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WITH 

ILLUSTRATIVE TEXTSX^^ 

FROM MASTERPIECES OF 

ECYPTL^N, HEBRENX: GR£E!0) 

'LATIN. MODERN EUROPEAN 

AKD AMERICAN 

LITERATURE 

FULLY ILLUSTRATED 



'Vl ^^v^^TJVVT^v^^ s;^^^^^^*J■--''-■^-■-'^'^J^"wwg^ 



EDITORIAL STAFF 



VliT Slv, J, K. biihUAh Miuourl 

Cll*&^ H^ CApriii New York 

Jahu A- CiAifi. U A.. H.J} , Pir.U , L'nivtrutjr af Uif buitn 
Mrs- SAiAa Fl>tt Dicilb Culaiada 

Alc^ FoiTiLK. DXT' TuJaae Lri'tm^T 

I^Cfld-lLL FlCi^D - - , ... ChicdBa 

Bftjcs C' KiuC9i.tr - Ror^l CaLlctcal Oi|AAii1a. EaiIiihI 
l>, r>- Lu»uiiilLh A.B., Ph,D. - Unlrrmtrot CtalciflD 
K-c^^CTH UcKcrfEii. Fh-L. ^ Y&le UnivvtlEi 

riAKK B. MjUfiik rii,l>. - • UiuvcTtiLr of TCLU 

Di. Hauiltdii Wiiciit Mmu - - ■> ■ New Y ark 
W, A. MvHBTU., Ph.D.. LTf-D. - Univniitr af Ci.liruRua 
T. M, PABKijTt* Ph.D. - Piinccloii UnivcrmT 

CMKf Sr(i7A'EiVAH, Pb.li - Ifirivcmlv ol Wiuomm 

H, C. TouiAH. Pif n,. r Tl. ^ V^q-lcTlit^r Univcnilf 

L E. Wiwo. M,A, - ^ ' - ^ , - Mithican 




VOL V 



3^^ 



3i 



THE DELPHIAN SOCIETY 



ComtCBT 19U 

THE DELPHIAN' SOCIETY 

CaicACC] 




w. a. cohKcr coupamt 




QuT^ty: Tccmaments , ,.*,... I 

Chaptqe VH. 
St Francis of Auisi U 

CHAPmc Mil. 
MaiTO PoIo"a TnT«ls 51 

CflAFrt* IX. 

Eirli*3t Fiction ^1 

E^vptiaji Siorics ^ 

Gre«k FictJoo 4l> 

MEDIAEVAL STORIES, 

Chapter X. 
Beowulf 61 

Chaptzr XI. 

Earl; AngltJ-Saion Litcraturif , , . , , ,,.,.,.. tiT 

CwimOTi .-.,...,,,,,......,,., , ,....,.., TS 

Cyntwnlf 7* 

Alfred the Great Ti> 

The Saxon Chronicle 84 

Chapter Xll. 
Roland 91 

CHAPtw XIIL 

EarlT French Literature 1«M» 

Songs of the Troubadours - .,.,.- , - W 

Chaptir XIV, 

Legmds of King Arthur 117 

Pardval 131 

Chaptth XV. 

Spanish Literature 12ti 

Le Cid 131 

Chapter XVI. 

The Nibelunjirenlicd 140 

Siegfried 151 

Chapter XVH. 

The Minne^ingera. .....,..,_., Iffil 

Chaptq XVIII. 

Norse Stories 177 

Chapter XTX. 
Aucaisin and NicoLete '201 

III 



IV TABtE OF CONTENTS — PART ¥• 

THE HISTORY OF MUSIC 

Mnsk; lb Dcrclopment and Possibilities 218 

Chaptka h 
Early Qmrch Music 235 

CHAi-mt H. 
Mediwal Mnsic 236 

CuArrxR Uh 
Early Protestant Music 248 

Chapter IV. 
Early Composers 255 

Chai-ter V. 
Later ClassicaT Composers 268 

Chaptir VL 

Romantic Composers 289 

Chaptct VH. 
Programme Music , 306 

CBAraa VIIL 
Famous Operas 317 

Chaptsr IX, 

French Opera 333 

CHAt-na X- 
German Opera ....................... 351 

Chaptvb xr 

Wagner and His Music Dramas. % 357 

Chaptbs xri. 

Ring of the Nibelung 365 

Chapteb XIII. 
The Music of the Future 384 

THE CONDUCT OF LIFE, 

On the Better Teacliing of Manners 390 

Manners Matter Much 400 

Good Breeding 406 

Manners When Traveling 407 

Dress 408 

Happiness 410 

The Art of Having Time 423 

The Miracle of Tact 428 

Friendship 433 

The Simple Life 455 

The Essence of Simplicity 463 

Christmas 470 

L Envoi 477 

Description of Illustrations 478 



FULL PAGE ILLUSTKATIONS 

PART V, 

Pa(K 

iLLUMiNATnt MfSSAif— PitocESSioN Of MoMKs...,. , ,ProntitpKce 

Moan CAiumtAt 19 

UAnmNA Jizuji StDiA — Raphah. tf 

FucHT INTO Egypt — Giono. ..-.....,.......,..,..,,,,,,, ,--••- ^^ 

St, FftAFfaa Puaching to the Buds ^^^ 

UrrtK AKD Lower Cquiches or Assrai ^^ 

BmHovur ix H13 Study ^^ 

MOIAKT AND SlSm BETOItt MaUA THUUEfiA 241 

Fa* Awamco 280 

Madonna AMD Chiij>— Pilipfo Lim %0 

GuiK Chuich— Russia 384 

Canals of Houand (PhotograTtire) 432 

Ixm or LucntNi 446 

Chauk £mit 480 

HAPorEuBora A. D, 1000 nn 



V 



THE MIDDLE AGES 



CHAPTER VI. 

ClItVALKY. 

Iht feudal systati gave opportunity for the rite uni cle- 
vrlopmmt of chivalry in mcdi^icval Etiropcr* An organization 
of siK-my wliidi set a compai4Uvcl) ^mall class of men free 
front cx<ictingduue«, ustmlly Lncumbcnttipon cittiCM, accounts 
for ti)C existence of krughlbood as wc find it in the Middle 
Agcv From the ejevcmh lo the sixteenth centuries kright- 
bood flourished, being moic powerful during the iirst three 
hundred years. 

Knightt belonged to the upper or noble class and their 
scuvities were undcnakcn for the most pan in behalf of tJmt 
dass. Nevertheless, their influence was felt tlirougbout Eu- 
rope and among yll stM-ial class^. In some w^ys this influence 
was forttifiate; viewed from other siandpoinls, it was Ic&a for- 
tunate, an<l even at tiines pemtdous. ^1ien all is said, the 
good it embodied probably outweighed the evil. 

"Chivalry may be defined a» iJic mora! aiid social law and 
ai5toni of the noble and gentle class in Western iZurope during 
Uie Middle ^\gcs, and the results of that hw and custom in 
action. It apphes, strictly speaking:, lo gentlemen only. Its 
three principal factors are war, religion and love of ladies: its 
merits and faults spring from those three heads, and all the 
side influences which ^itcnd its growth and decay may be 
summed up under these/" 

Boys bcloiiging to ihe nobility were trained from child- 
hood in the spirit of knight-errantry. At about the age of 
seven a boy would be sent to the castle of some noble to serve 
as page until fourteen. Here he came and went at the com- 
mand of lords and ladies — carrying messages, and doin^ flight 
commisEtons. By the ladies he was taught courtesy and by 
Uie men he was trained in feats of arms, riding and lilting. 
He lived in an atmosphere of diivalry and the diginty and 

■ Chivalry, Cotntiiti, ij. 
V— 1 I 



^ 



run woRL&'s riuicaess. 



worth cf kntghtliood became fiimly fixed in h!s nunil. When 
about Joiulccn he bccantc a squire Kow he earned the armour 
of his lord, bore his shield, aided turn in every way. When 
twcnty-onc be was-usualJy knighted, preferably upon the fidd 
of battlt where he had dUtinguisfied himseli by his bravery. 

The knight sen-cd the Church, his lord and his lady. He 
fhowed refipect to his superiors aiid gentleness to his inferiors. 
Truth, honor and fidelity were qiiahliefi he cslcemcd before 
aU others, and he promi&ed to defend the weak and oppressed. 
His principal occupalion was war. Durmg tunni of peace, the 
mock-battle — the ioumami-nt^^viks engagc<l in. The crusades 
gave ample opportunity for the kniglits to distinguish tlieui- 
selvcs in battle. Other occasions were given by war$ between 
nobles* between king^, find in the rendering of assistance to 
the Pope. Many accounts remain to us of daring deeds upon 
the 6eJd of battle, notably during the Hundred Years' War. 
The complete armour worn by the mediaeval knighi rendered 
him wellnigh invulnerable l>cfore the invention of gunpowder. 

Between one campaign and artother or in extended jwriud* 
of peace, tojmaments were held in lands where knighthood 
was wrii established. As a matter of fact, more were held in 
France and England than in kingdoms farther east. At such 
times knights from all over OirJstendoin might enter tlic lists 
and contest with Ihcir felJow-kmglits in varjous feats oi skill 
and strength. Such occasions were anticipated and eagerly 
hailed- Kings and queens sometimes graced the gatherings 
b^ their presence; «ach knight was stimulated to do well in 
the eyes of his mistress, or at least in her estimatioiL We may 
read various account* of these tournaments, both in the litera- 
ture of the English and the Prench, Tlie Oironicles of Frt:i»- 
sart arc Famous. He was a native of I'landcrs who spent quite 
A portion of hia life at the courts of Prance at^d England. He 
bad a wide acquaintance in both lands and was favored by 
royalty. He wrote down many incidents that be witnessed, 
and ttfcanse he chrorucled tliem so simply and so truthfully 
withal, his writings have become a repository for modem 
knowledge of chivalry and gallant dc^ds in the fourteenth cert* 
tury. Not only does Fmiitsan Icitd u* into the spirit of his 
age, but he brings men before us in ko strikirg a manner that 



ths middle Aces^ 



Ihej become as familiar as characters in a story. Two or Ihrce 
descriptions of military encounters, tournaments and tilting 
matches arc appended at the c1o$c of tliis chapter, but he who 
wotild zander in the land of knight an<l lady, squire and page, 
gallant king ^nd faithful vassal should become acquainted 
with the Oironiclcs in thtir wiiirely, 

Pnjb:ibly in the hcgSnning (he order of knights came into 
existence to support the king in the stand he took again-st the 
Saraccnj^ Mounted horsemen who defended the borders after 
the battJe of Tours seem to have merged into kni^its. How- 
ever, it is diffictilt to tell how early the spirit of chivalry — 
hOtfWr of women and respect for them, accompanied with the 
attentions of courtesy — became allied with knight errantry. It 
must be granted that it was this spirit of chivalry, toward re- 
ligion and women, that ^xalitrd knighthood and gave it dig- 
nity. 

During their leisure the knights found plenty of time 
for dancing, feasting, singing, making love and writing love 
literattirt. With the songs of bravery — as. for example, the 
Song of Rohmd — were sung songs oi lo\*e, for example, the 
story of Aucassin and Nicolete. Lovers addressed poans 
of praise to their ladies, and tronbadours orried such songs 
from court lo court, from castle to castle. In llicir relations 
with each other kmghts showed remarkable delicacy of feel- 
ingand respect. The law of gallantry, wc arc told, was equal, 
if not superior, to the Uw of military honor as a guide to con- 
duct. 

Gradually knight-errantry died out in Europe as a distinct 
estate and occupation of men, and yet it is safe to say that to 
this day, to whatever extent the spirit of chivalry still domi- 
nates men, to whatever extent they spring to the aid of the 
weak and espouse the cause of the oppressed, however proudly 
they prixe their pledged word and their honor, next to the 
teachings of Christianity, this is the remit of the teachings and 
iffeali of Ricfliaeval kinghiliood. Unworthy knights there cer- 
tainly »*'ere — knights who were selfish, quarrelsome and false 
lo their vows. Unchivalric men there certainly nre today: 
but both in the Middle Ages and at the present time such men 
hav'C exislod. not because of knighthood and ita ideals, but in 



4 THE WORIU'S nCOGKESS, 

Sfnte of them. In modem times there has been no sacfa mnty 
in religion as allowed men to be as one in espousing it, and 
dnriT^ the past century society has undergone such social revo- 
lutions that bewilderment has resulted and no Icmger are the 
duties of the chivalrous clearly defined as tbey once were, 
Neverthdess, so widely has a diivalric spirit become diffused 
among the nations that we scarcely realize how different the 
world would be were it suddenly eliminated. 

Another fortunate result of knight err antry was the dig- 
nity given to personal service. Among the andcnts we find 
little that was exalted in service. It was rendered from ne- 
cessity rather than choice. In the Middle Ages the monk who 
served bmnanity in serving God, and the knight who served 
his church, his king, and his lord, gave to personal service a 
feeling of pride and consecration. 

"Chivalry taught the world the duty of noble service will- 
ingly rendered. It upheld courage and enterprise in obedience 
to rule, it consecrated military prowess to the service of the 
Church, glorified the virtues of liberality, good faith, unselfish- 
ness and courtesy, and above all, courtesy to women. Against 
these may be set the vices of pride, ostentation, love of Hood- 
shed, contempt of inferiors, and loose manners. Chivalry was 
an imperfect discipline, but it was a discipline, and one fit for 
the times. It may have existed in the world too long: it did 
not come into existence too early, and with all its shortcomings 
it exerdsed a great and wholesome influence in raising the 
mediaeval world from barbarism to civilization,"* 

■Chivalry. Comiih, 37. 



The utDDu Aces. 



KNICHTr,V CONTESTS, 

You know, or musi have l*caril ii n^entioncdr tlial ihe in* 
lercouTM of young gcntknicrn wilh the fair »cx cncouragts 
sentiments of honor and love: of fame I iiiaition tins because 
;here were with the King of France three gentlemen of great 
v&lor and enterprise, winch tlicy were probably induced by 
that intercourse to tiiapUy in the manner I shaU relate. The 
nuncs of the three were Sir Boudcaut, the younger; Sir Regi- 
xfild dc Koyc, and the Lord du Saimpi. These knights were 
chamberlains to the kin^, and ntuch t&teaned by him; and be- 
ing desirous of advancing themselves hi the estimation of ftU 
present, and especially the ladies, they offered to hold a ficM 
of arms on the frontier of Calais in the course of the ensuing 
summer, against all foreign knights and squires, for the space 
of ihirty days, nnd la tilt with blunt linces or others. The 
King of Trantc was well plcasc.l with the conriigc(;us dml- 
kngc of his three knights, and declared his consent to it; more- 
over, he called them into his closet ;m<! tmtd : "Boucicaut, Rcgi- 
nakl and Saimpi, be attentive in this enierprise to guard your 
honor well, and thai of our kingdom; let nothing be sirred 
in the state you keep» for I will not fail to a«Eist you as far as 
to.OOO francs." The king after this left Montpellier, follow- 
ing the road to Alipi^n, where he dined and lay that night at 
St Thibery. . . . 

The time was now come for the three French kTitghls, 
who h^il nndrrtaken to maintain the Iist< :igainxt at! comers 
at St Inglevcre. near Calais, to make good thrir ciigagcmcnt- 
Thi» tournament had been proclaimed in many coutttries, es- 
pecially in England, where it caused much stirprise, and acv- 
■eral valiant knights and squires undertook to attend. Sir John 
Uolland, half-brother to ihe King of England, was the Hrsl to 
eross the sea : and with him were more than sixty knif^hts and 
•quires, who took up their quarters in Calais, On the 3ist of 
May. afi it had been proclaimed, the three knights were proper- 
ly armed, and iheir horses rea<Iy saddled, according to the laws 
of llfcc t*jurnamt-rt : i*XK\ on the same day all tlio*e knighT^ who 
were in Calais Killied forth, as spectators or tilrcrs, and being 
arrivi-d at the spot, drew up on one side. The place of (he 



THE WOBSJ>'^ PR0Ctt£S5. 



loumantcnt was smoclli and green with grass. Sir John Hol- 
land, Eait of Himtint^don, was llic tusl who sent his ^uirc 
to touch Ihc war lar^t of Sir Boucicaut, wiio instantly i£sucd 
from his pavilion, completely armed, and havirf- mourned his 
hone and grasperl his spear, the two conibataitti took th«ir dis- 
tances. They cyrcl each other for some rime, and then spurred 
tht'ir horses and mer fiiJl gallop, with such force indeied that 
Sir Boucicaut pierced the stiidd of the Earl of Hnntingdon, 
and the point of liis Uncc slipped along his ami, but without 
wounding him, The two kni|:hts having passed, contimicd 
their gallop to the end of the list. This caursc was much 
praised. At the second course they hit each other slightly, 
but no harm was done, and their borsee refused to complete 
the tliird. The Earl of Huntingdon, who was heated, and 
wi^hc't to coniirme the tilt, returned lo his place, expecting that 
Sir Boucicaut would call for his lanct: but he did not, and 
showed plainly that hr did not whh In tfh more with the earl 
that day. Sir John seeing this, sent his squire to touch the 
war target of tbc Lord dc Saimpi. lliis knight, who was 
wailing for the combat, sallied out from his pavilion and look 
his lance and (shield. When the earl saw he was ready, he 
violently spurred his horse, as did the Lord de Saimpi. They 
couched their lancet and pointetl iliem at each other. At the 
onset their horses crossed, notwithstanding which they met, 
hut by their cros^iing. wliich was blamed, the earl was nn- 
hclnicd. He returned to hi* pe*iple, who soon rehelmcd him; 
and, having resumed their lances, they met full gallopv and hit 
each other with sucli force in tlic middle of their shields that 
they would h^ve been unhorsed had they not kept tight scats, 
by the pressure of their legs against the horses' sides. They 
went to their proper places when they refreshed themselves 
and took breath. Sir John, who had a great desire to shine 
in the toumament, had his hclmcl braced, ;ind gra?i|jed hi« 
spear again, when the l^rd de Sainipt, seeing him advance in 
a gallop, did not derJine meeting, but spurring bis horse on 
instantly, Ihcy gave blows on their helmets, lliat were ludcily of 
wclMcmpcrcd sicel, which msdc sparks of fire fly from them- 
At this course the Lord de Saimpi lost his helmet, but the 
knights continued their career, and returned to their places. 



Till! MIDDLE AC^. 



The lilt wafl much praiMiI* and both French and English »aid 
that the Ear) of Huntingdon, Sir Botidcaut and the Lord dc 
Saimpi had cxcelifnUy well jousted. The earl wished to 1>reak 
anotlier lance in horor of hh lady, but it was refused him, 
Ke then quitiCKl the lUu to ni:tke room for othtr«, for he h:id 
nui hifi six lances with such ability and courage as gained him 
praEse from al! sides. After this various ocher coniliaCaut* en- 
terfd ihr Ii!»^?i am! thr. lilting wa» cxintinnrd lill cvrning, u'hrn 
Uic Eiiglisli returned to Calais and the French to St, Ingle- 
verc. 

On Tuesday after ma**, and drinking a cup, all those who 
intended lo till, and those who wished to sec them, left Calais 
and rode to the fiame place where the lists had been held the 
preceding day^ That day and the next the lilting continued 
until the tournament ^as ai an end, by reason of no more tilt- 
ent appearing on the pari of the EngliaH, The Engli*h and 
Frnich knigttis scp;irat<Hl in ^ moM frirmlly m-nnncr an the 
jJaln of St, Inglcvcrc; the former took the road to Calais, 
where however, they ma<le no lotijr stay, for on Saturday 
morning they wert on board passage boats, and landed at Do- 
ver abotjt midday. 

I-rom the time the English knight* left Otiai*, I never 
beard that any others came from England lo St. Ingkvere to 
try their skill in nnns. Three knights, howe\'cr, remained 
there tintil the thirty days were fully accomplish^^d, and then 
leisurely returned each to liis own home. \V1icr they waited 
on the Kinff of Franc^> (he Dnkes of Tmirainc and the other 
WiIh at P;*ri», they were most hanrlsomely recriv«l; indeeil, 
they were entitfcd to such a recepTion, for they ha<1 behavril 
tbemsehes gallantly, and well -supported the honor of the 
king, and of the realm of Prance. 

TOURNAMRNT. 

Nevs of the tournament was carried to Oporto, and the 
King of Pojingal drtlarrd hit intention of bring prrscnt at it, 
with tiis queen and t)ie ladies, "Many thanks," said the 
duche»s, '*for I shall thus, on my return, be accompanied by 
the king and queen." Not long after this the King of Portu- 
gal and ht» Wte set out for Entenca» in grand array, and 



THE world's PtOCRCSa 



3S ih«y approachetl the town they were met by the Duke of 
Lancaster and s numerous company. 

Three <Iays after ihe arrtv-al of l!ie KJrg of Portugal came 
Reginald tie Roye, hnnilsiimely ;ilt^n<1e<l by knights and squires 
to the amount of six-score horse, all of whom weie proj)efIy 
lodged: for the <!ukc huA given tlic 3lncte»t orders Jhat they 
should be taken care of. On the inorrow Sir Jdin Holland 
and Sir Reginald de Royc anned tlicni5Clves and rode into a 
spacious close in Entcnca, wcU sanded, where the tilts were 
to be performed. Scaffolds were to be erected for the ladies, 
the kings, the duke, and the many T-ngIi*.h lords who came 
to witness ihis combat. The two knighl^ entered tJie lif-U mi 
wcM armed and equipiieil that nothing yvus wanting. Tlieir 
spears, battle-axes and swords were broiigirt them: and each, 
being p^oimted on the best of horses, placed himself about a 
bow-shot distance from Ihc other, and at times pranced about 
on their horses, for they knew that every eye xvas upon them. 

All things were now arrsnjiird for the combat, which was 
to include everything except puf^hing il to extremity, though 
no one could foresee what mificliief might happen, nor how it 
wotihl end ; for they were to lilt with pointed lances, then with 
swonis, which were so sharp that a helmet would scarcely 
resist tlietr strokes; and these were to be succeeded by battle- 
axes and daggers, each so well tempered that ntilhing could 
withstand them. It was indeed a perilous combat. Having 
braced thdr targets, and viewed each other throtigli the visors 
of their helmets, they spurred their horses, spear in hand. 
Though they allowed their hordes lo gallop as they pleased, 
they advanced on as siraighi a line as if it had been drawn 
with a cord, ami htt each oilier on their visors with such force 
that Sir R^sald's lance was shivered into four pieces, which 
flew to a grcalrr htipht ihim they could have been thrown. 
All present allowed thi:^ to have been gsHanlly done. Sir John 
Holland's blow wa5 not equally successful, and I will tell yoti 
why. Sir Reginald had hut slightly Inccd on his helmet, io 
that it was held by one thong only, which broke at the blow^ 
and the helmet flew over his head, leaving Sir Re^pnald bare- 
headed. Each |>assed the other, and Sir John bore his lance 
without halting. The spectators cried out that it was a hand- 



TUK MIDDUg ACfi& 



jom^r course. The knights rciumed to ihcir stations, where 
Sir Reginald's belmet was fined on again, and mother luxe 
given lo him. Sir Jo^m grasped his own. which was not in- 
jured- Whc-n ready ihry srt off at full gallop, for tiiey held 
excellent horses untler Uieni, wliicli lliey well know how to 
manage; ag:iin the/ Mruck each other on the helmets, so that 
sparks of fire came from tlicni, but chicQy from Sir Joiin Hol- 
land's, who received a very severe blow, for this lime tbe lance 
did not break; neither did Sir Johns, but it hit the visor of 
his adversary, though without much effect, passing through 
and leaving it on the crupper of the horse, and ^r Reginald 
was once more bareheaded. "Ah/* cried the English, "he does 
net fight fair; why is his helmet not as well buckled on as Sir 
John Holland's? Tell him to put him^telf on an equal fooling 
with his adversary.'* "Hold yorsr torgucs/* said the dtike; "let 
them alone: in amis every one takes what advantage he can. 
H there is any advantage in the fastening on the helmet. Sir 
John may do the same ; but. for my part, were I in their situa- 
tion I would lace my helmet as tight as pos«;ible/' The Eng- 
lish, on this, did not interfere further. The ladies declared 
thai the combatants had nobly jousted; they were also very 
mticb praised by the King of Portugal. The third course 
now began: Sir John and Sir Reginald eyed each other to 
see if any a(!vanf}tge were to be gained, for tbrir horses were 
fo well iratneil that they ccuhl manage them as tliey pleaded; 
and sticking spurs inlo them they hit their helmets so sharply 
that their eyes struck fire and the shafts of their lances were 
broken. Sir Reginald wa* agnin unhdmcfl, for he could never 
avoid thiEp and they pasEed each other without fallings All 
again declared that they had well tilted, though the English, 
with the exception of the Duke of Lancaaier, greatly blamed 
Sir Reginald. 

After the course of ihe lance the combatants fought three 
rounds with swort's. baltlc-axcs and daggers, without cither 
of them being wounded. The French then carried off Sir 
Reginald to his lodgings, and the English did the same to Sir 
John HoUand- 

The Duke of Lancaster entertained all the French knighu 
and squires at dinner The duchess was seated beside him. 



10 



THE WORLDS PROtilteSS. 



and next to htr. Sir Rc^nald dc Royc- After dinner all «i- 
ter«d the presence chamber, arxl ihe duchesjt taking Sir Ra- 
nald by the hand, !«1 him ihtther. They wer« followed by 
other knights, who conversed on arms and other subjects tmtil 
wine was brought. 

