When he had been some time in the royal palace, it happened one morning,

just at sunrise, that the youth had taken off his moss wig and was

standing washing himself, and appeared so handsome it was a pleasure to

look on him. The princess saw from her window this comely gardener, and

thought she had never before seen any one so handsome.

She then asked the gardener why he lay out there under the stairs.

"Because none of the other servants will lie with him," answered the

gardener. "Let him come this evening and lie by the door in my room,"

said the princess: "they cannot refuse after that to let him sleep in

the house."

The gardener told this to the youth. "Dost thou think I will do so?"

said he. "If I do so, all will say there is something between me and the

princess." "Thou hast reason, forsooth, to fear such a suspicion,"

replied the gardener, "such a fine, comely lad as thou art." "Well, if

she has commanded it, I suppose I must comply," said the youth. In

going up-stairs that evening he stamped and made such a noise that they

were obliged to beg of him to go more gently, lest it might come to the

king's knowledge. When within the chamber, he lay down and began

immediately to snore. The princess then said to her waiting-maid, "Go

gently and pull off his moss wig." Creeping softly toward him, she was

about to snatch it, but he held it fast with both hands, and said she

should not have it. He then lay down again and began to snore. The

princess made a sign to the maid, and this time she snatched his wig

off. There he lay so beautifully red and white, just as the princess had

seen him in the morning sun. After this the youth slept every night in

the princess's chamber.

But it was not long before the king heard that the garden lad slept

every night in the princess's chamber, at which he became so angry that

he almost resolved on putting him to death. This, however, he did not

do, but cast him into prison, and his daughter he confined to her room,

not allowing her to go out, either by day or night. Her tears and

prayers for herself and the youth were unheeded by the king, who only

became the more incensed against her.

Some time after this, there arose a war and disturbance in the country,

and the king was obliged to take arms and defend himself against another

king, who threatened to deprive him of his throne. When the youth heard

this he begged the jailer would go to the king for him, and propose to

let him have armor and a sword, and allow him to follow to the war. All

the courtiers laughed when the jailer made known his errand to the king.

They begged he might have some old trumpery for armor, that they might

enjoy the sport of seeing the poor creature in the war. He got the armor

and also an old jade of a horse, which limped on three legs, dragging

the fourth after it.

Thus they all marched forth against the enemy, but they had not gone far

from the royal palace before the youth stuck fast with his old jade in a

swamp. Here he sat beating and calling to the jade, "Hie! wilt thou go?

hie! wilt thou go?" This amused all the others, who laughed and jeered

as they passed. But no sooner were they all gone than, running to the

linden, he put on his own armor and shook the bridle, and immediately

the horse appeared, and said, "Do thou do thy best and I will do mine."

When the youth arrived on the field the battle had already begun, and

the king was hard pressed; but just at that moment the youth put the

enemy to flight. The king and his attendants wondered who it could be

that came to their help; but no one had been near enough to speak to

him, and when the battle was over he was away. When they returned, the

youth was still sitting fast in the swamp, beating and calling to his

three-legged jade. They laughed as they passed, and said, "Only look,

yonder sits the fool yet."

The next day when they marched out the youth was still sitting there,

and they again laughed and jeered at him; but no sooner had they all

passed by than he ran again to the linden, and everything took place as

on the previous day. Every one wondered who the stranger warrior was who

had fought for them; but no one approached him so near that he could

speak to him: of course no one ever imagined that it was the youth.

When they returned in the evening and saw him and his old jade still

sticking fast in the swamp, they again made a jest of him; one shot an

arrow at him and wounded him in the leg, and he began to cry and moan so

that it was sad to hear, whereupon the king threw him his handkerchief

that he might bind it about his leg. When they marched forth the third

morning there sat the youth calling to his horse, "Hie! wilt thou go?

hie! wilt thou go?" "No, no! he will stay there till he starves," said

the king's men as they passed by, and laughed so heartily at him that

they nearly fell from their horses. When they had all passed, he again

ran to the linden, and came to the battle just at the right moment. That

day he killed the enemy's king, and thus the war was at an end.

When the fighting was over, the king observed his handkerchief tied

round the leg of the strange warrior, and by this he easily knew him.

They received him with great joy, and carried him with them up to the

royal palace, and the princess, who saw them from her window, was so

delighted no one could tell. "There comes my beloved also," said she. He

then took the pot of ointment and rubbed his leg, and afterward all the

wounded, so that they were all well again in a moment.

After this the king gave him the princess to wife. On the day of his

marriage he went down into the stable to see the horse, and found him

dull, hanging his ears and refusing to eat. When the young king--for he

was now king, having obtained the half of the realm--spoke to him and

asked him what he wanted, the horse said, "I have now helped thee

forward in the world, and I will live no longer: thou must take thy

sword, and cut my head off." "No, that I will not do," said the young

king: "thou shalt have whatever thou wilt, and always live without

working." "If thou wilt not do as I say," answered the horse, "I shall

find a way of killing thee."

The king was then obliged to slay him; but when he raised the sword to

give the stroke he was so distressed that he turned his face away; but

no sooner had he struck his head off than there stood before him a

handsome prince in the place of the horse.

"Whence in the name of Heaven didst thou come?" asked the king. "It was

I who was the horse," answered the prince. "Formerly I was king of the

country whose sovereign you slew yesterday; it was he who cast over me a

horse's semblance, and sold me to the Troll. As he is killed, I shall

recover my kingdom, and you and I shall be neighboring kings; but we

will never go to war with each other."

Neither did they; they were friends as long as they lived, and the one

came often to visit the other.

ROGER ASCHAM

(1515-1568)

This noted scholar owes his place in English literature to his pure,

vigorous English prose. John Tindal and Sir Thomas More, his

predecessors, had perhaps equaled him in the flexible and simple use of

his native tongue, but they had not surpassed him. The usage of the time

was still to write works of importance in Latin, and Ascham was master

of a good Ciceronian Latin style. It is to his credit that he urged on

his countrymen the writing of English, and set them an example of its

vigorous use.

He was the son of John Ascham, house steward to Lord Scrope of Bolton,

and was born at Kirby Wiske, near Northallerton, in 1515. At the age of

fifteen he entered St. John's College, Cambridge, where he applied

himself to Greek and Latin, mathematics, music, and penmanship. He had

great success in teaching and improving the study of the classics; but

seems to have had a somewhat checkered academic career, both as student

and teacher. His poverty was excessive, and he made many unsuccessful

attempts to secure patronage and position; till at length, in 1545, he

published his famous treatise on Archery, 'Toxophilus,' which he

presented to Henry VIII. in the picture gallery at Greenwich, and which

obtained for him a small pension. The treatise is in the form of a

dialogue, the first part being an argument in favor of archery, and the

second, instructions for its practice. In its pages he makes a plea for

the literary use of the English tongue.

After long-continued disappointment and trouble, he was finally

successful in obtaining the position of tutor to the Princess Elizabeth,

in 1548. She was fifteen years old, and he found her an apt scholar; but

the life was irksome, and in 1550 he resigned the post to return to

Cambridge as public orator,--whence one may guess as a main reason for

so excellent a teacher having so hard a time to live, that like many

others he liked to talk about his profession better than to practice it.

Going abroad shortly afterward as secretary to Sir Richard Morysin,

ambassador to Charles V., he remained with him until 1553, when he

received the appointment of Latin secretary to Queen Mary. It is said

that he wrote for her forty-seven letters in his fine Latin style, in

three days.

[Illustration: ROGER ASCHAM]

At the accession of Elizabeth he received the office of the Queen's

private tutor. Poverty and "household griefs" still gave him anxiety;

but during the five years which elapsed between 1563 and his death in

1568, he found some comfort in the composition of his Schoolmaster,

which was published by his widow in 1570. It was suggested by a

conversation at Windsor with Sir William Cecil, on the proper method of

bringing up children. Sir Richard Sackville was so well pleased with

Ascham's theories that he, with others, entreated him to write a

practical work on the subject. 'The Schoolmaster' argues in favor of

gentleness rather than force on the part of an instructor. Then he

commends his own method of teaching Latin by double translation, offers

remarks on Latin prosody, and touches on other pedagogic themes. Both

this and the 'Toxophilus' show a pure, straightforward, easy style.

Contemporary testimony to its beauty may be found in an appendix to

Mayor's edition of 'The School master' (1863); though Dr. Johnson, in a

memoir prefixed to Rennet's collected edition of Ascham's English works

(1771), says that "he was scarcely known as an author in his own

language till Mr. Upton published his 'Schoolmaster' in 1771." He has

remained, however, the best known type of a great teacher in the

popular memory; in part, perhaps, through his great pupil.

The best collected edition of his works, including his Latin letters,

was published by Dr. Giles in 1864-5. There is an authoritative edition

of the 'Schoolmaster' in the Arber Series of old English reprints. The

best account of his system of education is in R.H. Quick's 'Essays on

Educational Reformers' (1868).

ON GENTLENESS IN EDUCATION

From 'The Schoolmaster'

Yet some will say that children, of nature, love pastime, and mislike

learning; because, in their kind, the one is easy and pleasant, the

other hard and wearisome. Which is an opinion not so true as some men

ween. For the matter lieth not so much in the disposition of them that

be young, as in the order and manner of bringing up by them that be old;

nor yet in the difference of learning and pastime. For, beat a child if

he dance not well, and cherish him though he learn not well, you shall

have him unwilling to go to dance, and glad to go to his book; knock him

always when he draweth his shaft ill, and favor him again though he

fault at his book, you shall have him very loth to be in the field, and

very willing to be in the school. Yea, I say more, and not of myself,

but by the judgment of those from whom few wise men will gladly dissent;

that if ever the nature of man be given at any time, more than other, to

receive goodness, it is in innocency of young years, before that

experience of evil have taken root in him. For the pure clean wit of a

sweet young babe is like the newest wax, most able to receive the best

and fairest printing; and like a new bright silver dish never occupied,

to receive and keep clean any good thing that is put into it.

And thus, will in children, wisely wrought withal, may easily be won to

be very well willing to learn. And wit in children, by nature, namely

memory, the only key and keeper of all learning, is readiest to receive

and surest to keep any manner of thing that is learned in youth. This,

lewd and learned, by common experience, know to be most true. For we

remember nothing so well when we be old as those things which we learned

when we were young. And this is not strange, but common in all nature's

works. "Every man seeth (as I said before) new wax is best for

printing, new clay fittest for working, new-shorn wool aptest for soon

and surest dyeing, new fresh flesh for good and durable salting." And

this similitude is not rude, nor borrowed of the larder-house, but out

of his school-house, of whom the wisest of England need not be ashamed

to learn. "Young grafts grow not only soonest, but also fairest, and

bring always forth the best and sweetest fruit; young whelps learn

easily to carry; young popin-jays learn quickly to speak." And so, to be

short, if in all other things, though they lack reason, sense, and life,

the similitude of youth is fittest to all goodness, surely nature in

mankind is most beneficial and effectual in their behalf.

Therefore, if to the goodness of nature be joined the wisdom of the

teacher, in leading young wits into a right and plain way of learning;

surely children kept up in God's fear, and governed by His grace, may

most easily be brought well to serve God and their country, both by

virtue and wisdom.

But if will and wit, by farther age, be once allured from innocency,

delighted in vain sights, filled with foul talk, crooked with

wilfulness, hardened with stubbornness, and let loose to disobedience;

surely it is hard with gentleness, but impossible with severe cruelty,

to call them back to good frame again. For where the one perchance may

bend it, the other shall surely break it: and so, instead of some hope,

leave an assured desperation, and shameless contempt of all goodness;

the furthest point in all mischief, as Xenophon doth most truly and most

wittily mark.

Therefore, to love or to hate, to like or contemn, to ply this way or

that way to good or to bad, ye shall have as ye use a child in

his youth.

And one example whether love or fear doth work more in a child for

virtue and learning, I will gladly report; which may be heard with some

pleasure, and followed with more profit.

Before I went into Germany, I came to Broadgate in Leicestershire, to

take my leave of that noble lady, Jane Grey, to whom I was exceeding

much beholding. Her parents, the duke and duchess, with all the

household, gentlemen and gentlewomen, were hunting in the park. I found

her in her chamber, reading Phædo Platonis in Greek, and that with as

much delight as some gentlemen would read a merry tale in Boccace. After

salutation and duty done, with some other talk, I asked her why she

would leese [lose] such pastime in the park? Smiling she answered me:

"Iwisse, all their sport in the park is but a shadow to that pleasure

that I find in Plato. Alas! good folk, they never felt what true

pleasure meant." "And how came you, madame," quoth I, "to this deep

knowledge of pleasure? and what did chiefly allure you unto it, seeing

not many women, but very few men, have attained thereunto?" "I will tell

you," quoth she, "and tell you a truth, which perchance ye will marvel

at. One of the greatest benefits that ever God gave me, is, that he sent

me so sharp and severe parents, and so gentle a schoolmaster. For when I

am in presence either of father or mother, whether I speak, keep

silence, sit, stand, or go, eat, drink, be merry, or sad, be sewing,

playing, dancing, or doing anything else, I must do it, as it were, in

such weight, measure, and number, even so perfectly, as God made the

world; or else I am so sharply taunted, so cruelly threatened, yea,

presently, sometimes with pinches, nips, and bobs, and other ways which

I will not name, for the honor I bear them, so without measure

misordered, that I think myself in hell, till time come that I must go

to Mr. Elmer; who teacheth me so gently, so pleasantly, with such fair

allurements to learning, that I think all the time nothing whiles I am

with him. And when I am called from him, I fall on weeping, because

whatsoever I do else but learning, is full of grief, trouble, fear, and

whole misliking unto me. And thus my book hath been so much my pleasure,

and bringeth daily to me more pleasure and more, that in respect of it,

all other pleasures, in very deed, be but trifles and troubles unto me."

