But as I have said, the qualities of genius are less transferable than

the qualities of intelligence; less can be immediately learned and

appropriated from their product; they are less direct and stringent

intellectual agencies, though they may be more beautiful and divine.

Shakespeare and our great Elizabethan group were certainly more gifted

writers than Corneille and his group; but what was the sequel to this

great literature, this literature of genius, as we may call it,

stretching from Marlowe to Milton? What did it lead up to in English

literature? To our provincial and second-rate literature of the

eighteenth century. What, on the other hand, was the sequel to the

literature of the French "great century," to this literature of

intelligence, as by comparison with our Elizabethan literature we may

call it; what did it lead up to? To the French literature of the

eighteenth century, one of the most powerful and pervasive intellectual

agencies that have ever existed,--the greatest European force of the

eighteenth century. In science, again, we had Newton, a genius of the

very highest order, a type of genius in science if ever there was one.

On the continent, as a sort of counterpart to Newton, there was

Leibnitz; a man, it seems to me (though on these matters I speak under

correction), of much less creative energy of genius, much less power of

divination than Newton, but rather a man of admirable intelligence, a

type of intelligence in science if ever there was one. Well, and what

did they each directly lead up to in science? What was the intellectual

generation that sprang from each of them? I only repeat what the men of

science have themselves pointed out. The man of genius was continued by

the English analysts of the eighteenth century, comparatively powerless

and obscure followers of the renowned master. The man of intelligence

was continued by successors like Bernoulli, Euler, Lagrange, and

Laplace, the greatest names in modern mathematics.

SWEETNESS AND LIGHT

From 'Culture and Anarchy'

The disparagers of culture make its motive curiosity; sometimes, indeed,

they make its motive mere exclusiveness and vanity. The culture which is

supposed to plume itself on a smattering of Greek and Latin is a culture

which is begotten by nothing so intellectual as curiosity; it is valued

either out of sheer vanity and ignorance, or else as an engine of social

and class distinction, separating its holder, like a badge or title,

from other people who have not got it. No serious man would call this

_culture_, or attach any value to it, as culture, at all. To find the

real ground for the very differing estimate which serious people will

set upon culture, we must find some motive for culture in the terms of

which may lie a real ambiguity; and such a motive the word

_curiosity_ gives us.

I have before now pointed out that we English do not, like the

foreigners, use this word in a good sense as well as in a bad sense.

With us the word is always used in a somewhat disapproving sense. A

liberal and intelligent eagerness about the things of the mind may be

meant by a foreigner when he speaks of curiosity; but with us the word

always conveys a certain notion of frivolous and unedifying activity. In

the Quarterly Review, some little time ago, was an estimate of the

celebrated French critic, M. Sainte-Beuve; and a very inadequate

estimate it in my judgment was. And its inadequacy consisted chiefly in

this: that in our English way it left out of sight the double sense

really involved in the word _curiosity_, thinking enough was said to

stamp M. Sainte-Beuve with blame if it was said that he was impelled in

his operations as a critic by curiosity, and omitting either to perceive

that M. Sainte-Beuve himself, and many other people with him, would

consider that this was praiseworthy and not blameworthy, or to point out

why it ought really to be accounted worthy of blame and not of praise.

For as there is a curiosity about intellectual matters which is futile,

and merely a disease, so there is certainly a curiosity--a desire after

the things of the mind simply for their own sakes and for the pleasure

of seeing them as they are--which is, in an intelligent being, natural

and laudable. Nay, and the very desire to see things as they are implies

a balance and regulation of mind which is not often attained without

fruitful effort, and which is the very opposite of the blind and

diseased impulse of mind which is what we mean to blame when we blame

curiosity. Montesquieu says:--"The first motive which ought to impel us

to study is the desire to augment the excellence of our nature, and to

render an intelligent being yet more intelligent." This is the true

ground to assign for the genuine scientific passion, however manifested,

and for culture, viewed simply as a fruit of this passion; and it is a

worthy ground, even though we let the term _curiosity_ stand to

describe it.

But there is of culture another view, in which not solely the scientific

passion, the sheer desire to see things as they are, natural and proper

in an intelligent being, appears as the ground of it. There is a view in

which all the love of our neighbor, the impulses toward action, help,

and beneficence, the desire for removing human error, clearing human

confusion, and diminishing human misery, the noble aspiration to leave

the world better and happier than we found it,--motives eminently such

as are called social,--come in as part of the grounds of culture, and

the main and pre-eminent part. Culture is then properly described not as

having its origin in curiosity, but as having its origin in the love of

perfection; it is _a study of perfection_. It moves by the force, not

merely or primarily of the scientific passion for pure knowledge, but

also of the moral and social passion for doing good. As in the first

view of it we took for its worthy motto Montesquieu's words, "To render

an intelligent being yet more intelligent!" so in the second view of it

there is no better motto which it can have than these words of Bishop

Wilson: "To make reason and the will of God prevail."

Only, whereas the passion for doing good is apt to be over-hasty in

determining what reason and the will of God say, because its turn is for

acting rather than thinking, and it wants to be beginning to act; and

whereas it is apt to take its own conceptions, which proceed from its

own state of development and share in all the imperfections and

immaturities of this, for a basis of action: what distinguishes culture

is, that it is possessed by the scientific passion as well as by the

passion of doing good; that it demands worthy notions of reason and the

will of God, and does not readily suffer its own crude conceptions to

substitute themselves for them. And knowing that no action or

institution can be salutary and stable which is not based on reason and

the will of God, it is not so bent on acting and instituting, even with

the great aim of diminishing human error and misery ever before its

thoughts, but that it can remember that acting and instituting are of

little use, unless we know how and what we ought to act and to

institute....

The pursuit of perfection, then, is the pursuit of sweetness and light.

He who works for sweetness and light, works to make reason and the will

of God prevail. He who works for machinery, he who works for hatred,

works only for confusion. Culture looks beyond machinery, culture hates

hatred; culture has one great passion, the passion for sweetness and

light. It has one even yet greater!--the passion for making them

_prevail._ It is not satisfied till we _all_ come to a perfect man; it

knows that the sweetness and light of the few must be imperfect until

the raw and unkindled masses of humanity are touched with sweetness and

light. If I have not shrunk from saying that we must work for sweetness

and light, so neither have I shrunk from saying that we must have a

broad basis, must have sweetness and light for as many as possible.

Again and again I have insisted how those are the happy moments of

humanity, how those are the marking epochs of a people's life, how those

are the flowering times for literature and art and all the creative

power of genius, when there is a _national_ glow of life and thought,

when the whole of society is in the fullest measure permeated by

thought, sensible to beauty, intelligent and alive. Only it must be

_real_ thought and _real_ beauty; _real_ sweetness and _real_ light.

Plenty of people will try to give the masses, as they call them, an

intellectual food prepared and adapted in the way they think proper for

the actual condition of the masses. The ordinary popular literature is

an example of this way of working on the masses. Plenty of people will

try to indoctrinate the masses with the set of ideas and judgments

constituting the creed of their own profession or party. Our religious

and political organizations give an example of this way of working on

the masses. I condemn neither way; but culture works differently. It

does not try to teach down to the level of inferior classes; it does not

try to win them for this or that sect of its own, with ready-made

judgments and watchwords. It seeks to do away with classes; to make the

best that has been thought and known in the world current everywhere; to

make all men live in an atmosphere of sweetness and light, where they

may use ideas, as it uses them itself, freely,--nourished and not

bound by them.

This is the _social idea_; and the men of culture are the true apostles

of equality. The great men of culture are those who have had a passion

for diffusing, for making prevail, for carrying from one end of society

to the other, the best knowledge, the best ideas of their time; who have

labored to divest knowledge of all that was harsh, uncouth, difficult,

abstract, professional, exclusive; to humanize it, to make it efficient

outside the clique of the cultivated and learned, yet still remaining

the _best_ knowledge and thought of the time, and a true source,

therefore, of sweetness and light. Such a man was Abélard in the Middle

Ages, in spite of all his imperfections; and thence the boundless

emotion and enthusiasm which Abélard excited. Such were Lessing and

Herder in Germany, at the end of the last century; and their services to

Germany were in this way inestimably precious. Generations will pass,

and literary monuments will accumulate, and works far more perfect than

the works of Lessing and Herder will be produced in Germany; and yet the

names of these two men will fill a German with a reverence and

enthusiasm such as the names of the most gifted masters will hardly

awaken. And why? Because they _humanized_ knowledge; because they

broadened the basis of life and intelligence; because they worked

powerfully to diffuse sweetness and light, to make reason and the will

of God prevail. With Saint Augustine they said:--"Let us not leave thee

alone to make in the secret of thy knowledge, as thou didst before the

creation of the firmament, the division of light from darkness; let the

children of thy spirit, placed in their firmament, make their light

shine upon the earth, mark the division of night and day, and announce

the revolution of the times; for the old order is passed, and the new

arises; the night is spent, the day is come forth; and thou shalt crown

the year with thy blessing, when thou shalt send forth laborers into thy

harvest sown by other hands than theirs; when thou shalt send forth new

laborers to new seed-times, whereof the harvest shall be not yet."

Keeping this in view, I have in my own mind often indulged myself with

the fancy of employing, in order to designate our aristocratic class,

the name of _The Barbarians_. The Barbarians, to whom we all owe so

much, and who reinvigorated and renewed our worn-out Europe, had, as is

well known, eminent merits; and in this country, where we are for the

most part sprung from the Barbarians, we have never had the prejudice

against them which prevails among the races of Latin origin. The

Barbarians brought with them that stanch individualism, as the modern

phrase is, and that passion for doing as one likes, for the assertion of

personal liberty, which appears to Mr. Bright the central idea of

English life, and of which we have at any rate a very rich supply. The

stronghold and natural seat of this passion was in the nobles of whom

our aristocratic class are the inheritors; and this class, accordingly,

have signally manifested it, and have done much by their example to

recommend it to the body of the nation, who already, indeed, had it in

their blood. The Barbarians, again, had the passion for field-sports;

and they have handed it on to our aristocratic class, who of this

passion, too, as of the passion for asserting one's personal liberty,

are the great natural stronghold. The care of the Barbarians for the

body, and for all manly exercises; the vigor, good looks, and fine

complexion which they acquired and perpetuated in their families by

these means,--all this may be observed still in our aristocratic class.

The chivalry of the Barbarians, with its characteristics of high spirit,

choice manners, and distinguished bearing,--what is this but the

attractive commencement of the politeness of our aristocratic class? In

some Barbarian noble, no doubt, one would have admired, if one could

have been then alive to see it, the rudiments of our politest peer.

Only, all this culture (to call it by that name) of the Barbarians was

an exterior culture mainly. It consisted principally in outward gifts

and graces, in looks, manners, accomplishments, prowess. The chief

inward gifts which had part in it were the most exterior, so to speak,

of inward gifts, those which come nearest to outward ones; they were

courage, a high spirit, self-confidence. Far within, and unawakened, lay

a whole range of powers of thought and feeling, to which these

interesting productions of nature had, from the circumstances of their

life, no access. Making allowances for the difference of the times,

surely we can observe precisely the same thing now in our aristocratic

class. In general its culture is exterior chiefly; all the exterior

graces and accomplishments, and the more external of the inward virtues,

seem to be principally its portion. It now, of course, cannot but be

often in contact with those studies by which, from the world of thought

and feeling, true culture teaches us to fetch sweetness and light; but

its hold upon these very studies appears remarkably external, and

unable to exert any deep power upon its spirit. Therefore the one

insufficiency which we noted in the perfect mean of this class was an

insufficiency of light. And owing to the same causes, does not a subtle

criticism lead us to make, even on the good looks and politeness of our

aristocratic class, and of even the most fascinating half of that class,

the feminine half, the one qualifying remark, that in these charming

gifts there should perhaps be, for ideal perfection, a shade

more _soul_?

I often, therefore, when I want to distinguish clearly the aristocratic

class from the Philistines proper, or middle class, name the former, in

my own mind, _The Barbarians_. And when I go through the country, and

see this and that beautiful and imposing seat of theirs crowning the

landscape, "There," I say to myself, "is a great fortified post of the

Barbarians."

