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Donald Stetson 


924 07 

561 108 

The original of tiiis book is in 
tine Cornell University Library. 

There are no known copyright restrictions in 
the United States on the use of the text. 

Edition £)e %rxxe 






Literature of All Nations 









Member of Parliament, 1879-1899 


Oae Bmilrtd Ddiii-tehite Plat($ from Paintinfls by tbc World's Bc$t Jlrti$t$ 





Copyright, 1899, 

Copyright, 1900, 



The Nineteenth Century 9 

N. M. Karamsin II 

L A. KRItOFF 12 

The Monarch Cahib 13 

Ai,EXANDER Pushkin 14 

Tatiana's Retrospect - i^ 

TTie Lot of Man 17 

The Vanity of Life 17 

My Monument '8 

Nikolai V. Gogoi, 18 

The Cossack Mother 20 

The Cossack Father 22 

Apostrophe to Russia 23 

IVAN S. Turgenieff 24 

The Nihilist 27 

Feodor M. Dostoievsky 37 

The Murderer^s Confession to Sonia 38 

Count L. N. Tomtoi 45 

Napoleon and the Wounded Russians 48 

Levin and the Mowers 52 

Anna's Visit to Her Son 57 

Marie Bashkirtsefe ^^ 

Extract from Herfoumal 62 


Ugo Foscolo °5 

Great Men's Monuments • • • ^6 

Suvio Pblwco ' • • ^^ 

The Jailer's Daughter 68 

I ft. 





The Death of Napoleon 75 

The Interrupted Wedding 76 

ViNCBNzo Monti , 79 

The Soul's Ascension 80 


The Foscarini 82 


Beatrice Cend 84 

Isabella Orsini 8$ 

Apostrophe to Italy 86 

GlACOMO Lboparbi 87 

The Last Song of Sappho 89 

The Villagers' Saturday Night 91 


Student Days 92 


Thb French Novei, 94 


The Defence of Bastion St. Gervais 99 

HoNORB DB Bai,zac 109 

Eugenie Grandet 112 

Cisar Birotteau's Failure 121 

X. B. Saintinb 125 

Picciola 126 

TH]goPHii,B GatjTier 128 

Departure of the Swallows 130 

Looking Upward 131 


Venice 133 

Tuana . 134 

To Plpa 13s 

Octave FBmi,i,ET 136 

Julia's Marriage • 137 


Salammbd and the Serpent 142 

Erckmakn-Chatrian 147 

Ike Conscript's Duel 148 



FRENCH LITERATURE— Period' VIII. (Contintod). 

Jui,Es Vernb 151 

The Bottom of the Sea 152 

ACPHONSB Daudbt 155 

Tartarin of Tarascon 157 

Gxry DB Maupassant 161 

The Piece of String 162 

ESfii.S Zoi,A 166 

A Fight with Flails 169 

LpDovic Hai,6vy » 174 

Abbi Constantin and His Guests i74 


The Nineteenth Century . 181 

LvRisTs OF THE War of Liberation 183 

Sword-Song 184 

Song of the Fatherland 186 

Barbarossa 187 

The Soldier's Morning-Song 188 

The Suabian Poets 189 

The Minstrel's Curse 189 

The Water Sprite 191 

Heinrich Heine 192 

Boyhood in Diisseldorf 196 

The Lorelei . • • 200 

The Sea Hath its Pearls 201 

The Pilgrimage to Kevlaar , 202 

The Two Grenadiers 204 

Only Kiss and Swear No Oath 205 

Enfant Perdu 205 

The Devil 206 

Joseph V. Von Scheffel 207 

The Baron's Cat Hiddigeigei 208 

The Baron's Tobacto Pipe 209 


W. M. Thackeray 218 

The Mahogany Tree 222 

Rawdon Crawley Goes Home 225 




Thomas Cari,yi,e *** 

The Attack Upon the Bastille 231 

Work . «33 

Ai,FRBD, Lord Tbnnyson ^35 

Tears, Idle Tears 239 

Of Old Sat Freedom on the Heights 240 

Elaine'' s Letter to Guinevere . . • • 240 

From " In Memoiiam^' 244 

Crossing the Bar 24S 

Robert Browning 246 

Pippa'sSong 250 

The Lost Leader 250 

Incident 0/ the French Catnp 251 

Rabbi Ben Ezra 252 

Mrs. E. B. Browning - . . . . 254 

Cowper's Grave 255 

Sonnets from the Portuguese 257 

George Ewot 258 

Romola and Her Father 260 

The Choir Invisible 264 

Ai^ERNON C. Swinburne 265 

The Making of Man • • ■ ^ 267 

William Shakespeare « 268 

Ben Jonson 268 

In a Garden 269 

Matthew Arnold 270 

Balder Dead 271 

The Remnant in America 272 

Robert Louis Stevenson 275 

The Transformation 277 

RuDYARD Kipling 281 

The Courting of Dinah Shadd ., . . 283 


View of Recent Literature 287 

James Russell Lowell 289 

The Courtin' 291 

7^e Day of Decision 294 

A Ruined Life 295 



AMERICAN I/ITERATURB— Period IV. (ConThtobd). 

James Russeli, Imwkixi — 

Abraham Lincoln 296 

English View of America 397 

OuvEE. Wendeli, Hoi,iies 301 

The Chambered Nautilus 303 

The Three Johns 304 

John G. Whittier 306 

The Rpes at Lucknow 308 

The Mother 309 

Skipper Ireson's Ride 310 

Bayard Tayi,or , 313 

Bedouin Song 315 

TTi^ Song of the Camp 316 

Helen Hunt Jackson 317 

Only an Indian Baby 318 

Edward Everett Hai,b 322 

Death of Philip Nolan ' 323 

Ma-rk Twain 326 

Scatty' s Interview with the Minister 337 

JOEi. Chandler Harris 332 

Why the Moon's Face is Smutty 332 

Walt Whitman 334 

In All, Myself 335 

The Pegan of Joy 336 

Francis Bret Harte 337 

The Luck of Roaring Camp 338 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich . 343 

Unguarded Gates 343 

William Dean Howells 345 

Basil and Isabel on Goat Island 346 

Henry James 35^ 

Madame Merle 352 

EuoENE Field 35^ 

Chaflotte Rooza 357 

Jambs Whitcomb Riley 35* 

A' Old Played-out Song • 35* 

Beautiful Hands 359 




Henry Sibnkiewicz 3^3 

Vinicius and Lygia 3^5 



Egyptian - 400 

Assyrian ' 400 

Chinese 400 

Indian (Sanskrit) 400 

Buddhist 401 

Persian 401 

Hebrew 401 

Arabian 401 

Greek 401 

Latin 402 

Cei,tic 403 

DOTCH 403 

French 403 

proven5ai, 403 

German 405 

italian 4c36 

Russian 406 

Scandinavian 407 

Danish 407 

Swedish 407 

Spanish 407 

Portuguese 408 

English (including Anglo-Saxon) 408 

Scotch 410 

American 4,, 


FRENCH ACADEMY (1898) 412 

Volumes I.-X 




I^VBXSX C. Von Bodenhausen . Frontispiece 

BiANCA Cjlteouo and Lorenzo . . . A. D. Pinelli 86 

!Piccioi,A A. Salles 127 

SAi,AMMBd Jules Toulot 144 

Tartarin and Thb Lion L. A. Jamison 160 

Abbe Constantin and His Guests . H. Brispot 176 

The Baron and His Pipe F, Schmid-Breitenbach .... aog 

Ei,AiNB Beaks Her Letter to Guinevere . L. Falero 242 

RoMoi,A AND Her Father E. Blair Leighton 263 

Art, Song and Literature ,.../. L. G. Ferris 369 




Period U.— The Nineteenth Centurv. 

i MITATION of French models was the basis of 
Russian literature until the excesses of the 
opening of the French Revolution startled the 
Czarina Catherine II.* Then she prohibited 
the publication of French books in her domin- 
But even aside from politics, the French arti- 
ficial style had begun to pall on the Russians. Von 
Visin in his comedy, "The Brigadier," had derided those 
whose only reading was French romances ; and Kropotof, in 
his " Funeral Oration of Balabas, My Dog," congratulated 
that animal on never having read Voltaire ! With the Napo- 
leonic invasion the national spirit burst forth in the most 
bittet and violent odes and writings of a "patriot war." In 
tragedy, Ozerof wrote " Dmitri Donskoi," recalling the strug- 
gles of Russia against the Tartars. Krioukovski wrote the 
tragedy of " Pojarski," the hero of i6i 2. The poet Zhukovski 
sang the exploits of the Russians against Napoleon and stirred 
all anti-Napoleonic Europe with his " Bard in the Camp of 
the Russian Warriors." Even the childlike Kriloff satirized 
the French fashions of the Russian court in " The School for 
Young Ladies" and "The Milliner's Shop." 

The great literary event of the reign (i 801-25) of Alexander 
I. was, however, the "History of Russia" by Nikolai Mik- 
hailovitch Karamsin. Before Karamsin there inspiring 
picture of Russia's past, Nestor had brought his crude annals 

* For Early Russian lyiterature, see Volume III, , pp. 386-400. 



down to Alexis Mikhailovitch, father of Peter the Great. 
Patistcheff, his successor, was rough in style. Faithful 
pictures of the old barbaric Russia had been given in the 
"Russkaia Pravda" (code) of Yaroslaff— the Russia of Ivan the 
Terrible, after the lifting of the Mongolian yoke (i 238-1462) ; 
in Monk Sylvester's " Domostroi " (Household Instruction), 
before the Mongols; and in Vladimir Monomakh's "Pouchev 
nie" (Instruction), a quaint picture of the daily life of ab 
ancient Slavonic prince. But these bald records of barbarism 
were not attractive. It needed the pen of Karamsin to cast Ji 
halo about the old Slav warriors. He admired Ivan the Ter- 
rible. After the fashion of Scott he put a romantic glo&s 
over the real coarseness. He stirred the imagination and the 
patriotism of his countrymen. Kollar sounded the slogan of 
Panslavism. Pushkin became the laureate of Nicholas an<^ 
Russia's greatest poet ; Gogol mirrored in his Cossack tales 
the life of I/ittle Russia ; and Ivan Turgenieff revealed tLe 
misery and despair of the serf, and caught the rising muttet- 
ings of Nihilism. Ivan KrilofF, the Russian Lafontaine, 
supplied his countrymen with distinctively national fables, 
abounding in vigorous pictures of Russian life. 

Pushkin was succeeded by Mikhail Yurevitch Lermou- 
toflF, known as the poet of the Caucasus, and by Nichola? 
Nekrasoflf. LennontoflF's first noteworthy ode was an appeal 
to Russia to avenge the killing of Pushkin in a duel, lest she 
receive no more poets. His lyrics are wild and varied and 
beautiful as the scenery of the Caucasus and Georgia. Nekra- 
soflf's realistic poems present the melancholy feature of Rus- 
sian life. It would not be right to forget Taras Shevchenko, 
the national poet of Little Russia, whose grave near K.anioff 
on the Dnieper has been marked with a cairn and cross and has 
become a patriotic shrine for all the Ukraine. Shevchenko, 
bom a serf, but bought and set free by the poet Zhukovski, 
not only sang the old days of the Ukraine, but became the 
voice of the Haidamaks in their national struggle against the 
Tsar. Gogol probably had Shevchenko in mind in naming 
his great Cossack hero Taras Bulba, for Taras is just such 
a hero as Little Russia's poet loved to celebrate in song. 
Shevchenko died in 1861. 


The novel, now regarded as the chief form of Russian 
literature, was first cultivated by Zagoskin and Lazhechnikoff 
under the Scott-like influence of Karamsin. It has since 
reached its height of unforgiving and terrible realism in the 
minutely psychological and morbid stories of Dostoievski, 
whose "Clime and Punishment" is his masterpiece, and 
Count Lyof Tolstoi, whose greatest works are "War and 
Peace," a tale of the Napoleonic War, and " Anna Kar^nina," 
an impressive picture of erring womanhood. His " Kreutzer 
Sonata" was a sensational attack on marriage. In other 
works he has advocated a return to primitive Christianity 
and an extreme literal observance of the precepts of Jesus. 
Nihilism has had its most famous novelist in Stepniak, who 
lived in exile in England until his death in 1896. Two young 
Russian women, Marie Bashkirtseff and Sonya Kovalevsky, 
have attracted attention by their startling revelations of an 
inner soul life which mirrors the extreme yearnings and woes 
of modem womanhood. 


The poet Pushkin declared that Karamsin had discovered 
ancient Russia no less than Columbus discovered America, 
since he gave the empire its first great history. His European 
travels, while saturating his literary spirit with the senti- 
mentalism of the English Sterne and Goethe's "Sorrows of 
Werther," convinced him that his countrymen could "in 
Russia alone become good Russians." He struck the keynote 
of Slavophilism, which Turgenieff was to oppose later, just as 
Pushkin was to rise from Karamsin's sentimentalism into a 
grander romanticism. This sentimentalism was reflected in 
Karamsin's treatment of his country's history. He idealized 
Ivan the Terrible as a kind-hearted autocrat His panegyrical 
history has been styled "the Epic of Despotism." Choosing 
Ivan III. and Ivan the Terrible, instead of Peter the Great, as 
the real founders of Russia's greatness, he pictured the me- 
diaeval, barbarous Russia in a falsely-enchanting light. In his 
tale of "Martha, the Mayor's Daughter," he had declared: 
" Political order can exist only where absolute power has been 


established." As Pushkin once wrote, only to have it blotted 
out by the censor, Karamsin "admired absolutism and the 
charms of the knout" (introduced by Ivan). Karamsin divided 
Russian history arbitrarily, to fit his own conception, into 
three epochs : Rurik to Ivan III., representing the principle of 
division ; Ivan to Peter the Great, representing unity ; Peter 
to Alexander I., representing regeneration of social life. But 
though utterly wrong in his philosophy of history, he painted 
its external aspects with an eloquent pencil. His portraits of 
the old Russians are magnificent, and his battle-pictures— 
such as the Field of Koulikovo, and the Taking of Kazan — 
are thrilling. 

Nikolai Mikhailovich Karamsin was bom in 1766, and 
lived from the first years of Catherine's reign to the death of 
his patron, Alexander I. He died in the imperial palace, 
having brought the eleventh volume of his History down to 
the accession of Michael Romanoff", in 1613. Muravieff" had 
made him Court historigrapher. His melodramatic History 
has been since displaced by the greater works of more scien- 
tific historians. 


To Ivan Andreevitch Kriloff" properly belongs the surname 
of the Russian Lafontaine. Not only was he a born fabulist, 
whose fables are on every Russian's lips, but he was strangely 
like Lafontaine in his simple-hearted nature, his careless life, 
and his uncouth personality. A tutor to the children of Prince 
Galitzin, and under that noble's protection in the middle part 
of his life, he was, in his childhood, the care of a poor, 
illiterate widow, whose father had fought against the Cossack 
Pougatcheff". During these early days the young Ivan was 
always strolling about the wharves, among the markets, and 
through the streets of his native Moscow, and on these roam- 
ings he stored his mind with the familiar idioms, the humor- 
ous scenes, the Russian spirit, a;ll of which is so strikingly 
conspicuous in his fables. Poverty drove him to journalism 
and dramatic writing, but in 1809, when he was forty-five 
years old, he published his first "Fables," twenty- three in 
number. His very first — " The Oak and the Reed" — was a 


translation from I^fontaine. Before his death he had written 
one hundred and ninety-eight, of which one hundred and 
sixty-one were of his own invention. In 1838, a jubilee festival 
was celebrated in his honor, and after his death, in 1844, a 
statue was raised to his memory in the Summer Garden. 

The Monauch Cahib. 

Cahib was a mighty sovereign, and of course renowned 
for his wisdom, though he never read nor consulted a book, 
since books are seldom written by caliphs, and it would 
have been beneath his dignity to learn from any of lower 
rank than himself. He patronized literature and science, 
but in a judicious way; for, by occasionally hanging a few 
of the learned men of his country, he took care that their 
number should never become dangerously great: "since they 
are like candles: let a moderate number bum, and a pleasant 
light is provided, but have too many, and there is danger 
of a fire." His palace was furnishe^ with every luxury, 
and amongst other curiosities could boast of a small but 
unique collection of apes, which had been trained to bow 
and grimace with such elegance, that many of the nobility, 
in their eagerness to learn graceful manners, did their best 
to imitate these clever animals, and succeeded so well that it 
was difficult to decide which made the best courtiers, they 
or the apes. 

Naturally Cahib had in his retinue paid poets, who never 
failed to turn their verses to good account. One of them, 
indeed, once wrote a glowing ode in honor of a certain vizier, 
but, when he came to present his poetical tribute of homage, 
was informed that the minister had been beheaded early that 
morning, whereupon he immediately changed the title, and 
dedicated it to his late patron's enemy and successor; "for 
odes," as he slily remarked to a friend, " are like silk stock- 
ings, and can be stretched to fit any foot." When Cahib's 
poets did not write odes, they indulged in idyllic descriptions 
of the innocence and charms of shepherd life, and so excited 
the caliph's curiosity that he resolved with his own 6yes to 
enjov the sight of nistic felicity. Accordingly one day he 
set forth, accompanied by two or three wise viziers, and in 


truth found a shepherd sitting beneath a hedge, though he 
was not playing on an oaten reed, but crunching a morsel of 
stale bread ; and when the monarch, surprised that he was 
not being cheered by the company of his sweet Lesbia, in- 
quired where the shepherdess was, he was told that "she had 
gone to town to sell a load of wood and their last fowl in 
order to buy some food," 

There is abundant evidence that in every respect Cahib was 
the happiest of rulers, and no sovereign could boast of minis- 
ters more devoted, or less disposed to question the wisdom of 
his decisions, or contravene any of his fancies or caprices. 
And the means by which he contrived to surround himself 
with such pliant and faithful servants were as simple as they 
were effectual. He did not fail to assemble them on stated 
occasions in solemn council, and invariably commenced their 
deliberations by informing them what line of policy he 
wished to pursue, and then solicited their advice by address- 
ing them in a speech|to the following purport ; "Gentlemen, 
if any one of you desires to express his views on the matter, 
he is at liberty to speak freely and without restraint, having 
first received fifty stripes, after which we shall be most happy 
to listen to what he has to say.' ' In this way the wise Cahib 
escaped an immense amount of palaver, secured the unanimity 
of his ministers, and never experienced the annoyance of 
hearing opinions that were contrary to his own. 


Prince of Russian poets was Alex- 
ander Pushkin, the laureate of Czar 
Nicholas. Zhukovski was really the 
originator of the new Romantic school 
in poetry, twenty years before this over- 
shadowingj disciple of Byron stepped 
in and bore off all the laurels. But it 
jljllli^ needed the giant genius of Pushkin to 
™' transform the sickly sentimentality of 
the Russia of the end of the eighteenth 
century into a more vigorous and 
more truly national romanticism. He was descended from 


an Abyssinian negro, a slave in the seraglio at Constan- 
tinople, who had been stolen and brought to Russia by a 
corsair, and then not only adopted, but ennobled by Peter 
the Great. Pushkin was really proud of his thick lips 
and crisp curly hair. He was "a drop of Afiric blood on 
Arctic snows." Perhaps this same blood kept him from be- 
coming truly Russian as Gogol, Turgenieff, and Tolstoi were, 
just after him. One has only to compare Pushkin's "Songs 
of Western Slavs " with Tolstoi's " Cossacks " to appreciate 
the essential difference of spirit. Pushkin, admired by Pros- 
per Merimde, did not venture far from the Byronic manner. 
He had, however, just found his path when he was killed in 
a self-provoked duel, in the zenith of his fame, at the age of 
thirty-eight (1837). He may be said to have inspired Gogol 
and paved the way for him. 

Pushkin was but twenty-one years old when he pub- 
lished his romantic poem "Ruslan and Liudmila," the 
scene of which was laid at Kieff, and the story of which has 
been beautifully rendered in opera by Glinka. Vladimir, the 
" Bright Sun " of the old legends, shines again. Then, ban- 
ished, because of a daring " Ode to I^iberty," to the sea regions 
of the Danube and the Crimea, Pushkin sang of the " Foun- 
tain of Bakhchisarai," the old palace of khans. In "The 
Prisoner of the Caucasus " he glorifies the love of a Circassian 
girl for a captive Russian officer (Pushkin was a general of 
dragoons himself). He sang gipsy (Tzigani) songs of love 
and vengeance. On leaving Odessa he wrote a Byronic "Ode 
to the Sea." In 1825 he gave the Russian stage its first play 
in Shakespearean style in his tragedy of "Boris Godunoff," 
the great usurper who ranks with the Pretender Dmitri as a 
dramatic figure. Mazeppa's treachery is lashed in his " Pol- 
tava," a narrative poem in which the battle scene of Pultowa 
is described in glowing colors. He also undertook a history 
of Pougatcheff's revolt against Catherine, left unfinished, and 
wrote some prose tales, such as "The Captain's Daughter." 
But his masterpiece was " Eugene Oneguin " {1837), who was 
an incarnation of the purposeless, restless Russian nobleman 
of that day. The hero of the poem flies the court to escape 
ennui, rejects the passionate love of the countryfied Natalia, 


and only learns to love her when she becomes a social queen 
and it is too late. An " Ode to Napoleon " by Pushkin is 
inferior to a similar ode by Lermontoff, his natural successor, 
whose poem of " The Demon " is noteworthy. 

Tatiana's Retrospect. 

(From "Eugene Oneguin.") 

I was younger, then, Oneguin, 

And it seems to me, I was better then. 

And I loved you, — and what WdS my reward ? 

What did I find in your heart ? 

What response ? Naught but coldness. 

Is it not true that for you 

A simple maiden's love was no novelty ? 

And now — God ! — my blood runs cold 

Even at the bare remembrance of that icy look. 

And the homily you read me. But do not think, 

I blame you. In that awful hour 

You acted well and honorably ; 

You were right in all you said and did ; 

And I thank you with all my heart. 

But to me, Oneguin, this worldly glare, 

This tinsel blaze of an empty life, 

My triumphs and successes in the world, 

My fashionable home and gay evenings ; 

What are these to me? This minute I'd gladly 

All this masquerading frippery. 
All this noisy, vaporish pomp. 
For the old shelf of books, the wild garden, 
The poor, humble village home. 
The spot where first I saw you, Oneguin, 
Or for the quiet churchyard, 
Where now a cross and the shade of cypress-tree 
Mark the grave of poor old nurse. 
For happiness was so conceivably possible. 
So nearly within our grasp. But my fate 
Is now decided. Inconsiderately, 
It may be, I acted : 
But with tears and conjuring prayers 


My mother entreated me, and for poor Tatiana 

All sacrifices were alike .... 

I married, and now you must, — 

I implore you, — you must now leave me. 

I know that in your heart you own 

The stern claims of pride and honor. 

I love you, why seek to play the hypocrite ? 

But I am given to another, 

And will forever remain true to him. 

.The Lot op Man. 

The common lot of men awaited him ; 
The years of youth would quickly pass, 
The glow of fancy growing cold within him, 
Till in all he would be changed, 
Bid adieu to poetry, and take a wife, / 
Live a country life, contented arid a cuckold, 
Wear all day his loose striped dressing-gOwn, 
And come to know the frets and woes of life : 
From his fortieth year feel the twinging pangs 

of gout ; 
Eat, drink, mope, grow fat and weak, 
Till last scene of all, he dies quietly in his bed. 
Tended by his wife and children, 
The village leech and whining nurse. 

The Vanity of Life. 

Vain gift, — gift of chance, 
O life, why wert thou granted me ? 
Or why, by fatfe's mysterious decree, 
Wert thou foredoomed to sorrow ? 

What god, with unfriendly power. 

Called me forth from nothingness. 

Filled my soul with passion. 

And troubled my mind with torturing doubt? 

An aimless future lies before me, 
My heart is dry, my mind is void, 
My soul is dulled arid blighted 
By the monotony of life's riot, 
X — 3 



My Monument. 

I have reared to myself a monument not made with hands, 
And the feet of many pilgrims shall tread the path to it all smooth, 
Where, with proud unbending head, it shall tower 

Higher than Napoleon's column. 
No ! I shall not wholly die, the soul that inspires my sacred muse 
Shall outlive my dust, and shall defy corruption ; 
And I shall be glorious, whilst in our sublunary sphere 

Breathes a single poet to chant his lays. 


Modern Russian realism is traced to 
Nikolai Vasilievitch Gogol (1809-1852). 
Born in the government of Poltava, 
his grandfather had been one of those 
Zaparog-Cossacks whose heroic ex- 
ploits Gogol was to celebrate in 
his great epopee of "Taras Bulba." 
His childhood was fed on the leg- 
; ends of the Malo-Russians, and in 
later life he ransacked the memo- 
ries of all his relatives and friends 
for these old traditions. Naturally 
his initial apprenticeship to the romantic phase of Pushkin 
lasted but a brief time and was quickly cured by the ridicule 
which greeted his weak German idyll, Hans Knechel Garten, 
In 1830 appeared the first story of his Cossack series, " Even- 
ings at the Farm," purporting to be narrated by Rudui Panko 
(Sandy the little nobleman). This work has been well des- 
cribed as being "at once modern and archaic, learned and en- 
thusiastic, mystic and refined — in a word, Russian." The tales 
are divided into, two parts named respectively after the two 
towns of Didanka and Mirgorod. The former contains the 
story of "The Fair at Sorotchinsui," of which the devil is 
hero. Another is a witch tale. The latter included "Old- 
Time Proprietors" (a delightful provincial picture which 


somewhat foreshadowed TurgenieflF's "Virgin Soil"), and 
"Taras Bulba," the germ soon after expanded into a wonder- 
ful romance. "When Gogol set the colossal Taras on his 
feet," declared Turgenieff, "he revealed genius." The ex- 
panded tale is a grand masterpiece of Cossack color, spirit 
and lore. It deals with the Atamdn Taras Bulba and his two 
sons, whom he takes to the Setch camp of the Zaporozhtsui 
on an island in the Dnieper to make them warriors. Andre 
deserts to the Poles through love of a Polish sweetheart, 
meets his father face to face in battle, and is executed by the 
stern parent. The rigor of these primitive times is stirringly 
reproduced. The success of this masterpiece led Gogol to 
plan a History of Little Russia, but he was to be inspired to 
a greater work. From a comedy, " The Revizor " (Inspector- 
General), in which he satirized ofl&cial cupidity, arrogance 
and corruption, he ro£".e to a powerful satire on all Russia in 
his weirdly-named romance, " Dead Souls." The hero, Tchit- 
chikof, is an impecunious adventurer who buys the dead and 
runaway slaves since the last Russian census, intending to 
raise a large loan by mortgaging these imaginary human 
chattels. He journeys from estate to estate in his leather- 
flapped britchka, accompanied by his stupid lackey Petrushka 
and his talkative coachman Selifan. Every small proprietor 
is described in a vivid portrait. The strokes are cruel, but 
just. There are such psychological and picturesque types as 
Plushkin, the miser, which stamp themselves indelibly on the 
memory. Not only are the repellent traits of the owners of 
serfs portrayed, but the cruelty of the subaltern burmistrs and 
the corruption of the Russian Tchinoviks. Terrible was the 
picture Gogol drew of the Russia of his day. He looked to 
Tzar Nicholas, who had issued a ukaze abolishing serfdom 
and then had cancelled it under pressure from the nobility, 
to remedy this grievous situation. But Gogol failed to paint 
the woes of the serf himself and his innate human nature. 
Emancipation waited, therefore, for the pen of revelation of 
Ivan TurgenieflF. As for poor Gogol, who had passed from 
fantasy and imagination to satire and then to mysticism, his 
brain finally broke down, and, after burning many pages of 
hi§ " Pea4 SqiiIs," he died insane in Italy in 1 852. His earlier 


tales are full of the beauty of the great Russian steppes and 
the Ukraine nights. There is an appreciable element of 
savagery in Gogol, relishable to the Russian. His characters 
are the half-barbarous peasants and Cossack lads of the ham- 
lets bordering on the infinite steppes. 

The Cossack Mother. 

(From "Taras Bulba.") 
BuLBA was soon snoring, and all in the courtyard fol- 
lowed his example. All who were lying stretched in its 
different corners began to slumber and snore. The first to 
fall asleep was the watchman, for he had drunk more than 
the rest in honor of his master's arrival. The poor mother 
aloue could not sleep. She hung over the pillow of her detff 
sons, who were lying side by side. She gently smoothed 
their young dishevelled locks and moistened them with her 
tears. She watched them long and eagerly, gazing on them 
with all her soul, yet, though her whole being was absorbed 
in sight, she could not gaze enough. With her own breast 
she had nourished them ; she had lovingly tended them and 
watched their youth ; and now she has them near her, but 
only for a moment. ' Sons, my. dear sons, what fate is in 
store for you? If I could have you with me but for a little 
week.' And tears fell down on the wrinkles that disfigured 
her once handsome face. . . . In'truth, she was to be pitied, as 
was every woman in those early times. She would see her 
husband for two or three days in a year, and then for years 
together would see and hear nothing of him. And when 
they did meet, and when they did live together, what kind 
of life was it that she led? Then she had to endure insults 
and even blows; no kindness, save a few formal caresses, 
did she receive ; she had, as it were, no home, and was out of 
her place in the rough camp of unwedded warriors. She had 
seen her youth glide by without enjoyment, and her fresh 
cheeks grew wrinkled before their time. All her love all 
her desire, all that is tender and passionate in woman, all 
was now concentrated in one feeling, that of a mother. 
And like a bird of the steppe, she feverishly, passionately, 
tearfully hovered over her children. Her sons, her darling 


sons, are to be taken away from her, and it may be she will 
never see them again. Who can tell, but that in the first 
battle some Tartar may cut off their heads, and she not even 
know where to find their corpses, and those dear bodies, for 
each morsel of which, for each drop of whose blood she would 
gladly give the world in exchange, be cast away for wild ra- 
venous birds to tear in pieces? Sbbbingly she looked on 
them, while heavy sleep began to weigh down their eyes, and 
she thought, 'Ah, perchance, Bulba, when he awakes, will 
delay his departure for a day or so, and it may be that it was 
only in his drink he thought to set out so quickly.' 

The moon had risen in the heavens, shining down on the 
yard covered with sleeping Cossacks, on the thick sallows, 
and on the high grass which had overgrown the palisade that 
surrounded the court. But the mother still sat beside her dear 
sons, not once taking her eyes off them, never thinking of sleep. 
Already the horses, scenting the dawn, had lain down on the 
grass and ceased to feed; the upper leaves of the sallow began to 
wave gently, and the wind's murmuring breath softly touched 
the branches beneath. But the mother still sat watching till 
dawn ; she felt no weariness ; she only prayed that the night 
might not come to an end. The shrill neighing of steeds 
was to be heard from the steppe, and the red streaks of the 
rising sun brightly illumined the sky. 

Bulba was the first to awake and spring to his feet. He 
well remembered all that he had ordered the evening before. 
' Now, lads, no more sleep : it is time to get up and feed the 
horses. Where is the old woman? Quick, old woman, get us 
something to eat, but quick, for we have a long march before 
us.' Three saddled horses stood before the door of the hut. 
The Cossacks leaped on their steeds, but when the mother saw 
that her sons had also mounted, she rushed to the younger, 
whose traits wore a somewhat tenderer expression, caught his 
stirrup, clung to his saddle, and with despair in her every 
feature, refused to free him from her clasp. Two strong Cos- 
sacks gently loosened her hold, and carried her into the hut. 
But when they had passed under the gateway, in spite of her 
age, she flew across the yard swifter than a wild goat, and 
with the incredible strength of madness stopped the ]iorse, 


and clasped her son with a wild rapturous embrace. And 
once more they carried her into the tent. 

The Cossack Father. 

Andre saw before him nothing, nothing but the terrible 
figure of his father. "Well, what are we to do now?" said 
Taras, looking him full in the face. But Andre could find 
nothing to answer, and remained silent, his eyes cast down 
to the ground. "To betray thy faith, to betray thy brothers. 
Dismount from thy horse, traitor." Obedient as a child, he 
dismounted, and unconscious of what he did remained stand- 
ing before Taras. "Stand, do not move," cried Taras: 
" I gave thee life ; I slay thee." And falling back a step, he 
took his gun from his shoulder. Andre was deadly pale ; his 
lips moved slowly as he muttered some name ; but it was not 
the name of his mother, his country, or kin ; it was the 
name of the beautiful Polish girl. Taras fired. The young 
man drooped his head, and fell heavily to the ground without 
uttering a word. The slayer of his son stood and gazed long 
upon the breathless corpse. His manly face, but now full of 
power and a fascination no woman could resist, still retained 
its marvellous beauty ; and his black eyebrows seemed to 
heighten the pallor of his features. "What a Cossack he 
might have been,' ' murmured Taras : "so tall his stature, 
so black his eyebrows, with the countenance of a noble, and 
an arm strong in battle." 

Not long after Taras had thus sternly vindic^ited the 
honor of his race, he and Ostap are waylaid and surrounded 
by a body of Poles. Long and desperately they fight, stub- 
bornly they dispute each inch of ground, to the last they re- 
fuse to yield ; but what can two effect against a score ? Taras 
is struck senseless to the earth, and Ostap is taken prisoner 
and carried off. The bereaved father awakes only to dis- 
cover his heavy and irreparable loss ; the days henceforth pass- 
wearily, and he no longer .finds pleasure in battle or in war- 
like sports. ' 

He went into the fields and across the steppes as if to 
hunt, but his gun hung idly on his shoulder, or with a sor- 


rowful heart he laid it down and sat by the seashore. There 
with his head sunk low he would remain for hours, moaning 
all the while, ' Oh, my son, Ostap. Oh, Ostap, my son.' 
Bright and wide rolled the Black Sea at his feet, the gulls 
shrieked in the distant reeds, his white hairs glistened like 
silver, and the large round tears rolled down his furrowed 

But this agony of uncertainty is too great to bear ; at all 
cost he will seek out his son, weep for him if dead, embrace 
him if living. With the assistance of a Jewish spy, named 
Yankel, he makes his way in disguise to Warsaw, where they 
arrive only to learn that on the evening of the same day his 
brave boy is to suffer an ignominious death. He proceeds to 
the place of execution, takes up his stand in the midst of the 
crowd, and watches in silence the hideous formalities by 
which the sharpness of death is made more bitter. 

Ostap looked wearily around him. Gracious God, not 
one kindly look on the upturned faces of that heaving crowd. 
Had there been but one of his kin there to encourage him. No 
weak mother with her wailings and lamentations ; no sobbing 
wife, beating her bosom and tearing her hair ; but a brave 
man, whose wise word might give him fresh strength and 
solace. And as he thus thought, his courage failed him, and 
he cried out, ' Father, where art thou? Dost thou not hear 
me? ' ' I hear, my son,' resounded through the dead silence, 
and all the thousands of people shuddered at that voice. A 
party of calvary rode hurriedly about, searching among the 
crowd that surrounded the scaffold. Yankel turned pale as 
death, and when the soldiers had riden past^ looked furtively 
to where Taras had been standing, but Taras was no longer 
there ; no trace of him was left. 

Apostrophe to Russia. 

Russia, Russia ! My thoughts turn to thee from my won- 
drous beautiful foreign home, and I seem to see thee once more. 
Nature has not been lavish in her gifts to thee. No grand 
views to cheer the eye or inspire the soul with awe; no glorious 
works of art, no many-windowed cities, with their lofty pal- 
aces, no castles planted on some precipice, embowered in 


groves and ivy that clings to the walls, amidst the eternal 
roar and f>.aia of waterfalls. No traveler turns back to 
gaze on high masses of mountain granite, that tower in 
endless succession above and around him. No distant, 
far-stretching lines of lofty hills ranging upwards to the 
bright blue heavens, and of which we catch faint glimpses 
through dim arches entwined with vine branches, ivy, and 
myriads of wild roses. All with thee is level, open and 
monotonous. Thy low-built cities are like tiny dots that 
indistinctly mark the centre of some vast plain, nor is there 
aught to win and delight the eye. And yet, what is this 
inconceivable force that attracts me to thee? Why do I seem 
to hear again, and why are my ears filled with the sounds of 
thy sad songs, as they are wafted along thy valleys and huge 
plains, and are carried hither from sea to sea? What is there 
in that song, which, as it calls and wails, seizes on the heart ? 
What are those melancholy notes that lull but pierce the 
heart and enslave the soul? Russia, what is it thou wouldst 
with me ? What mysterious bond draws me towards thee ? 
Why gazest thou thus, and why does all that is of thee turn 
those wistful eyes to me ? And all the while I stand in 
doubt, and above me is cast a shadow of a laboring cloud, all 
heavy with thunder and rain, and I feel my thoughts be- 
numbed and mute in presence of thy vast expanse. What 
does that indefinable, unbounded expanse foretell ? Are not 
schemes to be bom as boundless as thyself, who art without 
limit? Are not dpeds of heroism to be achieved, where all 
is ready, open to receive the hero? And threateningly the 
mighty expanse surrounds me, reflecting its terrible strength 
within my soul of souls, and illumining sight with unearthly 
power. What a bright, marvellous, weird expanse 1 


In that region of Russian fiction which Gogol opened, 
Ivan Sergeyevitch TurgeniefF achieved a marvellous success, 
which resulted in a Focial revolution. He was born neat 
Orel, November o, 1818, only nine years after the birth ol 
Gogol. He not only took up the new type of fiction' but 


achieved the preliminary work for the emancipation of the 
serf in which Gogol had only half succeeded. While Gogol 
stopped short with his terribly realistic revelation of what 
the owners of the serfs were, Turgenieff forced the gaze of all 
Russia to the wretched and cruelly oppressed serfs them- 
selves. His "Annals of a Sportsman," which appeared in 
1846, may be regarded as having been the "Uncle Tom's 
Cabin " of Russia. It undoubtedly contributed much to 
Alexander II. 's decree (1861), abolishing serfdom. 

This curse of serfdom dated from the sixteenth century, 
and had become consecrated as a legal institution in 1609. 
Denis von Visin had in "Nedorosl" (The Minor) touched 
upon the ill-treatmeut of the serfs ; but the condition of the 
French peasant in his day was even more terrible. It was by 
a strange decree of fate that Turgenieff came into such ap- 
preciative contact with the Russians of the yoke. His grand- 
mother was just such a choleric baruina of the old school as 
he afterwards painted in his story, " Punin and Baburin," 
Her cruel treatment of her serfs was extreme. As might be 
expected of such an old-style Russian lady, she forbade her 
grandson the study of the native Russian tongue. It was 
only spoken by her servants. The young Ivan was not to be 
hindered, however, in his childish thirst, and he learned not 
ofaly the old Russian legends, but the Russian speech from 
one of his grandam's serfs. In later years his memory re- 
turned to one of these unfortunates when he drew the charac- 
ter of the dumb giant porter, Mumu. Turgenieff's grand- 
mother never forgave him for adopting the degrading voca- 
tion of literature — he, a son of an heiress of the Litvinoffs ! 
Perhaps it was the contrast of the innate human virtues of 
the ser's with this cruel nature of his ancestress that quick- 
ened Turgenieff's appreciation of the real humanity of these 
chattels of the Russian estates. 

He conceived a profound affection for the muzhik, or pea- 
sant. As he afterward declared, he "swore a Hannibal's 
oath " never to compromise with the barbarous system of 
serfdom, but to fight it even to the death. And he accom- 
plished his lofty purpose by opening the eyes of the Russian 
court, as his own eyes had early been unveiled, to the true 


inherent worth of the despised serf. In 1846 the first story 
of his "Annals of a Sportsman" appeared, under the title of 
" Khor and Kalinuitch." These characters represented two 
types of serf : Khor, the cautious and practical creature, Kal- 
inuitch, the dreamy enthusiast ; but in both he revealed the 
essential human nature. These and the succeeding pictures 
of Russia's wretched serfs really effected a revolution in the 
aristocratic mind, and hastened the ukaze of enfranchised 
Russia. When Turgenieff himself sought for a term of praise 
for Alexander II., the highest he could find was to call him 
" the Emperor of Muzhiks." 

But while Turgenieff was thus striking the blow that was 
to shatter the shackles on the wrists of millions of his en- 
slaved brother men, he was not so absorbed in the serf that 
he did not behold the dawning of a new Russia. In the 
character of " Dmitri Rudin," in "On the Eve," he drew a 
youth of 1 840, such an epoch as Pisemsky has pictured in his 
"People of the Forties." This youth was cast in a generous 
but passive mold. His defect was revealed by the restless 
Lavretsky, of " The Nest of Nobles " (1859), whose propa- 
ganda to the youth of Russia was " You must act." Lavret- 
sky was the herald : the apostle came in Bazarof, the hero of 
" Fathers and Sons" (1862), and his new gospel proved to be 
" Nihilisrri." In a famous passage Turgenieff coined this 
new word which has traveled over the world. Turgenieff 
has characterized Bazarof as " that quick spirit, that harbin- 
ger type." His creed was not based on any of the old worn- 
out ones : it was to tear down, to clear the ground, to build 
an entirely new social fabric. The vague feeling, the still 
nebulous faith of the new generation, was crystallized at last 
around a definite nucleus. The new era of Russian socialism 
found its voice in the word, "Nihilism." The government 
and the agitators against the government both accepted the 
term. Fathers and sons began to be divided, in truth. De- 
spite his half wolfish, half pessimistic spirit, the young medi- 
cal student Bazarof typified the Russian soul with its aspira- 
tion towards progress. However Turgenieff may have felt 
towards the radically developed Nihilism of a later day, he 
certainly put his whole heart into Bazarof. Nevertheless he 


was. destined to be soon disillusionized of many of his dreams 
of a better Russia. His intercourse with boastful Russians 
at Baden Baden soon led him to discover that many of the 
new ideals were mere chimeras. His disappointment found 
expression (in 1867) in the romance "Smoke." His faith in 
Russia's future was not crushed, but he idealized in lyitvinof 
her gloomy and painful destiny, since amply fulfilled. 

For ten years Turgenieff then held his peace while bitterly 
assailed by Liberals and Nihilists alike as a renegade. But 
in 1877, on the eve of the great Nihilist suit against the One 
Hundred and Ninety-Three, he broke his silence with ■ his 
grand masterpiece, " Virgin Soil." In this novel the theoretical 
Nihilism of his " Fathers and Sons" and "Smoke "is be- 
held in action. Neshdanof, the hero, represents the new type 
of Nihilistic propagandist. So true was the portrait that, 
while it was attacked at the outset, Turgenieff was soon ac- 
cused of having been paid 50,000 rubles by the Russian gov- 
ernment thus to popularize its case. In Neshdanof the Nihi- 
list is still the dreamer, unable to interest the masses or to 
achieve his revolution. Still it cannot be said that Turge- 
nieff does not, after all, sympathize with Neshdanof. His 
character possesses an inalienable nobility. Nihilists have 
ground to claim, as they continue to do, that Turgenieff's 
heart was really with them to the last. An exile from Russia 
through troubles with the censorship (due to an article on 
Gogol), his declining years were embittered by the attacks on 
him from all sides. This bitterness is revealed in his fare- 
well poems, "Senilial" He died in Paris on September 3, 
1883, still true to the Russian people, even if warning them 
against Slavophilism and advising them to profit by Euro- 
pean civilization. 

The Nihilist. 

"Where is your new friend ?" he asked Arkadi. 

' ' He has gone out already. He generally gets up very 
early and makes some excursion. But I must tell you, once 
for all, that you need not take any notice of him ; he does 
not care for conventionalities." 

" Yes, so I perceive." 


Paul Petrovitch began slowly to spread butter on his bread. 

"Will he remain here any length of time?" 

"That depends. He will go from here to his father's." 

" And where does his father live?" 

"In our distiict; eighty versts from here. He has a 
little estate there. He used to be the regimental doctor." 

"Ta-ta, tata! I have been continually asking myself, 
where could I have heard that name before? Bazarof, 
Bazarof ! Nicholas, do you not remember that in our father's 
division there was a Dr. Bazarof?" 

"I seem to remember something of the sort." 

"Yes, it is right enough. So this doctor is his father 
— hm!" 

Paul Petrovitch twisted his moustache. 

"Well, and what is Mr. Bazarof junior?" asked he slowly. 

"What is Bazarof?" Arkadi smiled. " Shall I tell you, 
uncle, what he really is ? " 

" Do me that favor, my dear nephew." 

"He is a Nihilist." 

"What?" asked Nicholas Petrovitch. 

As for Paul Petrovitch, he suddenly raised the knife, on 
whose point was a little piece of butter, and remained 

" He is a Nihilist," repeated Arkadi. 

" Nihilist !" said Nicholas Petrovitch. "The word comes 
from the Latin nihil^ nothing, as far as I can tell, and there- 
fore designates a person who acknowledges nothing. ' ' 

"Or rather, who respects nothing," said Paul Petrovitch, 
who recommenced buttering his bread. 

" Or rather, who regards everything from a critical point 
of view," remarked Arkadi. 

'•Does not that come to the same thing?" asked Paul 

" No, by no means. A Nihilist is a man who bows to no 
authority, who accepts no principles on faitli alone, however 
high may be the regard in which this principle is held in 
human opinion." 

"And do you consider that right?" asked Paul Petro- 


"That depends on the point of view, uncle; some think 
it right, while others consider it quite wrong." 

" Indeed. Well, I see it is not our point of view. We of 
the old school are of opinion that without principles, that 
are received on faith alone, as you express it, the world could 
not exist. But vouz^ avez change tout cela. Well, may God 
give you good health and the rank of general ; as for us, we 
will be content with admiring you, you — what do you call 

"Nihilists," said Arkadi, accenting each syllable. 

" Yes. We used to have Hegelists, now we have Nihilists. 
We shall see how you manage to exist in the nothing, the 
vacuum, as under an air-pump. And now, brother Nicholas, 
be so good as to ring ; I should like to drink my cocoa." 

The combat took place the same evening at tea. Paul 
had come down into the drawing-room in a state of irritation, 
and ready for the fight. He only awaited an opportunity to 
throw himself on the enemy; but he had long to wait. 
Bazarof never spoke much before the "two old fellows," as 
he called the two brothers ; besides, he did not feel very well 
this evening, and swallowed one cup of tea after another in 
silence. Paul was devoured by impatience : at length he 
found the opportunity he had been seeking. 

The conversation turned on one of the neighboring 

" He is a simpleton, a bad aristocrat," said Bazarof, who 
had known him at St. Petersburg. 

" Permit me to ask you," said Paul, with trembliug lips, 
"whether the words ' simpleton ' and ' aristocrat' are in your 
opinion synonymous?" 

"I said 'bad aristocrat,'" replied Bazarof carelessly, sip- 
ping his tea. 

" That is true ; but I assume that you rank aristocrats 
and bad aristocrats in the same category. I think it right 
to inform you that such is not my opinion. I venture to say 
that I am generally considered a liberal man and lover of 
progress ; but it is just on that account that I respect the 
aristocrats, the true aristocrats. Consider, my dear sir" — 
Bazarof fixed his eyes on Paul — " my dear sir," continued he. 


with dignity, " consider the English nobility : they do not 
give up one iota of their rights, and yet they respect the 
rights of others just as much ; they demand what is due to 
them, and yet they are always careful to render their due to 
others. It is the nobility that has given England its liberty, 
and that is its strongest support." 

"That is an old song we have often heard," replied Baza- 
rof ; " but what do you mean by it ?" 

' ' I mean to prove by it, my dear sir, that without the con- 
sciousness of one's own dignity, without self-respect — and 
all these sentiments prevail among the aristocracy — there can 
be no solid foundation for the commonwealth, for the edifice 
of the State. The individual, the personality, my dear sir 
— that is the essential ; a man's personality must stand firm 
as a rock, for everything rests on this basis. I know quite 
well that you think my manners, my dress, even my habit of 
cleanliness, absurd ; but all this springs from self-respect, 
from a feeling of duty — yes, yes, sir, from a feeling of duty. 
I live in an out-of-the-way corner of the province ; but I do 
not neglect my person on that account — in my own person I 
respect the man." 

"Excuse me, Paul Petrovitch," replied Bazarof; "you say 
that you respect yourself, and you sit there with your arms 
crossed. What advantage can that be to the commonwealth? 
If you did not respect yourself you would not act differently." 

Paul Petrovitch turned pale. 

" That is quite another matter," replied he. " I have no 
intention of telling you why I stay with my arms crossed, as 
you are pleased to call it. I merely wished to tell you that 
aristocracy depends upon principle ; and it is only immoral 
or worthless men who can live nowadays without principles. 
I said so to Arkadi the day after his arrival ; and I am merely 
repeating it to you to-day. Is it not the case, Nicholas 

Nicholas Petrovitch nodded assent. 

"Aristocracy, liberalism, principles, progress," repeated 
Bazarof— "all are words quite foreign to our language, and 
perfectly useless. A true Russian, need not use them." 

" What does he need, the-n, in your opinion? According 


to you, we are outside the limits of humanity, outside its 
laws. That is going rather too far; the logic of history 
requires — " 

" What do you need that logic for ? We can do very well 
without it. 


" I will give an example. I fancy that you do not need 
the aid of logic in carrying a piece of bread to your mouth 
when you are hungry. What is the use of all thepe abstrac- 

Paul lifted up his hands. 

" I no longer understand you," said he. "You insult the 
Russian people. I do not understand how it is possible not 
to acknowledge principles — rules ! What have you, then, to 
^ide you through life?" 

" I have told you before, uncle," interposed Arkadi, " that 
we do not acknowledge any authorities." 

"We act according as anything seems useful to us," 
added Bazarof ; " to-day it seems to us useful to deny, and we 
do deny." 


" Absolutely everything." 

"What? Not only art, poetry, but even — I hesitate to 
say it." 

"Everything," repeated Bazarof, with most indomitable 

Paul looked at him fixedly. He had not expected this 
answer. Arkadi blushed with pleasure. 

"Excuse me," said Nicholas, "you deny everything, or, 
to speak more correctly, you destroy everything; but you 
must also rebuild." 

"That does not concern us. First of all, we must clear 
the ground." 

"The present state of the people requires it," added 
Arkadi seriously. ' ' We must fulfill this duty ; we have no 
right to abandon ourselves to the satisfaction of our personal 

This last speech did not please Bazarof. It smacked of 
philosophy, that is, of romanticism ; for he gave this name 


even to philosophy. But he did not think this a fitting 
moment to contradict fiis young pupil. 

"No, no!" exclaimed Paul, with sudden emotion. "I 
will not believe that you gentlemen have a right idea of the 
Russian people, and that you express its real wants^ its surest 
wishes. No, the Russian people is not what you represent it. 
It has a reverent respect for tradition ; it is patriarchal ; it 
cannot live without faith." 

" I shall not attempt to contradict you," replied Bazarof. 
"I am even ready to admit that this once you are right." 

"But if I am right?" 

" That proves nothing whatever. ' ' , 

"Nothing whatever," repeated Arkadi, with the assur- 
ance of an experienced chess-player, who, having foreseen a 
move that his opponent considers dangerous, does not seem in 
the least disconcerted by it. 

"How can you say that proves nothing?" said Paul, 
stupefied. " Do you then separate yourself from your people?" 

" And what if I did ? The people believe that when it 
thunders, the prophet Elijah is riding over the heavens in his 
chariot. Well, must I share its opinion in this matter? You 
think you will confound me by telling me that the people is 
Russian. Well, am not I Russian, too ?" 

" No ; after all that you have just said, you 'are not. I 
will no longer acknowledge you to be Russian." 

" My grandfather followed the plough," replied Bazarof, 
with lofty pride. "Ask any one of your peasants which of 
us two — you or me — he is readiest to acknowledge as his fel- 
low-citizen. You cannot even talk to him." 

"And you, who can talk to him, you despise him." 

"Why not, if he deserves it? You condemn the ten- 
dency of my ideas ; but how do you know that it is accidental, 
that it is not rather determined by the universal spirit of the 
people whom you defend so well ? " 

" Come, the Nihilists are very useful." 

"Whether they are or not is not for us to decide. Do not 
you also think that you are good for something?" 

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, no personalities," exclaimed 
Nicholas, rising. 

KtrssiAN utbraturb. 33 

Paul smiled, and placing his hand on his brother's shdul- 
ier, forced him to sit down again. 

"Set your mind at rest," said he; "I shall not forget 
tayself, if only because of that feeling of dignity of which 
this gentleman speaks so scornfully. Excuse me," continued 
he, once more addressing Bazarof ; "you probably think that 
your mode of looking at things is a new one ; that is a mis- 
take on youT part. The materialism you profess has been 
held in honor more than once, and has always proved itself 

" Another foreign word ! " replifed Bazarof. He was begin- 
ning to become bitter, and the complexion of his face was 
assuming an unpleasant yellow. " In the first place, let me 
tell you that we do not preach ; that is not one of our habits." 

" What do you do, then ? " 

" I will tell you. We have begun by calling attention to 
the extortionate officials, the need of roads, the absence of 
trade, the manner of executing justice. " 

"Yes, yes; 5-ou are informers, divulgators, that is the 
name given to you, if I am not much mistaken. I agree with 
you in many of your criticisms ; but — " 

" Then we soon discovered that it was not enough to talk 
about the wounds to w'hich we are succumbing, that all this 
only tended to platitudes and dogmatism. We perceived that 
our advanced men, our divulgators^ were worth nothing what- 
ever ; that we were taking up our time with follies, such as 
art for art's sake, creative power which does not know itself, 
the parliamentary system, the need of lawyers, and a thousand 
other foolish tales ; while we ought to have been thinking of 
our daily bread ; while we were overwhelmed by the grossest 
superstition ; while all our joint-stock companies were becom- 
ing bankrupt. All this is only because there is a dearth of 
honest men ; while even the liberation of the serfs, with 
which Government is much occupied, will produce no good 
effects, because our peasants are themselves ready to steal, so 
that they may go and drink poisonous drugs in the taverns." 

"Good," replied Paul, "very good. You have discovered 
all that, and all the same you are determined to undertake 
nothing serious?" 
X— 3 


" Yes, we are determined ! " repeated Bazarof, somewhat 

Suddenly he began to reproach himself for having said so 
much before this gentleman. 

"And you confine yourself to abuse ? " 

"We abuse, if necessary." 

" And that is what is called Nihilism ? " 

" That is what is called Nihilism ! " repeated Bazarof, this 
time in a particularly irritating tone. 

Paul winced a little. • 

"Good!" said he, with forced calm and constrained man- 
ner. " The mission of Nihilism is to remedy all things, and 
you are our saviours and our heroes. Excellent ! But why 
do you abuse the others so much, and call them chatterboxes? 
Do you not chatter as much as the rest ? " 

" Come, if there is anything we have to reproach ourselves 
with, it is certainly not this," muttered Bazarof between his 

"What! can you say that you act, or even prepare for 

Bazarof remained silent. Paul trembled,- bnt he restrained 
his anger. 

"Then act, destroy," continued he; "but how dare you 
destroy without ever knowing why you destroy ? " 

" We destroy because we are a force, " said Arkadi, gravely. 

Paul looked at his nephew and smiled. 

"Yes, force is responsible to no one," continued Arkadi, 
drawing himself up. 

" Wretched man," exclaimed Paul Petrovitch, no longer 
able to contain himself, ' ' if you would but consider what you 
assert of Russia alone, with your absurd phrases ! No, it 
would require an angel's patience to endure that force ! The 
Mongol and the savage Kalmuk have force, too. But how 
can this force help us ? What ought to be' dear to us is civili- 
zation ; yes, yes, my dear sirs, the fruits of civilization. And 
do not tell me that these fruits are worthless ; the merest 
dauber of signboards, the most wretched fiddler, who, for five 
kopecks an evening, plays polkas and mazurkas, are more 
useful than you, because they are representatives of civiliza- 


tion, and not of the Mongolian brute force I You consider 
yourselves advanced, and your proper place would be in a 
Kalmuk kibitka. Force ! Consider one moment, you strong 
gentlemen, that at most there are only a few dozen of you, 
while the others may be counted by millions, and that they 
will not allow you to tread under foot their most sacred tradi. 
tions; no, they will tear you to pieces." 

"If they tear us to pieces, we must put up with it," re- 
plied Bazarof. " But you are quite out in yot^r reckoning. 
We are not so few as you suppose. " 

" What ! You seriously believe that you will be able to 
bring the whole people into your ranks ? " 

" Do you not know that a kopeck candle is enough to set 
the whole city of Moscow on fire ? ' ' answered Bazarof. 

" Excellent ! First, almost Satanic pride, and then irony 
which reveals your bad taste. This is how youth is carried 
away ; this is how the inexperienced hearts of these boys are 
seduced. Look ! there is one of them by your side ; he almost 
worships you." Arkadi turned away, frowning. "And this 
contagion has already spread. I have been told that at Rome 
our painters no longer set foot into the Vatican ; they call 
Raphael a bungler, because, as they say, he is considered an 
authority^and those who say this are themselves incapacity 
personified ; their imagination cannot soar beyond the ' Girl 
at the Well ;' however they may try, they cannot attain any- 
thing better ! And how ugly is this ' Girl at the Well ! ' I 
suppose you have the highest opinion of these fellows, have 
you not ? " 

"As far as I am concerned," replied Bazarof, "I would 
not give twopence for Raphael, and I do not suppose: that the 
others are worth much more." 

"Bravo, bravo! Do you hear, Arkadi? That is how 
young people should express themselves now! O, I can quite 
understand why they follow in your footsteps! Formerly 
they used to feel the need of learning something. As they 
did not wish to be considered ignorant, they were forced to 
work. But now they need only say, * There is nothing but 
folly and rubbish in the world ;' and there is an end to every- 
thing. The students may well rejoice. Formerly they were 


only foolish boys — behold them suddenly transformed into 
Nihilists 1" 

" It appears to me that you are forgetting the sentiment 
of personal dignity, on which you laid so much stress just 
now," remarked Bazarof phlegmatically, while Arkadi's face 
flushed with indignation, and his eyes flashed. " Our dispute 
has led us too far. I think we should do well to stop here. 
Yet," added he, rising, "I should agree with you if you could 
name to me a single institution of our social, civil, or family 
life, which does not deserve to be swept away without mercy.' ' 

"I could name a million such," exclaimed "Paul Petrovitch^ 
"a million ! Take, for instance, the commune." 

A cold smile passed over Bazarof 's lips. 

"As for the commune," said he, "yoii had better talk to 
your brother about that. I suppose he must know by this 
time what to think of the commune, the solidarity of the 
peasants, their temperance, and similar jokes." 

"And the family, the family, such as We still find it 
among our peasants ! " exclaimed Paul Petrovitch. 

"In my opinion that is another question that you would 
do well not to examine too closely. Come, take my advice, 
Paul Petrovitch, and take two days to consider the matter. 
Nothing else will occur to you just at present; consider all 
our institutions one after another, and contemplate them care- 
fully. Meantime Arkadi and I will — " 

"Turn everything to ridicule," interrupted Paul Petro- 

" No ; dissect frogs. Come, Arkadi. Good afternoon, 

The two friends went out. The brothers remained alone 
together, and for some time could only look at each other in 

"So that is the youth of to-day," began Paul Petrovitch 
at length ;' "those are our successors ! " 



Younger than Turgeniefif by three years, Feodor Mik- 
hailovitch Dostoievsky died three years before that great 
novelist. He was bom at Moscow in 1821 and died February 
9, 1881. He did not accept exile, as did TurgenieflF, but re- 
mained in Russia, became implicated in the Petrashevsky 
Society conspiracy, and tasted the bitterness of Siberia. His 
life seems, indeed, to have been destined to gloom from 
the start.^ The child of a hospital surgeon, he first opened 
his eyes in a charity hospital. Throughout his life he was a 
victim of hallucinations. No wonder he was moved to 
become the psychological analyst of morbid and diseased 
characters. At first, however, he was drawn by pity to write 
a heart-stirring revelation of the miseries of the poor of St 
Petersburg. His "Poor People," published while he was 
only twenty-three years old, won for him the title of "the 
new Gogol." Extreme wretchedness was shown in the cat- 
astrophe of the love idyl of the poor clerk Drevushkin, who 
loses the solace of his poverty in the marriage of his poor girl 
companion to a rich merchant. But the story-teller himself 
was to experience an even more cruel fate. Implicated indi- 
rectly in the plot against Emperor Nicholas, he was cast into 
prison,and condemned to death. On the morning of the day 
of doom he made his toilet, donned the white shirt, kissed 
the cross, and had the sabre broken over his head. At the 
last moment, however, a messenger arrived from the Czar. 
Dostoievsky was transported to Siberia. Being a sub-lieu- 
tenant of St. Petersburg School of Military Engineering, he 
was put to work in the mines. Religion alone upheld him 
during these terrible four years (1849-54). His memories of 
that burial alive were soon after given to the world in his 
vivid "Recollections of a Dead House," which moved all 
Russia. But his morbid tendencies gained the upper hand in 
his later novels. "Heavens!" exclaimed TurgenieflF, after 
reading one story by this doctor's son, "what a sour smell ! 
What a vile hospital odor ! What idle scandal ! What a 
psychological mole-hole ! " The pathological phase of his 


romances renders them truly unwholesome, although in 
"Crime and Punishment" he has made au overwhelmingly 
impressive study of a brain diseased. Raskolnikoflf, the 
weak hero, plans a deliberate rnurder and robbery through 
merely accidental suggestion. Ultimately he breaks through 
the moral fog enshrouding him, and by the sympathetic self- 
sacrifice of the fallen Sonia, the heroine, starts for Siberia to 
spend the rest of his life in repentance. Other novels by 
Dostoievsky are " Idiots " and "Devils," two social satires, 
and " The Degraded." 

The Murderer's Confession to Sonia. 

(From " Crime and Punishment.") 

Raskolnikoff wished to smile, but, do what he woum, 
his countenance retained its sorrow-stricken look. He lowered, 
his head, covering his face with his hands. All at once, he 
fancied that he was beginning to hate Sonia. Surprised, 
frightened even, at so strange a discovery, he suddenly raised 
his head and attentively considered the girl, who, in her turn, 
fixed on him a look of anxious love. Hatred fled from Ras- 
kolnikoflf 's heart. It was not that ; he had only mistaken 
the nature of the sentiment he experienced. It signified that 
the fatal moment had come. Once more he hid his face in 
his hands and bowed his head. Suddenly he grew pale, rose, 
and, after looking at Sonia, he mechanically went and sat 
on her bed, without uttering a single word. Raskolnikoff's 
impression was the very same he had experienced when 
standing behind the old woman — he had loosened the hatchet 
from the loop, and said to himself: "There is not a moment 
to be lost ! " 

" What is the matter? ' ' asked Sonia, in bewilderment. 

No reply. Raskolnikoff had relied on making explanations 
under quite different conditions, and did not himself understand 
what was now at work within him. She gently approached 
him, sat on the bed by his side, and waited, without taking 
her eyes from his face. Her heart beat as if it would break. 
The situation was becoming unbearable ; he turned towards 
the girl his lividly-pale face, his lips twitched with an effort 
to speak. Fear had seized upon Sonia. 


"What is the matter with you?" she repeated, moving 
slightly away from him. 

"Nothing, Sonia ; don't be afraid. It is not worth while ; 
it is all nonsense!" he murmured, like a man absent in 
mind. "Only, why can I have come to torment you?" 
added he all at once, looking at his interlocutress, " Yes, 
why? I keep on asking myself this question, Sonia." 

Perhaps he had done so a quarter of an hour before, but 
at this moment his weakness was such that he scarcely re- 
tained consciousness; a continued trembling shook his whole 

" Oh ! how you suflFer ! " said she, in a voice full of emo- 
tion, whilst looking at him. 

"It is nothing! But this is the matter in question, 
Sonia." (For a moment or so, a pale smile hovered on his 
lips. ) " You remember what I wished to tell you yesterday ? " 
Sonia waited anxiously. " I told you, on parting, that I was, 
perhaps, bidding you farewell for ever, but that if I should 
come to-day, I would tell you who it was that killed Eliza- 
beth." She began to tremble in every limb. "Well, then, 
that is why I have come." 

"I know you told me. that yesterday," she went on in a 
shaky voice. " How do you know that?" she added viva- 
ciously. Sonia breathed with an effort. Her face grew more 
and more pale. 

"I know it." 

"Has he been discovered? sne asKed, timidly, after a 
moment's silence. 

"No, he has not been discovered." 

For another moment she remained silent. "Then how 
do you know it ? " she at length asked, in an almost unintel- 
ligible voice. 

He turned towards the girl, and looked at her with a 
singular rigidity, whilst a feeble smile fluttered on his lips. 
"Guess!" he said. 

Sonia felt on the point of being seized with convulsions. 
"But you, — rwhy frighten me like this?" she asked, with a 
childlike, smile. 

" I know it, -because I am very intimate with him I ' ' went 


on Raskolnikoff, whose look remained fixed on her, as if he 
had not strength to turn his eyes aside. "Elizabeth — he 
had no wish to murder her — he killed her without premedi- 
tation. He only intended to kill the old woman, when he 
should find her alone. He went to her house — but at the 
very moment Elizabeth came in — he was there-^and he 
killed her." 

A painful silence followed upon those w'brds. For a mo- 
ment both continued to look at one another. " And so you 
can't guess?" he asked abruptly, feeling -like a man on the 
point of throwing himself from the top of a steeple. 

"No," stammered Sonia, in a scarcely audible voice. 

"Try again." 

At the moment he pronounced these words, Raskolnikoff 
experienced afresh, in his heart-of-hearts, that feeling of chil- 
liness he knew so well. He looked at Sonia, and suddenly 
read on her face the same expression as on that of Elizabeth, 
when the wretched woman recoiled from the murderer ad- 
vancing towards her, hatchet in hand. In that supreme mo- 
ment Elizabeth had raised her arm, as children do when they 
begin to be afraid, and ready to weep, fix a glaring immov- 
able glance on the object which frightens them. In the 
same way Sonia's face expressed indescribable fear. She also 
raised her arm, and gently pushed RdskolnikoflF aside, whilst 
touching his breast with her hand, and then gradually drew 
back without ceasing to look hard at him. Her fear affected 
the young man, who, for his part, began to gaze on her with 
a scared expression. 

" Have you guessed?" he murmured at last. 

" My God ! " exclaimed Sonia. 

Then she sank exhausted on the bed, and buried her face 
in the pillows ; a moment after, however, she rose with a rapid 
movement, approached him, and, seizing him by both hands, 
which her slender fingers clutched like nippers, she fixed on 
him a long look. Had he made a mistake? She hoped so, 
but she had no sooner cast a look on Raskolnikoff's face than 
the suspicion which had flashed on her mind became certainty. 

"Enough, Sonia! enough I Spare me!" he implored in 
a plaintive voice. The event upset all his calculations, for 


it certainly was not thus that he had intended to confess his 

Sonia seemed beside herself ; she jumped from her bed, 
went tb the middle of the room wringing her hands, she then 
quickly returned in the same way, sat once more by the 
young man's side, almost touching him with her shoulder. 
Suddenly she shivered, uttered a cry, and, without knowing 
why, fell on her knees before Raskolnikoff. " You are lost ! " 
she exclaimed, with an accent of despair. And, rising sud- 
denly, she threw herself on his neck, and kissed him, whilst 
lavishing on him tokens of tenderness. 

Raskolnikoff broke away, and, with a sad smile, looked at 
the girl : " I do not understand you, Sonia. You kiss me 
after I told )ou that — . You cannot be conscious of what 
you are doing." 

She did not hear the remark. " No, at this moment there 
cannot be a more wretched man on earth than you are ! ' ' she 
exclaimed with a transport of passion, whilst bursting into 

Raskolnikoff felt his heart grow soft under the influence 
of a sentiment which for some time past he had not felt. He 
did not try to fight against the feeling ; two tears spurted from 
his eyes and remained on the lashes. "Then you will not 
forsake me, Sonia? " said he with an almost suppliant look. 

" No, no ; never, nowhere ! '* she cried, " I shall foUowyou, 
shall follow you everywhere ! Heaven ! Wretch that I am ! 
And why have I not known you sooner? Why did you not 
come before? Heaven ! " 

'* You see I have come. " 

"Now? What is to be done now? Together, together " 
she went on, with a kind of exaltation, and once more she 
kissed the young man. " Yes, I will go with you to the 
galleys ! " 

These words caused Raskolnikoff a painful feeling ; a bit- 
ter and almost haughty smile appeared on his lips. " Per- 
haps I may not yet wish to go to the galleys, Sonia," said he. 

The girl rapidly turned her eyes on him. She had up to 
the present experienced no more than immense pity for an 
unhappy man. This statement, and the tone of voice in 


■which it was pronouticed, suddenly recalled to the girl that 
the wretched man was an assassin. She cast on him an as- 
tonished look. As yet, she did not know how nor why he 
had become a criminal. At this moment, these questions 
suggested themselves to her, and, once more doubting, she 
asked herself: "He, he a murderer? Is such a thing possi- 
ble? But no, it cannot be true! Where am I?" she asked 
herself, as if she could have believed herself the sport of a 
dream. " How is it possible that you, being what you are, 
can have thought of such a thing? Oh ! why ? " 

"To steal, if you wish to know. Cease, Sonia ! " he 
replied in wearied and rather vexed accents. 

Sonia remained stupefied ; suddenly a cry escaped her : 
"Were you hungry? Did, you do so to help your mother? 
Speak ! " 

"No, Sonia ! no ! " he stammered, drooping his head. " I 
was not so poor as all that. It is true I wanted to help my 
mother, but that was not the jeal reason. — Do not torment 
me, Sonia ! " 

The girl beat her hands together. " Is it possible that 
such a thing can be real ? Heaven! is it possible? How can 
I believe such a thing? You say you killed to rob ; you, who 
deprive yourself of all for the sake of others! Ah ! " she cried 
suddenly. " That money you gave to Catherine Ivanovna ! 
— that money! Heavens ! can it be that? " 

"No, Sonia!" he interrupted somewhat sharply. "This 
money comes from another source, I assure you. It was my 
mother who sent it to me during my sickness, through the 
intervention of a merchant, and I had just received it when I 
gave it. Razoumikin saw it himself, he even went so far as 
to receive it for me. The money was really my own prop- 
erty." Sonia listened in perplexity, and strove to understand. 
" As for the old woman's money, to tell the truth, I really do 
not know whether there was any money at all," he went on 
hesitatingly. " I took from her neck a well-filled chamois-' 
leather purse. ]put I never examined the contents, probably 
because I had no time to do so. I took different things, 
sleeve-links, watch-chains. These things I hid, in the same 
way as the purse, on the following day, under a large stone 


• in a yard which looks out on the V Prospect. Every- 
thing is still there. ' ' 

Sonia listened with avidity. " But why did you take no- 
thing, since, as you tell me, you committed murder to steal?" 
she went on, clinging to a last and very vague hope. 

" I don't know — as yet I am undecided whether to take 
this money or not," replied RaskolnikoflF in the same hesita- 
ting voice ; then he smiled. " What silly tale have I been 
telling you?" 

" Can he be mad? " Sonia asked herself, but she soon dis- 
pelled such an idea ; no, it was something else, which she 
most certainly did not understand. 

" Do you know what I am going to tell you, Sonia? " he 
went on in a convinced tone : " If nothing but need had iirged 
me to commit a murder," laying stress on every word, and his 
look, although frank, was more or less puzzling, "I should 
now be happy! Let me tell you that! And what can the 
motive be to you, since I told you just now that I had acted 
badly?" he cried despairingly, a moment afterwards. "What 
was the good of this foolish triumph over myself? Ah! Sonia, 
was it for that I came to you?" She once more wished to 
speak, but remained silent. "Yesterday, I made a proposal 
to you that we should both of us depart together, because you 
are all that is left to me." 

"Why did you wish me to accompany you?" asked the 
girl timidly. ^ 

" Not to rob or to kill, I assure you," answered Raskolni- 
kofiF, with a caustic, smile. " We are not of the same way of 
thinking. And — do you knOw, Sonia? — it is only of late that 
I have known why I asked you yesterday to accompany me. 
When I asked you to do so, I did not as yet know what it 
would lead to. I see it now. I have but one wish — it is that 
you should not leave me. You will not do so, will you, 
Sonia? " She clasped his hand. "And why have I told her 
this? Why make such a confession?" he exclaimed, a mo- 
ment afterwards. He looked at her with infinite compassion, 
whilst his voice expressed the most profound despair. ' ' I see, 
Sonia, that you are waiting for some kind of explanation, but 
what am I to say ? You understand nothing about the mat- 


ter, and I should only be causing you additional pain. I see 
you are once more commencing to weep and to embrace me. 
Why do so at all ? Because, failing in courage to bear my 
own burden, I have imposed it on another — because I seek in 
the anguish of others some mitigation for my own. And you 
can love a coward like that ? ' ' 

" But you are likewise suflFering 1 " exclaimed Sonia. 

For a moment he experienced a new feeling of tenderness. 
" Sonia, my disposition is a bad one, and that can explain 
much. I have come because I am bad. Some would not 
have done so. But I am an infamous coward. Why, once 
more, have I come ? I shall never forgive myself for that ! " 

" No, no ! — on the contrary, you have done well to come," 
cried Sonia; " it is better, much better, I should know all ! " 

Raskolnikoff looked at her with sorrowful eye, " I was 
ambitious to become another Napoleon; that was why I com- 
mitted a murder. Can you understand it n9w ? " 

"No," answered Sonia, naively and in a timid voice. 
" But speak ! speak ! — I shall understand all ! " 

"You will, say you? Good! we shall see!" For some 
time Raskolnikoff collected his ideas. " The fact is that, one 
day, I asked myself the following question : * Supposing Na- 
poleon to have been in my place, supposing that to com- 
mence his career he had neither had Toulon, nor Egypt, nor 
the crossing of Mont Blanc, but, in lieu of all these brilliant 
exploits, he was on the point of committing a murder with a 
view to secure his future, would he have recoiled at the idea 
of killing an old woman, and of robbing her of three thou- 
sand roubles ? Would he have agreed that such a deed was 
too much wanting in prestige and much too — criminal a one ? ' 
For a long time I have split my liead on that question, and 
could not help experiencing a feeling of shame when I finally 
came to the conclusion that he not only would not have hesi- 
tated, but that he would not have understood the possibility 
of such a thing. Every other expedient being out of his 
reach, he would not have flinched, he would have done so 
without the smallest scruple. Hence, I ought not to hesitate 
— ^being justified on the authority of Napoleon 1 ' ' 




The greatest Russian figure 
in the world of thought at the 
close of the nineteenth century 
is Count Lyof Nikolaivitch 
Tolstoi, who is in many respects 
the most remarkable literary 
product of the vast empire of 
the Czars. He has become one 
of the oracles of the modem 
civilized world. When he 
speaks all Europe, and even the New World, turns to listen. 
He has come to be the prophet of a new religion, rather than a 
new literature ; indeed, he has denounced all fiction as licen- 
tious ; and yet his development has been steadily mirrored in 
his literary work, and he is, after all, a great literary influence 
rather than a great social factor. What he has done for 
Russian literature may be epitomized in a brief sentence : he 
has painted her aristocratic classes, as Gogol painted her 
small-property classes, and as Turgenieff painted her peasants 
and Nihilists. For Europe Tolstoi has pictured the horrors 
of war, not simply its dangers and bloodshed, but its Sadden- 
ing effects on the lives and characters of the soldiers, the 
monotony of the siege, the curious spirit of patriotism behind 
the moving armies. For the world he has preached a powerful, 
even if strange, sermon on the unhappiness of marriages, the 
real social sin behind the sins of adultery, the. divine necessity 
for foi:giveness, the crime of divorce. His doctrines hive led 
him to a variously iiiterpreted mysticism, but he has written 
at least one great Russian work, " The Cossacks," and two 
great world-books, "War and Peace" and "Anna Karenina." 
Bom on August 28, 1828, at Yasnaya Polyana, near Tula, 
a descendant of Peter the Great's honored Count Piota Tolstoi, 
young Lyof (Leo) had thjC training of a noble. The university 
could not hold his attention, however; he broke from his 
studies against the earnest exhortations of his professors, and 


retired to the paternal estate. In those days he was sowing 
his wild oats. He nearly came to disgrace through an inordi- 
nate passion for gambling: the character of the ruined 
gamester in his "Recollections of a Scorer" being partly 
autobiographic. At that time, too, Tolstoi's ideal was force. 
He admired all the manifestations of individual force, such 
as ambition, cupidity, lust, pride, wrath and vengeance. ' ' In 
reality," he has confessed, "I loved only force, and when I 
found it without alloy of folly, I took it for truth." It was 
only natural, therefore, that one day he should have started 
for the Caucasus, where his elder brother, Nikolai,, was serving 
as captain. Lyof Tolstoi took part in guerrilla warfare in 
Circassia and was shut up in Sebastopol. At the age of 
twenty- six he left the army, but published a record of his 
impressions and recollections in his " Military Sketches " (col- 
lected in 1856), which describe the siege rather than the battles 
of the English and French invasion. The realism of these 
sketches at once attracted attention. In St. Petersburg he 
became interested in the "mission of the men of thought." 
He wrote " Childhood and Youth," a study of Russian family 
life. He became an educationalist, and, to quote his own 
words, "got upon stilts to satisfy his desire for teaching." 

But sickened by the immorality of the educated class, 
Tolstoi's mind reverted to the more natural, even if animal- 
like, life of the steppe. "I -went forth," he has declared, 
" among the bashkirs to breathe the pure air, to drink kumis, 
and to lead an animal life.' ' A similar flight from the wick- 
edness of city life that he makes Olenin, the hero of "The 
Cossacks " (1856) take at the start of that romance. Turge- 
niefF has praised this work as "an incomparable picture of 
men and things in the Caucasus." The wild, almost lawless 
state of nature among the children of the Caucasus is not only 
revealed in the turbulent Marianka, with whom Olenin falls 
in love, and in her wooer, the daring and handsome Lukashka, 
but also in old Yeroshka, the giant huntsman, a regular 
savage who has the indelible odor ■of vodka, powder, and dried 
blood. Iviikashka is killed by a vengeful foe, but Marianka 
cannot understand Olenin's nature and . he departs without 
his wild Cossack bride. Not only his Caucasan memories 


were thus utilized, but in "War and Peace" (i860) he drew 
upon his recollections as an ensign and aide on Prince Gortch- 
akof 's staflF in the Crimea. He chose for his canvas, however, 
the Napoleonic invasion of 1812. This romance is full of 
wonderful realistic scenes of camp life, of battle, of military- 
art and strategy, of great warriors from the German officers to 
the life-like and untheatrical Napoleon. Upon this lurid 
background Tolstoi placed a sociological tragedy. 

Pierre Bezukhofj the typical Russian, marries the sensual 
beauty, Elen Kuragina, against his own reason and through 
mere animal lust. She proves unfaithful. He slays her lover 
and separates from her. Then he saves Natasha Rostof from 
betrayal by a rake. She learns to love him, but he does not 
seek a divorce. His wife's death permits a new and happier 
marriage. Thus Tolstoi emphasized his doctrine that divorce 
is wrong. And yet in this story Bezukhof had not forgiven 
his wife, nor had she sought a divorce to free herself. 

" Anna Karenina " (1876) became an even more tragic tale 
of adultery. Anna marries Aleksei Karenin,.a husband ut- 
terly unfitted to her. As a result of this mismated union, she 
proves untrue. A flagrant liaison ensues with the dashing 
young Baron Vronsky. Aleksei is an upright man. , At first 
full of the most bitter hate, he is at last moved to forgive her 
through her sufferings, her remorse, and her devoted maternal 
love of their little boy. Vronsky, with all his nobler traits 
aside from his passion for Anna, perceives in Aleksei, although 
he cannot understand, a greater nature than his own. But 
Aleksei, who had at the outset urged divorce in vain, at last 
refuses to consent to it. He considers that it would be a sin. 
Anna and Vronsky grow unhappy together ; they part ; and 
a suicide, foreshadowed on the first page, ends her sinning 
and misery. Despite their crime Anna and Vronsky retain a 
certain hold on our sympathy, but the disagreeable Aleksei 
really rises to the noblest level. And yet we feel that he is 
partly responsible for his wife's sin. This point Tolstoi 
sought again to emphasize in the sensational and overwrought 
" Kreutzer Sonata," in which the viciousness of the husband 
is made the cause of crime, "but in which the institution of 
marriage itself is almost deplored, owing to its abuse. Tolstoi 


has been misunderstood by those who claim that he has wished 
to end the human race through universal celibacy. He sim- 
ply preaches a purer youth and a holier marriage than is now 
the rule. In the wooing and honeymoon of Konstantin Levin 
and Katia, in "Anna Karenina," he- has given an idyl of a 
happy marriage. In that novel Tolstoi has also emphasized 
his opposition to war, and has treated the social and agricul- 
tural problems of serf-liberated. Russia. His experiment of a 
Slavic commune, afterward to be tried on his own estate, was 
hinted at. His extreme doctrines of " non-resistance to evil 
and force, " and of a soC:ialism based on the Gospels have been 
revealed in "My Confession" and "My Religion." 

Napoleon and the Wounded Russians. 

(From "War and Peace." Translated by Nathan Haskell Dole. 
Copyright, 1888, byT. Y. Crowell & Co.) 

On the Pratzer hill, in the same spot where he had fallen 
with the flagstaff in his hand, lay Prince Andrei Bolkonsky, 
his life-blood oozing away, and unconsciously groaning, with 
light, pitiful groans, like an ailing child. 

By evening, he ceased to groan, and lay absolutely still. 
He did not know how long his unconsciousness continued. 
Suddenly, he felt that he was alive and suffering from a 
burning and tormenting pain in his head. 

"Where is that lofty heaven which I had never seen 
before, and which I saw to-day ? ' ' That was his first thought. 
"And I never knew such pain as this, either," he said to him- 
self. "Yes, I have never known anything, anything at all, 
till now. But whe^e am I ? " 

He tried to listen, and heard the trampling hoofs of several 
horses approaching, and the sounds of voices, talking French. 
He opened his eyes. Over him still stretched the same lofty 
heaven, with clouds sailing over it in still loftier heights, 
and beyond them he could see the depths of endless blue. He 
did not turn his head or look at those who, to judge from the 
hoof beats of the horses and the sounds of the voices, rode up 
to him and paused. 

These horsemen were Napoleon, accompanied by two 
aides. Bonaparte, who had been riding over the field of bat- 


tie, had given orders to strengthen the battery that was can. 
nonading the dyke of Augest, and was now looking after the 
killed and wounded left on the battlefield. 

'■'■ De beaux hommes! — handsome men!" said Napoleon, 
gazing at a Russian grenadier, who lay on his belly with his 
face half buried in the soil, and his neck turning black, and 
one arm flung out and stiffened in death. 

"The ammunition for the field-guns is exhausted, sire!" 

" Have that of the reserves brought," said Napoleon, and 
then a step or two nearer, he paused over Prince Andrei, who 
lay on his back with the flagstaff clutched in his hands (the 
flag had been carried off by the French as a trophy). 

"There is a beautiful death," said Napoleon, gazing at 
Bolkonsky. Prince Andrei realized that this was said of 
him, and that it was spoken by Napoleon. He heard them 
address the speaker as "sire." But he heard these words as 
though they had been the buzzing of a fly. He was not only 
not interested in them, but they made no impression upon 
him, and he immediately forgot them. His head throbbed 
as with fire : he felt that his life-blood was ebbing, and he 
still saw far above him the distant, eternal heavens. He 
knew that this was Napoleon, his hero ; but at this moment. 
Napoleon seemed to him merely a small, insignificant man in 
comparison with that lofty, infinite heaven, with the clouds 
flying over it. It was a matter of utter indifference to him 
who stood looking down upon him, or what was said about 
him at that moment. He was merely conscious of a feeling 
of joy that people had come to him, and of a desire for these 
people to give him assistance and bring him back to life 
which seemed to him so beautiful : because he understood it 
so differently now. He collected all his strength to move 
and make some sound. He managed to move his leg slightly 
and uttered a weak feeble, sickly moan that stirred pity even 
in himself. 

"Ah ! he is alive !" said Napoleon. "Take up this young 
man and take him to the temporary hospital," Having given 
this order, Napoleon rode on to meet Marshal I/annes, who, 
removing his hat and smiling, rode up and congratulated him 
on the victory. 
X— 4 


Prince Andrei recollected nothing further; he lost con- 
sciousness of the terrible pain caused by those who placed 
him on the stretcher, and by the jolting as he was carried 
along, and the probing of the wound. He recovered it again 
only at the very end of the day, as he was carried to the hos- 
pital together with other Russians wounded, and taken pris- 
oner. At this time, he felt a little fresher and was able to 
glance around and even to speak. 

The first words which he heard after he came to were 
those spoken by a French officer in charge of the convoy, 
who said, — 

' ' We must stop here ; the emperor is coming by imme- 
diately; it will give him pleasure to see these prisoners." 

" There Are so many prisoners to-day, almost the whole 
Russian army, I should think it would have become an old 
story," said another officer. 

"Well, at all events, this man here, they say, was the 
commander of all the Emperor Alexander's Guards," said 
the first speaker, indicating a wounded Russian officer in a 
white cavalier-guards uniform. Bolkou'^ky recognized Prince 
Repnin ■\frhom he had met in Petersburg society. Next him 
was a youth of nineteen, an officer of the cavalier guard also 

Bonaparte coming up at a gallop reined in his horse. 

"Who is the chief officer here?" he asked, looking at 
the wounded. 

They pointed to Colonel Prince Repnin. 

"Were you the commander of the Emperor Alexander's 
Horse-guard regiment?" asked Napoleon. 

"I commanded a squadron,", replied Repnin. 

"Your regiment did its duty with honor," remarked 

"Praise from a great commander is the highest reward 
that a soldier can have," said Repnin. 

" It is with pleasure that I give it to you," replied Napo- 
leon. " Who is this young man next you ? " 

Prince Repnin named Lieutenant Snkhtelen. 

Napoleon glanced at him and said with a smile : " He is 
very young to oppose us." 


" Youth does not prevent one from being brave,' ' replied 
Sukhtelen in a broken voice. 

"A beautiful answer," said Napoleon. "Young man, 
you will get on in the world." 

Prince Andrei, who had been placed also in the front rank, 
under the eyes of the emperor, so as to swell the number of 
those who had been taken prisoner, naturally attracted his 
attention. Napoleon evidently remembered having seen him 
on the field, and turning to him he used exactly the same 
expression, "young man" as when Bolkonsky had the first 
time come under his notice. 

"Well, and you, young man?" said he addressing him. 
"How do you feel, mon brave 9^'' 

Although five minutes before this. Prince Andrei had 
been able to say a few words to the soldiers who were bearing 
him, now he fixed his eyes directly on Napoleon, but had 
nothing to say. To him at this moment all the interests 
occupying Napoleon seemed so petty, his former hero him- 
self, with his small vanity and delight in the victory, seemed 
so sordid in comparison with that high, true, and just heaven 
which he had seen and learned to understand ; and that was 
why he could not answer him. 

Yes, and everything seemed to him so profitless and insig- 
nificant in comparison with that stern and majestic train of 
thought induced in his mind by his lapsing strength, as his 
life-blood ebbed away, by his suffering and the near expecta- 
tion of death. As Prince Andrei looked into Napoleon's eyes, 
he thought of the insignificance of majesty, of the insignifi- 
cance of life, the meaning of which no one could understand, 
and of the still greater insignificance of death, the thought of 
which no one could among men understand or explain. 

The emperor, without waiting for any answer, turned away, 
and as he started to ride on, said to one of the oflScers, — 

" Have these gentlemen looked after and conveyed to my 
bivouac ; have Doctor I,arry himself look after their wounds. 
Au revoir, Prince Repnin," and he touched the spurs to his 
horse and galloped away. 

His face was bright with self-satisfaction and happiness. 

The soldiers carrying Prince Andrei had taken from him 


the golden medallion which the Princess Mariya had hung 
around her brother's neck, but when they saw the flattering 
way in which the emperor treated the prisoners, they hastened 
to return the medallion. 

Prince Andrei did not see how or by whom the medallion 
was replaced, but he suddenly discovered on his chest, cut- 
side of his uniform, the little image attached to its slender 
golden chain. 

"It would be good," thought Prince Andrei, letting his 
eyes rest on the medallion which his sister had hung around 
his neck with so much feeling and reverence, " it would be 
good if everything were as clear and simple as it seems to the 
Princess Mariya. How good it would be to know where to 
find help in this life, and what to expect after it, — beyond the 
grave ! How happy and composed I should be, if I could say 
now, ' Lord have mercy on me ! ' But to whom can I say 
that! Is it force — impalpable, incomprehensible, which I 
cannot turn to, or even express in words, is it the great All 
or nothingness," said he to himself, "or is it God which is 
sewed in this amulet which my sister gave me ? Nothing, 
nothing is certain, except the insignificance of all within my 
comprehension and the majesty of that which is incompre- 
hensible, but all-important." 

Levin with the Mowers. 

(From " Anna Karenina." Translated by Nathan Haskell Dole. 
Copyright, 1888, by T. Y. Crowell & Co.) 

The labor seemed lighter to Levin during the heat of the 
day. The sweat in which he was bathed refreshed him ; and 
the sun, burning his back, his head, and his arms bared to 
the elbow, gave him force and energy. The moments of 
oblivion, of unconsciousness of what he was doing, came back 
to him more and more frequently; the scythe seemed to go 
of itself. These were happy moments. Then, still more 
gladsome were the moments when, coming to the riverside, 
■ the siarik, wiping his scythe with the moist, thick grass, 
rinsed the steel in the river, then, dipping up a ladleful of 
tlie water, gave it to Levin. , 

" Mi-ka, my kvas/ Ah, good ! " he exclaimed, winking. 


And, indeed, it seemed to Levin that he had never tasted 
any liquor more refreshing than this pure, lukewarm water, 
in which grass floated, and tasting of the rusty tin cup. 
Then came the glorious slow promenade, when, with scythe 
on the arm, there was time to wipe the heated brow, fill the 
lungs full, and glance around at the long line of hay-makers, 
and the busy life in the field and forest. 

The longer Levin mowed, the more frequently he felt the 
moiAents of oblivion, when his hands did not wield the scythe, 
but the scythe seemed to have a self-conscious body, full 
of life, and carrying on, as it were by enchantment, a regular 
and systematic work. These were indeed joyful moments. 
It was hard only when he was obliged to interrupt this 
unconscious activity to remove a clod or a clump of wild 
sorrel. The starik found it mere sport. When he came to 
a clod, he pushed it aside with repeated taps of his scythe, or 
with his hand tossed it out of the way, and while doing this 
he noticed everything and examined everything that was to 
be seen. Now h^ picked a strawberry, and ate it himself 
or gave it to Levin ; now he discovered a nest of quail from 
which the cock was scurrying away, or caught a snake on the 
end of his scythe, and, having shown it to Levin, flung it 
out of the way. 

But for Levin and the young fellow behind him these 
repeated observations were difficult. When once they got 
into the swing of work, they could not easily change their 
movements, and turn their attention to what was before them. 

Levin did not realize how the time was flying. If he had 
been asked how long he had been mowing, he would have 
answered, "A quarter of an hour;" and here it was almost 
dinner-time. The starik drew his attention to the girls and 
boys, half concealed by the tall grass, who were coming from 
all sides, bringing to the hay-makers their bread and jugs of 
kvas^ which seemed too heavy for their little arms. 

"Seel here come the midgets," said he, pointing to 
them ; and, shading his eyes, he looked at the sun. 

Twice more they went across the field, and then the starik 

"^M barin! dinner," said he in a decided tone. 


Then the mowers, walking along the river-side, went back 
to their kaftans [coats], where the children were waiting with 
the dinners. Some clustered around the telyegas ; others 
sat in the shade of a laburnum, where the mown grass was 
heaped up. 

^L,evin sat down near them : he had no wish to leave them. 
All constraint in the presence of the barin had disappeared. 
The muzhiks prepared to take their dinner. They washed 
themselves, took their bread, emptied their jugs of kvas, and 
some found places to nap in, while the children went in 

The starik crumbed his bread into his porringer, mashed 
it with his spoon, poured water on it from his tin basin, and, 
cutting off still more bread, he salted the whole plentifully; 
and, turning to the east, he said his prayer. Then he in- 
vited Levin. 

Levin found the tiurka so palatable that he decided not to 
go home to dinner. He dined with the starik^ and their con- 
versation turned on his domestic affairs, in which the barin 
took a lively interest, and in his turn told the old man about 
such of his plans and projects as would interest him. He 
felt as though the starik were more nearly related to him 
than his brother, and he could not help smiling at the feeling 
of sympathy w^hich this simple-hearted man inspired. 

When dinner was over, the starik offered another prayer, 
and arranged a pillow of fresh-mown grass, and composed 
himself for a nap. Levin did the same; and, in spite of the 
fleas and insects tickling his heated face, he immediately 
went off to sleep, and did not wake until the sun came out on 
the other side of the laburnum bush, and shone brightly 
above his head. The starik was awake, but was sitting 
down cutting the children's hair. 

Levin looked around him, and did not know where he 
was. Every thing seemed changed. The mown field stretched 
away into immensity with its windrows of sweet-smelling hay, 
lighted and glorified in a new fashion by the oblique rays of 
the sun. The bushes had been cut down by the river; and 
the river itself, before invisible, but now shining like steel 
with its windings ; and the busy peasantry ; and the high wall 


of grass, where the field was not yet mowed ; and the young 
vultures flying high above the field, — all this was absolutely 
new to him. 

Levin calculated what his workmen had done, and what 
still remained to do. The work accomplished by the forty- 
two men was considerable. The whole field, which in the 
time of serfdom used to take thirty-two men two days, was 
now almost mowed : only a few corners with short rows were 
left. But he wanted to do still more : in his opinion, the sun 
was sinking too early. He felt no fatigue : he only wanted 
to do more rapid, and if possible better, work. 

" Do you think we shall get Mashkin Hill mowed 
to-day?" he demanded of the starik. 

" If God allows : the sun is still high. Will there be little 
sips of vodka [whiskey] for the boysf'' 

At supper-time, when the men rested again, and some of 
them were lighting their pipes, the starik announced to the 
boys, "Mow Mashkin Hill — extra vodka!" 

''Eka! Come on, Sef! Let's tackle it lively. We'll 
eat after dark. Come on ! " cried several voices ; and, even 
while still munching their bread, they resumed their work 

*" Nu / Oh, keep up good hearts, boys 1 " said Sef, setting 
off almost on the run. 

' ' Come, come ! " cried the starik, hastening after them. 
"I am first. Lookout!" 

Old and young took hold in rivalry ; and yet with all their 
haste, they did not spoil their work, but the windrows lay in 
neat and regular lines. 

The triangle was finished in five minutes. The last mowers 
had just finished their line, when the first, throwing their kaf- 
tans over their shoulders, started down the road to the hill. 

The sun was just going behind the forest, when, with rat- 
tling cans, they came to the little wooded ravine of Mashkin 
Verkh. The grass here was as high as a man's waist, tender, 
succulent, thick, and variegated with the flower called Jvaft- 
va-Marya. ■ 

After a short parley, to decide whether to take it across 
or lengthwise, an experienced mOwer, Prokhor Yermilin, a 


huge, black-bearded muzhik^ went over it first. He took it 
lengthwise, and came back in his track ; and then all fol- 
lowed him, going along the hill above the hollow and skirt- 
ing the wood. The sun was setting. The dew was already 
falling: Only the mowers on the ridge could see the sun ; 
but down in the hollow, where the mist was beginning to rise, 
and behind the slope, they went in fresh, dewy shade. The 
work went on. The grass fell in high heaps: the mowers 
came close together as the rows converged, rattling their 
drinking-cups, sometimes hitting their scythes together, work- 
ing with joyful shouts, rallying each other. 

Levin still kept his place between his two companions. 
The starik, with sheepskin vest loosened, was gay, jocose, 
free in his movements. In the woods, mushrooms were found 
lurking under the leaves. Instead of cutting them ofiF with 
his scythe, as the others did, he bent down whenever he saw 
one, and, picking it, put it in his breast. "Still another 
little present for my old woman.' ' 

The tender and soft grass was easy to mow, but it was 
hard to climb and descend the steep sides of the ravine. 
But the starik did not let this appear. Always lightly swing- 
ing his scythe, he climbed with short, firm steps, though he 
trembled all over with the exercise. He let nothing escape 
him, not an herb or a mushroom; and he never ceased to 
joke with Levin and the muzhiks. Levin behind him felt 
that he would drop at every instant, and told himself that he 
should never climb, scythe in hand, this steep hillside, where 
even unencumbered it would be hard to go. But he perse- 
vered all the same, and succeeded. He felt as though some 
interior force sustained him. 

They had finished mowing the Mashkin Verkh : the last 
rows were done, and the men had taken their kaftans^ and 
were gayly going home. Levin mounted his horse, and 
regretfully took leave of his companions. On the hill-top he 
turned round to take a last look ; but the evening's mist, 
rising from the bottoms, hid them from sight ; but he could 
hear their hearty, happy voices, as they laughed and talked, 
and the sound of their clinking scythes. 


Anna's Visit to Her Son. 

(From "Anna Karenina." Translated by Nathan Haskell Dole. 
Copyright, 1888, by T. Y. Crowell & Co.) 

Anna's chief desire on her return to Russia was to see her 
son. From the day that she left Italy she was filled with 
this idea; and her joy increased in proportion as she drew 
near Petersburg. She did not trouble herself with the ques- 
tion how she should manage this meeting which seemed to 
her of such importance. It was a simple and natural thing, 
she thought, to see her child once more, now that she was in 
the same town with him; but since her arrival she suddenly 
realized her present relation towards society, and found that 
the interview was not easy to obtain. , 

She had been two days now in Petersburg, and never for 
an instant had she forgotten her son, but she had not seen 
him. To go straight to her husband's house and risk coming 
face to face with her husband, seemed to her impossible. 
They might even refuse to admit her. To write to Aleksti 
Aleksandrovitch and ask permission of him, seemed to her 
painful even to think of. She could be calm only when she 
did not think of her husband ; and yet she could not feel con- 
tented to see her son at a distance. 

She had too many kisses, too many caresses, to give him. 
Serozha's old nurse might have been an assistance to her, but 
she no longer lived with Aleksdi Aleksandrovitch. 

She decided to go on the morrow, which was Serozha's 
birthday, directly to her husband's house to see the child, no 
matter what it cost in fees to the servants, and to put an end 
to the ugly network of lies with which they were surround^ 
ing the innocent child. 

She went to a neighboring shop and purchased some toys, 
and then she formed her plan of action: she would start early 
in the morning before Aleksti Aleksandrovitch was up; she 
would have the money in her hand all ready to bribe the 
Swiss and the other servants to let her go up stairs without 
raising her veil, under the pretext of laying on Serozha's bed 
some presents sent by his god-father. As to what she should 


say to her son, she could not form the least idea; she could 
not make any preparation for that. 

The next morning, at eight o'clock, Anna got out of her 
hired carriage and rang the door- bell of her former home. 

"Go and see what is wanted! It's some iaruma,^' said 
Kapitonuitch, in overcoat and galoshes, as he looked out of 
the window and saw a lady closely veiled standing on the 
porch. The Swiss's assistant, a young man whom Anna did 
not know, had scarcely opened the door before Anna thrust a 
three-ruble note into his hand, 

" Serozha— Serg6i Aleljs'4vitch," she stammered; then 
she went one or two steps down the hall. 

The Swiss's assistant examined the note, and stopped the 
visitor at the inner glass door. 

" Whom do you wish to see? " he asked. 

She did not hear his words, and made r j reply. 

Kapitonuitch, noticing the stranger's confusion, came out 
from his ofl&ce and asked her what she wanted. 

"I come from Prince Skorodumof to see Sergei Aleksi4- 

" He is not up yet," replied the Swiss, looking sharply at 
the veiled lady. 

Anna had never dreamed that she should be so troubled 
by the sight of this house where she had lived nine years. 
One after another, sweet and cruel memories arose in her 
mind, and for a moment she forgot why she was there. 

" Will you wait ? " asked the Swiss, helping her to take oflF 
her shubka. When he saw her face, he recognized her, and 
bowed profoundly. " Will your ladyship be pleased to enter? " 
he said to her. 

She tried to speak; but her voice failed her, and with an 
entreating look at the old servant she rapidly flew up the 
stairs. Kapitonuitch tried to overtake her, and followed 
after her, catching his galoshes at every step. 

" Perhaps his tutor is not dressed yet ; I will speak to him.'' 

Anna kept on up the stairs which she knew so well, but 
she did not hear what the old man said. 

" This way. Excuse it, if all is in disorder. He sleeps in 
the front room now," said the Swiss, out of breath. "Will 


your ladyship be good enough to wait a moment ? I will go 
and see." And opening the high door, he disappeared. 

Anna stopped and waited. "He has just waked up," 
said the Swiss, coming back through the same door. And as 
he spoke, Anna heard the sound of a child yawning, and 
merely, by the sound of the yawn she recognized her son and 
seemed to see him alive before her. "Let me go in — let me 1 " 
she stammered, and hurriedly pushed through the door. 

At the right of the door was a bed, and on the bed a child 
was sitting up in his little open nightgown ; his little body 
was leaning forward, and he was just finishing a yawn and 
stretching himself. His lips were just closing into a sleepy 
smile, and he fell back upon his pillow still smiling. 

" Serozha I" she murmured as she went towards him. 

Every time since their separation that she had felt an 
access of love for the absent son, Anna looked upon him as 
still a child of four, the age when he had been most charm- 
ing. Now he no longer bore any resemblance to him whom 
she had left : he had grown tall and thin. How long his face 
seemed 1 How short his hair ! What long arms ! How he 
had changed ! But it was still the same,— the shape of his 
head, his lips, little slender neck, and his broad shoulders. 

" Serozha !" she whispered in the child's ear. 

He' raised himself on his elbow, turned his frowzy head 
around, and trying to put things together, opened wide his 
eyes. For several seconds he looked with an inquiring face 
at his mother, who stood motionless before him. Then he 
suddenly smiled with joy, and with his eyes still half-closed 
in sleep, he threw himself, not back upon his pillow, but into 
his mother's arms. 

" Serozha, my dear little boy ! " she stammered, choking 
with tears, and throwing her loving arms around his plump 

" Mamma ! ' ' he whispered, cuddling into his mother's arms 
so as to feel their encirpling pressure. Smiling sleepily, he 
took his hand from the head of the bed and put it on his 
mother's shoulder and climbed into her lap, having that warm 
breath of sleep peculiar to children, and pressed his face to 
his mother's neck and shoulders. 


"I knew," he said, opening his eyes; "to-day is my 
birthday ; I knew that you would come. I am going to get 
up now." 

And as he spoke he fell asleep again. Anna devoured him 
with her eyes. She saw how he had changed during her 
absence. She would scarcely have known his long legs com- 
ing below his nightgown, his hollow cheeks, his short hair 
curled in the neck where she had so often kissed it. She 
pressed him to her heart, and the tears prevented her from 

"What are you crying for, mamma?" he asked, now 
entirely awake. ' ' What makes you cry ? " he repeated, ready 
to weep himself. 

"I? I will not cry any more — it is for joy. It is all 
over now," said she, drying her tears and turning around. 
" Nu/ go and get dressed," she added, after she had grown 
a little calmer, but still holding Serozha's hand. She sat 
down near the bed on a chair which held the child's clothing. 
"How do you dress without me? How" — she wanted to 
speak simply and gayly, but she could not, and again she 
turned her head away. 

" I don't wash in cold water any more ; papa has forbidden 
it : but you have not seen Vasili Lukitch ? Here he comes. 
But you are sitting on my things." And Serozha laughed 
heartily. She looked at him and smiled. 

" Mamma ! dUskenka, goKibtchika ! ' ' [dear little soul, dar- 
ling], he cried again, throwing himself into her arms, as 
though he now better understood what had happened to him, 
as he saw her smile. 

"Take it off," said he, pulling off her hat. And seeing 
her head bare, he began to kiss her again. 

' ' What did you think of me ? Did you believe that I was 

"I never believed it. ' ' 

' ' You believed me alive, my precious ? ' ' 

" I knew it ! I knew it ! " he replied, repeating his favor- 
ite phrase ; and seizing the hand which was smoothing his 
hair, he pressed the palm of it to his little mouth, and began 
to kiss it. 



All her life Marie BashkirtseflF (i 860-1 884) was a victim 
to a wild thirst for fame ; through music, literature and art 
she sought successively to find a road to glory. Dying in the 
full flush of ardent womanhood, she received the long-coveted 
reward, only when she lay in her tomb. Her "Journal," 
published a few years after her death, is a striking revelation 
of inner self —almost as startling, though not so scandalous, 
as Rousseau's "Confessions." In this "Journal" the world 
has the confession (in the partipular case of a fierce-spirited 
girl) of that universal self-esteem, vanity, and gnawing hun- 
ger for fame which lies deep in human nature itself. The 
petted child of a family of social distinction, idolized by her 
mother and aunt ; a charming lady to whom the butterfly- 
world of fashion had few closed doors ; a gifted — indeed, too 
gifted — woman ; Marie Bashkirtseff''s restless spirit yearned 
incessantly to achieve something grand, that would make the 
whole world bow at her feet. Nothing was fine enough for her. 
" The offspring of Tartar nobles, with savage instincts lying 
like half-tamed wild beasts in the background of her con- 
sciousness," is Mathilde Blind's summary of her character, 
adding : " She was descended from owners of lands and serfs,, 
and the instincts of command, the pride of power, the love of 
all things splendid, became part of her inheritance." 

Later, studying art in a Parisian studio, she fell under the 
influence of Jules Bastien-Lepage, head of the new impres- 
sionistic school. She seems to have had a hero-worship for 
him, and to have lost herself to an appreciable degree in her 
growing love of art ; and yet throughout all preserved her 
imperious personality. As a painter she acquired consider- 
able success in the handling of Paris street scenes and 
gamins, sympathetically and half-pathetically treated. But 
her lifelong dream was of a great religious picture, which 
should show the two Marys mourning, as deprived of support 
and consolation, before the tomb of Jesus. 

The following extract is from "Marie Bashkirtseff. The Journal 
of a Young Artist." Translated by M. J. Serrano. Copyright, 1889, 
by O. M. Dunham. 


Extract from Her Journal. 

Nice, Wednesday, May 2j, 1877. — Oh, -when I think that 
■we have only a single life to live, and that every moment 
that passes brings us nearer death, I am ready to go dis- 
tracted ! I do not fear death, but life is so short that to waste 
it is infamous 

Ah, what a happy time youth is ! With wbat happiness 
shall I look back, in times to come, on these days devoted to 
science and art ! If I worked thus all the year round — but a 
day, or a week, as the chance may be ! Natures so richly 
endowed as mine consume themselves in idleness. 

I try to tranquillize my mind by tbe thought that I shall 
certainly begin work in earnest this winter. But the thought 
of my seventeen years makes me blush to the roots of my 
hair. Almost seventeen, and what bave I accomplished? 
Nothing ! This thought crushes me. 

I think of all the famous men and women who acquired 
their celebrity late in life, in order to console myself; but 
seventeen years for a man are nothing, while for a woman 
they are equal to twenty-three for a man. 

To go live in Paris, in the North, after this cloudless sky, 
these clear, calm nights ! What can one desire, what can one 
hope for, after Italy ! Paris — the heart of the civilized world, 
of the world of intellect, of genius, of fashion — naturally 
people go there, and remain there, and are happy there ; it 
is even indispensable to go there, for a multitude of reasons, 
in order to return with renewed delight to the land beloved 
of God, the land of the blest, that enchanted, wondrous, 
divine land of the supreme beauty and magic charm, of 
which all that one could say would never equal the truth ! 

When foreigners come to Italy they ridicule its mean 
little towns and its lazzaroni, and they do this with some 
cleverness, and not without a certain show of reason. But 
forget for the moment that you are clever ; forget that it is a 
inai^k of genius to turn everything into ridicule, and you will 
find, as I do, that tears will mingle with your laughter, and 
that you will wonder at all you see. 


Period VIII. 
Nineteenth Century. 

jOI^ITICAIv revolutions have strongly affected 
Italian literature throughout the greater part of 
the century. Alfieri adhered to the Classical 
school in form and endeavored to restore the 
writers of the Greek tragedy. But the Roman- 
tic school speedily prevailed, though the unique 
genius of Leopardi resisted the change of form. During the 
time that Napoleon swayed the destinies of the peninsula, 
Ugo Foscolo and Vincenzo Monti, belonging to Lombardy, 
were the chief poets. Monti passed like a shuttlecock from 
party to party during the convulsions of the state. After 
having won the favor of the Papal court by graceful odes, 
he denounced the French Revolution in his powerful epic, 
" Bassevilliana," then he settled at Milan under Napoleon's 
patronage . and lauded the emperor in his tragedies. Yet 
when the Austrians returned, he celebrated the expulsion t)f 
the French. Though his old age was embittered with con- 
troversies and poverty, he continued to give proof df his 
splendid lyric power. Ugo Foscolo was a consistent Repub- 
lican and accepted exile in London rather than renounce his 
opinions. Though an original poet of merit, his mission was 
rather to introduce a better knowledge of Italian literature 
into England. 

When Austria had established its power in Northern Italy, 
freedom of thought was suppressed, yet there was a group of 
notable literary men at Milan who have become known as 



the School of Resignation. The greatest of these was Man- 
zoni, who atoned for the infidelity of his early youth by the 
fervent Catholicism of his riper years. His poetic talents 
were devoted to sacred hymns, celebrating the Church festivals, 
and his dramatic ability was shown in spirited tragedies, but 
his real fame rests upon his masterly novel, "I Promessi 
Sposi," which is still regarded as the most characteristic 
Italian production of the century. "It satisfies us," said 
Goethe, "like perfectly ripe fruit." Though his life was 
prolonged fifty years after the publication of this great work, 
this modest valetudinarian practically accomplished nothing 
more of value, but endeavored to improve the diction of his 
masterpiece, by making it conform to Tuscan idiom. Some 
tragedies by the gentle Silvio Pellico, especially his "Fran- 
cesca da Rimini," are still esteemed in Italy, but the world at 
large remembers him only by his pathetic narrative, ' ' My 
Prisons," a searching revelation of Austrian despotism. 
Tommaso Grossi was a more versatile writer, best known by 
his satires and playful poems. 

Hardly until 1825 did Florence, which had been the 
literary centre since the Renaissance, resume its fprmer rank. 
Guerrazzi as a youth had enjoyed the friendship of Byron and 
was stirred to write historical novels on Italian themes in imita- 
tion of Sir Walter Scott's efforts for his native land. The 
grander genius of Niccolini recalled the events of his coun- 
try's past in noble tragedies. Giuseppe Giusti, who possessed 
high genius as a lyrist, spent his force in political and social 
satires. He was the first of Italian satirists to reach and stir 
the hearts of the people. But great as were the merits of 
these writers, a greater still remains. Above them towered 
the unique melancholy Leopardi, doomed by ill health and 
adverse circumstances to spend his powers in unavailing 
remonstrances against the decrees of fate and the conventions 
of society. His poems are unsurpassed for refinement and 
beauty of form. His prose dialogues, written somewhat in 
imitation of Lucian^ are devoted to the discussion of the 
inevitable misery of mankind, and are recognized examples of 
refined scholarly pessimism. While his writings show his 
determination to think ill of mankind as a whole; he had 



tender aflfection for certain individuals. With his view of the 
utter uselessness of human effort, Leopardi gave no help to 
the patriotic aspirations of his countrymen. 

Northern Italy has still continued to produce literary men. 
Verona was the birthplace of Aleardi ; the border of Tyrol 
produced Prati ; Dall' Ongaro belongs to Trieste, the Aus- 
trian seaport. In contemporary literature Giosue Carducci 
claims the foremost place as a lyric poet; Gabriele D'Annunzio 
shines as a poet, but is more widely known as a realistic, 
erotic novelist. Edmondo D' Amicis by his picturesque books 
of travel has become a general favorite. Poets and novelists 
of the present day have abandoned the political themes of the 
early century and cultivate with success artistic literature. 


The Letters of Jacopo Ortis, 
which has been styled the Italian 
" Sorrows of Young Werther," was 
the first notable work of Ugo Fos- 
colo (1777-1827). Jacopo was no 
mere sentimental swain, but a pa- 
triot with whose love-pangs was 
mingled grief for the misfortunes 
of his country. Foscolo, although 
a native of the isle of Zante,i with 
Greek blood in his veins, and the 
pride of Greek ancestry, was also of 
Venetian descent, and in spirit an 
ardent Italian. Upon the fall of the oligarchic Republic of 
Venice, he addressed an ode to Bonaparte as the liberator. 
When that general, instead of making, Venice a free republic, 
turned her over to Austria by the treaty of Campo Formo 
(October 17, 1797), Foscolo was painfully shocked. Never- 
theless he did not entirely abandon hope of redress for his 
country from France. He became a volunteer in the French 
army, and was present at both the battle of Trebbia and the 
defence of Genoa under Mass6na. While recovering from a 
wound, he put into shape his "Jacopo Ortis," the hero of 
X— 5 


which embodies the mental sufferings and suicide of an ar- 
dent Italian patriot. The character is said to have had an 
actual original in a young student at the University of Padua, 
while a true love disappointment of Foscolo's formed the 
basis of the love-tragedy in the romance. 

In 1808 Foscolo was made Professor in the University of 
Pavia, but when he delivered an address to the students, bid- 
ding them seek iu their studies an inspiration to patriotism, 
his independence provoked Napoleon to abolish all ihe chairs 
of eloquence in the Italian Univerbities. His tragedy of Ajax 
increased the emperor's dislike, and forced him to remove 
from Milan to Florence. Ou the restoration of Austrian 
dominion Foscolo retired to Switzerland, and later to England, 
where for a time he enjoyed high social distinction, and pro- 
moted the study of Italian literature by lectures and reviews. 
Yet he was reduced to poverty, and even committed to prison. 
When released, he had lost his friends. He died near London, 
after eleven years' residence in England. In 1871 his remains 
were carried back in honor to Florence, and buried in the 
Church of San Croce, beside the monuments of Machi^velli 
Alfiari, Galileo, and other great Italians. Foscolo was worthy 
of this tribute as a classic author, an inspirer of a new move- 
ment in his country's literature, and a prophet of Italian unity. 

The most famous of his poems is " I Sepolcri" (The 
Sepulchres), in which he rebuked the Milanese for allowing 
the remains of Giuseppe Parini, author of the mock-heroic 
poem, "The Day," to be interred in a common burial ground 
with robbers. The leading idea of the poem, however, was 
to seek refuge from a degenerate present in a glorious past. 
Foscolo translated into Italian Sterne's "Sentimental Jour- 
ney" after he had, while serving with the French, traversed 
much of the ground gone over by Yorick. 

Great Men's Monuments. 

(From " The Sepulchres.") 
The aspiring soul is fired to lofty deeds 
By great men's monuments, — and they make tair 
And holy to the pilgrim's eye the earth 
That has received their trust. When I beheld 


The spot where sleeps enshrined that noble genius, 

Who, humbling the proud sceptres of earth's kings, 

Stripped thence the illusive wreaths, and showed the nations 

What tears and blood defiled them, — when I saw 

His mausoleum, who upreared in Rome 

A new Olympus to the Deity, — 

And his, who 'neath heaven's azure canopy 

Saw worlds unnumbered roll, and suns unmoved 

Irradiate countless systems, — treading first 

For Albion's son, who soared on wings sublime, 

The shining pathways of the firmament, — 

"Oh, blest art thou, Etruria's Queen," I cried, 

" For thy pure airs, so redolent of life. 
And the fresh streams thy mountain summits pour 
In homage at thy feet ! In thy blue sky 
The glad moon walks,— and robes with silver light 
Thy vintage-smiling hills ; and valleys fair. 
Studded with domes and olive-groves, send up 
To heaven the incense of a thousand flowers. 
Thou, Florence, first didst hear the song divine 
That cheered the Ghibelline's indignant flight. 
And thou the kindred and sweet language gav'st 
To him, the chosen of Calliope, 
Who lyove with purest veil adorning,— I^ove, 
That went unrobed in elder Greece and Rome, — 
Restored him to a heavenly Venus' lap. 
Yet far more blest, that in thy fane repose 
Italia's buried glories ! — all, perchance, 
She e'er may boast ! Since o'er the barrier frail 
Of Alpine rocks the overwhelming tide of Fate 
Hath swept in mighty wreck her arms, her wealth, 
Altars and country, — and, save memory, — all ! " 
Where from past fame springs'hope of future deeds 
In daring minds, for Italy enslaved, 
Draw we our auspices. Arounds these tombs. 
In thought entranced, Alfieri wandered oft, — 
Indignant at his country, hither strayed 
O'er Amo's desert plain, and looked abroad 
With silent longing on the field and sky : 
And when no living aspect soothed his grief, 
Turned to the voiceless dead ; while on his brow 
There sat the paleness, with the hope of death. 


With them he dwells forever ; here his bones 

Murmur a patriot's love. Oh, truly speaks 

A god from his abode of pious rest ! 

The same which fired of old, in Grecian bosoms, 

Hatred ot Persian foes at Marathon, 

Where Athens consecrates her heroes gone. 


Many famous men have suffered imprisonment, but rarely 
has their confinement been a direct cause of their fame. Silvio 
Pellico ranks high among the few who owe celebrity to their 
prisons. Born of wealthy parents at Saluzzo in Piedmont in 
1789, he was well educated, and early devoted himself to lit- 
erature. As a young man he enjoyed the friendship of Monti 
and Foscolo, and delighted all Italy with his tragedy of 
" Francesca da Rimini." But in his desire for the freedom of 
his country, he joined the Carbonari, and thereby became a 
victim of Austrian despotism. Arrested in October, 1820, he 
was put in prison at Milan, but was soon removed to the state 
prison at Venice. His trial in February, 1822, resulted in a 
sentence to death, but this was commuted to incarceration for 
fifteen years in the dungeons of Spielberg. In 1830, when 
the prisoner was almost reduced to death, he was discharged 
by the emperor's command. Pellico withdrew to Turin and 
resumed his' literary pursuits. Among his tragedies is one on 
Sir Thomas More. But his unique work is "My Prisons," 
which has charmed every reader by its unaffected style, its 
tender pathos, and its Christian charity. He died in 1854 at 
the villa of Marchesa Barolo, to whom he had been librarian. 

The Jailer's Daughter. 

(From " My Prisons.") 
As it was not always so easy an affair to get a reinforce- 
ment of paper, I was in the habit of committing my rough 
draughts to my table, or the wrapping-paper in which I 
received fruit and other articles. At times I would give 
away my dinner to the under-jailer, telling him that I had 
no appetite, and then requesting from him the favor of a 
sheet of paper. This was, however, only in certain exigen- 


cies, when my little table was full of writing, and I had not 
yet determined on clearing it away. I was often very hun- 
gry, and though the jailer had money of mine in his posses- 
sion, I did not ask him to bring me anything to eat, partly 
lest he should suspect I had given away my dinner, and 
partly that the under- jailer might not find out that I had 
said what was not true when I assured him of my loss of 
appetite. In the evening I regaled myself with some strong 
coflFee, and I entreated that it might be made by the little 
Sioa Zanze [affectionate abbreviation of Signora Angiola]. 
This was the jailer's daughter, who, if she could escape the 
lynx-eye of her sour mamma, was good enough to make it 
exceedingly good ; so good, indeed, that, what with the 
emptiness of my stomach, it produced a kind of convulsion, 
which kept me awake the whole of the night. 

In this state of gentle inebriation, I felt my intellectual 
faculties strangely invigorated ; wrote poetry, philosophized, 
and prayed till morning with feelings of real pleasure. I 
then became completely exhausted, threw myself upon my 
bed, and, spite of the gnats that were continually sucking 
my blood, I slept an hour or two in profound rest. 

I can hardly describe the peculiar and pleasing exaltation 
of mind which continued for nights together, and I left no 
means untried to secure the same means of continuing it. 
With this view I still refused to touch a mouthful of dinner, 
even when I was in no want of paper, merely in order to ob- 
tain my magic beverage for the evening. 

How fortunate I thought myself when I succeeded ; not 
unfrequently the coffee was not made by the gentle Angiola ; 
and it was always vile stuff from her mother's hands. In 
this last case, I was sadly put out of humor, for instead of the 
electrical effect on my nerves,' it made me wretched, weak, 
and hungry; I threw myself down to sleep, but was unable 
to close an eye. Upon these occasions I complained bitterly 
to Angiola, the jailer's daughter, and one day, as if she 
had been in fault, I scolded her so sharply that the poor 
girl began to weep, sobbing out, " Indeed, sir, I never de- 
ceived anybody, and yet everybody calls me a deceitful little 


" Everybody! Oh then, I see I am not the only one driven 
to distraction by your vile slops." 

"I do not mean to say that, sir. Ah, if you only knew; 
if I dared to tell you all that my poor, wretched heart " 

" Well, don't cry so I What is all this ado ? I beg your 
pardon, you see, if I scolded you. Indeed, I believe you 
would not, you could not, make me such vile stuff as this." 

