courted. But her father, seeking to withhold her from marriage,
proposed a riddle to every suitor, and each one who failed to guess the
answer was put to death. Among the suitors came Apollonius, the young
Prince of Tyre, who guessed the riddle, the answer to which revealed a
shameful secret of the king's life. Antiochus, loudly denying that the
young man had hit upon the truth, sent him away for thirty days, and
bade him try again, on pain of death. So Apollonius departed.
Now, Antiochus sent his steward, Taliarchus, to Tyre, with orders to
destroy Apollonius; but by the time the steward arrived the prince had
put to sea in a fleet laden with treasure, corn, and many changes of
raiment. Hearing this, Antiochus set a price on the head of Apollonius,
and pursued him with a great armament. The prince, arriving at Tharsus,
saved that city from famine by the supplies he brought, and a statue
was raised in his honour. Then, by the advice of one Stranguilio and
his wife, Dionysias, he sailed to Pentapolis. On the way he suffered
shipwreck, and reached that city on a plank. There, by his skill in
athletics and music, he won the favour of Altistrates, the king, who
gave him his daughter to wife.
Some time after, hearing that the wicked Antiochus and his daughter
had been killed by lightning, Apollonius and his wife set sail to take
up the sovereignty of Antioch, which had fallen to him. On the way the
lady died, leaving a new-born daughter. The prince placed his wife's
body in a coffin smeared with pitch, and committed it to the deep. In
the coffin he put money and a tablet, instructing anyone who found the
body to bury it sumptuously. Apollonius returned to Pentapolis and
gave his infant daughter into the care of Stranguilio and Dionysias.
Then he himself sailed away and wandered the world in deep grief. In
the meantime, his wife's body was cast up at Ephesus, and was found by
the physician Cerimon, one of whose pupils revived the lady, who became
a vestal of Diana.
Years passed, and the child, who was called Tharsia, incurred the
jealousy of Dionysias, because she was fairer than her own child
Philomatia. Dionysias sought to kill Tharsia, who, at the critical
moment, was carried away by pirates, and sold into slavery at
Machylena. There her beauty and goodness protected her, so that none
who came to her master's evil house would do her wrong. She persuaded
her owner to let her earn her bread by her accomplishments in music and
the unravelling of hard sayings. Thus she won the love of the prince of
that place, Athanagoras, who protected her.
Some time afterwards a strange fleet came to Machylena. Athanagoras,
struck by the beauty of one of the ships, went on board, and asked to
see the owner. He found a rugged and melancholy man, who was none other
than Apollonius. In due time that prince was joyfully reunited with his
child, who was given in marriage to her perserver. Speedy vengeance
overtook Tharsia's cruel owner, and later Stranguilio and Dionysias
suffered for their misdeeds. Being warned by a dream to return to
Ephesus, Apollonius found his wife in the precinct of the vestals, and,
together with her, he reigned long and happily over Antioch and Tyre.
After death he went into everlasting life. To which may God, of His
infinite mercy, lead us all.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
The Citizen of the World
"The Citizen of the World," after appearing in the "Public
Ledger" newspaper in 1760-61, was published in two volumes in
1762, with the sub-title, "Letters from a Chinese Philosopher,
Residing in London, to his Friends in the East." It established
Goldsmith's literary reputation (see Vol. IV, p. 275). The
author's main purpose was to indulge in a keen, but not
ill-natured, satire upon Western, and especially upon English,
civilisation; but sometimes the satiric manner yields place to
the philosophical.
_The Troubles of the Great_
FROM LIEN CHI ALTANGI TO FUM HOAM, FIRST PRESIDENT OF THE CEREMONIAL
ACADEMY AT PEKIN
The princes of Europe have found out a manner of rewarding their
subjects who have behaved well, by presenting them with about two
yards of blue ribbon, which is worn over the shoulder. They who are
honoured with this mark of distinction are called knights, and the king
himself is always the head of the order. This is a very frugal method
of recompensing the most important services, and it is very fortunate
for kings that their subjects are satisfied with such trifling rewards.
