In by-gone ages built and planned

By sainted Manu's princely hand,

Imperial seat! her walls extend

Twelve measured leagues from end to end;

Three in width, from side to side

With square and palace beautified.

Her gates at even distance stand,

Her ample roads are wisely planned.

Right glorious is her royal street,

Where streams allay her dust and heat.

On level ground in even row

Her houses rise in goodly show.

Terrace and palace, arch and gate

The queenly city decorate.

High are her ramparts, strong and vast,

By ways at even distance passed,

With circling moat both deep and wide,

And store of weapons fortified.

This monarch (Dasaratha), a descendant of the moon, was sixty thousand

years old when the story begins. Although his reign had already

extended over a period of nine thousand years,--during which his

people had enjoyed such prosperity that it is known as the Age of

Gold,--the king, still childless in spite of having seven hundred and

fifty concubines, decided to offer a great horse sacrifice

(asvatmedha) in hopes of obtaining a son, to celebrate his funeral

rites and thereby enable him to enter heaven.

In order to perform the ceremony properly, a horse had to be turned

out to wander at will for a year, constantly watched by a band of

priests, who prevented any one laying a hand upon him, for, once

touched, the animal was unfit to be offered up to the gods. This horse

sacrifice having been duly performed, the happy rajah was informed by

the gods that four sons would uphold his line, provided he and three

of his wives quaffed the magic drink they gave him.

Having thus granted the rajah's prayer, the lesser gods implored their

chief Indra to rid them of the demons sent by Ravana, the Satan of the

Hindus. This evil spirit, by standing on his head in the midst of five

fires ten thousand years in succession, had secured from Brahma a

promise that no god, demon, or genius should slay him. By this

extraordinary feat he had also obtained nine extra heads with a full

complement of eyes, ears, and noses, hands and arms. Mindful of his

promise, Brahma was at a loss to grant this request until he

remembered he had never guaranteed Ravana should not be attacked by

man or monkey. He, therefore, decided to beg Vishnu to enter the body

of a man and conquer this terrible foe, while the lesser gods helped

him in the guise of monkeys.

"One only way I find

To slay this fiend of evil mind.

He prayed me once his life to guard

From demon, god, and heavenly bard,

And spirits of the earth and air,

And I, consenting, heard his prayer.

But the proud giant in his scorn

Recked not of man of woman born;

None else may take his life away

And only man the fiend can slay."

At Brahma's request, Vishnu not only consented to become man, but

elected to enter the body of the rajah's oldest son--one of the four

children obtained in answer to prayer. Meantime he charged his fellow

gods diligently to beget helpers for him, so they proceeded to produce

innumerable monkeys. The poem next informs us that Rama, son of the

Rajah's favorite wife, being a god,--an incarnation of Vishnu,--came

into the world with jewelled crown and brandishing four arms, but

that, at his parents' request, he concealed these divine attributes,

assumed a purely human form, and cried lustily like a babe. Two other

wives of the rajah, having received lesser portions of the divine

beverage, gave birth to three sons (Bharata, Lakshmana, and

Satrughna), and the news that four heirs had arrived in the palace

caused great rejoicings in the realm.

These four princes grew up in the most promising fashion, Rama in

particular developing every virtue, and showing even in childhood

marked ability as an archer. Such was his proficiency in athletic

sports that a hermit besought him, at sixteen, to rid his forest of

the demons which were making life miserable for him and his kin. To

enable Rama to triumph over these foes, the hermit bestowed upon him

divine weapons, assuring him they would never fail him.

"And armed with these, beyond a doubt,

Shall Rama put those fiends to rout."

The hermit also beguiled the weariness of their long journey to the

forest by relating to Rama the story of the Ganges, the sacred stream

of India. We are told that a virtuous king, being childless, betook

himself to the Himalayas, where, after spending a hundred years in

austerities, Brahma announced he should have one son by one of his

wives and sixty thousand by the other, adding that his consorts might

choose whether to bear one offspring or many. Given the first choice,

the favorite wife elected to be the mother of the son destined to

continue the royal race, while the other brought into the world a

gourd, wherein a hermit discovered the germs of sixty thousand brave

sons, all of whom, thanks to his care, grew up to perform wonders in

behalf of their father and brother.

On one occasion, a horse chosen for sacrifice having been stolen, the

father despatched these sixty thousand braves in quest of it, and, as

they were not able to discover any traces of it on earth, bade them

dig down to hell. Not only did they obey, but continued their search

until they struck in turn the four elephants on whose backs the Hindus

claim our earth peacefully reposes. Here the diggers disturbed the

meditations of some god, who, in his anger, burned them up. The poor

father, anxious to purify the ashes of his dead sons, learned he would

never be able to do so until the Ganges--a river of heaven--was

brought down to earth. By dint of penance and prayer, the bereaved

parent induced Vishnu to permit this stream--which until then had only

flowed in heaven--to descend to earth, warning the king that the

river, in coming down, would destroy the world unless some means were

found to stem the force of its current. Our clever rajah obviated this

difficulty by persuading the god Siva to receive the cataract on the

top of his head, where the sacred waters, after threading their way

through his thick locks, were divided into the seven streams which

feed the sacred springs of India. Thus safely brought to earth, the

Ganges penetrated to hell, where it purified the ashes of the sixty

thousand martyrs, and ever since then its waters have been supposed

to possess miraculous powers.

For sin and stain were banished thence,

By the sweet river's influence.

The hermit also told how the gods procured the Water of Life (Amrita)

by churning the ocean, saying they used Mount Meru as a dasher, and a

huge serpent as the rope whereby to twirl it around.

Led by this hermit, Rama not only slew the ravaging monsters, but went

on to take part in a tournament, where King Janak offered his

daughter, Sita, in marriage to any archer who would span a bow he had

obtained from Siva. On arriving at the place where this test was to be

made, Rama saw the huge bow brought forth on a chariot drawn by five

thousand men, and, although no one else had even been able to raise

it, took it up and bent it until it broke with a crack which terrified

all present. By this feat young Rama won the hand of Sita, a beautiful

princess, whom her father turned up from the soil while ploughing one

day, and who is hence the Hindu personification of Spring.

The wedding of Rama and Sita was honored by the presence of both

kings, and Rama's three brothers were made as happy as he by receiving

the hands of three of Sita's sisters, the father telling each

bridegroom:

"A faithful wife, most blest is she,

And as thy shade will follow thee."

When the four bridal couples returned to Oude, Rama's father decided

to name his eldest son assistant king, and therefore gave orders to

prepare for the ceremony. The mere rumor that Rama was about to be

crowned aroused the jealousy of the king's youngest wife (Kaikeyi),

who, instigated by an evil-minded, hunch-backed maid, sent for her

aged spouse and reminded him how once, when he was ill, he had

promised in return for her care to grant any two boons she asked. The

infatuated monarch, seeing her grief, rashly renewed this promise,

swearing to keep it by Rama's head.

As some wild elephant who tries

To soothe his consort as she lies

Struck by the hunter's venomed dart,

So the great king, disturbed in heart,

Strove with soft hand and fond caress

To soothe his darling queen's distress,

And in his love addressed with sighs

The lady of the lotus eyes.

Hearing him confirm his former oath, the favorite wife bade him banish

his heir to the forest for fourteen years and appoint her son as

viceroy in his brother's stead. In vain the old king pleaded; the

favorite wife insisted so vehemently that when morning dawned the

bewildered old rajah sent for Rama to ask his advice. Although this

prince fully expected to be crowned that day, he was far too virtuous

not to perceive that a promise must be kept at any cost, so without a

murmur he prepared to go to the forest of Dandaka and dwell there in

hermit garb fourteen years.

"The orders of my sire," he cried,

"My will shall ne'er oppose:

I follow still, whate'er betide,

The path which duty shows."

His first duty, however, was to return to his palace to inform his

wife that they must part; but, on hearing what had occurred, Sita

piteously begged to share his fate, although he eloquently described

the hardships to which she would be exposed should she venture to

accompany him. Her wifely devotion was, however, proof against all he

could urge, for she declared with tears there was no happiness for her

save at his side.

"With thee is heaven, where'er the spot;

Each place is hell where thou are not."

Hearing this declaration, Rama finally consented to take her with him,

and, bidding farewell to father and mother, left the city,

accompanied by his wife and favorite brother (Lakshman) and escorted

by his mourning subjects.

His father, broken-hearted at parting with his favorite son, took to

his bed, which he was never to leave again confiding to Rama's mother

that he was being sorely punished for a sin of his youth. It seems

that, while out hunting one night, hearing a gurgle by a stream, and

fancying some wild beast was there drinking, he let fly a shaft, which

only too surely reached its goal. Startled by a human cry, the rajah

rushed down to the river, only to discover that he had mortally

wounded a youth who had come down to draw water for his blind parents.

"Then in the dusk I heard the sound of gurgling water;

Quickly I took my bow, and, aiming toward the sound, shot off the dart.

A cry of mortal agony came from the spot,--a human voice

Was heard, and a poor hermit's son fell pierced and bleeding in

the stream."

Before dying this lad implored his slayer to hasten back to the

hermitage with water, as the old people were longing for a drink. On

hearing footsteps, the blind parents peevishly reproached their son

for tarrying, and, when the unfortunate murderer tried to explain what

had occurred, cursed him vehemently, declaring he would some day

experience the loss of a son. It was, therefore, in fulfilment of this

curse that the old rajah died thirteen days after Rama's departure.

Meantime the banished prince, riding in one of his father's chariots,

had reached the junction of the Jumna and Ganges, where he spent the

first night of his exile beneath a banyan on the banks of the sacred

stream. There he built a raft, by means of which he crossed to the

other side, and from there sadly watched his faithful subjects wending

homeward. Then he plunged into the forest, arranging that Sita should

always tread its narrow paths between him and his brother, to make

sure no harm befall her.

The Indian poet now favors us with a wonderful description of the

tropical forest, with its huge trees, brilliant flowers, strange birds

and monkeys, all of which gives the reader a vivid impression of the

color, beauty, perfume, and luxuriance of the tropics.

On rocky heights beside the way

And lofty trees with blossoms gay;

And streamlets running fair and fast,

The royal youths and Sita passed.

The exiles, wandering thus in single file, finally arrived at

Citra-kuta, where they joined a colony of hermits and built a rustic

booth, where they dwelt happily for some time. One day the rumor of a

coming host roused their curiosity, and Lakshman, descrying a long

procession from the top of a high tree, excitedly warned Rama that his

brother was probably coming to annihilate them.

Rama, who always ascribes good motives to every one, now declares it

is impossible this should be true, and feels sure his brother is

coming for some affectionate purpose. Greeting Bharata kindly,

therefore, he soon discovers his previsions are correct, for the young

prince, after announcing his father's death, implores Rama to return

and reign over Oude. Not only does he protest he will never supplant

his senior, but reviles his mother for having compelled her husband to

drive Rama into exile.