OXFORD

From 'Essays in Criticism'

No, we are all seekers still! seekers often make mistakes, and I wish

mine to redound to my own discredit only, and not to touch Oxford.

Beautiful city! so venerable, so lovely, so unravaged by the fierce

intellectual life of our century, so serene!

"There are our young barbarians all at play!"

And yet, steeped in sentiment as she lies, spreading her gardens to the

moonlight, and whispering from her towers the last enchantments of the

Middle Age, who will deny that Oxford, by her ineffable charm, keeps

ever calling us nearer to the true goal of all of us, to the ideal, to

perfection,--to beauty, in a word, which is only truth seen from another

side?--nearer, perhaps, than all the science of Tübingen. Adorable

dreamer, whose heart has been so romantic! who hast given thyself so

prodigally, given thyself to sides and to heroes not mine, only never to

the Philistines! home of lost causes, and forsaken beliefs, and

unpopular names, and impossible loyalties! what example could ever so

inspire us to keep down the Philistine in ourselves, what teacher could

ever so save us from that bondage to which we are all prone, that

bondage which Goethe, in his incomparable lines on the death of

Schiller, makes it his friend's highest praise (and nobly did Schiller

deserve the praise) to have left miles out of sight behind him: the

bondage of "_was uns alle bandigt, Das Gemeine!_" She will forgive me,

even if I have unwittingly drawn upon her a shot or two aimed at her

unworthy son; for she is generous, and the cause in which I fight is,

after all, hers. Apparitions of a day, what is our puny warfare against

the Philistines, compared with the warfare which this queen of romance

has been waging against them for centuries, and will wage after we

are gone?

TO A FRIEND

Who prop, thou ask'st, in these bad days, my mind?--

He much, the old man, who, clearest-souled of men,

Saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen,

And Tmolus hill, and Smyrna bay, though blind.

Much he, whose friendship I not long since won,

That halting slave, who in Nicopolis

Taught Arrian, when Vespasian's brutal son

Cleared Rome of what most shamed him. But he his

My special thanks, whose even-balanced soul,

From first youth tested up to extreme old age,

Business could not make dull, nor passion wild;

Who saw life steadily, and saw it whole;

The mellow glory of the Attic stage,

Singer of sweet Colonus, and its child.

YOUTH AND CALM

'Tis death! and peace, indeed, is here,

And ease from shame, and rest from fear.

There's nothing can dismarble now

The smoothness of that limpid brow.

But is a calm like this, in truth,

The crowning end of life and youth,

And when this boon rewards the dead,

Are all debts paid, has all been said?

And is the heart of youth so light,

Its step so firm, its eye so bright,

Because on its hot brow there blows

A wind of promise and repose

From the far grave, to which it goes;

Because it has the hope to come,

One day, to harbor in the tomb?

Ah no, the bliss youth dreams is one

For daylight, for the cheerful sun,

For feeling nerves and living breath--

Youth dreams a bliss on this side death.

It dreams a rest, if not more deep,

More grateful than this marble sleep;

It hears a voice within it tell:

_Calms not life's crown, though calm is well._

'Tis all perhaps which man acquires,

But 'tis not what our youth desires.

ISOLATION

TO MARGUERITE

We were apart; yet, day by day,

I bade my heart more constant be.

I bade it keep the world away,

And grow a home for only thee;

Nor feared but thy love likewise grew,

Like mine, each day, more tried, more true.

The fault was grave! I might have known,

What far too soon, alas! I learned--

The heart can bind itself alone,

And faith may oft be unreturned.

Self-swayed our feelings ebb and swell--

Thou lov'st no more;--Farewell! Farewell!

Farewell!--and thou, thou lonely heart,

Which never yet without remorse

Even for a moment didst depart

From thy remote and spherèd course

To haunt the place where passions reign--

Back to thy solitude again!

Back! with the conscious thrill of shame

Which Luna felt, that summer-night,

Flash through her pure immortal frame,

When she forsook the starry height

To hang over Endymion's sleep

Upon the pine-grown Latmian steep.

Yet she, chaste queen, had never proved

How vain a thing is mortal love,

Wandering in Heaven, far removed;

But thou hast long had place to prove

This truth--to prove, and make thine own:

"Thou hast been, shalt be, art, alone."

Or, if not quite alone, yet they

Which touch thee are unmating things--

Ocean and clouds and night and day;

Lorn autumns and triumphant springs;

And life, and others' joy and pain,

And love, if love, of happier men.

Of happier men--for they, at least,

Have dreamed two human hearts might blend

In one, and were through faith released

From isolation without end

Prolonged; nor knew, although not less

Alone than thou, their loneliness.

Yes! in the sea of life enisled,

With echoing straits between us thrown,

Dotting the shoreless watery wild,

We mortal millions live alone.

The islands feel the enclasping flow,

And then their endless bounds they know.

But when the moon their hollow lights,

And they are swept by balms of spring,

And in their glens, on starry nights,

The nightingales divinely sing;

And lovely notes, from shore to shore,

Across the sounds and channels pour--

Oh! then a longing like despair

Is to their farthest caverns sent;

For surely once, they feel, we were

Parts of a single continent!

Now round us spreads the watery plain--

Oh, might our marges meet again!

Who ordered that their longing's fire

Should be, as soon as kindled, cooled?

Who renders vain their deep desire?--

A God, a God their severance ruled!

And bade betwixt their shores to be

The unplumbed, salt, estranging sea

STANZAS IN MEMORY OF THE AUTHOR OF 'OBERMANN' (1849)

In front the awful Alpine track

Crawls up its rocky stair;

The autumn storm-winds drive the rack,

Close o'er it, in the air.

Behind are the abandoned baths

Mute in their meadows lone;

The leaves are on the valley-paths,

The mists are on the Rhone--

The white mists rolling like a sea!

I hear the torrents roar.

--Yes, Obermann, all speaks of thee;

I feel thee near once more.

I turn thy leaves! I feel their breath

Once more upon me roll;

That air of languor, cold, and death,

Which brooded o'er thy soul.

Fly hence, poor wretch, whoe'er thou art,

Condemned to cast about,

All shipwreck in thy own weak heart,

For comfort from without!

A fever in these pages burns

Beneath the calm they feign;

A wounded human spirit turns,

Here, on its bed of pain.

Yes, though the virgin mountain-air

Fresh through these pages blows;

Though to these leaves the glaciers spare

The soul of their mute snows;

Though here a mountain-murmur swells

Of many a dark-boughed pine;

Though, as you read, you hear the bells

Of the high-pasturing kine--

Yet, through the hum of torrent lone,

And brooding mountain-bee,

There sobs I know not what ground-tone

Of human agony.

Is it for this, because the sound

Is fraught too deep with pain,

That, Obermann! the world around

So little loves thy strain?

* * * * *

And then we turn, thou sadder sage,

To thee! we feel thy spell!

--The hopeless tangle of our age,

Thou too hast scanned it well!

Immovable thou sittest, still

As death, composed to bear!

Thy head is clear, thy feeling chill,

And icy thy despair.

* * * * *

He who hath watched, not shared, the strife,

Knows how the day hath gone.

He only lives with the world's life

Who hath renounced his own.

To thee we come, then! Clouds are rolled

Where thou, O seer! art set;

Thy realm of thought is drear and cold--

The world is colder yet!

And thou hast pleasures, too, to share

With those who come to thee--

Balms floating on thy mountain-air,

And healing sights to see.

How often, where the slopes are green

On Jaman, hast thou sate

By some high chalet-door, and seen

The summer-day grow late;

And darkness steal o'er the wet grass

With the pale crocus starr'd,

And reach that glimmering sheet of glass

Beneath the piny sward,

Lake Leman's waters, far below!

And watched the rosy light

Fade from the distant peaks of snow;

And on the air of night

Heard accents of the eternal tongue

Through the pine branches play--

Listened and felt thyself grow young!

Listened, and wept--Away!

Away the dreams that but deceive!

And thou, sad guide, adieu!

I go, fate drives me; but I leave

Half of my life with you.

We, in some unknown Power's employ,

Move on a rigorous line;

Can neither, when we will, enjoy,

Nor, when we will, resign.

I in the world must live;--but thou,

Thou melancholy shade!

Wilt not, if thou can'st see me now,

Condemn me, nor upbraid.

For thou art gone away from earth,

And place with those dost claim,

The Children of the Second Birth,

Whom the world could not tame.

* * * * *

Farewell!--Whether thou now liest near

That much-loved inland sea,

The ripples of whose blue waves cheer

Vevey and Meillerie;

And in that gracious region bland,

Where with clear-rustling wave

The scented pines of Switzerland

Stand dark round thy green grave,

Between the dusty vineyard-walls

Issuing on that green place,

The early peasant still recalls

The pensive stranger's face,

And stoops to clear thy moss-grown date

Ere he plods on again;--

Or whether, by maligner fate,

Among the swarms of men,

Where between granite terraces

The blue Seine rolls her wave,

The Capital of Pleasures sees

Thy hardly-heard-of grave;--

Farewell! Under the sky we part,

In this stern Alpine dell.

O unstrung will! O broken heart!

A last, a last farewell!

MEMORIAL VERSES (1850)

Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece,

Long since, saw Byron's struggle cease,

But one such death remained to come;

The last poetic voice is dumb--

We stand to-day by Wordsworth's tomb.

When Byron's eyes were shut in death,

We bowed our head and held our breath.

He taught us little; but our soul

Had felt him like the thunder's roll.

With shivering heart the strife we saw

Of passion with eternal law;

And yet with reverential awe

We watched the fount of fiery life

Which served for that Titanic strife.

When Goethe's death was told, we said,--

Sunk, then, is Europe's sagest head.

Physician of the iron age,

Goethe has done his pilgrimage.

He took the suffering human race,

He read each wound, each weakness clear;

And struck his finger on the place,

And said: Thou ailest here, and here!

He looked on Europe's dying hour

Of fitful dream and feverish power;

His eye plunged down the weltering strife,

The turmoil of expiring life--He

said, The end is everywhere,

Art still has truth, take refuge there!

And he was happy, if to know

Causes of things, and far below

His feet to see the lurid flow

Of terror, and insane distress,

And headlong fate, be happiness.

And Wordsworth!--Ah, pale ghosts, rejoice!

For never has such soothing voice

Been to your shadowy world conveyed,

Since erst, at morn, some wandering shade

Heard the clear song of Orpheus come

Through Hades, and the mournful gloom.

Wordsworth has gone from us--and ye,

Ah, may ye feel his voice as we!

He too upon a wintry clime

Had fallen--on this iron time

Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears.

He found us when the age had bound

Our souls in its benumbing round;

He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears.

He laid us as we lay at birth,

On the cool, flowery lap of earth.

Smiles broke from us and we had ease;

The hills were round us, and the breeze

Went o'er the sunlit fields again;

Our foreheads felt the wind and rain,

Our youth returned; for there was shed

On spirits that had long been dead,

Spirits dried up and closely furled,

The freshness of the early world.

Ah! since dark days still bring to light

Man's prudence and man's fiery might,

Time may restore us in his course

Goethe's sage mind and Byron's force;

But where will Europe's latter hour

Again find Wordsworth's healing power?

Others will teach us how to dare,

And against fear our breast to steel;

Others will strengthen us to bear--

But who, ah! who, will make us feel?

The cloud of mortal destiny,

Others will front it fearlessly--But

who, like him, will put it by?

Keep fresh the grass upon his grave,

O Rotha, with thy living wave!

Sing him thy best! for few or none

Hears thy voice right, now he is gone.

THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA

HUSSEIN

O most just Vizier, send away

The cloth-merchants, and let them be,

Them and their dues, this day! the King

Is ill at ease, and calls for thee.

THE VIZIER

O merchants, tarry yet a day

Here in Bokhara! but at noon,

To-morrow, come, and ye shall pay

Each fortieth web of cloth to me,

As the law is, and go your way.

O Hussein, lead me to the King!