Should a nobleman happen to lose his leg in battle, the king presents
him with two yards of ribbon, and he is paid for the loss of his limb.
Should an ambassador spend all his paternal fortunes in supporting the
honour of his country abroad, the king presents him with two yards of
ribbon, which is to be considered as an equivalent to his estate. In
short, while a European king has a yard of blue or green ribbon left,
he need be under no apprehension of wanting statesmen, generals, and
soldiers.
I cannot sufficiently admire those kingdoms in which men with large
patrimonial estates are willing thus to undergo real hardships for
empty favours. A person, already possessed of a competent fortune,
who undertakes to enter the career of ambition feels many real
inconveniences from his station, while it procures him no real
happiness that he was not possessed of before. He could eat, drink, and
sleep before he became a courtier, as well, perhaps better, than when
invested with his authority.
What real good, then, does an addition to a fortune already sufficient
procure? Not any. Could the great man, by having his fortune increased,
increase also his appetite, then precedence might be attended with real
amusement. But, on the contrary, he finds his desire for pleasure often
lessen as he takes pains to be able to improve it; and his capacity of
enjoyment diminishes as his fortune happens to increase.
Instead, therefore, of regarding the great with envy, I generally
consider them with some share of compassion. I look upon them as a set
of good-natured, misguided people, who are indebted to us, and not to
themselves, for all the happiness they enjoy. For our pleasure, and
not their own, they sweat under a cumbrous heap of finery; for our
pleasure, the hackneyed train, the slow-parading pageant, with all
the gravity of grandeur, moves in review; a single coat, or a single
footman, answers all the purposes of the most indolent refinement as
well; and those who have twenty may be said to keep one for their own
pleasure, and the other nineteen for ours. So true is the observation
of Confucius, "That we take greater pains to persuade others that we
are happy than in endeavouring to think so ourselves."
But though this desire of being seen, of being made the subject of
discourse, and of supporting the dignities of an exalted station,
be troublesome to the ambitious, yet it is well that there are men
thus willing to exchange ease and safety for danger and a ribbon. We
lose nothing by their vanity, and it would be unkind to endeavour to
deprive a child of its rattle.... Adieu.
_The Folly of the Recluse_
FROM LIEN CHI ALTANGI TO HINGPO, HIS SON
Books, my son, while they teach us to respect the interests of others,
often make us unmindful of our own; while they instruct the youthful
reader to grasp at social happiness, he grows miserable in detail. I
dislike, therefore, the philosopher, who describes the inconveniences
of life in such pleasing colours that the pupil grows enamoured of
distress, longs to try the charms of poverty, meets it without dread,
nor fears its inconveniences till he severely feels them.
A youth who has thus spent his life among books, new to the world,
and unacquainted with man but by philosophic information, may be
considered as a being whose mind is filled with the vulgar errors of
the wise. He first has learned from books, and then lays it down as
a maxim that all mankind are virtuous or vicious in excess; warm,
therefore, in attachments, and steadfast in enmity, he treats every
creature as a friend or foe. Upon a closer inspection of human nature
he perceives that he should have moderated his friendship, and softened
his severity; he finds no character so sanctified that has not its
failings, none so infamous but has somewhat to attract our esteem; he
beholds impiety in lawn, and fidelity in fetters.
He now, therefore, but too late, perceives that his regards should have
been more cool, and his hatred less violent; that the truly wise seldom
court romantic friendships with the good, and avoid, if possible, the
resentment even of the wicked; every movement gives him fresh instances
that the bonds of friendship are broken if drawn too closely, and that
those whom he has treated with disrespect more than retaliate the
injury; at length, therefore, he is obliged to confess that he has
declared war upon the vicious half of mankind, without being able to
form an alliance among the virtuous to espouse his quarrel.
Our book-taught philosopher, however, is now too far advanced to
recede; and though poverty be the just consequence of the many
enemies his conduct has created, yet he is resolved to meet it
without shrinking. "Come, then, O Poverty! for what is there in thee
dreadful to the Wise? Temperance, Health, and Frugality walk in thy
train; Cheerfulness and Liberty are ever thy companions. Come, then,
O Poverty, while kings stand by, and gaze with admiration at the true
philosopher's resignation!"