I remember this talk gladly, both because it is so worthy of memory, and

because also it was the last talk that ever I had, and the last time

that ever I saw that noble and worthy lady.

ON STUDY AND EXERCISE

From 'Toxophilus'

Philologe--But now to our shooting, Toxophile, again; wherein I suppose

you cannot say so much for shooting to be fit for learning, as you have

spoken against music for the same. Therefore, as concerning music, I can

be content to grant you your mind; but as for shooting, surely I suppose

that you cannot persuade me, by no means, that a man can be earnest in

it, and earnest at his book too; but rather I think that a man with a

bow on his back, and shafts under his girdle, is more fit to wait upon

Robin Hood than upon Apollo or the Muses.

_Toxophile_--Over-earnest shooting surely I will not over-earnestly

defend; for I ever thought shooting should be a waiter upon learning,

not a mistress over learning. Yet this I marvel not a little at, that ye

think a man with a bow on his back is more like Robin Hood's servant

than Apollo's, seeing that Apollo himself, in Alcestis of Euripides,

which tragedy you read openly not long ago, in a manner glorieth, saying

this verse:--

"It is my wont always my bow with me to bear."

Therefore a learned man ought not too much to be ashamed to bear that

sometime, which Apollo, god of learning, himself was not ashamed always

to bear. And because ye would have a man wait upon the Muses, and not at

all meddle with shooting: I marvel that you do not remember how that the

nine Muses their self, as soon as they were born, were put to nurse to a

lady called Euphemis, which had a son named Erotus, with whom the nine

Muses for his excellent shooting kept evermore company withal, and used

daily to shoot together in the Mount Parnassus; and at last it chanced

this Erotus to die, whose death the Muses lamented greatly, and fell all

upon their knees afore Jupiter their father; and at their request,

Erotus, for shooting with the Muses on earth, was made a sign and called

Sagittarius in heaven. Therefore you see that if Apollo and the Muses

either were examples indeed, or only feigned of wise men to be examples

of learning, honest shooting may well enough be companion with

honest study.

_Philologe_--Well, Toxophile, if you have no stronger defense of

shooting than poets, I fear if your companions which love shooting heard

you, they would think you made it but a trifling and fabling matter,

rather than any other man that loveth not shooting could be persuaded by

this reason to love it.

_Toxophile_--Even as I am not so fond but I know that these be fables,

so I am sure you be not so ignorant but you know what such noble wits as

the poets had, meant by such matters; which oftentimes, under the

covering of a fable, do hide and wrap in goodly precepts of philosophy,

with the true judgment of things. Which to be true, specially in Homer

and Euripides, Plato, Aristotle, and Galen plainly do show; when through

all their works (in a manner) they determine all controversies by these

two poets and such like authorities. Therefore, if in this matter I seem

to fable and nothing prove, I am content you judge so on me, seeing the

same judgment shall condemn with me Plato, Aristotle, and Galen, whom in

that error I am well content to follow. If these old examples prove

nothing for shooting, what say you to this, that the best learned and

sagest men in this realm which be now alive, both love shooting and use

shooting, as the best learned bishops that be? amongst whom, Philologe,

you yourself know four or five, which, as in all good learning, virtue,

and sageness, they give other men example what thing they should do,

even so by their shooting they plainly show what honest pastime other

men given to learning may honestly use. That earnest study must be

recreated with honest pastime, sufficiently I have proved afore, both by

reason and authority of the best learned men that ever wrote. Then

seeing pastimes be leful [lawful], the most fittest for learning is to

be sought for. A pastime, saith Aristotle, must be like a medicine.

Medicines stand by contraries; therefore, the nature of studying

considered, the fittest pastime shall soon appear. In study every part

of the body is idle, which thing causeth gross and cold humors to gather

together and vex scholars very much; the mind is altogether bent and set

on work. A pastime then must be had where every part of the body must be

labored, to separate and lessen such humors withal; the mind must be

unbent, to gather and fetch again his quickness withal. Thus pastimes

for the mind only be nothing fit for students, because the body, which

is most hurt by study, should take away no profit thereat. This knew

Erasmus very well, when he was here in Cambridge; which, when he had

been sore at his book (as Garret our book-binder had very often told

me), for lack of better exercise, would take his horse and ride about

the market-hill and come again. If a scholar should use bowls or tennis,

the labor is too vehement and unequal, which is condemned of Galen; the

example very ill for other men, when by so many acts they be made

unlawful. Running, leaping, and quoiting be too vile for scholars, and

so not fit by Aristotle's judgment; walking alone into the field hath no

token of courage in it, a pastime like a simple man which is neither

flesh nor fish. Therefore if a man would have a pastime wholesome and

equal for every part of the body, pleasant and full of courage for the

mind, not vile and unhonest to give ill example to laymen, not kept in

gardens and corners, not lurking on the night and in holes, but evermore

in the face of men, either to rebuke it when it doeth ill, or else to

testify on it when it doth well, let him seek chiefly of all other

for shooting.

ATHENÆUS

(Third Century A.D.)

Little is known that is authentic about the Græco-Egyptian Sophist or

man of letters, Athenaeus, author of the 'Deipnosophistæ' or Feast of

the Learned, except his literary bequest. It is recorded that he was

born at Naucratis, a city of the Nile Delta; and that after living at

Alexandria he migrated to Rome. His date is presumptively fixed in the

early part of the third century by his inclusion of Ulpian, the eminent

jurist (whose death occurred A.D. 228) among the twenty-nine guests of

the banquet whose wit and learning furnished its viands. He was perhaps

a contemporary of the physician Galen, another of the putative

banqueters, who served as a mouthpiece of the author's erudition.

Probably nothing concerning him deserved preservation except his unique

work, the 'Feast of the Learned.' Of the fifteen books transmitted under

the above title, the first two, and portions of the third, eleventh, and

fifteenth, exist only in epitome--the name of the compiler and his time

being equally obscure; yet it is curious that for many centuries these

garbled fragments were the only memorials of the author extant. The

other books, constituting the major portion of the work, have been

pronounced authentic by eminent scholars with Bentley at their head.

Without the slightest pretense of literary skill, the 'Feast of the

Learned' is an immense storehouse of _Ana_, or table-talk. Into its

receptacles the author gathers fruitage from nearly every branch of

contemporary learning. He seemed to anticipate Macaulay's "vice of

omniscience," though he lacked Macaulay's incomparable literary virtues.

Personal anecdote, criticism of the fine arts, the drama, history,

poetry, philosophy, politics, medicine, and natural history enter into

his pages, illustrated with an aptness and variety of quotation which

seem to have no limit. He preserves old songs, folk-lore, and popular

gossip, and relates whatever he may have heard, without sifting it. He

gives, for example, a vivid account of the procession which greeted

Demetrius Poliorketes:--

"When Demetrius returned from Leucadia and Corcyra to Athens,

the Athenians received him not only with incense and garlands

and libations, but they even sent out processional choruses,

and greeted him with Ithyphallic hymns and dances. Stationed

by his chariot-wheels, they sang and danced and chanted that

he alone was a real god; the rest were sleeping or were on a

journey, or did not exist: they called him son of Poseidon

and Aphrodite, eminent for beauty, universal in his goodness

to mankind; then they prayed and besought and supplicated him

like a god."

The hymn of worship which Athenaeus evidently disapproved has been

preserved, and turned into English by the accomplished J.A. Symonds on

account of its rare and interesting versification. It belongs to the

class of Prosodia, or processional hymns, which the greatest poets

delighted to produce, and which were sung at religious festivals by

young men and maidens, marching to the shrines in time with the music,

their locks crowned with wreaths of olive, myrtle, or oleander; their

white robes shining in the sun.

"See how the mightiest gods, and best beloved,

Towards our town are winging!

For lo! Demeter and Demetrius

This glad day is bringing!

She to perform her Daughter's solemn rites;

Mystic pomps attend her;

He joyous as a god should be, and blithe,

Comes with laughing splendor.

Show forth your triumph! Friends all, troop around,

Let him shine above you!

Be you the stars to circle him with love;

He's the sun to love you.

Hail, offspring of Poseidon, powerful god,

Child of Aphrodite!

The other deities keep far from earth;

Have no ears, though mighty;

They are not, or they will not hear us wail:

Thee our eye beholdeth;

Not wood, not stone, but living, breathing, real,

Thee our prayer enfoldeth.

First give us peace! Give, dearest, for thou canst;

Thou art Lord and Master!

The Sphinx, who not on Thebes, but on all Greece

Swoops to gloat and pasture;

The Ætolian, he who sits upon his rock,

Like that old disaster;

He feeds upon our flesh and blood, and we

Can no longer labor;

For it was ever thus the Ætolian thief

Preyed upon his neighbor;

Him punish Thou, or, if not Thou, then send

Oedipus to harm him,

Who'll cast this Sphinx down from his cliff of pride,

Or to stone will charm him."

The Swallow song, which is cited, is an example of the folk-lore and old

customs which Athenaeus delighted to gather; and he tells how in

springtime the children used to go about from door to door, begging

doles and presents, and singing such half-sensible, half-foolish

rhymes as--

"She is here, she is here, the swallow!

Fair seasons bringing, fair years to follow!

Her belly is white,

Her back black as night!

From your rich house

Roll forth to us

Tarts, wine, and cheese;

Or, if not these,

Oatmeal and barley-cake

The swallow deigns to take.

What shall we have? or must we hence away!

Thanks, if you give: if not, we'll make you pay!

The house-door hence we'll carry;

Nor shall the lintel tarry;

From hearth and home your wife we'll rob;

She is so small,

To take her off will be an easy job!

Whate'er you give, give largess free!

Up! open, open, to the swallow's call!

No grave old men, but merry children we!"

The 'Feast of the Learned' professes to be the record of the sayings at

a banquet given at Rome by Laurentius to his learned friends. Laurentius

stands as the typical Mæcenas of the period. The dialogue is reported

after Plato's method, or as we see it in the more familiar form of the

'Satires' of Horace, though lacking the pithy vigor of these models. The

discursiveness with which topics succeed each other, their want of logic

or continuity, and the pelting fire of quotations in prose and verse,

make a strange mixture. It may be compared to one of those dishes known

both to ancients and to moderns, in which a great variety of scraps is

enriched with condiments to the obliteration of all individual flavor.

The plan of execution is so cumbersome that its only defense is its

imitation of the inevitably disjointed talk when the guests of a dinner

party are busy with their wine and nuts. One is tempted to suspect

Athenaeus of a sly sarcasm at his own expense, when he puts the

following flings at pedantry in the mouths of some of his puppets:--

"And now when Myrtilus had said all this in a connected

statement, and when all were marveling at his memory,

Cynulcus said,--

'Your multifarious learning I do wonder at,

Though there is not a thing more vain and useless.'

"Says Hippo the Atheist, 'But the divine Heraclitus also

says, 'A great variety of information does not usually give

wisdom.' And Timon said, ... 'For what is the use of so many

names, my good grammarian, which are more calculated to

overwhelm the hearers than to do them any good?'"

This passage shows the redundancy of expression which disfigures so much

of Athenaeus. It is also typical of the cudgel-play of repartee between

his characters, which takes the place of agile witticism. But if he

heaps up vast piles of scholastic rubbish, he is also the Golden Dustman

who shows us the treasure preserved by his saving pedantry. Scholars

find the 'Feast of the Learned' a quarry of quotations from classical

writers whose works have perished. Nearly eight hundred writers and

twenty-four hundred separate writings are referred to and cited in this

disorderly encyclopedia, most of them now lost and forgotten. This

literary thrift will always give rank to the work of Athenaeus, poor as

it is. The best editions of the original Greek are those of Dindorf

(Leipzig, 1827), and of Meineke (Leipzig, 1867). The best English

translation is that of C.D. Yonge in 'Bonn's Classical Library,' from

which, with slight alterations, the appended passages are selected.