Thou teller of sweet tales,--thine own,

Ferdousi's, and the others',--lead!

How is it with my lord?

HUSSEIN

Alone,

Ever since prayer-time, he doth wait,

O Vizier! without lying down,

In the great window of the gate,

Looking into the Registàn,

Where through the sellers' booths the slaves

Are this way bringing the dead man.--

O Vizier, here is the King's door!

THE KING

O Vizier, I may bury him?

THE VIZIER

O King, thou know'st, I have been sick

These many days, and heard no thing

(For Allah shut my ears and mind),

Not even what thou dost, O King!

Wherefore, that I may counsel thee,

Let Hussein, if thou wilt, make haste

To speak in order what hath chanced.

THE KING

O Vizier, be it as thou say'st!

HUSSEIN

Three days since, at the time of prayer,

A certain Moollah, with his robe

All rent, and dust upon his hair,

Watched my lord's coming forth, and pushed

The golden mace-bearers aside,

And fell at the King's feet, and cried:--

"Justice, O King, and on myself!

On this great sinner, who did break

The law, and by the law must die!

Vengeance, O King!"

But the King spake:--

"What fool is this, that hurts our ears

With folly? or what drunken slave?

My guards, what, prick him with your spears!

Prick me the fellow from the path!"

As the King said, so was it done,

And to the mosque my lord passed on.

But on the morrow when the King

Went forth again, the holy book

Carried before him, as his right,

And through the square his way he took,

My man comes running, flecked with blood

From yesterday, and falling down

Cries out most earnestly:--"O King,

My lord, O King, do right, I pray!

"How canst thou, ere thou hear, discern

If I speak folly? but a king,

Whether a thing be great or small,

Like Allah, hears and judges all.

"Wherefore hear thou! Thou know'st how fierce

In these last days the sun hath burned;

That the green water in the tanks

Is to a putrid puddle turned;

And the canal, that from the stream

Of Samarcand is brought this way,

Wastes, and runs thinner every day.

"Now I at nightfall had gone forth

Alone, and in a darksome place

Under some mulberry trees I found

A little pool; and in short space

With all the water that was there

I filled my pitcher, and stole home

Unseen; and having drink to spare,

I hid the can behind the door,

And went up on the roof to sleep.

"But in the night, which was with wind

And burning dust, again I creep

Down, having fever, for a drink.

"Now meanwhile had my brethren found

The water-pitcher, where it stood

Behind the door upon the ground,

And called my mother; and they all,

As they were thirsty, and the night

Most sultry, drained the pitcher there;

That they sate with it, in my sight,

Their lips still wet, when I came down.

"Now mark! I, being fevered, sick

(Most unblest also), at that sight

Brake forth, and cursed them--dost thou hear?--

One was my mother--Now, do right!"

But my lord mused a space, and said:--

"Send him away, sirs, and make on!

It is some madman!" the King said.

As the King bade, so was it done.

The morrow, at the self-same hour,

In the King's path, behold, the man,

Not kneeling, sternly fixed! he stood

Right opposite, and thus began,

Frowning grim down:--"Thou wicked King,

Most deaf where thou shouldst most give ear!

What, must I howl in the next world,

Because thou wilt not listen here?

"What, wilt thou pray, and get thee grace,

And all grace shall to me be grudged?

Nay, but I swear, from this thy path

I will not stir till I be judged!"

Then they who stood about the King

Drew close together and conferred;

Till that the King stood forth and said,

"Before the priests thou shalt be heard."

But when the Ulemas were met,

And the thing heard, they doubted not;

But sentenced him, as the law is,

To die by stoning on the spot.

Now the King charged us secretly:--

"Stoned must he be, the law stands so.

Yet, if he seek to fly, give way;

Hinder him not, but let him go."

So saying, the King took a stone,

And cast it softly;--but the man,

With a great joy upon his face,

Kneeled down, and cried not, neither ran.

So they, whose lot it was, cast stones,

That they flew thick and bruised him sore,

But he praised Allah with loud voice,

And remained kneeling as before.

My lord had covered up his face;

But when one told him, "He is dead,"

Turning him quickly to go in,--

"Bring thou to me his corpse," he said.

And truly while I speak, O King,

I hear the bearers on the stair;

Wilt thou they straightway bring him in?

--Ho! enter ye who tarry there!

THE VIZIER

O King, in this I praise thee not.

Now must I call thy grief not wise,

Is he thy friend, or of thy blood,

To find such favor in thine eyes?

Nay, were he thine own mother's son,

Still, thou art king, and the law stands.

It were not meet the balance swerved,

The sword were broken in thy hands.

But being nothing, as he is,

Why for no cause make sad thy face?--

Lo, I am old! Three kings, ere thee,

Have I seen reigning in this place.

But who, through all this length of time,

Could bear the burden of his years,

If he for strangers pained his heart

Not less than those who merit tears?

Fathers we must have, wife and child,

And grievous is the grief for these;

This pain alone, which must be borne,

Makes the head white, and bows the knees.

But other loads than this his own

One man is not well made to bear.

Besides, to each are his own friends,

To mourn with him, and show him care.

Look, this is but one single place,

Though it be great; all the earth round,

If a man bear to have it so,

Things which might vex him shall be found.

* * * * *

All these have sorrow, and keep still,

Whilst other men make cheer, and sing,

Wilt thou have pity on all these?

No, nor on this dead dog, O King!

THE KING

O Vizier, thou art old, I young!

Clear in these things I cannot see.

My head is burning, and a heat

Is in my skin which angers me.

But hear ye this, ye sons of men!

They that bear rule, and are obeyed,

Unto a rule more strong than theirs

Are in their turn obedient made.

In vain therefore, with wistful eyes

Gazing up hither, the poor man

Who loiters by the high-heaped booths,

Below there in the Registàn,

Says:--"Happy he, who lodges there!

With silken raiment, store of rice,

And for this drought, all kinds of fruits,

Grape-syrup, squares of colored ice,

With cherries served in drifts of snow."

In vain hath a king power to build

Houses, arcades, enameled mosques;

And to make orchard-closes, filled

With curious fruit-trees brought from far;

With cisterns for the winter rain;

And in the desert, spacious inns

In divers places--if that pain

Is not more lightened, which he feels,

If his will be not satisfied;

And that it be not, from all time

The law is planted, to abide.

Thou wast a sinner, thou poor man!

Thou wast athirst, and didst not see

That, though we take what we desire,

We must not snatch it eagerly.

And I have meat and drink at will,

And rooms of treasures, not a few,

But I am sick, nor heed I these;

And what I would, I cannot do.

Even the great honor which I have,

When I am dead, will soon grow still;

So have I neither joy nor fame--

But what I can do, that I will.

I have a fretted brickwork tomb

Upon a hill on the right hand,

Hard by a close of apricots,

Upon the road of Samarcand;

Thither, O Vizier, will I bear

This man my pity could not save,

And plucking up the marble flags,

There lay his body in my grave.

Bring water, nard, and linen rolls!

Wash off all blood, set smooth each limb!

Then say:--"He was not wholly vile,

Because a king shall bury him."

DOVER BEACH

The sea is calm to-night.

The tide is full, the moon lies fair

Upon the straits;--on the French coast the light

Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,

Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.

Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!

Only, from the long line of spray

Where the sea meets the moon-blanched sand,

Listen! you hear the grating roar

Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,

At their return, up the high strand,

Begin and cease, and then again begin,

With tremulous cadence slow, and bring

The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago

Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought

Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow

Of human misery; we

Find also in the sound a thought,

Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The sea of faith

Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore

Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.

But now I only hear

Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,

Retreating, to the breath

Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear

And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true

To one another! for the world, which seems

To lie before us like a land of dreams,

So various, so beautiful, so new,

Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;

And we are here as on a darkling plain

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,

Where ignorant armies clash by night.

SELF-DEPENDENCE

Weary of myself, and sick of asking

What I am, and what I ought to be,

At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me

Forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea.

And a look of passionate desire

O'er the sea and to the stars I send:

"Ye who from my childhood up have calmed me,

Calm me, ah, compose me to the end!

"Ah, once more," I cried, "ye stars, ye waters,

On my heart your mighty charm renew;

Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you,

Feel my soul becoming vast like you."

From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven,

Over the lit sea's unquiet way,

In the rustling night-air came the answer:--

"Wouldst thou _be_ as these are? _Live_ as they.

"Unaffrighted by the silence round them,

Undistracted by the sights they see,

These demand not that the things without them

Yield them love, amusement, sympathy.

"And with joy the stars perform their shining,

And the sea its long moon-silvered roll;

For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting

All the fever of some differing soul.

"Bounded by themselves, and unregardful

In what state God's other works may be,

In their own tasks all their powers pouring,

These attain the mighty life you see."

O air-born voice! long since, severely clear,

A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear:--

"Resolve to be thyself; and know that he

Who finds himself, loses his misery!"

STANZAS FROM THE GRANDE CHARTREUSE

Oh, hide me in your gloom profound,

Ye solemn seats of holy pain!

Take me, cowled forms, and fence me round,

Till I possess my soul again;

Till free my thoughts before me roll,

Not chafed by hourly false control!

For the world cries your faith is now

But a dead time's exploded dream;

My melancholy, sciolists say,

Is a passed mood, and outworn theme--

As if the world had ever had

A faith, or sciolists been sad!

Ah, if it _be_ passed, take away

At least the restlessness, the pain!

Be man henceforth no more a prey

To these out-dated stings again!

The nobleness of grief is gone--

Ah, leave us not the fret alone!

But--if you cannot give us ease--

Last of the race of them who grieve,

Here leave us to die out with these

Last of the people who believe!

Silent, while years engrave the brow;

Silent--the best are silent now.

Achilles ponders in his tent,

The kings of modern thought are dumb;

Silent they are, though not content,

And wait to see the future come.

They have the grief men had of yore,

But they contend and cry no more.

Our fathers watered with their tears

This sea of time whereon we sail;

Their voices were in all men's ears

Who passed within their puissant hail.

Still the same ocean round us raves,

But we stand mute and watch the waves.

For what availed it, all the noise

And outcry of the former men?--

Say, have their sons achieved more joys,

Say, is life lighter now than then?

The sufferers died, they left their pain--

The pangs which tortured them remain.

What helps it now that Byron bore,

With haughty scorn which mocked the smart,

Through Europe to the Ætolian shore

The pageant of his bleeding heart?

That thousands counted every groan,

And Europe made his woe her own?

What boots it, Shelley! that the breeze

Carried thy lovely wail away,

Musical through Italian trees

Which fringe thy soft blue Spezzian bay?

Inheritors of thy distress,

Have restless hearts one throb the less?

Or are we easier to have read,

O Obermann! the sad, stern page,

Which tells us how thou hidd'st thy head

From the fierce tempest of thine age

In the lone brakes of Fontainebleau,

Or châlets near the Alpine snow?

Ye slumber in your silent grave!--

The world, which for an idle day

Grace to your mood of sadness gave,

Long since hath flung her weeds away.

The eternal trifler breaks your spell;

But we--we learnt your lore too well!

Years hence, perhaps, may dawn an age,

More fortunate, alas! than we,

Which without hardness will be sage,

And gay without frivolity.

Sons of the world, oh, speed those years;

But while we wait, allow our tears!

A SUMMER NIGHT

In the deserted, moon-blanched street,

How lonely rings the echo of my feet!

Those windows, which I gaze at, frown,

Silent and white, unopening down,

Repellent as the world,--but see,

A break between the housetops shows

The moon! and lost behind her, fading dim

Into the dewy dark obscurity

Down at the far horizon's rim,

Doth a whole tract of heaven disclose!

And to my mind the thought

Is on a sudden brought

Of a past night, and a far different scene:

Headlands stood out into the moonlit deep

As clearly as at noon;

The spring-tide's brimming flow

Heaved dazzlingly between;

Houses, with long wide sweep,

Girdled the glistening bay;

Behind, through the soft air,

The blue haze-cradled mountains spread away.

That night was far more fair--

But the same restless pacings to and fro,

And the same vainly throbbing heart was there,

And the same bright, calm moon.

