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
Connoisseur Edition
VOL. II.
1896
THE ADVISORY COUNCIL
CRAWFORD H. TOY, A.M., LL.D.,
Professor of Hebrew, HARVARD UNIVERSITY, Cambridge, Mass.
THOMAS R. LOUNSBURY, LL.D., L.H.D.,
Professor of English in the Sheffield Scientific School of
YALE UNIVERSITY, New Haven, Conn.
WILLIAM M. SLOANE, PH.D., L.H.D.,
Professor of History and Political Science,
PRINCETON UNIVERSITY, Princeton, N.J.
BRANDER MATTHEWS, A.M., LL.B.,
Professor of Literature, COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY, New York City.
JAMES B. ANGELL, LL.D.,
President of the UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN, Ann Arbor, Mich.
WILLARD FISKE, A.M., PH.D.,
Late Professor of the Germanic and Scandinavian Languages
and Literatures, CORNELL UNIVERSITY, Ithaca, N.Y.
EDWARD S. HOLDEN, A.M., LL.D.,
Director of the Lick Observatory, and Astronomer,
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, Berkeley, Cal.
ALCÉE FORTIER, LIT.D.,
Professor of the Romance Languages,
TULANE UNIVERSITY, New Orleans, La.
WILLIAM P. TRENT, M.A.,
Dean of the Department of Arts and Sciences, and Professor of
English and History,
UNIVERSITY OF THE SOUTH, Sewanee, Tenn.
PAUL SHOREY, PH.D.,
Professor of Greek and Latin Literature,
UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO, Chicago, Ill.
WILLIAM T. HARRIS, LL.D.,
United States Commissioner of Education,
BUREAU OF EDUCATION, Washington, D.C.
MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN, A.M., LL.D.,
Professor of Literature in the
CATHOLIC UNIVERSITY OF AMERICA, Washington, D.C.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
VOL. II.
LIVED
HENRI FRÉDÉRIC AMIEL--_Continued_: 1821-1881
Self-interest Woman's ideal the Community's Fate
Wagner's Music French Self-Consciousness
Secret of Remaining Young Frivolous Art
Results of Equality Critical Ideals
View-Points of History The Best Art
Introspection and Schopenhauer The True Critic
Music and the Imagination Spring--Universal Religion
Love and the Sexes Introspective Meditations
Fundamentals of Religion Destiny (just before death)
Dangers from Decay of Earnestness
ANACREON B.C. 562?-477
Drinking The Grasshopper
Age The Swallow
The Epicure The Poet's Choice
Gold Drinking
A Lover's Sigh
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN (by Benjamin W. Wells) 1805-1875
The Steadfast Tin Soldier What the Moon Saw
The Teapot The Lovers
The Ugly Duckling The Snow Queen
The Nightingale
The Market Place and the Andersen Jubilee at Odense
('The Story of My Life')
'Miserere' in the Sixtine Chapel ('The Improvisatore')
ANEURIN Sixth Century
The Slaying of Owain
The Fate of Hoel, Son of the Great Cian
The Giant Gwrveling Falls at Last
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE (by Robert Sharp)
From 'Beowulf' The Fortunes of Men
Deor's Lament From 'Judith'
From 'The Wanderer' The Fight at Maldon
The Seafarer Cædmon's Inspiration
From the 'Chronicle'
GABRIELE D'ANNUNZIO 1864-
The Drowned Boy ('The Triumph of Death')
To an Impromptu of Chopin (same)
India
ANTAR (by Edward S. Holden) About 550-615
The Valor of Antar
LUCIUS APULEIUS Second Century
The Tale of Aristomenes, the Commercial Traveler ('The
Metamorphoses')
The Awakening of Cupid (same)
THOMAS AQUINAS (by Edwin A. Pace) 1226-1274
On the Value of Our Concepts of the Deity ('Summa
Theologica')
How Can the Absolute Be a Cause? ('Quæstiones Disputatæ')
On the Production of Living Things (same)
THE ARABIAN NIGHTS (by Richard Gottheil)
From 'The Story of the City of Brass' (Lane's Translation)
From 'The History of King Omar Ben Ennuman, and His
Sons Sherkan and Zoulmekan' (Payne's Translation)
From 'Sindbad the Seaman and Sindbad the Landsman'
(Burton's Translation)
Conclusion of 'The Thousand Nights and a Night' (Burton's
Translation)
ARABIC LITERATURE (by Richard Gottheil)
Imr-al-Kais: Description of a Mountain Storm
Zuhéir: Lament for the Destruction of his Former Home
Tarafah ibn al-'Abd: Rebuke to a Mischief-Maker
Labîd: Lament for the Afflictions of his Tribe
Antar: A Fair Lady
Duraid, son of as-Simmah: The Death of 'Abdallâh
Ash-Shanfarà of Azd: A Picture of Womanhood
'Umar ibn Rabí'a: Zeynab at the Ka'bah
'Umar ibn Rabí'a: The Unveiled Maid
Al-Nâbighah: Eulogy of the Men of Ghassân
Nusaib: The Slave-Mother Sold
Al-Find: Vengeance
Ibrahim, Son of Kunaif: Patience
Abu Sakhr: A Lost Love
Abu l'Ata of Sind: An Address to the Beloved
Ja'far ibn 'Ulbah: A Foray
Katari ibn al-Fujâ'ah: Fatality
Al-Fadi ibn al-Abbas: Implacability
Hittân ibn al-Mu'allà: Parental Affection
Sa'd, son of Malik: A Tribesman's Valor
From Sale's Koran:--Chapter xxxv.: "The Creator";
Chapter lv.: "The Merciful"; Chapter lxxxiv.: "The
Rending in Sunder"
Al-Hariri: His Prayer
Al-Hariri: The Words of Hareth ibn Hammam
The Caliph Omar Bin Abd Al-Aziz and the Poets (From
'Supplemental Nights': Burton's Translation)
DOMINIQUE FRANÇOIS ARAGO (by Edward S. Holden) 1786-1853
Laplace
JOHN ARBUTHNOT 1667-1735
The True Characters of John Bull, Nic. Frog, and Hocus
('The History of John Bull')
Reconciliation of John and his Sister Peg (same)
Of the Rudiments of Martin's Learning ('Memoirs of
Martinus Scriblerus')
THE ARGONAUTIC LEGEND
The Victory of Orpheus ('The Life and Death of Jason')
LUDOVICO ARIOSTO (by L. Oscar Kuhns) 1474-1533
The Friendship of Medoro and Cloridane ('Orlando Furioso')
The Saving of Medoro (same)
The Madness of Orlando (same)
ARISTOPHANES (by Paul Shorey) B.C. 448-390?
Origin of the Peloponnesian War ('The Acharnians')
The Poet's Apology (same)
Appeal of the Chorus ('The Knights')
Cloud Chorus ('The Clouds')
A Rainy Day on the Farm ('The Peace')
The Harvest (same)
Grand Chorus of Birds ('The Birds')
Call to the Nightingale (same)
The Building of Cloud-Cuckoo-Town (same)
Chorus of Women ('Thesmophoriazusæ')
Chorus of Mystæ in Hades ('The Frogs')
A Parody of Euripides' Lyric Verse ('The Frogs')
The Prologues of Euripides (same)
ARISTOTLE (by Thomas Davidson) B.C. 384-322
Nature of the Soul ('On the Soul')
On the Difference between History and Poetry ('Poetics')
On Philosophy (Cicero's 'Nature of the Gods')
On Essences ('Metaphysics')
On Community of Studies ('Politics')
Hymn to Virtue
JÓN ARNASON 1819-1888
From 'Icelandic Legends':
The Merman
The Fisherman of Götur
The Magic Scythe
The Man-Servant and the Water-Elves
The Crossways
ERNST MORITZ ARNDT 1769-1860
What is the German's Fatherland?
The Song of the Field-Marshal
Patriotic Song
EDWIN ARNOLD 1832-
Youth of Buddha ('The Light of Asia')
The Pure Sacrifice of Buddha (same)
Faithfulness of Yudhisthira ('The Great Journey')
He and She
After Death ('Pearls of the Faith')
Solomon and the Ant (same)
The Afternoon (same)
The Trumpet (same)
Envoi to 'The Light of Asia'
Grishma; or the Season of Heat (Translated from Kalidasa)
MATTHEW ARNOLD (by George Edward Wood-berry) 1822-1888
Intelligence and Genius ('Essays in Criticism')
Sweetness and Light ('Culture and Anarchy')
Oxford ('Essays in Criticism')
To A Friend
Youth and Calm
Isolation--To Marguerite
Stanzas in Memory of the Author of 'Obermann' (1849)
Memorial Verses (1850)
The Sick King in Bokhara
Dover Beach
Self-Dependence
Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse
A Summer Night
The Better Part
The Last Word
THE ARTHURIAN LEGENDS (by Richard Jones)
From Geoffrey of Monmouth's 'Historia Britonum'
The Holy Grail (Malory's 'Morte d'Arthur')
PETER CHRISTEN ASBJÖRNSEN 1812-1885
Gudbrand of the Mountain-Side
The Widow's Son
ROGER ASCHAM 1515-1568
On Gentleness in Education ('The Schoolmaster')
On Study and Exercise ('Toxophilus')
ATHENÆUS Third Century B.C.
Why the Nile Overflows ('Deipnosophistæ')
How to Preserve the Health (same)
An Account of Some Great Eaters (same)
The Love of Animals for Man (same)
PER DANIEL AMADEUS ATTERBOM 1790-1855
The Genius of the North
The Lily of the Valley
Svanhvit's Colloquy ('The Islands of the Blest')
The Mermaid
AUCASSIN AND NICOLETTE (by Frederick Morris
Warren) Twelfth Century
'Tis of Aucassin and Nicolette
JOHN JAMES AUDUBON 1780-1851
A Dangerous Adventure ('The American Ornithological
Biography')
BERTHOLD AUERBACH 1812-1882
The First Mass ('Ivo the Gentleman')
The Peasant-Nurse and the Prince ('On the Heights')
FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS
VOLUME II.
* * * * *
PAGE
The Gutenberg Bible (Colored Plate) Frontispiece
Lyly's "Euphues" (Fac-simile) 485
Hans Christian Andersen (Portrait) 500
"Haroun al Raschid" (Photogravure) 622
Dominique François Arago (Portrait) 704
Ludovico Ariosto (Portrait) 742
Aristotle (Portrait) 788
Matthew Arnold (Portrait) 844
"Lancelot Bids Adieu to Elaine" (Photogravure) 890
John James Audubon (Portrait) 956
VIGNETTE PORTRAITS
Anacreon Aristophenes
Lucius Apuleius Ernst Moritz Arndt
Thomas Aquinas Roger Ascham
John Arbuthnot Berthold Auerbach
_EUPHUES._.
Reduced facsimile of title-page of the "Euphues" of John Lyly.
The Colophon reads:
Imprinted at London by Thomas East, for Gabriel Cawood dwelling
in Panics Church yard. 1581.
This is a good example of the quaint title-pages of the books of the
early printers;
showing the old-fashioned border, the true "old-style" type, the
ancient form of the S, the V, and the U, and the now obsolete
spelling of several words.
_EVPHVES._
THE ANATOMY
OF WIT.
Verie pleasaunt for all
Gentlemen to read, and
most necessarie to remember.
wherein are contained the
delightes that Wit followeth in his youth
by the pleasantnesse of love, & the happinesse
he reapeth in age, by
the perfectnesse of
Wisedome.
By John Lyly Master
of Art.
Corrected and augmented.
Imprinted at London
for Gabriel Cawood dwelling
in Paules. Church-yard.
(Continued from Volume I)
to the storms of air and sea; and while the soul of Mozart seems to
dwell on the ethereal peaks of Olympus, that of Beethoven climbs
shuddering the storm-beaten sides of a Sinai. Blessed be they both! Each
represents a moment of the ideal life, each does us good. Our love is
due to both.
Self-interest is but the survival of the animal in us. Humanity only
begins for man with self-surrender.
* * * * *
MAY 27TH, 1857.--Wagner's is a powerful mind endowed with strong
poetical sensitiveness. His work is even more poetical than musical. The
suppression of the lyrical element, and therefore of melody, is with him
a systematic _parti pris._ No more duos or trios; monologue and the aria
are alike done away with. There remains only declamation, the
recitative, and the choruses. In order to avoid the conventional in
singing, Wagner falls into another convention,--that of not singing at
all. He subordinates the voice to articulate speech, and for fear lest
the muse should take flight he clips her wings; so that his works are
rather symphonic dramas than operas. The voice is brought down to the
rank of an instrument, put on a level with the violins, the hautboys,
and the drums, and treated instrumentally. Man is deposed from his
superior position, and the centre of gravity of the work passes into the
baton of the conductor. It is music depersonalized,--neo-Hegelian
music,--music multiple instead of individual. If this is so, it is
indeed the music of the future,--the music of the socialist democracy
replacing the art which is aristocratic, heroic, or subjective.
* * * * *
DECEMBER 4TH, 1863.--The whole secret of remaining young in spite of
years, and even of gray hairs, is to cherish enthusiasm in one's self,
by poetry, by contemplation, by charity,--that is, in fewer words, by
the maintenance of harmony in the soul.
* * * * *
APRIL 12TH, 1858.--The era of equality means the triumph of mediocrity.
It is disappointing, but inevitable; for it is one of time's
revenges.... Art no doubt will lose, but justice will gain. Is not
universal leveling down the law of nature?... The world is striving with
all its force for the destruction of what it has itself brought forth!
* * * * *
MARCH 1ST, 1869.--From the point of view of the ideal, humanity is
_triste_ and ugly. But if we compare it with its probable origins, we
see that the human race has not altogether wasted its time. Hence there
are three possible views of history: the view of the pessimist, who
starts from the ideal; the view of the optimist, who compares the past
with the present; and the view of the hero-worshiper, who sees that all
progress whatever has cost oceans of blood and tears.
* * * * *
AUGUST 31ST, 1869.--I have finished Schopenhauer. My mind has been a
tumult of opposing systems,--Stoicism, Quietism, Buddhism, Christianity.
Shall I never be at peace with myself? If impersonality is a good, why
am I not consistent in the pursuit of it? and if it is a temptation, why
return to it, after having judged and conquered it?
Is happiness anything more than a conventional fiction? The deepest
reason for my state of doubt is that the supreme end and aim of life
seems to me a mere lure and deception. The individual is an eternal
dupe, who never obtains what he seeks, and who is forever deceived by
hope. My instinct is in harmony with the pessimism of Buddha and of
Schopenhauer. It is a doubt which never leaves me, even in my moments of
religious fervor. Nature is indeed for me a Maïa; and I look at her, as
it were, with the eyes of an artist. My intelligence remains skeptical.
What, then, do I believe in? I do not know. And what is it I hope for?
It would be difficult to say. Folly! I believe in goodness, and I hope
that good will prevail. Deep within this ironical and disappointed being
of mine there is a child hidden--a frank, sad, simple creature, who
believes in the ideal, in love, in holiness, and all heavenly
superstitions. A whole millennium of idyls sleeps in my heart; I am a
pseudo-skeptic, a pseudo-scoffer.
"Borne dans sa nature, infini dans ses voeux,
L'homme est un dieu tombé qui se souvient des cieux."
* * * * *
MARCH 17TH, 1870.--This morning the music of a brass band which had
stopped under my windows moved me almost to tears. It exercised an
indefinable, nostalgic power over me; it set me dreaming of another
world, of infinite passion and supreme happiness. Such impressions are
the echoes of Paradise in the soul; memories of ideal spheres whose sad
sweetness ravishes and intoxicates the heart. O Plato! O Pythagoras!
ages ago you heard these harmonies, surprised these moments of inward
ecstasy,--knew these divine transports! If music thus carries us to
heaven, it is because music is harmony, harmony is perfection,
perfection is our dream, and our dream is heaven.
* * * * *
APRIL 1ST, 1870.--I am inclined to believe that for a woman love is the
supreme authority,--that which judges the rest and decides what is good
or evil. For a man, love is subordinate to right. It is a great passion,
but it is not the source of order, the synonym of reason, the criterion
of excellence. It would seem, then, that a woman places her ideal in the
perfection of love, and a man in the perfection of justice.
* * * * *
JUNE 5TH, 1870.--The efficacy of religion lies precisely in that which
is not rational, philosophic, nor eternal; its efficacy lies in the
unforeseen, the miraculous, the extraordinary. Thus religion attracts
more devotion in proportion as it demands more faith,--that is to say,
as it becomes more incredible to the profane mind. The philosopher
aspires to explain away all mysteries, to dissolve them into light. It
is mystery, on the other hand, which the religious instinct demands and
pursues: it is mystery which constitutes the essence of worship, the
power of proselytism. When the cross became the "foolishness" of the
cross, it took possession of the masses. And in our own day, those who
wish to get rid of the supernatural, to enlighten religion, to economize
faith, find themselves deserted, like poets who should declaim against
poetry, or women who should decry love. Faith consists in the acceptance
of the incomprehensible, and even in the pursuit of the impossible, and
is self-intoxicated with its own sacrifices, its own repeated
extravagances.
It is the forgetfulness of this psychological law which stultifies the
so-called liberal Christianity. It is the realization of it which
constitutes the strength of Catholicism.
Apparently, no positive religion can survive the supernatural element
which is the reason for its existence. Natural religion seems to be the
tomb of all historic cults. All concrete religions die eventually in the
pure air of philosophy. So long then as the life of nations is in need
of religion as a motive and sanction of morality, as food for faith,
hope, and charity, so long will the masses turn away from pure reason
and naked truth, so long will they adore mystery, so long--and rightly
so--will they rest in faith, the only region where the ideal presents
itself to them in an attractive form.
* * * * *
OCTOBER 26TH, 1870.--If ignorance and passion are the foes of popular
morality, it must be confessed that moral indifference is the malady of
the cultivated classes. The modern separation of enlightenment and
virtue, of thought and conscience, of the intellectual aristocracy from
the honest and vulgar crowd, is the greatest danger that can threaten
liberty. When any society produces an increasing number of literary
exquisites, of satirists, skeptics, and _beaux esprits_, some chemical
disorganization of fabric may be inferred. Take, for example, the
century of Augustus and that of Louis XV. Our cynics and railers are
mere egotists, who stand aloof from the common duty, and in their
indolent remoteness are of no service to society against any ill which
may attack it. Their cultivation consists in having got rid of feeling.
And thus they fall farther and farther away from true humanity, and
approach nearer to the demoniacal nature. What was it that
Mephistopheles lacked? Not intelligence, certainly, but goodness.
* * * * *
DECEMBER 11TH, 1875.--The ideal which the wife and mother makes for
herself, the manner in which she understands duty and life, contain the
fate of the community. Her faith becomes the star of the conjugal ship,
and her love the animating principle that fashions the future of all
belonging to her. Woman is the salvation or destruction of the family.
She carries its destinies in the folds of her mantle.
* * * * *
JANUARY 22D, 1875.--The thirst for truth is not a French passion. In
everything appearance is preferred to reality, the outside to the
inside, the fashion to the material, that which shines to that which
profits, opinion to conscience. That is to say, the Frenchman's centre
of gravity is always outside him,--he is always thinking of others,
playing to the gallery. To him individuals are so many zeros: the unit
which turns them into a number must be added from outside; it may be
royalty, the writer of the day, the favorite newspaper, or any other
temporary master of fashion.--All this is probably the result of an
exaggerated sociability, which weakens the soul's forces of resistance,
destroys its capacity for investigation and personal conviction, and
kills in it the worship of the ideal.
* * * * *
DECEMBER 9TH, 1877.--The modern haunters of Parnassus carve urns of
agate and of onyx; but inside the urns what is there?--Ashes. Their work
lacks feeling, seriousness, sincerity, and pathos--in a word, soul and
moral life. I cannot bring myself to sympathize with such a way of
understanding poetry. The talent shown is astonishing, but stuff and
matter are wanting. It is an effort of the imagination to stand
alone--substitute for everything else. We find metaphors, rhymes, music,
color, but not man, not humanity. Poetry of this factitious kind may
beguile one at twenty, but what can one make of it at fifty? It reminds
me of Pergamos, of Alexandria, of all the epochs of decadence when
beauty of form hid poverty of thought and exhaustion of feeling. I
strongly share the repugnance which this poetical school arouses in
simple people. It is as though it only cared to please the world-worn,
the over-subtle, the corrupted, while it ignores all normal healthy
life, virtuous habits, pure affections, steady labor, honesty, and duty.
It is an affectation, and because it is an affectation the school is
struck with sterility. The reader desires in the poem something better
than a juggler in rhyme, or a conjurer in verse; he looks 'to find in
him a painter of life, a being who thinks, loves, and has a conscience,
who feels passion and repentance.
The true critic strives for a clear vision of things as they are--for
justice and fairness; his effort is to get free from himself, so that he
may in no way disfigure that which he wishes to understand or reproduce.
His superiority to the common herd lies in this effort, even when its
success is only partial. He distrusts his own senses, he sifts his own
impressions, by returning upon them from different sides and at
different times, by comparing, moderating, shading, distinguishing, and
so endeavoring to approach more and more nearly to the formula which
represents the maximum of truth.
The art which is grand and yet simple is that which presupposes the
greatest elevation both in artist and in public.
* * * * *
MAY 19TH, 1878.--Criticism is above all a gift, an intuition, a matter
of tact and _flair_; it cannot be taught or demonstrated,--it is an art.
Critical genius means an aptitude for discerning truth under appearances
or in disguises which conceal it; for discovering it in spite of the
errors of testimony, the frauds of tradition, the dust of time, the loss
or alteration of texts. It is the sagacity of the hunter whom nothing
deceives for long, and whom no ruse can throw off the trail. It is the
talent of the _Juge d'Instruction_ who knows how to interrogate
circumstances, and to extract an unknown secret from a thousand
falsehoods. The true critic can understand everything, but he will be
the dupe of nothing, and to no convention will he sacrifice his duty,
which is to find out and proclaim truth. Competent learning, general
cultivation, absolute probity, accuracy of general view, human sympathy,
and technical capacity,--how many things are necessary to the critic,
without reckoning grace, delicacy, _savoir vivre_, and the gift of happy
phrasemaking!
* * * * *
MAY 22D, 1879 (Ascension Day).--Wonderful and delicious weather. Soft,
caressing sunlight,--the air a limpid blue,--twitterings of birds; even
the distant voices of the city have something young and springlike in
them. It is indeed a new birth. The ascension of the Savior of men is
symbolized by the expansion, this heavenward yearning of nature.... I
feel myself born again; all the windows of the soul are clear. Forms,
lines, tints, reflections, sounds, contrasts, and harmonies, the general
play and interchange of things,--it is all enchanting!
In my courtyard the ivy is green again, the chestnut-tree is full of
leaf, the Persian lilac beside the little fountain is flushed with red
and just about to flower; through the wide openings to the right and
left of the old College of Calvin I see the Salève above the trees of
St. Antoine, the Voirons above the hill of Cologny; while the three
flights of steps which, from landing to landing, lead between two high
walls from the Rue Verdaine to the terrace of the Tranchées, recall to
one's imagination some old city of the south, a glimpse of Perugia or
of Malaga.
All the bells are ringing. It is the hour of worship. A historical and
religious impression mingles with the picturesque, the musical, the
poetical impressions of the scene. All the peoples of Christendom--all
the churches scattered over the globe--are celebrating at this moment
the glory of the Crucified.
And what are those many nations doing who have other prophets, and
honor the Divinity in other ways--the Jews, the Mussulmans, the
Buddhists, the Vishnuists, the Guebers? They have other sacred days,
other rites, other solemnities, other beliefs. But all have some
religion, some ideal end for life--all aim at raising man above the
sorrows and smallnesses of the present, and of the individual existence.
All have faith in something greater than themselves, all pray, all bow,
all adore; all see beyond nature, Spirit, and beyond evil, Good. All
bear witness to the Invisible. Here we have the link which binds all
peoples together. All men are equally creatures of sorrow and desire, of
hope and fear. All long to recover some lost harmony with the great
order of things, and to feel themselves approved and blessed by the
Author of the universe. All know what suffering is, and yearn for
happiness. All know what sin is, and feel the need of pardon.
Christianity, reduced to its original simplicity, is the reconciliation
of the sinner with God, by means of the certainty that God loves in
spite of everything, and that he chastises because he loves.
Christianity furnished a new motive and a new strength for the
achievement of moral perfection. It made holiness attractive by giving
to it the air of filial gratitude.
* * * * *
JULY 28TH, 1880.--This afternoon I have had a walk in the sunshine, and
have just come back rejoicing in a renewed communion with nature. The
waters of the Rhone and the Arve, the murmur of the river, the austerity
of its banks, the brilliancy of the foliage, the play of the leaves, the
splendor of the July sunlight, the rich fertility of the fields, the
lucidity of the distant mountains, the whiteness of the glaciers under
the azure serenity of the sky, the sparkle and foam of the mingling
rivers, the leafy masses of the La Bâtie woods,--all and everything
delighted me. It seemed to me as though the years of strength had come
back to me. I was overwhelmed with sensations. I was surprised and
grateful. The universal life carried me on its breast; the summer's
caress went to my heart. Once more my eyes beheld the vast horizons, the
soaring peaks, the blue lakes, the winding valleys, and all the free
outlets of old days. And yet there was no painful sense of longing. The
scene left upon me an indefinable impression, which was neither hope,
nor desire, nor regret, but rather a sense of emotion, of passionate
impulse, mingled with admiration and anxiety. I am conscious at once of
joy and of want; beyond what I possess I see the impossible and the
unattainable; I gauge my own wealth and poverty: in a word, I am and I
am not--my inner state is one of contradiction, because it is one of
transition.
* * * * *
APRIL 1OTH, 1881 [he died May 11th].--What dupes we are of our own
desires!... Destiny has two ways of crushing us--by refusing our wishes
and by fulfilling them. But he who only wills what God wills escapes
both catastrophes. "All things work together for his good."
ANACREON
(B.C. 562?-477)
[Illustration: ANACREON]
Of the life of this lyric poet we have little exact knowledge. We know
that he was an Ionian Greek, and therefore by racial type a
luxury-loving, music-loving Greek, born in the city of Teos on the coast
of Asia Minor. The year was probably B.C. 562. With a few
fellow-citizens, it is supposed that he fled to Thrace and founded
Abdera when Cyrus the Great, or his general Harpagus, was conquering the
Greek cities of the coast. Abdera, however, was too new to afford
luxurious living, and the singing Ionian soon found his way to more
genial Samos, whither the fortunes of the world then seemed converging.
Polycrates was "tyrant," in the old Greek sense of irresponsible ruler;
but withal so large-minded and far-sighted a man that we may use a trite
comparison and say that under him his island was, to the rest of Greece,
as Florence in the time of Lorenzo the Magnificent was to the rest of
Italy, or Athens in the time of Pericles to the other Hellenic States.
Anacreon became his tutor, and may have been of his council; for
Herodotus says that when Oroetes went to see Polycrates he found him in
the men's apartment with Anacreon the Teian. Another historian says that
he tempered the stern will of the ruler. Still another relates that
Polycrates once presented him with five talents, but that the poet
returned the sum after two nights made sleepless from thinking what he
would do with his riches, saying "it was not worth the care it cost."
After the murder of Polycrates, Hipparchus, who ruled at Athens, sent a
trireme to fetch the poet. Like his father Pisistratus, Hipparchus
endeavored to further the cause of letters by calling poets to his
court. Simonides of Ceos was there; and Lasus of Hermione, the teacher
of Pindar; with many rhapsodists or minstrels, who edited the poems of
Homer and chanted his lays at the Panathenæa, or high festival of
Athena, which the people celebrated every year with devout and
magnificent show. Amid this brilliant company Anacreon lived and sang
until Hipparchus fell (514) by the famous conspiracy of Harmodius and
Aristogeiton. He then returned to his native Teos, and according to a
legend, died there at the age of eighty-five, choked by a grape-seed.
Anacreon was a lyrist of the first order. Plato's poet says of him in
the 'Symposium,' "When I hear the verses of Sappho or Anacreon, I set
down my cup for very shame of my own performance." He composed in Greek
somewhat, to use a very free comparison, as Herrick did in English,
expressing the unrefined passion and excesses which he saw, just as the
Devonshire parson preserved the spirit of the country festivals of Old
England in his vivid verse.
To Anacreon music and poetry were inseparable. The poet of his time
recited his lines with lyre in hand, striking upon it in the measure he
thought best suited to his song. Doubtless the poems of Anacreon were
delivered in this way. His themes were simple,--wine, love, and the
glorification of youth and poetry; but his imagination and poetic
invention so animated every theme that it is the perfect rendering which
we see, not the simplicity of the commonplace idea. His delicacy
preserves him from grossness, and his grace from wantonness. In this
respect his poems are a fair illustration of the Greek sense of
self-limitation, which guided the art instincts of that people and made
them the creators of permanent canons of taste.
Anacreon had no politics, no earnest interest in the affairs of life, no
morals in the large meaning of that word, no aims reaching further than
the merriment and grace of the moment. Loving luxury and leisure, he was
the follower of a pleasure-loving court. His cares are that the bowl is
empty, that age is joyless, that women tell him he is growing gray. He
is closely paralleled in this by one side of Béranger; but the
Frenchman's soul had a passionately earnest half which the Greek
entirely lacked. Nor is there ever any outbreak of the deep yearning,
the underlying melancholy, which pervades and now and then interrupts,
like a skeleton at the feast, the gayest verses of Omar Khayyam.
His metres, like his matter, are simple and easy. So imitators, perhaps
as brilliant as the master, have sprung up and produced a mass of songs;
and at this time it remains in doubt whether any complete poem of
Anacreon remains untouched. For this reason the collection is commonly
termed 'Anacreontics'. Some of the poems are referred to the school of
Gaza and the fourth century after Christ, and some to the secular
teachings and refinement of the monks of the Middle Ages. Since the
discovery and publication of the text by Henry Stephens, in 1554, poets
have indulged their lighter fancies in such songs, and a small
literature of delicate trifles now exists under the name of
'Anacreontics' in Italian, German, and English. Bergk's recension of the
poems appeared in 1878. The standard translations, or rather imitations
in English, are those of Cowley and Moore. The Irish poet was not unlike
in nature to the ancient Ionian. Moore's fine voice in the London
drawing-rooms echoes at times the note of Anacreon in the men's quarters
of Polycrates or the symposia of Hipparchus. The joy of feasting and
music, the color of wine, and the scent of roses, alike inspire the
songs of each.
DRINKING
The thirsty earth soaks up the rain,
And drinks, and gapes for drink again,
The plants suck in the earth, and are
With constant drinking fresh and fair;
The sea itself (which one would think
Should have but little need of drink)
Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up,
So filled that they o'erflow the cup.
The busy Sun (and one would guess
By 's drunken fiery face no less)
Drinks up the sea, and, when he's done,
The Moon and Stars drink up the Sun:
They drink and dance by their own light;
They drink and revel all the night.
Nothing in nature's sober found,
But an eternal health goes round.
Fill up the bowl then, fill it high,
Fill all the glasses there; for why
Should every creature drink but I?
Why, man of morals, tell me why?
--Cowley's Translation.
AGE
Oft am I by the women told,
Poor Anacreon, thou grow'st old!
Look how thy hairs are falling all;
Poor Anacreon, how they fall!
Whether I grow old or no,
By th' effects I do not know;
This I know, without being told,
'Tis time to live, if I grow old;
'Tis time short pleasures now to take,
Of little life the best to make,
And manage wisely the last stake.
Cowley's Translation.
THE EPICURE
I
Fill the bowl with rosy wine!
Around our temples roses twine!
And let us cheerfully awhile,
Like the wine and roses, smile.
Crowned with roses, we contemn
Gyges' wealthy diadem.
To-day is ours, what do we fear?
To-day is ours; we have it here:
Let's treat it kindly, that it may
Wish, at least, with us to stay.
Let's banish business, banish sorrow;
To the gods belongs to-morrow.
II
Underneath this myrtle shade,
On flowery beds supinely laid,
With odorous oils my head o'erflowing,
And around it roses growing,
What should I do but drink away
The heat and troubles of the day?
In this more than kingly state
Love himself shall on me wait.
Fill to me, Love, nay fill it up;
And, mingled, cast into the cup
Wit, and mirth, and noble fires,
Vigorous health, and gay desires.
The wheel of life no less will stay
In a smooth than rugged way:
Since it equally doth flee,
Let the motion pleasant be.
Why do we precious ointments show'r?
Noble wines why do we pour?
Beauteous flowers why do we spread,
Upon the monuments of the dead?
Nothing they but dust can show,
Or bones that hasten to be so.
Crown me with roses while I live,
Now your wines and ointments give
After death I nothing crave;
Let me alive my pleasures have,
All are Stoics in the grave.
Cowley's Translation.
GOLD
A mighty pain to love it is,
And 'tis a pain that pain to miss;
But, of all pains, the greatest pain
It is to love, but love in vain.
Virtue now, nor noble blood,
Nor wit by love is understood;
Gold alone does passion move,
Gold monopolizes love;
A curse on her, and on the man
Who this traffic first began!
A curse on him who found the ore!
A curse on him who digged the store!
A curse on him who did refine it!
A curse on him who first did coin it!
A curse, all curses else above,
On him who used it first in love!
Gold begets in brethren hate;
Gold in families debate;
Gold does friendship separate;
Gold does civil wars create.
These the smallest harms of it!
Gold, alas! does love beget.
Cowley's Translation.
THE GRASSHOPPER
Happy Insect! what can be
In happiness compared to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy Morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup does fill;
'Tis filled wherever thou dost tread,
Nature's self's thy Ganymede.
Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing;
Happier than the happiest king!
All the fields which thou dost see,
All the plants, belong to thee;
All that summer hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice.
Man for thee does sow and plow;
Farmer he, and landlord thou!
Thou dost innocently joy;
Nor does thy luxury destroy;
The shepherd gladly heareth thee,
More harmonious than he.
Thee country hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripened year!
Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire;
Phoebus is himself thy sire.
To thee, of all things upon Earth,
Life's no longer than thy mirth.
Happy insect, happy thou!
Dost neither age nor winter know;
But, when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung
Thy fill, the flowery leaves among,
(Voluptuous, and wise withal,
Epicurean animal!)
Sated with thy summer feast,
Thou retir'st to endless rest.
Cowley's Translation,
THE SWALLOW
Foolish prater, what dost thou
So early at my window do,
With thy tuneless serenade?
Well 't had been had Tereus made
Thee as dumb as Philomel;
There his knife had done but well.
In thy undiscovered nest
Thou dost all the winter rest,
And dreamest o'er thy summer joys,
Free from the stormy season's noise:
Free from th' ill thou'st done to me;
Who disturbs or seeks out thee?
Hadst thou all the charming notes
Of the wood's poetic throats,
All thou art could never pay
What thou hast ta'en from me away.
Cruel bird! thou'st ta'en away
A dream out of my arms to-day;
A dream that ne'er must equaled be
By all that waking eyes may see.
Thou, this damage to repair,
Nothing half so sweet or fair,
Nothing half so good, canst bring,
Though men say thou bring'st the Spring.
Cowley's Translation.
THE POET'S CHOICE
If hoarded gold possessed a power
To lengthen life's too fleeting hour,
And purchase from the hand of death
A little span, a moment's breath,
How I would love the precious ore!
And every day should swell my store;
That when the fates would send their minion,
To waft me off on shadowy pinion,
I might some hours of life obtain,
And bribe him back to hell again.
But since we ne'er can charm away
The mandate of that awful day,
Why do we vainly weep at fate,
And sigh for life's uncertain date?
The light of gold can ne'er illume
The dreary midnight of the tomb!
And why should I then pant for treasures?
Mine be the brilliant round of pleasures;
The goblet rich, the hoard of friends,
Whose flowing souls the goblet blends!
Moore's Translation.
DRINKING
I care not for the idle state
Of Persia's king, the rich, the great!
I envy not the monarch's throne,
Nor wish the treasured gold my own.
But oh! be mine the rosy braid,
The fervor of my brows to shade;
Be mine the odors, richly sighing,
Amid my hoary tresses flying.
To-day I'll haste to quaff my wine,
As if to-morrow ne'er should shine;
But if to-morrow comes, why then--
I'll haste to quaff my wine again.
And thus while all our days are bright,
Nor time has dimmed their bloomy light,
Let us the festal hours beguile
With mantling cup and cordial smile;
And shed from every bowl of wine
The richest drop on Bacchus's shrine!
For Death may come, with brow unpleasant,
May come when least we wish him present,
And beckon to the sable shore,
And grimly bid us--drink no more!
Moore's Translation.
A LOVER'S SIGH
The Phrygian rock that braves the storm
Was once a weeping matron's form;
And Procne, hapless, frantic maid,
Is now a swallow in the shade.
Oh that a mirror's form were mine,
To sparkle with that smile divine;
And like my heart I then should be,
Reflecting thee, and only thee!
Or could I be the robe which holds
That graceful form within its folds;
Or, turned into a fountain, lave
Thy beauties in my circling wave;
Or, better still, the zone that lies
Warm to thy breast, and feels its sighs!
Or like those envious pearls that show
So faintly round that neck of snow!
Yes, I would be a happy gem,
Like them to hang, to fade like them.
What more would thy Anacreon be?
Oh, anything that touches thee,
Nay, sandals for those airy feet--
Thus to be pressed by thee were sweet!
Moore's Translation.
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
(1805-1875)
BY BENJAMIN W. WELLS
The place of Hans Christian Andersen in literature is that of the
"Children's Poet," though his best poetry is prose. He was born in the
ancient Danish city of Odense, on April 2d, 1805, of poor and shiftless
parents. He had little regular instruction, and few childish associates.
His youthful imagination was first stimulated by La Fontaine's 'Fables'
and the 'Arabian Nights,' and he showed very early a dramatic instinct,
trying to act and even to imitate Shakespeare, though, as he says,
"hardly able to spell a single word correctly." It was therefore natural
that the visit of a dramatic company to Odense, in 1818, should fire his
fancy to seek his theatrical fortune in Copenhagen; whither he went in
September, 1819, with fifteen dollars in his pocket and a letter of
introduction to a danseuse at the Royal Theatre, who not unnaturally
took her strange visitor for a lunatic, and showed him the door. For
four years he labored diligently, suffered acutely, and produced nothing
of value; though he gained some influential friends, who persuaded the
king to grant him a scholarship for three years, that he might prepare
for the university.
Though he was neither a brilliant nor a docile pupil, he did not exhaust
the generous patience of his friends, who in 1829 enabled him to publish
by subscription his first book, 'A Journey on Foot from Holm Canal to
the East Point of Amager' a fantastic arabesque, partly plagiarized and
partly parodied from the German romanticists, but with a naïveté that
might have disarmed criticism.
In 1831 there followed a volume of poems, the sentimental and rather
mawkish 'Fantasies and Sketches,' product of a journey in Jutland and of
a silly love affair. This book was so harshly criticized that he
resolved to seek a refuge and new literary inspiration in a tour to
Germany; for all through his life, traveling was Andersen's stimulus and
distraction, so that he compares himself, later, to a pendulum "bound
to go backward and forward, tic, toc, tic, toc, till the clock stops,
and down I lie."
[Illustration: HANS CHR. ANDERSEN.]
This German tour inspired his first worthy book, 'Silhouettes,' with
some really admirable pages of description. His success encouraged him
to attempt the drama again, where he failed once more, and betook
himself for relief to Paris and Italy, with a brief stay in the Jura
Mountains, which is delightfully described in his novel, 'O.T.'
Italy had on him much the same clarifying effect that it had on Goethe;
and his next book, the novel 'Improvisatore' (1835), achieved and
deserved a European recognition. Within ten years the book was
translated into six languages. It bears the mark of its date in its
romantic sentiments. There is indeed no firm character-drawing, here or
in any of his novels; but the book still claims attention for its
exquisite descriptions of Italian life and scenery.
The year 1835 saw also Andersen's first essay in the 'Wonder Stories'
which were to give him his lasting title to grateful remembrance. He did
not think highly of this work at the time, though his little volume
contained the now-classic 'Tinderbox,' and 'Big Claus and Little Claus.'
Indeed, he always chafed a little at the modest fame of a writer for
children; but he continued for thirty-seven years to publish those
graceful fancies, which in their little domain still hold the first
rank, and certainly gave the freest scope to Andersen's qualities, while
they masked his faults and limitations.
He turned again from this "sleight of hand with Fancy's golden apples,"
to the novel, in the 'O.T.' (1836), which marks no advance on the
'Improvisatore'; and in the next year he published his best romance,
'Only a Fiddler,' which is still charming for its autobiographical
touches, its genuine humor, and its deep pathos. At the time, this book
assured his European reputation; though it has less interest for us
to-day than the 'Tales,' or the 'Picture Book without Pictures' (1840),
where, perhaps more than anywhere else in his work, the child speaks
with all the naïveté of his nature.
A journey to the East was reflected in 'A Poet's Bazaar' (1842); and
these years contain also his last unsuccessful dramatic efforts, 'The
King Dreams' and 'The New Lying-in Room.' In 1843 he was in Paris, in
1844 in Germany, and in the next year he extended his wanderings to
Italy and England, where Mary Howitt's translations had assured him a
welcome. Ten years later he revisited England as the guest of Dickens
at Gadshill.
The failure of an epic, 'Ahasuerus' (1847), and of a novel, 'The Two
Baronesses' (1849), made him turn with more interest to wonder tales and
fairy dramas, which won a considerable success; and when the political
troubles of 1848 directed his wanderings toward Sweden, he made from
them 'I Sverrig' (In Sweden: 1849), his most exquisite book of travels.
As Europe grew peaceful again he resumed his indefatigable wanderings,
visiting Germany, France, Italy, Switzerland, Spain, Bohemia, and
England; printing between 1852 and 1862 nine little volumes of stories,
the mediocre but successful 'In Spain' (1860), and his last novel, 'To
Be or Not To Be' (1857), which reflects the religious speculations of
his later years.
He was now in comparatively easy circumstances, and passed the last
fifteen years of his life unharassed by criticism, and surrounded with
the 'honor, love, obedience, troops of friends,' that should accompany
old age. It was not until 1866 that he made himself a home; and even at
sixty-one he said the idea 'positively frightened him--he knew he should
run away from it as soon as ever the first warm sunbeam struck him, like
any other bird of passage.'
In 1869 he celebrated his literary jubilee. In 1872 he finished his last
'Stories.' That year he met with an accident in Innsbruck from which he
never recovered. Kind friends eased his invalid years; and so general
was the grief at his illness that the children of the United States
collected a sum of money for his supposed necessities, which at his
request took the form of books for his library. A few months later,
after a brief and painless illness, he died, August 1st, 1875. His
admirers had already erected a statue in his honor, and the State gave
him a magnificent funeral; but his most enduring monument is that which
his 'Wonder Tales' are still building all around the world.
