine commiseration — so near are pain and death, desolation and divestiture, to "a' new creature,* and to the kinship involved in all creation and re-creation. Distance in the cosmic order is a standing-apart, which is only another expression of the expansion and abundance of creative life; but at every remove its reflex is nearness, a bond of at- traction, insphering and curving, making orb and orbit. While in space this attraction is diminished — being inversely as the square of the distance — and so there is maintained and empha- sized the appearance of suspension and isolation, yet in time it gains preponderance, contracting sphere and orbit, aging planets and suns, and accumulating destruction, which at the point of annihilation becomes a new creation. This Grand Cycle, which is but a pulsation or breath of the Eternal life, illustrates a truth which is repeated in its least and most minutely divided mo- ment — that birth lies next to death, as water crystallizes at the freezing-point, and the plant blossoms at points most remote from tlie source of nutrition. 313 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH (1837-) POET in verse often becomes a poet in prose also, in com- posing novels; although the novelist may not, and in gen- eral does not, possess the faculty of writing poems. The poet-novelist is apt to put into his prose a good deal of the same charm and the same picturesque choice of phrase and image that characterize his verse; while it does not follow that the novelist who at times writes verse — like George Eliot, for example — succeeds in giving a distinctly poetic quality to prose, or even wishes to do so. Among authors who have displayed peculiar power and won fame in the dual capacity of poet and of prose romancer or novelist. Sir Walter Scott and Victor Hugo no doubt stand pre-eminent; and in Amer- ican literature, Edgar Allan Poe and Oliver Wendell Holmes very strikingly combine these two functions. Another American author who has gained a distinguished position both as a poet and as a writer of prose fiction and essays is Thomas Bailey Aldrich. It is upon his work in the form of verse, perhaps, that Aldrich's chief renown is based; but some of his short stories in especial have contributed much to his popularity, no less than to his repute as a delicate and polished artificer in words. A New Englander, he has infused into some of his poems the true atmosphere of New England, and has given the same light and color of home to his prose, while impart- ing to his productions in both kinds a delightful tinge of the foreign and remote. In addition to his capacities as a poet and a romancer, he is a wit and humorist of sparkling quality. In reading his books one seems also to inhale the perfumes of Arabia and the farther Eas,t, blended with the salt sea-breeze and the pine-scented air of his native State, New Hampshire. He was born in the old seaside town of Portsmouth, New Hamp- shire, November nth, 1837; but moved to New York City in 1854, at the age of seventeen. There he remained until 1866; beginning his Thomas B. Aldrich 31^ THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH work quite early; forming his literary character by reading and ob- servation, by the writing of poems, and by practice and experience of writing prose sketches and articles for journals and periodicals. During this period he entered into associations with the poets Sted- man, Stoddard, and Bayard Taylor, and was more or less in touch with the group that included Walt Whitman, Fitz-James O'Brien, and William Winter. Removing to Boston in January, 1866, he be- came the editor of Every Saturday, and remained in that post until 1874, when he resigned. In 1875 he made a long tour in Europe, plucking the first fruits of foreign travel, which were succeeded by many rich and dainty gatherings from the same source in later years. In the intervals of these wanderings he lived in Boston and Cambridge; occupying for a time James Russell Lowell's historic house of Elm wood, in the semi- rural university city; and then estab- lished a pretty country house at Ponkapog, a few miles west of Boston. This last suggested the title for a charming book of travel papers, 'From Ponkapog to Pesth.' In 188 1 he was appointed editor of the Atlantic Monthly, and continued to direct that famous magazine for nine years, frequently making short trips to Europe, extending his tours as far as the heart of Russia, and gathering fresh materials for essay or song. Much of his time since giving up the Atlantic editorship has been passed in voyaging, and in 1894-5 he made a journey around the world. From the beginning he struck with quiet certainty the vein that was his by nature in poetry; and this has broadened almost contin- ually, yielding richer results, which have been worked out with an increasing refinement of skill. His predilection is for the picturesque; for romance combined with simplicity, purity, and tenderness of feeling, touched by fancy and by occasional lights of humor so reserved and dainty that they never disturb the pictorial harmony. The capacity for unaffected "utterance of feeling on matters common to humanity reached a climax in the poem of * Baby Bell,' which by its sympathetic and delicate description of a child's advent and death gave the author a claim to the affections of a wide circle; and this remained for a long time probably the best known among his poems. 'Friar Jerome's Beautiful Book' is another of the earlier favorites. 'Spring in New England' has since come to hold high rank both for its vivid and graceful description of the season, for its tender fervor of patriotism, and for its sentiment of reconciliation between North and South. The lines on ' Piscataqua River > rem,ain one of the best illustrations of boyhood memories, and have some- thing of Whittier's homely truth. In his longer narrative pieces, 'Judith' and 'Wyndham Towers,' cast in the mold of blank-verse idyls, Mr.' Aldrich does not seem so much himself as in many of his THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH ,j- briefer flights. An instinctive dramatic tendency finds outlet in < Pauline Paulovna> and < Mercedes* — the latter of which, a two-act piece in prose, has found representation in the theatre; yet in these, also, he is less eminently successful than in his lyrics and society verse. No American poet has wrought his stanzas with greater faithful- ness to an exacting standard of craftsmanship than Mr. Aldrich, or has known better when to leave a line loosely cast, and when to rein- force it with correction or with a syllable that might seem, to an ear less true, redundant. This gives to his most carefully chiseled pro- ductions an air of spontaneous ease, and has made him eminent as a sonneteer. His sonnet on < Sleep' is one of the finest in the lan- guage. The conciseness and concentrated aptness of his expression also — together with a faculty of bringing into conjunction subtly contrasted thoughts, images, or feelings — has issued happily in short, concentrated pieces like The character-drawing in his fiction is clear-cut and effective, often sympathetic, and nearly always' suffused with an agreeable coloring of humor. There are notes of pathos, too, in some of his tales; and it is the blending of these qualities, through the medium of a lucid and delightful style, that defines his pleasing quality in prose. T DESTINY HREE roses, wan as moonlight, and weighed down Each with its loveliness as with a crown. Drooped in a florist's window in a town. The, first a lover bought. It lay at rest, Like flower on flower, that night, on Beauty's breast. The second rose, as virginal and fair. Shrunk in the tangles of a harlot's hair. The third, a widow, with new grief made wild, Shut in the icy palm of her dead child. IDENTITY SOMEWHERE^ in desolate wind-swept space - In Twilight-land — in No-man's land — Two hurrying Shapes m§t face to face. And bade each other stand. "And who are you?" cried one, agape, Shuddering in the gloaming light. ' "I know not," said the second Shape, « I only died last night ! » THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH ,j. PRESCIENCE THE new moon hung in the sky, the sun was low in the west, And my betrothed and I in the churchyard paused to rest — Happy maiden and lover, dreaming the old dream over: The light winds wandered by, and robins chirped from the nest. And lo! in the meadow-sweet was the grave of a little child. With a crumbling stone at the feet and the ivy running wild — Tangled ivy and clover folding it over and over: Close to my sweetheart's feet was the little mound up-piled. Stricken with nameless fears, she shrank and clung to me. And her eyes were filled with tears for a sorrow I did not see : Lightly the winds were blowing, softly her tears were flowing - Tears for the unknown years and a sorrow that was to be ! T ALEC YEATON'S SON GLOUCESTER, AUGUST, 1 7 20 HE wind it wailed, the wind it moaned. And the white caps flecked the sea; «An' I would to God,". the skipper groaned, «1 had not my boy with me!" Snug in the stern-sheets, little John Laughed as the scud swept by; But the skipper's sunburnt cheek grew wan As he watched the wicked sky. « Would he were at his mother's side!" And the skipper's eyes were dim. "Good Lord in heaven, if ill betide, What would become of him! "For me — my muscles are as steel, For me let hap what may; I might make shift upon the keel Until the break o' day. « But he, he is so weak And small. So young, scarce learned to stand — O pitying Father of us all, I trust him in thy hand! 3l8 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH "For thou who markest from on high A sparrow's fall — each one! — Surely, O Lord, thou'lt have an eye On Alec Yeaton's son!" Then, helm hard-port; right straight he sailed Towards the headland light: The wind it moaned, the wind it wailed, And black, black fell the night. Then burst a storm to make one quail. Though housed from winds and waves — They who could tell about that gale Must rise from watery graves! Sudden it came, as sudden went; Ere half the night was sped, The winds were hushed, the waves were spent, And the stars shone overhead. Now, as the morning mist grew thin, The folk on Gloucester shore Saw a little figure floating in Secure, on a broken oar! Up rose the cry, «A wreck! a wreck! Pull mates, and waste no breath ! " — They knew it, though 'twas but a speck Upon the edge of death! Long did they marvel in the town At God his strange decree. That let the stalwart skipper drown And the little child go free! MEMORY My mind lets go a thousand things. Like dates of wars and deaths of kings, And yet recalls the very hour — 'T was noon by yonder village tower, And on the last blue noon in May — The wind came briskly up this way, Crisping the brook beside the road; Then, pausing here, set down its load Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly Two petals from that wild-rose tree. THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH ,,„ TENNYSON (1890) SHAKESPEARE and Miltoii — what third blazoned name Shall lips of after ages link to these? His who, beside the wild encircling seas, Was England's voice, her voice with one acclaim, For threescore years; whose word of praise was fame, Whose scorn gave pause to man's iniquities. What strain was his in that Crimean war? A bugle-call in battle; a low breath. Plaintive and sweet, above the fields of death! So year by year the music rolled afar. From Euxine wastes to flowery Kandahar, Bearing the laurel or the cypress wreath. m Others shall have their little space of time. Their proper niche and bust, then fade away Into the darkness, poets of a day; But thou, O builder of enduring rhyme. Thou shalt not pass! Thy fame in every clime On earth shall live where Saxon speech has sway. IV Waft me this verse across the winter sea. Through light and dark, through mist and blinding sleet, O winter winds, and lay it at his feet; Though the poor gift betray my poverty, At his feet lay it; it may chance that he Will find no gift, where reverence is, unmeet. SWEETHEART, SIGH NO MORE IT WAS with doubt and trembling I whispered in her ear. Go, take her answer, bird-on-bough, That all the world may hear — Sweetheart, sigh no more! Sing it, sing it, tawny throat. Upon the wayside tree. 320 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH How fair she is, how true she is, How dear she is to me — Sweetheart, sigh no more! Sing it, sing it, and through the summer long The winds among the clover-tops. And brooks, for all their silvery stops, Shall envy you the song — : . Sweetheart, sigh no more! BROKEN MUSIC « A note All out of tune in this world's instrument." Amy LEvy. I KNOW not in what fashion she was made. Nor what her voice was, when she used to speak, Nor if the silken lashes threw a shade On wan or rosy cheek. I picture her with sorrowful vague eyes, Illumed with such strange gleams of inner light As linger in the drift of London skies Ere twilight turns to night. I know not; I conjecture. 'Twas a girl That with her own most gentle desperate hand From out God's mystic setting plucked life's pearl — 'Tis hard to understand. So precious life is! Even to the old The hours are as a miser's coins, and she — Within her hands lay youth's unminted gold And all felicity. The winged impetuous spirit, the white flame That *as her soul once, whither has it flown? Above her brow gray lichens blot her name Upon the carven stone. This is her Book of Verses — wren-like notes. Shy franknesses, blind gropings, haunting fears; At times across the chords abruptly floats A mist of passionate tears. A fragile lyre too tensely keyed and strung, A broken music, weirdly incomplete: Here a proud mind, self-baffled and self-stung, Lies coiled in dark defeat THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH ELMWOOD In Memory of James Russell Lmvell HERE, in the twilight, at the well-known gate I linger, with no heart to enter more. Among the elm-tops the autumnal air Murmurs, and spectral in the fading light A solitary heron wings its way- Southward — save this no sound or touch of life. Dark is the window where the scholar's lamp Was used to catch a pallor from the dawn. Y,et I must needs a little linger here. Each shrub and tree is eloquent of him. For tongueless things and silence have their speech. This is the path familiar to his foot From infancy to manhood and old age; E]'or in a chamber of that ancient house His eyes first opened on the mystery Of life, and all the splendor of the wprld. Here, as a child, in loving, curious way. He watched the bluebird's coming; learned the date .Of hyacinth and goldenrod, and made Friends of those little redmep of the elms, And slyly added to their winter store Of hazel-nuts: no harmless thing that breathed. Footed or winged, but knew him for a friend. The gilded butterfly was not afraid To trust its gold to that so gentle hand. The bluebird fled not from the pendent spray. Ah, happy childhood, ringed with fortunate stars! What dreams were his- in this enchanted sphere. What intuitions of high destiny! The honey-bees of Hybla touched his lips In that old New-World garden, unawares. So in her arms did Mother Nature fold Her poet, whispering what of wild and sweet Into his ear — the state-affairs of birds, The lore of dawn and sunset, what the wind Said in the tree-tops — fine, unfathomed things Henceforth to turn to music in his brain: A various music, now like notes of flutes. And now like blasts of trumpets blown in wars. -21 321 322 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH Later he paced this leafy academe A student, drinking from Greek chalices The ripened vintage of the antique world. And here to him came love, and love's dear loss; Here honors came, the deep applause of men Touched to the heart by some swift-winged word That from his own full heart took eager flight — Some strain of piercing sweetness or rebuke, For underneath his gentle nature flamed A noble scorn for all ignoble deed, Himself a bondman till all men were free. Thus passed his manhood; then to other lands He strayed, a stainless figure among courts Beside the Manzanares and the Thames. Whence, after too long exile, he returned With fresher laurel, but sedater step And eye more serious, fain to breathe the air Where through the Cambridge marshes the blue Charles Uncoils its length and stretches to the sea: Stream dear to him, at every curve a shrine For pilgrin; Memory. Again he watched His loved syringa whitening by the door. And knew the catbird's welcome; in his walks Smiled on his tawny kinsmen of the elms Stealing his nuts; and in the ruined year Sat at his widowed hearthside with bent brows Leonine, frosty with the breath of time, And listened to the crooning of the wind In the wide Elmwood chimneys, as of old. And then — and then . . . The after-glow has faded from the elms, And in the denser darkness of the boughs From time to time the firefly's tiny lamp Sparkles. How often in still summer dusks He paused to note that transient phantom spark Flash on the air — a light that outlasts him! The night grows chill, as if it felt a breath Blown from that frozen city where he lies. All things turn strange. The leaf that rustles here Has more than autumn's mournfulness. The place Is heavy with his absence. Like fixed eyes Whence the dear light of sense and thought has fled, THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH The vacant windows stare across the lawn. The wise sweet spirit that informed it all Is otherwhere. The house itself is dead. O autumn wind among the sombre pines, Breathe you his dirge, but be it sweet and low. With deep refrains and murmurs of the sea. Like to his verse — the art is yours alone. His once — you taught him. Now no voice but yours! Tender and low, O wind among the pines. I would, were mine a lyre of richer strings, In soft Sicilian accents wrap his name. SEA LONGINGS THE first world-sound that fell upon my ear Was that of the great winds along the coast Crushing the deep-sea beryl on the rocks — The distant breakers' sullen cannonade. Against the spires and gables of the town The white fog drifted, catching here and there At overleaning cornice or peaked roof, And hung — weird gonfalons. The garden walks Were choked with leaves, and on their ragged biers Lay dead the sweets of summer — damask rose, Clove-pink, old-fashioned, loved New England flowers Only keen salt-sea odors filled the air. Sea-sounds, sea-odors — these were all my world. Hence is it that life languishes with me Inland; the valleys stifle me with gloom And pent-up prospect; in their narrow bound Imagination flutters futile wings. Vainly I seek the sloping pearl-white sand And the mirage's phantom citadels Miraculous, a moment seen, then gone. Among the mountains I am ill at ease. Missing the stretched horizon's level line And the illimitable restless blue. The crag-torn sky is not the sky I love. But one unbroken sapphire spanning all; And nobler than the branches of a pine Aslant upon a precipice's edge Are the strained spars of some great battle-ship Plowing across the sunset. No bird's lilt 3^3 324 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH So takes me as the whistling of the gale Among the shrouds. My cradle-song was this. Strange inarticulate sorrows of the sea, Blithe rhythms upgathered from the Sirens' caves. Perchance of earthly voices the last voice That shall an instant my freed spirit stay On this world's verge, will be some message blown Over the dim salt lands that fringe the coast At dusk, or when the tranced midnight droops With weight of stars, or haply just as dawn, Illumining the sullen purple wave. Turns the gray pools and willow-stems to gold. A SHADOW OF THE NIGHT CLOSE on the edge of a midsummer dawn In troubled dreams I went from land to land. Each seven-colored like the rainbow's arc. Regions where never fancy's foot had trod Till then; yet all the strangeness seemed not strange, At which I wondered, reasoning in my dream With twofold sense, well knowing that I slept. At last I came to this our cloud-hung earth. And somewhere by the seashore was a grave, A woman's grave, new-made, and heaped with flowers ; And near it stood an ancient holy man That fain would comfort me, who sorrowed not For this unknown dead woman at my feet. But I, because his sacred office held r My reverence, listened; and 'twas thus he spake: — "When next thou comest thou shalt find her still In all the rare perfection that she was. Thou shalt have gentle greeting of thy love! Her eyelids will have turned to violets. Her bosom to white lilies, and her breath To roses. What is lovely never dies. But passes into other loveliness, Star-dust, or sea-foam, flower, or winged air. If this befalls our poor unworthy flesh, Think thee what destiny awaits the soul! What glorious vesture it shall wear at last!" While yet he spoke, seashore and grave and priest Vanished, and faintly from a neighboring spire Fell five slow solemn strokes upon my ear. THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 325 Then I awoke with a keen pain at heart, A sense of swift unutterable loss, And through the darkness reached my hand to touch Her cheek, soft-pillowed on one restful palm To be quite sure! OUTWARD BOUND I LEAVE behind me the elm-shadowed square And carven portals of the silent street, And wander on with listless, vagrant feet Through seaward-leading alleys, till the air Smells of the sea, and straightway then the care Slips from my heart, and life once more is sweet. At the lane's ending lie the white-winged fleet. O restless Fancy, whither wouldst thou fare ? Here are brave pinions that shall take thee far — Gaunt hulks of Norway; ships of red Ceylon; Slim-masted lovers of the blue Azores! 'Tis but an instant hence to Zanzibar, Or to the regions of the Midnight Sun: Ionian isles are thine, and all the fairy shores! REMINISCENCE THOUGH I am native to this frozen zone That half the twelvemonth torpid lies, or dead ; Though the cold azure arching overhead And the Atlantic's never-ending moan Are mine by heritage, I must have known Life otherwhere in epochs long since fled; For in my veins some Orient blood is red. And through my thought are lotus blossoms blown. I do remember . . .it was just at dusk, Near a walled garden at the river's turn, (A thousand summers seem but yesterday!) A Nubian girl, more sweet than Khoorja musk. Came to the water-tank to fill her urn. And with the urn she bore my heart away! 326 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH PfiiRE ANTOINE'S DATE-PALM NEAR the Lev6e, and not far from the old French Cathedral in the Place d'Armes, at New Orleans, stands a fine date- palm, thirty feet in height, spreading its broad leaves in the alien air as hardily as if its sinuous roots were sucking strength from their native earth. Sir Charles Lyell, in his 'Second Visit to the United States,* mentions this exotic: — "The tree is seventy or eighty years old; for Pfere Antoine, a Roman Catholic priest, who died about twenty years ago, told Mr. Bringier that he planted it himself, when he was young. In his will he provided that they who suc- ceeded to this lot of ground should forfeit it if they cut down the palm." Wishing to learn something of Pfere Antoine's history, Sir Charles Lyell made inquiries among the ancient Creole inhabitants of the faubourg. That" the old priest, in his last days, became very much emaciated, that he walked about the streets like a mummy, that he gradually dried up, and finally blew away, was the meagre and unsatisfactory result of the tourist's investiga- tions. This is all that is generally told of Pere Antoine. In the summer of 1861, while New Orleans was yet occupied by the Confederate forces, I met at Alexandria, in Virginia, a lady from Louisiana — Miss Blondeau by name — who gave me the substance of the following legend touching Pbre Antoine and his wonderful date-palm. If it should appear tame to the reader, it will be because I am not habited in a black ribbed-silk dress, with a strip of point-lace around my throat, like Miss Blondeau; it will be because I lack her eyes and lips and Southern music to tell it with. When Pfere Antoine was a very young man, he had a friend whom he loved as he loved his life. Emile Jardin returned his' passion, and the two, on account of their friendship, became the marvel of the city where they dwelt. One was never seen with- out the other; for they studied, walked, ate, and slept together. Thus began Miss Blondeau, with the air of Fiammetta telling her prettiest story to the Florentines in the garden of Boccaccio. Antoine and Emile were preparing to enter the Church; in- deed, they had taken the preliminary steps, when a circumstance occurred which changed the color of their lives. A foreign THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH ,,, lady, from some nameless island in the Pacific, had a .few- months before moved into their neighborhood. The lady died suddenly, leaving a girl of sixteen or seventeen, entirely friendr less and unprovided for. The young men had been kind to the woman during her illness, and at her death — melting with pity at the forlorn situation of Anglice, the daughter — swore between themselves to love and watch over her as if she were their sister. Now Anglice had a wild, strange beauty that made other women seem tame beside her; and in the course of time the young men found themselves regarding their ward not so much like brothers as at first. In brief, they found themselves in love with her. They struggled with their hopeless passion month after month, neither betraying his secret to the other; for the austere orders which they were about to assume precluded the idea of love and marriage. Until then they had dwelt in the calm air of religious meditations, unmoved except by that pious fervor which in other ages taught men to brave the tortures of the rack and to smile amid the flames. But a blonde girl, with great eyes and a voice like the soft notes of a vesper hymn, had come in between them and their ascetic dreams of heaven. The ties that had bound the young men together snapped silently one by one. At last each read in the pale face of the other the story of his own despair. And she ? If Anglice shared their trouble, her face told no story. It was like the face of a saint on a cathedral window. Once, however, as she came suddenly upon the two men and overheard words that seemed to burn like fire on the lip of the speaker, her eyes grew luminous for an instant. Then she passed on, her face as immobile as before in its setting of wavy gold hair. «Entre or et roux Dieu fit ses longs cheveux." One night Emile and Anglice were missing. They had flown —but whither, nobody knew, and nobody save Antoine cared. It was a heavy blow to Antoine — for he had himself half re- solved to confess his love to Anglice and urge her to fly with him. A strip of paper slipped from a volume on Antoine 's prie- dieu, and fluttered to his feet. «i?(7 not be angry, ^^ said the bit of paper, piteously-; '■^forgive- us, for we love. » ( « Pardonnez-nous, car nous- aimons. » ) - ..■• - 328 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH Three years went by wearily enough. Antoine had entered the Church, and was already looked upon as a rising man; but his face was pale and his heart leaden, for there was no sweet- ness in life for him. Four years had elapsed, when a letter, covered with out- landish postmarks, was brought to the young priest — a letter from Anglice. She was dying; — would he forgive her? j^mile, the year previous, had fallen a victim to the fever that raged on the island; and their child, Anglice, was likely to follow him. In pitiful terms she begged Antoine to take charge of the child until she was old enough to enter the convent of the Sacrd- Coeur. The epistle was finished hastily by another hand, inform- ing Antoine of Madame Jardin's death; it also told him that Anglice had been placed on board a vessel shortly to leave the island for some Western port. The letter, delayed by storm and shipwreck, was hardly read and wept over when little Anglice arrived. On beholding her, Antoine uttered a cry of joy and surprise — she was so like the woman he ■ had worshiped. The passion that had been crowded down in his heart broke out and lavished its richness on this child, who was to him not only the Anglice of years ago, but his friend Emile Jardin also. Anglice possessed the wild, strange beauty of her mother — the bending, willowy form, the rich tint of skin, the large trop- ical eyes, that had almost made Antoine's sacred robes a mockery to him. For a month or two Anglice was wildly unhappy in her new home. She talked continually of the bright country where she was bom, the fruits and flowers and blue skies, the tall, fan-like trees, and the streams that went murmuring through them to the sea. Antoine could not pacify her. By and by she ceased to weep, and went about the cottage in a weary, disconsolate way that cut Antoine to the heart. A long-tailed paroquet, which she had brought with her in the ship, walked solemnly behind her from room to room, mutely pining, it seemed, for those heavy orient airs that used to ruffle its brill^ iant plumage. Before the year ended, he noticed that the ruddy tinge had faded from her cheek, that her eyes had grown languid, and her slight figure more willowy than ever. THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH ,20 A physician was consulted. He could discover nothing wrong with the child, except this fading and drooping. He failed to account for that. It was some vague disease of the mind, he said, beyond his skill. So Anglice faded day after day. She seldom left the room now. At last Antoine could not shut out the fact that the child was passing away. He had learned to love her so! "Dear heart," he said once, "What is't ails thee?" "Nothing, mon pfere," for so she called him. The winter passed, the balmy spring had come with its mag- nolia blooms and orange blossoms, and Anglice seemed to revive. In her small bamboo chair, on the porch, she swayed to and fro in the fragrant breeze, with a peculiar undulating motion, like a graceful tree. At times something seemed to weigh upon her mind. Antoine observed it, and waited. Finally she spoke. "Near our house," said little Anglice — "near our house, on the island, the palm-trees are waving under the blue sky. Oh, how beautiful! I seem to lie beneath them all day long. I am very, very happy. I yearned for them so much that I grew ill -^ don't you think it was so, mon pfere?" " H61as, yes ! " exclaimed Antoine, suddenly. " Let us hasten to those pleasant islands where the palms are waving." Anglice smiled. "I am going there, mon pbre." A week from that evening the wax candles burned at her feet and forehead, lighting her on the journey. All was over. Now was Antoine's heart empty. Death, like another lEmile, had stolen his new Anglice. He had nothing to do but to lay the blighted flower away. Pfere Antoine niade a shallow grave in his garden, and heaped the fresh brown mold over his idol. In the tranquil spring evenings, the priest was seen sitting by the mound, his finger closed in the unread breviary. The summer broke on that sunny land; and in the cool morn- ing twilight, and after nightfall, Antoine lingered by the grave. He could never be with it enough. One morning he observed a delicate stem, with two curiously shaped emerald leaves, springing up from the centre of the mound. At first he merely noticed it casually; but presently the plant grew so tall, and was so strangely unlike anything he had ever seen before, that he examined it with care. 230 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH How Straight and graceful and exquisite it was! When it swung to and fro with the summer wind, in the twilight, it seemed to Antoine as if little Anglice were standing there in the garden. The days stole by, and Antoine tended the fragile shoot, wondering what manner of blossom it would unfold, white, or scarlet, or golden. One Sunday, a stranger, with a bronzed, weather-beaten face like a sailor's, leaned^over the garden rail, and said to him, «What a fine young date-palm you have there, sir!*' «Mon Dieu!*> cried Fhre Antoine starting, "and is it a palm?" "Yes, indeed," returned the man. "I didn't reckon the tree would flourish in this latitude." "Ah, mon Dieu!" was all the priest could say aloud; but he murmured to himself, "Bon Dieu, vous m'avez donn6 cela!" If Pfere Antoine loved the tree before, he worshiped it now. He watered it, and nurtured it, and could have clasped it in his arms. Here were Emile and Anglice and the child, all in one! The years glided away, and the date-palm and the priest grew together — only one became vigorous and the other feeble. Pbre Antoine had long passed the meridian of life. The tree was in its youth. It no longer stood in an isolated garden; for pretentious brick and stucco houses had clustered about Antoine 's cottage. They looked down scowling on the humble thatched roof. The city was edging up, trying to crowd him off his land. But he clung to it like lichen and refused to sell. Speculators piled gold on his doorsteps, and he laughed at them. Sometimes he was hungry, and cold, and thinly clad; but he laughed none the less. " Get thee behind me, Satan ! " said the old priest's smile. Pbre Antoine was very old now, scarcely able to walk; but he could sit under the pliant, caressing leaves of his palm, lov- ing it like an Arab; and there he sat till the grimmest of specu- lators came to him. But even in death Pfere Antoine was faithful to his trust: the owner of that land loses it if he harm the date-tree. And there it stands in the narrow, dingy street, a beautiful, dreamy stranger, an exquisite foreign lady whose grace is a joy to the eye, the incense of whose breath makes the air enamored. May the hand wither that touches her ungently! '^'Because it grew from the heart of little Anglice,^'' said Miss Blondeau tenderly. THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH ,-j MISS MEHETABEL'S SON I THE OLD TAVERN AT BAYLEY's FOUR-CORNERS YOU will not find Greenton, or Bayley's Four-Corners as it is more usually designated, on any map of New England that I know of. It is not a town; it is not even a village: it is merely an absurd hotel. The almost indescribable place called Greenton is at the intersection of four roads, in the heart of New Hampshire, twenty miles from the nearest settlement of note, and ten miles from any railway station. A good location for a hotel, you will say. Precisely; but there has always been a hotel there, and for the last dozen years it has been pretty well patronized — by one boarder. Not to trifle with an intelligent public, I will state at once that, in the early part of this century, Greenton was a point at which the mail-coach on the Great Northern Route stopped to change horses and allow the passen- gers to dine. People in the county, wishing to take the early mail Portsmouth-ward, put up over night at the old tavern, famous for its irreproachable larder and soft feather-beds. The tavern at that time was kept by Jonathan Bayley, who rivaled his wallet in growing corpulent, and in due time passed away. At his death the establishment, which included a farm, fell into the hands of a son-in-law. Now, though Bayley left his son-in- law a hotel — which sounds handsome — he left him no guests; for at about the period of the old man's death the old stage- coach died also. Apoplexy carried off one, and steam the other. Thus, by a sudden swerve in the tide of progress, the tavern at the Corners found itself high and dry, like a wreck on a sand- bank. Shortly after this event, or maybe contemporaneously, there was some attempt to build a town at Greenton; but it apparently failed, if eleven cellars choked up with debris and overgrown with burdocks are any indication of failure. The farm, however, was a good farm, as things go in New Hamp- shire, and Tobias Sewell, the son-in-law, could afford to snap his fingers at the traveling public if they came near enough — which they never did. The hotel remains to-day pretty much the same as when Jonathan Bayley handed in his accounts in 1840, except that 332 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH Sewell has from time to time sold the furniture of some of the upper chambers to bridal couples in the neighborhood. The bar is still open, and the parlor door says Parlour in tall black letters. Now and then a passing drover looks in at that lonely- bar-room, where a high-shouldered bottle of Santa Cruz rum ogles with a peculiarly knowing air a shriveled lemon on a shelf; now and then a farmer rides across country to talk crops and stock and take a friendly glass with Tobias; and now and then a circus caravan with speckled ponies, or a menagerie with a soggy elephant, h^lts under the swinging sign, on which there is a dim mail-coach with four phantomish horses driven by a portly gentleman whose head has been washed off by the rain. Other customers there are none, except that one regular boarder whom I have mentioned. If misery makes a man acquainted with strange bed-fellows, it is equally certain that the profession of surveyor and civil engineer often takes one into undreamed-of localities. I had never heard of Greenton until my duties sent me there, and kept me there two weeks in the dreariest season of the year. I do not think I would, of my own volition, have selected Greenton for a fortnight's sojourn at any time; but now the business is over, I shall never regret the circumstances that made me the guest of Tobias Sewell, and brought me into intimate relations with Miss Mehetabel's Son. It was a black October night in the year of grace 1872, that discovered me standing in front of the old tavern at the Comers. Though the ten miles' ride from K had been depressing, especially the last five miles, on account of the cold autumnal rain that had set in, I felt a pang of regret on hearing the rickety open wagon turn round in the road and roll off in the darkness. There were no lights visible anywhere, and only for the big, shapeless mass of something in front of me, which the driver had said was the hotel, I should have fancied that I had been set down by the roadside. I was wet to the skin and in no amiable humor; and not being able to find bell-pull or knocker, or even a door, I belabored the side of the house with my heavy walking-stick. In a minute or two I saw a light flickering somewhere aloft, then I heard the sound of a window opening, followed by an exclamation of disgust as a blast of wind extinguished the candle which had given me an instant- aneous picture en silhouette of a man leaning out of a casement. THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH « I say, what do you want, down there ? » inquired an unpre- possessing voice. «I want to come in; I want a supper, and a bed, and num- berless things." «This isn't no time of night to go rousing honest folks out of their sleep. Who are you, anyway?" The question, superficially considered, was a very simple one, and I, of all people in the world, ought to have been able to answer it off-hand; but it staggered me. Strangely enough, there came drifting across my memory the lettering on the back of a metaphysical work which I had seen years before on a shelf in the Astor Library. Owing to an unpremeditatedly funny collo- cation of title and author, the lettering read as follows: «Who am I? Jones." Evidently it had puzzled Jones to know who he was, or he wouldn't have written a book about it, and come to so lame and impotent a conclusion. It certainly puzzled me at that instant to define my identity. "Thirty years ago," I reflected, «I was nothing; fifty years hence I shall be nothing again, humanly speaking. In the mean time, who am I, sure enough?" It had never before occurred to me what. an indefinite article I was. I wish it had not occurred to me then. Standing there in the rain and darkness, I wrestled vainly with the prob- lem, and was constrained to fall back upon a Yankee expedient. « Isn't this a hotel ? » I asked finally. "Well, it is a sort of hotel," said the voice, doubtfully. My hesitation and prevarication had apparently not inspired my inter- locutor with confidence in me. "Then let me in. I have just driven over from K in this infernal rain. I am wet through and through." "But what do you want here, at the Comers? What's your business ? People don't come here, leastways in the middle of the night." "It isn't in the middle of the night," I returned, incensed. " I come on business connected with the new road. I'm the superintendent of the works." "Oh!" "And if you don't open the door at once, I'll raise the whole neighborhood — and then go to the other hotel." When I said that, I supposed Greenton was a village with a population of at least three or four thousand, and was wonder- ing vaguely it the absence of lights and other signs of human 334 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH habitation. Surely, I thought, all the people cannot be abed and asleep at half past ten o'clock: perhaps I am in the business section of the town, among the shops. "You jest wait," said the voice above. This request was not devoid of a certain accent of menace, and I braced myself for a sortie on the part of the besieged, if he had any such hostile intent. Presently a door opened at the very place where I least expected a door, at the farther end of the building, in fact, and a man in his shirt-sleeves, shielding a candle with his left hand, appeared on the threshold. I passed quickly into the house, with Mr. Tobias Sewell (for this was Mr. Sewell) at my heels, and found myself in a long, low- studded bar-room. There were two chairs drawn up before the hearth, on which a huge hemlock back-log was still smoldering, and on the un- painted deal counter contiguous stood two cloudy glasses with bits of lemon-peel in the bottom, hinting at recent libations. Against the discolored wall over the bar hung a yellowed hand- bill, in a warped frame, announcing that "the Next Annual N. H. Agricultural Fair" would take place on the loth of Sep- tember, 1 84 1. There was no other furniture or decoration in this dismal apartment, except the cobwebs which festooned the ceiling, hanging down here and there like stalactites. Mr. Sewell set the candlestick on the mantel-shelf, and threw some pine-knots on the fire, which immediately broke into a blaze, and showed him to be a lank, narrow-chested man, past sixty, with sparse, steel-gray hair, and small, deep-set eyes, per- fectly round, like a fish's, and of no particular color. His chief personal characteristics seemed to be too much feet and not enough teeth. His sharply cut, but rather simple face, as he turned it towards me, wore a look of interrogation. I replied to his mute inquiry by taking out my pocket-book and handing him my business-card, which he held up to the candle and perused with great deliberation. "You're a civil engineer, are you?" he said, displaying his gums, which gave his countenance an expression of almost infant- ile innocence. He made no further audible remark, but mum- bled between his thin lips something which an imaginative person might have construed into, "If you're a civil engineer, I'll be blessed if I wouldn't like to see an uncivil one ! " Mr. Sewell's growl, however, was worse than his bite, — owing to his lack of teeth, probably — for he very good-naturedly set THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH ,,- himself to work preparing supper for me. After a slice of cold ham, and a warm punch, to which my chilled condition gave a grateful flavor, I went to bed in a distant chamber in a" most amiable mood, feeling satisfied that Jones was a donkey to bother himself about his identity. When I awoke, the sun was several hours high. My bed faced a window, and by raising myself on one elbow I could look out on what I expected would be the main street. To my astonishment I beheld a lonely country road winding up a sterile hill and disappearing over the ridge. In a cornfield at the right of the road was a small private graveyard, inclosed by a crum- bling stone wall with a red gate. The only thing suggestive of life was this little comer lot occupied by death. I got out of bed and went to the other window. There I had an uninter- rupted view of twelve miles of open landscape, with Mount Agamenticus in the purple distance. Not a house or a spire in sight. " Well, " I exclaimed, *' Greenton doesn't appear to be a very closely packed metropolis ! " That rival hotel with which I had threatened Mr. Sewell overnight was not a deadly weapon, looking at it by daylight. "By Jove!" I reflected, "maybe I'm in the wrong place." But there, tacked against a panel of the bedroom door, was a faded time-table dated Greenton, August ist, 1839. I smiled all the time I was dressing, and went smiling down- stairs, where I found Mr. Sewell, assisted by one of the fair sex in the first bloom of her eightieth year, serving breakfast for me on a small table — in the bar-room! "I overslept myself this morning," I remarked apologetically, "and I see that I am putting you to some trouble. In future, if you will have me called, I will take my meals at the usual table d'hdte?