"Dear me ! I am not crying about that, sir." 

" You are not !" and I felt my self-love not a little morti- 
fied, though I forced a smile. "Are you crying, then, be- 
cause I scolded yon, and yet not about the coffee?" 

" Yes, indeed, sir !" 

"Ah ! then who called you a little deceitful one before?" 

''He did, sir." 

' 'He did ; and who \sheV 

"My lover, sir;" and she hid her face in her little hands. 
Afterwards she ingenuously intrusted to my keeping, and I 
cpuld not well betray her, a little serio comic sort of pastoral 
romance, which really interested me. 

From that day forth, I know not why, I became the ad- 
viser and confidant of this young girl, who returned and con- 
versed with me for hours. She at first said, " You are so 
good, sir, that I feel just the same when I am here as if I 
were your own daughter." 

"That is a very poor compliment," replied I, dropping 
her hand ; " I am hardly yet thirty-two, and you look upon 
me as if I were an old father." 

"No, no, not so; I mean as a brother, to be sure;" and 
she insisted upon taking hold of my hand with an air of the 
most innocent confidence and affection. 

I am glad, thought I to mvself, that you are no beauty; 
else, alas, this innocent sort of fooling might chance to dis- 
concert me ; at other times I thought it is lucky, too, she is 
so young, there could never be any danger of becoming at- 
tached to girls of her years. At other times, however, I felt 
a little uneasy, thinking I was mistaken in having pronounced 
her rather plain, whereas her whole shape and features were 
by no means wanting in proportion or expression. If she 
were not quite so pale, I said, and her face free from those 


marks, she might really pass for a beauty. It is impossible, 
in fact, not to find some charm in the presence and in tha 
looks and voice of a young girl full of vivacity and afiFection. 
I had taken not the least pains to acquire her good-will ; yet 
was I as dear to her as either a father or a brother, whichever 
title I preferred. And why? Only because she had read 
"Francesca da Rimini" and "Eufemio," and my poems, she 
said, had made her weep so often ; then, besides, I was a soli- 
tary prisoner, without having, as she observed, either robbed 
or murdered anybody. 

In short, when I had become attached to poor Maddalene, 
without once seeing her, how was it likely that I could remain 
indifferent to the sisterly assiduity and attentions, to the 
thousand pleasing little compliments, and to the most deli- 
cious cups of coffee of this 5 oung Venetian girl, my gentle little 
jailer? I should be trying to impose on myself, were I to 
attribute to my own prudence the fact of my not having fallen 
in love with Angiola. I did not do so, simply from the cir- 
cumstance of her having already a lover of her own choosing, 
to whom she was desperately, unalterably attached. Heaven 
help me ! if it had not been thus I should have found myself 
in a very critical position, indeed, for an author, with so little 
to keep alive his attention. The sentiment I felt for her was 
not, then, what is called love. I wished to see her happy, and 
that she might be united to the lover of li°r choice ; I was 
not jealous, nor had I the remotest idea she could ever select 
me as the object of her regard. Still, when I heard my 
prison-door open, my heart began to beat in the hope it was 
my Angiola; and if she appeared not, I experienced a pecu- 
liar kind of vexation ; when she really came my heart throbbed 
yet more violently, from a feeling of pure joy. Her parents, 
who had begun to entertain a good opinion of me, and were 
aware of her passionate regard for another, offered no opposi- 
tion to the visits she thus mide me, permitting her almost 
invariably to bring me my coflfee in a morning, and not 
unfrequently in the evening. 

There was altogether a simplicity and an affectionateness 
in her every word, look, and gesture, which were really cap- 
tivating. She would say, " I am excessively attached to 



another, and yet I take such delight in being near you! 
When I am not in his company, I like being nowhere so well 
as here." (Here was another compliment.) 

"And don't you know why?" inquired I. 

"I do not." 

" I will tell you, then. It is because I permit you to talk 
about your lover." 

"That is a good guess; yet still I think it is a good deal 
because I esteem you so very much !" 

Poor girl ! along with this pretty frankness she had that 
blessed sin of taking me always by the hand, and pressing it 
with all her heart, not perceiving that she at once pleased 
and disconcerted me by her affectionate manner. Thanks 
be to Heaven, that I can always recall this excellent little 
girl to mind without the least tinge of remorse. 


The Romantic School in 
Italian literature was founded by 
Alessandro Manzoni (1785-1 873). 
His great masterpiece, ' ' I Pro- 
messi Sposi" (The Betrothed 
I/)vers), was inspired by the 
romances of Sir Walter Scott, 
but the magnanimous Scott 
: placed it before even his own 
novels and styled it an ideal 
romance. Manzoni was de- 
scended from the fierce feudal 
lords of Valsassina, and was thus an appropriate comrade 
with the mighty magician of "Waverly." But his mother 
belonged to the Beccaria family, which has some note in litera- 
ture. " I Promessi Sposi " is not merely an historical novel 
or picture of the past. The author explores the innermost 
recesses of the human heart, and draws thence the most 
subtle motives for the movements of his characters. The 
ecclesiastical bias, due to his early training by the Barnabites, 
and the French coloring, due to his frequenting of Madame 


Condorcet's salon, axe also visible in the atmosphere of 
Manzoni's love-story. The scene is laid in Milan and the 
neighborhood of Como and the Italian lakes early in the 
seventeenth century. Renzo and his affianced Lucia are two 
simple, noble-spirited peasants, but around them Manzoni 
has woven a plot which involves the vices and virtues, cus- 
toms and manners of that age. Renzo is cruelly victimized by 
Don Rodrigo, whom he eventually forgives. Lucia is assaulted 
by the stony-hearted Innominato in his castle. There is a 
friar, Fra Cristoforo, who has devoted himself to a life of 
holiness in penitence for one impulsive crime of his yottth, 
and who does his utmost to rescue the sweet lovers from the 
devil's snares around them. Federigo Borromeo, Archbishop 
of Milan, is also a character of saintly beauty, A weak 
priest is introduced in Abbondio. Don Rodrigo falls a victim 
to the plague which ravaged Milan and its vicinity in 1630. 
Manzoni gives a powerful description of this plague, which 
emulates the work of the great historian Thucydides, the 
poet Lucretius, and the novelists Boccaccio and Defoe. From 
use of the original memoirs, he was enabled to paint the ter- 
rible picture in the most vivid, breathing colors. Later on 
he wrote as a sequel to his romance the story of the " Colonna 
Infame" (The Column of Infamy), a monument erected on 
the site of the dwelling of a Milanese suspected of having 
spread this plague by means of poison. The people of Milan 
had been unable to comprehend the true significance of the 
plague, and a rumor was circulated by certain miscreants to 
the effect that it was due to secret poison rubbed on the walls 
of the houses. The angry mob pulled down the house of 
the unfortunate man accused of being the arch-conspirator in 
the crime. Manzoni proved, in his historical study, how 
utterly idle the scandal was, and traced its origin and develop- 
meht. Critics have complained somewhat of the excessive 
ideality of Manzoni's romance, but in such of its characters 
as Agnese he has displayed a pleasant and humorous realism. 
His great work he revised most laboriously in accordance 
with the Tuscan idiom. 

Manzoni also enriched Italian literature, if not the Italian 
stage, with two tragedies— " II Conte di Carmagnole" and 


" Adelchi." The latter treats of the expedition of Charle- 
magne against the last of the Longobardian chiefs {772-774). 
Under the veil of the L,ombard domination in Italy Manzoni 
gave his view of the existing Austrian domination. He also 
warned Italy to hope for no foreign rescuer. In " The Count 
of Carmagnola" he depicted a picturesque Venetian Con- 
dottiero of the fourteenth century. Manzoni's literary motto 
was " True history, true morals." In these he believed lies 
the widest and the eternal source of the beautiful. His real- 
ism was of this type, idealized by noble sentiment. 

Manzoni in early life had been a follower of Voltaire, but 
was brought back to Catholicism by his wife, the beautiful 
daughter of a Genevese banker. This new religious expe- 
rience enriched Catholic poetry, for Manzoni was inspired to 
compose a series of "Inni" (Hymns) for the various Christian 
festivals. He thus celebrated " The Resun-ection, " "The 
Name of Mary," "The Nativity," "The Passion," and 
"Pentecost." But even in these sacred poems, the poet did 
not fail to manifest his aspirations for social progress. For 
instance, in "The Nativity" he sings a sublime vision of a 
Christian democracy, and in "The Resurrection" he chants 
the triumph of innocence over oppression. He thus became, 
in his lyrics, a champion of the purest and most sublime 
morality. His most famous ode is that called "Cinque 
Maggio " (The Fifth of May) on the death of Napoleon. 

Manzoni stands in marked contrast with his great contem- 
porary, the pessimist Leopardi. Manzoni was always serene 
and had faith in the divine government of the world. After 
the publication of his great novel, in 1822, and its sequel, 
he wrote but little. His wife died in 1833, and though he 
married again, he outlived his second wife and most of his 
children, dying at Milan at the age of eighty-eight. His 
funeral was attended with all the manifestations of natural 
grief, and Verdi wrote a noble Requiem in his honor. Man- 
zoni's private character was in perfect accord with the best 
utterances of his genius. ■ Though his poetry is celebrated 
for its lofty fervor, it is as a prose- writer, and especially as the 
author of " I Promessi Sposi," that he has attained his unique 
place in the literature of Italy and the world. 


The Death of Napoleon. 

(From " The Fifth of Ma}'." Napoleon died May 5, 1821. ) 

Hb was. — As motionless, as lay, 
First mingled with the dead, 
The relics of the senseless clay. 
Whence such a soul had fled, — 
The Earth astounded holds her breath, 
Struck with the tidings of his death : 

She pauses the last hour to see 
Of the dread Man of Destiny; 
Nor knows she when another tread. 
Like that of the once mighty dead. 
Shall such a foot-print leave impressed 
As his, in blood, upon her breast.. 

I saw him blazing on his throne. 
Yet hailed him not : by restless fate 
Hurled from the giddy summit down, 
Resume again his lofty state : 
Saw him at last forever fall. 
Still mute amid the shouts of all : 

Free from base flattery, when he rose ; 
From baser outrage, when he fell : 
Now his career has reached its close ; 
My voice is raised the truth to tell. 
And o'er its exiled urn will try 
To pour a strain that shall not die. 

From Alps to Pyramids were thrown 
His bolts, from Scylla to the Don, 
From Manzanares to the Rhine, , 
From sea to sea, unerring hurled ; 
And ere the flash had ceased to shine. 
Burst on their aim, — and shook the world. 

Was this true glory ? The high doom 
Must be pronounced by times to come : 
For us we bow before His throne. 
Who willed, in gifting mortal clay 
With such a spirit, to display 
A grander impress of his own. 


His was the stormy, fierce delight 
To dare adventure's boldest scheme; 
The soul of fire that burned for might, 
And could of naught but empire dream ; 
And his the indomitable will 
That dream of empire to fulfill, 
And to a greatness to attain 
'Twere madness to have hoped to gain : 
All these were his ; nor these alone ; 
Flight, victory, exile, and the throne ; 
Twice in the dust by thousands trod. 
Twice on the altar as a god. 

Two ages stood in arms arrayed. 
Contending which should victor be : 
He spake : his mandate they obeyed. 
And bowed to hear their destiny. 
He stepped between them, to assume 
The mastery, and pronounce their doom ; 

Then vanished, and inactive wore 
I^ife's remnant out on that lone shore. 
What envy did his palmy state. 
What pity his reverses move. 
Object of unrelenting hate, 
And unextinguishable love ! 

The Interrupted Wedding. 

(From "The Betrothed.") 

Don Abbondio [the priest] was sitting in an old arm- 
chair, wrapped in a dilapidated dressing-gown, with an ancient 
cap on his head, which made a frame all round his face. By 
the faint light of a small lamp the two thick white tufts of 
hair which projected from under the cap, his bushy white 
eyebrows, moustache, and pointed beard all seemed, on his 
brown and wrinkled face, like bushes covered with snow on 
a rocky hillside seen by moonlight. 

"Ah ! ah ! '? was his salutation, as he took off his specta- 
cles and put them into the book he was reading. 

" Your Reverence will say we are late in coming," said 
Tonio, bowing, as did Gervaso, but more awkwardly. 


" Certainly it is late— late in every way. Do you know 
that I am ill ? " 

" Oh ! I am very sorry, sir ! " 

" You surely must have heard that I am ill, and don't 
know when I can see any one. . . . But why have you brought 
that— that fellow with you ? " 

" Oh ! just for company, like, sir ! " 
"Very good — now let us see." 

"There are twenty-five new berlinghe, sir — those with 
Saint Ambrose on horseback on them," said Tonio, drawing 
a folded paper from his pocket. 

" Let us see," returned Abbondio, and taking the paper, 
he put on his spectacles, unfolded it, took out the silver pieces, 
turned them over and over, counted them and found them 

" Now, your Reverence, will you kindly give me my 
Teckla's necklace?" 

"Quite right," replied Don Abbondio; and going to a 
cupboard, he unlocked it, and having first looked round, as 
if to keep away any spectators, opened one side, stood in front 
of the open door, so that no one could see in, put in his head 
to look for the pledge, and his arm to take it out, and, having 
extracted it, locked the cupboard, unwrapped the paper, said 
interrogatively, "All right?" wrapped it up again and handfed 
it over to Tonio. 

"Now," said the latter, "would you please let me have a 
little black and white, sir?" 

"This, too!" exclaimed Don Abbondio; "they are up 
to every trick ! Eh ! how suspicious the world has grown ! 
Can't you trust me?" 

"How, your Reverence, not trust you? You do me 
wrong ! But as my name is down on your book, on the debtor 
side, . . . and you have already had the trouble of writing it 
once, so ... in case anything were to happen, you know . . ." 
"All right, all right," interrupted Don Abbondio, and, 
grumbling to himself, he opened the table drawer, took out 
pen, paper and inkstand, and began to write, repeating the 
words out loud as he set them down. Meanwhile, Tonio, 
and, at a sign from him, Gervaso, placed themselves in front 


of the table, so as to prevent the writer from seeing the door, 
and, as if in mere idleness, began to move their feet about 
noisily on the floor, in order to serve as a signal to those out- 
side, and, at the same time, to deaden the sound of their foot- 
steps. Don Abbondio, intent on his work, noticed nothing. 
Renzo and Lucia, hearing the signal, entered on tiptoe, hold- 
ing their breath, and stood close behind the two brothers. 
Meanwhile, Don Abbondio, who had finished writing, read 
over the document attentively, without raising his eyes from 
the paper, folded it and saying, "Will you be satisfied now?" 
took ofi" his spectacles with one hand, and held out the sheet 
to Tonio with the other. Tonio, while stretching out his 
hand to take it, stepped back on one side, and Gervaso, at a 
sign from him, on the other, and between the two appeared 
Renzo and Lucia. Don Abbondio saw them, started, was 
dumfoundered, became furious, thought it over, and came to 
a resolution, all in the time that Renzo took in uttering these 
words : "Your Reverence, in the presence of these witnesses, 
this is my wife ! " His lips had not yet ceased moving when 
Don Abbondio let fall the receipt, which he was holding in 
his left hand, raised the lamp and seizing the table-cloth with 
his right hand, dragged it violently towards him, throwing 
book, papers and inkstand to the ground, and, springing be- 
tween the chair and table, approached Lucia. The poor girl, 
with her sweet voice all trernbling, had only just been able to 
say "This is . . ." when Don Abbondio rudely flung the 
table-cloth over her head, and immediately dropping the lamp 
which he held in his other hand, used the latter to wrap it 
tightly round her face, nearly sufibcating her, while he roared 
at the top of his voice, like a wounded bull, " Perpetua ! 
Perpetua ! treason ! help ! " When the light was out the priest 
let go his hold of the girl, went groping about for the door 
leading into an inner room, and, having found it, entered and 
locked himself in, still shouting, " Perpetua ! treason ! help ! 
get out of this house ! get out of this house ! " In the other 
room all was confusipn; Renzo, trying to catch the priest, 
and waving his hands about as though he had been playing 
at blindman's buff, had reached the door and kept knocking, 
crying out, "Open! open! don't make a noise!" Lucia 


called Renzo in a feeble voice, and said supplicatingly, " Let 
us go ! do let us go ! " Tonio was down on his hands and 
knees, feeling about the floor to find his receipt, while Gervaso 
jumped about and yelled like one possessed, trying to get out 
by the door leading to the stairs. 

In the midst of this confusion we cannot refrain from a 
momentary reflection. Renzo, raising a noise by night in 
another man's house, which he had surreptitiously entered, 
and keeping its owner besieged in an inner room, has every 
appearance of being an oppressor, — ^yet, after all, when you 
come to look at it, he was the oppressed. Don Abbondio, 
surprised, put to flight, frightened out of his wits while quietly 
attending to his own business, would seem to be the victim ; 
and yet in reality, it was he who did the wrong. So goes the 
world, as it often happens ; at least, so it used to go in the 
seventeenth century. 


Other poets have been turncoats, but few passed through 
so many changes of party and profession as Vincenzo Monti 
(1754-1826). At first he was merely a shepherd of the Arca- 
dian school, but the French Revolution converted him into a 
democrat and patriotic poet. When, however. Napoleon was 
crowned Emperor, Monti hailed him in his " Prometeo" and 
"Musagonia," and received as his reward a pension and a 
professorship in the University of Pavia. When shortly af- 
terward (1815) the Austrians came back to Milan, the erst- 
while Napoleonic idolater celebrated without compunction 
"the wise, the just, the best of kings, Francis Augustus," 
who " in war was a whirlwind, and in peace a zephyr." The 
most charitable verdict on Monti is that he was, after all, a 
poet and not a patriot, one who reflected in verse the appear- 
ances and shows of the hour, and to whom Pius VI., Napoleon 
and Francis II. were mere passing shadows. He attacked 
the Papacy in "Fanatismo" and " Superstizione." His 
great fame is based on his early epic poem, " Bassevilliana." 
Ugo Basseville was secretary of the French Legation at Naples, 
who appeared in Rome with the tri-color of the Republic and 
was killed by the enraged populace. In Monti's epic Basse- 


ville repents of his republicanism in his dying moments, and 
the poet reviews in several cantos the woes which the Revo- 
lution has brought upon France and the world. The most 
admired episode is the description of poor l/ouis XVI.'s ascent 
into heaven from the scaffold. Later when attacked for the 
sentiments of this Dantesqne poem Monti utterly repudiated 
them, declaring that he wrote the epic in order to save himself 
from a similar fate as being a friend of Basseville's. 

The Soul's Ascension. 

(From " The Bassevilliana.") 

Hell had been vanquished in the battle fought ; 
The spirit of the abyss in sullen mood 
Withdrew, his frightful talons clutching naught ; 

He roared like lion famishing for food ; 
The Eternal he blasphemed, and, as he fled, 
I<oud hissed around his brow the snaky brood. 

Then timidly each opening pinion spread 
The soul of Basseville, on new life to look, 
Released from members with his heart's blood red. 

Then on the mortal prison, just forsook. 
The soul turned sudden back to gaze awhile, 
And, still mistrustful, still in terror shook. 

But the blessed angel, with a heavenly smile, 
Cheering the soul it had been his to win 
In dreadful battle waged 'gainst demon vile. 

Said, " Welcome, happy spirit, to thy kin ! 
Welcome unto that company, fair and brave, 
To whom in heaven remitted is each sin ! 

Fear not ; thou art not doomed to sip the wave 
Of black Avernus, which who tastes, resigned 
All hope of change, becomes the demon's slave. 

"But Heaven's high justice, nor in mercy blind. 
Nor in severity scrupulous to gauge 
Each blot, each wrinkle, of the human mind, 

' ' Has' written on the adamantine page 
That thou no joys of Paradise may'st know, 
Till punished be of France the guilty rage. 

" Meanwhile, the wounds, the immensity of woe, 
That thou hast helped to work, thou, penitent 
Contemplating with tears, o'er earth must go: 


"Thy sentence, that thine eyes be ceaseless benV 
Upon flagitious France, of whose offence 
The stench pollutes the very firmament." 


GiAMBATTisTA NiccoLiNi (1782-1861) succeeded to the 
work and fame of Alfieri. He was the penniless son of a 
cavalier of Pistoia, and became the great democratic tragedian 
of his country. His two most brilliant and eflfective dramas 
were " Giovanni da Procida," which treats of the expulsion 
of the French from Sicily and ends with the Sicilian Vespers, 
and " Arnaldo da Brescia," in which he reveals an emphatic- 
ally anti-papal spirit. In the former tragedy he lashes the 
Austrian oppressors of Italy in the French oppressors of Sicily, 
and in the latter play he practically warns his countrymen 
not to look to Pope Pius IX. as a possible saviour of Italy. 
He shows how Nicholas Breakspear, Pope Adrian IV. (whom 
he severely characterizes), stooped to a meek league with the 
German Emperor Frederick Barbarossa, in order to secure 
possession of Arnaldo. The hero of his tragedy was really 
more deserving of praise than the later Savonarola, and may 
be classed with the leaders of the Reformation, though he 
preceded them by nearly four hundred years. Born in Lom- 
bardy in 1105 and educated at Abelard's famous school in 
France, Arnaldo attacked the papal claims of temporal power 
within the very priesthood, and when banished from Italy for 
this boldness he became a defender of Abelard against St. 
Bernard. Returning to Rome he was upheld by the Senate 
in his patriotic struggle against the Pope, but was at last 
exiled when the Pontiff laid the rebellious city under an in- 
terdict. For a time he was shielded in secrecy by a count of 
Campagna, but was delivered over to the Emperor by the 
spies, his body burnt at the stake, and his ashes given to the 
historic Tiber (11 55). Niccolini's tragedy opens on the Cap- 
itoline hill and events move on in serried force to the catas- 
trophe. The diction is full of eloquence, and the tragic 
sentiment brave and robust. In "Giovanni da Procida," the 
■woes of Sicily were so irresistibly applied to Italy that the 


audiences in the crowded theatre rose nightly and echoed 
the words : 

" Why should heaven smile so glorious over 
The land of our infamous woe ? " 

A chorus of Sicilian poets was introduced by Niccolini in the 
square of Palermo, just previous to the massacre of the French. 
Another of his tragedies, "Antonio Foscarini," treats a 
theme which has been handled also by Byron. 

The Foscarini. 

(Antonio Foscarini meets his fathetj the Doge of Venice, after his 
return from Switzerland.) 

Doge. Once more in thine embrace 
I weep glad tears, and feast my weary eyes 
On thy dear face again. We'll part no more ! 
Thy father gains, though the republic lose thee. 

Antonio. Better for me to live my life apart 
From cares of state, and only seek repute 
For household virtues, in a land like this, 
Where the fierce mastery of the few still makes 
The crown a chastisement. Alas ! how changed, 
Father ! I find thee now. Thou hast put on 
The purple of the slave ; this palace wall, 
This city's self, thy prison ; first to serve, 
I<ast to command, here men have learned to scorn 
The sovereign in the Doge, and he is grown 
A wholesome butt for rude patrician pride, 
As was the drunken Helot of old time 
The laughing-stock for Spartan boys ! 

Doge Not so ! 

> This yoke exalts its wearer ; here, the law 
Rules over all ; and I, my son ! am throned 
In pomp, a king — a citizen in power ! 

Antl Oh, thou art worthy of a better age, 
A better people.' Answer, on thy truth. 
Is this. a Commonwealth ?— this State where man 
Exists but lives not, or where so-called life 
Is an unending terror which o'errules 
Noble and clown alike, and each aspires 
To grow a tyrant from a voiceless slave ? 


Doge. The old reproach ! Thou hast been taught to rail 
Against the State thou darest to disturb, 
By the example of Helvetian boors. 
But the free bounty of Italia' s clime 
Disdains the virtues bred from penury . . , 
True ! in the few lives manhood ; all the rest 
Are a mere herd : yet where one fear restrains 
Patrician and plebeian, there is Venice ! 

Ant. She needs not tremble if she count her tyrants. 
What path a people grown corrupt may tread 
From its old vices back to liberty 
I know not, Doge ! but how canst thou extol — 
Thou, soldier, and thou, sire — the cruel sway 
Which punishes a thought more than a crime. 
And muffles justice up to seem revenge ? 

Doge. Her fame and not her force it is defends 
Our city 'gainst her foes; and I commend 
The rule that keeps us scathless. 

Ant. .... To such praise 
The shriek of unknown victims, done to death 
By unknown tyrants, can make no reply. 
The livid wave that spreads so listlessly 
Between this fatal palace and the prisons, 
Hangs moaning o'er their miserable heads. 
Stifling the echo that but tells of pain. 
Here with mute foot goes death about his work, 
And bloodshed leaves no stain upon the floor ! 

Doge. Ours is the pain. The subject crowd enjoys 
The sway thou dar'st condemn, and deems in us. 
Who tremble -while we reign, its wrongs avenged. 
The State, be sure, could not endure a change. 
I see no glut of punishment ; but wealth, 
Banquet and dance, and show, and tranquil days 
Make Venice glad. . . . 

Ant. Ay ! thou too wouldst infer 
A prostrate people's gladness from its vices. 
There is a slavery that hath no botids. 
No bloodshed. There's a prudent tyranny 
Which pardons — and degrades. Out of thy heart 
The lazy despot's mean example steals 
All manliness. 'Tis that depraves the soul 
Even while it keeps it ddwn. The base excess 


Of joyless pleasure doth but sate and shame 
The low-born crowd. Ah ! manhood hath been waked 
Ere now by chains and stripes ; but worst of all, 
The tyrant who destroys men with a sleep ! 


Though prominent among the republican agitators of 
Italy, Francesco Domenico Guerrazzi (1804- 1873) is chiefly 
known by his spirited historical romances. Born at Livorno 
(Leghorn), he studied law at Pisa, and there was inspired by 
Byron to engage in literary pursuits. His first novel, ' ' The 
Battle of Benevento " (1827), stirred the hearts of his country-, 
men. His ardent republicanism involved him in a conspiracy 
for which he suffered imprisonment and banishment to Elba; 
but he improved the time by producing other romances, "The 
Siege of Florence " and " Isabella Orsini," which called forth 
great enthusiasm. Again in 1844 he was exiled, but during 
the revolution of 1848 he became President of the Council of 
Ministers, and in 1849, along with Montanelli and Mazzini, 
triumvir and dictator of Tuscany. This government was soon 
overthrown, and, after four years' imprisonment, Guerrazzi 
was sentenced to perpetual banishment. Meantime he de- 
fended his course in his "Apologia" (185 1). While residing 
in Corsica his restless energy drove him to write his famous 
"Beatrice Cenci" (1854) and other stories. Later, at Genoa, 
he issued " The Italian Plutarch," and various historical, 
biographical and satirical works. When the kingdom of Italy 
was formed in 1870 the veteran Guerrazzi was sent as deputy 
to Parliament. His last work, "The Dying Century," was 
written at a seashore villa, at Cecin^, near Leghorn. He died 
September 25, 1873. 

Beatrice Cenci. 

Beatrice was beautiful as the thought of God when he 
was moved to create the mother of all living. Love -with his 
rosy hands delineated the soft curves of her delicate face and 
pressing his fingers on the chin, to contemplate his lovely 
work, he left there the dimple, true mark of love. Her mouth 
was like a flower freshly culled in Paradise, breathing a divine 


fragrance, and giving to her countenance an expression more 
than human, as the ancients sung, a fragrance of ambrosia 
revealed to mortals the presence of a god. Her eyes often 
sought heaven, and fixed themselves there as if with a desire 
either of looking upon her home, to. which she was soon to 
return, or to discover there some mysterious signs, revealed 
to her alone, or because the maternal spirit beckoned her on 
to it. 

Where does the body of Beatrice now rest? From the 
church of St. Pietro, in Montorio, the Transfiguration of 
Rafael has disappeared, and with it the tombstone of the be- 
trayed girl. The picture of the Transfiguration, placed in a 
worthier situation, still receives the homage of posterity, 
while the devout pilgrim searches in vain for the sepulchre of 

Let the pilgrim whom love may urge to go to St. Pietro 
in Montorio, stop before the greater altar, behind the balus- 
trade there, at the foot of the steps of the altar. Let him look 
upon the flat, broad stone of Pentelic marble, and read : — 
" Underneath this stone sleep in peace the bones of Beatrice 
Cenci, a maiden of sixteen years, condemned by Pope Clement 
VIII., Vicar of Christ, to an ignominious death for parricide, 
not committed." 

ISABEIrLA Orsini. 

It is an historical fact that Isabella, Duchess of Bracciano, 
was not only an authoress, a poetess, and a composer, but she 
was also an improvisatrice. She wrote and spoke fluently in 
Latin, French and Spanish. In drawing, and in every accom- 
plishment that belongs to her high station, and in every lady- 
like elegance and refinement, she was so perfect as to be 
rightly esteemed more wonderful than rare. Blessed might 
she have been could she have used such rich gifts of nature, 
and high cultivation, to render her life happy, and her 
memory immortal. 


Apostrophe to Itai^y. 

(From "The Battle of Benevento.") 

Did a human being ever exist who would deny the Italian 
sky to be the most pure and serene that ever rejoiced in the 
smile of God ? or who, when the first son of nature is vested 
in his most pompous rays, has not felt his mind kindled by 
the greatness of those who are no more ? The impression of 
whose names are upon the soul, even as the abiding harmony 
of the harp that has ceased to be played upon ? Who has not 
been prostrated before that planet of life, which, abandoning 
night to the dominion of Heaven, salutes it from the confines 
of the ocean ? Who would not implore to remain within its 
celestial abode ? But if he departs at night, he returns with 
the morning ; he sees centuries disappear into eternity, gener- 
ations pursued to the tomb, amid infinite vicissitiides of virtue 
aqd crime. Briefly fell its light upon the honor of Italy ; long 
upon her grief and her rdproach. Alas ! never could I have 
believed the people would have died the death of the indi- 
vidual. Beautiful art thou, O sky of Italy ! the day and the 
night rejoices thee ; truly thou art a divine work. Thou wert 
the requisite canopy ; but now — thy brave are dead, thy 
monuments dispersed, and fame itself vanished. — Why, O 
sky, art thou not changed in thy turn? Beauty's funeral 
mantle is not obscured; the people ornament it with the 
flowers of joy, and try to deceive themselves over a life that 
is no more. Where are the sighs and farewells that descended 
into their graves, not as to departed ones, but as to the long 
absent? The eternal wisdom that governs the creation grants 
this beautiful sky to Italy, whose splendid graves bear testi- 
mony to its day of glory, and draws courage from the remem- 
brance for misfortune yet distant. And the earth ! — every 
clod contains the ashes of the heart of a hero. We step upon 
the dust of the great. It better became us that our steps were 
buried beneath that dust ! May this age pass away without 
being commemorated in history ! May posterity leave us the 
only inheritance of which we are <i ^sirous — oblivion. 


DE Pl^ELL^, P 




Pessimism found its most thrilling and most sorrowful 
voice in the poetry of Giacomo I,eopardi (1798-1837). The 
sorrow of life, which the German Schopenhauer later em- 
bodied in a definite philosophy, was the burden of Leopardi's 
utterance. It has been pronounced "the most agonizing cry 
in modern literature, uttered with a solemn quietness that at 
once elevates and terrifies us," In this poetry of despair 
Leopardi surpasses even Byron and Shelley. But Mr. Wil- 
liam Dean Howells interprets Leopardi' s muse in its national 
aspect. " Leopardi seems to have been the poet of a national 
mood; he was the final expression of that long, hopeless 
apathy in which Italy lay bound for thirty years after the fall 
of Napoleon and his governments, and the re-establishment 
of all the little despots, native and foreign, throughout the 
peninsula. In this time there was unrest enough, and revolt 
enough of a desultory and unorganized sort, but every struggle, 
apparently every aspiration, for a free political and religious 
life, ended in a more solid confirmation of the leaden misrule 
which weighed down the hearts of the people. To such an 
apathy the pensive monotone of the sick poet's song might 
well seem the only truth." 

The melancholy life of Leopardi is thus summed up by 
the Neapolitan writer, Francesco de Sanctis : " In his boyhood 
Leopardi saw his youth vanish forever ; he lived obscure, and 
achieved posthumous envy and renown ; he was rich and 
noble, and he suffered from want and despite; no woman's 
love ever smiled upon him, the solitary lover of his own mind, 
to which he gave the names of Sylvia, Aspasia, and Nerina. 
Therefore, with a precocious and bitter penetration, he held 
what we call happiness to be illusions and deceits of fancy ; the 
objects of our desire he called idols, our labors idleness, and 
everything vanity. Thus he saw nothing here below equal 
to his own intellect, or that was worthy the throb of his 
heart ; and inertia, rust, as it were, even more than pain, con- 
sumed his lifCr alone in what he called this formidable desert 
of the world." 


In plain prose, Leopardi was a sensitive soul doomed to 
iuch early unsympatlieiic environment and such later lack of 
events for enthusiasm that he became the victim of a painful 
ennui. Born at Recanati — one of the dullest of dull little 
Italian towns — he was reared by a narrow-minded father, who 
crushed his aspirations and dreams both of liberty and love 
in youth. Neglected in a literary way, he was allowed to ruin 
his eyes and make himself almost a hunchback over the books 
in his father's well-stocked library. He thus managed, by 
his precocious genius, to emerge one of the greatest philo- 
logists and critics of the Italy of his day, but — as Niebuhr 
saw him — " a mere youth, pale and shy, frail in person, and 
obviously in ill health." Though permitted to leave the 
prison of his home, L,eopardi was forced by his father to live 
most penuriously, and Niebuhr could secure for him no Italian 
office, because he was not a cleric. Before leaving Recanati 
he had lost his heart to a poor loom girl in a cottage opposite 
his father's palace, but that stern sire had promptly snuffed 
out this romantic first love. The young girl died, and her 
memory gave a melancholy tinge to all Leopardi's life and 
poetry. A second love tragedy occurred in Florence ; only 
this time the beloved lady is reported to have scorned her 
wooer. The Florentine ladies are said to have made general 
mock of the unprepossessing young pessimist. 

Leopardi's own progress in pessimism may be thus out- 
lined : first, a view of the ills of the human race as a result 
of the degeneration of human nature ; then, as due to the 
woe itself of humanity ; and, lastly, as a curse laid on man- 
kind by both God and nature. But, as has already been 
insisted, pessimism was with Leopardi not a philosophy but a 
sentiment and habit of mind. His general pessimism was 
embodied, however, in the "Operette Morali" (Moral Works). 
His "Bruto Minore" is also a condensation of his own des- 
pair. In the biography of Filippo Ottonieri, he sketches the 
life and views of an imaginary philosopher who really repre- 
sents himself In his poems he pictures the Icelander com- 
plaining of nature, the soul rebuking Creation, and the 
human spirit denouncing the elusive shade of happiness. In 
*' La Ginestra " he compares the littleness of man to the immen- 


sity of Vesuvius and nature. His sentiments are somewhat 
trite to modern view, but his verse still remains exquisite and 
limpid — the jewel casket that holds a skull. Among the 
poems of Leopardi's worthy of note are his "Ode to Italy," 
and his tribute to Dante, which brought him his earliest fame, 
at the time when Florence was erecting a statue to her exiled 
son. Leopardi also wrote a "Sequel to the [pseudo-Homeric] 
Battle of Frogs and Mice," in which he satirizes the abor- 
tive Neapolitan revolution of 1820. 

The Last Song of Sappho. 

Thou peaceful nigM, thou chaste and silver ray 
Of the declining Moon ; and thou, arising 
Amid the quiet forest on the rocks, 
Herald of day; O cherished and endeared, 
"Whilst Fate and Doom were to my knowledge closed, 
Objects of sight ! No lovely land or sky 
Doth longer gladden my despairing mood. 
By unaccustomed joy we are revived 
When o'er the liquid spaces of the Heavens 
And o'er the fields alarmed doth wildly whirl 
The tempest of the winds, and whexi the car, 
The ponderous car of Jove, above our heads 
Thundering, divides the heavy air obscure. 
O'er mountain peaks and o'er abysses deep 
We love to float amid the swiftest clouds ; 
We love the terror of the herds dispersed. 
The streams that flood the plain. 
And the victorious, thunderous fury of the main. 

Fair is thy sight, O sky divine, and fair 
, Art thou, O dewy Earth ! Alas ! of all 
This beauty infinite, no slighest part 
To wretched Sappho did the Gods or Fate 
Inexorable give. Unto thy reign 
Superb, O Nature, an unwelcome guest 
And a disprized adorer doth my heart 
And do mine eyes implore thy lovely forms ; 
But all in vain. The sunny land around 
Smiles not for me, nor from ethereal gates 
The blush of early dawn ; not me the songs 


Of brilliant-feathered birds, not me the trees 
Salute with murmuring leaves ; and where in shade 
Of drooping willows doth a liquid stream 
Display its pure and crystal course, from my 
Advancing foot the soft and flowing waves 
Withdrawing with affright. 
Disdainfully it takes through flowery dell its flight. 

What fault so great, what guiltiness so dire 
Did blight me ere my birth, that adverse grew 
To me the brow of fortune and the sky ? 
How did I sin, a child, when ignorant 
Of wickedness is life, that from that time 
Despoiled of youth and of its fairest flowers, 
The cruel Fates wove with relentless wrath 
The web of my existence ? Reckless words 
Rise on thy lips ; the events that are to be 
A secret council guides. Secret is all. 
Our agony excepted. We were born, , 
Neglected race, for tears ; the reason lies 
Amid the Gods on high. O cares and hopes 
Of early years ! To beauty did the Sire, 
To glorious beaut}' an eternal reign 
Give o'er this human kind ; for warlike deed. 
For learned lyre or song, 
In unadorned shape, no charms to fame belong. 

Ah ! let us die. The unworthy garb divested. 
The naked soul will take to Dis its flight 
And expiate the cruel fault of blind 
Dispensers of our lot. And thou for whom 
I/ong love in vain, long faith, and fruitless rage 
Of unappeased desire assailed my heart, 
Live happily, if happily on earth 
A mortal yet hath lived. Not me did Jove 
Sprinkle with the delightful liquor from 
The niggard urn, since of my childhood died 
The dreams and fond delusions. The glad days 
Of our existence are the first to fly; 
And then disease and age approach, and last. 
The shade of frigid Death. Behold ! of all 
The palms I hoped for and the errors sweet, 


Hades remains ; and the transcendent mind 
Sinks to the Stygian shore 
Where sable Night doth reign, and silence evermore. 

The Villagers' Saturday Night. 

From copse and glade the maiden takes her way 

"When in the west the setting sun reposes ; 

She gathered flowers ; her slender fingers bear 

A fragrant wealth of violets and roses, 

And with their beauty she will deck her hairj 

Her lovely bosom with their leaves entwine ; 

Such is her wont on every festive day. 

The aged matron sits upon the steps 

And with her neighbors turns the spinning wheel, 

Facing the heavens where the rays decline ; 

And she recalls the years, — 

The happy years when on the festive day 

It was her wont her beauty to array, 

And when amidst her lovers and compeers 

In youth's effulgent pride 

Her rapid feet through mazy dance did glide. 

The sky already darkens, and serene 

The azure vault its loveliness reveals ; 

From hill and tower a lengthened shadow steals 

In silvery whiteness of the crescent moon. 

We hear the distant bell 

Of festive morrow tell ; 

To weary hearts how generous a boon ! 

The happy children in. the open space 

In dancing numbers throng 

With game and jest and song ; 

And to his quiet home and simple fare 

The laborer doth repair 

And whistles as he goes. 

Glad of tiie morrow that shall bring repose. 

Then, when no other light around is seen, 
No other sound or stir, 
We hear the hammer strike. 
The grating saw of busy carpenter; 
He is about and doing, so unlike 


His quiet neighbors ; his nocturnal lamp 
With helpful light the darkened workshop fills, 
And he makes haste his business to complete 
Ere break of dawn the heavenly regions greet. 

This of the seven is the happiest day, 
With hope and joyance gay; 
To-morrow grief and care 

The unwelcome hours will in their progress bear; 
To morrow one and all 
In thought their wonted labors will recall. 

O merry youth ! Thy time of life so gay 
Is like a joyous and delightful day, — 
A day clear and serene 
That doth the approaching festival precede 
Of thy fair life. Rejoice ! Divine indeed 
Is this fair day, I ween. 
I'll say no more ; but when it comes to thee, 
Thy festival, may it not evil be. 


The satirist of the Italy that witnessed and was affected 
by the French Revolution of J 830, was the Tuscan, Giuseppe 
Giusti (1809-1850), whom Mr. Howells regards as not only 
"the greatest Italian satirist of this century," but as even 
"in some respects, the greatest Italian poet." Giusti's "St. 
Ambrose " has been justly declared to be " not only very per- 
fect as a bit of art, with its subtly intended and apparently 
capricious mingling of satirical and pathetic sentiment, but 
valuable for its vivid expression of Italian feeling toward the 
Austrians." A curious poem of his, "The I^and of the 
Dead," is an ironic retort to I^amartine, who thus described 

Student Days. 

Ah ! well I remember In Pisa's old halls, 

That long-ago day. And heavy at heart, 

When, with comrades around me Bid adieu to its walls, 

In goodly array. And those friends leal and true, 

I took my diploma A gay, dare-devil crew. 



I entered the caft 

Heart-weary and sore, 
Discharged a last reck'ning 

For self and a score ; 
Then out with three paoli. 

An old ^ebt to pay, 
And mounting my car 

I was off and away, 
With my head swimming round 
And my eyes on the ground. 

Four years quickly sped 

In companionship free. 
With the wit Nature gives 

To the harebrained in fee : 
All our text-books laid by 

In a comer aside. 
How the great Book of Life 

At a glance opens wide. 
And entices the eye 
Its first lessons to try ! 

You may con tome by tome 

All that learning can span, 
And be dubbed Lly.D., 

Yet be never a man. 
If within your four walls 

You learn action alone. 
You will stumble, be sure. 

On the first outer stone. 
From doing to talking 
'Tis pretty wide walking. 

Excuse me ! I honor 
All schools of advice : 

A lecture-room teaches, 
And so do the dice ; 

If wanderihg shows us 

The world's devious ways. 
Then a vagabond life 

Of all lives I will praise. 
Ah ! what wisdom may couch 
In a negligent slouch. 

Once threadbare our jacket. 

And hearty our greeting : 
"Hail fellow! well met," 

At the very first meeting. 
Virgin-lips in those years 

That may ne'er come again; 
Virgin-lips, which life's cunning 

Too early must stain : 
Till we lie like the best. 
In politeness confest. 

In this epoch of banking, 

Per-cents, script, and par, 
When 'tis all what we seem. 

And 'tis nought what we are, 
Who cares any more 

For those cynics of old 
Who loved to go fasting, 

Could live without gold, 
Counted starving no blame, 
Nor held penury shame? 

O days bright and happy ! 

O evenings serene ! 
How we joked it and quaffed it, 

And smoked it between ! 
Ah, that is the life 

For contentment alone. 
Which is true to itself 

As Time's changes speed on, 
When the hair and the brain 
Of like aspect remain. 




|N all European literature of the present day the 
novel holds the throne of power, and its supreme 
position in France is now fully allowed even by 
the severest critics. It may be well to examine 
the genealogy of this latter-day sovereign. It 

is easily traced to Durf^'s Arcadian paslloral " Astrde," 
which appeared early in the seventeenth century. This was 
succeeded by the lieroic romances of Madeleine de Scud^ry 
(1607-1701) flatteringly called " Sapho " by her coterie. The 
most famous of these romances were "The Grand Cyrus" 
and " Cldlie," prodigiously loqg and provokingly affected in 
style. Next came Mme. de Lafayette's novels of sensibility, 
exemplified in "The Princess of Cleves." But Antoine 
Furetifere had, as early as 1666 in his "Roman Bourgeois," 
made a collection of human documents of middle-class Paris- 
ian life. They may be compared to some of Defoe's pictures 
of London life. Paul Scarron's " Roman Comique "is a 
coarse tale of strolling players. Le Sage's "Gil Bias "was. 
imitated from the picaroon romance of Spain, but improved 
on the original. Abbe Prevost in his " Manon Ivcscaut" 
anticipated the French novel of a century later, but his work 
had no immediate imitators. Marivaux (1688-1763), how- 
ever, claimed that he had " spied out in the human heart all 
the nooks where love might hide," and offered his "Mari- 
anne " (1740) in proof of his claim. 

But whatever critical interest may attach to these works 


and to Voltaire's witty conies^ to Rousseau's " New H^loise'' 
and St. Pierre's " Paul and Virginia," as containing indica- 
tions of the future popular literature, the French novel really 
came in with the nineteenth century. The Romanticists 
Chateaubriand, Victor Hugo, George Sand, Dumas pere and 
Balzac, were its chief exponents. In them the relation of 
incidents leads to the revelation of character. Gradually the 
dialogue assumes a foremost place as an index of the mind 
and its changes. Next the study of the emotions and passions 
becomes the chief end of the novel. Even in the earliest of 
these writers may be traced the peculiar elements marking 
the latest French school. Love, pure or impure, is the pivot 
on which the whole fabric turns. Finally the novel has 
become a mere exposition of the social relations of the sexes. 
Yet long ago George Sand boldly set forth the misunderstood 
woman with her ideas of free love. Balzac introduced cour- 
tesans and unfaithful -waives. To such an absurd pitch was 
the treatment of the question of sex carried that husbands 
in some of these stories were required to kill themselves to 
make way for their wives' lovers. Realism, which was insisted 
on by Balzac, descended through Flaubert to Zola, who 
became the acknowledged champion of that naturalism, 
which glories in disclosing the human brute. 

Alfred Victor, Comte de Vigny (1799-1863) is credited 
with producing the best historical novel in French literature, 
"Cinq Mars." The hero is a marquis whose marriage is 
opposed by Richelieu, whereupon the desperate lover plots 
with the king's brother for the cardinal's overthrow and assas- 
sination. But Cinq Mars himself is capture;d and condemned 
to death. 

Eugene Sue (1804- 1857) may be regarded as a follower of 
Alexandre Dumas. He catered to the morbid taste for the ' 
monstrous and diabolical. ,In "The Mysteries of Paris" he 
explored the lowest stratum of society ; in " The Wandering 
Jew" he attacked th^Jesuits. A later idol of the masses is 
Georges Ohnet (bom 1848), whose most celebrated novel is 
" The Iron Master." The stories of Huysmans are of more 
offensive character, and belong to the school aptly called 



Of higher rank is Charles de Bernard (1804-1850), the first 
of Balzac's pupils. Some of his work was translated by 
Thackeray in his " Paris Sketch-book.' ' Victor Cherbuliez 
(born 1829) reached the honor of the Academy. His best 
work is "The Romance of an Honest Woman," "Count 
Kostia," who is a civilized demon of the Russian aristocracy, 
and " Meta Holdenis," a tale of temptation. Octave Feuillet 
was the favorite novelist of the society of the Second Empire. 
He was regarded as the aristocratic portrayer of the Faubourg 
St. Germain. His most powerful story is "Julia Trecoeur" 
but the one best known is "Romance of a Poor Young Man." 

The short story was installed in French literature by the 
conte of Voltaire; but it received a new development by 
Merimee and Gautier, and finally attained its perfection in 
Daudet and De Maupassant. One of the earlier masters of 
this class was Edmond About (1828-1855), a favorite of 
Napoleon III. . His ' ' King of the Mountains " is a tale of 
bandits ; his "Man with the Broken Ear " is a story of a man 
restored to life after being embalmed ; "The Notary's Nose" 
tells of a strange piece of surgery as a sequence of a curious 
duel. Another offshoot of the older novel is the detective 
story, which Emile Gaboriau (1835-1873) invented. His 
masterpiece is "M. Eecoq." Du Boisgobey and others have 
followed in his footsteps with more or less success. 


One of the most curious figures of liter- 
ary history is Alexandre Dumas (1806-70), 
dubbed by Thackeray "Alexander the 
Great." His grandfather, a marquis, mar- 
ried a Creole of Haiti. His father, a dark- 
colored, herculean general who fought bravely, in Napo- 
leon's army, was wedded to an innkeeper's daughter. The 
curly hair and mulatto complexion of the famous Dumas ex- 
pressed the Afric character of his inner self, his tropical lux- 
uriousness of temper, spirit and imagination, the sunny 
geniality of his genius, and the full-blooded joyousness of his 
romantic vein. Capricious, prolix, fertile, puissant, he showed 
his peculiar semi-barbarism in his prodigal habits, his whims, 
his strange adventures, his very works. The most prolific 
and best paid author of his day, he squandered his money in 
,a reckless hospitality and was ruined by building for himself 
a castle of Monte Cristo. Fond of animals, he kept a mena- 
gerie. He accompanied Garibaldi on a campaign against the 
king of Naples, and journeyed to Russia with a charlatan 
" medium." His. son has shown his father as the Count Fer- 
nand de la Rivonniere in his aptly named play, " A Prodigal 
Father." The critic Jules Janin thus summarizes the genius 
of the elder Dumas : " A mind capable of learning all, forget- 
ting all, comprehending all, neglecting all. Rare mind, rare 
attention, subtle spirit, gross talent, quick comprehension, 
execution barely sufficient, an artisan rather than an artist. ' 
Skillful to forge, but poor to chisel, and awkward in working; 
with the tools that he knew so well how to make. An inex- 
haustible mingling of dreams, falsehoods, truths, fancies, im- 
pudence, and propriety ; of the vagabond and the seigneur, of 
X— 7 97 


ricli and poor. Sparkling and noisy, the most willful and the 
most facile of men ; a mixture of the tricky lawyer and of the 
epic poet ; of Achilles and Thersites ; swaggering, boastful, 
vain and — a good fellow." 

With his native temperament it is no wonder that Alex- 
andre Dumas proved a born master of romance. His father's 
military feats, one of which earned for General Dumas from 
Napoleon himself the title of "the Horatius Codes of the Re- 
public," must have inspired the son, who after the Empire 
was to come under the spell of Romanticism and to feed his 
genius on Scott and Cooper. 

Walking on a Paris quay one day, Dumas chanced upon 
a musty little book which purported to be the ' ' Memoirs of 
M. D'Artagnan." In these fictitious "Memoirs" Dumas 
found D'Artagnan whom he has made immortal, and the now 
famous Three Musketeers — Porthos, Athos and Aramis, as 
well as the plot of Milady. Here, too, he absorbed the local 
color of that age of Louis XIII., of Richelieu and Mazarin. 
In his consequent great trilogy — "The Three Musketeers," 
"Twenty Years After," and " Vicomte de Bragelonne " — he 
revived the romance of adventure and gallantry. He re- 
galvanized Amadis de Gaul, put him into a French cloak and 
armed him with a sword. D'Artagnan is a brisk and auda- 
cious young Gascon who blunders at first into all manner of 
mishaps and intrigues from which he extricates himself only 
by his imperturbable bravery and shrewdness. He provokes a 
quarrel with the Three Musketeers at the very outset but 
secures their good graces, and is educated by them into the 
beau ideal cavalier. These three brother-soldiers are delight- 
fully contrasted — the good-natured giant Porthos, the dignified 
Athos, and the aristocratic Aramis, who finally enters the 
church. ■ D'Artagnan, who goes up to Paris to seek his for- 
tune with an old horse and a box of miraculous salve given 
him by his mother, passes through a series of hairbreadth 
escapes only to die at last on the field of battle. In these 
romances Dumas fascinates and thrills his reader. He, makes 
the blood leap. He is prodigal of incident, even if loose of 
plot, and he is a master of intrigue and action in dialogue. 
Stirring scenes, indeed, are such as those of the kidnapping 


of Monk, the death of Porthos in the Grotto of Locmaria, or 
the scene under the scaflFold in "Twenty Years After." 

Another masterful trilogy of this weaver of historical 
romances consists of "Queen Margot," "The Lady of 
Monsoreau" and "The Forty-Five," which deal with the 
times and the House of Valois. His other historical novels 
include " Isabeau of Baviere," dealing with the anarchy and 
misery of France before Joan d'Arc; "Joan d' Arc," mainly 
historical ; "Joseph Balsamo," a revolutionary romance with 
Cagliostro as its central figure; "The Queen's Necklace," 
the great scandal of Marie Antoinette's court ; the two 
"Dianas," for the age of Henry II., and " The Black Tulip," 
a charming tale of tulipomania and the Dutch William. 

It would be useless to attempt to name the whole library 
of Dumas' novels, written, it has been asserted, by a unique 
bureau of collaborating assistants, yet dominated by the mas- 
ter's spirit. It is only necessary to mention, besides the 
above, his "Isaac Laquedem," a tale of the Wandering Jew, 
his two clever stories, — "Chevalier d'Harmental" and 
" Olympe de Cleves, ' ' and his vastly popular ' ' Count of Monte 
Cristo." This last may be called the Arabian Nights of mo- 
dem romance. Extravagant in plot, everybody breathlessly fol- 
lows the story of Edmond Dantes, who is arrested on the eve of 
his wedding, is imprisoned in the Chateau d'lf, learns of a buried 
treasure, effects a marvelous escape, and, disguised as Lord 
Wilmore and as Count Busoni, takes revenge on all his ene- 
mies. The count's adventures, if not his riches, are almost 
too fabulous ; but the Chateau d'lf portion shows Dumas at 
his best. The picture of the troubled Napoleonic days is also 
powerful. Dumas also wrote a number of successful dramas, 
the most conspicuous being "Henry III," and the melodra- 
matic " Tower of Nesle. ' ' 

The Defence of Bastion St. Gervais. 

(From "The Three Guardsmen.") 
When they arrived at the Parpaillot, it was seven in the 
morning, and the day was just beginning to dawn. The three 
friends ordered breakfast, and entered a room where the land- 
lord assured them that they would not be disturbed. 


The hour was, unfortunately, ill-chosen for a conventicle. 
The morning drum had just been beaten; every one was busy 
shaking oflF the sleepiness of night, and to drive away the 
dampness of the morning air, came to take a drop at the 
tavern. Dragoons, Swiss, guards, musketeers, and light cav- 
alry, succeeded one another with a rapidity very beneficial to 
the liusiness of mine host, but very unfavorable to the designs 
of our four friends, who replied but sullenly, to the saluta- 
tions, toasts, and jests of their companions. 

" Come," said Athos, "we shall bring some good quarrel 
on our hands presently, and we do not want that just now. 
D'Artagnan, tell us about your night's work: we will tell you 
ours afterwards. ' ' 

"In fact," said one of the light-cavalry, who whilst rock- 
ing himself, held in his hand a glass of brandy, which he 
slowly sipped — " in fact you were in the trenches, you gentle- 
men of the guards, and it seems to me you had a squabble 
with the Rochellois." 

D'Artagnan looked at Athos, to see whether he ought to 
answer this intruder who thrust himself into the conversation. 

"Well," said Athos, "did you not hear M. de Busigny, 
who did you the honor to address you ? Tell us what took place 
in the night, as these gentlemen seem desirous to hear it." 

"Did you not take a bastion?" asked a Swiss, who was 
drinking rum in a glass of beer. 

"Yes, sir," replied d'Artagnan, bowing, "we had that 
honor. And also, as you have heard, we introduced a barrel 
of powder under one of the angles, which, on exploding, made 
a very pretty breach, without reckoning that as the bastion is 
very old, all the rest of the building is much shaken.' ' 

"And what bastion is it?" asked a dragoon, who held, 
spitted on his sabre, a goose which he had brought to be 

"The bastion Saint Gervais," replied d'Artagnan, "from 
behind which the Rochellois annoyed our workmen." 

' ' And was it warm work ? ' ' 

" Yes. We lost five men, and the Rochellois some eight 
or ten." 

" Balzampleu ! " said the Swiss, who, in spite of the admir- 


able collection of oaths whicli the German language possesses, 
had got a habit of swearing in French. 

" But it is probable," said the light-horseman, " that they 
will send pioneers to repair the bastion this morning." 

"Yes, it is probable," said d'Artagna,n. 

"Gentlemen," said Athos, "a wager." 

" Ah ! a wager," said the Swiss. 

" What is it? " asked the light-horseman. 

"Stop," said the dragoon, laying his sabre like a spit on 
the two great iron dogs which kept up the fire in the chimney. 
"I am in it! A dripping-pan here, instantly, you noodle of 
a landlord, that I may not loose one drop of the fat of this 
estimable bird." 

" He is right," said the Swiss, " the fat of a goose is very 
good with sweatmeats." 

"There!" said the dragoon; "and now for the wager. 
We are listening, M. Athos." 

"Well, M. de Busigny," said Athos, " I bet you, that my 
three comrades. Messieurs Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan, 
and myself, will go and breakfast in the bastion of St. Ger- 
vais, and that we will stay there for one hour by the clock, 
whatever the enemy may do to dislodge us.' ' 

Porthos and Aramis looked at each other, for they began 
to understand. 

"Why," said d'Artagnan, stooping to Athos's ear, "you 
are going to get us all killed without mercy." 

"We shall be more certainly killed if we do not go," re- 
plied 'Athos. 

"Ah, faith, gentlemen," said Porthos, throwing himself 
back in his chair, and twisting his moustache, " that is a fine 
wager, I hope." 

" And I accept it," said M. de Busigny. "Now we must 
fix the stakes. ' ' 

"You are four, gentlemen," said Athos, "and we are four: 
a dinner for eight — will that suit you? " 

"Just the thing ! " replied M. de Busigny. 

" Exactly," said the dragoon. 

" That will do ! " exclaimed the Swiss. The fourth aud- 
itor, who had remained silent throughout the conversation, 


bowed his head, as a sign that he acquiesced in the propo- 

"The dejeuner of these gentlemen is ready," said the 

"Well, then bring it here," said Athos. 

The landlord obeyed. Athos called Grimaud, and showed 
him a large basket, which was lying in a corner, and made 
him a sign to wrap up in the napkin all the eatables which 
had been brought. 

Grimaud, comprehending at once that they were going to 
breakfast on the grass, took the basket, packed up the eatables, 
put in the bottles, and took the basket up in his arms. 

' ' But where are you going to eat this breakfast? " said the 

"What does it signify to you," replied Athos, "provided 
you are paid for it? " And he threw two pistoles majestically 
on the table. 

"Must I give you the change, sir? " said mine host. 

"No; but add a couple of bottles of , champagne, and the 
diflFerence will pay for the napkins." 

The landlord had not made quite such a good thing of it 
as he at first expected ; but he recompensed himself for it by 
palming off on his, four guests two bottles of Anjou wine, in- 
stead of the two bottles of champagne. 

"M. de Busigny, will you regulate your watch by mine, 
or permit me to regulate mine by yours ? " inquired Athos. 

"Whichever you please," said the light-dragoon, drawing 
from his fob a very beautiful watch encircled with diamonds. 
" Half-past seven," added he. 

" Pive-and-thirty minutes after seven," said Athos; "we 
shall remember that I am five minutes in advance, sir." 

Then bowing to the astonished party, the four young men 
took the road towards the bastion of St. Gervais, followed by 
Grimaud, who carried the basket, not knowing where he was 
going, and from the passive obedience that was habitual to 
him, not thinking even of inquiring. 

Whilst they were within the precincts of the camp, the four 
friends did not exchange a word : they were, besides followed 
by the curious, who, having heard of the wager, wished to 


know how they would extricate themselves from the affair. But 
when once they had got beyond the lines of circumnavigation, 
and found themselves in the open country, d'Artagnan, who 
was entirely ignorant of what they were about, thought it high 
time to demand some explanation. 

"And now, my dear Athos," said he, "do me the kindness 
to tell me where you are going." 

" You can see well enough," replied Athos: "we are going 
to the bastion." 

"But what are we going to do there?" 

"You know very well — we are going to breakfast there." 

"But why do we not breakfast at the Parpaillot?" 

"Because we have most important things to tell you, and 
it was impossible to converse for five minutes in that tavern, 
with all those troublesome fellows, who come and go, and 
continually address us. Here, at least," continued Athos, 
pointing to the bastion, "no one will come to interrupt us." 

Having reached the bastion, the four friends looked be- 
hind them. More than three hundred soldiers, of every kind, 
had assembled at the entrance of the camp ; and, in a sepa- 
rate group, they saw M. de Busigny, the dragoon, the Swiss, 
and the fourth wagerer. 

Athos took off his hat, raised it on the end of his sword, 
and waved it in the air. All the spectators returned his salu- 
tation, accompanying this act of politeness with a loud hur- 
rah, which reached their ears. After this occurrence they all 
four disappeared in the bastion, where Grimaud had already 
preceded them. As Athos had foreseen, the bastion was occu- 
pied by about a dozen dead bodies, French and Rochellois. 

"Gentlemen," said Athos, who had taken the command 
of the expedition, "whilst Grimaud prepares the table, let us 
begin by collecting together the number of muskets and am- 
munition. We can, moreover, converse whilst we are doing 
it. These gentlemen," added he, pointing to the dead bodies, 
"do not hear us." 

" But we may, nevertheless, throw them into the ditches," 
said Porthos, " having first satisfied ourselves that they have 
nothing in their pockets." 

"Yes," replied Athos, "but that is Grimaud' s business." 


" Well, then, " said d' Artagnan, " let Grimaud search them, 
and throw them over the walls." 

"Not upon any account," said Athos ; "they may be of 
use to us." 

" These dead be of use to us? " exclaimed Porthos. ' ' Ah, 
nonsense ! you are getting crazy, my dear friend ! " 

" Do not judge rashly, say both the gospel and the cardi- 
nal," replied Athos. " How many muskets are there, gentle- 


" How much ammunition ? " 

"A hundred rounds." 

"It is quite as many as we need: let us load our mus- 

The four companions set themselves to work ; and just as 
they had loaded the last gun, Grimaud made a sign to them 
that breakfast was ready. 

Athos indicated by a gesture that he was contented with 
what was done, and then pointed out to Grimaud a sort of 
sheltered box, where he was to place sentinel. But, 
to alleviate the annoyance of his guard, Athos allowed him to 
take with him a loaf, two cutlets and a bottle of wine. 

"And now, to breakfast ! " said Athos. 

The four friends seated themselves upon the ground, with 
their legs crossed, like Turks or tailors. 

" And now," said d' Artagnan, " as you are no longer afraid 
of being heard, I hope that you are going to let us know 
your secret." 

" I hope that I provide you at the same time both with 
amusement and glory, gentlemen ! " said Athos. " I have 
induced you to take a charming little excursion : here is a 
most nutritious breakfast ; and below there, are five hundred 
persons, as you may perceive through the embrasures, who 
take us for madmen or heroes — two classes of fools who very 
much resemble each other." 

"But this secret?" 

"I saw her ladyship last night," said Athos. 

D' Artagnan was just carrying his glass to his lips ; but at 
the sound of her ladyship's name, his hand trembled so that 


he placed his glass on the ground, in order that he might not 
spill its contents. 

" You have seen your wi — " 

" Hush, then ! " interrupted Athos ; " you forget, my dear 
fellow, that^these gentlemen are not, like you, initiated in the 
privacies of my family affairs. I have seen her ladyship." 
"And where happened that? " demanded d'Artagnan. 
"About two leagues from hence, at the Red Dove-Cot." 
"In that case, I am a lost man," said d'Artagnan. 
"Not just yet," replied Athos; "for, by this time, she 
must have quitted the shores of France." 
D'Artagnan breathed again. 

" But after all," inquired Porthos, "who is this lady? " 
" A charming woman, " said Athos, tasting a glass of spark- 
ling wine. "Scamp of a landlord!" exclaimed he, "who 
gives us Anjou for champagne, and who thinks we shall be 
deceived by the subterfuge ! Yes," continued he, "a charm- 
ing woman, to whom our friend d'Artagnan has done some- 
thing unpardonable, for which she is endeavoring to avenge 
herself — a month ago, by trying to get him shot ; a week ago, 
by sending him some poison ; and yesterday, by demanding 
hig head of the cardinal." 

"What! demanding my head of the cardinal?" cried 
d'Artagnan, pale with terror. 

" Yes," said Porthos, " it is true as gospel ; for I heard her 
with my own ears." 

"And I also," said Aramis. ' 

"Then," said d'Artagnan, letting his arm fall in a despond- 
ing manner, " it is useless to struggle longer : I may as well 
blow out my brains at once, and have done with it." 

"That is the last folly to be perpetrated," said Athos, 
"seeing it is the only one which will not admit of remedy." 
" But with such enemies, I shall never escape," said d'Ar- 
tagnan. " First, my unknown antagonist of Meung ; then, 
de Wardes, on whom I inflicted four wounds ; next, this lady, 
whose secret I found out; and, lastly, the cardinal, whose 
revenge I defeated." 

" Well ! " said Athos, " and all this makes only fo,ur, and 
we are four — one against one. Egad I if we may trust, to Gri- 


maud's signs, we are now about to engage with a far greatei 
number of foes. What's the matter, Grimaud? Considering 
the seriousness of the circumstance, I permit you to speak, 
my friend ; but be laconic, I beseech you. What do you see ! '' 

"A troop." 

"How many persons ? " 

"Twenty men." 

"What sort of men?" 

"Sixteen pioneers and four soldiers." 

"How far are they off?" 

" Five hundred paces." 

"Good! We have still time to finish our fowl, and to 
drink a glass of wine. To your health, d'Artagnan." 

"Your health," repeated Aramis and Porthos. 

"Well, then, to my health; although I do not imagine 
that your good wishes will be of much benefit to me." 

"Bah!" said Athos, "God is great, as the Mahometans 
say, and the future is in his hands.' ' 

Then, having swallowed his wine, and put the glass down, 
Athos carelessly arose, took the first musket which came to 
his hand and went towards an embrasure. 

The three others did the same. As for Grimaud, he had 
orders to place himself behind them and to reload their 

An instant afterwards, they saw the troop appearing. It 
came along a kind of branch trench, which formed a commu- 
. nication between the bastion and the town. 

" Zounds ! " said Athos, " it is scarcely worth while to dis- 
turb ourselves for a score of fellows armed with pick-axes, 
mattocks and spades ! — Grimaud ought to have quietly beck- 
oned to them to go about their business, and I am quite con- 
vinced that they would have left us to ourselves. ' ' 

"I much doubt it," said d'Artagnan, "for they come 
forward with great resolution. Besides, in addition to the 
workmen, there are four soldiers and a brigadier, armed with 

"That is because they have not seen us," replied Athos. 

"Faith," said Aramis, "I confess that I am reluctant to 
fire upon these poor devils of citizens." 



"He is a bad priest," said Portlios, "who pities heretics." 

"Upon my word," said Athos "Aramis is right. I will 
give them a caution.' ' 

"What the plague are you doing?" cried d'Artagnan; 
"you will get yourself shot, my dear fellow." 

But Athos paid no attention to this warning; and mounting 
on the breach, his fusee in one hand and his hat in the 

"Gentlemen," said he, bowing courteously, and address- 
ing himself to the soldiers 
and pioneers who, astonished 
by this apparition, halted at 
about fifty paces from the 
bastion; "gentlemen, we 
are, some of my friends and 
myself, engaged at breakfast 
in this bastion. Now you 
know that nothing is more 
disagreeable than to be dis- 
turbed at breakfast; so we 
entreat of you, if you really 
have business here, to wait 
till we have finished our re- 
past, or to come back in a 
little while ; unless, indeed, 
you experience the salutary 
desire of forsaking the ranks 
of rebellion, and coming to 
drink with us to the health 
of the king of France." 

"Take care, Athos," said D'Artagnan; "don't you see 
that they are taking aim at you? " 

" Yes, yes," said Athos; "but these are citizens, who are 
shocking bad marksmen, and will take care not to hit me." 

In fact, at that moment four shots were fired, and the bul- 
lets whistled around Athos, but without one touching him. 

Four shots were instantaneously returned, but with a far 
better aim than that of the aggressors, three soldiers fell dead 
and one of the pioneers was wounded. 


"Grimaud," said Athos, from the breach, "another 
musket.' ' ' 

Grimaud obeyed immediately. 

The three friends had also reloaded their arms. A second 
discharge soon followed the first, and the brigadier and two 
pioneers fell dead. The rest of the troop took to flight. 

" Come, gentlemen, a sortie ! " said Athos, 

The four friends rushed out of the fort ; reached the field 
of battle, picked up the muskets of the soldiers, and the half- 
pike of the brigadier ; and, satisfied that the fugitives would 
never stop till they reached the town, they returned to the 
bastion, bearing with them the trophies of their victory. 

' "Reload the muskets, Grimaud," said Athos ; " and let us, 
gentlemen, continue our breakfast and conversation. Where 
were we ? " 

"I recollect," said d'Artagnan; " you were saying, that, 
after having demanded my head of the cardinal, her ladyship 
had left the shores of France. And where is she going ? ' ' 
added d'Artagnan, who was painfully anxious about the itin- 
erary of the lady's journey. 

" She is going to England," replied Athos. 

"And for what object ? " 

"To assassinate the Duke of Buckingham, or to get him 

D'Artagnan uttered an exclamation of surprise and indig- 

" It is infamous ! " exclaimed he. 

" Oh, as to that," said Athos, "I beg you to believe that I 
concern myself very little about it. Now that you have fin- 
ished, Grimaud," continued he, "take the half-pike of our 
brigadier, fasten a napkin to it, and fix it on the end of our 
bastion, that those rebellious Rochellois may see that they 
are opposed to brave and loyal subjects of the king." 

Grimaud obeyed without reply ; and an instant afterwards 
the white flag floated over the heads of the four friends. A 
cry of joy, a thunder of applause saluted its appearance. Half 
the camp was at the barriers. 


Balzac is regarded by French critics ^ -^1 
as not only the greatest novelist of -^^>C!— * 

France, but of the world. Taine pro- 
nounced his works "the greatest storehouse of documents in 
human nature." But his style has been criticized as " the 
least simple, probably, that ever was written ; it bristles, it 
cracks, it swells and swaggers ; " it was the expression of a 
fertile, intense and vivid imagination. Owing to his cum- 
brous style Balzac was obliged to serve a hard apprenticeship, 
and his early dramas and stories have fallen into neglect. He 
did not show his real merit until he wrote " The Chouans " 
in 1830. Finally he conceived the stupendous idea of the 
" Com^die humaine" (the cpmedy of human life) and carried 
it into marvelous execution, though not completion. 

Honord de Balzac was born in Touraine in 1799, and was 
thus three years older than Victor Hugo. His family wished 
him to study law and tried to starve him out of his literary 
ambition, but his sister Laura sustained his courage by her 
faith in his genius. He was always fond of speculation, and 
when his novels began to attract attention, he entered into a 
grand scheme of printing and publishing, which so loaded 
him with debt that his task of novel-writing became like the 
notorious one of Sir Walter Scott's declining years. But in 
that decade, 1830-40, Balzac, spurred on by necessity, pro- 
duced most of his best works. His years of terrible toil were 
lightened by the hope of marriage with a Polish Countess 
Hanska. But the widow, out of deference to the proprieties, 
delayed their wedding fully sixteen years. At last the worn- 
out novelist, then fifty-one, was carried in March, 1850, and 



lived only until August, without realizing that " sweetest of 
all autumns " to which he had looked forward. 

It has been declared that " the great general protagonist 
of the 'Com^die humaine' is the 20-franc piece." Money 
certainly resounds through all of Balzac's Inferno as gold 
does through Dante's third circle. The miser's passion was 
was that which Balzac was most moved to depict ; there are 
numerous portraitures — Eugenie Grandet, Silvie Rogron, the 
heirs of Doctor Mirouet, Maitre Cornelius, Raphael, the wife 
of Marquis d'Espard, and Gobseck, the Parisian usurer. Bal- 
zac's street-wanderings and Parisian experiences during his 
early years of profitless romance-writing and play-making 
were by no means without fruit. In one of the rare autobi- 
ographic bits of his "Comedy" he pictures the young man 
roaming the streets of Paris and following other pedestrians 
to overhear their conversation. " In listening to these people," 
he makes his character remark, " I could espouse their life. 
I felt their rags upon my back ; walked with my feet in their 
broken shoes ; their desires, their wants — -everything passed 
into my soul, and my soul passed into theirs; it was the 
dream of a waking man." And truly Balzac achieved this 
supreme transference in his great romance-scheme. Scarcely 
ever do we get a peep of the author himself in his " Com- 
edy ; " like Shakespeare, he refuses to be autobiographic. 

The idea of the vast fabric of the " Comedy" was not an- 
nounced by Balzac until 1 842, when he had for twelve years 
been busy in composing his master-pieces. Then suddenly 
he .issued a manifesto, which should be a preface to his works. 
He declared his intention of doing for mankind what Buffon 
and Saint-Hilaire had done for the animal kingdom. He 
undertook to analyze and classify man and life. He called 
himself the historian of manners, the secretary of society. 
His " Comedy" does form a wonderful picture of the mass of 
French civilization of his time. The imaginary world which 
he revealed is a reflex of the real French world. He claimed 
to have created at least two thousand original characters. 
Open "l/c P^re Goriot" and consider the peculiar relations 
of the strange inhabitants of the Maison Vauquer, and you 
find that you have stepped into a new world. That shabby 


boarding-house is a stage of vast dramas. The same multi- 
tudinous effect is felt in the guests tha,t assemble at Madame 
Bargeton's party, and in many other places. Severe critics 
declare that much of Balzac's philosophy about his "Comedy " 
is charlatanry by which he was himself duped; that his 
scheme falls far short of being comprehensive, that his lim- 
ited experience and his plebeian origin (despite his fictitious 
"de," adopted late in life) prevented him from properly de- 
scribing the Faubourg St. Germaine and fashionable life ; 
that he had no sense of morality, and that his virtuous women 
are at the best abstractions, not realities ; that he hated the 
bourgeois too much to do them justice ; and that he always 
looked at provincial life with the eyes of a Parisian boulevar- 
dier. These charges are, in the main, true. The scheme of 
the " Comedy " is by no means scientifically exact, and the 
divisions are arbitrary and fantastic. He was thoroughly 
sensual, and transferred his libertinism to the children of his 
fancy. He paid too much attention to the vulgar, the vicious 
and the vile.' He himself wrote to George Sand : ' ' Vulgar 
natures interest me more than they do you. I magnify them, 
idealize them inversely in their ugliness or folly, giving them 
terrible or grotesque proportions." 

The " Com^die humaine " -jvas divided by Balzac into three 
main sections — Studies of Manners, Philosophical Studies, 
Analytic Studies. The Studies of Manners he subdivided into 
" Scenes of Private Life " (24 stories), " Scenes of Provincial 
Life" (10 stories), "Scenes of Country Life" (3 stories), 
" Scenes of Parisian Life," his most brilliant section (20 sto- 
ries), ^nd "Scenes Political and IV^litary" (7 storites). His 
Philosophical Studies comprise 20 stories, and his Analytical 
Studies only two. His only truly political work is the " De- 
put^ of Arcis " (left incomplete) ; his actual military tales 
are his early " Chouans," "Le Colonel Chabert" (in which 
there is a description of the .battle of Eylau and the French 
retreat), and " L' Adieu " with its battle scene. The " Passion 
in a Desert," which relates a panther's love for a soldier, 
would now be called a decadent tale. In "The Country 
Doctor " Balzac has expressed the French peasantry's worship 
of Napoleon. 

112 tlVfiRATtmE OF MX, NATIONS. 

Among Bakac's masterpieces are "Le P^re Goriot," in 
which old Goriot, like King Lear, makes terrible sacrifices for 
his two heartless daughters ; " Eugenie Grandet," in which a 
mother and a noble daughter are sacrificed to a sordid miser ; 
"Poor Relations" in which Cousin Pons, an old musician and 
bric-a-brac collector is left to the mercy of rogues ; " Cousine 
Bette," which describes the ruin of Baron Hulot by that 
queen of the demimonde, Valerie Marnefie; "Lost Illusions" 
and "The Splendors and Miseries of Courtesans," in which 
Vautrin, the king of convicts, uses the artist, Lucien de Ru- 
bempr^ as a cat's-paw to prey on society ; " Ursule Mirouet," 
in which heirs quarrel for a fortune ; " La Duchesse de Lan- 
geais," a study of fashionable life, containing a celebrated 
Spanish convent scene ; " The Grandeur and Decline of Cesar 
Birotteau," in which a pack of scoundrels prey upon a rich 
perfumer; "The Magic Skin," in which Raphael's talisman 
is a wild ass's hide, that shrinks with every desire granted 
and thus shortens his life ; " The Search of the Infinite," in 
which Claes, an alchemist and monomaniac, melts up his. 
family's fortune ; and " Louis Lambert," a mystical romance. 
Among his short tales the most notable are " The Passion in 
a Desert ; " "La Grande Bretecke," in which a husband walls 
up his wife's lover; "Gobseck," the Parisian usurer; "An 
Episode under the Terror," which tells the absolution of the 
executioner of Louis Capet; and "The Anonymous Master- 
piece," in which a painter realizes a splendid illusion. 

Eugenie Grandet. 

Nanon, Madame Grandet, and Eugenie, who had all 
three been thinking with a shudder of the old man's return, 
heard the knock whose echoes they knew but too well. 

" There's papa ! " said Eugenie. 

She removed the saucer filled with sugar, leaving a few 
pieces on the table-cloth ; Nanon carried off the egg-cup ; 
Madame Grandet sat up like a frightened hare. It was evi- 
dently a panic, which amazed Charles, who was wholly 
unable to understand it. 

"Why! what is the matter?" he asked. 


•'My father has come," answered Eugenie. 

"Well, what of that?" 

Monsieur Grandet entered the room, threw his keen eye 
upon the table, upon Charles, and saw the whole thing. 

" Ha ! ha ! so you have been making a feast for your 
nephew; very good, very gqod, very good indeed!" he said, 
without stuttering. " When the cat's away, the mice will 

" Feast ! " thought Charles, incapable of suspecting or 
imagining the rules and customs of the household. . 

" Give me my glass, Nanon," said the master. 

Eugenie brought the glass. Grandet drew a horn-handled 
knife with a big blade from his breeches' pocket, cut a slice 
of bread, took a small bit of butter, spread it carefully on the 
bread, and ate it standing. At this moment Charles was 
sweetening his coflFee. P^re Grandet saw the bits of sugar, 
looked at his wife, who turned pale, and made three steps 
forward; he leaned down to the poor woman's ear and said, — 

' ' Where did you get all that sugar ? " 

" Nanon fetched it from Fessard's; there was none." 

It is impossible to picture the profound interest the three 
women took in this mute scene. Nanon had left her kitchen 
and stood looking into the room to see what would happen. 
Charles, having tasted his coffee, found it bitter and glanced 
about for the sugar, which Grandet had already put away. 

" What do you want? " said his uncle. 

" The sugar." 

"Put in more milk," answered the master of the house; 
"your coffee will taste sweeter." 

Eugenie took the saucer which Grandet had put away 
and placed it on the table, looking calmly at her father as she 
did so. Most assuredly, the Parisian woman who held a 
silken ladder with her feeble arms to facilitate the flight of 
her lover, showed no greater courage than Eugenie displayed 
when she replaced the sugar upon the table. The lover re- 
warded his mistress when she proudly showed him her beau- 
tiful bruised arm, and bathed every swollen vein with tears 
and kisses till it was cured with happiness. Charles, on the 
other hand, never so much as knew the secret of the cruel 


agitation that shook and bruised the heart of his cousin, 
crushed as it was by the look of the old miser. 

" You are not eating your breakfast, wife." 

The poor helot came forward with a piteous look, cut 
herself a piece of bread, and took a pear, Eug6nie boldly 
offered her father some grapes, saying — 

"Taste my preserves, papa. My cousin, you will eat 
some, will you not? I went to get these pretty grapes ex- 
pressly for you. ' ' 

"If no one stops them, they will pillage Saumur for you, 
nephew. When you have finished, we will go into the gar- 
den; I have something to tell you which can't be sweetened." 

Eugenie and her mother cast a look on Charles whose 
meaning the young man could not mistake. 

"What is it you mean, uncle? Since the death of my 
poor mother " — at these words his voice softened — " no other 
sorrow can touch me." 

"My nephew, who knows by what afflictions God is 
pleased to try us?" said his aunt. 

" Ta, ta, ta, ta," said Grandet, " there's your nonsense be- 
ginning. I am sorry to see those white hands of yours, 
nephew;" and he showed the shoulder-of-mutton fists which 
Nature had put at the end of his own arms. " There's a pair 
of hands made to pick up silver pieces. You've been brought 
up to put your feet in the kid out of which we make the 
purses we keep our money in. A bad look-out ! Very bad !" 

"What do you mean, uncle? I'll be hanged if I under- 
stand a single word of what you are saying." 

" Come ! " said Grandet. 

The miser closed the blade of his knife with a snap, drank 
the last of his wine, and opened the door. 

" My cousin, take courage ! " 

The young girl's tone struck terror to Charles's heart, 
and he followed his terrible uncle, a prey to disquieting 
thoughts. Eugenie, her mother, and Nanon went into the 
kitchen, moved by irresistible curiosity to watch the two ac- 
tors in the scene which was about to take place in the garden, 
where at first the uncle walked silently ahead of the nephew. 
Grandet was not at all troubled at having to tell Charles of 


the death of his father ; but he did feel a sort of compassion 
in knowing him to be without a penny, and he sought for 
some phrase or formula by which to soften the communica- 
tion of that crael truth. " You have lost your father " seemed 
to him a mere nothing to say; fathers die before their children. 
But " you are absolutely without means,"— all the misfor- 
tunes of life were summed up in those words! Grandet 
walked round the garden three times, the gravel cruhching 
under his heavy step. 

In the crucial moments of life our minds fasten upon the 
locality where joys or sorrows overwhelm us. Charles no- 
ticed with minute attention the box-borders of the little gar- 
den, the yellow leaves as they fluttered down, the dilapidated 
walls, the gnarled fruit-trees, — picturesque details which 
were destined to remain forever in his memory, blending 
eternally, by the mnemonics that belong exclusively to the 
passions, with the recollections of this solemn hour. 

*' It is very fine weather, very warm," said Grandet, draw- 
ing a long breath. 

" Yes, uncle ; but why — " 

"Well, my lad," answered his uncle, "I have some bad 
news to give you. Your father is ill — " 

"Then why am I here?" said Charles. "Nanon," he 
cried, " order post-horses ! I can get a carriage somewhere ? " 
he added, turning to his uncle, who stood motionless. 

"Horses and carriages are useless," answered Grandet, 
looking at Charles, who remained silent, his eyes growing 
fixed. " Yes, my poor boy, you guess the truth, — he is dead. 
But that's nothing ; there is something worse : he blew out 
his brains." 

"My father!" 

"Yes, but that's not the worst; the newspapers are all 
talking about it. Here, read that." 

Grandet, who had borrowed the fatal article from Cruchot, 
thrust the paper under his nephew's eyes. The poor young 
man, still a child, still at an age when feelings wear no mask, 
burst into tears. 

" That's good ! " thought Grandet ; " his eyes frightened 
me. He'll be all right if he weeps.— That is not the worst. 


my poor nephew," he said aloud, not noticing whether Charles 
heard him, "that is nothing; you will get over it: but — " 

" Never, never ! My father ! Oh, my father ! " 

" He has ruined you, you have not a penny." 

" What does that matter? My father ! Where is my fa- 
ther? " 

His sobs resounded horribly against those dreary walls 
and reverberated in the echoes. The three women, filled 
with pity, wept also; for tears are often as contagious as 
laughter. Charles, without listening further to his uncle, 
ran through the court and up the staircase to his chamber, 
where he threw himself across the bed and hid his face in the 
sheets, to weep in peace for his lost parents. 

"The first burst must have its way," said Grandet, en- 
tering the living-room, where Eugenie and her mother had 
hastily resumed their seats and were sewing with trembling 
hands, after wiping their eyes. " But that young man is 
good for nothing ; his head is more taken up with the dead 
than with his money." 

Eugenie shuddered as she heard her father's comment 
on the most sacred of all griefs. From that moment she 
began to judge him. Charles's sobs, though muffled, still 
sounded through the sepulchral house ; and his deep groans, 
which seemed to come from the earth beneath, only ceased 
towards evening, after growing gradually feebler. 

" Poor young man ! " said Madame Grandet. 

Fatal exclamation ! PSre Grandet looked at his wife, at 
Eugenie, and at the sugar-bowl. He recollected the extra- 
ordinary breakfast prepared for the unfortunate youth, and 
he took a position in the middle of the room. 

" Listen to me," he said, with his usual composure. " I 
hope that you will not continue this extravagance, Madame 
Grandet. I don't give you my money to stuflF that young 
fellow with sugar." 

"My mother had nothing to do with It," said Eugenie; 
"it was I who — " 

" Is it because you are of age," said Grandet, interrupting 
his daughter, " that you choose to contradict me? Remem- 
ber, Eugdnie — " 


*' Father, the son of your brother ought to receive from 

" Ta, ta, ta, ta ! " exclaimed the cooper on four chromatic 
tones; " the son of my brother this, my nephew that ! Charles 
is nothing at all to us ; he has not a farthing, his father has 
failed; and when this dandy has cried his fill, off he goes 
from here. I won't have him revolutionize my house- 

" What is ' failing,' father? " asked Eugenie. 

"To fail," answered her father, "is to commit the most 
dishonorable action that can disgrace a man." 

" It must be a great sin," said Madame Grandet, " and our 
brother may be damned." 

"There, there, don't beg^n with your litanies!" said 
Grandet, shrugging his shoulders. "To fail, Eugenie," he 
resumed, " is to commit a theft which the law, unfortunately, 
takes under its protection. People have given their property 
to Guillaume Grandet trusting to his reputation for honor 
and integrity ; he has made away with it all, and left them 
nothing but their eyes to weep with. A highway robber is 
better than a bankrupt : the one attacks you and you can de- 
fend yourself, he risks his own life; but the other — in short, 
Charles is dishonored.' ' 

The words rang in the poor girl's heart and weighed it 
down with their heavy meaning. Upright and delicate as a 
flower born in the depths of a forest, she knew nothing of the 
world's maxims, of its deceitful arguments and specious so- 
phisms; she, therefore, believed the atrocious explanation 
which her father gave her designedly, concealing the distinc- 
tion which exists between an involuntary failure and an in- 
tentional one. 

" Father, could you not have prevented such a misfor- 

" My brother did not consult me. Besides, he owes four 

" What is a 'million,' father?" she asked, with the sim- 
plicity of a child which thinks it can find out at once all that 
it wants to know. 

"A million? " said Grandet, "why, it is a million pieces 


of twenty sous each, and it takes five twenty-sous pieces to 
make five francs." 

" Dear me ! " cried Eugenie, " how could my uncle possibly 
have had four millions ? Is there any one else in France who 
ever had so many millions? P&re Grandet stroked his chin, 
smiled, and his wen seemed to dilate. " But what will be- 
come of my cousin Charles?" 

" He is going off to the West Indies by his father's re- 
quest, and he will try to make his fortune there." 

"Has he got the money to go with? " 

"I shall pay for his journey as far as-— -yes, as far as 

Eugenie sprang into his arms. 

"Oh, father, how good you are ! " 

She kissed him with a warmth that almost made Grandet 
ashamed of himself, for his conscience galled him a little. 

"Will it take much time to amass a million?" she asked. 

"Look here!" said the old miser, "you know what a 
napoleon is? Well, it takes fifty thousand napoleons to make 
a million." 

"Mamma, we must say a great many neuvaines* for him." 

"I was thinking so," said Madame Grandet. 

" That's the way, always spending my money ! " cried the 
father. " Do you think there are francs on every bush? " 

At this moment a muffled cry, more distressing than all 
the others, echoed through the garrets and struck a chill to 
the hearts of Eugenie and her mother. 

"Nanon, go up stairs and see that he does not kill him- 
self," said Grandet. "Now, then," he added, looking at his 
wife and daughter, who had turned pale at his words, "no 
nonsense, you two ! I must leave you ; I have got to see 
about the Dutchmen who are going away to-day. And then 
I must find Cruchot, and talk with him about all this." 

He departed. As soon as he had shut the door Eugenie 
and her mother breathed more freely. Until this morning 
the young girl had never felt constrained in the presence of 

* A neuvaine or novena is a devotion or prayer for a special bles- 
sing said on nine successive days. 


her father; but for the last few hours every tuoment wrought 
a change in her feelings and ideas. 

" Mamma, how many louis are there in a cask of wine ? " 

" Your father sells his from a hundred to a hundred and 
fifty francs, sometimes two hundred — at least, so I've heard 

" Then papa must be rich ? " 

" Perhaps he is. But Monsieur Cruchot told me he bought 
Froidfond two years ago; that may have pinched him." 

Eugenie, not being able to understand the question of her 
father's fortune, stopped short in her calculations. 

"He did not even see me, the darling!" said Nanon, 
coming back from her errand. "He's stretched out like a 
calf on his bed and crying like the Madeleine, and that's a 
blessing ! What's the matter with the poor dear young man ? " 

" IvCt us go and console him, mamma ; if any one knocks, 
we can come down." 

Madame Grandet was helpless against the sweet, persua- 
sive tones of her daughter's voice. Eug&iie was sublime: 
she had become a woman. The two, with beating hearts, 
went up to Charles's room. The door was open. The young 
man heard and saw nothing; plunged in grief, he only ut- 
tered inarticulate cries. 

" How he loves his father ! " said Eugenie in a low voice. 

In the utterance of those words it was impossible to mis- 
take the hopes of a heart that, unknown to itself, had sud- 
denly become passionate. Madame Grandet cast a mother's 
look upon her daughter, and then whispered in her ear, — 

"Take care, you will love him ! " 

"Love him!" answered Eugenie. "Ah! if you did but 
know what my father said to Monsieur Cruchot." 

Charles turned over, and saw his aunt and cousin. 

" I have lost my father, my poor father I If he had told 
me his secret troubles we might have worked together to re- 
pair them. My God! my poor father! I was so sure I 
should see him again that I think I kissed him quite coldly — " 

Sobs cut short the words. 

"We will pray for him," said Madame Grandet. "Re- 
sign yourself to the will of God." 


"Cousin," said Eugenie, "take courage! Your loss is 
irreparable; therefore think only of saving your honor." 

With the delicate instinct of a woman who intuitively 
puts her mind into all things, even at the moment when she 
offers consolation, Eug6uie sought to cheat her cousin's grief 
by turning his thoughts inward upon himself. 

" My honor? ' ' exclaimed the young man, tossing aside his 
hair with an impatient gesture as he sat up on his bed and 
crossed his arms. "Ah! that is true. My uncle said my 
father had failed." He uttered a heart-rending cry, and hid his 
face in his hands. " Leave me, leave me, cousin ! My God ! 
my God ! forgive my father, for he must have suffered 
sorely ! ' ' 

There was something terribly attractive in the sight of 
this young sorrow, sincere without reasoning or afterthought. 
It was a virgin grief which the simple hearts of Eugenie and 
her mother were fitted to comprehetid, and they obeyed the 
sign Charles made them to leave him to himself They went 
down stairs in silence and took their accustomed places by 
the window and sewed for nearly an hour without exchanging 
a word. Eugenie had seen in the furtive glance she cast 
about the young man's room — that girlish glance which sees 
all in the twinkling of an eye — the pretty trifles of his dress- 
ing-case, his scissors, his razors embossed with gold. This 
gleam of luxury across her cousin's grief only made him the 
more interesting to her, possibly by way of contrast. Never 
before had so serious an event, so dramatic a sight, touched 
the imaginations of these two passive beings, hitherto sunk 
in the stillness and calm of solitude. 

"Mamma," said Eugenie, "we must wear mourning for 
my uncle." 

" Your father will decide that,' ' answered Madame Grandet. 

They relapsed into silence. Eugenie drew her stitches 
with a uniform motion which revealed to an observer the 
teeming thoughts of her meditation. The first desire of the 
girl's heart was to share her cousin's mourning. 



(From "The Greatness and Decline of Cfear Birotteau.") 

C^SAE. Birotteau, ■who had acquired a fortune as a perfumer, got 
into difficulties and applied to some of his friends to assist him tem- 
porarily. All put him off, even Anselme Popinot, whom he had started 
in business, and who was in love with C6sar's daughter. Stunned by 
his refusal, C6sar returned home. 

C^sar fell into a state of prostration from which no one 
tried to rouse him. This species of inverted catalepsy, 
during which the body lived and suffered, whilst the func- 
tions of the understanding were suspended, this chance- 
bestowed respite was looked upon as a blessing from God by 
Constaiice, C&arine, Pillerault and Derville, and they judged 
wisely. Birotteau! was thus able to support the distracting 
emotions of the night. He sat in his easy chair on one side 
of the fire-place, on the other sat his wife attentively watch- 
ing him with a sweet smile on her lips — one of those smiles 
which prove that women approach nearer to the nature of 
angels than men, knowing, as they do, how to mingle infinite 
tenderness with the most complete compassion, a secret pos- 
sessed only< by those angels seen in dreams, scattered by 
Providence at long intervals over the path of life. C^sarine 
sat on a small stool at her mother's feet, and from time to 
time gently stroked her father's hand with her hair, trying to 
give this caress an expression of tenderness which, in a crisis 
like this, is imperfectly conveyed by the voice. 

Seated in his arm-chair as the Chancellor de I'Hospital is 
in his in the peristyle of the Chamber of Deputies, Pillerault, 
the philosopher, whom nothing astonished, displayed in his 
face that intelligence sculptured on the brows of the Egyptian 
sphinxes, and conversed with Derville in a low tone. Con- 
stance had advised consulting the attorney, whose discretion 
was beyond suspicion. Having her balance-sheet clearly in 
her head, she had confided the state of things to Derville. 
After nearly an hour's conference, held under the eyes of the 
unconscious perfumer, the attorney shook his head as he 
looked at Pillerault. 


" Madame," said he, with the horrible coolness of men of 
business, "you must suspend payment. Supposing that, by 
some contrivance or other, you manage to pay to-morrow, 
you must come down with at least three hundred thousand 
francs, before you can raise a loan on any of your lands. 
Against debts to the amount of five hundred and fifty thou- 
sand francs you show very good, very productive assets, but 
they cannot be realized. You must succumb within a given 
time. My opinion is, that it is better to jump out of the 
window than to be pitched down stairs." 

" That is my opinion also, my child," said Pillerault. 
Derville was led to the door by Madame C&ar and Pillerault. 

"Poor papa," said C^sarine, gently rising to kiss Cesar's 
forehead. " So Anselme has not been able to do anything?" 
she asked, when her uncle and mother came back. 

" Ingrate ! " cried C6sar, struck by this name in the only 
conscious part of his memory — as the key of a piano causes 
its hammer to strike its own peculiar string. 

From the moment in which this word had been hurled at 
him like an anathema, little Popinot had not had a minute's 
sleep — not an instant's rest. The wretched youth cursed his 
uncle, and had been to see him. To make this aged judicial 
experience capitulate, he had poured out the eloquence of 
love, hoping to gain over a man through whom mortal words 
ran like water through a sieve — a judge. 

" Speaking in a business-like way," he said to him, " cus- 
tom allows an active partner to make over to his silent 
partner a certain sum in anticipation of the profits, and our 
partnership is in a fair way to produce good returns. After a 
thorough examination of my affairs, I feel myself strong 
enough to pay forty thousand francs in three months ! Mon- 
sieur Cesar's uprightness permits us to believe that these 
forty thousand ' francs will be devoted to paying his notes. 
So the creditors, should there be a failure, will not be able to 
reproach us ! Besides, uncle, I would rather lose forty thou- 
sand francs than run the risk of losing C&arine. At this very 
moment she has doubtless been told of my refusal, and will 
soon think harshly of me. I promised to give my blood for 
my benefactor ! I am in the position of the young sailor who 


is ready to sink holding his captain's hand, of the soldier who 
is resolved to perish at his general's side." 

" You are a good fellow and a bad business man, but you 
will not lose my esteem, " said the judge, as he warmly 
grasped his nephew's hand. "I have thought much about 
this ; I know that you are madly in love with C&arine ; I 
believe you can satisfy the laws of the heart and also the laws 
of trade." 

"Oh! uncle, if you have found out how to do so, you 
save my honor." 

" Advance Birotteau fifty thousand francs, and let a con- 
tract be signed by which he may redeem his interest in your 
oil, which is now, as it were, a property. I will draw up the 

Anselme embraced his uncle, returned home, signed notes 
for fifty thousand francs, and ran from the Rue des Cinq Dia- 
mants to the Place Venddme ; so that just as C^sarine, her 
mother, and their uncle Pillerault were gazing at the per- 
fumer, surprised at the sepulchral tone with which he had 
pronounced the word "Ingrate!" in answer to his daughter's 
question, the parlor door opened and Popinot appeared, 

"My dear and well-beloved master," said he, wiping 
the perspiration from his forehead, "there is what you asked 
me for.' ' He held out the notes. 

"Yes, I have carefully examined my position; have no 
fear, I shall pay. Save your honor ! " 

"I was quite sure of him," cried C^sarine, seizing Po- 
pinot' s hand, and pressing it with convulsive force. 

Madame C^sar embraced Popinot; the perfumer rose like 
one of the just on hearing the last trumpet ; he came, as it 
were, from the tomb ! Suddenly he reached forth his hand 
with a frenzied gesture, to clutch the fifty stamped papers. 

"One moment!" said the terrible uncle Pillerault, as he 
snatched the notes from Popinot ; " one moment ! " 

The four personages who composed this group — Cfear and 
his wife, C^sarine and Popinot — astounded at their uncle's 
action and by the tone of his voice, saw him with terror tear 
the notes and throw them into the fire. The flames consumed 
them without any one's trying to save them. 


"Uncle!" "Uncle!" "Uncle!" "Sir!" 
There were four voices, four hearts in one, a terrible unan- 
imity. Uncle Pillerault put his arm round Popinot's neck, 
pressed him to his heart and kissed his forehead. 

" You are worthy to be worshipped by all those who have 
a heart," he said to him. ' ' If you loved a daughter of 
mine, had she a million and you no more than that" — he 
pointed to the black ashes of the notes — "if she loved you, 
you should be married in a fortnight. Your master is out of 
his senses 1 Nephew," Pillerault gravely resumed, "no more 
illusions ! We must transact business with energy, not with 
sentiments. This is sublime, but useless. I have passed two 
hours at the Exchange ; you have not one copper's worth of 
credit ; every one was talking of your disaster, of your appli- 
cations to several bankers, of their refusals, of your follies — 
such as going up six pairs of stairs to see a landlord who is as 
garrulous as a magpie, and giving a ball to conceal your em- 
barrassment. They go so far as to say you had nothing. at 
all in Roguin's hands. According to your enemies, Roguin 
is a mere makeshift. One of my friends, whom I had com- 
missioned to listen to everything that was said, confirms my 
suspicions. Everybody predicts the emission of Popinot's 
notes, and the idea is that you started him on purpose to make 
a paper-mill of. In short, you are the subject of all that 
calumnious and slanderous talk that a man draws upon him- 
self when he strives to get up a round or two on the social 
ladder. Take a week and offer Popinot's fifty notes at every 
desk in Paris ; 'twould be in vain : you would meet with 
humiliating refusals ; no one would take them : there's noth- 
ing to show what number of them you issue, and everybody 
expects you to sacrifice the poor boy to save yourself. You 
would destroy the credit of the house of Popinot without 
benefiting your own. How much do you suppose the most 
daring note-shaver in town would give for your fifty thousand 
francs ? Twenty thousand ! Do you hear ?— twenty thousand ! 
There are certain times in the life of a tradesman when he 
must stand up before the public three days without eating, just 
as if he had a bellyful, and on the fourth he will be admitted 
to the larder of credit. You cannot get through these three 


days, and that's the fatal point. Courage, my poor nephew; 
you must make an assignment. As soon as your clerks are 
gone to bed, Popinot and I will set to work together, in order 
to spare you the affliction." 

"Uncle ! " said the perfumfer, clasping his hands. 

"Cdsar, would you prefer to wait and then make a dis- 
graceful assignment, with nothing to assign ? At present 
your interest in Popinot's house preserves your honor. ' ' 

" C&ar, enlightened by this last fatal flash of light, at 
length saw the frightful truth in its full extent ; he fell back 
in his chair, then dropped upon his knees, his mind wandered 
and he became childish : his wife thought he was dying and 
stooped down to raise him up ; but she united with him when 
she saw him join his hands, raise his eyes and repeat, with 
all the compunction of resignation, in presence of his uncle, 
his daughter and Popinot, the Lord's sublime prayer : 

* ' Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name : 
thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in 
heaven : give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us 
our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. 

Tears rose to the eyes of the stoical Pillerault, and 
C&arine, weeping and overwhelmed, leaned her head upon 
the shoulder of Popinot, who was as pale and stark as a 

" Let us go down stairs," said the ironmonger to the young 
man, as he took his arm. 


PiCCiOLA has preserved the name of Saintine. It is a 
sentimental story of a noble Italian prisoner who was con- 
soled by the growth of a flowering plant between the stones 
of the courtyard adjoining his cell. The story introduces 
other characters, and even Napoleon and Josephine, and ends 
happily in the release and marriage of the prisoner. Xavier 
Boniface Saintine was born in Paris in 1790, and died in 
1845. He published dramas, poems and romances, which 
have fallen into oblivion, but his tale of prison-life, though 


somewhat artificial in plot, and aflfected in style, has enough 
of natural feeling to deserve remembrance. 


In the stoiy of "Picciola" Count Chamey, an Italian scientist, 
was charged with plotting against Napoleon's government, and was 
imprisoned at Fenestrella. He was allowed no books, pens or paper. 
But his solitude was relieved by the sprouting of a plant between the 
stones of the courtyard. He watched over it with great tenderness, and 
gave it the name Picciola, "the little one." In his day-dreams it 
seemed to assume a human personality. 

One evening, while the Count was in the midst of a flight 
of fancy, Picciola for the first time dispelled the charm of 
happiness and serenity by the exercise of a sinister influence. 
At a later moment he recurred to the event as the efiect of a 
fatal presentiment ! 

It was just as the fragrance of the plant indicated the sixth 
hour of evening, and Chamey was musing at his accustomed 
post. Never had that aromatic vapor exercised its powers 
more potently ; for more than thirty full-blown flowers were 
emitting the magnetic atmosphere, so influential over the senses 
of the Count. He fancied himself surrounded once more 
by the crowds of society ; having drawn aside from which, 
towards an esplanade of verdure, his beloved Picciola deigned 
to follow his footsteps. The graceful phantom advanced 
smiling towards him, and Charney, in a musing attitude, 
stood admiring the supple grace of the young girl, around 
whose well-turned form the drapery of her snow-white dress 
played in harmonious folds, and her raven tresses, amid which 
bloomed the never-absent flower ! On a sudden he saw her 
start, stagger, and extend her arms towards him. He tried to 
rush towards her ; but an insurmountable obstacle seemed to 
separate him from her side. A cry of horror instantly escaped 
his lips, and lo! the vision disappears! He wakes, but it is 
to hear a second cry, respondent to his own ; yes, the cry, the 
voice of a woman ! 

Nevertheless, the Count is still in his usual place — in the 
old court, and reclining on the rustic bench beside his Pic- 
ciola! But at the grating of the little window appeared the 



momentary glimpse of a female forml A soft and melan- 
choly countenance, half hid in shade, seems gazing upon 
him ; but when, rising from his seat, he hastens towards it, 
the vision vanishes, or rather the young girl hastens from the 
window. However swift her disappearance, Charney was 
able to distinguish her features, her hair, her form, the white- 
ness of her robe. He paused. Is he asleep or waking? Can 
it be that the insurmountable obstacle which divides him 
from Picciola is no other than the grating of a prison ? 

At that moment Ludovico hastens towards him with an 
air of consternation. 

"Are you again indisposed. Signer Contef'' cried the 
gaoler. " Have you had another attack of your old disorder ? 
Trondidio! If, we are obliged, for form's sake, to send for 
the prison doctor, I'll take care, this time, that no one but 
Madame Picciola and myself have a hand in the cure! " 

" I am perfectly well,'' replied Charney, trying to recover 
his composure. "What put it into your head that I was 

"The fly-catcher's daughter came in searcl^ of me. She 
saw you stagger, and hearing you cry aloud, fancied you were 
in need of assistance." 

The Count relapsed into a fit of musing. It seemed to 
occur to him, for the first time, that a young girl occasionally 
inhabited that part of the prison. 

"The resemblance I fancied I could discover between the 
stranger and Picciola is doubtless a new delusion ! " said he 
to himself. And now he recalled to mind Teresa's interest 
in his favor, mentioned to him by the venerable Girardi. 
The young Piedmontese had compassionated his condition 
during his illness. To her he is indebted for the possession 
of his microscope. His heart becomes suddenly touched with 
gratitude, and, in the first efiusion, a sudden remark seems 
to sever the double image, the young girl of his dreams from 
the young girl of his waking hours; "Girardi's daughter 
wore no flower in her hair." 

That moment, but not without hesitation, not without 
self-reproach, he plucked with a trembling hand from his 
plant a small branch covered with blossoms. 


"Formerly," thought Charney, "what sums of money 
did I lavish to adorn, with gold and gems, brows devoted to 
peq'ury and shame ! upon how many abandoned -^omen and 
heartless men did I throw away my fortune, without caring, 
more for them than for the feelings of my own bosom, which, 
at the same moment, I placed in the dust under their feet. 
Oh ! if a gift derives its value from the regard in which it is 
held by the donor, never was a richer token oflfered by man 
to woman, my Picciola, than these flowers which I borrow 
from thy precious branches to bestow on the daughter of 

Then, placing the blossomed bough in the hands of the 
gaoler, " Present these in my name to the daughter of my 
venerable neighbor, good Ludovico ! " said he. '■ Thank her 
for the generous interest she vouchsafes me ; and tell her that 
the Count de Charney-^ poor, and a prisoner, has nothing to 
offer her more worthy her acceptance.' ' 

Ludovico received the token with an air of stupefaction. 
He had begun to enter so completely into the passion of the 
captive for his plant, that he could not conjecture by what 
services the daughter of the fly-catcher had merited so distin- 
guished a mark of munificence. . 

"No matter! Capo di Son' Pasquali P'' exclaimed Ludo- 
vico, as he passed the postern. " They have long admired 
my god-daughter at a distance. Let us see what they will 
say to the brightness of her complexion, and sweetness of hei 
breath, on a nearer acquaintance, Piccioletta mia, andiamoP'' 


The arch-apostle of art for art's sake is Th^ophile Gautier 
(1808-72). He deserted the artist's brush and easel for the 
poet's and romancer's pen, and he has painted more superb 
pictures and achieved more splendid artistic effects with the 
pen than he ever could have done with the brush. His 
aesthetic craving was a life passion : he thirsted for beauty, 
and he found it everywhere — in the little as well as the grand. 
"Emaux et Camdes" (Enamels and Cameos) he entitled his 
first book of poems, and they are truly cold, polished gems of 


art in miniature. But in his description of Cleopatra's ban- 
quet (in "One of Cleopatra's Nights") he bewilders us with 
the grandeur of his imaginative vision, with the breadth of 
his canvas. Like the twin spires of the Cologne Cathedral, 
his descriptions are grand in conception, yet finished in detail. 
Indeed, Gautier revelled too much in details : it is his artistic 
fault. He forgets himself in the presence of any object of 
artistic delight, and lingers elaborately over every incidental 
feature. His " Mademoiselle du Maupin," which Swinburne 
calls " The Golden Book of spirit and sense — the Holy Writ 
of Beauty," raight seem to a less impassioned critic a prolix 
celebration of the sensual aspect of love and female loveli- 
ness. Still, when he sets out to tell a weird or a dramatic 
tale, his success is admirable. The wild, midpight ride on 
the dark steeds to Clarimonde's castle in ' ' La Morte Amour- 
euse," is a striking example of his fervor; for cold though 
he is in his poems, Gaiitier is tropically warm in many of his 
shorter tales. And he has always a firm touch ; as Sainte- 
Beuve said, he "carves in granite," — he might have said, in 
marble and gold. 

Gautier first became conspicuous by wearing a red waist- 
coat on the first night of Victor Hugo's " Hemani." A Gascon 
bom, he was nothing if not flamboyant. , But a secretaryship 
under Balzac tamed a little the fiery author of the ' ' History of 
Romanticism," though he remained to the last the prince of 
pictorial and plastic poetry and prose. Sainte-Beuve called his 
prose "pure Lacrima-Christi." "Mademoiselle du Maupin" 
is a licentious tale of a masquerading Rosalind without 
Rosalind's chastity, in which Gautier openly defied the con- 
veiitionalities. His " Captain Fracasse" is a romantic varia- 
tion on the theme of the strolling players of Scarron's coarse 
"Roman Comique;" it transports us by vivid art to the 
times of Louis XIIL , and cloak and sword are concerned in 
it as well as mask and buskin. The great description of the 
book is that of the mined Chateau de la Mis^re. Of his short 
tales the masterpiece is, no doubt, "La Morte Amoureuse" 
(The Dead Leman), in which the mediaeval incubus legend is 
utilized in the dream-life of love which a young priest lives 
with a beautiful vampire. Phantom love is the theme of 
X— 9 


" Arria Marcella," a phantasmagoria of revived Pompeii; of 
"The Mummy's Foot," in which a Pharaoh's daughter comes 
from the tombs of Egypt to seek her lost possession ; and 
" Omphale," in which a gay lady of the olden empire returns 
to life from a piece of tapestry. "Avatar" is a fantasy on the 
transmigration of souls, by which a lover seeks to take the 
place of a husband. "Jettatura" is a tragedy of the evil 
eye. Gautier also wrote a delightful series of books on his 

Departure op the Swallows. 

The rain-drops splash, and the dead leaves fall, 

On spire apd cornice and mould ; 
The swallows gather, and twitter and call, 
"We must follow the Summer; come one, come all, 

For the Winter is now so cold." 

Just listen awhile to the wordy war, 

As to whither the way shall tend. 
Says one, "I know the skies are fair 
And myriad insects float in air 

Where the ruins of Athens stand. 

"And every year, when the brown leaves fall, 

In a niche of the Parthenon 
I build my nest on the corniced wall, 
In the trough of a devastating ball 

From the Turk's besieging gun." 

Says another, " My cosey home I fit 

On a Smyrna grande caf6. 
Where over the threshold Hadjis sit. 
And smoke their pipes and their coffee sip, 

Dreaming the hours away." 

Another says, "I prefer the nave 

Of a temple in Baalbec ; 
There my little ones lie when the palm-trees wave. 
And, perching near on the architrave, 

I fill each open beak." 

" Ah ! " says the last, "I build my nest 
Far up on the Nile's green shore, 


Where Memnon raises his stony crest, 
And turns to the sun as he leaves his rest, 
But greets him with song no more. 

"In his ample neck is a niche so wide. 

And withal so deep and free, 
A thousand swallows their nests can hide, 
And a thousand little ones rear beside — 

Then come to the Nile with me." 

They go, they go to the river and plain. 

To ruined city and town. 
They leave me alone with the cold again. 
Beside the tomb where my joys have lain, 

With hope like the swallows flown. 

Looking Upward. 

From Sixtus' fane when Michael Angelo 
His work completed radiant and sublime. 

The scaffold left and sought the streets below. 
Nor eyes nor arms would lower for a time ; 

His feet knew not to walk upon the ground. 
Unused to earth, so long in heavenly clime. 

Upwards he gazed while three long months went round ; 

So might an angel look who should adore 
The dread triangle mystery profound. 

My brother poets, while their spirits soar. 
In the world's ways at every moment trip, 

Walking in dreams while they the heavens explore. 




Alfred de Musset's first poeti- 
cal work, "Tales of Spain and 
Italy" (1833), reminded his con- 
temporaries of " Don Juan." The 
author, while confessing a sort of 
Byronic discipleship, protested, 
" My glass is not large, but I drink 
from my own." Born in 18 10 of 
a noble and cultured family, he 
affected the gentleman in literature. 
He hated the very notion of hav- 
ing to do anything and even re- 
fused an embassy to Spain, the land of his early dreams. 
He adopted the half-cynical tone of Byron in his "Confes- 
sions of a Child of his Age," and in his "Rolla," a sombre 
poetic tale. Like Byron he almost always painted himself 
and his own moods. In the " Confession" he declared that 
' ' he did not conceive that one could do anything but love.' ' 
His life was a series of amours and love adventures. He 
drank so deeply that he. became a drunkard. His great gifts 
he scarcely honored. 

It was his notorious liaison with George Sand, with whom! 
he went to Italy in 1833, that awoke the genuine passion and 
divine despair within his heart. In "Elle et Lui " (She and 
He), Mme. Dudevant tells of this ill-fated journey from 
which De Musset returned broken-hearted. She accused 
him of insane jealousy. After Alfred's death Paul de Musset 
retorted with "Lui et Elle" (He and She), in which he 
charged George Sand with flagrant infidelity. We are not 
here concerned with this notorious scandal : suffice it to say 
that the excitable poet, after shedding a flood of tears, com- 
memorated his lost illusions in "LesNuits" (The Nights), 
entitled respectively May, August, October and December. 
The "Night of May," with his admiring " Letter to Lamar- 
tine" and his musical "Stanzas to Malibran," represent his 
loftiest poetical achievement. Heine said of him: "The 



Muse of Comedy kissed him on the lips, but the Muse of 
Tragedy on the heart." Nor can one forget the splendor of 
youth that shines in his poems. No one has sung so truth- 
fully and touchingly its aspirations and its sensibilities, its 
doubts and its hopes. Much of his poetry is entirely free 
from moral taint. 

De Musset wrote a number of comedies and so-called 
proverbs that have striking originality. His dramatic mas- • 
terpiece is probably "L,ove is not to be trifled with," in 
which a double love intrigue proves fatal to the hero and his 
two loves. 


And the pale statues gleam 

In Venice not a barque 
Is stirring, — all is dark, 
For through the gloomy night 

Breaks ne'er a light. 
The lion, gaunt and grand, 
Seated upon the strand. 
Scans the wide waters o'er 

While many a ship and boat 
In groups around him float, 
lyike herons, lulled to sleep 

Upon the deep. 
Over the misty sea, 
Fluttering lazily. 
Streamers and sails unfurled, 

Clinging and curled. 
Now the moon's dreamy light 
Is flooding all the night, 

In the pure light, and seem 
lyike visions of the past 

Come back at last. 
All silent, save the sound 
Of guards upon their round, 
As on the battled wall 

Their footsteps fall. 
More than one damsel strays 
Beneath the pale moon's rays, 
And waits, with eager ear. 

Her cavalier ; 
More than one girl admiring 
The charms she is attiring ; 
More than one mirror shows 

Black dominoes. 
La Vanina is lying 
With languid raptures dying. 

From many a glimmering cloud Upon her lover's breast 

Her airy shroud — 
Just as some novice would 
Draw on her ample hood, 
Yet leaving still, I ween. 

Her beauty seen. 
And the still water flows 
Past mighty porticoes, 
And stairs of wealthy knights, 

Ih lordly flights. 

Half lulled to rest. 
Narcissa, Folly's daughter! 
Holds festal on the water. 
Until the opal morning 

Is softly dawning. 
Who then in such a clime 
But has a madcap time ? 
Who but to love can give 

I4fe, while he live ? 


lyct the old Doge-clock strike So many kisses earned ; 

And hammer as it like, And then returned ; 

And count with jealous spite ^ ^ „ , j„„, . 

^, , r ■ 1,4. Count all your charms, my dear ; 

The hours of night. ^ ^ ■, 

Count every happy tear, 

But we will count instead That loving hearts must borrow 

On full lips rosy red, From joy and sorrow. 


Again I see you, ah my queen, 

Of all my old loves that have been, 
The first love and the tenderest ; 

Do you remember or forget — 

Ah me, for I remember yet- 
How the last summer days were blest? 

Ah lady, when we think of this. 
The foolish hours of youth and bliss, 

How fleet, how sweet, how hard to hold ! 
How old we are, ere spring be green ! 
You touch the limit of eighteen 

And I am twenty winters old. 

My rose, that 'mid the red roses, 
Was brightest, ah, how pale she is ! 

Yet keeps the beauty of her prime ; 
Child, never Spanish lady's face 
Was lovely with so wild a grace; 

Remember the dead summer time. 

Think of our loves, our feuds of old. 
And how you gave your chain of gold 

To me for a peace offering ; 
And how all night I lay awake 
To touch and kiss it for your sake, — 

To touch and kiss the lifeless thing. 

I^ady, beware, for all we say. 
This lyove shall live another day. 

Awakened from his deathly sleep ; 
The heart that once has been your shrine 
For other loves is too divine ; 

A home, my dear, too wide and deep. 


What did I say — why do I dream? 
Why should I struggle with the stream 

Whose waves return not any day? 
Close heart, and eyes, and arms from me; 
Farewell, farewell ! so must it be, 

So runs, so runs, the world away. 

The season bears upon its wing 

The swallows and the songs of spring. 

And days that were, and days that flit ; 
The loved lost hours are far away ; 
And hope and fame are scattered spray 
For me, that gave you love a day, 

For you that not remember it. 

To P:6pa. 

P^PA ! when the night has come. 

And Mamma has bid good-night, 
By the light half-clad and dumb. 

As thou kneelest out of sight, — 

Laid by cap and sweeping vest 

Ere thou sinkest to repose. 
At the hour when half at rest. 

Folds thy soul as folds a rose, — 

When sweet sleep, the sovereign mild, 
Peace to all the house has brought, 
• P6pita ! my charming child ! 

What, O what, is then thy thought? 

Who knows ? Haply dreamest thou 

Of some lady doom'd to sigh. 
All that hope a truth deems now, 

All that Truth shall prove a lie. 

Haply of those mountains grand 

That produce — alas ! but mice ; 
Castles in Spain ; a Prince's hand ; 

Bon-bons, lovers, or cream-ice. 

Haply of soft whispers breathed 

'Mid the mazes of a ball ; 
Robes, or flowers, or hair enwreathed ; 

Me ; — or nothing. Dear, at all. 


Among the assistants whom Alex- 
andre Dumas called to his aid in 
producing his numerous works was 
Octave Feuillet (1812-90), who won fame on his own account. 
His father held a government office in the department of 
Manche and sent his son to Paris to be educated. Feuillet' s 
first independent work was for the stage, and his earliest 
novels were in his master's style. He had better success with 
"lya Petite Comtesse " (1856), in which he showed the heroine 
as a temptress.- But his "Romance of a Poor Young Man " 
(1858) scored a grand hit. This was due not merely to the 
excellence of its description of Norman country life, but to 
its pure moral tone. In later works the author was less care- 
ful in this regard, though he was always guarded in language. 
His "Sibylle" called forth a reply from George Sand. In 
his strongest work, ''Julia de Tr^coeur," a morbidly willful 
girl commits suicide by driving her horse off a precipice 
because her step- father will not return her love. All of 
Feuillet' s stories show such exact acquaintance with the 
manners of polite society that he became a favorite with the 
higher classes. lyong after the Republic was established and 
the naturalist school came into vogue, his careful style and 
his observance of the proprieties preserved his favor with this . 
constituency. Among his later works were "A Woman's 
Journal," " Story of a Parisian Girl " and "La Morte," the 
last of which had immense popularity. The story , tells of 
an atheistic woman who poisons a wife that she may take her 
place, and afterwards tires of her husband and proves unfaith- 
ful to him. 



Julia's Marriage. 

CloTildE, a widow, had married M. de lyUcan, but her daughter, 
Julia de Tr6coeur, refused to see him and took refuge in a convent. 
She is now sixteen years of age and is about to take the veil. 

Clotilde set out for the convent, trembling with anxiety. 
She found Julia alone in her room, trying on her novice's 
dress before the glass. The nun's cape and veil, which were 
to hide her rich hair, lay on the bed. She was simply dressed 
in a long tunic of white wool, whose folds she was arranging. 
She blushed when she saw her mother enter, and then said, 

" Cymodoce in the circus, am I nqt, mother?" 

Clotilde did not answer. She had folded her hands in an 
attitude of supplication, and looked at her tearfully. Julia 
was touched by this silent grief; two tears dropped from her 
eyes, and she threw her arms round her mother's neck; 
then, forcing her into a seat, s^id, 

"What would you have? ' I am also a little sorry at 
heart, for I did love life ; but, besides my vocation, which is 
a true one, I am obeying a real necessity. There is no other 
existence possible for me but this, I know quite well. It is 
my fault. I have been a little mad. I ought not to have left 
you in the first instance; or, at any rate, I should have 
returned to you directly after your marriage. Now, after 
months, years, is it still possible, I ask you ? Besides, I 
should die of shame. Can you imagine me before your hus- 
band? What expression should I assume ? Then he must 
hate me ; he has got accustomed to it. For my part, who 
knows whether seeing him again in that house — Besides, in 
every way, I should be a terrible constraint to you ! " 

'JBut, my dear little daughter," said Clotilde, "nobody 
hates you. You would be received like the Prodigal Son, 
with transports of delight. If it would be too great an efibrt 
to return to my house, if you fear to find annoyance yourself, 
or to cause it to others— God knows how mistaken you are — 
but still, if you do fear it, is that any reason for you to bury 


yourself alive and break my heart ? Could you not return to 
the world without returning to me, and without facing all 
these annoyances that alarm you ? There would be a very 
simple means, you know." 

