RANKLING ARROWS.
Elizabeth was alone at last, that is, as much as a thought pursuing like
a personality lets one be alone. When she crossed her room in the
silence it was a relief to hear no voices, not to be obliged to answer
when she had not listened and was afraid lest she should not answer
rightly. Yet the events of the last few hours, the stray words as they
seemed to her that she had heard, the faces that had been before her
kept moving on before her now and repeating themselves faintly for a
little time, just as one whose head is throbbing with some continued
sound still hears it through all his pulses, even when he has gone out
of reach of the reality. She seemed to be driving home with Lady Dacre's
face full of tenderness opposite her. The sympathy had been almost too
much for Elizabeth, her eyes had not met the compassionate glances. Sir
Temple had conversed for three; he had been very kind, too, but the
kindness hurt her, for she knew they pitied her.
Elizabeth had an humble way with her sometimes, and, as has been said,
her own achievements seemed to her worthless. She had nothing of that
blatant quality, vanity, which claims from others and by reason of its
arrogance gets to be called pride; but her dignity strove above
everything to be sufficient for itself. Such a spirit shrinks from
claiming the appreciation it hungers for, shrinks back into itself,
and passes for shyness, or humility, or anything but what it is, that
supreme pride that seeks from the world its highest, the allegiance of
love, in return for its own love of what is true and grand. Finding a
denial in those it meets, it draws away in a silence that to people who
rate assertion as power seems tameness, for its action is beyond them,
like sights that need a telescope, or sounds out of reach of the ear.
Pride like this has two possibilities. It is a Saint Christopher that
will serve only the highest. That unfound, it grows bitter, and shrinks
more and more into itself, and withers into hopelessness. But if it find
the Highest and draw upon that love too great for change or failure,
then all things have a new proportion, for grown up to the shelter of
the eternities, human judgments dwindle, and human slights, however they
may scar, cannot destroy.
The person Elizabeth seemed to see most clearly was Archdale in that one
moment in which all his heart had been revealed. Yet it seemed to her
that it was not of him that she was thinking most but of Katie's pain
and anger. If she were to be separated from Stephen Archdale forever,
what wonder that she was grieved with the woman who had done it? For
Elizabeth knew that though Katie liked admiration, she loved Stephen.
Elizabeth herself saw that he was superior, not only in appearance, but
in mind, to any of the suitors with whom she confessed that in event of
the worst it was possible that the girl might console herself.
But Elizabeth was by no means so far above thoughts of herself that any
other woman's suffering was bringing to her face the look that came upon
it as her pride and her fear forced her away from the belief she had
determined to hold, into a horror lest all she dreaded was true, lest
she was really the wife of the man who at the very lightest disliked
her. She could not blame him for that, and it would not have been the
worst thing, since she cared nothing about him; she had not fotgotten
his look of scorn on that day of the wedding, it came back to her often;
but what of that, she asked herself, since she returned it? But to-night
there was more than this; to-night his heart had been shown, and
Elizabeth had seen how she stood for misery to him, seen, too, another
danger which she had never thought of before. This possibility, remote
enough, would not be put out of sight now. It might happen that if there
were proved to have been no marriage between herself and Stephen
Archdale, the certainty of this would come too late to save Katie for
him. Elizabeth turned wild at the sense of her own helplessness. "I am
one too many in the world," she thought; she could not have spoken, all
her will was concentrating into action. Night had overswept her; she
forgot everything in her thought for the beings whom she saw were
covered by the same cloud. She was to be always an ugly obstacle to the
happiness of Katie and of a man she pitied. Whichever way she turned it
seemed that there was no other chance for her. She would not go through
the world one too many. On coming into the room she had put back the
curtains for more air and had blown out the candles. She did not light
them again; all that she was going to do she could see well enough to do
by the stars and the long summer twilight. She sat down in the armchair
beside her table, drew her dressing-case toward her, and opening it,
unlocked one compartment with a tiny key found in another. The package
so carefully locked away here was something that Mrs. Eveleigh in one of
her nervous moods had given her to keep, lest some accident should
happen. To be sure, she had given it under promise that no one should
know of it, for she had used it for only a little while for her
complexion, she explained to Elizabeth, and might never want it again.
But, on the other hand, she might. It had been a good deal of trouble to
buy it; she did not want to run another gauntlet of questions. So the
powder had lain in Elizabeth's dressing-case, unremembered even, until
to-night. Now she took it out with a firm hand; there was no sign of
shrinking or fear about her, not because she was incapable of it, for
she had her terrors, though she showed them less than some women. But
she was a soldier in the midst of battle whose only object is to
dislodge the enemy; what it will cost is not counted. She waited a
moment, then opened the paper so steadily that she spilled none of the
powder in the dimness. She had no last words to say, nothing to leave;
it would be understood. She spread out the paper a little more, still
firmly, still so absorbed in the thought of escape as to have taken no
account of the way. Then she bent her face over it and slowly drew
nearer. Suddenly she raised her head; it seemed as if a voice had called
her, a voice so clear, so still, so full of power that she waited
submissive and wondering. In another moment she came to herself, the
brave self that suffering had thrust away usurping its place by a wicked
will. She drew a long breath as if waking from a horrible dream, and sat
quiet for a while, her hands clenched and brought together. She shivered
in the summer air. Suddenly she rose, took up the paper, and going to
the window, tossed it out, scattering its contents. "It shall never
tempt any one like this again," she said aloud.
Then slipping down to the floor, she leaned her arms upon the windowsill
and buried her face in them.
"God, forgive me," she cried. "It was Thy cross that I was casting off.
But my life is in Thy guidance. I will take all the pain from Thy hand.
Forgive me. Help me against my wicked pride. And in return for the
misery I have brought, give me something good that I may do, some little
favor. And yet--Thy will be done," she added brokenly, then trembled
lest that Will should refuse the one request which seemed to promise any
relief; trembled, but did not retract. "I will wait, I will trust," she
said, and looked into the depths beyond the stars with no fear that her
prayer would fall back into itself like a sound which, finding no home,
returns weary, and robbed of its meaning and strength. She knew that the
something which fell upon her was forgiveness too deep for words and an
assurance of guidance. For the telephone is not new but as old as
humanity and with a call in every man's consciousness. It summons him at
times to leave what he is doing and listen. And when in some depth of
need he sends a message, then, because no other ear than his may catch
the answer given, is there for that reason none? The soul is like
science; it cannot break through its boundaries and burst in upon the
unknowable that surrounds its little realm of knowledge, but wherever it
presses against these barriers they recede without being destroyed, and
the adventurer, still in his own domain, brings back new treasures to
the old life. The source of power is, we know, forever beyond us, but in
going out toward that we enter the realm of power and are charged with
it.
In the stillness that had fallen upon her Elizabeth rose softly, and
made her preparations for the night.
Archdale came down early the next morning. He stood a few moments in the
hall waiting for the appearance of the person he had come to meet. As he
looked out into the garden, a picture seemed to rise before him, one
that was not within his horizon at present. He seemed to be looking out
into a garden as he had been that morning when, with his mother, Sir
Temple and Lady Dacre, he had paid a visit to Madam Pepperell. Looking
into this garden absently he had seen Elizabeth. Unaware of visitors in
the house, she was going on with her occupation of gathering roses.
Archdale the day before, wondering about her complicity with Edmonson's
scheme had had this vision of her come between him and any belief in
this. It came again that next morning as he was waiting to see Edmonson
alone, and imagined his mind full only of what he had learned from him
the day before. He remembered the expression of her face; he had never
seen it gentle like this. She had been standing only a few rods distant
with scarcely so much as her profile turned toward him. A cluster was in
her left hand; in her right a stem just broken off, holding a rose and
several buds. She was perfectly still, seeming to have forgotten to
move, to be lost in reverie. She saw him no more than her roses; she was
alone with her thoughts. There was a strength and a sadness in the
delicate outline, especially in the mouth, which he had not seen before,
perhaps, because he had never studied her profile. As he had thought of
this expression while he had stood before the uncovered portrait, he had
said to himself that certainly she had not been willingly concerned in
helping forward another's misfortune. While he sat watching her he had
been inclined to go to her, obeying his impulse rather than his
judgment, which told him that even if he were in any way the cause of
her sorrow, he could do nothing to help her. But Lady Dacre had spoken
to him at the moment, and before he could answer her he had seen a
servant go up to Elizabeth, and had perceived that she was coming into
the house.
