Skip to main content

Full text of "The Literature of all nations and all ages; history, character, and incident"

See other formats





Donald Stetson 


3 1924 071 562 320 

Cornell University 

The original of this book is in 
the Cornell University Library. 

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

JEbition be Xure 





Literature of All Nations 








Member of Parliament, 1879-1899 ' 


One Qnndred Demi-Ceinte Plates from Paintings by tint Ulerld's Best Hrtists 






Copyright, 1899, 

Copyright, 1900, 

MADE or 




History and Philosophy g 

Herodotus 12 

The Egyptian King's Treasure 14 

Pythius the Lydian 17 

The Battle of Marathon 20 

Thucydides 25 

Harmodius and Aristogiton : 27 

[ The Sword and the Myrtte} 30 

Pausanias the Spartan 30 

The Character of Pericles . . 35 

Cleon's Victory at Sphacteria .' 36 

Alcibiades Vindicates Himself ' 43 

Xbnophon 48 

How Xenophon Became a General 50 

The Ten Thousand Reach the Sea 53 

Gobryas the Assyrian 57 

Araspes and Panthea 62 

The Visit of Socrates to Theodota 69 

The Choice of Hercules 71 

Eari,y Greek Philosophers 76 

The Seven Wise Men 79 

Knowledge of God 80 

The Golden Age 80 

The Symbols of Pythagoras 80 

The Golden Verses of Pythagoras 81 

Anacreon 84 

On His Lyre 85 

The Weapon of Beauty 85 

Cupid as a Guest 86 

The Ideal Portrait 87 

In Praise of Wine 88 




GREEK LITERATURE— Pbriod IV. (Continded). 

Plea for Drinking ^^ 

Anacreon's Dove *9 

The Grasshopper 9° 

Cupid andihe Bee 9' 


^Ai,i,usT 95 

Juguriha at Rome 9S 

Caius Marius Seeks the Consulship 99 


Ccesar^s First Invasion of Britain 102 

The Battle of Pharsalia 109 

VlRGll< 112 

Tityrus and Meliboeus 1 14 

Pollio 117 

Orpheus and Eurydice 119 

Laocoon and his Sons 121 

The Death of Priam 123 

Dido on the Funeral Pile 125 

The Young Marcellus 129 

The Descent of Avernus 130 

Horace 131 

To the Roman People 132 

Mizcenas, Patron a?id Friend 134 

His Daily Life in Rome 134 

Invitation to Phyllis 13S 

The Literary Bore 136 

Horace's Monument 138 

Ovid 139 

Niobe 141 

Pyramus and Thisbe 147 

Baucis and Philemon 150 

TlBUI,I,US 155 

Elegy to Delia 155 

Sulpicia on Cerinthus Going to the Chase 156 

Cerinthus to Sulpicia ijy 


The Image of Love j eg 

Love's Dream Realized !-„ 




Khakani 161 

The Unknown Beauty 161 

NiZAMi , 162 

Ferhad the Sculptor 163 

The Eye of Charity 165 

The Oriental Alexander iffs 

The World Beyond 166 


The Merchant atid the Parrot 168 

The Destiny 0/ Man 170 

The Fairest Land 171 

The Lover's Death 171 

The Religion of the Heart 172 

Sadi 173 

Proem to the Gulistan 174 

^ 5 The Kipg's Gift to the Dervish 178 

The Wrestlers 179 

The Judge's Transgression 180 

The Sinner and the Monk 184 

The Moth and the Flame 185 

King Toghrul and the Sentinel 186 


LuiGi Pui,ci 190 

Orlando and the Giants 191 

The Villain Margutte 196 

Niccoi,o Machiavei-W 198 

Should Princes be Faithful to their Engagements ? 200 

The Rustic Outwits the Devil ' 202 

The Credulous Fool 205 

Matteo Maria Boiardo 206 

Prasildo and Tisbina 20^ 

Rinaldo Punishedby Cupid ; 215 

Bai<dassare Castigwone 217 

The Courtier's Addresses 218 

LuiGi DA Porto 218 

Love in- the Tomb 219 


A Branch of the Vine 223 

Heavenly Union ' 223 



ITALIAN LITERATURB— Period II. (Continued). 

Michel Angelo Buonarroti 224 

On Danie 225 

The Model and the Statue • 226 

Love the Liffht-giver 226 

Heavenly and Earthly Love 226 

After the Death of Vittoria Colonna 227 

Lament for Life Wasted 227 

Giorgio Vasari 228 

Bujfalmalco the Jesting Fainter 228 

Benvenuto Celuni 231 

The Onion Stew 232 

Crossing the Bridge 238 

GiACOMo Sannazaro 239 

Elegy from the Arcadia 239 

King Alphonso of Naples 240 


Francis 1 243 

The Brightness of his Lady 243 

Marguerite op Navarre '. 244 

The Rejected Bridegroom . 246 

The Pt^iADE 250 

The Ruins of Rome 253 

The Winnowers^ Hymn 255 

The Lovers' Prayer to Venus 255 

April 256 

The Wreath of Roses 258 

The Rose 258 

To his Young Mistress 259 

Of his Lady's Old Age 260 

His Lady's Death 260 

BRAiirT6ME. ...» 260 

Mary Queen of Scots Leaving France 261 

Mary Queen of Scots 264 

On the Death of her Husband, Francis II. 265 

Farewell to France 266 

Francois de Malherbe 266 

Phyllis and Glycera 267 

Consolation for a Daughter's Death 268 




The Heimskringi,a 270 

Gyda^ Eric's Daughter 271 

The Birth of Olaf Tryggvesson 272 

The Wedding of Olaf Tryggvesson 275 

The Building of the Long Serpent 276 

Olaps Dog Vigi 277 

Queen Sigrid the Haughty 278 

Saga of Frithiof the Bold 279 

Frithiof and Ingebore 280 

Fridthjof Plays Chess 282 

Ingebore's Lament ' 283 

Frithiof Visits King Ring 285 

The Reconciliation 288 


Sir Thomas More 295 

Gold in Utopia 297 

Wyatt and Surrey 301 

To His Mistress 302 

The Address to his Lule 303 

A Complaint by Night of the Lover not Beloved 304 

Lovers Vassal 304 

Roger Ascham 305 

Fair Shooting 306 

I Two Wings better than One 307 

Sir Philip Sidney 307 

A Stag Hunt 309 , 

An Arcadian Love-Letter ^10 

Stella X. .■ 311 

The Stolen Kiss 311 

Edmund Spenser 312 

Alcyon'' s Lament for Daphne 314 

The Epithalamion 317 

The Faerie Queene 322 

The Red Cross Knight and Utia 323 

Sir Walter Raleigh 325 

English Valor 328 

J he Nymph's Reply to the Passionate Shepherd 329 



ENGLISH UTERATURE— Period III. (ConTinubd). 

Eari,y English Drama 33° 

Noali's Flood 33^ 

Christopher Mari,owe 33S 

The Passionate Shepherd to his Love 337 

The Doom of Doctor Faustus 33° 

Hero and Leander 34° 

Love at First Sight 34° 

George Chapman 344 

The Drowned Lover 345 

William Shakespeare 348 

Romeo and Juliet 356 

The Tomb of the Capulets 361 

The Pound of Flesh 364 

Hainlet and Ophelia 371 

Othello and Desdem.ona 374 

Lear and Cordelia 379 

Rosalind 382 

Falstaff and the Merry Wives 385 

Shakespeare's Sonnets 391 

The Poet Confers Immortality 391 

The Eternal Summer 392 

The Happiness of True Love 392 

Ben Jonson 393 

Sir Epicure Mammon 395 

Captain Bobadil 398 

Ode to Himself 399 

To Celia 400 



Orpheus and EtjrydicB - Ji. Beyschlag . Frontispiece 

Alcibiades and Aspasia ^. . ■ . F.A. HeuUant .... 44 

Horace at Tibitr A. Leloir 135 

Thisbe E. Paupion 147 

The Fate of Ferhad S. J. Ferris 164 

ViTTORiA CoLONNA J- J- Lefebvre .... 222 

Mary Queen of Scots Leaving France. . S. J. Ferris 263 

Frithiof Visits King Ring ...'..... F^ Leeke 286 

Hero and Leander C. Von Bodenhausen . 345 

Rosalind and the Duke J. L.G. Ferris . . . 382 


Period IV. b.c. 450-350. 

"HILE the Hellenic race rose rapidly to sublime 
heights in epic and lyric poetry, it was slow in 
developing prose literature. lu primitive times 
the inspired poet was the constant attendant of 
priests and kings. He recited his verses to atten- 
tive listeners at the courts of chiefs and tribal festi- 
vals. He roused the spirits of warriors by reciting their 
exploits and recalling the deeds of ancestral heroes. He was 
called to give formal expression to domestic joys at weddings 
and to the lamentations of kinsfolk at funerals. The dac- 
tylic hexameter, the oldest standard form of verse, was the 
favorite mode of oracular response at Dodona and Delphi. 
The lawgivers in framing the earliest codes and constitutions 
used the same form hallowed by religious associations. Moral 
teachers, in expressing their maxims and precepts for indi- 
vidual conduct, adopted the same style, though later they 
varied' it with the elegiac combination of hexameters and 
pentameters. The early philosophers who investigated nature 
and studied the problems of mind comm^itted their doctrines 
to the same vehicle. The epigrams, which, as their name 
implies, were originally inscriptions on monuments of men 
and events, appeared in the same dress ; even when in later 
times they were used for every variety of purpose, for satire 
as well as eulogy, they preserved the same form. Whatever 
was intended for general circulation was put into this metri- 
cal form. 

But the introduction and diffusion of the art of writing, 



and the invention of material suitable for its ready use, 
enabled some leaders of public thought to dispense with the 
metrical art as no longer essential. Chroniclers and annalists, 
moralists and philosophers, were among the first to use the 
irregular prose instead of the dignified metre. When the 
Persian War stirred the patriotic genius of the Hellenic race 
not only to resist the threatened destruction, but to record 
and celebrate the triumph of liberty over organized despotism, 
the victories were rehearsed in odes and dramas. But it also 
roused the slumbering curiosity concerning the distant regions 
whence the terrible yet civilized Barbarians had issued. Sev- 
eral inhabitants of the Greek cities of the Asiatic coast, who 
had been spectators rather than participants in the momentous 
conflict, undertook to enlighten their kinsmen in Hellas. 
The greatest of these and the one who has obtained the sole 
glory of the work was Herodotus of Halicarnassus. A Dorian 
by birth, he had acquired the more alert spirit of the lonians, 
in whose dialect his history is written. The larger part of 
his work is the record of his extensive travels through the 
world then known to the Greeks, from Ecbatana in Persia to 
Sicily and Italy, where he had found a home. Whatever may 
be the errors in his recital, they can readily be accounted for 
by his being deceived by interpreters and guides. But when- 
ever he writes from direct observation his accuracy may be 
depended upon and has often been confirmed by modern ex- 
plorers. His work, though in prose, has features of the epic 
and the drama in his portrayal of the prodigious eiforts of the 
Persian kings and the catastrophe of their ultimate defeat at 
Platsea and Salamis. 

The gossipy traveler Herodotus was soon followed by the 
philosophic historian Thucydides, who found in the internal 
struggles of the Hellenic people an adequate subject for his 
superior powers of analysis of the causes of events. Himself 
a participant in the Peloponnesian War, he early recognized 
its importance, and when driven into exile by the Athenians, 
devoted his time to relating its course. His impartiality has 
been generally recognized, and his genius in depicting the 
characters of the leaders and in tracing the progress of events 
has called forth unqualified admiration in all ages. His style 


is generally concise and nervous, but- sometimes obscure, 
especially in the speeches, which occupy about one-fourth of 
the whole work. 

Xenophon, also an Athenian, took up the tale where Thu- 
cydides had left off, but was unequal to its accomplishment 
in the same philosophical spirit. He was an admirer of the 
Spartans and joined the army of his country's enemies. A 
skillful warrior and an able commander, he was also a versatile 
writer, and has left numerous treatises on social and economic 
topics besides his "Hellenica," in which he brought the 
history of Greece down to the battle of Mantinea, 362 B.C., 
and his masterly narrative of the Retreat of the Ten Thou- 
sand in the "Anabasis." His name is closely connected 
with that of his great teacher Socrates, and his record of 
the conversations of that philosopher are probably more true 
to the fact than the idealized dialogues due to the more pro- 
found Plato. 

After giving specimens of the different styles of these 
great model historians, we turn back to the rise of philosophy 
in the sixth century before Christ. Though the literature of 
that time is scant, it shows the beginning of prose, and is 
necessary to be considered for proper understanding of its 
later development. The early philosophers are interesting as 
the first propounders of cosmic and physical theories which 
have swayed the minds of men in successive ages, and to 
which the leading scientists of the nineteenth century have 
returned. Many of those early sages are also interesting in 
their own characters as far as these can be discovered thrpugh 
the distance of many centuries. Some taught a more spirit- 
ual philosophy, and in the midst of polytheism asserted the 
unity of the Deity. Others contented themselves with fram- 
ing systems of morality and setting forth the beauty of virtue 
and the laws of conduct. 


Cicero called Herodotus "The Father 
of History," for, though there were an- 
nalists before his time, he was the first 
to give full and vivid delineation of the men and manners of his 
age. Herodotus was born at the Dorian city of Halicarnassus, 
in Asia Minor, B.C. 484. The records of his life are not only 
scant, but dubious. He opposed the despotic government of 
the tyrant Lygdamis, and joined in his expulsion, but soon 
afterward went to Athens, where he became the intimate 
friend of Sophocles. Thence he migrated to Southern Italy, 
having joined the sons of freedom, who founded Thurii, and 
became the pioneers of civilization in that country. With his 
Athenian friends he lived at Thurii, and died there about 
B.C. 408. Prom his extensive travel and keen observation he 
was destined to enlighten and elevate Hellas. He had trav- 
ersed Greece, Egypt and Scythia, as far as the river Tanais 
or Don. In Asia he had visited Tyre, Babylon, and Ecbatana, 
the summer resort of the Persian kings. 

The monumental work giving the record of his observa- 
tions Herodotus called "Historiai" (Researches), and hence 
our word "history." The division into nine books, bearing 
the names of the iiine Muses, was not made by Herodotus 
himself, but by the Alexandrian grammarians. No other 
historian has traversed so wide a field. His chief aim was to 
exhibit in general the wars of Greeks with Barbarians — that is 
to say, with all who were not Greeks — and in particular the 
struggle between Greeks and Persians. The history proper, 
covering a period of sixty-eight years, shows how the Greeks, 
at first feeble and divided, and unable to cope with the vast 
hordes of Asia, became a united people, strove, and finally con- 



quered in the ever-memorable victories of Marathon, Salamis, 
and Plataea. There are numerous digressions for the purpose 
of describing the peoples and countries the author had 
investigated ; but these digressions are only so many pleasing 
episodes in the main narrative. The story culminates in the 
final triumph of free thought and liberal culture over brute 
force and systematic despotism. 

In the writings of Herodotus there is no pretension to art, 
yet the critic is compelled to admire his power of combining 
with historical narrative a medley of mythical geography, 
natural history and antiquities. The style is siinple, almost 
garrulous, yet animated. There is abundance of description 
and dialogue, expressed in pure and sweetly-flowing language. 
In some respects he is poetic and dramatical, for story-telling 
was not yet widely separated from the epic narrative, in 
which public life and actions had hitherto been chiefly de- 
scribed. Herodotus gives us the facts as they appeared to 
him. Parts of his story, which can be authentickted, are 
often mixed up with wild legends, acceptable to a lively, sus- 
ceptible and restless people, inquisitive and credulous, ever 
on the outlook for excitement and novelty. Among them 
philosophy was still young, though the fine arts had reached 
the zenith of excellence. They heard with delight of omens 
and dreams, and warnings from the dead; of giants and 
dwarfs ; of strange birds and beasts. They were also full of 
patriotic enthusiasm, and were deeply interested in the narra- 
tive of their recent achievements. The story of the fierce 
conflict appealed to their passions and love of honor and 
kindred. They saw in it the might of wealth and power 
matched against the greater might of virtue and courage. 

Throughout the whole work there runs a deeply religious 
idea : a firm belief in a Divine power, independent of nature 
and man. The piety of Herodotus was tinged with super- 
stition. At times he fears giving ofience to the gods, and will 
not rehearse what he ha? heard about them and their inter- 
ference in human afiairs ; at other times he feels compelled to 
speak out, and begs forgiveness from gods and heroes. 

The history, beginning with mythical times, soon passes 
on to King Croesus of Lydia ; describes the conquest of Lydia 


by Cyrus ; the rise of the Persian monarchy ; the Egyptian 
expedition of Cambyses ; the Scythian 'expedition of Darius ; 
the repeated invasions of Greece by the hosts under Mar- 
donius and Xerxes; the glorious victories of Marathon, 
Salamis and Platsea ; and so on to the rise of Athens to naval 
supremacy, and the time when the Greeks took Sestos, and 
retuirned home carrying with them vast hoards of money and 
fragments of the bridge of boats built by Xerxes across the 

The Egyptian King's Treasure. 

King Rhampsinitus was possessed of great riches in 
silver, — indeed to such an amount, that none of the princes^ 
his successors, surpassed or even equalled his wealth. For the 
better custody of this money, he proposed to build a vast 
chamber of hewn stone, one side of which was to form a part 
of the outer wall of his palace. The builder, therefore, hav- 
ing designs upon the treasures, contrived, as he was making 
the building, to insert in this wall a stone, which could easily 
be removed from its place by two men, or even by one. So 
the chamber was finished, and the king's money stored away 
in it. Time passed, and the builder fell sick, when, finding 
his end approaching, he called for his two sons, and related 
to them the contrivance he had made in the king's treasure- 
chamber, telling them it was for their sakes he had done it, 
that so they might always live in afiluence. Then he gave 
them clear directions concerning the mode of removing the 
stone, and communicated the measurements, bidding them 
carefully keep the secret, whereby they would be Comptrollers 
of the Royal Exchequer so long as they lived. Then the 
father died, and the sons were not slow in setting to work ; 
they went by night to the palace, found the stone in the wall 
of the building, and having removed it with ease, plundered 
the treasury of a round sum. 

When the king next paid a visit to the apartment, he was 
astonished to see that the money was sunk in some of the 
vessels wherein it was stored away; Whom to accuse, how- 
ever, he knew not, as the seals were all perfect, and the 
fastenings of the room secure. Still each time that he re- 


peated his visits, he found that more money was gone. The 
thieves in truth never stopped, but plundered the treasury 
ever more and more. At last the king determined to have 
some traps made, and set near the vessels which contained 
his wealth. This was done, and when the thieves came, as 
usual, to the treasure-chamber, and one of them entering 
through the aperture, made straight for the jars, suddenly he 
found himself caught in one of the traps. Perceiving that 
he was lost, he instantly called his brother, and telling him 
what had happened, entreated him to enter as quickly as pos- 
sible and cut off his head, that when his body should be dis- 
covered it might not be recognized, which would have the 
effect of bringing ruin upon both. The other thief thought 
the advice good, and was persuaded to follow it. Then, fitting 
the stone into its place, he went home, taking with him his 
brother's head. 

When day dawned, the king came into the room, and mar- 
veled greatly to see the body of the thief in the trap without a 
head, while the building was still whole, and neither entrance 
nor exit was to be seen anywhere. In this perplexity he com- 
manded the body of the dead man to be hung up outside the 
palace wall, and set a guard to watch it, with orders that if 
any persons were seen weeping or lamenting near the place, 
they should be seized and brought before him. When the 
mother heard of this exposure of the corpse of her son, she 
took it sorely to heart, and spoke to her surviving child, bid- 
ding him devise some plan or other to get back the body, and 
threatening, that if he did not exert himself, 'she would go 
herself to the king, and denounce him as the robber. 

The son said all he could to persuade her to let the matter 
rest, but in vain : she still continued to trouble him, until at 
last he yielded to her importunity, and contrived as follows : 
Filling some skins with wine, he loaded them on donkeys, 
which he drove before him till he came to the place where 
the guards were watching the dead body. Then pulling two 
or three of the skins towards him, he untied some of the necks 
which dangled by the a.sses' 'Sides. The wine poured freely 
out, whereupon he began to beat his head, and shout with all 
his might, seeming not to know which of the donkeys he 


should turn to first. When the guards saw the wine running, 
delighted to profit by the occasion, they rilshed one and all 
into the road, each with some vessel or other, and caught the 
liquor as it was spilling. The driver pretended anger, and 
loaded them with abuse; whereon they did their best to pacify 
him, until at last he appeared to soften and recover his good 
humor, drove his asses aside out of the road and set to work 
to rearrange their burthens ; meanwhile, as he talked and 
chatted with the guards, one of them began to rally him, and 
make him laugh, whereupon he gave them one of the skins 
as a gift. They now made up their minds to sit down and 
have a drinking-bout where they were, so they begged him to 
remain and drink with them. Then the man let himself be 
persuaded and stayed. As the drinking went on, they grew 
very friendly together, so presently he gave them another 
skin, upon which they drank so copiously that they were all 
overcome with the liquor, and growing drowsy lay down and 
fell asleep on the spot. The thief waited till it was the dead 
of the night, and then took down the body of his brother ; 
after which, in mockery, he shaved off the right side of all 
the soldiers' beards, and so left them. Laying his brother's 
body upon the asses, he carried it home to his mother, having 
thus accomplished the thing that she had required of him. 

When it came to the king's ears that the thief's body was 
stolen away, he was sorely vexed. Wishing therefore, what- 
ever it might cost, to catch the man who had contrived the 
trick, he had recourse (the priests said) to an expedient, which 
I can scarcely credit. He sent his own daughter to the com- 
mon stews, with orders to admit all comers, but to require 
every man to tell her what was the cleverest and wickedest 
thing he had done in the whole course of his life. If any 
one in reply told her the story of the thief, she was to lay 
hold of him and not allow him to get away. The daughter 
did as her father willed, whereon the thief, who was well 
aware of the king's motive, felt a desire to outdo him in craft 
and cunning. Accordingly he contrived the following plan : 
He procured the corpse of a man lately dead, and cutting off 
one of the arms at the shoulder, put it under his dress, and so 
went to the king's daughter. When she put the question to 


him as she had done to all the rest, he replied, that the wick- 
edest thing he had ever done was cutting oflf the head of his 
brother when he was caught in a trap in the king's treasury, 
and the cleverest was making the guards drunk and carrying 
oflf the body. As he spoke, the princess caught at him, but 
the thief took advantage of the darkness to hold out to her 
the hand of the corpse. Imagining it to be his own hand, 
she seized and held it fast; while the thief, leaving it in her 
grasp, made his escape by the door. 

The king, when word was brought him of this fresh suc- 
cess, amazed at the sagacity and boldness of the man, sent 
messengers to all the towns in his dominions to proclaim a 
free pardon for the thief, and to promise him a rich reward, 
if he came and made himself known. The thief took the 
king at his word, and came boldly into his presence ; where- 
upon Rhampsinitus, greatly admiring him, and looking on 
him as the most knowing of men, gave him his daughter in 
marriage. "The Egyptians," he said, "excelled all the rest 
of the world in wisdom, and this man excelled all other 


Now there lived in Celsenae a certain Pythius, the son of 
Atys, a Lydian. This man entertained Xerxes and his whole 
army in a most magnificent fashion, offering at the same time 
to give him a sum of money for the war. Xerxes, upon the 
mention of money, turned to the Persians who stood by and 
asked of them, "Who is this Pythius, and what wealth has 
he that he should venture on such an offer as this? " They 
answered him, "This is the man, O King, who gave thy 
father, Darius, the golden plane-tree, and likewise the golden 
vine ; and he is still the wealthiest man we know of in all 
the world, excepting thee." 

Xerxes marvelled at these last words ; and now addressing 
Pythius with his own lips, he asked him what the amount of 
his wealth really was. Pythius answered as follows : 

" O King ! I will not hide this matter from thee, nor make 
pretence that I do not know how rich I am ; but as I know 
perfectly, I will declare all fully before thee. For when thy 

IV— 2 


journey was noised abroad and I heard thou wert coming down 
to the Grecian coast, straightway, as I wished to give thee a 
sum of money for the war, I made count of my stores, and 
found them to be two thousand talents of silver, and of gold 
four millions of Daric staters, wanting seven thousand. All 
this I willingly make over to thee as a gift ; and when it is 
gone, my slaves and my estates in land will be wealth enough 
for my wants. ' ' 

This speech charmed Xerxes, and he replied, "Dear 
Lydian, since I left Persia there is no man but thee who has 
either desired to entertain my army, or come forward of his own 
free will to offer me a sum of money for the war. Thou hast 
done both the one and the other, feasting my troops magnifi- 
cently, and now making offer of a right noble sum. In 
return, this is what I will bestow on thee. Thou shalt be 
my sworn friend from this day, and the seven thousand staters 
which are wanting to make up thy four millions I will supply, 
so that the full tale may be no longer lacking, and that thou 
mayest owe the completion of the round sum to me. Con- 
tinue to enjoy all that thou hast acquired hitherto, and be sure 
to remain ever such as thou now art. If thou dost, thou wilt 
not repent of it so long as thy life endures." When Xerxes 
had so spoken and had made good his promises to Pythius, he 
pressed forward upon his march 

And now when all was prepared'-'the bridges over the Hel- 
lespont and the works at Mount Athos, the breakwaters about 
the mouths of the cutting, which were made to hinder the 
surf from blocking up the entrances, and the cutting itself; 
and when the news came to Xerxes that this last was com- 
pletely finished^hen at length the host, having first wintered 
at Sardis, began its march towards Abydos, fully equipped, on 
the first approach of spring. At the moment of departure, 
the sun suddenly quitted his seat in the heavens and disap- 
peared, though there were no clouds in sight, but the sky was 
clear and serene. Day was thus turned into night ; where- 
upon Xexes, who saw and remarked the prodigy, was seized 
with alarm, and sending at once for the Magians, inquired of 
them the meaning of the portent. They replied— " God is 
foreshadowing to the Greeks the destruction of their cities • 


for the sun foretells . for them, and the moon for us." So 
Xerxes, thus instructed, proceeded on his way with great 
gladness of heart. 

The army had beguu its march when Pythius the Lydian, 
affrighted at the heavenly portent, and emboldened by his 
gifts, came to Xerxes and said — "0rant me, O my lord! a 
favor which is to thee a light matter, but to me of vast ac- 
count." Then Xerxes, who looked for nothing less than such 
a prayer as Pythius in fact preferred, engaged to grant him 
whatever he wished, and commanded him to tell his wish 
freely. So Pythius, full of boldness, went on to say : 

"O my lord ! thy servant has five sons, and it chances that 
all are called updn to join thee in this march against Greece. 
I beseech thee have compassion upon my years, and let one 
of my sons, the eldest, remain behind to be my prop and stay, 
and the guardian of my wealth. Take with thee the other 
four ; and when thou hast done all that is in thine heart, 
may est thou come back in safety." 

But Xerxes was greatly angered, and replied to him: 
"Thou wretch! darest thou speak to me of thy son, when 
I am myself on the march against Greece, with sons and 
brothers and kinsfolk and friends? Thou, who art my bond- 
slave, and art in duty bound to follow me with all thy 
household, not excepting thy wife ! Know that man's spirit 
dwelleth in his ears, and when it hears good things straight- 
way it fills all his body with delight, but no sooner does it 
hear the contrary than it heaves and swells wjth passion. As 
whem thou didst good deeds and madest good offers to me, thou 
wert not able to boast of having outdone the king in bounti- 
fulness, so now when thou art changed and grown impudent, 
thou shalt not receive a\l thy deserts, but less. For thyself 
and four of thy five sons, the entertainment which I had of 
thee shall gain protection; but as for him to whom thou 
clingest above the rest, the forfeit of his life shall be thy 
punishment." Having thus spoken, forthwith he commanded 
those to whom such tasks were assigned to seek out the eldest 
of the sons of Pythius, and having cut his body asunder, to 
place the two halves, one on the right, the other on the left, 
of the great road, so that the army might march out bfetween 


them. Then the king's orders were obeyed, and the army 
marched out between the two halves of the carcass. 

The Battle op Marathon. 

The Persians, having brought Eretria into subjection, after 
waiting a few days, made sail for Attica, greatly straitening 
the Athenians as they approached, and thinking to deal with 
them as they had dealt with the people of Eretria. And, 
because there was no place in all Attica so convenient for 
their horse as Marathon, and it lay, moreover, quite close to 
Eretria, therefore Hippias, the son of Pisistratus, conducted 
them thither. When intelligence of this reached the Athen- 
ians, they likewise marched their troops to Marathon and 
there stood on the defensive, having at their head ten generals, 
of whom one was Miltiades. 

Before they left the city, the generals , sent off to Sparta a 
herald, one Pheidippides, who was by birth an Athenian, and 
by profession and practice a trained runner. This man, ac- 
cording to the account which he gave to the Athenians on his 
return, when he was near Mount Parthenium, above Tegea, 
fell in with the god Pan, who called him by his name and 
bade him ask the Athenians "wherefore they neglected him 
so entirely, when he was kindly disposed towards them, and 
had often helped them in times past, and would do so again 
in time to come?" The Athenians, entirely believing in the 
truth of this report, as soon as their affairs were once more 
in good order, set up a temple to Pan under the Acropolis, 
and in return for the message which I have recorded, estab- 
lished in his honor yearly sacrifices and a torch-race. 

On the occasion of which we speak, when Pheidippides 
was sent by the Athenian generals, and, according to his own 
account, saw Pan on his journey, he reached Sparta, on the 
very next day after quitting the city of Athens. Upon his 
arrival he went before the rulers, and said to them, " Men of 
Lacedaemon, the Athenians beseech you to hasten to their 
aid, and not allow that state, which is the most ancient in all 
Greece, to be enslaved by the barbarians. Eretria, look you 
is already carried away captive, and Greece weakened by the 


loss of no mean city." Thus did Pheidippides deliver the 
message committed to him. And the Spartans wished to help 
the Athenians, but were unable to give them any present suc- 
cor, as they did not like to break their established law. It 
was then the ninth day of the first decade, and they could not 
march out of Sparta on the ninth, when the moon had not 
reached the full. So they waited for the full of the moon. 

The barbadians were conducted to Marathon by Hippias, 
the son of Pisistratus, who the night before had seen a strange 
vision in his sleep. He dreamed of lying in his mother's 
arms, and conjectured the dream to mean that he would be 
restored to Athens, recover the power which he had lost, and 
afterward live to a good old age in his native country. Such 
was the sense in which he interpreted the vision. He now 
proceeded to act as guide to the Persians, and in the first place 
he landed the prisoners taken from Eretria upon the island 
that is called ^gileia, a tract belonging to the Styreans, after 
which he brought the fleet to anchor oflF Marathon, and mar- 
shalled the bands of the barbarians as they disembarked. As 
he was thus employed it chanced that he sneezed and at the 
same time coughed with more violence than was his wont. 
Now, as he was a man advanced in years and the greater 
number of his teeth were loose, it so happened that one of 
them was driven out with the force of the cough and fell 
down into the sand. Hippias took all the pains he could to 
find it, but the tooth was nowhere to be seen ; whereupon he 
fetched a deep sigh, and said to the bystanders, " After all, 
the land is not ours, and we shall never be able to bring it 
under. All my share in it is the portion of which my tooth 
has possession." So Hippias believed that in this way his 
dream was out. 

The Athenians were drawn up in order of battle in a 
sacred close belonging to Hercules, when they were joined by 
the Plataeans, who came in full force to their aid. Some time 
before, the Plataeans had put themselves under the rule of the 
Athenians, and these last had already undertaken many labors 
on their behalf. 

The Athenian generals were divided in their opinions, and 
some advised not to risk a battle, because they were too few to 


engage such a host as that of the Medes, while others were 
for fighting at once ; and among these last was Miltiades. 
He, therefore, seeing that opinions were thus divided and that 
the less worthy counsel appeared likely to prevail, resolved to 
go to the polemarch and have a conference with him. For 
the man on whom the lot fell to be polemarch at Athens was 
entitled to give his vote with the ten generals, since anciently 
the Athenians allowed him an equal right of voting With 
them; The polemarch at this juncture was Callimachus of 
Aphidttte ; to him, therefore, MiltiadeS went and said : 

'' With thee it rests, Callimachus, either to bring Athens 
to slavery, or, by securing her freedom, to leave behind thee 
to all future generations a memory beyond even Harmodius 
and Aristogiton. For never since the time that the Athenians 
became a people were they in so great a danger as now. If 
they bow thfeir necks beneath the yoke of the Medes, the woes 
which they will have to suffer when given into the power of 
Hippias are already determined on ; if, on the other hand, 
they fight and overcome, Athens may rise to be 'the very first 
city in Greece.' How it comes to pass that these things are 
likely to happen^ and how the determining of them in some 
sort rests with thee, I will now proceed to make clear. We 
generals are ten in number, and our votes are divided : half 
of us wish to engage, half to avbid a Combat. Now, if we do 
not fight, I look to see a great disturbance at Athens which 
will shake men's resolutions, and then I fear they will submit 
themselves ; but if we fight the battle before any unsoundness 
show itself among our citizens, let the gods but give us fair 
play and we are Well able to overcome the enemy. On thee, 
therefore, we depend in this matter, which lies wholly in thine 
own power. Thou hast only to add thy vote to my side and 
thy country will be free, and not free only, but the first state 
in Greece. Or if thou preferrest to give thy vote to them who 
would decline the combat, then the reverse will follow." 

Miltiades by these words gained Callimachus, and the 
addition of the polemarch' s vote caused the decision to be in 
favor of fighting. Hereupon all those generals who had been 
desirous of hazarding a battle, when their turn came to com- 
mand the army, gave up their right to Miltiades. He, how- 


ever, though he accepted their ofiFers, nevertheless waited and 
■would not fight until his own day of command arrived in due 
course. Then at length, when his own turn was come, the 
Athenian battle was set in array, and this was the order of it : 
Callimachus the polemarch led the right wing ; for it was at 
that time a rule with the Athenians to give the right wing to 
the polemarch. After this followed the tribes, according as 
they were numberedj in an unbroken line ; while last of all 
came the Platseans, forming the left wing. And ever since 
that day it has been a custom with the Athenians, in the sac- 
rifices and assemblies held each fifth year at Athens, for the 
Athenian herald to implore the blessing of the gods on the 
Platseans conjointly with the Athenians. Now, as they mar- 
shalled the host upon the field of Marathon, in order that the 
Athenian front might be of equal length with the Median, 
the ranks of the centre were diminished, and it became the 
weakest part of the line, while the wings were both made 
strong with a depth of many ranks. 

So, when the battle was set in array and the victims 
showed themselves favorable, instantly the Athenians, so soon 
as they were let go, charged the barbarians at a run. Now, 
the distance between the two armies was little short of eight 
furlongs. The Persians, therefore, when they saw the Greeks 
coming on at speed, made ready to receive them, although it 
seemed to them that the Athenians were bereft of their senses, 
and bent upon their own destruction ; for they saw a mere 
handful of men coming on at a run without either horsemen 
or archers. Such was the opinion 'jI the barbarians, but the 
Athenians in close array fell un-ju them and fought in a man- 
ner worthy of being recoraed. They were the first of the 
Greeks, so far as I know, who introduced the custom of charg- 
ing the enemy at a run, and they were likewise the first who 
dared to look upon the Median garb and to face men clad in 
that fashion. Until this time the very name of the Medes 
had been a terror to the Greeks to hear. 

The two armies fought together on the plain of Marathon 
for a length of time, and in the mid-battle, where the Persians 
themselves and the Sacae had their place, the barbarians were 
victorious, and broke and pursued the Greeks into the inner 


countiy, but on the two wings the Athenians and the Plateeans 
defeated the enemy. Having so done, they suffered the routed 
barbarians to fly at their ease, and, joining the two wings in 
one, fell upon those who had broken their own centre, and 
fought and conquered them. These likewise fled, and now 
the Athenians hung upon the runaways and cut them down, 
chasing them all the way to the shore ; on reaching which, 
they laid hold of the ships and called aloud for fire. 

It was in the struggle here that Callimachus the pole- 
march, after greatly distinguishing himself, lost his life ; 
Stesilaus, too, the son of Thrasilaus, one of the generals, was 
slain ; and Cynsegirus, the son of Euphorion, having seized 
on a vessel of the enemy's by the ornament at the stern, had 
his hand cut off by the blow of an axe, and so perished, as 
likewise did many other Athenians of note and name. 

Nevertheless, the Athenians secured in -this way seven 
vessels, while with the remainder the barbarians pushed off, 
and, taking aboard their Eretrian prisoners from the island 
where they had left them, doubled Cape Sunium, hoping to 
reach Athens before the return of the Athenians. The Alc- 
mseonidae were accused by their countrymen of suggesting 
this course to them ; they had, it was said, an understanding 
with the Persians, and made a signal to them by raising a 
shield after they were embarked in their ships. 

The Persians accordingly sailed round Sunium, but the 
Athenians with all possible speed marched away to the defence 
of their city, and succeeded in reaching Athens before the 
appearance of the barbail.-'ns ; and as their camp at Marathon 
had been pitched in a precinct of Hercules, so now they en- 
camped in another precinct of the same god at Cynosarges. 
The barbarian fleet arrived and lay to off Phalerum, which 
was at that time the haven of Athens ; but after resting awhile 
upon their oars, they departed and sailed away to Asia. 

There fell in this battle of Marathon, on the side of the 
barbarians, about 6,400 men.; on that of the Athenians, 192. 
Such was the number of the slain on the one side and the other. 


Before the fluent narrator of the 
wars of the liberty-loving Greeks with 
the Oriental despotism had passed from 
the stage of life, appeared the calmly philosophic historian 
who was to depict the glory and decline of Athens. Thucy- 
dides, the writer of the Peloponnesian War, was born at 
Athens about B.C. 471. He was of noble descent, and his 
high station enabled him to receive the best education of the 
time. There is a tradition that, when a lad of fifteen, he 
heard Herodotus recite part of his history at the Olympic 
games, he was affected to tears. Though a faithful citizen, he 
had little liking for democracy, having witnessed the vulgar 
contentions for wit and reputation among the demagogues, 
and the pernicious effects of the flattering advice of those 
who wished to attain influence among the common people. 
When he determined to compose his history, his fortune gave 
him leisure, his disposition was free from malice, and his 
diligence secured that no pains would be spared in getting 
at the truth. 

When the Peloponnesian war broke out, Thucydides 
began his history as a brief register of facts and actions. It 
was not till he went into exile that he began to polish and 
perfect his work. His exile came about in this way: Amphi- 
polis, a town on the borders of Thrace, belonging to the 
Athenians, was besieged by the Spartan Brasidas. Thucy- 
dides, who was in command of a squadron of seven ships off 
the coast of Thasos, was sent for by the commander at Am- 
phipolis, and proceeded thither immediately. Brasidasj fear- 
ing the arrival of a superior force, offered favorable terms to 
the besieged, which were accepted. Thucydides arrived at 



the mouth of tlie Strymon twelve hours after the capitulation, 
and saved the town of Eion. But because he failed to save 
the more important Amphipolis, the Athenian people banished 
him. He went to Thrace and spent twenty years in exile. 
He appears to have died by violence while defending his 
property from robbers. 

The " History of the PelOponnesian War" is divided into 
eight books, the last of which has not received the same 
polish as its predecessors, and breaks off abruptly in the 
middle of the twenty-first year of the war, B.C. 41 1. 

With regard to the authority of Thucydides, the truth of 
his statements was never called in question till the nineteenth 
century; but, on the whole, his credibility remains unshaken. 
He did not write for present applause, but, as he expressly 
declares, for a monument to instruct ages to come. He said 
nothing in malice against the Athenians who had l?anished 
him, though he might well have been excused if he had 
done so. 

In the first book he gives a brief summary of Greek history 
from the earliest times to the outbreak of the Peloponnesian 
war. Then he goes on to assign the cause of this war, which 
he states to be Spartan jealousy of Athens. This is his 
general plan: to state the grounds and motives before the 
actions, then the actions themselves ; and, finally, the effects 
of these actions. He was thus the first critical and philoso- 
phical historian. He has been much praised for gravity and 
dignity of language, for strength and pithiness. Cicero com- 
pares Herodotus to a river that glides gently along, and 
Thucydides to one that runs with a strong, swollen current. 

Thucydides is often charged with obscurity, and it cannot 
be denied that he uses long and intricate sentences, especially 
in the contemplation of human passions and men's humors 
and manners. In other cases he always tries to make his 
readers spectators of what is described, and to fire them with 
the same feeling as if they had actually been present. The 
speeches with which the narrative is interspersed are an 
Athenian statesman's presentation of the arguments practi- 
cally used on each occasion. So much was his work esteemed 
by the ancients, for eloquence, that Demosthenes is said to 


have written it over eight times. Yet the eloquence is not 
that of the bar, althongh proper enough for history, and 
meant to be fead rather than heard. 

Thucydides, like Anaxagoras, Socrates and Pericles, was 
charged by his countrymen with atheism. His noti9ns in 
philosophy placed him above the conception of the vulgar, 
and he may have appeared to them to disregard the gods ; but 
the drama of Divine Providence has never been more mani- 
festly set forth than in his grand recital of the disintegration 
of the Hellenic empire. 

Harmodius akd Aristogiton. 

PiSiSTRATTJS died at an advanced age, being tyrant of 
Athens; and then, not, as is the common opinion, Hippar- 
chus, but Hippias (who was the eldest of his sons) succeeded 
to his power. Harmodius was in the flower of youth, and 
Aristogiton, a citizen of the middle class, became his lover. 
Hipparchus made an attempt to gain the affections of Har- 
modius, but he would not listen to him, and told Aristogiton. 
The latter was naturally tormented at the idea, and fearing 
that Hipparchus who was powerful would resort to violence, 
at once formed such a plot as a man in his station might for 
the overthrow of the tyranny. Meanwhile Hipparchus made 
another attempt ; he had no better success, and thereupon he 
determined, not indeed to take any violent step, but to insult 
Harmodius in some secret place, so that his motive could not 
be suspected. To use violence would have been at variance 
with the general character of his administration, which was 
not unpopular or oppressive to the many; in fact no tyrants 
ever displayed greater merit or capacity than these. Although 
the tax on the produce of the soil which they exacted amounted 
only to five per cent. , they improved and adorned the city, 
and earned on successful wars ; they were also in the habit 
of sacrificing in the temples. The city meanwhile was per- 
mitted to retain her ancient laws ; but the family of Pisis- 
tratus took care that one of their own number should always 
be in office. Among others who thus held the annual archon- 
ship at Athens was Pisistratus, a son of the tyrant Hippias. 


He was named after his grandfather Pisistratus, and during 
his term of office he dedicated the altar of the Twelve Gods 
in the Agora [or Forum], and another altar in the temple of 
the Pythian Apollo. The Athenian people afterwards added 
to one side of the altar in the Agora, and so concealed the 
inscription upon it ; but the other inscription on the altar of 
the Pythian Apollo may still be seen, although the letters are 
nearly effaced. It runs as follows : 

"Pisistratus, the son of Hippias, dedicated this memorial of 
his archonship in the sacred precinct of the Pythian Apollo. ' ' 

When Hipparchus found his advances repelled by Har- 
modius, he carried out his intention of insulting him. There 
was a young sister of his whom Hipparchus and his friends 
first invited to come and carry a sacred basket in a proces- 
sion, and then rejected her, declaring that she had never been 
invited by them at all because she was unworthy. At this 
Harmodius was very angry, and Aristogiton, for his sake, 
more angry still. They and the other conspirators had 
already laid their preparations, but were' waiting for the 
festival of the great Panathenaea, when the citizens who took 
part in the procession assembled in arms ; for to wear arms 
on any other day would have aroused suspicion. Harmodius 
and Aristogiton were to begin the attack, and the rest were 
immediately to join in, and engage with the guards. The 
plot had been communicated to a few only, the better to 
avoid detection ; but they hoped that, however few struck 
the blow, the crowd who would be armed, although not in 
the secret, would at once rise and assist in the recovery of 
their own liberties. 

The day of the festival arrived, and Hippias went out of 
the city to the place called the Ceramicus, where he was 
occupied with his guards in marshalling the procession. 
Harmodius and Aristogiton, who were ready with their dag- 
gers, stepped forward to do the deed. But seeing one of the 
conspirators in familiar conversation with Hippias, who was 
readily accessible to all, they took alarm and imagined that 
they had been betrayed, and were on the point of being 
seized. Whereupon they determined to take their revenge 


first on the man who had outraged them and was the cause 
of their desperate attempt. So they rushed, just as they 
were, within the gates. They found Hipparchus near the 
Leocorium, as it was called, and then and there falling upon 
him with all the blind fury, one of an injured lover, the 
other of a man smarting under an insult, they Smote and 
slew him. The crowd ran together, and so Aristogiton for 
the present escaped the guards ; but he was afterwards taken 
and not very gently handled. Harmodius perished on the 

The news was carried to Hippias at the Ceramicus ; he 
went at once, not to the place, but to the armed men who 
were to march in the procession and, being at a distance, 
were as yet ignorant of what had happened. Betraying 
nothing in his looks of the calamity which had befallen 
him, he bade them leave their arms and go to a certain spot 
which he pointed out. They, supposing that he had some- 
thing to say to them, obeyed, and then bidding his guards 
seize the arms, he at once selected those whom he thought 
guilty, and all who were found carrying daggers; for the 
custom was to march in the procession with spear and shield 

Such was the conspiracy of Harmodius and Aristogiton, 
which began in the resentment of a lover; the reckless 
attempt which followed arose out of a sudden fright. To 
the people at large the tyranny simply became more oppres- 
sive, and Hippias, after his brother's death living in great 
fear, slew many of the citizens ; he also began to look abroad 
in hope of securing an asylum should a revolution occur. 

Hippias ruled three years longer ovfer the Athenians. In 
the fourth year he was deposed by the I/acedsemonians and 
the exiled Alcmseonidse. He retired under an agreement, 
first to Sigeium, and then to ^antides at I/ampsacus. From 
him he went to the court of Darius, whence, returning twenty 
years later with the Persian army, he took part in the expedi- 
tion to Marathon, being then an old man. 

[Harmodius and Aristogiton have been celebrated as model 
patriots by those who approve tyrannicide ; but they slew the wrong 


man, and only provoked Hippias to sterner measures of repressioB. 
A song in their honor was afterwards a favorite in Athens. 

The Sword and the Myrtle. 

I'LL wreathe with myrtle-hough my sword, 
Ivike those wlio struck down Athens' lord, 
Our laws engrafting equal right on— 
Harmodius and Aristogiton. 

Harmodius dear, thou art not dead, 
But in the happy isles, they say, 
Where fleet Achilles lives for aye. 
And good Tydides Diomed . 

I'll wreathe my sword with myrlie-bough, 
Ivike those who laid Hipparchus low, 
When on Athene's holiday 
The tyrant wight they dared to slay. 

Because they slew him, and because 
They gave to Athens equal laws. 
Eternal fame shall shed a light on 
Harmodius and Aristogiton.] 

Patjsanias the Spartan. 

When Pausanjas the I/acedaemoniau was originally suni'- 
monqd by the Spartans to give an account of his conimand 
at the Hellespont, and had been tried and acquitted,, he was 
no longer sent out in a public capacity, but he hired a trireme 
of Heroiione on his own account and sailed to the Hellespont, 
pretending that he had gone thither to fight in the cause of the 
Hellenes. In reality he wanted to prosecute an intrigue with 
the king of Persia, by which he hoped to obtain the empire of 
Hellas. He had already taken the first steps after the retreat 
from Cyprus, when he captured Byzantium. The city was 
at that time held by the Persians and by certain relatives and 
kinsmen of the king, who were taken prisoners. These he 
restored to the king without the knowledge of the allies, to 
whom he declared that they had made their escape. This act 
was the beginning of the whole aflfair, and thereby he origi- 
nally placed the king under an obligation to him. His 


accomplice was Gougylus the Eretrian, to whose care he had 
entru3ted Byzantium and the captives, To this same Gongy- 
lus he also gave a letter addressed to the king, of which, as 
was afterwards discovered, the terms were as follows : 

" Pausanias, the Spartan commander, desiring to do you a 
service, sends you back these captives of his spear. And I 
propose, if you have no objection, to marry your daughter, 
and to bring Sparta and the rest of Hellas under your sway, 
I think that I can accomplish this if you and I take counsel 
together. Should you approve of my proposal, send a trusty 
person to the sea and through him we will negotiate." Thus 
far the letter. 

Xerxes was pleased, and sent Artabazus the son of Phar- 
naces to the sea, commanding him to assume the government 
of the satrapy of Dascylium in the room of Megabates- An 
answer was entrusted to him, which he was to send as quickly 
as possible to Pausanias at Byzantium ; he was to show him 
at the same time the royal seal. If Pausanias gave him any 
order about his own affairs, he was to execute it with all dili' 
gence and fidelity. Artabazus came down to the sea, as he 
was desired, and transmitted the letter. The answer of the 
king was as follows : 

" Thus saith Xerxes, the King, to Pausanias. The benefit 
which thou hast done me in saving the captives who were 
taken at Byzantium beyond the sea is recorded in my house 
for ever, and thy words please me. Let neither day nor night 
hinder thee from fulfilling diligently the promise which thou 
hast made to me ; spare not gold or silver, and take as larg§ 
an army as thou wilt, wheresoever it may be required. I 
have sent to thee Artabazus, a good man ; act with him for 
■ my honor and welfare, and for thine own, and be of good 

Pausanias received the letter. He had already acquired a 
high reputation among the Hellenes when in cpmmand at 
Plataea, and now he was so great that he could no longer 
contain himself or live like other men. As he marched out 
of Byzantium he wore Persian apparel. On his way through 
Thrace he was attended by a body..guard of Medes and Egyp- 
tians, and he had his table served after the Persian fashion. 


He could not conceal his ambition, but indicated by little 
things the greater designs which he was meditating. He 
made himself difficult of access, and displayed such a violent 
temper towards everybody that no one could come near him ; 
and this was one of the chief reasons why the confederacy 
transferred themselves to the Athenians. 

The news of his behavior soon reached the Lacedae- 
monians, who recalled him in the first instance on this 
ground. And now, when he had sailed away in the ship of 
Hermione without leave, and was evidently carrying on the 
same practices ; when he had been forced out of Byzantium, 
and the gates had been shut against him by the Athenians ; 
and when, instead of returning to Sparta, he settled at 
Colonae in Troas, and was reported to the Ephors* to be 
negotiating with the Barbarians, and to be staying there for 
no good purpose, then at last they made up their minds to 
act. They sent a herald to him with a despatch rolled on a 
scytale,t commanding him to follow the officer home, and 
saying that, if he refused, Sparta would declare war against 
him. He, being desirous as far as he could to avoid suspicion 
and believing that he could dispose of the accusations by 
bribery, returned for the second time to Sparta. On his 
return he was at once thrown into prison by the Bphors, who 
have the power to imprison the king himself. But after a 
time he contrived to come out, and challenged any one who 
asserted his guilt to bring him to trial. 

As yet, however, neither his enemies among the citizens 
nor the Spartan government had any trustworthy evidence 
such as would have justified them in inflicting punishment 
upon a member of the royal family holding royal office at the 
time. For he was the guardian as well as cousin of the king, 
Pleistarchus, son of l/conidas, who was still a minor. But 
his disregard of propriety and affectation of Barbarian fashions 
made them strongly suspect that he was dissatisfied with his 
position in the state. They examined into any violation of 

* The Ephors (overseers) were five officers elected annually to con- 
trol and direct the actions of the kings of Sparta. 

t An official staff around which the strip containing the despatch 
was rolled so as to become intelligible. 


established usage whicli they could find in his previous life ; 
and they remembered among other things how in past times 
he had presumed on his own authority to inscribe on the 
tripod at Delphi, which the Hellenes dedicated as the first 
fruits of their victory over the Persians, this elegiac couplet : 

" Pausanias, captain of the Hellenes, having destroyed the Per- 
sian host, 
Made this offering to Phcebus for a memorial." 

The Lacedaemonians at once effaced the lines and inscribed 
on the tripod the names of the cities which had taken part in 
the overthrow of the Barbarian and in the dedication of the 
offering. But still this act of Pausanias gave offence at the 
time, and now that he had • again fallen under suspicion, 
seemed to receive a new light from his present designs. 
They were also informed that he was intriguing with the 
Helots ; and this was true, for he had promised them emanci- 
pation and citizenship if they would join him in an insurrec- 
tion and help to carry out his whole design. Still the magis- 
trates would not take decided measures ; they even refused to 
believe the distinct testimony which certain Helots brought 
against him ; their habit having always been to be slow in 
taking an irrevocable decision against a Spartan without 
incontestable proof. At last a certain man of Argilus, who 
had been a favorite and was still a confidential servant of 
Pausanias, turned informer. He had been commissioned by 
him to carry to Artabazus the last letters for the king, but 
the thought struck him that no previous messenger had ever 
returned; he took alarm, and so, having counterfeited the 
seal of Pausanias in order to avoid discovery if he were mis- 
taken, or if Pausanias, wanting to make some alterations, 
should ask him for the letter, he opened it, and among the 
directions given in it found written, as he had suspected, an 
order for his own death. 

He showed the letter to the Ephors, who were now more 
inclined to believe, but still they wanted to hear something 
from Pausanias' own mouth ; and so, according to a plan pre- 
concerted with them, the man went to Tsenarus as a suppliant 
and there put up a hut divided by a partition. In the inner 
IV— 3 


part of the liut he placed some of the Ephors, and when 
Pausanias came to him and asked him why he was a sup- 
pliant, the whole truth was at once revealed to them. There 
was the man reproaching Pausanias with the directions which 
he had found in the letter, and going into minute details 
about the whole aflFair ; he protested that never on any occa- 
sion had he brought him into any trouble when sent on his 
service in this matter to the king : why then should he share 
the fate of the other messengers, and be rewarded with death? 
And there was Pausanias, admitting the truth of his words, 
and telling him not to be angry at what had happened, offer- 
ing to raise him by the hand that he might safely leave the 
temple, and bidding him go about the business at once and 
not make difficulties. 

The Ephors, who had heard every word, went away for 
the present, intending, now that they had certain knowledge, 
to take Pausanias in the city. It is said that he was on the 
point of being arrested in the street, when the face of one 
of them as they approached revealed to him their purpose, 
and another who was friendly warned him by a hardly per- 
ceptible nod. Whereupon he ran and fled to the temple of 
Athene of the Brazen House and arrived before them, for the 
precinct* was not far off. There, entering into a small house 
which belonged to the temple, that he might not suffer from 
exposure to the weather, he remained. When his pursuers, 
who had failed in overtaking him, came up, they unroofed 
the building, and having made sure that he was within and 
could not get out, they built up the doors, and, investing the 
place, starved him to death. He was on the point of expiring 
in the temple where he lay, when they, observing his condi- 
tion, brought him out ; he was still breathing, but as soon as 
he was brought out he died. The Spartans were going to 
cast his body into the Casadas, a chasm into which they 
throw malefactors, but they changed their minds and buried 
him somewhere in the neighborhood. The God of Delphi 
afterwards commanded them to transfer him to the place 
where he died, and he now lies in the entrance to the pre- 

* The ground over which the rights of the temple extended. 


cinct, as the inscription on the column testifies. The oracle 
also told them that they had brought a curse upon them- 
selves, and must ofifer two bodies for one to Athene of the 
Brazen House. Whereupon they made two brazen statues, 
which they dedicated, intending them to be an expiation for 

The Character op Pericles. 

So long as Pericles stood at the head of Athens in time 
of peace, he governed it with moderation and maintained it 
in safety, and under him it rose to its highest power. And 
when the war broke out he proved that he had well calcu- 
lated the resources of the State. He lived through two years 
and a half of it ; and when he died, his foresight as to its 
conduct became even more generally admitted. For he 
always said that if they were patient and paid due attention 
to their navy, and did not grasp at extension of empire during 
the war, or expose their city to danger, they would be the 
victors. But they did the very contrary to all this ; and in 
matters which seemed to have no reference to the war they 
followed an evil policy as to their own interests and those of 
their allies, and in accordance with their private jealousies 
and private advantage; measures which, when successful, 
brought honors and profits to individuals only, while, if they 
failed, the disadvantage was felt by the State in its resu,lts on 
the war. 

The reason lay in this : that Pericles, powerful by his 
influence and ability, and manifestly incorruptible by bribeSj 
exercised a control over the masses, combined with excellent 
tact, and rather led them than allowed them to lead him. 
For since he did not gain his ascendancy by unbecoming 
means, he never used language to humor them, but was able, 
on the strength of his high character, even to oppose their 
passions. That is, when he saw them overweeningly confi- 
dent without just grounds, he would speak so as to inspire 
them with a wholesome fear ; or, when they were unreason- 
ably alarmed, he would raise their spirits again to confidence. 
Thus Athens was a nominal democracy, but in fact the 
o-overnment of the one foremost man. 


Cleon's Victory at Sphacteria. 

At Pylos the Athenians continued to blockade the Lace- 
daemonians in the island of Sphacteria, and the Peloponnesian 
army on the mainland remained in their old position. The 
watch was harassing to the Athenians, for they were in want 
both of food and water ; there was only one small well, which 
was inside the fort, and the soldiers were commonly in the 
habit of scraping away the shingle on the seashore, and drink- 
ing any water which they could get. The Athenian garrison 
was crowded into a narrow space, and, their ships having no 
regular anchorage, the crews took their meals on land by 
turns ; one-half of the army eating while the other lay at 
anchor in the open sea. The unexpected length of the siege 
was a great discouragement to them ; they had hoped to starve 
their enemies out in a few days, for they were on a desert island, 
and had only brackish water to drink. The secret of this 
protracted resistance was a proclamation issued by the Lace- 
daemonians offering large fixed prices, and freedom if he were 
a Helot, to any one who would convey into the island meal, 
wine, cheese, or any other provision suitable for a besieged 
place. Many braved the danger, especially the Helots ; they 
started from all points of Peloponnesus, and before daybreak 
bore down upon the shore of the island looking towards the 
open sea. They took especial care to have a strong wind in 
their favor, since they were less likely to be discovered by the 
triremes when it blew hard from the sea. The blockade was 
then impracticable, and the crews of the boats were perfectly 
reckless in running them aground ; for a value had been set 
upon them, and Lacedaemonian hoplites were waiting to re- 
ceive them about the landing-places of the island. All, how- 
ever, who ventured when the sea was calm were captured. 
Some, too, dived and swam by way of the harbor, drawing 
after them by a cord skins containing pounded linseed and 
poppy-seeds mixed with honey. At first they were not found 
out, but afterwards watches were posted. The two parties 
had all sorts of devices, the one determined to send in food, 
the other to detect them. 


When the Athenians heard that their own army -was suf- 
fering, and that supplies Were introduced into the island, they 
began to be anxious and were apprehensive that the blockade 
might extend into the winter. Cleon, knowing that he was 
an object of general mistrust, because he had stood in the way 
of pfeace, challenged the reports of the messengers from Pylos ; 
who rejoined that, if their words were not believed, the 
Athenians should send commissioners of their own. And so 
Theagenes and Cleon himself were chosen commissioners. 
Pointedly alluding to Nicias, who was one of the generals 
and an enemy of his, he declared sarcastically, that, if the 
generals were good for anything, they might easily sail to the 
island and take the Lacedaemonians, and that this was what 
he would certainly do himself if he were general. 

Nicias perceived that the multitude were murmuring at 
Cleon, and asking " why he did not sail — now was his time 
if he thought the capture of Sphacteria to be sudh an easy 
matter : ' ' and hearing him attack the generals, he told him 
that, as far as they were concerned, he might take any force 
which he required and try. Cleon at first imagined that the 
oflfer of Nicias was only a pretence, and was willing to go ; 
but finding that he was in earnest, he tried to back out, and 
said that not he but Nicias was general. He was now alarmed, 
for he never imagined that Nicias would go so far as to give 
up his place to him. Again Nicias bade him take the com- 
mand of the expedition against Pylos, which he formally 
gave up to him in the presence of the assembly. And the 
more Cleon declined the proffered command and tried to 
retract what he had said, so much the more the multitude, 
as their manner is, urged Nicias to resign and shouted to 
Cleon that he should sail. At length, not knowing how to 
escape from his own words, he undertook the expedition, and, 
coming forward, said that he was not afraid of the Lacedae- 
monians, and that he would sail without drawing a single 
man from the city if he were allowed to have the Lemnian 
and Imbrian forces now at Athens, the auxiliaries from ^nus, 
who were targeteers, and four hundred archers from other 
places. With these and with the troops already at Pylos he 
gave his word that within twenty days he would either bring 


the Lacedaemonians alive or kill them on the spot. His vain 
words moved the Athenians to laughter ; nevertheless the 
wiser sort of men were pleased when they reflected that of 
two good things they could not fail to obtain one — either 
there would be an end of Cleon, which they would have 
greatly preferred, or, if they were disappointed, he would put 
the Lacedsemonians into their hands. 

When he had concluded the affair in the assembly, and 
the Athenians had passed the necessary vote, he made choice 
of Demosthenes, one of the commanders at Pylos, to be his 
colleague, and proceeded to sail with all speed. He selected 
Demosthenes, because he heard that he was already intending 
to make an attack upon the island ; for the soldiers, who were 
suffering much from the discomfort of the place, in which 
they were rather besieged than besiegers, were eager to strike 
a decisive blow. Cleon sent and announced to Demosthenes 
his approach, and soon afterwards, bringing with him the 
army which he had requested, himself arrived at Pylos. On 
the meeting of the two generals they first of all sent a herald 
to the Lacedaemonian force on the mainland, proposing that 
they should avoid any further risk by ordering the men in the 
island to surrender with their arms ; they were to be placed 
under surveillance, but well treated until a general peace was 

Finding that their proposal was rejected, the Athenians 
waited for a day, and on the night of the day following put 
off, taking with them all their heavy-armed troops, whom 
they had embarked in a few ships. A little before dawn they 
landed on both sides of the island, towards the sea and towards 
the harbor, a force amounting in all to about eight hundred 
men. They then ran as fast as they could to the first station 
on the island. Now the disposition of the enemy was as fol- 
lows : The first station was garrisoned by about thirty hoplites, 
while the main body under the command of Epitadas was 
posted near the spring in the centre of the island, where the 
ground was most level. A small force guarded the furthest 
extremity of the island opposite Pylos, which was precipitous 
towards the sea, and on the land side the strongest point of 
all, being protected to some extent by an ancient wall made 


of rougli stones, which the Spartans thought would be of use 
to them if they were overpowered and compelled to retreat. 

The Athenians rushed upon the first garrison and cut them 
down, half asleep as they were and just snatching up their 
arms. They had not seen the enemy land, and fancied that 
their ships were only gone to keep the customary watch for 
the night. When the dawn appeared, the rest of the army 
began to disembark. They were the crews of rather more 
than seventy ships, including all but the lowest rank of 
rowers, variously equipped. There were also archers to the 
number of eight hundred, and as many targeteers, besides the 
Messenian auxiliaries and all who were on duty about Pylos, 
except the guards, who could not be spared from the walls of 
the fortress. Demosthenes divided them into parties of two 
hundred, more or less, who seized the highest points of the 
island in order that the enemy, being completely surrounded 
and distracted by the number of their opponents, might not 
know whom they should face first, but might be exposed to 
missiles on every side. For if they attacked those who were 
in front, they would be assailed by those behind ; and if those 
on the flank, by those posted on the other ; and whichever 
way they moved, the light-armed troops of the enemy were 
sure to be in their rear. These were their most embarrassing 
opponents, because they were, armed with bows and javelins 
and slings and stones, which could be used with effect at a 
distance. Even to approach them was impossible, for they 
conquered in their very flight, and, when an enemy retreated, 
pressed close at his heels. Such was the plan of the descent 
which Demosthenes had in his mind, and which he now 
carried into execution. 

The main body of the I/acedsemonians on the island under 
Bpitadas, when they saw the first garrison cut to pieces, and 
an army approaching them, drew up in battle array. The 
Athenian hoplites were right in front, and the Lacedsemonians 
advanced against them, wanting to come to close quarters ; 
but, having light-armed adversaries both on their flank and 
rear, they could not get at them or profit by their own mili- 
tary skill, for they were impeded by a shower of missiles from 
both sides. Meanwhile the Athenians, instead of going to 


meet tliem, remained in position, while the light-armed, again 
and again ran up and attacked the I<acedaemonians, who drove 
them back where they pressed closest. But though compelled 
to retreat they still continued fighting, being lightly equipped 
and easily getting the start of their enemies. The ground was 
difficult and rough, the island having been uninhabited ; and 
the lyacedaemonians, who were encumbered by their arms, 
could not pursue them in such a place. 

For some little time these skirmishes continued. But soon 
the lyacedsemonians became too weary to rush out upon their 
assailants, who began to be sensible that their resistance grew 
feebler. The sight of their own number, which was many 
times that of the enemy, encouraged them more than any- 
thing ; they soon found that their losses were trifling compared 
with what they had expected ; and familiarity made them 
think their opponents much less formidable than when they 
first landed, cowed by the fear of facing I/acedsemonians. They 
now despised them, and with a loud cry rushed upon them in 
a body, hurling at them stones, arrows, javelins, whichever 
came first to hand. The shout with which they accompanied 
the attack dismayed the I/acedaemonians, who were unaccus- 
tomed to this kind of warfare. Clouds of dust arose from the 
newly-burnt wood, and there was no possibility of a man's 
seeing what was before him, owing to the showers of arrows 
and stones hurled by their assailants which were flying amid 
the dust. And now the Lacedzemonians began to be sorely 
distressed, for their felt cuirasses did not protect them against 
the arrows, and the points of the javelins broke ofi" where 
they struck them. They were at their wits' end, not being 
able to see out of their eyes or to hear the word of command, 
which was drowned by the cries of the enemy. Destruction 
was staring them in the face, and. they had no means or hope 
of deliverance. 

At length, finding that so long as they fought in the same 
narrow spot more and more of their men were wounded, they 
closed their ranks and fell back on the last fortification of the 
island, which was not far ofi", and where their other garrison 
was stationed. Instantly the light-armed troops of the Athe- 
nians pressed upon them with fresh confidence, redoubling 


their cries. Those of the Lacedaemonians who were caught 
by them on the way were killed, but the greater number 
escaped to the fort and ranged themselves with the garrison, 
resolved to defend the heights wherever they were assailable. 
The Athenians followed, but the strength of the position 
made it impossible to surround and cut them off, and so they 
attacked them in face and tried to force them back. For a 
long time, and indeed during the greater part of the day, both 
armies, although suffering from the battle and thirst and the 
heat of the sun, held their own ; the one endeavoring to thrust 
their opponents from the high ground, the other determined 
not to give way. But the Lacedaemonians now defended 
themselves with greater ease, because they were not liable 
to be taken in flank. 

There was no sign of the end. At length the general of 
the Messenian contingent came to Cleon and Demosthenes, 
and told them that if they would give him some archers and 
light-armed troops, and let him find a path by which he might 
get round in the rear of the Lacedaemonians, he thought that 
he could force his way in. Having obtained his request, he 
started from a point out of sight of the enemy, and making 
his way wherever the broken ground afforded a footing, and 
where the cliff was so steep that no guards had been set, he 
and his men with great difficulty got round unseen and sud- 
denly appeared on the high ground, striking panic into the 
astonished enemy and redoubling the courage of his own 
friends who were watching for his reappearance. The Lace- 
daemonians were now assailed on both sides, and to compare 
a smaller thing to a greater, were in the same case with their 
own countrymen at Thermopylae. For as they perished when 
the Persians found a way round by the path, so now the be- 
sieged garrison were attacked on both sides, and no longer 
resisted. The disparity of numbers, and the failure of bodily 
strength arising from want of food, compelled them to fall 
back, and the Athenians were at length, masters of the ap- 

Cleon and Demosthenes saw that if the Lacedaemonians 
gave way one Step more they would be destroyed by the Athe- 
nians ; so they stopped the engagement and proclaimed to 


them that they might, if they would, surrender at discretion 
to the Athenians themselves and their arms. 

Upon hearing the proclamation most of them lowered their 
shields and waved their hands in token of their willingness to 
yield. A truce was made, and then Cleon and Demosthenes, 
on the part of the Athenians, and Styphon, the son of Pharax, 
on the part of the Lacedaemonians, held a parley. Epitadas, 
who was the first in command, had been already slain ; Hip- 
pagretas, who was next in succession, lay among the slain for 
dead ; and Styphon had taken the place of the two others, 
having been appointed, as the law prescribed, in case anything 
should happen to them. He and his companions expressed 
their wish to communicate with the Lacedaemonians on the 
mainland as to the course which they should pursue. The 
Athenians allowed none of them to stir, but themselves invited 
heralds from the shore ; and after two or three communica- 
tions, the herald who came over last from the body of the 
army brought back word, "The Lacedaemonians bid you act 
as you think best, but you are not to dishonor yourselves." 
Whereupon they consulted together, and then gave up them- 
selves and their arms. During that day and the following 
night the Athenians kept guard over them ; on the next day 
they set up a trophy on the island and made preparations to 
sail, distributing the prisoners among the trierarchs. The 
Lacedaemonians sent a herald and conveyed away their own 
dead. Of the survivors the Spartans numbered about a hun- 
dred and twenty. But few Athenians fell. 

Reckoned from the sea-fight to the final battle in the 
island, the time during which the blockade lasted was ten 
weeks and two days. For about three weeks the Lacedae- 
monians were supplied with food while the Spartan ambassa- 
dors were gone to solicit peace, but during the rest of this 
time they lived on what was brought in by stealth. A store 
of corn and other provisions was found in the island at the 
time of the capture ', for Epitadas the general had not served 
out full rations. The Athenians and Peloponnesians now 
withdrew their armies from Pylos and returned home. And 
the mad promise of Cleon was fulfilled ; for he did bring back 
the prisoners within twenty days as he had said. 


Alcibiades Vindicates Himself. 

Alcibiades was of the noblest Athenian stock, and being early 
left an orphan was brought up under the guardianship of his uncle, the 
great statesman, Pericles. He was thus admitted to the company of 
the celebrated Aspasia, whose house was a resort for the most culti- 
vated society of the period. He also attached himself for a time 
to the philosopher Socrates, but rather from admiration of his dialectic 
skill than from desire to learn wisdom and virtue. From boyhood he 
had manifested an aristocratic insolence towards others, old and 
young. His versatile genius and persuasive talent, as well as his 
ability in war, seemed to fit him to be a worthy successor in public 
affairs to his guardian, yet he destroyed the empire of his native city, 
by first urging it to the disastrous Sicilian expedition, and then, when 
attacked by a faction, going over to the side of its enemies. 

In 415 B.C. the Athenians, being at the height of their power, were 
requested by an embassy from Egesta, in Sicily, to interfere in the affairs 
of that island. They sent envoys to ascertain the actual condition, 
but these, being deceived, brought such a report that the assembly 
resolved on war. Alcibiades, Nicias and Lamachus were chosen to 
command the expedition of sixty ships. Nicias, an eminent aristo- 
cratic leader, being appointed against his own wish, exerted himself 
to dissuade the people from engaging in a distant and hazardous war- 
fare. He also objected to Alcibiades, as being too rash and reckless 
for command. Alcibiades, eager for the war as an opportunity for 
glory for the city and himself, made his defence in the public assembly 
called to consider the matter. 

Most of the Athenians who came forward to speak were 
in favor of war, and reluctant to rescind the vote which had 
been ahready passed, although a few took the other side. 
The most enthusiastic supporter of the expedition to Sicily 
was Alcibiades, the son of Cleinias; he was determined to 
oppose Nicias, who was always his political enemy and had 
just now spoken of him in disparaging terms ; but the desire » 
to command was even a stronger motive with him. He was 
hoping that he might be the conqueror of Sicily and Carthage ; 
and that success would repair his private fortunes, and gain 
him money as well as glory. He had a great position among 
the citizens and was devoted to horse-racing and other pleas- 
ures which outran his means. And in the end his wild 
cpurses went far to ruin the Athenian state. For the people 


feared the extremes to wliicli he carried his lawless self-indul- 
gence, and the far-reaching purposes which animated him in 
all his actions. They thought that he was aiming at a 
tyranny and set themselves against him. And therefore, 
although his talents as a military commander were unrivaled, 
they entrusted the administration of the war to others, because 
they personally objected to his private life ; and so they speed- 
ily shipwrecked the state. He now came forward and spoke 
as follows : 

" I have a better right to command, men of Athens, than 
another; for as Nicias has attacked me, I must begin by 
praising myself ; and I consider that I am worthy. Those 
doings of mine for which I am so much cried out against are 
an honor to myself and to my ancestors, and a solid advan- 
tage to my country. In consequence of the distinguished 
manner in "which I represented the state at Olympia, the 
other Hellenes formed an idea of our power which even 
exceeded the reality, although they had previously imagined 
that we were exhausted by war. I sent into the lists seven 
chariots, — no other private man ever did the like ; I was 
victor, and also won the second and fourth prize; and I 
ordered everything in a style worthy of my victory. The 
general sentiment honors such magnificence ■ and the energy 
which is shown by it creates an impression of power. At 
home, again, whenever I gain eclat by providing choruses or 
by the performance of some other public duty, although the 
citizens are naturally jealous of me, to strangers these acts of 
munificence are a new argument of our strength. There is 
some use in the folly of a man who at his own cost benefits 
not only himself, but the state. And where is the injustice, 
if I or any one who feels his own superiority to another 
refuses to be on a level with him? The unfortunate keep 
their misfortunes to themselves. We do not expect to be 
recognized by our acquaintance when we are down in the 
world ; and on the same principle why should any one com- 
plain when treated with disdain by the more fortunate ? He 
who would have proper respect shown to him should himself 
show it towards others. I know that men of this lofty spirit, 
and all who have been in any way illustrious, are hated while 



they are alive, by their equals especially, and in a lesser 
degree by others who have to do with them ; but that they 
leave behind them to after ages a reputation which leads even 
those who are not of their family to claim kindred with them, 
and that they are the glory of their country, which regards 
them, not as aliens or as evil-doers, but as her own children, 
of whose character she is proud. These are my own aspira- 
tions, and this is the reason why my private life is assailed ; 
but let me ask you, whether in the 'management of public 
affairs any man surpasses me. Did I not, without involTing 
you in any great danger or expense, combine the most power- 
ful states of Peloponnesus against the Lacedaemonians, whom 
I compelled to stake at Mantinea all that they had upon the 
fortune of one day ? And even to this hour, although they 
were victorious in the battle, they have hardly recovered 

" These were the achievements of my youth, and of what 
is supposed to be my monstrous folly ; thus did I by winning 
words conciliate the Peloponnesian powers, and my hearti- 
ness made them believe in me and follow me. And now do 
not be afraid of me because I am young, but while I am in 
the flower of my days and Nicias enjoys the reputation of 
success, use the services of us both. Having determined to 
sail, do not change your minds under the impression that 
Sicily is a great power. For although the Sicilian cities are 
populous, their inhabitants are a mixed multitude, and they 
readily give up old forms of government and receive new 
ones from without. No one really feels that he has a city of 
his own ; and so the individual is ill-provided with arms, and 
the country has no regular means of defence. A man looks 
only to what he can win from the common stock by arts of 
•speech or by party violence ; hoping if he is overthrown, at 
any rate to carry off his prize and enjoy it elsewhere. They 
are a motley crew, who are never of one mind in council, and 
are incapable of any concert in action. Every man is for 
himself, and will readily come over to any one who makes an 
attractive offer ; the more readily if, as report says, they are 
in a state of revolution. They boast of their hoplites, but, 
as has proved to be the case in all Hellenic states, the number 


of tliem is grossly exaggerated. Hellas has been singularly 
mistaken about her heavy infantry; and even in this war it 
was as much as she could do to collect enough of them. The 
obstacles then which will meet us in Sicily, judging of them 
from the information which I have received, are not great ; 
indeed, I have overrated them, for there will be many bar- 
barians who, through fear of the Syracusans, will join us in 
attacking them. And at home there is nothing which, 
viewed rightly, need interfere with the expedition. Our 
forefathers had the same enemies whom we are now told that 
we are leaving behind us, and the Persian besides ; but their 
strength lay in the greatness of their navy, and by that and 
that alone they gained their empire. Never were the Pelo- 
ponnesians more hopeless of success than at the present 
moment ; and let them be ever so confident, they can only 
invade us by land, which they will equally do whether we go 
to Sicily or not. But on the sea they cannot hurt us, for we 
shall leave behind us a navy equal to theirs. 

"What reason can we give to ourselves for hesitation? 
what excuse can we make to our allies for denying them aid ? 
We have sworn to them, and have no right to argue that they 
never assisted us. In seeking their alliance we did not intend 
that they should come and help us here, but that they should 
harass our enemies in Sicily, and prevent them from coming 
hither. Like all other imperial powers, we have acquired our 
dominion by our readiness to assist any one, whether Bar- 
barian or Hellene, who may have invoked our aid. If we 
are all to sit and do nothing, or to draw distinctions of race 
when our help is requested, we shall add little to our empire, 
and run a great risk of losing it altogether. For mankind 
do not await the attack of a superior power, they anticipate 
it. We cannot cut down an empire as we might a household ; 
but having once gained our present position, we must keep a 
firm hold upon some, and contrive occasion against others ; 
for if we are not rulers we shall be subjects. You cannot 
afibrd to regard inaction in the same light as others might, 
unless you impose a corresponding restriction on your policy. 
Convinced then that we shall be most likely to increase our 
power here if we attack our enemies there, let us sail. We 



shall humble the pride of the Peloponnesians when they see 
that, scorning the delights of repose, we have attacked Sicily. 
By the help of our acquisitions there we shall probably 
become masters of all Hellas ; at any rate we shall injure the 
Syracusans, and at the same time benefit ourselves and our 
allies. Whether we succeed and remain or depart, in either 
case our navy will ensure our safety ; for at sea we shall be 
more than a match for all Sicily. Nicias must not divert you 
from your purpose by preaching indolence, and by trying to 
set the young against the old; rather in your accustomed 
order, old and young taking counsel together, after the man- 
ner of your fathers who raised Athens to this height of great- 
ness, strive to rise yet higher. Consider that youth and age 
have no power unless united ; but that the lighter and the 
more exact and the middle sort of judgment, when duly 
attempered, are likely to be most efficient. The state, if at 
rest, like everything else will wear herself out by internal 
friction. Every pursuit which requires skill will bear the 
impress of decay, whereas by conflict fresh experience is 
always being gained, and the city learns to defend herself, 
not in theory, but in practice. My opinion in short is, that 
a state used to activity will quickly be ruined by the change 
to inaction ; and that they of all men enjoy the greatest 
security who are truest to themselves and their institutions 
even when they are not the best." 




Xenophon was born 
at Athens about B.C. 444, 
according to some esti- 
mates, but more probably 
about 431. He was a pu- 
pil of Socrates, whose 
memory in after life he 
revered and defended. He 
is also known in connec- 
tion with the Expedition 
of Cyrus the Younger in 
401 B.C. Having received 
a letter from his friend 
Proxenus, who was al- 
ready in the service of 
Cyrus, inviting him to 
join the expedition, he 
submitted the matter to Socrates, who advised him to con- 
sult the oracle at Delphi. This he did ; but merely asked 
Apollo by what sacrifices he might perform the journey he 
had in view, and return in safety. He at once obeyed the 
oracle, and set sail to join Proxenus and Cyrus, whom he 
found at Sardis in L-ydia, ready to march to Upper Asia. He 
tells us that he was neither soldier, captain, nor general, but 
served as a volunteer. When they reached the little town of 
Cunaxa on the banks of the Euphrates, they were opposed by 
Artaxerxes with an army of 900,000 men. Cyrus with his 
infantry, targeteers, and Barbarian troops had little over 
100,000 men. Notwithstanding this odds of nine to one, 
the little force of Greeks drove the Barbarian horde into flight 
at the first onset, but following too eagerly in pursuit left 
Cyrus to oppose the king's centre. There the two brothers 
met and Cyrus was slain. The Barbarians of his army at 
once submitted to Artaxerxes, and Tissaphernes, the Persian 
satrap, with unscrupulous duplicity, got into his power Clear- 
chus and four othdr generals, with twenty colonels, who 


were all put to death. The Greeks, however dismayed at 
this loss, quickly recovered their courage, and chose new 
commanders. Among these was Xenophon, who now took 
the principal part in conducting the retreat. Harassed by 
Mithridates and Tissaphernes, they pursued their way through 
the Carduchian mountains, over the highlands of Armenia ; 
beset by barbarian enemies on every hand, exposed to cold 
and hunger, and sudden attacks, they struggled on until at 
last they reached the top of a mountain where they came in 
view of the Euxine Sea, on the coast of which were Greek 
cities. The distance traversed in advancing and retreating 
was about 3,3CX3 miles, and the time occupied fifteen months. 

This celebrated expedition was the means of revealing the 
weakness of Persia, and at last leading to the overthrow of 
that empire, which Xenophon declared to be strong with 
regard to extent of country and numbers of men, but weak 
in the division of its forces and the great distance to be 
traversed by them in resisting a rapid invasion. After mak- 
ing their way westward from Trapezus, the modem Trebizond, 
those who survived the expedition joined the Lacedsemonians 
in war against the Persians in Asia Minor. Xenophon be- 
came attached to Agesilaus, King of Sparta, and fought at 
Coronea, 394 B.C., against the Thebans, who were then allies 
of Athens. In consequence of this, his property was confis- 
cated and he was driven into exile. At first he went with 
Agesilaus to Sparta. To indemnify him for the loss of his 
property, the, lyacedaemonians presented him with an estate 
at Scillus, near Olympia. Here he lived the life of a country 
gentleman till the battle of Leuctra in 371, when he was 
obliged to take refuge in Corinth. 

Xenophon was cosmopolitan in his politics and in his 
writings ; in his character he showed the best qualities of a 
Greek gentleman. His style is simple, his language unas- 
suming, and throughout all his works there is a manifest 
approbation of what is good, true and beautiful. He was 
undoubtedly a man of many excellencies, which may be 
ascribed to his own happy disposition, his education under 
Socrates, and his practical improvement of both. His "Ana- 
basis" shows the general ; his political romance, the " Cyro- 
rv— 4 


paedia" a master in the art of government ; his "Hellenica" 
a faithful though dry historian ; his " Panegyric of Agesilaus " 
an orator; his treatise on "Hunting" a sportsman; and his 
" Memorabilia of Socrates " a philosopher and friend. Other 
works are somewhat doubtfully attributed to this accom- 
plished writer, to whom, for his sweet and useful productions, 
some ancient critics gave the title of "The Attic Bee." In 
his "Hellenica," he carries forward the history of Greece 
from the point where Thucydides leaves off, 41 1 B.C., to the 
battle of Mantinea, 362. 

How Xe;nophon Became a General. 

• (From the "Anabasis.") 

Xenophon had joined the expedition, deceived, indeed, 
though not by Proxeniis, who was equally in the dark with 
the rest of the Hellenes, not counting Clearchus, as to the im 
tended attack upon the king. However, when they reached 
Cilicia, it was pretty plain to all that the expedition was really 
against the king. Then, though the majority were in appre-r 
hension of the journey, which was not at all to their minds, 
yet, for very shame of one another and Cyrus, they continued 
to follow him, and with the rest went Xenophon. 

And now in this season of perplexity, he too, with the rest, 
was in sore distress, and could not aleep ; but anon, getting a 
snatch of sleep, he had a dream. It seemed to him in a 
vision that there -was a storm of thunder and lightning, and a 
bolt fell on his father's house, and thereupon the, house was all 
in a blaze. He sprang up in terror, and pondering the matter, 
decided that in part the dream was good : in that he had seeu 
a great light from Zeus, whilst in the midst of toil and 
danger. But partly, too, he feared it, for evidently it had come 
from Zeus the king. And the fire kindled all around^-^what 
could that mean but that he was hemmed in by various 
perplexities, and so could not escape from the country of the 
king? The full meaning, however, is to be discovered from 
what happened after the dream. 

This is what took place. As soon as he was fully awake, 
the first clear thought which came into his head was. Why 
am I lying here ? The night advances ; with the day, it is 

GREBK tl'TERATuaE. 51 

like enough, the enemy will be upon us. If we are to fall 
into the hands of the king, what is left us but to face the 
most horrible of sights, and to suffer the most fearful paius, 
and then to die, insulted, an ignominious death ? To defend 
ourselves— to ward oflf that fate— not a hand stirs : no one is 
preparing, none cares; but here we lie, as though it were 
time to rest and take our ease. I too ! what am I waiting 
for? a general to undertake the work? and from what city? 
am I waiting till I am older myself and of riper age ? Older I 
shall never be, if to-day I betray myself to my enemies. 

Thereupon he got up, and called together first Proxenus's 
ofl&cers; and when they were met, he said: "Sleep, sirs, 
I cannot, nor can you, I fancy, nor lie here longer, when I 
see in what straits we are. Our enemy, we may be sure, did 
not open war upon us till he felt he had everything amply 
set ; yet none of us shows a corresponding anxiety to enter 
the lists of battle in the bravest style. 