"What," said Julia calmly, "to marry?" 
"Certainly," said Clotilda, gently bowing her head and 
lowering her voice. 

' ' But, my dear mother, what probability is there of such 
a thing ? Even if I wished it — and I am far from doing so— 
I know no one, no one knows me." 

"There is some one," said Clotilde, with increasing 
timidity, — "some one you know very well, and who adores 

Julia opened her eyes wide, with a surprised and pensive 
expression, and after a short pause for reflection, said, 

" Yes," muttered Clotilde, pale with anxiety. 
Julia's brows contracted slightly. She raised her charm- 
ing head, and remained for some moments with her eyes 
fixed on the ceiling; then, with a slight shrug of the 
shoulders, . ' ' Why not ? " said she seriously. " He will do as 
well as another." 

Clotilde gave a little cry, and, seizing both her daughter's 
hands, exclaimed, " You are willing — you are really willing ! 
It is true ! You will allow me to take him this answer ? " 

" Yes ; but change the wording of it," said Julia, laugh- 

"O my dear, dear darling!" exclaimed Clotilde, as she 
covered Julia's hands with kisses; "but tell me once more 
that it is really true, that to-morrow you will not have 
changed your mind." 

"No!" said Julia firmly, with her grave and musical 
voice. She considered a moment, and then continued, " So 
he really loves me, that great boy?" 
" Like a madman." 

' ' Poor man ! And he is awaiting the answer ? ' ' 
" In fear and trembling." 

"Well, then, go and calm him. We will continue the 
conversation to-morrow. I must arrange my ideas a little, 



after such an upset; but rest satisfied, my resolution is 


' When Madame de lyucan returned home, Pierre de Moras 

was awaiting her in the drawing-room. He turned pale when 

he saw her. 

*' Pierre," exclaimed she, breathlessly, " kiss me ; you are 
my son ! Respectfully, if you please, respectfully, ' ' added she, 
laughing, as he lifted her up and pressed her to his heart 

He repeated the performance afterwards with the Baroness 
de J'ers, who had been hastily summoned. 

"My dear friend," said she, "I am delighted,— delighted ; 
but you are suflFocating me ! Yes, yes, it is all very well, my 
boy; but you are literally suflfocating me! Reserve your 
forces. That dear little girl ; it is charming of her, quite 
charming I At bottom she has a golden heart. And she has 
good taste; for you are very handsome, very handsome! 
However, I always did think that, when the time came for 
cutting her hair, she would reflect. Certainly she has beau- 
tiful hair, poor child ! " 

And the baroness burst into tears ; then, addressing the 
count in a parenthesis between her sobs, 

" You will not be unhappy either ; she is a goddess. ' ' 

M. de Lucan, although deeply touched by this family 
scene, and especially by Clotilde's joy, took this unhoped-for 
event with more calmness. He was always very sparing of 
public manifestations, and in his heart he was troubled and 
sad. The future prospects of this marriage seemed to him 
most uncertain, and his sincere friendship for the count made 
him anxious. A feeling of delicate reserve towards Julia had 
prevented him from saying all that he thought of her charac- 
ter. He endeavored to reject as unjust and partial the opinion 
he had formed ; but when he remembered the dreadful child 
he used to know, at one moment carried oflf by a whirlwind, 
at another pensive and surrounded by sombre reserve ; when 
he imagined her as she had been described to him since then 
—taller, more beautiful, ascetic — and then saw her suddenly 
throw her veil to the winds like one of the fantastic nuns in 
Robert le Diable^ and return to the world with light step : 
then, in spite of himself, out of these various impressions he 


composed a chimera and sphinx that it seemed very difficult 
to combine with the idea of domestic happiness. 

During the whole evening the family conversation turned 
upon the complications that might arise from this marriage, 
and the means of avoiding them. M. de Lucan entered into 
these details with a very good grace, and declared that he 
would be most happy to agree to any arrangements that his 
stepdaughter might desire. This precaution was not entirely 

Clotilde went to the convent early next morning. Julia, 
after listening with somewhat ironical indiflFerence to her 
mother's account of the delight and joy of her intended, 
assumed a more serious air : 

"And your husband," said she ; "what does he think?" 

" He is delighted, as we all are." 

"I am going to ask you a strange question. Does he 
mean to be present at our wedding?" 

"Just as you please." 

"Listen, my dear little mother — don't make yourself 
miserable beforehand. I feel sure that some day or other this 
marriage will help to unite us all ; but leave me time to ac^ 
custom myself to this idea. Grant me some months for the 
old Julia to be forgotten, and to forget her myself. You will 
agree to '^hat, will you not ? ' ' 

"Whatever you wish," said Clotilde, sighing. 

" I beg of you. Tell him that' I beg of him also." 

"I will tell him ; but do you know that Pierre is here?" 

"Ah, indeed ! But where ? " 

" I have left him in the garden." 

"In the garden? — what imprudence, mother! Why, 
these ladies will tear him to pieces like Orpheus ; for you 
may fancy he is not in the odor of sanctity here." 

M. de Moras was summoned. Julia began to laugh when 
he appeared, and this facilitated his entrance. During their 
interview she had several attacks of that nervous laugh which 
is so useful to women in difficult circumstances. Not having 
this resource, M. de Moras contented himself with timidly 
kissing his cousin's beautiful hands ; but his handsome mas- 
culine features were radiant with delight, and his large blue 


eyes were moist with happy tenderness* It seems that he 
made a favorable impression. 

"I never before regarded him from that point of view,'' 
said Julia to her mother. "He is really handsome — a splen- 
did husband ! " 

The wedding took place three months after. It was quite 
quiet, without any show. The Count de Moras and his 
young wife departed for Italy the same evening. 


Among the novelists of the Second Empire, Gustave 
Flaubert (i 821- 1880) was the, real leader. He continued the 
succession of Balzac, and led to Zola and De Maupassant. 
Balzac had treated French provincial life with notable realism, 
and bitterness ; he had also, in Valdrie and Esther, portrayed 
the vicious female type. Flaubert followed in his footsteps 
in " Mme. Bovary," which caused a notable sensation on its 
appearance in 1856. Flaubert was arrested, put on trial, 
pleaded his own case, and was acquitted. "Mme. Bovary" 
is a pitiless, pessimistic story of a country girl of beauty, 
educated beyond her station, who aspires to vulgar ideals of 
luxury and life. Flaubert emphasizes, with suppressed irony, 
the suffocating banality of her provincial environment, and 
in M. Homais, a druggist, supplies a marked type of narrow 
provincialism. Emma Bovary weds a common squire, but 
deceives him for several lovers. Abandoned by them, and in 
terror of her husband whom, by forgery, she has plunged into 
debt, she at last commits a hideous suicide with arsenic, while 
he, on learning the truth, dies of a broken heart. Mme. 
Bovary's portrait is a masterpiece, but she herself typifies 
vulgarity rather than voluptuousness. The vulgarity of life, 
indeed, seems to have been Flaubert's constant lament and 
theme for exposition. "Strange," he once wrote, "that I 
was born with so little faith in happiness. Even as a boy, I 
had a complete presentiment of life. It was like the smell of 
a nauseating kitchen escaping through a ventilating hole. 
One had no need to taste to know that it was sickening." 
The heroine of his "Salammbo," a tale of ancient Carthage, 


is " a monomaniac, a kind of St. Theresa, nailftd to a fixed 

Flaubert is now known to have been an epileptic, and 
being a surgeon's son, was brought up amid the nauseating 
scenes of hospital life. In his despair, he turned to art 
from the misery of life, as he viewed it ; and yet he made 
minute studies and accumulated huge notes for his ro- 
mances. After "Mme. Bovary," however, he made no more 
studies of the evolution of a soul. In his "Salammbo" 
he evoked a sombre-spirited and yet gorgeously-descriptive 
fantasy of the revolt of the rude barbarian soldiers against 
Carthage, and of the heroine's weird self-sacrifice for her native 
city. In the "Temptation of St. Anthony" in the desert of 
Thebaid, an allegory, the Egyptian hermit sees in a vision a 
mad procession of all the deities, religions, heresies, and 
philpsophies of the world. It is a terrible picture of humanity 
from the cradle, in all its blood and filth, error and woe. 
In "A Sentimental Education" — pronounced by many ad- 
mirers to be his real masterpiece — Flaubert shows us again 
the immoral, dishonest French society of Balzac's "Human 
Comedy," but brought his chief character to failure and dis- 
illusionment instead of worldly success. His pessimism is a 
deadly poison, despite the formal beauty, the concise thought, 
and the precise phrase of his highly imaginative style. 

Salammb6 and the Serpent. 

Sai,AMmb6 was the sister of the Carthaginian Hannibal. When 
the Numidian Matho was a prisoner at her father Hamilcar's house, he 
stole for her from the temple of Tanit (the Moon) the sacred veil, but 
when freed afterwards he took it away with him. Disasters fell upon 
Carthage. Her tributaries rebelled and under Matho threatened the 
city. The priests attributed the dangers to the anger of the goddess 
for the loss of the sacred veil. Schahabarim, who has been the tutor 
of Salammb6, persuades her that it is her duty to go secretly to Mi- 
tho's tent and by his favor recover the veil. 

The eunuch priest made her kneel and keeping her left 
hand raised and her right one extended, he swore on her be- 
half to bring back to Carthage the veil of Tanit. With fear- 
ful imprecations, she consecrated herself to the Gods, and 


each time that Schahabarim pronounced a word she faint- 
ingly repeated it. 

He indicated to her all the purifications and fasts she 
ought to perform, and what paths to pursue, in order to reach 
Matho's tent; besides, he told her that a servitor familiar 
with the roads should accompany her. 

She felt herself freed. She dreamed of naught but the 
happiness of seeing the Zaimph [the veil] again ; and now 
she blessed Schahabarim for his exhortations. 

It was the season when the doves of Carthage migrated 
to the mountain of Eryx in Sicily, there nesting about the 
temple of Venus. Previous to their departure, during many 
days, they sought each other, and cooed to reunite them- 
selves ; finally one evening they flew, driven by the wind, 
and this large, white cloud glided in the heaven very high 
above the sea. The horizon was crimson. They seemed 
gradually to descend to the waves, then disappear as though 
swallowed up and falling, of their own accord, into the jaws 
of the sun. Salammbo, who watched them disappear, lowered 
her head. Taanach, believing that she surmised her mis- 
tress's grief, tenderly said : 

"But, mistress, they will return." 

"Yes! I know it." 

"And you will see them again." 

" Perhaps ! " said Salammbo, as she sighed. 

She had not confided to any one her resolution, and for its 
discreet accomplishment she sent Taanach to purchase, in 
the suburbs of Kinisdo, all the articles she should need: ver- 
milion, aromatics, a linen girdle, and new garments. The 
old slave was amazed by these preparations, without daring 
to ask any questions; and so the day arrived fixed by Scha- 
habarim when Salammbo must depart. 

Towards the twelfth hour, she perceived at the end of the 
sycamores an old blind man, whose hand rested on the 
shoulder of a child who walked before him, and in the other 
hand he held, against his hip, a species of cithara made of 
black wood. The eunuchs, the slaves, the women had been 
scrupulously sent away; no one could possibly know the 
mystery that was being prepared. 


Taanach lighted in the corners of the room four tripods 
full of strobus and cardamom, then she spread out great Baby- 
lonian tapestries, and hung them on cords all round the 
room,— for Salammbo did not wish to be seen even by the 
walls. The player of the kinnor waited crouching behind 
the door, and the young boy, standing up, applied his lips to 
a reed flute. In the distance the street clamor faded> the 
violet shadows lengthened before the peristyles of the temples, 
and on the other side of the gulf the base of the mountain, the 
olive fields and the waste yellow ground indefinitely undu- 
lated till finally lost in a bluish vapor ; not a single sound 
could be heard, and indescribable oppression pervaded the air. 

Salammbo crouched on the onyx step on the edge of the 
porphyry basin; she lifted her wide sleeves and fastened them 
behind her shoulders, and began her ablutions in a methodical 
manner, according to the sacred rites. 

Next Taanach brought to her an alabaster phial, contain- 
ing something liquid, yet coagulated ; it was the blood of a 
black dog, strangled by barren women on a winter's night in 
the ruins of a sepulchre. She rubbed it on her ears, her 
heels, and the thumb of her right hand, and even the nail re- 
mained tinged a trifle red, as if she had crushed a berry. The 
moon rose, then both at once the cithara and the flute com- 
menced to play. Salammbo took off her ear-rings, laid aside 
her necklace, bracelets, and her long white simarra; un- 
knotted the fillet from her hair, and for some minutes shook 
her tresses gently over her shoulders to ' refresh and disen- 
tangle them. The music outside continued; there were al- 
ways the same three notes, precipitous and furious; the 
strings grated, the flute was high-sounding and sonorous. 
Taanach marked the cadence by striking her hands; Sa- 
lammbo; swaying her entire body, chanted her prayers, and 
one by one her garments fell around her on the floor. 

The heavy tapestry trembled, and above the cord that sus- 
tained it the head of the Python appeared. He descended 
slowly, like a drop of water trickling along a wall, and glided 
between the stuffs spread out, then poised himself on his tail; 
he lifted himself perfectly straight up, and darted his eyes, 
more brillant than carbuncles, upon Salammbo. 

Jules Toulot, Pinx 



A shudder of cold, or her modesty perhaps, at first made 
her hesitate. But she recalled the order of Schahabarim, so 
,she went forward; the Python lowered himself, alighting 
upon the nape of her neck in the middle of his body, allow- 
ing his head and tail to hang down like a broken necklace, 
and the two ends trailed on the floor. Salammbo rolled them , 
around her sides, under her arms, between her knees; then 
taking him by the jaw, she drew his little triangular mouth 
close to her teeth; and with half-closed eyes she bent back 
under the moon's rays. The white light seemed to enshroud 
her in a silvery fog; the tracks of her wet feet shone on the 
stones; stars twinkled in the depths of the water; the Python 
tightened against her his black coils, speckled with spots of 
gold. Salammbo panted under this too heavy weight; her 
loins gave way, she felt that she was dying : the Python 
patted her thighs softly with his tail ; then the music ceased, 
and he fell down. 

Taanach drew near to Salammbo, and after arranging two 
candelabra, of which the lights burned in two crystal globes 
filled vfith water, she tinted with henna the inside of the 
hands of her mistress, put vermilion on her cheeks, antimony 
on her eyelids, and lengthened her eyebrows with a mixture 
of gum, musk, ebony, and crushed flies' feet. 

Salammbo, sitting in a chair mounted with ivory, aban- 
doned herself to the care of her slave. But the soothing 
touches, the odor of the aromatics, and the fasts she had kept, 
enervated her : she became so pale that Taanach paused. 

"Continue!" said Salammbo; and as she dr^w herself 
up in spite of herself, she felt all at once reanimated. Then an 
impatience seized her ; she urged Taanach to hasten, and the 
old slave growled : "Well! well! mistress! . . . You have 
no one waiting for |you elsewhere ! ' ' 

"Yes!" responded Salarhmbo, "some one waits for me." 

Taanach started with surprise, and in order to know more^ 
she said: "What do. you order me to do, mistress, if you 
should remain away? " 

, But Salammbo sobbed, and the slave exclaimed : ' ' You 
puffer! What is the matter with you? Do not go! Take 
me ! When you were a little one and wept, I held you to my 
X — 10 


heart and suckled you, and made you laugh by tickling you 
with my nipples. Mistress ! " she struck her withered breasts, 
exclaiming : "You sucked them dry. Now I am old ! I can 
do nothing for you ! You do not love me any more I You 
hide your troubles from me, you disdain your nurse ! " With 
fondness and vexation the tears coursed down her face, in the 
scars of her tattooing. 

"No!" said Salammbo, "no; I love you; be com- 
forted ! " 

Taanach, with a smile like the grimace of an old mon- 
key, recommenced her task. Following the directions of the 
priest, Salammbo ordered her slave to make her magnificent, 
Taanach complied, with a barbaric taste full of elaboration 
and ingenuity. 

Over a first fine wine-colored tunic she placed a second 
one, embroidered with birds' plumes. Golden scales were 
fastened to her hips, from her wide girdle flowed the folds of 
her blue, silver-starred gown. Then Taanach adjusted an 
ample robe of rare stuff" from the land of the Seres, white va- 
riegated with green stripes. She attached over Salammbo's 
shoulders a square of purple, made heavy at the hem with 
beads, and on the top of all these vestments she arranged a 
black mantle with a long train. Then she contemplated her, 
and proud of her work, she could not keep from saying : 

"You will not be more beautiful the day of your nup- 

" My nuptials ! " repeated Salammbo in a reverie, as she 
leaned her elbow on the ivory chair. 

Taanach held up before her mistress a copper mirror, wide 
and long enough for her to view herself completely. She 
stood up, and with a light touch of one finger put back a 
curl that drooped too low on her forehead. Her hair was 
powdered with gold, crimped in front, hanging down her 
back in long twists, terminating in pearls. The light from 
the candelabra heightened the color on her cheeks, the gold 
throughout her garments, and the whiteness of her skin. 
She wore around her waist, on her arms, hands, and feet such 
a profusion of jewels that the mirror, reflecting like a sun, 
flashed back prismatic rays upon her : — and Salammbo stood 


beside Taanach, leaning and turning around on all sides to 
view herself, smiling at the dazzling effect. 

Suddenly the crow of a cock was heard. She quickly 
'pinned over her hair a long yellow veil, passed a scarf around 
her neck, and buried her feet in blue leather buskins, saying 
to Taanach : 

"Go, see under the myrtles, if there is not a man with two 

Taanach had scarcely re-entered before Salammbo de- 
scended the stairway of the galleys. 

"Mistress!" called out the slave. Salammbo turned 
around and placed one finger on her lips, in sign of discretion 
and silence. 

Taanach crept quietly the length of the prows as far as the 
base of the terrace, and in the distance by the moonlight she 
distinguished in the cypress avenue a gigantic shadow moving 
obliquely to the left of Salammbo : this was a foreboding of 

Taanach went back to her room, threw .herself on the . 
floor, tore her face with her finger-nails, pulled out her hair, 
and uttered shrill yells at the top of her voice. 


Under this joint-name Emile Erckmann (bom in 1822) 
and Alexandre Chatrian (1826-90) published their famous 
series of Alsace-Lorraine romances. Both were born in the 
department of Meurthe, which France saved from Germany, 
and it was but natural that they should not only describe 
faithfully the middle-class Rhenish people, but also depict 
the saddest and least glorious of the Napoleonic battles which 
so terribly affected their native region. One was a law- 
student, the other a school usher ; and both groped some 
time before they found their forte, but then they stood on 
solid ground. To them Napoleon represented the terror 
rather than the glory of war ; the drain of life and blood to 
satisfy the empty dreams of ambition. In their eyes Napo- 
leon had forfeited the gains won for the people by the Revo- 
lutionists who preceded the Empire. These views they real- 


istically bodied forth in their novels, such as " Mme. TherSse ; 
or, the Volunteers of 1792," "The Conscript of 1813," "The 
Invasion— Waterloo," "The Story of the Hundred Days," 
"War," "The Blockade; or, the Siege of Phalsbourg," 
"Brigadier Frederic," etc. Not only did they write thus of 
the wars of Napoleon, contrasting the lustre of the revolu- 
tionary victories to Bonaparte's defeats, but they spun many 
rustic and sentimental tales of the Vosges and Black Forest. 
"ly'Ami Fritz " (Friend Fritz) is an Alsatian idyll, a delicate 
little story of an old bachelor's love for a pretty country 
girl. Another story tells of a feud between brothers ended 
by the love-making of their children. One of their strongest ' 
tales, dramatized by themselves, is "The Polish Jew," known 
to English play-goers as "The Bells," Mathias, the Jew, 
murders a rich traveler, and throws the body in a lime-kiln. 
Haunted by the sound of bells ever thereafter, Mathias finally 
dreams that he is made, by a mesmerist, to confess his crime 
in court. He is found dead of terror in bed on his daughter's 
wedding morn. 

The Conscript's Dtjei,. 

At Frankfort I learned to understand military life. Up 
to that time I had been but a simple conscript; then I became 
a soldier. I do not speak merely of drill, — the way of turn- 
ing the head right or left, measuring the steps, lifting the 
hand to the height of the first or second band to load, aiming, 
recovering arms at the word of command — that is only an 
affair of a month or two, if a man really desires to learn; but 
I speak of discipline — of remembering that the corporal is 
always in the right when he speaks to a private soldier, the 
sergeant when he speaks to the /Corporal, the sergeant-major 
when speaking to the sergeant, the second lieutenant when 
he orders the sergeant-major, and so on to the Marshal of 
France — even if the superior asserts that two and two make 
five, or that the moon shines at midday. 

This is very difficult to learn; but there is one thing that 
assists you immensely, and that is a sort of placard hung up 
in every room in the barracks, and which is from time to 
time read to you. This placard presupposes everything that 


a soldier miglit wisli to do, as, for instance, to return home, 
to refuse to serve, to resist his officer, and always ends by 
speaking of death, or at least five years with a ball and chain. 

But about this time an extraordinary event occurred. You 
must know that my comrade, Zebedee, was the son of the 
gravedigger of Phalsbourg, and sometimes among ourselves 
we called him "Gravedigger." This he took in good part 
from us; but one evening after drill, as he was crossing the 
yard, a hussar cried out: " Hallo, Gravedigger ! help me to 
drag in these bundles of straw." 

Zebedee, turning about, replied : " My name is not Grave- 
digger, and you can drag in your own straw. Do you take 
me for a fool?" 

Then the other cried in a still louder tone : " Conscript, 
you had better come, or beware ! " 

Zebedee, with his great hooked nose, his gray eyes and thin 
lips, never bore too good a character for mildness. He went 
up to the hussar and asked: "What is that you say? " 

" I tell you to take up those bundles of straw, and quickly, 
too. Do yoti hear, conscript? " 

He was quite an old man, with moustaches and red, bushy 
whiskers. Zebedee seized one of the latter, but received two 
blows in the face. Nevertheless, a fist-full of the whisker 
remained in his grasp, and, as the dispute had attracted a 
crowd to the spot, the hussar shook his finger, saying: "You 
will hear from me to-morrow, conscript." 

"Very good," returned Zebedee; "we shall see. You will 
probably hear from me too, veteran." 

He came immediately after to tell me all this, and I, know- 
ing that he had never handled a weapon more warlike ' than 
a pickaxe, could not help trembling for him. 

"I/isten, Zebedee," I said; "all that there now remains 
for you to do, since you do not want to desert, is to ask par- 
don of this old fellow; for those veterans all know some fear- 
ful tricks of fence which they have brought ffom Egypt or 
Spain,, or somewhere else. If you wish, I will lend you a 
crown to pay for a bottle of wine to make up the quarrel." 

But he, knitting his brows, would hear none of this. 
"Rather than beg his pardon," said he, "I would go and 


hang myself. I laugh him and his comrades to scorn. If he 
has tricks of fence, I have a long arm, that will drive my 
sabre through his bones as easily as his will penetrate iny 

The thought of the blows made him insensible to reason. 
Soon Chazy, the maitre d'armes, Corporal Fleury, Furst, and 
I/Cger came in. They all said that Zebedee was in the right, 
and the maitre d'^armes added that blood alone could wash 
out the stain of a blow; that the honor of the recruits required 
Zebedee to fight. 

Zebedee answered proudly that the men of Phalsbourg had 
never feared the sight of a little blood, and that he was ready. 
Then the maitre d''armes went to see our Captain Florentin, 
who was one of the most magnificent men imaginable — tall, 
well-formed, broad-shouldered, with regular features, and the 
Cross, which the Emperor himself had given him at Eylau. 
The captain even went further than the maUre d^armes; 
he thought it would set the conscripts a good example, and 
that if Zebedee refused to fight he would be unworthy to re- - 
main in the Third Battalion of the Sixth of the Line. 

All that night I could not close my eyes. I heard the 
deep breathing of my poor comrade as he slept, and I thought: 
' ' Poor Zebedee ! another day, and you will breathe no more." 
I shuddered to think holy near I was to a man so near death. 
At last, as day broke, I fell asleep, when suddenly I felt a 
cold blast of wind strike me. I opened my eyes, and there I 
saw the old hussar. He had lifted up the coverlet of our bed, 
and said as I awoke: " Up, sluggard ! I will show you what 
manner of man you struck." 

Zebedee rose tranquilly, saying:, "I was asleep, veteran; I 
was asleep." 

The other, hearing himself thus mockingly called " vet- 
eran," would have fallen upon my comrade in his bed; but 
two tall fellows who served him as seconds held him back, 
and, besides, the Phalsboutg men were there. 

" Quick, quick ! Hurry ! " cried the old hussar. 

But Zebedee dressed himself calmly, without any haste. , 
After a moment's silence, he said : " Have we permission to 
go outside our quarters, old fellows? " 


" 'There is room enough for us in the yard," replied one 
of the hussars. 

Zebedee put on his great-coat, and, turning to me, said : 
"Joseph and you, Klipfel, I choose for my seconds." 

But I shook my head. 

"Well, then, Furst," said he. 

The whole party descended the stairs together. I thought 
Zebedee was lost, and thought it hard, that not only must the 
Russians seek our lives, but that we must seek each other's. 

All the men in the room crowded to the windows. I alone 
remained behind upon my bed. At the end of five minutes 
the clash of sabres made my heart almost cease to beat ; the 
blood seemed no longer to flow through my veins. 

But this did not last long; for suddenly Klipfel exclaimed, 

Then I made my way — I know not how — to a> window, 
and, looking over the heads of the others, saw the old hussar 
leaning against the wall, and Zebedee rising, his sabre all 
dripping with blood. He had fallen upon his knees during 
the fight, and, while the old man's sword pierced the air just 
above his shoulder, he plunged his blade into the hussar's 
breast. If he had not slipped, he himself would have been 
run through and through. 

The hussar sank at the foot of the wall. His seconds 
lifted him in their arms, while Zebedee, pale as a corpse, gazed 
at his bloody sabre, and Klipfel handed him his cloak. Al- 
most immediately the reveille was sounded, and we went off to 
morning call. These events happened on the eighteenth of 


Science, so prominent in the nineteenth century, has not 
been without its romancers. Of these, Jules Verne (bom at 
Nantes in 1828) has been the greatest and most popular. He 
followed in the footsteps of Edgar Allan Poe, only applying 
a more exact science than the great American inventor of 
hoaxes and wonder tales. Verne's ingenuity has made the 
most surprising use of the remarkable facts of mechanics, 
physics and electricity. In his " Five Weeks in a Balloon," 


"A Journey to the Centre of the Earth," "Twenty Thousand 
Leagues Under the Sea," "From the Earth to the Moon," 
" The Mysterious Island," " Hector Servadac ; or, the Career 
of a Comet," and "The Purchase of the North Pole," he has 
almost exhausted the plausible wonders of astronomy, sub- 
marine and subterranean exploration, and scientific invention. 
In "The Castle of the Carpathians" he has pictured elec- 
tricity as a secret agent of the marvellous. No one has yet 
succeeded in securing such a vraisemblance as he in tales of 
this type, although M. Camilla Flammarion, his compatriot 
and a celebrated astronomer, has written several clever ro- 
mances concerning life in Mars and other worlds, and ]\Ir. H. 
G. Wells, a later British writer, has produced some ghastly 
stories of zoological and botanical fiction, a romance of 
vivisection (" Dr. Moreau's Island"), and a Martian romance 
("The War of Worlds"). Jules Verne, who was educated 
for the bar and began by writing plays, has shown more ver- 
satility, however. In "Michael Strogoflf" he has told a 
thrilling tale of a blinded courier of the Czar. In " Dr. Ox's 
Experiment," a chemist vitalizes a whole Flemish village to 
a dangerous state of feverish excitemetn by impregnating the 
atmosphere with excessive oxygen. Verne here describes 
sleepy Quinquendon with a master's brush. His most cele- 
brated tale, " Around the World in Eighty Days," is a peer- 
less story of adventure. His hero, PhineaS Fogg, a member 
of the London Travelers' Club, accomplishes this feat, with 
his servant, to win a wager, and comes back only at the last ' 
stroke of the clock. The feat theii (1874) almost incredible 
has since been actually surpassed. 

The Bottom of the Sea. 

And now, how can I retrace the impression left upon 
me by that walk under the waters ? Words are irnpotent to 
relate such wonders! Captain Nemo walked in front, his 
companions followed some steps behind. Conseil and I 
remained near each other, as if an exchange of words had 
been possible through our metallic cases. I no longer felt 
the weight of my clothi;ag, or my shoes, of my reservoir of 


air, or of my thick helmet, in the midst of which my head 
rattled like an almond in its shell. 

The light, which lit the soil thirty feet below the surface 
of the ocean, astonished me by its power. The solar rays 
shone through the watery mass easily and dissipated all color, 
and I clearly distinguished objects at a distance of a hundred 
and fifty yards. Beyond that the tints darkened into fine 
gradations of ultra-marine, and faded into vague obscurity. 
Truly this water which surrounded me was but another air 
denser than the terrestrial atmosphere, but almost as trans- 
parent. Above me was the calm surface of the sea. We 
were walking on fine, even sand, not wrinkled, as on a flat 
shore, which retains the impression of the billows. This 
dazzling carpet, really a reflector, repelled the rays of the 
sun with wonderful intensity, which accounted for the vibra- 
tion which penetrated every atom of liquid. Shall I be 
believed when I say that, at the depth of thirty feet, I could 
see as if I was in broad daylight ? 

For a quarter of an hour I trod on this sand sown with 
the impalpable dust of shells. The hull of the " Nautilus," 
resembling a long shoal, disappeared by degrees ; but its 
lantern, when darkness should overtake us in the waters, 
would help to guide us on board by its distinct rays. Soon 
forms of objects outlined in the distance were discernible. I 
recognized magnificent rocks, hung with a tapestry of 
zoophyte^ of the most beautiful kind, and I was at first struck 
by the peculiar effect of this medium. 

It was then ten in the morning, the rays of the sun struck 
the surface of the waves at rather an oblique angle, and at 
the touch of their light, decomposed by refraction as through 
a prism, flowers, rocks, plants, shells, and polypi were shaded 
at the edges by the seven solar colors. It was marvelous, a 
feast for the eyes, this complication of colored tints, a per- 
fect kaleidoscope of green, yellow, orange, violet, indigo, and 
blue; in one word, the whole palette of an enthusiastic 
colorist ! Why could I not communicate to Conseil the lively 
sensations which were mounting to my brain, and rival him 
in expressions of admiration ? For aught I knew, Captain 
Nemo and his companion might be able to exchange thoughts 


by means of signs previously agreed upon. So for want of 
better, I talked to myself; I declaimed in the copper box 
which covered my head, thereby expending more air in vain 
words than was, perhaps, expedient. 

Various kinds of isis, clusters of pure tuft-coral, prickly 
fungi, and anemones, formed a brilliant garden of flowers, 
enameled with porplutae, decked with their collarettes of blue 
tentacles, sea-stars studding the sandy bottom, together with 
asterophytons like fine lace embroidered by the hands of 
naiads ; whose festoons were waved by the gentle undula- 
tions caused by our walk. It was a real grief to me to crush 
under my feet the brilliant specimens of molluscs which 
strewed the ground by thousands, of hammerheads, donaciae 
(veritable bounding shells), of staircases, and red helmet- 
shells, angel-wings, and many others produced by this inex- 
haustible ocean. But we were bound to walk, so we went on, 
whilst above our heads waved shoals of physalides, leaving 
their tentacles to float in their train, medusae whgse umbrellas 
of opal or rose-pink, escaloped with a band of blue, sheltered 
us from the rays of the sun and fiery pelagiae which, in the 
darkness, would, have strewn our path with phosphorescent 

All these wonders I saw in the space of a quarter of a 
mile, scarcely stopping, and following Captain Nemo, who 
beckoned me on by signs. Soon the nature of the soil 
changed ; to the sandy plain succeeded an extent of slimy 
mud, which the Americans call " ooze," composed of equal 
parts of silicious and calcareous shells. We then traveled 
over a plain of sea-weed of wild and luxuriant vegetation. 
This sward was of close texture, and soft to the feet, and 
rivalled the softest carpet woven by the hand of man. But 
whilst verdure was spread at our feet, it did not abandon our 
heads. A light network of marine plants, of that inexhaus- 
tible family of sea-weeds of which more than two thousand 
kinds are known, grew on the surface of the water. I saw 
long ribbons of fucus floating, some globular, others tuberous, 
laurenciae and cladostephi of most delicate foliage, and some 
rhodomeniae palmatae, resembling the fan of a cactus. I 
noticed that the green plants kept nearer the top of the sea 



whilst the red were at a greater depth, leaving to the black 
or brown hydrophytes the care of forming gardens and 
parterres in the remote beds of the ocean. 

We had quitted the "Nautilus" about an hour and a half. 
It was near noon ; I knew by the perpendicularity of the 
sun's rays, which were no longer refracted. The magical 
colors disappeared by degrees, and the shades of emerald and 
sapphire were effaced. We walked with a regular step, which 
rang upon the ground with astonishing intensity ; the slight- 
est noise was transmitted with a quickness to which the ear 
is unaccustomed on the earth ; indeed, water is a better con- 
ductor of sound than air, in the ratio of four to one. At this 
period the earth sloped downward; the light took a uniform 
tint. We were at a depth of a hundred and five yards and 
twenty inches, undergoing a pressure of six atmospheres. 

At this depth I could still see the rays of the sun, though 
feebly ; to their intense brilliancy had succeeded a reddish 
twilight, the lowest state between day and night ; and we 
could still see well enough. 


AtPHONSE Datjdet (1840-97), 
born at Nimes in the same year 
as Zola at Aix, early attained 
the honor of being one of the great 
masters of style among contempo- 
rary French romancers. Zola once 
described Daudet as having "the 
delicate, nervous beauty of an Arab 
horse, with flowing hair, silky, 
divided beard, large eyes, narrow 
nose, an amorous mouth, and over 
it all a sort of illumination, a 
breath of tender light that individ- 
ualized the whole face, with a smile full at once of intellect 
and of the joy of life. There was something in him of the 
French street-boy and something of the Oriental woman." 
In a literary sense we may describe Daudet as half a Proven- 


gal and half a Parisian. Dickens, to whom he has been 
compared, recognized that "nature had placed Daudet where 
poetry ends and reality begins." 

The music, color and poesy of Provence are in those 
kindly humorous " Tarasconades " (Tartarin of Tarascon, 
Tartarin in the Alps, and Port Tarascon), the hero of which 
trilogy typifies the exuberant imagination of Southern France 
that intensifies fancy into accepted fact. Tartarin boasts so 
much that from shooting holes through caps tossed in air he 
sets out to kill lions in Algeria. Again he seeks adventure 
in the Alps, where he finds all modern comforts instead. He 
is a curious blend of both Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, 
and we grow fond of him, as of old FalstaflF. This persiflage 
deepens to serious humor in "The Nabob," a Corsican polit- 
ical romance, and to stern criticism in "Numa Roumestan," 
in which Southern French statesmen are satirized (perhaps 
Gambetta among them). Daudet's exotic, Provengal spirit is 
revealed in his most successful drama, "The Arlesienne," and 
in his delightfully pastoral "Letters from my Mill." Only 
a master of the short story could write such tales as those of 
M. Seguin's wandering goat, of the vengeful Pope's mule, of 
the witty Cure of Cucugnan's sermon, and of the magic elixir 
of the self-sacrificing tipsy monk, Gaucher. In his Parisian 
dramas, Daudet like Dickens is autobiographic and draws on 
his Parisian and Algerian observations. Thus in *' La Petite 
Chose" he describes his own unhappy youth in the pion 
(usher) at a French Dotheboys Hall. In ' 'Jack ' ' he describes 
the life romance of a poor bastard. In " The Nabob " he 
depicts in Mora the Due de Morny "as a Brummel-Riche- 
liea. " He was secretary to the Duke during the Empire. 
Of his other novels, it can be stated that " Fromont jeune et 
Risler aine" is a saddening tragedy of the domestic ruin 
wrought by a scheming Paris shop girl, Sidonie ; " Kings in 
Exile," is a study of exiled royalty living in Paris ; '%'Evan- 
geliste" treats of religious fanaticism; "La Petite paroisse," 
of jealousy;" "ly'Immortel" is a slanderous satire on the 
French Academy; and "Sapho," is a remarkably realistic 
study of a Parisian cocotte, Fanny Legrand, who fascinates, 
disillusionizes and ruins her lover. 


Tartarin op Tarascon. 

Tarascon is a town in tlie south of France, whose inhabitants had 
such a mania for hunting that in the course of time all the game, even 
down to blackbirds and rabbits, took alarm and departed. Deprived of 
their game, the brave sportsmen invented the ingenious substitute of 
flinging their caps in the air and shooting them. It was agreed that 
the one who could show the most shot-holes in his cap should be king 
of the hunt. The great Tartarin held this honor and was almost wor- 
shipped by the people for his splendid physique and indoinitable 
bravery. He had his garden fitted up with African trees, thoiigh these 
indeed remained provokingly small, and at the foot of, the garden an 
apartment was adorned with all the weapons of the'world from rifles 
and revolvers to Malay kreeses and Hottentot clubs. 

Along the water-side, when Tartarin came home from 
hunting on Sunday evenings, with his cap on the muzzle 
of his gun, and his fustian shooting-jacket belted in tightly, 
the sturdy river-lightermen would respectfully bob, and, 
blinking towards the huge biceps swelling out his arms, 
would mutter among themselves in admiration, — 

" Now, there'^ a powerful chap, if you like ! he has 
double muscles ! " 

" Double muscles! Why, you never heard of such a thing 
outside of Tarascon ! " 

For all this, with all his 'numberless parts, double mus- 
cles, the popular favor, and the so precious esteem of brave 
Commandant Bravida, ex-captaiti (in the Army Clothing 
Factory), Tartarin was not happy ; this life in a petty town 
weighed upon him and suffocated him. 

The great man of Tarascon was bored in Tarascon. 

The fact is, for a heroic temperament like his, a wild 
adventurous spirit, which dreamt of notljiing but battles, 
races across the pampas, mighty battues, desert sands, bliz- 
zards, and typhoons, it was not enough to go out every Sun- 
day to pop at a cap, and the rest of the time to ladle out 
casting-votes at the gunmaker's. Poor dear great man ! If 
this existence were only prolonged, there would be suflB^cient 
tedium in it to kill him with consumption. 

In vain did he surround himself with baobabs and other 


African trees, to widen his horizon, and some little to forget 
his club and the market-place ; in vain did he pile weapon 
upon weapon, and Malay kreese upon Malay kreese ; in vain 
did he cram with romances, endeavoring, like the immortal 
Don Quixote, to wrench himself by the , vigor of his fancy 
out of the talons of pitiless reality. Alas ! all that he did to 
appease his thirst for deeds of daring only helped to augment 
it. The sight of all the murderous implements kept him in 
a perpetual stew of wrath and exaltation. His revolvers, 
repeating rifles, and ducking-guns shouted " Battle! battle!" 
out of their mouths. Through the twigs of his baobab the 
tempest of great voyages and journeys soughed and blew bad 
advice. To finish him came Gustave Aimard, Mayne Raid, 
and Fenimore Cooper. 

Oh, how many times did Tartarin with a howl spring up 
on the sultry summer afternoons, when he was reading alone 
amidst his blades, points, and edges I how many times did he 
dash down his book and rush to the wall to unhook a deadly 
arm ! The poor man forgot he was at home in Tarascon, in 
his underclothes, and with a handherchief round his head. 
He would translate his readings into action, and, goading 
himself with his own voice, shout out, whilst swinging a 
battle-axe or tomahawk, — 

" Now, only let 'em come ! " 

"Them?" Who are they? 

Tartarin did not himself any too clearly understand. 
"They" was all that should be attacked and fought with, 
all that bites, claws, scalps, whoops, and yells, — the Sioux 
Indians dancing round the war-stake to which the unfortu- 
nate pale-face prisoner is lashed ; the grizzly of the Rocky 
Mountains, who wobbles on his hind legs and licks himself 
with a tongue full of blood ; the Touareg, too, in the desert, 
the Malay pirate, the brigand of the Abruzzi : in short, 
"they" was warfare, travel, adventure, and glory. 

But, alas ! it was to no avail that the fearless Tarasconer 
called for and defied them; never did they come. Odsboddi- 
kins ! what would they have come to do in Tarascon ? 

Tartarin was constantly preparing himself deadly encounters; 
when he issued from his den to go to his club, he wore a knuckle- 


duster on his left hand, and carried a sword-cane in his right ; in his 
left pocket he had a blackjack, in his right a revolver. Yet though he 
tramped the longest and darkest way round, he met none of the ugly 
customers he desired. 

But at last when the brave Tartarin was one day examining a 
needle-g^in at the gunsmith's, an excited cap-popper dashed in with 
the startling cry, "A lion! A lion!" There was great commotion, 
•which was hardly calmed when it was announced that the terrible 
beast was in a cage at the menagerie, which had just reached Tarascon. 
It was a lion from the Atlas Mountains. Tartarin stood like one in a 
dream of gallant exploits, while his soul rose to the height of the 

Suddenly a flush of blood flew into his face. His eyes 
flashed. With one convulsive movement he shouldered the 
needle-gun, , and, turning towards the brave commandant 
Bravida (formerly captain — in the Army Clothing Depart- 
ment, please to remember), he thundered to him, — "I/ct's go 
have a look at him, commandant." 

"Here, here, I say! that's my gun, my needle-gun, you 
are carrying off," timidly ventured the wary Costecalde ; but 
Tartarin had already got round the comer, with all \the cap- 
poppers proudly lock-stepping behind him. 

When they arrived at the menagerie, they found a goodly 
number of people there. Tarascon, heroic but too long de- 
prived of sensational shows, had rushed upon Mitaine's port- 
able theatre and taken it by storm. Hence the voluminous 
Madame Mitaine was highly contented. In an Arab costume, 
her arms bare to the elbow, iron auklets on, a whip in one 
hand and a plucked though live pullet in the other, the noted 
lady was doing the honors of the booth to the Tarasconians ; 
and, as she also had "double muscles," her success was as 
great as her animals'. 

The entrance of Tartarin with the gun dn his shoulder 
was a damper. All our good Tarasconians, who had been 
quite tranquilly strolling before the cages, unarmed and with 
no distrust, without even any idea of danger, felt momentary 
apprehension, naturally enough, on beholding their mighty 
Tartarin rush into the enclosure with his formidable engine 
of war. There must be something to fear when a hero such 
as he came weaponed: so, in a twinkling, all the space 


along the cage fronts was cleared. The youngsters burst out 
squalling for fear, and the women looked around for the 
nearest way out. The chemist Bezuquet made off altogether, 
alleging that he was going home for his gun. 

Gradually, however, Tartarin's bearing restored courage. 
With head erect, the intrepid Tarasconian slowly and calmly 
made the circuit of the booth, passing the seal's tank without 
stopping, glancing disdainfully on the long box filled with 
sawdust in which the boa would digest his raw fowl, and 
going to take his stand before the lion's cage. 

A terrible and solemn confrontation, this ! The lion of 
Tarascon and the lion of Africa face to face ! 

On the one side, Tartarin erect, with his hamstrings in 
tension, and his arms folded on his gun-barrel ; on the other, 
the lion, a gigantic specimen, humped up in the straw, with 
blinking orbs and brutish mien, resting his huge muzzle and 
tawny full-bottomed wig on his forepaws. Both calm in their 
gaze. 1 

Singular thing! whether the needle-gun had given him 
-'the needle," if the popular idiom is admissible, or that he 
scented an enemy of his race, the lion, who had hitherto 
regarded the,Tarasconians with sovereign scorn and yawned 
in their faces, was all at once affected by ire. At first he 
sniffed ; then he growled hollowly, stretching out his claws ; 
rising, he tossed his head, shook his mane, opened a capacious 
maw, and belched a deafening roar at Tartarin. 

A yell of fright responded, as Tarascon precipitated itself 
madly towards the exit, women a'nd children, lightermen, 
cap-poppers, even the brave commandant Bravida himselfi 
But alone Tartarin of Tarascon had not budged. There he 
stood, firm and resolute, before the cage, lightnings in his 
eyes, and on his lip that gruesome grin with which all the 
town was familiar. In a moment's time, when all the cap- 
poppers some little fortified by his bearing and the strength 
of the bars, re-approached their leader, they heard him mutter, 
as he stared lyeo out of countenance, — " Now, this is some- 
thing like a hunt ! ' ' 

All the rest of that day, never a word further could they 
draw from Tartarin of Tarascon. 







The unchallenged master of the 
short story in French is Guy de 
Maupassant (1850-1893). He was 
a scion of an old Norman noble 
family and a nephew of Flaubert, 
and cultivated that literary arti- 
ficer's conciseness to the supreme 
point. His " Boule de Soif " was 
easily the best story in the collec- 
tion called " L,es Souses de Medan," 
and written by five of Zola's natur- 
alistic disciples (De Maupassant, 
Huysmans, Cdard, Hennique, and Alexis) in 1880. His 
exquisite and elaborate style, free from every artifice or man- 
nerism, produced the most impressive effects with phrases 
simple and lucid as Rousseau's or Voltaire's. He wrote at 
least one hundred tales, ranging from the Normandy theme 
of selfish thrift through exhibitions of pessimism and crime, 
Parisian foibles and guilty love, even to nihilism and insanity. 
From being " a playful satyr," full of blood and fire, he him- 
self faded into a flagging, drug-stimulated writer of morbid 
dramas of situation, and during the last two years of his life 
was an inmate of an insane asylum. He said of himself that 
he " never found any joy in working." His fancies became 
weird and half insane even as early as 1887 in " I^a Horla," 
in which the Being Invisible figures who is to succeed man 
and who will die only at a predestined day, hour, minute, 
because the end of his existence is come. Starting as a I^atin 
of good, clear and solid head, De Maupassant drifted through 
suicidal and morbid phantasms to shipwreck. His cynical 
humor was notable,' however, even in his earlier^ sketches of 
Norman cottage and market place, of farm-yard and wine-shop. 
He enjoyed to depict the unmitigable miseries of humanity. 
His masterpiece of Norman peasant life is "La Ficelle" 
(" The Piece of String "). Other powerful, concise and direct 
tales of his are "The Necklace," the mean romance of a 

X— II 


needless sacrifice ; "A Coward," in which a duel is averted by- 
self-murder, and " The Wreck." 

The Piece of String. 

AtL the roads leading to Goderville were crowded with 
peasants and their wives coming into the town ; for it was 
market day 

Maitre Hauchecome, of Brdaut^, had just reached Goder- 
ville, and was taking his way towards the market-place 
when he noticed a little piece of string lying on the ground. 
Maitre Hauchecome, with the economy of a true Norman, 
thought it right to pick up anything that might be of use, 
and he bent down with difficulty, because he suffered from 
rheumatism. He took the little piece of fine cord off the 
ground, and was carefully rolling it up when he noticed that 
Maitre Malandain, the harness-maker, was standing at his 
door watching him. They had formerly done business 
together about a halter, and had ever since hated each other 
cordially. Maitre Hauchecome felt a sort of shame to be 
caught by his enemy searching in the mud for a bit of string. 
He put it quickly in his blouse, then in his breeches' pocket, 
and then pretended to be searching on the ground for some- 
thing he couldn't find, and went off to the market, his head 
thrown forward, his body bent in two with pain 

All the aristocracy of the plough dined at Jourdain's, inn- 
keeper and horse-dealer, a shrewd fellow who had money. 
The dishes went round and were emptied, as well as the 
pewter jugs of yellow cider. Everybody talked about their 
business, their purchases, and their sales. They inter- 
changed ideas about the crops. Weather was good for grass, 
but a little unfavorable for grain. 

Suddenly a dmm was heard in the courtyard in front of 
the house. Everybody, save a few who were indifferent, rose 
to their feet at once, rushed to the door, to the windows, 
mouths full and table-napkins in hand. When he had finished 
beating his drum, the public crier, in a jerky voice, marking 
his sentences at the wrong time, said — 

"Be it known to the inhabitants of Goderville, and ia 


general to all — persons present at the market, that there was 
lost this morning on the Beuzeville road, between — nine and 
ten o'clock, a black leather pocket-book containing 500 francs 
and business papers. You are requested to take it — to the 
Mayor's office at once, or to the house of Maitre Fortune 
Houlbr^que of Manneville. A reward of twenty francs is 

Then the man departed. In the distance the fainter voice 
of the crier and the muffled sound of the drum could once 
again be heard. Then they began to talk of the event, 
weighing Maitre Houlbrfeque's chances of recovering or not 
recovering his pocket-book. 

They were finishing their coffee when a policeman ap- 
peared on the threshold. He asked : " Is Maitre Hauchecorne 
de Br^autd here ? " Maitre Hauchecorne, seated at the other 
end of the table, replied, " Here I am." 

And the policeman continued : " Maitre Hauchecorne, will 
you be good enough to go with me to the Mayor's office? 
The Mayor wishes to speak to you." 

The peasant, surprised, uneasy, swallowed his glass of 
brandy at one draught, got up, and more bent than in the 
morning, for walking again after each rest was particularly 
difficult, he set out, repeating : " Here I am, here I am." 
And he followed the policeman. 

The Mayor was waiting for him, seated in an arm-chair. 
He was the lawyer of the place, a big, grave-looking man of 
pompous speech. ' ' M|aitre Hauchecorne," he said, " this morn- 
ing you were seen to pick up on the Beuzeville road Maitre 
Houlbr&que of Manneville's lost pocket-book.' ' 

The countryman, astounded, gazed at the Mayor, already 
terrified, without knowing why, by the suspicion that attached 
to him. " I — I — I picked up the pocket-book? " 

"Yes, you." 

" On my word of honor, I know nothing about it." 

"You were seen." 

" I was seen ? Who saw me ? " 

" Monsieur Malandain, the harness-maker." 

Then the old man remembered, understood, and grew red 
with anger : "Ah ! he saw me, that fellow. He saw me pick 


up this piece of string; look, your worship," And fumbling 
in the depths of his pocket, he pulled out the bit of twine. 
But the Mayor, incredulous, shook his head. " You can never 
make me believe, Maitre Hauchecorne, that M. Malandain, 
who is a man of strict truth, took that cord for a pocket-book." 

Then the peasant, furious, lifted up his hand, spit aside 
to attest his honor, repeating: "It is all the same God's 
truth, the holy truth, your worship. On my soul and my 
salvation, I repeat it.' ' 

The Mayor continued : " After picking up the thing, you 
searched for a long time in the mud, as if a piece of money 
had fallen out.' ' 

The peasant was bursting with indignation and fear. " Is 
it possible that any one can lie like that to misrepresent a 
poor man ? Is it possible ? " 

It was useless to protest, no one believed him. He was 
confronted with M. Malandain, who repeated and upheld his 
assertion. They called each other bad names for about an 
hour. At his own request Maitre Hauchecorne was searched. 
Nothing was found on him. At length, the Mayor, greatly 
perplexed, dismissed him, warning him that he should inform 
the court and ask for orders. 

The news spread. On coming out of the mayoralty, the 
old man was surrounded, questioned with a serious or scoff- 
ing curiosity, but without any indignation. And he began 
to relate the story of the piece of string. No one believed 
him. Every one laughed. He went on, stopped by every- 
body, stopping his acquaintances, beginning his tale and his 
protestations over and over again, his pockets turned inside 
out to show that he had nothing. People said to him : " Oh, 
you cunning old fellow, you ! ' ' And he got angry, exasper- 
ated, fevered, wretched at not being believed, not knowing 
what to do, ever relating his story. ' 

Night came. He had to depart. He went, accompanied 
by three neighbors, to whom he pointed out the place where 
he had picked up the bit of cord. And he talked of his 
adventure the whole way. In the evening he went all over 
the village of Br€aut6 in order to tell every one. All were 
incredulous. He was ill in consequence all night. 


The next day, about one in the afternoon, Marius Paumelle, 
one of Maitre Breton's farm-servants, took back the pocket- 
book and its contents to Maitre HoulbrSque of Manneville. 
The man maintained that he had found it on the road, and 
being unable to read, had taken it home and given it to his 

The news spread to the surrounding country. Maitre 
Hauchecome was informed of it. He immediately made the 
round of the village, and began to tell his story, now made 
quite perfect by the denouement. He triumphed. ' ' What 
grieves me," he said, ' ' isn't so much the afifair itself, you under- 
stand, as the lie. Nothing does you so much harm as to be 
falsely accused." 

All day long he talked of his adventure. He related it on 
the high-roads to the passers-by, at the taverns to the persons 
who were drinking, and coming out of church on the follow- 
ing Sunday. He stopped strangers to tell them. Although 
he was reassured, yet something troiibled him that he could 
not exactly explain. People seemed to mock at him as they 
listened. They did not seem convinced. He thought he 
heard jeers behind his back. 

Tuesday in the next week, he went to the market at 
Goderville, urged merely by the desire of relating his case. 
Malandain, standing at his door, began to laugh when he saw 
him pass. Why ? He attacked a farmer of Criquetot, who 
did not let him finish, and digging him in the ribs, exclaimed 
to his face, " Oh, you cunning fellow ! Go along with you ! " 
Then he turned on his heels. 

Maitre Hauchecorne was astounded, and became more and 
more uneasy. Why did they call him a " cunning fellow?" 
When he was seated at the table in Jourdain's inn he began 
to ejqjlain the aflfair all over again. 

A horse-dealer of Montivilliers cried — "Get along with 
you, you old hand. I know your piece of string ! " 

Hauchecome muttered, "But they found the pocket- 

The other replied, " Oh, be quiet, father ; there's one who 
finds, and another who makes restitution. Neither seen nor 
known, I promise you." 


The peasant was completely taken aback. At last he 
understood. He was accused of sending the pocket-book 
back by a colleague, an accomplice. He tried to protest. 
The whole table began to laugh. He could not finish his 
dinner, and went away amid their jeers. He returned home, 
ashamed and indignant, bursting with anger and confusion, 
3o much cast down that with his Norman artfulness he was 
capable of doing what he was accused of, and even of boast- 
ing of it as a good trick. His innocence seemed to him, in 
his confusion, impossible to prove, his propensity being 
known. And he was keenly hurt by the injustice of the sus- 

Then he began relating his adventure again, lengthening 
his tale each day, sometimes adding new reasons, more vigor- 
ous protestations, more solemn oaths, that he imagined and 
prepared in his hours of solitude, his mind filled with the 
story of the piece of string. As his defence grew more com- 
plicated, and his arguments more subtle, he was the less 

"Those are the arguments of a liar," people said behind 
his back. He felt it, chafed under it, and exhausted himself 
in useless efforts. He visibly wasted away. 

The wags now made him tell " the piece of string " as an 
amusement, just as you make an old soldier who has seen 
service relate his battles. His mind, mortally wounded, 
began to give way. Towards the end of December he took to 
his bed. He died early in January, and in the delirium of the 
last agony he attested his innocence, repeating, ' ' A little bit 
of strijig — a little bit of string — here it is, your worship." 


Prominent as Zola has been for years in contemporary 
French literature, it is not yet time for a proper estimate of 
his work to be formed. He was born in 1840, and is still at 
work. His origin was obscure ; his mother was French, his 
father Italian ; his youth was embarrassed by poverty, and it 
was not until after his thirtieth year that he conceived the 
plan of the Rougoil-Macquart Series of novels, in which he 


attempts to apply the theory of heredity as a sufficient ex- 
planation of the events of human life. His ambition was to 
emulate, or supplement, Balzd.c'^s great "Human Comedy;" 
but his work is vitiated by the bigotry of its underlying 
theory, and there results a monotony which is not relieved by 
the beauties and compensations of art. Zola's little code of 
dogmas fails adequately to measure the dimensions of man- 
kind. Nevertheless, he is a writer of force and power ; he 
can draw character and weave an absorbing web of circum- 

As Zola was the first writer of fiction deliberately to under- 
take the analysis of human nature on scientific principles, his 
books soon attracted attention, and presently won a fame, or 
a notoriety, which is altogether in excess of their true value. 
The foul indecency of many of them augmented their com- 
mercial worth, and as leader of a new Naturalistic School, 
Zola appeared as one of the foremost literary men of France, 
if not of his age. But sober criticism is compelled to see in 
him a mind deeply tainted with unwholesome predispositions ; 
he takes the gloomy and repulsive side even of his own dis- 
mal theory; and he fails, in the end, to convince us that he 
has discovered truth. There is in the contents of his series 
enough good writing and just observation to warrant a sound 
literary reputation ; and we may conjecture that, had he been 
endowed with a healthier temperament, or had he avoided the 
pitfalls of a shallow and inconclusive science, he might have 
been known as an honored member of the literary guild ; yet 
it should be borne in mind that his success, such as it is, may 
be due to that same mental perversity which renders that 
success transitory and unsound. The frequent and violent 
denunciations of Zola have not injured him ; but he has been 
made ridiculous, and his vogue shortened, by the many 
absurd eulogies and analyses of his productions, put forth by 
hysteric critics who hastened to accept him at his own solemn 
and extravagant valuation. It has been said that the value 
of each one of his novels is enhanced by the fact that it is one 
of the series — a part of an organic whole. But the opposite 
of this is more probably the truth ; we could accept and per- 
haps admire many single productions of his genius, were we 


not compelled to regard each but as a facet of his entire 
achievement. We could forgive him for a dreary, morbid 
and repulsive book, but not for forcing us to regard it as a 
step in the development of a materialistic and unconfirmed 
hypothesis of mortal existence. 

The underlying structural idea of the series is that of two 
branches of a family, one legitimate, one illegitimate, grad- 
ually ramifying throughout the various grades and phases of 
society, and exemplifying the characteristic types of modern 
life. There is insanity at the root of the genealogical tree of 
the race, and it flowers in all manner of sordid, vicious and 
monstrous ways. The author aims, in imitation of Flaubert, 
to be coldly dispassionate in his treatment, and to concede 
nothing to sentiment and art ; he professes to seek the truth 
only, and to be sublimely indifferent to consequences. But 
this is a mere pose, which, if it deceives Zola himself, deceives 
no one else. It would be easy to point to inconsistencies in 
his execution, as well as to fallacies in his method ; his stories 
are not natural in the sense he pretends ; they bear the marks 
of the personal equation of their composer as plainly as do 
those of other writers. Indeed, one of the few things which 
his books go near to demonstrate is, that to reproduce nature 
in novels is impossible. We must select, emphasize and 
arrange ; we must begin, culminate and conclude. Zola, no 
more than another man, is of a stature to see the bend of the 
infinite arc of human destiny ; and the petty arcs he traces on 
his paper are ridiculous, iiot so much in themselves, as in 
their pretensions. 

Zola's most widely-known books are " UAssommoir, " 
" Nana," " La Terre " and " Le Debacle." They are also in 
many respects his most revolting productions. In "La Reve" 
he attempts to show that he can write a pure story; but it is 
one of his most labored and least interesting efforts. It may 
be said, paradoxically, that Zola is at his best when at his 
worst. But he has been diligent, painstaking, and — in his 
own way — conscientious ; and the profession of literature 
may confess a debt to him. It will never again be possible 
for a successful writer to be a careless one, or to neglect the 
study of life, as a preliminary to depicting it. Zola overdid 


the note-book, or misused it; but he showed the value of 
strict observation; and the literature of the future, if it 
remain true to art, may thank him for the hint that reality 
cannot safely be ignored. 

It has been Zola's resolute ambition to be elected a mem- 
ber of the French Academy ; but thus far he has been unsuc- 
cessful. No one would grudge him gratification in this 
respect on personal grounds ; but he desires the honor less 
for personal reasons, than as an endorsement of his literary 
philosophy; and it is doubtless on this very ground that it is 
withheld. Several of his books have been dramatized, and 
achieved popularity on the stage. 

When his Rougon-Macquart Series was brought to a con- 
clusion, Zola projected another literary scheme, to illustrate 
the religious movement of the age in three works — '%ourdes," 
" Rome " and " Paris," corresponding somewhat remotely to 
Faith, Hope and Charity. A priest who has become per- 
plexed with doubts goes on a pilgrimage to Lourdes to restore 
his faith, but rather has his disbelief increased by what he 
sees there ; he goes to Rome, but is disappointed ; he returns 
to Paris and there finds science and truth in closest conflict 
with ignorance and misery, and accepts beneficence to one's 
neighbors as the chief duty and proper aim of life. 

Hardly had Zola finished these romances of religion 
when he startled the world by interfering in political afiairs, 
accusing the heads of the army of the grossest injustice in 
the condemnation of Captain Dreyfus and demanding a new 
trial for the victim. The result was his own trial, condemna- 
tion, appeal and withdrawal from France. Meantime unex- 
pected revelations seem to prove that he was in the right, and 
French public opinion, which had been excited against him 
for attacking the army administration, turned in his favor. 

A Fight with Flails. 

(From "I^aTerre.") 

Whkn the relatives, invited to a baptism and supper, 

had gone to look over the farm, Buteau, dissatisfied at losing 

the, afternoon, took off his jacket and began to thresh, in the 

paved comer of the court-yard ; for he needed a sack of wheat. 


But he soon wearied of threshing alone, he wanted, to warm 
him up, the double cadence of the flails, tapping in measure ; 
and he called Frangoise, who often aided him in this work, 
her arms as hard as those of a lad : — " Eh 1 Franjoise, will 
you come ? " 

His wife, who was preparing a ragout of veal with carrots, 
and who had charged her sister to watch a roast of pork on 
the spit, wished to prevent the latter from obeying. But 
Buteau persisted, and Frangoise, who had already put on an 
old dress, was forced to follow him. She took a flail, her 
own. With both hands she made it whirl above her head^ 
bringing it down upon the wheat, which it struck with a 
sharp blow. Buteau, opposite her, did the same, and soon 
nothing was seen but the bits of flying wood. The grain 
leaped, fell like hail, beneath the panting toc-toc of the two 

At a quarter to seven o'clock, as the night was coming 
on, Fouan and the Delhommes presented themselves. 

"We must finish," Buteau cried to them, without stop- 
ping. " Fire away, Fran9oise ! " 

She did not pause, tapped harder, in the excitement of the 
work and the noise. And it was thus that Jean, who arrived 
in his turn, with the permission to dine out, found them. 
Fran§oise, on seeing him, stopped short, troubled. Buteau, 
having wheeled about, stood for an instant motionless with 
surprise and anger. "What are you doing here? " 

But Lise cried out, with her gay air : " Eh ! true, I have 
not told you. I saw him this morning, and asked him to 

The inflamed face of her husband became so terrible, that 
she added, wishing to excuse herself : " I have an idea, PSre 
Fouan, that he has a request to make of you." 

"What request? " said the old man. 

Jean colored, and stammered, greatly Vexed that the mat- 
ter should be broached in this way, so quickly, before every- 
body. But Buteau interrupted him violently, the smiling 
glance that his wife had, cast upon Fran9oise had suflSced to 
enlighten him : " Are you making game of us ? She is not 
for you, you scoundrel! " 


This brutal reception restored Jean his courage. He 
turned his back, and addressed the old man: "This is the 
story, P^re Fouan, it's very pimple. As you are Franpoise's 
gfuardian, it is necessary for me to address myself to you to 
get her, is it not ? If she will take me, I will take her. It 
is marriage that I ask." 

Franpoise, who was still holding her flail, dropped it, 
trembling with fright. She ought, however, to have ex- 
pected this; but never could she have thought that Jean 
would dare to demand her thus, immediately. Why had he 
not talked with her about it first ? She was overwhelmed, 
she could not have said if she trembled with hope or with 
fear. And, all of a quiver, she stood between the two men. 

Buteau did not give Fouan time to answer. He resumed, 
with a growing fury : — " Eh ? you have gall ! An old fellow 
of thirty-three marry a girl of eighteen ! Only fifteen years 
di£Ference ! Is it not laughable ? " 

Jean commenced to get angry. " What difierence does it 
make to you, if I want her and she wants me?" And he 
turned towards Frangoise, that she might give her decision. 
But she remained frightened, stiffened, and seeming not to 
understand the case. She could not say No; she did not 
say Yes, however. Buteau, besides, was looking at her as if 
he would kill her, to force back the Yes in her throat. If she 
married, he would lose her land. The sudden thought of this 
result put the climax to his rage. 

"See here, father, see here, Delhomme, it's not right to 
give this girl to that old villain, who is not even of the dis- 
trict, who comes from nobody knows where, after having 
dragged his ugly mug in all directions ! A failure of a joiner 
who has turned farmer, because, very sure, he has some dirty 
business to hide ! " 

"And afterwards? If I want her and she wants me!" 
repeated Jean, who had controlled himself. "Come, Fran- 
goise, speak." 

" But it's true ! " cried Lise, carried away by the desire of 
marrying off her sister, in order to disembarrass herself of 
her, ' ' what have you to say, if they come to an understand- 
ing ? She has no need of your consent ; it's very considerate 


in her not to send you about your business with a flea in your 
ear. You exhaust our patience ! ' ' 

Then Buteau saw that the marriage would be decided 
upon, if the young girl spoke. At that instant La Grande 
(the old aunt) entered the court-yard, followed by the Char- 
leses, who had returned with ifeloide. And he summoned 
them with a gesture, without knowing yet what he would 
say. Then his face puffed out, he bawled, shaking his fist at 
his wife and sister-in-law : 

" Name of God ! I'll break the heads of both of them, the 

The Charleses caught his words, open-mouthed, with con- 
sternation. Madam Charles threw herself forward, as if to 
cover with her body ^lloide, who was listening; then, push- 
ing her towards the kitchen garden, she herself cried out, very 
loudly : "Go look at the salads ; go look at the cabbages ! 
Oh ! the fine cabbages ! ' ' 

Buteau continued, violently abusing the two women, upon 
whom he heaped all sorts of epithets. I/ise, astonished at this 
sudden fit, contented herself with shrugging her shoulders, 
repeating: "He is crazy 1 he is crazy!" 

"Tell him it's none of his business!" cried Jean to Fran- 

"Very sure it's none of his business!" said the young 
girl, with a tranquil air. 

"Ah! it's none of my business, eh?" resumed Buteau. 
" Well, I'm going to make you both march, jades that you 

' This mad audacity paralyzed, bewildered Jean. The others, 
the Delhommes, Fouan, Xa Grande, held aloof. They did not 
seem surprised; they thought, evidently, that Buteau had a 
right to do as he pleased in his own house. Then Buteau 
felt himself victorious in his undisputed strength of possession. 
He turned towards Jean. "And now for you, scoundrel, who 
came here to turn my house upside down ! Get out of here 
on the instant ! Eh ! you refuse. Wait, wait ! ' ' 

He picked up his flail, he whirled it about his head, and 
Jean had only the time to seize the other flail, Frangoise's, to 
defend himself. Cries burst forth, they strove to throw them- 


selves between them ; but the two men were so terrible that 
they drew back. The long handles of the flails carried the 
blows for several yards; they swept the court-yard. The 
two adversaries stood alone, in the centre, at a distance from 
each other, enlarging the circle of their flails. They uttered 
not a word, their teeth set. Only the sharp blows of the 
pieces of wood were heard at each stroke. 

Buteau had launched forth the first blow, and Jean, yet 
stooping, would have had his head broken, if he had not 
leaped backwards. Instantly, with a sudden stiffening of the 
muscles, he arose, he raised, he brought down the flail, like a 
thresher beating the grain. But already the other was strik- 
ing also, the two flail ends met, bent back upon their leather 
straps, in the mad ' flight of wounded birds. Three times the 
same clash was reproduced. They saw only those bits of wood 
whirl and hiss in the air at the extremity of the handles, 
always ready to fall and split the skulls which they menaced. 

Delhomme and Fouan, however, had rushed forward, when 
the women cried out. Jean had just rolled in the straw 
treacherously stricken by Buteau, who, with a blow like a 
whip stroke, along the ground, fortunately deadened, had hit 
him on the legs. He sprang to his feet, he brandished his 
flail in a rage that the pain increased. The end described a 
large circle, fell to the right, when the other expected it to 
the left. A few lines nearer, and the brains would have been 
beaten out. Only the ear was grazed. The blow, passing 
obliquely, fell with all its force upon the arm, which was 
broken clean. The bone cracked with the sound of breaking 

"Ah! the murderer!" howled Buteau, "he has killed 

Jean, haggard, l^is eyes red with blood, dropped his weapon. 
Then, for a moment, he stared at them all, as if stupefied by 
what had happened there, so rapidly ; and he went away, limp- 
ing, with a gesture of furious despair. 

When he had turned the corner of the house, towards the 
plain, he saw La Trouille, who had witnessed the fight, over 
the garden hedge. She was still laughing at it, having come 
there to skulk around the baptismal repast, to which neither 


her father nor herself had been invited. Mahomet would split 
his sides with merriment over the little family fete, over his 
brother's broken arm! She squirmed as if she had been 
tickled, almost ready to fall over, so much was she amused 
at it all. 

" Ah ! Caporal, what a hit ! " cried she. " The bone went 
crack ! It wasn't the least bit funny ! " 

He did not answer, slackening his step with an over- 
whelmed air. And she followed him, whistling to her geese, 
:which she had brought to have a pretext for stationing her- 
self and listening behind the walls. Jean, mechanically, rC' 
turned towards the threshing machine, which was yet at 
work amid the fading light. He thought that it was all over, 
that he could never see the Buteaus again, that they would 
never give him Fran9oise. How stupid it was ! Ten minutes 
had sufficed ; a quarrel which he had not sought, a blow so 
unfortunate, just at the moment when matters were progress- 
ing favorably ! And now there was an end to it all ! The 
roaring of the machine, in the depths of the twilight, pro- 
longed itself like a great cry of distress. 


Apter entertaining lovers of pleasure under the Second 
Empire by furnishing comic librettos for Offenbach's gay 
music, Hal^vy twenty years later wrote a charming romance 
which has become a favorite text-book for American school- 
girls studying French. L,udovic Hal^vy (born in 1834), be- 
longs to a Jewish family, distinguished in music, the drama, 
and Oriental research. He was employed in the state service 
until his dramatic success caused him to retire. His " Mon- 
sieur and Madame Cardinal " consisted of equivocal sketches, 
for which " The Ahh6 Constantin " was perhaps a recanta- 
tion. It furnishes a French view of American life and man- 
ners, though the scene is entirely in France. 

Abb:§; Constantin and his Guests. 

Pauline began to cut the endive, and Jean bent down to 
receive the leaves in the great salad-dish. The Cur^ looked on. 


At this moment a sound of little bells was heard. A car- 
riage was approaching; the rattling and creaking of its wheels 
was heard. The Curb's little garden was separated from the 
road only by a low hedge, in the middle of which was a little 
trellised gate. 

All three looked out, and saw driving down the road a 
hired carriage of primitive construction, drawn by two great 
white horses, and driven by an old coachman in a blouse. 
Beside this old coachman was seated a tall footman in livery, 
of the most severe and correct demeanor. In the carriage 
were two young women, dressed both alike in very elegant, 
but very simple traveling custumes. 

When the carriage was opposite the gate the coachman 
stopped his horses, and addressing the Abbd, said : "Monsieur 
le Cur6, these ladies wish to speak to you." 

Then, turning towards the ladies : " This is Monsieur le 
Cure of lyongueval." 

The Ahh6 Constantin approached and opened the little 
gate. The travelers alighted. Their looks rested, not with- 
out astonishment, on the young officer, who stood there, a 
little embarrassed, with his straw hat in one hand, and his 
salad-dish, all overflowing with endive, in the other. 

The visitors entered the garden, and the elder — she 
seemed about twenty-five— addressing the Abb^ Constantin, 
said to him, with a little foreign accent, very original and 
very peculiar — ' ' I am obliged to introduce myself— Mrs. 
Scott; I am Mrs. Scott 1 It was I who bought the castle and 
farms and all the rest here at the sale yesterday. I hope that 
I do not disturb you, and that you can spare me five minutes." 
Then, pointing to her traveling companion, " Miss Bettina 
Percival, my sister ; you guessed it, I am sure. We are very 
much alike, are we not? Ah ! Bettina, we have left our bags 
in the carriage, and we shall want them directly." 

" I will get them." 

And as Miss Percival prepared to go for the two little 
bags Jean said to her. "Pray allow me." 

"I am really very sorry to give you so much trouble. 
The servant will give them to you ; they are on the front 


She had the same accent as her sister, the same large eyes, 
black, laughing, and gay, and the same hair, not red, but 
fair, with golden shades, where daintily danced the light of 
the sun. She bowed to Jean with a pretty little smile, and 
he, having returned to Pauline the salad-dish full of endive, 
went to look for the two little bags. Meanwhile, much agi- 
tated, sorely disturbed, the Abb^ Constantin introduced into 
his vicarage the new Chatelaine of Longueval. 

This vicarage of Longueval was far from being a palace. 
The same apartment on the ground floor served for dining 
and drawing-room, communicating directly with the kitchen 
by a door, which stood always wide open ; this room was fur- 
nished in the most scanty manner; two old arm-chairs, six 
straw chairs, a sideboard, a round table. Pauline had already 
laid the cloth for the dinner of the Ahh6 and Jean. 

Mrs. Scott and Miss Percival went and came, examining 
the domestic arrangements of the Cur^ with a sort of childish 

"But the garden, the house, everything is charming," 
said Mrs. Scott. 

They both boldly penetrated into the kitchen ; the Ahh6 
Constantin followed them, scared, bewildered, stupefied at 
the suddenness and resolution of this American invasion. 

Old Pauline, with an anxious and gloomy air, studied the 
two foreigners. 

"Here they are, then," she said to herself, " these Pro- 
testants, these accursed heretics ! " 

"I must compliment you," said Bettina ; "your little 
kitchen is so beautifully kept, Look, Suzie, is not the vic- 
arage altogether exactly what you wished ? " 

" And so is the Cur^," rejoined Mrs., Scott. " Yes, Mon- 
sieur le Curd, if you will permit me to say so, you do not 
know how happy it makes me to find you just what you are. 
In the railway carriage what did I say to you, Bettina? And 
again just now, when we were driving here ? " 

" My sister said to me, Monsieur le Curd, that what she 
desired above everything was a priest, not young or melan- 
choly or severe, but one with white hair and a kind and gen- 
tle manner. And that is exactly what you are, Monsieur le 


Cur6, exactly. No, we could not have been more fortunate. 
Excuse me for speaking to you in this manner ; the Parisians 
know how to make pretty phrases, but I do not, and in speak- 
ing French I should often be quite at a loss if I did not say 
everything in a simple and childish way, as it comes into my 
head. In a word, I am satisfied, quite satisfied, and I hope 
that you too. Monsieur le Cur^i will be satisfied with your 
new parishioners." ' 

" My parishioners I " exclaimed the Cur6, all at once re- 
covering speech, movement, life, everything which for some 
moments had completely abandoned him. " My parishioners! 
Pardon me, Madame, Mademoiselle, I am so agitated. You 
will be — you are Catholics ? " 

" Certainly we are Catholics." 

"Catholics ! Catholics !" repeated the Curd. 

" Catholics ! Catholics ! " echoed old Pauline. 

Mrs. Scott looked from the Curd to Pauline, from Pauline 
to the Curd, much surprised that a single word should pro- 
duce such an effect, and, to complete the tableau, Jean ap- 
peared carrying the two little traveling-bags. 

The Curd and Pauline saluted him with the same words 
— " Catholics ! Catholics! " 

"Ah '! I begin to understand," said Mrs. Scott, laughing. 
" It is our name, our country ; you thought that we were J'rp- 
testants. Not at all. Our mother was a Canadian, French 
and Catholic by descent ; that is why my sister and I both 
speak French, with an accent, it is true, and with certain 
American idioms, but yet in such a manner as to be able to ex- 
press nearly all we want to say. My husband is a Protestant, 
but he allows me complete liberty, and my two children are 
Catholics. That is why. Monsieur I'Abbd, we wished to 
come and see you the very first day." 

"That is one reason," continued Bettina, "but there is 
also another ; but for that reason we shall want our little 

" Here they are," said Jean. 

While the two little bags passed from the hands of the 
officer to those of Mrs. Scott and Bettina, the Curd introduced 
Jean to the two American ladies, but his agitation was so 

X — 12 


great that the introduction was not made strictly according 
to rule. The Cur^ forgot only one thing, it is true, but that 
was a thing tolerably essential in an introduction,^the family 
name of Jean. 

"This is Jean," said he, "my godson, lieutenant of artil- 
lery, now quartered at Souvigny. He is one of the family." 

Jean made two deep bows, the ladies two little ones, after 
which they foraged in their bags, from which each drew a 
rouleau of 1,000 francs, daintily enclosed in green sheaths of 
serpent skin, clasped with gold. 

"I have brought you this for your poor," said Mrs. Scott. 

"And I have brought you this," said Bettina. 

" And besides that. Monsieur le Cur^, I am going to give 
you five hundred francs a month," said Mrs. Scott. 

"And I will do like my sister. " 

Delicately they slipped their ofierings into the right and 
left hands of the Cur6, who, looking at each hand alternately, 
said : ' ' What are these bundles ? They are very heavy ; 
there must be money in them. Yes, but how much ? ' ' 

The Ahh6 Constantin was seventy-two, and much money 
had passed through his hands, but the money had come to 
him in small sums, and the idea of such an oflfering as this 
had never entered his head. Two thousand francs ! Never 
had he had two thousand francs in his possession — no, not 
even one thousand. He stammered : " I am very grateful to 
you, Madame ; you are very good. Mademoiselle — " 

But after all he could not thank them enough, and Jean 
thought it necessary to come to his assistance. 

" These ladies have just given you two thousand francs ! " 

And then, full of gratitude, the Cm6 cried: "Two thou- 
sand francs ! Two thousand francs for my poor ! " 

Pauline suddenly reappeared. 

"Here, Pauline," said the Curd, "put away this money, 
and take care — " 

Old Pauline filled many positions in this simple house- 
hold, — cook, maid-of-all-work, treasurer, dispenser. Her hands 
received with a respectful tremble these two little rouleaux, 
which represented so much misery alleviated, so much suffer- 
ing relieved. 


"A thousand francs a montli ! Then there will be no poor 
left in the country." 

" That is just what I wish. I am rich, very rich, and so 
is my sister ; she is even richer than I am, because a young 
girl has not so many expenses, while I — Ah ! well, I spend 
all that I can — all that I can. When one has a great deal of 
money, too much, more than one feels to be just, tell me. Mon- 
sieur le Cur^, is there any other way of obtaining pardon 
than to keep one's hands open, and give, give, give, all one 
can, and usefully as one can? Besides, you can give me 
' something in return ; ' ' and, turning to Pauline, ' ' Will you 
be so kind as to give me a glass of water ? No, nothing else, 
a glass of cold water ; I am dying of thirst." 

"And I," said Bettina, laughing, while Pauline ran to 
fetch the water, " I am dying of something else — of hunger, 
to tell the truth. Monsieur le Cur^, — I know that I am 
going to be dreadfully intrusive ; I see your cloth is laid, — 
could you not invite us to dinner? " 

" Bettina ! " said Mrs. Scott. 

"Let me alone, Suzie, let me alone. Won't you. Mon- 
sieur leCur^? I am sure you will." 

But he could find no reply. The old Cur6 hardly knew 
where he was. They had taken his vicarage by storm ; they 
were Catholics ; they had promised him a thousand francs a 
month, and now they wanted to dine with him. Ah ! that 
was the last stroke. Terror seized him at the thought of 
having to do the honors of his leg of mutton and custard to 
these two absurdly rich Americans. He murmured : 

" Dine ! — you would like to dine here? " 

Jean thought he must interpose again. " It would be a 
great pleasure to my godfather," said he, "if you would 
kindly stay. But I know what disturbs him. We were 
going to dine together, just the two of us, and you must not 
expect a feast. You will be very indulgent ? ' ' 

"Yes, yes, very indulgent," replied Bettina; then, ad- 
dressing her sister, "Come, Suzie, you must not be cross, 
because I have been a little — you know it is my way to be a 
little — let us stay, will you ? It will do us good to pass a 
quiet hour here, after such a day as we have had ! On the 


railway, in the carriage, in the heat, in the dust; we had 
such a horrid luncheon, in such a horrid hotel. We were to 
have returned to the same hotel at seven o'clock to dine, and 
then take the train back to Paris, but dinner here will be 
really much nicer. You won' t say no ? Ah ! how good you 
are, Suzie ! ' ' She embraced her sister fondly. 

"Come," said Jean, "quick, Pauline, two more plates; I 
will help you." 

" And so will I," said Bettina ; " I will [help, too. Oh ! 
do let me ; it will be so amusing^" 

In a moment she had taken off her mantle, and Jean could 
admire, in all its exquisite perfection, a figure marvellous 
for suppleness and grace. Miss Percival then removed her 
hat, but with a little too much haste, for this was the signal 
for a charming catastrophe. A whole avalanche descended 
in torrents, in long cascades, over Bettina's shoulders. She 
was standing before a window flooded by the rays of the sun, 
and this golden light, falling full on this golden hair, formed 
a delicious frame for the sparkling beauty of the young girl. 
Confused and blushing, Bettina was obliged to call her sister 
to her aid, and Mrs. Scott had much trouble in introducing 
order into this disorder. 

When this disaster was at length repaired, nothing could 
prevent Bettina from rushing on plates, knives, and forks. 

" Oh ! indeed," said she to Jean, " I know very well how 
to lay the cloth. Ask my sister. Suzie, when I was a little 
girl in New York, didn't I use to lay the cloth very well?" 

"Very well, indeed," said Mrs. Scott. 

And then, while begging the Cm6 to excuse Bettina's 
want of thought, she, too, took off her hat and mantle, so 
that Jean had again the very agreeable spectacle of a charm- 
ing figure and beautiful hair ; but, to Jean's great regret, the 
catastrophe had not a second representation. 

in a few minutes, Mrs. Scott, Miss Percival, the Cur^-, 
and Jean were seated round the little vicarage table ; then, 
thanks partly to the impromptu and original nature of the en- 
tertainment, partly to Bettina's good humor and perhaps 
slightly audacious gayety, the conversation took a turn of the 
frankest and most cordial familiarity. 


Periqd VI. 

The Nineteenth Century. 

^' T the opening of the nineteenth century all Ger- 
many was roused to resist the terrific Napoleonic 

invasion. The unity of the German race was 
felt in the presence of imminent destruction. A 
patriotic fervor pervaded all classes, and became 
binding religion. War-songs were quickly com- 
posed and widely sung by the people. But when the war 
ended in victory for the old regime, and the old rulers were 
restored to their thrones, a system of repression was inaugu- 
rated. Freedom of speech, which had prevailed among the 
Romanticists, was stifled by the harshest measures. Goethe, 
whose genius rose superior to local limitations, and whose 
acknowledged aim was individual self-culture, was able to 
work on, and even to produce some of his greatest works. 
But the minor poets, whose inspiration sprung from love of 
the Fatherland, were reduced to silence or sought refuge in 
foreign lands. The philosopher Hegel submitted to the re- 
action and worshipped the powers that be. But Schopen- 
hauer, despairing of the world, developed pessimism. 

Heine, the greatest writer of the succeeding period, was, by 
his Jewish birth, placed in a certain antagonism to the ideals 
of the German people. , He felt and acknowledged that 
Napoleon had been not only a liberator of the Jews from the 
mediaeval servitude, but an inspiring force to all the oppressed. 
Exiled in Paris, and crippled with physical ills, Heine con- 
tinued to write beautiful poetry and satirical prose, But 



while the world admired his genius, the German people re- 
fused to recognize him as one of themselves. They were 
content with minor poets and inferior prose-writers, or went 
for higher entertainment to Goethe and Schiller. 

The brief and abortive Revolution of 1848 showed that 
the spirit of the French Revolution was not extinct. Again 
a swarm of poets gave vent to the old feelings, but were 
quickly suppressed. Prussia had seemed to give promise of 
leadership for the united race, and this was eventually ful- 
filled in 1870. But the movement is not so plainly discerned 
in literature as in other departments of human activity. 
Freytag has perhaps done more to represent the national 
tendency than any other single writer. In his " Pictures of 
German Life ' ' there is a panoramic view of the progress of 
the race from century to century. Auerbach and others have 
given partial views, as of the Black Forest ; while Ebers has 
found inspiration for romance in ancient Egypt, and Dahn in 
the wars of the Germans with the Romans. 

In the latter half of the nineteenth century there has been 
a bewildering, social, political and intellectual unrest, and a 
marked progress in liberalism. It is seen in criticism and 
philosophy, in theology and Biblical criticism even more 
plainly than in literature proper. The individualism which 
Goethe exemplified has been opposed by collectivism and 
socialism. There is a wide-spread longing for the reconstruc- 
tion of society, but the agitators are by no means agreed as 
to the new form to be desired. Karl Gutzkow (1811-1878), 
in his great drama "Uriel Acosta," , pleaded for freedom of 
thought. He has been succeeded by the dramatists Ernst 
von Wildenbuch (born in 1845), Hermann Sudermann (1859), 
and the poet Gerart Hauptmann (1862), who all advocate in- 
dividual freedom from conventional and social restraints. 


Of the notable poets of 
the German War of Libera- 
tion Theodor Korner (1791- 
181 3) may be regarded as the chief, for his laurels were sanc- 
tified by the blood of martyrdom. In the bright morning of 
love, happiness, and dawning fame he rode out with that 
romantic band of Liitzow volunteer students of the academies 
and universities, and composed his stormy battle-songs (after- 
ward published as "Lyre and Sword") to be sung by his 
soldiers in camp. On the morning of his death — at-Gade- 
busch. in Mecklenburg when he was only twenty-two years 
old — ^he wrote the rapturous bridal "Song to his Sword." 
He had just finished reading aloud the last verse when the 
signal for action was given. Other stirring battle songs of 
his are "Liitzow's Wild Chase," "Father, I Call Thee!" 
"Heart, let thyself not break ! " and his "Farewell to life," 
, written as he lay wounded after a sharp action. 

Witb Korner may be mentioned the kindred spirits Fried- 
rich Forster, his army comrade, Ernst Moritz Amdt (1769- 
i860), Friedrich Riickert (i 788-1 866), and Max von Schenken- 
dorf (1783-1817). These all contributed war lyrics, expressing 
the national enthusiasm of those years of struggle with the 
overwhelming Napoleonic empire. Schenkendorf in sweet, 
melodious strains foretells a new realm of poetry and freedom. 
Riickert' s bold and fiery spirit fiercely denounces the oppress- 
ors of his country. Professor Francke styles Amdt "the 
Bliicher of German lyrics." Amdt hymned "The God who 
let the iron grow," and also sang the glorious hymns of Ger- 
man unity. His most inspiring song is " What is the Ger- 
man's Fatherland ? ' ' 



Heinrich von Kleist (1777-18 ii) was regarded by Goethe 
as " a human form beautifully planned by nature, but infected 
with an incurable disease." His " Hermannsschlacht " — the 
lineal sequel of Klopstock's "Hermann and Thusnelda'' — ^has 
been described as "the glorification of the first great rising of 
Germanic yeomen against foreign tyranny." It is "like one 
long-drawn breath of exultant joy that the hour of action 
has come." Kleiat's Hermann is the embodiment of the 
spirit which Fichte in his " Addresses to the German Nation" 
had sought to evoke. With Fichtean inspiration Kleist also 
penned his indignant "Catechism for Germans," and after 
the crushing blow of Wagram his hate for the French invaders 
burst forth again in the bitterness of his drama, ' ' Prince 
Frederick of Hamburg,.' ' himself depicted against the back- 
ground of the Brandenburg of the Great Elector. But this 
son of a noble old Prussian ofBcer was not destined to die a 
martyr on the battle-field. The neglect of his genius by his 
contemporaries, and the loss of even his sister's friendship, 
led Kleist to exclaim: "Hell gave me my half-talents." 
Together with Henriette Vogel, he committed suicide. His 
most popular work in Germany to-day is " Kitty of' Heil- 
bronn," a love-romance of a Suabian village. 


(By Theodor Komer.) 

" SwoRD at my left side gleaming ! 
Why is thy keen glance beaming 
So fondly bent on mine ? 
I love that smile of thine ! Hurrah ! " 

" Borne by a trooper daring, 
My looks his fire-glance wearing, 
I arm a freeman's hand : 
This well delights thy brand ! Hurrah ! " 

" Ay, good sword ! Free I wear thee ; 
And, true heart's love, I bear thee. 
Betrothed one, at my side, 
As my dear, chosen bride ! Hurrah ! " 


" To tliee till death united, 
Thy steel's bright life is pUghted; 
Ah, were my love but tried ! 
When wilt thou wed thy bride? Hurrah! " 

"The trumpet's festal warning 
Shall hail our bridal morning ; 
When loud the cannon chide, 
Then clasp I my loved bride ! Hurrah I " 

" Oh, joy, when thine arms hold me I 
I pine until they fold me. 

Come to me ! bridegroom, come ! 
Thine is my maiden bloom. Hurrah ! " 

"Why, in thy sheath upspringing, 
Thou wild, dear steel, art ringing? 
Why clanging with delight, 
So eager for the fight ? Hurrah ! " 

"Well may thy scabbard rattle. 
Trooper, I pant for battle ; 
Right eag ;r for the fight, 
I clang with wild delight. Hurrah ! " 

"Why thus, my love, forth creeping? 
Stay, in thy chamber sleeping ; 
Wait, still i' th' narrow room ; 
Soon for my bride I come. Hurrah ! " 

" Keep me not longer pining ! 
Oh, for lyove's garden shining 
With roses, bleeding red. 
And blooming with the dead ! Hurrah! " 

"Come from thy sheath, then, treasure! 
Thou trooper's true eye-pleasure ! 
Come forth, my good sword, come ! 
Enter thy father-home I Hurrah 1 ' ' 

" Ha ! in the free air glancing. 
How brave this bridal dancing ! 
How, in the sun's glad beams. 
Bride-like thy bright steel gleams I Hurrah ! " 


Come on, ye German horsemen ! 
Come on, ye valiant Norsemen ! 

Swells not your hearts' warm tide ? 

Clasp each in hand his bride ! Hurrah 1 

Once at your left side sleeping, 
Scarce her veiled glance forth peeping ; 

Now, wedded with your right, 

God plights your bride i' th' light. Hurrah I 

Then press, with warm caresses, 

Close lips, and bridal kisses. 
Your steel ; — cursed be his head, 
Who fails the bride he wed ! Hurrah 1 

Now, till your swords flash, flinging 
Clear sparks forth, wave them singing ; 

Day dawns for bridal pride ; 

Hurrah, thou iron-bride I Hurrah! 

Song of the Fatherland. 

(By E. M. Arndt.) 

The God who made earth's iron hoard 

Scorned to create a slave. 
Hence unto man the spear and sword 

In his right hand he gave. 
Hence him with courage he imbued, 

I^nt wrath to freedom's voice, 
That death or victory in the feud 

Might be his only choice. 

What God hath willed will we uphold, 

And with true faith maintain, 
And never to the tyrant sold 

Cleave human skulls in twain ; 
But him whose sword wins shame will we 

In pieces hew and tear, 
In German land he ne'er shall be 

Of German men the heir. 

O Deutschland, holy Fatherland ! 
Thy faith and love how true ! 


Thou noble land ! thou lovely land ! 

We swear to thee anew. 
Our country's ban for knave and slave I 

Be they the raven's food ! 
To freedom's battle march the brave, 

'Tis fell revenge we brood. 

lyCt all that glows, let all ye can, 

In flames surge high and bright ! 
Ye Germans all, come, man for man. 

And for your country fight ! 
Now raise your hearts to Heaven's span, 

Stretch forth your hands on high. 
And cry with shouting, man for man, 

" Now slavery shall die ! " 

I<et drum and flute, let all ye can. 

Resound with thrilling peal ! 
This very day, yes, man for man, 

Will steep in blood the steel. 
In tyrant's blood, in Frenchmen's blood — 

O day of sweet revenge ! 
That sound, to German ears so good. 

Will our great cause avenge. 

I/Ct flags and banners, all ye can. 

Wave o'er our heads on high ! 
To-day we swear, yes, man for man. 

The hero's death to die. 
Wave o'er the daring phalanx, wave, 

Thou flag of victory ! 
We'll vanquish, or seek in the grave 

The pillow of the free. 

(By Friedrich Riickert.) 

In his castle underground He did not die, he lives 
Old Barbarossa dwells. Still in the castle's keep ; 

The Emperor Frederic, From human sight concealed, 
Bound fast by magic spells. He sat him down to sleep. 



And with him he took down 
The glories of his realm, 

And when his time shall come, 
Again he'll seize the helm. 

The throne whereon he sits 

Of ivory is made ; 
Of marble is the table 

Whereon he rests his head. 

His beard is not of flax, 
lyike flaming fire it glows, 

'Tis through the table grown. 
Where arms and chin repose. 

He nods as in a dream, 
His eyes half open blink ; 

Anon unto a page 

He calls with beck and wink. 

In sleep he speaks, ' ' O boy. 
Unto the entrance hie. 

See if the ravens still 

Around the mountain fly ! 

"And if the ancient ravens 
Are flying round and round, 

I still must slumber here, 
A hundred years spell-bound." 

The Soldier's Morning Song. 

A morn will dawn upon us, 

(By Max von 

Rise from your grassy couches, 

Ye sleepers, up ! 'tis day ; 
Already do the chargers 

To us good morning neigh. 
In morning's glow, so brightly 

Our faithful weapons gleam ; 
While we of death are think- 

Of victory we dream. 

Thou God of endless mercy. 

Gaze from Thy azure tent ; 
For to this field of battle 

By Thee have we been sent. 
Grant we be found not wanting. 

And victory accord. 
The Christian flags are waving, 

Thine is the war, O I^ord ! 

Bright, balmy and serene. 
The pious all await it. 

By angel hosts 'tis seen. 
Soon will its rays, unclouded. 

On every German beam ; 
O break, thou day of fulness. 

Thou day of freedom, gleam ! 

Joy echoes from each tower, 

In every bosom glows, 
T6 storms succeed life's pleas- 

And love, and soft repose. 
The victor's songs resounding 

Ring gaily through the air ; 
And we, ye gallant swordsmen, 

Yes, we were also there ! 


A GROUP of German poets of 
the nineteenth century has been 
called the Suabian school. Re- 
jecting the affectations of the Romanticists, they were simple 
in style and theme, and drew their inspiration from nature 
only. At their head stood Ludwig Uhland (1787- 18162). 
His ballads and songs have been universally popular. The 
most noted pieces are "The Minstrel's Curse," "The Luck 
of Edenhall," "The Passage." 

To the same school belongs Gustav Schwab (1792-1850), 
whose chief ballad is "The Knight and the Bodensee;" 
Eduard'Morike (1804-1875), whose "Song of the Wind" is 
remarkable for its rhythm ; and Justinus Kemer (1786-1862), 
whose song is a voice of sadness. Kemer's " Kaiser Rudolph's 
Ride to the Grave," "The Richest Prince," are well known, 
and his " Poesy " deserves to be better known. 

The Minstrel's Curse. 

There stood in olden times a castle, tall and grand. 
Far shone it o'er the plain, e'en to the blue sea's strand. 
And round it gardens wove a wreath of fragrant flowers. 
In rainbow radiance played cool fountains 'mid the bowers. 

There sat a haughty king, in victories rich and lands, 
He sat enthroned so pale, and issued stern commands ; 
For what he broods is terror, rage his eyeball lights, 
And scourge is what he speaks, and blood is what he writes. 

Once to this castle went a noble minstrel pair. 
The one with golden looks, and gray the other's hair; 
The old man, with his harp, a noble charger rode 
And gaily at his side his ble>oming comrade strode. 



The old man to the stripling spake : " Prepare, my son ! 
Bethink our deepest songs, awake the fullest tone, 
Nerve all thy strength, and sing of grief as well as love ! 
Our task is the proud monarch's stony heart to move." 

Now in the pillared hall the minstrels stand serene. 
And on the throne there sit the monarch and his queen ; 
The king, in awful pomp, like the red northlight's sheen, 
And mild and gentle, like the full moon, sat the queen. 

The old man struck the chords, he struck them wondrous well, 
Upon the ear the tones e'er rich and richer swell. 
Then streamed with heavenly tones the stripling' s voice of fire, 
The old man's voice replied, like spirits' hollow choir. 

They sing of spring and love, the golden time they bless 
Of freedom and of honor, of faith and holiness. 
They sing of all the joys that in the bosom thrill, 
With heart-exalting strains the gilded halls they fill. 

The crowd of courtiers round forget their scoffing now, 
The king's bold warriors to God in meekness bow. 
The queen, dissolved in raptures, and in sadness sweet. 
The rose upon her breast casts at the minstrels' feet. 

"My people led astray, and now ye tempt my queen?" 
The- monarch, trembling, cried, and rage flashed in his mien. 
He hurled his sword, it pierced the stripling as it gleamed, 
Instead of golden songs a purple torrent streamed. 

Then was the host of hearers scattered as by storm, 
The minstrel's outspread arms received the lifeless form. 
He wraps his mantle round him, sets him on his steed. 
He binds him upright fast, and leaves the hall with speed. 

But at the portal's arch the aged minstrel stands. 
His harp of matchless fame he seized with both his hands, 
And 'gainst a marble pillar dashing it, he cries. 
Resounding through the hall the trembling echo flies. 

"Woe be to thee, proud pile, may ne'er sweet music's strain, 
Amid thy halls resound, nor song, nor harp again ! 
No ! sighs alone and sobs, and slaves that bow their head. 
Till thee to dust and ashes the God of vengeance tread ! " 


'Ye perfumed gaMens, too, in May-day's golden light, 
Gaze here upon this corpse with horror and affright, 
That ye may parch and fade, your every source be sealed, 
That ye, in time to come, may lie a barren field ! 

' Woe, murderer, to thee ! let minstrels curse thy name ! 
In vain shall be thy wish for bloody wreaths of fame, 
And be thy name forgot, in deep oblivion veiled. 
Be like a dying breath, in empty air exhaled ! " 

The old man cried aloud, and Heaven heard the sound. 
The walls a heap of stones, the pile bestrews the ground. 
One pillar stands alone, a wreck of vanished might, 
And that, too, rent in twain, may fall ere cometh night. 

Around, where gardens smiled, a barren desert land. 
No tree spreads there its shade, no fountains pierce the sand. 
Nor of this monarch's name speaks song or epic verse ; 
Extinguished and forgot ! such is the minstrel's curse. 

The Water Sprite. 

(By Justinus Kerner.) 

It was in the balmy glow of May, 

The maidens of Tubingen danced so gay. 

They danced, and danced right merrily. 

In the verdant vale, round the linden tree. 

A youthful stranger, proudly arrayed, 

Soon bent his steps to the fairest maid. 

To the jocund dance the maid he led, 

A sea-green wreath he placed on her head : 
"Fair youth, O wherefore so cold thy arm?" 

In the depths of the Neckar it is not warm. 
"Fair youth, O why is thy hand so white?" 

The wave is ne'er pierced by the sun's bright light. 

With the maiden he dances far from the tree. 
"O youth, let me go, my mother hails me ! " 

He danced with her to the Neckar' s shore. 

She tremblingly cried, " O youth, no more ! " 

He flung his arms rotmd the maid, and cried, 
' ' Fair maiden, thou art the water-sprite's bride ! " 

He danced with her down into the wave. 
"O save me, dear father; O mother, save!" 

To a crystal hall he conducted the maid, 
"Farewell, ye sisters, in the green glade ! " 

The greatest name in German 
^ literature after Goethe is that 
of Heinrich Heine. His was a 
spirit in sharpest contrast to the Hellenic serenity of the 
Olympian of Weimar. Heine was 'fire, flame and smoke, — ■ 
lover, poet and satirist. With bewildering genius he turned 
from jest and sarcasm to earnest invocation, from verse to 
prose, from the depths of mockery to the heights of senti- 
mental lyricism. Even in his most vulgar and boisterous 
cynicism the greatness of his spirit and intellectuality is 
nevertheless so manifest that he earned for himself the title 
of the German Aristophanes. " God's satire," he once ex- 
claimed, "weighs heavily upon me. The great Author of 
the Universe, the Aristophanes of Heaven, was bent on dem- 
onstrating with crushing force to me, the little earthly so- 
called German Aristophanes, how my. weightiest sarcasms are 
only pitiful attempts at jesting in comparison with His, and 
how miserably I am beneath Him in humor, in colossal 
mockery." In fact, Heine was an almost hopelessly fated 
bundle of contradictions. He declared : "I am a Jew, I am 
a Christian. I am tragedy, I am comedy — Heraclitus and 
Democritus in one : a Greek, a Hebrew: an adorer of des- 
potism as incarnate in Napoleon, an admirer of communism 
as embodied in Proudhon ; a Latin, a Teuton ; a beast, a 
devil, a god." 

This "continuator of Goethe," as he has been styled by 
Matthew Arnold, was born at Dtisseldorf, on December 13, 
1799. In humorous sport he afterwards stated the date to be 


the first of January following, in order that he might call 
himself " one of the first men of the century. ' ' Truly enough 
he was destined to be " the representative of a skeptical time 
of ferment" Bom a Jew with the soul of a Hellene, he 
appreciated "Goethe with his clear Greek eye," but felt 
himself to be of a new political era, and more modern literary 
activity. Goethe's calmness could not but irritate this rest- 
less protestant against the whims of life. As Matthew Ar- 
nold has written : 

"The Spirit of the World, 
Beholding the absurdity of men, 
Their vaunts, their feats, let a sardonic smile 
For one brief moment wander o'er his lips, 
That smile was Heine." 

The environments of his childhood and youth served to 
develop and accentuate Heine's turbulently kaleidoscopic 
character. The grandson of the ' ' little Jew with a big beard " 
was sent to a Franciscan convent and Jesuit academy, learned 
to kiss the hands of the monks and breathed iu that Catholic 
atmosphere in which Romanticism was then thriving. But 
his lessons^ of French philosophy, as well as the French 
Revolution, stirred his young heart with a new fire. . When 
he kissed his little sweetheart, Sefchen, the executioner's 
pretty daughter, he did it (he has left it on record) "not 
merely out of tender inclination, but also out of contempt for 
the old social order and all its dark prejudices ; and in that 
moment there blazed up in me the first flames of two passions 
to which the rest of my life was dedicated : love for fair 
women, and love for the French Revolution — for that modern 
Frankish furor with which I was seized in the battle with the 
mercenaries of the Middle Ages" (the old order in politics 
and the Romanticists in literature). In those, days, too, the 
French rule in Diisseldorf was a blessing for the Jews, and as 
Heine puts it, "to the friends of freedom Napoleon appeared 
as a rescuer." In such, soil were sown the germs of that hero- 
worship for Napbleon, which later found utterance in his, 
"Buch le Grand." At the age of eleven he saw the great 
emperor in the flesh. "The picture," he added years after- 
ward, "will never vanish from my memory. I see him stilly 
X— 13 


high on horseback, with those eternal eyes in his marble im- 
perator face, quiet as destiny, looking down on the guards 
marching by; and the old grenadiers looked up to him in 
awful submission, — stern accomplices, deathly proud : 7<?, 
CcBsar^ morituri salutanV (Those who are about to die 
'salute thee, Caesar.") 

This peculiar Napoleonic sentiment was perhaps at the 
bottom of Heine's lack of sympathy with Germany's War of 
Liberation. Regarding Napoleon as the incarnation of genius 
and of a new age, he thought mere nationalism to be "a con- 
traction of the heart." Rewrote his "Buch le Grand" to 
thunder against the jailers of ideas and suppressors of hal- 
lowed rights. He claimed "a very 'extraordinary professor- 
ship' in the University of high minds," and wished that not 
a laurel wreath, but a sword, be placed on his coffin, because 
" he was a brave soldier in humanity's War of Libera tion." 

In literature he began as a Romanticist and ended by 
giving that school its death-blow. In his history of the " Ro- 
mantic School," he proclaimed himself " its abdicated fable- 
king. ... a disfrocked Romanticist." And yet, with that 
characteristic self-struggle of his entire life, he records, 
"there came over me once more an endless longing for the 
Blue Flower in the Romantic dreamland, and I seized the 
enchanted lute and sang a song (' Atta Troll ') in which I 
surrendered myself to all sweet exaggerations, all moonshine 
intoxication, all blooming nightingale folly. It was the last 
free wood-song of Romanticism, and I am its last poet." 

Trained as a Catholic in his youth, Heine later came in 
Berlin under the unsettling influence of Hegel, but after his 
sad years of exile in the Philistinic atmosphere of London, 
and after his long years of torture on his "mattress grave" 
in Paris, he awoke at last to the truth of his inner self. 
" Often," he wrote to Campe, "a doubt quivers through me 
whether a man really is a two-legged god as Hegel told me 
twenty-five years ago. I am no more a divine biped. I am 
no more the high priest of the Germans after Goethe, no 
more the Great Heathen No. 2, a Hellene of jovial life and 
portly person, laughing cheerfully down on dismal Nazar- 
enes. I am only a poor death-sick Jew," 


Sucli was the forlorn Knight of the Rueful Counten- 
ance hidden behind Heine's laughing, sneering mask of 
irony, sarcasm, and mockery of bitter jests and sublime 
parody. A hopeless' love for his cousin Amalie, the rich 
banker Solomon's daughter, the Molly of his early verses, 
clouded his whole life. "A hopeless youthful love slumbers 
still in the heart of the poet," declared Gerard de Nerval, his 
friend, long afterward in Paris. " When he thinks of it, 
he may weep even now, or else he presses back his tears in 
rancor. Heine himself has confessed to me that, after he 
lost this living paradise, love remained only a trade (metier) 
for him." Abandoning himself to dissipation and ruining 
his constitution, he finally became almost blind and voice- 
less in Paris (his city of refuge) and was brought by a spine 
disease to a "mattress grave" on the floor of his little attic 
room. Here, in the height of his fame, he lay, paralyzed 
and almost sightless, nursed by the faithful Matilde whom he . 
rewarded at last by the name as well as offices of wife. It 
was, as he described it, "a grave without rest, death without 
the privileges of the departed." 

This romance of unhappy love arid this tragedy of pain 
have served both to dignify his memory and to furnish a 
more tenderly human interpretation to his writings, often so 
full of bitterness and Wrath. Even in the grasp of Death, 
the usually witty sufferer could not quite forget the cruelties 
of life. "I have them," he exclaimed while inditing his 
Memoirs. ' ' Dead or alive they shall not escape me. I^et 
whoever has insulted me guard himself from these lines. 
Heine dies not like any beast. The claws of the tiger will 
outlive the tiger himself." 

It was this constant battle of emotions, this restless ocean- 
play of wit, humor, satire, tenderness, indignation and 
pathos, that make his prose and verse both aglow with bril- 
liant human interest. His " Reisebilder " (Pictures of Travel) 
is a masterpiece of satiric wit. His " Lyric Intermezzo " is 
full of perfect lyrics, such as "In the wondrous month of 
May," "An ashtree stood alone," etc. His " Heimkehr," 
and " Nord-See," cycles of songs, breathe the mystery and 
greatness of the sea in the noblest Byronic style. The 


"Journey in the Hartz Mountains " is a mingling of all the 
chords of the emotions. 

The loves of Heine may be treated in a paragraph, 
although they themselves were innumerable. He was scarcely 
eleven years old when he fell violently in love with " little 
Veronica," whose death he has so touchingly related. Then 
came Josepha, the executioner's daughter, already alluded to 
as Sefchen the Red. Amalie Heine was married to Johan 
Friedlander, of Konigsberg. Heine's love for her enshrined 
itself in the " Intermezzo." After this unhappy episode 
came "double, triple, multiple love." In Paris in 1823, 
however, he met Matilde, then eighteen years old, and a mil- 
liner's assistant at her aunt's shop. Heine actually bargained 
with the aunt for her, but she proved to be an angel to him 
in his latter years of suflFering. Another woman who cast a 
ray over his final years was Mme. de Krienitz, whose literary 
pseudonym was Camille Selden. 

Gautier described the Heine of thirty-five as " a German 
Apollo. ... A slight curve altered, but did not destroy, the 
outline of his nose. . . . To the divine smile of the Musagete 
succeeded the sneer of the satyr.' ' 


The Prince-Elector, Jan Wilhelm, must have been a 
brave gentleman, very fond of art and skillful himself. He 
founded the picture-gallery in Diisseldorf, and in the obser- 
vatory there they show a very artistic piece of woodwOTk 
which he himself had carved in his leisure hours, of which 
latter he had every day four-and-twenty. In those days 
princes were not the persecuted wretches which they now are : 
the crown grew firmly on their heads, and at night they drew 
their night-caps over it and slept peacefully, and their people 
slumbered peacefully at their feet ; and when they awoke in 
the morning they said, "Good morning, father! "and here- 
plied, " Good morning, dear children ! " 

But there came a sudden change over all this. One morn- 
ing when we awoke in Diisseldorf and wished to say, "Good 
morning, father," the father had traveled away, and in the 
whole town there was nothing but dumb sorrow. Every- 


where there was a funeral-like expression, and people slipped 
silently to the market and read the long paper on the door of 
the Town Hall. It was bad weather, yet the lean tailor Kilian 
stood in his nankeen jacket, which he generally wore only at 
home, and his blue woolen stockings hung down so that his 
little bare legs peeped out in a troubled way, and his thin 
lips quivered as he murmured the placard. An old invalid 
soldier from the Palatine read it rather louder, and at some 
words a clear tear ran down his white, honorable old mous- 
tache. I stood near him, crying too, and asked why we were 
crying. And he replied, " The Prince-Elector has abdicated. ' ' 
And then he read ' further, and at the words, "for the long 
manifested fidelity pf my subjects," "and hereby release you 
from allegiance, ' ' he wept still more. It is a strange sight 
to see, when an old man, in faded uniform and scarred vete- 
ran's face, suddenly bursts into tears. While we read, the 
Prince-Electoral coat-of-arms was being taken down from the 
Town Hall, and everything began to appear as anxiously 
dreary as though we were waiting for an eclipse of the sun. 
The town councillors went about at an abdicating, wearisome 
gait ; even the omnipotent beadle looked as though he had 
no more commands to give, and stood calmly indiflferent, al- 
though the crazy Aloysius stood upon one leg and chattered 
the names of French generals with foolish grimaces, while 
tipsy, crooked Gumpertz rolled around in the gutter, singing 
ffa ira! Qa ira! 

But I went home crying and lamenting, "The Prince- 
Elector has abdicated." My mother might do what she 
would, I knew what I knew, and went crying to bed, and in 
the night dreamed that the world had come to an end — the 
fair flower-gardens and < green meadows of the world were 
taken up and rolled aWay like carpets from the floor; the 
beadle climbed up on a high ladder and took do-^n the sun, 
and the tailor Kilian stood by and said to himself, " I must 
go home and dress myself neatly, for I am dead, and am to be 
buried this afternoon." And it grew darker and darker — a 
few stars glimmered on high, and even these fell down like 
yellow leaves in autumn ; men gradually vanished, and I, 
poor child, wandered around in anguish, until before the wil- 


low fence of a deserted farm-house I saw a man digging up 
the earth with a spade, and near him an ugly, spiteful-look- 
ing woman, who held something in her apron like a human 
head, but it was the moon, and she laid it carefully in the 
open grave ; and behind me stood the Palatine soldier sobbilig 
and spelling, "The Prince-Elector has abdicated." 

When I awoke, the sun shone as usual through the win- 
dow ; there was a sound of drums in the street ; and as I en- 
tered our sitting-room and wished my father, who sat in his 
white dressing-gown. Good morning, I heard the little light- 
footed barber, as he made up his hair, narrate very minutely 
that homage would that morning be oflfered at the Town Hall 
to the Archduke Joachim. I heard too that the new ruler 
was of excellent family, that he had married the sister of the 
Emperor Napoleon, and was really a very respectable man ; 
that he wore his beautiful black hair in curls; that he would 
shortly enter the town, and would certainly please all the 
ladies. Meanwhile the drumming , in the streets continued, 
and I stood before the house-door and looked at the French 
troops marching — those joyous and famous people who swept 
over the world — singing and plajdng, the merry, serious faces 
of the Grenadiers, the bear-skin shakoes, the tri-colored cock- 
ades, the glittering bayonets, the voltigeurs full of vivacity 
and point d'honneur, and the giant-like, silver-laced drum ma- 
jor, who cast his baton with the gilded head as high as the 
first story, and his eyes to the second, where pretty girls 
gazed from the windows. I was so glad that soldiers were to 
be quartered in our house — my mother was not glad — and I 
hastened to the Market Place. There everything looked 
changed; it was as though the world had been new white- 
washed. A new coat-of-arms was placed on the Town Hall ; 
its iron balconies were hung with embroidered velvet drapery, 
French grenadiers stood as sentinels, the old town council- 
lors had put on new faces and Sunday coats, and looked at 
each other French fashion, and said, " Bon jour I ' ' Ladies 
peeped from every window, inquisitive citizens and soldiers 
filled the square, and I, with other boys, climbed on the 
shining Prince-Elector's great bronze horse, and looked down 
on the motley crowd. 


Neighbor Peter and Long Conrad nearly broke their 
necks on this occasion, and that would have been well, for 
the one afterwards ran away from his parents, enlisted as a 
soldier, deserted, and was finally shot in Mayence; while the 
other, having made geographical researches in strange pock- 
ets, became a working member of a public tread-mill insti- 
tute ! But having broken the iron bands which bound him 
to his fatherland, he passed safely beyond sea, and eventually 
died in lyondon, in consequence of wearing a much too long 
cravat, one end of which happened to be firmly attached to 
something, just as a royal official removed a plank from be- 
neath his feet. 

Long Conrad told us that there was no school to-day on 
account of the homage. We had to wait a long time till this 
was over. At last the balcony of the Council House was 
filled with gay gentlemen, flags and trumpets ; and our bur- 
gomaster, in his celebrated red coat, delivered an oration, 
which stretched' out like india-rubber, or like a nightcap into 
which one has thrown a stone — only that it was not the stone 
of wisdom — and I could distinctly understand many of his 
phrases ; for instance, that " We are now to be made happy " 
— and at the last words the trumpets and drums sounded, and 
the flags waved, and the people cried Hurrah ! — and as I, my- ■ 
self, cried Hurrah ! I held fast to the old Prince-Elector. And 
that was necessary, for I began to grow giddy ; it seemed to 
me that the people were standing on their heads while the 
world whizzed round, and the Prince-Elector, with his long 
wig, nodded and whispered, " Hold fast to me:" and not till 
the cannon re-echoed along the wall did I become sobered, 
and climb slowly down from the great bronze horse. 

As I went home I saw crazy Aloysius again dancing on 
one leg while he chattered the names of French generals, and 
crooked Gumpertz was rolling in the gutter drunk and grow- 
ling pa ira, Qa ira — and I said to my mother that we were all 
to be made happy, and so there was no school to-day. 

The next day the world was again all in order, and we had 
school as before, and things were got by heart as before— the 
fe-oman kings, chronology — the nomina in im^ the verba ir- 
re'gularia — Greek, Hebrew, geography, German, mental arith- 


metic — Lord! my head is still giddy with it! — all must be 
learned by heart. And much of it was eventually to my ad- 
vantage. For had I not learned the Roman kings by heart it 
would subsequently have been a matter of perfect indifference 
to me whether Niebuhr had or had not proved that they 
never really existed. And had I not learned chronology how 
could I ever in later years have found out any one in Berlin, 
where one house is as like another as drops of water, or as 
grenadiers, and where it ,is impossible to find a friend unless 
you have the number of his house in your head? Therefore 
I associated with every friend some historical event which 
had happened in a year corresponding to the number of his 
house, so that the one recalled the other, and some curious 
point in history always occurred to me whenever I met an 
acquaintance. For instance, when I met my tailor I at once 
thought of the battle of Marathon ; if I saw the well-dressed 
banker, Christian Gumpel. I thought of the destruction of 
Jerusalem ; if a Portuguese friend, deeply in debt, of the flight 
of Mahomet ; if the University Judge, a man whose probity 
is well known, of the death of Haman ; and if Wadzeck, I 
was at once reminded of Cleopatra. Ach, lieber Himmell 
the poor creature is dead now ; our tears are dry, and we may 
say of her with Hamlet, ' ' Take her for all in all ; she was a 
hag — we oft shall look upon her like again ! " As I said, 
chronology is necessary. I know men who have nothing in 
their heads but a few years, yet who knew exactly where to 
.look for the right houses, and are, moreover, regular pro- 
fessors. But oh ! the trouble I had at school with dates! — 
and it went even worse with arithmetic. I understood sub- 
traction best, and for this I had a very practical rule — " Four 
from three won't go, I must borrow one ; " but I advise every 
one, in such a case, to borrow a few extra shillings, for one 
never knows. 

The Lorelei. 

I KNOW not whence it rises, 

This thought so full of woe, 
But a, tale of times departed 

Haunts me, and will not go. 


The air is cool, and it darkens, 
, And calmly flows tlie Rhine ; 
The mountain-peaks are sparkling 
In the sunny evening-shine. 

And yonder sits a maiden, 

The fairest of the fair ; 
With gold in her garment glittering. 

And she combs her golden heir ; 

With a golden comb she combs it ; 

And a wild song singeth she, 
That melts the heart with a wondrous 

And powerful melody. 

The boatman feels his bosom 

With a nameless longing move ; 
He sees not the gulfs before him. 

His gaze is fixed above. 

Till over the boat and boatman 

The Rhine's deep waters run : 
And this, with her magic singing. 

The Lorelei has done ! 

The Sea Hath Its Pearls. 

(Translated by Henry W. Longfellow.) 

The sea hath its pearls, 

The heaven hath its stars. 
But my heart, my heart. 

My heart hath its love. 

Great are the sea and the heaven, 

Yet greater is my heart. 
And fairer than pearls and stars 

Flashes and beams my love. 

Thou little, youthful maiden. 
Come unto my great heart. 

My heart, and the sea, and the heaven, 
Are melting away with love. 


The Pilgrimage to Kevlaar. 

(Translated by Rev. James Freeman Clarke.) 
The mother stood at the window; 

In the chamber lay her son : 
"Arise, arise, dear William, 

And see the crowd march on." 
"I am so sick, my mother, 

I cannot hear or see : 
I think of my dead Gretchen, 

And my heart is sad in me." 

"Then we will go to Kevlaar, 

With book and rosary. 
And there God's gracious mother 

Will heal thy heart for thee." 

The banners flutter gaily. 

The church-bells ring aloud ; 
Past proud Cologne it marches, 

The singing, praying crowd. 
The son he leads his mother, 

And all go marching on : 
"All hail to thee, Maria!" 

They sing with solemn tone. 

God's mother sits at Kevlaar, 

With jewels in her hair; 
To-day she wears her diamonds, 

Por many guests are there. 
The sick with votive offerings 

Have come from many lands, 
To hang upon her altar 

Their waxen feet and hands. 
For when one offers a waxen hand. 

His hand is cured of its wound ; 
And when one offers a waxen foot, 

His foot at once is sound. 
Many who came on crutches 

Go running and dancing away. 


And those whose fingers were stifi" as sticks 

On the violin can play. 
Out of a waxen candle. 

The mother formed a heart: 
"Give this to Holy Mary, 

And she will cure thy smart ! " 
Sadly he took the image, 

Went sadly to the shrine, 
And words with tears commingled, 

He cried, "O Maid divine, 

Queen of heaven and angels, 
Receive my bitter moan. 

1 dwell with my poor mother 
In a street of fair Cologne, 

Where, in three hundred churches, 

Men. go to sing and pray ; 
And near to us lived Gretchen, 

And she is dead to-day ! 
I bring this waxen image, 

The image of my heart ; 
Heal thou my bitter sorrow. 

And cure my deadly smart ! 
Do this, and every morning. 

Evening, and all day long. 
Hail to thee, Blessed Mary, 

Shall be my prayer and song ! " 

The sick son and his mother 

Slept in a little room, 
Then came the Blessed Virgin, 

Soft-stepping through the gloom. 
She bent above the sick man. 

And on his heart she laid 
Her gentle hand ; then, smiling. 

Passed like a mist the maid. 
The mother in her slumber 

Had seen the whole event, 
Then wakened, for the frightened dogs . 

Howled, as the Virgin went. 
He lay stretched out before her, , 

Her son — and he was dead ; 


And on his thin and pallid cheek 
The morning sun burnt red, 

The mother knew not how she felt : 
But bent in peace her head : 
" God bless thee ! Holy Mother ! " 
Were all the words she said. 

The Two Grenadiers. 

(Translated by Rev. W. H. Furness, D.D.) 

To France were traveling two grenadiers, 

From prison in Russia returning, 
And when they came to the German frontiers, 

They hung down their heads in mourning. 

There came the heart-breaking news to their ears 
That France was by fortune forsaken ; 

Scattered and slain were her brave grenadiers, 
And Napoleon — Napoleon was taken. 