Campaign Betwbesj Chkistiak Kxiguts akd Saracbks 

IN Akhica- 

The next morning the Christians cnttrcd the pott of Africa 
and look up their quarters. The Duke of Bourbon, as com- 
mander-in-chief, lodger! in the center of his arrayp The de- 
vice of hi& honncr, powdered over with flow ers-de -luce, was 
a figure of the Viiglu Mary in white, sf^i*"*! in the cmtrr. and 
an escutcheon of Douibon at her feet; and dl the greal lords 
who accompanied tiim were <iaartcrecl on the right and left 
When the Christians were encamped it was necessary for them 
to be careful of the provisions they had brought, for diey 
CDuJd not venture to forage in the coimtrj', nor even collect 
wood or boughs for huts; they therefore kept their provisions 
on board the vessels, and there were boats contintiaUy era^ 
ployed in bringing different articles for them as they were 
needed. Moreover, the inhabitants of the neigliboring islands, 
such A% Sicily and others, exerted themselves to snp])ly them 
with all they wanted. 

You nwiTi know that these infidels, the S;tracens, had for 
a long time been menaced by the Genoese, and had made pr^ 
arations accordingly. Tlic belter to resist ihcm. they assem- 
bled on the present occasion the most cxpcnenced warriors 
from the kingdoms of Btigia, Morocco and Tunis. They took 
advanttige of a large and thick wood in their rear, to a^"oid dan- 
ger from ambuscades or skirmishers on Ihnt side. According 
to estimate ihey amounted lo about 30.000 archers, and 10,- 
000 horse, and they received continually supplies of fresh prO" 
visions whidi were brought on ilie backa of canwk. 

The second day after the Oiristians had landed the Sara- 
cens about dawn came to attack the camp; intlecd, during the 
whole of this siege the Christians were never tiuiet, for every 
nighl anil morning the camp was attacked ljy the enemy. 

Among the Saracens was a young knight by name Agadii^ 



dCJ 



IIDDU; M 



If 



^nor Olifemc, excellently mounted on a beautiful courser, 
which he manaj^cd as lie wilW, and which, when he galloped, 
8cemcd lo fiy with him. From his gallantry he showed he 
was a good man-at-anns, and when he tode abroad he had with 
dim (hrce javelins well feathered and pointed, which he dex- 
tercut<1y fltjng according to the custom of his courtry. He 
was completely anncd in blade, aud had a kind ot white napkin 
vrraj>pe(I round hi* hcjid. Hi* se;tt on hoiseback was grace- 
ful and from the vigor and gallantry of his actions tiie Chris- 
tians judged he was excited thereto by hi» afFcction to a young 
lady of the country. True it is, he most sincerely loved the 
daughter of ihe King of Tunis, who. according to the report 
of some Genoese merchants who h.id seen her, was very 
handsome. During the siege thift knight performed tome 
handwrne frais of arms to testify his love. 

The Saraceiu wiihin the lown of Africa were anxious to 
know on what pretence the Christians had come with so large 
an army to make war upon them, and they resolved lo send a 
person who could jtpcak Genoese Co ascertain. The Christians 
told the mcMenger that they were come to revenge the injuries 
which the Saracens had done lo tlieir God and faith ; and that 
to effect this they would exen themselves to Ihe utmost of their 
power. Shortly after thi* message the Saracens detemiined in 
council to remain <\u\H for seven or eight clays, and wljen the 
Christians should think themselves in perfect security to fall 
upon their camp like a deluge. This plan was adopted, and 
the ninth evening, a little Wfore midnighl. they secretly armed 
their men and marched silently in a i^^mpact hotly towards the 
Christian camp. They had ptofwscd making a severe attack 
on the oppoiilc <iu.irtcr to the main guard, and they would no 
doubt have succeeded in this mischievous endeavor if God had 
not watdied o\'cr and preserved them by miracles, 

.'\s ihc Saracens were approaching they saw before ihcm 
a company of ladies^ dressed in white, one of whom, their 
leader, was incomparably more beautiful than the rest, and 
bore in from a white flag, having a vermiHor cross in the 
center, and at this vision they were so greatly terrified that 
they fcst all strength and inclination to proct-ed. 

The Genoese crossbows, as T liave heard. ha<i bioughl with 



Id 



It world's FItOCtiraa 



than A dog from lie^and %rsi, Init whwicc no one could teH, 
nor did he belong to any person in panlcular. This dog bad 
bctn very useful to thciiu for tlie Saracens never came to skir- 
mish but by hia noise he awakened the anny; in conscqunice 
of which they cnllcd him "the dog of our Lady," This nighl 
the dog was not idle, but made a louder noise thnn usual, so 
that when the Saracens were approaching the Christians were 
prepared to receive them. 

By an exact account the stege lasted sixty-one days, dur- 
ing whic^ many were the .Hkirinislit^ licfnrr the town and a1 
the barriers. The Saracens, however, were well defcndw!, for 
the flower of the iofidcl chivalry was in the town- Night «nd 
day the two parties studied how they coald most effectually 
annoy «ch other. At length the Saracens resolved to send a 
challenge to the Christians, offering a combat, ten of their men 
against ten Christuns. Most persons in the Christian army 
were loud in praise of this offer, except the T^rd de Coney, 
who said, *'HoId your longiies, you yonng^iers; I see no ad- 
vantage in this combat for many reasons : one is, that ten noble 
and distinguished gentlemen are abont 1o figfit with ten Sar^' 
ccns. How do wc know whether the opponents are gentlemen ; 
they may, if they choose, bring to the combat ten varlets or 
knaves, ard if they are defeated w>iat is the gain?" But not- 
withstanding this speech, the Lord de Coney armed himtclf 
with the rest, and went in good array to meet the Saracen*. 
The challenge was accepted and at the time the whole army 
was ordered to be drawn up in proper order, so that if the 
Saracens had formed any bad designs tliey iniglit be prepared 
to meet them. The ten kniglits ard squires appcinted to en- 
gage were advanced on the plain waiting for their opponents, 
but they came not: for, when they saw the Christians so hand- 
somdy drawn out thev were afraid to approach, though they 
were thrice their numbcTE. This was the hottest day they felt ; 
it was so entirely oppressive that the most active among them 
were almost stifled in their armour, and yet they remainetl. 
expecitng the ten Saracens, but in vain, f<tr they never heard 
one word from ihcm, Tlie anny was then ordered forward 
to attack the town, which it did. and gained by storm the first 
eodCiare, but no one inhabited (hat part, and tlie Christians 



The MIUDLK ACES. 



»3 



paid dear for an inconsiderable advantagt, for the heat of the 
mn and its rcneciicn« on the aands, added to tlie fatigue of 
6ghting, which laMcd until evenings caused the death of several 
valiant koi^ts and squires, Thiu was the $\^e of Africa con- 
iiniird. To say the truth, this was a very great rntpq>riw, anrl 
those who engaged in it ahowtd mtich coiir;ige and ptrwvcr- 
aiKC ID continuing thr sitrgc in sa unhealthy a dfniatr, and after 
the great loisci they Iwd sufTcrfd, wilhotit asiifitance from any 
one. But wc must now leave the affairs of Africa to speak of 
the bandiomc fca^is which at this time were i^iven in London. 

~-Prom Prcissari's Chraniclfs^ 




vnnaaiMa A K»J&KT. 



H 



TBE VfORLUS ¥ViOCM£S&. 



CHAPTER VII. 
Sr, Fkancw or A5SI8L 

St. Francis wa« boni m the latter part of the twelfth cen- 
tury in ihe liiile town of Aw^tsj, Italy. His father was a 
clijih merch;mi >tid w^as away in Fiance on business when bia 
son was bom. His nioil:er W^tl hinx thriMcneJ Giovanni — 
John — but when Pdcr Bein«nlonc tciurnrd he said the boy 
should be called Francis, because his fattier had }>C4:n in France 
when he come into the world. Francis he was called and wc 
hear no more of Gio\'anni. 

Peter Bemardone was a prosperous merchant and he de- 
tennined to give his son every advama^ Fnncis had in- 
hcrited a sunny temperament and happy <I]$poKiiion from his 
mother. His rich appard, sparkling fun, and ready means 
soon made him fiopular uitTi hi^ comjiamons. His friends 
were dioscn from the sons of nohlcs and Brrnardonc was 
jiroml to fed that his son was favoiitc among those of noble 
blood. Throttghout his boyhood he Hi-ed a happy, carc-free 
existence. 

His mother had declared from the Brat that her son was 
destined to do great deeds nnd Jihe never loit faith in her 
early prediction. In the change* that came about later she 
often repeated her belief that Francis would do good in ihc 
worM. little dreaming in what way this would be hrought 
about, 

Wlien scarcely more tlian a youth Francis had a serk>ns 
illness. For weeks his life was despaired of. and when at last 
he recovered he gained strength slowly. Having been face to 
face with death he fell thai he had been spared for some par- 
ticular purpose. A cliange came over his life; the old com- 
rades no longer ailracted him: he remained alotve, not under- 
standing his own moods. His old acquaintances tried in vain 
to ronse him otit of the melancholy into which he sank. He 
knew only that iheir mtrth no longer diverted, their pxanks no 



Thi! 3fcfir«>L£ Acts. 



'5 



longer s|ipcnlcJ to hinx Amtmg the poor rather than ih* rich 
he now foinid pIe^a5u^c, anrl he oficn sJip|)ed (jiiietly away to 
lake food lo ihc neatly or ^.lutrctl his clothing wiih iheia Oc- 
casionaU/ he would join his friends in hope of furgttting hi* 
own thoughts, but even in tlic midst of their gaycly he was 
senoi& To tcaac him his companions would exclaim that he 
was about to tal<c a wife and chsngc his care- free existence for 
a settled mode of life. Finally he anftw^re^l bnclc llial he was 
about to wed-^Lady Poverty. Even yet his meaning did not 
dawn upon thrm. 

During hii ahsfrnces from home Pt;ter Bernardoiw en- 
Inistrd his btiftinrw to his son. While he had been eiilinly 
williiig thai I'fancis should spend money ficely for liis ^>er- 
sonal plcasurca, he objected seriously when he found tliat he 
waa using his substance for the poor, and especially for the 
restoration of the town church that had fallen in decay. When 
arguments and threats were unavailm^; to bring hi^ fon back 
lo his fonntT habits and to the abaixlonment of hi* new de- 
sires, Peter Beniardonc appealed to the bishop, asking thai the 
goods his son had used be returned to him. Then u dramatic 
scene occurred, when Francis cast bis clothing from him and 
gave it to U)« fatlter, saying Ihal God was now hts father and 
henceforth to God alone he would yield obedience. The bishop 
threw his cloak around the youth, while the crowd that had 
gatlKTcd gazed in wonder at one who would renounce alt claim 
lo wealth in this unusual wav. 

When Francis openly renounced the riches of the world — 
which had ceased to attract him— and pledged himself to a life 
of fiimplicitj' and service, his old happy ways rt^lrrrted. He 
went aTwtil ringing, doing good to others and inilifTerent to ll>e 
ridirule often made of him. One day at mass he heard the 
priest read the word*: "Heal the sick, raise the dead, cleanse 
the lepers, cast out devils: freely ye received, freely give. Get 
you no gold nor silver, nor brass in your purses; no wallet 
for your journey, neither two coats, nor shoes, nor staff; for 
the laborer is worthy of hi* food." They seemed to bring to 
him a new message. aiKl after the conclusion of the service 
Frauds cast aside his purse and all unnecessary articles. He 
pTXXured 8 coarse tunic ox'er which he wore a brown cloak. 



i6 



TQC WOftLD'S rftOOMSS. 



Neither shots nor hat did he dwm kmgtr necessary, and he 
imstctl lo thr boiinly of Uioiie he lielfurd for food. 

Wliilc many still ULightd ni what they csHed \m folly, 
Kfmc were attracted by his sincerity and austere life. Surely, 
they thoiuEfht, there must be something' to hold one of his 
accustomed habits to this new paih. barren of the slightett 
oon:ifort, Gradualty others joined h!m tmtil he had several 
companionn living a* he ditl. 

Niiw Fr^inci^ tliim|{))i it be:!«1 to go lo Rnine and get the 
sanction of the Pope to the kind of liic he and his followers 
were leading. Accordingly he set out £Lt once. To under- 
stan<i the diificuhy of obtaining the Pope's consent and bletsing 
for such a purpose, it is essential that we recall the conditions 
prevfliting among churchmen generally in this particular age. 
Great weahli had ilowcil im<j Ihe aiiTern of ihe Cluirch and 
monasteries had become immensely riclu Neither priests nor 
monks longer held to their earlier vows and the inconsistency 
of their teachings and their practices were flaunted c\"ery day 
in the faces of the people. Small h*'j[je wat there that these 
simple men in their brown clualo; would win appn>val from 
bishops and cardinals whose very pomp ancl rich apparel put 
to scorn their coimlry hroihers. 

Pope Leo 111. received Francis and asked him many ques- 
tions. The bishops and cardinals likewise questioned him, and 
he responded lo all their queriei^ with franlc, straigh I forward 
replies- The Pope hcsitaied and the chtiKhmen plainly di»* 
a^^roved of his methods. T^rancis was sent away to await a 
decision. 

There is a legend th^t the Pope drefuncd that night that 
his Church was totteritig, and that a slight man cfad in a 
brown cloak supported it. However that may have l*en» he 
tent for Fnnci* on the following tliy and, desi>ite the mur- 
murings of his bishops, ble^?^ed the litile cunipny of a^Mritual- 
ly-nitndrd brolhers am! allowed them to go forth iiilo the 
woHd to teach the principles of Christianity and brotherly love 
19 they understood Ihcm. 

Now that Francis and his followers had the Papal sanc- 
tion they were no longer scorned as they had earlier been. 
On the contrary, they were respected — nni f>^Iy hy ihoAe to 
whom they brought assistance and comfort, but by those who 



The MrDDLS ACES* 



V 



not personally syitipatliizc with their mclboda. Frtrcis 
about preaching and largt crowds ^aihcrcd to bear him, 
be epokt not like the prte&u, in Lacin> but in the language 
which ihie people understood. 

"If ever men have preached Christ these men did ; Girist. 
nothing Ujt Christ, the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the 
last, the beginning and the tod. ITiey had no system, they had 
no views, they combatted no opinions, they took no side. 
. . , "Hie pcftrl of great price — will you have it or not? 
Whether or not, there arc millions sighing for it. ci^'inj for it, 
dying for it. To the poor at any rate the Gospel shall be 
preadied now as of old/ "^ 

In the Middle Ages lepers were not isolated entirely as 
they are in the moat progressive countries to-day. Instead, 
liiey lived in little group* outside the city walls. If sirsngers 
approached them they called out "UncJcan, unclean," but they 
Jived upon alms thrown to them by the compassionate. To 
««ch a group of Iqjtrs outside the city of A«sisi^ Francis and 
his followers often went TTicy bathed Their sores and mini*- 
terctl unto them, bringing some lelicf to those %o wasted by 
disease that even their own people had c;i^t them out. To the 
jxxjr and needy the little hand of workers went — anywhere, 
everywhere, carrying messages of diccr <ind torn fort 

Because of increasing numbers it was necessary to have 
some organization, and Frauds founded the order called from 
his namr — Fr;im'i*f;tn_ The llnce vows of (joverty, diastity 
and obedience were the ones on which he built As might be 
expected, little time ai^d thought was expended upon rules and 
regulations. A few principles were fun<laincntal ; the rest 
lay in tlw spirit of the noble founder and thfx>ugh him waa 
transmitted to his followers. 

'This is the rule and way of living of the minorite broth- 
ers: namely, to observe the holy Gospel of otir Lord Jesus 
Christi living in obedience, without i^ersonal possessions, and 
in chastity. Brother Francis promises obedience and rever- 
ence to our lofd. Pope HoroHus, and to his successor* who 
canonically enter their office, and to tlie Roman Church. And 

■The CofnEflir of the FrUr*, JeiKipp* wl 



TUfi WORLDS FttOGItKSS. 



ific Other brothers shall be bounJ to obey brother Frands And 
his iucccssors/* 

Next follow directions sis to the manner of gaming admis- 
aion into the Order. The simple apparel lo be won) by lite 'lit- 
Ut broUiera" is described, and then, with chanMrtcrifiic delicacy 
St. Francis cautions his brothers net to criticize other men 
for following another fashion. *'And 1 warn and exhort them 
lest they despise or judge men whom th«y shall see clad in 
soft garments and in colors, tisirg delicate food and drink ; but 
eadi one shall the rather judge and despise himself." 

The broilers are catittontfil at>oiTt entering into contentions 
with others; while their lives are not to Ije spent in tlie cloister, 
tlic/ arc to go quietly and jicaccably about, blessing mankind 
Neither coin nor money could ihcy receive, nor could property 
come into their posaession. To be sure, after the dcatli cA the 
founder some of his precepts were neglected, but for years the 
Franciscan friars refused lo have monasteries deeded to their 
order. 

St. Francis was such a lovable being that when we attempt 
lo analyze his teachings we lose sight of the personality of Ihfl 
msin — by far the [tiorc imjx>rtanl factor, for he wM sweet and 
affectionate, with abundant love for every living thing. 

A man of Francis' temperament was sorely needed in tlie 
Christian world at this time. Early Christianity had taught 
that this worid was but a preparation for the one to come: 
whate\-er was beautiful and allnrirg here endangered man 
in his passage through tJiis world to the one beyond. Life had 
become barren indeed. Those who wished to save their souls 
frcfjut'ntly withdrew from all possible attractions lest they 
might be led unawares to dwell a moment tipou the wonLlcrful 
beauty around iheni, St, Frauds did mucli to reslofc Nature 
to her rightful place^ He was so overflowing with love for 
every living thing thai he even removed the worm from his 
path, calling it ^'little brother" and fearing lest a careless step 
ni^it cru^h out its tiny cxistence> 

Legends naiuraliy grew up around Euch a man in an a^ 
when the strange and miraculous was still demanded. Even 
in our own day there remain plenty of peopk who value a 
personality greater if stories that caiinot i^uite be explained 



tHB MIBDtC AC£3. 



i? 



be duatcrcd around il. The old cry: ''ffivc us a aigin, give 
us a jign/' may yet be felt and sometimes heard. Beautiful 
Ic^nUs shortly t^Lhcrcd around all favorite saints, and particu- 
larly around the personalit>' ol St- Francis. Best known prob- 
ably is the one connected with the sermon he once preaclied to 
the tittle birds. That he actually preached sudi a sermon we 
need not iloirbt ; it fs wholly tn ^ccordiince with his beings 

"And a« wilb grral frrvunr he was going on the way, he 
lifted up hi& eves aiul bchcM scniie Irecii hard by the rtiad 
whcrecn ^a1 a great company o( birds we11-ni|^h without 
number: whereat St. Francis marvelled, and said to his com- 
panions: 'Ye shall wait for tne here upon the way and t will 
go to preach unto my little sisters, the birdft.' And he went 
into the fkl^ and began to preach unto the birds that were on 
the grourul; and immediately those that were on the trees Jlcw 
down to him, and (hey all of them remained still ami quiet 
together \uuA St- Francis made an end of preaching; zn^ not 
even thtn iltd they ilqjart, uiilil he Eiad s.i'^tu thciii his blessing. 
And according to what Brolher Masseo afterwards related 
unto Brot}icr Jacques da Massa. St Francis went among them, 
touching them with hi3 doak, howbeit none moved from out 
his place. T)k sermon thai St, Francis preached unto them 
was after this fashion; 'My little sisters, the birds, much 
bounded are ye unto God, your Creator, and always In every 
place ought ye to praise Him for that Ke haih given you lib* 
erty to fly about evcrywliete, and hath also given you double 
and triple ratnirtil; moreover. He preserved your seed in the 
at^of Noah, that your race might not perish out of the world; 
slil! more are ye beholden to Him for the element of the air 
which He hath appointed for you; beyond all this, ye sow not, 
neither do ye reap; and God fcedeth you, and givcth you the 
streams atvl fountains for your drink: the mountains and the 
valleys for your refuge, and the high trees whereon to make 
yotir netls; and because ye know net how to spin or sew, God 
clotheih you much, seeing that He hath bestowed on you so 
many benefits; and therefore* my little sisters, beware of the 
sin of ingratitude, and study alwax's to g^ve praise imto God ' 
When as St Francis spake these words to them, those birds 
began all of them to open their beaks, and stretch their nenjcs. 
and spread their wings, aiid reverently bend their head^ 6cimi 



30 



THE WOStLD'S PBEOCKESS. 



to the ground, and by their acts and by their songs to show 
that the holy F"ather gave them joy exceedingly great- And 
St. Frauds rejoiced wiih ihem, and was glad, and marvelled 
much at so great a comiiany of birds and their most beautiful 
diversity and their good heed and sweet friendliness, for wliich 
cause he devoutly praised their Creator In them. At the last, 
having ended the preaching, St- Francis made over Ihem the 
sign of the cross, and gave them leave to go away ; and thereby 
all the birds with wondrous singing rose tip in the air; and 
then, in the fashion of the cross that St. Francis had made 
over them, divided themselves into four parts; and the ore 
part flew toward the E^-ii, and the other toward the West, and 
the other toward the South, and the fourth toward the North, 
and each fliglit went on its way singing wondrous songs: sig- 
nifying thereby that even as St. Frands, the standard-liearer 
of the Cross of Christ, had preached unto Ihem, and made 
over them the sign of the cross, after the pattern of which 
they separated themselves unto the four parts of the world: 
even so ilie preaching of the Cross of Christ, renewed by St. 
Francis, would be carried by him and the brothers throughout 
all the world; the which brothers, after the fashion of the 
birds, possessing nothing of their own in this world, commit 
their lives unto the providence of God."' 

Filled wiih his inspiiation and beautiful life, tlic brothers 
of St. Francis worked with him while he lived, and carried on 
his work after his death, and even unto otir own generation 
the work of the Order continues. Ko longer ^o the brothers 
go about as they once did, but that is because the time has 
passed for their particular form of organ i;:at ion. During 
the Middle Ages the poor friars were the sah of the earth, and 
they did much to make the world a better place to live m. And 
the mission of St. Francis is not yet finished, and his influence 
is felt by many still who carry on his work in a somewhat 
different way. Wherever men and women put aside purely 
personal interests and go forth to comfort the sick, aid the 
fallen, cheer the wealc and heal the broken hearted, there the 
work of St. Francis of Assisi goes on, and the life of service, 
taught by Christ and renewed by him, is exemplified, even as 
it was by the Franciscan Friars of oldn 

■The Little Flowcra of St, Fr»nm. 



CHAPTER VITI. 

MARCO POLO'S TRAVELS. 

In the Thirteenth Century, Marco Polo accompanied his 
father from Venice upon a tour throughout Asia. This has 
been made famous by the accounts left by Marco Poto in his 
Book of Travels. 

Detached bits of information pertaining to trade and other 
industrial matters, together with such portions of the narrative 
as throw light upon conditions of travel, have here been 
selected. His journey fell into three general divisions: West- 
ern Asia as traversed by the caravan — sea routes — the Black 
Sea, Tigris-Euphrates valleys and the Persian Gulf; the 
weahhy manufacturing and mercantile cities of Eastern China; 
the rich islands of the Malay Archipelago and the coast of 
India. 

There is no question but that Polo's book did much to 
stimulate men to travel and to interest them in lands beyond 
their own horizon. 

The Plain of Formosa. 

When you have ridden two days you come to the Ocean 
Sea, and on the shore you find a city with a harbor which is 
called Hormos.* Merchants come hither from India, with 
ships loaded with spicery and precious stones, pearls, cloths of 

'Hormos — Momiuz, a harbor on the east coa^t, about where the Per- 
sian Gulf empties into the Indian Ocean. Kerman, a (own in Persia 
directly nonb— &ome distance from this harbor. In this country of Feraia 
there is a great supply of fine horses; and the i>eoplc take them to India 
for sale, for they are horses of great price, a single one being worth as 
much of their money as is equal to 200 livres Toumois^ some will be 
more, some less, according to the quality. Here abo are the finest asses 
in (he world, one of them being worth full 30 marks of silver, for they 
are very large and fast, and acquire a capital amble. Dealers carrv thctn 
to Kisi and Curmosa, two cities on ihc shores of the Sea of India, and 
there the); meet with merchants who take (he horses on to India for sale. 

In this country there are many cruel and murderous people, so that 

21 



23 



THE WORU>'S PStOCltflttL 



silk and gold, elephants' i«tJu and many other wares, whkh 
they sell to the merchants of Honno», and which these in turn 
carry al) over the world to dispose of again. In fact, *tis a 
city of imnifose uadc. It is a very sickly pbcc. and tJie heat 
of iht *un ii I r emend oil s. If any foreign merchant die^ there, 
the King liikc» all tils jiruperly. 

The ships here are wretched afTairs, and many of thciti 
get lo4t ; for ilicy have no iron fastenings and are only stitched 
together with iwinc made from the husk oi the Indian nut 
lltcy beat this huik until it becomes like Jiorse hair, and from 
that they spin twine, and Vh'ith this stitch the planks of ikc 
ships together. It keeps well and w not rorrocled by the sea* 
water, bur it will not stand well in a storm. The ?hips are not 
pitched, but Hic rubbed wU\\ fish-oil. Tlicy have one masi. one 
sail, and one rudder, and have no deck, but only a cover spread 
over the cargo when loaded. This cover consists of hide$, and 
on top of these hides they put the horses which they take to 
India for sale They have no iron to make nails of. and for 
this reason they use only wooden trenails in their shipbuilding, 
and then siitch the jjlanks with Iwine, a* I have told you. 
Henre 'lis ^ perilous busiirc&s to go a voyage in one of those 
ships, and many of them are lost, for in that Sea of India the 
aiorms are terrible. 