Although all present unite in his entreaties, Rama, too virtuous to

break a promise, decides to remain in the forest the allotted fourteen

years and resume his regal state only at the end of that time. He adds

that during his banishment he will live in such a fashion that his

exile will prove a blessing to his people.

"Many a blessing yet will spring

From banished Rama's wanderings."

This decided, Rama urges his brother to act meanwhile as vice-regent;

whereupon Bharata, taking Rama's golden sandals, proclaims they alone

shall occupy the throne beneath the royal umbrella, although he

consents to rule in his brother's name. This settled, the gorgeous

procession slowly wends its way back to Oude, where for fourteen years

every one does homage to Rama's golden sandals!

Meantime life in the hermitage continues its peaceful course, the

royal ascetics being disturbed only by the demons (Rakshasas) who

haunt the forest and try to injure the hermits, simply because they

are good. Sita is perfectly happy in this humble home because she

enjoys the constant presence of her husband, who, taking her one day

to visit an aged female ascetic, implores this woman to bestow a boon

upon his faithful spouse. The old woman then and there endowed Sita

with eternal youth and beauty, declaring that no matter what hardships

she encounters, she will always be as dainty and young as at present.

One of the female demons finally becomes so anxious to win Rama's

love, that she disguises herself as a beautiful creature in hopes of

fascinating him. Angry because all her efforts fail, she next tries to

injure Sita, whereupon Rama, by cutting off her nose and ears, forces

her to resume her usual shape. In her anger this demon bids her

brothers avenge her wrongs, whereupon fourteen fiends attack Rama,

who, having slain them all, is almost immediately afterward forced to

face thousands of demons. He defeats them single-handed, while his

brother watches over Sita, hidden in a neighboring cave.

Such a trifle as the massacre of twenty-one thousand of his fiends in

three hours' time, naturally enrages Ravana, whose abode is in Ceylon,

in a golden palace which has such high walls that no one can peep over

them. This king of demons, who is also called the "Courage of the

Three Worlds," has the power of increasing his stature until he can

reach up to the stars with his score of arms. Owing to his ten heads,

his appearance is terrifying, especially as his eyebrows are composed

of live black snakes which writhe around continually. No sooner does

his sister appear before him, reporting she has been mutilated by

Rama, who has besides slain hosts of his subjects, than Ravana swears

revenge, adding he will first kidnap Sita, for his sister's

description of her matchless charms has fired his imagination.

In his golden chariot Ravana, therefore, flies to the forest, where he

bids his sister change herself into a wonderful deer, and in that

shape lure Rama away, so he can abduct Sita. The three hermits are,

therefore, calmly seated before their hut when a deer darts past,

exhibiting so unusual a pelt that Sita, fired with the desire to

possess it, urges Rama to pursue it. To gratify this whim, Rama starts

out to track this game, calling to his brother to mount guard over his

wife during his absence. Lured farther and farther away from home,

Rama finally brings down his quarry, which, in falling, calls for help

in a voice so exactly like his own that his brother, hearing the

despairing accent, is torn between the desire to rush to his rescue

and the necessity of remaining to protect Sita. But the little wife,

sure her husband is in danger, so vehemently urges her brother-in-law

to leave her that he finally dashes off. A moment later Sita sees an

old hermit draw near to ask alms. While she is entertaining this holy

guest, he frightens her by suddenly announcing that he is Ravana, king

of the demons. As Sita resists all his advances, Ravana, suddenly

resuming his wonted shape, snatches her up in his arms and whisks her

off in his flying chariot. Notwithstanding the rapidity of his course,

the king of the vultures, seeing them dart through the air and hoping

to rescue the frantic Sita, attacks Ravana, only to fall mortally

wounded to earth. Because Sita--the personification of vegetation--has

now been abducted by the demon,--who typifies winter,--the whole earth

shows signs of mourning, and the two brothers hurry back to the hut,

their hearts filled with nameless apprehensions.

Like streamlet in the winter frost,

The glory of her lilies lost.

With leafy tears the sad trees wept

As a wild wind their branches swept.

Mourned bird and deer; and every flower

Drooped fainting round the lovely bower.

The sylvan deities had fled

The spot where all the light was dead.

Reaching their hermitage and finding their worst fears justified, both

brothers set out in quest of Sita, and soon come across the dying

vulture, who reports what he has seen, and bids them, after burning

his body, find the monkey king, Sugriva, who will aid them. After

piously fulfilling the brave vulture's last wishes, Rama and his

brother visit the monkey monarch, who reports that, as the demon flew

over his head, Sita flung down a few of her ornaments, begging that

they be taken to Rama. An alliance is now concluded between Rama and

Sugriva, and, as each party pledges himself to help the other, Rama

begins by slaying the brother and chief foe of the monkey king, who in

his turn undertakes to trace Sita.

To discover where she may be, Hanuman, the monkey general, sets out,

and, following Sita's traces, discovers she has been carried to

Ceylon. But, on arriving at the southern point of the Indian peninsula

and finding some two hundred miles of water between him and this

island, Hanuman, son of the god of the winds, transforms himself into

a huge ape, and in that shape takes a flying leap from the top of

Mount Mandara (the fabled centre of the earth) to the top of Mount

Sabula, which overlooks the capital of Ceylon. Then, reconnoitring

from this point, the monkey general perceives that Ravana's palace is

so closely guarded that he can only steal into it in the guise of a

cat. Prowling through the royal premises, he searches for Sita until

he finally discovers her in a secluded garden, bitterly mourning for

her spouse.

In spite of the fact that she has already been some time in the

demon's power, Ravana has not yet succeeded in winning her affections,

and dares not force her lest he incur the wrath of the gods. It is

evident, however, that his patience is worn nearly threadbare, for

Hanuman overhears him threaten to chop Sita to pieces unless she will

yield to his wishes and become his wife within the next two months.

"My cooks shall mince thy limbs with steel

And serve thee for my morning meal."

When Sita is left alone, Hanuman, in the guise of a tiny monkey,

climbs down to her side, exhibits Rama's ring, which he has brought as

a token, and receives from her in return a jewel, after he has assured

her that she will soon be delivered.

About to leave Ceylon to report what he has seen, it occurs to the

monkey general to do some damage to the foe. In the guise of an

immense baboon, he therefore destroys a grove of mango trees, an act

of vandalism which so infuriates Ravana that he orders the miscreant

seized and fire tied to his tail! But no sooner has the fire been set

than the monkey general, suddenly transforming himself into a tiny

ape, slips out of his bonds, and scrambling up on the palace roof sets

it on fire as well as all the houses in Lanka, his flaming tail

serving as a torch.

As earth with fervent heat will glow

When comes her final overthrow;

From gate to gate, from court to spire,

Proud Lanka was one blaze of fire,

And every headland, rock, and bay

Shone bright a hundred leagues away!

Then, satisfied with the damage he has done, Hanuman hastens back to

the sea-shore, whence by another prodigious leap he lands in India, to

inform Rama and Sugriva (the monkey king) of the success of his

expedition.

A huge monkey army now sets out under Rama's guidance, but general and

warriors are equally dismayed on reaching the sea to find an

unsurmountable obstacle between them and their goal. In answer to

Rama's fervent prayers, however, the god of the sea, rising from the

waves, promises that any materials cast into his waters will be held

in place, to form a bridge whereby they can cross to Ceylon. All the

monkeys now bring stones and tree trunks which they hurl into the sea,

where, thanks to the efforts of the Hindu architect Nala, they are

welded together and form a magic bridge. It is by means of this

causeway that Rama invades Ceylon, and, when Ravana hears the foe is

approaching, he musters an army, of which the poem gives a wonderful

description. Then begins the dire combat wherein Rama and his forces

finally prove victorious, and wherein our hero, after slaying Ravana's

son, fights with the demon himself, whose heads he proceeds to cut

off. He is justly dismayed, however, to see they have the power of

springing up again as soon as hewn, until remembering at last his

magic bow, he makes such good use of it that he annihilates the demon,

whose numerous wives wail as he falls.

Although many of Rama's adherents have perished in battle, he now

proceeds to call them back to life, and graciously receives the praise

they bestow upon him for having rid the world of demons.

Soft from celestial minstrels came

The sound of music and acclaim;

Soft, fresh and cool, a rising breeze

Brought odors from the heavenly trees;

And, ravishing the sight and smell,

A wondrous rain of blossoms fell;

And voices breathed round Reghu's son,

"Champion of gods, well done, well done."

It is only then that Rama consents to see Sita, who, thanks to her

gift of eternal beauty, is still so lovely that all present are awed.

But, instead of embracing her, Rama coldly declares that, although he

crossed the seas for her sake and slew her foes, she is no longer

worthy to dwell in his sight since she has been an inmate of Ravana's

harem. In vain Sita urges that she has been faithful throughout. Rama

refuses to credit her purity; so the poor little wife, preferring

death to disgrace, begs permission to die on a funeral pyre. Even then

her stern husband shows no signs of relenting, but allows her to

enter a fierce fire, whence the god of the flames bears her out

unharmed, and restores her to her husband, declaring that, as her

chastity has withstood this fiery test, he can receive her without

compunction.

She ceased and, fearless to the last,

Within the flames' wild fury passed.

By this time the prescribed fourteen years of exile are finished, so

husband and wife set out for home, crossing the ocean bridge in

Ravana's magic car, and flying all over India, of which the poet gives

a wonderful panoramic description. Rama's return to Oude is joyfully

welcomed by his brother, who proudly shows him the golden sandals

which have occupied the throne all this time.

Rama's reign proves an Age of Gold for India, but, although all seem

happy, some doubt lingers in regard to the propriety of Sita's return.

When a famine finally devastates the land, one of the ministers

assures Rama this scourge is due to the fact that he has taken back a

guilty wife. Rama, therefore, banishes the faithful Sita, who returns

to the forest and to the protection of the hermits, where she gives

birth to twin sons, Kusa and Lava, the destined singers of Válmikí's

wonderful song. These youths are, however, brought up in the forest in

total ignorance of their august descent.

Twenty years have passed since Rama repudiated his wife, when he

decides to offer a horse sacrifice. But, the steed he selects having

been captured by two young men, Rama angrily orders them put to death.

As the victims resist all efforts to seize them, the king in person

goes forth to capture them. On approaching near enough, he haughtily

demands their names and origin, whereupon the youths rejoin their

mother is Sita and their tutor Válmikí, but that they do not know

their father's name. These words reveal to Rama that he is face to

face with his own sons, but, although he rejoices, he still finds it

difficult to believe Sita can have been faithful. He, therefore, avers

that before reinstating her she will have to undergo a second trial

by fire; but Sita, who no longer feels any desire to belong to so

heartless a spouse, flatly refuses to accompany him, until Válmikí

informs her it is a wife's duty to obey.