Then wept together those two grenadiers 
O'er their country's departed glory ; 
" Woe's me," cried one, in the midst of his tears, 
' ' My old wound, — how it burns at the story ! " 

The other said: " The end has cbme. 

What avails any longer living? 
Yet have I a wife and child at home. 

For an absent father grieving." 

"Who cares for wife ? , Who cares for child? 
Dearer thoughts in my bosom awaken ; 
Go beg, wife and child, when with hunger wild, 
For Napoleon — Napoleon is taken ! 

' Oh, grant me, brother, my only prayer, ' 

When death my eyes is closing : 
Take me to France, and bury me there ; 
In France be my ashes reposing. 

"This cross of the I^egion of Honor bright, 
I,et it lie near my heart, upon me ; 
Give me my musket in my hand, 
And gird my sabre on me. 


"So will I lie, and arise no more, 
My watch like a sentinel keeping, 
Till I hear the cannon's thundering roar, 
And the squadrons above me sweeping. 

"Then the Emperor comes ! and his banners wave. 
With their eagles o'er him bending ; 
And I will come forth, all in alms, from my grave. 
Napoleon, Napoleon attending ! ' ' 

Only Kiss and Swear No Oath. 

Oh ! only kiss and swear no oath. 
What women swear to trust I'm loth ! 
Thy words are sweet, yet sweeter is, 
When I have taken it, thy kiss. 
The one I have and know it's true — 
Words are but breath and vapor too. 

Oh ! swear, my loved one, ever swear — 
Thy simplest words oaths' force shall bear. 
I lay me gently on thy breast. 
And quite believe that I am blessed. 
And I believe, my sweet, that me 
Thou lov'st beyond eternity. 

Enfant Perdu. 

(Translated by Lord Houghton.) 

In Freedom's War, of "Thirty Years " and more, 

A lonely outpost have I held — ^in vain ! 
With no triumphant hope or prize in store. 

Without a thought to see my home again. 

I watched both day and night: I could not sleep 
Like my well-tented comrades far behind. 

Though near enough to let their snoring keep 
A friend awake, if e'er to doze inclined. 

And thus, when solitude my spirits shook, 

Or fear — for all but fools know fear sometimes, — 

To rouse myself and them, I piped and took 
A gay tevenge in all my wanton rhjrmes. 


Yes! there I stood, my musket always ready, 
And when some sneaking rascal showed his head, 

My eye was vigilant, my aim was steady, 
And gave his brains an extra dose of lead. 

But war and justice have far different laws, 
And worthless acts are often done right well; 

The rascals' shots were better than their cause. 
And I was hit — and hit again, and fell ! 

That outpost is abandoned : while the one 
Ivies in the dust, the rest in troops depart; 

Unconquered — I have done what could be done. 
With sword unbroken, and with broken heart. 

The Devil. 

(Translated by Alfred Baskerville.) 

I CALLED the Devil and he came. 
To view him with wonder I began. 

He is not ugly, and is not lame, 
Far from it, he is a charming man, 

A man in the vigor still of his years, 

A man of the world and polite he appears. 

His talent is as diplomatist great. 

He speaks right well upon Church and State. 

No wonder he's pale, and wrinkled his brow, 

Since Sanscrit and Hegel he studies now ; 

His favorite poet is Fouqu6 still. 
In criticism he does no more. 
He hath abandoned for evermore 

To his grandam Hecate the critic's quill. 

He was glad my studies in law to view, 

'Twas once his favorite study, too. 

My friendship could not be, he said, 

Too dear for him, then nodded his head. 

And asked if we had not once before, 
At the Spanish ambassador's, seen each other; 

And when I looked at his face once more, 
I found we already knew one another. 


The old German spirit of bright simplicity and childlike 
gaiety has again come to light in Joseph Victor von Scheffel 
(1826-86). Bom at Karlsruhe, Baden, and trained for jufis- 
prudence, his min^ turned, nevertheless, to the charming 
romance of the past. His tale of "Ekkehard" (1855) is 
already a German classic. In it he painted a genial picture 
of courtly and monastic life in the tenth century. The hero 
is a monk of St. Gall, teacher of Duchess Hedwig of Suabia. 
He discovered their mutual love only when it was too late, and^ 
his obtuseness caused his banishment, where Scheffel feigns 
that he wrote " Walter of Aquitaine." (See Vol. I., p. 287.) The 
humor is mild in this story, but two years before Scheffel had 
given all his exuberant, over-bubbling fancy and nerve full 
play in his song — from the upper Rhine — "The Trumpeter 
of Sackingen," which contains all the sunlight and romance 
of the Black Forest. The long poem relates the artless love 
of young Werner, the trumpeter, for the daughter of the 
Baron von Schonau. The wandering musician had once been 
a student of law at old Heidelberg, where he fought a duel. 
Becoming the Baron's trumpeter, he is wounded in the 
Hauenstein riot, which event reveals to him Margaretha's 
love. The Baron will not listen to the match, however, and 
Werner wanders away to fight in the wars. At last he rises, 
by his art, to be Pope Innocent's chapel-master, and marries 
Margaretha. A curious character in the poem is the Baron's 
mystical black tom-cat, Hiddigeigei, a true philosopher. 



The Baron's Cat Hiddigeigei. 

(Prom ' ' The Trumpeter of Sackingen. ' ' Canto V. ) 

Stretched beside the Baron's footstool 

Daintily lay the gallant tom-cat 

Hiddigeigei, with the sable 

Velvet coat and tail majestic. 

Heirloom he left to the Baron 

By his sainted, well-loved lady, 

lyconor Montfort du Plessys. 

Far in Hungary, Hiddigeigei 

Saw the light, for he was bom there 

By a daughter of Angora 

To a wild-cat of the Puszlta. 

To fair Paris, as a kitten, 

Was, he Sent in sign of homage, 

By a brave Hungarian noble, 

Who in Debreczin, far distant, 

Cherished still, in recollection, 

I<eonor's clear eyes of azure 

And the rats who, like an army, 

Overran her father's castle. 

Hiddigeigei to the Rhineland 

Came with haughty I^eonora, 

lyoyal and trusted. Somewhat lonely 

Ran the thread of his existence. 

For he hated all communion 

With the German vulgar cat-folk. 

" Certes," he reflected proudly. 

In his feline self-reliance, 

"They may have good hearts, these creatures. 

And a fund of kindly feeling. 

All these native cats untutored, 

Aboriginal and common, 

In these wilds brought up and nurtured. 

But in style, they're sadly lacking. 

They want breeding, manners, finish. 

One who gained his spurs at Paris, 

Following the chase full boldly 

F. Schmid-Breitenbach, Pinx 


In the salons of Montfaucon, 
Cannot, certes, in the country 
I/}ok to find congenial spirits, 
Fit companions for his leisure." 

Dignified, though isolated, 

Always dignified and stately. 

Dwelt he in the iJaron's castle, 

Paced its halls with measured footsteps. 

Deeply tuneful was his purring. 

And, in anger, when indignant 

He would arch his supple backbone. 

When each hair rose bristling upward, 

Gentleness he still would study 

To unite with dignity. 

But when over roof and gable 

He would clamber, agile, daring, 

Sallying forth upon a mouse-hunt, 

When mysterious in the moonlight 

Flashed his emerald eyes and sparkled. 

Then e'en envy must acknowledge 

Hiddigeigei was imposing. 

The Baron's Tobacco Pipe. 

(From "The Trumpeter of Sackingen." Canto V.) > 
Pensive sat the white-haired Baron, 
From his eyes a light shot often 
Like a flash, oft like a kindly 
Ray from out the glowing sunset, 
As on days of yore he pondered. 
'Tis, in truth, the sweetest cordial 
Of old age from out its watch-tower 
To gaze back on all that has been, 
And the old are never lonely. 
Troops of shadows hover round him, 
Whilom friends, long since departed. 
Dressed in faded, yellow doublets. 
In old-fashioned, stately garments. 
But the memory knows no mildew, 
Freshest youth, unfading beauty, 
Rise again from bones and ashes 
And they prate of days forgotten 
X— 14 


Till the old man's heart throbs faster, 
And his fist is clinched unwitting. 
On the balcony he sees her, 
Smiling, once again, upon him. 
Hears again the trumpets blaring 
And his swarthy charger, neighing. 
Bears him where the battle rages. 
Well contented sat the Baron 
While these mem'ries passed before him. 
And when ofttimes toward the goblet 
He would reach his hand, and quickly 
Quaff a lengthy draught of Rhenish, 
Then would rise, in tend' rest colors, 
One fair image, prized and cherished. 

Through the hall, sedately tripping, 
Came the Baron's lovely daughter, 
Margaretha ; and her father 
Smiled approval as she entered. 
Hiddigeigei's patient visage 
Beamed, likewise, with feline welcome. 
She had changed her snowy raiment 
For a robe of dusky velvet. 
On her curly flaxen tresses 
Saucy sat a pointed wimple, 
And with matronly demureness 
Her blue eyes surveyed the world. 
Ponderous keys and leathern pocket, 
German housewife's badge of honor, 
From her girdle were suspended. 
And she kissed the Baron's forehead, 
Saying : ' ' Pray, my father, chide not 
That I long have left you lonely, 
But the gracious I^ady Abbess 
Held me close in earnest converse, 
While she told me wondrous stories ; 
Taught me too, how age comes creeping 
And how winter follows summer. 
Now unto your earnest censure 
Am I waiting to submit me, 
And am ready now to read you 
Out of Theuerdank's mighty volume. 


For you love his bluff adventures 
And his hunting-tales, I wot well, 
Better than the sentimental 
Pastoral poets of our era. 

' ' But, O Father, why for ever 

Must you smoke that evil-smelling 

Hurtful poisonous tobacco ? 

I am frightened when you sit there 

Deep in rolling clouds enveloped. 

As in morning mists Mont Eggberg. 

And I grieve me for the golden 

Picture-frames that hang above us. 

And the whiteness of the curtains. 

Hear you not their low lamenting. 

That the smoke from out your clay-pipe 

Makes them pale and gray and tarnished ? 

Doubtless 'tis a wondrous country, 

Yon America, discovered 

Erstwhile by the gallant Spaniard. 

And I, too, rejoice at thought of 

Paroquets all gaily painted 

And of strings of rosy coral. 

Through my dreams come floating, sometimes, 

I/ofty palmwoods, silent bowers, 

Cocoa-nuts and mighty flowers, 

And wild monkeys full of mischief. 

Yet I almost wish it rested 

Undiscovered in the ocean, 

All because of that tobacco. 

Which has come to us from thither. 

Sooth, a man I gladly pardon 

Though he oft, with scant occasion, 

Draw the red wine from the barrel ; 

Even might, if need were pressing, 

With a red nose reconcile me. 

Never with tobacco smoking." 

Smilingly the Baron heard her. 
Smiling blew fresh clouds around him 
From his clay-pipe as he answered : 
" Dear, my child, you women daily 


Prate of many things full lightly 
Which surpass your understanding. 
True, a soldier oft possesses 
Many rough, unpolished habits 
For withdrawing -rooms unfitted, 
But my child, above all others. 
Should not gibe, methinks, at smoking, 
Since through that I won her mother. 
And because old battle-stories 
Through my head to-night are buzzing. 
Sit thee down ; instead of reading, 
I myself will tell thee somewhat 
Of the weed which thou misprizest. 
Somewhat of thy sainted mother." 

Wondering Margaretha scanned him, 
With her eyes of deepest azure, 
Fetched her tapestry and needle 
And her wools of motley colors. 
By the armchair of her father 
Placed a footstool, and right graceful 
Set her by him. In the forest 
Springs the wild rose, young and lovely. 
Thus beside the gnarled oak-tree. 
With a steady draught the Baron 
Drained his goblet, and continued : 

" It was in the evil war-time. 

Once, with some few German troopers. 

Into Alsace I made inroad. 

Hans von Weerth was then our Colonel. 

Swedes and French were camped by Breisiach, 

And with many a deed of daring 

Soon we made their camp re-echo. 

But the fleetest hare may perish. 

One black day they loosed upon us 

All their yelping pack, -^confound them! 

And, with bleeding gashes covered, 

We were forced to yield our rapiers ; 

So, as prisoners, we were carried 

By the Frenchmen to fair Paris, — 

To the prison of Vincennes. 


'Zounds ! ' so spake our gallant Colonel, 
Hans von Weerth, ' sure 'twere more lively 
With a naked sword to gallop 
Leading on a storming party, 
Than in Vincennes here to moulder, 
Tilting with the heavy moments. 
'Gainst such foes no vsreapon helps us, 
Wine and dice alike are powerless. 
Only smoking, — that I've tested 
In the promised land of Boredom, 
'Mong the mynheers. I,et us try it ; 
Here, too, it may do good service.' 

" So the Governor procured us 
From a Netherlandish merchant 
Straight a barrel of tobacco, 
And of burnt-clay pipes abundance. 
Soon from all the German captives 
There arose a monstrous smoking. 
Puffing, fuming, cloud-creating. 
Such as erst in polished Paris 
Never mortal eye had witnessed. 
All amazed our warders saw it. 
To the king the news was carried 
And he came himself in splendor 
To behold the cloudy marvel. 

"Soon the whole of Paris gossiped 

Of the savage bears of Germans, 

And of their extraordinary 

Quite unheard-of trick of smoking. 

Up drove coaches ; down sprang pages ; 

Cavaliers and stately ladies 

Crowded to our narrow guard-room. 

And she, too, came ; she the haughty 

Leonor Montfort du Plessys. 

Still to-day, methinks I see her 

On the earth floor coyly stepping. 

Hear her train of satin rustle. 

And my heart beats as aforetime 

In the roaring tide of battle, 

And the smoke from out my clay-pipe 

6*4 tlTEfiAfURfi OP AI,X NATIONS. 

Rose as from a row of cannons. 
And 'twas well. Upon the cloudlet 
Which I blew aloft so stoutly, 
Cupid sat and shot his arrows, 
And his aim was sure and steady. 
Wonder shortly changed to interest. 
Interest changed to something dearer, 
And she found the German bruin 
Nobler, in his honest roughness, 
Than the gilded Paris lions. 

"When our prison-gates were opened, 
And the joyous news of freedom 
Brought us by the welcome herald, 
Then I first became a captive 
Bound. in softest silken traces. 
Hopeless of release. Our marriage 
And the happy homeward journey 
Did but draw them closer, closer. 
Thinking on it all, the tear-drops 
Fall upon my gray moustachios. 
What remains of all my glory? 
Her sweet memory, ever with me ; 
The black cat, old Hiddigeigei ; 
And my Leonor's sweet image. 
Thou,- my child,— God keep thee ever!" 

Thus he spake and knocked the ashes 
From his pipe, and meditative 
Stroked the cat, old Hiddigeigei. 
But, half-laughingly, his daughter 
Fell upon her knees before him, 
Saying: " Father, of your goodness, 
Grant me general absolution , 
Mortal syllable shall never 
O'er my lips get leave to wander, 
Henceforth, in dispraise of smoking." 


Period VIII. 1830-1890. 

; EWII/DERING in its richness, extent and variety- 
is the English literature of the nineteenth cen- 
tury. It is impossible for critics of the present 
day to decide accurately on the merit of the 
■work of each author, or to estimate clearly the value 
of the whole. Yet it may be said that the great 
writers of this age have reached heights surpassed only by 
Shakespeare and Milton, while hundreds more are conspicu- 
ous by achievements worthy at least of local and temporary 
fame. A most striki^g characteristic of the reign of Queen 
Victoria has been the general diffusion of knowledge. One 
of the chief results of this diffusion has been to free the author 
from immediate dependence on royal or noble patrons and to 
enable him to appeal for recognition and approval directly to 
the people. These in turn have been instructed by the liter- 
ary critics whose labor has been fostered by the periodical 
press. Quarterly reviews began with the Edinburgh Review 
in 1802; then came literary magazines and journals; and 
finally every newspaper of any pretensions gives its notices 
of new books. England, which at the opening of the century 
was ruled by an aristocracy, has become strongly democratic. 
The contemporary literature has strongly reflected these 
changes. Some of the greatest writers, as Wordsworth, Ten- 
nyson, Carlyle, have resisted or deprecated them, while others 
have encouraged, urged and supported them. 
. Another striking characteristic of the times has been the 



vast improvement in the physical surroundings of the people 
the facilities for quick and easy intercourse, and the marvel- 
ous progress of science. I^ocal ignorance has been removed 
by the breaking down of the barriers which shut out knowl- 
edge of the outer world. But on the other hand the seclusion 
which fostered contemplation has been lost. In the swift 
movement of the world, in which all are compelled to take 
part, present temporal advantage becomes man's chief end, 
spiritual truth is overwhelmed and lost. Even in those who 
are subject to its sway, the incessant movement produces 
weariness and ennui. There follows complaint of the empti- 
ness of all things, which is found not only in poets and phi- 
losophers, but even in popular novelists. 

Victoria's reign has been blessed with a grand chorus of 
noble poets. Chief among them is Alfred Tennyson, who 
began modestly in 1830 with "Poems, chiefly Lyrical," and 
advanced from these musical drearny fancies to the noble per- 
formances of his riper years, "In Memoriam " and "The 
Idylls of the King." In the same decade Robert Browning, 
with more rugged and independent genius, addressed the pub- 
lic, but by his obscurity and jerky style, failed to secure gen- 
eral audience. Gradually a select few gave this master of 
psychological insight their devotion, and later societies of 
cultivated people were formed to study the profound thought 
of his mysterious works. His wife had attained vogue as a 
poet before she won his love. She excelled him in musical 
performance, though taking many liberties with rhyme and 
metre. Matthew Arnold, both poet and prose-writer, repre- 
sents the conflict betweep doubt and faith, yet inculcates self' 
reliance. His keen intellect demanded demonstration even 
in matters incapable of it. In essays and criticism his man- 
ner was always urbane, but his expression of opinion was 
severe and crushing. His poetry recalls the Greek classics, 
his prose the I^rench essayists. Swinburne entered the arena 
as a pronounced pagan, rejecting the restraints of modern 
morality, yet displaying matchless powers of musical render- 
ing. Though an aristocrat by birth, he was a sentimental 
radical in opinion. In his later works he became conserva- 
tive, but his early eflfusions prevented his being made poet 


laureate on the death of Tennyson. Dante G. Rossetti was 
a lyric poet of great sweetness and power, but his morbid 
life prevented him from accomplishing adequate works. 

Three grgat prose-writers have adorned the century. Lord 
Macaulay was a typical man of letters, devoted to books and 
writing from childhood, gifted with a prodigious memory and 
wonderful power of language. His brilliant essays made his- 
tory and literature familiar to the masses. His " History of 
England ' ' was intended to be more fascinating than a novel, 
and for a time accomplished its purpose. In marked contrast 
with him is the rugged Scotch peasant, Thomas Carlyle, who 
became a prophet to his generation. Regarding life as trag- 
ically earnest, he was vehement in his denunciation of wrong, 
and his prediction of disasters. Usually scornful of his fellow- 
men, except a few select heroes whom he worshipped, he re- 
vealed at times a surprisingly tender he^rt. The "Sartor 
Resartus,' ' a discourse on clothes, is an allegory of hip own 
life. His "French Revolution," full of dithyrambic elo- 
quence, is a vivid presentation of that great episode in the 
world's history. John Ruskin, a more attractive prose-poet, 
has been a prophet of art and lover of nature. His "Modern 
Painters " is an eloquent discourse on the fundamental prin- 
ciples of art. In, other works he carried on his teaching, 
insisting that true appreciation of art depends on purity of 
heart and leads to the love of God. In later writings he 
urged in more subdued style social reforms and new principles 
of political economy. 

But the most extensive field of modern literature is that 
of the novel, which has advanced from being a record of ad- 
ventures or exhibition of scenes to an exposition of character 
developed in dialogue and action. In some hands it has 
become an engine of social reform. It has steadily extended 
its domain until it threatens to become the field of discussion 
of questions in science and religion, in fact to include all 
human action and thought as its province. 


WitwAM Makepeace Thackeray was 
the type of the English nineteenth century 
gentleman in literature, as was Fielding of the eighteenth. 
He was a British aristocrat, tempered by genius. He was 
born in Calcutta, British India, in 1811, and died in London 
at the age of fifty-two, the greatest English novelist, satirist 
and humorist of his time. 

He was brought up to the UFe and expectation of wealth ; 
but became poor during his twenties, and had to do some- 
thing for a living. Trade was not to his taste ; politics not 
within his capacities ; but he had made little excursions in 
amateur art and letters, and so drifted into the use of pen and 
pencil as means of support. His work, at first, was hardly 
serious in purpose; in art he never got beyond a peculiar 
kind of caricature, though he wrote witty and telling art- 
criticism,' and illustrated many of his own stories. In his 
early sketches and tales, he eschewed formality, and wrote as 
the educated and witty man-of-the-world of his time and 
nation talked. This style, and the sociable attitude towards 
the reader which he adopted, though it recalls the way of 
Fielding, whom he admired, was not the fruit of imitation, 
but of sympathy. No writer ever expressed his exact self in 
his compositions more thoroughly than Thackeray. He 
matured early, though to the last there was much boyishness 
in his complex nature, and his literary style from the first 
had almost the maturity of his latest work ; it was easy, flex- 
ible, rich, various: it lent itself without eflFort to the precise 
shade of meaning which he might wish to convey ; it was 
pure literature and pure naturalness — as natural as the unre- 


strained chat of men at a club ; there is not a passage in his 
writings that he might not have uttered normally in conver- 
sation ; yet from beginning to end there is no touch of ' 
vulgarity or unworthiness. He "was vigorously sane at all 
times ;. but there was a soul as well as a body in his sanity ; 
he laughed at humbug, but he deeply reverenced what de- 
served honor ; his pathos is always true, and his sentiment 
naive and winning. Poetic feeling was also his ; and although 
most of his verse is merely co'medy or satire in rhyme, he 
could upon occasion be sincerely touching, as his "Mahog- 
any Tree," and his "Ballad of the Bouillabaisse" prove. In 
reading Thackeray (except to some extent in "Barry Lyn- 
don," and more in "Henry Bsmond"), the personality of 
the author is always present to us ; but it is a personality of 
that unique kind which aids instead of detracting from the 
literary effect. We might say that the man himself was a 
part of, or an element in, his own literature. All attempts 
to imitate his method have proved ruinous ; but that is 
because there has been but one Thackeray. Fielding, Sterne, 
and long before them, the great Rabelais, adopted a personal 
tone ; but they too were men of commanding genius, and 
each was as distinctly himself as Thackeray was. 

Some of Thackeray's earlier pieces, such as "The Ravens- 
wing," and "Memorials of Gormandizing," are as masterly 
in form and treatment as anything he wrote afterwards ; 
their excellence,- finish and apparent facility are pfasitively 
amazing. In "Barry Lyndon" and "The Great Hoggarty 
Diamond ' ' are studies of character which, so far as they go, 
he never surpassed ; but his later books take a broader view 
of life than his earlier ones, and involve more serious themes. 
The emphatic success of "Vanity Fair" awakened him to 
the responsibility of his literary position ; his modesty was 
commensurate with his genius, but he could not but recog- 
nize the effects of his power, and he never afterwards reverted 
to the vein of " The Book of Snobs"- and "The Yellow- 
Plush Papers," which are masterpieces in their way, but it is 
not the high way of "Esmond" and "The Newcomes." 
The several great novels, from "Vanity Fair" onward, are 
rich and multifarious pictures of life, with little of what is 


technically called plot, but redolent of the humor, the pathos, 
the littleness and the greatness of human nature. In con- 
struction they are not seldom loose, and once in a while the 
author actually forgets what he had written in a previous 
chapter, and a character whose death had been mentioned 
comes to life again, or some similar lapse occurs. Thackeray 
was by disposition indolent, and averse from continuous and 
methodical work ; he bent hiniself to his task with pain ; 
though, once caught in the current of his narrative, he 
entered livitigly and intensely into the scenes he was por- 
traying. The method of publication prevailing at the time, 
in monthly numbers, tended to encourage the habit of post- 
poning the labor till the last moment, and added to the diffi- 
culty of laying out a detailed plan in advance. Nevertheless, 
Thackeray, during the thirty years of his litetary activity, 
accomplished work large in amount and of the finest quality; 
and he died at last in the midst of what promised to be one 
of his best stories. What he did was done so well as to be and 
to remain inimitable. 

Thackeray had thedramatic faculty of throwing himself 
imaginatively into other times and persons, and of writing in 
character. As " Michael Angelo Titmarsh " he made himself 
a power in Eraser's Magazine and elsewhere ; he assumed 
the guise of a Snob in the "Snob Papers," of a Cockney 
footman in the "Yellow-Plush" series, of an adventurer in 
" Barry Lyndon," of an eighteenth century gentleman and 
officer in "Esmond," of Pendennis in the novels following 
the work of that name. In " Barry Lyndon " and in " Es- 
mond " the make-up is elaborate and wpU sustained ; in the 
Titmarsh series and in the Pendennis books the change is in 
the name only ; in the others we have a capital study of 
character as revealed in dialect or in social foibles, but the 
Master who manages the puppets is not hidden. But some 
costuming, be it ever so slight and transparent, made com- 
position easier for Thackeray, just as the accessories of the 
stage help out an actor ; and it suited his humor to refer to 
his characters as if they were the stock-in-trade of a puppet- 
show, instead of being, as they were, among the most real 
personages in fiction. It was a singular survival in him — 



who was a master writer, — of an affectation or shrinking 
common to amateurs, who seek to distinguish between them- 
selves in their private capacity, and the profession in which 
they dabble. Thackeray would always be the London club- 
man; he would be an author only in make-believe. The 
writer, of course, immeasurably transcended the clubman, 
as Thackeray himself knew ; but habit, and the artistic tem- 
perament, made him cling to the form of the disguise long 
after it had become as transparent as that of " The Author of 

Thackeray visited the East in his thirty-third year, and 
America eight years later ; he often sojourned in Paris and 
other parts of the Continent, In America and in England 
he delivered two series of lectures, on ' ' The Four Georges ' ' 
and on " The English Humorists," which were worthy of 
his genius, though not the best exposition of it. He wrote 
and illustrated his travels, and made America one of the scenes 
of his great novel, " The Virginians." His life, from his 
thirtieth year, was overshadowed by a great sorrow — the 
insanity of' his young wife, whom he had married three or 
four years before. She survived her husband, but never 
regained her reason. Thackeray's character, apart from his 
genius, was tender, noble and manly ; but he was subject to 
moods and dark hours, and was abnormally sensitive at times. 
In person he was very tall and of massive build," with abun- 
dant wavy hair which early turned white; His fame did not 
reach its apogee until after his death ; but as he recedes in 
time his literary stature constantly increases. After all criti- 
cisms, he remfins, upon the whole, the greatest English 
figure in the prose literature of his generation. 




The Mahogany Tree. 

Christmas is here ; 
Winds whistle shrill, 
Icy and chill, 

Ivittle care we, 
Little we fear 
Weather without, 
Sheltered about 

The Mahogany Tree. 

Once on the boughs 
Birds of rare plume 
Sang, in its bloom ; 

Night-birds are we ; 
Here we carouse. 
Singing, like them. 
Perched round the stem 

Of the jolly old tree. 

Here let us sport. 
Boys, as we sit ; 
Laughter and wit 

Flashing so free. 
Life is but short — 
When we are gone, 
Let them sing on 

Round the old tree. 

Evenings we knew, 
Happy as this ; 
Faces we miss. 
Pleasant to see. 

Kind hearts and true. 
Gentle and just, 
Peace to your dust ! 
We sing round the tree. 

Care, like a dun, 
Lurks at the gate : 
Let the dog wait ; 

Happy we'll be 1 
Drink, every one ; 
Pile up the coals, 
Fill the red bowls. 

Round the old tre(e ! 

Drain we the cup. — 
Friend, art afraid? 
Spirits are laid 

In the Red Sea. 
Mantle it up ; 
Empty it yet ; 
Let us forget, 

Round the old tree. 

Sorrows, begone ! 
Life and its ills, 
Duns and their bills, 

Bid we to flee. 
Come with the dawn. 
Blue-devil sprite, 
Leave us to-night, 

Round the old tree. 


Rawdon Crawley Goes Home. 

(From " Vanity Fair.") 

Colonel Rawdon Crawley, who had married Becky Sharp, was 
arrested on Saturday night and taken to a sponging house for a debt of 
;^i50. He wrote to his wife, begging her to get him released, if she 
had to pawn her jewelry, and she wrote a deceitful reply that she had 
made the effort without success, and was ill in bed. The prisoner then 
applied to his brother, Sir Pitt Crawley, whose wife came to the rescue. 

Wheels were heard whirling up to the gate — the young 
Janitor went out with his gate-keys. It was a lady whom he 
let in at the bailiff's door. 

" Colonel Crawley," she said, trembling very much. He, 
with a knowing look, locked the outer door upon her — then 
unlocked and opened the inner one, and calling out, ' ' Colonel, 
you're wanted," led her into the back parlor, which he occupied. 

Rawdon came in from the dining-parlor where all those 
people were carousing, into his back room, a flare of coarse 
light following him into the apartment where the lady stood, 
still very nervous. 

"It is I, Rawdon," she said, in a timid voice, which she 
strove to render cheerful. " It is Jane." Rawdon was quite 
overcome by that kind voice and presence. He ran up to her 
— caught her in his arms — gasped out some inarticulate words 
of thanks, and fairly sobbed on her shoulder. She did not 
know the cause of his emotion. 

The bills of Mr, Moss were quickly settled, perhaps to 
the disappointment of that gentleman, who had counted on 
having the Colonel as his guest over Sunday at least ; and 
Jane, with beaming smiles and happiness in her eyes, carried 
away Rawdon from the bailiff's house, and they went home- 
wards in the cab in which she had hastened to his release. 
"Pitt was gone to a parliamentary dinner," she said, "when 
Rawdon's note came, and so, dear Rawdon, I — I came my- 
selt;" and she put her kind hand in his. Perhaps it was 
well for Rawdon Crawley that Pitt was away at that dinner. 
Rawdon thanked his sister a hundred times, and with an 
ardor of gratitude which touched and almost alarmed that 


soft-hearted woman. " Oh," said he, in his rude, artless way, 
"you — you don't know how I'm changed since I've known 
you, and — and little Rawdy. I — I'd like to change somehow. 
You see I want — I want — to be — ." He did not finish the 
sentence, but she could interpret it. And that night after he 
left her, and as she sat by her own little boy's bed, she prayed 
humbly for that poor way-worn sinner. 

Rawdon left her and walked home rapidly. It was nine 
o'clock at night. He ran across the streets, and the great 
squares of Vanity Fair, and at length came up breathless 
opposite his own house. He started back and fell against 
the railings, trembling as he looked up. The drawing-room 
windows were blazing with light. She had said that she was 
in bed and ill. He stood there for some time, the light from 
the rooms on his pale face. 

He took out his door-key and let himself into the house. 
He could hear laughter in the upper rooms. He was in the 
ball-dress in which he had been captured the night before. 
He went silently up the stairs, leaning against the banisters 
at the stair-head. — Nobody was stirring in the house besides 
— all the servants had been sent away. Rawdon heard laugh- 
ter within — laughter and singing. Btcky was singing a 
snatch of the song of the night before ; a hoarse voice shouted 
"Brava! Brava ! " — it was Lord Steyne's. 

Rawdon opened the door and went in. A little table with 
a dinner was laid out — and wine and plate. Steyne was hang- 
ing over the sofa on which Becky sat. The wretched woman 
was in a brilliant full toilette, her arms and all her fingers 
sparkling with bracelets and rings ; and the brilliants on her 
breast which Steyne had given her. He had her hand in his, 
and was bowing over it to kiss it, when Becky started up 
with a faint scream as she caught sight of Rawdon's white 
fate. At the next instant she tried a smile, a horrid smile, 
as if to welcome her husband : and Steyne rose up, grinding 
his teeth, pale, and with fury in his looks. 

He, too, attempted a laugh — and came forward holding 
out his hand. "What, come back ! How d'ye do, Crawley ?" 
he said, the nerves of his mouth twitching as he tried to grin 
at the intruder. 

BNGUSH i,iteratur:b. 225 

There was tiat in Rawdon's face which caused Becky to 
fling herself before him, "I am innocent, Rawdon," she 
said ; " before God, I am innocent." She clung hold of his 
coat, of his hands ; her own were all covered with serpents, 
and rings, and baubles. " I am innocent. — Say I am inno- 
cent," she said to Lord Steyne. 

He thought a trap had been laid for him, and was as 
furious with the wife as with the husband. " You innocent I 
Damn you," he screamed out. " You innocent ! Why every 
trinket you have on your body is paid for by me. I have 
given you thousands of pounds which this fellow has spent, 

and for which he has sold you. Innocent, by ! You're 

as innocent as your mother, the ballet-girl, and your husband 
the bully. Don't think to frighten me as you have done 
others. Make way, sir, and let me pass ;" and Lord Steyne 
seized up his hat, and, with flame in his eyes, and looking 
his enemy fiercely in the face, marched upon him, never for 
a moment doubting that the other would give way. 

But Rawdon Crawley, springing out, seized him by the 
neck-cloth, until Steyne, almost strangled, writhed, and bent 
• under his arm. " You lie, you dog !" said Rawdon. "You 
lie, you coward and villain ! " And he struck the Peer twice 
over the face with his open hand, and flung him bleeding to 
the ground. It was all done before Rebecca could interpose. 
She stood there trembling before him. She admired her hus- 
band, strong, brave and victorious. 

" Come here," he said. — She came up at once. 

"Take off" those things." — She began, trembling, pullmg 
the jewels from her arms, and the rings from her shaking 
fingers, and held them all in a heap, quivering and looking up 
at him. "Throw them down," he said, and she dropped 
them. He tore the diamond ornament out of her breast, and 
flung it at Lord Steyne. It cut him on his bald forehead. 
Steyne wore the scar to his dying day. 

" Come up stairs," Rawdon said to his wife. " Don't kill 
me, Rawdon," she said. He laughed savagely. — "I want to 
see if that man lies about the money as he has about me. 
Has he given you any ? " 

" No, " said Rebecca, " that is — " 
X— IS 


"Give me your keys," Rawdon answered, and they went 
out together. 

Rebecca gave him all the keys but one ; and she was in 
hopes that he would not have remarked the absence of that. 
It belonged to the little desk which Amelia had given her in 
early days, and which she kept in a secret place. But Raw- 
don flung open boxes and wardrobes, throwing the multifa- 
rious trumpery of their contents here and there, and at last 
he found the desk. The woman was forced to open it. It 
contained papers, love-letters many years old — ^all sorts of 
small trinkets and woman's memoranda. And it contained a 
pocket-book with bank-notes. Some of these were dated ten 
years back, too, and one was quite a fresh one — a note for a 
thousand pounds which Lord Steyne had given her. 

"Did he give you this?" Rawdon said. 

"Yes," Rebecca answered. 

"I'll send it to him to-day," Rawdon said (for day had 
dawned again, and many hours had passed in this search), 
' ' and I will pay Briggs, who was kind to the boy, and some 
of the debts. You will let me know where I shall send the 
rest to you. You might have spared me a hundred pounds, 
Becky, out of all this — I have always shared with you." 

" I am innocent," said Becky. And he left her without 
another word. 

What were her thoughts when he left her ? She remained 
for hours after he was gone, the sunshine pouring into the 
room, and Rebecca sitting alone on the bed's edge. The 
drawers were all opened and their contents scattered about — 
dresses and feathers, scarfs and trinkets, a heap of tumbled 
vanities lying in a wreck. Her hair was falling over her 
shoulders ; her gown was torn where Rawdon had wrenched 
the brilliants out of it. She heard him go down stairs a few 
minutes after he left her, and the door slamming and closing 
on him. She knew he would never come back. He was 
gone for ever. Would he kill himself? — she thought — not 
until after he had met I^ord Steyne. She thought of her long 
past life, and all the dismal incidents of it. Ah, how dreary 
it seemed, how miserable, lonely and profitless! Should she 
take laudanum, and end it, too — have done with all hopes, 



schemes, debts and triumphs? The French maid found her 
in this position — sitting in the midst of her miserable ruins 
■with clasped hands and dry eyes. The woman was her ac- 
complice, and in Steyne's pay. "Mon Dieu, Madame, what 
has happened ? " she asked. 

What had happened ? Was she guilty or not ? She said 
not ; but who could tell what was truth which came from 
those lips ; or if that corrupt heart was in this case pure ? 
All her lies and her schemes, all her selfishness and her wiles, 
all her wit and genius had come to this bankruptcy. The 
woman closed the curtains, and with some entreaty and show 
of kindness, persuaded her mistress to lie down on the bed. 
Then she went below and gathered up the trinkets which had 
been lying on the floor since Rebecca dropped them there at 
her husband's orders, and Lord Steyne went away. 


During the first forty years of his long life, Carlyle was 
practically unknown. He was born in a little Scotch village 
in 179S, the son of poor peasants, with no visible likelihood 
of ever making himself heard of ten miles beyond his native 
parish. But there were, it appeared, a brain and a heart in 
the child, and its parents were able to afford it a grammar- 
school education ; and the boy afterwards attended Edinburgh 
University, and obviously did not misuse his time there. At 
the age of twenty he was teaching mathematics in Annan, 
and two years later was schoolmaster at Kirkcaldy, where 
began his friendship with young Edward Irving. It was a 
long journey from the Scotch pedagogue's desk to the primacy 
of English literature. He determined to become a barrister, 
and studied law for three or four years, maintaining himself 
the while by hammering algebra and geometry into hard 
Scotch heads, and contributing articles to encyclopaedias. In 
1822, being then twenty-seven years old, the Bullen boys 
hired him as tutor ; and he visited the great world of London 
and Paris before he was thirty. At this time, all he had 
written was a Life of Schiller, a translation of Legendre's 
"Geometry," and a translation of Goethe's "Wilhelm Meis- 
ter." The latter has held its place ever since, but, by itself 
could not be considered a hopeful basis for a reputation. But 
the German genius had a strong attraction for Carlyle, and 
influenced the central years of his life. Some specimens of 
the work of other German writers, and essays upon German 
authors, were printed by him about this time ; as literature 


and criticism they are in some respects among the most agree- 
ble reading that has come from his pen. He did not at that 
time know the great destiny that awaited him ; and he had 
not yet begun that whimsical, chronic quarrel with the world 
which grew upon him as his position in the world of letters 
became dominant. He had faith and enthusiasm, and the 
power of saying the thing he meant in such phrase as made 
his reader rejoice. The great new light which came into 
English literature with Carlyle was already shining in these 
early essays, with a softer and clearer lustre than in after 
years, when it was rendered lurid and portentous, sometimes, 
by the clouds and storms which assailed the giant mind which 
was its. medium. 

In 1826 Carlyle married Jane Welsh. Probably the inner 
life of a married couple has, never been more widely published 
than was that of these two queer and gifted beings, who were 
greatly averse from publicity of that kind during their life- 
time. And it is precisely because the annals of their domestic 
affairs is so full, that it is still difficult to arrive at any final 
conclusion upon it. It reads like a rugged and harrowing 
journey ; and yet, for aught we can say, so might the story 
of any two other nervous and exacting persoris, if described 
with equal minuteness by either of them. It is not improb- 
able that they had quite as much average happiness as do 
most couples; their ideal was higher and their irritability 
greater than the ordinary, and their power of giving vivid 
expression to their thoughts and • experiences was certainly 
far beyond the common. But after all allowances have been 
made, we cannot affirm that Jane and Thomas were an easy 
wife and husband to get on with. They kept each other on 
edge. On the other hand, it seems quite likely that his do- 
mestic jars, added to his dyspeptic tendency, may have stimu- 
lated Carlyle to write more and more poignantly, than he 
would otherwise have done. That the two loved and admired 
each other in the bottom of their hearts is unquestionable. 

Seven years after his marriage Carlyle published " Sartor 
Resartus," and thereby conquered fame among those who 
know what original thought and literary faculty are. It was 
a great book to have been written at that time, and it still 


remains a high and unique example of genius and humor. It 
breaks the bonds of Eighteenth Century ideas,. and gives us 
the freedom and perception of the Nineteenth. It is a veiled 
autobiography of a mind, and shows on its author's part a 
grasp of the philosophy of creation, and of the meaning of 
the world, which is attained only by master intellects. No 
doubt he was somewhat indebted to Goethe; but Carlyle 
could not help being independent, and though his orbit 
crossed that of the great German, it never coincided with it. 
This first work fairly gives the measure of the writer ; his 
"French Revolution," published in 1837 (after having been 
rewritten, owing to the burning of the first MS. while in the 
custody of John Stuart Mill), confirmed the promise of " Sar- 
tor," and is assuredly a masterpiece of forcible and picturesque 
narrative, and of marvellous scope and conciseness. Its abrupt 
and almost fantastic style repels many; but it has many pas- 
sages of splendid eloquence, and is pervaded by the grim 
undercurrent of humor which was peculiar to Carlyle. Since 
the book, was written further research and ampler materials 
have somewhat abated its value as mere history ; but its worth 
as literature is indestructible, and it paints a [ picture of the 
great Revolution, and announces a meaning in it, such as is 
possible only to a mind of Carlyle's synthetic insight. 

But it also gives evidence of a curious contrariety in Car- 
lyle's view of the world, which became more accentuated as 
he grew older. He was a champion of the rights of man, and 
yet he was a hero-worshipper — a believer in the divine right 
of great men to rule. The distinction between the common 
and the superior man seems to him to be one of kind as well 
as of degree ; and this view opposes the best thought of the 
race. The essential unity of the human race is a truth which 
did not appeal to him. He fell into contradictions and obscuri- 
ties, and his mighty force wasted itself in them. He dazzles 
more than he convinces, and always appears somewhat sensa- 
tional, in the higher sense of the word. He harangues us 
with almost fierce earnestness, and calls upon the verities 
and eternities ; but somehow we seem to feel a pose and an 
unreality beneath it all. Doubtless Carlyle was sincere — he 
believed in himself ; but he may have expended an energy in 

Bnglish wteeaturb. 231 

persuading himself so to believe which might more usefully 
have been expended in other directions. 

The remaining forty years of his literary activity were 
devoted to biographical writing, and to essays on the questions 
of the times, usually of a warning or denunciatory character. 
His "Oliver Cromwell," "John Sterling," and "Frederick 
the Great" are impressive works; but in reading them for 
information we must bear in mind the powerful predilections 
of the writer. In truth, Carlyle's works are more interesting 
and valuable as portrayals of his own trenchant and singular 
judgments upon men and life, than as trustworthy pictures 
of life and men themselves. Even so, his books are an 
awakening and an educating force of which every intelligent 
mind should avail itself. Carlyle's career ended sadly ; the 
message which he so strenuously proclaimed failed to win the 
assent of his generation. Yet he was, upon the whole, the 
greatest man of letters of his time in England, great even in 
his errors, and modern thought, without his infliience, would 
have been less independent and honest than it is to-day. 

The Attack 'Upon the Bastille. 

(From " The French Revolution.") 

All morning, since nine, there has been a cry everywhere, 
"To the Bastille!" Repeated "deputations of citizens" 
have been here, passionate for arms; whom De Launay has 
got dismissed by soft speeches through port-holes. Towards 
noon Elector Thuriot de la Rosi^re gains admittance ; finds 
De lyaunay indisposed for surrender ; nay, disposed for blow- 
ing up the place rather. Thuriot mounts with him to the 
battlements : heaps of paving-stones, old iron, and missiles 
lie piled: cannon all duly levelled; in every embrasure a 
cannon — only drawn a little ! But outwards, behold, 
O Thuriot, how the multitude flows on, welling through 
every street ; tocsin furiously pealing, all drums beating the 
generale: the suburb Sainte-Antoine rolling hitherward 
wholly as one man ! Such vision (spectral, yet real) thou, 
O Thuriot! as from thy Mount of Vision, beholdest in this 
moment : prophetic of other phantasmagories, and loud-gib- 


bering spectral realities which thou yet beholdest not, but 
shalt. "Que voulez-vous?" said De L,aunay, turning pale 
at the sight, with an air of reproach, almost of menace. 
"Monsieur," said Thuriot, rising into the moral sublime, 
' ' what mean you ? Consider if I could not precipitate both 
of us from this height" — say only a hundred feet, exclusive 
of the walled ditch ! Whereupon De Launay fell silent. 

Woe to thee, De I^aunay, in such an hour, if thou canst 
not, taking some one firm decision, rule circumstances ! 
Soft speeches will not serve ; hard grape-shot is questionable; 
but hovering between the two is as questionable. Ever 
wilder swells the tide of men ; their infinite hum waxing 
ever louder into imprecations, perhaps into crackle of stray 
musketry, which latter, on walls nine feet thick, cannot do 
execution. The outer drawbridge has been lowered for 
Thuriot ; new deputation of citizens (it is the third and 
noisiest of all) penetrates that way into the outer court : soft 
speeches producing no clearance of these, De Launay gives 
fire ; pulls up his drawbridge. A slight sputter ; which has 
kindled the too combustible chaos ; made it a roaring fire- 
chaos ! Bursts forth insurrection, at sight of its own blood 
(for there were deaths by that sputter of fire), into endless 
rolling explosion of musketry, distraction, execration ; and 
overhead, from the fortress, let one great gun, with its grape- 
shot, go booming, to show what we could do. The Bastille 
is besieged 1 

On, then, all Frenchmen that have hearts in their bodies ! 
Roar with all your throats of cartilage and metal, ye sons of 
liberty ; stir spasmodically whatsoever of utmost faculty is in 
you, soul, body, or spirit ; for it is the hour ! Smite, thou 
Louis Tournay, cai'twright of the Marais, old soldier of the 
Regiment Dauphine ; smite at that outer drawbridge chain, 
though the fiery hail whistles round thee ! Never over nave 
or felloe did thy axe strike such a stroke. Down with it, 
man ; down with it to Orcus : let the whole accursed edifice 
sink thither, and tyranny be swallowed up for ever ! Mounted, 
some say, on the roof of the guard-room, some " on bayonets 
stuck into joints of the wall," I^ouis Tournay smites, brave 
Aubin Bonnem^re (also an old soldier) seconding him : the 


diain yields, breaks; the huge drawbridge slams down, thun- 
dering (az'^t^af a j). Glorious; and yet, alas! it is still but 
the outworks. The eight grim towers with their Invalides' 
musketry, their paving-stones and cannon-mouths still soar 
aloft intact : ditch yawning impassable, stone-faced ; the inner 
drawbridge with its back towards us : the Bastille is still to 


Blessed is he who has found his work ; let him ask no 
other blessedness. He has a work, a life-purpose ; he has 
found it, and will follow it ! How, as a free flowing channel, 
dug and torn by noble force through the sour mud-swamp 
of one's existence, like an ever-deepening river there, it runs 
and flows ; draining off" the sour festering water gradually 
from the root of the remotest grass blade ; making, instead 
of pestilential swamp, a green fruitful meadow with its clear 
flowing stream. How blessed for the meadow itself, let the 
stream and its value be great or small! Labor is life ; from 
the inmost heart of the worker rises his God-given force, the 
sacred celestial life-essence, breathed into him by Almighty 
God; from his inmost heart awakens him to all nobleness, to 
all knowledge "self-knowledge," and much else, so soon as 
work fitly begins. Knowledge ! the knowledge that will 
hold good in working, cleave thou to that ; for Nature herself 
accredits that, says Yea to that. Properly thou hast no other 
knowledge but what thou hast got by working ; the rest is 
yet all an hypothesis of knowledge : a thing to be argued of 
in schools, a thing floating in the clouds in endless logic 
vortices, till we try it and fix it. ' ' Doubt, of whatever kind, 
can be ended by action alone." . . . 

Older than all preached gospels was this unpreached, inar- 
ticulate, but ineradicable, for-ever-enduring* gospel : Work, 
and therein have well-being. Man, Son of Earth and of 
Heaven, lies there not, in the innermost heart of thee, a spirit 
of active method, a force for work ; — and burns like a pain- 
fully smouldering fire, giving thee no rest till thou unfold it, 
till thou write it down in beneficent facts around thee ! What 
is immethodic, waste, thou shalt make methodic, regulated, 


arable ; obedient and productive to thee. Wheresoever thou 
findest disorder, there is thy eternal enemy ; attack him 
swiftly, subdue him ; make order of him, the subject not of 
chaos, but of intelligence, divinity and thee! The thistle 
that grows in thy path, dig it out that a blade of useful 
grass, a drop of nourishing milk, may grow there instead. 
The waste cotton-shrub, gather its waste white down, spin it, 
weave it ; that, in place of idle litter, there may be folded 
webs, and the naked skin of man be covered. 

But, above all, where thou findest ignorance, stupidity, 
brute-mindedness — attack it I say ; smite it wisely, unwear- 
iedly, and rest not while thou livest aud it lives; but smite, 
smite in the name of God ! The highest God, as I under- 
stand it, does audibly so command thee : still audibly, if thou 
have ears to hear. He, even He, with his unspoken voice, 
is fuller than any Sinai thunders, or syllabled speech of 
whirlwinds ; for the SILENCE of deep eternities, of worlds 
from beyond the morning-stars, does it not speak to thee? 
The unborn ages ; the old Graves, with their long moulder- 
ing dust, the very tears that wetted it, now all dry — do not 
these speak to thee what ear hath not heard? The deep 
death -kingdoms, the stars in their never-resting courses, all 
space and all time, proclaim it to thee in continual silent ad- 
monition. Thou, too, if ever man should, shalt work while 
it is called to-day ;• for the night cometh, wherein no man 
can work. 

All true work is sacred ; in all true work, were it but true 
hand-labor, there is something of divineness. Labor, wide as 
the earth, has its summit in heaven. Sweat of the brow ; 
and up from that to sweat of the brain, sweat , of the heart ; 
which includes all Kepler calculations, Newton meditations, 
all sciences, all spoken epics, all acted heroism,' martyrdom — • 
up to that "a^ony of bloody sweat," which all men have 
called divine! ,0 brother, if this is not "worship," then I 
say, the more pity for worship ; for this is the noblest thing 
yet discovered under God's sky. 


Alfred Tennyson, bom in that famous birth-year ' of 
great men, 1809, lived to a great age, companioned by noble 
thoughts and by his eminent contemporaries, supported by 
the strong unfaltering fire of his own genius, honored by his 
queen, held by millions of readers as the foremost poet of his 
time, and exceptionally happy in the domestic sphere of wife 
and children. Poor in his youth, he died a rich man, from 
the honorable exercise of his extraordinary gifts. A fuller, 
more influential and successful life has seldom been lived by 
any man ; his rich nature was characterized by that trenchant 
masculinity which admits the refinement of the Eternal Fem- 
inine ; his sterling sense was softened and led by* the spirit, 
and he was initiate in the incommunicable mysteries of the 
soul. His career and character, not less than his poetry, must 
remain a profitable study for many generations. The poetry 
of no other Englishman since Shakespeare has become so 
familiar in men's mouths as hiSj and its effect has been succu- 
lent both to literature and to life. He is beyond dispute the 
English poet of his century and one of the few writers great 
enough to make a century memorable. Always (to use his 
own words) "he gave, the people of his best:" and though, 
in the much that he has written, there is not a little which 
mature criticism rates far below his best, and more that could 
be spared as being reproductions in fresh forms of thoughts 
treated by him before ; yet there stands to his credit a body 
of poetry which only the finest and noblest genius could have 
cheated, and without which the literature of his time would 



lack some of its most exquisite graces and most felicitous and 
penetrating interpretations. 

Tennyson's outward life was uneventful. He entered 
Cambridge in 1828, with Hallara (son of the historian), Trench 
and Houghton ; was compelled by his slender income to defer 
his marriage until 1850, when he was forty-one ; was raised to 
the laureate-ship of England in the same year, and accepted a 
peerage in 1884. He was no traveler, rarely leaving England, 
and never realizing the hope of his youth, "To see, before I 
die, the palms and temples of the south." He died in 1892, 
well past the age of fourscore, but with the fineness of his 
genius unabated. . His history is that of his mind and heart, 
which is shadowed forth in his writings, yet ever veiled be- 
neath the reticences of pure art. He was great enough to 
eschew the individual and singular in the published expres- 
sion of his thought, and to oiFer only those ideas and feelings 
which are catholic in the race. All who have loved and lost 
have experienced the emotions of "In Memoriam ; " no one 
who has meditated deeply on the problems of the age can fail 
to find his best conclusions in " Locksley Hall ; " scepticism 
may find its utterance and its answer in " The Two Voices ; " 
the refusal of the soul to stay in mortal limitations resounds 
in " Ulysses ;" the passion, purity and exaltation of love are 
portrayed in "CEnone," "Maud," "I^ove and Duty," "Tears, 
Idle Tears," "The Gardener's Daughter," and many other 
lovely poems ; the mockery of beauty without God is shown 
in "The Palace of Art;" the grandeur of patriotism, civil 
and military, is expressed in the ' ' Ode on the Death of Wel- 
lington " and in "England ; " and so we might continue. In 
a word, the life of his age flowed through Tennyson, and 
found in him its broadest utterance. Philosophy, science, 
history and art were elemental spirits employed by this Pros- 
pero to give body, color and pertinence to his harmonious 
creations ; his brain was balanced by his heart, and the first 
was as lofty as the last was deep. 

The beginnings of the poet's career were not ambitious. 
Before he was twenty, he and his brother published a small 
volume of " Poems by Two Brothers," which showed faculty, 
but no definite aim. His " Poems Chiefly Lyrical," appear- 


ing when he was twenty-one, were studies in form, sentiment 
and beauty, but only his more sagacious critics were able to 
foretell from it his future eminence. In 1842 another volume 
was brought out ; and in this we find the first specimen of a 
work destined to be the most voluminous and one of the most 
important of his life — the fragment called "Morte d' Arthur." 
The plan of the " Epic of Arthur " had then been for some 
time in his mind ; but he had not satisfied himself with his 
treatment of it. The fragment, however, was so generally 
praised that he was encouraged to take up the subject with 
renewed vigor ; and, at intervals during the fifty years that 
followed, he gradually elaborated the whole stately series of 
poems bearing upon the story of Uther's mystic Son. The 
work as a whole is sufficient basis for a great reputation ; but 
the merit of the various parts is not equal ; there is poetry in 
all of them, but some of the earlier ones — " Enid," " Guene- 
vere," " Elaine," and the " Morte d' Arthur " itself, seem to 
touch a higher level than the rest. The material was derived 
chiefly from the prose narrative of Malory ; as an individ- 
ual effijrt to put in homogeneous metrical form the legends 
of the beginnings of a nation, perhaps nothing since Homer's 
Iliad and Odyssey has been done to compare with it. But it is 
somewhat too long for the taste of the present day, and the 
general sameness of treatment and tone militate against its 
cumulative effect. 

The most important fact of Tennyson's young manhood, 
in its influence upon his mind, was the death of his friend 
Arthur Hallam. The sad event took place in 1833, when 
Tennyson was twenty- four years old ; "In Memoriam, ' ' the 
poem which commemorates it, was not published till 1850. 
During these seventeen years he had been enabled to pass 
through the acuter stages of grief into a calmer and deeper 
state, in which became visible to him the mercy of the God 
who giveth and who taketh away. ' The poem, therefore, 
shows the balance and symmetry of high art ; it shows pain 
compensated by spiritual growth and the consolations of re- 
ligion and philosophy. It has probably been more widely 
read than any other of Tennyson's productions ; and the 
wonderful perfection of its form, and the truth and insight 


of its expression, its passion, its reverence and its sincerity, 
make it worthy of its reputation. The personal lineaments 
of Arthur Hallam, lovable as these were, disappear in the 
deeper beauty and significance of that for which he stands — 
the human love and companionship which death interrupts, 
but does not destroy. Tennyson, in this poem, made his 
private suffering the means of comfort to his race ; and no 
poet can perform a loftier service. 

"The Princess," published in 1847, embodies a discussion 
of various modern social topics, prominent among them that 
of woman's position in the community. It is presented in 
unique form, the exponents of the ideas of the day being at- 
tired in mediaeval costume, and the scenery being that of the 
Age of Chivalry. It would indeed have been difficult if not 
impossible to treat the subject poetically on any other plan. 
The poem is in blank verse, every line packed with meaning, 
to such an extent as sometimes to render the thought obscure. 
Its progress is relieved by the introduction of several exqui- 
site songs, one at least of which — "Tears, idle Tears," — is one 
of the most delicious lyrics ever written. "The Princess" 
holds a noble argument ; but the main problem which it at- 
tacks cannot be finally solved by any individual ; only in the 
lapse of ages will the divine purpose be revealed. 

The concluding twenty years of Tennyson's life, from 
1870 onwards, were largely occupied with essays in dramatic 
literature. He produced six or seven plays, in the Shake- 
spearian form, based on historic or quasi-historic subjects ; 
and all of them were acted on the stage by competent per- 
formers,, with measurable success. Worthy and admirable 
productions they certainly are; but the challenge to the great 
Elizabethan dramatists was too obvious ; and the lack of 
humor in the nineteenth century poet, as well as the habit of 
fifty years in other forms of poetic art, prevents these plays 
from ranking with his most satisfactory work. We are dis- 
posed to regret that the force and genius which went to their 
making had not been applied in other directions. They con- 
tain many splendid lines and stirring passages, many fine 
situations, and masterly" delineations of character; but they 
do not show Tennyson at his best ; and the greater a writer 


is, the more stringent is our demand that he maintain his 
highest level. 

To many, Tennyson's shorter pieces will remain the favor- 
ites. Some of them seem the very flower of human speech. 
"Recollections of the Arabian Nights," " The Lady of Shal- 
lott," "The Lotus Eaters," " Love, and Death, " "A Dream 
of Pair Women," "The Sleeping Beauty," and that last 
noble message — "Crossing the Bar ; " these and many another 
as we read them, seem to attain the limits of beauty in 
measure, rhyme and thought. But it is still too early to 
decide what of Tennyson is most nearly immortal. He lies 
in Westminster Abbey; and it is enough for us to know that 
so long as that historic church stands, his fame is likely to 
endure. Or we might say that the English language which 
he has dignified and enriched will not outlast the noble crea- 
tions which he has incarnated in it. 

Tears, Idle Tears. 

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean 
Teats from the depth of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail. 
That brings our friends up from the underworld, 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge j 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

Dear as remembered kisses after death, 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned 
On lips that are lor others ; deep as love, 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ; 
O Death in Life, the days that are no more. 


Of Old Sat Freedom on the Heights. 

Of old sat Freedom on the heights, 
The thunders breaking at her feet ; 

Above her shook the starry lights : 
She heard the torrents meet. 

There in her place she did rejoice, 
Self-gathered in her prophet-mind, 

But fragments of her mighty voice 
Came rolling on the wind. 

Then stept she down thro' town and field 
To mingle with the human race, 

And part by part to men revealed 
The fullness of her face — 

Grave Mother of majestic works, 
From her isle-altar gazing down, 

Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks, 
And, King-like, wears the crown : 

Her open eyes desire the truth. 

The -wisdom of a thousand years 
Is in them. May perpetual youth 

Keep dry their light from tears ; 

That her fair form may stand and shine, 
Make bright our days and light our dreams, 

Turning to scorn with lips divine 
The falsehood of extremes. 

Elaine's Letter to Guinevere. 

Then spake the lily maid of Astolat; 
"Sweet father, all too faint and sick am I 
For anger : these are slanders : never yet 
Was noble man but made ignoble talk. 
He makes no friend who never made a foe. 
But now it is my glory to have loved 
One peerless, without stain : so let me pass, 
My father, howsoe'er I seem to you. 


Not all unhappy, having loved God's best 
And greatest, tho' my love had no return : 
Yet, seeing you desiie your child to live, 
Thanks, but you work against your own desire ; 
For if I could believe the things you say 
I should but die the sooner ; wherefore cease, 
Sweet father, and bid call the ghostly man 
Hither, and let me shrive me clean and die." 
So when the ghostly man had come and gone. 
She with a face, bright as tor sin forgiven, 
Besought Lavaine to write as she devised 
A letter, word for word ; and when he asked 

" Is it for Lancelot, is it for my dear lord ? 
Then will I bear it gladly ; " she replied, 

"For Lancelot and the Queen and all the world, 
But I myself must bear it." Then he wrote 
The letter she devised ; which being writ 
And folded, " O sweet father, tender and true, 
Deny me not," she said — " you never yet 
Denied my fancies — this, however strange. 
My latest : lay the letter in my hand 
A little ere I die, and close the hand 
Upon it; I shall guard it even in, death. 
And when the heat is gone from out my heart. 
Then take the little bed on' which I died 
For Lancelot's love, and deck it like the Queen's 
For richness, and me also like the Queen 
In all I haye of rich, and lay me on it. 
And let there be prepared a chariot-bier 
To take me to the river, and a barge 
Be ready on the river, clothed in black. 
I go in state to court, to meet the Queen. 
There surely I shall speak for mine own self. 
And none of you can speak for me so well. 
And therefore let our dumb old man alone 
Go with me, he can steer and row, and he 
Will guide me to that palace, to the doors." 

She ceased: her father promised; whereupon 
She grew so cheerful that they deemed her death 
Was rather in the fantasy than the blood. 
But ten slow mornings past, and on the ekventH 


Her father laid the letter in her hand, 

And closed the hand upon it and she died. - 

So that day there was dole in Astolat. 

But when the next sun brake from underground, 
Then, those two brethren slowly with bent brows 
Accompanying, the sad chariot-bier 
Passed like a shadow through the field, that shone 
Full- summer, to that stream whereon the barge, 
Pall'd all its length in blackest samite, lay. 
There sat the lifelong creature of the house, 
I»oyal, the dumb old servitor, on deck. 
Winking his eyes, and twisted all his face. 
So those two brethren from the chariot took 
And on the black decks laid her in her bed. 
Set in her hand a lily, o'er her hung 
The silken case with braided blazonings. 
And kissed her quiet brows, and saying to her, 
"Sister, farewell forever," and again, 
"Farewell, sweet sister," parted all in tears. 
Then rose the dumb old servitor, and the dead 
Steer' d by the dumb went upward with the flood — 
In her right hand the lily, in her left 
The letter — all her bright hair streaming down — 
And all the coverlid was cloth of gold 
Drawn to her waist, and she herself in white 
All but her face, and that clear-featured face 
"Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead 
But fast asleep, and lay as though she smiled. 

Then while Sir Lancelot leant, in half disgust 
At love, life, all things, on the window ledge. 
Close underneath his eyes, and right across 
Where these had fallen, slowly passed the barge 
Whereon the lily maid of Astolat 
I<ay smiling, like a star in blackest night. 

But the wild Queen, who saw not, burst away 
To weep and wail in secret ; and the barge 
On to the palace-doorway sliding, paused. 
There two stood armed, and kept the door ; to whom. 
All up the marble stair, tier over tier. 












Were added mouths that gaped, and eyes that ask'd 
"What; is it? ' but that oarsman's haggard face, 

As hard and still as is the face that men 

Shape to their fancy's eye from broken rocks 

On some cliff-side, appall' d them, and they said, 
"He is enchanted, cannot speak — and she, 

I/)ok how she sleeps — the Fairy Queen, so fair ! 

Yea, but how pale ! what are they? flesh and blood? 

Or come to take the King to fairy land? 

For some do hold our Arthur cannot die, 

But that he .passes into fairy land." 

While thus they babbled of the King, the King 
Came girt with knights : then turned the tongueless man 
From the half-face to the full eye, and rose 
And pointed to the damsel and the doors. 
So Arthur bade the meek Sir Percivale 
And pure Sir Galahad to uplift the maid ; 
And reverently they bore her into hall. 
Then came the fine Gawain and wondered at her. 
And Lancelot later came and mused at her, 
At last the Queen herself and pitied her : 
But Arthur spied the letter in her hand. 
Stooped, took, brake seal and read it ; this was all : 

' ' Most noble lord, Sir Lancelot of the Lake, 
I, sometime called the maid of Astolat, 
Come, for you left me taking no farewell. 
Hither, to take my last farewell of you. 
I loved you, and my love had no return, 
And therefore my true love has been my death. 
And therefore to our lady Guinevere, 
And to all other ladies, I make moan. 
Pray for my soul, and yield me burial. 
Pray for my soul thou too, Sir Lancelot, 
As thou art a knight peerless." 

Thus he read. 
And ever in the reading, lords and dames 
Wept, looking often from his face who read 
To hers which lay so silent, and at times, 
So touched were they,- half-thinking that her lips, 
Who had devised the letter, moved again. 


From "In Memoriam." 

The Danube to the Severn gave 

The darkened heart that beat no more, 
They laid him by the pleasant shore, 

And in the hearing of the wave. 

There twice a day the Severn fills ; 
The salt sea-water passes by, 
And hushes half the babbling Wye, 

And makes a silence in the hills. 

The Wye is hushed nor moved along, 
And hushed my deepest grief of all. 
When filled with tears that cannot fall, 

I brim with sorrow drowning song. 

The tide flows down, the wave again 
Is vocal in its wooded walls ; 
My deeper anguish also falls, 

And I can speak a little then. 

Oh, yet we trust that somehow good 
Will be the final goal of ill. 
To pangs of nature, sins of will. 

Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ; 

That nothing walks with aimless feet ; 
That not one life shall be destroyed, 
Or cast as rubbish to the void, 

When God hath made the pile complete; 

That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 
That not a moth with vain desire 
Is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire, 

Or but subserves another's gain. 

Behold, we know not anything; 

I can but trust that good shall faU " 
At last — far off— at last, to all. 

And every winter change to spring. 


So runs my dream ; but what am I ? 

An infant crying in the night : 

An infant crying for the light : 
And with no language but a cry. 

Crossing the Bar. 

Sunset and evening star, 

And one clear call for me ! 
And may there be no moaning of the bar, 

When I put out to sea, 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep. 

Too full for sound and foam, 
When that which drew from out the boundless deep 

Turns again home. 

Twilight and evening bell, 

And after that the dark ; 
And may there be no sadness of farewell 

When I embark ; 

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place 

The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 

When I have crossed the bar. 


The beautiful romance of Browning's life is a part of his 
own and his wife's poetry. He was about two-and- thirty 
when they met and loved each other, and they ran away and 
were married in 1 846, when he was thirty-four. During the 
fifteen years that followed, their happiness in each other was 
full and complete, with no shadow on it ; and Browning even 
had the happiness of knowing that his love had prolonged 
her life and freed it from much physical pain, as well as 
transfiguring it with spiritual joy. She died in 1861, and he 
survived her twenty-eight j'ears, dying in Venice in 1889. 
But in soul they were never apart ; it was a true marriage ; 
and as they were both persons of the finest genius, their feli- 
city was a final answer to the doubt whether high souls can 
be truly mated. Most of their married life was passed in 
Italy, partly on account of Mrs. Browning's delicate health, 
partly because her father was never reconciled to their mar- 
riage, but died the surly and selfish tyrant that he had 
always lived ; and partly because the political hopes and 
struggles of Italy were' ardently espoused by both the poets, 
and largely tinged much of their verse. Their only child, a 
son, was born in Florence ; and Mrs. Browning lived long 
enough to see her hopes of the emancipation of Italy from 
the Austrian yoke accomplished. 

Browning is the most interesting figure among modern 
poets ; he has been for years the subjefct of study on the part 
of numerous "societies," and the final word on him has not 
yet been said. He is a philosopher, a man of the world, a 
poet and a lover these dissimilar elements are united, but 


not completely fused in bira. His music is broken, but wben 
it does ring true, there is no sweeter sound in literature. 
"Your poetry doesn't singl" Swinburne once said to him; 
and no one who has read him can question the truth of the 
criticism. Browning himself admitted it ; he recognized his 
ruggedness and obscurity as faults ; he did wha.t he could to 
overcome them ; but in spite of his efforts his thoughts would 
"break thro' language and escape." We must accept him 
as he is ; and there is no keener, subtler, and at the same 
time braver and truer mind among the poets of this century. 
His field of exploration is human nature in its deeper and 
more remote manifestations ; his activity is thus in a world 
scarcely known to exist by the ordinary person ; and the sur- 
prises he announces and the treasures he brings to light are 
therefore a cause of perplexity and doubt to the spectators, 
much as if an Oriental magician were to produce before them 
strange objects apparently created out of empty air. Brown- 
ing does his best to make all clear to them ; but the material 
he Works with has not yet been reduced to recognizable 
form ; it is like ore from the mine, which to the uninstructed 
looks like anything but precious metal. 

The difficulty of Browning's verse, the need of study to 
understand most of it, and the real value which careful study 
shows it to possess, have led many to assign him a place in 
literature higher than he deserves. He is a great writer and 
often a great poet ; but in no respect is he the greatest. His 
apprehension of the relativity of all things is imperfect ; were 
it otherwise he would be able to state his message in terms as 
simple as those of Shakespeare, and so accommodate it to the 
understanding of the simple. Browning himself was a scholar 
of high attainments, and he often used his acquired knowledge 
as if it were a common possession, like the multiplication 
table. Such is the fault of " Sordello," in order to under- 
stand which one must begin with a thorough mastery of the 
mediaeval history of Italy. Nor is familiarity with the various 
dialectics of modern philosophy less indispensable to an ade- 
quate comprehension of much that he has written ; and the 
public naturally and rightly revolts from such requirements. 
The profoundest truths cjm be stated plainly; they can be 


disentangled from accidental conditions, and made to shine 
by their own light. Browning constantly fails to free them 
from these trammels of temporary clothing, and display them 
in the grandeur of their nakedness. He needs an expositor, 
an annotator, an editor ; and this necessity disables him from 
conveying to the world more than a small part of the good 
he tried to do. The world awaits a stronger unifying force, 
a more synthetic genius. Doubtless, no truth that Browning 
perceived will be lost ; but it will come to us by the medium 
of other minds than his. In many of his poems his power of 
brilliant costuming and of dramatic statement blinds us to 
the thing which was his real object, and we praise him for 
achievements which were merely accessory to his intent. 
But this is as much his fault as ours, and he must pay the 
penalty of it. 

Browning has been truly called one of the most suggestive 
of poets. Vivid and impressive pictures start into view under 
his pen as if spontaneously ; he gives us the word which tells 
and omits the rest ; and often he hits the very nerve of 
meaning. Color and sparkle cover his work with a splendid 
sheen and iridescence, dazzling and enchanting the eye. He 
places the external of a man or woman before us with a'few 
masterly touches, and then proceeds to dive into their inmost 
souls and reveal the hidden springs of their action and 
thought. He brings similes and illustrations from afar ; he 
sets his picture in a splendid frame, and throws behind it the 
shadows of a mystic or mysterious background. At times he 
fills the listening soul with music that seems to come from 
Heaven itself; but anon a discord jars upon us, and we for- 
give it. less easily because but now we had been so deeply 
delighted. To read him is like driving with Phaeton in the 
chariot of the Sun ; we brush the stars and then plunge 
headlong earthwards. The emotions which he portrays are 
the most impassioned known to our nature ; his landscapes 
are fierce, ominous, appalling, transcendently lovely, but 
seldom soothing and inviting. The Serene middle path was 
rarely trodden by his Muse. Our pulse beats faster as we 
follow her, but we are not won by those gentle and sweet 
fascinations which make us forget the means in the end. 


The length of many of Browning's poems is portentous ; 
such 3. work as "The Ring and the Book" could not be 
adequately perused in months, having in view the compli- 
cated psychical analysis which is its warp and woof. Nor 
can it be said that, for any but students, the fruit to be gath- 
ered repays the time and effort of the gathering. ' "The Ring 
and the Book " is indeed full of superb poetry ; but this is 
involved with much that is of less value, but which, on the 
other hand, is instrumental to the complete effect. Many 
attempts have been made to isolate the " Beauties of Brown- 
ing," but they have failed, as might have been expected ; no 
vital work can be thus eviscerated without losing more than 
is gained. Detached apothegms, no matter how trenchant Or 
penetrating, have little weight ; to detach them is as if one 
were to bring down to the plain the rock which caps the 
mountain ; in its true place it was sublime, but thus displaced 
it is a rock and no more. Finally, we must take Browning as 
he is, or do without him. There is no golden road to him. 

Nevertheless, there are many of his poems which all who 
run may read, and profit by. Such are "The Ride from 
Ghent to Aix," "The Pied Piper of Hamelin,"' " Ben Ezra," 
" Pippa Passes," and many shorter piece's in " Bells and Pome- 
granates " and "Men and Women." His poem, " Childe 
Roland to the Dark Tower Came, ' ' is one of his strangest and 
most captivating productions, and characteristic of his genius, 
inasmuch as it is open to many interpretations, and is proba- 
bly read by each student according to the fashion of his own 
nature and knowledge; "Waring" is another of these ab- 
sorbing problems which Browning gives us, possessing a 
meaning transcending what any specific solution can afford. 
We feel the spirit breathing through the form, and bringing 
inspiration ; but the form itself is dim to our apprehension, 
and the more we seek to define it, the further does the true , 
soul retire from us. 

The latter years of Browning's life were spent in England, 
with annual excursions to Italy. He was fond of society, and 
could be met at certain London houses almost daily during 
th e season. His conversation was that of an accomplished ' 
man of the world, with something else added ; one who did 


not know who he was might have wondered what this some- 
thing was, but to those who knew it was the magic influence 
of a great soul. He continued to write up to nearly the time 
of his death, and the force and edge of his wonderful intellect 
were never abated or dulled. His fame will increase as time 
goes on, though the actual knowledge of his writings will 
probably remain the possession of the few. But in indirect 
ways he will lead and enlighten the race, and he was of too 
lofty a mind to care whether the good that came through 
him was credited to himself or another. 

PippA's Song. 

The year's at the spring, 
And day's at the morn ; 
Morning's at seven ; 
The hillside's due-pearled; 
The lark's on the wing ; 
The snail's on the thorn : 
God's in his heaven — 
All's right with the world! 

The I^ost Leader. 

Just for a handful of silver he left us, 

Just for a riband to stick in his coat — 
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, 

Lost all the others she lets us devote ; 
They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, 

So much was theirs who so little allowed: 
How all our copper had gone for his service ! 

Rags— were they purple, his heart had been proud. 
We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him, 

Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, 
Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, 

Made him our pattern to live and to die ! 
Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, 

Burns, Shelley, were with us, — they watch from their 
graves ! 
He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, 

— He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves ! 


We shall march prospering, — not thro' his presence ; 

Songs may inspirit us, — ^not from his lyre ; 
Deeds will be done, — while he boasts his quiescence. 

Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire. 
Ulot out his name, then, record one lost soul more. 

One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, 
One more devil's- triumph and sorrow for angels, 

One wrong more to man, one more insult to God ! 
X^fe's night begins : let him never come back to us ! 

There will be doubt, hesitation and pain. 
Forced praise on our part — the glimmer of twilight. 

Never glad confident morning again ! 
Best fight on well, for we taught him^strike gallantly, 

Menace our heart ere we master his own ; 
Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, 

Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne ! 

Incident of the French Camp. 

YoiT know we French stormed Ratisbon : 

A mile or so away, 
On a little mound. Napoleon 

Stood on our storming day; 
With neck out-thrust, you fancy how 

Legs wide, arms locked behind, 
As if to balance the prone brow 

Oppressive with its mind. 

Just as perhaps he mused, " My plans 

That soar, to earth may fall. 
Let once my army-leader Lannes 

Waver at yonder wall, — " 
Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew 

A rider, bound on bound 
Full-galloping : nor bridle drew 

Until he reached the mound. 

'then off there flung in smiling joy. 

And held himself erect 
By just his horse's mane, a boy: 

You hardly could suspect — 
(So tight he kept his lips compressed, 

Scarce any blood came through) 


You looked twice ere you saw his breast 
Was all but shot in two. 

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace 

We've got you Ratisbon ! 
The Marshal's in' the market place. 

And you'll be there anon, 
To see your flag-bird flap his vans 

Where I, to heart's desire, 
Perched him ! ' ' Th6 chief's eye flashed ; his plans 

Soared up again like fire. 

The chiefs eye flashed; but presently 

Softened itself, as sheathes 
A film the mother eagle's eye 
When her bruised eaglet breathes. 
"You're wounded ! " " Nay," the soldier's pride 

Touched to the quick, he said : 
"I'm killed, Sire ! ' ' And his chief beside, 
Smiling the boy fell dead. 

Rabbi Ben Ezra. 
(The first six and last two stanzas are given.) 
Grow old along with me ! 
The best is yet to be, 
The last of life, for which the first was made: 
Our times are in His hand 
Who saith, ' 'A whole I planned. 
Youth shows but half ; trust God ; see all nor be afraid ! " 

Not that, amassing flowers, 

Youth sighed, "Which rose make ours. 
Which lily leave and then as best recall?" 

Not that, admiring stars, 

It yearned, ' ' Nor Jove, nor Mars ; 
Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all ! " 

Not for such hopes and fears 

Annulling youth's brief years, 
Do I remonstrate : folly wide the mark ! 

Rather I prize the doubt 

I/OW kinds, exist without, 
Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. 


Poor vaunt of life indeed, 

Were man but formed to feed 
On joy, to solely seek and find and feast : 

Such feasting ended, then 

As sure an end to men ; 
Irks care the crop-full bird ? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast ? 

Rejoice we are allied 

To That which doth provide 
And not partake, effect and not recdve ! 

A spark disturbs our clod ; 

Neater we hold of God 
Who gives, than of his tribes that take, I must believe. 

Then welcome each rebuff 

That turns earth's smoothness rough 
£ach sting that bids nor sit nor stand, but go ! 

Be our joys three parts pain ! 

Strive, and hold cheap the strain ; 
Learn, nor account the pang ; dare, never grudge the throe ! 

But I need, now as then, 

Thee, God, who mouldest men ! 
And since, not even while the whirl was worst. 

Did I, — to the wheel of life 

With shapes and colors rife. 
Bound dizzily,— mistake my end, to slake thy thirst: 

So, take and use thy work. 

Amend what flaws may lurk. 
What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim ! 

My times be in Thy hand ! 

Perfect the cup as planned ! 
Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same ! 


The greatest female poet of England belongs to the reign 
of Queen Victoria. Elizabeth Barrett, born in 1809, began 
verse-making at a very early age, and her father published a 
volume of hers when she was but sixteen. The version of 
"Prometheus Bound," published in 1853, she afterwards pro- 
nounced an "early failure," and substituted another. A 
volume issued in 1838 contained some fine short poems. 
Though her health was delicate, her life was a studious and 
happy one up to this time, when the rupture of a blood-vessel 
brought her to the verge of death. Her elder brother accom- 
panied her to Torquay, and in a few days he was drowned by 
the capsizing of a sail-boat. Miss Barrett, filled with horror of 
the place, was taken back to London, and there, in a darkened 
room, continued her studies and composition. Few friends 
were admitted, but Robert Browning called to thank her for 
a graceful compliment to him in "Lady Geraldine's Court- 
ship." The acquaintance ripened into intimacy and love. 
Her health improved, and, though her father strongly objected, 
she left home and was married to the poet. He took her to 
Italy, where they resided in Florence. The depth of her love 
is shown in her poems called "Sonnets from the Portuguese." 
Her interest in Italian affairs appears in " Casa Guidi Win- 
dows." Her longest work is "Aurora Leigh," a kind of 
versified novel in nine books, describing the life of an edu- 
cated English lady of the time. She died in June, 1861. 

The seclusion of her life, and her fondness for high study, 
especially of classical poetry, caused her early utterances to 
seem to come from a remote sphere. She was always too 


fluent and unrestrained in expression. She was careless about 
rhymes, and capricious in the use of words. Yet she excels 
her husband in the intelligibility and singing quality of her 
verses. On the other hand, while he has filled his works 
with studies of numerous characters, her views of human 
nature are wanting in exactness and variety. The great 
change wrought by her marriage gave her writings more 
strength as well as sweetness. Her residence in Italy led her 
to take a special interest in social and political affairs. But 
her best work is seen in poems exhibiting tenderness and 
strong feeling, as in "The Cry of the Children," "Cowper's 
Grave," and " The Sonnets from the Portuguese." 

Cowper's Grave. 

It is a place where poets crown' d 

May feel the heart's decaying — 
It is a place where happy saints 

May weep amid their praying — 
Yet let the grief and humbleness, 

As low as silence languish ; 
Earth surely now may give her calm 

To whom she gave her anguish. 

O poets ! from a maniac's tongue 

Was poured the deathless singing ! 
O Christians ! at your cross of hope 

A hopeless hand was clinging ! 
O men ! this man in brotherhood, 

Your weary paths beguiling, 
Groaned inly while he taught you peace, 

And died while ye were smiling. 

And now, what time ye all may read 

Through dimming tears his story — 
How discord on the music fell, 

And darkness on the glory—, 
And how, when, one by one, sweet sounds, 

And wandering lights departed, 
He wore no less a loving face. 

Because so broken-hearted. 


He shall be strong to sanctify 

The poetis high vocation, 
And bow the meekest Christian down 

In meeker adoration ; 
Nor ever shall he be in praise 

By wise or good forsaken ; 
Named softly as the household name 

Of one whom God hath taken ! 

With sadness that is calm, not gloom, 

I learn to think upon him ; 
With meekness that is gratefulness, 

On God, whose heaven hath won him. 
Who suffered once the madness-cloud 

Towards his love to blind him ; 
But gently led the blind along, 

Where breath and bird could find him ; 

And wrought within his shattered brain 

Such quick poetic senses. 
As hills have language for, and stars 

Harmonious influences ! 
The pulse of dew upon the grass 

His own did calmly number ; 
And silent shadows from the trees 

Fell o'er him like a slumber. 

The very world, by God's constraint, 

From falsehood's chill removing, 
Its women and its men became 

Beside him true and loving ! 
And timid hares were drawn from woods 

To share his home-caresses, 
Uplooking to his human eyes. 

With sylvan tendernesses. 

But while in darkness he remained, 

Unconscious of the guiding. 
And things provided came without 

The sweet sense of providing, 
He testified this solemn truth, 

Though frenzy desolated — 
Nor man nor nature satisfy 

Whom only Ood created* 


Sonnets from the Portuguese. 

I THOUGHT once how Theocritus had sung 
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished for years, 
Who each one in a gracious hand appears 
To bear a gift for mortals, old or young : 
And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, 
I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, 
The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, — 
Those of my own life, who by turns had flung 
A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware. 
So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move 
Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair ; 
And a voice said in mastery while I strove, — 
• Guess now who holds thee ? "— " Death, ' ' I said. But, there, 
The silver answer rang — " Not Death, but I<ove." 

My own beloved, who hast lifted me 
From this drear flat of earth where I was thrown. 
And in betwixt the languid ringlets, blown 
A life-breath, till the forehead hopefully 
Shines out again, as all the angels see. 
Before thy saving kiss ! My own, my own, 
Who camest to me when the world was gone. 
And I who looked for only God, found thee! 
I find thee ; I am safe, and strong, and glad. 
As one who stands in dewless asphodel, 
I^ooks backward on the tedious time he had 
In the upper life — so I, with bosom-swell. 
Make witness, here, between the good and bad, 
That IfOve, as strong as Death, retrieves as welL 
X— 17 

George Eliot is the pseudonym 
under which Marion Evans won unique 
fame in literature. She was born near Nuneaton in War- 
wickshire, England, in 1820. She was well educated, and 
after her mother's death, when she was only sixteen, she kept 
house for her father, a land agent. When he removed to 
Coventry she studied German, Italian and thusic, of which she 
was passionately fond. Always retiring in disposition, she 
made friends with difi&culty, but when the shy girl had done 
so, the results proved startling and far-reaching. Under the 
influence of the Brays of Coventry, she broke away from 
the Evangelical faith in which she had been trained, and 
translated from the German Strauss's " Ivife of Jesus." Hel 
father was greatly offended, and her brother completely es- 
tranged. On her father's death she went to Geneva fov 
further study, and on her return to England she resided 
with Mr. Chapman, editor of the Westminster Review. To 
this review she contributed learned articles, and also mad^ 
more translations. She was brought in contact with some of 
the free-thinkers of the time, and among them with George 
Henry Lewes, the biographer of Goethe. This new influence 
changed the current of her life. She went to live with 
I/Cwes as his wife, though the law did not ' allow her that 
name, and ^here was no formal ceremony of marriage, civil 
or religious. Mr. L,ewes had already been married, but his 
wife, who had been forgiven for adultery and taken back, 
had repeated the offence. Under English law there was no 
remedy because the first offence had been condoned. This is 
Lewes' s story, which Marian Evans believed, but Mrs. Lewes 


gave a different version of the case. In course of time the 
London world, which had severely condemned Lewes and his 
new consort, found that they lived in harmony and mutual 
helpfulness, and practically restored them to its favor. They 
lived together for nearly a quarter of a century till Mr. 
Lewes's death in 1878. In May, 1880, George Eliot, then 
sixty years of age, was formally married to John W. Cross, 
an old friend, but she died suddenly before the close of that 
year. Mr. Cross published her biography. Many otheis 
have discussed her career and works. 

Lewes, who was an industrious author, was the first to 
recognize the real bent of his wife's genius, and under the 
stimulus of his encouragement she wrote " Scenes of Clerical 
Life." They were published in Blackwood'' s Magazine and 
met with popular approval. Her first years with Mr. Lewes 
were a period of struggle, almost to penury, but her grea 
success came with the publication of "Adam Bede." Hence- 
forth the pecuniary returns from her work were enormous. 
The later novels were "The Mill on the Floss," "Silas 
Mamer," " Romola," "Felix Holt," " Middlemarch," and 
' ' Daniel Deronda. " Her ' ' Spanish Gypsy ' ' and other poems 
are of less importance. Her " Letters " are stilted in style 
and give little insight into her own personality. 

George Eliot was wisely directed by her husband to the 
novel as the most available form for conveying her views on 
life. Though her intellect had rejected the dogma of Chris- 
tianity, her nature had been so steeped in its self-sacrificing 
spirit, that her stories reveal it. In her earlier books her 
moral earnestness led her to add to the story much unneces- 
sary preaching, and the influence of Thackeray caused her to 
introduce some social satire. But in the later ones sober 
philosophy prevails. Her first attempts to depict life were in 
drawing characters that had been familiar to her youth. Her 
efforts resulted in a distinct advance in the novel of character. 
She exhibits the real complexity of life, making no character 
absolutely good or evil, but showing the curious mingling of 
their diverse elements. From her own experience she had 
acquired a comprehension of weakness and an understanding 
of the tragedies of common lives. 


"Adam Bede" was the first adequate literary report of 
the spirit of Methodism. The Quaker preacher, Dinah 
Morris, was drawn from the author's aunt. Similar sketches 
of provincial life in the midland counties are found in " Silas 
Mamer " and the more tragic " Mill on the Floss," in which 
Maggie TuUiver's happiness is ruined by her brother's cruel 
uprightness and by her own affectionate trustfulness. The 
greatest of her works is " Middlemarch," a pathetic story of 
failure. The scholar Casaubon never finishes the work of his 
life and disappoints the wife who had looked up to his 
superior attainments. " Romola," her only historical novel, 
treats of Florence in Savonarola's times, but while the preach- 
ing monk is accurately portrayed the interest lies with the 
other characters. In ' ' Daniel Deronda " she departs so far from 
her usual practice as to present a faultless hero, in an effort to 
produce interest on behalf of the Jews and their aspirations 
as a race. But the work, in spite of some excellent charac- 
ters, has not retained general interest. " Felix Holt" is the 
least worthy of her novels, though it returns to English 
ground, on which she had won her fame. 

Had not this distinguished woman been so renowned for 
her fiction she would have been remarkable for her learning. 
In appearance she was slender and delicate, with a long, 
plain, grief-stricke^i face, a look of restrained power, and a 
personality at once magnetic and commanding. Her genius 
enabled her not merely to reflect the image of English society 
seventy years ago, but to indicate the hopes and desires of 
the best thinkers of her time. 

Romola and Her Father. 

The voice came from the farther end of a long, spacious 
room surrounded with shelves, on which books and antiquities 
were arranged in scrupulous order. Here and there, on sepa- 
rate stands in front of the shelves, were placed a beautiful 
feminine torso ; a headless statue, with an uplifted muscular 
arm wielding a bladeless sword ; rounded, dimpled, infantine 
limbs severed from the trunk, inviting the lips to kiss the 
cold marble ; some well-preserved Roman busts, and two or 


three vases of Magna Graecia. A large table in the centre 
was covered with antique bronze lamps and small vessels in 
dark pottery. The color of these objects was chiefly pale or 
sombre ; the vellum bindings, with their deep-ridged backs, 
gave little relief to the marble livid with long burial; the 
once splendid patch of carpet at the farther end of the room 
had long been worn to dimness ; the dark bronzes wanted 
sunlight upon them to bring out their tinge of green, and the 
sun was not yet high enough to send gleams of brightness 
through the narrow windows that looked on the Via de' Bardi. 

The only spot of bright color in the room was made by 
the hair of a tall maiden of seventeen or eighteen, who was 
standing before a carved leggio^ or reading-desk, such as is 
often seen in the choirs of Italian churches. The hair was 
of a reddish gold color, enriched by an unbroken small ripple, 
such as may be seen in the sunset clouds on grandest autum- 
nal evenings. It was confined by a black fillet above her 
small ears, from which it rippled forward again, and made a 
natural veil for her neck above her square-cut gown of black 
rascia, or serge. Her eyes were bent on a large volume placed 
before her ; one long white hand rested on the reading-desk, 
and the other clasped the back of her father's chair. 

The blind father sat with head uplifted and turned a little 
aside towards his daughter, as if he were looking at her. His 
delicate paleness, set ofi" by the black velvet cap which sur- 
mounted his drooping white hair, made all the more percep- 
tible the likeness between his aged features and those of the 
young maiden, whose cheeks were also without any tinge of 
the rose. There was the same refinement of brow and nostril 
in both, counterbalanced by a full though firm mouth and 
powerful chin, which gave an expression of proud tenacity 
and latent impetuousness ; an expression carried out in the 
backward poise of the girl's head, and the grand line of her 
neck and shoulders. It was a type of face of which one could 
not venture to say whether it would inspire love or only that 
unwilling admiration which is mixed with dread ; the ques- 
tion must be decided by the eyes, which often seem charged 
with a more direct message from the soul. But the eyes of 
the father had long been silent, and the eyes of the daughter 


were bent on the Latin pages of Politian's Miscellanea, from 
which she was reading aloud at the eightieth chapter, to the 
following eflfect: 

" There was a certain nymph of Thebes named Chariclo, 
especially dear to Pallas ; and this nymph was the mother of 
Teiresias. But once when, in the heat of summer, Pallas, in 
company with Chariclo, was bathing her disrobed limbs in 
the Heliconian Hippocrene, it happened that Teiresias, com- 
ing as a hunter to quench his thirst at the same fountain, in- 
advertently beheld Minerva unveiled, and immediately became 
blind. For it is declared in the Saturnian laws that he who 
beholds the gods against their will shall atone for it by a 
heavy penalty. . . . When Teiresias had fallen into this 
calamity, Pallas, moved by the tears of Chariclo, endowed 
him with prophecy and length of days, and even caused his 
prudence and wisdom to continue after he had entered among 
the shades, so that an oracle spake from his tomb ; and she 
gave him a staff, wherewith, as by a guide, he might walk 
without stumbling. . . . And hence Nonnus, in the fifth book 
of the Dionysiaca^ introduces Actseon exclaiming that he calls 
Teiresias happy, since, without dying, and with the loss of 
his eyesight merely, he had beheld Minerva unveiled, and 
thus, though blind, could for evermore carry her image in 
his sonl." 

At this point in the reading the daughter's hand slipped 
from the back of the chair and met her father's, which he had 
that moment uplifted ; but she had not looked round, and was 
going on, though with a voice a little altered by some sup- 
pressed feeling, to read the Greek quotation from Nonnus, 
when the old man said : 

" Stay, Romola ; reach me my own copy of Nonnus. It 
is a more correct copy than any in Poliziano's hands, for .1 
^made emendations in it which have not yet been communi- 
cated to any man. I finished it in 1477, when my sight was 
fast failing me. " 

Romola walked to the farther end of the room, with the 
queenly step which was the simple action of her tall, finely- 
wrought frame, without the slightest conscious adjustment 
of herself. 


£. BLAiri LEi&hto:^, Pinx 



"Is it in the light place, Romola?" asked Bardo, who 
■was perpetually seeking the assurance that the outward fact 
continued to correspond with the image which lived to the 
minutest detail in his mind. 

" Yes, father ; at the west end of the room, on the third 
shelf from the bottom, behind the bust of Hadrian, above 
Apollonius Rliodius and Callimachus, and below Lucan and 
Silius Italicus." 

As Romola said this a fine ear would have detected in her 
clear voice and distinct utterance a faint suggestion of weari- 
ness struggling with habitual patience. But as she approached 
her father, and saw his arms stretched out a little with nervous 
excitement to seize the volume, her hazel eyes filled with 
pity ; she hastened to lay the book on his lap, and kneeled 
down by him, looking up at him as if she believed that the 
love in her face must surely make its way through the dark 
obstruction that shut out every thing else. At that moment 
the doubtful attractiveness of Romola's face, in which pride 
and passion seemed to be quivering in the balance with native 
refinement and intelligence, was transfigured to the most 
lovable womanliness by mingled pity and affection ; it was 
evident that the deepest fount of feeling within her had not 
yet wrought its way to the less changeful features, and only 
found its outlet through her eyes. 

But the father, unconscious of that soft radiance, looked 
flushed and agitated as his hand explored the edges and back 
of the large book. 

" The vellum is yellowed in these thirteen years, Romola?" 

"Yes, father," said Romola, gently ; "but your letters at 
the back are dark and plain still — fine Roman letters ; and 
the Greek character," she continued, laying the book open 
on her father's knee, "is more beautiful than that of any of 
your bought manuscripts." 

"Assuredly, child," said Bardo, passing his finger across 
the page as if he hoped to discriminate line and margin. 
"What hired amanuensis can be equal to the scribe who 
loves the words that grow under his hand, and tp whom an 
error or indistinctness in the text is more painful than a sud- 
den darkness or obstacle across his path ? And even these 


mechanical printers who threaten to make learning a base 
and vulgar thing — even they must depend on the manuscript 
over which we scholars have bent with that insight into the 
poet's meaning which is closely akin to the mens divinior of 
the poet himself— unless they would flood the world with 
grammatical falsities and inexplicable anomalies that would 
turn the very fountains of Parnassus into a deluge of poison- 
ous mud. But find the passage in the fifth book to which 
Poliziano refers. I know it very well.' ' 

Seating herself on a low stool close to her father's knee, 
Romola took the book on her lap and read the four verses 
containing the exclamation of Actaeon. 

" It is true, Romola," said Bardo, when she had finished ; 
" it is a true conception of the poet ; for what is that grosser, 
narrower light by which men behold merely the petty scene 
around them, compared with that far-stretching, lasting light 
which spreads oyer centuries of thought, and over the life of 
nations, and makes clear to us the minds of the immortals 
who have reaped the great harvest and left us to glean in 
their furrows? For me, Romola, even when I could see, it 
was with the great dead that I lived; while the living often 
seemed to me mere spectres — shadows dispossessed of true 
feeling and intelligence." 

The Choir Invisible. 

Oh, may I join the choir invisible 

Of those immortal dead who live again 

In minds made better by their presence. . . . 

. . . . This is life to come, 

Which martyred men have made more glorious 

For us who strive to follow. May I reach 

That purest heaven ; be to other souls 

The cup of strength in some great agony ; 

Enkindle generous ardor ; feed pure love ; 

Beget the smiles that have no cruelty — 

Be the sweet presence of a good diffused. 

And in diffusion ever more intense. 

So shall I join th° choir invisible 

Whose music is the gladness of the world. 


In tlie veins of this poet flows the blood of an English 
admiral and of a peer of the realm. This fact is significant 
in estimating his literary career. An aristocrat by birth and 
associations, he turned, by a sort of reaction, to a sentimental 
radicalism, to which much of his poetry gives expression. 
His politics are emotional, but the emotion is violent, and 
Swinburne's unequalled powers of statement and superb 
imagination tempt him to indulge more than he otherwise 
might in the pleasure of wordy warfare. As Disraeli once 
said of Gladstone, he is at times "intoxicated with the exuber- 
ance of his own verbosity." Swinburne's intellect is active 
and subtle, and his cunning in the use of forms of speech has 
never been surpassed; yet his intellectual weight is but 
moderate, and in judgment and self-restraint he is markedly 
deficient. Neither his political nor his literary criticism has 
serious value, except as specimens of English composition, 
and as characteristic effusions. Even his poetry, voluminous 
though it is, is narrow in its scope and monotonous in its 
mastery of rhythm and melody ; but it is real poetry, and no 
English writer has ever surpassed it in the qualities which 
give it distinction. Its sensuous beauty and splendor are 
often amazing, and were it as commendable in point of ethics 
and common sense, Swinburne would be the poet of the cen- 
tury. His early work was received with a mingling of aston- 
ishment, rapture and denunciation ; but his advance since 
then has been small. "Atalanta in Calydon," published in 
1864, when the author was twenty-eight years old, has pas- 
sages as delicious as anything he has since accomplished ■ 



and in his "Laus Veneris," which appeared two years later, 
though written previously, he gave his measure and quality, 
and struck a keynote of feeling and character which has not 
been essentially modified since then. 

Swinburne was educated at Eton and Okford, though he 
took no degree ; he is a good classical scholar, and his love 
of Greek paganism is apparent in all his writings. He has 
touched many subjects, but this classical bent is traceable 
throughout. In English history he has made studies of 
Henry II.'s Rosamond, of Mary Queen of Scots (" Chastelard," 
"Bothwell," "Mary Stuart"), "The Armada" (a magnificent 
poem), and some minor pieces ; in prose literary criticism he 
has produced "William Blake," "George Chapman," "A 
Note on Charlotte Bronte," "A Study of Shakespeare," "A 
Study of Victor Hugo," "A Study of Ben Jonson," and other 
essays ; he has tried his hand in Arthurian legend, in " Tris- 
tram of Lyonesse, ' ' and is the author of a Greek and of an 
Italian tragedy — "Erechtheus" and "Marino Faliero." He 
has even written a novel of English society — and a very good 
one — published serially in London in 1879, under the pen- 
name of "Mrs. Horace Manners." It was called "A Year's 
Letters," but has never been reprinted, or acknowledged by 
the author. Whatever he has done has fascination and dis- 
tinction, and is irreproachable in form. But his best and 
rnost lasting work is to be sought in his poems and ballads, 
and in passages of his dramas. He sees and depicts character 
vividly, but always through a Swinburnian atmosphere, so 
that he cannot be regarded as a dramatist in the Shakespearian 
sense. He has wit, irony and passion, but not humor. Speak* 
ing broadly, he is a sign of the times, but not a leader nor a 

Moreover, with all his beauty, there is something unwhole- 
some and unsound about Swinburne. His passion is woman 
ish rather than masculine, and yet not normally womanish. 
He is violent rather than powerful. His delicacies and refine- 
ments are something other than manly. In youth he had a 
tendency to finger forbidden subjects ; his later work is free 
from such improprieties. Whatever he does shows good 
workmanship, and possesses literarv importance ; but his 


stature has not increased of late years, and, at the age of sixty, 
he had lapsed into the background of things. 

' The Making of Man. 

(Chorus from " Atalanta in Calydon.") 

Before the beginning of years 

There came to the making of man 
Time, with a gift of tears ; 

Grief, with a glass that ran ; 
Pleasure, with pain for leaven ; 

Summer, with flowers that fell ; 
Remembrance, fallen from heaven ; 

And madness, risen from hell ; 
Strength, without hands to smite ; 

Love that endures for a breath ; 
Night, the shadow of light ; 

And life, the shadow of death. 

And the high gods took it in hand 

Fire, and the falling of tears, 
And a measure of sliding sand 

From under the feet of years. 
And froth and drift of the sea, 

And dust of the laboring earth, 
And bodies of things to be, 

In the houses of death and of birth ; 
And wrought with weeping and laughter. 

And fashioned with loathing and love. 
With life before and after, 

And death beneath and above ; 
For a day and a night and a morrow. 

That his strength might endure for a span 
With travail and heavy sorrow. 

The holy spirit of man. 

From the winds of the north and the south 

They gathered as unto strife ; 
They, breathed upon his mouth, 

They filled his body with life ; 
Eyesight and speech they wrought 

For the veils of the souls therein ; 


A time for labor and thought, 

A time to serve and to sin. 
They gave him a light in his ways, 

And love, and a space for delight ; 
And beauty and length of days'. 

And night, and sleep in the night. 
His speech is a burning fire. 

With his lips he travaileth ; 
In his heart is a blind desire. 

In his eyes foreknowledge of death ; 
He weaves and is clothed with derision ; 

Sows, and he shall not reap ; 
His life is a watch or a vision 

Between a sleep and a sleep. 

WiLWAM Shakespeare. 

Not if men's tongues and angels' all in one 
Spake, might the word be said that might speak Thee. 
Streams, winds, woods, flowers,, fields, mountains, yea, 
the sea. 

What power is in them all to praise the sun ? 

His praise is this, — he can be praised of none. 
Man, woman, child, praise God for him ; but he 
Exults not to be worshiped, but to be. 

He is ; and, being, beholds his work well done. 

All joy, all glory, all sorrow, all strength, all mirth, 

Are his : without him, day were night on earth. 
Time knows not his from time's own period. 

All lutes, all harps, all viols, all flutes, all lyres, 

Fall dumb before him ere one string suspires. 
All stars are angels ; but the sun is God. 

Ben Jonson. 

Broad-based, broad-fronted, bounteous, multiform. 
With many a valley impleached with ivy and vine, 
Wherein the springs of all the streams run wine, 

And many a crag full-faced against the storm, 

The mountain where thy Muse's feet made warm 
Those lawns that revelled with her dance divine 
Shines yet with fire as it was wont to shine 

From tossing torches round the dance aswarm. 


Nor less, high-stationed on the grey grave heights, 
High-thoughted seers with heaven's heart-kindling lights 

Hold converse : and the herd of meaner things 
Knows or by fiery scourge or fiery shaft 
When wrath on thy broad brows has risen, and laughed, 

Darkening thy soul with shadow of thunderous wings. 

In a Garden. 

Baby, see the flowers ! 
— Baby sees 
Fairer things than these, 
Fairer though they be than dreams of ours. 

Baby, hear the birds ! 

— Baby knows 
Better songs then those, 
Sweeter though they sound than sweetest words. 

Baby, see the moon ! 
— Baby's eyes 
Laugh to watch it rise. 
Answering light with love and night with noon. 

Baby, hear the sea ! 
— Baby's face 
Takes a graver grace. 
Touched with wonder what the sound may be. 

Baby, see the star ! 
— Baby's hand 
Opens warm and bland. 
Calm in claim of all things fair that are. 

Baby, hear the bells ! 

— Baby's head 
Bows, as ripe for bed. 
Now the flowers curl round and close their cells. 

Baby, flower of light. 
Sleep and see 
Brighter dreams than we, 
Till good day shall smile away good night. 



Matthew Arnold, the apostle cjf 
"sweetness and light," was a man with 
a message to the cultured only. He had 
little sympathy with the uncultured, with 
the uneducated, who still form by far the 
greater portion of mankind. He was a 
poet, critic, essayist for scholars, for liter- 
ary men, for the refined; a thoroughly 
literary writer who had acquired an ex- 
quisite style, but who was more sensitive 
to influences than fertile in original impulse. He has uttered 
some exquisite notes for cultured ears to catch, but he will 
always be caviare to the general public. 

Matthew Arnold was the sou of Dr. Thomas Arnold, the 
famous headmaster of Rugby, and was born at Laleham in 
1822. He was educated at Winchester, Rugby and Oxford, 
and was elected to a fellowship in Oriel College in 1845. In 
185 1 he was appointed Lay-Inspector of Schools, which posi- 
tion he retained until shortly before his death. He traveled 
frequently in France and Germany, and made elaborate re- 
ports on foreign systems of education. In 1857 he was elected 
Professor of Poetry at Oxford. In 1 849 his first volume of 
verse, "The Strayed Reveller," was published ; and in 1853 
" Empedocles and other Poems " appeared. In 1859 he pub- 
lished "Merope," a tragedy after the antique, and the year 
following a volume entitled "New Poems." Subsequently 
he published but little poetry, but devoted himself principally 
to critical essays. His poems are mainly one long variation 
on a single theme, the divorce between the soul and the in- 
tellect, and the depths of spiritual regret and yearning which 
that divorce produces. ' 

In 1865 his " Essays on Criticism" were published, and 
at once gave him indisputable rank as a writer of English 
prose. The volume had an almost immediate influence upon 
students of literature in England. Soon afterwards he began 
a series of prose works in a sort of middle region between 


literature, politics and ethics. The best known of them are 
"Culture and Anarchy," "St. Paul and Protestantism," 
" Literature and Dogma," and "Last Essays on Church and 
Religion." Not able to rest content with earlier dogma and 
inspiration, yet shrinking from an unsympathetic rationalism, 
he wanders, as he puts it, "between two worlds, one dead, the 
other powerless to be bom.' ' Later Arnold returned to more 
purely literary criticism, though diverging from it somewhat 
in his "Mixed Essays" and "Irish Essays," among the last 
works that he published. He died suddenly in 1888. 

The keynote of Matthew Arnold's work is a yearning 
for sweetness and light, for calm peace and beauty in a 
restless world that to him is out of joint. Unfortunately he 
deemed himself born with a mission to set it right. His hope 
for the future is that sweetness and light will grow, and that 
the authority of what he styled the remnant or elect, i. e., 
people who accepted his dicta, would come to be finally estab- 

Balder Dead. 

(For the death of Balder, the Norse Apollo, as told in the Scandinavian 
mythology, see Volume II., p. 369.) 

So on the floor lay Balder dead ; and round 
Lay thickly strewn swords, axes, darts and spears. 
Which all the Gods in sport had idly thrown 
At Balder, whom no weapon pierced or clove : 
But in his breast stood fixed the fatal bough 
Of mistletoe, which Lok the Accuser gave 
To Hoder, and unwitting Hoder threw : 
'Gainst that alone had Balder's life no charm. 
And all the Gods and all the Heroes came 
And stood round Balder on the bloody floor. 
Weeping and wailing. ; and Valhalla rang 
Up to its golden roof with sobs and cries : 
And on the tables stood the untasted meats. 
And in the horns and gold-rimmed skulls the wine : 
And now would Night have fallen, and found them yet 
Wailing ; but otherwise was Odin's will : 
And thus the Father of the Ages spake : 

"Enough of tears, ye Gods, enough of wail! 
Not to lament in was Valhalla made. 


If any here might weep for Balder' s death 

I most might weep, his Father ; such a son 

I lose to-day, so bright, so loved a God. 

But he has met that doom which long ago 

The Nornies, when his mother bare him, spun, 

And Fate set seal, that so his end must be. 

Balder has met his death, and ye survive : 

Weep him an hour ; but what can grief -avail? 

For you yourselves, ye Gods, shall meet your doom, 

All ye who hear me, and inhabit Heaven, 

And I too, Odin too, the l,ord of all ; 

But ours we shall not meet, when that day comes. 

With woman's tears and weak, complaining cries — 

Why should we meet another's portion so? 

Rather it fits you, having wept your hour. 

With cold, dry eyes, and hearts composed and stern, 

To live, as erst your daily life in Heaven : 

By me shall vengeance on the murderer lyok. 

The Foe, the Accuser, whom, though Gods, we hate, 

Be strictly cared for, in the appointed day. 

Meanwhile to-morrow, when the morning dawns. 

Bring wood to the sea-shore, to Balder's ship, 

And on the deck build high a funeral pile, 

And on the top lay Balder's corpse, and put 

Fire to the wood, and send him out to sea 

To burn; for that is what the dead desire." 

So having spoken, the King of Gods arose 
And mounted his horse Sleipner, whom he rode. 
And from the hall of Heaven he rode away 
To I,idskialf, and sate upon his throne. 
The Mount, from whence his eye surveys the world. 

The Remnant in America. 

(From "Discourses in America.") 

In these United States you are fifty millions and more. 
I suppose that, as in England, as in France, as everywhere 
else, so likewise here, the majority of the people doubt very 
much whether the majority is unsound ; or, rather, they have 
no doubt at all about the matter — they are sure that it is not 
unsound. But let us consent to-night to remain to the end 


in the ideas of the sages and prophets whom we have been 
following all along, and let us suppose that in the present 
actual stage of the world, as in all the stages through which 
the world has passed hitherto, the majority be, in general, 
unsound everywhere. Where is the failure? I suppose that 
in a democratic community like this — with its newness, its 
magnitude, its strength, its life of business, its sheer freedom 
and equality — the danger is in the absence of the discipline 
of respect ; in hardness and materialism, exaggeration and 
boastfulness ; in a false smartness, a false audacity, a want 
of soul and delicacy. "Whatsoever things are elevated'''' — 
Whatsoever things are noble, serious, have true elevation — 
that, perhaps, in our mind is the maxim which points to 
where the failure of the unsound majority, in a great democ- 
racy like yours, will probably lie. At any rate, let us for a 
moment agree to suppose so. And the philosophers and the 
prophets — ^whom I at any rate am disposed to believe — and 
who say that moral causes govern the standing and the fall- 
ing of states, will tell us that the failure to mind whatsoever 
things are elevated must impair with an inexorable fatality 
the life of a nation, just as the failure to mind whatsoever 
things are just, or whatsoever things are pure, will impair it; 
and that if the failure to mind whatsoever things are elevated 
should be real in your American democracy, and should grow 
into a disease, and take firm hold on you, then the life of 
even these great United States must inevitably be impaired 
more and more until it perish. 

Then from this hard doctrine we will betake ourselves to 
the more comfortable doctrine of the remnant. " The rem- 
nant shall return ;' ' shall convert and be healed itself first, 
and shall then recover the unsound majority. And you are 
fifty millions, and growing apace. What a remnant yours 
may be surely ! A remnant of how great numbers, how 
mighty strength, how irresistible efficacy ! Yet we must 
not go too fast, either, nor make too sure of our efficacious 
remnant. Mere multitudes will not give us a saving rem- 
nant with certainty. The Assyrian empire had multitude, 
the Roman empire had multitude ! yet neither the one nor 
the other could produce a sufficing remnant, any more than 
X— 1» 

274 uterature; of ai,i, nations. 

Athens or Judali could produce it; and both Assyria and 
Rome perished like Athens and Judah. 

But you are something more than a people of fifty millions. 
You are fifty millions mainly sprung — as we in England are 
mainly sprung — from that German stock, which has faults 
indeed— faults which have diminished the extent of its in- 
fluence, diminished its power of attraction, and the interest 
of its history. Yet of that German stock it is, I think true — 
as my father said more than fifty years ago — that it has been 
a stock " of the most moral races of men that the world has 
yet seen, with the soundest laws, the least violent passions, 
the fairest domestic and civil virtues." You come, there- 
fore, of about the best parentage which a modern nation can 

Then you have had, as we in England have also had — but 
more entirely than we, and more exclusively — the Puritan 
discipline. Certainly I am not blind to the faults of that 
discipline. Certainly I do not wish it to remain in possession 
of the field forever, or too long. But as a stage and a disci- 
pline, and as means for enabling that poor, inattentive and 
immoral creature, man, to love and appropriate, and make 
part of his being, divine ideas, on which he could not other- 
wise have laid or kept hold, the discipline of Puritanism has 
been invaluable ; and the more I read history, the more I see 
of mankind, the more I recognize its value. 

Well, then, you are not merely a multitude of fifty mil- 
lions ; you are fifty millions sprung from this excellent Ger- 
manic stock, having passed through this excellent Puritan 
discipline, and set in this enviable and unbounded country. 
Even supposing, therefore, that by the necessity of things 
your majority must in the present sj;age of the world probably 
be unsound, what a remnant, I say — what an incomparable, 
all-transforming remnant — ^you may fairly hope, with your 
number— if things go happily — to have. 



It is not generally safe to anticipate 
the verdict of posterity, but there are 
things which this writer has produced 
which may be trusted to survive the 
tests of time. Stevenson was literary, 
first by organization, then by resolute 
study and training ; his heart was in 
his work, and he never ceased to try 
to improve himself yet further, and to 
satisfy, if it were possible, himself as 
well as his public. In this age of gross 
adulation of success, few have received 
so much adulation as he ; but he would not let it spoil him ; 
he kept his ideal ever in view, and pursued it as it fled, hori- 
zon-like, before him. 

He was born in 1850 and educated in Edinburgh, and was 
admitted there to the Bar, but never practiced. He was a deli- 
cate boy, and his health, for all he could do, was never robust ; 
and he died at last with half his work, as it seemed, unachieved, 
at an age when many men are but just beginning to feel the 
reality of their powers. But geniuses before him have died 
younger than he, and left imperishable names. He traveled 
much, taking long journeys and short, partly in quest of 
health, always with an eye for whatever was of picturesque 
and human interest. He saw this country as well as Europe, 
and he ended his travels in an island on the south Pacific, 
and lies buried there "under the wide and brilliant sky," 
as he wished to be. It was a complete and honorable life, in 
spite of its brevity ; and it was long enough to give many 
thousand readers reason to respect and love him. 

He won the favor of critics from the start. His " Inland 
Voyage " and " Travels with a Donkey " were received with 
cordial encouragement; and his "New Arabian Nights," 
first published serially in the I/ondon World, showed that a 
new charm had come into literature. "Treasure Island," 
concerning the composition and circumstances of which he 


has left us some account, was his first story of adventure, and 
was admittedly based upon the models in that branch of liter- 
ature ; but it was as good as the best, and has ever sfnce re- 
mained one of his most popular productions. It contains all 
the elements of a good story of action and suspense, and has 
withal a delightful flavor, a sympathetic quality, that belongs 
only to a few fortunate creations. The style is perfectly 
suited to the character and tone of the narrative ; it is Steven- 
son's style, and yet it subtly differs from the styles of his 
other stories ; for he had the rare faculty of setting his medium 
in tune with his theme. This faculty was again exemplified 
in his most famous story, " Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," which 
is written in a homely, hushed phraseology, greatly enhancing 
its ghastly subject matter. The double life which exists in 
all of us was never more strikingly portrayed than in this 
realistic allegory or parable. It is a work of concentrated 
genius ; but it was in a sense a jeu d'' esprit, and Stevenson 
was not content to follow up the lead this opened to him, as 
lesser men would gladly have done. He had ambitions to- 
wards the historical novel; and in "Kidnapped," and its 
sequel, "David Balfour," he gave masterly illustrations of 
his power to make the past live again, and mingle harmo- 
niously with the creations of his own imagination. He cul- 
tivated this vein in other fictions, not always with the same 
success, but never unworthily. Another side of his versatile 
power was shown in the volume of short tales called "The 
Merry Men," and still others in his pictures of Samoan life 
and character, and in his delightful verses for children. His 
last novel, left unfinished, was published after his death, with 
a conclusion by the English writer Quiller Couch. 

Stevenson married an American woman, but left no chil- 
dren. In person he was slender and of sallow complexion, 
with singular dark eyes ; his manner had an irresistible fas- 
cination, and his conversation was full of sparkle and sub- 
stance. His death took place suddenly, in 1894, when he was 
four and forty years of age. He had much endeared himself 
to the natives of his island, to whose welfare he had devoted 
himself, and who gave him the title of Chief, and bore him 
to his grave on the mountain-top, overlooking the mighty 


ocean which he had made the scene of more than one of his 
most effective tales. 

The Transformation. 

(From " Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.") 

Twelve o'clock had scarce rung out over London, ere the 
knocker sounded very gently on the door. I went myself at 
the summons, and found a small man crouching against the 
pillare of the portico. 

"Are you come from Dr. Jekyll ? " I asked. 

He told me "Yes " by' a constrained gesture ; and when I 
had bidden him enter, he did not obey me without a search- 
ing backward glance into the darkness of the square. There 
was a policeman not far off, advancing with his bull's eye 
open ; and at the sight, I thought my visitor started and 
made greater haste. . 

These particulars struck me, I confess, disagreeably ; and 
as I followed him into the bright light of the consulting room, 
I kept my hand ready on my weapon. Here, at last, I had a 
chance of clearly seeing him. I had never set my eyes on 
him before, so much was certain. He was small, as I have 
said ; I was struck besides with the shocking expression of 
his face, with his remarkable combination of great muscular 
activity and great apparent debility of constitution, and — 
last but not least — with the odd, subjective disturbance 
caused by his neighborhood. This bore some resemblance to 
incipient rigor, and was accompanied by a marked sinking of 
the pulse. At the time,<^ set > it down to some idiosyncratic, 
personal distaste, and merely wondered at the acuteness of 
the symptoms ; but I have siiice had reason to believe the 
cause to lie much deeper in the nature of man, and to turn 
on some nobler hinge than the principle of hatred. 

This person (who had thus, from the first moment of his 
entrance, struck in me what I can only describe as a disgust- 
ful curiosity) was dressed in a fashion that would have made 
an ordinary person laughable: his clothes, that is to say, 
although they were of rich and sober fabric, were enormously 
too large for him in every measurement — the trousers hang- 
ing on his legs and rolled up to keep them, from the ground 


the waist of the coat below his haunches, and the collar 
sprawling wide upon his shoulders. Strange to relate, this 
ludicrous accoutrement was far from moving me to laughter. 
Rather, as there was something abnormal and misbegotten 
in the very essence of the creature that now faced me — 
something seizing, surprising and revolting — this fresh dis- 
parity seemed but to fit in with and to re-inforce it ; so that to 
my interest in the man's nature and character, there was 
added a curiosity as to his origin, his life, his fortune and 
status in the world. 

These observations, though they have taken so great a 
space to be set down in, were yet the work of a few seconds. 
My visitor was, indeed, on fire with sombre excitement. 

■ " Have you got it?" he cried. "Have you got it?" 
And so lively was his impatience that he even laid his hand 
upon, my arm and sought to shake me. 

I put him back, conscious at his touch of a certain icy 
pang along my blood. "Come, sir," said I. "You forget 
that I have not yet the pleasure of your acquaintance. Be 
seated, if you please." And I showed him an example, and 
sat down myself in my customary seat and with as fair an 
imitation of my ordinary manner to a patient, as the lateness 
of the hour, the nature of my pre-occupations, and the horror 
I had of my visitor, would suflFer me to muster. 

"I beg your pardon. Dr. I^anyon," he replied civilly 
enough. " What you say is very well founded ; and my 
impatience has shown its heels to my politeness. I come here 
at the instance of your colleagiie, ' Dr. Henry Jekyll, on a 
piece of business of some moment ; and I understood ..." 
he paused and put his hand to his throat, and I could see, in 
spite of his collected manner, that he was wrestling against 
the approaches of the hysteria — " I understood a drawer . . ." 

But here I took pity on my visitor's suspense, and some 
perhaps on my own growing curiosity. 

" There it is, sir," said I, pointing to the drawer, where it 
lay on the floor behind a table and still covered with the 

He sprang to it, and then paused, and laid his hand upon 
his heart ; I coiild hear his teeth grate with the, convulsive 


action of his jaws ; and his face was so ghastly to see that I 
grew alarmed both for his life and reason. 
" Compose yourself," said I. 

He turned a dreadful smile to me, and as if with the decision 
of despair, plucked away the sheet. At sight of the contents, 
he uttered one loud sob of such immense relief that I sat 
petrified. And the next moment, in a voice that was already 
fairly well under control, "Have you a graduated glass?" 
he asked. I rose from my place with something of an eflfort 
and gave him what he asked. 

He thanked me with a smiling nod, measured out a few 
minims of the red tincture and added one of the powders. 
The mixture, which was at first of a reddish hue, began, in 
proportion as the crystals melted, to brighten in color, to 
effervesce audibly, and to throw off" small fumes of vapor. 
Suddenly and at the same moment, the ebullition ceased and 
the compound changed to a dark purple, which faded again 
more slowly to a watery green. My visitor, who had watched 
these metamorphoses with a keen eye, smiled, set down the 
glass upon the table, and then turned and looked upon me 
with an air of scrutiny. 

"And now," said he, "to settle what remains. Will you 
be wise ? will you be guided ? will you Suffer me to take this 
glass in my hand and to go forth from your house without 
further parley ? or has the greed of curiosity too much com- 
mand of you ? Think before you answer, for it shall be done 
as you decide. As you decide, you shall be left as you were 
before, and neither richer; nor wiser, unless the sense of ser- 
vice rendered to a man in mortal distress may be counted as 
a kind of riches of the soul. Or, if you shall so prefer to 
choose a new province of knowledge and new avenues to 
fame and power shall be laid open to you, here, in this room, 
upon the instant; and your sight shall be blasted by a 
prodigy to stagger the unbelief of Satan." 

" Sir," said I, affecting a coolness that I was far from truly 
possessing, "you speak enigmas, and you will perhaps not 
wonder that I hear you with no very strong impression of 
belief. But I have gone too far in the way of inexplicable 
services to pause before I see the end." 