One must return to the earlier city of Kerman. for we 
cannot get to the countries to the north without going through 
that dty. 

Baudas ' 

Baudas is a great city^ which used to be the scat of the 

Calif of all ihc Saraccna in the worlds just as Rome is the scat 

no day paa^ci but tZicrc ia tome liomicTilc amoiiE ttiem. Were il not for 
the Government, which U (hot of tfae Tairoi^i o| ihc LevciiUi ihey would 
do grbit mischief t*> merchairti; and niiJF^^, riatiifre the Goverrment, 
Ihfy often 4ucec<d m doine much niis<^hicf- Unlets inerehmitE tx well 
armed 1^ev nm (he ntk cf rififiK imjr<l*red, nr ai lfz*l r>bbed of every- 
Ihins: snd tt somrlimrt hnpprnt lh«l a whole priy ppfiKhrt in thii wsty 
when not on ihcir anard, The pc(Ji;»lc arc 4l1 Sara CTn»—»fol lowers of the 
L>w of Mohamnicff. 

In the L-itie-r iherc are trarfcm and arti^^ns who livp >iy thdr labor 
Mid crafi^. weAviiiK cloths of uM. «»'! >i1k t^^ifl^ vi ^ujr^iy kifida. Thty 
have plenty of colton produced in iHi^ cojiitry, and jbuiuUnce of wheal, 
bu-ky. millcl. panick, drtJ wine, willi ffiiil* of 4IJ kinds. 

'B^dcIji? vii oil the Tisri^ hilf way down Id the Gulf; Biftra lay 
fliuch nnrei ihp Ciult. 



THE lin>OLK ACES. 



23 



of (he Pope ot M the GirUi!an», A very great river flowi 
through ihc city, and by (hit you on dewend to the Sea of 
India. Tlicrc is a. great iraffic of mcrchatits witli their good* 
thifi Wity\ ihcy desctiul some dglitccii da>s from Baudas, and 
then come to a certain city called Ki»i, where t1iey enter the 
Sea of India. ITierc is also or the river as you go from 
Bmdas to Kis>. * a j^eat city called Ba^itra, surrounded by 
ivoods, in which firow the be*! dates in the world 

In Bandas they wvave many differt-nt kind* of silk fitufFt 
and gold brocades, such as nasich/ and ntrc. and cramms\\* 
and many other beautiful iissu<r* richly wrought with figures 
of beaMs and birds. It is the noblest and greatest city in theie 

All the cloths of gold and silk that are called MosoHns are 
made in this country; and those great nierchaius called Mov 
olins wIk) carry fur s»le such iiu;u»Eilie*fc of sjmery and i>earb 
and clotha of silk and gold, are also from this kingdom. 
Near this province is another called Mus and Mcrdin, pro* 
ducing an immen&c quantity of cotton, from which they make 
a Ip-eat deal of buckram 'and other doth, The people arc 
craftsmen and traders, and all are subject to the Tartar king. 

GEOaGIATfIA, ' 

In this province all the for«t* are of box-wood. There 
art numerous towns and village}, and siik is produced in 
great abundance, lliey also weave cloths of gold, and all 

* KUi vu locjiicij on \ht PfTtUn Gulf on tJi« ci^tcfn ai4e, tw^lhirda 
Cf Vjte ti\y dWAii to Ihf indiAn Ocun, 

* yAiitk in^ na^ mttt gnM broudri ; lilk cmbtcidefed with soZd 

' CmiRjit^ d^rjvw! '^^^ damp frnm th* in^fci K^rmirt, oHgirally frim* 
na \Aitt namr ManiA^d ^ crrtatin siuff, nf varymg colc<r. !lrocad« 
wTvBcht wiih fauicB »f >iiiiii;jU btill iTiad« nt Btnam, calird by a name 
which mcuii: liuntine-aroirndt of leait-huntt. 

' MaviiuJ W11 bcjift] on tbr upprr TejetU River, and Mu> and Mtrdia 
»trc north of \i, in t^e Mmc rivr^r roller, 

'BudEmm WIS <|UTtd * dilfcrrcil mJTfriol lO McdUtval tifn<» than HOW- 
It tpp«4/« to h«v« b<cfj ft (tre tfAbfic, often coUO", lomciitnc* linch, oftm 

' J\C\i pn>rERce he <sAi% Georsjanui, and lE onbtaced the drit^ct b*- 
tv*#R th? nhele ind Caipian Seal. Th« S*** ffirrrM to « Ihf Cnpian, 
RoK-vood vat »n imporofit artfck of Gcnocw iridr: a^^awlrt w«rt 
bid* — (iiMMiUfli blCQOt. Ttic Catjiiar) riKherirs irc itlll verj raluabk. 



24 THE WORLD S FROGRCSS. 

kinds of very fine silk stuffs. The country produces the best 
goshawks in the world. It has indeed no lack of anydiing, 
and the people live by trade and handicrafts. 

That sea whereof I spoke as coming so near the moun- 
tains is called the Sea of Ghelaa It is twelve days' journey 
distant from any other sea^ whilst it is surrounded with moun- 
tains. Of late the merchants of Genoa have begun to navi- 
gate this sea, carrying ships across and launching them there- 
upon. It is from the country on this sea also that the silk 
called Ghelle is brought- The said sea produces quantities of 
lish, especially sturgeon, salmon, and other big kinds of fish. 

Layas. 

Hovvbeit, they have a city upon the sea, which is called 
L^yas, * at which there is a great trade. For you must know 
that all the spicery, * and the cloths of silk and gold, and the 
other valuable wares that come from the interior, are brought 
to that city. And the merchants of \^enice and Genoa, and 
other countries, come thither to sell tlieir goods, and to buy 
what they lade And whatsoe\'cr persons would travel to the 
interior (of the East) they take their way by this city of 
Layas. 

Pahier. 

You get to such a height that 'tis said to be the highest 
place in the world. The plain is called Pamier, and you ride 

across it for twelve days together, finding nothing but a 
desert without habitation or any green thing, so that travellers 
are obliged to carry wilh ihem whatever they have need of. 
This region is so lofty and cold that you do not even see any 
birds flying. And I must notice also that because of this 
great cold, fire does not burn so brightly, nor give out so 
much heat as usual, nor does it cook food so effectually. 

Now if we go on with our journey towards the east 
northeast, we travel a good forty days, continually passing 

'Layas, a €\ly at the norlheaslcm entremity of the Mediterranean Sea- 
By direct aea route froin Anlioch and by land, on the road to Damascus 
10 the Boutheait. 

"Spkcry included much beside mere *piccj: drugs, dye-Btuffs, wax, 
metalB, cotton, rtc. included in %omt lieu. 



THE iiinnij; AGiCS. 



^S 



over mountains and liills, or Uirough valleyf. and crossing 
many rivers aii<I tracts of wilderness- And in aU lhi« way you 
find neither habitation of man, nor any green ibinu, but mtisi 
carry m\\\ you uliaie^'er you re<|iiire. The cotmiry is called 

Cambaldc 

You must know that the city of Cambaluc" halh such a 
multitude of houses, and such a vast population inside the 
walls and outside, tttnl U seems cguite past all possibility. There 
b a frtiburb ontftSde tach of tlie gaie«, which arc twelve in 
number and these suburbs aic so great ihal ihey contain more 
pcuplt^ tbiin the city ji«If. In those suburbs loilge tlic fnreigii 
mcrchanls and Irflvdcrj, of whom there arc always a great 
number who have come to bring presents lo the timperor. or 
to sell articles at Courtt or because tlie city affords so pood 
a man to atiraci traders, Tliere are in each of the suburbs, 
to a distance of a mile from ihe city, numerous line hostelries *' 
for the Jfxlgmcnt of iiicrrhamv from different parts of the 
vorld^ and a special liostelry is assigned to eacli description 
of people, as if we should s>ay there is one for the Lomhards. 
another (or ihc Germans, and a third for the Frenchmen. 

To this city also arc brought arliclcs of greater cost and 
rari^t and in ^catcr abundance of aU kinds, than to any 
<»iher city in tlie world. For people of every description, and 
from ever)" rcgicn, bring things — including all the cofdy wares 
cf India, as well as iht ^ne and precious goods of Cathay itself 
with its provinces — some for the stnercign, some for ihc 
court* MMne for the city which is great, some for the crowds 
of Barons and Krights, some for the great hosts of the Em- 
peror which arc quartered round about; and thus between 
court and city the quantity brou|;ht in is endless. 

As a sample, I tell ^'ou. no day in the year passes that 
there do not etiicr the city 1,000 cart*loads of silfc alone, from 
which are made quaiilities of cIoEh of silk and gold, ai^d of 
otbcr goods. And this i^ not to l)e wondered at, for in all 
the eountriea round about there is no flax, so that everything 
ha.^t 10 be made of silk. It is true, indeed, that in some parts 

"Cvttbsluc— oM cily on the tUt of Pricing. 

"Hostdiy* uird in lh« tt:Mt oi feiloty, A3 iiied in GrMk colony. 



^ 



THE WOKW'S PROCRMS, 



of the country tli«rc is cotton and hemp, but not sufficient for 
thdr want^. This, however, is nol of much conse^iticnce. 
beeauK^ silk i& so abumlnnt, nnd che;ip, and is a more valuable 
sijbfit:ince than either tlax or cotton. 

Round about ihi* great eit)' of Cambaluc there are sotne 
200 chie*i at various dijiunees, ffow which Iraden; aime to 
veil Ihcir goods and buy others for their lords, and all find 
means to make their :«nlc5 and purchaser, so that the traffic 
of the city 15 passing great- 

When you leave the city of Cambaluc and have ridden ten 
miles, you come to a very hrpe river which is called Pulisan- 
ghin, " and flows iutt) the ocean, sn t!wt mcichanis with ihcir 
merrhandise ascend il from the w;a. Over this river there \% 
a veiy fine stone bridge, so fine indeed that it ha* ver>" few 
equals. The fashion of it is this: it is 300 paces in Icnph. 
and it must have a food eight paces of width, for ten mounted 
mtn can ride across it nbreast. It hnis 24 arches and as 
many water-mills, and il is all of a very fine marble, well 
built and finnly founded. Along the top of the bridgr there 
is on eiilier side a para]>ct of ui^rhlc sl.ihs and columns, made 
in this way : At the beginning of the hiJdge Oierc is a marble 
column, and itnder it a marble lion, so that the column stands 
upon the lion's loins, whilst on the top of the column there 
is a second marble lion, both beinp of great si« and beauti- 
fully executed sculpture. At the distance of a pace from 
this column there is another precisely rhe same, also with its 
iwo lions, and the space between them ts close*! wiLh slabs of 
gray marble to prevent people from falling over into the 
water- And thus the columns run from space to space along 
cither side of the bridge, so that altogether it is a beautiful 
object. 

\Vlien you leave the bridge, and ride toward* the west, 
finding all the way excellent hostelries for travellers, with 
fine wine-yards, field* and garc!ens, aud springs of water, you 
come after 30 miles to a fine large city called Ju ju. *" where 
ibcrt arc many abbeys of adolaters. and ihe pec^e live by 

**Th« iwB* Polo RtVM th* r^ver— Ihe Yellow Rivpp— m«tri^ ^rmnlyr 
"Thf fcTon? htida*"-'" "*!■ il iMvitiK the city to the w«(. Later unihoHucs 
decrtm xht number ot »Tchc4 in the bn<]sc. 

*Juju u Cho-<t*u^-fort7 niileit from Pvldn. 



THE MIDDLE ACtS. 



27 



trade and maimfacturc. They weave dotlii of silk And gold, 
and ver>' ^^c taffetas. Here, too, tJiere are many hostelrici 
for traveller*. 

After riding a mile beyond this city you find two roads, 
one of which goes west ard ihc other southeast The west- 
erly road is that ihrou^ Cathay, and the ftoutli easterly one 
goeft toward.s ihe pmvtnce of Manxi. 

Taking the wrstrrly one through Caihay, and travelling 
by it for ten days, jou find a conMant succession of cities and 
borou||:h5, with numerous thnving villager all abounding 
Vfilh trade and manufactures, besides the ftnc fields and viiK* 
yards and dwdlmgs of civilixed people. 

After riding ten days from the city of Juju. you find your- 
self in a kingdom caJlt'd Taianfii, and the city at which you 
arrive, wliich ti the caplial, is also ciiUed Taianfu, a very 
great and fine ciiy. 

Taianfu "* is a place of great trade and great industry, for 
here they manufactnrc a large quantity of tlic most necessary 
equipments for the army of the Bmperor. There grow here 
msny excellent vines, supplying great plenty of wine; and in 
all Cathay this is the only place where wine is produced. It 
is carried hence all over the country. There is also a great 
d«il ijf nilk here, fuT (he people have great quantities of mul- 
berry trees, and silk*woin»s. 

From this city of Taianfu you ride westward again for 
seven days, through fine dislricts with plenty of towns, and 
boroughs, all enjoying much trade and practicing various 
kinds of industry. Out of these distncfs go forth not a few 
great merchants who travel to Tmlin and other foreign 
regions, buying and selling ami getting gain. After those 
seven days' journey you arrive at a city cafled Pianfu, a large 
and important place, with a number of traders living by com- 
merce and industry. It is a place too where silk is largely 
produced. 

When you leave the city and travel abotit no miles west- 
ward, you come lo a river called Caramoran. " so big that no 

'TiiAnfo i* Tti-TBun Fu. capital of the province ol 5hsfi-sl. 

"* CanmOTUi— BlvrL Rivcr-^ mmc hpii\it*\ to the Hov^^ng Ho» oe 
Yellow, whicfa he ^lotiri ajGsin- Silk it Eio loufcr inadc lit thc»c vidajtie% 
fnbftblr owina to a chmsf of dimtu. 



28 TfHE WORLDS PROGRESS, 

bridge can be thrown across it; for it is of immense width and 
depth, and reaches to the Great Ocean that chcircJcs the Uni- 
verse, On this river there are many cities and walled towns, 
and many merchants too therein^ for much traflic takes place 
upon the river, there being a great deal of ginger and a 
great deal of silk produced in the country. 

After passing the river and travelling; two days westward 
you come to the noble city of Cachanfu. It is a city of great 
trade and of work in gold-tissues of many sorts, as well as 
other kinds of industry. 

And when you leave the city of Cachanfu and travel eight 
days westward, you meet with cities and boroughs abounding 
in trade and industry, and quantities of beautiful trees, and 
gardens, and fine plains planted with mulberries, which are 
the trees on the leaves of which the silkworms feed, , , , 

And when you have traveled those eight days you come 
to the great city called Kenjanfu. *' It is a city of great trade 
and industry. They have great abundance of silk, from which 
they weave cloths of silk and gold of divers kinds, and they 
also manufacture all sorts of equipments for an army. They 
have every necessity of man's life very cheap. 

India. 

And first let us speak of the ships in which merchants go 
to and fro amongst the Isles of India. 

These ships, you must know, are of fir timber." They 
have but one deck, though each of them contains some 50 
or 60 cabins, wherein the merchants abide greatly at their 
ease, every man having one to himself. The ship hath but one 
rudder, but it hath four masts; and sometimes they have two 
additional masts, which they ship and unship at pleasure. 

Moreover, the larger of their vessels have some 13 com- 

*' Kenjanfu is Sin-gan-Fti, capital of Shensi. The eight days' journey 
through richly cultivated plains run up Ihe basin of the Wei Riverj most 
important agricultural region of Northwest China. The loess gives ydlow 
tinge to the whole landscape. Here it is said, originated the word hztrtmg 
— yellow. It was the color of this soil ih^t suggested the color for use 
of imperial majesiy^ 

"Chief timber for lihipbuildlng in Canton is still pine. Ropes were at- 
tached to (he sweeps to pull by, as the timber itself was too bulky to grasp. 

Chinese sea-going vessels of those days larger than those used hy 
Europeans. 



TBK U1]>Dt.K ACC5. 



^ 



partmcnis or severances in t\K inlcrior, made with plank- 
ing ^ijongly fr;mitiJ. in case mayhap the ship should spring 
a leak, cither hy ninning on a rock or by Ihc blow of a hungry 
whale. In ttKh case the water that alters the leak flitw* to 
the bi]gc> whidi is always kept cle^r; and the mariners having 
ascertained where the damage is, empty the cargo from thai 
compartniem into those adjoining, for the planking is so well 
fitted thai the water eaniiot |siss from one conipartmenl to 
another. The)' then stop the leak and replace the lading. 

The fastenings arc all cf good iron naih antt the sides are 
double^ one plank laid over the other* and caidkcd outside and 
in- The planks are not pitched, for those people dc not have 
any pitch^ birt they daub the sides with another matter, denned 
by them far bener than pitch. It is this: Vou see they take 
some lime and some chopped hemp, and these they knead 
together wiih a certain woor!-oil ; and when the thre* arc thor- 
oughly amFiTg~,im;itrd, iht-y hold likr Any glne. And i^ilh this 
mixture they do paint their ships. 

H&ch of tlicir grc£l £hip» requires at least 200 mariners — 
some of them 300, They arc indeed of great size, for one 
ship shall carry 5,000 or 0,000 baitkeis of pepfwr And aboard 
thcM ships when there is no wind they use sweeps, and these 
sneeps are so big tlut to pull Them requires four mariners to 
each- Every great sJiip has certain tenders attached to it; 
these arc large enough to carry 1,000 bfl^kcl^ of i:«:pper» and 
carry 50 or 60 mariners apiece, and thri' arc hkcwisc moved 
by oars; they assist the great ship by towing her, at such times 
as the sweeps are in use — or even when she is under sail, if 
the wind be somewhat en the beam; not if tlie wind be astern, 
for then the sails of the big xhip would take the wind (nit of 
tho^ of the tenders and she would run thnn down. Rarh 
Jiip has Iwn or llitce of these lenders, but one is bigger 
tiiaiJ tho oiherN. Theie arc also some ten smaller boats for 
the service of «ich great ship, to lay out the anchors, catch fish, 
bring supplies on board, and the like. 

When the ship is tinder sail she carries ihe^e boals slung 
10 her tides- And the large tenders have their host?* in like 
manner. 

When the ship has been a year in work and they wish 
lo repair her, ihey nail on a tliird plank over the first two, and 



JO THE WOKU^S PBOCBESS. 

caidk and pay it well; and «bcii anotbcr nfoir is waittcd 
dvj mil OD ;«t anoriwT plank, and so on year by year, as it is 
r«qiiifvd. Uovbdt thej do this only for a certain "rrn*^ 
of yfaj% and till there arc six thicknesses of plankii^. Then 
dier take her no more upon the seas, but make ose of her 
for coasdi^ as )oog as she wiQ last and then they tncak 
bcr i^ . . . 

Maubal 



MaKbar is a great Idngdom lyir^ tovards the 
From this kir^^fm thcrz go f onh every y«ar mon than 
lOO corsair TtsseL on cmizc- These pirates take with them 
their wires and cfaildien. and stay out the whole sammer- 
Their mrthuj is to join in fleets of 20 or 50 of tbes« pirate 
ressds together, and then they form what they caD a sea 
cordoo; that i^ they drop off tiO there is an interval of five 
or six miles b e t wee u ship and ship, so that they can cover 
wigtliijig lite 100 miles of sea, and no mcrthant ship on 
escape them. When any corsair sights a vessel a signal is 
made by fire or anoke, and then the whole of them make 
for this, and seize the merdiants and plunder them. After 
they have phmdered ihem ihe^- let them go, saying: "Go 
aloi^ with yon and get more gain, and that mayhap will fall 
to OS sIsol" But now the merchants are aware of this, and 
go so wen manned and armed, and with snch grrat ships, that 
they don't fear the corsairs. Still mishaps do bebll them at 

Then is in this kingdom a great qaaniitT of pepper, and 
giugei, and cinnamon, and of niAs of India. They also man- 
tifactm^ very delicate and bcantifnl buckrams. The ships 
that come fram the east brii^ copper in ballast- Tbcy also 
farii^ hitfaer ck>ihs of gold and silk; also gold and sOvcr, 
doTVs and other fine sfACcs for whidi there is demand here 
and exdiange tbcm for the prodocts of this uxuitiv. 

Snps come fntbcr from tinny qoartcrs. but e^KCtally from 
ffae great pn>vince of ManzL Coarse spices are cxpoitcd hence 
to Manzi and to the west, and that whidi is carried by die 
m o ihaus to Aden goes on to Alexandria, Uit die ^taps dot 
go in the latter di re c tion arc not one to ten of diose that go 
to the catfward- 



EAJiLlEST nCriOlt- 



n 



CHAPTKR IX. 
EARLIEST FICTION. 

The far-ofT begfiiiniiigs of the drama are to be found in 
dances uml Imiratiuns of the Iniiil popular anioii)|; primitive 
petvpW: or, tt> spe:i\L niDrc ai.'ctiiair!y, it has l»eeti ^tiowii tluit 
the feeling which prompted to thc^c. expanded, developed, 
refined, has under favorable arcuni:^tancc5 rcMiItcd in a per- 
fected drania. Similarly, in tracing the novel back to its 
earliest form, we come lo the talcs of ancient peoples. 

So far a» ktiown, the people of earliest recorded life were 
the EgyjrttaiiK, Com [kit ^lively few veinains of tlieir literature 
lurvive. and it h^^ l^^ng l)eeu suppoiicil that the/ did not pro- 
duce prolific writers. Ncvcrlheless. each year more papyri 
aie recovered and translated, and today the discreet hijiiorian 
find» safety in the £t;ttemcnt that ^e cannot now tell how 
extensive a literature may once have existed in the valley of 
the Nile. 

No satisfactory definition of the novel has thus far been 
oflfcrcd; but though difBcalt to express in the terse language 
of dehnitions, tl is not difficult to state its general characteris- 
tic*- A novel is a little picture of life, involving a plot> or con- 
iiected *tory, prcscuiing characters endowed ^ith emotions 
ind passions common to humanity — and so given the sem- 
blance of reality. The setting and manner of tieatirent dc* 
pcnd altogether upon the author, his purposes and methods. 
Fragmentary stories bearing remote relation to the novel have 
been found in Eg>p[; those translaied from the Wesicar 
Papyru* have been given the name: Tafev of thr Magkim^s. 
Belonging probably to the Pyramid age, they puqMJil lo be 
wonder wtoric^ told by the princes for the entertainment of 
their father. Kbufu — the king. It is not easy always lo 
determine who is speaking — whether the prince, the ''chicf- 
reeiter/' or the king him&elf. One of lhe«e tales relates this 
incident: An early pharaoh made a progress to the cbief- 
reciter of bi* time; ihe cbtef-reL iter's wife liccame enamoured 
of a page in the royal train. Their haJit intrigiir was reported 



32 THE «OftU>'S nOCAHSSL 

to the tnjnrcd hnsfaaiid bv a servant; whcretqxxi tbe ducf- 
rtcher — a magician — fashioned a tinj crocodDe of wax; by 
speakiiiii: magic words, he caused it to expand into a monster 
crocodile. This he now ccHnmanded. after tbe manner of 
Jonah's whale, to swallow the page as he bathed in the river. 
Desiring the idng to witness his power, he sammraKd him to 
watch; at his conmiand the crocodile delivered the page tm- 
injured. At this the king marvelled greatJj — as well he might 
— and be told the crocodile to keep his prey ; thereupon both 
page and crocodile vanished forever. 

"Plot scarcely exists except in the vague sense that tbe 
events mentioned preceded, though they did not cause or lead 
up to, the woik of magic Of emotional excitement, there is 
none whate^'er. Xo faintest suggestion is given of the state 
of mind of the injured husband, tbe detected wife, or the 
devoured and redcvoured p^c. They are dealt with in a 
manner wholly objective, and go through their parts like so 
many automata merely that the crocodile may appear/'^ 

In another of these Tales, the king weaned, the chief- 
redtcr su^csts a nde upon the river. One of the maidens 
loses a ring which, to her dismay, slips from her finger and 
disappears. When she refuses to be consoled for its loss, 
the chief-reciter causes the waters to di\'idc and rise high on 
either side while he rescues the ring. No plot invoK~es the 
ring; no further mention is made of it. It serves simply to 
enable the chief-reciter to display his tnagic power. With 
the same naivety might children create a stoo' to show forth 
the wonders of magic 

Better known than these is the story of Bata — sometimes 
called The Ttvo Brothers. This is ascribed to the twelfth 
dynasty and shows some advance over the earlier collection. 
Bata was a peasant who tilled the soil and found pleasure 
in communing with the dumb cattle, who were his friends. 
He dwelt with his elder married brother, with whom he 
worked and whom to some extent he served. 

"Now at the time of plowing, his elder brother said unto 
him: 'Let us make ready for ourselves a yoke of oxen for 
plowing; for the land has come out from the water; it is 
good for plowing in this stale; and do thou come to the field 

' Hortic: Tfchnique of Uw Novel, SI. 



EARLIEST riCTTOK. 



33 



with corn, for we will l>cgin the plowing in the morrow 
momin;.' 

"Now when ihe earth lighted and the second day came, 
they wen: ro ihe fields with their yoke of oxen: and their 
heartfl were |>k:LSc<l Ciccectlingly with that which they aecom- 
pli^hfd in the Ijrgittnitig of their work," 

It happened shuiily that B^ia was snu hack to xht dwelling 
to fetch more grain for the sowing: the wife, who had been 
jtTOngly atiTac:cd by the youth, besought hini to tarry with 
her; whereupon he became cxceedinply anj^ry, &aying: ''Be- 
hold, tliou art 10 me as a mother; thy husband is to me as a 
father; for he who is elder than I hath brought me tip." Say- 
ing which, he strode away lo the fields. The guilty wife, 
fearing that her words might be repeated to Ijcr husband, 
fabricated a storj' whicli compromised the younger brother 
The enraged husband plotted to kil! Bata. who escaped only 
by warning of ihe l<ind]y caitle. Early in the tale ihe way 
is pre^hired for Iheir intervention; we are told lliat Bala "used 
lo walk behind his cattle, they saying tu him: 'Good is the 
herbage which is in such a place;' and lie hardened to all that 
tliey iaid. and he took thein to the pasture which they desired." 

