NATHAN: See what a charming silk I bought for you
In Babylon, and these Damascus jewels.
DAYA: I shall be silent.
NATHAN: Say, does Recha know I am arrived?
DAYA: This morn of you she dreamed; Her thoughts have only been with
you and him Who saved her from the fire.
NATHAN: Ah, who is he?
DAYA: A young knight Templar lately captive ta'en,
But pardoned by the sultan. He it was
Who burst through flame and smoke; and she believes
Him but a transient inmate of the earth--
A guardian angel! Stay, your daughter comes!
[_Enter_ RECHA.
RECHA: My very father's self! Oh, how I feared
Perils of flood for thee, until the fire
Came nigh me. Now, I think it must be balm
To die by water! But you are not drowned:
I am not burned! We'll praise the God Who bade
My angel _visibly_ on his white wing
Athwart the roaring flame----
NATHAN (_aside_): White wing? Oh, ay.
The broad white fluttering mantle of the Templar.
RECHA: Yes, visibly he bore me through the fire
O'ershadowed by his pinions--face to face
I've seen an angel, father, my own angel!
NATHAN: A man had seemed an angel in such case!
RECHA: He was no real knight; no captive Templar
Appears alive in wide Jerusalem.
DAYA: Yet Saladin granted this youth his life,
For his great likeness to a dear dead brother.
NATHAN: Why need you, then, call angels into play?
DAYA: But then he wanted nothing, nothing sought;
Was in himself sufficient, like an angel.
RECHA: And when at last he vanished----
NATHAN: Vanished! Have you not sought him?
What if he--
That is, a Frank, unused to this fierce sun--
Now languish on a sick-bed, friendless, poor?
RECHA: Alas, my father!
NATHAN: What if he, unfriended,
Lies ill and unrelieved; the hapless prey
Of agony and death; consoled alone
In death by the remembrance of this deed.
DAYA: You kill her!
NATHAN: You kill him.
RECHA: Not dead, not dead!
NATHAN: Dead, surely not, for God rewards the good
E'en here below. But ah, remember well
That rapt devotion is an easier thing
Than one good action. Ha! What Mussulman
Numbers my camels yonder? Why, for sure,
It's my old chess companion, my old Dervish,
Al Hafi!
DAYA: Treasurer now to Saladin.
[_Enter_ HAFI.
Ay, lift thine eyes and wonder!
NATHAN: Is it you?
A Dervish so magnificent?
HAFI: Why not?
Is Dervish, then, so hopeless? Rather ask
What had been made of me. I'm treasurer
To Saladin, whose coffers ever ebb
Ere sunset; such his bounty to the poor!
It brings me little, truly; but to thee
'Twas great advantage, for when money's low
Thou couldst unlock thy sluices; ay, and charge
Interest o'er interest!
NATHAN: Till my capital
Becomes all interest?
HAFI: Nay, but that's unworthy,
My friend; write _finis_ to our book of friendship
If that's thy view. I count on thee for aid
To quit me of my office worthily.
Grant me but open chest with thee. What, no?
NATHAN: To Hafi, yes; but to the treasurer
Of Saladin, Al Hafi, nay!
HAFI: These twain
Shall soon be parted: by the Ganges strand
I'll with my Dervish teachers wander barefoot,
Or play at chess with them once more!
NATHAN: Al Hafi,
Go to your desert quickly. Among men
I fear you'll soon unlearn to be a man. [_Goes out_.
What? Gone? I could have wished to question him
About our Templar. Doubtless he will know him.
DAYA (_bursting in_): Nathan, the Templar's yonder, 'neath the palms.
Recha hath spied him, and she conjures you
To follow him most punctually. Haste!
NATHAN: Take him my invitation.
DAYA: All in vain.
He will not visit Jews.
NATHAN: Then hold him there
Till I rejoin you. I shall not be long.
SCENE II.--_A place of palms. Enter the_ TEMPLAR, _followed by a_
FRIAR.
TEMPLAR: This fellow does not follow me for pastime.
FRIAR: I'm from the Patriarch: he is fain to learn
Why you alone were spared by Saladin.
TEMPLAR: My neck was ready for the blow, when he
Had me unbound. How all this hangs together
Thy Patriarch may unravel.
FRIAR: He concludes
That you are spared to do some mighty deed.
TEMPLAR: To save a Jewish maid?
FRIAR: A weightier office!
He'd have you learn the strengths and weaknesses
Of Saladin's new bulwark!
TEMPLAR: Play the spy!
Not for _me_, brother!
FRIAR: Nay, but there is more.
It were not hard to seize the Sultan's person,
And make an end of all!
TEMPLAR: And make of me
A graceless scoundrel! Brother, go away;
Stir not my anger!
FRIAR: I obey, and go.
[_Exit. Enter_ DAYA.
DAYA: Nathan the Wise would see you; he is fain
To load you with rewards. Do see him--try him!
TEMPLAR: Good woman, you torment me. From this day
Pray know me not; and do not send the father!
A Jew's a Jew, and I am rude and bearish.
I have forgot the maiden; do not make
These palm-trees odious where I love to walk!
DAYA: Then farewell, bear. But I must track the savage.
[_Exeunt._
ACT II
SCENE I.--_The palace._ SALADIN _and his sister_ SITTAH, _playing
chess._
SITTAH: Check!
SALADIN: And checkmate!
SITTAH: Nay, nay; advance your knight.
SALADIN: The game is yours. Al Hafi pays the stake.
[_Enter_ HAFI, _who examines the board._
HAFI: The game's not over yet; why, Saladin,
Your queen can move----
SITTAH: Hush, hush! There, go, Al Hafi!
I'll send to fetch my money.
HAFI: She hath never
Claimed aught of what you lose; it lies with me.
While we wait the treasure out of Egypt,
Your sister hath maintained the state alone.
SALADIN: Was there none else could lend me, save my sister?
HAFI: I know none such.
SITTAH: What of thy friend, the Jew?
The town is ringing with the news of gems
And costly stuffs he hath brought home with him.
HAFI: He would not lend to Saladin. Ah, Prince,
He's envious of your generosity.
That is the Jew! I'll knock at other doors.
[_Exit._
SCENE II.--_The place of palms._ DAYA _and_ RECHA _with_ NATHAN.
DAYA: He's still beneath the palms.
RECHA: Just one peep more.
NATHAN: Don't let him see you with me. Best go in.
[_Exeunt_ DAYA _and_ RECHA. _Enter the_ TEMPLAR.
Forgive me, noble Frank.
TEMPLAR: Well, Jew; your will?
NATHAN: I'm Nathan, father to the maid you saved.
In what can I be useful? I am rich. Command me.
TEMPLAR: Nay, your wealth is naught to me.
Yet, this, a coin or cloth for a new mantle,
When this is done. Don't quake; it's strong and good
To last awhile; but here it's singed with flame.
NATHAN: This brand. Oh, I could kiss it! Would you send
This mantle to my daughter that her lips
May cling to this dear speck?
TEMPLAR: Remember, Jew,
My vows, my Order, and my Christian faith!
NATHAN: All lands produce good men. Are we our nation's?
Were Jews and Christians such ere they were men?
And I have found in thee one more who stands
A man confest.
TEMPLAR: Nathan, thy hand; I blush
To have mistaken thee. We will be friends.
Hark you, the maid, your daughter, whom I saved,
Makes me forget that I am partly monk.
How say you; may I hope?
NATHAN: Your suit, young man,
Must be considered calmly. Give me time
To know your lineage and your character.
A parent must be careful of his child. [_Enter_ DAYA.
DAYA: The sultan sends for thee in haste.
NATHAN: I'll go.
Knight, take it not amiss.
TEMPLAR: I'll quit you first.
Farewell! [_Exit._
NATHAN: 'Tis not alone my Leonard's walk,
But even his stature and his very voice.
Filnek and Stauffen--I will soon know more.
SCENE III.--_A room in_ NATHAN'S _house_. RECHA _and_ DAYA. _A slave
shows in the_ TEMPLAR.
RECHA: 'Tis he, my saviour! Ah!
TEMPLAR: Thou best of beings,
How is my soul 'twixt eye and ear divided.
RECHA: Well, knight, why thus refuse to look at me?
TEMPLAR: Because I wish to hear you.
RECHA: Nay, because
You would not have me notice that you smile
At my simplicity.
TEMPLAR: Ah, no; ah, no.
How truly said thy father, "Do but know her."
Yet now I must attend him. There is danger.
SCENE IV.--SALADIN'S _audience chamber_. SALADIN _and_ NATHAN.
SALADIN: Draw nearer, Jew. Your name is Nathan?
NATHAN: Yea.
SALADIN: Nathan the Wise?
NATHAN: Ah, no.
SALADIN: Of modesty
Enough, your words and bearing prove you wise.
Now, since you are so wise, tell me which law
Appears to you the better.
NATHAN: Once on a time, eastward, there dwelt a man
Who prized a ring, set with a wondrous opal
That made the owner loved of God and man.
This ring he willed should ever more remain
The heirloom of his house; and to the son
He loved the best bequeathed it, binding him
To leave it also to his best beloved,
And forward so. At length the ring descended
To one who had three sons he loved alike.
To each in turn the doting father promisèd
The ring, and on his death-bed, sorely grieving
To disappoint two heirs, he had two rings
Made like the first, so close that none could tell
The model from the copies. These he gave
To his three sons in secret, and so passed.
The sequel may be guessed, the strifes, complaints--
For the true ring no more could be distinguished
Than now can--the true faith. Each to the judge
Swore that he had the bauble from his father,
And called his brother forger. Quoth the judge:
"Which of you do his brothers love the best?
You're silent all. You're all deceived deceivers!
None of your rings is true, the true is gone.
Your father sought to end its tyranny.
Let each believe his own the real ring
And vie with others to display its virtue.
And if its power a thousand thousand years
Endure in your descendants, let them then
Before a wiser judge than I appear,
And he'll decide the cause."
SALADIN: Even God Himself!
NATHAN: Art thou, O Saladin, this wiser judge?
SALADIN: Not yet have sped the thousand thousand years.
His judgment seat's not mine. Go, go, but love me.
NATHAN: Hath Saladin no further need of me?
Perchance my stores might furnish forth thy wars.
SALADIN: Is this Al Hafi's hint? I'll not disown
My object was to ask----
NATHAN: Thou shouldst have all
But that I owe a weighty debt to one--
The Templar thou didst spare.
SALADIN: I had forgot him.
NATHAN: He saved my daughter from the flames.
SALADIN: Ah, so? He looked a hero. Bring him hither;
Sittah must see our brother's counterfeit.
NATHAN: I'll fetch him. For the rest, we are agreed.
SCENE V.--_The Place of Palms_. DAYA _and the_ TEMPLAR.
DAYA: Knight, swear to me that you will make her yours;
Make both her present and eternal welfare.
Listen. She is a Christian, and no child
Of Nathan's.
TEMPLAR: Are you sure of what you say?
DAYA: It cost me tears of blood. She does not know
She is a Christian born.
TEMPLAR: And Nathan reared
Her in this error, and persists in it?
Oh, it confounds me--go; and let me think.
_[Exeunt_.
ACT III
SCENE I.--_The cloisters of a convent_. ATHANASIOS _the Patriarch_,
_and the_ TEMPLAR.
ATHANASIOS: Heaven keep you in your valour, good Sir Knight!
You seek my counsel? It is yours; say on.
TEMPLAR: Suppose, my reverend father, that a Jew
Brought up a Christian child, in ignorance
Of her own faith and lineage, as his daughter,
What then?
ATHANASIOS: Is this mere supposition, sir?
If in our diocese such impious act
Were done in truth, the Jew should die by fire.
You will not name the man? I'll to the sultan,
Who will support us.
TEMPLAR: I'll to Saladin,
And will announce your visit.
ATHANASIOS: Was it then
A problem merely? Nay, this is a job
For Brother Bonafides. Here, my son!
[_Exit_ ATHANASIOS, _talking with the friar_.
SCENE II.--_A room at the palace of_ SALADIN. _Slaves bring in
money-bags to_ SALADIN _and_ SITTAH.
SALADIN (_to_ Sittah): Here, pay yourself with that.
And look, I found
This portrait 'midst the heap of plate and jewels.
It is our brother Assad. I'll compare
The likeness with our Templar. Ah, who's there?
The Templar? Bid him enter.
[_Enter the_ TEMPLAR.
TEMPLAR: Saladin,
Thy captive, sire, who's life is at thy service!
SALADIN: Ah, brave young man, I'm not deceived in thee.
Thou art indeed, in soul and body, Assad!