The character of Andersen is full of curious contrasts. Like the French
fabulist, La Fontaine, he was a child all his life, and often a spoiled
child; yet he joined to childlike simplicity no small share of worldly
wisdom. Constant travel made him a shrewd observer of detail, but his
self-absorption kept him from sympathy with the broad political
aspirations of his generation.
In the judgment of his friends and critics, his autobiographical 'Story
of My Life' is strangely unjust, and he never understood the limitations
of his genius. He was not fond of children, nor personally attractive to
them, though his letters to them are charming.
In personal appearance he was limp, ungainly, awkward, and odd, with
long lean limbs, broad flat hands, and feet of striking size. His eyes
were small and deep-set, his nose very large, his neck very long; but he
masked his defects by studied care in dress, and always fancied he
looked distinguished, delighting to display his numerous decorations on
his evening dress in complacent profusion.
On Andersen's style there is a remarkably acute study by his
fellow-countryman Brandes, in 'Kritiker og Portraite' (Critiques and
Portraits), and a useful comment in Boyesen's 'Scandinavian Literature.'
When not perverted by his translators, it is perhaps better suited than
any other to the comprehension of children. His syntax and rhetoric are
often faulty; and in the 'Tales' he does not hesitate to take liberties
even with German, if he can but catch the vivid, darting imagery of
juvenile fancy, the "ohs" and "ahs" of the nursery, its changing
intonations, its fears, its smiles, its personal appeals, and its
venerable devices to spur attention and kindle sympathy. Action, or
imitation, takes the place of description. We hear the trumpeter's
_taratantara_ and "the pattering rain on the leaves, _rum dum dum, rum
dum dum_," The soldier "comes marching along, _left, right, left,
right_." No one puts himself so wholly in the child's place and looks at
nature so wholly with his eyes as Andersen. "If you hold one of those
burdock leaves before your little body it's just like an apron, and if
you put it on your head it's almost as good as an umbrella, it's so
big." Or he tells you that when the sun shone on the flax, and the
clouds watered it, "it was just as nice for it as it is for the little
children to be washed and then get a kiss from mother: that makes them
prettier; of course it does." And here, as Brandes remarks, every
right-minded mamma stops and kisses the child, and their hearts are
warmer for that day's tale.
The starting-point of this art is personification. To the child's fancy
the doll is as much alive as the cat, the broom as the bird, and even
the letters in the copy-book can stretch themselves. On this
foundation he builds myths that tease by a certain semblance of
rationality,--elegiac, more often sentimental, but at their best, like
normal children, without strained pathos or forced sympathy.
Such personification has obvious dramatic and lyric elements; but
Andersen lacked the technique of poetic and dramatic art, and marred his
prose descriptions, both in novels and books of travel, by an intrusive
egotism and lyric exaggeration. No doubt, therefore, the most permanent
part of his work is that which popular instinct has selected, the
'Picture Book without Pictures,' the 'Tales and Stories'; and among
these, those will last longest that have least of the lyric and most of
the dramatic element.
Nearly all of Andersen's books are translated in ten uniform but
unnumbered volumes, published by Houghton, Mifflin and Company. Of the
numerous translations of the 'Tales,' Mary Howitt's (1846) and Sommer's
(1893) are the best, though far from faultless.
The 'Life of Hans Christian Andersen' by R. Nisbet Bain (New York, 1895)
is esteemed the best.
[Illustration: signature]
THE STEADFAST TIN SOLDIER
From 'Collected Fairy Tales,' newly translated
There were once twenty-five tin soldiers, who were all brothers, for
they were cast out of one old tin spoon. They held their muskets, and
their faces were turned to the enemy; red and blue, ever so fine, were
the uniforms. The first thing they heard in this world, when the cover
was taken from the box where they lay, were the words, "Tin soldiers!" A
little boy shouted it, and clapped his hands. He had got them because it
was his birthday, and now he set them up on the table. Each soldier was
just like the other, only one was a little different. He had but one
leg, for he had been cast last, and there was not enough tin. But he
stood on his one leg just as firm as the others on two, so he was just
the one to be famous.
On the table where they were set up stood a lot of other playthings; but
what caught your eye was a pretty castle of paper. Through the little
windows you could see right into the halls. Little trees stood in front,
around a bit of looking-glass which was meant for a lake. Wax swans swam
on it and were reflected in it. That was all very pretty, but still the
prettiest thing was a little girl who stood right in the castle gate.
She was cut out of paper too, but she had a silk dress, and a little
narrow blue ribbon across her shoulders, on which was a sparkling star
as big as her whole face. The little girl lifted her arms gracefully in
the air, for she was a dancer; and then she lifted one leg so high that
the tin soldier could not find it at all, and thought that she had only
one leg, just like himself.
"That would be the wife for me," thought he, "but she is too fine for
me. She lives in a castle, and I have only a box, which I have to share
with twenty-four. That is no house for her. But I will see whether I can
make her acquaintance." Then he lay down at full length behind a
snuff-box which was on the table. From there he could watch the trig
little lady who kept standing on one leg without losing her balance.
When evening came, the other tin soldiers were all put in their box, and
the people in the house went to bed. Then the playthings began to play,
first at "visiting," then at "war" and at "dancing." The tin soldiers
rattled in their box, for they would have liked to join in it, but they
could not get the cover off. The nutcracker turned somersaults, and the
pencil scrawled over the slate. There was such a racket that the
canary-bird woke up and began to sing, and that in verses. The only ones
that did not stir were the tin soldier and the little dancer. She stood
straight on tiptoe and stretched up both arms; he was just as steadfast
on his one leg. He did not take his eyes from her a moment.
Now it struck twelve, and bang! up went the cover of the snuff-box, but
it wasn't tobacco in it: no, but a little black Troll. It was a
trick box.
"Tin soldier!" said the Troll, "will you stare your eyes out?" But the
tin soldier made believe he did not hear. "You wait till morning!" said
the Troll.
When morning came, and the children got up, the tin soldier was put on
the window ledge; and whether it was the Troll, or a gust of wind, all
at once the window flew open and the tin soldier fell head first from
the third story. That was an awful fall. He stretched his leg straight
up, and stuck with his bayonet and cap right between the paving-stones.
The maid and the little boy came right down to hunt for him, but they
couldn't see him, though they came so near that they almost trod on him.
If the tin soldier had called "Here I am," they surely would have found
him; but since he was in uniform he did not think it proper to
call aloud.
Now it began to rain. The drops chased one another. It was a regular
shower. When that was over, two street boys came along.
"Hallo!" said one, "There's a tin soldier. He must be off and sail."
Then they made a boat out of a newspaper, put the tin soldier in it, and
made him sail down the gutter. Both boys ran beside it, and clapped
their hands. Preserve us! What waves there were in the gutter, and what
a current! It must have rained torrents. The paper boat rocked up and
down, and sometimes it whirled around so that the tin soldier shivered.
But he remained steadfast, did not lose color, looked straight ahead and
held his musket firm.
All at once the boat plunged under a long gutter-bridge. It was as dark
there as it had been in his box.
"Where am I going now?" thought he. "Yes, yes, that is the Troll's
fault. Oh! if the little lady were only in the boat, I would not care if
it were twice as dark."
At that instant there came a great water-rat who lived under the
gutter-bridge.
"Have you a pass?" said the rat. "Show me your pass."
But the tin soldier kept still, and only held his musket the firmer. The
boat rushed on, and the rat behind. Oh! how he gnashed his teeth, and
called to the sticks and straws:--
"Stop him! Stop him! He has not paid toll. He has showed no pass."
But the current got stronger and stronger. Before he got to the end of
the bridge the tin soldier could see daylight, but he heard also a
rushing noise that might frighten a brave man's heart. Just think! at
the end of the bridge the gutter emptied into a great canal, which for
him was as dangerous as for us to sail down a great waterfall.
He was so near it already that he could not stop. The boat went down.
The poor tin soldier held himself as straight as he could. No one should
say of him that he had ever blinked his eyes. The boat whirled three or
four times and filled with water. It had to sink. The tin soldier stood
up to his neck in water, and deeper, deeper sank the boat. The paper
grew weaker and weaker. Now the waves went over the soldier's head. Then
he thought of the pretty little dancer whom he never was to see again,
and there rang in the tin soldier's ears:--
"Farewell, warrior! farewell!
Death shalt thou stiffer."
Now the paper burst in two, and the tin soldier fell through,--but in
that minute he was swallowed by a big fish.
Oh! wasn't it dark in there. It was worse even than under the
gutter-bridge, and besides, so cramped. But the tin soldier was
steadfast, and lay at full length, musket in hand.
The fish rushed around and made the most fearful jumps. At last he was
quite still, and something went through him like a lightning flash. Then
a bright light rushed in, and somebody called aloud, "The tin soldier!"
The fish had been caught, brought to market, sold, and been taken to the
kitchen, where the maid had slit it up with a big knife. She caught the
soldier around the body and carried him into the parlor, where everybody
wanted to see such a remarkable man who had traveled about in a fish's
belly. But the tin soldier was not a bit proud. They put him on the
table, and there--well! what strange things do happen in the world--the
tin soldier was in the very same room that he had been in before. He saw
the same children, and the same playthings were on the table, the
splendid castle with the pretty little dancer; she was still standing on
one leg, and had the other high in the air. She was steadfast, too. That
touched the tin soldier so that he could almost have wept tin tears, but
that would not have been proper. He looked at her and she looked at him,
but they said nothing at all.
Suddenly one of the little boys seized the tin soldier and threw him
right into the tile-stove, although he had no reason to. It was surely
the Troll in the box who was to blame.
The tin soldier stood in full light and felt a fearful heat; but whether
that came from the real fire, or from his glowing love, he could not
tell. All the color had faded from him; but whether this had happened on
the journey, or whether it came from care, no one could say. He looked
at the little girl and she looked at him. He felt that he was melting,
but still he stood steadfast, musket in hand. Then a door opened. A
whiff of air caught the dancer, and she flew like a sylph right into the
tile-stove to the tin soldier, blazed up in flame, and was gone. Then
the tin soldier melted to a lump, and when the maid next day took out
the ashes, she found him as a little tin heart. But of the dancer only
the star was left, and that was burnt coal-black.
THE TEAPOT
From 'Riverside Literature Series': 1891, by Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
There was a proud Teapot, proud of being porcelain, proud of its long
spout, proud of its broad handle. It had something before and
behind--the spout before, the handle behind--and that was what it talked
about. But it did not talk of its lid--that was cracked, it was riveted,
it had faults; and one does not talk about one's faults--there are
plenty of others to do that. The cups, the cream-pot, the sugar-bowl,
the whole tea-service would be reminded much more of the lid's weakness,
and talk about that, than of the sound handle and the remarkable spout.
The Teapot knew it.
"I know you," it said within itself, "I know well enough, too, my fault;
and I am well aware that in that very thing is seen my humility, my
modesty. We all have faults, but then one also has a talent. The cups
get a handle, the sugar-bowl a lid; I get both, and one thing besides in
front which they never got,--I get a spout, and that makes me a queen on
the tea-table. The sugar-bowl and cream-pot are good-looking serving
maids; but I am the one who gives, yes, the one high in council. I
spread abroad a blessing among thirsty mankind. In my insides the
Chinese leaves are worked up in the boiling, tasteless water."
All this said the Teapot in its fresh young life. It stood on the table
that was spread for tea, it was lifted by a very delicate hand; but the
very delicate hand was awkward, the Teapot fell. The spout snapped off,
the handle snapped off; the lid was no worse to speak of--the worst had
been spoken of that. The Teapot lay in a swoon on the floor, while the
boiling water ran out of it. It was a horrid shame, but the worst was
that they jeered at it; they jeered at it, and not at the awkward hand.
"I never shall lose the memory of that!" said the Teapot, when it
afterward talked to itself of the course of its life. "I was called an
invalid, and placed in a corner, and the day after was given away to a
woman who begged victuals. I fell into poverty, and stood dumb both
outside and in; but there, as I stood, began my better life. One is one
thing and becomes quite another. Earth was placed in me: for a Teapot
that is the same as being buried, but in the earth was placed a flower
bulb. Who placed it there, who gave it, I know not; given it was, and it
took the place of the Chinese leaves and the boiling water, the broken
handle and spout. And the bulb lay in the earth, the bulb lay in me, it
became my heart, my living heart, such as I never before had. There was
life in me, power and might. My pulses beat, the bulb put forth sprouts,
it was the springing up of thoughts and feelings; they burst forth in
flower. I saw it, I bore it, I forgot myself in its delight. Blessed is
it to forget one's self in another. The bulb gave me no thanks, it did
not think of me--it was admired and praised. I was so glad at that: how
happy must it have been! One day I heard it said that it ought to have a
better pot. I was thumped on my back--that was rather hard to bear; but
the flower was put in a better pot--and I was thrown away in the yard,
where I lie as an old crock. But I have the memory: _that_ I can
never lose."
THE UGLY DUCKLING
From 'Riverside Literature Series': 1891, by Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
I--THE DUCKLING IS BORN
It was glorious in the country. It was summer; the cornfields were
yellow, the oats were green, the hay had been put up in stacks in the
green meadows; and the stork went about on his long red legs, and
chattered Egyptian, for this was the language he had learned from his
mother. All around the fields and meadows were great woods, and in the
midst of these woods deep lakes. Yes, it was right glorious in
the country.
In the midst of the sunshine there lay an old farm, with deep canals
about it; and from the wall down to the water grew great burdocks, so
high that little children could stand upright under the tallest of them.
It was just as wild there as in the deepest wood, and here sat a Duck
upon her nest. She had to hatch her ducklings, but she was almost tired
out before the little ones came; and she seldom had visitors. The other
ducks liked better to swim about in the canals than to run up to sit
under a burdock and gabble with her.
At last one egg-shell after another burst open. "Pip! pip!" each cried,
and in all the eggs there were little things that stuck out their heads.
"Quack! quack!" said the Duck, and they all came quacking out as fast as
they could, looking all around them under the green leaves; and the
mother let them look as much as they liked, for green is good for
the eye.
"How wide the world is!" said all the young ones; for they certainly had
much more room now than when they were inside the eggs.
"D'ye think this is all the world?" said the mother. "That stretches far
across the other side of the garden, quite into the parson's field; but
I have never been there yet. I hope you are all together," and she stood
up. "No, I have not all. The largest egg still lies there. How long is
that to last? I am really tired of it." And so she sat down again.
"Well, how goes it?" asked an old Duck who had come to pay her a visit.
"It lasts a long time with this one egg," said the Duck who sat there.
"It will not open. Now, only look at the others! They are the prettiest
little ducks I ever saw. They are all like their father: the rogue, he
never comes to see me."
"Let me see the egg which will not burst," said the old Duck. "You may
be sure it is a turkey's egg. I was once cheated in that way, and had
much care and trouble with the young ones, for they are afraid of the
water. Must I say it to you? I could not make them go in. I quacked, and
I clacked, but it was no use. Let me see the egg. Yes, that's a turkey's
egg. Let it lie there, and do you teach the other children to swim."
"I think I will sit on it a little longer," said the Duck. "I've sat so
long now that I can sit a few days more."
"Just as you please," said the old Duck; and she went away.
At last the great egg burst. "Pip! pip!" said the little one, and crept
forth. He was so big and ugly. The Duck looked at him.
"It's a very large Duckling," said she. "None of the others looks like
that: it really must be a turkey chick! Well, we shall soon find out.
Into the water shall he go, even if I have to push him in."
II--HOW THE DUCKLING WAS TREATED AT HOME
The next day it was bright, beautiful weather; the sun shone on all the
green burdocks. The Mother-Duck, with all her family, went down to the
canal. Splash! she jumped into the water. "Quack! quack!" she said, and
one duckling after another plumped in. The water closed over their
heads, but they came up in an instant, and swam off finely; their legs
went of themselves, and they were all in the water; even the ugly gray
Duckling swam with them.
"No, it's not a turkey," said she: "look how well he uses his legs, how
straight he holds himself. It is my own child! On the whole he's quite
pretty, when one looks at him rightly. Quack! quack! come now with me,
and I'll lead you out into the world, and present you in the duck-yard;
but keep close to me all the time, so that no one may tread on you, and
look out for the cats."
And so they came into the duck-yard. There was a terrible row going on
in there, for two families were fighting about an eel's head, and so the
cat got it.
"See, that's the way it goes in the world!" said the Mother-Duck; and
she whetted her beak, for she too wanted the eel's head. "Only use your
legs," she said. "See that you can bustle about, and bend your necks
before the old Duck yonder. She's the grandest of all here; she's of
Spanish blood--that's why she's so fat; and do you see? she has a red
rag around her leg; that's something very, very fine, and the greatest
mark of honor a duck can have: it means that one does not want to lose
her, and that she's known by the animals and by men too. Hurry!
hurry!--don't turn in your toes, a well brought-up duck turns it's toes
quite out, just like father and mother,--so! Now bend your necks and
say 'Quack!'"
And they did so; but the other ducks round about looked at them, and
said quite boldly,--"Look there! now we're to have this crowd too! as if
there were not enough of us already! And--fie!--how that Duckling yonder
looks: we won't stand that!" And at once one Duck flew at him, and bit
him in the neck.
"Let him alone," said the mother: "he is not doing anything to any one."
"Yes, but he's too large and odd," said the Duck who had bitten him,
"and so he must be put down."
"Those are pretty children the mother has," said the old Duck with the
rag round her leg. "They're all pretty but that one; that is rather
unlucky. I wish she could have that one over again."
"That cannot be done, my lady," said the Mother-Duck. "He is not pretty,
but he has a really good temper, and swims as well as any of the others;
yes, I may even say it, a little better. I think he will grow up pretty,
perhaps in time he will grow a little smaller; he lay too long in the
egg, and therefore he has not quite the right shape." And she pinched
him in the neck, and smoothed his feathers. "Besides, he is a drake,"
she said, "and so it does not matter much. I think he will be very
strong: he makes his way already."
"The other ducklings are graceful enough," said the old Duck. "Make
yourself at home; and if you find an eel's head, you may bring it
to me."
And now they were at home. But the poor Duckling who had crept last out
of the egg, and looked so ugly, was bitten and pushed and made fun of,
as much by the ducks as by the chickens.
"He is too big!" they all said. And the turkey-cock, who had been born
with spurs, and so thought he was an emperor, blew himself up, like a
ship in full sail, and bore straight down upon him; then he gobbled and
grew quite red in the face. The poor Duckling did not know where he
dared stand or walk; he was quite unhappy because he looked ugly, and
was the sport of the whole duck-yard.
So it went on the first day; and then it grew worse and worse. The poor
Duckling was hunted about by every one; even his brothers and sisters
were quite angry with him, and said, "If the cat would only catch you,
you ugly creature!" And the ducks bit him, and the chickens beat him,
and the girl who had to feed the poultry kicked at him with her foot.
III--OUT ON THE MOOR
Then he ran and flew over the fence, and the little birds in the bushes
flew up in fear.
"That is because I am so ugly!" thought the Duckling; and he shut his
eyes, but flew on further; and so he came out into the great moor, where
the wild ducks lived. Here he lay the whole night long, he was so
tired and sad.
Toward morning the wild ducks flew up, and looked at their new mate.
"What sort of a one are you?" they asked; and the Duckling turned about
to each, and bowed as well as he could. "You are really very ugly!" said
the Wild Ducks. "But that is all the same to us, so long as you do not
marry into our family."
Poor thing! he certainly did not think of marrying, and only dared ask
leave to lie among the reeds and drink some of the swamp water.
There he lay two whole days; then came thither two wild geese, or, more
truly, two wild ganders. It was not long since each had crept out of an
egg, and that's why they were so saucy.
"Listen, comrade," said one of them. "You're so ugly that I like you.
Will you go with us, and become a bird of passage? Near here is another
moor, where are a few sweet lovely wild geese, all unmarried, and all
able to say 'Quack!' You've a chance of making your fortune, ugly as
you are."
"Piff! paff!" sounded through the air; and both the ganders fell down
dead in the reeds, and the water became blood-red. "Piff! paff!" it
sounded again, and the whole flock of wild geese flew up from the reeds.
And then there was another report. A great hunt was going on. The
gunners lay around in the moor, and some were even sitting up in the
branches of the trees, which spread far over the reeds. The blue smoke
rose like clouds in among the dark trees, and hung over the water; and
the hunting dogs came--splash, splash!--into the mud, and the rushes and
reeds bent down on every side. That was a fright for the poor Duckling!
He turned his head to put it under his wing; and at that very moment a
frightful great dog stood close by the Duckling. His tongue hung far out
of his mouth, and his eyes glared horribly. He put his nose close to the
Duckling, showed his sharp teeth, and--splash, splash!--on he went
without seizing it.
"Oh, Heaven be thanked!" sighed the Duckling. "I am so ugly that even
the dog does not like to bite me!"
And so he lay quite quiet, while the shots rattled through the reeds and
gun after gun was fired. At last, late in the day, all was still: but
the poor little thing did not dare to rise up; he waited several hours
still before he looked around, and then hurried away out of the moor as
fast as he could. He ran on over field and meadow; there was a storm, so
that he had hard work to get away.
IV--IN THE PEASANT'S HUT
Towards evening the Duckling came to a peasant's poor little hut: it was
so tumbled down that it did not itself know on which side it should
fall; and that's why it stood up. The storm whistled around the Duckling
in such a way that he had to sit down to keep from blowing away; and the
wind blew worse and worse. Then he noticed that one of the hinges of the
door had given way, and the door hung so slanting that he could slip
through the crack into the room; and that is what he did.
Here lived an old woman, with her Cat and her Hen. And the Cat, whom she
called Sonnie, could arch his back and purr; he could even give out
sparks--but for that, one had to stroke his fur the wrong way. The Hen
had quite small, short legs, and therefore she was called Chickabiddy
Shortshanks; she laid good eggs, and the woman loved her as her
own child.
In the morning they noticed at once the strange Duckling, and the Cat
began to purr and the Hen to cluck.
"What's this?" said the woman, and looked all around; but she could not
see well, and therefore she thought the Duckling was a fat duck that had
strayed. "This is a rare prize!" she said. "Now I shall have duck's
eggs. I hope it is not a drake. We must try that."
And so the Duckling was taken on trial for three weeks, but no eggs
came. And the Cat was master of the house, and the Hen was the lady, and
always said "We and the world!" for they thought they were half the
world, and by far the better half. It seemed to the Duckling that one
might have another mind, but the Hen would not allow it.
"Can you lay eggs?"
"No."
"Then will you hold your tongue!"
And the Cat said, "Can you curve your back, and purr, and give out
sparks?"
"No."
"Then you will please have no opinion of your own when sensible folks
are speaking!"
And the Duckling sat in a corner and was in low spirits; then he began
to think of the fresh air and the sunshine; and he was seized with such
a strange longing to swim on the water, that he could not help telling
the Hen of it.
"What are you thinking of?" cried the Hen. "You have nothing to do,
that's why you have these fancies. Lay eggs, or purr, and they will
pass over."
"But it is so charming to swim in the water," said the Duckling, "so
nice to feel it go over one's head, and to dive down to the bottom!"
"Yes, that's a fine thing, truly," said the Hen. "You are clean gone
crazy. Ask the Cat about it,--he's the cleverest thing I know,--ask him
if he likes to swim in the water, or to dive down: I won't speak about
myself. Ask our mistress herself, the old woman; no one in the world
knows more than she. Do you think she wants to swim, and let the water
close above her head?"
"You don't understand me," said the Duckling.
"We don't understand you! Then pray who is to understand you? You surely
don't pretend to be cleverer than the Cat and the woman--I won't say
anything of myself. Don't make a fool of yourself, child, and thank your
Maker for all the good you have. Are you not come into a warm room, and
have you not folks about you from whom you can learn something? But you
are a goose, and it is not pleasant to have you about. You may believe
me, I speak for your good. I tell you things you won't like, and by that
one may always know one's true friends! Only take care that you learn to
lay eggs, or to purr, and to give out sparks!"
"I think I will go out into the wide world," said the Duckling.
"Yes, do go," replied the Hen.
And so the Duckling went away. He swam on the water, and dived, but he
was shunned by every creature because he was so ugly.
V--WHAT BECAME OF THE DUCKLING
Now came the fall of the year. The leaves in the wood turned yellow and
brown; the wind caught them so that they danced about, and up in the air
it was very cold. The clouds hung low, heavy with hail and snow-flakes,
and on the fence stood the raven, crying "Croak! croak!" for mere cold;
yes, one could freeze fast if one thought about it. The poor little
Duckling certainly had not a good time. One evening--the sun was just
going down in fine style--there came a whole flock of great handsome
birds out of the bushes; they were shining white, with long, supple
necks; they were swans. They uttered a very strange cry, spread forth
their glorious great wings, and flew away from that cold region to
warmer lands, to fair open lakes. They mounted so high, so high! and the
ugly Duckling had such a strange feeling as he saw them! He turned round
and round in the water like a wheel, stretched out his neck towards
them, and uttered a cry, so high, so strange, that he was frightened as
he heard it.
Oh! he could not forget those beautiful, happy birds; and as soon as he
could see them no longer, he dived down to the very bottom, and when he
came up again, he was quite beside himself. He did not know what the
birds were, nor where they were flying to; but he loved them more than
he had ever loved any one. He did not envy them at all. How could he
think of wishing to have such loveliness as they had? He would have been
glad if only the ducks would have let him be among them--the poor,
ugly creature!
And the winter grew so cold, so cold! The Duckling had to swim about in
the water, to keep it from freezing over; but every night the hole in
which he swam about became smaller and smaller. It froze so hard that
the icy cover sounded; and the Duckling had to use his legs all the time
to keep the hole from freezing tight. At last he became worn out, and
lay quite still, and thus froze fast in the ice.
Early in the morning a peasant came by, and found him there; he took his
wooden shoe, broke the ice to pieces, and carried the Duckling home to
his wife. Then the Duckling came to himself again. The children wanted
to play with him; but he thought they wanted to hurt him, and in his
terror he flew up into the milk-pan, so that the milk spilled over into
the room. The woman screamed and shook her hand in the air, at which the
Duckling flew down into the tub where they kept the butter, and then
into the meal-barrel and out again. How he looked then! The woman
screamed, and struck at him with the fire tongs; the children tumbled
over one another as they tried to catch the Duckling; and they laughed
and they screamed!--well was it that the door stood open, and the poor
creature was able to slip out between the bushes into the newly-fallen
snow--there he lay quite worn out.
But it would be too sad if I were to tell all the misery and care which
the Duckling had to bear in the hard winter. He lay out on the moor
among the reeds, when the sun began to shine again and the larks to
sing; it was a beautiful spring.
Then all at once the Duckling could flap his wings: they beat the air
more strongly than before, and bore him stoutly away; and before he well
knew it, he found himself in a great garden, where the elder-trees stood
in flower, and bent their long green branches down to the winding canal,
and the lilacs smelt sweet. Oh, here it was beautiful, fresh, and
springlike! and from the thicket came three glorious white swans; they
rustled their wings, and sat lightly on the water. The Duckling knew the
splendid creatures, and felt a strange sadness.
"I will fly away to them, to the royal birds! and they will beat me,
because I, that am so ugly, dare to come near them. But it is all the
same. Better to be killed by them than to be chased by ducks, and beaten
by fowls, and pushed about by the girl who takes care of the poultry
yard, and to suffer hunger in winter!" And he flew out into the water,
and swam toward the beautiful swans: these looked at him, and came
sailing down upon him with outspread wings. "Kill me!" said the poor
creature, and bent his head down upon the water, and waited for death.
But what saw he in the clear water? He saw below him his own image; and
lo! it was no longer a clumsy dark-gray bird, ugly and hateful to look
at, but--a swan!
It matters nothing if one is born in a duck-yard, if one has only lain
in a swan's egg.
He felt quite glad at all the need and hard times he had borne; now he
could joy in his good luck in all the brightness that was round him.
And the great swans swam round him and stroked him with their beaks.
Into the garden came little children, who threw bread and corn into the
water; and the youngest cried, "There is a new one!" and the other
children shouted, "Yes, a new one has come!" And they clapped their
hands and danced about, and ran to their father and mother; and bread
and cake were thrown into the water; and they all said, "The new one is
the most beautiful of all! so young and so handsome!" and the old swans
bowed their heads before him.
Then he felt quite ashamed, and hid his head under his wings, for he did
not know what to do; he was so happy, and yet not at all proud, for a
good heart is never proud. He thought how he had been driven about and
mocked and despised; and now he heard them all saying that he was the
most beautiful of all beautiful birds. And the lilacs bent their
branches straight down into the water before him, and the sun shone warm
and mild. Then his wings rustled, he lifted his slender neck, and cried
from the depths of his heart:--
"I never dreamed of so much happiness when I was the Ugly Duckling."
WHAT THE MOON SAW
Hear what the Moon told me:--
"I have seen a cadet promoted to be an officer, and dressing himself for
the first time in his gorgeous uniform; I have seen young girls in
bridal attire, and the prince's young bride in her wedding dress: but I
never saw such bliss as that of a little four-year-old girl whom I
watched this evening. She had got a new blue dress, and a new pink hat.
The finery was just put on, and all were calling for light, for the
moonbeams that came through the window were not bright enough. They
wanted very different lights from that. There stood the little girl,
stiff as a doll, keeping her arms anxiously off her dress, and her
fingers stretched wide apart. Oh! what happiness beamed from her eyes,
from her whole face. 'To-morrow you may go to walk in the dress,' said
the mother; and the little one looked up at her hat and down again at
her dress, and smiled blissfully. 'Mother,' she cried, 'what will the
little dogs think when they see me in all these fine clothes?'"
THE LOVERS
From 'Riverside Literature Series': 1891, by Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
The Top and the Ball lay in a drawer among some other toys; and so the
Top said to the Ball:--"Shall we not be lovers, since we live together
in the same drawer?"
But the Ball, which had a coat of morocco leather, and thought herself
as good as any fine lady, had nothing to say to such a thing. The next
day came the little boy who owned the toys: he painted the Top red and
yellow, and drove a brass nail into it; and the Top looked splendidly
when he turned round.
"Look at me!" he cried to the Ball. "What do you say now? Shall we not
be lovers? We go so nicely together? You jump and I dance! No one could
be happier than we two should be."
"Indeed! Do you think so?" said the Ball. "Perhaps you do not know that
my papa and my mamma were morocco slippers, and that I have a cork
inside me?"
"Yes, but I am made of mahogany," said the Top; "and the mayor himself
turned me. He has a turning-lathe of his own, and it amuses
him greatly."
"Can I depend on that?" asked the Ball.
"May I never be whipped again if it is not true!" replied the Top.
"You talk well for yourself," said the Ball, "but I cannot do what you
ask. I am as good as half engaged to a swallow: every time I leap up
into the air he sticks his head out of the nest and says, 'Will you?
will you?' And now I have silently said 'Yes,' and that is as good as
being half engaged; but I promise I will never forget you."
"Much good that will do!" said the Top.
And they spoke no more to each other.
Next day the Ball was taken out. The Top saw how she flew high into the
air, like a bird; at last one could no longer see her. Each time she
came back again, but always gave a high leap when she touched the earth;
and that came about either from her longing, or because she had a cork
in her body. The ninth time the Ball stayed away and did not come back
again; and the boy looked and looked, but she was gone.
"I know very well where she is!" sighed the Top. "She is in the
Swallow's nest, and has married the Swallow!"
The more the Top thought of this, the more he longed for the Ball. Just
because he could not get her, he fell more in love with her. That she
had taken some one else, that was another thing. So the Top danced
around and hummed, but always thought of the Ball, which grew more and
more lovely in his fancy. Thus many years went by,--and now it was
an old love.
And the Top was no longer young. But one day he was gilt all over; never
had he looked so handsome; he was now a golden Top, and sprang till he
hummed again. Yes, that was something! But all at once he sprang too
high, and--he was gone!
They looked and looked, even in the cellar, but he was not to be found.
Where was he?
He had jumped into the dust-box, where all kinds of things were lying:
cabbage stalks, sweepings, and gravel that had fallen down from
the roof.
"Here's a nice place to lie in! The gilding will soon leave me here. And
what a rabble I've come amongst!"
And then he looked askance at a long cabbage stalk that was much too
near him, and at a curious round thing like an old apple; but it was not
an apple--it was an old Ball, which had lain for years in the
roof-gutter and was soaked through with water.
"Thank goodness, here comes one of us, with whom one can talk!" said the
little Ball, and looked at the gilt Top. "I am really morocco, sewn by a
girl's hands, and have a cork inside me; but no one would think it to
look at me. I was very near marrying a swallow, but I fell into the
gutter on the roof, and have laid there full five years, and am quite
soaked through. That's a long time, you may believe me, for a
young girl."
But the Top said nothing. He thought of his old love; and the more he
heard, the clearer it became to him that this was she. Then came the
servant-girl, and wanted to empty the dust-box. "Aha, there's a gilt
top!" she cried. And so the Top was brought again to notice and honor,
but nothing was heard of the Ball. And the Top spoke no more of his old
love: for that dies away when the beloved has lain for five years in a
gutter and got soaked through; yes, one does not know her again when one
meets her in the dust-box.
THE SNOW QUEEN
From 'Riverside Literature Series': 1891, by Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
FOURTH STORY--THE PRINCE AND PRINCESS
Gerda was obliged to rest herself again, when just over against where
she sat, a large Crow hopped over the white snow. He had sat there a
long while, looking at her and shaking his head; and now he said, "Caw!
caw! Good day! good day!" He could not say it better; but he meant well
by the little girl, and asked her where she was going all alone out in
the wide world. The word "alone" Gerda understood quite well, and felt
how much lay in it; so she told the Crow her whole history, and asked if
he had not seen Kay.
The Crow nodded very gravely, and said, "It may be--it may be!"
"What--do you really think so?" cried the little girl; and she nearly
squeezed the Crow to death, so much did she kiss him.
"Gently, gently," said the Crow. "I think I know; I think that it may be
little Kay. But now he has quite forgotten you for the Princess."
"Does he live with a princess?" asked Gerda.
"Yes,--listen," said the Crow; "but it is hard for me to speak your
language. If you understand the Crow language, I can tell you better."
"No, I have not learnt it," said Gerda; "but my grandmother understands
it. I wish I had learnt it."
"No matter," said the Crow: "I will tell you as well as I can; but it
will be bad enough." And then he told all he knew.
"In the kingdom where we now are, there lives a princess, who is vastly
clever; for she has read all the newspapers in the whole world, and has
forgotten them again,--so clever is she. Some time ago, they say, she
was sitting on her throne,--which is no great fun, after all,--when she
began humming an old tune, and it was just 'Oh, why should I not be
married?' 'Come, now, there is something in that,' said she, and so then
she was bound to marry; but she would have a husband who knew how to
give an answer when he was spoken to,--not one who was good for nothing
but to stand and be looked at, for that is very tiresome. She then had
all the ladies of the court drummed together; and when they heard what
she meant to do, all were well pleased, and said, 'We are quite glad to
hear it: it is the very thing we were thinking of.' You may believe
every word I say," said the Crow, "for I have a tame sweetheart that
hops about in the palace quite freely, and she told me all.
"The newspapers at once came out with a border of hearts and the
initials of the Princess; and you could read in them that every
good-looking young man was free to come to the palace and speak to the
Princess; and he who spoke in such wise as showed he felt himself at
home there, and talked best, that one the Princess would choose for
her husband.
"Yes--yes," said the Crow, "you may believe it; it is as true as I am
sitting here. People came in crowds; there was a crush and a hurry, but
no one had good luck either on the first or second day. They could all
talk well enough when they were out in the street; but as soon as they
came inside the palace gates, and saw the guard richly dressed in
silver, and the lackeys in gold, on the staircase, and the large lighted
halls, then they were dumb; and when they stood before the throne on
which the Princess was sitting, all they could do was to repeat the last
word she had said, and she didn't care to hear that again. It was just
as if the people within were under a charm, and had fallen into a trance
till they came out again into the street; for then--oh, then they could
chatter enough. There was a whole row of them from the town gates to the
palace. I was there myself to look on," said the Crow. "They grew hungry
and thirsty; but from the palace they got not so much as a glass of
water. Some of the cleverest, it is true, had taken bread and butter
with them; but none shared it with his neighbor, for each thought, 'Let
him look hungry, and then the Princess won't have him.'"
"But Kay--little Kay," asked Gerda, "when did he come? Was he among the
number?"
"Give me time! give me time! we are coming to him. It was on the third
day, when a little personage, without horse or carriage, came marching
right boldly up to the palace; his eyes shone like yours, he had
beautiful long hair, but his clothes were very shabby."
"That was Kay," cried Gerda, with a voice of delight. "Oh, now I've
found him!" and she clapped her hands.
"He had a little knapsack at his back," said the Crow.
"No, that was certainly his sled," said Gerda; "for he went away with
his sled."
"That may be," said the Crow; "I did not see him close to; but I know
from my tame sweetheart that when he came into the courtyard of the
palace, and saw the body-guard in silver, and the lackeys on the
staircase in gold, he was not in the least cast down; he nodded and said
to them, 'It must be very tiresome to stand on the stairs; for my part,
I shall go in.' The halls were bright with lights. Court people and fine
folks were walking about on bare feet; it was all very solemn. His boots
creaked, too, very loudly; but still he was not at all afraid."
"That's Kay, for certain," said Gerda. "I know he had on new boots; I
have heard them creaking in grandmamma's room."
"Yes, they creaked," said the Crow. "And on he went boldly up to the
Princess, who was sitting on a pearl as large as a spinning-wheel. All
the ladies of the court stood about, with their maids and their maids'
maids, and all the gentlemen with their servants and their servants'
servants, who kept a boy; and the nearer they stood to the door, the
prouder they looked. The boy of the servants' servants, who always goes
in slippers, hardly looked at one, so very proudly did he stand in
the doorway."
"It must have been terrible," said little Gerda. "And did Kay get the
Princess?"
"Were I not a Crow, I should have taken the Princess myself, although I
am engaged. It is said he spoke as well as I speak when I talk crow
language; this I learned from my tame sweetheart. He was bold and nicely
behaved; he had not come to woo the Princess, but only to hear her
wisdom. She pleased him and he pleased her."
"Yes, yes, for certain that was Kay," said Gerda. "He was so clever; he
could do sums with fractions. Oh, won't you take me to the palace?"
"That is very easily said," answered the Crow. "But how are we to manage
it? I'll speak to my tame sweetheart about it; she can tell us what to
do; for so much I must tell you, such a little girl as you are will
never get leave to go in the common way."
"Oh, yes, I shall," said Gerda: "when Kay hears that I am here, he will
come out at once to fetch me."
"Wait for me here on these steps," said the Crow. He wagged his head and
flew away.
When it grew dark the Crow came back. "Caw! caw!" said he. "I bring you
a great many good wishes from her; and here is a bit of bread for you.
She took it out of the kitchen, where there is bread enough, and you are
hungry, no doubt. It is not possible for you to enter the palace, for
you are barefoot; the guards in silver and the lackeys in gold would not
allow it: but do not cry, you shall come in still. My sweetheart knows a
little back stair that leads to the chamber, and she knows where she can
get the key of it."
And they went into the garden by the broad path, where one leaf was
falling after the other; and when the lights in the palace were all put
out, one after the other, the Crow led little Gerda to the back door,
which stood ajar.
Oh, how Gerda's heart beat with doubt and longing! It was just as if she
had been about to do something wrong; and yet she only wanted to know if
little Kay was there. Yes, he must be there. She called to mind his
clear eyes and his long hair so vividly, she could quite see him as he
used to laugh when they were sitting under the roses at home. He would
surely be glad to see her--to hear what a long way she had come for his
sake; to know how unhappy all at home were when he did not come back.
Oh, what a fright and what a joy it was!
Now they were on the stairs. A single lamp was burning there; and on the
floor stood the tame Crow, turning her head on every side and looking at
Gerda, who bowed as her grandmother had taught her to do.
"My intended has told me so much good of you, my dear young lady," said
the tame Crow. "Your Life, as they call it, is very affecting. If you
will take the lamp, I will go before. We will go straight on, for we
shall meet no one."
"I think there is somebody just behind us," said Gerda; and it rushed
past her. It was like shadows on the wall: horses with flowing manes and
thin legs, huntsmen, ladies and gentlemen on horseback.
"They are only dreams," said the Crow. "They come to fetch the thoughts
of the fine folk to the chase; 'tis well, for now you can see them
asleep all the better. But let me find, when you come to have honor and
fame, that you possess a grateful heart."
"Tut! that's not worth talking about," said the Crow from the woods.
Now they came into the first hall, which was of rose-colored satin,
with painted flowers on the wall. Here the dreams were rushing past, but
they hurried by so quickly that Gerda could not see the fine people. One
hall was more showy than the other--well might people be abashed; and at
last they came into the bed-chamber.
The ceiling of the room was like a great palm-tree, with leaves of
glass, of costly glass; and in the middle of the floor, from a thick
golden stalk, hung two beds, each of which was shaped like a lily. One
was white, and in this lay the Princess: the other was red, and it was
here that Gerda was to look for little Kay. She bent back one of the red
leaves, and saw a brown neck--oh, that was Kay! She called him quite
loud by name, held the lamp toward him--the dreams rushed again on
horseback into the chamber--he awoke, turned his head, and--it was not
little Kay!
The Prince was only like him about the neck; but he was young and
handsome. And out of the white lily leaves the Princess peeped too, and
asked what was the matter. Then little Gerda cried and told her whole
history, and all that the Crows had done for her.
"Poor little thing!" said the Prince and the Princess, and they praised
the Crows very much, and told them they were not at all angry with them,
but they were not to do so again. However, they should have a reward.
"Will you fly about at liberty?" asked the Princess; "or would you like
to have a steady place as court Crows with all the broken bits from
the kitchen?"
And both the Crows nodded, and begged for a steady place; for they
thought of their old age, and said "it was a good thing to have
something for the old folks," as the saying is.
And the Prince got up and let Gerda sleep in his bed, and more than this
he could not do. She folded her little hands, and thought, "How good men
and animals are!" and then she shut her eyes and slept soundly. All the
dreams came flying in again, and they now looked like the angels; they
drew a little sled, on which Kay sat and nodded his head: but the whole
was only a dream, and so it was all gone as soon as she awoke.
The next day she was dressed from top to toe in silk and velvet. They
offered to let her stay at the palace, and lead a happy life; but she
begged only to have a little carriage with a horse in front, and for a
small pair of shoes; then, she said, she would again go forth in the
wide world and look for Kay.
And she got both shoes and a muff; she was dressed very nicely, too; and
when she was about to set off, a new carriage stopped before the door.
It was of pure gold, and the arms of the Prince and Princess shone like
a star upon it; the coachman, the footmen, and the outriders, for
outriders were there too, all wore golden crowns. The Prince and
Princess helped her into the carriage themselves, and wished her good
luck. The Crow of the woods, who was now married, went with her for the
first three miles. He sat beside Gerda, for he could not bear riding
backward; the other Crow stood in the doorway, and flapped her wings;
she could not go with Gerda, because she suffered from headache since
she had had a steady place, and ate so much. The carriage was lined
inside with sugar-plums, and in the seats were fruits and cookies.