^ « At the what ? " said Mr. Sewell. "I mean with the other boarders." Mr. Sewell paused in the act of lifting a chop from the fire, and, resting the point of his fork against the woodwork of the mantel-piece, grinned from ear to ear. I "Bless you! there isn't any other boarders. There hasn't been anybody put up here sence — let me see — sence father-in- law died, and that was in the fall of '40. To be sure, there's Silas; he's a regular boarder: but I don't count him." Mr. Sewell then explained how the tavern had lost its custom when the old stage line was broken up by the railroad. The 336 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH introduction of steam was, in Mr. Sewell's estimation, a fatal error. "Jest killed local business. Carried it off, I'm darned if I know where. The whole country has been sort o' retrograding ever sence steam was invented." "You spoke of having one boarder," I said. "Silas? Yes; he come here the summer 'Tilda died — she that was 'Tilda Bay ley — and he's here yet, going on thirteen year. He couldn't live any longer with the old man. Between you and I, old Clem Jaffrey, Silas's father, was a hard nut. Yes," said Mr. Sewell, crooking his elbow in inimitable panto- mime, "altogether too often. Found dead in the road hugging a three-gallon demijohn.. Habeas corpus in the bam," added Mr. Sewell, intending, I presume, to intimate that a \ post-mortem examination had been ■ deemed necessary. "Silas," he resumed, in that respectful tone; which one should always adopt when speak- ing of capital, "is a man of considerable property; lives on his interest, and keeps a hoss and shay. He's a great scholar, too, Silas: takes all the pe-ri-odicals and the Police Gazette regular." Mr. Sewell was turning over a third chop, when the door opened and a stoutish, middle-aged little gentleman, clad in deep blackj stepped into the room. "Silas Jaffrey," said Mr. Sewell, with a comprehensive sweep of his arm, picking up me and the new-comer on one fork, so to speak. " Be acquainted ! " Mr. Jaffrey advanced briskly, and gave me his hand with unlooked-for cordiality. He was a dapper little man, with a head as round and nearly as bald as an orange, and not unlike an orange in complexion, either; he had twinkling gray eyes and a pronounced Roman nose, the numerous freckles upon which were deepened by his funereal dress-coat and trousers. He reminded me of Alfred de Musset's blackbird, which, with its yellow beak and sombre plumage, looked like an undertaker eating an omelet. "Silas will take care of you," said Mr. Sewell, taking down his hat from a peg behind the door. " I've got the cattle to look after. Tell him if you want anything." While I ate my breakfast, Mr. Jaffrey hopped up and down the narrow bar-room and chirped away as blithely as a bird on a cherry-bough, occasionally ruffling with his fingers a slight fringe of auburn hair which stood up pertly round his head and seemed to possess a luminous quality of its own. THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH ,,- * Don't I find it a little slow up here at the Comers? Not at all, my dear sir. I am in the thick of life tip here. So many- interesting things going on all over the world — inventions, dis- coveries, spirits, railroad disasters, mysterious homicides. Poets, murderers, musicians, statesmen, distingfuished travelers, prodi- gies of all kinds turning up everywhere. Very few events or persons escape me. I take six daily city papers, thirteen weekly journals, all the monthly magazines, and two quarterlies. I could not get along with less. I couldn't if you asked me. I never feel lonely. How can I, being on intimate terms, as it were, with thousands and thousands of people ? There's that youlig woman out West. What an entertaining creature she is! — now in Missouri, now in Indiana, and now in Minnesota, always on the go, and all the time shedding needles from vari- ous parts of her body as if she really enjoyed it ! Then there 's that versatile patriarch who walks hundreds of miles and saws thousands of feet of wood, before breakfast, and shows no signs of giving out. Then there's that remarkable, one may say that historical colored woman who knew Benjamin Franklin, and fought at the battle of Bunk — no, it is the old negro man who fought at Bunker Hill, a mere infant, of course, at that period. Really, now, it is quite curious to observe how that venerable female slave — formerly an African princess — is repeatedly dying in her hundred and eleventh year, and coming to life again punctually every six months in the small-type paragraphs. Are you aware, sir, that within the last twelve years no fewer than two hundred and eighty-seven of. General Washington's colored coachmen have died ? " For the soul of me I could not tell whether this quaint little gentleman was chaffing me or not. I laid down my knife and fork, and stared at him. "• Then there are the mathematicians ! " he cried vivaciously, without waiting for a reply. **I take great interest in them. Hear this ! *' and Mr. Jaffrey drew a newspaper from a pocket in the tail of his coat, and read as follows: — '^ It has been estimated that if all the candles manufactured by this eminent firm ( Stear- ine & Co.) were placed end to end, they wbuld reach 2 and 7-8 times around the globe. Of course," continued Mr. Jaffrey, fold- ing up the journal reflectively, "abstruse calculations of this kind are not, perhaps, of vital importance, but they indicate the intellectual activity of the age. Seriously, now," he said, 338 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH halting in front of the table, "what with books and papers and drives about the country, I do not find the days too long, though I seldom see any one, except when I go over to K for my mail. Existence may be very full to a man who stands a little aside from the tumult and watches it with philo- sophic eye. Possibly he may see more of the battle than those who are in the midst of the action. Once I was struggling with the crowd, as eager and undaunted as the best; perhaps I should have been struggling still. Indeed, I know my life would have been very different now if I had married Mehetabel — if I had married Mehetabel." His vivacity was gone, a sudden cloud had come over his bright face, his figure seemed to have collapsed, the light seemed to have faded out of his hair. With a shuffling step, the very antithesis of his brisk, elastic tread, he turned to the door and passed into the road. "Well," I said to myself, "if Greenton had forty thousand inhabitants, it couldn't turn out a more astonishing old party than that!" II THE CASE OF SILAS JAFFREY A MAN with a passion for bric-h-brac is always stumbling over antique bronzes, intaglios, mosaics, and daggers of the time of Benvenuto Cellini; the bibliophile finds creamy vellum folios and rare Alduses and Elzevirs waiting for him at unsuspected bookstalls; the numismatist has but to stretch forth his palm to have priceless coins drop into it. My own weakness is odd people, and I am constantly encountering them. It was plain that I had unearthed a couple of very queer specimens at Bayley's Four-Corners. I saw that a fortnight afforded me too brief an opportunity to develop the richness of both, and I resolved to devote my spare time to Mr. Jaffrey alone, instinct- ively recognizing in him an unfamiliar species. My professional work in the vicinity of Greenton left my evenings and occas- ionally an afternoon unoccupied; these intervals I purposed to employ in studying and classifying my fellow-boarder. It was necessary, as a preliminary step, to learn something of his previous history, and to this end I addressed myself to Mr. Sewell that same night. THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 339 «I do not want to seem inquisitive," I said to the landlord, as he was fastening up the bar, which, by the wayj was the salle h manger and general sitting-room — «I do not want to seem inquisitive, but your friend Mr. Jaffrey dropped a remark this morning at breakfast which — which was not altogether clear to me." "About Mehetabel?" asked Mr. Sewell, uneasily. «Yes.» «Well, I wish he wouldn't!" «He was friendly enough in the course of conversation to hint to me that he had not niarried the young woman, and seemed to regret it." "No, he didn't marry Mehetabel." « May I inquire why he didn't marry Mehetabel ? " "Never asked her. Might have married the girl forty times. Old Elkins's daughter, over at K . She 'd have had him quick enough. Seven years, off and on, he kept company with Mehetabel, and then she died." " And he never asked her ? " "He shilly-shallied. Perhaps he didn't think of it. When she was dead and gone, then Silas was struck all of a heap — and that 's all about it. " Obviously Mr. Sewell did not intend to tell me anything more, and obviously there was more to tell. The topic was plainly disagreeable to him for some reason or other, and that unknown reason of course piqued my curiosity. As I was absent from dinner and supper that day, I did not meet Mr. Jaffrey again until the following morning at break- fast. He had recovered his bird-like manner, and was full of a mysterious assassination that had just taken place in New York, all the thrilling details of which were at his fingers' ends. It was at once comical and sad to see this harmless old gen- tleman, with his naive, benevolent countenance, and his thin hair flaming up in a semicircle, like the footlights at a theatre, reveling in the intricacies of the unmentionable deed. "You come up to my room to-night," he cried, with horrid glee, "and I'll give you my theory of the murder. I'll make it as clear as day to you that it was the detective himself who fired the three pistol-shots." It was not so much the desire to have this point elucidated as to make a closer study of Mr. Jaffrey that led me to accept 340 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH his invitation. Mr. Jaffrey'S bedroom was in an L of the building, and was in no way noticeable except for the numer- ous files of newspapers neatly arranged against the blank spaces of the walls, and a huge pile of old magazines which stood in one corner, reaching nearly up to the ceiling, and threatening to topple over each instant, like the Leaning Tower at Pisa. There were green paper shades at the windows, some faded chintz valances about the bed, and two or three easy- chairs covered with chintz On a black-walnut shelf between the windows lay a choice collection of meerschaum and brier- wood pipes. Filling one of the chocolate-colored bowls for me and an- other for himself, Mr. Jaffrey began prattling; but not about the murder, which appeared to have flown out of his mind. In fact, I do not remember that the topic was even touched upon, either then or afterwards. "Cozy nest this," said Mr. Jaffrey, glancing complacently over the apartment. "What is more cheerful, now, in the fall of the year, than an open wood-fire ? Do you hear those little chirps and twitters coming out of that piece of apple- wood? Those are the ghosts of the robins and bluebirds that sang upon the bough when it was in blossom last spring. In sum- mer whole flocks of them come fluttering about the fruit-trees under the window: so I have singing birds all the year round. I take it very easy here, I can tell you, summer and winter. Not much society. Tobias is not, perhaps, what one would term a great intellectual force, but he means well. He 's a realist — believes in coming down to what he calls 'the hardpan*; but his heart is in the right place, and he's very kind to me. The wisest thing I ever did in my life was to sell out my grain business over at K , thirteen years ago, and settle down at the Corners. When a man has made a competency, what does he want more ? Besides, at that time an event occurred which destroyed any ambition I may have had. Mehetabel died." "The lady you were engaged to?" "N-o, not precisely engaged. I think it was quite under- stood between us, though nothing had been said on the subject. Typhoid," added Mr. Jaffrey, in a low voice. For several minutes he smoked in silence, a vague, troubled look playing over his countenance. Presently this passed away, and he fixed his gray eyes speculatively upon my face. THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 341 «If I had married Mehetabel,* said Mr. Jaffrey, slowly, and then he hesitated. I blew a ring of smoke into the air, and, resting my pipe on my knee, dropped into an attitude ' of attention. "If I had married Mehetabel, you know, we should have had — ahem! — a family." "Very likely," I assented, vastly amused at this unexpected turn. "A Boy!" exclaimed Mr. Jaffrey, explosively. "By all means, certainly, a son." "Great trouble about naming the boy. Mehetabel's family want him named Elkanah Elkins, after her grandfather; I want him named Andrew Jackson. We compromise by christening him Elkanah Elkins Andrew Jackson Jaffrey. Rather a long name for such a short little fellow," said Mr. Jaffrey, musingly. "Andy isn't a bad nickname," I suggested. "Not at all. We call him Andy, in the family. Somewhat fractious at first — colic and things. I suppose it is right, or it wouldn't be so; but the usefulness of measles, mumps, croup, whooping-cough, scarlatina, and fits is not clear to the parental eye. I wish Andy would be a model infant, and dddge the whole lot." This suppositious child, born within the last few minutes, was plainly assuming the proportions of a reality to Mr. Jaffrey. I began to feel a little uncomfortable. I am, as I have said, a civil engineer; and it is not strictly in my line to assist at the births of infants, imaginary or otherwise. I pulled away vigor- ously at the pipe, and said nothing. "What large blue eyes he has," resumed Mr. Jaffrey, after a pause; "just like Hetty's; and the fair hair, too, like hers. How oddly certain distinctive features are handed down in families! Sometimes a mouth, sometimes a turn of the eye- brow. Wicked little boys over at K have now and then derisively advised me to follow my nose. It would be an inter- esting thing to do. I should find my nose flying about the world, turning up unexpectedly here and there, dodging this branch of the family and reappearing in that, now jumping over one great-grandchild to fasten itself upon another, and never losing its individuality. Look at Andy. There's Elkanah Elkins's chin to the life. Andy's chin is probably older than the Pyramids. Poor little thing," he cried, with sudden inde- scribable tenderness, "to lose his mother so early!" And Mr. 342 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH JafiErey's head sunk upon his breast, and his shoulders slanted forward, as if he were actually bending over the cradle of the child. The whole gesture and attitude was so natural that it startled me. The pipe slipped from my fingers and fell to the floor. «Hush!» whispered Mr. Jaffrey, with a deprecating motion of his hand. "Andy's asleep!" He rose softly from the chair, and walking across the room on tiptoe, drew down the shade at the window through which the moonlight was streaming. Then he returned to his seat, and remained gazing with half-closed eyes into the dropping embers. I refilled my pipe and smoked in profound silence, wonder- ing what would come next. But nothing came next. Mr. Jaffrey had fallen into so brown a study that, a quarter of an hour afterwards, when I wished him good-night and withdrew, I do not think he noticed my departure. I am not what is called a man of imagination; it is my habit to exclude most things not capable of mathematical demonstration: but I am not without a certain psychological insight, and I think I understood Mr. Jaffrey's case. I could easily understand how a man with an unhealthy, sensitive nature, overwhelmed by sudden calamity, might take refuge in some forlorn place like this old tavern, and dream his life away. To such a man — brooding forever on what might have been, and dwelling wholly in the realm of his fancies — the actual world might indeed become as a dream, and nothing seem real but his illusions. I dare say that thirteen years of Bayley'S Four-Corners would have its effect upon me; though instead of conjuring up golden-haired children of the Madonna, I should probably see gnomes and kobolds, and goblins engaged in hoisting false signals and misplacing switches for midnight express trains. "No doubt,** I said to myself that night, as I lay in bed, thinking over the matter, "this once possible but now impos- sible child is a great comfort to the old gentleman, — a greater comfort, perhaps, than a real son would be. Maybe Andy will vanish with the shades aind mists of night, he's such an unsub- stantial infant; but if he doesn't, and Mr. Jaffrey finds pleasure in talking to me about his son, I shall humor the old fellow. It wouldn't be a Christian act to knock over his harmless fancy.*? THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 343 I was very impatient to see if Mr. Jaffrey's illusion would stand < the test of daylight. It did. Elkanah Elkins Andrew Jackson Jaffrey was, so to speak, alive and kicking the next morning. On taking his seat at the breakfast-table, Mr. Jaffrey whispered to me that Andy had had a comfortable night. « Silas!" said Mr. Sewell, sharply, "what are you whispering about ? » Mr. Sewell was in an ill humor; perhaps he was jealous because I had passed the evening in Mr. Jaffrey's room; but surely Mr. Sewell could not expect his boarders 'to go to bed at eight o'clock every night, as he did. From time to time during the meal Mr. Sewell regarded me unkindly out of the corner of his eye, and in helping me to the parsnips he poniarded them with quite a suggestive air. All this, however, did not prevent me from repairing to the door of Mr. Jaffrey's snuggery when night came. "Well, Mr. Jaffrey, how's Andy this evening?" " Got a tooth ! " cried Mr. Jaffrey, vivaciously. «No!" , . "Yes, he has! Just through. Give the nurse a silver dollar. Standing reward for first tooth." It was on the tip of my tongue to express surprise that an infant a day old should cut a tooth, when I suddenly recollected that Richard III. was bom with teeth. Feeling myself to be on unfamiliar ground, I suppressed my criticism. It was well I did so, for in the next breath I was advised that half a year had elapsed since the previous evening. "Andy's had a hard six months of it," said Mr. Jaffrey, with the well-known narrative air of fathers. "We've brought him up by hand. His grandfather, by the way, was brought up by the bottle — " and brought down by it, too, I added mentally, recalling Mr. Sewell's account of the old gentleman's tragic end. Mr. Jaffrey then went oh to give me a history of Andy's first six months, omitting no detail however insignificant or irrelevant. This history I would in turn inflict upon the redder, if I were only certain that he is one of those dreadful parents who, under the aegis of friendship, bore you at a street-comer with that remarkable thing which Freddy said the other day, and insist on singing to you, at an evening party, the Iliad of Tommy's woes. 244 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH But to inflict this enfantillage upon the unmarried reader would be an act of wanton cruelty. So I pass over that part of Andy's biography, and for the same reason make no record of the next four or five interviews I had with Mr. Jaffrey. It will be sufficient to state that Andy glided from extreme infancy to early youth with astonishing celerity — at the rate of one year per night, if I remember correctly; and — must I confess it? — before the week came to an end, this invisible hobgoblin of a boy was only little less of a reality to me than to Mr. Jaffrey. At first I had lent myself to the old dreamer's whim with a keen perception of the humor of the thing; but by and by I found that I was talking and thinking of Miss Mehetabel's son as though he were a veritable personage. Mr. Jaifrey spoke of the child with such an air of conviction! — as if Andy were playing among his toys in the next room, or making mud- pies down in the yard. In these conversations, it should be observed, the child was never supposed to be present, except on that single occasion when Mr. Jaffrey leaned over the cradle. After one of our seances I would lie awake until the small hours, thinking of the boy, and then fall asleep only to have indigestible dreams about him. Through the day, and sometimes in the midst of complicated calculations, I would catch ^myself wondering what Andy was up to now! There was n6 shaking him off; he became an inseparable nightmare to me; and I felt that if I remained much longer at Bayley's Four- Comers I should turn, into just such another bald-headed, mild- eyed visionary as Silas Jaffrey. Then the tavern was a grewsome old shell any way, full of unaccountable noises after dark — rustlings of garments along unfrequented passages, and stealthy footfalls in unoccupied chambers overhead. I never knew of an old house without these mysterious noises. Next to my bedroom was a musty, dismantled apartment,- in one comer of which, leaning^ against the wainscot, was a crippled mangle, with its iron crank tilted in the air like the elbow of the late Mr. Clem Jaffrey. Some- times, «In the dead vast and middle of the night,* I used to hear sounds as if some one were turning that rusty crank on the sly. This occurred only on particularly cold THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH ,., 345 nights, and I conceived the uncomfortable idea that it was the thin family ghosts, from the neglected graveyard in the corn- field, keeping themselves warm by running each other through the mangle. There was a haunted air about the whole place that made it easy for me to believe in the existence of a phan- tasm like Miss Mehetabel's son, who, after all, was less un- earthly than Mr. Jaffrey himself, and seemed more properly an inhabitant of this globe than the toothless ogre who kept the inn, not to mention the silent "Witch of Endor that cooked our meals for us over the bar-room fire. In spite of the scowls and winks bestowed upon me by Mr. Sewell, who let slip no opportunity to testify his disapprobation of the intimacy, Mr. Jaffrey and I spent all our evenings to- gether — those long autumnal evenings, through the length of which he talked about the boy, laying out his path in life and hedging the path with roses. He should be sent to the High School at Portsmouth, and then to college; he should be edu- cated like a gentleman, Andy. "When the old man dies," remarked Mr. Jaffrey one night, rubbing his hands gleefully, as if it were a great joke, "Andy will find that the old man has left him a pretty plum." " What do 'you think of having Andy enter West Point, when he's old enough ? " said Mr. Jaffrey on another occasion. " He needn't necessarily go into the army when he graduates; he can become a civil engineer." This was a stroke of flattery so delicate and indirect that I could accept it without immodesty. There had lately sprung up on the corner of Mr. Jaffrey's bureau a small tin house, Gothic in architecture and pink in color, with a slit in the roof, and the word Bank painted on one fagade. Several times in the course of an evening Mr. Jaffrey would rise from his chair without interrupting the con- versation, and gravely drop a nickel into the scuttle of the bank. It was pleasant to observe the solemnity of his counte- nance as he approached the edifice, and the air of triumph with which he resumed his seat by the fireplace. One night I missed the tin bank. It had disappeared, deposits and all, like a real bank. Evidently there had been a defalcation on rather a large scale. I strongly suspected that Mr. Sewell was at the bottom of it, but my suspicion was not shared by Mr. Jaffrey, who, remarking my glance at the bureau, became suddenly depressed. 346 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH "I'm afraid," he said, "that I have failed to instill into Andrew those principles of integrity which. — which — " and the old gen- tleman quite broke down. Andy was now eight or nine years old, and for some time past, if the truth must be told, had given Mr. Jaifrey no incon- siderable trouble; what with his impishness and his illnesses, the boy led the pair of us a lively dance. I shall not soon forget the anxiety of Mr. Jaffrey the night Andy had the scarlet-fever ■ — an anxiety which so infected me that I actually returned to the tavern the following afternoon earlier than usual, dreading to hear that the little spectre was dead, and greatly relieved on meeting Mr. Jaffrey at the door-step with his face wreathed in smiles. When I spoke to him of Andy, I was made aware that I was inquiring into a case of sbarlet-fever that had occurred the year before! It was at this time, towards the end of my second week at Greenton, that I noticed what was probably not a new trait — Mr. Jaffrey's curious sensitiveness to atmospherical changes. He was as sensitive as a barometer. The approach of a storm sent his mercury down instantly. When the weather was fair he was hopeful and sunny, and Andy's prospects were brilliant. When the weather was overcast and threatening he grew rest- less and despondent, and was afraid that the boy was not going to turn out well. On the Saturday previous to my departure, which had been fixed for Monday, it rained heavily all the afternoon, and that night Mr. Jaffrey was in an unusually excitable and unhappy frame of mind. His mercury was very low indeed. "That boy is going to the dogs just as fast as he can go," said Mr. Jaffrey, with a woeful face. "I can't do anything with him." "He'll come out all right, Mr. Jaffrey. Boys will.be boys. I would not give a snap for a lad without animal spirits." "But animal spirits," said Mr. Jaffrey sententiously, "shouldn't saw off the legs of the piano in Tobias's best parlor. I don't know what Tobias will say when he finds it out." "What! has Andy sawed off the legs of the old spinet?" I returned, laughing. "Worse than that." " Played upon it, then ! " "No, sir. He has lied to me!" THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 3>- «I can't believe that of Andy." «Lied to me, sir,» repeated Mr. Jaffrey, severely. «He pledged me his word of honor that he would give over his climbing. The way that boy climbs sends a chill down my spine. This morning, notwithstanding his solemn promise, he shinned up the lightning-rod attached to the extension, and sat astride the ridge-pole. I saw him, and he denied it! When a boy you have caressed and. indulged and lavished pocket-money on lies to you and will climb, then there's nothing more to be said. He's a lost child." "You take too dark a view of it, Mr. Jaffrey. Training and education are bound to tell in the end, and he has been well brought up." « But I didn't bring him up on a lightning-rod, did I ? If he is ever going to know how to behave, he ought to know now. To-morrow he will be eleven years old." The reflection came to me that if Andy had not been brought up by the rod, he had certainly been brought up by the lightning. He was eleven years old in two weeks! I essayed, with that perspicacious wisdom which seems to be the peculiar property of bachelors and elderly maiden ladies, to tranquillize Mr. Jaffrey's mind, and to give him some practical hints on the management of youth. "Spank him," I suggested at last. " I will ! " said the old gentleman. . "And you'd better do it at once!" I added, as it flashed upon me that in six months Andy would be a hundred and forty-three years old! — an age at which parental discipline wbuld have to be relaxed-. The next morning, Sunday, the rain came down as if deter- mined to drive the quicksilver entirely out of my poor friend. Mr. Jaffrey sat bolt upright at the breakfast-table, looking as woe-begone as a bust of Dante, and retired to his chamber the moment the meal was finished. As the day advanced, the wind veered round to the northeast, and settled itself down to work. It was not pleasant to think, and I tried not to think, what Mr. Jaffrey's condition would be if the weather did not mend its manners by noon; but so far. from clearing off at noon, the storm increased in violence, and as night set in, the wind whistled in a spiteful' falsetto key, and the rain lashed the old tavern as if it were a balky horse that refused to move on. 348 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH The windows rattled in the worm-eaten frames, and the doors of remote rooms, where nobody ever went, slammed to in the maddest way. Now and then the tornado, sweeping down the side of Mount Agamenticus, bowled across the open country, and struck the ancient hostelry point-blank. Mr. Jaffrey did not appear at supper. I knew that he was expecting me to come to his room as usual, and I turned over in my mind a dozen plans to evade seeing him that night. The landlord sat at the opposite side of the chimney-place, with his eye upon me. I fancy he was aware of the effect of this storm on his other boarder; for at intervals, as the wind hurled itself against the exposed gable, threatening to burst in the windows, Mr. Sewell tipped me an atrocious wink, and displayed his gums in a way he had not done since the morning after my arrival at Greenton. I wondered if he suspected anything about Andy. There had been odd times during the past week when I felt convinced that the existence of Miss Mehetabel's son was no secret to Mr. Sewell. In deference to the gale, the landlord sat up half an hour later than was his custom. At half-past eight he went to bed, remarking that he thought the old pile would stand till morning. He had been absent only a few minutes when I heard a rustling at the door. I looked up, and beheld Mr. Jaffrey standing -on the threshold, with his dress in disorder, his scant hair flying, and the wildest expression on his face. " He's gone ! " cried Mr. Jaffrey. "Who? Sewell? Yes, he just went to bed." «No, not Tobias — the boy!