This morning also it was Lady Dacre's voice that broke in upon him. She
was hurrying through the hall with eyes on the open door.
"Good morning," she said. "Has Madam Archdale gone into the garden yet?
I told her I should be there first this morning, and now she has stolen
a march upon me." Archdale was startled. Yes, his mother was in the
garden, he saw her now. Was the other only a vision? "Will you follow,
Temple?" cried her ladyship. Her husband, who had been coming down
stairs as his wife spoke, greeted Archdale hastily and accepted her
invitation, for some one else stood in the hall, having entered it, his
observer supposed, from the library, for he had not seen him on the
stairs. This other one was coming forward to his host when Sir Temple
passed, and in another moment he stood face to face with Archdale.
"Good morning," he said with a bow. His expression had changed from the
sneer it had worn as he stood in the shadow covertly watching Archdale's
face. "Friends, is it not?" he added, and he smiled and held out his
hand tentatively. His host hesitated in the least, then took it. He had
been obliged to remind himself first that instinct was not an autocrat
of one's manners. Edmonson perceived the hesitation, slight as it was,
and the shadow in his heart sprang up and darkened his face for a
moment. Then he gave a short laugh, and turned toward the sunshine.
"That's right," he said; "let us part on good terms; it's luck, not I,
that you find against you."
"It was about this very thing that I was waiting here to speak to you
this morning," returned Stephen. "I was going to beg you to remain until
we can look into things a little; you, and my father, and I, you
understand? It can be done more conveniently here than anywhere
else,--and I trust I need not assure you that you are welcome. Of
course, I don't pretend to like the turn of affairs."
"Not necessary," interposed the other, the covert impertinence under his
frank smile making Archdale flush, and return haughtily:
"I was merely going to say that we must accept with the best grace
possible the consequences of things that happened so long before our
day."
"This philosophy is delightful on your lips. As for myself, I shall not
find that acceptance of the situation makes any demand for philosophical
endurance."
He tossed his head a little as he ended in amusement at having finished
his opponent at the same time as his speech.
"Perhaps that is well," returned Archdale quietly. "Then it is settled
that you stay a few days longer with us?" he added.
"Thank you. I shall be happy to do so. When you need me, I am at your
service; for you will find that I have proofs enough to be satisfactory.
I have not considered that my unsupported word would be taken as
sufficient guarantee in a case like this, where, you know, incredulity
is so desirable."
"Yes, Master Edmonson, I confess, where incredulity is so desirable.
Well, then, after breakfast I shall be obliged to trouble you."
"Thank you," answered Edmonson, marching off immediately. "I think Lady
Dacre is in need of my services. She is struggling with a rose that has
climbed up out of her reach, and her husband has disappeared altogether;
he is probably assisting Madam Archdale. These husbands are not in the
right place, you see." With which Parthian arrow he disappeared, and was
soon filling Lady Dacre's hands with her coveted treasures.
Archdale watched him a few moments noticing his easy movements and his
air of assurance.
"Impudent fellow," he muttered, setting his teeth, "to speak to an
Archdale in that style. I can't believe him. I shall have Allston
examine his proofs; he has a hawk's eye for flaws. But there's the
likeness. Yes, his story may be true; but the man has the making of a
knave in him, if the work is not done already."
It was almost dinner time. Elizabeth had been out sailing with Madam
Archdale, Colonel Pepperell, and Sir Temple, and Lady Dacre. They were
in the Colonel's boat; and Madam Pepperell, who had been detained, had
sent her young guest to represent her. But Edmonson had gone off with
his host to Colonel Archdale's, and Bulchester had mysteriously
disappeared soon afterward. Elizabeth suspected that he had gone to pay
a visit to Katie and had found her so fascinating that he could not tear
himself from her society, or that he had wandered off somewhere by
himself to dwell upon her perfections. "Poor simpleton!" she said to
herself in the revulsion from her fears of the night before. At all
events, the result was the same; there were only three at Seascape to
accept the Colonel's invitation to go sailing.
It was always a refreshment to Elizabeth to be with Sir Temple and Lady
Dacre; that morning it was even better than being alone; they were the
only ones purely spectators in the drama of struggle and suffering going
on under the courtesies that were its scenic accompaniments. When they
talked and jested it was out of happy hearts, at least so far as the
things about them were concerned, and for this reason the strain was
taken from her in their presence. She had only to be gay enough,
and there was no need of watching her words lest they should be
misconstrued. If she had been asked why anything that she said or did
was liable to be misconstrued, she could not have told. This was her
feeling, but she did not see her way; no flash of the electric storm
that the blackness foreboded had yet shown her where she stood; but the
elemental conditions affected her.
The boat on its return had landed Madam Archdale and her guests on the
pebbly beach at Seascape, not far from the house. They had said farewell
and sauntered up the path toward it and disappeared. The boat was about
putting out again when a man came running up to the Colonel, and begged
him to wait to speak with the Captain of a schooner standing out about
half a mile. The Captain had come ashore on purpose to see him and was a
little way down the beach now hurrying toward him. The business was
urgent.
"Go back without me," the Colonel said. "I may be kept here for some
time." But Elizabeth had had enough of sailing for that day; she was
already on shore and said that she would rather walk home. As Pepperell
left her with an apology she walked on a few rods, and stopped to speak
to a fisherman cleaning his boat. She had seen him at the house and had
heard that he had lost his child the week before. As she turned from him
she went on slowly until she came to where a boulder towered over her
head and seemed to bar her progress except along the shore. She knew the
zigzag way that wound about its base and led her into the straight path
again which would take her across the grounds of Seascape and bring her
into the road not far from Colonel Pepperell's home. But before she had
time to enter this way, voices on the other side of the boulder startled
her. Her first thought was that Lady Dacre and her husband had come
back. But she perceived that the tones were Bulchester's. She stood
still an instant, wishing that she could reach the road without being
obliged to talk to him or any one, she felt so little like it. But there
was no hope of that. There was a rough seat cut in the stone on the
other side; the views landward and seaward were delightful; the great
elm near by shaded the place, and Bulchester had probably ensconced
himself there with somebody else. She must go by, and if they even
joined her, it was no matter. She made a movement forward, when
Edrnonson's voice with a ring that she had never heard in it came to her
ears. Yet it was not his tones, but his words, that made her cower and
stand motionless with startled eyes and parted lips, until, slowly, as
wonder grew into disgust, her face crimsoned from brow to throat and
drooped, as if to hide from itself. Was this the way that men spoke of
women, with sneers, with scoffing? In all her innocent life she had
never looked even through bars at the world that such expressions
revealed, dimly enough to her veiled in her simplicity.
The Puritan spirit of her country, that although it sometimes put bands
on the freeman, chained the brute in human nature in his dungeon, lest
his breath in the land should breed death, had been in such accord with
her own fair womanhood that she had not realized that all the world was
not as safe as her own home, as safe, though not as happy. Yet the sneer
that Edmonson had spoken seemed to him so slight, so much a matter of
course, that it was forgotten as soon as uttered; it was merely his way
of looking at a world unknown to his listener. She did not know of what
woman it was that he had dared to speak with such contempt; probably of
some one she had never seen. It was not at the stranger alone; it was
through her at all women that the mire of suspicion had been thrown.
She could not go forward now, and while she stood trying to grow calm
through her indignation and seeing that she must go home by the other
road, which would take her quite a distance out of her way, scraps of
the conversation that fell upon her ears found lodgment in her mind. The
two seemed to be talking of some man now. Then all at once she heard
Bulchester say:
"It's the oddity that takes you;"--she had lost what went before--"that
will soon wear off. But I'm glad enough you're not as wise as I, to
prefer the other. What makes you so sure, though, that he has secured
your--?" In some movement she lost the last word and the answer, unless
it were merely a significant exclamation of belief. "You wouldn't stand
upon the chances of change though," resumed Bulchester, "I know you well
enough. But, according to you, there's the insuperable obstacle."
Edmonson laughed contemptuously.
"Insuperable?" he answered. "Stray shots have taken off more superfluous
kings and men than the world knows of. And just now, with this prospect
of war before the country, something is sure to happen,--to happen,
Bulchester; luck has a passion for me, and after all her caprices, she
is coming to--."
Elizabeth lost the rest of the sentence. She was already on her way home
by the other road, treading softly while on the beach, lest the pebbles
should betray her footsteps. When she was well out of hearing she
stopped a moment to take breath. She stood looking out upon the expanse
of ocean before her as if her sight could reach to the unknown world
beyond it.