The goddess appears, for Poverty ever comes at the call; but, alas!
he finds her by no means the charming figure books and his warm
imagination had painted. All the fabric of enthusiasm is at once
demolished, and a thousand miseries rise upon its ruins, while
Contempt, with pointing finger, is foremost in the hideous procession.
The poor man now finds that he can get no kings to look at him while
he is eating; he finds that, in proportion as he grows poor, the world
turns its back upon him, and gives him leave to act the philosopher
in all the majesty of solitude. Spleen now begins to take up the man;
not distinguishing in his resentments, he regards all mankind with
detestation, and commencing man-hater, seeks solitude to be at liberty
to rail.
It has been said that he who retires to solitude is either a beast
or an angel. The censure is too severe, and the praise unmerited;
the discontented being who retires from society is generally some
good-natured man, who has begun life without experience, and knew not
how to gain it in his intercourse with mankind. Adieu.
_On Mad Dogs_
FROM LIEN CHI ALTANGI TO FUM HOAM
Indulgent Nature seems to have exempted this island from many of those
epidemic evils which are so fatal in other parts of the world. But
though the nation be exempt from real evils, think not, my friend, that
it is more happy on this account than others. They are afflicted, it is
true, with neither famine nor pestilence, but then there is a disorder
peculiar to the country, which every season makes strange ravages
among them; it spreads with pestilential rapidity, and infects almost
every rank of people; what is still more strange, the natives have no
name for this peculiar malady, though well enough known to foreign
physicians by the name of epidemic terror.
A season is never known to pass in which the people are not visited
by this cruel calamity in one shape or another, seemingly different,
though ever the same. The people, when once infected, lose their relish
for happiness, saunter about with looks of despondence, ask after the
calamities of the day, and receive no comfort but in heightening each
other's distress. A dread of mad dogs is the epidemic terror which now
prevails, and the whole nation is at present actually groaning under
the malignity of its influence.
It is pleasant enough for a neutral being like me, who have no share in
these ideal calamities, to mark the stages of this national disease.
The terror at first feebly enters with a little dog that had gone
through a neighbouring village, that was thought to be mad by several
who had seen him. The next account comes that a mastiff ran through
a certain town, and had bit five geese, which immediately ran mad,
foamed at the bill, and died in great agonies soon after. Then comes an
affecting history of a little boy bit in the leg, and gone down to be
dipped in the salt water; when the people have sufficiently shuddered
at that, they are next congealed with a frightful account of a man who
was said lately to have died from a bite he had received some years
before.
My landlady, a good-natured woman, but a little credulous, waked me
some mornings ago, before the usual hour, with horror and astonishment
in her looks; she desired me, if I had any regard for my safety, to
keep within, for a few days ago so dismal an accident had happened as
to put all the world upon their guard. A mad dog down in the country,
she assured me, had bit a farmer who, soon becoming mad, ran into his
own yard, and bit a fine brindled cow; the cow quickly became as mad
as the man, began to foam at the mouth, and raising herself up, walked
about on her hind legs, sometimes barking like a dog, and sometimes
attempting to talk like the farmer.
Were most stories of this nature thoroughly examined, it would be
found that numbers of such as have been said to suffer were in no way
injured; and that of those who have been actually bitten, not one in a
hundred was bit by a mad dog. Such accounts in general, therefore, only
serve to make the people miserable by false terrors.
Of all the beasts that graze the lawn or hunt the forest, a dog is
the only animal that, leaving his fellows, attempts to cultivate the
friendship of man; no injuries can abate his fidelity; no distress
induce him to forsake his benefactor; studious to please and fearing to
offend, he is still an humble, steadfast dependent, and in him alone
fawning is not flattery. How unkind, then, to torture this faithful
creature who has left the forest to claim the protection of man! How
ungrateful a return to the trusty animal for all his services! Adieu.