"Good-by! good-by!" cried Prince and Princess; and little Gerda wept,
and the Crows wept. Thus passed the first miles; and then the Crow said
good-by, and this was the worst good-by of all. He flew into a tree, and
beat his black wings as long as he could see the carriage, that shone
from afar like the clear sunlight.
THE NIGHTINGALE
From 'Riverside Literature Series': 1891, by Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
I--THE REAL NIGHTINGALE
In China, you must know, the Emperor is a Chinaman, and all whom he has
about him are Chinamen too. It happened a good many years ago, but
that's just why it's worth while to hear the story before it is
forgotten.
The Emperor's palace was the most splendid in the world. It was made
wholly of fine porcelain, very costly, but so brittle and so hard to
handle that one had to take care how one touched it. In the garden were
to be seen the most wonderful flowers, and to the prettiest of them
silver bells were tied, which tinkled, so that nobody should pass by
without noticing the flowers.
Yes, everything in the Emperor's garden was nicely set out, and it
reached so far that the gardener himself did not know where the end
was. If a man went on and on, he came into a glorious forest with high
trees and deep lakes. The wood went straight down to the sea, which was
blue and deep; great ships could sail to and fro beneath the branches of
the trees; and in the trees lived a Nightingale, which sang so finely
that even the poor Fisherman, who had many other things to do, stopped
still and listened, when he had gone out at night to throw out his nets,
and heard the Nightingale.
"How beautiful that is!" he said; but he had to attend to his work, and
so he forgot the bird. But the next night, when the bird sang again, and
the Fisherman heard it, he said as before, "How beautiful that is!"
From all the countries of the world travelers came to the city of the
Emperor, and admired it, and the palace, and the garden; but when they
heard the Nightingale, they all said, "That is the best of all!"
And the travelers told of it when they came home; and the learned men
wrote many books about the town, the palace, and the garden. But they
did not forget the Nightingale; that was spoken of most of all; and all
those who were poets wrote great poems about the Nightingale in the wood
by the deep lake.
The books went all over the world, and a few of them once came to the
Emperor. He sat in his golden chair, and read, and read; every moment he
nodded his head, for it pleased him to hear the fine things that were
said about the city, the palace, and the garden. "But the Nightingale is
the best of all!"--it stood written there.
"What's that?" exclaimed the Emperor. "The Nightingale? I don't know
that at all! Is there such a bird in my empire, and in my garden to
boot? I've never heard of that. One has to read about such things."
Hereupon he called his Cavalier, who was so grand that if any one lower
in rank than he dared to speak to him, or to ask him any question, he
answered nothing but "P!"--and that meant nothing.
"There is said to be a strange bird here called a Nightingale!" said the
Emperor. "They say it is the best thing in all my great empire. Why has
no one ever told me anything about it?"
"I have never heard it named," replied the Cavalier. "It has never been
presented at court."
"I command that it shall come here this evening, and sing before me,"
said the Emperor. "All the world knows what I have, and I do not know
it myself!"
"I have never heard it mentioned," said the Cavalier. "I will seek for
it. I will find it."
But where was it to be found? The Cavalier ran up and down all the
stairs, through halls and passages, but no one among all those whom he
met had heard talk of the Nightingale. And the Cavalier ran back to the
Emperor, and said that it must be a fable made up by those who
write books.
"Your Imperial Majesty must not believe what is written. It is fiction,
and something that they call the black art."
"But the book in which I read this," said the Emperor, "was sent to me
by the high and mighty Emperor of Japan, and so it cannot be a
falsehood. I will hear the Nightingale! It must be here this evening! It
has my high favor; and if it does not come, all the court shall be
trampled upon after it has supped!"
"Tsing-pe!" said the Cavalier; and again he ran up and down all the
stairs, and through all the halls and passages, and half the court ran
with him, for the courtiers did not like being trampled upon. There was
a great inquiry after the wonderful Nightingale, which all the world
knew, but not the people at court.
At last they met with a poor little girl in the kitchen. She said:--
"The Nightingale? I know it well; yes, how it can sing! Every evening I
get leave to carry my poor sick mother the scraps from the table. She
lives down by the beach, and when I get back and am tired, and rest in
the wood, then I hear the Nightingale sing. And then the tears come into
my eyes, and it is just as if my mother kissed me!"
"Little Kitchen-girl," said the Cavalier, "I will get you a fixed place
in the kitchen, with leave to see the Emperor dine, if you will lead us
to the Nightingale, for it is promised for this evening."
So they all went out into the wood where the Nightingale was wont to
sing; half the court went out. When they were on the way, a cow began
to low.
"Oh!" cried the court pages, "now we have it! That shows a great power
in so small a creature! We have certainly heard it before."
"No, those are cows mooing!" said the little Kitchen-girl. "We are a
long way from the place yet."
Now the frogs began to croak in the marsh.
"Glorious!" said the Chinese Court Preacher. "Now I hear it--it sounds
just like little church bells."
"No, those are frogs!" said the little Kitchen-maid. "But now I think we
shall soon hear it."
And then the Nightingale began to sing.
"That is it!" exclaimed the little Girl. "Listen, listen! and yonder it
sits."
And she pointed to a little gray bird up in the boughs.
"Is it possible?" cried the Cavalier. "I should never have thought it
looked like that! How simple it looks! It must certainly have lost its
color at seeing so many famous people around."
"Little Nightingale!" called the little Kitchen-maid, quite loudly, "our
gracious Emperor wishes you to sing before him."
"With the greatest pleasure!" replied the Nightingale, and sang so that
it was a joy to hear it.
"It sounds just like glass bells!" said the Cavalier. "And look at its
little throat, how it's working! It's wonderful that we should never
have heard it before. That bird will be a great success at court."
"Shall I sing once more before the Emperor?" asked the Nightingale, for
it thought the Emperor was present.
"My excellent little Nightingale," said the Cavalier, "I have great
pleasure in inviting you to a court festival this evening, when you
shall charm his Imperial Majesty with your beautiful singing."
"My song sounds best in the greenwood!" replied the Nightingale; still
it came willingly when it heard what the Emperor wished.
In the palace there was a great brushing up. The walls and the floor,
which were of porcelain, shone with many thousand golden lamps. The most
glorious flowers, which could ring clearly, had been placed in the
halls. There was a running to and fro, and a draught of air, but all the
bells rang so exactly together that one could not hear any noise.
In the midst of the great hall, where the Emperor sat, a golden perch
had been placed, on which the Nightingale was to sit. The whole court
was there, and the little Cook-maid had leave to stand behind the door,
as she had now received the title of a real cook-maid. All were in full
dress, and all looked at the little gray bird, to which the
Emperor nodded.
And the Nightingale sang so gloriously that the tears came into the
Emperor's eyes, and the tears ran down over his cheeks; and then the
Nightingale sang still more sweetly; that went straight to the heart.
The Emperor was happy, and he said the Nightingale should have his
golden slipper to wear round its neck. But the Nightingale thanked him,
it had already got reward enough.
"I have seen tears in the Emperor's eyes--that is the real treasure to
me. An Emperor's tears have a strange power. I am paid enough!" Then it
sang again with a sweet, glorious voice.
"That's the most lovely way of making love I ever saw!" said the ladies
who stood round about, and then they took water in their mouths to
gurgle when any one spoke to them. They thought they should be
nightingales too. And the lackeys and maids let it be known that they
were pleased too; and that was saying a good deal, for they are the
hardest of all to please. In short, the Nightingale made a real hit.
It was now to remain at court, to have its own cage, with freedom to go
out twice every day and once at night. It had twelve servants, and they
all had a silken string tied to the bird's leg which they held very
tight. There was really no pleasure in going out.
The whole city spoke of the wonderful bird, and when two people met, one
said nothing but "Nightin," and the other said "gale"; and then they
sighed, and understood one another. Eleven storekeepers' children were
named after the bird, but not one of them could sing a note.
II--THE TOY NIGHTINGALE
One day a large parcel came to the Emperor, on which was written "The
Nightingale."
"Here we have a new book about this famous bird," said the Emperor.
But it was not a book: it was a little work of art, that lay in a box; a
toy nightingale, which was to sing like a live one, but it was all
covered with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires. So soon as the toy bird
was wound up, he could sing one of the pieces that the real one sang,
and then his tail moved up and down, and shone with silver and gold.
Round his neck hung a little ribbon, and on that was written, "The
Emperor of Japan's Nightingale is poor beside that of the Emperor
in China."
"That is capital!" said they all, and he who had brought the toy bird at
once got the title Imperial Head-Nightingale-Bringer.
"Now they must sing together: what a duet that will be!"
And so they had to sing together; but it did not sound very well, for
the real Nightingale sang in its own way, and the toy bird sang waltzes.
"That's not its fault," said the Play-master: "it's quite perfect, and
very much in my style."
Now the toy bird was to sing alone. It made just as much of a hit as the
real one, and then it was so much more fine to look at--it shone like
bracelets and breastpins.
Three-and-thirty times over did it sing the same piece, and yet was not
tired. The people would gladly have heard it again, but the Emperor said
that the living Nightingale ought to sing a little something. But where
was it? No one had noticed that it had flown away, out of the open
window, back to its green woods.
"But what is become of it?" asked the Emperor.
Then all the courtiers scolded, and thought the Nightingale was a very
thankless creature.
"We have the best bird, after all," said they.
And so the toy bird had to sing again, and this was the thirty-fourth
time they had listened to the same piece. For all that, they did not
know it quite by heart, for it was so very difficult. And the
Play-master praised the bird highly; yes, he declared that it was better
than the real Nightingale, not only in its feathers and its many
beautiful diamonds, but inside as well.
"For you see, ladies and gentlemen, and above all, your Imperial
Majesty, with the real Nightingale one can never make sure what is
coming, but in this toy bird everything is settled. It is just so, and
not any other way. One can explain it; one can open it, and can show how
much thought went to making it, where the waltzes come from, how they
go, and how one follows another."
"Those are quite our own ideas," they all said. And the Play-master got
leave to show the bird to the people on the next Sunday. The people
were to hear it sing too, said the Emperor; and they did hear it, and
were as much pleased as if they had all had tea, for that's quite the
Chinese fashion; and they all said "Oh!" and held their forefingers up
in the air and nodded. But the poor Fisherman, who had heard the real
Nightingale, said:--
"It sounds pretty enough, and it's a little like, but there's something
wanting, though I know not what!"
The real Nightingale was exiled from the land and empire.
The toy bird had its place on a silken cushion close to the Emperor's
bed. All the presents it had received, gold and precious stones, were
ranged about it. In title it had come to be High Imperial
After-Dinner-Singer, and in rank it was Number One on the left hand; for
the Emperor reckoned that side the most important on which the heart is
placed, and even in an Emperor the heart is on the left side. And the
Play-master wrote a work of five-and-twenty volumes about the toy bird:
it was so learned and so long, full of the most difficult Chinese words,
that all the people said they had read it and understood it, or else
they would have been thought stupid, and would have had their bodies
trampled on.
So a whole year went by. The Emperor, the court, and all the other
Chinese knew every little twitter in the toy bird's song by heart.
But just for that reason it pleased them best--they could sing
with it themselves, and they did so. The street boys sang,
"Tsi-tsi-tsi-glug-glug!" and the Emperor himself sang it too. Yes, that
was certainly famous.
But one evening, when the toy bird was singing its best, and the Emperor
lay in bed and heard it, something inside the bird said, "Svup!"
Something cracked. "Whir-r-r!" All the wheels ran round, and then the
music stopped.
The Emperor jumped at once out of bed, and had his own doctor called;
but what could he do? Then they sent for a watchmaker, and after a good
deal of talking and looking, he got the bird into some sort of order;
but he said that it must be looked after a good deal, for the barrels
were worn, and he could not put new ones in in such a manner that the
music would go. There was a great to-do; only once in a year did they
dare to let the bird sing, and that was almost too much. But then the
Play-master made a little speech, full of heavy words, and said this was
just as good as before--and so, of course, it was as good as before.
III--THE REAL NIGHTINGALE AGAIN
Five years had gone by, and a real grief came upon the whole nation. The
Chinese were really fond of their Emperor, and now he was sick, and
could not, it was said, live much longer. Already a new Emperor had been
chosen, and the people stood out in the street and asked the Cavalier
how their old Emperor did.
"P!" said he, and shook his head.
Cold and pale lay the Emperor in his great, gorgeous bed; the whole
court thought him dead, and each one ran to pay respect to the new
ruler. The chamberlains ran out to talk it over, and the ladies'-maids
had a great coffee party. All about, in all the halls and passages,
cloth had been laid down so that no one could be heard go by, and
therefore it was quiet there, quite quiet. But the Emperor was not dead
yet: stiff and pale he lay on the gorgeous bed with the long velvet
curtains and the heavy gold tassels; high up, a window stood open, and
the moon shone in upon the Emperor and the toy bird.
The poor Emperor could scarcely breathe; it was just as if something lay
upon his breast. He opened his eyes, and then he saw that it was Death
who sat upon his breast, and had put on his golden crown, and held in
one hand the Emperor's sword, and in the other his beautiful banner. And
all around, from among the folds of the splendid velvet curtains,
strange heads peered forth; a few very ugly, the rest quite lovely and
mild. These were all the Emperor's bad and good deeds, that stood before
him now that Death sat upon his heart.
"Do you remember this?" whispered one to the other, "Do you remember
that?" and then they told him so much that the sweat ran from
his forehead.
"I did not know that!" said the Emperor. "Music! music! the great
Chinese drum!" he cried, "so that I need not hear all they say!"
And they kept on, and Death nodded like a Chinaman to all they said.
"Music! music!" cried the Emperor. "You little precious golden bird,
sing, sing! I have given you gold and costly presents; I have even hung
my golden slipper around your neck--now, sing!"
But the bird stood still,--no one was there to wind him up, and he could
not sing without that; but Death kept on staring at the Emperor with
his great hollow eyes, and it was quiet, fearfully quiet.
Then there sounded close by the window the most lovely song. It was the
little live Nightingale, that sat outside on a spray. It had heard of
the Emperor's need, and had come to sing to him of trust and hope. And
as it sang the spectres grew paler and paler; the blood ran more and
more quickly through the Emperor's weak limbs, and Death himself
listened, and said:--
"Go on, little Nightingale, go on!"
"But will you give me that splendid golden sword? Will you give me that
rich banner? Will you give me the Emperor's crown?"
And Death gave up each of these treasures for a song. And the
Nightingale sang on and on; it sang of the quiet churchyard where the
white roses grow, where the elder-blossom smells sweet, and where the
fresh grass is wet with the tears of mourners. Then Death felt a longing
to see his garden, and floated out at the window in the form of a cold,
white mist.
"Thanks! thanks!" said the Emperor. "You heavenly little bird! I know
you well. I drove you from my land and empire, and yet you have charmed
away the evil faces from my bed, and driven Death from my heart! How can
I pay you?"
"You have paid me!" replied the Nightingale. "I drew tears from your
eyes, the first time I sang--I shall never forget that. Those are the
jewels that make a singer's heart glad. But now sleep and grow fresh and
strong again. I will sing you something."
And it sang, and the Emperor fell into a sweet sleep. Ah! how mild and
refreshing that sleep was! The sun shone upon him through the windows,
when he awoke strong and sound. Not one of his servants had yet come
back, for they all thought that he was dead; but the Nightingale still
sat beside him and sang.
"You must always stay with me," said the Emperor. "You shall sing as you
please; and I'll break the toy bird into a thousand pieces."
"Not so," replied the Nightingale. "It did well as long as it could;
keep it as you have done till now. I cannot build my nest in the palace
to dwell in it, but let me come when I feel the wish; then I will sit in
the evening on the spray yonder by the window, and sing for you, so
that you may be glad and thoughtful at once. I will sing of those who
are happy and of those who suffer. I will sing of good and of evil that
remain hidden round about you. The little singing bird flies far around,
to the poor fisherman, to the peasant's roof, to every one who dwells
far away from you and from your court. I love your heart more than your
crown, and yet the crown has an air of sanctity about it. I will come
and sing to you--but one thing you must promise me."
"Everything!" said the Emperor; and he stood there in his royal robes,
which he had put on himself, and pressed the sword which was heavy with
gold to his heart.
"One thing I beg of you: tell no one that you have a little bird who
tells you everything. Then all will go well."
And the Nightingale flew away.
The servants came in to look on their dead Emperor, and--yes, there he
stood, and the Emperor said, "Good-morning!"
THE MARKET PLACE AT ODENSE (1836)
From 'The Story of My Life'
If the reader was a child who lived in Odense, he would just need to say
the words "St. Knud's Fair," and it would rise before him in the
brightest colors, lighted by the beams of childish fancy.... Somewhere
near the middle of the town, five streets meet and make a little
square.... There the town crier, in striped homespun, with a yellow
bandoleer, beat his drum and proclaimed from a scroll the splendid
things to be seen in the town.
"He beats a good drum," said the chamberlain.
"It would delight Spontini and Rossini to hear the fellow," said
William. "Really, Odense at New Year would just suit these composers.
The drums and fifes are in their glory. They drum the New Year in. Seven
or eight little drummers, or fifers, go from door to door, with troops
of children and old women, and they beat the drum-taps and the reveille.
That fetches the pennies. Then when the New Year is well drummed in the
city, they go into the country and drum for meat and porridge. The
drumming in of the New Year lasts until Lent."
"And then we have new sports," said the chamberlain. "The fishers come
from Stege with a full band, and on their shoulders a boat with all
sorts of flags.... Then they lay a board between two boats, and on this
two of the youngest and spryest wrestle till one falls into the
water.... But all the fun's gone now. When I was young, there was
different sport going. That was a sight! the corporation procession with
the banners and the harlequin atop, and at Shrovetide, when the butchers
led about an ox decked with ribbons and carnival twigs, with a boy on
his back with wings and a little shirt.... All that's past now, people
are got so fine. St. Knud's Fair is not what it used to be."
"Well, I'm glad it isn't," said William; "but let us go into the market
and look at the Jutlanders, who are sitting with their pottery
amidst the hay."
Just as the various professions in the Middle Ages had each its quarter,
so here the shoemakers had ranged their tables side by side, and behind
them stood the skillful workman in his long coat, and with his
well-brushed felt hat in his hand. Where the shoemakers' quarter ended,
the hatters' began, and there one was in the midst of the great market
where tents and booths formed many parallel streets. The milliners, the
goldsmiths, the pastry cooks, with booths of canvas and wood, were the
chief attractions. Ribbons and handkerchiefs fluttered. Noise and bustle
was everywhere. The girls from the same village always went in rows,
seven or eight inseparables, with hands fast clasped. It was impossible
to break the chain; and if you tried to pass through, the whole band
wound itself into a clump. Behind the booth was a great space with
wooden shoes, pottery, turners' and saddlers' wares. Rude and rough toys
were spread on tables. Around them children were trying little trumpets,
or moving about the playthings. Country girls twirled and twisted the
work-boxes and themselves many a time before making their bargain. The
air was thick and heavy with odors that were spiced with the smell of
honey-cake.
On Fair day, St. Knud's Church and all its tombs are open to the public.
From whatever side you look at this fine old building it has something
imposing, with its high tower and spire. The interior produces the same,
perhaps a greater, effect. But its full impression is not felt on
entering it, nor until you get to the main aisle. There all is grand,
beautiful, light. The whole interior is bright with gilding. Up in the
high vaulted roof there shine, since old time, a multitude of golden
stars. On both sides, high up above the side aisles, are great gothic
windows from which the light streams down. The side aisles are painted
with oil portraits, whole families, women and children, all in clerical
dress, with long gowns and deep ruffs. Usually the figures are ranged by
ages, the eldest first and then down to the very smallest.
They all stand with folded hands, and look piously down before them,
till their colors have gradually faded away in dust.
THE ANDERSEN JUBILEE AT ODENSE
From 'The Story of My Life'
I heard on the morning of December 6th [1867] that the town was
decorated, that all the schools had a holiday, because it was my
festival. I felt myself as humble, meek, and poor as though I stood
before my God. Every weakness or error or sin, in thought, word, and
deed, was revealed to me. All stood out strangely clear in my soul, as
though it were doomsday--and it was my festival. God knows how humble I
felt when men exalted and honored me so.
Then came the first telegram from the Student Club. I saw that they
shared and did not envy my joy. Then came a dispatch from a private club
of students in Copenhagen, and from the Artisans' Club of Slagelse. You
will remember that I went to school in that town, and was therefore
attached to it. Soon followed messages from sympathetic friends in
Aarhuus, in Stege; telegram on telegram from all around. One of these
was read aloud by Privy Councillor Koch. It was from the king. The
assembly burst out in applause. Every cloud and shadow in my
soul vanished!
How happy I was! And yet man must not exalt himself. I was to feel that
I was only a poor child of humanity, bound by the frailty of earth. I
suffered from a dreadful toothache, which was increased unbearably by
the heat and excitement. Yet at evening I read a Wonder Story for the
little friends. Then the deputation came from the town corporations,
with torches and waving banners through the street, to the guild-hall.
And now the prophecy was to be fulfilled that the old woman gave when I
left home as a boy. Odense was to be illuminated for me. I stepped to
the open window. All was aglow with torchlight, the square was filled
with people. Songs swelled up to me. I was overcome, emotionally.
Physically racked with pain, I could not enjoy this crowning fruit of my
life, the toothache was so intolerable. The ice-cold air that blew
against me fanned the pain to an awful intensity, and, instead of
enjoying the bliss of these never-to-be-repeated moments, I looked at
the printed song to see how many verses had to be sung before I could
step away from the torture which the cold air sent through my teeth. It
was the acme of suffering. As the glow of the piled-up torches subsided,
my pain subsided too. How thankful I was, though! Gentle eyes were
fastened upon me all around. All wanted to speak with me, to press my
hand. Tired out, I reached the bishop's house and sought rest. But I got
no sleep till toward morning, so filled and overflowing was I.
'MISERERE' IN THE SIXTINE CHAPEL
From 'The Improvisatore': Translation by Mary Howitt
On Wednesday afternoon began the Miserere in the Sixtine Chapel. My soul
longed for music; in the world of melody I could find sympathy and
consolation. The throng was great, even within the chapel--the foremost
division was already filled with ladies. Magnificent boxes, hung with
velvet and golden draperies for royal personages and foreigners from
various courts, were here erected so high that they looked out beyond
the richly carved railing which separated the ladies from the interior
of the chapel. The papal Swiss Guards stood in their bright festal
array. The officers wore light armor, and in their helmets a waving
plume.... The old cardinals entered in their magnificent scarlet velvet
cloaks, with their white ermine capes, and seated themselves side by
side in a great half-circle within the barrier, while the priests who
had carried their trains seated themselves at their feet. By the little
side door of the altar the holy father now entered, in his scarlet
mantle and silver tiara. He ascended his throne. Bishops swung the
vessels of incense around him, while young priests, in scarlet
vestments, knelt, with lighted torches in their hands, before him and
the high altar.
The reading of the lessons began. But it was impossible to keep the
eyes fixed on the lifeless letters of the Missal--they raised
themselves, with the thoughts, to the vast universe which Michael Angelo
has breathed forth in colors upon the ceiling and the walls. I
contemplated his mighty sibyls and wondrously glorious prophets,--every
one of them a subject for a painting. My eyes drank in the magnificent
processions, the beautiful groups of angels; they were not, to me,
painted pictures;--all stood living before me. The rich tree of
knowledge, from which Eve gave the fruit to Adam; the Almighty God, who
floated over the waters,--not borne up by angels, as the older masters
had represented him--no, the company of angels rested upon him and his
fluttering garments. It is true, I had seen these pictures before, but
never as now had they seized upon me. My excited state of mind, the
crowd of people, perhaps even the lyric of my thoughts, made me
wonderfully alive to poetical impressions; and many a poet's heart has
felt as mine did!
The bold foreshortenings, the determinate force with which every figure
steps forward, is amazing, and carries one quite away! It is a spiritual
Sermon on the Mount, in color and form. Like Raphael, we stand in
astonishment before the power of Michael Angelo. Every prophet is a
Moses, like that which he formed in marble. What giant forms are those
which seize upon our eye and our thoughts as we enter! But when
intoxicated with this view, let us turn our eyes to the background of
the chapel, whose whole wall is a high altar of art and thought. The
great chaotic picture, from the floor to the roof, shows itself there
like a jewel, of which all the rest is only the setting. We see there
the Last Judgment.
Christ stands in judgment upon the clouds, and his Mother and the
Apostles stretch forth their hands beseechingly for the poor human race.
The dead raise the gravestones under which they have lain; blessed
spirits adoring, float upward to God, while the abyss seizes its
victims. Here one of the ascending spirits seeks to save his condemned
brother, whom the abyss already embraces in its snaky folds. The
children of despair strike their clenched fists upon their brows, and
sink into the depths! In bold foreshortenings, float and tumble whole
legions between heaven and earth. The sympathy of the angels, the
expression of lovers who meet, the child that at the sound of the
trumpet clings to the mother's breast, are so natural and beautiful
that one believes one's self to be among those who are waiting for
judgment. Michael Angelo has expressed in colors what Dante saw and has
sung to the generations of the earth.
The descending sun at that moment threw his last beams in through the
uppermost window. Christ, and the blessed around him, were strongly
lighted up; while the lower part, where the dead arose, and the demons
thrust their boat laden with the damned from the shore, were almost
in darkness.
Just as the sun went down the last lesson was ended, the last light
which now remained was extinguished, and the whole picture world
vanished in the gloom from before me; but in that same moment burst
forth music and singing. That which color had bodily revealed arose now
in sound; the day of judgment, with its despair and its exultation,
resounded above us.
The father of the church, stripped of his papal pomp, stood before the
altar, and prayed to the holy cross; and upon the wings of the trumpet
resounded the trembling choir, 'Populus meus quid feci tibi?' Soft
angel-tones rose above the deep song, tones which ascended not from a
human breast: it was not a man's nor a woman's; it belonged to the world
of spirits; it was like the weeping of angels dissolved in melody.
ANEURIN
(Sixth Century A.D.)
Among the triad of singers--Llywarch, prince and bard, Aneurin, warrior
and bard, and Taliessin, bard only--who were among the followers of the
heroic British chief Urien, when he bravely but unsuccessfully resisted
the invasion of the victorious Angles and Saxons, Aneurin was famous
both as poet and warrior. He sang of the long struggle that eventually
was to turn Briton into England, and celebrated in his 'Gododin' ninety
of the fallen Cymric chiefs. The notes of his life are scanty, and are
drawn chiefly from his allusion to himself in his poem. He was the son
of Cwm Cawlwyd, a chief of the tribe of Gododin. He seems to have been
educated at St. Cadoc's College at Llancarvan, and afterwards entered
the bardic order. As appears from the 'Gododin,' he was present at the
battle of Cattræth both as bard and as priest. He fled, but was taken
prisoner. In his poem he refers to the hardships he endured in his
captivity. After his release he returned to Llancarvan, Wales, and in
his old age he went north to live with his brother in Galloway. Here he
was murdered; his death is referred to as one of the "three accursed
hatchet-strokes of the isle of Britain." His friendship with Taliessin
is commemorated by both bards.
The 'Gododin' is at once the longest and the most important composition
in early Welsh literature. It has been variously interpreted, but is
thought to celebrate the battle of Cattræth. This battle was fought in
570 between the Britons, who had formed a league to defend their
country, and their Teutonic invaders. It "began on a Tuesday, lasted for
a week, and ended with great slaughter of the Britons, who fought
desperately till they perished on the field." Three hundred and sixty
chieftains were slain; only three escaped by flight, among whom was
Aneurin, who afterwards commemorated the slaughter in the 'Gododin,' a
lament for the dead. Ninety-seven of the stanzas remain. In various
measures of alliterative and assonant verse they sing the praises of
ninety of the fallen chiefs, usually giving one stanza to each hero. One
of these stanzas is known to readers of Gray, who translated it under
the name of 'The Death of Hoel.'
Again the 'Gododin' is assumed to be, like many early epic poems whose
origin is wrapped in mystery, not the commemoration of one single,
particular event, but a collection of lays composed at various times,
which compresses into one battle the long and disastrous period of the
Anglo-Saxon invasion, ending in the subjugation of the Britons.
But whatever its history, the 'Gododin' is one of the finest monuments
of Cymric literature. "In the brevity of the narrative, the careless
boldness of the actors as they present themselves, the condensed energy
of the action, and the fierce exultation of the slaughter, together with
the recurring elegiac note, this poem (or poems if it be the work of two
authors) has some of the highest epic qualities. The ideas and manners
are in harmony with the age and the country to which it is referred."
Like all early songs, the poem was handed down through centuries by oral
tradition. It is now preserved in the 'Book of Aneurin,' a small quarto
manuscript of nineteen leaves of vellum, of the end of the
thirteenth century.
The 'Gododin' has been published with an English translation and notes
by the Rev. J. Williams (1852); and by the Cymmrodorion Society, with a
translation by Thomas Stevens, in 1885. Interesting information covering
it may be found in Skene's 'Four Ancient Books of Wales' (1866), and in
the article 'Celtic Literature' in this work.
THE SLAYING OF OWAIN
[During the battle a conference was held, at which the British leaders
demanded as a condition of peace that part of the land of Gododin be
restored. In reply, the Saxons killed Owain, one of the greatest of the
Cymric bards. Aneurin thus pictures him:--]
A man in thought, a boy in form,
He stoutly fought, and sought the storm
Of flashing war that thundered far.
His courser, lank and swift, thick-maned,
Bore on his flank, as on he strained,
The light-brown shield, as on he sped,
With golden spur, in cloak of fur,
His blue sword gleaming. Be there said
No word of mine that does not hold thee dear!
Before thy youth had tasted bridal cheer,
The red death was thy bride! The ravens feed
On thee yet straining to the front, to lead.
Owain, the friend I loved, is dead!
Woe is it that on him the ravens feed!
THE FATE OF HOEL, SON OF THE GREAT CIAN
[From various expressions used by Aneurin in different parts of his
great poem, it is evident that the warriors of whom he sang fortified
themselves, before entering the field of battle, with unstinted
libations of that favorite intoxicant of those days, sweet mead. He
mentions the condition of the warriors as they started for the fray, and
tells of Hoel's fate. This son of Cian had married the daughter of one
of the Bryneish. His marriage caused no abatement of a feud existing
between the tribes to which the husband and wife respectively belonged.
He repudiated her family, disdained to take her away, and was sought and
slain by her insulted father.]
The warriors marched to Cattræth, full of mead;
Drunken, but firm of array: great the shame,
But greater the valor no bard can defame.
The war-dogs fought fiercely, red swords seemed to bleed.
Flesh and soul, I had slain thee, myself, had I thought,
Son of Cian, my friend, that thy faith had been bought
By a bribe from the tribe of the Bryneish! But no;
He scorned to take dowry from hands of the foe,
And I, all unhurt, lost a friend in the fight,
Whom the wrath of a father felled down for the slight.
THE GIANT GWRVELING FALLS AT LAST
[The bard tells the story of Gwrveling's revelry, impulsive bravery, and
final slaughter of the foe before yielding to their prowess.]
Light of lights--the sun,
Leader of the day,
First to rise and run
His appointed way,
Crowned with many a ray,
Seeks the British sky;
Sees the flight's dismay,
Sees the Britons fly.
The horn in Eiddin's hall
Had sparkled with the wine,
And thither, at a call
To drink and be divine,
He went, to share the feast
Of reapers, wine and mead.
He drank, and so increased
His daring for wild deed.
The reapers sang of war
That lifts its shining wings,
Its shining wings of fire,
Its shields that flutter far.
The bards, too, sang of war,
Of plumed and crested war;
The song rose ever higher.
Not a shield
Escapes the shock,
To the field
They fiercely flock,--
There to fall.
But of all
Who struck on giant Gwrveling,
Whom he would he struck again,
All he struck in grave were lain,
Ere the bearers came to bring
To his grave stout Gwrveling.
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
BY ROBERT SHARP
The earliest recorded utterances of a race, whether in poetry or in
prose, become to the representatives of this race in later days a
treasure beyond price. The value of such monuments of the remote past is
manifold. In them we first begin to become really acquainted with
ancestors of the people of to-day, even though we may have read in the
pages of earlier writers of alien descent much that is of great
concurrent interest. Through the medium of the native saga, epic, and
meagre chronicle, we see for the first time their real though dim
outlines, moving in and out of the mists that obscure the dawn of
history; and these outlines become more and more distinct as the
literary remains of succeeding periods become more abundant and present
more varied aspects of life. We come gradually to know what manner of
men and women were these ancestors, what in peace and in war were their
customs, what their family and social relations, their food and drink,
their dress, their systems of law and government, their religion and
morals, what were their art instincts, what were their ideals.
This is essential material for the construction of history in its
complete sense. And this evidence, when subjected to judicious
criticism, is trustworthy; for the ancient story-teller and poet
reflects the customs and ideas and ideals of his own time, even though
the combination of agencies and the preternatural proportions of the
actors and their deeds belong to the imagination. The historian must
know how to supplement and to give life and interest to the colorless
succession of dates, names, and events of the chronicler, by means of
these imaginative yet truth-bearing creations of the poet.
Remnants of ancient poetry and legend have again an immediate value in
proportion as they exhibit a free play of fine imagination; that is,
according as they possess the power of stirring to response the
aesthetic feeling of subsequent ages,--as they possess the true poetic
quality. This gift of imagination varies greatly among races as among
individuals, and the earliest manifestations of it frequently throw a
clear light upon apparently eccentric tendencies developed in a
literature in later times.
For these reasons, added to a natural family pride in them, the early
literary monuments of the Anglo-Saxons should be cherished by us as
among the most valued possessions of the race.
The first Teutonic language to be reduced to writing was the
Moeso-Gothic. Considerable portions of a translation of the Bible into
that language, made by Bishop Ulfilas in the fourth century, still
remain. But this cannot be called the beginning of a literature; for
there is no trace of original creative impulse. The Gothic movement,
too, seems to have ceased immediately after its beginning. It is
elsewhere that we must seek for the rise of a real Teutonic literature.
We shall not find it till after the lapse of several centuries; and we
find it not among the tribes that remained in the fatherland, nor with
those that had broken into and conquered parts of the Roman empire, only
to be absorbed and to blend with other races into Romanic nations. The
proud distinction belongs to the Low German tribes that had created an
England in Britain.
The conquest of Britain by the Anglo-Saxons, begun in 449, seemed at
first to promise only retrogression and the ruin of an existing
civilization. These fierce barbarians found among the Celts of Britain a
Roman culture, and the Christian religion exerting its influence for
order and humanity. Their mission seemed to be to destroy both. In their
original homes in the forests of northern Germany, they had come little
if at all into contact with Roman civilization. At any rate, we may
assume that they had felt no Roman influence capable of stemming their
national and ethnical tendencies. We cannot yet solve the difficult
problem of the extent of their mingling with the conquered Celts in
Britain. In spite of learned opinions to the contrary, the evidence now
available seems to point to only a small infusion of Celtic blood. The
conquerors seem to have settled down to their new homes with all the
heathenism and most of the barbarism they had brought from their old
home, a Teutonic people still.
In these ruthless, plundering barbarians, whose very breath was battle,
and who seemed for the time the very genius of disorder and ruin, there
existed, nevertheless, potentialities of humanity, order, and
enlightenment far exceeding those of the system they displaced. In all
their barbarism there was a certain nobility; their courage was
unflinching; the fidelity, even unto death, of thane to lord, repaid the
open-handed generosity of lord to thane; they honored truth; and even
after we allow for the exaggerated claims made for a chivalrous devotion
that did not exist, we find that they held their women in higher respect
than was usual even among many more enlightened peoples.
There are few more remarkable narratives in history than that of the
facility and enthusiasm with which the Anglo-Saxons, a people
conservative then as now to the degree of extreme obstinacy, accepted
Christianity and the new learning which followed in the train of the
new religion. After a few lapses into paganism in some localities, we
find these people, who lately had swept Christian Britain with fire and
sword, themselves became most zealous followers of Christ. Under the
influence of the Roman missionaries who, under St. Augustine, had begun
their work in the south in 597 among the Saxons and Jutes, and under the
combined influence of Irish and Roman missionaries in the north and east
among the Angles, theological and secular studies were pursued with
avidity. By the end of the seventh century we find Anglo-Saxon
missionaries, with St. Boniface at their head, carrying Christianity and
enlightenment to the pagan German tribes on the Continent.
The torch had been passed to the Anglo-Saxon, and a new centre of
learning, York,--the old Roman capital, now the chief city of the
Northumbrian Angles,--became famous throughout Europe. Indeed, York
seemed for a time the chief hope for preserving and advancing Christian
culture; for the danger of a relapse into dense ignorance had become
imminent in the rest of Europe. Bede, born about 673, a product of this
Northumbrian culture, represented the highest learning of his day. He
wrote a vast number of works in Latin, treating nearly all the branches
of knowledge existing in his day. Alcuin, another Northumbrian, born
about 735, was called by Charlemagne to be tutor for himself and his
children, and to organize the educational system of his realm. Other
great names might be added to show the extent and brilliancy of the new
learning. It was more remarkable among the Angles; and only at a later
day, when the great schools of the north had gone up in fire and smoke
in the pitiless invasion of the Northmen, did the West Saxons become the
leaders, almost the only representatives, of the literary impulse among
the Anglo-Saxons.
It is significant that the first written English that we know of
contains the first Christian English king's provision for peace and
order in his kingdom. The laws of Athelbert, King of Kent, who died in
616, were written down early in the seventh century. This code, as it
exists, is the oldest surviving monument of English prose. The laws of
Ine, King of the West Saxons, were put into writing about 690. These
collections can scarcely be said to have a literary value; but they are
of the utmost importance as throwing light upon the early customs of our
race, and the laws of Ine may be considered as the foundation of modern
English law. Many of these laws were probably much older; but they were
now first codified and systematically enforced. The language employed is
direct, almost crabbed; but occasionally the Anglo-Saxon love of figure
shows itself. To illustrate, I quote, after Brooke, from Earle's
'Anglo-Saxon Literature,' page 153:--
"In case any one burn a tree in a wood, and it came to light
who did it, let him pay the full penalty, and give sixty
shillings, _because fire is a thief_. If one fell in a wood
ever so many trees, and it be found out afterwards, let him
pay for three trees, each with thirty shillings. He is not
required to pay for more of them, however many they may be,
_because the axe is a reporter, and not a thief_." [The
italicized sentences are evidently current sayings.]
But even these remains, important and interesting as they are, may not
be called the beginning of a vernacular literature. It is among the
Angles of Northumbria that we shall find the earliest native and truly
literary awakening in England. Here we perceive the endeavor to do
something more than merely to aid the memory of men in preserving
necessary laws and records of important events. The imagination had
become active. The impulse was felt to give expression to deep emotions,
to sing the deeds and noble character of some hero embodying the
loftiest ideals of the time and the race, to utter deep religious
feeling. There was an effort to do this in a form showing harmony in
theme and presentation. Here we find displayed a feeling for art, often
crude, but still a true and native impulse. This activity produced or
gave definite form to the earliest Anglo-Saxon poetry, a poetry often of
a very high quality; perhaps never of the highest, but always of intense
interest. We may claim even a greater distinction for the early fruit of
Anglo-Saxon inspiration. Mr. Stopford Brooke says:--"With the exception
of perhaps a few Welsh and Irish poems, it is the only vernacular poetry
in Europe, outside of the classic tongues, which belongs to so early a
time as the seventh and eighth centuries."
The oldest of these poems belong in all save their final form to the
ancient days in Northern Germany. They bear evidence of transmission,
with varying details, from gleeman to gleeman, till they were finally
carried over to England and there edited, often with discordant
interpolations and modifications, by Christian scribes. Tacitus tells us
that at his time songs or poems were a marked feature in the life of the
Germans; but we cannot trace the clue further. To these more ancient
poems many others were added by Christian Northumbrian poets, and we
find that a large body of poetry had grown up in the North before the
movement was entirely arrested by the destroying Northmen. Not one of
these poems, unless we except a few fragmentary verses, has come down to
us in the Northumbrian dialect. Fortunately they had been transcribed by
the less poetically gifted West Saxons into theirs, and it is in this
form that we possess them.
This poetry shows in subject and in treatment very considerable range.
We have a great poem, epic in character; poems partly narrative and
partly descriptive; poems that may be classed as lyric or elegiac in
character; a large body of verse containing a paraphrase of portions of
the Bible; a collection of 'Riddles'; poems on animals, with morals; and
others difficult to classify.
The regular verse-form was the alliterative, four-accent line, broken by
a strongly marked cæsura into two half-lines, which were in early
editions printed as short lines. The verse was occasionally extended to
six accents. In the normal verse there were two alliterated words in the
first half of the line, each of which received a strong accent; in the
second half there was one accented word in alliteration with the
alliterated words in the first half, and one other accented word not in
alliteration. A great license was allowed as to the number of unaccented
syllables, and as to their position in regard to the accented ones; and
this lent great freedom and vigor to the verse. When well constructed
and well read, it must have been very effective. There were of course
many variations from the normal number, three, of alliterated words, as
it would be impossible to find so many for every line.
Something of the quality of this verse-form may be felt in translations
which aim at the same effect. Notice the result in the following from
Professor Gummere's version of as election from 'Beowulf':--
"Then the warriors went, as the way was showed to them,
Under Heorot's roof; the hero stepped,
Hardy 'neath helm, till the hearth he neared."
In these verses it will be noted that the alliteration is complete in
the first and third, and that in the second it is incomplete.
A marked feature of the Anglo-Saxon poetry is parallelism, or the
repetition of an idea by means of new phrases or epithets, most
frequently within the limits of a single sentence. This proceeds from
the desire to emphasize attributes ascribed to the deity, or to some
person or object prominent in the sentence. But while the added epithets
have often a cumulative force, and are picturesque, yet it must be
admitted that they sometimes do not justify their introduction. This may
be best illustrated by an example. The following, in the translation of
Earle, is Cædmon's first hymn, composed between 658 and 680, and the
earliest piece of Anglo-Saxon poetry that we know to have had its origin
in England:--
"Now shall we glorify the guardian of heaven's realm,
The Maker's might and the thought of his mind;
The work of the Glory-Father, how He of every wonder,
He, the Lord eternal, laid the foundation.
He shaped erst for the sons of men
Heaven, their roof, Holy Creator;
The middle world, He, mankind's sovereign,
Eternal captain, afterwards created,
The land for men, Lord Almighty."
Many of the figurative expressions are exceedingly vigorous and poetic;
some to our taste not so much so. Note the epithets in "the lank wolf,"
"the wan raven," "bird greedy for slaughter," "the dewy-winged eagle,"
"dusky-coated," "crooked-beaked," "horny-beaked," "the maid,
fair-cheeked," "curly-locked," "elf-bright." To the Anglo-Saxon poet,
much that we call metaphorical was scarcely more than literal statement.