"Last night," she said, "I thought the worst had come to me. I was
wrong."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
[Footnote 2: Copyright, 1884, by Frances C. Sparhawk.]
* * * * *
MEMORY'S PICTURES.
By Charles Carleton Coffin, 1846.
It is a pleasure to throw back the door,
And view the relics of departed hours;
To brush the cobwebs from the ancient lore,
And turn again the book of withered flowers.
Within the dusty chambers of the past,
Old pictures hang upon the crumbling walls;
Dim shadowy forms are in the twilight cast,
And many a dance is whirling through the halls.
There are bright fires blazing on the hearth,
The merry shout falls on the ear again;
And little footsteps patter down the path,
Just like the coming of the summer rain.
I hear the music of the rippling rill,
The dews of morn are sprinkled on my cheek;
While down the valley and upon the hill
The laughing echoes play their hide-and-seek.
I roam the meadow where the violets grow,
I watch the shadows o'er the mountain creep;
I bathe my feet where sparkling fountains flow,
Or bow my head on moss-grown rocks to sleep.
I hear the bell ring out the passing hour,
I hear its music o 'er the valleys flung;
O, what a preacher is that time-worn tower,
Reading great sermons with its iron tongue!
The old church clock, forever swinging slow,
With moving hands at morning and at even,
Points to the sleepers in the yard below,
Then lifts them upward to the distant heaven.
How will such memories o' er the spirit stray,
Of hopes and joys, of sorrows and of tears;
They are the tomb-stones time will ne'er decay,
Although the moss will gather with the years.
* * * * *
EARLY ENGLISH POETRY.
By Professor Edwin H. Sanborn, LL.D.
Our Saxon ancestors when they conquered England, were rude, barbarous,
and cruel. The gods of their worship were bloodthirsty and revengeful.
Odin, their chief divinity, in his celestial hall drank ale from the
skulls of his enemies. In the year 596, the Monk Augustine, or Austin,
was sent by Pope Gregory to attempt their conversion to Christianity. He
and his associates were so successful that on one occasion ten thousand
converts were baptized in one day. Of course their conversion was
external and nominal. They still clung to their old superstitions and
customs. But with the new religion came new ideas.
Manuscripts were circulated; monasteries and schools were founded, and
learning was somewhat diffused. The Saxon language is marked by three
several epochs:
1st. From the irruption of the Saxons into Britain, A.D. 449, to the
invasion of the Danes, including a period of 330 years.
2d. The Danish-Saxon period, continuing to the Norman conquest, A.D.
1066.
3d. The Norman-Saxon era, running down to the close of Henry II's reign.
Of the first period, but a single specimen remains, and that a quotation
by King Alfred; of the 2d period, numerous specimens both in verse and
prose are extant; with the last period, the annals of English poetry
commence.
The three dialects of these three literary epochs illustrate fully the
changes which the old Saxon tongue underwent during the five centuries
of its growth into the modern English.
Learning was chiefly confined to the church, during the dark ages; of
course, the great lights of Saxon England were prelates, except Alfred,
and most of them wrote in Latin.
The venerable Bede (born 673, died 735), as he is styled, who wrote
in the eighth century, was a profoundly learned man for those times.
His writings embrace all topics then included in the knowledge of the
schools or the Church. His works were published at Cologne, in 1612,
in eight folio volumes. Another of the ornaments of this century was
Alcuin, librarian and pupil of Egbert, Archbishop of York. He enjoyed
a European reputation; was invited to France, by Charlemangne, to
superintend his own studies; and was thought by some to have been the
founder of the University of Paris. He was contemporary with Bede, was
acquainted with the Greek, Latin, and Hebrew, languages and composed
treatises on music, logic, rhetoric, astronomy and grammar; besides
lives of saints, commentaries on the Bible, homiles, epistles and
verses.
From the age of these authors learning declined till Alfred appeared.
"At my accession to the throne," he remarks, "all knowledge and learning
were extinguished in the Englsh nation, insomuch, that there were very
few to the south of the Humber who understood the common prayers of the
Church, or were capable of translating a single sentence of Latin into
English; but to the north of the Thames, I cannot recollect so much as
one who could do this." King Alfred was an eminent lover and promotor of
learning. His works in the Saxon tongue, both original and translated,
were numerous and valuable. His glory as a scholar is not eclipsed by
his fame as a legislator. In both respects he has no peer in England's
line of Kings. He is reputed to have been the founder of the University
of Oxford, as well as the originator of the "Trial by Jury." He died
A.D. 900 or 901.
John Scot, or Johannes Scotus Engena, flourished during Alfred's reign,
was a lecturer at Oxford, and the founder or chief prompter of
scholastic divinity. The earliest specimen of the Anglo-Saxon language
extant is the Lord's prayer, translated from the Greek by Ealdfride,
Bishop of Sindisfarne, or Holy Island, about the year 700:
"Urin Fader thic arth in heofnas;
Our father which art in heaven;
sic gehalgud thin noma;
be hallowed thy name;
to cymeth thin ryc;
to come thy kingdom:
sic thin willa sue is in heofnas & in eorthe;
be thy will so is in heaven and in earth;
urin hlaf ofirwistlic sel us to daig;
our loaf super-excellent give us to day;
and forgefe us scylda urna;
and forgive us debts ours;
sue we forgefan scyldgum urum;
so we forgiven debts of ours;
and no inlead usig in custnung;
and not lead us into temptation;
ah gefrig usich from ifle.
but free us each from evil.
The new Danish irruptions again arrested the progress of learning, and
ignorance and misery, as is usual, followed in the train of war. Alfred
had restored learning and promoted the arts of peace. But his successors
failed to sustain the institutions he planted. He is said to have shone
with the lustre of the brightest day of summer amidst the gloom of a
long, dark, and stormy, winter. Before the Norman conquest the
Anglo-Saxon tongue fell into disrepute; and French teachers and French
manners were affected by the high-born.
During the reign of Edward, the Confessor, it ceased to be cultivated;
and after the Conqueror, it became more barbarous and vulgar, as it was
then the sign of servility, and the badge of an enslaved race.
As early as the year 652, the Anglo-Saxons were accustomed to send their
youth to French monasteries to be educated. In succeeding centuries the
court and nobility were intimately allied to the magnates of France; and
the adoption of French manners was deemed an accomplishment. The
conquerors commanded the laws to be administered in French. Children at
school were forbidden to read their native language, and the English
name became a term of reproach. An old writer in the eleventh century
says: "Children in scole, agenst the usage and manir of all other
nations, beeth compelled for to leve hire own langage, and for to
construe his lessons and thynges in Frenche, and so they haveth sethe
Normans came first into England." The Saxon was spoken by the peasants,
in the country, yet not without an intermixture of French; the courtly
language was French with some vestiges of the vernacular Saxon.
The Conqueror's army was composed of the flower of the Norman nobility.
They brought with them the taste, the arts, and the refinements, they
had acquired in France. European schools and scholars had been greatly
benefitted by studying Latin versions of Greek philosophers from the
Arabic. Many learned men of the laity also became teachers, and the
Church no longer enjoyed a monopoly of letters. They travelled into
Spain to attend the Arabic schools.
It is a remarkable fact that Greek learning should have travelled
through Bagdad to reach Europe.
The Arabs were as fond of letters as of war. In the eighth century, when
they overran the Asiatic provinces, they found many Greek books which
they read with eagerness. They translated such as best pleased them into
Arabic. Greek poetry they rejected because it was polytheistic. Of Greek
history they made no use, because it recorded events prior to the advent
of their prophet. The politics of Greece and its eloquence were not
congenial to their despotic notions, and so they passed them by. Grecian
ethics were suspended by the Koran, hence Plato was overlooked.
Mathematics, metaphysics, logic, and medicine, accorded with their
tastes. Hence they translated and studied Aristotle, Galen, and
Hippocrates, and illustrated them with voluminous commentaries. These
works stimulated native authors to write new treatises. The Arabs,
therefore, became distinguished for their skill in logic, medicine,
mathematics, and kindred studies. They founded universities during the
eighth century in the cities of Spain and Africa. Charlemagne commanded
their books to be translated into Latin; thus Aristotle entered Europe
through Asia by the double door of the Arabic and Latin tongues, and, by
long prescription, still holds his place in European schools.