Still wearing the crown of eternal youth and beauty, Sita now appears

before Rama, in whose presence she implores the earth to open and

receive her, thus proving that she has ever been true to her marriage

vows and saving her from further suffering. A moment later the king

and his court see the earth heave and open, and behold the goddess of

the earth, who, taking Sita by the hand, announces she is about to

convey her to realms of eternal bliss. Then Sita and the goddess

disappear, the earth closes once more, and the gods chant the praises

of the faithful wife, showering flowers upon Rama, who grovels on the

ground in his agony. A broken-hearted man, he then returns to his

palace with his two sons, the first to sing this poem, whose verses

are so sacred that those who listen to a few of them are forgiven many

sins, while those who hear the whole epic are sure to achieve

Paradise.

He shall be

From every sin and blemish free:

Whoever reads the saving strain,

With all his kin the heavens shall gain.

Because the poem is so sacred, its author enjoined upon the youths to

recite it often, a task they faithfully performed as long as they

lived, and which other bards have continued until to-day in all parts

of India.

Recite ye this heroic song

In tranquil shades where sages throng;

Recite it where the good resort,

In lowly home and royal court.

We are told besides that--

As long as mountain ranges stand

And rivers flow upon the earth,

So long will this Ramayana

Survive upon the lips of men.

Rama is finally visited by the God of Time, who offers him the choice

of remaining on earth or returning to heaven. When he wisely choses

the latter alternative, Rama is bidden bathe in sacred waters, and

thence is translated to the better world.

From this poem Tulsi Das has composed a play known as the "Ram Charit

Manas," which serves as Bible to a hundred million worshippers in

northern India, and is always played at the yearly festivals in the

presence of countless admirers.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 41: The quotations in this chapter are taken from Griffeth's

translation and from Romesh Dutt's.]

THE MAHABHARATA

The longest poem in existence is composed in Sanscrit, and, although

begun before the Ramayana, it was completed only about one hundred

years after. It consists of some two hundred and twenty thousand

lines, divided into eighteen sections (parvans), each of which forms a

large volume. Although the whole work has never been translated into

English verse, many portions of it have been reproduced both in verse

and prose.

The Hindus consider this one of their most sacred books, attribute its

authorship to Vyasa, and claim that the reading of a small portion of

it will obliterate sin, while the perusal of the whole will insure

heavenly bliss. Its name signifies "the great war," and its historical

kernel,--including one-fifth of the whole work,--consists of an

account of an eighteen days' battle (in the thirteenth or fourteenth

century B.C.) between rival tribes. The poem is, besides, a general

repository of the mythological, legendary, and philosophical lore of

the Hindus, and reached its present state of development only by

degrees and at the end of several centuries.

Bharata, the real founder of the principal Indian dynasty, is so

famous a character, that the Hindus often designate their whole

country as "the land of Bharata." We are told that Rajah Dushyanta, a

descendant of the Moon, while hunting one day beheld the beautiful

Sakuntala, daughter of a sage, whom he persuaded to consent to a

clandestine marriage. But, after a short time, the bridegroom

departed, leaving his bride a ring as a pledge of his troth.

Absorbed in thoughts of her absent lover, Sakuntala once failed to

notice the approach of a sage, who cursed her, saying she should be

forgotten by the man she loved, but who relenting after a while

declared this curse would be annulled when her husband beheld his

ring.

Some time after this, on the way to rejoin her spouse to inform him

she was about to become a mother, Sakuntala, while bathing in a sacred

pool, accidentally dropped this ring. On appearing without it before

Dushyanta, he sternly denied all acquaintance with her and ordered her

driven out into the jungle, where she soon gave birth to their son

Bharata.

The lad was about six years old when a fisherman found in the stomach

of a fish the lost ring, which he carried to the rajah. On beholding

this token, Dushyanta, remembering all, hastened to seek poor

Sakuntala, whom he discovered in the jungle, watching her boy

fearlessly play with lion cubs. Proud of such a son, the rajah bore

his family home; and Bharata, after having a long reign, gave birth to

Hastin, founder of Hastinapur, a city on the bank of the Ganges about

sixty miles from the modern Delhi.

A grandson of this Hastin married the Goddess of the Ganges,--who was

doing penance on earth,--and their children were animated by the souls

of deities condemned for a time to assume human form. In order to

enable these fellow-gods to return to heaven as soon as possible,

Ganga undertook to drown each of her babies soon after birth, provided

the gods would pledge themselves to endow one of her descendants with

their strength, and would allow him to live, if not to perpetuate his

species.

After seeing seven of his children cast into the water without daring

to object, the rajah, although he knew his goddess-wife would leave

him if he found fault with anything she did, protested so vehemently

against the similar disposal of his eighth son that his wife

disappeared with the child. But a few years later this son, Bhishma,

the terrible, having grown up, was restored to his father.

To comfort himself for the loss of his first wife, the king now

married the beautiful daughter of a fisherman, solemnly promising her

son should succeed him, for Bhishma voluntarily relinquished all right

to the throne and took a vow to remain celibate. The new wife's main

attraction seems to have been a sweet odor, bestowed by a saint, who

restored her virginity after she had borne him a son named Vyasa, the

author of this poem.

By the Rajah the fishermaid now had two sons, one of whom was slain at

the end of a three years' fight, while the other began his reign under

the wise regency of Bhishma. When it was time for his royal

step-brother to marry, Bhishma sent him to a Bride's Choice

(Swayamvara), where three lovely princesses were to be awarded to the

victor. Without waiting to win them fairly, the young prince kidnapped

all three, and, when the disappointed suitors pursued him, Bhishma

held them at bay by shooting ten thousand arrows at once, and thus

enabled his step-brother and brides to escape.

Although thus provided with three royal wives, our prince was soon

deserted by one of them and was never fortunate enough to have

children by the two others. After he had died, custom required that

his nearest kinsman should raise issue for him, so,--owing to

Bhishma's vow,--Vyasa, who was fabulously ugly, undertook to visit the

two widows. One of them, catching a glimpse of him, bore him a blind

son (Dhritarashtra), while the other was so frightened that she bore a

son of such pale complexion that he was known as Pandu, the White.

Neither of these youths being deemed perfect enough to represent

properly the royal race, Vyasa announced he would pay the widows

another visit, but this time they hired a slave to take their place,

so it was she who brought into the world Vidura, God of Justice.

Because one prince was blind and the other the offspring of a slave,

the third was set upon his throne by his uncle Bhishma, who in due

time provided him with two lovely wives.

With these the monarch withdrew to the Himalayas to spend his

honeymoon, and while there proved unfortunate enough to wound a couple

of deer who were hermits in disguise. In dying they predicted he would

perish in the arms of one of his wives, whereupon Pandu decided to

refrain from all intercourse with them, graciously allowing them

instead to bear him five sons by five different gods. These youth,

known in the poem as the sons of Pandu, the Pandavs (or the Pandavas),

are the main heroes of India. As a prediction made by an ascetic was

bound to come true, the king, momentarily forgetting the baleful

curse, died in the embrace of his second wife, who, in token of grief,

was burned with his remains, this being the earliest mention of a

suttee.

Meantime the blind prince had married a lady to whom a famous ascetic

had promised she should be mother to one hundred sons! All these came

into the world at one birth, in the shape of a lump of flesh, which

the ascetic divided into one hundred and one pieces, each of which was

enclosed in a pot of rarefied butter, where these germs gradually

developed into one hundred sons and one daughter.

As long as Pandu sojourned in the Himalayas, the blind prince reigned

in his stead, but when he died, his surviving widow brought to the

capital (Hastinapur) her five divine sons, the Pandavs. There the

blind uncle had them brought up with their cousins, the hundred Kurus

(or Kauravas), with whom, however, they were never able to live in

perfect peace. Once, as the result of a boyish quarrel, a Kuru flung

Bhima, one of the Pandavs, into the Ganges, where, instead of sinking,

this hero was inoculated by serpent-bites with the strength of ten

thousand elephants before he returned to his wonted place at home.

The young princes, who had all been trained to fight by their tutor,

Drona, and who had already given sundry proofs of their proficiency in

arms, were finally invited by the blind monarch to give a public

exhibition of their skill. The poem gives us a lengthy description of

this tournament, expatiating on the flower-decked booths reserved for

the principal spectators, and dilating particularly on the fact that

the blind monarch, unable to see with, his own eyes, made some one sit

beside him to describe all that was going on.

After the preliminary sacrifice offered by the tutor, the skill of the

princes, as archers, was tested on foot, on horseback, in howdahs, and

in chariots; then they indulged in mock fights with swords and

bucklers, closely watched by Drona, who pronounced his favorite

Arjuna, the third Pandav, the finest athlete ever seen.

Still the princes shook their weapons, drove the deep resounding car,

Or on steed or tusker mounted waged the glorious mimic war!

Mighty sword and ample buckler, ponderous mace the princes wield,

Brightly gleam their lightning rapiers as they range the listed field,

Brave and fearless is their action, and their movements quick and light,

Skilled and true the thrust and parry of their weapons flaming bright![42]

Thereupon, from the ranks of the spectators, emerged Karna, son of a

charioteer, who challenged Arjuna to fight with him, but the prince

refused on the score that they were not of equal rank. Still a legend

assures us that Karna was a child of the Sun-god, set afloat by his

mother on the river Jumna, whence this Hindu Moses, floating down into

the Ganges, was rescued and brought up by the charioteer, his reputed

father. Meantime the four Pandav brothers were greatly elated by the

eulogy bestowed upon their brother, but their jealous cousins became

so enraged that, when the time came for the youths to face each other

in club exercises, the sham battle degenerated into an earnest fight.

With ponderous mace they waged the daring fight.

As for a tender mate two rival elephants

Engage in frantic fury, so the youths

Encountered, and amidst the rapid sphere

Of fire their whirling weapons clashing wove

Their persons vanished from the anxious eye.

Still more and more incensed their combat grew,

And life hung doubtful on the desperate conflict;

With awe the crowd beheld the fierce encounter

And amidst hope and fear suspended tossed,

Like ocean shaken by conflicting winds.

Seeing this, the horrified tutor separated the contestants, whom he

soon after sent off separately to war against a neighboring rajah. In

this conflict the one hundred Kurus were badly worsted, while the five

Pandavs scored a brilliant triumph. They also subdued sundry other

kings, thereby so rousing the jealous hatred of their uncle and

cousins that these finally began to plot their death. The five Pandavs

and their mother were therefore invited to a feast in a neighboring

city (Allahabad), where the Kurus arranged they should be burned alive

in their booth. But, duly warned by the God of Justice, the Pandavs

had an underground passage dug from their hut to the forest, by means

of which they escaped, little suspecting that a beggar woman and her

five children--who had sought refuge in the empty hut--would be burned

to death there in their stead.