Pursued by hi* infuriated brother, Bala was saved hy a 
oiagical river which conveniently 3pi)eared, filled with croco- 
dile Across the stream the two conversed and the truth 
became known. However, Bata would no longer rettim to 
h[S brother: he determined to become a hermit. The guilty 
wife was slain and her husband mourned for his lost brother, 
whose later experiences complete tJie tale. 

Ploi IS not lacking here and the character* are less 
shadowy. Wc tan follow tlic brothers in their homely duties, 
and although wc feel that the background is accidently rather 
than purposely included, it is just such a setting as a story 
of Kg>'p!ian peasantry would have. There is, moreover, a 
sujI^e-itiLiin of a moral In the airraiive. 

A fragment of a Ba?>yl(jni.tii story has been Found but is 
loo slight lo supply helpful data» It appears to l>elong to a 
lartcr period and to be Eastern in origin* 



v-i 



34 



THK WOKI.n'S PROOIXSS^ 



TALPS OF THE MAGICIANS. 



Iv ibc Berlin Miiacum ilicrc U * manuAfripf, known i» the WcAtcftr 
papyruv cont^ininir ule; of m^^irisn^. Tt wa; wniTrn in (h« MtddU 
Kingdom- bul refer* to a much earlier time, ind repreicnts ihe tlorics »i 
tuld to King Khufii (Cheops, the builder of thr Great PyrJmiJ) Ly hU 
fOnL Two of thfif firt here given, with sllghr modi Fl cat ions, froin Ihe 
version by W, M, FlimJefS Pelrie, in hi* "Egj-plian Talcs." The$c re- 
maikable ficLiona of rfmi>Ic ai^ilquily are In Mraiigc ccrnliaii with other 
rnnami of Egyptian hteratuTtf^ yet are closely akm tu Oriental !lorie« Qf 
liter times, 

On'R day, when KnigKhufii reign- 
ed over aU the l^nd, be said to liia 
chancellor, who stood before hini. 
Go call me my sous and my louh- 
cilloTs, that 1 may ask of Ibeni a 
ihiiig." And IcU sous ^nd his couu- 
cillors came and stood before Iiim, and 
ht said to them, *'Know ye a mati 
who cati tell me tales of the deeds of 
the taagicians?" 

Then the royal son Khafrt 
J^^stood forth aud said, "I will 
J tell ihy niitjesty a tale of the 
days of ihy foiefatber Nebka, 
the blessed -, of what came to 
pass when he went into the 
temple of Ptah of AokhtauJ.'* 




The Magical Chocodilh. 

His majesty wa^ walking unto the tctnple tif Ptah. and 
weul unto the bouse of the cbicf reciter Uba-auer^ with bis 
train. Now when the wife of Uha-ancr saw a page, amoa^ 
those who stood bcbint! the king, her heart longed after him ; 
and she sent her servant unto biiu, with a prcj^eut of a box 
full of garmeuU 



&VRUE£t FICTION, 



35 



And be cAine l}\tn vnth the ser\*aat> Nov ihtrt wtu a 
lodg^ in the goTdcn of Uba-ancr ; and one day the page said 
to the wife of Uba-ooeTT ** lu the garden of Uba-auer there is 
»ow a lodge ; behold, lel lu therein take our plcosuie,'* So 
ihe wife of trba-aner Mrnt lo the steward who had charge over 
the gaixlen, sayi:^, **het the lodge which Is \t\ the gaideii be 
Vdjde reader." And she retnainecl there, and rested and drank 
with the page until the sun went down. 

And when the even was now come the papje went forth to 
bathe. And theslcwanl said, ** 1 mnsl gt>aud lell Uha-anrr 
of this malter" Now when this day was past, and another 
day came, then went Uic steward to Uba-aner, and told him 
of all the^c things. 

Tlieii aaid Uba-auer, ^'Ikiug ine my casket of ebony and 
electmm," And they brought it ; and Uc fishtone<l a croco* 
dile of «-ax, Mvcn finders lorj^: and he cttchdiitcd it, aud 
said, " When the page comes and bathes in my lake, scicc on 
him." And he gave it to the steward, and raid to him, 
''When tlic page shall go down into the Lake to bathe, as he 
ia daily wont to do, then throw in this crocothlc behind him,** 
And the steward went forth bctirinK; the crocodile, 

Aud the wife of Uba-ancr sent to the steward who had 
charge ov^er the garden, raying, '* Let the lodge wbieh is in 
the tcorden be made ready, for I come to tarry there," 

And the lod^c wa^ prepared with all good things; and she 
came and nude raerr>' therein with the page- Aud when the 
e^n was now come, the p^igp went forth to hathe as he wa« 
wont to do. And the steward cast in the wax crocodile after 
him into the water; and, behold 1 it became a great crocodile 
seven cnbitK in length, :md it seued on the page. 

And Uba-aner abode yet seven days with the Icihr of 
Upper and I,«wtrr Kgypt, Nebka, the blessed, while tlie page 
•nxt Mifled in the crocodile. And after the faeveu days were 
pas^e<l, the king of Tipper and l^wer Hgypl, Nebka, the 
blessed, -w^nt forth, and TJba-aner went before him. 

And trUi<aner said nnto his majesty, "Wilt yonr majesty 
come and see this wonder th^t has come to pass in yonr 
dl>^nnto a page?" And the king went with hint And 
in»«i>ci called unto the crocodile and «aid *^ Bring forth the 




36 



THE world's rRocaCSSp 



page.*' And the cn>ccxliJc came forth from the lake with Uic 
pogc. Uba<ai3cr said ttnto the Icinc. ''BeboM, wbAtcxxr [ 
command this crocodile, he will do it." And his mijeaty 
said. ** I pray you send back thin crocodile/' And Ube-ancr 
fttoopcd and look tip the crocodile, tind It tiecame in hir* hard 
a crocodile of wajt. And then Uba-aticr told the kinfi: that 
which h.id poKh^ in hiit hotii^e uiritb the page and his vifc. 
And his majesty said umothe crocodile, "Take to Uiee th)- 
prey." And the ciocodlle plunged into the late with his 
prey, and no man knew whiiher lie wetiU 

And his in.ijerty the king of Upper and Jyowcr Eg>pt, 
Nebka, Hie Mt^'ieil, coinuiauded, and Ibey brought forth the 
wife of Uba-aiicr to the north side of the harcni, and burnt 
hrr with tite^ anil cast her a->the.s in tlie Ttvtrr. 

This ts a woiuler that camr^ to jisiss iii titc days of tliy fore- 
father the king of Upper and V^wer Egypt, Nebka^ of the 
acts of the diicf recitci, Uba-aucr 

His majesty the king of Upper ard I^ower Egypt, Khufa^ 
then said, *' I^t tlicrc be presented to lire King Kcbka, the 
blc^sedt a thousand lonves, a hundred draughts of beer, an ox, 
two jars of incense ; and let there be presented a loaf, a jar of 
^cer, a jar of inccusc, auda piece of meat to the chief rcdtci. 
Uba-aner; for 1 ba\'eaecii the token of his learning,'* And 
they did ail things as his majesty coiumauded. 



The Lost Jbwei- 

The royal son Daufra then stood fortli and spake. He 
*aid, '*l will tell Ihy majesty of a wonder which came to 
pa^ in the day:^ of thy fathci, Sciicfeni, the blessed* of the 
deeds of the chief reciter. Zaartniankh.*' 

One day King Senefeni, being wcar>', went tliroughotit 
his palace flecking for a pleasure to lighten his heart, btit be 
found none And he f;aid, ** Hafite, and bring before tnc Uic 
chief reciter and f-cnbe of the lolla, Zaaamaakh \" and they 
Btraif^htway bronght Inm. And the king said, "T hare 
sought in mv palace for some delight, btit I hav^ ibnnd 
none/* Then said Zizninankh to Inm, '* f^l thy majesty go 
upon the lake of the palace, and let there be made ready a 



sablicst ncTio^. 



37 



bant, with all the fan iimidrns of th? liArrm of tliy pallet; 
and llic licait of tliy oiajcsSy sball be refrtslicd with the Mghl, 
in seeing their rowiug u^ and down the Aiufiler^ and seeing the 
gijtxlly piK>U nf the birOs iijK>n the Inke, and beholding iU 
»irect fclds and t:"ii-*'*y %htnc&; thiis will thy beaTl l>e light- 
ened- And I also will go witli lliee. Bring nie twenty Oftis 
of ebony, inlaid witli geld, wvtb bl^de^ of light wood, inlaid 
with elcctruni ; And briug luc twenty maideu;>f fair in tlictr 
limbs, their bcAOUiA and thdr hair, all virgins ; and bring we 
twnity acta, and give these nets uuto the maidena fw Uicir 
garments." And they did according to all the commands of 
hifi majesty. 

And they towed down the stream and up the stream, and 
the htart of bis niajcsty was i;;lad with the sight of tbeir 
rowing. Bnt one of them at the sicenng struck her bail, and 
Iter jewel of new malachite fell into the water. And she 
ceased her King, and towc<1 not ; and her conipauions ceased, 
and Towed wot. And hi* majenty said, *^Row )'ou not fur* 
iher?" Atid they replied, *' Our little sleerer here stays and 
tow* not" His majesty then said to her, " Wherefore rowesl 
thou not?'' She replied, "It is for niyjew^l of new niala- 
chile which is fallen in the water,'* And he said to her, 
"Row on, for toehold I will replace it." And she answeicd, 
"Hut I w^int my own piece back in its setliiig/' And In* 
majesty xiid, "HasIc, bntigmc the chief reciter, Zazaniaukli,'^ 
and they brought liini. And bis majesty said, *' Zazamankb, 
my brother, I have done as Ihoti saidst, afld the heart of bis 
luajcst)' is refreshed with the sight of their rowing- But now 
a jewel of new malachite of one of the little ones is fallen in 
the water, and Ahe ceases and ro^vs not, and she has spoilt the 
lowing of her aide. And 1 said to her, 'Wherefore rowest 
thou not?* and she an.swered to me, ' It is for my jewel of 
new nmhchite which is fallen in the water.' I replied to her, 
' Row on, for behold I will replace it ;* aud she answered to 
me, ' But I want my own piece again back in its setting/ *' 
Then the chief reciter, Zcizftmankh, spake his magic speech. 
And he placed one part of the waters of tlie lake npon the 
other, and discovered the jewel lying upon a shard; and he 
took it up and gave it unto its mistress. And tlie waler» 




38 ' TBS world's progress. 

which was twelve cubits deep in the middle, reached now to 
twenty-four cubits after he turned it And he spake, and used 
hU magic speech ; and he brought again the water of the lake 
to its place. And his majesty spent a joyful day with the 
whole of the royal house. Then rewarded he the chief reciter, 
Zazamankhj with all good things. Behold, this is a wonder 
that came to pass in the days of thy father, the king of Upper 
and Ivower Egyptj Senefeni, of the deeds of the chief reciter, 
the scribe of the rolh, Zazamankhj 

Then said the majesty of the king of Upper and Lower 
Egypt, Khufu, the blessed, "Let there be presented an oSer- 
tng of a thousand cakes, one hundred draughts of beer, an 
ox, and two jars of incense to the king of Upper and Lower 
Egypt, Seneferu, the blessed ; and let there be given a loaf, 
a jar of beer, and a jar of incense to the chief reciter, the 
scribe of the rolls, Zazamankh ; for I have seen the token of 
his learning/' And they did all things as his majesty com<> 
manded, 

NOTB.— The Book of Exodus shows the influence of tlie magicians 
in the affiiira of Egypt. These tales, belonging to a atill earlierperiod, 
confirm this idea. The transfonnation of the wax crocodile to a living 
reptile recalla the story of the magicians' rods changed to serpents. 
The reciter, ^vho entertains the king with stories, is also the chief 
scribe of the rolls, that is, keeper of the archives or librarian of the 
palace, and likewise a powerful magician. Yet his wife, as in tragedies 
of later date, proves nnfaithful, and indicates her ilhcit choice by a 
present of garments. A singular vengeance follows detection of the 
crime. The king approves the reciter's exercise of his power, and 
ordere the guilty wife to be burnt. The second story is of lighter tone, 
yet not without a trace of Biblical coloring. Even in remote antiquity 
kings suffered fTom ennui, and their courtiers were obliged to find 
diversion for them. Success was liberally rewarded. Respect for the 
^(^ified ancestor required that he also should be honored with an offer- 
ing, perhaps only "^^*"*"*'^ 




TALE OF THH TWO BROTHERS, 
(I2OO1LC.) 



Tim T8l« of lli« Tvn Rmthcrs U tlic ma-it famous of the Atorics 
ifliich liATc conic ffora lUicicDt Egj-pt. Th* ftm pftrt l>Mrt a vtriltlftg- 
r&ciulilEiiicc to the tTfrllknowii btuiy of Joseph. But nf:«r the fa|4c 
necQtAtioa is ilfUct^V ihc chamctcr of the tlory \a ffreKtly changed, 
tl now hecoinw r Jitrics uf miH»foiiiialU>na aucb did urc founl itL the 
mylbical tal^n of Asia- >!'- W. M- l'lmd<Ts PctHo conticclfi it witti the 
nii> leUii myth uf Atya or AUis, which h^is bcca put in ctu:^ic;il Lutin 
<1tv» by Catultod. 

Thift tak ia rmint] In the D'OrViney Pftpyruiiin the Dntish Muiicum. 
Thr roll had b(^*n wriiim for the tPlfrtaimripm rf SpH II. <I209-I206 B.C.) 
vboi crovn -prince, but rt ii judged (hai ib< original itory wai much 
oilier, jud wai oilarvcd b^ the v:Hlic Anciia (or Emm). 



Oncr tlicTT were two l>rolhcr^, of cmc mothcT atjO rtiie 
father; Ai:pu was die name of the elder, and Bala wa.% the 
name of the younger. Aupii 1ia<I a houie and a wife. But 
his little brother wad to hJiii as a son ; he made for hirn his 
clothes ; he followed his oxen to the fields ; lie did the plough- 
iQft ; he harvested the grain \ he did for him all the matters 
thai were in the field. The voiingcr biothcr jjtow to be an 
excellent w(irker, there w^ not hia eqnal in the whole land ; 
the spirit of a R:od was in him. 

Now Bata followed his oxcn» and e\*ery ex-etiing iie tnmcd 
■gnm to the hotise, laden with all the herbs of the field, with 
mtlk and wood, and with all things of the Jield, and lie put 
tJietn dowii before his elder broihert who waj; sitting with his 
wife ; aiwi he drank and ale, and he lay down in hi* »tab1e 
witli the cattle, .^nd at the dawn of day he took bread 
which bp had baked, and laid it before his elder brother; aad 

39 



40 



THIS U'OKLU'S PUOC^BESS. 



he took wUh Iiim his bread to iht held, nnd be dro\*c his 
cattle to pasture in tlie fields. Aud oa he walked bebitad his 
cattle, tlicy said to him» '*Cood is Uic lieibage wbich is in 
tliat place ;'^ and he listened to all that tbey said, and he 
look them to the good place ^hich they de&ired. And tlie 
cattle which were before hi:n became excellent, and they 
multiplied flatly. 

Now nt the tinie of ploughing Anpti said unto B^la, "Let 
us niake Teody a goodly yoke of oxen for ploughing^ for the 
land h.is come out from the water, aud h fit for plouRhitia. 
Coine thou to tlie field with grain, for we will twgin the 
plougbing on the morrow/' Thus said he lo bim ; and Bata 
did all lliing?^ u% his cldrr brother bad spoken. 

And when llic morn was come, ihcy went to the fte!d« 
with their things; and their hearts were pleased exceedingly 
with ihcir Xa^k in the beginiiii]^ of their work. And It amic 
to pass that as Uiey were in llie fjcld tlic> slopped for giuin, 
aud Anpn ^cnt his younger brotlier, saying, '* IIn5te tliou, 
bring us grain frum the farm." And B:ila found the wife of 
his elder >jrothcr, 05 she was sitting tiring her bain He said 
lo her, "Get tip, and give mc grain, that I may run lo the 
field, for my elder brother hastened mc ; do not delay-" She 
said to him, '*Oo, open the bin, and thou shalt take to thyself 
according to thy will, that I may not drop my locks of htJi 
while I dre^ them," 

Bata went into the Citable; he look a lar^ measure, for 
he desired to take much j^rahi ; he loaded it with ^heat and 
barle>'; and he went out cam'ing it She said to hitn, "How 
much of the grain is that on thy shoulder?" He said to her, 
"* Three bushels of barley, and two of whcit, in 3II ^vt ; llicse 
arenponmyshoiilderJ* And she convcTsed with him, spying, 
''There is great strength in thee, for I sec thy might rvriy 
day." And her heart knew him with the knowledge of 
yonth. And she aiose and came lo him, and con\Trsed with 
liim, Haying, "Come, stay with me, and it shall l»e well for 
thee, and T will make for thee heantifnl gaxments." Then 
Bntfl became like a panther of the sotith with fury at the evil 
speech which she had made to him ; find ^h^ feared greatly. 
And he sjKike milo her, :<iaying, " Behold thoU art to me oa a 



eAkUKiiT I'lcTroN- 



A^ 



moihcTt thy hu5band is to idc as a father, for he has brought 
tne up. What is tlua wickedness that tboti liast said to mc? 
Say it not to mc a^^aiu. For 1 wiU not tcil it to any man, for 
I will not let it be uttered by tlic moutli of any man/' llata 
lifted up his burden, and he went to the field and came to 
his elder brother ; and they took up iheir work, to labor at 
their task. 

Now, at cvciitimc, Anpii was rcttuning to his hou&e ; and 
Bata wajL following after his oxeii, aiid he loaded hiin^lf with 
all the thirjfs of the field; and he brought his oxen before 
him, to mnke thciti lie down in their stable which was in the 
fann. And behold the wife of Atipu was afraid for ilie words 
which she had said. Her hnshand reUimed in the even, as 
wx% hin vi^int evYry day ; he CAine unto hia house ; he ftiand 
his wife ill of violenee; she did not give him water U])on his 
liandx, »}lc did not make a li^^ht before liim ; his hoii,se av.-;^ in 
darkncis, and she wa* lying very sick. Her hushaiid ahuI to 
her, "Who has spoken with thee?*' Behold she said, "No 
one hjw spoken with me except thy younger brotlicr. When 
he came to t^ke grain he found mc sitting alone ; he said Co 
mc, 'Come, let u» ,itny together* tic up thy hair/ 1 did not 
listen to him* but th^ia spuke I to him : ' Behold, om I not 
thy mother, is not thy elder brother to thcc its n father?^ 
And he fcaicd, and he beat me to stop me from makinj; 
report to thee, and if thou Icttcst him live I shall die. Now 
t>choId, he is coming in tlie evening; and J complam of 
tbe« wicked words, for he woiil3 have done this even in 
daylifiht." 

And Atipii became as a panther of the south; he sharpened 
his knife ; he took it in his hand ; lie stood behird the door of 
his stable to slay his yonnger brother as he came in the evcu- 
ing to brins his cattle into the stable. 

Now the Min went down, and Bata h>aded himself with 
herbi in hi^ daily manner He came, and his foremost cow 
entered the stable, and she said lo her keeper, " Rchold thy 
elder brntheT stimding liefore Iher with his knife lo slay ihre ; 
flee from before him/' He heard what his first cow h?iA said ; 
and ll»e next enleriiig,said likewise- Mc looked Iwnralli the 
lioor of the stot^le ; he Miw Utc feet of his elder brother ; he 



43 



tnt viecmtsr% meoc^CSS. 



was ^tftnditi^ behind the door, and his knife vas in his bnnd. 
He cost down hip lead to the ^oiiitd, and bciook hintsclf to 
flee swiftly ; and hU elder brother pursued after him with bis 
knife. 

Then BaU cried out unto Rn HArxlchti, ftaymg, '* My ^;ood 
Lord I Thou art he who divides the evil from the good." 
Atid Ra «iood nnd heard aH his cr)*; smd Rft made a wide 
water hetweca liirti and his ehler brother, and it was full of 
crocodiles; and the otic brother was on one bank, and the 
othrr oil the other txtiik ; iittd the elder 1>n)ther sinote twice 
on his hands at not slaying him. And the younger brother 
cftllcd to the chlct on the bank, saytng, '^Stand still until the 
duwuor (luy; und when Ra Aiitteth, 1 altall judge with Iboe 
before lliui, for He discernctb between the good and the e^'il. 
Hut I fthnll not \x with thee any more forever ; 1 <ihall not be 
iu the place in which thou art ; I shall go to the vaUey of the 
acaciA.*' 

Now when t]ic land waa li$:htcncd, and the next day 
appeared, Ra Harokbti arose, and one looked unto the other. 
And the youth npake with Anpu, sayin|^, '^Wlierefore camtst 
thou after nie to slay me in cmftines.*^, when thou didst not 
hear the words of my n:outh ? 1-or I am thy brother in truth, 
and thou art to me as a father, and thy wife even as a mother; 
\& it not so? Veriiy, when I was sent to bringr grain, thy 
wife said to me, ^ Couie^ stay with me ; ' fox behold this has 
been turned over unto thee otherwise-" And he caused 
him to understand all that happened with hUn and hi» 
wife. And he swore an oath by Ra H^iakhti, sayinf^, "Thy 
coming to iday me by deceit with thy knife waK an abomina- 
tion." Tlien the youth took a knife, and cut olTof his flesh, 
and cast it into tJie water, antl fht- fi*ih swallowetl it. He 
^led ; he became faint ; and bis elder biother cuised hiit own 
heart greatly; lie stcKid weeping for hini afar off; he knew not 
how to \i^^ mxT to wLrrc Lis younger biolher was, because 
of the crocuililes. 

The youn^fcr brother called unto him, saying, '^Wliereaa 
thou haM devi>ed nn evil thing, wilt thou not alito dcvnic a 
£:ood thing, even like that which I would do unto thee? 
When thou gocfit to thy house tbou must look U> thy cattle. 



EARLIEST rrCTlOM. 



43 



for I shall not stay in th« place where tliou art; I om ^tif; 
to the valley of tiic ft»im. And this is wbiit fthuU come to 
pass ; I filuU draw out my soul (hcsrlf, otid I tlmll put it npoii 
the top of itiL- liowcrs of the acucia, a»d when Ut« acacia is cut 
dovpa, and it fAlU to tiic ^i^uml, and tboii comcst Co Boeic for 
h, i( thou »eitrc]i<^t for it tcveu ^-eari <]o tiot let ttiy heart be 
wearied. Forihoii wilt find it.nud thou must piii it ia a cup 
of cold water, and expect th:tt ! nhoW Uv^ ^g^i^ii ^hat I may 
make ;:uiswer to ivliaL Ims beeu done wrong. And thou shall 
know that ihings nri^ hapiwning in mc, when tme shnll give 
to tliee a cup of Iwer iti ihy hand, and it shall be troubled ; 
stay uot then, for verily it ^]iM come to piuss with Ihcr-" 

And RitUi went to the valley uf the ucacia; aud hia elJci 
brother weiit unto liis hou5c; hiA hand wha laid ou hi« head, 
and he ca^t dii^t im h'ts he;ul. He auuc to his ho<u?(C, and he 
akw hU Vfifc, he caii htT to the dogs, and he tmi in moiinuui>: 
Jot his younger broUicT. 

Now uiauy d^ys after the^^c thin^ Bala wns in the valley 
of the acacia ; there wa^ none with htm ; lie spent his time 
in hunting the bcurits of the desert, and lie came hack in the 
cirtn to lie down under the acacia, which bore his ^oul upon 
the topmost flower. Aiid after this he built himsell a tower 
with hb own houd^, in the valley of the acacia ; it wua fuH of 
all good thitigs, that he niiglit provide for himself n hotnc. 

And be went out from his tower, and he met the Nine 
Gods, who were walking; forth to look upon the whole land. 
The Nine Gods talhed o<ne with auoiber, ami they natd unto 
him, *' Ho I Bata, bull of the Nine Go<U, art thou reiuainins; 
nionc? Thmi h»st left tliy village for the wife of Anpti, thy 
elder brother. Behold hJ« wife la ahuTL Thou hast ^iveii 
him an answer to all that uiis transgressed against thee,'* 
And their hearts were vt-xed fur him excerdingly. And Rn 
HarBkhti said to Khnuinii, '* Behold^ ftanie thou n ^oman 
for Rata, that lie ni.iy r.ot rctn.iin rHvc alone. " And Khnunui 
ittadc for him a uwte lo tlwell wJtli him: She was iiioie 
beautiful in her limbs than auy woman ^ho is iu the whole 
Und. The essence of every god was In her. The seven 
Hathors (Fates) came to ^ee her: Lhey said with uuc luoiith^ 
** She -will die a sharp death/' 



u 



tut world's rlEOSDCSS. 