Came Nathan with thee?
TEMPLAR: Who?
SALADIN: Who? Nathan
TEMPLAR (_coldly_): No.
SALADIN: Why so cold?
TEMPLAR: I've nothing against Nathan,
But I am angry with myself alone
For dreaming that a Jew could be no Jew.
He was so cautious of my suit that I,
In swift resentment, though unwitting, gave
Him over to the Patriarch's bloody rage.
Sultan, the maiden is no child of his;
She is a Christian whom the Jew hath reared
In ignorance of her faith. The Patriarch
Foredooms him to the stake.
SALADIN: Go to, go to.
The case is scarcely hopeless. Summon Nathan,
And I shall reconcile you. If indeed
You're earnest for the maid, she shall be thine.
SCENE III.--_The hall in_ NATHAN'S _house_. NATHAN _and the friar,_
BONAFIDES.
BONAFIDES: The Patriarch hath ever work for me,
And some I like not. Listen. He hath heard
That hereabouts there dwells a certain Jew
Who hath brought up a Christian as his child.
NATHAN: How?
BONAFIDES: Hear me out. I fear me that I gave
Occasion for this sin, when I, a squire,
Brought you, full eighteen years ago, the babe,
The orphan babe of Leonard, Lord of Filnek.
He fell at Askalon.
NATHAN: Ay so; and I,
Bereft by Christians of my wife and sons,
Received the infant as a gift from Heaven,
And made it mine. And now, belike, I suffer
For this my charity. But tell me now,
Was not the mother sister to a Templar,
Conrade of Stauffen?
BONAFIDES: Let me fetch a book,
In Arabic, I had from my dead lord.
'Tis said to tell the lineage of the babe.
NATHAN: Go, fetch it quickly. [_Exeunt._
SCENE IV.--_A place of palms._ NATHAN _and the_ TEMPLAR.
NATHAN: Who hath betrayed me to the Patriarch?
TEMPLAR: Alas! 'twas I. You took my suit so coldly
That when from Daya I had learned your secret,
I fancied you had little mind to give
A Christian what from Christians you had taken.
I thought to use my knowledge as a lever,
And so, not having you, I put the matter
In problem-wise before the Patriarch.
Suppose he find you out. What then? He cannot
Seize Recha, if she be no longer yours.
Ah! give her then, to me, and let him come.
NATHAN: Too late! You are too late, for I have found
Her kinsfolk. Hark you, Recha has a brother.
TEMPLAR: Well, he's the man to fit her with a husband.
Of thee and me she'll have no longer need.
SCENE V.--SALADIN'S _palace_. SALADIN _and his sister_, SITTAH, _are
talking with_ RECHA.
SITTAH: Ah! I guessed it.
RECHA: Guessed it? What? that I
Am Christian and not Nathan's daughter?
[_She swoons_.
SALADIN: What!
Whose cruelty hath sown this sharp suspicion
In thy fond heart? Ah! if there be two fathers
At strife for thee, quit both, and take a third.
Take Saladin for father! I'll be kind.
SITTAH: Brother, you make her blush.
SALADIN: In a good hour. Blushing becomes the fair.
But see, our Nathan's coming, with another.
Canst guess, sweet girl? Ay, when he comes, blush crimson.
[_Enter_ NATHAN _and the_ TEMPLAR.
Come, stickle not for niceties with him.
Make him thy offer, doing for him more,
Far more, than he for thee, for what was that
But make himself a little sooty. Come!
[_Seeks to lead her to the_ TEMPLAR.
NATHAN _(solemnly)_: Hold, Saladin; hold, Sittah! There's another
Whom I must speak with first--the maiden's brother.
TEMPLAR _(bitterly)_: He has imposed a father on her, now
He'll shark her up a brother! Where's the man?
NATHAN: Patience sir.
SALADIN: Christian, such words as yours had never passed
My Assad's lips.
NATHAN: Forgive him, Saladin.
Oh! Christian, you have hid from me your name.
Conrade of Stauffen is no name of yours,
But Guy of Filnek--mark. I tax you not
With falsehood; for your mother was a Stauffen.
Her brother's name was Conrade. He perchance
Adopted you?
TEMPLAR: Even so the matter stands.
NATHAN: Your father was my friend. He called himself
Leonard of Filnek, but no German he.
He had espoused a German.
TEMPLAR: Ah! no more,
I beg, but tell me who is Recha's brother.
NATHAN: Thou art the man!
TEMPLAR: What, I? I Recha's brother?
RECHA: My brother--he?
SITTAH: So near akin--
RECHA (_offering to embrace him_): My brother!
TEMPLAR: (_withdrawing_): Brother to her!
RECHA (_to_ NATHAN): It cannot be. His heart
Knows nothing of it.
SALADIN: What! not acknowledge
A sister such as she? Go!
TEMPLAR: Saladin!
Mistake not my amazement. Thy Assad
At such a moment, had done likewise.
Oh, Nathan, you have taken, you have given--
Yes, infinitely more--my sister--sister!
[_Embraces_ RECHA.
NATHAN: Blanda of Filnek! Guy! My children both!
SITTAH: Oh! I am deeply moved.
SALADIN: And I half tremble
At thought of the emotion still to be.
Nathan, you say her father was no German.
What was he, then?
NATHAN: He never told me that.
But ah! he loved the Persian speech and owned
He was no Frank.
SALADIN: The Persian! Need I more? Twas my Assad!
NATHAN: Look in this book!
SALADIN: Ay! 'tis his hand, even his.
Oh, Sittah, Sittah, they're my brother's children.
[_He rushes to embrace them_. SITTAH _also embraces
the pair_.
Now, now, proud boy, thou canst not choose but love me.
(_To_ RECHA) And I to thee am all I sought to be,
With or without thy leave.
TEMPLAR: I of thy blood? Then all the tales I heard
In infancy were more than idle dreams.
[_Falls at_ SALADIN'S _feet_.
SALADIN (_raising him_): There's malice for you! Knew it all the time,
And yet he would have let me murder him.
Boy, boy! [_They embrace in silence_.
FOOTNOTES:
[S] Gotthold Ephraim Lessing, one of the greatest names in
German literature, was born January 22, 1729, at Kamenz, in Saxon Upper
Lusatia, where his father was a clergyman of the most orthodox Lutheran
school. After working very hard for five years at a school in Meissen,
he proceeded to the University of Leipzig, in 1746, with the intention
of studying theology, but he soon began to occupy himself with other
matters, made the acquaintance of actors, and acquired a great fondness
for dramatic entertainment. This sort of life, however, pained his
strict relatives, who pronounced it "sinful," and for a short time
Lessing went home. Later he proceeded to Berlin, and while there,
formed many valuable literary friendships, and established the best
literary journal of his time. "Nathan the Wise" ("Nathan der Weise")
arose out of a bitter theological controversy in which Lessing had been
engaged. It was written during the winter of 1778-79, and expresses
ideas and theories its author had already largely developed in prose.
Primarily the play is a strong plea for tolerance, the governing
conception being that noble character belongs to no particular creed,
but to all creeds, as set forth herein in the parable of the wonderful
ring. And thus it follows that there is no sufficient reason why people
holding one set of religious opinions should not tolerate others who
maintain totally different doctrines. Purely as a drama the play may
be disappointing, but regarded as a poem it ranks with the noblest
dramatic literature of the eighteenth century. The characters abound in
vitality, and some of the passages rise to heights of great splendour.
Lessing died on February 15, 1781 (see also Vol. XX, p. 239).
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW[T]
Evangeline, A Tale of Acadie
_I.--The Betrothal and the Exile_
On the night when Evangeline, the beautiful daughter of Benedict
Bellefontaine, the richest farmer of Grand-Pré, was to be betrothed to
Gabriel, the son of Basil Lajeunesse the blacksmith, the two fathers
were engaged in discussing the reason of the presence of several
English war vessels which were riding at anchor at the mouth of the
Gaspereau. Basil was inclined to take a gloomy view, and Benedict
a hopeful one, when the arrival of the notary put an end to his
discussion.
Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table,
Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with brown ale,
While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and ink-horn,
Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties,
And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin.
Then the notary, rising and blessing the bride and bridegroom,
Lifted aloft the tankard of ale, and drank to their welfare.
Wiping the foam from his lips, he solemnly bowed and departed,
While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside,
Till Evangeline brought the draught board out of its corner.
Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old men
Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuvre.
Meanwhile, apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure,
Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise
Over the pallid sea, and the silvery mists of the meadows.
Pleasantly rose next morn. And lo! with a summons sonorous,
Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat.
Thronged ere long was the church with men. Without, in the churchyard,
Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the headstones
Garlands of autumn leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest.
Then came the guards from the ships, and entered the sacred portal.
Straight uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar.
"You are convened this day," he said, "by his majesty's orders.
Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous.
Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch;
Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kinds,
Forfeited be to the crown; and that you yourselves from the province
Be transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell there
Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people!"
In the midst of the tumult and angry contention that broke out,
Lo! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician
Entered with solemn mien, and ascended the steps of the altar.
Raising his hand, with a gesture he awed the throng into silence.
"What is this that ye do?" he said. "What madness has seized you?
Forty years of my life have I laboured among you and taught you,
Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another!
Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations?
Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness?"
Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his people
Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate outbreak,
While they repeated his prayer, and said, "O Father, forgive them!"
Four times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day
Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farmhouse.
Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession,
Came from the neighbouring hamlets and farms the Acadian women,
Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the seashore,
Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings,
Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland.
Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen,
While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings.
Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the
sea-beach,
Piled in confusion, lay the household goods of the peasants.
Great disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking
Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusion
Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their
children
Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties.
So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried,
While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father.
Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red
Moon climbs the crystal wall of heaven, and o'er the horizon,
Titan-like, stretches its hundred hands upon the mountain and meadow,
Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows together.
Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village,
Gleamed on the sky and sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead.
Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were
Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of
a martyr.
Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and,
uplifting,
Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred housetops
Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled.
Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the maidens
Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them;
And as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion,
Lo! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the seashore,
Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed.
With the first dawn of the day, the tide came hurrying landward.
Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking;
And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbour,
Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins.
_II.--The Quest and the Finding_
The exiles from Acadie landed some on one coast, some on another;
and the lovers were separated from one another. Evangeline sought
everywhere for Gabriel, in towns and in the country, in churchyards
and on the prairies, in the camps and battlefields of the army, and
among missions of Jesuits and Moravians. But all in vain. She heard
far and distant news of him, but never came upon him. And so the years
went by, and she grew old in her search.
In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware waters,
Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn, the apostle,
Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded.
There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty,
And the streets still re-echo the names of the trees of the forest,
As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they molested.
There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile,
Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country.
Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image,
Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him.
Over him years had no power; he was not changed, but transfigured;
He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent.
Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others--
This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her.
Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow
Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour.
Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy; frequenting
Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city,
Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected.
Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city.
Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm the oppressor;
But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger--
Only, alas! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants,
Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless.
Thither, by night and day, came the Sister of Mercy. The dying
Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there
Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendour,
Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles,
Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance.
Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial,
Into whose shining gates ere long their spirits would enter.
Thus on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and silent,
Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the almshouse.
Sweet on the summer air was the odour of flowers in the garden;
And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them,
That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and beauty.
And with light in her looks, she entered the chamber of sickness.
Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered,
Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her presence
Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a prison.
And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler,
Laying his hand on many a heart, had healed it forever.
Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder,
Still she stood, with her colourless lips apart, while a shudder
Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped from her
fingers,
And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning.
Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish
That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows.
On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man.
Long and thin and grey were the locks that shaded his temples;
But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment
Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood.
Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit, exhausted,
Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the darkness--
Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and sinking.
Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations,
Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded
Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like,
"Gabriel! O my beloved!" and died away into silence.
Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood;
Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them,
Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and walking under their shadow,
As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision.
Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids
Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bed-side.
Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered,
Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would
have spoken.
Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him,
Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom.
Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into darkness,
As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement.
All was ended now--the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow,
All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing,
All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience;
And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom,
Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, "Father, I thank Thee!"
FOOTNOTES:
[T] Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, the best-known and
best-beloved of American poets, was born at Portland, Maine, on
February 27, 1807. The son of a lawyer, he graduated at Bowdoin
College at the age of eighteen, and then entered his father's office,
not, however, with any intention of adopting the law as a profession.
Shortly afterwards, the college trustees sent him on a European tour
to qualify himself for the chair of foreign languages, one result of
which was a number of translations and his book "Outre Mer." "Voices of
the Night," his first volume of original verse, appeared in 1839, and
created a favourable impression, which was deepened on the publication
in 1841 of "Ballads, and Other Poems," containing such moving pieces as
"The Wreck of the Hesperus," "The Village Blacksmith," and "Excelsior."