* "What, run away?" "No — he is dead! He has fallen from a step-ladder iii the red chamber and broken his neck!" Mr. Jaffrey threw up his hands with a gesture of despair, and disappeared. I followed him through the hall, saw him go into his own apartment, and heard the bolt of the door drawn to. Then I returned to the bar-room, and sat for an hour or two in the ruddy glow of the fire, brooding over the strange experience of the last fortnight. On my way to bed I paused at Mr. Jaflfrey's door, and in a lull of the storm, the measured respiration within told me that the old gentleman was sleeping peacefully. THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 340 Slumber was coy with me that night. I lay listening to the soughing o£ the wind, and thinking of Mr. Jaffrey's illusion. It had amused me at first with its grotesqueness ; but now the poor little phantom was dead, I was conscious that there had been something pathetic in it all along. Shortly after mid- night the wind sunk down, coming and going fainter and fainter, floating around the eaves of the tavern with an undulat- ing, murmurous sound, as if it were turning itself into soft wings to bear away the spirit of a little child. Perhaps nothing that happened during my stay at Bayley's Four-Corners took me so completely by surprise as Mr. Jaffrey's radiant countenance the next morning. The morning itself was not fresher or sunnier. His round face literally shone with geniality and happiness. His eyes twinkled like diamonds, and the magnetic light of his hair was turned on full. He came into my room while I was packing my valise. He chirped, and prattled, and caroled, and was sorry I was going away — but never a word about Andy. However, the boy had probably been dead several years then! The open wagon that was to carry me to the station stood at the door; Mr. Sewell was placing my case of instruments under the seat, and Mr. Jaffrey had gone up to his room to get me a certain newspaper containing an account of a remarkable ship- wreck on the Auckland Islands. - 1 took; the opportunity to thank Mr. Sewell for his courtesies to me, and to express my regret at leaving him and Mr. JafiErey. «I have become very much attached to Mr. Jaffrey," I said; «he is a most interesting person; but that hypothetical boy of his, -that son of Miss Mehetabel's — '* «Yes, I know!" interrupted Mr. Sewell, testily. "Fell off a step-ladder and broke his dratted neck. Eleven year old, wasn't he? Always does, jest at that point. Next week Silas will begin the whole thing over again, if he can get anybody to listen to him." «I see. Our amiable friend is a little queer on that subject." Mr. Sewell glanced cautiously over his shoulder, and tapping himself significantly on the forehead, said in a low voice,— "Room To Let — Unfurnished!" The foregoing selections are copyrighted, and are reprinted by permission of the author, and Houghton, Mifflin & Co., publishers 35° ALEARDO ALEARDI (1812-1878) SHE Italian patriot and poet, Aleardo Aleardi, was bom in the village of San Giorgio, near Verona, on November 4th, 18 12. He passed his boyhood on his father's farm, amid the grand scenery of the valley of the Adige, which deeply impressed itself on his youthful imagination and left its traces in all his verse. He went to school at Verona, where for his dullness he was nick- named the "mole," and afterwards he passed on to the University of Padua to study law, apparently to please his father, for in the charming autobiogfraphy prefixed to his collected poems he quotes his father as saying: — «My son, be not enamored of this coquette. Poesy; for with all her airs of a great lady, she will play thee some trick of a faithless grisette. Choose a good companion, as one might say, for instance the law: and thou wilt found a family; wilt par- take of God's bounties; wilt be content in life, and die quietly and happily." In addition to satisfying his father, the young poet also wrote at Padua his first political poems. And this brought him into slight conflict with the authorities. He practiced law for a short time at Verona, and wrote his first long poem, < Arnaldo,> pub- lished in 1842, which was very favorably received. When six years later the new Venetian republic came into being, Aleardi was sent to represent its interests at Paris. The speedy overthrow of the new State brought the young ambassador home again, and for the next ten years he worked for Italian unity and freedom. He was twice imprisoned, at Mantua in 1852, and again in 1859 at Verona, where he died April 17th, 1878. Like most of the Italian poets of this century, Aleardi found his chief inspiration in the exciting events that marked the struggle of Italy for independence, and his best work antedated the peace of Villafranca. His first serious effort was (The Pri- mal Histories), written in 1845. In this he traces the story of the human race from the creation through the Scriptural, classical, and feudal periods down to the present century, and closes with fore- shadowings of a peaceful and happy future. It is picturesque, full of lofty imagery and brilliant descriptive passages. < Una Ora della mia Giovinezza > (An Hour of My Youth : 1858) recounts many of his youthful trials and disappointments as a patriot. Like the 'Primal Histories,' this poem is largely contemplative and philosophical, and shines by the same splendid diction and luxuri- ous imagery; but it is less wide-reaching in its interests and more , ALEARDO ALEARDI ,ei specific in its appeal to his own countrymen. And from this time onward the patriotic qualities in Aleardi's poetry predominate, and his themes become more and more exclusively Italian. The 'Monte Circello> sings the glories and events of the Italian land and history, and successfully presents many facts of science in poetic form, while the singer passionately laments the present condition of Italy. In (The Marine and Com- mercial Cities of Italy) the story of the rise, flourishing, and fall of Venice, Florence, Pisa, and Genoa is recounted. His other note- worthy poems are 'Rafaello e la Fornarina,> (The Three Rivers), (The Three Maidens: 1858), < I Sette Soldati> (The Seven Soldiers: 1859), and < Canto Politico > (Political Songs: 1862). A slender volume of five hundred pages contains all that Aleardi has written. Yet he is one of the chief minor Italian poets of this century, because of his loftiness of purpose and felicity of expression, his tenderness of feeling, and his deep sympathies with his struggling country. "He has," observes Howells in his 'Modern Italian Poets,* "in greater degree than any other Italian poet of this, or perhaps of any age, those merits which our English taste of this time demands, — quickness of feeling and brilliancy of expression. He lacks simplicity of idea, and his style is an opal which takes all lights and hues, rather than the crystal which lets the daylight colorlessly through. He is distinguished no less by the themes he selects than by the expression he gives them. In his poetry there is passion, but his subjects are usually those to which love is accessory rather than essential; and he cares better to sing of universal and national des- tinies as they concern individuals, than the raptures and anguishes of youthful individuals as they concern mankind." He was original in his way; his attitude toward both the classic and the romantic schools is shown in the following passage from his autobiography, which at the same time brings out his patriotism. He says: — «It seemed to me strange, on the one hand, that people who, in their serious moments and in the recesses of their hearts, invoked Christ, should in the recesses of their minds, in the deep excitement of poetry, persist in invoking Apollo and Pallas Minerva. It seemed to me strange, on the other hand, that people born in Italy, with this sun, with these nights, with so many glories, so many griefs, so many hopes at home, should have the mania of singing the mists of Scandinavia, and the Sabbaths of witches, and should go mad for a gloomy and dead feudalism, which had come froni the North, the highway of our misfortunes. It seemed to me, moreover, that every Art of Poetry was marvelously useless, and that certain rules were mummies embalmed by the hand of pedants. In fine, it seemed to me that there were two kinds of Art: the one, serene with an Olympic serenity, the 352 ALEARDO ALEARDI Art of all ages that belongs to no country; the other, more impassioned, that has its roots in one's native soil. . . . The first that of Homer, of Phidias, of Virgil, of Tasso; the other that of the Prophets, of Dante, of Shakespeare, of Byron. And I have tried to cling to this last, because I was pleased to see how these great men take the clay of their own land and their own time, and model from it a living statue, which resembles their contemporaries." In another interesting passage he explains that his old drawing- master had in vain pleaded with the father to make his son a painter, and he continues: — *Not being allowed to use the pencil, I have used the pen. And pre- cisely on this account my pen resembles too much a pencil; precisely on this account I am often too much of a naturalist, and am too fond of losing myself in minute details. I am as one who in walking goes leisurely along, and stops every minute to observe the dash of light that breaks through the trees of the woods, the insect that alights on his hand, the leaf that falls on his head, a cloud, a wave, a streak of smoke; in fine, the thousand accidents that make creation so rich, so various, so poetical, and beyond which we ever- more catch glimpses of that grand mysterious something, eternal, immense, benignant, and never inhuman nor cruel, as some would have us believe, which is called God.» The selections are from Howells's w* THE HARVESTERS THAT time in summer, sad with so much light, The sun beats ceaselessly upon the fields; The harvesters, as famine urges them. Draw hitherward in thousands, and they wear The look of those that dolorously go In exile, and already their brown eyes Are heavy with the poison of the air. Here never note of amorous bird consoles Their drooping hearts; here never the gay songs Of their Abruzzi sound to gladden these Pathetic hands. But taciturn they toil. Reaping the harvests for their unknown lords; And when the weary labor is performed. Taciturn they retire; and not till then Their bagpipes crown the joys of the return. Swelling the heart with their familiar strain; Alas! not all return, for there is one That dying in the furrow sits, and seeks With his last look some faithful kinsman out. To give his life's wage, that he carr^ it Unto his trembling mother, with the last Words of her son that comes no more. And dying. Deserted and alone, far ofiE he hears His comrades going, with their pipes in time, Joyfully measuring their homeward steps. And when in after years an orphan comes To reap the harvest here, and feels his blade Go quivering through the swaths of falling grain, He weeps and thinks — haply these heavy stalks Ripened on his unburied father's bones. From < Monte Circello.> 1—23 354 ALEARDO ALEARDI THE DEATH OF THE YEAR ERE yet upon the unhappy Arctic lands, In dying autumn, Erebus descends With the night's thousand hours, along the verge Of the horizon, like a fugitive. Through the long days wanders the weary sun; And when at last under the wave is quenched The last gleam of its golden countenance, Interminable twilight land and sea Discolors, and the north wind covers deep All things in snow, as in their sepulchres The dead are buried. In the distances The shock of warring Cyclades of ice Makes music as of wild and strange lament; And up in heaven now tardily are lit The solitary polar star and seven Lamps of the bear. And now the warlike race Of swans gather their hosts upon the breast Of some far gulf, and, bidding their farewell To the white cliffs and slender junipers, And sea-weed bridal-beds, intone the song Of parting, and a sad metallic clang Send through the mists. Upon their southward way They greet the beryl-tinted icebergs; greet Flamy volcanoes and the seething founts Of geysers, and the melancholy yellow Of the Icelandic fields; and, wearying Their lily wings amid the boreal lights. Journey away unto the joyous shores Of morning. From involved him in his celebrated dispute with Rous- seau and other radicals in regard to Calvinism and the suppression of theatrical performances in the stronghold of Swiss orthodoxy. His fame was spreading over Europe. Frederick the Great of Prussia repeatedly offered him the presidency of the Academy of Sciences of Berlin. But he refused, as he also declined the magnifi- cent offer of Catherine of Russia to become tutor to her son, at a yearly salary of a hundred thousand francs. Pope Benedict XIV. honored him by recommending him to the membership of the Insti- tute of Bologne; and the high esteem in which he was held in Eng- land is shown by the legacy of ;£2oo left him by David Hume. All these honors and distinctions did not afect the simplicity of his life, for during thirty years he continued to reside in the poor and incommodious quarters of his foster-mother, whom he partly supported out of his small income. Ill health at last drove him to seek better accommodations. He had formed a romantic attachment for Mademoiselle de I'Espinasse, and lived with her in the same house for yeats unscandaled. Her death in 1776 plunged him into profound grief. He died nine years later, on the 9th of October, 1783. His manner was plain and at times almost rude; he had great independence of character, but also much simplicity and benevolence. With the other French deists, D'Alembert has been attacked for his religious opinions, but with injustice. He was prudent in the public expression of them, as the time necessitated ; but he makes the freest statement of them in his correspondence with Voltaire. His literary and philosopic works were edited by Bassange (Paris, 1891). Condor- cet, in his < Eulogy,' gives the best account of his life and writings. JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT :,-- MONTESQUIEU From the Eul6gy published in the < Eiicyclopddie > THESE particulars [of Montesquieu's genealogy] may seem su- perfluous in the eulogy of a philosopher who stands so lit- tle in need of ancestors; but at least we may adorn their memory with that lustre which his name reflects upon it. The early promise of his genius was fulfilled in Charles de Secondat. He discovered very soon what he desired to be, and his father cultivated this rising genius, the object of his hope and of his tenderness. At the age of twenty, young Montesquieu had already prepared materials for the < Spirit of Laws,' by a well- digested extract from the immense body of the civil law; as New- ton had laid in early youth the foundation of his immortal works. The study of jurisprudence, however, though less dry to M. de Montesquieu than to most "who attempt it, because he studied it as a philosopher, did not content him, He inquired deeply into the subjects which pertain to religion, and considered them with that wisdom, decency, and equity, which characterize his work. A brother of his father, perpetual president of the Parliament of Bordeaux, an able judge and virtuous citizen, the oracle of his own society and of his province, having lost an only son, left, his fortune and his office to M. de Montesquieu. Some years after, in 1722, during the king's minority, his society employed him to present remonstrances upon occasion of a new impost. Placed between the throne and the people, like a respectful subject and courageous magistrate he brought the cry of the, wretched to the ears of the sovereign — a cry which, being heard, obtained justice. Unfortunately, this success was momentary. Scarce was the popular voice silenced before the suppressed tax was. replaced by another; but the good citizen had done his duty. He was received the 3d of April, 17 16, into the new academy of Bordeaux. A taste for music and entertainment had at first assembled its members. M. de Montesquieu believed that the talents of his friends might be better employed in physical sub- jects. He was persuaded that natute, worthy of being beheld everywhere, could find everywhere eyes worthy to behold her; while it was impossible to gather together, at a distance from the metropolis, distinguished writers on works of taste. He looked upon our provincial societies for belles-lettres as a shadow of literature which obscures the reality. The Duke de la Force, by a prize which he founded at Bordeaux, seconded these rational 358 JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT views. It was decided that a good physical experiment would be better than a weak discourse or a bad poemj and Bordeaux got an Academy of Sciences. M. de Montesquieu, careless of reputation, wrote little. It was not till 172 1, that is to say, at thirty-two years of age, that he published the 'Persian Letters.' The description of Oriental manners, real or supposed, is the least important thing in these letters. It serves merely as a pretense for a delicate satire upon our own customs and for the concealment of a serious intention. In this moving picture, Usbec chiefly exposes, with as much ease as energy, whatever among us most struck his penetrating eyes: our way of treating the silliest things seriously, and of laughing at the most important; our way of talking which is at once so blustering and so frivolous; our impatience even in the midst of pleasure itself; our prejudices and our actions that perpetually contradict our understandings; our great love of glory and respect for the idol of court favor, our little real pride; our courtiers so mean and vain; our exterior politeness to, and our real contempt of strangers; our fantastical tastes, than which there is nothing lower but the eagerness -of all Europe to adopt them; our bar- barous disdain for the two most respectable occupations of a citizen — commerce and magistracy; our literary disputes, so keen and so useless; our rage for writing before we think, and for judging before we understand. To this picture he opposes, in the apologue of the Troglodytes, the description of a virtuous people, become wise by misfortunes — a piece worthy of the por- tico. In another place, he represents philosophy, long silenced, .suddenly reappearing, regaining rapidly the time which she had lost; penetrating even among the Russians at the voice of a genius which invites her; while among other people of Europe, superstition, like a thick atmosphere, prevents the all-surrounding light from reaching them. Finally, by his review of ancient and modern government, he presents us with the bud of those bright ideas since fully developed in his great work. These difiEerent subjects, no longer novel, as when the < Persian Letters' first appeared, will forever remain original-^ a merit the more real that it proceeds alone from the genius of the writer; for Usbec acquired, during his abode in France, so perfect a knowledge of our morals, and so strong a tincture of our man- ners, that his style makes us forget his country. This small solecism was perhaps not unintentional. While exposing our fol- lies and vices, he meant, no doubt, to do justice to our merits. JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT Avoiding the insipidity of a direct panegyric, he has more deli- cately praised us by assuming our own air in professed satire. Notwithstanding the success of his work, M. de Montesquieu did not acknowledge it. Perhaps he wished to escape criticism. Perhaps he wished to avoid a contrast of the frivolity of the < Persian Letters' with the gravity of his office; a sort of reproach which critics never fail to make, because it requires no sort of effort. But his secret was discovered, and the public suggested his name for the Academy. The event justified M. de Montes- quieu's silence. Usbec expresses himself freely, not concerning the fundamentals of Christianity, but about matters which people affect to confound with Christianity itself: about the spirit of persecution which has animated so many Christians; about the temporal usurpation of ecclesiastical power; about the excessive multiplication of monasteries, which deprive the State of subjects without giving worshipers to God; about some opinions which would fain be established as principles; about our religious dis- putes, always violent and often fatal. If he appears anywhere to touch upon questions more vital to Christianity itself,- his reflec- tions are in fact favorable to revelation, because he shows how little human reason, left to itself, knows. Among the genuine letters of M. de Montesquieu the foreign printer had inserted some by another hand. Before the author was condemned, these should have been thrown out. Regardless of these considerations, hatred masquerading as zeal, and zeal without understanding, rose and united themselves against the 'Persian Letters.' Informers, a species of men dangerous and base, alarmed the piety of the ministry. M. de Montesquieu, urged by his friends, supported by the public voice, having offered himself for the vacant place of M. de Sacy in the French Academy, the minister wrote " The Forty " that his Majesty would never accept the election of the author of the * Persian Letters'; that he had not, indeed, read the book, but that persons in whom he placed confidence had informed him of its poisonous tendency. M. de Montesquieu saw what a blow such an accusation might prove to his person, his family, and his tranquillity. He neither sought literary honors nor affected to disdain them when they came in his way, nor did he regard the lack of them as a misfor- tune: but a perpetual exclusioUj and the motives of that exclus- ion, appeared to him to be an injury. He saw the minister, and explained that though he did not acknowledge the 'Persian Let- ters.* he would not disown a work for which he had no reason to 360 JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT blush; and that he ought to be judged upon its contents, and not upon mere hearsay. At last the minister read the book, loved the author, and learned wisdom as to his advisers. The French Academy obtained one of its greatest ornaments, and France had the happiness to keep a subject whom superstition or calumny had nearly deprived her of; for M. de Montesquieu had declared to the government that, after the affront they proposed, he would go among foreigners in quest of that safety, that repose, and per-r haps those rewards which he might reasonably have expected in his own country. The nation would really have deplored his loss^ while yet the disgrace of it must have fallen upon her. M. de Montesquieu was received the 24th of January, 1728. His oration is one of the best ever pronounced here. Among many admirable passages which shine out in its pages is the deep- thinking writer's characterization of Cardinal Richelieu, "who taught France the secret of its strength, and Spain that of its weakness; who freed Germany from her chains and gave her new ones. " The new Academician was the worthier of this title, that he had renounced all other employments to give himself entirely up to his genius and his taste. However important was his place, he perceived that a different work must employ his talents; that the citizen is accountable to bis country and to mankind for all the good he may do; and that he could be more useful by his writ- ings than by settling obscure legal disputes. He was no longer a magistrate, but only a man of letters. But that his works should serve other nations, it was neces- sary that he should travel, his aim being to examine the natural and moral world, to study the laws and constitution of every country; to visit scholars, writers, artists, and everywhere to seek for those rare men whose conversation sometimes supplies the place of years of observation. M. de Montesquieu might have said, like Democritus, «I have forgot nothing to instruct myself; 1 have quitted my country and traveled over the universe, the better to know truth; I have seen all the illustrious personages of my time." But there was this difference between the French Democritus and him of Abdera, that the first traveled to instruct men, and the second to laugh at them. He went first to Vienna, where he often saw the celebrated Prince Eugene. This hero, so* fatal to France (to which he might have been so useful), after having checked the advance of Louis XIV. and humbled the Ottoman pride, lived without pomp, JEAN.LE ROND D'ALEMBERT -gj loving and cultivating letters in a court where they are little honored, and showing his masters how to protect them. Leaving Vienna, the traveler visited Hungary, an opulent and fertile country, inhabited by a haughty and generous nation, the' scourge of its t5rrants and the support of its sovereigns. As few persons know this country well, he has written with care this part of his travels. From Germany he went to Italy. At Venice he met the famous Mr. Law, of whose former grandeur nothing remained but projects fortunately destined to die away unorganized, and a diamond which he pawned to play at games of hazard. One day the conversation turned on the famous system which Law had invented; the source of so many calamities, so many colossal for- tunes, and so remarkable a corruption in our morals. As the Par- liament of Paris had made some resistance to the Scotch minister on this occasion, M. de Montesquieu asked him why he had never tried to overcome this resistance by a method almost always infallible in England, by the grand mover of human actions — in a word, by money. « These are not, '* answered Law, " geniuses so- ardent and so generous as my countrymen; but they are much more incorruptible.'* It is certainly true that a society which is free for a limited time ought to resist corruption more than one which is always free: the first, whejn it sells its liberty, loses it; the second, so to speak, only lends it, and exercises it even when it is thus parting with it. Thus the circumstances and nature of government give rise to the vices and virtues of nations. ' Another person, no less famous, whom M. de Montesquieu saw still oftener at Venice, was Count de Bonneval. This man, so well known for his adventures, which were not yet at an end, delighted to converse with so good a judge and so excellent a hearer, often related to him the military actions in which he had been engaged, and the remarkable circumstances of his life, and drew the characters of generals and ministers whom he had known. He went from Venice to Rome. In this ancient capital of the world he studied the works of Raphael, of Titian, and of Michael Angelo. Accustomed to .study nature, he knew her when ' she was translated, as a faithful portrait appeals to all who are familiar with the original. After having traveled over Italy, M. de Montesquieu came to Switzerland and studied those vast countries which are watered 362 JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT by the Rhine. There was the less for him to see in Germany that Frederick did not yet reign. In the United Provinces he beheld an admirable monument of what human industry animated by a love of liberty can do. In England he stayed three years. Welcomed by the greatest men, he had nothing to regret save that he had not made his journey sooner. Newton and Locke were dead. But he had often the honor of paying his respects to their patroness, the celebrated Queen of England, who cultivated philosophy upon a throne, and who properly esteemed and val- ued M. de Montesquieu. Nor was he less well received by the nation. At London he formed intimate friendships with the great thinkers. With them he studied the nature of the govern- ment, attaining profound knowledge of it. As he had set out neither as an enthusiast nor a cynic, he brought back neither a disdain fpr foreigners nor a contempt for his own country. It was the result of his observations that Ger- many was made to travel in, Italy to sojourn in, England to think in, and France to live in. After returning to his own country, M. de Montesquieu retired for two years to his estate of La Brfede, enjoying that solitude which a life in the tumult and hurry of the worlds but makes the more agreeable. He lived with himself, after having so long lived with others; and finished his work *On the Cause of the Grandeur and Decline of the Romans,* which appeared in 1734. Empires, like men, must increase, decay, and be extinguished. But this necessary revolution may have hidden causes which the veil of time conceals from us. Nothing in this respect more resembles modem history than ancient history. That of the Romans must, however, be excepted. It presents us with a rational policy, a connected system of ag- grandizement, which will not permit us to attribute the great for- tune of this, people to obscure and inferior sources. The causes of the Roman grandeur may then be found in history, and it is the business of the philosopher to discover them. Besides, there are no systems in this study, as in that of physics, which are easily overthrown, because one new and unforeseen experiment can upset them in an instant. On- the contrary, when we carefully collect the facts, if we do not always gather together all the desired materials, we may at least hope one day to obtain more. A great historian combines in the most perfect manner these defective materials. His merit is. like that of an architect, who, JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT .5, from a few remains, traces the plan of an ancient edifice ; supply- ing, by genius and happy conjectures, what was wanting in fact. It is from this point of view that we ought to consider the work of M. de Montesquieu. He finds the causes of the grandeur of the Romans in that love of liberty, of labor, and of country, which was instilled into them during their infancy; in those intestine divisions which gave an activity to their genius, and which ceased immediately upon the appearance of an enemy; in that constancy after misfortunes, which never despaired of the republic; in that principle they adhered to of never making peace but after victories; in the honor of a triumph, which was a sub- ject of emulation among the generals; in that protection which they granted to those peoples who rebelled against their kings; in the excellent policy of permitting the conquered to preserve their religion and customs; and the equally excellent determina- tion never to have two enemies upon their hands at once, but to bear everything from .the one till they had destroyed the other. He finds the causes of their declension in the aggrandizement of the State itself: in those distant wars, which, obliging the citizens to be too long absent, made them insensibly lose their republican spirit; in the too easily granted privilege -of being citizens, of Rome, which made the Roman people at last become a sort of many -headed monster; in the corruption introduced by the luxury of Asia; in the proscriptions of Sylla, which debased the genius of the nation, and prepared it for slavery; in the necessity of having a master while their liberty was become burdensome to them; in the necessity of changing their maxims when they changed their government; in that series of monsters who reigned, almost without interruption, from Tiberius to Neirva, and from Commodus to Constantine; lastly, in the translation and division of the empire, which perished first in the West by the power of barbarians, and after having languished in the East, under weak or cruel emperors, insensibly died away, like those rivers which disappear in the sands. In a very small volume M. de Montesquieu explained and unfolded his picture. Avoiding detail, and seizing only essentials, he has included in a very small space a vast number of objects distinctly perceived, and rapidly presented, without fatiguing the reader. While he points out much, he leaves us still more to reflect upon; and he might have entitled his book, *A Roman History for the Use of Statesmen and Philosophers.* ,^4 JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT Whatever reputation M. de Montesquieu had thus far acquired, he had but cleared the way for a far grander undertaking — for that which ought to immortalize his name, and commend it to the admiration of future ages. He had meditated for twenty years upon its execution; or, to speak more exactly, his whole life had been a perpetual meditation upon it. He had niade himself in some sort a stranger in his own country, the better to understand it. He had studied profoundly the different peoples of Europe. The famous island, which so glories in her laws, and which makes so bad a use of them, proved to him what Crete had been to Lycurgus — a school where he learned much without approving everything. Thus he attained by degrees to the noblest title a wise man can deserve, that of legislator of nations. If he was animated by the importance of his subject, he was at the same time terrified by its extent. He abandoned it, and returned to it again and again. More than once, as he himself owns, he felt his paternal hands fail him, At last, encouraged by his friends, he resolved to publish the * Spirit of Laws. * In this important work M. de Montesquieu, without insisting, like his predecessors, upon metaphysical discussions, without con- fining himself, like them, to consider certain people in certain particular relations or circumstances, takes a view of the actual inhabitants of the world in all their conceivable relations to each other. Most other writers in this way are either simple moral- ists, or simple lawyers, or even sometimes simple theol'ogists. As for him, a citizen of all nations, he cares less what duty requires of us than what means may constrain us to do it; about the metaphysical perfection of laws, than about what man is capable of; about laws which have been made, than about those which ought to have been made; about the laws of a particular people, than about those of all peoples. Thus, when comparing himself to those who have run before him in this noble and grand career, he might say, with Correggio, when he had seen the works of his rivals, "And I, too, am a Painter." Filled with his subject, the author of the 'Spirit of Laws* comprehends so many materials, and treats them with such brev- ity and depth, that assiduous reading alone discloses its merit. This study will make that pretended want of method, of which some readers have accused M. de Montesquieu, disappear. Real want of order should be distinguished from what is apparent only. Real disorder confuses the analogy and connection of ideas; JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT ,g„ •or sets up conclusions as principles, so that the reader, after innumerable windings, finds himself at the point whence he set out. Apparent disorder is when the author, putting his ideas in their true place, leaves it to the readers to supply intermedi-, .ate ones. M. de Montesquieu's book is designed for men who think, for men capable of supplying voluntary and reasonable omissions. The order perceivable in the grand divisions of the 'Spirit of Laws' pervades the smaller details also. By his method of arrangement we easily perceive the influence of the difiEerent parts upon each other; as, in a system of human knowledge well under- stood, we may perceive the mutual relation of sciences and arts. There must always remain something arbitrary in every compre- hensive scheme, and all that can be required of an author is, that he follow strictly his own system. For an allowable obscurity the same defense exists. What may be obscure to the ignorant is not so for those whom the author had in mind. Besides, voluntary obscurity is not properly obscurity. Obliged to present truths of great importance, the direct avowal of which might have shocked without doing good, M. de Montesquieu has had the prudence to conceal them from those whom they might have hurt without hiding them from the wise. He has especially profited from the two most thoughtful his-' torians, Tacitus and Plutarch; but, though a philosopher familiar with these authors might have dispensed with many others, he neglected nothing that could be of use. The reading necessary for the < Spirit of Laws ' is immense ; and the author's ingenuity is the more wonderful because he was almost blind, and obliged to depend on other men's eyes. This prodigious reading contrib- utes not, only to the utility, but to the agreeableness of the work. Without sacrificing dignity, M. de Montesquieu entertains the reader by unfamiliar facts, or by delicate allusions, or by those strong and brilliant touches which paint, by one stroke, nations and men. In a word, M. de Montesquieu stands for the study of laws, as Descartes stood for that of philosophy. He often instructs us,- and is sometimes mistaken; and even when he mistakes, he instructs those who know how to read him. The last edition of his works demonstrates, by its many corrections and additions, that when he has made a slip, he has been able to rise again. ^66 JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT But what is within the reach of all the world is the spirit of the 'Spirit of Laws,* which ought to endear the author to all nations, to cover far greater faults than are his. The love of the public good, a desire to see men happy, reveals itself everywhere ; and had it no other merit, it would be worthy, on this account alone, to be read by nations and kings. Already we may perceive that the fruits of this work are ripe. Though M. de Montesquieu scarcely survived the publication of the * Spirit of Laws,* he had the satisfaction to foresee its effects among us; the natural love of Frenchmen for their country turned toward its true object; that taste for commerce, for agriculture, and for useful arts, which insensibly spreads itself in our nation; that general knowledge of the -principles of government, which renders people more attached to that which they ought to love. Even the men who have indecently attacked this work perhaps owe more to it than they imagine. Ingratitude, besides, is their least fault. It is not with- out regret and mortification that we expose them; but this history is of too much consequence to M. de Montesquieu and to philoso- phy to be passed over in silence. May that reproach, which at last covers his enemies, profit them! The * Spirit of Laws * was at once eagerly sought after on account of the reputation of its author; but though M. de Montes- quieu had written for thinkers, he had the vulgar for his judge. The brilliant passages scattered up and down the work, admit- ted only because they illustrated the subject, made the ignorant believe that it was written for them. Looking for an entertaining book, they found a useful one, whose scheme and details they could not comprehend without attention. The * Spirit of Laws * was treated with a deal of cheap wit; even the title of it was made a subject of pleasantry. In a word, one of the finest literary monuments which our nation ever produced was received almost with scurrility. It was requisite that competent judges should have time to read it, that they might correct the errors of the fickle multitude. That small public which teaches, dictated to that large pubHc which listens to hear, how it ought to think and speak; and the, suffrages of men of abilities formed only one voice over all Europe. The open and secret enemies of letters and philosophy now united their darts against this work. Hence that multitude of pamphlets discharged against the author, weapons which we shall not draw from oblivion. If those authors were not forgotten, it JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT ,5- might be believed that the < Spirit of Laws ' was written amid a nation of barbarians. M. de Montesquieu despised the obscure criticisms of the curious. He ranked them with those weekly newspapers whose encomiums have no authority, and their darts no effect; which indolent readers run over without believing, and in which sov- ereigns are insulted without khowing it. But he was not equally indifferent about those principles of irreligion which they accused him of having propagated. By ignoring such reproaches he would have seemed to deserve them, and the importance of the object made him shut his eyes to the meanness of his adversaries. The ultra-zealous, afraid of that light which letters diffuse, not to the prejudice of religion, but to their own disadvantage, took different ways of attacking him; some, by a trick as puerile as cowardly, wrote fictitious letters to themselves; others, attacking him anonymously, had afterwards fallen by the ears among them- selves. M. de Montesquieu contented himself with making an example of the most extravagant. This was the author of an anonymous periodical paper, who accused M. de Montesquieu of Spinozism and deism (two imputations which are incompatible); of having followed the system of Pope (of which there is not a word in his works) ; of having quoted Plutarch, who is not a Christian author; of not having spoken of original sin and of grace. In a word, he pretended that the 'Spirit of Laws' was a production of the constitution Unigenitus; a preposterous idea. Those who uiiderstand M. de Montesquieu and Clement XI. may judge, by this accusation, of the rest. This enemy procured the philosopher an addition of glory as a man of letters: the 'Defense of the Spirit of Laws* appeared. This work, for its moderation, truth, delicacy of ridicule, is a model. M. de Montesquieu might easily have made his adversary odious; he did better — he made him ridiculous. We owe the aggressor eternal thanks for having procured us this masterpiece. For here, without intending it, the author has drawn a picture of himself; those who knew him think they hear him; and posterity, when reading his 'Defense,' will decide that his conversation equaled his writings — an encomium which few great men have deserved. Another circumstance gave him the advantage. The critic loudly accused the clergy of France, and especially the faculty of theology, of indifference to the cause of God, because they did ^68 JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT not proscribe the 'Spirit of Laws.' The faculty resolved to ■examine the < Spirit of Laws.' Though several years have passed, it has not yet pronounced a decision. It knows the grounds of reason and of faith; it knows that the work of a man of letters ought not to be examined like that of a theologian; that a bad interpretation does not condemn a proposition, and that it may injure the weak to see an ill-time'd suspicion of heresy thrown upon geniuses of the first rank. In spite of this unjust accusa- tion, M. de Montesquieu was always esteemed, visited, and well received by the greatest and most respectable dignitaries of the ■Church. Would he have preserved this esteem among men of worth, if they had regarded him as a dangerous writer? M. de Montesquieu's death was not unworthy of his life. Suffering greatly, far from a family that was dear to him, sur- rounded by a few friends and a great crowd of spectators, he preserved to the last his calmness and serenity of soul. After performing with decency every duty, full of confidence in the Eternal Being, he died with the tranquillity of a man of worth, -who had ever consecrated his talents to virtue and humanity. France and Europe lost him February loth, 1755, aged sixty-six. All the newspapers published this event as a misfortune. We may apply to M. de Montesquieu what was formerly said of an illustrious Roman: that nobody, when told of his death, showed any joy or forgot him when he was no more. Foreigners were ■eager to demonstrate their regrets: my Lord Chesterfield, whom it is enough to name, wrote an article to his honor — an article worthy of both. It is the portrait of Anaxagoras drawn by Pericles. The Royal Academy of Scieiices and Belles-Lettres of Prussia, though it is not its custom to pronounce a eulogy on foreign members, paid him an honor which only the illustrious John Bernoulli had hitherto received. M. de Maupertuis, though ill, performed himself this last duty to his friend, and would not permit so sacred an office to fall to the share of any other. To these honorable suffrages were added those praises given him, in presence of one of us, by that very monarch to whom this ■celebrated Academy owes its lustre; a prince who feels the losses which Philosophy sustains, and at the same time comforts her. The 17th of February the French Academy, according to -custom, performeci a solemn service for him, at which all the learned men of this body assisted. They ought to have placed -the 'Spirit of Laws' upon his coffin, as heretofore they exposed. JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT -gn opposite to that of Raphael, his Transfiguration. This simple and affecting decoration would have been a fit funeral oration. M. de Montesquieu had, in company, an unvarying sweetness and gayety of temper. His conversation was spirited, a*greeable, and instructive, because he had known so many great men. It was, like his style, concise, full of wit and sallies, without gall, and without satire. Nobody told