Anfl Pfllft lcj%T(l litr vrry pxtrevdiiigly, aud sl*c <Wrft in 
Ttis liuuM! ; h« pa^eseU 1m time in luiutiiig Uic be^Hts of ibj^ 
(k-^rt, aud brought and laid thciu bciorc lien Hcsaid^ '^Go 
not onb&icle^ ltf:it the s«t .vcixc thcc; foT 1 c^iiiiot rcAite tliec 
from it ; iny soul is placed on the licad of Uie Cower of llit 
airucla ; and ;f another fjtid it, I nrnst fight witli Jnm-" And 
he opened uuto her his bcutt in all its nature. 

i j^ Now aAcr tiic5C thing;? BhiU went to hunt in bis 
«IBk^^ ^flily at^aaiicr. And tli« young 

gitl went to walk under the 
iKttcia which was by the aide 
of her house. Thni the sea 
saw ber, and cuaX i\s vravts np 
after lien She betook hcretlf 
to flee from beiore !l She 
cutcrgd her bouse. Aud the 
'I -^ *^ ca.llcd unto the acacia, Kiy- 

^^ -^-^ iagt '*Oh, would that I could 

;^_ brought a look from her bair, 
. - and ibc sea camVl it to Egypt, 
atid (Irojii^ird it in tbr place of 
tlic fullers of Pluraoh's Hneii. 
Tlie »mdl of tbc lock of hair 
entered inlo the clothes of 
Pbar^ob \ and Ibey were wioth 
with the fttllcrsof Pharaob, saying, *^Thc wnell of cintment 
is in the clothes of I'haraoh/* And the people were rebuked 
every day\ they knew not what they nbonld do. And llie chie! 
fuller <>r rbamoh ^v-nlkcd by the bank, oud bis heart was very 
evil ^'Itlnii him after l\it daily qitairel with him. He Mood 
stni, he ftood upon the sand opposite to the lock of hair, which 
wai in the water, and he made one etitcr into the w.ntcr and 
brings it to liim ; aud there ^va^ found in it a smetl, exceeding 
sweet He look it to Pharaoh ; and they brought the scribcB 
and the wbe men, and they said unto Pbar:ioh, "* This lock of 
batrbelonffstoadaughterof KaHarakhti: the essence of et'ery 
god IS in her, ard it h a tribute to tbee from another land. 
]>t mes^en^rs go to every sttangc land to seek ber ; and a^ 





i!ABj.rt;sT ricrioN. 



45 



For the mcssenffcr who sball go to tbc valley of the acaciit let 
miny ittcn gu with Itim to hzln^ her." Then said his lu^jcsilyi 
"Excellent exceedingly is what has been siid to ii*;" and 
ibey scot tbem. Aad m:iny days after theac things the people 
who were sent lo stTUii£C lands came to give report unto the 
"kinz ; but there outie not th<Me wlio went tc the valley of the 
acacia. Tor Data had slain them, but let one of tliem rctiini to 
g;ive a report to the kin|^. His majesty sent many men and 
soldiers, as well as liorf<i!men, to brinf^ her back. And there 
Tk'os a woman amouj^t them, and to her had been given in 
ber hand beanttfnl ornaments for a woman. And the girl 
eame back with her, and tbey rejoiced over her in the whole 
Und. 

And his majesty" loved her evceedingly, and laised her to 
higfh r^i^te ; ard he spalce nnto her th^t slie ^honld Leil him 
concerning her hn^lKind, And she iiid, *' T^t the acacia be 
Cttt down, and let one chop it npi" And they sent men and 
soldicTK with iheir wt-ajwrns Cu cut down the acacia ; and Ihry 
came to the iicada, and ihcy cut the flower upod which wa^ 
the soni of l^ata, and he fell dcfid suddenly. 

Ami when the next day carnr, and the cxtih was Hghlpi»rd, 
llic acacia was cut down. And Aupu, the cldci brother of 
liata, entered hU honw, and wa.ihed hi^ hand^ ; find one gave 
him a cup of beer, and it 1>cc;une troubled ; and one ^avc him 
another of wine^ and the AmcU of it was evii. Then he took 
hi3 stafT, and his sandaU^ and likewise his clothes, with his 
weapons of war ; and he betook himself forth to the valley of 
the Acacix He entered the tower of his younger brother, and 
be found him lying upon his mat ; he was dead. And he 
i«pt when he saw Im younger brother lying dead. And he 
went out lo seek the soul of his v'oungcr brother ondcr the 
acacia tree, under which hia younper brother lay in the even- 
ing. He spent tliree years in seeking for it, but found it not. 
And when he began the fourth year, he deiired in hU heart 
to return into Egpyt ; he said, "I will go to-morrow ; "* Uius 
tpakr he in his heart. 

Nov when th* land lightened^ and the next day api>eared, 
Anpu was walking inider the acacia; he was spending hift 
time in scclcing it And he returned In the evening, and 



46 



TIT£ WORlJ>S rxOCRKSS. 



Iflbftr^I at swking ii again- He found a seed. He retnrned 
with it Behold this was the Boul ot his younger brother. 
He brought a cup of cold water, and he cast ;hr «ccd ' .to it ; 
and lie sat dowu, as he was wont. Now whea the nigbt 
came bis sotti siickrd up the water; B^tlft sluidr^cred m all his 
limbs, and he IiM>kcd oa his elder brother ; his tauul wiu in the 
cup. Then Aiipu took the cup of cold water, tn which tbe 
soul of his younger brother was; Rata drank it, bU nnnl ^tood 
again in lX> place, and 1u^ became sim he bud been. Tbey 
embraced e^cli other, and Uiey couscrscd together. 

And l^tfi s^id to bis elder biotbcr> ^* Behold, I am to be- 
come a» a ^eai bull, which bear^ c\cry good mark ; no one 
kziowcth its h)stor>, and thou must sit upou uiy back. \Vbcu 
the 511D arises I shall be in the place where my wife is, tliAl I 
may return answer to her; and thon miiAt take me to the 
pUcc where the king is- All good things shall be dottc 
for thee; and one shall lade tliec with siK^r and gold^ because 
thou brineest mc to Pliaraoli. for I become a great inar\'cl, 
and they sb;ill rejoice lor me in atl the land* But tJioti Etholt 
go to thy viHage," 

And when the land was lightened, and the next day 
appeared^ Bala becume in the form which he had told to Uis 
elder brother- And Anpit sat upon his back until tlie dawn. 
He came lo the place where the king wo*, and they mai5e his 
majesty tc know of him ; tlie king saw him, and was exceed- 
ing joyful with him. He made for him great offerings, fiaying, 
"This ifta great wonder which has come to pass.** There 
were rejoicings over him in the whole land They presented 
unto him silver and ^}d for hie elder brother, who went and 
Etayed in his village. They gave lo the bull many men and 
manythitigs, and Pharaoh loved him exceedingly Bbo\'e all 
thai is in this land. 

Ami after many days, the bull entered the purified place; 
he stood wliere the prince« was; he began to speak with 
ber, sayirg, '^B^-Hnld. I am alive :n<ieed/' And she said 
to btrn, "And, f»niy, who art ihon?" He said lo her, *' I 
am Bata. I prrccived when thon f^nsed^l thai thevshonid 
destroy the acicia nf Pharaoh, which was my abode, Ihat I 
might not be suffered to live. Rehold, I am alive rmlred, 



KARU£5T FICnOV. 



47 



I am «s an ox.*' ThcD the priuccss fcafcd exceedingly foT 
tli« wurds tbdt licr lm;ibaad had spoken to her. And lie 
went out froni the purified place. 

And bU maje^jty wa» sitting, making a good day with hct ; 
die wa5 at the table of his majesty, aud the kin^ w^ exceed- 
ing pleaded with her. And she ^nid to bia majesty, * Swcai 
to me by God, saying, ' What lUou abalt say, I will obey it 
ibr thy sake' " He hearkened utiio all that she said, even 
this. " Let me cat o[ the livt^r of tiie ox, because he is £t for 
nought : " thus spake she to him. And the king was exceed- 
ing sad at her wofil»:, the htr^rt of Phjiraoh gritrved him greully. 
And after the lawi was lightened^ and the next day appeared, 
they proclaimed a great feast with otferiugs to the ox< And 
the king sent one of hi« chief huieheni to cause the ox to be 
sacrificed And when he wa& sacrificed, as he was upon the 
slionMeTH of the people, he shotik ht« neck, and he threw two 
drops of bluod over agaiufil the two doors of his majesty. 
Thr otic fi-ll njN>n Ihr one stdr^ on the great door of Phamoh, 
aod tJie othcT upon the (it)ier tXaai. They gtew ji^ two jgieat 
Pei«a trees, aEid each of them was excellent. 

Am! one went to tril inito his majesty, ** Two great Pentea 
iTceji have grown, as a gieat niar\d of his majesty, in the 
night by the side of the gteat gale of his majesty/* And 
there wa.s lejotchig for them in all the land, and tlicrc were 
otTcrin^s made to thciii- 

And when the days were multiplied after these tilings, bis 
m^jest)' was adorned with the hint crown, with garlands of 
flowers on his neck, and he was upon the chariot ol fxite gold, 
and he went out from the palace to behold the Ptrsea trees ; 
the priuce*fts also was (Toiuj out with horses behind hismaje-My* 
And bis majesty sat beneath one of the i^err;ea trees, and it 
spake thus with bis wife : "O thou deceitful one, I am Pata, 
I am ali^-e, thon;;b I bav-e been c\'illy entreated, I knew who 
Cfltucd the acacia to be citt down by Pharaoh at my dwelling. 
I then became an ox, and Ibon causedst roe to be killed." 

And many days after ihewr ihin^js the princes? stood at the 
table of Pharaoh, and the king was pleased with her. And 
sbe said to his majesty, "Swear to me by God, saying, 'That 
which the princess shall say to me t will do it for her.*'* 



■Uh 



48 THE WORtlf5 PROCBEitS. 

And he hearkened unto all she said. And he commanded, 
*' Let these two Pcrsea trees be cut down, and let them be 
made into goodly phmks.'^ And he hearkened unto all she 
said. And after this his majesty sent skillful craftsmen, and 
they cut down the Fersea trees of Pharaoh ; and the princess, 
the royal wife, was standing looking on, and they did all that 
was in her heart unto the trees. But a chip flev up, and it 
entered into the mouth of the princess ; she swallowed it, and 
after many days she bore a son. And one went to tell his 
majesty, ^'Thercis bom to thee a son," And they bronght 
him, and gave to him a nurse and servants -, and there were 
rejoicings in the whole land. And the king sat making a 
merry day, as they were about the naming of him, and his 
majesty loved him exceedingly at that moment, and the king 
raised him to be the royal son of K.u5h. 

Now many days after these things, his majesty made him 
heir of all the land. And many days after that, when he had 
fulfilled many years as heir, his majesty flew up to heaven. 
And the heir sard, "Let the great nobles of his majesty be 
brought before me, that I may make them know all that 
has happened to me." And they brought also before him 
his wife, and he judged with her befo:-e hira, and they j^reed 
with him. They brought to him his elder brother ; he made 
him hereditary prince tn all his land. He was thirty years 
king of Egypt, and he died, and his elder brother stood in 
hb place on the day of burial. 



EARLIER FICTION, 



49 



GREEK FICTION. 



Among the Orctks, romaiKc was lor.^ rcg^ardcd sls trivial 
unless totd in the g:ui« of history. Only in the d^cad«nt 
period u-ere romaiKe^ written, and while ibis form of litera- 
ture might nr^er oiher coruliiions have dcvdopcd more fully, 
all Utcran' fonm?i were shortly ergiilfed in overwhelming con- 
fti&iofL DimiLt ami OercyUis is Ihe earli<rit Greclc Ti>m;iMcc 
knowii to us. Il sliDWS sligbl advance over ihc Egyptian 
t^lcs, being made up of magical adventures. It is more prolix, 
relating to tedium the wandermg::^ and experiences of its 
characters. Hcliodorus wrote the best known Greek novel 
Tkfagmc^ and Chmclcc, The pasioral of Longu*. Dcphnis 
and Chloff is perhaps the most plc^svuTiblc from the standpoint 
of the present-day reader. Its theme is the awakening and 
satitfyin^ of love in ihit shepherd and »tbepherdet^». who pass 
their days in irue Arcadian fashion among sheep and goats, 
tlieir daily program varying only with the changing season*, 
and ihcir atietition, so far as diverted to anything beside one 
another, being held hy nature's nujods and manifestations. 
In the love theme Longu* fcnmd a new thread for his story: 
while the modem critic complains that he allowed it to extend 
to immoderate IcnRlb, it should be retncmhered lliat Lon^us 
vrote for an age other than ours; bis shepherds and slicp- 
befdesses were not to pressed for time that their love atfairi 
must needH be curtailed and constrained within a few brief 
weeks. If it took them scx'eral seasons to realise the full 
significance of the power ihat had laid bold of them and mare 
still to bring their exjjerieTice to its c<»n<mnmatiun in a mar- 
riage festival, contemporary readers found the idyl the more 
gratifying arid Iwentietli-cciitury crilerions were yet un- 
dreamed. 

It should always be remembered that although stories of 
the nature herein considered were earlier in matter of pro- 
duction, Ukv di<l not, however, affect the beginnings of 
modem fiction, which sprung from the people as independent 
of classical limes as did the modern drama. 

V-4 



TBIt WOftLO S PROCttHSa 



TuK LovKi or DAPUKt» aj4d Cbloil 

In the islaod of Lesbos there is an extensive city called 
Mitykne, the appearance of which is beautiful: tbe 5Ci inler- 
iect£ it by variouii canals, atul it is adorned with bridgia of 
polished whitr stone. Yoti might imagine you beheld an 
island rather than a city. 

About twenty-four miles from Klitylene. were llie posses- 
aions o£ a rich man, which forn^d a very 6nc estate* The 
mouniaina abounded with game, the fields produced com, the 
hills were ihick wiih vines, ilie pasiiires with herds, and tbe 
sca-washcd shore consisied of an extent of smooth sand- 
As Lamoii, a g:oatherd» was tending his herds upon the 
c3tatc, he found n child suckled by a she-go&t. The place 
where it was ]yin|; was an oak coppice and tanf^ed thidcei, 
with ivy winding about it, and toft gras« beneath; thither 
tile goat contimully ran and disappeared fmn sight, leaving 
her own kid in cjnlrr to rem^iin near the diild, Lainon 
watched her movements, being grieved to scc the kid neg- 
lected, and one day when the sun was burning in his meridian 
heat be follows her steps and sees her standing over the in fant 
with the utmost caution, lest her hoofs might injure it, while 
the child sucked co|jic"U5 draughts of hirr milk as if from its 
mother's breast. Struck with natural astotiishmcnt, he ad* 
vanccs dose to the spot and discovers a huly and himdsomc 
male child, with f^r richer swathing clothes than suited its 
fortune in being thus exposed: for its little mantle was of 
fine purple, and fastened by a golden c\^s[\ and it had ;i little 
sword whh a hilt of ivory. 

At first Lamon resolved to leave the infant to its fate, and 
to carry off only the tokens; but fcoling afterwards ashamed 
at the reflection, that in doing so he should be inferior in 
humanity even to a goat, he i^-aited for the approach of ntght, 
and then caiiied honre tlie infant with the tokens, and the 
she-goat herself 10 Myrtale, his wife, 

Myrtale was astonished, and thottfitht it strange if goats 
could produce children, upon which her husband recotuiti 
every particular; how he found the infant exposed; how it 
was suckled; and how ashamed he fell at the idea of leaving 
it to perish. She shared his feelings, so they agreed to coi^ 
ceal the tokens, and adopt the child as their own, conTmitting 



JCARLrCST FicnoK. 



5' 



the rearing of il to the goat, and that the name might also be 
1 pastoral one they determir>cd to call it Daphnis. 

Two j-ear* had now elapsed, when Dryas, a neighboring 
fihrph^nl, fending his Aoirk, found an trfaitt under sJmiUr 
drcumstdiices. 

There \\k% a grolln sacred lo the Nytnphs; il was a 
spacious rock, concave within^ convex without. The statues 
of the Kyrophs themselves were carved in stone. Their feet 
were bare, their arms naked to the shoulder, their hair falling 
dishevelled upon their shoulders, their vesta gin about the 
waist, a smile sat upon their brow; their whole semblance was 
that of a troop of <hncers- The dome of the grotto row m-er 
the middir of the rock. WaTcr, springing from a fountain 
fonnert a running stream, and a trim meadow stretched iU 
»oit and abundant herbage before the entrance; fed by ihe 
perpetual moisture. Within, milk-pails, tran s verse-flu tci- 
6ageolets and paf^ioraJ pipes were suspended — the offerings of 
many an aged shepherd 

An ewe of Dryad's flock wliich had lately lambed had 
frequently r^sorifd to ibis groito» and raised apprehensions 
of her being lost. Tlie shepherd, wishing to cure her of this 
habit, and to bring her back lo her former way of grazing, 
twisted some green osiers into the form of a slip knot, end 
approached the rock with the view of seizing her. Upon 
aiTi%'{ng there, however, he beheld a flight far contrary lo hi» 
expectation. He found Ms cwc alTrclinnatHy offering frcmi 
her udder copious draughts of milk to an infant, which with- 
out any wailing, eagerly turned from one teat to the other. 
its clean and glossv face, the animal licking it, as soon as it 
had had its ail. 

This child was a female; and had beside its swathing gar- 
ments, by way of tokens, a head-dress wrought with gold, 
gilt sandals, and golden anklets. 

Dr>'as, imagining that this foundling was a gift from the 
Deity, and instructed by his sheep to pity and love the infant, 
raised her in his arms, placed the tokens in his scrip, and 
prayed the Nymph* that their favour might attend upon him 
in bringing up their Mipplianl; and when the time was come 
iOT drK-ing his c-attle from their pasture, he retunis to his 
cottage, relates what he had seen to his wife, exhibits what he 



s» 



THH WOBlU>'« PROCIEESS- 



had found, urji^ei her to obscn-e a secret, and to rcfrard and 
rear the cliilfl as her own cUm^bttr. 

Nape Cf«r *o his wife was chilled) immediately beoune a 
mother to the infant, and fe!t afiTeclion towards It, fearing 
f^eihajis lEi Ijc (luldtme m trtnlrnn^s hy thr crte, atitl to m^ikc 
appcantnccs more probable^ gave the child the pastoral name 
of Chloe, 

Thf two children gTc\v rapidly^ and their personal a(^>car* 
ancc exceeded that of ordinary rustics* Daplmis was now 
fifteen and Chloe was his junior by two years, when on the 
same night Lnmon and D^'as had the following dream. They 
ihouglu that ihcy beheld ihe Xyniphs of ihc Grotto, in which 
the fountain was, and where Dryas found Uie infant, pfe- 
seittra^ Daplink and Chlrjc to a very saucy looking and hand- 
some boy, who had wings upon his shoulders, and a liEtle 
bow and arrows in his hand. He lifichlly touched ihein both 
with one of his shafts, and commanded thcni henceforth to 
follow a pastoral life. I'hc boy was to tend goats, the girl 
was to have charge of sheep. 

The shepherd and ^oailierd having had this dream, were 
grieved to thinic that these, ihcir adc^^ied chihiren, were like 
themselves to Imve the aire of fiock-*. Their Art^n had gtven 
promise of a belter fortune, in consequence of which their 
fare had been more dehcalc, and their education and accocn- 
plishment^ superior to those of a country life. 

It appeared to them, however, that in the case of chttdren 
whom the gods had prcfwrvrd, thr will of the gods mu'tt Iw 
obeyed; so each having communicated to the other his dream^ 
they offered a sacrifice to the "Winged Boy, the Companion 
of the Nymphs,*' (for they were imaa;uainted wiih his name) 
and sent fonh the young people to their pa*tora! employ 
ments, having first instructed thrm in tbetr di:lirs; how In 
pa&turc their herds before the nnon-day heat, and when it 
was abated; ai what time to lead them to ihc stream, and 
afterwards to drive them home to the fold; which of their 
sheep and goals required the crook, and to which only the 
voice was necessary. 

They on iheir part, received the charge as if it had been 
some powerful sovereignty, and felt an affection for their 
sheep and goats beyond what is usual with shepherds: Chloe 



KAKMEST FICTION- 



M 



TtftniaghtT preservation to a ewe, and DaphnU remembering 
lliat a thcgoat had suckled him when he was (.'xposcd. 

h was the beginning of Sprirg, the flowct* were in htoom 
tliruughoiit the wixmU, the mradows, ;itid the moimtains; there 
were the buzzing oi tlic bee, llie warblings of the songsters, 
the frolid o£ ilic lainhs. The young of the flock were skij^jjing 
on the moontaini. the bees Rtw hmnintn^ through the mead- 
ows, and the songs of the birds resounded tlirough the btisltcs. 
Seeing all ihinffs pervaded with sueh unK^real joy, ihey, 
}*oiing and susceptible as they were, imitased whatever they 
saw or hcar<I. Hearing the carol of Thi^ birds, [hey sang; 
seeing tlic sporti^-e skipping of the Iambs, Ihcy danced; and 
in imitation of the bees Ihcy gathered flo^vers. Some tlwy 
placed in their bosoms, and others they wove into chaplets and 
carried them a* offerings to tlie Nymphs, 

Tliey temled their flocki in com|)any, and alt their occiipa- 
lions Vfcrc in a>mmon, Thiptims frequenHy rollecled the sheep 
which were slmycd. and Chloc drove back from a precipice 
ihc goflls which were too venturesome- Somctitnes one would 
take the entire m:*najjcment of both goats and sheep, while 
the other was intent tipon some amusement. 

Their sports were of a pastoral and childish kind Chloc 
somrltnies tiej^Icrtctl her flock ami wtnL in search of stalks 
of a>pIiode!, with which she wove traps for locusts; while 
Daphnis devoted himself to playini: till nightfall upon his 
piiw. which he had formed by cutting slender reeds, perfor* 
aiing the intervals between the joints, and compacting them 
together with «oft wax. Sometimes they shored their milk 
and wine, ard matle a common meal upon the provision which 
tho" had brought from home; and sooner might you sec one 
part of the flock divided from the other than Daphnis separate 
from Chk>c. . . , 

It was now the middle of autumn : — the vintage was at 
hand, and eiery one was busy in the fields. One prepared 
the wine-i>resses. another cleansed the casks, and another 
twisted the osiers into baskets. Each had a separate employ — 
in providing short pruning hooks, to ctil the gropes; or a 
heavy stone, to pound them; or dry vine branches, prcvionaly 
welt bniised, to t^rve as torches, vo that the must might be 
carried awar at night. 



54 



THE world's I'ROCItCSS. 



DftphnU and Chlo« neglected for a time tlieir llocks aind 
mutually a&siaied one anoiher. He carried the dusura in 
baaktts, threw tliem into the wine-presses, trod them, and 
drew off the wine into casks ; she |>rcpar«d their meals for the 
grape gutherers, brought old wine for their drink, and plucked 
off the lowest bunches. Indeed* oil the vines in Lesbos were 
of lowly growth, and instead of shooting upwards, or twining 
around trees, tliey sprea<l their branches downwards, which 
trailed along, like ivy, so c!o^ to the ground, that even an 
infant trught reach the fniit. 

The woMicn, who. according to the castom at tim festival 
of Bacchns, and binh of Ihc vine, were called from t!»e neigh- 
bouring villages lo lend their assistance, all cast their eyes 
upon Daphnis, and cxcUimcd th^t he was equal in beatify lo 
Uacchus himscit One of the most forward of these wcrche* 
gave him a kiss, which infianictl Daphm^, but sadly grieved 
poor Chloe. 

On the other hnnd, the men who were treading the wine- 
press indulged in all manner of jests about Chloe, they danced 
round her as furiously as so many Bacchanals round a Ear-* 
chante, and exclaimcti that th^y would gladly become sheep 
\Q lie fed by birr hand. These coitipliiiienls ileli){1i1cd Cliloc, 
but tormented poor Daphnis, 

Each oF lliciii wished the vintage over, that they might 
return to their usual haunts, and in^cad of this discordant 
din might hear the sound of their ]>ipe, and (he bleating of 
tJieir sheep. In a iew days the vines were stript,— the casks 
were filled, — there was no longer any need of more hands; 
tliey therefore drove their flocks to the plain. In the first 
place, with sincere delight they %vent to pay their adoraiion 
to the Nymphs, and carried vine-branche* with cluMcr^ of 
grapes on them, as first-fruit offerings frnni the vintage. 
Indeed, they had rcvcr hitherto parsed by the Grotto without 
some token of rcs|}ect, but always sahtted them as they passed 
by with their flocks lo their morning pasture, and when they 
relumed in the evening, they paid their adoration, and pre- 
sented, as an offering, either a flower, or some fruit, or a 
green leaf, or a libation of milk. This piety, as we shall set, 
had in the end its due reward. M the lime we speak of, lUee 



gARLlCsT nCTlON 



55 



y<3ung bounds jtut kt loose, ihcy lc&]>cd About, they piped, 
they sang, and wrestled and played with their ^oAts rnd ahccp. 