From that moment Longfellow's reputation as poet was established--he
became a singer whose charm and simplicity not only appealed to his
own countrymen, but to English-speaking people the world over. In 1847
he produced what many regard as the greatest of his works, namely,
"Evangeline, a Tale of Acadie." The story is founded on the compulsory
expatriation by the British of the people of Acadia (Nova Scotia), in
1713, on the charge of having assisted the French (from whom they were
descended) at a siege of the war then in progress. The poem is told
with infinite pathos and rare narrative power. Longfellow died on March
24, 1882.
The Song of Hiawatha[U]
_I.--Of Hiawatha and His Battle with Mudjekeewis_
Hiawatha was sent by Gitche Manito, the Master of Life, as a prophet
to guide and to teach the tribes of men, and to toil and suffer
with them. If they listened to his counsels they would multiply and
prosper, but if they paid no heed they would fade away and perish.
His father was Mudjekeewis, the West Wind; his mother was Wenonah,
the first-born daughter of Nokomis, who was the daughter of the Moon.
Wenonah died in her anguish deserted by the West Wind, and Hiawatha
was brought up and taught by the old Nokomis. He soon learned the
language of every bird and every beast; and Iagoo, the great boaster
and story-teller, made him a bow with which he shot the red deer. When
he grew into manhood he put many questions concerning his mother to
the old Nokomis, and having learned her story, resolved, despite all
warnings, to take vengeance on Mudjekeewis.
Forth he strode into the forest,
Crossed the rushing Esconaba,
Crossed the mighty Mississippi,
Passed the Mountains of the Prairie,
Passed the dwellings of the Blackfeet,
Came unto the Rocky Mountains,
To the kingdom of the West Wind,
Where upon the gusty summits
Sat the ancient Mudjekeewis,
Ruler of the winds of Heaven.
Filled with awe was Hiawatha
At the aspect of his father.
Filled with joy was Mudjekeewis
When he looked on Hiawatha.
"Welcome," said he, "Hiawatha,
To the kingdom of the West Wind!
Long have I been waiting for you.
Youth is lovely, age is lonely;
You bring back the days departed,
You bring back my youth of passion,
And the beautiful Wenonah!"
Many days they talked together,
Questioned, listened, waited, answered;
Much the mighty Mudjekeewis
Boasted of his ancient prowess.
Patiently sat Hiawatha
Listening to his father's boasting.
Then he said: "O Mudjekeewis,
Is there nothing that can harm you?"
And the mighty Mudjekeewis
Answered, saying, "There is nothing,
Nothing but the black rock yonder,
Nothing but the fatal Wawbeek!"
And he looked at Hiawatha
With a wise look and benignant,
Saying, "O my Hiawatha!
Is there anything can harm you?"
But the wary Hiawatha
Paused awhile as if uncertain,
And then answered, "There is nothing,
Nothing but the great Apukwa!"
Then they talked of other matters;
First of Hiawatha's brothers,
First of Wabun, of the East Wind.
Of the South Wind, Shawondasee,
Of the north, Kabibonokka;
Then of Hiawatha's mother,
Of the beautiful Wenonah,
Of her birth upon the meadow,
Of her death, as old Nokomis
Had remembered and related.
Then up started Hiawatha,
Laid his hand upon the black rock.
With his mittens, Minjekahwun,
Rent the jutting crag asunder,
Smote and crushed it into fragments
Which he hurled against his father,
The remorseful Mudjekeewis,
For his heart was hot within him,
Like a living coal his heart was.
But the ruler of the West Wind
Blew the fragments backward from him,
Blew them back at his assailant;
Seized the bulrush, the Apukwa,
Dragged it with its roots and fibres
From the margin of the meadow.
Long and loud laughed Hiawatha.
Like a tall tree in the tempest
Bent and lashed the giant bulrush;
And in masses huge and heavy
Crashing fell the fatal Wawbeek;
Till the earth shook with the tumult
And confusion of the battle.
Back retreated Mudjekeewis,
Rushing westward o'er the mountains,
Stumbling westward down the mountains,
Three whole days retreated fighting,
Still pursued by Hiawatha
To the doorways of the West Wind,
To the earth's remotest border.
"Hold!" at length called Mudjekeewis,
"'Tis impossible to kill me.
For you cannot kill the immortal.
I have put you to this trial
But to know and prove your courage.
Now receive the prize of valour!
Go back to your home and people,
Live among them, toil among them,
Cleanse the earth from all that harms it.
And at last when Death draws near you,
When the awful eyes of Pauguk
Glare upon you in the darkness,
I will share my kingdom with you;
Ruler shall you be thenceforward
Of the North-west Wind, Keewaydin,
Of the home wind, the Keewaydin."
_II.--Of Hiawatha's Friends and of His Fight with Pearl-Feather_
The first exertion which Hiawatha made for the profit of his people
was to fast for seven days in order to procure for them the blessing
of Mondamin, the friend of man. At sunset of the fourth, fifth, and
sixth days Hiawatha wrestled with the youth Mondamin, and on the
evening of the seventh day Mondamin, having fallen lifeless in the
combat, was stripped of his green and yellow garments and laid in the
earth. From his grave shot up the maize in all its beauty, the new
gift of the Great Spirit; and for a time Hiawatha rested from his
labours, taking counsel for furthering the prosperity of his people
with his two good friends--Chibiabos, the great singer and musician;
and Kwasind, the very strong man. But he was not long inactive. He
built the first birch canoe, and, with the help of Kwasind, cleared
the river of its sunken logs and sand-bars; and when he and his canoe
were swallowed by the monstrous sturgeon Mishe-Nahma, he killed it by
smiting fiercely on its heart. Not long afterwards his grandmother,
Nokomis, incited him to kill the great Pearl-Feather, Megissogwon,
the magician who had slain her father. Pearl-Feather was the sender
of white fog, of pestilential vapours, of fever and of poisonous
exhalations, and, although he was guarded by the Kenabeek, the
great fiery surpents, Hiawatha sailed readily in his birch canoe to
encounter him.
Soon he reached the fiery serpents,
The Kenabeek, the great serpents,
Lying huge upon the water,
Sparkling, rippling in the water,
Lying coiled across the passage,
With their blazing crests uplifted,
Breathing fiery fogs and vapours,
So that none could pass beyond them.
Then he raised his bow of ash-tree,
Seized his arrows, jasper-headed,
Shot them fast among the serpents;
Every twanging of the bow-string
Was a war-cry and a death-cry,
Every whizzing of an arrow
Was a death-song of Kenabeek.
Then he took the oil of Nahma,
Mishe-Nahma, the great sturgeon,
And the bows and sides anointed,
Smeared them well with oil, that swiftly
He might pass the black pitch-water.
All night long he sailed upon it,
Sailed upon that sluggish water,
Covered with its mold of ages,
Black with rotting water-rushes,
Rank with flags and leaves of lilies,
Stagnant, lifeless, dreary, dismal,
Lighted by the shimmering moonlight,
And by will-o'-wisps illumined,
Fires by ghosts of dead men kindled,
In their weary night encampments.
Westward thus fared Hiawatha,
Toward the realm of Megissogwon,
Toward the land of the Pearl-Feather,
Till the level moon stared at him,
In his face stared pale and haggard,
Till the sun was hot behind him,
Till it burned upon his shoulders,
And before him on the upland
He could see the shining wigwam
Of the Manito of Wampum,
Of the mightiest of magicians.
Straightway from the shining wigwam
Came the mighty Megissogwon,
Tall of stature, broad of shoulder,
Dark and terrible in aspect,
Clad from head to foot in wampum,
Armed with all his warlike weapons,
Painted like the sky of morning,
Crested with great eagle feathers,
Streaming upward, streaming outward.
Then began the greatest battle
That the sun had ever looked on.
All a summer's day it lasted;
For the shafts of Hiawatha
Harmless hit the shirt of wampum;
Harmless were his magic mittens,
Harmless fell the heavy war-club;
It could dash the rocks asunder,
But it could not break the meshes
Of that magic shirt of wampum.
Till at sunset, Hiawatha,
Leaning on his bow of ash-tree,
Wounded, weary, and desponding,
With his mighty war-club broken,
With his mittens torn and tattered,
And three useless arrows only,
Paused to rest beneath a pine-tree.
Suddenly, from the boughs above him
Sang the Mama, the woodpecker:
"Aim your arrow, Hiawatha,
At the head of Megissogwon,
Strike the tuft of hair upon it,
At their roots the long black tresses;
There alone can he be wounded!"
Winged with feathers, tipped with jasper,
Swift flew Hiawatha's arrow,
Just as Megissogwon, stooping
Raised a heavy stone to throw it.
Full upon the crown it struck him,
And he reeled and staggered forward.
Swifter flew the second arrow,
Wounding sorer than the other;
And the knees of Megissogwon
Bent and trembled like the rushes.
But the third and latest arrow
Swiftest flew, and wounded sorest,
And the mighty Megissogwon
Saw the fiery eyes of Pauguk,
Saw the eyes of Death glare at him;
At the feet of Hiawatha
Lifeless lay the great Pearl-Feather.
Then the grateful Hiawatha
Called the Mama, the woodpecker,
From his perch among the branches,
And in honour of his service,
Stained with blood the tuft of feathers
On the little head of Mama;
Even to this day he wears it,
Wears the tuft of crimson feathers,
As a symbol of his service.
_III.--Hiawatha's Life with His People and His Departing Westward_
When Hiawatha was returning from his battle with Mudjekeewis he had
stopped at the wigwam of the ancient Arrow-maker to purchase heads
of arrows, and there and then he had noticed the beauty of the
Arrow-maker's daughter, Minnehaha, Laughing Water. Her he now took
to wife, and celebrated his nuptials by a wedding-feast at which
Chibiabos sang, and the handsome mischief-maker, Pau-Puk-Keewis,
danced. Minnehaha proved another blessing to the people. In the
darkness of the night, covered by her long hair only, she walked all
round the fields of maize, making them fruitful, and drawing a magic
circle round them which neither blight nor mildew, neither worm nor
insect, could invade. About this same time, too, to prevent the memory
of men and things fading, Hiawatha invented picture-writing, and
taught it to his people. But soon misfortunes came upon him. The evil
spirits, the Manitos of mischief, broke the ice beneath his friend
Chibiabos, and drowned him; Pau-Puk-Keewis put insult upon him, and
had to be hunted down; and the envious Little People, the mischievous
Puk-Wudjies, conspired against Kwasind, and murdered him. After this
ghosts paid a visit to Hiawatha's wigwam, and famine came upon the
land.
Oh, the long and dreary winter!
Oh, the cold and cruel winter!
Ever thicker, thicker, thicker
Froze the ice on lake and river;
Ever deeper, deeper, deeper
Fell the snow o'er all the landscape,
Fell the covering snow, and drifted
Through the forest, round the village.
All the earth was sick and famished;
Hungry was the air around them,
Hungry was the sky above them,
And the hungry stars in heaven
Like the eyes of wolves glared at them!
Into Hiawatha's wigwam
Came two other guests, as silent
As the ghosts were, and as gloomy.
Looked with haggard eyes and hollow
At the face of Laughing Water.
And the foremost said, "Behold me!
I am Famine, Buckadawin!"
And the other said, "Behold me!
I am Fever, Ahkosewin!"
And the lovely Minnehaha
Shuddered as they looked upon her,
Shuddered at the words they uttered;
Lay down on her bed in silence.
Forth into the empty forest
Rushed the maddened Hiawatha;
In his heart was deadly sorrow,
In his face a stony firmness;
On his brow the sweat of anguish
Started, but it froze and fell not.
"Gitche Manito, the Mighty!"
Cried he with his face uplifted
In that bitter hour of anguish,
"Give your children food, O father!
Give me food for Minnehaha--
For my dying Minnehaha!"
All day long roved Hiawatha
In that melancholy forest,
Through the shadow of whose thickets,
In the pleasant days of summer,
Of that ne'er-forgotten summer,
He had brought his young wife homeward
From the land of the Dacotahs.
In the wigwam with Nokomis,
With those gloomy guests that watched her,
She was lying, the beloved,
She, the dying Minnehaha.
"Hark!" she said; "I hear a rushing,
Hear the falls of Minnehaha
Coming to me from a distance!"
"No, my child!" said old Nokomis,
"'Tis the night-wind in the pine-trees!"
"Look!" she said; "I see my father
Beckoning, lonely, from his wigwam
In the land of the Dacotahs!"
"No, my child!" said old Nokomis.
"'Tis the smoke that waves and beckons!"