"And yet, if we yield ourselves and fall into the king's 
power, need we ask what our fate "v^ill be? This man, who, 
when his own brother, the son of the same parents, was dead, 
was not content with that, but severed head and hand from 
the body and nailed them to a cross. We, then, who have not 
even the tie of blood in our favor, but who marched against 
him, meaning to make him a slave instead of a king— ^and 
to slay him if he could : what is likely to be our fate at his 
hands ? Will he not go all lengths so that, by inflicting on us 
the extreme of ignominy and torture, he may rouse in the rest 
of mankind a terror of ever marching against him any more ? 
There is no question but that our business is to avoid, by all 
means, getting into his clutches. 

" For my part, all the while the truce lasted, I never ceased 
pitying ourselves and congratulating the king and those with 
him, as, like a helpless spectator, I surveyed the extent and 
quality of their territory, the plenteousness of their provisions, 
the multitude of their dependents, their cattle, their gold, and 
their apparel. And then to turn and ponder the condition of 
our soldiers, without part or lot in these good things, except 
we bought it ; few, I knew, had any longer the wherewithal 
to buy, and yet our oath held us down, so that we could not 


provide ourselves otherwise than by purchase. I say, as I 
reasoned thus, there were times when I dreaded the truce 
more than I now dread war. 

" Now, however, that they have abruptly ended the truce, 
there is an end also to their own insolence and to our 
suspicion. All these good things of theirs are now set as prizes 
for the combatants. To whichsoever of us shall prove the 
better men, will they fall as rewards ; and the gods them- 
selves are the judges of the strife. The gods, who full surely 
will be on our side, seeing it is our enemies who have taken 
their names falsely ; whilst we, with much to lure us, yet for 
our oath's sake, and the gods who were our witnesses, sternly 
held aloof. So that, it seems to me, we have a right to enter 
upon this contest with much more heart than our foes ; and 
further, we are possessed of bodies more capable than theirs 
of bearing cold and heat and labor ; souls, too, we have, 
by the help of heaven, better and braver ; nay, the men them- 
selves are more vulnerable, more mortal, than ourselves, if so 
be the gods vouchsafe to give us victory once again. 

"Howbeit, for I doubt not elsewhere similar reflections 
are being made, whatsoever betide, let us not, in heaven's 
name, wait for others to come and challenge us to noble deeds ; 
let us rather take the lead in stimulating the rest to valor. 
Show yourselves to be the bravest of officers, and among 
generals the worthiest to command. For myself, if you 
choose to start forwards on this quest, I will follow ; or, if you 
bid me lead you, my age shall be no excuse to stand between 
me and your orders. At least I am of full age, I take it, to 
avert misfortune from my own head." 

Such were the speaker's words ; and Proxenus's officers, 
when they heard, all, with one exception, called upon him to 
put himself at their head. 

[They then called a meeting of all the surviving ofEcers, which 
assembled near midnight. New generals were chosen, Cheirisophus 
the Spartan took command of the van, and Xenophon of the rear 


The Ten Thousand Reach the Sea. 

In four days they reached a large and prosperous well- 
Jjopulated city, -which went by the name of Gymnias, from 
"which the governor of the country sent them a guide to lead 
them through a district hostile to his own. This guide told 
them that within five days he would lead them to a place 
from which they would see the sea, "and," he added, "if I 
fail of my word, you are free to take my life." Accordingly 
he put himself at their head ; but he no sooner set foot on the 
country hostile to himself than he fell to encouraging them 
to bum and harry the land ; indeed his exhortations were so 
earnest, it was plain that it was for this he had come, and not 
out of the good-will he bore the Hellenes. 

On the fifth day they reached the mountain, the name of 
which was Theches. No sooner had the men in front 
ascended it and caught sight of the sea than a great cry arose, 
and Xenophon, with the rearguard, catching the sound of it, 
conjectured that another set of enemies must surely be attack- 
ing in front ; for they were followed by the inhabitants of the 
country, which was all aflame ; indeed the rearguard had killed 
some and captured others alive by laying an ambuscade ; they 
had taken also about twenty wicker shields, covered with the 
raw hides of shaggy oxen. 

But as the shout became louder and nearer, and those who 
from time to time came up, began racing at the top of their 
speed towards the shouters, and the shouting continually re- 
commenced with yet greater volume as the numbers increased, 
Xenophon settled in his mind that something extraordinary 
must have happened, so he mounted his horse, and taking 
with him Lycius and the cavalry, he galloped to the rescue. 
Presently they could hear the soldiers shouting and passing on 
the joyful word. The sea ! the sea I 

Thereupon they began running, rearguard and all, and the 
baggage animals and horses came galloping up. But when 
they had treached the summit, then indeed they fell to em- 
bracing one another — generals and officers and all — and the 
tears trickled down their cheeks. And on a sudden, some 


one, wlioever it was, having passed down the order, the sol- 
diers began bringing stones and erecting a great cairn, where- 
on they dedicated a host of nntanned Skins, and staves, and cap- 
tured wicker shields, and with his own hand the guide hacked 
the shields to pieces, inviting the rest to follow his example. 
After this the Hellenes dismissed the guide with a present 
raised from the common store, to wit, a horse, a silver bowl, 
a Persian dress, and ten darics ; but what he most begged to 
have were their rings, and of these he got several from the 
soldiers. So, after pointing out to them a village where they 
would find quarters, and the road by which they would pro- 
ceed towards the land of the Macrones, as evening fell, he 
turned his back upon them in the night and was gone. 

From this point the Hellenes marched through the 
country of the Macrones three stages of ten parasangs, and 
on the first day they reached the river, which formed the 
boundary between the land of the Macrones and the land 
of the Scythenians. Above them, on their right, they had a 
country of the sternest and ruggedest character, and on their 
left another river, into which the frontier river discharges 
itself, and which they must cross. This was thickly fringed 
with trees which, though not of any great bulk, were closely 
packed. As soon as they came up to them, the Hellenes pro- 
ceeded to cut them down in their haste to get out of the place 
as soon as possible. But the Macrones, armed with wicker 
shields and lances and hair tunics, were already drawn up to 
receive them immediately opposite the crossing. They were 
cheering one another on, and kept up a steady pelt of stones 
into the river, though they failed to reach the other side or 
do any harm. 

At this juncture one of the light infantry came up to Xen- 
ophon; he had been, he said, a slave in Athens, and he 
wished to tell him that herefibgnized the speech of these peo» 
pie. " I think," said he, "this must be my native country, 
and if there is no objection I will have a talk with thett." 
"No ol:gection at all," replied Xenophon, "pray talk to them, 
and ask them first who they are." In answer to this question 
they said, "they were Macrones." "Well, then," said he, 
"ask them why they are drawn up in battle and -want to fight 


"With US." They answered, "Because you are iavading our 
country." The generate bade him say : "If so, it is with no 
intention, certainly, of doing it of you slny harm : but we have 
been at war with the king, aud are now returning to Hellas, 
and all we want is to reach the sea." The others asked, 
"Were they willing to give them pledges to that effect?" 
They replied: "Yes, they were ready to give and receive 
pledges to that effect." Then the Macrones gave a barbaric 
lance to the Hellenes, and the Hellenes a Hellenic lance to 
them: "for these," they Said, "-Would serve as pledges," and 
both sides called upon the gods to witness. 

After the pledges Were exchanged, the Macrones fell to 
vigorously, hewing down trees and constructing a road to 
help them across, mingling freely with the Hellenes and 
fraternizing in their midst, and they afforded them as good a 
market as they could, and for three days conducted them on 
their march, until they had brought them safely to the con- 
fines of the Colchians. At this point they were confronted by 
a great mountain chain, which, however, was accessible, and 
on it the Colchians were drawn up for battle. In the first 
instance, the Hellenes drew up opposite in line of battle, as 
though they were minded to assault the hill in that order ; 
but afterwards the generals determined to hold a council of 
war, and consider how to make the fairest fight. 

Accordingly Xenophon said: "I am not for advancing in 
line, hilt advise to form Companies by columns. To begin 
with, the line," he urged, "would be scattered and thrown 
into, disorder at once ; for we shall find the mountain full of 
inequalities, it will be pathless here and easy to traverse there. 
The mere fact of first having formed in line, and then Seeing 
the line thrown into disorder, must exercise a disheartening 
effect. Again, if we advance Several deep, the enemy will 
none the less dVeirlap us, aud turn their superfluous numbers 
to account as best they like ; while, if we march in shallow 
order, we may fully expect our line to be cut through and 
throilgli by the thick rain of missiles and rush of men, and if 
this happen anywiere along the line, the whole line will 
equally suffer. No ; my notion is to form columns by com- 
panies, covering ground sufficient with spaces between the 


lompanies to allow the last companies of each flank to be 
lutside the enemy's flanks. Thus we shall with our extreme 
lompanies be outside the enemy's line, and the best men at 
he head of their columns will lead the attack, and every 
lompany will pick its way where the ground is easy ; also it 
pill be difficult for the enemy to force his way into the inter- 
vening spaces, when there are companies on both sides ; nor 
pill it be easy for him to cut in twain any individual com- 
)any marching in column. If, too, any particular company 
hould be pressed, the neighboring company will come to the 
escue, or if at any point any single company succeed in 
caching the height, from that moment not one man of the 
memy will stand his ground." 

This proposal was carried, and they formed into columns 
)y companies. Then Xenophon, returning from the right 
nng to the left, addressed the soldiers. "Men," he said, 
' these men whom you see in front of you are the sole obsta- 
;les still interposed between us and the haven of our hopes 
o long deferred. We shall swallow them up raw, if we can." 
The several divisions fell into position, the companies were 
brmed into columns, and the result was a total of something 
ike eighty companies of heavy infantry, each company con- 
isting, on an average, of a hundred men. The light in- 
antry and bowmen were arranged in three divisions — two 
lUtside to support the left and the right respectively, and the 
hird in the centre — each division consisting of about six 
mndred men. Before starting, the generals passed the order 
o offer prayer ; and with the prayer and battle-hymn rising 
"rom their lips they commenced their advance. Cheirisophus 
md Xenophon, and the light infantry with them, advanced 
mtside the enemy's line to right and left, and the enemy, 
eeing their advance, made an effort to keep parallel and 
;onfront them ; but in order to do so, as he extended partly to 
ight and partly to left, he was pulled to pieces, and there 
vas a large space or hollow left in the centre of his line. 
Seeing them separate thus, the light infantry attached to the 
\.rcadian battalion, under command of j^schines, an Acar- 
lanian, mistook the movement for flight, and with a loud 
>hout rushed on, and these were the first to scale the moun- 


tain summit ; but they were closely followed by the Arcadian 
heavy infantry, under command of Cleanor of Orchomenus. 
When they began running in that way, the enemy stood 
their ground no longer, but betook themselves to flight, one 
in one direction, one in another, and the Hellenes scaled the 
hill and found quarters in numerous villages which contained 
supplies in abundance. 

From this place they marched on two stages — seven para- 
sangs — and reached the sea at Trapezus, a populous Hellenic 
city on the Euxine Sea, a colony of the Sinopeans, in the ter- 
ritory of the Colchians. Here they halted about thirty days 
in the villages of the Colchians, which they used as a base of 
operations to ravage the whole territory of Colchis. The 
men of Trapezus supplied the army with a market, entertained 
them, and gave them, as gifts of hospitality, oxen and wheat 
and wine. Further, they negotiated with them in behalf of 
their neighbors the Colchians, who dwelt in the plain for the 
most part, and from this folk also came gifts of hospitality in 
thv shape of cattle. And now the Hellenes made preparation 
for the sacrifice which they had vowed, and a sufficient num- 
ber of cattle came in for them to offer thank-offerings for safe 
guidance to Zeus the Saviour, and to Heracles, and to the 
other gods, according to their vows. 

(From the " Cyropsedia.") 

GoBRYAS, an Assyrian, and a man in years, arrived on 
horseback, attended by some cavalry, consisting of his own 
dependents ; and they were all provided with arms proper for 
cavalry. They that had been appointed to receive the arms 
bade them deliver their lances that they might burn them, 
as they had done others before; but Gobryas said that he 
desired first to see Cyrus. Then they that attended this ser- 
vice left the other horsemen behind, and conducted Gobryas 
to Cyrus ; and as soon as he saw Cyrus, he spoke thus : 

" My sovereign lord, I am by birth an Assyrian ; I have a 
strong fortress in my possession, and have the command of a 
large territory: I furnished the Assyrian king with a thou- 


sand horse, and was very much his friend i but since he, who 
was an excellent man, has lost his life in the war against you, 
and since his son, who is my greatest enemy, now possesses 
the government, I come and throw myself at your feet as a 
supplicant, and give myself to you as a servant and assistant 
in the war. I beg you to be my revenger : I make you my 
son as far as it is possible. With respect to male issue, I am 
childless; for he, O sovereign! that was my only one, an 
excellent youth, who loved and honored me to as great a 
degree as son could do to make a father happy ; him did the 
present king (the late king, the father of the present, having 
sent for my son, as intending to give him his daughter, and 
I sent him away, proud that 1 should see my son married to 
the daughter of the king) invite to hunt with him, as with a 
friend ; and, on a bear appearing in view, they both pursued. 
The present king, having thrown his javelin, missed his aim. 
Oh that it had not happened so ! and my son making his 
throw — unhappy thing! — ^brought the bear to the ground. 
He was then enraged, but kept his envy concealed; but 
then, again, a lion falling in their Way, he again misSed ; and 
that it should happen so to him I do not think at all wonder^ 
ful ; but my son, again hitting his mark, killed the lion, and 
said, ' I have twice thrown single javelins, and brought the 
beasts both times to the ground.' On this the impious wretch 
restrained his malice no longer, but, snatching a lance from 
one of his followers, struck it into his breast, and took away 
the life of my dear and only son ! Then I, miserable man ! 
birought him away a corpse instead of a bridegroom ; and I, 
who am of these years, buried him, my excellent and beloved 
son, a youth but just bearded. His murderer, as if he had 
destroyed an enemy, has never yet appeared to have had any 
remorse; nor has he, in amends for the vile action, ever 
vouchsafed to pay any honor to him who is now under the 
ground. His father, indeed, had compassion, and plainly 
appeared td join in affliction with me at this misfortune ; 
therefore, had he lived, I had never applied to ydu to his 
injury; for I had received a great many instances of 
friendship from him, and I served him. But since the gov- 
ernment hag fallen to the murdefet of my son, I can never 


possibly bear Him the least good-will ; nor can he, I know, 
very -^vell, ever reckon me his friend ; for he knows how I 
stand affected towards him ; how I, who lived with that joy 
and satisfaction before, milst now stand in this destitute con- 
dition, passing my old age in sorrow. If you receive me, 
therefore, and I can have hopes of obtaining, by your means, 
a revenge for my dear son, I shall think I arise again to new 
life ; I shall neither be ashamed to live, nor, if I die, do I 
think that I shall end my days with grief." 

Thus lie spoke. A;id Cyrus replied, "If you make it 
appear, Gobryasj that yoU really are in that disposition 
towards us that you express, I receive you as oUr supplicant, 
and, with the help of the gods, I promise to revenge you on 
the murderer. But tell me," said he, "if we effect these 
things for you, and allow you to hold your fortress, your 
territory, and your arms, and the power that you had before, 
what service will you do for us in return for these things?" 
He then said, " My fortress I will yield you for your habita- 
tion whenever you please ; the same tribute for my territory 
that I tised to pay to him I -will pay to yoU ; wherever yott 
shall make war I will attend you in the service, with the 
forces of my territory: and I have, besides," said he, "a 
maiden daughter, that I tenderly love, just of an Ag& for 
marriage ; one that I fotnlerly reckoned I brought up as a 
wife for the person now reigning ; but she herself has now 
begged me, with many tears dnd sighs, not to give her to the 
murderer of her brother ; and I join with her in opinion. I 
here give you leave to deal with her as I appear to deal by 
you." Then Cyrus said, "On these terms," said he, "with 
truth and sincerity do I give you my right hand, and accept 
of yours. Let the gods be witnesses between us ! " When 
these things had passed, he bade Gobryas go and keep his 
arms ; and he asked him at what distance his habitation Was, 
it being his intention to go thither. He then said, "If you 
march to-morrow morning you may quarter with us the next 
day." So Gobryas Went away and left a guide. 

On the second day towards the evening they reached the 
habitatioti of Gobryas. They saw it to be an exceeding 
Strong fortress, and that all things were provided pU the walls 


proper for a vigorous defence ; and they saw abundance of 
oxen and sheep brought under the fortifications. Gobryas 
then, sending to Cyrus, bade him ride round, and see where 
the access was most easy, and send in to him some of those 
that he confided in, who, having seen how things stood 
within, might give him an account of them. So Cyrus, 
desiring in reality to see if the fortress might be taken on 
any side, or whether Gobryas might be discovered to be false, 
rode round on every side, but saw every part too strong to be 
approached. Those that Cyrus sent in to Gobryas brought 
him an account that there was such plenty of all good things 
within as could not, as they thought, even in the age of a 
man, fail the people that were there. Cyrus was under con- 
cern about what all this might mean. But Gobryas himself 
came out to him, and brought out all his men ; some carry- 
ing wine, some meal, and others driving oxen, sheep, hogs, 
and goats ; and of every thing that was eatable they brought 
sufficient to furnish a handsome supper for the whole army 
that was with Cyrus. They that were appointed to this 
service made distribution of all these things, and they all 
supped. But Gobryas, when all his men were come out, bade 
Cyrus enter in the manner that he thought the most safe. 
Cyrus, therefore, sending before certain people to view and 
search into things and a force with them, then entered him- 
self ; and when he was got in, keeping the gates open, he 
summoned all his friends and the commanders that had 
attended him ; and when they were come in, Gobryas, pro- 
ducing cups of gold, and vessels of various kinds, all manner 
of furniture, and apparel, darics without number, and mag- 
nificent things of all kinds ; and at last bringing out his 
daughter (who was astonishingly beautiful and tall, but in 
affliction for the death of her brother), spoke thus : 

"Cyrus, all these treasures I give you, and this daughter 
of mine I intrust you with to dispose of as you think fit : 
but we are both of us your supplicants : I, before, that you 
would be the revenger of my son : and she, now, that you 
would be the revenger of her brother." 

Cyrus to this said, ' ' I promised you then, that, if you 
were not false to us, I would revenge you to the utmost of 


my power ; and now that I find you true to us, I am under 
the obligation of that promise. And I now promise her, 
with the help of the gods, to perform it. These treasures," 
said he, "I accept, but give them to this your daughter, and 
to the man that shall marry her. But I have received one 
present from you with more pleasure than I should have with 
the treasures of Babylon, where there is abundance ; or even 
with those of the whole world, were they to be exchanged for 
this that you have now presented me with." 

Gobryas, wondering what it should be, and suspecting 
that he meant his daughter, asked him thus: "O Cyrus!" 
said he, "what is it?" 

• Then Cyrus replied, "Gobryas," said he, "it is this. I 
believe there may be abundance of men that would not be 
guilty either of impiety, injustice, or falsehood ; and yet, 
because nobody will throw either treasures, or power, or 
strong fortresses, or lovely children in their way, die before 
it comes to appear what they were. But you, by having now 
put into my hands both strong fortresses, and riches of all 
kinds, your whole force, and your daughter, who is so valua- 
ble a possession, have made me clearly appear to all men to 
be one that would neither be guilty of impiety towards 
friends that receive and entertain me, nor of injustice for the 
sake of treasure, nor willingly false to faith in compacts. 
This, therefore, be assured, I shall not forget, while I am 
a just man, and while as such I receive the applause of men, 
but I shall endeavor to make you returns of honor in all 
things great and noble : andi do not be afraid of wanting a 
husband for your daughter, and such a one as shall be worthy 
of her : for I have many excellent friends, and, among them, 
whoever it is that marries her, whether he will have either as 
much treasure as you have given, or a great deal more, I am 
not able to say; but be assured that there are some of them 
who, for all the treasures you have bestowed, do not on that 
account esteem you one jot the more. But they are at this 
time my rivals ; they supplicate all the gods that they may 
have an opportunity of showing themselves that they are not 
less faithful to their friends than I am : that, while alive, 
they will never yield to their enemies, unless some god should 


blast tlieir endeavors ; and that for virtue and good reputa- 
tion, they would not accept of all the treasures of the Syrians 
and Assyrians added to yours. Such men, be assured, are 
sitting here." 

Gobryas, smiling at this, " By the gods ! ' ' said he, " Cyrus, 
pray show me where these men are, that I may beg one of 
them of you to be my son." "Dp not trouble yourself," 
said he; "it will not be at all necessary for you to inquire 
of me. If you will but attend us, you yourself will be able 
to show them to anybody else.' ' 

And having said this, he took Gobryas by the right hand, 
rose, went out, and brought out all that were with him ; and 
though Gobryas repeatedly desired him to take his supper 
within the fortress, yet he would not do it, but supped in the 
camp, and took Gobryas to sup with him. 

Ap.A3pB^ and Pai^tThea. 
(From the " Cyropaedia.") 

Thb Medes delivered to the magi such things as they had 
said were to be chosen for the gods. And they had chosen for 
Cyrus a most beautiful tent ; a Susian woman, that was said 
to be the most beautiful woman of all Asia ; and two other 
women that 'were the finest singers. And they chose the same 
things over again for Cyaxares. They had fully supplied 
themselves with all such things as they wanted, that they 
might be in want of nothing in the course of their service in 
the war ; for there were all things in great abundance. 

Cyrus, then calling to him Araspes the Mede (who had 
been his companion from a boy, to whom he gave the Median 
robe, that he himself put off when he left Aatyages and 
departed for Persia), commanded him to keep the woman and 
tent for him. This woman was wife of Abradatas, king of 
the Susians. And when the camp of the Assyriaqs was 
taken her husband was not in the camp, but was gone on an 
embassy to the king of the Bactriaus. The Assyrians had 
sent him to treat of an alliance between them ; for he hap- 
pened to have contracted a friendship with the king of the 
Bactrians. This woman, therefore, Cyrus ordered A^aspeg to 
keep till such time as he took her himself. 


But Araspes, having received his command, asked him 
this question: ''Cyrus," said he, "have you seen this 
woman that you bid me keep?" "No," said he, "I 
have not," "But I did," said be, "when we chose her 
for you. Indeed, when we first entered her tent we did 
not know her ; for she was sitting on the ground, with all her 
women servants round her, and was dressed in the same manr 
ner as her servants were ; but when we looked around, being 
desirous to know which was the mistress, she immediately 
appeared to excel all the others, though she was sitting with 
a veil over her, and looking down on the ground. When we 
bade her rise, she and all the servants round her rose. Here 
then she excelled first in stature, then in strength, and grace, 
and beautiful shape, though she was standing in a dejected 
posture, and tears appeared to have fallen from her eyes, some 
on her clothes, and some at her feet. As soon as the eldest 
among us had said to her, "Take courage, woman ; we have 
heard that your husband is indeed an excellent man, but we 
now choose you out for a man that, be it known to you, is 
not inferior to him, either in person, in understanding, or in 
power ; but, as we think, if there be a man in the world that 
deserves admiration, Cyrus does, and to him henceforward 
you shall belong. ' As soon as the woman heard this she tore 
down her robe, and set up a lamentable cry, and her servants 
cried out at the- same time with her. On this most part of 
her face was disclosed, and her neck and hands appeared. 
And be it known to you, Cyrus," said he, **that I, and the 
rest that saw her, all thought that never yet was produced, 
or born of mortals, such a woman, throughout all Asia. And 
by all means," said he, " you likewise shall see her." 

Then Cyrus said, ' ' No, not I ; and much the less, if she 
be such a one as you say." "Why so?" said the young 
man, "Because," said he, "if on hearing now from you 
that she is handsome, I am persuaded to go and see her at a 
time that I have not much leisure, I am afraid that she will 
much more easily persuade me to go and see her again ; and 
after that perhaps I may neglect what I am to do, and sit 
gazing at her." The young man then laughed, and said, 
"And do you think, Cyrus, that the beauty of a human crea- 


ture can necessitate one, against his will, to act contrary to 
what is best?" "If this were naturally so," said he, "we 
should be all under the same necessity. You see how fire 
burns all people alike ; for such is the nature of it. But of 
beauties, some inspire people with love, and some do not; 
one loves one, and another another; for it is a voluntary 
thing, and every one loves those that he pleases. A brother 
does not fall in love with a sister, but somebody else does ; 
nor is a father in love with a daughter, but some other person 
is. Fear and the law are a sufficient bar to love. If, indeed," 
said he, "the law should enjoin that they who did not eat 
should not be hungry, and that they who did not drink should 
not be thirsty; that men should not be cold in the winter, 
nor hot in the summer ; no law in the world could make men 
submit to these decisions, for by nature they are subject to 
these things. But love is a voluntary thing, and every one 
loves those that suit him, just as he does his clothes or his 
shoes. How comes it to pass then," said Cyrus, "if to love 
be a voluntary thing, that we cannot give it over when we 
will? For I have seen people," said he, "in tears for grief, 
on account of love ; slaves to those they were in love with, 
and yet thought slavery a very great evil before they were in 
love ; giving away many things that they were never the bet- 
ter for parting with ; wishing to be rid of love, as they would 
of any other distemper, and yet not able to get rid of it ; but 
bound down by it, as by a stronger tie of necessity than if 
they were bound in iron chains ! They give themselves up, 
therefore, to those they love, to serve them in many odd and 
unaccountable ways ; yet, with all their sufferings, they never 
attempt making their escape, but keep continual watch on 
their loves, lest they should escape from them." 

The young man to this said, "There are people, indeed, 
that do these things; but," said he, "they are miserable 
wretches; and this I believe is the reason why they are 
always wishing themselves dead, as being wretched and 
unhappy; and though there are ten thousand ways of part- 
ing with life, yet they do not part with it. Just such wretches 
as these are they that attempt thefts, and will not abstain from 
what belongs to others ; but when they have plundered or 


stolen any thing, you see," said he, "that yoti are the first 
that accuse the thief and the plunderer, as reckoning theft to 
be no such fatal, necessary thing, and you do not pardon, but 
punish it. So people that are beautiful do not necessitate 
others to love them, nor to covet what they ought not ; but 
mean, wretched men are impotent, I know, in all their pas- 
sions, and then they accuse love. Men, excellent and worthy, 
though they have inclinations both for gold, fine horses, and 
beautiful women, can yet with ease abstain from any of them, 
so as not to touch them cohtrary to right : I, therefore," said 
he, ' ' who have seen this woman, and think her very beauti- 
ful, yet am here attending on you, and I go abroad on horse- 
back, and in all other respects I discharge my duty." 

"But," said Cyrus, "perhaps you retired before the time 
that love naturally lays hold of a man. It is not the nature 
of fire immediately to bum the man that touches it, and 
wood does not immediately blaze out ; yet still I am not will- 
ing either to meddle with fire, or to look at beautiful persons : 
nor do I advise you, Araspes, to let your eyes dwell long on 
beauties ; for as fire bums those that tpuch it, beauties catch 
hold of those that look at them, though at a distance, and set 
theni on fire with love." 

" Be easy," said he, " Cyrus ; though I look at her with- 
out ceasing, I will not be so conquered as to do any thing 
that I ought not." "You speak," said he, "very hand- 
somely: guard her, therefore," said he, "as I bid you, and be 
careful of her ; for perhaps this woman may be of service to 
us on some occasion or other." And having discoursed thus 
they parted. 

The young man, partly by seeing the woman to be ex- 
tremely beautiful, and by being apprized of her worth and 
goodness, partly by waiting on her and serving her, with 
intention to please her, and partly by his finding her not to 
be ungrateful in return, but that she took care by her ser- 
vants that all things convenient should be provided for him 
when he came in, and that he should want nothing when he 
was ill ; by all these means he was made her captive in love : 
and perhaps what happened to him in this case was what 

need not be wondered at 

IV— S 


Some time afterward, Cyrus being desirous to send a spy 
into Lydia, and to learn what the Assyrian was doing, thought 
that Araspes, the guardian of the beautiful woman, was a 
proper person to go on that errand ; for with Araspes things 
had fallen out in this manner; Haviug fallen in love with 
the woman, he was forced to make proposals to her. But she 
denied him, and was faithful to her husband, though he was 
absent, for she loved him very much. Yet she did not 
accuse Araspes to Cyrus, being unwilling to make a quarrel 
between men that were friends. Then Araspes, thinking to 
forward the success of his inclinations, threatened the woman 
that if she would not yield to his wishes she should be forced 
to submit against her will. On this the woman, being in 
fear, concealed the matter no longer, but sent a messenger to 
Cyrus with orders to tell him the whole affair. He, when he 
heard it, laughed at this man, who had said he was above the 
power of love- He sent Artabazus with the messenger, and 
commanded him to tell Araspes that he should respect the 
conduct of guch a woman. But Artabazus, coming to Aras- 
pes, reproached him, calling the woman a deposit that had 
been trusted in his hands ; and telling him of his impiety, 
injustice, and impotence of his passion, so that Araspes shed 
many tears for grief, was overwhelmed with shame, and 
almost dead with fear lest he should suffer some severity at 
the hands of Cyrus. Cyrus, being informed of this, sent fojr 
him, and spoke to him by himself alone, 

"I see, Araspeg," said he, "that you are very much in 
fear of me, and very much ashamed. But give them both 
over, for I have heard that gods have been conquered by love ; 
I know how much men that have been accouiited very wise 
have suffered by Jove ; and I pronounced on myself, that if I 
conversed with beautiful people, I was not enough master of 
myself to disregard them- And I am the cause that this has 
befallen you, for I shut you up with this irresistible creature." 
Araspes then said in reply, " You are in this, too, Cyrus, as 
you are in other things, mild and disposed to forgive the 
errors of men; but other men," said he, "overwhelm me 
with grief and concern, for the rumor of my misfortune has 
got abroad, my enemies are pleased with Jt, and my friends 


came to jne, and advise me to get out of the way, lest I suffer 
some severity at your hands, as having been guilty of a very 
great injustice." 

Then Cyrus said, "Be it known to you, therefore, Aras^- 
pes, that by means of this very opinion that people have 
taken up, it is in your power to gratify me in a very high 
degree, and to do very great service to our allies." "I 
wish," said Araspes, "that I had an opportunity of being 
again of use to you." "Observe," aaid he, "if you would 
act as if you fled from me, and would go over to the enemy, 
I believe that the enemy would trust you. " "And I know," 
said Araspes, " that I should give occasion to have it said by 
my friends that I fled from you." " Then you might return 
to us," said he, "apprized of all the enemy's affairs. I be- 
lieve, that on their giving credit to you, they would make 
you a sharer in their debates and councils, so that nothing 
would be concealed from you that I desire you should know." 
" I will go then," said he, "now, out of hand ; for be assured, 
that my being thought to have made my escape, as one that 
was just about to receive punishment at your hands, will be 
one of the things that wiU give me credit." 

"And can you," said he, "leave the beautiful Panthea?" 
"Yes, Cyrus; for I have plainly two souls. I have now 
philosophized this point out by the help of that wicked 
sophister love : for a single soul cannot be a good one and a 
bad one at the same time, nor can it at the same time affect 
both noble actions and vile ones. It cannot incline and be 
averse to the same things at the same time ; but it is plain 
there are two souls, and when the good one prevails, it does 
noble things ; when the bad one prevails, it attempts vile 
things. But now that it has got you for a support the good 
one prevails, and that very much." "If you think it proper, 
therefore, to be gone," said Cyrus, "thus you must do in 
order to gain the greater credit with them. Relate to them 
the state of our affairs, and relate it so as that what you say 
may be as great a hindrance as possible to what they intend 
to do : and it would be some hindrance to them, if you should 
say that we are preparing tp make an incursion into some 
part of their territory; for when they hear this, they will be 


less able to assemble their whole force together, every one 
being in fear for something at home. Then stay with them,' ' 
said he, " as long as you can ; for what they do when they 
are the nearest us, will be the most for our purpose to know. 
Advise them likewise to form themselves into such an order 
as may be thought the strongest ; for when you come away, 
and are supposed to be apprized of their order, they will be 
under a necessity to keep to it, for they will be afraid of 
making a change in it ; and if they do make a change, by their 
being so near at hand, it will create confusion among them. ' ' 

Araspes, setting out in this manner, and taking with him 
such of his servants as he chiefly confided in, and telling 
certain persons such things as he thought might be of service 
to his undertaking, went his way. 

Panthea, as soon as she perceived that Araspes was gone, 
sending to Cyrus, told him thus : "Do not be afflicted, Cyrus, 
that Araspes is gone off to the enemy; for if you will allow 
me to send to my husband, I engage that there will come to 
you one who will be a much more faithful friend to you than 
Araspes. I know that he will attend you with all the force 
that he is able ; for the father of the prince that now reigns 
was his friend, but he who at present reigns attempted once 
to part us from each other ; and reckoning him, therefore, an 
unjust man, I know that he would joyfully revolt from him 
to such a man as you are.' ' 

Cyrus, hearing this, ordered her to send for her husband. 
She sent ; and when Abradatas discovered the signs from his 
wife, and perceived how matters stood as to the other particu- 
lars, he marched joyfully away to Cyrus, having about two 
thousand horse with him. When he came up with the Per- 
sian scouts he sent to Cyrus, to tell him who he was : Cyrus 
immediately ordered them to conduct him to his wife. 

When Abradatas and his wife saw each other they mutually 
embraced, as was natural to do on an occasion so unexpected. 
On this Panthea told him of the sanctity and virtue of Cyrus, 
and of his pity and compassion towards her. Abradatas, having 
heard of it, said, " What can I do, Panthea, to pay my grati- 
tude to Cyrus for you and for myself?" "What else," said 
Panthea, ' ' but endeavor to behave towards him as he has done 


towards you?" On th's Abradatas came to Cyrus, and as 
soon as he saw him, taking him by the right hand, he said, 
" In return for the benefits you have bestowed on us, Cyrus, 
I have nothing of more consequence to say, than that I give 
myself to you as a friend, a servant, and an ally; and what- 
ever designs I observe you to be engaged in, I will endeavor 
to be the best assistant to you in them that I am able." 
Then Cyrus said, "I accept your offer, and dismiss you at 
this time, to take your supper with your wife ; but at some 
other time you must take a meal with me in my tent, together 
with your friends and mine. ' ' 

Thk Visit of Socrates to Theodota, 

(From the " Memorabilia of Socrates.") 

There was at Athens a very beautiful lady called Theo- 
dota, who had the character of a loose dame. Some person, 
speaking of her in presence of Socrates, said that she was 
the most beautiful woman in the whole world ; that all the 
painters went to see her, to draw her picture, and that they 
were very well received at her house. "I think," said Socra- 
tes, "we ought to go see her too, for we shall be better able 
to judge of her beauty after we have seen her ourselves than 
upon the bare relation of others." The person who began 
the discourse encouraged the matter, and that very moment 
they all went to Theodota's house. They found her with a 
painter who was drawing her picture ; and having considered 
her at leisure when the painter had done, Socrates began 
thus : " Do you think that we are more obliged to Theodota 
for having afforded us the sight of her beauty than she is to 
us for coming to see her ? If all the advantage be on her side, 
it must be owne;d that she is obliged to us ; if it be on ours, 
it must be confessed that we are so to her. ' ' Some of the com- 
pany saying there was reason to think so, Socrates continued : 
"Has she not already had the advantage of receiving the 
praises we have given her ? But it will be a greater benefit 
to her when we make known her merit in all the companies 
we come into ; but as for ourselves, what do we carry from, 
hence except a desire to enjoy the things we have seen? We 


go hence with souls full of love and uneasiness ; and from 
this time forward we must obey Theodota in all she pleases 
to enjoin us." "If it be so," said Theodota, " I must return 
you many thanks for your coming hither. ' ' Meanwhile Soc 
rates took notice that she was magnificently apparelled, and 
that her mother appeared likewise like a woman of condition. 
He saw a great number of women attendants elegantly dressed, 
and that the whole house was richly furnished. He took 
occasion from hence to inform himself of her circumstances in 
the world, and to ask her whether she had an estate in land 
or houses in the city, or slaves, whose labor supplied the 
expenses of her family. "I have nothing," answered she, 
"of all this ; my friends are my revenue. I subsist by their 

Upon which Socrates remarked that "friendship was one 
of the greatest blessings in life, for that a good friend could 
stand one in stead of all possessions whatever." And he 
advised Theodota to try all her art to procure to herself some 
lovers and friends that might render her happy. The lady 
asking Socrates whether there were any artifices to be used 
for that purpose, he answered, "there Were," and proceeded 
to mention several : " Some for attracting the regard of the 
men, some for insinuating into their hearts ; others for secur- 
ing their affections and managing their passions." Where- 
upon Theodota, whose soul then lay open to any impression, 
mistaking the virtuous design of Socrates in the whole of 
this discourse for an intention of another sort, cried out in 
raptures, "Ah! Socrates, why will not you help me to 
friends ? " "I will," replied Socrates, " if you can persuade 
me to do so." "And what means must I use to persuade 
you?" "You ttiust invent the means," said Socrates, "if 
you Want me to serve you." "Then come to see me ofteti," 
added Theodota. Socrates laughed at the simplicity of the 
woman, and in raillery said to her, "I have not leisure enough 
to come and see you ; I have bbth public and private affairs 
which take up too much of my time. Besides, I have mis- 
tresses who will not suffer me to be from them neither day 
nor night, and who against myself make use of the very 
charms and sorceries that I have taught them." " And have 


you any knowledge in those thihgs, too?" said sHe. "Why 
do ApoUodorus and Antisthenes," answered Socrates, ''never 
leave me? why do Cebes and SimmiaS forsake Thebes for my 
company ? This they would not do if I were not master of 
some charm." "Lend it me," said Theodota, "that I may 
employ it against you, and charm you tb come to me.' ' " No,' ' 
said Socrates, " but I will charm you, and make you come to 
me." "I will," said Theodota, "if you will promise to 
make me welcome." "I promise you I will," answered 
Socrates, ' ' provided there be nobody with me whom I love 
better than you." 

The Choice oif Hercules. 

(Erom the "Memorabilia of Socrates.") 

When Hercules had arrived at that part of his youth in 
which young men commonly choose for thenlselves, and show, 
by the result of their choice, whether they will, through the 
succeeding stages of their lives, enter and walk in the path 
of virtue or that of vice, he went out into a solitary place fit 
for contemplatioU, there to consider with himself which of 
those two paths he should pursue. 

As he was sitting there in suspense he saw two women of 
a larger stature than ordinary approaching towards him. One 
of them had a benign and amiable aspect ; her beauty was 
natural and easy, her person and shape fitie and handsotne, 
her eyes cast towards the ground With an agreeable reserve, 
her motion and behavior full of modesty, and her raiment 
white as snow. The other wanted all the native beauty and 
proportion of the former ; her person was swelled, by luxury 
and ease, to a size quite disproportioned and uncomely. She 
had painted her complexion, thiat it itiight seem fairer and 
more ruddy than it really was, and endeavored to appeaf more 
graceful than ordinary in her mien, by a mixture of afiectation 
in all her gestured. Her eyes were full of boldness, and het 
dress transparent, that the conceited beauty of her person 
might appear through it to advantage. She cast her eyes 
frequently upon herself, then turned them on those that were 
present, to see whether any one regarded her, and now and 
then looked on the figure she made in her own shadow. 


As they drew nearer, the former continued the same com- 
posed pace, while the latter, striving to get before her, ran 
up to Hercules, and addressed herself to him : 

"I perceive, my dear Hercules, you are in doubt which 
path in life you should pursue. If, then, you will be my 
friend and follow me, I will lead you to a path the most easy 
and most delightful, wherein you shall taste all the sweets of 
life, and live exempt from every trouble. You shall neither 
be concerned in war nor in the affairs of the world, but shall 
only consider how to gratify all your senses — your taste with 
the finest dainties and most delicious drink, your sight with 
the most agreeable objects, your scent with the richest per- 
fumes and fragrancy of odors, how you may enjoy the embraces 
of the fair, repose on the softest beds, render your slumbers 
sweet and easy, and by what means enjoy, without even the 
stnallest care, all those glorious and mighty blessings. 

"And, for fear you suspect that the sources whence you 
are to derive those invaluable blessings might at some time 
or other fail, and that you might, of course, be obliged to 
acquire them at the expense of your mind and the united 
labor and fatigue of your body, I beforehand assure you that 
you shall freely enjoy all from the industry of others, undergo 
neither hardship nor drudgery, but have everything at your 
command that can afford you any pleasure or advantage.' ' 

Hercules, hearing the lady make him such offers, desired 
to know her name, to which she answered, " My friends, and 
those who are well acquainted with me, and wham I have 
conducted, call me Happiness ; but my enemies, and those 
who would injure my reputation, have given me the name of 

In the meantime, the other lady approached, and in her 
turn accosted him in this manner: "I also am come to you, 
Hercules, to offer my assistance ; I am well acquainted with 
your divine origin and have observed the excellence of 
your nature, even from your childhood, from which I have 
reason to hope that, if you would follow the path that leadeth 
to my residence, you will undertake the greatest enterprises 
and achieve the most glorious actions, and that I shall thereby 
become more honorable and illustrious among mortals. But 


before I invite you into my society and friendship I will be 
open and sincere with you, and must lay down this as an es- 
tablished truth, that nothing truly valuable can be purchased 
without pains and labor. The gods have set a price upon 
every real and noble pleasure. If you would gain the favor 
of the Deity you must be at the pains of worshiping Him ; 
if you would be beloved by your friends you must study to 
oblige them ; if you would be honored by any city you must 
be of service to it ; and if you, would be admired by all Greece, 
on account of your probity and valor, you must exert yourself 
to do her some eminent service. If you would render your 
fields fruitful, and fill your arms with grain, you must labor 
to cultivate the soil accordingly. Would you grow rich by 
your herds, a proper care must be taken of them ; would you 
extend your dominions by arms, and be rendered capable of 
setting at liberty your captive friends, and bringing your ene- 
mies to subjection, you must not only learn of those that are 
experienced in the art of war, but exercise yourself also in 
the practice of military affairs ; and if you would excel in the 
strength of your body you must keep your body in due sub- 
jection to your mind, and exercise it with labor and pains." 

Here Pleasure broke in upon her discourse — "Do you see, 

my dear Hercules, through what long and difficult ways this 

woman would lead you to her promised delights? Follow 

- me, and I will show you a much shorter and more easy way 

to happiness. ' ' 

"Alas!" replied the Goddess of Virtue, whose visage 
glowed with a passion made up of scorn and pity, "what hap- 
piness can you bestow, or what pleasure, can you taste, who 
would never do anything to acquire it ? You who will take 
your fill of all pleasures before you feel an appetite for any; 
you eat before you are hungry, you drink before you are 
athirst ; and, that you may please your taste, must ^lave the 
finest artists to prepare your viands ; the richest wines that 
you may drink with pleasure, and to give your wine the finer 
taste you search every place for ice and snow luxuriously to 
cool it in the heat of summer. Then, to make your slumbers 
uninterrupted, you must have the softest down and the easiest 
couches, and a gentle ascent of steps to save you from the 


least disturbance in mounting up to them. And all little 
enough, Heaven knows ! for you have not prepared yourself 
for sleep by anything you have done, but seek after it only 
because you have nothing to do. It is the same in the enjoy- 
ments of love, in which you rather force than follow your 
inclinations, and are obliged to use arts, and even to pervert 
nature, to keep your passions alive. Thus is it that you in- 
struct your followers — kept awake for the greatest part of the 
night by debaucheries, and consuming in drowsiness all the 
most useful part of the day. Though immortal, you are an 
outcast from the gods, and despised by good men. Never 
have you heard that most agreeable of all sounds, your own 
praise, nor ever have you beheld the most pleasing of all 
objects, any good work of your own hands. Who would ever 
give any credit to anything that you say? Who would assist 
you in your necessity, or what man of sense would ever ven- 
ture to be of your mad parties ? Such as do follow you are 
robbed of their strength when they are young, void of wisdom 
when they grow old. In their youth they are bred up in in- 
dolence and all manner of delicacy, and pass their old age 
with difficulties and distress, full of shame for what they have 
done, and oppressed with the burden of what they are to do, 
squanderers of pleasures in their youth, and hoarders up of 
afflictions for their old age. 

" On the contrary, my association is with the gods and 
with good men, and there is nothing excellent performed by 
either without my influence. I am respected above all things 
by the gods and by the best of mortals, and it is just I should. 
I am an agreeable companion to the artisan, a faithful security 
to masters of families, a kind assistant to servants, a useful 
associate in the arts of peace, a faithful ally in the labors of 
war, and the best uniter of all friendships. 

"My votaries, too, enjoy a pleasure in everything they 
eithfer eat or drink, even without having labored for it, because 
they wait for the demand of their appetites. Their sleep is 
sweeter than that of the indolent and inactive ; and they are 
neither overburdened with it when they awake, nor do they, 
for the sake of it, omit the necessary duties of life. My 
young men have the pleasure of being praised by those who 



are in years, and those who are in years of being honored by 
those who are young. They look back with comfort on their 
past actions, and delight themselves in their present employ- 
ments. By my means they are favored by the gods, beloved 
by their friends, and honored by their country; and when the 
appointed end of theif lives is come they are not lost in a 
dishonorable oblivion, but live and flourish in the praises of 
mankind, even to the latest posterity. 

" Thus, my dear Hercules, who are descended from divine 
ancestors, you may acquire, by virtuous toil and industry, 
this most desirable state of perfect happiness." 

Such was the discourse, my friend, which the goddess had 
with Hercules, according to Prodicus. You may believe that 
he embellished the thoughts with more noble expressions than 
I do. I heartily wish, my dear Aristippus, that you should 
make such improvement of those divine instructions, that 
you too may make such a happy choice as may render you 
happy during the future course of your life. 


B.C. 600-450. 

Greek Philosophy, which reached its 
highest excellence at Athens in the fourth 
century before Christ, had its origin two hundred years earlier 
in the outlying settlements of the Hellenic race in Asia Minor, 
Thrace, Sicily and Southern Italy, rather than in Greece 
proper. The founding of colonies and frequent changes of 
government in the older states led thoughtful men to study 
the constitution of man and of society. Such were most of 
those who have become famous as "The Seven Wise Men." 
They were prominent in their respective cities and some were 
known as "tyrants," that is, persons who had seized supreme 
power. Other thinkers turned from the unsatisfactory explan- 
ations of the external world, its phenomena and origin, em- 
bodied in the current mythology, to direct investigation of 
nature, and thus laid the foundations of science, as now under- 
stood. First and foremost among these was Thales of Ephe- 
sus, to whom the Ionic School of Philosophy traced its origin. 
His knowledge of astronomy was shown by his predicting the 
eclipse of the sun which took place in 585 B.C. His physical 
researches led him to the notion that there must be a primary 
element of all things, and this he maintained to be water, 
probably taking that as the representative of all fluids. His 
successor, 'Anaximenes of Miletus, half a century later, substi- 
tuted air for water. Heraclitus of Epliesus, who flourished 
about 520 B.C., regarded fire as the fundamental principle. 
The writings of this philosopher " On Nature," are among the 
oldest relics of Greek prose. Prom the difiiculty of under- 
standing his meaning, Heraclitus was called the Obscure, 
but he is also popularly known as the Weeping Philosopher 


from his disposition to lament the follies of mankind. In con- 
trast with him stands Democritus, the Laughing Philosopher, 
who took always a cheerful view of man's doings. Born at 
Abdera in Thrace about 460 B.C., he spent in travels in pur- 
suit of knowledge the vast wealth which he had inherited. 
He propounded the theory that the universe is form,ed by va- 
rious combinations of atoms, or infinitely small particles, in a 
void. This theory, somewhat modified, was afterwards ac- 
cepted by Epicurus, and was developed at length by the great 
Roman poet Lucretius. It likewise resembles the atomic 
theory, which has been reached by modern scientists by diifer- 
ent reasoning. Anaxagoras, born in Ionia about 500 B.C., 
dissatisfied with the materialistic theories of othfer thinkers, 
maintained that Nous or Mind gives life and' form to matterl 
In opposition to the foregoing Ionic School of Philosophers 
was the Eleatic School, so called from Elea in Italy, where it 
was founded by Xenophanes, who, however, was born at Celo- 
phon in Asia Minor, and flourished about 550 B.C. Pushing 
beyond the consideration of phenomena, it considered at once 
the problem of being as true reality. It passed from the study 
of physics to metaphysics, as the proper basis of a doctrine 
of the universe. "Looking up to universal heaven," says 
Aristotle, speaking of Xenophanes, "he proclaimed that 
unity is' God." Of the few extant fragments of his philo- 
sophical poem, the following remarkable extracts must suffice: 
"One God there is, among gods and men the greatest, neither 
in body nor mind like tO' mortals. . . . With the whole of 
Him He sees, He thinks, He hears. Without exertion, by 
energy of mind He sways the universe.' ' The great successor 
of Xetiophanes was Parmenides, of Elea, who flourished about 
505 B.C., and was held in the highest esteem by his fellow- 
citizens as a legislator. So exemplary, was his career that 
the phrase "Parmenidean Life" became a proverb. When 
well advanced in years, he visited Athens, and reminiscences 
of his intercourse with Socrates are found in Plato's dialogues. 
From the fragments of his own poem we learn that he regarded 
the testimony of the senses as inferior to the intuitions of the 
mind, that numbers and the phenomena of nature are equally a 
condition of the mind itself, and that Being is the only reality. 


A more remarkable figure is the philogopter Empe(Jocles, 
of Agrigentum, who flourished about 450 B,a He was of a 
noble and wealthy family, and used his power in behalf of the 
oppressed lower classes, but declined the sovereignty which 
was oflfered to him. He declared himself a favorite of Apollo, 
and believed that he had discovered the expiatory rites 
by which men might be restored to their original heavenly 
birthright. He therefore asserted miraculous power in heal- 
ing diseases, and even claimed to be divine. When he left 
the city he was followed by thousands who desired to profit 
by his teaching and advice. He dressed gorgeously aud en- 
deavored to impress the people with music and mysterious 
ceremonies. According to the legends which accumulated 
about this enchanter, he leaped into the crater of Mqunt 
^tna in order to conceal the manner of his death and estab- 
lish his divinity, but the-mountain cast forth one of the brazen 
slippers which he wore. He had composed "Lustral Pre- 
cepts," a poem on "Nature" and other works, of which only 
four hundred and seventy lines have survived. The tragic 
fate of Empedocles forms the subject of an impressive poem 
by Matthew Arnold. 

Still more famous than any of the preceding in the history 
of philosophy is Pythagoras, a- native of the island of Samos, 
who flourished about 530 B.C. He was a profound student of 
mathematics, both practical and theoretical, g.nd was so im- 
pressed with the mysteries of calculation, that he traced the 
origin of all things to number. To him are ascribed the 
invention of the multiplicatiourtable and the discovery of 
some most important propositions in geometry. Music also 
held a prominent place in his system, so that he maintained 
that harmony is the regulating principle of the universe; 
hence arose the widely-diffused doctrine of the music of the 
celestial spheres, celebrated by many poets. In such reverence 
were the sayings of Pythagoras held by his disciples that it 
was customary for them to check discussion by the authori- 
tative declaration, '■''Ipse dixit, ^"^ HE said so. 

The word "philosophy " is due to Pythagoras ; rejecting 
the name " jo^^oj "— wise man, or sage^^by which former 
moral teachers had been distinguished, he wished to be called 


merely "philosoplier," or lover of wisdom. He had traveled 
widely, visiting Egypt and India in the pursuit of knowledge. 
He introduced to the Greeks the doctrine of the transmigra- 
tion of souls, and is said to have declared that he had been 
engaged in the Trojan war as Euphorhus, the son of Panthus. 
He settled at Crotona, in Italy, where he formed a band or 
brotherhood of three hundred devoted disciples, who were 
bound to each other by special ties, and had conventional 
symbols by which they could recognize the members of the 
fraternity. There were different degrees in the fraternity, 
and only to those of the inmost circle were the teachings of 
the master fully explained. Similar brotherhoods were estab- 
lished in various cities of Southern Italy, and after a time 
exercised considerable political influence, which, however, led 
to their suppression by violence. In the disturbances attend- 
ing this Pythagoras is said to have perished. His followers 
continued, however, as a philosophical sect, and some of their 
number became famous. The " Symbols," or brief enigmatic 
sentences, and the "Golden Verses," or ethical precepts, 
which bear his name, were of later origin, yet were accepted 
by his school and were highly regarded by others. 

The; Sev^jst Wisk Men. 

The Seven Wise Men form a remarkable group in the 
history of Greece. They belong to the sixth century before 
Christ, and mark the beginning of social philosophy. Most 
of them were composers in verse, but their fame is connected 
with certain maxims, chosen as characteristic of each. These 
are said to have been inscribed by order of the Amphietyonic 
Council in the temple of Apollo at Delphi. They mark the ■ 
beginning of the use of prose instead of verse. 

Solon of Athens . . . Know thyself. 

Child of Sparta .... Consider the end. 

Thames of Ephesus . . Suretyship is the forerunner of ruin. 

Bias of Priene Most men are bad. 

Cleobulus of lyindus . Nothing too much [Avoid extremes]. 
PiTTAcrs of Mitylene . Know thy opportunity. 
PERTAnder of Corinth . Nothing is impossible to labor. 


Knowledge of God. 

(From the poem of Empedocles "On Nature.") 
Blessed is the man who hath obtained the riches of the 
wisdom of God ; wretched is he who hath a false opinion 
about things divine. 

God may not be approached, nor can we reach Him with 
our eyes or touch Him with our hands. No human head is 
placed upon His limbs, nor branching arms ; He has no feet 
to carry Him apace, nor other parts of men ; but He is all 
pure mind, holy and infinite, darting with swift thought 
through the universe from end to end. 

The Golden Age. 

(From the poen' »f Empedocles "On Nature.") 
Then every animal was tame and familiar with men, both 
beasts and birds, and mutual love prevailed. Trees flourished 
with perpetual leaves and fruits, and ample crops adorned 
their boughs through all the year. Nor had these happy 
people any Ares (Mars) or mad Uproar for their god ; nor was 
their monarch Zeus (Jupiter), or Cronos (Saturn), or Poseidon 
(Neptune), but Queen Cypris (Venus). Her favor they be- 
sought with pious symbols and images, with fragrant essence.? 
and censers of pure myrrh and frankincense, and with brown 
honey poured on the ground. The altars did not reek with 
the gore of bullocks. 

The Symbols of Pythagoras. 

A FEW examples of these enigmatic sayings are given, 
with their probable explanations. Other interpretations, 
sometimes very profound, have been offered. Similar pro- 
verbs and riddles are found among the remains of early liter- 
ature in many countries. 

Go not beyond the balance. 

(Transgress not the laws of justice.) 
Tear not the crown (or wreath) to pieces. 

(Spoil not joy. At Greek festivals it was customary to 
wear garlands.) 


Having reached the border, turn not back. 

(Be not dismayed at death.) 
I/cave not the mark of a pot in the ashes. 

(Cherish no resentment after reconciliation.) 
Wear not a tight ring. 

(Do not oppress yourself for sake of appearances.) 
Sow mallows, but do not eat them. 

(Use mildness to others, but not to yourself.) 
Feed the cock, but sacrifice him not. 

(Cherish prophets and harm them not.) 
Speak not, turned towards the sun. 

(Do not tell everything to everybody.) 
Abstain from beans. 

(Abstain from politics. Black and white beans were 
used in voting in some Greek cities.) 
When the winds blow, worship echo. 

(Recognize Divine Providence in human commotions.) 
When you go to the temple, worship ; neither do nor say any- 
thing concerning your life. 
Stir not fire with a sword. 

(Do not intensify quarrels.) 
Help a man to take up a burden, but not to put it down, 
lyook not in a mirror by a torch. 

(Seek not truth in human inventions.) 
Decline the highways ;, take the footpaths. 

(Seek not notoriety.) 

The Golden Verses of Pythagoras. 

First, in their ranks, the Immortal Gods adore — 
Thine oath keep ; next great Heroes ; then irnplore 
Terrestrial Demons, with due sacrifice. 
Thy parents reverence, and near allies. 
Him that is first in virtue make thy friend, , 
And with observance his kind speech attend : 
Nor, to thy power, for light faults cast him by : 
Thy power is neighbor to Necessity. 

These know, and with attentive care pursue ; 
But anger, sloth, and luxury subdue : 

In sight of others or thyself, forbear 
What's ill; but'of thyself stand most in fear. 
I/et Justice all thy words and actions sway ; 
IV— 6 


Nor from the even course of Wisdom stray ; 
For know that all men are to die ordained. 

Crosses that happen by Divine decree 
(If such thy lot) bear not impatiently ; 
Yet seek to remedy with all thy care, 
And think the just have not the greatest share. 
'Mongst men discourses goo(i and bad are spread; 
Despise not those, nor be by these misled. 
If any some notorious falsehood say. 
Thou the report with equal judgment weigh. 
I<et not men's smoother promises invite, , 

Nor rougher threats from just resolves thee fright. 
If aught thou should' St attempt, first ponder it- 
Fools only inconsiderate acts commit ; 
Nor do what afterwards thou may'st repent : 
First know the thing on which thou'rt bent. 
Thus thou a life shalt lead with joy replete. 

Nor must thou care of outward health forget. 
Such temperance use in exercise and diet 
As may preserve thee in a settled quiet. 
Meats unprohibited, not curious, choose ; 
Decline what any other may accuse. 
The rash expense of vanity detest. 
And sordidness : a mean in all is best. 

Hurt not thyself. Before thou act, advise ; 
Nor suffer sleep at night to close thy eyes 
Till thrice thine acts that day thou hast o'errun|: 
How hast thou slipped ? — what duty left undone? 
Thus, thine account summed up from first to last, 
Grieve for the ill, joy for what good hath passed. 

These study, practice these, and these affect ; 
To sacred Virtue these thy steps direct : 
Eternal Nature's fountain I attest. 
Who the Teirac/ys* on our souls impressed. 

* The number /our, as well as one and seven, was highly regarded 
by the Pythagoreans. The Tetractys or Quaternion, . 

meaning literally /our, was an emblem composed of ten , , 
dots arranged in four rows. In the soul it represents 
judgment, which is based upon the four faculties, under- 
standing, knowledge, opinion and sense. But in its full 
mystic significance, it was a comprehensive emblem of the Deity, the 
voiverse and reason. 


Before thy mind thou to this study bend,, 
Invoke the Gods to grant it a good end. 
These if thy labor vanquish, thou shalt then 
Know the connection both of gods and men ; 
How everything proceeds, or by what stayed ; 
And know (ais far as fit to be surveyed) 
Nature alike throughout ; that thou mayst learn 
Not to hope hopeless things, but all discern ; 
And know those wretches whose perverser wills 
Draw down upon their hearts spontaneous ills, 
Unto the good that's near them deaf and blind ; 
Some few the cure of these misfortunes find. , 
This only is the Fate that harms, and rolls 
Through miseries successive human souls. 
Within is a continual hidden sight. 
Which we to shun must study, not excite. 

Great Jove ! how little trouble should we know, 
If thou to aHl men wouldst their genius show ! 
But fear not thou — man born of heavenly race, 
Taught by diviner Nature what to embrace, 
Which, if pursued, thou all I've named shall gain. 
And keep thy soul clean from thy body's stain. 
In time of prayer and cleansing, meats denied _ 
Abstain from ; thy mind's reins, let Reason guide ; 
Then stripped of flesh, up to free ether soar, 
A deathless god — divine — mortal no more. 


Though Anacreon has been famous as 
the poet of wine and love, few genuine frag- 
ments of his songs have come down to us. 
Those which pass under his name belong to his Greek imi- 
tators in later times. Specimens are given here as a relief 
after the^prosing of historians and philosophers. 

Anacreon was born at Teos, in Ionia, about 550 B.C., 
but emigrated with other citizens to Abdera, in Thrace, to 
escape the Persian yoke. Here he cultivated the muse until 
the fame of his talents and courtly disposition brought him 
an invitation from Polycrates, the tyrant of Samos. At this 
centre of culture he remained for eighteen years, entertain- 
ing the tyrant and his subjects with the sweetness of amatory 
song. Hipparchus, son of Pisistratus, afterwards invited the 
poet to Athens, and a barge of fifty oars was sent for him. 
In his new home he found a brilliant throng of cultivated 
men, among whom was Simonides of Ceos. After the expul- 
sion of the sons of Pisistratus, Anacreon returned to his 
native place. Here, in his eighty-fifth year, according to 
tradition, he was choked with a grape-stone. 

The songs which from ancient times have been loosely 
attributed to Anacreon are marked by sweet simplicity and 
buoyant cheerfulness. His poems in praise of wine inculcate 
only moderate indulgence, and are far removed from excess. 
His best imitators in English have been Abraham Cowley, 
Richard Bourne and Thomas Moore. The last has been 
justly called the modem Anacreon, as having the playful 
spirit of the Greek, but his versions are paraphrases, rather 
than exact translations. The following specimens are taken 
chiefly frotn Bourne, as being more faithful to the original. 


On His I/Yre. 

Whii,^ I sweep tlie sounding string, 
While the Atridse's praise I sing — 
Victors on the Trojan plain — 
Or to Cadmus raise the strain, 
Hark, in soft and whispered sighs, 
love's sweet notes the shell* replies. 

Late I strung my harp anew, 
Changed the strings — the subject too. 
I<oud I sung Alcides's toils ; 
Still the lyre my labor foils ; 
Still with l/ove's sweet silver sounds 
Every martial theme confounds. 
Farewell, Heroes, Chiefs, and Kings ! 
Naught but I^ve will suit my strings. 

The Weapon of Beauty. 

Pointed horns— the dread of foes — 
Nature on the Bull bestows ; 
Horny hoofs the Horse defend ; 
Swift-winged feet the Hare befriend ; 
I^ions' gaping jaws disclose 
Dreadful teeth in grinning rows ; 
Wings to Birds her care supplied ; 
Finny Fishes swim the tide ; 
Nobler gifts to Man assigned. 
Courage firm and Strength of Mind. 

From her then exhausted store 
Naught for Woman has she more ? 
How does Nature prove her care ? — 
Beauty's charm is Woman's share. 
Stronger far than warrior's dress 
Is her helpless loveliness. 
Safety smiles in Beauty's eyes ; 
She the hostile flame defies ; 
Fiercest swords submissive fall : — 
lively Woman conquers all. 

* Hermes was fabled to have made the first l3Te by stretching 
strins over the empty shell of a tortoise. 


Cupid as a GxmsT. 

'TwAs at tie solemn midnight hour, 
When silence reigns with awful power, 
Just when the bright and glittering Bear 

Is yielding to her Keeper's care, 
When spent with toil, with care opprest, 
Man's busy race has sunk to rest. 
Sly Cupid, sent by cruel Fate, 
Stood loudly knocking at my gate. 

"Who's there ?" I cried, "at this late hour? 
Who is it batters at my door ? 
Begone ! you break my blissful dreams ! " — 
But he, on mischief bent, it seems. 
With feeble voice and piteous cries, 
In childish accents thus replies : 

"Be not alarmed, kind Sir; 'tis I, 
A little, wretched, wandering boy ; 
Pray ope the door, I've lost my way ; 
This moonless night, alone I stray ; 
I'm stiflF with cold; I'm drenched all o'er; 
For pity's sake, pray, ope the door ! " 

Touched with this simple tale of woe, 
And little dreaming of a foe, 
I rose, lit up my lamp, and straight 
Undid the fastenings of the gate ; 
And there, indeed, a boy I spied. 
With bow and quiver by his side. 
Wings too he wore — a strange attire ! 
My guest I seated near the fire, 
And while the blazing fagots shine, 
I chafed his little hands in mine ; 
His damp and dripping locks I wrung, 
That down his shoulders loosely hung; 

Soon as his cheeks began to glow, 
"Come now," he cried, "let's try this bow; 
For much I fear, this rainy nigh^. 
The wet and ^amp have spoiled it quite." 

That instant twanged the sounding string, 
l/oud as the whizzing gad-fly's wing.— 


Too truly aimed, the fatal dart 

My bosom pierced with painful smart. — 

Up sprang the boy with laughing eyes, 

And, " Wish me joy, mine host ! " he cries ; 

"My bow is sound in every part ; 

Thou' It find the arrow in thy heart 1" 

The Ideal Portrait. 

Thou whose soft and rosy hues, 
Mimic form and soul infuse ; 
Best of Painters, come portray 
The lovely maid that's far away. 
Far away, my Soul, thou art. 
But I've thy beauties all by heart — 

Paint her jetty ringlets straying, 
Silky twine in tendrils playing ; 
And, if painting hath the skill 
To make the balmy spice distill, 
Let every little lock exhale 
A sigh of perfiime on the gale. 

Where her tresses' curly flow 
Darkles o'er the brow of snow, 
I<et her forehead beam to light, 
Burnished as the ivory bright. 
IvCt her eyebrows sweetly rise 
In jetty arches o'er her eyes. 
Gently in a crescent gliding. 
Just commingling, just dividing. 

But hast thou any sparkles warm 
The lightning of her eyes to form? — 
IvCt them effuse the azure ray 
With which Minerva's glances play ; 
And give them all that liquid fire 
That Venus's languid eyes respire. 

O'er her nose and cheek be shed 
Flushing white and mellowed red ; 
Gradual tints, as when there glows 
In snowy milk the bashful rose. 

Then her lips, so rich in blisses ; 
Sweet petitioner for kisses ; 
Pouting nest of bland persuasion, 
Ripely suing love's invasion ! 


Then, beneath the velvet chin, 
Whose dimple shades a I<ove within, 
Mould her neck, with grace descending, 
In a heaven of beauty ending ; 
While airy charms, above, below, 
Sport and flutter on its snow. 

Now let a floating lucid veil 
Shadow her limbs, but not conceal. 
A charm may peep, a hue may beam ; 
And leave the rest to Fancy's dream. — 
Enough — 'tis she ! 'tis all I seek ; 
It glows, it lives, it soon will speak ! 

In Praise of Wine. 

When the nectar' d bowl I drain, 
Gloomy cares forego their reign ; 
Richer than the I^ydian king 
Hymns of love and joy I sing; 
Ivy wreaths my temples twine 
And while careless I recline, 
While bright scenes my vision greet 
Tread the world beneath my feet. 
Fill the cup, my trusty page ; 
Anacreon, the blithe and sage, 
As his maxim ever said, 
"Those slain by wine are nobly dead." 

Plea for Drinking. 

The Earth drinks up the genial rains, 
Which deluge all her thirsty plains ; 
The lofty Trees that pierce the sky 
Drink up the earth and leave her dry ; 
The insatiate Sea imbibes each hour 
The welcome breeze that brings the shower; 
The Sun, whose fires so fiercely burn. 
Absorbs the waves, and in her turn 
The modest Moon enjoys each night 
I^arge draughts of his celestial light. 
Then, sapient sirs, pray tell me why. 
If all things drink, why may not I ? 


Anacreon's Dove. 

(Translated by Dr. Samuel Johnson.) 

" I^OVBLY courier of the sky, 
Whence and whither dost thou fly ? 
Scattering as thy pinions play, 
Liquid fragrance all the way. 
Is it business ? Is it, love? 
Tell me, tell me, gentle dove." 

" Soft Anacreon's vows I bear, 
Vows to Myrtale the fair ; 
Graced with all that charms the heart, 
Blushing nature, smiling art, 
Venus, courted by an ode. 
On the Bard her Dove bestow' d. 
Vested with a master's right, 
Now Anacreon rules my flight : 
As the letters that you see, 
Weighty charge consigned to me : 
Think not yet my sendee hard, 
Joyless task without reward : 
Smiling at my master's gates, 
Freedom my return awaits : 
But the liberal grant in vain 
Tempts rhe to be wild again. 
Can a pfudent Dove decline 
Blissfiil bondage such as mine? 
Over hills and fields to roam. 
Fortune's guest without a home ; 
Under leaves to hide one's head, 

' Slightly shelter' d, coarsely fed : 
Now my better lot bestows 
Sweet repast and soft repose ; 
Now the generous bowl I sip 
As it leaves Anacreon's lip ; 
Void of care, and free from dread 
From his fingers snatch his bread. 
Then with luscious plenty gay, 
Round his chambers dance and play ; 
Or, from wine as courage springs. 


O'er his face expand my wings ; 
And when feast and frolic tire, 
Drop asleep upon his lyre. 
This is all ; be quick and go, 
More than all thou canst not know ; 
Itet me now my pinions ply, — 
I have chattered like a pye." 

The Grasshopper. 

(Translated by Abraham Cowley.) 

Happy insect ! what can be 

In happiness compared to thee ? 

Fed with nourishment divine, 

The dewy morning's gentle wine ! 

Nature waits upon thee still. 

And thy verdant cup does fill ; 

'Tis filled wherever thou dost tread, 

Nature's self's thy Ganymede. 

Thou dost drink and dance and sing ; 

Happier than the happiest king ! 

All the fields which thou dost see. 

All the plants belong to thee ; 

All that summer hours produce ; 

Fertile made with early jtdce. 

Man for thee does sow and plough ; 

Farmer he, and landlord thou ! 

Thou dost innocently joy ; 

Nor does thy luxury destroy ; 

The shepherd gladly heareth thee. 

More harmonious than he. 

Thee country-hinds with gladness hear. 

Prophet of the ripen'd year ! 

Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire ; 

Phoebus is himself thy sire. 

To thee, of all things upon earth, 

I<ife's no longer than thy mirth. 

Happy insect, happy, thou 

Dost neither age nor winter know; 

But, when thou'st drunk and danced and sung 

Thy fill, the flowery leaves among. 


(Voluptuous and wise -witlial, 
Epicurean animal !) — 
Sated with thy summer feast, 
Thou retir'st to endless rest. 

Cupid and the Bee. 

Cupid once upon a bed , 
Of roses laid hi^ weary head ; 
I/Uckless urchin, not to see 
Within the leaves a slumbering bee ! 
The bee awaked — ^with anger wild 
The bee awaked, and stung the child. 
l/oud and piteous are his cries ; 
To Venus quick he runs, he flies ; 
" O mother ! — I am wounded through — 
I die with pain — what shall I db ?' 
Stung by some little angry thing. 
Some serpent on a tiny wing — 
A bee it was — for once, I know, 
I heard a peasant call it so." 
Thus he spoke, and she the while 
Heard him with a soothing smile ; 
Then said : ' ' My infant, if so much 
Thou feel the little wild-bee's touch, 
How must the heart, ah, Cupid, be. 
The hapless heart that's stung by thee? " 


PbriodIII. B.C. 50-A.D. 25. 

HE Golden Age of Latin Literature embraces 
two distinct periods, one belonging to the 
decline of the Republic and especially dis- 
tinguished by the comprehensive genius of 
Cicero, the other to the founding of the Empire and 
commonly known as the Augustan Age from Caesar 
Augustus, who by his liberality attached the poets Virgil and 
Horace to his court. The former period has already been 
treated and exemplified.* Yet the illustrious Julius Caesar 
has been reserved for mention here, as the true founder of the 
new era, political and literary. The Augustan Age in fact 
began before the overthrow of the Republic, reached its zenith 
in the peaceful reign of Augustus, and may be said to termi- 
nate with the death of Ovid in the first years of the reign of 

In French history Louis XIV. presents almost an exact 
counterpart to Augustus, both in political policy and in his 
attitude to literature. As rulers both were despotic, but 
they recognized literature and art not only as refined amuse- 
ments, but as powerful levers for their respective policies. 
Genius and social eminence allied have exerted a powerful 
influence on literary history, and of this fact the Augustan 
Age is the most conspicuous proof, for it has affected the 
whole subsequent development of European literature. There 
is a period in English literature — the reign of Queen Anne — 
often called the Augustan Age, and deserving this title both 

* See Volume III., pp. 92-122. 


from the corresponding artistic polish and elegance of its best 
products, and from the intimate relations between the -writers 
and men of eminent social position. 

Latin prose had reached its highest development in the 
decline of the Republic, not only in the various works of 
Cicero, but in the vivid histories of Sallust and the masterly 
Commentaries of Caesar. In the reign of Augustus both epic 
and lyric poetry attained a similar eminence. In neither 
species of verse was the Roman genius original, but essentially 
imitative, and yet by careful culture it reached a perfection 
which has made its productions the choicest models for subse- 
quent writers. Virgil was not merely the master and guide 
of Dante ; he was the instructor of all the great poets of 
modern Europe. Horace has been the favorite lyrist, and 
familiar friend of all cultivated people. Caesar Octavianus, 
who was afterwards honored by the title Augustus, was fortu- 
nate in having his power firmly secured by the battle of 
Actium 31 B. c. when he returned to Rome to enjoy its fruits, 
he determined to cultivate the arts of peace, and won the 
favor of his subjects by his conciliatory course. He was 
fortunate in finding at Rome many young men of literary 
ability, and in having as his prime minister Caius Cilnius 
Maecenas, whose name has become proverbial as a patron of 
arts and letters. Both the emperor and his premier were 
themselves writers and critics, though their writings have 
perished, and they exercised discriminating taste in the 
selection of the objects of their bounty. Inspiration was still 
sought from the master-pieces of Greek literature, but under 
the direction of the Alexandrian grammarians and rhetori- 
cians. Hence the Latin products of this period bear a close 
resemblance to the Greek works produced under the patron- 
age of the Ptolemies. Though Virgil in his Georgics imi- 
tated Hesiod, and in his ^neid the splendid epics of Homer, 
his polished style is more like that of Callimachus and Apol- 
lonius Rhodius. In his Eclogues he followed directly in the 
footsteps of Theocritus, the pastoral poet of the Egyptian 
court. Horace in like manner drew inspiration from Alcaeus 
and Sappho, yet his verses resemble more the poems of the 
Greek Anthology. In his Epistles and Satires, not being 


restrained by the rules of Greek predecessors, lie is truly 
Roman in subject and treatment. While in early life he 
was a voluptuary, he now became a moralist, yet genial and 

TibuUus and Propertius, the minor poets of' the age, were 
graceful lyrists of the Greek style. They treat of love; 
TibuUus in pensive elegies, Propertius in more artificial style, 
imitated from Callimachus. But far more distinguished than 
these was the bolder poet Ovid, who not only sang loose love- 
songs, and wrote a collection of poetical love-letters, under 
the name "Hero'ides," but professed to teach "The Art of 
Love ' ' in such lascivious way as to corrupt the emperor's 
daughter, and to draw upon himself the penalty of banish- 
ment to the shores of the Euxine Sea. To this facile poet 
the world is indebted for a brilliant summary of the ancient 
mythology under the title "Metamorphoses." Other poets 
graced the court of Augustus, but their works have perished. 

The greatest work due to the Augustan period was the 
"History of Rome" by Titus Livius, born at Padua, but 
residing at the court of the emperor. In forty years he had 
written one hundred and forty-two books, treating fully the 
seven centuries from the foundation of Rome. Only thirty- 
five of the books have survived the ravages of time. Though 
he exercises little critical skill in the use of his authorities, 
his work is the most valuable record of the early development 
of the mightiest power of the world. He accepted the old 
traditions without question, and sought chiefly to present 
them in finished style for the delight of the Roman people. 
The work progressed simultaneously with Virgil's uiEneid, 
and as successive portions were completed they were read to 
Augustus and Maecenas. Yet the author did not seek by un- 
worthy means to secure their favor, as was indicated by his 
bestowing high praise on Pompey. Aiming to set forth the 
glory of Rome and the prowess of its people, in their con- 
quest of the world, he could not be absolutely fair to their 
enemies. His skill as an historical artist is great, and the 
scenes are full of vigor and interest. Following the pattern 
of the Greek historians, he recites speeches supposed to have 
been delivered by the chief actors in the events. 

The first Roman that wrote what is 
usually called history was Caius Sallustius 
Crispus. He was a plebeian born in 86 B.C. 
in the country of the Sabines. He was engaged in the civil 
wars on the popular, side, and held many ofl&ces. In 50 B.C. 
he was expelled from the senate on a charge of flagrant im- 
morality, though the true reason was that he belonged to 
Caesar's party. He remained faithful to that leader, and was 
in a few years restored to his rank. For a time he was gov- 
ernor of Numidia, in which capacity he oppressed the people, 
but, though charged with maladministration, he was not 
brought to trial. Retiring to private life on his return from 
Africa,' he entered on his historical works, and passed quietly 
through the turbulent period after Caesar's death. His im- 
mense wealth was attested by the expensive gardens which 
he formed on the Quirinal hilL He died in 34 b.c. In his 
writings Sallust took Thucydi^es as his model, but he did 
not possess the same philosophic spirit. His language is con- 
cise and usually clear, except where his love of brevity renders 
it ambigfuous. His graphic account of the conspiracy of 
Catiline is valuable, since he was a spectator of the scenes he 
describes and was unfriendly to Cicero. His other work 
relates in rhetorical style the history of Jugurtha, King of 
Numidia, but is not as exact in its statements as the former. 
Though notorious for immorality, Sallust, in his writings, 
poses as a moralist, and rebukes the degeneracy of the Romans. 

Jugurtha at Rome. 

The tribune Caius Memmius persuaded the Roman people 
to send Lucius Cassius, who was then praetor, to Jugurtha, 



and bring him from Africa to Rome on the public faith: 
that, by his evidence, Scaurus and others who were charged 
with betraying their trust might be clearly convicted. 

The praetor Cassius, in consequence of this ordinance of 
the people, procured by Memmius, to the great surprise of the 
nobility, went to Jugurtha, who, from a consciousness of his 
guilt, was doubtful of his cause, and persuaded him " that since 
he had already delivered himself up to the Roman people, he 
should trust to their mercy rather than provoke their ven- 
geance." He likewise pledged to him his own faith, which 
Jugurtha reckoned as strong a security as that of the republic ; 
such at that time was the reputation of Cassius. 

Jugurtha accordingly went to Rome with Cassius, yet 
divested of regal pomp, and dressed in such a manner as to 
excite compassion. But though hei was himself of an intrepid 
spirit, and was moreover encouraged by assurances from those 
in reliance on whose power and criminal practices he had 
hitherto been supported, yet, by an immense sum of money, 
he secured the assistance of Caius Basbius, tribune of the 
people, one who trusted to his invincible impudence for 
protection against all law and all manner of injuries. 

When an assembly of the people was called by Memmius, 
though they were so highly exasperated against Jugurtha 
that some of them were for putting him in chains, others for 
putting him to death as a public enemy, according to the 
ancient usage, unless he discovered his associates, yet Mem- 
mius, more concerned for their dignity than the gratification 
of their fury, endeavored to calm the tumult and soften their 
minds, and declared that he would take care that the public 
faith should not be violated. 

Having obtained silence and ordered Jugurtha to be 
brought before the assembly, he proceeded in his speech ; re- 
counted all his wicked actions, both in Rome and Numidia ; 
exposed his unnatural behavior to his father and brothers, 
adding, that the Roman people, though they were not igno- 
rant by whom he had been aided and supported, still desired 
full information of the whole from himself If he declared 
the truth, he had much to hope from the faith and clemency 
of the Roman people ; but if he concealed it, he would not 


save his friends by such means, but ruin his own fortune and 
his prospects forever. 

When Memmius had concluded and Jugurtha was ordered 
to reply, the tribune Bsebius, who had been secured by a sum 
of money, as already mentioned, ordered him to be silent ; and 
though the people there assembled were highly incensed, and 
fendeavored to terrify him with their cries, with angry looks, 
with acts of violence, and every other method which indigna- 
tion inspires, yet his impudence triumphed over it all. The 
people departed after being thus mocked ; Jugurtha, Bestia 
and the rest, who were at first fearful of this prosecution, now 
assumed greater courage. 

There was at this juncture a certain Numidian at Rome 
called Massiva, the son of Guliissa, and grandson of Masinissa, 
who, having taken part against Jugurtha in the war between 
the three kings, had fled from Africa on the surrender of Cirta 
and the murder of Adherbal. Spurius Albinus, who with 
Quintus Minucius Rufus, succeeded Bestia in the consulship, 
persuaded this man to apply to the senate for the kingdom of 
Numidia, as he was descended from Masinissa, and Jugurtha 
was now the object of public abhorrence on account of his 
crimes, and alarmed with daily fears of the punishment he 
merited. The consul, who was fond of having the manage- 
ment of the war, was more desirous that the public disturb-' 
ances should be continued than composed. The province of 
Numidia had fallen to him, and Macedonia to his colleague. 

When Massiva began to prosecute his claim, Jugurtha, 
finding that he could not rely on the assistance of his friends, 
some of whom were seized with remorse, others restrained by 
the bad opinion the public had of them and by their fears, 
ordered Bomilcar, who was his faithful friend and confidant, 
" to engage persons to murder Massiva for money, by which 
he had accomplished many things, and to do it by private 
means, if possible ; but if these were inefiectual, by any means 

Bomilcar quickly executed the king's orders, and, by em- 
ploying proper instruments, discovered his places of resort, his 
set times and all his movements, and when matters were ripe 
laid a scheme for the assassination. One of those who were 
rv— 7 



to put the murder into execution attacked Massiva and slew 
him, but, so imprudently, that he was himself apprehended, 
and being urged by many, especially by the consul Albinus, 
confessed all. Bomilcar was arraigned, more agreeably to 
reason and justice than to the law of nations, for he had ac- 
companied Jugurtha, who came to Rome on the public faith. 
Jugurtha, though clearly guilty of so foul a crime, repeated 
his endeavors to bear down the force of truth, till he perceived 
that the horror of his guilt was such as to baffle all the power 
of interest or bribery, on which, though he had been com- 
pelled in the commencement of the prosecution of Bomilcar 
to give up fifty of his friends as sureties for his standing his 
trial, he sent him privately to Numidia, being more concerned 
for his kingdom than the safety of his friends; for he was 
fearful, should this favorite be punished, that the rest of his 
subjects would be discouraged from obeying him. , In a few 
days he himself followed, being ordered by the senate to 
depart out of Italy. When he left Rome, it is reported that, 
having frequently looked back to it with fixed attention, he 
at last broke out into these words : "O venal city, and ripe 
for destruction when a purchaser can be found." 


Caitjs Marius Seeks the Consulship. 

About the same time Marius happened to be at Utica, and 
as he was sacrificing to the gods the augur announced to him, 
"that great and wonderful things were presaged to him ; he 
should therefore pursue whatever designs he had formed, and 
trust to the gods ; he might push his fortune to the utmost, 
regardless of difl&culty and confident of success. ' ' 

Marius had been long seized with an ardent desire of the 
consulship, and possessed every qualification for obtaining it, 
except that of noble descent ; he had industry, probity, con- 
summate skill in war, and an intrepid spirit in battle ; he dip- ■ 
played a model of temperance, and, completely master of his 
passions, looked with indifierence on wealth and pleasure, but 
was covetous of renown, and possessed an insatiable thirst of 
glory. He was born at Arpinum, where he passed his child- 
hood, and from the time that he was capable of bearing arms 
took no delight in the study of Grecian eloquence, nor in the 
luxurious manners of Rome, but entered with ardor on the 
military life, and thus in a short time, by a proper course of 
discipline, acquired a masterly knowledge in the art of war ; 
so that when he first solicited from the people the military 
tribuneship, although his person was unknown, his character 
obtained it by the unanimous sufirages of all the tribes. . From 
this time he rose still higher in public favor, and in every 
office which he filled still rendered himself worthy of greater 
dignity. Yet Marius, with all his merit,. till this time (for 
ambition afterward fatally urged him to the wildest excesses) 
had not ventured to offer himself for the consulship ; for though 
the people at that time conferred all the other offices, that of 
consul was reserved for the nobility, and the most renowned 
or distinguish]ed by merit, unsupported by birth, were reck- 
oned by them unworthy of the supreme magistracy. 

Marius, perceiving that the prediction of the augur was 
agreeable to his own inclinations, petitioned Metellus for leave 
to visit Rome as a candidate for the consulship. Metellus, 
though distinguished for his virtue and honor, and other de- 
sirable qualities, yet possessed a haughty and disdainful spirit, 


the common vice of the nobility : struck with so extraordinary 
a request, he therefore expressed surprise at his designs, and 
cautioned him, as in friendship, not to entertain such unrea- 
sonable views, nor suflFer his mind to be exalted above his 
station. To all men, he observed, the same objects could not 
be the aim of reasonable ambition, adding that Marius ought 
to be contented with his present fortune ; and, in a word, that 
he should take care not to demand from the Roman people 
what they might justly refuse. After these and the like re- 
monstrances, the consul still found Marius steady to his pur- 
pose, and promised to comply with his request as soon as it 
was consistent with the public service ; and as he still con- 
tinued to urge his petition, Metellus is reported to have told 
him, "that it was needless to be in such a hurry, as it would 
be time enough for him to think, of standing for the consul- 
ship when his son should be of age to join with him.," This 
youth was then about twenty years of age, and serving under 
his father without any command. 

This fired Marius with a more ardent desire of obtaining 
the consulship, and highly incensed him against Metellus ; so 
that he blindly followed the dictates of ambition and resent- 
ment, the most pernicious of counsellors. He did and said 
every thing that could promote his views ; gave greater liberty 
to the soldiers under his command than formerly ; inveighed 
severely to our merchants, then in great numbers at Utica, 
against Metellus' s manner of conducting the war ; and boasted 
of himself, "that were but half the army under his own 
command he would in a few days have Jugurtha in chains ; 
that the consul prolonged the war on purpose, being a vain 
man, possessed of kingly pride, and intoxicated with the love 
of command." This was the more readily believed by the 
merchants, as they had suffered in their fortunes by the long 
continuance of the war ; and to an impatient spirit no measures 
appear sufficiently expeditious. 