And the calm moonlight seems to say:--

Hast thou then still the old unquiet breast,

Which neither deadens into rest,

Nor ever feels the fiery glow

That whirls the spirit from itself away,

But fluctuates to and fro,

Never by passion quite possessed

And never quite benumbed by the world's sway?--

And I, I know not if to pray

Still to be what I am, or yield, and be

Like all the other men I see.

For most men in a brazen prison live,

Where, in the sun's hot eye,

With heads bent o'er their toil, they languidly

Their lives to some unmeaning taskwork give,

Dreaming of naught beyond their prison wall.

And as, year after year,

Fresh products of their barren labor fall

From their tired hands, and rest

Never yet comes more near,

Gloom settles slowly down over their breast.

And while they try to stem

The waves of mournful thought by which they are prest,

Death in their prison reaches them,

Unfreed, having seen nothing, still unblest.

And the rest, a few,

Escape their prison and depart

On the wide ocean of life anew.

There the freed prisoner, where'er his heart

Listeth will sail;

Nor doth he know how there prevail,

Despotic on that sea.

Trade-winds which cross it from eternity:

Awhile he holds some false way, undebarred

By thwarting signs, and braves

The freshening wind and blackening waves.

And then the tempest strikes him; and between

The lightning bursts is seen

Only a driving wreck,

And the pale master on his spar-strewn deck

With anguished face and flying hair

Grasping the rudder hard,

Still bent to make some port he knows not where,

Still standing for some false, impossible shore.

And sterner comes the roar

Of sea and wind, and through the deepening gloom

Fainter and fainter wreck and helmsman loom,

And he too disappears, and comes no more.

Is there no life, but these alone?

Madman or slave, must man be one?

Plainness and clearness without shadow of stain!

Clearness divine!

Ye heavens, whose pure dark regions have no sign

Of languor, though so calm, and though so great

Are yet untroubled and unpassionate;

Who, though so noble, share in the world's toil,

And, though so tasked, keep free from dust and soil!

I will not say that your mild deeps retain

A tinge, it may be, of their silent pain

Who have longed deeply once, and longed in vain--

But I will rather say that you remain

A world above man's head, to let him see

How boundless might his soul's horizons be,

How vast, yet of what clear transparency!

How it were good to live there, and breathe free;

How fair a lot to fill

Is left to each man still!

THE BETTER PART

Long fed on boundless hopes, O race of man,

How angrily thou spurn'st all simpler fare!

"Christ," some one says, "was human as we are;

No judge eyes us from Heaven, our sin to scan;

We live no more when we have done our span."--

"Well, then, for Christ," thou answerest, "who can care?

From sin, which Heaven records not, why forbear?

Live we like brutes our life without a plan!"

So answerest thou; but why not rather say,

"Hath man no second life?--Pitch this one high!

Sits there no judge in Heaven our sin to see?--

More strictly, then, the inward judge obey!

Was Christ a man like us?--Ah! let us try

If we then, too, can be such men as he!"

THE LAST WORD

Creep into thy narrow bed,

Creep, and let no more be said!

Vain thy onset! all stands fast.

Thou thyself must break at last.

Let the long contention cease!

Geese are swans, and swans are geese.

Let them have it how they will!

Thou art tired; best be still.

They out-talked thee, hissed thee, tore thee?

Better men fared thus before thee;

Fired their ringing shot and passed,

Hotly charged--and sank at last.

Charge once more, then, and be dumb!

Let the victors, when they come,

When the forts of folly fall,

Find thy body by the wall!

THE ARTHURIAN LEGENDS

(Eighth to Twelfth Centuries)

BY RICHARD JONES

For nearly a thousand years, the Arthurian legends, which lie at the

basis of Tennyson's 'Idylls of the King,' have furnished unlimited

literary material, not to English poets alone, but to the poets of all

Christendom. These Celtic romances, having their birthplace in Brittany

or in Wales, had been growing and changing for some centuries, before

the fanciful 'Historia Britonum' of Geoffrey of Monmouth flushed them

with color and filled them with new life. Through the version of the

good Benedictine they soon became a vehicle for the dissemination of

Christian doctrine. By the year 1200 they were the common property of

Europe, influencing profoundly the literature of the Middle Ages, and

becoming the source of a great stream of poetry that has flowed without

interruption down to our own day.

Sixty years after the 'Historia Britonum' appeared, and when the English

poet Layamon wrote his 'Brut' (A.D. 1205), which was a translation of

Wace, as Wace was a translation of Geoffrey, the theme was engrossing

the imagination of Europe. It had absorbed into itself the elements of

other cycles of legend, which had grown up independently; some of these,

in fact, having been at one time of much greater prominence. Finally, so

vast and so complicated did the body of Arthurian legend become, that

summaries of the essential features were attempted. Such a summary was

made in French about 1270, by the Italian Rustighello of Pisa; in

German, about two centuries later, by Ulrich Füterer; and in English by

Sir Thomas Malory in his 'Morte d'Arthur,' finished "the ix. yere of the

reygne of kyng Edward the Fourth," and one of the first books published

in England by Caxton, "emprynted and fynysshed in th'abbey Westmestre

the last day of July, the yere of our Lord MCCCCLXXXV." It is of

interest to note, as an indication of the popularity of the Arthurian

legends, that Caxton printed the 'Morte d'Arthur' eight years before he

printed any portion of the English Bible, and fifty-three years before

the complete English Bible was in print. He printed the 'Morte d'Arthur'

in response to a general "demaund"; for "many noble and dyvers gentylmen

of thys royame of England camen and demaunded me many and oftymes

wherefore that I have not do make and enprynte the noble hystorye of the

saynt greal, and of the moost renomed crysten kyng, fyrst and chyef of

the thre best crysten and worthy, kyng Arthur, whyche ought moost to be

remembred emonge us Englysshe men tofore al other crysten kynges."

Nor did poetic treatment of the theme then cease. Dante, in the 'Divine

Comedy,' speaks by name of Arthur, Guinevere, Tristan, and Launcelot. In

that touching interview in the second cycle of the Inferno between the

poet and Francesca da Rimini, which Carlyle has called "a thing woven

out of rainbows on a ground of eternal black," Francesca replies to

Dante, who was bent to know the primal root whence her love for Paolo

gat being:--

"One day

For our delight, we read of Launcelot,

How him love thralled. Alone we were, and no

Suspicion near us. Oft-times by that reading

Our eyes were drawn together, and the hue

Fled from our altered cheek. But at one point

Alone we fell. When of that smile we read,

The wished smile, rapturously kissed

By one so deep in love, then he, who ne'er

From me shall separate, at once my lips

All trembling kissed. The book and writer both

Were love's purveyors. In its leaves that day

We read no more."

This poetic material was appropriated also by the countrymen of Dante,

Boiardo, Ariosto, and Tasso, by Hans Sachs in Germany, by Spenser,

Shakespeare, and Milton in England. As Sir Walter Scott has sung:--

"The mightiest chiefs of British song

Scorned not such legends to prolong."

Roger Ascham, it is true, has, in his 'Scholemaster' (1570 A.D.), broken

a lance against this body of fiction. "In our forefathers' tyme," wrote

he, "whan Papistrie, as a standyng poole, couered and ouerflowed all

England, fewe bookes were read in our tong, sauyng certaine bookes of

Cheualrie, as they sayd, for pastime and pleasure, which, as some say,

were made in Monasteries, by idle Monkes, or wanton Chanons; as one for

example, 'Morte Arthure': the whole pleasure of which booke standeth in

two speciall poyntes, in open mans slaughter, and bold bawdrye: in which

booke those be counted the noblest Knights, that do kill most men

without any quarrell, and commit foulest aduoulteries by

sutlest shiftes."

But Roger's characterization of "the whole pleasure of which booke" was

not just, nor did it destroy interest in the theme. "The generall end of

all the booke," said Spenser of the 'Faerie Queene,' "is to fashion a

gentleman or noble person in vertuous and gentle discipline;" and for

this purpose he therefore "chose the historye of King Arthure, as most

fitte for the excellency of his person, being made famous by many men's

former workes, and also furthest from the daunger of envie, and

suspition of present tyme."

The plots for Shakespeare's 'King Lear' and 'Cymbeline' came from

Geoffrey's 'Historia Britonum,' as did also the story of 'Gorboduc,' the

first tragedy in the English language. Milton intended at one time that

the subject of the great poem for which he was "pluming his wings"

should be King Arthur, as may be seen, in his 'Mansus' and 'Epitaphium

Damonis.' Indeed, he did touch the lyre upon this theme,--lightly, it is

true, but firmly enough to justify Swinburne's lines:--

"Yet Milton's sacred feet have lingered there,

His lips have made august the fabulous air,

His hands have touched and left the wild weeds fair."

But his duties as Latin Secretary to the Commonwealth diverted him from

poetry for many years, and when the Restoration gave him leisure once

more to court the Muse, he had come to doubt the existence of the Celtic

hero-king; for in 'Paradise Lost' (Book i., line 579) he refers to

"what resounds

In fable or romance of Uther's son;"

and in his 'History of Britain' (1670 A.D.) he says explicitly:--"For

who Arthur was, and whether ever any such reign'd in Britan, hath bin

doubted heertofore, and may again with good reason."

Dryden, who composed the words of an opera on King Arthur, meditated,

according to Sir Walter Scott, a larger treatment of the theme:--

"And Dryden in immortal strain

Had raised the Table Round again,

But that a ribald King and Court

Bade him toil on to make them sport."

Sir Walter himself edited the old metrical romance of 'Sir Tristram,'

and where the manuscript was defective, composed a portion after the

manner of the original, the portion in which occur the lines,

"Mi schip do thou take,

With godes that bethe new;

Two seyles do thou make,

Beth different in hewe:

* * * * *

"Ysoude of Britanye,

With the white honde,

The schip she can se,

Seyling to londe;

The white seyl tho marked sche.

* * * * *

"Fairer ladye ere

Did Britannye never spye,

Swiche murning chere,

Making on heighe;

On Tristremes bere,

Doun con she lye;

Rise ogayn did sche nere,

But thare con sche dye

For woe;

Swiche lovers als thei

Never schal be moe."

Of the poets of the present generation, Tennyson has treated the

Arthurian poetic heritage as a whole. Phases of the Arthurian theme have

been presented also by his contemporaries and successors at home and

abroad,--by William Wordsworth, Lord Lytton, Robert Stephen Hawker,

Matthew Arnold, William Morris, Algernon Charles Swinburne, in England;

Edgar Quinet in France; Wilhelm Hertz, L. Schneegans, F. Roeber, in

Germany; Richard Hovey in America. There have been many other approved

variations on Arthurian themes, such as James Russell Lowell's 'Vision

of Sir Launfal,' and Richard Wagner's operas, 'Lohengrin,' 'Tristan and

Isolde,' and 'Parsifal.' Of still later versions, we may mention the

'King Arthur' of J. Comyns Carr, which has been presented on the stage

by Sir Henry Irving; and 'Under King Constantine,' by Katrina Trask,

whose hero is the king whom tradition names as the successor of the

heroic Arthur, "Imperator, Dux Bellorum."

This poetic material is manifestly a living force in the literature of

the present day. And we may well remind ourselves of the rule which

should govern our verdict in regard to the new treatments of the theme

as they appear. This century-old 'Dichterstoff,' this poetic

treasure-store through which speaks the voice of the race, this great

body of accumulated poetic material, is a heritage; and it is evident

that whoever attempts any phase of this theme may not treat such

subject-matter capriciously, nor otherwise than in harmony with its

inherent nature and spirit. It is recognized that the stuff whereof

great poetry is made is not the arbitrary creation of the poet, and

cannot be manufactured to order. "Genuine poetic material," it has been

said, "is handed down in the imagination of man from generation to

generation, changing its spirit according to the spirit of each age,

and reaching its full development only when in the course of time the

favorable conditions coincide." Inasmuch as the subject-matter of the

Arthurian legends is not the creation of a single poet, nor even of many

poets, but is in fact the creation of the people,--indeed, of many

peoples widely separated in time and space, and is thus in a sense the

voice of the race,--it resembles in this respect the Faust legends,

which are the basis of Goethe's world-poem; or the mediæval visions of a

future state, which found their supreme and final expression in Dante's

'Divina Commedia,' which sums up within itself the art, the religion,

the politics, the philosophy, and the view of life of the Middle Ages.