a story more brilliantly, more readily, more gracefully, or with less affectation. His frequent absence of mind only made him the more amus- ing. He always roused himself to reanimate the conversation. The fire of his genius, his prodigality of ideas, gave rise to flashes of speech; but he never interrupted an interesting conver- isation; and he was attentive without affectation and without con- straint. His conversation not only resembled his character and his genius, but had the method which he observed in his study. Though capable of long-continued meditation, he never exhausted his strength; he always left off application before he felt the least S5niiptom of fatigue. He was sensible to glory, but wished only to deserve it, and never tried to augment his own fame by underhand practices. Worthy of all distinctions, he asked none, and he was not surprised that he was forgot; but he has protected at court men of letters who were persecuted, celebrated, and unfortunate, and has obtained favors for them. Though he lived with the great, their company was not necessary to his happiness. He retired whenever he could to the country; there again with joy to welcome his philosophy, his books, and his repose. After haying studied man in the com- merce of the world, and in the history of nations, he studied him also among those simple people whom natiire alone has in- structed. From them he could learn something; he endeavored, like Socrates, to find out their genius; he appeared as happy thus as in the most brilliant assemblies, especially when he made up their differences, and comforted them by his beneficence. Nothing does greater honor to his memory than the economy ■with which he lived, and which has been blamed as excessive in a proud and avaricious age. He would not encroach on the pro- vision for his family, even by his generosity to the unfortunate, or by those expenses which his travels, the weakness of his sight, and the printing of his works made necessary. He transmitted to his children, without diminution or augmentation, the estate I — 24 370 JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT which he received from his ancestors, adding nothing to it but the glory of his name and the example of his life. He had married, in 1715, dame Jane de Lartigue, daughter of Peter de Lartigue, lieutenant-colonel of the regiment of Molevrier, and had by her two daughters and one son. Those who love truth and their country will not be displeased to find some of his maxims here. He thought: That every part of the State ought to be equally subject to the laws, but that the privileges of every part of the State ought to be respected when they do not oppose the natural right which obliges every citigen equally to contribute to the public good; that ancient possession was in this kind the first of titles, and the most inviolable of rights, which it was always unjust and sometimes dangerous to shake; that magistrates, in all circumstances, and notwithstand- ing their own advantage, ought to be magistrates without par- tiality and without passion, like the laws which absolve and punish without love or hatred. He said upon occasion of those ecclesiastical disputes which so much employed the Greek empe- rors and Christians, that theological disputes, when they are not confined to the schools, infallibly dishonor a nation in the eyes of its neighbors: in fact, the contempt in which wise men hold those quarrels does not vindicate the character of their country; because, sages making everywhere the least noise, and being the smallest number, it is never from them that the nation is judged. We look upon that special interest which M. de Montesquieu took in the * Encyclop^die ' as one of the most honorable rewards of our labor. Perhaps the opposition which the work has met with, reminding him of his own experience, interested him the more in our favor. Perhaps he was sensible, without perceiving it, of that justice which we dared to do' him in the first volume of the 'Encyclopedic,' when nobody as yet had ventured to say a word in his defense. He prepared for us an article upon * Taste,* which has been found unfinished among his papers. We shall give it to the public in that condition, and treat it with the same respect that antiquity formerly showed to the last words of Seneca. Death prevented his giving us any further marks of his approval; and joining our own griefs with those of all Europe, we might write on his tomb: — '^ Finis vita ejus nobis luctuosus, fatrix tristis, extraneis etiam ignotisque non sine cur a fuit. '* 371 VITTORIO ALFIERI (1 749- 1 803) BY L. OSCAR KUHNS ^TAHAN literature during the eighteenth century, although it could boast of no names in any way comparable with those of Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, and Tasso, showed still a vast improvement on the degradation of the preceding century. Among the most famous writers of the times — Goldoni, Parini, Metastasio — none is so great or so famous as Vittorio Alfieri, the founder of Ital- ian tragedy. The story of his life and of his literary activity, as told by himself in his memoirs, is one of extreme interest. Born at Asti, on January 17th, 1749, of a wealthy and noble family, he grew up to manhood singularly deficient in knowledge and culture, and without the slightest interest in literature. He was "uneducated," to use his own phrase, in the Academy of Turin. It was only after a long tour in Italy, France, Holland, and England, that, recognizing his own ignorance, he went to Florence to begin serious work. At the age of twenty-seven a sudden revelation of his dramatic power came to him, and with passionate energy he spent the rest of his life in laborious study and in efforts to make himself worthy of a place among the poets of his native land. Practically he had to learn everything; for he himself tells us that he had "an almost total ignorance of the rules of dramatic composition, and an unskill- fulness almost total in the divine and most necessary art of writing well and handling his own language." His private life was eventful, chiefly through his many senti- mental attachments, its deepest experience being his profound love and friendship for the Countess of Albany, — Louise Stolberg, mistress and afterward wife of the *~Young Pretender," who passed under the title of Count of Albany, and from whom she was finally divorced. The production of Alfieri's tragedies began with the sketch called 'Cleopatra,' in 1775, arid lasted till 1789, when a complete edition, by Didot, appeared in Paris. His only important prose work is his ' Auto- biography,' begun in 1790 and ended in the year of his death, 1803. Although he wrote several comedies and a number of sonnets and satires, — which do not often rise above mediocrity, — it is as a tragic poet that he is known to fame. Before him — though Goldoni had successfully imitated Moliere in comedy, and Metastasio had become enormously popular as the poet of love and the opera ^ no tragedies had been written in Italy which deserved to be compared with the great dramas of France, Spain, and England. Indeed, it had been 372 VITTORIO ALFIERI said that tragedy was not adapted to the Italian tongue or character. It remained for Alfieri to prove the falsity of this theory. Always sensitive to the charge of plagiarism, Alfieri declared that whether his tragedies were good or bad, they were at least his own. This is true to a certain extent. And yet he was influenced more than he was willing to acknowledge by the French dramatists of the seventeenth century. In common with Corneille and Racine, he ob- served strictly the three unities of time, place, and action. But the courtliness of language, the grace and poetry of the French dramas, and especially the tender love of Racine, are altogether lacking with him. Alfieri had a certain definite theory of tragedy which he followed with unswerving fidelity. He aimed at the simplicity and directness of the Grreek drama. He sought to give one clear, definite action, which should advance in a straight line from beginning to end, with- out deviation, and carry along the characters — who are, for the most part, helplessly entangled in the toils of a relentless fate — to an inevitable destruction. For this reason the well-known confidantes of the French stage were discarded, no secondary action or episodes were admitted, and the whole play was shortened to a little more than two-thirds of the average French classic drama. Whatever originality Alfieri possessed did not show itself in the choice of sub- jects, which are nearly all well known and had often been used before. From Racine he took '• Polynice, ' ' Merope ' had been treated by MaflEei and Voltaire, and Shakespeare had immortalized the story of Brutus. The situations and events are often conventional; the passions are those familiar to the stage, — jealousy, revenge, hatred, and unhappy love. And yet Alfieri has treated these subjects in a way which differs from all others, and which stamps them, in a cer- tain sense, as his own. With him all is sombre and melancholy; the scene is utterly unrelieved by humor, by the flowers of poetry, or by that deep-hearted S5rmpathy — the pity of it all — which softens the tragic effect of Shakespeare's plays. Alfieri seemed to be attracted toward the most horrible phases of human life, and the most terrible events of history and tradition. The passions he describes are those of unnatural love, of jealousy between father and son, of fratricidal' hatred, or those in which a sense of duty and love for liberty triumphs over the ties of filial and parental love: In treating the story of the second Brutus, it was not enough for his purpose to have Caesar murdered by his friend; but, availing himself of an unproven tradition, he makes Bru- tus the son of Cassar, and thus a parricide. It is interesting to notice his vocabulary; to see how constantly he uses such words as "atrocious," « horror, » <* terrible, » "incest," VITTORIO ALFIERI "rivers," « streams," « lakes," and «seas» of blood. The exclama- tion, «Oh,, rage!" occurs on almost every page. Death, murder, suicide, is the outcome of every tragedy. The actors are few,— in many plays only four,— and each repre- sents a certain passion. They never change, but remain true to their characters from beginning to end. The villains are monsters of cruelty and vice, and the innocent and virtuous are invariably their victims, and succumb at last. Alfieri's purpose in producing these plays was not to amuse an idle public, but to promulgate throughout his native land— then under Spanish domination — the great and lofty principle of liberty which inspired his whole life. A deep, uncompromising hatred of kings is seen in every drama, where invariably a tyrant figures as the villain. There is a constant declamation, against tyranny and slavery. Liberty is portrayed as something dearer than life itself. The struggle for freedom forms the subjects of five of his plays, — < Virginia,' the < First Brutus,* and the < Second Brutus.* One of these is dedicated to George Washington — * Liberator dell' America.' The warmth of feeling with which, in the < Conspiracy of the Pazzi,> the degrada- tion and slavery of Florence under the Medici is depicted, betrays clearly Alfieri's sense of the political state of Italy in his own day. And the poet undoubtedly has gained the gratitude of his country- men for his voicing of that love for liberty which has always existed in their hearts. Just as Alfieri sought to condense the action of his plays, so he strove for brevity and condensation in language. His method of composing was peculiar. He first sketched his play in prose, then worked it over in poetry, often spending years in the process of rewriting and polishing. In his indomitable energy, his persistence in labor, and his determination to acquire a fitting style, he reminds us of Balzac. His brevity of language — which shows itself most strikingly in the omission of articles, and in the number of broken exclamations — gives his pages a certain sententiousness, almost like proverbs. He purposely renounced all attempts at the graces and flowers of poetry. It is hard for the lover of Shakespearean tragedy to be jiist to the merits of Alfieri. There is a uniformity, or even a monotony, in these nineteen plays, whose characters are more or less alike, whose method of procedure is the same, whose sentiments are analogous, and in which an activity devoid of incident hurries the reader to an inevitable conclusion, foreseen from the first act. And yet the student cannot fail to detect great tragic power, sombre and often unnatural, but never producing that sense of the 3-4 VITTORIO ALFIERI ridiculous which sometimes mars the effect of Victor Hugo's dramas. The plots are never obscure, the language is never trivial, and the play ends with a climax which leaves a profound impression. The very nature of Alfieri's tragedies makes it difficult to repre- sent him without giving a complete play. The following extracts, however, illustrate admirably the horror and power of his climaxes. k^CjDuxAC^t^^y>^. AGAMEMNON [During the absence of Agamemnon at the siege of Troy, .ffigisthus, son of Thyestes and the relentless enemy of the House of Atreus, wins the love of Clytemnestra, and with devilish ingenuity persuades her that the only way to save her life and his is to slay her husband.] ACT IV — SCENE 1 iEGISTHUS — CLYTEMNESTRA /T-^GISTHUS — To be a banished man, ... to fly, . . . to die; f-\j ■ ■ ■ These are the only means that I have left. Thou, far from me, deprived of every hope Of seeing me again, wilt from thy heart Have quickly chased my image : great Atrides Will wake a far superior passion there; Thou, in his presence, many happy days Wilt thou enjoy — These auspices may Heaven Confirm — I cannot now evince to thee A surer proof of love than by my flight ; . . . A dreadful, hard, irrevocable proof. Clytemnestra — If there be need of death, we both will die! — But is there nothing left to try ere this? jEgis. — Another plan, perchance, e'en now remains; . . . But little worthy . . . Cly. — And it is — jEgis. — Too cruel. Cly. — But certain ? ■^gis. — Certain, ah, too much- so! C/c.— How Canst thou hide it from me ? ■^gis. — How canst thou Of me demand it ? VITTORIO ALFIERI ,-tf Cly. — What then may it be? . . . I know not . . . Speak: I am too far advanced; I cannot now retract: perchance already I am suspected by Atrides ; maybe He has the right already to despise me: Hence do I feel constrained,' e'en now, to hate him ; I cannot longer in his presence live; I neither will, nor dare. — Do thou, j^Egisthus, Teach me a means, whatever it may be, A means by which I may withdraw myself From him forever. yEgis. — Thou withdraw thyself From him ? I have already said to thee That now 'tis utterly impossible. Cly. — What other step remains for "me to take? . . . ^gis. — None. Cly. — Now I understand thee. — What a flash, Oh, what a deadly, instantaneous flash Of criminal conviction rushes through My obtuse mind! What throbbing turbulence In ev'ry vein I feel! — I understand thee: The cruel remedy . . i the only one . . . Is Agamemnon's life-blood. .^gis. — I am silent . . . Cly. — Yet, by thy silence, thou dost ask that blood. yEgis. — Nay, rather I forbid it. — To our love And to thy life (of mine I do not speak) His living is the only obstacle; But yet, thou knowest that his life is sacred: To love, respect, defend it, thou art bound; And I to tremble at it. — Let us cease: The hour advances now; my long discourse Might give occasion to suspicious thoughts. — At length receive . . . ^gisthus's last farewell. Cly. — Ah! hear me . . . Agamemnon to our love . . . And to thy life? . . . Ah, yes; there are, besides him, No other obstacles: too certainly His life is death, to us! ^gis. — Ah! do not heed My words: they spring from too much love. Cly. — And love Revealed to me their meaning. yEgis. — Hast thou not Thy mind o'erwhelmed with horror ? 376 VITTORIO ALFIERI Cly. — Horror? . . . yes; . . . But then to part from thee! . . . ^gis. — Wouldst have the coiirage ? . . . Cly. — So vast my love, it puts an end to fear. jEgis. — But the king lives surrounded by his friends: . What sword would find a passage to his heart ? Cly. — What sword? ^gis. — Here open violence were vain. C^.— Yet, . . . treachery! . . . ^gis. — 'Tis true, he merits not To be betrayed, Atrides: he who loves His wife so well; he who, enchained from Troy, In semblance of a slave in fetters, brought Cassandra, whom he loves, to whom he is Himself a slave . . . C?)'.— What do I hear! JE.gis. — Meanwhile Expect that when of thee his love is wearied, He will divide with her his throne and bed; Expect that, to thy many other wrongs, ■ Shame will be added : and do thou alone Not be exasperated at a deed That rouses every Argive. C7v.— What said'st thou? . . . Cassandra chosen as my rival ? . . . JEgis. — So Atrides wills. Cly. — Then let Atrides perish. y£gis. — How? By what hand? ■ Cly. — By mine, this very night. Within that bed which he expects to share With this abhorred slave. j^gis. — O Heavens! but think . . . Cly. — I am resolved ... ^gis. — Shouldst thou repent? . . . Cly.— I do That I so long delayed. ^gis. — And yet . . . Qc.— I'll do it; I, e'en if thou wilt not. Shall I let thee, Who only dost deserve my love, be dragged To cruel death ? And shall I let him live Who cares not for my love ? I swear to thee. To-morrow thou shalt be the king in Argos. VITTORIO ALFIERI .^ Nor shall my hand, nor shall my bosom tremble But who approaches? yS^ts.—' Tis Electra . . . Cly. — Heavens! Let us avoid her. Do thou trust in me. SCENE II ELECTRA Electra — ./SIgisthus flies from me, and he does well; But I behold that likewise from my sight My mother seeks to fly. Infatuated And wretched mother! She could not resist The guilty eagerness for the last time To see ^gisthus. — They have here, at length. Conferred together . . . But -S^gisthus seems Too much elated, and too confident. For one condemned to exile . . . She appeared Like one disturbed in thought, but more possessed With anger and resentment than with grief . . . O Heavens! who knows to what that miscreant base, With his infernal arts, may have impelled her! To what extremities have wrought her up! . . . . Now, now, indeed, I tremble: what misdeeds. How black in kind, how manifold in number. Do I behold! . . . Yet, if I speak, I kill My mother: ... If I'm silent — ? . . . ACT V — SCENE II jEGISTHUS CLYTEMNESTRA ^gis. — Hast thou performed the deed? Cly. — -iSIgisthus . . . ^gis. — What do I behold? O woman, What dost thou here, dissolved in useless tears? Tears are unprofitable, late, and vain; And they may cost us dear. C^. — Thou here? ... but how? . . . Wretch that I am ! what have I promised thee ? What impious counsel? . . . ^gis. — Was not thine the counsel? Love gave it thee, and fear recants it. — Now, Since thou'rt repentant, I am satisfied; 378 VITTORIO ALFIERI Soothed by reflecting that thou, art not guilty, I shall at least expire. To thee I said How difficult the enterprise would be; But thou, depending more than it became thee On that which is not in thee, virile courage, Daredst thyself thy own unwarlike hand For such a blow select. May Heaven permit That the mere project of a deed like this May not be fatal to thee! I by stealth. Protected by the darkness, hither came, And unobserved, I hope. I was constrained To bring the news myself, that now my life Is irrecoverably forfeited To the king's vengeance . . . Cfy.—What is this I hear? Whence didst thou learn it? y£gis. — More than he would wish Atrides hath discovered of our love; And I already from him have received A strict command not to depart from Argos. And further, I am summoned to his presence Soon as to-morrow dawns: thou seest well That such a conference to me is death. But fear not; for I will all means employ To bear myself the undivided blame. Qj/.^What do I hear? Atrides knows it all? ^gis. — He knows too much: I have but one choice left: It will be best for me to 'scape by death. By self-inflicted death, this dangerous inquest. I save my honor thus; and free myself From an opprobrious end. I hither came To give thee my last warning: and to take My last farewell. . . . Oh, live; and may thy fame Live with thee, unimpeached! All thoughts of pity For me now lay aside; if I'm allowed By my own hand, for thy sake, to expire, I am supremely blest. G^.— Alas! . . . ^gisthus . . . What a tumultuous passion rages now Within my bosom, when I hear thee speak! . . . And is it true? . . . Thy death . . . ySgis. — Is more than certain. . . . Cly. — And I'm thy murderer! . . . yEgis. — I seek thy safety. VITTORIO ALFIERI . ,„ Cly. — What wicked fury from Avernus' shore, ^gisthus, guides thy steps? Oh, I had died Of grief, if I had never seen thee more; But guiltless I had died: spite of myself, Now, by thy presence, I already am Again impelled to this tremendous crime. . . . An anguish, an unutterable anguish. Invades my bones, invades my every fibre. . : . And can it be that this alone can save thee ? . . . But who revealed our love ? ^gis. — To speak of thee, Who but Electra to her father dare ? Who to the monarch breathe thy name but she ? Thy impious daughter in thy bosom thrusts The fatal sword; and ere she takes thy life, Would rob thee of thy honor. Cly. — And ought I This to believe ? . . . Alas ! . . . ^gis. — Believe it, then, On the authority of this my sword, If thou believ'st it not on mine. At least I'll die in time. . . . Cly. — O Heavens! what wouldst thou do? Sheathe, I command thee, sheathe that fatal sword. — Oh, night of horrors! . . . hear me . . . Perhaps Atrides Has not resolved. . . . y£gis. — What boots this hesitation? . . . Atrides injured, and Atrides king, Meditates nothing in his haughty mind But blood and vengeance. Certain is my death. Thine is uncertain: but reflect, O queen. To what thou'rt destined, if he spare thy life. And were I seen to enter here alone, And at so late an hour . . . Alas, what fears Harrow my bosom when I think of thee! Soon will the dawn of day deliver thee From racking doubt; that dawn I ne'er shall see: I am resolved to die: . . . — Farewell . . . forever! Cly. — Stay, stay . . . Thou shalt not die. y^gis. — By no man's hand Assuredly, except my own: — or thine, If so thou wilt. Ah, perpetrate the deed; Kill me ; and' drag me, palpitating yet, Before thy judge austere: my blood will be A proud acquittance for thee. 38o VITTORIO ALFIERI Cly. — Madd'ning thouglit! . . . Wretch that I am ! . . . Shall I be thy assassin ? . . . ^gis. — Shame on thy hand, that cannot either kill Who most adores thee, or who most detests thee! Mine then must serve. . . . C/y.— Ah! . . . no. . . . .'Egis. — Dost thou desire Me,' or Atrides, dead ? Cly. — Ah! what a choice! . . . ^gis. — Thou art compelled to choose. Cly. — I death inflict . . . yEgis. — Or death receive; when thou hast. witnessed mine. Cly. — Ah, then the crime is too inevitable! .^gis. — The time now presses. Cly. — But . . . the courage . . . strengfth ? . . . .iEgis. — Strength, courage, all, will love impart to thee. Cly. — Must I then with this trembling hand of mine Plunge ... in my husband's heart . . . the sword? ... y£gis. — The blows Thou wilt redouble with a steady hand In the hard heart of him who slew thy daughter. Cly. — Far from my hand I hurled the sword in anguish. ./Egis. — Behold a steel, and of another temper: The clotted blood-drops of Thyestes's sons Still stiffen on its frame: do not delay To furbish it once more in the vile blood Of Atreus; go, be quick: there now remain But a few moments; go. If awkwardly The blow thou aimest, or if thou shouldst be Again repentant, lady, ere 'tis struck. Do not thou any more tow'rd these apartments Thy footsteps turn: by my own hands destroyed, Here wouldst thou find me in a sea of blood Immersed. Now go, and tremble not; be bold. Enter and save us by his .death. — SCENE III iEGISTHUS /Egis. — Come forth, Thyestes, from profound Avernus; come. Now is the time; within this palace now Display thy dreadful shade. A copious banquet Of blood is now prepared for thee, enjoy it; VITTORIO ALFIERI ,gj Already o'er the heart of thy foe's son Hangs the suspended sword; now, now, he feels it: An impious consort grasps it; it was fitting That she, not I, did this: so much more sweet To thee will be the vengeance, as the crime Is more atrocious. . . . An attentive ear Lend to the dire catastrophe with me; Doubt not she will accomplish it: disdain, Love, terror, to the necessary crime Compel the iijipious woman. — AGAMEMNON (within) Aga. — Treason! Ah! . . . My wife ? . . O Heavens ! . . I die . . O traitorous deed ! ^gis. — Die, thou — yes, die! And thou redouble. The blows redouble; all the weapon hide [woman. Within his heart; shed, to the latest drop, The blood of that fell miscreant: in our blood He would have bathed his hands. SCENE IV CLYTEMNESTRA — ^ESGISTHUS Cly. — ^What have I done ? Where am I ? . . . yEgis. — Thou hast slain the tyrant: now At length thou'rt worthy of me. Cly. — See, with blood The dagger drips; . . . my hands, my face, my garments. All, all are blood . . . Oh, for a deed like tliis. What vengeance will be wreaked! ... I see already Already to my breast that very steel I see hurled back, and by what hand! I freeze, I faint, I shudder, I dissolve with horror. My strength, my utterance, fail nje. Where am I ? What have I done? . . . Alas! . . .• ^gis. — Tremendous cries Resound on every side throughout the palace: 'Tis time to show the Argives what I am, And reap the harvest of my long endurance. 382 VITTORIO ALFIERI SCENE V ELECTRA — jEGISTHUS Elec. — It still remains for thee to murder me, Thou impious, vile assassin of my father . . . But what do I behold ? O Heavens ! . . . my mother ? . . Flagitious woman, dost thou grasp the sword? Didst thou commit the murder? ^gis. — Hold thy peace. Stop not my path thus; quickly I return; Tremble: for now that I am king of Argos, Far more important is it that I kill Orestes than Electra. SCENE VI CLYTEMNESTRA — ELECTRA Cly. — Heavens! . . . Orestes? . . . .^gisthus, now I know thee. . . . Elec. — Give it me: Give me that steel. Qt'.— .-Egisthus! . . . Stop! . . . Wilt thou Murder my son ? Thou first shalt murder me. SCENE VII ELECTRA Elec.—O night! . . O father! . . Ah, it was your deed, Y5 gods, this thought of mine to place Orestes In safety first. — Thou wilt not find him, traitor.^ Ah live, Orestes, live: and I will keep This impious steel for thy adult right hand. The day, I hope, will come, when I in Argos Shall see thee 'the avenger of thy father. Translation of Edgar Alfred Bowring, Bohn's Library. 38.3 ALFONSO THE WISE (1226-1284) JiNG Alfonso," records the Jesuit historian, Mariana, "was a man of great sense, but more fit to be a scholar than a king; for whilst he studied the heavens and the stars, he lost the earth and his kingdom." Certainly it is for his services to letters, and not for political or military successes, that the meditative son of the valorous Ferdinand the Saint and the beautiful Beatrice of Swabia will be remembered. The father conquered Seville, and displaced the enterprising and infidel Moors with orthodox and indo- lent Christians. The son could not keep what his sire had grasped. Born in 1226, the fortunate young prince, at the age of twenty-five, was proclaimed king of the newly conquered and united Castile and Leon. He was very young: he was everywhere admired and honored for skill in war, for learning, and for piety; he was everywhere loved for his heritage of a great name and his kindly and gracious manners. In the first year of his reign, however, he began debasing the coinage, — a favorite device of needy monarchs in his day, — and his people never forgave the injury. He coveted, naturally enough, the throne of the Empire,. for which he was long a favorite candidate; and for twenty years he wasted time, money, and purpose, heart and hope, in pursuit of the vain bauble. His kingdom fell into confus- ion, his eldest son died, his second son Sancho rebelled against him and finally deposed him. Courageous and determined to the last, defying the league of Church and State against him, he appealed to the king of Morocco for men and money to reinstate his fortunes. In Ticknor's 'History of Spanish Literature > may be found his touching letter to De Guzman at the Moorish court. He is, like Lear, poor and discrowned, but not like him, weak. His prelates have stirred up strife, his nobles have betrayed him. If Heaven wills, he is ready to pay generously for help. If not, says the royal philoso- pher, still, generosity and loyalty exalt the soul that cherishes them. "Therefore, my cousin, Alonzo Per6z de Guzman; so treat with your master and my friend [the king of Morocco] that he may lend me, on my richest crown and on the jewels in it, as much as shall seem good to him: and if you should . be able to obtain his help for me, do not deprive me of it, which I think you will not do; rather I hold that all the good offices which my master may do me, by your hand they will come, and may the hand of God be with you. « Given in my only loyal city of Seville, the thirtieth year of my reign and the first of my misfortunes. ^^ ^^^ KiNG.» 384 ALFONSO THE WISE In his "only loyal city" the broken man remained, until the Pope excommunicated Sancho, and till neighboring towns began to capit- ulate. But he had been wounded past healing. There was no med- icine for a mind diseased, no charm to raze out the written troubles of the brain. "He fell ill in Seville, so that he drew nigh unto death. . . . And when the sickness had run its course, he said before them all: that he pardoned the Infante Don Sancho, his heir, all that out of malice he had done against him, and to his subjects the wrong they had wrought towards him, ordering that letters con- firming the same should be written — sealed with his golden seal, so that all his subjects should be certain that he had put away his quarrel with them, and desired that no blame whatever should rest upon them. And when he had said this, he. received the body of God with great devotion, and in a little while gave up his soul to God.» This was in 1284, when he was fifty-eight years old. At this age, had' a private lot been his, — that of a statesman, jurist, man of sci- ence, annalist, philosopher, troubadour, mathematician, historian, poet, — he would but have entered his golden prime, rich in promise, fruitful in performance. Yet Alfonso, uniting in himself all these vocations, seemed at his death to have left behind him a wide waste of opportunities, a dreary dearth of accomplishment. Looking back, however, it is seen that the balance swings even. While his kingdom was slipping away, he was conquering a wider domain. He was creating Spanish Law, protecting the followers of learning, cherish- ing the universities, restricting privilege, breaking up time-honored abuses. He prohibited the use of Latin in public acts. He adopted the native tongue in all his own works, and thus gave to Spanish an honorable eminence, while French and German struggled long for a learning from scholars, and English was to wait a hundred years for the advent of Dan Chaucer. Greatest achievement of all, he codified the common law of Spain in (Songs to the Virgin), which were sung over his grave by priests and acolytes for hundreds of years. They are sometimes melancholy and sometimes joyous, always simple and genuine, and, written in Galician, reflect the trustful piety and hap- piness of his youth in remote hill provinces where the thought of empire had not penetrated. It was his keen intelligence that ex- pressed itself in the saying popularly attributed to him, « Had I been present at the creation, I might have offered some useful sugges- tions." It was his reverent spirit that made mention in his will of the sacred songs as the testimony to his faith. So lived and died Alfonso the Tenth, the father of Spanish literature, and the reviver of Spanish learning. «WHAT MEANETH A TYRANT, AND HOW HE USETH HIS POWER IN A KINGDOM WHEN HE HATH OBTAINED IT» « A TYRANT," says this law, "doth signify a cruel lord, who, f\ by force or by craft, or by treachery, hath obtained power over any realm or country; and such men be of such nature, that when once they have grown strong in the land, they love rather to work their own profit, though it be in harm of the land, than the common profit of all, for they always live in an ill fear of losing it. And that they may be able to fulfill this their purpose unincumbered, the wise of old have said that they use their power against the people in three manners. The first is, that they strive that those under their mastery be ever ignorant and timorous, because, when they be such, they may not be bold to rise against them, nor to resist their wills; and the second is, that they be not kindly and united among themselves, in such wise that they trust not one another, for while they live in disagreement, they shall not dare to make any discourse against their lord, for fear faith and secrecy should not be kept among themselves; and the third way is, that they strive to make them poor, and to put them upon great undertakings, which they never can finish, whereby they may have so much harm that it may never come into their hearts to devise any- thing against their ruler. And above all this, have tyrants ever ALFONSO THE WISE ,g- striven to make spoil of the strong and to destroy the wise; and have forbidden fellowship and assemblies of men in their land, and striven always to know what men said or did; and do trust their counsel and the guard of their person rather to foreigners, who will serve at their will, than to them of the land, who serve from oppression. A,nd moreover, we say that though any man may have gained mastery of a kingdom by any of the law- ful means whereof we have spoken in the laws going before this, yet, if he use his power ill, in the ways whereof we speak in this law, him may the people still call tyrant; for he turneth his mastery which was rightful into wrongful, as Aristotle hath said in the book which treateth of the rule and government of king' doms. '* From Chapter xiii. TO THE MONTH OF MARY From the WELCOME, O May, yet once again we greet thee! So alway praise we her, the Holy Mother, Who prays to God that he shall aid us ever Against our foes, and to us ever listen. Welcome, O May! loyally art. thou welcome! So alway praise we her, the Mother of kindness. Mother who alway on us taketh pity. Mother who guardeth us from woes unnumbered. "Welcome, O May! welcome, O month well favored! So let us ever pray and offer praises To her who ceases not for us, for sinners, To pray to God that we from woes be guarded. Welcome, O May! O joyous month and stainless! So will we ever pray to her who gaineth Grace from her Son for us, and gives each morning Force that by us the Moors from Spain are driven. Welcome, O May, of bread and wine the giver! Pray then to her, for in her a!rms, an infant She bore the Lord! she points us on our journey, The journey that to her will bear us quickly! 389 ALFRED THE GREAT {849-901) |n the Ashmolean Museum at Oxford may be seen an antique jewel, consisting of an enameled figure in red, blue, and green, enshrined in a golden frame, and bearing the legend "Alfred mec heht gewyrcean » (Alfred ordered me made). This was discovered in 1693 in Newton Park, near Athelney, and through it one is enabled to touch the far-away life of a thousand years ago. But greater and more imperishable than this archaic gem is the gift that the noble King left to the English nation— a gift that affects the entire race of English-speaking people. For it was Alfred who laid the foundations for a national literature. Alfred, the younger son of Ethelwulf, king of the West Saxons, and Osberga, daughter of his cup-bearer, was born in the palace at Wantage in the year 849. He grew up at his father's court, a migra- tory one, that moved from Kent to Devonshire and from Wales to the Isle of Wight whenever events, raids, or the Witan (Parliament) demanded. At an early age Alfred was sent to pay homage to the Pope in Rome, taking such gifts as rich vessels of gold and silver, silks, and hangings, which show that Saxons lacked nothing in treasure. In 855 Ethelwulf visited Rome with his young son, bearing more costly presents, as well as munificent sums for the shrine of St. Peter's; and returning by way of France, they stopped at the court of Charles the Bold. Once again in his home, young Alfred applied himself to his education. He became a marvel of courage at the chase, proficient in the use of arms, excelled in athletic sports, was zealous in his religious duties, and athirst for knowledge. His accomplishments were many; and when the guests assembled in the great hall to make the walls ring with their laughter over cups of mead and ale, he could take his turn with the harpers and minstrels to improvise one of those sturdy bold ballads that stir the blood to-day with their stately rhythms and noble themes. Ethelwulf died in 858, and eight years later only two sons, Ethel- red and Alfred, were left to cope with the Danish invaders. They won victory after victory, upon which the old chroniclers love to dwell, pausing to describe wild frays among the chalk-hills and dense forests, which afforded convenient places to hide men and to bury spoils. Ethelred died in 871, and the throne descended to Alfred. His kingdom was in a terrible condition, for Wessex, Kent, Mercia, Sus- sex, and Surrey lay at the mercy of the marauding enemy. "The 3po ALFRED THE GREAT land," says an old writer, "was as the Garden of Eden before them, and behind them a desolate wilderness." London was in ruins: the Danish standard, with its black Raven, fluttered everywhere ; and che forests were filled with outposts and spies of the "pagan army." There was nothing for the King to do but gather his men and dash into the fray to "let the hard steel ring upon the high helmet." Time after time the Danes are overthrown, but, like the heads of the fabled Hydra, they grow and flourish after each attack. They have one advantage : they know how to command the sea, and numerous as the waves that their vessels ride so proudly and well, the invaders arrive and quickly land to plunder and slay. Alfred, although but twenty-five, sees the need for a navy, and in 875 gathers a small fleet to meet the ships of the enemy, wins one prize, and puts the rest to flight. The chroniclers now relate that he fell into disaster and became a fugitive in Selwood Forest, while Guthrum and his host were left free to ravage. From this period date the legends of the King's visit in disguise to the hut of the neat-herd, and his burning the bread he was set to watch; his pene- trating into the camp of the Danes and entertaining Guthrum by his minstrelsy while discovering his plans and force ; the vision of St. Cuthbert; and the fable of his calling five hundred men by the winding of his horn. Not long after he was enabled to emerge from the trials of exile in Athelney ; and . according to Asser, « In the seventh week after Easter, he rode to Egbert's Stone in the eastern part of Selwood or the Great Wood, called in the old British language Coit-mawr. Here he was met by all the neighboring folk of Somersetshire, Wilt- shire, and Hampshire, who had not for fear of the Pagans fled beyond the sea; and when they saw the king alive after such great tribulation, they received him, as he deserved, with joy and ac- clamations and all encamped there fBr the night." Soon afterward he made a treaty with the Danes, and became king of the whole of England south of the Thames. It was now Alfred's work to reorganize his kingdom, to strengthen the coast defenses, to rebuild London, to arrange for a standing army, and to make wise laws for the preservation of order and peace; and when all this was accomplished, he turned his attention to the establishment of monasteries and colleges. "In the mean- time," says old Asser, "the King, during the frequent wars and other trammels of this present life, the invasions of the Pagans, and his own daily infirmities of body, continued to carry on the govern- ment, a,nd to exercise hunting in all its branches; to teach his workers in gold and artificers of all kinds, his falconers, hawkers, arid dog-keepers, to build houses majestic and good, beyond all the ALFRED THE GREAT precedents of his ancestors, by his new mechanical inventions, to recite the Saxon books, and more especially to learn by heart the Saxon poems, and to make others learn them also; for he alone never desisted from studying, most diligently, to the best of his ability; he attended the mass and other daily services of religion: he was frequent in psalm-singing and prayer, at the proper hours, both of the night and of the day. He also went to the churches, as • we have already saidj in the night-time, to pray, secretly and un- known to his courtiers; he bestowed alms and largesses both on his own people and on foreigners of all countries; he was affable and pleasant to all, and curious to investigate things unknown." As regards Alfred's personal contribution to literature, it may be said that over and above all disputed matters and certain lost works, they represent a most valuable and voluminous assortment due directly to his own royal and scholarly pen. History, secular and churchly, laws and didactic literature, were his field; and though it would seem that his actual period of composition did not much exceed ten years, yet he accomplished a vast deal for any man, especially any busy sovereign and soldier. An ancient writer,- Ethelwerd, says that he translated many books from Latin into Saxon, and William of Malmesbury goes so far as to say that he translated into Anglo-Saxon almost all the literature of Rome. Undoubtedly the general condition of education was deplor- able, and Alfred felt this deeply. "Formerly,'' he writes, "men came hither from foreign lands to seek instruction, and now when we desire it, we can only obtain it from, abroad.