Greatest among the ancient 
Romans, Caius Julius Caesar changed 
the course of the world's history. 
He turned an aristocratic republic 
into a democratic empire. Though 
he was removed by assassination in 
the very hour of his triumph, his 
work remained and his spirit domi- 
nated the civilized world for cen- 
turies. One of his names has become 
the title of the autocratic sovereigns 
of Europe ; another is imbedded in 
the calendar of all Christian coun- 
tries. It is impossible in a work of 
this kind to set forth in detail the 
successive audacities and glories of 
his career. Bom of noble family on 
the 1 2th day of the month Quintilis 
(afterwards called in his honor July), in the year ICX3 B.C., he 
early engaged in party strife, contracted enormous debts, but 
won the favor of the people, and was raised in quick succes- 
sion to the highest offices of state. He was nearly forty years 
of age when he began his series of foreign conquests by 
a war in Spain. He reconciled Pompey to Crassus, the 
wealthiest man in Rome, and with them formed the first 
triumvirate, to accomplish their respective designs. For 
himself he obtained command of Gaul for five years, and 
there, in wars with various tribes, trained an army by which 
he hoped to terminate the party struggles at Rome. He 
crossed the Rhine into Germany and the Channel into Britain, 
but effected no permanent conquests in either country. When 
Pompey saw that his own prestige was eclipsed by that of his 
younger rival, he became estranged. Caesar was ordered by 
the Senate to disband his army, but in defiance crossed the 
Rubicon, the boundary of his province, towards Rome. 
Pompey saw his troops deserting him, and fled from Rome to 


Capua, and thence to Greece, where he collected a formidable 
army. Caesar was made dictator, but did not cross to Greece 
until some months later. At Pharsalia the decisive battle 
took place on the 9th of August, 48 B.C. Pompey fled and 
was slain on the coast of Egypt. Csesar was now master of 
the Roman world and, though careless of human life in 
time of war, used his power with marked clemency. His 
victories in Gaul, Egypt, Pontus and Africa were celebrated 
with magnificent triumphs ; but there was none for his vic- 
tory in the Civil War. Although he inaugurated numerous 
schemes for the benefit of the Roman people, the patricians 
could not witness his success without envy. He was already 
dictator, and was made imperator (emperor) for life, but after 
a movement was begun to bestow on him the hated title of 
king, he was assassinated in the Senate house on the isth of 
March, 44 B.C. 

This great statesman and general was gifted by nature 
with the most varied talents, and excelled in the most diverse 
pursuits. He was an accomplished orator and a profound 
jurist. He holds high rank in literature by brief and per- 
spicuous narratives of the Gallic and Civil wars in which he 
was engaged. These "Commentaries," as he chose to call 
them rather than histories, are models of historical composi- 
tion. His style is noted for its purity and elegance. In 
youth he wrote some poems, which were suppressed by Au- 
gustus; in later life he did not disdain to compose some 
grammatical treatises, of which a few fragments remain. 
But the world has especially cherished and admired his 
modest narrative of his astonishing career in Gaul. 

Caesar's First Invasion ob- Britain. 

Though but a small part of the summer now remained, 
Caesar resolved to pass over into Britain, having certain intel- 
ligence that in all his wars with the Gauls, the enemies of the 
commonwealth had ever received assistance from thence. He 
indeed foresaw that the season of the year would not permit 
him to finish the war ; yet he thought it would be of no small . 
advantage if he should but take a view of the island, learn 


the nature of tlie inliabitants, and acquaint himself with the 
coast, harbors and landing places, to all which the Gauls 
were perfect strangers, for almost none but merchants resort 
to that island, nor have even they any knowledge of the coun- 
try, except the sea coast and the parts opposite to Gaul. Before 
he embarked himself, he thought proper to send C. Volusenus 
with a galley to get some knowledge of these things, com- 
manding him, as soon as he had informed himself in what he 
wanted to know, to return with all expedition. He himself 
marched with his whole army into the territory of the Morini, 
because thence was the nearest passage into Britain. Here 
he ordered a great many ships from the neighboring' ports to 
attend him, and the fleet he had made use of the year before 
in the Venetian war. 

Meanwhile, the Britons having notice of his design by the 
merchants that resorted to their island, ambassadors from 
many of their states came to Csesar with an ofiFer of hostages 
and submission to the authority of the people of Rome. To 
these he gave a favorable audience, aUd, exhorting them to 
continue in the same mind, sent them back into their own 
country. Along with them he dispatched Comius, whom he 
had appointed king of the Atrebatians, a man in whose virtue, 
wisdom and fidelity he greatly confided, and whose authority 
in the island was very considerable. To him he gave it in 
charge to visit as many states as he could and persuade them 
to enter into an alliance with the Romans, letting them know 
at the same time that Csesar designed as soon as possible to 
come over in person to their island. Volusenus, having taken 
a view of the country, as far as was possible for one wbo had 
resolved not to quit his ship or trust himself in the hands of 
the barbarians, returned on the fifth day and acquainted Cassar 
with his discoveries. 

Caesar, having got tbgetber about eighty transports, which 
he thought would be sufficient for carrying over two legions, 
distributed the galleys he had over and above to the ques- 
tor, lieutenants and officers of the cavalry. There were, be- 
sideSj eighteen transports detained by contrary winds at a port 
about eight miles oflF, which he appointed to carry over the 


The wind springing up fair, he weighed anchor about one 
in the morning, ordering the cavalry to embark at the other 
port and follow him. But as these orders were executed but 
slowly, he himself about ten in the morning reached the coast 
of Britain, where he saw all the cliflFs covered with the enemy's 
forces. The nature of the place was such that the sea being 
bounded by steep mountains, the enemy might easily launch 
their javelins upon us from above. Not thinking this, there- 
fore, a convenient landing place, he resolved to lie by till three 
in the afternoon and wait the arrival of the rest of his fleet. 
Meanwhile , having called the lieutenants and military tribunes 
together, he informed them of what he had learned from Vo- 
lusenus, instructed them in the part they were to act, and 
particularly exhorted them to do everything with readiness 
and at a signal given, agreeably to the rules of military 
discipline, since sea affairs especially require expedition and 
dispatch, because the most changeable and uncertain of all. 
Having dismissed them, and finding both the wind and tide 
favorable, he made the signal for weighing anchor, and after 
sailing about eight miles farther, stopped over against a, plain 
and open shore. 

But the .barbarians, perceiving our design, sent forward 
their cavalry and chariots, which they frequently make use 
of in battle, and following with the rest of their forces, 
endeavored to oppose our landing ; and indeed we found the 
difficulty very great on many accounts ; for our ships being 
large, required a great depth of water ; and the soldiers, who 
were wholly unacquainted with the places, and had their 
hands embarrassed and loaded with a weight of armor, were 
at the same time to leap from the ships, stand breast high 
amidst the waves, and encounter the enemy, while they, 
fighting upon dry ground, or advancing only a little way into 
the water, having the free use of all their limbs, and in places 
which they perfectly knew, could boldly cast their darts, and 
spur on their horses, well inured to that kind of service. AH 
these circumstances serving to spread ,a terror among our 
men, who were wholly strangers to this way of fighting, they 
did not push the enemy with the same vigor and spirit as was 
usual for them in combats upon dry gsound. 


Caesar, observing this, ordered some galleys, a kind of 
vessels less common -with the barbarians, and 'more easily 
governed and put in motion, to advance a little from the 
transports towards the shore, in order to set upon the enemy 
in flank, and by means of their engines, slings, and arrows, 
drive them to some distance. This proved of considerable 
service to our men, for what with the surprise occasioned by 
the shape of our galleys, the motion of the oars, and the 
playing of the engines, the enemy were forced to halt, and ina 
little time began to give back. But when our men still delayed 
to leap into the sea, chiefly because of the depth of the water 
in those places, the standard-bearer of the tenth legion, 
having first invoked the gods for success, cried out aloud : 
"Follow me, fellow-soldiers, unless you will betray the Roman 
eagle into the hands of the enemy ; for my part, I am resolved 
to discharge my duty to C^sar and the commonwealth." 
Upon this he jumped into the sea, and advanced with the eagle 
against the enemy ; whereat, our men exhorting one another 
to prevent so signal a disgrace, all that were in the ship fol- 
lowed him. When this was perceived by those in the nearest 
vessels, they did likewise, and boldly approached the enemy. 

The battle was obstinate on both sides ; but our men, as 
being neither able to keep their ranks, nor get firm footing, 
nor follow their respective standards, because leaping pro- 
miscuously from their ships, every one joined the first ensign 
he met, were thereby thrown into great confusion. The 
enemy, on the other hand, being well acquainted with the 
shallows, when they saw our men advancing singly from the 
ships, spurred on their horses, and attacked them in that per- 
plexity. In one place great numbers would gather round an 
handful of the Romans ; others falling upon them in flank, 
galled them mightily with their darts, which Caesar pbserv- 
ing, ordered some small boats to be manned, and ply about 
with recruits. By this means the foremost ranks of our men 
having got firm footing, were followed by all the rest, when 
falling upon the enemy briskly, they were soon put to rout. 
But as the cavalry were not yet arrived, we could not pursue 
of ^advance far into the island, which was the only thing 
wanting to render the victory complete. 


The enemy being thus vanquished in battle, no sooner got 
together after their defeat, than they dispatched ambassadors 
to Caesar to sue for peace, offering hostages^ and an entire 
submission to his commands. Along with these ambassadors 
came Comius the Atrebatian, whom Caesar, as we have 
related above, had sent before him into Britain. The natives 
seized him as soon as he landed, and though he was charged 
with a commission from Caesar, threw him into irons. But 
upon their late defeat, they thought proper to send him back, 
throwing the blame of what had happened upon the multi- 
tude, and begged of Caesar to excuse a fault proceeding from 
ignorance. Caesar, after some complaints of their behavior, 
in that having of their own accord sent ambassadors to the 
Continent to sue for peace, they had yet without any reason 
begun a war against him, told them at last he would forgive 
their fault, and ordered them to send a certain number of 
hostages. Part were sent immediately, and the rest, as living 
at some distance, they promised to deliter in a few days. 
Meantime they disbanded their troops, and the sevferal chiefs 
came to Caesar's camp to manage their own concerns and 
those of the states to which they belonged. 

A peace being thus concluded four days after Caesar's 
arrival in Britain, the eighteen transports appointed to carry 
the cavalry, of whom we have spoken above, put to sea with 
a gentle gale. But when they had so near approached the 
coast as to be even within view of the camp, so violent a 
storm suddenly arose, that being unable to hold on their 
course, some were obliged to return to the port whence they 
set out, and others were driven to the lower end of the island, 
westward, not without great danger ; there they cast anchor, 
but the waves rising very high, so as to fill the ships with 
water, they were again in the night obliged to stand out to 
sea, and make for the Continent of Gaul. That very night it 
happened to be full moon, when the tides upon the sea coast 
always rise highest, a thing at that time wholly unknown to 
the Romans. Thus at one and the same time, the galleys' 
which Caesar made use of to transport his men, and which he 
had ordered to be drawn up on the strand, were filled with the 
tide, and the tempest fell furiously upon the transports that 


lay at anchor in the road ; nor was it possible for our men to 
attempt anything for their preservation. Many of the ships 
being dashed to pieces, and the rest having lost their anchors,, 
tackle, and rigging, which rendered them altogether unfit for 
sailing, a general -consternation spread itself through the 
camp ; for there were no other ships to carry back the troops, 
nor any materials to repair those that had been disabled by 
the tempest. And as it had been all along Caesar's design to 
winter in Gaul, he was wholly without grain to subsist the 
troops in those parts. 

All this being known to the British chiefs, who after the 
battle had repaired to Caesar's camp, to perform the conditions 
of the treaty, they began to hold conferences among them- ' 
selves ; and as they plainly saw that the Romans were desti- 
tute both of cavalry, shipping, and grain, and easily judged 
from the smallness of the camp, that the number of their 
troops was but inconsiderable ; in which notion they jvere 
the more confirmed, because Csesar having brought over the 
legions without baggage, had occasion to inclose but a small 
spot of ground •, they thought this a convenient opportunity 
for taking up arms, and by intercepting the Roman convoys, 
to protract the affair till winter ; being confidently persuaded, 
that by defeating these troops, or cutting off" their return, 
they should effectually put a stop to all future attempts upon 
Britain. Having, therefore, entered into a joint confederacy, 
they by degrees left the camp, and began to draw the islanders 
together; but Csesar, though he was not yet apprizeid of 
their design, yet guessing in part at their intentions, by the 
disaster which had befallen his fleet, and their delays in 
relation to the hostages, determined to provide against all 
chances. He, therefore, had grain daily brought in to his 
camp, and ordered the timber of the ships that had been most 
damaged to be made use of in repairing the rest, sending to 
Gaul for what other materials he wanted. ' As the soldiers 
were indefatigable in this service, his fleet was soon in a con- 
dition to sail, having lost only twelve ships. 

During these transactions, the seventh legion being sent 
out to forage, according to custom, as part were employed in 
cutting down the grain, and part in carrying it to the camp. 


without suspicion of attack, news was brought to Caesar, that 
a greater cloud of dust than ordinary was seen on that side 
where the legion was. Caesar, suspecting how matters went, 
marched with the cohorts that were upon, guard, ordering 
two others to take their places, and all the soldiers in the 
camp to arm and follow him as soon as possible. When he 
was advanced a little way from the camp, he saw his men 
overpowered by the enemy, and with great difficulty able to 
sustain the fight, being driyen into a small compass,, and 
exposed on every side to the darts of their adversaries. For 
as the harvest had been gathered in everywhere else, and only 
one field left, the enemy suspecting that our men would come 
thither to forage, had hid themselves during the night in the 
woods, and Waiting till our men had quitted their arms, and 
dispersed themselves for reaping, they suddenly attacked 
them, killed some, put the rest into disorder, and began to 
surrpund them with their horses and chariots. 

Their way of fighting with their chariots is this : first 
they drive their chariots on all sides, and throw their darts, 
insomuch, that by the very terror of the horses, and noise of 
the wheels, they often break the ranks of the enemy. When 
they have forced their way into the midst of the cavalry, 
they quit their chariots, and fight on foot ; meantime the 
drivers retire a little firom the combat, and place themselves 
in such a manner as to favor the retreat of their- countrymen, 
should they be overpowered by the enemy. Thus in action 
they perform the part both of nimble horsemen and stable 
infantry ; and by continual exercise and use have arrived at 
such expertness, that in the most steep and difficult places 
they can stop their horses upon a full stretch, turn them 
which way they please, run along the pole, rest on the 
harness, and throw themselves back into their chariots with 
incredible dexterity. 

Our men being astonished and confounded with this new 
way of fighting, Caesar came very timely to 'their relief-; for 
upon his approach the enemy made a stand, and the Romans 
began to recover from their fear. This satisfied Caesar for the 
present, who not thinking it a proper season to provoke the 
enemy, and bring on a general engagement, stood facing them 


for some time, and then led back the legions to the camp. The 
continual rains that followed for some days after, both kept 
the Romans within their intrenchments, and withheld the 
enemy from attacking us. Meantime the Britons dispatched 
messengers into all parts, to make known to their country- 
men the small number of the Roman troops and the favora- 
ble opportunity they had of making immense spoils and 
freeing their country for ever from all future invasions by 
storming the enemy's camp. Having by this means got 
together a great body of infantry and cavalry, they drew 
towards our intrenchments. 

Csesar, though he foresaw that the enemy, if beaten, would 
in the same manner as before escape the danger by flight ; 
yet having got about thirty horse, whom Comius the Atre- 
batian had brought over with him from Gaul, he drew up the 
legions in order of battle before the camp ; and falling upon 
the Britons, who were not able to sustain the shock of our 
men, soon put them to flight. The Romans, pursuing them 
as long as their strength would permit, made a terrible 
slaughter, and setting fire to their houses and villages a great 
way round, returned to the camp. 

The same day ambassadors came from the enemy to Caesar, 
to sue for peace. Csesar doubled the number of hostages 
he had before imposed upon them, and ordered them to be 
sent over to him into Gaul, because the equinox coming on, 
and his ships being leaky, he thought it not prudent to put 
off his return till winter. A fair wind offering, he set sail a 
little after midnight, and arrived safe in Gaul. 

The Battle op Pharsalia. 

There was as much space left between the two lines as 
sufficed for the onset of the hostile armies ; but Pompey had 
ordered his soldiers to await Caesar's attack, and not to 
advance from their positions, or suffer their line to be put into 
disorder. And he is said to have done this by advice of Cains 
Triarius, that the impetuosity of the charge of Caesar's sol- 
diers might be checked and their line broken, and that 
Pompey' s troops, remaining in their ranks, might attack 


them wlien in disotder ; and iie thouglit that the javelins 
would fall with less force if the soldiers were kept on their 
ground than if they met them in full course ; at the same 
time he trusted that Caesar's soldiers, after running over double 
the usual ground, would become exhausted by the fatigue. 
But to me Pompey seems to have acted without sufficient 
reason ; for there is a certain impetuosity of spirit and an 
alacrity implanted by nature in the hearts of all men, which 
is inflamed by a desire to meet the foe. This a general 
should endeavor not to repress, but to increase ; nor was it a 
vain institution of our ancestors that the trumpets should 
sound on all sides and a general shout be raised ; by which 
they imagined that the enemy were struck with terror, and 
their own army inspired with courage. 

But our men, when the signal was given, rushed forward 
with their javelins ready to be launched, but perceiving that 
Pompey' s men did not run to meet the charge, haying acquired 
experience by custom, and being practiced in former battles, 
they of their own accbrd repressed their speed and halted 
almost midway, that they might not come up with the enemy 
when their strength was exhausted ; and after a short respite 
they again renewed their course and threw their javelins, and 
instantly drew their swords, as Caesar had ordered them. 
Nor did Pompey' s men fail in this crisis, for they received 
our javelins, stood our charge, and maintained their ranks ; 
and having launched their javelins, had recourse to their 
swords. At the same time Pompey' s horsemen, according to 
their orders, rushed out at once from his left wing, and his 
whole host of archers poured after them. Our cavalry did not 
withstand their charge, but gave ground a little, upon which 
Pompey's troops pressed them more vigorously, and began to 
file off in troops and flank our army. 

When Caesar perceived this he gave the signal to his fourth 
line, which he had formed of the six cohorts. They instantly 
rushed forward and charged Pompey's cavalry with such fury 
that not a man of them stood ; but all wheeling about, not 
only quitted their posts, but galloped forward to seek refuge 
in the highest mountains. By their retreat the archers and 
slingers, being left destitute and defenseless, were all cut to 


pieces. The coliort3, pursuing their success, wlieeled about 
upon Pompey's left •wing, while his infantry gtill continued 
to make battle, and taking them in the rear at the same time 
Caesar ordered the third line to advance, which till then had not 
been engaged, but had kept their post. These new and fresh 
troops having come to the assistance of the fatigued, and 
others having made an attack upon their rear, Pompey's men 
were not able to maintain their ground, but all fled; nor 
was Csesar mistaken in his opinion, that the victory, as he had 
declared in his speech to the soldiers, must have its beginning 
from these six cohorts, which he had placed as the fourth line 
to oppose the horse. For by them the cavalry were routed, 
by them the archers and slingers were cut to pieces, by them 
the left wing of Pompey's army was surrounded and obliged 
to be; the first to fly. .... 

In Pompey's camp you might see arbors, in which tables 
laid ; a large quantity of plate set out ; the floors of the tents 
covered with fi;esh sods ; the tents of Lucius Lentulus and 
others shaded with ivy ; and many other things which were 
proofs of excessive luxury and a confidence of victory ; so 
that it might readily be inferred that they had no premoni- 
tions of the issue of the day, as they indulged themselves 
in unnecessary pleasures, and yet upbraided with luxury 
Caesar's army, distressed and suffering troops, who had always 
been in want of common necessaries. 

Pompey, as soon as our men had forced the trenches, 
mounting his horse and stripping off" his general's habit, 
went hastily out of the back gate of the camp, and galloped 
with all speed to Larissa. Nor did he stop there, but with the 
same dispatch, collecting a few of his flying troops, and halt- 
ing neither day nor night, he arrived at the sea-shore attended 
by only thirty horsemen, and went on board a victualling 
bark, often complaining, as we have been told, that he had 
been so deceived in his expectation, that he was almost per- 
suaded that he had been betrayed by those from whom he 
had expected victory, when they began the fight. 

Virgil takes the highest rank among the Roman poets. 
He was the poetical representative of the Augustan age in 
sentiment, in ethics, in culture and style. He gave to the 
Homeric epic that polish which was necessary to procure its 
acceptance by imperial Rome and to transmit it to the Western 
nations. Publius Virgilius Maro (whose name is said to be 
more correctly spelled Vergilius) was bom in the year 70 B.C. , 
in Andes, near Mantua. He acquired the rudiments of a liberal 
education at Cremona, Milan and Naples. He seems to have 
settled down to the composition of the eclogues in his native 
place, but owing to the public distribution of land which 
took place after the battle of Philippi, he was deprived of 
his hereditary farm. This, however, he recovered by the aid 
of PoUio and Maecenas when he went to Rome. Henceforth 
he was a court favorite, and one of the galaxy of literary cele- 
brities and associates of Maecenas. In B.C. 19 he set out to 
make a tour of Greece, but having met the Emperor Augustus 
at Athens was persuaded to return with him. He was in 
feeble health ; his sickness was aggravated by the homeward 
voyage, and resulted in his death on landing at Brundusium. 
It is said that in his last moments he called for the manuscript 
of the .^neid with the intention of burning it, but was dis- 
suaded by his friends. His executors were enjoined not to 
publish any thing but what he himself had already edited. 
By order of Augustus this injunction was disregarded, and the 
JEneid was published. 

Virgil's reputation among his contemporaries was first 



established by the Bucolics or Eclogues, partly pastoral, partly 
laudatory, -written in imitation of Theocritus, but more arti- 
ficial in style than the natural outpourings of the Sicilian 
poet. In the Georgics, Virgil, taking Hesiod as his model, 
gives a faithful portrayal of Italian life. The poem is dedi- 
cated to Maecenas, who had suggested the subject to the author. 
It is divided into four books ; the first relating to the cultiva- 
tion of fields, the second to trees, the third to cattle, and the 
fourth to bees. The poem is entirely didactic, its object being 
to draw men's minds back to agriculture at a time when war 
had devastated the country. Throughout the Georgics the 
didactic element is often almost lost to sight in passages beau, 
tifully descriptive and highly poetical. But the work by 
which Virgil lives in the memory of men is the uiBneid. It is 
the great epic of the Roman race, and expresses the national 
sentiment of pride, ambition, love of country and hatred of 
other races. Though imperfect as an epic, it remains "a 
poem of marvellous grace, evidencing culture most elaborate 
and refined." It was founded on the two great poems of 
Homer; the first six books, describing the wanderings of 
^neas after the downfall of Troy, correspond to the Odyssey; 
while the last six books, showing his efforts to establish his 
colony in Italy, resemble in less degree the Iliad. In the 
first book JBneas while sailing westward from Troy is driven 
by a storm to Carthage, where he is hospitably received by 
Queen Dido. In the second book the capture and destruction 
of Troy is related by -^neas to Dido. The fourth book des- 
cribes her ill-fated love for the Trojan leader, who abiandons 
her. Here, more than in any other part, Virgil appears to 
sound a modern note. The fifth book brings .^neas to Sicily, 
and the sixth to Italy, the latter being chiefly occupied with 
his descent to the underworld, where his father reveals the 
future heroes of Rome. In the later books ^neas obtains in 
marriage Lavinia, daughter of King Latinus. The valiant 
Tumus, to whom she had been betrothed, disputes his right, 
but is slain by his rival in battle. 

Virgil was popular in his own day ; he was esteemed by 
the emperor and loved by the people. He was modest almost 
to shjmess, but simple, candid, and full of human sympathy, 



In this First Eclogue, under a transparent disguise, are set forth 
the sufferings of Virgil (Tityrus) and his neighbors near Mantua, 
when their lauds were distributed to the victorious soldiers of Augus- 
tus, and also the special favor which Virgil received from the emperor 
in having his farm restored. 

Melibceus. Beneath the shade which beechen boughs 
You, Tityrus, entertain your sylvan muse. 
Round the wide world in banishment we roam, 
Forc'd from our pleasing fields and native home ; 
"While, stretch' d at ease, you sing your happy loves. 
And "Amaryllis" fills the shady groves. 

Tityrus. These blessings, friend, a deity bestow'd ; 
For never can I deem him less than God. 
The tender firstlings of my woolly breed 
Shall on his holy altar often bleed. 
He gave my kine to graze the flow'ry plain. 
And to my pipe renew' d the rural strain. 

Mel. I envy not your fortune, but admire. 
That, while the raging sword and wasteful fire 
Destroy the wretched neighborhood around. 
No hostile arms approach your happy ground. 
Far diff 'rent is my fate : my feeble goats 
With pains I drive from their forsaken cotes. 
Tbis one, you see, I scarcely drag along. 
Who, yearning, on the rocks has left her young ; 
The hope and promise of my falling fold. 
My loss, by dire portents the gods foretold ; 
For, had I not been blind, I might have seen — 
Yon riven oak, the fairest of the green, 
And the hoarse raven, on the blasted bough. 
By croaking from the left, presaged the coming blow. 
But tell me, Tityrus, what heavenly power 
Preserved your fortune in that fatal hour ? 

Tit. Fool that I was, I thought imperial Rome 
lyike Mantua, where on market days we come. 
And thither drive our tender lambs from home. 
So kids and whelps their sires and dams express ; 


And SO the great I measur'd by the less. 

But country towns, compar'd with her, appear 

Like shrubs, when lofty cypresses are near. 

Mel. What great occasion called you hence to Rome ? 

Tit. Freedom, which came at length, though slow to 
Nor did my search of liberty begin 
Till my black hairs were changed upon my chin ; 
Nor Amaryllis would vouchsafe a look, 
Till Galatea's meaner bonds I broke. 
Till then, a hapless, hopeless, homely swain, 
I sought not freedom, nor aspired to gain : 
Though many a victim from my folds was bought 
And many a cheese to country markets brought, 
Yet all the little that I got, I spent, 
And still returned as empty as I went. 

Mel. We stood amazed to see your mistress mourn, 
Unknowing that she pined for your return ; 
We wondered why she kept her fruit so long, 
For whom so late the ungathered apples hung. 
But now the wonder ceases, since I see 
She kept them, only, Tityrus, for thee. 
For thee the bubbling springs appeared to mourn, 
And whisp'ring pines made vows for; thy return. 

Tit. What should I do ? — While here I was enchain' d, 
No glimpse of god-like liberty remained ; 
Nor could I hope in any place but there, 
To find a god so present to my prayer. 
There first the youth of heavenly birth I viewed, 
For whom our monthly victims are renewed. 
He heard my vows, and graciously decreed 
My grounds to be restored, my former flocks to feed. 

Mel. O fortunate old man ! whose farm remains — 
For you suflScient — and requites your pains ; 
Though rushes overspread the neighb'ring plains, 
Though here the marshy grounds approach your fields, 
And there the soil a stony harvest yields. 
Your teeming ewes shall no strange meadows try, 
Nor fear a rot from tainted company, ' 

Behold ! yon bord'ring fence of sallow trees 
Is fraught with flow'rs, the flow'rs are fraught with bees-p 
The busy bees, with a soft murmuring strain, 


Invite to gentle sleep the lab'ring swain, 
While, from the neighb'ring rock, with rural songs, 
The pruner's voice the pleasing dream prolongs, 
Stock-doves and turtles tell their am'rous pain, 
And from the lofty elms, of love complain. 

Tit. Th' inhabitants of seas and skies shall change, 
And fish on shore, and stags in air shall range. 
The banish' d Parthian dwell on Arar's brink, 
And the fair German shall the Tigris drink, 
Ere I, forsaking gratitude and truth, 
Forget the figure of that godlike youth. 

Mel. But we must beg our bread in climes unknown, 
Beneath the scorching or the freezing zone : 
And some to far Oaxis shall be sold. 
Or try the I^ibyan heat or Scythian cold ; 
The rest among the Britons be confin'd, 
A race of men from all the world disjoin'd. 
Oh ! must the wretched exiles ever mourn, 
Nor, after length of rolling years, return ? 
Are we condemn' d by fate's unjust decree, 
No more our houses and our homes to see ? 
Or shall we mount again the rural throne, 
And rule the country kingdoms once our own ; 
Did we for these barbarians plant and sow ? 
On these — on these — our happy fields bestow ? 
Good heaven ! what dire effects from civil discord flow: 
Now let me graft my pears, and prune the vine ; 
The fruit is theirs, the labor only mine. 
Farewell, my pastures, my paternal stock, 
My fruitful fields, and my more fruitful flock ! 
No more, my goats, shall I behold you climb 
The steepy cUfis, or crop the flow'ry thyme ! 
No more, extended in the grot below. 
Shall see you browsing on the mountain's brow 
The prickly shrubs ; and after on the bare, 
I<eap down the deep abyss, and hang in air. 
No more my sheep shall sip the morning dew ; 
No more my song shall please the rural crew : 
Adieu, my tuneful pipe ! and all the world, adieu ! 

Tit. This night, at least, with me forget your care, 
Chestnuts and curds and cream shall be your fare : 
The carpet-ground shall be with leaves o'erspread ; 


And boughs shall weave a cov'ring for your head, 
For see, yon sunny hill the shade extends, 
And curling smoke from cottages ascends. 


The Fourth Eclogue, addressed to Virgil's friend, the consul 
PoUio, probably on the birth of his son, is a remarkable prophecy of 
a speedy return of the Golden Age. The Muse is called Sicilian 
because Theocritus, the Greek pastoral poet, was a native of Sicily. 

Sicilian Muse, begin a loftier strain ! 

Though lowly shrubs and trees, that shade the plain. 

Delight not all ; Sicilian Muse, prepare 

To make the vocal woods deserve a consul's care. 

The last great age, foretold by sacred rhymes, 

Renews its finish'd course : Satumian times 

Roll round again ; and mighty years begun 

From their first orb, in radiant circles run. 

The base degenerate iron offspring ends, 

A golden progeny from heaven descends. 

O chaste lyucina ! speed the mother's pains, 

And haste the glorious birth ! thine own Apollo reigns ! 

The lovely boy, with his auspicious face. 

Shall PoUio's consulship and triumph grace : 

Majestic months set out with him to their appointed race. 

The father banished virtue shall restore ; 

And crimes shall threat the guilty world no more. 

The son shall lead the life of gods, and be 

By gods and heroes seen, and gods and heroes see. 

The jarring nations he in peace shall bind, 

And with paternal virtues rule mankind. 

Unbidden, earth shall wreathing ivy bring. 

And fragrant herbs, the promises of spring. 

As her first offerings to her infant king. 

The goats, with strutting dugs, shall homeward speed. 

And lowing herds, secure from lions, feed. 

His cradle shall with rising flowers be crown' d; 

The serpent's brood shall die ; the sacred ground 

Shall weeds and poisonous plants refuse to beai ; 

Each common bush shall Syrian roses wear. 

But when heroic verse his youth shall raise, 

And form it to hereditary praise, 


Unlabored harvests shall the fields adorn, 

And clustered grapes shall blush on every thorn ; 

The knotted oaks shall showers of honey weep, 

And through the matted grass the liquid gold shall creep. 

Yet, of old fraud some vestige shall remain : 

The merchant still shall plough the deep for gain ; 

Great cities shall with walls be compassed round, 

And sharpened shares shall vex the fruitful ground ; 

Another Tiphys shall new seas explore, 

Another Argo land her chiefs upon th' Iberian shore ; 

Another Helen other wars create, 

And great Achilles urge the Trojan fate. 

And when to ripen' d manhood he shall grow. 

The greedy sailor shall the seas forego : 

No keel shall cut the waves for foreign ware, 

For every soil shall every product bear. 

The laboring hind his oxen shall disjoin : 

No plough shall hurt the glebe, no pruning-hook the vine ; 

Nor wool shall in dissembled colors shine ; 

But the luxurious father of the fold. 

With native purple and unborrowed gold. 

Beneath his pompous fleece shall proudly sweat ; 

And under Tyrian robes the lamb shall bleat. 

The Fates, when they this happy web have spun. 

Shall bless the sacred clue and bid it smoothly run. 

Mature in years, to ready honors move. 

Son of celestial seed ! O foster son of Jove ! 

See, laboring Nature calls thee to sustain 

The nodding frame of heaven, and earth and main ! 

See, to their base restored, earth, seas, and air ; 

And joyful ages, from behind, in crowding ranks appear. 

To sing thy praise, would heaven my breath prolong. 

Infusing spirits worthy such a song. 

Not Thracian Orpheus should transcend my lays. 

Nor Linus, crowned with never-fading bays ; 

Though each his heavenly parent should inspire. 

The Muse instruct the voice, and Phoebus tune the lyre. 

Should Pan contend in verse, and thou my theme, 

Arcadian judges should their god condemn. 

Begin, auspicious boy ! to cast about 

Thy infant eye, and, with a smile, thy mother single out. 

Thy mother well deserves that short delight, 


The nauseous qualms of ten long months and travail to requite. 

Then smile ! the frowning infant's doom is read : 

No god shall crown the board, nor goddess bless the bed. 

Orpheus and Eurydice. 

The well-known in3^h of Orpheus and his descent into Hades to 
recover his lost Eurydice is related incidentally in the Fourth Book of 
the Georgics. 

Sad Orpheus, doom'd, without a crime, to mourn 
His ravish' d bride that never shall return ; 
Wild for her loss, calls down th' inflicted woes, 
And deadlier threatens, if no fate oppose. . 
When urged by thee along the marshy bed, 
Th' unhappy nymph in frantic terror fled ; 
She saw not, doom'd to die, across her way, 
Where, couch' d beneath the grass, the serpent lay. 
But every Dryad, their companion dead, 
O'er the high rocks their echo'd clamor spread, 
The Rhodopeian mounts with sorrow rtmg. 
Deep wailiflgs burst Pangaea's clifiFs among 
Sad Orithyia, and the Getae wept. 
And loud lament down plaintive Hebrus swept. 
He, lonely, on his harp, 'mid wilds unknown. 
Sooth' d his sad love with melancholy tone : 
On thee, sweet bride ! still dwelt th' undying lay. 
Thee first at dawn deplor'd, thee last at close of day. 
For thee he dar'd to pass the jaws of hell, 
And gates where death and darkness ever dwell, 
Trod with firm foot in horror's gloomy grove. 
Approach' d the throne of subterraneous Jove, 
Nor fear'd the Manes* and stem host below. 
And hearts that never felt for human woe. 
Drawn by his song from Erebus profound 
Shades and unbodied phantoms flock around, 
Countless as birds that fill the leafy bow'r 
Beneath pale eve, or winter's driving show'r. 
Matrons and sires, and unaffianc'd maids, 
Eorms of bold warriors and heroic shades. 
Youths and pale infants laid upon the pyre. 
While their fond parents saw th' ascending fire : 

* The Manes were the spirits of the dead. 


All whom the squalid reeds and sable mud 
Of slow Cocytus' unrejoicing flood, 
All whom the Stygian lake's dark confine bound?, 
And with nine circles, maze in maze, surrounds. 
On him astonish' d Death and Tartarus gazed, 
Their viper hair the wond'ring Furies raised : 
Grim Cerberus stood, his triple jaws half closed, 
And fixed in air Ixion's wheel reposed. 

Now ev'ry peril o'er, when Orpheus led 
His rescu'd prize in triumph from the dead, 
And the fair bride (so Proserpine enjoin'd) 
Press'd on his path, and followed close behind, 
In sweet oblivious trance of amorous thought. 
The lover err'd, to sudden frenzy wrought: 
Ah ! venial fault ! if hell had ever known 
Mercy, or sense of sufiering not its own. 
He stopp'd, and, ah ! forgetful, weak of mind. 
Cast, as she reached the light, one look behind. 
There die his hopes, by love alone betray' d, 
He broke the law that hell's stem tyrant made ; 
Thrice o'er the Stygian lake a hollow sound 
Portentous murmur' d from its depth profound. 
" Alas ! what fates our hapless love divide. 
What frenzy, Orpheus, tears thee from thy bride? 
Again I sink ! A voice resistless calls. 
1,0 1 on my swimming eye cold slumber falls. 
Now, now farewell ! involv'd in thickest night. 
Borne far away, I vanish from thy sight, 
And stretch towards thee, all hope forever o'er, 
These unavailing arms, ah ! thine no more." 
She spoke, and from his gaze forever fled. 
Swift as dissolving smoke through aether spread, 
Nor more beheld him, while he fondly strove 
To catch her shade, and pour the plaints of love. 
Deaf to his pray'r no more stern Charon gave 
To cross the Stygian lake's forbidden wave. 

Ah ! many a month he wept in lofty caves 
By frozen Strymon's solitary waves ; 
With melting melodies the beasts subdu'd, 
And drew around his harp the list'ning wood. 
Thus Philomel,* beneath the poplar spray, 
* The nightingale. 


Mourns her lost brood untimely snatch' d away, 

Whom some rough hind, that watch'd her fost'ring nest, 

Tore yet unfledg'd from the maternal breast: 

She on the bough all night her plaint pursues, 

Fills the far woods with woe, and each sad note renews. 

No earthly charms had power his soul to move. 

No second hymeneal lured to love. 

'Mid climes where Tanais freezes as it flows, 

'Mid deserts hoary with Rhipsean snows, 

Lone roam'd the bard, his ravish' d bride deplored. 

And the vain gift of hell's relenting lord. 

Scorned by the youth, whom grief alone could charm. 
Rage and revenge the Thracian matrons arm ; 
'Mid the dark orgies of their god, they tore 
His mangled limbs, and toss'd along the shore. 
Ah ! at that time while roU'd the floating head, 
Tom from his neck, down Hebrus' craggy bed, 
His last, last voice, his tongue now cold in death. 
Still nam'd Eurydice with parting breath ; 
" Ah ! dear Eurydice ! " his spirit sigh'd. 
And all the rocks "Eurydice" replied. 

Laocoon and His Sons. 

^NEAS tells the story of Ivaoco5n, who alone of the 'Trojan leaders 
resisted the bringing of the wooden horse within the walls of the 
doomed city. By striking it with his spear he was said to have offended 
the deities to whom it was consecrated. He was therefore punished by 
being crushed, with his sons, in the folds of two enormous serpents. 

Laocoon, named as Neptune's priest. 
Was offering up the victim beast, 
When lo ! from Tenedos — I quail. 
E'en now, at telling of the tale — 
Two monstrous serpents stem the tide. 
And shoreward through the stillness glide. 
Amid the waves they rear their breasts. 
And toss on high their sanguine crests ; 
The hind part coils along the deep, 
And undulates with sinuous sweep. 
The lashed spray echoes : now they reach . 
The inland belted by the beach. 
And rolling bloodshot eyes of fire. 



Dart their forked tongue, and hiss for ire. 

We fly distraught ; unswerving they 

Toward I^aocoon hold their way ; 

First round his two young sons they wreathe, 

And grind their limbs with savage teeth : 

Then, as with arms he comes to aid, 

The wretched father they invade 

And twine in giant folds ; twice round 

His stalwart waist their spires are wound, 

Twice round his neck, while over all 

Their heads and crests tower high and tall. 

He strains his strength their knots to tear. 

While gore and slime his fillets smear, 

And to the unregardful skies 

Sends up his agonizing cries : 

A wounded bull such moaning makes, 

When from his neck the axe he shakes. 

Ill-aimed, and from the altar breaks. 

The twin destroyers take their flight 

To Pallas' temple on the height ; 

There by the goddess' feet concealed 

They lie and nestle 'neath her shield. 


The Death of Priam. 

Perhaps you may of Priam's fate inquire? 
He — when he saw his regal town on fire, 
His ruined palace, and his ent'ring foes, 
On every side inevitable woes — 
In arms disused invests his limbs, decayed, 
I/ike them, with age ; a late and useless aid. 
His feeble shoulders scarce the weight sustain : 
l/oaded, not armed, he creeps along with pain, 
Despairing of success, ambitious to be slain. 
Uncovered but by heaven, there stood in view 
An altar : near the hearth a laurel grew. 
Doddered with age, whose boughs encompass round 
The household gods, and shade the holy ground. 
Here Hecuba, with all her helpless train 
Of dames, for shelter sought, but sought in vain, 
Driv'n like a flock of doves along the sky. 
Their images they hug, and to their altars fly. 
The queen when she beheld her trembling lord. 
And hanging by his side a heavy sword, 
' ' What rage, ' ' she cried, ' ' has seized my husband's mind ? 
What arms are these, and to what use design' d ? 
These times want other aid ! Were Hector here. 
E'en Hector now in vain, like Priam, would appear. 
With us one common shelter thou shalt find, 
Or in one common fate with us be joined." 
She said, and with a last salute embraced 
The poor old man, and by the laurel placed. 

Behold ! Polites, one of Priam's sons. 
Pursued by Pyrrhus,* there for safety runs. 
Through swords and foes, amaz'd and hurt, he flies 
Through empty courts and open galleries. 
Him Pyrrhus, urging with his lance, pursues, 
And often reaches, and his thrusts renews. 
The youth transfix' d, with lamentable cries, 
Expires before his wretched parents' eyes : 
Whom gasping at his feet when Priam saw, 
The fear of death gave place to nature's law ; 

* Pyrrhus, called also Neoptolemus, was the son of Achilles. 


And, shaking more with anger than with age, 
"The gods," said he, "requite thy brutal rage! 
As sure they will, barbarian, sure they must, 
If there be gods in heaven, and gods be just — 
Who tak'st in wrongs an insolent delight; 
With a son's death t' infect a father's sight. 
Not he, whom thou and lying fame conspire 
To call thee his — not he, thy vaunted sire, 
Thus us'd my wretched age : the gods he feared, 
The laws of nature and of nations heard. 
He cheer'd my sorrows, and, for sums of gold, 
The bloodless carcass of my Hector sold ; 
Pitifed the woes a parent underwent. 
And sent me back in safety from his tent." * 

This said, his feeble hand a javelin threw,' 
Which flutt'ring, seemed to loiter as it flew; 
Just, and but barely, to the mark it held, 
And faintly tinkled on the brazen shield. 

Then Pyrrhus thus : ' ' Hence, dotard ! meet thy fate, 
And to my father my foul deeds relate. 
Now die ! " — ^With that he dragg'd the trembling sire, 
Slidd'ring through clottered blood and holy mire 
(The mingled mire his murder' d son had made), 
Haled from beneath the violated shade, 
And on the sacred pile the royal victim laid, 
His right hand held his bloody falchion bare ; 

* See Volume I., pp. 166-169. 


His left lie twisted in his hoary hair : 

Then, with a speeding thrust, his heart he found : 

The lukewarm blood came rushing through the wound. 

And sanguine streams distained the sacred ground. 

Thus Priam fell, and shar'd one common fate 

With Troy in ashes, and his ruin'd state — 

He, who the sceptre of all Asia sway'd, 

Whom monarchs like domestic slaves obey'd. 

On the bleak shores now lies th' abandoned king, 

A headless carcass, and a nameless thing. 

Dido on the Funerai^ Pile. 

The following translation is from William Morris' "^SSneids of 

And now Aurora left alone Tithonus' saffron bed. 
And first light of another day across the world she shed. 
But when the Queen from tower aloft beheld the dawn grow white. 
And saw the ships upon their way with fair sails trimmed aright, 
And all the haven shipless left, and reach of empty strand, 
Then thrice and o'er again she smote her fair breast with her hand. 
And rent her yellow hair and cried, "Ah, Jove ! and is he gone? 
And shall a very stranger mock the lordship I have won ? 
Why arm they not ? Why gather not from all the town in chase ? 
Ho ye ! why run ye not the ships down firom their standing place? 
Quick, bring the fire ! shake out the sails ! hard on the oars to sea ! 
What words are these, or where am I ? What madness changeth 

Unhappy Dido ! now at last thine evil deed strikes home. 
Ah, better when thou mad'st him lord — ^lo, whereunto are come — 
His faith and troth, who erst, they say, his country's house-gods 

The while he took upon his back his father spent with eld ! 
Why might I not have shred him up, and scattered him piecemeal 
About the sea, and slain his friends, his very son, with steel, 
Ascanius on his father's board for dainty meat to lay? 
But doubtful, say ye, were the fate of battle. Yea, O yea ! 
What might I fear, who was to die ? — ^if I had borne the fire 
Among their camp, and filled his decks with flame, and son and 

Quenched with their whole folk, and myself had cast upon it all ! 
— O Sun, whose flames on every deed earth doeth ever fall, 


O Juno, setter-forth and seer of these our many woes, 
Hecate, whose name howled out a-nights o'er city crossway goes, 
Avenging Dread Ones, Gods that guard Elissa* perishing, 
6 hearken, turn your might most meet against the evil thing ! 

hearken these our prayers ! and if the doom must surely stand. 
And he, the wicked head, must gain the port and. swim a-land. 
If Jove demand such fixed fate and every change doth bar, 

Yet let him faint mid weapon-strife and hardy folk of war ! 
And let him, exiled from his house, torn from Iulus,t wend. 
Beseeching help mid wretched death of many and many a friend. 
And when at last he yieldeth him to pact of grinding peace. 
Then short-lived let his lordship be, and lov6d life's increase. 
And let him fall before his day, unburied on the shore : 
I<o, this I pray, this last of words forth with my blood I pour. 
And ye, O Tyrians, 'gainst his race that is, and is to be. 
Feed full your hate ! "When I am dead, send down this gift to me : 
No love betwixt the peoples twain, no troth for anything ! 
And thou. Avenger of my wrongs, from my dead bones outspring. 
To bear the fire and the sword o'er Dardan -peopled earth 
Now or hereafter — ^whensoe'er the day brings might to birth. 

1 pray the shore against the shore, the sea against the sea, 

The sword ' gainst sword — fight ye that are, and ye that are to be ! " 

So sayeth she, and everywise she turns about her mind 
How ending of the loathed light she speediest now may find. 
And few words unto Barce spake, Sychseus' nurse of yore ;I 
For the black ashes held her own upon the ancient shore : 
" Dear nurse, my sister Anna now bring hither to my need, 
And bid her for my sprinkling-tide the running water speed ; 
And bid her have the hosts§ with her, and due atoning things ; 
So let her come ; but thou, thine head bind with the holy strings ; 
For I am minded now to end what I have set afoot. 
And worship duly Stygian Jove and all my cares uproot ; 
Setting the fiame beneath the bale|| of that Dardanian head." 

She spake ; with hurrying of eld the nurse her footsteps sped. 
But Dido, trembling, wild at heart with her most dread intent. 
Rolling her blood-shot eyes about, her quivering cheeks besprent 

* Another name of Dido. 

t lulus, called also Ascanius, was the son of .^neas, from whom 
the Julian family of Rome claimed descent. 

% Sychseus was Dido's fir^t husband, and Barce, who had been his 
nurse, remained in Dido's household. 

I Victims for sacrifice. I| Funeral pile. 


With burning flecks, and otherwliere dead-wliite with death 

drawn nigh, 
Burst through the inner doorways there and clomb the bale on 

Fulfilled with utter madness now, and bared the Dardan blade. 
Gift given not for such a work, for no such ending made. 
There when upon the Ilian gear her eyen had been set, 
And bed well known, 'twixt tears and thoughts a while she 

lingered yet ; 
Then brooding low upon the bed her latest word she spake : 

" O raiment dear to me while Gods and fate allowed, now take 
This soul of mine and let me loose from all my woes at last ! 
I, I have lived, and down the way fate showed to me have passed ; 

And now a mighty shade of me shall go beneath the earth ! 
A glorious city have I raised, and brought my walls to birth. 
Avenged my husband, made my foe, my brother, pay the pain : 
Happy, ah, happy overmucli were all my life-days' gain. 
If never those Dardanian keels had drawn our shores anigh." 

She spake — her lips lay on the bed : "Ah, unavenged to die ! 
But let me die ! Thus, thus 'tis good to go into the night ! 
Now let the cruel Dardan eyes drink in the bale-fire's light, 
And bear for sign across the sea this token of my death." 

Her speech had end ; but on the steel, amid the last word's 
They see her fallen ; along the blade they see her blood foam out, 
And all her hands besprent therewith; wild fly the shrieks 

The lofty halls, and Rumor runs mad through the smitten town. 


The houses sound with women's wails and lamentable groan ; 
The mighty clamor of their grief rings through the upper skies, 
'Twas e'en as if all Carthage fell mid flood of enemies, 
Or mighty Tyre of ancient days, — as if the wildfire ran 
Rolling about the roof of God and dwelling-place of man. 

Half dead her sister heard, and rushed distraught and trem- 
bling there, 
With nail and fist befouling all her face and bosom fair : 
She thrust amidst them, and by name called on the dying Queen : 
"O was it this, my sister, then ! guile in thy word hath been 1 
And this was what the bale, the fire, the altars wrought for me ! 
Where shall I turn, so left alone ? Ah, scorned was I to be 
For death-fellow! Thou shouldst have called me too thy way to 

One sword-pang should have been for both, one hour to make an 

Built I with hands, on Father-Gods with crying did I cry. 
To be away, a cruel heart, from thee laid down to die ? 
O sister, me and thee, thy folk, the fathers of the land, 

Thy city hast thou slain O give, give water to my hand, 

And let me wash the wound, and if some last breath linger there, 
I^et my mouth catch it ! " 

Saying so she reached the topmost stair. 
And to her breast the dying one she fondled, groaning sore. 
And with her raiment strove to staunch the black and flowing gore. 
Then Dido strove her heavy lids to lift, but back again 
They sank, and deep within her breast whispered the deadly bane : 
Three times on elbow struggling up a little did she rise, 
And thrice fell back upon the bed, and sought with wandering 

The light of heaven aloft, and moaned when it was found at last. 

Then on her long-drawn agony did Juno pity cast. 
Her hard departing ; Iris then she sent from heaven on high. 
And bade her from the knitted limbs the struggling soul untie. 
For since by fate she perished not, nor waited death-doom>^iven, 
But hapless died before her day, by sudden fury driven, 
Not yet the tress of yellow hair had Proserpine o£F-shred, 
Nor unto Stygian Orcus yet had doomed her wandering head. 
So Iris ran adown the sky on wings of saflfron dew. 
And colors shifting thousand-fold against the sun she drew, 
And overhead she hung : " So bid, from off thee this I bear. 
Hallowed to Dis, and charge thee now from out thy body fare." 


She Spake and sheared the tress away; then failed the life-heat 
And forth away upon the wind the spirit of her went. 

The Young Marcellus. 

ViRGii,, in the Sixth Book, represents ^neas descending into the 
under world, and there meeting his father, who prophesies the great- 
ness of Rome and shows him the spirits of her future heroes. Among 
the rest pointed out was the young Marcellns, the nephew of Augustus, 
who died in his twentieth year. The following lines were read by 
Virgil to the Emperor, in the presence of Octavia, the mother of 
Marcellns, soon after her loss. She fainted at the recital, but after- 
wards ordered the poet to be paid a magnificent sum of money for his 
tribnte to her son's memory. 

-^neas here beheld, of form divine, 
A godlike youth in glittering armor shine, 
With great Marcellns keeping equal pace ; 
But gloomy were his eyes, dejected was his face. 
He saw, and wond'ring, asked his airy guide, 
"What and from whence was he, who press'd the hero's side. 
His son, or one of his illustrious name ? 
How like the former, and almost the same I 
Observe the crowds that compass him around ; 
All gaze, and all admire, and raise a shouting sound ; 
But hov'ring mists around his brows are spread, 
And night, with sable shades, involve his head." 
"Seek not to know," the ghost replied with tears, 
"The sorrows of thy sons in future years. 
This youth (the blissful vision of a day) 
Shall just be shown on earth, then snatched away. 
The gods too high had raised the Roman state, 
Were but their gifts as permanent as great. 
What groans of men shall fill the Martian field ! * 
How fierce a blaze his flaming pile shall yield ! 
What funeral pomp shall floating Tiber see. 
When, rising from his bed, he views the sad solemnity ! 
No youth shall equal hopes of glory give, 
No youth afford so great a cause to grieve. 
The Trojan honor, and the Roman boast, 
Admired when living, and adored when lost I 

* The Campus Martlus at Rome. 
IV— 9 


Mirror of ancient faith in early youth ! 

Undaunted worth, inviolable truth ! 

No foe, unpunish'd, in the fighting-field 

Shall dare thee, foot to foot, with sword and shield ; 

Much less in arms oppose thy matchless force. 

When thy sharp spurs shall urge thy foaming horse. 

Ah ! couldst thou break through Fate's severe decree, 

A new Marcellus shall arise in thee I 

Full canisters of fragrant lilies bring, 

Mix'd with the purple roses of the spring ; 

I/Ct me with funeral flowers his body strow ; 

This gift which parents to their children owe, 

This unavailing gift, at least, I may bestow!" 

ViRGn, READING TO Augustus and Octavia. 

The Descent of Avernus. 

In one of the most famous passages of the iEneid Virgil contrasts 
in a few lines the easy descent of Avernus with the difficulty of return.- 
It has thus been translated by Prof. J. Conington. 

The journey down to the abyss 

Is prosperous and light ; 
The palace-gates of gloomy Dis [Pluto] 

Stand open day and night ; 
But upward to retrace the way 
And pass into the light of day. 
Then comes the stress of labor ; this 

May task a hero's might. 

HoRACB, the second in fame of the 
poets of the Augustan age, was the son 
of a freedman who had acquired a 
modest competence. His fiill name 
was Quintus Horatius Flaccus. He 
was born in 65 B.C., at Venusia, on the border of Apulia. 
His father, not satisfied with the educational resources of the 
Venusian school, took him to Rome and placed Jiim with 
Orbilius, whom Horace has immortalized fbr his propensity 
to flog the boys. From Rome he proceeded to Athens for 
further study, and, after the assassination of Julius Caesar, 
joined the army of Brutus in Macedonia. He was present at 
the battle of Philippi, where he sportively says he threw down 
his shield and sought safety in flight. The fortunes of war 
deprived him of his home, and, his father being dead, auda- 
cious poverty drove him to write verses. Through Varius 
and Virgfil he was introduced to Maecenas at the age of 
twenty-seven, and henceforth his position as a court poet was 
assured. Not a few of Horace's best traits are due to the 
influence of his patron Maecenas, a polished man of the world, 
possessed of much tact and discretion. The compositions 
written by Horace after his introduction to court are quite 
different from those written before. Coarse personality gave 
place to urbanity and candor. Henceforward the poet places 
before himself higher ideals and nobler aims, and a more 
genial and kindly spirit pervades his work. The Satires are 
the product of the first decade of Horace's literary career, thd 
Epistles belong to the second. Together they may be consi- 
dered specimens of the poet's critical capacity, while the Odes 
exemplify his power as a lyric artist. The Satires are didac- 
tic, practical, somewhat prosaic, and deal with every-day life 



in familiar language. They teach the Stoic doctrine of self- 
mastery and consistency of conduct. They condemn the in- 
ordinate love of pleasure and craving for luxuries. The 
Epistles, with their musical ring and clear presentation oJ 
ideas, may be considered an innovation in poetic forms. The 
poet, in giving an honest estimate of himself, his critics and 
imitators, establishes a confidential relation with his readers. 
The longer epistles are almost purely didactic, the shorter 
resemble in tone the lighter odes. 

Scarcely anything in literature has become so widely 
known and so popular among men of literary bent as the 
Odes of Horace. It is from them that he derives his immor- 
tality. They have produced a great variety of impressions 
among his admirers, and this itself is a token of the poet's 
flexibility of mind and talent. The Odes still hold a high 
position as models and educational elements in regard 
to literary taste and delicacy of language. They furnish 
specimens of the epigrammatic, the grave and the gay, 
the purely didactic and the simple Greek imitation. As a 
lyric poet Horace reaches his zenith in the Third Book. Here 
he stands forth, like Virgil, the poet of Roman national and 
religious sentiment. In the First Book he prays to Apollo 
for a life free from everything degrading, and yet not without 
gaiety ; in the Second he predicts his survival after death ; in 
the Third he throws down his implements, so to speak, and 
exclaims with confidence, "I have raised a monument more 
lasting than bronze." As poet laureate, Horace wrote the 
ode for the celebration of the Secular Games in 17 B.C. He 
died 8 B.C. 

To THE Roman People. 

This is one of the earliest odes, and Horace never surpassed it in 
patriotic inspiration. 

Another age in civil wars will soon be spent and worn, 
And by her native strength our Rome be wrecked and over- 
borne, — 
That Rome the Marsians could not crush, who border on the lands, 
Nor the shock of threatening Porsena with his Etruscan bands, 
Nor Capua's strength that rivalled ours, nor Spartacus the stem, 


Nor the faithless Allobrogian, who still for change doth yearn. 
Aye, what Germania's blue-eyed youth quelled not with ruthless 

Nor Hannibal, by our great sires detested and abhorred, 
We shall destroy with ruthless hands imbrued in brothers' gore. 
And wild beasts of the wood shall range our native l^nd once 

A foreign foe, alas ! shall tread the City's ashes down. 
And his horse's ringing hoofs shall smite her places of renown ; 
And the bones of great Quirinus,* now religiously enshrined, 
Shall be flung by sacrilegious hands to the sunshine and the wind. 
And if ye all from ills so dire ask how yourselves, to free. 
Or such at least as would not hold your lives unworthily — 
No better counsel I can urge than that which erst inspired 
The stout Phocseans when from their doomed city they retired. 
Their fields, their household gods, their shrines surrendering as 

a prey 
To the wild boar and ravening wolf: so we in our dismay. 
Where'er our wandering steps may chance to carry us should go. 
Or where'er across the sea the fitful winds may blow. 
How think ye then ? If better course none offer, why should we 
Not seize the happy auspices, and boldly put to sea ? 
The circling ocean waits us : then away, where Nature smiles. 
To those fair lands, those blissful lands, the rich and happly isles, 
Where Ceres year by year crowns all the untilled land with 

And the vine with purple clusters droops, unpruned of all her 

leaves ; 
Where the olive buds and burgeons, to its promise ne'er untrue. 
And the russet fig adorns the trees that graff-shoot never knew ; 
Where honey from the hollow oaks doth ooze, and crystal rills 
Come dancing down with tinkling feet from the sky-dividing 

There to the pails the she-goats come, without a master's word, 
And home with udders brimming broad returns the friendly herd ; 
There round the fold no surly bear its midnight prowl doth make. 
Nor teems the rank and heaving soil with the adder and the snake ; 
There no contagion smites the flocks, nor blight of any star. 
With fury of remorseless heat, the sweltering herds doth mar. 

* Quirinus was the name under which Romulus was deified and 


Nor are the swelling seeds burnt up within the thirsty clods — 
So kindly blends the seasons there the King of all the gods. 
That shore the Argonautic bark's stout rowers never gained, 
Nor the wily She of Colchis with step unchaste profaned ; 
The sails of Sidon's galleys ne'er were wafted to that strand, 
Nor ever rested on its slopes Ulysses's toil-worn band : 
For Jupiter, when he with brass the Golden Age alloyed, 
That region set apart by the good to be enjoyed ; 
With brass and then with iron he the ages seared ; but ye, 
Good men and true, to that bright home arise, arise and follow me. 

M^CENAS, Patron and Friend. 

Lucky I will not call myself, as though 
Thy friendship I to mere good fortune owe. 
No chance it was secured me thy regards. 
But Virgil first — that best of men and bards,' 
And then kind Varius mentioned what I was. 
Before you brought, with many a faltering pause, 
Dropping some few brief words (for bashfulness 
Robbed me of utterance) I did not profess 
That I was sprung of lineage old and great. 
Or used to canter round my own estate 
On a Satureian barb ; but what and who 
I was, as plainly told. As usual, you 
Brief answer make me. I retire, and then — 
Some nine months after — summoning me again, 
You bid me 'mongst your friends assume a place ; 
And proud I feel that thus I won your grace ; 
Not by an ancestry long known to fame. 
But by my life and heart, devoid of blame. 

His Daily I,ipe in Rome. 

I WALK alone, by mine own fancy led, 
Inquire the price of pot-herbs and of bread, 
The circus cross, to see its tricks and fun. 
The forum too, at times near set of sun ; 
With other fools there do I stand and gape 
Round fortune-tellers' stalls ; thence home escape 
To a plain meal of pancakes, pulse, and peas ; 
Three young boy-slaves attend on me with these. 


Upon a slab of snow-white marble stand 
A goblet and two beakers ; near at hand 
A common ewer, patera, and bowl : 
Catnpania's potteries produced the whole. 
To sleep then I. . . . 

I keep my couch till ten, then walk a while, 
Or having read or writ what may beguile 
A quiet after-hour, anoint my limbs 
With oil— not such as filthy Natta skims 
From lamps defrauded of their unctuous fare. 
And when th^ sunbeams, grown too hot to bear, 
Warn me to quit the field and hand-ball play, 
The bath takes all my weariness away. 
Then having lightly dined just to appease 
The sense of emptiness — I take mine ease, 
Enjoying all home's simple luxury. 
This is the life of bard unclogged, like me, 
By stem ambition's miserable weight. 
So placed, I own with gratitude, my state 
Is sweeter, aye, than though a quaestor's power 
From sire and grandsires had been my dower. 

Invitation to Phyllis. 

I HAVB laid in a cask of Albanian wine, 

Which nine mellow summers have ripened and more. 
In my gardens, dear Phyllis, thy brows to entwine. 

Grows the brightest of yellow parsley in plentiful store ; 
There's ivy to gleam on thy dark glossy hair : 

My plate, newly burnished, enlivens my rooms, 
And the altar, athirst for its victim, is there, 

Enwreathed with chaste vervain and choicest of blooms. 

Every hand in the household is busily toiling. 

And hither and thither boys bustle and girls ; 
Whilst, up from the hearth-fires careering and coiling, 

The smoke round the rafter-beams languidly curls. 
I<et the joys of the revel be parted between us ! 

'Tis the Ides of young April, the day which divides 
The month, dearest Phyllis, of ocean-sprung Venus — 

A day to me dearer than any besides. 


And well may I prize it, and hail its returning — 

My own natal day not more hallowed or dear ; 
For Maecenas, my friend, dates from this happy morning 

The life which has swelled to a lustrous career. 
So come, my own Phyllis, my heart's latest treasure — 

For ne'er for another this bosom shall long — 
And I'll teach, while your loved voice re-echoes the measure, 

How to charm away care with the magic of song. 

The Literary Bore. 

It chanced that I, the other day 
Was sauntering up the Sacred Way, 
And musing, as my habit is. 
Some trivial random fantasies, 
When there comes rushing up a wight 
Whom only by his name I knew. 
" Ha ! my dear fellow, how d'ye do? " 
Grasping my hand, he shouted. " Why, 
As times go, pretty well," said I ; 
"And you, I trust, can say the same." 
But after me as still he came, 
"Sir, is there anything," I cried, 
' ' You want of me ? " " Oh, " he replied, 
" I'm just the man you ought to know : 
A scholar, author ! " " Is it so ? 
For this I'll like you all the more ! " 

Then, writhing to escape the bore, 
I quicken now my pace, now stop, 
And in my servant's ear let drop 
Some words ; and all the while I feel 
Bathed in cold sweat from head to heel. 
" Oh, for a touch," I moaned in pain, , 
" Bolanus, of thy madcap vein, 
To put this incubus to rout ! " 
As he went chattering on about 
Whatever he descries or meets — 
The city's growth, its splendor, size. 
" You're dying to be off," he cries : 
(For all the while I'd been stock dumb) ; 
" I've seen it this half-hour. But come, 
Let's clearly understand each other ; 


It's no use making all this pother. 

My mind's made up to stick by you ; 

So where you go, there I go too." 

"Don't put yourself," I answered, "pray. 

So very far out of your way. 

I'm on the road to see a friend 

Whom you don't know, that's near his end, 

Away beyond the Tiber far, 

Close by where Caesar's gardens are." 

" I've nothing in the world to do, 

And what's a paltry mile or two ? 

I like it; so I'll follow you ! " 

Down dropped my ears on hearing this 
Just like a vicious jackass's, 
That's loaded heavier than he likes ; 
But off anew my torment strikes : 

" If well I know myself, you'll end 
With making of me more a friend 
Than Viscus, aye, or Varius ; for 
Of verses who can run off more. 
Or run them off at such a pace ? 
Who dance with such distinguished grace? 
And as for singing, zounds ! " says he, 
" Hermogenes might envy me ! " 

Here was an opening to break in : 
" Have you a mother, father, kin. 
To whom your life is precious ? " " None ; 
I've closed the eyes of every one." 
O happy they, I inly groan ; 
Now I am left, and I alone. 
Quick, quick dispatch me where I stand ; , 
Now is the direful doom at hand, 
Which erst the Sabine beldam old, 
Shaking her magic urn, foretold 
In days when I was yet a boy: 
" Him shall no poison fell destroy. 
Nor hostile sword in shock of war, 
Nor gout, nor colic, nor catarrh. 
In fulness of time his thread 
Shall by a prate-apace be shred ; 
So let him, when he's twenty-one, 
If he he wise, all babblers shun." 


Horace's Monument. 

I've reared a monument — my own- 
More durable than brass ; 

Yea, kingly pyramids of stone 
In height it doth surpass. 

Rain shall not sap, nor driving blast 

Disturb its settled base, 
Nor countless ages rolling past 

Its symmetry deface. 

I shall not wholly die. Some part, 

Nor that a little, shall 
Escape the dark Destroyer's dart. 

And his grim festival. 

For long as, with his Vestals mute, 
Rome's Pontifex shall climb 

The Capitol, my fame shall shoot 
Fresh buds through future time. 

Where brawls loud Aufidus and came 
Parched Daunus erst, a horde 

Of mystic boors to sway, my name 
Shall be a household word, 

As one who rose from mean estate. 

The first, with poet's fire, 
.i^olic song to modulate 

To the Italian lyre. 

Then grant, Melpomene, thy son 
Thy guerdon proud to wear, 

And Delphic laurels, duly won, 
Bind thou upon my hair. 



Ovid is more truly the representative poet of Roman 
imperialism than even Virgil. The latter constantly looks 
back to the national traditions and shows how the Roman 
republic rose and grew to greatness. Ovid began his career 
at a time of national prosperity when peace was firmly estab- 
lished and amid the reaction of public feeling after the tur- 
moil and carnage of civil war. The regard for history had 
declined and the severer studies which involved intellectual 
exertion had given way to love of pleasure and literature of 
a lighter kind. The smooth-flowing, gaily-tripping, har- 
monious metres of Horace and Ovid were suited to the lux- 
urious sentiments and mental debauchery of the age. Virgil 
had endeavored, by appealing to the higher motives of the 
governing classes, to create loyalty and enthusiasm towards 
the newly-established Empire ; but now the people sought 
pleasure, and Rome was the seat of pleasure as well as the 
seat of government. The old Roman virtue and force of 
character which had once been the mainstay of the people's 
power, were now sapped by the encroaching tide of Italian 
effeminacy, which portended the notorious corruption of the 
later Empire. 

Publius Ovidius Naso was born at Sulmo, B.C. 48. He 
was trained for the bar, but never practiced in courts, being 
indolent and of weak constitution. His equestrian origin, 
his culture, and his independent fortune gave him easy access 
to the fashionable and cultivated society of Rome. His 
poetical talent was early developed. He knew what pleased 
and interested his audience and sang accordingly. Ovid is pre- 
sented to us in two phases of life, which stand in violent con- 
trast to each other. In the former we see him as the gay- 
hearted gallant, reckless and amatory, devoting his highest 
art to the service of sensuous pleasure ; in the latter, we see 
the broken-hearted exile wearing out a burdensome life on 
the inhospitable shores of the Danube, seeking in vain for 
sympathy, and striving by fulsome adulation to move the 
clemency and obtain the forgiveness of the emperor. The 


exact cause of Ovid's banishment, in 9 a.d., can only be sur- 
mised. He himself mentions two charges, a "song" and an 
"error." The "song" may refer to the "Art of Love," to 
which Augustus may have traced evil influences in the im- 
perial family. But this work had been published ten years 
before the banishment. The "error" might have reference 
to some compromising act in the royal family which Ovid 
may have witnessed or abetted. It is significant that Julia, 
the emperor's granddaughter, was banished in the same year 
as the poet, and Silanus, her paramour, being disgraced, went 
into voluntary exile. Ovid died in Tomi on the Euxine Sea, 
A.D. 17. 

Ovid's literary career may be divided into three periods 
corresponding to the vicissitudes of his life. The first period 
is that of the amatory poems, the lascivious and wanton ton^s 
of which are once interrupted by the plaintive note of the 
death of his fellow-poet TibuUus. To this period belong 
also the " Amores " suggested by a series of trifling incidents 
in the love adventures of the poet. His mistress, he tells us, 
was a " lady" (ingenua), yet he likens her to Lais, the ideal 
queen of Corinthian courtesans. The broad freedom, and yet 
refinement, with which such subjects were treated proved very 
attractive to the fashionable pleasure-seeking class in which 
the wanton Julia was the shining light. The " Heroides," 
called also " Kpistles," are also assignable to the first period. 
They are a series of imaginary letters artificial and monoto- 
nous, supposed to be written by such noted characters as 
Briseis, Penelope and others. Then follows the "Art of 
Love," a poem more powerful and startling than anything 
Ovid had yet attempted. In it the poet plays the role of 
teacher, and professedly gives a recital of his own experiences. 
Notwithstanding the didactic and indelicate tendency of the 
poem, there is frequently a streak of genuine poetry and 
artis,tic refinement interwoven with the expression of lewd 

The "Metamorphoses" belongs to the second period of 
Ovid's literary life, and disputes with the "Art of Love" 
the claim to be the poet's masterpiece. This poem traverses 
the whole area of Greek mythology from chaos and the crea- 


tion of man down to the transformation of Julius Caesar into 
a star and the deification of Augustijs. The "Fasti" also 
mostly belongs to the second period. It is simply a sort of 
calendar giving an account, partly historical, partly mythical, 
of the Roman festivals. The "Tristia" (Lamentations) 
mark the last period of the poet's work and life. In these, 
like Cicero, he broods over and bewails his sad fate, and prays 
that if release is not granted, another place of banishment 
may be assigned to him. His prayer was never answered. 


Fair Niobe, who, when a virgin dwelt 
In I/ydian Sipylus, now queen of Thebes, 
Proudly refused before the gods to bend, 
And spoke in haughty boasting. Much her pride 
By favoring giils was swollen. Not the fine skill 
Amphion practiced ; not the lofty birth 
Each claimed; not all their mighty kingdom's power, 
So raised her soul (of all though justly proud) 
As her bright offspring. Justly was she called 
Most blest of mothers ; but her bliss too great 
Seemed to herself, and caused a dread reverse. 

Now Manto, sprung from old Tiresias, skilled 
In future fate, impelled by power divine, 
In every street with wild prophetic tongue 
Exclaimed : "Ye Theban matrons, haste in crowds. 
Your incense offer, and your pious prayers, 
To great Latona and the heavenly Twins, 
Latona's offspring; all your temples bind 
With laurel garlands. This the goddess bids ; 
Through me commands it." All of Thebes obey, 
And gird their foreheads with the ordered leaves, 
The incense burn, and with the sacred flames 
Their pious prayers ascend. I<o ! 'midst a crowd 
Of nymphs attendant, far conspicuous seen. 
Comes Niobe, in gorgeous Phrygian robe. 
Inwrought with gold, attired. Beauteous her form, 
Beauteous, as rage permitted. Angry shook 
Her graceful head ; and angry shook the locks 
That o'er each shoulder waved. Proudly she towered, 


Her haughty eyes round from her lofty stand 

Wide darting, cried : " What madness this to place 

Reported gods above the gods you see 1 

Why to lyatona's altars bend ye low, 

Nor incense burn before my power divine ? 

My sire was Tantalus : of mortals sole, 

Celestial feasts he shared. A Pleiad uymph 

Me bore. My grandsire is the mighty king, 

Whose shoulders all the load of heaven sustain. 

Jove is my father's parent : him I boast 

As sire-in-law too. All the Phrygian towns 

Bend to my sway. The hall of Cadmus owns 

Me sovereign mistress. Thebes' high towering walls, 

Raised by my consort's lute, and all the crowd 

Who dwell inclosed, his rule and mine obey. 

Where'er within my palace turn mine eyes, 

Treasures immense I view. Brightness divine 

I boast : to all seven blooming daughters add, 

And seven fair sons ; through whom I soon expect. 

If Hymen favors, seven more sons to see. 

And seven more daughters. Need ye further seek 

Whence I have cause for boasting ? Dare ye still 

I,atona, from Titanian Casus sprung, — 

The unknown Caeus, — she to whom all earth 

In bearing pangs the smallest space denied : — 

This wretch to my divinity prefer ? 

Not heaven your goddess would receive ; not earth ; 

Not ocean : exiled from the world, she wept, 

Till Delos sorrowing, — ^wanderer like herself, 

Exclaimed : ' Thou dreary wanderest over the earth, 

I o'er the main ; ' — and sympathizing thus, 

A resting spot afforded. There becom'e 

Only of two the mother — can she vie 

With one whose womb has sevenfold hers surpassed? 

Blest am I. Who can slightly e'er arraign 

To happiness my claim ? Blest will I still 

Continue. Who my bliss can ever doubt ? 

Abundance guards its surety. Far beyond 

The power of fortune is my lot upraised : 

Snatch them in numbers from me, crowds more great 

Must still remain. My happy state contemns 

Even now the threats of danger. Grant the power 


Of fate this nation of my womb to thine, — 

Of part deprived, impossible I shrink 

To poor l<atona's two — how scant removed 

From mothers childless ! Quit your rites ;— quick haste 

And tear those garlands from your flowing hair." 

Aside the garlands thrown, and incomplete 
The rites reUnquished, what the Thebans could 
They gave : their whispering prayers the matron dame 
Addressed. With ire the angry goddess flamed, 
And thus on Cynthus' lofty top bespoke 
Her double offspring : " O my children ! see 
Your parent, proud your parent to be called, — 
To no celestial yielding, save the queen 
Of Jove supreme. I^o ! doubted is my claim 
To rites divine ; and from the altars, burnt 
To me from endless ages, driven, I go, 
Save by my children succored. Nor this grief 
Alone me irks, for Niobe me mocks ! 
Her daring crime increasing, proud she sets 
Her offspring far above you. Me too she spurns,— 
To her in number yielding ; childless calls 
My bed, and proves the impious stock which gave 
Her tongue first utterance." More Ivatona felt 
Prepared to utter ; more beseechings bland 
For her young offspring, when Apollo cried : 
" Enough, desist to plain ; — delay is long 
Till vengeance." Diana joined him in his ire. 

Swift gliding down the sky, and veiled in clouds, 
On Cadmus' roof they lighted. Wide was spread 
A level plain, by constant hoofs well beat. 
The city's walls adjoining; crowding wheels 
And coursers' feet the rolling dust upturned. 
Here of Amphion's offspring daily some 
Mount their fleet steeds ; their trappings gaily press 
Of Tyrian dye : heavy with gold, the reins 
They guide. 'Mid these Ismenos, primal born 
Of Niobe, as round the circling course 
His well-trained steed he sped, and strenuous curbed 
His foaming mouth, — loudly "Ah me ! " exclaimed, 
As through his bosom deep the dart was driven : 
Dropped from his dying hands the slackened reins ; 
Slowly and sidelong from his courser's back 


He tumbled. Sipylus gave unchecked scope 

To his, when through the empty air he heard 

The rattling quiver sound : thus speeding clouds 

Beheld, the guider of the ruling helm, 

A threatening tempest fearing, looses wide 

His every sail to catch the lightest breeze. 

I^ose flowed his reins. The inevitable dart 

The flowing reins quick followed. Quivering shooK, 

Fixed in his upper neck, the naked steel. 

Far through his throat protruding. Prone he fell 

O'er his high courser's head ; his smoking gore. 

The ground defiling. Hapless Phcedimas, 

And Tantalus, his grandsire's name who bore, 

Their accustomed sport laborious ended, strove 

With youthful vigor in the wrestling toil. 

Now breast to breast they strained with nervous grasp, 

When the swift arrow from the bended bow 

Both bodies pierced, as close both bodies joined ; 

At once they groaned ; at once their limbs they threw, 

With agonies convulsed, prone on the earth ; 

At once their rolling eyes the light forsook ; 

At once their souls were yielded forth to air. 

Alphenor saw, and smote his grieving breast ; 
Flew to their pallid limbs, and as he raised 
Their bodies, in the pious oflSce fell : 
For Phoebus drove his fate-winged arrow deep 
Through what his heart inclosed. Sudden withdrawn, 
On the barbed head the mangled lungs were stuck ; 
And high in air his soul gushed forth in blood. 
But beardless Damasichthon by a wound 
Not single fell, as those ; struck where the leg 
To form begins, and where the nervous ham 
A yielding joint supplies. The deadly dart 
To draw essaying, in his throat, full driven 
Up to the feathered head, another came : 
The sanguine flood expelled it, gushing high, 
Cutting the distant air. With outstretched arms 
Ilioneus, the last, besought in vain ; 
Exclaiming, — " Spare me, spare me, all ye gods ! " 
Witless that all not joined to cause his woe. 
The god was touched with pity, touched too late,— 
Already shot the irrevocable dart : 



Yet ligkt the blow was given, and mild the wound 
That pierced his heart, and sent his soul aloft.. 

The rumbred ill ; the mourning people's groans ; 
The servants' tears, soon made the mother know ~ 
The sudden ruin : wondering first she stands. 
To see so great Heaven's power,, then angry flames 
Indignant, that such power they dare to use. 
The sire Amphion in his bosom plunged 
His sword, and ended life at once and woe. 
Heavens ! how removed this Niobe from her 
Who drove so lately from Latona's fane 
The pious crowds ; who marched in lofty state, 
TLroUgh every street of Thebes, an envied sight ! 
Now to be wept by even her bitterest foes. 
Prostrate upon their gelid limbs she lies ; 
Now this, now that, her trembling kisses press; 
Her livid arms high-stretching unto heaven. 
Exclaims, — " Enjoy, Latona, cruel dame, 
My sorrows ;' feed on all my wretched woes ; 
Glut with my load of grief thy savage soul ; 
Feast thy fell heart with seven funereal scenes ; 
Triumph, victorious foe ! conqueror, exult ! 
Victorious ! said I ? — How ? To wretched me 
Still more are left, than joyful thou canst boast : 
Superior I midst all this loss remain." 

She spoke ; — the twanging bowstring sounded loud ! 
Terrific ooise — to all, save Niobe : 
She stood audacious, callous in her crime. 
In mourning vesture clad, with tresses loose, 
Around the funeral couches of the slain. 
The weeping sisters stood. One strives to pluck 
The deep-stuck arrow from her bowels, — falls, 
And fainting dies, her brother's clay-cold corpse 
Pressed with her lips. Another's soothing word? 
IV— 10 


Her hapless parent strive to cheer, — struck dumb, 
She bends beneath an unseen wound ; her words 
Reach not her parent till her life is fled. 
This, vainly flying, falls : that drops in death 
Upon her sister's body. One to hide 
Attempts : another pale and trembling dies. 
Six now lie breathless, each by varied wounds ; 
One sole remaining, whom the mother shields, 
Wrapt in her vest; her body o'er her flung, 
Exclaiming, — "I^eave me this, my youngest, — last, 
I/cast of my mighty- numbers, — one alone ! " 
But while she prays, the damsel prayed for dies. 

Of all deprived, the solitary dame, 
Amid the lifeless bodies of her sons. 
Her daughters, and her spouse, by sorrows steeled. 
Sits hardened : no light gale her tresses moves ; 
No blood her reddened cheeks contain ; her eyes 
Motionless glare upon her mournful face ; 
I^ife quits the statue : even her tongue congeals 
Within her stony palate ; vital floods 
Cease in her veins to flow ; her neck to bow 
Resists ; her arms to move in graceful guise ; 
Her feet to step ; and even to stone are turned 
Her inmost bowels. Still to weep she seems. 
Rapt in a furious whirlwind, distant far 
Her natal soil receives her. There fixed high 
On a hill's utmost summit, still she melts; 
Still does the rigid marble flow in tears. 





Pyramus and Thisbe. 

ThisbE, the brightest of the eastern maids ; 
And Pyramus, the pride of all the youths, 
Contiguous dwellings held, in that famed town, 
Where lofty walls of stone we learn were raised 
By bold Semiramis. Their neighboring site 
Acquaintance first encouraged, — primal step 
To further intimacy: love, in time. 
Grew from this chance connection ; and they longed 
To lawful rites : but harsh forbade 
Their rigid sires the union fate had doomed. 
With equal ardor both their minds inflamed 
Burnt fierce ; and absent every watchful spy, 
By nods and signs they spoke ; for close their love 
Concealed they kept ; — concealed, it burned more fierce. 
The severing wall a narrow chink contained, 
Formed when first reared ; — what will not love espy ? 
This chink, by all for ages past unseen. 
The lovers first espied. — This opening gave 
A passage for their voices ; safely through 
Their tender words were breathed in whisperings soft. 
Oft punctual at their posts, — on this side she. 
And Pyramus on that ;— each breathing sighs, 
By turns inhaling, have they mutual cried ; 
"Invidious wall ! why lovers thus divide? 
Much were it, did thy parts more wide recede, 
And suffer us to join ? were that too much 
A little opening more, and we might meet 
With lips at least. Yet grateful still we own 
Thy kind indulgence, which a passage gives. 
And amorous words conveys to loving ears." 
Thus they loquacious, though on sides diverse. 
Till night their converse stayed ; — then cried, "Adieu ! " 
And each imprinted kisses, which the stones 
Forbade to taste. Soon as Aurora's fires 
Removed the shades of night, and Phoebus' rays 
From the moist earth the dew exhaled, they meet 
As 'customed at the wall : lamenting deep, 
As wont in murmuring whispers : bold they plan, 


Their guards evading in the silent night, 

To pass the outer gates. Then, when escaped 

From home, to leave the city's dangerous shades 

But lest, in wandering o'er the spacious plains 

They miss to meet, at Ninus' sacred tomb 

They fix their assignation, — hid concealed 

Beneath the umbrageous leaves. There grew a tree, 

Close bordering on a cooling fountain's brink ; 

A stately mulberry; — snow-white fruit hung thick 

On every branch. The plot pleased well the pair. 

And now slow seems the car of Sol to sink ; 
Slow from the ocean seems the night to ^ise ; 
Till Thisbe, cautious, by the darkness veiled. 
Soft turns the hinges, and her guards beguiles. 
Her features veiled, the tomb she reaches, — sits 
Beneath the appointed tree : love makes her bold. 
I<o ! comes a lioness,— her jaws besmeared 
With gory foam, fresh from the slaughtered herd. 
Deep in the adjoining fount her thirst to slake. 
Far off the Babylonian maid beheld 
By I/Una's rays the horrid foe, — quick fled 
With trembling feet, and gained a darksome cave : 
Flying, she dropped and left her robe behind. 
Now had the savage beast her thirst allayed. 
And backward to the forest roaming, found 
The veiling robe, its tender texture rent, 
And smeared the spoil with bloody jaws. The youth 
(With later fortune his strict watch escaped) 
Saw the plain footsteps of a monster huge 
Deep in the sand indented ! — O'er his face 
Pale terror spread : but when the robe he saw, 
With blood besmeared and mangled ; loud he cried, — 
" One night shall close two lovers' eyes in death ! 
She most deserving of a longer date ; 
Mine is the fault alone. Dear luckless maid ! 
I have destroyed thee ; — I, who bade thee keep 
Nocturnal meetings in this dangerous place. 
And came not first to shield thy steps from harm. 
Ye lions, wheresoe'er within those caves 
Ye lurk ! haste hither, — tear me limb from limb ! 
Fierce ravaging devour, and make my tomb 
Your horrid entrails," But for deatU to wish 


A coward's turn may serve. The robe he takes, 
Once Thisbe's, and beneath the appointed tree 
Bearing it, bathed in tears ; With ardent hps 
Oft fondly kissing, thus he desperate cries ; — 
' ' Now with my blood be also bathed !— drink deep ! " 
And in his body plunged the sword, that i-ound 
His loins hung ready girt : then as he died, 
Hasty withdrew, hot reeking from the wound, 
The steel ; and backwards falling, pressed the earth. 
High spouts the sanguine flood ! thus forth a pipe 
(The lead decayed,, or damaged) sends a stream 
Contracted from the breach ; upspringing high , 
And loudly hissing, as the air it breaks 
With-jets repeated. Sprinkled with the blood. 
The tree's white fruit a purple tinge received ; 
Deep soaked with blood the roots convey the stain 
Inly, and tinge each bough with Tyrian dye. 