" It is well," replied my visitor. " I,anyon, you remem- 
ber your vows ; what follows is under the seal of our pro- 
fession. And now, you who have so long been bound to the 
most narrow and material views, you who have denied the 
virtue of transcendental medicine, you who have derided your 
superiors — behold ! " 

He put the glass to his . lips and drank at one gulp. A 
cry followed ; he reeled, staggered, clutched at the table and 
held on, staring with injected eyes, gasping with open mouth ; 
and as I looked there came, I thought, a change — he seemed 
to swell — his face became suddenly black and the features 
seemed to melt and alter — and the next moment, I had sprung 
to my feet and leaped back against the wall, my arm raised 
to shield me from that prodigy, my mind submerged in terror. 

" O God ! " I screamed, and " O God ! " again and again ; 
for there before my eyes — pale and shaken, and half-fainting, 
and groping before him with his hands, like a man restored 
from death — there stood Henry Jekyll. 

What he told me in the next hour, I cannot bring my 
mind to set on paper. I saw what I saw, I heard what I 
heard, and my soul sickened at it ; and yet now when that 
sight has faded from my eyes, I ask myself if I believe it, 
and I cannbt answer. My life is shaken to its roots ; sleep 
has left me ; the deadliest terror sits by me at all hours of 
the day and night; I feel that my days are numbered, and 
that I must die ; and yet I shall die incredulous. As for the 
moral turpitude that man unveiled to me, even with tears of 
penitence, I cannot, even in memory, dwell on it without a 
start of horror. I will say, but one thing, Utterson, and that 
(if you can bring your mind to credit it) will be more than 
enough. The creature who crept into my house that night 
was, on Jekyll' s own confession, known by the name of Hyde 
and hunted for in every corner of the land as the murderer 
of Carew. 



One of the youngest, and the most powerful of contem- 
porary poets and prose writers was born in 1865 in India of 
English parents, and educated partly there and partly in 
England; though he is not a graduate of any university. 
Bombay was the city of his birth ; his father, John Lockwood 
Kipling, was principal of the School of Industrial Art at 
Lahore. After some years of schooling in Devonshire, Rud- 
yard, in 1880, returned to India, and worked as sub-editor of 
a newspaper in Lahore. Here he learned the art of writing 
the terse and telling prose which enables him at once to 
plunge into the heart of his subject, and to keep there 
throughout. . His experience in this respect resembles that of 
Bret Harte, and the results are also similar ; though Kipling 
is inevitably original — a strong and new force in literature. 
The subjects he treats are of his own discovering ; and his 
insight into human nature is both broad and deep ; he is 
earnest, straightforward and massive: there is in all he does 
a rank, masculine flavor, sometimes amounting to brutality, 
but often admitting the finest and tenderest touches. Nothing 
seems too high or too low for him to possess a sympathetic 
comprehension of it ; he enters imaginatively even into wild 
animals in the jungle, and presents us with what we feel are 
true pictures of their thoughts and instincts. His power of 
observation is as rapid as that of Dickens, and never betrays 
him into the exaggerations and caricature of the latter ; his 
style and manner were from the first singularly mature ; and 
the facility with which he familiarizes himself with the 
nature and details of new subjects is a constant source of sur- 
prise to his readers. He passed through America in 1889, 
writing descriptive letters as he went; and these contain 
more accurate ' observation and just comment than any 
cognate articles that have been published. His novel, 
'* Captains Courageous," deals with the life and character of 
the New England cod-fishermen, and shows a remarkable 
command of their character and speech, as well as of the 
industry in which they are engaged. He seems no less at 


home with all forms of dialect, English and American, 
and with the brogue of Irishmen and the broken English 
of Germans and Frenchmen ; and he represents these in 
his own way, from the testimony of his own senses. But 
signal though are these external and obvious merits, they 
are the least of Kipling's gifts as a writer. He goes to the 
centre of things ; he knows what to say and what to leave 
unsaid ; he always controls his theme ; his imagination gene, 
rates forms which have the hues and substance of truth ; his 
motives are vital and suggestive. In spite of the strength of 
his effects, he always gives the impression of keeping in 
reserve more than he has displayed ; he never disappoints 
expectation, but often surpasses it ; and nowhere in his work 
are to be found traces of carelessness or ignorance. His 
poems are quite as original and powerful as his prose. Such^ 
ballads as "Danny Deever," such lyjrics as "The Reces- 
sional," are surpassed, if at all, only by the best products of 
the great masters of English song. 

Kipling is better known as a writer of short tales than as 
a novelist ; the former have hitherto been the more success- 
ful. It is too soon yet to determine whether he is capable of 
producing a long novel commensurate with his reputation in 
, other directions. His books of Indian tales contain many 
masterpieces; the series of "Soldiers Three" has already 
etijtered into the language. The "Incarnation of Krishna 
Mulvaney" and "The Taking of Lungtukpen" are as good 
as any of these ; but it is impossible to select any as definitely 
the best. In spite of his frankness, there is a great deal c/ 
reticence in Kipling ; we feel that what he withholds is, if 
possible, more significant than what he imparts ; but the 
forbearing to impart it enhances the artistic effect of what is 
given. From the promise of what he has accomplished, 
there is almost nothing which we would not be justified in 
anticipating from' him. Kipling married an American girl a 
few years ago, and for a time had a home in New England ; 
but he is of a restless humor, and the world is his dwelling- 

english literature. 283 

The Courting of Dinah Shadd. 

(Told by Private Mulvaney.) 

" Wanst, bein' a fool, I went into the married lines, more 
for the sake av spakin' to our ould color-sergint Shadd than 
for any thruck wid wimmen-folk. I was a corp'ril then — 
rejuced aftherwards ; but a corp'ril then. I've got a photo- 
graft av mesilf to prove ut. ' You'll take a cup av tay wid 
us?' sez he. 'I will that,' I sez; 'tho' tay is not my divar- 
sion.' ' 'Twud be better for you if ut were,' sez ould Mother 
Shadd. An' she had ought to know, for Shadd, in the ind av 
his service, dhrank bung-full each night. 

" Wid that I tuk off my gloves — ^there was pipe-clay in 
thim so that they stud alone — an' pulled up my chair, lookin' 
round at the china ornamints an' bits av things in the Shadds' 
quarters. They were things that belonged to a woman, an' 
no camp kit, here to-day an' dishipated next. ' You're com- 
fortable in this place, sergint, ' sez I. ' 'Tis the wife that did 
ut, boy, ' sez he, pointin' the stem av his pipe to ould Mother 
Shadd, an' she smacked the top av his bald head apon the 
compliment. ' That manes you want money,' sez she. 

"An' thin — an' thin whin the kettle was to be filled, 
Dinah came in — my Dinah — ^her sleeves rowled up to the 
elbow, an' her hair in a gowlden glory over her forehead, the 
big blue eyes beneath twinklin' like stars on a frosty night, 
an' the tread of her two feet lighter than waste paper from 
the colonel's basket in, ord'ly room when ut's emptied. Bein' 
but a shlip av a girl, she went pink at seein' me, an' I twisted 
me moustache an' looked at a picture fominst the wall. 
Never show a woman that ye care the snap av a finger for 
her, an' begad she'll come bleatin' to your boot heels." 

"I suppose that's why you followed Annie Bragin till 
everybody in the married quarters laughed at you," said I, 
remembering that unhallowed wooing, and casting off the 
disguise of drowsiness. 

"I'm layin' down the gin'ral theory av the attack," said 
Mulvaney, driving his foot into the dying fire. " If you read 
the ' Soldier's Pocket-Book,' which never any soldier reads, 


you'll see that there are exceptions. When Dinah was out 
av the door (an' 'twas as tho' the sunlight had gone too), 
'Mother av Hiven, sergint !' sez I, 'but is that your daugh- 
ter?' ' I've -believed that way these eighteen years,' sez ould 
Shadd, his eyes twinklin'. ' But Mrs. Shadd has her own 
opinion, like ivry other woman.' ' 'Tis wid yours this time, 
for a mericle,' sez Mother Shadd. ' Then why, in the name 
av fortune, did I never see her before ? ' sez I. ' Bekaze 
you've been thraipsin' round wid the married women these 
three years past. She was a bit av a child till last year, an' 
she shot up wid the spring,' sez ould Mother Shadd. ' I'll 
thraipse no more,' sez I. 'D'you mane that?' sez ould 
Mother Shadd, lookin' at me sideways, like a hen looks at a 
hawk whin the chickens are runnin' free. ' Try me, an' tell,' 
sez I. Wid that I pulled on my gloves, dhrank off the tea, 
an' wint out av the house as stiff as at gen'ral p'rade, for well 
I know that Dinah Shadd's eyes were in the small av my 
back out av the scullery window. Faith, that was the only 
time I mourned I was not a cav'lryman, for the sake av the 
spurs to jingle. 

" I wint out to think, an' I did a powerful lot av thinkin', 
but ut all came round to that shlip av a girl in the dotted 
blue dhress, wid the blue eyes an' the sparkil in them. Thin 
I kept off canteen, an' I kept to the married quarthers or near 
by on the chanst av meetin' Dinah. Did I meet her ? Oh, 
my time past, did I not, wid a lump in my throat as big as 
my valise, an' my heart goin' like a farrier's forge on a Sat- 
urday morning' ! 'Twas ' Good-day to ye. Miss Dinah,' an' 
' Good-day t'you, corp'ril,' for a week or two, an' divil a bit 
further could I get, bekaze av the respict I had to that girl 
that I cud ha' broken betune finger an' thumb. " 

Here I giggled as I recalled the gigantic figure of Dinah 
Shadd when she handed me my shirt. 

' ' Ye may laugh," grunted Mulvaney. " But I'm speakin' 
the trut', an' 'tis you that are in fault. Dinah was a girl that 
wud ha' taken the imperiousness out av the Duchess av 
Clonmel in those days. Flower hand, foot av shod air, an' 
the eyes av the mornin' she had. That is my wife to-day — 
ould Dinah, an' never aught else than Dinah Sharld to me. 


'"Twas after three weeks standin' off an' on, an' niver 
makin' headway excipt through the eyes, that a little drum- 
mer-boy grinned in me face whin I had admonished him wid 
the buckle av my belt for riotin' all over the place. ' An' 
I'm not the only wan that doesn't kape to barricks,' sez he. 
I tuk him by the scruff av his neck — my heart was hung on 
a hair-thrigger those days, you will understand — an', 'Out 
wid ut,' sez I, ' or I'll lave no bone av you unbruk.' ' Speak 
to Dempsey,' sez he, howlin'. 'Dempsey which,' sez I, 'ye 
unwashed limb av Satan ? ' 'Of the Bobtailed Dhragoons,' 
sez he. ' He's seen her home from her aunt's house in the 
civil lines four times this fortnight.' 'Child,' sez I, dhrop- 
pin' him, 'your tongue's stronger than your body. Go to 
your quarters. I'm sorry I dhressed you down.' 

"At that I went four ways to wanst huntin' Dempsey. 
Presintly I found him — an' a tallowy, top-heavy son av a she 
mule he was, wid his big brass spurs an' his plastrons on his 
epigastons an' all. But he niver flinched a hair. 

" ' A word wid you, Dempsey,' sez I. ' You've walked wid 
Dinah Shadd four times this fortnight gone.' 

"'What's that to you?' sez he. 'I'll walk forty tinjes 
more, an' forty on top av that, ye shovel-futted, clod-breakin' 
infantry lance-corp'ril.' 

" Before I cud gyard he had his gloved fist home on me 
cheek, an' down I went full sprawl. 'Will that content 
you ? ' sez he, blowin' on his knuckles for all the world like 
a Scots Grays orf'cer. 'Content?' sez I. 'For your own 
sake, man, take off your spurs, peel your jackut, and onglove. 
'Tis the beginnin' av the overture. Stand up !' 

"He stud all he knew, but he niver peeled his jackut, an' 
his shoulders had no fair play. I was fightin' for Dinah 
Shadd an' that cut on me cheek. What hope had he forninst 
me? ' Stand up !' sez I, time an' again, when he was begin- 
nin' to quarter the ground an' gyard high an' go large. 
' This isn't ridin'-school,' sez I. ' Oh, man, stand up, an' let 
me get at ye !' But whin I saw he wud be runnin' about, I 
grup his shtock in me left an' his waist-belt in me right an' 
swung him clear to me right front, head undher, he ham- 
merin' me nose till the wind was knocked out av him on the 


bare ground. * Stand up,' sez I, ' or I'll kick your head into 
your chest.' An' I -wud ha' done ut, too, so ragin' mad I was. 
" ' Me collar-bone's bruk,' sez he. ' Help me back to lines. 
I'll walk wid her no more.' So I helped him back. 

"And was his collar-bone broken?" I asked, for I fancied 
that only Learoyd could neatly accomplish that terrible throw. 

" He pitched on his left shoulder-point. It was. Next 
day the news was in both barracks ; an' whin I met Dinah 
Shadd wid a cheek like all the reg'mintal tailors' samples, 
there was no ' Good-mornin', corp'ril,' or aught else. 'Au' 
what have I done, Miss Shadd,' sez I, very bould, plantin' 
mesilf forninst her, ' that ye should not pass the time of day?' 

" ' Ye've half killed rough-rider Dempsey,' sez she, her 
dear blue eyes filliti' up. 

' ' ' Maybe,' sez I. ' Was he a friend av yours that saw ye 
home four times in a fortnight ? ' 

" ' Yes,' sez she, very bould ; but her mouth was down at 
the corners. ' An' — an' what's that to you ? ' 

" ' Ask Dempsey,' sez I, purtendin' to go away. 

" ' Did you fight for me then, ye silly man ? ' she sez, tho' 
she knew ut all along. 

' ' ' Who else ? ' sez I ; an' I tuk wan pace to the front. 

'"I wasn't worth ut,' sez she, fingerin' her apron. 

" ' That's for me to say,' sez I. ' Shall I say ut ? ' 

"'Yes,' sez she, in a saint's whisper; an' at that I ex- 
plained mesilf; an' she tould me what ivry man that is a 
man, an' many that is a woman, hears, wanst in his life. 

" ' But what made ye cry at startin', Dinah darlin' ?' sez I. 

" ' Your — your bloody cheek,' sez she, duckin' her little 
head down on my sash (I was duty for the day), an' whim- 
perin' like a sorrowful angel. 

" ' Now a man cud take that two ways. I tuk ut as 
pleased me best, an' my first kiss wid ut. Mother av Inno- 
cence ! but I kissed her on the tip av the nose an' undher the 
eye, an' a girl that lets a kiss come tumbleways like that has 
never been kissed before. Take note av that, sorr. Thin 
we wint, hand in hand, to ould Mother Shadd like two little 
childher, an' she said it was no bad thing ; an' ould Shadd 
nodded behind his pipe, an' Dinah ran away to her own room." 


Period IV. 

MERICA, even yet physically undeveloped, has 
had few minds of the best quality devoted to 
literature. The objective activities of pioneer- 
ing, agriculture, commerce, business, science, 
have thus far almost monopolized the genius of the 
nation. Severely winnowed of chaff, the fruit of 
our literary effort from the beginning to the present day, is 
very small ; but it may reasonably be pronounced good. The 
best work of men like Benjamin Franklin, Washington Ir- 
ving, Edgar Allan Poe, Bryant, Emerson, lyongfellow, Haw- 
thorne, Holmes, l/owell (the list might be enlarged), has 
withstood and wiir sustain the test of time. But nations, like 
individuals, must build their house before they adorn it; 
and our adornment, if choice, has not been copious. 

Of books and fugitive writings there has, on the other 
hand, been a vast supply. It has seemed as if almost every- 
body wrote. But their product must be called echoes and 
expansions, not literature. Often commendable in respect of 
outward technical form, inwardly they are empty. The cri- 
terion of true literary development is poetry, and no poetry is 
being written in America to-day — only interminable rhymes. 
Our last singing voices are those of Stedman and Stoddard. 

The Civil War marked the division between our contem- 
porary and our former literary epbchs. The best work of our 
great writers was then done, and the new writers had not yet 



come in sight. But about 1870 Bret Harte struck a fresh 
note, and thenceforth a new mental attitude began to be ob- 
servable in our writers. Howells and James sowed the seeds 
of distrust in that kind of romance of which Theodore Win- 
throp was a typical cultivator, which consists in exaggerating, 
coloring or misrepresenting facts, in order to exploit a senti- 
ment or round out a plot. Fidelity to actual life was their 
basis; analysis of motive was refined and brought down to 
detail, and care was taken to avoid sensational episodes and 
striking conclusions. The theory was in the nature of a re- 
action, and like all reactions, its merit was found to have 
limitations; it approached life from the outside, critically in- 
stead of creatively, and thus missed the more important part 
of it; it practically substituted the experiences of the writer 
for the possibilities of the race. Its delicate and reserved 
pictures had the charm of veracity and finish ; but they were 
not pictures in the full sense; studies was their fitter title. 
The reader left them without the feeling of inward repose 
which is the final efiect of a true work of art. 

But the value of the new departure which they illustrated 
was very great. It was no longer possible to revert to the 
false drawing and forced effects of the preceding interval. 
Backgrounds and figures could no longer be evolved from 
the flabby world of fancy, feeling and former writings; they 
must be investigated after the scientific manner, and at first 
hand; physiology, biology, sociology, must warrant every 
statement, portrait and episode. The gain is unquestionable. 
Haphazard work was excluded from those magazines whose 
favor was supposed to confer distinction. On the other hand, 
there were drawbacks : imagination, even of the finer sort, 
was regarded with suspicion. While our great magazines 
chastened style, purified material, and improved handling, 
they repressed independent imaginative development. 

But if the finer products of imaginatio^ are temporarily 
delayed, historical study has brought forth good and useful 
fruits, and the literature of travel and exploration has been 
cultivated. The age is not decadent: there is power in 
abundance; all that is needed is inspiration, and faith to 
yield to it when it comes. 


"In a liberal sense," wrote Mr. Edmund Clarence Stedman 
some years ago, "and somewhat as Emerson stands for 
American thought, the poet Lowell has become our repre- 
sentative man of letters." Lowell still stands as America's 
representative man of letters, not because he has struck the 
highest note, but because he has the greatest breadth and 
versatility, and has woven into his prose and verse more of 
the warp and woof of American life and thought than any 
one else. It is a far cry from the noble and lofty strain of the 
"Commemoration Ode " to the quaint humor and shrewdness 
of Hosea Biglow, and yet both have made a strong appeal in 
widely different ways, not only to America, but to all the 
English-speaking world. 

James Russell Lowell was bom in Cambridge, Mass., on 
February 22, 18 19. His father was the Rev, Charles Lowell, 
and his grandfather was the Judge John Lowell who founded 
the Lowell Institute in Boston. He graduated at Harvard 
College in 1838, and was admitted to the bar in Boston in 
1840. He never practiced law, however, but began his career 
as an author shortly after his admission to the' bar, by pub- 
lishing a volume of poems under the title of "A Year's Life." 
His first book was never republished, though a few of the 
poems in it were preserved by the author. In 1844 Lowell 
married Maria White, the gifted woman who had inspired 
' ' A Year's Life. " Being an ardent abolitionist, she influenced 
Lowell into becoming a warm advocate of this cause, which 
he espoused with his whole heart and soul, and advocated 
with glowing words and flaming pen. 

Indignation at the Mexican War and hatred of slavery 
X— 19 289 


were the direct inspiration of the humorous but caustic "Big- 
low Papers," which Lowell began in 1846 and continued till 
1848. A second, but less successful series appeared during 
the Civil War, in 1864. In both his mastery of the Yankee 
dialect and insight into the Yankee mind contributed to the 
effect intended. 

Notwithstanding his intense interest in the issues of the 
day, slavery and the Civil War, Lowell found time for general 
literary work. As early as 1845 appeared one of the most 
beautiful of his poems, "The Vision of Sir Launfal," a poem 
on the quest of the Holy Grail. In another vein was the 
"Fable for Critics," which appeared anonymously, and 
keenly criticised the writers of the day, including himself. 

In 185 1 Lowell and his second wife traveled in Europe, 
remaining for over a year, the fruits of this residence abroad 
being essays on Italian art and literature and studies of Dante. 
In 1855 Lowell was appointed Professor of Modem Languages 
and Belles-Lettres at Harvard University ; he was the first 
editor of the Atlantic Monthly ^ founded in 1857, and for ten 
years he was joint editor of the North American Review. His 
critical and miscellaneous essays in these periodicals he sub- 
sequently collected and published under the titles of "Among 
my Books" and "My Study Windows." On July 21, 1865, 
he delivered his noble " Commemoration Ode," in honor of 
the graduates of Harvard University who had fallen in the 
Civil War. This is Lowell's greatest poetical achievement, 
and immeasurably the finest poem called forth by the war. 
In 1869 appeared " Under the Willows and other Poems," 
and in 1870 "The Cathedral," one of the highest expres- 
sions of the poet's genius. In 1877 Lowell was appointed 
by President Hayes American Minister to Spain, and after- 
wards he was transferred to the Court of St. James, where 
he remained until 1885. During his residence in England, 
Oxford and Cambridge conferred upon him the degrees of 
D. C. L. and LL. D. On returning to the United States, he 
took up his residence at Cambridge, where he died August 
12, 1 89 1. Three years before his death he published "Hearts- 
ease and Rue," and "Political Essays." "American Ideas 
for English Readers," ' ' Latest Literary Essays and Addresses," 


■ and " Old Englisli Dramatists," were issued posthumously in 

The record of his life, as well as his works themselves, 
show that Lowell was eminently a scholar, yet not a recluse ; 
on the contrary, he was active and efficient in all the public 
affairs of his time. Yet he is known best both here and in 
England as a humorist. His "John P. Robinson" and "The 
Courtin' " traveled the length and breadth of the land, and are 
familiar to-day to thousands who never read "The Cathedral" 
or the grand " Harvard Commemoration Ode." Noble as are 
Lowell's higher poetical flights, they have not stamped them- 
selves upon the life and thought of the people. As a poet he 
lacks spontaneity, the writing of what Wordsworth calls " an 
inevitable line." Consequently he has not enriched our stock 
of familiar quotations as much as have some of our lesser 
poets. But the future may hold for him a wider appreciation 
as a poet. His essays rank among the best specimens of their 
class in America ; but it is as a critic and humorist that 
Lowell stands pre-eminent among American men of letters. 

(The following examples of Lowell's work are used by permission 
of, and by special arrangement with the authorized publishers, Messrs. 
Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston.) 

The Courtin'. 

God makes sech nights, all white an' still 
Fur 'z you can look or listen, 
, Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, 

All silence an' all glisten. 

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown 

An' peeked in thru' the winder, 
An' there sot Huldy all alone, 

'Ith no one nigh to hender. 

A fireplace filled the room's one side 

With half a cord o' wood in — 
There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) 

To bake ye to a puddin'. 

The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out. 
Towards the pootiest, bless her, 


An' leetle flames danced all about 
The chiny on- the dresser. 

Agin' the chimbley crook-necks hung, 
An' in amongst 'em rusted 

The ole queen's arm thet gran' ther Young 
Fetched back from Concord busted. 

The very room, coz she was in, 
Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', 

An' she looked full ez rosy agin 
Bz the apples she was peelin'. 

She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, 
A-raspin' on the scraper, — 

All ways to once her feelin's flew 
I^ike sparks in burnt-up paper. 

He kin' o' I'itered on the mat 
Some doubtfle o' the sekle, 

His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, 
But hern went pity Zekle. 


An' yet she gin her cheer a jerk, 

Ez though she wished him furder, 
An' on her apples kep' to work, 

Parin' away like murder. 

"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" 
" Wall ... no ... I come dasignin^ " 

"To see my Ma ? She is sprinklin' clo'es 
Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." 

To say why gals act so or so, 

Or don't, 'ould be presumin' ; 
Mebby to mean yes an' say no, 

Comes nateral to women. 

He stood a spell on one foot fust, 

Then stood a spell on t'other, 
An' on which one he felt the wust 

He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. 

Says he, "I'd better call aginj " 
Says she, " Think likely, Mister;" 

That last word pricked him like a pin, 
An' . . . Wall, he up an' kist her. 

When Ma bimby upon 'em slips, 

Huldy sot pale ez ashes, 
All kin' o' smily roun' the lips 

An' teary roun' the lashes. 

For she was jes' the quiet kind 

Whose naturs never vary, 
lyike streams that keep a summer mind 

Snow-hid in Jenooary. 

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued 

Too tight for all expressin'. 
Tell mother see how metters stood. 

And gin 'em both her blessin'. 

Then the red come back like the tide 

Down to the Bay of Fundy, 
An' all I know is they was cried 

In meetin' come nex' Sunday. 


The Day op Decision. 

(From "The Present Crisis," 1844.) 

Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide, 
In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side ; 
Some great cause, God's new Messiah, offering each the bloom 

or blight, 
Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon the right, 
And the choice goes by forever 'twixt that darkness and that 


Hast thou chosen, O my people, on whose party thou shalt stand. 
Ere the Doom from its worn sandals shakes the dust against our 

Though the cause of Evil prosper, yet 't is Truth alone is strong, 
And, albeit she wander outcast now, I see around her throng 
Troops of beautiful, tall angels, to enshield her from all wrong. 

Backward look across the ages and the beacon-moments see, 
That, like peaks of some sunk continent, jut through Oblivion's 

Not an ear in court or market for the low foreboding cry 
Of those Crises, God's stern winnowers, from whose feet earth's 

chaff must fly ; 
Never shows the choice momentous till the judgment hath passed 


Careless seems the great Avenger ; history's pages but record 
One death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems and the 

Truth forever on the scaffold. Wrong forever on the throne, — 
Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim unknown, 
Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above His own. 

We see dimly in the Present what is small and what is great, 
Slow of faith how weak an arm may turn the iron helm of fate. 
But the soul is still oracular ; amid the market's din, 
I^ist the ominous stern whisper from the Delphic cave within, — 
"They enslave their children's children who make compromise 
with sin." 


A Ruined Life. 

(From "Extreme Unction.") 

Upon the hour when I was bom, 

God said, "Another man shall be," 
And the great Maker did not scorn 

Out of Himself to fashion me ; 
He sunned me with His ripening looks, 

And Heaven's rich instincts in me grew, 
As effortless as woodland nooks 

Send violets up and paint them blue. 

Yes, I who now, with angry tears. 

Am exiled back to brutish clod, 
Have borne unquenched for fourscore years 

A spark of the eternal God ; 
And to what end? How yield I back 

The trust for such high uses given ? 
Heaven's light hath but revealed a track 

Whereby to crawl away from heaven. 

Men think it is an awful sight 

To see a soul just set adrift 
On that drear voyage from whose night 
• The ominous shadows never lift ; 
But 't is more awful to behold 

A helpless infant newly bom. 
Whose little hands unconscious hold 

The keys of darkness and of mom. 

Mine held them once ; I flung away 

Those keys that might have open set 
The golden sluices of the day. 

But clutch the keys of darkness yet; 
I hear the reapers singing go 

Into God's harvest ; I, that might 
With them have chosen, here below 

Grope shuddering at the gates of night. 

O glorious Youth, that once wast mine ! 
O high Ideal ! all in vain 


Ye enter at this ruined shrine 
Whence worship ne'er shall rise again ; 

The bat and owl inhabit here, 
The snake nests in the altar-stone, 

The sacred vessels moulder near. 
The image of the God is gone. 

Abraham Lincoln. 

(From the "Ode Recited at the Harvard Commemoration," July 21, 


Such was he, our Martyr-Chief, 

Whom late the Nation he had led. 

With ashes on her head, 
Wept with the passion of an angry grief: 
Forgive me, if from present things I turn 
To speak what in my heart will beat and burn, 
And hang my wreath on his world-honored urn. 
Nature, they say, doth dote, 
And cannot make a man 
Save on some worn-out plan, 
Repeating us by rote : 
For him her Old- World moulds aside she threw. 

And, choosing sweet clay from the breast 

Of the unexhausted West, 
With stuff untainted shaped a hero new. 
Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true. 

How beautiful to see 
Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed. 
Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead ; 
One whose meek flock the people joyed to be. 

Not lured by any cheat of birth, 

But by his clear-grained human worth, 
And brave old wisdom of sincerity ! 

They knew that outward grace is dust ; 

They could not choose but trust 
In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill, 

And supple-tempered will 
That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust. 

His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind. 

Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars, 

A sea-mark now, now lost in vapors blind ; 


Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined, 

Fruitful and friendly for all human kind, 

Yet also nigh to heaven and loved of loftiest stars. 

Nothing of Europe here, 
Or, then, of Europe fronting momward stUl, 
Ere any names of Serf and Peer 
Could Nature's equal scheme deface 
And thwart her genial will ; 
Here was a type of the true elder race, 
And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face. 

I praise him not ; it were too late ; 
And some innative weakness there must be 
In him who condescends to victory 
Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait, 
Safe in himself as in a fate. 
So always firmly he : 
He knew to bide his time, 
And can his fame abide. 
Still patient in his simple faith sublime. 
Till the wise years decide. 
Great captains, with their guns and drums. 
Disturb our judgment for the hour. 
But at last silence comes ; 
These all are gone, and, standing like a tower. 
Our children shall behold his fame. 
The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man. 
Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame, 
New birth of our new soil, the first American. 

English View ot America. 

(From essay on " A Certain Condescension in Foreigners.") 

Till after our Civil War it never seemed to enter the 
head of any foreigner, especially of any Englishman, that an 
American had what could be called a country, except as a 
place to eat, sleep, and trade in. Then it seemed to strike 
them suddenly. "By Jove, you know, fellahs don't fight 
like that for a shop-till ! " No, I rather think not. To Ameri- 
cans America is something more than a promise and an ex- 
pectation. It has a past and traditions of its own. A descent 
from men who sacrificed everything and came hither, not to 



better their fortunes, but to plant their idea in virgin soil, 
should be a good pedigree. There was never colony save this 
that went forth, not to seek gold, but God. Is it not as well 
to have sprung from such as these as from some burly beggar 
who came over with Willhemus Conquestor, unless, indeed, a 
line grow better as it runs farther away from stalwart ances- 
tors? And for history, it is dry enough, no doubt, in the 
books, but, for all that, is of a kind that tells in the blood. 
I have admitted that Carlyle's sneer had a show of truth in 
it. But what does he himself, like a true Scot, admire in the 
Hohenzollerns ? First of all, that they were canny ^ a thrifty, 
forehanded race. Next, that they made a good fight from 
generation to generation with the chaos around them. That 
is precisely the battle which the English race on this conti- 
nent has been carrying doughtily on for two centuries and a 
half. Doughtily and silently, for you cannot hear in Europe 
"that crash, the death-song of the perfect tree," that has 
been going on here from sturdy father to sturdy son, and 
making this continent habitable for the weaker Old World 
breed that has swarmed to it during the last half-century. 
If ever men did a good stroke of work on this planet, it was 
the forefathers of those whom you are wondering whether it 
would not be prudent to acknowledge as far-off cousins. Alas, 
man of genius, to whom we owe so much, could you see 
nothing more than the burning of a foul chimney in that 
clash of Michael and Satan which flamed up under your very 

Before our war we were to Europe but a huge mob of ad- 
venturers and shop-keepers. Leigh Hunt expressed it well 
enough when he said that he could never think of America 
without seeing a gigantic counter stretched all along the sea- 
board. Feudalism had by degrees made commerce, the great 
civilizer, contemptible. But a tradesman with sword on 
thigh, and very prompt of stroke, was not only redoubtable, 
he had become respectable, also. Few people, I suspect, al- 
luded twice to a needle in Sir John Hawkwood's presence, 
after that doughty fighter had exchanged it for a more dan- 
gerous tool of the same metal. Democracy had been hitherto 
only a ludicroi;ts effort to reverse the laws of nature by thrust- 


ing Cleou into the place of Pericles. But a democracy that 
could fight for an abstraction, whose members held life and 
goods cheap compared with that larger life which we call 
country, was not merely unheard-of, but portentous. It was 
the nightmare of the Old World taking upon itself flesh and 
blood, turning out to be substance and not dream. Since 
the Norman crusader clanged down upon the throne of the 
porphyro-geniti^ carefully draped appearances had never re- 
ceived such a shock, had never been so rudely called on to 
produce their titles to the empire of the world. Authority 
has had its periods not unlike those of geolo^, and at last 
comes Man claiming kingship in right of his mere man- 
hood. The world of the Saurians might be in some respects 
more picturesque, but the march of events is inexorable, and 
it is by-gone. 

The young giant had certainly got out of long-clothes. 
He had become the enfant terrible of the human household. 
It was not and will not be easy for the world (especially for 
our British cousins) to look upon us as grown up. The 
youngest of nations, its people must also be young and to be 
treated accordingly, was the syllogism, — as if libraries did 
not make all nations equally old in all those respects, at least, 
where age is an advantage and not a defect. Youth, no 
doubt, has its good qualities, as people feel who are losing it, 
but boyishness is another thing. We had been somewhat 
boyish as a nation, a little loud, a little pushing, a little 
braggart. But might it not partly have been because we felt 
that we had certain claims to respect that were not admitted ? 
The war which established our position as a vigorous nation- 
ality has also sobered us. A nation, like a man, cannot look 
death in the eye for four years, without some strange reflections, 
without arriving at some clearer consciousness of the stuff" it 
is made of, without some great moral change. Such a change, 
or the beginning of it, no observant person can fail to see 
here. Our thought and our politics, our bearing as a people, 
are assuming a manlier tone. We have been compelled to 
see what was weak in democracy as well as what was strong. 
We have begun obscurely to recognize that things do not go 
of themselves, and that popular government is not in itself a 



panacea, is no better than any other form except as the virtue 
and wisdom of the people make it so, and that when men under- 
take to do their own kingship, they enter upon the dangers 
and responsibili', ies as well as the privileges of the function. 
Above all, it looks as if we were on the way to be persuaded 
that no government can be carried on by declamation. It is 
noticeable also that facility of communication has made the 
best English and French thought far more directly operative 
here than ever before. Without being Europeanized, our 
discussion of important questions in statesmanship, in political 
economy, in aesthetics, is taking a broader scope and a higher 
tone. It had certainly been provincial, one might also say 
local, to a very unpleasant extent. Perhaps our experience 
in soldiership has taught us to value training more than we 
have been popularly wont. We may possibly come to the 
conclusion, one of these days, that self-made men may not be 
always equally skillful in the manufacture of wisdom, may 
not be divinely commissioned to fabricate the higher qualities 
of opinion on all possible topics of human interest. 


Holmes, born in 1809, and dying in 1894, was the 
descendiant of a scholarly New England ancestry. After 
graduating at Harvard, he began life as a professor and prac- 
titioner in medicine; he was married in 1840, and lived all 
his life in Boston. He twice visited Europe, first as a young 
fellow of one-and-twenty, and again, after more than half a 
century, as a veteran of letters, known and loved in both 
hemispheres. Of all our writers, he is the sunniest, the wit- 
tiest, the most discursive, and one of the least uneven. 

Until 1857, Holmes had written nothing beyond occa- 
sional poems, excellent of their kind, but not of themselves 
suflScient to make a reputation. But in that year, the Atlan- 
tic Monthly was started, and Holmes contributed to it a series 
of unique essays entitled, "The Autocrat of the Breakfast 
Table." They had the form of familiar dialogues between a 
group of diverse but common types in a boarding-house, upon 
all manner of topics. They immediately caught the fancy of 
all readers, and lifted Holmes to a literary altitude where he 
ever after remained. Two years later " Elsie Venner," his 
first novel, a study in heredity and in American village char- 
acter, was published ; it is good, but not in the same class 
•writh the best imaginative work. The same criticism must 
be passed on " The Guardian Angel," his second effort in fic- 
tion, which appeared in 1867. Both have so much merit 
that one wonders not to find them better. But they make it 
plain that Holmes's proper field was the discursive essay 
and the occasional poem; and here his fame is solid and 



Wit rather than humor characterizes Holmes ; yet he has 
the tenderness which usually accompanies only the latter. 
His mind is swift in movement, and catches remote analogies ; 
he brings together the near and the far, with the eiFect of a 
pleasing surprise. His thought tends to shape itself in epi- 
gram ; hesays more " good things " — which are not merely good, 
but often wise — than any of his contemporaries. The habit 
of his mind was discursive and independent, rather than 
deeply original ; he had opinions on all subjects ; he stated 
them so brightly and aptly that they often seemed new; but 
in truth Holmes is orthodox. His quick sympathies and ex- 
cellent taste, combined with the harmony of nature which 
creates the synthetic attitude, make him a poet whose pro- 
ductions not seldom reach a high plane, as for example in 
"The Chambered Nautilus." He is an optimist, and a 
moralizer, and turns both characteristics to sound literary 
advantage. The comic bias of his general outlook upon life 
leads him to be so constantly funny and acute, that the 
reader is in some danger of losing the fine edge of apprecia- 
tion ; the writer becomes his own rival. Once in a while, 
however, as in "Old Ironsides," the fervor of his patriotism, 
or of some other high emotion, thrills him into seriousness, 
and then he strikes a pure and lofty note. There is some- 
thing lovable in all that he has done ; and no man of letters 
among us has been the object of more widespread personal 
affection than has Holmes. 

We return from other appreciations to the Autocrat series 
— for he wrote a number of books of a character similar to 
these first essays. The untrammeled plan of them suits his 
genius ; he can spring here and there as chance or humor 
suggests, and entertain us in a hundred different ways one 
after another. He preaches charming lay sermons, on a score 
of texts at once, and unless unintermittent entertainment can 
be tedious, tediousness is impossible to Holmes. He opens 
no unknown worlds, but he makes us see the world we know 
better. He penetrates beneath the surface of human nature, 
though he falls short of creative insight. After reading him, 
we rise with a kindlier feeling towards men and things, and 
a wiser understanding of them. 



The; Chambered Nautilus. 

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 

Sails the unshadow'd main — 

The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its pttrpled wings, 
In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings. 

And coral reefs lie bare. 
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. 

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; 

Wreck'd is the ship of pearl ! 

And every chamber' d cell. 
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell. 
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell. 

Before thee lies reveal'd, — 
Its iris'd ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unseal' d! 

Year after year beheld the silent toil 

That spread his lustrous coil ; 

Still, as the spiral grew, 
He left the past year's dwelling for the new. 
Stole with soft step its shining archway through, 

Built up its idle door, 
Stretch'd in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. 


Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, 

Child of the wandering sea, 

Cast from her lap, forlorn ! 
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! 

While on mine ear it rings, 
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings : — 

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, 

As the swift seasons roll I 

I<eave thy low- vaulted past ! 
I^et each new temple, nobler than the last, 
shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast. 

Till thou at length art free, 
I^eaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea I 

The Thrbe Johns. 

(From "The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table.") 
When John and Thomas are talking together, it is natural 
enough that among the six there should be more or less con- 
fusion and misapprehension. 

[Our landlady turned pale ; — no doubt she thought there 
was a screw loose in my intellects, — and that involved the 
probable loss of a boarder. A severe-looking person, who 
wears a Spanish cloak and a sad cheek, fluted by the passions 
of the melodrama, whom I understand to be the professional 
ruffian of the neighboring theatre, alluded, with a certain 
lifting of the brow, drawing down of the corners of the mouth, 
and somewhat rasping voce di petto^ to FalstaflF's nine men in 
buckram. Everybody looked up. I believe the old gentle- 
man opposite was afraid I should seize the carving-knife ; at 
any rate, he slid it to one side, as it were carelessly.] 

I think, I said, I can make it plain to Benjamin Franklin 
here, that there are at least six personalities distinctly to be 
recognized as taking part in that dialogue between John and 


1. The real John ; known only to his Maker. 

2. John's ideal John ; never the real one, and 
Three Johns. ■! often very unlike him. 

3. Thomas's ideal John ; never the real John, 
nor John's John, but often very unlike 


{I. The real Thomas. 
2. Thomas's ideal Thomas. 
3. John's ideal Thomas. 

Only one of the three Johns is taxed ; only one can be 
weighed on a platform-balance ; but the other two are just as 
important in the conversation. I^et us suppose the real John 
to be old, dull, and ill-looking. But as the higher powers 
have not conferred on men the gift of seeing themselves in 
the true light, John very possibly conceives himself to be 
youthful, witty, and fascinating, and talks from the point of 
view of this ideal. Thomas, again, believes him to be an 
artful rogue, we will say ; therefore he m, so far as Thoinas's 
attitude in the conversation is concerned, an artful rogue, 
though really simple and stupid. The same conditions apply 
to the three Thomases. It follows, that, until a man can be 
found who knows himself as his Maker knows him, or who 
sees himself as others see him, there must be at least six per- 
sons engaged in every dialogue between two. Of these, the 
least important, philosophically speaking, is the one that we 
have called the real person. No wonder two disputants often 
get angry, when there are six of them talking and listening 
all at the same time. 

[A very unphilosophical application of the above remarks 
was made by a young fellow, answering to the name of John, 
who sits near me at table. A certain basket of peaches, a rare 
vegetable, little known to boarding-houses, was on its way to 
me via this unlettered Johannes. He appropriated the three 
that remained in the basket, remarking that there was just . 
one apiece for him. I convinced him that his practical infer- 
ence was hasty and illogical, but in the meantime he had 
eaten the peaches.] 

(The extracts from Dr. Holmes's works are used by special per- 
mission of, and special arrangement with the authorized publishers, 
Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston.) 
X — 20 

. It cannot be denied that the poet, though 
born and not made, must be strongly influ- 
enced by his early surroundings. John Green- 
leaf .Whittier was but little indebted to scholarly culture or to 
art or to literary companionship ; he was self-made and largely 
self-taught. Born near Haverhill, Mass., on December 17th, 
1807, he worked on his father's farm and received the rudi- 
ments of education at home. After he was seventeen years 
old, he attended the Haverhill Academy for two terms, and 
at nineteen he began to contribute anonymous poems to the 
Free Press, edited by Wm. Lloyd Garrison. Then began a 
friendship between the editor and the young poet which was 
cemented by their joint activity in the great Abolition Con- 
test. Whittier wrote fervid anti-slavery lyrics, edited news- 
papers in Boston, Haverhill and Hartford, and was for a year 
a member of the Massachusetts legislature. In 183 1, he pub- 
lished his first collection of poems, " Legends of New Eng- 
land," a number of Indian traditions, and shortly afterwards 
a poetical tale, " Mogg Megone." In 1836 he was appointed 
secretary of the American Anti-Slavery Society, and later 
became editor of the Pennsylvania Freeman, in Philadelphia. 
But the abolition cause was intensely unpopular ; the printing 
office was at one time sacked and burned, and the editor was 
forced many times to face enraged mobs. In the Freeman 
appeared some of Whittier's best anti-slavery lyrics. There 
was crude force in these scornfully indignant lyrics, for though 
Whittier inherited Quaker blood, and adhered to the Quaker 
practice, he was a fiery apostle of .human brotherhood. His 
health was always delicate, which he attributed to the 
"toughening" process, common when he was a boy. la 


1840, he settled down at Amesbury, Mass., where his sister 
and afterwards his niece abode with him. But for the last 
twenty years of his life he was deprived of the companion- 
ship of relatives. 

Poems inspired by the passion of political events as a rule 
are not of a lasting quality, — they pass away when the politi- 
cal questions that evoked them have been settled. Few readers 
to-day dip into the anti-slavery lyrics. But in writing them 
Whittier thought of other things than literary fame. He 
himself said that though he was not insensible to literary 
reputation, he set a higher value on his " name as appended 
to the anti-slavery declaration of 1833 than on the title page 
of any book." 

Whittier wrote with ease and freedom and was a volumin- 
ous author. Among his best known books are, " Voices of 
Freedom," " Songs of Labor, " "National Lyrics," "Snow- 
Bound," "Ballads of New England," "The Pennsylvania 
Pilgrim," " The King's Missive " and "At Sundown." A 
complete collection of the poet's writings in prose and verse 
revised by himself appeared a few years previous to his death, 
which took place on September 7th, 1892. 

Whittier will always be best remembered for his charming 
New England idyll " Snow-Bound," into which his own 
early life and experiences on the farm were woven, and for 
such poems as "Maud MuUer," "Barbara Frietchie," "In 
School Days," "Skipper Ireson's Ride" and " Telling the 
Bees. ' ' He is at his best in depicting peaceful and simple 
country scenes and characters. He lived close to the homely 
heart and life of the New England country people, and was 
to them a kind of lesser Robert Burns, not a writer of songs, 
yet a laureate of the woodlands, and of farm life, and of in- 
land lakes and streams. His life was as simple and sweet as 
is most of his poetry. There was a harmony rarely found 
that intimately blended the poet's life with his poems. 

(The following examples of Whittier's poems are used by special 
permission of, and special arrangement witli the authorized publishers^ 
Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston.) 


The Pipes at Lucknow. 

Day by day the Indian tiger 

I<ouder yelled, and nearer crept ; 
Round and round the jungle-serpent 
Near and nearer circles swept. 
"Pray for rescue, wives and mothers, — 

Pray to-day ! " the soldier said; 
"To-morrow, death's between us 

And the wrong and shame we dread." 

O, they listened, looked, and waited, 

Till their hope became despair ; 
And the sobs of low bewailing 

Filled the pauses of their prayer. 
Then up spake a Scottish maiden, 

With her ear unto the ground : 
' ' Dinna ye hear it ? — dinna ye hear it ? 

The pipes o' Havelock sound ! " 

I/ike the march of soundless music 

Through the vision of the seer. 
More of feeling than of hearing. 

Of the heart than of the ear. 
She knew the droning pibroch. 

She knew the Campbell's call ; 
"Hark! hear ye no' MacGregor's, — 

The grandest o' them all ! " 

O, they listened, dumb and breathless. 

And they caught the sound at last ; 
Faint and far beyond the Goomtee 

Rose and fell the piper's blast ! 
Then a burst of wild thanksgiving 

Mingled woman's voice and man's ; 
"God be praised ! — the march of Havelock ! 

The piping of the clans ! " 

Round the silver domes of Lucknow, 
Moslem mosque and Pagan shrine, 

Breathed the air to Britons dearest, 
The air of Auld Lang Syne. 


O'er the cruel roll of war-drums 
Rose that sweet and homelike strain ; 

And the tartan clove the turban, 
As the Goomtee cleaves the plain. 

Dear to the corn-land reaper 

And plaided mountaineer, — 
To the cottage and the castle 

The piper's song is dear. 
Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch 

O'er mountain, glen, and glade ; 
But the sweetest of all music 

The Pipes at I^ucknow played ! 

The Mother. 

(From " Snow Bound.") 
Our mother, while she turned her wheel 

Or run the new-knit stocking-heel, 

Told how the Indian hordes came down 

At midnight on Cochecho town. 

And how her own great-uncle bore 

His cruel scalp-mark to fourscore. 

Recalling, in her fitting phrase. 
So rich and picturesque and free, 
(The common unrhymed poetry 

Of simple life and country ways,) 

The story of her early days, — 

She made us welcome to her home ; 

Old hearths grew wide to give us room ; 

We stole with her a frightened look 

At the gray wizard's conjuring-book. 

The fame whereof went far and wide 

Through all the simple country side ; 

We heard the hawks at t^yilight play, 

The boat-horn on Piscataqua, 

The loon's weird laughter far away ; 

We fished her little trout-brook, knew 

What flowers in wood and meadow grew, 

What sunny hillsides autumn-brown 

She climbed to shake the ripe nuts down, 

Saw where in sheltered cove and bay 

The ducks's black squadron anchored lay, 


And heard the wild-geese calling loud 
Beneath the gray November cloud. 

Then, haply, with a look more grave, 
And soberer tone, some tale she gave 
From painful Sewell's ancient tome. 
Beloved in every Quaker home. 
Of faith fire-winged by martyrdom. 
Or Chalkley's Journal, old and quaint, — 
Gentlest of skippers, rare sea-saint ! — 
Who, when the dreary calms prevailed, 
And water-butt and bread-cask failed, 
And cruel, hungry eyes pursued 
His portly presence mad for food, 
With dark hints muttered under breath 
Of casting lots for life or death, 
Ofiered, if Heaven withheld supplies. 
To be himself the sacrifice. 
Then, suddenly, as if to save 
The good man from his living grave, 
A ripple on the water grew, 
A school of porpoise flashed in view. 
"Take, eat," he said, " and be content; 
These fishes in my stead are sent 
By Him who gave the tangled ram 
To spare the child of Abraham." 

Skipper Ireson's Ride. 

Of all the rides since the birth of time, 
Told in story or sung in rhyme, — 
On Apuleius's Golden Ass, 
Or one-eyed Calender's horse of brass. 
Witch astride of a human back, 
Islam's prophet on Al-Borak, — 
The strangest ride that ever was sped 
Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead ! 
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart. 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 

Body of turkey, head of owl, 
Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl. 


Feathered and ruffled in every part, 

Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. 

Scores of women, old and young, 

Strong o£. muscle, and glib of tongue. 

Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane, 

Shouting and singing the shrill refrain: 
" Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead ! " 

"Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, 

Girls in bloom of cheek and lips. 

Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase 

Bacchus round some antique vase, 

Brief of skirt, with ankles bare, 

lyoose of kerchief and loose of hair, ' 

With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang, 
, Over and over the Maenads sang: 

" Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead ! " 

Small pity for him ! — He sailed away 
From a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay, — 
Sailed away from a sinking wreck, 
With his own town's-people on her deck ! 
"lyay by ! lay by ! " they called to him. 
Back he answered, ' ' Sink or swim ! 
Brag of your catch of fish again ! " 
And off he sailed through the fog and rain ! 
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 

Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur 
That wreck shall lie forevermore. 
Mother and sister, wife and maid, 
I<ooked from the rocks of Marblehead 
Over the moaning and rainy sea, — 
I/Doked for the coming that might not be ! 
What did the winds and the sea-birds say 
Of the cruel captain who sailed away? — 


Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 

Through the street, on either side, 
Up flew windows, doors swung wide ; 
Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray, 
Treble lent the fish-horn's bray. 
Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound, 
Hulks of old sailors run aground, 

Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane, 
And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain : 
" Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 
Torr'd an' furtherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead ! " 

'Hear me, neighbors ! " at last he cried, — 

' What to me is this noisy ride? 
What is the shame that clothes the skin 
To the nameless horror that lives within ? 


Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck, 

And hear a cry from a reeling deck ! 

Hate me and curse me, — I only dread 

The hand of God and the face of the dead ! " 
Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 

Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea 
Said, "God has touched him !— why should we?" 
Said an old wife mourning her only son, 
' Cut the rogue's tether and let him run ! " 
So with soft relentings and rude excuse. 
Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose. 
And gave him a cloak to hide him in. 
And left him alone with his shame and sin. 
Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 



Bayard Taylor was born in 
Chester County, Pennsylvania, on 
January nth, 1825. His father 
was a farmer, belonging to the 
Society of Friends, and Bayard 
was apprenticed to a printing 
office. He soon began to con- 
tribute verses to the papers, and a 
collection of these early poems 
entitled " Ximena " was published 
in 1844. Then he made a pedes- 
trian tour through Europe, and his vivacious account of his 
travels and experiences, entitled ' ' Views Afoot ; or Europe 
seen with Knapsack and Staff" (1846), gained him a position 
on the staff of the New York Tribune in whose columns 
many of his sketches of travel first appeared. 

The titles of his books of travel indicate the many coun- 
tries he visited. " El Dorado " describes a visit to California 


and Mexico in 1848. Then followed "Journey to Central 
Africa," "Land of the Saracens," "Visit to India, China, 
and Japan" (1853); " Northern Travel " (1857), an account of 
a tour through Sweden, Denmark and Lapland ; ' ' Travels in 
Greece and Russia" (1859). But besides these books of 
travel, Taylor had put forth seven volumes of poetry. ' ' Poems 
of Home and Travel" (1855) contain such collected poems 
as the author wished then to acknowledge. His first novel, 
"Hannah Thurston "was published in 1863. Three others 
followed: "John Godfrey's Fortunes," "The Story of Ken- 
nett," and "Joseph and His Friend." None of these, how- 
ever, won much approval, and it is as a lyric poet that Bayard 
Taylor shows his best qualities. Some of his songs, his Orien- 
tal idyls, and his Pennsylvania ballads are sure of an abiding 
place in American literature. His more elaborate poetical 
works are "The Poet's Journal" (1862), "The Picture of 
St. John" (1866), "The Masque of the Gods" (1872), "Lars" 
(1873), and "The Prophet" (1874), "Home Pastorals," 
(187s), and " Prince Deukalion," (1878). "The Echo Club" 
is a series of clever parodies of the poets of the century. In 
1876 Taylor composed the "National Ode," which was read 
at the Centennial Festival. His most famous work, how- 
ever, is his translatioja of " Faust " in the original metres. He 
is undoubtedly the greatest of Goethe's English interpreters. 

Taylor had been brought up among the Pennsylvania 
Quakers, but he found in later life, that in spite of his affec- 
tionate regard for them, he could not dwell happily among 
them. He had become a cosmopolitan and preferred the 
manners and customs of the Germans. In 1 878 he was grati- 
fied at being appointed American minister to Berlin. There 
"he died a year later. 

Taylor's travels are written in unaffected and often vivid 
prose. His literary criticisms have the quality of plain, 
good sense. His longer poems are more ambitious than suc- 
cessful. His minor lyrics and his masterly rendition of 
Faust are his chief claims to immortality. 

(The following extracts from Bayard Taylor's poems are used by 
special permission of, and special arrangement with the authorized 
publishers, Houghton, Mififlin & Co., Boston.) 


Bedouin Song. 

From the Desert I come to tliee 

On a stallion shod with fire ; 
And the winds are left behind 

In the speed of my desire. 
Under thy window I stand, 

And the midnight hears my cry : 
I love thee, — I love but thee, 
With a love that shall not die 
Till the sun grows cold, 
And the stars are old. 
And the leaves of the Judgment 
Book unfold ! 

Ivook from thy window and see 

My passion and my pain ; 
I lie on the sands below. 

And I faint in thy disdain. 
I<et the night-winds touch thy brow 
With the heat of my burning sigh. 
And melt thee to h§ar the vow 
Of a love that shall not die 
Till the sun grows cold. 
And the stars are old. 
And the leaves of the Judgment 
Book unfold ! 

My steps are nightly driven, 
By the fever in my breast, 
To hear from thy lattice breathed 

The word that shall give me rest. 
Open the door of thy heart. 

And open thy chamber door^ 
And my kisses shall teach thy lips 
The love that shall fade no more 
Till the sun grows cold. 
And the stars are old, 
And the leaves of the Judgment 
Book unfold !- 


The Song of the Camp. 

"Give us a song ! " the soldiers cried, 
The outer trenches guarding, 
When the heated guns of the camps allied 
Grew weary of bombarding. 

The dark Redan, in silent scoff, 
I<ay, grim and threatening, under ; 

And the tawny mound of the Malakoff 
No longer belched its thunder. 

There was a pause. A guardsman said : 
" We storm the forts to-morrow; 

: Sing while we may, another day 
Will bring enough of sorrow." 

They lay along the battery's side, 

Below the smoking cannon ; 
Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde, 

And from the banks of Shannon. 

They sang of love, and not of fame ; 

Forgot was Britain's glory; 
Each heart recalled a different name, 

But all sang "Annie I/awrie." 

Voice after voice caught up the song. 

Until its tender passion 
Rose like an anthem, rich and strong, — 

Their battle-eve confession. 

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, 

But, as the song grew louder, 
Something upon the soldier's cheek 

Washed off the stains of powder. 

Beyond the darkening ocean burned 

The bloody sunset's embers, 
While the Crimean valleys learned 

How English love remembers. 

And once again a fire of hell 
Rained on the Russian quarters, 


With scream of shot, and burst of shell, 
And bellowing of the mortars ! 

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim 

For a singer, dumb and gory ; 
And English Mary mourns for him 

Who sang of "Annie Lawrie." 

Sleep, soldiers ! still in honored rest 

Your truth and valor wearing : 
The bravest are the tenderest, — 

The loving are the daring. 


Mrs. Jackson, known in liter- 
ature as "H. H." and "Helen 
Hunt," was born at Amherst, 
Massachusetts, in 1831, and died 
at San Francisco, California, in 
1885. She was married to Cap- 
tain Hunt, an engineer officer, 
who was killed by an explosion. 
The widow on recovering from 
profound grief for her loss, solaced 
herself with poetry. She did not 
begin her literary career until her 
thirty-fifth year. When her verses 
appeared in print, they immedi- 
ately compelled attention. Her poetry was earnest as well as 
graceful, her themes- generally being high spiritual hopes 
and wonderings. Afterwards she was persuaded to write 
prose of light vein, and in this she displayed a fine sense of 
humor and of knowledge of the seamy side of domestic 
afiairs. She published two novels — "Mercy Philbrick's 
Choice " and "Hetty's Strange History," and she is believed 
to have written the clever magazine stories that appeared 
over the pseudonym " Saxe Holm." 

The books to which she herself attached most importance, 
however, were "A Century of Dishonor," which was an 
arraignment of the nation for wrongs done the Indians, and 


" Ramona," a novel written with similar purpose. These 
books were not based on hearsay and sentimental theory ; for 
during the lifetime of her first husband, the author had resided 
at military posts on the frontier and had noted the unjust treat- 
ment of Indians by all whites with whom they came in con- 
tact. Through the remainder of her life her most earnest 
purpose was to influence the American people to compel the 
undoing of wrongs done in their name to the helpless 
' ' wards of the nation.' ' 

Only an Indian Baby. 

(This extract from "Ramona" is used by special permission ol the 
authorized publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.) 

In a week, Alessandro appeared again at the Agency doc- 
tor's door. This time he had come with a request which to 
his mind seemed not unreasonable. He had brought Baba 
for the doctor to ride. Could the doctor then refuse to go to 
Saboba ? Baba would carry him there in three hours, and it 
would be like a cradle all the way. Alessandro's name was 
in the Agency books. It was for this he had written it, — for 
this and nothing else, — to save the baby's life. Having thus 
enrolled himself as one of the Agency Indians, he had a 
claim on this the Agency doctor. And that his application 
might be all in due form, he took with him the Agency in- 
terpreter. He had had a misgiving before, that Aunt Ri's 
kindly volubility had not been well timed. Not one unne- 
cessary word, was Alessandro's, motto. 

To say that the Agency doctor was astonished at being 
requested to ride thirty miles to prescribe for an ailing Indian 
baby, would be a mild statement of the doctor' s emotion. He 
could hardly keep from laughing, when it was made clear to 
him that this was what the Indian father expected. 

"Good Lord !" he said, turning to a crony who chanced 
to be lounging in the office. "Listen to that beggar, will 
you ? I wonder what he thinks the Government pays me a 
year for doctoring Indians ! ' ' 

Alessandro listened so closely it attracted the doctor's at- 
tention. " Do you understand English ? " he asked sharply. 

" A very little, Seiior," replied Alessandro. 


The doctor would be more careful in his speech, then. 
But he made it most emphatically clear that the thing Ales- 
sandro had asked was not only out of the question, but pre- 
posterous. Alessandro pleaded. For the child's sake he 
could do it. The horse was at the door ; there was no such 
horse in San Bernardino County; he went like the wind, and 
one would not know he was in motion, it was so easy. Would 
not the doctor come down and look at the horse ? Then he 
would see what it would be like to ride him, 

"Oh, I've seen plenty of your Indian ponies," said the 
doctor. ' ' I know they can run." 

Alessandro lingered. He could not give up this last hope. 
The tears came into his eyes. " It is our only child, Seiior," he 
said. "It will take you but six hours in all. My wife counts 
the moments till you come ! If the child dies, she will die." 
" No ! no ! " The doctor was weary of being importuned. 
"Tell the man it is impossible! I'd soon have my hands 
full, if I began to go about the country this way. They'd be 
sending for me down to Agua Caliente next, and bringing up 
their ponies to carry me.' ' 

" He will not go? " asked Alessandro. 

The interpreter shook his head. " He cannot," he said. 

Without a word Alessandro left the room. Presently he 
returned. " Ask him if he will come for money ? " he said. 
" I have gold at home. I will pay him what the white men 
pay him." 

" Tell him no man of any color could pay me for going 
sixty miles ! ' ' said the doctor. 

And Alessandro departed again, walking so slowly, how- 
ever, that he heard the coarse laugh, and the words, "Gold! 
Looked like it, didn't he?" which followed his departure 
from the room. 

When Ramona saw him returning alone, she wrung her 
hands. Her heart seemed breaking. The baby had lain in 
a sort of stupor since noon; she was plainly worse, and Ra- 
mona had been going from the door to the cradle, from the 
cradle to the door, for an hour, looking, each moment for the 
hoped-for aid. It had not once crossed her mind that the 
doctor would not come. She had accepted in much fuller 


faith than Alessandro the account of the appointment by the 
Government of these two men to look after the Indians' in- 
terests. What else could their coming mean, except that, at 
last, the Indians were to have justice ! She thought, in her 
simplicity, that the doctor must have died, since Alessandro 
was riding home alone. 

" He would not come ! ' ' said Alessandro, as he threw 
himself ofiF his horse, wearily. 

" Would not ! " cried Ramona. " Would not ! Did you 
not say the Government had sent him to be the doctor for 
Indians ? " 

" That was what they said," he replied. " You see it is a 
lie, like the rest ! But I ofifered him gold, and he would not 
come then. The child must die, Majella! " 

"She shall not die !" cried Ramona. "We will carry 
her to him ! " The thought struck them both as an inspira- 
tion. Why had they not thought of it before? "You can 
fasten the cradle on Baba's back, and he will go so gently, 
she will think it is but play; and I will walk by her side, or 
you, all the way ! " she continued. " And we can sleep at 
Aunt Ri's house. Oh, why, why did we not do it before? 
Early in the morning we will start. " 

All through the night they sat watching the little creature. 
If they had ever seen death, they would have known that 
there was no hope for the child. But how should Ramona 
and Alessandro know ? 

The sun rose bright and warm. Before it was up, the 
cradle was ready, ingeniously strapped on Baba's back. When 
the baby was placed in it, she smiled. ' ' The first smile she 
has given for days," cried Ramona. "Oh, the air itself will 
do good to her ! I,et me walk by her first ! Come, Baba ! 
Dear Baba ! " and Ramona stepped almost joyfully by the 
horse's side, Alessandro riding Benito. As they paced along, 
their eyes never leaving the baby's face, Ramona said, in a 
low tone, ' ' Alessandro, I am almost afraid to tell you what I 
have done. I took the little Jesus out of the Madonna's arms 
and hid it! Did you never hear, that if you do that, the 
Madonna will grant you anything, to get him back again 
in her arms? Did you ever hear of it?" 


" Never ! " exclaimed Alessandro, -with horror in his tone. 
" Never, Majella ! How dared you ? ' ' 

"I dare anything now!" said Ramona. "I have been 
thinking to do it for some days, and to tell her she could not 
have him any more till she gave me back the baby well and 
strong; but I knew I could not have courage to sit and look 
at her all lonely without him in her arms, so I did not do it. 
But now we are to be away, I thought, that is the time; and 
I told , her, ' When we come back with our baby well, you 
shall have your little Jesus again, too ; now. Holy Mother, 
you go with us, and make the doctor cure our baby ! ' Oh, I 
have heard, many times, women tell the Seiiora they had 
done this, and always they got what they wanted. Never 
will she let the Jesus be out of her arms more than three 
weeks before she will grant any prayer one can make. It 
was that way she brought you to me, Alessandro. I never 
before told you. I was afraid. I think she had brought you 
sooner, but I could keep the little Jesus hid from her only at 
night. In the day I could not, because the Senora would 
see. So she did not miss him so much ; else she had brought 
you quicker." 

" But, Majella," said the logical Alessandro, "it was be- 
cause I could not leave my father that I did not come. As 
soon as he was buried, I came." 

" If it had not been for the Virgin, you would never have 
come at all," said Ramona, confidently. 

For the first hour of this sad journey it seemed as if the 
child were really rallying ; the air, the sunlight, the novel 
motion, the smiling mother by her side, the big black horses 
she had already learned to love, all roused her to an anima- 
tion she had not shown for days. But it was only the last 
flicker of the expiring flame. The eyes drooped, closed; a 
strange pallor came over the face. Alessandro saw it first. 
He was now walking, Ramona riding Benito. "Majella!" 
he cried, in a tone which told her all. 

In a second she was at the baby's side, with a cry which 
smote the dying child's consciousness. Once more the eye- 
lids lifted; she knew her mother; a swift spasm shook the 
little frame; a convulsion as of agony swept over the face, 
X— 21 


then it was at peace. Majella's shrieks were heart-rending. 
Fiercely she put Alessandro away from her, as he strove to 
caress her. She stretched her arms up towards the sky. "I 
have killed her! I have killed her!" she cried. "Oh, let 
me die ! " 

Slowly Alessandro turned Baba's head homeward again. 

" Oh, give her to me ! Let her lie on my breast ! I will 
hold her warm ! " gasped Ramona. 

Silently Alessandro laid the body in her arms. He had not 
spoken since his first cry of alarm. If Ramo^na had looked at 
him, she would have forgotten her grief for her dead child. 
Alessandro' s face seemed turned to stone. 

When they reached the house, Ramona, laying the child 
on the bed, ran hastily to a corner of the room, and lifting 
the deerskin, drew from its hiding-place the little wooden 
Jesus. With tears streaming, she laid it again in the Ma- 
donna's arms, and flinging herself on her knees, sobbed out 
prayers for forgiveness. Alessandro stood at the foot of the 
bed, his arms folded, his eyes riveted on the child. 


Edward Everett Hale was born at Boston, Massa- 
chusetts, in 1822. Although for fifty years a hard-working 
and popular pastor, he has found time to write dozens of 
books and hundreds of essays and stories, besides some poems. 
He was also the originator and editor of Old and New, a 
monthly magazine. His work has been more varied than 
that of almost any other Anierican writer, for among his 
books are histories, biographies, political treatises, humani- 
tarian efibrts and fiction. His fiction is almost alone in its 
class, since it treats that which is impossible and even fantas- 
tic, with a gravity, directness and skill that makes the result 
appear entirely reasonable. Hale's "purpose" stories "Ten 
Times One Are Ten" and "In His Name" caused the 
organization of thousands of societies for self-improvement 
and forphilanthropic purposes. In any department of litera- 
ture to which he has contributed he might have taken lead- 
ership had he confined himself to it. His mental nature is 


as Strong as it is broad, and the quality of his work has been 
•well sustained. His most impossible yet most popular story 
is " The Man Without a Country "—a tale of a young officer 
who for speaking disrespectfully of the United States was 
sentenced by court-martial to be kept at sea on war vessels 
and never allowed to hear the name of his country. 

Death of Philip Nolan. 

(From "The Man Without a Country," published by J. Stillman 
Smith, Boston. Copyright by Rev. E. E. Hale, D.D. Used here by 
special permission of the author.) 

"'Mr. Nolan,' said I, 'I will tell you everything you 
ask about. Only, where shall I begin?' 

' ' O the blessed smile that crept over his white face ! and 
he pressed my hand and said, ' God bless you ! ' ' Tell me 
their names,' he said, and he pointed to the stars on the flag. 
'The last I know is Ohio. My father lived in Kentucky. 
But I have guessed Michigan and Indiana and Mississippi, — 
that was where Fort Adams is, — they make twenty. But 
where are your other fourteen ? You have not cut up any 
of the old ones, I hope ?' 

"Well, that was not a bad text, and I told him the names 
in as good order as I could, and he bade me take down his 
beautiful map and draw them in as I best could with my 
pencil. He was wild with delight about Texas, told me how 
his brother died there ; he had marked a gold cross where he 
supposed his brother's grave was ; and he had guessed at 
Texas. Then he was delighted as he saw California and 
Oregon, — that he said, he had suspected partly, because he 
bad never been permitted to land on that shore, though the 
ships were there so much. ' And the men, ' said he, laughing, 
'brought oflFa good deal besides furs.' Then he went back — 
heavens, how far! — to ask about the Chesapeake, arid what 
was done to Barron for surrendering her to the 'Leopard,' 
and whether Burr was tried again, — and he ground his teeth 
with the only passion he showed. But in a moment that was 
over, and he said, 'God forgive me, for I am sure I forgive 
him.' Then he asked about the old war, — told me the true 


story of his serving the gun the day we took the 'Java,' — 
asked about dear old David Porter, as he called him. Then 
he settled down more quietly, and very happily, to hear me 
tell in an hour the history of fifty years. 

" How I wished it had been somebody who knew some- 
thing! But I did as well as I could. I told him of the 
English war. I told him about Fulton and the steamboat 
beginning. I told him about old Scott, and Jackson ; I told 
him all I could think of about the Mississippi, and New 
Orleans, and Texas, and his own old Kentucky. . . . 

" I tell you, Ingham, it was a hard thing to condense the 
history of half a century into that talk with a sick man. And 
I do not now know what I told him, — of emigration, and the 
means of it, — of steamboats, and railroads, and telegraphs, — of 
inventions, and books, and literature, — of the colleges, and 
West Point, and the Naval School, — but with the queerest 
interruptions that ever you heard. You see it was Robinson 
Crusoe asking all the accumulated questions of fifty-six years ! 

"I remember he asked, all of a sudden, who was President 
now ; and when I told him, he asked if Old Abe was General 
Benjamin Lincoln's son. He said he met old General Lin- 
coln, when he was quite a boy himself, at some Indian treaty. 
I said no, that Old Abe was a Kentuckian like himself, but I 
could not tell him of what family ; he had worked up from 
the ranks. 'Good for him !' cried Nolan ; ' I am glad of that. 
As I have brooded and wondered, I have thought our danger 
was in keeping up those regular successions in the first 
families.' Then I got talking about my visit to Washington. 
I told him of meeting the Oregon Congressman, Harding ; I 
told him about the Smithsonian, and the Exploring Expedi- 
tion ; I told him about the Capitol, and the statues for the 
pediment, and Crawford's Liberty, and Greenough's Wash- 
ington ; Ingham, I told him everything I could think of that 
would show the grandeur of his country and its prosperity ; 
but I could not make up my mouth to tell him a word about 
this infernal Rebellion. 

"And he drank it in, and enjoyed it as I cannot tell you. 
He grew more and more silent, yet I never thought he was 
tired or faint. I gave him a glass of water, but he just wet 


his lips, and told me not to go away . Then he asked me to 
bring the Presbyterian 'Book of Public Prayer,' which lay 
there, and said, with a smile, that it would open at the right 
place, — and so it did. There was his double red mark down 
the page ; and I knelt down and read, and he repeated with 
me, 'For ourselves and our country, O gracious God, we 
thank Thee, that, notwithstanding our manifold transgres- 
sions of Thy holy laws, Thou hast continued to us Thy mar- 
vellous kindness,' — and so to the end of that thanksgiving. 
Then he turned to the end of the same book, and I read the 
words more familiar to me : ' Most heartily we beseech Thee 
with Thy favor to behold and bless Thy servant, the President 
of the United States, and all others in authority,' — and the 
rest of the Episcopal collect. 'Danforth,' said he, 'I have 
repeated those prayers night and morning, it is now fifty-five 
years. ' And then he said he would go to sleep. He bent 
me down over him, and kissed me ; and he said, ' Look in my 
Bible, Danforth, when I am gone.' And I went away. 

" But I had no thought it was the end. I thought he was 
tired and would sleep. I knew he was happy, and I wanted 
him to be alone. 

"But in an hour, when the doctor went in gently, he 
found Nolan had breathed his life away with a smile. He 
had something pressed close to his lips. It was his Father's 
badge of the Order of the Cincinnati. 

"We looked in his Bible, and there was a slip of paper at 
the place where he had marked the text : — 

" 'They desire a country, even a heavenly ; wherefore God 
is not ashamed to be called their God : for He hath prepared 
for them a city.' On this slip of paper he had written : 

"'Bury me in the sea; it has beeuv my home, and I love 
it. But will not some one set up a stone for my memory at 
Fort Adams or at Orleans, that my disgrace may not be more 
than I ought to bear? Say on it : — 

"'in memory op 


" 'Lieutenant in the Army of the United States. 

" ' He loved his country as no other man has loved her ; but no 
man deserved less at her hands.' " 


"Mare Twain" is still the popular desigaation of Samuel 
I^anghorne Clemens, accepted throughout the world as a typical 
American humorist. He was born at Florida, Missouri, in 1835, 
and from a village school passed to a village printing-oflSce, and 
thence to a Mississippi steamboat, to become a river pilot. This 
occupation afterwards supplied the pseudonym "Mark Twain," 
that being a frequent cry in sounding to signify that the water 
is two fathoms deep. But the civil war broke the business up, 
and in 1862 Clemens went to Nevada to assist his brother, then 
secretary of the Territory. After some mining in a desultory 
way, Clemens wrote sketches for the newspapers, and was soon 
regularly employed on the San Francisco press. His visit to 
Hawaii in 1866 was the subject of later lectures. A collection of 
his sketches, under the title "The Jumping Frog" was pub- 
lished in New York in 1867 and gained for him recognition as a 
humorist of a new style. Greater success came from his taking 
part in a tourists' excursion to Europe and the Holy I^and. In 
"The Innocents Abroad" he chronicled the adventures of those 
pilgrims in such a mirth-provoking way as to put an end to the 
solemn stereotyped reports which American travelers had previ- 
ously imposed on their friends who had not been abroad. 

Mark Twain's popularity was now established, and he was 
called to rehearse his experience on the Pacific Coast. This was 
done in "Roughing It," and in "The Gilded Age," he joined 
with C. D. Warner in satirizing the Yankee race for riches. He 
had now Settled in Hartford, Connecticut, where he enjoyed 
highly intellectual society. He continued his droll sketches of 
Western life, and occasionally put forth moral and social essays 
replete with common sense, expressed in an uncommon way. In 
some books, as "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer," "Huckle- 


berry Finn," he assumed the character of a growing Western boy 
and presented vivid pictures of life on and near the Mississippi 
river in the days of slavery. These books brought ample pecu- 
niary returns, and Clemens ventured into book-publishing. For 
a while his firm was highly successful, but eventually it became 
bankrupt. With indomitable energy Clemens undertook to 
restore his fortunes by writing and lecturing, and with this object 
made a tour to Australia and India. 

Besides the sketches of life on the Pacific Coast and in the 
Mississippi Valley, by which Mark Twain is universally recog- 
nized, he has attempted some peculiar historical romances. In 
"The Prince and the Pauper," which deals with the time of 
Edward VI. he went counter to the verdict of the. historians. 
Still more boldly in "A Yankee at Zing Arthur's Court" he 
jumbled the present with the past in humorous incongruity. 
Perhaps to make amends for this escapade he next published 
anonymously what professed to be an account of Joan of Arc by 
a faithful attendant. The story of the Maid of Orleans has never 
been more ingeniously and sympathetically related. In these 
and other writings Clemens has revealed a serious, inquiring, 
contemplative spirit, but the public whom he has entertained for 
many years insist on his retaining and exhibiting his earlier 
characteristics as a droll humorist of national and local pecu- 

Scotty's Interview with the Minister. 

(From "Roughing It." Copjrright, 1872, by the American Pub- 
lishing Company. Used here by permission of the publishers.) 

ScoTTY was on a sorrowful mission, now, and his face was the 
picture of woe. Being admitted to the presence he sat down 
before the clergyman, placed his fire-hat on an unfinished manu- 
script sermon under the minister's nose, took from it a red silk 
handkerchief, wiped his brow and heaved a sigh of dismal impres- 
siveness, explanatory of his business. He choked, and even 
shed tears ; but with an effort he mastered his voice and said in 
lugubrious tones : 

"Are you the duck that runs the gospel-mill next door ? " 
"Am I the — ^pardon me, I believe I do not understand ? " 
With another sigh and a half-sob, Scotty rejoined : 
"Why you see we are in a bit of trouble, and the boys thought 
maybe you would give us a lift, if we'd tackle you — that is, if 


I've got the rights of it and you are the head clerk of the dox- 
ology- works next door." 

" I am the shepherd in charge of the flock whose fold is next 

"The which?" 

' ' The spiritual adviser of the little company of believers whose 
sanctuary adjoins these premises." 

Scotty scratched his head, reflected a moment, and then said : 
"You rather hold over me, pard. I reckon I can't call that hand. 
Ante and pass the buck." 

* ' How ? I beg pardon. What did I understand you to say ? ' ' 

"Well, you've ruther got the bulge on me. Or maybe we've 
both got the bulge somehow. You don't smoke me and I don't 
smoke you. You see, one of the boys has passed in his checks 
and we want to give him a good send-off, and so the thing I'm 
on now is to roust out somebody to jerk a little chin-music for us 
and waltz him through handsome." 

' ' My friend, I seem to grow more and more bewildered. Your 
observations are wholly incomprehensible to me. Cannot you 
simplify them in some way? At first I thought perhaps I under- 
stood you, but I grope now. Would it not expedite matters if 
you restricted yourself to categorical statements of fact unencum- 
bered with obstructing accumulations of metaphor and alle- 

Another pause, and more reflection. Then, said Scotty : 

" I'll have to pass, I judge." 


" You've raised me out, pard." 

" I still fail to catch your meaning." 

" Why, that last lead of yourn is too many for me — that's th^ 
idea. I can't neither trump nor follow suit." 

The clergyman sank back in his chair perplexed. Scott]' 
leaned his head on his hand and gave himself up to thought- 
Presently his face came up, sorrowful but confident. 

" I've got it now, so's you can savvy," he said. "What wf 
want is a gospel-sharp. See ? ' ' 

"A what?" 

"Gospel-sharp. Parson." 

" Oh ! Why did you not say so before ! I am a clergyman — 
a parson." 

"Now you talk! You see my blind and straddle it like a 
man. Put it there ! "—extending a brawny paw, which closed 


over the minister's small hand and gave it a shake indicative of 
fraternal sympathy and fervent gratification. 

"Now we're all right, pard. I,et's start fresh. Don't you 
mind my snuffling a little— becuz we're in a power of trouble. 
You see, one of the boys has gone up the flump — " 

"Gone where?" 

" Up the flume— throwed up the sponge, you understand." 
" Thrown up the sponge?" 
" Yes— kicked the bucket— " 

"Ah — ^has departed to that mysterious country from whose 
bourne no traveler returns." 

"Return ! I reckon not. Why pard, he's dead! " 

"Yes, I understand." 

" Oh, you do ? Well I thought maybe you might be getting 
tangled some more. Yes, you see he's dead again — " 

' ' Again ? Why, has he ever been dead before ? " 

"Dead before? No! Do you reckon a man has got as 
many lives as a cat? But you bet you he's awful dead now, poor 
old boy, and I wish I'd never seen this day. I don't want no 
better friend than Buck Fanshaw. I knowed him by the back ; 
and when I know a man and like him, I freeze to him — you hear 
me. Take him all round, pard, there was never a buUier man in 
• the mines. No man ever knowed Buck Fanshaw to go back on 
a friend. But it's all up, you know, it's all up. It ain't no use. 
They've scooped him." 

"Scooped him?" 

"Yes — death has. Well, well, well, we've got to give him 
up. Yes indeed. It's kind of a hard world, after all, ain'tiff 
But pard, he was a rustler ! You ought to seen him get started 
once. He was a bully boy with a glass eye ! Just spit in his 
face and give him room according to his strength, and it was just 
beautiftil ;to see him peel and go in. He was the worst son of 
a thief that ever drawed breath. Pard, he was on it ! He was 
on it bigger than an Injiin?" 

"On it? On what?" 

" On the shoot. On the shoulder. On the fight, you under- 
stand. He didn't give a continental for anybody. Beg your par- 
don, friend, for coming so near saying a cuss-word — but you see 
I'm on an awful strain, in this palaver, on account of having to 
cramp down and draw everything so mild. But we've got to give 
him up. There ain't any getting around that, I don't reckon. 
Now if we can get you to help plant him — " 


" Preacli the funeral discourse? Assist at the obsequies?" 

" Obs'quies is good. Yes. That's it— that's our little game. 
We are going to get the thing up regardless, you know. He was 
always nifty himself, and so you bet you his funeral ain't going 
to be no slouch — solid silver door-plate on his coffin, six plumes 
on the hearse, and a nigger on the box in a biled shirt and a plug 
hat — how's that for high? And we'll take care oi you, pard. 
We'll fix you all right. There'll be a kerridge for you; and 
whatever you want, you just 'scape out and we'll 'tend to it. 
We've got a shebang fixed up for you to stand behind, in No. I's 
house, and don't you be afraid. Just go in and toot your horn, 
if you don't sell a clam. Put Buck through as bully as you can, 
pard, for anybody that knowed him.will tell you that he was one 
of the whitest men that was ever in the mines. You can't draw 
it too strong. He never could stand it to see things going wrong. 
He's done more to make this town quiet and peaceable than any 
man in it. I've seen him lick four Greasers in eleven minutes, 
myself. If a thing wanted regulating, he wam't a man to go 
browsing around after somebody to do it, but he would prance in 
and regulate it himself." . . . 

' ' That was very well indeed — at least the impulse was — 
whether the act was strictly defensible or not. Had deceased any 
religious convictions? That is to say, did he feel a dependence 
hpon, or acknowledge allegiance to a higher power? " 

More reflection. 

"I reckon you've stumped me again, pard. Could you say 
it over once more, and say it slow? " 

' ' Very well. Was he a good man, and — ' ' 

"There — I see that; don't put up another chip till I look at 
my hand. A good man, says you? Pard, it ain't no name for it. 
He was the best man that ever — pard, you would have doted on that 
man. He could lam any galoot of his inches in America. It 
was him that put down the riot last election before it got a start ; 
and everybody said he was the only man that could have done it. 
He waltzed in with a spanner in one hand and a trumpet in the 
other, and sent fourteen men home on a shutter in less than three 
minutes. He had that riot all broke up and prevented nice before 
anybody ever got a chance to strike a blow. He was always for 
peace, and he would have peace — he could not stand disturbances. 
Pard, he was a great loss to this town. It would please the boys 
if you could chip in something like that and do him justice. 
Here once when the Micks got to throwing stones through the 


Methodis' Sunday-school windows, Buck Fanshaw, all of his own 
notion, shut up his saloon and took a couple of six-shooters and 
mounted guard over the Sunday-school. Says he, ' No Irish need 
apply! • And they didn't. He was the bulliest man in the 
mountains, pard ! He could run faster, jump higher, hit harder, 
and hold more tangle-foot whisky without spilling it, than any 
man in seventeen counties. Put that in, pard !— it'll please the 
boys more than anything you could say. And you can say, pard, 
that he never shook his mother." 

"Never shook his mother? " 

"That's it— any of the boys will tell you so." 

"Well, but why should he shake her? " 

" That's what /say — but some people does." 

' ' Not people of any repute ? " 

"Well, some that averages pretty so so." 

" In my opinion the man that would offer personal violence to 
his own mother, ought to — " 

"Cheese it, pard ! you've banked your ball clean outside the 
string. What I was a drivin' at, was, that he never throwed off 
on his mother— don't you see? No indeedy. He gave her a house 
to live in, and town lots, and plenty of money ; and he looked 
after her and took care of her all the time ; and when she was 
down with the small-pox I'm d — — d if he didn't set up nights and 
nuss her himself! Beg your pardon for saying it, but it hopped 
out too quick for yours truly. You'vp treated me like a gentle- 
man, pard, and I ain't the man to hurt your feelings intentional. 
I think you're white. I think you're a square man, pard. I like 
you, and I'll lick any man that don't. I'll lick him till he can't 
tell himself from a last year's corpse ! Put it there ! " [Another 
fraternal handshake — and exit.] 

The obsequies were all that " the boys " could desire. Such 
a marvel of funeral pomp had never been seen in Virginia. The 
plumed hearse, the dirge-breathing brass bands, the closed marts 
of business, the flags drooping at half mast, the long, plodding 
procession of uniformed secret societies, military battalions and 
fire companies, draped engines, carriages of oiEcials, and citizens 
in vehicles and on foot, attracted multitudes of spectators to the 
sidewalks, roofs - and windows ; and for years afterward, the 
degree of grandeur attained by any civic display in Virginia was 
determined by comparison with Buck Fanshaw's funeral. 



The most attractive vein of folk-lore ever worked in the 
United States was that which Joel Chandler Harris disclosed 
by the publication of his ' ' Uncle Remus ' ' sketches. These 
tales, all brought from Africa by the progenitors of our colored 
population, had passed down through generations by word-of- 
mouth only ; scarcely one of them had appeared in print until 
the appearance of "Uncle Remus." They might have been 
printed in such manner as to be as uninteresting as some 
volumes of folk-lore that have been issued by learned societies, 
only to gather dust on book-shelves ; but who ever saw, out- 
side of a bookstore, a volume of "Uncle Remus " that did not 
show sign of many readings? The diflference is due less to 
the matter than to the manner of telling; the old negro 
who relates the tales is, despite his rags, his rheumatism, 
and his fondness for stimulants, an engaging personality. 
The author was born at Eatonton, Georgia, in 1848, and has 
been chiefly engaged in journalism. It is not alone through 
Uncle Remus, however, that the author has interested the 
reading world ; he has written some realistic sketches of life 
in modern Georgia, — sketches full of unusual incidents and 
characters, all of which he handles with genuine dramatic 
sense. All his literary work has been done in moments stolen 
from exacting jourualistic duties. 

Why the Moon's Face is Smutty. 

(This chapter from "Uncle Remus" is used by special permission 
of, and special arrangement with the authorized publishers, Houghton, 
Mifflin & Co., Boston.) 

" Hit's money, honey, de worl' over," replied Uncle 
Remus, after a somewhat prolonged silence. ' ' Go whar you 
will, en go when you may, en stay ez l6ng ez mought be, en 
you '11 fin' folks huntin' atter money — mornin' en evenin', 
day en night. 

" Look at um ! Why, dars de Moon," — something in the 
attitude or the countenance of the child caused Uncle Remus 
to stop suddenly and laugh. 


"The Moon, Uncle Remus ? " exclaimed the youngster. 
" What about the Moon ? " 

" Well, you know how folks talk 'bout de Moon. You '11 
hear um say she's on her fus' quarter, den on 'er las' quarter ; 
en dat des 'zackly de way dey talk 'bout money. I hear tell 
dat one time dey wuz a man gwine 'long en de woods, en he 
hear a mighty jinglin' en rattlin'. He look 'roun', en see it 
wuz de Moon er changi^'. Seem like she lacked a quarter, 
en de man pulled out his money-purse en flung de quarter in, 
en den she change all right. 

" But dat ain't no tale ; hit des a rig," Uncle Remus con- 
tinued, not waiting to see the efiect of this venerable joke. 
"De tale dat I been hearin' 'bout de moon ain't got no 
money in it, en dat mighty funny, too, kaze it look like 
money is mix up wid mos' eve'ything. 

" In dem days, way back yander, de Moon use ter come 
down en get behime a big poplar log, when she wanter make 
a change. She ain't want nobody to see 'er. She'd rise 
later en later eve'y night, des like she do now, en den to'rds 
de las' she'd drap down on de fur een er de Ian', over dat away, 
en slip behime de poplar log en change all she want er. 

"But one time dey wuz a man gwine 'long thoo de woods 
to tin' a bag er charcoal, what he been burnin'. He been 
watchin' de coal kil' since midnight de night befo', en he uz 
so tired out en broke down, dat stidder singin' er whistlin', 
like folks does when dey go thoo de woods, he uz des gwine 
'bout his business widout making any fuss. He was axin 
hisse'f if dey'd be any hot ashcake waitin' for 'im, en whedder 
de ole 'Oman 'd save 'im any pot liquor fum dinner. 

"He was gwine 'long dis way when de fus' news he know, 
he come right 'pon de Moon whiles she was changin. ' Man, 
suh ! Dey wuz de bigges' flutterment den en dar dat dey 's 
ever been befo' er since. Folks 'way off thought dey could 
hear thunder, dough dey wan' t nothin' in de roun' worl' but 
de Moon tryin' fer ter git out de way er de man. 

"De man, he drapt de bag er charcoal en run like ole 

Scratch wuz atter 'im. He des tored thoo de woods like a 

^hariycane was blowin' 'im 'long. He 'uz gwine one way en 

de Moon anudder, but de Moon she tripped en fell right 



topper de bag er charcoal, en you kin see de signs un it down 
ter dis day. Look at 'er when you will, en you '11 see dat 
she look like she been hit 'cross de face wid a sut-bag. Don't 
take my word fer it. Des look fer yo'se'f ! Der'tis! Ever 
sence dat day de Moon done got so she do 'er changin' up in 
de elements." 

After a while the little boy asked what became of the 
man that had the bag of charcoal. 

"What dat got ter do wid de tale?" said Uncle Remus, 
sharply. "Long ez de Moon is up dar all safe en soun', 
'ceppin' de smut, it don't make no diffunce 'bout no man." 


Walt Whitman was born at West 
Hills, Long Island, on May 31, 1819. 
He was first a printer, then a teacher 
in country schools, and subsequently 
learned the carpenter's trade. He also 
contributed to newspapers and mag- 
azines and was at intervals connected 
with various papers in an editorial 
capacity. In 1 849 he traveled through 
the western States, and afterwards took 
up his residence in New York City, 
where he frequented the society of newspaper men and littera- 
teurs. In 185s he published his notable work "Leaves of 
Grass," in which he preaches the gospel of democracy and 
the natural man. It is a series of poems without rhyme or 
metrical form, dealing with moral, social and political prob- 
lems. It was a new departure in literature, an unwonted 
method of conveying frank and untrammeled utterances. 
The book at first attracted but little attention, though it at 
once found some staunch admirers. Ralph Waldo Emerson 
said of it : " I find it the most extraordinary piece of wit and 
wisdom that America has yet contributed." This book Walt 
Whitman elaborated and added to for thirty years, and 
several editions have been published. It has excited bitter 
denunciation and warm approval. Original and forceful, 


Whitman cannot be judged by ordinary literary standards. 
His scornful trampling upon all metrical rules, and his free- 
dom in treating of matters usually passed in silence, have so 
far been a decided barrier to the approval of his work. 

During the war, Whitman became an hospital nurse at 
Washington. His experiences were wrought into a volume 
called "Drum Taps," since embodied with "lycaves of 
Grass." After the war he was for some years in the Govern- 
ment employ at Washington. He moved to Camden, New 
Jersey, in 1873. Besides adding to "Leaves of Grass," he 
published "Specimen Days and Collects" in 1883, "No- 
vember Boughs" 1885, "Sands at Seventy" 1888, "Good- 
bye, my Fancy! " 1890. 

Whitman died on March 26, 1892. His ambition was to 
be something more than a mere singer ; a prophet and seer 
to his country and time. He has not yet been accepted by 
the people at large. He has won the approbation of some 
gyeat minds, but so far he has not won the hearts of the people, 
to whom he dedicated his labors. 

In Ali,, Myself. 

I AM the poet of the Body and I am tlie poet of the Soul, 
The pleasures of heaven are with me, and the pains of hell are 

with me ; 
The first I graft upon myself, the latter I translate into a new 


I am the poet of the woman the same as the man, 
And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man, 
And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men. 

I chant the chant of dilation or pride, 

We have had ducking and deprecation about enough, 

I show that size is only development. 

Have you outstript the rest ? are you the President ? 

It is a trifle, they will more than arrive there everyone, and still 

pass on. 
I am he that walks with the tender and growing night, 
I call to the earth and sea, half-held by the night. 


Press close bare-bosom' d night — press close magnetic nourishing 

night ! 
Night of South winds — ^night of the large few stars ! 
Still nodding night — mad naked summer night. 

Smile, O voluptuous cool-breatheH earth ! 

Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees ! 

Earth of departed sunset — earth of the mountains misty-topt ! 

Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue ! 

Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river ! 

Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my 

Far-swooping elbow' d earth — rich apple-blossom' d earth ! 
Smile, for your lover comes. 

Prodigal, you have given me love — therefore to you I give love ! 
O unspeakable passionate love. 

The P^an op Joy. 

Now, trumpeter ! for thy close, 
Vouchsafe a higher strain than any yet ; 
Sing to my soul ! — renew its languishing faith and hope ; 
Rouse up my slow belief— give me some vision of the future ; 
Give me, for once, its prophecy and joy. 
O glad, exulting, culminating song ! 
A vigor more than earth's is in thy notes ! 
Marches of victory — man disenthralled — the conqueror at last ! 
Hymns to the universal God from universal Man — all joy ! 
A re-born race appears — a perfect world — all joy ! 
Women and men in wisdom, innocence, and health — all joy ! 
Riotous laughing bacchanals, filled with joy ! 
"War, sorrowing, suffering gone — the rank earth purged — nothing 

but joy left ! 
The ocean filled with joy — the atmosphere all joy ! 
Joy ! joy ! in freedom, worship, love ! Joy in the ecstasy of life ! 
Enough to merely be ! Enough to breathe ! 
Joy ! joy ! all over joy ! 

(The above extracts are from "Leaves of Grass," copyrighted by 
David McKay, Philadelphia.) 



Bret Harte was born in 1839 in 
Albany, New York, the son of a school- 
master of fine education and small means. 
From him Bret probably inherited his fine 
sense of language. At the age of seven- 
teen, about seven years after the discovery 
of gold in California, he journeyed to the 
J^ Pacific coast, and dwelt there fourteen 
years. After a few years in the Eastern 
States he was sent to Europe as Consul, 
and he has ever since resided there, chiefly 
in I/)ndon, where he is a social favorite. 

The sudden change from the narrow strictness of his Eastern 
home to the lawless unconventionality of Western mining life 
profoundly affected Harte, and awakened his artistic instincts. 
He had done a little mining himself; he had set type in a news- 
paper ofiSce, acted as editor, and finally taken to writing little 
.sketches. They show the influence of Dickens in certain points 
of style, and in the point of view ; but Harte writes better English 
than his model, and is more direct and simple in his treatment. 
His mind, indeed, was independent, as is shown by his "Con- 
densed Novels," published in 1867, when he was twenty-eight; 
they catch the essence of diverse styles of thought and expres- 
sion in a way which could be possible only to a strong individu- 

On the other hand, it may not be unjust to say that his sub- 
ject made him. He saw the romantic novelty of the Argonaut 
episode, and portrayed it with a vigor, vividness, and literary 
mastery which left nothing for imitators. In half a dozen short 
tales, filling about fifty pages, and produced during and a short 
time after his connection with The Overland Monthly, he told 
the famous epic with a pathos, a humor, an insight into char- 
acter, a terseness, a dramatic perception, a brilliance of color, 
unsurpassed in modern imaginative writing. In our own litera- 
ture, Harte was an epoch-maker. The high title of genius can- 
not be refused to the man who could achieve this feat. 

Yet he has been in some degree a disappointment. Because 
"The Outcasts of Poker Flat" and "The Luck of Roaring 
Camp" were two of the finest sketches ever written in this coun- 

X— 23 


try, it was thought that Harte would write a long novel of not less 
merit. But ' ' Gabriel Conroy ' ' proved he could not do this. It 
was thought, again, that after exhausting the topic of the Argo- 
nauts, he would take up others with the same success. But it 
turned out that Harte's genius was as limited in its range as it 
was inimitable ; when his scene was changed, he changed entirely. 
After several efforts he perceived this himself, and has ever since 
remained the portrayer of the California of the fifties. But he 
has never quite equalled his first masterpieces ; nothing that he 
has since produced has created the immense sensation which 
those marvellous little gems of observation and imagination 
made. We may read in an hour the sum and substance of his 
contribution to literature ; but we can never forget it. A small 
volume will hold it, but it will stand side by side with the best 
America has to show. 

The IvUck of, Roaring Camp., 

(From " The Luck of Roaring Camp and Other Sketches." Copy- 
right, 1870. Used here by special permission of the author and the 
publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.) 

Cherokee Sal had such rude sepulture as Roaring Camp 
afforded. After her body had been committed to the hillside, 
tjiere was a formal meeting of. the camp to discuss what should 
be done with her infant. A resolution to adopt it was unanimous 
and enthusiastic. But an animated discussion in regard to the 
manner and feasibility of providing for its wants at once sprung 
up. It was remarkable that the argument partook of none of those 
fierce personalities with which discussions were usually conducted 
at Roaring Camp. Tipton proposed that they should send the 
child to Red Dog, — a distance of forty miles, — where female atten- 
tion could be procured. But the unlucky suggestion met with 
fierce and unanimous opposition.' It was evident that no plan 
which entailed parting from their new acquisition would for a 
moment be entertained. "Besides," said Tom Ryder, "them 
fellows at Red Dog would swap it, and ring in somebody else on 
us." A disbelief in the honesty of other camps prevailed at 
Roaring Camp as in other places. 

The introduction of a female nurse in the catop also met with 
objection. It was argued that no decent woman could be pre- 
vailed to accept Roaring Camp as her home, and the speaker 
urged that " they did n't want any more of the other kind." This 


unkind allusion to the defunct mother, harsh as it may seem, was 
the first spasm of propriety, — the first symptom of the camp's 
regeneration. Stumpy advanced nothing. Perhaps he felt a cer- 
tain delicacy in interfering with the selection of a possible suc- 
cessor in office. But when questioned, he averred stoutly that 
he and "Jinny" — (an ass) — could manage to rear the child. 
There was something original, independent, and heroic about the 
plan that pleased the camp. Stumpy was retained. Certain 
articles were sent for to Sacramento. ' ' Mind, ' ' said the treasurer, 
as he pressed a bag of gold-dust into the expressman's hand, 
" the best that can be got, — lace, you know, and filigree- work and 
frills,— d—m the cost ! " 

Strange to say, the child thrived. Perhaps the invigorating 
climate of the mountain camp was compensation for material defi- 
ciencies. Nature took the fondling to her broader breast. In 
that rare atmosphere of the Sierra foot- hills, — that air pungent 
with balsamic odor, that ethereal cordial at once bracing and exhil- 
arating, — he may have found food and nourishment; or a subtle 
chemistry that transmuted asses' milk to lime and phosphorus. 
Stumpy inclined to the belief that it was the latter and good 
nursing. "Me and that ass," he would say, "has been father 
and mother to him ! Don't you," he would add, apostrophizing 
the helpless bundle before him, "never go back on us." 

By the time he was a month old, the necessity of giving him 
a name became apparent. He had generally been known as ' ' the 
Kid," " Stumpy's boy, " "the Cayote" (an allusion to his vocal 
powers), and even by Kentuck's endearing diminutive of "the 
d; — d little cuss." But these were felt to be vague and unsatis- 
factory, and were at last dismissed under another influence. Gam- 
blers and adventurers are generally superstitious, and Oakhurst 
one day declared that the baby had brought "the luck " to Roar- 
ing Camp. It was certain that of late they had been successful. 
" I/Uck " was the name agreed upon, with the prefix of Tommy 
for greater convenience. No allusion was made to the mother, 
and the father was unknown. "It's better," said the philoso- 
phical Oakhurst, " to take a fresh deal all round. Call him I,uck, 
and start him fair." A day was accordingly set apart for the 
christening. What was meant by this ceremony the reader may 
imagine, who has already gathered some idea of the reckless 
irreverence of Roaring Camp. The master of ceremonies was 
one " Boston," a noted wag, and the occasion seemed to promise 
the greatest facetiousness. The ingenious satirist had spent two 


days in preparing a burlesque of the church service, with pointed 
local allusions. The choir was properly trained, and Sandy Tip- 
ton was to stand godfather. But after the procession had marched 
to the grove with music and banners, and the child had been 
deposited before a mock altar. Stumpy stepped before the expect- 
ant crowd. "It ain't my style to spoil fun, boys," said the little 
man, stoutly, eyeing the faces around him, "but it strikes me 
that this thing ain't exactly on the squar. It's playing it pretty 
low down on this yer baby to ring in fun on him that he ain't 
going to understand. And ef there's going to be any godfathers 
round, I'd like to see who's got any better rights than me." A 
silence followed Stumpy's speech. To the credit of all humorists 
be it said, that the first man to acknowledge its justice was the 
satirist, thus stopped of his fun. "But," said Stumpy, quickly, 
following up his advantage, "we're here for a , christening, and 
we'll have it. I pi;oclaim you Thomas Luck, according to the 
laws of the United States and the State of California, so help me 
God. ' ' It was the first time that the name of the Deity had been 
uttered otherwise than profanely' in the camp. The form of 
christening was perhaps even more ludicrous than the satirist had 
conceived, but, strangely enough, nobody saw it and nobody 
laughed. "Tommy" was christened as seriously as he would 
have been under a Christian roof, and cried and was comforted in 
as orthodox fashion. 

And so the work of regeneration began in Roaring Camp. 
Almost imperceptibly a change came over the settlement. The 
cabin assigiied to "Tommy Luck" — or "The Luck," as he was 
more frequently called — first showed signs of improvement. It 
was kept scrupulously clean and whitewashed. Then it was 
boarded, clothed, and papered. The rosewood cradle — packed 
eighty miles by mule — had, in Stumpy's way of putting it, 
"sorter killed the rest of the fiimiture." So the rehabilitation 
of the cabin became a necessity. The men who were in the habit 
of lounging in at Stumpy's to see "how the Luck got on " seemed 
to appreciate the change, and, in self-defence, the rival establish- 
ment of "Tuttle's grocery" bestirred itself, and imported a carpet 
and mirrors. The reflections of the latter on the appearance of 
Roaring Camp tended to produce stricter habits of personal clean- 
liness. Again, Stumpy imposed a kind of quarantine upon those 
who aspired. to the honor, and privilege of holding "The Luck." 
It was a cruel mortification to Kentuck — who, in the carelessness 
of a large nature and the habits of frontier life, had begun to 


regard all garments as a second cuticle, -which, like a snake's, 
only sloughed off through decay— to be debarred this privilege 
from certain prudential reasons. Yet such was the subtle influ- 
ence of innovation that he thereafter appeared regularly every 
afternoon in a clean shirt and face still shining from his ablu- 
tions. Nor were moral and social sanitary laws neglected. 
'"Tommy," who was supposed to spend his whole existence in 
a persistent attempt to repose, must not be disturbed by noise. 
The shouting and yelling which had gained the camp its infelici- 
tous title were not permitted within hearing distance of Stumpy's. 
The men conversed in whispers, or smoked with Indian gravity. 
Profanity was tacitly given Up in these sacred precincts, and 
throughout the camp a popular form of expletive, known as 
"D — n the luck!" and "Curse the luck!" was abandoned, as 
having a new personal bearing. Vocal music was not interdicted, 
being supposed to have a soothing, tranquillizing quality, and one 
song, sung by -"Man-o'-War Jack," an English sailor, from her 
Majesty's Australian colonies, was quite popular as a lullaby. It 
was a lugubrious recital of the exploits of ' ' the Arethusa, 
Seventy -four," in a muffled minor, ending with a prolonged 
dying fall at the burden of -each verse, "On j3-o-o-o-ard of the 
Arethusa. ' ' It was a fine sight to see Jack holding The I^uck, 
rocking from side to side as if with the motion of a ship, and 
crooning forth this naval ditty. Either through the peculiar 
rocking of Jack or the length of his song, — it contained ninety 
stanzas, and was continued with conscientious deliberation to the 
bitter end, — the lullaby generally had the desired effect. . . . 

On the long summer days The I,uck was usually carried to 
the gulch, from whence the golden store of Roaring Camp was 
taken. There, on a blanket spread over pine-boughs, he would 
lie while the men were working in the ditches below. Latterly, 
there was a rude attempt to decorate this bower with flowers 
and sweet-smelling shrubs, and generally some one would bring 
him a cluster of wild honeysuckles, azaleas, or the painted 
blossoms of Las Mariposas. The men had suddenly awakened 
to the fact that there were beauty and significance in these trifles, 
which they had so long trodden carelessly beneath their feet. A 
flake of glittering mica, a fragment of variegated quartz, a bright 
pebble from ' the bed of the creek, became beautiful to eyes thus 
cleared and strengthened, and were invariably put aside for " The 
Luck." It was wonderful how many treasures the woods and 
hillsides yielded that "would do for Tommy." Surrounded |3y 


playthings such as never child out of fairy-land had before, it is 
to be hoped that Tommy was content. He appeared to be securely 
happy, albeit there was an infantine gravity about him, a contem- 
plative light in his round gray eyes, that sometimes worried 
Stumpy. He was alwaj^s tractable and quiet, and it is recorded 
that once, having crept beyond his "corral," — a hedge of tassel- 
lated pine-boughs, which surrounded his bed, — he dropped over 
the bank on his head in the soft earth, and remained with his 
mottled legs in the air in that position for at least five minutes 
with unflinching gravity. He was extricated without a murmur. 
I hesitate to record the many other instances of his sagacity, 
which rest, unfortunately, upon the statements of prejudiced 
friends. Some of them were not without a tinge of superstition. 
" I crep' up the bank just now," said Kentuck one day, in a 
breathless state of excitement, "and dern my skin if he wasn't 
a talking to a jay-bird as was a sittin' on his lap. There they 
was, just as free and sociable as anything you please, a jawin' at 
each other just like two cherry-bums." Howbeit, whether creep- 
ing over the pine-boughs or lying lazily on his back blinking at 
the leaves above him, to him the birds sang, the squirrels chat- 
tered, and the flowers bloomed. Nature was his nurse and play- 
fellow. For him she would let slip between the leaves golden 
shafts of sunlight that fell just within his grasp ; she would send 
wandering breezes to visit him with the balm of bay and resinous 
gums ; to him the tall red-woods nodded familiarly and sleepily, 
the bumble-bees buzzed, and the rocks cawed a slumbrous accom- 

Such was the golden summer of Roaring Camp. They were 
"flush times," — and the Luck was with them. The claims had 
yielded enormously. The camp was jealous of its privileges and 
looked suspiciously on strangers. No encouragement was given to 
immigration, and, to make their seclusion more perfect, the land 
on either side of the mountain wall that surrounded the camp 
they duly pre-empted. This, and a reputation for singular pro- 
ficiency with the revolver, kept the reserve of Roaring Camp 
inviolate. The expressman — their only connecting link with the 
surrounding world— sometimes told wonderful stories of the camp. 
He would say, "They 've a street up there in 'Roaring,' that 
would lay over any street in Red Dog. They've got vines and 
flowers round their houses, and they wash themselves twice a day. 
But they're mighty rough on strangers, and they worship an 
Ingin baby." 



Ai,DRiCH has been an editor, novelist, and writer of travels, 
but is properly classed as a poet. In spite of his dainty verse and 
mildly humorous prose, he has not attained popularity, though 
his tender ' ' Ballad of Babie Bell ' ' and his short story of ' ' Marjorie 
Daw," have been widelj'^ circulated. 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich was born at Portsmouth, New Hamp- 
shire, in 1837. He removed to New York at the age of seventeen, 
and while employed in a publishing house began to write for 
newspapers and magazines. In 1866 he was called to Boston to 
become editor of Every Saturday, which position he held for eight 
years. After a year of travel in Europe he returned to Boston, 
but later fixed his residence at Ponkapog in the vicinity. From 
1881 to 1890 he was editor of the Atlantic Monthly. 

Aldrich's poems are usually short and carefully wrought, 
subdued in tone and suggestive, rather than strongly picturesque. 
They exhibit a single phase or contrast of life, yet sometimes they 
run on in longer varied course, as in "Babie Bell,'' which relates 
sympathetically the advent and death of a child. In. some of his 
pieces he describes aspects of his native New England, while 
others seem to belong to the rerdote East or realms of pure fancy. 
He has occasionally used blank verse, as in "Judith," and has 
even written a drama in prose. His short stories have been more 
successful than his novels, and his "Story of a Bad Boy," to 
some extent autobiographical, has been widely accepted as a fair 
picture of an average American boy. 

Unguarded Gates. 

(Prom "Unguarded Gates and Other Poems," Copyright, 1894, 
by Thomas Bailey Aldrich. Used here by special permission of the 
Publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.) 

Wide open and unguarded stand our gates, 

Named of the four winds. North, South, East, and West ; 

Portals that lead to an enchanted land 

Of cities, forests, fields of living gold. 

Vast prairies, lordly summits touched with snow. 

Majestic rivers sweeping proudly past 

The Arab's date-palm and the Norseman's pine — 


A realm wherein are fruits of every zone, 
Airs of all climes, for lo ! throughout the year 
The red rose blossoms somewhere — a rich land, 
A later Eden planted in the wilds, 
With not an inch of earth within its bound 
But if a slave's foot press it sets him free. 
Here, it is written. Toil shall have its wage, 
And Honor honor, and the humblest man 
Stand level with the highest in the law. 
Of such a land have men in dungeons dreamed, 
And with the vision brightening in their eyes 
Gone smiling to the fagot and the sword. 

Wide open and unguarded stand our gates. 
And through them presses a wild motley throng — 
Men from the Volga and the Tartar steppes. 
Featureless figures of the Hoang-Ho, 
Malayan, Scythian, Teuton, Kelt, and Slav, 
Flying the Old World's poverty and scorn ; 
These bringing with them unknown gods and rites, 
Those, tiger passions, here to stretch their claws. 
In street and alley what strange tongues are loud. 
Accents of menace alien to our air, 
Voices that once the Tower of Babel knew ! 
O l,iberty, white Goddess ! is it well 
To leave the gates unguarded ? On thy breast 
Fold Sorrow's children, soothe the hurts of fate, 
I/ift the down-trodden, but with hand of steel 
Stay those who to thy sacred portals come 
To waste the gifts of freedom. Have a care 
Lest from thy brow the clustered stars be torn 
And trampled in the dust. For so of 9ld 
The thronging Goth and Vandal trampled Rome, 
And where the temples of the Caesars stood 
The lean wolf unmolested made her lair. 


No one can deny to Mr. Howells some of the most attractive 
literary graces. Long since the critic, E. P. Whipple, declared : 
' ' He has no rival in half-tints, in modulations, in subtle phrases 
that touch the edge of an assertion and yet stop short of it. He 
is like a skater who executes a hundred graceful curves within 
the limits of a pool a few yards square." Mr. Howells himseli 
has stated that his principle is to look away from the great pas- 
sions and to study and report the commonplace. "As in litera- 
tiire," he says, "the true artist will shun the use even of real 
events if they are of an improbable character, so the sincere 
observer of man will not desire to look upon his heroic or occa- 
sional phases, but will seek him in his habitual moods of' v&caqcy 
and tiresomeness." It must be admitted that he has made the 
commonplace entertaining by his great charm of style, and that 
occasionally in some of his best work he has transgressed his own 

William Dean Howells was born at Martin's Ferry, Ohio, on 
March i, 1837. He learned to set type when a boy, and helped 
his father in issuing a country paper. The contributions of the 
younger Howells attracted some attention, and he was made 
news editor of the State Journal, at Columbus, Ohio. Upon the 
nomination of Abraham Lincoln, Howells wrote a campaign 
biography, and later received the appointment of Consul at 
Venice, where he resided from 1861 to 1865. "Venetian Life" 
and "Italian Journeys" are fruits of this residence abroad. 
After his return he was connected with the New York Tribune 
and the Atlantic Monthly, being editor of the latter from 1872 to 
1881. He has since resided in New York, where, aside from other 
literary work, he has conducted a critical department in Harper's 



Mr. Howells' first novel, "A Chance Acquaintance," was pub. 
lished in 1873. Besides this, his most noted novels are, "The 
I^ady of the Aroostook," "The Undiscovered Country," "A 
Modem Instance," "The Rise of Silas Lapham," "Indian 
Summer," "The World of Chance," "A Hazard of New For- 
tunes," and "The I^andlord of the Lion Head." He has also 
written some clever parlor farces, among which are " The Parlor 
Car," "The Sleeping Car," and "The Register." In his 
younger days he published a volume of poems together with J. J. 
Piatt, entitled " Poems of Two Friends." More recently he has 
published a volume of ' ' Poems, ' ' and ' ' Stops from Various 
Quills," and has edited "Modern Italian. Poets." 

Howells has a keen eye for the social distinctions in American 
life. His special province is manners rather than character, or 
character as depicted through manners. He is a miniature portrait 
painter, but a master in an art which requires the greatest delicacy 
of finish. He holds the mirror up to nature, but his mirror is 
a small one, and only a small part of nature is reflected. 

Basil and Isabel on Goat Island. 

(From ' ' Their Wedding Journey.' ' Used here by permission of the 
author and special arrangement with the publishers, Houghton, 
Mifflin & Co.) 

Basil and Isabel were both poets in their quality of bridal 
couple, and so long as their own nerves were unshaken they could 
transmute all facts to entertaining fables. They pleasantly exer- 
cised their sympathies upon those who every year perish at Niagara 
in the tradition of its awful power ; only they refused their cheap 
and selfish compassion to the Hermit of Goat Island, who dwelt 
so many years in its conspicuous seclusion, and was finally carried 
over the cataract. This public character they suspected of design , 
in his death as in his life, and they would not be moved by his 
memory ; though they gave a sigh to that dream, half pathetic, 
half ludicrous, yet not ignoble, of Mordecai Noah, who thought 
to assemble all the Jews of the world, and all the Indians, as rem- 
nants of the Lost Tribes,, upon Grand Island, there to rebuild 
Jerusalem, and who actually laid the comer-stone of the new 
temple there. 

Goat Island is marvelously wild for a place visited by so many 
thousands every year. The shrubbery and undergrowth remain 
unravaged, and form a deceitful privacy, in which, even at that 


early hour of the day, they met many other pairs. It seemed 
incredible that the village and the hotels should be so full, and 
that the wilderness should also abound in them; yet on every 
embowered seat, and going to and from all points of interest and 
danger, were these new- wedded lovers with their interlacing arms 
and their fond attitudes, in which each seemed to support and 
lean upon the other. Such a pair stood prominent before them 
when Basil and Isabel emerged at last from the cover of the woods 
at the head of the island, and glanced up the broad swift stream 
to the point where it ran smooth before breaking into the rapids ; 
and as a soft pastoral feature in the foreground of that magnificent 
landscape, they found them far from unpleasing. Some such pair 
is in the foreground of every famous American landscape ; and 
when I think of the amount of public love-making in the season 
of pleasure-travel, from Mount Desert to the Yosemite, and from 
the parks of Colorado to the Keys of Florida, I feel that our conti- 
nent is but a larger Arcady, thiat the middle of the nineteenth 
century is the golden age, and that we want very little of being a 
nation of shepherds and shepherdesses. 

Our friends returned by the shore of the Canadian rapids, 
having traversed the island by a path through the heart of the 
woods, and now drew slowly near the Falls again. All parts of 
the prodigious pageant have an eternal novelty, and they beheld 
the ever-varying effect of that constant sublimity with the sense 
of discoverers, or rather of people whose great fortune it is to see 
the marvel in its beginning, and new from the creating hand. 
The morning hour lent its sunny charm to this illusion, while in 
the cavernous precipices of the shores, dark with evergreens, a 
mystery as of primeval night seemed to linger. There was a wild 
fluttering of their nerves, a rapture with an under- consciousness 
of pain, the exaltation of peril and escape, when they came to the 
three httle isles that extend from Goat Island, one beyond another 
far out into the furious channel. Three pretty suspension-bridges 
connect them now with the larger island, and under each of these 
flounders a huge rapid, and hurls itself away to mingle with the 
ruin of the fall. The Three Sisters are mere fragments of wilder- 
ness, clumps of vine-tangled woods, planted upon masses of rock ; 
but they are part of the fascination of Niagara which no one 
resists; nor could Isabel have been persuaded from exploring 
them. It wants no courage to do this, but merely submission to 
the local sorcery, and the adventurer has no other reward than the 
consciousness of having been where but a few years before no 


human being had perhaps set foot. She crossed from bridge to 
bridge with a quaking heart, and at last stood upon the outermost 
isle, whence, through the screen of vines and boughs, she gave 
fearful glances at the heaving and tossing flood beyond, from 
every wave of which at every instant she rescued herself with a 
desperate struggle. The exertion told heavily upon her strength 
unawares, and she suddenly made Basil another revelation of 
character. Without the slightest warning she sank down at the 
root of a tree, and said, with serious composure, that she could 
never go back on those bridges ; they were not safe. He stated 
at her cowering form in blank amaze, and put his hands in his 
pockets. Then it occurred to his dull masculine sense that it 
must be a joke ; and he said, "Well, I'll have you taken off in a 
boat !" 

"O do, Basil, do have me taken off in a boat!" implored 
Isabel. ' ' You see yourself the bridges are not safe. Do get a 

"Or a balloon," he suggested, humoring the pleasantry. 

Isabel burst into tears ; and now he went on his knees at her 
side, and took her hands in his. ' ' Isabel ! Isabel ! Are 3'ou 
crazy?" he cried, as if he meant to go mad himself. She moaned 
and shuddered in reply ; he said, to mend matters, that it was a 
jest, about the boat ; and he was driven to despai:r when Isabel 
repeated, " I never can go back by the bridges, never." 

' ' But what do you propose to do ? " 

"I don't know, I don't know ! " 

He would try sarcasm. "Do you intend to set up a hermitage 
here, and have your nieals sent out from the hotel? It's a charm- 
ing spot, and visited pretty constantly ; but it's small, even for 
a hermitage." 

Isabel moaned again with her hands still on her eyes, and 
wondered that he was not ashamed to make fun of her. 

He would try kindness. "Perhaps, darling, you'll let me 
carry you iishore." , 

"No, that will bring double the weight on the bridge at once." 

"Couldn't you shut your eyes, and let me lead you?" 

"Why, it isn't the sight of the rapids," she said, looking up 
fiercely. " The bridges are not safe. I'm not a child, Basil. O, 
what shall we do? " 

" I don't know," said Basil, gloomily. "It's an exigency for 
which I wasn't prepared." Then he silently gave himself to the 
Evil One, for having probably overwrought Isabel's nerves by 


repeating that poem about Avery, and by the ensuing talk about 
Niagara, which she had seemed to enjoy so much. He asked her 
if that was it; and she answered, "O no, it's nothing but the 
bridges." He proved to her that the bridges, upon all known 
principles, were perfectly safe, and that they could not give way. 
She shook her head, but made no answer, and he lost his patience. 

' ' Isabel, ' ' he cried, "I'm ashamed of you ! " 

"Don't say anything you'll be sorry. for afterwards, Basil," 
she replied, with the forbearance of those who have reason and 
justice on their side. 

The rapids beat and shouted round their little prison-isle, each 
billow leaping as if possessed by a separate demon. The absurd 
horror of the situation overwhelmed him. He dared not attempt 
to carry her ashore, for she might spring from his grasp into the 
flood. He could not leave her to call for help; and what if 
nobody came till she lost her mind from terror? Or, what if some- 
body should come and find them in that ridiculous affliction? 

Somebody was coming ! ' 

"Isabel ! " he shouted in her ear, "here come those people we 
saw in the parlor last night." 

Isabel dashed her veil over her face, clutched Basil's with her 
icy hand, rose, drew her arm convulsively through his, and walked 
ashore without a word. 

In a sheltered nook they sat down, and she quickly "repaired 
her drooping head and tricked her beams" again. He could see 
her tearfully smiling through her veil. "My dear," he said, "I 
don't ask any explanation of your flight, for I don't suppose you 
could give it. But should you mind telling me why those people 
were so sovereign against it?" 

"Why, dearest ! Don't you understand? That Mrs. Richard 
— ^whoever she is— is so much like me." 

She looked at him as if she had made the most satisfying state- 
ment, and he thought he had better not ask further then, but wait 
in hope that the meaning would come to him. They walked on 
in silence till they came to the Biddle Stairs, at the head of which 
is a notice that persons have been killed by pieces of rock from 
the precipice overhanging the shore below, and warning people 
that they descend at their peril. Isabel declined to visit the Cave 
of the Winds, to which these stairs lead, but was willing to risk 
the ascent of Terrapin Tower. ' ' Thanks ; no, " said her husband. 
' ' You might find it unsafe to come back the way you went up. 
We can't count certainly upon the appearance of the lady who is 


SO much like you; and I!ve no fancy for spending my life on 
Terrapin Tower." So he found her a seat, and went alone to the 
top of the audacious little structure standing on the verge of the 
cataract, between the smooth curve of the Horse-Shoe and the 
sculptured front of the Central Fall, with the stormy sea of the 
Rapids behind, and the river, dim seen through the mists, crawl- 
ing away between its lofty bluffs before. He knew again the 
awful delight with which so long ago he had watched the changes 
in the beauty of the Canadian Fall as it hung a mass of translu- 
cent green from the brink, and a pearly white seemed to crawl 
up from the abyss, and penetrate all its substance to the very 
crest, arid then suddenly vanished from it, and perpetually 
renewed the same effect. The mystery of the rising vapors 
veiled the gulf into which the cataract swooped ; the sun shone, 
and a rainbow dreamed upon them. 

Near the foot of the tower, some loose rocks extend quite to 
the verge, and here Basil saw an elderly gentleman skipping from 
one slippery stone to another, and looking down from time to 
time into the abyss, who, when he had amused himself long 
enough in this way, clambered up on the plank bridge. Basil, 
who had descended by this time, made bold to say that he thought 
the diversion an odd one and rather dangerous. The gentleman 
took this in good part, and owned it might seem so, but added 
that a distinguished phrenologist had examined his head, and 
told him he had equilibrium so large that he could go anywhere. 