While thus sporting and enjoying themselves, .in old nun, 
clothed in a coarse coat of skin, with shoes of undi'csfvd 
leather nn hi* feel, aiiH wtlh a wallet (^Iiich. by lUe hy, was 
a vety old one) at hi,^ l>ack, came up, seated himself near 
them, and addressed them as follows: 

"I who now aci(!re*s yoiJ, my children, am Phileta*. I 
have often sunfif the praises of ihe Nymphs of yonder Crotlo 
— I have often piped in honour of Pan, and have guided my 
ttumcfotis herd hy the inn*iic of »iy voice. 1 conic lo acquaint 
you wiih vrhal [ have 5een and hcartl 1 have a garden which 
1 cultivate with my own bands, and in which I have always 
worked* since i became too old lo lend my herds. In it i& 
every productior of the different seavonf;; in spring it abounds 
with roses, lilies, hyacinths, and either kind of viclcti; in 
summer with poppies, pears, anti apples of c\'cry sort; and 
now in autumn, wilh graiies. figs, ^jomcgranatcs, and green 
myrtles. A variety of binis fly into it every morning, some 
in search of foot], and s<:*mc to warble in the shade; for the 
over-archinp bough* afford thick shade, and three fountains 
^aier the cool retreat. Were it not inclosed wiih a wall, it 
might be taken far a natural wood, As 1 enlered it today. 
about noon, I espied a little boy under my pomegranale*^ and 
mynles, some of which he had gathered; and was holding 
them in his hands. His complexion wafi white as milk, his 
hair a bright yellow, and he shone as if he bad just been bath- 
ing. He was naked an<i alone* and ainusett himself with 
plucking the fruit wilh as much free<1f>ni as if it had been his 
own garden. Apprehensive that in his wantonness be would 
commit more mischief and break my plants, 1 sprang forward 
lo Kiie bim, but the urchin lightly and easily escaped frnm 
me. sometimes running under rose-trees, and sometimes hiding 
himself like a young pariridpe under the poppies. 

"1 have frecjuerUly been faiigutd wiib carching my sucking 
Icidfl, or my ncwilrnpl raKcs; but as to this m]«:h:evou5 
creature, in perpetual motion, it was utterly impossible to lay 
bold of him. Old as 1 am I was *K>on wenry with the pursuit ; 
». leaning on my staff for support, and keeping my eyes on 
bim lest be should escape, I asked him to what neighbour be 



BL 



i^a 



56' The world's progress, 

belonged, and what he meant by gathering what grew in 
another person's garden. 

"He made no reply, but approaching very near mc, smiled 
sweetly in ray face, and pelted rae with myrtle-berries, and, I 
know not how, so won upon me, that my anger was appeased. 
I entreated him to come close to me, and assured him that 
he need not be afraid, swearing by the myrtles, by the apples, 
and by the pomegranates of my garden, that I wished only 
to give him one kiss, for which he should ever afterwards 
have liberty to gather as much fruit, and to pluck as many 
flowers as he pleased. 

Upon hearing me thus address him, he burst into a merry 
laugh, and with voice sweeter than that of the swallow or 
the nightingale, or of the swan when grown aged like myself, 
he replied : *I grudge you not a kiss, Philetas, for I have more 
pleasure in being kissed than you would have in growing 
young again; but consider whether the gift would suit your 
time of life; for, old as you are, one kiss would not satisfy 
you, nor prevent you from running after me, while if even 
a hawk, an eagle, or any other swifter bird, were to pursue 
me, it would pursue in vain. I am not the child which I appear 
to be; but I am older than Saturn, ay, older than Time him- 
self. I knew you well, Philetas, when you were in the flower 
of your youth, and when you tended your widely scattered 
flock in yonder marsh, I was near you. when you sat beneath 
those beech-trees, and were wooing your Amaryllis: I was 
dose to the maiden, but you could not discern me. I gave 
her to you, and some fine boys, who are now excellent hus- 
bandmen and herdsmen, are the pledges of your lovc- At 
this present time I am tending Daphnis and Chloe like a shep- 
herd; and when I have brought them together in the mornings 
I retire to your garden: here I disport myself among your 
flowers and plants, and here I bathe in your fountain. Through 
me it is that your flowers and shrubs are so beauteous, for the 
waters, which have bathed me, refresh them. Look now, if 
any of your plants be broken down! — see, if any of your 
fruit be plucked !^-examine whether the stalk of any flower 
be crushed — or the clearness of any one of your fountains be 
disturbed! and rejoice that you alone, in your old age. have 
had the privilege of beholding the boy who is now before 



KAEUEST FICnOH, 



5? 



With th«*c words ho spranjr like the youngling of a 
rugtiiingale aiiiong th« inyrlZes, and climl^n^ from bough to 
bough AMTCndcd Through ihc fcliagc to the summit of the tree. 
I obsened wings upon liis sliouldera, and between tlieni a liny 
Imw ai»<l arrtiws; btif in a momi-Til I could neither we him nor 
thcTtt, Unless 1 liavc jjixjwn grey In v;tiii, iiiilcsit I li;i\€ gul 
into m>" delate in growing old. you may rdy on mc, when I 
a^ure you, that you arc consecrate to LOVE* and that you 
are under his peculiar cart." 

Daphnis and Chloe were delighted, but tliey regarded what 
they had heard as an aimi&irg story rather than a sober fact; 
and inquired of Philelas \*j^o and what chis LOVE could be? 
whether he were a \x>y or a bird? and of what power* he was 
p069eȣ<l? "My young friends." said Philctas, "he is a god, 
yoansr. bcautifuli and ever on the wing. He rejoices, there 
fOTc, in ihc company of youth, he is ever in search of beauty, 
and adds wings to the aouls of tho^c he favours. He has power 
far beyond that of Jove liiin^U. He commands (he elements, 
he rules ihc itaTs. and even the gods ihcmselvr-H, who are olher- 
Wise his et^ualA; your ptjwcr over yoiir flocks is nothing com- 
pared to hi*. .\U the.iC flcnvers are the work of love: there 
plants are effects produced by him. Through him these rivers 
l^ow, and ihese zephyrg breathen I have seen a bull smitten by 
hh power, who bellowed as though bcc-stung. I have seen 
ilw goat enanniured at the female, ;iud following her every- 
where. I myself was once young. I fch his inflnencc, I loved 
-\marylli9. I thought not of my food, I cared not for my 
drink: 1 could take no rest, for sleep was bnnifhcd from my 
eydids. My soul was sad — my heart beat quick — my hmbs 
felt a deadly chill. Now I cried aloud, as if I had been beaten : 
now ! was as silent as if I tvere dead; and now I plunged 
into ihe n'vcin, a* if to extinguish the flame which consumed 
me, I invoked P;in to assist me, inasmuch as he had known 
what it was to lo\'e his rit>'5. J poured forth prai^ncs to the 
Nymph lu:ho for repeating tl^e praises of my Amaryllis: in 
anger I broke my pipe because it could soothe my herds, but 
oould not prevail over Amarjllis : for there is no mighty magic 
against love; no medicine, whciher in food or drink; nothing, 
in abort, save kinscs and embraces." 

Phileta5 basing given tiiem this information, bade tHcm 




58 



Tilt WOCLD'S FKOGUSS. 



hrewdl ; bat before pcmuitu^ turn u> dcfan, ihcy prcKntcd 
him wiA a cheese, 4nd a kid with ncwij bniMiBC boni& 

DapfanU and Chloe, left to thcnsdvcs, teased m stkoee 
upon the mxnt of Love, which they hid now heard for the 
fint time- Sorrow •ecmed to hare ttopcficil ibem, tHl at 
night, 2s they retumed home, xhey brgan to con^re ibdi own 
scnntions with what they had heard horn Philea^ * , , 

Dionyaophaocft, fatig^ncd with cxcc^ of anxious duoebt* 
fell bto a deep sleep, dttrinp whkh he saw the foOowiac 
irUioa. The Kyinphs seemed to be rcquesiif^ the God of Love 
at kofili to erant them hit consent to the ctlebratioo of the 
tnarrime; SUckcntng the uring of tnt bow, aod pbdng it 
by the side of his qnU'er, he address Dion}'sophanc3^ biddiiif 
Um to invTtc those of highest ratik of Uityleoe to a baoqact. 
And when be had filled the last goblet to exhibit the tokens 
before each of them, and tl^en lo commence the hjmicfKal 
song. After whit he had seen and heard, Diomsoptiaocs 
ame in the morning, and ordered a tnagniScent feast to be 
prqnrcd, in which all the drikacies which the loea, the earth, 
the lakes, and even ihe rivers could prodtKc» were lo be col- 
lected tof:ethen All the chiefs of Mit>-Iene were hb guests. 
W^hen night was come, and when the gobkl was filled from 
which to pour out the lil^aiion lo Mercury, a slare broogbl 
forward the ornaments in a stiver t-ase^ and holdii^ tbem m 
his right hand carried them rottnd, and dispta)-td them lo all 
the visitors. Ko ovie adcnowledgcd thcn% tiO Magaclcs, who, 
oti actotmt of his age. was honoured with the highest cocidi, 
recogniitn^: them, cried otit with a loud and animated voice, 
— ^"Whai do 1 see! what has been ihc fate of my datjchterl 
is she indeed altve? or did some shepherd find these things, 
and carry t1«-m away. Tell nie. I pray. Kooj sopJianes. 
where did you meet willi t!>csc tokens uf my child? Kow ilut 
you have found your son, do not enviously begrudge me the 
discovery of my daughter." 

Dioi^rsophines reqtiested him first of all to g^-e them an 
acirotmt of the exposure of his daughter; and M^acles in the 
same loud and oirneM fotie rrplfcd, — "Formerly my income 
was very narrow, for 1 had cxpencSed my fortune in cqtiipping 
choruses and fitting out galleys. \Mii1e my affairs were in 
this condition, I had a daughter bom. Loath lo bring her up 




EAiaiCST I^ICTIOK. 



59 



lo the miuriei of poverty, and knowini* that there are outiy 
who arc willing lo become even rtputed parents, 1 dressed her 
in tJwse very tukeiw, and exposed her. She was laid in tbe 
l^rottu of the Nyiiipba, and cointnitted to their proLectloiL 
Since thftt time wealth began to pcur in upon mc every il^y, 
when i had no iicir to enjoy it» for i was never so fortunaic 
» to become the father even of another daughter; but, as if 
wifihinjj to make a mock of m^, the gods are continually scrd- 
ing dreaini by night, signifying, forsooth, thai a ewe will 
make nic fatlier." 

Upon th^^ Dionysophanes called out in a yet toi:der tone 
than Mcgaclc:^, and springing from his couch led in Chloe 
ftumptuou^y dressed, exclaiming, — "This is the child wliom 
you exposed. This maiden, through the providence of the 
gods, was suckled by a sheep, and prC5er\-ed for you; as 
Daplinis was reared by a goat, and saved for inc. Take the 
tokens, and your daughter: take her, and bestow her as a 
bride on Daphni;?. Both were exposed; both have been again 
found by ui, their piiTenls; both have been under the peculiar 
care of Pan, of the Nymphs, and of the Cod of Love/' 

Meg^clcs at once assented, clapped Chloe to his bosom, 
and sent for his wife Rhode. They slept at ihc house that 
night, for Daphni^ liad swum by ihe gods that he would not 
part with Chloe even to her own father, 

Tlic next morning they all iigreed to return to the country : 
this was done at the entreaty- of Dapltnis and Chtoe, who were 
weary of their «frjoum in the city; anj had formed a scheme 
for celebrating their nuptials in a pasEoral manner. 

Upon their arrival at Lemon's cottage, they introduced 
Dryas to Mcgacles, and Nape was made known to Rhode, 
after which the preparations were made for the festival on a 
splendid scale. Clifoc was devoted to the guardianship of the 
Kymphs by her father. He suspended the tokens, among 
various other things, as offt-rings to them: and increased the 
six thousand drachmas, which Dryas now possc&aed, to ten 
thousand. 

As the day was very fine, Dionysophancs caused couches 
of green leaves to be spread inside the grotto, and ;ill the 
villagers were invited and ^^mptttously regaled. There were 
present Lamon and Myrtale, Dryas and Nape, Dorco's kins- 



60 THE world's FROGBCSS. 

men, and Philetas with his s6ns Chromis and Lycaenium; 
even Lampis, who had been forgiven, was among the guests. 
All the amusements were, of course, a? among: such merry- 
makers, of a rustic and pastoral kind. Reaping-songs were 
sung; and the jokes of the vintage season were repeated; 
Philctas played on the pipe, and Lampis on the flute, while 
Lamon and Dryas danced. Chloe and Daphnis passed the 
time in kissing. The goats came and grazed near them, as if 
they were also partakers of the festival This was not very 
agreeable to the dainty city folks; Daphnis, however, called 
several of them by name, gave them some leaves, which they 
ate out of his hand, while he led them by the horns, and 
kissed them. 

Not only now, but during the remainder of their days, 
Daphnis and Chloe led a pastoral life, worshipping as their 
deities the Nymphs, Pan, and the God of Love, Their flocks 
of goats and sheep were numerous, and their favourite food 
consisted of the fruits of autumn, and milk. They had their 
first-born, a boy, suckled by a goat; their second, a girl, was 
brought up by a ewe ; the former was named Philopoemen, the 
latter, Agele. In this manner of life, and in this spot, they 
lived to a good old age. They adorned the grotto of the 
Nymphs; erected statues; raised an altar to Cupid the Shep* 
herd; and instead of a pine reared a temple for the habitation 
of Pan, and dedicated it to Pan the Warrior; these names, 
however, were given, and these things done, in after years. 



CHAPTER X. 
MEDIAEVAL STORIES. 

Beowulf. 

Mediaeval stories were expressed both in poetry and prose; 
the same tales were now recited as poems, then related as 
prose narratives. It is not advantageous to consider these 
separately as poems and prose stories, for we find again and 
again that the two mediums were used interchangeably and 
occasionally combined. Not until the Renaissance was poetry 
given such distinguishing characteristics as to require special 
treatment. 

The earliest surviving Teutonic narrative is the story of 
Beowulf, Like the Iliad, this owed its origin to many com- 
posers, "The real name of its author is Legion/* says an apt 
critic. A Scandinavian production, it has come down to us 
from the Anglo-Saxons of Britain, whither it was carried by 
the Vikings. It reflects an age when fighting was the only 
worthy calling for men; in fact, they had fought so long and 
valiantly that mere repetition of human conquests wearied. 
Superhuman beings must needs be created to be worthy the 
steel of real warriors. When the storms of winter prevented 
warfare, the feast supplied the suitable diversion for these 
fierce fighters; they indulged in food and drink immodtrately 
and were entertained by tales of heroes who even outshone 
them in brave and daring deeds. Satiated by months passed 
in this way, they welcomed the warm spring that again set 
them free to sail the seas and pillage and destroy. 

The men who listened in the early centuries to the adven- 
tures of Beowulf were not accustomed to fighting for country. 
The island was still divided into many little sections, ruled 

6i 



Ga 



Tnt WOULD S nOGUESS. 



over bf petty kjni^ V^iant mai went wbcrcvtr glory 
awaited them. They JOdght for personal disttnctkn — ooC for 
love of nuii-e bnd Heroes from dUunt Bhorcs wert wd- 
coraed and dietr deeds ap^^itided; harpers who oonld tell 
of forrjgn rictiirWri werr evervvrbne hrjini with ddt|;ht 

Hrothgar was a kin^ who mled over the Danes; be buik 
a RMad^haQ for his warhor? to feast m duru^ winter cvcnings- 
Thij was made large and conmiodkms— a credit to a powtrf ul 
kiag;. However, when matters seemed thus au^idcus, a great 
sorrow- overtook the Danes ; Grendel. a monster, aiiacked them 
in the dead of night while atl were heU in slnmbcr. Each 
moming fotaid one of the number raU^og and none dare 
encounter dib terrible creature of giganttc proportions axMl 
strength. Twehx winters thus pa5^d and deprc^fion settled 
over the realm of Hrothgar Then came Beowulf from over 
ibe sea to rescue the Danes. He struggled with Grendel and 
wrenched his arm front its body; whoi the horribte ogre&s- 
mother citne to aveiige tlie death u( lier um^ Betnmlf tmced 
her to the marsby mere and, deep bcneatit the waters, stniggkd 
with her unttt she was overcome* Glad was llrothgar and 
glad were the Danes who migttt now feast tn safety. Beowulf 
was given all honor; tic returned to his natit^ land, became 
Idng, and ruled for fiftj- ycarSv At Un he was killed when 
vaiKjuishing a monster lliat ihre^tened bis onn people. 

The poem is essentially pagan; such CiriMian rcnecr 
as tt bears is ^xiy evidently a later addition— in some cases, 
tinfoTtuaately, portions of the older poem were eliminated to 
make way for the new, Hcwc\'er, the narrati\'e is full of 
rigor, abounds io striking words and phrases that bring 
TiTidly before us the spirit of the age. The ocean ts always 
the whale-road, or it b the swan's path ; it is rarely the sca. 

Judgiog this story from the standpoint oi plot, we find 
none existing from beginning to end. While the several tnci- 
dents have a culminatinj3 point and a decline, the narrative 
as a whole i* rambling. The life pacitired reflecii a r\idt age 
and impreaseausaft true to it; the dtaraden are seldrmi clearly 
drawn: we see only the particular pnrt each plays, with no 
general idea of his personality; the style is strong and bokL 
While backgro'jnd is not oonscaously introduced, the story 
reflects tach stirrouDding^ as men of this age knew. 



VEDtAKVAt STORIES, 



63 



BBOWt?LF'5 FjGUT WITH THH PtHND. 

Tbsk Jroui the moor, uudcr ih< ALroud cf tuist, 

Cune Gr«uclvl striding. Wratb of Cod ht bare. 

ScaUi«r of m«D, lie thought in the high hall 

To ttosirv one of imin'x nice. Shmitili^d hi? went 

Till Itcsaw dearly the guld-hall of nieu, 

The wine-house, gay with cup^; ror then £rs1 sought 

The home of Hrothgar. But tn liia bfe-days 

Never before or since n holrlcr mnii 

He fouad. or hall-tbancs. Journeying to Uic housc 

Came then the tuAtx divided from all joyn; 

Quickly he nished tipun the door made fa»t 

With bands fire-harilened; with hLs hands broke through^ 

Fof lie WLib swulleii with r&gc, the hoii>eS luoutb. 

Then *oon upon the many colored fioor 

The foe trod ; on he weut with ireful uiood, 

Cunie fruin hit eye» a. fieicir light likeat £rr, 

Hc^uw vrithiii the hull a kiudied baud 

Of iiioiiy men asIcciIh ft company 

Of cDiTiTfldct, oil together ; thcti hv UkugheA i 

Pt>T the (lir? mO[»ter Ihuught before day caiue 

To pail life from Ihe body of each ouc. 

Hope of a glut of food had growu iu hm. 

Yet it wa£ not his fAte that he should cat 

After that ni|;ht morr of the race €jf picu. 

H y gel jc's strong kiusuutii saw how the foul Joe 

Would make his sudden grasps; nor mcaut the wretch 

Delay, for at the first he swiftly seized 

A deeper, bHI bim unaware, bit through 

Hi* U'lie-casie, from his veins drank bWd, and m>ou, 

Swallowing in large lumps, had cntcu fill 

The dead mnn, feet and hartds. Then nearer, foTth 

He stepped, laid hands on the stem t- hearted chief 

Upon his raucb Bnt he against ihe foe 

Stretched out a hand, soon knew his foul intent. 

And fastened 011 his ann^ Herdsman of mischiefs, 

Soon he found that on earth in all its parts 



64 . THE WOKLD'S P&OGKESS. 

A itioagcr hand-grip nerer had he fidL 

Fcarftil in mind and soul, he soi^ht escape 

But not for that came he the sootier thence. 

He to his Inrking-pUcc would flj, would seA. 

The wild throng of the devils ; his life-davs 

Had known before no tug so sharp as this. 

Then Hygdac's good iHngman bore in mind 

His evcnii^ speech, stood upright, graqxd him hard ; 

His fingers burst, and £ree the eoten [fiend] was. 

The earl advanced more. The bold champion thought 

Whether he might not so get room to escape, 

Flj to his fen pool, but his fingers' strength. 

In the fierce grip, he knew. The harmful spoiler 

Found that his path to Heorot led to grief. 

The great hall thundered, for all Danes who dwdt 

There fortified, for all the brave men, earls. 

The ale was spilt ; that the wine-hall withstood. 

The fair house of the world, the shock of war. 

That it fell not in ruin, was great wonder. 

But it was strengthened against that with bands. 

Within, without, of iron, cunning work 

Of smiths. There many a mead-bench, gold-adomed. 

Was tilted from its sill, as I've heard tell ; 

Old counsellors of the Scyldings never thought 

That any man in hate and Slaughter stained 

Could break it or unclose it by his craft. 

But only by the hot embrace of fire. 

Uprose a cry, new, urgent; a dire fear 

Fell on the North Danes, on each one of those 

Who from the wall heard the wild whoop, the chant 

Of honor sung by God's antagonist. 

Song of no victory, the thrall of hell 

Wailing in pain ; too tightly he was held 

By him then strongest of all living men. 

The help of earls would not for anything 

Let go that deadly guest while living, thought 

His life-days of no use to any man. 

Then many an earl of Beowulf's drew hb sword, 

His ancient heritage, and would defend. 

If so he might, the prince's life. They knew not, 

These eager sons of battle, when they joined 



UCDUGVAt £TORIEE. 

Ttie Strife, fliul souglit to hew on i:\tsty sicte, 
Td seek hiK Mill), that no «wor<l upcm eartli, 
Cbojcot of blades wuM loiiuU Hie wicked ilcud. 
But he ftU tnarti&l wcapona b^d foravrom, 
Bvory edged blndtx Atid ho was wrc^tcbcdly 
On thnl day nf this lifr of tncTi to dir, 
HlA ^ticuit far jourtivyiiig U> acivc the ficucU. 
'ffaeii he tvho cr«t o^^tnnt the race of man 
Jti mirthful mood IiAd wrouglit out uutiiy crimed, 
He vran God's for, fontid Ihal Jiis bt»dy faJleil 
To *crvc liiiiij bcCfiUKc llyncln'* hold kiosniao 
Had him ill bond. The other'a life to each 
Wis hateful ; the folt WTctcli ciidutctl £ore p^iiv 
A ciidc wtniTid on >iis shoulilrr roiild l»e lipPTi ; 
Tlie sinews jnappedn llic Ijonc trtidositrcs burst, 
Glory of butU^: wna to iJ<;vwuH ^ivcii ; 
To Uis k'U &h3de&» dLillvstrucl:, mu^t Creudel At-e, 
Si"oV a iftil hci'nc . well LnowbiK thai life's end 
Was come, tlic uunibcr of his diya w^is pjuL 

80 he who had come frooi afar fulfilled 
In deadly fij{;ht th<-will of nil the Dnnes* 
UVlRp and »toiil'lirartc*V hjul cle.itiscd Hrothgar's hall, 
Saved it from malice- CAnd i:i his night's work. 
His fame for T^tren^h, tlie chieftam of the Gotbe 
Had *eivcd ihp Danes accordiTig In his boast. 
Healing ibe deep-set giiefs (lit/ had eiidui^d. 
No nligbt affliction, Ih>tiic through hardest need. 
Clear was the token of this, when the stout cbief 
Laid down hand, arm, and shouhlcr, ihere was all 
The grip uf Gi^ndel under thai great rooC , 



65 



THR SKAFARER. 

The '*SMfflfer,*' aiiotber ftofiy fcwvA in the Kitetef boftk, iiipnv 
1»bly of CbnatloiJ origin, and hcnt^ kltr than the *' Iravdt'r's Song," 
II n one of tlie mauy ntlrvork-fl of human lITir. Hue man's soul is 
rrprrH-nloJ as leaving itn earthly abode ta crosA the eca^ in truest of a 
b^trimly homi- f^-iif- llexiry ^forley ^ivea ihe rollirwing moderauerl 
verMOD, pfefierTin^ much of tho ori^nal alhtcrfltLon and metrical iorm* 



V-« 



I mar >infr of >n>-«elf now a 5cns that ia true. 
Can tctf of wide travel, the toil of hard days; 



"^ -■->'*> 




66 THE world's PR0GR£S& 

How oft through lon^; seasons I suficrcd and strorie. 

Abiding vdthin my breast bitterest care ; 

How I sailed among sorrows in many a sea ; 

The wild rise of the waves, the elose watch of the night 

At the dark prow in danger of dashing on tock, 

Folded in by the frosty my feet bound by the cold 

In chill bandsj in the breast the heart burning with car& 

The soul of the sea-weary hunger assailed. 

Knows not he who finds happiest home upon earth 

How I lived through long winter in labor and care. 

On the icy-cold ocean, an exile from joy. 

Cut off from dear kindred, encompassed with ice. 

Hail fiew in hard showers, and nothing I heard 

But the wrath of the waters, the icy-cold way ; 

At times tlie swan's £ong ; in the scream of the gannet 

I sought for my joy, in the moan of the sea-whelp 

For laughter of men, in the song of the sea-mew 

For drinking of mead> Starlings answered the storm 

Beating stones on the clifT icy -feathered, and often 

The eagle would shriek, wet of wing. 

Not one home-friend could feel with the desolate soul ; 

For he little believes to whom life's joy belongs 

In the town* lightly troubled with dangerous tracks. 

Vain with high spirit and wanton with wine. 

How oflen I wearily held my sea-way. 

The night shadows darkened^ it snowed from th« north; 

The rime bound the rocks; the hail rolled upon earth 

Coldest of com : therefore now is high heaving 

In thoughts of my heart, that my lot is, to learn 

The wide joy of waters, the whirl of salt spray. 

Often desire drives my soul to depart. 

That the home of the strangers far hence I may seek. 



Let us look to tiie home where in truth we can live. 
And then let us be thinking how thither to come ; 
For then we too shall toil that our travel may reach 
To delight never ending, when life is made free 
In the love of the Lord, in the height of the heavens! 
May we thank the All-Holy who gave us this gract,- 
The Wielder of glory, the Lord everlostiug, — 
tn tTme withontendl Amen. 




CHAPTER XI. 

EARLY ANGLO-SAXON 
LITERATURE. 