Now Thisbe comes, with terror trembling still, 
Fearful ^he Pyramus expecting waits : 
Him seek her beating bosom and her eyes ; 
Anxious the peril she escaped to tell. 
Well marked her eyes the place, — and well the tree ; 
The berries changed in color, long she doubts 
The same or no. While hesitating- thus. 
The panting members quivering she beholds, 
Upon the sanguined turf; and back recoils I 
Paler than box her features grow ; her limbs 
More tremble than when ocean fretful sounds, 
Its surface briskly by the breezes swept. 
Nor long the pause, her lover soon is known ; 
And now her harmless breast with furious blows 
She punishes : her tresses wild she rends ; 
Clasps the loved body; and the gaping wound 
Fills with her tears, — their droppings with the blood 
linmingling. On his clay-cold face she pressed 
Her kisses, crying: "Pyramus! what chance 
Has torn thee from me thus ? My Pyramus ! 
Answer me, — 'tis thy dearest Thisbe speaks ! 
She calls thee,— hear me, — raise that dying face ! " 
At Thisbe's name, his lids, with death hard weighed. 
He raised — beheld her, — and forever closed. 

Him dying thus, — ^her lacerated veil, 


The ivory scabbard emptied of its sword, 

She saw, — at once the truth upon her mind 

Flashed quick. ' ' Alas ! thy hand, by love impelled, 

Has wrought thy ruin : but to me the hand. 

In this, at least, shall equal force display, 

For equal was my love ; and love will grant 

SufiScient strength the deadly wound to give. 

In death I'll follow thee ; with justice called 

Thy ruin's wretched cause, — but comrade too. 

Thou, whom but death seemed capable to part 

From me, shalt find even death too weak will prove. 

Ye wretched mourning parents, his and mine ! 

The dying prayers respect of him, — of me : 

Grant that, entombed together, both may rest; 

A pair by faithful love conjoined, — by death 

United close. And thou, fair tree, which shad'st 

Of one the miserable corpse; and two 

Soon with thy boughs wilt cover, — ^bear the ma^k 

Of the sad deed eternal ; — tinged be thy fruit 

With mournful coloring — monumental type 

Of double slaughter." Speaking thus, she placed 

The steely point, while yet with blood it smoked, 

Beneath her swelling breast; and forward fell. 

Her final prayer reached heaven ; her parents reached : 

Purple the berries blush, when ripened full; 

And in one urn the lovers' ashes rest. 

Baucis and Philemon. 

Two neighboring trees, with walls encompass' d round. 
Stand on a moderate rise, with wonder shown ; 
One a hard oak, a softer linden one : 
I saw the place and them, by Pittheus sent 
To Phrygian realms, my grandsire's government. 
Not far from thence is seen a lake, the haunt 
Of coots and of the fishing cormorant : 
Here Jove with Hermes came ; but in disguise 
Of mortal men concealed their deities ; 
One laid aside his thunder,. one his rod, 
And many toilsome steps together trod : 
For harbor at a thousand doors they knocked ; ■ 
Not one of all the thousand but was locked. 


At last a hospitable house they found, 
A homely shed ; the roof, not far from ground, 
Was thatched, with reeds and straw together bound. 
There Baucis and Philemon lived, and there 
Had lived long married, and a happy pair : 
Now old in love, though little was their store. 
Inured to want, their poverty they bore. 
Nor aimed at wealth, professing to be poor. 
For master or for servant here to call 
Were all alike, where only two were all. 
Command was none, where equal love was paid. 
Or rather both commanded, both obeyed. 

From lofty roofs the gods repulsed before, 
Now stooping, entered through the little door : 
The man (their hearty welcome first expressed) 
A common settle drew for either guest. 
Inviting each his weary limbs to rest. 
But ere they sat, officious Baucis lays 
Two cushions stuffed with straw, the seat to raise ; 
Coarse, but the best she had; then rakes- the load 
Of ashes from the hearth, and spreads abroad 
The living coals ; and, lest they should expire. 
With leaves and bark she feeds her infant fire. 
It smokes ; and then with trembling breath she blows. 
Till in a cheerful blaze the flames arose. 
With brushwood and with chips she strengthens these, 
And adds at last the boughs of rotten trees. 
The fire t;hus formed, she sets the kettle on 
(Like burnished gold the little seether shone ;) 
Next took the coleworts which her husband got 
From his own ground (a small, well-watered spot ;) 
She stripped the stalks of all their leaves ; the best 
She culled, and them with handy care shedressed. 
High o'er the hearth a chine of bacon hung ; 
Good old Philemon seized it with a prong. 
And from the sooty rafter drew it down. 
Then cut a slice, but scarce enough for one ; 
Yet a large portion of a little store. 
Which for their sakes alone he wished were more. 
This in the pot he plunged without delay. 
To tame the flesh and drain the salt away. 
The time between, before the fire they sat. 


And shortened the delay by pleasing chat. 

A beam there was, on -which a be6chen pail 

Hung by the handle on a driven nail : 

This filled with water, gently warmed, they set 

Before their guests ; in this they bathed their feet, 

And after with clean towels dried their sweat. 

This done, the host produced the genial bed, 

Sallow the feet, the borders, and the stead. 

Which with no costly coverlet they spread, 

But coarse old garments ; yet such robes as these 

They lay alone at feasts on holydays. 

The good old housewife, tucking up her gown. 

The table sets ; the invited gods lie down. 

The trivet-table of a foot was lame, 

A blot which prudent Baucis overcame, 

"Who thrust beneath the limping leg a sherd ; 

So was thp mended board exactly reared ; 

Then rubbed it o'er with newly-gathered mint, 

A wholesome herb, that breathed a grateful scent. 

Pallas began the feast, where first was seen 

The party-colored olive, black and green ; 

Autumnal cornels next in order served. 

In lees of wine well pickled and preserved. 

A garden salad was the third supply. 

Of endives, radishes, and succory : 

Then curds and cream, the flower of country fare, 

And new-laid eggs, which Baucis' busy care 

Turned by a gentle fire, and roasted rare. 

All these in earthenware were served to board, 

And, next in place, an earthen pitcher stored 

With liquor of the best the dottage could afford. 

This was the table's ornament and pride. 

With figures wrought : like pages at his side 

Stood beecheii bowls ; and these were shining clean, 

Varnished with wax without, and lined within. 

By this the boiling kettle had prepared 

And to the table sent the smoking lard ; 

On which with eager appetite th6y dine, 

A savory bit, that served to relish wine ; 

The wine itself was suiting to the rest, 

Still working in the must, and lately pressed. 

The second course succeeds like that before. 


Plums, apples, nuts ; and of their wintry store 
Dry figs, and grapes, and wrinkled dates were set 
In canisters, to enlarge the little treat : 
All these a milk-white honey-comb surround, 
"Which in the midst' a country banquet crowned : 
But the kind hosts their entertainment grace 
With hearty welcome and an open face : 
In all they did, you might discern with ease 
A willing mind and a desire to please. 

Meanwhile the beechen bowls went round and still, 
Though often emptied, were observed to fill : 
Filled without hands, and, of their own accord, 
Ran without feet, and danced about the board. 
Devotion seized the pair, to see the feast 
With wine, and of no common grape, increased ; 
And up they held their hands^ and fell to prayer, 
Kxcusing, as they could, their country fare. 

One goose they had ('twas all they could allow), 
A wakeful sentry, and on duty now. 
Whom to the g6ds for sacrifice they vow : 
Heir with malicious zeal the couple viewed ; 
She ran for life, and limping they pursued ; 
Full well the fowl perceived their bad intent, 
And would not make her master's compliment ; 
But persecuted, to the powers she flies. 
And close between the legs of Jove she Hes : 
He with a gracious ear the supplidnt heard, 
And saved her lifej then what he was declared. 
And owned the god, "The neighborhood," said he, 
' ' Shall justly perish for impiety ; 
You stand alone exempted : but obey 
With spe^d, and follow where we lead the way : 
I^eave these accursed, and to the inountaiu's height 
Ascend, nor once look backward in your flight." 

They haste, and what their tardy feet denied. 
The trusty staff (their better leg) supplied. 
An arrow's flight they wanted to the top. 
And there secure, but spent with travel, stop ; 
They turn their now no more forbidden eyes ; 
lyost in a lake the floated level lies : 
A watery desert covers all the plains. 
Their cot alone, as in an isle, remains. 


Wondering, with weeping eyes, while they deplore 
Their neighbors' fate and country now no more ; 
Their little shed, scarce large enough for two, 
Seems, from the -ground increased, in height and bulk 

to grow. 
A stately temple shoots within the skies^ 
The crotches of their cot in columns rise; 
The pavement polished marble they behold. 
The gates with sculpture graced, the spires and tiles 
of gold. 

Then thus the sire of gods, with looks serene : 
" Speak thy desire, thou only just of men ; 
And thou, O woman, only worthy found 
To be with such a man in marriage bound." 

A while they whisper ; then, to Jove addressed, 
Philemon thus prefers their joint request: 
" We crave to serve before your sacred shrine. 
And offer at your altar rites divine : 
And since not any action of our life 
Has been polluted with domestic strife, 
We beg one hour of death, that neither she 
With widow's tears may live to bury me, 
Nor weeping I, with withered arms, may bear 
My breathless Baucis to the sepulchre," 
The godheads sign their suit. They run their race. 
In the same tenor, all the appointed space: 
Then, when their hour was come, while they relate 
These past adventures ,at the temple gate. 
Old Baucis is by old Philemon seen 
Sprouting with sudden leaves of sprightly green : 
Old Baucis looked where old Philemon stood, 
And saw his lengthen' d arms a sprouting wood : 
New roots their fastened feet begin to bind. 
Their bodies stiffen in a rising rind : 
, Then, ere the bark above their shoulders grew. 
They give and take at once their last adieu. 
At once "Farewell, O faithful spouse," they said ; 
At once the encroaching rinds their closing lips invade. 
Even yet, an ancient Tyansean shows 
A spreading oak, that near a linden grows ; 
The neighborhood confirm the prodigy, 
Grave men, not vain of tongue, or like to lie ; 


I saw myself the garlands on their boughs, 

And tablets hung for gifts of granted vows ; 

And offering fresher up, with pious prayer, 

"The good," said I, " are God's peculiar care. 

And such as honor Heaven shall heavenly honor share." 


Through the patronage of the Emperor Augustus, ama- 
tory or erotic poetry received a powerful impulse and rose to 
a high position. . The Roman names that overshadow all 
others in this variety of lyric, are those of TibuUus, Propertius 
and Ovid, who excelled their Greek models. 

Albius TibuUus came of an equestrian family "whose estate 
was near Tibur. Here he passed most of his brief life. The 
inspiration for the first of his three books of elegies arose out 
of his attachment to Delia, a real personage. When Delia 
proved faithless, the poet's love was transferred to Nemesis, 
the subject of the second book. Later he turned to Glycera, 
probably the Glycera mentioned by Horace, and to her the 
third book is devoted. The fourth book is a sort of supple- 
ment, containing pieces by TibuUus and some of his friends, 
one of -whom was a lady. 

TibuUus is a poet of refined taste ; his verses are smooth 
and polished ; his metres are varied, and ialways skillfully 
handled. He was much esteemed by Horace, and still occu- 
pies the first place in Roman elegy, which, like the Greek, 
permitted a wide range of personal feeling. 

Elegy to Delia. 

Oh ! I was harsh to say that I could part 
From thee ; but, Delia, I am bold no more ! 

Driven like a top, which boys with ready art 
Keep spinning round upon a level floor. 

Bum, lash me, love, if ever after this 
By me one cruel, blustering word is said ; 

Yet spare, I pray thee by our sJ;olen bliss. 
By mighty Venus and thy comely head. 


When thou didst lie by fell disease o'erpowered, 
I rescued thee, by prayers, from death's domain ; 

Pure sulphur's cleansing fumes I round thee showered, 
While an enchantress sung a magic strain. 

Yes — and another now enjoys the prize, 

And reaps the fruit of all my vows for thee ; 

Foolish, I dreamed of life 'neath golden skies, 
Wert thou but saved — not such great Heaven's decree. 

I said — I'll till my fields, she'll guard my store 
When crops are threshed in autumn's burning heat ; 

She'll keep my grapes in baskets brimming o'er. 
And my rich must* expressed by nimble feet. 

She'll count my flock ; some home-born slave of mine 
Will prattle in my darling's lap and play : 

To rural god ripe clusters for the vine, 

Sheaves for my crops, cates for my fold, she'll pay. 

Slaves — all shall own her undisputed rule ; 

Myself a cypher — how the thought would please ; 
Here will Messala come, for whom she'll pull 

The sweetest apples from the choicest trees ; 

And, honoring one so great, for him prepare 

And serve the banquet with her own white hands. 

Fond dream ! which now the east and south winds bear 
Away to far Armenia's spicy lands. 

SutPiciA ON Cerinthtjs Going to the Chase. 

Whether, fierce boars, in flowery meads ye stray. 
Or haunt the shady mountain's devious way. 
Whet not your teeth against my dear one's charms, 
But oh, let faithful l,ove restore him to my arms. 

What madness 'tis the trackless wilds to beat, 
And wound with pointed thorns thy tender feet : 
Oh ! why to savage beast thy charms oppose ? 
With toils and bloodhounds why their haunts enclose ? 

Yet, yet with thee, Cerinthus, might I rove. 
Thy nets I'd trail through every mountain grove, 

* The unfermented juice of the grape. 


Woula track the bounding stags througli tainted grounds. 

Beat up their covers and unchain thy hounds. 

But most to spread our artful toils I'd joy, 

For, while we watched J:hem, I could clasp my boy ! 

Oh, without me, ne'er taste the joys of love. 
But a chaste hunter in my absence prove ; 
And oh, may boars the wanton fair destroy. 
Who would Cerinthus to her arms decoy ! 
Yet, yet I dread 1 — Be sports thy father's care; 
But thou, all love ! to these fond arms repair ! 


' Nbver shall woman's smile have power 
To win me from those gentle charms ! " — 
Thus swore I in that happy hour 
When l/ove first gave them to my arms. 

And still alone thou charm' st my sight- 
Still, though our city proudly shine 

With forms and faces fair and bright, 
I see none fair or bright but thine. 

Would thou wert fair for only me 
And couldst no heart but mine allure ! — 

To all men else uhpleasing be. 
So shall I feel my prize secure. 

Oh, love like mine ne'er wants the zest 
Of others' envy, others' praise ; 

But, in its silence safely blest. 
Broods over a bliss it ne'er betrays. 

Charm of my life ! by whose sweet power 
All cares are hushed, all ills subdued — 

My light in even the darkest hour. 
My crowd in deepest solitude ! 

No ; not though Heaven itself sent down 

Some maid of more than heavenly charms. 
With bliss undreamt thy bard to crowh, 

WovM I for ber forsake tbose charms. 



The social and domestic relations of Propertius bear a 
striking resemblance to those of Tibullus. Both were of 
good parentage ; both suffered from the public distribution of 
land occasioned by the civil war ; both derived their poetical 
inspiration from the objects of their love, and both were re- 
moved by death before reaching the prime of life. 

Sextus Aurelius Propertius, bom about 50 B.C., died at 
the age of thirty-five. He formed one of the brilliant coterie 
of Maecenas, and was on intimate terms with Ovid and Virgil, 
but his literary tastes differed somewhat from those of his 
colleagues. He was still more attracted by the complete 
mastery of form shown by the Alexandrian school. Besides 
the erotic elegies addressed to his mistress Cynthia, Proper- 
tius wrote various pieces relating to the early history of Rome. 
He was a man of extensive learning, thoroughly versed in 
Greek mythology, the repeated allusions to which frequently 
interrupt the course of his theme, and destroy sequence and 
coherency of thought. He makes a display of his learning 
in the use of Greek idioms, by which his style is rendered 
cramped, forced, and often inharmonious. The poetry of 
Propertius is passionate, sometimes licentious, but it does not 
approach that of Ovid in flagrant indelicacy. 

The Image oe Love. 

Had he not hands of rare device, whoe'er 

First painted I^ove in figure of a boy ? 
He saw what thoughtless beings lovers were, 

Who blessings lose, whilst lightest cares employ, 
Nor added he those airy wings in vain. 

And bade through human hearts the godhead fly; 
For we are tossed upon a wavering main ; 

Our gale, inconstant, veers around the sky. 
Nor, without cause, he grasps those barbed darts. 

The Cretan quiver o'er his shoulder cast ; 
Ere we suspect a foe, he strikes our hearts ; 

And those inflicted wounds forever last. 


In me are fixed those arrows — in my breast ; 

But, sure, his wings are shorn, the boy remains ; 
For never takes he flight, nor knows he rest ; 

Stilly still I feel him warring through my veins. 
In these scorched vitals dost thou joy to dwell? 

Oh, shame ! to others let thine arrows flee ; 
I,et veins, untouched, with all thy venom swell ; 

Not me thou torturest, but the shade of me. 
Destroy me, — who shall then describe the fair ? 

This my light Muse to thee high glory brings ; 
When the nymphs' tapering fingers, flowing hair. 

And eyes of jet, and gliding feet, she sings. 

Love's Dream Realized. 

Not in his Dardan triumph so rejoiced the great Atrides, 
When fell the mighty kingdom of Laomedon of yore , 

Not so Ulysses, when he moored his wave-worn raft beside his 
Beloved Dulichian island hom§ — his weary wanderings o'er; 

As I, when last eve's rosy joys I ruminated over : 
To me another eve like that were immortality ! 

A while before with downcast head I walked a pining lover — 
More useless I had grown, 'twas said, than water-tank run dry. 

No more my darling passes me with silent recognition, 
Nor can she sit unmoved while I outpour my tender vow. 

I wish that I had sooner realized this blest condition ; 
'Tis pouring living water on a dead man's ashes now. 

In vain did others seek my love, in vain they called upon her. 
She leaned her head upon my breast, was kind as girl could be. 

Of conquered Parthians talk no more, I've gained a nobler honor. 
For she'll be spoils, and leaders, and triumphal car to me. 

I/ight of my life ! say, shall my bark reach shore with gear be- 
Or, dashed amid the breakers, with her cargo run aground ? 
With thee it lies ; but if, perchance, through fault of my com- 
Thou giv'st me o'er, before thy door let my cold corpse be found. 


Period III. a.d. 1150-1300. 

^i] HE wonderful revival of Persian literature after 
the Mohammedan invasion has already been 
treated.* The most distinguished writers of 
this era were the epic poet Firdausi and the 
pessimist Omar Khayyam. The singers of the 
twelfth century devoted themselves, almost indiscrim- 
inately, to praising the princes of their times. The chief 
panegyrist was Anwari, originally a poor student in the town 
of Tus. The Sultan and his suite happened to pass near the 
college grounds' one day. One of his attendants being more 
magnificently mounted and gorgeously appareled than the 
rest, Anwari asked a bystander who he was. On being told 
that it was the court poet, the youth, fired with ambition, 
prepared a poem, which was presented to the sovereign the 
next day. The Sultan, finding it full of praise of himself, 
was so pleased that he offered the young man a position at 
once, which was accepted. Anwari attended him until his 
death. He wrote a few long poems and some simple lyrics. 
The greatest romantic poet of Persia was Nizami, who wrote 
five works known as "The Five Treasures of Nizami." Sadi 
says of him: "Gone is Nizami, our exquisite pearl, which 
Heaven, in its kindness, formed of the purest dew." 

The thirteenth century has been called the mystical and 
mpral age of Persian poetry. At this time Genghis Khan, 
the Tartar chief, swept over Asia like a whirlwind. Bokhara, 


*See Volume II., pp. 169-215. 


Samarcand, and Bagdad, those centres of Mohammedan civili- 
zation, were devastated, their colleges and libraries utterly- 
destroyed, and their men of learning driven to seek safety 
elsewhere. During these troubles the most illustrious of 
the Seljuk Turks was reigning at Iconium, in Asia Minor. 
Alauddin Kaikubad, as he was called, was well known as a 
lover and patron of letters ; and his court became the refuge 
of scholars from all the Asiatic nations. The brightest orna- 
ment of this court was Jelaleddin Rumi, the mystic poet and 
philosopher. His father was the founder of a college in 
Iconium, of which he, himself, afterwards became director. 
His fame rests on his "Mesnavi," a work in six volumes, 
which is a series of stories with moral maxims. 

The most important writer of the third period was Sadi, 
whose " Gulistan," or Rose Garden, is one of the most popu- 
lar of the Persian classics. His " Bustan," or Fruit Garden, 
teaches lessons of morality and prudence in the form of 
poetry. Both of these works have been translated into Ger- 
man, French and English, and have found many admirers. 
His other writings are of less merit. 


Khakani was the poetical name of Efsal-ed-din Hakaiki, and was 
derived from that of his patron Khakan Manughir, Prince of Shirvan. 
Having absented himself from court without permission, he was 
imprisoned for seven months in a fortress, where he had intercourse 
with Christian captives. . He wrote a poem in favor of their views, yet 
he remained a pious Moslem and mjsdle the pilgrimage to Mecca. He 
was the most learned of the lyric poets of Persia. He died at Tabriz in 
1186 A.D. 

The Unknown Beauty. 

O waving cypress ! cheek of rose ! 

P jasmine-breathing bosom ! say, 
Tell me each charm that round her glows ; 

Who are ye that my heart betray ; 
Tyrant unkind ! to whom I bow, 

life destroyer ! — who art thou ? 

1 saw thy form of waving grace ! 

I heard thy soft and gentle sighs ; 



I gazed on that enchanting face, 

And looked in thy narcissus eyes ; 
Oh ! by the hopes thy smiles allow, 
Bright sotil-inspirer ! — who are thou? 

Where'er she walks, amidst the shades, 
Where perfumed hyacinths unclose. 

Danger her ev'ry glance pervades — 
Her bow is bent on friends and foes. 

Thy rich cheek shames the rose — thy brow 

Is like the young moon— who art thou? 

The poet-slave has dared to drain 
Draughts of thy beauty, till his soul, 

Confused and lost in pleasing pain, 
Is fled beyond his own control. 

What bliss can life accord me now 

But once to know thee ! — who art thou? 


NizAMi, the greatest romantic poet of Persia, was born in 
1 1 14 A.D. and died in 1203. The early death of his parents 
threw a gloom over his life, so that he loved solitude and med- 
itation. Gunja, where he spent most of his days, was full of 
Sunnites, — an austere sect, orthodox and bigoted; and the 
poet, first taking his tone from them, wrote in a didactic 
manner, full of gloom and asceticism. Becoming a Sufi or 
mystic, he changed his entire mode of thought about religion, 
art, and life, and ceasing to moralize he simply depicted the 
passions and struggles of humanity. Nizami was the favorite 
of the reigning Atabeg, from whom he received the revenues 
of two villages ; but he haughtily refused to remain at court, 
preferring a life of independence and isolation. 

His love songs are the most beautiful in the Persian tongue, 
and his great poem of "Laili andMajnun" is unrivalled in its 
sorrowful tenderness and purity. Every nation has its favorite 
romance, and to Persia none is so dear as that of Nizami. 
It is the story of two lovers, the maiden beautiful and lowly- 
bom, the youth a chieftain's son. They are parted and mourn 
each other with a very madness of grief. Laili is wedded, 


in Spite of her tears and protests, to one who woos her father 
■with gold. Her husband dies unexpectedly. Laili flies to 
her lover. They meet and embrace with an ecstasy of joy, 
when suddenly Majnun remembers that he cannot marry a 
widow according to Arab law. He flies from Laili, and she 
returns to her rocky home and dies of a broken heart. Majnun 
is allowed to weep over her beautiful corpse, and then he dies 
too ; after which, let us hope, the lovers meet happily in 
Paradise, and are rewarded for their devotion and sufferings. 
Before the composition of this masterpiece Nizami had written 
a didactic poem called "The Storehouse of Mysteries," and 
an epic, "Khosru and Shireen," founded on an old Persian 
story. Afterwards he recited in heroic verse the exploits of 
Alexander the Great, describing him not only as conqueror of . 
the world, but as philosopher and prophet. Finally he wrote 
a book of romantic tales called "The Seven Beauties." 

Ferhad the Sculptor. 

The first epic of Nizami was " Ktosru and Shireen," which relates 
the loTe story, of the King of Persia and the beautiful Princess Shi;reen. 
Ferhad was an eminent sculptor whose passionate love for the same 
maiden gave the monarch vexation. To remove him from his court 
the king required him to hew a channel for a river through the lofty 
mountain of Beysitoun, and to decorate it with sculpture. He prom- 
ised also that if Ferhad should accomplish this stupendous task, he 
should receive as his bride the object of his love. The enamored artist 
accepted the work on this condition. It is related that as he struck the 
rock, he constantly invoked the name of Shireen. 

On lofty Beysitoun the lingering sun 
Looks down on ceaseless labors, long begun ; 
The mountain trembles to the echoing sound 
Of falling rocks that from her sides rebound. 
Each day, all respite, all repose, denied. 
Without a pause the thundering strokes are plied ; 
The mist of night around the summit coils. 
But still Ferhad, the lover-artist, toils. 
And still, the flashes of his axe between, 
He sighs to every wind, "Alas, Shireen !" 
A hundred arms are weak one block to move 
Of thousands moulded by the hand of love 


Into fantastic shapes and forms of grace, 

That crowd each nook of that majestic place. 

The piles give way, the rocky peaks divide, 

The stream comes gushing on, a foaming tide, — 

A mighty work for ages to remain. 

The token of his passion and his pain. 

As flows the milky flood from Allah's throne, 

Rushes the torrent from the yielding stone. 

And, sculptured there, amazed, stern Khosru stands, 

And frowning sees obeyed his harsh commands : 

While she, the fair beloved, with being rife, 

Awakes from glowing marble into life. 

O hapless youth ? O toil repaid by woe ! 

A king thy rival, and the world thy foe. 

Will she wealth, splendor, pomp, for thee resign, 

And only genius, truth, and passion thine ? 

Around the pair, lo ! chiselled courtiers wait, 

And slaves and pages grouped in solemn state; 

From columns imaged wreaths their garlands throw, 

And fretted roofs with stars appear to glow : 

Fresh leaves and blossoms seem around to spring, 

And feathered throngs their loves seem murmuring. 

.The hands of Peris might have wrought those stems 

Where dew-drops hang their fragile diadems. 

And strings of pearl and sharp-cut diamonds shine. 

New from the wave, or recent from the mine. 

"Alas, Shireen ! " at every stroke he cries, — 

At every stroke fresh miracles arise. 

"For thee my life one ceaseless toil has been ; 

Inspire my soul anew,— alas, Shireen !" 

Ferhad achieved his task, and with such exquisite skill and taste, 
that the most expert statuaries and polishers from every part of the 
world, coming to behold his works, bit the finger of astonishment and 
were confounded at the genius of that distracted lover. Ferhad was 
pausing, weary, at the completion of his toil, with his chisel in his 
hand; when his treacherous rival sent him the false message that 
Shireen was dead. 

He heard the fatal news, — no word, no groan ; 
He spoke not, moved not, stood transfixed to stone. 
Then, with a frenzied start, he raised on high 
His arms, and wildly tossed them towards the sky ; , 

CnpYHIfhT tlOO 



Far in the wide expanse his axe te flung, 

And from the precipice at once he sprung. 

The rocks, the sculptured caves, the valleys green, 

Sent back his dying cry, — "Alas, Shireen ! " ' 

The Eye of Charity. 

One evening Jesus lingered in the market-place. 
Teaching the people parables of truth and grace. 
When in the square remote a crowd was seen to rise. 
And stop with loathing gestures and abhorring cries. 

The Master and his meek disciples went to see 
What cause for this commotion and disgust could be, 
And found a poor dead dog beside the gutter laid ; 
Revolting sight ! at which each face its hate betrayed. 

One held his nose, one shut his eyes, one turned away ; 
And all among themselves began atloud to say, — 
" Detested creature ! he pollutes the earth and air ! " 
" His eyes- are blear ! " " His ears are foul ! " "His ribs are 

'•' In his torn hide there's not a decent shoe-string left ! " 
' ' No doubt the execrable cur was hung for theft ! ' ' 
Then Jesus spake, and dropped on him this saving wreath, — 
' ' Even pearls are dark before the whiteness of his teeth ! ' ' 

The pelting crowd grew silent and ashamed, like one 
Rebuked by sight of wisdom higher than his own ; 
And one exclaimed, ' ' No creature so accursed can be, 
But some good thing in him a loving eye will see." 

The Oriental Alexander. 

The "Alexander-Book" is the latest of Nii;ami's works which 
has been brought to the knowledge of Western scholars. The follow- 
ing verses show how the character of the mighty conqueror had been 
transformed by Oriental imagination. 

Some entitle him I<ord of the Throne, 

Taker of kingdoms — nay more, Master of the whole world : 

Some, regarding the Vizier of his Court [Aristotle], 

Inscribe his diploma with the name of Sage ; 

Some, for his purity and devotion to the Faith, 

Give him admission to the order of the Prophets. 


The World Beyond. 

According to Nizami, Alexander the Great set out on a second 
expedition, through the world. After making proper arrangements he 
proceeded from Macedonia to Alexandria, thence to Jerusalem, then by 
way of Africa to Andalusia. While in Africa he desired to reach the 
unfound sources of the Nile. After a long march over mountain and 
valley, he came at last to a steeply ascending mountain, in color 
resembling " green glass," from which flows down the river Nile. Of 
the people sent up thither not one came back. At last a man is 
despatched, accompanied by his son, with orders that, arrived at the 
summit, he should write what he had seen, and throw down the billet 
to his son, who is to wait for him below. The son returns without his 
father, but with the following message : 

He gave to the King the paper, and the King read written 

thereon : 
" From the toilsomeness of the way, 
My soul fainted within me from terror, 
For I seemed to be treading the road to Hell. 
The path was contracted to a hair's-breadth. 
And whoever trod it washed his hands of life. 
For in this path, which was slender as a hair. 
There appeared no means of again coming down. 
When I arrived at the rocky mound of the summit, 
I was in an utter strait from the straitness of the way. 
All that I beheld on the side which I had seen tore my 

heart to pieces, 
And my judgment was annihilated by its perilous aspect. 
But on the other side the way was without a blemish. 
Delight upon delight, garden upon garden, 
Full of fruit, and verdure, and water, and roses ; 
The whole region resounding with the melody of birds, 
The air soft, and the landscape so charming, 
That you might say, God had granted it6 every wish. 
On this side all was life and beauty. 
On the other side all was disturbance and ruin ; 
Here was Paradise, there the semblance of Hell — 
Who would come to Hell and desert Paradise ? 
Think of that desert through which we wended, 
Look whence we came, and at what we have arrived ! 
Who would have the heart from this lovely spot 


Again to set a foot in that intricate track ? 
Here I remain, King, and bid thee adieu ; 
And mayst thou be happy as I am happy ! " 


SuPiSM appeared among tlie Mohammedans as early as 
the ninth century, as a sort of reaction against the formalism 
of their religion. The central idea of this system is that 
" nothing really exists except God; that the human soul is 
an emanation from His essence and will finally be restored to 
Him." The doctrine was a revival of the principles of the 
sage Zoroaster, but it was modified by the effort to bring it 
into harmony with the Koran, now supreme. Persian litera- 
ture is full of an ardent natural pantheism, and her chief poets, 
except Sadi, wrote with an occult and mystic significance. 
For instance, Hafiz sang of women and wine, but his admirers 
found in these raptures the symbols of his union with the 
Divine. To Western intelligence this seems exaggerated and 
improbable ; but unquestionably the Persian poets did often 
convey, in their verse, sacred hidden meanings, for the benefit 
of the initiated. This may be called their esoteric manner. 
For the exoteric, they as unquestionably wrote that which 
was, on the face of it, deeply religious and significant. 

Six of the seven great poets who are called " The Persian 
Pleiades ' ' were Sufis. One of- the chief of these, Jelaleddin, 
was born at Balkh in 1207 a.d., but in childhood was taken 
to Asia Minor, where he succeeded his father as head of a 
college in Iconium. Asia Minor was then and is still called 
by the Mohammedans Rum (or Roum), as having been part 
of the Roman empire. Jelaleddin, from his residence there, 
obtained the surname Rumi, ' ' the Roman. " He was converted 
to mysticism by a wandering Sufi named Shamsuddin, who 
aroused the indignation of the populace against himself by 
his aggressive manner. Ajiot ensued in which Rumj's son 
was killed. His friend and teacher was afterwards executed. 
In memory of these beloved dead the poet founded an order 
of dervishes famous for their piety, their mourning, and their 
mystic dances. Those latter symbolize the circling spheres 


and the inner vibrations of the Sufi's love for God. The 
order still exists, in cloisters, throughout the Turkish Empire; 
and the leadership has remained in Rumi's family over six 
hundred years. Rumi himself is worshipped as a saint. 
His great masterpiece is the "Mesnavi," or "Spiritual Math- 
nawi," a collection of ethical and moral precepts, anecdotes, 
comments on verses of the Koran, and sayings of the pro- 
phets. Rumi died in 1273 a.d. 

The Merchant and the Parrot. 

There was once a merchant, who had a parrot, 
A parrot fair to view, confined in a cage ; 
And when the merchant prepared for a journey, 
He resolved to bend his way towards Hindustan. 
Every servant and maiden in his generosity 
He asked, what present he should bring them home, 
And each one named what he severally wished. 
And to each one the good master promised his desire. 
Then he said to the parrot, " And what gift wishest thou, 
That I should bring to thee from Hindustan ? ' ' 
The parrot replied, ' ' When thou seest the parrots there, 
Oh, bid them know of my condition. 
Tell them, ' A parrot, who longs for your company. 
Through Heaven's decree is confined in my cage. 
He sends you his salutation, and demands his right, 
And seeks from you help and counsel. 
He says, ' Is it right that I in my longings 
Should pine and die in this prison through separation? 
Is it right that I should be here fast in this cage, 
While you dance at will on the grass and the trees ? 
Is this the fidelity of friends, 
I here in a prison, and you in a grove ? 
Oh remember, I pray you, that bower of ours, 
And our morning-draughts in the olden time ; 
Oh remember all our ancient friendships. 
And all the festive days of our intercourse ! ' " 
The merchant received its message, 
The salutation which he was to bear to its fellows ; 
And when he came to the borders of Hindustan, 
He beheld a number of parrots in the desert. 


He Stayed his liorse, and he lifted his voice, 

And he repeated his message, and deposited his trust ; 

And one of those parrots suddenly fluttered. 

And fell to the ground, and presently died. 

Bitterly did the merchant repent his words ; 

"I have slain," he cried, "a living creature. 

Perchance this parrot and my little bird were close of kin, 

Their bodies perchance were two and their souls one. 

Why did I this ? why gave I the message ? 

I have consumed a helpless victim by my foolish words ! 

My tongue is as flint, and my lips as steel ; 

And the words that burst from them are sparks of fire. 

Strike not together in thy folly the flint and steel, 

Whether for the sake of kind words or vain boasting ; 

The world around is as a cotton-field by night ; 

In the midst of cotton, how shall the spark do no harm ? " 

The merchant at length completed his traffic, 
And he returned right glad to his home once more. 
To every servant he brought a present, 
To every maiden he gave a token ; 
And the parrot said, ' ' Where is my present ? 
Tell all that thou hast said and seen ! ' ' 
He answered, ' ' I repeated thy complaints 
To that company of parrots, thy old companions. 
And one of those birds, when it inhaled the breath of thy 

Broke its heart, and fluttered, and died." 
And when the parrot heard what its fellow had done, 
It too fluttered, and, fell down, and died. 
When the merchant beheld it thus fall. 
Up he sprang, and dashed his cap to the ground. 
" Oh, alas ! " he cried, "my sweet and pleasant parrot. 
Companion of my bosom and sharer of my secrets ! 
Oh alas ! alas ! and again alas ! 
That so bright a moon is hidden under a cloud ! " 
After this, he threw its body out of the cage ; 
And lo ! the little bird flew to a, lofty bough. 
The merchatat stood amazed at what it had done ; 
Utterly bewildered he pondered its mystery. 
It answered, " Yon parrot taught me by its action : 
' Escape,' it told me, ' from speech and articulate voice. 
Since it was thy voice that brought thee into prison ; ' 


And to prove its own words itself did die." 

It then gave the merchant some words of wise counsel, 
And at last bade him a long farewell. 
" Farewell, my master, thou hast done me a kindness, 
Thou hast freed me from the bond of this tyranny. 
Farewell, my master, I fly towards home ; 
Thou shalt one day be free like me ! " 

The Destiny op Man. 

Seeks thy spirit to be gifted 

With a deathless life ? 
L,et it seek to be uplifted 

O'er earth's storm and strife. 

Spurn its joys — its ties dissever ; 

Hopes and fears divest ; 
Thus aspire to live forever — 

Be forever blest ! 

Faith and doubt leave far behind thee ; 

Cease to love or hate ; 
I,et not Time's illusions blind thee ; 

Thou shalt Time outdate. 

Merge thine individual being 

In the Eternal's love : 
All this sensuous nature fleeing 

For pure bliss above. 

Earth receives the seed and guards it ; 

Trustfully it dies ; 
Then, what teeming life rewards it 

For self-sacrifice ! 

With green leaf and clustering blossom 

Clad, and golden fruit, 
See it from earth's cheerless bosom 

Ever sunward shoot ! 

Thus, when self-abased, Man's spirit 

From each earthly tie 
Rises disenthralled t' inherit 

Immortality I 


The Fairest Land. 

" Tell me, gentle traveler, thou 

Who hast wandered far and wide, 

Seen the sweetest roses blow, 
And the brightest rivers glide ; 

Say, of all thine eyes have seen. 

Which the fairest land has been ?" 

" Lady, shall I tell thee where, 
Nature seems most blest and fair, 
Far above all climes beside? — 
'Tis where those we love abide : 
And that little spot is best. 
Which the loved one's foot hath pressed. 

" Thougl;i it be a fairy space, 
Wide and spreading is the place ; 
Though 'twere but a barren mound, 
'T>vould become enchanted ground. 

" With thee yon sandy waste would seem 
The margin of Al Cawthar's stream; * 
And thou canst make a dungeon's gloom 
A bower where new-born roses bloom." 

The Lover's Death. 

This poem and the next are further specimens of the compositions 
of the Persian Sufis. 

A lover on his death-bed lay, and o'er his face the while. 
Though anguish racked his wasted frame, there swept a fitful 

smile : 
A flush his sunken cheek o'erspread, and to his faded eye 
Came light that less spoke earthly bliss than heaven-breathed 

And one that weeping o'er him bent, and watched the ebbing 

Marvelled what thought gave mastery o'er that dread hour of 


* The river of Paradise. 



"Ah, when the fair, adored through life, lifts up at length," he 

" The veil that sought from mortal eye immortal charms to hide, 
'Tis thus true lovers, fevered long with that sweet mystic fire, 
Exulting meet the I^oved One's gaze, and in that glance expire." 

The Religion op the Heart. 

Beats there a heart within that breast of thine ? 

Then compass reverently its sacred shrine : 

For the true spiritual Caaba is the heart, 

And no proud pile of perishable art. 

When God ordained the pilgrim rite, that; sign 

"Was meant to lead thy thought to things divine. 

A thousand times he treads that round in vain 

Who e'en one human heart would idly pain. 

I<eave wealth behind ; bring God thy heart, — ^best light 

To guide thy wavering steps through life's dark night. 

God spurns the riches of a thousand coffers, 

And says, " My chosen is he his heart who offers. 

Nor gold nor silver seek I, but above 

All gifts the heart, and buy it with my love ; 

Yea, one sad contrite heart, which men despise, 

More than my throne and fixed decree I prize." 

Then think not lowly of thy heart, though lowly. 

For holy is it, and there dwells the Holy. 

God's presence-chamber is the human breast ; 

Ah, happy he whose heart holds such a guest ! 




Sadi has been for over 
six centuries the proverbial 
philosopher of Persia. He 
was born at Shiraz about 
1 1 84 A.D., educated in a 
college in Bagdad, and re- 
mained there as one of the 
instructors until he was forty 
years old. When Genghis 
Khan conquered Bagdad, 
Sadi was obliged to flee. In 
the course of his long life 
he travelled through Bair- 
bary, Abyssinia, Egypt, 
Syria, Palestine, Armenia, 
Asia Minor and parts of 
Europe and India. While 
in Damascus he wandered 
into Palestine and was made 
captive by the Crusaders, who forced him to work on their * 
fortifications. Being recognized by a chief of Aleppo, he 
was restored and carried to that city, where he made his hdme 
in the house of his benefactor. The chief had a daughter 
who fell in love with the elderly poet, and, at last, succeeded 
in marrying him. She was beautiful, but a shrew, and the 
union was unhappy. As Sadi had been wretched in a former 
marriage, his prejudice against women is freely expressed in 
his writings. " Take yoiir wife's opinion and act opposite to 
it," is one of his sayings ; another is : " Choose a fresh wife 
every spring or New Year's day ; for fhe almanac of last year 
is good for nothing." The poet's name was originally Mus- 
harrif-uddin, but he adopted that of Sadi in compliment to 
his first patron, the Sultan Sad ben Zangi. 

Sadi, in common with the best Persian poets, had a deep 
love and reverence for Jesus, with a belief in his power of 
working miracles ; and when in Damascus he prayed at the 


tomb of St. John the Baptist. The poet was the intimate 
friend of Rumi, and his daughter was married to Hafiz. 
Sadi lived to be over a hundred, some say one hundred and 
twenty years of age. He died in Shiraz, where he was born, 
having remained in hermit-like seclusion over a quarter of a 
century. He was nearly always poor, but was honored and 
beloved by all men, from the reigning sultan to the humblest 

The poet's chief works are the "Gulistan" (The Rose 
Garden), and "Bustan" (The Fruit Garden). The first is 
a collection of one hundred and eighty-eight short stories 
in prose mingled with verse. Bustan contains ten chapters 
of poetic fable, written to inculcate morality and wisdom. 
Sadi's native sense and eloquence, his liberal education, his 
prolonged travels, his strange association with every sort of 
character in all the countries through which he passed ; the 
extremes of his life — the honored scholar of Bagdad, the 
slave of Palestine, and the sage of Shiraz, companion of 
princes — all this garnered wisdom and experience give to his 
works an unrivalled value among the Persian classics. In 
many parts of the East a man is not considered respectable 
who does not know by heart much that Sadi has written. 
He is expected to use this knowledge for the betterment of 
his own life. Sadi is wise, witty, moral, and sarcastic ; his 
poems abound more in practical wisdom than in enthusiasm 
and spirituality. One of his finer proverbs is : 

" Oh, square thyself for use. A stone that may 
Fit in the wall is not left in the way." 

Sadi's "Divan," or collection of lyrical poems, is inferior 
to the songs of Hafiz and to the hymns of Rumi, yet has an 
attraction of its own. 

Proem to the Gulistan. 

One night I was reflecting on times gone by, and regard- 
ing my wasted life, and I pierced the stony mansion of my 
heart with the diamond of my tears, and read these verses, 
appropriate to my state : 



One breatli of life each moment flies, 

A small remainder meets my eyes. 

Sleeper, whose fifty years are gone, 

Be these five days at least thy own. 

Shame on the dull, departed dead, ' 

Whose task is left unfinished. 

In vain for them the drum was beat. 

Which warns us of man's last retreat. 

Sweet sleep upon the parting-day 

Holds back the traveller from the way. 

Each comer a new house erects. 

Departs — the house its lord rejects ; 

The next one forms the same conceit. 

This mansion none shall e'er complete. 

Hold not as friend this comrade light, 

With one so false no friendship plight. 

Since good and bad alike must fall. 

He's best who bears away the ball. 

Send to the tomb an ample store ; 

None will it bring — then send before. 
I<ife is like snow in July's sun, 
Little remains ; yet there is one 
To boast himself and vaunt thereon. 

With empty hand hast thou sought the mart? 

I fear thou wilt with thy turban part. 

Who eat their corn while j^et 'tis green, 

At the true harvest can but glean. 

To Sadi's counsel let thy soul give heed ; . 

There is the way — ^be manful and proceed. 

After deliberating on this subject, I thought it advisable 
that I should take my seat in retirement, and wash the tablet 
of my memory from' vain words, nor speak idly in future. 

Better who sits in nooks, deaf, speechless, idle, 
Than he who kno^s not his own tongue to bridle. 

At length one of my friends, who was my comrade in the 
camel-litter and my closet-companion, entered my door, 
according to old custom. ^Notwithstanding all the cheerful- 
ness and hilarity which he displayed, . antj his spreading out 
the carpet of afFection, I returned him no answer, nor lifted 


up my head from the knee of devotion. He was pained, and 
looking toward me said : 

Now tliat the power of utterance is thine, 
Speak, O my brother ! kindly, happily, 

To-morrow's message bids thee life resign ; 
Then art thou silent of necessity. 

One of those who were about me informed him regarding 
this circumstance, saying: Sadi has made a resolution and 
fixed determination to pass the rest of his life in the world as 
a devotee, and embrace silence. If thou canst not, take thy 
way and choose the path of retreat. He replied : By the 
glory of the Highest and by our ancient friendship ! I will 
not breathe nor stir a step until he hath spoken according to 
his wonted custom and his usual manner; for to distress 
friends is folly ; but the dispensing with an oath is easy. It 
is contrary to rational procedure, and opposed to the opinion 
of sages, that the two-edged sword of Ali should remaip in 
its scabbard, or the tongue of Sadi be silent in his mouth. 

What is the tongue in the mouth of mortals? say, 

'Tis but the key that opens wisdom's door; 
While that is closed, who may conjecture, pray. 

If thou sell'st jewels or the pedlar's store? 
Silence is mannerly — so deem the wise. 

But in the fitting time use language free ; 
Blindness of judgment just in two things lies. 

To speak unwished, or speak unseasonably. 

In brief, I had not the power to refrain from conversing 
with him ; and I thought it uncourteous to avert my face 
from conference with him ; for he was an agreeable compan- 
ion and a sincere friend. 

When thou contendest choose an enemy 

Whom thou mayst vanquish or whom thou canst fly. 

By the mandate of necessity, I spoke as we went out for 
recreation, it being the season of Spring, when the asperity 
of Winter was mitigated, and the time of the rose's rich dis- 
play had arrived. 


Vestments green upon the trees, 

lyike the costly garments seeming, 
"Which at Id's festivities 

E4ch men wear, all gayly gleaming. 
'Twas the first day of April, the second month of the Spring ; 
From the pulpits of the branches slight-wreathed the bulbuls sing. 
The red, red branches were begemmed with pearls of glistening 

I<ike moisture on an angry beauty's cheek — a cheek of rosy hue. 

So time passed, till one night it happened that I was walk- 
ing at a late hour in a flower-garden with! one of my friends. 
The spat was blithe and pleasing, and the trees intertwined 
there charmingly. You would have said that fragments of 
enamel were sprinkled on the ground, and that the necklace 
of the Pleid.des was suspended from the vines that grew there. 

A garden where the murmurous rill was heard 
While from the hills sang each melodious bird ; 
That, with the many-colored tulip bright, 
These with their various fruits the eye delight. 
The whispering breeze beneath the branches' shade, 
Of blending flowers a motley carpet made. 

In the morning, when the inclination to return prevailed 
over our wish to stay, I saw that he had gathered his lap full 
of roses and fragrant herbs and sweet-basil, with which he 
was setting out for the city. I said : To the rose of the flower- 
garden, as you know, is no continuance ; nor is there faith in 
the promise of the rose-garden ; and the sages have said that 
we should not fix our afiections on that which has no endur- 
ance. He said : What, then is my course ? I replied : For 
the recreation of the beholders and the gratification of those 
who are present, I am able to compose a book, the Garden of 
[Roses, whose leaves the rude hands of Autumn cannot affect, 
and the blitheness of whose Spring the revolutions of time 
cannot change into the disorder of the waning year. 

What use to thee that flower-vase of thine? 

Thou wouldst have rose-leaves ; take, then, rather mine. 

Those roses but five days or six will bloom ; 

This Garden ne'er will yield to Winter's gloom. 

IV— 12 


As soon as I had pronounced these words he cast the flowers 
from his lap, and took hold of the skirt of my garment, say- 
ing : When the generous promise, they perform. — It befell that 
in a few days a chapter or two were entered in my note-book 
on the Advantages of Study and the Rules of Conversation, 
in a style that may be useful to augment the eloquence of tale- 
writers. In short, the rose of the flower-garden still con- 
tinued to bloom till the book of the Rose-Garden I was 
finished. It will, however, be really perfected when it is 
approved and condescendingly perused at the Court of the 
Asylum of the World, the Shadow of the Creator, and the 
lyight of the Bounty of the All-powerful, the Treasury of the 
Ages, the Retreat of the True Religion, the Aided by Heaven, 
the Victorious Arm of the Empire, the Lamp of excelling 
Faith, the Beauty of Mankind, the Glory of Islam, Sad, the 
Son of the Most Puissant King of Kings, Master of attend- 
ing Nations, Lord of the Kings of Arabia and Persia, Sovereign 
of the Land and the Sea, Heir to the throne of Sulaiman, 
Atabak the Great, Muzafiu'd-din Abu-bakr-bin-Sad-bin-Zangi. 
May God Most High perpetuate the good fortune of both, 
and prosper all their righteous undertakings. 

The King's Gift to the Dervish. 

I HEARD of a king who had spent the night in jollity, and 
when he was completely intoxicated he said, " I have never 
in my life experienced a more pleasant moment than the^pre- 
sent, for I have no thoughts about good or evil, and am not 
plagued with any one.' ' A naked Dervish, who had been 
sleeping without in the cold, said, "O king, there is none 
equal to thee in power. I grant that you have no sorrow of 
your own; but what then, hast thou no concern about us?" 
The king was pleased at this speech and threw out of the 
window a bag of a thousand dinars, and said, "O Dervish, 
hold out your skirt." He answered, "Whence shall I pro- 
duce a skirt, who have not a garment?" 

The king the more pitied his weak estate, and in addition 
to the money, sent him a dress. The Dervish, having con- 
sumed the whole sum in a short time, came again. Riches 


remain not in the hand of the pious, neither patience in the 
heart of a lover, nor water in a sieve. At a time when the 
king had no care about him they related his case. He was 
angry, and turned away his face from him ; and on this point 
men of wisdom and experience have observed that we ought 
to guard against the fury and rage of kings, for frequently 
their thoughts are engrossed by important affairs of state, and 
they cannot endure interruption from the vulgar. Whosoever 
watches not a fit opportunity must expect nothing from the 
king's favor. Till you perceive a convenient time for con- 
versing, lose not your own consequence, by talking to no pur* 
pose. The king said, "Drive away this insolent, extravagant 
fellow, who has dissipated such an immense sum in so short a 
time ; since the gift of charity is designed to afford a mouth- 
ful for the poor, and not to feast the fraternity of devils. The 
blockhead who burns a camphor candle in the daytime you 
will soon see without oil -in his lamp at night." One of the 
viziers, a good counsellor, said, "O king, it seems expedient 
that stated allowances should be settled for people of this class, 
separately, for their maintenance, that they may not live extra- 
vagantly ; but what you commanded in displeasure, to exclude 
them altogether, is repugnant to the principles of true gener- 
osity, — to fill one with hopes through kindness, and then to 
destroy him with despair ; a monarch cannot admit people 
into his presence, and, when the door of liberality is open, 
then shut it upon them with violence. No one seeth the 
thirsty pilgrims on the seashore ; wherever there is a spring 
of sweet water, men, birds and ants flock together." 

The Wrestlers. 

A PERSON had arrived at the head of his profession in the 
art of wrestling; he knew three hundred and sixty capital 
sleights in this art, and every day exhibited something new ; 
but having a sincere regard for a beautiful youth, one of his 
scholars, he taught him three hundred and fifty-nine sleights, 
reserving, however, one sleight to himself. The youth ex- 
celled so much in skill and in strength that no one was able to 
cope with him. He at length boasted before the Sultan that 


the superiority whicli lie allowed his master to maintain over 
him was out of respect. to his years, and the consideration of 
having been his instructor ; for otherwise he was not inferior 
in strength, and was his equal in point of skill. 

The king did not approve of this disrespectful conduct, 
and commanded that there should be a trial of skill. An 
extensive ground was appointed for the occasion. The 
ministers of state and other grandees of the court were in 
attendance. The youth, like a lustful elephant, entered with 
a blow that would have removed from its base a mountain of 
iron. The master, being sensible that the youth was his 
superior in strength, attacked with the sleight which he had 
kept to himself. The youth not being able to repel it, the 
master with both hands lifted him from the ground, and 
raising him over his head, flung him on the earth. The mul- 
titude shouted. 

The king commanded that a dress and a: reward in money 
should be bestowed on the master, and' reproved and derided 
the youth for having presumed to put himself in competition 
with his benefactor, and for having failed in the attempt. He 
said, " O king, my master did not gain the victory over me 
through strength or skill ; but there remained a small part 
in the art of wrestling which he had withheld from me, and 
by that small feint he got the better of me." The master 
observed, " I reserved it for such an occasion as the present, 
the sages having said, ' Put not yourself so much in the power 
of your friend that, if he should be disposed to be inimical, he 
may be able to effect his purpose.' ' Have you not heard what 
was said hy a person who had suffered injury from one whom 
he had educated ? Either there never was any gratitude in the 
world, or else no one at this time practises it. I never taught 
any one the art of archery, who in the end did not make a 
butt of me." 

The Judge's Transgression. 

They tell a story of a Cazy [judge] of Hamadan, that he 
was enamored with a farrier's beautiful daughter to such a de- 
gree that his heart was inflamed by his passion like a horse- ' 
shoe red hot in a forge. For a long time he suffered great 


inquietude, running about after' lier in the manner which has 
been described : " That stately cypress coining into my sight 
has captivated my heart and deprived me of my strength, so 
that I lie prostrate at her feet. Those mischievous eyes drew 
my heart into the snare. If you wish to preserve your heaft, 
shut your eyes. I cannot by any means get her out of my 
thought : I am the snake with the bruised head ; I cannot turn 
myself." I have heard that she met the Cazy in the street, and 
something having reached her ears concerning him, she was 
displeased beyond measure, and abused and reproached him 
without mercy, flung a stone, and did everything' to disgrace 
him. , The Cazy said to a respectable man of learning who 
was in his company : " Behold that beauteous girl, how rude 
she is ! behold her arched eyebrow, what a sweet frown it 
exhibits I In Arabic they say that a blow from the hand of 
her we love is as sweet as raisins. To receive a blow on the 
mouth from her l;iand is preferable to eating bread from one's 
own hand." Then again she tempered her severity with a 
smile of beneficence, as kings sometimes speak with hostility 
when they inwardly desire peace. 

Unripe grapes are sour, but keep them a day or two and 
they will become sweet.- The Cazy having said thus repaired 
to his court. Some well-disposed persons who were in his 
service made obeisance, and said : " That with permission they 
would present a matter to him, although it might be deemed 
unpolite, as the Sages have said. It is not allowable to argue 
on every subject : it is criminal to describe the faults of a great 
personage ; but that in consideration of the kindness which his 
servants had experienced from him, not to present what to 
them appears advisable, is a species of treachery. The laws 
■of rectitude require that you should conquer this inclination, 
and not give way to unlawful desires, for the office of Cazy is 
a high dignity, which ought not to be polluted with a crime. 
You are acquainted with your mistress's character and have 
heard her conversation. She who has lost her reputation, 
what cares she for the character of another ? It has frequently 
happened that a good name acquired in fifty years has been 
lost by a single imprudence." 

The Cazy approved the admonition of his cordial friends, 


praised their understanding and fidelity, and said : " The 
advice wlaich my friends have given in regard to my situation 
is perfectly right, and their arguments are unanswerable. 
Of a truth, if friendship was to be lost on our giving advice, 
then the just might be accused of falsehood. Reprehend me 
as much as you please, but you cannot wash the blackamoor 
white." Having said thus, he sent people to inquire how 
she did, and spent a great deal of money, according to the 
saying, " He who has money in the scales has strength in his 
arras ; and he who has not the command of money is destitute 
of friends in the world. Whosoever sees, money lowers his 
head like the beam of the scales, which stoops although it be 
made of iron." 

To be brief, one night he obtained a meeting in private, 
and the superintendent of the police was immediately informed 
of the circumstance that the Cazy passed the whole night in 
drinking wine and fondling his mistress. He was too happy 
to sleep, and was singing, ' ' That the cock had not crowed 
that night at the usual hour." The lovers were not yet satis- 
fied with each other's company ; the cheeks of the mistress were 
shining between her curling ringlets like the ivory ball in the 
ebony bat in the game of Chowgong. In that instant, when 
the eye of enmity is asleep, be still upon the watch, lest 
some mischance befall you ; until you hear the muezzin 
proclaiming the hour of prayer, or the sound of the kettle- 
drum from the gate of the police of Atabuk, it would be fool- 
ishness to cease kissing at the crowing of the foolish cock. 
The Cazy was in this situation when one of his servants en- 
tering, said, "Why are you sitting thus? Arise, and run as 
fast as your feet can carry you, for your enemies have laid a 
snare for you ; nay, they have said the truth. But whilst this 
fire of strife is yet but a spark, extinguish it with the water 
of good management ; for it may happen that to morrow, when 
it breaks out into a flame it will spread throughout the 
world." The Cazy, smiling, looked on the ground, and said : 
"If the lion has his paw on the game, what signifies it if 
the dog should come? Turn your face towards your mistress, 
and let your rival bite the back of his hand." 

That very night they carried intelligence to the king of 


the wickedness which had been committed in his dominions, 
and begged to know his commands. He answered : " I be- 
lieve the Cazy to be the most learned man of the age ; and it 
is possible that -this may be only a plot of his enemies to injure 
him. I will not give credit to this story without I see proofs 
with mine own eyes ; for the Sages have said, He who quickly 
lays hold of the sword in his anger, will gnaw the back of his 
hand through sorrow." I heard that at the dawn of day, the 
king with some of his principal courtiers came to the Cazy's 
bed-chamber. He saw the candle burning and the mistress sit- 
ting down, with the wine spilt and the glass broken, and the 
Cazy stupefied between sleep and intoxication, lost to all sense 
of his existence. The king kindly waked him, and said, " Get 
up, for the sun is risen. ' ' The Cazy, perceiving him, asked, 
"From what quarter has the sun risen?" The king an- 
swered, "From the east." The Cazy replied, "God be 
praised ! then the door of repentance is still open, according 
to the tradition, The gate of repentance sha,ll not be shut 
against the servants of God until the sun shall rise in the 
west ; ' ' adding, ' ' Now I ask pardon of God, and vow to Him 
that I will repent. These two things have led me unto sin, 
—ill fortune and a weak understanding, If you seize me, I 
deserve it ; but if you pardon me, forgiveness is better than 
vengeance." ■ 

The king said : ' ' Repentance can now avail nothing, as you 
know that you are about" to suffer death. What good is there 
in a thief's repentance, when he has not the power of throw- 
ing a rope into the upper story? Tell him who is tall not to 
pluck the fruit, for he of low stature cannot extend his arm to 
the branch. To you who have: been convicted of such wick- 
edness there can be no hopes of escape." The king, having 
said thus, ordered the officers of justice to take charge of him. 
The Cazy said, ' ' I have yet one word to speak to your Ma- 
jesty. " He asked, ' ' What is it ? " He replied, ' ' As long as 
I labor under your displeasure, think not that I will let go the 
skirt of your garment. Although the crime which I have 
committed may be unpardonable, still I entertain some hopes 
from your clemency. " The king said, "You have spoken 
with admirable wit, but it is contrary to reason and to law 


that your wisdom and eloquence should rescue you from the 
hand of justice. To me it seems advisable that you should 
be flung headlong from the top of the castle to the earth, as 
an example for others." He replied, "O nionarch of the 
universe, I have been fostered in your family, and am not 
singular in the commission of such crimes ; therefore I be- 
seech you to precipitate some one else, in order that I may 
benefit by the example." The king laughed at his speech, 
and spared his life, and said to his enemies, "All of you are 
burdened with defects of your own ; reproach not others with 
their failings. Whosoever is sensible of his own faults carps 
not at another's failing." 

The Sinner and the Monk. 

In Jesus' time there lived a youth so black and dissolute, 

That Satan from him shrank, appalled in every attribute. 

He in a sea of pleasures foul uninterrupted swam, 

And gluttonized on dainty vices, sipping many a dram. 

Whoever met him in the highway turned as from a pest, 

Or, pointing lifted finger at him, cracked some horrid jest. 

I have been told that Jesus once was passing by the hut 

Where dwelt a monk, who asked him in, and just the door had 

When suddenly that slave of sin appeared across the way. 
Far off he paused, fell down, and sobbingly began to pray. 
As blinded butterflies will from the light affrighted shrink, 
So from those righteous men in awe his timid glances sink ; 
And like a storm of rain the tears pour gushing from his eyes. 
"Alas, and woe is me, for thirty squandered years," he cries. 
" In drunkenness I have expended all my life's pure coin ; 
And now, to make my fit award, Hell's worst damnations join. 
O would that death had snatched me when a sinless child I lay. 
That ne'er had I been forced this dreadful penalty to pay. 
Yet if thou let'st no sinner drown who sinks on mercy's strand, 
O then in pity, I,ord ! reach forth and firmly seize my hand." 

The pride-puffed monk, self-righteous, lifts his eyebrows with a 

And haughtily exclaims, "Vile wretch ! in vain hast thou come 

here. ' 


Art thou not plunged in sin, and tossed in lust's devouring sea ? 

What will thy filthy rags avail with Jesus and with me ? 

O God ! the granting of a single wish is all I pray; 

Grant me to stand far distant from this man in the judgment- 

From Heaven's throne a revelation instantaneous broke, 

And God's own thunder words thus through the mouth of Jesus 
spoke ; 

" The two whom praying there I see shall equally be heard ; 

They pray diverse, — I give to each according to his word. 

That poor one thirty years has rolled in sin's most slimy deeps. 

But now, with stricken heart and streaming tears, for pardon 

Upon the threshold of my grace he throws him in despair, 

And, faintly hoping pity, pours his supplications there. 

Therefore, forgiven and freed from all the guilt in which he lies, 

My mercy chooses him a citizen of Paradise. 

This monk desires that he may not that sinner stand beside, 

Therefore he goes to Hell, and so his wish is gratified." 

The one's heart in his bosom sank, the other's proudly swelled ; 
In God's pure court all egotistic claims as naught are held. 
Whose robe is white, but black as night his heart beneath it lies. 
Is a live key at whicTi the gate of Hell wide open flies ! 
Truly not self-conceit and legal works with God prevail ; 
But humbleness and tenderness weigh down Salvation's scale. 

The Moth and the Flame. 

As once, at midnight deep, I lay with sleepless eyes. 

These words between the moth and light did me surprise. 

The moth kisses the flame, and says, with tender sigh : 

" Dear radiance ! I rejoice from love for thee to die. 

My love, thou diest not, yet anxious groans and strong 

Break loudly from thy heart, through all the darkness long ! " 

The bright flame says, " O moth ! whom love to me attracts, 

Know that I also burn with love for this sweet wax. 

Must I not groan, as more my lover melting sinks. 

And from his life my fatal fire still deeper drinks? " 

As thus she spake, the hot tears coursed her yellow cheek, 

And with each tear crackled a separation shriek. 

Then from her mouth these further words of pleading fall : 


" Poor moth ! boasting of love, say not thou lov'st at all. 
Ah ! how thou moan'stwhen the fierce heat one wing has seared; 
I stand till my whole form in flame has disappeared." 
And so she talked till morning shone the room about ; 
When lo ! a maiden came to put the candle out ; 
It flickered up,— the wick a smoking relic lay. 
-'Tis thus, O gentle hearts ! that true love dies away. 

King Toghrul and the Sentinel. 

I HAVE heard that King Toghrul came in his rounds on a 
Hindu sentinel. The snow was falling thick, and it rained in tor- 
rents, and he shivered with the cold like the star Canopus. The 
heart of the King was moved with compassion, and he said : 
"Thou shall put on my fur-mantle; wait a moment at the end 
of the terrace, and I will send it out by the hand of a slave." 
Meanwhile a piercing wind was blowing, and the King walked into 
his royal hall. There the sight ojf a lovely lady so enchanted 
him, that the poor sentinel entirely .slipped his memory. As 
though the wintry cold was not suffering enough, to his evil for- 
tune were added the pangs of disappointment. 

Hear, whilst the King slept in comfort, what the watchman 
was saying towards the dawning of the morning : 

'' Perhaps thy good fortune made thee forgetful, for thy hand 
was clasped in the hand of thy beloved. For thee the night 
passed in mirth and enjoyment ; what knowest thou of how it 
passed with us ? When the company of the caravan are stoop- 
ing the head over the platter, what concern have tli^y for those 
who have fallen down in the sand [the desert]? O boatman, 
launch thy boat into the water, for it hath nearly reached the head 
of the helpless waders ! Stay 3'our steps a while, ye active youths, 
for in the caravan are weak old men also. Thou who art sleeping 
sweetly in thy litter, whilst the bridle of the camel is in the hand 
of the driver, what to thee are plain, and hill, and stone, and 
sand? — Ask how it is with those who are left behind on the 
journey. Thou who art borne along on thine high and strong 
dromedary, how knowest thou how he fareth who is traveling on 
foot ? They who in the quiet of their hearts are reposing at the 
resting-place, what know they of the condition of the hungry 
wayfarer ? ' ' 


Period II. — 1400-1550. 

\ HE fifteentli century produced two Italian poets 
• ■•• of romance, the sportive Pulci and the serious 
Boiardo. They were inferior in genius not only 
to their path-breaking predecessors, Dante and 
Petrarch, but also to their romantic successors, 
Ariosto and Tasso. Yet they served to preserve the 
succession and tradition of heroic poetry. Their fame rests on 
their revival of the mythical stories of Charlemagne and his 
Peers. Though that great Prankish monarch had waged 
successful war with the Saxons and had been solemnly crowned 
emperor at Rome, it was. his expedition into Spain that, in 
spite of its disastrous issue, became a favorite with the medi- 
aeval romancers. The underlying reason probably was that 
war with the Moors implied and suggested the sentiments 
prevalent throughout Europe in the age of the Crusades. 
The most famous poem of this cycle was the " Chanson de 
Roland."* In the revised version, which was accepted and 
expanded in Italy, the hero was called Orlando. Nicolas of 
Padua, about 1320, wrote a romance on "The Entry into 
Spain," with a isequel on "The Capture of Pampeluna." 
These romances, which hardly rose above street ballads, 
formed the ground-work of Sagua' s ' ' Defeat at Roncesvalles.' ' 

' See Volume I., p. 199. 



There was also a prose harmony of the Cycle of Charlemagne, 
called "The Prankish Royalty." At last came Pulci, who 
was destined to raise these vernacular romances from the 
vulgar level to the height of accepted literature. Pulci, how- 
ever, in his "Morgante Maggiore," treated his subject in a 
playful and even burlesque way. The learned and accom- 
plished Boiardo, after translating Herodotus and Apuleius, 
composed in somewhat similar style the " Orlando Innamo- 
rato," but as it was left unfinished, it was recast several years 
later by Berni, the master of the humorous style, exemplified 
in English by Byron's "Don Juan." 

The century after the death of Petrarch was chiefly devoted 
by cultivated Italians to renewed zeal in the study of the 
I/atin classics, and to unsuccessful attempts to rival those 
immortal productions in the same language. The Humanists 
long persisted in using Latin freely for all purposes, but Italy 
in the sixteenth century witnessed a notable revival of interest 
in the vernacular. The gay court of Ferrara was the chief 
literary centre, and throughout the peninsula Petrarchists and 
Boccaccists abounded. Every gentleman was expected to be 
able to iudite a sonnet. Among the love-sick singers was the 
learned but sensual Cardinal Bembo (1476- 15 47). In vain did 
the satirist hold the Petrarchist up to scorn ; the fashion was 
bound to run to its extreme length. Among th,e noteworthy 
sonneteers were the mighty Michael Angelo, whose genius 
rose to sublime heights in the world of art : Galeazzo di Tar- 
sia (1492-1555), who was also one of the many admirers of 
the gifted Vittoria Colonna (i490-i547),in whose honor most 
of his lyrics were written. Nor was the lady whom he thus 
honored the only poetess of her age ; Gaspara Stampa (1523- 
1554)) who had a romantic love disappointment, won for her- 
self the name of a second Sappho. Her verses depict the 
tragedy of her love for a young nobleman, Collatino di 
CoUalto. Sannazaro, besides writing excellent sonnets and 
lyrical pieces, achieved special distinction by reviving pasto- 
ral poetry in a new form in his famous "Arcadia." 

Meantime, the succession of prose tales in the style of 
Boccaccio ran on, though none of his successors equalled his 
style or attained to his fame. Massucio from Salerno in the 


south, Arienti from Bologna and Illicini from Sienna, in 
the centre, and I,uigi da Porto from Vicenza in the north, are 
among the novelists whose brief stories have survived. But 
more distinguished than any of these, not merely for his single 
novel or his historical treatise, but for his remarkable contri- 
bution to political philosophy, is the great Florentine, Niccolo 
Machiavelli. Besides his " Principe," still the subject of 
learned discussion, his "History of Florence," his "Dis; 
courses on Livy," his comedies and poems of less merit, his 
whimsical novel, "Belphegor," has given him high rank 
among Italian writers. 

It might be safer to dismiss without a word the notorious 
Pietro Aretino (1492-1557), who has been styled "the illegi- 
timate apostle of obscenity," He first wooed the muse in a 
series of obscene sonnets, which lost him the favor of the 
Papal Court, But the Medicis and the gay Francis T. of 
France were not so shocked. His scurrilous speech caused 
him, indeed, to be dreaded by the most powerful monarchs of 
the age. Charles V, and Clement VII. cultivated him. He 
was created a knight and pensioned as a sort of blackmail 
levy. Aretino was so proud of the fear which he inspired 
that he styled himself the "divine" and the "scourge of 

The condition of Italy at the close of the fifteenth century 
is thus described by the contemporary historian Francesco 
Guicciardini (1480-1540): "Never had Italy enjoyed such 
pro^erity or known so enviable a state of things as that in 
which she now securely reposed, . . . being subject to none 
other than her own children. Not only did she abound in 
men and in riches, but adorned as she was by the magnifi- 
cence of modern princes, by the splendor of the noblest and 
most beautiful cities, and by the supreme chair and majesty 
of religion ; she flourished in the number of her eminent 
politicians, as well as in intellects ennobled by every scienccj 
and by all the liberal and industrial arts ; not being destitute 
either of military glory, according to notions of the time; 
tihus richly endowed, she maintained a great name and illus- 
trious character among all nations." 



IrTJiGl PuLCl, born in Florence in 143 1, of a noble family, 
was the youngest of three brothers who all won good 
reputation for ability and learning. Luigi grew up in the 
house of the Medici, and was on the most intimate terms with 
Lorenzo the Magnificent. The latter, in his poem on Hawk- 
ing, represents himself as calling his fellow-sportsmen about 
him, but missing Luigi, he inquires : 

" And Where's Luigi Pulci ? I saw him." 
Oh, in the wood there. Gone, depend upon it, 

To vent some fancy of his brain — some whim, 
That will not let him rest till it's a sonnet." 

Pulci, having become noted for this facility in throwing oflF 
light verses, was -requested by Lorenzo's mother, Lucrezia 
Tomabuoni, to compose a heroic poem on Charlemagne, whose 
greatness was disfigured in the rude ballads of wandering 
singers. An obscure chivalrous poem furnished the mass of 
the material, but Pulci must treat it in his own way, which 
has somewhat bothered the critics and raised a controversy 
among them. He calls his poem "Morgante Maggiore," 
Morgante the Great, from a giant who is a conspicuous actor 
in the early part. He is converted to Christianity, but dies 
of the bite of a crab, when the poem is half finished. Orlando 
(Roland) is the hero, and perhaps in order to exalt his merits, 
the poet strips Charlemagne of many of his venerable attri- 
butes, and even makes Charles a confederate of the traitor Gano 
(or Ganelon). Yet in the epilogue the wayward poet makes 
tardy reparation to the emperor by recalling his many benefits 
and naming him divine. The grotesque extravagance of 
some portions of the poem have suggested to some critics that 
Pulci' s real purpose was similar to that of Cervantes in relat- 
ing the adventures of Don Quixote, and that he was mocking 
at chivalry. Its capricious character, however, seems due to 
the poet's facility in versification, combined with a certain 
indolence and reluctance to observe any definite rules of art. 
This accounts also for the prolixity which pervades the poem. 
Another suggestion is that the poet wrote partly to amuse the 


many, while seeking also to elevate the style of romance by 
occasional serious passages. All his cantos commence with a 
sacred invocation, and religious reflections are frequently in- 
termixed with the droll adventures. This, however, was the 
fashion of the time and people among whom he wrote. The 
"Morgante" ends with an address to the Virgin respecting 
the lady who had suggested the poem, and a hope that her 
devout spirit may obtain peace for him in Paradise. 

Nothing is certainly known of Pulci's later days, but he is 
said to have died at Padua. He may have suffered in the 
troubles which overtook the Medici family after the death of 

Orlando and the Giants. 

OrIiAndo, while wandering' through the world with his horse 
Rondello and his good sword Cortana, came to an abbey which stood 
on the border between Christendom and the land of the Pagans. It 
was constantly in danger from stones flung by three terrible giants. 

The abbot was called Clermont, and by blood 

Descended from Angrante ; under cover 
Of a great mountain's brow the abbey stood, 

But certain savage giants looked hitn over ; 
One Passamont was foremost of the brood, 

And Alabaster and Morgante hover, 
Second and third, with certain slings, and throw 
In daily jeopardy the place below. 

The monks could pass the convent gate no more. 
Nor leave their cells for water or for wood. 

Orlando knocked, but none would ope, before 
Unto the prior it at length seemed good ; 

Entered, he said that he was taught to adore 
Him who was bom of Mary's holiest blood. 

And was baptized a Christian ; and then showed 

How to the abbey he had found his road. 

Said the abbot, " You are welcome ; what is mine 
We give you freely, since that you believe 
V With us in Mary Mother's Son divine ; 

And that you may not, Cavalier, conceive 

The cause of our delay to let you in 
To be rusticity, you shall receive 


The reason why our gate was barred to you ; 
Thus those who in suspicion live must do. 

" When hither to inhabit first we came 

These mountains, albeit that they are obscure, 

As you perceive, yet without fear or blame 
They seemed to pi^'omise an asylum sure : 

From savage brutes alone, too fierce to tame, 
'Twas fit our quiet dwelling to secure ; 

But now, if here we'd stay, we needs must guard 

Against domestic beasts with watch and ward. 

" These make us stand, in fact, upon the watch. 
For late there have appeared three giants rough ; 

What nation or what kingdom bore the batch 
I know not, but they are all of savage stuff. 

When force and malice with some genius match. 
You know, 4:hey can do all, — we're not enough : 

And these so much our orisons derange, 

I know not what to do, till matters change. 

" Our ancient fathers, living the desert in, 

For just and holy works were duly fed ; 
Think not they lived on locusts sole, 'tis certain 

That manna was rained down from heaven instead : 
But here 'tis fit we keep on the alert in 

Our bounds, or taste the stones showered down for bread, 
From off yon mountain daily raining faster. 
And flung by Passamont and Alabaster. 

' ' The third, Morgantfe, is aavagest by far ; he 

Plucks up pines, beeches, poplar trees and oaks, 

And flings them, our community to bury ; 
And all that I can do but more provokes." 

While thus they parley in the cemetery, 
A stone from one of their gigantic strokes. 

Which nearly crushed Rondello, came tumbling over, 

So that he took a long leap under cover. 

"For God's sake, Cavalier, come in with speed ! 

The manna's falling now," the abbot cried. 
" This fellow does not wish my horse should feed, 

Dear Abbot," Roland unto him replied. 


" Of restiveness he'd cure him, had he need ; 

That stone seems with good-will and aim applied." 
The holy father said, " I don't deceive ; 
They'll one day fling the mountain, I believe." 

Orlando bade them take care of Rondello, 

And also made a breakfast of his own : 
"Abbot," he said, " I want to find that fellow 
• Who flung at my good horse yon corner-ston6." 
Said the Abbot, " I^et not my adyice seem shallow, 

As to a brother dear I speak alone ;■ 
I would dissuade you, Baron, from this strife, 
As knowing sure that you will lose your life. 

" That Passamont has in his hand three darts, — 

Such slings, clubs, ballast-stones, that yield you must ; 

You know' thaj: giants have much stouter hearts 
Than we, with reason, in proportion just. 

If go you will, guard well against their arts. 
For these are very barbarous and robust." 

Orlando answered, " This I'll see, be sure. 

And walk the wild on foot, to be secure." 

The abbot signed the great cross on his front — 
"Then go you with God's benison and mine.*^ 

Orlando, after he had scaled the mount, 
As the abbot had directed, kept the line 

Right to the usual haunt of Passamont, 
Who, seeing him alone in this design. 

Surveyed him fore and aft, with eyes observant. 

Then asked him, if he" wished to stay as servant. 

And promised him an office of great ease. 

But said Orlando, " Saracen insane ! 
I come to kill you, if it shall so please 

God,-^not to serve as footboy in your train ; 
You with His monks so oft have broke the peace, 

Vile dog ! 'tis past His patience to sustain." 
The giant ran to fetch his arms, quite furious. 
When he received an answer so injurious. 

And being returned to where Orlando stood, 

Whoihad not moved him from the spot, and swinging 
IV— 13 


The cord, he hurled a stone with strength so rude, 
As showed a sample of his skill in slinging- ; 

It rolled on Count Orlando's helmet good, 
And head, and set both head and helmet ringing, 

So that he swooned with'pain as if he died. 

But more than dead, he seemed so stupefied. 

Then Passamont, who thought him slain outright. 
Said, " I will go and, while he lies along. 

Disarm me : why such craven did I fight ? " 
But Christ his servants ne'er abandons long, 

Especially Orlando, such a knight 
As to desert would almost be a wrong. 

While the giant goes to put off his defences, 

Orlando has recalled his force and senses ; 

And loud he shouted, " Giant, where dost go? , 

Thou thought' st me, doubtless, for the bier outlaid; 

To the right about ! without wings thou'rt too slow 
To fly my vengeance, currish renegade ! 

'Twas but by treachery thou laidst me low." 
The giant his astonishment betrayed. 

And turned about, and stopped his journey on. 

And then he stooped to pick up a great stone. 

Orlando had Cortana bare in hand ; 

To split the head in twain was what he schemed ! 
Cortana clave the skull like a true brand, 

And pagan Passamont died unredeemed ; 
Yet harsh and haughty, as helay, he banned, 

And most devoutly Macon [Mahomet] still blasphemed ; 
But while his crude, rude blasphemies he heard, 

Orlando thanked the Father and the "Word, — 

Saying, " What grace to me thou'st this day given 1 

And I to thee, O I/ord, am ever bound. 
I know my life was saved by thee from heaven, 

Since by the giant I was fairly downed. 
All things by thee are measured just and even ; 

Our power without thine aid would naught be found. 
I pray thee, take heed of me till I can. 
At least return once more to Carloman." 


And having said tliis much, he went his way; 

And Alabaster he found out below, 
Doing the very best that in him lay 

To root from out a bank a rock or two. 
Orlando, when he reached him, loud 'gan say, 

"How think' St thou, glutton, such a stone to throw ? " 
"When Alabaster heard his deep voice ring. 
He suddenly betook him to his sling. 

And hurled a fragment of a size so large, 
That, if it had in fact fulfilled its mission, 

And Roland not availed him of his targe. 

There would have been no need of a physician. 

Orlando set himself in turn to charge. 
And in his bulky bosom made incision 

With all his sword. The lout fell ; but, o'erthrown, he, 

However, by no means forgot Macone. 

Morgante had a palace in his mode. 

Composed of branches, logs of wood, and earth, 
And stretched himself at ease in this abode. 

And shut himself at night within his berth. 
Orlando knocked, and knocked again, tp goad 

The giant from his sleep ; and he came forth. 
The door to open, like a crazy thing; 
For a rough dream had shook him slumbering. 

He thought that a fierce serpent had attacked him ; 

And Mahomet he called ; but Mahomet 
Is nothing worth, and not an instant backed him ; 

But praying blessed Jesu, he wa^ set 
At liberty from all the fears which racked him ; 

And to the gate he came with great regret. 
"Who knocks here? " grumbling all the while, said he. 
"That," said Orlando, "you will quickly see. 

" I come to preach to you, as to your brothers, — 
Sent by the miserable monks, — repentance ; 

For Providence Divine, ip you and others. 

Condemns the evil done my new acquaintance. 

'Tis writ on high, your wrong must pay another's ; 
From heaven itself is issued out this sentence. 


Know, then, that colder now than a pilaster 
I left your Passamont and Alabaster." 

Morgante said, "O gentle Cavalier, 
Now, by thy God, say me no villany ! 

The favor of your name I fain would hear, 
And, if a Christian, speak for courtesy." 

Replied Orlando; " So much to your ear 
I, by my faith, disclose contentedly ; 

Christ I adore, who is the genuine lyord, 

And, if you please, by you may be adored." 

The Saracen rejoined, in humble tone, 
' ' I have had an extraordinary vision : 

A savage serpent fell on me alone. 
And Macon would not pity my condition ; 

Hence, to thy God, who for ye did atone 
Upon the cross, preferred I my petition ; 

His timely succor set me safe and free. 

And I a Christian am disposed to be." 

The Villain Margutte. 

Answered Margutte : " Friend, I never boasted: 
I don't believe in black more than in blue, 

But in fat capons, boiled or may-be roasted ; 
And I believe sometimes in butter too. 

In beer and must, where bobs a pippin toasted ; 
Sharp liquor more than sweet I reckon true ; 

But mostly to old wine my faith 1 pin. 

And hold him saved who firmly trusts therein. 

" Apollo's nought but a delirious vision. 
And Trivigant perchance a midnight spectre : 

Faith, like the itch, is catching ; what revision 
This sentence needs, you'll make, nor ask the rector: 

To waste no words you may without misprision 
Dub me as rank a heretic as Hector : 

I don't disgrace my lineage, nor indeed 

Am I the cabbage-ground for any creed. 

" Faith's as man gets it, this, that, or another ! 
See then what sort of creed I'm bound to follow: 


For you miist know a Greek nun was my mother, 
My sire at Brusa, 'mid the Ttirks, a moUah ; 

I played the rebeck first, and made a pother 
About the Trojan war, flattered Apollo, 

Praised up Achilles, Hector, Helen fair, 

Not once, but twenty thousand times, I swear. 

" Next, growing weary of my light guitar, 

I donned a military bow and quiver; 
One day within the mosque I went to war. 

And shot my grave old daddy through the liver : 
Then to my loins I girt this scimitar, 

And journeyed forth o'er sea, land, town and river. 
Taking for comrades in each holy work 
The congregated sins of Greek and Turk. 

"That's much the same as all the sins of hell ! 

I've seventy-seven at least about me, mortal ; 
Summer and winter in my breast they swell : 

Guess now how many venial crowd the portal ! 
'Twere quite impossible, I know full well. 

If the world never ended, to report all 
The crimes I've done in this one life alone; 
Each item too is catalogued and known. 

"I pray you listen for one little minute; 

The skein shall be unraveled in a trice : — 
When I've got cash, I'm gay as any linnet. 

Cast with who calls, cut cards, and fling the dice ; 
All times; all places, or the devil's in it, 

Serye me for play ; I've spent on this one vice 
Fame, fortune — staked my coat, my shirt, my breeches ; 
I hope this specimen will meet your wishes. 

" Don't ask what juggler's tricks I teach the boxes ! , 

Or whether sizes serve me when I call. 
Or jumps an ace up ! — Foxes pair with foxes ; 

The same pitch tars our fingers, one and all ! — 
Perhaps I don't know how to fleece the doxies ? 

Perhaps I can't cheat, cozen, swindle, bawl? 
Perhaps I never learned to patter slang ? — 
I know each trick, each turn, and lead the gang," 

The name of Niccolo Machiavelli lias stood for infamy 
throughout three centuries, and even yet has a flavor of the 
diabolic about it. The Elizabethan playwright brought out 
the figure of Machiavelli as prologue ' much as if it repre- 
sented Fiendishness incarnate; and to-day Machiavellian 
politics are regarded as synonymous with arbitrary power sup- 
ported by cunning craft. In reality Niccolo Machiavelli was, 
if his newer and brighter rehabilitation be correct, a warm 
lover of freedom. As Snell puts the case: " Machiavelli' s 
' II Principe ' (The Prince) is a scientific presentment of 
certain very abstruse results which he had accomplished in 
his ' Commentary on Livy' — a treatise on political science. 
In- spite of its evil savor, it was written, there is every reason 
to believe, with the best intentions. The actual design of 
Machiavelli is to show on what terms sovereignty can be 
attained and upheld, human nature remaining what it is. 
' II Principe ' at first sight presents no ideal, and this is pro- 
bably the^ reason for the disappointment and disgust with 
which many, especially modern, readers have perused it. 
Certainly Machiavelli takes a very low view of ordinary 
morality, but the facts with which observation and experience 
had rendered him familiar in practical life, justified and 
almost necessitated this pessimism. Machiavelli had a politi- 
cal as well as a scientific aim in writing this book, and it 
was not adverse to liberty. He looked (as he tells us in the 
last sentence) for the regeneration of Italy, the expulsion of 


the foreigner, tlie unity of rule. His work, in fact, was com- 
posed with the view to the freeing of his country by some 
petty prince, whose skill and genius, assisted by the counsels 
of wise nien, should do what indeed was done later by the 
Savoyard princes. . . . Instead of this the work came to be 
regarded as a convenient manual for tyrants, and it is probable 
that no book has ever done more harm to its author or more 
mischief to humanity. Charles V., Catherine de Medicis, 
Henri III. and Henri IV. made it their daily companion, and 
its fame having reached the Levant, Mustapha III. caused it 
to be' translated into Turkish. More recently Napoleon 
Bonaparte is said to have studied it in the hope of discover- 
ing some hints for the maintenance of his huge and ill-gotten 
empire. ' ' 

Machiavelli seems to have chosen an idealized Cesare 
Borgia for his hero. Although he called the real Cesare a 
"basilisk" and a "hydra," he admired Borgia's statecraft, 
unscrupulous though he was. Machiavelli wished his ideal 
Prince to mingle the natures of the fox and the lion, and he 
speaks of " honorable fraud " and "splendid rascality." As 
Macaulay declared, Machiavelli, was, after all, an Italian of 
his day and generation. He advocated a national army and 
militia for his national tyrant, and foreshadowed the coming 
monarchies of Europe. 