"Ah!" said she, "the eyes of Pauguk
Glare upon me in the darkness;
I can feel his icy fingers
Clasping mine amid the darkness!
Hiawatha! Hiawatha!"
And the desolate Hiawatha,
Miles away among the mountains,
Heard that sudden cry of anguish,
Heard the voice of Minnehaha
Calling to him in the darkness.
Over snowfields waste and pathless,
Under snow-encumbered branches,
Homeward hurried Hiawatha,
Empty-handed, heavy-hearted;
Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing,
"Would that I had perished for you,
Would that I were dead as you are!"
And he rushed into the wigwam,
Saw the old Nokomis slowly
Rocking to and fro and moaning,
Saw his lovely Minnehaha
Lying dead and cold before him;
And his bursting heart within him
Uttered such a cry of anguish
That the very stars in heaven
Shook and trembled with his anguish.
Then he sat down, still and speechless,
On the bed of Minnehaha.
Seven long days and nights he sat there,
As if in a swoon he sat there.
Then they buried Minnehaha;
In the snow a grave they made her,
In the forest deep and darksome.
"Farewell!" said he. "Minnehaha!
Farewell, O my Laughing Water!
All my heart is buried with you,
All my thoughts go onward with you!
Come not back again to labour,
Come not back again to suffer.
Soon my task will be completed,
Soon your footsteps I shall follow
To the Islands of the Blessed,
To the Kingdom of Ponemah,
To the Land of the Hereafter!"
Hiawatha indeed remained not much longer with his people, for after
welcoming the Black-Robe chief, who told the elders of the nations of
the Virgin Mary and her blessed Son and Saviour, he launched his birch
canoe from the shores of Big-Sea-Water, and, departing westward,
Sailed into the fiery sunset,
Sailed into the purple vapours,
Sailed into the dusk of evening.
FOOTNOTES:
[U] In 1854 Longfellow resigned his professorship at Harvard.
"Evangeline" had been followed by "Kavanagh," a novel of no particular
merit, a cluster of minor poems, and in 1851 by the "Golden Legend,"
a singularly beautiful lyric drama, based on Hartmann van Aue's story
"Der arme Heinrichs." Leaving the dim twilight of mediæval Germany,
the poet brought his imagination to bear upon the Red Indian and his
store of legend. The result was the "Song of Hiawatha," in 1855. Both
in subject and in metre the poem is a conscious imitation of the
Finnish "Kalevala." It was immensely popular on its appearance, Emerson
declaring it "sweet and wholesome as maize." If the poem lacks veracity
as an account of savage life, it nevertheless overflows with the beauty
of the author's own nature, and is typical of those elements in his
poetry which have endeared his name to the English-speaking world. With
the exception of "Evangeline," it is the most popular of Longfellow's
works.
LUCRETIUS[V]
On the Nature of Things
_I.--The Invocation and the Theme_
Mother of Romans, joy of men and gods,
Kind Venus, who 'neath gliding signs of heaven
Dost haunt the main where sail our argosies,
Dost haunt the land that yieldeth crops of grain,
Since 'tis of thee that every kind of breath
Is born and riseth to behold the light;
Before Thee, Lady, flit the winds; and clouds
Part at thine advent, and deft-fingered earth
Yields Thee sweet blooms; for Thee the sea hath smiles,
And heaven at peace doth gleam with floods of light.
Soon as the fair spring face of day is shown
And zephyr kind to birth is loosed in strength;
First do the fowls of air give sign of Thee,
Lady, and of Thy entrance, smit at heart
By power of Thine. Then o'er the pastures glad
The wild herds bound, and swim the rapid streams.
Thy glamour captures them, and yearningly
They follow where Thou willest to lead on.
Yea, over seas and hills and sweeping floods,
And leafy homes of birds and grassy leas,
Striking fond love into the heart of all,
Thou mak'st each race desire to breed its kind.
Since Thou dost rule alone o'er nature's realm,
Since without Thee naught wins the hallowed shores
Of light, and naught is glad, and naught is fair,
Fain would I crave Thine aid for poesy
Which seeks to grasp the essence of the world.
On the high system of the heavens and gods
I will essay to speak, and primal germs
Reveal, whence nature giveth birth to all,
And growth and nourishment, and unto which
Nature resolves them back when quite outworn.
These, when we treat their system, we are wont
To view asm "matter," "bodies which produce,"
And name them "seeds of things," "first bodies" too,
Since from them at the first all things do come.
THE TYRANNY OF RELIGION AND THE REVOLT OF EPICURUS
When human life lay foully on the earth
Before all eyes, 'neath Superstition crushed,
Who from the heavenly quarters showed her head
And with appalling aspect lowered on men,
Then did a Greek dare first lift eyes to hers--
First brave her face to face. Him neither myth
Of gods, nor thunderbolt; nor sky with roar
And threat could quell; nay, chafed with more resolve
His valiant soul that he should yearn to be
First man to burst the bars of nature's gates.
So vivid verve of mind prevailed. He fared
Far o'er the flaming ramparts of the world,
And traversed the immeasurable All
In mind and soul: and thence a conqueror
Returns to tell what can, what cannot rise,
And on what principle each thing, in brief,
Hath powers defined and deep-set boundary.
Religion, then, is cast to earth in turn
And trampled. Triumph matches man with heaven.
The profoundest speculations on the nature of things are not impious.
Let not the reader feel that in such an inquiry he is on guilty
ground. It is, rather, true that religion has caused foul crimes. An
instance is the agonising sacrifice of sweet Iphigenia, slain at the
altar to appease divine wrath.
"Religion could such wickedness suggest." Tales of eternal punishment
frighten only those ignorant of the real nature of the soul. This
ignorance can be dispelled by inquiring into the phenomena of heaven
and earth, and stating the laws of nature.
_II.--First Principles and a Theory of the Universe_
Of these the first is that nothing is made of nothing; the second,
that nothing is reduced to nothing. This indestructibility of matter
may be illustrated by the joyous and constantly renewed growth that is
in nature. There are two fundamental postulates required to explain
nature--atoms and void. These constitute the universe. There is no
_tertium quid_. All other things are but properties and accidents of
these two. Atoms are solid, "without void"; they are indestructible,
"eternal"; they are indivisible. To appreciate the physical theory of
Epicurus, it is necessary to note the erroneous speculations of other
Greek thinkers, whether, like Heraclitus, they deduced all things
from one such fundamental element as fire, or whether they postulated
four elements. From a criticism of the theories of Empedocles and
Anaxagoras, the poet, return to the main subject.
A HARD TASK AND THREEFOLD TITLE TO FAME
How dark my theme, I know within my mind;
Yet hath high hope of praise with thyrsus keen
Smitten my heart and struck into my breast
Sweet passion for the Muses, stung wherewith
In lively thought I traverse pathless haunts
Pierian, untrodden yet by man.
I love to visit those untasted springs
And quaff; I love to cull fresh blooms, and whence
The Muses never veiled the brows of man
To seek a wreath of honour for my head:
First, for that lofty is the lore I teach;
Then, cramping knots of priestcraft I would loose;
And next because of mysteries I sing clear,
Decking my poems with the Muses' charm.
This sweetening of verse with: "the honey of the Muses" is like
disguising unpalatable medicine for children. The mind must be engaged
by attractive means till it perceives the nature of the world.
As to the existing universe, it is bounded in none of its dimensions;
matter and space are infinite. All things are in continual motion
in every direction, and there is an endless supply of material
bodies from infinite space. These ultimate atoms buffet each other
ceaselessly; they unite or disunite. But there is no such thing
as design in their unions. All is fortuitous concourse; so there
are innumerable blind experiments and failures in nature, due to
resultless encounters of the atoms.
CALM OF MIND IN RELATION TO A TRUE THEORY OF THE UNIVERSE
When tempests rack the mighty ocean's face,
How sweet on land to watch the seaman's toil--
Not that we joy in neighbour's jeopardy,
But sweet it is to know what ills we 'scape.
How sweet to see war's mighty rivalries
Ranged on the plains--without thy share of risk.
Naught sweeter than to hold the tranquil realms
On high, well fortified by sages' lore,
Whence to look down on others wide astray--
Lost wanderers questing for the way of life--
See strife of genius, rivalry of rank,
See night and day men strain with wondrous toil
To rise to utmost power and grasp the world.
Man feels an imperious craving to shun bodily pain and secure mental
pleasure. But the glitter of luxury at the banquets of the rich
cannot satisfy this craving: there are the simpler joys of the open
country in spring. But the fact is, no magnificence can save the body
from pain or the mind from apprehensions. The genuine remedy lies in
knowledge alone.
Not by the sunbeams nor clear shafts of day,
Needs then dispel this dread, this gloom of soul,
But by the face of nature and its plan.
PROPERTIES OF ATOMS
Particles are constantly being transferred from one thing to another,
though the sum total remains constant. In the light hereof may be
understood the uninterrupted waxing and waning of things, and the
perpetual succession of existence.
Full soon the broods of living creatures change,
Like runners handing on the lamp of life.
Greater or less solidity depends on the resilience of atoms. Their
ceaseless motion is illustrated by the turmoil of motes in a stream
of sunlight let into a dark room. As to their velocity, it greatly
exceeds that of the sun's rays. This welter of atoms is the product
of chance; the very blemishes of the world forbid one to regard it as
divine. But the atoms do not rain through space in rigidly parallel
lines. A minute swerve in their motion is essential to account for
clashings and production; and in the ethical sphere it is this swerve
which saves the mind from "Necessity" and makes free will possible.
Though the universe appears to be at rest, this is a fallacy of the
senses, due to the fact that the motions of "first bodies" are not
cognisable by our eyes; indeed, a similar phenomenon is the apparent
vanishing of motion due to distance; for a white spot on a far-off
hill may really be a frolicsome lamb.
Oft on a hillside, cropping herbage rich,
The woolly flocks creep on whithersoe'er
The grass bejewelled with fresh dew invites,
And full-fed lambs disport and butt in play--
All this to eyes at distance looks a blur;
On the green hill the white spot seems at rest.
The shapes of atoms vary; and so differences of species, and
differences within the same species, arise. This variety in shape
accounts, too, for the varying action and effects of atoms. Atoms
in hard bodies, for example, are mainly hooked; but in liquids
mainly smooth. In each thing, however, there are several kinds,
which furnish that particular thing with a variety of properties.
Furthermore, atoms are colourless, for in themselves they are
invisible; they never come into the light, whereas colour needs
light--witness the changing hues of the down on a pigeon's neck, or
of a peacock's tail. Atoms are themselves without senses, though they
produce things possessed of senses. To grasp the origin of species
and development of animate nature, one must realise the momentous
importance of the arrangement and interconnection of atoms. Wood
and other rotting bodies will bring forth worms, because material
particles undergo, under altered conditions, fresh permutations and
combinations. One may ask, what of man? He can laugh and weep, he
can discuss the composition of all things, and even inquire into the
nature of those very atoms! It is true that he springs from them. Yet
a man may laugh without being made of laughing atoms, and a man may
reason without being made of reasonable atoms!
EPICURUS AND THE GODS
O thou that from gross darkness first didst lift
A torch to light the path to happiness,
I follow thee, thou glory of the Greeks!
And in thy footsteps firmly plant my steps,
Not bent so much to rival as for love
To copy. Why should swallow vie with swan?
Thou, father, art discoverer of things,
Enriching us with all a father's lore;
And, famous master, from thy written page,
As bees in flowery dells sip every bloom,
So hold we feast on all thy golden words--
Golden, most worthy, aye, of lasting life.
Soon as thy reasoning, sprung from mind inspired,
Hath loud proclaimed the mystery of things,
The mind's fears flee, the bulwarks of the world
Part, and I see things work throughout the void.
Then Godhead is revealed in homes of calm,
Which neither tempests shake nor clouds with rain
Obscure, nor snow by piercing frost congealed
Mars with white fall, but ever cloudless air
Wraps in a smile of generous radiancy.
There nature, too, supplieth every want,
And nothing ever lessens peace of mind.
_III.--Of Mind and Soul and Death_
Mind and soul are portions of the body. While mind is the ruling
element, they are both of the nature of the body--only they are
composed of exceedingly minute and subtle atoms capable of marvellous
speed. Therefore, when death deprives the body of mind and soul, it
does not make the body appreciably lighter.
It is as if a wine had lost its scent,
Or breath of some sweet perfume had escaped.