Charlemagne founded the universities of Bononia, Pavia, Paris, and
Osnaburg, in Hanover. These became centres for propagating the new
sciences. The Normans, too, shared in the general progress of learning,
and carried with them their attainments into England. The wild
imagination of the Saracens kindled a love of romantic fiction, wherever
their influence was felt. The crusades made the Europeans intimately
acquainted with the literature of the Arabs. Says Marton, who maintains
that romantic fiction originated in Arabia, in his "History of English
Poetry," "Amid the gloom of superstition, in an age of the grossest
ignorance and credulity, a taste for the wonders of oriental fiction was
introduced by the Arabians into Europe, many countries of which were
already seasoned to a reception of its extravagancies by means of the
poetry of the Gothic scalds, who, perhaps, originally derived their
ideas from the same fruitful region of invention.
"These fictions coinciding with the reigning manners, and perpetually
kept up and improved in the tales of troubadours and minstrels, seem to
have centred about the eleventh century in the ideal histories of Turpin
and Geoffrey of Monmouth, which record the suppositious achievements of
Charlemagne and King Arthur, where they formed the groundwork of that
species of narrative called romance. And from these beginnings or
causes, afterwards enlarged and enriched by kindred fancies fetched from
the crusades, that singular and capricious mode of imagination arose,
which at length composed the marvellous machineries of the more sublime
Italian poets, and of their disciple Spenser." The theory which traces
romantic fiction to the Arabs is but partially true. The entire
literature of that age was monstrous, full of the most absurd and
extravagant fancies. History was fabulous; poetry mendacious and
philosophy erroneous. Theology abounded in pious frauds. Monks and
minstrels vied with each other in the invention of lying legends to
adorn the lives of heroes and saints. All classes of the community
shared in the general delusion, and the supernatural seemed more
credible than the natural. In tracing the progress of learning, in
England, I propose, during the remainder of the present paper to discuss
one inconsiderable yet _important_ element of modern civilization,
which is often entirely overlooked. I refer to "Lyric Poetry."
The lyre is one of the oldest of musical instruments. Its invention is
ascribed to a god. Its Saxon name is harp. It was the favorite
instrument of the ancient Hebrews, as well as of the Greeks. The Saxons,
Britons and Danes regarded it with veneration, and protected by legal
enactments those who played upon it. Their persons were esteemed
inviolable and secured from injuries by heavy penalities. By the laws of
Wales, slaves were forbidden to practice upon it; and no creditor could
seize the harp of his debtor. That minstrels were a privileged class is
manifested from king Alfred's penetrating the Danish camp (878)
disguised as a harper. Sixty years after a Danish king visited King
Athelstan's camp in the same disguise. It was also said of Aldhelm, one
of the leading scholars of the eighth century: "He was an excellent
harper, a most eloquent Saxon and Latin poet, a most expert chanter, or
a singer, a doctor egregius, and admirably versed in scriptures and
liberal sciences." The minstrel was a regular and stated officer of the
Anglo-Saxon kings. Poetry is always the earliest form of literature;
song the earliest form of poetry. The Muse adapts her lessons to the
nation's infancy and adds the charm of melody to verse. No nation is
destitute of lyric poetry. Even the North American Indians have their
war songs, though their individual worship of their gods has prevented
the creation of any national poetry for associated worship. The
Scandinavians have but one term for the poet and the singer. The
Northern _scald_ invented and recited his own songs and epics. In
other countries the poet and minstrel performed separate duties. "The
Minstrels," says Bishop Percy, "were an order of men in the Middle Ages
who subsisted by the arts of poetry and music, and sang to the harp
verses composed by themselves and others. They appear to have
accompanied their songs with mimicry and action. They are called in
Latin of the day _histriones_, _Mimi_ and _Scurræ_. Such arts
rendered them exceedingly popular in this and in neighboring countries,
where no high scene of festivity was esteemed complete that was not set
off with the exercise of their talents; and where so long as the spirit
of chivalry existed, they were protected and caressed, because their
songs tended to do honor to the ruling passion of the times, and to
encourage and foment a martial spirit."
They were the legitimate successors of the bards and scalds of early
times whose art was considered divine and their songs worthy of regal
patronage. They were the historians, genealogists, poets, and musicians,
of the land. The word minstrel is derived from the Latin
_minister_, a servant, because they were classed among the King's
attendants. An earlier Saxon name for this class of performers was
"Gleeman," in rude English, a Jogeler or Jocular; Latin, "Joculator."
The word "glee" is from the Saxon "gligg," meaning music; and the
meaning now attached to that word shows how intimately associated were
pleasure and music in the national mind. The harp was the most ancient
of Saxon musical instruments. It continued in use for a thousand years.
It was well known in the time of Chaucer. His _Frere_ could play
upon it and sing to it; the merry "wife of Bath" had frequently danced
to it in her youth. It was an ordinary accompaniment of revels and
tavern festivals. It continued in use till the reign of Elizabeth.
In Dr. Percy's "Reliques of ancient English poetry" he speaks of the
minstrels as an order of men in the Middle Ages, highly honored,
retained and pensioned by kings, lavishly rewarded by nobles, and kindly
entertained by the common people.[3] Ritson in his "Ancient Songs"
admits that such an "order" of singers existed in France, but never in
England; that individuals wandered up and down the country chanting
romances and singing songs or ballads to the harp or fiddle; but that
they never enjoyed the respect of the high born or received favors from
them. The church evidently looked upon them with disfavor, as the
enemies of sobriety and the promoters of revelry and mirth. In the
sixteenth century they lost all credit and were classed, in penal
enactments, with "rogues and vagabonds." One reason of the decline of
minstrelsy was the introduction of printing and the advance of learning:
that which might afford amusement and pleasure when sung to the harp,
lost its point and spirit when read in retirement from the printed page.
Their composition would not bear criticism. Besides, the market had
become overstocked with these musical wares; as the religious houses had
with homilies and saintly legends. The consideration bestowed on the
early minstrels "enticed into their ranks idle vagabonds," according to
the act of Edward I, who went about the country under color of
minstrelsy; men who cared more about the supper than the song; who for
base lucre divorced the arts of writing and reciting and stole other
men's thunder. Their social degeneracy may be traced in the dictionary.
The chanter of the "gests" of kings, _gesta ducum regumque_,
dwindled into a gesticulator, a jester: the honored jogelar of Provence,
into a mountebank; the jockie, a doggrel ballad-monger.
Beggars they are by one consent,
And rogues by act of Parliament.
What a fall was there from their former high estate and reverence. The
earliest minstrels of the Norman courts, doubtless, came from France,
where their rank was almost regal.
Froissart, describing a Christmas festival given by Comte de Foix in the
fourteenth century, says:
"There were many Mynstrels as well of hys own as of strangers, and
eache of them dyd their devoyres in their facalties. The same day
the Earl of Foix gave to Hauralds and Minstrelles the sum of 500
franks, and gave to the Duke of Tonrayns Mynstreles gouns of cloth
of gold furred with ermyne valued at 200 franks."
The courts of kings swarmed with these merry singers in the Dark Ages,
and such sums were expended upon them, that they often drained the royal
treasuries. In William's army there was a brave warrior named Taillefer,
who was as renowned for minstrelsy as for arms. Like Tyrtæus and Alemon,
in Sparta, he inspired his comrades with courage by his martial strains,
and actually led the van in the fight against the English, chanting the
praises of Charlemagne, and Roland. Richard Coeur de Lion was a
distinguished patron of minstrels as well as "the mirror of chivalry."
He was sought out in his prison in Austria by a faithful harper who made
himself known by singing a French song under the window of the castle in
which the king was confined. Blondel was the harper's name. The French
song translated reads thus:
"Your beauty, lady fair,
None views without delight;
But still so cold an air
No passion can excite.
Yet still I patient see
While all are shun'd like me.
No nymph my heart can wound
If favor she divide,
And smiles on all around
Unwilling to decide;
I'd rather hatred bear,
Than love with others share."
Edward I had a harper in his train, in his crusade to the Holy Land, who
stood by his side in battle.
That same king in his conquest of Wales is said to have murdered all the
bards that fell into his hands lest they should rouse the nation again
to arms. Gray's poem, "The Bard," was written upon that theme. I will
quote a few lines:
"Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,
Dear as the light that visits these eyes,
Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
Ye died amidst your dying country's cries--
No more I weep. They do not sleep.
On yonder cliffs a griesly band,
I see them sit; they linger yet,
Avengers of their native land."
That the minstrel was a privileged character in England down to the
reign of Elizabeth is proved by history, by frequent allusions to them
in the current literature of the times, and by the large body of songs,
ballads, and metrical romances, still extant which are ascribed to them.