Whether the Arthurian legends as a whole have found their final and

adequate expression in Tennyson's 'Idylls of the King,' or whether it

was already too late, when the Laureate wrote, to create from primitive

ideas so simple a poem of the first rank, is not within the province of

this essay to discuss. But manifestly, any final judgment in regard to

the treatment of this theme as a whole, or any phase of the theme, is

inadequate which leaves out of consideration the history of the

subject-matter, and its treatment by other poets; which, in short,

ignores its possibilities and its significance. With respect to the

origin and the early history of the Arthurian legend, much remains to be

established. Whether its original home was in Wales, or among the

neighboring Celts across the sea in Brittany, whither many of the Celts

of Britain fled after the Anglo-Saxon invasion of their island home, no

one knows. But to some extent, at least, the legend was common to both

sides of the Channel when Geoffrey wrote his book, about 1145. As a

matter of course, this King Arthur, the ideal hero of later ages, was a

less commanding personage in the early forms of the legend than when it

had acquired its splendid distinction by borrowing and assimilating

other mythical tales.

It appears that five great cycles of legend,--(1) the Arthur, Guinevere,

and Merlin cycle, (2) the Round Table cycle, (3) the Holy Grail cycle,

(4) the Launcelot cycle, (5) the Tristan cycle,--which at first

developed independently, were, in the latter half of the twelfth

century, merged together into a body of legend whose bond of unity was

the idealized Celtic hero, King Arthur.

_LANCELOT BIDS ADIEU TO ELAINE_.

Photogravure from Drawing by Gustave Doré.

[Illustration]

This blameless knight, whose transfigured memory has been thus

transmitted to us, was probably a leader of the Celtic tribes of England

in their struggles with the Saxon invaders. His victory at Mount Badon,

described by Sir Launcelot to the household at Astolat,--

"Dull days were those, till our good Arthur broke

The pagan yet once more on Badon Hill,"--

this victory is mentioned by Gildas, who wrote in the sixth

century. Gildas, however, though he mentions the occasion, does not give

the name of the leader. But Nennius, who wrote in the latter part of the

eighth century, or early in the ninth, makes Arthur the chieftain, and

adds an account of his great personal prowess. Thus the Arthur legend

has already begun to grow. For the desperate struggle with the Saxons

was vain. As the highly gifted, imaginative Celt saw his people

overwhelmed by the kinsmen of the conquerors of Rome, he found solace in

song for the hard facts of life. In the fields of imagination he won the

victories denied him on the field of battle, and he clustered these

triumphs against the enemies of his race about the name and the person

of the magnanimous Arthur. When the descendants of the Saxons were in

their turn overcome by Norman conquerors, the heart of the Celtic world

was profoundly stirred. Ancient memories awoke, and, yearning for the

restoration of British greatness, men rehearsed the deeds of him who had

been king, and of whom it was prophesied that he should be king

hereafter. At this moment of newly awakened hope, Geoffrey's 'Historia'

appeared. His book was not in reality a history. Possibly it was not

even very largely founded on existing legends. But in any case the

chronicle of Geoffrey was a work of genius and of imagination. "The

figure of Arthur," says Ten Brink, "now stood forth in brilliant light,

a chivalrous king and hero, endowed and guarded by supernatural powers,

surrounded by brave warriors and a splendid court, a man of marvelous

life and a tragic death."

Geoffrey's book was immediately translated into French by Robert Wace,

who incorporated with the legend of Arthur the Round Table legend. In

his 'Brut,' the English poet-priest Layamon reproduced this feature of

the legend with additional details. His chronicle is largely a free

translation of the 'Brut d'Engleterre' of Wace, earlier known as 'Geste

des Bretons.' Thus as Wace had reproduced Geoffrey with additions and

modifications, Layamon reproduced Wace. So the story grew. In the mean

time, other poets in other lands had taken up the theme, connecting with

it other cycles of legend already in existence. In 1205, when Layamon

wrote his 'Brut,' unnumbered versions of the history of King Arthur,

with which had been woven the legend of the Holy Grail, had already

appeared among the principal nations of Europe. Of the early Arthurian

poets, two of the more illustrious and important are Chrestien de

Troyes, in France, of highest poetic repute, who opened the way for

Tennyson, and Wolfram von Eschenbach, in Germany, with his 'Parzival,'

later the theme of Wagner's greatest opera. The names of Robert de

Borron in France, Walter Map in England, and Heinrich von dem Türlin in

Germany, may also be mentioned.

In divers lands, innumerable poets with diverse tastes set themselves

to make new versions of the legend. Characteristics of the Arthurian

tale were grafted upon an entirely different stock, as was done by

Boiardo in Italy, making confusion worse confounded to the modern

Arthurian scholar. Boiardo expressly says in the 'Orlando Innamorato'

that his intention is to graft the characteristics of the Arthurian

cycle upon the Carlovingian French national epic stock. He wished to

please the courts, whose ideal was not the paladins, but Arthur's

knights. The "peers" of the Charlemagne legend are thus transformed into

knights-errant, who fight for ladies and for honor. The result of this

interpenetration of the two cycles is a splendid world of love and

_cortesia_, whose constituent elements it defies the Arthurian scholar

to trace. Truly, as Dr. Sommer has said in his erudite edition of

Malory's 'La Morte d'Arthur.' "The origin and relationship to one

another of these branches of romance, whether in prose or in verse, are

involved in great obscurity." He adds that it would almost seem as

though several generations of scholars were required for the gigantic

task of finding a sure pathway through this intricate maze. And M.

Gaston Paris, one of the foremost of living Arthurian scholars, has

written in his 'Romania': "Some time ago I undertook a methodical

exploration in the grand poetical domain which is called the cycle of

the Round Table, the cycle of Arthur, or the Breton cycle. I advance,

groping along, and very often retracing my steps twenty times over, I

become aware that I am lost in a pathless maze."

There is a question, moreover, whether Geoffrey's book is based mainly

upon inherited poetical material, or is largely the product of

Geoffrey's individual imagination. The elder Paris, M. Paulin Paris,

inclined to the view that Nennius, with hints from local tales, supplied

all the bases that Geoffrey had. But his son, Professor Gaston Paris, in

his 'Littérature Française au Moyen Age,' emphasizes the importance of

the "Celtic" contribution, as does also Mr. Alfred Nutt in his 'Studies

in the Arthurian Legend.' The former view emphasizes the individual

importance of Geoffrey; the latter view places the emphasis on the

legendary heritage. Referring to this so-called national poetry, Ten

Brink says:--

"But herein lies the essential difference between that age

and our own: the result of poetical activity was not the

property and not the production of a single person, but of

the community. The work of the individual singer endured only

as long as its delivery lasted. He gained personal

distinction only as a virtuoso. The permanent elements of

what he presented, the material, the ideas, even the style

and metre, already existed. The work of the singer was only a

ripple in the stream of national poetry. Who can say how much

the individual contributed to it, or where in his poetical

recitation memory ceased and creative impulse began! In any

case the work of the individual lived on only as the ideal

possession of the aggregate body of the people, and it soon

lost the stamp of originality."

When Geoffrey wrote, this period of national poetry was drawing to a

close; but it was not yet closed. Alfred Nutt, in his 'Studies in the

Legend of the Holy Grail,' speaking of Wolfram von Eschenbach, who wrote

his 'Parzival' about the time that the 'Nibelungenlied' was given its

present form (_i.e.,_ about a half-century after Geoffrey),

says:--"Compared with the unknown poets who gave their present shape to

the 'Nibelungenlied' or to the 'Chanson de Roland,' he is an individual

writer; but he is far from deserving this epithet even in the sense that

Chaucer deserves it." Professor Rhys says, in his 'Studies in the

Arthurian Legend':--"Leaving aside for a while the man Arthur, and

assuming the existence of a god of that name, let us see what could be

made of him. Mythologically speaking, he would probably have to be

regarded as a Culture Hero," etc.

To summarize this discussion of the difficulties of the theme, there are

now existing, scattered throughout the libraries and the monasteries of

Europe, unnumbered versions of the Arthurian legends. Some of these are

early versions, some are late, and some are intermediate. What is the

relation of all these versions to one another? Which are the oldest, and

which are copies, and of what versions are they copies? What is the land

of their origin, and what is the significance of their symbolism? These

problems, weighty in tracing the growth of mediæval ideals,--_i.e.,_ in

tracing the development of the realities of the present from the ideals

of the past,--are still under investigation by the specialists. The

study of the Arthurian legends is in itself a distinct branch of

learning, which demands the lifelong labors of scholarly devotees.

There now remains to consider the extraordinary spread of the legend in

the closing decades of the twelfth century and in the century following.

Though Tennyson has worthily celebrated as the morning star of

English song--

"Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breath

Preluded those melodious bursts that fill

The spacious times of great Elizabeth

With sounds that echo still."

yet the centuries before Chaucer, far from being barren of literature,

were periods of rich poetical activity both in England and on the

Continent. Eleanor of Aquitaine, formerly Queen of France,--who had

herself gone on a crusade to the Holy Land, and who, on returning,

married in 1152 Henry of Anjou, who became in 1155 Henry II. of

England,--was an ardent patroness of the art of poetry, and personally

aroused the zeal of poets. The famous troubadour Bernard de

Ventadorn--"with whom," says Ten Brink, "the Provençal art-poesy entered

upon the period of its florescence"--followed her to England, and

addressed to her his impassioned verse. Wace, the Norman-French

_trouvere_, dedicated to her his 'Brut.' The ruling classes of England

at this time were truly cosmopolitan, familiar with the poetic material

of many lands. Jusserand, in his 'English Novel in the Time of

Shakespeare,' discussing a poem of the following century written in

French by a Norman monk of Westminster and dedicated to Eleanor of

Provence, wife of Henry III., says:--"Rarely was the like seen in any

literature: here is a poem dedicated to a Frenchwoman by a Norman of

England, which begins with the praise of a Briton, a Saxon, and a Dane."

But the ruling classes of England were not the only cosmopolitans, nor

the only possessors of fresh poetic material. Throughout Europe in

general, the conditions were favorable for poetic production. The

Crusades had brought home a larger knowledge of the world, and the

stimulus of new experiences. Western princes returned with princesses of

the East as their brides, and these were accompanied by splendid trains,

including minstrels and poets. Thus Europe gathered in new poetic

material, which stimulated and developed the poetical activity of the

age. Furthermore, the Crusades had aroused an intense idealism, which,

as always, demanded and found poetic expression. The dominant idea

pervading the earlier forms of the Charlemagne stories, the unswerving

loyalty due from a vassal to his lord,--that is, the feudal view of

life,--no longer found an echo in the hearts of men. The time was

therefore propitious for the development of a new cycle of legend.

Though by the middle of the twelfth century the Arthurian legend had

been long in existence, and King Arthur had of late been glorified by

Geoffrey's book, the legend was not yet supreme in popular interest. It

became so through its association, a few years later, with the legend of

the Holy Grail,--the San Graal, the holy vessel which received at the

Cross the blood of Christ, which was now become a symbol of the Divine

Presence. This holy vessel had been brought by Joseph of Arimathea from

Palestine to Britain, but was now, alas, vanished quite from the sight

of man. It was the holy quest for this sacred vessel, to which the

knights of the Round Table now bound themselves,--this "search for the

supernatural," this "struggle for the spiritual," this blending of the

spirit of Christianity with that of chivalry,--which immediately

transformed the Arthurian legend, and gave to its heroes immortality. At

once a new spirit breathes in the old legend. In a few years it is

become a mystical, symbolical, anagogical tale, inculcating one of the

profoundest dogmas of the Holy Catholic Church, a bearer of a Christian

doctrine engrossing the thought of the Christian world. And inasmuch as

the transformed Arthurian legend now taught by implication the doctrine

of the Divine Presence, its spread was in every way furthered by the

great power of the Church, whose spiritual rulers made the minstrel

doubly welcome when celebrating this theme.