Niccolo Machiavelli was born at Florence in 1469., He 
was for some time Secretary of the Florentine Republic, and 
he wrote the History of Floretlce in eight books, from the 
fall of the Roman Empire to the rise of the Italiap, Republics. 
This history is justly distinguished for its style and its spirit 
of philosophy. But Machiavelli also shone in the golden age 
of the Medici as dramatist and novelist, his versatility being 
remarkable.- In his comedy " Mandragola, " he satirized the 
social parasite and the religious impostor in a plot of a gulled 
husband who carves his own horns. His great, and only 
extant, novel is "Belphegor." The whimsical plot of the 
story was first narrated in an old Latin MS. An old English 
play (1691), modelled on Macjiiavelli's novella, was entitled 
"Belphegor, or, the Marriage of the Devil." 


Should Princes be Faithful to their Engagements? 

The work on which the fame of Machiavelli, for good or evil, 
rests, is "The Prince." It was written about 1514; but was not printed 
until 1532 — five years after the author's death. It is chiefly devoted to the 
character which must be possessed by the prince who has become the 
ruler of a .state, by conquest, election, or hereditary right, and wishes 
to retain his power. Towards the close of the work he discusses the 
question, ' ' Whether Princes should be faithful to their Engagements ? ' ' 
and decides that they should not be so, unless this course be for their 
interest. This eighteenth chapter especially has given rise to the term 
" Machiavellian," to denote a crafty and unscrupulous mode of policy. 

It is unquestionably , very praiseworthy in princes to be 
faithful to their engagements ; but among those of the pres- 
ent day who have performed great exploits few of them have 
piqued themselves on this fidelity, or have been scrupulous in 
deceiving those who relied on their good faith. It should, 
therefore, be known that there are two methods of warfare ; 
one of which is by laws, the other by force. The first is 
peculiar to men, the other is common to us with beasts. But 
when laws are not powerful enough, it is very necessary to 
recur to force. A prince ought to understand how to fight 
with both these kinds of arms. 

The doctrine is admirably displayed to us by the ancient 
poets in the allegorical history of the education of Achilles 
and many other princes of antiquity by the Centaur Chiron 
who, under the double form of man and beast, taught those 
who were destined to govern that it was their duty to use by 
turns the arms adapted to each of these species, seeing that 
one without the other cannot be of any durable advantage. 

Now those animals whose forms the prince should know 
how to assume are the fox and the lion. The first can but 
feebly defend himself against the wolf, and the other readily 
falls into snares that are laid for him. Prom the first a prince 
will learn to be dexterous, and avoid the snares ; and from the 
other to be strong, and keep the wolves in awe. Those who 
despise the part of the fox understand but little of their trade. 
In other words, a prudent prince cannot nor ought to keep his 
word, except when he can do it without injury to himself, or 


when the circumstances under which he contracted the 
engagement still exist. , 

I should be cautious of inculcating such a principle if all 
men were good; but as they are all wicked and ever ready- 
to break their words, a prince should not pique himself on 
keeping his more scrupulously— and it is always easy to 
justify this want of faith. I could give numerous proofs of it, 
and show how many engagements and treaties h^ive been 
broken by the infidelity of princes ; the most fortunate of 
whom has always been he who best understood how to assume 
the character of the fox. The object is to act his part well, 
and to know how in due time to feign and dissemble. And 
men are so simple and so weak that he who wishes to deceive 
easily find dupes. 

One example, taken from the history of our own times, 
will be sufiicient : Pope Alexander VI. played during his 
whole life a game of deception ; and notwithstanding his 
faithless conduct was extremely well known, he was in all 
his artifices successful. Oaths and protestations cost him 
nothing. Never did a prince so often break his word, nor 
pay less regard to his engagements. This was because he 
knew perfectly veil this part of the art of government. 

There is, therefore, no necessity for a prince to possess all 
the good qualities I have enumerated ; but it is indispensable 
that he should appear to have them. I will even go so far as 
to say that it is sometimes dangerous to make use of them, 
though it is always useful to seem to possess them. It is the 
duty, of a prince most earnestly to endeavor to gain the repu- 
tation of kindness, clemency, piety, justice, and fidelity to 
his engagements. He ought to possess all these good quali- 
ties, but still to retain such power over himself as to display 
their opposites whenever it may be expedient. I maintain 
that a prince — and more especially a new prince — cannot with 
impunity exercise all the virtues, because his own self-preser- 
vation will often compel him to violate the laws of charity, 
religion, and humanity. He should habituate himself to 
bend easily to the various circumstances which may , from 
time to time surround him. In a word, it will be as useful to 
him to persevere in the path of rectitude, while he feels no 


inconvenience in doing so, as to know how to deviate from it 
when circumstances shall require it. He should, above all, 
study to utter nothing which does not breathe kindness, 
justice, good faith, and piety. 

The last quality is, however, that which it is the most 
important for him to appear to possess, as' men in general 
judge more by their eyes than by their other senses. Every 
man can see, but it is allotted to but few to know how to 
rectify the errors which they commit by the eyes. We easily 
discern what a man appears to be, but not what he really is ; 
and the smaller number dare not gainsay the multitude, who 
besides have with them the strength and the splendor of 

Now when it is necessary to form a judgment of the minds 
of men — and more especially of those of princes — as we 
cannot have recourse to any tribunal, we must attend only to 
results. The point is to maintain his authority. I^et the 
means be what they may, they will always appear honorable, 
and every one will praise them ; for the vulgar are always 
caught by appearances, and judge only by the event. Now, 
the "vulgar" comprehend almost every one, and the few are 
•of no consequence except when the multitude know not on 
whom to rely. 

A prince who is now on the throne, but whom I do not 
choose to name,* always preaches peace and good faith ; but 
if he had observed cither the one or the other, he would more 
than once have lost his reputation and his dominions. 

The Rustic Outwits the Devil. 

The fiend Belphegor had been allowed to come on earth. He 
assumed the name Roderigo and was married, but the haughty airs of 
his wife drove all servants from his house and finally compelled him to 
desert her. He was pursued by her relatives, but rescued by Matteo, 
whom he rewarded by allowing him twice to remove the fiend from 
persons whom he had entered, and thus get great wealth. But Roderigo 
warned him not to carry this practice further. 

Matteo returned to Florence after receiving fifty thousand 

* He refers to Ferdinand V., King of Castile, who acquired the 
kingdoms of Naples and Navarre. 


ducats from his majesty,, in order to enjoy his riches in peace, 
and never once imagined that Roderigo would come in his 
■way again. But in this he was deceived ; for he soon heard 
that a daughter of Louis, King of France, was possessed by 
an evil spirit, which disturbed our friend Matteo not a little, 
thinking of his majesty's great authority and of what Rode- 
rigo had said. Hearing of Matteo's great skill, and finding 
no other remedy, the king despatched a messenger for him, 
whom Matteo contrived to send back with a variety of excuses. 
But this did not long avail him; the king applied to the 
Florentine council, and our hero was compelled to attend. 
Arriving with no very pleasant sensations at Paris, he was 
introduced into the royal presence, when he assured his ma- 
jesty that though it was true he had acquired some fame in 
the course of his demoniac practice, he could by no means 
always boast of success, and that some devils were of such a 
desperate character as not to pay the least attention to threats, 
enchantments, or even the exorcisms of religion itself. He 
would, nevertheless, do his majesty's pleasure, entreating at 
the same time to be held excused if it should happen to prove 
an obstinate case. To this the king made answer, that be the 
case what it might, he would certainly hang him if he did 
not succeed. It is impossible to describe poor Matteo's terror 
and perplexity on hearing these words ; but at length muster- 
ing courage, he ordered the possessed princess to be brought 
into his presence. Approaching as usual close to her ear, he 
conjured Roderigo in the most humble terms, by all he had 
ever done for him, not to abandon him in such a . dilemma, . 
but to shaw some sense of gratitude for past services and to leave 
the princess. ' ' Ah ! thou traitorous villain ! ' ' cried Rode- 
rigo, "hast thou, indeed, ventured to meddle in this business? 
Dost thou boast thyself a rich man at my expense ? I will 
now convince the world and thee of the extent of my power, 
both to give and to take away. I shall have the pleasure of 
seeing thee hanged before thou lea vest this place. ' ' 

Poor Matteo finding there was no remedy, said nothing 
more, but wisely set his head to work in order to discover some 
other means of expelling the spirit ; for which purpose he said 
to the king, " Sire, it is as I feared ; ^there are certain spirits of, 


SO malignant a character that there is no keeping any terms 
with them, and this is one of them. However, I will make 
a last attempt, and I trust that it will succeed according to 
our wishes. If not, I am in your majesty's power, and I hope 
you will take compassion on my innocence. In the first place, 
I have to intreat that your majesty will order a large stage to 
be erected in the centre of the great square, such as will ad- 
mit the nobility and clergy of the whole city. The stage 
ought to be adorned with all kinds of silks and with cloth of 
gold, and with an a;ltar raised in the middle. To-morrow 
morning I would have your majesty, with your full train of 
lords and ecclesiastics in attendance, seated in order and in 
magnificent array, as spectators of the scene at the said place. 
There, after having celebrated solemn mass, the possessed 
princess must appear ; but I have in particular to intreat that 
on one side of the square may be stationed a band of men 
with drums, trumpets, horns, tambours, bagpipes, cymbals, and 
kettle-drums, and all other kinds of instruments that make 
the most infernal noise. Now, when I take my hat off, let 
the whole band strike up and approach with the most horrid 
uproar towards the stage. This, along with a few other secret 
remedies which I shall apply, will surely compel the spirit to 

These preparations were accordingly made by the royal 
command ; and when the day, being Sunday morning, arrived, 
the stage was seen crowded with people of rank and the square 
with common people. Mass was celebrated, and the possessed 
princess conducted between two bishops, with a train of nobles, 
to the spot. Now, when Rbderigo beheld so vast a concourse 
of people, together with all this awful preparation, he was 
almost struck dumb with astonishment, and said to himself, 
" I wonder what that cowardly wretch is thinking of doing now? 
Does he imagine I have never seen finer things than these in 
the regions above — ay ! and more horrid things below ! How- 
ever, I will soon make him repent it, at all events." Matteo 
then approaching him, besought him to come out ; but Rode- 
rigo replied, " Oli, you think you have done a fine thing now ! 
What do you mean to do with all this trumpery? Can you 
escape my power, think you, in this way, or elude the ven- 


geance of the king? Thou poltroon villain, I will have thee 
hanged for this ! ' ' And as Matteo continued the more to 
entreat him, his adversary still vilified him in the same strain. 
So Matteo, believing there was no time to be lost, made the 
sign with his hat, when all the musicians who had been sta- 
tioned there for the purpose suddenly struck up a hideous 
din, and, ringing a thousand peals, approached the spot.- Ro- 
derigo pricked up his ears at the sound, quite at a loss what 
to think, and ra.ther in a perturbed tone of voice he asked 
Matteo what it meant. To this the latter returned, appareiitly 
much alarmed, ' ' Alas ! dear Roderigo, it is your wife ; she is 
coming for you ! " It is impossible to give an idea of the 
anguish of Roderigo' s mind and the- strange alteration which 
his feelings underwent at that name. The inoment the name, 
of "wife" was pronoiinced he had no longer presence of 
mind to consider whether it were probable, or even possible-, 
that it could be her. Without replyiiig a single word, he 
leaped out and fled in the utmost terror, leaving the lady to 
herself, and preferring rather to return to his infernal abode 
and render an account of his adventures, than run the risk of 
any further sufferings and vexations under the 'matrimonial 
yoke.. And thus Belphegor again made his appearance in the 
infernal domains, bearing ample testimony to the evils iiitro- 
duced into a household by a wife ; while Matteo, on. his part, 
who knew more of the matter than the devil, returned tri- 
umphantly home, not a little proud of the victory he had 

The Credulous Fooi,. 

(Chorus from "I<a Mandragola.") 

How happy is he, as all may see 
Who has the good fortune a fool to be, 
And what you tell him will always believe ! 
No ambition can grieve, 

No fear can affright him, 
Which are wont to be seeds 

Of pain and annoy. 
This doctor of ours, 

'Tis not hard to delight him — 
If you tell him 'twill gain him 


His heart's wish and joy, 
He'll believe in good faith that an ass can fly,^ 
Or that black is white, and the truth a lie, — 
All things in the world he may well forget — 
Save the one whereon his whole heart is set. 


It was the fate of the second Italian poet who took, Orlando 
as his hero to be obliged to leave his work unfinished. A 
successor took it up, retouched almost every line, and issued 
it as his own. The later version is better known than the 
first, and though Boiardo's name is duly recorded in all his- 
tories of Italian literature, Berni's "Orlando Innamorato" is 
more frequently printed and read. Gradually it has been 
discerned that the greater merit belongs to the elder poet. 

Matteo Maria Boiardo, born in 1434, near Ferrara, was 
educated at its university, and was attached to the court of 
Hercules, Count of Ferrara. Among other public employ- 
ments he was sent on embassies to several Italian cities, was 
captain of Modena and governor of Reggio. He was an in- 
dulgent master and fonder of making love-verses than of the 
sterner duties of his office. His learning was early shown in 
translations from the Greek classics, and afterwards in his 
drama, "Timon," founded on I^ucian's "Misanthrope." 
But his fame rests on his " Orlando Innamorato," which was 
interrupted by the French invasion of Italy, and afterwards 
recast in a less sober style by Berni. The epic romance con- 
sists of three chief parts : the search for Angelica, the beaur 
tiful but deceitful princess of Cathay, by Orlando and other 
lovers ; the siege of her father's city, Albracca, by the Tar- 
tars ; arid the siege of Paris by the Moors. Yet there are 
numerous episodes loosely interwoven, and the scene shifts 
easily from France to China. Boiardo created the character 
of Angelica, and spun this epic for the amusement of Duke 
Hercules and his court of Ferrara. He has described his 
own chateau and grounds in the landscape of this poem, 
and (it is even said) gave the names of some of his peasants 
to the Saracen warriors, Mandricardo, Gradasse, Sacripant and 


Prash,do and Tisbina. 

Iroxdo, a knight of Babylon, had to wife a lady of the 
name of Tisbina, whom he loved with a passion equal to that 
of Tristan for Iseult ; and she returned his love with such 
fondness, that her thoughts were occupied with him from 
morning till night. They had a neighbor who was accounted 
the greatest nobleman in the city ; and he deserved his credit, 
for he spent his great riches in doing honor to his rank. 
He was pleasant in company, formidable in battle, full of 
grace in love ; an open-hearted, accomplished gentleman. 

This personage, whose name was Prasildo, happened one 
day to be of a party with Tisbina, who were amusing them- 
selves in a garden, with a game in which the players knelt 
down with their faces bent on one another's laps, and guessed 
who it was that struck them. The turn came to himself, and 
he knelt down at the lap of Tisbina ; but no sooner was he 
there, than he experienced feelings he had never dreamed of: 
and instead of trying to guess correctly, took all the pains he 
could to remain in the same position. These feelings pursued 
him all the rest of the. day, and still more closely at night. 
He did nothing but think and sigh, and find the soft feathers 
harder thati any stone. Nor did he get better as time 
advanced. His once favorite pastime of hunting now ceased 
to afford him any delight. Nothing pleased him but t6 be 
giving dinners and balls, to make verses and sing them- to his 
lute, and to joust and tourney in the eyes of his love, dressed 
in the most sumptuous apparel. 

The passion which had thus taken possession of this gen- 
tleman was not lost upon the lady for want of her knowing 
it. A mutual acquaintance was always talking to her on the 
subject, but to no purpose ; she never relaxed her pride and 
dignity for a moment. The' lover 'at last fell ill ; he fairly 
wasted away, and was so unhappy that he gave up all his 
feastings and entertainmeilts. The only, solace he found was 
in a solitary wood, in which he used to plunge himself in 
order to give way to his grief and lamentations. It happened 
one day, early in the morning, while he was thus occupied, 


that Iroldo came into the wood to amuse himself with bird- 
catching. He had Tisbina with him ; and as they were com- 
ing along, they overheard their neighbor during one of his 
paroxysms, and stopped to listen to what he said. 

"Hear me," exclaimed he, "ye flowers and ye woods. 
Hear to what a pass of wretchedness I am come, since that 
cruel one will hear me not. Hear, O sun that hast taken away 
the night from the heavens, and you, ye stars, and thou the 
departing moon, hear the voice of my grief for the last time, 
for exist I can no longer ; my death is the only way left me 
to gratify that proud beauty, to whom it has pleased Heaven 
to give a cruel heart with a merciful countenance. Fain 
would I have died in her presence. It would have comforted, 
me to see her pleased even with that proof of my love. But 
I pray, nevertheless, that she may never know it ; since, cruel 
as she is, she might blame herself for having shown a scorn 
so extreme ; and I love her so, I would not have her pained 
for all her cruelty. Surely I shall love her even in my 

With these words, turning pale with his own mortal 
resolution, Prasildo drew his sword, and pronouncing the 
name of Tisbina more than once with a loving voice, as 
though its very sound would be sufficient to waft him to Para- 
dise, was about to plunge the steel into his bosom, when the 
lady herself, by leave of her husband, whose manly visage 
was all in tears for pity, stood suddenly before him. 

" Prasildo," said she, " if you love me, listen to me. You 
have often told me that you do so. Now prove it. I happen 
to be' threatened with nothing less than the loss of life and 
honor. Nothing short of such a calamity could have induced 
me to beg of you the service I am going to request ; since 
there is no greater shame in the world than to ask favors from 
those to whom we have refused them. But I now promise 
you, that if you do what I desire, your love shall be returned. 
I give you my word for it. I give you my honor. On the 
other side of the wilds of Barbary is a garden which has a 
wall of iron. It has four gates. Life itself keeps one ; Death 
another ; Poverty the third ; the fairy of Riches the fourth. 
He who goes in at one gate must go out at the other opposite; 


and in the m^dst of the garden is a tree, tall as the reach of 
an arrow, which produces pearls for blossoms. It is called 
the Tree of Wealth, and has fruit of emeralds and boughs of 
gold. I must have a bough of that tree, or suffer the most 
painful consequences. Now, then, if you love me, I say, 
prove it. Prove it, and most assuredly I shall love you in 
turn, better than ever you loved myself. ' ' 

What need of saying that Prasildo, with haste and joy, 
undertook to do all that she required? If she had asked the 
sun and stars, and the whole universe, he would have promised 
them. Quitting her in spite of his love, he set out on the 
journey without delay, only dressing himself before he left 
the city in the habit of a pilgrim. 

Now you must know, that Iroldo and his lady had set 
Prasildo on that adventure, in the hope that the great dis- 
tance which he would have to travel, and the change which 
it might assist time to produce, would deliver him from his 
passion. At all events, in case this good end was not effected 
before he arrived at the garden, they counted to a certainty 
on his getting rid of it when he did ; because the fairy of that 
garden, which was called the Garden of Medusa, was of such 
a nature, that whosoever did but look on her countenance 
forgot the reason for his going thither ; and whoever saluted, 
touched, and sat down to converse by her side, forgot all that 
had ever occurred in his lifetime. 

Away, however, on his steed went our bold lover ; all alone, 
or rather with Love for his companion ; and so, riding hard 
till he came to the Red Sea, he took ship, and journeyed 
through Egypt, and came to the mountains of Barca, where 
he overtook an old grey-headed palmer. 

Prasildo told the palmer the reason of his coming, and the 
palmer told him what the reader has heard about the garden ; 
adding, that he must enter by the gate of Poverty, and take 
no arms or armor with him, excepting a looking-glass for a, 
shield, in which the fairy might behold her beauty. The old 
man gave him other directions necessary for his passing out 
of the gate of Riches ; and Prasildo, thanking him, went on, 
and in thirty days found himself entering the garden with 
the greatest ease, by the gate of Poverty. ' 

IV— 14 


The garden looked like a Paradise, it was so full of beauti- 
ful trees and flowers and fresh grass. Prasildo took care to 
hold the shield over his eyes, that he might avoid seeing the 
fairy Medusa ; and in this manner guarding his approach, he 
arrived at the Golden Tree. The fairy, who was reclining 
against the trunk of it, looked up, and saw herself in the 
glass. Wonderful was the eflFect on her. Instead of her own 
white-and-red blooming face, she beheld that of a dreadful 
serpent. The spectacle made her take to flight in terror ; and 
the lover, finding his object so far gained, looked freely at the 
tree, climbed it, and bore away a bough. 

With this he proceeded to the gate of Riches. It was all 
of loadstone, and opened with a great noise. But he passed 
through it happily, for he made the fairy who kept it a present 
of half the bough ; and so he issued forth out of the garden, 
with indescribable joy. 

Behold our loving adventurer now on his road home. 
Every step of the way appeared to him a thousand. He took 
the road of Nubia to shorten the journey ; crossed the Arabian 
Gulf with a breeze in his favor ; and traveling by night as 
well as by day, arrived one fine morning in Babylon. 

No sooner was he there than he sent to tell the object of 
his passion how fortunate he had been. He begged her to 
name her own place and time for receiving the bough at his 
hands, taking care to remind her of her promise ; and he 
could not help adding, that he should die if she broke it. 

Terrible was the grief of Tisbina at this unlooked-for 
news. She threw herself on her couch in despair, and 
bewailed the hour she was born. "What on earth am I to 
do?" cried the wretched lady ; " death itself is no remedy for 
a case like this, since it is only another mode of breaking my 
word. To think that Prasildo should return from the garden 
of Medusa ! Who could have supposed it possible? And yet, 
in truth, what a fool, I was to suppose anything impossible to 
love! O my husband! little didst thou think what thou 
thyself advisedst me to promise !" 

The husband was coming that moment towards the room; 
and overhearing his wife grieving in this distracted manner, 
he entered and clasped her in his arms. On learning the 


cause of her aflaiction, he felt as though he should have died 
with her on the spot. 

"Alas!" cried he, "that it should be possible for me to 
be miserable while I am so dear to your heart. But you 
know, O my soul ! that when love and jealousy come together, 
the torment is the greatest in the world. Myself— myself, 
alas ! caused the mischief, and myself alone ought to suffer 
for it. You must keep your promise. You must abide by the 
word you have given, especially to one who has undergone 
so much to perform what you asked him. Sweet face, you 
must. But oh ! see him not till after I am dead. Let For- 
tune do with me what she pleases, so that I be saved from a 
disgrace like that. It will be a comfort to me in death to ' 
think that I alone, while I was on earth, enjoyed the fond 
looking of that lovely face. Nay," concluded the wretched 
husband, " I feel as though I should die over again, if I could 
call to mind in my grave how you were taken from me." 

Iroldo became dumb for anguish. It seemed to him as if 
his very heart had been taken out of his breast. Nor was 
Tisbina less miserable. She was as pale as death, and could 
hardly speak to him or bear to look ^t him. At length 
turning her eyes upon him, she said, " And do you believe I 
could make my poor sorry case out in this world without 
Iroldo? Can he bear, himself, to think of leaving his Tis- 
bina? he who has so often said, that if he possessed heaven 
itself, he should not think it heaven without her? O dearest 
husband, there is a way to make death not bitter to either of 
us. It is to die together. I must only exist long enough to 
see Prasildo ! Death, alas ! is in that thought ; but the same 
death will release us. It need not even be a hard death, sav- 
ing our misery. There are poisons so gentle in their deadli- 
ness, that we need but faint away into sleep, and so, in the 
course of a few hours, be delivered. Our misery and our 
folly will then alike be ended." 

Iroldo assenting, clasped his wife in distraction ; and for 
a long time they remained in the same posture, half stifled 
with grief, and bathing one another's cheeks with their tears. 
Afterwards they sent quietly for the poison ; and the apothe- 
cary made up a preparation in a cup, without asking any 



questions ; and so the husband and wife took it. Iroldo drank 
first, and then endeavored to give the cup to his wife, utter- 
ing not a word, and trembling in every limb ; not because he 
was afraid of death, but because he could not bear to ask 
her to share it At length, turning away his face and look- 
ing down, he held the cup towards her, and she took it 
with a chilled heart and trembling hand, and drank the 
remainder to the dregs. Iroldo then covered his face and 
head, not daring to see her depart for the house of Prasildo ; 
and Tisbina, with pangs bitterer than death, left him in 

Tisbina, accompanied by a servant, went to Prasildo, who 
could scarcely believe his ears when he heard that she was at 
the door requesting to speak with him. He hastened down 
to show her all honor, leading her from the door into a room 
by themselves ; and when he found her in tears, addressed 
her in the most considerate and subdued, yet still not unhappy, 
manner, taking her confusion for bashfulness, and never 
dreaming what a tragedy had been meditated. 

Finding at length that her grief was not to be done away, 
he conjured her by what she held dearest on earth to let him 
know the cause of it ; adding that he could still die for her 


sajce, if his death would do her any service. Tisbina spoke 
at these words ; and Prasildo then heard what he did not wish 
to hear. " I am in your hands," answered she, "while I am 
yet alive. I am bound to my word, but I cannot survive the 
dishonor which it costs me, nor, above all, the loss of tlie 
husband of my heart. You also, to whose eyes I have been 
so welcome, must be prepared for my disappearance from the 
earth. Had my aflFections not belonged to another, ungentle 
would have been my heart not to have loved yourself, who 
are so capable of loving; but (as you must well know) to love 
two at once is neither fitting nor in one's power. It was for 
that reason I never loved you, baron; I was only touched 
with compassion for you ; and hence the miseries of us all. 
Before this day closes, I shall have learned the taste of death.' ' 
And without further preface she disclosed to him how she 
and her husband had taken poison. 

Prasildo was struck dumb with horror. He had thought 
his felicity at hand, and was at the same instant to behold it 
gone for ever. She who was rooted in his heart, she who 
carried his life in her sweet looks, even she was sitting there 
before him, already, so to speak, dead. "It has pleased 
neither Heaven nor you, Tisbina," exclaimed the unhappy 
young man, "to put my best feelings to the proof. Often 
have two lovers perished for love ; the world will now behold 
a sacrifice of three. ' Oh, why did you not make a request to 
me in your turn, and ask me to free you from your promise ? 
You say you took pity on me ! Alas, cruel one, confess that 
you have killed yourself, in order to kill me. Yet why? 
Never did I think of giving you displeasure ; and I now do 
what I would have done at any time to prevent it, I absolve 
you from your oath. Stay or go this instant, as it seems 
best to you. ' ' 

A stronger feeling than compassion moved the heart of 
Tisbina at these words. "This indeed," replied she, "I feel 
to be noble ; and truly could I also now die to save you. But 
life is flitting; and how may I prove my regard?" 

Prasildo, who had in good earnest resolved that three 
instead of two should perish, experienced such anguish at the 
extraordinary position in which he found all three, that even 


her sweet words came but dimly to his ears. He stood like a 
man stupefied ; then begged of her to give him but one kiss, 
and so took his leave without further ado, only intimating that 
her way out of the house lay before her. As he spake, he 
removed himself from her sight. 

Tisbina reached home. She found her husband with his 
head covered up as she left him ; but when she recounted 
what had passed, and the courtesy of Prasildo, and how he 
had exacted from her but a single kiss, Iroldo got up, and 
removed the covering from his face, and then clasping his 
hands, and raising it to heaven, he knelt with grateful 
humility, and prayed God to give pardon to himself, and 
reward to his neighbor. But before he had ended, Tisbina 
sank on the floor in a swoon. Her weaker frame was the first 
to undergo the efiects of what she had taken. Iroldo felt icy 
chill to see her, albeit she seemed to sleep sweetly. Her 
aspect was not at all like death. He taxed Heaven with 
cruelty for treating two loving hearts so hardly, and cried out 
against Fortune, and life, and Love itself. 

Nor was Prasildo happier in his chamber. He also 
exclaimed against the bitter tyrant "whom men call Love ;" 
and protested, that he would gladly encounter any fate, to be 
delivered from the worse evils of his false and cruel ascendancy. 

But his lamentations were interrupted. The apothecary 
who sold the potion to the husband and wife was at the door 
below, requesting to speak with him. The servants at first 
had refused to carry the message ; but the old man persisting 
and saying it was a matter of life and death, entrance for him 
into the master's chamber was obtained. 

"Noble sir," said the apothecary, "I have always held you 
in love and reverence. I have unfortunately reason to fear 
that somebody is desiring your death. This morning a hand- 
maiden of the lady Tisbina applied to me for a secret poison ; 
and just now it was told me, that the lady herself had been 
at this house. I am old, sir, and you are young ; and I warn 
you against the violence and jealousies of womankind. Talk 
of their flames of love ! Satan himself burn them, say I, for 
they are fit for nothing better. Do not be too much alarmed, 
however, this time : for in truth I gave the young woman 


nothing of the sort that she asked for, but only a draught so 
innocent, that if you have taken it, it will cost you but four 
or five hours' sleeep. So, in God's name, give up the whole 
foolish sex ; for you may depend on it, that in this city of 
ours there are ninety-nine wicked ones among them to one 
good. ' ' 

You may guess how Prasildo's heart revived at these 
words. Truly might he be compared to flowers in sunshine 
after rain ; he rejoiced through all his being, and displayed 
again a cheerful countenance. Hastily thanking the old 
man, he lost no time in repairing to the house of his neigh- 
bors, and telling them of their safety ; and you may guess 
how the like joy was theirs. 

But behold a wonder ! Iroldo was so struck with the 
generosity of his neighbor's conduct throughout the whole 
of this extraordinary affair, that nothing would content bis 
grateful though ever-grieving heart, but he must fairly give 
up Tisbina after all. Prasildo, to do him justice, resisted the 
proposition as stoutly as he could ; but a man's powers are ill 
seconded by an unwilling heart ; and though the contest was 
long and handsome, as is customary between generous natures, 
the husband adhered firmly to his intention. In short, he 
abruptly quitted the city, declaring that he would never again 
see it, and so left his wife to the lover. 


WhBN to the leafy wood his feet were brought, 
Towards Merlin's Fount at once he took his way ; 

Unto the fount that changes amorous thought 
Journeyed the Paladin without delay ; 

But a new sight, the which he had not sought, 
Caused him upon the path his feet to stay. 

Within the wood there is a little close 

Full of pink flowers, and white, and various : 

And in the midst thereof a naked boy, 
Singing, took solace with surpassing cheer ; 

Three ladies round him, as around their joy, 
Danced naked in the light so soft and clear. 


No sword, no shield, hath been his wonted toy ; 
Brown are his eyes ; yellow his curls appear ; 
His downy beard hath scarce begun to grow : 
One saith 'tis there, and one might answer, No ,! . 

With violets, roses, flowers of every dye, 

Baskets they filled and eke their beauteous hands : 

Then as they dance in joy and amity. 
The I/ord of Montalbano near them stands : 

Whereat, "Behold the traitor ! " loud they cry. 
Soon as they mark the foe within their bands ; 

" Behold the thief, the scorner of delight. 

Caught in the trap at last in sorry plight ! " 

Then with their baskets all with one consent 

Upon Rinaldo like a tempest bore : 
One flings red roses, one with violets blent 

Showers lilies, hyacinths, fast as she can pour : 
Each flower in falling with strange pain hath rent 

His heart and pricked his marrow to the core, 
Ivighting a flame in every smitten part, 
As though the flowers concealed a fiery dart. 

The boy who, naked, coursed along the sod, 
Emptied his basket first, and then began, 

Wielding a long-grown leafy lily rod. 

To scourge the helmet of the tortured man : 

No aid Rinaldo found against the god. 
But fell to earth as helpless children can ; 

The youth who saw him fallen, by the feet 

Seized him, and dragged him through the meadow sweet. 

And those three dames had each a garland rare 
Of roses ; one was red and one was white : 

These from their snowy brows and foreheads fair 
They tore in haste, to beat the writhing knight : 

In vain he cried and raised his hands in prayer ; 
For still they struck till they were tired quite : 

And round about him on the sward they went. 

Nor ceased from striking till the morn was spent. 

Nor massy cuirass, nor stout plate of steel, 
Pould yield defence against those bitter blows ,: 


His flesh was swollen with many a livid weal 
Beneath his mail, and with such fiery woes 

Inflamed as spirits damned in hell may feel ; 
Yet theirs, upon my troth, are fainter throes : 

Wherefore that Baron, sore and scant of breath. 

For pain and fear was well-nigh brought to death. 

Nor whether they were gods or men he knew : 
Nor prayer, nor courage, nor defence availed, 

Till suddenly upon their shoulders grew 

And budded wiUgs with gleaming gold engrailed, 

Radiant with crimson, white and azure blue ; 
And with a living eye each plume was tailed. 

Not like a peacock's or a bird's, but bright 

And tender as a girl's with love's delight. 

Then after small delay their flight they took, 
And one by one soared upward to the sky, 

Leaving Rinaldo sole beside the brook. 
Full bitterly that Baron 'gan to cry, 

For grief and dole so great his bosom shook 
That still it seemed that he must surely die ; 

And in the end so fiercely raged his, pain 

That like a corpse he fell along the plain. 


A SINGLE work has given to Castiglione a high reputa- 
tion. His treatise "II Cortegiano," "The Courtier," written 
in 1 5 14, set forth in elegant style the ideal gentleman of the 
Renaissance. The Italians called it "the book of gold." It 
was in the form of a discussion between distinguished gentle- 
men and ladies at the court of Urbino, then the most refined 
in Italy. The theme selected, after several suggestions, was, 
"What Constitutes a Perfect Courtier?" Four nights are 
occupied in the discussion, a principal speaker being chosen 
for each night, and the other members of the group criticis- 
ing his speech. The divisions are : The form and manner of 
court life ; the qualifications of a courtier ; the accomplish- 
ments of a court lady ; the duty of a prince. The discussion 
shows the adaptation of the old rule3 of the Courts of lyove 
to more modern requirements. 


Baldassare Castiglione was born near Mantua in 1478, and 
educated at Milan. In youth lie entered the service of Ludo- 
l^ico Sforza, Duke of Milan, and afterwards was attached to 
the court of the Duke of Urbino. Castiglione was employed 
on various embassies, and visited England and Spain. Here 
he was made Bishop of Avila and was charged with settling 
the dispute between Pope Clement VII. and the Emperor 
Charles V. He died at Toledo in 1527. It is acknowledged 
that throughout his life Castiglione was a perfect example of 
the model that he drew. 

The Courtier's Addresses. 

They who are too precipitate and show a presumption, 
and, as it were, a mad pertinacity in their addresses, often 
miss their mark, and that deservedly ; for it is always dis- 
pleasing to a noble lady to be so little esteemed as that any 
one should, without due respect, require her love before he has 
done her due service. In my opinion, the way that a courtier 
should declare his love to his mistress is by signs and tokens 
rather than by words. For without doubt more love is shown 
in a sigh, or in some mark of timidity or reverence, than can 
be shown in a thousand words ; and the eyes may afterwards 
be made the faithful messengers of the heart, because they 
frequently declare, with more eloquence, the inward passion, 
than can open speech, a letter, or any other kind of message. 


Shakespeare drew more than one plot from the Italian 
novelists, but none more noteworthy than that of "Romeo 
and Juliet." For this he was indebted to Luigi da Porto, a 
poet, scholar, and novelist of Italy during the first quarter of 
the sixteenth century. " I^a Giulietta " is the sole story that 
survives from Porto's pen, although he is said to have pro- 
duced several other novels. Porto was of noble descent, and 
fought for the republic of Venice in the wars connected with 
the League of Cambray. A wound crippled him and gave 
him to literature. He died in 1529, at the age of forty-four. 


His single story was based on a previous tale by Massuccio 
Salernitano, and it may serve to show how far the dramatist, 
who has not, indeed, improved upon his model of Massuccio, 
has fallen short of the pathetic beauty of Luigi da Porto's 
story in its conclusiop. It is only in the latter that we meet 
with the affecting circumstance of Juliet rising from her 
trance before the death of Romeo. It is this Italian story 
which has since suggested the improvement that has been 
adopted on the stage at the close of the tragedy, where Romeo 
does not expire before the revival of Juliet. The entire story 
is indelibly linked in modern memory with the Italian family 
feuds, has been actually traced to a Greek romance, and was 
once historically treated as a real event. 

Love in the Tomb. 

On the evening of the day after Juliet's interment Romeo 
arrived at Verona without being discovered by any one. The 
game night, as soon as the city became hushed, he resorted to 
the convent of the Frati Minori, where the tombs of the 
Cappelletti lay. The church was situated in the Cittadella, 
where the monks at that time resided, although, for some rea- 
son, they have since left it for the suburb of San Zeno, now 
called Santo Bernardino, and the Cittadella was formerly, in- 
deed, inhabited by San Francesco himself. Near the outer 
walls of this place there were then placed a number of large 
monuments, such as we see round many churches, and beneath 
one of these was the ancient sepulchre of all the Capelletti, in 
which the beautiful bride then lay. Romeo approaching near 
not long after midnight, and possessing great strength, 
removed the heavy covering by force, and with some wooden 
stakes which he had brought with him he propped it up to 
prevent it from closing again until he wished it, and he then 
entered the tomb and replaced the covering. The lamp he 
carried cast a lurid light around, while his eyes wandered in 
search of the loved object, which, bursting open the living 
tomb, he quickly found. When he beheld the features of the 
beautiful Juliet, now mingled with a heap of lifeless dust and 
bones, a sudden tide of sorrow sprung into his eyes, and 


amidst bitter sobs he thus spoke : "O eyes, which while our 
loves to Heaven were dear, shone sweetly upon mine ! O 
sweeter mouth, a thousand and a thousand times so fondly 
kissed by me alone, and rich in honeyed words ! O bosom, in 
which my whole heart lay treasured up, alas 1 all closed and 
mute and cold I find ye now ! My hapless wife, what hath 
love done for thee, but led thee hither? And why so soon 
perish two wretched lovers? I had not looked for this when 
hope and passion first whispered of other things. But I have 
lived to witness even this !" and he pressed his lips to her 
mouth and bosom, mingling his kisses with his tears. ' ' Walls 
of the dead ! " he cried, "why fall ye not around me and 
crush me into dust ? Yet, as death is in the power of all, it 
is a despicable thing to wish, yet fear it, too." Then taking 
out the poison from under his vest, he thus continued : " By 
what strange fatality am I brought to die in the sepulchre of 
my enemies, some of whom this hand hath slain ? But as it is 
pleasant to die near those we love, now, my beloved, let me die ! ' ' 
Then, seizing the fatal vial, he poured its whole contents into 
his frame, and catching the fair body of Juliet in his arms in 
a wild embrace, "Still so sweet," he cried, " dear limbs, mine, 
only mine ! And if yet thy pure spirit live, my Juliet, let it 
look from its seat of bliss to witness and forgive my cruel 
death ; as I could not delighted live with thee, it is not for- 
bidden me with thee to die," and winding his arms about her 
he awaited his final doom. 

The hour was now arrived when, the vital powers of 
the slumbering lady reviving and subduing the icy cold 
ness of the poison, she should awake. Therefore while still 
straitly folded in the last embraces of Romeo, she suddenly 
recovered her senses, and, uttering a deep sigh, she cried, 
"Alas! where am I? in whose arms? whose kisses? Oh, un- 
bind me, wretch that I am ! Base friar, is it thus you keep 
your word to Romeo, thus lead me to his arms ?" Great was 
her husband's surprise to feel Juliet alive in his embrace. 
Recalling the idea of Pygmalion, " Do you know me, sweet 
wife? " he cried. " It is your love, your Romeo, hither come 
to die with you. I came alone and secretly from Mantua to 
find your place of rest," Finding herself within the sepul- 


ihre and in the arms of Romeo, Juliet would not at first give 
credit to her senses ; but, springing out of his arms, gazed a 
moment eagerly on his face, and the next fell on his neck 
with a torrent of tears and kisses. " O Romeo, Romeo, what 
madness brings you hither? Were not my letters which I 
sent you by the friar enough to tell you of my feigned death, 
and that I should shortly be restored to you? " The wretched 
youth, aware of the whole calamity, then gave loose to his 
despair. " Beyond all other griefs that lovers ever bore, Ro- 
meo, thy lot has been ! My life, my soul, I never had thy 
letters!" And he told her the piteous tale which he had 
heard from the lips of her servant, and that, concluding she 
was dead, he had hastened to keep her company and had 
already drunk the deadly draught. At these last words his 
unhappy bride, uttering a wild scream, began to beat her 
breast and tear her hair, and then in a state of distraction she 
threw herself by the side of Romeo, already lying on the 
ground, and pouring over him a deluge of tears, imprinted 
her last kisses on his lips. All pale and trembling, she cried, 
" O my Romeo ! will you die in my sight, and I, too, the 
occasion of your death.? Must I liye even a moment after 
you ? Ah, would that I could give my life for yours ? Would 
that I alone might die?" In a faint and dying tone her hus- 
band replied, " If my love and truth were ever dear to you, 
my Juliet, live ; for my sake, live; "for it ig sweet to know 
that you will then be often thinking of him who now dies for 
you, with his eyes still fixed on yours." "Die! yes! you 
die for the death which in me was only feigned ! What, there- 
fore, should I do for this, your real, cruel death? I only 
grieve that I have no means of accompanying you, and hate 
myself that I must linger on earth till I obtain them. But it 
shall not be long before the wretch who caused your death 
shall follow you ; ' ' and uttering these words with pain, she 
swooned away upon his body. On again reviving, she felt 
she was catching the last breath, which now came thick and 
fast, from the breast of her husband. 


This gifted lady was the daughter of Fa- 
brizio Colonna, grand constable of the kingdom of Naples. 
She was born in 1490 and died in 1547. Michael Angelo 
declared that before he knew her he was a half-finished statue 
to which her chisel gave form. One result of the great sculp- 
tor' s admiration for her is that he turned poet hirhself and 
became a noble Petrarchist. Most of Vittoria's own poetry 
is dedicated to her husband, Francisco D'Avalos, son of the 
Marquis of Pescara, to whom she was betrothed when only 
four years old at the instance of Ferdinand of Aragon, and 
to whom she was married at the age of seventeen after she 
had refused a duke of Savoy. In 1 5 1 1 Francisco offered his 
sword to the Holy lycague, and during the succeeding long 
exile of campaigning the young wife and husband corre- 
sponded in passionate verse and prose. Pescara became one 
of Charles V.'s bravest captains. He was offered the crown of 
Naples if he would join the emperor's enemies, but Vittoria 
kept him from that treason. She was hastening to his side 
when she learned of his death at Milan from his wounds. 
Michael Angelo in his sixty-fourth year met this sweet Italian 
woman at Rome and became a devoted admirer. He made 
drawings for her, wrote sonnets to her and spent hours in her 
charming society. She removed to Orvieto in 1541, and 
afterwards to Viterbo, but the great sculptor continued to 
visit her. The young widow meanwhile composed a number 
of "Rime Spirituali." Her elegiac and her amatory poems 
do not reveal any great poetic genius ; but they gain note 
from her sex and personality. 





A Branch GI^ the; Vine. 

Fathbr of heaven ! if by Thy mercy's grace 
A living branch I am of that true Vine 
Which spreads o'er all, — and would we did resign 
Ourselves entire by faith to its embrace ! — 
In me much drooping, lyord. Thine eye will trace. 
Caused by the shade of these rank leaves of mine, 
Unless in season due Thou dost refine 
The humor gross, and quicken its dull pace. 
So cleanse me, that, abiding e'er with Thee, 
I feed me hourly with the heavenly dew. 
And with my falling tears refresh the root. 
Thou saidst, and thou art truth, thou'dst with me be : 
Then willing come, that I may bear much fruit. 
And worthy of the stock on which it grew. 

Heavenly Union. 

Blest union, that in heaven was ordained 
In wondrous manner, to yield peace to man, 
Which by the spirit divine and mortal frame 
Is joined with sacred and with love-strong tie ! 
I praise the beauteous work, its author great ; 
Yet fain would see it moved by other hope, 
By other zeal, before I change this form, 
Since I no longer may enjoy it here. 
The soul, imprisoned in this tenement, 
Its bondage hates ; and hence, distressed, it can 
Neither live here, nor fly where it desires. 
My glory then will be to see me joiped 
With the bright sun that lightened all my path ; 
For in his life alone I learned to live. 


Supreme in the realm of art as painter, 
sculptor and architect, Michel Angelo 
claims also a place in the republic of letters. The greatest 
Christian church, with its marvelous dome, is his eternal 
monument. His sculpture strove to embody a meaning which 
belongs more directly to the wider region of poetry. His life 
was marred by variances with successive popes, which com- 
pelled him to waste precious time in performing work for 
which inferior men were competent, while opportunity was 
denied him to execute his own sublime plans. Yet in spite of 
all obstacles his Titanic genius struggled on to the accomp- 
lishment of masterpieces which remain to baffle the ingenuity 
of critics and to challenge the admiration of the world. 

Michel Angelo Buonarroti was born of noble family in 
the castle of Caprese in Tuscany in March, 1475. His first 
training was in the academy founded by lyorenzo the Magnifi- 
cent at Florence, and he gained the favor of that potentate. 
Statues and bas-reliefs still remain in Florence to attest his 
youthful skill. In the flush of his manhood he was called 
to Rome by the warlike pontiff, Julius II., and by his orders 
commenced the pope's tomb, which, partly owing to the 
quarrel of these two proud, imperious natures, was never 
completed in its original grandeur. The frescoes of the Sis- 
tine Chapel in the Vatican, showing the prophets and heroes 
and striking episodes of sacred Scripture, are the chief 
witness of Michel Angelo's ability as a painter. The sub- 
limity of his conceptions is equalled only by the power and 
facility with which they are executed. The luxurious Leo 
X., in spite of his love of art, wantonly neglected the greatest 


genius of his age, and assigned to him unworthy tasks. Paul 
III. recalled the master to suitable work and appointed him 
architect of St. Peter's church, which he had suggested long 
before. He formed the model for the dome, though he did 
not live to see it completed. He died in February, 1564. 

It was his admiration and aflFection for Vittoria Colonna 
which led the great master of the plastic arts to express his 
thoughts in verse worthy of his fame. It was not until his 
sixtieth year that he had the good fortune to meet this gifted, 
pious woman; thenceforth until her death iu, 1547, her 
friendship was the great solace of his life. Previously he had 
been stern and solitary in disposition ; now in old age the 
tenderness of his heart was revealed. His passion was per- 
fectly pure, and while it inspired him to sing her praises and 
to celebrate Platonic love, it found expression also in mystic 
songs relating to the Christian religion and to the art which 
had heretofore dominated his mind. Though his paintings 
(apart from his frescoes) have been lost in the ravages of time, 
his sonnets and lyrics, thrown off amid the pressure of work, 
remain to win new admiration for the Olympian Zeus of 
Christian art. 

On Dante. 

From heaven his spirit came, and robed in clay, 
The realms of justice and of mercy trod : 
Then rose a living man to gaze on God, 

That he might make the truth as clear as day. 

For that pure star, that brightened with his ray 
The undeserving nest where I was born, 
The whole wide world would be a prize to scorn ; 

None but his Maker can due guerdon pay. 

I speak of Dante, whose high work remains 
Unknown, unhonored by that thankless brood, 
Who only, to just men deny their wage. 

Were I but he ! Born for like lingering pains, 
Against his exile coupled with his good 
I'd gladly change the world's best heritage. 
IV— 15 


The Model and the Statue. 

(To Vittoria Colonna.) 

When that which is divine in us doth try 

To shape a face, both brain and hand unite 
To give, from a mere model frail and slight. , 

lyife to the stone by Art's free energy. 

Thus too before the painter dares to ply 

Paint-brush or canvas, he is wont to write 
Sketches on scraps of paper, and invite 

Wise minds to judge his figured history. 

So, born a model rude and mean to be 
Of my poor self, I gain a nobler birth, 
I^ady, from you, you fountain of all worth ! 

Bach overplus and eaCh deficiency 

You will make good. What penance then is due. 
For my fierce heat, chastened and taught by you ? 

Love the Light-giver. 

(To Tommaso de Cavalieri.) 

With your fair eyes a charming light I see. 

For which my own blind eyes would peer in vain ; 

Stayed by your feet, the burden I sustain 
Which my lame feet find all too strong for me ; 
Wingless upon your pinions forth I fly; 

Heavenward your spirit stirreth me to strain ; 

E'en as you will, I blush and blanch again. 
Freeze in the sun, burn 'neath a frosty sky. 
Your will includes and is the lord of mine ; 
Life to my thoughts within your heart is given ; 

My words begin to breathe upon your breath ; 
Like to the moon am I, that cannot shine 
Alone ; for lo ! our eyes see naught in heaven 

Save what the living sun illumineth. 

Heavenly and Earthly Love. 

Love is not always harsh and deadly sin. 

When love for boundless beauty makes us pine ; 
The heart, by love left soft and infantine, 


"Will let the shafts of God's grace enter in. 
Love wings and wakes the soul, stirs her to win 

Her flight aloft, nor e'er to earth decline; 

*Tis the first step that leads her to the shrine 

Of Him who slakes the thirst that burns within. 
The love of that whereof I speak ascends : 
Woman is different far ; the love of her 

But ill befits a heart manly and wise. 
The one love soars, the other earthward tends ; 
The soul lights this, while that the senses stir ; 

And still lust's arrow at base quarry flies. 

After the Death oe Vittoria Colonna. 

W:ei,i< might I in those days so fortunate, 

What time the sun lightened my path above. 

Have soared from earth to heaven, raised by her love 

Who winged my laboring soul and sweetened fate. 

That sun hath set, and I with hope elate 

Who deemed that those bright days would never move, 
Find that my thankless soul, deprived thereof. 

Declines to death, while heaven still bars the gate. 

•Love lent me wings ; my path was like a stair ; 
A lamp unto my feet, that sun was given ; 
And death was safety and great joy to find. 

But dying now, I shall not climb to heaven. 

Nor can mere memory cheer my heart's despair — 
What help remains when hope is left behind ? 

Lament for Life Wasted. 

Ah me ! Ah me ! whene'er I think 

Of my past years, I find that none 
Among those many years, alas, was mine ; 
False hopes and longings vain have made me pine, 
With tears, sighs, passions, fires, upon life's brink. 

Of mortal loves I have known every one. 

Full well I feel it now ; lost and undone. 

From truth and goodness banished far away, 

I dwindle day by day. 
Longer the shade, more short the sunbeams grow ; 
While I am near to falling, faint and low. 



As tlie biographer of the famous artists 
of Italy, Giorgio Vasari (1511-1574), of 
Arezzo, must receive high praise. He was 
a pupil of the great Michel Angelo and of Andrea del Sarto. 
He was aided by the Medici princes. In 1529 he visited 
Rome and studied the works of Raphael and his school. His 
own paintings, although admired in the sixteenth century, are 
feeble parodies of Michel Angelo. He painted the wall and 
ceiling frescoes of the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence. He 
amassed a fortune by his art, and rose to the supreme ofl&ce 
of gonfaloniere of his native town. He was singularly free 
from vanity and able to appreciate the works of others — even 
Cimabue and Giotto. Vasari also had a keen eye for charac- 
ter, and he has left us as superb prose portraits of the old 
masters of Italian art as any brush portraits by Raphael, 
Rembrandt or Van Dyke. His master-piece of biography was 
published (1550) under the title, "Delle Vita de' piu Eccel- 
lenti Pittori, Scultori, ed Architettori." It was dedicated to 
his patron Cosimo de' Medici. 


BuoNAMico Di Cristofako, nicknamed BuflFalmacco, was 
a pupil of Andrea Tafi, and has been celebrated as a jester by 
Boccaccio. Franco Sacchetti also tells how, when Buffal- 
macco was still a boy with Andrea, his master had the habit, 
when the nights were long, of getting up before day to work, 
and calling his boys. This was displeasing to Buonamico, 
who had to rise in the middle of his best sleep, and he con- 
sidered how he might prevent Andrea from getting up before 



day to work, and this was what occurred to him. Having 
found thirty great beetles in an ill-kept cellar, he fastened on 
each of their backs a little candle, and at the hour when 
Andrea was used to rise, he put them one by one through a 
hole in the door into Andrea's chamber, having first lighted 
the candles. His master awaking at the hour for calling 
Buflfalmacco, and seeing the lights, was seized with terror and 
began to tremble like a fearful old man as he was, and to say 
his prayers and repeat the psalms ; and at last, putting his 
head under the clothes, he thought no more that night of 
calling Baffalmacco, but lay trembling with fear till daybreak. 
The morning being come, he asked Buonamico if, like him, 
he had seen more than a thousand devils. Buonamico an- 
swered, "No," for he had kept his eyes closed, and wondered 
he had not been called. "What!" said Tafi, "I had some- 
thing else to think of than painting, and I am resolved to go 
into another house." The next night, although Buonamico 
put only three beetles into Tafi's chamber, yet he, from the 
last night's terror and the fear of those few devils, could get 
no sleep at all, and, as soon as it was day, left the house de- 
termined never to return, and it took a great deal of good 
counsel to make him change his mind. At last Buonamico 
brought the priest to him, to console him. And Tafi and 
Buonamico discussing the matter, Buonamico said : "I have 
always heard say that demons are the gre'atest enemies of God, 
and consequently they ought to be the chief adversaries of 
painters, because not only do we always make them hideous, 
but we also never cease making saints on all the walls, and so 
cause men in despite of the devils to become more and more 
devout. So these devils being enraged against us, as they 
have greater power by night than by day, they come playing 
us these tricks, and it will be worse if this custom of getting 
up early is not quite given up." With such words Buffal- 
macco managed the matter, what the priest said helping 
him ; so that Tafi left off getting up early, and the devils no 
longer went about the house at night with candles. But not 
many months after, Tafi, drawn by the desire of gain, and 
having forgotten his fears, began afresh to get up early and to 
call Buffalmacco ; whereon the beetles began again to appear, 


until he was forced by his fears to give it up entirely, being 
earnestly counseled to do so by the priest. And the matter 
being noised abroad in the city for a time, neither Tafi nor 
any other painter ventured to get up at night to work. 

While painting the church of the convent of Faenza, at 
Florence, BuflFalmacco, who was very careless and negligent 
in his dress, as in other things, did not always wear his hood 
and mantle, as was the fashion at the time ; and the nuns, 
watching him through the screen they had erected, began to 
complain that it did not please them to see him in his doub- 
let. At last, as he always appeared in the same fashion, they 
began to think that he was only some boy employed in mix- 
ing colors ; and they gave him to understand, through their 
abbess, that they should prefer to see his master, and not 
always him. To this Buonamico answered good-humoredly 
that when the master came he would let them know, under- 
standing, nevertheless, how little confidence they had in him. 
Then he took a stool, and placed upon it another, and on the 
top he put a pitcher or water-jug, and fastened a hood on the 
handle, and covered up the rest of the jug with a cloak, fasten- 
ing it well behind the tables ; and having fixed a pencil in 
the spout of the jug, he went away. The nuns coming again 
to see the picture through a hole that they had made in the 
screen, saw the supposed master in his fine attire, and not 
doubting that he was working with all his might, doing very 
different work from what that boy did, for several days were 
quite content. At last, being desirous to see what fine things 
the master had done in the last fortnight (during which time 
Buonamico had not been there at all), one night, thinking he 
was gone, they went to see his picture, and were overcome 
with confusion when one more bold than the rest detected the 
solemn master, who during the fortnight had done no work 
at all. But, acknowledging that he had only treated them as 
they desei;ved, and that the work which he had done was 
worthy of praise, they sent their steward to call Buonamico 
back ; and he with great laughter went back to his work, 
letting them see the difference between men and water-jugs, 
and that it does not always do to judge a man's work by his 



raphies in the literature of the world is 
that of Benvenuto Cellini, of Florence 
(1500-1569). He was a contemporary of Vasari, and an artist 
like him. Cellini's father was a musician and maker of instru- 
ments, but Benvenuto early desired to become a goldsmith. 
He became skilled in all the mysteries of that craft. He also 
practised flute-playing, and was one of Pope Clement VII.' s 
court musicians. For this Pope's cope he made a mag- 
nificent button. His greatest achievement in art was the 
bronze group of Perseus holding the head of Medusa, which 
was placed in front of the old ducal palace at Florence, — " a 
work," as has been declared, " full of the fire of genius and 
the grandeur of a terrible beauty ; one of the most typical 
and unforgettable monuments of the Italian Renaissance." 

But it is Cellini the adventurer, the duellist, the warrior, 
the romantic hero of amours, who has become most famous. 
His violent temper early led him into quarrels and even homi- 
cide. He was obliged to escape in disguise after one such 
episode. At the sack of Rome by the Constable de Bourbon, 
Cellini himself — if we believe his own tale — shot the constable 
dead and afterwards wounded the Prince of Orange. Among 
other exploits, he avenged a brother's murder by slaying the 
slayer. He was thrown into the castle of Saint Angelo on 
the charge of having embezzled during the war the gems of 
the pontifical tiara, and though he effected a romantic escape 
down the tower, he was recaptured. Not being sent to the 
scaffold, he departed for the court of Francis I. at Fontaine- 
bleau and to Paris, where he had other adventures galore that 
lose nothing in his telling. He returned to his native city and 



produced numerous works of art which won general admira- 
tion. The regard of his fellow-citizens was attested when he 
was buried with great pomp. " His autobiographical memoirs," 
declares William M. Roscoe, "are a production of the utmost 
energy, directness and racy animation, setting forth one of the 
most singular careers in all the annals of fine art. His 
amours and hatreds, his passions and delights, his love of the 
sumptuous and exquisite in art, his self-applause and self- 
assertion, running now and then into extravagances which it 
is impossible to credit, and difficult to set down as strictly 
conscious falsehoods, make this one of the most singular and 
fascinating books in existence. Here we read of the devout 
complacency with which Cellini could regard a satisfactorily 
achieved homicide ; of the legion of devils which he and a 
conjuror evoked in the Colosseum, after one of his numerous 
mistresses had been spirited away from him by her mother ; 
of the marvelous halo of light which he found surrounded his 
head at dawn and twilight after his Roman imprisonment, 
and his supernatural visions and angelic protection during 
that adversity, and of his being poisoned on two occasions." 

The Onion Stew. 

I CONTINUED to work for the Pope [Clement VII. J, execu- 
ting now one trifle and now another, till he commissioned 
me to design a chalice of exceeding richness. So I made 
both drawing and model for the piece. The latter was con- 
structed of wood and wax. Instead of the usual top, I 
fashioned three figures of a fair size in the round; they 
represented Faith, Hope and Charity. Corresponding to 
these, at the base of the cup, were three circular histories in 
bas-relief One was the Nativity of Christ, the second the 
Resurrection, and the third Saint Peter crucified head down- 
wards; for thus I had received commission. While I had 
this work in hand, the Pope was often pleased to look at it ; 
wherefore, observing that his Holiness had never thought 
again of giving me anything, and knowing that a post in the 
Piombo was vacant, I asked for this one evening. The good 
Pope, quite oblivious of his extravagances at the termination 


of the last piece, said to me : " That post in the Piombo is 
worth more than eight hundred crowns a year, so that if 1 
gave it you, you would spend your time in scratching your 
paunch, and your magnificent handicraft would be lost, and I 
should bear the blame." I replied at once thus: "Cats of 
a good breed mouse better when they are fat than starving ; 
and likewise honest men who possess some talent, exercise it 
to far nobler purport when they have the wherewithal to live 
abundantly ; wherefore princes who provide such folk with 
competences, let your Holiness take notice, are watering the 
roots of genius; for genius and talent, at their birth, come 
into this world lean and scabby ; and your Holiness should 
also know that I never asked for the place with the hope of 
getting it. Only too happy am I to have that miserable post 
of mace-bearer. On the other I built but castles in the air. 
Your Holiness will do well, since you do not care to give it 
me, to bestow it on a man of talent who deserves it, and not 
upon some fat ignoramus who will spend his time scratching 
his paunch, if I may quote your Holiness' s own words. Fol- 
low the example of Pope Julius of illustrious memory, who 
conferred an office of the same kind upon Bramante, that 
most admirable architect." 

Immediately on finishing this speech, I made my bow, 
and went off in a fury. Then Bastiano Veneziano the 
painter approached, and said : " Most blessed Father, may 
your Holiness be willing to grant it to one who works assidu- 
ously in the exercise of some talent ; and as your Holiness 
knows that I am diligent in my art, I beg that I may be 
thought worthy of it." The Pope replied: "That devil 
Benvenuto will not brook rebuke. I was inclined to give it 
him, but it is not right to be so haughty with a Pope. 
Therefore I do not well know what I am to do." The 
Bishop of Vasona then came up, and put in a word for 
Bastiano, saying: "Most blessed Father, Benvenuto is but 
young ; and a sword becomes him better than a friar's frock. 
Let your Holiness give the place to this ingenious person 
Bastiano. Some time or other you will be able to bestow on 
Benvenuto a good thing, perhaps more suitable to him than 
this would be." Then the Pope, turning to Messer Barto- 


lommeo Valori, told him : ' ' When next you meet Benvenuto, 
let him know from me that it was he who got that office in 
the Piombo for Bastiano the painter, and add that he may 
reckon on obtaining the next considerable place that falls ; 
meanwhile let him look to his behavior and finish my com- 

The following evening, two hours after sundown, I met 
Messer Bartolommeo Valori at the corner of the Mint; he 
was preceded by two torches, and was going in haste to the 
Pope, who had sent for him. On my taking off my hat, he 
stopped and called me, and reported in the most friendly 
manner all the messages the Pope had sent me. I replied 
that I should complete my work with greater diligeUce and 
application than any I had yet attempted, but without the 
least hope of having any reward whatever from the Pope. 
Messer Bartolommeo reproved me, saying that this was not 
the way in which one ought to reply to the advances of a 
Pope. I answered that I should be mad to reply otherwise — 
mad if I based my hopes on such promises, being certain to 
get nothing. So I departed, and went off to my business. 

Messer Bartolommeo must have reported my audacious 
speeches to the Pope, and more perhaps than I had really 
said ; for his Holiness waited above two months before he 
sent for me, and during that while nothing would have induced 
me to go uncalled for to the palace. Yet he was dying with 
impatience to see the chalice, and commissioned Messer 
Ruberto Pucci to give heed to what I was about. That right 
worthy fellow came daily to visit me, and always gave me 
some kindly word, which I returned. The time was drawing 
nigh now for the Pope to travel toward Bologna ; so at last, 
perceiving that I did not mean to come to him, he made 
Messer Ruberto bid me bring my work, that he might see 
how I was getting on. Accordingly, I took it ; and having 
shown, as the piece itself proved, that the most important 
part was finished, I begged him to advance me five hundred 
crowns, partly on account, and partly because I wanted gold 
to complete the chalice. The Pope said : "Go on, go on at 
work till it is finished." I answered, as I took my leave, that I 
would finish it if he paid me the money. And so I went away. 


When the Pope took his journey to Bologna, he left Car- 
dinal Salviati as Legate of Rome, and gave him commission 
to push forward the work that I was doing, adding : " Ben- 
venuto is a fellow who esteems his own great talents but 
slightly, and us less ; look to it then that you keep him always 
going, so that I may find the chalice finished on my return." 

That beast of a Cardinal sent for me after eight days, bid- 
ding me bring the piece up. On this I went to him without 
the piece. No sooner had I shown my face, than he called 
out: "Where is that onion-stew [hodge-pod^e] of yours? 
Have you got it ready?" I answered: "Omost reverend 
Monsignor, I have not got my onion-stew ready, nor shall I 
make it ready, unless you give me onions to concoct it with." 
At these words, the Cardinal, who looked more like a donkey 
than a man, turned uglier by half than he was naturally, and 
wanting at once to cut the matter short, cried out: "I'll send 
you to a galley, and then perhaps you'll have the grace to go 
on with your labor." The bestial manners of the man made 
me a beast too, and I retorted : " Monsignor, send me to the 
galleys when I've done deeds worthy of them ; but for my 
present neglect, I snap my fingers at your galleys ; and what 
is more, I tell you that, just because of you, I will not set 
hand further to my piece. Don' t send for me again, for I 
won't appear, no, not if you summon me by the police." 

After this, the good Cardinal tried several times to let me 
know that I ought to go on working, and to bring him what 
I was doing to look at. I only told his messengers : " Say to 
Monsignor that he must send me onions, if he wants me to 
get my stew ready." Nor did I ever give any other answer ; 
so that he threw up the commission in despair. 

The Pope came back from Bologna, and sent at once for 
me, because the Cardinal had written the worst he could of 
my affairs in his despatches. He was in the hottest rage 
imaginable, and bade me come upon the instant with my 
piece. I obeyed. Now, while the Pope was staying at 
Bologna, I had suffered from an attack of inflammation in 
the eyes, so painful that I scarce could go on living for the 
torment ; and this was the chief reason why I had not carried 
out my work. The trouble was so serious that I expected 


for certain to be left without my eyesight ; and I had reck- 
oned up the sum on which I could subsist, if I were blind for 
life. Upon the way to the Pope, I turned over in my mind 
what I should put forward to excuse myself for not having 
been able to advance his work. I thought that, while he was 
inspecting the chalice, I might tell him of my personal 
embarrassments. However, I was unable to do so ; for when 
I arrived in the presence, he broke out coarsely at me : " Come 
herewith your work ; is it finished?" I displayed it; and 
his temper rising he exclaimed : "In God's truth I tell thee, 
thou that makest it thy business to hold no man in regard, 
that, were it not for decency and order, I would have thee 
and thy work chucked out of windows." Accordingly, when 
I perceived that the Pope had become no better than a vicious 
beast, my chief anxiety was how I could manage to withdraw 
from his presence. So, while he went on bullying, I tucked 
the piece beneath my cape, and muttered under my breath : 
" The whole world could not compel a blind man to execute 
such things as these." Raising his voice still higher, the 
Pope shouted : " Come here ; what sayest thou?" I stayed 
in two minds, whether or not to dash at full speed down the 
staircase ; then I took my decision and threw myself upon 
my knees, shouting as loudly as I could, for he too had not 
ceased from shouting: "If an infirmity has blinded me, am 
I bound to go on working ? ' ' He retorted : ' ' You saw well 
enough to make your way hither, and I don't believe one 
word of what you say." I answered, for I noticed he had 
dropped his voice a little: " I^et your Holiness inquire of 
your physician, and you will find the truth out." He said: 
"So ho ! softly ; at leisure we shall hear if what you say is 
so." Then, perceiving that he was willing to give me hear- 
ing, I added: "I am convinced that the only cause of this 
great trouble which has happened to me, is Cardinal Sal- 
viati ; for he sent to me immediately after your Holiness' s 
departure, and when I presented myself, he called my work a 
stew of onions, and told me he would send me to complete it 
in a galley ; and such was the effect upon me of his knavish 
words, that in my passion I felt my face inflame, and so intol- 
erable a heat attacked my eyes that I could not find my own 


way home. Two days afterwards, cataracts fell on both my 
eyes ; I quite lost my sight, and since your Holiness's depar- 
ture I have been unable to work at alh" 

Rising from my knees, I left the presence without further 
license. It was afterwards reported to me that the Pope had 
said : " One can give commissions, but not the prudence to per- 
form them. I did not tell the Cardinal to go so brutally about 
this business. If it is true that he is suffering from his eyes, of 
■ which I shall get information through my doctor, one ought to 
make allowance for him ." A great gentleman, intimate with 
the Pope, and a man of very distinguished parts, happened 
to be present. He asked who I was, using terms like these : 
"Most blessed Father, pardon if I put a question. I have 
seen you yield at one and the same time to the hottest anger 
I ever observed, and then to the warmest compassion : so I 
beg your Holiness to tell me who the man is ; for if he is a 
person worthy to be helped, I can teach him a secret which 
may cure him of that infirmity." The Pope replied: "He 
is the greatest artist in his own craft that was ever bom ; one 
day, when we are together, I will show you some " of his 
marvellous works, and the man himself to boot ; and I shall 
be pleased if we can see our way toward doing something to 
assist him." Three days after this, the Pope sent for me 
after dinner-time, and I found that great noble in the pre- 
sence. On my arrival, the Pope had my cope-button brought, 
and I in the meantime drew forth my chalice. The noble- 
man said, on looking at it, that he had never seen a more stu- 
pendous piece of work. When the button came, he was still 
more struck with wonder; and looking me straight in the 
face, he added : ' ' The man is young, I trow, to be so able in 
his art, and still apt enough to learn much." He then asked 
me what my name was. I answered: "My name is Ben- 
venuto." He replied: "And Benvenuto [welcome] shall I. 
be this day to you. Take flower-de-luces, stalk, blossom, root, 
together ; then decoct them over a slack fire, and with the 
liquid bathe your eyes several times a, day, you will most 
certainly be cured of that weakness ; but see that you purge 
first, and then go forward with the lotion. ' ' The Pope gave 
me some kind Words, and so I weiit away half satisfied. 

238 literature; of axx, nations. 

Crossing the Bridge. 

When we had passed Mount Simplon we found a river 
near a place called Indevedro. This river was very wide and 
rather deep, and crossed by a little narrow bridge without a 
parapet. There was a hard frost that morning, and when I 
reached the bridge — for I was in front of the rest, and saw 
that it was very dangerous — I ordered my young men and the 
servants to dismount and lead their horses by the bridle. 
Thus I passed the said bridge in safety, and went on talking 
with one of those two Frenchmen, who was a gentleman. 
The other was a notary, who had remained somewhat behind 
and jeered at that gentleman and at me, saying that for fear 
of nothing at all we had preferred the discomfort of going on 
foot ; to whom I turned, and seeing him on the middle of the 
bridge, prayed him to come softly, for that it was a very dan- 
gerous place. This man, who could not help showing his 
French nature, said to me in French that I was a man of 
little courage, and that there was no danger at all. While he 
was saying these words he pricked his horse with the spur, 
through which means it suddenly slipped over the edge of the 
bridge, and fell close beside a large stone, turning over with 
its legs in the air ; and as God very often shows compassion 
to fools, this beast, along with the other, beast, his horse, fell 
into a great and deep hole, wherein both he and his horse 
went under water. As soon as I saw this I began to run, and 
with great difficulty leaped upon the stone aforesaid, and, 
holding on by it and hanging over the brink, I seized the 
edge of a gown which that man was wearing, and by that 
gown I pulled him up, while he was still under water ; and 
because he had drunk a great quantity of water, and within 
a little would have been drowned, I, seeing him out of dan- 
ger, told him I was rejoiced at having saved his life. Whereat 
he answered me that I had done nothing — that the most 
important thing were his parchments, which were worth 
much money. It seemed that he spoke thus in anger, all 
soaked through as he was, and muttering confusedly. At this 
I turned to the guides we had with us and promised to pay 


them if they would help this beast. One of the guides valor- 
ously, and with great diificulty, set himself to do what he 
could, and fished up all the parchments, so that he lost 
nothiug ; the other would not put himself to any trouble to 
help him. 


Arcadia is synonymous in literature with the ideal land of poetic 
dreams. This use, though founded on ancient examples, was estab- 
lished for modern times by the pastoral of Sannazaro, written in 
mingled prose and verse. The author was born at Naples in 1458, and 
was early proficient in Greek and I,atin, but was led by his love for 
Carmasina Bonifacia to celebrate her charms in her native tongue. He 
was patronized and rewarded by King Ferdinand and his successor, to 
whom he remained faithful even after the loss of the kingdom. He 
died in 1532. 


O BRIEF as bright, too early blest. 
Pure spirit, freed from mortal care. 
Safe in the far-off mansions of the sky. 
There, with that angel take thy rest. 
Thy star on earth ; go, take thy guerdon there ! 
Together quaff the immortal joys on high. 
Scorning our mortal destiny ; 
Display thy sainted beauty bright, 
'Mid those that walk the starry spheres, 
Through seasons of unchanging years ; 
By living fountains, and by fields of light, 
I^eading thy blessed flocks above ; 
And teach thy shepherds here to guard their care with love. 

Thine, other hills and other groves. 

And streams and rivers never dry. 

On whose fresh banks thou pluck'st the amaranth flowers ; 

While, following other lyoves 

Through sunny glades, the Fauns glide by, 

Surprising the fond Nymphs in happier bowers. 

Pressing the fragrant flowers, 

Androgeo there sings in the summer shade, 

By Daphnis' and by Melibceus' side, 

Filling the vaulted heavens wide 


With the sweet music made ; 
While the glad choirs, that round appear, 
Listen to his dear voice we may no longer hear. 

As to the elm is his embracing vine, 
As their bold monarch to the herded kine, 
As golden ears to the glad sunny plain, 
Such wert thou to our shepherd youths, O swain ! 
Remorseless Death ! if thus thy flames consume 
The best and loftiest of his race. 
Who may escape his doom ? 
What shepherd ever more shall grace 
The world like him, and with his magic strain 
Call forth the joyous leaves upon the woods, 
Or bid the wreathing boughs embower the summer floods ? 

King Alphonso of Naples. 

O THOU, so long the Muse's favorite theme. 

Expected tenant of the realms of light. 

Now sunk for ever in eternal night, . 
Or recollected only to thy shame ! 
From my polluted page thy hated name 

I blot, already on my loathing sight 

Too long obtruded, and to purer white 
Convert the destined record of thy fame. 
On thy triumphant deeds far other strains 

I hoped to raise; but thou defraud' st the song, 
Ill-omened bird, that shunn'st the day's broad eye ! 
Go, then ; and whilst the Muse thy praise disdains, 

Oblivion's flood shall sweep thy name along. 
And spotless and unstained the paper lie. 


Period III. 1500-1600. 

["RENCH Literature in the sixteenth centuiy shows 
the profound effects of three great causes — the 
i^Mj invention of printing, the revival of classical 
learning, and the attempts to reform the Church. 
The earlier writers of this time, especially the scur- 
rilous Rabelais, and the skeptical Montaigne, have 
already been treated.* The poets and the less prominent 
prose writers remain to be considered here. They belonged 
chiefly to the latter part of that tumultuous century. The 
attacks on the corruptions of the Church led to a reaction 
against Christianity, both scholastic and practical. Mar- 
guerite, Queen of Navarre, though a patron of the Reforma- 
tion, is generally regarded as the author of the tales of " The 
Heptameron," a palpable imitation, in style and subject, of 
Boccaccio's "Decameron." It was not published, however, 
till after her death, and shows more literary power than the 
other works she had produced. The stories are occupied with 
the higher classes of society, and show a voluptuous refine- 
ment of manners, but a low state of morals. 

In the middle of the century there was a remarkable 
movement among the poets of France. A group of seven 
men banded themselves together for the reduction of the 
French language, and especially French poetry, to the rules of 
the ancient classics. They became known by the classical 
name of the " Pl^iade," which had been applied to seven 
poets of the court of the Ptolemies. Ronsard and Du Bellay 

See Volume III., pp. 171-206. 
IV— 16 241 


were the leaders of the movement. They cast aside as 
unworthy the rude and vigorous ballads of Villon and estab- 
lished the forms and rules of verse which have since pre- 
vailed in French poetry. Pierre Ronsard was called "the 
Prince of Poets ' ' by his contemporaries, and his odes were 
the first practical illustration of the aims and methods of the 
new school. But his epic, the " Franciade," though his most 
ambitious work, was an utter failure. The critical poet 
Boileau afterwards condemned Ronsard, but his merits have 
been recalled by recent writers. Joachim du Bellay was 
called "the Apollo of the Pldiade," and was esteemed equally 
as a poet and prose-writer. R^my Belleau, a third of the 
stars, made many poetical translations, and was noted for 
his descriptions of country life. The other members of the 
Pl^iade were of less account. It would be possible to select 
seven more poets of that age showing equal talent. Du Bartas 
was called "the Protestant Ronsard," and his "First Week," 
describing the Creation, went through many editions. It 
established the long Alexandrine of fourteen syllables as the 
verse for serious poetry in French. It was translated into 
English and had its eflfect upon Milton. 

Agrippa d'Aubign6 is noted both as a prose-writer and 
poet, but chiefly as an inflexible Huguenot, who remained 
attached to Henry IV. , after the king, for the restoration of 
peace, professed conversion to the Roman Catholic faith. 
D' Aubign6 was a vigorous satirist as well as historian, and 
did not spare even his royal master. His masterpiece is a 
series of poems called "Les Tragiques," treating of the 
religious wars and contemporary abuses. 

The critical faculty which has ever been strong in France 
was manifested in a new movement for the reform of the 
French language. The grammarian Malherbe attempted to 
reduce it to strict rule. So successful were his instruction 
and example that his successor, the great critic Boileau, 
declared that classical literature began with Malherbe. All 
writing before that time was regarded as barbarous, unworthy 
of study or attention. Only in recent days has this verdict 
been set aside, and the merits of the older French poetry 
been recognized. 



Thb age of Francis I. was full of poetry as well as of momentous 
political events. The king Jiimself was a lyrical poet, and the vellum 
manuscript of his songs is now in the National Library at Paris. 
Francis I. was bom in 1494, and died in 1547. 

The Brightness of his I^ady. 

As at my window — all alone — 

I stood about the break of day, 
Upon my left Aurora shone 

To guide Apollo on his way. 
Upon my right I could behold 
My love, who combed her locks of gold ; 
I saw the lustre of her eyes, 

And, as a glance on me she cast, 
Cried, "Gods, retire behind your skies, 

Your brightness is by hers surpassed. 

As gentle Phoebe, when at night 

She shines upon the earth below, 
Pours forth such overwhelming light, 

All meaner orbs must faintly glow, 
Thus did my lady, on that day, 
Eclipse Apollo's brighter ray, 
Whereat he was so sore distressed. 

His face with clouds he overcast, 
And I exclaimed, " That course is best, — 

Your brightness is by hers surpassed." 

Then happiness my bosom cheered ; 

But soon Apollo shone once more, 
And in my jealous rage I feared 

He loved the fair one I adore. 
And was I wrong ? — Nay, blame who can, 
When jealous of each mortal man, 
The love of gods can I despise, ? 

I hope to conquer fear at last. 
By crying, " Keep behind your skies, 

Ye gods, your brightness is surpassed ! " 




The reputed author of tlie 
Heptameron is known in history 
by three names : Marguerite d ' An- 
gouleme from her family ; Mar- 
guerite de Valois from her house, 
and Marguerite of Navarre from 
the kingdom, claimed but not 
enjoyed by her husband. She 
was the sister of Francis I. , and 
~ was two years his senior, being 
born in 1492. The Heptameron 
had circulated in manuscript, but was not published until after 
her death in 1549 ; but the gossipy Brantome distinctly avers : 
" The Queen of Navarre composed most of these novels in 
her litter as she traveled ; for her hours of retirement were 
employed in aflFairs of importance. I have heard this account 
from my grandmother who always went with her in her 
litter, as her lady of honor, and held her standish for her ; 
and she wrote them down as quickly and readily, or rather 
more so, than if they had been dictated to her." The second 
edition was dedicated by Claude Gruget, the editor, to Mar- 
guerite's only daughter, Jeanne d'Albret, mother of Henry 
IV. Some scholars to-day hold the belief, nevertheless, that 
Des P^riers, Marot and the wits of Marguerite's Court wrote 
these licentious tales for her, she supplying only the more 
pious prologues and epilogues, and maybe a few of the less 
questionable stories. 

Marguerite's other literary relics consist of a collection of 
poems styled "Les Marguerites de la Marguerite des Prin- 
cesses" (The Pearls of the Pearl of Princesses), and her Letters. 
In Paris she was the chief patroness of literature. After the 
death of her first husband, Charles, Due d'Alengon, she wedded 
Henri d' Albret, King of Navarre ; but Francis I. never suc- 
ceeded in reconquering that kingdom for them as he had 
promised. Marguerite was possessed by a mystical pietism, 
and was a protector for the Reformers ; still she saw no harm 


in her "Second Decameron," as she intended to entitle her 
great work in imitation of Boccaccio. She had collected only 
seventy- two tales for it, however, and Gruget rechristened 
it the Heptameron. Marguerite, called by Francis "Ma 
Mignonne," was more than tolerant of the illicit amours 
in which her royal brother openly revelled. She even pro' 
nounced, in her "Ddbat d' Amour," a pompous eulogy on 
one royal mistress, Madame d' Etampes. Her husband treated 
her most roughly. The Sorbonne passed a secret censure 
on her. 

Of the seventy-two tales of the Heptameron Dunlop 
declares that " few of them are original ; for, except about 
half-a-dozen which are historically true, and are mentioned 
as having fallen under the observation of the Queen of 
Navarre, they may all be traced to the Fabliaux, the Italian 
novels, and the Hundred Ancient Tales. ' ' But in her pro- 
logue the queen declares that all the tales are founded on 
fact. Certainly some of them are only half-veiled scandals 
of the court of Francis I. Brantome analyzes a number of 
the stories and gives many purportedly real names of the 
masked characters. He assures us that the queen portrayed 
herself as a Princess of Flanders, relating the audacious 
attempt made upon her chastity by Admiral de Bonnivet. 
Madame Oisille, for instance, appears to be Marguerite's 
mother, lyouise of Savoy. Oisille relates many of the tales 
of the Franciscans or Cordeliers. In this typical work of the 
age stories and comments of a very ticklish nature are char- 
acteristically mingled with the most pious reflections. The 
framework of the series of tales is inferior to that of Boccacio's 
fugitives from the Florentine plague. In the Heptameron 
ten French ladies and gentlemen, intercepted by a perilous 
inundation on their return from the baths of Cauterets, take 
shelter in a monastery of the Pyrenees. La Fontaine has 
drawn apjireciably upon this store of tales. "The Hepta- 
meron" must be pronounced to be, however, a weak sort of 
Decameron. The exact original version was first published 
from the manuscript as late as 1853. 


The Rejected Bridegroom. 

In the town of Valencia there lived a gentleman who 
during five or six years had loved a lady so perfectly that 
neither of them was hurt in honor nor in conscience thereby; 
for his intention was to make her his wife, — and reasonably 
enough, as he was handsome, rich and of a noble house, and 
had not placed himself at her service without first making 
known his desire to arrange a marriage with the good-will of 
her friends ; and these, being assembled for that purpose, 
found the match in every way fitting, if the girl herself should 
be of their mind. But she, either hoping to find a better, or 
wishing to hide the love she had for the youth, discovered an 
obstacle ; so the company was broken up, not without regret- 
ting that she could not give the affair a better ending, seeing 
that on both sides the match was good. But, above all assem- 
bled, the poor gentleman was wroth, who could have borne his 
misfortune patiently had he believed the fault to lie with her 
friends and not with her : but knowing the truth (to believe 
which were more bitter than death), he returned home with- 
out a word to his lady-love or to any other there ; and having 
put some order in his affairs, he went away into a desolate 
place, where he sought with pains and trouble to forget this 
affection, and to turn it wholly to the love of our Saviour, 
Jesus Christ, to which affection he was, without comparison, 
the more obliged. And during this time he never heard either 
from his lady or from her friends ; therefore he resolved, having 
failed in the happiest life he could have hoped, to take and 
choose the most austere and disagreeable ; and full of this sad 
thought, which one might call despair, he went to become a 
monk at a Franciscan monastery, close to which lived several 
of his friends. 

These friends, having heard of his despair, made every 
effort to hinder his resolve ; but so firmly was it rooted in his 
heart, they could not turn him from it. Nevertheless, know- 
ing his ailment, they thought to find the medicine, and went 
to her who was the cause of his sudden devotion. They found 
Jier much bewildered and astonished at their news, for sh? 


had meant her refusal, which was but for a time, to test the 
true love of her lover, and not to lose it forever ; and seeing 
the evident danger of this, she sent him an epistle, which, 
rudely rendered, runs as follows : 

Because, unless it well be proven, love 
As strong and loyal no one can approve, 
I wished to wait till proven to my mind 
Was that I longed so ardently to find. 
A husband full of perfect love it was 
That I desired, a love that would not pass ; 
And so I begged my parents not to haste, 
Still to delay, let one year, two years, waste 
Before I played the game that must endure 
Till death, which many a one repents, for sure. 

I never said I would not have your love ; 
So great a loss I was not dreaming of, 
For certes, none but you I loved at all — 
None other would I lord and husband call. 
Ah me ! my love, what bitterness to say 
That thou without a word art gone away ! 
A narrow cell, a convent life austere, — 
These are your choice ; oh, misery to hear ! 
Now must I change my office pleading so. 
As once in guileless words you used to do — 
Requiring that which was of me required, 
Acquiring him by whom I was acquired. 
Nay, now, my love, life of the life of me, 
I do not care to live berett of thee. 