WHY THE NILE OVERFLOWS

From the 'Deipnosophistæ'

Thales the Milesian, one of the Seven Wise Men, says that the

overflowing of the Nile arises from the Etesian winds; for that they

blow up the river, and that the mouths of the river lie exactly opposite

to the point from which they blow; and accordingly, that the wind

blowing in the opposite direction hinders the flow of the waters; and

the waves of the sea, dashing against the mouth of the river, and coming

on with a fair wind in the same direction, beat back the river, and in

this manner the Nile becomes full to overflowing. But Anaxagoras, the

natural philosopher, says that the fullness of the Nile arises from the

snow melting; and so too says Euripides, and some others of the tragic

poets. Anaxagoras says this is the sole origin of all that fullness; but

Euripides goes further and describes the exact place where this melting

of the snow takes place.

HOW TO PRESERVE THE HEALTH

From the 'Deipnosophistæ'

One ought to avoid thick perfumes, and to drink water that is thin and

clear, and that in respect of weight is light, and that has no earthy

particles in it. And that water is best which is of moderate heat or

coldness, and which, when poured into a brazen or silver vessel, does

not produce a blackish sediment. Hippocrates says, "Water which is

easily warmed or easily chilled is alway lighter." But that water is bad

which takes a long time to boil vegetables; and so too is water full of

nitre, or brackish. And in his book 'On Waters,' Hippocrates calls good

water drinkable; but stagnant water he calls bad, such as that from

ponds or marshes. And most spring-water is rather hard.

Erasistratus says that some people test water by weight, and that is a

most stupid proceeding. "For just look," says he, "if men compare the

water from the fountain Amphiaraus with that from the Eretrian spring,

though one of them is good and the other bad, there is absolutely no

difference in their respective weights." And Hippocrates, in his book

'On Places,' says that those waters are the best which flow from high

ground, and from dry hills, "for they are white and sweet, and are able

to bear very little wine, and are warm in winter and cold in summer."

And he praises those most, the springs of which break toward the east,

and especially toward the northeast, for they must be inevitably clear

and fragrant and light. Diocles says that water is good for the

digestion and not apt to cause flatulency, that it is moderately

cooling, and good for the eyes, and that it has no tendency to make the

head feel heavy, and that it adds vigor to the mind and body. And

Praxagoras says the same; and he also praises rain-water. But Euenor

praises water from cisterns, and says that the best is that from the

cistern of Amphiaraus, when compared with that from the fountain

in Eretria.

That water is really nutritious is plain from the fact that some animals

are nourished by it alone, as for instance grasshoppers. And there are

many other liquids that are nutritious, such as milk, barley water, and

wine. At all events, animals at the breast are nourished by milk; and

there are many nations who drink nothing but milk. And it is said that

Democritus, the philosopher of Abdera, after he had determined to rid

himself of life on account of his extreme old age, and after he had

begun to diminish his food day by day, when the day of the Thesmophorian

festival came round, and the women of his household besought him not to

die during the festival, in order that they might not be debarred from

their share in the festivities, was persuaded, and ordered a vessel full

of honey to be set near him: and in this way he lived many days with no

other support than honey; and then some days after, when the honey had

been taken away, he died. But Democritus had always been fond of honey;

and he once answered a man, who asked him how he could live in the

enjoyment of the best health, that he might do so if he constantly

moistened his inward parts with honey, and the outer man with oil. And

bread and honey was the chief food of the Pythagoreans, according to the

statement of Aristoxenus, who says that those who eat this for breakfast

were free from disease all their lives. And Lycus says that the Cyrneans

(a people who live near Sardinia) are very long-lived, because they are

continually eating honey; and it is produced in great quantities

among them.

AN ACCOUNT OF SOME GREAT EATERS

From the Deipnosophistæ

Heraclitus, in his 'Entertainer of Strangers,' says that there

was a woman named Helena who ate more than any other woman ever did. And

Posidippus, in his 'Epigrams,' says that Phuromachus was a great eater,

on whom he wrote this epigram:--

This lowly ditch now holds Phuromachus,

Who used to swallow everything he saw,

Like a fierce carrion crow who roams all night.

Now here he lies wrapped in a ragged cloak.

But, O Athenian, whosoe'er you are,

Anoint this tomb and crown it with a wreath,

If ever in old times he feasted with you.

At last he came _sans_ teeth, with eyes worn out,

And livid, swollen eyelids; clothed in skins,

With but one single cruse, and that scarce full;

Far from the gay Lenæan Games he came,

Descending humbly to Calliope.

Amarantus of Alexandria, in his treatise on the Stage, says that

Herodorus, the Megarian trumpeter, was a man three cubits and a half in

height; and that he had great strength in his chest, and that he could

eat six pounds of bread, and twenty _litræ_ of meat, of whatever sort

was provided for him, and that he could drink two _choes_ of wine; and

that he could play on two trumpets at once; and that it was his habit to

sleep on only a lion's skin, and when playing on the trumpet he made a

vast noise. Accordingly, when Demetrius the son of Antigonus was

besieging Argos, and when his troops could not bring the battering ram

against the walls on account of its weight, he, giving the signal with

his two trumpets at once, by the great volume of sound which he poured

forth, instigated the soldiers to move forward the engine with great

zeal and earnestness; and he gained the prize in all the games ten

times; and he used to eat sitting down, as Nestor tells us in his

'Theatrical Reminiscences.' And there was a woman, too, named Aglais,

who played on the trumpet, the daughter of Megacles, who, in the first

great procession which took place in Alexandria, played a processional

piece of music; having a head-dress of false hair on, and a crest upon

her head, as Posidippus proves by his epigrams on her. And she too could

eat twelve _litræ_ of meat and four _choenixes_ of bread, and drink a

_choenus_ of wine, at one sitting.

There was besides a man of the name of Lityerses, a bastard son of

Midas, the King of Celænæ, in Phrygia, a man of a savage and fierce

aspect, and an enormous glutton. He is mentioned by Sositheus, the

tragic poet, in his play called 'Daphnis' or 'Lityersa'; where

he says:--

"He'll eat three asses' panniers, freight and all,

Three times in one brief day; and what he calls

A measure of wine is a ten-amphorae cask;

And this he drinks all at a single draught."

And the man mentioned by Pherecrates, or Strattis, whichever was the

author of the play called 'The Good Men,' was much such another; the

author says:--

"A.--I scarcely in one day, unless I'm forced, Can eat two bushels

and a half of food.

B.--A most unhappy man! how have you lost

Your appetite, so as now to be content

With the scant rations of one ship of war?"

And Xanthus, in his 'Account of Lydia,' says that Cambles, who was the

king of the Lydians, was a great eater and drinker, and also an

exceeding epicure; and accordingly, that he one night cut up his own

wife into joints and ate her; and then, in the morning, finding the hand

of his wife still sticking in his mouth, he slew himself, as his act

began to get notorious. And we have already mentioned Thys, the king of

the Paphlagonians, saying that he too was a man of vast appetite,

quoting Theopompus, who speaks of him in the thirty-fifth book of his

'History'; and Archilochus, in his 'Tetrameters,' has accused Charilas

of the same fault, as the comic poets have attacked Cleonymus and

Pisander. And Phoenicides mentions Chærippus in his 'Phylarchus' in the

following terms:--

"And next to them I place Chærippus third;

He, as you know, will without ceasing eat

As long as any one will give him food,

Or till he bursts,--such stowage vast has he,

Like any house."

And Nicolaus the Peripatetic, in the hundred and third book of his

'History,' says that Mithridates, the king of Pontus, once proposed a

contest in great eating and great drinking (the prize was a talent of

silver), and that he himself gained the victory in both; but he yielded

the prize to the man who was judged to be second to him, namely,

Calomodrys, the athlete of Cyzicus. And Timocreon the Rhodian, a poet

and an athlete who had gained the victory in the pentathlum, ate and

drank a great deal, as the epigram on his tomb shows:--

"Much did I eat, much did I drink, and much

Did I abuse all men; now here I lie:--

My name Timocreon, my country Rhodes."

And Thrasymachus of Chalcedon, in one of his prefaces, says that

Timocreon came to the great king of Persia, and being entertained by

him, did eat an immense quantity of food; and when the king asked him,

What he would do on the strength of it? he said that he would beat a

great many Persians; and the next day having vanquished a great many,

one after another, taking them one by one, after this he beat the air

with his hands; and when they asked him what he wanted, he said that he

had all those blows left in him if any one was inclined to come on. And

Clearchus, in the fifth book of his 'Lives,' says that Cantibaris the

Persian, whenever his jaws were weary with eating, had his slaves to

pour food into his mouth, which he kept open as if they were pouring it

into an empty vessel. But Hellanicus, in the first book of his

Deucalionea, says that Erysichthon, the son of Myrmidon, being a man

perfectly insatiable in respect of food, was called Æthon. Also Polemo,

in the first book of his 'Treatise addressed to Timæus,' says that among

the Sicilians there was a temple consecrated to gluttony, and an image

of Demeter Sito; near which also there was a statue of Himalis, as there

is at Delphi one of Hermuchus, and as at Scolum in Boeotia there are

statues of Megalartus and Megalomazus.

THE LOVE OF ANIMALS FOR MAN

From the 'Deipnosophistæ'

And even dumb animals have fallen in love with men; for there was a cock

who took a fancy to a man of the name of Secundus, a cupbearer of the

king; and the cock was nicknamed "the Centaur." This Secundus was a

slave of Nicomedes, the king of Bithynia; as Nicander informs us in the

sixth book of his essay on 'The Revolutions of Fortune.' And at Ægium, a

goose took a fancy to a boy; as Clearchus relates in the first book of

his 'Amatory Anecdotes.' And Theophrastus, in his essay 'On Love,' says

that the name of this boy was Amphilochus, and that he was a native of

Olenus. And Hermeas the son of Hermodorus, who was a Samian by birth,

says that a goose also took a fancy to Lacydes the philosopher. And in

Leucadia (according to a story told by Clearchus), a peacock fell so in

love with a maiden there that when she died, the bird died too. There is

a story also that at Iasus a dolphin took a fancy to a boy, and this

story is told by Duris, in the ninth book of his 'History'; and the

subject of that book is the history of Alexander, and the historian's

words are these:--

"He likewise sent for the boy from Iasus. For near Iasus there was a boy

whose name was Dionysius, and he once, when leaving the palæstra with

the rest of the boys, went down to the sea and bathed; and a dolphin

came forward out of the deep water to meet him, and taking him on his

back, swam away with him a considerable distance into the open sea, and

then brought him back again to land."

The dolphin is in fact an animal which is very fond of men, and very

intelligent, and one very susceptible of gratitude. Accordingly,

Phylarchus, in his twelfth book, says:--

"Coiranus the Milesian, when he saw some fishermen who had caught a

dolphin in a net, and who were about to cut it up, gave them some money

and bought the fish, and took it down and put it back in the sea again.

And after this it happened to him to be shipwrecked near Myconos, and

while every one else perished, Coiranus alone was saved by a dolphin.

And when at last he died of old age in his native country, as it so

happened that his funeral procession passed along the seashore close to

Miletus, a great shoal of dolphins appeared on that day in the harbor,

keeping only a very little distance from those who were attending the

funeral of Coiranus, as if they also were joining in the procession and

sharing in their grief."

The same Phylarchus also relates, in the twentieth book of his

'History,' the great affection which was once displayed by an elephant

for a boy. And his words are these:--

"Now there was a female elephant kept with this elephant, and the name

of the female elephant was Nicaea; and to her the wife of the king of

India, when dying, intrusted her child, which was just a month old. And

when the woman did die, the affection for the child displayed by the

beast was most extraordinary; for it could not endure the child to be

away; and whenever it did not see him, it was out of spirits. And so,

whenever the nurse fed the infant with milk, she placed it in its cradle

between the feet of the beast; and if she had not done so, the elephant

would not take any food; and after this, it would take whatever reeds

and grass there were near, and, while the child was sleeping, beat away

the flies with the bundle. And whenever the child wept, it would rock

the cradle with its trunk, and lull it to sleep. And very often the male

elephant did the same."

PER DANIEL AMADEUS ATTERBOM

(1790-1855)

Among the leaders of the romantic movement which affected Swedish

literature in the earlier half of the nineteenth century was P.D.A.

Atterbom, one of the greatest lyric poets of his country. He was born in

Ostergöthland, in 1790, and at the age of fifteen was already so

advanced in his studies that he entered the University of Upsala. There

in 1807 he helped to found the "Musis Amici," a students' society of

literature and art; its membership included Hedbom, who is remembered

for his beautiful hymns, and the able and laborious Palmblad,--author of

several popular books, including the well-known novel 'Aurora

Königsmark.' This society soon assumed the name of the Aurora League,

and set itself to free Swedish literature from French influence. The

means chosen were the study of German romanticism, and a treatment of

the higher branches of literature in direct opposition to the course

decreed by the Academical school. The leaders of this revolution were

Atterbom, eighteen years old, and Palmblad, twenty!

The first organ of the League was the Polyfem, soon replaced by the

Phosphorus (1810-1813), from which the young enthusiasts received their

sobriquet of "Phosphorists." Theoretically this sheet was given to the

discussion of Schelling's philosophy, and of metaphysical problems in

general; practically, to the publication of the original poetry of the

new school. The Phosphorists did a good work in calling attention to the

old Swedish folk-lore, and awakening a new interest in its imaginative

treasures. But their best service lay in their forcible and earnest

treatment of religious questions, which at that time were most

superficially dealt with.