For there was heresy to be combated; viz., the heresy of the scholastic

theologian Berengar of Tours, who had attacked the doctrine of the

transubstantiation of the bread and the wine of the Eucharist into the

body and blood of Christ. Lanfranc, Archbishop of Canterbury, one of the

most brilliant of the Middle Age theologians, felt impelled to reply to

Berengar, who had been his personal friend; and he did so in the 'Liber

Scintillarum,' which was a vigorous, indeed a violent, defense of the

doctrine denied by Berengar. Berengar died in 1088; but he left a

considerable body of followers. The heretics were anathematized by the

Second Lateran Ecumenical Council held in Rome in 1139. Again, in 1215,

the Fourth Lateran Council declared transubstantiation to be an article

of faith, and in 1264 a special holy day, Corpus Christi,--viz., the

first Thursday after Trinity Sunday,--was set apart to give an annual

public manifestation of the belief of the Church in the doctrine of the

Eucharist.

But when the Fourth Lateran Ecumenical Council met in 1215, the

transformation of the Arthurian legend by means of its association with

the legend of the Holy Grail was already complete, and the transformed

legend, now become a defender of the faith, was engrossing the

imagination of Europe. The subsequent influence of the legend was

doubtless to some extent associated with the discussions which

continually came up anew respecting the meaning of the doctrine of the

Eucharist; for it was not until the Council of Trent (1545-63) that the

doctrine was finally and authoritatively defined. In the mean time there

was interminable discussion respecting the nature of this "real

presence," respecting _tran_substantiation and _con_substantiation and

impanation, respecting the actual presence of the body and blood of

Christ under the _appearance_ of the bread and wine, or the presence of

the body and blood _together with_ the bread and wine. The professor of

philosophy in the University of Oxford, who passes daily through Logic

Lane, has said that there the followers of Duns Scotus and Thomas

Aquinas were wont to come to blows in the eagerness of their discussion

respecting the proper definition of the doctrine. Nor was the doctrine

without interest to the Reformers. Luther and Zwingli held opposing

views, and Calvin was involved in a long dispute concerning the

doctrine, which resulted in the division of the evangelical body into

the two parties of the Lutherans and the Reformed. Doubtless the

connection between the Arthurian legend and the doctrine of the Divine

Presence was not without influence on the unparalleled spread of the

legend in the closing decades of the twelfth century, and on its

prominence in the centuries following.

A suggestion has already been given of the vast development of the

Arthurian legends during the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth

centuries, and of the importance of the labors of the specialists, who

are endeavoring to fix a date for these versions in order to infer

therefrom the spiritual ideals of the people among whom they arose. To

perceive clearly to what extent ideals do change, it is but necessary to

compare various versions of the same incident as given in various

periods of time. To go no farther back than Malory, for example, we

observe a signal difference between his treatment of the sin of

Guinevere and Launcelot, and the treatment of the theme by Tennyson.

Malory's Arthur is not so much wounded by the treachery of Launcelot, of

whose relations to Guinevere he had long been aware, as he is angered at

Sir Modred for making public those disclosures which made it necessary

for him and Sir Launcelot to "bee at debate." "Ah! Agravaine,

Agravaine," cries the King, "Jesu forgive it thy soule! for thine evill

will that thou and thy brother Sir Modred had unto Sir Launcelot hath

caused all this sorrow.... Wit you well my heart was never so heavie as

it is now, and much more I am sorrier for my good knights losse than for

the losse of my queene, for queenes might I have enough, but such a

fellowship of good knightes shall never bee together in no company." But

to the great Poet Laureate, who voices the modern ideal, a true marriage

is the crown of life. To love one maiden only, to cleave to her and

worship her by years of noblest deeds, to be joined with her and to live

together as one life, and, reigning with one will in all things, to have

power on this dead world to make it live,--this was the high ideal of

the blameless King.

"Too wholly true to dream untruth in thee."

And his farewell from her who had not made his life so sweet that he

should greatly care to live,--

"Lo! I forgive thee, as Eternal God

Forgives: ...

And so thou lean on our fair father Christ,

Hereafter in that world where all are pure

We two may meet before high God, and thou

Wilt spring to me, and claim me thine,"--

this is altogether one of the noblest passages in modern verse.

A comparison of the various modern treatments of the Tristram theme, as

given by Tennyson, Richard Wagner, F. Roeber, L. Schneegans, Matthew

Arnold, Algernon Charles Swinburne, F. Millard, touching also on the

Tristan of Hans Sachs, and the Tristram who, because he is true to love,

is the darling of the old romances, and is there--notwithstanding that

his love is the wedded wife of another--always represented as the strong

and beautiful knight, the flower of courtesy, a model to youth,--such a

comparison would reveal striking differences between mediæval and

modern ideals.

In making the comparison, however, care must be exercised to select the

modern treatment of the theme which represents correctly the modern

ideal. The Middle Age romances, sung by wandering minstrels, before the

invention of the printing press, doubtless expressed the ideals of the

age in which they were produced more infallibly than does the possibly

individualistic conception of the modern poet; for, of the earlier forms

of the romance, only those which found general favor were likely to be

preserved and handed down. This inference may be safely made because of

the method of the dissemination of the poems before the art of printing

was known. It is true that copies of them were carried in manuscript

from country to country; but the more important means of dissemination

were the minstrels, who passed from court to court and land to land,

singing the songs which they had made or heard. In that age there was

little thought of literary proprietorship. The poem belonged to him who

could recall it. And as each minstrel felt free to adopt whatever poem

he found or heard that pleased him, so he felt free also to modify the

incidents thereof, guided only by his experience as to what pleased his

hearers. Hence the countless variations in the treatment of the theme,

and the value of the conclusions that may be drawn as to the moral

sentiment of an age, the quality of whose moral judgments is indicated

by the prevailing tone of the songs which persisted because they

pleased. Unconformable variations, which express the view of an

individual rather than the view of a people, may have come down to us in

an accidentally preserved manuscript; but the songs which were sung by

the poets of all lands give expression to the view of life of the age,

and reveal the morals and the ideals of nations, whose history in this

respect may otherwise be lost to us. What some of these ideals were, as

revealed by this rich store of poetic material which grew up about the

chivalrous and spiritual ideals of the Middle Ages, and what the

corresponding modern ideals are,--what, in brief, some of the hitherto

dimly discerned ethical movements of the past seven hundred years have

in reality been, and whither they seem to be tending,--surely, clear

knowledge on these themes is an end worthy the supreme endeavor of

finished scholars, whose training has made them expert in interpreting

the aspirations of each age, and in tracing the evolution of the ideals

of the past into the realities of the present. And though, as M. Gaston

Paris has said, the path of the Arthurian scholar seems at times to be

an inextricable maze, yet the value of the results already achieved, and

the possibility of still greater results, will doubtless prove a

sufficient encouragement to the several generations of scholars which,

as Dr. Sommer suggests, are needed for the gigantic task.

[Illustration: Signature: Richard Jones]

FROM GEOFFREY OF MONMOUTH'S 'HISTORIA BRITONUM'

ARTHUR SUCCEEDS UTHER, HIS FATHER, IN THE KINGDOM OF BRITAIN,

AND BESIEGES COLGRIN

Uther Pendragon being dead, the nobility from several provinces

assembled together at Silchester, and proposed to Dubricius, Archbishop

of Legions, that he should consecrate Arthur, Uther's son, to be their

king. For they were now in great straits, because, upon hearing of the

king's death, the Saxons had invited over their countrymen from Germany,

and were attempting, under the command of Colgrin, to exterminate the

whole British race.... Dubricius, therefore, grieving for the calamities

of his country, in conjunction with the other bishops set the crown upon

Arthur's head. Arthur was then only fifteen years old, but a youth of

such unparalleled courage and generosity, joined with that sweetness of

temper and innate goodness, as gained for him universal love. When his

coronation was over, he, according to usual custom, showed his bounty

and munificence to the people. And such a number of soldiers flocked to

him upon it that his treasury was not able to answer that vast expense.

But such a spirit of generosity, joined with valor, can never long want

means to support itself. Arthur, therefore, the better to keep up his

munificence, resolved to make use of his courage, and to fall upon the

Saxons, that he might enrich his followers with their wealth. To this he

was also moved by the justice of the cause, since the entire monarchy of

Britain belonged to him by hereditary right. Hereupon assembling the

youth under his command, he marched to York, of which, when Colgrin had

intelligence, he met with a very great army, composed of Saxons, Scots,

and Picts, by the river Duglas, where a battle happened, with the loss

of the greater part of both armies. Notwithstanding, the victory fell to

Arthur, who pursued Colgrin to York, and there besieged him.

DUBRICIUS'S SPEECH AGAINST THE TREACHEROUS SAXONS, OF WHOM

ARTHUR SLAYS MANY IN BATTLE

When he had done speaking, St. Dubricius, Archbishop of Legions, going

to the top of a hill, cried out with a loud voice, "You that have the

honor to profess the Christian faith, keep fixed in your minds the love

which you owe to your country and fellow subjects, whose sufferings by

the treachery of the Pagans will be an everlasting reproach to you if

you do not courageously defend them. It is your country which you fight

for, and for which you should, when required, voluntarily suffer death;

for that itself is victory and the cure of the soul. For he that shall

die for his brethren, offers himself a living sacrifice to God, and has

Christ for his example, who condescended to lay down his life for his

brethren. If, therefore, any of you shall be killed in this war, that

death itself, which is suffered in so glorious a cause, shall be to him

for penance and absolution of all his sins." At these words, all of

them, encouraged with the benediction of the holy prelate, instantly

armed themselves.... Upon [Arthur's shield] the picture of the blessed

Mary, Mother of God, was painted, in order to put him frequently in mind

of her.... In this manner was a great part of that day also spent;

whereupon Arthur, provoked to see the little advantage he had yet

gained, and that victory still continued in suspense, drew out his

Caliburn [Excalibur, Tennyson], and calling upon the name of the blessed

Virgin, rushed forward with great fury into the thickest of the enemy's

ranks; of whom (such was the merit of his prayers) not one escaped alive

that felt the fury of his sword; neither did he give over the fury of

his assault until he had, with his Caliburn alone, killed four hundred

and seventy men. The Britons, seeing this, followed their leader in

great multitudes, and made slaughter on all sides; so that Colgrin and

Baldulph, his brother, and many thousands more, fell before them. But

Cheldric, in his imminent danger of his men, betook himself to flight.

ARTHUR INCREASES HIS DOMINIONS

After this, having invited over to him all persons whatsoever that were

famous for valor in foreign nations, he began to augment the number of

his domestics, and introduced such politeness into his court as people

of the remotest countries thought worthy of their imitation. So that

there was not a nobleman who thought himself of any consideration unless

his clothes and arms were made in the same fashion as those of Arthur's

knights. At length the fame of his munificence and valor spreading over

the whole world, he became a terror to the kings of other countries, who

grievously feared the loss of their dominions if he should make any

attempt upon them.... Arthur formed a design for the conquest of all

Europe.... At the end of nine years, in which time all the parts of Gaul

were entirely reduced, Arthur returned back to Paris, where he kept his

court, and calling an assembly of the clergy and people, established

peace and the just administration of the laws in that kingdom. Then he

bestowed Neustria, now called Normandy, upon Bedoer, his butler; the

province of Andegavia upon Caius, his sewer; and several other provinces

upon his great men that attended him. Thus, having settled the peace of

the cities and the countries there, he returned back in the beginning of

spring to Britain.

ARTHUR HOLDS A SOLEMN FESTIVAL

Upon the approach of the feast of Pentecost, Arthur, the better to

demonstrate his joy after such triumphant success, and for the more

solemn observation of that festival, and reconciling the minds of the

princes that were now subject to him, resolved, during that season, to

hold a magnificent court, to place the crown upon his head, and to

invite all the kings and dukes under his subjection to the solemnity.