GLAND aaul tlir Kngli^Ti l^n^iaf^c IaIcc tTicit 
DAuic from the Angles, a tribe of Tcutouic 
fttock, which first cm cri^d from the dense forests 
of Gennaiiy iu Ibc fourth century. They gave 
their name to Angcln, a £mall re^oa in Sehle.twigr- 
HoUtein, before they crossed the North Sea to Britain. 
The Kotnan legions Iiad departc<l frotn this knd eaily in the 
fifOi cetitiir>', aod in tlie latter half the Angles vrith their 
kindred tribes, the Saxoiis and Jutcg, bcj>;an to make eettlc- 
mcnts on the im protected inland. )-or a. hundred and fiily 
years these Tenlonic invaders cociinuecl to come aud dis- 
possess the Celtic population. Their first settlements were on 
the south and east coasts, and several mdependent kingdoms 
were ^ei u]x 

lo 597 Oie^torj* the Great seut Augustine from Rome 
to Britain, and the Saxons in Kent acceptefl the Christian 
faith. In S28, Ejfbcil uf Wtssex bccaine the first " King of 
England." By the Treaty of Wcduiore, fifty years later, tlic 
Djuiciv were coinj^elled by Alfred the Gre^it to retire north of 
Watling Street, — the old Roman Road which divided tlic 
inland diagonally from south ca.<»t to north vest Under 
Edward and AtheUtau, in the next centur>^ the two king- 
doms wcfc consoUdated; but the invasion cf S'wcync, a 
Danish ndvcnlurcr, in 1000, was followed by the nile of 
Canute and his successors. Finally, the Nornian con<iite8^ 

67 




TltB world's PROCRfiSS. 

under tbc leadership of Williuin, in to66^ brings n« to tbt 
close of the Anglo-Saxon period. 

The iiouic Eaglisli, £r3t api>]icd to the language of the 
Angles, ai^cnvards inclndcd tlic vflricus Low Ucniiau dialects 
luin^hngcn the bUwd. Uut Uie Knglish of the pofit-Saxoa 
and Kornian limes become practically another lu^tugc. 
Kor tlte sake of clearness, therefore, vre art^trtttity divide 
Ku^Hs]! into Uiiee stages : — the first, from 500 to 1200, vec^l 
An^lo-Saxou; the second, from 1200 to 1500, Middle Kng* 
H«h; and the third^ from 1500 to the presoit day, English. 
Forfractlcal purposes, this arnmgctncnt isstifficieuily •nccn- 
rate. ICxact d:^ic% of the traii»tioii cannot be iixcd. Kiig- 
lish Is now the most composite of Ijmgu^^es; It comprises 
■wcmK flerived from Critic, Scsntlira%*l5inj Old French, later 
Ficnch, I^tin, nnd in^ny oilier ton|^e?fr iulioduccd throrgb 
Biiglisli explorations and ccuquests. But alxjut (liice-fouttJis 
of (he word* nsrd in tl>e rninnion sprerh are slill Anglo- 
Saxon ; ouly in litcratutcf and the learned professions does 
Latin preponderate. 

English literature as commonly said to begin -wiih the 
Epic of Dcow^if, which was composed^ and the scene of 
vhicb is kid, on the Continent. Tbc material on vhich it 
is based, Icgcndaty, mythical and historical^ refers to the 
time of the Danish conqnc5t of the Cimbnan pcnin.'ntla, io 
the hrit part of the sixth century. The theory is that Danish 
poems embodying the epic -were handed down from thcDoiKS 
lo Angle* living in Angein after the emi^^ratioii of tlieir coun- 
trymen to England had bcgiui; and iliat when these in their 
tum emigrated, lliey brought it with them. The story was 
from time to time added to and m'>dified, nniil nfter nearly 
three hundred j'ears it ailained the form in which we have 
it, — onr copy being ste^gnrtl to the eighth emlnry. It ts 
held lobclheolde^it epiL-nut only in Enf;Iisli,biit in the whole 
Germanic group of languages. Beowulf, the hero ffroni 
^jTAiV\WAr,nnd Tr-fi^wolQwas athanc, and latcia kiitgof Uie 
Sweilish Craths (Oedtas). 

The cotinection of Gregory the Great with Euglisli hiator>^ 
begins wttli the ptin he made on the chubb>-< faced English 
children whom he saw exposed for sale in Rome ; were they 



^tmiAlSVW KTOKIICS. 



69 



Uit Cliri.<tuiii<s lie said, aiigel.t, not Angles, msulil Unxe }}etii 
Uic right iiamc for tJicm. H<: bore tJiciii iu inhul^ with bu 
e>c U> llic c«iivci%ion c>f llieir cvniilr^-incn : an undertaking 
which he wji uiiabk lo cany out himsdf^ but did cutrtLst to 
so good ancl persuasive a man as Augustine. Gregory died 
ill 604, Pope of Rome, at tbc age of aixty-iiix ; he left behind 
him, among other lUfiauscrif'ts, a book of ^'Dialogues' wliicli 
liad the honor of finding; a tran^dator in another great maa, 
Ajfrcd of England t84?^i^ 

Hj^da, or iJcde^ surnom^d The VeticnLl>le, va& bom in 6^3 
^md died 735. He was the most Icaincd uuta of hb time ; at 
the aj^c of nineteen he v.-x-i made: a deacon, and bcc^imc a 
pritit int thirty. He was faiiiili;ir with Gujck and Hebrew 
and "all learning,'* and was an eminent tcneher. His chief 
voik is " Historia Ecclesiaitica Genti* Anglorum," >vhicli it 
CKKisidcrcd an autho^t)^ It is from Bedc that we derive our 
personal Infondatictt concerning Qoedmon^ who l!onri»;]ied 
daring Bcdc's boyhood. He was an niilcimed man, Bede 
tells, nnd especially hiL^kinj^ in tlic puctic facithy, until in a 
dr^aiii or vision au angel bade him siii^ " The Beginning of 
dentures.*' The unexpected success which Btteiidcd bis 
it1>cn1tmor to tins connn;ind attracted to htm the atlentiun nf 
Hilda, ihir princely abbess of Whitby, where the incideTit look 
phicc ; and Ccdiuon was induced tu enter the mojiasleiy and 
to devote hh miraculous gift to tlic scrsicc of God, He 
made a number of rcnurkfible metrical paniplirase^ of parts of 
Holy Writ, in which glows tlic fite of a TH.Htic and rugged 
genius. His illumination did not come to him until he had 
pasMrd the middle period of life ; certainly, if Bedels tale of 
him be true, it is a strange cose of delayed faculty. But, as 
olvAVS happens when onytliint; a litUc passes tlic bounds of 
ocTUUioii experience, there oic many who doubt whether 
Cscdinon c^'or had any lenl existence. The poems attnbutcd 
to him, however, are palpable and legible still. 

A pCTBon:t^c still more questionable Is C>niewiilf This 
name Vfl« detected in anaucicnt Anglo-Saxon poem, *'Eleiie;," 
into which it had been worked by runcsv The discovery was 
made in 1R40 by two tndq>cndcnt snsdeuts, one of whom 
inferred that C>'aeunilf must have lived in the eighth cestui^*, 



7« 



TUC WORLDS FKOCUXSS. 



wliik the Other vasjtist .iscoDviuccd (lial he umrf hvvtlWnl 
ju the tctilli ati<l clc%'cutb. Iii thin oi^e cgTut would be lent 
lo ihc accoiiip3iii>-ing; Mig^^cstioii that the niy^tcnoiLi port 
tnigtu Itavc been an «b))al of Pttcrborough who officiated 
there from 90:; to 1006. C>newu]f couocaled biiiuelf 50 wdl 
t!iat one conjecture a1>out him i& a» good rs auotlicr. Vanous 
productioti^ — KIclic, Juliana, Cri^t^ Riddle^ The Wanclerer, 
and others, arc atlribitta! to him. lint his tme identity is 
forever lost in llie sliadou's of that ijiicertain n^. 

A fragment of an early En^li^h poem cnllcd Judith was 
fo4ind in a MS. copy of Beowulf, made in the eighth ceiiiut\, 
and this Irctn internal eviclenee, is suppose^ to have becii the 
work of C:ii;dnioii. Kinalty, to make an end uf tlie«e ambtgii- 
OMS relics, may be m^mlicmrtl the Exeter Boot, given to the 
1ibrar\- of Kxettr Catliedni! in H)6i by l^iichap l^eofric. 11 is 
a collection of Aii^to-Saxon pann^, one of vrliich ht ascribed 
to Cynewulf; Wubdth i^ pniliMbly iTie xmvl nuctrnl nf all; 
othen* axe a parapliiase of the Sunt; of Haiuiilah. Misliael 
and A/diiah ; ll.c Scvfarcr, a poem on CJirislian mor^Hly ; 
the Legend of SL Guthlac \ hyinm, a &hoTt Acrmon in \-ene, 
aiid minor pieces. 

The latter half of the nintli cciitUT>" belongs to Alfred the 
Great, under whom England begins to assume stronger out* 
lines. He bcciimc kinjr of the West Saxons in 871. but the 
fir^it part of Iu5 reign was a doubtful 5tnt£)fle against the 
invading Danes. He overcftnjc Outhnim iu H^K, and con- 
cluded a favorable peacv, one condition cf xvhich was that the 
Norse robber iihould receive baptiMii, i_>iher Danes came 
upon the coast in 894, but were Anally worsted In a sea-fight 
in 897^ the first time that the Vikinyi* had been bc«ten in 
their ships, Alfred nteanwUilc did not aUow himself lo be 
distracted by war from liic pursuits of peacir. For a iiiaii so 
younj^T find with catL-s s*i varioij-'i, his acliievenients In litera- 
tures and stal«^nians1iip are exUaordiujiT}'. He compiled a 
code of Uws rebuilt Kclninls and monasEc^it^, ^iirroundt'd 
himself with the distiut^uislied scbotara of his tinie^ axtd 
transliitrtl into the speech of hU people a number of works 
which had hitherto 1>ecn hidden from them ia thetr Latin 
dr^s. Among these were the *vrk» of Bode. Taulus Orosi- 



3M 



Mn>rA^Al. ffTORTlW, 



71 



itf'a **npilomc of Universal IliMoiy," the "Consolations of 
Philosophy " of Bocihiii5, Aiid^ as lias been already noticed, 
Orcgory's " Di^ogucr^. " Having done wj much* and so well, 
it presently tame to be bclic^'cd tliat there uvas nothing he 
could not do, and ftlnio:;t nothing that he hod notdcuc; he 
became tJie hero of lef:ciid. Tliet^; ancctlotcs sliow the id«d 
man of the period ; shrewd, brave, patient, fertile itt cxpcdi* 
^ittx, equal to any fortune^ however hi^'li or lew ; endo^wd 
with a quiet SL^nsc of hiinior, and always □lecliiij;; or Eurpass- 
Ing exf>ectfltion in wliiLtcv«T eri«if he mi^ht encounter. And 
though &oinc of the anecdotes themselves may be apocr^'phal^ 
it 14 likely thflt Mieli n in;m t\s this Alfrf^d rtrally w;iv 

Edward, surn^mied the Elder, AIfrcd*s sow, succc^cded hina, 
anrl mliitjjrd tlic ktiigiloin ; ImL hi^ tcign i* nut i^^s*«]^1Rl^d 
with any literary advance, tinder the tiext king, AtheUtan, 
Aniaf or Olaf of lic1*ind R«d Con^taiuinc of Scolfaiid were 
lea;:iicd to overthrow him. but were themsclv« defeated at 
the battle of Dniiianburh in Northunibri.^ ; ai^i a bfiJlad 
describing; tliia victor>' is found in the Saxon Chronicle. This 
Chroaiclc is a iclation of the principal events of the times, 
becun probably under Alfred, ^id continued for about three 
himdrtd yean. It 13 the earliest hiatcr)' of any Teutonic 
people in iu own langnogr- 

Another battle celebrated in con temporary' verse is that 
of Maldon, in which Hrihtnothf an eaoldonnan of t!ie East 
Saxons, felt fi;*htin^ aj^ain&t the Korwcgians, This was in 
the year 991, 

It will be seen that the titerainrc before the Conquest ia 
vtrall in arionnt; hnt it iw of high valne. Wher ihc Nor- 
mans had c-tiaHl-ihed themselves iu the country, the inanu* 
scripts of the Artgln-Sflxons wrre jn'c^itrA'ed only in ihc mon* 
asteritis; and, the nntiv^ language Ixnii^ rcpiv-ssed, they soon 
ctascd to be regarded. In 1534 Henry VIII, ijiianelc*! with 
the pO]>r, itud >cvereil the tic between th(^ Roman church and 
BnglUh atdtc< In his hot xc^ aguinai Catholicisu), he dis* 
solved the monasteries, aiid most of thk-ir archive* were 
dcfttro>cd, A few U^^^ks vrrre saved by Matthew Parker, then 
a cliaplain of the Court, afterwards Archbishop of Canter^ 
bury; and otliera were collected Atill later b>'S:rRoheTt llnice 




J2 THE WORID'S PSOGSESS. 

Cotton (1571-T631X an ardent antiquriaii, feanfa of die 
Cottonian libraiy, Tiow m the Bnti^h Unsctnn. 

The Aoglo-Saxoi^ Iiad the cri^ttmit ^rhidi has not died 
ont in o:ir time, cf celebrating ^! events acd scaling com- 
pacts with strciig drink. To these cefcmoiiial revels^ in 
ocmrt, niead-ha!l or green, fiocted the scops or haids, in^nret! 
"shapers,*' who sai^ death-songs, epics, and the oqikntsof 
heroeSw Ang^o-Saxon vexse was formed of two half-lines^ 
each having fonr cr more s>'llables and two accents; three 
accented 5>^labje5 of e\'eTy pair of half-lines were alliterated 
with the same letter, and thus the two were made into ooe 
long line with fo*ir accents. This arrangement is well ex- 
emplified in a transladoQ b}' ProC Henry Morley: 

" One shall Aandle the iaip | at the feast of his ieio 
Sit and ifin atalUi ] fiom the srill of his lord; 
Still ^nickly contriving [ the throb of the ^^loids. 
The nail rriinbly ni^es ntnsic \ awakes a glad vcnse, 
^^'hi!e the Aeart of the Aaiper | throbs. Annied by leaL'* 

The Anglo-Saxon genius is not romantic or Borid; It 
deals spanng:y in figures of speech and flights of rhetoric; 
thongh its tropes, when they do appear, are strong and mem- 
orable, as when the sea is termed "the whale-ioad," or a 
sh:p, *'wave-traveT5er." But earnestness is alwa\-s its leading 
characteristic, and, under Christianity, a strong religions 
sentimenL Generally speaking, they eschewed fanc}', and in 
their poetr\' depended less on national legends than on ethics^ 
religion and meditative themes. In these respects it is in 
contrast with the most of the contemporary \-eise of the Con- 
tinent. Tbev were a shrewd, serious, sensible people, and 
their literature reflects them. 



UEDIAtVAt STOKneSL 



7$ 



At \Vhitb>", in Yorkshire, a famons abl>cy was fonmWd in 
657 A. IX, hy Hilda^ a lady of tli« royal family and a convert 
from Pagunism* Her memory \t^s so prcctoas to her country- 
men iliat, though tbe abbey was dedicated to St. ret«r, It 
vras popularly railed Sl Hilda's- Here was licM in 664 ihe 
tynod in whtcb tbc Korth HHtish Chnsiian?;, wbo liatl been 
instructed by the Cnldees, or Celtic iiiissionaneH, accepted 
Ihc Roman liTiicofcrlcbratinj^ Kastcr. TTerc also, in Hilda's 
lifetimtTf aintic a ^H>el wlio atlcmjiLtnl lu diflVise among the 
people a ktiowlcdg^ of Scripture histor>' by means of Anglo' 
Saxon ver»c. Tlic hLsturian Bcdc^iioiuc lifly ycaia later, thus 
sketched hb career: 

"Cfdmon wjHabrDlb^ in lit^r tnfjnn%ltry,!tprtrU!1yJislinijii!sha) 
by divine i^Tucc, for he used 10 tii;iL:c si)Tig>4 apt to religion :loi! pialy ; 
feo that, wbatcvct he Icuini tliroiigh iutc-iprelcrs uf Uo\y Writ, thin he, 
S^*r a lltll€ ntliilc, compo^d in pf>4?tic:it wun1», And, with the ttltctottt 
amrettctcsiS an J f^'liug. w^uld ^rt^uceiu bia own Eagliah toDguc: By 
hi« coDgs odco the mmds of many were tunde to glow with caateiTij>t 
of catthly and desire for li<avciily things- lie was a layman uatil of 
m&tVTv n^t and hnd n^vtr Ic^lt»1 tuiy po«iii, Sonieliniea, Iberefi^rf, tKt 
afaiat when,fcr the nakc of plcasuret nil nbouM siiig in their turn, he. 
wring the h!in> pominynftir hirti, rcur from th* t.ible ;»tid went bame. 
Once, htiviui; \*:(i the hoiiac of festivity, he ivcnt out to the slftUea of 
tfaebeas^careofvvbTchfin thatnii^htwnKcintusted to him, nitd tlirTr. 
«lKn at the niittal bcur he had yicl<1cd to sleeps one stood by him, 
Stittinif hiTU and callEuif him by name : *C.-eOinorL. siit^ meHOttietliing.* 
'I cannot ting/ flald he, 'I have come hither out of the feast beoouM J 
could not ^ing/ A^^iti spoke ih*i olher. * But yon shall fiin^ lo imL' 
"What ought 1 to fting?' said he, and the other ana lAered, 'Sing the 
origin of crcaiuna/ Having itccivcd tUii ans^ver he tnimeiliutcly 
began to aing to the f raise of God the Creator veraea trieaning thus : 

"•Sowought we to praisctlic Author tif the heavenly k hi gdoiu. 
the power of the Creator nnil Ilia eotiiiMl, tlie d«ds of the Father ot 
EtOTjt How lie, bcioi; the eternal God, hecnmc the a nth r>r of at! mar- 
^c3a; the Atmljliiy t-usfdUn, who crcdtcd for the Baasof men fir« 
heaven for their rcnf. aud then the earth/ 

■■ Ca^^mrm, nttTiWiiirr:;, remembered wme of the Ifnr*. mil mnde 
gthcn tfuutkT, Than ha lehited to the at^ward, aad hy bim w^ ted 



i^Si 



74 'The world's frogrSss^ 

to the abbess who ordered him to tell hia dream, and repeat his poem. 

A portion of Sftcred history was read to bim, and he was directed to 
put it in verse- This he did by the cext day. fl-nd the abbess then 
advised him to become a monk. Having done so, he was taught the 
sacred history^ and by tememberin;^ and ruminating, like a clean 
animal, he turned U into sweetest verse, making his teachers in turn 
his hearers." 

Such is Bedc*s account of tliis Saxon Christian poet, and 
the fragments ascribed to him correspond in the main with 
this description of his work. Many critics consider that the 
works of two or more authors have been brought together 
under his name. The first part, Genesis^ departs further 
from the Biblical nanative, and is more sublime than the 
later parts. In its story of the fall of Satan from heaven it 
anticipates Milton's Paradise Lost, This idea is found, how- 
ever, in other authors and is traced to Pope Gregory the Great 
in his exposition of Isaiah xiv- 12-15- A closer parallel is 
found in a Latin poem on sacred history by Avitus, bishop of 
Vienne in Gaul, a.d, 500, The sublimity and poetic merit of 
C^edmon, even as translator, cannot be gainsaid. In some 
passages his grand simplicity is superior to the elaborate 
ingenuity of Milton. The whole sul^ect has been carefully 
discussed by S. Humphreys Gurteen in his work, The Epie 
of the Fall of Man. 

Eve. 

The Heavenly Guardian then saw Adam lone, 
And friend or comforter was by him none: 
Therefore for him, in this his lonely state. 
The Lord a woman made — a fair helpmate. 
Softly he slept, and fast he lay at rest» 
No soreness wist, nor any suffering guessed: 
Nor whilst the Lord of Angels from his side 
A jointed rib took out to form his bride, 
Did any blood the place with crimson Stoin^ — - 
Ere Adam woke the wound was healed again. 
In their glad hearts no sinful passions move — 
Their bosoms glow with pure a;. . ardent love ; 
With youth and beauty clad, they shone so fair. 
Well might they with th' angel host compare. 



Tbe Lord Himi«1f the pair with joy surveyed. 

An<l wtiite He West, ihtst were the words He sawii— 

"Teem now ard multiply; fill with your happy kin 

The aD'ji^rccn earth; your rciEW forthwith bVK^D; 

To yoti the ftalt Rca-wave* ^hall *tr\*ice owe. 

And all creation :ihu!l in rcvcrenee bow. 

To joti be nibicct M the 1ionie<l band, 

And the wild hcn.ita submit to your command — 

AIJ living things that i**k on earth their prty. 

And all that swim along the hngr whslr-^' way— 

ThcfC all shall you with hnmMe fe-nt vhtyV 



Satan, thb Ascki- op Ptr,suMpnoK. 

TnK Almighty had dUpo.^ed ten An^^et tribes. 
The Hoi) Father by his Mrensfth of hand, 
That ihey whom He welt trusted *hoiild serve Hint 
And work His vvilt Vov liut the holy God 
Gave intellect, and shaped thtfiti with His hands. 
In happine^^ He pbced ihrrm, and to om 
He added prcv^knce and titight of thouglitp 
Sway over much, next highcM to Himself 
In Heaven's realm. Him He had wrought Sebright 
Thai pure a& starlight was in heaven the form 
Which God. the Lord of host*, had given him. 
Vmtt to the Lord His work, and cheri&hitig 
Of heavenly joy ami thank lulnc^s of Gtjd 
For his ftharc of that giit of liKbt. which then 
Had lonp; been hia. But he pcnertcd it, 
Again.it Heaven's highest Lord he lifled war, 
AgainM the Moat Hi^'h in his saitctuary. 
Deal was he to our Lord, but wa< not hid 
From him ihai iii lils Aitgel piidc ai'osc- 
He raided himself aicairat his Maker, sought 
Speech hill of hate and bold, presuming boast. 
Refused n<rtl .luil, ^aid tluit hi* own fonu beamed 
With radiance of light, shone bright of hue. 
And in his mind he found not service due 
To die f^rd God. for to himself he *icemed 
in force and skill greater than all Ood\ host 
Much spake the Angel of Prcsumplion. thought 



y6 tilt world's progress. 

Through hia own craft to malce a stronger throne 

Higher in Heaven, His mind urged him, he said. 

That north and south he should begin to work, 

Found buildings; said he questioned whether he 

Would -serve God. "Wherefore," he said, -shallltoil? 

No need have I of master. I can worlc 

With my own hands great marvels, and have power 

To build a throne more worthy of a God 

Higher iu Heaven. Why shall I for His smile 

Serve Him, bend to Him thus in vassalage? 

I may be Cod as He. 

Stand by me, strong supporters firm in strife- 

Hard-mooded heroes, famous warriors. 

Have chosen me for chief; one may take thought 

With such for counsel, and with such secure 

Large following. My friends in earnest they, 

Faithful in all the shaping of their minds ; 

I am their master and may rule this realm. 

Therefore it seems not right that I should cringe 

To God for any good, and 1 will be 

Nj more His servant.*' 

When the Almighty heard 
With how great pride His Angel raised himself 
Against liis Lord, foolishly spake high words 
Against the Supreme Father, he that deed 
Must expiate, and in the work of strife 
Receive his portion, take for punishment 
Utmost perdition. So doth every man 
Who sets himself in battle against God, 
In sinful strife against the Lord Most High- 
Then was the Mighty wroth, Heaven's highest Lonl 
Cast him from his high seat, for he had brought 
His Masler^s hate on him. His favor lost, 
The Good was angered against him, and he 
Must therefore seek the depth of Heirs fierce pains; 
He strove against Heaven's highest Lord, 
W3io shook him from his favor, cast him down 
To the deep dales of Hell, where he became 
Devil. The fiend with all his comrades fell 
From Heaven, Angels, for three nights and days, 
Fro-Ji Heaven to Hell, where the Lord changed them all 



MEDIAEVAL STOBlfiS, 77 

To Devtls, because they hU Deed and Word 

Refused to worship. Therefore in worse light 

Under the earth beneath, Almighty God 

Had placed them triumphless in the swart HelL 

There evening, immeasurably long, 

Brings to each fiend renewal of the fire ; 

Then comes, at dawn, the east wind keeu with frost 

Its dart, or fire continual, torment sharp. 

The punishment wrought for them they must bear. 

Their world was changed, and those first times filled Hell 
With the Deniers. Still the Angels held, 
They who fulfilled God's pleasure. Heaven's heights; 
Those others, hostile, who such strife had raised 
Against their Lord, lie in the fire, bear pangs. 
Fierce burning heat in midst of Hell, broad flames. 
Fire and therewith also the bitter reek 
Of smoke and darkness ; for they paid no heed 
To service of tlieir God; their wantonness 
Of Angers pride deceived them, who refused 
To worship the Almighty Word. Their pain 
Was great, then were they fallen to the depth 
Of fire in the hot hell for their loose thought 
And pride unmeasured, sought another land 
That was without light, and was full of flame. 
Terror immense of fire. Then the fiends felt 
That they unnumbered pains had in return, 
Through might of God, for their great violence, 
But most for pride- Then spoke the haughty Idngf 
Once brightest among Angels, in the heavens 
Whitest, and to his Master dear, beloved 
Of God, until they lightly went astray, 
And for that madness the Almighty God 
Was wroth with him and into ruin cast 
Him down to his new bed. and shaped him then 
A name, said that the highest should be called 
Satan thenceforth, and o'er Hell's swart abyss 
Bade him have rule, and strife with God avoid. 



7S 



Tut WOKli>'& PRCCREaS. 



CYNEWULF. 