When the 'Phosphorus' was in its third year the Romanticists united in

bringing out two new organs: the Poetical Calendar (1812-1822), which

published poetry only, and the Swedish Literary News (1813-1824),

containing critical essays of great scientific value. The Phosphorists,

who had shown themselves ardent but not always sagacious fighters, now

appeared at their best, and dashed into the controversy which was

engaging the attention of the Swedish reading public. This included not

only literature, but philosophy and religion, as well as art. The odds

were now on one side, now on the other. The Academicians might easily

have conquered their youthful opponents, however, had not their

bitterness continually forged new weapons against themselves. In 1820

the Phosphorists wrote the excellent satire, 'Marskall's Sleepless

Nights,' aimed at Wallmark, leader of the Academicians. Gradually the

strife died out, and the man who carried off the palm, and for a time

became the leader of Swedish poetry, was Tegnèr, who was hardly a

partisan of either side.

In 1817 Atterbom had gone abroad, broken down in health by his

uninterrupted studies. While in Germany he entered into a warm

friendship with Schelling and Steffens, and in Naples he met the Danish

sculptor Thorwaldsen, to whose circle of friends he became attached. On

his return he was made tutor of German and literature to the Crown

Prince. In 1828 the Chair of Logics and Metaphysics at Upsala was

offered him, and he held this for seven years, when he exchanged it for

that of Aesthetics. In 1839 he was elected a member of the Academy whose

bitterest enemy he had been, and so the peace was signed.

Atterbom is undoubtedly the greatest lyrical poet in the ranks of the

Phosphorists. His verses are wonderfully melodious and full of charm, in

spite of the fact that his tendency to the mystical at times makes him

obscure. Among the best of his productions are a cycle of lyrics

entitled 'The Flowers'; 'The Isle of Blessedness,' a romantic drama of

great beauty, published in 1823; and a fragment of a fairy drama, 'The

Blue Bird.' He introduced the sonnet into Swedish poetry, and did a

great service to the national literature by his critical work, 'Swedish

Seers and Poets,' a collection of biographies and criticisms of poets

and philosophers before and during the reign of Gustavus III. Atterbom's

life may be accounted long in the way of service, though he died at the

age of sixty-five.

THE GENIUS OF THE NORTH

It is true that our Northern nature is lofty and strong. Its

characteristics may well awaken deep meditation and emotion. When the

Goddess of Song has grown up in these surroundings, her view of life is

like that mirrored in our lakes, where, between the dark shadows of

mountain and trees on the shore, a light-blue sky looks down. Over this

mirror the Northern morning and the Northern day, the Northern evening

and the Northern night, rise in a glorious beauty. Our Muse kindles a

lofty hero's flame, a lofty seer's flame, and always the flame of a

lofty immortality. In this sombre North we experience an immense

joyousness and an immense melancholy, moods of earth-coveting and of

earth-renunciation. With equal mind we behold the fleet, charming dream

of her summers, her early harvest with its quickly falling splendor, and

the darkness and silence of the long winter's sleep. For if the gem-like

green of the verdure proclaims its short life, it proclaims at the same

time its richness,--and in winter the very darkness seems made to let

the starry vault shine through with a glory of Valhalla and Gimle.

Indeed, in our North, the winter possesses an impressiveness, a

freshness, which only we Norsemen understand. Add to these strong

effects of nature the loneliness of life in a wide tract of land,

sparingly populated by a still sparingly educated people, and then think

of the poet's soul which must beat against these barriers of

circumstance and barriers of spirit! Yet the barriers that hold him in

as often help as hinder his striving. These conditions explain what our

literature amply proves; that so far, the only poetical form which has

reached perfection in Sweden is the lyrical. This will be otherwise only

as the northern mind, through a growing familiarity with contemporaneous

Europe, will consent to be drawn from its forest solitude into the whirl

of the motley World's Fair outside its boundaries. It is probable that

the lyrical gift will always be the true possession of the Swedish poet.

His genius is such that it needs only a beautiful moment's exaltation

(blissful, whether the experience be called joy or sorrow) to rise on

full, free wings, suddenly singing out his very inmost being. Whether

the poet makes this inmost being his subject, or quite forgets himself

in a richer and higher theme, is of little consequence.

If, again, no true lyric can express a narrow egoism, least of all could

the Swedish, in spite of the indivisible relation between nature and

man. The entire Sämunds-Edda shows us that Scandinavian poetry was

originally lyrical-didactic, as much religious as heroic. Not only in

lyrical impression, but also in lyrical contemplation and lyrical

expression, will the Swedish heroic poem still follow its earliest

trend. Yes, let us believe that this impulse will some day lead Swedish

poetry into the only path of true progress, to the point where dramatic

expression will attain perfection of artistic form. This development is

foreshadowed already in the high tragic drama, in the view of the world

taken by the old Swedish didactic poem; and in some of the songs of the

Edda, as well as in many an old folk-song and folk-play.

THE LILY OF THE VALLEY

O'er hill and dale the welcome news is flying

That summer's drawing near;

Out of my thicket cool, my cranny hidden,

Around I shyly peer.

He will not notice me, this guest resplendent,

Unseen I shall remain,

Content to live if of his banquet royal

Some glimpses I may gain.

Behold! Behold! His banquet hall's before me,

Pillared with forest trees;

Lo! as he feasts, a thousand sunbeams sparkle,

His gracious smiles are these.

Hail to thee, brilliant world! Ye heavens fretted

With clouds of silver hue!

Ye waves of mighty ocean, tossing, tossing,

Fair in my sight as new!

Far in the past (if years my life has numbered,

Ghost-like in thought they drift),

Came to me silently the truth eternal--

Joy is life's richest gift.

Thus, in return for life's abundant dower,

A gift have I: I bear

A spotless soul, from whose unseen recesses

Exhales a fragrance rare.

Strong is the power in gentle souls indwelling,

Born of a joy divine;

Theirs is a sphere untrod by creatures earthly,

By beings gross, supine.

Fragile and small, and set in quiet places,

My worth should I forget?

Some one who seeks friend, counselor, or lover,

Will find and prize me yet.

Thou lovely maid, through mossy pathways straying,

Striving to make thy choice,

Hearing the while the brook which downward leaping,

Lifts up its merry voice,

Pluck me; and as a rich reward I'll whisper

Things them wilt love to hear:

The name of him who comes to win thy favor

I'll whisper in thine ear!

SVANHVIT'S COLLOQUY

From 'The Islands of the Blest'

SVANHVIT (alone in her chamber)

No Asdolf yet,--in vain and everywhere

Hath he been sought for, since his foaming steed,

At morn, with vacant saddle, stood before

The lofty staircase in the castle yard.

His drooping crest and wildly rolling eye,

And limbs with frenzied terror quivering,

All seemed as though the midnight fiends had urged

His swiftest flight through many a wood and plain.

O Lord, that know'st what he hath witnessed there!

Wouldst thou but give one single speaking sound

Unto the faithful creature's silent tongue,

That momentary voice would be, for me,

A call to life or summons to the grave.

[She goes to the window.]

And yet what childish fears are these! How oft

Hath not my Asdolf boldest feats achieved

And aye returned, unharmed and beautiful!

Yes, beautiful, alas! like this cold flower

That proudly glances on the frosty pane.

Short is the violet's, short the cowslip's spring;--

The frost-flowers live far longer: cold as they

The beautiful should be, that it may share

The splendor of the light without its heat;

For else the sun of life must soon dissolve

The hard, cold, shining pearls to liquid tears;

And tears--flow fast away.

[She breathes on the window.]

Become transparent, thou fair Asdolf flower,

That I may look into the vale beneath!

There lies the city,--Asdolf's capital:

How wondrously the spotless vest of snow

On roof, on mount, on market-place now smiles

A glittering welcome to the morning sun,

Whose blood-red beams shed beauty on the earth!

The Bride of Sacrifice makes no lament,

But smiles in silence,--knowing sadly well

That she is slighted, and that he, who could

Call forth her spring, doth not, but rather dwells

In other climes, where lavishly he pours

His fond embracing beams, while she, alas!

In wintry shade and lengthened loneliness

Cold on the solitary couch reclines.--

[After a pause.]

What countless paths wind down, from divers points,

To yonder city gates!--Oh, wilt not thou,

My star, appear to me on one of them?

Whate'er I said,--thou art my worshiped sun.

Then pardon me;--thou art not cold; oh, no!

Too warm, too glowing warm, art thou for me.

Yet thus it is! Thy being's music has

A thousand chords with thousand varying tones,

Whilst I but one poor sound can offer thee

Of tenderness and truth. At times, indeed,

This too may have its power,--but then it lasts

One and the same forever, sounding still

Unalterably like itself alone;

A wordless prayer to God for what we love,

'Tis more a whisper than a sound, and charms

Like new-mown meadows, when the grass exhales

Sweet fragrance to the foot that tramples it.

Kings, heroes, towering spirits among men,

Rush to their aim on wild and stormy wings,

And far beneath them view the world, whose form

For ever varies on from hour to hour.

What would they ask of love? That, volatile,

In changeful freshness it may charm their ears

With proud, triumphant songs, when high in air

Victorious banners wave; or sweetly lull

To rapturous repose, when round them roars

The awful thunder's everlasting voice!

Mute, mean, and spiritless to them must seem

The maid who is no more than woman. How

Should she o'er-sound the storm their wings have raised?

[Sitting down.]

Great Lord! how lonely I become within

These now uncheerful towers! O'er all the earth

No shield have I,--no mutual feeling left!

Tis true that those around me all are kind,

And well I know they love me,--more, indeed,

Than my poor merits claim. Yet, even though

They raised me to my Asdolf's royal throne,

As being the last of all his line,--ah me!

No solace could it bring;--for then far less

Might I reveal the sorrow of my soul!

A helpless maiden's tears like raindrops fall,

Which in a July night, ere harvest-time,

Bedew the flowers, and, trembling, stand within

Their half-closed eyes unnumbered and unknown.

[She rises.]

Yet One there is, who counts the maiden's tears;--

But when will their sad number be fulfilled?--

[Walking to and fro.]

How calm was I in former days!--I now

Am so no more! My heart beats heavily,

Oppressed within its prison-cave. Ah! fain

Would I that it might burst its bonds, so that

'Twere conscious, Asdolf, I sometimes had seemed

Not all unworthy in thine eyes.

[She takes the guitar.]

A gentle friend--the Master from Vallandia--

Has taught me how I may converse with thee,

Thou cherished token of my Asdolf's love!

I have been told of far-off lakes, around

Whose shores the cypress and the willow wave,

And make a mournful shade above the stream.

Which, dark, and narrow on the surface, swells

Broad and unfathomably deep below;--

From these dark lakes at certain times, and most

On Sabbath morns and eves of festivals.

Uprising from the depths, is heard a sound

Most strange and wild, as of the tuneful bells

Of churches and of castles long since sunk;

And as the wanderer's steps approach the shore,

He hears more plainly the lamenting tone

Of the dark waters, whilst the surface still

Continues motionless and calm, and seems

To listen with a melancholy joy,

While thus the dim mysterious depths resound;

So let me strive to soften and subdue

My heart's dark swelling with a soothful song.

[She plays and sings.]

The maiden bound her hunting-net

At morning fresh and fair--

Ah, no! that lay doth ever make me grieve.

Another, then! that of the hapless flower,

Surprised by frost and snow in early spring.

[Sings.]

Hush thee, oh, hush thee,

Slumber from snow and stormy sky,

Lovely and lone one!

Now is the time for thee to die,

When vale and streamlet frozen lie.

Hush thee, oh, hush thee!

Hours hasten onward;--

For thee the last will soon be o'er.

Rest thee, oh, rest thee!

Flowers have withered thus before,--

And, my poor heart, what wouldst thou more?

Rest thee, oh, rest thee!

Shadows should darkly

Enveil thy past delights and woes.

Forget, oh, forget them!

'Tis thus that eve its shadows throws;

But now, in noiseless night's repose,

Forget, oh, forget them!

Slumber, oh, slumber!

No friend hast thou like kindly snow;

Sleep is well for thee,

For whom no second spring will blow;

Then why, poor heart, still beating so?

Slumber, oh, slumber!

Hush thee, oh, hush thee!

Resign thy life-breath in a sigh,

Listen no longer,

Life bids farewell to thee,--then die!

Sad one, good night!--in sweet sleep lie!

Hush thee, oh, hush thee!

[She bursts into tears.]

Would now that I might bid adieu to life;

But, ah! no voice to me replies, "Sleep well!"

THE MERMAID

Leaving the sea, the pale moon lights the strand.

Tracing old runes, a youth inscribes the sand.

And by the rune-ring waits a woman fair,

Down to her feet extends her dripping hair.

Woven of lustrous pearls her robes appear,

Thin as the air and as the water clear.