Mind and soul consist of spirit, air, heat, and an elusive fourth
constituent, the nimblest and subtlest of essences, the very "soul of
the soul." It follows that mind and soul are mortal. Among many proofs
may be adduced their close interconnection with the body, as seen
in cases of drunkenness and epilepsy; their curability by medicine;
their inability to recall a state prior to their incarnation;
their liability to be influenced by heredity like corporeal seeds.
Besides, why should an immortal soul need to quit the body at death?
Decay surely could not hurt immortality! Then, again, imagine souls
contending for homes in a body about to be born! Consequently, the
soul being mortal, death has no sting.
To us, then, death is nothing--matters naught,
Since mortal is the nature of the mind,
E'en as in bygone time we felt no grief
When Punic conflict hemmed all Rome around.
When, rent by war's dread turbulence, the world
Shuddered and quaked beneath the heaven's high realm,
So when we are no more, when soul and frame
Of which we are compact, have been divorced,
Be sure, to us, who then shall be no more,
Naught can occur or ever make us feel,
Not e'en though earth were blent with sea and sky.
Men in general forget that death, in ending life's pleasures, also
ends the need and the desire for them.
"Soon shall thy home greet thee in joy no more,
Nor faithful wife nor darling children run
To snatch first kiss, and stir within thy heart
Sweet thoughts too deep for words. Thou canst no more
Win wealth by working or defend thine own.
The pity of it! One fell hour," they say,
"Hath robbed thee of thine every prize in life."
Hereat they add not this: "And now thou art
Beset with yearning for such things no more."
The dead are to be envied, not lamented. The wise will exclaim: "Thou,
O dead, art free from pain: we who survive are full of tears."
"What is so passing bitter," we should ask,
"If life be rounded by a rest and sleep,
That one should pine in never-ending grief?"
Universal nature has a rebuke for the coward that is afraid to die.
There are no punishments beyond. Hell and hell's tortures are in this
life. It is the victim of passion or of gnawing cares that is the real
victim of torment.
_IV--The World's Origin and Its Growth_
Not by design did primal elements
Find each their place as 'twere with forethought keen,
Nor bargained what their movements were to be;
But since the atom host in many ways
Smitten by blows for infinite ages back,
And by their weight impelled, have coursed along,
Have joined all ways, and made full test of all
The types which mutual unions could create,
Therefore it is that through great time dispersed,
With every kind of blend and motion tried,
They meet at length in momentary groups
Which oft prove rudiments of mighty things--
Of earth, and sea, and sky, and living breeds.
Amidst this primeval medley of warring atoms there was no sun-disk to
be discerned climbing the vault, no stars, or sea, or sky, or earth,
or air--nothing, in fact, like what now exists. The next stage came
when the several parts began to fly asunder, and like to join with
like, so that the parts of the world were gradually differentiated.
Heavier bodies combined in central chaos and forced out lighter
elements to make ether. Thus earth was formed by a long process of
condensation.
Daily, as ever more the ether-fires
And sun-rays all around close pressed the earth
With frequent blows upon its outer crust,
Each impact concentrating it perforce,
So was a briny sweat squeezed out the more
With ooze to swell the sea and floating plains.
PRIMEVAL FERTILITY OF THE EARTH
At first the earth produced all kinds of herbs
And verdant sheen o'er every hill and plain;
The flowery meadows gleamed in hues of green,
And soon the trees were gifted with desire
To race unbridled in the lists of growth;
As plumage, hair, and bristles are produced
On limbs of quadrupeds or frame of birds,
So the fresh earth then first put forth the grass
And shrubs, and next gave birth to mortal breeds,
Thick springing multiform in divers ways.
The name of "Mother," then, earth justly won,
Since from the earth all living creatures came.
Full many monsters earth essayed to raise,
Uprising strange of look and strange of limb,
Hermaphrodites distinct from either sex,
Some robbed of feet, and others void of hands,
Or mouthless mutes, or destitute of eyes,
Or bound by close adhesion of their limbs
So that they could do naught nor move at all,
Nor shun an ill, nor take what need required.
All other kinds of portents earth did yield--
In vain, since nature drove increase away,
They could not reach the longed-for bloom of life,
Nor find support, nor link themselves in love.
SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST IN THE STRUGGLE FOR EXISTENCE
All things you see that draw the breath of life,
Have been protected and preserved by craft,
Or speed, or courage, from their early years;
And many beasts, which usefulness commends,
Abide domesticated in our care.
The protective quality in such animals as lions is ferocity; in
foxes, cunning; in stags, swiftness. Creatures without such natural
endowments of defence or utility tend to be the prey of others, and so
become extinct.
PRIMITIVE MAN
Primeval man was hardier in the fields,
As fitted those that hardy earth produced,
Built on a frame of larger, tougher bones
And knit with powerful sinews in his flesh;
Not likely to be hurt by heat or cold,
Or change of food, or wasting pestilence.
While many lustres of the sun revolved
Men led a life of roving like the beasts.
What sun or rain might give, or soil might yield
Unforced, was boon enough to sate the heart.
Oft 'neath the acorn-bearing oaks they found
Their food; and arbute-berries, which you now
In winter see turn ripe with scarlet hue,
Of old grew greater in luxuriance.
Through well known woodland haunts of nymphs they roamed,
Wherefrom they saw the gliding water brook
Bathe with a generous plash the dripping rocks--
Those dripping rocks that trickled o'er green moss.
As yet mankind did not know how to handle fire, or to clothe
themselves with the spoils of the chase; but dwelt in woods, or caves,
or other random shelter found in stress of weather. Each man lived for
himself, and might was right. The stone or club was used in hunting;
but the cave-dwellers were in frequent danger of being devoured by
beasts of prey. Still, savage mortality was no greater than that of
modern times.
THE EVOLVING OF CIVILISATION
When men had got them huts and skins and fire,
And woman joined with man to make a home,
And when they saw an offspring born from them,
Then first began the softening of the race.
Fire left them less inured with shivering frames
To bear the cold 'neath heaven's canopy.
Then neighbours turned to compacts mutual,
Desirous nor to do nor suffer harm.
They claimed for child and woman tenderness,
Declaring by their signs and stammering cries
That pity for the weak becometh all.
The rudiments of humane sentiments sprang, therefore, in prehistoric
family life. Language was the gradual outcome of natural cries,
not an arbitrary invention. The uses of fire were learned from the
lightning-flash and from conflagrations due to spontaneous combustion
or chance friction. In time this opened out the possibility of many
arts, such as metal-working; for forest fires caused streams of
silver, gold, copper, or lead to run into hollows, and early man
observed that when cooled, the glittering lumps retained the mould of
the cavities. Nature also was the model for sowing and grafting. Those
who excelled in mental endowment invented new modes of life. Towns and
strongholds were founded as places of defence; and possessions were
secured by personal beauty, strength, or cleverness. But the access of
riches often ousted the claims of both beauty and strength.
For men, though strong and fair to look upon,
Oft follow in the retinue of wealth.
Religious feelings were fostered by visions and dreams; marvellous
shapes to which savage man ascribed supernatural powers. Recurrent
appearances of such shapes induced a belief in their continuous
existence: so arose the notion of gods that live for ever.
Our navigation, tillage, walls, and laws,
Our armour, roads, and dress, and such-like boons,
And every elegance of modern life,
Poems and pictures, statues deftly wrought,
All these men learned with slow advancing steps
From practice and the knowledge won by wit.
So by degrees time brings each thing to sight,
And reason raiseth it to realms of day.
In arts must one thing, then another, shine,
Until they win their full development.
FOOTNOTES:
[V] To the Roman poet Titus Corus Lucretius (99-55 B.C.)
belongs the distinction of having made Epicureanism epic. Possessed by
a desire to free his fellow men from the trammels of superstition and
the dread of death, he composed his poem, "On the Nature of Things."
His reasonings were based on the atomic theory, which the Greek
Epicurus had taken as the physical side of his system. In natural
law Lucretius found the true antidote to superstition, and from a
materialistic hypothesis of atoms and void he deduced everything.
Against the futilities of myth-religion he protested with the fervour
of an evangelist. On the ethical side, he accepted from Epicurus
the conception that the ideal lies in pleasure--not wild, sensual
pleasure, but that calm of mind which comes from temperate and refined
enjoyment, subdual of extravagant passion, and avoidance of political
entanglements. It is appropriate that the life of this apostle of
scientific quietism should be involved in obscurity. The story of his
insanity, so beautifully treated by Tennyson, may or may not be true.
It is hardly credible that a work so closely reasoned was, as a whole,
composed in lucid intervals between fits of madness; but, on the other
hand, there are signs of flagging in the later portions, and the work
comes to a sudden conclusion. The translations are specially made by
Prof. J. Wight Duff, and include a few extracts from his "Literary
History of Rome."
JAMES MACPHERSON
Ossian[W]
_I.--Carthon_
A tale of the times of old--the deeds of days of other years.
Who comes from the land of strangers, with his thousands around him?
The sunbeam pours its bright stream before him; his hair meets the wind
of his hills. His face is settled from war. He is calm as the evening
beam that looks, from the cloud of the west, on Cona's silent vale. Who
is it but Fingal, the king of mighty deeds! The feast is spread around;
the night passed away in joy.
"Tell," said the mighty Fingal to Clessammor, "the tale of thy youthful
days. Let us hear the sorrow of thy youth, and the darkness of thy
days."
"It was in the days of peace," replied the great Clessammor. "I came in
my bounding ship to Balclutha's walls of towers. Three days I remained
in Reuthamir's halls, and saw his daughter--that beam of light. Her
eyes were like the stars of night. My love for Moina was great; my
heart poured forth in joy.
"The son of a stranger came--a chief who loved the white-bosomed Moina.
The strength of his pride arose. We fought; he fell beneath my sword.
The banks of Clutha heard his fall, a thousand spears glittered around.
I fought; the strangers prevailed. I plunged into the stream of Clutha.
My white sails rose over the waves, and I bounded on the dark-blue sea.
Moina came to the shore, her loose hair flew on the wind, and I heard
her mournful, distant cries. Often did I turn my ship, but the winds of
the east prevailed. Nor Clutha ever since have I seen, nor Moina of the
dark-brown hair. She fell in Balclutha, for I have seen her ghost. I
knew her as she came through the dusky night, along the murmur of Lora.
She was like the new moon seen through the gathered mist, when the sky
pours down its flaky snow and the world is silent and dark."
"Raise, ye bards," said the mighty Fingal, "the praise of unhappy
Moina."
The night passed away in song; morning returned in joy. The mountains
showed their grey heads; the blue face of ocean smiled. But as the sun
rose on the sea Fingal and his heroes beheld a distant fleet. Like a
mist on the ocean came the strange ships, and discharged their youth
upon the coast. Carthon, their chief, was among them, like the stag in
the midst of the herd. He was a king of spears, and as he moved towards
Selma his thousands moved behind him.
"Go, with a song of peace," said Fingal. "Go, Ullin, to the king of
spears. Tell him that the ghosts of our foes are many; but renowned are
they who have feasted in my halls!"
When Ullin came to the mighty Carthon, he raised the song of peace.
"Come to the feast of Fingal, Carthon, from the rolling sea! Partake of
the feast of the king, or lift the spear of war. Behold that field, O
Carthon. Many a green hill rises there, with mossy stones and rustling
grass. These are the tombs of Fingal's foes, the sons of the rolling
sea!"
"Dost thou speak to the weak in arms," said Carthon, "bard of the
woody Morven? Have not I seen the fallen Balclutha? And shall I feast
with Fingal, the son of Comhal, who threw his fire in the midst of my
father's hall? I was young, and knew not the cause why the virgins
wept. But when the years of my youth came on, I beheld the moss of my
fallen walls; my sigh arose with the morning, and my tears descended
with night. Shall I not fight, I said to my soul, against the children
of my foes? And I will fight, O bard! I feel the strength of my soul."
His people gathered round the hero, and drew their shining swords. The
spear trembled in his hand. Bending forward, he seemed to threaten the
king.
"Who of my chiefs," said Fingal, "will meet the son of the rolling sea?
Many are his warriors on the coast, and strong is his ashen spear."
Cathul rose, in his strength, the son of the mighty Lormar. Three
hundred youths attend the chief, the race of his native streams. Feeble
was his arm against Carthon; he fell, and his heroes fled. Connal
resumed the battle, but he broke his heavy spear; he lay bound on the
field; Carthon pursued his people.
"Clessammor," said the king of Morven, "where is the spear of my
strength? Wilt thou behold Connal bound?"
Clessammor rose in the strength of his steel, shaking his grizzly
locks. He fitted the shield to his side; he rushed, in the pride of
valour.
Carthon saw the hero rushing on, and loved the dreadful joy of his
face; his strength, in the locks of age!