Disguised as Brahmans, the five brothers and their mother now dwelt

for a time in the jungle, where they proceeded to slay some demons, to

marry others, and to perform sundry astounding feats of strength. We

are told, for instance, that whenever the mother and brothers were

tired, the strongest of the Pandavs, Bhima, carried them all with the

utmost ease.

While in the jungle they were visited by their grandfather Vyasa, who

bade them attend the Bride's Choice of Draupadi, daughter of a

neighboring king, who--Minerva-like--came into the world full grown.

Human mother never bore her, human bosom never fed,

From the altar sprang the maiden who some prince will wed!

She was so beautiful that her father decided the suitor she favored

would have to prove himself worthy of her by spanning a bow which no

one as yet had been able to bend, and by sending an arrow through a

rapidly revolving wheel into the eye of a gold fish stationed beyond

it.

Owing to the extreme loveliness of Draupadi, many rajahs flocked to

the tournament to compete for her hand, and the five Pandavs betook

themselves thither in Brahman garb. After the preliminary exercises,

the beautiful princess--to whom all her suitors had been duly

named--gave the signal for the contest to begin. The mere sight of the

huge bow proved enough to decide several of the contestants to

withdraw, but a few determined to risk all in hopes of obtaining

Draupadi's hand. No man, however, proved able to bend the bow until

Arjuna stepped forward, begging permission to try his luck. While the

rajahs were protesting that no Brahman should compete, this Pandav

spanned the bow and sent five successive shafts straight to the goal,

amid the loud acclamations of all present.

He grasped the ponderous weapon in his hand

And with one vigorous effort braced the string.

Quickly the shafts were aimed and swiftly they flew;

The mark fell pierced; a shout of victory

Rang through the vast arena; from the sky

Garlands of flowers crowned the hero's head,

Ten thousand fluttering scarfs waved in the air,

And drum and trumpet sounded forth his triumph.

The beautiful princess, captivated by the goodly appearance of this

suitor, immediately hung around his neck the crown of flowers,

although the defeated rajahs muttered a mere Brahman should not aspire

to the hand of a princess. In fact, had not his four brothers, aided

by Krishna (a divine suitor), stood beside him, and had not the king

insisted there should be no fracas, the young winner might have had a

hard time. Then, as the princess seemed perfectly willing, the wedding

was celebrated, and the five brothers returned to the humble hut where

they lived on alms, calling out to their mother that they had won a

prize! On hearing these tidings, the mother--without knowing what the

prize was--rejoined, "Share it among you," an injunction which settled

for good and all that Draupadi should be common wife to all five. But

the legend adds that this came to pass mainly because the maiden had

prayed five times for a husband, and that the gods were answering each

of her prayers separately!

Shortly after this fivefold marriage,--which assured the Pandavs a

royal ally,--Bhishma persuaded the blind rajah--who had meantime

discovered his nephews were not dead--to give them one half of his

realm. Taking up their abode there, the Pandavs built the city of

Indraprastha (Delhi) on the banks of the Jumna, before they decided

that the eldest among them (Yudhishthira) should be king, the others

humbly serving as his escort wherever he went.

One day this eldest Pandav went to visit the eldest Kuru, a proficient

gambler, with whom he played until he had lost realm, brothers, wife,

and freedom! But, when the victor undertook to take forcible

possession of the fair Draupadi, and publicly stripped her of her

garments, the gods, in pity, supplied her with one layer of vesture

after another, so that the brutal Kuru was not able to shame her as he

wished. Furious to see the treatment their common wife was undergoing

at the victor's hands, the five Pandavs made grim threats, and raised

such a protest that the blind uncle, interfering, sent them off to the

forest with their wife for twelve years. He also decreed that, during

the thirteenth, all must serve in some menial capacity, with the

proviso that, if discovered by their cousins, they should never regain

their realm.

"'Tis no fault of thine, fair princess! fallen to this servile state,

Wife and son rule not their actions, others rule their hapless fate!

Thy Yudhishthir sold his birthright, sold thee at the impious play,

And the wife falls with the husband, and her duty--to obey!"

During the twelve years which the Pandavs spent in the forest, with

the beautiful and faithful Draupadi (who was once carried away by a

demon but rescued by one of her spouses), they met with sundry

adventures. Not only did they clear the jungle, rescue from cannibals

the jealous cousins who came to humiliate them, and perform other

astounding feats, but they were entertained by tales told by Vyasa,

among which are a quaint account of the Deluge, of the descent of the

Ganges, a recitation of the Ramayana, and the romance of Nala and of

Savitri, of which brief sketches are given at the end of this article.

All this material is contained in the "Forest Book," the third and

longest parvan of the Mahabharata, wherein we also find a curious

account of Arjuna's voluntary exile because he entered into Draupadi's

presence when one of his brothers was with her! To atone for this

crime, Arjuna underwent a series of austerities on the Himalayas, in

reward for which his father Indra took him up to heaven, whence he

brought back sundry weapons, among which we note Siva's miraculous

bow.

Meantime his four brothers and Draupadi had undertaken pious

pilgrimages to all the sacred waters of India, and had learned sundry

useful trades and arts, before they, too, visited the Himalayas. There

Arjuna joined them in Indra's chariot, and led them to the top of a

mountain, whence they beheld the glittering palace of Kuvera, God of

Wealth.

After the twelve years' sojourn in the jungle were ended, the Pandavs,

thanks to divine aid, entered the service of a neighboring king as

teachers of dice and music, as charioteer, cook, cow-herd, and maid.

There the five men and their wife remained for a whole year, without

being discovered by their enemies, and, toward the end of their

sojourn, rendered so signal a service to their master that he offered

his daughter in marriage to Arjuna. Although this prince virtuously

refused to accept her for himself, he bestowed her upon a son begotten

during his exile when he indulged in sundry romantic adventures.

Having completed their penance, the Pandavs returned home, to demand

of the Kurus the surrender of their realm. As these greedy cousins

refused to relinquish their authority, both parties prepared for war.

Seeing the Kurus had ten allies, the Pandavs became anxious to secure

some too. The most powerful person in the region being the rajah

Krishna, one of the Kurus hastened to his palace to bespeak his aid,

and, finding him asleep, seated himself at the head of the bed. A

moment later one of the Pandavs arrived, and modestly placed himself

at the foot of the sleeping monarch's couch. On awakening, Krishna, of

course, saw the Pandav first, but, after listening impartially to both

petitioners, informed them that one party should have the benefit of

his advice and the other the aid of his one hundred million soldiers.

The greedy Kuru immediately bespoke the use of the army, while the

Pandav was only too glad to secure the advice of Krishna (an

embodiment of all the gods), who throughout the war acted as Arjuna's

charioteer.

All preparations finished, the Great War (Mahabharata) began, the two

families pitted against each other meeting on the plain of Kurukshetra

(the modern Panipat) where the battle was fought. After many speeches,

and after erecting fortifications which bristled with defences and

were liberally stocked with jars of scorpions, hot oil, and missiles,

the two parties drew up rules of battle, which neither was to infringe

under penalty of incurring the world's execration.

Even nature now showed by unmistakable signs that a terrible conflict

was about to take place, and when the two armies--which the Hindus

claim numbered several billion men--came face to face, Krishna delayed

the fight long enough to recite with Arjuna a dialogue of eighteen

cantos called the Bhagavad-gita, or Divine Song, which contains a

complete system of Indian religious philosophy.

The Pandavs, having besought the aid of the monkeys, were informed

they would derive great benefit by bearing a monkey banner, so it was

armed with this standard that they marched on to victory.

The sons of Pandu marked the coming storm

And swift arrayed their force. The chief divine

And Arjuna at the king's request

Raised in the van the ape-emblazoned banner,

The host's conducting star, the guiding light

That cheered the bravest heart, and as it swept

The air, it warmed each breast with martial fires.

Throughout the war the Pandav forces were directed by the same

general, but their opponents had four. A moment after the first

collision, the sky was filled with whistling arrows, while the air

resounded with the neighing of horses and the roaring of elephants;

the plain shook, and clouds of dust, dimming the light of the sun,

formed a heavy pall, beneath which Pandavs and Kurus struggled in

deadly fight. This frightful conflict lasted eighteen days, the battle

always stopping at sunset, to enable the combatants to recover their

strength.

And ever and anon the thunder roared,

And angry lightnings flashed across the gloom,

Or blazing meteors fearful shot to earth.

Regardless of these awful signs, the chiefs

Pressed on to mutual slaughter, and the peal

Of shouting hosts commingling shook the world.

The Kurus' general, Bhishma, fell on the tenth day,--after a terrible

fight with Arjuna,--riddled with so many arrows that his body could

not touch the ground. Although mortally wounded, he lay in this state,

his head supported by three arrows, for fifty-eight days, and was thus

able to bestow good advice on those who came to consult him.

Darker grew the gloomy midnight, and the princes went their way;

On his bed of pointed arrows, Bhishma lone and dying lay.

He was succeeded as leader of the Kurus by the tutor Drona, who during

his five days' generalship proved almost invincible. But, some one

suggesting that his courage would evaporate should he hear his son was

dead, a cry arose in the Pandav ranks that Aswathaman had perished!

Unable to credit this news, Drona called to the eldest Pandav--who was

strictly truthful--to know whether it was so, and heard him rejoin it

was true in regard to the elephant by that name, but not of the man.

Said Yudhishthir: "Lordly tusker, Aswathaman named, is dead;"

Drona heard but half the accents, feebly dropped his sinking head!

The poor father, who heard only a small part of the sentence--the

remainder being drowned by the sound of the trumpets--lost all

courage, and allowed himself to be slain without further resistance.

The whole poem bristles with thrilling hand-to-hand conflicts, the

three greatest during the eighteen days' battle being between Karna

and the eldest Pandav, between the eldest Kuru and Bhima, and between

Karna and Arjuna. During the first sixteen days of battle, countless

men were slain, including Arjuna's son by one of his many wives.

Although the fighting had hitherto invariably ceased at sunset,

darkness on the seventeenth day failed to check the fury of the

fighters, so when the moon refused to afford them light they kindled

torches in order to find each other. It was therefore midnight before

the exhausted combatants dropped down on the battle-field, pillowing

their heads on their horses and elephants to snatch a brief rest so as

to be able to renew the war of extermination on the morrow.