Lifting her veil with milk-white hand she shows

Eyes in whose deeps a deadly fire glows.

Blue are her eyes: she looks upon him--bound,

As by a spell, he views their gulf profound.

Heaven and death are there: in his desire,

He feels the chill of ice, the heat of fire.

Graciously smiling, now she whispers low:--

"The runes are dark, would you their meaning know?

Follow! my dwelling is as dark and deep;

You, you alone, its treasure vast shall keep!"

"Where is your dwelling, charming maid, now say!"

"Built on a coral island far away,

Crystalline, golden, floats that castle free,

Meet for a lovely daughter of the sea!"

Still he delays and muses, on the strand;

Now the alluring maiden grasps his hand.

"Ah! Do you tremble, you who were so bold?"

"Yes, for the heaving breakers are so cold!"

"Let not the mounting waves your spirit change!

Take, as a charm, my ring with sea-runes strange.

Here is my crown of water-lilies white,

Here is my harp, with human bones bedight."

* * * * *

"What say my Father and my Mother dear?

What says my God, who bends from heaven to hear?"

"Father and Mother in the churchyard lie.

As for thy God, he deigns not to reply."

Blithely she dances on the pearl-strewn sand,

Smiting the bone-harp with her graceful hand.

Fair is her bosom, through her thin robe seen,

White as a swan beheld through rushes green,

"Follow me, youth! through ocean deeps we'll rove;

There is my castle in its coral grove;

There the red branches purple shadows throw,

There the green waves, like grass, sway to and fro,

* * * * *

"I have a thousand sisters; none so fair.

He whom I wed receives my sceptre rare.

Wisdom occult my mother will impart.

Granting his slightest wish, I'll cheer his heart."

* * * * *

"Heaven and earth to win you I abjure!

Child of the ocean, is your promise sure?"

"Heaven and earth abjuring, great's your gain,

Throned with the ancient gods, a king to reign!"

Lo, as she speaks, a thousand starlights gleam,

Lighted for Heaven's Christmas day they seem.

Sighing, he swears the oath,--the die is cast;

Into the mermaid's arms he sinks at last.

* * * * *

High on the shore the rushing waves roll in.

"Why does the color vary on your skin?

What! From your waist a fish's tail depends!"

"Worn for the dances of my sea-maid friends."

High overhead, the stars, like torches, burn:

"Haste! to my golden castle I return.

Save me, ye runes!"--"Yes, try them now; they fail.

Pupil of _heathen_ men, my spells prevail!"

Proudly she turns; her sceptre strikes the wave,

Roaring, it parts; the ocean yawns, a grave.

Mermaid and youth go down; the gulf is deep.

Over their heads the surging waters sweep.

Often, on moonlight nights, when bluebells ring,

When for their sports the elves are gathering,

Out of the waves the youth appears, and plays

Tunes that are merry, mournful, like his days.

AUCASSIN AND NICOLLETE

(Twelfth Century)

BY FREDERICK MORRIS WARREN

This charming tale of medieval France has reached modern times in but

one manuscript, which is now in the National Library at Paris. It gives

us no hint as to the time and place of the author, but its linguistic

forms would indicate for locality the borderland of Champagne and

Picardy, while the fact that the verse of the story is in assonance

would point to the later twelfth century as the date of the original

draft. It would thus be contemporaneous with the last poems of Chrétien

de Troyes (1170-80). The author was probably a minstrel by profession,

but one of more than ordinary taste and talent. For, evidently skilled

in both song and recitation, he so divided his narrative between poetry

and prose that he gave himself ample opportunity to display his powers,

while at the same time he retained more easily, by this variety, the

attention of his audience. He calls his invention--if his invention it

be--a "song-story." The subject he drew probably from reminiscences of

the widely known story of Floire and Blanchefleur; reversing the parts,

so that here it is the hero who is the Christian, while the heroine is a

Saracen captive baptized in her early years. The general outline of the

plot also resembles indistinctly the plot of Floire and Blanchefleur,

though its topography is somewhat indefinite, and a certain amount of

absurd adventure in strange lands is interwoven with it. With these

exceptions, however, few literary productions of the Middle Ages can

rival 'Aucassin and Nicolette' in graceful sentiment and sympathetic

description.

The Paris manuscript gives the music for the poetical parts,--music that

is little more than a modulation. There is a different notation for the

first two lines, but for the other lines this notation is repeated in

couplets, except that the last line of each song or _laisse_--being a

half-line--has a cadence of its own. The lines are all seven syllables

in length, save the final half-lines, and the assonance, which all but

the half-lines observe, tends somewhat towards rhyme.

The story begins with a song which serves as prologue; and then its

prose takes up the narrative, telling how Aucassin, son of Garin, Count

of Beaucaire, so loved Nicolette, a Saracen maiden, who had been sold to

the Viscount of Beaucaire, baptized and adopted by him, that he had

forsaken knighthood and chivalry and even refused to defend his

father's territories against Count Bougart of Valence. Accordingly his

father ordered the Viscount to send away Nicolette, and he walled her up

in a tower of his palace. Later, Aucassin is imprisoned by his father.

But Nicolette escapes, hears him lamenting in his cell, and comforts him

until the warden on the tower warns her of the approach of the town

watch. She flees to the forest outside the gates, and there, in order to

test Aucassin's fidelity, builds a rustic tower. When he is released

from prison, Aucassin hears from shepherd lads of Nicolette's

hiding-place, and seeks her bower. The lovers, united, resolve to leave

the country. They take ship and are driven to the kingdom of Torelore,

whose queen they find in child-bed, while the king is with the army.

After a three years' stay in Torelore they are captured by Saracen

pirates and separated. Contrary winds blow Aucassin's boat to Beaucaire,

where he succeeds to Garin's estate, while Nicolette is carried to

Carthage. The sight of the city reminds her that she is the daughter of

its king, and a royal marriage is planned for her. But she avoids this

by assuming a minstrel's garb, and setting sail for Beaucaire. There,

before Aucassin, she sings of her own adventures, and in due time makes

herself known to him. Now in one last strain our story-teller celebrates

the lovers' meeting, concluding with--

"Our song-story comes to an end,

I know no more to tell."

And thus he takes leave of the gentle and courageous maiden.

The whole account of these trials and reunions does not occupy over

forty pages of the original French, which has been best edited by H.

Suchier at Paderborn (second edition, 1881). In 1878, A. Bida published,

with illustrations, a modern French version of the story at Paris,

accompanied by the original text and a preface by Gaston Paris. This

version was translated into English by A. Rodney Macdonough under the

title of 'The Lovers of Provence: Aucassin and Nicolette' (New York,

1880). Additional illustrations by American artists found place in this

edition. F.W. Bourdillon has published the original text and an English

version, together with an exhaustive introduction, bibliography, notes,

and glossary (London, 1887), and, later in the same year, Andrew Lang

wrote out another translation, accompanied by an introduction and notes:

'Aucassin and Nicolette' (London). The extracts given below are from

Lang's version, with occasional slight alterations.

[Illustration: Signature: F.M. WARREN]

'TIS OF AUCASSIN AND NICOLETTE

Who would list to the good lay,

Gladness of the captive gray?

'Tis how two young lovers met,

Aucassin and Nicolette;

Of the pains the lover bore,

And the perils he outwore,

For the goodness and the grace

Of his love, so fair of face.

Sweet the song, the story sweet,

There is no man hearkens it,

No man living 'neath the sun,

So outwearied, so fordone,

Sick and woeful, worn and sad,

But is healed, but is glad,

'Tis so sweet.

So say they, speak they, tell they The Tale,

How the Count Bougart of Valence made war on Count Garin of

Beaucaire,--war so great, so marvelous, and so mortal that never a day

dawned but alway he was there, by the gates and walls and barriers of

the town, with a hundred knights, and ten thousand men-at-arms, horsemen

and footmen: so burned he the Count's land, and spoiled his country, and

slew his men. Now, the Count Garin of Beaucaire was old and frail, and

his good days were gone over. No heir had he, neither son nor daughter,

save one young man only; such an one as I shall tell you. Aucassin was

the name of the damoiseau: fair was he, goodly, and great, and featly

fashioned of his body and limbs. His hair was yellow, in little curls,

his eyes blue-gray and laughing, his face beautiful and shapely, his

nose high and well set, and so richly seen was he in all things good,

that in him was none evil at all. But so suddenly was he overtaken of

Love, who is a great master, that he would not, of his will, be a

knight, nor take arms, nor follow tourneys, nor do whatsoever him

beseemed. Therefore his father and mother said to him:--

"Son, go take thine arms, mount thine horse, and hold thy

land, and help thy men, for if they see thee among them, more

stoutly will they keep in battle their lives and lands, and

thine and mine."

"Father," answered Aucassin, "what are you saying now? Never

may God give me aught of my desire, if I be a knight, or

mount my horse, or face stour and battle wherein knights

smite and are smitten again, unless thou give me Nicolette,

my true love, that I love so well."

"Son," said the father, "this may not be. Let Nicolette go. A

slave girl is she, out of a strange land, and the viscount of

this town bought her of the Saracens, and carried her hither,

and hath reared her and had her christened, and made her his

god-daughter, and one day will find a young man for her, to

win her bread honorably. Herein hast thou naught to make nor

mend; but if a wife thou wilt have, I will give thee the

daughter of a king, or a count. There is no man so rich in

France, but if thou desire his daughter, thou shall

have her."

"Faith! my father," said Aucassin, "tell me where is the

place so high in all the world, that Nicolette, my sweet lady

and love, would not grace it well? If she were Empress of

Constantinople or of Germany, or Queen of France or England,

it were little enough for her; so gentle is she and

courteous, and debonnaire, and compact of all good

qualities."

IMPRISONMENT OF NICOLETTE

When Count Garin of Beaucaire knew that he would not avail to withdraw

Aucassin, his son, from the love of Nicolette, he went to the viscount

of the city, who was his man, and spake to him saying:--"Sir Count: away

with Nicolette, thy daughter in God; cursed be the land whence she was

brought into this country, for by reason of her do I lose Aucassin, that

will neither be a knight, nor do aught of the things that fall to him to

be done. And wit ye well," he said, "that if I might have her at my

will, I would burn her in a fire, and yourself might well be

sore adread."

"Sir," said the Viscount, "this is grievous to me that he comes and goes

and hath speech with her. I had bought the maid at mine own charges, and

nourished her, and baptized, and made her my daughter in God. Yea, I

would have given her to a young man that should win her bread honorably.

With this had Aucassin, thy son, naught to make or mend. But sith it is

thy will and thy pleasure, I will send her into that land and that

country where never will he see her with his eyes."

"Have a heed to thyself," said the Count Garin: "thence might great

evil come on thee."

So parted they each from the other. Now the Viscount was a right rich

man: so had he a rich palace with a garden in face of it; in an upper

chamber thereof he had Nicolette placed, with one old woman to keep her

company, and in that chamber put bread and meat and wine and such things

as were needful. Then he had the door sealed, that none might come in or

go forth, save that there was one window, over against the garden, and

quite strait, through which came to them a little air.

_Here singeth one_:--

Nicolette as ye heard tell

Prisoned is within a cell

That is painted wondrously

With colors of a far countrie.

At the window of marble wrought,

There the maiden stood in thought,

With straight brows and yellow hair,

Never saw ye fairer fair!

On the wood she gazed below,

And she saw the roses blow,

Heard the birds sing loud and low,

Therefore spoke she woefully:

"Ah me, wherefore do I lie

Here in prison wrongfully?

Aucassin, my love, my knight,

Am I not thy heart's delight?

Thou that lovest me aright!

'Tis for thee that I must dwell

In this vaulted chamber cell,

Hard beset and all alone!

By our Lady Mary's Son

Here no longer will I wonn,

If I may flee!"

AUCASSIN AND THE VISCOUNT

[_The Viscount speaks first_]

"Plentiful lack of comfort hadst thou got thereby; for in Hell would thy

soul have lain while the world endures, and into Paradise wouldst thou

have entered never."

"In Paradise what have I to win? Therein I seek not to enter, but only

to have Nicolette, my sweet lady that I love so well. For into Paradise

go none but such folk as I shall tell thee now: Thither go these same

old priests, and halt old men and maimed, who all day and night cower

continually before the altars, and in these old crypts; and such folks

as wear old amices, and old clouted frocks, and naked folks and

shoeless, and those covered with sores, who perish of hunger and thirst,

and of cold, and of wretchedness. These be they that go into Paradise;

with them have I naught to make. But into Hell would I fain go; for into

Hell fare the goodly clerks, and goodly knights that fall in tourneys

and great wars, and stout men-at-arms, and the free men. With these

would I liefly go. And thither pass the sweet ladies and courteous, that

have two lovers, or three, and their lords also thereto. Thither goes

the gold, and the silver, and fur of vair, and fur of gris; and there

too go the harpers, and minstrels, and the kings of this world. With

these I would gladly go, let me but have with me Nicolette, my

sweetest lady."