As the object pictured itself to his responsive imagination, he
expressed it with what was to him a direct realism. His lines are filled
with a profusion of metaphors of every degree of effectiveness. To him
the sea was "the water-street," "the swan-path," "the strife of the
waves," "the whale-path"; the ship was "the foamy-necked floater," "the
wave-farer," "the sea-wood," "the sea-horse"; the arrow was "the battle
adder"; the battle was "spear-play," "sword-play"; the prince was "the
ring-giver," "the gold-friend"; the throne was "the gift-stool"; the
body, "the bone-house"; the mind, "the breast-hoard."
Indeed, as it has been pointed out by many writers, the metaphor is
almost the only figure of the Anglo-Saxon poetry. The more developed
simile belongs to a riper and more reflective culture, and is
exceedingly rare in this early native product. It has been noted that
'Beowulf,' a poem of three thousand one hundred and eighty-four lines,
contains only four or five simple similes, and only one that is fully
carried out. "The ship glides away likest to a bird," "The monster's
eyes gleam like fire," are simple examples cited by Ten Brink, who gives
also the elaborate one, "The sword-hilt melted, likened to ice, when the
Father looseneth the chain of frost, and unwindeth the wave-ropes." But
even this simile is almost obliterated by the crowding metaphors.
Intensity, an almost abrupt directness, a lack of explanatory detail,
are more general characteristics, though in greatly varying degrees. As
some critic has well said, the Anglo-Saxon poet seems to presuppose a
knowledge of his subject-matter by those he addresses. Such a style is
capable of great swiftness of movement, and is well suited to rapid
description and narrative; but at times roughness or meagreness results.
The prevailing tone is one of sadness. In the lyric poetry, this is so
decided that all the Anglo-Saxon lyrics have been called elegies. This
note seems to be the echo of the struggle with an inhospitable climate,
dreary with rain, ice, hail, and snow; and of the uncertainties of life,
and the certainty of death. Suffering was never far off, and everything
was in the hands of Fate. This is true at least of the earlier poetry,
and the note is rarely absent even in the Christian lyrics. A more
cheerful strain is sometimes heard, as in the 'Riddles,' but it is
rather the exception; and any alleged humor is scarcely more than a
suspicion. Love and sentiment, in the modern sense, are not made the
subject of Anglo-Saxon poetry, and this must mean that they did not
enter into the Anglo-Saxon life with the same intensity as into modern
life. The absence of this beautiful motive has, to some degree, its
compensation in the exceeding moral purity of the whole literature. It
is doubtful whether it has its equal in this respect.
Anglo-Saxon prose displays, as a general thing, a simple, direct, and
clear style. There is, of course, a considerable difference between the
prose of the earlier and that of the later period, and individual
writers show peculiarities. It displays throughout a marked contrast
with the poetic style, in its freedom from parallelisms in thought and
phrase, from inversions, archaisms, and the almost excessive wealth of
metaphor and epithet. In its early stages, there is apparent perhaps a
poverty of resource, a lack of flexibility; but this charge cannot be
sustained against the best prose of the later period. In the
translations from the Latin it shows a certain stiffness, and becomes
sometimes involved, in the too conscientious effort of the translator to
follow the classic original.
No attempt will be made here to notice, or even to name, all the large
number of literary works of the Anglo-Saxons. It must be sufficient to
examine briefly a few of the most important and characteristic
productions of this really remarkable and prolific movement.
The 'Song of Widsith, the Far Traveler,' is now generally conceded to
be, in part at least, the oldest existing Anglo-Saxon poem. We do not
know when it assumed its present form; but it is certain that it was
after the conversion of the Anglo-Saxons, since it has interpolations
from the Christian scribe. The poem seems to give evidence of being a
growth from an original song by a wandering scôp, or poet, who claims to
have visited the Gothic king Eormanric, "the grim violator of treaties,"
who died in 375 or 376. But other kings are mentioned who lived in the
first half of the sixth century. It is probable, then, that it was begun
in the fourth century, and having been added to by successive gleemen,
as it was transmitted orally, was finally completed in the earlier part
of the sixth. It was then carried over to England, and there first
written down in Northumbria. It possesses great interest because of its
antiquity, and because of the light it throws upon the life of the
professional singer in those ancient times among the Teutons. It has a
long list of kings and places, partly historical, partly mythical or not
identified. The poem, though narrative and descriptive, is also lyrical.
We find here the strain of elegiac sadness, of regretful retrospection,
so generally present in Anglo-Saxon poetry of lyric character, and
usually much more pronounced than in 'Widsith.'
'Beowulf' is, in many respects, the most important poetical monument of
the Anglo-Saxons. The poem is undoubtedly of heathen origin, and the
evidence that it was a gradual growth, the result of grouping several
distinct songs around one central figure, seems unmistakable. We may
trace it, in its earliest stages, to the ancient home of the Angles in
North Germany. It was transplanted to England in the migration of the
tribes, and was edited in the present form by some unknown Northumbrian
poet. When this occurred we do not know certainly, but there seems good
reason for assuming the end of the seventh or the beginning of the
eighth century as the time.
The poem is epic in cast and epic in proportion. Although, judged by the
Homeric standard, it falls short in many respects of the complete form,
yet it may without violence be called an epic. The central figure,
Beowulf, a nobly conceived hero, possessing immense strength,
unflinching courage, a never-swerving sense of honor, magnanimity, and
generosity, the friend and champion of the weak against evil however
terrible, is the element of unity in the whole poem. It is in itself a
great honor to the race that they were able to conceive as their ideal a
hero so superior in all that constitutes true nobility to the Greek
ideal, Achilles. It is true that the poem consists of two parts,
connected by little more than the fact that they have the same hero at
different times of life; that episodes are introduced that do not blend
perfectly into the unity of the poem; and that there is a lack of repose
and sometimes of lucidity. Yet there is a dignity and vigor, and a large
consistency in the treatment of the theme, that is epic. Ten Brink
says:--"The poet's intensity is not seldom imparted to the listener....
The portrayals of battles, although much less realistic than the Homeric
descriptions, are yet at times superior to them, in so far as the
demoniac rage of war elicits from the Germanic fancy a crowding
affluence of vigorous scenes hastily projected in glittering lights of
grim half gloom." In addition to its great poetic merit, 'Beowulf' is of
the greatest importance to us on account of the many fine pictures of
ancient Teutonic life it presents.
In the merest outline, the argument of 'Beowulf' is as
follows:--Hrothgar, King of the Gar-Danes, has built a splendid hall,
called Heorot. This is the scene of royal festivity until a monster from
the fen, Grendel, breaks into it by night and devours thirty of the
king's thanes. From that time the hall is desolate, for no one can cope
with Grendel, and Hrothgar is in despair. Beowulf, the noble hero of the
Geats, in Sweden, hears of the terrible calamity, and with fourteen
companions sails across the sea to undertake the adventure. Hrothgar
receives him joyfully, and after a splendid banquet gives Heorot into
his charge. During the following night, Beowulf is attacked by Grendel;
and after one of his companions has been slain, he tears out the arm of
the monster, who escapes, mortally hurt, to his fen. On the morrow all
is rejoicing; but when night falls, the monster's mother attacks Heorot,
and kills Hrothgar's favorite thane. The next day, Beowulf pursues her
to her den under the waters of the fen, and after a terrific combat
slays her. The hero returns home to Sweden laden with gifts. This ends
the main thread of the first incident. In the second incident, after an
interval of fifty years, we find Beowulf an old man. He has been for
many years king of the Geats. A fire-breathing dragon, the guardian of a
great treasure, is devastating the land. The heroic old king,
accompanied by a party of thanes, attacks the dragon. All the thanes
save one are cowardly; but the old hero, with the aid of the faithful
one, slays the dragon, not, however, till he is fatally injured. Then
follow his death and picturesque burial.
In this sketch, stirring episodes, graphic descriptions, and fine
effects are all sacrificed. The poem itself is a noble one and the
English people may well be proud of preserving in it the first epic
production of the Teutonic race.
The 'Fight at Finnsburg' is a fine fragment of epic cast. The Finn saga
is at least as old as the Beowulf poem, since the gleeman at Hrothgar's
banquet makes it his theme. From the fragment and the gleeman's song we
perceive that the situation here is much more complex than is usual in
Anglo-Saxon poems, and involves a tragic conflict of passion.
Hildeburh's brother is slain through the treachery of her husband, Finn;
her son, partaking of Finn's faithlessness, falls at the hands of her
brother's men; in a subsequent counterplot, her husband is slain.
Besides the extraordinary vigor of the narrative, the theme has special
interest in that a woman is really the central figure, though not
treated as a heroine.
A favorite theme in the older lyric poems is the complaint of some
wandering scôp, driven from his home by the exigencies of those perilous
times. Either the singer has been bereft of his patron by death, or he
has been supplanted in his favor by some successful rival; and he passes
in sorrowful review his former happiness, and contrasts it with his
present misery. The oldest of these lyrics are of pagan origin, though
usually with Christian additions.
In the 'Wanderer,' an unknown poet pictures the exile who has fled
across the sea from his home. He is utterly lonely. He must lock his
sorrow in his heart. In his dream he embraces and kisses his lord, and
lays his head upon his knee, as of old. He awakes, and sees nothing but
the gray sea, the snow and hail, and the birds dipping their wings in
the waves. And so he reflects: the world is full of care; we are all in
the hands of Fate. Then comes the Christian sentiment: happy is he who
seeks comfort with his Father in heaven, with whom alone all things
are enduring.
Another fine poem of this class, somewhat similar to the 'Wanderer,' is
the 'Seafarer.' It is, however, distinct in detail and treatment, and
has its own peculiar beauty. In the 'Fortunes of Men,' the poet treats
the uncertainty of all things earthly, from the point of view of the
parent forecasting the ill and the good the future may bring to his
sons. 'Deor's Lament' possesses a genuine lyrical quality of high order.
The singer has been displaced by a rival, and finds consolation in his
grief from reciting the woes that others have endured, and reflects in
each instance, "That was got over, and so this may be." Other poems on
other subjects might be noticed here; as 'The Husband's Message,' where
the love of husband for wife is the theme, and 'The Ruin,' which
contains reflections suggested by a ruined city.
It is a remarkable fact that only two of these poets are known to us by
name, Cædmon and Cynewulf. We find the story of the inspiration, work,
and death of Cædmon, the earlier of these, told in the pages of Bede.
The date of his birth is not given, but his death fell in 680. He was a
Northumbrian, and was connected in a lay capacity with the great
monastery of Whitby. He was uneducated, and not endowed in his earlier
life with the gift of song. One night, after he had fled in
mortification from a feast where all were required to improvise and
sing, he received, as he slept, the divine inspiration. The next day he
made known his new gift to the authorities of the monastery. After he
had triumphantly made good his claims, he was admitted to holy orders,
and began his work of paraphrasing into noble verse portions of the
Scriptures that were read to him. Of the body of poetry that comes down
to us under his name, we cannot be sure that any is his, unless we
except the short passage given here. It is certainly the work of
different poets, and varies in merit. The evidence seems conclusive that
he was a poet of high order, that his influence was very great, and that
many others wrote in his manner. The actors and the scenery of the
Cædmonian poetry are entirely Anglo-Saxon, only the names and the
outline of the narrative being biblical; and the spirit of battle that
breathes in some passages is the same that we find in the heathen epic.
Cynewulf was most probably a Northumbrian, though this is sometimes
questioned. The dates of his birth and death are unknown. It seems
established, however, that his work belongs to the eighth century. A
great deal of controversy has arisen over a number of poems that have
been ascribed to him and denied to him with equal persistency. But we
stand upon sure ground in regard to four poems, the 'Christ,' the 'Fates
of the Apostles,' 'Juliana,' and 'Elene'; for he has signed them in
runes. If the runic enigma in the first of the 'Riddles' has been
correctly interpreted, then they, or portions of them, are his also. But
about this there is much doubt. The 'Andreas' and the 'Dream of the
Rood' may be mentioned as being of exceptional interest among the poems
that are almost certainly his. In the latter, he tells, in a personal
strain, the story of the appearance to him of the holy cross, and of his
conversion and dedication of himself to the service of Christ. The
'Elene,' generally considered the finest of his poems, is the story of
the miraculous finding of the holy cross by St. Helena, the mother of
the Emperor Constantine. The poet has lent great charm to the tradition
in his treatment. The poem sounds a triumphant note throughout, till we
reach the epilogue, where the poet speaks in his own person and in a
sadder tone.
The quality of Cynewulf's poetry is unequal; but when he is at his best,
he is a great poet and a great artist. His personality appears in direct
subjective utterance more plainly than does that of any other
Anglo-Saxon poet.
While we must pass over many fine Anglo-Saxon poems without mention,
there are two that must receive some notice. 'Judith' is an epic based
upon the book of Judith in the 'Apocrypha.' Only about one-fourth of it
has survived. The author is still unknown, in spite of many intelligent
efforts to determine to whom the honor belongs. The dates assigned to it
vary from the seventh to the tenth century; here, too, uncertainty
prevails: but we are at least sure that it is one of the best of the
Anglo-Saxon poems. It has been said that this work shows a more definite
plan and more conscious art than any other Anglo-Saxon poem. Brooke
finds it sometimes conventional in the form of expression, and denies it
the highest rank for that reason. But he does not seem to sustain the
charge. The two principal characters, the dauntless Judith and the
brutal Holofernes, stand out with remarkable distinctness, and a fine
dramatic quality has been noted by several critics. The epithets and
metaphors, the description of the drunken debauch, and the swift,
powerful narrative of the battle and the rout of the Assyrians, are in
the best Anglo-Saxon epic strain. The poem is distinctly Christian; for
the Hebrew heroine, with a naïve anachronism, prays thus: "God of
Creation, Spirit of Consolation, Son of the Almighty, I pray for Thy
mercy to me, greatly in need of it. Glory of the Trinity."
'The Battle of Maldon' is a ballad, containing an account of a fight
between the Northmen and the East Saxons under the Aldorman, Byrhtnoth.
The incident is mentioned in one MS. of the Chronicle under the date of
991; in another, under the date of 993. The poem is exceedingly graphic.
The poet seems filled with intense feeling, and may have been a
spectator, or may indeed have taken part in the struggle. He tells how
the brave old Aldorman disdains to use the advantage of his position,
which bade fair to give him victory. Like a boy, he cannot take a dare,
but fatuously allows the enemy to begin the battle upon an equal footing
with his own men. He pays for his noble folly with his life and the
defeat of his army. The devotion of the Aldorman's hearth-companions,
who refuse to survive their lord, and with brave words meet their death,
is finely described. But not all are true; some, who have been
especially favored, ignobly flee. These are treated with the racial
contempt for cowards. The poem has survived in fragmentary form, and the
name of the poet is not known.
As distinguished from all poetical remains of such literature, the
surviving prose of the Anglo-Saxons, though extensive, and of the
greatest interest and value, is less varied in subject and manner than
their poetry. It admits of brief treatment. The earliest known specimens
of Anglo-Saxon prose writing have been already mentioned. These do not
constitute the beginning of a literature, yet, with the rest of the
extensive collection of Anglo-Saxon laws that has survived, they are of
the greatest importance to students. Earle quotes Dr. Reinhold Schmid as
saying, "No other Germanic nation has bequeathed to us out of its
earliest experience so rich a treasure of original legal documents as
the Anglo-Saxon nation has,"--only another instance of the precocity of
our ancestors.
To the West Saxons belongs nearly the whole of Anglo-Saxon prose.
Whatever may have existed in Northumbria perished in the inroads of the
Northmen, except such parts as may have been incorporated in West Saxon
writings. It will be remembered, however, that the great Northumbrian
prose writers had held to the Latin as their medium. The West Saxon
prose literature may be said to begin in Alfred's reign.
The most important production that we have to consider is the famous
Anglo-Saxon 'Chronicle.' It covers with more or less completeness the
period from 449 to 1154. This was supplemented by fanciful genealogies
leading back to Woden, or even to Adam. It is not known when the
practice of jotting down in the native speech notices of contemporary
events began, but probably in very early times. It is believed, however,
that no intelligent effort to collect and present them with order and
system was made until the middle of the ninth century. In the oldest of
the seven MSS. in which it has come down to us, we have the 'Chronicle'
to 891, as it was written down in Alfred's time and probably under his
supervision.
The meagreness of the earliest entries and the crudeness of the
language, together with occasional picturesque force, indicate that many
of them were drawn from current song or tradition. The style and
fullness of the entries differ greatly throughout, as might be expected,
since the 'Chronicle' is the work of so many hands. From mere bare
notices they vary to strong, full narrative and description. Indeed, the
'Chronicle' contains some of the most effective prose produced by the
Anglo-Saxons; and in one instance, under the date 937, the annalist
describes the battle of Brunanburh in a poem of considerable merit. But
we know the name of no single contributor.
This 'Chronicle' is the oldest and most important work of the kind
produced outside of the classical languages in Europe. It is meagre in
places, and its entire trustworthiness has been questioned. But it and
Bede's 'Ecclesiastical History,' supplemented by other Anglo-Saxon
writings, constitute the basis of early English history; and this fact
alone entitles it to the highest rank in importance among ancient
documents.
A large body of Anglo-Saxon prose, nearly all of it translation or
adaptation of Latin works, has come down to us under the name of King
Alfred. A peculiar interest attaches to these works. They belong to a
period when the history of England depended more than at any other time
upon the ability and devotion of one man; and that man, the most heroic
and the greatest of English kings, was himself the author of them.
When Alfred became king, in 871, his throne seemed tottering to its
fall. Practically all the rest of England was at the feet of the
ruthless Northmen, and soon Alfred himself was little better than a
fugitive. But by his military skill, which was successful if not
brilliant, and by his never-wavering devotion and English persistency,
he at last freed the southern part of the island from his merciless and
treacherous enemies, and laid the firm foundation of West Saxon
supremacy. If Alfred had failed in any respect to be the great king that
he was, English history would have been changed for all time.
Although Alfred had saved his kingdom, yet it was a kingdom almost in
ruins. The hopeful advance of culture had been entirely arrested. The
great centres of learning had been utterly destroyed in the north, and
little remained intact in the south. And even worse than this was the
demoralization of all classes, and an indisposition to renewed effort.
There was, moreover, a great scarcity of books.
Alfred showed himself as great in peace as in war, and at once set to
work to meet all those difficulties. To supply the books that were so
urgently needed, he found time in the midst of his perplexing cares to
translate from the Latin into the native speech such works as he
thought would supply the most pressing want. This was the more necessary
from the prevailing ignorance of Latin. It is likely that portions of
the works that go under his name were produced under his supervision by
carefully selected co-workers. But it is certain that in a large part of
them we may see the work of the great Alfred's own hand.
He has used his own judgment in these translations, omitting whatever he
did not think would be immediately helpful to his people, and making
such additions as he thought might be of advantage. Just these additions
have the greatest interest for us. He translated, for instance,
Orosius's 'History'; a work in itself of inferior worth, but as an
attempt at a universal history from the Christian point of view, he
thought it best suited to the needs of his people. The Anglo-Saxon
version contains most interesting additions of original matter by
Alfred. They consist of accounts of the voyages of Ohtere, a Norwegian,
who was the first, so far as we know, to sail around the North Cape and
into the White Sea, and of Wulfstan, who explored parts of the coast of
the Baltic. These narratives give us our first definite information
about the lands and people of these regions, and appear to have been
taken down by the king directly as related by the explorers. Alfred
added to this 'History' also a description of Central Europe, which
Morley calls "the only authentic record of the Germanic nations written
by a contemporary so early as the ninth century."
In Gregory's 'Pastoral Care' we have Alfred's closest translation. It is
a presentation of "the ideal Christian pastor" (Ten Brink), and was
intended for the benefit of the lax Anglo-Saxon priests. Perhaps the
work that appealed most strongly to Alfred himself was Boethius's
'Consolations of Philosophy'; and in his full translation and adaptation
of this book we see the hand and the heart of the good king. We shall
mention one other work of Alfred's, his translation of the already
frequently mentioned 'Historia Ecclesiastica Anglorum' of the Venerable
Bede. This great work Alfred, with good reason, considered to be of the
greatest possible value to his people; and the king has given it
additional value for us.
Alfred was not a great scholar. The wonder is that, in the troublous
times of his youth, he had learned even the rudiments. The language in
his translations, however, though not infrequently affected for the
worse by the Latin idiom of the original, is in the main free from
ornament of any kind, simple and direct, and reflects in its sincerity
the noble character of the great king.
The period between the death of Alfred (901) and the end of the tenth
century was deficient in works of literary value, except an entry here
and there in the 'Chronicle.' "Alfric's is the last great name in the
story of our literature before the Conquest," says Henry Morley. He
began writing about the end of the tenth century, and we do not know
when his work and his life ended. This gentle priest, as he appears to
us through his writings, following Alfred's example, wrote not from
personal ambition, but for the betterment of his fellow-men. His style
is eminently lucid, fluent, forcible, and of graceful finish. Earle
observes of it:--"The English of these Homilies is splendid; indeed, we
may confidently say that here English appears fully qualified to be the
medium of the highest learning." This is high praise, and should be well
considered by those disposed to consider the Anglo-Saxon as a rude
tongue, incapable of great development in itself, and only enabled by
the Norman infusion to give expression to a deep and broad culture.
Alfric's works in Anglo-Saxon--for he wrote also in Latin--were very
numerous, embracing two series of homilies, theological writings of many
kinds, translations of portions of the Bible, an English (Anglo-Saxon)
grammar, adapted from a Latin work, a Latin dictionary, and many other
things of great use in their day and of great interest in ours.
The names of other writers and of other single works might well be added
here. But enough has been said, perhaps, to show that a great and
hopeful development of prose took place among the West Saxons. It must
be admitted that the last years of the Anglo-Saxon nationality before
the coming of the Normans show a decline in literary productiveness of a
high order. The causes of this are to be found chiefly in the political
and ecclesiastical history of the time. Wars with the Northmen, internal
dissensions, religious controversies, the greater cultivation of Latin
by the priesthood, all contributed to it. But hopeful signs of a new
revival were not wanting. The language had steadily developed with the
enlightenment of the people, and was fast becoming fit to meet any
demands that might be made upon it, when the great catastrophe of the
Norman Conquest came, and with it practically the end of the historical
and distinctive Anglo-Saxon literature.
[Illustration: Signature: "Robert Sharp"]
FROM 'BEOWULF'
[The Spear-Danes intrust the dead body of King Scyld to the sea, in a
splendidly adorned ship. He had come to them mysteriously, alone in a ship,
when an infant.]
At the hour that was fated
Scyld then departed to the All-Father's keeping
War-like to wend him; away then they bare him
To the flood of the current, his fond-loving comrades.
As himself he had bidden, while the friend of the Scyldings
Word-sway wielded, and the well-lovèd land prince
Long did rule them. The ring-stemmèd vessel,
Bark of the atheling, lay there at anchor,
Icy in glimmer and eager for sailing;
The beloved leader laid they down there,
Giver of rings, on the breast of the vessel,
The famed by the mainmast. A many of jewels,
Of fretted embossings, from far-lands brought over,
Was placed near at hand then; and heard I not ever
That a folk ever furnished a float more superbly
With weapons of warfare, weeds for the battle,
Bills and burnies; on his bosom sparkled
Many a jewel that with him must travel
On the flush of the flood afar on the current.
And favors no fewer they furnished him soothly,
Excellent folk-gems, than others had given him
Lone on the main, the merest of infants:
And a gold-fashioned standard they stretched under heaven
High o'er his head, let the holm-currents bear him,
Seaward consigned him: sad was their spirit,
Their mood very mournful. Men are not able
Soothly to tell us, they in halls who reside,
Heroes under heaven, to what haven he hied.
They guard the wolf-coverts,
Lands inaccessible, wind-beaten nesses,
Fearfullest fen-deeps, where a flood from the mountains
'Neath mists of the nesses netherward rattles,
The stream under earth: not far is it henceward
Measured by mile-lengths the mere-water standeth,
Which forests hang over, with frost-whiting covered,
A firm-rooted forest, the floods overshadow.
There ever at night one an ill-meaning portent,
A fire-flood may see; 'mong children of men
None liveth so wise that wot of the bottom;
Though harassed by hounds the heath-stepper seek for,
Fly to the forest, firm-antlered he-deer,
Spurred from afar, his spirit he yieldeth,
His life on the shore, ere in he will venture
To cover his head. Uncanny the place is:
Thence upward ascendeth the surging of waters,
Wan to the welkin, when the wind is stirring
The weather unpleasing, till the air groweth gloomy,
Then the heavens lower.
[Beowulf has plunged into the water of the mere in pursuit of Grendel's
mother, and is a whole day in reaching the bottom. He is seized by the
monster and carried to her cavern, where the combat ensues.]
The earl then discovered he was down in some cavern
Where no water whatever anywise harmed him,
And the clutch of the current could come not anear him,
Since the roofed-hall prevented; brightness a-gleaming,
Fire-light he saw, flashing resplendent.
The good one saw then the sea-bottom's monster,
The mighty mere-woman: he made a great onset
With weapon-of-battle; his hand not desisted
From striking; the war-blade struck on her head then
A battle-song greedy. The stranger perceived then
The sword would not bite, her life would not injure,
But the falchion failed the folk-prince when straitened:
Erst had it often onsets encountered,
Oft cloven the helmet, the fated one's armor;
'Twas the first time that ever the excellent jewel
Had failed of its fame. Firm-mooded after,
Not heedless of valor, but mindful of glory
Was Higelac's kinsman; the hero-chief angry
Cast then his carved-sword covered with jewels
That it lay on the earth, hard and steel-pointed;
He hoped in his strength, his hand-grapple sturdy.
So any must act whenever he thinketh
To gain him in battle glory unending,
And is reckless of living. The lord of the War-Geats
(He shrank not from battle) seized by the shoulder
The mother of Grendel; then mighty in struggle
Swung he his enemy, since his anger was kindled,
That she fell to the floor. With furious grapple
She gave him requital early thereafter,
And stretched out to grab him; the strongest of warriors
Faint-mooded stumbled, till he fell in his traces,
Foot-going champion. Then she sat on the hall-guest
And wielded her war-knife wide-bladed, flashing,
For her son would take vengeance, her one only bairn,
His breast-armor woven bode on his shoulder;
It guarded his life, the entrance defended
'Gainst sword-point and edges. Ecgtheow's son there
Had fatally journeyed, champion of Geatmen,
In the arms of the ocean, had the armor not given,
Close-woven corselet, comfort and succor,
And had God Most Holy not awarded the victory,
All-knowing lord; easily did heaven's
Ruler most righteous arrange it with justice;
Uprose he erect ready for battle.
Then he saw 'mid the war-gems a weapon of victory,
An ancient giant-sword, of edges a-doughty,
Glory of warriors: of weapons 'twas choicest,
Only 'twas larger than any man else was
Able to bear to the battle-encounter,
The good and splendid work of the giants.
He grasped then the sword-hilt, knight of the Scyldings,
Bold and battle-grim, brandished his ring-sword.
Hopeless of living, hotly he smote her,
That the fiend-woman's neck firmly it grappled,
Broke through her bone-joints, the bill fully pierced her
Fate-cursed body, she fell to the ground then:
The hand-sword was bloody, the hero exulted.
[Fifty years have elapsed. The aged Beowulf has died from the injuries
received in his struggle with the Fire Drake. His body is burned, and a
barrow erected.]
A folk of the Geatmen got him then ready
A pile on the earth strong for the burning,
Behung with helmets, hero-knight's targets,
And bright-shining burnies, as he begged they should have them;
Then wailing war-heroes their world-famous chieftain,
Their liege-lord beloved, laid in the middle.
Soldiers began then to make on the barrow
The largest of dead fires: dark o'er the vapor
The smoke cloud ascended; the sad-roaring fire,
Mingled with weeping (the-wind-roar subsided)
Till the building of bone it had broken to pieces,
Hot in the heart. Heavy in spirit
They mood-sad lamented the men-leader's ruin....
The men of the Weders made accordingly
A hill on the height, high and extensive,
Of sea-going sailors to be seen from a distance,
And the brave one's beacon built where the fire was,
In ten days' space, with a wall surrounded it,
As wisest of world-folk could most worthily plan it.
They placed in the barrow rings and jewels,
All such ornaments as erst in the treasure
War-mooded men had won in possession:
The earnings of earlmen to earth they intrusted,
The gold to the dust, where yet it remaineth
As useless to mortals as in foregoing eras.
'Round the dead-mound rode then the doughty-in-battle,
Bairns of all twelve of the chiefs of the people,
More would they mourn, lament for their ruler,
Speak in measure, mention him with pleasure;
Weighed his worth, and his warlike achievements
Mightily commended, as 'tis meet one praise his
Liege lord in words and love him in spirit,
When forth from his body he fares to destruction.
So lamented mourning the men of the Geats,
Fond loving vassals, the fall of their lord,
Said he was gentlest of kings under heaven,
Mildest of men and most philanthropic,
Friendliest to folk-troops and fondest of honor.
By permission of John Leslie Hall, the Translator, and D.C. Heath & Co.,
Publishers.
DEOR'S LAMENT
Wayland often wandered in exile,
doughty earl, ills endur'd,
had for comrades care and longing,
winter-cold wandering; woe oft found
since Nithhad brought such need upon him,--
laming wound on a lordlier man.
That pass'd over,--and this may, too!
In Beadohild's breast, her brothers' death
wrought no such ill as her own disgrace,
when she had openly understood
her maidhood vanished; she might no wise
think how the case could thrive at all.
That pass'd over,--and this may, too!
We have heard enough of Hild's disgrace;
heroes of Geat were homeless made,
and sorrow stole their sleep away.
That pass'd over,--and this may, too!
Theodoric held for thirty winters
Mæring's burg, as many have known.
That pass'd over,--and this may, too!
We have also heard of Ermanric's
wolfish mind; wide was his sway
o'er the Gothic race,--a ruler grim.
Sat many a man in misery bound,
waited but woe, and wish'd amain
that ruin might fall on the royal house.
That pass'd over,--and this may, too!
Sitteth one sighing, sunder'd from happiness;
all's dark within him; he deems forsooth
that his share of evils shall endless be.
Let such bethink him that thro' this world
mighty God sends many changes:
to earls a plenty honor he shows,
ease and bliss; to others, sorrow.
Now I will say of myself, and how
I was singer once to the sons of Heoden,
dear to my master, and Deor was my name.
Long were the winters my lord was kind,
happy my lot,--till Heorrenda now
by grace of singing has gained the land
which the "haven of heroes" erewhile gave me.
That pass'd over,--and this may, too!
Translation of F.B. Gummere in the Atlantic Monthly, February, 1891: by
permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company.
FROM 'THE WANDERER'
Oft-times the Wanderer waiteth God's mercy,
Sad and disconsolate though he may be,
Far o'er the watery track must he travel,
Long must he row o'er the rime-crusted sea--
Plod his lone exile-path--Fate is severe.
Mindful of slaughter, his kinsman friends' death,
Mindful of hardships, the wanderer saith:--
Oft must I lonely, when dawn doth appear,
Wail o'er my sorrow--since living is none
Whom I may whisper my heart's undertone.
Know I full well that in man it is noble
Fast in his bosom his sorrow to bind.
Weary at heart, yet his Fate is unyielding--
Help cometh not to his suffering mind.
Therefore do those who are thirsting for glory
Bind in their bosom each pain's biting smart.
Thus must I often, afar from my kinsmen,
Fasten in fetters my home-banished heart.
Now since the day when my dear prince departed
Wrapped in the gloom of his dark earthen grave,
I, a poor exile, have wandered in winter
Over the flood of the foam-frozen wave,
Seeking, sad-hearted, some giver of treasure,
Some one to cherish me friendless--some chief
Able to guide me with wisdom of counsel,
Willing to greet me and comfort my grief.
He who hath tried it, and he alone, knoweth
How harsh a comrade is comfortless Care
Unto the man who hath no dear protector,
Gold wrought with fingers nor treasure so fair.
Chill is his heart as he roameth in exile--
Thinketh of banquets his boyhood saw spread;
Friends and companions partook of his pleasures--
Knoweth he well that all friendless and lordless
Sorrow awaits him a long bitter while;--
Yet, when the spirits of Sorrow and Slumber
Fasten with fetters the orphaned exile,
Seemeth him then that he seeth in spirit,
Meeteth and greeteth his master once more,
Layeth his head on his lord's loving bosom,
Just as he did in the dear days of yore.
But he awaketh, forsaken and friendless,
Seeth before him the black billows rise,
Seabirds are bathing and spreading their feathers,
Hailsnow and hoar-frost are hiding the skies.
Then in his heart the more heavily wounded,
Longeth full sore for his loved one, his own,
Sad is the mind that remembereth kinsmen,
Greeting with gladness the days that are gone.
Seemeth him then on the waves of the ocean
Comrades are swimming,--well-nigh within reach,--
Yet from the spiritless lips of the swimmers
Cometh familiar no welcoming speech.
So is his sorrow renewed and made sharper
When the sad exile so often must send
Thoughts of his suffering spirit to wander
Wide o'er the waves where the rough billows blend.
So, lest the thought of my mind should be clouded,
Close must I prison my sadness of heart,
When I remember my bold comrade-kinsmen,
How from the mede-hall I saw them depart.
Thus is the earth with its splendor departing--
Day after day it is passing away,
Nor may a mortal have much of true wisdom
Till his world-life numbers many a day.
He who is wise, then, must learn to be patient--
Not too hot-hearted, too hasty of speech,
Neither too weak nor too bold in the battle,
Fearful, nor joyous, nor greedy to reach,
Neither too ready to boast till he knoweth--
Man must abide, when he vaunted his pride,
Till strong of mind he hath surely determined
Whether his purpose can be turned aside.
Surely the wise man may see like the desert
How the whole wealth of the world lieth waste,
How through the earth the lone walls are still standing,
Blown by the wind and despoiled and defaced.
Covered with frost, the proud dwellings are ruined,
Crumbled the wine-halls--the king lieth low,
Robbed of his pride--and his troop have all fallen
Proud by the wall--some, the spoil of the foe,
War took away--and some the fierce sea-fowl
Over the ocean--and some the wolf gray
Tore after death--and yet others the hero
Sad-faced has laid in earth-caverns away.
Thus at his will the eternal Creator
Famished the fields of the earth's ample fold--
Until her dwellers abandoned their feast-boards.
Void stood the work of the giants of old.
One who was viewing full wisely this wall-place,
Pondering deeply his dark, dreary life.
Spake then as follows, his past thus reviewing,
Years full of slaughter and struggle and strife:--
"Wither, alas, have my horses been carried?
Whither, alas, are my kinspeople gone?
Where is my giver of treasure and feasting?
Where are the joys of the hall I have known?
Ah, the bright cup--and the corseleted warrior--
Ah, the bright joy of a king's happy lot!
How the glad time has forever departed,
Swallowed in darkness, as though it were not!
Standeth, instead of the troop of young warriors,
Stained with the bodies of dragons, a wall--
The men were cut down in their pride by the spearpoints--
Blood-greedy weapons--but noble their fall.
Earth is enwrapped in the lowering tempest,
Fierce on the stone-cliff the storm rushes forth,
Cold winter-terror, the night shade is dark'ning,
Hail-storms are laden with death from the north.
All full of hardships is earthly existence--
Here the decrees of the Fates have their sway--
Fleeting is treasure and fleeting is friendship--
Here man is transient, here friends pass away.
Earth's widely stretching, extensive domain,
Desolate all--empty, idle, and vain."
In 'Modern Language Notes': Translation of W.R. Sims.
THE SEAFARER
Sooth the song that I of myself can sing,
Telling of my travels; how in troublous days,
Hours of hardship oft I've borne!
With a bitter breast-care I have been abiding;
Many seats of sorrow in my ship have known!
Frightful was the whirl of waves when it was my part
Narrow watch at night to keep on my Vessel's prow
When it rushed the rocks along. By the rigid cold
Fast my feet were pinched, fettered by the frost,
By the chains of cold. Care was sighing then
Hot my heart around; hunger rent to shreds
Courage in me, me sea-wearied! This the man knows not,
He to whom it happens, happiest on earth,
How I, carked with care, in the ice-cold sea,
Overwent the winter on my wander-ways,
All forlorn of happiness, all bereft of loving kinsmen,
Hung about with icicles; flew the hail in showers.
Nothing heard I there save the howling of the sea,
And the ice-chilled billow, 'whiles the crying of the swan.
All the glee I got me was the gannet's scream,
And the swoughing of the seal, 'stead of mirth of men;
'Stead of the mead-drinking, moaning of the sea-mew.
There the storms smote on the crags, there the swallow of the sea
Answered to them, icy-plumed; and that answer oft the earn--
Wet his wings were--barked aloud.
None of all my kinsmen
Could this sorrow-laden soul stir to any joy.
Little then does he believe who life's pleasure owns,
While he tarries in the towns, and but trifling ills,
Proud and insolent with wine--how out-wearied I
Often must outstay on the ocean path!
Sombre grew the shade of night, and it snowed from northward,
Frost the field enchained, fell the hail on earth,
Coldest of all grains.
Wherefore now then crash together
Thoughts my soul within that I should myself adventure
The high streamings of the sea, and the sport of the salt waves!
For a passion of the mind every moment pricks me on
All my life to set a faring; so that far from hence,
I may seek the shore of the strange outlanders.
Yes, so haughty of his heart is no hero on the earth,
Nor so good in all his giving, nor so generous in youth,
Nor so daring in his deed, nor so dear unto his lord,
That he has not always yearning unto his sea-faring,
To whatever work his Lord may have will to make for him.
For the harp he has no heart, nor for having of the rings,
Nor in woman is his weal, in the world he's no delight,
Nor in anything whatever save the tossing o'er the waves!
Oh, forever he has longing who is urged towards the sea.
Trees rebloom with blossoms, burghs are fair again,
Winsome are the wide plains, and the world is gay--
All doth only challenge the impassioned heart
Of his courage to the voyage, whosoever thus bethinks him,
O'er the ocean billows, far away to go.
Every cuckoo calls a warning, with his chant of sorrow!
Sings the summer's watchman, sorrow is he boding,
Bitter in the bosom's hoard. This the brave man wots not of,
Not the warrior rich in welfare--what the wanderer endures,
Who his paths of banishment, widest places on the sea.
For behold, my thought hovers now above my heart;
O'er the surging flood of sea now my spirit flies,
O'er the homeland of the whale--hovers then afar
O'er the foldings of the earth! Now again it flies to me
Full of yearning, greedy! Yells that lonely flier;
Whets upon the Whale-way irresistibly my heart,
O'er the storming of the seas!
Translation of Stopford Brooke.
THE FORTUNES OF MEN
Full often it falls out, by fortune from God,
That a man and a maiden may marry in this world,
Find cheer in the child whom they cherish and care for,
Tenderly tend it, until the time comes,
Beyond the first years, when the young limbs increasing
Grown firm with life's fullness, are formed for their work.
Fond father and mother so guide it and feed it,
Give gifts to it, clothe it: God only can know
What lot to its latter days life has to bring.
To some that make music in life's morning hour
Pining days are appointed of plaint at the close.
One the wild wolf shall eat, hoary haunter of wastes:
His mother shall mourn the small strength of a man.
One shall sharp hunger slay; one shall the storm beat down;
One be destroyed by darts, one die in war.
One shall live losing the light of his eyes,
Feel blindly with fingers; and one, lame of foot,
With sinew-wound wearily wasteth away,
Musing and mourning, with death in his mind.
One, failing feathers, shall fall from the height
Of the tall forest tree; yet he trips as though flying,
Plays proudly in air till he reaches the point
Where the woodgrowth is weak; life then whirls in his brain,
Bereft of his reason he sinks to the root,
Falls flat on the ground, his life fleeting away.
Afoot on the far-ways, his food in his hand,
One shall go grieving, and great be his need,
Press dew on the paths of the perilous lands
Where the stranger may strike, where live none to sustain.
All shun the desolate for being sad.
One the great gallows shall have in its grasp,
Stained in dark agony, till the soul's stay,
The bone-house, is bloodily all broken up;
When the harsh raven hacks eyes from the head,
The sallow-coated, slits the soulless man.
Nor can he shield from shame, scare with his hands,
Off from their eager feast prowlers of air.
Lost is his life to him, left is no breath,
Bleached on the gallows-beam bides he his doom;
Cold death-mists close round him called the Accursed.
* * * * *
One shall die by the dagger, in wrath, drenched with ale,
Wild through wine, on the mead bench, too swift with his words;
Through the hand that brings beer, through the gay boon companion,
His mouth has no measure, his mood no restraint;
Too lightly his life shall the wretched one lose,
Undergo the great ill, be left empty of joy.
When they speak of him slain by the sweetness of mead,
His comrades shall call him one killed by himself.
* * * * *
Some have good hap, and some hard days of toil;
Some glad glow of youth, and some glory in war,
Strength in the strife; some sling the stone, some shoot.
* * * * *
One shall handle the harp, at the feet of his hero
Sit and win wealth from the will of his Lord;
Still quickly contriving the throb of the cords,
The nail nimbly makes music, awakes a glad noise,
While the heart of the harper throbs, hurried by zeal.
Translation of Henry Morley.
FROM 'JUDITH'
[The Assyrian officers, obeying the commands of Holofernes, come to the
carouse.]
They then at the feast proceeded to sit,
The proud to the wine-drinking, all his comrades-in-ill,
Bold mailèd-warriors. There were lofty beakers
Oft borne along the benches, also were cups and flagons
Full to the hall-sitters borne. The fated partook of them,
Brave warriors-with-shields, though the mighty weened not of it,
Awful lord of earls. Then was Holofernes,
Gold-friend of men, full of wine-joy:
He laughed and clamored, shouted and dinned,
That children of men from afar might hear
How the strong-minded both stormed and yelled,
Moody and mead-drunken, often admonished
The sitters-on-benches to bear themselves well.
Thus did the hateful one during all day
His liege-men loyal keep plying with wine,
Stout-hearted giver of treasure, until they lay in a swoon.
[Holofernes has been slain by Judith. The Hebrews, encouraged by her,
surprise the drunken and sleeping Assyrians.]
Then the band of the brave was quickly prepared,
Of the bold for battle; stepped out the valiant
Men and comrades, bore their banners,
Went forth to fight straight on their way
The heroes 'neath helmets from the holy city
At the dawn itself; shields made a din,
Loudly resounded. Thereat laughed the lank
Wolf in the wood, and the raven wan,
Fowl greedy for slaughter: both of them knew
That for them the warriors thought to provide
Their fill on the fated; and flew on their track
The dewy-winged eagle eager for prey,
The dusky-coated sang his war-song,
The crooked-beaked. Stepped forth the warriors,
The heroes for battle with boards protected,
With hollow shields, who awhile before
The foreign-folk's reproach endured,
The heathens' scorn; fiercely was that
At the ash-spear's play to them all repaid,
All the Assyrians, after the Hebrews
Under their banners had boldly advanced
To the army-camps. They bravely then
Forthright let fly showers of arrows,
Of battle-adders, out from the horn-bows,
Of strongly-made shafts; stormed they aloud,
The cruel warriors, sent forth their spears
Among the brave; the heroes were angry,
The dwellers-in-land, with the loathed race;
The stern-minded stepped, the stout-in-heart,
Rudely awakened their ancient foes
Weary from mead; with hands drew forth
The men from the sheaths the brightly-marked swords
Most choice in their edges, eagerly struck
Of the host of Assyrians the battle-warriors,
The hostile-minded; not one they spared
Of the army-folk, nor low nor high
Of living men, whom they might subdue.