They were essential to the complete education of a knight as tutors: for
no accomplishment was more valued in the days of chivalry than the
playing of the harp and the composition of songs in honor of the fair.
Before the origin of printing they acted as publishers of the works of
more renowned poets by public recitations of their works. The period of
their greatest celebrity was about the middle of the fifteenth century.
The minstrel chose his own subject and so long as he discoursed to
warriors of heroes and enchanters, and to gay knights of true love and
fair ladies, he would not want patient and gratified listeners.
The great sources of Gothic romance are a British History of Arthur and
his wizzard, Merlin, by Walter, Archdeacon of Oxford, translated into
Latin by Geoffrey of Monmouth; the history of Charlemagne and his twelve
peers, forged by Turpin, a monk of the eighth century; the History of
Troy, in two Latin works, which passed under the names of Dares Phrygius
and Dictys Cretensis; and the History of Alexander the Great, originally
written in Persic and translated into Greek by Simeon Seth, A.D. 1070,
and again turned into Latin by Giraldus Cambrensis about the year 1200.
These four works with variations, additions, and dilutions, formed the
staple of romantic fiction in verse in the Dark Ages.
The minor songs and ballads which were called forth by passing events
were usually amorous, sportive, gay, and often gross, yet suited to a
rude age.
Ellis in his specimens of the early English poets has given us sketches
of one hundred and sixty-one writers of songs from the year 1230 to
1650, after a careful search through this whole period for literary
gems. The first edition of his work consisted almost entirely of love
songs and sonnets; the revised edition has greater variety; but our
circle of ideas is so enlarged, our habits are so different from those
of by-gone centuries, that we look over this rare collection of old
poems, rather to learn the manners of the people, than to enjoy the
diction of their songs. We cannot doubt that this species of poetry
excited an important influence when it was the staple of popular
education and amusement.
A maxim is current among us which has been successively ascribed to many
great thinkers, which shows the value usually set on compositions of
this kind. It is this: "Let me make the songs of a people and I care not
who makes their laws."
A ballad is a story in verse whose incidents awaken the sympathies and
excite the passions of those who listen. The song is designed to express
deep emotion, joy or sorrow, hope or fear and appeals directly to the
feelings. Here, often, the singing is more than the sentiment; the tones
of the chanter are often more touching than the thoughts of the Emperor.
A national ode must have a national element in it; it must reflect the
passions that burn in the people's breasts. Local topics, too, may call
forth a general interest when they describe trials or triumphs which all
may share. Says Carlyle: "In a peasant's death-bed there may be the
fifth act of a tragedy. In the ballad which details the adventures and
the fate of a partisan warrior or a love-lorn knight,--the foray of a
border chieftain or the lawless bravery of a forrester; a Douglass, or a
Robin Hood,--there may be the materials of a rich romance. Whatever be
the subject of the song, high or low, sacred or secular, there is this
peculiarity about it, it expresses essentially the popular spirit, the
common sentiment, which the rudest breast may feel, yet which is not
beneath the most cultivated. It is peculiarly the birth of the popular
affections. It celebrates some event which the universal heart clings
to, which, for joy or sorrow, awaken the memories of every mind." Hence
we learn the history of a nation's heart from their songs as we learn
their martial history from their armor.
The oldest song, set to music, which is now known is the following:
"Summer is y-comen in,
Loude sing cuckoo:
Groweth seed,
And bloweth mead,
And springeth the wood now;
Sing Cuckoo!
Ewe bleateth after lamb,
Lowth after calf cow;
Bullock starteth,
Buck resteth
Merry sing cuckoo!
Cuckoo, Cuckoo!
Well sings thou cuckoo!
Ne swick thou never now."
The old ballads seem to have no paternity. They spring up like flowers,
spontaneously. Most of them are of unknown date and unknown authorship.
The structure, language, and spelling of many have been so modified, by
successive reciters, that their original form is now lost. We have a
short summary of King Arthur's history, the great hero of romance, in a
comparatively modern ballad. I will quote it:
Of Brutus' blood, in Brittane born,
King Arthur I am to name:
Through Christendome and Heathynesse
Well known is my worthy fame.
In Jesus Christ I doe beleeve;
I am a Christyan born:
The Father, Sone and Holy Gost
One God I doe adore.
In the four hundreed nintieth yeere
Over Brittaine I did rayne,
After my Savior Christ his byrth:
What time I did maintaine.
The fellowshippe of the table round
Soe famous in those days;
Whereatt a hundred noble Knights
And thirty sat alwayes;
Who for their deeds and martiall feates,
As bookes dou yet record,
Amongst all other nations
Wer feared through the world.
And in the castle of Tayntagill,
King Uther me begate
Of Agyana, a bewtyous ladye,
And come of hie estate.
And when I was fifteen yeer old,
Then was I crowned Kinge;
All Brittaine that was att an uprore
I did to quiett bring
And drove the Saxons from the realme,
Who had oppressed this land;
All Scotland then throughe manly feates
I conquered with my hand.
Ireland, Denmarke, Norway,
These countryes won I all
Iseland, Getheland and Swothland;
And mad their kings my thrall
I conquered all Galya,
That now is called France;
And slew the hardye Froll in Field
My honor to advance,
And the ugly gyant Dynabus
Soe terrible to vewe,
That in Saint Barnard's Mount did lye,
By force of armes, I slew;
And Lucyus, the emperor of Rome
I brought to deadly wracke;
And a thousand more of noble knightes
For feare did turn their backe;
Five kings of "Haynims" I did kill
Amidst that bloody strife;
Besides the Grecian emperor
Who also lost his liffe.
Whose carcasse I did send to Rome
Cladd pourlye on a beete;
And afterward I past Mount Joye
The next approaching yeer.
Then I came to Rome where I was mett
Right as a conquerer
And by all the cardinalls solempnelye
I was crowned an emperor.
One winter there I mad abode;
Then word to mee was brought
Howe Mordred had oppressed the crown;
What treason he had wrought.
Att home in Brittaine with my queene:
Therefore I came with speed
To Brittaine back with all my power
To quitt that traterous deede.
And soon at Sandwich I arrivde
Where Mordred me withstoode.
But yett at last I landed there
With effusion of much blood.
Thence chased I Mordred away
Who fledd to London right,
From London to Winchester, and
To Comeballe took his flight.
And stile I him pursued with speed
Tile at the last wee mett:
Uhevby an appointed day of fight
Was there agreed and sett
Where we did fight of mortal life
Eche other to deprive,
Tile of a hundred thousand men
Scarce one was left alive.
There all the noble chevalrye
Of Brittaine took their end
Oh see how fickle is their state
That doe on feates depend.
There all the traiterous men were slaine
Not one escapte away
And there dyed all my vallyant knights
Alas! that woful day!
Two and twenty yeere I ware the crown
In honor and grete fame;
And thus by deth[4] suddenlye
Deprived of the same.
Some distinguished English critics, like Warton and Dr. Warburton,
maintain that the materials as well as the taste for romantic fiction
were derived almost exclusively from the Arabians. They assume therefore
that the traditions, fables and mode of thought in Northern Asia from
whence the Scandinavians and Germans are supposed to have originated,
were identical with those which the secluded people of Arabia afterwards
incorporated into their literature. It is more natural to assume that
there is always a similarity in the mythologies, as in the manners,
religion, and armor of rude ages and races. Respect for woman was a
characteristic of the northern nations of Europe, and not of the
Mohammedans. This is an all pervading element in romantic and chivalric
fiction. The Northmen believed in giants and dwarfs; in wizzards and
fairies; in necromancy and enchantments; as well as the Oriental
natives. It is reasonable, therefore, to assume that the immense tide of
song which inundated Europe from the eleventh to the sixteenth century,
under the form of metrical romances, ballads, and songs, was made up of
confluent streams from classical, Oriental, and Gothic mythologies. The
Troubadours of Province (from Provincia, by way of eminence), the
legitimate successors of the Latin citharcedi, the British bards, the
northern scalds, the Saxon gleemen, and English harpers, all contributed
in turn to form English minstrelsy and French romance. The Latin tongue
ceased to be spoken in France about the ninth century. The new language
used in its stead was a mixture of bad Latin and the language of the
Franks. As their speech was a medley, so was their poetry. As the songs
of chivalry were the most popular compositions in the new or Romance
language, they were called Romans, or Romants. They appeared about the
eleventh century. The stories of Arthur and his round table are
doubtless of British origin. It is evident that the Northmen had the
elements of chivalry in them long before that institution became famous,
as is shown by the story of Regner Lodbrog, the celebrated warrior and
sea king, who landed in Denmark about the year 800. A Swedish Prince had
intrusted his beautiful daughter to the care of one of his nobles who
cruelly detained her in his castle under pretence of making her his
wife. The King made proclamation that whoever would rescue her should
have her in marriage. Regner alone achieved her rescue. The name of the
traitorous man was Orme, which in the Islandic tongue means a serpent,
hence the story that the maiden was guarded by a dragon, which her bold
deliverer slew. The history of Richard I. is full of such romantic
adventures. Shakespeare, in his play of King John, alludes to an exploit
of Richard in slaying a lion, whence the epithet "Coeur de Lion,"
which is given in no history. He says:
"Needs must you lay your heart at his dispose
Against whose furie and unmatched force,
The aweless lion could not wage the fight
Nor keep his princely heart from Richard's hand:
He that perforce robs lions of their hearts
May easily winne a woman's."