And when he had communicated his design to his familiar friends, he

pitched upon the city of Legions as a proper place for his purpose. For

besides its great wealth above the other cities, its situation, which

was in Glamorganshire, upon the River Uske, near the Severn Sea, was

most pleasant and fit for so great a solemnity; for on one side it was

washed by that noble river, so that the kings and princes from the

countries beyond the seas might have the convenience of sailing up to

it. On the other side, the beauty of the meadows and groves, and

magnificence of the royal palaces, with lofty, gilded roofs that

adorned it, made it even rival the grandeur of Rome. It was also famous

for two churches: whereof one was built in honor of the martyr Julius,

and adorned with a choir of virgins, who had devoted themselves wholly

to the service of God; but the other, which was founded in memory of St.

Aaron, his companion, and maintained a convent of canons, was the third

metropolitan church of Britain. Besides, there was a college of two

hundred philosophers, who, being learned in astronomy and the other

arts, were diligent in observing the courses of the stars, and gave

Arthur true predictions of the events that would happen at that time. In

this place, therefore, which afforded such delights, were preparations

made for the ensuing festival. Ambassadors were sent into several

kingdoms to invite to court the princes both of Gaul and all the

adjacent islands ... who came with such a train of mules, horses, and

rich furniture as it is difficult to describe. Besides these, there

remained no prince of any consideration on this side of Spain, who came

not upon this invitation. And no wonder, when Arthur's munificence,

which was celebrated over the whole world, made him beloved by

all people.

When all these were assembled together in the city, upon the day of the

solemnity, the archbishops were conducted to the palace, in order to

place the crown upon the king's head. Therefore Dubricius, inasmuch as

the court was kept in his diocese, made himself ready to celebrate the

office, and undertook the ordering of whatever related to it. As soon as

the king was invested with his royal habiliments, he was conducted in

great pomp to the metropolitan church, supported on each side by two

archbishops, and having four kings, viz., of Albania, Cornwall, Demetia,

and Venedotia, whose right it was, bearing four golden swords before

him. He was also attended with a concert of all sorts of music, which

made most excellent harmony. On another part was the queen, dressed out

in her richest ornaments, conducted by the archbishops and bishops to

the Temple of Virgins; the four queens also of the kings last mentioned,

bearing before her four white doves, according to ancient custom; and

after her there followed a retinue of women, making all imaginable

demonstrations of joy. When the whole procession was ended, so

transporting was the harmony of the musical instruments and voices,

whereof there was a vast variety in both churches, that the knights who

attended were in doubt which to prefer, and therefore crowded from the

one to the other by turns, and were far from being tired with the

solemnity, though the whole day had been spent in it. At last, when

divine service was over at both churches, the king and queen put off

their crowns, and putting on their lighter ornaments, went to the

banquet, he to one palace with the men, she to another with the women.

For the Britons still observed the ancient custom of Troy, by which the

men and women used to celebrate their festivals apart. When they had all

taken their seats according to precedence, Caius, the sewer, in rich

robes of ermine, with a thousand young noblemen, all in like manner

clothed with ermine, served up the dishes. From another part, Bedoer,

the butler, was followed with the same number of attendants, in various

habits, who waited with all kinds of cups and drinking vessels. In the

queen's palace were innumerable waiters, dressed with variety of

ornaments, all performing their respective offices; which, if I should

describe particularly, I should draw out the history to a tedious

length. For at that time Britain had arrived at such a pitch of

grandeur, that in abundance of riches, luxury of ornaments, and

politeness of inhabitants, it far surpassed all other kingdoms. The

knights in it that were famous for feats of chivalry wore their clothes

and arms all of the same color and fashion: and the women also, no less

celebrated for their wit, wore all the same kind of apparel; and

esteemed none worthy of their love but such as had given a proof of

their valor in three several battles. Thus was the valor of the men an

encouragement for the women's chastity, and the love of the women a spur

to the soldiers' bravery.

AFTER A VARIETY OF SPORTS AT THE CORONATION, ARTHUR AMPLY

REWARDS HIS SERVANTS

As soon as the banquets were over they went into the fields without the

city to divert themselves with various sports. The military men composed

a kind of diversion in imitation of a fight on horseback; and the

ladies, placed on the top of the walls as spectators, in a sportive

manner darted their amorous glances at the courtiers, the more to

encourage them. Others spent the remainder of the day in other

diversions, such as shooting with bows and arrows, tossing the pike,

casting of heavy stones and rocks, playing at dice and the like, and all

these inoffensively and without quarreling. Whoever gained the victory

in any of these sports was awarded with a rich prize by Arthur. In this

manner were the first three days spent; and on the fourth, all who, upon

account of their titles, bore any kind of office at this solemnity, were

called together to receive honors and preferments in reward of their

services, and to fill up the vacancies in the governments of cities and

castles, archbishoprics, bishoprics, abbeys, and other hosts of honor.

ARTHUR COMMITS TO HIS NEPHEW MODRED THE GOVERNMENT OF BRITAIN,

AND ENGAGES IN A WAR WITH ROME

At the beginning of the following summer, as he was on his march toward

Rome and was beginning to pass the Alps, he had news brought him that

his nephew Modred, to whose care he had intrusted Britain, had, by

tyrannical and treasonable practices, set the crown upon his own head.

[Book xi., Chapters i. and ii.] His [Modred's] whole army, taking Pagans

and Christians together, amounted to eighty thousand men, with the help

of whom he met Arthur just after his landing at the port of Rutupi, and

joining battle with him, made a very great slaughter of his men....

After they had at last, with much difficulty, got ashore, they paid back

the slaughter, and put Modred and his army to flight. For by long

practice in war they had learned an excellent way of ordering their

forces; which was so managed that while their foot were employed either

in an assault or upon the defensive, the horse would come in at full

speed obliquely, break through the enemy's ranks, and so force them to

flee. Nevertheless, this perjured usurper got his forces together again,

and the night following entered Winchester. As soon as Queen Guanhumara

[Guinevere] heard this, she immediately, despairing of success, fled

from York to the City of Legions, where she resolved to lead a chaste

life among the nuns in the church of Julius the Martyr, and entered

herself one of their order....

In the battle that followed thereupon, great numbers lost their lives on

both sides.... In this assault fell the wicked traitor himself, and many

thousands with him. But notwithstanding the loss of him, the rest did

not flee, but running together from all parts of the field, maintained

their ground with undaunted courage. The fight now grew more furious

than ever, and proved fatal to almost all the commanders and their

forces.... And even the renowned King Arthur himself was mortally

wounded; and being carried thence to the isle of Avallon to be cured of

his wounds, he gave up the crown of Britain to his kinsman Constantine,

the son of Cador, Duke of Cornwall, in the five hundred and forty-second

year of our Lord's incarnation.

THE HOLY GRAIL

From Malory's 'Morte d'Arthur'

"Faire knight," said the King, "what is your name? I require you of your

knighthood to tell me."

"Sir," said Sir Launcelot, "wit ye well, my name is Sir Launcelot du

Lake."

"And my name is Sir Pelles, king of the forrain countrey, and nigh

cousin unto Joseph of Arithmy" [Arimathea].

Then either of them made much of the other, and so they went into the

castle for to take their repast. And anon there came in a dove at the

window, and in her bill there seemed a little censer of gold, and

therewithal there was such a savor as though all the spicery of the

world had been there; and forthwithal there was upon the table all

manner of meates and drinkes that they could thinke upon. So there came

a damosell, passing faire and young, and she beare a vessell of gold

between her hands, and thereto the king kneeled devoutly and said his

prayers, and so did all that were there.

"O Jesu," said Sir Launcelot, "what may this meane?"

"This is," said King Pelles, "the richest thing that any man hath

living; and when this thing goeth about, the round table shall bee

broken. And wit ye well," said King Pelles, "that this is the holy

sanegreall which ye have heere seene."

So King Pelles and Sir Launcelot led their lives the most part of that

day.

PETER CHRISTEN ASBJÖRNSEN

(1812-1885)

Asbjörnsen was born January 15th, 1812, at Christiania, Norway. He

entered the University in 1833, but was presently obliged to take the

position of tutor with a family in Romerike. Four years later he came

back to the University, where he studied medicine, but also and

particularly zoölogy and botany, subjects which he subsequently taught

in various schools. During his life among the country people he had

begun to collect folk-tales and legends, and afterward, on long

foot-tours undertaken in the pursuit of his favorite studies, he added

to this store. In co-operation with his lifelong friend, Jörgen Moe,

subsequently Bishop of Christiansand, he published in 1838 a first

collection of folk-stories. In later years his study of folk-lore went

on side by side with his study of zoölogy. At various times, from 1846

to 1853, he received stipends from the Christiania University to enable

him to pursue zoölogical investigations at points along the Norwegian

coast. In addition to these journeys he had traversed Norway in every

direction, partly to observe the condition of the forests of the

country, and partly to collect the popular legends, which seem always to

have been in his mind.

From 1856 to 1858 he studied forestry at Tharand, and in 1860 was made

head forester of the district of Trondhjem, in the north of Norway. He

retained this position until 1864, when he was sent by the government to

Holland, Germany, and Denmark, to investigate the turf industry. On his

return he was made the head of a commission whose purpose was to better

the turf production of the country, from which position he was finally

released with a pension in 1876. He died in 1885.

Asbjörnsen's principal literary work was in the direction of the

folk-tales of Norway, although the list of his writings on natural

history, popular and scientific, is a long one. As a scientist he made

several important discoveries in deep-sea soundings, which gave him, at

home and abroad, a wide reputation, but the significance of his work as

a collector of folk-lore has in a great measure overshadowed this phase

of his activity. His greatest works are--'Norske Folke-eventyr'

(Norwegian Folk Tales), in collaboration with Moe, which appeared in

1842-44, and subsequently in many editions; 'Norske Huldre-eventyr og

Folkesagn' (Norwegian Fairy Tales and Folk Legends) in 1845. In the

stories published by Asbjörnsen alone, he has not confined himself

simply to the reproduction of the tales in their popular form, but has

retold them with an admirable setting of the characteristics of the life

of the people in their particular environment. He was a rare lover of

nature, and there are many exquisite bits of natural description.

Asbjörnsen's literary power was of no mean merit, and his work not only

found immediate acceptance in his own country, but has been widely

translated into the other languages of Europe. Norwegian literature in

particular owes him a debt of gratitude, for he was the first to point

out the direction of the subsequent national development.

GUDBRAND OF THE MOUNTAIN-SIDE

There was once a man named Gudbrand, who had a farm which lay on the

side of a mountain, whence he was called Gudbrand of the Mountain-side.

He and his wife lived in such harmony together, and were so well

matched, that whatever the husband did, seemed to the wife so well done

that it could not be done better; let him therefore act as he might, she

was equally well pleased.

They owned a plot of ground, and had a hundred dollars lying at the

bottom of a chest, and in the stall two fine cows. One day the woman

said to Gudbrand:--

"I think we might as well drive one of the cows to town, and sell it; we

should then have a little pocket-money: for such respectable persons as

we are ought to have a few shillings in hand as well as others. The

hundred dollars at the bottom of the chest we had better not touch; but

I do not see why we should keep more than one cow: besides, we shall be

somewhat the gainers; for instead of two cows, I shall have only one to

milk and look after."

These words Gudbrand thought both just and reasonable; so he took the

cow and went to the town in order to sell it: but when he came there, he

could not find any one who wanted to buy a cow.

"Well!" thought Gudbrand, "I can go home again with my cow: I have both

stall and collar for her, and it is no farther to go backwards than

forwards." So saying, he began wandering home again.

When he had gone a little way, he met a man who had a horse he wished to

sell, and Gudbrand thought it better to have a horse than a cow, so he

exchanged with the man. Going a little further still, he met a man

driving a fat pig before him; and thinking it better to have a fat pig

than a horse, he made an exchange with him also. A little further on he

met a man with a goat. "A goat," thought he, "is always better to have

than a pig;" so he made an exchange with the owner of the goat. He now

walked on for an hour, when he met a man with a sheep; with him he

exchanged his goat: "for," thought he, "it is always better to have a

sheep than a goat." After walking some way again, meeting a man with a

goose, he changed away the sheep for the goose; then going on a long

way, he met a man with a cock, and thought to himself, "It is better to

have a cock than a goose," and so gave his goose for the cock. Having

walked on till the day was far gone, and beginning to feel hungry, he

sold the cock for twelve shillings, and bought some food; "for," thought

he, "it is better to support life than to carry back the cock." After

this he continued his way homeward till he reached the house of his

nearest neighbor, where he called in.