"Stately are his steps of age," he said. "Lovely the remnant of his
years! Perhaps it is the husband of Moina, the father of car-borne
Carthon. Often have I heard that he dwelt at the echoing stream of
Lora."
Such were his words, when Clessammor came, and lifted high his spear.
The youth received it on his shield, and spoke the words of peace.
"Warrior of the aged locks! Hast thou no son to raise the shield before
his father to meet the arm of youth? What will be the fame of my sword
shouldst thou fall?"
"It will be great, thou son of pride!" began the tall Clessammor. "I
have been renowned in battle, but I never told my name to a foe. Yield
to me, son of the wave; then shalt thou know that the mark of my sword
is in many a field."
"I never yield, king of spears!" replied the noble pride of Carthon.
"Retire among thy friends! Let younger heroes fight."
"Why dost thou wound my soul?" replied Clessammor, with a tear. "Age
does not tremble on my hand; I still can lift the sword. Shall I fly
in Fingal's sight, in the sight of him I love? Son of the sea, I never
fled! Exalt thy pointed spear!"
They fought, like two contending winds that strive to roll the wave.
Carthon bade his spear to err; he still thought that the foe was the
spouse of Moina. He broke Clessammor's beamy spear in twain; he seized
his shining sword. But as Carthon was binding the chief, the chief drew
the dagger of his fathers. He saw the foe's uncovered side, and opened
there a wound.
Fingal saw Clessammor low; he moved in the sound of his steel. The
host stood silent in his presence; they turned their eyes to the king.
He came, like the sullen noise of a storm before the winds arise.
Carthon stood in his place; the blood is rushing down his side; he saw
the coming down of the king. Pale was his cheek; his hair flew loose,
his helmet shook on high. The force of Carthon failed, but his soul was
strong.
"King of Morven," Carthon said, "I fall in the midst of my course.
But raise my remembrance on the banks of Lora, where my father dwelt.
Perhaps the husband of Moina will mourn over his fallen Carthon."
His words reached Clessammor. He fell, in silence, on his son. The host
stood darkened around; no voice is on the plain. Night came; the moon
from the east looked on the mournful field; but still they stood, like
a silent grove that lifts its head on Gormal, when the loud winds are
laid, and dark autumn is on the plain; and then they died.
Fingal was sad for Carthon; he commanded his bards to sing the hero's
praise. Ossian joined them, and this was his song: "My soul has been
mournful for Carthon; he fell in the days of his youth. And thou, O
Clessammor, where is thy dwelling in the wind? Has the youth forgot
his wound? Flies he, on clouds, with thee? Perhaps they may come to my
dreams. I think I hear a feeble voice! The beam of heaven delights to
shine on the grave of Carthon. I feel it warm around.
"O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers! Whence
are thy beams, O sun, thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth in thy
awful beauty; the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and
pale, sinks in the western wave. But thou thyself movest alone. Who
can be a companion of thy course? The oaks of the mountains fall; the
mountains themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks and grows
again; the moon herself is lost in heaven; but thou art for ever the
same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy course.
"When the world is dark with tempests; when thunder rolls, and
lightning flies, thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and
laughest at the storm. But to Ossian thou lookest in vain, for he
beholds thy beams no more; whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern
clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art
perhaps, like me, for a season; thy years will have an end. Thou shalt
sleep in thy clouds; careless of the voice of the morning. Exult thee,
O sun, in the strength of thy youth! Age is dark and unlovely. It is
like the glimmering light of the moon when it shines through broken
clouds and the mist is on the hills; the blast of north is on the
plain; the traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey."
_II.--Darthula_
Daughter of heaven, fair art thou! The silence of thy face is pleasant!
Thou comest forth in loveliness. The stars attend thy blue course in
the east. The clouds rejoice in thy presence, O moon! Look from thy
gates in the sky. Burst the cloud, O wind, that the daughter of night
may look forth, that the shaggy mountains may brighten, and the ocean
roll its white waves in light!
Nathos is on the deep, and Althos, that beam of youth. Ardan is near
his brothers. They move in the gloom of their course. The sons of
Usnoth move in darkness, from the wrath of Cairbar of Erin. Who is
that, dim, by their side? The night has covered her beauty! Who is it
but Darthula, the first of Erin's maids? She has fled from the love
of Caribar, with blue-shielded Nathos. But the winds deceive thee, O
Darthula! They deny the woody Etha to thy sails. These are not the
mountains of Nathos; nor is that the roar of his climbing waves. The
halls of Cairbar are near; the towers of the foe lift their heads! Erin
stretches its green head into the sea. Tura's bay receives the ship.
Where have ye been, ye southern winds, when the sons of my love were
deceived? But ye have been sporting on plains, pursuing the thistle's
beard. Oh that ye had been rustling in the sails of Nathos till the
hills of Etha arose; till they arose in their clouds, and saw their
returning chief!
Long hast thou been absent, Nathos--the day of thy return is past!
Lovely thou wast in the eyes of Darthula. Thy soul was generous and
mild, like the hour of the setting sun. But when the rage of battle
rose, thou wast a sea in a storm. The clang of thy arms was terrible;
the host vanished at the sound of thy coarse. It was then Darthula
beheld thee from the top of her mossy tower; from the tower of Selama,
where her fathers dwelt.
"Lovely art thou, O stranger!" she said, for her trembling soul arose.
"Fair art thou in thy battles, friend of the fallen Cormac! Why dost
thou rush on in thy valour, youth of the ruddy look? Few are thy hands
in fight against the dark-browed Cairbar! Oh that I might be freed from
his love--that I might rejoice in the presence of Nathos!"
Such were thy words, Darthula, in Selama's mossy towers. But now the
night is around thee. The winds have deceived thy sails, Darthula!
Cease a little while, O north wind! Let me hear the voice of the
lovely. Thy voice is lovely, Darthula, between the rustling blasts!
"Are these the rocks of Nathos?" she said. "This the roar of his
mountain streams? Comes that beam of light from Usnoth's mighty hall?
The mist spreads around; the beam is feeble and distant far. But the
light of Darthula's soul dwells in the chief of Etha! Son of the
generous Usnoth, why that broken sigh? Are we in the land of strangers,
chief of echoing Etha?"
"These are not the rocks of Nathos," he replied, "nor this the roar
of his streams. We are in the land of strangers, in the land of cruel
Cairbar. The winds have deceived us, Darthula. Erin lifts here her
hills. Go towards the north, Althos; be thy steps, Ardan, along the
coast; that the foe may not come in darkness, and our hopes of Etha
fail. I will go towards that mossy tower to see who dwells about the
beam."
He went. She sat alone; she heard the rolling of the wave. The big tear
is in her eye. She looks for returning Nathos.
He returned, but his face was dark.
"Why art thou sad, O Nathos?" said the lovely daughter of Colla.
"We are in the land of foes," replied the hero. "The winds have
deceived us, Darthula. The strength of our friends is not near, nor the
mountains of Etha. Where shall I find thy peace, daughter of mighty
Colla? The brothers of Nathos are brave, and his own sword has shone
in fight! But what are the sons of Usnoth to the host of dark-browed
Cairbar? Oh that the winds had brought thy sails, Oscar, king of men!
Thou didst promise to come to the battles of fallen Cormac! Cairbar
would tremble in his halls, and peace dwell round the lovely Darthula.
But why dost thou fall, my soul? The sons of Usnoth may prevail!"
"And they will prevail, O Nathos!" said the rising soul of the maid.
"Never shall Darthula behold the halls of gloomy Cairbar. Give me those
arms of brass, that glitter to the passing meteor. I see them dimly in
the dark-bosomed ship. Darthula will enter the battle of steel."
Joy rose in the face of Nathos when he heard the white-bosomed maid. He
looks towards the coming of Cairbar. The wind is rustling in his hair.
Darthula is silent at his side. Her look is fixed on the chief. She
strives to hide the rising sigh.
Morning rose with its beams. The sons of Erin appear, like grey rocks,
with all their trees; they spread along the coast. Cairbar stood in the
midst. He grimly smiled when he saw the foe. Nathos rushed forward, in
his strength; nor could Darthula stay behind. She came with the hero,
lifting her shining spear.
"Come," said Nathos to Cairbar--"come, chief of high Temora! Let our
battle be on the coast, for the white-bosomed maid. His people are not
with Nathos; they are behind these rolling seas. Why dost thou bring
thy thousands against the chief of Etha?"
"Youth of the heart of pride," replied Cairbar, "shall Erin's king
fight with thee? Thy fathers were not among the renowned, and Cairbar
does not fight with feeble men!"
The tear started from car-borne Nathos. He turned his eyes to his
brothers. Their spears flew at once. Three heroes lay on earth. Then
the light of their swords gleamed on high. The ranks of Erin yield, as
a ridge of dark clouds before a blast of wind! Then Cairbar ordered his
people, and they drew a thousand bows. A thousand arrows flew. The sons
of Usnoth fell in blood. They fell like three young oaks, which stood
alone on the hill. The traveller saw the lovely trees, and wondered how
they grew so lonely; the blast of the desert came by night, and laid
their green heads low; next day he returned, but they were withered,
and the heath was bare!
Darthula stood in silent grief, and beheld their fall! Pale was her
cheek. Her trembling lips broke short a half-formed word. Her breast
of snow appeared. It appeared; but it was stained with blood. An arrow
was fixed in her side. She fell on the fallen Nathos, like a wreath of
snow! Her hair spreads wide on his face. Their blood is mixing round!
"Daughter of Colla--thou art low!" said Cairbar's hundred bards. "When
wilt thou rise in thy beauty, first of Erin's maids? Thy sleep is
long in the tomb. The sun shall not come to thy bed and say, 'Awake,
Darthula! Awake thou first of women! The wind of spring is abroad. The
flowers shake their heads on the green hills. The winds wave their
growing leaves.' Retire, O sun, the daughter of Colla is asleep! She
will not come forth in her beauty. She will not move in the steps of
her loveliness!"
Such was the song of the bards when they raised the tomb. I, too, sang
over the grave when the king of Morven came to green Erin to fight with
the car-borne Cairbar!
FOOTNOTES:
[W] No ancient or modern work in the history of literature has
excited such wild admiration and such profound contempt as the "Ossian"
of James Macpherson. It was Napoleon's favourite work; he carried it
with him to Egypt and took it to St. Helena. Byron and Goethe and
Chateaubriand were also touched to enthusiasm by it. Its author--or,
as some still think, its editor--was a Scottish schoolmaster, James
Macpherson, born at Ruthven, in Inverness-shire on October 27, 1736.
The first part of the work, entitled "Fragments of Ancient Poetry,
Collected in the Highlands of Scotland, and Translated from the Gaelic,
or Erse, Language," was published in 1760; "Fingal" appeared in 1762,
and "Temora" in the following year. Doctor Johnson said of Macpherson:
"He has found names, and stories, and phrases, nay, passages in old
songs, and with them has blended his own compositions, and so made
what he gives to the world as the translation of an ancient poem"; and
this verdict is now confirmed by the best authorities. Nevertheless,
"Ossian" is a work of considerable merit and great historic interest.
It contains some fine passages of real poetry, such as the invocation
to the sun with which "Carthon" concludes, and it has served to attract
universal attention to the magnificent Celtic traditions of Scotland
and Ireland. Macpherson died in Inverness-shire on February 17, 1796.
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE[X]
The Tragical History of Dr. Faustus
_Persons in the Play_
Doctor Faustus
Wagner, _his servant_
Mephistophilis
Lucifer
The Emperor
Benvolio, Martino, Frederick, _gentlemen of the emperor's court_
BRUNO
THE POPE
THREE Scholars, CARDINALS, LORDS, Devils, PHANTOMS,
GOOD _and_ EVIL ANGELS, _etc_., CHORUS.
ACT I
SCENE I.--FAUSTUS _in his study, reading a volume on necromancy_.
FAUSTUS: All things that move between the quiet poles
Shall be at my command: emperors and kings
Are but obeyed in their several provinces;
But his dominion that excels in this
Stretches as far as does the mind of man.
A sound magician is a demi-god.
[_Enter_ GOOD _and_ EVIL ANGELS.
GOOD ANGEL: O Faustus, lay that damned book aside
And gaze not on it, lest it tempt thy soul,
And heap God's heavy wrath upon thy head!
Read, read the Scriptures--that is blasphemy.
EVIL ANGEL: Go forward, Faustus, in that famous art
Wherein all nature's treasure is contained;
Be thou on earth as Jove is in the sky,
Lord and commander of these elements.
[_Exeunt_ ANGELS.
FAUSTUS: How am I glutted with conceit of this!