* Like Charlemagne he drew to his court famous scholars, and set many of them to work writing chronicles and translating important Latin books into Anglo- Saxon. Among these was the < Pastoral Care of Pope Gregory,* to which he wrote the Preface; but with his own hand he translated the ' Consolations of Philosophy, ' by Boethius, two manuscripts of which still exist. In this he frequently stops to introduce observations and comments of his own. Of greater value was his translation' of the ' History of the World, ' by Orosius, which he abridged, and to which he added new chapters giving the record of coasting voyages in the north of Europe. This is preserved in the Cotton MSS. in the British Museum. His fourth translation was the < Ecclesiastical His- tory of the English Nation,' by Bede. To this last may be added the 'Blossom Gatherings from St. Augustine,' and many minor com- positions in prose and verse, translations from the Latin fables and poems, and his own note-book, in which he jots, with what may be termed a journalistic instinct, scenes that he' had witnessed, such as Aldhelm standing on the bridge instructing the people on Sunday afternoons; bits of philosophy; and such reflections as the following. 392 ALFRED THE GREAT which remind one of Marcus Aurelius: — "Desirest thou power? But thou shalt never obtain it without sorrows — sorrows from strange folk, and yet keener sorrows from thine own kindred;" and "Hard- ship and sorrow! Not a king but would wish to be without these if he could. But I know that he cannot." Alfred's value to literature is this: he placed by the side of Anglo-Saxon poetry, — consisting of two great poems, Caedmon's great song of the ' Creation ' and Cyne- wulf's 'Nativity and Life of Christ,' and the unwritten ballads passed from lip to lip, — four immense translations from Latin into Anglo- Saxon prose, which raised English from a mere spoken dialect to a true language. From his reign date also the famous Anglo-Saxon Chronicle and the Anglo-Saxon Gospels; and a few scholars are tempted to class the magnificent ' Beowulf ' among the works of this period. At any rate, the great literary movement that he inaugurated lasted until the Norman Conquest. In 893 the Danes once more disturbed King Alfred, but he foiled them at all points, and they left in 897 to harry England no more for several generations. In 901 he died, having reigned for thirty years in the honor and affection of his subjects. Freeman in his ' Norman Conquest ' says that " no other man on record has ever so thoroughly united all the virtues both of the ruler and of the private man." Bishop Asser, his contemporary, has left a half-mythical eulogy, and William of Malmesbury, Roger of Wendover, Matthew of Westminster, and John Brompton talk of him fully and freely. Sir John Spellman published a quaint biography in Oxford in 1678, followed by Powell's in 1634, and Bicknell's in 1777. The modern lives are by Giles, Pauli, and Hughes. KING ALFRED ON KING-CRAFT Comment in bis Translation of Boethius's 'Consolations of Philosophy > THE Mind then answered and thus said: O Reason, indeed thou kjiowest that covetousness and the greatness of this earthly power never well pleased me, nor did I altogether very much yearn after this earthly authority. But nevertheless I was desirous of materials for the work which I was commanded to perform; that was, that I might honorably and fitly guide and exercise the power which was committed to me. Moreover, thou knowest that no man can show any skill nor exercise or control any power, without tools and materials. There are of every craft the materials without which man cannot exercise the craft. These, then, are a king's materials and his tools to reign with: ALFRED THE GREAT that he have his land well peopled; he must have prayer-men, and soldiers, and workmen. Thou knowest that without these tools no king can show his craft. This is also his materials which he must have besides the tools: provisions for the three classes. This is, then, their provision: land to inhabit, and gifts and weapons, and meat, and ale, and clothes, and whatsoever is necessary for the three classes. He cannot without these pre- serve the t6ols, nor without the tools accomplish any of those things which he is commanded to perform. Therefore, I was desirous of materials wherewith to exercise the power, that my talents and power should not be forgotten and concealed. For every craft and every power soon becomes old, and is passed over in silence, if it be without wisdom: for no man can accom- plish any craft without wisdom. Because whatsoever is done through folly, no one can ever reckon for craft. This is now especially to be said: that I wished to live honorably whilst I lived, and after my life, to leave to the men who were after me, my memory in good works. ALFRED'S PREFACE TO THE VERSION OF POPE GREGORY'S < PASTORAL CARE> KING Alfred bids greet Bishop Wserferth with his words lov- ingly and with friendship; and I let it be known to thee that it has very often come into my mind, what wise men there formerly were throughout England, both of sacred and sec- ular orders; and what happy times there were then throughout England; and how the kings who had power of the nation in those days obeyed God and his ministers; and they preserved peace, morality, and order at home, and at the same time en- larged their territory abroad; and how they prospered both with war and with wisdom; and also the sacred orders, how zealous they were, both in teaching and learning, and in all the services they owed to God; and how foreigners came to this land in search of wisdom and instruction, and how we should now have to get them from abroad if we would have them. So general was its decay in England that there were very few on this side of the Humber who could understand their rituals in English, or translate a letter from Latin into English; and I believe there were not many beyond the Humber. There were so few that I cannot remember a single one south of the Thames when 204 ALFRED THE GREAT I came to the throne. Thanks be to God Almighty that we have any teachers among us now. And therefore I command thee to do as I believe thou art willing, to disengagie thyself from worldly matters as often as thou canst, that thou mayst apply the wisdom which God has given thee wherever thou canst. Consider what punishments would come upon us on account of this World if we neither loved it (wisdom) ourselves nor suff ereid other men to obtain it : we should love the name only of Christian, and very few of the virtues. When I considered all this I remembered also how I saw, before it had been all ravaged and burnt, how the churches throughout the whole of England stood filled with treasures and books, and there was also a great multitude of God's servants; but they had very little knowledge of the books, for they could not understand anything of them, because they were not written in their own language. As if they had said, "Our forefathers, who formerly held these places, loved wisdom, and through it they obtained wealth and bequeathed it to us. In this we can still see their tracks, but we cannot follow them, and therefore we haye lost both the wealth and the w:isdom, because we would not incline our hearts after their example." When I remembered all this, I wondered extremely that the good and wise men, who were formerly all over England, and had perfectly learnt all the books, did not wish to translate them into their own language. But again, I soon answered myself and said, "They did not think that men would ever be so careless, and that learning would so decay; therefore they abstained from translating, and they trusted that the wisdom in this land might increase with our knowledge of languages." Then I remember how the law was first known in Hebrew, and again, when' the Greeks had learnt it, they translated the whole of it into their own language, and all other books besides. And again, the Romans, when they had learnt it, they translated the whole of it through learned interpreters into their own language. And also all other Christian nations translated a part of them into their own language. Therefore it seems better to me, if ye think so, for us also to. translate some books which are most needful for all men to know, into the language which we can all understand, and for you to do as we very easily can if we have tranquillity enough ; that is, that all the youth now in England of free men, who are rich enough to be able to devote ALFRED THE GREAT ,nr themselves to it, be set to learn as long as they are not fit for any other occupation, until that they are well able to read English writing: and let those be afterward taught more in the Latin language who are to continue learning and be promoted to a higher rank. When I remember how the knowledge of Latin had formerly decayed throughout England, and yet many could read English writing, I began among other various and manifold troubles of this kingdom, to translate into English the book which is called in Latin < Pastoralis, * and in English < Shepherd's Book, sometimes word by word and sometimes according to the sense, as I had learnt it from Plegmund, my archbishop, and Asser, my bishop, and Grimbold, my mass-priest, and John, my mass-priest. And when* I had learnt it as I could best understand it, and as I could most clearly interpret it, I translated it into English; and I will send a copy to every bishopric in my kingdom; and on each there is a clasp worth fifty mancus. And I command, in God's name, that no man take the clasp from the book or the book from the minister: it is uncertain how long there may be such learned bishops as now, thanks be to God, there are nearly everywhere; therefore, I wish them always to remain in their place, unless the bishop wish -to take them with him, or they be lent out anywhere, or any one make a copy from them. BLOSSOM GATHERINGS FROM ST. AUGUSTINE IN every tree I saw something there which I needed at home, therefore I advise every one who is able and has many wains, that he trade to the same wood where I cut the stud shafts, and there fetch more for himself and load his wain with fair rods, that he may wind many a neat wall and set many a comely house and build many a fair town of them; and thereby may dwell merrily and softly, so as I now yet have not done. But He who taught me, to whom the wood was agreeable. He may make me to dwell more softly in this temporary cottage, the while that I am in this world, and also in the everlasting home which He has promised us through St. Augustine, and St. Gregory, and St. Jerome, and through other holy fathers; as I believe also that for the merits of all these He will make the way more con- venient than it was before, and especially the carrying and the building: but every man wishes after he has built a cottage on his lord's lease by his help, that he may sometimes rest him 396 ALFRED THE GREAT therein and hunt, and fowl, and fish, and use it every way under the lease both on water and on land, until the time that he earn book-land and everlasting heritage through his lord's mercy.. So do enlighten the eyes of my mind so that I may search out the right way to the everlasting home and the everlasting glory, and the everlasting rest which is promised us* through those holy fathers. May it be so! . . . It is no wonder though men swink in timber working, and in the wealthy Giver who wields both these temporary cottages and eternal homes. May He who shaped both and wields both, grant me that I may be meet for each, both here to be profitable and thither to come. o WHERE TO FIND TRUE JOY From ' Boethius > H ! IT is a fault of weight, Let him think it out who will, And a danger passing great Which can thus allure to ill Careworn men from the rightway, Swiftly ever led astray. Will ye seek within the wood .Red gold on the green trees tall? None, I wot, is wise that could, For it grows not there at all: Neither in wine-gardens green Seek they gems of glittering sheen. Would ye on some hill-top set, When ye list to catch a trout. Or a carp, your fishing-net ? Men, methinks, have long found out That it would be foolish fare. For they know they are not there. In the salt sea can ye find. When ye list to start an hunt, With your hounds, the hart or hind ? It will sooner be your wont In the woods to look, I wot. Than in seas where they are not. ALFRED THE GREAT ,.. Is it wonderful to know That for crystals red or white One must to the sea-beach go, Or for other colors bright, Seeking by the river's side Or the shore at ebb of tide ? Likewise, men are well aware Where to look for river-fish; And all other worldly ware Where to seek them when they wish; Wisely careful men will know . Year by year to find them so. But of all things 'tis most sad That they foolish are so blind. So, besotted and so mad. That they cannot surely find Where the ever-good is nigh . And true pleasures hidden lie, Therefore, never is their strife After those true joys to spur; In this lean and little life They, half-witted, deeply err Seeking here their bliss to gain, That is God Himself in vain, Ah! I know not in my thought How enough to blame their sin. None so clearly as I ought Can I show their fault within; For, more bad and vain are they And more sad than I can say. All their hope is to acquire Worship goods and worldly weal; When they have their mind's desire. Then such witless Joy they feel. That in folly they believe Those True Joys they then receive. Works of Alfred the Great, Jubilee Edition (Oxford and Cambridge, 1852). -ng ALFRED THE GREAT A SORROWFUL FYTTE From *The Color of Flowers,' and < Flowers and their Pedi- grees'; and still deeper is 'Force and Energy' (1888), a theory of dynamics in which he expresses original views. In < Psychological .(Esthetics' (1877), he first seeks to explain "such simple pleasures in bright color, sweet sound, or rude pictorial imitation as delight the child and the savage, proceeding from these elementary principles to the more and more complex gratifications of natural scenery, painting, and poetry." In MOST of the fields on the country-side are now laid up for hay, or down in the tall haulming com; and so I am driven from my accustomed botanizing grounds on the open, and compelled to take refuge in the wild bosky moor- land back of Hole Common. Here, on the edge of the copse, the river widens to a considerable pool, and coming upon it softly through the wood from behind — the boggy, moss-covered ground masking and muffling my foot-fall — I have surprised a great, graceful ash-and-white heron, standing all unconscious on the shallow bottom, in the very act of angling for minnows. The heron is a somewhat rare bird among the more cultivated parts of England; but just hereabouts we get a sight of one not infrequently, for they still breed in a few tall ash-trees at Chilcombe Park, where the lords of the manor in mediaeval times long preserved a regular heronry to provide sport for their hawking. There is no English bird, not even the swan, so perfectly and absolutely graceful as the heron. I am leaning now breathless and noiseless against the gate, taking a good look at him, as he stands half-knee deep on the oozy bottom with his long neck arched over the water, and his keen purple eye fixed eagerly upon the fish below. Though I am still twenty yards from where he poises lightly on his stilted legs, I can see distinctly his long pendent snow-white breast-feathers. CHARLES GRANT ALLEN 407 his crest of waving black plumes, falling loosely backward over the ash-gray neck, and even the bright red skin of his bare legs just below the feathered thighs. I dare hardly move nearer to get a closei: vifew of his beautiful plumage; and still I will try. I push very quietly through the gate, but not quite quietly enough for the heron. One moment he raises his curved neck and poises his head a little on one side to listen for the direction of the rustling; then he catches a glimpse of me as I try to draw back silently behind a clump of flags and nptties; and in a moment his long legs give him a good spring from the bottom, his big wings spread with a sudden flap sky- wards, and almost before I can note what is happening, he is off and away to leeward, making a bee-line for the high trees that fringe the artificial water in Chilcombe Hollow. All these wading birds — the herons, the cranes, the bitterns, the snipes, and the plovers — are almost necessarily, by the very nature of their typical conformation, beautiful and graceful in form. Their tall, slender legs, which they require for wading, their comparatively light and well-poised bodies, their long, curved, quickly-darting necks and sharp beaks, which they need in order to secure their rapid-swimming prey, — all these things make the waders, almost in spite of themselves, handsome -and shapely birds. Their feet, it is true, are generally rather large and sprawling, with long, wide-spread toes, so as to distribute their weight on the snow-shoe principle, and prevent them from sinking in the deep soft mud on which they tread; but then we seldom see the feet, because the birds, when we catch a close view of them at all, are almost always either on stilts in the water, or flying with their legs tucked behind them, after their pretty rudder-like fashion. I have often wondered whether it is this general beauty of form in the waders 'which has turned their esthetic tastes, apparently, into such a sculpturesque line. Certainly, it is very noteworthy that whenever among this particular order of birds we get clear evidence of ornamental devices, such as Mr. Darwin sets down to long-exerted selective preferences in the choice of mates, the ornaments are almost always those of form rather than those of color. The waders, I sometimes fancy, only care for beauty of shape, not for beauty of tint. As I stood looking at the heron here just now, the same old idea seemed to force itself more clearly than ever upon my mind. The decorative adjuncts— the 4o8 CHARLES GRANT ALLEN curving tufted crest on the head, the pendent silvery gorget on the neck, the long ornamental quills of the pinions — all look exactly as if they were deliberately intended to emphasize and heighten the natural gracefulness of the heron's form. May it not be, I ask myself, that these birds, seeing one another's statuesque shape from generation to generation, have that shape hereditarily implanted upon the nervous system of the species, in connection with all their ideas of mating and of love, just as the human form is hereditarily associated with all our deep- est emotions, so that Miranda falling in love at first sight with Ferdinand is not a mere poetical fiction, but the true illustra- tion of a psychological fact ? And as on each of our minds and brains the picture of the beautiful human figure is, as it were, antecedently engraved, may not the ancestral type be similarly engraved on the minds and brains of the wading birds ? If so, would it not be natural to conclude that these birds, having thus a very graceful form as their generic standard of taste, a grace- ful form with little richness of coloring, would naturally choose as the loveliest among their .mates, not those which showed any tendency to more bright-hued plumage (which indeed might be fatal to their safety, by betraying them to their enemies, the fal- cons and eagles), but those which most fully embodied and carried furthest the ideal specific gracefulness of the wading type ? . . . Forestine flower-feeders and fruit-eaters, especially in the tropics, are almost always brightly colored. Their chromatic taste seems to get quickened in their daily search for food among the beautiful blossoms and brilliant fruits of southern woodlands. Thus the humming-birds, the sun-birds, and the brush-tongued lories, three very dissimilar groups of birds as far as 'descent is concerned, all alike feed upon the honey and the insects which they extract from the large tubular bells of tropical flowers; and -all alike are noticeable for their intense metallic lustre or pure tones of color. Again, the parrots, the toucans, the birds of paradise, and many other of the more beau- tiful exotic species, are. fruit-eaters, and reflect their inherited taste in their own gaudy plumage. But the waders have no such special reasons for acquiring a love for bright hues. Hence their aesthetic feeling seems rather to have taken a turn toward the further development of their own graceful forms. Even the plainest wading birds have a certain natural elegance of shape which supplies a primitive basis for aesthetic selection to work on. 409 JAMES LANE ALLEN (1850-) |he literary work of James Lane Allen was begun with maturer powers and wider culture than most writers exhibit in their first publications. His mastery of English was acquired with difficulty, and his knowledge of Latin he obtained through years of 'instruction as well as of study. The wholesome open-air atmosphere which pervades his stories, their pastoral character and love of nat- ure, come from the tastes bequeathed to him by three generations of paternal ancestors, easy-going gentlemen farmers of the blue-grass region of Kentucky. On a farm near Lexington, in this beautiful country of stately homes, fine herds, and great flocks, the author was born, and there he spent his childhood and youth. About 1885 he came to New York to devote himself to literature; for though he had contributed poems, essays, and criticisms to lead- ing periodicals, his first important work was a series of articles descriptive of the "Blue-Grass Region," published in Harper's Maga- zine. The field was new, the work was fresh, and the author's ability was at once recognized. Inevitably he chose Kentucky for the scene of his stories, knowing and loving, as he did, her characteristics and her history. While preparing his articles on THE sunlight grew pale the following morning; a shadow crept rapidly over the blue; bolts darted about the skies like maddened redbirds; the thunder, ploughing its way down the dome as along zigzag cracks in the stony street, filled the caverns of the horizon with reverberations that shook the earth; and the rain was whirled across the landscape in long, white, wavering sheets. Then all day quiet and silence throughout Nature except for the drops, tapping high and low the twinkling leaves; except for the new melody of woodland and meadow brooks, late silvery and with a voice only for their pebbles and moss and mint, but now yellow and brawling and leaping back into the grassy channels that were their old-time beds; except for the indoor music of dripping eaves and rushing gutters and overflowing rain-barrels. And when at last in the gold of the cool west the sun broke from the edge of the gray, over what a green, soaked, fragrant world he reared the arch of Nature's peace ! Not a little blade of corn in the fields but holds in an eme- rald vase its treasures of white gems. The hemp-stalks bend so low under the weight of their plumes, that were a vesper spar- row to alight on one for his evening hymn, it would go with him to the ground.- The leaning barley and rye and wheat flash in the last rays their jeweled beards. Under the old apple- trees, golden-brown mushrooms are already pushing upward through the leaf -loam, rank with many an autumn's dropping. About the yards the peonies fall with faces earthward. In the stable-lots the larded porkers, with bristles as clean as frost. JAMES LANE ALLEN 41 j and flesh of pinky whiteness, are hunting with nervous nostrils for the lush purslain. The fowls are driving their bills up and down their wet breasts. And the farmers who have been shell- ing com for the mill come out of their barns, with their coats over their shoulders, on the way to supper, look about for the plough-horses, and glance at the western sky, from which the last drops are falling. But soon only a more passionate heat shoots from the sun into the planet. The plumes of the hemp are so dry again, that by the pollen shaken from their tops you can trace the young rabbits making their way out to the dusty paths. The shadows of white clouds sail over purple stretches of blue-grass, hiding the sun from the steady eye of the turkey, whose brood is spread out before her like a fan on the earth. At early morn- ing the neighing of the stallions is heard around the horizon; at noon the bull makes the deep, hot pastures echo with his majes- tic summons; out in the blazing meadows the butterflies strike the afternoon air with more impatient wings; under the moon all night the play of ducks and drakes goes on along the mar- gins of the ponds. Young people are running away and marry- ing; middle-aged farmers surprise their wives by looking in on them at their butter-making in the sweet dairies; and Nature is lashing everything — grass, fruit, insects, cattle, human creat- ures — more fiercely onward to the fulfillment of her ends. She is the great heartless haymaker, wasting not a ray of sunshine on a clod, but caring naught for the light that beats upon a throne, and holding man and woman, with their longing for im- mortality, and their capacities for joy and pain, as of no more account than a couple of fertilizing nasturtiums. The storm kept Daphne at home. On the next day the earth was yellow with sunlight, but there were puddles along the path, and a branch rushing swollen across the green valley in the fields. On the third, her mother took the children to town to be fitted with hats and shoes, and Daphne also, to be freshened up with various moderate adornments, in view of a protracted meet- ing soon to begin. On the fourth, some ladies dropped in to spend the day, bearing in mind the episode at the dinner, and having grown curious to watch events accordingly. On the fifth,, her father carried out the idea of cutting down some cedar-trees in the front yard for fence posts; and whenever he was working about the house, he kept her near to wait on him in unnecessarj)' 412 JAMES LANE ALLEN ways. On the sixth, he rode away with two hands and an empty wagon-bed for some work on the farm; her mother drove off to another dinner — dinners never cease in Kentucky, and the wife of an elder is not free to dechne invitations; and at last she was left alone in the front porch, her face turned with burning eager- ness toward the fields. In a little while she had slipped away. All these days Hilary had been eager to see her. He was carrying a good many girls in his mind that summer; none in his heart; but his plans concerning these latter were for the time forgotten. He hung about that part of his farm from which he could have descried her in the distance. Each forenoon and afternoon, at the usual hour of her going to her uncle's, he rode over and watched for her. Other people passed to and fro, — children and servants, — but not Daphne; and repeated disappoint- ments fanned his desire to see her. When she came into sight at last, he was soon walking beside her, leading his horse by the reins. "I have been waiting to see you. Daphne," he said, with a smile, but general air of seriousness. "I have been waiting a long time for a chance to talk to you." "And I have wanted to see you," said Daphne, her face turned away and her voice hardly to be heard. "I have been waiting for a chance to talk to you." The change in her was so great, so unexpected, it contained an appeal to him so touching, that he glanced quickly at her. Then he stopped short and looked searchingly around the meadow. The thorn-tree is often the only one that can survive on these pasture lands. Its spikes, even when it is no higher than the grass, keep off the mouths of grazing stock. As it grows higher, birds see it standing solitary in the distance and fly to it, as a resting-place in passing. Some autumn day a seed of the wild grape is thus dropped near its root; and in time the thorn-tree and the grape-vine come to thrive together. As Hilary now looked for some shade to which they could retreat from the blinding, burning sunlight, he saw one of these standing off at a distance of a few hundred yards. He slipped the bridle-reins through the head-stall, and giving his mare a soft slap on the shoulder, turned her loose to graze. "Come over here and sit down out of the sun," he said, start- ing off in his authoritative -Way. «I want to talk to you." JAMES LANE ALLEN .j, Daphne followed in his wake, through the deep grass. When they reached the tree, they sat down" under the rayless boughs. Some sheep lying there ran round to the other side and stood watching them, with a frightened look in their clear, peace- ful eyes. "What's the matter?" he said, fanning his face, and tugging with his forefinger to loosen his shirt collar from his moist neck. He had the manner of a powerful comrade who means to succor a weaker one. "Nothing," said Daphne, like a true woman. "Yes, but there is," he insisted. "I got you into trouble. I didn't think of that when I asked you to dance." "You had nothing to do with it," retorted Daphne, with a flash. " I danced for spite. " He threw back his head with a peal of laughter. All at once this was broken off. He sat up, with his eyes fixed on the lower edge of the meadow. "Here comes your father," he said gravely. Daphne turned. Her father was riding slowly through the bars. A wagon-bed loaded with rails crept slowly after him. In an instant the things that had cost her so much toil and so many tears to arrange, — her explanations, her justifications, and her parting, — all the reserve and the coldness that she had laid up in her heart, as one fills high a little ice-house with fear of far-off summer heat, — all were quite gone, melted away. And everything that he had planned to tell her was forgotten also at the sight of that stern figure on horseback bearing un- consciously down upon them. " If I had only kept my mouth shut about his old fences," he said to himself. " Confound my bull ! " and he looked anx- iously at Daphne, who sat with her eyes riveted on her father. The next moment she had turned, and they were laughing in each other's faces, " What shall I do ? " she cried, leaning over and burying her face in her hands, and lifting it again, scarlet with excitement. "Don't do anything," he said calmly. " But Hilary, if he sees us, we are lost. " "If he sees us, we are found." "But he mustn't see me here!" she cried, with something like real terror. " I believe I'll lie down in the grass. Maybe he'll think I am a friend of yours." 414 JAMES LANE ALLEN " My friends all sit up in the grass, * said Hilary. But Daphne had already hidden. Many a time, when a little girl, she had amused herself by screaming like a hawk at the young guineas, and seeing them cuddle invisible under small tufts and weeds. Out in the stable lot, where the grass was grazed so close that the geese could barely nip it, she would sometimes get one of the negro men to scare the little pigs, for the delight of seeing them squat as though hidden, when they were no more hidden than if they had spread themselves out upon so many dinner dishes. All of us reveal traces of this primitive instinct upon occasion. Daphne was doing her best to hide now. When Hilary realized it he moved in front of her, screening her as well as possible. " Hadn't' you better lie down, too ? " she asked. " No, " he replied quickly. "But if he sees you, he might take a notion to ride over this way ! " "Then he'll have to ride." "But, Hilary, suppose he were to find me lying down here behind you, hiding ? " "Then he'll have to find you." "You get me into trouble, and then you won't help me out!" exclaimed Daphne with considerable heat. " It might not make matters any better for me to hide," he answered quietly. "But if he comes over here and tries to get us into trouble, I'll see then what I can do." Daphne lay silent for a moment, thinking. Then she nestled more closely down, and said with gay, unconscious archness: "I'm not hiding because I'm afraid of him. I'm doing it just because I want to." She did not know that the fresh happiness flushing her at that moment came from the fact of having Hilary between her- self and her father as a protector; that she was drinking in the delight a woman feels in getting playfully behind the man she loves in the' face of danger: but her action bound her to him a:nd brought her more under his influence. His words showed that he also felt his position, — the position of the male who stalks forth from the herd and stands the silent challenger. He was young, and vain of his manhood in the usual innocent way that led him to carry the chip on his JAMES LANE ALLEN shoulder for the world to knock off; and he placed himself before Daphne with the understanding that if they were discov- ered, there would be trouble. Her father was a violent mfin, and the circumstances were not such that any Kentucky father would overlopk them. But with his inward seriousness, his face wore its usual look of reckless unconcern. « Is he coming this way ? » asked Daphne, after an interval of impatient waiting. " Straight ahead. Are you hid ? " "I can't see whether I'm hid or not. Where is he now?" « Right on us. » " Does he see you ? " «Yes.» " Do you think he sees me ? '* "I'm sure of it." « Then I might as well get up, » said Daphne, with the cour- age of despair, and up she got. Her father was riding along the path in front of them, but not looking. She was down again like a partridge. " How could you fool me, Hilary ? Suppose he had been looking ! '* " I wonder what he thinks I'm doing, sitting over here in the grass like a stump, " said Hilary. « If he , takes me for one, he must think I've got an awful lot of roots." *' Tell me when it's time to get up. " «I will." He ttimed softly toward her. She was lying on her side, with her burning cheek in one hand. The other hand rested high on the curve of her hip. Her braids had fallen forward, and lay in a heavy loop about her lovely shoulders. Her eyes were closed, her scarlet lips parted in a smile. The edges of her snow-white petticoats showed beneath her blue dress, and beyond these one of her feet and ankles. Nothing more fragrant with innocence ever lay on the grass. " Is it time to get up now ? " "• Not yet, " and he sat bending over her. « Now ? » • « Not yet, " he repeated more softly. «Now, then?" " Not for a long time. " His voice thrilled her, and she glanced up at him. His laugh- ing eyes were glowing down upon her under his heavy mat of 4i6 JAMES LANE ALLEN hair. She sat up and looked toward the wagon crawling away in the distance; her father was no longer in sight. One of the ewes, dissatisfied with a back view, stamped her forefoot impatiently, and ran round in front, and out into the sun. Her lambs followed, and the three, ranging themselves abreast, stared at Daphne, with a look of helpless inquiry. *' Sh-pp-pp ! " she cried, throwing up her hands at them, irri- tated. " Go away ! " They turned and ran; the others followed; and the whole number, falling into line, took a path meekly homeward. They left a greater sense of privacy under the tree. Several yards off was a small stock-pond. Around the edge of this the water stood hot and green in the tracks of the cattle and the sheep, and about these pools the yellow butterflies were thick, alighting daintily on the promontories of the mud, or rising two by two through the dazzling , atmosphere in columns of enamored flight. Daphne leaned over to the blue grass where it swayed un- broken in the breeze, and drew out of their sockets several stalks of it, bearing on their tops the purplish seed-vessels. With them she began to braid a ring about one of her fingers in the old simple fashion of the country. As they talked, he lay propped on his elbow, watching her fingers, the soft slow movements of which little by little wove a spell over his eyes. And once again the power of her beauty began to draw him beyond control. He felt a desire to seize her hands, to crush them in his. His eyes passed upward along her tapering wrists, the skin of which was like mother-of-pearl; up- ward along the arm to the shoulder — to her neck — to her deeply crimsoned cheeks — to the purity of her brow — to the purity of her eyes, the downcast lashes of which hid them like conscious fringes. An awkward silence began to fall between them. Daphne felt that the time had come for her to speak. But, powerless to begin, she feigned to busy herself all the more devotedly with braiding the deep-green circlet. Suddenly he drew himself through the grass to her side. "Let me!^'' « No ! » she cried, lifting her arm above his reach and looking at him with a gay threat. "You don't know how." «I do know how," he said, with his white teeth on his red underlip, and his eyes sparkling; and reaching upward, he laid his hand in the hollow of her elbow and pulled her arm down. JAMES LANE ALLEN .jy « No ! No ! " she cried again, putting ker hands behind her back. " You will spoil it ! " '*I will not spoil it," he said, moving so close to her that his breath was on her face, and reaching round to unclasp her hands. <* No ! No ! No ! " she cried, bending away from him. I don't want any ring ! " and she tore it from her finger and threw it out on the grass. Then she got up, and, brushing the grass-seed off her lap, put on her hat. He sat cross-legged on the grass before her. He had put on his hat, and the brim hid his eyes. " And you are not going to stay and talk to me ? " he said in a tone of reproachfulness, without looking up. She was excited and weak and trembling, and so she put out her hand and took hold of a strong loop of the grape-vine hang- ing from a branch of the thorn,' and laid her cheek against her hand and looked away from him. "I thought you were better than the others," he continued, with the bitter wisdom of twenty years. "But you women are all alike. When a man gets into trouble, you desert him. You hurry him on to the devil. I have been turned out of the church, and now you are down on me. Oh, well! But you know how much I have always liked you. Daphne." It was not the first time he had acted this character. It had been a favorite role. But Daphne had never seen the like. She was overwhelmed with happiness that he cared so much for her; and to have him reproach her for indifference, and see him suf- fering with the idea that she had turned against him — that instantly changed the whole situation. He had not heard then what had taken place at the dinner. Under the circumstances, feeling certain that the secret of her love had not been dis- covered, she grew emboldened to risk a little more. So she turned toward him smiling, and swayed gently as she clung to the vine. "Yes; I have my orders not even to speak to you! Never again!" she said, with the air of tantalizing. "Then stay with me a while now," he said, and lifted slowly to her his appealing face. She sat down, and screened herself with a little feminine transparency. «I can't stay long: it's going to rain!" He cast a wicked glance at the sky from under his hat; there were a few clouds on the horizon. 