"On your bridal tour, I presume," he continued, as they ap- 
proached the bench where Basil had left Isabel. She had now 
the company of a plain, middle-aged woman, whose attire hesi- 
tatingly expressed some inward festivity, and had a certain reluct- 
ant fashionableness. "Well, this is my third bridal tour to 
Niagara, and wife's been here once before on the same business. 
We see a good many changes. I used to stand on Table Rock 
with the others. Now that's all gone. Well, old lady, shall we 
move on?" he asked; and this bridal pair passed up the path, 
attended, haply, by the guardian spirits of those who gave the 
place so many sad yet pleasing associations. 

Henry James has created a field for 
himself as the pioneer of the international 
novel, or, more particularly, the novel 

dealing with Americans in Europe. The humor and pathos of 
situations brought about by the clash of different social systems 
are his peculiar province. The incongruities, perplexities and 
misunderstandings which result from different standards of con- 
ventional manners and morals are his main themes Like Howells, 
he steers away from the great passions and devotes himself to 
phases of life as they appear upon the surface. 

Henry James was born in New York City on April 15th, 1843. 
His father, bearing the same name, was a Swedenborgian minis- 
ter of some renown. The younger James was educated under 
his father's supervision in New York, Geneva, Paris, Bonn and 
Boulogne-sur-Mer. He entered tue Harvard I^aw School in 1862, 
but soon commenced to contribute sketches to the magazines, 
especially to the Atlantic Monthly. Some of these were collected 
in a volume entitled "A Passionate Pilgrim and Othpr Stories." 
His first novel, "Roderick Hudson," published in 1876, is less 
analytical, but has a firmer grasp of elementary passion than any 
subsequent work. "The American " (1878) is generally regarded 
as his best work, but "Daisy Miller," which soon followed, won 
for him his widest popularity, though it was adversely criticised 
as being un-American in tone. Others of Mr. James's best known 
works are " An International Episode," "A Bundle of Letters," 
"The Portrait of a Lady," "The Bostonians," "The Princess 
Cassamassima." His "Portraits of Places," published in 1884, 
is a delightful contribution to the literature of travel over beaten 

Mr. James has spent most of his life abroad. He has been 
described by. a critic as looking at America with the eyes of a 



foreigner, and at Europe with the eyes of an American. The 
American abroad has been his chief study, but he has almost 
invariably chosen the crude American, an "innocent abroad," 
who provokes the laughter of nations. The educated American 
seems to be rare in Mr. James's collection of characters. The 
author is at his best in the short story ; he is a master in this 
art, though his art is sometimes too apparent ; he has done nothing 
better than "The Madonna gf the Future," "The Passionate 
Pilgrim," and "The Liar." 

Madame Merle. 

(From "The Portrait of a Lady." Copyright, i88r, by Henry 
James, Jr. Used here by permission of the author and publishers, 
Houghton, Mifflin & Co.) 

When Madame Merle was neither writing, nor painting, nor 
touching the piano, she was usually employed upon wonderful 
morsels of picturesque embroidery, cushions, curtains, decorations 
for the chimney-piece ; a sort of work in which her bold, free 
invention was as remarkable as the agility of her, needle. She 
was never idle, for when she was engaged in none of the ways I 
have mentioned, she was either reading (she appeared to Isabel to 
read everything important), or walking out, or playing patience 
with the cards, or talking with her fellow inmates. And with all 
this, she always had the social quality ; she never was preoccu- 
pied, she never pressed too hard. She laid down her pastimes as 
easily as she took them up ; she worked and talked at the same 
time, and she appeared to attach no importance to anything she 
did. She gave away her sketches and tapestries ; she rose from 
the piano, or remained there, according to the convenience of her 
auditors, which she always unerringly divined. She was, in short, 
a most comfortable, profitable, agreeable person to live with. If 
for Isabel she had a fault, it was that she was not natural ; by 
which the girl meant, not that she was affected or pretentious ; for 
from these vulgar vices no woman could have been more exempt ; 
but that her nature had been too much overlaid by custom and 
her angles too much smoothed. She had become too flexible, too 
supple ; she was too finished, too civilized. She was, in a word, 
too perfectly the social animal that man and woman are supposed 
to have been intended to be ; and she had rid herself of every 
remnant of that tonic wildness which we may assume to have 
belonged even to the most amiable persons in the ages before 


country-house life was the fashion. Isabel found it difficult to 
think of Madame Merle as an isolated figure ; she existed only 
in her relations with her fellow-mortals. Isabel often wondered 
what her relations might be with her own soul. She always ended, 
however, by feeling that having a charming surface does not 
necessarily prove that one is superficial ; this was an illusion in 
which, in her youth, she had only just sufficiently escaped being 
nourished. Madame Merle was not superficial — not she. She was 
deep ; and her nature spoke none the less in her behaviour because 
it spoke a conventional language. "What is language at all but a 
convention ? " said Isabel. "She has the good taste not to pre- 
tend, like some people I have met, to express herself by original 

"I am afraid you have suffered much," Isabel once found 
occasion to say to her, in response to some allusion that she had 

"What makes you think that?" Madame Merle asked, with 
a picturesque smile. "I hope I have not the pose of a martyr." 

"No ; but you sometimes say things that I think people who 
have always been happy would not have found out." 

' ' I have not always been happy, ' ' said Madame Merle, smiling 
still, but with a mock gravity, as if she were telling a child a 
secret. " What a wonderful thing ! " 

' ' A great many people give me the impression of never having 
felt anything very much," Isabel answered. 

"It's very true; there are more iron pots, I think, than porce- 
lain ones. But you depend upon it that every one has something ; 
even the hardest iron pots have a little bruise, a little hole, some- 
where. I flatter myself that I am rather stout porcelain ; but if 
I must tell you the truth I have been chipped and cracked ! I do 
very well for service yet, because I have been cleverly mended ; 
and I try to remain in the cupboard— the quiet, dusky cupboard, 
where there is an odor of stale spices — as much as I can. But 
when I have to come out, and into a strong light, then, my dear, 
I am a horror! " 

I know not whether it was on this occasion or some other, that 
when the conversation had taken the turn I have just indicated, she 
said to Isabel that some day she would relate her history. Isabel 
assured her that she should delight to listen to it, and reminded 
her more than once of this engagement. Madame Merle, how- 
ever, appeared to desire a postponement, and at last frankly told 
the young girl that she must wait till they knew each other better. 
X— 23 


This would certainly happen ; a long friendship lay before them. 
Isabel assented, but at the same time asked Madame Merle if she 
could not trust her — if she feared a betrayal of confidence. 

" It is not that I am afraid of your repeating what I say," the 
elder lady answered; "I am afraid, on the contrary, of your 
taking it too much to yourself, You would judge me too harshly; 
you are of the cruel age." She preferred for the present to talk 
to Isabel about Isabel, and exhibited the greatest interest 
in our heroine's history, her sentiments, opinions, prospects. She 
made her chatter, and listened to her chatter with inexhaustible 
sympathy and good nature. In all this there was something 
flattering to the girl, who knew that Madame Merle knew a great 
many distinguished people, and had lived, as Mrs. Touchett said, 
in the best company in Europe 

"You must not think it strange, her staying in the house at 
such a time as this, when Mr. Touchett is passing away," Mrs. 
Touchett remarked to Isabel. ' ' She is incapable of doing any- 
thing indiscreet ; she is the best-bred woman I know. It's a favor 
to me that she stays ; she is putting off a lot of visits at great 
houses," said Mrs. Touchett, who never forgot that when she 
herself was in England her social value sank two or three degrees 
in the scale. , ' ' She has her pick of places ; she is not in want of 
a shelter. But I have asked her to stay because I wish you to 
know her. I think it will be a good thing for you. Serena Merle 
has no faults." 

" If I didn' t already like her very much, that description might 
alarm me," Isabel said. 

' ' She never does anything wrong. I have brought you out 

' here, and I wish to do the best for you. Your sister I^ily told 

me that she hoped I would give you plenty of opportunities. I 

give you one in securing Madame Merle. She is one of the most 

brilliant women in Europe." 

"I like her better than I like your description of her," Isabel 
persisted in saying. 

" Do you flatter yourself that you will find a fault in her? I 
hope you will let me know when you do." 

" That w^n be cruel — to you," said Isabel. 

" You needn't mind me. You never will find one." 

" Perhaps not; but I think I shall not miss it." 

" She is always up to the mark ! " said Mrs. Touchett. 

Isabel after this said to Madame Merle that she hoped she 
knew Mrs. Touchett believed she had not a fault. 


" I am obliged to you, but I am afraid your aunt has no per- 
ception of spiritual things," Madame Merle answered. 

"Do you mean by that that you have spiritual faults? " 

"Ah no; I mean nothing so flat. I mean that having no 
faults, for your aunt, means that one is never late for dinner — that 
is, for her dinner. I was not late, by the way, the other day, 
when you came back from I,ondon ; the clock was just at eight 
when I came into the drawing-room ; it was the rest of you that 
were before the time. It means that one answers a letter the day 
one gets it, and that when one comes to stay with her one doesn't 
bring too much luggage, and is careful not to be taken ill. For 
Mrs. Touchett those things constitute virtue ; it's a blessing to be 
able to reduce it to its elements." 

But Madame Merle sometimes said things that startled her, 
made her raise her clear eyebrows at the time, and think of the 
words afterwards. 

" I would give a great deal to be your age again," she broke 
out once, with a bitterness which, though diluted in her custom- 
ary smile, was by no means disguised by it. "If I could only 
begin again — if I could have my life before me ! " 

"Your life is before you yet," Isabel answered gently, for she 
was vaguely awe-struck. 

" No ; the best part is gone, and gone for nothing." 

"Surely, not for nothing," said Isabel. 

"Why not — ^what have I got? Neither husband, nor child, 
nor fortune, nor position, nor the traces of a beauty which I 
never had." 

" You have friends, dear lady." 

" I am not so sure ! " cried Madame Merle. 

"Ah, you are wrong. You have memories, talents " 

Madame Merle interrupted her. 

" What have my talents brought me? Nothing but the need 
of using them still, to get through the hours, the years, to cheat 
myself with some pretence of action. As for my memories, the 
less said about them the better. You will be my friend till you 
find a better use for your friendship." 

" It will be for you to see that I don't then," said Isabel. 

"Yes; I would make an effort to keep you," Madame Merle 
rejoined, looking at her gravely. "When I say I should like 
to be your age," she went on, "I mean with your qualities — 
frank, generous, sincere, like you. In that case I should have 
made something better of my life." 


"What should you have liked to do that you have not done? " 

Madame Merle took a sheet of music— she was seated at the 
piano, and had abruptly wheeled about on the stool when she 
first spoke — and mechanically turned the leaves. At last she 
said — 

" I am very ambitious ! " 

"And your ambitions have not been satisfied? They must 
have been great." 

" They were great. I should make myself ridiculous by talk- 
ing of them." 

Isabel wondered what they could have been — whether Madame 
Merle had aspired to wear a crown. " I don't know what your 
idea of success may be, but you seem to me to have been success- 
ful. To me, indeed, you are an image of success." 

Madame Merle tossed away the music with a smile. 

' ' What is your idea of success ? " 

"You evidently think it must be very tame," said Isabel. 
" It is to see some dream of one's youth come true." 

"Ah," Madame Merle exclaimed, "that I have never seen! 
But my dreams were so great — so preposterous. Heaven forgive 
me, I am dreaming now." And she turned back to the piano 
and began to play with energy. 


Of 'New England descent, but born in St. I/Ouis in 1850, 
Eugene Field was a curious mixture of classical culture, roving 
fancy and wild West humor. He studied at more than one college, 
and after graduating from the University of Michigan in 1871, 
traveled in Europe. On his return he became a journalist, and 
was thus employed in several places before he settled in Chicago. 
Here for years Field filled a column daily with such whims and 
fancies, prose and verse, as entertained a host of readers. But 
this journalistic joker was an indefatigable collector of works 
and curios, and his last volume was "The Love Affairs of a 
Bibliomaniac." His fondness for children was shown not only in 
writing numerous lullabies and little folk's stories, but in his col- 
lection of their toys and trinkets. Field wrote some notable 
poems in Western dialect, and then varied his work by exquisite 
translations from Horace. During his life he issued a dozen vol- 
umes, and after his death, in 1895, his works were collected (10 
vols., New York, 1896) with affectionate tributes from his friends 


Charlotte Rooze. 

(From "The Conversazzhyony " in "A Little Book of Western 
Verse." Copyright, 1889, by Eugene Field. Used here by permission 
of the publishers, Charles Scribner's Sons.) 

The mayuoo that wuz spread that night wuz mighty hard to 

beat, — 
Though somewhat awkward to pernounce, it wuz not so to eat : 
There wuz puddins, pies, an' sandwidges, an' forty kinds uv sass, 
An' floatin' Irelands, custards, tarts, an' patty dee foy grass ; 
An' millions uv cove oysters wuz a-settin' round in pans, 
'Nd other native fruits an' things that grow out West in cans. 
But I wuz all kufflummuxed when Hoover said he'd choose 
" Oon peety morso, see voo play, de la cette Charlotte Rooze; " 
I'd knowed Three-fingered Hoover for fifteen years or more, 
'Nd I'd never heem him speak so light uv wimmin folks before ! 

Bill Goslin heem him say it, 'nd uv course he spread the news 

Uv how Three-fingered Hoover had insulted Charlotte RoOze 

At the conversazzhyony down at Sorry Tom's that night, 

An' when they asked me, I allowed that Bill for once wuz right ; 

Although it broke my heart to see my friend go up the fluke, 

We all opined his treatment uv the girl deserved rebuke. 

It warnt no use for Sorry Tom to nail it for a lie, — 

When it come to sassin' wimmin, there wuz blood in every eye ; 

The boom for Charlotte Rooze swep' on an' took the polls by 

An' so Three-fingered Hoover fell a martyr to reform ! 

Three-fingered Hoover said it wuz a terrible mistake, 
An' when the votes wuz in, he cried ez if his heart would break. 
We never knew who Charlotte wuz, but Goslin's brother Dick 
Allowed she wuz the teacher from the camp on Roarin' Crick, 
That had come to pass some foreign tongue with them uv our 

Ez wuz at the high-toned party down at Sorry Tom's that night. 
We let it drop — this matter uv the lady — there an' then. 
An' we never heerd, nor wanted to, of Charlotte Rooze agajiu. 
An' the Colorado wimmin folks, ez like ez not, don't know 
How we vindicated all their sex a twenty year ago. 



James Whitcomb Riley is the American poet of the masses. 
He reaches the widest audience, and his homely verses go straight 
to the hearts of the people. He was born in Greenfield, Indiana, 
in 1852. With but little education in the ordinary sense, he early 
gained experience of men by becoming an itinerant sign-writer 
and painter. I^ater he joined a strolling company and recast 
many plays, and improvised songs. His wandering life enriched 
his dialect vocabulary and aided his studies in human nature. 
He utilized these acquirements by writing verses for the local 
papers, some of which attracted attention, and gained him a place 
in the office of the Indianapolis Journal. He has been a popular 
lecturer as well as a frequent contributor to the magazines. His 
volumes of poems comprise "The Ole Swimmin'-Hole and 'Leven 
More Poems," "The Boss Girl, and other Sketches," "Pipes 
o' Pan at Zekesbury," "Rhymes of Childhood," "Afterwhiles," 
"Green Fields and Running Brooks," and "Poems Here at 

A' Old Played-O^t Song. 

(The following poems are from "Pipes o' Pan at Zekesbury," 
copyright, 1888, by James Whitcomb Riley, and are used here by 
permission of the publishers, Bowen-Merrill Co., Indianapolis.) 

It's the curiousest thing in creation. 

Whenever I hear that old song, 
" Do They Miss Me at Home? " I'm so bothered, 

My life seems as short as it is long ! — 
For ever' thing 'pears like adzackly 

It 'peared in the years past and gone, — 
When I started out sparkin', at twenty', 

And had my first neckercher on ! 

Though I'm wrinkelder, older and grayer 

Right now than my parents was then, 
You strike up that song, "Do They Miss Me?" 

And I 'm jest a youngster again ! — 
I 'm a-standin' back there in the furries 

A-wishin for evening to come. 
And a-whisperin' over an' over 

Them words, "Do They Miss Me at Home?" 


You see, Martha Ellen slie sung it 

The first time I heard it ; and so, 
As she was my very first sweetheart. 

It reminds of her, don't you know, — 
How her face ust to look, in the twilight, 

As I tuck her to spellin' ; and she 
Kep' a-hummin' that song 'tel I ast her. 

Pint-blank, ef she ever missed me ! 

I can shet my eyes now, as you sing it, 

And hear her low answerin' words. 
And then the glad chirp of the crickets 

As clear as the twitter of birds ; 
And the dust in the road is like velvet. 

And the ragweed, and fennel, and grass 
Is as sweet as the scent of the lilies 

Of Eden of old, as we pass. 

"Do They Miss Me at Home?" Sing it lower — 

And softer — and sweet as the breeze 
That powdered our path with the snowy 

White bloom of the old locus'-trees ! 
I>t the whippoorwills he'p you to sing it. 

And the echoes 'way over the hill, 
'Tel the moon boolges out, in a chorus 

Of stars, and our voices is still. 

But, oh ! "They's a chord in the music 

That's missed when her voice is away !" 
Though I listen from midnight 'tel morning, 

And dawn, 'tel the dusk of the day ; 
And I grope through the dark, lookin' up'ards 

And on through the heavenly dome, 
With my longin' soul singin' and sobbin' 

The word, "Do They Miss Me at Home?" 

Beautiful Hands. 

O YOUR hands — they are strangely fair ! 
Fair — for the jewels that sparkle there, — 
Fair— for the witchery of the spell 
That ivory keys alone can tell ; 
But when their delicate touches rest 
Jlere in xa^ pwu do I love them best? 


As I clasp with eager acquisitive spans 
My glorious treasure of beautiful hands! 

Marvelous — wonderful — beautiful hands ! 
They can coax roses to bloom in the strands 
Of your brown tresses ; and ribbons will twine, 
Under mysterious touches of thine, 
Into such knots as entangle the soul, 
And fetter the heart under such a control 
As only the strength of my love understands — 
My passionate love for your beautiful hands. 

As I remember the first fair touch 
Of those beautiful hands that I love so much, 
I seem to thrill as I then was thrilled, 
Kissing the glove that I found unfilled — 
When I met your gaze and the queenly bow, 
As you said to me, laughingly, "Keep it now !" 
And dazed and alone in a dream I stand 
Kissing this ghost of your beautiful hand. 

When first I loved, in the long ago, 
And held your hand as I told you so — 
Pressed and caressed it and gave it a kiss, 
And said "I could die for a hand like this !" 
Little I dreamed love's fulness yet 
Had to ripen when eyes were wet. 
And prayers were vain in their wild demands 
For one warm touch of your beautiful hands. 

Beautiful Hands ! O Beautiful Hands ! 

Could you reach out of the alien lands 

Where you are lingering, and give me, to-night. 

Only a touch — were it ever so light — 

My heart were soothed, and my weary brain 

Would lull itself into rest again ; 

For there is no solace the world commands 

I^ike the caress of your beautiful hands. 


OI/AND holds a unique place in the history of 
the world. The country long formed the border- 
land of Christendom, and the brave people from 
the time of their conversion to Catholicism were 
engaged in constant wars with the Pagan Lithu- 
anians, the Mongols and the Russians. The nobles 
filled with military enthusiasm showed a proud independ- 
ence. They rejected hereditary monarchy and insisted on 
electing their sovereign. Early in the sixteenth century 
they established the "liberum veto," by which a single noble 
could nullify the choice of the diet. This absurd custom 
sapped the strength of the nation and at times led to practical 
anarchy. The neighboring nations, pretending to fear for the 
safety of their own institutions, invaded the ill-fated land 
and twice divided its territory among them. 

Yet not until that lamented overthrow did Polish litera- 
ture become known to the rest of the world. Down to the six- 
teenth century Latin was the only medium used by the Poles 
for literary purposes. When the Reformation movement 
reached the land, there were some signs of the rise of a native 
literature. But the Jesuits secured control of the schools and 
enabled Latin to preserve its supremacy. France and Poland, 
animated with a common jealousy of Germany, had much 
friendly intercourse, and before the eighteenth century the 
Polish nobility, apt in imitating foreign fashions, had made 
French their favorite speech. Some books were written in 
Polish, but the style of the more pretentious was interlarded 



with Latin and French phrases. After the partition of Poland 
the wave of Romanticism swept over Europe. History had 
been the chief form of literature, and now Polish writers were 
roused to tell again in verse and romance the exploits of their 
ancestors. The intense national feeling found vent in unaf- 
fected language. The hope that Napoleon would prove the 
saviour of their down-trodden country inspired poets, such as 
Julian Ursin Niemcewicz (1757-1841), whose earliest work 
was "Historical Lyrics," celebrating the national heroes. He 
died an exile in Paris. The chief representative of Roman- 
ticism was Adam Mickiewicz (1798-1855), who lived for a 
time in St. Petersburg, afterwards visited Italy, and in 1832 
settled in Paris, where he taught Slavonic in the College of 
France. He never ceased his poetic battle for his native land. 
He was a disciple of Byron, but his poems resounded with 
Polish lore and legends. His "Pan Tadeusz " is a stirring 
picture of Lithuania on the eve of Napoleon's invasion of 

Julius Slowacki (1809-49) belonged to the Romantic school 
and for a time followed Byron and Victor Hugo, taking cor- 
sairs and adventurers for his heroes. But the revolution of 
1830 stirred his national feeling, as was seen in his noble "Ode 
to Freedom " and the martial ' ' Song of the Lithuanian Le- 
gion." The poet was exiled, and while in Geneva composed 
dramas vividly illustrating Polish history and character. His 
lyrical masterpiece is " In Switzerland," a lamentation for 
his country and his lost love. Later he became a mystic, 
sometimes depicting in weird allegories the woes of his nation 
and sometimes dreaming of her impossible resurrection. 

Still greater as a poet and more in harmony with the Pol- 
ish spirit was Count Sigismund Krasinski (1812-59), who was 
born and died in Paris. On account of his father's unpopu- 
larity, he wrote anonymously and was called " The Unknown 
Poet." In the drama "Iridion" he presented the struggle 
between Christianity and Paganism in Rome under the Cae- 
sars. In ' ' The Undivine Comedy ' ' he represented the suffer- ■ 
ings of Poland allegorically. His lyric poems treat the same 
theme with powerful ijnagi»ation, but are melancholy and 


Prose fiction has flourished in Poland in the nineteenth 
century as throughout Europe. The most prolific author in 
this department was Josef Ignacy Kraszewski (1812-87), who 
wrote about 250 novels, and altogether more than 500 works. 
Though this rapidity of production may have lessened their 
merit, they are still widely read by his countrymen. He 
treated the whole history of Poland in a series of novels, after 
the style of Sir Walter Scott. Other novelists have acquired 
local and temporary fame, but no Polish writer obtained rec- 
ognition in English until the works of Henryk Sienkiewicz 
began to be translated by Jeremiah Curtin. His novels of 
Polish history were welcomed by discerning critics, but later 
his great romance, "Quo Vadis," treating of the introduction 
of Christianity into Imperial Rome, captivated readers of all 
classes. Sienkiewicz practically represents Polish literature 
to readers of English. 


The civilized world has never been 
more suddenly captivated by literary 
genius than in the case of Sienkiewicz. 
In spite of native critics who sought to 
smother his attempts, he won the affec- 
tionate regard of his countrymen and 
almost at the same time the admiration 
of all nations. This brilliant novelist 
p' was born at Wola Okrejska, in Lithuania, 
in 1846", of an old noble family. He was 
thirty -five years of age before he entered 
upon the work that has made him famous. 
After a student's career at the University of Warsaw, he edited a 
journal there, and in 1872 published his first work, a humorous 
tale. Then he set out on almost aimless wanderings, and for 
some years led a kind of gipsy life. He was a Bohemian in Paris ; 
and in 1876 he joined the Polish fraternity of expatriated artists 
and musicians, gathered around Madame Modjeska to form at 
Los Angeles, in California, a Polish commonwealth of denational- 
ized genius. Sienkiewicz wrote letters of travel and story-sketches 
some of which treated American scenes. Before returning to 
Warsaw, h& visited Africa. In 1880 he issued bis first large work, 


"Tartar Slavery," but he soon applied himself to his great prose- 
epic of Poland in the seventeenth century. To this period he was 
obliged to revert in order to exhibit the true greatness of his 
country and race. In that age Poland was still a powerful nation. 
Sienkiewicz in his wanderings had explored nearly every corner 
of his country. He now produced a trilogy, thoroughly Polish 
in sentiment and patriotism. In the background there is a deep 
feeling for nature, and a sadness which seems inseparable from 
the lyithuanian temperament. "With Fire and Sword," the 
first novel of the series (published in 1884) describes the Cossack 
invasion of Poland in 1647-51, and ends with the siege of Zharaj. 
"The Deluge" (1886.) opens in the year 1655, deals mainly with 
the Swedish invasion, and ends with the expulsion of the Swedes 
in 1657. " Pan Michael" (1887) the last of the series, treats of 
the Turkish invasion, while the epilogue narrates subsequent 
events down to the final triumph of Poland under John Sobieski. 
In all of these novels figures a unique personage, Zagloba, who 
has been said to combine "a great deal of Falstaff, a touch of 
Thersites, arid a gleam of Ulysses." Sienkiewicz is said to have 
found the original model in the Polish settlement in California. 
Taken as a whole, these novels rank among the foremost histori- 
cal romances of the world. 

To an entirely different class belongs Sienkiewicz's next work, 
"Without Dogma" (1890). This is a psychological novel, and 
therefore appeals to a limited class. But his wider fame was not 
long to be deferred. "Quo Vadis" appeared in 1895, and gave 
a brilliant view of Nero's reign and the first struggle of Christi- 
anity in Rome. It is founded on Tacitus and other Roman his- 
torians, on the "Satiricon" of Petronius Arbiter, and the early 
Christian traditions. The hero, a nephew of Petronius, is con- 
verted from Paganism through his love for the pure Christiaii 
maiden lyygia, and finally suffers martyrdom in the arena with 
her. On the other hand the courtly Petronius, who sought, after 
Nero's burning of Rome, to prevent the persecution of the inno- 
cent Christians, loses favor with his imperial master and is driven 
to suicide. Readers of English are indebted to the learned lin- 
guist, Jeremiah Curtin, for admirable translations of the works of 



(From " Quo Vadis," translated by Jeremiah Curtin. Copsrright, 
1896, by Jeremiah Curtin. Used here by permission of the publishers, 
Little, Brown & Co.) 

Urstjs was taking water from the cistern by drawing up a 
double amphora. He was singing a wonderful I^ygian song in 
an undertone, and looking meanwhile with delighted eyes at 
I/ygia and Vinicius, who were as white as two statues among the 
cypresses in the garden of I<inus. Their clothing was not moved 
by the least breeze. A golden and lily-colored twilight was sink- 
ing on the world while they were conversing in the calm of 
evening, each holding the other by the hand. 

"May not some evil meet thee, Marcus, because thou hagt 
left Antium without Caesar's knowledge?" asked Lygia. 

"No, my dear," answered Vinicius. "Caesar announced 
that he would shut himself in for two days with Terpnos, and 
compose new songs. He acts thus frequently, and at such times 
neither knows nor remembers aught else. Moreover, what is 
Caesar to me since I am near thee and am looking at thee ? I 
have yearned too much already, and these last nights sleep has^ 
left me. More than once, when I dozed from weariness, I awoke 
on a sudden, with a feeling that danger was hanging over thee ; 
at times I dreamed that the relays of horses which were to bear 
me from Antium to Rome were stolen, — horses with which I 
passed that road more swiftly than any of Caesar's couriers. 
Besides, I could not endure longer without thee ; I love thee too 
much for that, my dearest." 

" I knew that thou wert coming. Twice Ursus ran out, at my 
request, to the Carinae, and inquired for thee at thy house. 
I,inus laughed at me, and Ursus also." 

It was, indeed, evident that she had expected him ; for instead 
af her usual dark dress, she wore a soft white stola, out of whose 
beautiful folds her arms and head emerged like primroses out of 
snow. A few ruddy anemones ornamented her hair. 

Vinicius pressed his lips to her hand; then they sat on the 
stone bench amidst wild grape-vines, and, inclining toward each 
other, were silent, looking at the twilight whose last gleams were 
reflected in their eyes. 

The cbarm of the quiet evening mastered them completely. 


"'How calm it is here, and how beautiful the world is," 
said Vinicius, in a lowered voice. ' ' The night is wonderfully- 
still. I feel happier than ever in life before. Tell me, I/ygia, 
what is this ? Never have I thought that there could be such 
love. I thought that love was merely fire in the blood and desire ; 
but now for the first time I see that it is possible to love with 
every drop of one's blood and every breath, and feel therewith 
such sweet and immeasurable calm as if Sleep and Death had put 
the soul to rest. For me this is something new I look on this 
calmness of the trees, and it seems to be within me. Now I 
understand for the first time that there may be happiness of 
which people have not known thus far. Now I begin to under- 
stand why thou and Pomponia Grsecina have such peace. Yes ! 
Christ gives it." 

At that moment I^ygia placed her beautiful face on his shoulder 
and said, — 

" My dear Marcus — " But she was unable to continue. Joy, 
gratitude, and the feeling that at last she was free to love deprived 
her of voice, and her eyes were filled with tears of emotion. 

Vinicius, embracing her slender form with his arm, drew her 
toward him and said, — 

" Lygia ! May the moment be blessed in which I heard His 
name for the first time." 

"I love thee, Marcus," said she then in a low voice. 

Both were silent again, unable to bring words from their over- 
charged breasts. The last lily reflections had died on the cypresses, 
and the garden began to be silver-like from the crescent of the 
moon. After a while Vinicius said, — 

' ' I know. Barely had I entered here, barely had I kissed thy 
dear hands, when I read in thine eyes the question whether I had 
received the divine doctrine to which thou art attached, and 
whether 1 was baptized. No, I am not baptized yet ; but knowest 
thou, my flower, why? Paul said to me : ' I have convinced thee 
that God came into the world and gave Himself to be crucified 
for its salvation : but let Peter wash thee in the fountain of grace, 
he who first stretched his hands over thee and blessed thee.' 
And I, my dearest, wish thee to witness my baptism, and I wish 
Pomponia to be my godmother. This is why I am not baptized 
yet, though I believe in the Saviour and in His teaching. Paul 
has convinced me, has converted me ; and could it be otherwise ? 
How was I not to believe that Christ came into the world, since 
he, who was his disciple, says so, and Paul, to whom he appeared? 


How was I not to believe that He was God, since He rose from 
the dea'd ? Others saw Him in the city and on the lake and on 
the mountain ; people saw Him whose lips have not known a lie. I 
began to believe this the first time I heard Peter in Ostranium, 
for I said to myself even then: In the whole world any other man 
might lie rather than this one who says, ' I saw.' But I feared 
thy religion. It seemed to me that thy religion would take thee 
from me. I thought that there was neither wisdom nor beauty 
nor happiness in it. But to-day, when I know it, what kind of 
man should I be were I not to wish truth to rule the world instead 
of falsehood, love instead of hatred, virtue instead of crime, faith- 
fulness instead of unfaithfulness, mercy instead of vengeance .' 
What sort of man would he be who would not choose and wish 
the same ? But your religion teaches this. Others desire justice 
alsoj but thy religion is the only one which makes man's heart 
just, and besides makes it pure, like thine and Pomponia's, 
makes it faithful, like thine and Pomponia's. I should be blind, 
were I not to see this. But if in addition Christ God has promised 
eternal life, and has promised happiness as immeasurable as the 
all-might of God can give, what more can one wish ? Were I to 
ask Seneca why he enjoins virtue, if wickedness brings more 
happiness, he would not be able to say anything sensible. But I 
know now that I ought to be virtuous, because virtue and love 
flow from Christ, and because, when death closes my eyes, I shall 
find life and happiness, I shall find myself and thee. .Why not 
love and accept a religion which both speaks the truth and 
destroys death ? Who would not prefer good to evil ? I thought 
thy religion opposed to happiness; meanwhile Paul has con- 
vinced me that it not only takes nothing from us, but that it 
gives. All this hardly finds a place in my head ; but I feel that 
it is so, for I have never been so happy, neither could I be had I 
taken thee by force and possessed thee in my house. Just see, 
thou hast said a moment since, 'I love thee,' and I could not have 
won these words from thy lips with all the might of Rome. O 
I,ygia ! Reason declares this religion divine, and the best , the 
heart feels it, and who can resist two such forces? " 

Lygia listened, fixing on him her blue eyes, which in the light 
of the moon were like mystic flowers, and bedewed like flowers. 

"Yes, Marcus, that is true!" said she, nestling her head 
more closely to his shoulder. 

And at that moment they feit immensely happy, for they 
understood that besides love they were united by another power. 



at once sweet and irresistible, by which love itself became end. 
less, not subject to change, deceit, treason, or even death. Their 
heaits were filled completely with the certainty that, no matter 
what might happen, they would not cease to love and belong to 
each other. For that reason an unspeakable repose flowed in on 
their souls. Vinicius felt, besides, that that love was not merely 
profound and pure, but altogether new, — such as the world had 
not known and could not give. In his head all was combined in 
this love, — Lygia, the teaching of Christ, the light of the moon 
resting calmly on the cypresses, and the still night,— so that to 
him the'^vhole universe seemed filled with it. 

After a while he said with a lowered and quivering voice : 
"Thou wilt be the soul of my soul, and the dearest in the world 
to me. Our hearts will beat together, we shall have one prayer 
and one gratitude to Christ. O my dear ! To live together, to 
honor together the sweet God, and to know that when death 
comes our eyes will open again, as after a pleasant sleep, to a 
new light, — what better could be imagined ? '^ only marvel that 
I did not understand this at first. And knowest thou what occurs 
to me now? That no one can resist this religion. In two hun- 
dred or three hundred years the whole world will accept it. People 
will forget Jupiter, and there will be no god except Christ, and no 
other temples but Christian." 

J. L. G. Ferris, P\h\ 





fiTH its noble ancient literature overshadowing modern am- 
bitions there is no appreciable body of writings.with which 
English readers are familiar that can be quoted from as 
examples of modem native, or colonial literature. Books of travel, 
works of scholarly research, and records of the country contain 
much brilliant pen-work, but for modern romance and poetry we 
have to rely on British-bom writers who have li-<red long in that 
land of strange fascinations. No one has given so graphic' a pic- 
ture of the terrible mutiny of the native troops in 1857 ^s has Mrs. 
Steel in her powerful novel On the Face of the Waters. To Rud- 
yard Kipling English and American readei;s are indebted for vivid 
realizations of Anglo-Indian life in all its grades, particularly 
that of the common soldier. One native poet has left a remem- 
brance of her short career of promise as an interpreter of her race, 
Toru Dutt, who died in 1877. Sir Alfred Comyns Lyall, of the 
India Civil Service, has written some striking ballads on local 
• life and scenes. Sir Edwin Arnold's Light of Asia is familiar to 

American readers. ^„ 


daughter of a high-caste Hindu, born in Calcutta, 1856, was 
educated in England and afterward traveled through Europe. 
She wrote a volume of poems. Ancient Ballads and Legends of 
Hindustan, and another work, but died at twenty-one. 
Our Casuarina Treb. 

I,iK« a huge- Python, winding round and round 
The rugged trunk, indented deep with scars. 
Up to its very summit near the stars, 

A creeper climbs, in whose embraces bound 
No other tree could live. But gallantly 
x-24 (369c) 


The giant wears the scarf, and flowers are hung 
In crimson clusters all the boughs among, 

Whereon all day are gathered bird and bee ; 
And oft at nights the garden overflows 
With one sweet song that seems to have no close, 
Sung darkling from our tree, while men repose. 

When first my casement is wide open thrown 

At dawn, my eyes delighted on it rest ; 

Sometimes, and most in winter, — on its crest 
A gray baboon sits statute -like alone 

Watching the sunrise ; while on lower boughs 
His puny offspring leap about and play ; 
And far and near kokilas hail the day ; 

And to their pastures wend our sleepy cows ; 
And in the shadow, on the broad tank cast 
By that hoar tree, so beautiful and vast, 
The water-lilies spring, like snow enmassed. 

But not because of its magnificence 
Dear is the Casuarina to my soul : 
Beneath it we have played ; though years may roll, 

sweet companions, loved with love intense. 
For your sakes, shall the tree be ever dear, 

Blent with your images, it shall arise 
In memory, till the hot tears blind mine eyes ! 
What is that dirge-like murmur that I hear 
I/ike the sea breaking on a shingle-beach? 
It is the tree's lament, an eerie speech, 
That haply to the unknown land may reach. 

Unknown, yet well known to the eye of faith ! 

Ah, I have heard that wail far, far away 

In distant lands, by many a sheltered bay, 
When slumbered in his cave the water-wraith 

And the wa\'es gently kissed the classic shore 
Of France or Italy, beneath the moon. 
When earth lay tranced in a dreamless swoon : 

And every time the music rose, — before 
Mine inner vision rose a form sublime. 
Thy form, O Tree, as in my happy prime 

1 saw thee, in my own loved native clime. 



Therefore I fain would consecrate a lay 
Unto thy honor, Tree, beloved of those 
Who now in blessed sleep for aye repose, — 
Dearer than life to me, alas, were they I 

Mayst thou be numbered when my days are done 
With deathless trees — like those in Borrowdale, 
Under whose awful branches lingered pale 

' ' Fear, trembling Hope, and Death, the skeleton, 
And Time, the shadow; " and though weak the verse 
That would thy beauty fain, oh, fain rehearse. 
May I<ove defend thee from Oblivion's curse. 


Born in England in 1847 Mrs. Steel lived in India from 1867 
until 1889. Her knowledge of its people and the undercurrents 
of its history gives exceptional value to her stories, of which 
Tales from the Punjab, Wide Awake Stories, and Red Rowans 
are the best known, after the masterly work from which the 
selection is taken. On the Face of tki Waters. It is a powerful 
study of the Indian Mutiny of 1857. 

Through the Wai<i<s. 
(From " On the Face of the Waters," published by the MacmiUan Co., N.Y.) 

It was a full hour past dawn on the 14th of September ere 
that sudden silence fell once more upon the echoing rocks of the 
Ridge and the scented gardens. So, for a second, the twittering 
birds in the thickets behind them might have been heard by the 
men who, with fixed bayonets, were jostling the roses and the 
jasmines. But they were holding their breath — waiting, listen- 
ing, for something very different; while in the ears of many, 
excluding all other sounds, lingered the cadence of the text read 
by the chaplain before dawn in the church lesson for the day. 
"Woe to the bloody city — the sword shall cut thee off." 
For to many the coming struggle meant neither justice nor 
revenge, but religion. It was Christ against Anti-Christ. So, 
whether for revenge or faith they waited. A thousand down by 
the river opposite the Water Bastion. A thousand in the Koodsia 


facing the main breach, with John Nicholson, first as evef, to 
lead it. A thousand more on the broad white road fronting the 
Cashmere Bastion, with an explosion party ahead to blow in the 
gate, and a reserve of fifteen hundred to the rear waiting for 
success. Briefly, four thousand five hundred men — more than 
half natives — for the assault, facing that half mile or so of north- 
em wall; thus within touch of each other. Beyond, on the 
western trend, tiivo thousand more — mostly untried troops from 
Jumoo and a general muster of casuals — to sweep through the 
suburbs and to be ready to enter by the Cabul gate when it was 
opened to them. 

Above, on the Ridge, six hundred sabers awaiting orders. 
Behind it three thousand sick in hospital, a weak defense, and 
that rear-guard of graves. 

And in front of all stood that tall figure with the keen eyes. 
' ' Are you ready, Jones ? ' ' asked Nicholson, laying his hand on the 
last leader's shoulder. His voice and face were calm, almost cold. 

"Ready, sir!" 

Then, startling that momentary silence, came the bugle. 

' ' Advance ! ' ' 

With a cheer the rifles skirmished ahead joyfully. The 
engineers posted in the furthest cover long before dawn — who 
had waited for hours, knowing that each minute made their task 
harder — rose, waving their swords to guide the stormers toward 
the breach ! Then, calmly, as if it had been dark, not daylight, 
crested the glacis at a swift walk, followed by the laddermen in 
line. Behind, with a steady trampi, the two columns bound for 
the breaches. But the third, upon the road, had to wait a while, 
as, like greyhounds from a leash, a little company slipped for- 
ward at the double. 

Home of the Engineers first with two sergeants, a native 
havildar, and ten Punjab sappers, running lightly, despite the 
twenty-five pound powder bags they carried. Behind them, led 
by Salkeld, the firing party and a bugler. Running under the 
hail of bullets, faster as they fell faster, as men run to escape a 
storm; but these courted it, though the task had been set for 
night, and it was now broad daylight. 

What then? They could see better. See the outer gateway 
open, the footway of the drawbridge destroyed, the inner door 
closed save for the wicket. 



"Come on," shouted Home, and was across the bare beams 
like a boy, followed by the others. 

Incredible daring ! What did it mean? The doubt made the 
scared enemy close the wicket hastily. So against it, at the 
rebels' very feet, the powder bags were laid. True, one sergeant 
fell dead with his; but as it fell against the gates his task was 

"Ready, Salkeld ! — your turn," sang out young' Home from 
the ditch, into which, the bags laid, the fuse set, he dropped 
unhurt. So across the scant foothold came the firing party, its 
leader holding the portfire. But the paralysis of amazement had 
passed; the enemy, realizing what the audacity meant, had set 
the wicket wide. It bristled now with muskets; so did the 

" Burgess ! — your turn," called Salkeld as he fell, and passed 
the portfire to the corporal behind him. Burgess, alias Grierson, 
— someone perchance retrieving a past under a new name, — 
took it, stooped, then with a half articulate cry either that it was 
"right" or "out," fell back into the ditch dead. Smith, of the 
powder party, lingering to see the deed done, thought the latter, 
and, matchbox in hand, sprang forward, cuddling the gate for 
safety as he struck a light. But it was not needed. As he 
stooped to use it, the portfire of the fuse exploded in his face, and, 
half blinded, he turned to plunge headlong for escape into the 
ditch. A second after the gate was in fragments. 

"Your turn, Hawthorne!" came that voice from the ditch. 
So the bugler, who had braved death to sound it, gave the 
advance. Once, twice, thrice, carefully lest the din from the 
breaches should drown it. Vain precaution, not needed either; 
for the sound of the explosion was enough. That thousand on 
the road was hungering to be no whit behind the others, and 
with a wild cheer the stormers made for the gate. 

But Nicholson was already in Delhi, though ten minutes had 
gone in a fierce struggle to place a single ladder against an 
avalanche of shot and stone. But that one had been the signal 
for him to slip into the ditch, and, calling on the ist Bengal 
Fusiliers to follow, escalade the bastion, first as ever. 

Even so, others were before him. Down at the Water Bas- 
tion, though three-quarters of the ladSermen had fallen and but 
a third of the storming party remained, those twenty-five men of 


the 8th had gained the breach, and, followed by the whole 
column, were clearing the ramparts toward the Cashmere gate. 
Hence, again, without a check, joined by the left half of Nichol- 
son's column, they swept the enemy before them like frightened 
sheep to the Moree gate ; though in the bastion itself the gunners 
stood to their guns and were bayoneted beside them. There, 
with a whoop, some of the wilder ones leaped to the parapet to 
wave their caps in exultation to the cavalry below, which, in 
obedience to orders, was now drawn up, ready to receive, guard- 
ing the flank of the assault, despite the murderous fire from the 
Cabul gate, and the Burn Bastion beyond it. Sitting in their 
saddles, motionless, doing nothing, a mark for the enemy, yet 
still a wall of defense. So, leaving them to that hardest task of 
all — the courage of inaction — the victorious rush swept on to 
take the Cabul gate, to sweep past it up to the Burn Bastion 
itself — the last bastion which commanded the position. 

And then ? Then the order came to retire and await orders 
at the Cabul gate. The fourth column, after clearing the 
suburbs, was to have been there ready for admittance, ready to 
support. It was not. And Nicholson was not there also, to 
dare and do all. He had had to pause at the Cashmere gate to 
arrange that the column which had entered through it should 
push on into the city, leaving the reserve to hold the points 
already won. And now, with the ist Fusiliers behind him, he 
was fighting his way through the streets to the Cabul gate. So, 
fearing to lose touch with those behind, overrating the danger, 
underestimating the incalculable gain of unchecked advance 
with an eastern foe, the leader of that victorious sweeping of the 
ramparts was content to set the Knglish flag flying on the Cabul 
gate and await orders. But the men had to do something. So 
they filled up the time plundering. And there were liquor shops 
about. Europe shops, full of wine and brandy. 

The flag had been flying over an hour when Nicholson came 
up. But by that time the enemy — who had been flying too — fly- 
ing as far as the boat bridge in sheer conviction that the day was 
lost — had recovered some courage and were back, crowding the 
bastion and some tall houses beside it. And in the lane, three 
hundred yards long, not ten feet wide, leading to it, two brass 
guns had been posted before bullet-proof screens ready to mow 
down the intruders. 

INDIA. 375c 

Yet once more John Nicholson saw but one thing — the Burn 
Bastion. Built by Englishmen, it was one of the strongest — 
the only remaining one, in fact, likely to give trouble. "With it 
untaken a thorough hold on the city was impossible. Besides, 
with his vast knowledge of native character, he knew that the 
enemy had expected us to take it, and would construe caution 
into cowardice. Then he had the ist Bengal Fusiliers behind 
him. He had led them in Delhi, they had fallen in his track in 
tens and fifties, and still they had come on — they would do this 
thing for him now. ' 

"We will do what we can, sir," said their commandant, 
Major Jacob — but his face was grave. 

" We will do what men can do, sir," said the commandant of 
that left half of the column; "but honestly, I don't think it can 
be done. We have tried it once." His face was graver still. 

" Nor I," said Nicholson's Brigade-major. 

Nicholson, as he stood by the houses around the Cabul gate, 
which had been occupied and plundered by the troops, looked 
down the straight lane again. It hugged the city wall on its right, 
its scanty width narrowed here and' there by buttresses to some 
three feet. About a third of the way down was the first gun, 
placed beside a feathery kikar tree which sent a lace-like tracery 
of shadow upon the screen. As far behind was the second. 
Beyond, again, was the bastion jutting out, and so forcing the 
lane to bend between it and some tall houses. Both were crowded 
with the enemy — the screens held bayonets and marksmen. 
There was a gun close to the bastion in the wall, but to the left, 
cityward, in the low, flat-roofed mud houses there seemed no 
trace of flanking foes. 

"I think it can be done," he said. He knew it must be 
done ere the Palace could be taken. So he gave, the orders. 
Fusiliers forward; officers to the front! 

And to the front they went, with a cheer and a rush, over- 
whelming the first gun, within ten yards of the other. And one 
man \vjas closer still, for I^ieutenant Butler, pinned against that 
second bullet-proof screen by two bayonets thrust through the 
loopholes at him, had to fire his revolver through them also, ere 
he could escape this two-pronged fork. 

But the fire of every musket on the bastion and the tall houses 
was centered on that second gun. Grape, canister, raked the 


narrow lane — made narrower by fallen Fusiliers — and forced 
those who remained to fall back upon the first gun — beyond 
that even. Yet only for a moment. Reformed afresh, they 
carried it a second time, spiked it and pressed on. Officers still 
to the front! 

Just beyond the gun the commandant fell wounded to death. 
"Go on, men, go on!" he shouted to those who would have 
paused to help him. " Forward, Fusiliers! " 

And they went forward; though at dawn two hundred and 
fifty men had dashed for the breach, and now there were not a 
hundred and fifty men left to obey orders. Less! For fifty men 
and seven officers lay in that lane itself. Surely it was time now 
for others to step in — and there were others! 

Nicholson saw the waver, knew what it meant, and sprang 
forward sword in hand, calling on those others to follow. But 
he asked too much. Where the ist Fusiliers had failed, none 
cared to try. That is the simple truth. The limit had been 

So for a minute or two he stood, a figure instinct with pas- 
sion, energy, vitality, before men who, God knows with reason, 
had lost all three for the moment. A colossal figure beyond 
them, ahead of them, asking more than mere ordinary men could 
do. So a pitiful figure — a failure at the last! 

" Come on, men! Come on, you fools — come on, you — you 

What the word was, which that bullet full in the chest 
arrested between heart and lips, those who knew John Nichol- 
son's wild temper, his indomitable will, his fierce resentment at 
everything which fell short of his ideals, can easily guess. 

"Lay me under that tree," he gasped, as they raised him. 
" I will not leave till the lane is carried. My God! Don't mind 
me! Forward, men, forward! It can be done." 

An hour or two afterward a subaltern coming out of the Cash- 
mere gate saw a dhooli, deserted by its bearers. In it lay John 
Nicholson in dire agony; but he asked nothing of his fellows 
then save to be taken to hospital. He had learned his lesson. 
He had done what others had set him to do. He had entered 
Delhi. He had pricked the bubble, and the gas was leaking 
out. But he had failed in the task he had set himself. The 

INDIA. 377 c 

Burn Bastion was still unwon, and the English force in Delhi, 
instead of holding its northern half up to the very walls of the 
Palace, secure from flanking foes, had to retire on the strip of 
open ground behind the assaulted wall — if, indeed, it had not 
to retire further still. Had one man had his way it would' have 
retired to the Ridge. l,ate in the afternoon, when fighting was 
over for the day, General Wilson rode round the new-won posi- 
tion, and, map in hand, looked despairingly toward the network 
of narrow lanes and alleys beyond. And he looked at soinething 
close at hand with even greater forebodings; for he stood in the 
European quarter of the town among shops still holding vast 
stores of wine and spirits which had been left untouched by that 
other army of occupation. 

But what of this one? This product of civilization, and cul- 
ture, and Christianity; these men who could give points to those 
others in so many ways, but might barter their very birthright 
for a bottle of rum. Yet even so, the position must be held. So 
said Baird Smith at the chief's elbow, so wrote Neville Chamber- 
lain, unable to leave his post on the Ridge. And another man 
in hospital, thinking of the Bum Bastion, thinking with a strange 
wonder of men who could refuse to follow, muttered under his 
breath, "Thank God! I have still strength left to shoot a 

And yet General Wilson in a way was right. Five days 
afterward Major Hodson wrote in his diary: "The troops are 
utterly demoralized by hard work and hard drink. For the first 
time in my life I have had to see English soldiers refuse repeat- 
edly to follow their officers. Jacob, Nicholson, GreVille, Speke 
were all sacrificed to this." 

A terrible indictment indeed, against brave men. 
Yet not worse than that underlying the chief's order of the 
15th, directing the Provost-marshal to search for and smash 
every bottle and barrel to be found, and let the beer and wine, 
so urgently needed by the sick, run into the gutters; or his ad- 
mission three days later that another attempt to take the I^ahore 
gate had failed from "the refusal of the European soldiers to 
follow their officers. One rush, and it could have been done 
easily — we are still, therefore, in the same position to-day as we 
were yesterday." 


So much for drink. 

But the enemy luckily was demoralized also. It was still 
full of defense, empty of attack. 

For one thing, attack would have admitted a reverse;, and 
over on that eastern wall of the Palace, in the fretted marble 
balcony overlooking the river, there was no mention, even now, 
of such a word. Reverse! Had not the fourth column been 
killed to a man ? Had not Nikalseyn himself fallen a victim to 
valor? But Soma, and many a man of his sort, gave up the pre- 
tense with bitter curses at themselves. They had seen from their 
own posts that victorious escalade, that swift, unchecked herding 
of the frightened sheep. And they — intolerable thought! — 
were sheep also. They saw men with dark faces, no whit better 
than they — better! — the Rajpoot had at least a longer record 
than the Sikh! — led to victory while they were not led at all. 
So brought face to face once more with the old familiar glory and 
honor, the old familiar sight of the master first — uncompromis- 
ingly, indubitably first to snatch success from the grasp of Fate, 
and hand it back to them — they thought of the past three 
months with loathing. 

Yet but little headway had been made in securing a firmer 
hold within the city itself. 

"You can't, till the Burn Bastion is taken and the I/abore 
gate secured," said Nicholson from his dying bed, whence, grow- 
ing perceptibly weaker day by day, yet with mind clear and un- 
clouded, he watched and warned. Thp single eye was not 
closed yet, was not even made dim by death. It saw still, what 
it had seen on the day of the assalt; what it had coveted then 
and failed to reach. 

But it was not for five days after this failure that even Baird 
Smith recognized the absolute accuracy of this judgment, and 
against the Chief's will, obtained permission to sap through the 
shelter of the intervening houses till they could tackle the bastion 
at close and commanding quarters without asking the troops to 
face another lane. So on the morning of the 19th, after a night 
of storm and rain cooling the air incredibly, the pick-ax began 
what rifles and swords had failed to do. By nightfall a tall 
house was reached, whence the bastion could be raked fore and 
aft. Its occupants, recognizing this, took advantage of the 

INDIA. 379c 

growing darkness to evacuate it. Half an hour afterward the 
master-key of the position was in English hands. 

Rather unsteady ones, for here again the troops — once more 
the. 8th, the 75th, the Sikh Infantry, and that balance of the 
Fusiliers — had found more brandy. 

But this time England could afford a few drunk men. The 
bastion was gone, and by the Turkoman and Delhi gates half the 
town was going. And not only the town. Down in the Palace 
men and women, with fumbling hands and dazed eyes, like those 
new roused from dreams, were snatching at something to carry 
with them in their flight. Bukht Kh^n stood facing the Queen 
in her favorite summer-house, alone save for Hdfzan, the scribe, 
who lingered, watching them with a certain malice in her eyes. 
She had been right. Vengeance had been coming. Now it had 


The dawn of the 20th of September had broken ere, with the 
key of the outer door in her bosom, H^fzan retired into an inner 
room, leaving the Moulvie saying his prayers in the other. Al- 
ready the troops, recovered from their unsteadiness, had carried 
the lyahore gate and were bearing dovm on the mosque. They 
found it almost undefended. The circling flight of purple 
pigeons, which at the first volley flew westward, the sun glisten- 
ing on their iridescent plumage, was scarcely more swift than the 
flight of those who attempted a feeble resistance. And now the 
Palace lay dose by. With it captured, Delhi was taken. Its 
walls, it is true, rose unharmed, secure as ever, hemming in 
those few acres of God's earth from the march of time; but they 
were strangely silent. Only now and again a puff of white 
smoke and an unavailing roar told that someone, who cared not 
even for success, remained within. 

So powder-bags were brought. Home of the Engineers sent 
for, that he might light the fuse which gave entry to the last 
stronghold; for there was no hurry now. N9 racing now under 
hailstorms, and over tightropes. Calmly, quietly, the fuse was 
lit, the gate shivered to atoms, and the long red tunnel with the 
gleam of sunlight at its end lay before the men, who entered it 
with a cheer. Then, here and there rose guttural Arabic texts, 
ending in a groan. Here and there the clash of arms. But not 
enough to rouse HSfzan, who, long ere this, had fallen asleep 


after her wakeful night. It needed a touch on her shoulder for 
that, and the Moulvie's eager voice in her ear. 

' ' The key, woman ! The key — give it ! I need the key. ' ' 

Half-dazed by sleep, deceived by the silence, she put her 
hand mechanically to her bosom. His followed hers; he had what 
he sought, and was off. She sprang to her feet, recognizing 
some danger, and followed him. 

"He is mad ! He is mad ! " she cried, as her halting steps 
lingered behind the tall white figure which made straight for a 
crowd of soldiers gathered round the little tank. There were 
other soldiers here, there, everywhere in the rose-red arcades 
around the sun-lit court. Soldiers with dark faces and white 
ones seeking victims, seeking plunder. But these in the center 
were all white men, and they were standing, as men stand to 
look at a holy shrine, upon the place, where, as the spies had 
told them, English women and children had been murdered. 

So toward them, while curses were in all hearts and on some 
lips, came the tall white figure with its arms outspread, its wild 
eyes aflame. 

"O God of Might and Right! Give judgment now, give 
judgment now." 

The cry rolled and echoed through the arcades to alien ears 
even as other cries. 

"He is mad — he saved them — he is mad !" gasped the 
maimed woman behind; but her cry seemed no different to those 
unheeding ears. 

The tall white figure lay on its face, half a dozen bayonets in 
its back, and half a dozen more were after Hdfzan. 

" Stick him ! Stick him ! A man in disguise. Remember 
the women and children. Stick the coward ! ' ' 

She fied shrieking — shrill, feminine shrieks; but the men's 
blood was up. They could not hear, they would not hear; and 
yet the awkwardness of that flying figure made them laugh hor- 

"Don't 'ustle 'im ! Give 'im time ! There's plenty o' run 
in 'im yet, mates. I<ord ! 'e'd get first prize at I/illie Bridge 'e 
would. " 

Someone else, however, had got it at Harrow not a year be- 
fore, and was after the reckless crew. Almost too late — not 
quite. H^fzan, run to earth against a red wall, felt something 

INDIA. 38 1 C 

on her back, and gave a wild yell. But it was only a boy's 

" My God ! sir, I've stuck you ! " falted a voice behind, as a 
man stood rigid, arrested in mid-thrust. 

"Youd d fool!" said the boy. Couldn't you h^ar it 

was a woman? I'll — I'll have you shot. Oh, hang it all ! Drag 
the creature away, someone. Get out do ! " 

For H4fzan, as he stood stanching the blood from the slight 
wound, had fallen at his feet and was kissing them frantically. 

But even that indignity was forgotten as the stained handker- 
chief answered the flutter of something which at that moment 
caught the breeze above him. 

It was the English flag. 

The men forgetting everything else, cheered themselves 
hoarse — cheered again when an orderly rode past waving a slip 
of paper sent back to the General with the laconic report: 

" Blown open the gates ! Got the Palace ! " 

But HMzan, her veil up to prevent mistakes, limped over to 
where the Moulvie lay, turned him gently on his back, straight- 
ened his limbs and closed his eyes. She would have liked to tell 
the truth to someone, but there was no one to listen. So she 
left him there before the tribunal to which he had appealed. 


Thb famous ballad-maker and short-story writer was born in 
Bombay in 1865, his father an English artist and author. After 
an English education he practiced all-round journalism in India. 
Some of his ballads and stories were collected and instantly made 
a world-wide success. He married the sister of the late Wolcot 
Balestier, an American writer, and settled for a time in Ver- 
mont, but afterwards returned to England. His works are gen- 
erally popular, but are of uneven merit. The most admired are 
the Jungle Book, Tales from the Hills, Departmental Ditties, and 
other ballad-books. 


' ' Fuzzy- WuzzY. " 


WB'vB fought with many men acrost the seas, 

An' some of 'eni was brave an' some was not, 
The Paythan an' the Zulu an' Burmese; 

But the Fuzzy was the finest o' the lot. 
We never got a ha'porth's change of 'im: 

'E squatted in the scrub an' 'ocked our 'orses, 
'E cut our sentries up at Snakim, 
An' 'e played the cat an' banjo with our forces. 

So 'ere's io you. Fuzzy- Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan; 
You're a pore benighted 'eathen, but a first-class fightin' man; 
We gives you your certificate, an' if you want it signed 
We'll come an' 'ave a romp with you whenever you're in- 

We took our chanst among the Kyber 'ills, 

The Boers knocked us silly at a mile, 
The Burman give us Irriwaddy chills, , 

An' a Zulu tmpi dished us up in style: 
But all we ever got from such as they 

Was pop to what the Fuzzy made us swaller; 
We 'eld our bloomin' own, the papers say. 
But man for man the Fuzzy knocked us 'oiler. 

Then 'ere 's io you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' the missis an' the kid; 
Our orders was to break you, an' of course we went an' did. 
We sloshed you with Martinis, an' it was n't 'ardly fair; 
But for all the odds agin' you. Fuzzy- Wuz, you broke the 

'E 'as n't got no papers of 'is own, 

'E 'as n't got no medals nor rewards, 
So we must certify the skill 'e 's shown 

In usin' of 'is long two-'anded swords: 
When 'e 's 'oppin' in an' out among the bush 

With 'is coffin-'eaded shield an' shovel-spear, 
An 'appy day with Fuzzy on the rush 

Will last an 'ealthy Tommy for a year. 

INDIA. 383c 

So 'ere's to you, Fuzzy- Wuzzy, an' your friends which are 

no more, 
If we 'ad n't lost some messmates we would 'elp you to 

^ But give an' take's the gospel, an' we'll call the bargain 

For if you 'avelost more than us, you crumpled up the 


'E rushes at the smoke when we let drive. 

An,' before we know, 'e's 'ackin' at our 'ead; 
'E's all 'ot sand an' ginger when alive. 

An' 'e's generally shammin' when 'e's dead. 
'E 's a daisy, 'e 's a ducky, 'e 's a lamb! 
'E 's a Injia-rubber idiot on the spree, 
'E 's the on'y thing that does n't give a damn 
For a Regimemt o' British Infantree! 

So 'ere's to you, Fuzzy- Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan; 
You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man; 
An' 'ere's to you, Fuzzy- Wuzzy, with your 'ayrick 'ead of 

'air — 
You big black boundin' beggar — for you broke a British 

•any books of travel have been written since Livingstone's 
lifework opened up this new world to civilization, and 
some of them are fully entitled to rank as literature. As 
examples may be mentioned the Impressions of South Africa re- 
corded by the Right Hon. James Bryce, sometime member of Mr. 
Gladstone's ministry and author of the profound treatise on the 
American Commonwealth. Also the war-letters written by the late 
George Steevens from Cape Town to Lady smith, a graphic delinea- 
tion of the conflict in which he perished. Works of this class are 
strictly outside the scope of this review, but choice is limited by 
the lack of native- written literature. A compilation of the Poetry 
of South Africa was published there in 1888. The only available 
writings of local color are those by settlers whose stay in the 
cdlony was limited to a few years, with the exception of Olive 
Schreiner, whose name has deservedly won considerable renown, 
for bold original thought and a charming style. The Boer war 
of 1 899-1 901 and its consequences will sustain interest in books 
such as those from which we quote, which illustrate the peculiar 
life and conditions of the troubled country. 


As ' ' Rai<ph Iron ' ' this clever lady won her place in literature 
with the Story of an African Farm, which appeared in 1883. She 
was born in South Africa in 1863, her father being a I/Utheran 
clergyman in Cape Town, and her brother recently premier of 
the local parliament. Her later books display strong sympathy 
with the Boers in their struggle to keep the independence they so 
hardly earned and have so heroically striven to defend. 


A Boer Wedding. 

(From " The Story of an African Farm. ) 

"I didn't know before you were so fond of riding hard," 
said Gregory to his little betrothed. 

They were cantering slowly on the road to Oom MuUer's on 
the morning of the wedding. 

" Do you call this riding hard?" asked Em in some astonish- 

"Of course I do! It's enough to break the horses' necks, 
and knock one up for the whole day besides," he added testily ; 
then twisted his head to look at the buggy that came on behind. 
' ' I thought Waldo was such a mad driver ; they are taking it 
easily enough to-day," said Gregory. "One would think the 
black stallions were lame." 

"I suppose they want to keep out of our dust," said Em. 
"See, they stand still as soon as we do." 

Perceiving this to be the case, Gregory rode on. 

"It's all that horse of yours ; she kicks up such a confounded 
dust, I can't stand it myself," he said. 

Meanwhile the cart came on slowly enough. 

"Take the reins," said t/yndall, "and make them walk. I 
want to rest and watch their hoofs to-day — not to be exhilarated ; 
I am so tired." 

She leaned back in her corner, and Waldo drove on slowly in 
the gray dawn light along the level road. They passed the very 
milk-bush behind which so many years before the old German 
had found the Kaffir woman. But their thoughts were not with 
him that morning ; they were the thoughts of the young, that run 
out to meet the future, and labor in the present. At last he 
touched her arm. 

"What is it?" 

" I feared you had gone to sleep, and might be jolted out," 
he said ; "you sat so quietly." 

" No ; do not talk to me ; I am not asleep ; ' ' but after a time 
she said suddenly, " It must be a terrible thing to bring a human 
being into the world. ' ' 


X— 25 


Waldo wondered at her. He had not the key to her thoughts, 
and did not see the string on which they were strung. She drew 
her cloud tightly about her. 

" It must be very nice to believe in the Devil," she said ; "I 
wish I did. If it would be of any use I would pray three hours 
night and morning on my bare knees, ' God, let me believe in 
Satan.' He is so useful to those people who do. They may be 
as selfish and as sensual as t)iey please, and, between God's will 
and the Devil's actions, always have some one to throw their sin 
on. But we, wretched unbelievers, we bear our own burdens; 
we must say, ' I myself did it, /. Not God, nor Satan ; I myself ! ' 
That is the sting that strikes deep. Waldo, ' ' she said gently, 
with a sudden and complete change of manner, ' ' I like you so 
much, I love you." She rested her cheek softly against his 
shoulder. ' ' When I am with you I never know that I am a 
woman and you are a man ; I only know that we are both things 
that think. Other men when I am with them, whether I love 
them or not, they are mere bodies to me ; but you are a spirit ; I 
like you. I<ook," she said quickly, sinking back into her corner, 
" what a pretty pinkness there is on all the hill- tops ! The sun 
will rise in a moment." 

Waldo lifted his eyes to look round over the circle of golden 
hills ; and the horses, as the first sunbeams touched them, shook 
their heads and champed their bright bits, till the brass settings 
in their harness glittered again. 

It was eight o'clock when they neared the farmhouse : a red- 
brick building, with kraals to the right and a small orchard to 
the left. Already there were signs of unusual life and bustle : 
one cart, a wagon, and a couple of saddles against the wall be- 
tokened the arrival of a few early guests, whose numbers would 
soon be largely increased. To a Dutch country wedding guests 
start up in numbers astonishing to one who has merely ridden 
through the plains of sparsely inhabited karroo. 

As the morning advances, riders on many shades of steeds 
appear from all directions, and add their saddles to the long rows 
against the walls, shake hands, drink coffee, and stand about out- 
side in groups to watch the arriving carts and ox-wagons, as they 
are unburdened of their heavy freight of massive tantes and 
comely daughters, followed by swarms of children of all sizes, 
dressed in all manner of print and moleskin, who are taken care 


of by Hottentot, Kaffir, and half-caste nurses, whose many- 
shaded complexions, ranging from light yellow up to ebony 
black, add variety to the animated scene. Everywhere is excite- 
ment and bustle, which gradually increases as the time for the 
return of the wedding party approaches. Preparations for the 
feast are actively advancing in the kitchen ; cofEee is liberally 
handed round, and amid a profound sensation, and the firing of 
guns, the horse-wagon draws up, and the wedding party alight. 
Bride and bridegroom, with their attendants march solemnly to 
the marriage-chamber, where bed and box are decked out in 
white, with ends of ribbon and artificial flowers, and where on a 
row of chairs the party solemnly seat themselves. After a time 
bridemaid and best man rise, and conduct in with ceremony each 
individual guest, to wish success and to kiss bride and bridegroom. 
Then the feast is set on the table, and it is almost sunset before 
the dishes are cleared away, and the pleasure of the day begins. 
Everything is removed from the great front room, and the mud 
floor, well rubbed with bullock's blood, glistens like polished 
mahogany. The female portion of the assembly flock into the 
side-rooms to attire themselves for the evening ; and re-issue clad 
in white muslin, and gay with bright ribbons and brass jewelry. 
The dancing begins as the first tallow candles are stuck up about 
the walls, the music coming from a couple of fiddlers in a corner 
of the room. Bride and bridegroom open the ball, and the floor 
is soon covered with whirling couples, and every one's spirits 
rise. The bridal pair mingle freely in the throng, and here and 
there a musical man sings vigorously as he drags his partner 
through the Blue Water or John Speriwig ; boys shout and ap- 
plaud, and the enjoyment and confusion are intense, till eleven 
o'clock comes. By this time the children who swarm in the side- 
rooms are not to be kept quiet longer, even by hunches of bread 
and cake ; there is a general howl and wail, that rises yet higher 
than the scraping of fiddles, and mothers rush from their partners 
to knock small hieads together, and cuff little nursemaids, and 
force the wallers down into unoccupied corners of beds, under 
tables, and behind boxes. In half an hour every variety of 
childish snore is heard on all sides, and it has become perilous to 
raise or set down a foot in any of the side-rooms lest a small head 
or hand should be crushed. Now, too, the busy feet have broken 
the solid coating of the floor, and a cloud of fine dust arises, that 


makes a yellow halo round the candles, and sets asthmatic people 
coughing, and grows denser, till to recognize any one on the op- 
posite side of the room becomes impossible, and a partner's face 
is seen through a yellow mist. 

At twelve o'clock the bride is led to the marriage-chamber 
and undressed ; the lights are blown out, and the bridegroom is 
brought to the door by the best man, who gives him the key ; 
then the door is shut and locked, and the revels rise higher than 
ever. There is no thought of sleep till morning, and no unoc- 
cupied spot where sleep may be found. 

It was at this stage of the proceedings on the night of Tant' 
Sannie's wedding that Lyndall sat near the doorway in one of 
the side-rooms, to watch the dancers as they appeared and dis- 
appeared in the yellow cloud of dust. Gregory sat moodily in a 
corner of the large dancing-room. His little betrothed touched 
his arm. 

"I wish you would go and ask I^yndall to dance with you," 
she said ; ' ' she must be so tired ; she has sat still the whole 

"I have asked her three times," replied her lover shortly. 
" I'm not going to be her dog, and creep to her feet, just to give 
her the pleasure of kicking me — not for you, Em, nor for any- 
body else." 

"Oh, I didn't know you had asked her, Greg," said his 
little betrothed humbly ; and she went away to psur out coffee. 

Nevertheless, some time after Gregory found he had shifted 
so far round the room as to be close to the door where lyyndall 
sat. After standing for some time he inquired whether he 
might not bring her a cup of coffee. She declined : but still he 
stood on (why should he not stand there as well as anywhere 
else?) and then he stepped into the bedroom. 

" May I not bring you a stove, Miss I^yndall, to put your 
feet on?" 

"Thank you." 

He sought for one, and put it under her feet. 

" There is a draught from that broken window : shall I stuff 
something in the pane ? ' ' 

" No ; we want air." 

Gregory looked round, but, nothing else suggesting itself, he 
sat down on a box on the opposite side of the door. I^yndall sat 


before him, her chin resting in her hand ; her eyes steel-gray by 
day but black by night, looked through the doorway into the 
next room. After a time he thought she had entirely forgotten his 
proximity, and he dared to inspect the little hands and neck as 
he never dared when he was in momentary dread of the eyes 
being turned upon him. She was dressed in black, which seemed 
to take her yet further from the white-clad gewgawed women 
about her ; and the little hands were white, and the diamond 
ring ghttered. Where had she got that ring ? He bent forward 
a little and tried to decipher the letters, but the candle-light was 
too faint. When he looked up her eyes were fixed on him. 
She was looking at him — not, Gregory felt, as she had ever 
looked at him before ; not as though he were a stump or a stone 
that chance had thrown in her way. To-night whether it were 
critically, or kindly, or unkindly, he could not tell, but she 
looked at him, at the man, Gregory Rose, with attention. A 
vague elation filled him. He clenched his fist tight to think of 
some good idea he might express to her ; but of all those pro- 
found things he had pictured himself as saying to her, when he 
sat alone in the daub-and-wattle house, not one came. He said 
at last : 

"These Boer dances are very low things;" and then, as 
soon as it had gone from him, he thought it was not a clever 
remark, and wished it back. 


Mr. Haggard, born in England, 1856, went to Natal in 1875 
as secretary to Sir H. Bulwer, and was afterward Master of the 
High Court of the Transvaal. His first book was an account of 
Cetewayo's people, who gave the English much trouble before 
they were subdued. He then wrote the series of imaginative 
novels with which his name is chiefly identified. The Witch's 
Head, She, etc. The fighting qualities of native chiefs are fairly 
illustrated in the spirited passage which follows : 

(The British have found the' native races of South Africa 
foes worthy of their steel. They sustained defeats at the hands 
of Cetewayo and the military leaders of various tribes. The 
novelist describes one such, Twala by name, after being van- 
quished in a fierce fight by the English forces under Sir Henry 
Curtis, who had been wounded in a hand to hand fight with Twala. ) 

390c literature of axl nations. 

The Fight Between Twala and Sir Henry. 

(From " King Solomon's Mines.") 

Taking due precautions against treachery, we marched on 
into the town. All along the road-ways stood dejected warriors, 
their heads drooping, and their shields and spears at their feet, 
who, as Ignosi passed, saluted him as a king. On we marched, 
straight to Twala's kraal. When we reached the great space 
where a day or two previously we had se^ the review and the 
witch-hunt we found it deserted. No, not quite deserted, for 
there, on the further side, in front of his hut, sat Twala him- 
self, with but one attendant — Gagool. 

It was a melancholy sight to see him seated there, his battle- 
ax and shield by his side, his chin upon his mailed breast, with 
but one old crone for companion, and, notwithstanding his 
cruelties and misdeeds, a pang of compassion shot through me as 
I saw him thus " fallen from his high estate." Not a soldier of 
all his armies, not a courtier out of the hundreds who had 
cringed round him, not even a solitary wife, remained to share 
his fate or halve the bitterness of his fall. Poor savage ! he was 
learning the lesson that fate teaches to most who live long 
enough, that the eyes of mankind are blind to the discredited, 
and that he who is defenseless aind fallen finds few friends and 
little mercy. Nor, indeed, in this case did he deserve any. 

Filing through the kraal gate we marched straight across the 
open space to where the ex-king sat. When within about fifty 
yards the regiment was halted, and, accompanied only by a small 
guard, we advanced toward him, Gagool reviling us bitterly as 
we came. As we drew near, Twala, for the first time, lifted up 
his plumed head, and fixed his one eye, which seemed to flash 
with suppressed fury almost as brightly as the great diadem 
bound round his forehead, upon his successful riyal — Ignosi. 

"Hail, oh, king!" he said, with bitter mockery; "thou 
who hast eaten of my bread, and now by the aid of the white 
man's magic has seduced my regiments and defeated mine army, 
hail ! What fate hast thou for me, oh, king? " 

" The fate thou gavest to my father, whose throne thou hast 
sat on these many years ! ' ' was the stern answer. 


" It is well. I will Show thee how to die, that thou mayest 

blood, andhepomtedwithhis red battle-ax toward the fiery 
orb now going down ; '< it is well that my sun should sink with 

of" .1.^ T""' • '°^ ' ^ ^"^ '^^^^ *° ^'^' b«t I <=^ave the boon 
of the Kukuana royal house,* to die fighting. Thou canst not 
refuse It or even those cowards who fled to-day will hold thee 

" It is granted. Choose with whom thou wilt fight. Myself 
I can not fight with thee, for the king fights not except in war." 
Twala's somber eye ran up and down our ranks, and I felt 
as for a moment it rested on myself, that the position had 
developed a new horror. What if he chose to begin by fighting 
me? What chance should I have against a desperate savage six 
feet high and broad in proportion? I might as well commit 
suicide at once. Hastily I made up my mind to decline the com- 
bat, even if I were hooted out of Kukuanaland as a consequence. 
It is, I think, better to be hooted than to be quartered with a 

Presently he spoke. 

"Incubu, what sayest thou, shall we end what we began 
to-day, or shall I call thee coward, white — even to the liver?" 
' ' Nay, ' ' interposed Ignosi, hastily; ' ' thou shalt not fight with 

"Not if he is afraid," said Twala. 

Unfortunately Sir Henry understood this remark, and the 
blood flamed up into his cheeks. 

"I will fight him," he said; " he shall see if I'm afraid." 
" For God's sake," I entreated, " don't risk your life against 
that of a desperate man. Anybody who saw you to-day will know 
that you are not a coward." 

"I will fight him," was the sullen answer. " No living man 
shall call me a coward. I am ready now!" and he stepped for- 
ward and lifted his ax. 

I wrung my hands over this absurd piece of quixotism; but if 
he was determined on fighting, of course I could not stop him. 

* It is a law among the Kukuanas that no man of the royal blood can 
be put to death unless by his own consent, which is, however, never refused. 
He is allowed to choose a succession of antagonists to be approved by the 
king, with whom he fights, till one of them kills him. 


" Fight not, my white brother," said Ignosi, laying his hand 
affectionately on Sir Henry's arm; " thou hast fought enough, and 
if aught befell thee at his hands it would cut my heart in twain." 

"I will fight, Ignosi," was Sir Henry's answer. 

" It is well, Incubu; thou art a brave man. It will be a good 
fight. Behold, Twala, the Elephant is ready for thee." 

The ex-king laughed savagely, and stepped forward and faced 
Curtis. For a moment they stood thus, and the setting sun 
caught their stalwart frames and clothed them both in fire. They 
were a well-matched pair. 

Then they began to circle round each other, their battle-axes 
raised. Suddenly Sir Henry sprung forward and struck a fearful 
blow at Twala, who stepped to one side. So heavy was the 
stroke that the striker half overbalanced himself, a circumstance 
of which his antagonist took a prompt advantage. Circling his 
heavy battle- ax round his head, he brought it down with tremen- 
dous force. My heart jumped into my mouth; I thought the affair 
was already finished. But no; with a quick upward movement 
of the left arm Sir Henry interposed his shield between himself 
and the ax, with the result that its outer edge was shtJrn clean 
off, the ax falling on his left shoulder, but not heavily enough to 
do any serious damage. In another second Sir Henry got in 
another blow, which was also received by Twala upon his shield. 
Then followed blow upon blow which was, in turn, either received 
upon the shield or avoided. The excitement grew intense; the 
regiment which was watching the encounter forgot its discipline, 
and, drawing near, shouted and groaned at every stroke. Just 
at this time, too. Good, who had been laid upon the ground by 
me, recovered from his faint, and sitting up, perceived what was 
going on. In an instant he was up, and, catching hold of my 
arm, hopped about from place to place on one leg, dragging me 
after him, yelling out encouragements to Sir Henry. 

"Go it, old fellow!" he hallooed. "That was a good one! 
Give it him amidships!" and so on. 

Presently Sir Henry, having caught a fresh stroke upon his 
shield hit out with all his force. The stroke cut through Twala's 
shield and through the tough chain armor behind it, gashing him 
in the shoulder. With a yell of pain and fury Twala returned 
the stroke with interest, and, such was his strength, shore 


right through the rhinoceros-horn handle of his antagonist's 
battle-ax, strengthened as it was with bands of steel, wounding 
Curtis in the face. 

A cry of dismay rose from the Buffaloes as our hero's broad 
ax-head fell to the ground; and Twala, again raising his weapon, 
flew at him with a shout. I shut my eyes. When I opened 
them again, it was to see Sir Henry's shield lying on the ground, 
and Sir Henry himself with his great arms twined around Twala' s 
middle. To and fro they swung, hugging each other like bears, 
straining with all their mighty muscles for dear life, and dearer 
honor. With a supreme effort Twala swung the Englishman 
clean off his feet, and down they came together, rolling over and 
over on the lime paving, Twala striking out at Curtis' s head with 
the battle-ax, and Sir Henry trying to drive the toUa he had 
drawn from his belt through Twala' s armor. 

It was a mighty struggle, and an awful thing to see. 
" Get his ax! " yelled Good; and perhaps our champion heard 

At any rate, dropping the toUa, he made a grab at the ax, 
which was fastened to Twala' s wrist by a strip of buffalo-hide, 
and still rolling over and over, they fought for it like wild cats, 
drawing their breath in heavy gasps. Suddenly the hide-string 
burst, and then, with a great effort. Sir Henry freed himself, the 
weapon remaining in his grasp. Another second, and he was 
upon his feet, the red blood streaming from the wound in his 
face, and so was Twala. Drawing the heavy tolla from his belti 
he staggered straight at Curtis and struck him upon the breast. 
The blow came home true and strong, but whoever it was made 
that chain armor understood his art, for it withstood the steel. 
Again Twala struck out with a savage yell, and again the heavy 
knife rebounded, and Sir Henry went staggering back. Once 
more Twala came on, and as he came our great Englishman 
gathered himself together, and, swinging the heavy ax round his 
head hit at him with all his force. There was a shriek of excite- 
ment from a thousand throats, and, behold! Twala's head seemed 
to spring from his shoulders, and then fell and came rollmg and 
bounding along the ground toward Ignosi, stopping just at his 
feet For a second the corpse stood upright, the blood spouting 
in fountains from the severed arteries; then with a dull crash jt 


fell to the earth, and the gold torque from the neck went rolling 
away across the pavement. As it did so, Sir Henry, overpowered 
by faintness and loss of blood, fell heavily across it. 

In a second he was lifted up, and eager hands were pouring 
water on his face. Another minute, and the great gray eyes 
opened wide. 

He was not dead. 

Then I, just as the sun sank, stepping to where Twala's head 
lay in the dust, unloosened the diamond from the dead browS, 
and handed it to Ignosi. 

"Take it," I said, "lawful King of the Kukuanas." 

Ignosi bound the diadem upon his brow, and then advanc- 
ing placed his foot upon the broad chest of his headless foe and 
broke out into a chant, or rather a paean of victory, so beauti- 
ful yet so utterly savage, that I despair of being able to give 
an adequate idea of it. I once heard a scholar with a fine voice 
read aloud from a Greek poet called Homer, and I remember 
that the sound of the rolling lines seemed to make my blood 
stand still. Ignosi' s chant, uttered as it was in a language as 
beautiful and sonorous as the old Greek, produced exactly the 
same effect on me,, although I ■ was exhausted with toil and 
various emotions. 

"Now," he began, "now is our rebellion swallowed up in 
victory, and our evil-doing justified by strength. 

" In the morning the oppressors rose up and shook themselves; 
they bound on their plumes and made them ready for war. 

' ' They rose up and grasped their spears; the soldiers called 
to their captains: ' Come, lead us!.' — and the captains cried to the 
king, ' Direct thou the battle. ' 

"They rose up in their pride, twenty thousand men, and yet 
a twenty thousand. 

" Their plumes covered the earth as the plumes of a bird cover 
her nest; they shook their spears and shouted yea; they hurled 
their spears into the sunlight; they lusted for the battle and were 

' ' They came up against me; their strong ones came running 
swiftly to crush me; they cried, 'Ha! ha! he is as one already 

' ' Then breathed I on them, and my breath was as the breath 
of a storm, and lo! they were not. 


' ' My lightnings pierced them ; I licked up their strength with 
the lightning of my spears; I shook them to the earth with the 
thunder of my shouting. 

"They broke — they scattered — they were gone as the mists 
of the morning. 

"They are food for the crows and the foxes, and the place of 
battle is fat with their blood. 

' ' Where are the mighty ones who rose up in the morning ? 
where are the proud ones who tossed their plumes and cried, 
' He is as one already dead!' 

"They bow their heads, but not in sleep; they are stretched 
out, but not in sleep. 

"They are forgotten; they have gone into the blackness, and 
shall not return; yea, others shall lead away their wives, and 
their children shall remember them no more. 

"And I — I, the king — like an eagle, have I found my 


" Behold! far have I wandered in the night-time, yet have I 
returned to my little ones at the day-break. 

' ' Creep ye under the shadow of my wings, oh, people; and 
I will comfort ye, and ye shall not be dismayed. 

" Now is the good time, the time for spoil. 

"Mine are the cattle in the valleys, the virgins in the kraals 

are mine also. 

" The winter is overpast, the summer is at hand. 

"Now shall eviljcover up her face, and prosperity shall 
bloom in the land like a lily. 

' ' Rejoice, rejoice, my people ! Let all the land rejoice m that 
the tyranny is trodden down, in that I am the king! " 

He paused, and out of the gathering gloom there came back 

the deep reply: 

"Thou art the king! " 

Thus it was that my prophecy to the herald came true, and 
within the forty-eight hours Twala's headless corpse was stiffen- 
ing at Twala's gate. 


The following Table shows at a glance the principal facts of the lives and works 
of the authors who have been discussed and illustrated in the " Literature of All 
Nations and All Ages." It includes also many other authors, especially those oi 
recent times. It gives the dates of their birth and death, or, where these are not 
known, shows the time at which they flourished. Authors who are best known by 
their pseudonyms, as ' George Eliot,' are entered under these names in quotation 
marks. In many cases the names of the author's principal works are added, distin- 
guished by heavier type. 

AaSEN, IvAR Andreas (1813- ) Norwegian philologist and poet. 
Abelard, Pierre (1079-1142) French philosopher. Hi^toria Calamitatum. 
About, Edmond (1828-85) French novelist. Tolla ; Man with Broken Ear. 
Abraham a Sancta Clara (1642-1700) German monk preacher. VIII. 9. 
Abu TemAN (806-45) Arabian lyric poet. II. 154. 

Achilles Tatius {5th century) Greek romance writer. Clitophon and Leucippe. vil. 66. 
AcoSTA, Jose d' (1540-1600) Spanish Jesuit historian. History of the Indies. 
Adams, Charles Kendall (1835- ) American historian and educator. 
Adams, Henry (1838- ) Amer. historian. Life of Gallatin. Hist, of U. S. 1801-17, 
Adams, John (1735-1826) American statesman. State Papers ; Diary. 
Adams, John Quincy (1767-1848) American statesman. State Papers ; Diary. 
Addison, Joseph (1672-1719) English essayist and poet. Spectator; Cato, tragedy. VI. 374. 
Aelfric, Abbot (nth century) Anglo-Saxon. Homilies. 
jEsCHINES (389-314 B.C.) Greek orator, rival of Demosthenes. VI. 16. 
.(Eschylus (525-455 B.C.) Greek tragic poet. Agamemnon ; Prometheus Bound, iii. 46. 
jEsop fjl. 570 B.C.) Greek fabuUst. v. 67. 

Afzelius, Arvid August (1785-1871) Swedish poet and collector of folk-songs. 
Agathias (c. 536-581) Greek poet and historian. Cycle of Epigrams, vil. 10. 
Agrippa, Heinrich Cornelius (1486-1535) German philosopher. 
Aguilar, Grace (1816-47) English Jewish novelist. Home Influence. 
Aguilera, Ventura Ruiz (820-81) Spanish poet. National Echoes ; Elegies. 
AimARD, GuSTAVE (1818-83) French novelist. American Indian Stories. 
Ainslie, Hew (1792-1878) Scotch poet. 

Ainsworth, W. Harrison (1805-82) English historical novelist. 
Akenside, Mark (1721-70) English poet. Pleasures of Imagination, vil. 281. 
Alamanni, Luigi (1495-1556) Italian poet. Avarchide. v. 200. 
AlCjEUS (600 B.C.) Greek lyric poet. 11. 92. 
Alcman (7th Cent, b.c) Greek lyric poet. 

Alcott, Louisa May (1832-88) American novelist. Little Women. 
Alcuin (735-804) English scholar, adviser of Charles the Great. 

Aldrich, Thos. Bailey (1836- ) American poet, novelist. Story of a Bad Boy. x. 343. 
Aleman, Matteo (c. 1550-1609) Spanish novelist. Guzman de Alfarache. vi. 162. 
Alfieri, Vittorio( 1749-1803) Italian tragic poet. Brutus; Saul; Philip II. vil. 178 
Alger, William Rounseville (1822- ) American author. Genius of Solitude. 
Alfonso X. the Wise (1226-84) Spanish historian and poet. 1.376. 
Alfred the Great (849-901) English King and translator. I. 25S. 
Alison, Archibald (1792-1867) Scotch historian. History of Modern Europe. 
I:— 24 369 

370 BIOGRAPHICAI, Utox ur auijcujita. 

Allen, Elizabeth Akers, 'Florence Percy' (1832- ) American poet. 

Allen, Grant (1848- ) English nature essayist and novelist. Babylon. ' 

Allen, James Lane (1850- ) American novelist. The Choir Invisible. 

Allingham, William (1828-89) Irish poet. Bloomfield in Ireland. 

AllstON, Washington (1779-1843) American painter and romancist. Monaldi. 

Almquist, Karl Jonas Ludvig (1793-1866) Swedish poet and novelist. 

Ambrose, Saint (340-397) Latin Church Father, vii. 121. 

AmbrosiUS, Johanna (1854- ) German poet and story- writer. 

AmiciS, EdmONDO de ( 1846- ) Italian descriptive writer. 

Ammianus Marcellinus (4th century) Roman historian. viL 105. 

Amiel, Henri Frederic (1821-81) French-Swiss essayist, critic and poet. 

Amriolkais (6th century) Arabian poet. i. 185. 

Amyot, Jacques (1513-93) French author and translator. 

Anacrkon (550-465 ? B. c.) Greek poet. Odes. iv. 84. 

Andersen, Hans Christian (1805-75) Danish poet and story writer. 

Andrade, Jacinto de, Portuguese. Life of Juan de Castro, iii. 256. 

Andrieux, Francois Jean Stanislas (1759-1833) French poet and dramatist. 

AndrONICUS, LiviuS (284-204 b. c.) Roman dramatic poet and actor. 11. 113. 

Aneurin (6th century) Welsh bard. l. 318. 

' Angelus Silesius,' Johannes Scheffler (1624-77) German mystic and sacred poet. 

Angiolieri, Cecco (fl. 1300) Italian poet. 11. 258. 

' Anstey, F.,' Thomas Anstey Guthrie (1856- ) English humorist. 

Antiphon (480-411 B. c.) Greek orator, vi. 10. 

Antara {c. 550-615) Arabian poet. i. 188 and VII. 155. 

Apollonius the Rhodian (280-235 B.C.) Greek epic poet. Argonautica. vi. 51. 

Apuleius, Lucius (125 A.D.) Latin satirist. The Golden Ass. vi. 81. 

ArchilOCHUS (720-676 B.C.) Greek satirical poet, inventor of iambics. 11. 87. 

Aretino, PieTRO (1492-1557) Italian satirical poet. iv. 189. 

Ariosto, Ludovico (1474-1533) Italian romantic poet. Orlando Furioso. v. 202. 

Aristophanes (444-380 B.C.) Greek comic dramatist. Clouds; Frogs; Birds, v. 43. 

Aristotle (384-322 b.c.) Greek philosopher. Politics ; Poetics ; Rhetoric, v. 97. 

Arago, Dominique Francois (1786-1853) French astronomer and physicist. 

Arany, Janos (1817-82) Hungarian poet. 

Aratus (c. 290-260 B.C.) Greek poet and astronomer. 

Arbuthnot, John (1665-1735) Scotch- English humorist. History of John Bull. vil. 282. 

ArgVLE, G. D. Campbell, Duke of (1823- ) Scotch-English philosophical writer. 

Armstrong, John, Dr. (1709-79) English poet. Art of Preserving Health, vil. 281. 

Arnason, Jon. (1819-1888) Icelandic writer. 

Arndt, Ernst MoritZ (1769-1860) German poet and miscellaneous writer, x. 183. 

Arnobius (fl. 330) North-African Latin Christian. Against the Gentiles, vil. 105. 

Arnold, Edwin, Sir (1832- ) English poet. Light of Asia ; Light of the World. 

Arnold, Matthew ( 1822-88) English poet and essayist. Thyrsis; Empedocles. x. 27a 

Arnold, Thomas, Dr. (1795-1842) English teacher and historian. History of Rome. 

Arrebo, Anders Christensen (1587-1637) Danish poet. viii. 147. 

Arrianus, Flavius (95-180) Greek philosopher and historian, vil. 54. 

Asadi or Essedi (9th century) Persian poet. 11. 173. 

Asbjornsen, Peter Kristen (1812-85) Norwegian folklorist. 

Ascham, Roger (1515-68) English scholar. The Schoolmaster, iv. 305. 

ATHEN.a;US (3d century) Greek writer. Deipnosophists. 

Athanasius, Saint (291-373) Greek Church Father, vii. 81. 

Attar, Ferid EDDIN (1119-1229?). Persian poet. v. 194. 


Atterbom, Per Daniel Amadeus (1790-1855). Swedish poet, 

Atterbury, Francis (1662-1732). English bishop. 

Attius, Lucius (170-86 b.c.) Latia tragic poet. Brutus. 11. 151. 

AuBANEL, Theodore (1829-86) Provencal poet and dramatist. 

Audubon, John James (1780-1837) American ornithologist. Birds of North America. 

Auerbach, Berthold (1812-82) German novelist. On the Heights. 

AUGIER, Emile (1820-89) French dramatist. 

Augustine of Hippo, Saint (354-430) Latin Qmrch Father, vii. 121. 

AuRELius Antoninus, Marcus (121-180) Roman emperor, Stoic philosopher, vn. 56. 

Austen, Jane (1775-1817) English novelist. Pride and Prejudice. 

Austin, Alfred (1835- ) English poet-laureate. 

AusoNius, Decimus Magnus (310-394) Latin poet. vil. 106. 

AvELLANEDA, Gertrudis Gomez de (1814-73) Spanish poet, dramatist and novelist. 

AvERROES, Ibn Rusha (1126-98) Spanish-Arabian philosopher. 

' AviCEBRON ' — Salomon ben Gebirol (<■. 1028-58) Spanish-Hebrew poet and pUlosopher. 

Aytoun, William E. (1812-65) Scotch poet and hmnorist. Lays of the Cavaliers. 

Babrius (250 B. c.) Greek versifier of ^sop's Fables, v. 69. 

Backstrom, Per Johan Edvard (1841-86) Swedish dramatist and lyric poet 

Bacon, Francis, Sir (1561-1626) English philosopher and essayist. Novum Organon. 

V. 366. 
Baggesen, J. E. (1764-1826) Danish poet. VIIL 166. 
Bailey, Philip James (i8i6- ) English poet. Festus. 
Baillie, Joanna (1762-1851) Scotch tragic poet. 
Baker, William Mumford (1825-83) American novelist. 

Balzac, Honore de (1799-1850) French novelist. Comedie Humaine. x. 109. 
Bancroft, George (1800-91) American historian. History of the United States. 
Bancroft, Hubert Howe ( 1832- ) American historian. History of Pacific States. 
Bandello, Matteo (1480-1562) Italian novelist. VL 104. 
Banim, Michael (1796-1874) and John (1798-1874) Irish novelists. 
Banville, Theodore Faullain de (1823-91) French poet and novelist. 
Barbour, John (1316-95) Scotch poet. The Brus. (Robert Brace.) in. 377. 
Barclay, Alexander (1475-1552) Scotch poet. vi. 233. 
Barclay, John (1582-1621) Scotch poet. 

Baring-Gould, Sabine (1834- ) English antiquary and novelist. 

Barham, Richard Harhison (1788-1845) English humorous poet. Ingoldsby Legends. 
Barlow, Jane (c. 1857- ) Irish poet and story-teller. 
Barlow, Joel (1755-1812) American poet and statesman. IX. 59. 
Barnes, William (1800-86) English poet and philologist. 
Barr, Amelia Edith (1831- ) Scotch- American novelist. 
Barrie, James Matthew (i860- ) Scotch novelist. The Little Minister. 
Barros, Joao de (1496-1571) Portuguese historian, ili. 256. 
Barton, Bernard (1784-1849) English Quaker poet. 
Bashkirtseff, Mai ie (1860-84) Russian artist, x. 61. 
Basil the Great (3J>-379) Greek Father of Churph. vil. 84. 
Basselin, Oliver (i35o?-i4i9) French poet. 
Bayle, Pierre (1647-1706) French philosopher and critic. 
Bayly, Thomas Haynes (1797-1839) English poet and novelist. 

Beaconsfield, Earl of, Benjamin Disraeli, (1804-81) English statesman and novelist. 
Beattie, James (1735-1803) Scotch poet. The Minstrel. 
Beaumarchais, Pierre Augustin CarQN PP (1732-99) French dramatist, vn. 273. 


Beaumont, Francis (1584-1616) English dramatist, partner of J. Fletcher, v. 349. 

BecKFORD, William (1759-1844) English romancist. Vathek. 

Bede, Venerable (673-735) English Latin historian. Ecclesiastical History, i. 249, 

Bede, Cuthbert (1827-89) English author. Verdant Green. 

BeeCHER, Henry Ward (1813-87) American preacher. 

Beets, NicolAAS (1814- ) Dutch poet, novelist and critic. 

Behn, Aphra (1640-89) English novelist. 

Bellamy, Edward (1850-98). American writer. Looking Backward. 

BeLLAY, Joachim DU (1524-60) French poet. IV. 250. 

BelleAU, R£my (1528-77) French poet. iv. 250. 

Bellman, Carl M. (1740-95) Swedish poet. viii. 190. 

BelOT, AdOLPHE (1829-90) French novelist. 

Bembo, Pietro, Cardinal (1470-1547) Italian humanist. 

Benedict, Frank Lee (1834- ) American novelist and poet 

Benoit de Sainte-Maure (l2th century) French trouvfire and chronicler. 

Beranger, Pierre Jean de (1780-1857) French song-writer, ix. 386. 

Bergsoe, JorGEN Vilhelm (1835- ) Danish novelist, poet and naturalist. 

Berkeley, Bishop George (1685-1753) Irish clergyman and author, ix. 22. 

Bernard, Charles de (1804-50) French novelist. 

Bernard, Saint, Abbot of Clairvaux (1091-1153) French theologian. 

Berni, Francesco (1490-1536) Italian burlesque poet. V. 200. 

Besant, Walter, Sir (1838- ) English novelist. 

Beyle, Marie-Henri (1783-1842) French novelist, art critic. Le Rouge et lo Nofr. 

Biarke, Bodvar (6th centiuy) Scandinavian poet. 11. 345. 

BlDPAI, or PiLPAY, (date unknown.) Indian fabulist, v. 31. 1 

Bilderdijk, Willem (1756-1831) Dutch poet. Destruction of First World. 

BlON (3rd century B. c.) Greek bucolic poet. vi. 42. 

BjornsON, Bjornstjerne (1832- , ) Norwegian novelist, poet and dramatist. 

Black, William (1841- ) Scotch novelist. A Daughter of Heth; Princess of Thule. 

BlACKIE, John Stuart (1809-95) Scotch author, Professor of Greek. 

Blackmore, Richard Doddridge (1825- ) English novelist. Loma Doone. 

Blake, William (1757-1827) English poet, painter, mystic. 

Blaze de Bury, Ange Henri (1818- ) French critic. 

Blanc, J. J. Louis (1811-82) French socialist, historian. French Revolution. 

Blessington, Marguerite, Countess of (1789-1849) Irish novelist. 

Blind Harry (15th century) Scotch minstrel. 

Blind, Mathilde (1847-96) German-English poet. 

Bloompield, Robert (1766-1823) English poet. Farmer's Boy. 

BoAGERS, Adriaan (1795-1870) Dutch poet. 

Boccaccio, Giovanni (1313-1375) Italian poet and novelist. Decameron, ni. 129. 

BOENDALE, Jan van (1280-1365) Dutch rhyming chronicler. VI. 258. 

BoETius, or Boethius, Anicius M. F. Severinus (47o?-525?) Roman statesman, phi 

losopher. Consolation of Philosophy, vil. 113. 
Bodmer, J. Jacob (1689-1783) German-Swiss poet, critic, vi. 285 
BoGH, Erik (1822- ) Danish dramatist. 

Bohme (Behmen), Jakob (1575-1624) German mystic theologian. Aurora. 
Boiardo, Matteo Maria (1434-94) ItaUan poet. Orlando Innamorato. rv. 206. 
Boileau-Despreaux, Nicolas (1636-1711) French poet, critic. 
Boker, George Henry (1823-90) American poet. War Lyrics."" 
' Boldrewood, Rolf,' Thomas A. Browra (1827- ) Australian author. 
Bolingbroke, Henry St. John, Viscount (1678-1751) English statesman, author. 


Born, Bertrand DE (1140-1215) Provenijal troubadour, i. 341. 

BORNEIL, GiRAUT DE {l2th century) Provenpal troubadour. 

Borrow, George (1803-81) Eaglish writer, Gipsy scliolar. Lavengro ; Wild Wales. 

BOSCAN AlmogaveR, Juan (1493-1540) Spanish poet. Epistle to Mendoza. 11. 303. 

BOSIO, FerdiNANDO (1829-81) Italian writer. 

BOSSUET, Jacques B^nigne (1627-1704) French bishop. Universal History, vi. 216. 

Boswell, James (1740-95) Scotch biographer. Life of Dr. Johnsson. vil. 384. 

BoTERO, Giuseppe ((1815-85) Italian romancist. 

Bottger, Adolf ((1815-70) German poet. 

BoTTiGER, Carl Vilhelm (1807-78) Swedish poet. 

BODRGET, Paul (1852- ) French novelist and critic. 

Bowles, William Lisle (1762-1850) English poet. 

BOWRING, Sir John (1792-1872) English linguist. Translations from Russian, Dutch, etc. 

BOYKSEN, Hjalmar Hjorth (184S-95) Norwegian-American novelist. Gunnar. 

Brachvogel, Albert Emil (1824-78) German dramatist and novelist. Narcissus. 

BraCKENRIDGE, Hugh Henry (1748-1816) American lawyer, humorist. 

Braddon, Mary Elizabeth (1837- ) English novelist. Lady Audley's Secret. 

Bradstreet, Mrs. Anne (1612-1672) American colonial poet. ix. l6. 

Brainard, John Gardiner Calkins (1796-1828) American poet 

Brandes, George M. Cohen (1842- ) Danish critic and essayist. 

Brant (or Brandt), Sebastian (1458-1521) German satirist. Narrenschiff. vi. 232. 

Brant6me, p. DE BOURDEILLE, Seigneur DE (1537-1614) French chronicler. IV. 260. 

BrASSEY, Anne, Lady (1840-87) English descriptive writer. 

Braun, Wilhelm VON (1813-60) Swedish poet. 

Brkderode, Gerbrant Adrianszoon (1585-1618) Dutch poet. vi. 284. 

Bremer, Fredrika (1801-65) Swedish novelist. The Neighbors, viil. 188. 

Brentano, Elizabeth (1788-1859) German writer. 

Breton, Nicholas (1545-1626) English poet. 

BrOME, Richard (</. 1652) English dramatist. 

Bronte, Anne— 'Acton Bell ' (1820-49) English novelist. Tenant of Wildfell Hall. 

Bronte, Charlotte—' Currer Bell' (1816-55) English novelist. Jane Eyre. 

Bronte, Emily—' Ellis Bell ' (1818-48) English novelist. Wuthering Heights. 

Brooke, Henry (1703 83) Irish-English novelist and dramatist. Fool of Quality. 

Brooks, Charles Timothy ( 1813-83) American translator from German authors. 

Brooks, C. W. Shirley (1816-74) English humorist. 

Brooks, Maria Gowan (1795-1845) American poet. Zophiel. 

Broughton, Rhoda (1840- ) English novelist. Cometh Up as a Flower. 

Brown, Charles Brockden (1771-1810) American novelist. Wieland. ix. 50. 

Brown, John (1810-82) Scotch essayist. Rab and His Friends ; Spare Hours. 

Brown', Oliver Madox (1855-74) English poet, novelist and artist. Black Swan. 

Browne, Thomas, Sir (1605-82) English physician. Religio Medici, vi. 293. 

Browne, William (1591-1643) English poet. Britannia's Pastorals. 

Brownell, Henry Howard (1820-72) American poet. 

Browning, Elizabeth Barrett (1809-61) English poet. Lady Geraldine's Courtship; 
Sonnets from the Portuguese ; Casa Guidi Windows ; Aurora Leigh, x. 254. 

Browning, Robert (1812-89) English poet. Paracelsus; Sordello; Aristophanes- 
Apology ; The Ring and the Book ; Asolando. X. 246. 

Buchanan, Robert W. (1840- ) English poet and novelist. London Poems. 

Bryant William Cullen (1794-1878) American journalist, poet. Thanatopsis. ix. 100. 

Buckingham, Duke of, George Villiers (1627-88) English courtier. The Rehearsal 
VI. 228. 


BULOW, Karl EduARD von (1803-53) German story-teller. 

BuD^US (Bud6), Guillaume (1467-1540) French classical scholar, iii. 171. 

Bulwer-Lytton, Edward, Lord Lytton (1803-73) English novelist and politician. 

Pelham ; Paul Clifford ; Last Days of Pompeii ; Harold ; The Caxtons ; Kenelm 

Chillingly ; The Parisians, ix. 281. 
BuNNER, Henry Cuyler (1855-96) American poet and story-teller. 
BUNYAN, John (1628-88) English religious writer. Pilgrim's Progress, vi. 305. 
Bruger, Gottfried August (1747-94) German lyric poet. Lenore. viii. 60. 
Burke, Edmund (1729-97) Irish-English orator and statesman. 
Burnett, Frances Hodgson (1849-) English-American novelist. That Lass o' Low- 

rie's ; Little Lord Fauntleroy. 
BuRNEY, Frances, afterwards Madame D'Arblay (1755-1840) English novelist. 
Burns, Robert (1759-96) Scotch national poet. The Twa Brigs; Tam O'Shanter, 

Cotter's Saturday Night, viil. 308. 
Burroughs, John (1837- ) American nature-essayist. Locusts and Wild Honey. 
Burton, Robert (1577-1640) English humorist. Anatomy of Melancholy. 
Butler, Samuel (1612-80) English satirist. Hudibras. vi. 314. 
Byns, Anna (16th century) Dutch poet, Sappho of Brabant, vi. 259. 
Byrom, John (1692-1763) English poet. Three Black Crows. 
Byron, George Noel Gordon, Lord (1788-1824) English poet. Lara ; The Corsair ; 

The Bride of Abydos ; The Giaour ; Childe Harold ; Don Juan; Manfred. 

'Caballero, Fernan,' Cecilia Bohl de Faber (1796-1877) Spanish novelist. 

Cable, George Washington (1844- ) American novelist. Old Creole Days. 

Caedmon {fl. 680) Anglo-Saxon monk poet. Genesis, i. 248. 

CjESAR, CaiuS Julius (100-44 B. C.) Roman general, statesman. Gallic War. iv. lOI. 

Caine, T. H. Hall (1853- ) English novelist. The Manxman; The Christian. 

CaLDERON de la BarcA, Pedro (i6oo-8i) Spanish dramatist. VIII. 205. 

CallimACHUS {fl. 260 B. C.) Greek poet ; librarian at Alexandria, vi. 48. 

Calverlky, Charles Stuart (1831-84) English poet and parodist. Fly Leaves. 

Calvert, George Henry (1803-89) American poet, prose writer. The Gentleman. 

Camoens, LuIZ de (2525-79) , Portuguese national poet. Lusiad. iii. 260. 

Campbell, Thomas (1777-1844) Scotch-English poet. Pleasures of Hope. ix. 271. 

Campion, Thomas (f.1575-1619) English poet., Book of Airs. 

Canning, George (1770-1827) English statesman and orator. Anti -Jacobin. 

CaRDUCCI, Giosue (1836- ) Italian lyric poet. 

Carew, Thomas {c. 159S-1639) English poet. 

Carey, Henry (<r. 1690-1743) English poet and music-composer. God Save the Ki.ig. 

Carlen, Emilia Flvgare (1807-92) Swedish novelist. Valdemar Klein. 

Carleton,Will (1845- ) American poet. Farm Ballads. 

Carleton, William (1794-1869) Irish novelist. Traits and Stories of Irish Peasantry. 

Carlyle, Thomas (1795-1881) Scotch miscellanist, biographer, historian. Sartor Resar. 

tus ; French Revolution ; Frederick the Great, x. 228. 
Carman, Bliss (1861- ) Canadian poet. 

' Carroll, Lewis,' L. H. Dodgson (1833-98) English humorist. Alice in Wonderland. 
Cary, Alice (1820-71) and Phoebe (1824-71) American poets, prose writers. Clovernook. 
Cary, Henry Francis (1772-1844) English poet. Translated Dante. 
CastELAR, Emilio (1832- ) Spanish orator and statesman. 
Casti, Giambattista (1721-1803) Italian poet. Talking Animals. 
Castiglione, BaldASSARE (1478-1529) Italian author. Book of the Courtier. Tv. iv 
Castro, Guillem de (1569-1631) Spanish dramatist. Vlll. 199. 


Cato, Marcus Porcius (234-149 b. c.) Roman statesman. On Agriculture, in. 93. 

Cats, Jacob (1577-1660) Dutch poet, ' Father Cats.' vi. 276. 

Catullus, Valerius (84-54 ^-c.) Roman lyric poet. Atys. in. 112. 

Cavalcanti, Guido (1250-1301) Italian poet. 11. 256. 

Caxton, William 1,1422-91) First English printer, in. 309. 

Cellini, Benvenuto (1500-71) Italian artist. Autobiography, iv. 231. 

Centlivre, Susannah (1667 ?-l723) English dramatist. Bold Stroke for a Wife. 

Cervantes-Saavedra, Miguel de(i547-i6i6) Spanish romancist. Don Quixote. 111.221. 

Chambers, Robert (1802-71) Scotch prose-writer and publisher. 

ChamissO, Adelbert von (1781-1838) German lyrist, romancist. Peter Schlemihl, 

' Champfleury,' Jules Fleury (1821-89) French novelist. Confessions de Sylviuai 

Channing, William Ellery (1780-1842) American Unitarian theologian. 

Channing, William Ellery (i8i8- ) American poet. The Wanderer. 

Chapman, George (1559-1634) English dramatist. Translated Homer, iv. 344. 

Charles of Orleans (1391-1465) French poet. 11. 334. 

.Chateaubriand, Francois Ren6, Vicomte de (1768-1848) French novelist and his- 
torical writer. Atala ; Genius of Christianity, vill. 258. 

Chatterton, Thomas (1752-70) English poet, literary forger, vil. 398. 

Chaucer, Geoffrey (1340-1400) English poet. Canterbury Tales, iii. 327. 

Chemnitzer, Ivan Ivanovich (1745-84) Russian fab.ulist. 

Chenier, Andre Marie de (1762-94) French poet. viii. 243. 

Chenier, Marie Joseph de (1764-1811) French poet and dramatist. 

CherbulIEZ, Victor (1829- .) French romancist. 

Chesebro, Caroline (1828-73) American novelist. The Foe in the Household. 

Chesterfield, Philip Dormer Stanhope, Earl of (1694-1773) English courtier, 
wit. Letters to his Son. 

Chettle, Henry (i565?-i6o7?) English dramatist. 

Chiabrera, Gabriello (1552-1637) Italian lyric poet. vi. 122. 

Child, Francis James (1825-1896) American poet and editor of ballads. 

Chketien de Troyes (c. 1140-91) French romancer, i. 281. 

Chrysostom, John (3477-407) Saint, Greek Church father, vil. 90. 

Chuang Tzu (4th century B.C.) Chinese philosopher. 11. 43. 

Churchill, Charles (1731-64) English satirist. The Ghost ; Rosciad. 

Cibber, Colley (1671-1757) English dramatist, poet-laureate, vi. 192. 

Cickro, Marcus Tullius (106-43 B-C.) Roman orator and philosopher. Orations; Nature 
of the Gods ; Tusculan Disputations ; Old Age ; Friendship ; Republic, iii. 99. 

CiNO DA PiSTOIA (1270-1337) Italian poet. II. 257. 

CiNTHio, Giovanni B. (i6th century) Italian novelist. HundredFables. v. 219. 

Clare, John (1793-1864) English poet. 

Clarendon, Edward Hyde, Earl of (1608-74) English statesman, historian, vi. 355. 

Clar^TIE, Jules (1840- ) French novelist and dramatist. 

Claudian [Claudianus], (365 ?-4o8 ?) Latin poet. Rape of Proserpine. VII. 108. 

Claudius, Matthias (1840-1815) German poet. Rhine- Wine Song. 

Cleanthes (300 ?-220 ? B. c.) Greek philosopher. Hymn to Zeus. vi. 60. 

Clement of Alexandria (150-220) Greek Father of Chmrch. vn. 73. 

Clement of Rome (ist century) Greek Father of Church. VII. 80. 

Clough, Arthur Hugh (1819-61) English poet. 

Cobbe, Frances Power (1822- ) Irish-English writer on religion and morals 

Cqlba'n, AdolpHINE Marie (1814-84) Norwegian novelist. 

Coleridge, Hartley ( 1796-1849) English poet and critic. 

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor (1772-18^4) English poet and philosopher, ix. 25. 


Collet, Jakobine Camilla (1813- ) Norwegian novelist. 

Collins, Mortimer (1827-76) English novelist and poet. 

Collins, William (1720-1759) English poet. vii. 375. 

Collins, William Wilkie (1824-89) English novelist. 

Colman, George (1732-94) English dramatist. 

Colman, George (1762-1836) English dramatist and humorous poet. 

Colonna, Vittoria (1490-1547) Italian poet. iv. 222. 

Columella, Lucius Junius Moderatus (ist century) Latin author. 

CoMiNES, Philippe de {c 1445-1510) French chronicler. 

Comnena, Anna {1083-1148) Byzantine princess, vil. 64. 

Comte, Auguste (1798-1857) French philosopher, founder of Positivism. 

Confucius (551-478 b.c.) Chinese teacher and visiter, i. 146. 

Congreve, William (1669-1729) English dramatist, vi. 331. 

Conrad, Robert Taylor (1810-58) American lawyer and dramatist. 

Conscience, Hendrik (1812-83) Flemish novelist. 

Constantine, Cephalas (loth century) Editor of Greek Anthology, vil. 10. 

Conway, Moncure Daniel (1832- ) American litterateur. 

Cook, Eliza (1817-89) English poet. 

Cooke, John Esten (1830-86) American novelist. 

Cooke, Philip Pendleton (1816-50) American poet and prose writer. 

Cooke, Rose Terry, Mrs. (1827-92) American poet and story writer. 

Cooper, James Fenimore (1789-1851) American novelist. Leather-Stocking Tales 

IX. 83. 
CooRNHERT, DiRCK VoLCKERTSEN (1522-go) Dutch poet and scholar. 
Copp:6e, Francois (1842- ) French poet, romancer and dramatist. 
CORNEILLE, Pierre ( 1606-84) French dramatist. The Cid. v. 259. 
CORT, Frans de (1834-78) Flemish poet. 
Costa, Isaak da (1798-1860) Dutch poet. 

COTTIN, Marie (1770-1807) French novelist. Elizabeth, or the Exiles of Siberia. 
Cowley, Abraham (1618-67) English poet and essayist, vi. 299. 
CowPER, William (1731-1800) English poet. The Task. vm. 346. 
Cox, Samuel Sullivan (1824-89) American congressman and author. 
CoxE, Arthur Cleveland (1818-96) American bishop. Christian Ballads. 
CozzENS, Frederick Swartwout (1818-96) American humorist. Sparrowgrass Papers. 
Crabbe, George (1754-1832) English poet. ix. 198. 

'Craddock, Chas. Egbert,' Mary N. Murfree (1850- ) American novelist, x. 326. 
Craik, Dinah Maria Mulock (1826-87) English novelist. John Halifax, Gentleman. 
Cranch, Christopher Pearse (1813-92) American poet and artist. 
Crane, Stephen (1870- ) American story-writer. Red Badge of Courage. 
Crashaw, Richard (i6i3?-49) English R. C. poet. 

Crawford, Francis Marion (1854- ) American novehst. Mr. Isaacs. 
Cr6bILLON, Prosper Jolyot de (1674-1762) French dramatist. 
Crockett, Samuel Rutherford (1862- ) Scotch novelist. 
CroLY, George (1780-1860) Irish poet, dramatist and novelist. Salathiel. 
Cumberland, Richard (1732-1811) English dramatist, novelist, poet. The West Indian, 
Cunningham, Allan (1784-1842) Scotch poet. 

Curtis, George William (1824-92) American author. Potiphar Papers. 
Curtius Rufus, Quintus (1st century) Latin historian, v. 104. 
Cynewulf (8th century?) Anglo-Saxon poet. I. 257. 

Cyprian — Thascius C^cilius Cyprianus {d. 258) Latin Church Father, vil. 105. 
Cyrano de Bergerac, Savjnien (1619-55) French writer. 


Dach, Simon (1605-59) German lyrist, vi. 248. 

DaCosta, Izaak (1798-1860) Dutch poet and theologian. 

Dahlgren, Fredrik August (1816) Swedish poet. 

Dahn, Felix (1834- ) German poet, novelist and historian. 

D'Alcamo, Ciullo (l2th century.) Italian poet. 11. 222. 

Dall, Caroline Wells (1822- ) American prose-writer. 

Dall'Ongaro, Francesco (1808-73) kalian poet, dramatist, satirist. 

Dana, Richard Henry (1787-1879) Amsrican poet and essayist. 

Daniel, Samuel (1562-1619) English poet, historian and rhyming chronicler, v. 330. 

D'Annunzio, Gabriele (1864— ) Italian novelist and poet. 

Dante, Alighieri (1265-1321) Italian poet. Divine Comedy, n. 230. 

Darwin, Charles Robert (1809-82) English naturalist and philosopher. 

Darwin, Erasmus (1731-1802) English naturalist and poet. 

Dasent, Sir George W. (1818- ) English philologist. Tales from the Norsp. 

D'Aubigne, Theodore Agrippa (1550-1630) French soldier, poet, historian, iv. 242. 

D'AUBIGNE, Jean Henri Merle (1794-1872) Swiss Protestant church historian. 

Daudet, Alphonse ( 1840-97) French novelist. Tartarin of Tarascon. x. 155. 

Daurat, Jean (1507-88) French poet. rv. 250. 

Davenant, William, Sir (i6o5-68) English poet and playwright, vi. 325. 

Davidson, Lucretia Maria (1808-25) American poet. 

DAvrs, Rebecca Harding (1831- ) American novelist. 

Davis, Richard Harding (1864- ) American novelist and story-teller. 

Defoe, Daniel (1660-1731) English novelist. Robinson Crusoe, vil. 301. 

De Forest, John William (1826- ) American story-teller. 

De Kay, Charles (1848- ) American poet. 

Dekker, Thomas (1570-1637) English dramatist, v. 336. 

Deland, Margaret Wade, Mrs. (1857- ) American poet and novelist. John Ward. 

Delavigne, Jean Francois Casimir (1793-1843) French lyric poet. 

De Mille, James (1837-80) Canadian novelist. 

Demosthenes (383-322 b. c.) Athenian orator. Philippics, vi. 23. 

Denham, Sir John (1615-69) English poet. 

Dennie, Joseph (1768-1812) American journalist. 

Dennis, John (1657-1734) English dramatist and critic. 

De Quincey, Thomas (1785-1859) English essayist. English Opium Eater. 

Derzhavin, Gabriel Romanovich (1743-1816) Russian poet. Felicia, m. 395. 

Desaugiers, Marc Antoine Madelaine (1772-1827) French dramatist. 

Descartes, Ren6 (1596-1650) French philosopher. V. 255. 

DpscHAMPS, Eustache {c 1330-1415) French poet. 
*De Vere, Sir Aubrey (1788-1846) Irish R. C. poet. 

DiBDIN, Charles (1745-1814) English lyric and dramatic poet. 

Dickens, Charles (1812-70) English novelist. Pickwick Papers; Nicholas Nickleby; 
Dombey and Son ; Oliver Twist ; David Copperfield; Martin Chuzzlewit ; Bam- 
aby Rudge; Little Dorrit; Tale of Two Cities; Great Expectations. Bleak 
House. IX 301. „ 

Diderot, Denis (1713-84) French philosopher, vii. 248. 

DiNGELSTEDT, Franz von, Baron (1814-81) German poet and dramatist. 

D'Israeli, Benjamin. See Beaconsfield. 

D'Israeli, Isaac (1766-1848) English essayist, compiler and historian. 

DoBELL, Sydney Thompson (1824-74) English poet. 

DOBSON, Austin (1840- ) English poet and man of letters. 

Dodge, Mary Elizabeth Mapes (1840 ?- ) American editor and poet. 


Domett, Alfred (1811-87) English-Australian poet. 

DoNi, Antonio Francesco (1513-74) Italian novelist, vi. 115. 

Donne, John, Dr. (1573-1631) English ' metaphysical ' poet. 

Dora d'Istria (1828-88) Roumanian writer of travels. 

Dorr, Mrs. Julia Caroline Ripley (1825- ) American poet and novelist, 

Dorset, Charles Sackville, Earl of (1637-1706) English poet. vi. 288. 

Dostoievsky, Feodor Michailovitch (1821-81) Russian novelist x. 37. 

Douglas, Gawn (i474?-i522) Scotch poet. 

Doyle, A. Conan (1859- ) Scotch-English story and romance writer. 

Drachmann, Holger (1846- ) Danish poet and novelist. 

Drake, Joseph Rodman (1795-1820) American poet. 

Drayton, Michael (1563-1631) English poet. v. 332. 

Droz, Gustave (1832-95) French story-teller. 

Drummond, William, of Hawthornden (1585-1649) Scotch poet. vill. 299. 

Dryden, John (1631-1700) English poet, dramatist, critic. Absalom and Achitophel; 
Mac Flecknoe ; The Hind and Panther. Modernized Chaucer. Translated Vir- 
gil. VI. 341. 

Dumas, Alexandre, PSre (1803 ?-7o) French romancist and dramatist, x. 97. 

Dumas, Alexandre, Fils (1824-95) French dramatist and romancist. 