AUCASSIN CAPTURES COUNT BOUGART

The damoiseau was tall and strong, and the horse whereon he sat was

right eager. And he laid hand to sword, and fell a-smiting to right and

left, and smote through helm and nasal, and arm, and clenched hand,

making a murder about him, like a wild boar when hounds fall on him in

the forest, even till he struck down ten knights, and seven he hurt; and

straightway he hurled out of the press, and rode back again at full

speed, sword in hand. Count Bougart of Valence heard it said that they

were to hang Aucassin, his enemy, so he came into that place and

Aucassin was ware of him. He gat his sword into his hand, and struck at

his helm with such a stroke that it drave it down on his head, and he

being stunned, fell groveling. And Aucassin laid hands on him, and

caught him by the nasal of his helmet, and gave him up to his father.

"Father," quoth Aucassin, "lo, here is your mortal foe, who hath so

warred on you and done you such evil. Full twenty months did this war

endure, and might not be ended by man."

"Fair son," said his father, "thy feats of youth shouldst them do, and

not seek after folly."

"Father," saith Aucassin, "sermon me no sermons, but fulfill my

covenant."

"Ha! what covenant, fair son?"

"What, father! hast thou forgotten it? By mine own head, whosoever

forgets, will I not forget it, so much it hath me at heart. Didst thou

not covenant with me when I took up arms, and went into the stour, that

if God brought me back safe and sound, thou wouldst let me see

Nicolette, my sweet lady, even so long that I may have of her two words

or three, and one kiss? So didst thou covenant, and my mind is that thou

keep thy word."

"I?" quoth the father; "God forsake me when I keep this covenant! Nay,

if she were here, I would have burned her in the fire, and thou thyself

shouldst be sore adread."

THE LOVERS' MEETING

Aucassin was cast into prison as ye have heard tell, and Nicolette, of

her part, was in the chamber. Now it was summer-time, the month of May,

when days are warm, and long, and clear, and the nights still and

serene. Nicolette lay one night on her bed, and saw the moon shine clear

through a window, and heard the nightingale sing in the garden, and she

minded her of Aucassin her friend, whom she loved so well. Then fell she

to thoughts of Count Garin of Beaucaire, that he hated her to death; and

therefore deemed she that there she would no longer abide, for that, if

she were told of, and the Count knew where she lay, an ill death he

would make her die. She saw that the old woman was sleeping who held her

company. Then she arose, and clad her in a mantle of silk she had by

her, very goodly, and took sheets of the bed and towels and knotted one

to the other, and made therewith a cord as long as she might, and

knotted it to a pillar in the window, and let herself slip down into the

garden; then caught up her raiment in both hands, behind and before, and

kilted up her kirtle, because of the dew that she saw lying deep on the

grass, and so went on her way down through the garden.

Her locks were yellow and curled, her eyes blue-gray and smiling, her

face featly fashioned, the nose high and fairly set, the lips more red

than cherry or rose in time of summer, her teeth white and small; and

her breasts so firm that they bore up the folds of her bodice as they

had been two walnuts; so slim was she in the waist that your two hands

might have clipped her; and the daisy flowers that brake beneath her as

she went tiptoe, and that bent above her instep, seemed black against

her feet and ankles, so white was the maiden. She came to the

postern-gate, and unbarred it, and went out through the streets of

Beaucaire, keeping always on the shadowy side, for the moon was shining

right clear, and so wandered she till she came to the tower where her

lover lay. The tower was flanked with pillars, and she cowered under one

of them, wrapped in her mantle. Then thrust she her head through a

crevice of the tower, that was old and worn, and heard Aucassin, who was

weeping within, and making dole and lament for the sweet friend he loved

so well. And when she had listened to him some time she began to say:--

_Here one singeth_:--

Nicolette, the bright of brow,

On a pillar leaned now,

All Aucassin's wail did hear

For his love that was so dear,

Then the maid spake low and clear:--

"Gentle knight, withouten fear,

Little good befalleth thee,

Little help of sigh or tear.

Ne'er shalt thou have joy of me.

Never shalt thou win me; still

Am I held in evil will

Of thy father and thy kin.

Therefore must I cross the sea,

And another land must win."

Then she cut her curls of gold,

Cast them in the dungeon hold,

Aucassin doth clasp them there,

Kiss'th the curls that were so fair,

Them doth in his bosom bear,

Then he wept, e'en as of old,

All for his love!

Thus say they, speak they, tell they The Tale.

When Aucassin heard Nicolette say that she would pass into a far

country, he was all in wrath.

"Fair, sweet friend," quoth he, "thou shalt not go, for then wouldst

thou be my death. And the first man that saw thee and had the might

withal, would take thee straightway into his bed to be his leman. And

once thou earnest into a man's bed, and that bed not mine, wit ye well

that I would not tarry till I had found a knife to pierce my heart and

slay myself. Nay, verily, wait so long I would not; but would hurl

myself so far as I might see a wall, or a black stone, and I would dash

my head against it so mightily that the eyes would start and my brain

burst. Rather would I die even such a death than know that thou hadst

lain in a man's bed, and that bed not mine."

"Aucassin," she said, "I trow thou lovest me not as much as thou sayest,

but I love thee more than thou lovest me."

"Ah, fair, sweet friend," said Aucassin, "it may not be that thou

shouldest love me even as I love thee. Woman may not love man as man

loves woman; for a woman's love lies in her eye, and the bud of her

breast, and her foot's tiptoe, but the love of a man is in his heart

planted, whence it can never issue forth and pass away."

Now when Aucassin and Nicolette were holding this parley together, the

town's watchmen were coming down a street, with swords drawn beneath

their cloaks, for Count Garin had charged them that if they could take

her, they should slay her. But the sentinel that was on the tower saw

them coming, and heard them speaking of Nicolette as they went, and

threatening to slay her.

"God," quoth he, "this were great pity to slay so fair a maid! Right

great charity it were if I could say aught to her, and they perceive it

not, and she should be on her guard against them, for if they slay her,

then were Aucassin, my damoiseau, dead, and that were great pity."

_Here one singeth_:--

Valiant was the sentinel,

Courteous, kind, and practiced well,

So a song did sing and tell,

Of the peril that befell.

"Maiden fair that lingerest here,

Gentle maid of merry cheer,

Hair of gold, and eyes as clear

As the water in a mere,

Thou, meseems, hast spoken word

To thy lover and thy lord,

That would die for thee, his dear;

Now beware the ill accord

Of the cloaked men of the sword:

These have sworn, and keep their word,

They will put thee to the sword

Save thou take heed!"

NICOLETTE BUILDS HER LODGE

Nicolette, the bright of brow,

From the shepherds doth she pass

All below the blossomed bough

Where an ancient way there was,

Overgrown and choked with grass,

Till she found the cross-roads where

Seven paths do all way fare;

Then she deemeth she will try,

Should her lover pass thereby,

If he love her loyally.

So she gathered white lilies,

Oak-leaf, that in greenwood is,

Leaves of many a branch, iwis,

Therewith built a lodge of green,

Goodlier was never seen.

Swore by God, who may not lie:

"If my love the lodge should spy,

He will rest a while thereby

If he love me loyally."

Thus his faith she deemed to try,

"Or I love him not, not I,

Nor he loves me!"

AUCASSIN, SEEKING NICOLETTE, COMES UPON A COWHERD

Aucassin fared through the forest from path to path after Nicolette, and

his horse bare him furiously. Think ye not that the thorns him spared,

nor the briars, nay, not so, but tare his raiment, that scarce a knot

might be tied with the soundest part thereof, and the blood spurted from

his arms, and flanks, and legs, in forty places, or thirty, so that

behind the Childe men might follow on the track of his blood in the

grass. But so much he went in thoughts of Nicolette, his lady sweet,

that he felt no pain nor torment, and all the day hurled through the

forest in this fashion nor heard no word of her. And when he saw vespers

draw nigh, he began to weep for that he found her not. All down an old

road, and grass-grown, he fared, when anon, looking along the way before

him, he saw such an one as I shall tell you. Tall was he, and great of

growth, ugly and hideous: his head huge, and blacker than charcoal, and

more than the breadth of a hand between his two eyes; and he had great

cheeks, and a big nose and flat, big nostrils and wide, and thick lips

redder than steak, and great teeth yellow and ugly, and he was shod with

hosen and shoon of ox-hide, bound with cords of bark up over the knee,

and all about him a great cloak two-fold; and he leaned upon a grievous

cudgel, and Aucassin came unto him, and was afraid when he beheld him.

AUCASSIN FINDS NICOLETTE'S LODGE

So they parted from each other, and Aucassin rode on; the night was fair

and still, and so long he went that he came to the lodge of boughs that

Nicolette had builded and woven within and without, over and under, with

flowers, and it was the fairest lodge that might be seen. When Aucassin

was ware of it, he stopped suddenly, and the light of the moon

fell therein.

"Forsooth!" quoth Aucassin, "here was Nicolette, my sweet lady, and this

lodge builded she with her fair hands. For the sweetness of it, and for

love of her, will I now alight, and rest here this night long."

He drew forth his foot from the stirrup to alight, and the steed was

great and tall. He dreamed so much on Nicolette, his right sweet friend,

that he fell heavily upon a stone, and drave his shoulder out of its

place. Then knew he that he was hurt sore; nathless he bore him with

that force he might, and fastened his horse with the other hand to a

thorn. Then turned he on his side, and crept backwise into the lodge of

boughs. And he looked through a gap in the lodge and saw the stars in

heaven, and one that was brighter than the rest; so began he to say:--

_Here one singeth_:--

"Star, that I from far behold,

Star the moon calls to her fold,

Nicolette with thee doth dwell,

My sweet love, with locks of gold.

God would have her dwell afar,

Dwell with him for evening star.

Would to God, whate'er befell,

Would that with her I might dwell.

I would clip her close and strait;

Nay, were I of much estate,

Some king's son desirable,

Worthy she to be my mate,

Me to kiss and clip me well,

Sister, sweet friend!"

So speak they, say they, tell they The Tale.

When Nicolette heard Aucassin, she came to him, for she was not far

away. She passed within the lodge, and threw her arms about his neck,

clipped him and kissed him.

"Fair, sweet friend, welcome be thou!"

"And thou, fair, sweet love, be thou welcome!"

So either kissed and clipped the other, and fair joy was them between.

"Ha! sweet love," quoth Aucassin, "but now was I sore hurt, and my

shoulder wried, but I take no heed of it, nor have no hurt therefrom,

since I have thee."

Right so felt she his shoulder and found it was wried from its place.

And she so handled it with her white hands, and so wrought in her

surgery, that by God's will who loveth lovers, it went back into its

place. Then took she flowers, and fresh grass, and leaves green, and

bound them on the hurt with a strip of her smock, and he was all healed.

NICOLETTE SAILS TO CARTHAGE

When all they of the court heard her speak thus, that she was daughter

to the king of Carthage, they knew well that she spake truly; so made

they great joy of her, and led her to the castle with great honor, as a

king's daughter. And they would have given her to her lord a king of

Paynim, but she had no mind to marry. There dwelt she three days or

four. And she considered by what device she might seek far Aucassin.

Then she got her a viol, and learned to play on it; till they would have

married her one day to a rich king of Paynim, and she stole forth by

night, and came to the seaport, and dwelt with a poor woman thereby.

Then took she a certain herb, and therewith smeared her head and her

face, till she was all brown and stained. And she had a coat, and

mantle, and smock, and breeches made, and attired herself as if she had

been a minstrel. So took she the viol and went to a mariner, and so

wrought on him that he took her aboard his vessel. Then hoisted they

sail, and fared on the high seas even till they came to the land of

Provence. And Nicolette went forth and took the viol, and went playing

through all the country, even till she came to the castle of Beaucaire,

where Aucassin was.

_Here singeth one_:--

At Beaucaire below the tower

Sat Aucassin on an hour,

Heard the bird, and watched the flower,

With his barons him beside.

Then came on him in that tide

The sweet influence of love

And the memory thereof;

Thought of Nicolette the fair,

And the dainty face of her

He had loved so many years.

Then was he in dule and tears!

Even then came Nicolette;

On the stair a foot she set,

And she drew the viol bow

O'er the strings and chanted so:--

"Listen, lords and knights, to me,

Lords of high or low degree,

To my story list will ye

All of Aucassin and her

That was Nicolette the fair?

And their love was long to tell;

Deep woods through he sought her well:

Paynims took them on a day

In Torelore, and bound they lay.

Of Aucassin naught know we,

But fair Nicolette the free

Now in Carthage doth she dwell;

There her father loves her well,

Who is king of that countrie.

Her a husband hath he found,

Paynim lord that serves Mahound!

Ne'er with him the maid will go,

For she loves a damoiseau,

Aucassin, that ye may know,

Swears to God that never mo

With a lover will she go

Save with him she loveth so

In long desire."