Ah ! turn again thy distant eyes to mine ; 
Turn on thy steps, if so thy will incline. 
I^eave thou the cowl of gray, the life austere ; 
All of my love and all my heart are here. 
By thee so many times so much desired. 
Time hath not changed my heart, it hath not tired. 
For thee, for thee alone, I keep my heart. 
And that must break if thou must keep apart. 
Come, then, again return ; believe thy dear ; 
Consider in thy mind how many a year 
We might be happy, joined in holy marriage ; 
And me believe, and not thy cruel courage. 
Be sure I never meant to say or do 


A word to wound, a deed to make thee rue. 
I meant to make you liappy, dear, enough, 
When I had full assurance of your love. 
And now, indeed, my heart is fixed and sure ; 
Thy firmness, faith and patience to endure, 
And over all, thy love I know and see, 
And they have gained me wholly, dear, to thee. 
Come, now, and take the thing that is thine own • 
For thine am I, and be thou mine alone. 

This letter, carried by one of his friends, along with all 
possible remonstrances, was received by the gentleman Fran- 
ciscan with a very mournful countenance, and with so many 
sighs and tears it seemed as though he meant to burn or drown 
the poor little letter. But he made no answer to it, telling the 
messenger that the overcoming of his extreme passion had 
cost him so dear that he now neither cared to live nor feared 
to die ; wherefore he begged her who had been the occasion of 
his grief, since she had not chosen to gratify the passion of 
his great desires, not to torment him now that he was quit of 
them, but to content herself with the evil done, for which he 
could find no other remedy than the choice of this rude life, 
whose continual penance put his sorrow out of mind, and by 
fasts and discipline enfeebled his body so that the remembrance 
of death had become his sovereign consolation ; and, above 
all, he prayed her never to let him hear any news of her, for 
even the memory of her name had become an insupportable 
purgatory to him. The gentleman returned with this mourn- 
ful answer, delivering it to her, who could not hear it without 
incredible regret. 

But Love, which lets not the spirit fail until it is in ex- 
tremity, put it into her fancy that if she could only see him, the 
sight of her and the voice of her would have more force than 
writing. Wherefore, accompanied by her father and the nearest 
of her kin, she set out for the monastery where he dwelt, having 
left nothing that could heighten the aspect of her beauty ; 
and sure she felt that if he could but see her once and hear 
her speak, it would be impossible that the flame so long con- 
tinued in their hearts should not light up again, .and stronger 


than before. Therefore, entering the monastery about the 
end of vespers, she had him called to a chapel in the clois. 
ters. He, knowing not who was asking for him, went to 
fight the hardest battle he had ever fought. And when she 
saw him, all pale and undone, so that she scarcely knew him 
again, yet filled none the less with a grace no less amiable 
than before, then love constrained her to stretch out her arms, 
thinking to embrace him ; but the pity of seeing him in such 
a state sent such a sudden weakness to her heart that she fell 
down fainting. Then the poor monk, who was not destitute 
of brotherly charity, lifted her up and placed her on a seat 
which was in the chapel. And he himself, who no less needed, 
succor, made as if he felt no passion, strengthening his heart 
in the love of his God against the opportunity that tempted 
him, so that he seemed, from his countenance, to be ignorant 
of that which he saw. 

The lady, coming to life again, turned on him her eyes, 
that were so beautiful and piteous they would have softened 
stone, and began to tell him all the thoughts she had to draw 
him from that place ; to which he answered in the most vir- 
tuous manner that he could. But in the end the poor monk, 
feeling his heart melt before the abundant tears of his darling 
(as one who sees Love, the cruel archer, whose wound he has 
long suffered from, make ready his golden arrow to strike him 
in a fresh and mortal part), even so he fled away from Love 
and his beloved, as though the only force left to him lay in 
flight. And being shut in his chamber, not wishing to let 
her go without some resolution taken, he wrote to her a few 
words in Spanish, and these words, he sent to her by a little 
novice, who found her still in the chapel in such despair that 
had it been lawful for her to take the veil in that monastery, 
she would have stayed. But on seeing the writing; which 
said, " Return whence thou camest, my heart, for among the 
sad lives is mine." Knowing by these words that all her 
hopes had failed, she determined to follow the counsel of him 
and of her friends, and returned home, to lead there as melan- 
choly a life as her lover spent austerely in his monastery. 

Thus you see, ladies, the vengeance this gentleman took 
on his hard-hearted love, who, thinking to make an experi- 


ment of his truth, drove him to despair in such a manner that 
when she would she could not have him again. 

"I am sorry," said Nomerfide, "that he did not doff his 
cowl aud marry her ; for then, methinks, there would have 
been a perfect marriage." 

" Of a truth,' ' said Simontault, "I think he was very wise ; 
for one who has well considered the married state will not 
esteem it less vexatious than an austere devotion ; and he, so 
greatly weakened by fasts and abstinences, feared to take 
upon him such a life-long burden.' ' 

"It seems to me," said Hircan, "she did very wrong to 
so weak a man in tr>'ing to tempt him with marriage ; that is 
too much for the strongest man in the world. But had she 
only spoken of love and friendship, with no other bondage 
than that of will, there is no cord that would not have been 
broken nor knot untied ; yet, seeing that for escape from 
purgatory she offered him hell, I think he had good reason 
to refuse." 

" In faith, ' ' said Emarsuitte, ' ' there are many who intend- 
ing to do better than others, do worse ; or, at least, the very 
reverse of what they would." 


Seven Greek poets of Alexandria had been named the 
Pleiades, after the constellation of the sailing stars. Prom 
them the first French school of classical poets took its name. 
It was called into being by Joachim du Bellay (i 524-1 560J, 
and shone in its most refulgent glory in Pierre de Ronsard 
( 1 5 24- 1585). Both of these poets were bom in the same year, 
and both, as well as a brother-Pldiad, Rdmy Belleau, were 
extremely deaf The minor stars of this classic galaxy were 
Jean Daurat (1507-15 88), Jean Antoine de Baif, Pontus de 
Tyard and Etienne Jodelle. The honor of being the founder 
of this Parnassian society is assigned to Daurat, who might 
be Rabelais' s Limousin, since he was born in Limoges and 
was brought before Francis I. He became director of the 
College de Coqueret, where he had Ronsard, Baif, Belleau 
and Tyard for pupils. Ronsard, later, recruited Du Bellay, 


and Jodelle, tlie father of the classical French tragedy, was 
the last to join. Daurat was styled "the royal poet" by 
King Charles IX., but his verses scarcely deserve mention. 

The first real poet of the Pl^iade, the sounder of its key- 
note, Joachim du Bellay, proclaimed the new literary pro- 
gramme in his "Defence et Illustration de la langue fran- 
9ai§e," which appeared in 1549, only five years after the 
death of Clement Marot. It was not only one of the earliest 
pieces of literary criticism in French, but, as Van Laun 
asserts, "the first articulate profession of the classical theory 
of French poetry, and marked the inauguration of a literary 
epoch in verse which was (despite Malherbe's criticism) only 
to be overthrown completely by the poets of the C^nacle in 
the early years of this nineteenth century.' ' The Pl^iade set 
an artificial neo-classical style so decided that, says the 
same critic, "for upwards of two hundred years France 
had no poet of superlative genius or originality. . . . The 
man who consents to lace and pad his body, to wear stays and 
a wig, may look excellently well in a minuet or court dance, 
but the free play of the limbs, the natural agility and vigor 
which he might have enjoyed, must be sacrificed on the shrine 
of his adopted fashion. ' ' Joachim du Bellay was a nephew 
of the Cardinal du Bellay, Rabelais' s powerful friend and pro- 
tector. He was born, quite prophetically, at Lyre. Confined 
to his bed by a long illness, he turned for solace to the Latin 
and Greek poets, and soon burned to imitate them in French. 
In his " Defence et Illustration " he sounds the trumpet call : 

"Thither, then, O Frenchmen, advance courageously 
towards that illustrious Roman city, and with the booty plun- 
dered from her, as you have more than once done, adorn your 
temples and your altars. Fear no more those cackling geese, 
that fierce Manlius and that traitor Camillus. . . . Enter that 
false-tongued Greece, and plant there once again the famous 
nation of Gallo-Greeks. Pillage without scruple the sacred 
treasures of that Delphic temple, as you did of old, and fear 
no more that dumb Apollo, his false oracles and his rebound- 
ing arrows. . . . Leave all these old French poems to the 
Floral Games of Toulouse, and to the />uy (dramatic festivals) 
pf Rouen* such ^s rondeaus, ballades, virelais, royal songs 


lays, and other such spicy things, which corrupt the taste 
of our language, and are of no other value than to bear wit- 
ness to our ignorance." 

Du Bellay himself cultivated the sonnet, which he was 
the first French poet to use with fluency. His love-sonnets, 
' ' Iv'Olive,' ' celebrate in Petrarchian fashion a mistress Viole, 
and his ' ' Les Regrets ' ' tell of his fiery passion in Rome for 
a married beauty, who passes under the poetic title of Colum- 
belle. For these amatory poems he was crowned as the 
French Ovid. His other poems have a certain force and sub- 
limity that appealed to Edmund Spenser, who translated 
sixty of the Roman sonnets into English. Du Bellay's 
' ' Winnowers' Hymn ' ' has been declared to be one of the love- 
liest lyrics of the age. The admiring Spenser annexed the 
following envoi to his translation of the " Ruins of Rome : " 

"Bellay, first garland of free Poesie 

That France brought forth, thou fruitful! of brave wits, 
Well worthie thou of immortalitie, 

That long hast travel' d by thy learned wits 
Old Rome out of her ashes to revive, 

And give a second life to dead decayes ! 
Needes must he all eternitie survive. 

That can to others give eternall days : 
Thy dayes therefore are endless, and thy praise 

Excelling all that ever went before." 

The greatest of the poets of the Pl^iade was, however, 
Ronsard, a native of the Vendome, who was Du Bellay's par- 
ticular intimate to the end, despite a quarrel over the priority 
in a new form of ode. While Du Bellay died Archbishop of 
Bordeaux, and was buried in Notre Dame, Ronsard's father 
was"maitre d'hotel" to Francis the First, and the young 
Pierre began as a page to the king's son, Charles, Duke of 
Orleans. Traveling with the Duke to England, Ronsard may 
have met there those pioneers of English song — Wyatt, Sur- 
rey and Gabriel Harvey. Deserting Mars for the Muses, he 
placed himself under Daurat, with Baif as a fellow-student. 
For seven years he devoted himself to Latin and Greek. 
He was the latest of the famous seven to sing, not pub- 


Hshing his four books of odes until 1550. He aske^ to be 
crowned the first French lyricist, and such is the inscrip- 
tion on the monument erected to his memory in 1872. 
Montaigne declared that in Ronsard French poetry had 
attained its standard and could not advance beyond him. He 
was hailed as the Pindar, the Petrarch of France. Marguerite 
of Savoy accepted the dedication of both his "Hymns" and 
his ' ' Amours." Queen Elizabeth sent him a diamond. Even 
Tasso forwarded him the first outline of "Jerusalem Deli- 
vered.' ' Nor was Ronsard in any danger from the Catholic 
court. His " Discourse about the Miseries of these Times, ' ' 
directed against the Calvinists, won him the public thanks of 
Catharine de Medici, and she also suggested the publication 
of his heroic poem, the "Franciade" (1572). This epic ap- 
peared only twenty days after the St. Bartholomew massacre. 
Ronsard purposed to prolong it in twenty-four books, tracing 
the glories of the French kings from Francion, a child of 
Hector and a Trojan by birth. When but four books had 
been finished Charles IX. died, and the disheartened court- 
poet laid aside his task. Ronsard, praised by Andrew Lang 
to-day as "Prince of Poets," boasted not only that he had 
labored indefatigably for his mother tongue, but that he had 
put her poetry into such shape that " the French could rival 
the Romans and Greeks.' ' He ended his days as a priest in 

Of De Baif, who founded the Acad6mieeRoyale de Mu- 
sique and was a wealthy courtier, it may be added that he 
was a delicate rhymer of "amours, sports and pastimes." 
Pelleau wrote pastorals, and has been styled the French 

The Ruins op RomE; 
(By Joachim du Bellay. Translated by Edmund Spenser.) 

It was the time, when rest, soft sliding down 
From heaven's height into men's heavy eyes, 

In the forgetfulness of sleep doth drown 
The careful thoughts of mortal miseries ; 

Then did a ghost before mine eyes appear, 

On that great river's bank that runs by Rome ; 


Whicli, calling me by name, bade me to rear 

My looks to heaven, whence all good gifts do come. 

And, crying loud, " I/O ! now behold," quoth he, 
" What under this great temple placed is : 

1,0, all is nought but flying vanity ! " 
So I, that know this world's inconstancies, 

Since only God surmounts all time's decay. 

In God alone my confidence do stay. 

On high hill's top I saw a stately frame. 

An hundred cubits high by just assize, 
With hundred pillars fronting fair the same. 

All wrought with diamond after Doric wise : 
Nor brick nor marble was the wall in view, 

But shining crystal, which from top to base 
Out of her womb a thousand rayons threw. 

One hundred steps of Afric gold's enchase : 
Gold was t\ve parget; and the ceiling bright [wall-covering 

Did shine all scaly with great plates of gold ; 
The floor of jasp and emerald was dight. 

O world's vainness ! While thus I did behold, 
An earthquake shook the hill from lowest seat, 
And overthrew this frame with ruin great. 

Then did a sharp spire of diamond bright. 

Ten feet each way in square, appear to me, 
Justly proportion' d up unto his height, 

So far as archer might his level see : 
The top thereof a pot did seem to bear. 

Made of the metal which we most do honor ; 
And in this golden vessel couched were 

The ashes of a mighty emperor : 
Upon four corners of the base yvete. pight, \Jixed 

To bear the frame, four great lions of gold ; 
A worthy tomb for such a worthy wight. 

Alas ! this world doth nought but grievance hold ! 
I saw a tempest from the heaven descend. 
Which this brave monument with flash did rend. 

I saw a wolf under a rocky cave 

Nursing two whelps ; I saw her little ones 

In wanton dalUance the teat to crave, 
While she her neck wreath' d from them for the nones : 


I saw her range abroad to seek her food, 

And, roaming through the field with greedy rage, 
T' imbrue her teeth and claws with lukewarm blood 

Of the small herds, her thirst for to assuage : 
I saw a thousand huntsmen, which descended 

Down from the mountains bord'ring I^mbardy, 
That with an hundred spears her flank wide rended : 

I saw her on the plain outstretched lie. 
Throwing out a thousand throbs in her own soil ; 
Soon on a tree uphanged I saw her spoil. 

The Winnowers' Hymn. 

In this hymn, by Du Bellay, the winds are invoked by the win- 
nowers of the wheat. 

To you, troop so fleet. 
That with wing6d wandering feet. 

Through the wide world pass. 
And with soft murmuring 
Toss the green shades of spring 

In woods and grass, 
I/ily and violet 
I give, and blossoms wet, 

Roses and dew ; 
This branch of blushing roses, 
Whose fresh bud uncloses, 

Wind-flowers too. 
Ah, winnow with sweet breath, 
Winnow the holt and heath, 

Round this retreat ; 
Where all the golden mom 
We fan the gold o' the corn, 

In the sun's heat. 

The I^overs' Prayer to Venits. 

(By Joachim Du Bellay.) 

We that with like hearts love, we lovers twain. 
New wedded in the village by thy fane, 
I^ady of all chaste love, to thee it is 
We bring these amaranths, these white lilies, 
A sign and sacriflce ; may Love, we pray, 


I^ike amarantliine flowers, feel no decay; 
I<ike these cool lilies, may our loves remain 
Perfect and pure and know not any stain ; 
And be our hearts, from this thy holy hour, 
Bound each to each, like flower to wedded flower. 


(By R6my Belleau.) 

April, pride of woodland ways, 

Of glad days, 
April, bringing hope of prime, 

To the yotmg flowers that beneath 

Their bud sheath 
Are guarded in their tender time ; 

April, pride of fields that be 

Green and free. 
That in fashion glad and gay, 
Stud with flowers, red and blue, 

Every hue. 
Their jeweled spring array; 

April, pride of murmuring 

Winds of spring. 
That beneath the winnowed air, 
Trap with subtle nets and sweet 

Flora's feet. 
Flora's feet, the fleet and fair ; 

April, by thy hand caressed. 

From her breast 
Nature scatters everywhere 
Handfuls of all sweet perfumes. 

Buds and blooms. 
Making faint the earth and air. 

April, joy of the green hours. 

Clothes with flowers 
Over all her locks of gold 
My sweet Lady; and her breast 

"With the blest 
Buds of summer manifold. 


April, with thy gracious wiles, 

lyike the smiles, 
Smiles of Venus ; and thy breath 
I/ike her breath, the Gods' delight, 

(From their height 
They take the happy air beneath); 

It is thou that,^ of thy grace, 

From their place 
In the far-off isles dost bring 
Swallows over earth and sea, 

Glad to be 
Messengers of thee and Spring. 

Daffodil and eglantine. 

And woodbine, 
lyily, violet, and rose. 
Plentiful in April fair. 

To the air 
Their pretty petals do unclose. 

Nightingales ye now may hear, 

Piercing clear, 
Singing in the deepest shade ; 
Many and many a babbled note 

Chime and float, 
Woodland music through the glade. 

April, all to welcome thee, 

Spring sets free 
Ancient flames, and with low breath 
Wakes the ashes gray and old 

That the cold 
Chilled within our hearts to death. 

Thou beholdest, in the warm 

Hours, the swarm 
Of the thievish bees, that flies 
Evermore from bloom to bloom 

For perfume, 
Hid away in tiny thighs. 

Her cool shadows May can boast, 
Fruits almost 
rv — 17 


Ripe, and gifts of fertile dew, 
Manna-sweet and honey-sweet. 

That complete 
Her flower garland fresh and new. 

Nay, but I will give my praise, 

To these days. 
Named with the glad name of Her* 
That from out the foam o' the sea 

Came to be 
Sudden light on earth and air. 

The Wreath of Roses. 

This poem and the four following pieces are by Pierre Ronsard, 
and are, with one exception, translated by Andrew Lang. 

I SEND you here a wreath of blossoms blown 
And woven flowers at sunset gathered, 
Another dawn had seen them ruined, and shed 

Ivoose leaves upon the grass at random strown. 

By this, their sure example, be it known. 
That all your beauties, now in perfect flower. 
Shall fade as these, and wither in an hour, 

Flowerlike, and brief of days, as the flower sown. 

Ah, time is flying, lady — time is flying ; 
Nay, 'tis not time that flies, but we that go. 

Who in short space shall be in churchyard lying, 
And of our loving parley none shall know, 

Nor any man consider what we were ; 

Be therefore kind, my love, while thou art fair. 

The Rose. 

See, Mignonne, hath not the Rose, 
That this morning did unclose 

Her purple mantle to the light, 
Lost, before the day be dead. 
The glory of her raiment red. 

Her color, bright as yours is bright? 

* Aphrodite, from which name the poet incorrectly supposes April 
is derived. 


Ah, Mignonne, in how few hours, 
The petals of her purple flowers 

All have faded, fallen, died ; 
Sad Nature, mother ruinous. 
That seest thy fair child perish thus 

'Twixt matin song and eventide. 

Hear me, my darling, speaking sooth, 
Gather the fleet flower of your youth, 

Take your pleasure at the best ; 
Be merry ere your beauty flit, 
For length of days will tarnish it, 

I,ike roses that were loveliest. 

To His Young Mistress. 

Fair flower of fifteen springs, that still 
Art scarcely blossomed from the bud. 
Yet hast such store of evil will, 
A heart so full of hardihood. 
Seeking to hide in friendly wise 
The mischief of your mocking eyes. 

If you have pity, child, give o'er; 

Give back the heart you stole from me. 
Pirate, setting so little store 

On this your captive from I^ove's sea. 
Holding his misery for gain. 
And making pleasure of his pain. 

Another, not so fair of face, 

But far piore pitiful than you, ' 
Would take my heart, if of his grace. 
My heart would give her of I^ove's due ; 
And she shall have it, since I find 
That you are cruel and unkind. 

Nay, I would rather that it died. 

Within your white hands prisoning, 
Would rather that it still abide 
In your ungentle comforting. 
Than change its faith, and seek to her 
That is more kind, but not so fair. 


Of His Lady's Old Age. 

When you are very old, and by the candle's flame, 
Sitting beside the fire, you talk and spin and sing 
My songs o' nights, then you will say, half wondering : 
" Ronsard in bygone days hath sung my beauty's fame." 

When those around thee hear this word, no serving dame 
Of thine, already at her task half slumbering, 
But at the echo of my name awakening, 

With everlasting praise shall rise and bless thy name. 

But I, a formless ghost within the earth full deep, 
Beneath the myrtle shadows I shall lie asleep ; 

While thou before the fire art crouching, old and gray, 
Weeping for my lost love and for thy proud disdain. 
Wait not the morrow, but live now, if thou wilt deign 

To hear me ; pluck the roses of thy life to-day. 

His Lady's Death. 

Twain that were foes, while Mary" lived, are fled ; 
One laurel-crowned abides in heaven, and one 

Beneath the earth has fared, a fallen sun, 
A light of love among the loveless dead. 
The first is Chastity, that vanquished 

The archer I^ove, that held joint empery 

With the sweet beauty that made war on me, 
When laughter of lips with laughing eyes was wed. 
Their strife the Fates have closed, with stem control. 
The earth holds her fair body, and her soul 

An angel with glad angels triumpheth ; 
Love has no more that he can do ; desire 
Is buried, and my heart a faded fire, 

And for Death's sake, I am in love with Death. 


Pierre de Bourdeilles, Seigneur de Brantome (1540- 
i6i4),has been aptly styled by Van Laun as "the Grammont 
and the Pepys of his age, who, if he could have kept his 


eyes upon its best rather than upon its worst features, might 
possibly have been its Plutarch." As it is, his works furnish 
an admirable picture of the general court life of his time, 
with its undisguised and unblushing profligacy. Brantome 
was the third son of the Viscount de Bourdeilles, and he was 
brought up in the court of Marguerite of Navarre. That 
princess's nephew. King Henri II., bestowed on Pierre de 
Bourdeilles the abbey of Brantome, but to the end of his life 
the recipient remained more a refined courtier than a prbper 
ahh6. Early in life he had espoused the profession of arms, 
only to lay them down after tjie death of Charles IX. On the 
field he had proved himself a brave soldier, a fact which 
later, no doubt, caused him to be chosen as one of the com.- 
panions of Mary Queen of Scots in her voyage from France 
to Scotland. To the last he idolized Mary as a martyr, 
the victim of "lies and abuse." But, alas, he also made 
idols of Catharine de Medici and the dissolute Marguerite 
of Valois, wife of Henry IV. The fact is that he was essen- 
tially a courtier of liis age, who could not truly perceive 
the stains on the dames galantes and homines illustres 
of his worship. Nevertheless this very unconscious view of 
them adds a piquancy to his gallery of portraits ; and although 
his scandals and chronicles are not of the most trustv/orthy, 
yet as a whole they furnish an almost unexampled picture of 
the times. It is a satisfaction to read Rabelais in the light of 
Brantome. His style is naive and conversational, and he does 
not neglect the foreign captains and duels he has seen in 
dwelling on the picturesque and vivacious annals of the court 
of the Valois. 

Mary Queen of Scots Leaving- France. 

When the beginning of autumn had come, it was neces- 
sary that the queen who had been delaying should leave 
France. She set out by land to Calais, accompanied by my 
lords her uncles and my Iprd of Nemours, and by most of the 
grand and honorable persons of the court, together with the 
ladies, as Madame de Guise and others, all regretting and 
weeping with abundant tears the loss of such a queen. 


She found in port two galleys, one belonging to my I^ord 
de Mevillon, the other to Captain d'Albize, and two ships of 
burden. This was the entire fleet, and after six days' rest at 
Calais, having said her sad qnd mournful adieus to all the 
grand company which was there, from the highest to the 
lowest, she embarked, having with her her uncles, my lords 
d'Aumale, Grand Prior, and d'Elben, and my Lord Damville, 
now my Lord Constable, and most of the nobility of us that 
were with her in the galley of my Lord de Mevillon, as being 
the better and finer. 

Just when she was wishing to begin leaving the harbor, 
and the oars were commencing to turn, she saw a ship put 
out to sea, and full in view sink and perish before her, arid 
the greater part of the sailors drowned, through not having 
well learned the current and the ground. Seeing this, she 
cried out at once, ' ' Ah, God ! what an omen for a voyage is 
this ! " The galley having left the harbor, and a slight wind 
having arisen, they set sail, and the oars had rest. She, 
without thinking of other action, leaned her arms on the stern 
of the galley beside the helm, and melted in a flood of tears^ 
steadfastly casting her lovely eyes on the harbor and the town 
which she had left, ever and anon uttering these sad words, 
"Adieu, France ! — adieu, France ! " — repeating them at every 
turn. This mournful fit lasted nearly five hoiirs, until night 
began to come On, and they asked her if she would not move 
from the spot and take some food. Then redoubling her 
weeping more than ever, she said, "It is at this hour I lose 
you forever from sight, dear France, since the dark night 
is jealous of my beholding you as long as I could, and 
draws a black veil before my eyes to deprive me of such a 
joy. Adieu, then, my dear France ; when I lose you from 
sight, I shall see you nevermore!" Thus she withdrew, 
saying that she had done just the opposite to Dido, who did 
nothing but gaze upon the sea, when ^neas departed from 
her, while she looked steadily at the land. 

The queen resolved to lie down without eating, and would 
not descend to the cabin in the > stern ; but they prepared 
the deck of the galley above the stern for her, and there 
arranged ier couch. There resting a little, yet not forgetting 


her sighs and tears, she directed the helmsman, as soon as it 
should be day, if he still saw or descried the land of France, 
that he should awake her and not fear to call her. In this 
fortune favored her, for the wind having ceased, and recourse 
being had to the oars, they made little way that night ; so 
that when daylight appeared the coast of France was still in 
view, and the helmsman did not neglect the command she had 
given. She rose on her couch, and again began to watch the 
shore of France as long as she could. But as the galley 
withdrew she lost this solace, and saw no more her beautiful 
land. Then again she repeated those words, ' ' Adieu, France ! 
It is finished. Adieu, France ! I feel that I shall see you 
nevermore!" She even expressed a wish at that time that 
an English fleet should appear and so threaten us, that she 
might be compelled to fall behind and escape to the harbor 
whence she had set out. But in this matter God did not 
favor her desires. 

Without any hindrance we arrived at Little Luc'(the port of 
I/cith.) As for the voyage, I shall mention this little inci- 
dent, that the first evening after we embarked the Lord of 
Chastelard (who was afterwards executed in Scotland for his 
overboldness, and not for a crime; he was a well-bred 
cavalier, a good soldier, and a good scholar) when he saw 
them lighting the lantern of the galley, used this witty 
remark : that there was nb need of that lantern nor of a torch 
to lighten us on the sea, for the beautiful eyes of the queen 
were bright and brilliant enough to light up all the sea with 
their beautiful fires, without even setting fire to them for any 

It should be noted, that a day before the Sunday morning 
on which we arrived in Scotland, there sprang up so great. a 
fog that we could not see from the stern to the prow, in con- 
sequence of which the pilot and his comrades were astonished, 
so that it was necessary to cast anchor in the open sea, and 
to take soundings to know where we were. This fog lasted a 
day and a night, until the next morning at eight o'clpck, 
when we found ourselves surrounded by a large number of 
rocks ; so that if we had gone ahead or aside we should have 
struck them, and should have all perished. But the Queen 



said, that for her part she would not have been troubled nor 
wished for anything so much as death, but that she should 
not wish or desire that for the welfare of the kingdom of 
Scotland. On the morning after the lifting of this fog, when 
we recognized and viewed the coast of Scotland, there were 
some augured from that fog that we were going to land in a 
kingdom full of confusion and quarrels and misfortunes. 


Historians still dis- 
pute the character and 
actions of the beautiful 
and unfortunate Mary 
Stuart, Queen of Scots. 
She lived in a time of the 
bitterest religious contro- 
versy, and was firmly at- 
tached to the Roman 
Church. Though heiress 
of the Scottish crown, she 
had been married to the 
dauphin of France, and 
would have preferred to 
remain in that sunny land 
had fate permitted. On 
the death of Francis II. 
she was obliged to return 
to Scotland to take an active part in the conflict with a rude 
and turbulent people. In th6 bleak and dreary Northern land 
there was little to attract the youthful lover of gayeties, such as 
she had shared in the French court. No wonder that she gave 
her affection to the foreigners who ministered to her pleasures, 
and roused the hatred of the fickle Darnley, whom she had 
been persuaded to marry. Whatever may have been her 
ambition with regard to the English crown, she bitterly 
expiated in prison and on the scaffold any offence she had 
committed. The few literary relics she has left are in the 
French language. 


On the Death of Her Husband, Francis II. 

In accents sad and low, 

And tones of soft lament, 
I breathe the bitterness of woe 

O'er this sad chastisement: 
With many a mpurnful sigh 
The days of youth steal by. 

Was e'er such stern decree 

Of unrelenting fate ? 
Did merciless adversity 

E'er blight so fair a state 
As mine, whose heart and eye 
In bier and coffin lie, — 

Who, in the gentle spring 

And blossom of my years, 
Must bear misfortune's piercing sting. 

Sadness, and grief, and tears, — 
Thoughts, that alone inspire 
Regret and soft desire ? 

What once was blithe and gay, 

Changed into grief I see ; 
The glad and glorious light of day 

Is darkness unto me : 
The world — the world has naught 
That claims a passing thought. 

Deep in my heart and eye 

A form arid image shine. 
Which shadow forth wan misery 

On this pale cheek of mine. 
Tinged with the violet's blue, 
Which is love's favorite hue.. 

Where'er my footsteps stray, 

In mead or wooded vale. 
Whether beneath the dawn of day, 

Or evening twilight pale, — 
Still, still my thoughts ascend 
To my departed friend. 


If towards his home above 

I raise my mournful sight, 
I meet his gentle look of love 

In every cloud of white ; 
But straight the watery cloud 
Changes to tomb and shroud. ' 

When midnight hovers near, 

And slumber seals mine eyes, 
His voice still whispers in miiie ear, 

His form beside me lies ; 
In labor, in repose. 
My heart his presence knows. 

Farewei.Iv to France. 

Farewell, beloved France to thee. 

Best native land ! 

The cherished strand 
That nursed my tender infancy ! 
Farewell, my childhood's happy day! 
The bark that bears me thus away 

Bears but the poorer moiety hence ; 
The nobler half reniains with thee, — 

I leave it to thy confidence, 
But to remind thee still of me ! 


The great French critic who trampled the laurels of 
Ronsard and the Pldiade in the dust was Frangois de Mal- 
herbe (15 55-161 8). He clasped the fetters of a new formalism 
on French verse — shackles not to be broken until the rise of 
Victor Hugo and Romanticism. The Graeco-Gallic innova- 
tions of the Pldiade were certainly far too luxuriant, but 
the modern verdict has sided with Ronsard against Malherbe. 
Malherbe's own poems are all contained in a thin little 
volume of small intrinsic merit outside of a few severely 
polished gems, such as the poem "Consolation k Du Perrier," 
addressed to an old Proven5al friend on the loss of his 
daughter. But while Malherbe was by no means so splendid 
a poet as Ronsard, he was vastly superior to the minor Pl^i- 


adists and their grotesque imitators ; and if his cold formal- 
ism sinned against the true poetic spirit, it may well be 
doubted whether the great romahtic school of the early nine- 
teenth century which rose so triumphantly against the slavery 
of his rules, could really have been, had Malherbe not first 
have swept away the exaggerated conceits of his predecessors 
and early contemporaries. He was thirty years old when 
Ronsard died, and the latest survivor of the PMiade — Des- 
portes — lived to grace Malherbe's pillory. The critic, indeed, 
did not hesitate to insult this worthy elder poet at his own 
table. ' ' Your soup is better than your ' Psalms, '"he once 
said to his host. The anecdote sheds a vivid light on the inso- 
lent character of Malherbe. He was a servile flatterer of the 
great, an obstinate suitor for favors, and yet a bearish fellow 
to his equals. His criticism is infected with jealousy, and is 
frequently downright unfair. The eldest son of a king's coun- 
sellor in the magistracy of Caen, he swore to ' ' degasconlze " 
French poetry, that is, to free it from the infection of the 
Troubadours. His ungratefulness is visible in the fact that 
after dedicating a collection of servile verses to King Henry 
III., he libelled that monarch. His success dates from his 
submissive courtiership to Marie de Medici. His friend 
Recan wrote a Bbswell-like life of him, while Regnier, 
Desportes' half-vagabond nephew, of all men, defended the 
PMiade that had condemned Villon, and embalmed the great 
satirist in a suprenie satire. Regnier declared that to judge 
and write poetry after Malherbe's fashion, "is to make prose 
of poetry and poetry of prose." But Boileau, in his sum- 
mary of the origin of French poetry, praised Malherbe's life 
labors as a critic in his sententious and famous line, "At last 
arrived Malherbe." 


Phyli,is sees me pine away, 

Sees my ravished senses Stray, 
Down my cheeks the tear-drops creeping. 

When she seeks the cause of pain, 

Of her charms she is so vain, 
That she thinks for her I'm weeping. 


Sorry I sliould be, forsooth. 

Did I vex her with the truth. 
Yet it surely is permitted 

Just to point out her mistakes, 

When herself the cause she makes 
Of a crime she ne'er committed. 

'T was a wondrous school, no doubt. 

Where she found her beauty out, 
Which, she thinks, can triumph o'er me; 

So that deeming her divine, 

I can languish, weep and pine, 
With so plain a truth before me. 

Mine would be an easy case 

If a happy resting place 
In her den she could insure me ; 

Then for solace to my woe 

Far I should not have to go, — * 
E'en the vilest herbs might cure me. 

'Tis from Glycera proceeds 

Grief with which my bosom bleeds 

Beyond solace or assistance. 
Glycera commands my fate. 
As she pleases to dictate, ^ 

Death is near or at a distance. 

Sure of ice that heart is made 

Which no pity can invade, 
Even for a single minute ; 

But whatever faults I see. 

In my soul still bideth she, — 
Room for thee is not within it. 

Consolation for a Daughter's Death. 

The following is translated from his " Consolation a Du Perrier," 
written to a friend who had lost his only daughter. 

I KNOW with what delights her infancy was filled, 

And I have not undertaken, 
As hurtful friend, to console thy grief. 

By making light of it. 


Yet she was of this world, where the finest things 

Have the sorest fate ; 
And a rose herself, she has lived as the roses 

The brief space of a morning. 

• ■ • • • a 

For me, already twice have I been maimed 

By the like fire from heaven, 
And twice has reason fortified my soul 

That I lament no more. 

Yet it is pain to me, because the tomb 

Owns what I held so dear ; 
But that which knows no remedy should be 

Devoid of idle plaint. 

Death has his cruel terrors unsurpass'd ; 

In vain we sue for grace. 
The harsh oppressor shuts his ruthless ears, 

And lets his victims sue. 

The wretch half-sheltered by his roof of straw 

Is subject to his will ; 
No faithful guard who stands at I^ouvre's gate 

Can shield the heads of kings. 



;HE "Heimskringla," or " Round World," is a 
work of great historic interest, being the sagas 
of the kings of Norway. Snorri's preface to 
this bead-roll of honor begins with this short 
summary of what was known of " parts of the earth :' ' 
" The round world, wherein mankind dwell, is much 
sheared apart by gulfs ; great seas go from the outer sea into 
the earth, and men know surely that a sea goeth from Niorvi's 
Sound right up to the land of Jerusalem ; from that sea goeth a 
long gulf to the north-east, which is called the Black Sea, 
and sundereth the two World-Ridings ; to the east is Asia, 
but to the west is called Europe by some, but by some Enea ; 
but north of the Black Sea lies Sweden the Great on the Cold. 
. . . Mighty lordships there are in Sweden, and peoples of 
,manifold kind, and many tongues withal ; there are giants 
and dwarfs, yea, and Blue-rmen, and folk of many kinds and 
marvellous ; and there are sayage beasts, and dragons won- 
drous great." 

Snorri knew nothing of the bold Eric and Ivcif Ericson 
who had long before discovered the still more wonderful con- 
tinent, afterwards named America, but he tells us the circum- 
stantial tale of Odin and Freyia and all the royal deities 
whose romantic adventures form the burden of these sagas of 
the Ynglings, down to the year 1 177. We learn of the immi- 
gration of the ^sir into Sweden and the doings of their suc- 
cessors, the kings of Upsala, and of the Norwegian kings, 

* For General Introduction to Scandinavian I<iterature, see Volume 
II., pp. 340-345- 


particularly of Olaf Tryggvesson and Saint Olaf. He acknow- 
ledges his indebtedness to Ari the Learned, the mass-priest, 
for the "many ancient tales" that make up these histories. 
Several of these stories from the Saga of King Olaf have 
been versified in Longfellow's "Tales of a Wayside Inn." 

Gyda, Eric's Daughter. 

King Harald sent his men after a certain maiden called 
Gyda, the daughter of King Eric of Horfaland, and she was at 
fostering at Valldres with a rich bonder. Now the king would 
fain have her to his bed-mate, because she was a maiden ex- 
ceeding fair and withal somewhat high-minded. So when 
the messengers came there they put forth their errand to the 
maiden, and she answered in this wise : "I will not waste my 
maidenhood for the taking of a husband who has no more 
realm to rule over than a few folk. Marvellous it seems to 
me that there be no king minded to make Norway his own, 
and be sole lord thereof in such wise as Gorm of Denmark or 
Eric of Upsala have done." Great words, indeed, seemed 
this answer to the messengers, and they asked her concerning 
her words, what this answer should come to ; and they say 
that Harald is a king so mighty that the offer is right meet 
for her. But yet, though she answered to their errand other- 
wise than they would, they see no way as at this time to have 
her away but if she were willing thereto, so they arrayed them 
for their departing, and when they were ready, men led them 
out. Then spake Gyda to the messengers: "Give this my 
word to King Harald, that only so will I say yea to being his 
sole and lawful wife, if he will first do so much for my sake 
as to lay under him all Norway, and rule that realm as freely 
as King Eric rules the Swede-realm, or King Gorm Denmark ; 
for only so may he be called aright a king of the people." 

Thereupon the messengers fare back to King Harald 
and tell him of this word of the maiden, calling her overbold 
and witless, and saying withal that it would be but meet for 
the ting to send after her with' many men, for the doing of 
some shame to her. Then answered the king that the maid 
had spoken naught of ill, and done naught worthy of evil 
reward. Rather he bade her much thanks for her word, ' ' For 


she has brought to my mind that matter which it now seems 
to me wondrous I have not had in my mind heretofore." And 
moreover he said, "This oath I make fast, and swear before 
that God who made me and rules over all things, that never 
will I cut my hair nor comb it till I have gotten to me all 
Norway, with the scat [revenue] thereof and the dues, and 
all rule thereover, or else will I die rather.' ' For this word 
Duke Guthorm thanked him much, and said it were a work 

worthy of a king to hold fast this word of his 

Now King Harald was feasting in Mere at Earl 

Rognvald's, and had now gotten to him all the land. So 
King Harald took a bath and then he let his hair be combed, 
and then Earl Rognvald sheared it. And heretofore it had 
been unshorn and uncombed for ten winters. Aforetime he 
had been called Shockhead, but now Earl Rognvald gave him 
a by-name and called him Harald Harfagr (Fair hair), and all 
who saw him said that that was a most proper name, for 
he had most plenteous hair and goodly. 

The Birth op Olaf Tryggvesson. 

King Tryggve Olafsson had married a wife who was 
called Astrid. She was a daughter of Eric Biodaskalde, a 
great man, who dwelt at Ofrostad. But after Tryggve' s 
death Astrid fled, and privately took with her all the loose 
property she could. Her foster-father, Thoralf Lusiskiaeg, 
followed her, and never left her; and others of her faithful 
followers spied about to discover her enemies, and where 
they were. Astrid was pregnant with a child of King 
Tryggve, and she went to a lak,e, and concealed herself in a 
holm or small island in it with a few men. Here her child 
was born, and it was a boy ; and water was poured over it, 
and it was called Olaf after the grandfather. Astrid remained 
all summer here in concealment; but when the nights 
became dark, and the day began to shorten and the weather 
to be cold, she was obliged to take to the land, along with 
Thoralf and a few other men. They did not seek for houses, 
unless in the night time, when they came to them secretly ; 
and they spoke to nobody. One evening, towards dark, they 


came to Ofrostad, where Astrid's father Eric dwelt, and pri- 
vately sent a man to Eric to tell him ; and Eric took them 
to an out-house, and spread a table for them with the best of 
food. When Astrid had been here a short time her travelling 
attendants left her, and none remained behind with her but 
two servant girls, her child Olaf, Thoralf Lusiskiseg, and his 
son Thorgils, who was six years old ; and they remained all 

After Try ggve Olafsson's murder, Harald Greyskin and his 
brother Gudrod went to the farm which he owned; but 
Astrid was gone, and they could learn no tidings of her. A 
loose report came to their ears that she was pregnant to King 
Tryggve ; but they went away northwards, as before related. 
As soon as they met their mother Gunhild, they told her all 
that had taken place. She inquired particularly about Astrid, 
and they told her the report they had heard ; but as Gun- 
hild's sons the same harvest and winter after had bickerings 
with Earl Hakon, as before related, they did not seek after 
Astrid and her son that winter. 

The spring after Gunhild sent spies to the Uplands, and 
all the way down to Viken, to spy what they could about 
Astrid , and her men came back, and could only tell her that 
Astrid must be with her father Eric, and it was probable was 
bringing up her infant, the son of Tryggve. Then Gunhild, 
without delay, sent oflf men well furnished with arms and 
horses, and in all a troop of thirty ; and as their leader she 
sent a particular friend of her own, a powerful man called 
Hakon. Her orders were to go to Ofrostad to Eric, and take 
King Tryggve' s son from thence, and bring the child to her ; 
and with these orders the men went out. Now when they 
were come to the neighborhood of Ofrostad,- some of Eric's 
friends observed the troop of travellers, and about the close 
of the day brought him word of their approach. Eric imme- 
diately, in the night, made preparation for Astrid's flight, 
gave her good guides, and sent her away eastward to Sweden, 
to his good friend Hakon Gamle, who was a powerful man 
there. I^ong before day they departed, and towards evening 
they reached a domain called Skon. Here they saw a large 
mansion, towards which they went, and begged a night's 
IV— 18 


lodging. For the sake of concealment they clad in mean 
clothing. There dwelt here a bonder called Biom Edder- 
quise, who was very rich, but very inhospitable. He drove 
them away; and, therefore, towards dark, they went to 
another domain close by that was called Vither. Thorstein 
was the name of the bonder ; and he gave them lodging, and 
took good care of them, so that they slept well, and were well 
entertained. Early that morning Gunhild's men had come 
to Ofrostad, and inquired for Astrid and her son. As Eric 
told them she was not there, they searched the whole house, 
and remained till late in the day before they got any news of 
Astrid. Then they' rode after her the way she had taken, and 
late at night they came to Biorn Edderquise in Skon, and 
took up their quarters there. Hakon asked Biorn if he knew 
anything about Astrid, and he said some people had been 
there in the evening wanting lodgings; "but I drove them 
away, and I suppose they^'have gone to some of the neighbor- 
ing houses." 

Now Thorstein' s laborer was coming from the forest, 
having left his work at nightfall, and called in at Biorn' s 
house because it was in his way ; and finding there were 
guests come to the house, and learning their business, he 
comes to Thorstein and tells him of it. As about a third 
part of the night was still remaining, Thorstein wakens his 
guests, and orders them in an angry voice to go about their 
business ; but as soon as they were out of the house upon the 
road, Thorstein tells them that Gunhild's messengers were at 
Biorn' s house, and are upon the trace of them. They entreat 
of him to help them, and he gave them a guide and some 
provisions. He conducted them through the forest to a lake, 
in which there was an islet overgrown with reeds. They 
waded out to the islet, and hid the;mselves among the reeds.' 
Early in the morning Hakon rode away from Biorn's into 
the township, and wherever he came he asked after Astrid ; 
and when he came to Thorstein' s he asked if she had been 
there. He said that some people had been there ; but as soon 
as it was daylight they had set off again, eastwards, to the 
forest. Hakon made Thorstein go along with them, as he 
knew all the roads and hiding-places. Thorstein went with 


them ; but when they were come into the woods, he led them 
right across thp way Astrid had taken. They went about and 
about the whole day to no purpose, as they could find no 
trace of her ; so they turned back to tell Gunhild the end of 
their travel. Astrid and her friends proceeded on their jour- 
ney, and came to Sweden, to Hakon Gamle (the Old), where 
she and her son remained a long time, and had friendly 

The Wedding of OlaF Tryggvesson. 

Oi,AE lay by Borgund-holm, but there got they bitter 
wind and a storm at sea, so that they might no longer lie 
there, but sailed south under Wendland, and got there good 
haven, and faring full peacefully, abode there awhile. 

Burislaf was the name of the king in Wendland, whose 
daughters were Geira, Gunnhild and Astrid. Now Geira, the 
king's daughter, had rule and dominion there, where Olaf 
and his folk came to the land, and Dixin was the name of 
him who had most authority under Queen Geira. And so 
when they heard that alien folk were come to the land, even 
such as were noble of mien, and held them ever in peaceful 
wise, then fared Dixin to meet them with this message, that 
she bade those new-come men to guest with her that winter- 
tide, for the summer was now far spent and the weather hard 
and storms great. So when Dixin was come there he saw 
speedjly that the captain of these men is a noble man both of 
kin and aspect. Dixin told them that the queen bade them 
to her in friendly wise. So Olaf took her bidding, and fared 
that autumn-tide unto Queen Geira, and either of them was 
wondrous well pleased with the other, so that Olaf fell a woo- 
ing, and craved Queen Geira to wife. And it was brought to 
pass that he wedded her tMt, winter, and became fuler of that 
realm with her. Hallfred the Troublous-skald telleth of this 
in the Drapa [song] he made upon Olaf the King : 

The king he made the hardened 
Corpse-banes in blood be reddened 
At Holme and east in Garth-realm. 
Yea, why should the people hide it ? 



The Building of the Long Serpent. 

The winter after King Olaf came from 
Halogaland, he had a great vessel built at Lade- 
hammer, which was 
larger than any ship 
in the country, and of 
which the beam-knees 
are still to be seen. 
The length of keel 
that rested upon the 
grass was seventy-four 
ells. Thorberg Skaft- 
ing was the man's 
name who was the 
master-builder of the 
ship ; but there were 
many others besides, 
— some to fell wood, 
some to shape it, some 
to make nails, some 
to carry timber; and 
all that was used was 
of the best. The ship was both long and broad and high- 
sided, and strongly timbered. While they were planking the 
ship, it happened that Thorberg had to go home to his farm 
upon some urgent business ; and as he remained there a long 
time, the ship was planked up on both sides when he came 
back. I;i the evening the king went ont, and Thorberg with 
him, to see how the vessel looked, and every body said that 
never was seen so large and so beautiful a ship of war. Then 
the king returned to the town. Early next morning the king 
returns again to the ship, and Thorberg with him. The 
carpenters were there before them, but all were standing idle 
with their arms across. The king asked "what was the 
matter?" They said the ship was destroyed ; for somebody 
had gone from stem to stem, and cut one deep notch after 
the other down the one side of the planking. When the, 


king came' nearer he saw it was so, and said, with an oath, 
" The man shall die who has thus destroyed the vessel out of 
envy, if he can be discovered, and I shall bestow a great 
reward on whoever finds him out." 

"I can tell you, king," says Thorberg, "who has done 
this piece of work." 

"I don't think," replies' the king, "that any one is so 
likely to find it out as thou art." 

Thorberg says, " I will tell you, king, who did it. I did 
it myself.' ' 

The king says, " Thou must restore it all to the same con- 
dition as before, or thy life shall pay for it. ' ' 

Then Thorberg went and chipped the planks until the 
deep notches were all smoothed and -made even with the rest ; 
and the king and all present declared that the ship was much 
handsomer on the side of the hull which Thorberg had 
chipped, and bade him shape the other side in the same way, 
and gave him great thanks for the improvement. Afterwards 
Thorberg was the master-builder, of the ship until she was 
entirely finished. The ship was a dragon, built after the one 
the king had captured in Halogaland ; but this ship was far 
larger, and more carefully put together in all her parts. The 
king called this ship " Serpent the Long,' ' and the other " Ser- 
pent the Short." The Long Serpent had thirty-four benches 
for rowers. The head and the arched tail were both gilt, and 
the bulwarks were as high as in sea-going ships. This ship 
was the best and most costly ship ever made in Norway. 

Olap's Dog Vigi. 

Now when Olaf was in Ireland he was warring on a time, 
and on shipboard they fared and needed a strand-slaughtering. 
When the men went on land and drove down many beasts, 
then came to them a certain goodman who prayed Olaf to 
give him back his own cows. Olaf bade him take them if he 
could find them: "But let him not delay the journey!" 
Now the goodman had there a great herd-dog, to which dog 
he showed the herd of neat, whereof were being driven many 
hundreds. Then the hound ran all about the herd, and drave 


away just so many neat as the goodman had claimed for his, 
and they were all marked in one wise ; wherefore men deemed 
it sure that the hound verily knew them aright, and they 
thought him wondrous wise. Then asked Olaf of the good- 
man if he would sell his hound. "With a good will," said 
the goodman. But the king gave him a gold ring there and 
then and promised to be his friend. That dog was called 
Vigi, and was the best of all dogs. Olaf had him for long 

Queen Sigrid the Haughty. 

Queen Sigrid in Sweden, who had for surname the 
Haughty, sat in her mansion, and during the same winter 
messengers went between King Olaf and Sigrid to propose 
his courtship to her, and she had no objection ; and the 
matter was fully and fast resolved upon. Thereupon King 
Olaf sent to Queen Sigrid the great gold ring he had taken 
from the temple door of I^ade, which was considered a dis- 
tinguished ornament. The meeting for concluding the busi- 
nesss was appointed to be in spring on the frontier, at the 
Gotha river. Now the ring which King Olaf had sent Queen 
Sigrid was highly prized by all men; yet the queen's gold- 
smiths, two brothers, who took the ring in their hands, and 
weighed it, spoke quietly to each other about it, and in a 
manner that made the queen call them to her, and ask, "what 
they smiled at?" But they would not say a word, and she 
commanded them to say what it was they had discovered. 
Then they said the ring is false. Upon this she ordered the 
ring to be broken in pieces, and it was found to be copper 
inside. Then the queen was enraged, and said that Olaf 
would deceive her in .more ways than this one. 

Early in spring King Olaf went eastwards to Konghelle 
to the meeting with Queen Sigrid; and when they met the 
business was considered about which the winter before they 
had held communication, namely, their marriage; and the 
business seemed likely to be Concluded. But when Olaf 
insisted that Sigrid should let herself be baptized, she 
answered thus : " I must not part from the faith Which I have 
held, and my forefathers before me ; and, on the other hand, 


I shall make no objection to your believing in tbe god that 
pleases you best." Then King Olaf was enraged, and 
answered in a passion, "Why should I care to have thee, an 
old faded woman, and a heathen jade ? ' ' and therewith struck 
her in the face with his glove which he held in his hands, 
rose up, and they parted. Sigrid said, "This may some day 
be thy death." The king set oflf to Viken, the queen to 


The author of this famous epic — for such it is, though 
given in a series of ballads in varying measures to suit the 
events described — is unknown ; it is ascribed to the twelfth 
century. The modern Swedish poet Esaias Tegner has trans- 
lated it. It opens with the childhood of Frithiof and Inge- 
borg on the sea-shore ; he glad to dare the waves, climb the 
cliffs, and climb trees, to give her pleasure. Becoming a 
great hunter, he one day brings her the carcass of a great 
bear as a trophy of his prowess. Seeing that she embroiders 
on her tapestry legends of the gods and goddesses, he swears 
that no divinity could equal her. The foster-parents of the 
lovers frown upon their love, making it known that Frithiof 
is only the son of Thorsten Vikingsson, while she is daughter 
of King Bele. But she tells how King Bele with Frithiof 's 
father by his side calls his sons Hege and Halfden to give 
them his last counsels before he dies. The one is an austere 
priest, the other a delicately natured youth. With these 
comes young Frithiof; and after the king has given his 
counsel, Frithiof 's father addresses similar advice to him, for 
he means to die with his king. Bele now commends his 
daughter Ingeborg to the care of his sons. After the king's 
death Helge and Halfden divide the kingdom and Frithiof 
settles in his ancestral home, in which are three treasures — 
the sword Angurvadel, the gold arm-ring of Vauland, and 
the dragon-ship "EUida." In due course Frithiof claims 
Ingeborg as his bride, and is refused by the brothers. Old 
King Ring also asks her in marriage, and being likewise 
refused declares war against Helge and Halfden. One day, 


Pri thief playing chess with his friend Bjorn, Ingeborg's 
foster-father enters and says that Helge and Halfden ask his 
help against Ring. Frithiof, continuing his game, remarks 
that a pawn may save a king, and that the queen must be 
reserved. At last he answers that since Helge and Halfden 
have wounded his honor he cannot save them. After many 
stirring episodes, the story ends with the happiness of the 


In this rendering of Tegner's " Frithiof 's Saga," by R. G. 
Latham, the name Ingeborg is made Ingebore and Ingeborow for 
metrical reasons. 

In Hilding's hut and Norway's clime, 
Grew two sweet plants in perfect prime ; 
And ne'er before were fairer given 
To smile on earth or gaze at heaven. 
There grew the sturdiest of them, 
Like sapling oak with spear-shaped stem ; 
Whose crest, as e'en a helmet's glancing, 
"Wooed each wild wind to keep it dancing. 
And one was like a rose, the day 
That Christmas chills have passed away; 
And spring, within its burning bosom. 
Dreams of its fast unfolding blossom. 
When storms shall drtve v/here winds may blow 
The oak shall brave both wind and snow ; 
But summer's sun and springtide's shower 
Shall help to ope that rose's flower. 
I say, they grew towards flowers and fruit. 
And Frithiof was the sapling shoot ; 
And Ingebore the rose that vied it, 
The lovely rose that blushed beside it. 

Who sees the pair while sunbeams shine, 
May deem himself in Freya's shrine; 
Where urchin loves be deftly going 
With wings of light and tresses flowing. 
Who sees them with the pale moonlight 
To lead their dancing steps aright, 
May deem there trip it, light and airy. 
The elfin king and queen of faery. 


What Frithiof learned the day beforCj 
He taught the next to Ingebore ; 
And proud was he when Bele's daughter 
Had learned the letters Frithiof taught her. 
If long and late they sat afloat, 
On dark blue sea, in open boat, 
It pleased her, as the sails were filling, 
To clap her hands and help their swelling. 
Oft as he clomb to steal her nests 
From tops of trees or mountain crests. 
The ravished eagle screaming, clanging. 
Bewailed their nestlings' eyry hanging. 
When floods were deep and streams ran hoarse, 
He bore his tender charge across ; ' 

Pleased if the currents lashed around him. 
And her small arms the tighter bound him. 
When springtide came with springtide's host, 
He plucked the flowers she loved the most ; 
The ears of corn that first turned yellow, 
And strawberries as each grew mellow. 

But childhood's hours fleet away. 
And then there comes in later day 
Those looks of fire in youths who sue. 
And budding breasts in maids they woo. 
Then Frithiof hunted day by day, 
And"brought the forest spoils away; 
Yet few before had e'er attended, 
Such chase unscathed and undefended. 
For bears and he in battle brunt 
Oft hugged each other front to front ; 
The stripling won, and on the morrow 
Displayed their spoils to Ingeborow. 
Yes ! heart of man and female breast 
Suit each to each, like hehn and crest, 
When bravest hearts deserve the dearest. 
And strongest hands may win the fairest. 
In winter's evenings each gave heed 
To runic rhymes they wont to read ; 
How gods had loved and heroes striven, 
And how Valhalla's halls were heaven. 
The locks o'er Freya's front of snow 
May wave like corn when breezes blow ; 


One tress of hers lie valued higher 

Than all the vaunted curls of Freyer. 

Iduna's rich and regal breast 

May beat beneath her silken vest, 

And white it was ; yet scarcely vying 

With that which heaved at Frithiof 's sighing. 

Fridthjof PIvAys Chess. 

In this rendering, by George Stephens, the older form Fridthjof is 
used for Frithiof. 

BjORN and Fridthjof, both contending 
O'er their splendid board were bending ; 

Now on silver squares thick gather. 

Now on gold, the struggling foes. 
Then came Hilding, gladly greeted, — 
"Welcome ! — the high chair waits, be seated. 

Drain thy horn, kind foster-father, 

Ivet our doubtful contest close." 

"Bele's sons," quoth Hilding, "send me; 
Armed with pray'rs, to thee I wend me. 

Kvil tidings round them hover. 

All the land on thee relies." 
Answered Fridthjof: "Bjorn, in danger, 
Stands thy king ! beware the stranger ; 

Yet a pawn can all recover — 

Pawns were made for sacrifice. ' ' 

" Fridthjof, anger not the kings so ; 
Strong, remember, eaglets' wings grow. 
Forces Ring full well despises. 
Conquer yet, opposed to thine." 
" Bjorn, the foe my castle craveth ! 
But th' attack with ease it braveth ; 
Grim and high the fierce wall rises. 
Bright the shield-low'r shines within." 

" Ing'borg wastes the day in weeping. 
Sad, though in Balder's sacred keeping ; 
Tempts not war for her release, and 
Mourn unheeded her blue een ? ' ' 


" Bjom, thou in vain my queen pursuest, 
She from childhood dearest, truest ! 

She's my game's most darling piece, and 
Come what will, I'll save my queen ! " 

"What ! not e'en reply conceded? 
Fridthjof, go I thus unheeded? 

Till that child's play yonder endeth 

Must my suit unheard remain ? " 
Fridthjof rose, and as he addresses 
The old man, kind his hand he presses ; 

"Father, nought my firm soul bendeth ; 

Thou hast heard, yet liear again : 

" Yes ! my words take back unvarnished, — 
Deeply they've my honor tarnished ; 
No strong ties to them unite me, 
Never will I be their man." 
" Well, in thine own path, thou goest ; 
I blame not the rage thou showest. 

All for the best guide Odin rightly." 
So old Hilding's answer ran. 

Ingebore's Lament. 

Ths autumn hath a bitter breath 

And unreposing sea ; 
Yet I would brave both wind and wave, 

So but abroad to be. 

I watched his mast that yester e'en 

Sank with the sinking sun ; 
And blest were they, both sail and ray. 

To go where he was gone. 

Gently, gently blow, ye winds, ' 

Over the billows blue ; 
Shine burning bright, ye stars of night. 

Yet shiiie serenely too. 

The spring shall bring the wanderer home 

Across the foainy main. 
But friend to greet or maid to meet, 

Shall sigh for him in vain. 


The maiden that had welcomed him 
Shall be both stark and still, 

Or only lie for agony 
To visit her at will. 

His trusty hawk is left behind, 

And welcome he shall be 
To take his stand on Ingebore's hand. 

And owe his food to me. 

Which I will weave in arras work, 

Astart from off his glove, 
Astart so bold with claws of gold, 

And silver wings above. 

And Freya in her widowhood 

On falcon wings did roam, 
And wander forth both east and north. 

To turn her Oder home. 

Even if thou would lend me wings. 

Far sweeter it would be. 
To bide my hour when death's dark power 

Bestowed its wings on me. 

Then watch the wave, thou hunter-bird. 
From off my shoulder here ; 

Thou long mayst bide, ere breeze or tide. 
Bring Frithiof 's vessel near. 

When I shall lie beneath the sward, 

And he return again ; 
Then tell him how I kept my vow, 

And how I hoped in vain. 



Frithiof Visits King Ring. 

King Ring was on his throne with, his red and rosy bride, 
A drinking of his Christmas ale, his nobles by his side : 
I<ike Spring and Autumn pairing the twain did seem to be. 
For she was as the kindly Spring, but Autumnlike was he. 
An aged man, unknown of all, did step right boldly in, 
His mantle wrapped around his face, his clothes were all of skin, 
His chin was leaned upon his breast, a staff in hand he bare ; 
Yet taller he did seem to be than ere a noble there. 
He sat him on a lowly bench, the bench was by the door. 
The beggar sits there nowadays and there he sat of yore ; 
The courtiers smiled and whispers strange around the chamber 

And scornful fingers pointed at the shabby bear-skin-man. 
Then fire flashed from the stranger's eyes, he viewed the nobles 

He stretched his hand, he seized a youth, he raised him from the 

He jerked him up and twirled, him round, and rocked him fro 

and to, 
Then all the others held their tongues, the wisest thing to do. 


' ' Who breaks my peace and quarrels there, so wanton and so free ? 

Come hither, aged Stranger, and tell thy tale to me ; 

Thy name and wants and whence ye come and whitherwards 

ye go," 
The aged king all angrily bespoke the Stranger so. 
" Ye ask enough," that old man said, " yet I will not repine. 
To tell thee all except my name, 'tis all remains of mine; 
In Anger was I born and bred, from land to land I roam. 
My last night's lair was Wolfsden, and Broken is my home. 
In days of yore I rode upon the dragons of the sea, 
Their wings were spread as wings of strength and fast they flew 

with' me : 
But now the bark, that once was wight, lies cripple on the strand ; 
Myself am old and bum for bread the salt by the sea sand. 
'Tis all to see thy wisdom that I hie me here so lorn, 
Thy courtiers met me scornfully, no mark am I for scorn ; 
I gave a fool a twirl or so, yet set the idle thing 
All scathless on his legs again ; forgive me that, King Ring." 
"Ye speak the sooth," King Ring replied, "Old age must 

honored be ; 
Come, leave thy lowly cushion there and sit thee next to me ; 
But first and foremost cast, I pray, thy strange disguise away; 
For ill accordeth guest disguised with princes' festal day. ' ' 
Down dropped the shaggy bear-skin then, that ill-beseeming 

vest ; 
And lo ! a noble warrior before them stands confessed ; 
Down and o'er his shoulders broad from off his lofty head, 
The yellow locks, all comely, in curls of gold were spread. 
A mantle o'er his back was hung of velvet blue and rare ; 
A silver belt, five fingers broad, with pictured beasts was there. 
The artist had embossed it so — and lifelikely they chased. 
Each other round and round about the hero's girdled waist. 
A massy ring of richest gold was twined around his hand; 
A sword was shining on his thigh like lightning-flash at stand ; 
All calmly and composedly he viewed the circle o'er, 
And seemed as fair as Balder bright and tall as Asa-Thor. 
The queen she reddened suddenly, then turned both pale and wan ; 
So streamers bright may flaunt with light the snows they fall upon ; 
Her heaving bosom beat as fast below her tightened vest, 
As water-lilies sink and rise beneath the wild waves' crest. 
Now silence in the royal hall ! now straight a call was heard, 
The time was come for making vows and Freyer's boar appeared; 


On shining silver charger borne its knees were bent beneath 
With garlands round its breast of brawn and fruits between its 

So Ring the king upreared his self and shook his locks so hoar, 
And vowed a vow and laid his hand on forehead of the boar : 
" I swear to bait bold Frithiof, a dreadnought though he be; 
So help me, Thor and Odin, and help me, mighty Frey." 
With bitter smile upreared his self the stranger from his place; 
A flush of hero-anger was mantling on his face ; 
He dashed his sword on table that thundered as he spoke. 
And each big warrior started up from off his bench of oak. 
" Now hear, Sir King, my vow for me as I have heard thine own. 
Young Frithiof is my friend of old, the firmest I have known ; 
I swear to fight for Frithiof, come thou, come all thy horde ; 
So help me my good Noma [fate], and help me that good sword." 
King Ring replied, " Thy speech is plain and plain thy speech 

should be ; 
For Norman kings well love to hear the words that fall so free : 
Queen ! take the biggest beaker up and fill it with the best. 
And bid him drain it for our sake and bid him be our guest." 
The noble lady took the horn, it stood before her hand ; 
Horn of a bull King Ring had slain, the wildest in the land ; 
It stood on feet of silver bright, was bound with rings of gold. 
And cunning hands had graven on it histories of old. 
With downcast eye and blushing cheek she took the goblet up. 
Her fingers trembled as she raised that shining silver cup ; 
Not evening rays so ruddily on lily -blossoms shine. 
As on her taper hands did burn those ruby drops of wine. 
The lady set the goblet down, the Stranger took it up, 
Not two strong men, in these new days, could drain that mighty 

cup ; 
When lightly and unblenchingly to please the gracious queen, 
The valiant hero drank it dry nor took one breath between. 
A minstrel sat beside the throne, he sang his best that day. 
And told a tale of tenderness, an old Norwegian lay; 
Of Hacbart's fates and Signe's love — his voice was sweet and low. 
That iron hearts began to melt, and tears were seen to flow. 
He changed his hand and turned to sing Valhalla's championry. 
How kings of old had fought by land, and how they swam by sea ; 
Then gleamed each eye and shone each blade with hero-like 

And fleetly round the drinking-board the mighty beaker went. 


And now the duties of the night, the drinking-deep began ; 
I say that every chieftain there drank dry a Christmas can ; 
They went to bed, as best they might, when that carouse was o'er, 
But Ring, the king, that aged man did sleep with Ingebore. 

The Reconciliation. 

When Frithiof returns from his wanderings a new temple to 
Balder has been finished. He witnesses the solemn ceremonies of the 
dedication, and his spirit is deeply moved. Then the aged priest bids 
him welcome, expounds the religion of the Norsemen, and especially 
the doctrine of expiation. The priest continues as follows : 

" Dost thou not hate? hast thou not taught to fear, 
The royal brothers, that thou shouldst revere ? 
Only because their taunting chafed thy scorn. 
And held a bondsman's son too meanly born 
To mix his blood, and sit beside the throne 
Of their fair sister, that was Odin's own. 
True, thou may'st tell me pride in noble birth 
Is all to fortune due, and nought to worth : 
But tell me, Frithiof, for thy bosom can, 
Does Chance or Merit make the proudest man ? 
There is no Chance — what seems as such is given 
An unearned bounty at the hands of Heaven ; 
And humblest men are they who learn to prize, 
More than their own deserts, the gifts of Deities. 
Thyself art proud of thy victorious brand. 
And proud, to madness, of thine iron hand : 
But was it thou, or was it Asa-Thor [the god Thor], 
That strung thy oak-tree sinews for the war ? 
Is it thine own, that heaven-inspired strength, 
Swells in thy bosom, till it bursts at length? 
Is it thine own, that where thy eye-balls turn. 
There lightning seems to flash, and fire to bum ? 
No— higher Nomas [Fates], on thy natal day, 
Sung o'er thy cradle some auspicious lay; 
This is the merit in thy warlike worth, — 
Nor less, nor greater than a king's in birth. 
Speak not of pride in over-harsh a tone, 
I<est the rude words condemn thee for thine own. 

And now that Helge's fallen " " Where and when ? " 

Such the short speech that broke from Frithiof then. 


"Vexing with war, he sallifed out, to chase 
The mountain-dwellers of the lyapland race. 
Built on a cliff there stood, beside the way, 
A temple, dedicate to Yumala ; * 
Tottering itself, over the archway stood 
A massy form of what they deemed a god : 
None had approached it ; for a legend ran 
From ancient sire to son, from man to man. 
Amongst his worshippers, that who first lay 
His hand upon it should see Yumala. 
When Helge heard he clomb the winding stair, 
In scorn of him who sat enshrined there ; 
The door was bolten to — he seized to shake 
The rusted hinges, stern enough to break ; 
The image, that had threatened to descend, 
Fell on his scalp ; it crushed the Asa's friend ; 
So he saw Yumala — and this was Helge' s end. 
Now Halfdan sits alone in Bele's chair; 
Proffer thy hand, and leave thy hatred there. 
Else is the God but mocked by this fair fane. 
And I, his priest, invoked him here in vain." 

Just as the priest had ended, Halfdan trod 
Across the copper threshold of the God : 
Silent, uncertain how to speak, he stood 
Beside the door, and, at his distance, viewed, 
With eye askant, and half-uplifted head, 
The foe he had not yet unlearned to dread. 
Familiar with being feared, the chief unbraced 
The helmet-hater, girded on his waist ; 
I^eaned his broad buckler on the altar's stone, 
And wore for arms his native strength alone. 
" In strife like ours, where ancient feuds should cease. 
He wins the palm who sues the first for peace." 
Then first the blood returned to Halfdan's cheek; 
Then first his lips, reluctant, strove to speak : 
Swift as a merlin from the falconer's fist, 
Slipped the steel gauntlet, beaming, from his wrist ; 
Firm as a rock, they clasped, in friendship's bands. 
Each other's long alienated hands. ^ 

* The chief deity of the I<apps. 
IV— 19 


Peace to thee, Frithiof ! Balder takes the ban 
From off the shoulders of the exiled man. 
Joy to thee, weary wanderer ! thou hast felt 
That gods forgive and hearts of iron melt — 
Whose is the maiden train that enters now ? 
Who is yon lady of the regal brow ? 
Bright as the moon, the empress of the sky. 
While still attendant stars stand shining by ; 
I<ovely and young, and looking like a bride, 
Before the rest she moves to Halfdan's side, 
And if her eye be wet, her cheek be pale, 
But half conceals them with her silver veil. 
Is it because she loves her brother best, 
That so she sinks, in silence, on his breast ? 
No, Frithiof, no ! There is a voice within. 
Stronger than that of brotherhood or kin. 
So sink the maids that, not unhoped for, meet 
Friends of their childhood whom they fear to greet : 
So proud and patient bosoms weakest prove 
Before the spirits that alone they love. 
I say, that Frithiof took her hand, before 
The aoproving brother, and the priest did pour 
Blessings on Frithiof and Ingebore. 

Part I. , 

Printing, introduced 
into England by William 
Caxton in 1474, was firmly 
established before the beginning df the next century. The 
ancient classics, Greek as well as Latin, were brought before 
an ever-widening circle of students, and soon, by means of 
translations, were made familiar to a still larger multitude of 
readers. By this accession of knowledge the intellect of 
the people was mightily aroused ; fresh interest was shown 
in problems of all kinds, religious, philosophical and social. 
Theories of government and education were discussed in 
learned treatises, and made the themes of romance. The 
frenzy for learning which arose in Italy in the fifteenth cen- 
tury reached England at its close. The ill-fated Sir Thomas 
More, the friend of Erasmus, was the ablest representative 
of English scholarship. While he was active in ecclesiastical 
and political affairs, he showed remarkable freedom of mind 
in his " Utopia, ' ' a picture of an ideal commonwealth, pub- 
lished in Ivatin in i S 16, but soon translated into English. The 
barbarous execution of this learned chancellor checked the 
free movement of literature in the universities. The question 
of the papal supremacy, and afterwards controversies about the 
whole system of Christian faith occupied the attention of the 
learned. William Tyndale, having avowed his sympathy 
with the ' ' new learning,' ' as the teaching of Luther was called, 
was obliged to go to the Continent to carry out his purpose 
of printing his translation of the New Testament directly 
from the Greek. It was published in 1526, and was followed 
by translations of parts of the Old Testament, and treatises in 

which he supported Luther's views against the arguments of 



Sir Thomas More. Tyndale's translation, being the basis of 
the so-called Authorized Version of the Bible, has had im- 
mense influence on the English language. 

Throughout the first half of the sixteenth century there 
were numerous translations from Greek and Latin authors, 
from the great Italian poets, and from French and German 
writings of various kinds. Sir Thomas Wyatt and the young 
Earl of Surrey visited Italy and imbibed its poetic spirit. 
They introduced the sonnet into English in translations and 
imitations of Petrarch. Surrey incidentally rendered more 
important service by giving a translation of part of the 
iBneid in blank verse, which soon became the recognized 
metre for serious dramatic and epic poetry. Among the 
translators who supplied material for cultivating the minds of 
readers and stimulating the invention of authors, the most 
noted were Sir Thomas North who rendered, with idiomatic 
spirit, "Plutarch's Lives of Illustrious Greeks and Romans;" 
Sir John Harrington, who versified Ariosto's "Orlando 
Eurioso ; " Fairfax, who performed similar service for Tasso's 
"Jerusalem Delivered." Translated works of less merit and 
renown supplied material for the enriching labor of Shake- 
speare and his fellow-dramatists. 

The greatest of the poets that took part in this work of 
translation was Edmund Spenser, who yet is more distin- 
guished for his original additions to English literature. Choos- 
ing to employ an archaic style, and adhering to the mediaeval 
allegory, which was already obsolete, he has caused his name 
to be linked with that of Chaucer, as if he belonged to an 
earlier period. His skill is rather in description, in the paint- 
ing of rural scenes, than in the presentation of characters. 
Yet he is so^ exuberant in fancy, and so successful in the 
awaking of the finer feelings of the soul, that he has ever 
been a favorite poet with poets. To him the English language 
owes the elaborate Spenserian stanza of nine lines. Though 
his grand poetic powers were dedicated to the glorification of 
the Virgin Queen, he received but little substantial reward. 

The greater glory of the Elizabethan period belongs to 
the dramatists who then leaped into sudden fame. The medi- 
aeval miracle-plays which had been intended by the clergy 


to instruct the common people in Scripture history, and to 
impress doctrine by apt examples, soon passed into the hands 
of the religious orders, and afterwards into the direction of 
the trade-guilds, which had grown to power in the large 
towns. Though still given under sanction of the Church, 
they were rendered more acceptable to the vulgar taste of the 
town rabble by scenes of common life interjected among the 
more exact renderings of the Biblical narrative. Instead of 
these scriptural "Mysteries," allegorical "Moralities," 
founded on the mediaeval poerds of that class, were oflFered to 
the more fastidious courts and pedantic colleges. For the 
latter there were also occasional adaptations of Plautus and 
Terence, which served as models when the dramatic genius 
of England was aroused to its marvellous activity. 

The homely scenes which had served to enliven the more 
solemn parts of the Mysteries and Moralities were the germ of 
the later comedies. The earliest English comedy was "Ralph 
Roister Bolster," written by Nicholas Udall, head-master of 
Eton College. Its date is uncertain, but it was quoted in 
1551. There were thirteen dramatis personse, nine male and 
four female, and the principal ones are strongly discriminated. 

"Gammer Gurton's Needle," an inferior piece, formerly 
claimed the priority; it was printed in iS/S, and is said to 
have been written by John Still, afterwards a bishop. Another 
bishop, John Bale, wrote a vigorous historical drama called 
"Kynge Johan." Among the characters appear various 
allegorical personages, such as Civil Order, Treason, Nobility, 
Imperial Majesty, attesting the powerful hold which allegory 
still preserved on the mind of the learned. The earliest 
tragedy was "Ferrex and Porrex" or "Gojrbuduc," which 
was played before Queen Elizabeth in 1 561. It was com- 
posed by Thomas Sackville, who also contributed to " The 
Mirror for Magistrates," and Thomas Norton, who was a 
leader of the Puritans. Though a drama in form, it is wholly 
undramatic in spirit, yet not altogether devoid of poetry. 
Each act was preceded by a "dumb show," setting forth the 
part of the story that was to follow. A chorus was also em- 
ployed as in some plays of Shakespeare. 

None of the dramas which appeared before 1580 has 


taken a sure place in English literature, but within the decade 
succeeding a crowd of dramatists arose whose works are 
recognized as part of the inheritance of English-speaking 
people. The greatest of these was Christopher Marlowe, 
who, though often turgid and bombastic, displayed wonderful 
power in depicting scenes of terror and pathos. Robert 
Greene, who died in 1592, was a versatile and unequal writer, 
whose comedies are but rude farces. Other writers of this 
period are John Ivyly, noted as the author of the fantastic 
"Euphues," Thomas Kyd, author of the "Spanish Tragedy," 
and Thomas Lodge, who wrote in 1590 a prose tale " Rosa- 
lynde," which furnished the basis of Shakespeare's "As You 
Ivike It." All of these writers were college-bred men and 
classical scholars. 

They were all to be surpassed and even superseded on 
their own chosen ground by a youth from Stratford-on-Avon, 
who starting in a humble position at a London theatre, soon 
became actor, author, manager, and proprietor, and then at 
the age of forty-eight having won worldly fame and fortune, 
retired to his native town to enjoy his wealth in peace. The 
fame of this modest toiler in the world of letters has steadily 
grown since his death until now the age in which he lived is 
recognized by the name of the player Shakespeare as by that 
of his sovereign Elizabeth. Shakespeare died in 1616 ; his 
career as a writer extended over a quarter of a century. His 
genius and works are treated in a special article. The con- 
temporary dramatists, great as are their merits as poets and 
forcible writers, have seldom presented such consistent, well- 
drawn characters, as to inspire us with a belief in the exist- 
ence of their personages, and to rouse an actual interest in 
analyzing their thoughts and actions. Their drawing is dis- 
torted and often incomplete, the movement is irregular and 
confused, so that the attention is wearied before the horrors 
of the catastrophe are reached. But the characters of Shakes- 
peare's dramas are not only the subject of absorbing interest 
by the multitude of his readers, but of the closest investiga- 
tion by students of the human mind. In the delineation of 
human character, and of preter-human beings, he stands 



Whether the ill-fated Lord Chancellor of Henry VHI. is 
regarded as scholar, lawyef, statesman,, philosopher, religious 
leader or versatile writer, the purity of his character, no- 
bility of his patriotism, and his intellectual greatness are 
conspicuously revealed. To attempt a detailed account of 
his career is outside the present purpose, which permits but 
a summary of salient facts without analysis of their causes. 
The times were fraught with tremendous issues, religious, 
political, and, if minor, still fateful, personal influences. The 
revival in learning had ueared its climax when Thomas More 
gave this movement a new impetus by the force of his ele- 
vated nature and the brilliancy of his gifts. 

Born in 1478, More's capabilities were early recognized. 
He won distinction at Oxford, and later, when about twenty- 
three, in the practice of law, his income rising so high that 
by the time he was little over thirty it brought him a 
princely income. His profoundly religious temperament ex- 
pressed itself in the practice of asceticism, even in his great 
prosperity and necessarily luxurious surroundings. He gave 
lectures on law and on the theological writings of St. Augus- 
tine, and became a member of Parliament in 1 504. Though 
a mere stripling in statecraft, he boldly opposed and defeated 
the customary grant of a large subsidy to King Henry VII. 
This step brought about the imprisonment of More's father 
in the Tower on a spiteful accusation, and his own tacticail 
withdrawal from public life, until the accession of Henry VIII. 
brought him again to the front. In his retirement he translated 
from the Latin of an unknown author, the "Historic of the 
pittieful Life and unfortunate Death of King Edward V. arid 
the Duke of York, his Brother." 

With the innate piety which sweetened his life and aims 
there was a strong vein of intellectual independence which 
his enemies magnified into hostile skepticism. After his 
promotion and knighthood he was employed by the crown in 
various offices, to win him over to the king's side. His 
undeviating adherence to the popular cause led to efforts to 


promote him where he would be out of the way. King 
Henry made it his object to secure More's friendship by 
every courtly art. By 1529 he was made Lord Chancellor 
in place of the fallen Wolsey. His deep-rooted religious 
conservatism had made it easy for More to please the Church 
and king by lending his pen to oppose the innovations, 
which were to him radically heretical. Hence his long 
list of polemical writings against Tyndale and Luther and 
their "pestilential sect." His view of duty was to eflfect 
reform of spiritual life within the Church, while at all hazards 
maintaining its unity. He desired reform without revolu- 
tion. In carrying out this conception More undoubtedly 
did injustice to the Protestant cause, and his actual violence 
to its upholders is the one indelible blot on an otherwise 
stainless career. Though he did not actually condemn any 
heretic to death, he openly justified the stake and allowed his 
bigotry to culminate in acts of persecution. All this is in 
strange contradiction to the large toleration he had advocated 
in his "Utopia" for every form of opinion. In the matter 
of the king's resolve to divorce Catharine, More, as Lord 
Chancellor, tried to face both ways, wishing to please Henry 
as far as was compatible with his sympathy for the queen. 
Rather than actively oppose the marriage with Anne Boleyn 
he resigned his office, a weakness which availed him little 
against Henry's vengeful disposition. Before a year of abso- 
lute poverty had passed, the king had found excuse for casting 
his insufficiently pliant chancellor into the Tower, where, 
after another year's confinement without privilege of pen 
and ink, he was beheaded " for treason," on the 7th of July 


The most famous of his works is the ' ' Utopia, or The 
Happy Republic," written in Latin and published in 1516. 
In this philosophico-whimsical romance More ventilates very 
advanced opinions upon the great problems he foresaw would 
demand solution, extending the intellectual movement beyond 
literary and theological learning into the realm of practical 
politics. Under the guise of a sailor' s description of an imagin- 
ary island, "Nowhere," he gives a picture of ideal govern- 
ment under which laws, customs, and social order have 


attained a perfection hitherto unknown. In not a few of his 
fanciful flights the genius of More penetrate(^ not problems 
only, but some of the solutions, which have been exercising 
the wits of legislators in the nineteenth century. Religious 
tolerance, sanitation, labor laws, economics, with other ques- 
tions of high import, find philosophic treatment in this work, 
suggested doubtless by the "Republic" of Plato, and imi- 
tated in a satirical and burlesque way by Swift In ' ' Gulli- 
ver's Travels." A recent critic of marked ability, Ten 
Brink, characterizes "Utopia" as "without doubt the most 
brilliant achievement which English humanism of that period 
has to show. . . . What makes it, above all, valuable in the 
estimation of posterity, is the expression of More's unbiased 
and courageous opinions on political and religious subjects, 
the peculiar combination of deeply moral and religious 
seriousness, and thoroughly conservative ideas, with a fear- 
less advance to higher culture. In this respect the work 
appears to us the matured product of that intellectual move- 
ment in which Colet, Erasmus, and with them More, stood as 
the central figures." The original Latin was speedily trans- 
lated into English by Ralph Robinson. Our extract is from 
the later translation by Bishop Gilbert Burnet. 

Gold in Utopia. 

It is certain that all things appear so far incredible to us 
as they difier from our own customs ; but one who can judge 
aright will not wonder to find that since their other constitu- 
tions differ so much from ours, their value of gold and silver 
should be measured, not by our standard, but by one that is 
very different from it ; for since they have no use of money 
among themselves, but keep it for an accident, that, though 
it may possibly fall out, may have great intervals, they value 
it no farther than it deserves or may be useful to them. So 
that it is plain that they must prefer iron either to gold or silver; 
for men can no more live without iron than without fire or 
water, but nature has marked out no use for the other metals 
with which we may not very well dispense. The folly of 
man has enhanced the value of gold and silver because of 


their scarcity, whereas, on the contrary, they reason that nature, 
as an indulgent parent, has given us all the best things very 
freely and in great abundance, such as water and earth, but 
has laid up and hid from us the things that are vain and 

If those metals were laid up in any tower among them, it 
would give jealousy of the prince and senate, according to 
that foolish mistrust into which the rabble is apt to fall, as if 
they intended to cheat the people and make advantages to 
themselves by it ; or if they should work it into vessels or any 
sort of plate they fear that the people might grow too fond 
of it, and so be unwilling to let the plate be run down if a 
war made it necessary to pay their soldiers with it ; therefore 
to prevent all these inconveniences they have fallen upon an 
expedient which, as it agrees with their other policy, so is 
very different from ours, and will scarce gain belief among 
us who value gold so much and lay it up so carefully : for 
whereas they eat and drink out of vessels of earth or glass, 
that though they look very pretty yet are of very slight mate- 
rials, they make their chamber-pots of gold and silver, and that 
not only in their public halls, but in their private houses. Of 
the same metals they likewise make chains and fetters for 
their slaves, and as a badge of infamy they hang an earring 
of gold to some and make others wear a chain or a coronet of 
gold ; and thus they take care, by all manner of ways, that 
gold and silver may be of no esteem among them, and from 
hence it is that whereas other nations part with their gold 
and their silver as unwillingly as if one tore out their bowels, 
those of Utopia would look on their giving in all their gold 
or silver, when there were any use for it, but as the parting 
with a trifle, or as we would estimate the loss of a penny. They 
find pearls on their coast, and diamonds and carbuncles on 
their rocks ; they do not look after them, but if they find 
them by chance they polish them and with them they adorn 
their children who are delighted with them and glory in them 
during their childhood, but when they grow to years and see 
that none but children use such baubles, they, of their own 
accord, without being bid by their parents, lay them aside, 
and would be as much ashamed to use them afterwards as 


children among us when they come to years are of their nuts, 
puppets and other toys. 