Du Maurier, George (1834-96) English delineator of society in Punch. Trilby. 

Dunbar, Paul Laurence (1872- ) American negro poet. 

Dunbar, William (i465?-i53o?) Scotch poet. iii. 384. 

D'Urf6, HoNORi; (1568-1625) French romancist, L'Astree. v. 255. 

D'Urfey, Thomas (1643-1723) English dramatist and poet. 

DUTT, TORU (1856-77) Hindu English poet. VIII. 275. 

DwiGHT, Timothy (1752-1817) American divine, president of Yale. ix. 48. 

Dyer, John (1700-58) English didactic and descriptive poet. 

Ebers, George Moritz (1837-98) German Egyptologist and novelist. Cleopatra. 
EcHARD or Eachard, Lawrenck (1670 ?-i73o) English historian. 
EchegARAY, Jose (1832- ) Spanish dramatist. ^ 

Eckermann, Johann Peter (1792-1854) German poet. 
Edgeworth, Maria (1767-1849) English Irish novelist. The Absentee. 
Edgren, Anne Charlotte Seffler (1849-93) Swedish novelist. 
Edwards, Amelia Blandford (1831-92) English Egyptologist and novelist. 
Edwards, Mathilda Barbara Betham (1836- ) English novelist. 
Eggleston, Edward ( 1837- ) American historian, novelist. Hoosier Schoolmaster. 
Eggleston, George Cary (1839- ) American journalist and miscpUaneous writer. 
Eginhard or EinhARD (c. 770-840) German Latin historian. 
El-AsmAI (9th century) Arabian poet. 11. 155. 

' Eliot, George,' Marian Evans,— Mrs. G. H. Lewes ; Mrs. J. W. Cross (1819-80) 
English novelist. Adam Bede; Mill on the Floss; Middlemarch; Romola. X. 25& 
Elliott, Ebeisiezer (1781-1849) English poet ; Com- Law Rhymer. 
JIlliott, Maud Howe (1855- ) American novelist. 

Emerson, Ralph Waldo (1803-82) American philosopher, poet and essayist, ix. 10& 
Encina, Juan del (1469-1534) Spanish dramatist. 
Ennius, Quintus (239 b. C.-169 B. c.) Roman poet. 11. 115. 
Enzo, King of Sardinia (1224 ?-72) Italian poet. 11. 228. 
EphrAEM Syrus {d. 378) Syrian Greek teacher and hymnologist. vil. 92. 
Epictetus (56-100?) Greek Stoic philosopher, vil, 54. 
Erasmus, Desiderius (1465 or 1467-1536) Dutch Latin humanist, Adagia. vi. 261. 


Erceldounk, Thomas of (1220 P-gy) Scotch poet and seer. 
ErCILLA y Zuniga, Alonso de (1533-95) Spanish poet VIII. 201. 
Erckmann-Chatrian. Erckmann, Emile (1822- ). Chatrian, Alexandre 
(1826-90) French novelists. Madame Therese ; L'Ami Fritz ; The Conscript, x. 147. 
EtherEGE, Sir George (1635 F-gi) English comedy writer and poet. 
Euripides (480-406 b. c.) Greek tragic poet. Alcestis, Iphigenia, Medea, Orestes, lu. 79. 
EUSDEN, Laurence (1688-1730) English poet laureate. 
E^rALD, Johannes (1743-81) Danish dramatist and lyric poet. VIII. 152. 
Evans, Augusta Jane [Wilson] (1835- ) American novehst. Beulah, St. Elmo. 
Evelyn, John (1620-1706) English diarist. Diary; Sylva. vi. 289. 
EwALD, Herman Frederick (1821- ) Danish novelist. 
EwiNG, Juliana Horatia (1841-85) English story writer and poet. 

Faber, Frederick William (1814-63) English R. C. hymn writer. , 

Fabre, Ferdinand (1830- ) French novelist. Abbe Tigrane ; Lucifer. 

Fahlcrantz, Christian Erik (1790-1861) Swedish poet Ansgarius. 

Faidit, GauCELM (1180-1216) Provencal troubadour. 

Falconer, William (1732 ?-69) Scotch marine poet. The Shipwreck. 

Falk, Johannes Daniel (1768-1826) German humorist. Men and Heroes. 

Farjeon, Benjamin Leopold (1833- ) English- American novelist Grif. 

Farquhar, George (1678-1707) Irish-English playwright. The Beaux's Stratagem. 

Farrar, Frederick William (1831- ) English dean. Eric ; Eternal Hope ; Life of 

Christ ; Seekers after God. 
FaWCETT, Edgar (1847- ) American novelist and poet 

FiNELON, Francis de Salignac de la Mothe (1651-1715) French archbishop, vi. 219. 
Ferguson, Sir Samuel (1810-86) Irish poet. Forging of the Anchor. 
Ferrier, Susan :Edmonstone U782-1854) Scotch novelist. Marriage. 
Ferriera, Antonio (1528-69) Portuguese poet Ignez de Castro, in. 256. 
Feuillet, Octave (1821-90) French novelist. Romance of a Poor Young Man. x. 136. 
Feydeau, Ernest (1821-73) French noveUst. Fanny. 

Field, Eugene (1850-95) Am. poet and humorist. Little Book of Western Verse, x. 356. 
Fielding, Henry (1707-54) English novelist, Joseph Andrevirs ; Tom Jones, vil. 324- 
Fields, James Thomas (1817-81) American publisher. Yesterdays with Authors. 
FiLICAJA VINCENZO DA (1642-1707) Italian lyric poet Deliverance of Vienna. VII. 153- 
Firdausi (<-. 939-1020) Persian poet. Shah-Namah, Jussuf and Zulikha. 11. 175- 
FIRENZUOLA, AgnOLO (i493-l545) I^lian poet and novelist. 
FiSCHART, JOHANN {c 1545-91 ) German satirist vi. 232. 
Fischer, JOHANN GeORG (1816- ) German lyric poet and dramatist 
FiSKE John (1842- ) American fevolutionist and historian. 

Fitzgerald, EDWARD (1809-83) English poet Translated Omar Khayyam. II. 203. 
FlagG Wilson (1805-84) American nature-essayist. Halcyon Days. 
FlAMm'aRION, CamILLE (1842- ) French astronomer and romancer. 
Fla™t, Gustave (1821-80) French novelist. Madame Bovary; Salammbo. 
Fittming Paul (1609-40) German religious poet 

S™Jk: JOHN ( lS?i625) English dramatist, associated with F. Beaumont V^ 349- 
FLoIirN JEAN PIERRE CLARIS DE (1755^4) French poet and romancer. Fables. 
?00TrMARVHALL0CK(l847- ) American novelist The Led Horse Claim. 
Ford TohN (1586-1640) English dramatist. 

Ford Paul LeiCESTEF. (1865- ) American bibliographer and novelist. 
^nRTUNATUS,VENANTIUsH0N0RIUS (530-609) Latin Christian poet 
FOSCOLO UGO (1778-1827) Italian poet and novelist Last Letters of Jacopo Ortis. x. 65. 

X. 141. 


FoUQufe, Baron F. de la Motte (1777-1843) Gennan romancist. Undine, ix. 35s. 
France, Anatole (1844- ) French novelist and poet. Crime of Sylvester Bonnard. 
Francis I., King (1494-1547) PVench lyric poet. iv. 243. 
Franklin, Benjamin (1706-90) American philosopher and statesman, ix. 26. 
FrauenlOB (1250-1318) German mastersinger. 

Frederic, Harold (1856-98) American novelist. The Damnation of Theron Ware. 
Frederick IL, Emperor (1194-1250) Italian poet. 11. 224. 

Freeman, Edward Augustus (1823-92) English historian. Norman Conquest of Eng- 
land ; Reign of William Rufus ; History of Sicily. 
Freiligrath, Ferdinand (1810-76) German poet. x. 189. 
Freneau, Philip (1752-1832) American poet. ix. 45. 
Frknzel, Karl Wilhelm (1827- ) German novelist and essayist. 
Frere, John Hookham (1769-1846) English poet. Translated Aristophanes. 
FreytAG, Gustav (1816-95) German poet and novelist. Debit and Credit. 
FroisSART, Jean'(i337-I4Io) French chronicler and poet. 11. 322. 
Froude, James Anthony (1818-94) English historian. History of England. 
Frugoni, Carlo Innocenzio (1692-1768) Italian poet. 
FryxeLL, Anders (1795-1881) Swedish historian and critic. 
Fuller, Henry B. (1859- ) American novelist. The Cliff Dv^ellers. 
Fuller, Margaret, Countess D'Ossoli (1810-50) American critic and essayist. 
Fuller, Thomas (1608-61) English historian. Worthies of England, vi. 289. 
FuRNESS, William Henry (1802-96) American Unitarian preacher and translator. 

Gaboriau, !6mile ( 1835-73) French writer of detftctive stories. 

Galdos, Benito Perez (1845- ) Spanish novelist. 

Galt, John (1779-1839) Scotch novelist. Annals of the Parish. 

Garland, Hamlin (i860- ) American story writer. 

Garnett, Richard (1835- ) English librarian and poet. 

Garth, Samuel, Sir (i66o?-i7i9) English physician and poet. Dispensary. 

Gaskell, Elizabeth Cleghorn (1810-65) English novelist. Sylvia's Lovers; 

Gautier, Th6ophile (1811-72) French poet, novelist. La Morte Amoureuse. x. 128. 
Gay, John (1685-1732) English poet. Fables ; Beggar's Opera, vil. 286. 
Geibel, Emanuel (1815-84) German poet. 

Gellert) Christian Furchtegott ( 1715-69) German poet. viii. 16. 
Gellius, Aulus (ii7?-i8o?) Roman compiler. Attic Nights, vi. 99. 
Gknlis, Stephanie Felicity, Comtesse de (1746-1830) French miscellanist. 
' Gentil-Bernard,' Pierre Joseph Bernard (1708-75) French poet and dramatist. 
Geoffrey of Monmouth (1100-54) British Latin chronicler, iii. 308. 
George, Henry (1839-97) American political economist. Progress and Poverty. 
' Gerard de Nerval,' Gerard Labruinie (1808-55) French novelist and dramatist. 
GeRSTACKER, FrIEDRICH (1816-72) German writer on America. 
Gessner, Salomon (1738-88) Swiss poet and painter. Death of Abel. 
Gibbon, Edward (1737-94) English historian. Decline and Fall of Roman Empire. 

VII. 281. 
Gibson, William Hamilton (1850-96) American artist^ nature-essayist. 
Gifford, William (1756-1826) English satirist. Editor of Quarterly Review. 
Gil Vicente (1475-1536 ?) Portuguese dramatist. 

Gilbert, William Schwenck (1836- ) English librettist. Bab Ballads. 
Gilder, Richard Watson (1844- ) American lyric poet. The Celestial Passion, 
Giovanni Florentino (7?. 1380) Italian story-writer, m. 160. 


GlSSlNG, George (1857- ) English novelist. The Nether World. 

GlusTI, Giuseppe (1809-50) Italian poet and satirist, x. 92. 

Gladstone, William Ewart (1809-98) English statesman, orator, essayist, translator. 
Gleanings of Past Years ; Juventus Mundi; Studies in Homer and Homeric Age. 

Gleim, J. W. LuDwiG, Father (1719-1803) German poet. vm. 19. 

Glover, Richard (1712-85) English epic poet and dramatist. Leonidas. 

Gobineau, Joseph Arthur, Comte de (1816-82) French ethnologist. 

Godfrey, Thomas (1736-63) First American dramatist. Prince of Parthia. 

Godwin, William (1756-1836) English political philosopher. Caleb Williams (novel). 

Goethe, Johann Wolfgang (1749-1832) German poet, dramatist, prose-writer. Sor- 
rows of Young \Werther; Ipbigenia ; Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship ; Hermann 
and Dorothea ; Wilhelm Meister's Year of Travel ; Faust. VIII. 70. 

Gogol, Nikolai V. (1809-52) Russian novelist. Taras Bulba ; Dead Souls, x. 18. 

GOLDONI, Carlo (1707-93) ItaUan comedy-writer. Beneficent Bear. vil. 167. 

Goldsmith, Oliver (1728-74) Irish-EngUsh poet, novelist, dramatist. Citizen of the 
World ; Traveller ; Deserted Village ; Vicar of Wakefield ; Retaliation, vil. 386. 

GONCOURT, Edmund de (1822-96) and Jules de (1830-70) French novelists. 

GONGORA, Luis de (1561-1627) Spanish lyric poet. Polyphemus and Galatea, vi. 148. 

GoWER, John (i325?-i4o8) English poet. Confessio Amantis. iii. 356. 

GOZZI, Carlo, Count (1720-1806) Italian comedy writer. 

Grand, Sarah (i860?) English novelist. The Heavenly Twins. 

Grant, Ulysses Simpson (1822-85) American general. Personal Memoirs. 

Grattan, Thomas Colley (1792-1864) Irish novelist. 

Gray, Thomas (1716-71) English poet. Elegy in >x Country Churchyard; Ode to 
Adversity; Progress of Poetry; The Bard. 

Grazzini, Antonio Francesco (1503-84) Italian humorist and poet. 

Gore, Catherine Grace (1799-1861) English novelist. Mothers and Daughters. 

Gosse, Edmund William (1849- ) English poet, critic. 

Gottfried of StrasbuRG {fl. 1200) German poet. Tristan and Isolde. 

• Gotthelf, Jeremias,' Albert Bitzius (1797-1854) ?'"iss novelist and poet. 

Green, Anna Katharine, Mrs. Rohlfs (1846- ) American novelist. 

Green, John Richard (1837-83) English historian. 

Green, Matthew (1696-1737) English poet. The Spleen. 

Greene, Robert (1560-92) English dramatist. Groat's Worth of Wit. 

Gresset, J. B. Louis de (1709-77) French comic poet. Vert-Vert. 

'Greville, Henry,' Mme. Alice Durand (1842- ) French novelist. Dosia. 

Griffin, Gerald (1803-40) Irish novelist and poet. The Collegians. 

GrillparZER, Franz (1791-1872) Austrian poet. Sappho. 

Grimm, Jacob (1785-1863) German philologist, and Grimm, Wilhelm (1786-1859) Ger- 
man folk-lorist. Old Danish Hero Songs ; Household Fairy Tales, ix. 348. 

Grimmelshausen, H. J. Christoffel von (1625-76) German romancist. Adventures 
of Simplicius Simplicissimus. VL 249. 

Gringoire, Pierre (i475-i539) F'^^^^'' P°«'- f^^"" °^ ^^^^ P""'^^ °^ ^°°'^- 

GrOSSI, Tomasso (1791-1853) Mian poet. Sforza, Duke of Milan. 

Grote, George (1794-1871) English historian. History of Greece. 

' Grun, Anastasius,' Count of Auersperg (1806-76) Austrian poet. 

Grundtvig, Nikolai Frederik Severin (1783-1872) Danish poet and historian. 

Gryphius, Andreas (1616-64) German dramatist. Leo Armenius. 

Guarini, Giovanni Battista (1538-1612) Italian lyric poet. vii. 147- 

GuERiN, Eugenie de (1805-48) and Maurice de (1810-39) French diansts. - 

GUERRAZZI, Francesco Domenico (1804-73) Italian romance wnter. X. 84. 


Guevara, Antonio de (1490-1545) Spanish essayist. Marcus Aurelius. 

Guevara, Luis Velez de (1570-1646) Spanish dramatist. The Lame Devil, vill. 200. 

GuiCCIARDINI, Francesco (1483-1540) Italian historian. History of Italy. 

GuiNICELLI, GuiDO (1240-76), Italian poet. II. 229. 

GuizOT, Francois Pierre Guillaume (1787-1874) French historian and statesman. 

GuTZKOW, Karl Ferdinand (1811-78) German poet and dramatist. 

' Gyp,' Martel de Janville, Comtessk (1850 ?- ) French novelist. 

Habberton, John (1842- ) American novelist. Helen's Babies; Brueton's Bayou, 

Hacklander, Friedrich Wilhelm von (1816-77) German military romancist. 

Hafiz, Shams-AD-din Muhammad (1300-89) Persian lyric poet. The Divan, v. l8i. 

Hagedorn, Friedrich von (1708-54) German poet. viii. 13. 

Haggard, Henry Rider (1856- ) English novelist. King Solomon's Mines; Shes 

Hahn-Hahn, Ida von, Countess (1805-80) Gei-man novelist. Ulrich; Two Women 

Hale, Edward Everett, Rev. (1822- i ) American stoiy-writer. The Man Without a 
Country ; Ten Times One Is Ten ; In His Name. x. 322. 

Hale, Lucretia Peabody (1820- , ) American story-writer. The Peterkin Papers. 

HALiVY, LUDOVIC (i8j4- ) French librettist and novelist. La Belle Helene ; The 
Grand Duchess of Gerolstein ; L'Abbe Constantin. x. 178. 

Haliburton, Thomas Chandler (1797-1865) Canadian author. Sam Slick. 

Hall, Ann Maria Fielding, Mrs. (1800-81) Irish-English writer. 

Hall, Samuel Carter (1801-S9) English editor. Ireland, its Scenery and Character. 

Hallam, Henry (1777-1859) English historian. Europe during the Middle Ages; 

Literature of Europe. 
Halleck;,Fitz-Greene(i790-i867) American poet. Marco Bozzaris ; Fanny, ix. 150. 
HalleVI, Jehudah (1080-1I50) Spanish- Jewish poet. 

Halpine, Charles Graham, ' Miles O'Reilly ' (1829-68) American soldier-poet. 
Hamerling, Robert (1830-89) Austrian poet. Ahasuerus in Rome; Aspasia. 
Hamerton. Philip Gilbert ( 1834-94) English artist and essayist. The Intellectual Life 
Hamilton,. Alexander (1757-1804) American statesman. The Federalist. 
Hamilton, Anthony (1646-1720) English, author. Memoirs of Count de Grammont. 
Hamilton, Elizabeth (1758-1816) Irish novelist. The Cottagers of Glenburnie, 
Hamilton, Thomas (1789-1842) Scotch novelist. Cyril Thornton. 
Hannay, James (1827-73) English novelist. Singleton Fontenoy. 
Hansen, Mauris Christopher (1794-1842) Norwegian poet. Norse Idylls. 
Hapgood, Isabella Florence (1850- ) American translator. Epic Songs of Russia. 
Hardy, Alexandre (1570-1631) French dramatist. Mariamne. 
Hardy, Arthur Sherburne (.1847- ) American novelist. 
Hardy, Thomas (1840- ) English novelist. A Pair of Blue Eyes; Far from the 

Madding Crowrd; The Hand of Ethelberta ; Tess of the D'Urbervilles. 
Hare, Augustus William (1792-1834) English qlergyman. Guesses at Truth. 
Harington, Sir John (1561-1612) English poet. Translated Orlando Furioos. 
' Harland, Marion,' Mrs. Mary Virginia Terhune (1830- ) American novelist. 
Harraden, Beatrice (1864- ) English novelist. Ships that Pass in the Night. 
Harris, Joel Chandler (1848- ) American writer. Uncle Remus, x. 332. 
Harris, Mrs. Miriam Coles (1834- ) American novelist. Rutledge. 
Harrison, Mrs. Burton (1835- ) American novelist. The Anglo-maniacs. 
Harrison, Frederic (1831- ) English essayist. Choice of Books. 
Harsdorfer, George Philip (1607-58) German poet. The Poetical Funnel. 
Harte, Francis Bret (1839- ) American short story-writer and poet, x. 337. 
Hartmann, MoRtTZ (1821-72) Austrian poet. Chalice and Svyord. 


Hartmann von Aue (1170-1220) German poet. Poor Heinrich; Etek ; Iwein. i. 305. 

Hatifi, Maulana Abdallah (Jl. 1500) Persian poet. Laila and Mejnun. 

Hatton, Joseph (1837- ) English novelist. By Order of the Czar. 

Hauptmann, Gerhart (1862- ) German dramatist and poet. A Family Catastrophe. 

Havergal, Frances Ridley (1836-79) English religious writer. 

Hawthorne, Julian (1846- ) American novelist. Idolatry; Fortune's Fool; Garth. 

Hawthorne, Nathaniel (1804-64) American novelist. Twice-Told Tales; Mosses 
from an Old Manse ; The Scarlet Letter ; The Wonder Book ; The House of the 
Seven Gables ; The Blithedale Romance; The Marble Faun. ix. 155. 

Hay, John (1838- ) American author. Pike County Ballads ; Castilian Days. 

Hayley, Willlam (1745-1820) English poet. The Triumphs of Temper. 

Hayne, Paul Hamilton (1830-86) American Southern poet. Legends and Lyrics. 

Hazlitt, William (1778-1830) English critic and essayist. English Poets. 

Hearn, Lafcadio (1850- ) American traveler, Buddhist. Some Chinese Ghosts. 

Hebbel, Friedrich (1813-63) German dramatist. Judith. 

Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich (1770-1831) German philosopher. 

Hexberg, Hermann (1840- ) German novelist. BlihdLove; The Golden Serpent. 

Heiberg, Johann Ludvig (1791-1860) Danish poet. 

Heine, Heinrich (1797-1856) German poet. Pictures of Travel; Book of Songs; The 
North Sea; The Romancero. x. 192. 

HeliodoruS (346-420 ?) Greek romance writer, vil. 66. 

Helps, Sir Arthur (1813-75) English essayist and historian. Friends in Council. 

Hemans, Felicia Dorothea (1793-1835) Irish- English poet. Lays of Many Lands. 

Henley, William Ernest (1849- ) English poet. The Song of the Svvrord. 

Henningsen, Charles Frederick (1815-77) Swedish-American poet and novelist. 

Henryson, Robert {c. 1425-1500) Scotch poet. iii. 383. 

Henty, George Alfred (1832- ) English novelist of adventures. 

Herbert, George (1593-1633) English religious poet. v. 374. 

HerMESIANAX {^fl. 330 B.C.) Greek elegiac poet. v. 60. 

Herodotus [c. 490-428 b.c.) Greek historian, iv. 12. 

HeroNDAS (3rd century B.C.) Greek writer of mimes, v. 62. 

Herrick, Robert (1591-1674) English lyric poet. v. 388. 

Hertz, Henrik (1798-1870) Danish poet. King Ren€'s Daughter. 

Hesiod (8th century B.C.) Greek didactic poet. Theogony; 'Works and Days. 11. 77. 

Heyse, J. L. Paul (1830- ) German poet and novelist. 

HeyWOOD, John {c 1497-1587) English dramatist. 

Heywood, Thomas (1570-1650) Enghsh dramatic poet. V. 328. 

Higginson, Thomas Wentworth (1823- ) American poet, essayist. Malbone. 

Hildreth, Richard (1807-65) American historian. History of United States, 1789-1850. 

HiLLHOUSE, Jambs Abraham (1789-1841) American dramatic poet. Hadad. 

HiTA GiNES Perez DE (16th cent.) Spanish romantic historian. Civil Wars of Granada. 

'HoBBES, John Oliver,' Pearl R. Craigie; English novelist. 

Hobbes, Thomas (1588-1679) English philosopher. Leviathan. 

HoccLEVE, Thomas (1368-1450?) English poet. in. 364. 

Hoefer, Edmund (1818-82) German novelist. 

HOEY, Frances Sarah (1830- ) Irish novelist and translator. 

Hoffman, Charles Fenno (1806-84) American song-writer. 

Hoffmann, August Heinrich (1798-1874) German philologist aiid poet. 

Hoffm'vnn, Ernest Theodor Amadeus (1776-1822) German story-teller. 

Hoffmanswaldau, Christian von (1618-79) German Silesian poet. VIII. 10. 

Hogg, James (i77c^i835) Scotch pastoral poet. The Queen's Waka 


HOLBERG, LUDWIG (1684-1754) Danish poet. VIII. I54. 

HoLlNSHED, Raphael (I520?-8o?) English chronicler. 

Holland, Josiah Gilbert (1819-81) American poet and novelist. Bitter-Sweet. 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell (1809-94) American physician and author. Songs in Many 

Keys ; Autocrat of the Breakfast Table ; Elsie Venner ; Over the Tea-cups. x. 301. 
Holty, Ludwig Heinrich Christoph (1748-76) German elegiac poet. 
Home, John (1722-1808) Scotch dramatist. Douglas, viii. 325. 
Homer (before 900 B.C. ?) Greek epic poet. Iliad; Odyssey. 1.153. 
Hood, Thomas (1789-1845) EngUsh poet, punster, ix- 275. 
HooFT, Pieter Corneliszoon (1581-1647) Dutch poet and historian, vi. 277. 
Hook, Theodore (1788-1841) English humorist and dramatist. 
Hooker, Richard {c 1553-1600) English bishop. Ecclesiastical Polity, v. 328. 
' Hope, Anthony,' A. Hope Hawkins (1863- ) English novelist. Prisoner of Zenda. 
Hope, Thomas (1770-1831) English archaeologist. Anastasius. 

HopkinsON, Francis (1737-91) American satirist. The Battle of the Kegs. ix. 42. 
Horace, — Quintus Horatius Flaccus (65-8 b.c.) Latin lyric poet. iv. 131. 
HoRNE, Richard Henry Hengist (1803-84) English poet, prose writer. Orion. 
HORVATH, Andreas (1778-1839) Hungarian poet. Arpad. 

Houghton, Richard Monckton Milnes, Lord (1809-85) English poet and critic. 
HousSAYE, ARsiNE (1815- ) French novelist and dramatist. 

Howe, Julia Ward, Mrs. (1819- ) American writer. Battle Hymn of the Republic. 
HowELLS, William Dean (1837- ) American novelist. The Lady of the Aroostook ; 

Dr. Breen's Practice ; A Modern Instance ; The Rise of Silas Lapham. 
Howitt, Mary (1799-1888) English poet and story-writer. Rural Life in England. 
Howitt, William (1792-1879) English historian and essayist. Student Life in Germany. 
Hughes, Thomas (1823-96) English novelist and essayist. Tom Brown's Schooldays. 
Hugo of TrIMBERG (13th century) German poet. iii. 280. 
Hugo, Victor Marie (1802-85) French poet, novelist and publicist. The Orientals; 

Autumn Leaves; Cromwell; Amy Robsart; Marion Delorme ; Hemani ; Han 

d'Islande ; Bug Jargal ; Notre Dame de Paris; Les Miserables; Toilers of the 

Sea ; The Man Who Laughs ; Ninety-Three, ix. 369. 
Hume, David (1711-76) Scotch-English historian and philosopher, vil. 281. 
HUNGERFORD, MARGARET, Mrs-, ' The Duchess' (i840?-97) Irish novelist. 
Hunt, Leigh (1784-1859) English poet, critic and essayist. IX. 228. 
HuTTEN, Ulrich VON (1488-1523) German satirist (Latin), vi. 235. 
Huxley, Thomas Henry (1825-95) English scientist. 
Huygens, Constantijn (1596-1687) Dutch poet. vi. 260. 
Huysmans, JORRIS Karl (1848- ) French novelist, ' Satanist.' 

Ibsen, Henrik (1828- ) Norwegian dramatist. A Doll's House ; Peer Gynt ; The 
Pillars of Society ; Hedda Gabler. 

Ignatius {d. 116) Greek Church Father, vil. 80. 

Imbert de Saint-Amand, Arthur (1834- ) French biographer. 

Immkrmann, Karl Leberecht (1796-1840) German poet and dramatist. Epigonl. 

Inchbald, Elizabeth Simpson (1753-1821) English novehst. A Simple Story. 

Ingelow, Jean (1830-79) Ertglish poet and novelist. Round of Days; A Story of Doom. 

Ingermann, Bernard Severin (1789-1862) Danish poet and novelist. 

Ingraham, Joseph Holt (1809-66) American novelist. Prince of the House of David. 

Irving, Washington (1783-1859) American essayist, historian, biographer. Salma- 
gundi; Sketch Book ; Knickerbocker's History of New York ; Bracebridge Hall ; 
Christopher Columbus ; The Alhambra ; Astoria ; Life of Washingtpn. ix. 67, 


Is^US {fl. 380 B.C.) Greek orator, vi. 10. 

ISLA, Jose Francisco DE (1703-81) Spanish satirist. Friar Gerundio. vill. 225. 

ISOCRATES (436-338 B.C.) Greek orator. Areopagiticus ; Panegyricus. vi. II. 

JaCOPONE da Todi (c. 1230-1306) Italian poet and satirist. Latin hymn, Stabat Mater. 

James L of Aragon (1200 ?-76) Spanish writer, i. 368. 

James L of Scotland (1394-1437) poet. King's Quhair. m. 379. 

James, George Payne Rainsford (1801-60) English novelist. Richelieu ; Attila. 

James, Henry (1843- ) American novelist. The American ; Daisy Miller ; The Euro- 
peans ; Washington Square ; The Princess of Casamassima. x. 351. 

Jameson, Anna Brownell (1794-1860) Irish miscellanist. Loves of the Poets ; Early 
Italian Painters ; Sacred and Legendary Art. 

Jami, Abdurrahman (1414-92) Persian poet. Joseph and Zuleika. v. 186. 

Janson, Kristofer Nagel (1841- ) Norwegian poet. 

Janvier, Francis de Haes (1817-85') American poet. The Sleeping Sen«inel. 

Janvier, Thomas Allibone (1849- ) American novelist. 

Jasmin, Jacques (1798-1864) Provencal poet. Curl Papers. 

Jayadeva {fl. 1200) Sanskrit poet. Gita-Govinda. iii. 35. 

Jefferies, Richard (1848-87) English nature-essayist. The World's End; Amateur 
Poacher ; Hodge and His Masters ; Story of My Heart. 

Jeffrey, Francis (1773-1850) Scotch critic, editor of Edinburgh Review. 

Jenkin, Henrietta Camilla (1807-85) English novelist. Cousin Stella. 

Jerome, Jerome Klapka (1861- ) English humorist. Three Men in a Boat. 

Jerrold, Douglas (1803-57) English humorist. Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lectures. 

Jewett, Sarah Orne (1849- ) American story-writer. Country Doctor. 

JODELLE, Etienne {c. 1532-73) French dramatic poet. v. 255. 

Johnson, Dr. Samuel (1709-84) English essayist, poet, lexicographer. Vanity of Human 
Wishes; Irene; The Rambler; The Idler; Rasselas; Western Isles of Scot- 
land ; Lives of English Poets. Vll. 379. 

Johnston, Richard Malcolm (1822-98) American story- writer. Dukesborough Tales. 

Jokai, Maurus (1825- ) Hungarian novelist. 

JONSON, Ben (1572-1637) English dramatist, poet laureate. Alchemist ; Catiline ; Fall of 
Sejanus; Every Man in His Humor, iv. 393. 

Josephus, Flavius (37-100 A.d.) Jewish historian, vil. 25. 

JOVELLANOS, Gaspar Melchor DE (i774-i8ii) Spanish dramatist and prose-writer. 

Joyce, Robert Dwyer (1836-83) Irish poet. Deirdre. 

Juan IL, King (1404-54) Spanish poet, il 290. 

JUDD, Sylvester (1813-53) American novelist. Margaret. 

Jung-Stilling (1740-1817) German novelist and autobiographer. 

' Junius ' [political letters published 1769-72.] The author was probably SiR Phiup FRAN- 
CIS (1740-1818) Irish-English writer. VII. 282. 

' JUNOT, Madame,' Duchess of Abrantes (1784-1838) French memoir writer, 

Justin Martyr (100-163) Greek Church Father, vii. 80. 

Juvenal,— DecimusJuvenalis (60-140) Roman poet. Satires. VI. 36. 

KalidasA (/. c. 525) Hindu dramatist and poet. Sakuntala. III. \o. 
Karamsin, Nikolai Mikhailovitch (1765-1826) Russian historian, x. 11. 
Karr, Alphonse (1808-90) French writer. 
Kaufmann, Alexander (1817-93) German poet. 
Kavanagh, Julia (1824-77) English novelist. 
X— 25 


KeARY, Annie (1825-79) English-Irish novelist. 

Keats, John (1795-1821) English poet. Endymion; Eve of St. Agnes, ix. 225. 

Keble, John, Rev. (1792-1866) English church poet. The Christian Year. 

Keller, Gottfried (1819-90) German poet and novelist. 

Kellgren, John HenrIK (1751-95) Swedish poet. 

Kempis, Thomas a (1380-1471) German mystic (Latin). Imitation of Christ. 

Kendall, Henry Clarence (1841-82) Australian poet. 

Kennedy, Grace (1782-1825) EngUsh novelist. Father Clement. 

Kennedy, John Pendleton (1795-1870) American politician and writer, ix. 174. 

KeRNER, Justinus (1786-1862) German Suabian poet and novelist, x. 191. 

Key, Francis Scott (1780-1843) American lawyer and poet. Star-Spangled Banner. 

Khakani {d. 1186) Persian lyric poet. iv. 161. 

Kielland, Alexander Lange (1849- ) Norwegian novelist and dramatist. Else. 

King, Charles, Captain {1844- ) American soldier-novelist. 

King, Grace Elizabeth (1858- ) American novelist. Monsieur Motte. 

Kinglake, Alexander William (1809-91) English historian. Invasion of the Crimea. 

Kingsley, Charles, Rev. (1819-75) English novelist and poet. Alton Locke ; Hypatia. 

Kingsley, Henry (1830-76) English novelist. Geoffrey Hamlyn. 

Kingston, William Henry Giles (1814-80) English novelist. 

Kipling, Rudyard (1865- ) English novelist and poet. Plain Tales from the Hills ; 
Soldiers Three ; The Phantom Rickshavir; The Light that Failed; Captains 
Courageous ; Barrack Room Ballads ; The Seven Seas. x. 281. 

Kirchberg, Conrad von (12th century) Minnesinger, i. 295. 

Kirk, Ellen Olney, Mrs. (1842- ) American novelist. ' Margaret Kent. 

KiSFALUDY, KarOLY (1788-1830) Hungarian poet and novelist. 

KiSFALUDY, Sandor (1772-1844) Hungarian poet. 

Kleist, Ewald Christian von (1715-S9) German poet. 

Kleist, Heinrich von (1777-1811) German lyrist and dramatist, x. 183. 

Klinger, Maximilian (1752-1831) .German dramatist, viil. 57. 

Klopstock, Friedrich Gottleib (1724-1803) German poet. Messiah. vi;i. 22. 

Knowlks, James Sheridan (1784-1862) Irish actor and dramatist. . Virginius. 

KOLLAR, Jan (1793-1852) Bohemian poet. Daughter of Glory. 

Korner, Theodor (1791-1813) German lyric poet. Svirord-Song. x. 183. 

Kotzebue, August Friedrich Ferdinand von (1761-1819) German dramatist. 

Krasinski, Sigismund, Count (1812-59) Polish poet. The Undivine Comedy, x. 362. 

KrilOFF, Ivan A. (1768-1844) Russian fabulist, xl 12. 

Krummacher, Friedrich Adolf, Rev. (1767-1845) German religious writer. Parables. 

LaberIUS, Decimus (105-43 B.C.) Roman knight and writer, m. 122. 

Laboulaye, Edouard RENfi Lefebvre de (1811-83) French jurist and historian. 

La BruyIire, Jean de (1645-96) French novelist and satirist, vi. 179. 

La CALPRENfeDE, Gauthier DE CosTE, Seigneur DE (1610-63) French romancer. 

Lactantius Firmianus, L. C^lius (4th century) Latin Church Father, vil. 105. 

La Fayette, Marie Madeleine (1634-93) French novelist. Princess of Cleves 

La Fontaine, Jean de (1621-95) French poet. Fables, v. 287. 

La Harpe, Jean Francois de (1739-1803) French critic and poet. viii. 241. 

Lamartine, Alphonse M. L. de (1790-1869) French poet and prose-writer, vill. 271. 

Lamb, Charles (1775-1834) English essayist. Essays of Elia. ix. 243. 

Lamennais, Hugues FelicitiS; Robert de (1782-1854) French ecclesiastic and publicist. 

Words of a Believer, vill. 266. 
Lamprecht (12th century) German poet. Alexander, i. 293. 


Landon, Letitia Elizabeth (1802-38) English poet and novelist. 

Landor, Walter Savage (1775-1864) English poet and prose writer. Imaginary Con- 
versations ; Count Julian. 

Lane, Edward William (1801-73) English Orientalist. Trans. Arabian Nights. 

Lang, Andrew (1844- ) English poet, story-teller and critic^. Ballads and Lyrics of 
Old France ; Helen of Troy; Letters to Dead Authors; Custom and Myth. 

Langland, William (1332-1400?) English poet. Piers Plowman, m. 347. 

Lanier, Sidney (1842-81) American poet, critic. 

Lao-tsze (6th century B.C.) Chinese philosopher, i. 133. 

La Rochefoucauld, Francois, Due de (1613-80) French moralist, vi. 183. 

LarcOM, Lucy (1826-93) American poet. 

Lathrop, George Parsons (1851-98) American poet. 

Latini, Brunetto {d. 1294) Italian poet, friend of Dante. 11. 219. 

Layamon (12th century) Anglo-Saxon poet. Brut. i. 270. 

Lear, Edward (1812-88) English writer. Book of Nonsense. 

Lecky, William Edward Hartpole (1838^ ) English historian. Rationalism. 

Lee, Nathaniel (i650?-92) English dramatist; insane. Rival Queens. 

Lee, Sophia (1750-1824) and Harriet (1757-1851) English novelists. Canterbury Tales. 

Legouve, Ernest Wilfrid (1807- ) French dramatist. Adrienne Lecouvreur. 

Leibnitz, Gottfried W. (1646-1716) German philosopher, viii. ii. 

Leland, Charles Godfrey (1824- ) Aiherican miscellanist. Hans Breitmann's Party. 

•LeNAU, NiKOLAUS,' N. von StrEHLENAU (1802-50) German lyric poet. 

Lenz, Jacob Reinhold (1751-92) German poet. viii. 58. 

LeOPARDI, GiACOMO, CxDUNT (1798-1837) Italian poet. X. 87. 

Lermontoff, Michail Yuryevitch (1814-41) Russian poet. x. 10. 

Le Sage, Alain RenI: (1668-1747) French novelist and dramatist. Gil bias. VH. 199. 

Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim (1729-81) German poet, dramatist, critic. Miss Sarah 
Sampson; Minna von Barnhelm ; Nathan the Wise ; Laocoon. vil^. 26. 

Lever, Charles (1806-72) Irish soldier-novelist. Charles O'Malley ; Jack Hinton. 

Lewes, George Henry (1817-78) English philoso{)her, biographer, etc. 

Lewis, Matthew Gregory ' Monk ' ( 1775-1818) EngUsh poet. Ambrosio, or the Monk. 

LiBANlus (3i4?-395 ?) Greek sophist, vii. 75. 

Lie, Jonas Laurits Idemil (1833- ) Norwegian poet. 

LiLIENCRON, RoCHUS, BarON VON (1820- ) Austrian poet. 

Linton, Eliza Lynn (1822-98) English novelist. Joshua Davidson, Communist. 

LrvY — Titus Livius (59 B.C.-17 ^■^■) Roman historian. V. 106. 

LOBO, Rodriguez (i550?-l630?) Portuguese pastoral poet. iii. 256. 

Locke, John (1632-1704) English philosopher. VII. 282. 

Lockhart, John Gibson (1794-1854) Scotch biographer and poet. Peter's Letters to 

His Kinsfolk ; Ancient Spanish Ballads ; Life of Sir Walter Scott. 
Lodge, Henry Cabot (1850- ) American historian and biographer. 
Lodge, Thomas (15587-1625) Enghsh poet and dramatist. Rosalynde. 
Lohenstein, Daniel Casper von (1635-83) Silesian poet. viii. 10. 
Lomonosoff, Michael (1711-65) Russian poet and tragedian. III. 393. 
Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth (1807-82) American poet. Hyperion; Evangeline; 
Song of Hiawatha ; Courtship of Miles Standish ; Hanging of the Crane ; Tales 
of a Wayside Inn; Ultima Thule; The Building of a Ship; Keramos. ix. 120. 
Longinus, Cassius (210-273 A.D.) Greek philosopher and rhetorician. 
Longstreet, Augustus Baldwin (1790-1870) American author. Georgia Scenes. 
LONGUS f5th century) Greek romancer. Daphnis and Chloe. vil. 71. 
LoNNROT, EliAS (1802-84) Finnish philologist. Collected the Kalevala. 


Lope DE Vega CarpiO (1562-1635) Spanish dramatist. VI. 138. 

Lorenzo de' Medici (1448-92) Italian statesman, poet. iil. 167. 

LORRIS, Guillaume de (13th Cent.) French poet. Romance of the Rose. i. 197. 

' LOTi, Pierre,' L. M. J. Viaud (1850- ) French poet and novehst. Marriage of Loti. 

Lov:?LACE, Richard (1618-58) English Cavalier dramatist and poet. Lucasta. v. 386. 

Lowell, James Russell (1819-91) American poet and critic. The Biglow Papers ; Sir 

Launfal; Fable for Critics ; Under the Willows ; Harvard Commemoration Ode; 

Among my Books ; My Study Windows ; Heartsease and Rue. 
Lowell, Robert Traill Spence (1816-91) American educator, novelist. 
LucAN— Marcus Ann^eus Lucanus (39-65 a. d. ) Latin poet. Pharsalia. v. 147. 
LuciAN [c. 120-200) Greek satirist. Dialogues of the Gods; Dialogues of the Dead. 
LUCILIUS (97-53? B. C.) Latin satirist. III. 93. 

Lucretius Carus, Titus (98?-55 b. c.) Roman philosophic poet. On Nature, in. 94. 
LuNT, George (1803-85) American poet and prose-writer. 
Luther, Martin (1483-1546) German Reformer. Translated the Bible into German. The 

Babylonian Captivity of the Church ; Table Talk. vi. 238. 
Lydgate, John (i375?-i46o?) English monk, poet. The London Lackpenny. ' m. 361^ 
Lyly, John (1554-1606) English dramatist, romancist. Euphues. iv. 294. 
Lyndsay, Sir David {c. 1490-1550 ?) Scotch poet. in. 337. 
Lysias (450-380 B.C.) Attic orator, vi. lo. 
Lytle, William Haines (1826-63) American general and poet. Antony to Cleopatra. 

Maartens, Maarten (1858- ) Dutch-English novelist. 

Macaulay, Thomas Babington, Lord (1800-59) English historian, essayist and poet. 

History of England ; Lays of Ancient Rome ; Essays. 
MacCarthy, Denis Florence (1817-1882) Irish poet. Translated Calderon. 
McCarthy, Justin (1830- ) Irish journalist, novelist. History of Our Own Tinjes; 
McCarthy, Justin Huntley (i860- ) Irish journalist and poet. 
Macdonald, George (1824- ) Scotch novelist and poet. David Elginbrod. 
Machiavelli, Niccolo (1469-1527) Italian political writer. The Prince, iv. 198. 
Macias the Enamored (15th century) Spanish poet. iii. 255. 
Mackay, Charles (1814-89) Scotch poet and journalist. 
Mackenzie, Henry (1745-1831) Scotch essayist. The Man of Feeling. 
Mackenzie, Robert Shelton (1809-80) Irish-American journalist, miscellanist. . 
'Maclaren, Ian,' Rev. John Watson (1850- ) Scotch preacher, novelist. 
McLellan, Isaac (1806-96) American poet. The Death of Napoleon. 
MACLEOD, Norman, Rev. (1812-72) Scotch divine and miscellanist. 
McMaster, Guy Humphrey (1829-87) American poet. Carmen Bellicosum. 
McMaster, John Bach (1852- ) American historian. 
Macpherson, James (1736-96) Scotch editor of Ossian. v. 315. 
Macquoid, Katharine S., Mrs., English novelist. 
Maerlant, Jakob van (c. 1225-91) Dutch poet. vi. 258. 
Maffei, Francesco (1675-1755) Italian dramatist, vii. 158. 
Maistre, Joseph Comte de (1754-1821) French-Italian statesman, vill. 254. 
Malet, Lucas (1852- ) English novelist. 

Malherbe, Francois (1555-0628) French poet and critic, vi. 266. 
Mallett, David (1700-65) Scotch poet and dramatist. 

Mallock, William Hurrel (1849- ) English essayist. The New Republic. 
Malory, Thomas, Sir (1430-70) British author. Morte D'Arthur. iii. 373. 
Malot, Hector (1830- ) French novelist. 
Mandeville, Bernard (1670-1733) Dutch- English miscellanist. Fable of the Bee&. 


Mandeville, John, Sir (1300-72) English traveler. II. 309. 

Mangan, James Clarence (1803-49) ^^'^^ P°et- 

Manley, Mary de la Riviere, Mrs. (1672-1724) English novelist. 

Manrique, Jorge DE (1420-85?) Spanish poet. Coplas de Manrique. n. 294. 

Manuel, Juan, Don (1282-1347) Spanish story-writer. El Conde Lucanor. i. 382. 

Manzoni, Alessandro (1783-1873) Italian novelist, poet. I Promessi Sposi. x. 72. 

Map (or Mapes), Walter (1140-1210) English Latin writer, m. 308. 

Margaret of Navarre, Marguerite d'Angoul^me (1492-1549) French queen and 
novelist. Heptameron. iv. 244. 

Marie de France (13th century) French poetess. Lais. i. 212. 

Marini, Giovanni Battista (1569-1625) Italian lyric poet. vi. 127. 

Marivaux, Pierre de (1688-1763) French dramatist and novelist. Marianne. 

Marlit, E. (1825-87) German novelist. Gold Else ; The Old Mamselle's Secret. 

Marlowe, Christopher (1564 ?-93) English poet and dramatist. Tamburlaine. iv. 335. 

Marmontel, Jean Francois (1723-99) French miscellanist. 

Marot, Clement (1497-1544) French lyric poet. iii. 262. 

Marryat, Florence (1837- ) English novelist. Woman Against Woman. 

Marryat, Frederick (1792-1848) English sea-novelbt. The King's Own; Peter Sim- 
ple ; Japhet in Search of a Father. 

MaRSTON, John (1575-1634) English dramatist and poet. 

Marston, Philip Bourke (1850-87) English poet. 

Martial^Marcus Valerius Martialis [c. 50-102) Latin poet. v. 171. 

Martin, Bon Louis Henri (1810-83) French historian. History of France. 

Martin, Theodore, Sir (1816- ) English poet and translator. 

Marvell, Andrew (1621-78) English poet and satirist. Vl. 296. 

Mary (Stuart) Queen of Scots (1542-87) wrote French poems, iv. 264. 

Massey, Gerald (1828- ) English poet. 

Massinger, Philip (i 583-1640) English dramatist, v. 360. 

Mather, Cotton, Rev. (1663-1728) American author.. Magnalia. ix. 19. 

Mathews, William (1818- ) American essayist. 

Matthew Paris (1200-59) English Latin chronicler. 

Matthews, Brander (1852- ) American critic and essayist. 

Maturin, Charles Robert (1782-1824) Irish novelist. 

Maupassant, Guy de (1850-93) French novelist, x. 161. 

Medici, Lorenzo de (1449-92) Florentine statesman. 

Meleager (ist century b.c) Greek epigrammatist. Garland, vil. 36. 

Melville, George John Whyte (1821-78) English novelist. 

Melville, Herman (1819-91) American sailor and novelist. Typee ; Omoo. ix. 172. 

Mena, Juan de (1400-50) Spanish poet. 11. 290. 

Menander (342-291 B.C.) Greek comic poet. v. 57. 

Mencius (372-289 B.C.) Chinese philosopher. 11. 45. 

Mendelssohn, Moses (1729-86) German-Jewish philosopher, viii. 44- 

Mendes, Catulle (1843- ) French poet and novelist. 

Mendoza, Diego de (1503-75) Spanish poet and historian, ill. 210. 

Meredith, George (1828- ) English novelist and poet. The Ordeal of Richard Fev- 
erel • Rhoda Fleming; Diana of the Crossways ; The Egoist. 

-Meredith, Owen,' Edward Robert Bulwer, Earl Lytton (1831-91) English 
poet. Lucile ; The Ring of Amasis; The Wanderer; Tannhauser. iii. 276. 

MERIMiE, Prosper (1803-70) French litterateur. Colomba; Carmen. 

Merivale, Charles, Rev. (1808-93) English historian. Romans under the Empire. 

Metastasio, Pietro (1698-1782) Italian poet. The Clemency of Titus, vil. l6a 


Meung, Jean DE (I26o?-I32o) French satirist. Romance of the Rose. ii. 309. 

Meyr, Melchoir (1810-71) German novelist and poet. 

MiCHAUD, Joseph Francois (1767-1839) French historian. History of Crusades. 

Michel Angelo Buonarotti (1475-1564) Italian sculptor, painter and poet. iv. 224. 

Michelet, Jules (1798-1874) French historian, prose-poet. 

MiCKiEWicz, Adam (1798-1855) Polish poet, novelist. Pan Tadeusz. x. 362. 

MiGNET, Francois Auguste Marie {1796-1884) French historian. 

Mill, James (1773-1836) English historian. History of India. 

Mill, John Stuart (1806-73) English utihtarian philosopher. Liberty. 

Miller, Joaquin (1841- ) American poet. Songs of the Sierras. 

Milman, Henry Hart, Rev. (1791-1868) English historian and poet. Fazio ; Samor. 

Milton, John (1608-74) English poet. Comus ; Lycidas ; Areopagitica ; H Penseroso; 
L' Allegro; Paradise Lost; Paradise Regained; Samson Agonistes. v. 391. 

MiMNERMUS (634-600 B.C.) Greek elegiac poet. 11. 86. 

MlRAB^AU, HoNORfi GABRIEL DE RlQUETTI, CoUNT (1749-91). French statesman. 

Mistral, Frederic (1830- ) Provencal poet. 

Mitchell, Donald Grant, ' Ik Marvel' (1822- ) American essayist and novelist. 

Mitchell, Silas Weir (18^9- ) American physician, novelist and poet. Hugh Wynne. 

Mitford, Mary Russell (1787-1855) English miscellanist. Our Village; Rienzi. 

Mitford, William (1744-1827) English historian. History of Greece. 

MOE, JORGEN Ingebrektsen (1813-82) Norwegian folk-lorist. Popular Tales. 

Mohammed (570-632) Arabian prophet. Koran, i. 189. 

MOLESWORTH, Mary LouISA, Mrs. (1842- ) English novelist and writer for children; 

MoliI:re, Jean Baptiste POQUKLIN (1622-73) French dramatist. L'Etourdi; Les Pre- 
cieuses Ridicules; L'Ecole des Femmes; Tartuffe; Misanthrope; L'Avare ; 
Bourgeois Gentilhomme ; Le Malade Imaginaire. 

Mommsen, Thkodor (1817- ) German historian. History of Rome. vi. 187. 

MoNiER Williams, Sir Monier (1819- ) English Orientalist. Indian Wisdom; 

Montagu, Mary Wortley, Lady (1688-1762) English letter-writer, vii. 292. 

Montaigne, Michel Eyquem, Sieur de (1533-92) French moral philosopher, iii. 193. 

Montalembert, Charles Forbes de Tryon, Comte de (1810-70) French statesman 
and historian. The Monks of the West. 

MONTALVAN, Juan Perez de (1602-38) Spanish dramatist. Teruel's Lovers. 

Montemayor, Jorge de (1520 ?-6i) Spanish romancist. Diana Enamorada. 

MoNTESQiEU, Charles de Secondat, Baron de (1689-1755) French philosophic his- 
torian. L'Esprit des Lois. vil. 247. 

Montgomery, James (1771-1854) English religious poet. 

Monti, Luigi (1830- ) Italian-American miscellanist. 

Monti, Vincenzo (1754-1828) Italian poet. X. 79. 

MOODIE, Susanna (1803-85) Scotch-Canadian poet and prose-writer. ^ 

Moore, George (1859- ) English novelist and poet. Confessions of a Young Man. 

Moore, Thomas (1779-1852) Irish poet. Irish Melodies ; Lalla Rookh. ix. 326. 

More, Hannah (1779-1833) English religious writer. Coelebs in Search of a Wife. 

More, Thomas, Sir (1478-1535) English statesman. (Latin) Utopia. IV. 295. 

Morgan, Lady, Sydney Owens (1783-1859) Irish novelist. The Wild Irish Girl. 

Morier, James Justinian (1780-1849) English novelist. Adventures of Hajji Baba 

Morley, Henry (1822-94) English scholar, editor. English Writers. 

Morley, John (1838- ) English statesman, critic. Voltaire ; Rousseau ; Burke. 

Morris, George Pope (1802-64) American journalist and song-writer. 

Morris, William (1834-96) English socialist, poet. The Earthly Paradise. 

Morton, Thomas (1764-1838) English dramatist. Speed the Plough. 


MOSCHUS {fl- 2CX) B.C.) Greek Sicilian bucolic poet. vi. 45. 
Motherwell, William (1797-1835) Scotch poet and antiquary. 
Motley, John Lothrop (1814-77) American historian of the Netherlands. 
.' MUHLBACH, LuiSE,' Clara Mundt (1814-73) German historical novelist. 
MULLER, Friedrich Max (1823- ) German-English Sanskrit scholar. 
Muller, Karl (1819-89) German romance writer. 
MuLLER, WiLHELM (1794-1827) German lyric poet. 
MuLOCK, Dinah Maria. See Craik. 
Munch, Andreas (1811-84) Norwegian poet and dramatist. 
MuRGER, Henri (1822-61) French litterateur. Scenes of Bohemian Life. 
Murner, Thomas (1475-1536) German R. C. satirist. 

Murray, Grenville (1824-81) English miscellanist. Tlje Member for Paris. 
Murray, William Henry Harrison (1840- ) American preacher and writer. 
MUSAUS, JOHANN Karl August (1735-87) German satirist. 
MussET, Alfred de (1810-57) French lyric poet. Nighis. x. 132. 

Nairne, Caroline Oliphant, Lady (1766-1854) Scotch poet. The Land of the Leal. 

'Nasby, Petroleum V.,' David R. Locke (1833-88) American satirist. 

Neal, John (1793-1876) American poet. 

Neal, Joseph Clay (1807-47) American joiu'nalist and humorist. 

Neale, John Mason (1818-66) English historian of Greek Church. Translated Hymns. 

'Negri, Ada,' Mme. Garlanda (1870- ) Italian poet. Fatality. 

Nepos, Cornelius (99-24 B.C.) Roman biographer. V. 104. 

Nestor (i'. 1056-1 114) Russian monk and chronicler, iii. 388. ' 

Newman, John Henry, Cardinal (1801-90) English theologian. Lyra Apostolica. 

Niccolini, Giovanni Battista (1782-1861) Italian dramatist, x. 81. 

NiEBUHR, Barthold Georg (1776-1831) German historian of ancient Rome. 

NiEMCEwicz, Julian Ursin (1757-1841) Polish lyric poet. X. 362. 

Nietzsche, Friedrich Wilhelm (1844- ) German writer. Thus Spake Zarathustra. 

NiZAMi (1113-1203) Persian romantic poet. Khosru and Shireen. iv. 162. 

Nodier, Charles ( 1780-1844) French romance writer. The Exiles. 

Nordau, Max Simon (1849- ) German critic. Degeneration. 

Nordhoff, Charles (1736- ) American journalist and author. Man.of- War Life. 

NoRRis, William E. (1847- ) English novelist. 

'North, Christopher,' John Wilson (1785-1854) Scotch essayist; poet and editor of 

Blackwood's Magazine. Noctes Ambrosianae. 
Norton, Caroline Elizabeth (1808-77) English poet. 

'NovALis,' Friedrich von Hardenberg (1772-1801) German mystic, ix. 336. 
'Nye, Bill,' EdGj^R Wilson Nye (1850-96) American journalist and humorist. 

OcANA, Francisco (16th century) Spanish poet.' vi. 152. 

Oehlenschlager, Adam GottlOB (1779-1850) Danish poet. Aladdin. VIII. 174. 

Oliphant, Margaret O. W. (1828-97) Scotch novelist. Chronicles of Carlingford. 

Omar Khayyam (10517-1123?) Persian poet and astronomer. Rubaiyat. II. 203. 

Opitz, Martin (1597-1639) German poet of the Silesian School, vill. 10. 

Oppian (fl. 200) Greek poet. Fishing. 

O'Reilly, John Boyle (1844-90) Irish- American poet and prose-writer. 

Origen (185 ?-254?) Alexandrian Christian theologian, mystical interpreter of Scripture. 

Osgood, Frances Sargent, Mrs. (1811-50) American poet. 

Otway, Thomas (1651-85) English dramatist. Venice Preserved, vi. 334.' 

' Ouida,' Louisa de la Rame (1840- ) English novelist, residing in Italy. 

Ovid (48 B.C.-17 a.d.) Latin poet. Metamorphoses; Art of Love. rv. 140. 


Pacuvius, Marcus (220-132 b.c.) Latin tragedian, m. 93. 

Page, Thomas Nelson (1853- ) American story-writer. 

Paine, Thomas (1737-1809) American novelist. Common Sense. 

Paley, William (1743-1805) English theologian. Natural Theology. 

Palfrey, John G. (1796-1881) American historian. History of New England. 

Palgrave, Francis Turner (1824- ) English poet. Edited Golden Treasury. 

Paludan-Muller, Frederick (1809-76) Danish poet. 

Parini, Giuseppe (1729-99) Italian satiric poet. II Giorno. vii. 175. 

Parker, Gilbert ( 1861- ) Canadian novelist. 

Parker, Theodore (1810-60) American preacher and reformer. 

Parkman, Francis (1823-93) American historian of French in Canada. 

Parnell, Thomas (1679-1718) Irish-English poet. The Hermit, vi. 95. 

Parson, Thomas William (1819-92) American poet. 

Pascal, Blaise (1623-62) French philosopher. Provincial Letters, v. 270. 

Pater, Walter (1839-94) English litterateur. Marius the Epicurean. 

Paulding, James Kirke ( 1779-1860) American novelist. 

Payn, James (1830-98) English novelist. Lost Sir Massingberd. 

Payne, John Howard (1792-1852) American dramatist. Home, Svreet Home. 

Peacock, Thomas Love (1785-1866) English poet and novelist. Headlong Hall. 

Peele, George (1558-97) English dramatist. David and Bethsabe. 

Pellico, Silvio (1788-1854) Italian poet. My Prisons, x. 68. 

Penn, William (1644-1718) Founder of Pennsylvania. No Cross, No Crown. 

Pentaur (yf. 1350 B.C.) Egyptian poet. The Battle of Kadesh. i. 51. 

Pepys, Samuel (1633-1703) English diarist. ■ 

Percival, James Gates (1795-1856) American poet. 

Percy, Thomas, Bishop (1729-1811) English antiquary and poet. Reliques of Ancient 

English Poetry, vill. 323. 
Perrault, Charles (1628-1703) French poet. Fairy Tales. 
Persius Flaccus, Aulus (34-62) Latin satiric poet. v. 133. 
Petofi, Alexander (1823-49) Hungarian poet. 
Petrarch, Francesco (1304-74) Italian lyric poet. 11. 259. 
Petronius Arbiter (_/?. 65) Roman courtier of Nero. Satiricon. v. 155. 
Ph^edrus (y?. 40 B.C.) Latin fabuhst. v. 132. 
Philemon, (36o?-263? b.c.) Greek comic dramatist, v. 58. 
Philips, John (1676-1709) English dramatist. 

Philips, Ambrose (1671-1749) English poet, " Namby Pamby." vil. 289. 
Philo Jud^EUS (20 B.C.-50 A.d.) Alexandrine Jewish philosopher. 
Piatt, John James (1835- ) American journalist, poet. 
Piatt, Sarah Morgan Bryan, Mrs. (1836- ) American poet. 
Pierpont, John ( 1785-1866) American Unitarian minister and poet. 
Pike, Albert (1809-91) American journalist and poet. 

PlLPAY or BidpAI Supposed author of fables in India, v. 19. 

Pindar (522-443 b.c.) Greek lyric poet. Olympian Odes. 11. loi 

Pindemonte, IppolITO (1753-1828) Italian poet. 

Pisan, Christine de (1364-1431) French lyric poet. 11. 332. 

PlSTOAI, CiNO DA (^1270-1336) Italian poet. II. 257. 

Platen, August, Count von (1796-1835) German poet. 

Plato (427-347 b.c.) Greek philosopher. Phaedo ; The Republic ; The Symposium. 

V. 74. 
Plautus, Titus Maccius (254?-i84 B.C.) Roman comic poet. The Captives, iil 117. 
Pliny the Elder (23-79) Roman compiler. Natural History, v. 16^ 


Pliny the Younger (61-113) Roman letter-writer. V. 175. 

Plutarch (45?-! 20?) Greek biographer. Parallel Lives of Greeks and Romans, vn. 43. 

POE, Edgar Allan (1809-49) American poet and story-writer, ix. 143. 

POLITIAN, or POLIZIANO, Angelo (14^4-94) Italian humanist, in. 167. 

POLLOK, Robert (i 768-1827) Scotch religious poet. The Course of Time. 

POLYBIUS (204-122 B.C.) Greek historian, vn. lo. 

POLYCARP (69-155) Greek Father of Church, vil. 80. 

Ponce de Leon, Luis (1528-91) Spanish lyric poet. m. 208. 

Pope, Alexander (1788-1744) English poet. Essay on Criticism; Essay on Man; 
Rape of the Lock; The Dunciad; Eloisa to Abelard; Satires; Homer. 

Porter, Jane (1776-1850) English novelist. Thaddeus of Warsaw; The Scottish Chiefs. 

Porto, Luigi da (I485?-I529) Italian poet and novelist, iv. 218. 

Praed, Winthrop Mackworth (1802-39) English poet. 

Prentiss, Elizabeth Payson, Mrs. (1818-78) American author. Stepping Heaven- 

Preston, Harriet Waters (c. 1843- ) American translator. 

Preston, Margaret Junkin, Mrs. (1825-97) American poet and miscellanist. 

Prevost d'Exilles, Abb6 (1697-1763) French novehst. Manon Lescaut. vil. 208. 

Prior, Matthew (1664-1721) English poet. Alma. ' 

Proctor, Adelaide Anne (1825-64) English poet. 

Propertius, Sextus Aurelius {c. 50 B.C.-15 ?) Roman elegiac poet. iv. 158. 

' Prout, Father ' Francis O'Mahony (1804-66) Irish journalist, poet. 

Protagoras (480-410 b.c.) Greek sophist, v. 71. ' 

Prudentius, Aurelius Publius Clemens (350-410) Latin Christian poet. vii. 119. 

Ptah-Hotep (3580 or 2266 B.C.) Egyptian sage. i. 22. 

PuLCl, Luigi (1431-84) Italian romantic poet. Morgante Maggiore. iv. 190. 

Pushkin, Alexander Sergeevich (1799-1837) Russian poet. x. 14. 

Pythagoras {c. 482 b.c.-c. 507) Greek philosopher. Golden Sentences, iv. 80. 

Quarles, Francis (1592-1644) English sacred poet. Emblems Divine and Moral. 
QuEVEDO, Francisco de (1580-1645) Spanish satirist, vi. 153. 
QuiNTlLIAN, Marcus Fabius [c. 35 A.D.-95) Roman rhetorician, vi. 75. 

Rabelais, Francois (1490-1553) French satirist. Gargantua. iii. 176. 

Racine, Jean Baptiste (1639-99) French dramatist. Iphigenie ; Athalie. v. 294. 

Radcliffe, Ann (1764-1823) English novelist. Mysteries of Udolpho. 

Raleigh, Sir Walter (1552-1618) English adventurer, iv. 325. 

Ramsay, Allen (1686-1758) Scotch poet. viii. 301. 

Ranke, Leopold (1795-1886) German historian. History of the Popes. 

Read, Thomas Buchanan (1822-72) American poet. 

Reade, Charles (1814-84) English novelist. Hard Cash ; The Cloister and the Hearth. 

Redi, Francesco (1626-95) Italian poet. Bacchus in Tuscany, vi. 130. 

Reeve, Clara (1729-1807) English novelist. The Old English Baron. 

Reid, Mayne, Captain (1818-83) Irish-American novelist. Osceola. 

Renan, Ernest (1823-92) French Semitic-Orientalist. The Life of Jesus ; The Apostles. 

Repplier, Agnes (1855- ) American essayist. 

Ribeyro, Bernard™ (1486?-;:. 1550) Portuguese poet. in. 257. 

Richardson, Samuel (1689-1761) English novelist. Pamela, vn. 312. 

Richter, Jean Paul F. (1763-1825) German humorist. Titan ; Hesperus, ix. 328. 

Riley, James Whitcomb (1853- ) American Poet of common life. x. 358. 

Robertson, William (1721-93) Scotch historian, vjl 281. 


Robinson, Therese Albertine Luise von Jakob (1797-1869) Gennan miscellanist. 

Roe, Edward PaysON (1838-88) American novelist. Barriers Burned Away. 

Rogers, Samuel (1763-1855) English poet. Italy. 

ROLLIN, Charles (1661-1741) French historian. Ancient History. 

Ronsard, Pierre de (1524-85) French lyric poet. iv. 250. 

ROSCOE, Thomas (1791-1871) English translator and author. 

RoscoE, William (1753-1831) English historian. 

RossETTi, Christina Georgina (1830-94) Italian-English poet. 

RossETTi, Dante Gabriel (1828-82) Italian-English poet. 

RouGET DE Lisle, Claude Joseph (1760-1836) French song-writer, viii. 247. 

Rousseau, Jean Baptiste (1670-1741) French poet. 

Rousseau, Jean Jacques (1712-78) French writer. Emile; Social Compact; New 

Heloise; Confessions, vil. 256. 
Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718) English dramatist and poet laureate. 
RUCKERT, Friedrich (1788 or 9-1866) German poet. x. 187. 
RUDAGi, Farid-Addin Muhammad ( /. 950) Persian poet. 11. 172. 
RUDBECK, Olof ( 1630-1702) Swedish author. Atlantica. vill. 187. 
Ruiz, Juan (1300-f. 1351) Spanish poet. i. 384. 
RUMI, Jelaleddin (1207-73) Persian-Sufic poet. iv. 167. 
RUNEBERG, Johann Ludwig (1804-77) Swedish poet. 
RUSKIN, John (1819- ) English art critic and essayist. Modern Painters. 
Russell, W. Clark (1844- ) English sea-novelist. 
RUTBCEUF {Jl. 1260) French songster, i. 231. 
Ryan, Abram Joseph (1839-66) American R. C. priest and poet. The Conquered Banner. 

Saa de Miranda (1495-1558) Portuguese poet. II. 258. 

Sacchetti, Franco {c. 1330-1400) Italian poet. in. 154. 

Sachs, Hans (1494-1576) German mastersinger. HI. 305. 

Sackville, Thomas (1536-1608) English poet. iv. 293. 

Sa de Miranda, Francisco de (1495-1558) Portuguese poet. 

Sadi (1184-1291) Persian poet. Divan ; Bustan ; Gulistan. IV. 173. 

Saint Amant, M. A. Gerard, Siei!ir de (1594-1661) French songster, v. 268. 

Sainte Beuve, Charles Augustin (1804-69) French critic. 

Saintine, Joseph Xavier Boniface (1798-1865) French dramatist. Picciola. x. 125. 

St. Pierre, Bernardin de (1737-1834) French novelist. Paul and Virginia. viIl. 232. 

Saintsbury, George (1845- ) English critic and essayist. 

Saint Simon, Louis de Rouvroy, Due de (1675-1755) French memoir-writer. 

Sala, George Augustus (1828-96) English journalist. 

Sale, George {c 1697-1736) English orientalist. Translated Koran. 

Sallust— Gaius Sallustius Crispus {c. 86 b.c.-*'. 34) Ro™an historian, iv. 95. 

' Sand, George,' Baronne Dudkvant (1804-76) French novelist. Consuelo. ix. 393. 

Sandeau, Jules (1811-83) French novelist. 

Sangster, Margaret Elizabeth, Mrs. (1838- ) American poet and prose writer. 

SanNAZARO, GiACOMO (1458-1530) Italian novelist. IV. 239. 

Santillana, Inigo L. de Mendoza, Marques de (1398-1458) Spanish poet. 11. 289. 

Sappho {fl. 600 B.C.) Greek lyric poet. II. 88. 

Sardou, Victorien (1831- ) French dramatist. 

Saxe, John Godfrey (1816-87) American humorist. 

Saxo GrammATICUS ^fl. 1200) Danish-Laiin historian. 

SCARRON, Paul (1610-60) French dramatist and novelist. Roman Comique. VI. 174- 

Schefer, Leopold (1784-1862) German poet. The Layman's Breviary. 


SCHEFFEL, Joseph Viktor von (1826-86) German poet and novelist. Ekkehard ; The 

Trumpeter of Sackingen. x. 207. 
SCHENKENDORF, Max VON (1783-1817) German poet. x. 188. 
SCHERER, Edmond (1815-89) French essayist and critic. 
Schiller, Friedrich von (1759-1805) German dramatist. The Robber ; Love and 

Intrigue ; Maria Stuart; Wallenstein's Death; William Tell. vill. 119. 
SCHLEGEL, August Wilhelm von (1767-1845) German critic and poet. 
Schneckenburger, Max (1819-49) German poet. The Watch on the Rhine. 

Schoolcraft, Henry Rowe (1793-1864) American, ethnologist and miscellaaist. 

Schopenhauer, Arthur (1788-1860) German pessimistic philosopher. 

ScHUBART, Christian Daniel (1739-91) German poet. viii. 57. 

Scott, Walter, Sir (1771-1832) Scotch novelist and poet, Marmion; Rokeby; Lay 
of the Last Minstrel ; Lady of the Lake ; Waverley ; Guy Mannering ; The Anti- 
quary; Rob Roy; Ivanhoe; The Abbot; Ke,Jlworth; The Pirate; Quentin Dur- 
ward ; Chronicles of the Canongate. viII. 355. 

SCUDERY, Madeleine (1607-1701) French novelist. The Grand Cj^us. v. 255. 

' SeALSFIELD, Charles,' Karl Anton Postl (1793-1864, Austrian-American novelist. 

Secundus, Johannes (1511-36) Dutch Latin amatory poet. Basia (Kisses), vi. 269. 

Sedgwick, Catherine Maria (1789-1876) American novelist. Hope Leslie. 

Seeley, John Robert, Sir (1834-87) English historical scholar. Ecce Homo. 

Seneca, Lucius Ann^us {c. 4 B.C.-65 a.d.) Roman philosopher, v. 138. 

SfeviGN&, Marie DE Rabutin-Chantal, Mme. (1626-96) French letter-writer, vi. 212. 

ShadwelL, Thomas ( 1640-92) English dramatist. 

Shaftesbury, Anthony Ashley Cooper, Earl of (1621-83) EngUsh statesman. 

Shakespeare, William (1564-1616) greatest English dramatist, poet. iv. 3481 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822) English poet. Queen Mab; Alastor; Adonais ; 
The Revolt of Islam ; Prometheus Unbound, ix. 223. 

Shenstone, William (1714-63) English poet. The Schoolmistress, vii. 372. 

Sheridan, Richard Brinsley (1751-1816) British dramatist. The Rivals; The 
Duenna ; The School for Scandal ; The Critic, vill. 330. 

Shevchenko, Taras Grigorovich (1814-61) Russian poet. X. 10. 

Shorthouse, John Henry (1834- ) English novelist. John Inglesant. 

Sidney, or Sydney, Algernon (1617-83) English RepubUcan. 

Sidney, Philip, Sir (i554-86't English man of letters. Arcadia, iv. 307. 

SlENKlEWICZ, Henryk (1846- ) Polish novelist. Quo Vadis. x. 363. 

SiGOURNEY, Lydia Huntley (1791-1865) American poet and prose,-writer. 

SIMMS, William Gilmore (1806-70) American, ix. 180. 

SiMONIDES (c. 556 B.C.-c. 468) Greek lyric poet. 11. 99. 

Simonides of AmorgOS (660 B.C.) Greel; satiric poet. 11. 95. 

SisMONDi, Jean Charles Leonard Simon de (1773-1842) French Swiss historian. 

Skeat, Walter William (1835- ) English Anglo-Saxon philologist. 

SkeltoN, John (1460-1529) English satirical poet. 

Slowacki, Julius (1809-49) ^°^^^ P°«'> dramatist, x. 362. 

Smart, Christopher (1722-71) English poet. 

Smiles, Samuel (1816- ) British miscellanist. Self Help. 

Smith, Alexander (1830-67) Scotch poet. A Life Drama. 

Smith, Francis Hopkinson (1838- ) American author. 

Smith, GOLDWIN (1823- ) English essayist. , ^ ,. ^ ^ ., 

Smith, James (1775-1839) and Horace (1779-1849) humonsts. 

qMTTH Captain John (1579-1631) English colonist, ix. 12. 

Smollett, Tobias George (1721-71) British novelist. Humphrey Chnker. vii. 334. 


Snorri SturLASON (1179-1241) Icelandic historian. Heimskringla. 11. 343. 
Socra'tes (469-400 B.cJ Greek philosopher, v. 72. 

SoMERVlLLE, WiLLlAM (1677-1742). English poet. The Chase, vil. 281. 
Sophocles (495 B.C.-405) Greek tragic poet. 11, 66. 
SORDELLO {c. 1180-C. 125s) Italian troubadour, n. 226. 
SouTHEY, Caroline Anne [Bowles] (1787-1854) English poet, ix. 271. 
SOUTHEY, Robert (,1774-1843) English poet and prose-writer. The Doctor, ix. 267. 
Southwell, Robert {c. 1562-1595) English R. C. poet. 
Sparks, Jared (17S9-1866) American historian and editor. 
. Spenser, Edmund (c. 1552-1599) English poet. Faerie Queene. iv. 312. 
Spielhagen, Friedrich (1829- ) German novelist. 

Spofford, AinswoRTH Rand (1825- ) American bibliographer and historian. 
Spofford, Harriet Elizabeth Prescott (1835- ) American novelist and poet. 
Sprague, Charles (1791-1875) American poet. 

Stael-Holstein, Mme. de (l766'-i8l7) French writer. Corinne, vill. 249. 
Statius, Publius Papinius {c. 45 A.D.-c, 96) Roman poet. V. 104. 
Stedman, Edmund Clarence (1833- ) American man of letters. 
Steele, Sir Richard (1671-1729) British dramatist, vi. 362. 
Stephen the Sabaite (8th century) Greek monk, poet. vil. 93, 
Stephens, Ann Sophia (1813-86) American novelist. Fashion and Famine. 
Sterne, Laurence (1713-68) English novelist. Tristram Shandy, vil. 342. 
Stevenson, Robert Louis (1850-94) Scotch novelist, poet, essayist. Travels With a 

Donkey ; Treasure Island ; Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde ; Kidnapped, x. 275, 
Stimson, Frederick Jessup (1855- ) American novelist. King Noanett. 
Stjernhjelm, Georg (1598-1672) Swedish poet. VIII. 187. 
Stockton, Frank Richard (1834- ) American humorist. Rudder Grange; The 

Lady or the Tiger ? 
Stoddard, Richard Henry (1825- ) American lyric poet. 
Stowe, Harriet Beecher (1811-96) American novelist. Uncle Tom's Cabin; Dred; 

The Minister's Wooing ; Pearl of Orr's Island ; Agnes of Sorrento, ix. 185 
Straparola, G. Francesco (i6th century) Italian story- writer, v. 227. 
Suckling, Sir John (1608-42) English poet. v. 382. 
Sudermann, Hermann (1857- ) German dramatist. 
Sue, EugI;ne (1804-59) French romancer. The Wandering Jew. 
SuHM, -Peder Frederick (1728-98) Danish historian, viii. 147. 
Suetonius — Caius Suetonius Tranquillus (75-160) Latin biographer, vi. 70. 
Surrey, Earl of (1516-47) English poet. iv. 301. 
Swift, Jonathan (1667-1745) English prose satirist. Tale of a Tub ; Battle of the 

Books ; Drapier's Letters ; Gulliver's Travels, vi. 384. 
Swinburne, Algernon Charles (1837- ) English poet. Atalanta in Calydof., 

Bothwell. X. 265. 
' Sylva, Carmen,' Elizabeth, Queen of Roumania (1843- ) German poet. 
SymoNDS, John Addington (1840-93) English critic and historian of literature. 

Tacitus, Publius Cornelius {c. 54-120?) Roman historian v. 123. 

Taine, Hippolyte Adolphe (1828-93) French historian of literature. 

Tannahill, Robert (1774-1810) Scotch poet. 

Tannhauser (13th century) German lyric poet. iii. 273. 

Tasso, Bernardo (1493-1569) Venetian poet. 

TassO, Torquato (1544-95) Italian epic poet. Jerusalem Deliveied. v. 234. 

TassoNIj Alessandro (1565-1635) Italian burlesque poet. vj. 125. 


Tautphceus, Baroness von (1807-93) Irish novelist. The Initials. 

Taylor, Bayard (1825-78) American poet, novelist and traveler, x. 313. 

Taylor, Sir Henry (1800-S6) English poet. 

Taylor, Jeremy, Bishop (1613-67) English religious writer, v. 328, vi. 288. 

Taylor, John (1560-1654) English poet, " the water-poet." 

Tegner, Esaias, Bishop (1782-1846) Swedish poet. viii. 193. 

Tennyson, Alfred, Baron Tennyson (1809-92) English poet. In Memoriam ; The 
Princss ; Idylls of the King. x. 235. 

Terence— PuBLius Terentius Afer (185 b. 0.-159) Latin comic dramatist, u. 145. 

Tertullian, Q. Septimius (160-240) African-Latin ecclesiastical writer, vil. 105. 

Thackeray, William Makepeace (1811-63) English novelist. The Newcomes ; Vanity 
Fair; Pendennia ; The Virginians ; Henry Esmond, x. 218. 

Thaxter, Ceha, Mrs. (1836-94) American poet. 

Theocritus {Jl. 270 b.c.) Greek bucolic poet. vi. 34. 

Theognis (550-467 B.C.) Greek gnomic poet. 11. 93. 

Thiers, Louis Adolphe (1797-1877) French statesman and historian. French Revolution. 

Thibaud, King of Navarre (1201-52) French lyric poet. i. 209. 

Thompson, Maurice (1844- ) American novelist and essayist. 

Thomson, James (1700-48) Scotch-English poet. The Seasons, vn. 356. 

Thomson, James (1834-82) Scotch poet. The City of Dreadful Night. 

Thoreau, Henry David (1817-62) American nature-essayist. 

ThuCYDIDES (471 B.C.-400?) Greek historian. Peloponnesian War. iv. 25. 

TiBULLUS, Albius {c. 54 B.C.-*'. 19) Roman amatory poet. iv. 155. 

TicKELL, Thomas (1686-1740) English poet. 

Tieck, Johann Ludwig (1773-1853) German romanticist, ix. 341. 

TiEDGE, Christoph August (l752?-l84l) German poet. 

TiNCKER, Mary Agnes (1833- ) American novelist. The Jewel in the Lotus. 

Tiraboschi, Girolami (1731-94) Itahau historian of literature. 

Tolstoi, Count Lyof N. (1828- ) Russian novelist. Cossacks ; War and Peace ; 
Anna Karenins. x. 46. 

TOURGEE, Albion Winegar (1838- ) American novelist. A Fool's Errand. 

Tourneur, Cyril (Jl. 1600) English dramatist, v. 344. 

Trissino, Gian Giorgio (1478-1550) Italian poet. v. 200. 

Trollope, Anthony (1815-82) English novelist. Doctor Thome ; Framley Parson- 
age ; Can You Forgive Her? Phineas Finn, the Irish Member; Phineas Redux. 

Trollope, Thomas Adolphus (1810-92) English novelist of Italian life. 

Trowbridge, John Townsend (1827- ) American poet and novelist. 

Trumbull, John (1750-1831) American satirical poet. ix. 36. 

Tuckerman, Henry Theodore (1813-71) American critic and author. 

TuPPER, Martin Farquhar (1810-89) English poet. Proverbial Philosophy. 

Turgenieff, Ivan (1818-83) Russian novelist. Fathers and Sons ; Virgin Soil. x. 24. 

'Twain, Mark,' Samuel Langhorne Clemens (1837- ) American humorist. The 
Innocents Abroad ; Roughing It ; Tom Sawyer ; Huckleberry Finn ; The Prince 
and the Pauper ; Joan of Arc. 

Tyler, Moses Coit (1835- ) American literary historian. 

Tyndale, William (1484-1536) English translator of New Testament, iv. 29I. 

TYRT.EUS (7th Cent, b.c.) Greek war-poet. 11. 83. 

Udall, Nicholas (1506-56) English dramatist. Ralph Roister Doister. 
Uhland, Ludwig (1787-1862) German lyric poet. x. 189. 
Ulfilas, Bishop (4th century) Gothic translator of Bible, i. 279. 


Valdes, Armando Palacio (fl. 1870) Spanish novelist. 

Valera, Juan (1824- ) Spanish poet and novelist. 

Valerius Maximus (ist century) Roman historian, v. 104- 

Vanbrugh, Sir John (1666-1726) English dramatist. 

Vasari, Giorgio, Cavaliere (1512-74) Italian writer. Lives of the Painters, iv. 228. 

Vaughan, Henry (1621-95) English mystic poet. 

Vega, Garcilaso de la (1500-35) Spanish poet. 11. 305. 

Verlaine, Paul (1844-96) French rascal poet and story-writer. 

Verne, Joles (1828- ) French romancist. x. 151. 

Vicente, Gil (1490-1556) Portuguese dramatist, iii. 256, 

ViDA, Marco Girolamo (1489-1566) Italian-Latin poet. The Game of Chess. 

Vidal, Pierre (d. 1229) Provencal troubadour. I. 344. 

ViGNY, Alfred Victor, Comte de (1793-1863) French novelist. Cinq-Mars. 

Villehardouin, Geoffrey de (1165-1213) French historian. 11. 308. 

'Villon, Francis,' Francois Montcorbier (i43i-i-. 89) French rascal poet. 11. 336. 

Virgil — Publius Vergilius Maro (70-19 b.c.) Roman poet. ^neid. iv. 112. 

VoiTURE, Vincent (1598-1648) French poet. v. 254. 

VoLNEY, CoNSTANtiN DE, CoUNT (1757-1820) French philosopher and author. Ruins. 

Voltaire, Francois Marie Arouet de (1694-1778) French writer. La Henriade; 

Charles XII.; Philosophical Letters ; Zaire ; Merope ; Zadig. vil. 220. 
VONDEL, Joost van DEN (1587-1679) Dutch poet and dramatist. Lucifer, vi. 278. 
VoN-VlsiN, Denis Ivanovich (1744-92) Russian poet. Mother's Darling Son. 
Voss, JoHANN Heinrich (1751-1826) German poet and translator. Luise. vill. 53. 

Wace, Robert (1120-80?) Norman-French trouvfere. Roman de Brut. i. 205. 

Wagner, Heinrich Leopold (1747-79) German poet. viii. 57. 

Wallace, Lewis (1827- ) American general, lawyer and novelist. Ben Hur. 

Waller, Edmund (1605-87) English poet. vi. 311. 

Walpole, Horace (Earl of Orford) English author. The Castle of Otranto, 

Walther von der Vogelweide ( 13th Cent.) German poet, minnesinger, i. 297. 

Walton, Izaak (1593-1683) English author. The Compleat Angler, v. 377. 

Ward, Elizabeth Stuart Phelps (1844- ) American novelist. The Gates Ajar. 

Ward, Humphry, Mrs. (1851- ) English novelist. Robert Elsmere. 

Ware, William (1797-1852) American historical novelist. Zenobia. 

Warner, Charles Dudley (1829- ) American litterateur and novelist. 

Warner, Susan (1819-85) American novelist. Wide, Wide World ; Queechy. 

Warren, Samuel (1807-77) English novelist. Ten Thousand a Year. 

Warton, Joseph (1722-1800) English critic and editor. 

Warton, Thomas (1728-90) English poet laureate (1785). 

Watson, William {fl. 1880) English lyric poet. 

Watts, Alaric Alexander (1799-1864) English poet and journalist. 

Watts, Isaac, Rev. (1674-1748) English hymn-writer. Psalms and Hymns. 

Webster, John [Jl. 1620) English dramatist. Duchess of Malfy. v. 339. 

Werner, Friedrich Ludwig Zacharias (1768-1823) German dramatist. 

Wessel (1742-85) Danish comic dramatist, vill. 165. 

Weyman, Stanley John (1855- ) English novelist. 

Whipple, Edwin Percy (1819-86) American literary critic. 

White, Gilbert (1720-93) English naturalist. 

White, Henry Kirke, Rev. (1785-1806) English poet. 

White, Richard Grant (1822-85) American journalist and critic. 

Whitman, Walt (1819-92) American poet. Leaves of Grass, x. 334. 


Whitney, Adelaide Button Train (1824- ) American poet and novelist. 

Whittier, John Greenleaf (1807-92) American poet. x. 306. 

Whyte-Melville, George John (1821-78) English novelist. 

WiCLIF. John (1325 ?-84) English Reformer. Translated the Bible, m. 309. 

WiELAND, Christopher Martin (1733-1813) German poet and prose-wrHer. vill. 46. 

WiFFEN, Jeremiah Holmes (1792-1836) English poet and translator. 

Wigglesworth, Michael (1631-1705) American Calvinistic poet. ix. 18. 

Wilcox, Ella Wheeler (1845- ) American poet. 

WiLKiNS, Mary Eleanor (1858) American novelist. A New England Nun. 

William of Malmesbury {c 1095-f. 1142) English Latin historian. 

William of Poitiers (1071-1127) Provencal poet. i. 339. 

Willis, Nathaniel Parker (1806-67) American poet and journalist, 

Wilson, John (1785-1854) Scotch poet, novelist and essayist. Noctes Ambrosianse ; 

Lights and Shadowrs of Scottish Life. 
WiNCKELMANN, JOHANN JOACHIM (1617-68) German critic. VIII. II. 
' Winter, John Strange,' Mrs. Stannard (1856- ) English novelist. 
Winter, William (1836- ) American journalist and dramatic critic. 
WiNTHROP, Theodore (1828-61) American poet, novelist. 
Wister, Annis Lee [Furness] ( 1830- ) American translator from German. 
Wolfe, Charles (1791-1823) Irish poet. Burial of Sir John Moore. 
Wolfram von Eschknbach (7?. 1250) German epic poet. Parzival'; Titurel. 1. 299. 
Wood, George (1799-1870) American writer. 

WooDWORTH, Samuel (1785-1843) American journalist, poet. The Old Oaken Bucket. 
WOOLMAN, John (1720-72) American Quaker. Journal. 
WOOLSON, Constance Fenimore ( 1848-94) American novelist and poet. 
WpRDSWORTH, William (1770-1850) English poet. Lyrical Ballads ; The Excursion* 

The White Doe of Rylstone ; The Prelude, ix. 258. 
WOTTON, Henry, Sir (1568-1639) English poet, miscellanist. 
Wyatt, Sir Thomas (1503-42) English lyric poet. iv. 301. 
Wycherley, WilliajJ (1640-1715) English dramatist, vi. 325. 

Xenophon {c. 430 B.C.-C. 355) Greek historian. Hellenics ; Anabasis ; Cyropaedia. rv. 4& 
Xenophon of Ephesus (2nd century). Greek romancist.^ 

Yates, Edmund Hodgson (1831-94), English journalist, novelist. 
Yonge, Charlotte Mary (1823- ) English novelist, miscellanist. Heir of Redclyffe. 
Young, Edward (1674-1765) English poet. Night Thoughts, vii. 363. 
Yriarte, Tomas de (1750-91) Spanish dramatist. Literary Fables, vill. 222. 

Zacharia, Just FriedriCH Wilhelm (1726-77) German satirical poet. 

Zangwill, Israel (1864- ) English-Jewish novelist. Children of the Ghetto. 

Zedlitz, Joseph Christian von, Baron (1790-1862) Austrian lyric poet. 

Zeise, Heinrich (1822- ) German poet, translator. 

Zeno (350-260 B.C.) Greek stoic philosopher, v. 73. 

Zeno, ApOSTOLO (1668-1750) Italian dramatist, historian, " The Father of Italian Opera." 

Zhukovski, Vasilu Andreevich (1783-1852) Russian poet. 

Zimmerman, Johann Georg (1728-95) German miscellanist. On Solitude. 

Zohair (before 600) Arabian poet. I. 186. 

Zola, Emile (1840- ) French novelist. The Fortunes of the Rougons; L'Assommoir; 

Nana; The Soil; The Dream; Lourdes; Rome; Paris, x. 166. 
Zschokke, Johann Heinrich Daniel (1771-1848) German novelist, ix. 344. 





Year. Vol. Pap 

B.C. 4266 The Book of the Dead, oldest Chapter 130 I. 2; 

3580 Precepts of Ptah-Hotep (Prisse Papyrus, Sibliotkique NationaU, Paris) I. 21 

2800 Tales of the Magicians (Westcar Papyrus. Berlin Museum) •'•3; 

2500 Festival Dirge of King Antef. [British Museum) I. 38 

2400 Adventures of Sanehat I. 39 

1326 Pentaur, royal poet of Rameses II I. 5i 

1300 Tale of the Two Brothers (D'Orbiney Papyrus. British Museum) . . I. Si 

195 Rosetta Stone erected in reign of Ptolemy V I. it 

A.D. 1822 J. F. ChampoUion deciphered the hieroglyphic alphabet 


B.C. 3800 King Sargon I., who reigned in Akkad, founded a library I. 6? 

5500? ' Adventures of Izdubar (Nimrod?)' ' I. 71 

2245 Nineveh founded by Assnur I. 6S 

2000? 'Descentoflshtar (Venus) to Hades' I. 73 

650 Assurbanipal (Sardanapalus) founds the library in Nineveh I. 69 


The Five Classics !• '35 

B.c 3320 Emperor Fu-hsi invented table of trigrams I. I35 

1140 ' Yi-King,' the Classic of Changes !• '35 

' Li-Ki,' the Book of Ceremonies I- I35 

720 ' Shu-King,' the Classic of History, gives records from 2450 B.C. to 721 . I. 135 

' Shi-King,' the Classic of National Songs I. 136 

550 Confucius (Kung-fu-tse), philosopher I. 146 

520 ' Chun-Tsu,' " Annals of Lu," by Confucius 1. 136 

500 Lao Tze (565-500) founder of Taoism II. 39 

300 Mencius (Meng Tzu), chief philosopher after Confucius H- 45 


B.C. 1500? The Veda. Hymns to Varuna, Indra, Agni, and other gods I. 80 

1000? The 'Brahmanas.' Commentary on the Veda . . • h '^\ 

800? The 'Puranas.' Traditional explanation of the Veda J" ^ 

600? The'Upanishads.' Philosophic dissertations ^-,37 

500? The Sanskrit Epics ; J- 94 

' Ramayana.' ■ Epic by Valmiki tt ^^ 

400 ? ' Mahabharata.' Epic by Vyasa JI- 9 

A.D. 500? 'The Toy-Cart.' Earliest Hindu drama . By King Sudraka 111. " 

550 'Sakuntala.' Pastoral drama by Kalidasa Ill- '5 

'The Cloud-Messenger." Descriptive poem, by Kalidasa HI- 3' 

1200 'Gita-govinda.' Lyrical drama by Jayadeva III. 35 

1500 ' The Laws of Manu (Menu).' Modernized version of the Brahman Code V. 36 


'''"• Vol. Page 

The Buddhist Ijterature. Pali dialect. 300 B.C.— 900 a.d. ... V. 9 

B,c. 600 Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha, prophet v! 9 

500-300 Life, sermons and miracles of Buddha, written . . . . v! 11 

250 Council of Asoka frames the Buddhist canon vi 1 1 

' Buddhist Birth-Stories,' or'Jatakas' V. 18 

A.D. 200 'Hitopadesa.' Book of Good Counsel (Sanskrit) vi 27 


B.C. SSo TheAvESTA. Zarathustra (Zoroaster) compiled the Gathas (hymns) . I. 108 

A.D. 250 Sassanian Kings edited fragments of the Avesta I. 109 

655 The Moslem religion established in Persia Il] 169 

900 Rudagi, father of modem Persian poetry ll* 172 

950 Asadi (Essedi), lyric poet II. 173 

1000 FiRDAUsi, epic poet. ' Shahnameh ' (Book of Kings) II. 1 75 ■ 

1 100 Omar Khayyam, astronomer-poet. 'Rubaiyat' II. 203 

1 150 Anwari, eulogistic poet iv! 160 

1170 Khakani, lyric poet IV. 161 

1 190 Nizami, romantic poet. ' Laili and Majnun ' IV. 162 

1250 Jelaleddin Rumi, Sufic poet. ' Mesnavi ' IV. 167 

1275 Sadi, poet. 'Gulistan' ( Rose -Garden ) ; ' Bustan ' (Fruit Garden) . . . IV. 173 

1350 Hafiz of Shiraz, lyric poet, Persian Anacreon V. 181 

1450 Jami, last great poet. ' Yusuf and Zulaikha ' V. 186 

1500 Hatifi, poet. ' Laili and Majnun ' V. 180 


(The dates are according to Archbishop Usher's chronology. Recent critics consider the 

historical books of the Old Testament to date frotn about 800 B.C., and the Psalms from 621 
down to 100 B.C.) 

B.C. 1490 Moses. The Ten Commandments. Song of Moses I. 118 

1040 David. Psalms. Lament for Saul I. 122 

1000 Solomon. Song of Songs I. 125 

710 Isaiah. Prophecy ., I. 128 

570 Daniel 11-53 

165 The Maccabees II. 60 

100 The Great Synagogue preserved and expounded the Law VII. 95 

50 Hillel and Shammai, rabbis VII. lol 

A.D. 400 The Jerusalem Tahnud VII. 96 

600? Completion of Babylonian Talmud VII. 96 


A.D. 600 "The Mo' allakat," seven select poems of the Arabian Pleiades .... I. 185 

622 The Hejra, or Flight of Mohammed ; the Mohammedan era 

620-30 The Koran published in 114 Suras or chapters I. 189 

660 Maisuna's Song — the Arabic ' Home, Sweet Home ' II. 165 

750 Kalilah and Dimnah ; Arabic version of Bidpai's Indian fables V. 31 

800 El Asmai composed ' The Romance of Antar ' II- '55 

850 Ibn Alrumi, lyric poet II- '66 

940 Persian stories translated into Arabic yH- 127 

1450 Common version of " The Thousand and One Nights " VII. 127 

1708 "Arabian Nights," translated into French by Galland VII. 128 


B.C. 900 Homer, epic poet. ' Iliad ;'• Odyssey ' tt" '5'' 

T\ie^ Psmdo-Homeric Hymns ^J_- 72 

800 Hesiod, didactic poet. ' Works and Days ' \{ V 

700 Archilochus, satirist, inventor of iambics tt s 

680 Tyrtseus, composer of war-songs tt I 

660 Simonides of Amorgos, satirist of women . - tv' 21 

Eariy Greek Philosophers jV «« 

600 Mimnermus, Ionic elegiac poet 11. 8P 

X — 2* 


Yi-r. Vol. Page 

B.C. 600 Sappho and Alcseus, ^Eolic lyric poets of Lesbos II. 88 

580 The Seven Wise Men < IV* -jq 

570 ^sop the fabulist. The extant fables are later V. 67 

530 Pythagoras taught at Crotona in Italy ivi 78 

505 Parmenides of Elea, philosophic poet . . . '^ IV. 77 

500 Simonides of Ceos, lyric poet IL 99 

SCO Anacreon of Teos, poet of love and wine IV. 84 

480 Pindar of Tbebes, greatest lyric poet II. loi 

470 ^SCHYLUS, tragic poet. 7 tragedies extant III. 46 

450 Empedocles of Agrigentum, philosophic poet IV, 78 

450 Sophocles, tragic poet. 7 tragedies extant Ill, 66 

420 Euripides, tragic poet. 18 tragedies extant III. 79 

420 Herodotus, traveler. 'Father of History' , IV. 12 

410 Thucydides, general. ' Peloponnesian War' IV. 2c 

410 Socrates, moral philosopher and reformer V. 72 

410 Aristophanes, writer of comedies (public life), II extant V- 4? 

380 Plato, philosopher, founder of the Academy V. 7. 

370 Xenophon, general, historian IV. 43 

350 Isocrates, Athenian orator VI. ij 

345 Aristotle the Stagirite, founder of the Peripatetics V. 9^ 

340 /Eschines, rival of Demosthenes VI. 15 

330 Demosthenes, greatest Athenian orator. 'On the Crown' VI. 2o 

300 Menander and Philemon, writers of New Comedy (private life) .... V. 5y 

300 The Alexandrian Library founded by Ptolemy Soter VI. 3, 

280 Theocritus, Sicilian pastoral poet VI. 3^ 

27s The Septuagint translation of the Hebrew Scriptures VII. « 

250 Herondas, writer of mimes recently discovered V. 62 

250 Bion and Moschus, Sicilian pastoral poets VI. 42 

250 Cleanthes, Stoic philosopher and poet VI. 60 

240 Babrius, versifier of ^sop's Fables V. 6q 

240 Callimachus, Alexandrian librarian, poet VII. 43 

235 ApoUonius the Rhodian, epic poet, 'Argonautica' VI. 51 

150 Polybius, historian. ' Universal History' VII. Iq 

50 Mele^er compiled the ' Garland ' or first ' Anthology ' Vll. 35 

t.D. 50-100 The New Testament VII. i, 

80 Epictetus, Stoic philosopher VII. 5^ 

90 Flavins Jbsephus, Jewish historian \ VH. 2c 

loo Plutarch, ' Parallel Lives of Greeks and Romans ' VII. 4^ 

120? ' The Sayings of Jesus,' discovered in Egypt in 1897 VII. 22 

150? ' The Teaching of the Twelve Apostles ' VII. 23 

161 Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, Emperor and Stoic philosopher VII, 56 

180 LuciAN of Samosata, satirist ■ • VII. 48 

180 Clement of Alexandria wrote earliest Christian hymns VII. 82 

350 Heliodorus, afterwards bishop, wrote '^ihiopica' VII. 65 

350 Ephraem the Syrian, hymn writer . VII. 92 

360 Basil the Great, Church Father VII. 8^ 

364 Libanius, rhetorician. ' Eulogy of Julian ' , VII. 75 

380 Gregory Nazianzen, Church Father, theologian .....' VII. 8y 

400 John Chrysostom, Church Father, orator VII. 90 

400? Achilles Tatius, romancer. ' Leucippe and Clitophen ' VII. 65 

450 Longus, romancer. ' Daphnis and Chloe ' VII. 7i 


B.C. 190 Quintus Ennius, Father of Latin poetry. 'Annals' II. Il5 

180 Plautus, dramatist. 20 Comedies extant II. Il7 

165 Terence translated Menander's Comedies II. 145 

70 Lucretius, philosophic poet. ' De Rerum Natura ' Ill, 94 

70 M. TuLHUS Cicero, statesman, orator, philosopher Ill, 99 

60 Catullus, lyric poet III. I12 

50 C. Julius Caesar, general and dictator. 'Gallic War' IV. lol 

45 Sallust, historian. 'Jugurthine War'; ' Conspiracy of Catiline ' .... IV. 95 


Year. Vol. Page 

B.C. 30 VlRGIL, epic poet ' Eclogues ';' Georgics ' ; ' iEneid' IV. 113 

30 Horace, lyric poet. Odes, Satires, Epistles IV. 131 

30 TibuUus and Propertius, amatory poets IV. 155 

25 Ovid, poet. 'Heroides'; 'Art of Love'; 'Metamorphoses' IV. 140 

10 LiVY, historian of Rome V. io5 

10 Fhsedrus translated jEsop's fables V. 132 

V.D. 50 Lucan, epic poet. ' Pharsalia ' on war of Csesar and Pompey V. 147 

SO Petronius Arbiter, courtier of Nero. 'Satiricon'- V. 155 

60 Seneca, philosopher, dramatist V. 138 

60 Persius, satirist V. 134 

70 Pliny the Elder, encyclopaedist. ' Natural History ' V. 1)64 

80 Juvenal, satirist VI. 61 

90 Martial, satirist and epigrammatist V. 171 

100 Pliny the Younger, lawyer and letter- writer . . • V. 175 

110 Quintilian, rhetorician. 'Oratory' VI. 75 

125 Suetonius, biographer. ' Twelve Csesars ' ^ . VI. 70 

150 Lucius Apuleius, sophist. ' The Golden Ass ' VI. 81 

140 Aulus Gellius, compiler. • Attic Nights ' VI. 99 

350 Ausonius, poet, lived in Gaul ' VII. 106 

380 St. Jerome, monk, translated the Bible into Latin (Vulgate) VII. 121 

400 Claudian, poet. ' Rape of Proserpine ' VII. 108 

400 Prudentius, first Christian poet VII. 119 

410 St. Augustine, bishop of Hippo. 'Confessions' VII. 121 


B.C. So Amergin, bSrd^bf the Milesians V. 307 

A.D. 200 Songs of Finn, or Fionn I. 320 

250 OlsiN, or OssiAN, Irish bard L 320; V. 315 

450 St. Patrick's Breastplate, earliest Christian ode VIII. 283 

550 Weigh bards, Aneurin, Taliessin, Llywarch Hen I. 321 

1170 Welsh bard, Gwalchmai. ' Triumphs of Owen ' L 327 

1230 Irish bard, Gillabride Mac Conmide VIII. 289- 

127s The Mabinogion, Welsh prose romance L 328 

1800 B. M. Meidre, Irish bard . VIII. 292 


1250 Willem the Minstrel sang 'Reynard the Fox' in Flemish VI, 258 

1270 Maerlant, first Dutch writer. ' Mirror of History' VI. 258 

1350 Jan van Boendale versified history VI. 258 

1520 Desiderius Erasmus, humanist, wrote in Latin VI. 261 

1540 Anna Byns, the 'Sappho of Brabant' • VI. 259 

1 610 Gerbrand A. Brederode, comic dramatist VI. 284 

162S Hugo Grotius, jurist. Latin ' De Jure Belli ac Pacis ' VI. 271 

I 1630 Peter C. Hooft, poet, introduced tragedy VL 277 

1640 Jacob Cats, fabulist and allegorist VI. 278 

1650 JOOST VAN DEN VoNDEL, dramatic poet, wrote ' Lucifer's Tragedy "... VI. 278 


842 The Strasburg Oaths. Earliest written French 

1 100 ' Chanson de Roland' 1^ Thdroulde (Turoldus) I. 199 

I IOO-I2SO Provencal Literature. The Troubadours 1-337 

IIS5 Master Wace. ' Roman de Brut ';' Roman de Rou * • • I. 205 

1190 ChrestiendeTroyes,poet. . I. 281 

1210 Thibaud of Champagne, Kmg of Navarre i- 209 

1240 Marie de France. 'Lais' L 2" 

1250? ' Aucassin and Nicolete,' chant-fable 1. 210 

1260 Rutbceuf, vagabond poet ,;• *^' 

12S0 ' Romance of the Rose,' by Guillaume, de Lorris and Jean de Meung . . II. 309 

13S0 ' Amis and Amile,' prose romance H. 31a 


: Year Vol. P«ge 

A.D. 1390 Jean Froissart, chronicler II. 322 

1410 Christine de Pisan, lyric poet II. 332 

1440 Charles of Orleans, captive poet II. 334 

1460 Francis Villon, rascal poet II. 336 

1530 King Francis I., poet and patron IV. 243 

Queen Margaret of Navarre (Marguerite d'Angbulfime), poet, Vfrote the 

• Heptameron ' IV. 244 

Clement Marot, court po6t III. 202 

1540 Francois Rabelais, satirist. ' Gargantua ' III. ijrg 

1550 The PlSiade, seven poets, the chief being Ronsardj'du Bellay and Belleau IV. 250 

1552 Etienne JodeHe's ' Cleopatra,' first French tragedy V. 255 

1570 Michael de Montaigne, essayist III. 193 

1590 Seigneur de BrantSme, memoir writer IV. 260 

1593 Satire Menipp^e III. 205 

1600 Franfois de Malherbe, poet and critic, inaugurated classicism IV. 266 

J 625 Hotel de Rambouillet, the first literary salon V. 272 

1635 French Academy foiinded V. 254 

1636 Pierre Coeneille's tragedy, ' The Cid ' V. 259 

1637 Ren6 Descartes, philosopher. ' Discourse on the Method of Reasoning.'. V. 255 

1640 Blaise Pascal, philosopher. ' Provincial Letters ' V. 270 

1650 Paul Scarron travestied Virgil VI. 174 

1660 Honors D'Urf6's court pastoral, ' L'AstrSe ' V. 255 

1661-171S Reign of Louis XIV., AugustanAge VII. 195 

1665 Jean de La Fontaine's ' Fables ' V. 287 

1667 Mme. de Lafayette, novelist, ' The Princess of Cleves ' — '- 

1669 J. P. B. MOLIERE, comic dramatist; ' Tartuffe ' . VI. 187 

1670 Due de La Rochefoucauld's ' Maxims ' VI. 173 

1675 Madame de SSvignS, letter-writer VI. 212 

1680 Bishop J. B. Bossuet, orator and controversialist VI. 216 

1687 Jean de La Bruydre's 'Characters' VI. 179 

1691 Jean B. Racine's tragedy ' Athalie ' V. 301 

1700 Archbishop FSnelon's 'Telemachus' VI. 219 

1705 Alain Rea& Le Sage, novelist. ' Gil Bias ' , VII. 199 

1708 Antoine Galland, Orientalist. Translated the ' Arabian Nights ' .... VII. 128 

1 72 1 President Montesquieu, philosopher. ' Persian Letters' VII. 248 

1740 Abbfe Provost d' Exiles, novelist. ' Manon Lescaut ' VII. 208 

1750 F. M. A. Voltaire, poet, critic, dramatist, skeptic. 'Candide' .... VII. 220 

1759 Jean Jacques Rousseau, prose- writer. ' Nouvelle HSloise ' .... VII. 256 

1770 The Encyclopaedists, Diderot, D'AIembert, etc VII. 248 

1775 Caron de Beaumarchais, comic dramatist. ' The Barber of Seville "... VII. 273 

1787 Bemardin de Saint Pierre, novelist. 'Paul and Virginia' VIII. 232 

1791 Count Volney's ' Ruins, or Revolutions of Empires ' VIII. 229 

179Z Rouget de Lisle, poet. ' The Marseillaise ' VIII. 246 

1793 AndrS Chenier, lyric poet. ' The Young Captive' . VIII. 243 

1800 Jean F. de la Harpe, literary historian .' , VIII. 241 

1801 VicoMTE DE Chateaubriand, romanticist. ' Atala,' ' Genius of Chris- 

tianity' vin. 258 

1807 Madame de Stael-Holstein, descriptive writer. 'Corinne' VIII. 249 

1810 Count Joseph de Maistre, reactionary. ' Evenings at St, Petersburg' . . VIIL 254 

1820 Alphonse de Lamartine, poet and prose-writer. ' Meditations ' .... VIIL 271 

1820 P. J. BSranger, song writer for the people IX. 384 

1825 X. B. Saintine, novelist. 'Picciola' .' j X. 125 

1830 Alexandre Dumas, pire, novelist, ' The Three Musketeers ' X. 97 

1835 Alfred Victor, Comte deVigny, historical novelist. 'Cinq Mars'. ... X. 9S 

1836 Alfred de Musset, lyric poet. ' Nights ' X. 132 

1842 Honore de Balzac, novelist. ' Comgdie Humaine ' X. 109 

1844 'George Sand,' Mme. Dudevant, novelist. 'Consuelo" IX. 393 

1845 Eugene Sue, novelist. ' The Wandering Jew ' ■ . X. 9S 

1855 Thiophile Gautier, novelist. ' La Morte Amoureuse ' X. IZ9 

1858 Octave Feuillet, novelist. ' Romance of a Poor Young Man ' X. 136 

1862 Victor Hugo, poet, dramotist, novelist, ' Les Misfirables ' IX. 369 

1865 Giistave Flaubert, novelist. ' Salammbo ' X. 14I 

1866 Erckmann-Chatrian, Alsatian novelists. 'The Conscript' X. 147 


'4'eaT. . Vol. Page 

A.D. 1870 Jules Veme, scientific romancist. ' From the Earth to the Moon ' . . . . X. 151 

1880 Guy de Maupassant, short story writer. ' The Piece of String ' X. 161 

1882 Ludovic HalSvy, librettist, novelist. ' L'Abbfe Constantin ' X. 174 

1894 Emile Zola, realistic novelist. ' Le Debacle ;'' Lourdes ' X. 168 


380 Bishop Ulfilas translated the Bible into Gothic . , I. 277 

750 The Weissenbruner Prayer, oldest German writing I. 287 

800 The song of Hildebrand I. 285 

800 Charles the Great (Charlemagne) I. 280 

950 Roswitha, abbess of Gandersheim, wrote Latin plays VI. 254 

looo The monk Ekkehard wrote in Latin " Walter Stronghand " I. 287 

1150-1250 The Minnesingers : Walthervonder Vogelweide; Wolfram von Eschen- 

bach ; Hartmann von Aue I. 294 

1200 Reynard the Fox, Reineke Fuchs, appeared first in Latin III. 283 

1230 Strieker, Austrian satirist. 'Parson Amis' III. 300 

1250? The NiBELUNGENLiED (Song.of the Nibelungs) II. 380 

1260 The minstrel Tannhauser III. 273 

1290 Hugo of Trimberg, didactic poet III. 280 

1300 Gudrun, folk-epic II. 394 

1350 Tyll EvUenspiegel (Owlglass), satire III. 301 

1450 The rise of the Mastersingers, poetic guild III. 272 

1494 Sebastian Brant's ■ Ship of Fools ' . , VI. 232 

1517 Martn Luther begins the Reformation VI. 238 

1520 Ulrichl von Hutten, poet laureate and satirist VI. 235 

1530 Thomas Murner, Roman Catholic satirist VI. 231 

1550 Hans Sachs of Nuremberg, shoemaker poet III. 305 

1570 Johann Fischart, burlesque writer VI. 232 

1587 ' Histojy of Dr. Faustus,' chap-book VI. 232 

1640 Simon (jach, poet in Ix)W German VI. 248 

1660 Andreas Gryphius, dramatist VI. 255 

1668 C. von Grimmelshausen, novelist. ' Simplicissimus ' VI. 249 

1700 Gottfried W. Leibnitz, philosopher, wrote Latin and French VIII. 10 

1720 Christian Wolf, philosopher VIIL 11 

1730 Joseph C. Gottsched, critic. Translated Addison's ' Cato ' VIIl. 11 

1740 Frederic von Hagedorn, Anacreontic poet VIII. 13 

1748 F. G. Klopstock, epic poet. 'The Messiah' VIIL 22 

1750 C. F. Gellert, poet. 'Fables' ' VIIL 16 

171:0 Johann J. Bodmer of Zurich, critic. Edited ' Nibelungenhed ' VIII. n 

1758 W. L. Gleim, poet, called ' Father Gleim.' 'War-Songs' VIIL 19 

1767 Moses Mendelssohn, Jewish philosopher. 'Phsedon' VIII. 44 

1770 J. G. Herder, translator. ' Voices of the Peoples ' VIII. 07 

1770-QO ' Storm and Stress ' period VIII. 57 

1772 G. A. Barger, ballad poet. 'Lenore' VIIL 60 

1774 J. W. Goethe, greatest German writer . / vlll. 73 

1779 G. E. Lessing, dramatist, critic. ' Nathan the Wise ' VIJT. 2& 

• -Q„ r M -WiMdn^. noet and romancist. 'Oberon' 4b 

1780 C. M. Wieland, poet and romancist. 'Oberon' VIII. 4& 

I7QO Jean Paul Richter, unique humorist. ' Qumtus Fixlem ' irTTr' -^ 

I7Q< T H. Voss, pastoral poet, translator of Homer VUi. 53 

ITOS ' Novalis ' (Count von Hardenberg), mystic. • Heinrich von Ofterdmgen" JX. ,336 

1700 Friedrich VON Schiller, poet, dramatist, historian \lll. 119 

1810 J. H. D. Zschokke, idyllic novelist .. . y ^tt 

1813 Theodor Korner, lyric poet. 'Sword Song'. a. 183 

1814 Baron de la Motte Fouqui, reviver of mediaeval romance: 'Undine . . IX. 352, 

t8iS Ludwig Tieck. romantic satiric novelist. ' Phantasus ^v" ^"^^ 

1820 A W. von Schlegel and Tieck translate Shakespeare v' ^r'* 

l8w Lidwig Uhland, Suabiah poet . X. 189 

1830 Heinrich Heine, lyric poet, satirist. ' Pictures of Travel ' . .... X. 192 

1840 Jacob and William Grimm, compilers of Household Fairy Tales .... IX. 348 
i8co Gustav Freytag, novelist. ' Our Ancestprs ' . ............. 

i860 Joseph Victor von Scheffel, poet, nov.Ust. 'The Trumpeter of Sackingen' X. 207 

406 CHRONOLOGICAI, iabi<is. 


Vear, Vol. Page 

A,D, 1 1 75 CiuUo D'Alcamo, Sicilian lyric poet II. 222 

1220 Emperor Frederick II., patron of poetry II. 224 

1240 Sordello, troubadour of Mantua II. 226 

1260 Guido Guinicelli, philosophical poet IIi 229 

1300 'The Hundred Ancient Tales,' earliest prose III. 125 

1300 Dante Alighieri, poet, ' Vita Nuova ' II, 230 

1321 The ' Divine Comedy,' published after Dante's death •. . II, 239 

1325 The friends of Dante : Cavalcanti, Pistoia, Angioleri, Brunetto Latini . . II. 256 

1350 Francesco Petrarch, lyric poet. ' Sonnets to Laura ' 11.259 

1350 Giovanni Boccaccio, novelist, ' The Decameron ' III. 129 

1375 Francho Sacchetti, novelist, poet III. 154 

1378 Giovanni Fiorentino, novelist. ' II Pecorone ' III. 160 

1450 Luigi Pulci, romantic poet. ' Morgante Maggiore ' IV. 190 

1470 Matteo M. Boiardo, poet. ' Orlando Innamorato ' IV. 206 

1480 Lorenzo de' Medici, the Magnificent III. 165 

1483 Angelo Poliziano (Politian), humanist and poet III. 167 

1500 Giacomo Sannazaro, pastoral poet. 'Arcacfia' IV. 239 

1514 NiccoLO Machiavelli, prose-writer. 'The Prince' IV. 198 

I j20 Francesco Bemi, burlesque poet, recast 'Orlando Innamorato' V. 200 

1520 Baldassare Castiglione's ' Courtier ' IV. 217 

1525 Luigi da Porto, novelist. ' La Giulietta ' IV. 218 

1530 Vittoria Colonna, lyric poeti ' IV. 222 

1530 LuDOVico Ariosto, romantic poet. ' Orlando Furioso ' V. 202 

1540 Bernardo Tasso, poet, versified 'Amadis di Gaula' V. 200 

1550 Michel Angelo Buonarroti, sculptor, painter, poet , IV. 225 

1550 Matteo Bandello, novelist VI. 104 

1555 Giorgio Vasari, art-historian IV. 228 

1560 Benvenuto Cellini, goldsmith, autobiographer IV. 231 

1560 G. F. Straparola, novelist. 'Thirteen Happy Nights' V. 227 

1565 G. G. Cinthio novelist. ' The Hundred Fables ' V. 219 

1570 ToRQUATO Tasso, epic poet. ' Jerusalem Delivered,' relating to the First 

Crusade, V. 234 

1590 Giainbattista Gnarini, lyric dramatist. ' Pastor Fido' VII. 147 

1600 Giambattista Marini, lyric poet VI. 127 

The Rise of the Opera VI. 121 

1610 Gabriello Chiabrera, lyric poet VI. 122 

1630 Alessandro Tassoni, burlesque poet. ' The Captured Bucket ' VI. 125 

1683 Vincenzo da Filicaja, lyric poet. ' Deliverance of Vienna ' . , . . . VII. 153 

1685 Francesco Redi, humorous poet. ' Bacchus in Tuscany ' VI. 130 

17 13 Francesco Maffei, dramatist. 'Merope' VII. 158 

1750 C. I. Frugoni, pastoral poet VII. 145 

1750 Metastasio, court dramatic poet at Vienna VII. i6i 

1760 Carlo Goldoni, Venetian comic dramatist VII. 167 

1770 Giuseppe Parini, satirist VII. 175 

1775 VittoRio Alfieri, tragic dramatist. ' Cleopatra ' VII. 178 

1791 Vincenzo Monti, poet. 'Bassevilliana' X. 79 

1800 Ugo Foscolo, patriot, poet. ' Last Letters of Jacopo Ortis ' X. 65 

1825 Alessandro Manzoni, poet, novelist. ' I Promessi Sposi ' X. 72 

1827 Francesco D. Guerrazzi, novelist. ' The Battle of Benevento ' X. 84 

1830 Tommaso Grossi, poet, satirist X. 64 

1832 Silvio Pellico, prisoner, poet. ' My Prisons ' X. 68 

1833 Giambattista Niccolini, dramatist. ' Giovanni da Procida ' X. 81 

1834 Giacomo Leopardi, pessimistic poet. ' Bruto Minore ' X. 87 

1841 Giuseppe Giusti, poet, satirist. 'St. Ambrose' X. 92 

1870 Edmondo D'Amicis, traveler X. 65 

1880 Crabrielle D'Annunzio, poet, realistic novelist X. 65 


A.D. 1000 Folk-songs and legends III. 386 

liio Nestor.(f. 1056-IH4), monk of Kiev, chronicler III. 388 


^•"- Vol. Page 

A.D. 1682 Peter the Great succeeded to the throne , 

1750 Michael Lomonosoff( 17 1 1-65), lyric poet III. 393 

1800 Gabriel Derzhavin (1743-1816), poet III. 395 

1805 Nikolai M. Karamsin, historian. ' History of Russia ' X. 11 

1809 Ivao, A. Kriloff, fabulist X. 12 

1837 Alexander Pushkin, poet, dramatist. ' Eugene Oneguin ' X. 14 

1840 Taras Shevchenko, poet of Little Russia . . . .' X. 10 

184S Nikolai Gogol, novelist of the Cossacks and serfs. 'Dead Souls' ... X. 18 

1850 Mikhail Y. Lermontoff, 'poet of the Caucasus' X. 10 

1862 Ivan S. TuRGENiEFF, novelist of Nihilism. ' Fathers and Sons ' ... X. 24 

1865 Feodor M. Dostoievsky, novelist. ' Crime and Punishment ' X. 37 

1876 Count Lyof N. Tolstoi, novelist. ' Anna Karenina ' X. 46 

x88o Marie Bashkirtseff, artist. 'Journal' X. 61 


1000 The Elder Edda (Scandinavian Mythology), poems recovered in 1643 . II. 352 

1200 The Younger Edda, prose legends, collected by Snorri Sturlason .... II. 362 

1200 The Heimskringla, Saga of the Kings of Norway IV. 270 

1300 The Saga of Frithiof (Fridthjof) II. 374 


15th Century Ballads .••••. ^^^^- ^^^ 

1550 Christian Pedersen translated New Testament into Danish VIII. 14S 

1641 Anders Arrebo, bishop, poet. ' Hexameron ' VIII. 147 

1720 Ludvig Holberg, historian, comic dramatist VIII. 154 

1790 -J. E. Baggeseit, poet and prose-writer "VIU. l65 

1810 Adam G. Oehlenschlager, dramatist, romantic poet , ! VIH. 174 

1837 Hans Christian Andersen (1805-75) story writer 

1870 George Brandes (1842 ' ) critic 


15th Century Ballads ■ • VIH. 189 

1650 Georg Stjernhjelm (l598-l672)vpoet Vill. i»7 

1675 OlofRudbeck (1 630-1 702) historian. 'Atlantica' Vlll. 187 

1749 Emmanuel Swedenborg (1688-1772) mystic. ' Arcana Coelestia '. . . . VIIL 188 

1780 Cari M. Bellman, Anacreontic poet VIII. 190 

1825 ESAIAS Tegner, bishop, poet; modernized ' Fnthiofs Saga Vlll. 193 

1842 Fredrika Bremer, novelist. ' The Neighbors ' 


1200 Autos Sacramentales, or Miracle plays' ^r" '''c 

1200 ' Poem of the Cid,' originally in "Latin T ^fif 

1250 ' Cid Ballads,' composed at various dates ••••■•-.,•; y ill 

1270 Tames L of Aragon (Don Jayme, the Conqueror), 'Chronicle ^-305 

1280 Alfonso X. the Wise. ' Seven Parts ' ; J- 37° 

1300 Chronicle of the Cid, prose I 380 

Historical Ballads t' ^o- 

1 540 Don Juan Manuel. Humorous stones and poems -J 

1350 JuanRiaz, Archpriest of Hita, songs and pastorals ... J- 304 

1360 Rabbi Santo (Santob)de Carrion. 'The Dance of Death II. 278 

1410 Marqa6s de Santillana, lync poet . •.• • v'," / ', ' ' n" 202 

430 Juan de Mena, poet, imitated Dante in ' El Laberinto II. 292 

1460 Jorge de Manrique, poet . . ... ■ _■ ■•■•, " n, zli 

ll8o Ordonez deMontalvo translated 'AmadisdiGaula ^^-3 

l9oCdestina,tragi-comedy, earl est Spanish secular play 11-300 

\%o Italian influence on Spanish literature began ^^- ^° 

,„o Tuan Boscan Almogaver, epistola^ poet ^ -iS 

\l\l ijarcilasodelaVega, ' Prince of Ca,Ulian poets ' ". 3°S 



Year. Vol. Page 

A.D. 1550 • Lazarillo de Tonnes ' — the first picaresque story III. 210 

1570 Alonso de Ercilla, epic poet. 'LaAraucana' VIIL 20I 

•599 Mateo Aleman, novelist. 'Guzman de Alfaraclie' VI. 162 

1600 Lope de Vega Carpio, dramatist. ' Cloak-and-Sword play ' VI. 138 

1600 Luis de Gongora, poet, introduced the affected fine style ■ VI. 148 

1605 Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, novelist. ' Don Quixote ' . ... III. 221 

1610 Guillen de Castro, dramatist VIII. 199 

1620 Francisco de Quevedo, satirist VI. 1S3 

1650 Pedro Caledron de la Barca, dramatist. 'The Wonder- Working 

Magician' VIII. 205 

1750 J. F. de Isla, satirist. ' Friar Gerundio ' VIII. 225 

1782 Tomas de Yriarte, poet. ' Literary Fables ' VIII. 222 


1300 Dom Diniz collected popular songs III. 154 

1380 Vasco de Lobeyra composed ' Amadis di Gaula.' II. 283 

1420 Macias the Enamored, lyric poet III. 255 

1545 Bemardim Ribeyro, poet, vprote ' Diana Enamorada,' first pastoral n6vel . III. 256 

1550 Saa de Miranda, lyric poet III. 258 

1570 Luis de Camoens, epic poet. ' The Lusiad.' III. 260 


Soo 'Widsith.' The Traveler's Song I. 242 

600 ? ' Beowulf,' epic poem I. 254 

670 Csedmon versifies ' Genesis.' I. 249 

700 Cynewulf, poet I. 257 

870 Alfred THE Great, King and promoter of learning I. 258 

850-1000 ' Saxon Chronicle,' begun by Alfred's order I. 264 

1066 William the Conqueror invade^ England 

1200 Layamon, priest, versifies the story of Brutus I. 270 

1 140-1275 Latin Chroniclers III. 308 

1 146 Geoffrey of Monmouth, chronicler, tells the Story of King Arthur . . . . III. 313 

13th Cent. Arthurian Legend, expanded by Walter Map III. 310 

13th Cent. Cycles of Romance brought from France , . . . III. 330 

13H Miracle-plays or pageants, first introduced IV. 330 

1370 John Wiclif (1324-84), Reformer, translated the Bible from the Vulgate III. 309 

1370 William Langland's ' Vision of Piers Plowman "" III. 347 

1380 Geoffrey ChAuper, poet. ' Canterbury Tales ' III. 323 

1430 John Lydgate, allegorical poet . . , III. 361 

1400 John Gower, ' moral ' poet. ' Confessio Amantis ' III. 356 

1440 ' Chevy Chase,' and other Ballads III. 367 

1450 Miracle-plays and Moralities , IV. 332 

1469 Sir T. Malory translated ' Morte D' Arthur ' from the French III. 373 

1474 William Caxton introduced printing into England IV. 291 

1509 Alexander Barclay translated 'The Ship of Fools' VI. 233 

1526 William Tyndale translated the New Testament from the Greek .... IV. 291 

1530 Sir Thomas More, Lord Chancellor, wrote ' Utopia,' Latin IV. 295 

1540 Sir T. Wyatt and Earl of Surrey, poets, introduced Italian styles .... IV 301 

1550 Roger Ascham. ' Toxophilus ' and ' The Scholemasler' IV. 305 

1 55 1 Udal's ' Ralph Roister Doister,' earliest comedy IV, 293 

1561 Sackville's ' Ferrex and Porrex,' earliest tragedy . , . IV. 293 

1579 Sir Thomas North translated ' Plutarch's Lives ' IV. 292 

1580 John Lyly's 'Euphues' introduced an affected style IV. 294 

1580 Sir Philip Sidney's ' Arcadia,' pastoral romance IV. 307 

1584 Robert Greene, dramatist IV. 294 

1590 Christopher Marlowe, father of English tragedy IV. 335 

1596 Edmund Spenser's ' Faerie Queene," allegorical poem IV. 312 

1598 Ben JoNSON, dramatist. 'Every Man in his Humor' IV. 393 

1598 Sir Francis Bacon, Baron Venilam, Lord Chancellor, philosopher. 

' Es.5ays ' , . . V. 366 


"''*"• Vol. Page 

A.u. 1600 George Chapman, poet, translated Homer IV 344 

1602 William Shakespeare, greatest dramatist. 'Hamlet' IV. 348 

1605 Thomas Dekker, dramatist v' 3^6 

1605 Beaumont and Fletcher, dramatists .'!.".'.*.".".'!! v! 349 

1609 Samuel Daniel, historical poet '..'.'.'.'. V. 330 

i6lo Cyril Tourneur, tragic dramatist ..'....'. '. V 344 

1611 Authorized Translation of the Bible, dedicated to James I '. V. 327 

1620 Michael Drayton's ' Poly-Olbion,' describing England V 332 

1623 John Webster, dramatist. ' Duchess of Malfy ' V. 339 

1626 George Herbert, religious poet V. 374 

1630 Philip Massinger's 'New Way to Pay Old Debts' .......... v! 360 

1632 William Prynne attacks the stage in ' Histrio-Mastix ' VL 322 

1640 Robert Herrick, lyric poet V. 388 

f 1640 Sir John Suckling, cavalier song-writer V. 382 ( 

,^->J 1643 Sir Thomas Browne's ' Religio Medici ' VL 2^3/ 

Z1645 Richard Lovelace, cavalier poet . . ., v! .386/ 

Edmund Waller, lyric poet Vl! 311 

1645 Rev. T. Fuller's " Good Thoughts in Bad Times " VI. 289 

1648 Parliament prohibited stage-plays VI. 322 

1651 Bishop Jeremy Taylor's " Holy Living and Dying " VI. 288 

1653 Izaak Walton's " Compleat Angler " V. 377 

1656 Sir William Davenant restores Stage-plays VI. 325 

>l66o Restoration of Charles II. to the throne , . VI. 323 

Andrew Marvell, poet, satirist VI. 296 * 

The diarists, Samuel Pepys and John Evelyn VI., 289' 

1656 Abraham' Cowley's "Pindaric Odes'" VI. 299 

1665 London Gazette, official newspaper, first published VI. 360 

\ 1667 John Milton's epic, ' Paradise Lost ' V. 392 » 

1660-85 The Restoration Dramatists VI. 323 

1670 Samuel Butler's ' Hudibras,' ridiculing Presbyterians VI. 314 

1670 Lord Clarendon's ' History of the Great Rebellion ' (published in 1702) . VI. 354 

1671 Duke of Buckingham's 'Rehearsal' ridiculed Dryden's plays VI. 288 

167s William Wycherley's 'Plain-Dealer' VI. 325 

1678 John Bunyan's allegory. ' Pilgrim's Progress ' VI. 305 

1680 John Dryden, poet, dramatist, translator, satirist VI. 341 

1682 Thomas Otway, dramatist. ' Venice Preserved ' VI. 33S 

1702-J4 Reign of Queen Anne. Augustan Age VI. 359 

1703 William Congreve, dramatist. ' The Way of the World-' VI. 331 

1709 Sir Richard Steele begins ' The Tatler,' April 12 VI. 362 

1711 Joseph Addison, essayist. ' The Spectator ' begins March l VI. 374 

17 1 2 Alexander Pope, poet. ' The Rape of the Lock ' VI. 392 

1713 Dr. John-Arbuthnot, satirist. ' History of John Bull ' VIL 283 

1717 CoUey Gibber's play, ' The Nonjuror ' VL 192 

1719 Daniel Defoe, novelist. ' Robinson Crusoe ' VII. 301 

1726 Jonathan Swift, dean, satirist. 'Gulliver's Travels' ^^' ^|i 

1727 John Gay, poet and fabulist. ' Beggar's Opera ' VIL 286 

1730 James Thomson, poet. ' The Seasons ' VII. 356 

Minor poets of this period : Ambrose Philips, William Somerville, Mark 

Akenside, Dr. John Armstrong, William Blair VII. iSl 

1735 Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, letter-writer VII. 292 

1741 Samuel Richardson's 'Pamela' . VIL 312 

1742 Henry Fielding's ' Joseph Andrews ' VII. 324 

1744 Edward Young's 'Night Thoughts' Vtx' ^^ 

1742 William Shenstdne, poet. ' The School- Mistress ' Vll- 372 

1747 William Collins, lyric poet. 'Odes' ^tt <5 

1750 Thomas Gray, poet. ' Elegy in a Country Churchyard . ••••••• ^"-31/ 

1754 David Hume, historian, philosopher. History of England (i754-di) • Vll. 2»I 

1755 Dr. Samuel Johnson, critic, essayist, lexicographer VII. 379 

1760 Laurence Sterne, humorist. ' Tristram Shandy ' V 11. 342 ^ 

1762 Tames Macpherson published ' Ossian's Fingal ' . . •••■■• ■ • ' ,„jj- SH 

176.; Bishop Thomas Percy published ' Reliques of Ancient English Poetry ' . VIII. 323 

1766 Oliver Goldsmith's 'Vicar of Wakefield' XiHI! 

1769 'Lettersof Junius' (1769-72), political diatnbes V 11, 283 


Year. Vol. Page 

A. 0.1769 William Robertson, historian. ' Charles V.' VII. 281 

1769 Thomas Chatterton published pretended poems of Ro'wiey VII. 398 

1770 Tobias Smollett's 'Humphrey Clinker' VII. 334 

1771 Henry Mackenzie's ' Man of Feeling ' . VII. 299 

1775 R. B. Sheridan, orator, dramatist. 'The Rivals' VIIl! 330 

1776 Edward Gibbon, historian. 'Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire' VII. 281 

1783 George Crabb^, realistic poet of humble hfe. 'The Village' IX. 198 

1785 William CowPER, poet. 'The Task' VIII. 346 

1791 James Boswell, biographer. ' Life of Dr. Johnson ' VII. 384 

1790 Edmund Burke, statesman, orator. ' Reflections on the French Revolution' VIII. 341 
1794 William Godwin, novelist. ' Caleb Williams ' VII. 300 

1798 Wordsworth and Coleridge publish ' Lyrical Ballads ' IX. 260 

1799 Thomas Campbell, lyric poet. ' Pleasures of Hope' IX. 271 

1801 Robert Southey, poet, essayist. 'Thalaba'; 'The Doctor' (1834) . . . IX. 267 

1802 The ' Edinburgh Review ' founded IX. 298 

1805 Sir Walter Scott's ' Lay of the Last M(nstrel ' VIII. 355 

1810 S. T. Coleridge, poet, philosopher. 'The Friend' IX. 249 

1811 Jane Austen, novelist. ' Sense and Sensibility ' 

1812 Lord Byron, narrative and passionate poet. 'Childe Harold' .... IX. 202 

1814 Sir W. Scott issues ' Waverley ' anonymously VIII. 356 

1 815 William Wordsworth, meditative poet. 'The Excursion' IX. 260 

1817 Thomas Moore, lyric poet. 'LallaRookh' IX. 232 

i8i8 Percy Bysshe Shelley, lyric poet. ' Revolt of Islam ' - IX. 319 

1820 John Keats, lyric and narrative poet. ' Eve of St. Agnes ' IX. 225 

1820 Sydney Smith, witty contributor to JEdinburgk Review IX. 297 

1823 Charles Lamb, essayist. ' Essays of Elia ' IX. 239 

1827 Thomas Hood, poet, punster. ' Bridge of Sighs ' IX. 275 

1834 Thomas Carlyle, biographer, seer. ' Sartor Resartus ' X. 228 

1843 John Rustin, art-critic, prose-poet. ' Modern Painters (1843-60) . . . 

1847 Charlotte Bronte, novelist. ' Jane Eyre ' 

1848 Lord Macaulay, essayist, historian. ' History of England ' 

1848 W. M. Thackeray, novelist. ' Vanity Fair ' X. 218 

1849 Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, novelist, dramatist. .'The Caxtons' .... IX. 281 

1849 Kev. Charles Kingsley, novelist. 'Alton Locke' 

1850 Charles Dickens, novelist of humble life. ' David Copperfield ' . . . IX. 301 

1850 Alfred Tennyson, lyric poet. 'InMemoriam' . . . .' X. 245 

1856 Mrs. E. B. Browning, lyric poet. ' Aurora Leigh ' X. 254 

1864 Algernon C. Swinburne, poet. ' Atalanta in Calydon ' X. 265 

1865 Matthew Arnold, poet, critic. ' Essays on Criticism * X. 276 

1868 Robert Browning, psychological poet. ' The Ring and the Book ' . . X. 240 

1868 William Morris, socialist, poet. 'Earthly Paradise' 

1869 ' George Eliot,' novelist. ' Adam Bede ' X. 258 

1870 Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of Beaconsfield, statesman, novelist. 'Lothair' 
1882 Sir Walter Besant, novelist. ' All Sorts and Conditions of Men ' . . . 