By consent of Ginn & Co. Translation of Garnett.
THE FIGHT AT MALDON
[The Anglo-Saxons under Byrhtnoth are drawn up on one side of Panta
stream, the Northmen on the other. The herald of the Northmen demands
tribute. Byrhtnoth replies.]
Then stood on the stathe, stoutly did call,
The wikings' herald, with words he spake,
Who boastfully bore from the brine-farers
An errand to th' earl, where he stood on the shore:--
"To thee me did send the seamen snell,
Bade to thee say, thou must send to them quickly
Bracelets for safety; and 'tis better for you
That ye this spear-rush with tribute buy off
Than we in so fierce a fight engage.
We need not each spill, if ye speed to this:
We will for the pay a peace confirm.
If thou that redest, who art highest in rank,
If thou to the seamen at their own pleasure
Money for peace, and take peace from us,
We will with the treasure betake us to ship,
Fare on the flood, and peace with you confirm."
Byrhtnoth replied, his buckler uplifted,
Waved his slim spear, with words he spake,
Angry and firm gave answer to him:--
"Hear'st thou, seafarer, what saith this folk?
They will for tribute spear-shafts you pay,
Poisonous points and trusty swords,
Those weapons that you in battle avail not.
Herald of seamen, hark back again,
Say to thy people much sadder words:--
Here stands not unknown an earl with his band,
Who will defend this fatherland,
Æthelred's home, mine own liege lord's,
His folk and field; ye're fated to fall,
Ye heathen, in battle. Too base it me seems
That ye with our scats to ship may go
Unfought against, so far ye now hither
Into our country have come within;
Ye shall not so gently treasure obtain;
Shall spear and sword sooner beseem us,
Grim battle-play, ere tribute we give."
[The Northmen, unable to force a passage, ask to be allowed to cross and
fight it out on an equal footing. Byrhtnoth allows this.]
"Now room is allowed you, come quickly to us,
Warriors to war; wot God alone
Who this battle-field may be able to keep."
Waded the war-wolves, for water they recked not,
The wikings' band west over Panta,
O'er the clear water carried their shields,
Boatmen to bank their bucklers bore.
There facing their foes ready were standing
Byrhtnoth with warriors: with shields he bade
The war-hedgel work, and the war-band hold
Fast 'gainst the foes. Then fight was nigh,
Glory in battle; the time was come
That fated men should there now fall.
Then outcry was raised, the ravens circled,
Eagle eager for prey; on earth was uproar.
Then they let from their fists the file-hardened spears,
The darts well-ground, fiercely fly forth:
The bows were busy, board point received,
Bitter the battle-rush, warriors fell down,
On either hand the youths lay dead.
By consent of Ginn & Co. Translation of Garnett.
CAEDMON'S INSPIRATION
He [Cædmon] had remained in the secular life until the time when he was
of advanced age, and he had never learned any song. For that reason
oftentimes, when it was decided at a feasting that all should sing in
turn to the accompaniment of the harp for the sake of entertainment, he
would arise for shame from the banquet when he saw the harp approaching
him, and would go home to his house. When he on a certain occasion had
done this, and had left the house of feasting, and had gone to the
stable of the cattle, which had been intrusted to his care for that
night; and when he there, after a reasonable time, had arranged his
limbs for rest, he fell asleep. And a man stood by him in a dream, and
hailed him, and greeted him, and called him by name, and said: "Cædmon,
sing something for me." Then he answered and said: "I cannot sing; I
went out from the feast and came hither because I could not sing." Again
said the one who was speaking with him: "Nevertheless, thou canst sing
for me." Said Cædmon, "What shall I sing?" Said he, "Sing to me of
creation."
When Cædmon received this answer, then began he soon to sing in
glorification of God the Creator, verses and words that he had never
before heard.
* * * * *
Then he arose from sleep and he had fast in his memory all those things
he had sung in his sleep; and to these words he soon added many other
words of song of the same measure, worthy for God.
Then came he in the morning to the town-reeve, who was his aldorman, and
told him of the gift he had received. And the reeve soon led him to the
abbess, and made that known to her and told her. Then bade she assemble
all the very learned men, and the learners, and bade him tell the dream
in their presence, and sing the song, so that by the judgment of them
all it might be determined what it was, and whence it had come. Then it
was seen by them all, just as it was, that the heavenly gift had been
given him by the Lord himself.
Alfred's 'Bede': Translation of Robert Sharp.
FROM THE 'CHRONICLE'
Selection from the entry for the year 897
Then Alfred, the King, ordered long ships built to oppose the war-ships
of the enemy. They were very nearly twice as long as the others; some
had sixty oars, some more. They were both swifter and steadier, and also
higher than the others; they were shaped neither on the Frisian model
nor on the Danish, but as it seemed to King Alfred that they would be
most useful.
Then, at a certain time in that year, came six hostile ships to Wight,
and did much damage, both in Devon and elsewhere on the seaboard. Then
the King ordered that nine of the new ships should proceed thither. And
his ships blockaded the mouth of the passage on the outer-sea against
the enemy. Then the Danes came out with three ships against the King's
ships; but three of the Danish ships lay above the mouth, high and dry
aground; and the men were gone off upon the shore. Then the King's men
took two of the three ships outside, at the mouth, and slew the crews;
but one ship escaped. On this one all the men were slain except five;
these escaped because the King's ship got aground. They were aground,
moreover, very inconveniently, since three were situated upon the same
side of the channel with the three stranded Danish ships, and all the
others were upon the other side, so that there could be no communication
between the two divisions. But when the water had ebbed many furlongs
from the ships, then went the Danes from their three ships to the King's
three ships that had been left dry upon the same side by the ebbing of
the tide, and they fought together there. Then were slain Lucumon, the
King's Reeve, Wulfheard the Frisian, and Æbbe the Frisian, and Æthelhere
the Frisian, and Æthelferth the King's companion, and of all the men
Frisians and English, sixty-two; and of the Danes, one hundred
and twenty.
But the flood came to the Danish ships before the Christians could shove
theirs out, and for that reason the Danes rowed off. They were,
nevertheless, so grievously wounded that they could not row around the
land of the South Saxons, and the sea cast up there two of the ships
upon the shore. And the men from them were led to Winchester to the
King, and he commanded them to be hanged there. But the men who were in
the remaining ship came to East Anglia, sorely wounded.
Translation of Robert Sharp.
GABRIELE D'ANNUNZIO
(1864-)
An Italian poet and novelist of early promise, who has become a somewhat
unique figure in contemporary literature, Gabriele d'Annunzio is a
native of the Abruzzi, born in the little village of Pescara, on the
Adriatic coast. Its picturesque scenery has formed the background for
more than one of his stories. At the age of fifteen, while still a
student at Prato, he published his first volume of poems, 'Intermezzo di
Rime' (Interludes of Verse): "grand, plastic verse, of an impeccable
prosody," as he maintained in their defense, but so daringly erotic that
their appearance created no small scandal. Other poems followed at
intervals, notably 'Il Canto Nuovo' (The New Song: Rome, 1882), 'Isotteo
e la Chimera' (Isotteo and the Chimera: Rome, 1890), 'Poema Paradisiaco'
and 'Odi Navali' (Marine Odes: Milan, 1893), which leave no doubt of his
high rank as poet. The novel, however, is his chosen vehicle of
expression, and the one which gives fullest scope to his rich and
versatile genius. His first long story, 'Il Piacere' (Pleasure),
appeared in 1889. As the title implies, it was pervaded with a frank,
almost complacent sensuality, which its author has since been inclined
to deprecate. Nevertheless, the book received merited praise for its
subtle portrayal of character and incident, and its exuberance of
phraseology; and more than all, for the promise which it suggested. With
the publication of 'L'Innocente,' the author for the first time showed a
real seriousness of purpose. His views of life had meanwhile essentially
altered:--"As was just," he confessed, "I began to pay for my errors, my
disorders, my excesses: I began to suffer with the same intensity with
which I had formerly enjoyed myself; sorrow had made of me a new man."
Accordingly his later books, while still emphatically realistic, are
chastened by an underlying tone of pessimism. Passion is no longer the
keynote of life, but rather, as exemplified in 'Il Trionfo della Morte,'
the prelude of death. Leaving Rome, where, "like the outpouring of the
sewers, a flood of base desires invaded every square and cross-road,
ever more putrid and more swollen," D'Annunzio retired to
Francovilla-al-Mare, a few miles from his birthplace. There he lives in
seclusion, esteemed by the simple-minded, honest, and somewhat fanatical
peasantry, to whose quaint and primitive manners his books owe much of
their distinctive atmosphere.
In Italy, D'Annunzio's career has been watched with growing interest.
Until recently, however, he was scarcely known to the world at large,
when a few poems, translated into French, brought his name into
immediate prominence. Within a year three Paris journals acquired rights
of translation from him, and he has since occupied the attention of such
authoritative French critics as Henri Rabusson, René Doumic, Edouard
Rod, Eugène-Melchior de Vogüé, and, most recently, Ferdinand Brunetière,
all of whom seem to have a clearer appreciation of his quality than even
his critics at home. At the same time there is a small but hostile
minority among the French novelists, whose literary feelings are voiced
by Léon Daudet in a vehement protest under the title 'Assez d'Étrangers'
(Enough of Foreigners).
It is too soon to pass final judgment on D'Annunzio's style, which has
been undergoing an obvious transition, not yet accomplished. Realist and
psychologist, symbolist and mystic by turns, and first and always a
poet, he has been compared successively to Bourget and Maupassant,
Tolstoi and Dostoïevsky, Théophile Gautier and Catulle Mendès, Dante
Gabriel Rossetti and Baudelaire. Such complexity of style is the outcome
of his cosmopolitan taste in literature, and his tendency to assimilate
for future use whatever pleases him in each successive author.
Shakespeare and Goethe, Keats and Heine, Plato and Zoroaster, figure
among the names which throng his pages; while his unacknowledged and
often unconscious indebtedness to writers of lesser magnitude,--notably
the self-styled 'Sar' Joseph Peladan--has lately raised an outcry of
plagiarism. Yet whatever leaves his pen, borrowed or original, has
received the unmistakable imprint of his powerful individuality.
It is easy to trace the influences under which, successively, D'Annunzio
has come. They are essentially French. He is a French writer in an
Italian medium. His early short sketches, noteworthy chiefly for their
morbid intensity, were modeled largely on Maupassant, whose frank,
unblushing realism left a permanent imprint upon the style of his
admirer, and whose later analytic tendency probably had an important
share in turning his attention to the psychological school.
'Il Piacere,' though largely inspired by Paul Bourget, contains as large
an element of 'Notre Coeur' and 'Bel-Ami' as of 'Le Disciple' and 'Coeur
de Femme.' In this novel, Andrea Sperelli affords us the type of
D'Annunzio's heroes, who, aside from differences due to age and
environment, are all essentially the same,--somewhat weak, yet
undeniably attractive; containing, all of them, "something of a Don Juan
and a Cherubini," with the Don Juan element preponderating. The plot of
'Il Piacere' is not remarkable either for depth or for novelty, being
the needlessly detailed record of Sperelli's relations with two married
women, of totally opposite types.
'Giovanni Episcopo' is a brief, painful tragedy of low life, written
under the influence of Russian evangelism, and full of reminiscences of
Dostoïevsky's 'Crime and Punishment.' Giovanni is a poor clerk, of a
weak, pusillanimous nature, completely dominated by a coarse, brutal
companion, Giulio Wanzer, who makes him an abject slave, until a
detected forgery compels Wanzer to flee the country. Episcopo then
marries Ginevra, the pretty but unprincipled waitress at his _pension_,
who speedily drags him down to the lowest depths of degradation, making
him a mere nonentity in his own household, willing to live on the
proceeds of her infamy. They have one child, a boy, Ciro, on whom
Giovanni lavishes all his suppressed tenderness. After ten years of this
martyrdom, the hated Wanzer reappears and installs himself as husband in
the Episcopo household. Giovanni submits in helpless fury, till one day
Wanzer beats Ginevra, and little Ciro intervenes to protect his mother.
Wanzer turns on the child, and a spark of manhood is at last kindled in
Giovanni's breast. He springs upon Wanzer, and with the pent-up rage of
years stabs him.
'L'Innocente,' D'Annunzio's second long novel, also bears the stamp of
Russian influence. It is a gruesome, repulsive story of domestic
infidelity, in which he has handled the theory of pardon, the motive of
numerous recent French novels, like Daudet's 'La Petite Paroisse' and
Paul Marguerite's 'La Tourmente.'
In another extended work, 'Il Trionfo della Morte' (The Triumph of
Death), D'Annunzio appears as a convert to Nietzsche's philosophy and to
Wagnerianism. Ferdinand Brunetière has pronounced it unsurpassed by the
naturalistic schools of England, France, or Russia. In brief, the hero,
Giorgio Aurispa, a morbid sensualist, with an inherited tendency to
suicide, is led by fate through a series of circumstances which keep the
thought of death continually before him. They finally goad him on to
fling himself from a cliff into the sea, dragging with him the woman
he loves.
The 'Vergini della Rocca' (Maidens of the Crag), his last story, is more
an idyllic poem than a novel. Claudio Cantelmo, sickened with the
corruption of Rome, retires to his old home in the Abruzzi, where he
meets the three sisters Massimilla, Anatolia, Violante: "names
expressive as faces full of light and shade, and in which I seemed
already to discover an infinity of grace, of passion, and of sorrow." It
is inevitable that he should chose one of the three, but which? And in
the dénouement the solution is only half implied.
D'Annunzio is now occupied with a new romance; and coming years will
doubtless present him all the more distinctively as a writer of Italy on
whom French inflences have been seed sowed in fertile ground. The place
in contemporary Italian of such work as his is indisputably
considerable.
THE DROWNED BOY
From 'The Triumph of Death'
All of a sudden, Albadora, the septuagenarian Cybele, she who had given
life to twenty-two sons and daughters, came toiling up the narrow lane
into the court, and indicating the neighboring shore, where it skirted
the promontory on the left, announced breathlessly:--
"Down yonder there has been a child drowned!"
Candia made the sign of the cross. Giorgio arose and ascended to the
loggia, to observe the spot designated. Upon the sand, below the
promontory, in close vicinity to the chain of rocks and the tunnel, he
perceived a blotch of white, presumably the sheet which hid the little
body. A group of people had gathered around it.
As Ippolita had gone to mass with Elena at the chapel of the Port, he
yielded to his curiosity and said to his entertainers:--
"I am going down to see."
"Why?" asked Candia. "Why do you wish to put a pain in your heart?"
Hastening down the narrow lane, he descended by a short cut to the
beach, and continued along the water. Reaching the spot, somewhat out of
breath, he inquired:--
"What has happened?"
The assembled peasants saluted him and made way for him. One of them
answered tranquilly:--
"The son of a mother has been drowned."
Another, clad in linen, who seemed to be standing guard over the corpse,
bent down and drew aside the sheet.
The inert little body was revealed, extended upon the unyielding sand.
It was a lad, eight or nine years old, fair and frail, with slender
limbs. His head was supported on his few humble garments, rolled up in
place of pillow,--the shirt, the blue trousers, the red sash, the cap of
limp felt. His face was but slightly livid, with flat nose, prominent
forehead, and long, long lashes; the mouth was half open, with thick
lips which were turning blue, between which the widely spaced teeth
gleamed white. His neck was slender, flaccid as a wilted stem, and
seamed with tiny creases. The jointure of the arms at the shoulder
looked feeble. The arms themselves were fragile, and covered with a down
similar to the fine plumage which clothes the bodies of newly hatched
birds. The whole outline of the ribs was distinctly visible; down the
middle of the breast the skin was divided by a darker line; the navel
stood out, like a knot. The feet, slightly bloated, had assumed the same
sallow color as the little hands, which were callous and strewn with
warts, with white nails beginning to turn livid. On the left arm, on the
thighs near the groin, and further down, on the knees and along the
legs, appeared reddish blotches of scurf. Every detail of this wretched
little body assumed, in the eyes of Giorgio, an extraordinary
significance, immobile as it was and fixed forever in the rigidity
of death.
"How was he drowned? Where?" he questioned, lowering his voice.
The man dressed in linen gave, with some show of impatience, the account
which he had probably had to repeat too many times already. He had a
brutal countenance, square-cut, with bushy brows, and a large mouth,
harsh and savage. Only a little while after leading the sheep back to
their stalls, the lad, taking his breakfast along with him, had gone
down, together with a comrade, to bathe. He had hardly set foot in the
water, when he had fallen and was drowned. At the cries of his comrade,
some one from the house overhead on the bluff had hurried down, and
wading in up to the knees, had dragged him from the water half dead;
they had turned him upside down to make him throw up the water, they had
shaken him, but to no purpose. To indicate just how far the poor little
fellow had gone in, the man picked up a pebble and threw it into
the sea.
"There, only to there; at three yards from the shore!"
The sea lay at rest, breathing peacefully, close to the head of the dead
child. But the sun blazed fiercely down upon the sand; and something
pitiless, emanating from that sky of flame and from those stolid
witnesses, seemed to pass over the pallid corpse.
"Why," asked Giorgio, "do you not place him in the shade, in one of the
houses, on a bed?"
"He is not to be moved," declared the man on guard, "until they hold the
inquest."
"At least carry him into the shade, down there, below the embankment!"
Stubbornly the man reiterated, "He is not to be moved."
There could be no sadder sight than that frail, lifeless little being,
extended on the stones, and watched over by the impassive brute who
repeated his account every time in the selfsame words, and every time
made the selfsame gesture, throwing a pebble into the sea:--
"There; only to there."
A woman joined the group, a hook-nosed termagant, with gray eyes and
sour lips, mother of the dead boy's comrade. She manifested plainly a
mistrustful restlessness, as if she anticipated some accusation against
her own son. She spoke with bitterness, and seemed almost to bear a
grudge against the victim.
"It was his destiny. God had said to him, 'Go into the sea and end
yourself.'"
She gesticulated with vehemence. "What did he go in for, if he did not
know how to swim--?"
A young lad, a stranger in the district, the son of a mariner, repeated
contemptuously, "Yes, what did he go in for? We, yes, who know how to
swim--" ...
Other people joined the group, gazed with cold curiosity, then lingered
or passed on. A crowd occupied the railroad embankment, another gathered
on the crest of the promontory, as if at a spectacle. Children, seated
or kneeling, played with pebbles, tossing them into the air and catching
them, now on the back and now in the hollow of their hands. They all
showed the same profound indifference to the presence of other people's
troubles and of death.
Another woman joined the group on her way home from mass, wearing a
dress of silk and all her gold ornaments. For her also the harassed
custodian repeated his account, for her also he indicated the spot in
the water. She was talkative.
"I am always saying to _my_ children, 'Don't you go into the water, or I
will kill you!' The sea is the sea. Who can save himself?"
She called to mind other instances of drowning; she called to mind the
case of the drowned man with the head cut off, driven by the waves all
the way to San Vito, and found among the rocks by a child.
"Here, among these rocks. He came and told us, 'There is a dead man
there.' We thought he was joking. But we came and we found. He had no
head. They had an inquest; he was buried in a ditch; then in the night
he was dug up again. His flesh was all mangled and like jelly, but he
still had his boots on. The judge said, 'See, they are better than
mine!' So he must have been a rich man. And it turned out that he was a
dealer in cattle. They had killed him and chopped off his head, and had
thrown him into the Tronto."...
She continued to talk in her shrill voice, from time to time sucking in
the superfluous saliva with a slight hissing sound.
"And the mother? When is the mother coming?"
At that name there arose exclamations of compassion from all the women
who had gathered.
"The mother! There comes the mother, now!"
And all of them turned around, fancying that they saw her in the far
distance, along the burning strand. Some of the women could give
particulars about her. Her name was Riccangela; she was a widow with
seven children. She had placed this one in a farmer's family, so that he
might tend the sheep, and gain a morsel of bread.
One woman said, gazing down at the corpse, "Who knows how much pains the
mother has taken in raising him!" Another said, "To keep the children
from going hungry she has even had to ask charity."
Another told how, only a few months before, the unfortunate child had
come very near strangling to death in a courtyard in a pool of water
barely six inches deep. All the women repeated, "It was his destiny. He
was bound to die that way."
And the suspense of waiting rendered them restless, anxious. "The
mother! There comes the mother now!"
Feeling himself grow sick at heart, Giorgio exclaimed, "Can't you take
him into the shade, or into a house, so that the mother will not see him
here naked on the stones, under a sun like this?"
Stubbornly the man on guard objected:--"He is not to be touched. He is
not to be moved--until the inquest is held."
The bystanders gazed in surprise at the stranger,--Candia's stranger.
Their number was augmenting. A few occupied the embankment shaded with
acacias; others crowned the promontory rising abruptly from the rocks.
Here and there, on the monstrous bowlders, a tiny boat lay sparkling
like gold at the foot of the detached crag, so lofty that it gave the
effect of the ruins of some Cyclopean tower, confronting the immensity
of the sea.
All at once, from above on the height, a voice announced, "There she
is."
Other voices followed:--"The mother! The mother!"
All turned. Some stepped down from the embankment. Those on the
promontory leaned far over. All became silent, in expectation. The man
on guard drew the sheet once more over the corpse. In the midst of the
silence, the sea barely seemed to draw its breath, the acacias barely
rustled. And then through the silence they could hear her cries as she
drew near.
The mother came along the strand, beneath the sun, crying aloud. She was
clad in widow's mourning. She tottered along the sand, with bowed body,
calling out, "O my son! My son!"
She raised her palms to heaven, and then struck them upon her knees,
calling out, "My son!"
One of her older sons, with a red handkerchief bound around his neck, to
hide some sore, followed her like one demented, dashing aside his tears
with the back of his hand. She advanced along the strand, beating her
knees, directing her steps toward the sheet. And as she called upon her
dead, there issued from her mouth sounds scarcely human, but rather like
the howling of some savage dog. As she drew near, she bent over lower
and lower, she placed herself almost on all fours; till, reaching him,
she threw herself with a howl upon the sheet.
She arose again. With hand rough and toil-stained, hand toughened by
every variety of labor, she uncovered the body. She gazed upon it a few
instants, motionless as though turned to stone. Then time and time
again, shrilly, with all the power of her voice, she called as if trying
to awaken him, "My son! My son! My son!"
Sobs suffocated her. Kneeling beside him, she beat her sides furiously
with her fists. She turned her despairing eyes around upon the circle of
strangers. During a pause in her paroxysms she seemed to recollect
herself. And then she began to sing. She sang her sorrow in a rhythm
which rose and fell continually, like the palpitation of a heart. It was
the ancient monody which from time immemorial, in the land of the
Abruzzi, the women have sung over the remains of their relatives. It was
the melodious eloquence of sacred sorrow, which renewed spontaneously,
in the profundity of her being, this hereditary rhythm in which the
mothers of bygone ages had modulated their lamentations.
She sang on and on:--"Open your eyes, arise and walk, my son! How
beautiful you are! How beautiful you are!"
She sang on:--"For a morsel of bread I have drowned you, my son! For a
morsel of bread I have borne you to the slaughter! For that have I
raised you!"
But the irate woman with the hooked nose interrupted her:--"It was not
you who drowned him; it was Destiny. It was not you who took him to the
slaughter. You had placed him in the midst of bread." And making a
gesture toward the hill where the house stood which had sheltered the
lad, she added, "They kept him there, like a pink at the ear."
The mother continued:--"O my son, who was it sent you; who was it sent
you here, to drown?"
And the irate woman:--"Who was it sent him? It was our Lord. He said to
him, 'Go into the water and end yourself.'"
As Giorgio was affirming in a low tone to one of the bystanders that if
succored in time the child might have been saved, and that they had
killed him by turning him upside down and holding him suspended by the
feet, he felt the gaze of the mother fixed upon him. "Can't you do
something for him, sir?" she prayed. "Can't you do something for him?"
And she prayed:--"O Madonna of the Miracles, work a miracle for him!"
Touching the head of the dead boy, she repeated:--"My son! my son! my
son! arise and walk!"
On his knees in front of her was the brother of the dead boy; he was
sobbing, but without grief, and from time to time he glanced around with
a face that suddenly grew indifferent. Another brother, the oldest one,
remained at a little distance, seated in the shade of a bowlder; and he
was making a great show of grief, hiding his face in his hands. The
women, striving to console the mother, were bending over her with
gestures of compassion, and accompanying her monody with an
occasional lament.
And she sang on:--"Why have I sent you forth from my house? Why have I
sent you to your death? I have done everything to keep my children from
hunger; everything, everything, except to be a woman with a price. And
for a morsel of bread I have lost you! This was the way you were
to die!"
Thereupon the woman with the hawk nose raised her petticoats in an
impetus of wrath, entered the water up to her knees, and cried:--"Look!
He came only to here. Look! The water is like oil. It is a sign that he
was bound to die that way."
With two strides she regained the shore. "Look!" she repeated, pointing
to the deep imprint in the sand made by the man who recovered the
body. "Look!"
The mother looked in a dull way; but it seemed as if she neither saw nor
comprehended. After her first wild outbursts of grief, there came over
her brief pauses, amounting to an obscurement of consciousness. She
would remain silent, she would touch her foot or her leg with a
mechanical gesture. Then she would wipe away her tears with the black
apron. She seemed to be quieting down. Then, all of a sudden, a fresh
explosion would shake her from head to foot, and prostrate her upon
the corpse.
"And I cannot take you away! I cannot take you in these arms to the
church! My son! My son!"
She fondled him from head to foot, she caressed him softly. Her savage
anguish was softened to an infinite tenderness. Her hand--the burnt and
callous hand of a hard-working woman--became infinitely gentle as she
touched the eyes, the mouth, the forehead of her son.
"How beautiful you are! How beautiful you are!"
She touched his lower lip, already turned blue; and as she pressed it
slightly, a whitish froth issued from the mouth. From between his lashes
she brushed away some speck, very carefully, as though fearful of
hurting him.
"How beautiful you are, heart of your mamma!"
His lashes were long, very long, and fair. On his temples, on his cheeks
was a light bloom, pale as gold.
"Do you not hear me? Rise and walk."
She took the little well-worn cap, limp as a rag. She gazed at it and
kissed it, saying:--
"I am going to make myself a charm out of this, and wear it always on my
breast."
She lifted the child; a quantity of water escaped from the mouth and
trickled down upon the breast.
"O Madonna of the Miracles, perform a miracle!" she prayed, raising her
eyes to heaven in a supreme supplication. Then she laid softly down
again the little being who had been so dear to her, and took up the worn
shirt, the red sash, the cap. She rolled them up together in a little
bundle, and said:--
"This shall be my pillow; on these I shall rest my head, always, at
night; on these I wish to die."
She placed these humble relics on the sand, beside the head of her
child, and rested her temple on them, stretching herself out, as if on
a bed.
Both of them, mother and son, now lay side by side, on the hard rocks,
beneath the flaming sky, close to the homicidal sea. And now she began
to croon the very lullaby which in the past had diffused pure sleep over
his infant cradle.
She took up the red sash and said, "I want to dress him."
The cross-grained woman, who still held her ground, assented. "Let us
dress him now."
And she herself took the garments from under the head of the dead boy;
she felt in the jacket pocket and found a slice of bread and a fig.
"Do you see? They had given him his food just before,--just before. They
cared for him like a pink at the ear."
The mother gazed upon the little shirt, all soiled and torn, over which
her tears fell rapidly, and said, "Must I put that shirt on him?"
The other woman promptly raised her voice to some one of her family,
above on the bluff:--"Quick, bring one of Nufrillo's new shirts!" The
new shirt was brought. The mother flung herself down beside him.
"Get up, Riccangela, get up!" solicited the women around her.
She did not heed them. "Is my son to stay like that on the stones, and I
not stay there too?--like that, on the stones, my own son?"
"Get up, Riccangela, come away."
She arose. She gazed once more with terrible intensity upon the little
livid face of the dead. Once again she called with all the power of her
voice, "My son! My son! My son!"
Then with her own hands she covered up with the sheet the unheeding
remains.
And the women gathered around her, drew her a little to one side, under
shadow of a bowlder; they forced her to sit down, they lamented
with her.
Little by little the spectators melted away. There remained only a few
of the women comforters; there remained the man clad in linen, the
impassive custodian, who was awaiting the inquest.
The dog-day sun poured down upon the strand, and lent to the funeral
sheet a dazzling whiteness. Amidst the heat the promontory raised its
desolate aridity straight upward from the tortuous chain of rocks. The
sea, immense and green, pursued its constant, even breathing. And it
seemed as if the languid hour was destined never to come to an end.
Under shadow of the bowlder, opposite the white sheet, which was raised
up by the rigid form of the corpse beneath, the mother continued her
monody in the rhythm rendered sacred by all the sorrows, past and
present, of her race. And it seemed as if her lamentation was destined
never to come to an end.
TO AN IMPROMPTU OF CHOPIN
When thou upon my breast art sleeping,
I hear across the midnight gray--
I hear the muffled note of weeping,
So near--so sad--so far away!
All night I hear the teardrops falling--
Each drop by drop--my heart must weep;
I hear the falling blood-drops--lonely,
Whilst thou dost sleep--whilst thou dost sleep.
From 'The Triumph of Death.'
INDIA
India--whose enameled page unrolled
Like autumn's gilded pageant, 'neath a sun
That withers not for ancient kings undone
Or gods decaying in their shrines of gold--
Where were thy vaunted princes, that of old
Trod thee with thunder--of thy saints was none
To rouse thee when the onslaught was begun,
That shook the tinseled sceptre from thy hold?
Dead--though behind thy gloomy citadels
The fountains lave their baths of porphyry;
Dead--though the rose-trees of thy myriad dells
Breathe as of old their speechless ecstasy;
Dead--though within thy temples, courts, and cells,
Their countless lamps still supplicate for thee.
Translated by Thomas Walsh, for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature.'
ANTAR
(About 550-615)
BY EDWARD S. HOLDEN
Arabia was opened to English readers first by Sale's translation of the
'Kuran,' in 1734; and by English versions of the 'Arabian Nights' from
1712 onward. The latter were derived from Galland's translation of the
'Thousand and One Nights,' which began to appear, in French, in 1704.
Next to nothing was generally known of Oriental literature from that
time until the end of the eighteenth century. The East India Company
fostered the study of the classics of the extreme Orient; and the first
Napoleon opened Egypt,--his _savans_ marched in the centre of the
invading squares.
The flagship of the English fleet which blockaded Napoleon's army
carried an Austro-German diplomatist and scholar,--Baron von
Hammer-Purgstall,--part of whose mission was to procure a complete
manuscript of the 'Arabian Nights.' It was then supposed that these
tales were the daily food of all Turks, Arabians, and Syrians. To the
intense surprise of Von Hammer, he learned that they were never recited
in the coffee-houses of Constantinople, and that they were not to be
found at all outside of Egypt.
His dismay and disappointment were soon richly compensated, however, by
the discovery of the Arabian romance of 'Antar,' the national classic,
hitherto unknown in Europe, except for an enthusiastic notice which had
fallen by chance into the hands of Sir William Jones. The entire work
was soon collected. It is of interminable length in the original, being
often found in thirty or forty manuscript volumes in quarto, in seventy
or eighty in octavo. Portions of it have been translated into English,
German, and French. English readers can consult it best in 'Antar,' a
Bedouin romance, translated from the Arabic by Terrick Hamilton, in four
volumes 8vo (London, 1820). Hamilton's translation, now rare, covers
only a portion of the original; and a new translation, suitably
abridged, is much needed.
The book purports to have been written more than a thousand years
ago,--in the golden prime of the Caliph Harún-al-Rashid (786-809) and of
his sons and successors, Amin (809-813) and Mamun (813-834),--by the
famous As-Asmai (born 741, died about 830). It is in fact a later
compilation, probably of the twelth century. (Baron von Hammer's MS.
was engrossed in the year 1466.) Whatever the exact date may have been,
it was probably not much later than A.D. 1200. The main outlines of
Antar's life are historical. Many particulars are derived from historic
accounts of the lives of other Arabian heroes (Duraid and others) and
are transferred bodily to the biography of Antar. They date back to the
sixth century. Most of the details must be imaginary, but they are
skillfully contrived by a writer who knew the life of the desert Arab at
first hand. The verses with which the volumes abound are in many cases
undoubtedly Antar's. (They are printed in italics in what follows.) In
any event, the book in its present form has been the delight of all
Arabians for many centuries. Every wild Bedouin of the desert knew much
of the tale by heart, and listened to its periods and to its poems with
quivering interest. His more cultivated brothers of the cities possessed
one or many of its volumes. Every coffee-house in Aleppo, Bagdad, or
Constantinople had a narrator who, night after night, recited it to rapt
audiences.
The unanimous opinion of the East has always placed the romance of
'Antar' at the summit of such literature. As one of their authors well
says:--"'The Thousand and One Nights' is for the amusement of women and
children; 'Antar' is a book for men. From it they learn lessons of
eloquence, of magnanimity, of generosity, and of statecraft." Even the
prophet Muhammad, well-known foe to poetry and to poets, instructed his
disciples to relate to their children the traditions concerning Antar,
"for these will steel their hearts harder than stone."
The book belongs among the great national classics, like the
'Shah-nameh' and the 'Nibelungen-Lied.' It has a direct relation to
Western culture and opinion also. Antar was the father of knighthood. He
was the _preux-chevalier_, the champion of the weak and oppressed, the
protector of women, the impassioned lover-poet, the irresistible and
magnanimous knight. European chivalry in a marked degree is the child of
the chivalry of his time, which traveled along the shores of the
Mediterranean Sea and passed with the Moors into Spain (710). Another
current flowed from Arabia to meet and to modify the Greeks of
Constantinople and the early Crusaders; and still another passed from
Persia into Palestine and Europe. These fertilized Provençal poetry, the
French romance, the early Italian epic. The 'Shah-nameh' of Firdausi,
that model of a heroic poem, was written early in the eleventh century.
'Antar' in its present form probably preceded the romances of chivalry
so common in the twelfth century in Italy and France.
Antarah ben Shedad el Absi (Antar the Lion, the Son of Shedad of the
tribe of Abs), the historic Antar, was born about the middle of the
sixth century of our era, and died about the year 615, forty-five years
after the birth of the prophet Muhammad, and seven years before the
Hijra--the Flight to Medina--with which the Muhammadan era begins. His
father was a noble Absian knight. The romance makes him the son of an
Abyssinian slave, who is finally discovered to be a powerful princess.
His skin was black. He was despised by his father and family and set to
tend their camels. His extraordinary strength and valor and his
remarkable poetic faculty soon made him a marked man, in a community in
which personal valor failed of its full value if it were not celebrated
in brilliant verse. His love for the beautiful Ibla (Ablah in the usual
modern form), the daughter of his uncle, was proved in hundreds of
encounters and battles; by many adventurous excursions in search of fame
and booty; by thousands of verses in her honor.
The historic Antar is the author of one of the seven "suspended poems."
The common explanation of this term is that these seven poems were
judged, by the assemblage of all the Arabs, worthy to be written in
golden letters (whence their name of the 'golden odes'), and to be hung
on high in the sacred Kaabah at Mecca. Whether this be true, is not
certain. They are at any rate accepted models of Arabic style. Antar was
one of the seven greatest poets of his poetic race. These "suspended
poems" can now be studied in the original and in translation, by the
help of a little book published in London in 1894, 'The Seven Poems,' by
Captain F.E. Johnson, R.A.
The Antar of the romance is constantly breaking into verse which is
passionately admired by his followers. None of its beauties of form are
preserved in the translation; and indeed, this is true of the prose
forms also. It speaks volumes for the manly vigor of the original that
it can be transferred to an alien tongue and yet preserve great
qualities. To the Arab the work is a masterpiece both in form and
content. Its prose is in balanced, rhythmic sentences ending in full or
partial rhymes. This "cadence of the cooing dove" is pure music to an
Eastern ear. If any reader is interested in Arabic verse, he can readily
satisfy his curiosity. An introduction to the subject is given in the
Terminal Essay of Sir Richard Burton's 'Arabian Nights' (Lady Burton's
edition, Vol. vi., page 340). The same subject is treated briefly and
very clearly in the introduction to Lyall's 'Ancient Arabian Poetry'--a
book well worth consulting on other accounts.
The story itself appeals to the Oriental's deepest feelings, passions,
ideals:--
"To realize the impetuous feelings of the Arab," says Von
Hammer, "you must have heard these tales narrated to a circle
of Bedouins crowded about the orator of the desert.... It is
a veritable drama, in which the spectators are the actors as
well. If the hero is threatened with imminent danger, they
shudder and cry aloud, 'No, no, no; Allah forbid! that cannot
be!' If he is in the midst of tumult and battle, mowing down
rank after rank of the enemy with his sword, they seize their
own weapons and rise to fly to his rescue. If he falls into
the snares of treachery, their foreheads contract with angry
indignation and they exclaim, 'The curse of Allah be on the
traitor!' If the hero at last sinks under the superior forces
of the enemy, a long and ardent sigh escapes from their
breasts, with the farewell blessing, 'Allah's compassion be
with him--may he rest in peace.'... Descriptions of the
beauties of nature, especially of the spring, are received
with exclamations. Nothing equals the delight which sparkles
in every eye when the narrator draws a picture of
feminine beauty."
The question as to the exact relation of the chivalry of Europe to the
earlier chivalry of Arabia and of the East is a large one, and one which
must be left to scholars. It is certain that Spenser and Sir Philip
Sidney owe far more to Saladin than we commonly suppose. The tales of
Boccaccio (1350) show that the Italians of that day still held the Arabs
to be their teachers in chivalry, and at least their equals in art,
science, and civilization; and the Italy of 1300 was a century in
advance of the rest of Europe. In 1268 two brothers of the King of
Castile, with 800 other Spanish gentlemen, were serving under the
banners of the Muslim in Tunis. The knightly ideal of both Moors and
Spaniards was to be
"Like steel among swords,
Like wax among ladies."
Hospitality, generosity, magnanimity, the protection of the weak,
punctilious observance of the plighted faith, pride of birth and
lineage, glory in personal valor--these were the knightly virtues common
to Arab and Christian warriors. Antar and his knights, Ibla and her
maidens, are the Oriental counterparts of Launcelot and Arthur, of
Guinevere and Iseult.
The primary duty of the early Arab was blood-revenge. An insult to
himself, or an injury to the tribe, must be wiped out with the blood of
the offender. Hence arose the multitude of tribal feuds. It was Muhammad
who first checked the private feud by fixing "the price of blood" to be
paid by the aggressor or by his tribe. In the time of Antar revenge was
the foremost duty. Ideals of excellence change as circumstances alter.
Virtues go out of fashion (like the magnificence of Aristotle), or
acquire an entirely new importance (as veracity, since England became a
trading nation). Some day we may possess a natural history of
the virtues.
The service of the loved one by the early Arab was a passion completely
different from the vain gallantry of the mediæval knight of Europe. He
sought for the complete possession of his chosen mistress, and was eager
to earn it by multitudes of chivalric deeds; but he could not have
understood the sentimentalities of the Troubadours. The systematic
fantasies of the "Courts of Love" would have seemed cold follies to Arab
chivalry--as indeed they are, though they have led to something better.
In generosity, in magnanimity, the Arab knight far surpassed his
European brother. Hospitality was a point of honor to both. As to the
noble Arabs of those days, when any one demanded their protection, no
one ever inquired what was the matter; for if he asked any questions, it
would be said of him that he was afraid. The poets have thus described
them in verse:--
"They rise when any one calls out to them, and
they haste before asking any questions;
they aid him against his enemies
that seek his life, and they return
honored to their families."
The Arab was the knight of the tent and the desert. His deeds were
immediately known to his fellows; discussed and weighed in every
household of his tribe. The Christian knight of the Middle Ages, living
isolated in his stronghold, was less immediately affected by the
opinions of his class. Tribal allegiance was developed in the first
case, independence in the second.
Scholars tell us that the romance of 'Antar' is priceless for faithful
pictures of the times before the advent of Muhammad, which are confirmed
by all that remains of the poetry of "the days of ignorance." To the
general reader its charm lies in its bold and simple stories of
adventure; in its childlike enjoyment of the beauty of Nature; in its
pictures of the elemental passions of ambition, pride, love, hate,
revenge. Antar was a poet, a lover, a warrior, a born leader. From a
keeper of camels he rose to be the protector of the tribe of Abs and the
pattern of chivalry, by virtue of great natural powers and in the face
of every obstacle. He won possession of his Ibla and gave her the dower
of a queen, by adventures the like of which were never known before.
There were no Ifrits or Genii to come to his aid, as in the 'Thousand
Nights and a Night.' 'Antar' is the epic of success crowning human
valor; the tales in the 'Arabian Nights,' at their best, are the fond
fancies of the fatalist whose best endeavor is at the mercy of every
capricious Jinni.
The 'Arabian Nights' contains one tale of the early Arabs,--the story of
Gharib and his brother Ajib,--which repeats some of the exploits of
Antar; a tale far inferior to the romance. The excellences of the
'Arabian Nights' are of another order. We must look for them in the
pompous enchantments of the City of Brass, or in the tender constancy of
Aziz and Azizah, or in the tale of Hasan of Bassorah, with its lovely
study of the friendship of a foster-sister, and its wonderful
presentment of the magic surroundings of the country of the Jann.
To select specimens from 'Antar' is like selecting from 'Robinson
Crusoe.' In the romance, Antar's adventures go on and on, and the
character of the hero develops before one's eyes. It may be that the
leisure of the desert is needed fully to appreciate this master-work.
[Illustration: Signature: EDWARD S. HOLDEN]
THE VALOR OF ANTAR
Now Antar was becoming a big boy, and grew up, and used to accompany his
mother, Zebeeba, to the pastures, and he watched the cattle; and this he
continued to do till he increased in stature. He used to walk and run
about to harden himself, till at length his muscles were strengthened,
his frame altogether more robust, his bones more firm and solid, and his
speech correct. His days were passed in roaming about the mountain
sides; and thus he continued till he attained his tenth year.
[He now kills a wolf which had attacked his father's flocks,
and breaks into verse to celebrate his victory:--]
_O thou wolf, eager for death, I have left thee wallowing in dust, and
spoiled of life; thou wouldst have the run of my flocks, but I have left
thee dyed with blood; thou wouldst disperse my sheep, and thou knowest I
am a lion that never fears. This is the way I treat thee, thou dog of
the desert. Hast thou ever before seen battle and wars?_
[His next adventure brought him to the notice of the chief of
the tribe,--King Zoheir. A slave of Prince Shas insulted a
poor, feeble woman who was tending her sheep; on which Antar
"dashed him against the ground. And his length and breadth
were all one mass." This deed won for Antar the hatred of
Prince Shas, the friendship of the gentle Prince Malik, and
the praise of the king, their father. "This valiant fellow,"
said the king, "has defended the honor of women."]