I never saw a clearer instance of the different impressions 
that different customs make on people, than I observed in 
the ambassadors of the Anemolians who came to Amaurot 
when I was there. And because they came to treat of affairs 
of great consequence the deputies from several towns had 
met to wait for their coming. The ambassadors of the nations 
that lie near Utopia, knowing their customs, and that fine 
clothes are of no esteem among them, that silk is despised and 
gold is a badge of infamy, used to come very modestly clothed ; 
but the Anemolians that lay more remote and so had little 
commerce with them, when they understood that they were 
coarsely clothed and all in the same manner, they took it for 
granted that they had none of those fine things among them 
of which they made no use, and they, being a vain-glorious 
rather than a wise people, resolved to set themselves out with 
so much pomp that they should look like gods, and so strike 
the eyes of the poor Utopians with their splendor. Thus three 
ambassadors made their entry with a hundred attendants 
that were all clad in garments of different colors, and the 
greater part in silk ; the ambassadors themselves, who were 
of the nobility of their country, were in cloth of gold, and 
adorned with massy chains, earrings and rings of gold, their 
caps were covered with bracelets set full of pearls and other 
gems ; in a word they were set out with all those things that 
amqng the Utopians were either the badges of slavery, the 
marks of infamy or children' s rattles. It was not unpleasant to 
see on the one side how they looked big when they compared 
their rich habits with the plain clothes of the Utopians, who 
were come out in great numbers to see them make their 
entry. And on the other side to observe how much they 
were mistaken in the impression which they hoped this pomp 
would have made on them ; it appeared so ridiculous a show 
to all that had never stirred out of their country and so had 
not seen the customs of other nations, that though they paid 
some reverence to those that were the most meanly clad, as if 
they had been the ambassadors, yet when they saw the ambas- 
sadors themselves so full of gold chains, they looked upon 


them as slaves and made them no reverence at all. You might 
have seen their children, who were grown up to that bigness 
that they had thrown away their jewels, call to their mothers 
and push them gently, and cry out, "See that great fool that 
wears pearls and gems as if he were yet a child ! " And their 
mothers answered them in good earnest, ' * Hold your peace ; 
this is, I believe, one of the ambassadors' fools." Others cen- 
sured the fashion of their chains, and observed that they were 
of no use, for they were too slight to bind their slaves, who 
could easily break them, and they saw them hang so loose 
about them that they reckoned they could easily throw them 
away and so get from them. 

But after the ambassadors had stay6d a day among them, 
and saw so vast a quantity of gold in their houses, which was 
as much despised by them as it was esteemed in other nations, 
and that there was more gold and silver in the chains and 
fetters of one slave than all their ornaments amounted to, 
their plumes fell, and they were ashamed of all that glory for 
which they had formerly valued themselves, and so laid it 
aside ; to which they were the more determined when upon 
their engaging in some free discourse with the Utopians, they 
discovered their sense of such things and their other customs. 
The Utopians wonder how any man should be so much taken 
with the glaring, doubtful lustre of a jewel or stone when he 
can look up to a star or to the sun himself; or how any should 
value himself because his cloth is made of a finer thread, for how 
fine soever that thread may be, it was once no better than the 
fleece of a sheep, and that sheep was a sheep still for all its wear- 
ing it. They wonder much to hear that gold, which in itself is 
so useless a thing, should be everywhere so much esteemed that 
even man for whom it was made and by whom it has its value, 
should yet be thought of less value than'it is ; so that a man 
of lead, who has no more sense than a log of wood, and is as 
bad as he is foolish, should have many wise and good men 
serving him only because he has a great heap of that metal ; and 
if it should so happen that by some accident or trick of law, 
which does sometimes produce as great changes as chance 
itself, all this wealth should pass from the master to the mean- 
est varlet of his whole family, he himself would very soon 


become one of lis servants, as if lie were a thing that be- 
longed to his wealth and so were bound to follow its fortune. 
But they do much more admire and detest their folly, who, 
when they see a rich man, though they neither owe him any 
thing nor are in any sort obnoxious to him, yet merely because 
he is rich they give him little less than divine honors, even 
though they know him to be so covetous and base-minded 
that, notwithstanding all his wealth, he will not part with 
one farthing of it to them as long as he lives. 


The glories of Elizabethan literature had their beginning 
in the intellectual convulsions in the reign of Henry VIII. , 
memorable as the awakening of England to the new life of 
the revival in literature and art, and the religious revolution. 
They were stirring times for men of action as well as men of 
thought. Even in the peaceful field of poetry the conquest of 
the old forms by the new was achieved by leaders versed in 
other and sterner arts than the literary, and it may seem 
strange that the redemption of English poetry from its lost 
and fallen state, into the high inheritance which it has not 
yet entirely forfeited, should have been wrought by Wyatt, 
soldier, diplomatist, and sometime prisoner in the Tower ; 
and by Surrey, the fighting roysterer, who at thirty-one lost 
his head for alleged treason. 

Sir Thomas Wyatt, bom in 1503, died of a cold in 1542 ; 
the Earl of Surrey, born in 15 16, was beheaded in 1547. 
While on an -embassy, Wyatt came in contact with "the 
sweet and stately measure and style of the Italian poesy," 
writes a contemporary, who declares of both, ' ' they greatly 
polished our rude and homely manner of vulgar poesy from 
what it had been before, and for that cause may justly be 
said to be the first reformers of our English metre and 
style." This verdict stands, with the important addendum 
of later judgment which discriminates between rhythmical 
construction and poetical spirit. This latter only came in 
with the larger freedom of fancy and style in the spacious 
days of Elizabeth. Except as indicating the track of the 


new departure there is little value in the stiffly artificial 
poems of the doleful Wyatt and the more artistic work of 
Surrey, the brighter-witted votary of Eros. They did not 
wholly renounce the simpler style of Chaucer. They kept up 
the wholesome ballad rhyme and set the common people sing- 
ing again. Eager to meet every taste, both these men put the 
Psalms of David into popular verse. But their main output 
was courtly poesy, burnished within and without, to add the 
glitter of the fashionable foreign movement in literature to 
the native product, now in transformation. Wyatt lacks the 
lighter graces of Surrey, in the sonnet (which they first intro- 
duced), and in the lyrics by which they are best remembered. 
Their so-called satires owe what small merits they have to 
the originals of which they are imitations. Surrey, however, 
exceedingly enriched his native tongue by his invention of 
blank verse, first employed in his translation of two books of 
the -ffineid. 

To His Mistress. 

The following' is among the best examples of the usually serious 
style of Wyatt. 

Forget not yet the tried intent 
Of such a truth as I have meant ; 
My great travail so gladly spent, 
Forget not yet ! 

Forget not yet when first began 
The weary life, ye know since whan, 
The suit, the service, none tell can ; 
Forget not yet ! 

Forget not yet the great assays, 
The cruel wrong, the scornful ways, 
The painful patience in delays, 
Forget not yet ! 

Forget not ! O forget not this. 
How long ago hath been, and is 
The mind that never meant amiss, 
Forget not yet ! 


Forget not then thine own approved, 
The which so long hath thee so loved, 
Whose steadfast faith yet never moved, 
Forget not this ! 

The Address to His IvUTk. 

My lute, awake ! perform the last 
Labor that thou and I shall waste. 

And end that I have now begun ; 
For when this song is sung and past, 

My lute, be still, for I have done. 

As to be heard where ear is none. 
As lead to grave in marble stone, 

My song may pierce her heart as soon : 
Should we then sing, or sigh, or moan ? 

No, no, my lute ! for I have done. 

The rock doth not so cruelly 

Repulse the wave continually. 
As she may suit and affection ; 

So that I am past remedy- 
Whereby my lute and I have done. 

Proud of the spoil that thou hast got, 
Of simple hearts, through I<ove's shot, 

By whom unkind thou hast them won ; 
Think not he hath his bow forgot, 

Although my lute and I have done. 

Vengeance may fall on thy disdain. 
That mak'st but game of earnest pain : 

Trow not alone under the sun 
Unquit to cause thy lover's plain. 

Although my lute and I have done. 

May chance thee lie wither' d and old 
The winter nights that are so cold. 

Plaining in vain unto the moon : 
Thy wishes then dare not be told : 

Care then who list ! for I have done. 


And then may chance thee to repent 
The time that thou hast lost and spent, 

To cause thy lover's sigh and swoon : 
Then shalt thou know beauty but lent, 

And wish and want as I have done. 

Now cease, my lute ! this is the last 
Labor that thou and I shalt waste, 

And ended is that I begun ; 
Now is this song both sung and past : 

My lute ! be still, for I have done. 

A Complaint by Night of thk Lover not Beloved. 

The following sonnet by Surrey is interesting as one of the earliest 
poems in that form in English. It is also the most poetical of all 
written by these men. 

Alas ! so all things now do hold their peace ! 

Heaven and earth disturbed in no thing : 
The beasts, the air, the birds their song do cease : 

The nightes car the stars about doth bring. 
Calm is the sea ; the waves work less and less : 

So am not I, whom love, alas ! doth wring, 
Bringing before my face the great increase 

Of my desires, whereat I weep and sing. 
In joy and woe, as in a doubtful ease. 

For my sweet thoughts sometime do pleasure bring ; 
But by and by, the cause of my disease 

Gives me a pang that inwardly doth sting. 
When that I think what grief it is again 
To live and lack the thing should rid my pain. 

Love's Vassal. 

This is Surrey's translation of one of Petrarch's sonnets. 

Love that liveth and reigneth in my thought, 
That built his seat within my captive breast ; 

Clad in the arms wherein with me he fought ; 
Oft in my face he doth his banner rest. 

She, that me taught to love and suffer pain, 
My doubtful hope, and eke my hot desire. 


With shamefac'd cloak to shadow and restrain, 
Her smiUng grace converteth straight to ire. 

And coward lyove then to the heart apace 

Taketh his flight, whereas he lurks, and plains 

His purpose lost, and dare not show his face. 
For my I^ord's guilt thus faultless bide I pains. 

Yet from my I<ord shall not my foot remove : 

Sweet is his death that takes his end by Love. 


On:^ of the first prose books of worth written in English 
was a quaint and scholarly treatise on archery, entitled "Tox- 
ophilus ; the Schole or Partitiones of Shooting." Its author 
thus defends his use of the vulgar tongue instead of Latin : 
"If any man would blame me for writing in the English 
tongue, this answer I may make him ; that what the best of 
the realm think it honest for them to use, I, one of the mean- 
est sort, ought not to suppose it vile for me to write. . . , He 
that would write well in any tongue must follow this counsel 
of Aristotle, to speak as the common people do, to think as 
the wise men do. . . . Many English writers have not done 
this, but by using strange words from foreign languages they 
do make all things dark and hard." As the setter of the 
fashion of using the mother tongue, simplifying and purify- 
ing it, in the realm of letters Ascham's books have a distinc- 
tion independently of their intrinsic merit. 

Of humble birth, Roger Ascham was educated by his 
father's employer, entering Cambridge in 1530, in his fifteenth 
year, taking his M.A. degree seven years later. He had parti- 
cular aptitude for Greek learning and was appointed Univer- 
sity lecturer. His proficiency in Latin, which he wrote with 
elegance of style and pennianship, led to his being employed 
to write the public correspondence of the university. Ascham 
was versatile and progressive. His "Toxophilus" is no more 
a dry treatise upon archery than "The Compleat Angler" is 
upon fishing ; both works seek to beguile the stay-at-home 
scholar from his books into the open fields, from solitary study 
into the health-giving exercise of the manly sport of the day, 
when the bow and arrow were still in use as military weapons. 
IV — 20 ^ 


Ascham was tutor from 1548 until 1550 to the Princess, after- 
wards Queen Elizabeth. After a tour abroad, still holding 
his university offices, Ascham was appointed I^atin secretary 
to Queen Mary, which he retained under Elizabeth, who con- 
tinued her studies under his daily supervision. At the re- 
quest of the queen's advisers Ascham wrote "The Schole- 
master ; or plaine and perfite W^y of teaching Children to 
understande, write and speake the Latin Tong-, but specially 
purposed for the private bringing up of Youth in Jentlemen 
and Noblemen's Houses, and commodious also for all such as 
have forgot the Latin Tonge, and would, by themselves, with- 
out a Scholemaster, in short Tyme, and with small Paines, 
recover a sufficient Habilitie to understand, write and speake 
Latin." This work was written during the last seven years 
of his life, which ended in December, 1568 ; it was published 
in 1570, and is remarkable for the soundness and ingenuity of 
the principles he advocated in line with modern views. Be- 
sides these two works, whose wit, wisdom and easy English 
diction make them excellent reading to this day, Ascham 
published an account of his tour through Italy and Germany. 

Fair Shooting. 

I CAN teach you to shoot fair, even as Socrates taught a 
man once to know God. For when he asked him what was 
God? "Nay," saith he, " I can tell you better what God is 
not, as God is not ill, God is unspeakable, unsearchable, and so 
forth. Even likewise can I say of fair shooting, it hath not 
this discommodity with it nor that discommodity, and at last 
a man may so shift all the discommodities from shooting that 
there shall be left nothing behind but fair shooting. And to 
do this the better you must remember how that I told you 
when I described generally the whole nature of shooting, that 
fair shooting came of these things of standing, nocking, draw- 
ing, holding and loosing ; the which I will go over as shortly 
as I can, describing the discommodities that men commonly 
use in all parts of their bodies, that, you if you fault in any such, 
may know it, and go about to amend it. Faults in archers do 
exceed the number of archers, which come with use of shoot- 

ENGUSH tiTaRA^tma. 3^7 

mg without teacWng. Use and custom separated from know- 
ledge and learning, doth, not only hurt shooting, but the most 
weighty things in the world beside. And, therefore, I marvel 
much at those people which be the maintainers of uses 
without knowledge, having no other word in their mouth 
but this, "use, use, custom, custom." Such men, more 
willful than wise, beside other discommodities, take all place 
and occasion from all amendment. And this I speak gene- 
rally of use and custom. 

Two Wings Better than One. 

I HAVE been a looker-on in the cockpit of learning these 
many years ; and one cock only have I known, which, with 
one wing, even at this day, doth pass all other, in mine 
opinion, that ever I saw in Bngland though they had two 
wings. Yet nevertheless, to fly well with one wing, to run 
fast with one leg, are masteries, more to be marvelled at than 
sure examples, safely to be followed. A bishop that now 
liveth, a good man, whose judgment in religion I better like 
than his opinion in perfectness in other learning, said once 
unto me : "We have no need now of the Greek tongue, when 
all things be translated into Latin.'* But the good man 
understood not, that even the best translation is for mere 
necessity but an evil imped wing to fly withal, or a heavy 
stump leg of wood to g© withal. Such, the higher they fly, 
the sooner they falter and fail ; the faster they run, the ofter 
they stumble and sorer the fall. Such as will needs so fly, 
may fly at a pye, and catch a daw ; and such runners shove 
and shoulder to stand foremost, yet in the end they come 
behind others, and deserve but the hopshackles, if the masters 
of the game be right judgers. 


Tradition and the evidence of his life and pen unite in 
applying to Sir Philip Sidney the superlative praises poetry 
has ever bestowed on knightly heroes. From his birth in 
1554 he was reared in the gentle life of the cultured rich, and 


at eighteen began his three years' round of travel on the 
Continent and visited the learned of France and Italy. As 
the nephew of I/Ord Leicester he soon came under the keen 
eye of Elizabeth. As if to justify his Queen's honest avowal 
that she esteemed him "as one of the jewels of my crown," 
Sir Philip delighted her court by writing the masque, "The 
Lady of the May," which was played at Lord Leicester's his- 
toric reception of Elizabeth at Kenilworth. Sidney was one 
of the victorious knights in the tournament. In his twenty- 
third year he was made ambassador, with a gorgeous retinue, 
to carry the Queen's congratulations to the new emperor of 
Germany, Rudolph II. The Queen dissuaded him from be- 
coming a candidate for the crown of Poland. From 1578 until 
his marriage in 1583 he lived the private life of a country 
gentleman, with occasional visits to the court, pursuing his 
literary work, which was with him a passion. He incurred 
the Queen's disfavor by writing her a letter of protest against 
her supposed inclination to marry the Duke of Anjou. In 
1585 Sidney went with Leicester's expedition to the Nether- 
lands. Two horses were shot under him at the battle of Zut- 
phen. While mounting the third he received a fatal shot, 
through his characteristically romantic, but foolish, act of 
throwing away his leg-armor because he saw his commander 
wore none. The tradition of his passing the cup of water, 
untouched by his own parched lips, to a wounded soldier, is 
in perfect keeping with the former strictly authentic fact. 

That Sir Philip Sidney should have bent his romantic 
genius to the versification of the Psalms is less singular than 
the fact that none of his own writings were published during 
his lifetime. And there is this to be remembered of one of 
those modest writings, it was the first piece of purely literary 
criticism and the first "Defence of Poetrie" in the language. 
Chaucer and Lydgate had been put in type by Caxton, and 
the old ballads had some vogue, though the fourteenth century 
English was antiquated. The new style ushered in by Wyatt 
and Surrey had not yet taken root, and the day of Spenser and 
Shakespeare was to come. During his retirement in his Kent- 
ish home Sidney wrote a long artificial romance after the Ital- 
ian fashion, "The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia," Of its 


florid class, and considering the taste of the time, this richly 
and wearisomely elaborated pastoral story merited its popu- 
larity during a hundred years. Some charming lyrics are 
sprinkled among the impossible adventures, but Sidney's 
poetic gift must be judged by his string of over a century of 
sonnets, making literary love to his Penelope, daughter of the 
Earl of Essex, who had been his sweetheart in his boyhood. 
These sonnets, entitled "Astrophel and Stella," are the first 
collected series of poems in this Italian form, and exhibit 
great poetic feeling despite their inevitable artificiality. . The 
"Defence," or, as Sidney first called it, "Apologie for Poe- 
trie" at once became and will long remain a classic and a 
treasury of strong Elizabethan English, comparable in dignity 
of style and theme with Milton's "Areopagitica." 

A Stag Hunt. 

(From the " Arcadia.") 

They came to the side of the wood, where the hounds 
were in couples, staying their coming, but with a whining 
accent craving liberty ; many of them in color and marks so 
resembling, that it showed they were of one kind. The 
huntsmen handsomely attired in their green liveries, as 
though they were children of summer, with staves in their 
hands to beat the guiltless earth, when the hounds were at a 
fault ; and with horns about their necks, to sound an alarm 
upon a silly fugitive : the hounds were straight uncoupled, 
and ere long the stag thought it better to trust to the nimble- 
ness of his feet than to the slender fortification of his lodg^ 
ing ; but even his feet betrayed him ; for, howsoever they 
went, they themselves uttered themselves to the scent of 
their enemies, who, one taking it of another, and sometimes 
believing the wind's advertisements, sometimes the view of 
— their faithful counsellors — the huntsmen, with open mouths, 
then denounced war, when the war was already begun. 
Their cry being composed of so well-sorted mouths that any 
man would perceive therein some kind of proportion, but 
the skillful woodmen did find a music. Then delight and 
variety of opinion drew the horsemen sundry ways, yet 


cheering tlieir hounds with voice and horn, kept still as it 
were together. The wood seemed to conspire with them 
against his own citizens, dispersing their noise through all his 
quarters ; and eveti the nymph Echo left to bewail the loss 
of Narcissus, and became a hunter. But the stag was in the 
end so hotly pursued, that, leaving his flight, he was driven 
to make courage of despair ; and so turning his head, made 
the hounds, with change of speech, to testify that he was at 
a bay : as if from hot pursuit of their enemy, they were sud- 
denly come to a parley. 

An Arcadian I,ove I/ETTER. 

Most blessed paper, which shall kiss that hand whereto all 
blessedness is in nature a servant, do not disdain to carry 
with thee the woful words of a miser [wretch] now despairing; 
neither be afraid to appear before her bearing the base title 
of the sender, for no sooner shall that divine hand touch thee 
but that thy baseness shall be turned to most high preferment. 
Therefore mourn boldly, my ink, foi; while she looks upon 
you yout blackness will shine ; cry out boldly, my lamenta- 
tion, for while she reads you your cries will be music. Say, 
then, O happy messenger of a most unhappy message, that 
the too soon born and too late dying creature, which dares 
not speak — no, not look — no, not scarcely think, as from his 
miserable self, unto her heavenly highness only presumes to 
desire thee, in the times that her eyes and voice do exalt thee, 
to say, and in this manner to say, not from him — oh, no, that 
were not fit — but of him, thus much unto her sacred judg- 
ment : O you, the only honor to women, to men the only ad- 
miration ; you that, being armed by love, defy him that armed 
you, in this high estate wherein you have placed me, yet let 
me remember him to whom I am bound for bringing me to 
your presence : and let me remember him who, since he is 
yours, how mean soever he be, it is reason you have an ac- 
count of him. The wretch — yet your wretch — though with 
languishing steps, runs fast to his grave : and will you suffer 
a temple — how poorly built soever, but yet a temple of your 
deity — to be razed ? But he dieth, it is most true, he dieth ; 
and he in whom you live to obey you, dieth. Whereof though 


he plain, he doth not complain ; for it is a harm, but no 
wrong, which he hath received. He dies because, in woful 
language, all his senses tell him that such is your pleasure ; 
for since you will not that he live, alas ! alas ! what followeth 
— what followeth of the most ruined Dorus but his end ? End 
then, evil-destined Dorus, end; and end, thou woful letter, 
end ; for it sufficeth her wisdom to know that her heavenly 
will shall be accomplished. 


Stella, the only planet of my light, 
1/iglit of my life, and life of my desire, 
Chief good whereto my hope doth only aspire, 

World of my wealth, and hfeav'n of my delight ; 

Why dost thou spend the treasures of thy sprite, 
With voice more fit to wed Amphion's lyre. 
Seeking to quench in me the noble fire 

Fed by thy worth, and kindled by thy sight ? 

And all in vain : for whilfe thy breath most sweet 
With choicest words, thy words with reasons rate. 

Thy reasons firmly set on Virtue's feet, 
I^abor to kill in me this killing care : 

O think I then, what paradise of joy 

it is so fair a virtue to enjoy ! 

The Stolen Kiss. 

Love, still a boy, and oft a wanton is, 

Schooled only by his mother's tender eye ; 
What wonder then if he his lesson miss, 

When for so soft a rod dear play he try ? 
And yet my Star, because a sugared kiss 

In sport I sucked while she asleep did lie, 
Doth lower, nay chide, nay threat for only this. 

Sweet, it was saucy I<ove, not humble I. 
But no 'scuse serves ; she makes her wrath appear 
In beauty's throne : see now, who dares come near 

Those scarlet judges,- threat'ning bloody pain. 
O heav'nly fool, thy most kiss-worthy face 
Anger invests with such a lovely grace. 

That Anger's self I needs must kiss again. 


England's golden age of poetry began witli Spenser, first 
and fairest of Elizabeth's cboir of true singers, then and still 
honored as "the poets' poet," and rightly so, as few but poets 
can claim much knowledge of his work. It ranks above the 
heights scaled by the every-day reader for pleasure. His 
master-work lacks popular attractiveness in being an allegory 
and not a dramatic story. Its music is the subtle ^olian 
harmony of sounds that most delight the most delicate ear. 
And the unfamiliar look of that somewhat grotesque English, 
ruffled with archaisms and starched with stiflF Italian forms, 
counts substantially among the apologies for modem readers 
whose taste is moulded by the fashion of their own century. 

Yet the literature of Elizabeth's day, which still glorifies 
that of the English language, is not to be properly understood 
without a passing study of Spenser, who was a very grand 
poet and more besides. Though eager to link his branch of 
the Spenser clan with the ennobled Spencers, it is evident that 
the poet, who was bom in 1552, was of humble Lancashire 
origin. He got through Cambridge by a sizarship. Thence 
north as a tutor on small pay, which possibly accounts for his 
rejection by the "faithless Rosalind, and voyd of grace," 
over whom he wasted many inky tears and prentice efforts in 
his "Shepherd's Calendar," twelve pastoral poems, in which 
Colin Clout imitates the eclogues of Theocritus and Virgil. 
This appeared in 1579. A college friend, Gabriel Harvey, 
brought Spenser into friendly relations with Lord Leicester. 
The result was the young poet's appointment as secretary to 
the lord-deputy of Ireland in 1580. 


England was in a state of turmoil at home and abroad ; 
there had been a rebellion, known as Desmond's, in Ireland, 
which had tempted the young bloods of the aristocracy to 
league themselves together for a raid of suppression, ,to be 
rewarded with the spoils of war. Gentle spirit though the 
poet had, his other self shared the romantic love for adventure 
and for sordid gain, so characteristic of the time. Spenser ^ 
was only eight-and-twenty ; he ha,d lived in the house of the 
knightly Philip Sidney, where his "Calendar" had been 
:written, and breathed the same bracing air as Walter Raleigh, 
his after associate. So he served, under Lord-Deputy Grey, 
bore his part in the terrible suppression of the uprising, and 
shared in the division of the Earl of Desmond's forfeited 
estates. In all Spenser spent ten years in Ireland in various 
government ofl&ces, the last four being the important clerk- 
ship of the Council of Munster. Three thousand acres of 
land, and the ancient seat of the Desmonds, Kilcolman Castle, 
in County Cork, had been granted to Spenser in the spoli- 
ation of Munster. In 1596 he had written, and Queen 
Elizabeth and her ministers had studied, a matter-of-fact 
state-paper which the poet, writing as a shrewd man of affairs, 
had entitled, "View of the Present State of Affairs in Ire- 
land.' ' It is thrown into the fanciful form of a dialogue 
between a typical advocate of sound doctrine and another 
who pleads for peace. Spenser gravely approves the harsh 
policy of Lord Grey and other "very wise governors and 
counsellors," which offered to the Irish the alternative of 
submission or extermination. But Lord Grey's plan was 
dropped after two years of bloodshed, and Spenser's "View" 
was not printed until 1633. 

The first instalment of the "Faerie Queene" appeared in 
1590 as a qua'rto volume consisting of three "books," with 
the announcement that it had been entered at Stationers' 
Hall, and was "Aucthoryzed under thandes of the Arch- 
bishop of Canterbury and bothe the. wardens." The whole 
poem was to be "disposed into twelve Books, fashioning 
XII. Morall Vertues." How Spenser had managed to build 
up this monument of faery verse, instinct with serenest 
beauty of thought and form, amid the turbulent scenes of 


his life in Ireland, is a mystery of the craft. He went to 
London to bask in the triumph awaiting him. Raleigh pre- 
sented him to Elizabeth, who duly did homage to his genius. 
He stayed there a year, disappointed if he had reckoned on 
substantial court favors, for except the small pension of fifty 
pounds a year, his royal patron did nothing for him. On his 
return to Ireland two other books by him were published, the 
' ' Daphnaida, ' ' an elegy in the pastoral style, and ' ' Complaints 
and Meditations of the World's Vanity," a collection of mis- 
cellaneous and mostly early verse. His friend Raleigh's 
doleful experience of prison about that time helped both of 
them to bewail in bitter earnest the delusive charms that glit- 
ter from the distance in the patronage of courts. Spenser 
returned to London the year after his marriage, in 1594, and 
published the "Amoretti," sonnets of love, and his "Epi- 
thalamion," best of his minor poems. Later pieces disclosed 
the growing disappointments that were clouding years which 
should have 'been his happiest. Three more books of the 
"Faerie Queene" came out in 1596, and, among a. few other 
pieces, the famous "Astrophel," his pastoral elegy, intro- 
ducing various laments by other writers for the death of Sir 
Philip Sidney. It is said, but not substantiated, that Spenser 
had written more books of his great poem, which perished at 
sea or by fire. In 1598 he was made sherifi" of Cork. Within 
a few weeks Tyrone's rebellion broke out, his KilcoJiman 
house was fired, the tradition being that his fifth child was 
burnt to death. The poet escaped to England bearing des- 
patches. His last Writing was a paper urging the old resort 
to brule force to "pacify" the Irish. Broken in fortune and 
spirit, probably in heart, too, he died on January 16, if 99. 
He was buried near Chaucer in Westminster Abbey. 

Alcyon's Lament for Daphne. 

(From the "Daphnaida.") 

" "Whilom I used, -as thou right well dost know, 
My little flock on western downs to keep, 

Not far from whence Sabrina's stream doth flow, 
And flowery banks with silver liquor steep ; 

Nought cared I then for worldly change or chance, 


For all my joy was on my gentle sheep, 
And to my pipe to carol and to dance. 

"It there befell, as I the fields did range 

Fearless 'and free, a fair young lioness, 
White as the native Rose before the change 

Which Venus' blood did in her leaves impress, 
I spi^d playing on the grassy plain 

Her youthful sports and kindly wantonness. 
That did all other beasts in beauty stain. 

"Much was I mov6d at so goodly sight. 

Whose like before mine eye had seldom seen. 

And 'gan to cast how I her compass might. 
And bring to hand that yet had never been ; 

So well I wrought with mildness and with pain. 
That I her caught disporting on the green. 

And brought away fast bound with silver chain. 

"And afterwards I handled her so fair. 

That though by kind she stout and savage were. 

For being born an ancient Irion's heir 

And of the race that all wild beasts do fear. 

Yet I her framed, and won so to my bent, 
That she became so meek and mild of cheer. 

As the least lamb in all my flock that went : 

"For she in field, wherever I did wend. 

Would wend with me, and wait by me all day ; 

And all the night that I in watch did spend, 
If cause required, or else in sleep, if nay. 

She would all night by me or watch or sleep ; 
And evermore when I did sleep or play. 

She of my flock would take full wary keep. 

"Safe then, aijd safest were my silly sheep. 

Nor feared the wolf, nor feared the wildest beast, 

All were I drowned in careless quiet deep ; 
My lovely lioness without behest 

So careful was for them, and for my good. 
That when I wak6d, neither most nor least 

I found miscarried or in plain or wood. 


"Oft did the shepherds, which my hap did hear, 
And oft their lasses, which my luck envied, 

Daily resort to me from far and near. 
To see my I^ioness, whose praises wide 

Were spread abroad ; and when her worthiness 
Much greater than the rude report they tried, 

They her did praise, and my good fortune bless. 

"I,ong thus I joy^d in my happiness, 

And well did hope mj"^ joy would have no end ; 

But oh, fond man ! that in world's fickleness \_foolish 
Reposedst hope, or weenedst thy friend 

That glories most in mortal miseries. 
And daily doth her changeful counsels bend 

To make new matter fit for tragedies. 

" For whilst I was thus without dread or doubt, 
A cruel satyr with his murderous dart, 

Greedy of mischief, ranging all about. 

Gave her the fatal wound of deadly smart. 

And reft from me my sweet companion. 

And reft from me my love, my life, my heart ; 

My I/ioness, ah, woe is me ! is gone ! 

"Out of the world thus was she reft away. 
Out of the world, unworthy such a spoil, 

And borne to heaven, for heaven a fitter prey; 
Much fitter than the I^ion, which with toil 

Alcides slew, and fixed in firmament ; 

Her now I seek throughout this earthly soil, 

And seeking miss, and missing do lament." 

Therewith he 'gan afresh to wail and weep. 

That I for pity of his heavy plight 
Could not abstain mine eyes with tears to steep ; 

But, when I saw the anguish of his spright 
Some deal allayed, I him bespake again : 

"Certes, Alcyon, painful is thy plight, 
That it in me breeds almost equal pain. 

"Yet doth not my dull wit well understand 
The riddle.of thy loved I,ioness ; 
For rare it seems in reason to be scanned. 
That man, who doth the whole world's rule possess. 


Should to a beast his noble heart embase, 

And be the vassal of his vassaless ; 
Therefore more plain aread this doubtful case." 

Then sighing sore, "Daphne thou know'st," quoth he, 
' ' She now is dead : " nor more endured to say, 

But fell to ground for great extremity ; 
That I, beholding it, with deep dismay 

Was much appalled, and, lightly him uprearing. 
Revoked life, that would have fled away. 

All were myself, through grief, in deadly drearing. 

The Epithalamion. 

Wake now, my love, awake ! for it is time : 

The rosy morn long since left Tithone's bed. 

All ready to her silver coach to climb ; 

And Phoebus 'gins to show his glorious head. 

■Hark ! how the cheerful birds do chant their lays 

And carol of love's praise. 

The merry lark her matins sings aloft ; 

The thrush replies ; the mavis descant plays ; 

The ouzel shrills ; the ruddock warbles soft ; 

So goodly all agree, with sweet consent, 

To this day's merriment. 

Ah ! my dear love, why do ye sleep thus long. 

When meeter were that ye should now awake, 

To await the coming of your joyous make [mate], 

And hearken to the bird's love-learndd song. 

The dewy leaves among ! 

For they of joy and pleasance to you sing, 

That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring. 

My love is now awake out of her dreams, 
And her fair eyes, like stars that dimmed were 
With darksome cloud, now show their goodly beams 
More bright than Hesperus his head doth rear. 
Come now, ye damsels, daughters of delight, 
Help quickly her to dight : 
But first come, ye fair Hours, which were begot 
In Jove's sweet paradise of Day and Night ; 
Which do the seasons of the year allot, 


And all that ever in this world is fair 

Do make and still repair : 

And ye three handmaids of the Cyprian Queen, 

The which do still adorn her beauty's pride, 

Help to adorn my beautifuUest bride : 

And as ye her array, still throw between 

Some graces to be seen ; 

And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing. 

The whiles the woods shall answer, and your echo ring. 

Now is my love all ready forth to come ; 

lyct all the virgins therefore well await ; 

And ye fresh boys that tend upon her groom, 

Prepare yourselves, for he is coming straight. 

Set all your things in seemly good array. 

Fit for so joyful day : 

The joyfullest day that ever sun did see. 

Fair sun, show forth thy favorable ray. 

And let thy life-full heat not fervent be, 

For fear of burning her sunshiny face. 

Her beauty to disgrace. 

O fairest Phoebus, father of the Muse, 

If ever I did honor thee aright. 

Or sing the thing that mote thy mind delight, [mighi 

Do not thy servant's simple boon refuse ; 

But let this day, let this one day, be mine — , 

I<et all the rest be thine. 

Then I thy sovereign praises loud will sing, 

That all the woods shall answer, and their echo ring. 

Hark! how the minstrels 'gin to shrill aloud. 

Their merry music that resounds from far, 

The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling crowd, \_fiddle 

That well agree withouten breach or jar. 

But most of all the damsels do delight 

When they their timbrels smite, 

And thereunto do dance and carol sweet, 

That all the senses they do ravish quite ; 

The whiles the boys run up and down the street, 

Crying aloud with strong confused noise, 

As if it were one voice. 

"Hymen, lo Hymen, Hymen," they do shout; 


That even to the heavens their shouting shriU 

Doth reach, and all the firmament doth fill ; 

To which the people standing all about, 

A« in approvance do thereto applaud, 

And loiid advance her laud ; 

And evermore they *' Hymen, Hymen " sing, 

That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring. 

I/>, where she comes along with portly pace, 

lyike Phcebe from her chamber of the east 

Arising forth to run her mighty race. 

Clad all in white, that seems a virgin best ; 

So well it her beseems that ye would ween 

Some angel she had been ; 

Her long, loose yellow locks like golden wire 

Sprinkled with pearl, and pearling flowers atween, 

Do like a golden mantle her attire ; 

And being crowned with a garland green. 

Seem like some maiden queen. 

Her modest eyes abashM to behold 

So many gazers as on her do stare 

Upon the lowly ground affixed are ; . 

Nor dare lift up her countenance too bold. 

But blush to hear her praises sung so loud. 

So far from being proud. 

Nathless do ye still loud her praises sing. 

That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. 

Tell me, ye merchants' daughters, did ye see 

So fair a creature in your town before? 

So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she. 

Adorned with beauty's grace and virtue's store ? 

Her goodly eyes like sapphires shining bright. 

Her forehead ivory white, 

Her cheeks like apples which the sun hath ruddied. 

Her lips like cherries charming men to bite. 

Her breast like to a bowl of cream uncrudded. 

Her paps like lilies budded. 

Her snowy neck like to a marble tower ; 

And all her body like a palace fair. 

Ascending up, with many a stately stair. 

To honor's seat and chastity's sweet bower. 


Why stand ye still, ye virgins, in amaze, 

Upon her so to gaze, 

"Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing, 

To which the woods did answer, and your echo ring ? 

But if ye saw that which no eyes can see, 
The inward beauty of her lively spright, 
Garnished with heavenly gifts of high degree, 
Much more then would ye wonder at that sight, 
And stand astonished like to those which read 
Medusa's mazefnl head. 

There dwells sweet love, and constant chastity, 
Unspotted faith, and comely womanhood, , ' 
, Regard of honor, and mild modesty ; 
There virtue reigns as queen in royal throne. 
And giveth laws alone, 
The which the base affections do obey. 
And yield their services unto her will ; 
Nor thought of thing uncomely ever may 
Thereto approach to tempt her mind to ill. 
Had ye once seen these her celestial treasures. 
And unrevealSd pleasures. 
Then would ye wonder and her praises sing, 
That all the woods should answer, and your echo ring. 

Open the temple gates unto my love, 
Open them wide that she may enter in, 
And all the posts adorn as doth behove. 
And all the pillars deck with garlands trim, 
For to receive this saint with honor due. 
That Cometh in to you. 

With trembling steps, and humble reverence, 
She Cometh in, before the Almigjity's view; 
Of her, ye virgins, learn obedience. 
When so ye come into those holy places. 
To humble your proud faces : 
Bring her up to the high altar, that she may 
The sacred ceremonies there partake. 
The which do endless matrimony make ; 
And let the roaring organs loudly play 
The praises of the I/jrd in lively notes ; 
The whiles, with hollow throats, 


The choristers the joyous anthem sing, 

That all the woods may answer, and their echo ring. 

Behold, whiles she before the altar stands^ 

Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks, 

And blesseth her with his two happy hands. 

How the red roses flush up in her cheeks, 

And the pure snow with goodly vermeil stain 

I/ike crimson dyed in grain; 

That even the angels, which continually 

About the sacred altar do remain. 

Forget their service and about her fly. 

Oft peeping in her face, that seems more fair 

The more they on it stare. 

But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground. 

Are governed with goodly modesty, 

That suffers not one look to glance awry 

"Which may let in a little thought unsound. 

Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand. 

The pledge of all our band ? 

Sing, ye sweet angels, Alleluia sing, 

That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. 

Now all is done : bring home the bride again, 
Bring home the triumph of our victory : 
Bring home with you the glory of her gain. 
With joyance bring her and with jollity. 
Never had man more joyful day than this. 
Whom heaven would heap with bliss ; 
Make feaSt therefore now all this livelong day, — 
This day forever to me holy is. 
Pour out the wine without restraint or stay. 
Pour not by cups, but by the belly-full, 
Pour out to all that wuU, ' 

And sprinkle all the posts and walls with wine. 
That they may sweat, and drunken be withal. 
Crown ye god Bacchus with a coronal. 
And Hymen also crown with wreaths of vine; 
And, let the Graces dance unto the rest, 
For they can do it best ; 
The whiles the maidens do their carol sing. 
To which the woods shall answer, and their echo ring. 
IV— 3 r 


The Faerie Queene. 

The "Faerie Queene" transcends all other allegories in 
two respects — it was, and still remains, the first pure English 
poem, since Chaucer's day, of its range and beauty : and it 
marks the new departure from mediaevalism through the 
renaissance to the strong intellectualism which took its 
second impetus from the Reformation, and wrought our later 
civil and religious liberties. In this poem Spenser bridges 
the gap between the old mythology and poetic romanticism 
of the past, and the prophetic anticipation of great realities to 
come from the quickening of mental and material activities 
already at work. His Faerie, i. e. , spiritual. Queen is Gloriana, 
the Glory of God, yet also meaning Elizabeth idealized. Una 
is religious Truth ; the Red Cross Knight is Holiness, or St. 
George, ever doing battle for the true Faith against the 
Dragon of Error ; and Archimago, the Devil. Among the 
enemies of Una is the witch Duessa, who stands for the 
Church of Rome, and so through the play of his puppets 
Spenser vents his bitter hostility to the cause represented by 
Mary Stuart, whose speedy execution he pleads for. The first 
Book thus allegorizes Religion, tightly robed in the bigotries 
of the time. The second, third and fourth treat of Love in 
all its manifestations, with Sir Guyon as the personification 
of Temperance, and Britomart, the most charming heroine of 
the whole poem, representing Chastity. Book V. is devoted 
to Justice, and in the sixth and seventh, the last we possess 
of the twelve contemplated by the poet, the minor virtues, 
Courtesy and Constancy, are shown in their relations with 
I/Ove and Justice. In Prince Arthur is typified Magnificence, 
an idealized conception of the secondary Glory of God. Leav- 
ing the ethical significance of the poem, though Spenser puts 
it well in the fore-front of his work, the "Faerie Queene" 
can be read at random for its poetical beauties without loss, 
probably with more pleasure than as a whole. The chivalric 
romance was the favorite reading of the people. The new 
Italian and French forms of verse were familiar to Spenser — 
\)VA. he added to the eight rhymed lines of Ariosto's stanza 


an Alexandrine as the ninth. This new form bears the name 
of the Spenserian stanza. Thus the poet established not 
simply a style, but a noble order of imaginative verse which 
has been the delight and the envy of poets ever since. 

The Red Cross Knight and Una. 

A gentle Knight was pricking on the plaine, [riding 
Yclad in mightie annes and silver shielde, \_clad 

Wherein old dints of deepe woundes did remaine, 
The cruell markes of many a bloody fielde ; 
Yet armes till that time did he never wield. 
His angry steede did chide his foming bitt, 
As much disdayning to the curbe to yield : 
Full jolly knight he seemd, and faire did sitt, 
As one for knightly giusts and fierce encounters fitt. [jousts 

And on his brest a bloodie Crosse he bore. 
The deare remembrance of his dying I^ord, 
For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he wore, 
And dead, as living, ever him ador'd. 
Upon his shield the like was also scor'd, 
For soveraine hope which in his helpe he had. 
Right faithfuU true he was in deede and word, 
But of his cheere did seeme too solernne sad ; 
Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad. [feared 

Upon a great adventure he was bond, 
That greatest Gloriana to him gave, 
(That greatest Glorious Queene of Faery lond) 
To winne him worshippe, and her grace to have, 
Which of all earthly thinges he most did crave : 
And ever as he rode his hart did earne [yearn 

To prove his puissance in battell brave 
Upon his foe, and his new force to learne, 
Upon his foe, a Dragon horrible and stearne. 

A lovely I^adie rode him faire beside. 
Upon a lowly Asse more white then snow. 
Yet she much whiter ; but the same did hide 
Under a vele, that wimpled was full low, [veil 

And over all a blacke stole shee did throw : 


As one that inly mourned, so was she sad, 
And heavie sate upon her palfrey slow ; 
Seemed in heart some hidden care she had ; 
And by her, in a line, a milkewhite lambe she lad. 

So pure and innocent, as that same lambe. 
She was in life and every vertuous lore ; 
And by descent from Royall lynage came [lineage 

Of ancient Kinges and Queenes, that had of yore 
Their scepters stretcht from East to Westerne shore, 
And all the world in their subjection held ; 
Till that infernall feerid with foule uprore 
Forwasted all their land, and them expeld ; 
Whom to avenge she had this Knight from far compeld. 

Behind her farre away a Dwarfe did lag. 
That lasie seemd, in being ever last. 
Or wearied with bearing of her bag 
Of needments at his backe. Thus as they past, 
The day with cloudes was suddeine overcast. 
And angry Jove an hideous storme of raine 
Did poure into his I^emans lap so fast, 
That everie wight to shrowd it did constrain ; 
And this faire couple eke to shroud themselves were fain. 

Enforst to seeke some covert nigh at hand, 
A shadie grove not farr away they spide. 
That promist ayde the tempest to withstand ; 
"Whose loftie trees, yclad with sommers pride, \_clad 

Did spred so broad, that heavens light did hide. 
Not perceable with power of any starr : 
And all within were pathes and alleles wide, 
With footing worne, and leading inward farr. 
Faire harbour that them seems, so in they entred are. 

Note. — For a specimen of Spenser's translation from the French 
of loachim du Bellay's "Visions," see pp. 253-255. 



Chief among the romantic figures whose high gifts and 
large activities made Elizabeth's reign illustrious, stands 
the versatile Sir Walter Raleigh, most envied, most to be 
pitied. His literary genius was subordinated to the necessi- 
ties of other ambitions or he would have run his more famous 
contemporaries hard in the race for popularity. He cannot 
be denied a place among the great masters of nervous force 
and style in both prose and v^se. 

Born in 1552, he left Oxford in his seventeenth year 
for seven years of adventurous service with the Huguenot 
army in France. His next step was to join his half-brother, 
Sir Humphrey Gilbert, in a voyage to America, and on this 
being prevented by the Council, Raleigh became captain of 
a small force sent to put down the insurrection in Ireland. 
Both Spenser and Raleigh entered on this task of suppression 
with the fiercest brutality and easy consciences. The massacre 
of the Catholic garrison won them their sovereign's favor. 
Monopolies were conferred upon the dashing soldier-courtier, 
followed later by high offices of emolument. His restless 
ambition craved for the manlier honors of fame and power 
won by bold achievements, and this caused him, in his thirty- 
second year, to risk his modest fortune in backing Sir 
Humphrey Gilbert's expedition to colonize North America^ 
It was a glorious failure, ennobled by Gilbert's last words as 
the storm sank his little ship, ' ' We are as near heaven by sea 
as by land." In the next year Raleigh despatched another 
fleet with pioneer settlers for the new land he named in honor 
of his queen, Virginia, and though this and the expeditions 
supplementary also failed, he is remembered as the first Eng- 
lishman who planted the seed from which grew the great colo- 
nies of after years. When, in 15^4, Raleigh received his grant 
of land in Ireland in reward for his extermination services, 
he tried to make the suppression of the Irish complete by 
replacing them with English settlers. Unscrupulous as he 
was in attaining his ends he was sagacious in helping the 
colonists to acquire real interest in their new life, and with 


this end he introduced the potato and tobacco, which have 
outlasted his colony schemes. 

After many furious wranglings, Raleigh, who had made 
more enemies than friends, gradually lost his hold on Eliza- 
beth's goodwill. He retired to Ireland for a while under this 
cloud, returning to London with Spenser in 1590, whom he 
presented to the queen. Although Raleigh had spent fortunes 
in attempting the expansion of the realm and had actively 
shared in expeditions against Spain, including the defeat of 
the Armada, Elizabeth cast her late favorite into the TTower, 
for his intrigue with the maid of honor, who afterwards 
became his wife. This was the beginning of his greater 
adversity. His release was granted because Raleigh alone 
could effect a satisfactory distribution of the spoils gathered, 
by the last expedition he had sent out. On regaining his 
freedom, stung by his hard unmerited fate, Raleigh deter- 
mined to rise to unassailable eminence by a brilliant stroke. 
He would be the discoverer of the fabled El Dorado, doing 
what others only dreamed of, and in 159S, after receiving the 
reports of his pioneers, he set out with five ships for the 
Orinoco, explored it sufficiently to bring back glowing stories 
gathered from the Indians, fortified with specimens of gold 
ore. He wrote his account of the voyage, "The Discoverie 
of the Empyre of Guiana, with a Relation of the Citie of 
Manoa (which the Spanyards call El Dorado), and of the 
Provinces of Emeria," etc. Next year, not being able to go 
himself, Raleigh sent Capt. Keymis to make further researches, 
while he led the attack of the British fleet under Lords 
Howard and Essex against the Spanish fleet, being wounded 
in the action that ended with the capture of Cadiz and the 
establishing of English supremacy on the sea. The death 
of Elizabeth brought Raleigh into conflict with her suc- 
cesssor, James I., upon the policy of crushing Spain. The 
king's reluctance to pursue this led to strong words from 
Raleigh, which being construed as treasonable, caused his 
arrest. After an attempt at suicide he was tried and con- 
demned to death in 1603. At the last moment this was com- 
muted to life imprisonment. In this dungeon, still to be 
seen in the Tower, he wrote his incomplete " History of the 


World," political tracts, and poems embittered with resent- 
ment at the strokes of adverse fate. His wealth had been 
confiscated, and the prospect, in his forty-second year, of 
spending the rest of his life in prison, must have brought so 
vigorous a character near madness. After fourteen years in 
solitude he was permitted to indulge his dream of enriching 
his ungrateful country with the El Dorado that had eluded 
his messengers. His desperate scheme collapsed. The death- 
sentence had been suspended, not annulled. He was executed 
October 29, 16 18, the semblance of legality being^ secured by 
the appointment of a commission, formed of Raleigh's 
enemies, with Bacon as their mouthpiece, who condemned 
Raleigh ostensibly on the original charge of treason, but 
actually for being a greater Englishman, patriot, and literary 
genius than his titular superior, the king. 

Raleigh made a really dignified attempt to enlarge the 
scope of general knowledge by writing his " History of the 
World." Though no more than a fragment of its projected 
scheme, its lofty conception and comprehensive sweep give it 
distinction as a literary performance, the greater for the dole- 
ful environment of its author's mind and body. His exquisite 
sonnet on his friend's "Eaerie Queene" sufficiently illustrates 
his capacity for pure poetry, as does the lyric in reply to Mar- 
lowe's " Passionate Shepherd." The musings of a profound 
mind, wearied with the falsity of much professed friendship, 
find powerful expression in ' ' The Soul' s Errand. ' ' Raleigh' s 
first printed composition is the stirring story of the last fight 
of the battle-ship "The Revenge," in which Sir Richard 
Grenville fought for fifteen hours against fifteen Spanish 
men-of-war, his ship being but five hundred tons with some 
two hundred men, of whom ninety were sick. She sank 
three of the enemy's vessels and killed fifteen hundred men 
before her masts went overboard. When her deck was level 
with the sea and Grenville mortally wounded he ordered the 
gunner to sink the ship. Raleigh, cousin to Grenville, 
chronicles the incident as "The Last Fight of 'The Re- 
venge' at Sea . . . described by Sir Walter Raleigh, Novem- 
ber, 1591." 


English Valor. 

(From the "History of the World.") 

All that have read of Cressy and Agincourt will bear me 
witness that I do not allege the battle of Poitiers for lack of 
other as good examples of the English virtue; the proof 
whereof hath left many a hundred better marks in all quarters 
of France, than ever did the valor of the Romans. If any 
man impute these victories of ours "to the long-bow, as car- 
rying farther, piercing more strongly, and quicker of discharge 
than the French cross-bow,, my answer is ready — that in all 
these respects it is also (being drawn with a strong arm) su- 
perior to the musket ; yet is the musket a weapon of more 
use. The gun and the cross-bow are of like force when dis- 
charged by a boy or a woman as when by a strong man ; 
weakness, or sickness, or a sore finger, makes the long-bow 
unserviceable. More particularly, I say that it was the custom 
of our ancestors to shoot, for the most Tpart, potni-rdlank; and so 
shall he perceive that will note the circumstances of almost 
any one battle. This takes away all objection, for when two 
armies are within the distance of a butt's length, one flight 
of arrows, or two at the most, can be delivered before they 
close. Neither is it, in general, true that the long-bow reach- 
eth farther, or that it pierceth more strongly than the cross- 
bow. But this is the rare effect of an extraordinary arm, 
whereupon can be grounded no common rule. If any man 
shall ask, how then came it to pass that the English won so 
many great battles, having no advantage to help him, I may, 
with best commendation of modesty, refer him to the French 
historian, who, relating the victory of our men at Crevant, 
where they passed a bridge in face of the enemy, useth these 
words: "The English comes with a conquering bravery, as 
he that was accustomed to gain everywhere without any Stay ; 
he forceth our guard, placed upon the bridge to keep the 
passage. ' ' {John de Serves. ) Or I may cite another place of 
the same author, where he tells us how the Britons [Bretons], 
being invaded by Charles VIII., King of France, thought it 
good policy to apparel twelve hundred of their own men in 


English cassocks, that the very sight of the English red cross 
would be enough to terrify the French. But I will not stand 
to borrow of the French historians (all of which, excepting 
de Serres and Paulus ^milius, report wonders of our nation) ; 
the proposition which first I undertook to maintain, that the 
military virtue of the English prevailing against all manner 
of difficulties ought to be preferred before that of the Romans, 
which was assisted with all advantages that could be desired. 
If it be demanded, why then did not our kings finish the con- 
quest as Cassar had done, my answer may be — I hope without 
offense — ^that our kings were like to the race of the ^acidae, 
of whom the old poet Ennius gave this note : Belli ,potentes 
sunt mage quam sapienti potentes ; They were more, warlike 
than politic. Whoso notes their proceedings may find that 
none of them went to work like a conqueror, save only King 
Henry V., the course of whose victories it pleased God to 
interrupt by his death. 

The Nymph's Reply to the Passionate Shepherd. 

(See Marlowe's poem, p. 337.) 
If all the world and love were young, 
And truth in every shepherd's tongue, 
These pretty pleasures might one move 
To live with thee and be thy love. 

Time drives the flocks from field to fold, 
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold ; 
And Philomel becometh dumb,. 
The rest complain of cares to come. 

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 
To wayward winter reckoning yields ; 
A honey tongue — a heart of gall. 
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses. 
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, 
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten. 
In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, 
Thy coral clasps and amber studs. 


All these in me no means can move 
To come to thee and be thy love. 

But could youth last, and love still breed, 
Had joys no date, nor age no need, 
Then these delights my mind might move 
To live with thee and be thy love. 


The drama in modern Europe as well as in ancient 
Greece, is of religious origin. It began in the Church itself 
in the attempts to present vividly and reverently the scenes 
of Christmas and Easter. These were probably introduced in 
England in the twelfth century by the Normans. The Fran- 
ciscan friars, who came first in 1224, appear in the next cen- 
tury to have adopted plays or dialogues as a means of instruc- 
tion. The liturgical dramas of the clergy and the didactic 
plays of the friars made way for fuller representations of 
Scripture history in the vernacular, none of which can be 
traced earlier than the fourteenth century. These were chiefly 
connected with the feast of Corpus Christi, which, though 
instituted by Pope Urban IV. in 1264, was not recognized 
until 131 1. 

In these Miracle plays the actors were no longer priests, 
but usually members of the various trade-guilds, whose shows 
and processions were a prominent feature of mediaeval life. 
The feast came early in June, and in the celebration each 
guild undertook to represent some scriptural event in its "pa- 
geant." The pageant or stage was a decorated structure of 
two stories, which could be drawn by horses from station to 
station in the streets. The lower story being enclosed, served 
as a dressing-room for the actors, while on the . open upper 
stage the performance was exhibited. Certain cities became 
famous as centres of these Corpus Christi plays, especially 
York and Chester. London is never mentioned in connection 
with them. Besides the series of Miracle plays belonging to 
these town-guilds, there are two others extant. One is called 
the Towneley plays, from the family which long retained the 
manuscript. These plays were connected witl; Wakefield in 



Yorkshire, and seem to have been prepared by the Augus- 
tinian Canons of Woodkirk, near by. The second series is 
called the Coventry Plays, and is known to have been per- 
formed in various places by the Franciscan or Grey Friars. 

The themes of these Miracle plays were taken chiefly from 
the Old and New Testaments, but also from apocryphal books 
and mediaeval legends. In representations of the Gospels 
Christ constantly appears, and even the details of his cruci- 
fixion are shown; in the Creation all the Persons of the 
Trinity are introduced ; in other scenes Lucifer is shown as 
cast down to hell. For relief from the oppressive tragedies 
or for the amusement of the rabble, humorous scenes were 
sparingly introduced, though the Franciscans altogether ex- 
cluded such parts. The characters in these additions were 
persons not distinctly named in Scripture or legend, though 
necessary to the performance, as Noah's wife, the soldiersVho 
slay the innocents at Bethlehem, the beadle of Pilate's court, 
the Roman soldiers who set up the cross. In treating these 
obscure characters the dramatist was less hampdred by reli- 
gious considerations, and took the opportunity to introduce 
strokes of homely wit. 

Besides the Miracle plays there sprang up in the fifteenth 
century a parallel series, called Moralities. These were dra- 


matic versions of those strange allegories which abounded in 
the Middle Ages, and were intended to give practical instruc- 
tion in the conduct of life. They set forth the superlative 
excellence of the seven cardinal virtues and held up to scorn 
the seven deadly sins. The dramatic essence lay in the 
doubtful contest of these powers for the possession of man's 
soul. The earliest extant play of this class is the " Castell of 
Perseverance," composed about 1450. This long drama 
rehearses the spiritual history of Man from his feeble birth 
to the dreadful judgment. It depicts his struggles with 
Mundus, Caro and Belial (the World, the Flesh and the 
Devil), who are supported by the Seven Deadly Sins, while 
Man receives help from his Good Angel and the Cardinal 
Virtues, who shower roses on his assailants. Avarice, how- 
ever, conquers him in his old age, and Man, dying, is almost 
lost until Mercy, by pleading Christ's Passion, secures from 
the Heavenly Father the salvation of his soul. Later plays 
of this kind were shorter and were called Interludes. They 
treat of portions of life, warn against special sins, advocate 
the love of learning, and sometimes introduce theological 
discussions. These Moralities faded away like pale ghosts 
before the splendid and overpowering presence of the new 
and glorious creations of Marlowe, Shakespeare and their 
rival dramatists. 

Noah's Flood. 

The Building of the Ark and the Flood were a favorite subject 
with the composers of the Miracle Plays. This version is taken from 
the Chester Plays, all the manuscripts of which were written about 
1600. The use of alliteration and other peculiarities indicate that it 
is of much earlier origin, and A. W. Pollard assigns it to 1450. From 
the text given in his Miracle Plays the following extract is taken, the 
Spelling being modernized. God announces to Noah that the earth is 
to be destroyed by a flood, and directs him to build the ark for the 
safety of his family. Then Noah and his sons prepare to build the Ark. 

Noye. Now in the name of God I will begin 
To make the ship that we shall in, 
That we may be ready for to swim 

At the coming of the flood. 
These boards here I pin together, 


To bear us safe from the weather, 

That we may row both hither and thither, 

And safe be from the flood. 
Of this tree will I make the mast, 
Tied with cables that will last, 
With a sail-yard for each blast, 

And each thing; in their kind. 
With ,top-castle, and bowsprit. 
With cords and ropes, I hold all meet 
To sail forth at the next weet, \rain 

This ship is at an end. 
Wife, in this vessel we shall be kept : 
My children and thou I would ye in leapt. 
Noye's Wife. In faith, Noye, I had as lief thou slept ! 

For all thy fry msh fare, [ingenious 

I will not do after thy rede. [advice 

Noye. Good wife, do now as I thee bid; 
Noye's Wife. By Christ ! not or I see more need, [ere 

Though thou stand all the day and stare. 
Noye. I<ord, that women be crabbed aye, 

And none are meek, I dare well say. 
This is well seen by me to-day. 

In witness of you each one. 
Good wife, let be all beare, [loud noise 

That thou mayst in this place hear ; 
For all they ween that thou art master. 

And so thou art, by Saint John ! 

God then orders Noah to take into the ark clean beasts by sevens, 
and unclean by twos. These animals were painted on the boards, and 
Noah's wife and sons rehearse the list of them. 

Noye. Wife, come in ; why standest thou there ? 
Thou art ever froward, I dare well swear ; 
■Come in, in God's name ! half time it were. 

For fear lest that we drown. 
Noye's Wife. Yea, sir, set up your sail, 

And row forth with evil hail. 
For withouten any fail, 

I will-not out of this town. 
But I have my gossips every one, [without 

One foot further I will not gone : 
They shall not drown, by Saint John, 


An I may save their life. 
They love me full well, by Christ ! 
But thou let them into thy kist, [ark 

Else row now where thou list, 
And get thee a new wife. 
Nioye. Sam, son, lo ! thy mother is wrawe \wroth 

Forsooth, such another I do not know. 
Sem. Father, I shall fetch her in, I trow, 
Withouten any fail. 
Mother, my father after thee sends 
And bids thee into yonder ship wend. 
I<ook up and see the wind, 
For we be ready to sail. 
Noye's Wife. Sem, go again to him, I say. 
I will not come therein to-day. 
Noye. Come in, wife, in twenty devils' way ! 

Or else stand there without. 
Ham. Shall we all fetch her in ? 
Noye. Yea, sons, with Christ's blessing and mine ! 
I would you hied you betime. 
For of this flood I am in doubt. [fear 

JTie Good Gossips' Song. 

The flood comes fleeting in full fast, 

On every side that spreads full far ; 
For fear of drowning I am aghast ; 

Good gossips, let us draw near. 
And let us drink or we depart, \ere 

For oft-times we have done so ; 
For at a draught thou drink'st a quart, 

And so will I do ^r I go. \ere 

Here is a pottle full of Malmsey, good and strong ; 
It will rejoice both heart and tongue. 
Though Noye think us never so long, 

Here we will drink alike ! 

Japhet. Mother, we pray you all together, 
For we are here, your own childer, 
Come into the ship for fear of the weather, 
For His love that you bought. 
Noye's Wife. That will not I for all your call, 

But I have my gossips all. \unless 


Sem. {Lifting her.) In faith, mother, yet you shall, 

Whether thou wilt or not. 
Noye. {Receiving her.) Welcome, wife, into this boat. 
Noye's Wife. {Hitting him on the ear.) Have thou that for thy 

nott. [head 

Noye. Ha, ha ! Marry, this is hot. 
It is good for to be still. 
Ha ! children, methinks my boat remeves, {removes 
Our tarrying here highly me grieves. 
Over the land the water spreads ; 

God do as He will. 
This window will I shut anon. 
And into my chamber will I gone, 
Till this water, so great One, 
Be slacked through Thy might. 


When Marlowe's name is spoken, "Marlowe of the 
mighty line," the, poets join in a chorus of praise for one of 
the greatest among them, yet one whose life was short and 
full of troubles, so that his fame is based on fragments. He 
is pronounced by Swinburne to be the father of English 
tragedy and the creator of English blank verse. Shake- 
speare himself paid Marlowe the homage of resetting his 
rough gems in golden verse. The two were born within a 
few weeks of each other; in both innate genius came to early 

Marlowe's life is little more than the flash of a romantic 
figure across a crowded stage, a brilliant gleam and then the 
exit into silence. He was the son of a Canterbury shoe- 
maker, bom in 1564, helped to a Cambridge scholarship, 
winning his B.A. as "Marlyn," and his M.A. as "Marley," 
in the slipshod spelling of the day. A few translations,- and 
some wild flings at the Christian religion are all that remain 
of his earlier efforts. He then took to the stage and the 
vagabond life of an actor. A broken leg and sundry scars 
were his trophies during those scapegrace years, yet the 
ambition of his gifts impelled him to the making of dramatic 
poetry. He gave the rein to his fiery fancy as he wrote 


liis first tragedy for the stage, " Tamburlaine tlie Great." 
Its hero, its theme and opportunities conspired to impress 
Marlowe with a sense of boundless range for his powers. 
Hence its dominant air of what seems inflated bombast, 
but still magnificent and not unfitting for the Tamerlane 
legend. Its exalted strain is tempered with many passages 
of purest poetry, noble in spirit and of exquisite beauty. The 
play appeared in 1587 and was printed two years later. So 
great was its fame that the author produced a Second Part, 
carrying on the story and the style of the first. The greater 
glory of this tragedy lies in its being the first work in which 
poetry and blank verse are blent together with complete suc- 
cess. It established the rule for aftercomers to follow. 

"The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus" was Mar- 
lowe's next production. In this his genius reaches its highest 
flight, scarcely second to Shakespeare at his best, though 
uneven and bearing the marks of impetuous immaturity. 
To these were added other plays, "The Jew of Malta," in 
some sense kin to Shakespeare's later Shylock ; " Edward the 
Second," the "Massacre of Paris," a mere fragment, and 
"Dido, Queen of Carthage," completed by other hands 
after Marlowe's death. This death occured on the ist of June, 
IS93, in his thirtieth year, the result of a stab gotten in a 
low-life fray. In strange contrast with his tragic vein and 
the fascination of the prodigal life are his occasional excur- 
sions into the sweeter scenes of simple rural happiness, mem- 
ories that inspired such charming lyrics as " The Passionate 
Shepherd," " that smooth song which was made by Kit Mar- 
loWe," beloved of Izaak Walton and his readers. 

The splendor of ' ' Doctor Faustus " as a creation of poetic 
genius has been recognized by Goethe, the creator of the 
better known version of the old legend. He marvelled at 
the greatness with which Marlowe's work was planned. This 
greatness is that of perfect siinplicity, as of the Pyramids ; 
the play of the elemental forces of human nature in all their 
sublime aspects, terrible and captivating in turn. The Faust 
of Goethe is a very different being to Marlowe's Faustus. 
The first is a philosophic weakling compared to the other's 
passionate devotee of all the lusts fierce natures rage after. 


Marlowe paints a realistic man, the creature but also the 
creator of his destiny, and it is a picture so weird and awe- 
inspiring as to remain unsurpassed of its kind. The play, or 
dramatic poem, opens with Faustus, the necromancer who is 
in touch with the other world, praying lyucifer for larger 
powers. To him is sent Mephostophilis, prime minister of 
-the Prince of Darkness, with whom Faustus makes the com- 
pact binding him to surrender his body and soul twenty-four 
years hence in return for the enjoyment' of supernatural 
powers for that term. He is now able to fly as swiftly as 
lightning, and make the powers of nature obey his every 
whim. He has spumed the appeals of his good angel, and 
now, when too late to accept, he is haunted by their echoes. 
As the years lapse he yearns for the power to repent, but he 
has bartered his self-command, and remorse goads him into 
agony. The climax comes, and in language of appalling 
tragic power Marlowe gives him up to his doom with the 
most " tremendous monologue ' ' in all literature. 

The Passionate Shepherd to his Loye. 

(For tlie reply to this by Sir Walter Raleigh, see p. 329.) 

Come live with me and be mylove, 
And we will all the pleasures prove, 
That valleys, groves, and hills and field, 
Woods or steepy mountains yield. 

And we shall sit upon the rocks, 
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks 
By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 

And I will make thee beds of roses, 
And a thousand fragrant posies ; 
A cap of flowers and a kirtle 
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle ; 

A gown made of the finest wool, 
Which from our pretty lambs we pull,* 
Fair lined slippers for the cold, 
With buckles of the purest gold. 
IV— 22 


A belt of straw and ivy buds, 
With coral clasps and amber studs ! 
And if these pleasures may thee move, 
Come live with me and be my lOve. 

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing. 
For thy delight each May-morning ; 
If these delights thy mind may move, 
Then live with me and be my love. 

The Doom of Doctor Faustus. 

[7%^ Clock strikes Eleven."] 
Faust. O Faustus, 
Now hast thou but one bare hour to live, 
And then thou must be damned perpetually. 
Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven, 
That time may cease and midnight never come. 
Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again and make 
Perpetual day: or let this hour be but 
A year, a month, a week, a natural day, 
That Faustus may repent and save his soul. 
O lente, lente, currite, noctis equi.^ 
The stars move still', time runs, the clock will strike. 
The devil will come, and Faustus must be damned. 
Oh, I will leap to heaven : who pulls me down ? 
See where Christ's blood streams in the firmament: 
One drop of blood will save me : O my Christ, — 
Rend not my heart for naming of my Christ. 
Yet will I call on him : O spare me, lyucifer. 
"Where is it now ? 'tis gone ! 
And see a threatening arm and angry brow. 
Mountains and hills, come, come and fall on me, 
And hide me from the heavy wrath of heaven. 
No ! then I will headlong run into the earth : 
Gape, earth. Oh, no, it will not harbbr me. 
You stars that reigned at my nativity. 
Whose influence have allotted death and hell, 
Now draw up Faustus like a foggy mist 
Into the entrails of yon laboring cloud ; 
That when you vomit forth into the air, 

* O slowly, slowly run, ye steeds of Night. 


My limbs may issue from your smoky mouths, 
But let my soul mount and ascend to heaven. 

[ The Watch strikes. 
Oh, half the hour is past : 't will all be past anon. 
Oh, if my soul must suffer for my sin. 
Impose some end to my incessant pain. 
IvCt Faustus live in hell a thousand years, 
A hundred thousand, and at last be saved : 
No end is limited to damned souls. 
"Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul ? 
Or why is this immortal that thou hast ? 
Oh, Pythagoras' Metempsychosis, were that true. 
This soul should fly from me, and I be changed 
Into some brutish beast. 
All beasts are happy, for when they die, 
Their souls are soon dissolved in elements : 
But mine must live still to be plagued in hell. 
Cursed be the parents that engendered me : 
No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse I^ucifer, 
That hath deprived thee of the joys of heaven. 

[ The Clock strikes Twelve. 
It strikes, it strikes; now, body, turn to air, 
Or lyucifer will bear thee quick to hell. 
O soul, be changed into small water drops, 
And fall into the ocean : ne'er be found. 

[ Thunder, and enter the Devils. 
Oh mercy, heaven, look not so fierce on me. 
Adders and serpents, let me breathe awhile : 
Ugly hell gape not, come not I^ucifer : 
I'll bum my books : Oh, Mephostophilis ! 

■ •■•••• 

\Enter Scholars. 

First Sch. Come, gentlemen, let us go visit Faustus, 
For such a dreadful night was never seen 
Since first the world's creation did begin ; 
Such fearful shrieks and cries were never heard: 
Pray heaven the Doctor have escaped the danger. 

Sec. Sch. O help us heavens ! see, here are Faustus' liinbs 
All torn asunder by the hand of death. 

Third Sch. The devil whom Faustus served hath torn 
him thus : 
For 'twixt the hours of twelve and one, methought 


I heard him shriek and call aloud for help ; 

At which same time the house seemed all on fire 

With dreadful horror of these damndd fiends. 

Sec. Sch. Well, gentlemen, though Faustus' end be suet 
As every Christian heart laments to think on ; 
Yet, for he was a scholar once admired 
For wondrous knowledge in our German schools, 
We'll give his mangled limbs due burial : 
And all the scholars, clothed in mourning black. 
Shall wait upon his heavy funeral. 

Chorus. Cut is the branch that might have grown full 
And burned is Apollo's laurel bough 
That sometime grew within this learned man : 
Faustus is gone ! Regard his hellish fall, 
Whose fiendful fortune may exhort the wise 
Only to wonder at unlawful things : 
Whose deepness doth entice such forward wits 
To practice more than heavenly power permits. 

Hero and Lkander. 

Mus-Sus, a Greek poet of the fourth century before Christ, related 
the tragical story of the love of Hero and Leander in three hundred 
and forty-one lines. This poem attracted attention in the revival of 
learning, and was first turned into English by Marlowe, who amplified 
the story but left it incomplete. George Chapman (1557-1634) finished 
the paraphrase, but not with equal success. 

Of Marlowe's version of this favorite classic tale it will suffice to 
quote Swinburne's estimate. " His poem stands alone in its age, and 
far ahead of any possible competition between the death of Spenser and 
the dawn of Milton. In clear mastery of narrative and presentation, 
in melodious ease and simplicity of strength, it is not less pre-eminent 
than in the adorable beauty and perfection of separate lines or passages." 

IvOVE AT First Sight. 

(From the First Sestiad by Marlowe.) 

On Hellespont, guilty of true love's blood, 
In view and opposite two cities stood, 
Sea-borderers, disjoined by Neptune's might; 
The one Abydos, the other Sestos hight. 
At Sestos Hero dwelt ; Hero the fair. 
Whom young Apollo courted for her hair, 

engush: wteraturb. 341 

And offered as a dower his burning throne, 

Where she should sit, for men to gaze upon. 

The outside of her garments were of lawn. 

The lining purple silk, with gilt stars drawn ; 

Her wide sleeves green, and bordered with a grove, 

Where Venus in her naked glory strove 

To please the careless and disdainful eyes 

Of proud Adonis, that before her lies ; 

Her kirtle blue, whereon was many a stain, 

Made with the blood of wretched lovers slain. 

Upon her head she wore a myrtle wreath, 

From whence her veil reached to the ground beneath : 

Her veil was artificial flowers and leaves, 

Whose workmanship both man and beast deceives : 

Many would praise the sweet smell as she passed, 

When 'twas the odor which her breath forth cast; 

And there for honey bees have sought in vain, 

And, beat from thence, have lighted there again. 

About her neck hung chains of pebble-stone. 

Which, lightened by her neck, like diamonds shone. 

She wore no gloves ; for neither sun nor wind 

Would burn or parch her hands, but, to her mind. 

Or warm or cool them, for they took delight 

To play upon those hands, they were so white. 

Buskins of shells, all silvered, used she, 

And branched with blushing coral to the knee ; 

Where sparrows perched, of hollow pearl and gold, 

Such as the world would wonder to behold : 

Those with sweet water oft her handmaid fills. 

Which as she went, would cherup through their bills. 

Some say, for her the fairest Cupid pin'd. 

And, looking in her face, was strooken blind. 

But this is true ; so like was one the other. 

As he imagined Hero was his' mother ; 

And oftentimes into her bosom flew, 

About her naked neck his bare arms threw, " 

And laid his childish head upon her breast. 

And, with still panting rocked, there took his rest. 

On this feast-day, — O cursed day and hour! — 
Went Hero thorough Sestos, from her bower 
To Venus' temple, where unhaRnily, 


As after chanced, they did each other spy. 
So fair a church as this had Venus none : 
The walls were of discolored jasper-stone, 
Wherein was Proteus carved ; and over-head 
A lively vine of green sea-agate spread, 
Where by one hand light-headed Bacchus hung, 
And with the other wine from grapes out-wrung. 
Of crystal shining fair the pavement was ; 
The town of Sestos called it Venus' glass : 

For know, that underneath this radiant flower 

Was Danae's statue in a brazen tower; 

Jove slyly stealing from his sister's bed, 

To dally with Idalian Ganymed, 

And for his love Europa bellowing loud. 

And tumbling with the Rainbow in a cloud ; 

Blood-quaffing Mars heaving the iron net 

Which limping Vulcan and his Cyclops set ; 

Love kindling fire, to burn such towns as Troy ; 

Silvanus weeping for the lovely boy 

That now is turned into a cypress-tree. 

Under whose shade the wood-gods love to be. 

And in the midst a silver altar stood : 

There Hero, sacrificing turtles' blood, \doves' 

Veiled to the ground, veiling her eyelids close ; 

And modestly they opened as she rose; 

Thence flew Love's arrow with the golden head; 

And thus X,eander was enamored. 

Stone-still he stood, and evermore he gazed. 

Till with the fire, that from his countenance blazed. 

Relenting Hero's gentle heart was strook: 

Such force and virtue had an amorous look. 

It lies not in our power to love or hate, 
For will in us is over-ruled by fate. 
When two are stripped, long ere the course begin. 
We wish that one should lose, the other win ; 
And one especially do we affect 
Of two gold ingots, like in each respect : 
The reason no man knows ; let it suffice. 
What we behold is censured by our eyes. 
Where both deliberate, the love is slight : 
Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight? 

«NGi,isH wT5RATur:e. 343 

He kneeled ; but unto her devoutly prayed ; 
Chaste Hero to herself thus softly said, 
" Were I the saint he worships, I would hear him ; " 
And, as she spake those words, came somewhat near him. 
He started up ; she blushed as one ashamed ; 
Wherewith I^eander much more was inflamed. 
He touched her hand; in touching it she trembled: 
lyove deeply grounded, hardly is dissembled. 
These lovers parleyed by the touch of hand£ : ' 

True love is mute, and oft amazed stands. 
Thus while dumb signs their yielding hearts entangled, 
The air with sparks of living fire was spangled ; 
And night, deep-drenched in misty Acheron, 
Heaved up her head, and half the world upon 
Breathed darkness forth (dark night is Cupid's day): 
And now begins I,eander to display 
Love's holy fire, with words, with sighs, and tears ; 
Which,' like sweet music, entered Hero's ears ; 
And yet at every word she turned aside, 
And always cut him off, as he replied. 

These arguments he used, and many more ; 
Wherewith she yielded, that was won before. 
Hero's looks yielded, but her words made war ; 
Women are won when they begin to jar. 
Thus having swallowed Cupid's golden hook. 
The more she strived, the deeper was she strook : 
Yet, evilly feigning anger, strove she still. 
And would be thought to grant against her will. 
So having paused awhile, at last she said, 
" Who taught thee rhetoric to deceive a maid ? 
Ay me ! such words as these should I abhor, 
And yet I like them for the orator." 
With that Leander stooped to have embraced her, 
But from his spreading arms away she cast her, 
And thus bespake him : ' ' Gentle youth, forbear 
To touch the sacred garments which I wear. 
Upon a rock, and underneath a hill. 
Far from the town (where all is whist and still. 
Save that the sea, playing on yellow sand, 
Sends forth a rattling murmur to the land. 
Whose sound allures the golden Morpheus 


In silence of the night to visit us), 

My turret stands ; and there, God knows, I play 

With Venus' swans and sparrows all the day. 

A dwarfish beldam bears me company, 

That hops about the chamber where I lie, 

And spends the night, that might be better spent, 

In vain discourse and apish merriment : — 

Come thither." As she- spake this, her tongue tripped, 

For unawares, " Come thither," from her slipped; 

And suddenly her former color changed, 

And here and there her eyes through anger ranged ; 

And, like a planet moving several ways 

At one self instant, she, poor soul, assays, 

Loving, not to love at all, and every part 

Strove to resist the motions of her heart : 

And hands so pure, so innocent, nay, such 

As might have made Heaven stoop to have a touch, 

Did she uphold to Venus, and again 

Vowed spotless chastity ; but all in vain ; 

Cupid beats down her prayers with his wings ; 

Her vows about the empty air he flings : 

All deep enraged, his sinewy bow he bent, 

And shot a shaft that burning from him went; 

Wherewith she strooken, looked so dolefully. 

As made Ivove sigh to see his tyranny ; 

And, as she wept, her tears to pearl he turned, 

And wound them on his arm, and for her mourned. 


Keats'S famous sonnet, " On Reading Chapman's Homer," 
has given this translator lasting fame, not undeserved. Al- 
though he deliberately undertook to "adorn his original," 
and introduced many peculiarities of Elizabethan verse, yet 
he retained the fire and vigor of Homer. In no other trans- 
lation is the rapidity of the Greek so well represented, though 
often at the expense of its grand simplicity. In his " Iliads ' ' 
he used rhymed verses of fourteen syllables, thus approaching 
more closely to the original hexameters than in the heroic 
couplet used by Pope, or the blank verse of Cowper and Bry- 
ant. In the "Odyssey" Chapman employed the ten-syllabled 
iambic verse, but wielded it with less power than he had 





shown witli the other. ~ Chapman was bom in 1557, and re- 
ceived a university education. He wrote many plays, but had 
not true dramatic force. His best tragedy is the " Bussy 
d' Ambois." He delighted in conceits and in a show of learning, 
and when he found that readers did not care for it, he vowed 
that he detested popularity. Besides translating the whole of 
Homer, he took up Marlowe's unfinished " Hero and I^eander " 
and brought the story to a close; He died in 1634. 

The Drowned Lover. 

(From the Sixth Sestiad of " Hero and Meander" by Chapman.) 
Night, close and silent, now goes fast before 
The captains and the soldiers to the shore, 
On whom attend the appointed fleet' 
At Sestos bay, that should I^eander meet. 
Who feigned he in another ship would pass ; 
Which must not be, for no one mean there was 
To get his love home but the course he took. 
Forth did his beauty* for his beauty look. 
And saw her through her torch, as you behold 
Sometimes within the sun a face of gold. 
Formed in strong thought, by that tradition's force. 
That says a god sits there and guides his course. 
His sister was with him, to whom he showed 
His guide by sea, and said — "Oft have you viewed 
In one heaven many stars, but never yet 
In one star many heavens till now were met. 
See, lovely sister, see, now Hero shines. 
No heaven but hers appears, each star repines, 
And all are clad in clouds, as if they mourned 
To be by influence of earth out-burned." 
Off went his silk robe and in he leapt. 
Whom the kind waves so licorously cleapt, 
Thickening for haste one on another so. 
To kiss his skin, that he might almost go 
To Hero's tower, had that kind minute lasted ; 
. But now the cruel Fates with Ate hasted 
To all the winds, and made them battle fight 
Upon the Hellespont for cither's right, 
Pretended to the windy monarchy. 

* A fantastic expression for his eye. 


And forth they break : the seas mixed with the sky, 
And tossed distressed Leander, being in hell, 
As high as heaven. — Bliss not in height doth dwell. 
The Destinies sat dancing on the waves. 
To see the glorious winds with mutual braves 
Consume each other. Poor Iveander cried 
For help to sea-born Venus — she denied ; 
To Boreas, that, for his Atthea's sake. 
He would some pity on his Hero take, 
And for his own love's sake on his desires: 
But glory never blows cold pity's fires. 
Then called he Neptune, who through all the noise 
Knew with affright his wracked I^eander's voice, 
And up he rose : for haste his forehead hit 
'Gainst heaven's hard crystal ; his proud waves he smit 
With his forked sceptre, that could not obey; 
Much greater power than Neptune's gave them .sway. 
They loved I^eander so, in groans they brake, 
When they came near him, and such space did take 
'Twixt one another, loath to issue on, 
That in their shallow furrows earth was shown. 
And the poor lover took a little breath ; 
But the cursed Fates sat spinning of his death 
On every wave, and with the servile winds 
Tumbled them on him. And now Hero finds. 
By that she felt, her dear I<eander's state. 
She wept and prayed for him to every Fate ; 
And every wind that whipped her with her hair 
About the face, she kissed and spake it fair, 
, Kneeled to it, gave it drink out of her eyes. 
To quench his thirst ; but still their cruelties 
F'en her poor torch envied, and rudely beat 
The bating flame from that dear food it ate : 
Dear, for it nourished her Leander's life. 
Which with her robe she rescued from their strife. 
But silk too soft was such hard hearts to break, 
And she, dear soul, e'en as her silk, faint, weak, ' 
Could not preserve it — Out, oh, out it went ! 

I/Cander still called Neptune, that now rent 
His brackish curls and tore his wrinkled face. 
Where tears in billows did each other chase ; 
And, burst with ruth, he hurled his marble mace 


At the stem Fates,: it wounded I^achesis, 
That drew i^eander's thread, and could not miss 
The thread itself, as it her hand did hit, 
But smote it full, and quite did sunder it. 
The more kind Neptune raged, the more he rased 
His love's life's fort and killed as' he embraced; 
O thievish Fates ! to let blood, flesh and sense. 
Build two fairS^emples for their excellence, 
To rob it with a poisoned influence. 

And now did all the tyrannous crew depart, 
Knowing there was a storm in Hero's heart 
Greater than they could make and scorned their smart. 
She bowed herself so low out of her tower, 
That wonder 'twas she fell not ere her hour, 
With searching the lamenting waves for him. 
Like a poor snail^ her gentle supple limb 
Hung on her turret's top, so most downright. 
As she would dive beneath the darkness quite. 
To find her jewel, jewel, her I^eander ; 
A name of all earth's jewels pleased not her, 
I/ike his dear name — ' ' Leander, still my choice ! 
Come nought but my Leander : O my voice, 
Turn to I^eander ; henceforth be all sounds, 
Accents and phrases, that show all grief's wounds, 
Annalized in I^eander. O black change ! 
Trumpets, do you, with thunder of your clang, 
Drive out this change's horror ; my voice faints, 
Where all joy was, now shriek out all complaints." 

Thus criM she, for her vexed soul could tell 
Her love was dead. And when the morning fell 
Prostrate upon the weeping earth for woe. 
Blushes that bled out of her cheeks, did show 
I^eander brought by Neptune bruised and torn. 
With cities' ruins he to rocks had worn, 
To filthy usuring rocks that would have blood, 
Though they could get of him no other good. 
She saw him and the sight was much, much more. 
Than might have served to kill her, should her store 
Of giant sorrow speak, burst, die, bleed. 
And leave poor plaints to us that shall succeed. 
She fell on her love's bosom, hugged it fast, 
And with Meander's name she breathed her last. 


Books innumerable have 
done homage to Shake- 
speare's genius, great libra- 
ries in various languages 
have grown in the process 
of revealing his mastery 
over thought and expres- 
sion, sounding his depth and measuring his height as the 
supreme poet of all time, and yet, after all, he dwells remote 
as a star. His radiance we see and feel, his omniscience in 
the realm of human nature declares itself, but the author of 
those world-embracing, world-revealing works remains imper- 
sonal, known by that face serenely noble, but hardly other 
sure signs of common mortality ; an intangible embodiment 
of all the forces and graces possible to prose and poetry. 