On the eighteenth day--the last of the Great War--the soil showed red

with blood and was so thickly strewn with corpses that there was no

room to move. Although the Kurus again charged boldly, all but three

were slain by the enemies' golden maces. In fact, the fight of the day

proved so fierce that only eleven men remained alive of the billions

which, according to the poem, took part in the fight. But during that

night the three remaining Kurus stole into the Pandav camp, killed the

five sons which Draupadi had born to her five husbands, carried off

their heads, and laid them at the feet of the mortally wounded eldest

Kuru, who fancied at first his cousins had been slain. The battle

ending from sheer lack of combatants, the eldest Pandav ordered solemn

funeral rites, which are duly described in the poem.

Pious rites are due to foemen and to friends and kinsmen slain,

None shall lack a fitting funeral, none shall perish on the plain.

Then, no one being there to dispute it, he took possession of the

realm, always dutifully according precedence to his blind uncle, who

deeply mourned his fallen sons.

Wishing to govern wisely, the eldest Pandav sought the wounded

general, Bhishma,--who still lay on his arrowy bed in the

battle-field,--and who, having given him rules for wise government,

breathed his last in the presence of this Pandav, who saw his spirit

rise from his divided skull and mount to the skies "like a bright

star." The body was then covered with flowers and borne down to the

Ganges, where, after it had been purified by the sacred waters, it was

duly burned.

The new king's mind was, however, so continually haunted by the

horrors of the great battle-field that, hoping to find relief, he

decided to perform a horse sacrifice. Many chapters of the poem are

taken up in relating the twelve adventures of this steed, which was

accompanied everywhere by Arjuna, who had to wage many a fight to

retain possession of the sacred animal and prevent any hand being laid

upon him. Then we have a full description of the seventeen ceremonies

pertaining to this strange rite.

Victor of a hundred battles, Arjun bent his homeward way,

Following still the sacred charger free to wander as it may,

Strolling minstrels to Yudhishthir spake of the returning steed,

Spake of Arjun wending homeward with the victor's crown of meed.

Next we learn that the blind king, still mourning the death of his

sons, retired to the bank of the Ganges, where he and his wife spent

their last years listening to the monotonous ripple of the sacred

waters. Fifteen years after the great battle, the five Pandavs and

Draupadi came to visit him, and, after sitting for a while on the

banks of the sacred stream, bathed in its waters as Vyasa advised

them. While doing so they saw the wraiths of all their kinsmen slain

in the Great Battle rise from the boiling waters, and passed the night

in conversation with them, although these spirits vanished at dawn

into thin air. But the widows of the slain then obtained permission to

drown themselves in the Ganges, in order to join their beloved

husbands beyond the tomb.

"These and other mighty warriors, in the earthly battle slain,

By their valor and their virtue walk the bright ethereal plain!

They have cast their mortal bodies, crossed the radiant gate of heaven,

For to win celestial mansions unto mortals it is given!

Let them strive by kindly action, gentle speech, endurance long,

Brighter life and holier future unto sons of men belong!"

Then the Pandav brothers and their wife took leave of the blind king,

whom they were destined never to see again, for some two years later a

terrible jungle fire consumed both cottage and inmates. This death was

viewed by the Pandavs as a bad omen, as was also the destruction of

Krishna's capital because his people drank too much wine. Krishna

himself was slain by accident, while a hurricane or tidal wave

sweeping over the "city of Drunkenness" wiped it off the face of the

earth.

Having found life a tragedy of sorrow, the eldest Pandav, after

reigning thirty-six years, decided to abdicate in favor of Arjuna's

grandson, and to start on a pilgrimage for Mount Meru, or Indra's

heaven. As the Hindu universe consists of seven concentric rings, each

of which is separated by a liquid from the next continent, he had to

cross successive oceans of salt water, sugar-cane juice, wine,

clarified butter, curdled milk, sweet milk, and fresh water. In the

very centre of these alternate rings of land and liquid rises Mount

Meru to a height of sixty-four thousand miles, crowned by the Hindu

heaven, toward which the Pandav was to wend his way. But, although all

their subjects would fain have gone with them, the five brothers,

Draupadi, and a faithful dog set out alone in single file, "to

accomplish their union with the infinite."

Then the high-minded sons of Pandu and the noble Draupadi

Roamed onward, fasting, with their faces toward the east; their

hearts

Yearning for union with the Infinite, bent on abandonment

Of worldly things.

* * * * *

And by degrees they reached the briny sea;

They reached the northern region and beheld with heaven-aspiring

hearts

The mighty mountain Himavat. Beyond its lofty peak they passed

Toward a sea of sand, and saw at last the rocky Meru, king

Of mountains. As with eager steps they hastened on, their souls

intent

On union with the Eternal, Draupadi lost hold of her high hope,

And faltering fell upon the earth.

--_Edwin Arnold._

Thus during this toilsome journey, one by one fell, never to rise

again, until presently only two of the brothers and the dog were left.

The eldest Pandav, who had marched on without heeding the rest, now

explained to his companion how Draupadi sinned through excessive love

for her husbands, and that his fallen brothers were victims of pride,

vanity, and falsehood. He further predicted that the speaker himself

would fall, owing to selfishness, a prediction which was soon

verified, leaving the eldest Pandav alone with his dog.

On arriving, Indra bade this hero enter heaven, assuring him the other

spirits had preceded him thither, but warning him that he alone could

be admitted there in bodily form. When the Pandav begged that his dog

might enter too, Indra indignantly rejoined that heaven was no place

for animals, and inquired why the Pandav made more fuss about a

four-legged companion than about his wife and brothers. Thereupon the

Pandav returned he had no power to bring the others back to life, but

considered it cowardly to abandon a faithful living creature. The dog,

listening intently to this dialogue, now resumed his proper

form,--for it seems he was the king's father in a former birth,--and,

having become human once more, he too was allowed to enter Paradise.

Straight as he spoke, brightly great Indra smiled,

Vanished the hound, and in its stead stood there,

The lord of death and justice, Dharma's self.

--_Edwin Arnold._

Beneath a golden canopy, seated on jewelled thrones, the Pandav found

his blind uncle and cousins, but failed to discern any trace of his

brothers or Draupadi. He, therefore, refusing to remain, begged

Indra's permission to share their fate in hell; so a radiant messenger

was sent to guide him along a road paved with upturned razor edges,

which passed through a dense forest whose leaves were thorns and

swords. Along this frightful road the Pandav toiled, with cut and

mangled feet, until he reached the place of burning, where he beheld

Draupadi and his brothers writhing in the flames. Unable to rescue

them, the Rajah determined to share their fate, so bade his heavenly

guide return to Paradise without him. This, however, proved the last

test to which his great heart was to be subjected, for no sooner had

he expressed a generous determination to share his kinsmen's lot, than

he was told to bathe in the Ganges and all would be well. He had no

sooner done so than the heavens opened above him, allowing him to

perceive, amid undying flowers, the fair Draupadi and his four

brothers, who, thanks to his unselfishness, had been rescued from

hell.

The grandson of Arjuna reigned at Hastinapur until he died of a

snake-bite, and his son instituted snake sacrifices, where this epic

was recited by a bard who learned it from the mouth of Vyasa. There is

also a continuation of the poem in three sections called the

Harivamça, which relates that Krishna is an incarnation of Vishnu, and

describes his exploits and the future doom of the world.

THE STORY OF THE DELUGE

The detached stories in the Mahabharata are a quaint account of the

Deluge, where we learn that an ascetic stood for ten thousand years on

one leg, before a small fish implored him to save him from the big

ones in the stream. This ascetic placed the petitioner first in an

earthen vessel of water, then in a tank, then in the Ganges, "the

favorite spouse of the ocean," and finally in the sea, for this fish

rapidly outgrew each receptacle. On reaching the ocean, the fish

informed the ascetic, _with a smile_, that the dissolution of the

earth was near. He also bade him build an ark provided with a long

rope, told him to enter in it with seven other sages and seeds of

every kind, and promised to appear as a horned fish to save him from

destruction. When the flood came, the horned fish, seizing the rope,

dragged the ark to the top of the Himalayas, where it rested securely.

There it declared, "I am Brahma who saved you," and directed the

ascetic, aided by his learned companions, to recreate everything by

means of the seeds.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 42: The long line quotations are from the translation of

Romesh Dutt, those in short lines from Griffeth's.]

THE STORY OF NALA AND DAMAYANTI

The romantic story of Nala and Damayanti was told to comfort the

eldest Pandav for losing all he had while dicing. It seems that once,

while hunting, Nala released a golden bird, because it promised to win

for him the affections of Princess Damayanti. Pleased with this

prospect, Nala let the bird go, and watched it fly in the direction of

Damayanti's palace. There the bird, caught by the princess, praised

Nala so eloquently that Damayanti fell in love with him, and, in order

to meet him, announced she was about to hold a Bride's Choice. On his

way to this tournament, Nala met four gods, all anxious to marry the

beautiful princess, and they, after obtaining his promise to execute

their wishes, bade him steal unseen into the palace and bid the

princess choose one of them as a spouse.

The broken-hearted Nala, forced to sue for the gods, made known their

request to Damayanti, who declared she didn't intend to marry any one

but himself, as she meant to announce publicly at the Bride's Choice

on the morrow.

"Yet I see a way of refuge--'tis a blameless way, O king;

Whence no sin to thee, O rajah,--may by any chance arise.

Thou, O noblest of all mortals--and the gods by Indra led,

Come and enter in together--where the Swayembara meets;

Then will I, before the presence--of the guardians of the world,

Name thee, lord of men! my husband--nor to thee may blame accrue."

She was, however, sorely embarrassed on arriving there, to find five

Nalas before her, for each of the gods had assumed the form of the

young prince after the latter had reported what Damayanti had said.

Unable to distinguish between the gods and her lover, Damayanti prayed

so fervently that she was able to discern that four of her suitors

gazed at her with unwinking eyes, exuded no perspiration, and cast no

shadow, while the fifth betrayed all these infallible signs of

mortality. She, therefore, selected the real Nala, upon whom the four

gods bestowed invaluable gifts, including absolute control over fire

and water.

The young couple were perfectly happy for some time, although a wicked

demon (Kali)--who had arrived too late at the Bride's Choice--was

determined to trouble their bliss. He therefore watched husband and

wife in hopes of finding an opportunity to injure them, but it was

only in the twelfth year of their marriage that Nala omitted the

wonted ablutions before saying his prayers. This enabled the demon to

enter his heart and inspire him with such a passion for gambling that

he soon lost all he possessed.

His wife, seeing her remonstrances vain, finally ordered a charioteer

to convey her children to her father's, and they had barely gone when

Nala came out of the gambling hall, having nothing left but a garment

apiece for himself and his wife. So the faithful Damayanti followed

him out of the city into the forest, the winner having proclaimed that

no help should be given to the exiled king or queen. Almost starving,

Nala, hoping to catch some birds which alighted near him, flung over

them as a net his only garment. These birds, having been sent by the

demon to rob him of his last possession, flew away with the cloth,

calling out to him that they were winged dice sent by Kali.