Faustus, begin thine incantations,
And try if devils will obey thy hest.
[_Thunder_. FAUSTUS _pronounces the incantation.
Enter_ MEPHISTOPHILIS.
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Now, Faustus, what wouldst thou have me do?
FAUSTUS: I charge thee, wait upon me while I live,
To do whatever Faustus shall command.
MEPHISTOPHILIS: I am a servant to great Lucifer,
And may not follow thee without his leave.
FAUSTUS: Tell me, what is that Lucifer, thy lord?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Arch-regent and commander of all
spirits.
FAUSTUS: Was not that Lucifer an angel once?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Yes, Faustus, and most dearly loved of God.
FAUSTUS: How comes it, then, that he is prince of devils?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Oh, by aspiring pride and insolence,
For which God threw him out from the face of heaven.
FAUSTUS: And what are you that live with Lucifer?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Unhappy spirits that fell with Lucifer,
conspired against our God with Lucifer,
And are forever damned with Lucifer.
FAUSTUS: Where are you damned?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: In hell.
FAUSTUS: How comes it, then, that you are out of hell?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it.
Think'st thou that I, that saw the face of God,
And tasted the eternal joys of heaven,
Am not tormented with ten thousand hells
In being deprived of everlasting bliss?
FAUSTUS: Go, bear these tidings to great Lucifer:
Seeing Faustus hath incurred eternal death
By desperate thoughts against God's deity, Say
he surrenders up to him his soul,
So he will spare him four-and-twenty years,
Having thee ever to attend on me.
Then meet me in my study at midnight,
And then resolve me of thy master's mind. [_Exeunt_.
SCENE II.--_The same. Midnight_. FAUSTUS. _Enter_ MEPHISTOPHILIS.
FAUSTUS: Now tell me what saith Lucifer, thy lord?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: That I shall wait on Faustus while he lives,
So he will buy my service with his soul,
And write a deed of gift with his own blood.
[FAUSTUS _stabs his own arm, and writes. At the summons
of_ MEPHISTOPHILIS _enter_ DEVILS, _who present_
FAUSTUS _with crowns and rich apparel. Exeunt_
DEVILS. FAUSTUS _reads the deed, by which_ MEPHISTOPHILIS
_is to be at his service for twenty-four years,
at the end of which_ LUCIFER _may claim his soul_.
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Now, Faustus, ask me what thou
wilt.
FAUSTUS: Tell me where is the place that men call
hell?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed
In one self place; but where we are is hell,
And where hell is, there must we ever be;
And, to be short, when all the world dissolves,
And every creature shall be purified,
All places shall be hell that are not heaven.
FAUSTUS: I think hell's a fable.
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Aye, think so still, till experience
change thy mind. [_Exit_.
FAUSTUS: If heaven was made for man, 'twas made for me.
I will renounce this magic and repent.
[_Enter the_ GOOD _and_ EVIL ANGELS.
GOOD ANGEL: Faustus, repent! Yet God will pity
thee.
EVIL ANGEL: Thou art a spirit; God cannot pity thee.
FAUSTUS: My heart is hardened; I cannot repent.
EVIL ANGEL: Too late.
GOOD ANGEL: Never too late, if Faustus will repent.
[_Exeunt_ ANGELS.
FAUSTUS: O Christ, my Saviour, my Saviour,
Help to save distresséd Faustus' soul.
[_Enter_ LUCIFER.
LUCIFER: Christ cannot save thy soul, for He is just;
Thou call'st on Christ, contrary to thy promise;
Thou shouldst not think on God; think on the Devil.
FAUSTUS: Nor will Faustus henceforth; pardon him for this,
And Faustus vows never to look to Heaven.
ACT II
SCENE I.--_Rome. Enter_ CHORUS.
CHORUS: Learned Faustus,
To find the secrets of astronomy
Graven in the book of Jove's high firmament,
Did mount him up to scale Olympus' top;
Where, sitting in a chariot burning bright,
Drawn by the strength of yokéd dragons' necks,
He views the clouds, the planets, and the stars.
From east to west his dragons swiftly glide,
And in eight days did bring him home again.
Now, mounted new upon a dragon's back,
He, as I guess, will first arrive at Rome
To see the Pope and manner of his court,
And take some part of holy Peter's feast,
The which this day is highly solemnised.
[_Exit. Enter_ FAUSTUS _and_ MEPHISTOPHILIS.
FAUSTUS: Hast thou, as erst I did command,
Conducted me within the walls of Rome?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: This is the goodly palace of the
Pope.
FAUSTUS: Sweet Mephistophilis, thou pleasest me.
Whilst I am here on earth, let me be cloy'd
With all things that delight the heart of man.
My four-and-twenty years of liberty
I'll spend in pleasure and in dalliance.
Now in this show let me an actor be,
That this proud Pope may Faustus' cunning see.
[_Enter_ POPE _and others in procession_; BRUNO,
_nominated pope in opposition by the_ EMPEROR, _in chains_.
FAUSTUS _and_ MEPHISTOPHILIS, _impersonating two
cardinals, are given charge of the condemned_
BRUNO, _whom they liberate and dispatch magically
to the_ EMPEROR. _Subsequently, both being rendered
invisible, they amuse themselves at the expense of
the_ POPE _and his guests at a banquet; and then depart
to the_ EMPEROR'S _court_.
SCENE II.--_Before the_ EMPEROR'S _palace_. BENVOLIO _at a
window. Enter the_ EMPEROR _with his train, including_
FAUSTUS, MEPHISTOPHILIS, BRUNO.
EMPEROR: Wonder of men, renowned magician,
Thrice-learned Faustus, welcome to our court.
Now, Faustus, as thou late didst promise us,
We would behold that famous conqueror,
Great Alexander, and his paramour,
In their true shapes and state majestical.
FAUSTUS: Your majesty shall see them presently.
BENVOLIO: Aye, aye, and thou bring Alexander and
his paramour before the emperor, I'll be Actæon
and turn myself to a stag.
FAUSTUS: And I'll be Diana and send you the horns
presently.
[_Enter a pageant of Darius, Alexander, etc., being
phantoms. Exeunt_.
FAUSTUS: See, see, my gracious lord!
EMPEROR: Oh, wondrous sight!
Two spreading horns, most strangely fastened
Upon the head of young Benvolio!
BENVOLIO: Zounds, doctor, this is your villainy.
FAUSTUS: Oh, say not so, sir; the doctor has no skill
To bring before the royal emperor
The mighty monarch, warlike Alexander.
If Faustus do it, you are straight resolved
In bold Actæon's shape to turn a stag.
And therefore, my lord, so please your majesty,
I'll raise a kennel of hounds shall hunt him so--
Ho, Belimoth, Argison, Asteroth!
BENVOLIO: Hold, hold! Good my lord, entreat for me!
'Sblood, I am never able to endure these torments.
EMPEROR: Let me entreat you to remove his horns;
He hath done penance now sufficiently.
FAUSTUS: Being that to delight your majesty with
mirth is all that I desire, I am content to remove
his horns (Mephistophilis _removes them_), and
hereafter, sir, look you speak well of scholars.
SCENE III.--_A wood_. BENVOLIO, MARTINO _and_ FREDERICK.
MARTINO: Nay, sweet Benvolio, let us sway thy thoughts
From this attempt against the conjurer.
BENVOLIO: Away! You love me not, to urge me thus.
Shall I let slip so great an injury,
When every servile groom jests at my wrongs,
And in their rustic gambols proudly say,
"Benvolio's head was graced with horns to-day?"
If you will aid me in this enterprise,
Then draw your weapons and be resolute.
If not, depart; here will Benvolio die,
But Faustus' death shall quit my infamy.
FREDERICK: Nay, we will stay with thee, betide what may,
And kill that doctor, if he comes this way.
Close, close! The conjurer is at hand,
And all alone comes walking in his gown.
Be ready, then, and strike the peasant down.
BENVOLIO: Mine be that honour, then. Now, sword, strike home!
For horns he gave, I'll have his head anon!
[_Enter_ FAUSTUS.
No words; this blow ends all.
Hell take his soul! His body thus must fall.
[BENVOLIO _stabs_ FAUSTUS, _who falls_; BENVOLIO _cuts
off his head_.
FREDERICK: Was this that stern aspect, that awful frown
Made the grim monarchs of infernal spirits
Tremble and quake at his commanding charms?
MARTINO: Was this that damnéd head, whose art conspired
Benvolio's shame before the emperor?
BENVOLIO: Aye, that's the head, and there the body lies.
Justly rewarded for his villainies. [Faustus _rises_.
Zounds, the devil's alive again!
FREDERICK: Give him his head, for God's sake!
FAUSTUS: Nay, keep it; Faustus will have heads and hands,
Aye, all your hearts, to recompense this deed.
Then, wherefore do I dally my revenge?
Asteroth! Belimoth! Mephistophilis!
[_Enter_ MEPHISTOPHILIS, _and other_ DEVILS.
Go, horse these traitors on your fiery backs,
And mount aloft with them as high as Heaven;
Thence pitch them headlong to the lowest hell.
Yet stay, the world shall see their misery,
And hell shall after plague their treachery.
Go, Belimoth, and take this caitiff hence,
And hurl him in some lake of mud and dirt;
Take thou this other, drag him through the woods,
Amongst the pricking thorns and sharpest briars;
Whilst with my gentle Mephistophilis
This traitor flies unto some steepy rock
That rolling down may break the villain's bones.
Fly hence! Dispatch my charge immediately!
FREDERICK: He must needs go, that the devil drives.
[_Exeunt_ DEVILS _with their victims_.
FOOTNOTES:
[X]: Christopher Marlowe was born at Canterbury in February,
1564, the year of Shakespeare's birth. From the King's School he went
to Cambridge, at Corpus, and took his degree in 1583. For the next ten
years, he lived in London; a tavern brawl ended his career on June 1,
1593. During those ten years, when Greene and Nashe and Peele were
beginning to shape the nascent drama, and Shakespeare was serving his
apprenticeship, most of the young authors were living wild enough
lives, and none, according to tradition, wilder than Kit Marlowe;
who, nevertheless, was doing mightier work, work more pregnant with
promise than any of them, and infinitely greater in achievement; for
Shakespeare's tragedies were still to come. That "Tamburlaine the
Great," the first play of a lad of twenty-three, should have been crude
and bombastic is not surprising; that "The Tragical History of Dr.
Faustus" should have been produced by an author aged probably less than
twenty-five is amazing. The story is traditional; two hundred years
after Marlowe, Goethe gave it its most familiar setting (see Vol. XVI,
p. 362). But although some part of Marlowe's play is grotesque, there
is no epithet which can fitly characterise its greatest scenes except
"tremendous." What may not that tavern brawl have cost the world!
ACT III
SCENE I.--FAUSTUS' _study. Enter_ WAGNER.
WAGNER: I think my master means to die shortly.
He has made his will, and given me his wealth, his
house, his goods, and store of golden plate, besides two
thousand ducats ready coined. I wonder what he means?
If death were nigh, he would not frolic thus. He's now
at supper with the scholars, where there's such cheer as
Wagner in his life ne'er saw the like. Here he comes;
belike the feast is ended.
[_Exit. Enter_ FAUSTUS; MEPHISTOPHILIS _follows_.
FAUSTUS: Accursed Faustus! Wretch, what hast thou done?
I do repent, and yet I do despair.
Hell strives with grace for conquest in my breast;
What shall I do to shun the snares of death?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Thou traitor, Faustus, I arrest thy soul
For disobedience to my sovereign lord!
Revolt, or I'll in piecemeal tear thy flesh!
FAUSTUS: I do repent I e'er offended him!
Sweet Mephistophilis, entreat thy lord
To pardon my unjust presumption;
And with my blood again I will confirm
The former vow I made to Lucifer.
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Do it, then, Faustus, with unfeignéd heart,
Lest greater dangers do attend thy drift.
FAUSTUS: One thing, good servant, let me crave of thee:
Bring that fair Helen, whose admiréd worth
Made Greece with ten years' war afflict poor Troy;
Whose sweet embraces may extinguish clean
Those thoughts that do dissuade me from my vow,
And keep my oath I made to Lucifer.
MEPHISTOPHILIS: This, or what else my Faustus may desire,
Shall be performed in twinkling of an eye.
[_Enter_ HELEN, _passing over the stage between two cupids_.
FAUSTUS: Was this the face that launched a thousand ships
And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?
Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss!
[_Kisses her_.
Her lips suck forth my soul; see where it flies!
Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again!