William Shakespeare was born at Stratford-on-Avon, 
Warwickshire, on St. George's day, April 23d, 1564. His 
father a well-to-do trader in that market town, rose through 
various honorary offices to be its high-bailiff, or mayor. He 
was able to give William, the first-born of eight children, 
as good an education as the town afforded. Ben Jonson un- 
graciously tells us he had " little Latin and less Greek," but 
there is evidence in his earliest plays, and in the choice of 
theme for his poems, to show that Shakespeare had absorbed 
the soul of classical learning. He was taken from school at 
fourteen to help his father in business, and perhaps there 
acquired the education in the world's ways that shows so 
maturely in his earliest work. His father's prodigal good- 
fellowship, leading to poverty and shame without positive 
disgrace, did not lessen the son's aptitude for conviviality, 
though it taught him prudence. There are some traditions 


of a deer-Stealing frolic, with troublesome consequences. The 
sudden marriage of this lad of eighteen to Anne Hathaway, 
his senior by eight years, is one of the few leading facts of 
this period. Before he reached his twenty-first birthday 
Shakespeare was the father of three children, two being twins. 
Shrewd as he was in worldly affairs, he had no taste for 
the drudgery of the market-place. Doubtless he had revelled 
in the stage-plays that were given on holidays, the mysteries, 
masques and May-pole dances that linked mediaevalism w'ith 
the new era of the Reformation and Renaissance. Three of 
the foremost actor-playwrights of the new stage were Strat- 
ford men, Burbage, Heminge and Greene, and they may have 
pricked young Shakespeare's ambition. He went to London 
when he was about three-and-twenty, and for the next five 
years there are no details of his doings, except that he visited 
his country home at least once each year, and took active 
interest in his father's affairs as well as his own. He had 
established himself as an actor and an acceptable writer of 
plays by 1592. The "Venus and Adonis" was published 
in 1593, with dedication to the Earl of Southampton, who 
was not yet of age, but none the less a patron and something 
more. This was the dawn of wider fame for the hard-work- 
ing, versatile young countryman. Coldly classical, yet youth- 
fully lavish in florid imagery and gorgeous color,, this rare 
first effort disclosed powers which none were better able to 
estimate at their full value than he. His envious, because 
outstript, rival, Greene, wrote in that same year the well- 
known snarl at the ' ' upstart crow, beautiful in our feathers, 
that, with his tiger's heart wrapped in a player's hide, 
supposes he is as well able to bombast out a blank verse 
as the best of (us), and being an absolute Johannes Factotum, 
is, in his own conceit, the only Shakescene in the country." 
It was the rule to patch up and recast other people's plays, 
and make new ones out of any old story that had the requisite 
backbone of dramatic interest. Step by step Shakespeare felt 
his way on this path to creative authorship. By 1599, besides 
various collaborations with others, he had produced "Love's 
Labor Lost," the " Comedy of Errors," " Two Gentlemen of 
Verona," and "A Midsummer Night's Dream." By the time 


he was thirty-three he was able to buy a house in his native 
town, with two gardens and barns. He was soon part owner 
of the Blackfriars and Globe theatres. 

The times were ripe for greatness in every venture. What 
new forces came into play in those palpitating Elizabethan 
days need no describing here. It was sunrise after night, 
renewed life after seeming death. There had come a bracing 
wave of inspiration which kindled enthusiasm in each strong 
spirit. England was putting on her strength against the de- 
signs of suspected enemies of church and state. Patriotic fervor 
stirred poets no less than soldiers, and moved the playwrights 
to turn history to account in their portrayal of mighty human 
passions. This brought new interest and power to the thea- 
tre. The defeat of the Spanish Armada turned old England 
into a new world of great hearts, throbbing with high aspira- 
tions, bent upon achieving conquests hitherto undreamed of. 
Her sailors swept the seas in quest of glory and gold. Her 
poets sang as never before of honor, love, beauty, national 
greatness. Printing was done, but books were scarce. Yet 
these voices must have a place to be heard, the moving scenes 
of their own as well of ancient history demanded a stage-set- 
ting to school the masses into patriotic pride, and to furnish 
a vent for the proud gifts of the poets and players. So rose 
the theatre to its highest pitch as a vital influence, and with it 
rose the dramatists who understood the drift of things, and 
saw into the secret of destiny in its workings on a strong 
people. Shakespeare took the tide at its flood. He was him- 
self the mirror of his times. Large and small, he had stored 
something of every experience possible to boy, youth or man 
in those stirring days. What balance of experience he missed 
in his own person he richly made up by use of an imagination 
that realized all that others only fancy. Power such as- this 
inevitably compelled success, as it is accounted in the market, 
and outwardly this was enough for him. 

For twenty years Shakespeare worked at his theatrical 
business, dropping out of the actor list. In 1596 his only son, 
Hamnet, died, a lad of twelve, and several relations in the 
same year. His Stratford properties, when he was forty-one, 
yielded him an income equal to seventeen hundred dollars a 




year, and he got probably twice as much from the theatres. 
In 1607 his eldest daughter, Susanna, married an eminent local 
physician, and his mother died. Soon after this he retired 
from lyondon and his professional life, spending his last years 
in his native town. Remembering his father's embittered 
latter years, Shakespeare husbanded his means with the prac- 
tical sagacity that from the start was the secret of his success, 
compared with the recklessness of such as Marlowe. After 
a few years of opulent 
ease as a country gentle- 
man, delighting to play 
the host to his old com- 
rades, Ben Jonson, Dray- 
ton and the rest, Shake- 
speare was carried oft 
by a three days' fever on 
his •fifty-second birthday. 
His monument in the 
chancel of the Stratford church, and his epitaphs, there and 
in the books, are well known. His widow survived him seven 
years. His property he left to his daughters, with legacies to 
some of his associates and to the poor of Stratford. 

The sources on which Shakespeare drew for his English 
historical plays were mainly Holinshed's "Chronicles," pub- 
lished in 1577. North's English translation of Plutarch's 
' ' Lives ' ' served for the Roman plays . The stories of Lear, 
Cymbeline, Macbeth, and Hamlet, came from Holinshed and 
other old chronicles, and Saxo Grammaticus, which had been 
already used in poems and crude plays. For the Greek plots 
Shakespeare was indebted to Caxton's histories of Troy, and 
to Chaucer's and Chapman's poems. Romeo, Shylock, Bene- 
dick and Beatrice, Othello, and a few light comedy charac- 
ters came from the Italian, in which Shakespeare was more 
or less versed, and the writings of Boccaccio, Ariosto, Ban- 
dello, and others, were in the height of popularity. The 
"Midsummer Night's Dream," "As You Like It," and the 
"Winter's Tale," are English, as also one or two of the 
group, " Love's Labor's Lost," " Two Gentlemen of Verona," 
" The Merry Wives of Windsor " and " The Tempest." 


The earliest tragedy, "Titus Andronicus," is held to be 
only partly, if at all, by Shakespeare. Certain it is that he 
discarded this gruesome style ever after, though lines from it 
are repeated in later plays of his. It may have been his 
trial-piece leading up to his first serious attempt in tragedy, 
on nobler lines than those chosen by Kyd and Marlowe before 
him. His first entirely original piece was the whimsical 
comedy "Love's Labor Lost," a sprightly poking of fun at 
the pedantry then in fashion. But Shakespeare's profound 
mastery of life as it is shows itself thus early in his dashing 
down the cup of pleasure just as it touches the expectant 
lip. This strikes the key-note of all Shakespeare's creations. 
He sees that fortune's favorites no more than he can escape 
the sudden lowering cloud with its torrent and thunderbolt, 
even in the sunny joy of a midsummer day's frolic. This 
grim reality he never forgets and never flinches from remind- 
ing us. And the same recklessness of fate is thrust into the 
tragedies, where intermittent gleams of irresistible humor 
unexpectedly light up the scene when the tension gets 
unbearable. This shows with what all-embracing grasp he 
seizes upon the complete scene, whether of thought or action, 
omitting no factor that goes to the making up of an abso- 
lutely true picture to the life. Be it natural gift or acquired 
art — or more likely both — the thing is unique in the produc- 
tions of young men, and we must keep in mind that no poet 
or painter, or man of action, however great his conquest, 
ever comprehended so vast a diversity of achievements as are 
found in a single play. 

The early comedies indicate the trend towards grander 
effort, as in the "Merchant of Venice," "Much Ado about 
Nothing," and "As You Like it," and also towards tragedy. 
The "Midsummer Night's Dream," when played at all, is 
still presented as the masque it probably was written to be, 
but there is a world of Shakespeare study in it. He gives 
his genius free play in any and all directions it fancies, noble 
characters majestically discourse and act, nature decks herself 
in fullest charms, poetry soars like the eagle and sings like 
the nightingale, and the enchanted realm of fairyland conde- 
scends to become real to every sense. Then, as if to dare the 


perils of failure, Shakespeare picks up a handful of British 
boors, rough, ignorant, clumsy and stupid, and sets them 
gravely burlesquing the ranting tragedy that ruled the stage 
and the public. He has made one of his heroes speak of the 
poet, the lunatic, and the lover, as much the same in mental 
make-up. Here if anywhere is to found the thin line that 
divides madness from genius, for genius never towered higher 
over conventionality than when Shakespeare so audaciously 
mixed ugliness with beauty, nonsense with philosophy, tragic 
elements with clownish simplicity, poesy with grossness, and 
sprites with mortals, as in this illuminating fantasy. 

The historical plays, in spite of their many-sidedness, show 
Shakespeare as a true Briton. The English plays bristle with 
all the activities of that restless time. The characters seem born 
for the stage, strong temperaments moving simple-minded men 
to great actions, good or bad. The scenes are crowded with 
types of the country and period, kings, nobles, adventurers, 
rakes, carousers, and women of every grade. They move in 
all the actuality of daily life, letting out their real thoughts, 
hiding nothing, qualifying no blunt utterance to suit a tender 
taste, but, on the other hand, never did kings speak such 
majestic English, nor the typical characters give voice to such 
poetry, such eloquence or ruggedly powerful speech. It is 
tempting to pick out our supposed Shakespeare from passages 
in these plays which have the clear ring of individual sincer- 
ity, but we are not in the presence of an individual, but of a 
universal man, who interprets all that stirs all men's souls. 
We may, however, safely trace the English heart of him in 
every page. Dowden groups these plays, omitting the doubt- 
ful Henry VHI., not wholly Shakespeare's, into two sets of 
three each, one set consisting of studies of kingly weakness, 
the other of kingly strength. In the former we have King 
John, King Richard II. , and King Henry VI ; in the latter 
King Henry IV., King Henry V., and King Richard III. 

In the great tragedies the genius, the painstaking art, the 
expanded powers, and the ripeness of Shakespeare's exper- 
ience find their consummation. "Hamlet" was composed 
in his thirty-ninth year, completed, most probably, after long 
labor. Over this great tragic poem of action the profoundest 

IV— 23 


minds of three centuries have never wearied trying " to pluck 
the heart out of its mystery," without success in agreement. 
To Hamlet, the pliant weathercock of every veering breeze, 
succeeded Othello, the sport of brute passion, Lear, sublimest 
tragedy of blind fatalism, Macbeth, weak victim of super- 
stition and a stronger will, Antony, the prey of infatuation, 
Coriolanus, the victim of pride, with the earlier Julius Csesar, 
and the later Timon. They are seen on the stage, and read 
and studied by young and old as part of our necessary cul- 
ture, and the opinions of scholars, poets, and competent 
actor-students are accessible to all. They place these trage- 
dies, with their many blemishes, at the summit of human 
achievement with mind and pen. ' 

Not tospeakof the thick stratum of fun that runs through 
Shakespeare's work would be to forget an element as vital as 
his poetic gift in any attempt to estimate his power. It is 
not to be lightly labelled as humor, much less as wit, nor 
even drollery. It is literally the natural expression of the 
delight in fun innate in every human being, which expression 
varies with breed and circumstances, but insists on its right 
to share in every other expression of emotions. Shakespeare 
would have abhorred the delusion that humor can be manu- 
factured and purveyed to order. He allows it as free play 
as tears and passion, and in its fine and coarse variety, ofteu 
jarring but never pointless, we have one more evidence of his 
fidelity to truth, and of his universality. 

This word recalls the strange isolation, already referred 
to, of the man from his work. He lives in it, paints his 
mind's portrait somewhere on every page, yet so broken up 
that it defies piecing with any certainty that the mosaic is 
the true man. If he is a realist of realists in the plays, what 
of his idealism in the Sonnets? Here his mysteriousness 
grows still more vague. In them he is two personalities at 
least, in his plays he is a hundred. Whatever he was when 
he took up his pen, that was the man he then portrayed, 
and who so faithfully, who so inexpressibly beautifully? 
The Sonnets reflect every phase of the "lunatic lover's" 
malady; he had gone through the entire experience, and 
he frankly tells it. As sonnets they break through the 


strict rule, as indeed their author burst every fettering law 
of poetical art, and grammar itself, when his Muse took 
wing. Taine marks this unrestrainable rush of ideas : " He 
imagines with copiousness and excess . . . Ready, impetu- 
ous, impassioned, delicate, his genius is pure imagination, 
touched more vividly and by slighter things than ours. 
Hence his style, blooming with exuberant images, loaded 
with exaggerated metaphors, whose strangeness is like inco- 
herence, whose wealth is superabundant, the work of a mind 
which, at the least incitement, produces too much and leaps 
too far.' ' Anything next to hand is pressed into service to 
eke out a line or give a thought the precise tint needed, but 
how that thought burns, how that line sings, through and 
above their verbal cage ! 

His measureless greatness has provoked attempts to rob 
Shakespeare of his authorship, or to share it for him with 
Lord Bacon, l^he thing is interesting only as throwing light 
on a curious inisdirection of ingenuity, particularly that 
which laboriously constructs a cipher out of the plays in 
distant imitation of Poe's brilliant "Gold Bug" exploit. 

Shakespeare being human, bad his limitations. It is 
interesting to know that though he lived in the exciting 
Reformation time he gives no portrait of either Catholic 
or Protestant. Neither does he introduce an artist, a stu- 
dent, or a printer, important factors in the Renaissance 
then progressing. Nor is an Irishman grouped among 
the Scotch and Welsh characters. Nor has he confessed 
his convictions in matters religious, political, or social. He 
honors strong kings and good people, cherishes true sym- 
pathy with all sorts and conditions of men and women in 
their struggle against the ills of life, and through his least 
lovely characters, and in his surface vulg&rity at its worst, he 
preaches the unvarying gospel of duty as the only true hap- 
piness. He holds the mirror up to myriad-sided nature, 
without caring one straw whether nature enjoys it or not. 
He makes us see, whether we want to see or not, the working 
of inexorable law, the sure penance that folly and evil bring, 
and he has no compunction about illustrating the fall of 
inscrutable Fate's blow on the good insteiad of the wicked. 


In it all he detects a core of absurdity, wliicli he bids us 
welcome and laugh at, as a relief. And above this mystery 
of nature, pain, fate, he points to the stars, and above them 
the silent Power that moves in ways mysterious to us, who 
grope in the dark. Shakespeare's endowment was so vast, 
so all-comprising, that the world sums up its veneration in 
his own phrase, " None but himself can be his parallel." 

RoMBo AND Juliet. 

ScSTS^.-^Capulef s garden. 

(Romeo, belonging to the Montague family of Verona, has fallen 
in love with Juliet, of the family of the Capulets, with whom the 
Montagues have a deadly feud. Romeo, with some friends, goes to the 
Capulets' house. Returning, he outran his companions, climbed the 
wall of Capulet's garden, and leaped down inside.) 

Romeo. He jests at scars, that never felt a wound. -^ 

\_Juliet appears above, at a window. 
But soft ! what light through yonder window breaks ? 
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun ! 
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, 
Who is already sick and pale with grief. 
That thou her maid, art far more fair than she. 
It is my lady : O, it is my love : 
O, that she knew she were ! 

She speaks, yet says she nothing : what of that ? 
Her eye discourses, I will answer it. 
I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks : 
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, 
Having some business, do entreat her eyes 
To twinkle in their spheres till they return. 
What if her eyes were there, they in her head ? 
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars, 
As daylight doth a lamp ; her eyes in heaven 
Would through the airy region stream so bright. 
That birds would sing, and think it were not night. 
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand ! 
O, that I were a glove upon that hand, 
That I might touch that cheek ! 

Juliet. Ah me! 

Romeo. She speaks : — 
O, speak again, bright angel ! for thou art 


' As glorious to this night, being o'er my head, 
As is a winged messenger of heaven 
Unto the white-upturned wond'ring eyes 
Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him. 
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds, 
And sails upon the bosom of the air. 

Juliet O Romeo, Romeo ! wherefore art thou Romeo ? 
Deny thy father, and refuse thy name ; 
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love. 
And I'll no longer be a Capulet. 

Romeo. Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this ? {Aside. 

Juliet. 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy ; — 
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. 
What's Montague? it is nor hand nor foot, 
Nor arm, nor face. O be some other name ! 
What's in a name? that which we call a rose. 
By any other name would smell as sweet ; 
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd, 
Retain that dear perfection which he owes, 
Without that title.-;— Romeo, doff thy name ; 
And for thy name, which is no part of thee. 
Take all myself. 

Romeo. I take thee at thy word : 
Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized; 
Henceforth I never will be Romeo. 

Juliet. What man art thou, that thus bescreen'd in night 
So stumblest on my counsel ? 

Romeo. By a name 
I know not how to tell thee who I am ; 
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, 
Because it is an enemy to thee ; 
Had I it written, I would tear the word. 

Juliet. My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words 
Of thy tongue's uttering, yet I know the sound ; 
Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague ? 

Romeo. Neither, fair saint, if either thee displease. 

Juliet. How cam'st thou hither, tell me? and wherefore? 
The orchard wall is high, and hard to climb ; 
And the place death, considering who thou art, 
If any of my kinsmen find thee here. 

Romeo. With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these 


For stony limits cannot hold love out : 

And what love can do, that dares love attempt ; 

Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me. 

Juliet. If they do see thee, they will murder thee. 

Romeo. Alack ! there lies more peril in thine eye, 
Than twenty of their swords ; look thou but sweet, 
And I am proof against their enmity. 

Juliet. I would not for the world they saw thee here. 

Romeo. I have night's cloak to hide me from their eyes ; 
And, but thou love me, let them find me here ; 
My life were better ended by their hate. 
Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love. 

Juliet. By whose direction found' st thou out this place? 

Romeo. By love, that first did prompt me to inquire ; 
He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. 
I am no pilot ; yet, wert thou as far 
As that vast shore wash'd with the farthest sea, 
I would adventure for such merchandise. 

Juliet. Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face. 
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek, 
For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night. 
Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny 
What I have spoke. But farewell compliment ! 
Dost thou love me ? I know thou wilt say — Ay ; 
And I will take thy word : yet, if thou swear'st, 
Thou may'st prove false ; at lovers' perjuries, 
Thej' say, Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo, 
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully : 
Or, if thou think' st I am too quickly won, 
I'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay, 
So thou wilt woo ; but, else, not for the world. 
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond ; 
And therefore thou may'st think my 'havior light: 
But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true 
Than those that have more cunning to be strange. 
I should have been more strange, I must confess, 
^ But that thou overheard'st, ere I was 'ware. 
My true love's passion : therefore pardon me ; 
And not impute this yielding to light love. 
Which the dark night hath so discovered.' 

Romeo. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear. 
That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops, — 


Juliet. O, swear not by the moon, tli' inconstant moon, 
That monthly changes in her circled orb, 
I<est that thy love prove likewise variable. 

Romeo. What shall I swear by ? 

Juliet. Do not swear at all ; 
Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, 
Which is the god of my idolatry. 
And I'll believe thee. 

Romeo. If my heart's dear lov6 — 

Juliet. Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee, 
I have no joy in this contract to-night : 
It is too rash, too unadvis'd, too sudden ; 
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be, 
Ere one can say — It lightens ! Sweet, good night ! 
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath. 
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. 
Good night, good night ! as sweet repose and rest 
Come to thy heart, as that within my breast ! 

[Nurse calls within. 

Juliet. I hear some noise within ; dear love, adieu ! 
Anon, good nurse ! — Sweet Montague, be true. 
Stay but a little, I will come again! \Exit. 

Romeo. O blessed, blessed night ! I am afeard, 
Being in night, all this is but a dream. 
Too flattering-sweet to be substantial. 

Re-enter Juliet ^ above. 
. Juliet. Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed. 
If that thy bent of love be honorable, 
Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow. 
By one that I'll procure to come to thee. 
Where, and what time, thou wilt perform the rite ; 
And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay. 
And follow thee my lord throughout the world. 

Nurse (within). Madam. 

Juliet. I come, anon: — But if thou mean'st not well, 
I do beseech thee — 

Nurse (within). Madam. 

Juliet. By and by, I come. — 
To cease thy strife, and leave me to my grief: 
To-morrow will I send. 

Romeo. So thrive my soul,— 


Juliet. A thousand times good-night ! \_Exit. 

Romeo. A thousand times the worse, to want thy light — 
I/3ve goes toward love, as schoolboys from their books ; 
But love from love, toward school with heavy looks. 

[Retiring slowly, 
Re-enter Juliet, above. 

Juliet. Hist ! Romeo, hist ! — O, for a falconer's voice, 
To lure this tassel-gentle back again ! 
Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud ; 
Else would I tear the cave where echo lies, 
And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine 
With repetition of my Romeo's name. 

Romeo (returning). It is my soul, that calls upon my 
How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, 
I/ike softest music to attending ears ! 

Juliet. Romeo. 

Romeo. My sweet ! 

Juliet. What o'clock to-morrow 
Shall I send to thee ? 

Romeo. By the hour of nine. 

Juliet. I will not fail : 'tis twenty year till then. 
I have forgot why I did call thee back. 

Romeo. I^t me stand here till thou remember it. 

Juliet. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, 
Rememb'ring how I love thy company. 

Romeo. And I'll still stay, to hav,e thee still forget, 
Forgetting any other home but this. 

Juliet. 'Tis almost morning, I would have thee gone : 
And yet no further than a wanton's bird : 
Who lets it hop a little from her hand, 
Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves. 
And with a silk thread plucks it back again, 
So loving-jealous of his liberty. 

Romeo. I would I were thy bird. ! 

Juliet. Sweet, so would I : 
Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. 
Good night, good night ! parting is such sweet sorrow. 
That I shall say good night, till it be morrow. {Exit. 

Romeo. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy 
breast ! 
Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest ! 


The Tomb of the Capulets. 

(Paris, to ■whom Juliet had been promised in marriage, mourns 
her death. He sends his page to watch against intrusion, and then 
scatters flowers before the door of the tomb, in which lies Juliet, sup- 
posed to be dead.) 

Paris. Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew, 
(O woe ! thy canopy is dust and stones !) 
Which with sweet water nightly I will dew, 
Or, wanting that, with tears distilled by moans : 
The obsequies that I for thee will keep, 
Nightly shall be, to strew thy grave and weep. 

(The boy then whistles as signal of some one's approach, and Paris 
retires. Romeo and his servant Balthasar enter with a torch, mattock, 
etc. Romeo having given Balthasar a letter to be delivered to his 
father the next morning, commands him, on pain of instant death, to 
leave him. Balthasar promises to do so, but resolves to wait in the 
neighborhood, being frightened at his master's looks. Romeo then 
proceeds to burst open the tomb, when he is interrupted by Paris, who 
believing him to have come with some evil intent, rushes upon him 
and endeavors to arrest him. Romeo, after praying him to depart and 
not to tempt a desperate man, is compelled to draw in self-defence, and 
after a short combat Paris falls. The Page, in terror, runs to call the 

Paris. Oh, I am slain ! {falls). — If thou be merciful, 
Open the tomb, lay me with Juliet (dies). 

Romeo. In faith I will ; — lyet me peruse this face ; 
Mercutio's kinsman, — noble county Paris: 
"What said my man, when my betossM soul 
Did not attend him as we rode ? I think 
He told me Paris should have married Juliet ; 
Said he not so? or did I dream it so ? 
Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet, 
To think it was so ? — Oh, give me thy hand, 
One writ with me in sour misfortune's book ! 
I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave, — 
A grave ? Oh no ; a lantern, slaughtered youth, 
For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes 
This vault a feasting presence full of light. 
Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interred. 

\Laying Paris in the monument. 


How oft when men are at the point of death 
Have they been merry ; which their keepers call 
A light'ning before death : Oh, how may I 
Call this a light'ning ? — O my love ! my wife ! 
Death that hath sucked the honey of thy breath, 
Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty : 
Thou art not conquered ; beauty's ensign yet 
Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks. 
And death's pale flag is not advanced there — 
Ah dear Juliet, 

"Why art thou yet so fair ? — Kyes, look your last — 
Arms, take your last embrace ! and lips, O you 
The doors of breath seal with a righteous kiss, 
A dateless bargain to engrossing death ! — 
Come, bitter conduct — come, unsavory guide ! 
Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on 
The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark ! 
Here's to my love ! {drinks) O true apothecary ; 
Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die {dies). 

(Friar Laurence enters at the other end of the churchyard with a 
lantern, crow and spade. The Friar, stumbling along, comes upon 
Balthasar, who tells him that Romeo is already at the tomb, on which 
hehastens forward.) 

Friar. Fear comes upon me. 
Oh, much I fear some ill, unlucky thing. 
Alack, alack, what blood is this, which stains 
The stony entrance of this sepulchre ? 
What mean these masterless and gory swords 
To lie discolored by this place of peace? 
Romeo ! Oh, pale ! — "Who else ? "What, Paris too ? 
And steeped in blood ? — Ah, what an unkind hour 
Is guilty of this lamentable chance ! — 
The lady stirs. [Juliet wakes aud stirs. 

Juliet. O comfortable friar ! where is my lord ? 
I do remember well where I should be, 
And there I am : where is my Romeo ? \Noise within. 

Friar. I hear some noise. — Lady, come from that nest 
Of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep ; 
A greater power than we can contradict 
Hath thwarted our intents. Come, — come away : 
Thy husband in thy bosom there lies dead ; 



And Paris too. Come, I'll dispose of thee 
Among a sisterhood of holy nuns : 
Stay not to question, for the watch is coming ; 
Come, go, good Juliet — {noise again). I dare no longer 
stay. {Exit. 

Juliet. Go, get thee hence, for I will not away. 
What's here? a cup, closed in my true love's hand ! 
Poison, I see, has been his timeless end : 
O churl ! drink all ; and left no friendly drop 
To help me after ? I will kiss thy lips ; 
Haply some poison yet doth hang on them. 
To make me die with a restorative. [Kisses him. 

Thy lips are warm ! 

jst Watch (within'). Lead, boy! Which way? ' 

Juliet. Yea, noise? — then I'll be brief. — O haippy dagger! 

[Snatching Romeo's dagger. 

This is thy sheath ; {stabs herself) there rust and let me 

die. [Falls on Romeo's body and dies. 

(The Watch enters and, finding the dead bodies, send at once for 
the Prince, while others search the churchyard, and presently bring in 
'Balthasar and the Friar . The Prince arrives shortly after, with Capu- 
let. Lady Capulet, and Montague, Lady Montague having died that 
night through grief at her son's exile. The whole story is thei un- 
folded by the Friar, Balthasar and the Page.) 


Prince. Where be these enemies ? Capulet ! Montague I 
See what a scourge is laid upon your hate, 
That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love ; 
And I, for winking at your discords too, 
Have lost a brace of kinsmen : all are punished. 

Capulet. O brother Montague, give me thy hand. 
This is my daughter's jointure, for no more 
Can I demand. 

Montague. But I can give thee more : 
For I will raise her statue in pure gold ; 
That while Verona by that name is known, 
There shall no figure at that rate be set. 
As that of true and faithful Juliet. 

Capulet. As rich shall Romeo by his lady lie ; 
Poor sacrifices of our enmity ! 

Prince. A gloomy peace this morning with it brings ; 

The sun for sorrow will not show his head. 
Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things ; 

Some shall be pardoned, and some punished : 
For never was a story of more woe 
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo. 

The Pound of Flesh. 

(From "The Merchant of Venice.") 
Scene. — A Court of Justica in Venice. 

Duke. Go one, and call the Jew into court. 

Salanio. He is ready at the door : he comes, my lord. 

[Enter Shy lock 

Duke. Make room, and let him stand before our face. 
Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too. 
That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy malice 
To the last hour of act ; and then 'tis thought 
Thou' It show thy mercy and remorse, more strange, 
Than is thy strange apparent cruelty; 
And where thou now exact' st the penalty, 
Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh, 
Thou wilt not only lose the forfeiture. 
But, touched with human gentleness and love, 
Forgive a moiety of the principal ; 
Glancing an eye of pity on his losses, 


That have of late so huddled on his back, 
Enow to press a royal merchant down. 
We all expect a gentle answer, Jew. 

Shy lock. I have possessed your grace of what I purpose ; 
And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn 
To have the due and forfeit of my bond. 
If you deny it, let the danger light 
Upon your charter and your city's freedom. 
You'll ask me, why I rather choose to have 
A weight of carrion flesh than to receive 
Three thousand ducats : I'll not answer that : 
But, say, it is my humor : is it answered ? 
What if my house be troubled with a rat. 
And I be pleased to give ten thousand ducats 
To have it baned ? What, are you answered yet? 

Bassanio. This is no answer, thou unfeeling man. 
To excuse the current of thy cruelty. 

Shylock. I am not bound to please thee with my answer. 

Bassanio. For thy three thousand ducats here is six. 

Shylock. If every ducat in six thousand ducats 
Were in six parts, and every part a ducat, 
I would not draw them ; — I would have my bond. 

Duke. How shalt thou hope for mercy, rendering none ? 

Shylock. What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong? 
You have among you many a purchased slave. 
Which, like your asses, and your dogs and mules 
You use in abject and in slavish parts, 
Because you bought them : shall I say to you, 
Let them be free, marry them to your heirs ? 
Why sweat they under burthens ? let their beds 
Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates 
Be seasoned with such viands ? You will answer 
" The slaves are ours : " so do I answer you : 
The pound of flesh, which I demand of him, 
Is dearly bought ; 'tis mine, and I will have it. 
If you deny me, fie upon your law ! 
There is no force in the decrees of Venice. 
I stand for judgment : answer: shall I have it? 

Duke. Upon my power I may dismiss this court. 
Unless Bellario, a learned doctor. 
Whom I have sent for to determine this, 
Come here to-day. 


A messenger appears with a letter from Bellario, stating that he 
cannot come, but sends a young doctor Balthasar in his stead. 

Duke. You hear the learned Bellario, what he writes : 
And here, I take it, is the doctor come. 

\_Enter Portia, dressed like a doctor of laws. 
Give me your hand. Came you from old Bellario ? 

Portia. I did, my lord. 

Duke. You are welcome : take your place. 
Are you acquainted with the difference 
That holds this present question in the court ? 

Portia. I am informed throughly of the cause. 
Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew ? 

Duke. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth. 

Portia. Is your name Shylock .? 

Shylock. Shylock is my name. 

Portia. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow ; 
Yet in such rule that the Venetian law 
Cannot impugn you as you do proceed. 
[7b Antonio'\ You stand within his danger, do you not? 

Antonio. Aye, so he says. 

Portia. Do you confess the bond ? 

Antonio. I do. 

Portia. Then must the Jew be merciful. 

Shylock. On what compulsion must I ? tell me that. 

Portia. The quality of mercy is not strained, 
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 
Upon the place beneath ; it is twice blest ; 
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes : 
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest : it becomes 
The throned monarch better than his crown ; 
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 
The attribute to awe and majesty. 
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; 
But mercy is above this sceptred sway; 
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, 
It is an attribute to God himself; 
And earthly power doth then show likest God's 
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 
Though justice be thy plea, consider this. 
That, in the course of justice, none of us 
Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy; 


And that same prayer dotli teach us all to render 
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much 
To niitigate the justice of thy plea, 
Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice 
Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there. 

Shylock. My deeds upon my head ! I crave the law. 
The penalty and forfeit of my bond. 

Portia. Is he not able to discharge the^money? 

Bassanio. Yes, here I tender it for him in the court ; 
Yea, twice the sum : if that will not suffice, 
I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er. 
On forfeit of my hands) my head, my heart : 
If this will not suffice, it must appear 
That maUce bears down" truth. And I beseech you, 
Wrest once the law to your authority: 
To do a great right, do a little wrong, 
And curb this cruel devil of his will. 

Portia. It must not be ; there is no power in Venice 
Can alter a decree established : 
'Twill be recorded for a precedent, 
And many an error by the same example 
Will rush into the state : it cannot be. 

Shylock. A Daniel come to judgment ! yea, a Daniel : 
O wise young judge, how I do honor thee ! 

Portia. I pray you, let me look upon the bond. 

Shylock. Here 'tis, most reverend doctor, here it is. 

Portia. Shylock, there's thrice thy money offered 

Shylock. An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven ; 
Shall I lay perjury upon my soul? 
No, not for Venice. 

Portia. Why, this bond is forfeit ; 
And lawfully by this the Jew may claim 
A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off 
Nearest the merchant's heart. Be merciful : 
Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond. 

Shylock. When it is paid according to the tenor. 
It doth appear you are a worthy judge ; 
You know the law, your exposition 
Hath been most sound : I charge you by the law. 
Whereof you are a Well-deserving pillar. 
Proceed to judgment : by my soul I swear 



There is no power in the tongue of man 
To alter me : I stay here on my bond. 

Antonio. Most heartily I do beseech the court 
To give the judgment. 

Portia. Why then, 
thus it is : 
You must prepare your 
bosom for his knife. 
Shy lock. O noble 
judge! O excellent 
young man ! 
Fortia. For the intent 
and purpose of the 
Hath full relation to the 

Which here appeareth 
due upon the bond. 
Shy lock. 'Tis very 
true: O wise and 
upright judge ! 
How much more elder art thou than thy looks ! 

Portia. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge, 
To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death. 
Shylock. Is it so nominated in the bond ? 
Portia. It is not so expressed : but what of that ? 
'Twere good you do so much for charity. 
Shylock. I cannot find it : 'tis not in the bond. 
Portia. Come, merchant, have you anything to say ? 
Antonio. But little : I am armed and well prepared. 
Give me your hand, Bassanio : fare you well ! 
Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you ; 
Repent not you that you shall lose your friend. 
And he repents not that he pays your debt ; 
For if the Jew do cut but deep enough, 
I'll pay it instantly with all my heart. 

Bassanio. Antonio, I am married to a wife [Portia], 
Which is as dear to me as life itself; 
But life itself, my wife, and all the world. 
Are not with me esteemed above thy life : 
I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all 
Here to this devil, to deliver you. 


Portia. Your wife would give you little thanks for that, 
If she were by, to hear you make the offer. 

Shylock. We trifle time : I pray thee, pursue sentence. 

Portia. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine : 
The court awards it, and the law doth give it. 

Shylock. Most rightful judge 1 

Portia. And you must cut this flesh from off his breast : 
The law allows it, and the court awards it. 

Shylock. Most learned judge! A sentence! Come, prepare! 

Portia. Tarry a little ; there is something else. 
This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood ; 
The words expressly are, "a pound of flesh." 
Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh ; 
But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed 
One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods 
Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate 
Unto the state of Venice. 

Gratiano. O upright judge ! Mark, Jew: O learned judge ! 

Shylock. Is that the law ? 
- Portia. Thyself shall see the act : 
For, as thou urgest justice, be assured 
Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest. 

Gratiano. O learned judge! Mark, Jew: a learned judge! 

Shylock. I take this offer, then ; pay the bond thrice 
And let the Christian go. 

Bassanio. Here is the money. 

Portia. Soft! 
The Jew shall have all justice; soft 1 no haste: 
He shall have nothing but the penalty. 

Gratiano. O Jew ! an upright judge, a learned judge ! 

Portia. Therefore prepare thee to cut off the flesh. 
Shed thou no blood, nor cut thou less, nor more, — 
But just a pound of flesh : if thou tak'st more 
Or less than a just pound, be it but so much 
As makes it light or heavy in the substance, 
Or the division of the twentieth part 
Of one poor scruple,— nay, if the scale do turn 
But in the estimation of a hair, — 
Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate. 

Gratiano. A second Daniel, — a Daniel, Jew ! 
Now infidel, I have thee on the hip. 

Portia. Why doth the Jew pause ? take thy forfeiture, 
w— 24 


ShylGck. Give me my principal, and let me go. 

Bassanio. I have it ready for tliee ; here it is. 

Portia. He hath refused it in the open court : 
He shall have merely justice and his bond. 

Gratiano. A Daniel, still say I, a second Daniel I 
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word. 

Shylock. Shall I not have barely my principal ? 

Portia. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture, 
To be so taken at thy peril, Jew, 

, Shylock. Why, then the devil give him good of it ! 
I'll stay no longer question. 

Portia. Tarry, Jew : 
The law hath yet another hold on you. 
It is enacted in the laws of Venice, 
If it be proved against an alien. 
That by direct or indirect attempts 
He seek the life of any citizen. 
The party 'gainst the which he doth contrive 
Shall seize one-half his goods ; the other half 
Comes to the privy coffer of the state ; 
And the offender's life lies in the mercy 
Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice. 
In which predicament, I say, thou stand' st : 
For it appears by manifest proceeding. 
That, indirectly, and directly too. 
Thou hast contrived against the very life 
Of the defendant ; and thou hast incurred 
The danger formerly by me rehearsed. 
Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke. 

Duke. That thou shalt see the difference of our spirit, 
I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it : 
For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's ; 
The other half comes to the general state. 
Which humbleness may drive unto a fine. 

Portia. Ay, for the state, not for Antonio. 

Shylock. Nay, take my life and all ; pardon not that : 
You take my house when you do take the, prop 
That doth sustain my house ; you take my life 
When you do take the means whereby I live. 

Portia. What mercy can you render him, Antonio ? 

Antonio. So please my lord the duke and all the court 
To quit the fine for one-half of his goods ; 


I am content, so lie will let me liave 

Tlie other half in use, to render it, 

Upon his death, unto the gentleman 

That lately stole his daughter. 

Two things provided more, — that, for this favor, 

He presently become a Christian ; 

The other that he do record a gift. 

Here in the court, of all he dies possessed. 

Unto his son Lorenzo and his daughter. 

Duke. He shall do this, or else I do recant 
The pardon that I late pronounced here. 

Portia. Art thou contented, Jew? what dost thou say? 

Shyiock. I am content. 

Portia. Clerk, draw a deed of gift. 

Shyiock. I pray you give me leave to go from hence ; 
I am not well ; send the deed after me, 
And I will sign it. {Exit Shyiock. 

HAMI.ET AND Ophelia. 

Hamlet. To be, or not to be, that is the question: — 
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer 
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune ; 
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles. 
And by opposing end them? — To die,— to sleep, — 
No more ; — and, by a sleep, to say we end 
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks 
That flesh is heir to, — 'tis a consummation 
Devoutly to be wished. To die ; — to sleep ; — 
To sleep ! perchance to dream ; — aye, there's the rub: 
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, 
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, 
Must give us pause : There's the respect. 
That makes calamity of so long life : 
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time. 
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, • 
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay. 
The insolence of office, and the spurns 
That patient merit of the unworthy takes. 
When he himself might his quietus make 
With a bare bodkin ? who would fardels bear, 
To grunt and sweat under a weary life ; 



But that tlie dread of something after death, — 
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn 

No traveler returns, — puzzles the 

And makes us rather bear those 

ills we have, 
Than fly to others that we know 
not of ! 
Thus conscience does 
make cowards of us 
And thus the native 

hue of resolution 
Is sicklied o'er with the 
pale cast of thought ; 
And enterprises of great 

pith and moment. 
With this regard, their 

currents turn awry. 
And lose the name of ac- 
tion. — Soft you now ! 
The fair Ophelia !— 
Nymph, in thy ori- 
Be all my sins remem- 
Ophelia. Good my lord, 
How does your honor for this many a day ? 
Ham. I humbly thank you ; well, well, well. 
Oph. My lord, I have remembrances of yours, 
That I have longed long to re-deliver ; 
I pray you, now receive them. 

Ham. No, not I ; 
I never gave you aught. 

Oph. My honored lord, I know right well, you did; 
And, with them, words of so sweet breath composed 
As made the things more rich : their perfume lost. 
Take these again ; for to the noble mind. 
Rich gifts wax poor, when givers prove unkind. 
There, my lord. 

Ham. Ha, ha ! are you honest? 
Oph. My lord? 


Ham. Are you fair ? 

Oph. What means your lordship ? 

Ham. That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should 
admit no discourse to your beauty. 

Oph. Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with 
honesty ? 

Ham. Aye, truly ; for the power of beauty will sooner trans- 
form honesty from what it is to a bawd, than the force of honesty 
can translate beauty into his likeness; this was sometime a para- 
dox, but now the time gives it proof. I did love you once. 

Oph. Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so. 

Ham. You should not have believed me : for virtue cannot so 
inoculate our old stock, but we shall relish of it : I loved you not. 

Oph. I was the more deceived. 

Ham. Get thee to a nunnery; why wouldst thou be a breeder 
of sinners? I am myself indifferent honest; but yet I could 
accuse me of such things, that it were better, my mother had not 
borne me: I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious; with more 
offences at my beck, than I have thoughts to put them in, imagi- 
nation to give them shape, or time to act them in : what should 
such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven ! We 
are arrant knaves, all; believe none of us: go thy ways to a 
nunnery. Where's your father ? 

Oph. At home, my lord. 

Ham. I>t the doors be shut upon him ; that he may play the 
fool nowhere but in 's own house. Farewell. 

Oph. O, help him, you sweet heavens ! 

Ham. If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy 
dowry : be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not 
escape calumny. Get thee to a nunnery ; farewell. Or, if thou 
■ wilt needs marry, marry a fool ; for wise men know well enough, 
what monsters you make of them. To a nunnery, go; and 
quickly too. Farewell. 

Oph. O Heavenly powers, restore him ! 

Ham. I have heard of your paintings too, well enough ; God 
hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another : you 
jig. you amble and you lisp, and nick-name God's creatures, and 
make your wantonness your ignorance : go to ; I'll no more on't ; 
it hath made me mad. I say, we will have no more marriages : 
those that are married already, all but one, shall live; the rest 
shall keep as they are. To a nunnery, go. \Exit Hamlet. 

Oph. Oh, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown ! 


The courtier's, scholar's, soldier's, eye, tongue, sword: 

The expectancy and rose of the fair state, 

The glass of fashion, and the mould of form, 

The observed of all observers ! quite, quite down ! 

And I, of ladies most deject and wretched, 

That suck'd the honey of his music vows. 

Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, 

Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh; 

That unmatched form and feature of blown youth, 

Blasted with ecstasy : O, woe is me ! 

To have seen what I have seen, see what I see ! 

Othello and Desdemona. 

Scene. — A Bedchamber : Desdemona in bed asleep. 

Othello. It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul, — 
Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars ! 
It is the cause. — Yet I'll not shed her blood ; 
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow. 
And smooth as monumental alabaster. \Takes off his sword. 

Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men. 

Put out the light, and then — put out the light: 

If I quench thee, thou flaming minister, 

I can again thy former light restore. 

Should I repent me : — ^but once put out thy light, 

Xhou cunning' St pattern of excelling nature, 


I know not where is that Promethean heat, 

That can thy light relume. "When I have pluck' d thy rose, 

I cannot give it vital growth again, 

It needs must wither : — I'll smell thee on the tree. {Kissing her. 

balmy breath, that dost almost persuade 
Justice to break her sword ! — One more, one more. — 
Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee, 
And love thee after: — Orie more, and that's the last: 
So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep, 

But they are cruel tears : this sorrow's heavenly; 
It strikes where it doth love. — She wakes. — 

Desdemona. Who's there? Othello? 

Oth. Aye, Desdemona. 

I>es. Will you come to bed, my lord ? 

Oth. Have you prayed to-night, Desdemona ? 

Des. Aye, my lord. 

Oih. If you bethink yourself of any crime, 
Unreconciled as yet to heaven and grace, 
Solicit for it straight. 

Iks. Alack, my lord, what may you mean by that ? 

Oth. Well, do it, and be brief; I will walk by: 

1 would not kill -thy unprepared spirit ; 

No, — Heaven forfend ! — I would not kill thy soul. 

Des. Talk you of killing ? 

Oth. Aye, I do. 

JDes. Then, heaven 
Have mercy on me ! 

Oih. Amen, with all my heart ! 

Des. If you say so, I hope you will not kill me. 

Oth. Humph! 

Des. And yet I fear you : for you are fatal then. 
When your eyes roll so : why I should fear, I know not, 
Since guiltiness I know not ; but yet I feel I fear. 

Oth. Think on thy sins. 

Des. They are loves I bear to you. 

Oth. Aye, and for that thou diest. 

Des. That death's unnatural, that kills for loving. 
Alas, why gnaw you so your nether lip ? 
Some bloody passion shakes your very frame : 
These are portents ; but yet I hope, I hope, 
They do not point on me. 

Oth. Peace, and be still ! 


Des. I will SO. What's the matter? 

0th. That handkerchief, which I so loved, and gave thee, 
Thou gav'st to Cassio. 

Des. No, by my life and soul ; 
Send for the man and ask him. 

0th. Sweet soul, take heed. 
Take heed of perjury; thou'rt on thy death-bed. 

Des. Aye, but not yet to die. 

0th. Yes, presently: 
Therefore confess thee freely of thy sin ; 
For to deny each article with oath 
Cannot remove, nor choke, the strong conception 
That I do groan withal. Thou art to die. 

Des. O Heaven have mercy on me ! 

0th. I say, amen. 

Des. And have you mercy too ! — I never did 
Offend you in my life ; never loved Cassio, 
But with such general warranty of heaven 
As I might love. I never gave him token. 

Oth. By heaven, I saw my handkerchief in 's hand. 

perjured woman ! thou dost stone my heart, 
And mak'st me call, what I intend to do, 

A murder, which I thought a sacrifice : * 

1 saw the handkerchief. 
Des. He found it then ; 

I never gave it him : — Send for him hither, 
I<et him confess a truth. 

Oth. He hath confessed. 

Des. What, my lord ? 

Oth. That he hath— used thee. 

Des. How? unlawfully?' 

Oth. Aye. 

Des. He will not say so. 

Oth. No, his mouth is stopped ; 
Honest lago hath ta'en order for't. 

Des. My fear interprets then, — What, is he dead ? 

Oth. Had all his hairs been lives, my great revenge 
Had stomach for them all. 

Des. Alas ! he is betray' d, and I undone. 

Oth. Out, strumpet ! Weep'st thou for him to my face ? 

Des. Oh, banish me, my lord, but kill me not. 
* An expiation. 


0th. Down, strumpet ! 

I>es. Kill me to-morrow ; let me live to-night. 

Oth. Nay, if you strive, 

Des. But lialf an hour. 

Oth. Being done. 
There is no pause. 

Des. But while I say one prayer. 

Oth. It is too late. {He smothers her. 

Emilia {within). My lord, my lord ! what ho ! my lord ! 
my lord ! 

Oth. What noise is this ? — Not dead ? not yet quite dead ? 
I, that am cruel, am yet merciful ; 
I would not have thee linger in thy pain. — 
So, so. 

Emil. {within). What ho ! my lord ! my lord ! 

Oth. Who's there? 

Emil. {within). O good my lord, I would speak a word 
with yoa 

Oth. Yes; — 'tis Emilia: — by-and-by. — She's dead. 
"Tis like she comes to speak of Cassio's death: 
The noise was high, — Ha ! no more moving ? 
Still as the grave. Shall she come in ? Were't good? 
I think she stirs again: — No — What's best to do ? 
If she come in, she'll sure speak to my wife : 
My wife ! my wife! what wife ? — I have no wife : 
O insupportable ! O heavy hour ! 
Methinks it should be now a huge eclipse 
Of sun and moon, and that the affrighted globe 
Did yawn at alteration. 

Emil. {within). I do beseech you I may speak with you, 
O good my lord. 

Oth. I had forgot thee : Oh, come in, Emilia : — 
Soft, — by-and-by: — I^et me the curtains draw. — 
Where art thou ? What's the matter with thee now ? 

[ Unlocks the door. 
Enter Emilia. 

Emil. O good my lord, yonder' s foul murder done. 

Oth. What? now? 

Emil. But now, my lord. 

Oth. It is the very error of the moon ; 
She comes more nearer earth than she was wont, 
And makes men mad. 


Emit. Cassio, my lord, has killed a young Venetian, 
Called Roderigo. 

0th. Roderigo killed ! 
And Cassio killed ? 

Emil. No, Cassio is not killed. 

0th. Not Cassio killed ? Then murder's out of tune, 
And sweet revenge grows harsh. 

Des. Oh, falsely, falsely murdered ! 

Etnil. Alas ! what cry is that ? 

Oth. That! what? 

Emtl. Out, and alas ! that was my lady's voice: — 
Help ! help, ho ! help ! — O lady, speak again ! 
Sweet Desdemona ! O sweet mistress, speak ! 

Des. A guiltless death I die. 

Emil. Oh, who hath done 
This deed ? 

Des. Nobody; I myself; farewell: ' 

Commend me to my kind lord. Oh, farewell. \Du 

Oth. Why, how should she be murdered ? 

Emil. Alas, who knows ? 

Oth. You heard her say herself, it was not I. 

Emil. She said so ; I must needs report the truth. 

Oth. She's, like a liar, gone to burning hell; 
'Twas I that killed her. 

Emil. Oh, the more angel she, 
And you the blacker devil ! 

Oth. She turned to folly, and she was a whore. 

Emil. Thou dost belie her, and thou art a devil. 

Oth. She was false as water. 

Emil. Thou art rash as fire, to say 
That she was false ; Oh, she was heavenly true ! 

Oth. Thy husband knew it all. 

Emil. My husband ? 

Oth. Thy husband. 

Emil. That she was false to wedlock ? 

Oth. Aye, with Cassio. 
Nay, had she been true. 

If heaven would make me such another world 
Of one entire and perfect chrysolite, 
I'd not have sold her for it. 

Emil My husband ? 

Oth. Aye, 'twas he that told me on her first ; 



An honest man he is, and hates the slime 
That sticks on filthy deeds. 
Emil. My husband ? 

Oth. What needs this iterance, woman? I say, thy husband. 
Emil. O mistress, villany hath made mocks with 
love ! — 
My husband say, that she was false ? 
Oth. He, woman; 
I say, thy husband: Dost understand the 

word ? 
My friend, thy husband, honest, honest lago. 
Emil. If he say so, may his pernicious 
Rot half a grain a day ! he lies to the heart. 
Oth. Ha! 

Emil. Do thy worst. 
This deed of thine is ,no more worthy 

Than thou wast worthy her. 
Oth. Peace, you were best. 
Emil. Thou hast not half the power to do 
me harm. 
As I have to be hurt. O gull ! O dolt ! 
As ignorant as dirt ! thou'st done a deed, — 
I care not for thy sword ; I'll make thee known, 
Though I lost twenty lives': — Help ! help ! ho ! help ! 
The Moor has killed my mistress. Murder ! murder ! 

I^EAR. AND Cordelia. 
SCENB.— .^ Tent in the French Camp. Lear on a bed, asleep. 

Cordelia. O thou good Kent, how shall I live and work, 
To match thy goodness ? My life will be too short, 
And every measure fail me. 

Kent. To be acknowledged, madam, is o'erpaid. 
All my reports go with the modest truth ; 
Nor more, nor clipped, but so. 

Cor. Be better suited : 
These weeds are memories of those worser hours ; 
I pr'ythee, put them off. 

Kent. Pardon, dear madam ; 
Yet to be known shortens my made intent ; 


My boon I make it that you know me not 
Till time and I think meet. 

Cor. Then be 't so, my good lord. — How does the king? 

Physicia7i. Madam, sleeps still. 

Cor. O you kind gods, 
Cure this great breach in his abused nature ! 
The untuned and jarring senses, Oh, wind up 
Of this child-changed father ! 

Phys. So please your majesty, 
That we may wake the king ? he hath slept long. 

Cor. Be governed by your knowledge, and proceed 
I' the sway of your own will. Is he arrayed ? 

Gentleman. Aye, madam ; in the heaviness of his sleep, 
We put fresh garments on him. 

Phys. Be by, good madam, when we do awake him ; 
I doubt not of his temperance. 
Please you, draw near. — I^ouder the music there. 

Cor. O my dear father ! Restoration, hang 
Thy medicine on my lips ; and let this kiss 
Repair those violent harms, that my two sisters 
Have in thy reverence made ! 

Kent. Kind and dear princess ! 

Cor. Had you not been their father, these white flakes 
Had challenged pity of them. Was this a face 
To be opposed against the jarring winds? 
To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder ? 
In the most terrible and nimble stroke 
Of quick, cross lightning? to watch, (poor perdu!) 
With this thin helm ? Mine enemy's dog. 
Though he had bit me, should have stood that night 
Against my fire. And wast thou fain,^poor father, 
To hovel thee with swine and rogues forlorn. 
In short and musty straw ? Alack, alack ! 
'Tis wonder that thy life and wits at once 
Had not concluded all. — He wakes ; speak to him. 

Phys. Madam, do you; 'tis fittest. 

Cor. How does my royal lord ? How fares your majesty? 

Lear. You do me wrong, to take me out o' the grave : — 
Thou art a soul in bliss ; but I am bound 
Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears 
Do scald like molten lead. 

Cor. Sir, do you know me ? 


Lear. You are a spirit, I know ; when did you die ? 

Cor. Still, still, far wide ! 

Phys. He's scarce awake: let him alone awhile. 

Lear. Where have I been ? — ^Where am I ? — Fair daylight — 
I am mightily abused. — I should e'en die with pity, 
To see another thus. — I know not what to say. 
I will not swear these are my hands : — let's see ; 
I feel this pin prick. Would I were assured 
Of my condition. 

Cor. O look upon me, sir. 
And hold your hands in benediction o'er me: — 
No, sir, you must not kneel. 

Lear. Pray, do not mock me : 
I am a very foolish fond old man. 
Fourscore and upward ; not an hour more or less ; 
And, to deal plainly, 
I fear I am not in my perfect mind. 
Methinks, I should know you, ani know this man : 
Yet I am doubtful : for I am mainly ignorant 
What place this is ; and all the skill I have 
Remembers not these garment ; nor I know not 
Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me ; 
For, as I am a man, I think this lady 
-To be my child Cordelia. 

Cor. And so I am, I am. 

Lear. Be your tears wet ? Yes 'faith. I, pray, weep not: 
If you have poison for me, I will drink it. 
I know you do not love me ; for your sisters 
Have, as I do remember, done me wrong. 
You have some cause, they have not. 

Cor. No cause, no cause. 

Lear. Am I in France? 

Kent. In your own kingdom, sir. 

Lear. Do not abuse me. 

Phys. Be comforted, good madam : the great rage, 
You see, is killed in him : and yet 't is danger 
To make him even o'er the time he has lost. 
Desire him to go in ; trouble him no more. 
Till further settling. 

Cor. Will't please your highness walk ? 

Lear. You must bear with me : 
Pray now, forget and forgive : I am old and foolish. [Exeunt. 


Scene. — The British Camp near Dover. 
Enter Edmund with Lear and Cordelia as Prisoners. 

Edmund. Some officers take them away : good guard ; 
Until their greater pleasures first be known, 
That are to censure them. 

Cor. We are not the first, 
Who, with best meaning, have incurred the worst. 
For thee, oppressed king, am I cast down ; 
Myself could else out-frown false fortune's frown. 
Shall we not see these daughters and these sisters ? 

Lear. No, no, no, no ! Come, let's away to prison: 
We two alone will sing like birds i' the cage ; 
When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down 
And ask of thee forgiveness. So we'll live. 
And pray and sing, and tell old tales and laugh 
At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues 
Talk of court news ; and we'll talk with them too, — 
Who loses and who wins; who's in, who's out; — 
And take upon us all the mystery of things. 
As if we were God's spies: and we'll wear out. 
In a walled prison, packs and sects of great ones. 
That ebb and flow by the moon. 

Edm. Take them away. 

Lear. Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia, 
The gods themselves throw incense. Have I caught thee ? 
He that parts us ghall bring a brand from heaven. 
And fire us hence, like foxes. Wipe thine eyes ! 

Scene. — The Forest. 
Duke. Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy 
Can do all this that he hath promised ? 

Orlando. I sometimes do believe, and sometimes do not : 
As those that fear they hope, and know they fear. 

Enter Rosalind (in male attire'), Sylvius and Phebe. 

Ros. Patience once more, while our compact is urged : 
You say, if I bring in your Rosalind, {To the Duke. 

You will bestow her on Orlando here ? 

Duke. That would I, had I kingdoms to give with her. 


Ros. And you say you will have her when I bring her ? 

\To Orlando. 

Orl. That would I, were I of all kingdoms king. 

Ros. You say, you'll marry me, if I be willing ? \ToPhebe. 

Phebe. That will I, should I die the hour after. 

Ros. But, if you do refuse to marry me, 
You'll give yourself to this most faithful shepherd ? 

Phe. So is the bargain. 

Ros. You say that you'll have Phebe, if she will ? 

\To Sylvius. 

Syl. Though to have her and death were both one thing. 

Ros. I have promised to make all this matter even. 
Keep you your word, O duke, to give your daughter ;— 
You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter ; — 
Keep your word, Phebe, that you'll marry me ; 
Or else, refusing me, to wed this shepherd : — 
Keep your word, Sylvius, that you'll marry her, 
If she refuse me : — and from hence I go 
To make these doubts all even. \Exeunt Rosalind and Celia. 

Duke. I do remember in this shepherd-boy 
Some lively touches of my daughter's favor. 

Orl. My lord, the first time that I ever saw him, 
Methought he was a brother to your daughter ; 
But, my good lord, this boy is forest-bom, 
And hath been tutor' d in the rudiments 
Of many desperate studies by his uncle. 
Whom he reports to be a great magician, 
Obscured in the circle of this forest. 

Enter Touchstone and Audrey. 

Jaques. There is, sure, another flood toward, and these couples 
are coming to the ar£ ! Here comes a pair of very strange beasts, 
which in all tongues are called fools. 

Touchstone. Salutation and greeting to you all ! 

Jaq. Good my lord, bid him welcome: this is the motley- 
minded gentleman that I have so often met in the forest ; he hath 
been a courtier, he swears. 

Touch. If any man doubt that, let him put me to my purga- 
tion. I have trod a measure ; I have flattered a lady ; I have 
been politic with my friend, smooth with mine enemy ; I have 
undone three tailors ; I have had four quarrels, and like to have 
fought one. 


Jaq. And how was that ta'en up ? 

Touch. 'Faith we met, and found the quarrel was upon the 
seventh cause. 

Jaq. How did you find the quarrel on the seventh cause ? 

Touch. Upon a lie seven times removed. Bear your body 
more seeming, Audrey : as thus, sir. I did dislike the cut of a 
certain courtier's beard ; he sent me word, if I said his beard was 
not cut well, he was in the mind it was. This is called the Retort 
courteous. If I sent him word again, it was not well cut, he 
would send me word, he cut it to please himself. This is called 
the Quip modest. If again, it was not well cut, he disabled my 
judgment. This is called the Reply churlish. If again, it was 
not well cut, he would answer, I spake not true. This is called 
the Reproof valiant. If again, it was not well cut, he would say, 
I lie. This is called the Countercheck quarrelsome : and so to the 
Lie circumstantial, and the Lie direct. 

Jaq. And how oft did you say, his beard was not well cut ? 

Touch. I durst go no further than the Lie circumstantial, nor 
he durst not give me the Lie direct: and so we measured swords 
and parted. 

Jaq. Is not this a rare fellow, my lord ? He's as good at any- 
thing, and yet a fool. 

Enter Hymen, leading Rosalind {in female attire) and Celia. 

Hym. Then is there mirth in heaven, 
When earthly things made even 

Atone together. 
Good Duke, receive thy daughter, 
Hymen from heaven brought her, 

Yea, brought her hither ; 
That thou mightst join her hand with his, 
Whose heart within her bosom is. 

Ros. To you I give myself, for I am yours. \To Duke. 

To you I give myself, for I am yours. \To Orlando. 

Duke. If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter. 

Orl. If there be truth in sight, you are my Rosalind. 

Phe. If sight and shape be true. 
Why then, — my love, adieu ! 

Ros. I'll have no father, if you be not he ; \To Duke. 

I'll have no husband, if you be not he : \To Orlando. 

Nor ne'er wed woman, if you be not she. [Te Phtie. 


Hym. Peace, ho ! I bar confusion : 
'Tis I must make conclusion 
Of these most strange events : 
Here's eight that must take hands, 
To join in Hymen's bands, 
If truth holds true contents. 
You and you no cross shall part 

[ To Orlando and Rosalind. 
You and you are heart in heart : {To Oliver and Celia. 
You {To Phebe\ to his love must accord. 
Or have a woman to your lord : 
You and you are sure together, 

[ To Touchitone and Audrey. 
As the -winter to foul weather. 
Whiles a wedlock-hymn we sing, 
Feed yourselves with questioning ; 
That reason wonder may diminish. 
How thus we met, and these things finish. 

Wedding is great Juno's crown ; 

O blessed bond of board and bed ! 
'Tis Hymen peoples every town ; 

High wedlock then be honored : 
Honor, high honor and renown. 

To Hymen, god of every town ! 

Falstafp and thk Merry Wives of Windsor. 

After Shakespeare had made Sir John FalstafF a popular though 
ludicrous character in his historical plays, Queen Elizabeth is said to 
have requested that he present Falstaff in love. The result was " The 
Merry Wives of Windsor," in whifch the fun was still more farcical. 

ScBNE- — A Room in Ford's House. 

Mrs. Page. Give your men the charge, we must be brief. 

Mrs. Ford. Marry, as I told you before, John and Robert, be 
ready here hard by in the brewhouse ; and when I suddenly call 
you, come forth, and (without any pause, or staggering) take this 
basket on your shoulders : that done, trudge with it in all haste, 
and carry it among the bleachers in Datchet mead, and there 
empty it in the muddy ditch, close by the Thames side. 
IV— 25 



Mrs. Fage. You will do it ? 

Mrs. Ford. I ha' told them over and over; they lack no 
direction. Begone, and come when you are called. 

\Exeunt Servants. 
Mrs. Fage. Here comes little Robin. 

Enter Robin. 
Mrs. Ford. How now, my eyas-musket?* what news with you? 
Robin. My master Sir John is come in at your back-door, mis- 
tress Ford, and requests your company. . . . 

Mrs. Fage. Thou'rt a 
good boy ; this secrecy of 
thine shalt be a tailor to 
thee, and shall make thee 
a new doublet and hose. — 
I'll go hide me. 

Mrs. Ford. Do so : — Go, 

tell thy master I am alone. 

\_Exeunt Robin and ' 

Mrs. Page. 

Mrs. Ford. Go to, then ; 

we'll use this unwholesome 

humidity, this gross watery 

pumpion ; — ^we'U teach him 

to know turtles [doves] 

from jays. 

Enter Falstaff. 

Falstaff. Have I caught 
thee, my heavenly jewel? 
Why, now let me die, for I 
have lived long enough; 
this is the period of my 
ambition. O this blessed 

Mrs. Ford. O sweet Sir 

Fal. Mistress Ford, I 
cannot cog, I cannot prate, mistress Ford. Now shall I sin in 
my wish : I would thy husband were dead. I'll speak it before 
the best lord, I would make thee my lady. 

* A young small hawk. 


Mrs. Ford. I your lady, Sir Jolin ! alas, I should be a pitiful 

Fal. I^t the court of France show me such another. I see 
how thine eye would emulate the diamond. Thou hast the right 
arched bent of the brow, that becomes the ship-tire, the tire- 
valiant, or any tire of Venetian fashion. 

Mrs. Ford. A plain kerchief, Sir John: my brows become 
nothing else ; nor that well neither. 

Fal. Thou art a tyrant to say so: thou wouldst make an 
absolute courtier ; and the firm fixture of thy foot would give an 
excellent motion to thy gait, in a semicircled farthingale. I see 
what thou wert, if Fortune thy foe were not ; Nature is thy friend : 
Come, thou canst not hide it. 

Mrs. Ford. Believe me, there's no such thing in me. 

Fal. "What made me love thee ? let that persuade thee there's 
something extraordinary in thee. Come, I cannot cog, and say, 
thou art this and that, like a many of these lisping hawthorn- 
buds, that come like women in men's apparel, and smell like 
Bucklersbury in simple-time; I cannot: but I love thee; none 
but thee ; and thou deservest it. 

Mrs. Ford. D6 not betray me, sir; I fear you love mistress 

Fal. Thou mightst as well say, 1 love to walk by the Counter- 
gate [the prison] ; which is as hateful to me as the reek of a lime- 

Mrs. Ford. Well, heaven knows how I love you ; and you shall 
one day find it. 

Fal. Keep in that mind ; I'll deserve it. 

Mrs. Ford. Nay, I must tell you, so you do ; or else I could 
not be in that mind. 

Rob. \within\. Mistress Ford, mistress Ford; here's mistress 
Page at the door, sweating and blowing, and looking wildly, and 
would needs speak with you presently. 

Fal. She shall not see me; I will ensconce me behind the 
Mrs. Ford. Pray you, do so ; she's a very tattling woman. 

\Falstaff hides himself. 

Enter Mistress Page and Robin. 

What's the matter? how now? 

Mrs. Page. O mistress Ford, what have you done ? You are 
shamed, you are overthrown, you are undone for ever. 


Mrs. Ford. What's the matter, good mistress Page? 

Mrs. Page. O well-a-day, mistress Ford ! having an honest 
man to your husband, to give him such cause of suspicion ! 

Mrs. Ford. What cause of suspicion ? 

Mrs. Page. What cause of suspicion ? — Out upon you ! how 
am I mistook in you ? 

Mrs. Ford. Why, alas ! what's the matter? 

Mrs. Page. Your husband's coming hither, woman, with all 
the oflScers in Windsor, to search for a gentleman, that, he says, 
is here now in the house, by your consent, to take an ill advan- 
tage of his absence. You are undone. 

Mrs. Ford \Aside\. 'Tis not so, I hope. 

Mrs. Page. Pray heaven it be not so, that you have such a 
man here; but 'tis most certain your husband's coming, with 
half Windsor at his heels, to search for such a one. I come 
before to tell you. If you know yourself clear, why I am glad of 
it : but if you have a friend here, convey, convey him out. 
Be not amazed ; call all your senses to you ; defend your reputa- 
tion, or bid farewell to your good life for ever. 

Mrs. Ford. What shall I do ? — There is a gentleman, my dear 
friend ; and I fear not mine own shame, so much as his peril : I 
had rather than a thousand pound, he were out of the house. 

Mrs. Page. For shame, never stand you had rather, and you 
had rather ; your husband's here at hand, bethink you of some 
conveyance : in the house you cannot hide him. — Oh, how have 
you deceived me ! — lyook, here is a basket ; if he be of any rea- 
sonable stature, he may creep in here ; and throw foul linen upon 
him, as if it were going to bucking ; or, it is whiting-time, send 
him by your two men to Datchet mead. 

Mrs. Ford. He's too big to go in there : What shall I do ? 

Re-enter Falstaff. 

Fal. I,et me see't, let me see't ! Oh, let me see't ! I'll in, I'll 
in ; — follow your friend's counsel ; — I'll in. 

Mrs. Page. What ! Sir John Falstaff ! Are these your letters, 
knight ? 

Fal. I love thee. Help me away ; let me creep in here ; I'll 
never — 

\He goes into the basket ; they cover him with foul linen. 

Mrs. Page. Help to cover your master, boy : Call your men, 
mistress Ford. — You dissembling knight ! 

Mrs. Ford. What, John, Robert, John ! \_Exit Robin; re-enter 



servants.] Go, take up these clothes here, quickly. Where's the 
cowl-staff? look, how you drumble :* carry them to the laundress 
in Datchet mead ; quickly^ come. 

Enter Ford, Page, Caius, and Sir Hugh Evans. 

Ford. Pray you, come near : if I suspect without cause, why 
then make sport at me, then let me be your jest ; I deserve it. — 
How now ? whither bear you this ? 

Serv. To the laundress, forsooth. 

Mrs. Ford. "Why, what have you to do whither they bear it? 
You were best meddle with buckwashing. 

Ford. Buck ? I would I could wash myself of the buck ! Buck, 
buck, buck ? Ay, buck ; I warrant you buck ; and of the season, 
too, it shall appear. \JExeunt Servants with the basket^ Gentle- 
men, I have dreamed to-night ; I'll tell you my dream. Here, 
here, here be my keys : ascend my chambers, search, seek, find 
out : I'll warrant, we'll unkennel the fox. I^et me stop this way 
first : — So, now uncape.f 

Page. Good master Ford, be contented ; you wrong yourself 
too much. 

Ford. True, master Page. Up, gentlemen ; you shall see 
sport anon : follow me, gentlemen. , [Exit. 

* Drone. t Unbag the fox. 


Eva. This is fery fantastical humors and jealousies. 

Caius. By gar, 'tis no de fashion of France; it is not jealous 
in France. 

Page. Nay, follow him, gentlemen ; see the issue of his search. 

[Exeunt Evans, Page and Caius. 

Mrs. Page. Is there not a double excellency in this ? 

Mrs. Ford. I know not which pleases me better, that my hus- 
band is deceived or Sir John. 

Mrs. Page. What a taking was he in when your husband 
asked who was in the basket ! 

Mrs. Ford. I am half afraid he will have need of washing ; so 
throwing him into the water will do him a benefit. 

Mrs. Page. Hang him, dishonest rascal ; I would all of the 
same strain were in the same distress. 

Mrs. Ford. I think my husband hath some special suspicion 
of Falstaff's being here, for I never saw him so gross in his 
jealousy till now. 

Mrs. Page. I will lay a plot to try that : and we will yet have 
more tricks with Falstaff ; his dissolute disease will scarce obey 
this medicine. 

Mrs. Ford. Shall we send that foolish carrion, mistress 
Quickly, to him, and excuse his throwing into the water; and 
give him another hope, to betray him to another punishment ! 

Mrs. Page. We'll doit; let him be sent for to-morrow, eight 
o'clock, to have amends. 

Re-enter Ford, Page, Caius, and Sir Hugh Evans. 

Ford. I cannot find him ; may be the knave bragged of that 
he could not compass. 

Mrs. Page. Heard you that ? 

Mrs. Ford. Ay, ay, peace : You use me well, master Ford, do 

Ford. Ay, I do so. 

Mrs. Ford. Heaven make you better than your thoughts. 

Ford. Amen. 

Mrs. Page. You do yourself mighty wrong, master Ford. 

Ford. Ay, ay ; I must bear it. 

Eva. If there be any pody in the house, and in the chambers, 
and in the coffers, and in the presses, heaven forgive my sins at 
the day of judgment ! 

Caius. By gar, nor I too : dere is no bodies. 

Page. Fie, fie, master Ford! are you not ashamed! What 


Spirit, what devil suggests this imagination? I would not ha* 
your distem^jer in this kind for the wealth of Windsor Castle. 

Ford. 'Tis my fault, master Page : I suffer for it. 

Eva. You suffer for a pad conscience : your wife is as honest a 
'omans as I will desires among five thousand, and five hundred 

Caius. By gar, I see 'tis an honest woman. 

Ford. Well, — I promised you a dinner. Come, come, walk m 
the park: I pray you, pardon me ; I will hereafter make known 
to you why I have done this. Come, wife ; come, mistress Page ; 
I pray you, pardon me ; pray heartily, pardon me. 


Controversy has raged about Shakespeare's Sonnets as about his 
dramatic works. Published in 1609, they were dedicated by the printer, 
Thomas Thorpe, to Mr. W. H., as " the Onlie Begetter of these insuing 
Sonnets." It has been guessed that this means William Herbert, 
afterwards Earl of Pembroke. Though some critics insist that these 
poems are a personal revelation, the fact that 126 out of the entire 154 
are addressed to a man and 26 more to a woman, seems to indicate that 
they were simply poetical exercises of an exuberant genius. Alto, 
gether they constitute an amatory correspondence of singular beauty, 
but are as free from autobiographical declarations as any of the 
author's dramas. Shakespeare rejected the strict arrangement of the 
Italian sonnet and used a simpler form— three quatrains followed by a 

The Poet Confers Immortality. 

Who will believe my verse in time to come. 

If it were filled with your most high deserts ? 
Though yet. Heaven knows, it is but as a tomb 

Which hides your life and shows not half your parts. 
If I could write the beauty of your eyes. 

And in fresh numbers number all your graces. 
The age to come would say, "This poet lies ; 

Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces." 
So should my papers, yellow' d with their age, 

Be scorn' d like old men of less truth than tongue. 
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage 

And stretched metre of an antique song. 
But were some child of yours alive that time. 
You should live twice : in it, and in my rhyme. 


The Eternal Summer. 

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day ? 

Thou art more lovely and more temperate ; 
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, 

And summer's lease hath all too short a date. 
Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines, 

And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; 
And every fair from fair sometime declines, - 

By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd. 
But thy eternal summer shall not fade, 

Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest ; 
Nor shall Death brag thou wander' st in his shade. 

When in eternal lines to time thou growest. 
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, 
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. 

The Happiness op True I/Ove. 

I/ET those who are in favor with their stars 

Of public honor and proud titles boast. 
Whilst I, whom fortune of such honors bars, 

Unlook'd for joy in that I honor most. 
Great princes' favorites their fair leaves spread 

But as the marigold at the sun's eye, 
And in themselves their pride lies buried, 

For at a frown they in their glory die. 
The painful warrior famous^d for fight, 

After a thousand victories once foil'd 
Is from the book of honor razSd quite. 

And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd. 
Then happy I, that love and am beloved 
Where I may not remove or be removed. 


The fotemost of the Elizabethan dram- 
atists, next to Shakespearp, was the learned 
Ben Jonson. From his birth, in 1573, 
to his first success as a play-writer, in 1598, not much is 
definitely known, except that he was of Scotch descent, got 
his schooling at Westminster and Cambridge, and did 'pren- 
tice work for his stepfather— a bricklayer. This he left for 
service as a volunteer with the army in the Low Countries. 
When back in London the stage was Ben's clear destiny, first 
as one of the actors, but soon as actor-author, in which double 
capacity Shakespeare had already earned fame and fortune. 
The young playwright had a few months' experience of jail- 
life for having killed a brother-actor in a duel, — and here he 
became a Catholic. His earliest comedy, or the earliest per- 
formed, was played by the Lord Chamberlain's company, and 
one of the characters was acted by Shakespeare. This was 
"Every Man in his Humor." From this sprang the friend- 
ship, none the less cordial if tinctured with envy on Jonson's 
side, between the genial rivals at the Mermaid Tavern. To 
this play succeeded sundry patchwork contributions to other 
men's plays; and then "Every Man Out of his Humor," 
which was performed in the presence of Queen Elizabeth. In 
1600 Jonson sought to win her favor by a a skillful piece of 
flattery, entitled " Cynthia's Revels,' ' in which certain satirical 
passages wounded the dignity of Dekker and Marston, two of 
his associate playwrights, and provoked a retort from the 
former. Hearing that this was coming, Jonson hurried the 
production of "The Poetaster," ridiculing the pettiness of 
the versemakers. Within a year or two the jibing satirists 
were friends again, collaborating in other plays. The classical 



tragedy entitled "Sejanus, his Fall," was performed in 1603, 
witli Shakespeare in one of the parts. 

The general run of Jonson's dramas is in the opposite 
direction to that of popularity : the narrative is involved, the 
wit bright and pungent, but hammered out too finely, and the 
dialogue overlaid with pedantic veneering. The intellectual 
strength underneath is unmistakable. His more serious 
plays may be described as Dekker describes their author: 
" Large of frame, bony, meagre of flesh (in his earlier years), 
pockmarked, and with eager eyes for piercing glances and for 
soaring up to the heights of poetry." His comedies, includ- 
ing "Volpone, or. The Fox;" " Epiccene, or. The Silent 
Woman;" "The Alchemist;" " Bartholemew Fair," and 
"The Devil is an Ass," were written prior to 161 6, when for 
ten years he ceased to write for the stage. 

The death of Queen Elizabeth found Jonson turning to 
the concocting of masques and similar entertainments, which 
won the patronage of the king and nobility, in whose houses 
they were performed. He succeeded better as poet than as 
dramatist. Here and there in his plays — especially in the 
tragedy, "Catiline, his Conspiracy" — are lyrics of the true 
ring; and in his collections — "The Forest" and "Under- 
woods" — are many examples of pure poetry in various meas- 
ures, on varied themes. His "Epigrams," too, of which he 
•vas tenderly proud, displayed his versatility of handiwork, 
in 161 8 Jonson tramped from London to Scotland, where he 
sojourned with congenial Drummond of Hawthomden, whose 
recorded "Conversations" give a vivid picture of the English- 
man. Despite his laureate pension Jonson was impecunious. 
He says his plays had not brought him two hundred pounds 
in all. So in 1625 he took to play-making again, without 
great results. On the failure of the latest comedy, called " The 
New Inn," Jonson published an epilogue protest against the 
neglect on the part of the King and Queen. To this Charles 
I. replied with the annual grant of ;^ioo, and a tierce of 
Canary wine, which long continued to be the laureate's per- 
quisite. His latter days were gladdened by the homage of 
all lovers of literature. Jonson died on August 6, 1637, in 
his sixty-fourth year. 


Sir Epicure Mammon. 

Scene. — Subtle the Alchemist'' s House. 

Mammon. Come on, sir. Now you set your foot on shore 
In novo orbe. Here's the rich Peru : 
And then within, sir, are the golden mines, 
Great Solomon's Ophir ! He was sailing to 't 
Three years, but we have reached it in ten months. 
This is the day wherein to all my friends 
I will pronounce the happy word, Be rich. 
This day you shall be spectatissimi. 
You shall no more deal with the hollow die, 
Or the frail card. No more be at charge of keeping 
The livery punk for the young heir, that must 
Seal at all hours in his shirt. No more, 
If he deny, ha' him beaten to 't, as he is 
That brings him -the commodity. No more 
Shall thirst of satin, or the covetous hunger 
Of velvet entrails for a rude-spun cloak 
To be displayed at Madam Augusta's, make 
The sons of Sword and Hazard fall before 
The golden calf, and on their knees whole nights 

Commit idolatry with wine and trumpets ; 

Or go a-feasting after drum and ensign ; 

No more of this. You shall' start up young viceroys, 

And have your punques and punquetees, my Surly: 

And unto thee I speak it first. Be rich. 

Where is my Subtle there ? within ho — 

Face (within). Sir, he'll come to you by and by. 
Mam. That's his fire-drake. 

His Lungs, his Zephyrus, he that puffs his coals 

Till he firk nature up in her own centre. 

You are not faithful, sir. This night I'll change 

All that is metal in thy house to gold : 

And early in the morning will I send 

To all the plumbers and the pewterers, 

And buy their tin and lead up ; and to Lothbury 

For all the copper. 
Surly. What, and turn that too? 


Mam. Yes, and I'll purchase Devonshire and Cornwall, 
And make them perfect Indies ! You admire now ? 

Sur. No, faith. 

Mam. But when you see the effects of the great medicine ! 
Of which one part projected on a hundred 
Of Mercury, or Venus, or the Moon, 
Shall turn it to as many of the Sun ; 
Nay, to a thousand, so ad infinitum : 
You will believe me. 

Sur. Yes, when I see 't, I will. 

Ma7n. Ha ! why. 
Do you think I fable with you ? I assure you, 
He that has once the flower of the Sun, 
The perfect Ruby, which we call Elixir, 
Not only can do that, but by its virtue 
Can confer honor, love, respect, long life, 
Give safety, valor, yea and victory. 
To whom he will. In eight and twenty days 
I'll make an old man of fourscore a child. 

Sur. No doubt ; he's that already. 

Mam. Nay, I mean. 
Restore his years, renew him like an eagle. 
To the fifth age ; make him get sons and daughters, 
Young giants, as our philosophers have done 
(The ancient patriarchs afore the flood,) 
By taking, once a- week, on a knife's point, 
The quantity of a grain of mustard of it, 
Become stout Marses and beget young Cupids. 

Sur. The decayed vestals of Pickt-hatch would thank you, 
That keep the fire alive there. 

Mam. 'Tis the secret 
Of nature naturized 'gainst all infections. 
Cures all diseases, coming of all causes ; 
A month's grief in a day; a year's in twelve ; 
And of what age soever, in a month : 
Past all the doses of your drugging doctors ; 
I'll undertake withal to fright the plague 
Out o' the kingdom in three months. 

Sur. Andril 
Be bound the players shall sing your praises, then, 
Without their poets. 

Mam. Sir, I'll do 't. Meantime, 


I'll give away so much unto my man, 
Shall serve the whole city with preservative 
Weekly; each house his dose, and at the rate — 

Sur. As he that built the water-work does with water ! 

Mam. You are incredulous. 

Sur. Faith, I have humor. 
I would not willingly be gulled. Your Stone 
Cannot transmute me. 

Mam. Pertinax Surly, 
Will you believe antiquity ? Records ? 
I'll show you a book, where Moses and his sister, 
And Solomon, have written of the art ! 
Aye, and a treatise penned by Adam. 

Sur. How ? 

Main. Of the Philosopher's Stone and in High Dutch. 

Sur. Did Adam write, sir, in High Dutch ? 

Mam. He did ; 
Which proves it was the primitive tongue. 

Sur. What paper ? 

Mam. Cedar-board. 

Sur. O that, indeed, they say, 
Will last 'gainst worms. 

Mam. 'Tis like your Irish wood 
'Gainst cobwebs. I have a piece of Jason's fleece too, 
Which was no other than a book of Alchemy, 
Writ in large sheep-skin, a good fat ram-vellum. 
Such was Pythagoras' Thigh, Pandora's Tub, 
And all that fable of Medea's charms, 
The manner of our work ; the bulls, our furnace, 
Still breathing fire: our Argent-vive, the Dragon: 
The Dragon's teeth. Mercury sublimate, 
That keeps the whiteness, hardness and the biting : 
And they are gathered into Jason's helm, 
(Th' Alembick,) and then sowed in Mars his field, 
And thence sublimed so often, till they are fixed. 
Both this, the Hesperian Garden, Cadmus' Story, 
Jove's Shower, the Boon of Midas, Argus' Eyes, 
Boccace his Demogorgon, thousands more, 
All abstract riddles of our Stone. 


Captain Bobadil. 

While the comedy "Every Man in His Humor" cannot bear 
comparison as a whole with those of Shakespeare, yet in its broad 
lines, and not less so in tnany of its detailed characterizations, it has a 
power and incisiveness which few have equalled. 

Captain Bobadil is a strongly-drawn type of gasconading heroes 
who are their own trumpeters. While living at an obscure inn he is 
visited by Knowell, whom he tries to make his dupe. 

Bobadil. I will tell you sir, by the way of private, and under 
seal, I am a gentleman, and live here obscure, and to myself; but 
were I known to her majesty and the lords (observe me), I would 
undertake, upon this poor head and life, for the public benefit of 
the state, not only to spare the entire lives of her subjects in 
general, but to save the one-half, nay three-parts of her yearly 
charge in holding war and against what enemy soever. And how 
would I do it, think you ? 

Knowell. Nay, I know not, nor can I conceive, 
Bobadil. Why, thus, sir. I would select nineteen more, to 
myself, throughout the land ; gentlemen they should be of good 
spirit, strong and able constitution ; I would choose them by an 
instinct, a character that I have : and I would teach these nine- 
teen the special rules — as your punto, your reverso, your stoccata, 
your imbroccato, your passado, your montanto — till they could 
all play very neat, or altogether as well as myself. This done, 
say the enemy were forty thousand strong, we twenty would 
come into the field the tenth of March, or thereabouts ; and we 
would challenge twenty of the enemy ; they could not in their 
honor refuse us; well, we would kill them; challenge twenty 
more, kill them ; twenty more, kill them ; twenty more, kill them 
too; and thus would we kill every man his twenty a day, that's 
twenty score ; twenty score, that's two hundred ; two hundred a 
day, five days a thousand ; forty thousand ; forty times five, five 
times forty, two hundred days kills them all up by computation. 
And this will I venture my poor gentleman-like carcass to per- 
form, provided there be no treason practiced upon us, by fair and 
discreet manhood ; that is, civilly by the sword. 


Ode to HiMSEtif. 

On the failure of his comedy "The New Inn," -written after ten 
years' abstention from stage work, and first acted January 19, 1629, 
Jonson penned this contemptuous ^ing at the vulgar herd who could 
not distinguish between acorns and wheat. 

Come, leave the loathed stage, 

And the more loathsome age ; 
Where pride and impudence, in faction knit, 

Usurp the chair of wit ! 
Inditing and arraigning every day 
Something they call a play. 

Let their fastidious, vain, 

Commission of the bfain 
Run on and rage, sweat, censure, and condemn ; 
They were not made for thee, less thou for them. 

Say that thou pour'st them wheat. 

And they will acorns eat ; 
'Twere simple fury still thyself to waste 

On such as have no taste ! 
To offer them a surfeit of pure bread 
Whose apfietites are dead ! 

No, give them grains their fill. 

Husks, draff to drink or swill ; 
If they love lees, and leave the lusty wine, 
Envy them not, their palate's with the swine. 

lyeave things so prostitute 

And take the Alcaic lute ; 
Or thine own Horace, or Anacreon's lyre ; 

Warm thee by Pindar's fire ; 
And though thy nerves be shrunk and blood be cold, 
Ere years have made thee old, 

Strike that disdainful heat, 

Throughout, to their defeat. 
As curious fools, and envious of thy strain, 
May blushing swear no palsy's in thy brain. 

But when they hear thee sing 
The glories of thy king, 


His zeal to God, and his just awe o'er men ; 

They may, blood-shaken then. 
Feel such a flesh-quake to possess their powers, 
As they shall cry : " I^ike ours 
In sound of peace or wars, 
No harp e'er hit the stars. 
In tuning forth the acts of his sweet reign, 
And raising Charles his chariot 'bove his Wain." 

To Ckua. 

Drink to me only with thine eyes, 

And I will pledge with mine ; 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup, 

And I'll not look for wine. 
The thirst that from the soul doth rise, 

Doth ask a drink divine ; 
But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 

I would not change for thine. 

I sent thee late a rosy wreath. 

Not so much honoring thee, 
As giving it a hope, that there 

It could not withered be. 
But thou thereon did'st only breathe, 

And sent'st it back to me; 
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear. 

Not of itself, but thee.