This allusion is fully explained in the old romance of Richard Coeur de
Lion. The King travelling as "a palmer in Almaye," from the Holy Land,
was seized as a spy and imprisoned. Being challenged to a trial of
pugilism by the King's son, he slew him. The King to avenge his son's
death let in a hungry lion upon the royal prisoner. The King's daughter,
who loved the captive, sent him forty ells of white silk "kerchers" to
bind about him as a defence against the lion's teeth and claws. The
romance thus proceeds:
The kever-chefes he toke on hand,
And aboute his arme he wonde;
And thought in that ylke while
To slee the lyon with some gyle
And syngle in a kyrtyle he strode
And abode the lyon fyers and wode,
With that came the jaylere,
And other men that with him were
And the lyon them amonge;
His pawes were stiffe and stronge.
His chamber dore they undone
And the lyon to them is gone
Rycharde aayd Helpe Lord Jesu!
The lyon made to him venu,
And wolde him have alle to rente:
Kynge Rycharde beside hym glente
The lyon on the breste hym spurned
That about he turned,
The lyon was hongry and megre,
And bette his tail to be egre;
He loked about as he were madde,
He cryd lowde and yaned wyde.
Kynge Richarde bethought him that tyde
What hym was beste, and to him sterte
In at the thide his hand he gerte,
And rente out the beste with his hond
Lounge and all that he there fonde.
The lyon fell deed on the grounde
Rycharde felt no wem ne wounde.
On such fictitious incidents in the romances of past ages, Shakespeare
undoubtedly built many of his dramas. The story of Shylock in the
Merchant of Venice is found in an old English ballad. I will quote a few
stanzas to indicate the identity of Shylock and "Germutus, the Jew of
Venice."
The bloudie Jew now ready is
With whetted blade in hand
To spoyle the bloud of innocent,
By forfeit of his bond,
And as he was about to strike
In him the deadly blow;
Stay, quoth the judge, thy crueltie
I charge thee to do so.
Sith needs thou wilt thy forfeit have
Which is of flesh a pound;
See that thou shed no drop of bloud
Nor yet the man confound
For if thou do, like murderer
Thou here shall hanged be;
Likewise of flesh see that thou cut
No more than longs to thee;
For if thou take either more or lesse
To the value of a mite
Thou shall be hanged presently
As is both law and right.
It is reasonable to suppose the miser thereupon departed cursing the law
and leaving the merchant alive.
There is, also, a famous ballad called "King Leir and His Daughters,"
which embodies the story of Shakespeare's tragedy of _Lear_. It
commences thus:
So on a time it pleased the king
A question thus to move,
Which of his daughters to his grace
Could show the dearest love;
For to my age you bring content,
Quoth he, then let me hear,
Which of you three in plighted troth
The kindest will appear.
To whom the eldest thus began;
Dear father, mind, quoth she
Before your face to do you good,
My blood shall render'd be:
And for your sake, my bleeding heart
Shall here be cut in twain
Ere that I see your reverend age
The smallest grief sustain.
And so wilt I the second said;
Dear father for your sake
The worst of all extremities
I'll gently undertake.
And serve your highness night and day
With diligence and love;
That sweet content and quietness
Discomforts may remove.
In doing so you glad my soul
The aged king replied:
But what sayst thou my youngest girl
How is thy love ally'd?
My love quoth young Cordelia then
Which to your grace I owe
Shall be the duty of a child
And that is all I'll show.
This honest pledge the King despised and banished Cordelia. The ballad
accords with the drama in the catastrophe. Both have the same moral and
the same characters. The ballad is doubtless the earlier form of the
story. Possibly the minstrel and dramatist may have borrowed from a
common source. Good thoughts, good tales and noble deeds, like well-worn
coins, sometimes lose their date and must be estimated by weight. Ballad
poetry is written in various measures and with diverse feet. The rhythm
is easy and flows along trippingly from the tongue with such regular
emphasis and cadence as to lead instinctively to a sort of sing-song in
the recital of it. Ballads are more frequently written in common metre
lines of eight and six syllables alternating. Such is the famous ballad
of "Chevy Chace,"[5] which has been growing in popular esteem for more
than three hundred years. Ben Jonson used to say he would rather have
been the author of it than of all his works. Sir Philip Sidney, in his
discourse on poetry, says of it: "I never heard the old song of Percy
and Douglass that I found not my heart more moved than with a trumpet."
Addison wrote an elaborate review of it in the seventieth and
seventy-fourth numbers of the _Spectator_. He there demonstrates
that this old ballad has all the elements in it of the loftiest existing
epic. The moral is the same as that of the Iliad:
"God save the king and bless the land
In plenty, joy and peace
And grant henceforth that foul debate
Twixt noblemen may cease."
Addison, in Number 85 of the _Spectator_, also commends that
beautiful and touching ballad denominated "The Children in the Wood." He
observes, "This song is a plain, simple copy of nature, destitute of the
helps and ornaments of art. The tale of it is a pretty, tragical story
and pleases for no other reason than because it is a copy of nature." It
is known to every child as a nursery song or a pleasant story. A stanza
or two will reveal its pathos and rhythm. The children had been
committed by their dying parents to their uncle:
The parents being dead and gone
The children home he takes,
And brings them straite unto his house
Where much of them he makes.
He had kept these pretty babes
A twelve month and a daye
But for their wealth he did desire
To make them both away
An assassin is hired to kill them; he leaves them in a deep forest:
These pretty babes with hand in hand
Went wandering up and downe;
But never more could see the man
Approaching from the town:
Their pretty lippes with black-berries
Were all besmeared and dyed
And when they saw the darksome night
They sat them down and cried.
Thus wandered these poor innocents
Till death did end their grief,
In one another's armes they dyed
As wanting due relief;
No burial this pretty pair
Of any man receives
Till robin red-breast piously
Did cover them with leaves.
There is a famous story book written by Richard Johnson in the reign of
Elizabeth, entitled, "The Seven Champions of Christendom."[6]
The popular English ballad of "St. George and the Dragon," is founded on
one of the narratives of this book, and the story in the book on a still
older ballad, or legend, styled "Sir Bevis of Hampton." This, too,
resembles very much Ovid's account of the slaughter of the dragon by
Cadmus. In the legend of Sir Bevis the fight is thus described:
"Whan the dragon that foule is
Had a sight of Sir Bevis,
He cast yo a loud cry
As it had thondered in the sky,
He turned his belly toward the sun
It was greater than any tonne;
His scales was brighter than the glas,
And harder they were than any bras
Betwene his sholder and his tayle
Was 40 fote without fayle,
He woltered out of his denne,
And Bevis pricked his stede then,
And to him a spere he thraste
That all to shivers he it braste.
The dragon then gan Bevis assayle
And smote Syr Bevis with his tayle
Then down went horse and man
And two rybbes of Bevis brused than."
Suffice it to say the knight at last conquered and the monster was
slain. The same story is repeated in the ballad of "St. George and the
Dragon," with variations. There a fair lady is rescued:
"For, with his lance that was so strong,
As he came gaping in his face,
In at his mouth, he thrust along,
For he could pierce no other place;
And thus within the lady's view
This mighty dragon straight he slew."
The martial achievements of this patron saint of the "Knights of the
Garter" are considered apocryphal, and, in 1792, it required an octavo
volume by Rev. J. Milner to prove his existence at all. Emerson says he
was a notorious thief and procured his prelatic honors by fraud.