"How have matters gone with you in town?" asked the neighbor.

"Oh," answered Gudbrand, "but so-so; I cannot boast of my luck, neither

can I exactly complain of it." He then began to relate all that he had

done from first to last.

"You'll meet with a warm reception when you get home to your wife," said

his neighbor. "God help you, I would not be in your place."

"I think things might have been much worse," said Gudbrand; "but whether

they are good or bad, I have such a gentle wife that she will never say

a word, let me do what I may."

"Yes, that I know," answered his neighbor; "but I do not think she will

be so gentle in this instance."

"Shall we lay a wager?" said Gudbrand of the Mountain-side. "I have got

a hundred dollars in my chest at home; will you venture the like sum?"

"Yes, I will," replied the neighbor, and they wagered accordingly, and

remained till evening drew on, when they set out together for Gudbrand's

house; having agreed that the neighbor should stand outside and listen,

while Gudbrand went in to meet his wife.

"Good-evening," said Gudbrand.

"Good-evening," said his wife, "thank God thou art there."

Yes, there he was. His wife then began asking him how he had fared in

the town.

"So-so," said Gudbrand: "I have not much to boast of; for when I reached

the town there was no one who would buy the cow, so I changed it for

a horse."

"Many thanks for that," said his wife: "we are such respectable people

that we ought to ride to church as well as others; and if we can afford

to keep a horse, we may certainly have one. Go and put the horse in the

stable, children."

"Oh," said Gudbrand, "but I have not got the horse; for as I went along

the road, I exchanged the horse for a pig."

"Well," said the woman, "that is just what I should have done myself; I

thank thee for that. I can now have pork and bacon in my house to offer

anybody when they come to see us. What should we have done with a horse?

People would only have said we were grown too proud to walk to church.

Go, children, and put the pig in."

"But I have not brought the pig with me," exclaimed Gudbrand; "for when

I had gone a little further on, I exchanged it for a milch goat."

"How admirably thou dost everything," exclaimed his wife. "What should

we have done with a pig? People would only have said that we eat

everything we own. Yes, now that I have a goat, I can get both milk and

cheese, and still keep my goat. Go and tie the goat, children."

"No," said Gudbrand, "I have not brought home the goat; for when I came

a little further on, I changed the goat for a fine sheep."

"Well," cried the woman, "thou hast done everything just as I could

wish; just as if I had been there myself. What should we have done with

a goat? I must have climbed up the mountains and wandered through the

valleys to bring it home in the evening. With a sheep I should have wool

and clothing in the house, with food into the bargain. So go, children,

and put the sheep into the field."

"But I have not got the sheep," said Gudbrand, "for as I went a little

further, I changed it away for a goose."

"Many, many thanks for that," said his wife. "What should I have done

with a sheep? For I have neither a spinning-wheel nor have I much desire

to toil and labor to make clothes; we can purchase clothing as we have

hitherto: now I shall have roast goose, which I have often longed for;

and then I can make a little pillow of the feathers. Go and bring in the

goose, children."

"But I have not got the goose," said Gudbrand; "as I came on a little

further, I changed it away for a cock."

"Heaven only knows how thou couldst think of all this," exclaimed his

wife, "it is just as if I had managed it all myself. A cock! that is

just as good as if thou hadst bought an eight-day clock; for as the cock

crows every morning at four o'clock, we can be stirring betimes. What

should I have done with a goose? I do not know how to dress a goose, and

my pillow I can stuff with moss. Go and fetch in the cock, children."

"But I have not brought the cock home with me," said Gudbrand; "for when

I had gone a long, long way, I became so hungry that I was obliged to

sell the cock for twelve shillings to keep me alive."

"Well! thank God thou always dost just as I could wish to have it done.

What should we have done with a cock? We are our own masters; we can lie

as long as we like in the morning. God be praised, I have got thee here

safe again, and as thou always dost everything so right, we want neither

a cock, nor a goose, nor a pig, nor a sheep, nor a cow."

Hereupon Gudbrand opened the door:--"Have I won your hundred dollars?"

asked he of the neighbor, who was obliged to confess that he had.

Translation by Benjamin Thorpe in 'Yule-Tide Stories' (Bonn's Library).

THE WIDOW'S SON

There was once a very poor woman who had only one son. She toiled for

him till he was old enough to be confirmed by the priest, when she told

him that she could support him no longer, but that he must go out in the

world and gain his own livelihood. So the youth set out, and after

wandering about for a day or two he met a stranger. "Whither art thou

going?" asked the man. "I am going out in the world to see if I can get

employment," answered the youth.--"Wilt thou serve us?"--"Yes, just as

well serve you as anybody else," answered the youth. "Thou shalt be well

cared for with me," said the man: "thou shalt be my companion, and do

little or nothing besides."

So the youth resided with him, had plenty to eat and drink, and very

little or nothing to do; but he never saw a living person in the

man's house.

One day his master said to him:--"I am going to travel, and shall be

absent eight days. During that time thou wilt be here alone: but thou

must not go into either of these four rooms; if thou dost, I will kill

thee when I return." The youth answered that he would not. When the man

had gone away three or four days, the youth could no longer refrain, but

went into one of the rooms. He looked around, but saw nothing except a

shelf over the door, with a whip made of briar on it. "This was well

worth forbidding me so strictly from seeing," thought the youth. When

the eight days had passed the man came home again. "Thou hast not, I

hope, been into any of my rooms," said he. "No, I have not," answered

the youth. "That I shall soon be able to see," said the man, going into

the room the youth had entered. "But thou hast been in," said he, "and

now thou shalt die." The youth cried and entreated to be forgiven, so

that he escaped with his life but had a severe beating; when that was

over, they were as good friends as before.

Some time after this, the man took another journey. This time he would

be away a fortnight, but first forbade the youth again from going into

any of the rooms he had not already been in; but the one he had

previously entered he might enter again. This time all took place just

as before, the only difference being that the youth abstained for eight

days before he entered the forbidden rooms. In one apartment he found

only a shelf over the door, on which lay a huge stone and a

water-bottle. "This is also something to be in such fear about," thought

the youth again. When the man came home, he asked whether he had been in

any of the rooms. "No, he had not," was the answer. "I shall soon see,"

said the man; and when he found that the youth had nevertheless been in,

he said, "Now I will no longer spare thee, thou shalt die." But the

youth cried and implored that his life might be spared, and thus again

escaped with a beating; but this time got as much as could be laid on

him. When he had recovered from the effect of this beating he lived as

well as ever, and he and the man were as good friends as before.

Some time after this, the man again made a journey, and now he was to be

three weeks absent. He warned the youth anew not to enter the third

room; if he did he must at once prepare to die. At the end of a

fortnight, the youth had no longer any command over himself, and stole

in; but here he saw nothing save a trap-door in the floor. He lifted it

up and looked through; there stood a large copper kettle, that boiled

and boiled, yet he could see no fire under it. "I should like to know if

it is hot," thought the youth, dipping his finger down into it; but when

he drew it up again he found that all his finger was gilt. He scraped

and washed it, but the gilding was not to be removed; so he tied a rag

over it, and when the man returned and asked him what was the matter

with his finger, he answered he had cut it badly. But the man, tearing

the rag off, at once saw what ailed the finger. At first he was going to

kill the youth, but as he cried and begged again, he merely beat him so

that he was obliged to lie in bed for three days. The man then took a

pot down from the wall and rubbed him with what it contained, so that

the youth was as well as before.

After some time the man made another journey, and said he should not

return for a month. He then told the youth that if he went into the

fourth room, he must not think for a moment that his life would be

spared. One, two, even three weeks the youth refrained from entering the

forbidden room; but then, having no longer any command over himself, he

stole in. There stood a large black horse in a stall, with a trough of

burning embers at its head and a basket of hay at its tail. The youth

thought this was cruel, and therefore changed their position, putting

the basket of hay by the horse's head. The horse thereupon said:--

"As you have so kind a disposition that you enable me to get food, I

will save you: should the Troll return and find you here, he will kill

you. Now you must go up into the chamber above this, and take one of the

suits of armor that hang there: but on no account take one that is

bright; on the contrary, select the most rusty you can see, and take

that; choose also a sword and saddle in like manner."

The youth did so, but he found the whole very heavy for him to carry.

When he came back, the horse said that now he should strip and wash

himself well in the kettle, which stood boiling in the next apartment.

"I feel afraid," thought the youth, but nevertheless did so. When he had

washed himself, he became comely and plump, and as red and white as milk

and blood, and much stronger than before. "Are you sensible of any

change?" asked the horse. "Yes," answered the youth. "Try to lift me,"

said the horse. Aye, that he could, and brandished the sword with ease.

"Now lay the saddle on me," said the horse, "put on the armor and take

the whip of thorn, the stone and the water-flask, and the pot with

ointment, and then we will set out."

When the youth had mounted the horse, it started off at a rapid rate.

After riding some time, the horse said, "I think I hear a noise. Look

round: can you see anything?" "A great many men are coming after

us,--certainly a score at least," answered the youth. "Ah! that is the

Troll," said the horse, "he is coming with all his companions."

They traveled for a time, until their pursuers were gaining on them.

"Throw now the thorn whip over your shoulder," said the horse, "but

throw it far away from me."

The youth did so, and at the same moment there sprang up a large thick

wood of briars. The youth now rode on a long way, while the Troll was

obliged to go home for something wherewith to hew a road through the

wood. After some time the horse again said, "Look back: can you see

anything now?" "Yes, a whole multitude of people," said the youth, "like

a church congregation."--"That is the Troll; now he has got more with

him; throw out now the large stone, but throw it far from me."

When the youth had done what the horse desired, there arose a large

stone mountain behind them. So the Troll was obliged to go home after

something with which to bore through the mountain; and while he was thus

employed, the youth rode on a considerable way. But now the horse again

bade him look back: he then saw a multitude like a whole army; they were

so bright that they glittered in the sun. "Well, that is the Troll with

all his friends," said the horse. "Now throw the water bottle behind

you, but take good care to spill nothing on me!" The youth did so, but

notwithstanding his caution he happened to spill a drop on the horse's

loins. Immediately there rose a vast lake, and the spilling of the few

drops caused the horse to stand far out in the water; nevertheless, he

at last swam to the shore.

When the Trolls came to the water they lay down to drink it all up, and

they gulped and gulped till they burst. "Now we are quit of them," said

the horse.

When they had traveled on a very long way they came to a green plain in

a wood. "Take off your armor now," said the horse, "and put on your rags

only; lift my saddle off and hang everything up in that large hollow

linden; make yourself then a wig of pine-moss, go to the royal palace

which lies close by, and there ask for employment. When you desire to

see me, come to this spot, shake the bridle, and I will instantly be

with you."

The youth did as the horse told him; and when he put on the moss wig he

became so pale and miserable to look at that no one would have

recognized him. On reaching the palace, he only asked if he might serve

in the kitchen to carry wood and water to the cook; but the cook-maid

asked him why he wore such an ugly wig? "Take it off," said she: "I will

not have anybody here so frightful." "That I cannot," answered the

youth, "for I am not very clean in the head." "Dost thou think then that

I will have thee in the kitchen, if such be the case?" said she; "go to

the master of the horse: thou art fittest to carry muck from the

stables." When the master of the horse told him to take off his wig, he

got the same answer, so he refused to have him. "Thou canst go to the

gardener," said he, "thou art only fit to go and dig the ground." The

gardener allowed him to remain, but none of the servants would sleep

with him, so he was obliged to sleep alone under the stairs of the

summer-house, which stood upon pillars and had a high staircase, under

which he laid a quantity of moss for a bed, and there lay as well as

he could.