From that day both King Zoheir and his son Malik conceived a great
affection for Antar, and as Antar returned home, the women all collected
around him to ask him what had happened; among them were his aunts and
his cousin, whose name was Ibla. Now Ibla was younger than Antar, and a
merry lass. She was lovely as the moon at its full; and perfectly
beautiful and elegant.... One day he entered the house of his uncle
Malik and found his aunt combing his cousin Ibla's hair, which flowed
down her back, dark as the shades of night. Antar was quite surprised;
he was greatly agitated, and could pay no attention to anything; he was
anxious and thoughtful, and his anguish daily became more oppressive.
[Meeting her at a feast, he addressed her in verse:--]
_The lovely virgin has struck my heart with the arrow of a glance, for
which there is no cure. Sometimes she wishes for a feast in the
sandhills, like a fawn whose eyes are full of magic. She moves; I should
say it was the branch of the Tamarisk that waves its branches to the
southern breeze. She approaches; I should say it was the frightened
fawn, when a calamity alarms it in the waste_.
When Ibla heard from Antar this description of her charms, she was in
astonishment. But Antar continued in this state for days and nights, his
love and anguish ever increasing.
[Antar resolves to be either tossed upon the spear-heads or
numbered among the noble; and he wanders into the plain of
lions.]
As soon as Antar found himself in it, he said to himself, Perhaps I
shall now find a lion, and I will slay him. Then, behold a lion appeared
in the middle of the valley; he stalked about and roared aloud; wide
were his nostrils, and fire flashed from his eyes; the whole valley
trembled at every gnash of his fangs--he was a calamity, and his claws
more dreadful than the deadliest catastrophe--thunder pealed as he
roared--vast was his strength, and his force dreadful--broad were his
paws, and his head immense. Just at that moment Shedad and his brothers
came up. They saw Antar address the lion, and heard the verses that he
repeated; he sprang forward like a hailstorm, and hissed at him like a
black serpent--he met the lion as he sprang and outroared his bellow;
then, giving a dreadful shriek, he seized hold of his mouth with his
hand, and wrenched it open to his shoulders, and he shouted aloud--the
valley and the country round echoed back the war.
[Those who were watching were astonished at his prowess, and
began to fear Antar. The horsemen now set off to attack the
tribe of Temeem, leaving the slaves to guard the women.]
Antar was in transports on seeing Ibla appear with the other women. She
was indeed like an amorous fawn; and when Antar was attending her, he
was overwhelmed in the ocean of his love, and became the slave of her
sable tresses. They sat down to eat, and the wine-cups went merrily
round. It was the spring of the year, when the whole land shone in all
its glory; the vines hung luxuriantly in the arbors; the flowers shed
around ambrosial fragrance; every hillock sparkled in the beauty of its
colors; the birds in responsive melody sang sweetly from each bush, and
harmony issued from their throats; the ground was covered with flowers
and herbs; while the nightingales filled the air with their
softest notes.
[While the maidens were singing and sporting, lo! on a sudden
appeared a cloud of dust walling the horizon, and a vast
clamor arose. A troop of horses and their riders, some
seventy in number, rushed forth to seize the women, and made
them prisoners. Antar instantly rescues Ibla from her captors
and engages the enemy.]
He rushed forward to meet them, and harder than flint was his heart, and
in his attack was their fate and destiny. He returned home, taking with
him five-and-twenty horses, and all the women and children. Now the
hatred of Semeeah (his stepmother) was converted into love and
tenderness, and he became dearer to her than sleep.
[He had thenceforward a powerful ally in her, a fervent
friend in Prince Malik, a wily counselor in his brother
Shiboob. And Antar made great progress in Ibla's heart, from
the verses that he spoke in her praise; such verses as
these:--]
_I love thee with the love of a noble-born hero; and I am content with
thy imaginary phantom. Thou art my sovereign in my very blood; and my
mistress; and in thee is all my confidence_.
[Antar's astonishing valor gained him the praise of the noble
Absian knights, and he was emboldened to ask his father
Shedad to acknowledge him for his son, that he might become a
chief among the Arabs. Shedad, enraged, drew his sword and
rushed upon Antar to kill him, but was prevented by Semeeah.
Antar, in the greatest agony of spirit, was ashamed that the
day should dawn on him after this refusal, or that he should
remain any longer in the country. He mounted his horse, put
on his armor, and traveled on till he was far from the tents,
and he knew not whither he was going.]
Antar had proceeded some way, when lo! a knight rushed out from the
ravines in the rocks, mounted on a dark-colored colt, beautiful and
compact, and of a race much prized among the Arabs; his hoofs were as
flat as the beaten coin; when he neighed he seemed as if about to speak,
and his ears were like quills; his sire was Wasil and his dam Hemama.
When Antar cast his eye upon the horse, and observed his speed and his
paces, he felt that no horse could surpass him, so his whole heart and
soul longed for him. And when the knight perceived that Antar was making
toward him, he spurred his horse and it fled beneath him; for this was a
renowned horseman called Harith, the son of Obad, and he was a
valiant hero.
[By various devices Antar became possessed of the noble horse
Abjer, whose equal no prince or emperor could boast of. His
mettle was soon tried in an affray with the tribe of Maan,
headed by the warrior Nakid, who was ferocious as a lion.]
When Nakid saw the battle of Antar, and how alone he stood against five
thousand, and was making them drink of the cup of death and perdition,
he was overwhelmed with astonishment at his deeds. "Thou valiant slave,"
he cried, "how powerful is thine arm--how strong thy wrist!" And he
rushed down upon Antar. And Antar presented himself before him, for he
was all anxiety to meet him. "O thou base-born!" cried Nakid. But Antar
permitted him not to finish his speech, before he assaulted him with the
assault of a lion, and roared at him; he was horrified and paralyzed at
the sight of Antar. Antar attacked him, thus scared and petrified, and
struck him with his sword on the head, and cleft him down the back; and
he fell, cut in twain, from the horse, and he was split in two as if by
a balance; and as Antar dealt the blow he cried out, "Oh, by Abs! oh, by
Adnan! I am ever the lover of Ibla." No sooner did the tribe of Maan
behold Antar's blow, than every one was seized with fear and dismay. The
whole five thousand made an attack like the attack of a single man; but
Antar received them as the parched ground receives the first of the
rain. His eyeballs were fiery red, and foam issued from his lips;
whenever he smote he cleft the head; every warrior he assailed, he
annihilated; he tore a rider from the back of his horse, he heaved him
on high, and whirling him in the air he struck down another with him,
and the two instantly expired. "By thine eyes, Ibla," he cried, "to-day
will I destroy all this race." Thus he proceeded until he terrified the
warriors, and hurled them into woe and disgrace, hewing off their arms
and their joints.
[At the moment of Antar's victory his friends arrive to see
his triumph. On his way back with them he celebrates his love
for Ibla in verses.]
_When the breezes blow from Mount Saadi, their freshness calms the fire
of my love and transports.... Her throat complains of the darkness of
her necklaces. Alas! the effects of that throat and that necklace! Will
fortune ever, O daughter of Malik, ever bless me with thy embrace, that
would cure my heart of the sorrows of love? If my eye could see her
baggage camels, and her family, I would rub my cheeks on the hoofs of
her camels. I will kiss the earth where thou art; mayhap the fire of my
love and ecstasy may be quenched.... I am the well-known Antar, the
chief of his tribe, and I shall die; but when I am gone, histories shall
tell of me_.
[From that day forth Antar was named Abool-fawaris, that is
to say, the father of horsemen. His sword, Dhami--the
trenchant--was forged from a meteor that fell from the sky;
it was two cubits long and two spans wide. If it were
presented to Nushirvan, King of Persia, he would exalt the
giver with favors; or if it were presented to the Emperor of
Europe, one would be enriched with treasures of gold and
silver.]
As soon as Gheidac saw the tribe of Abs, and Antar the destroyer of
horsemen, his heart was overjoyed and he cried out, "This is a glorious
morning; to-day will I take my revenge." So he assailed the tribe of Abs
and Adnan, and his people attacked behind him like a cloud when it pours
forth water and rains. And the Knight of Abs assaulted them likewise,
anxious to try his sword, the famous Dhami. And Antar fought with
Gheidac, and wearied him, and shouted at him, and filled him with
horror; then assailed him so that stirrup grated stirrup; and he struck
him on the head with Dhami. He cleft his visor and wadding, and his
sword played away between the eyes, passing through his shoulders down
to the back of the horse, even down to the ground; and he and his horse
made four pieces; and to the strictest observer, it would appear that he
had divided them with scales. And God prospered Antar in all that he
did, so that he slew all he aimed at, and overthrew all he touched.
"Nobility," said Antar, "among liberal men, is the thrust of the spear,
the blow of the sword, and patience beneath the battle-dust. I am the
physician of the tribe of Abs in sickness, their protector in disgrace,
the defender of their wives when they are in trouble, their horseman
when they are in glory, and their sword when they rush to arms."
[This was Antar's speech to Monzar, King of the Arabs, when
he was in search of Ibla's dowry. He found it in the land of
Irak, where the magnificent Chosroe was ready to reward him
even to the half of his kingdom, for his victory over the
champion of the Emperor of Europe.]
"All this grandeur, and all these gifts," said Antar, "have no value to
me, no charm in my eyes. Love of my native land is the fixed passion
of my soul."
"Do not imagine," said Chosroe, "that we have been able duly to
recompense you. What we have given you is perishable, as everything
human is, but your praises and your poems will endure forever."
[Antar's wars made him a Nocturnal Calamity to the foes of
his tribe. He was its protector and the champion of its
women, "for Antar was particularly solicitous in the cause of
women." His generosity knew no bounds. "Antar immediately
presented the whole of the spoil to his father and his
uncles; and all the tribe of Abs were astonished at his noble
conduct and filial love." His hospitality was universal; his
magnanimity without limit. "Do not bear malice, O Shiboob.
Renounce it; for no good ever came of malice. Violence is
infamous; its result is ever uncertain, and no one can act
justly when actuated by hatred. Let my heart support every
evil, and let my patience endure till I have subdued all my
foes." Time after time he won new dowries for Ibla, even
bringing the treasures of Persia to her feet. Treacheries
without count divided him from his promised bride. Over and
over again he rescued her from the hands of the enemy; and
not only her, but her father and her hostile kinsmen.
At last (in the fourth volume, on the fourteen hundred and
fifty-third page) Antar makes his wedding feasts.]
"I wish to make at Ibla's wedding five separate feasts; I will feed the
birds and the beasts, the men and the women, the girls and the boys, and
not a single person shall remain in the whole country but shall eat at
Ibla's marriage festival."
Antar was at the summit of his happiness and delight, congratulating
himself on his good fortune and perfect felicity, all trouble and
anxiety being now banished from his heart. Praise be to God, the
dispenser of all grief from the hearts of virtuous men.
[The three hundred and sixty tribes of the Arabs were invited
to the feast, and on the eighth day the assembled chiefs
presented their gifts--horses, armor, slaves, perfumes, gold,
velvet, camels. The number of slaves Antar received that day
was five-and-twenty hundred, to each of whom he gave a
damsel, a horse, and weapons. And they all mounted when he
rode out, and halted when he halted.]
Now when all the Arab chiefs had presented their offerings, each
according to his circumstances, Antar rose, and called out to
Mocriul-Wahsh:--"O Knight of Syria," said he, "let all the he and she
camels, high-priced horses, and all the various rarities I have received
this day, be a present from me to you. But the perfumes of ambergris,
and fragrant musk, belong to my cousin Ibla; and the slaves shall form
my army and troops." And the Arab chiefs marveled at his generosity....
And now Ibla was clothed in the most magnificent garments, and superb
necklaces; they placed the coronet of Chosroe on her head, and tiaras
round her forehead. They lighted brilliant and scented candles before
her--the perfumes were scattered--the torches blazed--and Ibla came
forth in state. All present gave a shout; while the malicious and
ill-natured cried aloud, "What a pity that one so beautiful and fair
should be wedded to one so black!"
[The selections are from Hamilton's translation. Two long
episodes in 'Antar' are especially noteworthy: the famous
horse race between the champions of the tribes of Abs and
Fazarah (Vol. iv., Chapter 33), and the history of Khalid and
Jaida (Vol. ii., Chapter 11).]
LUCIUS APULEIUS
(Second Century A. D.)
Lucius Apuleius, author of the brilliant Latin novel 'The
Metamorphoses,' also called 'The [Golden] Ass,'--and more generally
known under that title,--will be remembered when many greater writers
shall have been forgotten. The downfall of Greek political freedom
brought a period of intellectual development fertile in prose
story-telling,--short fables and tales, novels philosophic and
religious, historical and satiric, novels of love, novels of adventure.
Yet, strange to say, while the instinct was prolific in the Hellenic
domain of the Roman Empire, it was for the most part sterile in Italy,
though Roman life was saturated with the influence of Greek culture. Its
only two notable examples are Petronius Arbiter and Apuleius, both of
whom belong to the first two centuries of the Christian epoch.
[Illustration: Apuleius]
The suggestion of the plan of the novel familiarly known as 'The Golden
Ass' was from a Greek source, Lucius of Patræ. The original version was
still extant in the days of Photius, Patriarch of the Greek Church in
the ninth century. Lucian, the Greek satirist, also utilized the same
material in a condensed form in his 'Lucius, or the Ass.' But Apuleius
greatly expanded the legend, introduced into it numerous episodes, and
made it the background of a vivid picture of the manners and customs of
a corrupt age. Yet underneath its lively portraiture there runs a
current of mysticism at variance with the naïve rehearsal of the hero's
adventures, and this has tempted critics to find a hidden meaning in the
story. Bishop Warburton, in his 'Divine Legation of Moses,' professes to
see in it a defense of Paganism at the expense of struggling
Christianity. While this seems absurd, it is fairly evident that the
mind of the author was busied with something more than the mere
narration of rollicking adventure, more even than a satire on Roman
life. The transformation of the hero into an ass, at the moment when he
was plunging headlong into a licentious career, and the recovery of his
manhood again through divine intervention, suggest a serious symbolism.
The beautiful episode of 'Cupid and Psyche,' which would lend salt to a
production far more corrupt, is also suggestive. Apuleius perfected this
wild flower of ancient folk-lore into a perennial plant that has
blossomed ever since along the paths of literature and art. The story
has been accepted as a fitting embodiment of the struggle of the soul
toward a higher perfection; yet, strange to say, the episode is narrated
with as brutal a realism as if it were a satire of Lucian, and its style
is belittled with petty affectations of rhetoric. It is the enduring
beauty of the conception that has continued to fascinate. Hence we may
say of 'The Golden Ass' in its entirety, that whether readers are
interested in esoteric meanings to be divined, or in the author's vivid
sketches of his own period, the novel has a charm which long centuries
have failed to dim.
Apuleius was of African birth and of good family, his mother having come
of Plutarch's blood. The second century of the Roman Empire, when he
lived (he was born at Madaura about A. D. 139), was one of the most
brilliant periods in history,--brilliant in its social gayety, in its
intellectual activities, and in the splendor of its achievements. The
stimulus of the age spurred men far in good and evil. Apuleius studied
at Carthage, and afterward at Rome, both philosophy and religion, though
this bias seems not to have dulled his taste for worldly pleasure. Poor
in purse, he finally enriched himself by marrying a wealthy widow and
inheriting her property. Her will was contested on the ground that this
handsome and accomplished young literary man had exercised magic in
winning his elderly bride! The successful defense of Apuleius before his
judges--a most diverting composition, so jaunty and full of witty
impertinences that it is evident he knew the hard-headed Roman judges
would dismiss the prosecution as a farce--is still extant under the name
of 'The Apology; or, Concerning Magic.' This in after days became oddly
jumbled with the story of 'The Golden Ass' and its transformations, so
that St. Augustine was inclined to believe Apuleius actually a species
of professional wizard.
The plot of 'The Golden Ass' is very simple. Lucius of Madaura, a young
man of property, sets out on his travels to sow his wild oats. He
pursues this pleasant occupation with the greatest zeal according to the
prevailing mode: he is no moralist. The partner of his first intrigue is
the maid of a woman skilled in witchcraft. The curiosity of Lucius being
greatly exercised about the sorceress and her magic, he importunes the
girl to procure from her mistress a magic salve which will transform him
at will into an owl. By mistake he receives the wrong salve; and instead
of the bird metamorphosis which he had looked for, he undergoes an
unlooked-for change into an ass. In this guise, and in the service of
various masters, he has opportunities of observing the follies of men
from a novel standpoint. His adventures are numerous, and he hears many
strange stories, the latter being chronicled as episodes in the record
of his experiences. At last the goddess Isis appears in a dream, and
obligingly shows him the way to effect his second metamorphosis, by aid
of the high priest of her temple, where certain mysteries are about to
be celebrated. Lucius is freed from his disguise, and is initiated into
the holy rites.
'The Golden Ass' is full of dramatic power and variety. The succession
of incident, albeit grossly licentious at times, engages the interest
without a moment's dullness. The main narrative, indeed, is no less
entertaining than the episodes. The work became a model for
story-writers of a much later period, even to the times of Fielding and
Smollett. Boccaccio borrowed freely from it; at least one of the many
humorous exploits of Cervantes's 'Don Quixote' can be attributed to an
adventure of Lucius; while 'Gil Blas' abounds in reminiscences of the
Latin novel. The student of folk-lore will easily detect in the tasks
imposed by Venus on her unwelcome daughter-in-law, in the episode of
'Cupid and Psyche,' the possible original from which the like fairy
tales of Europe drew many a suggestion. Probably Apuleius himself was
indebted to still earlier Greek sources.
Scarcely any Latin production was more widely known and studied from the
beginning of the Italian Renaissance to the middle of the seventeenth
century. In its style, however, it is far from classic. It is full of
archaisms and rhetorical conceits. In striving to say things finely, the
author frequently failed to say them well. This fault, however, largely
disappears in the translation; and whatever may be the literary defects
of the novel, it offers rich compensation in the liveliness, humor, and
variety of its substance.
In addition to 'The Golden Ass,' the extant writings of Apuleius include
'Florida' (an anthology from his own works), 'The God of Socrates,' 'The
Philosophy of Plato,' and 'Concerning the World,' a treatise once
attributed to Aristotle. The best modern edition of his complete works
is that of Hildebrand (Leipzig, 1842); of the 'Metamorphoses,' that of
Eyssenhardt (Berlin, 1869). There have been many translations into the
modern languages. The best English versions are those of T. Taylor
(London, 1822); of Sir G. Head, somewhat expurgated (London, 1851); and
an unsigned translation published in the Bohn Library, which has been
drawn on for this work, but greatly rewritten as too stiff and prolix,
and in the conversations often wholly unnatural. A very pretty edition
in French, with many illustrations, is that of Savalète (Paris, 1872).
THE TALE OF ARISTOMENES, THE COMMERCIAL TRAVELER
From 'The Metamorphoses'
I am a native of Ægina, and I travel in Thessaly, Ætolia, and Boeotia to
purchase honey of Hypata, cheese, and other articles used in cookery.
Having heard that at Hypata, the principal city of Thessaly,
fine-flavored new cheese was for sale cheap, I made the best of my way
there to buy it all up. But as usual, happening to start left foot
foremost, which is unlucky, all my hopes of profit came to nothing; for
a fellow named Lupus, a merchant who does things on a big scale, had
bought the whole of it the day before.
Weary with my hurried journey to no purpose, I was going early in the
evening to the public baths, when to my surprise I espied an old
companion of mine named Socrates. He was sitting on the ground, half
covered with a rag-tag cloak, and looking like somebody else, he was so
miserably wan and thin,--in fact, just like a street beggar; so that
though he used to be my friend and close acquaintance, I had two minds
about speaking to him.
"How now, friend Socrates!" said I: "what does this mean? Why are you
tricked out like this? What crime have you been guilty of? Why, you
look as though your family had given you up for dead and held your
funeral long ago, the probate judge had appointed guardians for your
children, and your wife, disfigured by her long mourning, having cried
herself almost blind, was being worried by her parents to sit up and
take notice of things, and look for a new marriage. Yet now, all of a
sudden, here you come before us like a wretched ghost from the dead, to
turn everything upside down.'"
"O Aristomenes!" said he, "it's clear that you don't know the slippery
turns, the freaks, and the never-ending tricks of fortune."
As he said this, he hid his face, crimson with shame, in his one garment
of patches and tatters. I could not bear such a miserable sight, and
tried to raise him from the ground. But he kept saying with his head all
covered up, "Let me alone! let me alone! let Fortune have her way
with me!"
However, I finally persuaded him to go with me; and at the same time
pulling off one of my own garments, I speedily clothed him, or at any
rate covered him. I next took him to a bath, scrubbed and oiled him
myself, and laboriously rubbed the matted dirt off him. Having done all
I could, though tired out myself, I supported his feeble steps, and with
great difficulty brought him to my inn. There I made him lie down on a
bed, gave him plenty of food, braced him up with wine, and entertained
him with the news of the day. Pretty soon our conversation took a merry
turn; we cracked jokes, and grew noisy as we chattered. All of a sudden,
heaving a bitter sigh from the bottom of his chest, and striking his
forehead violently with his right hand, he said:--
"Miserable wretch that I am, to have got into such a predicament while
having a good time at a gladiatorial show! As you know, I went to
Macedonia on business; it took me ten months; I was on my way home with
a very neat sum of money, and had nearly reached Larissa, which I
included in my route in order to see the show I mentioned, when I was
attacked by robbers in a lonely valley, and only escaped after losing
everything I had. In my distress I betook myself to a certain woman
named Meroë, who kept a tavern (and who, though rather old, was very
good-looking), and told her about my long absence, my earnest desire to
reach home, and my being robbed that very day. She treated me with the
greatest kindness, gave me a good supper for nothing, and then let me
make love to her. But from the very moment that I was such a fool as to
dally with her, my mind seemed to desert me. I even gave her the clothes
which the robbers in common decency had left me, and the little earnings
I made there by working as cloakmaker so long as I was in good physical
condition; until at length this kind friend, and bad luck together,
reduced me to the state you just now found me in."
"By Pollux, then," said I, "you deserve to suffer the very worst
misfortunes (if there be anything worse than the worst), for having
preferred a wrinkled old reprobate to your home and children."
"Hush! hush!" said he, putting his forefinger on his lips, and looking
round with a terror-stricken face to see if we were alone. "Beware of
reviling a woman skilled in the black art, for fear of doing yourself a
mischief."
"Say you so?" said I. "What kind of a woman is this innkeeper, so
powerful and dreadful?"
"She is a sorceress," he replied, "and possessed of magic powers; she
can draw down the heavens, make the earth heave, harden the running
water, dissolve mountains, raise the shades of the dead, dethrone the
gods, extinguish the stars, and set the very depths of Tartarus ablaze!"
"Come, come!" said I: "end this tragic talk, fold up your theatrical
drop-scenes, and let us hear your story in every-day language."
"Should you like," said he, "to hear of one or two, yes, or a great many
of her performances? Why, to make not only her fellow-countrymen, but
the Indians, the Ethiopians, or even the Antipodeans, love her to
distraction, are only the easy lessons of her art, as it were, and mere
trifles. Listen to what she has done before many witnesses. By a single
word she changed a lover into a beaver, because he had gone to another
flame. She changed an innkeeper, a neighbor of hers she was envious of,
into a frog; and now the old fellow, swimming about in a cask of his own
wine, or buried in the dregs, croaks hoarsely to his old
customers,--quite in the way of business. She changed another person, a
lawyer from the Forum, into a ram, because he had conducted a suit
against her; to this very day that ram is always butting about. Finally,
however, public indignation was aroused by so many people coming to harm
through her arts; and the very next day had been fixed upon to wreak a
fearful vengeance on her, by stoning her to death. She frustrated the
design by her enchantments. You remember how Medea, having got Creon to
allow her just one day before her departure, burned his whole palace,
with himself and his daughter in it, by means of flames issuing from a
garland? Well, this sorceress, having performed certain deadly
incantations in a ditch (she told me so herself in a drunken fit),
confined everybody in the town each in his own house for two whole days,
by a secret spell of the demons. The bars could not be wrenched off, nor
the doors taken off the hinges, nor even a breach made in the walls. At
last, by common consent, the people all swore they would not lift a hand
against her, and would come to her defense if any one else did. She then
liberated the whole city. But in the middle of the night she conveyed
the author of the conspiracy, with all his house, close barred as it
was,--the walls, the very ground, and even the foundations,--to another
city a hundred miles off, on the top of a craggy mountain, and so
without water. And as the houses of the inhabitants were built so close
together that there was not room for the new-comer, she threw down the
house before the gate of the city and took her departure."
"You narrate marvelous things," said I, "my good Socrates; and no less
terrible than marvelous. In fact, you have excited no small anxiety
(indeed I may say fear) in me too; not a mere grain of apprehension, but
a piercing dread for fear this old hag should come to know our
conversation in the same way, by the help of some demon. Let us get to
bed without delay; and when we have rested ourselves by a little sleep,
let us fly as far as we possibly can before daylight."
While I was still advising him thus, the worthy Socrates, overcome by
more wine than he was used to and by his fatigue, had fallen asleep and
was snoring loudly. I shut the door, drew the bolts, and placing my bed
close against the hinges, tossed it up well and lay down on it. I lay
awake some time through fear, but closed my eyes at last a little
before midnight.
I had just fallen asleep, when suddenly the door was burst open with
such violence that it was evidently not done by robbers; the hinges were
absolutely broken and wrenched off, and it was thrown to the ground. The
small bedstead, minus one foot and rotten, was also upset by the shock;
and falling upon me, who had been rolled out on the floor, it completely
covered and hid me. Then I perceived that certain emotions can be
excited by exactly opposite causes; for as tears often come from joy,
so, in spite of my terror, I could not help laughing to see myself
turned from Aristomenes into a tortoise. As I lay on the floor,
completely covered by the bed, and peeping out to see what was the
matter, I saw two old women, one carrying a lighted lamp and the other a
sponge and a drawn sword, plant themselves on either side of Socrates,
who was fast asleep.
The one with the sword said to the other:--"This, sister Panthea, is my
dear Endymion, my Ganymede, who by day and by night has laughed my youth
to scorn. This is he who, despising my passion, not only defames me with
abusive language, but is preparing also for flight; and I forsooth,
deserted through the craft of this Ulysses, like another Calypso, am to
be left to lament in eternal loneliness!"
Then extending her right hand, and pointing me out to her friend
Panthea:--
"And there," said she, "is his worthy counselor, Aristomenes, who was
the planner of this flight, and who now, half dead, is lying flat on the
ground under the bedstead and looking at all that is going on, while he
fancies that he is to tell scandalous stories of me with impunity. I'll
take care, however, that some day, aye, and before long, too,--this very
instant, in fact,--he shall repent of his recent chatter and his present
curiosity."
On hearing this I felt myself streaming with cold perspiration, and my
heart began to throb so violently that even the bedstead danced on
my back.
"Well, sister," said the worthy Panthea, "shall we hack him to pieces at
once, like the Bacchanals, or tie his limbs and mutilate him?"
To this Meroë replied,--and I saw from what was happening, as well as
from what Socrates had told, how well the name fitted her,--"Rather let
him live, if only to cover the body of this wretched creature with a
little earth."
Then, moving Socrates's head to one side, she plunged the sword into his
throat up to the hilt, catching the blood in a small leathern bottle so
carefully that not a drop of it was to be seen. All this I saw with my
own eyes. The worthy Meroë--in order, I suppose, not to omit any due
observance in the sacrifice of the victim--then thrust her right hand
through the wound, and drew forth the heart of my unhappy companion. His
windpipe being severed, he emitted a sort of indistinct gurgling noise,
and poured forth his breath with his bubbling blood. Panthea then
stopped the gaping wound with a sponge, exclaiming, "Beware, O sea-born
sponge, how thou dost pass through a river!"
When she had said this, they lifted my bed from the ground, and dashed
over me a mass of filth.
Hardly had they passed over the threshold when the door resumed its
former state. The hinges settled back on the panels, the posts returned
to the bars, and the bolts flew back to their sockets again. I lay
prostrate on the ground in a squalid plight, terrified, naked, cold, and
drenched. Indeed, I was half dead, though still alive; and pursued a
train of reflections like one already in the grave, or to say the least
on the way to the cross, to which I was surely destined. "What," said I,
"will become of me, when this man is found in the morning with his
throat cut? If I tell the truth, who will believe a word of the story?
'You ought at least,' they will say, 'to have called for help, if as
strong a man as you are could not withstand a woman! Is a man's throat
to be cut before your eyes, and you keep silence? Why was it that you
were not assassinated too? How did the villains come to spare you, a
witness of the murder? They would naturally kill you, if only to put an
end to all evidence of the crime. Since your escape from death was
against reason, return to it.'"
I said these things to myself over and over again, while the night was
fast verging toward day. It seemed best to me, therefore, to escape on
the sly before daylight and pursue my journey, though I was all in a
tremble. I took up my bundle, put the key in the door, and drew back the
bolts. But this good and faithful door, which had opened of its own
accord in the night, would not open now till I had tried the key again
and again.
"Hallo, porter!" said I, "where are you? Open the gate, I want to be off
before daybreak."
The porter, who was lying on the ground behind the door, only grunted,
"Why do you want to begin a journey at this time of night? Don't you
know the roads are infested by robbers? You may have a mind to meet your
death,--perhaps your conscience stings you for some crime you have
committed; but I haven't a head like a pumpkin, that I should die for
your sake!"
"It isn't very far from daybreak," said I; "and besides, what can
robbers take from a traveler in utter poverty? Don't _you_ know, you
fool, that a naked man can't be stripped by ten athletes?"
The drowsy porter turned over and answered;--"And how am I to know but
what you have murdered that fellow-traveler of yours that you came here
with last night, and are running away to save yourself? And now I
remember that I saw Tartarus through a hole in the earth just at that
hour, and Cerberus looking ready to eat me up."
Then I came to the conclusion that the worthy Meroë had not spared my
throat out of pity, but to reserve me for the cross. So, on returning to
my chamber, I thought over some speedy method of putting an end to
myself; but fortune had provided me with no weapon for self-destruction,
except the bedstead. "Now, bedstead," said I, "most dear to my soul,
partner with me in so many sorrows, fully conscious and a spectator of
this night's events, and whom alone when accused I can adduce as a
witness of my innocence--do thou supply me (who would fain hasten to the
shades below) a welcome instrument of death."
Thus saying, I began to undo the bed-cord. I threw one end of it over a
small beam projecting above the window, fastened it there, and made a
slip-knot at the other end. Then I mounted on the bed, and thus elevated
for my own destruction, put my head into the noose and kicked away my
support with one foot; so that the noose, tightened about my throat by
the strain of my weight, might stop my breath. But the rope, which was
old and rotten, broke in two; and falling from aloft, I tumbled heavily
upon Socrates, who was lying close by, and rolled with him on the floor.
Lo and behold! at that very instant the porter burst into the room,
bawling out, "Where are you, you who were in such monstrous haste to be
off at midnight, and now lie snoring, rolled up in the bed-clothes?"
At these words--whether awakened by my fall or by the rasping voice of
the porter, I know not--Socrates was the first to start up; and he
exclaimed, "Evidently travelers have good reason for detesting these
hostlers. This nuisance here, breaking in without being asked,--most
likely to steal something,--has waked me out of a sound sleep by his
outrageous bellowing."
On hearing him speak I jumped up briskly, in an ecstasy of unhoped-for
joy:--"Faithfulest of porters," I exclaimed, "my friend, my own father,
and my brother,--behold him whom you, in your drunken fit, falsely
accuse me of having murdered."
So saying, I embraced Socrates, and was for loading him with kisses; but
he repulsed me with considerable violence. "Get out with you!" he cried.
Sorely confused, I trumped up some absurd story on the spur of the
moment, to give another turn to the conversation, and taking him by the
right hand--
"Why not be off," said I, "and enjoy the freshness of the morning on our
journey?"
So I took my bundle, and having paid the innkeeper for our night's
lodging, we started on our road.
We had gone some little distance, and now, everything being illumined by
the beams of the rising sun, I keenly and attentively examined that part
of my companion's neck into which I had seen the sword plunged.
"Foolish man," said I to myself, "buried in your cups, you certainly
have had a most absurd dream. Why, look: here's Socrates, safe, sound,
and hearty. Where is the wound? Where is the sponge? Where is the scar
of a gash so deep and so recent?"
Addressing myself to him, I remarked, "No wonder the doctors say that
hideous and ominous dreams come only to people stuffed with food and
liquor. My own case is a good instance. I went beyond moderation in my
drinking last evening, and have passed a wretched night full of shocking
and dreadful visions, so that I still fancy myself spattered and defiled
with human gore."
"It is not gore," he replied with a smile, "that you are sprinkled with.
And yet in my sleep I thought my own throat was being cut, and felt some
pain in my neck, and fancied that my very heart was being plucked out.
Even now I am quite faint; my knees tremble; I stagger as I go, and feel
in want of some food to hearten me up."
"Look," cried I, "here is breakfast all ready for you." So saying, I
lifted my wallet from my shoulders, handed him some bread and cheese,
and said, "Let us sit down near that plane-tree." We did so, and I
helped myself to some refreshment. While looking at him more closely, as
he was eating with a voracious appetite, I saw that he was faint, and of
a hue like boxwood. His natural color, in fact, had so forsaken him,
that as I recalled those nocturnal furies to my frightened imagination,
the very first piece of bread I put in my mouth, though exceedingly
small, stuck in the middle of my throat and would pass neither downward
nor upward. Besides, the number of people passing along increased my
fears; for who would believe that one of two companions could meet his
death except at the hands of the other?
Presently, after having gorged himself with food, he began to be
impatient for some drink, for he had bolted the larger part of an
excellent cheese. Not far from the roots of the plane-tree a gentle
stream flowed slowly along, like a placid lake, rivaling silver
or crystal.
"Look," said I: "drink your fill of the water of this stream, bright as
the Milky Way."
He arose, and, wrapping himself in his cloak, with his knees doubled
under him, knelt down upon the shelving bank and bent greedily toward
the water. Scarcely had he touched its surface with his lips, when the
wound in his throat burst open and the sponge rolled out, a few drops of
blood with it; and his lifeless body would have fallen into the river
had I not laid hold of one of his feet, and dragged him with great
difficulty and labor to the top of the bank. There, having mourned my
hapless comrade as much as there was time, I buried him in the sandy
soil that bordered the stream. Then, trembling and terror-stricken, I
fled through various unfrequented places; and as though guilty of
homicide, abandoned my country and my home, embraced a voluntary exile,
and now dwell in Ætolia, where I have married another wife.
Translated for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature.'
THE AWAKENING OF CUPID
[The radical difference in the constituent parts of the
'Golden Ass' is startling, and is well illustrated by the
selection given previously and that which follows. The story
of the "drummer" comports exactly with the modern idea of
realism in fiction: a vivid and unflinching picture of
manners and morals, full of broad coarse humor and worldly
wit. The story of Cupid and Psyche is the purest, daintiest,
most poetic of fancies; in essence a fairy tale that might be
told of an evening by the fire-light in the second century or
the nineteenth, but embodying also a high and beautiful
allegory, and treated with a delicate art which is in extreme
contrast with the body of the 'Golden Ass.' The difference is
almost as striking as between Gray's lampoon on "Jemmy
Twitcher" and his 'Bard' or 'Elegy'; or between
Aristophanes's revels in filth and his ecstatic soarings into
the heavenliest regions of poetry.
The contrast is even more rasping when we remember that the
tale is not put into the mouth of a girl gazing dreamily into
the glowing coals on the hearth, or of some elegant reciter
amusing a social group in a Roman drawing-room or garden,
but of a grizzled hag who is maid of all work in a robbers'
cave. She tells it to divert the mind of a lovely young bride
held for ransom. It begins like a modern fairy tale, with a
great king and queen who had "three daughters of remarkable
beauty," the loveliest being the peerless Psyche. Even Venus
becomes envious of the honors paid to Psyche's charms, and
summons Cupid to wing one of his shafts which shall cause her
"to be seized with the most burning love for the lowest of
mankind," so as to disgrace and ruin her. Cupid undertakes
the task, but instead falls in love with her himself.
Meanwhile an oracle from Apollo, instigated by Venus, dooms
her to be sacrificed in marriage to some unknown aërial
monster, who must find her alone on a naked rock. She is so
placed, awaiting her doom in terror; but the zephyrs bear her
away to the palace of Love. Cupid hides her there, lest Venus
wreak vengeance on them both: and there, half terrified but
soon soothed, in the darkness of night she hears from Cupid
that he, her husband, is no monster, but the fairest of
immortals. He will not disclose his identity, however; not
only so, but he tenderly warns her that she must not seek to
discover it, or even to behold him, till he gives permission,
unless she would bring hopeless disaster on both. Nor must
she confide in her two sisters, lest their unwisdom or sudden
envy cause harm.
The simple-hearted and affectionate girl, however, in her
craving for sympathy, cannot resist the temptation to boast
of her happiness to her sisters. She invites them to pass a
day in her magnificent new home, and tells contradictory
stories about her husband. Alas! they depart bitterly
envious, and plotting to make her ruin her own joy out of
fear and curiosity.]
"What are we to say, sister, [said one to the other] of the monstrous
lies of that silly creature? At one time her husband is a young man,
with the down just showing itself on his chin; at another he is of
middle age, and his hair begins to be silvered with gray.... You may
depend upon it, sister, either the wretch has invented these lies to
deceive us, or else she does not know herself how her husband looks.
Whichever is the case, she must be deprived of these riches as soon as
possible. And yet, if she is really ignorant of her husband's
appearance, she must no doubt have married a god, and who knows what
will happen? At all events, if--which heaven forbid--she does become the
mother of a divine infant, I shall instantly hang myself. Meanwhile let
us return to our parents, and devise some scheme based on what we have
just been saying."
The sisters, thus inflamed with jealousy, called on their parents in a
careless and disdainful manner; and after being kept awake all night by
the turbulence of their spirits, made all haste at morning to the rock,
whence, by the wonted assistance of the breeze, they descended swiftly
to Psyche, and with tears squeezed out by rubbing their eyelids, thus
craftily addressed her:--
"Happy indeed are you, and fortunate in your very ignorance of so heavy
a misfortune. There you sit, without a thought of danger; while we, your
sisters, who watch over your interests with the most vigilant care, are
in anguish at your lost condition. For we have learned as truth, and as
sharers in your sorrows and misfortunes cannot conceal it from you, that
it is an enormous serpent, gliding along in many folds and coils, with a
neck swollen with deadly venom, and prodigious gaping jaws, that
secretly sleeps with you by night. Remember the Pythian Oracle. Besides,
a great many of the husbandmen, who hunt all round the country, and ever
so many of the neighbors, have observed him returning home from his
feeding-place in the evening. All declare, too, that he will not long
continue to pamper you with delicacies, but will presently devour you.
Will you listen to us, who are so anxious for your precious safety, and
avoiding death, live with us secure from danger, or die horribly? But if
you are fascinated by your country home, or by the endearments of a
serpent, we have at all events done our duty toward you, like
affectionate sisters."
Poor, simple, tender-hearted Psyche was aghast with horror at this
dreadful story; and quite bereft of her senses, lost all remembrance of
her husband's admonitions and of her own promises, and hurled herself
headlong into the very abyss of calamity. Trembling, therefore, with
pale and livid cheeks and an almost lifeless voice, she faltered out
these broken words:--
"Dearest sisters, you have acted toward me as you ought, and with your
usual affectionate care; and indeed, it appears to me that those who
gave you this information have not invented a falsehood. For, in fact, I
have never yet beheld my husband's face, nor do I know at all whence he
comes. I only hear him speak in an undertone by night, and have to bear
with a husband of an unknown appearance, and one that has an utter
aversion to the light of day. He may well, therefore, be some monster or
other. Besides, he threatens some shocking misfortune as the consequence
of indulging any curiosity to view his features. So, then, if you are
able to give any aid to your sister in this perilous emergency, don't
delay a moment."
[One of them replies:--]
"Since the ties of blood oblige us to disregard peril when your safety
is to be insured, we will tell you the only means of safety. We have
considered it over and over again. On that side of the bed where you are
used to lie, conceal a very sharp razor; and also hide under the
tapestry a lighted lamp, well trimmed and full of oil. Make these
preparations with the utmost secrecy. After the monster has glided into
bed as usual, when he is stretched out at length, fast asleep and
breathing heavily, as you slide out of bed, go softly along with bare
feet and on tiptoe, and bring out the lamp from its hiding-place; then
having the aid of its light, raise your right hand, bring down the
weapon with all your might, and cut off the head of the creature at the
neck. Then we will bring you away with all these things, and if you
wish, will wed you to a human creature like yourself."
[They then depart, fearing for themselves if they are near
when the catastrophe happens.]
But Psyche, now left alone, except so far as a person who is agitated by
maddening Furies is not alone, fluctuated in sorrow like a stormy sea;
and though her purpose was fixed and her heart was resolute when she
first began to make preparations for the impious work, her mind now
wavered, and feared. She hurried, she procrastinated; now she was bold,
now tremulous; now dubious, now agitated by rage; and what was the most
singular thing of all, in the same being she hated the beast and loved
the husband. Nevertheless, as the evening drew to a close, she hurriedly
prepared the instruments of her enterprise.
The night came, and with it her husband. After he fell asleep, Psyche,
to whose weak body and spirit the cruel influence of fate imparted
unusual strength, uncovered the lamp, and seized the knife with the
courage of a man. But the instant she advanced, she beheld the very
gentlest and sweetest of all creatures, even Cupid himself, the
beautiful God of Love, there fast asleep; at sight of whom, the joyous
flame of the lamp shone with redoubled vigor, and the sacrilegious
dagger repented the keenness of its edge.
But Psyche, losing the control of her senses, faint, deadly pale, and
trembling all over, fell on her knees, and made an attempt to hide the
blade in her own bosom; and this no doubt she would have done had not
the blade, dreading the commission of such a crime, glided out of her
rash hand. And now, faint and unnerved as she was, she felt herself
refreshed at heart by gazing upon the beauty of those divine features.
She looked upon the genial locks of his golden head, teeming with
ambrosial perfume, the circling curls that strayed over his milk-white
neck and roseate cheeks, and fell gracefully entangled, some before and
some behind, causing the very light of the lamp itself to flicker by
their radiant splendor. On the shoulders of the god were dewy wings of
brilliant whiteness; and though the pinions were at rest, yet the tender
down that fringed the feathers wantoned to and fro in tremulous,
unceasing play. The rest of his body was smooth and beautiful, and such
as Venus could not have repented of giving birth to. At the foot of his
bed lay his bow, his quiver, and his arrows, the auspicious weapons of
the mighty god.