JOHN JAMES AUDUBON

(1780-1851)

The fame of this celebrated naturalist rests on one magnificent book,

'The Birds of America,' for which all his life may be said to have been

a preparation, and which certainly surpasses in interest every other

ornithological publication. For fifteen years before he thought of

making use of his collections in this way, he annually went alone with

his gun and his drawing materials into deep and unexplored forests and

through wild regions of country, making long journeys on foot and

counting nothing a hardship that added to his specimens. This passion

had controlled him from early childhood. His father, a Frenchman, was

living in New Orleans at the time of Audubon's birth in 1780, and with

the view of helping him in his studies, sent him to Paris when he was

fifteen years old, where he entered the drawing-class of David the

painter. He remained there two years; and it was after his return that

he made his memorable excursions, his home being then a farm at Mill

Grove, near Philadelphia.

In 1808 he removed with his family to the West, still continuing his

researches. Several years later he returned to Philadelphia with a

portfolio of nearly a thousand colored drawings of birds. What befell

them--a parallel to so many like incidents, as through Warburton's cook,

Newton's dog, Carlyle's friend, and Edward Livingston's fire, that they

seem one of the appointed tests of moral fibre--is best told in

Audubon's own language:--

"An accident," he says, "which happened to two hundred of my original

drawings, nearly put a stop to my researches in ornithology. I shall

relate it, merely to show how far enthusiasm--for by no other name can I

call my perseverance--may enable the preserver of nature to surmount the

most disheartening difficulties. I left the village of Henderson, in

Kentucky, situated on the banks of the Ohio, where I resided for several

years, to proceed to Philadelphia on business. I looked to my drawings

before my departure, placed them carefully in a wooden box, and gave

them in charge of a relative, with injunctions to see that no injury

should happen to them. My absence was of several months; and when I

returned, after having enjoyed the pleasures of home for a few days, I

inquired after my box, and what I was pleased to call my treasure. The

box was produced and opened; but, reader, feel for me,--a pair of Norway

rats had taken possession of the whole, and reared a young family among

the gnawed bits of paper, which, but a month previous, represented

nearly a thousand inhabitants of air! The burning heat which instantly

rushed through my brain was too great to be endured without affecting

my whole nervous system. I slept not for several nights, and the days

passed like days of oblivion;--until, the animal powers being recalled

into action through the strength of my constitution, I took up my gun,

my note-book, and my pencils, and went forth to the woods as gayly as if

nothing had happened. I felt pleased that I might now make better

drawings than before; and ere a period not exceeding three years had

elapsed, my portfolio was again filled."

[Illustration: J.J. AUDUBON.]

In 1826 he sailed for Europe to exhibit his newly collected treasures to

foreign ornithologists. He succeeded in obtaining pecuniary aid in

publishing the work, and plates were made in England. The book was

published in New York in four volumes (elephant folio) in 1830-39. The

birds are life-size. 'The American Ornithological Biography,' which is

the text for the plates, was published in Edinburgh, 1831-39, in five

octavo volumes. Accompanied by his two sons he started on new

excursions, which resulted in 'The Quadrupeds of America,' with a

'Biography of American Quadrupeds,' both published at Philadelphia,

beginning in 1840. During that year he built a house for himself in the

upper part of New York, in what is now called Audubon Park, and died

there January 27th, 1851.

Audubon's descriptive text is not unworthy of his plates: his works are

far from being mere tenders to picture-books. He is full of enthusiasm,

his descriptions of birds and animals are vivid and realizing, and his

adventures are told with much spirit and considerable literary skill,

though some carelessness of syntax.

A DANGEROUS ADVENTURE

From 'The American Ornithological Biography'

On my return from the Upper Mississippi, I found myself obliged to cross

one of the wide prairies which, in that portion of the United States,

vary the appearance of the country. The weather was fine, all around me

was as fresh and blooming as if it had just issued from the bosom of

nature. My knapsack, my gun, and my dog, were all I had for baggage and

company. But although well moccasined, I moved slowly along, attracted

by the brilliancy of the flowers, and the gambols of the fawns around

their dams, to all appearance as thoughtless of danger as I felt myself.

My march was of long duration; I saw the sun sinking beneath the horizon

long before I could perceive any appearance of woodland, and nothing in

the shape of man had I met with that day. The track which I followed was

only an old Indian trace; and, as darkness overshadowed the prairie, I

felt some desire to reach at least a copse, in which I might lie down to

rest. The night-hawks were skimming over and around me, attracted by the

buzzing wings of the beetles which formed their food, and the distant

howling of wolves gave me some hope that I should soon arrive at the

skirts of some woodland.

I did so, and almost at the same instant a fire-light attracting my eye,

I moved toward it, full of confidence that it proceeded from the camp of

some wandering Indians. I was mistaken. I discovered by its glare that

it was from the hearth of a small log cabin, and that a tall figure

passed and repassed between it and me, as if busily engaged in household

arrangements.

I reached the spot, and presenting myself at the door, asked the tall

figure, which proved to be a woman, if I might take shelter under her

roof for the night. Her voice was gruff, and her attire negligently

thrown about her. She answered in the affirmative. I walked in, took a

wooden stool, and quietly seated myself by the fire. The next object

that attracted my notice was a finely formed young Indian, resting his

head between his hands, with his elbows on his knees. A long bow rested

against the log wall near him, while a quantity of arrows and two or

three raccoon skins lay at his feet. He moved not; he apparently

breathed not. Accustomed to the habits of the Indians, and knowing that

they pay little attention to the approach of civilized strangers (a

circumstance which in some countries is considered as evincing the

apathy of their character), I addressed him in French, a language not

unfrequently partially known to the people in that neighborhood. He

raised his head, pointed to one of his eyes with his finger, and gave me

a significant glance with the other. His face was covered with blood.

The fact was, that an hour before this, as he was in the act of

discharging an arrow at a raccoon in the top of a tree, the arrow had

split upon the cord, and sprung back with such violence into his right

eye as to destroy it forever.

Feeling hungry, I inquired what sort of fare I might expect. Such a

thing as a bed was not to be seen, but many large untanned bear and

buffalo hides lay piled in a corner. I drew a fine timepiece from my

breast, and told the woman that it was late, and that I was fatigued.

She had espied my watch, the richness of which seemed to operate upon

her feelings with electric quickness. She told me that there was plenty

of venison and jerked buffalo meat, and that on removing the ashes I

should find a cake. But my watch had struck her fancy, and her curiosity

had to be gratified by an immediate sight of it. I took off the gold

chain that secured it, from around my neck, and presented it to her. She

was all ecstasy, spoke of its beauty, asked me its value, and put the

chain round her brawny neck, saying how happy the possession of such a

watch should make her. Thoughtless, and as I fancied myself, in so

retired a spot, secure, I paid little attention to her talk or her

movements. I helped my dog to a good supper of venison, and was not long

in satisfying the demands of my own appetite.

The Indian rose from his seat, as if in extreme suffering. He passed me

and repassed me several times, and once pinched me on the side so

violently that the pain nearly brought forth an exclamation of anger. I

looked at him. His eye met mine; but his look was so forbidding that it

struck a chill into the more nervous part of my system. He again seated

himself, drew his butcher-knife from its greasy scabbard, examined its

edge, as I would do that of a razor suspected dull, replaced it, and

again taking his tomahawk from his back, filled the pipe of it with

tobacco, and sent me expressive glances whenever our hostess chanced to

have her back towards us.

Never until that moment had my senses been awakened to the danger which

I now suspected to be about me. I returned glance for glance to my

companion, and rested well assured that whatever enemies I might have,

he was not of their number.

I asked the woman for my watch, wound it up, and under pretense of

wishing to see how the weather might probably be on the morrow, took up

my gun, and walked out of the cabin. I slipped a ball into each barrel,

scraped the edges of my flints, renewed the primings, and returning to

the hut, gave a favorable account of my observations. I took a few

bear-skins, made a pallet of them, and calling my faithful dog to my

side, lay down, with my gun close to my body, and in a few minutes was

to all appearance fast asleep.

A short time had elapsed, when some voices were heard; and from the

corner of my eyes I saw two athletic youths making their entrance,

bearing a dead stag on a pole. They disposed of their burden, and asking

for whisky, helped themselves freely to it. Observing me and the wounded

Indian, they asked who I was, and why the devil that rascal (meaning the

Indian, who, they knew, understood not a word of English) was in the

house. The mother--for so she proved to be--bade them speak less loudly,

made mention of my watch, and took them to a corner, where a

conversation took place, the purport of which it required little

shrewdness in me to guess. I tapped my dog gently. He moved his tail,

and with indescribable pleasure I saw his fine eyes alternately fixed on

me and raised toward the trio in the corner. I felt that he perceived

danger in my situation. The Indian exchanged a last glance with me.

The lads had eaten and drunk themselves into such condition that I

already looked upon them as _hors tie combat_; and the frequent visits

of the whisky bottle to the ugly mouth of their dam I hoped would soon

reduce her to a like state. Judge of my astonishment, reader, when I saw

this incarnate fiend take a large carving-knife and go to the grindstone

to whet its edge. I saw her pour the water on the turning machine, and

watched her working away with the dangerous instrument, until the cold

sweat covered every part of my body, in spite of my determination to

defend myself to the last. Her task finished, she walked to her reeling

sons, and said, "There, that'll soon settle him! Boys, kill yon--, and

then for the watch."

I turned, cocked my gunlocks silently, touched my faithful companion,

and lay ready to start up and shoot the first one who might attempt my

life. The moment was fast approaching, and that night might have been my

last in the world, had not Providence made preparations for my rescue.

All was ready. The infernal hag was advancing slowly, probably

contemplating the best way of dispatching me, while her sons should be

engaged with the Indian. I was several times on the point of rising and

shooting her on the spot;--but she was not to be punished thus. The door

was suddenly opened, and there entered two stout travelers, each with a

long rifle on his shoulder. I bounced up on my feet, and making them

most heartily welcome, told them how well it was for me that they should

have arrived at that moment. The tale was told in a minute. The drunken

sons were secured, and the woman, in spite of her defense and

vociferations, shared the same fate. The Indian fairly danced with joy,

and gave us to understand that as he could not sleep for pain, he would

watch over us. You may suppose we slept much less than we talked. The

two strangers gave me an account of their once having been themselves in

a somewhat similar situation.

Day came, fair and rosy, and with it the punishment of our captives.

They were now quite sobered. Their feet were unbound, but their arms

were still securely tied. We marched them into the woods off the road,

and having used them as Regulators were wont to use such delinquents, we

set fire to the cabin, gave all the skins and implements to the young

Indian warrior, and proceeded, well pleased, towards the settlements.

During upward of twenty-five years, when my wanderings extended to all

parts of our country, this was the only time at which my life was in

danger from my fellow-creatures. Indeed, so little risk do travelers run

in the United States, that no one born there ever dreams of any to be

encountered on the road, and I can only account for this occurrence by

supposing that the inhabitants of the cabin were not Americans.

Will you believe, good-natured reader, that not many miles from the

place where this adventure happened, and where fifteen years ago, no

habitation belonging to civilized man was expected, and very few ever

seen, large roads are now laid out, cultivation has converted the woods

into fertile fields, taverns have been erected, and much of what we

Americans call comfort is to be met with! So fast does improvement

proceed in our abundant and free country.

BERTHOLD AUERBACH

(1812-1882)

The author of 'Black Forest Village Stories' and 'On the Heights' stands

out in honorable individuality among modern German novelists, even if

the latest fashions in fiction make his work already a little

antiquated. Auerbach's biography is one of industry rather than of

incident. His birth was humble. His life was long. He wrote voluminously

and was widely popular, to be half forgotten within a decade after his

death. He may perhaps be reckoned the founder of a contemporary German

school of _tendenz_ novel writers; a school now so much diminished that

Spielhagen--who, however, wears Auerbach's mantle with a difference--is

its only survivor.

Of Jewish parentage, his birthplace being Nordstetten, Würtemberg

(1812), Auerbach drifted from preparation for the synagogue toward law,

philosophy, and literature. The study of Spinoza (whose works he

translated) gave form to his convictions concerning human life. It led

him to spend his literary talents on materials so various as the homely

simplicity of peasant scenes and peasant souls, on the one hand, and on

the other the popularization of a high social and ethical philosophy,

specially inculcated through his larger fictions. His college education

was obtained at Tübingen, Munich, and Heidelberg.

Necessity rather than ambition prompted him to write, and he wrote as

long as he lived. A partial list of his works begins with a pseudonymous

'Life of Frederick the Great' (1834-36), and 'Das Judenthum und der

Neuste Literatur' (The Jew Element in Recent Literature: 1836), and

passes to the semi-biographic novel 'Spinoza' (1837), afterward

supplemented with 'Ein Denkerleben' (A Thinker's Life), 'Dichter und

Kaufman' (Poet and Merchant: 1839),--stories belonging to the 'Ghetto

Series,' embodying Jewish and German life in the time of Moses

Mendelssohn; the translation in five volumes of Spinoza's philosophy,

with a critical biography, 1841; and in 1842 another work intended to

popularize philosophy, 'Der Gebildete Bürger: ein Buch für den Denkenden

Menschen' (The Clever Townsman: a Book for Thinking Men).