1886 Alfred Lord Tennyson, lyric poet, completed 'Idylls of the King' (185S-86) X. 235 
1886 Robert Louis Stevenson, novelist. ' Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde ' .... X. 375 

1889 James Bryce, publicist. ' American Commonwealth ' 

1895 Alfred Austin, appointed poet laureate. ' England's Darling' 


1378 John Barbour, archdeacon, poet, wrote epic ' The Bruce ' III. 376 

1430 King James I. (1394-1437), poet. ' King's Quhair (Book) " HI. 379 

1490 Robert Henryson, schoolmaster, poet. . III. 383 

1500 William Dunbar (1460 ?-i520?) poet HI. 384 

1560 John Knox, Chureh Reformer VIII. 294 

1570 George Buchanan, Latin poet VIII. 294 

1630 William Drummond of Hawthornden, poet VIII. 299 

1706 Watson's ' Collection of Scots Songs ' VIII. 295 

1725 Allan Ramsay, pastoral poet. ' The Gentle Shepherd ' VIII. 301 

1756 John Home, dramatist. 'Douglas' VIII. 325 

1787 Robert Burns, poet. ' The Cotter's Saturday Night,' 'Tam O'Shanter' . VIII. 308 
1§I3 James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, poet. ' The Queen's Wake ' . . , , 


^*"- Vol. Page 

A.D. 1500 Aboriginal. Poems of the Aztecs, etc I 586 

1624 Captain John Smith's 'General History of Vireinia' .' TX 13 

1639 'The Bay Psalm book' ..'.'.'. IX 10 

167s Michael Wigglesworth's 'Day of Doom' !'.!!!!'. ix' 18 

1702 Cotton Mather's.' Magnalia Christi Americana' !.'."!!!!!!!! IX 20 

1732 Benjamin Franklin issues ' Poor Richard's Almanac ' . ........ IX'. 28 

1776 The Declaration of Independence, written by Thomas Jefferson . . . 

JohnTrumbuU, satirist. 'McFingal* '. . IX. 36 

1788 ' The Federalist ' by Hamilton, Madison and Jay . . IX. 25 

1790 Philip Freneau, poet, journalist, satirist ix! 45 

793 Joel Barlow, man of affairs. ' Hasty Pudding ' IX." 59 

795 Charles Brockden Brown, first American novelist ix! 50 

817 W. Cullen Bryant, poet of nature. ' Thanatopsis ' ix] 100 

819 Washington Irving, essayist. ' The Sketch Book ' ix! 67 

823 J. Fenimore Cooper, novelist of Indians and Sea. ' The Pilot ' . . . . 1X1 83 

834 Gporge Bancroft, historian. ' History of United States ' completed in 1875 IX. 66 

83s W. Gihnore Simms, novelist of the South. ' The Yemassee ' IX. 180 

836 R. W. Emerson, poet, seer. ' Nature ' IX. io8 

843 W. H. Prescott, historian. ' Conquest of Mexico ' ix! 66 

845 Edgar A. PoE, poet; sketch writer. 'The Raven' IX. 139 

846 J. R. Lowell, poet, essayist ' Biglow Papers ' X. 289 

847 H. W. Longfellow, lyric and narrative poet. 'Evangeline' IX. 120 

850 Nathaniel Hawthorne, novelist. ' The Scarlet Letter ' IX. 155 

851 Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe, novelist., ' Uncle Tom's Cabin ' IX. 185 

854 H. D. Thoreau, Concord recluse. ' Walden, or Life in the Woods ' . . 

855 Walt Whitman, naturalistic poet. ' Leaves of Grass ' X. 334 

l«56 John Lothrop Motley, historian. • Rise and Fall of the Dutch Republic ' . IX. 66 

858 O. W. Holmes, poet, essayist. 'Autocrat of the Breakfast Table ' . . . . X. 301 . 

863 Edward Everett Hale, miscellanist. ' Philip Nolan ' X. 32:5 

865 J. G. Whittier, Quaker poet. ' Snow-bound ' X. 306 

865 Francis Parkman, historian of the French in the New World (1865-85) . 

868 F. Bret Harte, poet, story writer. ' The Luck of Roaring Camp ' . . . . X. 337 

870 ' Mark Twain,' Samuel L. Clemens' ' Innocents Abroad ' X. 326 

876 Bayard Taylor, traveler, poet. ' National Ode' X. 313 

879 Henry James, novelist. ' Daisy Miller ' X. 351 

880 Helen Hunt Jackson, poet, novelist. 'Ramona' X. 317 

885 ' Charles Egbert Craddock,' Miss Mary N. Murfree, Tennessee novelist . X. 326 

885 William D, Howells, novelist. ' The Rise of Silas Lapham ' X. 345 

888 Edward Bellamy, novelist. ' Looking Backward ' 

889 Joel Chandler Harris, relater of negro folk-lore. 'Uncle Remus' . : . X. 332 
894 James Whitcomb Riley, poet of common life X. 358 


Geoffrey Chaucer, John Skelton and Edmund Spenser, as recipients of royal favors 
from Edward III. Henry VIII. and Queen Elizabeth respectively, have sometimes been called 
Poets Laureate but they had no legal appointment as such. The position was established iii 
1630, when Ben Jonson was appointed by King Charles I. 

Ben JoNSON (1573-1637), appointed 1630. 
Sir William Davenant (1605-68). 
John Dryden (1631-1700). 
Thomas Shadwell (1640-92), appointed 

by William IIL, ^689. 
Nahum Tate (i652-i73:5)- 
Nicholas Rowe (1674- i7i»)- 

l^WRENCE EUSDEN (rf. I730> 

CoLLEY Gibber (1671-1757). ' 
William Whitehead (1715-85). 
Thomas Warton (1728-90). 
Henry James Pye (1745-1813). 
Robert Southky (1774-1843). 
William Wordsworth ( 1770-1850). 
Alfred Tennyson (1809-52). y 

Alfred Austin {d. 1835), appointed 1895. 


The French Academy was formed at the suggestion of Cardinal Richelieu, and received 
letters patent from Louis XIII. in 1635. Its object was to regulate the usage of the language, 
and this was done by making a Dictionary, the first edition of which appeared in 1694, and the 
seventh in 1878. There are forty members, and, on the death of any one, the survivors choose 
his successor. Hence they are popularly called the Forty Immortals. There are five sections — 
(i) The Sciences, (2) French Language and Literature, (3) History and Ancient Literature, 
(4) Fine Arts, (5) Moral and Political Science. Each Academician receives annually 1500 
francs, and wears a special dress on ceremonial occasions. The following are the members in 
1898, arranged in the order of their election : 

Ernest Wilfrid Legouv6 (bom 1807) dramatist. 

Due DE Brogue (1821) historian. 
EmILE OllIVIER (1825) orator. 

Alfred Mezi^RES (1826) critic, professor at the Sorbonne. 
Gaston Boissier (1823) classical scholar. 
Victorien Sardou (1831) dramatist. 
Edmond Rousse (1816) jurist. 
Ren6 Sully-Prudhommk (1839) P°^t- 
Victor Cherbuliez (1829) novelist. 

Adolphe Perraud (1828) cardinal, ecclesiastical biographer. 
Edouard PaillERON (1834) dramatist. 
Francois Copp^e (1842) poet. 
Joseph BeRTRAND (1822) mathematician. 
LuDOVIC Hal6vy (1834) librettist, dramatist, novelist^ 
Edouard Herv6 (1832) journalist. 
VallERY GrearD (1828) University leader. 
COMTE d'HaussONVILLE (1843) Sociologist. 
Jules Claretib (1840) dramatist, novelist. 
VicoMTE Eugene Melchior de Vogue (1848) critic, essayist. 
Charles de Freycinet (1828) statesman, engineer, author. 
Louis M. Julien Viaud, ' Pierre Loti' (1850) naval officer, romancist. 
Ernest Lavisse (1S42) historian of Germany. 
VicoMTE Henri de Bornier (1825) novelist. 
Paul Thureau Dangin (1837) historian. 
Ferdinand BrunetiI:re (1849) literary critic. 
Jos6 Maria Her^DIA (1842) Creole sonneteer. 
Albert Sorel (1842) historian. 
Paul Bourget (1852) naturalistic novelist. 

Henri Houssaye (1848) critic, historian, son of ArsJne Houssaye. 
Due d'AuDRIFFET PaSQUIER (1823) historian. 
Gabriel Hanotaux (1840) historian, statesman, foreign minister. 
Jules Lemaitre (1843) «="''<=■ 
CoMTE Albert de Mun (1840) clerical deputy. 
Gaston Paris (1839) literary historian, philologist. 
Anatole France (1844) <:"tic- 
Costa de Beauregard {1835) historian. 
CoMTE Albert de Vandal (1850) historian, novelist. 
Andr6 Theuriet (1833) novelist. 



Vol. Page 

Aaron, Herbert v. 375 

Abbadona and Abdiel, Klof stock . . viii. 23 
Abbadona Beholds Christ in Geth- 

semane, Klopstock VIII. 24 

Abbs Constantin and his Guests, 

Halevy x. 174 

Abbey of Theleme, Rabelais . . . iii. 186 
Abla, Loss and Recovery of, Arabian. II. 157 

Abou Ben Adhem, Hunt ix. 231 

Absalom, Dryden VI. 344 

Accomplishments of Hudibras,^»^/*>-, vi. 315 
Achilles and Agamemnon, Homer . 1. 155 

Achitophel, Dryden VI. 344 

Acme an4 Septimius, Catullus . . . III. 115 

Addison, Joseph, English VI. 374 

Address to His Lute, Wyait .... IV. 303 
Admission to Heaven, Goethe . . . VIII. 115 

Adonis, Lament for, £ion VI. 43 

Adventures of the Exile Sanehat, 

Egyptian I. 39 

Adversity, Arabian 11. 167 

^Emilia, Corneille v. 265 

^schines, Greek VI. i5 

.^schines. Reply to, Demosthenes . . VI. 28 

^schylus, Greek III. 46 

.iEsop, Greek v. 67 

JEsop's Fables, Preface to, Luther . vi. 243 
After the Death of Vittoria Colonna, 

Michel Angela iv. 227 

Agamemnon, ^schylus III. 48 

Agamemnon, Murder, of, jEschylus . ill. 53 
Agamemnon's Return, JSschylus . . III. 49 
Agincourt, Ballad of, Drayton ... v. 333 
Agni, God of Fire, Hymns of the Veda i. 87 
Aladdin — Dedication to Goethe, Oeh- 

lenschlager vm. 185 

Maddin's Prison-Hymn, Oehlen- 

schlager VIII. 185 

Albizzi, Niccolo, Italian II. 259 

Aleman, Maleo, Spanish vi. 162 

Alcseus, Greek 11. 92 

Alceste's Love for Celim6ne,jWc/2>i?. vi. 195 
Alcibiades Vindicates Himself, Thu- 

cydides IV. 43 

Alcyon's Lament for Daphne, .5>««^«r. IV. 314 

VcJ. Page 

Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, American, x. 343 

Alexander, Lamprecht i. 293 

Alexander and the Robber, Gomer . iii. 357 

Alexander, Orieptal, Nizami ... IV. 165 

Alexander's Feast, Dryden .... vi. 347 

Alexandria, Greek vi. 33 

Alfieri, Vittorio, Italian VII. 178 

Alfonso X., the Wise, Spanish ... i. 376 

Alfred the Great I. 261 

Amadis di Gaula, Spanish .... II. 283 

Amenities of Authors, Moliire ... VI. 198 

Amergin's Incantation, Irish ... v. 307 

Amexica, Berkeley ix;. 23 

America's Future, McFingal's Vision 

of, Trumbull IX. 41 

America, Prophecy of, Seneca ... v. 146 

American Literature, Aboriginal . . i. 386 

" " Colonial . . . ix. 9 

" " Revolutionary, ix. 24 

" " National . . . ix. 63 

" " Recent ... x. 287 

Amis and Amile, French H. 312 

Amriolkais, Poem of, Arabian ... i. 185 

Anacreon, Greek IV. 84 

Anacreon's Dove, Anacreon .... IV. 89 

Anactoria, Ode to, Sappho .... 11. 91 
Ancient Imitation of the Beautiful, 

Lessing VIII. 39 

Ancient Mariner, Coleridge . . . . IX. 249 

Andrian, The, Terence II. 146 

Andromache's Lament, £»««« . . II. 1 16 

Anger and its Remedies, Seneca . . v. 140 

Angler's Song, Walton v. 379 

Anglo-Saxon Literature I. 236 

Anna's Visit to Her Son, Tolstoi . . x. 57 

Annie of Tharaw, Dach VI. 248 

Antef, Festal Dirge of, Egyptian . . I. 38 

Antihia.f' on, Grk. Anthology, vii. 40 

Antigone, Sophocles m. 68 

Antigone and Ismene, Sophocles . . Iii. 71 

Antigone before Creon, Sophocles . . III. 68 

Antioch, Repentance of, Chrysostom vii. 91 
Ape and the Fox, Lessing .... VIII. 42 
Apelles, The Painter, Pliny the Elder v. i6g 

Aphrodite, Hymn to, Sappho ... II. 89 




Vol. Page 
Aphrodite, Picture of, Grk. Anthology, vii. 41 

Apocrypha, The II. 52 

Apollo and Hephsestus, Lucian . , vil. 49 

Apollonius the Rhodian, Greei . . vi. 51 

Apostrophe to Italy, Guerrazzi . . x. 86 

Apostrophe to Russia, Gogol ... X. 23 

Appius Claudius, the Blind, /"/a/a^-^A. vii. 44 

Approach of Old Age, Crabhe , . , ix. 201 

April, Belleau IV. 256 

Apuleius, Lucius, Latin vi. 81 

Arabian Literature, Period I. . . . i. 180 

" IL . . . n. 153 

" in. . . VII. 127 

Arabian Nights' Entertainment . . . vil. 127 

Araspes and Fanthea, Xenophon . . IV. 62 

Araucanian Chief, The, Ercilla . . vm. 201 

Arbuthnot, John, English, .... vil. 282 

Arcadian Love-Letter, Sidney ... iv. 310 

Archer and the Lion, Babrius ... V. 69 

Archilochus, Greek II. 87 

Arcite, Death of, Chaucer III. 344 

Arcite Finds Palamon in the Wood, 

Chaucer 111. 338 

Arcite's Victory, Chaucer 111. 342 

Ariosto, Ludovico, Italian .... v. 202 

Ariel on the Shoals, Cooper .... IX. Sg 

Aristophanes, Greek 'V- 43 

Aristotle, Greek '^•97 

Armida Visits Godfrey, Tasso ... v. 242 

Arnold, Matthew, English .... x. 270 

Arria and Psetus, Martial v. 172 

Art of Writing, Charles of Orleans . 11. 334 

Arthur, Coronation of King, £«^/irA. 111. 320 

Arthurian Legend, English .... III. 310 

Arval Brothers, Chant of, Latin , . 11. 115 

Asadi, Persian II. 173 

Ascham, Roger, English IV. 305 

Asklepios, Temple of, Herondas . . v. 65 
Assembling of the Fallen Angels, 

Milton V. 396 

Ass and the Flute, Yriarte .... Vlll. 222 

Ass in the Lion's Skin, jEsop ... v. 69 

Assyrian Literature I. 67 

Atala, Chactas Relates the Death of, 

Chateaubriatid ....... VIII. 259 

Atalanta, or Gain, Bacon v. 372 

Athaliah and Joash, Racine .... v. 301 

Attack upon the Bastille, Carlyle . . x. 231 

Atticus (Addison), Pope VI. 400 

Atys, Catullus 111. 119 

Aubade, Provencal I. 341 

Aucassin and Nicolete, i^^^KfA . ■ . I. 216 

Augustine of Hippo, Latin .... Vll. 121 

Ausonius, Latin vii. 106 

Author's Recompense, Martial . . v. 174 

Author to the Reader, Montaigne . III. 197 

Avemus, Descent of, Virgil .... iv. 130 

Aztec Drinking-Song, American . . i. 391 

Babrius, Greek v. 69 

Baby Hermes, Greek H- 73 

Babylon, Doom of, Isaiah I. 128 

Eaqchus on Wine, ifeift' vi. 130 

Vol. Pag« 
Bacon, Sir Francis, English .... v. 366 
Bad Boy Taken to School, Herondas. v. 62 

Baggesen, J. E., Danish viii 166 

Bag of the Bee, Berrick v. 389 

Balder Dead, M. Arnold x. 271 

Balder, Death of, Younger Edda . . 11. 369 
Ballad of Agincourt, Drayton ... v. 333 
Ballad of Old-Time Ladies, Villon . 11. 337 
Ballad of Old-Time Lords, Villon . 11. 338 

Ballads, Dutch vi. 274 

Ballad upon a Wedding, Suckling . v. 383 
Balzac, Honorfe de, French .... x. 109 
Bandello, Matteo, Italian ..... vi. 104 
Banished to America, Privost . , . vil. 214 
Banquet of Trimalchio, Petronius . v. 158 

Barbarossa, Rilckert . x. 184 

Barber of Seville, Beaumarchais . . vil. 277 

Barbour, John, Scotch III. 377 

Barlow, Joel, American ix. 59 

Baron's Cat Hiddigeigei, Scheffel , x. 208 
Baron's Tobacco Pipe, Scheffel . , . x. 209 
Bashkirtseff, Marie, Pussian .... X. 61 

Extract from Her Journal . . X. 62 

Basil and Isabel, Hoiaells .... x. 346 

Basil the Great, Greek vil. 84 

Bastile, Prisoner in, Voltaire . . . vil. 227 

Battlefield, The, Bryant IX. 106 

Battle of Bannockbum, Barbour . . III. 377 
Battle of Brunanburh, Saxon .... I. 264 

Battle of Catraeth, Celtic I. 323 

Battle of Chang-Cho, Chinese ... II. 41 
Battle of Zeus and the Titans, Hesiod. II. 80 
Battle of Marathon, Herodotus ... iv. 20 

Battle of Pharsalia, Casar Iv. 109 

Battle of the Baltic, The, Campbell . IX. 273 
Battle of the Kegs, Hopkinson ... IX. 43 
Baucis and Philemon, Ovid .... IV, 150 
Bear, the Monkey and the Pig, 

Yriarte vill. 222 

Beatrice, First .Sight of, Dante . . 11. 233 
Beatrice Leaves Dante, Dante ... II. 255 

Beatrice's Death, Dante II. 236 

Beaumarchais, Caron de, French . . VII. 273 
Beaumont and Fletcher, English . V. 343 
Beau Tibbs at Vauxhall, Goldsmith. Vll. 379 

Beautiful Hands, Riley x. 359 

Beauty and Love, Jami v. 186 

Bedouin Song, Taylor x. 315 

Bee and the Maiden, Gleim . . vm. 21 

Beggar's Opera, Songs from. Gay . VII. 288 
Beggars' Suit, Aristophanes ... V. 53 

Belinda, Pope VI. 395 

Bellman, Carl M., Swedish .... vm. 190 

Bells, The, Poe ix. 141 

Beloved Lady, Wolfram von Esch- 

enbach , . . I. 299 

Belshaziar's Feast, Daniel . . : . . II. 53 
Bembo Rescued from the Crew, Mel- 
ville IX. 172 

Beneficent Bear, Goldoni VII. 170 

Beowulf s Fight with the Fiend . . 1. 245 

Stranger, P. J., French IX. 384 

Berkeley, Bishop George IX. 22 


" Vol. Page 

Bernardo del Carpio, Spanish ... i. 381 

Bertrand de Bom, Provenfal ... 1.' ■y/n. 

Betrothal of Lucy Ashton, Scott . . viii' ^574 
Biarke's Battle-Song, Scandinavian. i\ X^=. 

Bion, Greek VI. 42 

Bion, Lament for, Mosckus .... vi. 46 

Birth and Death, Arabian .... h. jgg 
Birth of Olaf Tryggvesson, ffeims- • 

kringla IV. 272 

Bishop Myriel and the Conventionist, 

Ht^o IX. ^7-1 

Black-Eyed Susan, Gay ..... vil. 289 

Blessing of Contentment, Walton . v. 381 

Blessings of Rheumatism, Sivigni . vil. 215 

Blindness, On his, Milton v.' 400 

Bob Acres' Duel, Sheridan .... vin. 332 

Boccaccio, Giovanni, Italian . . . m. 129 

. Boetius, Latin Vll. 113 

Boiardo, Matteo Maria, Italian . . iv. 206 

Boileau-Desprdaux, Nicolas, French v. 279 

Bokhara, Rudagi II. x'12 

Book of Good Counsel, India ... v. 27 
Book of the Dead, Egyptian ... I. 27 
Book Stamp of Sardanapalus, Assy- 
ruin ........... I, 71 

Boscan, Juan, Spanish II. 323 

Bossuet, Bishop, French vi. 216 

Boswell's "Life of Dr. Johnson." . vil. 384 

Bottom of the Sea, Verne x. 152 

Boyhood at DiisseldoriSi Heine ... x. 196 

Boy Soldier, A, Kennedy ix. 174 

Bradstreet, Mrs. Anne, American . . ix. i5 

Braggart Captain, PI utus .... 11. 141 

Brahman Philoscphy, India ... V. 36 

Brahman's Curse, Sakuntala . . . iii. 22 

Branch of the Vine, Colonna . . . iv. 223 

Bran's Voyage, Irish vili. 285 

Brantdme, Seigneur, de, i^«»c^ . . iv. 260 

Brant, Sebastian, German VI. 232 

Brederode, Gerbrand, Dutch ... vi. 284 
Brightness of His Lady, Francis I. iv. 243 
Brihtnoth, Death of, Saxon .... j. 269 
Bridge of Sighs, The, Hood .... ix. 276 
Broken Heart, The, Irving'. ... IX. 80 
Brown, C. Brockden, American . . ix. 50 
Browne, Sir Thomas, English . . vi. 293 
Browning, Elizabeih Barrett, Eng- 
lish X. 254 

Browning, Robert, English .... x. 246 
Bruin the Bear Summons Reynard, 

Reynard the Fox III. 285 

Brunanburh, Battle of, Saxon ... i. 264 

Brunetto Latini, Sonnet to, Dante . 11. 238 

Brutus and Csesar, Alfieri .... vil. 190 

Brutus and His Sons, Livy .... v. 107 

Brutus, Story of, Layamon .... I. 270 

Bryant. William CuUen, American . ix. 100 

Buddha, Judgment of, Itidia ... V. 20 

Buddha's Peace, India V. 16 

Buddhist Birth Stories, India ... V. 18 

Buddhist Literature, India .... V. 9 
Bufialmalco the Jesting Pamter, Va- 

sari IV. 228 


Vol. Page 

Building of the Lotig Serpent, 

Heimskringla iv. 276 

Bulwer, Edward, Lord Lytton ... ix. 281 

Bunyan, John, English vi. 305 

Euonconte da Montefeltro, Dante . \\. 249 
Burger, Gottfried A., German . . viII. 60 
Burgomaster's Wife, Holberg . . . vill. 156 
Burke, Edmund, English .... vill. 341 

Burke and Reynolds, Goldsmith . . vll. 398 
Burke's Tribute to his Son .... vill. 344 

Bums, Robert, Scotch ...... vill. 308 

Bustos Tabera and Sancho Ortiz, 

lope de Vega vi. 143 

Butler, Samuel, English VI. 314 

Byron, George Noel Gordon, Lord, 

English IX. 302 

Byron's Last Lines ix. 217 

Csesar, Caius Julius, Latin .... iv. 101 
Csesar Dines with Cicero, Cicero . . ni. 106 
Caesar in the Storm at Sea, Lucan . w. 152 
Csesar's First Invasion of Britain, 

Oesar iv. 102 

Caius Marius Seeks the Consulship, 

Sallust IV. 99 

Calderon de la Barca, Spanish . . vill. 205 

Caledonia, Scott VIII. 361 

Caligula, Emperor, Suetonius . . . vi. 73 

Callimachus, Greek vi. 48 

Camoens, Luis de, Portuguese . . iii. 260 
Campbell, Thomas, English .... IX. 271 
Candide . Married, Voltaire .... vil. 241 
Canterbury Tales, Chaucer .... iii. 327 

Captain Bobadil, yo»jo» iv. 398 

Captive Lady, Frederick II. ... 11. 224 

Captives, The, Plautus II. 118 

Captured Bucket, Tassoni . . . . vi. T25 
Capture of Valencia, Don Jayme . i. 370 
Cardinal Wolsey, Johnson .... vil. 381 

Carlyle, Thomas, English X. 228 

Castaway, The, Canvper VIII. 353 

Castiglione, Baldassare, Italian . . IV. 217 
Castle of Indolence, Thomson . . . VII. 359 
Catarina de Attayda, Camoens . . . III. 270 
Catharme of Aragon, Song of, Gon- 

gora VI. 149 

Cato Re-weds the Widow Martia, 

Lucan V. 150 

Cato's Waming against Greek 

Learning, Plutarch VII. 46 

Catraeth, Battle of, Celtic I- 323 

Cats, Jacob, Dutch VI. 276 

Catullus, Latin III. 112 

Cavalcanti, Guido, Italian .... n. 256 
Caveat for the Fair Sex, Montagu . VII. 295 
Cecco, Angiolieri, Italian .... 11. 258 
Cedars of Lebanon, Lamartine . . VIII. 275 

Celestina^ Spanish II. 300 

Celin, Lamentation for, Spanish . . II. 273 
Cellini, Benvenuto, Italian .... IV. 231 

Celtic Literature, Section I i. 316 

" „« " n. . . . V. 305 



Vol. Page 
Celtic Literature, Section III. . . . vili. 282 
Cenci, Beatrice, Guerrazzi .... x. 84 
Ceni, Epitaph on, Chiabrera . . . vi. 124 
Cerinthus to Sulpicia, Tibullus . . iv. 157 
Cervantes Saavedra, Miguel de, 

Spanish ill. 221 

C6sar Birotteau's Failure, Balzac . . x. 121 
Chactas Relates the Death of Atala, 

Chateaubriand VIII. 259 

Chaldean Account of the Deluge, . 1. 71 
Chambered Nautilus, The, Holmes . x. 203 
Chapter of the Cave, Koran ... i. igo 
Character of Charles I., Clarendon, vi. 356 
Character of Pericles, Thucyaides . iv. 35 
Change of Seasons, Camoens , . . III. 266 
Chanson de Roland, French ... I. 199 
Chant of the Arval Brothers, Latin II. 115 
Chapman, George, English .... iv. 344 
Chapman's Homer, On First Looking 

into, Keats ix. 228 

Charitable Cardinal, Alaman . . . vi. 162 
Charles of Orleans, French .... II. 334 

Charlotte Rooze, Field X. 357 

Charms that Charm Not, Hafiz ... v. 182 
Charon's Boat, Lucian ...... VII. 51 

Charudatta Led to Execution, India, in. 12 
Chateaubriand, Vicomte de, French.'vvn.. 258 
Chatterton, Thomas, English . . . vil. 398 
Chaucer, Geoffrey, English . . . in. 323 
Chaucer, Good Counsel of ... . in. 346 

Chaucer to His Empty Purse . . . in. 345 

Chenier, Andr6, French Vlll. 243 

Chess, Game of, Montaigne .... in. 200 
Chesterfield, Letter Vo, Johnson . . vil. 382 

Chevy Chase, English 111. 367 

Chevalier Desgrieux First Sees 

Manon Lescaut, Privost , . . Vll. 210 
Chiabrera, Gabriello, Italian ... VI. 122 
Child Emile, The, Rousseau"^ . . . Vli. 262 

Childe Harold, Byron ix. 206 

Childhood, Baggesm viii. 166 

Childhood's Home, My, Lamartine .viii. 272 
Children in Paradise, Ephraem Syrus. VII. 93 
Children of the Lord's Supper, Teg- 

nir VIII. 194 

Chillon, Byron IX. 206 

Chinese Literature, Five Classics . . I. 32 
" " Period IL . . . II. 39 

Chloe, Martial . V. 173 

Chloe's Kisses, Martial v. 174 

Choice of Draupadi, Mahabharata . n. 12 
, Choice of Hercules, Xenophon ... IV. 71 
Choir Invisible, The, George Eliot . X. 264 
Chorus of Birds, Aristophanes ... v. 52 
Christ, Mention of, Tacitus .... v. 126 
Christian, King, .^'z/a/i/ . . . .. viil. 152 
Christians, Pliny's Letter Concerning v. 176 
Chronicle of Don Jayme of Aragon, 

Spanish i. 368 

Chronicleof Juan II.,iS^a«M/4 . . . 11.290 
Chronicle of the Cid, Spanish ... 1. 365 

Chrysostom, John, Grek vii. 90 

Churning of the Ocean, India . , . < V. 38 

Vol. Page 

Cicero, M. TuUius, Latin In. 99 

Cid, Poem of the, Spanish .... i. 355 
Cid and Chimdne, Corneille .... v. 264 
Cid and the Counts of Carrion, Poem 

of the Cid 1. 355 

Cid Ballads, Spanish 1. 362 

Cid Pawns His Coffers, Poem of the 

Cid . I. 35g 

Cid's Last Commands, Cid Ballads . l. 363 
Cimon's Victory, Simonides .... 11. 100 

Cino da Pistoia, Italian 11. 257 

Cinthio, Giovambattista G., Italian . v. 219 
CiuUo D'Alcamo, Italian ..... 11. 222 
Clarissa Harlowe, Death of, Richard- 
son VII. 314 

Clarendon, Lord, English .... vi. 355 

Claudian, Latin viI. 108 

Cleanthes, Greek , . VI, 60 

Clearista, Meleager < vll. 37 

Clement of Alexandria; Greek . . . VII. 82 
Cleon's Victory at Sphacteria, Thucy- 

dides IV. 36 

Clerk (Scholar), C>5aaci?>-, III. 329 

Clever Schemer, Terence II. 150 

Clorinda, Tancred and, Tasso ... V. 239 
Cloud-Messenger, India ..... in. 31 
Cock and the Fox, La Fontaine . . V. 291 
Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, English . ix. 247 

Collins, William, English VII. 375. 

Colonna, Vittoria, Italian IV. 222 

Columbia, Dwight ix. . 49 

Complamt Addressed to German Veo- 

^e.,Hutten VI.' 236 

Complaint by Night of the Lover, 

Surrey IV. 304 

Complaint of his Imprisonment, Tasso. v. 251 

Concord Vi^^., Emerson IX. 115 

Confession, Hugo of Trimberg . . . in. 280 

Confucius, Chinese I. 146 

Confucius, Sayings of, Chinese ... I. 148 
Confucius, Successors of, Chinese . . ' 11. 39 
Congreve, William, English .... VI. 331 
Conrad von Kirchberg, German . . I. 295 
Conscript's Duel, The, Erckmann- 

Chatrian x. 148 

Considerations on the State, Aristotle, V. 99 
Consolation for a Daughter's'Death, 

Malherbe iv. 1268 

Consuelo's Triumph, Sand .... ix, 394 
Contentment, Epictetus ..... Vll. 55 
Convalescent Knight, Cervantes . . 111. 237 . 
Conversion, His, Augustine . . .■ . vii. 125 
Cooper, James Fenimore, American, ix. 83 
Corday, Charlotte, Chenier .... vill. 245 

, Trial and Vit&ikioi, Lamartine VVLI. 277 

Coronation of King Arthur, Gei^rey 

of Monmouth in. 320 

Corneille, Pierre, French v. 259 

Cossack Father, The, Gogol .... x. 20 
Cossack Mother, The, Gogol .... x. 22 
Cotter's Family Worship, Burns . . Vlll. 312 
Counsels of the Great Yu, Chinese . I. 136 
Ceunt Alarcos, ^anish ..... Ii. 279 



Vol. Page 
Count Gaston Phoebus de Foix, 

Froissart II. ■i2S 

Country Squire's Library, The, YHarte vni! 223 

Countiy Sunday, Addison . . 

Count Ugolino, Dante .... 

Courage and Patriotism, Tyrtaus 

Courtier's Addresses, Castiglione 

Courtin', The, Lowell . . . . . 

Courting of Dinah Shadd, Kipling 

Court ofLilliput, STuift . . 

Courts of Love, Provencal . . 

Cowley, Abraham, English . . 

Cowper's Grave, Mrs. Browning 

Cowper, William, English . . 

Crabbe, George, English . . 

Crafty Hunchback, Voni . . " 

Crane and the Crab, India . . 

Cradft, Fair Fort of, Irish . . . 

Credulous Fool, Machiavelli . 

Croma, Ossian 

Cromwell, Panegyric on, Waller 
Cromwell, Vision of, Cowley 
Crossing the Bar, Tennyson . , 
Crossing the Bridge, Cellini . . 
Crossing the Ohio on Ice, Siowe 
Crow and the Fox, Z.a Fontaine . 
Crucifixion of Ibn Bakiah, Arabian . 
Crusader's Farewell, French 
Crusade, Summons to, French 
Crusoe and Friday, Defoe 

Cuchulainn, Fand's Welcome to, Irish v. 307 

Cuckoo, Gellert 

Cuckoo, Song of, Llywarch Hen 
Cumberland, The, Longfellow . 
Cupid and Neara, Secundus . . 
Cupid and Psyche, Apuleius . . 
Cupid and the Bee, Anacreon . 
Cupid as a Guest, Anacreon . . 
Custom, Force of, Montaigne . . 
Cuthullin's Council of War, Ossian 
Cymon and Iphigenia, Dryden 
Cynewulf, Anglo-Saxon . . 

VI. 376 
11. 246 
n. 83 

IV. 218 

X. 291 

X. 283 

VI. 387 

I- 343 
VI. 299 

X. 255 

VIII. 346 
IX. 198 
VI. 115 

V. 25 

V. 309 

IV. 205 

V. 319 

VI. 313 

VI. 300 

X. 245 

IV. 238 
IX. 190 

V. 293 
II. 167 
I. 210 

I. 211 
VII. 305 



Dach, Simon, German 

Dame Philosophy Enters, Boetitis . 

Danae, Simonides of Ceos 

Dance of Death, Spanish 

Daniel, Samuel, English 

. Dante, Italian 

Dante, Answer to, Cavalcanti . . . 

Dante, On, Michel Angelo 

Daphnis and Chloe, Greek Romances. 
Daudet, Alphonse, French .... 
David's Address to his Lyre, Cowley . 
David's Lament for Saul and Jona- 
than, Fiile 

David Soothes Saul's Madness, Al- 

Day of Decision, The, Lowell . . . 

Days, Emerson 

Day's Ration, The, Emerson .... 
"5ead Cid's Victory, Cid Ballads . . 


IX. 124 
VI. 270 
VI. 87 
IV. 91 

IV. 86 
III. 197 

V. 323 
VI. 351 


VI. 248 
VII. 114 
II. 100 
II. 278 
V. 330 
II. 230 

II. 257 

IV. 225 

VII, 71 

X. 155 

VI. 304 

I. 122 

VII. 182 
X. 294 

IX. 115 
IX. 119 


VoL Page 

Death, Bossuet yj. 217 

Death, Bunt ix 2TO 

Death-Bed, A, Hood ix". 277 

Death, Verses on his own, 5™ j/? . . vi. 389 
Death of Archbishop Turpin, Chan- 
son de Roland , ....... I, 202 

Death of Arcite, Chaucer m. 344 

Death of Balder, Younger Edda . . n. 369 
Death of Catarina de Attayda, Cam- 

"^"•f III. 270 

Death of Clarissa Hariowe, Rich- 

. ^ ^'''^^o" '. . vn. 314 

Death of Duchess of Malfy, Webster v. 341 

Death of Haide?, Byron ix. 212 

Death of 1 her Father, Christine de 

Fisan . \ . u^ xxi. 

Death of her Husband, Mary Stuart iv! 265 
Death of His Son, Mather .... ix. 21 
Death of Jos. R. Drake, Halleck . . ix. 151 
Death of Lancelot, Malory .... m. 373 
Death of Lesbia's Sparrow, Catullus, in. 113 
Death of Napoleon, Manzoni ... X. 75 

Death of Oleg, Russian m. 3go 

Death of Peter Stuyvesant, Irving . ix. 69 
Death of Philip Nolan, Ei E. Hale. x. 323 

Death of Priam, Virgil iv. 123 

Death of Prince Meschersky, Der^- 

havin . m. 3^0 

Death of Ravana, India i. 103 

X)e&\h oi'^^AaxA, Chanson de Roland, i. 204 

Death of Saul, Alfieri vn. 189 

Death of Sohrab, Firdausi .... n. 197 
Death of the Flowers, .SrysK^ . . . IX. 104 
Death of Tiberius, Tacitus . . . . v. 125 
Death Song of Lodbrok, Scandina- 
vian II. 346 

Death Song of Uther Pendragon, 

Celtic I. 321 

Death the Giver of Life, Young . . vn. 366 
Deerslayer Becomes Hawkeye, Cooper ix. 91 
Defence of the Bastion St. Gervais, 

Dumas X. 99 

Defoe, Daniel, English ...... vn. 301 

Degenerate Romans, Juvenal ... vi. 67 
Dekker, Thomas, English ..... v. 336 

Deliverance of Vienna, Filicaja . . VII. 154 
Delphi, Sacrifice at, Greek Romances VII. 66 
Deluge, Chaldean Account of . . . i. 71 
Deluge, Indian Story of . ..... I. 92 

Democritus and Heraclitus, Mon^ 

taigne III. 201 

Demosthenes, Greek vi. 23 

Demosthenes, Attack on, JEschines VI. 17 
Departure of the Swallows, Gautier x. 130 
Derzhavin, Gabriel, Russian .... in. 395 
Descent of Avernus, Virgil. .... IV. 130 
Descent of Ishtar to Hades, Assy- 
rian I. 73 

De Stael, Madame, French .... vin. 249 

Destiny of Man, Rumi iv. 170 

Devil, The, Heine x. 206 

Devil's Chapel, The, Defoe .... Vll. 311 
Dickens, Charles, English .... ix. 3*1 



Vol. Page 

Dido on the Funeral Pile, Virgil . iv. 125 

Discarded Wife, Ski-King .... i. 140 
Dispute of Day and Night, Asadi .■ . II. 173 

Dissevered Curl, The, I'ojie .... vi. 396 

Distracted Lover, The, lerence ... 11. 148 

Distressed Damsel, The, Cervantes . III. 232 

Divine Comedy, The, Dante .... 11. 239 
Divine Government of the World, 

Pofe VI. 399 

Division of the World, Schiller . . vm. 130 

Djinns, The, I/ugo IX. 372 

Domitian and the Tiurbot, Juvenal . VI. 64 
Donatello and the Marble Faun, 

Hawthorne IX. 162 

Don Diego and the Cid, Corneille . . v. 262 

Doni, Antonio trancesco, Italian . VI. 115 

Don Quixote, Song from, Cervantes . III. 250 

Don Roderick, Lament of, Spanish I. 380 

Doom of Babylon, £iile I. 128 

Dostoievsky, Feodor, Russian ... X. 37 
Downfall of Quetzalcoatl, American . 1. 391 

Drake, Joseph R., Death of, Halleck ix. 151 

Drama, German VI. 254 

Drama, Spanish VI. 133 

Dramatic and Lyric Poetry, India . ill. 9 
Dramatists of the Restoration, Eng- 
lish VI. 321 

Drayton, Michael, English .... v. 332 

Dreaded Voyage, Tasso V. 253 

Dream and Reality, Chinese .... 11. 42 

Drinking Song, Alcicus II. 93 

Drink Out Thy Glass, Bellman . . . VIII. 192 

Drowned Lover, The, Chapman . . iv. 345 

Dr. Parr's Sermon, Sydney Smith . . IX. 300 
Drummond, William, Scotch .... VIII. 299 

Drunkard's Excuse, Ha^z .... V. 184 

Dry Bough Blossoms, Tannhauser . III. 278 

Dryden, John, English VI. 341 

Duel of Rogero and Bradamant, 

Ariosto V. 211 

Duke William at Rouen, Romance 

of Hollo I. 205 

Dumas, Alexandre, French .... X. 97 

Dumb Youth, The, Celtic I. 332 

Dunbar, William, Scottish III. 384 

Dutch Literature VI. 258 

Duties of the Public Orator, Demos- 
thenes VI. 30 

Dwarf King's Court, German ... i. 314 

Dwight, Timothy, American. . . . IX. 48 

Dying Gladiator, Byron IX. 208 

Eagle and the Fox, Lesstng .... VIII. 42 

Early New Englanders,|^>-«K^iJ!» . . IX. 47 

Echo, Song of, Irish VIII. 292 

Eddar, Elder, Scandinavian .... II. 352 

Edda, Younger, Scandinavian ... II. 362 

Education of Women, Montagu . . VII. 294 

Egyptian King's Treasure, Herodotus IV. 14 

Egyptian Literature ....... I- 17 

' Eljune's Letter to Guinevere, Tenny- 
son X. 240 

Vol. Page 

Elected Knight, Danish viil. 151 

Elegiac and Lyric Poetry, Greek . . 11. 82 
Elegy from "Arcadia," Sannazaro . iv. 239 
Elegy in a Country Churchyard, 

Gray vil. 368 

Elegy on his Father, Manrique . . 11. 294 
Elegy on Young King Henry, Ber- 

trand de Born '. . . I. 342 

Elegy to Delia, libullus IV. 155 

Eliot, George, English x. 258 

Eloisa to Abelard, Pope vi. 394 

Elysium, Pindar II. 110 

Emerson, Ralph Waldo, American . ix. 108 
Emigrants in Bermudas, Marvell . VI. 297 
Emile, The Child, Kousseau .... vii. 262 
Emily and the Prisoners, Chaucer . III. 335 
Emma and Eginhard, Zo«£/9//ozei. . IX. 135 
Emperor's Bride, Metastasio .... Vil. 161 
Enchanted Horse, Arabian Nights. VII. 129 
Encyclopaedists, The, French , . . VII. 247 

Enfant Perdu, Heine x. 205 

England, Cowper VIII. 352 

English Literature VII. 279 

English Literature, Period I i. 236 

" " " II. ... . III. 307 

" " " III. ... IV. 291 

'' •• " IV. ... V. 327 

" " " v.. Part I VI. 286 

" " " v., Part 2 VI. 359 

" «' " VI. . . . VII. 279 

" " " VII., Part I VIII. 320 

« " " VII,,Part2 IX. 195 

" " " VIII. . . X. 215 

English Novel, Rise of Vll.' 297 

English Poeis Laureate X. 411 

English Race, The, Emerson ... IX. 113 

English Valor, Raleigh iv. 328 

English View of America, Lowell . . x. 297 

Ennius, Quintus, Latin II. 115 

Enzo, King, Italian 11. 225 

Ephraem Syrus, Greek VII. 92 

Epictetus, Greek VII. 54 

Epicurus, Lucretius III. 97 

Epistle to King John, Miranda . . . iii. 259 

Epitaph, Francis Villon II. 338 

Epitaph on Antibia, Greek VII. 40 

Epitaph on Ceni, Chiabrera .... VI. 124 
Epitaph on Prince Henry, Drum- 
mond VIII. 300 

Epitaph on Theonoe, Greek .... VII. 40 
Epitaph of CEngus, Irish Lit. . . . VIII. 287 

Epithalamium, Shi-King i. 140 

Epithalamion, Spenser vi. 317 

Erasmus, Desiderius, Dutch .... VI. 261 

Ercilla, Spanish Vlll. 201 

Erckmann-Chatrian, French .... X. 147 
Estrella and Theodora, Lope de 

Vega VI. 146 

Eternal Summer, Shakespeare. ... IV. 392 
Etzel Marries Kriemhilde, Nibelun- 

genlied II. 392 

Eugenie Grandet, Balzac X. 112 

Eulensfiegel, Tyll, German .... III. 301 



Vol. Page 
Eulogy on Emperor Julian, Libanius vil. 76 

Euripides, Greek III. 79 

Eva and Topsy, Stowe ...... ix. 191 

Evald, Johannes, Danish vill. 152 

Evangeline and the Indian Woman, 

Lon^ellow IX. 129 

Evangeline Finds her Lover, JLong- 

fellow IX. 131 

Eve, Ccedmon I. 249 

Evening Hymn, Gregory Naziataen vll. 89 
Eve's Account of her First Day, Mil- 
ton V. 398 

Evil Eye, Pliny the Elder v. 167 

Executioner, The, Maistre vill. 256 

Execution of Don Alvaro de Luna, 

Spanish II. 290 

Execution of the Rebel Prince, Rus- 
sian III. 391 

Exile, Lamennais VIII. 270 

Eye of Charity, Nizami IV. 165 

Fables of Bidpai, India V. 31 

Fading Beauty, Marini VI. 128 

Faerie Queene, Spenser IV. 322 

Fairest Land, Sumi IV. 171 

Fair Fort of Cr6d6, Irish V. 309 

Fair Shooting, Ascham IV. 306 

Faithful Domestics, Holberg .... Vlll. 158 

Faithful Wife, Cinthio V. 220 

Faithful Wife, Mahabharata ... II. 29 

Fall of Sejanus, Juvenal VI. 69 

Falstaff and the Merry Wives, 5Aa^;- 

speare IV. 385 

Family Name, The, Lamb ... IX. 246 
' Fand's Welcome to Cuchulainn, 

Irish V. 307 

Farevyell Counsels of Minerva, Fine- 
Ion VI. 226 

Farewell of Socrates, Plato .... V. 94 
Farewell to Church at Constantino- 
ple, Gregory Naziamen . . . VII. 87 
Farewell to France, Moiry Queen of 

Scots IV. 266 

Farewell to Lesbia, Catullus . . . III. 117 

Fatal Look, Apuleitts VI. 90 

Faust, Goethe Vlll. 96 

Faust, Goethe VIII. Ill 

Faustus, Dr., Doom of, Marlowe . . IV. 338 
" " Frightful End of, Ger- 
man VIII. 102 

Feast of Spring, Hafiz ...... V. 183 

Federigo and the Falcon, Boccacno . III. 145 

Fenelon, Archbishop, French ... VI. 219 

Ferhad the Sculptor, Nizami ... IV. 163 

Festal Dirge of Antef, Egyptian . . I. 3» 

Fettered Nightingale, Dutch .... VI. 275 

Feuillet, Octave, French ^' ^f. 

Field, Eugene, American X. 356 

Fielding, Henry, English ..... VII. 324 
Fight of Hagen and Waltan, Ger- 

man '■ f ,^ 

Fight with Flails, Zola ..... . »• ^^ 

Vol. Page 
Filicaja, Vincenzo, Italian .... vil. 153 
Finding of Gudrun, G«i«'?^« . . . II. 397 
Finn, Household of, Irish .... v. 311 
Fiorentino, Giovanni, Italian . . . iii. 160 

Firdausi, Persian 11. 175 

Fire, Arabian 11. 166 

First Eclogue, The, Garcilaso ... 11. 305 
First Kiss, The, Rousseau .... Vil. 271 
First Lesson in Philosophy, Moliire. vi. 193 
First Sight of Beatrice, Dante ... 11. 233 

Fisher, The, Goethe vill. 94 

Fish that can Stop a Ship, Pliny . . v. 167 
Fitness of Seasons, I^ing Enzo . . 11. 228 
Fitz- James and Roderick Dhu, Scott, vill. 364 
Five Classics, The, Chinese .... i. 135 

Flaubert, Gustave, French x. 141 

Fleas Outwitted, Greek Anthology . vil. 41 
Fletcher, Beaumont and, English . v. 349 
Flamenca, Provenfal . ...... I. 346 

Flower-Maidens, Lamprecht ... i. 293 
Flying Throne, The, Firdausi ... 11. 187 
Foot-Print in the Sand, Defoe . . . vil. 303 
Force of Custom, Montaigne . . . iii. 197 
For the Tomb of Myrtis, Greek . . vil. 39 
Fortunatus Reviews the World, Dek- 

ker V. 337 

Fortune-Tellers, Ennius 11. 117 

Foscarini, The, Niccolini x. 82 

Foscolo, Ugo, Italian X. 65 

Foundation of the Kingdom of Truth, 

Btiddha V. 13 

Fouque, Baron Friedrich de la Motte ix. 352 
Fourteen Hard Things, Hebrew . . VII. 99 

Fragments, Novalis ix. 340 

Francesca da Rimini, Dante ... II. 243 

Francis I., French IV. 243 

Franklin, Benjamin, American ... IX. 26 
Frederick II., Emperor, Italian . . 11. 224 

French Academy X. 412 

French Inn, A, Erasmus VI. 266 

French Literature, Period I I. 194 

" " " II II. 308 

" " " III. . . . III. 171 

" " " III., Part 2 IV. 241 

" « «' IV. . . . V. 254 

" " « V VI. 172 

" " " VI. . . • VII. 195 

" " " VII. . . . VIII. 229 

" " " VIII. . . IX. 366 

" " " IX. ... X. 94 

French Novel, The x. 94 

Friar John Feasted by Gargantua, 

Rabelais HI- 184 

Friar Lubin, Marot III. 203 

Fridolin: or, the Message to the 

Forge, Schiller Vlll. 124 

Frithiof and Angantyr, Scandinavian ir. 374 
Frithiof and Ingebore, Saga of- 

Frithiof IV. 280 

Frithiof Plays Chess, Saga of Frith- 
iof IV. 282 

Frithiof the Bold, Saga of, Scandina- 
vian IV. 279 



( Vol. Page 

Frithiof Visits King Ring, Saga ef 

Frithiof IV. 285 

Frogs and the Sun, Phcedrus ... v. 132 
Frogs Ask for a King, JEsop .... v. 68 

Froissart, Jean, French n. 322 

Frolic on tlie Shore, Mahabharata . 11. 16 
Front-de-Boeuf 's Castle, Storming of, 

Sc»it VIII. 366 

Fuller, Thomas, English vi. 289 

Funeral of the Lovers, Hunt ... ix. 229 
Future Glory of Jerusalem, Isaiah , i. 130 

Garcilaso de La Vega, Spanish . . 11. 305 

Garden of Roses, German i. 310 

Gargantua, Prologue to, Rabelais . . iii. 180 

Gauls Enter Rome, Livy v. Ill 

Gautier, Thiophile, French .... x. 128 

Gay, John, English vil. 286 

Gellert, C. F., German VIII. 16 

Gellius, Aulus, Latin vi. 99 

Generous Hatim, Arabian 11. 163 

Generous Slave, Plautus II. 119 

Genevieve, Coleridge ix. 254 

German Drama VI. 254 

German Literature, Period I I. 276 

" " I., Part 2 II. 378 

" " " II III. 271 

" " " IIL ... VI. 230 

" " " IV. . . .VIII. 9 

" " "V., Part I VIII. 67 

" v., Part 2 IX. 324 

" " " VL ; . . X. 181 

Gerundio's Sermon, Friar, Isla . . VIII. 226 

Getting Rid of Cant, Johnson . . . vil. 384 

Gift of Sir Cleges, English .... m. 359 

Gil Bias and Archbishop of Grenada, 

Le Sage VII. 203 

Gil Bias to the Reader, Le Sage . . VII. 202 

Gipsies, The, Cowper VIII. 347 

Girl of my Choice, Martial .... V. 175 
Girls on a Fine Day, Sacchetti . . . ill. 155 
Girls on a Wet Day, Sacchetti . . . III. 156 

Giusti, Giuseppe, Italian X. 92 

Give all to Love, Emerson .... IX. 117 
Glaucus sends Nydia to lone ... IX. 283 

G\dm,'^. 'L., German VIII. 19 

Gobryas the Assyrian, Xenophon . . IV. 57 
God, Knowledge of, Greek .... iv. 80 
God is our Refuge, Psalms . . . . I. 123 
Goethe, Johann Wolfgang, Gertnan VIII. 70 
Gogol, Nikolai V., Russian .... X. 18 
Going to the Wars, Lovelace .... v. 386 

Gold in Utopia, More IV. 297 

Golden Age, Greek IV. 80 

Golden Age, Tasso V. 249 

Golden Rule, Confucius I. 149 

Golden Verses of Pythagoras, Greek iv. 81 

Goldoni, Carlo, Italian VII. 167 

Goldsmith, Oliver, English .... VII. 386 

Go, Lovely Rose, Waller VI. 312 

Gongora, I.uis de, Spanish .... VI. 148 
Good King Meliadus, Italian . . . III. 127 

VoL Page 
Good Schoolmasfer, The, Fuller . . vi. 290 
Good Shepherd, The, Lope de Vega ,vi. 148 

Gower, John, English m. 356 

Grammar and Medicine, Greek , . vil. 42 
Grandison and Clementina, Richard- 
son VII. 317 

Grasshopper, The, Anacreon ... iv. 90 

Gray, Thomas, English vil. 367 

Great Court Marriage, Mme. Stvigni vi. 213 
Great Men's Monuments, Foscolo . . x. 65 
Grecian Urn, Ode on a, UTeats ... ix. 226 
Greece in Her Decay, Byron ... ix, 205 

Greek Anthology vil. 38 

Greek Comedy . . , v. 41 

Greek Fathers of the Church . . . vil. 79 
Gyeek Literature, Period I., Homer . i. 150 

II., ... n. 72 

" " " III III. 43 

" " " IV., ... IV. 9 

" •' " V V. 41 

" " " VI VI. 9 

" " " VII., . . VII. 9 

" VIII., . . VII. 62 

Greek Philosophy ..... iv. 77, v. 71 

Greek Romances vil. 65 

Greek Tragedy m. 43 

Gregory Nazianzen, Greek .... vil. 87 
Gregory's Dialogues, Alfred .... i. 261 
Grimm, Jacob and Wilhelm, German ix. 348 
Grimmelshausen, Christoph von, " vi. 249 
Griselda, Patient, Boccaccio .... III. 150 

Grotius, Hugo, Dutch vi. 271 

Guarini, Giovanni Battista, Italifm vil. 147 

Gudrun, German II. 394 

Guerrazzi, F. D., Italian X. 84 

Guinicelli, Guido, Italian .... 11. 229 
Gyda, Eric's Daughter, Heims- 

kringla IV. 271 

Gyges and Assurbanipal, Assyrian . i. 77 

Hafiz, Persian V. 1 81 

Hagedom, Friedrich, German . . . VIII. 13 
Hagen and Waltari, Fight of, Ekkehard i. 288 
Hagen Kills Siegfried, Nibelungenlied 11. 391 
Haidee Visits Don Juan, Byron . . IX. 211 

Haidee, Death of, Byron IX. 212 

Hakon Jarl & Thora, Oehlenschlager VIII. 176 
Hale, Edward Everett, American . . x. 322 

HaUvy, Ludovic, French x. 174 

Halleck, Fitz-Greene, American . . ix. 150 
Hamlet and Ophelia, Shakespeare . IV. 371 
Hamlet, Shakespeare's, Goethe . . , VUI. 91 
Happiness of True Love, Shakespeare iv. 392 
Hare and Many Friends, Gay . . . vil. 290 
Hannodius and Arlstogiton, Thucydidesw. 27 
Harp that Ransomed, Irish .... VIII. 289 
Harris, Joel Chandler, American . . x 332 
Harte, F. Bret, American, .... x. 337 
Hartmann von Aue, German ... i. 305 

Hasty Pudding, Barlo7v IX. 60 

Hawk and the Jay, Fiorentino ... Ill 160 
Hawthorne, Nathaniel, American. , ix. 155 



Vol. Page 

Hawthorne, Longfellow ix. 128 

Heavenly and Earthly Love, Michel 

Angela IV. 226 

Heavenly Union, Colonna . . . . iv. 223 
Heaven, Vision of, St. John .... vil. 21 
Hebrew Literature, Period I I 114, 

n., . . II. 52 

" HL, . . VII. 95 
Hector and Andromache, Homer . . i. 162 
Heimskringla, Scandinavian . . . iv. 270 

Heine, Heinrich, German x. 192 

Helen at the Scsean Gate, Homer . . i. 160 
Heliodora's Garland, Meleager . . . vil. 36 
Heliodore, Lament for, Meleager . . vil. 36 
Heliodorus Driven from the Temple, 

Hebrew . , II. 65 

Helvetius, Letter to Madame, Frank- 
lin • IX. 34 

Hen and the Diamond, Hagedorn . VIII. 15 
Henry, Epitaph on Prince, Drum- 

mond VIII. 300 

Heniyson, Robert, Scottish .... iii. 383 
Herbert, George, English .... v. 374 
Hercules, Choice of, Xenophon . . iv. 71 
Hermann and Dorothea, Goethe . . vill. 80 
Heimann and Thusnelda, Klopsiock .vill. 25 

Hermes, Baby, Greek II. 73 

Hermesianax, Greek V. 5o 

Hero and Leander, Marlowe . . . iv. 340 

Herodotus, Greek IV. 12 

Herod the Great's Last Illness, fose- 

phus VII. 27 

Herondas, Greek V. 62 

Herrick, Robert, English V. 388 

Hesiod, Greek II. 77 

Hester Prynne and the Pastor, Haw- 
thorne IX. 158 

Hester, Lamb ix. 244 

Hiawatha, Song of, Longfellow . . IX. 133 
Hildebrand, Song of, German ... i. 285 

Highest Good, Philemon V. 59 

Hillel and Shamai, Hebrew .... VII. loi 
Hindu " Song of Songs," India . . ill. 35 
His Lady's Death, Hansard . . . . iv. 260 
Hoccleve, Thomas, English . . . . iii. 364 

Holberg, Ludvig, Danish Vlll. 154 

Holland, Grotius VI. 274 

Holland, Marvell VI. 298 

Holly Tree, The, Southey IX. 269 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell, American, x. 301 

Home, John, English Vlll. 325 

Home-made Duke, The, Beaumont 

and Fletcher V. 354 

Home of Venus, Poliziano .... III. 168 

Homer, Greek i. 150 

Honest Man, Philemon V. 59 

Hood, Thomas, English IX. 275 

Hooft, Pieter C, Dutch VI. 277 

Hopkinson, Francis, American ... IX. 42 

Horace, Latin IV. 131 

Horace's Monument, Horace . . . IV. 138 
Horace's Daily Life ....••• IV. 134 
Horant, The Singing of, Gudrun . II. 397 

Vol. Page 

Horn of Roland, Chanson de Roland, i. 201 

Hotel de Rambouillet, French ... v. 272 

Household of Yvcm., .Irish v. 311 

House of Socrates, La Fontaine . . v. 292 

How Ciacco Paid for his Dinner, Boc- 
caccio III. 142 

Howells, William Dean, American . x. 345 

How Gargantua Rode to Paris, Rabe- 
lais III. 182 

How Howleglass Cured the Sick in 

the Hospital, Tyll Eulenspiegel . m. 303 

How Howleglass was Thrice Bap- 
tized, Tyll' Eulenspiegel . . . ill. 303 

Hbw Panfirge Escaped from the 

Turks, Rabelais • • , HI. 189 

How Siegfried was Betrayed; Nibe- 

How Sleep the Brave, Collins . 

How the Athenians Could Over- 
come Philip, Demosthenes . . . 

How the Cid Made the Coward a 
Hero, Chronicle of the Cid , . 

How Thor Recovered His Hammer, 
Elder Edda 

How to Promote Public Prosperity, 

Mencius II. 

How Xenophon Became a General, 

Xenophon IV. 

Hudibras, Butler vi. 

Hudibras Put in the Stocks, Butler . vi. 

Hue and Cry After Cupid, Meleager. VII. 

Hugo, Victor, French .... 

Hugo of Trimberg, German . . . 

Humor in Oratory, Quintilian . . 

Hundred Ancient Tales, Italian . 

Hunt, Leigh, English IX. 228 

Hunter from Greece, Dutch Ballads.^ VI. 274 

Huon Enters the Sultan's Palace, 

II. 388 
VII. 375 

VI. 26 


II- 358 


IX. 369 
m. 280 
VI. 77 

111. 125 

Wieland . . . 
Hutten, Ulrich von, German 
Hymn of Dawn, Prudentius 
Hymn to Aphrodite, Sappho 
Hymn to Saviour Christ, Clement 
Hymn to the Sun-God, Veda . 
Hymn to Varuna, Veda . . . 
Hymn to Zeus, Cleanthes . . . 
Hymns of the Veda, Indian . 
Hypocrite' makes Love, Moliire 
Hypocrite unmasked, Moliire . 

. VIII. 48 

VI. 235 

. vii. 120 

. II. 

. VII. 


. VI. 


. VI. 200 
. VI. 205 




" I am a Roman Citizen," Cicero . . III. 102 
Ichabod Crane and Katrina Van 

Tassel, Irving ix. 76 

Ideal Portrait. Anacreon .... IV. 87 

Ignez de Castro, Camoens Ill 262 

Image of Love, Propertius .... IV. 158 

Immortality, Browne VI. 294 

Impostor Exposed, Plautus .... II. 125 

In a Garden, Swinburne X. 269 

In All Myself, Whilmtm x. 335 

Incident of the French Camp, 

Srowning X. 251 



Vol. Page 
II. I68 





Inconsistent Lady, Arabian .... 
Indisin Literature, Period I., ... 

" " " 11'.', Part 2 

" " " III 

" " " IV 

Indian Story of the Deluge, Veda . 

Indra Invited to Drink the Soma, 

Hymns of the Veda i. 

Indra, Lord of Heaven, Veda ... i. 

Infant Hercules, Pindar 11. 

Inflexible Prince, Calderon de la 

Barca VIII. 220 

Ingebore's Lament, Saga of Frithiof. iv. 283 

Inkle and Yarico, Steele vi. 371 

In Memoriam, Tennyson x. 244 

Inoculation, Montagu VII. 295 

In Praise of Wine, Anacreon ... IV. 88 

Inscription on the Gate of Theleme, 

Rabelais III. 188 

Interrupted Wedding, The, Manzoni x. 76 

Intimations of Immortality from Re- 
collections of Early Childhood, 

Invective on Mahmud, Firdausi 

Invitation to Phyllis, Horace . . 

Invocation to Venus, Lucretius 

Iphigenia, Euripides 

Iphigenia, Sacrifice of, Lucretius 

Irish Literature, Early . . 

Irish Literature, Later .... 

Irving, Washington, American , 

Isla, J. F. de, Spanish .... 

Is Life Worth Living? Menander 

Isocrates, Greek 

Italian Literature, Period I., 
" " " I., Part 

IL, . 



v., . 


IX. 263 

II. 179 
IV. 135 
in- 95 

III. 86 
III. 96 

V. 305 

VIII. 282 

IX. 67 

VIII. 225 
V. 58 


II. 216 

III. 213 

IV. 187 
V. 200 

VI. 201 
VII. 145 

X. 36 

Jackson, Helen Hunt, American . . X. 317 

Jaffier and Belvidera, Otway ... VI. 336 

Jaida and Khalid, Arabian .... 11. 162 

Jailor's Daughter, The, Pellico ... X. 68 

James I. of Scotland III. 379 

James, Henry, American X. 351 

Jami, Persian V. 186 

Jason, Pindar II. 105 

Jason and Medea, Seneca V. 142 

Jayme of Aragon, Chronicle of, .5*''''*" 

ish I. 368 

Jeannot and Colin, Voltaire .... VII. 228 

Jemshid the Wanderer, ./iiVifaajj . . II. 180 

Jerusalem, Future Glory of, Isaiah . I. 130 
Jesus Consoles His Disciples, St. 

John ..... VII. 17 

iesus, Sayings of, Greek VII. 22 

ewish Martyrs, Maccabees II. 60 

Job's Outcry Against His Friends . 1. 123 

Vot Page 
Johannes Secundus, Dutch .... VI. 269 
John Bull and Nic Frog, Arbuthnot vil. 283 
John Bull's Sister Peg, Arbuthnot . vil. 284 
John Gilpin's Ride, Cowper .... vill. 350 

Johnson, Samuel, English vil. 379 

Jonson, Ben, English iv. 393 

Jonson, Ben, Swinburne ..... x. 268 

Josephus, Flavins, Greek VII. 25 

Joy of Night, Camo'ens iii. 267 

Juana, A. de Musset x. 134 

Juan II., Spanish 11. 290 

Judas Maccabseus, Hebrew .... 12. 68 
Judge's Transgression, The, Sadi . iv. 180 

Judith, Anglo-Saxon i. 254 

Jugurtha at Rome, Sallust; .... IV. 95 

Julia's Marriage, Feuillet x. 137 

Julian, Eulogy on Emperor, Libanius VII. 76 

Justice in War, Grotius vi. 272 

Juvenal, Latin VI. 63 

Karamsin, M. M., Russian .... x. 11 
Kenelm's Fight vpitn Tom Bovirles . ix. 290 
Kennedy, John Pendleton, American ix. 174 

Khakani, Persian iv. 161 

King Alphonso of Naples, Sanna- 

zaro > IV. 240 

King and His Two Sons, Bidpai . v. 31 
King Arthur's Dream, Layamon . . i. 275 

King CEdipus, Sophocles III. 72 

King of Yvetot, The, Biranger . . IX. 386 
King Charles's Guard, legnir . . . vill. 197 

King Christian, Evald VIII. 152 

King Discovers Sakuntala, The, Sak- 

untala III. 16 

Kingdoms of Nature, Three, Lessing VIII. 42 
King m Love, The, Sr/SaMto/a . , . III. 21 
King in Thule, The, Goethe .... VIII. 95 
King Oluf the Saint, Danish Lit. . VIII 148 
King's Complaint of Drought, Shi- 

King 1. 144 

King's Gifts to the Dervish, Sadi . . iv. 178 
King's Journey to the Heavenly 

Mount, Mahabharata II. 20 

King Solomon's Betrothal, Bible . . I. 125 
King Toghrul and the Sentinel, Sadi iv. 186 
Kipling, Rudyard, English .... x. 281 
Klopstock, Friedrich Gottlieb, Ger- 
man VIII. 22 

Knowledge of God, Greek .... iv. 80 

Knight, The, Chaucer m. 328 

Knight and the Lady, The, Ciullo 

D'Alcamo 11. 222 

Knight of La Mancha, The, Cer- 
vantes III. 223 

Knight's Tale, Chaucer iii. 334 

Koran, The, Arabian I. 187 

Kriemhilde, Nibelungenlied .... II. 389 
Kriloff, Ivan A., Russian ..... X. 12 
Krishna, Rebuking of, Jayadeva . . III. 38 
Krishna, Reconciliation of, Jayadeua iii. 40 
Krishna, Sports of, Jayadeva . . lii. 36 



Vol. Page 

Laberius, Latin Hi. 122 

La Bruy&re, Jean de, French . . . vi. I7g> 
Ladies of Germany, Walther von der 

Vogekueide I. 298 

Lady Blarney and Miss Skeggs, 

Goldsmith VII. %ax 

Lady Madeline of Usher, Poe ... ix. 148 
Lady Randolph Discovers IJer Son " 

Home VIII. 325 

La Fontaine, Jean de, French ... v. 287 
La Harpe, J. F. de, /•renck .... vill. 241 
Lais' Mirror, Greek Anthology . . . vil. 39 

L' Allegro, Milton V. 394 

Lamb, Charles, English ix. 239 

Lamartine, Alphonse de, French . . vill.271 
Lamennais, Robert de, French . . . vill. 266 
Lament, Walther von der Vogehveide i. 297 

Lament for Adonis, Bion vi. 43 

Lament for Bion, Moschtts .... VI. 46 
Lament for Eoghan Rua O'Neill, 

I'^h VIII; 291 

Lament for Heliodore, Meleager - . vil. 36 
Lament for His Son, Quintilian . . VI. 76 
Lament for Life Wasted, Michel' 

Angela IV. 227 

Lament for Lost Love, Brederode . vx. 284 
Lament of Andromache, Ennius . . II. Ii5 
Lament of Cunedda, Celtic .... i. 322 
Lament of Dead Wife, Egyptian . i. 65 
Lament of Don Roderick, Spanish . i. 380 
Lament of Inca Princess, Ollanta . i. 397 

Lament of Sloth, Boileau v. 285 

Lamentation for Celin, Spanish . . 11. 273 
Lamprecht's Alexander, German . i. 293 
Lancelot, Death of, Malory .... iii. 373 
Langland, William, English . . . HI. 347 
Langland's First Vision, Langland . iii. 348 
Laocoon and His Sons, Virgil . . . iv. 121 
Laodamia, Wordsworth .... IX. 261 
La Rochefoucauld, Due de, French vi. 183 
Last Song of Sappho, Leopardi. 
Latin Fathers of the Church , 

Latin Literature, Period 1 11. 

. . III. 
. . IV. 


Part I 
Part 2 

" " " III'. 

" " " IV. 

" " " IV. 

Laura, Sonnets to, Petrarch . . . 
Laurin, the Dwarf-King, German . 
Lawyer and the Philosopher, Plato . 
Layamon's Brut, Anglo-Saxon . . 
Lay of the Eglantine, Marie de 


Lazarillo de Tormes, Mendoza 
Lear and Cordelia, Shakespeare 
Learned Greek, The, Italian . 
Lebanon, Cedars of, Lamartine 
Lenore, Burger ...... 

Leopardi, Giacomo, Italian . 
Le Sage, Alain Rgn^, French 
Lesbia, Farewell to, Catullus 
Lesbia, To, Catullus .... 






V. 103 

VI. 62 

VII. 104 
II. 263 
I. 312 

V. 90 
I. ,270 

I. 212 

III. 211 

IV. 379 

III. 125 

VIII. 275 

VIII. 60 

X. 87 

VII. 199 

III. 117 

III. 113 

Vol. Page 

Lesbia's Lover, Catullus m. 114 

Lessiiig, G. E., German vill. 26 

Lesson of Roses, Ausonius .... vil. io5 
Lesson of the Tops, Grk. Anthology vil. 41 
Letter to Madame Helvetius, Irank- 

lin IX. 34 

Let the World Laugh, Gongora . . vi. 150 
Levin with the Mowers, Tolstoi . . X. 52 

Libanius, Greek vil. 75 

Liberty, Ode to, Collins vil. 376 

Lieutenant Le Fevre at the Inn, 

Sterne vil. 343 

Lieutenant Lismahago, Smollett . . vil. 335 

Life at an Inn, Johnson vil. 385 

Life of the Blessed, Ponce de Leon . lii. 209 
Life ol Ralph Partridge, Mather . . ix. 20 
Life's Enigma, Camoens ..... m. 266 

Life's Woes, Camoens m. 269 

Lilliput, Court of. Swift vi. 387 

Lincoln, Abraham, Lowell .... x. 296 
Lion and the Mouse, Phadrus . . V. 132 

Lion's Share, ^sqp V. 68 

Litany, Herrick v. 389 

Literary Bore, A, Horace IV. 136 

Little Nell and Her Grandfather, 

Dickens ix. 319 

Livy (Titus Livius), Latin .... v. 106 
Lochaber No More, Ramsay . . . VIII. 303 
jLodbrok, Death-Song of, Scandina- 
vian .' . II. 346 

Loki, Punishment of. Younger Edda 11. 373 
Lomonosoff, Michael, Russian . . iii. 393 
London Lackpenny, Lydgate ... 11. 361 

London, Wordsworth IX. 266 

Longfellow, Henry W., American . IX. 120 
Looking Upward, Gautier. .... x. I31 
Lope de Vega Carpio, Spanish . . VI. 138 

Lord of Lu, Shi-King I. 142 

Lord of Milan and the Miller, Sac- 

chetti III. 157 

Lord's Supper, Children of, Tegnir . viii. 194 

Lorelei, The, Heine x. 200 

Lorenzo the Magnificent, Italian . . HI. 167 
Loss and Recovery of Abla, Arabian II. 157 
Loss of the Royal George, Cowper . VIII. 352 

Lost Child, Roswitha VI. 256 

Lost Jewel, The, Egyptian .... I. 35 
Lost Leader, The, Browning ... X. 250 

Lost Ring, Sakuntala III. 25 

Lot of Man, The, Pushkin .... X. 17 

Love, Juan II. II. 290 

Love (Charity), St. Paul VII. 20 

Love at Church, Camoens .... III. 269 
Love at First Sight, Marlowe ... IV. 340 
Love, Friendship and War, Cif?Ta«to. III. 250 
Love, Heavenly and Earthly, Michel 

Angelo IV. 226 

Love in the Tomb, Porto iv. 219 

Lovelace, Richard, English .... V. 386 
Love-letter to Her Husband, Brad- 
street IX. 17 

Love, Panegyric of, Plato v. 82 

Lover's Chronicle, Cowley , ... VI. 301 



Vol. Page 

Lover's Death, Rumi iv. 171 

Ix>ver's Farewell, American . . i. 399 

Lovers' Last Interview, Lamartine , VIII. 273 
IjOvers' Prayer to Venus, Pleiade . . iv. 255 
Lover's Stratagem, Guarini .... vil. 149 

Love's Awakening, Hooft vi. 277 

Love's Dream Realized, Profertitts. iv. 159 
Love's YouDg Dream, Moore ... ix. 233 
lx)ves of loets and Sages, Her- 

mesianax V. 60 

Love's Vassal, Petrarch and Surrey iv. 304 
Love the Light-giver, iJf8V^^/.<4»^f/«. iv. 226 

Low-Born, Biranger IX. 390 

Lowell, James Russell, American. . x. 289 

Lucan, Latin V. 147 

Lucian, Greek , . . VII. 48 

Lucifer's Revenge, Vondel .... VI. 282 
Lucifer's Soliloquy, Vondel .... vi. 280 

Lucretius, Latin iii. 94 

Luck of Roaring Camp, Harie, . . x. 338 
Lucy Ashton, Betrothal of, Scott . . vill. 374 
Luise's Eighteenth Birthday, Fass . VIII. 54 
Lute and the Beaker, Iiajiz .... v. 184 

Luther, Martin, German vi. 238 

Luther's Last Letter to His Wife, . vi. 247 
Luther's Letter to his Little Son John vi. 246 

Luther's Psalm VI. 240 

Lydgate, John, English iii 361 

Lyre, On His, Anacreon IV. 85 

Lyrists of the War of Liberation, 

German X. 184 

Machiavelli, Niccolo, Italian ... iv. 198 
Macias the Lover, Juan de Mena . . 11. 293 

Madame Merle, _/a»z^j, x. 352 

Madness of Orlando, Ariosto ... v. 205 
Maecenas, Patron and Friend, Horace iv. 134 

Maffei, Francesco, Italian vil. 158 

Magical Crocodile, Egyptian ... I. 33 
Magicians, Tales of the, Egyptian . 1. 33 

Mahabharata, India II. 9 

Mahmud, Invective on, Eirdaiai . . 11. 179 
Mahmud, Praise of, Firdatisi ... n. 179 
Mahogany Tree, The, Thackeray. . x. 222 
Maiden and the Rattlesnake, Simms IX. 180 
Maiden's Lament, Schiller .... vill. 137 
Maidens' Song to the Tuya, Ollanta i. 399 
Maids' Dialogue, Ramsay .... vill. 304 
Maistre, Joseph de, French .... viil. 254 
Making of Man, The, Swinburne . . x. 267 
Malherbe, Francois de, French . . iv. 266 
Malory, Sir Thomas, English . . . in. 373 
Mambrino's Helmet, Cervantes . . m. 228 

Mamurra, On, Catullus \\\. 114 

Man, Young . . . . r vil. 365 

Man and the Universe, Pascal ... v. 271 
Manfred, Byron ......... ix. 214 

Manon Lescaut, Privost vil. 210 

in New Orleans, •/'r^wojiT . . . vil. 215 

Man's Life, Menander V. i^v 

Manrique, Jorge de, Spanish .... n. 294 
Manuel, Don Juan, Spanish .... i. 382 

Vol. Page 
Manzoni, Alessandro, French ... x. 72 
Marathon, Battle of, Herodotus ... iv. 20 

Marcellus, Young, Virgil IV. 129 

March of Bernardo del Carpio, Span- 
ish .. . I. 381 

Marco Bozzaris, Halleck IX. 152 

Marcus Aurelius, Greek VII. 56 

Marguerite of Navarre, French , . . iv. 244 

Maiie Antoinette, Burke VIII. 343 

Marie de France, French i. 212 

Marini, Giambattista, Italian . . . vi. 127 
Mark Tapley's Venture, Dickens . . ix. 313 
Marlborough at Blenheim, Addison vi. 383 
Marlowe, Christopher, English . . iv. 335 
Marmion and Douglas, Parting of, 

Scott - VIII. 361 

Marot, Clement, French m. 202 

Marriage and Single Life, Bacon . v. 369 
Marriage of Sister Jenny, Steele . . vi. 368 
Marseillaise, Rouget de Lisle . . . vill. 248 

Martial, Latin v. 171 

Marvell, Andrew, English vi. 296 

Mary in Heaven, To, Burns .... VIII. 314 

Mary Morrison, Burns VIII. 311 

Mary Queen of Scots, French . . . iv. 264 
Mary Queen of Scots Leaving France, 

Brantdme iv. 261 

Massinger, Philip, English .... v. 360 

Mather, Cotton, American ix. ig 

Matilda Gathering Flowers, Dante . 11. 252 
Maupassant, Guy de, French .... x. 161 
Maxiths, La Rochefoucauld .... VI. 185 
McFingal's Vision of America's Fu- 
ture, Trumbull IX. 41 

Medea, Euripides m. go 

Medea's Flight, Apollonius . . . . vi 57 
Medea's Last Words to her Children 

Euripides m. gj 

Medea's Love, Apolldnius VI. 52 

Medea's Wrongs, jSw^ri^iiaVj . . . . m. gj 
Meeting of Parliament, Za«f/aK</ . III. 353 
Meher and Mushteri, Assar .... V. 1 95 
Melchizedek the Jew, Boccaccio . . m. 135 

Meleager. Greek yil. 36 

Meleager on Himself vil. 38 

Melville, Herman, American . . . ix. 172 
Memnon, Statue of, Cats ..... vi. 276 
Mena, Juan de, Spanish ...... II. 392 

Menalque, Bruyere vi. l8l 

Menander, Greek . v 57 

Mencius, Chinese 11. 45 

Mencms, Sayings of, Chinese . ... u. 47 
Mendelssohn, Moses, German . . . vill. 44 
Mendoza, Diego de, Spanish . . . m. 210 
Merchant and the Parrot, Rumi . . iv. i6g 
Merle and the Nightingale, Dunbar in. 384 
Merry Soap-boiler, Hagedorn . . vill. 13 

Metastasio, Italian yil. 160 

Michel Angelo Buonarroti, Italian . iv. 224 
Midnight Scene, Massinger .... v. 362 

Mignon, Goethe yill. 84 

Mignon's Song, Goethe vill. 86 

Milk-Maid of Finojosa, Santillana ._ n. 289 



Vol. Page 

Milton, Dryden VI. 347 

Milton, John, English v. 391 

Mimnermus, Greek II. 86 

Minnesingers, The, German ... i. 294 
Minstrel's Ciirse, The, Vhland . . . x. 189 
Minstrel's Roundelay, Ckatlerton . vil. 399 
Miranda, Francisco de Saa de, J^or- 

ti^uese III. 258 

Miriam and HUda, Hawthonu . . rx. 167 
Miser and the Mouse^ Gri. AtUhology vii. 42 
Mismle in Youth, Hoccleve .... m. 364 
Model and the Statue, Michel Atigelo iv. 226 

Molidre, J. B. V., French vi. 187 

Monarch Cahib, The, Kriloff ... X. 13 
Monastic Life, Basil the Great . . vii. 85 
Montagu, Lady Mary Wortley, Eng- 
lish VII. 292 

Montaigne, Michael de, French . . iii. 193 

Monti, Vincenzo, Italian x. 79 

Moore, Thomas, English vs.. 232 

Moorish Ballads, Spanish II. 273 

More, Sir Thomas, English .... iv. 295 

Morning Call, Catullus ...... iii. 116 

Morning Hymn, Lomonosoff .... m. 393 

Moschus, Greek ''^l- 45 

Moses, Song of, .Sji/if i. 118 

Moslem's Prayer, Koran i. igo 

Moth and the Flame, Sadi .... iv. 185 

Mother, The, Whittier x. 309 

Mother and Daughter, Lamennais . viil. 268 
Mother's Lament for her Lost Son, 

Maffei VII. 159 

Mourning, Chinese II. 44 

Mis. Battle's Opinions on Whist, 

Lamb IX. 243 

Much Ado about a Kiss, Bandello . VI. 104 
Murder of Agamemnon, jSschylus . III. 53 
Murderer's Confession to Sonia, Dos- 
toievsky X. 38 

Muspilli, German I. 284 

Musset, Alfred de, French .... x. 132 

My Bird, Hafiz v. 184 

My Books, Southey DC. 268 

My Fortune, Quevedo vi. 155 

My Little Comer, Beranger .... ix. 391 

My Monument, Pttshkin X. 18 

My Native Province, Pierre Vidal . i. 345 
Myrtis, For the Tomb of, Greek . . vil. 39 
Mysterious Harper, The, Goethe . . vill. 88 
Mystery of Existence, India ... v. 39 

Naive, The, Mendelssohn viil. 44 

Nameless Charm, Miranda .... HI. 258 

Napoleon, Emerson rx. 112 

Napoleon and the Wounded Rus- 
sians, Tolstoi X. 48 

Nathan and the Templar, Lessing . Vin. 27 
Nathan the Wise before Saladin, 

Lessing Vlll. 31 

Nature, Emerson ix. no 

Nature Three Kingdoms of, Z«««^. vill. 42 
Nausicaa and Odysseus, Homer. 

Odyssey '• ^72 

ToL Page 
Neaera's Kisses, _/i>^aMncr Secundus . vi. 271 
Nero Slays His Mother, Tacitus . . v. 127 

New England, American ix. 15 

New Testament, Greek vil. 13 

New Year's Gift, The, Zschokke. . . ix. 344 
Nibelungenlied, The, German ... 11. 380 
Niccolini, Giambattista, Italian . . x. 81 

Nihilist, The, Turgenieff x. 27 

Niobe, Ovid iv. 141 

Nizami, Persian iv. 162 

Noah's Flood, English iv. 332 

Noble Lord's Morning, Parini , . vil. 176 
North Wind and the Sun, Babrius . v. 70 

Not at Home, Martial v. 172 

Nothing Better than Angling, Walton, v. 380 
Noureddin in Quest of the Magic 

Lamp, Oehlenschlager .... VIII. 183 
'Novalis,' Count von Haidenbeig, 

German IX. 336 

Nun and the Lettuce, Alfred the 

Great I. 261 

Nymph's Reply to the Passionate 

Shepherd, Raleigh IV. 329 

Ocana, Francisco de, Spanish . . . vi. 152 

Ocean, The, Byron IX. 207 

Ode to Anactoria, Sappho II. 91 

Ode to Evening, Collins vil. 377 

Ode to God, Derzhauin III. 396 

Ode to Himself, jff«»yo»j«» . . . IV. 399 

Ode to Liberty, Collins VII. 376 

Ode to Rienzi, Petrarch II. 266 

(Edipus, King, Sophocles iii. 72 

Oehlenschlager, A. G., Danish . . . VIII. 174 
CEngus, Epitaph of, Irish Lit. . . . VIII. 287 
Of his Lady's Old Age, Ronsard . . rv. 260 
Of Old Sat Freedom on the Heights, 

Tennyson X. 240 

Olai's Hog Vigi, Heimskringla . . IV. 277 
Olaf Tryggvesson, Birth of, Heims- 

kringla rv. 272 

Olaf Tryggvesson, Wedding of, 

Heimskringla IV. 275 

Old Age and Death, Waller .... VI. 312 
Oldest Book in the World, Egyptian. i. 22 
Old Familiar Faceis, The, Lamb . . IX. 245 
Old Indian Burying Ground, Freneau IX. 46 
Old Jackal and the Elephant, India, v. 3Gr 
Old Man of Verona, Claudian . . . VII. 108 

Old Man's Staff, Celtic I. 326 

Old Played-out Song, Riley .... x. 358 

Old Testament, Hebrew I. 114 

Old-Time Ladies, Ballad of, Villon . 11. 337 
Old-Time Lords, Ballad of, Villon . 11. 338 
Old Woman's Story, French .... 11. 311 

Oleg, Death of, Russian ' iii. 390 

Ollanta, Aboriginal American ... I. 394 
Ollanta Threatens the City of Cuzco, 

Ollanta I. 398 

Oluf the Saint, King, Danish Lit, . viil. 148 

Olympia, Pindar II. 109 

Omar Khayyam, Persian II. 203 



O Nanny, Wilt Thou Go With Me? 


One Liitle Kiss, Johannes Secundus. 
Onion Stew, 1 he, Cir//!»8 . . . . 
Only an Indian Baby, H. H. Jackson 
Only Kiss an J Swear No Oath, Heine 
Only Sure Weatth, Martial 
Open the Door, Ocana . . 
Open Window, Ti e, Longfellow 
Orators of Athens, The . . 
Orestes and Hermione, Racine 
Orestes Discove.s Iphigeuia in 

ris, Kuripides , . . . 
Oriental Alexander, Nizami . 
Orlando and the Giants, i uici 
Orlando, Madness of, Anosto 
Orpheus and Eurydice, Virgil 
Orsini, Isabella, Cuerrazzi . 
Ossian, frisk ....... 

Ossian's Lament in Old Age, Celtic . 
Othello and Desdemona, Shakespeare 

Otway, Thomas, English 

Ovid, Latin 


Vol. Page 

VIII. 324 
VI. 270 
IV. 232 
X. 318 
X. 205 
V. 173 
VI. 152 

IX. 122 

VI. 9 
V. 297 

III. 87 

IV. 165 
IV. 191 

V. 205 
IV. 119 
X. 85 
V. 313 
I. 320 
IV. 374 
VI. 334 
IV. 139 

Paean of Joy, Whitman X. 336 

Pagan Literature. Basil the Great . vil. 84 
Painter and tie Critics, Ci//«r/ . . .VIII. 18 

Pandora, Hesiod II. 78 

Panegyric of Love, Plato V. 82 

Parable of the Prodigal Son, St. Luke. vil. 16 
Parasite Brings Good News, Plautus. 11. 128 
Parcival, Wolfram von Eschenbach . i. 302 

Parini, Giuseppe, Italian vil. 175 

IJaris (City), Scarron .■ . . . . . .' vi. 177 

Parisian Education, A, Diderot . . vil. 332 

Parson, The, Chnucer III. 251 

Parting of Marmion and Douglas, 

Scott VIII. 361 

Partington, Mrs., Sydney Smith . . IX. 300 
Partnership, Greek Anthology , . . VII. 40 

Pascal, Blaise, French V. 270 

Passionate Shepherd to his Love, 

Marlowe IV. 337 

Passion Week in Rome, De Stael . VIII. 251 

Passport, The, Baggesen VIII. 167 

Patient Griselda, Boccaccio .... III. 150 
Paul Revere's Ride, Longfellow . . IX. 126 
Pausanias the Spartan, Ihucydides . IV. 30 
Peace of Wedmore, Alfred the Great, i. 260 
Peacocks and the Crow, Lessing . . Vlll. 43 

Peacemakers, The, Arabian . 
Pegasus in Pound, Longfellow , 
Pellico, Silvio, Italian .... 
Peninsula of Sirmio, Catullus . 
Pentaur, Poem of, Egyptian . . 
Percy, Bishop Thomas, English 

Peredur, Celtic 

Pericles, Character of, Thucydides 
Periwinkle, The, Rousseau . . 
Persian Literature, Period I. . . 

" " " IL . 

" <• " III. . 

I. 186 
. IX. 123 
. X. 68 
. III. 118 

■ I. 51 
VIII. 323 
. 1. 328 
• IV. 35 
. VII. 269 
I. 107 
. II. 169 
. IV, j6o 

Vol. Page 

Persian Literature, Period IV. . . v. 179 

Persian Stories V. 194 

Persius, Aulus, Latin V. 133 

Peter Pounce and Parson Adams, 

Melding VII. 325 

Petrarch, Francesco, Italian ... II. 259 

Petronius Arbiter, Latin V. 155 

Phaedrus, Latin V. 132 

Pharaohs, Greatest of the I. 49 

Pharsalia, Battle of, Casar .... IV. 109 
Philaster's Jealousy, Beaumont and 

Fletcher V. 351 

Philemon, Greek V. 58' 

Philip of Macedon, Demosthenes . . VI. 25 

Philosopher in a Storm, Gellius . . VI. 100 

Philosopher's Stone, 1 he, Alfonso i. 377 

Philosophy as a Physician, Boetius . VII. I16 

Phoebe Dawson, Lrabbe IX. 192 

Phyllis and Glycera, jWi?M«-i}^ . . . iv. 267 

Phyllis, Invitation to, Horace ... IV. 135 

Physioan, The, Chaucer III. 330 

Picciola, Saintine X. 126 

Pickwick Returns Thanks, Dickens . IX. 305 
Picture of A phrcdite, Greek Anthology vil. 41 

Piece of String, The, Maupassant . x. 162 

Piers Ploughman, Langland . . . in. 350 

Pilgrimage to Kevlaar, Heine „ . . x. 202 

Pilgriifls at Vanity Fair, Bunyan , . Vi. 306 

Pindar, Greek 11. lol 

F'me Tree, The, Emerson IX. 118 

Pipes at Lucknow, 1 he, Hhittier . X. 308 

Hppa's Song, Browning X. 250 

Pisan, Christine de, Irench .... II. 332 

Pitcher of Mater, A, /'/azz/Mi . . . II. 138 

Plagre of Florence, Ihe, Boccaccio . 111. 132 

Plato, Greek V. 74 

Plautus, T. Maccius, Latin .... II. 117 

Playing with bis Cat, Montaigne . . III. 201 

Plea for Drinking, Anacreon ... IV. 88 

Pleiade, The, Irench IV. 250 

Pliny the Elder, Latin V. 164 

Pliny the 'Vounger, Latin v. 175 

Pliny's Letter on the Christians . . v. 176 

Ploughman and His Child, Sand . IX. 397 

Plowman, The, Chaucer III. 333 

Plowman's Creed, The, English . . III. 355 

Plutarch, Greek '. VII. 43 

Pluto and Hermes (Mercury), ZM(rz'a« VII. 50 
Poe, Edgar Allan, American . '. . IX. 139 
Poet Confers Immortality, The, Shake- 
speare ■ IV. 391 

Poet's Daughter, The, Novalis . . ix. 336 

Poet's Gift of Fame, Theognis ... II. 94 
Poets Laureate of England .... X. 411 

Poet's Nature and Wants, Juvenal . vi. 66 

Poet's Retrospect, Camoens .... in, 268 

Polish Literature X. 361 

Poliziano, Angelo, Italian .... lii. 167 

PoUio, Virgil IV. 117 

Poly{)hemus in Love, Theocritus - . VI. 35 

Pompey and Caesar, Rivals, Lucan . V. 148 

Ponce de Leon, Luis, Spanish , . . III. 208 

Poor Richard's Alnjanac, Franklin . IX. 28 



Vol, Page 

Pope, Alexander, English vi. 392 

Porto, Luigi da, 7ifa/«o» iv. 218 

Portrait, The^ Marol iii. 204 

Portrait, Wordsworth IX. 260 

Portuguese Literature ...... m. 254 

Pound of Flesh, The, Shakespeare . iv. 364 

Poverty, Italian II. 229 

Poverty the Handmaid of Philosophy, 

Apuleitis VI. 93 

Praise of Famous Men, Ecclesiasticiis ii. 59 

Praise of Little Women, Jifan Riaz I. 384 

Prasildo and Tisbina, Boiardo ... iv. 207 

Prayer to Cupid, Boccaccio .... iii. 154 

Pretty Genius, Martial v. 17 ^ 

PrSvost d' Exiles, Abb6, French . . VII. 208 
Priam Begs the Body of His Son 

Hector, Homer I. 166 

Priam, Death of, Virgil IV. 123 

Princes Faithful to Engagements? 

Machiavelli IV. 200 

Prioress, The, Chaucer iii. 329 

Prisoner in the Bastile, Voltaire . . vii. 227 

Procrastination, Young vii. 364 

Proem to the Gulistan, Sadi .... iv. 174 

Prologue in Heaven, Goethe .... viil. 108 

Prometheus Bound, jEschylus . . . iil. 58 

Prometheus Defies Zeus, ^schylus . III. 62 

Propertius, Latin IV. 158 

Proper Use of Wealth, Menander . V. 58 
Proserpine Captured by Pluto, Clau- 

dian . VII. 109 

Provencal Literature I. 337 

Prowess of Indra, .^»2Kj^^y4^?^rffl i. 88 

Prudentius, Zatin VII. 119 

Ptah-Hotep, Precepts of, Egyptian . I. 22 

Pulci, Luigi, Italian IV. 190 

Punishment of Loki , Younger Edda . 11-373 

Purity, Zend-Avesta I. Ill 

Pursuit of Truth. Lessing viil. 43 

Pyramus and Thisbe, Ovid .... iv. 147 

Pyrrhus to Fabricius, Ennius ... 11. 116 

Pyth^oras, Golden Verses of, Greek iv. 8l 

I^thagoras, Symbols of, Greek ... iv. 80 

Pythius the Lydian, Herodottts ... iv. 17 

Quack Doctor, Rutboeuf ..... I. 231 
Quarrel of Achilles and Agamemnon, 

Homer I- I55 

Queen Elizabeth and Amy Robsart, 

Scott VIII. 380 

Queen Sigrid the Haughty, Heims- 

kringla _• • • IV. 278 

Quevedo, Francisco- de, Spanish . . VI. 153 

Quintilian, Latin VI. 75 

Quintus Fixlein's Wedding, Richter. IX. 331 

Quip, Herbert v. 376 

Rabbi Ben Ezra, Browning .... X. 252 
Rabelais, Fran?ois, French .... HI. 176 
Racine, Jean Baptiste, French ... V. 294 

Vol. Page 
Raid on the Parson's Kitchen, Grim- 

melshausen vi. 250 

Raleigh, Sir Walter, English . . . iv. 325 

Rameses IL, Egyptian 1-49 

Ramsay, Allan, Scotch vill. 301 

Rape of Sita, India 1-99 

Ravana, Death of, India I. 103 

Raven, The, Poe ix. 144 

Rawdon Crawley Goes Home, Thack- 
eray ... X. 223 

Recital of the Priest Pech, American . i. 394 

Recognition, Sakuntala III. 28 

Reconciliation, Saga of Frithiof . . iv. 2S8 

Red Cross Knight and Una, Spenser IV. 323 

Redi, Francesco, Italian vi. 130 

Reflections on Landing at lona, 

Johnson VII. 383 

Regard for Others, Mencius .... 11. 49 
Rejected Bridegroom, Marguerite 

of Navarre iv. 246 

Religion of the Heart, Rumi . . . iv. 172 
Remembrances of the People, Bir- 

anger . . . ' . . Ix. 388 

Remnant in America, M. Arnold . x. 272 

Renaissance in France III. 171 

Renaissance in Italy iii. 164 

Repentance of Antioch, Chrysostom . VII. 91 
Rescue of Oriana, Amadis di Gaula . 11. 284 
Retired Courtier, Mendoza .... iii. 220 
Return.of the Troops, Miccolo Albizzi 11. 259 
Returning the Jewels, Talmud. . . VII. 100 
Revenger's Tragedy, Tourneur . . v. 345 
Revolution, Vision of the. La Harpe VIII. 241 
Reward of Valor, Froissart .... 11. 323 
Reynard Condemned to Death, Rey- 
nard the Fox III. 292 

Reynard the Fox, German .... III. 282 

Riaz, Juan, Spanish I 384 

Ribeyro, Bemardim, Portuguese . . III. 257 

Richardson, Samuei, English . . . VII. 312 

Richard the Redeless, Langland . . III. 353 

Richard II's Soliloquy, Daniel . . v. 330 

Richter, Jean Paul, German . . . ix. 32S 

Rienzi, Ode to, Petrarch II. 266 

Riley, J. Whitcomb, American ... X. 358 

Rinaldo Punished by Cupid, Boiardo IV. 215 
Rinaldo's Interview with Armida, 

Tasso '. V. 245 

Ring Recovered, The, Sakuntala . III. 27 

Rip Van Winkle's Return, Irving . IX. 71 

Rising of the Dead, Mahabharata . II. 27 

Robin and Makyne, Henryson . . . III. 391 
Rob Roy in the Tolbooth at Glasgow, 

Scott VIII.391 

Roger Holiday, Bit-anger ... IX. 389 
Rogero and Bradamant, Duel of, 

Ariosto V. 211 

Roland, Chanson de, French ... I. 199 

Roland's Pride, Chanson de Rolnnd. I. 200 
Roman Debate on Women's Rights, 

Livy V. 115 

Romance of Antar, Arabian .... II. 155 

Romance of RoUo, French .... 1. 205 



Vol. Page 
Romance oi the Rose, French ... ii. 309 

Rome, Quevedo VI. 154 

Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare . . . iv. 356 
Rome, Passion Week in, De Stael . vni. 251 
Romola and Her Fadier; George 

Eliot X. 260 

Rondeau, Leigh Hunt IX. 235 

Ronsard, Pierre de, French .... iv. 282 

Rosalind, Shakespeare IV. 382 

Rose, The, Ronsard IV. 258 

Rouget de Lisle, French vill. 247 

Rousseau, Jean Jacques, French . . vil. 256 
Rousseau at Madame Basile's . . . vii. 265 
Royal Prisoner Sees His Lady-Love, 

James I. of Scotland lii. 380 

Rubaiyat, Omar Khayyam .... n. 203 

Rudagi, Persian 11. 172 

Ruffin, Druyire VI. 180 

Ruined Life, A, Lowell x. 295 

Ruins of Rome, y. du Bellay . . . iv. 253 
Rulers Appointed by Heaven, Men- 

cius II. 48 

Rumi, Jelaleddin, Persian .... rv. 167 

Russian Literature, Period I. . . . iii. 386 

" " " 11. . . . X. 9 

Rustem and Sohrab, Firdausi ... 11. 189 

Rustic Courtship, Ramsay VIII. 303 

Rustic Outwits the Devil, Machiavelli iv. 202 
Rutbceuf, French I. 231 

Sacchetti, Franco, Italian iii. 154 

Sacrifice at Delphi, Heliodorus . , . vil. 66 
Sacrifice of Iphigenia, Lturetitis , . iii. 96 

Sachs, Hans, German III. 305 

Sadi, Persian IV. 173 

Saga of Frithiof the Bold, Scanda- 

navian . iv. 279 

Saintine, Xavier Boniface, French . x. 125 
Saint-Amant, Sieur de, French . . v. 268 
St. Benedict's Vision, Alfred the 

Great I. 262 

St. Patrick, Calderon de la Barca . vill. 213 
St. Patrick's Breastplate, Irish . . VIII. 283 
St. Paul at Athens, Iilew Testament . vil. 19 
St. Peter and the Goat, Hans Sachs . in. 306 
St. Pierre, Bemardin, French . . . VIII. 232 
Sakka's Presents, India ...... v. '22 

Sakuntala, India III. 15 

Salammbo and the Serpent, Flaubert x. 142 

Sallust, Latin lY. 95 

Sam Weller's Valentine,. /?2V/^;»J . . IX. 308 

Samson's Betrayal, Bible I. 120 

Sancho Ortiz, Lope de Vega . . . VI. 141 
Sancho Ortiz and the King, Lope de 

Vega VI. 141 

Sancho Panza and the Duchess, Cer- 
vantes III. 245 

' Sand, George,' French IX. 393 

Sanehat, Adventures of the Exile, 

Egyptian 1-39 

Sannazaro, Giacomo, Italian . . . iv. 239 
Sanskrit Epics, India 1-94 

Vol. Page 
Sanskrit Literature, See Indian Literature 
Santillana, Marques de, Spanish . . n. 289 

Sappho, Greei II. 88 

Sardanapalus, Book-Stamp of, As- 
syrian I. 71 

Satan, the Angel of Presumption, 

Caedmon i. 251 

Satire Menippee, French in. 205 

Satirist's Self-Examination, Boileau . v. 281 
baul aiid Jonathan, Lament for, 

David . ., I. 122 

Saul, Death of, Aifieri vil. 189 

Saul's Madness, Aifieri vil. 182 

Saxon Chronicle, Anglo-Saxon . . I. 263 

Sayings of Jesus VII. 22 

Scandal and Literature in High Life, 

Congrtve VI. 332 

Scandinavian Heroes and Bards, 

Oehlenschlager VIII. 175 

Scandinavian Literature, Period I. . ii. 340 
" " " H. . XV. 270 

Scarron, Paul, French vi. 174 

ScheiiFel, Joseph Victor von, German x. 207 
Schiller, Friedrich von, German . . VIII. 119 
Scholar's Temptation, The,, Calde- 
ron de la Barca VIII. 207 

School-Mistress, The, Shenstone . . vii. 372 
Scipio and Allucius, Livy .... v. 114 

Scipio's Dream, Cicero in. 108 

Scornful Lady, Boccaccio ..... in. 138 

Scotch Literature, Period I ni. 376 

" II VIII. 294 

Scotchmen, Lamb ix. 244 

Scott, Sir Walter, English .... VIII. 355 
Scotty's Intervievi' vs'ith the Minister, 

Mark Twain x. 327 

Seafarer, The, Anglo-Saxon ... i. 247 • 
Sea Hath Its Pearls, Heine .... x. 201 
Sea-Maiden's Vengeance, Irish . . vill. 287 
Seeking the Ford, Confucius ... I. 149 

Sejanus, Fall of, Juvenal vi. 69 

Seneca, L. Ann^us, Latin .... v. 138 
Sermon on the Mount, Christ . . . vil. 15 

Seven Wise Men, Greek iv. 79 

S^vigni, Mme. de., French .... vi. 212 
Shakespeare, William, English . . iv. 348 
Shakespeare, William, Swinburne . x. 2^8 

Shakespeare, Milton v. 394 

Shakespeare's Hamlet, Goethe . . . vill. 91 

Shakespeare's Sonnets iv. 391 

Sham Knight, Erasmus vi. 264 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe, English . . ix. 223 
Shenstone, William,' English . . . vii. 372 
Sheridan, R. Brinsley, English . . vni. 330 

Ship of Fools, Brant vi. 233 

Ship of State, Theognis 11. g^ 

Shipwreck, The, Byron ix. 214 

Shipwreck of Virginia, St, Pierre . VIII. 233 
Shoemaker's Daughter, Cecco A'ngi- 

olieri 11. 258 

Sidney, Sir Philip, English . . . . iv. 307 
Siegfried at King Gunther's Court, 

Nibelungenlied 11. 385 



Simms, William Gilmore, 

Vol. Page 
American ix. 184 


Simonides of Amorgos, Greek 
Simonides of Ceos, Greek . 
Sienkiewicz, Henry, Polish 
Singing of Horant, Gudrun 
Sinner and the Monk, Sadi ... 
Sir Carl, the Cloister Robber, Swedish 
Sir Colgriand's Adventure, Hart- 

niann von Aue 

Sir Giles Overreach, Massinger 
Sirens, Song of. Homer, Odyssey 
Sir Epicure Mammon, Jonson 
Sirmio, Peninsula of, Catullus 
Sir Roger de Coverley in Love, 

dison .... 
Sita, Rape of, India 
Skipper Ireson's Ride, Whiitier 
Skull Speaks, The, Chinese . 
Skylark, To a, Shelley . . . 

Sleep, Daniel 

Slothful Pupil, Persius . . . 
Smith, Captain John .... 
Smith, Sydney, English . . . 
Smith's Captivity, Capt. John 
Smollett, Tobias, English 
Snow-Storm, The, Thomson . 
Socrates, Farewell of, Plato . 
Socrates, House of, La Fontaine 
Socrates Visits Theodota, Xenophon 
Sohrab, Death of, Firdansi 
Soldier's Morning-Song, Schenken- 


Solomon and the Queen of Sheba 


Solomon's House, Bacon .... 

Song from Don Quixote, Cervantes 

Song of Catharine of Aragon, Gongora vi. 149 







Song of Contraries, Spanish 

Song of Echo, Meidre 

Song of Emptiness, Wigglesworth 

Song of Hiawatha, Longfellow 

Song of Hildebrand, Gertnan 

Song of Maisuna, Arabian . 

Song of Moses, Bible .... 

Song of Songs, India . . , 

Song of the Cuckoo, Celtic . 

Song of the Fatherland, Arndt 

Song of the Harper, Egyptian 

Song of the Mouse, Charles of Or- 

Song of the Shirt, Hood . 

Song of the Sirens, Homer 

Songs from the Beggar's- Opera, Gay. vil 

Song-Writer and the Shoemaker, 

Don Juan Manuel I 

Sonnet, The, Italian II 

Sonnet, The, Wordsworth .... 

Sonnet on Being Arrived at Twenty- 
three, Milton • • • 

Sonnets from the Portuguese, Mrs. 

Sonnets to Laura, Petrarch .... 

Sonnet to Brunetto Latini, Dante . . 

"■ 95 
11. 99 


II- 397 

IV. 1^/^ 

VIII. 189 


V. 363 

I. 171 

IV. 395 

III. 118 

VI. 378 
I. 99 
X. 310 

II- 43 

IX. 225 

V. 332 

V. 136 

IX. 12 

IX. 297 

IX. 13 

VII- 334 

VII. 357 

V. 94 






X. 188 

I. 192 

V. 370 
III. 250 


VIII. 292 






n. 335 

IX. 282 

I. 171 




V. 400 

X. 257 
II. 263 
II. 238 

Vol. Page 

Sophocles, Greek in. 65 

Bordello, Italian n. 226 

Sorrows of Werther, The, Goethe . yiii. 76 

Soul's Ascension, The, Monti . . . x. "So 
Soul's Declaration of Innocence, 

Book of the Dead i. 31 

Soul, Voyage of the, Book of the 

Dead I. 29 

Southey, Robert, English ix. 271 

Spanish Actors vi. 137 

Spanish Boarding School, Quevedo . vi. 156 

Spanish Drama VI. 133 

Spanish Literature, Period I . , . . i. 350 

" n. . . . 11.269 

" m.. . . III. 207 

■ " " " IV. . . . VI. 133 

Sparta and Athens, Isocrates . . . vi. 12 
Spartan Veterans, Tyrtaus .... II. 85 

Spartan Youths, Tyrtaus II. 85 

Spectator's Club, Steele vi. 363 

Spans, Sir Patrick, Scotch ..... vill. 296 
Spenser, Edmund, English .... IV. 312 

Spoils of War, Alcaus II. 92 

Squire Western and Sophia's Lovers, 

' Fielding vil. 328 

Stage-Plays, Augustine of Hippo . . vil. 123 

Stag Hunt, Sidney '. iv. 309 

Statue of Memnon, Cats vi. 276 

Steele, Sir Richard, English . , . vi. 362 

Stella, Sidney iv. 311 

Stephen the Sabaite, Greek .... vil. 93 

Sterne, Laurence, English .... vil. 342 

Stevenson, Robert Louis, English . x. 275 
Stoic Instructor^ The, Persius ... v. 134 
Stolen Kiss, Sidney ........ iv. 311 

Storming of Front-de-Boeuf s Castle, 

. Scott vilI. 366 

Stormsters, The, German vill. 57 

Stormy Life, Camoens in. 269 

Stowe, Harriet Beecher, American , ix. 185 
Straparola, Giovanni F., Italian . . v. 227 

Stricken Deer, Cowper Viii. 348 

Student Days, Giusti X. 92 

Stuyvesant, Peter Death of, Irvijtg . IX. 69 

Suabian Poets, German X. 189 

Suckling, Sir John, English .... v. 382 

Suetonius, Roman vi. 70 

Suit Rejected, Montagu vil. 293 

Sulpicia, Cerinthus to, Tibullus . . iv. 157 
Sulpicia on Cerinthus Going to the 

Chase IV. 156 

Sultan Osman and Zara, Voltaire . . vil. 236 
Summons to the Bard, Celtic ... i. 32