_On Elections_
FROM LIEN CHI ALTANGI TO FUM HOAM
The English are at present employed in celebrating a feast, which
becomes general every seventh year: the parliament of the nation being
then dissolved, and another appointed to be chosen. This solemnity
falls infinitely short of our Feast of the Lanterns in magnificence and
splendour; it is also surpassed by others of the East in unanimity and
pure devotion; but no festival in the world can compare with it for
eating.
To say the truth, eating seems to make a grand ingredient in all
English parties of zeal, business, or amusement. When a church is to be
built, or an hospital endowed, the directors assemble, and instead of
consulting upon it, they eat upon it, by which means the business goes
forward with success. When the poor are to be relieved, the officers
appointed to dole out public charity assemble and eat upon it. Nor has
it ever been known that they filled the bellies of the poor till they
had satisfied their own. But in the election of magistrates the people
seem to exceed all bounds.
What amazes me is that all this good living no way contributes to
improve their good humour. On the contrary, they seem to lose their
temper as they lose their appetites; every morsel they swallow, and
every glass they pour down, serves to increase their animosity.
Upon one of these occasions I have actually seen a bloody-minded
man-milliner sally forth at the head of a mob, to face a desperate
pastrycook, who was general of the opposite party.
I lately made an excursion to a neighbouring village, in order to be
a spectator of the ceremonies practised. Mixing with the crowd, I was
conducted to the hall where the magistrates are chosen; but what tongue
can describe this scene of confusion! The whole crowd seemed equally
inspired with anger, jealousy, politics, patriotism, and punch. I
remarked one figure that was carried up by two men upon this occasion.
I at first began to pity his infirmities as natural, but soon found the
fellow so drunk that he could not stand; another made his appearance
to give his vote, but though he could stand, he actually lost the use
of his tongue, and remained silent; a third, who, though excessively
drunk, could both stand and speak, being asked the candidate's name
for whom he voted, could be prevailed upon to make no other answer but
"Tobacco and brandy!" In short, an election-hall seems to be a theatre,
where every passion is seen without disguise; a school where fools may
readily become worse, and where philosophers may gather wisdom. Adieu.
_Opinions and Anecdotes_
The most ignorant nations have always been found to think most highly
of themselves.
It may sound fine in the mouth of a declaimer, when he talks of
subduing our appetites, of teaching every sense to be content with
a bare sufficiency, and of supplying only the wants of nature; but
is there not more satisfaction in indulging these appetites, if with
innocence and safety, than in restraining them? Am I not better pleased
in enjoyment, than in the sullen satisfaction of thinking that I can
live without enjoyment?
When five brethren had set upon the great Emperor Guisong, alone
with his sabre he slew four of them; he was struggling with the
fifth, when his guards, coming up, were going to cut the conspirator
into a thousand pieces. "No, no!" cried the emperor, with a placid
countenance. "Of all his brothers he is the only one remaining; at
least let one of the family be suffered to live, that his aged parents
may have somebody left to feed and comfort them."
It was a fine saying of Nangfu the emperor, who, being told that his
enemies had raised an insurrection in one of the distant provinces,
said: "Come, then, my friends, follow me, and I promise you that
we shall quickly destroy them." He marched forward, and the rebels
submitted upon his approach. All now thought that he would take the
most signal revenge, but were surprised to see the captives treated
with mildness and humanity. "How!" cries his first minister, "is this
the manner in which you fulfil your promise? Your royal word was given
that your enemies should be destroyed, and behold, you have pardoned
all, and even caressed some!" "I promised," replied the emperor, with a
generous air, "to destroy my _enemies_; I have fulfilled my word, for
see, they are enemies no longer; I have made _friends_ of them."
Well it were if rewards and mercy alone could regulate the
commonwealth; but since punishments are sometimes necessary, let them
at least be rendered terrible, by being executed but seldom; and let
justice lift her sword rather to terrify than revenge.
HENRY HALLAM
Introduction to the Literature of Europe
The full volume of this work, "Introduction to the Literature of
Europe in the Fifteenth, Sixteenth, and Seventeenth Centuries,"
was published about 1837, and is a vast accumulation of facts,
but is lacking in organic unity, in vigour, and vitality.
Hallam's spelling of proper names has been followed throughout
this epitome. (Henry Hallam, biography; see Vol. XI, p. 255.)