Oh, thou art fairer than the evening air
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars:
Brighter art thou than naming Jupiter,
When he appeared to hapless Semele:
More lovely than the monarch of the sky,
In wanton Arethusa's azured arms!
Here will I dwell, for heaven is in these lips,
And all is dross that is not Helena.
SCENE II.--_The same_. FAUSTUS. _Enter_ SCHOLARS.
FIRST SCHOLAR: Worthy Faustus, methinks your looks are changed!
FAUSTUS: Oh, gentlemen!
SECOND SCHOLAR: What ails Faustus?
FAUSTUS: Ah, my sweet chamber-fellow, had I lived
with thee, then I had lived still; but now must die
eternally! Look, sirs; comes he not? Comes he not?
FIRST SCHOLAR: O my dear Faustus, what imports this fear?
THIRD SCHOLAR: 'Tis but a surfeit, sir; fear nothing.
FAUSTUS: A surfeit of deadly sin, that hath damned both
body and soul.
SECOND SCHOLAR: Yet, Faustus, look up to Heaven, and
remember mercy is infinite.
FAUSTUS: But Faustus' offence can ne'er be pardoned;
the serpent that tempted Eve may be saved, but
not Faustus. He must remain in hell for ever; hell, Oh,
hell for ever. Sweet friends, what shall become of Faustus,
being in hell for ever?
SECOND SCHOLAR: Yet, Faustus, call on God.
FAUSTUS: On God, whom Faustus hath abjured! On God,
whom Faustus hath blasphemed! O my God, I would weep!
But the Devil draws in my tears. Gush forth blood,
instead of tears! Yea, life, and soul! Oh, he stays
my tongue! I would lift up my hands; but see, they
hold 'em, they hold 'em!
SCHOLARS: Who, Faustus?
FAUSTUS: Why, Lucifer and Mephistophilis. O gentlemen,
I gave them my soul for my cunning!
SECOND SCHOLAR: Oh, what may we do to save Faustus?
FAUSTUS: Talk not of me, but save yourselves and depart.
THIRD SCHOLAR: God will strengthen me; I will stay
with Faustus.
FIRST SCHOLAR: Tempt not God, sweet friend; but let
us into the next room and pray for him.
FAUSTUS: Aye, pray for me, pray for me; and what
noise soever you hear, come not unto me, for nothing
can rescue me.
SECOND SCHOLAR: Pray thou, and we will pray that
God may have mercy on thee.
FAUSTUS: Gentlemen, farewell. If I live till morning,
I'll visit you; if not, Faustus is gone to hell.
SCHOLARS: Faustus, farewell!
[_Exeunt_ SCHOLARS. _The clock strikes eleven_.
FAUSTUS: Oh, Faustus,
Now hast thou but one bare hour to live,
And then thou must be damned perpetually.
Stand still, you ever moving spheres of heaven,
That time may cease, and midnight never come;
Fair nature's eyes, rise, rise again, and make
Perpetual day; or let this hour be but
A year, a month, a week, a natural day,
That Faustus may repent and save his soul!
_O lente, lente, currite, noctis equi_!
The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike,
The Devil will come, and Faustus must be damn'd.
Oh, I'll leap up to heaven: who pulls me down?
See, where Christ's blood streams in the firmament!
One drop of blood will save me: O my Christ!
Rend not my heart for naming of my Christ;
Yet will I call on Him. Oh, spare me, Lucifer!
Where is it now? 'Tis gone.
And see, a threatening arm, an angry brow!
Mountains and hills, come, come and fall on me,
And hide me from the heavy wrath of Heaven!
No?
Then will I headlong run into the earth;
Gape, earth! Oh, no, it will not harbour me.
Yon stars that reigned at my nativity,
Whose influence hath allotted death and hell.
Now draw up Faustus like a foggy mist,
Into the entrails of yon labouring cloud,
That when you vomit forth into the air,
My limbs may issue from your smoky mouths,
But let my soul mount and ascend to heaven.
[_The clock strikes the half hour_.
Oh, half the hour is past; 'twill all be past anon.
Oh, if my soul must suffer for my sin,
Impose some end to my incessant pains;
Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years,
A hundred thousand, and at last be saved!
No end is limited to damnéd souls.
Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul,
Or why is this immortal that thou hast?
Oh, Pythagoras' metempsychosis, were that true,
This soul should fly from me, and I be changed
Into some brutish beast! All beasts are happy,
For when they die
Their souls are soon dissolved in elements;
But mine must live still, and be plagued in hell.
Curs'd be the parents that engender'd me!
No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer
That hath deprived thee of the joys of heaven.
[_The clock strikes twelve_.
It strikes! It strikes! Now, body, turn to air,
Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell!
O soul, be changed into small water-drops,
And fall into the ocean, ne'er be found!
[_Thunder. Enter_ DEVILS.
Oh, mercy, Heaven! Look not so fierce on me!
Adders and serpents, let me breathe awhile!
Ugly hell, gape not! Come not, Lucifer!
I'll burn my books. O Mephistophilis!
[_Exeunt_ DEVILS _with_ FAUSTUS. _Enter_ CHORUS.
CHORUS: Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight,
And burned Apollo's laurel-bough,
That sometime grew within this learnéd man.
Faustus is gone. Regard his hellish fall,
Whose fiendful fortune may exhort the wise,
Only to wonder at unlawful things,
Whose deepness doth entice such forward wits
To practice more than heavenly power permits.
MARTIAL[Y]
Epigrams, Epitaphs and Poems
_I.--Satiric Pieces and Epigrams_
He unto whom thou art so partial,
O reader! is the well-known Martial,
The Epigrammatist: while living
Give him the fame thou wouldst be giving;
So shall he hear, and feel, and know it--
Post-obits rarely reach a poet.--_Byron_.
MARTIAL ON HIS WORK
Some things are good, some fair, but more you'll say
Are bad herein--all books are made that way!
FOOTNOTES:
[Y] Martial (Marcus Valerius Martialis) was born at Bilbilis,
in Spain, about 40 A.D. He went to Rome when twenty-four, and by
attaching himself to the influential family of his fellow Spaniards,
Seneca and Lucan, won his first introduction to Roman society. The
earliest of his books which we possess celebrates the games associated
with the dedication of the Flavian amphitheatre, the Colosseum,
by Titus, in 80 A.D. Most of his other books belong to the reign
of Domitian, to whom he cringed with fulsome adulation. After a
residence in Rome during thirty-four years, he returned to Spain. He
died probably soon after 102 A.D. Martial's importance to literature
rests chiefly on two facts. He made a permanent impress upon the
epigram by his gift of concise and vigorous utterance, culminating
in a characteristically sharp sting; and he left in his verses, even
where they are coarsest, an extraordinarily graphic index to the
pleasure-loving and often corrupt society of his day. Martial had no
deep seriousness of outlook upon life; yet he had better things in
him than flippancy. He wearied of his long career of attendance upon
patrons who requited him but shabbily; and with considerable taste
for rural scenery, he longed for a more open-air existence than was
attainable in Rome. Where he best exhibited genuine feeling was in his
laments for the dead and his affection for friends. With the exception
of the introductory piece from Byron, the verse translations here are
by Professor Wight Duff.
ON FREEDOM OF LANGUAGE
Strict censure may this harmless sport endure:
My page is wanton, but my life is pure.
THE AIM OF THE EPIGRAMS
My satire knoweth how to keep due bounds:
Sparing the sinner, 'tis the sin it rounds.
ON A SPENDTHRIFT
Castor on buying doth a fortune spend:
Castor will take to selling in the end!
TO A RECITER WHO BAWLED
Why wrap your throat with wool before you read?
_Our_ ears stand rather of the wool in need!
TO AN APOLOGETIC RECITER
Before you start your recitation,
You say your throat is sore:
Dear sir, we hear your explanation,
We don't want any more!
ANSWER TO A POETASTER
Pompilianus asks why I omit
To send him all the poetry that is mine;
The reason is that in return for it,
Pompilianus, thou might'st send me _thine_.
ON A PLAGIARIST
Paul buys up poems, and to your surprise,
Paul then recites them as his own:
And Paul is right; for what a person buys
Is his, as can by law be shown!
A LOVER OF OLD-FASHIONED POETRY
Vacerra likes no bards but those of old--
Only the poets dead are poets true!
Really, Vacerra--may I make so bold?--
It's not worth dying to be liked by _you_.
A GOOD RIDDANCE
Linus, you mock my distant farm,
And ask what good it is to me?
Well, it has got at least one charm--
When there, from Linus I am free!
HOW A WET SEASON HELPS THE ADULTERATION OF WINE
Not everywhere the vintage yield has failed,
Dear Ovid; copious rain has much availed.
Coranus has a hundred gallons good
For sale--_well watered_, be it understood.
THE SYSTEMATIC DINER-OUT
Philo declares he never dines at home,
And that is no exaggeration:
He has no place to dine in Rome,
If he can't hook an invitation.
THE LEGACY-HUNTER CONSIDERS A MARRIAGE _de Convenance_
Paula would like to marry me;
But I have no desire to get her.
Paula is old; if only she
Were nearer dead, I'd like it better!
WIDOWER AND WIDOW
Fabius buries all his wives:
Chrestilla ends her husbands' lives.
The torch which from the marriage-bed
They brandish soon attends the dead.
O Venus, link this conquering pair!
Their match will meet with issue fair,
Whereby for such a dangerous _two_
A single funeral will do!
THE IMPORTUNATE BEGGAR
'Tis best to grant me, Cinna, what I crave;
And next best, Cinna, is refusal straight.
Givers I like: refusal I can brave;
But you don't give--you only hesitate!
TO A FRIEND OVER-CAUTIOUS IN LENDING
A loan without security
You say you have not got for me;
But if I pledge my bit of land,
You have the money close at hand.
Thus, though you cannot trust your friend,
To cabbages and trees you lend.
Now _you_ have to be tried in court--
Get from my bit of land support!
Exiled, you'd like a comrade true--
Well, take my land abroad with you!
AN OLD DANDY
You wish, Lætinus, to be thought a youth,
And so you dye your hair.
You're suddenly a crow, forsooth:
Of late a swan you were!
You can't cheat all: there is a Lady dread
Who knows your hair is grey:
Proserpina will pounce upon your head,
And tear the mask away.
PATIENT AND DOCTOR
When I was ill you came to me,
Doctor, and with great urgency
A hundred students brought with you
A most instructive case to view.
The hundred fingered me with hands
Chilled by the blasts from northern lands;
Fever at outset had I none;
I have it, sir, now you have done!
APING ONE'S BETTERS
Torquatus owns a mansion sumptuous
Exactly four miles out of Rome:
Four miles out also Otacilius
Purchased a little country home.
Torquatus built with marble finely veined
His Turkish baths--a princely suite:
Then Otacilius at once obtained
Some kind of kettle to give heat!
Torquatus next laid out upon his ground
A noble laurel-tree plantation:
The other sowed a hundred chestnuts round--
To please a future generation.
And when Torquatus held the Consulate,
The other was a village mayor,
By local honours made as much elate
As if all Rome were in his care!
The fable saith that once upon a day
The frog that aped the ox did burst:
I fancy ere this rival gets his way,
He will explode with envy first!
_II.--Epitaphs_
ON A DEAD SLAVE-BOY
Dear Alcimus, Death robbed thy lord of thee
When young, and lightly now Labian soil
Veils thee in turf: take for thy tomb to be
No tottering mass of Parian stone which toil
Vainly erects to moulder o'er the dead.
Rather let pliant box thy grave entwine;
Let the vine-tendril grateful shadow shed
O'er the green grass bedewed with tears of mine.
Sweet youth, accept the tokens of my grief:
Here doth my tribute last as long as time.
When Lachesis my final thread shall weave,
I crave such plants above my bones may climb.
ON A LITTLE GIRL, EROTION
Mother Flaccilla, Fronto sire that's gone,
This darling pet of mine, Erotion,
I pray ye greet, that nor the Land of Shade
Nor Hell-hound's maw shall fright my little maid.
Full six chill winters would the child have seen
Had her life only six days longer been.
Sweet child, with our lost friends to guard thee, play,
And lisp my name in thine own prattling way.
Soft be the turf that shrouds her! Tenderly
Rest on her, earth, for she trod light on thee.
_III.--Poems on Friendship and Life_
A WORTHY FRIEND
If there be one to rank with those few friends
Whom antique faith and age-long fame attends;
If, steeped in Latin or Athenian lore,
There be a good man truthful at the core;
If one who guards the right and loves the fair,
Who could not utter an unworthy prayer;
If one whose prop is magnanimity,
I swear, my Decianus, thou art he.
A RETROSPECT