[Illustration: BERTHOLD AUERBACH]

In 1843 came the first set of the famous 'Schwarzwälder Dorfgeschichten'

(Black Forest Village Stories), followed by a second group in 1848.

These won instant and wide favor, and were widely translated. They rank

among the author's most pleasing and successful productions, stamped as

they are with that truth which a writer like Auerbach, or a painter like

Defregger or Schmidt, can express when sitting down to deal with the

scenes and folk which from early youth have been photographed upon his

heart and memory. In 1856 there followed in the same descriptive field

his 'Barfüssele' (Little Barefoot), 'Joseph im Schnee' (Joseph in the

Snow: 1861), and 'Edelweiss' (1861). His writings of this date--tales,

sketches journalistic, political, and dramatic, and other papers--reveal

Auerbach's varying moods or enthusiasms, chronicle his residence in

different German or Austrian cities, and are comparatively insignificant

among his forty or more volumes. Nor is much to be said of his first

long fiction, 'Neues Leben' (New Life).

But with 'Auf der Höhe' (On the Heights), a philosophic romance of court

life in the capital and the royal country seat of a considerable German

kingdom (by no means merely imaginary), inwoven with a minute study of

peasant life and character, Auerbach's popular reputation was

established. His plan of making ethics the chief end of a novel was here

exhibited at its best; he never again showed the same force of

conception which got his imperfect literary art forgiven. Another long

novel, not less doctrinaire in scope, but dealing with quite different

materials and problems, 'Das Landhaus am Rhein' (The Villa on the

Rhine), was issued in 1868; and was followed by 'Waldfried,' a long,

patriotic, and on the whole inert, study of a German family from 1848

until the close of the Franco-Prussian War.

In spite of his untiring industry, Auerbach produced little more of

consequence, though he wrote a new series of Black Forest sketches:

'Nach Dreissig Jahren' (After Thirty Years: 1876); 'Der Forstmeister'

(The Head Forester: 1879); and 'Brigitta' (1880). The close of his life

was much embittered by the growth of the anti-Semitic sentiment; and his

residence in Germany was merely nominal. He died at Cannes, France,

in 1882.

'On the Heights' is doubtless Auerbach's best representative. 'The Villa

on the Rhine' is in a lower key, with less appealing types, and less

attractive local color. Moreover, it is weighted with more

philosophizing, and its movement is slower. In 'On the Heights' the

emotional situations are strong. In spite of sentimentality, a true

feeling animates its technique. The atmosphere of a German royal

residence, as he reveals it, appears almost as heavy as the real thing.

Auerbach's humor is leaden; he finds it necessary to explain his own

attempts at it. But the peasant-nurse Walpurga, her husband Hansei, and

the aged grandmother in the family, are admirable delineations. The

heroine, Irma von Wildenort, is genuinely human. The story of her abrupt

atonement for a lapse from her better self, the gradual process of her

fantastic expiation and of her self-redemption,--through the deliberate

sacrifice of all that belongs to her treacherous past,--her successful

struggle into a high ethical life and knowledge of herself (the element

which gives the book its force), offer much that is consistent, and

appealing and elevating to the conscience.

Auerbach crowds material into the book, tangles up too many different

skeins of plot, offers too many types to study and interests to follow,

and betrays a want of perspective in its construction. But in spite of

all its defects it is a novel that should not be forgotten. For

reflective readers it will always hold a charm, and its latent strength

is proved by its triumph over its own faults.

THE FIRST MASS

From "Ivo the Gentleman," in "Black Forest Village Stories"

One Saturday afternoon the busy sound of hammer and adze was heard on

the green hill-top which served the good folks of Nordstetten as their

open-air gathering-place. Valentine the carpenter, with his two sons,

was making a scaffolding, designed to serve no less a purpose than that

of an altar and a pulpit. Gregory, the son of Christian the tailor, was

to officiate at his first mass and preach his first sermon.

Ivo, Valentine's youngest son, a child of six years of age, assisted his

father with a mien which betokened that he considered his services

indispensable. With his bare head and feet he ran up and down the

timbers as nimbly as a squirrel. When a beam was being lifted, he cried,

"Pry under!" as lustily as any one, put his shoulder to the crowbar, and

puffed as if nine-tenths of the weight fell upon him. Valentine liked to

see his little boy employed. He would tell him to wind the twine on the

reel, to carry the tools where they were wanted, or to rake the chips

into a heap. Ivo obeyed all these directions with the zeal and devotion

of a self-sacrificing patriot. Once, when he perched upon the end of a

plank for the purpose of weighing it down, the motion of the saw shook

his every limb, and made him laugh aloud in spite of himself; he would

have fallen off but for the eagerness with which he held on to his

position and endeavored to perform his task in the most

workmanlike manner.

At last the scaffolding was finished. Lewis the saddler was ready to

nail down the carpets and hanging. Ivo offered to help him too; but

being gruffly repelled, he sat down upon his heap of chips, and looked

at the mountains, behind which the sun was setting in a sea of fire. His

father's whistle aroused him, and he ran to his side.

"Father," said Ivo, "I wish I was in Hochdorf."

"Why?"

"Because it's so near to heaven, and I should like to climb up once."

"You silly boy, it only seems as if heaven began there. From Hochdorf it

is a long way to Stuttgart, and from there it is a long way to

heaven yet.

"How long?"

"Well, you can't get there until you die."

Leading his little son with one hand, and carrying his tools in the

other, Valentine passed through the village. Washing and scouring was

going on everywhere, and chairs and tables stood before the houses,--for

every family expected visitors for the great occasion of the morrow.

As Valentine passed Christian the tailor's, he held his hand to his cap,

prepared to take it off if anybody should look out. But nobody did so:

the place was silent as a cloister. Some farmers' wives were going in,

carrying bowls covered with their aprons, while others passed out with

empty bowls under their arms. They nodded to each other without

speaking: they had brought wedding-presents for the young clergyman, who

was to be married to his bride--the Church.

As the vesper-bell rang, Valentine released the hand of his son, who

quickly folded his hands; Valentine also brought his hands together over

his heavy tools and said an Ave.

Next morning a clear, bright day rose upon the village. Ivo was dressed

by his mother betimes in a new jacket of striped Manchester cloth, with

buttons which he took for silver, and a newly-washed pair of leathern

breeches. He was to carry the crucifix. Gretchen, Ivo's eldest sister,

took him by the hand and led him into the street, "so as to have room in

the house." Having enjoined upon him by no means to go back, she

returned hastily. Wherever he came he found the men standing in knots in

the road. They were but half dressed for the festival, having no coats

on, but displaying their dazzling white shirt-sleeves. Here and there

women or girls were to be seen running from house to house without

bodices, and with their hair half untied. Ivo thought it cruel in his

sister to have pushed him out of the house as she had done. He would

have been delighted to have appeared like the grown folks,--first in

negligee, and then in full dress amid the tolling of bells and the clang

of trumpets; but he did not dare to return, or even to sit down

anywhere, for fear of spoiling his clothes. He went through the village

almost on tiptoe. Wagon after wagon rumbled in, bringing farmers and

farmers' wives from abroad; at the houses people welcomed them, and

brought chairs to assist them in getting down. All the world looked as

exultingly quiet and glad as a community preparing to receive a hero who

had gone forth from their midst and was returning after a victory. From

the church to the hill-top the road was strewn with flowers and grass,

which sent forth aromatic odors. The squire was seen coming out of

Christian the tailor's, and only covered his head when he found himself

in the middle of the street. Soges had a new sword, brightly japanned

and glittering in the sun.

The squire's wife soon followed, leading her daughter Barbara, who was

but six years old, by the hand. Barbara was dressed in bridal array. She

wore the veil and the wreath upon her head, and a beautiful gown. As an

immaculate virgin, she was intended to represent the bride of the young

clergyman, the Church.

At the first sound of the bell the people in shirt-sleeves disappeared

as if by magic. They retired to their houses to finish their toilet: Ivo

went on to the church.

Amid the ringing of all the bells, the procession at last issued from

the church-door. The pennons waved, the band of music brought from Horb

struck up, and the audible prayers of the men and women mingled with the

sound. Ivo, with the schoolmaster at his side, took the lead, carrying

the crucifix. On the hill the altar was finely decorated; the chalices

and the lamps and the spangled dresses of the saints flashed in the sun,

and the throng of worshipers covered the common and the adjoining fields

as far as the eye could reach. Ivo hardly took courage to look at the

"gentleman," meaning the young clergyman, who, in his gold-laced robe,

and bare head crowned with a golden wreath, ascended the steps of the

altar with pale and sober mien, bowing low as the music swelled, and

folding his small white hands upon his breast. The squire's Barbara, who

carried a burning taper wreathed with rosemary, had gone before him and

took her stand at the side of the altar. The mass began; and at the

tinkling of the bell all fell upon their faces, and not a sound would

have been heard, had not a flight of pigeons passed directly over the

altar with that fluttering and chirping noise which always accompanies

their motion through the air. For all the world Ivo would not have

looked up just then; for he knew that the Holy Ghost was descending, to

effect the mysterious transubstantiation of the wine into blood and the

bread into flesh, and that no mortal eye can look upon Him without being

struck with blindness.

The chaplain of Horb now entered the pulpit, and solemnly addressed the

"permitiant."

Then the latter took his place. Ivo sat near by, on a stool; with his

right arm resting on his knee, and his chin upon his hand, he listened

attentively. He understood little of the sermon; but his eyes hung upon

the preacher's lips, and his mind followed his intentions if not

his thoughts.

When the procession returned to the church amid the renewed peal of the

bells and triumphant strains of music, Ivo clasped the crucifix firmly

with both his hands; he felt as if new strength had been given him to

carry his God before him.

As the crowd dispersed, every one spoke in raptures of the "gentleman"

and of the happiness of the parents of such a son. Christian the tailor

and his wife came down the covered stairs of the church-hill in superior

bliss. Ordinarily they attracted little attention in the village; but on

this occasion all crowded around them with the greatest reverence, to

present their congratulations.

The young clergyman's mother returned thanks with tearful eyes; she

could scarcely speak for joyous weeping. Ivo heard his cousin, who had

come over from Rexingen, say that Gregory's parents were now obliged to

address their son with the formal pronoun "they," by which strangers and

great personages are spoken to, instead of the simple "thee and thou,"

by which German villagers converse with each other.

"Is that so, mother?" he asked.

"Of course," was the answer: "he's more than other folks now."

With all their enthusiasm, the good people did not forget the pecuniary

advantage gained by Christian the tailor. It was said that he need take

no further trouble all his life. Cordele, Gregory's sister, was to be

her brother's housekeeper, and her brother was a fortune to his family

and an honor to all the village.

Translation of Charles Goepp.

The following passages from "On the Heights" are reprinted by consent of

Henry Holt & Co., holders of the copyright of the translation.

THE PEASANT-NURSE AND THE PRINCE

"There, my boy! Now you've seen the sun. May you see it for seven and

seventy years to come, and when they've run their course, may the Lord

grant you a new lease of life. Last night they lit millions of lamps for

your sake. But they were nothing to the sun up in heaven, which the

Lord himself lighted for you this very morning. Be a good boy, always,

so that you may deserve to have the sun shine on you. Yes, now the

angel's whispering to you. Laugh while you sleep! That's right. There's

one angel belongs to you on earth, and that's your mother! And you're

mine, too! You're mine, indeed!"

Thus spake Walpurga, the nurse, her voice soft, yet full of emotion,

while she gazed into the face of the child that lay in her lap. Her soul

was already swayed by that mysterious bond of affection which never

fails to develop itself in the heart of the foster-mother. It is a noble

trait in human nature, that we love those on whom we can confer a

kindness. Their whole life gradually becomes interwoven with our own.

Walpurga became oblivious of herself and of all that was dear to her in

the cottage by the lake. She was now needed here, where a young life had

been assigned to her loving-charge.

She looked up at Mademoiselle Kramer, with beaming eyes, and met a

joyful glance in return.

"It seems to me," said Walpurga, "that a palace is just like a church.

One has only good and pious thoughts here; and all the people are so

kind and frank."

Mademoiselle Kramer suddenly smiled and replied:--

"My dear child--"

"Don't call me 'child'! I'm not a child! I'm a mother!"

"But here, in the great world, you are only a child. A court is a

strange place. Some go hunting, others go fishing; one builds, another

paints; one studies a rôle, another a piece of music; a dancer learns a

new step, an author writes a new book. Every one in the land is doing

something--cooking or baking, drilling or practicing, writing, painting,

or dancing--simply in order that the king and queen may be entertained."

"I understand you," said Walpurga; and Mademoiselle Kramer continued:--

"My family has been in the service of the court for sixteen

generations;"--six would have been the right number, but sixteen sounded

so much better;--"my father is the governor of the summer palace, and I

was born there. I know all about the court, and can teach you a

great deal."

"And I'll be glad to learn," interposed Walpurga.