_I.--Before the Fifteenth Century_
The establishment of the barbarian nations on the ruins of the Roman
Empire in the West was followed by an almost universal loss of
classical learning. The last of the ancients, and one who forms a link
with the Middle Ages, is Boëthius, whose "Consolation of Philosophy"
mingles a Christian sanctity with the lessons of Greek and Roman sages.
But after his death, in 524, the downfall of learning and eloquence was
inconceivably rapid, and a state of general ignorance, except here and
there within the ecclesiastical hierarchy, lasted for five centuries.
The British islands led the way in the slow restoration of knowledge.
The Irish monasteries, in the seventh century, were the first to send
out men of comparative eminence, and the Venerable Bede, in the eighth
century, was probably superior to any other man whom the world at that
time possessed. Then came the days when Charlemagne laid in his vast
dominions the foundations of learning.
In the tenth century, when England and Italy alike were in the most
deplorable darkness, France enjoyed an age of illumination, and a
generation or two later we find many learned and virtuous churchmen
in Germany. But it is not until the twelfth century that we enter
on a new epoch in European literary history, when universities were
founded, modern languages were cultivated, the study of Roman law was
systematically taken up, and a return was made to a purer Latinity.
Next, we observe the rise of the scholastic theology and philosophy,
with their strenuous attempt at an alliance between faith and
reason. The dry and technical style of these enquiries, their minute
subdivisions of questions, and their imposing parade of accuracy,
served indeed to stimulate subtlety of mind, but also hindered the
revival of polite literature and the free expansion of the intellect.
Dante and Petrarch are the morning stars of the modern age. They lie
outside our period, and we must pass them over with a word. It is
sufficient to notice that, largely by their influence, we find, in
the year 1400, a national literature existing in no less than seven
European languages--three in the Spanish peninsula, the French, the
Italian, the German, and the English.
_II.--The Fifteenth Century_
We now come to a very important event--the resuscitation of the study
of Greek in Italy. In 1423, Giovanni Aurispa, of Sicily, brought
over two hundred manuscripts from Greece, including Plato, Plotinus,
Diodorus, Pindar, and many other classics. Manuel Chrysoloras, teacher
of Greek in Florence, had trained a school of Hellenists; and copyists,
translators, and commentators set to work upon the masterpieces of
the ancient world. We have good reason to doubt whether, without the
Italians of those times, the revival of classical learning would ever
have occurred. The movement was powerfully aided by Nicolas V., pope
in 1447, who founded the Vatican library, supported scholars, and
encouraged authors.
Soon after 1450, the art of printing began to be applied to the
purposes of useful learning, and Bibles, classical texts, collections
of fables; and other works were rapidly given to the world. The
accession to power of Lorenzo de Medici in 1464 marks the revival of
native Italian genius in poetry, and under his influence the Platonic
academy, founded by his grandfather Cosmo, promoted a variety of
studies. But we still look in vain to England for either learning or
native genius. The reign of Edward IV. is one of the lowest points in
our literary annals.
In France, the "Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles," 1486, and the poems of
Villon, 1489, show a marked advance in style. Many French "mysteries,"
or religious dramas, belong to this period, and this early form of the
dramatic art had also much popularity in Germany and in Italy. Literary
activity, in France and in Germany, had become regularly progressive by
the end of the century.
Two men, Erasmus and Budæus, were now devoting incessant labour, in
Paris, to the study of Greek; and a gleam of light broke out even in
England, where William Grocyn began, in 1491, to teach that language in
Oxford. On his visit to England, in 1497, Erasmus was delighted with
everything he found, and gave unbounded praise to the scholarship of
Grocyn, Colet, Linacre, and the young Thomas More.
The fifteenth century was a period of awakening and of strenuous
effort. But if we ask what monuments of its genius and erudition still
receive homage, we can give no very triumphant answer. Of the books
then written, how few are read now!
_III.--The Sixteenth Century (1500-1550)_
In the early years of this century the press of Aldus Manutius, who had
settled in Venice in 1489, was publishing many texts of the classics,
Greek as well as Latin.