While with insatiable wonder and curiosity Psyche is examining and
admiring her husband's weapons, she draws one of the arrows out of the
quiver, and touches the point with the tip of her thumb to try its
sharpness; but happening to press too hard, for her hand still trembled,
she punctured the skin, so that some tiny drops of rosy blood oozed
forth. And thus did Psyche, without knowing it, fall in love with Love.
Then, burning more and more with desire for Cupid, gazing passionately
on his face, and fondly kissing him again and again, her only fear was
lest he should wake too soon.
But while she hung over him, bewildered with delight so overpowering,
the lamp, whether from treachery or baneful envy, or because it longed
to touch, and to kiss as it were, so beautiful an object, spirted a drop
of scalding oil from the summit of its flame upon the right shoulder of
the god.... The god, thus scorched, sprang from the bed, and seeing the
disgraceful tokens of forfeited fidelity, started to fly away, without a
word, from the eyes and arms of his most unhappy wife. But Psyche, the
instant he arose, seized hold of his right leg with both hands, and hung
on to him, a wretched appendage to his flight through the regions of the
air, till at last her strength failed her, and she fell to the earth.
Translation of Bohn Library, revised.
THOMAS AQUINAS
(1226-1274)
BY EDWIN A. PACE
Thomas Aquinas, philosopher and theologian, was born in 1226, at or near
Aquino, in Southern Italy. He received his early training from the
Benedictines of Monte Cassino. Tradition says he was a taciturn and
seemingly dull boy, derisively nicknamed by his fellows "the dumb ox,"
but admired by his teachers. He subsequently entered the University of
Naples. While studying there he joined the Dominican Order, and was sent
later on to Cologne, where he became a pupil of Albertus Magnus. In 1251
he went to Paris, took his degrees in theology, and began his career as
a teacher in the University. His academic work there was continued, with
slight interruptions, till 1261. The eleven years which followed were
spent partly in Rome, where Thomas enjoyed the esteem of Urban IV. and
Clement IV., and partly in the cities of Northern Italy, which he
visited in the interest of his Order. During this period he produced the
greatest of his works, and won such repute as a theologian that the
leading universities made every effort to secure him as a teacher. He
was appointed to a professorship at Naples, where he remained from 1272
until the early part of 1274. Summoned by Gregory X. to take part in the
Council of Lyons, he set out on his journey northward, but was compelled
by illness to stop at Fossa Nuova. Here he died March 7th, 1274. He was
canonized in 1323, and was proclaimed a doctor of the Church by Pius
V. in 1567.
[Illustration: THOMAS AQUINAS]
These honors were merited by a remarkable combination of ability and
virtue. To an absolute purity of life, St. Thomas added an earnest love
of truth and of labor. Calm in the midst of discussion, he was equally
proof against the danger of brilliant success. As the friend of popes
and princes, he might have attained the highest dignities; but these he
steadfastly declined, devoting himself, so far as his duty permitted, to
scientific pursuits. Judged by his writings, he was intense yet
thoroughly objective, firm in his own position but dispassionate in
treating the opinions of others. Conclusions reached by daring
speculation and faultless logic are stated simply, impersonally. Keen
replies are given without bitterness, and the boldest efforts of reason
are united with the submissiveness of faith.
His works fill twenty-five large quarto volumes of the Parma edition.
This is, so far, the most complete collection, though various portions
have been edited from time to time with the commentaries of learned
theologians like Cajetan and Sylvius. Partial translations have also
been made into several modern languages; but as yet there is no complete
English edition of St. Thomas.
Turning to the Latin text, the student cannot but notice the contrast
between the easy diction of modern philosophical writers and the rugged
conciseness of the mediæval Schoolman. On the other hand, disappointment
awaits those who quit the pages of Cicero for the less elegant Latinity
of the Middle Ages. What can be said in favor of scholastic "style" is
that it expresses clearly and tersely the subtle shades of thought which
had developed through thirteen centuries, and which often necessitated a
sacrifice of classic form. With the Schoolmen, as with modern writers on
scientific subjects, precision was the first requisite, and terminology
was of more consequence than literary beauty.
Similar standards must be kept in view when we pass judgment upon the
technique of St. Thomas. In his presentation we find neither the
eloquence nor the rhetoric of the Fathers. He quotes them continually,
and in some of his works adopts their division into books and chapters.
But his exposition is more compact, consisting at times of clear-cut
arguments in series without an attempt at transition, at other times of
sustained reasoning processes in which no phrase is superfluous and no
word ambiguous. Elsewhere he uses the more rigid mold which was peculiar
to the Scholastic Period, and had been fashioned chiefly by Alexander
Hales. Each subject is divided into so many "questions," and each
question into so many "articles." The "article" begins with the
statement of objections, then discusses various opinions, establishes
the author's position, and closes with a solution of the difficulties
which that position may encounter. This method had its advantages. It
facilitated analysis, and obliged the writer to examine every aspect of
a problem. It secured breadth of view and thoroughness of treatment. It
was, especially, a transparent medium for reason, unbiased by either
sentiment or verbiage.
If such qualities of style and presentation were encouraged by the
environment in which Aquinas pursued his earlier studies, they were also
helpful in the task which he chose as his life-work. This was the
construction of a system in which all the elements of knowledge should
be harmoniously united. An undertaking so vast necessitated a long
preparation, the study of all available sources, and the elucidation of
many detailed problems. Hence, a considerable portion of St. Thomas's
works is taken up with the explanation of Peter Lombard's 'Sententiæ,'
with Commentaries on Aristotle, with Expositions of Sacred Scripture,
collections from the Fathers, and various _opuscula_ or studies on
special subjects. Under the title 'Quæstiones Disputatæ,' numerous
problems in philosophy and theology are discussed at length. But the
synthetic power of Aquinas is shown chiefly in the 'Contra Gentes' and
the 'Summa Theologica,' the former being a defense of Christian belief
with special reference to Arabian philosophy, and the latter a masterly
compendium of rational and revealed truth.
The conception of the 'Summa' was not altogether original. From the
earliest days of the Church, men of genius had insisted on the
reasonableness of Christian belief by showing that, though supernatural
in its origin, it did not conflict with either the facts or the laws of
human knowledge. And as these had found their highest expression in
Greek philosophy, it was natural that this philosophy should serve as a
basis for the elucidation of revealed truth. The early Fathers turned to
Plato, not only because his teaching was so spiritual, but also because
it could be so readily used as a framework for those theological
concepts which Christianity had brought into the world. Thus adopted by
men who were recognized authorities in the Church,--especially men like
Augustine and the Areopagite,--Platonism endured for centuries as the
rational element in dogmatic exposition.
Scholasticism inaugurated a new era. Patristic erudition had gathered a
wealth of theological knowledge which the Schoolmen fully appreciated.
But the same truths were to receive another setting and be treated by
different methods. Speculation changed its direction, Aristotle taking
the place of his master. The peripatetic system found able exponents in
the earlier Scholastics; but Aquinas surpassed them alike in the mastery
of the philosopher's principles and in his application of these
principles to Christian doctrine. His Commentaries on Aristotle adhere
strictly to the text, dissecting its meaning and throwing into relief
the orderly sequence of ideas. In his other works, he develops the germs
of thought which he had gathered from the Stagirite, and makes them the
groundwork of his philosophical and theological speculations.
With the subtlety of a metaphysician St. Thomas combined a vast
erudition. Quotations from the Fathers appear on nearly every page of
his writings, serving either as a keynote to the discussion which
follows, or as an occasion for solving objections. Toward St. Augustine
he shows the deepest reverence, though their methods differ so widely,
and his brief but lucid comments throw light on difficult sayings of the
great Doctor. His familiarity with patristic theology is shown
particularly in the 'Catena Aurea,' where he links with passages from
the Sacred Text numerous extracts from the older commentators.
His respect for these interpretations did not prevent him from making a
thorough search of Scripture itself. With characteristic clearness and
depth he interpreted various books of the Bible, insisting chiefly on
the doctrinal meaning. The best of his work in this line was devoted to
the Pauline Epistles and to the Book of Job; but his mastery of each
text is no less evident where he takes the authority of Scripture as the
starting-point in theological argument, or makes it the crowning
evidence at the close of a philosophical demonstration.
The materials gathered from Philosophy, Tradition, and Scripture were
the fruit of analysis; the final synthesis had yet to be accomplished.
This was the scope of the 'Summa Theologica,' a work which, though it
was not completed, is the greatest production of Thomas Aquinas. In the
prologue he says:--
"Since the teacher of Catholic truth should instruct not only
those who are advanced, but also those who are beginning, it
is our purpose in this work to treat subjects pertaining to
the Christian religion in a manner adapted to the instruction
of beginners. For we have considered that young students
encounter various obstacles in the writings of different
authors: partly because of the multiplication of useless
questions, articles, and arguments; partly because the
essentials of knowledge are dealt with, not in scientific
order, but according as the explanation of books required or
an occasion for disputing offered; partly because the
frequent repetition of the same things begets weariness and
confusion in the hearer's mind. Endeavoring, therefore, to
avoid these defects and others of a like nature, we shall
try, with confidence in the Divine assistance, to treat of
sacred science briefly and clearly, so far as the
subject-matter will allow."
The work intended for novices in theology, and so unpretentiously
opened, is then portioned out in these words:--
"Whereas, the chief aim of this science is to impart a
knowledge of God, not only as existing in Himself, but also
as the origin and end of all things, and especially of
rational creatures, we therefore shall treat first of God;
second, of the rational creature's tendency toward God;
third, of Christ, who as man is the way whereby we approach
unto God. Concerning God, we shall consider (1) those things
which pertain to the Divine Essence; (2) those which regard
the distinction of persons; (3) those which concern the
origin of creatures from Him. As to the Divine Essence we
shall inquire (1) whether God exists; (2) what is, or rather
what is not, the manner of His existence; (3) how He acts
through His knowledge, will, and power. Under the first
heading we shall ask whether God's existence is self-evident,
whether it can be demonstrated, and whether God does exist."
Similar subdivisions precede each question as it comes up for
discussion, so that the student is enabled to take a comprehensive view,
and perceive the bearing of one problem on another as well as its place
in the wide domain of theology. As a consequence, those who are familiar
with the 'Summa' find in it an object-lesson of breadth, proportion, and
orderly thinking. Its chief merit, however, lies in the fact that it is
the most complete and systematic exhibition of the harmony between
reason and faith. In it, more than in any other of his works, is
displayed the mind of its author. It determines his place in the history
of thought, and closes what may be called the second period in the
development of Christian theology. Scholasticism, the high point of
intellectual activity in the Church, reached its culmination in
Thomas Aquinas.
His works have been a rich source of information for Catholic
theologians, and his opinions have always commanded respect. The
polemics of the sixteenth century brought about a change in theological
methods, the positive and critical elements becoming more prominent.
Modern rationalism, however, has intensified the discussion of those
fundamental problems which St. Thomas handled so thoroughly. As his
writings furnish both a forcible statement of the Catholic position and
satisfactory replies to many current objections, the Thomistic system
has recently been restored. The "neo-scholastic movement" was initiated
by Leo XIII. in his Encyclical 'Æterni Patris,' dated August 4th, 1879,
and its rapid growth has made Aquinas the model of Catholic thought in
the nineteenth century, as he certainly was in the thirteenth.
The subjoined extracts show his views on some questions of actual
importance, with regard not alone to mediæval controversies, but to the
problems of the universe, which will press on the minds of men
twenty-five hundred years in the future as they did twenty-five hundred
years in the past.
[Illustration: Signature: Edw. A. Pace]
ON THE VALUE OF OUR CONCEPTS OF THE DEITY
Part I--From the 'Summa Theologica'
It is obvious that terms implying negation or extrinsic relation in no
way signify the divine substance, but simply the removal of some
attribute from Him, or His relation with other beings, or rather the
relation of other beings with Him. As to appellations that are absolute
and positive,--such as _good, wise_, and the like,--various opinions
have been entertained. It was held by some that these terms, though used
affirmatively, were in reality devised for the purpose of elimination,
and not with the intent of positive attribution. Hence, they claimed,
when we say that God is a living being, we mean that God's existence is
not that of inanimate things; and so on for other predicates. This was
the position of Rabbi Moses. According to another view these terms are
employed to denote a relation between God and creatures; so that for
instance, when we say, God is good, we mean, God is the cause of
goodness in all things.
Both interpretations, however, are open to a threefold objection. For,
in the first place, neither can offer any explanation of the fact that
certain terms are applied to the Deity in preference to others. As He is
the source of all good, so He is the cause of all things corporeal;
consequently, if by affirming that God is good we merely imply that He
is the cause of goodness, we might with equal reason assert that He is a
corporeal being.
Again, the inference from these positions would be that all terms
applied to God have only a secondary import, such, for instance, as we
give to the word _healthy_, as applied to medicine; whereby we signify
that it is productive of health in the organism, while the organism
itself is said, properly and primarily, to be healthy.
In the third place, these interpretations distort the meaning of those
who employ such terms in regard to the Deity. For, when they declare
that He is the living God, they certainly mean something else than that
He is the cause of our life or that He is different from
inanimate bodies.
We are obliged, therefore, to take another view, and to affirm that such
terms denote the substantial nature of God, but that, at the same time,
their representative force is deficient. They express the knowledge
which our intellect has of God; and since this knowledge is gotten from
created things, we know Him according to the measure in which creatures
represent Him. Now God, absolutely and in all respects perfect,
possesses every perfection that is found in His creatures. Each created
thing, therefore, inasmuch as it has some perfection, resembles and
manifests the Deity; not as a being of the same species or genus with
itself, but as a supereminent source from which are derived its effects.
They represent Him, in a word, just as the energy of the terrestrial
elements represents the energy of the sun.
Our manner of speech, therefore, denotes the substance of God, yet
denotes it imperfectly, because creatures are imperfect manifestations
of Him. When we say that God is good, we do not mean that He is the
cause of goodness or that He is not evil. Our meaning is this: What we
call goodness in creatures preexists in God in a far higher way. Whence
it follows, not that God is good because He is the source of good, but
rather, because He is good, He imparts goodness to all things else; as
St. Augustine says, "Inasmuch as He is good, _we are_."
HOW CAN THE ABSOLUTE BE A CAUSE?
From the 'Quæstiones Disputatæ'
The relations which are spoken of as existing between God and creatures
are not really in Him. A real relation is that which exists between two
things. It is mutual or bilateral then, only when its basis in both
correlates is the same. Such is the case in all quantitive relations.
Quantity being essentially the same in all quanta, gives rise to
relations which are real in both terms--in the part, for instance, and
in the whole, in the unit of measurement and in that which is measured.
But where a relation originates in causation, as between that which is
active and that which is passive, it does not always concern both terms.
True, that which is acted upon, or set in motion, or produced, must be
related to the source of these modifications, since every effect is
dependent upon its cause. And it is equally true that such causes or
agencies are in some cases related to their effects, namely, when the
production of those effects redounds in some way to the well-being of
the cause itself. This is evidently what happens when like begets like,
and thereby perpetuates, so far as may be, its own species.... There
are cases, nevertheless, in which a thing, without being related, has
other things related to it. The cognizing subject is related to that
which is the object of cognition--to a thing which is outside the mind.
But the thing itself is in no way affected by this cognition, since the
mental process is confined to the mind, and therefore does not bring
about any change in the object. Hence the relation established by the
act of knowing cannot be in that which is known.
The same holds good of sensation. For though the physical object sets up
changes in the sense-organ, and is related to it as other physical
agencies are related to the things on which they act, still, the
sensation implies, over and above the organic change, a subjective
activity of which the external activity is altogether devoid. Likewise,
we say that a man is at the right of a pillar because, with his power of
locomotion, he can take his stand at the right or the left, before or
behind, above or below. But obviously these relations, vary them as we
will, imply nothing in the stationary pillar, though they are real in
the man who holds or changes his position. Once more, a coin has nothing
to do with the action that gives it its value, since this action is a
human convention; and a man is quite apart from the process which
produces his image. Between a man and his portrait there is a relation,
but this is real in the portrait only. Between the coin and its current
value there is a relation, but this is not real in the coin.
Now for the application. God's action is not to be understood as going
out from Him and terminating in that which He creates. His action is
Himself; consequently altogether apart from the genus of created being
whereby the creature is related to Him. And again, he gains nothing by
creating, or, as Avicenna puts it, His creative action is in the highest
degree generous. It is also manifest that His action involves no
modification of His being--without changing, He causes the changeable.
Consequently, though creatures are related to Him, as effects to their
cause, He is not really related to them.
ON THE PRODUCTION OF LIVING THINGS
From the 'Quæstiones Disputatæ'
According to Augustine, the passage "Let the earth bring forth the green
herb" means, not that plants were then actually produced in their proper
nature, but that a germinative power was given the earth to produce
plants by the work of propagation; so that the earth is then said to
have brought forth the green herb and the fruit-yielding tree, inasmuch
as it received the power of producing them. This position is
strengthened by the authority of Scripture (Gen. ii. 4):--"These are the
generations of the heaven and the earth, when they were created, in the
day that the Lord God made the heaven and the earth, and every plant in
the field before it sprang up in the earth, and every herb in the ground
before it grew." From this text we infer, first, that all the works of
the six days were created in the day that God made heaven and earth and
every plant of the field; and consequently that all plants, which are
said to have been created on the third day, were produced at the same
time that God created heaven and earth. The second inference is that
plants were then produced not actually, but only according to causal
virtues, in that the power to produce them was given to the earth. And
this is meant when it is said that He produced every plant of the field
before it actually arose upon the earth by His dispositive action, and
every herb of the earth before it actually grew. Hence, before they came
forth in reality, they were made causally in the earth.
This view, moreover, is supported by reason. For in those first days God
made the creature either in its cause, or in its origin, or in its
actuality, by the work from which He afterward rested; He nevertheless
works even till now in the administration of things created by the work
of propagation. To this latter process belongs the actual production of
plants from the earth, because all that is needed to bring them forth is
the energy of the heavenly bodies as their father, so to say, and the
power of the earth in place of a mother. Plants, therefore, were
produced on the third day, not actually, but causally. After the six
days, however, they were actually brought forth, according to their
proper species and in their proper nature, by the work of
administration.
THE ARABIAN NIGHTS
BY RICHARD GOTTHEIL
The Arabian Nights--or, more accurately, 'The Thousand Nights and a
Night' (Alf Leilah wa-leílah)--have gained a popularity in Europe, since
they were first turned into a modern language by Galland in 1704, which
rivals, if it does not exceed, their regard in the East. They opened up
to Europe a wealth of anecdote, a fertility of daring fancy, which has
not ceased to amuse and to interest. It is not their value as literature
which has placed them so high in the popular esteem, both in the East
and in the West; for they are written in a style not a little slovenly,
the same scenes, figures, and expressions are repeated to monotony, and
the poetical extracts which are interwoven are often of very uncertain
excellence. Some of the modern translations--as by Payne and
Burton--have improved upon the original, and have often given it a
literary flavor which it certainly has not in the Arabic. For this
reason, native historians and writers seldom range the stories in their
literary chronicles, or even deign to mention them by name. The 'Nights'
have become popular from the very fact that they affect little; that
they are _contes_ pure and simple, picturing the men and the manners of
a certain time without any attempt to gloss over their faults or to
excuse their foibles: so that "the doings of the ancients become a
lesson to those that follow after, that men look upon the admonitory
events that have happened to others and take warning." All classes of
men are to be found there: Harun al-Rashid and his viziers, as well as
the baker, the cobbler, the merchant, the courtesan. The very coarseness
is a part of the picture; though it strikes us more forcibly than it did
those to whom the tales were told and for whom they were written down.
It is a kaleidoscope of the errors and failings and virtues of the men
whose daily life it records; it is also a picture of the wonderfully
rich fantasy of the Oriental mind.
[Illustration:]
In the better texts (_i.e._, of Boulak and Calcutta) there are no less
than about two hundred and fifty stories; some long, others short. There
is no direct order in which they follow one upon the other. The chief
story may at any moment suggest a subordinate one; and as the work
proceeds, the looseness and disconnectedness of the parts increase. The
whole is held together by a "frame"; a device which has passed into the
epic of Ariosto ('Orlando Furioso,' xxviii.), and which is not unlike
that used by Boccaccio ('Decameron') and Chaucer ('Canterbury
Tales'). This "frame" is, in short:--A certain king of India, Shahriyar,
aroused by his wife's infidelity, determines to make an end of all the
women in his kingdom. As often as he takes a wife, on the morrow he
orders her slain. Shahrzad, the daughter of his Vizier, takes upon
herself the task of ridding the king of his evil intent. On the night of
her marriage to the king, she, together with her sister Dunyazad, so
engrosses his mind with her stories that the king seeks their
continuance night after night; thus she wards off her fate for nearly
three years. At the end of that time she has borne the king three male
children; and has, by the sprightliness of her mind, gradually drawn all
the conceit out of him, so that his land is at rest. The tales told
within this frame may be divided into: (_a_) Histories, or long
romances, which are often founded upon historical facts; (_b_) Anecdotes
and short stories, which deal largely with the caliphs of the house of
Abbas; (_c_) Romantic fiction, which, though freely mingled with
supernatural intervention, may also be purely fictitious (_contes
fantastiques_); (_d_) Fables and Apologues; (_e_) Tales, which serve the
teller as the peg upon which to hang and to exhibit his varied learning.
In addition to this "frame," there is a thread running through the
whole; for the grand theme which is played with so many variations is
the picturing of love--in the palace and in the hovel, in the city and
in the desert. The scenes are laid in all the four corners of the globe,
but especially in the two great centres of Muhammadan activity, Bagdad
and Cairo. It is not a matter of chance that Harun al-Rashid is the
Caliph to whom the legends of the 'Nights' have given a crown so very
different from the one which he really wore. Though his character was
often far from that which is pictured here, he was still a patron of art
and of literature. His time was the heyday of Muhammadan splendor; and
his city was the metropolis to which the merchants and the scholars
flocked from the length and breadth of Arab dominion.
To unravel the literary history of such a collection is difficult
indeed, for it has drawn upon all civilizations and all literatures. But
since Hammer-Purgstall and De Sacy began to unwind the skein, many
additional turns have been given. The idea of the "frame" in general
comes undoubtedly from India; and such stories as 'The Barber's Fifth
Brother,' 'The Prince and the Afrit's Mistress,' have been "traced back
to the Hitopadesa, Panchatantra, and Katha Sarit Sagara." The 'Story of
the King, his Seven Viziers, his Son, and his Favorite,' is but a late
version, through the Pahlavi, of the Indian Sindibad Romance of the time
of Alexander the Great. A number of fables are easily paralleled by
those in the famous collection of Bidpai (see the list in Jacobs's 'The
Fables of Bidpai,' London, 1888, lxviii.). This is probably true of the
whole little collection of beast fables in the One Hundred and
Forty-sixth Night; for such fables are based upon the different
reincarnations of the Buddha and the doctrine of metempsychosis. The
story of Jali'ad and the Vizier Shammas is distinctly reported to have
been translated from the Persian into Arabic. Even Greek sources have
not been left untouched, if the picture of the cannibal in the
adventures of Sindbad the Sailor be really a reflex of the story of
Odysseus and Polyphemus. Arabic historians--such as Tabari, Masudi,
Kazwini, al-Jaúzi--and the Kitab al-Aghani, have furnished innumerable
anecdotes and tales; while such old Arabic poets as Imr al-Kais,
Alkamah, Nabhighah, etc., have contributed occasional verses.
It is manifest that such a mass of tales and stories was not composed at
any one time, or in any one place. Many must have floated around in
drinking-rooms and in houses of revelry for a long time before they were
put into one collection. Even to this day the story of Ali Baba is
current among the Bedouins in Sinai. Whenever the digest was first made,
it is certain that stories were added at a later time. This is evident
from the divergences seen in the different manuscripts, and by the
additional stories collected by Payne and Burton. But in their present
form, everything points to the final redaction of the 'Nights' in Egypt.
Of all the cities mentioned, Cairo is described the most minutely; the
manners and customs of the _personæ_ are those of Egyptian society--say
from the thirteenth to the sixteenth century. For this we have the
warrant of Mr. Lane, than whom no one is to be heard upon this subject
with greater respect. That such stories as these were popular in Egypt
seems to follow from the fact that the only mention of them is found in
Makrisi's 'Description of Cairo' (1400) and in Abu al-Mahasin, another
historian of Egypt (1470). The collection cannot have been made later
than 1548, the date placed by a reader on the manuscript used by
Galland. But that its date is not much earlier is shown by various
chance references. The mention of coffee (discovered in the fourteenth
century); of cannon (first mentioned in Egypt in 1383); of the wearing
of different-colored garments by Muslims, Jews, and Christians
(instituted in 1301 by Muhammad ibn Kelaün); of the order of
Carandaliyyah (which did not exist until the thirteenth century); of
Sultani peaches (the city Sultaniyyah was founded in the middle of the
thirteenth century)--point to the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries as
the approximate date of the final composition of the 'Nights.' This is
supported by the mention of the office of the Sheikh al-Islam, an office
not created before the year 1453. Additions, such as the 'Story of Abu
Ker and Abu Zer,' were made as late as the sixteenth century; and
tobacco, which is mentioned, was not introduced into Europe until the
year 1560. The thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries are a
period of the revival of letters in Egypt, which might well have induced
some Arab lover of folk-lore to write down a complete copy of these
tales. The Emperor Salah-al-din (1169) is the last historical personage
mentioned, and there is absolutely no trace of Shiite heresy to be found
in the whole collection. This omission would be impossible had they been
gathered up at the time of the heretical Fatimide dynasty (900-1171).
But it seems equally certain that the 'Nights' did not originate
altogether in the land of the Nile. The figure of Harun al-Rashid, the
many doings in the "City of Peace" (Bagdad), lead us irresistibly over
to the Eastern capital of the Muhammadan Empire. The genii and Afrits
and much of the gorgeous picturing remind one of Persia, or at least of
Persian influence. The Arabs were largely indebted to Persia for
literature of a kind like this; and we know that during the ninth and
tenth centuries many books were translated from the Pahlavi and Syriac.
Thus Ibn al-Mukaffah (760) gave the Arabs the 'Kholanamah,' the
'Amirnamah' (Mirror of Princes), 'Kalilah,' and 'Dimnan.' etc. The
historian Masudi (943) expressly refers the story of the 'Thousand and
One Nights' to a Persian original. "The first who composed such tales
and made use of them were the ancient Persians. The Arabs translated
them, and made others like them." He then continues ('Prairies d'Or,'
ed. De Meynard) and mentions the book 'Hezar Afsane,' which means "a
thousand tales," a book popularly called the 'Thousand and One Nights,'
and containing the story of the king and his vizier, and of his daughter
Shirazaad and her slave-girl Dinazad. Other books of the same kind are
the book of Simas, containing stories of Indian kings and viziers, the
book of Sindibad, etc. (See also 'Hanzæ Ispahanensis Annalium,' ed.
Gottwaldt, 1844, page 41.) A similar statement is made by Abu Yákub
al-Nadim (987) in the 'Fihrist' (ed. Flügel, page 304):--"This book,
'Hezar Afsane,' is said to have been written by the Princess Homai (or
Homain), daughter of Bahman. It comprises a Thousand Nights, but less
than two hundred stories; for a night story often was related in a
number of nights. I have seen it many times complete; but it is in truth
a meagre and uninteresting publication." A translation of the 'Hezar
Afsane' was made into Arabic, and it is again mentioned in the middle of
the twelfth century by Abdulhec al-Házraji; but neither it nor the
original Pahlavi has yet been found. It thus remains a matter of
speculation as to how much of the 'Hezar Afsane' has found its way into
the 'Nights.' It is evident that to it they are indebted for the whole
general idea, for many of the principal names, and probably for the
groundwork of a great many of the stories. The change of the title from
'The Thousand' to 'The Thousand and One' is due to the fact that the
Arabs often expressed "a large number" by this second cipher. But the
'Nights' cannot be a translation from the Persian; for the other two
books mentioned by Masudi are in the Arabic collection. Lane supposes
the relationship to be that of the 'Æneid' to the 'Odyssey.' But it is
probably closer: one fifth of the collection which, according to Payne,
is common to all manuscripts, will doubtless be found to be based on the
Pahlavi original. That the dependence is not greater is evident from the
absence of the great heroes of the Persian Epos--Feridun, Zer,
Isfandyar, etc. The heroes are all Arabs; the life depicted is
wholly Arabic.
The original Persian 'Nights' must be quite old. Homai, the Persian
Semiramis, is mentioned in the 'Avesta'; and in Firdausi she is the
daughter and the wife of Artaxerxes Longimanus (B.C. 465-425). Her
mother was a Jewess, Shahrazaad, one of the captives brought from
Jerusalem by Nebuchadnezzar; she afterward delivered her nation from
captivity. Tabari calls Esther, of Old Testament fame, the mother of
Bahman; and Professor de Goeje (de Gids, 1886, iii. 385) has cleverly
identified the Homai of the old 'Nights,' not only with Shahrazaad of
the Arabian, but also with Esther of the Bible. That his argument holds
good is seen from its acceptance by Kuenen ('Hist. Krit. Einleitung,' 1,
2, page 222), August Müller (Deutsche Rundschau, 1887), and Darmesteter
('Actes du Huitième Congrès des Orientalistes,' 1893, ii. 196).
The best translations of the 'Nights' have been made by Antoine Galland
in French (12 vols., Paris, 1704-1712); by G. Weil in German (4 vols.,
1838-1842); and in English by E.W. Lane (3 vols., 1839-1841), John Payne
(13 vols., 1882-1884), and Richard Burton (16 vols., 1885-1888). Lane's
and Burton's translations are enriched by copious notes of great value.
[Illustration: Signature: Richard Gottheil]
FROM 'THE STORY OF THE CITY OF BRASS'
Part of Nights 566 and 578: Translation of E.W. Lane
There was in olden time, and in an ancient age and period, in Damascus
of Syria, a King, one of the Khaleefehs, named Abd-El-Melik, the son of
Marwán; and he was sitting, one day, having with him the great men of
his empire, consisting of Kings and Sultans, when a discussion took
place among them respecting the traditions of former nations. They
called to mind the stories of our lord Suleymán the son of Daood (on
both of whom be peace!) and the dominion and authority which God (whose
name be exalted!) had bestowed upon him, over mankind and the Jinn and
the birds and the wild beasts and other things; and they said, We have
heard from those who were before us, that God (whose perfection be
extolled, and whose name be exalted!) bestowed not upon any one the like
of that which He bestowed upon our lord Suleymán, and that he attained
to that to which none other attained, so that he used to imprison the
Jinn and the Márids and the Devils in bottles of brass, and pour molten
lead over them, and seal this cover over them with his signet....
And the Prince of the Faithful, Abd-El-Melik, the son of Marwán,
wondered at these words, and said, Extolled be the perfection of God!
Suleymán was endowed with a mighty dominion!--And among those who were
present in that assembly was En-Fábighah Edh-Dhubyánee; and he said,
Tálib hath spoken truth in that which he hath related, and the proof of
his veracity is the saying of the Wise, the First [thus versified]:--
And [consider] Suleymán, when the Deity said to him, Perform
the office of Khaleefeh, and govern with diligence;
And whoso obeyeth thee, honor him for doing so; and whoso
disobeyeth thee, imprison him forever.
He used to put them into bottles of brass, and to cast them into the
sea.
And the Prince of the Faithful approved of these words, and said, By
Allah, I desire to see some of these bottles! So Tálib the son of Sahl
replied, O Prince of the Faithful, thou art able to do so and yet remain
in thy country. Send to thy brother Abd-El-Azeez, the son of Marwán,
desiring him to bring them to thee from the Western Country, that he may
write orders to Moosà to journey from the Western Country, to this
mountain which we have mentioned, and to bring thee what thou desirest
of these bottles; for the furthest tract of his province is adjacent to
this mountain.--And the Prince of the Faithful approved of his advice,
and said, O Tálib, thou has spoken truth in that which thou hast said,
and I desire that thou be my messenger to Moosà the son of Nuseyr for
this purpose, and thou shalt have a white ensign, together with what
thou shalt desire of wealth or dignity or other things, and I will be
thy substitute to take care of thy family. To this Tálib replied, Most
willingly, O Prince of the Faithful. And the Khaleefeh said to him, Go,
in dependence on the blessing of God, and his aid....
So Tálib went forth on his way to Egypt ... and to Upper Egypt, until
they came to the Emeer Moosà, the son of Nuseyr; and when he knew of his
approach he went forth to him and met him, and rejoiced at his arrival;
and Tálib handed to him the letter. So he took it and read it, and
understood its meaning; and he put it upon his head, saying, I hear and
obey the command of the Prince of the Faithful. He determined to summon
his great men; and they presented themselves; and he inquired of them
respecting that which had been made known to him by the letter;
whereupon they said, O Emeer, if thou desire him who will guide thee to
that place, have recourse to the sheykh 'Abd-Es-Samad, the son of
Abd-El-Kuddoos Es-Sa-moodee; for he is a knowing man, and hath traveled
much, and he is acquainted with the deserts and wastes and the seas, and
their inhabitants and their wonders, and the countries of their
districts. Have recourse, therefore, to him, and he will direct thee to
the object of thy desire.--Accordingly he gave orders to bring him, and
he came before him; and lo, he was a very old man, whom the vicissitudes
of years and times had rendered decrepit. The Emeer Moosà saluted him,
and said to him, O sheykh 'Abd-Es-Samad, our lord the Prince of the
Faithful, Abd-El-Melik the son of Marwán, hath commanded us thus and
thus, and I possess little knowledge of that land, and it hath been told
me that thou art acquainted with that country and the routes. Hast thou
then a wish to accomplish the affair of the Prince of the Faithful?--The
sheykh replied, Know, O Emeer, that this route is difficult, far
extending, with few tracks. The Emeer said to him, How long a period
doth it require? He answered, It is a journey of two years and some
months going, and the like returning; and on the way are difficulties
and horrors, and extraordinary and wonderful things. Moreover, thou art
a warrior for the defense of the faith, and our country is near unto the
enemy; so perhaps the Christians may come forth during our absence; it
is expedient, therefore, that thou leave in thy province one to govern
it.--He replied, Well. And he left his son Hároon as his substitute in
his province, exacted an oath of fidelity to him, and commanded the
troops that they should not oppose him, but obey him in all that he
should order them to do. And they heard his words, and obeyed him. His
son Hároon was of great courage, an illustrious hero, and a bold
champion; and the sheykh 'Abd-Es-Samad pretended to him that the place
in which were the things that the Prince of the Faithful desired was
four months' journey distant, on the shore of the sea, and that
throughout the whole route were halting-places, adjacent one to another,
and grass and springs. And he said, God will assuredly make this affair
easy to us through the blessing attendant upon thee, O Viceroy of the
Prince of the Faithful. Then the Emeer Moosà said, Knowest thou if any
one of the Kings have trodden this land before us? He answered him, Yes,
O Emeer: this land belonged to the King of Alexandria, Darius the Greek.
[The cavalcade fare on, and soon reach a first "extraordinary
and wonderful thing,"--the palace-tomb of great "Koosh, the
son of Sheddad," full of impressive mortuary inscriptions
that set the party all a-weeping. Thence--]
The soldiers proceeded, with the sheykh 'Abd-Es-Samad before them
showing them the way, until all the first day had passed, and the
second, and the third. They then came to a high hill, at which they
looked, and lo, upon it was a horseman of brass, on the top of whose
spear was a wide and glistening head that almost deprived the beholder
of sight, and on it was inscribed, O thou who comest unto me, if thou
know not the way that leadeth to the City of Brass, rub the hand of the
horseman, and he will turn, and then will stop, and in whatsoever
direction he stoppeth, thither proceed, without fear and without
difficulty; for it will lead thee to the City of Brass.--And when the
Emeer Moosà had rubbed the hand of the horseman, it turned like the
blinding lightning, and faced a different direction from that in which
they were traveling.
The party therefore turned thither and journeyed on, and it was the
right way. They took that route, and continued their course the same day
and the next night until they had traversed a wide tract of country. And
as they were proceeding, one day, they came to a pillar of black stone,
wherein was a person sunk to his arm-pits, and he had two huge wings,
and four arms; two of them like those of the sons of Adam, and two like
the forelegs of lions, with claws. He had hair upon his head like the
tails of horses, and two eyes like two burning coals, and he had a third
eye, in his forehead, like the eye of the lynx, from which there
appeared sparks of fire. He was black and tall; and he was crying out,
Extolled be the perfection of my Lord, who hath appointed me this severe
affliction and painful torture until the day of resurrection! When the
party beheld him, their reason fled from them, and they were stupefied
at the sight of his form, and retreated in flight; and the Emeer Moosà
said to the sheykh 'Abd-Es-Samad, What is this? He answered, I know not
what he is. And the Emeer said, Draw near to him, and investigate his
case: perhaps he will discover it, and perhaps thou wilt learn his
history. The sheykh 'Abd-Es-Samad replied, May God amend the state of
the Emeer! Verily we fear him.--Fear ye not, rejoined the Emeer; for he
is withheld from injuring you and others by the state in which he is. So
the sheykh 'Abd-Es-Samad drew near to him, and said to him, O thou
person, what is thy name, and what is thy nature, and what hath placed
thee here in this manner? And he answered him, As to me, I am an 'Efreet
of the Jinn, and my name is Dáhish the son of El-Amash, and I am
restrained here by the majesty, confined by the power, [of God,]
tormented as long as God (to whom be ascribed might and glory!) willeth.
Then the Emeer Moosà said, O sheykh 'Abd-Es-Samad, ask him what is the
cause of his confinement in this pillar. He therefore asked respecting
that, and the 'Efreet answered him, Verily my story is wonderful, and
it is this:
[The Evil Spirit narrates to them his history, being part of
the famous war between Solomon and the Jinn.]
The party therefore wondered at him, and at the horrible nature of his
form; and the Emeer Moosà said, There is no deity but God! Suleymán was
endowed with a mighty dominion!--And the sheykh 'Abd-Es-Samad said to
the 'Efreet, O thou, I ask thee concerning a thing of which do thou
inform us. The 'Efreet replied, Ask concerning what thou wilt. And the
sheykh said, Are there in this place any of the 'Efreets confined in
bottles of brass from the time of Suleymán, on whom be peace? He
answered, Yes, in the Sea of El-Karkar, where are a people of the
descendants of Nooh (on whom be peace!), whose country the deluge
reached not, and they are separated there from [the rest of] the sons of
Adam.--And where, said the sheykh, is the way to the City of Brass, and
the place wherein are the bottles? What distance is there between us and
it? The 'Efreet answered, It is near. So the party left him and
proceeded; and there appeared to them a great black object, with two
[seeming] fires corresponding with each other in position, in the
distance, in that black object; whereupon the Emeer Moosà said to the
sheykh, What is this great black object, and what are these two
corresponding fires? The guide answered him, Be rejoiced, O Emeer; for
this is the City of Brass, and this is the appearance of it that I find
described in the Book of Hidden Treasures; that its wall is of black
stones, and it hath two towers of brass of El-Andalus, which the
beholder seeth resembling two corresponding fires; and thence it is
named the City of Brass. They ceased not to proceed until they arrived
at it; and lo, it was lofty, strongly fortified, rising high into the
air, impenetrable: the height of its walls was eighty cubits, and it had
five and twenty gates, none of which would open but by means of some
artifice; and there was not one gate to it that had not, within the
city, one like it: such was the beauty of the construction and
architecture of the city. They stopped before it, and endeavored to
discover one of its gates; but they could not; and the Emeer Moosà said
to the sheykh 'Abd-Es-Samad, O sheykh, I see not to this city any gate.
The sheykh replied, O Emeer, thus do I find it described in the Book of
Hidden Treasures; that it hath five and twenty gates, and that none of
its gates may be opened but from within the city. And how, said the
Emeer, can we contrive to enter it, and divert ourselves with a view of
its wonders?
Then the Emeer Moosà ordered one of his young men to mount a camel, and
ride round the city, in the hope that he might discover a trace of a
gate, or a place lower than that to which they were opposite. So one of
his young men mounted, and proceeded around it for two days with their
nights, prosecuting his journey with diligence, and not resting; and
when the third day arrived, he came in sight of his companions, and he
was astounded at that which he beheld of the extent of the city, and its
height. Then he said, O Emeer, the easiest place in it is this place at
which ye have alighted. And thereupon the Emeer Moosà took Tálib the son
of Sahl, and the sheykh 'Abd-Es-Samad, and they ascended a mountain
opposite the city, and overlooking it; and when they had ascended that
mountain, they saw a city than which eyes had not beheld any greater.
Its pavilions were lofty, and its domes were shining; its mansions were
in good condition, and its rivers were running; its trees were fruitful,
and its gardens bore ripe produce. It was a city with impenetrable
gates, empty, still, without a voice or a cheering inhabitant, but
the owl hooting in its quarters, and birds skimming in circles in
its areas, and the raven croaking in its districts and its great
thoroughfare-streets, and bewailing those who had been in it. The Emeer
Moosà paused, sorrowing for its being devoid of inhabitants, and its
being despoiled of people and dwellers; and he said, Extolled be the
perfection of Him whom ages and times change not, the Creator of the
creation by his power! And while he was extolling the perfection of God,
(to whom be ascribed might and glory!) he happened to look aside, and
lo, there were seven tablets of white marble, appearing from a distance.
So he approached them, and behold, they were sculptured and inscribed;
and he ordered that their writing should be read: therefore the sheykh
Abd-Es-Samad advanced and examined them and read them; and they
contained admonition, and matter for example and restraint, unto those
endowed with faculties of discernment. Upon the first tablet was
inscribed, in the ancient Greek character,--
O son of Adam, how heedless art thou of the case of him who
hath been before thee! Thy years and age have diverted thee
from considering him. Knowest thou not that the cup of death
will be filled for thee, and that in a short time thou wilt
drink it? Look then to thyself before entering thy grave.
Where are those who possessed the countries and abased the
servants of God and led armies? Death hath come upon them;
and God is the terminator of delights and the separator of
companions and the devastator of flourishing dwellings; so He
hath transported them from the amplitude of palaces to the
straightness of the graves.
And in the lower part of the tablet were inscribed these verses:--
Where are the Kings and the peoplers of the earth? They have
quitted that which they have built and peopled;
And in the grave they are pledged for their past actions: there
after destruction, they have become putrid corpses.
Where are the troops? They repelled not, nor profited. And
where is that which they collected and hoarded?
The decree of the Lord of the Throne surprised them. Neither
riches nor refuge saved them from it.
And the Emeer Moosà fainted; his tears ran down upon his cheeks, and he
said, By Allah, indifference to the world is the most appropriate and
the most sure course! Then he caused an inkhorn and a paper to be
brought, and he wrote the inscription of the first tablet; after which
he drew near to the second tablet, and the third, and the fourth; and
having copied what was inscribed on them, he descended from the
mountain; and the world had been pictured before his eyes.
And when he came back to the troops, they passed the day devising means
of entering the city; and the Emeer Moosà said to his Wezeer, Tálib the
son of Sahl, and to those of his chief officers who were around him, How
shall we contrive to enter the city, that we may see its wonders?