Over them his single garment--spreading light, he wrapped them round:

Up that single garment bearing--to the air they sprang away;

And the birds above him hovering--thus in human accents spake,

Naked as they saw him standing--on the earth, and sad, and lone:

"Lo, we are the dice, to spoil thee--thus descended, foolish king!

While thou hadst a single garment--all our joy was incomplete."

Husband and wife now wander on, until one night Nala, arising softly,

cut his wife's sole garment in two, and, wrapping himself in part of

it, forsook her during her sleep, persuading himself that if left

alone she would return to her father and enjoy comfort. The poem gives

a touching description of the husband's grief at parting with his

sleeping wife, of her frenzy on awakening, and of her pathetic appeals

for her husband to return.

Then we follow Damayanti in her wanderings through the forest in quest

of the missing Nala, and see how she joins a company of hermits, who

predict that her sorrows will not last forever before they vanish, for

they are spirits sent to comfort her. Next she joins a merchant

caravan, which, while camping, is surprised by wild elephants, which

trample the people to death and cause a panic. The merchants fancy

this calamity has visited them because they showed compassion to

Damayanti, whom they now deem a demon and wish to tear to pieces. She,

however, has fled at the approach of the wild elephants, and again

wanders alone through the forest, until she finally comes to a town,

where, seeing her wan and distracted appearance, the people follow her

hooting.

The queen-mother, looking over the battlements of her palace and

seeing this poor waif, takes compassion upon her, and, after giving

her refreshments, questions her in regard to her origin. Damayanti

simply vouchsafes the information that her husband has lost all

through dicing, and volunteers to serve the rani, provided she is

never expected to eat the food left by others or to wait upon men.

Before she had been there very long, however, her father sends

Brahmans in every direction to try and find his missing daughter and

son-in-law, and some of these suspect the rani's maid is the lady they

are seeking. When they inform the rani of this fact, she declares, if

Damayanti is her niece, she can easily be recognized, as she was born

with a peculiar mole between her eyebrows. She, therefore, bids her

handmaid wash off the ashes which defile her in token of grief, and

thus discovers the birth-mole proving her identity.

Damayanti now returns to her father and to her children, but doesn't

cease to mourn the absence of her spouse. She, too, sends Brahmans in

all directions, singing "Where is the one who, after stealing half of

his wife's garment, abandoned her in the jungle?" Meantime Nala has

saved from the fire a serpent, which by biting him has transformed him

into a dwarf, bidding him at the same time enter the service of a

neighboring rajah as charioteer, and promising that after a certain

time the serpent poison will drive the demon Kali out of his system.

Obeying these injunctions, Nala becomes the charioteer of a

neighboring rajah, and while with him hears a Brahman sing the song

which Damayanti taught him. He answers it by another, excusing the

husband for having forsaken his wife, and, when the Brahman reports

this to Damayanti, she rightly concludes her Nala is at this rajah's

court.

She, therefore, sends back the Brahman with a message to the effect

that she is about to hold a second Bride's Choice, and the rajah,

anxious to secure her hand, asks his charioteer whether he can convey

him to the place in due time? Nala undertakes to drive his master five

hundred miles in one day, and is so clever a charioteer that he

actually performs the feat, even though he stops on the way to verify

his master's knowledge of figures by counting the leaves and fruit on

the branch of a tree. Finding the rajah has accurately guessed them

at a glance, Nala begs him, in return for his services as charioteer,

to teach him the science of numbers, so that when he dices again he

can be sure to win.

On arriving at the court of Damayanti's father, Nala is summoned into

the presence of his wife, who, although she does not recognize him in

his new form, insists he must be her spouse, for no one else can drive

as he does or has the power which he displays over fire and water. At

this moment the sway of the demon ends, and Nala, restored to his

wonted form, rapturously embraces his wife and children.

Even as thus the wind was speaking,--flowers fall showering all around:

And the gods sweet music sounded--on the zephyr floating light.

Then, thanks to his new skill in dicing, Nala recovers all he has

lost, and is able to spend the rest of his life in peace and happiness

with the faithful Damayanti.

THE STORY OF SAVITRI AND SATYAVAN

Once upon a time a king, mourning because he was childless, spent many

years fasting and praying in hopes that offspring would be granted

him. One day the goddess of the sun rose out of his sacrificial fire

to promise him a daughter, more beauteous than any maiden ever seen

before. The king rejoiced, and, when this child was born, every one

declared little Savitri the prettiest maiden ever seen. As she grew up

she became more and more beautiful, until all the surrounding kings

longed to marry her, but dared not propose. Seeing this, her father

conferred upon her the right to select her own spouse, and the

princess began to travel from court to court inspecting all the

marriageable princes. One day, in the course of these wanderings, she

paused beneath a banyan tree, where a blind old hermit had taken up

his abode. He was just telling the princess that he dwelt there with

his wife and son, when a young man appeared, bringing wood for the

sacrifice. This youth was Satyavan, his son, who was duly astonished

to behold a lovely princess.

On returning home, Savitri informed her father her choice was made,

for she had decided to marry the hermit's son! This news appalled the

king, because the prime minister assured him Satyavan--although son of

a banished king--was doomed to die at the end of the year.

Knowing the unenviable lot of a Hindu widow, the king implored Savitri

to choose another mate, but the girl refused, insisting she would

rather live one year with Satyavan than spend a long life with any one

else!

But Savitri replied:

"Once falls a heritage; once a maid yields

Her maidenhood; once doth a father say,

'Choose, I abide thy choice.' These three things done,

Are done forever. Be my prince to live

A year, or many years; be he so great

As Narada hath said, or less than this;

Once have I chosen him, and choose not twice:

My heart resolved, my mouth hath spoken it,

My hand shall execute;--this is my mind!"

--_Edwin Arnold._

So the marriage took place, and, because the hermit and his son had

vowed to remain in the jungle until reinstated in their realm, the

princess dwelt in their humble hut, laying aside her princely garments

and wearing the rough clothes hermits affect.

In spite of poverty, this little family dwelt happily beneath the huge

banyan tree, the princess rigidly keeping the secret that her husband

had but a year to live. Time passed all too swiftly, however, and as

the year drew toward an end the little wife grew strangely pale and

still, fasted constantly, and spent most of her time praying that the

doom of death might be averted. When the fatal day drew near, she was

so weak and faint she could hardly stand; but, when Satyavan announced

he was going out into the forest to cut wood, she begged to accompany

him, although he objected the way was far too rough and hard for her

tender feet. By dint of coaxing, however, Savitri obtained his

consent; so hand in hand she passed with her husband through the

tropical woods.

While Satyavan was felling a tree, he suddenly reeled and fell at her

feet, fainting. In a moment Savitri was bending over him, holding his

head in her lap and eagerly trying to recall life in his veins. While

doing so, she suddenly became aware of Yama, God of Death, with

blood-red clothes, cruel eyes, and the long black noose, with which he

snares the soul and draws it out of the body. In spite of Savitri's

pleading, he now drew out Satyavan's soul and started off with his

prize, leaving the youthful body pale and cold on the ground.

With that the gloomy god fitted his noose,

And forced forth from the prince the soul of him--

Subtile, a thumb in length--which being reft,

Breath stayed, blood stopped, the body's grace was gone,

And all life's warmth to stony coldness turned.

Then, binding it, the Silent Presence bore

Satyavan's soul away toward the South.

--_Edwin Arnold._

But the little wife, instead of staying with the corpse, followed

Yama, imploring him not to bear off her husband's soul! Turning

around, Yama sternly bade her go back, as no human mortal could tread

the road he was following, and reminding her that it was her duty to

perform her husband's funeral rites. She, however, insisting that

wherever Satyavan's soul went she would go too, painfully followed the

king of death, until in pity he promised to grant her anything she

wished, save her husband's soul. Thereupon Savitri begged that her

blind father-in-law might recover sight and kingdom, boons which Yama

immediately granted, telling Savitri to go and inform her

father-in-law so, for the way he had to tread was long and dark.

Weak and weary as she was, Savitri nevertheless persisted in following

Yama, until he again turned, declaring he would grant any boon, save

her husband's life, to comfort her. The little wife now begged her

father might have princely sons, knowing he had long desired an heir.

This favor, too, was granted, before Yama bade her go back to light

and life; but Savitri still insisted that was impossible, and that as

long as she lived she must follow her beloved!

Darkness now settled down on the forest, and although the road was

rough and thorny Savitri stumbled on and on, following the sound of

Yama's footsteps although she could no longer see him. Finally he

turned into a gloomy cavern, but she plodded on, until she so excited

his compassion that he promised her one more boon, again stipulating

it should not be the soul he held in his hand. When Savitri begged for

children,--sons of Satyavan,--Yama smiled and granted her prayer,

thinking he would now surely be rid of her at last. But Savitri

followed him on into the depths of the cavern, although owls and bats

made the place hideous with their cries. Hearing her footsteps still

behind him, Yama tried to frighten her away, but she, grasping the

hand which held her husband's soul, laid her tear-wet cheek against

it, thereby so touching the god's heart that he exclaimed, "Ask

anything thou wilt and it shall be thine."

Noticing this time that he made no reservation, Savitri joyfully

exclaimed she wished neither wealth nor power, but only her beloved

spouse! Conquered by such devotion, Death relinquished into her

keeping Satyavan's soul, and promised they should live happy together

and have many sons.

After securing this inestimable boon, Savitri hastened out of the cave

and back into the woods, where she found the lifeless corpse of her

husband just where she had left it, and proceeded to woo it back to

life. Before long warmth and consciousness returned to Satyavan, who

went home with Savitri, with whom he lived happy ever after, for all

the boons Yama had promised were duly granted.

"Adieu, great God!" She took the soul,

No bigger than the human thumb,

And running swift, soon reached her goal,

Where lay the body stark and dumb.

She lifted it with eager hands

And as before, when he expired,

She placed the head upon the bands

That bound her breast, which hope new fired,

And which alternate rose and fell;

Then placed his soul upon his heart,

Whence like a bee it found its cell,

And lo, he woke with sudden start!

His breath came low at first, then deep,

With an unquiet look he gazed,

As one awakening from a sleep,

Wholly bewildered and amazed.

--_Miss Toru Dutt._

CHINESE AND JAPANESE POETRY

WHITE ASTER

Epics as they are understood in Europe do not exist in either China or

Japan, although orientals claim that name for poems which we would

term idyls.

A romantic tale, which passes as an epic in both countries, was

written in Chinese verse by Professor Inouye, and has been rendered in

classical Japanese by Naobumi Ochiai. It is entitled "The Lay of the

Pious Maiden Shirakiku," which is The White Aster.