The English history is to a considerable extent embodied in the national
songs. Opinions, prejudices, and superstitions, however, are oftener
embodied in them than facts. This species of literature has been very
potent for good or ill in revolutionary times. Kings and parties have
been both marred and made by them. The martial spirit, in all ages, has
been kindled by lyrics; national victories have been celebrated by them;
and by them individual prowess has been immortalized.
The English people were famous for their convivialty and periodical
festivals such as May Day, New Years, sowing-time, sheep-shearing,
harvest home, corresponding to our Thanksgiving and Christmas. All these
occasions were enlivened with songs and tales. The Christmas carol and
story are famous in England's annals. Scott says:
"All hail'd with uncontroll'd delight
And general voice the happy night,
That to the cottage as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down.
'Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale
'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
The poor man's heart through half the year."
[Footnote 3: Ritson and Bishop Percy speak of different ages: one
describing the rise and the other the decline of minstrelsy.]
[Footnote 4: The song makes Arthur record his own death.]
[Footnote 5: 7th vol. Child's British Poets.]
[Footnote 6: Childs British Poets, I: 139 and 149.]
* * * * *
BOOK REVIEWS.
ORIENTAL RELIGIONS AND THEIR RELATION TO UNIVERSAL RELIGION. By SAMUEL
JOHNSON, with an introduction by O.B. FROTHINGHAM. _Persia_,
Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1885.
This is the third volume of the series, and was not quite completed at
the time of Mr. Johnson's death in 1882. The other volumes, on
_India_ and _China_, created much interest in the world of
religious and ethnical study, a prominent London publisher and
literateur saying to a friend of the present writer that nothing more
would need to be written of China for the next quarter of a century. Max
Muller testified to the high value of Mr. Johnson's work.
In the study of the various religions, the author finds in each some
peculiar manifestation of the universal religious sentiment. In Southern
Asia he clearly sees nature almost absorbing the individual and hence a
pantheistic vagueness and vastness in which man does not realize a
complete sense of personality. But in the North and West the same
Tudo-European race comes to a self-conscious individuality and there is
the "evolution and worship of personal will." Mr. Johnson's first
chapter on "Symbolism" brings out this epoch of will development as
illustrated by the Persians,--the human soul impressing itself upon the
material world--and finding outside itself natural emblems to express
its religious life. "Symbolism is mediation between inward and outward,
person and performance, man and his environment." "Work is the image man
makes of himself on the world in and through nature." Mr. Johnson finds
the personal element becoming supreme in these people of Northern and
Western Asia.
Perhaps there has never been so philosophical and satisfactory a
treatment of the Fire-Symbol, which, however, our author says is not
peculiar to the religion of Persian Zoroaster, as we find in Mr.
Johnson's chapter under that head. As light, heat, cosmic vital energy,
astronomical centre, as all producing and all sustaining force, the sun
and the other burning and brilliant objects lighted therefrom, furnish
very much of the symbolism of all religions. "The Sun of Rightousness"
is a favorite figure with Jew and Christian. It is doubtless as
incorrect to characterize the Persians as "fire worshipers" as it would
be to say that Christians, who use the same symbol, give their worship
to the symbol rather than the Being symbolized. Still our author finds
this emblem a very important one in the religion of the followers of
Zoroaster and thinks he detects a progress in thought and civilization
marked by the coming of the people to give religious regard to the sun
and heavenly bodies, instead of fire kindled by human hands--a new
stability of being corresponding with the passage of early people's art
of nomadic or shepherd life into agriculture with its fixed abodes and
domestic associations.
The two deities of the Zend Avesta, Ormuzd and Ahriman, the good and the
evil in perpetual conflict, could not have been conceived of in Southern
Asia where the human will is kept under, and where self-consciousness is
so moderately developed. This battle is in the Avestan faith and morals
largely in the human breast, and is the same that Paul is conscious of
in the combat he describes between himself and sin that was in him. The
Avestan _Morals_ are brought out by Mr. Johnson in their original
and exceeding purity.
But the larger sweep of Mr. Johnson's purpose carries him into an
exhaustive and most interesting consideration of Persian influence upon
the Hebrew faith and thought--through the conquests of Cyrus and
Alexander--and through Maurchæism and Gnosticism--down to Christendom.
Mahometanism is, in our author's mind, the culmination of the religion
of personal will, and he devotes many glowing and instructive pages to
bringing out the meaning and heart of the religion of Islam, especially
in its later and in its more spiritual developments. The final object of
the volume is to show the relation of the religion of personal will to
universal religion.
Of course our author has not been foolish and unfair enough to portray
the perversions and lapses of this particular type of Oriental faith and
ethics; but his aim has been to set forth its essential principles and
to show how they spring from the universal root.
The study of comparative religions, and hence of the universal religion,
is one of the characteristics and glories of our time. Once every people
despised, as a religious duty, every nation and every religion but its
own, and sword and fagot were employed, as under divine command, to
exterminate all strange manifestations of religious sentiment. Now the
advance guard of civilization is giving itself to devout and thankful
study of all the religions under the sure impression that they will
prove to be one in origin and essence: and so a sweeter human sympathy
and a more complete unity are beginning to be realized among men.
No man has in most respects been better fitted for this study than was
the lamented author of these books. Mr. Johnson was almost or quite "a
religious genius," with an enthusiasm of faith in the invisible and the
idea, which few men have ever shown; and his devoutness was equalled by
his catholicity. His religious lyrics enrich our Christian psalmody,
while his published discourses, mingling philosophical light with fervor
of a transcendent faith in God and man, rank among the grandest
utterances from the American pulpit and platform. No American can afford
to miss the power and influence of such a mind; and no student of
religion should fail to have in his possession Johnson's _Persia_.
S.C. BEANE.
* * * * *
"THE OVERSHADOWING POWER OF GOD. A synopsis of a new philosophy
concerning the nature of the soul of man, its union with the animal
soul, and its gradual creation through successive acts of overshadowing
and the insertion of shoots, to its perfection in Jesus the Christ; with
illustrations of the inner meaning of the Bible, from the Hebrew roots;
offering to the afflicted soul the way of freedom from inharmony and
disease. By HORACE BOWEN, M.D.; transcribed in verse by Sheridan Wait,
with chart and illustrations by M.W. Fairchild. Vineland, N.J. New Life
Publishing Co., 1883."
This book of Dr. Bowen's opens into a field of thought that has
heretofore mostly escaped the survey of theologians and philosophers:
classes that are supposed to be in pursuit of essential truth concerning
both God and man. Its leading aim seems to be to present a reliable clew
to those truths by an unusual interpretation of the Scriptures as a
revelation of creative order. The author stands with a comparatively
small class of ardent explorers who have come to see "the light of the
world" under a new radiance; a radiance that actually gives it the
breadth and power of its claim.
Dr. Bowen's personal career in coming to this light, as related in the
preface, is full of interest; and this preface is impressively wrought
with the system of creative law that he aims to outline, and that the
verse of Mr. Wait labors to elaborate. This author is firmly loyal to
the sacred Scriptures as divine revelation, and, as such, he aims to
show that, in their inmost sense, they systematically unfold the
creative process, which consists of divine operations in the human soul
by which, through varied series of growth, it becomes fully conjoined
to, and illuminated with creative life--the light and life of Jesus, the
Christ. The process from Adamic to Christ states of soul, Dr. Bowen
finds was effected through successive births by "the overshadowing power
of God;" so the immaculate conception of the virgin, that gave "the
highest" full embodiment in Jesus Christ was simply a revelation of the
ultimation of creative power in outward realms; as such, "was the
completion of the plan for the creation of man, through a serial
gradation of over-shadowings, or the sowing of seed and the insertion of
shoots"--this "individual case being but the universal method of God in
creation."
Dr. Bowen goes on to show the relation and bearing of this ultimate
order of creative life in the human form to the mental and physical
conditions of man, and holds it to be the saving term to our human
nature, in all respects.
The body of the book, consisting of nearly five hundred pages of "verse"
by Mr. Wait, is an ingenious elaboration of the principles and forms of
this order, especially as it is found held in the Hebraic Roots,
throughout the incomparable system of divine revelation. But,
indisputably, the treatise would have been far more forcible and
impressive if it had been dressed with the direct and vigorous style
shown by the author in his preface. Not the least in significance in
this remarkable publication is a pocketed chart by Miss Fairchild. But
the whole must be perused and pondered in order to give proper
impressions of its real value. To the mind of the writer of this brief
notice, the book will greatly aid the struggling thought of this
manifestly transitional era, in that it points so distinctly to the
oncoming theological science that is to effect a complete revolution in
prevailing conceptions of creative order.