1—27 41 8 JAMES LANE ALLEN " And SO you are never going • to speak to me again ? " he said mournfully. " Never ! " How delicious her laughter was. "I'll put a ring on your finger to remember me by.» He lay over in the grass and pulled several stalks. Then he lifted his eyes beseechingly to hers. "Will you let me?» Daphne hid her hands. He drew himself to her side and took one of them forcibly from her lap. With a slow, caressing movement he began to braid the grass ring around her finger — in and out, around and around, his fingers laced with her fingers, his palm lying close upon her palm, his blood tingling through the skin upon her blood. He made the braiding go wrong, and took it off and began over again. Two or three times she, drew a deep breath, and stole a bewildered look at his face, which was so close to hers that his hair brushed it — so close that she heard the quiver of his own breath. Then all at once he folded his hands about hers with a quick, fierce tenderness, and looked up at her. She turned her face aside and tried to draw her hand away. His clasp tight- ened. She snatched it away, and got up with a nervous laugh. "Look at the butterflies! Aren't they pretty?" He sprang up and tried to seize her hand again. " You shan't go home yet ! " he said, in an undertone. " Shan't I ? » she said, backing away from him. " Who's going to keep me ? " " / am, » he said, laughing excitedly and following her closely. " My father's coming ! » she cried out as a warning.. He turned and looked: there was no one in sight. "He is coming — sooner or later!'* she called. She had retreated several yards off into the sunlight of the meadow. The remembrance of the risk that he was causing her to run checked him. He went over to her. " When can I see you again — soon ? " He had never spoken so seriously to her before. He had never before been so serious. But within the last hour Nature had been doing her work, and its effect was immediate. His sincerity instantly conquered her. Her eyes fell. "No one has any right to keep us from seeing each other!" he insisted. " We must settle that ifor ourselves. » JAMES LANE ALLEN . Daphne made no reply. "But we can't meet here any more — with people passing backward and forward!" he continued rapidly and ,decisively. "What has happened to-day mustn't happen again." " No ! " she replied, in a voice barely to be heard. « It must never happen again. We can't meet here." They were walking side by side now toward the meadow- path. As they reached it he paused. "Come to the back of the pasture — to-morrow! — at four o'clock!" he said, tentatively, recklessly. Daphne did not answer as she moved away from him along the path homeward. " Will you come ? " he called out to her. She turned and shook her head. Whatever her own new plans may have become, she was once more happy and laugh- ing. " Come, Daphne ! " She walked several paces further and turned and shook her head again. " Come ! " he pleaded: She laughed at him. He wheeled round to his mare grazing near. As he put his foot into the stirrup, he looked again: she was standing in the same place, laughing still. " You go," she cried, waving him good-by. "There'll not be a soul to disturb you! To-morrow — at four o'clock!" " Will you be there ? " he said. " Will you ? " she answered. "I'll be there to-morrow," he said, "and every other day till you come." By permission of the Macmillan Company, Publishers. OLD KING SOLOMON'S CORONATION From < Flute and Violin, and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances > Copyright i8gi, by Harper and Brothers HE STOOD on the topmost of the court-house steps, and for a moment looked down on the crowd with the usual air of official severity. "Gentlemen," he then cried out sharply, "by an ordah of the cou't I now oflfah this man at public sale to the highes' biddah. 420 JAMES LANE ALLEN He is able-bodied but lazy, without visible property or means of suppoht, an' of dissolute habits. He is therefoh adjudged guilty of high misdemeanahs, an' is to be sole into labah foh a twelve- month. How much, then, am I offahed foh the vagrant ? How much am I offahed foh ole King Sol'mon ? " Nothing was offered for old King Solomon. The spectators formed themselves into a ring around the big vagrant, and settled down to enjoy the performance. "Staht 'im, somebody." Somebody started a laugh, which rippled around the circle. The sheriff looked on with an expression of unrelaxed severity, but catching the eye of an acquaintance on the outskirts, he ex- changed a lightning wink of secret appreciation. Then he lifted off his tight beaver hat, wiped out of his eyes a little shower of perspiration which rolled suddenly down from above, and warmed a degree to his theme. "Come, gentlemen," he said more suasively, "it's too hot to Stan' heah all day. Make me an offah! You all know ole King Sol'mon; don't wait to be interduced. How much, then, to staht 'im? Say fifty dollahs! Twenty-five! Fifteen! Ten! Why, gentlemen ! Not ten dollahs ? Remembah, this is the Blue-Grass Region of Kentucky — the land of Boone an' Kenton, the home of Henry Clay ! " he added, in an oratorical crescendo. "He ain't wuth his victuals," said an oily little tavern-keeper, folding his arms restfuUy over his own stomach and cocking up one piggish eye into his neighbor's face. "He ain't wuth his 'taters. " " Buy 'im foh 'is rags ! " cried a young law student, with a Blackstone under his arm, to the town rag picker opposite, who was unconsciously ogling the vagrant's apparel. "I might buy 'im foh 'is scalp,^^ drawled a farmer, who had taken part in all kinds of scalp contests, and was now kno\Yn to be busily engaged in collecting crow scalps for a match soon to come off between two rival counties. "I think I'll buy 'im foh a hat sign," said a manufacturer of ten-dollar Castor and Rhorum hats. This sally drew merry atten- tion to the vagrant's hat, and the merchant felt rewarded. "You'd bettah say the town ought to buy 'im an' put 'im up on top of the cou't-house as a scarecrow foh the cholera," said some one else. "What news of the cholera did the stage coach bring this mohning?" quickly inquired his neighbor in his ear; and the two JAMES LANE ALLEN 2j immediately fell into, low, grave talk, forgot the auction, and turned away. "Stop, gentlemen, stop!" cried the sheriff, who had watched the rising tide of good humor, and now saw his chance to float in on it with spreading sails. « You're runnin' the price in the wrong direction — down, not up. The law requires that he be sole to the highes' biddah, not the lowes'. As loyal citizens, uphole the constitution of the commonwealth of Kentucky an' make me an offah; the man is really a great bargain. In the first place, he would cos' his ownah little or nothin', because, as you see, he keeps himself in cigahs an' clo'es; then, his main article of diet is whisky — a supply of which he always has on han'. He don't even need a bed, foh you know he sleeps jus' as well on any doohstep; noh a chair, foh he prefers to sit roun' on the curbstones. Remembah, too, gentlemen, that ole King Sol'mon is a Virginian — from the same neighbohhood as Mr. Clay. Remembah that he is well educated, that he is an awful Whig, an' that he has smoked mo' of the stumps of Mr. Clay's cigahs than any other man in existence. If you don't b'lieve me, gentlemen, yondah goes Mr. Clay now; call him ovah an' ask 'im foh yo'se'ves." He paused, and pointed with his right forefinger towards Main Street, along which the spectators, with a sudden craning of necks, beheld the familiar figure of the passing statesman. "But you don't need anyhoAj to tell these fac's, gentlemen," he continued. "You merely need to be reminded that ole King Sol'mon is no ohdinary man. Mo'ovah he has a kine heaht; he nevah spoke a rough wohd to anybody in this worl', an' he is as proud as Tecumseh of his good name an' charactah. An', gentle- men," he added, bridling with an air of mock gallantry and lay- ing a hand on his heart, "if anythin' fu'thah is required in the way of a puffect encomium, we all know that there isn't anothah man among us who cuts as wide a swath among the ladies. The 'foh, if you have any appreciation of virtue, any magnanimity of heaht; if you set a propah valuation upon the descendants of Virginia, that mothah of Presidents; if you believe in the pure laws of Kentucky as the pioneer bride of the Union; if you loVe America an' love the worl' — make me a gen'rous, high-toned offah foh ole King Sol'mon ! " He ended his peroration amid a shout of laughter and ap- plause, and feeling satisfied that it was a good time for returning 422 JAMES LANE ALLEN to a more practical treatment of his subject, proceeded in a sin- cere tone: — «He can easily earn from one to two doUahs a day, an' from three to six hundred a yeah. There's not anothah white man in town capable of doin' as much work. There's not a niggah han' in the hemp factories with such muscles an' such a chest. Look at 'em ! An', if you don't b'lieve me, step fo'ward and feel 'em. How much, then, is bid foh 'im ? " " One dollah ! " said the owner of a hemp factory, who had walked forward and felt the vagrant's arm, laughing, but coloring up also as the eyes of all were quickly turned upon him. In those days it was not an unheard-of thing for the muscles of a human being to be thus examined when being sold into servitude to a new master. " Thank you ! " cried the sheriff, cheerily. " One precinc' heard from! One dollah! I am offahed one dollah foh ole King Sol'mon. One dollah foh the king! Make it a half. One dollah an' a half. Make it a half. One dol-dol-dol-dollah ! » Two medical students, returning from lectures at the old Med- ical Hall, now joined the group, and the sheriff explained: — "One dollah is bid foh the vagrant ole King Sol'mon, who is to be sole into labah foh a twelvemonth. Is there any othah bid? Are you all done? One dollah, once — " " Dollah and a half, " said one of the students, and remarked half jestingly under his breath to his companion, " I'll buy him on the chance of his dying. We'll dissect him." " Would you own his body if he should die ? » "If he dies while bound to me, I'll arrange that.'''' "One dollah an' a half," resumed the sheriff, and falling into the tone of a facile auctioneer he rattled on: — "One dollah an' a half foh ole Sol'mon — sol, sol, sol, — do, re, mi, fa, sol, — do, re, mi, fa, sol! Why, gentlemen, you can set the king to music ! " All this time the vagrant had stood in the centre of that close ring of jeering and humorous bystanders — a baffling text from which to have preached a sermon on the infirmities of our imper- fect humanity. Some years before, perhaps as a master-stroke of derision, there had been given to him that title which could but heighten the contrast of his personality and estate with every suggestion of the ancient sacred magnificence; and never had the mockery seemed so fine as at this moment, when he was led JAMES LANE ALLEN 423 forth into the streets to receive the lowest sentence of the law upon his poverty and dissolute idleness. He was apparently in the very prime of life — a striking figure, for nature at least had truly done some royal work on him. Over six feet in height, erect, with limbs well shaped and sinewy, with chest and neck full of the lines of great power, a large head thickly covered with long, reddish hair, eyes blue, face beardless, complexion fair but dis- colored by low passions and excesses — such was old King Solo- mon. He wore a stiff, high, black Castor hat of 'the period, with the crown smashed in and the torn rim hanging down over one ear; a black cloth coat in the old style, ragged and buttonless; a white cotton shirt, with the broad collar crumpled wide open at the neck and down his sunburnt bosom; blue jean pantaloons, patched at the seat and the khees; and ragged cotton socks that fell down over the tops of his dusty shoes, which were open at the heels. In one corner of his sensual mouth rested the stump of a cigar. Once during the proceedings he had produced another, lighted it, and continued quietly smoking. If he took to himself any shame as the central figure of this ignoble performance, no one knew it. There was something almost royal in his uncon- cern. The humor, the badinage, the open contempt, of which he was the public target, fell thick and fast upon him, but as harm- lessly as would balls of pith upon a coat of mail. In truth, there was that in his great, lazy, gentle, good-humored bulk and bear- ing which made the gibes seem all but despicable. He shuffled from one foot to the other as though he found it a trial to stand up so long, but all the while looking the spectators full in the eyes without the least impatience. He suffered the man of the factory to walk round him and push and pinch his muscles as calmly as though he had been the show bull at a country fair. Once only, when the sheriff had pointed across the street at the figure of Mr. Clay, he had looked quickly in that direction with a kindling light in his eye and a passing flush on his face. For the rest, he seemed like a man who has drained his cup of human life and has nothing left him but to fill again and drink without the least surprise or eagerness. The bidding between the man of the factory and the student had gone slowly on. The price had reached ten dollars. The heat was intense, the sheriff tired. Then something occurred to revivify the scene. Across the market place and toward the steps 424 JAMES LANE ALLEN of the court-house there suddenly came trundling along in breath- less haste a huge old negress, carr5ring on one arm a large shal- low basket containing apple-crab lanterns and fresh gingerbread. With a series of half -articulate grunts and snorts she approached the edge of the crowd and tried to force her way through. She coaxed, she begged, she elbowed and j)ushed and scolded, now laughing, and now with the passion of tears in her thick, excited voice. All at once, catching sight of the sheriff, she lifted one ponderous broin^n arm, naked to the elbow, and waved her hand to him above the heads of those in front. " Hole on marster ! hole on ! " she cried in a tone of humorous entreaty. " Don' knock 'im off till I come ! Gim me a bid at 'im ■ " The sheriff paused and smiled. The crowd made way tumult- uously, with broad laughter and comment. " Stan' aside theah an' let Aun' Charlotte in ! " * Now you'll see biddin' ! " « Get out of the way foh Aun' Charlotte ! » " Up, my free niggah ! Hurrah foh Kentucky ! " A moment more and she stood inside the ring of spectators, her basket on the pavement at her feet, her hands plumped akimbo into her fathomless sides, her head up, and her soft, motherly eyes turned eagerly upon the sheriff. Of the crowd she seemed unconscious, and on the vagrant before her she had not cast a single glance. She was dressed with perfect neatness. A red and yellow Madras 'kerchief was bound about her head in a high coil, and another over the bosom of her stiffly starched and smoothly ironed blue cottonade dress. Rivulets of perspiration ran down over her nose, her temples, and around her ears, and disappeared mysteriously in the creases of her brown neck. A single drop accidentally hung glistening like a diamond on the circlet of one of her large brass earrings. The sheriff looked at her a moment, smiling but a little dis- concerted. The spectacle was unprecedented. « What do you want heah, Aun' Charlotte ? '> he asked kindly. "You can't sell yo' pies an' gingerbread heah." «I don' wan' sell no pies en gingerbread, » she replied, con- temptuously. «I wan' bid on him,'''' and she nodded sidewise at the vagrant. "White folks allers sellin' nigga^hs to wuk fuh dem; I gwine to buy a white man to wuk fuh me. En he gwine t' git a mighty hard mistiss, you h«ah me! " JAMES LANE ALLEN .,„ The eyes of the sheriff twinkled with delight. "Ten dollahs is offahed foh ole King Sol'mon. Is theah any othah bid. Are you all done ? " "Leben,* she said. Two young ragamuffins crawled among the legs of the crowd up to her basket and filched pies and cake beneath her very nose. " Twelve ! >* cried the student, laughing. "Thirteen!" she laughed, too, but her eyes flashed. « You are bidding against a niggak,^^ whispered the student's companion in his ear. "So I am; let's be off," answered the other, with a hot flush on his proud face. Thus the sale was ended, and the crowd variously dispersed. In a distant corner of the courtyard the ragged urchins were devouring their unexpected booty. The old negress drew a red handkerchief out of her bosom, untied a knot in a corner of it, and counted out the money to the sheriff. Only she and the vagrant were now left on the spot. " You have bought me. What do you want me to do ? " he asked quietly. " Lohd, honey ! " she answered, in a low tone of affectionate chiding, " I don' wan' you to do nothin'.' I wuzn' gwine t' 'low dem white folks to buy you. Dey'd wuk you till you dropped dead. You go 'long en do ez you please." She gave a cunning chuckle of triumph in thus setting at naught the ends of justice, and in a voice rich and musical with affection, she said, as she gave him a little push: — "You bettah be gittin' out o' dis blazin' sun. G' on home! I be long by-en- by." He turned and moved slowly away in the direction of Water Street, where she lived; and she, taking up her basket, shuffled across the market place toward Cheapside, muttering to herself the while: — "I come mighty nigh gittin' dar too late, foolin' long wid dese pies. Sellin' him 'ca'se he don' wuk! Umph! if all de men in dis town dat don' wuk wuz to be tuk up en sole, d' wouldn' be 'nough money in de town to buy em! Don' I see 'em settin' roun' dese taverns f 'om mohnin' till night ? " ^26 JAMES LANE ALLEN Nature soon smiles upon her own ravages and strews our graves with flowers, not as memories, but for other flowers when the spring returns. It was one cool, brilliant morning late in that autumn. The air blew fresh and invigorating, as though on the earth there were no corruption, no death. Far southward had flown the plague. A spectator in the open court square might have seen many signs of life returning to the town. Students hurried along, talking eagerly. Merchants met for the first time and spoke of the winter trade. An old negress, gayly and neatly dressed, came into the market place, and sitting down on a side- walk displayed her yellow and red apples and fragrant ginger- bread. She hummed to herself an old cradle-song, and in her soft, motherly black eyes shone a mild, happy radiance. A group of young ragamuffins eyed her longingly from a distance. Court was to open for the first time since the spring. The hour was early, and one by one the lawyers passed slowly in. On the steps of the court-house three men were standing: Thomas Brown, the sheriff; old Peter Leuba, who had just walked over from his music store on Main Street; and little M. Giron, the French confectioner. Each wore mourning on his hat, and their voices were low and grave. "Gentlemen," the sheriff was saying, "it was on this very spot the day befoah the cholera broke out that I sole 'im as a vagrant. An' I did the meanes' thing a man can evah do. I hel' 'im up to public ridicule foh his weakness an' made spoht of 'is infirmities. I laughed at 'is povahty an' 'is ole clo'es. I delivahed on 'im as complete an oration of sarcastic detraction as I could prepare on the spot, out of my own meanness an' with the vulgah sympathies of the crowd. Gentlemen, if I only had that crowd heah now, an' ole King Sol'mon standin' in the midst of it, that I might ask 'im to accept a humble public apology, offahed from the heaht of one who feels himself un- worthy to shake 'is han'! But gentlemen, that crowd will nevah reassemble. Neahly ev'ry man of them is dead, an' ole King Sol'mon buried them." "He buried my friend Adolphe Xaupi," said Frangois Giron, touching his eyes with his handkerchief. "There is a case of my best Jamaica rum for him whenever he comes for it," said old Leuba, clearing his throat. "But, gentlemen, while we are speakin' of ole King Sol'mon JAMES, LANE ALLEN -2- we ought not to forget who it is that has suppohted 'im. Yon- dah she sits on the sidewalk, sellin' 'er apples an' gingerbread." The three men looked in the direction indicated. <*Heah comes ole King Sol'mon now," exclaimed the sheriff. Across the open square the vagrant was seen walking slowly along with his habitual air of quiet, unobtrusive preoccupation. A minute more and he had come over and passed into the oourt- house by a side door. "Is Mr. Clay to be in court to-day?" *He is expected, I think." "Then let's go in: there will be a crowd." " I don't know : so many are dead. " They turned and entered and found seats as quietly as pos- sible; for a strange and sorrowful hush brooded over the court- room. Until the bar assembled, it had not been realized how many were gone. The silence was that of a common over- whelming disaster. No one spoke with his neighbor; no one observed the vagrant as he entered and made his way to a seat on one of the meanest benches, a little apart from the others. He had not sat there since the day of his indictment for vagrancy. The judge took his seat, and making a great effort to control himself, passed his eyes slowly over the court-room. All at once he caught sight of old King Solomon sitting against, the wall in an obscure corner; and before any one could know what he was doing, he had hurried down and walked up to the vagrant and grasped his hand. He tried to speak, but could not. Old King Solomon had buried his wife and daughter, — buried them one clouded midnight, with no one present but himself. Then the oldest member of the bar started up and followed the example; and then the other members, rising by a common impulse, filed slowly back and one by one wrung that hard and powerful hand. After them came the other persons in the court- room. The vagrant, tlie gravedigger, had risen and stood against the wall, at first with a white face and a dazed express- ion, not knowing what it meant; afterwards, when he under- stood it, his head dropped suddenly forward and his tears fell thick and hot upon the hands that he could not see. And his were not the only tears. Not a man in the long file but paid his tribute of emotion as he stepped forward to honor that image of sadly eclipsed but still effulgent humanity. It was not grief, it was not gratitude, nor any sense of making reparation 428 WILLIAM ALLIJSTGHAM for the past. It was the softening influence of an act of hero- ism, which makes every man feel himself a brother hand in hand with every other; — such power has a single act of moral greatness to reverse the- relations of men, lifting up one, and bringing all others to do him homage. It was the coronation scene in the life of *01e' King Solo- . mon of Kentucky. WILLIAM ALLINGHAM (1828-1889) Jach form of verse has, in addition to its laws of structure, a subtle quality as difficult to define as the perfume of a KI^S flower. The poem, 'An Evening,* given below, may be classified both as a song and as a lyric; yet it needs no music other than its own rhythms, and the full close to each verse which falls upon the ear like a soft and final chord ending a musical composi- tion. ,A light touch and a feeling for shades of meaning are required to execute such dainty verse. In < St. Margaret's Eve, ' and jn many other ballads, AUingham expresses the broader, more dramatic sweep of the ballad, and reveals his Celtic ancestry. The lovable Irishman, William AUingham, worked hard to enter the brotherhood of poets. When he was only fourteen his father took him from school to become clerk in the town bank of which he himself was manager. « The books which he had to keep for the next seven years were not those on which his heart was set," says Mr. George Birkbeck Hill. But this fortune is almost an inevitable part, and probably not the worst part, of the training for a literary vocation; and he justified his ambitions by pluckily studying alone till he had mastered Greek, Latin, French, and German. Mr. Hill, in his < Letters of D. G. Rossetti' (Atlantic Monthly, May, 1896), thus quotes AUingham's own delightful description of his early home at Ballyshannon, County Donegal : — "The little old town where I was born has a voice of its own, low, solemn, persistent, humming through the air day and night, summer and winter. Whenever I think of that town I seem to hear the voice. The river which makes it rolls over rocky ledges into the tide. Before spreads a great ocean in sunshine or storm ; behind stretches a many-islanded lake. On the south runs a wavy line of blue mountains; and on the north, over green rocky hills rise peaks of a more distant range. The trees hide in glens or cluster near the river; gray rocks and bowlders lie scattered about the windy pastures. The WILLIAM ALLINGHAM ^,„ sky arches wide over all, giving room to multitudes of stars by night, and long processions of clouds blown from the sea; but also, in the childish mem- ory where these pictures hve, to deeps of celestial blue in the endless days of summer. An odd, out-of-the-way little town, ours, on the extreme western edge of Europe; our next neighbors, sunset way, being citizens of the great new republic, which indeed, to our imagination, seemed little if at all farther off than England in the opposite direction. » Of the cottage in which he spent most of his childhood and youth he writes: — "Opposite the hall door a good-sized walnut-tree leaned its wrinkled stem towards the house, and brushed some of the second-story panes with its broad, frag^rant leaves. To sit at that little upper window when it was open to a summer twilight, and the great tree rustled gently, and sent one leafy spray so far that it even touched my face, was an enchantment beyond all telling. Killamey, Switzerland, Venice, could not, in later life, come near it. On three sides the cottage looked on flowers and branches, which I count as one of the fortunate chances of my childhood; the sense of natural beauty thus receiving \ts due share of nourishment, and of a kind suitable to those early years." At last a position in the Customs presented itself: — «In the spring of 1846 I gladly took leave forever of discount ledgers and current accounts, and went to Belfast for two months' instruction in the duties of Principal Coast Officer of Customs; a tolerably well-sounding title, but which carried with it a salary of but ;^8o a year. I trudged daily about the docks and timber-yards, learning to measure logs, piles of planks, and, more troublesome, ships for tonnage; indoors, part of the time practiced cus- toms book-keeping, and talked to the clerks about literature and poetry in a way that excited some astonishment, but on the whole, as I found at parting, a certain degree of curiosity and respect. I preached Tennyson to them. My spare time was mostly spent in reading and haunting booksellers' shops where, I venture to say, I laid out a good deal more than most people, in pro- portion to my income, and managed to get glimpses of many books which I could not afford or did not care to buy. I enjoyed my new position, on the whole, without analysis, as a great improvement on the bank; and for the rest, my inner mind was brimful of love and poetry, and usually all external things appeared trivial save in their relation to it.» Of Allingham's early song-writing, his friend Arthur Hughes says : — «Rossetti, and I think Allingham himself, told me, in the early days of our acquaintance, how in remote Ballyshannon, where he was a clerk in the Cus- toms, in evening walks he would hear the Irish girls at their cottage doors singing old ballads, which he would pick up. If they were broken or incom- plete, he would add to them or finish them; if they were improper he would refine them. He could not get them sung till he got the Dublin Catnach of that day to print them, on long strips of blue paper, like old songs, and if about the sea, with the old rough woodcut of a ship on the top. He either 430 WILI-IAM ALLINGHAM gave them away or they were sold in the neighborhood. Then, in his evening walks, he had at last the pleasure of hearing some of his own ballads sung at the cottage doors by the blooming lasses, who were quite unaware that it was the author who was passing by.» In 1850 AUingham published a small volume of lyrics whose fresh- ness and delicacy seemed to announce a new singer, and four years later his 'Day and Night Songs' strengthened this impression. Stationed as revenue officer in various parts of England, he wrote much verse, and published also the THE BUBBLE SEE the pretty planet! Floating sphere' Faintest breeze will fan it Far or near; World as light as feather; Moonshine rays. Rainbow tints together. As it plays. Drooping, sinking, failing. Nigh to earth, Mounting, whirling, sailing. Full of mirth; Life there, welling, flowing, > Waving round; Pictures coming, going, Without sound. Quick now, be this airy Globe repelled! Never can the fairy Star be held. Touched — it in a twinkle Disappears ! Leaving but a sprinkle, As of tears. From 'Ballads and Songs. > WILI.IAM ALLINGHAM .,, 433 ST. MARGARET'S EVE I BUILT my castle upon the seaside, The waves roll so gayly O, Half on the land and half in the tide, Love me true ! Within was silk, without was stone. The waves roll so gayly O, It lacks a queen, and that alone. Love me true! The gray old harper sang to me. The waves roll so gayly O, "Beware of the Damsel of the Sea!" Love me true ! Saint Margaret's Eve it did befall, The waves roll so gayly O, The tide came creeping up the wall, Love me true! I opened my gate; who there should stand — The waves roll so gayly O, But a fair lady, with a cup in her hand. Love me true! The cup was gold, and full of wine, The waves roll so gayly O, * Drink," said the lady, "and I will be thine,* Love me true! "Enter my castle, lady fair," The waves roll so gayly O, "You shall be queen of all that's there," Love me true! A gray old harper sang to me. The waves roll so gayly O, "Beware of the Damsel of the Sea!" Love me true! In hall he harpeth many a year, The waves roll so gayly O, And we will sit his song to hear, Love me true! 1—28 434 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM "I love thee deep, I love thee true," ' The waves roll so gayly O, "But ah! I know not how to woo," Love me true! Down dashed the cup, with a sudden shock, The waves roll so gayly O, The wine like blood ran over the rock. Love me true! She said no word, but shrieked aloud. The waves roll so gayly O, And vanished away from where she stood. Love me true! I locked and barred my castle door, The waves roll so gayly O, Three summer days I grieved sore. Love me true! For myself a day, a night. The waves roll so gayly O, And two to moan that lady bright, Love me true! From < Ballads and Songs. > THE FAIRIES (A Child's Song) Up THE airy mountain, Down the rushy glen. We daren't go a hunting For fear of little men: Wee folk, good folk. Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap. And white owl's feather. Down along the rocky shore Some have made their home; They live on crispy pancakes Of yellow-tide foam. Some in the reeds Of the black mountain-lake, With frogs for their watch-dogs, All night awake. WILLIAM ALLINGHAM High on the hill-top The old King sits; He is now so old and gray- He's nigh lost his wits. With a bridge of white mist Columbkill he crosses, On his stately journeys From Sliveleague to Rosses; Or going up with music On cold starry nights, To sup with the Queen Of the gay northern lights. They stole little Bridget For seven years long; When she came down again Her friends were all gone. They took her lightly back, Between the night and morrow, They thought that she was fast asleep. But she was dead with sorrow. They have kept "her ever since Deep within the lakes. On a bed of flag leaves Watching till she wakes. By the craggy hillside. Through the mosses bare. They have planted thorn-trees For pleg,sure here and there. Is any man so daring As dig them up in spite. He shall feel their sharpest thorns In his bed at night. Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen. We daren't go a hunting For fear of little men: Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather. From 'Ballads and Songs.' 435 436 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM ROBIN REDBREAST (A Child's Song) GOOD-BY, good-by, to Summer! For Summer's nearly done; The garden smiling faintly, Cool breezes in the sun; Our Thrushes now are silent, Our Swallows flown away — But Robin's here, in coat of brown, With ruddy breast-knot gay. Robin, Robin Redbreast, Oh, Robin, dear! Robin singing sweetly In the falling of the year. Bright yellow, red, and orange. The leaves come down in hosts; The trees are Indian Princes, But soon they'll turn to Ghosts; The scanty pears and apples Hang russet on the bough. It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, 'Twill soon be winter now. Robin, Robin Redbreast, Oh, Robin, dear! And welaway! my Robin, For pinching times are near. The fireside for the Cricket, The wheatstack for the Mouse, When trembling night>winds whistle And moan all round the house. The frosty ways like iron. The branches plumed with snow — Alas! in Winter, dead and dark. Where can poor Robin go ? Robin, Robin Redbreast, Oh, Robin, dear! And a crumb of bread for Robin, His little heart to cheer. From < Ballads and Songs.> WILLIAM ALLINGHAM 437 A AN EVENING sunset's mounded cloud; A diamond evening-star; Sad blue hills afar: Love in his shroud. Scarcely a tear to shed; Hardly a word to say; The end of a summer's day; Sweet Love is dead. From < Day and Night Songs. > DAFFODIL GOLD tassel upon March's bugle-horn, Whose blithe reveille blows from hill to hill And every valley rings — O Daffodil! What promise for the season newly born.' Shall wave on wave of flow'rs, full tide of corn, O'erflow the world, then fruited Autumn fill Hedgerow and garth ? Shall tempest, blight, or chill Turn all felicity to scathe and scorn ? Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring Lies open, writ in blossoms; not a bird Of evil augury is seen or heard: Come now, like Pan's old crew, we'll dance and sing, Or Oberon's: for hill and valley ring To March's bugle-horn,— Earth's blood is stirred. From < Flower Pieces. > LOVELY MARY DONNELLY , (To an Irish Tune) O LOVELY Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best! If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly see the rest. Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will. Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still. Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock, How clear they are, how dark they are! and they give me many a shock. Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a shower, Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power. 438 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up; Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup; Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine, It's rolling down upon her neck and gathered in a twine. The dance o' last Whit Monday night exceeded all before; No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor; But Mary kept the belt of love, and oh, but she was gay! She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away. When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete. The music nearly killed itself to listen to her feet; The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so much praised, But blessed himself he wasn't deaf, when once her voice she raised. And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung. Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue ; But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands. And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands. Oh, you're the flower o' womankind in country or in town; The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down. If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty bright. And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right. Oh, might we live together in a lofty palace hall. Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall! Oh, might we live together in a cottage mean and small. With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall! O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress : It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less. The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low; But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go! From < Ballads and Songs. > 439 KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST (1793-1866) Jlmquist, one of the most versatile writers of Sweden, was a man of strange contrasts, a genius as uncertain as a will-o'- the-wisp. His contemporary, the famous poet and critic Atterbom, writes: — «What did the great poets of past times possess which upheld them under even the bitterest worldly circumstances? Two things: one a strong and conscientious will, the other a single — not double, much less manifold — deter- mination for their work, oneness. They were not self-seekers; they sought, they worshiped something better than themselves. The aim which stood dimly before their inmost souls was not the enjoyment of flattered vanity; it was a high, heroic symbol of love of honor and love of country, of heavenly wisdom. For this they thought it worth while to fight, for this they even thought it worth while to suffer, without finding the suffering in itself strange, or calling earth to witness thereof. . . . The writer of [The Book of the Rose] is one of these few; he does therefore already reig^n over a number of youthful hearts, and out of them will rise his time of honor, a time when many of the celebrities of the present moment will have faded away.» Almquist was born in Stockholm in 1793. When still a very young man he obtained a good official position, but gave it up in 1823 to lead a colony of friends into the forests of Varmland, where they intended to return to a primitive life close to the heart of nature. He called this colony a «Man's-home Association," and ordained that in the primeval forest the members should live in turf- covered huts, wear homespun, eat porridge with a wooden spoon, and enact the ancient freeholder. The experiment was not successful , he tired of the manual work, and returning to Stockholm, became master of the new Elementary School, and began to write text-books and educational works. His publication of a number of epics, dramas, lyrics, and romances made him suddenly famous. Viewed as a whole, this collection is generally called but at times (A Stray Deer). Of this, the two dramas, contain some of the pearls of Swedish literature. Uneven in the plan and execu- tion, they are yet masterly in dialogue, and their dramatic and tragic force is great. Almquist's imagination showed itself as indi- vidual as it is fantastic. Coming from a man hitherto known as the writer of text-books and the advocate of popular social ideas, the 440 KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST volumes aroused extraordinary interest. The author revealed himself as akin to Novalis and Victor Hugo, with a power of language like that of Atterbom, and a richness of color resembling Tegner's. At- terbom himself wrote of * Tornrosens Bok > that it was a work whose "faults were exceedingly easy to overlook and whose beauties ex- ceedingly difficult to match.