The first canto opens with an exquisite description of an autumn

sunset and of the leaves falling from the trees at the foot of Mount

Aso. Then we hear a temple bell ringing in a distant grove, and see a

timid maiden steal out weeping from a hut in the extremity of the

village to gaze anxiously in the direction of the volcano, for her

father left her three days before to go hunting and has not returned.

Poor little White Aster fears some harm may have befallen her sire,

and, although she creeps back into the hut and kindles a fire to make

tea, her heads turns at every sound in the hope that her father has

come back at last. Stealing out once more only to see wild geese fly

past and the rain-clouds drift across the heavens, White Aster

shudders and feels impelled to start in quest of the missing man. She,

therefore, dons a straw cloak and red bamboo hat, and, although night

will soon fall, steals down the village street, across the marsh, and

begins to climb the mountain.

Here the steep path winds with a swift ascent

Toward the summit:--the long grass that grew

In tufts upon the slopes, shrivelled and dry,

Lay dead upon her path;--hushed was the voice

Of the blithe chafers.--Only sable night

Yawned threatening from the vale.

While she is searching, the rain ceases and the clouds part, but no

trace of her missing father does she find. Light has gone and darkness

has already invaded the solitude, when White Aster descries a faint

red gleam through the trees and hears the droning voice of a priest

chanting his prayers. Going in the direction of light and sound, White

Aster soon approaches a ruined temple, standing in the midst of a

grove of cypress and camphor trees, amid bleached bones and mouldering

graves overhung by weeping-willows.

Her light footfall on the broken steps, falling upon the ear of the

recluse, makes him fancy some demon is coming to tempt him, so seizing

a light he thrusts it out of the door, tremblingly bidding the "fox

ghost" begone. In the East foxes being spirits of evil and having the

power to assume any form they wish, the priest naturally takes what

seems a little maiden for a demon. But, when he catches a glimpse of

White Aster's lovely innocent face and hears her touching explanation,

he utterly changes his opinion, muttering that she must belong to some

noble family, since her eyebrows are like twin "half-moons."

"'Tis clear she comes of noble family:

Her eyebrows are as twin half-moons: her hair

Lies on her snowy temples, like a cloud:

In charm of form she ranks with Sishih's self,

That pearl of loveliness, the Chinese Helen."

Taking his visitor gently by the hand, he leads her into the

sanctuary, where he seats her at Buddha's feet, before inquiring who

she is and what she is doing at night in the wilderness. White Aster

timidly explains that, although born in one of the southern islands

and cradled in a rich home, the pleasant tenor of her life was

suddenly interrupted by the outbreak of war. Her home sacked and

destroyed, she and her mother barely escaped with their lives. Taking

refuge near a ruined temple, they erected a booth to shelter them,

where the girl who had always been lapped in luxury had to perform all

kinds of menial tasks. But even under such circumstances her life

proved pleasant compared to what she suffered when news came that her

father had rebelled against the king, and that he and his adherents

had been crushed in the war. No poppy-draught could enable the two

poor women to forget such terrible tidings, and it is no wonder the

poor mother pined away.

As the stream

Flows to the sea and nevermore returns,

So ebbed and ebbed her life. I cannot tell

What in those days I suffered. Nature's self

Seemed to be mourning with me, for the breeze

Of Autumn breathed its last, and as it died

The vesper-bell from yonder village pealed

A requiem o'er my mother. Thus she died,

But dead yet lives--for, ever, face and form,

She stands before my eyes; and in my ears

I ever seem to hear her loving voice,

Speaking as in the days when, strict and kind,

She taught me household lore,--in all a mother.

Having carefully tended her mother to the end, poor little White Aster

lived alone, until one day her father suddenly appeared, having found

at last a way to escape and rejoin them. He was, however,

broken-hearted on learning of his wife's death, and, hoping to comfort

him, White Aster paid him all manner of filial attentions. She could

not, however, restore happiness or peace to the bereaved man, who,

besides mourning his wife, keenly regretted the absence of his son

Akitoshi, whom he had driven from home in anger when the youth proved

wild and overbearing.

During this artless narrative the recluse had exhibited signs of deep

emotion, and, when White Aster mentioned the name of her brother, he

clasped his hands over his face as if to conceal its expression. After

listening to her tale in silence, he kindly bade White Aster tarry

there until sunrise, assuring her it would not be safe for her to

wander in the mountain by night. Little White Aster, therefore slept

at Buddha's feet, shivering with cold, for her garments were far too

thin to protect her from the keen mountain air. As she slept she

dreamt of her father, whose wraith appeared to her, explaining that a

false step had hurled him down into a ravine, whence he has vainly

been trying to escape for three days past!

The second canto opens with a description of a beautiful red dawn, and

of the gradual awakening of the birds, whose songs finally rouse the

little maiden, who again sets off on her quest.

Now the red dawn had tipped the mountain-tops,

And birds, awaking, peered from out their nests,

To greet the day with strains of matin joy;

The while, the moon's pale sickle, silver white,

Fading away, sunk in the western sky.

Clear was the air and cloudless, save the mists

That rolled in waves upon the mountain-tops.

Or crept along the gullies.

Skirting the trunks of mighty trees, stealing beneath whispering

pines, White Aster threads different parts of the solitude, where she

encounters deer and other timid game, seeking some trace of her

father. She is so intent on this quest that she does not mark two dark

forms which gradually creep nearer to her. These are robbers, who

finally pounce upon White Aster and drag her into their rocky den,

little heeding her tears or prayers; and, although the maiden cries

for help, echo alone reiterates her desperate calls.

The brigands' lair is beneath an overhanging cliff, where they have

erected a miserable booth, whose broken thatch has to be supplemented

by the dense foliage of the ginkgo tree overshadowing it. In front of

this hut runs a brawling stream, while the rocks all around are hung

with heavy curtains of ivy, which add to the gloom and dampness of the

place.

Here the sun

Ne'er visits with his parting rays at eve,

But all is gloom and silence save the cry

Of some belated bird that wakes the night.

Having brought their prisoner safely into this den, the robbers

proceed to eat and drink, dispensing with chopsticks, so wolfish is

their hunger. Meantime they roughly jeer at their captive, who sits

helpless before them, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. Having

satisfied their first imperious craving for food and drink, the

brigands proceed to taunt their prisoner, until the captain, producing

a koto or harp, bids her with savage threats make music, as they like

to be merry.

"Sit you down,

And let us hear your skill; for I do swear

That, if you hesitate, then with this sword

I'll cut you into bits and give your flesh

To yonder noisy crows. Mark well my words."

So proficient is our little maiden on this instrument, that her

slender fingers draw from the cords such wonderful sounds that all

living creatures are spellbound. Even the robbers remain quiet while

it lasts, and are so entranced that they fail to hear the steps of a

stranger, stealing near the hut armed with sword and spear. Seeing

White Aster in the brigands' power, this stranger bursts open the door

and pounces upon the robbers, several of whom he slays after a

desperate conflict. One of their number, however, manages to escape,

and it is only when the fight is over that White Aster--who has

covered her face with her hands--discovers that her rescuer is the

kind-hearted recluse. He now informs her that, deeming it unsafe for

her to thread the wilderness alone, he had soon followed her,

intending to tell her he is her long-lost brother! Then he explains

how, after being banished from home, he entered the service of a

learned man, with whom he began to study, and that, perceiving at last

the wickedness of his ways, he made up his mind to reform. But,

although he immediately hastened home to beg his parents' forgiveness,

he arrived there only to find his native town in ruins. Unable to

secure any information in regard to his kin, he then became a recluse,

and it was only because shame and emotion prevented his speaking

that he had not immediately told White Aster who he was.

Much then my spirit fought against itself,

Wishing to tell my name and welcome you,

My long-lost sister: but false shame forbade

And kept my mouth tight closed.

His tale ended, the recluse and his small sister leave the robbers'

den, and steal hand in hand through the dusk, the forest's silence

being broken only by the shrill cries of bands of monkeys. They are

just about to emerge from this dark ravine, when the robber who

managed to escape suddenly pounces upon the priest, determined to slay

him so as to avenge his dead comrades. Another terrible fight ensues,

which so frightens poor little White Aster that she runs off, losing

her way in the darkness, and is not able to return to her brother's

side in spite of all her efforts.

The third canto tells how, after wandering around all night, White

Aster finally emerges at dawn on the top of a cliff, at whose base

nestles a tiny village, with one of the wonted shrines. Making her way

down to this place, White Aster kneels in prayer, but her attitude is

so weary that an old peasant, passing by, takes pity upon her and

invites her to join his daughter in their little cottage. White Aster

thus becomes an inmate of this rustic home, where she spends the next

few years, her beauty increasing every day, until her fame spreads all

over the land. Hearing of her unparalleled loveliness, the governor

finally decides to marry her, although she is far beneath him in rank,

and sends a matrimonial agent to bargain for her hand. The old rustic,

awed by the prospect of so brilliant an alliance, consents without

consulting White Aster, and he and the agent pick out in the calendar

a propitious day for the wedding.

When the agent has departed, the old man informs his guest how he has

promised her hand in marriage, adding that she has no choice and must

consent. But White Aster exclaims that her mother, on her way to the

temple one day, heard a strange sound in the churchyard. There she

discovered, amongst the flowers, a tiny abandoned girl, whom she

adopted, giving her the name of the blossoms around her.

"Once," she said,

"Ere morn had scarce begun to dawn, I went

To worship at the temple: as I passed

Through the churchyard 'twixt rows of gravestones hoar,

And blooming white chrysanthemums, I heard

The piteous wailing of a little child.

Which following, I found, amidst the flowers,

A fair young child with crimson-mouthing lips

And fresh soft cheek--a veritable gem.

I took it as a gift that Buddha sent

As guerdon of my faith, and brought it up

As my own child, to be my husband's joy

And mine: and, as I found thee couched

Amidst white-blooming asters, I named thee

White Aster in memorial of the day."

The little maiden adds that her adopted mother made her promise never

to marry any one save her so-called brother, and declares she is bound

in honor to respect this maternal wish. The governor, anxious to

secure this beautiful bride, meantime sends the agent hurrying back

with a chest full of gifts, the acceptance of which will make the

bargain binding. So the clever agent proceeds to exhibit tokens, which

so dazzle the old peasant that he greedily accepts them all, while

admiring neighbors gape at them in wonder.

Poor little White Aster, perceiving it will be impossible to resist

the pressure brought to bear upon her, steals out of the peasant's

house at midnight, and, making her way across damp fields to the

river, climbs up on the high bridge, whence she intends to fling

herself into the rushing waters. She pauses, however, to utter a final

prayer, and, closing her eyes, is about to spring when a hand grasps

her and a glad voice exclaims she is safe! Turning around, White

Aster's wondering eyes rest upon the recluse, who ever since he

escaped from the brigand's clutches has vainly been seeking her

everywhere. He declares they shall never part again and tenderly

leads her home, where she is overjoyed to find her father, who still

mourns her absence.