W.H.K.
* * * * *
PHILOSOPHIÆ QUESTOR: or Days in Concord. By JULIA R. ANAGNOS. Boston:
D. Lothrop and Company.
This is a little book--only sixty pages--but it is entirely unique in
its plan and style. Its purpose is to give an outline sketch of two
seasons of the School of Philosophy. To secure this purpose, the author
has taken as "a sort of half heroine the shadowy figure of a young
girl;" and, as seen to her, the proceedings of the school are sketched.
Most of the persons and places have fictitious names; Mr. Alcott is
called "Venerablis;" Concord, "Harmony;" the school, "the Acadame." Mr.
Emerson retains his real name; the girl, who observes and writes, is
"Eudoxia."
One who opens the book will be apt to read it through, not as much for
its real value as for its quaint style and sometimes beautiful
expressions.
* * * * *
EDITOR'S TABLE.
Of all the nearly two-score states together forming the American Union,
no one surpasses the Commonwealth of Massachusetts in the extent and
variety of her historical resources. Two hundred and sixty-five years
ago the Mayflower and her companion craft sighted the rock-bound coast
of New England as they sailed into Massachusetts Bay. That event marks
the beginning of a history which, to us of the present generation,
stands unequalled in the richness of its coloring. While the history of
the Colonial period is cold and unpoetic in many of its aspects, it also
contains an element of romance not to be overlooked. Truly, it is not
the romance of ancient Rome, nor of the castle-bordered Rhine, nor of
Merrie Old England; it is a romance growing out of a life in a new
world; a life attended--almost made up, even, of conflicts with a
strange race of savage people, and conflicts with hunger, cold, and
sometimes famine. The events of this early Colonial life, tragic as they
often are, carry with them an interest which is almost enchanting.
When, as children, we read those tales from the old school reading book,
or heard them recited as we sat at grandfather's knee, what pictures
impressed themselves on our eager minds! The log meeting-house, and
before it the stacked muskets and pacing sentinel; the dusky savage
faces hiding behind every tree; the midnight assault: the lurid fire,
and the brandished tomahawk--these are pictures that have sometimes come
with startling vividness to our youthful imaginations. And then our
fancies have seen the so-called witches of Salem, the sudden arrest, the
hurrying to the jail and perhaps to the gallows.
To the older mind, these realities of the past have a deep and
ever-growing interest. The later periods of the Colony, the period of
the Revolution and the period immediately following, are increasingly
fertile in materials for the historian, the essayist, and the novelist.
To bring out into clearer light, to present in forms adapted to the mass
of readers, and to arouse a more lively interest in this history,
especially the romantic element of it, is one leading aim and intent of
this magazine. There are in existence various magazines devoted to New
England history, and which are of great value to the student and the
antiquary. The BAY STATE MONTHLY is not only this, it is a magazine
for the people; and throughout this State, and no less in many
others,--offsprings of this old Commonwealth,--it has received and
awaits a still more generous reception.
* * * * *
The custom of observing the anniversaries of the incorporation of towns
and cities in New England has become well established. In Massachusetts
there are a very few towns which have reached so important an epoch in
their history, as the quarter millennial of their corporate existence.
Several have celebrated their bi-centennials, while hardly a year passes
without the observance of one or more centennial anniversaries.
The custom is strongly to be commended, for it serves an important
historical purpose. It is especially true in New England that every
town, no matter how small, has an important place in the general
history, and the perpetuity of this history, it hardly needs to be said,
is a matter of great importance to this and succeeding generations. This
is being done most effectually by means of these publicly-observed
anniversaries. An event of this kind draws together the residents of the
town, and many others who are connected with its history by their early
life or ancestry. The occasion calls forth an historical address
prepared by some native of the town, who has attained distinction in
professional or public life--and what New England town cannot boast of
its distinguished son--and, at the same time, arrangements are made for
a published history of the town. These historical sketches are of great
value and, collectively, they contain the true history of the people.
The humble historian of the little town down on the Cape or up among the
hills of Berkshire, may not be a Prescott, a Motley or a Bancroft, but,
in his smaller sphere, he is performing a service no less valuable than
that of the historian of nations. In many of these local histories are
to be found events of highly-romantic interest, while some of them have
been the starting point of real romances stronger than fiction. But
their chief value is in their faithful portrayal of the lives of those
earlier generations whose relations with our lives are so well worthy of
study. That there is at present a much more general interest in this
kind of history than there was fifty, or even twenty years ago, is
evident; and as the towns of this State successively arrive at their
important anniversaries, the written history of Massachusetts will grow
more and more complete.
The annual meeting of the Massachusetts Historical Society took place in
the society's room, April 9, the Honorable Robert C. Winthrop in the
chair.
It was greatly regretted that Mr. Winthrop felt compelled to decline
serving as President for a longer term, and a tribute to his
distinguished services in this office was offered in the remarks of Mr.
Saltonstall. Mr. Winthrop's reply was most appropriate; and in it he
spoke of the distinguished men who had honored the membership of the
society within the term of his presidency extending over the last
forty-five years.
The following officers were elected for the ensuing year: President,
Rev. G.E. Ellis, D.D.; Vice Presidents, Charles Deane, LL.D., Francis
Parkman, LL.D.; Recording Secretary, Rev. Edward J. Young, A.M.;
Corresponding Secretary, Justin Winsor, A.B.; Treasurer, Charles E.
Smith, Esq.; Librarian, Honorable Samuel A. Green, M.D.; Cabinet-keeper,
Fitch Edward Oliver, M.D.; Executive Committee of the Council, William
W. Greenough, A.B., Honorable Samuel C. Cobb, Abbott Lawrence, A.M.,
Abner C. Goodell, A.M., Honorable Mellen Chamberlain, I.L.B.
The one hundred and tenth anniversary of the battle of Lexington was
fittingly observed in that town on the 19th of April. The citizens, with
many visitors, united in celebrating that memorable event, the very
thought of which must ever stir the soul of every patriotic American. At
the exercises in the evening at the Lexington Town Hall, Governor
Robinson delivered a brief oration. The closing words are as follows:
"The story of eloquence is breathed in the associations of the spot. You
feel the inspirations that come out of the place and you know full well
in your heart the depth of the lesson it teaches. Now, has it failed in
these recent years? When the call came again to the men of Lexington to
stand for the welfare of the Union there were no laggards. So shall it
be that the people reading the story of the past will bring up all to
that standard which was set so high. Slavery of the human form may not
now be tolerated. Despotism may not triumph. The shackles may have
fallen from men's bodies. But still, forms of bondage control the
actions of thinking men, and so the battle is before the men who love
their liberty and appreciate it. And so, as of old, they shall find the
God above leading them on, and when the great victory of all is
accomplished, when man treats his brother man in perfect equality--not
in theory, but in truth--it will certainly be in recognition of God's
leadership of his people, and then the grand Te Deum should be chanted
that should make the welkin ring with rejoicing."
Among the few towns in Massachusetts which were founded so long as two
hundred and fifty years ago, the town of Newbury is one. On the tenth
day of June next, its quarter-millennial anniversary will be celebrated.
The occasion will be one of great interest. The address will be given by
President Bartlett of Dartmouth College. John G. Whittier, who is
descended from the old Greenleaf family of Newbury, is expected to
furnish a poem, and George Lunt, who read the ode at the celebration
fifty years ago, will provide one for this occasion. It is regretted
that James Russell Lowell, who is a lineal descendant from a noted
Newbury family, cannot take part in the exercises. But the gathering
will be a notable one, and there will be no lack of historical
reminiscences.
The one-hundredth anniversary of the incorporation of the town of Heath,
Franklin. County, Massachusetts, is to be observed on the nineteenth of
August next. Previous to 1785, Heath was a part of Charlemont. The town
is rich in historic events and is the birthplace of many men and women
of note.
At the centennial celebration, addresses will be delivered by Rev. C.E.
Dickinson of Marietta, Ohio, and John H. Thompson, Esq., of Chicago,
Illinois; and a poem will be given by Mrs. C.W. McCoy of Columbus,
Georgia.
The town has chosen the following committee to have charge of the
arrangements: O. Maxwell, Chairman; William S. Gleason, William M.
Maxwell, Charles D. Benson; Charles B. Cutler, Corresponding Secretary.
* * * * *
End of Project Gutenberg's The Bay State Monthly, Volume 3, No. 2, by Various