* After this appeared in rapid succession, and written with equal ease, lyrical, dramatic, educational, poetical, aesthetical, philosophical, moral, and religious treatises, as well as lectures and studies in his- tory and law; for Almquist now gave all his time to literary labors. His novels showed socialistic , sympathies, and he put forth news- paper articles ^nd pamphlets on Socialism which aroused considerable opposition. Moreover, he delighted in contradictions. One day he wrote as an avowed Christian, extolling virtue, piety, and Christian knowledge; the next, he abrogated religfion as entirely unnecessary: and his own explanation of this variability was merely — «I paint so because it pleases me to paint so, and life is not otherwise." In 1851 was heard the startling rumor that he was accused of forgery and charged with murder. He fled from Sweden and disap- peared from the knowledge of "men. Going to America, he earned under a fictitious name a scanty living, and became, it is said, the private secretary of Abraham Lincoln. In 1866 he found himself again under the ban of the law, his papers were destroyed, and he escaped with difficulty to Bremen, where he died. One of his latest works was his excellent modern novel, (Skallnora's Mill), and • Grimstahamns Nybygge> ( Grimstahamn's Settlement). His idyl (The Chapel) is wonderfully true to nature, and his novel (The Palace) is rich in humor and true poesy. His literary fame will probably rest on his romances, which are the best of their kind in Swedish literature. KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST . -j CHARACTERISTICS OF CATTLE ANY one with a taste for physiognomy should carefully observe the features of the ox and the cow; their demeanor and the expression of their eyes. They are figures which bear an extraordinary stamp of respectability. They look neither joy- ful nor melancholy. They are seldom evilly disposed, but never sportive. They are full of gravity, and always seem to be going about their business. They are not merely of great economic service, but their whole persons carry the look of it. They are the very models of earthly carefulness. Nothing is ever to be seen more dignified, more official-look- ing, than the whole behavior of the ox; his way of carrying his head, and looking around him. If anybody thinks I mean these words for a sarcasm, he is mistaken: no slur on official life, or on what the world calls a man's vocation, is intended. I hold them all in as much respect as could be asked. And though I have an eye for contours, no feeling of ridicule is connected in my mind with any of these. On the contrary, I regard the ox and the cow with the warmest feelings of esteem. I admire in them a naive and striking picture of one who minds his own business; who submits to the claims of duty, not using the word in its highest sense; who in the world's estimate is dig- nified, steady, conventional, and middle-aged, — that is to say, neither youthful nor stricken in years. Look at that ox which stands before you, chewing his cud and gazing around him with suph unspeakable thoughtfulness — but which you will find, when you look more closely into his eyes, is thinking about nothing at all. Look at that discreet, excellent Dutch cow, which, gifted with an inexhaustible udder, stands quietly and allows herself to be milked as a matter of course, while she gazes into space with a most sensible express- ion. Whatever she does, she does with the same imperturbable calmness, and as when a person leaves an important trust to his own time and to posterity. If the worth of this creature is thus great on the one side, yet on the other it must be con- fessed that she possesses not a single trait of grace, not a particle of vivacity, and none of that quick characteristic retreat- ing from an object which indicates an internal buoyancy, an elastic temperament, such as we see in a bird or fish. . . . There is something very agreeable in the varied lowing of cattle 442 KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST when heard in the distant country, and when replied to by a large herd, especially toward eveniiig and amid echoes. On the other hand, nothing is more unpleasant than to hear all at once, and just beside one, the bellowing of a bull, who thus authori- tatively announces himself, as if nobody else had any right to utter a syllable in his presence. A NEW UNDINE From MISS RuDENSKOLD and her companion sat in one of the pews in the cheerful and beautiful church of Normalm, which is all that is left of the once famous cloister of St. Clara, and still bears the saint's name. The sermon was finished,' and the strong full tones of the organ, called out by the skillful hands of an excellent organist, hovered like the voices of unseen angel choirs in the high vaults of the church, floated down to the listeners, and sank deep into their hearts. Azouras did not speak a single word; neither did she sing, for she did not know a whole hymn through. Nor did Miss Rudenskold sing, because it was not her custom to sing in church. During the organ solo, however, Miss Rudenskold vent- ured to make some remarks about Dr. Asplund's sermon which was so beautiful, and about the notices afterward which were so tiresome. But when her neighbor did not answer, but sat look- ing ahead with large, almost motionless eyes, as people stare without looking at anything in particular, she changed her sub- ject. At one of the organ tones which finished a cadence, Azouras started, and blinked quickly with her eyelids, and a light sigh showed that she came back to herself and her friend, from her vague contemplative state of mind. Something indescribable, very sad, shone in her eyes, and made them almost black; and with a childlike look at Miss Rudenskold she asked, "Tell me what that large painting over there represents." "The altar-piece? Don't you know? The altar-piece in Clara is one of the most beautiful we possess." " What is going on there ? " asked Azouras. Miss Rudenskold gave her a side glance; she did not know that her neighbor in the pew was a girl without baptism, with- out Christianity, without the slightest knowledge of holy religion, KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST 443 a heathen -and knew less than a heathen, for such a one has his teachings, although they are not Christian. Miss Rudenskold thought the girl's question came of a momentary forgetfulness and answered, to remind her: ' «Well, you see, it is one of the usual subjects, but unusually well painted, that is all. High up among the other figures iri the painting you will see the half -reclining figure of one that is dead— see what an expression the painter has put into the face' — That is the Saviour." "The Saviour?" «Yes, God's son, you know; or God Himself." «And he is dead?» repeated Azouras to herself with wonder- ing eyes. «Yes, I believe that; it must be so: it is godlike to die ! » Miss Rudenskold looked at her neighbor with wide-opened eyes. "You must not misunderstand this subject," she said. «It is human to live and want to live; you can see that, too, in the altar-piece, for all the persons who are human beings, like our- selves, are alive." "Let us go out! I feel oppressed by fear— no, I will tarry here until my fear passes away. Go, dearest, I will send you word. " Miss Rudenskold took leave of her; went out of the church and over the churchyard to the Eastern Gate, which faces Oden's lane. . . . The girl meanwhile stayed inside; came to a comer in the organ stairs; saw people go out little by little; remained unob- served, and finally heard the sexton and the church-keeper go away. When the last door was closed, Azouras stepped out of her hiding-place. Shut out from the entire world, severed from all human beings, she found herself the only occupant of the large, light building, into which the sun lavishly poured his gold. Although she was entirely ignorant of our holy church cus- toms and the meaning of the things she saw around her, she had nevertheless, sometimes in the past, when her mother was in better health, been present at the church service as a pastime, and so remembered one thing and another. The persons with whom she lived, in the halls and corridors of the opera, hardly ever went to God's house; and generally speaking, church-going was not practiced much during this time. No wonder, then, that a child who was not a member of any religious body, and who 444 KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST had never received an enlightening word from any minister, should neglect what the initiated themselves did not attend to assiduously. ■ She walked up the aisle, and never had the sad, strange feel- ing of utter loneliness taken hold of her as it did now; it was coupled with the apprehension of a great, overhanging danger. Her heart beat wildly; she longed unspeakably — but for what? for her wild free forest out there, where she ran around quick as a deer ? or for what ? She walked up toward the choir and approached the altar rail- ing. "Here at least — I remember that once — but that was long ago, and it stands like a shadow before my memory — I saw many people kneel here : it must have been of some use to them ? Suppose I did likewise ? * Nevertheless she thought it would be improper for her to kneel down on the decorated cushions around the chancel. She folded her hands and knelt outside of the choir on the bare stone floor. But what more was she to do or say now ? Of what use was it all ? Where was she to turn ? She knew nothing. She looked down into her own thoughts as into an immense, silent dwelling. Feelings of sorrow and a sense of transiency moved in slow swells, like shining, breaking waves, through her consciousness. "Oh — something to lean on — a help — where ? where ? where ? " She looked quietly about her; she saw nobody. She was sure to meet the most awful danger when the door was opened, if help did not come first. She turned her eyes back toward the organ, and in her thoughts she besought grace of the straight, long, shining pipes. But all their mouths were silent now. She looked up to the pulpit; nobody was standing there. In the pews nobody. She had sent everybody away from here and from herself. She turned her head again toward the choir. She remem- bered that when she had seen so many gathered here, two min- isters in vestments had moved about inside of the railing and had offered the kneeling worshipers something. No doubt to help them! But now — there was nobody inside there. To be sure she was kneeling here with folded hands and praying eyes; but there was nobody, nobody, nobody who offered her the least little thing. She wept. KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST 445 She looked out of the great church windows to the clear noonday sky; her eyes beheld the delicate azure light which spread itself over everything far, far away, but on nothing could her eyes rest. There were no stars to be seen now, and the sun itself was hidden by the window post, although its mild golden light flooded the world. She looked away again, and her eyes sank to the "ground. Her knees were resting on a tombstone, and she saw many of the same kind about her. She read the names engraven on the stones; they were all Swedish, correct and well-known. «Oh,» she said to herself with a sigh, «I have not a name Uke others! My names have been many, borrowed,— and oh, often changed. I did not get one to be my very own! If only I had one like other people ! Nobody has written me down in a book as I have heard it said others are written down. Nobody asks about me. I have nothing to do with anybody! Poor Azouras," she whis- pered low to herself. She wept much. There was no one else who said "poor Azouras Tintomara!" but it was as if an inner, higher, invisible being felt sorry for the outer, bodily, visible being, both one and the same person in her. She wept bitterly over herself. «God is dead,» she thought, and looked up at the large altar- piece again. "But I am a human being; I must live." And she wept more heartily, more bitterly. . . . The afternoon passed, and the hour for vespers struck. The bells in the tower began to lift their solemn voices, and keys rattled in the lock. Then the heathen girl sprang up, and, much like a thin vanishing mist, disappeared from the altar. She hid in her corner again. It seemed to her that she had been for- ward, and had taken liberties in the choir of the church to which she had no right; and that in the congregation coming in now, she saw persons who had a right to everything. Nevertheless, when the harmonious tones of the organ began to mix with the fragrant summer air in the church, Azouras stood radiant, and she felt quickly how the weight lifted from her breast. Was it because of the tears she had shed ? Or did an unknown helper at this moment scatter the fear in her heart ? She felt no more that it would be dangerous to leave the church; she stole away, before vespers were over, came out into the churchyard and turned off to the northern gate. ^^6 JOHANNA AMBROSIUS GOD'S WAR HIS mighty weapon drawing, God smites the world he loves ; Thus, worthy of him growing. She his reflection proves. God's war like lightning striking, The heart's deep core lays bare, Which fair grows to his liking Who is supremely fair. Escapes no weakness shame. No hid, ignoble feeling; But when his thunder pealing Enkindles life's deep flame, And water clear upwelleth. Flowing unto its goal, God's grand cross standing, telleth His truth unto the soul. Sing, God's war, earth that shakes! Sing, sing the peace he makes! JOHANNA AMBROSIUS (i8s4-) Before the year 1895 the name of the German peasant, Johanna Ambrpsius, was hardly known, even within her own country. Now her melodious verse has made her one of the most popular writers in Germany. Her genius found its way from the humble farm in Eastern Prussia, where she worked in the field beside her husband, to the very heart of the great literary circles. She was born in Lengwethen, a parish village in Eastern Prussia, on the 3d of August, 1854. She received only the commonest education, and every day was filled with the coarsest toil. But her mind and soul were uplifted by the gift of poetry, to which she gave voice in her rare moments of leisure. A delicate, middle-aged woman, whose simplicity is undisturbed by the lavish praises of literary men, she leads the most unpretending of lives. Her work became known by the merest chance. She sent a poem to a German weekly, where it attracted the attention of a Viennese gentleman. Dr. Schrattenthal, who collecteo her verses and sent the little volume into the world with a preface by himself. This work has already gone through twenty-six editions. JOHANNA AMBROSIUS ^^. The short sketch cited, written some years ago, is the only prose of hers that has been published. The distinguishing characteristics of the poetry of this singularly gifted woman are the deep, almost painfully intense earnestness per- vading its every line, the fine sense of harmony and rhythmic felicity attending the comparatively few attempts she has thus far made, and her tender touch when dwelling upon themes of the heart and home. One cannot predict what her success will be when she attempts more ambitious flights, but thus far she seems to have probed the aesthetic heart of Germany to its centre. A PEASANT'S THOUGHTS THE first snow, in large and thick flakes, fell gently and silently on the barren branches of the ancient pear-tree, standing like a sentinel at my house door. The first snow of the year speaks both of joy and sadness. It is so comfortable to sit in a warm room and watch the falling flakes, eternally pure and lovely. There are neither flowers nor birds about, to make you see and hear the beautiful great world. Now the busy peasant has time to read the stories in his calendar. And I, too, stopped my spinning-wheel, the holy Christ-child's gift on my thirteenth birthday, to fold my hands and to look through the calendar of my thoughts. I did not hear a knock at the door, but a little man came in with a cordial « Good morning, little sister ! » I knew him well enough, though we were not acquaintances. Half familiar, half strange, this little time-worn figure looked. His queer face seemed stamped out of rubber, the upper part sad, the lower full of laughing wrinkles. But his address surprised me, for we were not in the least related. I shook his horny hand, respond- ing, "Hearty thanks, little brother." «I call this good luck," began little brother: «a room freshly scoured, apples roasting in the chimney, half a cold duck in the cupboard ; and you all alone with cat and clock. It is easier talking when there are two, for the third is always in the way." The old man amused me immensely. I sat down on the bench beside him and asked after his wife and family. "Thanks, thanks," he nodded, «all well and happy except our nestling Ille. She leaves home to-morrow, to eat her bread as a dress- maker in B ." — «And the other children, where are they?" 4^8 JOHANNA AMBROSIUS "Flown away, long ago! Do you suppose, little sister, that I want to keep all fifteen at home like so many cabbages in a single bed?" Fifteen children! Almost triumphantly, little brother watched me. I owned almost as many brothers and sisters myself, and fifteen children were no marvel to me. So I asked if he were a grandfather too. "Of course," he answered gravely. "But I am going to tell you how I came by fifteen children. You know how we peasant folk give house and land to the eldest son, and only a few coppers to the youngest children. A bad custom, that leads to quarrels, and ends sometimes in murder. Fathers and mothers can't bring themselves to part with the property, and so they live with the eldest son, who doles out food and shelter, and gets the farm in the end. So, in time, a family has some rich mem-, bers and more paupers. Now, we'd better sell the land and let the children share alike; but then that way breaks estates too. I was a younger child, and I received four hundred thalers; — a large sum forty years ago. I didn't know anything but field work. The saying that 'The peasant must be kept stupid or he will not obey' was still printed in all the books. So I had to look about for a family where a son was needed. One day, with my four hundred thalers in my pocket, I went to a farm where there was an unmarried daughter. When you go a-courting among us, you pretend to mean to buy a horse. That's the fashion. With us, a lie doesn't wear French rouge. The parents of Marianne (that was her name) made me welcome. Brown Bess was brought from. the stable, and her neck, legs, and teeth examined. I showed my willingness to buy her, which meant as much as to say, < Your daughter pleases me. ' As proud as you please, I walked through the buildings. Everything in plenty, all right, not a nail wanting on the harrow, nor a cord missing from the harness. How I strutted! I saw myself master, and I was tickled to death to be as rich as my brother. "But I reckoned without my host. On tiptoe I stole into the kitchen, where my sweetheart was frying ham and eggs. I thought I might snatch a kiss. Above the noise of the sizzling frying-pan and the crackling wood, I plainly heard the voice of my — well, let us say it — bride, weeping and complaining to an old house servant: *It's a shame and a sin to enter matrimony with a lie. I can't wed this Michael: not because he is ugly; that doesn't matter in a man, but he comes too late! My heart JOHANNA AMBROSIUS 440 belongs to poor Joseph, the woodcutter, and I'd sooner be turned out of doors than to make a false promise. Money blinds my mother's eyes!* Don't be surprised, little sister, that I remember these words so, well. A son doesn't forget his father's blessing, nor a prisoner his sentence. This was my sentence to poverty and single-blessedness. I sent word to Marianne that she should be happy — and so she was. " But now to my own story. I worked six years as farm hand for my rich brother, and then love overtook me. The little housemaid caught me in the net of her golden locks. What a fuss it made in our family ! A peasant's pride is as stiff as that of your *Vous* and *Zus.' My girl had only a pair of willing hands and a good heart to give to an ugly, pock-marked being like me. My mother (God grant her peace!) caused her many a tear, and when I brought home my Lotte she wouldn't keep the peace until at last she found out that happiness depends on kind- ness more than on money. On the patch of land that I bought, my wife and I lived as happily as people live when there's love in the house and a bit of bread to spare. We worked hard and spent little. A long, scoured table, a wooden bench or so, a chest or two of coarse linen, and a few pots and pans — that was our furniture. The walls had never tasted whitewash, but Lotte kept them scoured. She went to church barefoot, and put on her shoes at the door. Good things such as coffee and plums, that the poorest hut has now-a-days, we never saw. We didn't save much, for crops sold cheap. But I didn't speculate, nor squeeze money from the sweat of the poor. In time five pretty little chatterboxes arrived, all flaxen-haired girls with blue eyes, or brown. I was satisfied with girls, but the mother hankered after a boy. That's a poor father that prefers a son to. a daughter. A man ought to take boys and girls alike, just as God sends them. I was glad enough to work for my girls, and I didn't worry about their future, nor build castles in the air for them to live in. After fifteen years the boy arrived, but he took himself quickly out of the world and coaxed his mother away with him.'* Little brother was silent, and bowed his snow-white head. My heart felt as if the dead wife flitted through the room and gently touched the old fellow's thin locks. I saw him kneehng at her death-bed, heard the little girls sobbing, and waited in silence till he drew himself up, sighing deeply: — I — 29 450 JOHANNA AMBROSIUS " My Lotte died ; she left me alone. What didn't I promise the dear Lord in those black hours! My life, my savings, yea, all my children if He would but leave her to me. In vain. ); smiles with the soldiers at the pretty runa- way boy, idol of the regiment ( AND first of all, the light! One of my dearest delights at Con- stantinople was to see the sun rise and set, standing upon the bridge of the Sultana Valid^. At dawn, in autumn, the Golden Horn is almost always covered by a light fog, behind which the city is seen vaguely, like those gauze curtains that descend upon the stage to conceal the preparations for a scenic spectacle. Scutari is quite hidden ; nothing is to be seen but the dark uncertain outline of her hills. The bridge and the shores are deserted, Constantinople sleeps; the solitude and silence render the spectacle more solemn. The sky begins to grow golden behind the hills of Scutari. Upon that luminous strip are drawn, one by one, black and clear, the tops of the cypress trees in the vast cemetery, like an army of giants ranged upon the heights; and from one cape of the Golden Horn to the other there shines a tremulous light, faint as the first murmur of the awakening city. Then behind the cypresses of the Asiatic shore comes forth an eye of fire, and suddenly the white tops of the four minarets of Saint Sophia are tinted with deep rose. In a few minutes, ^c6 EDMONDO DE AMICIS from hill to hill, from mosque to mosque, down to the end of the Golden Horn, all the minarets, one after the other, turn rose color; all the domes, one by one, are silvered, the flush descends from terrace to terrace, the tremulous light spreads, the great veil melts, and all Stamhoul appears, rosy and resplendent upon her heights, blue and violet along the shores, fresh and young, as if just risen from the waters. As the sun rises, the delicacy of the first tints vanishes in an immense illumination, and ever3rthing remains bathed in white light until toward evening. Then the divine spectacle begins again. The air is so limpid that from Galata one can see clearly every distant tree, as far as Kadi-Kioi. The whole of the immense profile of Stamboul stands out against the sky with such a clearness of line and rigor of color, that every minaret, obelisk, and cypress-tree can be counted, one by one, from Seraglio Point to the cemetery of Ejrub. The Golden Horn and the Bosphorus assume a wonderful ultramarine color; the heavens, the color of amethyst in the East, are afire behind Stamboul, tinting the hori- zon with infinite lights of rose and carbuncle, that make one think of the first day of the creation; Stamboul darkens, Galata becomes golden, and Scutari, struck by the last rays of the set- ting sun, with every pane of glass giving back the glow, looks like a city on fire. And this is the moment to contemplate Constantinople. There is one rapid succession of the softest tints, pallid gold, rose and lilac, which quiver and float over the sides of the hills and the water, every moment giving and taking away the prize of beauty from each part of the city, and revealing a thousand modest graces of the landscape that have not dared to show themselves in the full light. Great melancholy suburbs are lost in the shadow of the valleys; little purple cities smile upon the heights; villages faint as if about to die; others die at once like extin- guished flames; others, that seemed already dead, revive;, and glow, and quiver yet a moment longer under the last ray of the sun. Then there is nothing left but two resplendent points upon the Asiatic shore, — the summit of Mount Bulgurlu, and the extremity of the cape that guards the entrance to the Propontis; they are at first two golden crowns, then two purple caps, then two rubies; then all Constantinople is in shadow, and ten thou- sand voices from ten thousand minarets announce the close of the day. I EDMONDO DE AMICIS 457 RESEMBLANCES From < Constantinople > N THE first days, fresh as I was from the perusal of Oriental literature, I saw everywhere the famous personages of history and legend, and the figures that recalled them resembled sometimes so faithfully those that were fixed in my imagination, that I was constrained to stop and look at them. How many times have I seized my friend by the arm, and pointing to a person passing by, have exclaimed: «It is he, cospetto! do you not recognize him ? » In the square of the Sultana Valid^, I fre- quently saw the gigantic Turk who threw down millstones from the walls of Nicasa on the heads of the soldiers of BagUone; I saw in front of a mosque Umm Djemil, that old fury that sowed brambles and nettles before Mahomet's house; I met in the book bazaar, with a volume under his arm, Djemaleddin, the learned man of Broussa, who knew the whole of the Arab dictionary by heart; I passed quite close to the side of Ayesha, the favorite wife of the Prophet, and she fixed upon my face her eyes, brill- iant and humid, like the reflection of stars in a well; I have recognized, in the At-Meidan, the famous beauty of that pcJor Greek woman killed by a cannon ball at the base of the serpent- ine column; I have been face to face, in the Fanar, with Kara- Abderrahman, the handsome young Turk of the time of Orkhan; I have seen Coswa, the she-camel of the Prophet; I have en- countered Kara-bulut, Selim's black steed; I have met the poor poet Fignahi, condemned to go about Stamboul tied to an ass for having pierced with an insolent distich the Grand Vizier of Ibrahim; I have been in the same cafd with Soliman the Big, the monstrous admiral, whom four robust slaves hardly succeeded in lifting from the divan; Ali, the Grand Vizier, who could not find in all Arabia a horse that could carry him; Mahmoud Pasha, the ferocious Hercules that strangled the son of Soliman; and the stupid Ahmed Second, who continually repeated " Koso ! Koso ! " (Very well, very well) crouching before the door of the copyists' bazaar, in the square of Bajazet. All the personages of the 'Thousand and One Nights,' the Aladdins, the Zobeides, the Sindbads, the Gulnares, the old Jewish merchants, possessors of enchanted carpets and wonderful lamps, passed before me like a procession of phantoms. ^gS EDMONDO DE AMICIS BIRDS From < Constantinople > CONSTANTINOPLE has onc grace and gayety peculiar to itself, that comes from an infinite number of birds of every kind, for which the Turks nourish a warm sentiment and regard. Mosques, groves, old walls, gardens, palaces, all resound with song, the whistling and twittering of birds; everywhere wings are fluttering, and life and harmony abound. The sparrows enter the houses boldly, and eat out of women's and children's hands; swallows nest aver the ca.fi doors, and under the arches of the bazaars; pigeons in innumerable swarms, maintained by legacies from sultans and private individuals, form garlands of black and white along the cornices of the cupolas and around the terraces of the minarets; sea-gulls dart and play over the water; thousands of turtle-doves coo amorously among the cypresses in the ceme- teries ; crows croak about the Castle of the Seven Towers hal- cyons come and go in long files between the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmora; and storks sit upon the cupolas of the mausoleums. For the Turk, each one of these birds has a gentle meaning, or a benignant virtue: turtle-doves are favorable to lovers, swallows keep away fire from the roofs where they build their nests, storks make yearly pilgrimages to Mecca, halcyons carry the souls of the faithful to Paradise. Thus he protects and feeds them, through a .sentiment of gratitude and piety; and they enliven the house, the sea, and the sepulchre. Every quarter of Stamboul is full of the noise of them, bringing to the city a sense of the pleasures of country life, and continually refreshing the soul with a reminder of nature. CORDOVA • From < Spain > FOR a long distance the country offers no new aspect to the feverish curiosity of the tourist. At Vilches there is a vast plain, and beyond there the open country of Tolosa, where Alphonso VIII., King of Castile, gained the celebrated victory <*de las Navas" over the Mussulman army. The sky was very clear, and in the distance one could see the mountains of the Sierra de Segura. Suddenly, there comes over one a sensation EDMONDO DE AMICIS ^rg which seems to respond to a suppressed exclamation of surprise: the first aloes with their thick leaves, the unexpected heralds of tropical vegetation, rise on both sides of the road. Beyond, the fields studded with flowers begin to appear. The first are studded, those which follow almost covered, then come vast stretches of ground entirely clothed with pOppies, daisies, lilies, wild mush- rooms, and ranunculuses, so that the country (as it presents itself to view) looks like a succession of immense purple, gold, and snowy-hued carpets. In the distance, among the trees, are in- numerable blue, white, and yellow streaks, as far as the eye can reach; and nearer, on the banks of the ditches, the elevations of ground, the slopes, and even on the edge of the road are flowers in beds, clumps,* and clusters, one above the other, grouped in the form of great bouquets, and trembling on their stalks, which one can almost touch with his hand. Then there are fields white with great blades of grain, flanked by plantations of roses, orange groves, immense olive groves, and hillsides varied by a thousand shades «f green, surmounted by ancient Moorish towers, scattered with many-colored houses; and between the one and the other are white and slender bridges that cross rivulets hidden by the trees. On the horizon appear the snowy caps of the Sierra Nevada; under that white streak lie the undulating blue ones of the nearer mountains. The country becomes more varied and flourishing; Arjonilla lies in a grove of olives, whose boundary one cannot see; Pedro Abad, in the midst of a plain, covered with vineyards and fruit-trees; Ventas di Alcolea, on the last hills of the Sierra Nevada, peopled with villas and gardens. We are approaching Cordova, the train flies along, we see Httle stations half hidden by trees and flowers, the wind carries the rose leaves into the ■ carriages, great butterflies fly near the windows, a delicious per- fume permeates the air, the travelers sing; we pass through an enchanted garden, the aloes, oranges, palms, and villas grow more frequent; and at last we hear a cry — «Here is Cordova!" How many lovely pictures and grand recollections the sound of that name awakens in one's mind! Cordova, — the ancient pearl of the East, as the Arabian poets call it,— the city of cities; Cordova of the thirty suburbs and three thousand mosques, which inclosed within her walls the greatest temple of Islam! Her fame extended throughout the East, and obscured the glory of ancient -Damascus. The faithful came from the most remote 460 EDMONDO DE AMICIS regions of Asia to banks of the Guadalquivir to prostrate them- selves in the marvelous Mihrab of her mosque, in the light of the thousand bronze lamps cast from the bells of the cathedrals of Spain. Hither flocked artists, savants, poets from every part of the Mahometan world to her flourishing schools, immense libra- ries, and the magnificent courts of her caliphs. Riches and beauty flowed in, attracted by the fame of her splendor. From here they scattered, eager for knowledge, along the coasts of Africa, through the schools of Tunis, Cairo, Bagdad, Cufa, and even to India and China, in order to gather inspiration and records; and the poetry sung on the slopes of the Sierra Morena flew from lyre to lyre, as far as the valleys of the Caucasus, to excite the ardor for pilgrimages. The beautiful, powerful, and wise Cordova, crowned with three thousand villages, proudly raised her white minarets in the midst of orange groves, and spread around the valley a voluptuous atmosphere of joy and glory. I leave the train, cross a garden, look around me, I am alone. The travelers who were with me disappear here and there; I still hear the noise of a carriage which is rolling off; then all is quiet. It is midday, the sky is very clear, and the air suffocating. I see two' white houses; it is the opening of a street; I enter and go on. The street is narrow, the houses as small as the little villas on the slopes of artificial gardens, almost all one story in height, with windows a few feet from the ground, the roofs so low that one could almost touch them with a stick, and the walls very white. The street turns; I look, see no one, and hear neither step nor voice. I say to myself: — "This must be an abandoned street!" and try another one, in which the houses are white, the windows closed, and there is nothing but silence and solitude around me. « Why, ■ where am I ? » I ask myself. I go on ; the street, which is so narrow that a carriage could not pass, begins to wind; on the right and left I see other deserted streets, white houses, and closed windows. My step resounds as if in a corridor. The whiteness of the walls is so vivid that even the reflection is trying, and I am obliged to walk with my eyes half closed, for it really seems as if I were making my way through the snow. I reach a small square; everything is closed, and no one is to be seen. At this point a vague feeling of melancholy seizes me, such as I have never experienced before; a mixture of EDMONDO DE AMICIS .g^ pleasure and sadness, similar to that which comes to children when, after a long run, they reach a lonely rural spot and rejoice in their discovery, but with a certain trepidation lest they should be too far from home. Above many roofs rise the palm-trees of inner gardens. Oh, fantastic legends of Odalisk and Caliph! On I go from street to street, and square to square; I begin to meet some people, but they pass and disap- pear like phantoms. All the streets resemble each other; the houses have only three or four windows; and not a spot, scrawl, or crack is to be seen on the walls, which are as smooth and white as a sheet of paper. From time to time I hear a whisper behind a blind, and see, almost at the same moment, a dark head, with a flower in the hair, appear and disappear. I look in at a door. ... A patio! How shall I describe a patio f It is not a court, nor a garden, nor a room; but it is all three things combined. Between the patio and the street there is a vestibule. On the four sides of the patio rise slender columns, which support, up to a level with the first floor, a species of gallery inclosed in glass; above the gallery is stretched a canvas, which shades the court. The vestibule is paved with marble, the door flanked by columns, surmounted by bas-reliefs, and closed by a slender iron gate of graceful design. At the end of the patio there is a fountain; and all around are scattered chairs, work-tables, pictures, " and vases of flowers. I run to another door : there is another patio, with its walls covered with ivy, and a number of niches holding little statues, busts, and urns. I look in at a third door: here is another patio, with its walls worked in mosaics, a palm in the centre, and a mass of flowers all around. I stop at a fourth door: after the patio there is another vestibule, after this a second patio, in which one sees other statues, columns, and fountains. All these rooms and gardens are so neat and clean that one could pass his hand over the walls and on the ground without leaving a trace; and they are fresh, odorous, and lighted by an uncertain light, which increases their beauty and mysterious appearance. On I go at random from street to street. As I walk, my curiosity increases and I quicken my pace. It seems impossible that a whole city can be like this; I am afraid of stumbling across some house or coming into some street that will remind me of other cities, and disturb my beautiful dream. But no, the 462 EDMONDO DE AMICIS dream lasts; for everything is small, lovely, and mysterious. At every hundred steps I reach a deserted square, in which I stop and hold my breath; from time to time there appears a cross- road, and not a living soul is to be seen; everything is white, the windows closed, and silence reigns on all sides. At each door there is a new spectacle; there are arches, columns, flowers, jets of water, and palms; a marvelous variety of design, tints, light, and perfume; here the odor of roses, there of oranges, farther on of pinks; and with this perfume a whiff of fresh air, and with the air a subdued sound of women's voices, the rustling of leaves, and the singing of birds. ^It is a sweet and varied harmony, that without disturbing the silence of the streets, soothes the ear like the echo of distant music. Ah! it is not a dream! Madrid, • Italy, Europe, are indeed far away! Here one lives another life, and breathes the air of a different world, — for I am in the East. THE LAND OF PLUCK From < Holland and Its People' WHOEVER looks for the first time at a large map of Holland wonders that a country so constituted can continue to exist. At the first glance it is difficult to see whether land- or water predominates, or whether Holland belongs most to the continent or to the sea. Those broken and compressed coasts; those deep bays; those great rivers that, losing the aspect of rivers, seem bringing new seas to the sea; that sea which, changing itself into rivers, penetrates the land and breaks it into archipelagoes; the lakes, the vast morasses, the canals crossing and recrossing each other, all combine to give the idea of a country that may at any moment disintegrate and disappear. Seals and beavers would seem to be its rightful inhabitants; but since there are men bold enough to live in it, they surely cannot ever sleep in peace. What sort of a country Holland is, has been told by many in few words. Napoleon said it was an alluvion of French rivers, the Rhine, the Scheldt, and the Meuse, — and with this pretext he added it to the Empire. One writer has defined it as a sort of transition between land and sea. Another, as an immense crust of earth floating, on the water. Others, an annex of the old EDMONDO DE AMICIS .5, continent, the China