Thankful for the return of his child, the father relates how, having

fallen into a ravine,--where he found water and berries in plenty,--he

vainly tried to scale the rocks, to escape from its depths and return

home. All his efforts having proved vain, he was almost ready to give

up in despair, when a band of monkeys appeared at the top of the cliff

and by grimaces and sounds showed him how to climb out by means of the

hanging vines. Trusting to these weak supports, the father scaled the

rocks, but on arriving at the summit was surprised to discover no

trace of the monkeys who had taught him how to escape. He remembered,

however, that while hunting one day he had aimed at a mother monkey

and her babe, but had not injured them because the poor mother had

made such distressing sounds of despair. He adds it was probably in

reward for this act of mercy that the monkeys saved his life.

"I spared her life;

And she, in turn, seeing my sorry plight,

Cried to me from the rocks, and showed the way

To flee from certain death."

Thus, this epic ends with a neat little moral, and with the comforting

assurance that White Aster, her father, and husband lived happy ever

afterward.

AMERICAN EPICS

When Europeans first landed on this continent, they found it occupied

by various tribes of Indians, speaking--it is estimated--some six

hundred different languages or dialects. At first no systematic effort

could be made to discover the religion or traditions of the native

Americans, but little by little we have learned that they boasted a

rich folk-lore, and that their nature-myths and hero-tales were

recited by the fireside from generation to generation. Because there

were tribes in different degrees of evolution between savagery and the

rudimentary stages of civilization, there are more or less rude myths

and folk-tales in the samples with which we have thus become familiar.

Among the more advanced tribes, Indian folk-lore bears the imprint of

a weirdly poetical turn of mind, and ideas are often vividly and

picturesquely expressed by nature similes. Some of this folk-lore is

embodied in hymns, or what have also been termed nature-epics, which

are now being carefully preserved for future study by professional

collectors of folk-lore. Aside from a few very interesting creation

myths and stories of the Indian gods, there is a whole fund of nature

legends of which we have a characteristic sample in Bayard Taylor's

Mon-da-min, or Creation of the Maize, and also in the group of legends

welded into a harmonious whole by Longfellow in the "American-Indian

epic" Hiawatha.

The early European settlers found so many material obstacles to

overcome, that they had no leisure for the cultivation of literature.

Aside from letters, diaries, and reports, therefore, no early colonial

literature exists. But, with the founding of the first colleges in

America,--Harvard, Yale, William and Mary, the College of New Jersey,

and King's College (now Columbia),--and with the introduction of the

printing press, the American literary era may be said to begin.

The Puritans, being utterly devoid of aesthetic taste, considered all

save religious poetry sinful in the extreme; so it was not until the

middle of the seventeenth century that Fame could trumpet abroad the

advent of "the Tenth Muse," or "the Morning Star of American Poetry,"

in the person of Anne Bradstreet! Among her poems--which no one ever

reads nowadays--is "An Exact Epitome of the Three First Monarchies,

viz., the Assyrian, Persian, and Grecian, and the Beginning of the

Roman Commonwealth to the End of their Last King," a work which some

authorities rank as the first American epic (1650). This was soon

(1662) followed by Michael Wigglesworth's "Day of Doom," or "Poetical

Description of the Great and Last Judgement," wherein the author,

giving free play to his imagination, crammed so many horrors that it

afforded ghastly entertainment for hosts of young Puritans while it

passed through its nine successive editions in this country and two in

England. Although devoid of real poetic merit, this work never failed

to give perusers "the creeps," as the following sample will

sufficiently prove:

Then might you hear them rend and tear

The air with their outcries;

The hideous noise of their sad voice

Ascendant to the skies.

They wring their hands, their caitiff hands,

And gnash their teeth for terror;

They cry, they roar, for anguish sore,

And gnaw their tongue for horror.

But get away without delay;

Christ pities not your cry;

Depart to hell, there may you yell

And roar eternally.

The Revolutionary epoch gave birth to sundry epic ballads--such as

Francis Hopkinson's Battle of the Kegs and Major André's Cow

Chase--and "to three epics, each of them almost as long as the Iliad,

which no one now reads, and in which one vainly seeks a touch of

nature or a bit of genuine poetry." This enormous mass of verse

includes Trumbull's burlesque epic, McFingal (1782), a work so

popular in its day that collectors possess samples of no less than

thirty pirated editions. Although favorably compared to Butler's

Hudibras, and "one of the Revolutionary forces," this poem--a satire

on the Tories--has left few traces in our language, aside from the

familiar quotation:

A thief ne'er felt the halter draw

With good opinion of the law.

The second epic of this period is Timothy Dwight's "Conquest of

Canaan" in eleven books, and the third Barlow's "Columbiad." The

latter interminable work was based on the poet's pompous Vision of

Columbus, which roused great admiration when it appear (1807). While

professing to relate the memorable voyage of Columbus in a grandly

heroic strain, the Columbiad introduces all manner of mythical and

fantastic personages and events. In spite of its writer's learning and

imagination, this voluminous epic fell quite flat when published, and

there are now very few persons who have accomplished the feat of

reading it all the way through. Still, it contains passages not

without merit, as the following lines prove:

Long on the deep the mists of morning lay,

Then rose, revealing, as they rolled away,

Half-circling hills, whose everlasting woods

Sweep with their sable skirts the shadowy floods:

And say, when all, to holy transport given,

Embraced and wept as at the gates of Heaven,

When one and all of us, repentant, ran,

And, on our faces, blessed the wondrous man:

Say, was I then deceived, or from the skies

Burst on my ear seraphic harmonies?

"Glory to God!" unnumbered voices sung:

"Glory to God!" the vales and mountains rang.

Voices that hailed Creation's primal morn,

And to the shepherds sung a Saviour born.

Slowly, bare-headed, through the surf we bore

The sacred cross, and, kneeling, kissed the shore.

'But what a scene was there? Nymphs of romance,

Youths graceful as the Fawn, with eager glance,

Spring from the glades, and down the alleys peep,

Then headlong rush, bounding from steep to steep,

And clap their hands, exclaiming as they run,

"Come and behold the Children of the Sun!"

Not content with an epic apiece, Barlow and Trumbull, with several

other "Hartford wits," joined forces in composing the Anarchiad, which

exercised considerable influence on the politics of its time.

In 1819 appeared Washington Irving's Sketch-Book, which contains the

two classics, Legend of the Sleepy Hollow, and Rip Van Winkle, which

are sometimes quoted as inimitable samples of local epics in prose.

Cooper's Leather-stocking series of novels, including the Deerslayer,

The Last of the Mohicans, The Pathfinder, The Pioneers, and The

Prairie, are also often designated as "prose epics of the Indian as he

was in Cooper's imagination," while some of his sea-stories, such as

The Pirate, have been dubbed "epics of the sea." Bryant, first-born of

our famous group of nineteenth-century American poets, made use of

many of the Indian myths and legends in his verse. But he rendered his

greatest service to epic poetry by his translations of the Iliad and

the Odyssey, accomplished when already eighty years of age.

There are sundry famous American heroic odes or poems which contain

epic lines, such as Halleck's Marco Bozzaris, Dana's Buccaneers,

Lowell's Vision of Sir Launfal, and Biglow Papers, Whittier's Mogg

Megone, Holmes's Grandmother's Story of Bunker Hill Battle, Taylor's

Amram's Wooing, Emerson's Concord Hymn, etc., etc. Then, too, some

critics rank as prose epics Hawthorne's Scarlet Letter, Poe's Fall of

the House of Usher, Hale's Man Without a Country, Bret Harte's Luck of

Roaring Camp, Helen Hunt Jackson's Ramona, etc., etc.

It is, however, Longfellow, America's most popular poet, who has

written the nearest approach to a real epic, and the poems most likely

to live, in his Wreck of the Hesperus, Skeleton in Armor, Golden

Legend, Hiawatha, Tales of a Wayside Inn, Courtship of Miles Standish,

and Evangeline, besides translating Dante's grand epic The Divine

Comedy.

In Longfellow's Wreck of the Hesperus we have a miniature nautical

epic, in the Skeleton in Armor our only epic relating to the Norse

discovery, in the Golden Legend, and in many of the Tales of a Wayside

Inn, happy adaptations of mediaeval epics or romances.

Hiawatha, often termed "the Indian Edda," is written in the metre of

the old Finnish Kalevala, and contains the essence of many Indian

legends, together with charming descriptions of the woods, the waters,

and their furry, feathered, and finny denizens. Every one has followed

entranced the career of Hiawatha, from birth to childhood and boyhood,

watched with awe his painful initiation to manhood and with tender

sympathy his idyllic wooing of Minnehaha and their characteristic

wedding festivities. Innumerable youthful hearts have swelled at his

anguish during the Famine, and countless tears have silently dropped

at the death of the sweet little Indian squaw. After connecting this

Indian legend with the coming of the White Man from the East, the

poet, knowing the Red man had to withdraw before the new-comer

skilfully made use of a sun-myth, and allowed us to witness Hiawatha's

departure, full of allegorical significance:

Thus departed Hiawatha,

Hiawatha the Beloved,

In the glory of the sunset,

In the purple mists of evening,

To the regions of the home-wind,

Of the Northwest-wind Keewaydin,

To the Islands of the Blessed,

To the kingdom of Ponemah,

To the land of the Hereafter!

The Courtship of Miles Standish brings us to the time of the Pilgrim's

settlement in the New World and has inspired many painters.

The next poem, which some authorities consider Longfellow's

masterpiece, is connected with another historical event, of a later

date, the conquest of Acadia by the English. It is a matter of history

that in 1755 the peaceful French farmers of Acadia, without adequate

notice or proper regard for family ties, were hurried aboard waiting

British vessels and arbitrarily deported to various ports, where they

were turned adrift to join the scattered members of their families and

earn their living as best they could. The outline of the story of

Evangeline, and of her long, faithful search for her lover Gabriel, is

too well known to need mention. There are besides few who cannot

vividly recall the reunion of the long-parted lovers just as Gabriel's

life is about to end. All through this hopeless search we are

vouchsafed enchanting descriptions of places and people, and

fascinating glimpses of scenery in various sections of our country,

visiting in imagination the bayous of the South and the primeval

forests, drifting along the great rivers, and revelling in the

beauties of nature so exquisitely delineated for our pleasure. But, as

is fitting in regard to the theme, an atmosphere of gentle melancholy

hovers over the whole poem and holds the listener in thrall long as

its musical verses fall upon the ear.

Still stands the forest primeval; but under the shade of its branches

Dwells another race, with other customs and language.

Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic

Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile

Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom.

In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy;

Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun,

And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story,

While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighboring ocean

Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

INDEX OF NAMES

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