Perhaps we shall find in it something by which we may ingratiate
ourselves with the Prince of the Faithful.--Tálib the son of Sahl
replied, May God continue the prosperity of the Emeer! Let us make a
ladder, and mount upon it, and perhaps we shall gain access to the gate
from within.--And the Emeer said, This is what occurred to my mind, and
excellent is the advice. Then he called to the carpenters and
blacksmiths, and ordered them to make straight some pieces of wood, and
to construct a ladder covered with plates of iron. And they did so, and
made it strong. They employed themselves in constructing it a whole
month, and many men were occupied in making it. And they set it up and
fixed it against the wall, and it proved to be equal to the wall in
height, as though it had been made for it before that day. So the Emeer
Moosà wondered at it, and said, God bless you! It seemeth, from the
excellence of your work, as though ye had adapted it by measurement to
the wall.--He then said to the people, Which of you will ascend this
ladder, and mount upon the wall, and walk along it, and contrive means
of descending into the city, that he may see how the case is, and then
inform us of the mode of opening the gate? And one of them answered, I
will ascend it, O Emeer, and descend and open the gate. The Emeer
therefore replied, Mount. God bless thee!--Accordingly, the man ascended
the ladder until he reached the top of it; when he stood, and fixed his
eyes towards the city, clapped his hands, and cried out with his loudest
voice, saying, Thou art beautiful! Then he cast himself down into the
city, and his flesh became mashed with his bones. So the Emeer Moosà
said, This is the action of the rational. How then will the insane act?
If we do thus with all our companions, there will not remain of them
one; and we shall be unable to accomplish our affair, and the affair of
the Prince of the Faithful. Depart ye; for we have no concern with this
city.--But one of them said, Perhaps another than this may be more
steady than he. And a second ascended, and a third, and a fourth, and a
fifth; and they ceased not to ascend by that ladder to the top of the
wall, one after another, until twelve men of them had gone, acting as
acted the first. Therefore the sheykh 'Abd-Es-Samad said, There is none
for this affair but myself, and the experienced is not like the
inexperienced. But the Emeer Moosà said to him, Thou shalt not do that,
nor will I allow thee to ascend to the top of this wall; for shouldst
thou die, thou wouldst be the cause of the death of us all, and there
would not remain of us one; since thou art the guide of the party. The
sheykh however replied, Perhaps the object will be accomplished by my
means, through the will of God, whose name be exalted! And thereupon all
the people agreed to his ascending.
Then the sheykh 'Abd-Es-Samad arose, and encouraged himself, and having
said, In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful!--he ascended
the ladder, repeating the praises of God (whose name be exalted!) and
reciting the Verses of Safety, until he reached the top of the wall;
when he clapped his hands, and fixed his eyes. The people therefore all
called out to him, and said, O sheykh 'Abd-Es-Samad, do it not, and cast
not thyself down! And they said, Verily to God we belong, and verily
unto him we return! If the sheykh 'Abd-Es-Samad fall, we all
perish!--Then the sheykh 'Abd-Es-Samad laughed immoderately, and sat a
long time repeating the praises of God, (whose name be exalted!) and
reciting the Verses of Safety; after which he rose with energy, and
called out with his loudest voice, O Emeer, no harm shall befall you;
for God (to whom be ascribed might and glory!) hath averted from me the
effect of the artifice and fraudulence of the Devil, through the
blessing resulting from the utterance of the words, In the name of God,
the Compassionate, the Merciful.--So the Emeer said to him, What hast
thou seen, O sheykh? He answered, When I reached the top of the wall, I
beheld ten damsels, like moons, who made a sign with their hands, as
though they would say, Come to us. And it seemed to me that beneath me
was a sea (or great river) of water; whereupon I desired to cast myself
down, as our companions did: but I beheld them dead; so I withheld
myself from them, and recited some words of the Book of God, (whose name
be exalted!) whereupon God averted from me the influence of those
damsels' artifice, and they departed from me; therefore I cast not
myself down, and God repelled from me the effect of their artifice and
enchantment. There is no doubt that this is an enchantment and an
artifice which the people of this city contrived in order to repel from
it every one who should desire to look down upon it, and wish to obtain
access to it; and these our companions are laid dead.
He then walked along the wall till he came to the two towers of brass,
when he saw that they had two gates of gold, without locks upon them, or
any sign of the means of opening them. Therefore the sheykh paused as
long as God willed, and looking attentively, he saw in the middle of one
of the gates a figure of a horseman of brass, having one hand extended,
as though he were pointing with it, and on it was an inscription, which
the sheykh read, and lo, it contained these words:--Turn the pin that is
in the middle of the front of the horseman's body twelve times, and then
the gate will open. So he examined the horseman, and in the middle of
the front of his body was a pin, strong, firm, well fixed; and he turned
it twelve times; whereupon the gate opened immediately, with a noise
like thunder; and the sheykh 'Abd-Es-Samad entered. He was a learned
man, acquainted with all languages and characters. And he walked on
until he entered a long passage, whence he descended some steps, and he
found a place with handsome wooden benches, on which were people dead,
and over their heads were elegant shields, and keen swords, and strung
bows, and notched arrows. And behind the [next] gate were a bar of iron,
and barricades of wood, and locks of delicate fabric, and strong
apparatus. Upon this, the sheykh said within himself, Perhaps the keys
are with these people. Then he looked, and lo, there was a sheykh who
appeared to be the oldest of them, and he was upon a high wooden bench
among the dead men. So the sheykh 'Abd-Es-Samad said, May not the keys
of the city be with this sheykh? Perhaps he was the gate-keeper of the
city, and these were under his authority. He therefore drew near to him,
and lifted up his garments, and lo, the keys were hung to his waist. At
the sight of them, the sheykh 'Abd-Es-Samad rejoiced exceedingly; his
reason almost fled from him in consequence of his joy: and he took the
keys, approached the gate, opened the locks, and pulled the gate and the
barricades and other apparatus which opened, and the gate also opened,
with a noise like thunder, by reason of its greatness and terribleness,
and the enormousness of its apparatus. Upon this, the sheykh exclaimed,
God is most great!--and the people made the same exclamation with him,
rejoicing at the event. The Emeer Moosà also rejoiced at the safety of
the sheykh 'Abd-Es-Samad, and at the opening of the gate of the city;
the people thanked the sheykh for that which he had done, and all the
troops hastened to enter the gate. But the Emeer Moosà cried out to
them, saying to them, O people, if all of us enter, we shall not be
secure from some accident that may happen. Half shall enter, and half
shall remain behind.
The Emeer Moosà then entered the gate, and with him half of the people,
who bore their weapons of war. And the party saw their companions lying
dead: so they buried them. They saw also the gate-keepers and servants
and chamberlains and lieutenants lying upon beds of silk, all of them
dead. And they entered the market of the city, and beheld a great
market, with lofty buildings, none of which projected beyond another:
the shops were open, and the scales hung up, and the utensils of brass
ranged in order, and the kháns were full of all kinds of goods. And they
saw the merchants dead in their shops: their skins were dried, and their
bones were carious, and they had become examples to him who would be
admonished. They saw likewise four markets of particular shops filled
with wealth. And they left this place, and passed on to the silk-market,
in which were silks and brocades interwoven with red gold and white
silver upon various colours, and the owners were dead, lying upon skins,
and appearing almost as though they would speak. Leaving these, they
went on to the market of jewels and pearls and jacinths; and they left
it, and passed on to the market of the money-changers, whom they found
dead, with varieties of silks beneath them, and their shops were filled
with gold and silver. These they left, and they proceeded to the market
of the perfumers; and lo, their shops were filled with varieties of
perfumes, and bags of musk, and ambergris, and aloes-wood, and nedd, and
camphor, and other things; and the owners were all dead, not having with
them any food. And when they went forth from the market of the
perfumers, they found near unto it a palace, decorated, and strongly
constructed; and they entered it, and found banners unfurled, and drawn
swords, and strung bows, and shields hung up by chains of gold and
silver, and helmets gilded with red gold. And in the passages of that
palace were benches of ivory, ornamented with plates of brilliant gold,
and with silk, on which were men whose skins had dried upon the bones:
the ignorant would imagine them to be sleeping; but, from the want of
food, they had died, and tasted mortality. Upon this, the Emeer Moosà
paused, extolling the perfection of God (whose name be exalted!) and his
holiness, and contemplating the beauty of that palace.
[They find the palace a marvel of splendor, but as awfully
silent and mausoleum-like as the rest of the city; and soon
reach a magnificent hall in which lies the dead body of
"Jedmur, the Daughter of the King of the Amalekites,"
magnificently laid in state, and magically preserved and
protected. Tálib unwisely and covetously attempts to rob the
corpse of jewels; and is instantly beheaded by its enchanted
guards. The Emeer Moosà and the sage 'Abd-Es-Samad, however,
leave the place in safety, return to Upper Egypt and Syria by
way of the Country of the Blacks, succeed in securing twelve
of the wonderful bottles containing Jinn,--and the tale
concludes with the Emeer Moosà's resignation of his throne
that he may die in Jerusalem, so profoundly has he been
affected by the adventure.]
FROM 'THE HISTORY OF KING OMAR BEN ENNUMAN, AND
HIS SONS SHERKAN AND ZOULMEKAN'
Nights 15, 16, 17, and 18: Translation of Professor John Payne
THE MEETING OF PRINCE SHERKAN AND PRINCESS ABRIZEH
There reigned once in the City of Peace [Bagdad], before the Khalifate
of Abdulmelik ben Merwan, a king called Omar ben Ennuman, who was of the
mighty giants, and had subdued the kings of Persia and the emperors of
the East, for none could warm himself at his fire nor cope with him in
battle; and when he was angry there came sparks out of his nostrils. He
had gotten him dominion over all countries, and God had subjected unto
him all creatures; his commands were obeyed in all the great cities, and
his armies penetrated the most distant lands: the East and West came
under his rule, with the regions between them, Hind and Sind and China
and Hejaz and Yemen and the islands of India and China, Syria and
Mesopotamia and the lands of the blacks and the islands of the ocean,
and all the famous rivers of the earth, Jaxartes and Bactrus and Nile
and Euphrates. He sent his ambassadors to the farthest parts of the
earth to fetch him true report, and they returned with tidings of
justice and peace, bringing him assurance of loyalty and obedience, and
invocations of blessings on his head; for he was a right noble king, and
there came to him gifts and tribute from all parts of the world. He had
a son called Sherkan, who was one of the prodigies of the age and the
likest of all men to his father, who loved him with an exceeding love
and had appointed him to be king after him. The prince grew up till he
reached man's estate, and was twenty years old, and God subjected all
men to him, for he was gifted with great might and prowess in battle,
humbling the champions and destroying all who made head against him. So,
before long, this Sherkan became famous in all quarters of the world,
and his father rejoiced in him; and his might waxed till he passed all
bounds, and magnified himself, taking by storm the citadels and
strong places.
[The Prince being sent to assist King Afridoun, of the
Greeks, against an enemy, is intrusted with an army of ten
thousand soldiers, and leaves Bagdad in military state.]
Then they loaded the beasts and beat the drums and blew the clarions and
unfurled the banners and the standards, whilst Sherkan mounted, with the
Vizier Dendan by his side, and the standards waving over them; and the
army set out and fared on with the [Greek] ambassadors in the van till
the day departed and the night came, when they halted and encamped for
the night. On the morrow, as soon as God brought in the day, they took
horse and continued their march, nor did they cease to press onward,
guided by the ambassadors, for the space of twenty days. On the
twenty-first day, at nightfall, they came to a wide and fertile valley
whose sides were thickly wooded and covered with grass, and there
Sherkan called a three-days' halt. So they dismounted and pitched their
tents, dispersing right and left in the valley, whilst the Vizier Dendan
and the ambassadors alighted in the midst.
As for Sherkan, when he had seen the tents pitched and the troops
dispersed on either side, and had commanded his officers and attendants
to camp beside the Vizier Dendan, he gave reins to his horse, being
minded to explore the valley, and himself to mount guard over the army,
having regard to his father's injunctions and to the fact that they had
reached the frontier of the Land of Roum and were now in the enemy's
country. So he rode on alone, along the valley, till a fourth part of
the night was past, when he grew weary and sleep overcame him so that he
could no longer spur his horse. Now he was used to sleep on horseback;
so when drowsiness got the better of him, he fell asleep, and the horse
paced on with him half the night and entered a forest: but Sherkan awoke
not till the steed smote the earth with his hoof. Then he started from
sleep and found himself among trees: and the moon arose and lighted the
two horizons. He was troubled at finding himself alone in this place,
and spoke the words which whoso says shall never be confounded--that is
to say, "There is no power and no virtue but in GOD, the most High, the
Supreme!" But as he rode on, in fear of the wild beasts, behold the
trees thinned out, and the moon shone out upon a meadow as it were one
of the meads of paradise, and he heard therein the noise of talk and
pleasant laughter, such as ravishes the wit of men. So King Sherkan
dismounted, and tying his horse to a tree, fared on a little further,
till he espied a stream of running water, and heard a woman talking and
saying in Arabic, "By the virtue of the Messiah, this is not handsome of
you! But whoso speaks the word I will throw her down and bind her with
her girdle!" He followed in the direction of the voice, and saw gazelles
frisking and wild cattle pasturing, and birds in their various voices
expressing joy and gladness; and the earth was embroidered with all
manner flowers and green herbs, even as says of it the poet, in the
following verses:--
Earth has no fairer sight to show than this its
blossom-time, With all the gently running streams
that wander o'er its face,
It is indeed the handiwork of God Omnipotent, The
Lord of every noble gift, and Giver of all grace!
Midmost the meadow stood a monastery, and within the inclosure a citadel
that rose high into the air in the light of the moon. The stream passed
through the midst of the monastery; and therenigh sat ten damsels like
moons, high-bosomed maids clad in dresses and ornaments that dazzled the
eyes, as says of them the poet:--
The meadow glitters with the troops Of lovely ones
that wander there;
Its grace and beauty doubled are By these that are
so passing fair;
Virgins, that with their swimming gait, The hearts of
all that see ensnare,
Along whose necks, like trails of grapes, Stream down
the tresses of their hair;
Proudly they walk, with eyes that dart The shafts and
arrows of despair,
And all the champions of the world Are slain by
their seductive air.
Sherkan looked at the ten girls, and saw in their midst a lady like the
moon at its full, with ringleted and shining forehead, great black eyes
and curling brow-locks, perfect in person and attributes, as says
the poet:--
Her beauty beamed on me with glances wonder-bright: The
slender Syrian spears are not so straight and slight:
She laid her veil aside, and, lo, her cheeks rose-red! All manner
of loveliness was in their sweetest sight
The locks that o'er her brow fell down, were like the night,
From out of which there shines a morning of delight.
Then Sherkan heard her say to the girls, "Come on, that I may wrestle
with you, ere the moon set and the dawn come." So they came up to her,
one after another, and she overthrew them, one by one, and bound their
hands behind them, with their girdles. When she had thrown them all,
there turned to her an old woman who was before her, and said, as if she
were wroth with her, "O shameless! dost thou glory in overthrowing these
girls? Behold, I am an old woman, yet have I thrown them forty times! So
what hast thou to boast of? But if thou have strength to wrestle with
me, stand up that I may grip thee, and put thy head between thy feet."
The young lady smiled at her words, although her heart was full of anger
against her, and said, "O my lady Dhat ed Dewahi, wilt indeed wrestle
with me--or dost thou jest with me?" "I mean to wrestle with thee in
very deed," replied she. "Stand up to me then," said the damsel, "if
thou have strength to do so!" When the old woman heard this she was sore
enraged, and her hair stood on end like that of a hedgehog. Then she
sprang up, whilst the damsel confronted her ... and they took hold of
one another, whilst Sherkan raised his eyes to heaven and prayed to God
that the damsel might conquer the old hag. Presently ... the old woman
strove to free herself, and in the struggle wriggled out of the girl's
hands and fell on her back ... and behold the young lady ... throwing
over her a veil of fine silk, helped her to dress herself, making
excuses to her and saying, "O my lady Dhat ed Dewahi, I did not mean to
throw thee so roughly, but thou wriggledst out of my hands; so praised
be God for safety." She returned her no answer, but rose in her
confusion and walked away out of sight, leaving the young lady standing
alone, by the other girls thrown down and bound.
Then said Sherkan, "To every fortune there is a cause. Sleep fell not on
me, nor did the steed bear me hither but for my good fortune; for of a
surety this damsel and what is with her shall be my prize." So he turned
back and mounted, and drew his scimitar; then he gave his horse the spur
and he started off with him like an arrow from a bow, whilst he
brandished his naked blade and cried out, "God is most great!" When the
damsel saw him she sprang to her feet, and running to the bank of the
river, which was there six cubits wide, made a spring and landed on the
other side, where she turned, and standing cried out in a loud voice,
"Who art thou, sirrah, that breakest in on our pasture as if thou wert
charging an army? Whence comest thou and whither art thou bound? Speak
the truth and it shall profit thee, and do not lie, for lying is of the
losel's fashion. Doubtless thou hast strayed this night from thy road,
that thou hast happened on this place. So tell me what thou seekest: if
thou wouldst have us set thee in the right road, we will do so; or if
thou seek help we will help thee."
When Sherkan heard her words he replied, "I am a stranger of the
Muslims, who am come out by myself in quest of booty, and I have found
no fairer purchase this moonlit night than these ten damsels; so I will
take them and rejoin my comrades with them." Quoth she, "I would have
thee to know that thou hast not yet come at the booty; and as for these
ten damsels, by Allah, they are no purchase for thee! Indeed the fairest
purchase thou canst look for is to win free of this place: for thou art
in a mead, where, if we gave one cry, there would be with us anon four
thousand knights. Did I not tell thee that lying is shameful?" And he
said, "The fortunate man is he to whom God sufficeth, and who hath no
need of other than him." "By the virtue of the Messiah," replied she,
"did I not fear to have thy death at my hand, I would give a cry that
would fill the meadow on thee, with horse and foot! but I have pity on
the stranger; so, if thou seek booty, I require of thee that thou
dismount from thy horse, and swear to me by thy faith that thou wilt
not approach me with aught of arms, and we will wrestle--I and thou. If
thou throw me, lay me on thy horse and take all of us to thy booty; and
if I throw thee, thou shalt be at my commandment. Swear this to me; for
I fear thy perfidy, since experience has it that as long as perfidy is
in men's natures, to trust in every one is weakness. But if thou wilt
swear I will come over to thee." Quoth Sherkan, "Impose on me whatever
oath thou deemest binding, and I will swear not to draw near thee until
thou hast made thy preparations, and sayest 'Come wrestle with me.' If
thou throw me I have wealth wherewith to ransom myself, and if I throw
thee I shall get fine purchase." Then said she, "Swear to me by Him who
hath lodged the soul in the body and given laws to mankind that thou
wilt not hurt me with aught of violence save in the way of
wrestling--else mayest thou die out of the pale of Islam." "By Allah,"
exclaimed Sherkan, "if a Cadi should swear me, though he were Cadi of
the Cadis, he would not impose on me the like of this oath!" Then he
took the oath she required, and tied his horse to a tree, sunken in the
sea of reverie, and saying in himself, "Glory to Him who fashioned her!"
Then he girt himself, and made ready for wrestling, and said to her,
"Cross the stream to me." Quoth she, "It is not for me to come to thee;
if thou wilt, do thou cross over to me." "I cannot do that," replied he;
and she said, "O boy! I will come to thee." So she gathered her skirts,
and making a spring landed on the other side of the river by him;
whereupon he drew near to her, wondering at her beauty and grace, and
saw a form that the hand of Omnipotence had turned with the leaves of
Jinn, and which had been fostered by divine solicitude, a form on which
the zephyrs of fair fortune had blown, and over whose creation favorable
planets had presided. Then she called out to him saying, "O Muslim, come
and wrestle before the daybreak!" and tucked up her sleeves, showing a
fore-arm like fresh curd; the whole place was lighted up by its
whiteness and Sherkan was dazzled by it. Then he bent forward and
clapped his hands, and she did the like, and they took hold and gripped
each other. He laid his hands on her slender waist ... and fell a
trembling like the Persian reed in the hurricane. So she lifted him up,
and throwing him to the ground sat down on his breast. Then she said to
him, "O Muslim, it is lawful among you to kill Christians: what sayest
thou to my killing thee?" "O my lady," replied he, "as for killing me,
it is unlawful; for our Prophet (whom God bless and preserve!) hath
forbidden the slaying of women and children and old men and monks."
"Since this was revealed unto your prophet," rejoined she, "it behooves
us to be even with him therein; so rise: I give thee thy life, for
beneficence is not lost upon men." Then she got up, and he rose and
brushed the earth from his head, and she said to him, "Be not abashed;
but indeed one who enters the land of the Greeks in quest of booty and
to succor kings against kings, how comes it that there is no strength in
him to defend himself against a woman?" "It was not lack of strength in
me," replied he, "nor was it thy strength that overthrew me, but thy
beauty; so if thou wilt, grant me another bout, it will be of thy
favor." She laughed and said, "I grant thee this: but these damsels have
been long bound, and their arms and shoulders are weary, and it were
fitting I should loose them, since this next bout may peradventure be a
long one." Then she went up to the girls, and unbinding them said to
them in the Greek tongue, "Go and put yourselves in safety, till I have
brought to naught this Muslim." So they went away, whilst Sherkan looked
at them, and they gazed at him and the young lady. Then he and she drew
near again and set to.... But [again by admiration of her beauty] his
strength failed him, and she feeling this, lifted him in her hands
swifter than the blinding lightning and threw him to the ground. He fell
on his back, and she said to him, "Rise: I give thee thy life a second
time. I spared thee before for the sake of thy prophet, for that he
forbade the killing of women, and I do so this second time because of
thy weakness and tender age, and strangerhood: but I charge thee, if
there be in the army sent by King Omar ben Ennuman a stronger than thou,
send him hither and tell him of me." "By Allah, O my lady," replied
Sherkan (and indeed he was greatly incensed against her), "it was not by
thy strength that thou overthrewest me, but by [thy beauty], so that nor
wit nor foresight was left in me. But now, if thou have a mind to try
another fall with me, with my wits about me, I have a right to this one
bout more by the rules of the game, for my presence of mind has now
returned to me." "Hast thou not had enough of wrestling, O conquered
one?" rejoined she. "However, come, if thou wilt: but know that this
bout must be the last." Then they took hold of each other, and he set to
in earnest and warded himself against being thrown down: so they
wrestled awhile and the damsel found in him strength such as she had not
before observed, and said to him, "O Muslim, thou art on thy guard!"
"Yes," replied he, "thou knowest that there remaineth but this bout, and
after each of us will go his own way." She laughed and he laughed too:
then she seized the opportunity to bore in upon him unawares, and
gripping him by the thigh, threw him to the ground, so that he fell on
his back. She laughed at him and said, "Thou art surely an eater of
bran: for thou art like a Bedouin bonnet that falls off at a touch, or a
child's toy that a puff of air overturns. Out on thee, thou poor
creature! Go back to the army of the Muslims and send us other than
thyself, for thou lackest thews; and cry as among the Arabs and Persians
and Turks and Medes, 'Whoso has might in him let him come to us!'" Then
she made a spring and landed on the other side of the stream and said to
Sherkan laughing, "It goes to my heart to part with thee! get thee to
thy friends, O my lord, before the morning, lest the knights come upon
thee and take thee on the points of their lances. Thou hast not strength
enough to defend thee against women; so how couldst thou make head
against men and cavaliers!" And she turned to go back to the monastery.
Sherkan was confounded, and called out to her, saying "O my lady! Wilt
thou go away, and leave the wretched stranger, the broken-hearted slave
of love?" So she turned to him laughing, and said, "What wouldst thou? I
grant thy prayer." "Have I set foot in thy country and tasted the
sweetness of thy favors," replied Sherkan, "and shall I return without
eating of thy victual and tasting of thy hospitality? Indeed, I am
become one of thy servitors." Quoth she, "None but the base refuses
hospitality: on my head and eyes be it! Do me the favor to mount and
ride along the stream, abreast of me, for thou art my guest." At this
Sherkan rejoiced, and hastening back to his horse, mounted and rode
along the river-bank, keeping abreast of her, till he came to a
drawbridge that hung by pulleys and chains of steel, made fast with
hooks and padlocks. Here stood the ten damsels awaiting the lady, who
spoke to one of them in the Greek tongue and said to her, "Go to him;
take his horse's rein and bring him over into the monastery."... They
went on till they reached a vaulted gate, arched over with marble. This
she opened, and entered with Sherkan into a long vestibule, vaulted with
ten arches, from each of which hung a lamp of crystal, shining like the
rays of the sun. The damsels met her at the end of the vestibule,
bearing perfumed flambeaux and having on their heads kerchiefs
embroidered with all manner of jewels, and went on before her, till they
came to the inward of the monastery, where Sherkan saw couches set up
all around, facing one another and overhung with curtains spangled with
gold. The floor was paved with all kinds of variegated marbles, and in
the midst was a basin of water with four and twenty spouts of gold
around it from which issued water like liquid silver; whilst at the
upper end stood a throne covered with silks of royal purple. Then said
the damsel, "O my lord, mount this throne." So he seated himself on it,
and she withdrew: and when she had been absent awhile, he asked the
servants of her, and they said, "She hath gone to her sleeping-chamber;
but we will serve thee as thou shalt order." So they set before him rare
meats, and he ate till he was satisfied, when they brought him a basin
of gold and an ewer of silver and he washed his hands. Then his mind
reverted to his troops, and he was troubled, knowing not what had
befallen them in his absence and thinking how he had forgotten his
father's injunctions, so that he abode, oppressed with anxiety and
repenting of what he had done, till the dawn broke and the day appeared,
when he lamented and sighed and became drowned in the sea of melancholy,
repeating the following verses:--
"I lack not of prudence, and yet in this case, I've been fooled;
so what shift shall avail unto me?
If any could ease me of love and its stress, Of my might and
my virtue I'd set myself free.
But alas! my heart's lost in maze of desire, And no helper save
God in my strait can I see.
Hardly had he finished when up came more than twenty damsels like moons,
encompassing the young lady, who appeared among them as the full moon
among stars. She was clad in royal brocade, and girt with a woven girdle
set with various kinds of jewels that straitly clasped her waist.... On
her head she wore a network of pearls, gemmed with various kinds of
jewels, and she moved with a coquettish, swimming gait, swaying
wonder-gracefully, whilst the damsels held up her skirts.... She fixed
her eyes on him, and considered him awhile, till she was assured of him,
when she came up to him and said, "Indeed the place is honored and
illumined with thy presence, O Sherkan! How didst thou pass the night,
O hero, after we went away and left thee? Verily, lying is a defect and
a reproach in kings; especially in great kings: and thou art Sherkan,
son of King Omar ben Ennuman; so henceforth tell me naught but truth,
and strive not to keep the secret of thy condition, for falsehood
engenders hatred and enmity. The arrow of destiny hath fallen upon thee,
and it behooves thee to show resignation and submission." When Sherkan
heard what she said, he saw nothing for it but to tell her the truth: so
he said, "I am indeed Sherkan, son of Omar ben Ennuman; whom fortune
hath afflicted and cast into this place: so now do whatsoever
thou wilt."
FROM 'SINDBAD THE SEAMAN AND SINDBAD THE LANDSMAN'
Portions of Nights 536 to 542, presenting the Introduction and the first
of the seven 'Voyages': Translation of Captain Sir Richard Burton.
There lived in the city of Bagdad, during the reign of the Commander of
the Faithful, Harun al-Rashid, a man named Sindbad the Hammal [Porter],
one in poor case, who bore burdens on his head for hire. It happened to
him one day of great heat that whilst he was carrying a heavy load, he
became exceeding weary and sweated profusely; the heat and the weight
alike oppressing him. Presently, as he was passing the gate of a
merchant's house, before which the ground was swept and watered, and
where the air was temperate, he sighted a broad bench beside the door;
so he set his load thereon, to take rest and smell the air.--
And Shahrazad perceived the dawn of day and ceased saying her permitted
say.
NOW WHEN IT WAS THE FIVE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SEVENTH NIGHT,
She said, It hath reached me, O auspicious King, that when the Hammal
set his load upon the bench to take rest and smell the air, there came
out upon him from the court-door a pleasant breeze and a delicious
fragrance. He sat down on the edge of the bench, and at once heard from
within the melodious sound of lutes and other stringed instruments, and
mirth-exciting voices singing and reciting, together with the song of
birds warbling and glorifying Almighty Allah in various tunes and
tongues; turtles, mockingbirds, merles, nightingales, cushats, and
stone-curlews: whereat he marveled in himself and was moved to mighty
joy and solace. Then he went up to the gate and saw within a great
flower-garden wherein were pages and black slaves, and such a train of
servants and attendants and so forth as is found only with Kings and
Sultans; and his nostrils were greeted with the savory odors of all
manner meats rich and delicate, and delicious and generous wines. So he
raised his eyes heavenwards and said, "Glory to Thee, O Lord, O Creator
and Provider, who providest whomso Thou wilt without count or stint! O
mine Holy One, I cry Thee pardon for all sins and turn to Thee repenting
of all offenses! O Lord, there is no gainsaying Thee in Thine ordinance
and Thy dominion, neither wilt Thou be questioned of that Thou dost, for
Thou indeed over all things art Almighty! Extolled be Thy perfection:
whom Thou wilt Thou makest poor and whom Thou wilt Thou makest rich!
Whom Thou wilt Thou exaltest and whom Thou wilt Thou abasest, and there
is no god but Thou! How mighty is Thy majesty and how enduring Thy
dominion and how excellent Thy government! Verily, Thou favorest whom
Thou wilt of Thy servants, whereby the owner of this place abideth in
all joyance of life and delighteth himself with pleasant scents and
delicious meats and exquisite wines of all kinds. For indeed Thou
appointest unto Thy creatures that which Thou wilt and that which Thou
hast foreordained unto them; wherefore are some weary and others are at
rest, and some enjoy fair fortune and affluence whilst others suffer the
extreme of travail and misery, even as I do." And he fell to reciting:
How many by my labors, that evermore endure, All goods of
life enjoy and in cooly shade recline?
Each morn that dawns I wake in travail and in woe, And
strange is my condition and my burden gars me pine:
Many others are in luck and from miseries are free, And Fortune
never loads them with loads the like o' mine:
They live their happy days in all solace and delight; Eat, drink,
and dwell in honor 'mid the noble and the digne:
All living things were made of a little drop of sperm, Thine
origin is mine and my provenance is thine;
Yet the difference and distance 'twixt the twain of us are far As
the difference of savor 'twixt vinegar and wine:
But at Thee, O God All-wise! I venture not to rail Whose ordinance
is just and whose justice cannot fail.
When Sindbad the Porter had made an end of reciting his verses, he bore
up his burden and was about to fare on, when there came forth to him
from the gate a little foot-page, fair of face and shapely of shape and
dainty of dress, who caught him by the hand, saying, "Come in and speak
with my lord, for he calleth for thee." The Porter would have excused
himself to the page, but the lad would take no refusal; so he left his
load with the doorkeeper in the vestibule and followed the boy into the
house, which he found to be a goodly mansion, radiant and full of
majesty, till he brought him to a grand sitting-room wherein he saw a
company of nobles and great lords, seated at tables garnished with all
manner of flowers and sweet-scented herbs, besides great plenty of
dainty viands and fruits dried and fresh and confections and wines of
the choicest vintages. There also were instruments of music and mirth,
and lovely slave-girls playing and singing. All the company was ranged
according to rank, and in the highest place sat a man of worshipful and
noble aspect, whose beard-sides hoariness had stricken; and he was
stately of stature and fair of favor, agreeable of aspect and full of
gravity and dignity and majesty. So Sindbad the Porter was confounded at
that which he beheld, and said in himself, "By Allah, this must be
either a piece of Paradise or some king's palace!" Then he saluted the
company with much respect, praying for their prosperity; and kissing
ground before them, stood with his head bowed down in humble attitude.--
And Shahrazad perceived the dawn of day and ceased to say her permitted
say.
NOW WHEN IT WAS THE FIVE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-EIGHTH NIGHT,
FIRST VOYAGE OF SINDBAD HIGHT THE SEAMAN.
My father was a merchant, one of the notables of my native place, a
moneyed man and ample of means, who died whilst I was yet a child,
leaving me much wealth in money and lands, and farmhouses. When I grew
up I laid hands on the whole and ate of the best and drank freely and
wore rich clothes and lived lavishly, companioning and consorting with
youths of my own age, and considering that this course of life would
continue for ever and ken no change. Thus did I for a long time, but at
last I awoke from my heedlessness, and returning to my senses, I found
my wealth had become unwealth and my condition ill-conditioned, and all
I once hent had left my hand. And recovering my reason I was stricken
with dismay and confusion, and bethought me of a saying of our lord
Solomon, son of David, (upon whom be Peace!) which I had heard aforetime
from my father, "Three things are better than other three: the day of
death is better than the day of birth, a live dog is better than a dead
lion, and the grave is better than want." Then I got together my remains
of estates and property and sold all, even my clothes, for three
thousand dirhams, with which I resolved to travel to foreign parts,
remembering the saying of the poet:--
By means of toil man shall scale the height; Who to fame
aspires mustn't sleep o' night:
Who seeketh pearl in the deep must dive, Winning weal and
wealth by his main and might:
And who seeketh Fame without toil and strife Th' impossible
seeketh and wasteth life.
So taking heart I bought me goods, merchandise, and all needed for a
voyage, and, impatient to be at sea, I embarked, with a company of
merchants, on board a ship bound for Bassorah. There we again embarked
and sailed many days and nights, and we passed from isle to isle and sea
to sea and shore to shore, buying and selling and bartering everywhere
the ship touched, and continued our course till we came to an island as
it were a garth of the garden of Paradise. Here the captain cast anchor,
and making fast to the shore, put out the landing planks. So all on
board landed and made furnaces, and lighting fires therein, busied
themselves in various ways, some cooking and some washing, whilst other
some walked about the island for solace, and the crew fell to eating and
drinking and playing and sporting. I was one of the walkers; but as we
were thus engaged, behold the master, who was standing on the gunwale,
cried out to us at the top of his voice, saying, "Ho there! passengers,
run for your lives and hasten back to the ship and leave your gear and
save yourselves from destruction, Allah preserve you! For this island
whereon ye stand is no true island, but a great fish stationary
a-middlemost of the sea, whereon the sand hath settled and trees have
sprung up of old time, so that it is become like unto an island; but
when ye lighted fires on it, it felt the heat and moved; and in a moment
it will sink with you into the sea and ye will all be drowned. So leave
your gear and seek your safety ere ye die."--
And Shahrazad perceived the dawn of day and ceased saying her permitted
say.
NOW WHEN IT WAS THE FIVE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-NINTH NIGHT,
She said, It hath reached me, O auspicious King, that when the
ship-master cried to the passengers, "Leave your gear and seek safety
ere ye die," all who heard him left gear and goods, clothes washed and
unwashed, fire-pots and brass cooking-pots, and fled back to the ship
for their lives, and some reached it while others (among whom was I) did
not, for suddenly the island shook and sank into the abysses of the
deep, with all that were thereon, and the dashing sea surged over it
with clashing waves. I sank with the others down, down into the deep,
but Almighty Allah preserved me from drowning and threw in my way a
great wooden tub of those that had served the ship's company for
tubbing. I gripped it for the sweetness of life, and bestriding it like
one riding, paddled with my feet like oars, whilst the waves tossed me
as in sport right and left. Meanwhile, the captain made sail and
departed with those who had reached the ship, regardless of the drowning
and the drowned; and I ceased not following the vessel with my eyes,
till she was hid from sight and I made sure of death. Darkness closed in
upon me while in this plight, and the winds and waves bore me on all
that night and the next day, till the tub brought to with me under the
lee of a lofty island, with trees overhanging the tide. I caught hold of
a branch and by its aid clambered up on to the land, after coming nigh
upon death; but when I reached the shore, I found my legs cramped and
numbed, and my feet bore traces of the nibbling of fish upon their
soles; withal I had felt nothing for excess of anguish and fatigue. I
threw myself down on the island-ground, like a dead man, and drowned in
desolation swooned away, nor did I return to my senses till next
morning, when the sun rose and revived me. But I found my feet swollen,
so made shift to move by shuffling on my breech and crawling on my
knees, for in that island were found store of fruit and springs of sweet
water. I ate of the fruits, which strengthened me; and thus I abode days
and nights, till my life seemed to return and my spirits began to revive
and I was better able to move about. So after due consideration I fell
to exploring the island and diverting myself with gazing upon all things
that Allah Almighty had created there; and rested under the trees, from
one of which I cut me a staff to lean upon. One day as I walked along
the marge, I caught sight of some object in the distance, and thought
it a wild beast or one of the monster creatures of the sea; but as I
drew near it, looking hard the while, I saw that it was a noble mare,
tethered on the beach. Presently I went up to her, but she cried out
against me with a great cry, so that I trembled for fear and turned to
go away, when there came forth a man from under the earth and followed
me, crying out and saying, "Who and whence art thou, and what caused
thee to come hither?" "O my lord," answered I, "I am in very sooth a
waif, a stranger, and was left to drown with sundry others by the ship
we voyaged in; but Allah graciously sent me a wooden tub, so I saved
myself thereon, and it floated with me till the waves cast me up on this
island." When he heard this he took my hand, and saying "Come with me,"
carried me into a great Sardáb, or underground chamber, which was
spacious as a saloon. He made me sit down at its upper end; then he
brought me somewhat of food, and, being anhungered, I ate till I was
satisfied and refreshed. And when he had put me at mine ease he
questioned me of myself, and I told him all that had befallen me from
first to last. And as he wondered at my adventure, I said, "By Allah, O
my lord, excuse me; I have told thee the truth of my case and the
accident which betided me. And now I desire that thou tell me who thou
art, and why thou abidest here under the earth, and why thou hast
tethered yonder mare on the brink of the sea." Answered he, "Know that I
am one of the several who are stationed in different parts of this
island, and we are of the grooms of King Mihrján, and under our hand are
all his horses.... And Inshallah! I will bear thee to King Mihrján--"
And Shahrazad perceived the dawn of day and ceased to say her permitted
say.
NOW WHEN IT WAS THE FIVE HUNDRED AND FORTIETH NIGHT,
She continued, It hath reached me, O auspicious King, that the Syce said
to Sindbad the Seaman, "I will bear thee to King Mihrján and show thee
our country. And know that hadst thou not happened on us, thou hadst
perished miserably and none had known of thee; but I will be the means
of the saving of thy life and of thy return to thine own land." I called
down blessings on him and thanked him for his kindness and courtesy....
After this, we sat awhile, till the rest of the grooms came up, each
leading a mare, and seeing me with their fellow Syce questioned me of my
case, and I repeated my story to them. Thereupon they drew near me, and
spreading the table, ate and invited me to eat; so I ate with them,
after which they took horse, and mounting me on one of the mares, set
out with me and fared on without ceasing, till we came to the capital
city of King Mihrján, and going in to him acquainted him with my story.
Then he sent for me, and when they set me before him and salams had been
exchanged, he gave me a cordial welcome and wishing me long life bade me
tell him my tale. So I related to him all that I had seen and all that
had befallen me from first to last, whereat he marveled and said to me,
"By Allah, O my son, thou hast indeed been miraculously preserved! Were
not the term of thy life a long one, thou hadst not escaped from these
straits; but praised be Allah for safety!" Then he spoke cheerily to me
and entreated me with kindness and consideration; moreover, he made me
his agent for the port and registrar of all ships that entered the
harbor. I attended him regularly, to receive his commandments, and he
favored me and did me all manner of kindness and invested me with costly
and splendid robes. Indeed, I was high in credit with him, as an
intercessor for the folk and an intermediary between them and him, when
they wanted aught of him. I abode thus a great while, and as often as I
passed through the city to the port, I questioned the merchants and
travelers and sailors of the city of Baghdad; so haply I might hear of
an occasion to return to my native land, but could find none who knew it
or knew any who resorted thither. At this I was chagrined, for I was
weary of long strangerhood; and my disappointment endured for a time
till one day, going in to King Mihrján, I found with him a company of
Indians. I saluted them and they returned my salam; and politely
welcomed me and asked me of my country--
And Shahrazad perceived the dawn of day and ceased saying her permitted
say.
NOW WHEN IT WAS THE FIVE HUNDRED AND FORTY-FIRST NIGHT,
She continued, It hath reached me, O auspicious King, that Sindbad the
Seaman said:--When they asked me of my country I questioned them of
theirs, and they told me that they were of various castes, some being
called Shakiriyah, who are the noblest of their castes and neither
oppress nor offer violence to any, and other Brahmans, a folk who
abstain from wine, but live in delight and solace and merriment, and own
camels and horses and cattle. Moreover, they told me that the people of
India are divided into two-and-seventy castes, and I marveled at this
with exceeding marvel. Amongst other things that I saw in King Mihrján's
dominions was an island called Kásil, wherein all night is heard the
beating of drums and tabrets; but we were told by the neighboring
islanders and by travelers that the inhabitants are people of diligence
and judgment. In this sea I saw also a fish two hundred cubits long, and
the fishermen fear it; so they strike together pieces of wood and put it
to flight. I also saw another fish, with a head like that of an owl,
besides many other wonders and rarities, which it would be tedious to
recount. I occupied myself thus in visiting the islands, till one day,
as I stood in the port, with a staff in my hand, according to my custom,
behold, a great ship, wherein were many merchants, came sailing for the
harbor. When it reached the small inner port where ships anchor under
the city, the master furled his sails and making fast to the shore, put
out the landing-planks, whereupon the crew fell to breaking bulk and
landing cargo whilst I stood by, taking written note of them. They were
long in bringing the goods ashore, so I asked the master, "Is there
aught left in thy ship?" and he answered, "O my lord, there are divers
bales of merchandise in the hold, whose owner was drowned from amongst
us at one of the islands on our course; so his goods remained in our
charge by way of trust, and we propose to sell them and note their
price, that we may convey it to his people in the city of Baghdad, the
Home of Peace." "What was the merchant's name?" quoth I, and quoth he,
"Sindbad the Seaman"; whereupon I straitly considered him and knowing
him, cried out to him with a great cry, saying, "O captain, I am that
Sindbad the Seaman who traveled with other merchants; and when the fish
heaved and thou calledst to us, some saved themselves and others sank, I
being one of them. But Allah Almighty threw in my way a great tub of
wood, of those the crew had used to wash withal, and the winds and waves
carried me to this island, where by Allah's grace I fell in with King
Mihrján's grooms and they brought me hither to the King their master.
When I told him my story he entreated me with favor and made me his
harbor-master, and I have prospered in his service and found acceptance
with him. These bales, therefore, are mine, the goods which God hath
given me--"
And Shahrazad perceived the dawn of day and ceased to say her permitted
say.
NOW WHEN IT WAS THE FIVE HUNDRED AND FORTY-SECOND NIGHT,