of Europe, the end of the earth and the beginning of the ocean, a measureless raft of mud and sand; and Philip II. called it the country nearest to hell. But they all agreed upon one point, and all expressed it in the same words: — Holland is a conquest made by man over the sea; it is an artificial country: the Hollanders made it; it exists because the Hollanders preserve it; it will vanish whenever the Hollanders shall abandon it. To comprehend this truth, we must imagine Holland as it was when first inhabited by the first German tribes that wandered away in search of a country. It was almost uninhabitable. There were vast tempestuous lakes, like seas, touching one another; morass beside morass; one tract after another covered with brushwood; immense forests of pines, oaks, and alders, traversed by herds of wild horses, and so thick were these forests that tradition says one could travel leagues passing from tree to tree without ever putting foot to the ground. The deep bays and gulfs carried into the heart of the country the fury of the northern tempests. Some provinces dis- appeared once every year under the waters of the sea, and were nothing but muddy tracts, neither land nor water, where it was impossible either to walk or to sail. The large rivers, without sufficient inclination to descend to the sea, wandered here and there uncertain of their way, and slept in monstrous pools and ponds among the sands of the coasts. It was a sinister place, swept by furious winds, beaten by obstinate rains, veiled in a perpetual fog, where nothing was heard but the roar of the sea and the voices of wild beasts and ■ birds of the ocean. The first people who had the courage to plant their tents there, had to raise with their own hands dikes of earth to keep out the rivers and the sea, and lived within them like shipwrecked men upon desolate islands, venturing forth at the subsidence of the waters in quest of food in the shape of fish and game, and gathering the eggs of marine birds upon the sand. Caesar, passing by, was the first to name this people. The other Latin historians speak with compassion and respect of these intrepid barbarians who lived upon a "floating land," exposed to the intemperance of a cruel sky and the fury of the mysterious northern sea; and the imagination pictures the Roman soldiers, who, from the heights of the uttermost citadels of the empire, beaten by the waves, contemplated with wonder and pity those 464 EDMONDO DE AMICIS wandering tribes upon their desolate land, like a race accursed of heaven. Now, if we remember that such a region has become one of the most fertile, wealthiest, and best regulated of the countries of the world, we shall understand the justice of the sa3dng that Holland is a conquest made by man. But, it must be added, the conquest goes on forever. To explain this fact — to show how the existence of Holland, in spite of the great defensive works constructed by the inhabit- ants, demands an incessant and most perilous struggle — it will be enough to touch here and there upon a few of the principal vicissitudes of her physical history, from the time when her inhabitants had already reduced her to a habitable country. Tradition speaks of a great inundation in Friesland in the sixth century. From that time every gulf, every island, and it may be said every city, in Holland has its catastrophe to record. In thirteen centuries, it is recorded that one great inundation, beside smaller ones, has occurred every seven years; and the country being all plain, these inundations were veritable floods. Towards the end of the thirteenth century, the sea destroyed a part of a fertile peninsula near the mouth of the Ems, and swal- lowed up more than thirty villages. In the course of the same century, a series of inundations opened an immense chasm in northern Holland, and formed the Zuyder Zee, causing the death of more than eighty thousand persons. In 1421 a tempest swelled the Meuse, so that in one night the waters overwhelmed seventy- two villages and one hundred thousand inhabitants. In 1532 the sea burst the dikes of Zealand, destroying hundreds of villages, and covering forever a large tract of country. In 1570 a storm caused another inundation in Zealand and in the province of Utrecht; Amsterdam was invaded by the waters, and in Fries- land twenty thousand people were drowned. Other great inunda- tions took place in the seventeenth century; two terrible ones at the beginning and the end of the eighteenth; one in 1825 that desolated North Holland, Friesland, Over-Yssel, and Gueldres; and another great one of the Rhine, in 1855, which invaded Gueldres and the province of Utrecht, and covered a great part of North Brabant. Beside these great catastrophes, there hap- pened in different centuries innumerable smaller ones, which would have been famous in any other country, but which in Holland are scarcely remembered: like the rising of the lake of / EDMONDO DE AMICIS .ge Haarlem, itself the result of an inundation of the sea; flourishing cities of the gulf of Zuyder Zee vanished under the waters; the islands of Zealand covered again and again by the sea, and again emerging; villages of the coast, from Helder to the mouths of the Meuse, from time to time inundated and destroyed; and in all these inundations immense loss of life of men and animals It is plain that miracles of courage, constancy, and industry must have been accomplished by the Hollanders, first in creating and afterwards in preserving such a country. The enemy from which they had to wrest it was triple : the sea, the lakes, the rivers. They drained the lakes, drove back the sea, and imprisoned the rivers. To drain the lakes the Hollanders pressed the air into their service. The lakes, the marshes, were surrounded by dikes, the dikes by canals; and an army of windmills, putting in motion force-pumps, turned the water into the canals, which carried it off to the rivers and the sea. Thus vast tracts of land buried under the water saw the sun, and were transformed, as if by magic, into fertile fields, covered with villages, and intersected by canals and roads. In the seventeenth century, in less than forty years, twenty-six lakes were drained. At the beginning of 'the present century, in North Holland alone, more than six thousand hectares (or fifteen thousand acres) were thus redeemed from the waters; in South Holland, before 1844, twenty-nine thousand hectares; in the whole of Holland, from 1500 to 1858, three hun- dred and fifty-five thousand hectares. Substituting steam-mills for windmills, in thirty-nine months was completed the great undertaking of the draining of the lake of Haarlem, which meas- ured forty-four kilometres in circumference, and forever threatened with its tempests the cities of Haarlem, Amsterdam, and Leyden. And they are now meditating the prodigious work of drying up the Zuyder Zee, which embraces an area of more than seven hundred square kilometres. The rivers, another eternal enemy, cost no less of labor and sacrifice. Some, like the Rhine, which, lost itself in the sands before reaching the sea, had to be channeled and defended at their mouths, against the tides, by formidable cataracts; others, like the Meuse, bordered by dikes as powerful as those that were raised against the ocean; others, turned from their course; the wandering waters gathered together; the course of the afflu- ents regulated; the waters divided with rigorous measure in order I — 30 466 EDMONDO DE AMICIS to retain that enormous mass of liquid in equilibrium, where the slightest inequality might cost a province; and in this way all the rivers that formerly spread their devastating iloods about the country were disciplined into channels and constrained to do service. But the most tremendous struggle was the battle with the ocean. Holland is in great part lower than the level of the sea; consequently, everywhere that the coast is not defended by sand- banks it has to be protected by dikes. If these interminable bul- warks of earth, granite, and wood were not there to attest the indomitable courage and perseverance of the Hollanders, it would not be believed that the hand of man could, even in many cen- turies, have accomplished such a work. In Zealand alone the dikes extend to a distance of more than four hundred kilometres. The western coast of the island of Walcheren is defended by a dike, in which it is computed that the expense of construction added to that of preservation, if it were put out at interest, would amount to a sum equal in value to that which the dike itself would be worth were it made of massive copper. Around the city of Helder, at the northern extremity of North Holland, extends a dike ten kilometres long, constructed of masses of Nor- wegian granite, which descends more than sixty metres into the sea. The whole province of Friesland, for the length of eighty- eight kilometres, is defended by three rows of piles sustained by masses of Norwegian and German granite. Amsterdam, all the cities of the Zuyder Zee, and all the islands, — fragments of van- ished lands, — which are strung like beads between Friesland and North Holland, are protected by dikes. From the mouths of the Ems to those of the Scheldt, Holland is an impenetrable fortress, of whose immense bastions the mills are the towers, the cataracts are the gates, the islands the advanced forts; and Hke a true fortress, it shows to its enemy, the sea, only the tops of its bell- towers and the roofs of its houses, as if in defiance and derision. Holland is a fortress, and her people live as in a fortress, on a war footing with the sea. An army of engineers, directed by the Minister of the Interior, spread over the country, and, ordered like an army, continually spy the enemy, watch over the internal waters, foresee the bursting of the dikes, order and direct the defensive works. The expenses of the war are divided, one part to the State, one part to the provinces; every proprietor pays, beside the general imposts, a special impost for the dikes, EDMONDO DE AMICIS 467 in proportion to the extent of his lands and their proximity to the water. An accidental rupture, an inadvertence, may cause a flood; the peril is unceasing; the sentinels are at their posts upon the bulwarks; at the first assault of the sea, they shout the wat- ery, and Holland sends men, material, and money. And even when there is no great battle, a quiet, silent struggle is forever going on. The innumerable mills, even in the drained districts, continue to work unresting, to absorb and turn into the "canals the water that falls in rain and that which filters in from the sea. Every day the cataracts of the bays and rivers close their gigan- tic gates against the high tide trjdng to rush into the heart of the land. The work of strengthening dikes, fortifying sand-banks with plantations, throwing out new dikes where the banks are low, straight as great lances, vibrating in the bosom of the sea and breaking the first impetus of the wave, is forever going on. And the sea eternally knocks at the river-gates, beats upon the ramparts, growls on every side her ceaseless menace, lifting her curious waves as if to see the land she counts as hers, piling up banks of sand before the gates to kill the commerce of the cities, forever gnawing, scratching, digging at the coast; and failing to overthrow the raniparts upon which she foams and fumes in angry effort, she casts at their feet ships full of the dead, that they may announce to the rebellious country her fury and her strength. In the midst of this great and terrible struggle Holland is transformed: Holland is the land of transformations. A geo- graphical map of that country as it existed eight centuries ago is not recognizable. Transforming the sea, men also are trans- formed. The sea, at some points, drives back the land ; it takes portions from the continent, leaves them and takes them again; joins islands to the mainland with ropes of sand, as in the case of Zealand; breaks off bits from the mainland and makes new islands, as in Wieringen; retires from certain coasts and makes land cities out of what were cities of the sea,, as Leuvarde; con- verts vast tracts of plain into archipelagoes of a hundred islets, as Biisbosch; separates a city from the land, as Dordrecht; forms new gulfs two leagues broad, like the gulf of DoUart; divides two provinces with a new sea, like North Holland and Friesland. The effect of the inundations is to cause the level of the sea to rise in some places and to sink in others; sterile lands are fertiU ized, by the slime of the rivers, fertile lands are changed into 468 EDMONDO DE AMICIS deserts of sand. With the transformations of the waters ' alternate the transformations of labor. Islands are united to continents, like the island of Am eland; entire provinces are reduced to islands, as North Holland will be by the new canal of Amster- dam, which is to separate it from South Holland; lakes as large as provinces disappear altogether, like the lake of Beemster; by the extraction of peat, land is converted into lakes, and these lakes are again transformed into meadows. And thus the country changes its aspect according to the violence of nature or the needs of men. And while one goes over it with the latest map in hand, one may be sure that the map will be useless in a few years, because even now there are new gulfs in process of forma- tion, tracts of land just ready to be detached from the mainland, and great canals being cut that will carry life to uninhabited dis- tricts. But Holland has done more than defend herself against the waters; she has made herself mistress of them, and has used them for her own defense. Should a foreign army invade her territory, she has but to open her dikes and unchain the sea and the rivers, as she did against the Romans, against the Spaniards, against the army of Louis XIV., and defend the land cities with her fleet. Water was the source of her poverty, she has made it the source of wealth. Over the whole country extends an immense network of canals, which serves both for the irrigation of the land and as a means of communication. The cities, by means of canals, communicate with the sea; canals run from town to town, and from them to villages, which are themselves bound together by these watery ways, and are connected even to the houses scattered over the country; smaller canals surround the fields and orchards, pastures and kitchen-gardens, serving at once as boundary wall, hedge, and road-way; every hoijse is a little port. Ships, boats, rafts, move about in all directions, as in other places carts and carriages. The canals are the arteries of Holland, and the water her life-blood. But. even setting aside the canals, the draining of the lakes, and the defensive works, on every side are seen the traces of marvelous undertakings. The soil, which in other countries is a gift of nature, is in Holland a work of men's hands. Holland draws the greater part of her wealth from commerce; but before commerce comes the cultiva- tion of the soil; and the soil had to be created. There were sand-banks interspersed with layers of peat, broad downs swept EDMONDO DE AMICIS .g- by the winds, great tracts of barren land apparently condemned to an eternal sterility. The first elements of manufacture, iron and coal, were wanting; there was no wood, because the forests had already been destroyed by tempests when agriculture began; there was no stone, there were no metals. Nature, says a Dutch poet, had refused all her gifts to Holland; the Hollanders had to do everything in spite of nature. They began by fertilizing the sand. In some places they formed a productive soil with earth brought from a distance, as a garden is made; they spread the siliceous dust of the downs over the too watery meadows; they mixed with the sandy earth the remains of peat taken from the bottoms; they extracted clay to lend fertility to the surface of their lands; they labored to break up the downs with the plow: and thus in a thousand ways, and continually fighting off the menacing waters, they succeeded in bringing Holland to a state of cultivation not inferior to that of more favored regions. That Holland, that sandy, marshy country which the ancients consid- ered all but uninhabitable, now sends out yearly from her con- fines agricultural products to the value of a hundred millions of francs, possesses about one million three hundred thousand head of cattle, and in proportion to the extent of her territory may be accounted one of the most populous of European States. It may be easily understood how the physical peculiarities of their country must influence the Dutch people.; and their genius is in perfect harmony with the character of Holland. It is suffi- cient to contemplate the monuments of their great struggle with the sea in order to understand that their distinctive characteristics must be firmness and patience, accompanied by a calm and con- stant courage. That glorious battle, and the consciousness of owing everything to their own strength, must have infused and fortified in them a high sense of dignity and an indomitable spirit of liberty and independence.' The necessity of a constant struggle, of a continuous labor, and of perpetual sacrifices in defense of their existence, forever taking them back to a sense of reality, must have made them a highly practical and economical people; good sense should be their most salient qualjty, economy one of their chief virtues; they must be excellent in all useful arts, sparing of diversion, simple even in their greatness; succeeding in what they undertake by dint of tenacity and a thoughtful and orderly activity; more wise than heroic; more conservative than creative; giving no great architects to the edifice of modem ^yo EDMONDO DE AMICIS thought, but the ablest of workmen, a legion of patient and laborious artisans. And by virtue of these qualities of prudence, phlegmatic activity, and the spirit of conservatism, they are ever advancing, though by slow degrees; they acquire gradually, but never lose what they have gained; holding stubbornly to their ancient customs; preserving almost intact, and despite the neigh- borhood of three great nations, their own originality; preserving it through every form of government, through foreign invasions, through political and religious wars, and in spite of the immense concourse of strangers from every country that are always coming among them; and remaining, in short, of all the northern races, that one which, though ever advancing in the path of civilization, has kept its antique stamp most clearly. It is enough also to remember its form in order to compre- hend that this country of three millions and a half of inhabitants, although bound in so compact a political union, although recog- nizable among all the other northern peoples by certain traits peculiar to the population of all its provinces, must present a great variety. And so it is in fact. Between Zealand and Hol- land proper, between Holland and Friesland, between Friesland and Giieldres, between Groningen and Brabant, in spite of vicinity and so many common, ties, there is no less difference than between the more distant provinces of Italy and France; difference of language, costume, and character; difference of race and of religion. The communal regime has impressed an indeli- ble mark upon this people, because in no other country does it so conform to the nature of things. .The country is divided into various groups of interests organized in the same manner as the hydraulic system. Whence, association and mutual help against the common enemy, the sea; but liberty for local institutions and forces. Monarchy has not extinguished the ancient munici- pal spirit, and this it is that renders impossible a complete fusion of the State, in all the great States that have made the attempt. The great rivers and gulfs are at the same time commercial roads serving as national bonds between the different provinces, and barriers which defend old traditions and old customs in each. EDMONDO DE AMICIS .-j THE DUTCH MASTERS From < Holland and Its People' THE Dutch school of painting has one quality which renders it particularly attractive to us Italians; it is above all others the most different from our own, the very antithesis or the opposite pole of art. The Dutch and Italian schools are the most original, or, as has been said, the only two to which the title rigorously belongs; the others being only daughters or younger sisters, more or less resembling them. Thus even in painting Holland offers that which is most sought after in travel and in books of travel: the new. Dutch painting was bom with the liberty and independence of Holland. As long as the northern and southern provinces of the Low Countries remained under the Spanish rule and in the Cath- olic faith, Dutch painters painted like Belgian painters; they stud- ied in Belgium, Germany, and Italy; Heemskerk imitated Michael Angelo, Bloemart followed Correggio, and * II Moro " copied Titian, not to indicate others : and they were one and all pedantic imitators, who added to the exaggerations of the Italian style a certain German coarsenesss, the result of which was a bastard style of painting, still inferior to the first, childish, stiff in design, crude in color, and completely wanting in chiaroscuro, but at least not a servile imitation, and becoming, as it were, a faint prelude of the true Dutch art that was to be. With the war of independence, liberty, reform, and painting also were renewed. With religious traditions fell artistic tradi- tions; the nude nymphs, Madonnas, saints, allegory, mythology, the ideal — all the old edifice fell to pieces. Holland, animated by a new life, felt the need of manifesting and expanding it in a new way; the small country, become, all at once glorious and formidable, felt the desire for illustration ; the faculties which had been excited and strengthened in the grand undertaking of creat- ing a nation, now that the work was completed, overflowed and ran into new channels. The conditions of the country were favor- able to the revival of art. The supreme dangers were conjured away; there was security, prosperity, a splendid future; the heroes had done their duty, and the artists were permitted to come to the front; Holland, after many sacrifices, and much suffering, issued victoriously from the struggle, lifted her face among her people and smiled. And that smile is art. 3 472 EDMONDO DE AMICIS What that art would necessarily be, might have been guessed even had no monument of it remained. A pacific, laborious, prac- tical people, continually beaten down, to quote a great German poet, to prosaic realities by the occupations of a vulgar burgher life ; cultivating its reason at the expense of its imagination ; liv- ing, consequently, more in clear ideas than in beautiful images; taking refuge from abstractions; never' darting its thoughts beyond that nature with which it is in perpetual battle; seeing only that which is, enjojdng only that which it can possess, making its hap- piness consist in the tranquil ease and honest sensuality of a life without violent passions or exorbitant desires; — such a people must have tranquillity also in their art, they must love an art that pleases without startling the mind, which addresses the senses rather than. the spirit; an art full of repose, precision, and deli- cacy, though material like their lives: in one word, a realistic art, in which they can see themselves as they are and as they are con- tent to be. The artists began by tracing that which they saw before their eyes — the house. The long winters, the persistent rains, the dampness, the variableness of the climate, obliged the Hollander to stay within doors the greater part of the year. He loved his little house, his shell, much better than we love our abodes, for the reason that he had more need of it, and stayed more within it; he provided it with all sorts of conveniences, caressed it, made much of it; he liked to look out from his well-stopped windows at the falling snow and the drenching rain, and to hug himself with the thought, « Rage, tempest, I am warm and safe ! » Snug in his shell, his faithful housewife beside him, his children about him, he passed the long autumn and winter evenings in eating much, drinking much, smoking much, and taking his well-earned ease after the cares of the. day were over. The Dutch painters represented these houses and this life in little pictures proportion- ate to the size of the walls on which they were to hang; the bed- chambers that make one feel a desire to sleep, the kitchens, the tables set out, the fresh and smiling faces of the house-mothers, the men at their ease around the fire; and with that conscientious reaHsm which never forsakes them, they depict the dozing cat, the yawning dog, the clucking hen, the broom, the vegetables, the scattered pots and pans, the chicken ready for the spit. Thus they represent life in all its scenes, and in every grade of the social scale — the dance, the conversazione, the orgie, the feast the EDMONDO DE AMICIS 4-, ■game ; and thus did Terburg, Metzu, Netscher, Dow, Miens, Steen, Brouwer, and Van Ostade become famous. After depicting the house, they turned their attention to the country. The stem climate allowed but a brief time for the admiration of nature, but for this very reason Dutch artists admired her all the more; they saluted the spring with a livelier joy, and permitted that fugitive smile of heaven to stamp itself more deeply on their fancy. The country was not beautiful, but it was twice dear because it had been torn from the sea and from the foreign oppressor. The Dutch artist painted it lov- ingly; he represented it simply, ingenuously, with a sense of intimacy which at that time was not to be found in Italian or Belgian landscape. The flat, monotonous country had, to the Dutch painter's eyes, a marvelous variety. He caught all the mutations of the sky, and knew the value of the water, with its reflections, its grace and freshness, and its power of illuminating •everything. Having no mountains, he took the dikes for back- ground; with no forests, he imparted to a single group of trees all the mystery of a forest; and he animated the whole with beautiful animals and white sails. The subjects of their pictures are poor enough,' — a windmill, a canal, a gray sky; but how they make one think! A few Dutch painters, not content with nature in their own country, came to Italy in search of hills, luminous skies, and famous ruins; and another band of select artists is the result, — Both, Swanevelt, Pjmacker, Breenberg, Van Laer, Asselyn. But the palm remains with the landscapists of Holland; with Wynants the painter of morning, with Van der Neer the painter of night, with Ruysdael the painter of melancholy, with Hobbema the illustrator of windmills, cabins, and kitchen gardens, and with others who have restricted themselves to the expression of the enchantment of nature as she is in Holland. Simultaneously with landscape art was born another kind of painting, especially peculiar to Holland,— animal painting. Ani- mals are the riches of the country; that magnificent race of cattle which has no rival in Europe for fecundity and beauty. The Hollanders, \ who owe so much to them, treat them, one may say, as part of the population; they wash them, comb them, dress them, and love them dearly. They are to be seen everjiTvhere; they are reflected in all the canals, and dot with points of black and white the immense' fields that stretch on 474 EDMONDO DE AMICIS every side, giving an air of peace and comfort to every place, and exciting in the spectator's heart a sentiment of Arcadian gen- tleness and patriarchal serenity. The Dutch artists studied these animals in all their varieties, in all their habits, and divined, as one may say, their < inner life and sentiments, animating the tran- quil beauty of the landscape with their forms. Rubens, Luyders, Paul de Vos, and other Belgian painters, had drawn animals with admirable mastery; but all these are surpassed by the Dutch artists Van der Velde, Berghem, Karel du Jardin, and by the prince of animal painters, Paul Potter, whose famous " Bull, '* in the gallery of the Hague, deserves to be placed in the Vatican beside the "Transfiguration* by Raphael. In yet another field are the Dutch painters great, — the sea. The sea, their enemy, their power, and their glory, forever threatening their country, and entering in a hundred ways into their lives and fortunes; that turbulent North Sea, full of sinister color, with a light of infinite melancholy upon it, beating forever upon a desolate coast, must subjugate the imagination of the artist. He passes, indeed, long hours on the shore, contemplat- ing its tremendous beauty, ventures upon its waves to study the effects of tempests, buys a vessel and sails with his wife and family, observing and making notes, follows the fleet into battle and takes part in the fight; and in this way are made marine painters like William Van der Velde the elder and William the younger, like Backhuysen, Dubbels, and Stork. Another kind of painting was to arise in Holland, as the expression of the character of the people and of republican manners. A people which without greatness had done so many great things, as Michelet says, must Have its heroic painters, if we call them so, destined to illustrate men and events. But this school of painting, — precisely because the people were without greatness, or to express it better, without the form of great- ness, — modest, inclined to consider all equal before the country, because all had done their duty, abhorring adulation, and the glorification in one only of the virtues and the triumph of many, — this school has to illustrate not a few men who have excelled, and a few extraordinary facts, but all classes of citizen- ship gathered among the most ordinary and pacific of, burgher life. From this come the great pictures which represent five, ten, thirty persons together, arquebusiers, mayors, officers^ pro- fessors, magistrates, administrators; seated or standing around a EDMONDO DE AMICIS .-- table, feasting and conversing; of life size, most faithful like- nesses; grave, open faces, expressing that secure serenity of conscience by which may be divined rather than seen the noble- ness of a life consecrated to one's country, the character of that strong, laborious epoch, the masculine virtues of that excellent generation; all this set off by the fine costume of the time, so admirably combining grace and dignity,— those gorgets, those doublets, those black mantles, those silken scarves and ribbons, those arms and banners. In this field stand pre-eminent Van der Heist, Hals, Govaert, Flink, and Bol. Descending from the consideration of the various kinds of painting, to the special manner by means of which the artist excelled in treatment, one leads all the rest as the distinctive feature of Dutch painting — the light. The light in Holland, by reason of the particular conditions of its naanifestation, could not fail to give rise to a special man- ner of painting. A pale light, waving with marvelous mobility through an atmosphere impregnated with vapor, a nebulous veil continually and abruptly torn, a perpetual struggle between light and shadow, — such was the spectacle which attracted the eye of the artist. He began to observe and to reproduce all this agita- tion of the heavens, this struggle which animates with varied and fantastic life the solitude of nature in Holland; and in represent- ing it, the struggle passed into his soul, and instead of repre- senting he created. Then he caused the two elements to contend under his hand; he accumulated darkness that he might split and seam it with all manner of luminous effects and sudden gleams of light; sunbeams darted through the rifts, sunset reflections and the yellow rays of lamp-light were blended with delicate manipulation into mysterious shadows, and their dim depths were peopled with half-seen forms; and thus he created all sorts of contrasts, enigmas, play and effect of strange and unexpected chiaroscuro. In this field, among many, stand conspicuous Gerard Dow, the author of the famous four-candle picture, and the great magician and sovereign illuminator Rembrandt. Another marked feature of Dutch painting was to be color. Besides the* generally accepted reasons that in a country where there are no mountainous horizons, no varied prospects, no great coup d'ceil, — no forms, in short, that lend themselves to design, — the artist's eye must inevitably be attracted by color; and that this might be peculiarly the case in Holland, where the uncertain 476 EDMONDO DE AMICIS Ught, the fog-veiled atmosphere, confuse and blend the. outlines of all objects, so that the eye, unable to fix itself upon the form, iiies to color as the principal attribute that nature presents to it, — besides these reasons, there is the fact that in a country so flat, so uniform, and so gray as Holland, there , is the same need of color as in southern lands there is need of shade. The Dutch artists did but follow the imperious taste of their country- men, who painted their houses in vivid colors, as well as their ships, and in some places the trunks of their trees and the palings and fences of their fields and gardens ; whose dress was of the gayest, richest hues; who loved tulips and hyacinths even to madness. And thus the Dutch painters were potent colorists, and Rembrandt was their chief. Realism, natural to the calmness and slowness of the Dutch character, was to give to their art yet another distinctive feature, — finish, which was carried to. the very extreme of possibility. It is truly said that the leading quality of the people may be found in their pictures; viz., patience. Everything is represented with the minuteness of a daguerreotype; every vein in the wood of a piece of furniture, every fibre in a leaf, the threads of cloth, the stitches in a patch, every hair upon an animal's coat, every wrinkle in a man's face ; everything finished with microscopic pre- cision, as if done with a fairy pencil, or at the expense of the painter's eyes and reason. In reality a defect rather than an excellence, since the office of painting is to represent not what is, but what the eye sees, and the eye does not see everything; but a defect carried to such a pitch of perfection that one admires, and does not find fault. In this respect the most famous prodi- gies of patience were Dow, Mieris, Potter, and Van der Heist, but more or less all the Dutch painters. But realism, which gives to Dutch art so original a stamp and such admirable qualities, is yet the root of its most serious defects. The artists, desirous only of representing material truths, gave to their figures no expression save that of their physical sentiments. Grief, love, enthusiasm, and the thousand delicate shades of feel- ing that have no name, or take a different one with the different causes that give rise to them, they express rarely, or not at all. For them the heart does not beat, the eyes do not weep, the lips do not quiv6r. One whole side of the human soul, the noblest and highest, is wanting in their pictures. More: in their faithful reproduction of everything, even the ugly, and especially the. ugly, EDMONDO DE AMICI5 .»» they end by exaggerating even that, making defects into deformi- ties and portraits into caricatures; they calumniate the national type; they give a burlesque a,nd graceless aspect to the human countenance. In order to have the proper background for such figures, they are constrained to choose trivial subjects: hence the great number of pictures representing beer-shops, and drinkers with grotesque, stupid faces, in absurd attitudes; ugly women and ridiculous old men; scenes in which one can almost hear the brutal laughter and the obscene words. Looking at these pictures, one would naturally conclude that Holland was inhabited by the ugliest and most ill-mannered, people on the earth. We will not speak of greater and worse license. Steen, Potter, and Brouwer, the great Rembrandt himself, have all painted incidents that are scarcely to be mentioned to civilized ears, and certainly should not be looked at. But even setting aside these excesses, in the picture galleries of Holland there is to be found nothing that ele- vates the mind, or moves it to high and gentle thoughts. You admire, you enjoy, you laugh, you stand pensive for a moment before some canvas; but coming out, you feel that something is lacking to your pleasure, you experience a desire to look upon a handsome countenance, to read inspired verses, and sometimes you catch yourself murmuring, half unconsciously, "O Raphael!'* Finally, there are still two important excellences to be recorded of this school of painting: its variety, and its importance as the expression — the mirror, so to speak — of the country. If we except Rembrandt with his group of followers and imitators, almost all the other artists differ very much from one another; no other 'school presents so great a number of original masters. The realism of the Dutch painters is bom of their common love of nature : but each one has shown in his work a kind of love peculiarly his own; each one has rendered a different impression which he has received from nature; and all, starting from the same point, which was the worship of material truth, have arrived at separate and distinct goals. Their realism, then, inciting them to disdain nothing as food for the pencil, has so acted that Dutch art succeeds in representing Holland more completely than has ever been accomplished by any other school in any other country. It has been truly said that should every other visible witness of the existence of Holland in the seventeenth century — her period of greatness — vanish from the earth, and the pictures remain, in them would be found preserved entire the city, the country, the 478 EDMONDO DE AMICIS ports, the ships, the markets, the shops, the costumes, the arms, the linen, the stuffs, the merchandise, the kitchen utensils, the food, the pleasures, the habits, the religious belief and supersti- tions, the qualities and effects of the people; and all this, which is great praise for literature, is no less praise for her sister art. But there is one great hiatus in Dutch art, the reason for which can scarcely be found in the pacific and modest disposition of the people. This art, so profoundly national in all other re- spects, has, with the exception of a few naval battles, completely neglected all the great events of the war of independence, among which the sieges of Leyden and of Haarlem alone would have been enough to inspire a whole legion of painters. A war of almost a centur)' in duration, full of strange and terrible vicis- situdes, has not been recorded in one single memorable painting. Art, so varied arid so conscientious in its records of the country and its people, has represented no scene of that great tragedy, as William the Silent prophetically named it, which cost the Dutch people, for so long a time, so many different emotions of terror, of pain, of rage, of joy, and of pride! The splendor of art in Holland is dimmed by that of political greatness. Almost all the great painters were bom in the first thirty years of the seventeenth century, or in the last part of the sixteenth ; all were dead after the first ten years of the eighteenth, and after them there were no more, — Holland had exhausted her fecundity. Already towards the end of the seventeenth century the national sentiment had grown weaker, taste had corrupted, the inspiration of the painters had declined with the moral ener- gies of the nation. In the eighteenth century, the artists, as if they were tired of nature, went back to mythology, to classicism, to conventionalities; the imagination grew cold, style was impov- erished, every spark of the antique genius was extinct. Dutch art still showed to the world the wonderful flowers of Van Huy- sum, the last great lover of nature, and then folded her tired hands and let the flowers fall upon his tomb. -^ irm_ajj^ iSu V M hgBhn ff fc fth Sjwhiff I i^ld-a TjESii"^