IxtSij Iherewflsdifioov^red inamotiasteryst VercelH, io ncrtbem 
UaW, n niaQuscnpl of Anglo-Saxon poetry. The laat aad lcrngc:?t 
pociTi, RIeuPy related W\e legend of Ihe finding^ of llie Inse Croi4fi I>y 
Itdcna, the i^otlicT of CotuUdtiue. lu tbe closing verges the poet 
had mrioTisly ir?€rted hia own nanie in ront'.^. the parly aljibabelic 
c^hAFBclcr^ of liorthern Eutcpe, Theae rotiea were read in iS^o by 
Jarrrb Grimin and J. M, Kcmble, wutkuig imltrpmiilfriUy, The name 
C^ewulf, tliiis found, woe discovered similarly in two povtnfi of 
Ihc Eni^tcr Buok, one nn Uie Cfjmiu^ of Chrisl. Ihe citlier relating the 
kgend of St- Julintia. Smaller potnis in these boo Ita, including ninctir 
riddles, have Ijecn ntliibut^ lo this poet, previously tmlinown. The 
fbllowiiig pusJ^ 15 the end of the poem on th« Coming of CluisL 

Novr it ifi lik«st to that as if on liquid flood 
Over cold water in keels we went forward 
TLroiigli the vast sea with ocean -hordes, 
l-crricd the floalinjf wood. Frightful that atrtiun is 
Of waves uiiTueasnred, thai here we toss upon, 
f)ver B deep jus^ge. It was strong effort, 
Hic Vp'c 1o taiid had reached hardly. 
Over the rough swell. Then help to us earn*; 
So tbut us iuto safety to the port guided 
God's heavenly Son ; and He gave its the gift 
That wc may espy over the chip's sJde 
Where we sbnli lasteti the steeds of the sea, 
Old moTes of the water, with nnchors fast- 
Let us in that jy>rt our confidence plant. 
Which for ufl laid oiJeii the Lord of the skle«. 
Holy 00 high, where He lo heaven ascended. 

Here nlso )£ hia Call to Cltrisl : 

Come now, thou Lord of A ictor>'. CrcAtor of Mankind, 

Make inaoifest Thy tcudcnicss m mercy to tis here [ 
Need is there for us all in Thee Thy Mother's kiu to find. 

Though to Thy Father's mystery we cannot yet :x)nie near- 
Christ, Saviour, by thy coming ble^ :his ^irth of jij-f with lovj ; 

The golden gates, ao long £sat barred, do Tbon, Heavenly 
King, 
Bid now unclose, that huiuhly Thou, descending from alcove, 

Seek us on eaith* for wc Lave need of blea«n£ Thou canM bring. 



ALFRED THE ORE^VT. 




THKsumame "Great" was first bestow^ oti A!fr«! inlhc 
Risctventh tx-iituT> ; hy his omltMriponiiit^ hi? v/ji?& cfilled m 
Mich affect io:ialcliti(s as "England's Darlings," "England's 
Cmnfort/* " England's Shcplicrtl" Bnni S49» lie twicr vis- 
ited Rome, WAS anointed by the pope, fouglil beside the kinif 
hU brother against the Danes, and was hhiisdf crowTied in 871. 
The Daucd occupied ftl] his attention till hy his exertions as 
warrior in the field aiid titate.-%Tii.-m In the cabinet he finally 
subdued tbcm. The rival Kn^H^h factions were meanwhile 
uuitcd b>- their common cau'sc agninr^t the invndcTS, 

Aliied wa» a &];:hter, an admiuistrator, a scholar, and a 
Rood man. His main service lo literatuic ccm^iJitcd in rcn- 
dertnjj into the \'eniacular, and addinjif to, the useful books of 
the ticic» "so tliat,*' oj; he said, "all the yt>nth of England, 
more czipedally those who are of ]j;entle kind and at ease in 
tlieir circumstances may be groundt-d in Ictlt-rs ; for thc'y can 
profit in no ptiriuit until they are wtll alile to read English." 
He himself kept schcol in his Cmirt forthcsonsof his noblc?^- 
In his tt7in-ilalitm*j whith were in fart free paiapTira^e^ lie 
van lidped by Wcrfcjtb, Bishop of Worcester, Flcgmund, Arch- 
bishop nf CunterTmry, Bl^Ilop A^scr, of Wale^ jind the priests 
John and Grimbald from Saxouy aad Sl Omer. Ilis own 
knowledge of Latin was acquired late in Hfc : but he kocw 
the popular baditiona and nrg^d the teaching of tlicm to the 
yowiger generation. It is told of him that he wa^ ^^-->nt to 
iltifr the old folk-dongs in tlic homes of the people, occompa 
i>'uig himself on the harp. 

79 



So 



tuC WORU>$ ritOCAlISS. 



He tnuifiiated the History of Orosius, a Spanish pHest of 
the lUUi ccntiiiy: condensing tbe seven books into six and 
intn^Kitfttiii;^ ticvT maliof. Thh consists In the uafrativts at 
two SL<aiidiii&viaii voya^tcrs, taken dovrn by him from Utdr 
own lips. He fdlowcd this by a rendering of Bcdc's Hbtory, 
which bccnroc und<a- hift hcnda the lir^L Liagtuli history of th« 
Ivnglis^h people. Next came the trAHsUttOD of the "Coii9ola> 
t'uin% of Philnaophy" nf thL- Roman scholar Boethm*, wtUteti fa 
pri^rm in Ihe fifth renlury. ft n-us the hL>it work uf genius 
of old Rome, And marks the transition frotn rajcani»in to Oxris* 
tianity. Alfred occasionally substitute* hid own conclusiocu for 
thoH of the Rooiftn Philosopher. 

In his version of Gregory's "Pastoral Care," prcscatcd by 
Alfred to Bishop Werferth, he gives his reasons for uodcrtak- 
iii]£ die tiaudation iii tJiesc wordi: 



DEOS BOC ftCKAL TO WlOCORACSAliTRS. 

Mi-tviKo kyning erci^irt Wocrfcrlh bi^cp his wordiim l^i^ce nad 
ftmiuMicp: anti chr ryihati hai^ ifarl mc mm sK-hhr nfi lui gtmt>Dd, 
hwdcf wioUn in woeran [j>'ornI Angclcyrjn, Jegthe ipe g<xlcun<ira laifai 
i;c worn Men ridr^ ; £iiij lui f;c9acli;;itcn tiiiA ihjtuocrtin ^ic;:iLiArit*clcynii, 
and hti tha kymiignif the tTii>7ie oTivrald hurfilori thai^s folm on them 
Uaifuin Code nml kin ier«ndwrccuin hcr&umctlon ; <tc. 

(TranilaiEon;— Tut* Book siiali («o) to Wopcmtcr." Alfred. 
Kini;, commamlclh to f^cct WcrEcrth. bijJiop, wlt\i liU wonU in tovinc 
SMiI fnt-mlly wist-: and 1 wouM haw ytui iiifomwd thai tl has oflrn 
comt into inv rcinrinbranctf wh:it vvU^ men thcr; formerly were dnDOa;; 
the Angle race, loth t^i the ^crcd crdcti and tht tccular. and how 
happy itmrs tht^sc tvcre ihrmighnui The Anj^k rnrr ; And how the \dn^% 
^vhl> hftd go/cnimcnt of the folk in those day« obeyed Cod and his 
messengers. — (//rrr ilir abox'c paaagc <nds: av ci^H^NHr;) 

— And ihcy on the one hand maintained their peaee an^ their eti«- 
toms nnd iheir authority withm their border*, whJc at the wmc tin>e 
iJiey t^^rcad their icniloiy t;ulwjirJ»: ami how H then winl well wilh 
Ih^nt both in war and in ^hclom; anil hkewii« the «acred orderfs how 
enrne^t Ihcy were^as well aboTTt tcachinfr &i about kArniTi^. And about 
all the service* they owed Cud ; and how peopk- fram abfoad caine to 
thi» lai^d for wisdom and intiri^ction, and hnw we ihouM no-v have to 
fct ihtm from abroad if we were jroiri: to ha*-e them. So clean i*ii» it 
fallen away in the Angle race tliat there wetp vrry few on thJt side 
Humbcr who would know how to render thetr lifTvices in HTtfiliKh, Of 
«0 much a« translate an cpUik out of I^tiri into Lnftliitfi ; 1 weeo that 
sot many would be en tlw ot?irr iirl* Humbrr So feu' uf ibcm were 



M^IAEVAL ETORJ^S^ 



8i 



then that T cannot tbink of so mucb u a tin^te one «ntith of TbAmcN 
vbcn I took to the nolm. God Alt&if^bty b« tbaakcd ILat w« have 
now Ais^ teachers in uMce. 

Al^^'s Code of Laws gWc» hint I^gittlative oa w«1I u lit- 
enxy honor. And to him Englaiul owes it that, alone among 
BationSr v-h^ possesses a hUtory of her own pcfrple in tlieir 
ova loiiguc from ihe bcgiiiiniig Kif iht'ir tialioiisl L-xistcace. 
He lived but fif^y-twci yr;trs, and in his sidiious Hft thc^rr 
ctnihl }\nvc becu small roam for leisure. lu ouc of his Dole- 
books occurs this posMgc: — ^' Dcsir^t thon peace? But 
thou shall never ^t it witbout sorrowsi both from strange 
folk, arwi yet keener from thine own kin- — Hardship and sor- 
row I Not a kin^ but ivonM fain lack them ; but I know hc 
cannot'^ Again, before his death in 901, hc wrote,— "So 
iong a.* I have lived 1 have striven to live wortliily* 1 desire 
to leave to tlic men who come after nic a remembrance of mc 
in good Tvoiks.*' The historian Precman says of him, ** No 
other man on record has ever so thoroughly uuited all the 
virtues both of ruler and private man." 

TiiK PHACk OP Wedmorb. 

(Thia TntHy between Alfird and GuUirum the Dfine, fn S78, taay 
Kaiaeofte be conBidemt the AUrtisg point c>r£agU4li Hmtory,) 

^16 is the peace that King Alpr&d and King GnrnaCM and 
tht counselors of all the Auglecynn (Hiigltsb niition) and all 
liie jimpleth^t arc in Kast Anglia liax'eall ilec-reetland whli oalhic 
confiniMd for tliem^vcs and fur their children, both for the bom 
and for the unborn, all who value Cod'a favor or oura. 

Cap, L—Fi ret about onr Landhonnriaries.'— Up the Tliatnea, 
thai up Ihe Ijea, nitd nloTig th^ Lc^a la her »ource^ then straight 
to Bedford, then up the Oux to Watliug Street, 

Cat, IL— Then there is thid: — if a man be slain we reckon all 
flfeqtiatvftlne^thr Englishman and the Pane, at eight hiilfniark!! 
of pare gold, except tlie chiiil who dwells on gravel land, and the 
Dtuiab lesnagft, those also arc equally deal, either at 200 shillinga. 

Cap. IIL — And if a kine;*ft thane be charged with killing a 
oao, K be dare to clear himself. let him do it before twelve kings' 
thaaes. Tf the ncctJwd mAn l>e of \^*a degree than tlie king's 
ihatie^ let him clear bimnclf with ctc\'en of his equals and one 
king's thftne. Aod so in every ^mt that may he of more than 



8i tH% WQRIJ>'S PaOGR£S5L 

four mancusea, [A mancus was 150 cents,] And iThe dare not, 
let him pay threefold, according as it may be valued. 

Cap. IV. — And that eveiy man may know his Warrantor for 
man and for horses and for o^en. 

Cap. V. — And we all said on that day when the oaths wer^ 
swom^ that neither bond nor free should be at liberty to go to the 
host [the Danish camp] without leave, nor of them any one, by 
the same rule, to us. If, however, it happen that for business any 
one of them desires to have dealings with us or we with them, 
about cattle and about goods, that is to be granted on this wise, 
that hostages be given for a pledge of peace, and for evidence 
whereby it may be known that the party has a clean back [mean- 
ing a back unladen with stolen goods]. 

Alfred^s Preface to Gregory's Dialogues, 

I, Alfred, by the grace of Christ dignified with the honor 
of royalty, have distinctly understood, aud through the readiu^ 
of holy books have often heard, that from us to whom God hatU 
given so much eminence of worldly distinction, it is specially 
required that we from time to time should subdue and bend ou.' 
minds to the divine and spiritual Law, in the midst of this earthly 
anxiety; and I accordingly sought and requested of my trusty 
friends they should transcribe for me out of pious books about th« 
conversation and miracles of holy men the instruction that here- 
after followeth ; so that I, being strengthened in my mind through 
the admonition and love, may now and then contemplate heavenly 
things in the midst of earthly troubles- Now we can plainly 
hear how the blessed and ajtostolic man. St. Gregory, spake to his 
deacon, whose name was Peter, about the manners and life of holy 
men for instruction and for example to all who are workingr the 
will of God. 

The Nun and the Lettuce. 

(FroBi Gregory's Dialogues ,) 

A NUK walking in the convent garden took a fancy to eat a 
leaf of lettuce, and she ate, without first making the sign of the 
cross over it. Presently she was found to be possessed with an 
evil spirit. The abbot was called and questioned the fiend. But 
the fiend protested that what had happened was not his fault. 
He said, " I was harmlessly sitting on a lettuce, and then came 
Bhe and ate me," 



MltrjlA£VAL fJtaaiKft. 



»3 



St, Bknkoict's Vistor. 

It Tuppene^ th^tt there c&mt to viiui ttte VE^n^rahle Denedict, 
as his c'UKtuTii vms, Scrvniidns, i\\e dt^cnti siiil al)l>ot of Ihc moii- 
a.V.cry tl]<U I^bcriat Ihc paUiciait Lad tuilt in St^ulh Ix>ii]bardy. 
Indeed, lie u».-d to vi^tt Benedict's monaster)' frtqaeiitiy Uiat in 
euch otbet'a compauy ihey might be umliuny nrfrrihed with the 
sweet woTi'ls of life niidthedelf^able food of i]ie heavenly coiiiiiry, 
which they could iiot n* >-et witli perfect blis* eujoy, but did at 
Ie45t in Aspiration tiste it, iniomnch that the aaid Scn'ondus vrw 
llkewUc abounding in the lore of the heavenly grace. When at 
length the time was eome for Iheir rest and repose, the venerable 
Benedict WAS lod);ed in the uppei fluorof a tower, and Seivaudus, 
the deACon, rated on the lower floor of the same tower. There 
vm a solid staircase wUh pUiii !ttep« from the nether floor to the 
upper floor, Thtte w^s alio {i\ fr:iiit of Ihe lower a spacious 
house in which slept tlie di^iples of them both. 

When now Bencdicti the man of Cod, ^vas keeping the time 
of his nightly prayer during his brethren"* rest, then itood he all 
irigijAUt 2t a window praying to the Almighty l^oid. Thirii Mtd» 
denly iu lliat time ofiiij^htly etiUticte. as he looked out. In.* frnw % 
light sent from on high dj^^perse ftll the darkness of the uifiht, 
and nhinc with a brightnci^K so great that the light which then 
gleamed in the mi<lsl of the darkness wa.s hri^'hter Uiun the light 
of day, Lo, then In lbi» sight a wonderful thing followed next, 
$S he himdclf afterwards related ; — that even all the world, o^ if 
placed tinder one ray of the stni, was displayed before his eyes. 
When now the veucmhlc father had fastened his attention en the 
bnghtueKi of tliat ahiniuff light, he saw angels conveying in a 
fiery group into heaven the soul of Germnnus, who was bishop of 
lliecity of Cnpua. He desired then toseenreto himself a witness 
of Ki great n wonder, end called Servandus the deacon twice and 
thrice, and repeatedly nimed his name wilU loud exclamation. 
StTvandus wus disturbe^J at llie unusual outcry of the honored 
nuin, and he mcuJ3t«d the stairs and looked as directed, and saw 
verily a nm-ill portion of Ihst li^hi. As the deacon was then 
ttaazed for so great a wonder, the man of God related to him in 
Ofder the thing* that there bad har^p'^ncd ; nnd forthwith he sent 
opdtnto the faithful man Theoprobus in Casinnm, the chief house, 
that he tn the loitiie right fihould send a man to the city of Capita, 



^ 



rnu woRu/s pRocness, 

And should iLACcrUii] Afid report to tum ythmi had happened a\}ont 
C^tmatttts Uic bishop. Tbeu .. :aiac to pass Uiat lie who ves 
&enl thither found th;jt the venerable Bl»hop GCTTiutt us had iode«l 
died ; fttid curcfully inquiHrig, h<^ fntiud iliAt Ms departure wis >t 
tL^t very time that the mou of God b&d vitacaocd lus uccul lo 
Hcftven. 

THE SAXON CHRONICLE. 

Om or the cbt»rRuthi>Titt» Tor tlic enrly history of Kngtxnd It tb# 
SftXOn CiiTonklCt a record written by vftriouA Author*, who cooutaCBOCd 
this wrjrk by tlte onlcr of King Alfud. Coptes vrvn prtrpELTcd forth* 
principal monastcnca, and 8C%va of Ihtsc hu^c been pTCMrve4« varyiiif 
in Kc-vrrKl ro.4pcL-L». Thi? Uintory i.-;ttriiiU ftom CtEsar's InvAsIou to llie 
ytut S;j in tlic carUe^C copy, and to the year 1154 in the IfttcsC 1q 
vonie pUiret the pruae luiisiUve ^Ivgi vtny to vme, tui in Ihe accocat 
of tb« batEl* of BruuanbkTL. The foIIow;a^ pihM«^ is Che »od«at 
relation of Ibe critical lum in the fQitonca of Alfccd. 

A,D. 87S.— Tliis year, iluring mldwiutcr, after Twelfth night, 
tlic [Danish] ftnny stole away to Cliippeubam. &ut] ovcnon the laod 
of the West Snxotid and sat there ; nod many of tho pcopJe they 
drove beyond e^ea, aiid of the remainder the gttflter p^rt thej 
subdued and forced to oljey them, except King Alfred; find he, 
wilU ft amal! hand, with difliculty retreated to tjic woods ajsd to 
the faatuesscs of tLe moon. And the same winter the brother of 
Hiogivar andof HftLfdcne came with twenty-three 3;h:pH toDevott- 
Jihire in Wesscx; end he was there idam, and with him eight 
hundred und forty mci^ of hin army; aitd tlietc wa-H iaktti the nsr* 
flas which they called the Kavcn, After thia. nt Iva^tcr, King 
Alfred, with a stnM hand, constructed a fortTV«« at Atlielney; 
and from this forire**, with that part of the men of Sc^mcrset 
which wa.t nenic:^t to It, from time to time they fought dfainnt 
the nnny. Then, iu the ec^-enth week after Ko^fter, be rode to 
Brixton, on the east side of Selwood: and there came to twet 
him all the mm of Somerset, snd the rrnrti of Wilffihirr^ and that 
poiliait of the mm cf Hampshire wliich wa^ on lhi?t aide of the 
3ca; and they were joyful at his presence- On the followinf^ day 
he went from that suiioa to Iglea [Iley], and on the day aftec 
thislo HeddingtoTi. jind there fought figahi^i tlie whole army, put 
tlicm to Htsht, und pursued them txH fur za ihcLr fcrtrcss; and 
there he sat down fourteen days. And then the arrny dclirercd 
to him boatftfl:efl, with many oaths, that they would leave hb 
kingdom, and alfio promised him that their Icing should receive 



^^-^^^ 



UElXlAKVAt STORIES. 



85 



baptifm; and this they accordingly ful51lcd. And about three 
weeks after this King Gtilhrum came to bun, with some thirty 
m«i, who were of ttie most ilistmguishcd in the army, at AUer. 
which is near Alhclney; and ihc king was his ^od-fathcr ai 
baplHm, and his clirism-loosjng was 21 Wedmore^ and he wa?i 
twelve dayji with the king; ^nd he greatly honored him and his 
connpanioaK with gifts. 



THE BATTLE OF BRUNAKBURIL 

TmA flcct^um of Ihr hfiUle nf nruTianburh. a.il 937. is modrfnlied 
from one ot llif |>occica1 pa1^a|:<3 of the Sixon diromdc by Lord Tcn- 
njsQR' The AiiJu'SoxorL )Ci[i|j{ Athelbtan haJ driven AnUf 01 Olif 
the Red from poi><tiiL:»n ol hit father Sitnc's Diniih kingdom of 
Northumbna- UUf to&k refuse in his Iri&h kingdom, aoJ relumed 
tlitccc uith 61s vcttels inio the Hmnbcr He wah sided by hi& faiber- 
in-lav ConitifitiTie [ I., of Scotland, by Ow«n, king of StftthcLyilpH and 
>Oinc BritUh princci- But the^e a3Ue» were complexly defeated ni 
Bmnanburh. and (he victory was cclcliniled in thU spinicd ballade 

Athel&tan Ring, Lord among Earls, 
Brae cl el- bestow «r and Huron uf liarors. 
He with hit. brother, iMtinimd AlhcUng^ 
Gaining a lifelong glory in battle, 
Slew with tile sword-edge, there by BmnaTiburh, 
Brake the ^hield-watl, hcw\l the Imdcn-wood, 
Hack'd the bottk-shicld, 
Sons of RdwanI with hammer'd brands. 

TTwir* wai a greatnet* goi from ihelr Grand sire s -■ 
Theirs that Ao often in strife with their enemies 
Struck for their hoards and their hearths and their bo(iie«, 

Bow'd the apoiter, bent the Scotsman, 

Fell the jhip-crewa doomed to the death. 
All the field with blood of the fighters 

How'difromwbcnfirst the great nmitar of moming-ttde; 

Lamp oi the Lord God, Lord everlasling. 
Glode over earth till the glorious creature 

Sunk to hifi aottitig. 

There lay many a man marr'd by the javtUn, 
Men of the Northland *Hot over nhield. 
There was tlie Scotsman weary of war. 



jm 



86 THS W0BU>'S progress. 

We, tlte West Saxons, long as the daylight 

Lasted, in compauies 
Troubled the track of the host that we hated, 
Grimly with swords that were sharp from the grindstooe, 
Fiercely we haclc'd at the flyers before us. 

Mighty the Mercian, hard was his hand-play. 
Sparing not any of those that with Anlaf, 
Warriors over the weltering waters 
Borne in the bark'sbosom, drew to this island, 
Doom'd to the death- 
Five young kings put asleep by the sword-stroke. 
Seven strong Earls of the army of Anlaf 
Fell on the war-field, numberless numbers, 
Shipmen and Scotsmen. 

Then the Norse leader, dire was his need of it. 
Few were his followiiig, fled to his war-ships: 
'Fleeted his vessel to sea with the king in it, 
Saving his life on the fallow flood. 

Also the crafty one, Constantinus, 

Crept to his north again, hoar- headed herol 

Slender reason had he to be proud of 

The welcome of war-knives — he that was reft of his 

Folk and his friends that had fallen in conflict, 

reaving his son too, lost in the carnage, 

Mangled to morsels, a youngster in war) 

Slender reason had he to be glad of 

The clash of the war-glaive — 

Traitor and trickster and spumer of treaties — 

He nor had Anlaf with armies so broken 

A reason for bragging that they had the better 

In perils of battle on places of slaughter — 

The struggle of standards, the rush of the javelins. 

The crash of the chargers, the wielding of weapons — 

The play that they play*d with the children of Edwar4 

Then with their nail'd prows parted the Norsemen, a 
Blood-redden' d relic of javelins, over 



HliDIAEVAL STORIK*. 87 

TTk Jarring brcaVcr, ilic rlrtp-sea billow, 
Sh.i|jm^ Ihcir way towArtl Dycfiii again. 
Shamed tti tbcir^oiil^, 

AUo the br«ihreo, king and Athdittfc, 
Each la his glory, 
Went In Iiia own In hin own UVM-Suxoiilaad^ 
G);^d of the wan 

Mojiy a carc^k&& t)i4:y lell to be carrion. 
Many a Imil one, many » snltow-skin — 
Left A^T llie wbilc-tun d caf^lc to te^r it. and 
Left for the borny-inbVd raven to rend it. ind 
Cave to xhv Karbaj;mg xvar-hawk to gorst it, mid 
Tliat gray beast, Ibe wolf of the weald. 

Never bad huger slaughter of heroes 
Slain by the ^w«^d-eIIge — such ns «lri writers 
Have wiit of iu liiiitor tea — hapt in this isle, since 
Up from the East liiiher Saxon and Angle from 
Ovtir the broad billow broke inio Britain wilh 
Hnnglity war'Worlcer* who harried the Welshmen, when 
Barb that were lured Ly tbe hunger of glory g«it 
Hold of the land. 



THE DEATH OF BRTHTNOTH- 

OvE of ihi> rni-vi fragmenU of old English literature is the ba.1Ind 
on tiic bnttk of Mftldoo, foQjrkt a i>. ogi' It is cunsidercj by hloM 
critic* ti> bAivc hvtn written tmrncdintrly after ihe bflttie. The liia- 
torian Freemui dcclarefl that i: "nmk:t anioug the noblcct efTortA 
of Teutonic poetry." Though the crigiTiJil mann^cHpt \s row lost, 
ft ecpy wiUi publitheit by the antiqunrintr, Thr>mjiA HcAme» in 1716^ 
Aeenrding to the Chrrmlele of Ely, nrihlnoth (nr Byihtnmh) wns a 
Hortkvmbrian «art or entdonunr. Srix-c, wise and ;'ioue. who hnving 
onee defeated tbeVlkinits mI >ftilf]nn bj K«ic)i, wa* called to srnvi 
them when they returned, Olnf, their lender, beicf; unable to force the 
vrondeQ bftdRe xn^rded by WuIfHlan, morclied further u;> to a furd. 
Ticre Bnhtnoth, with t<jo geaerous ehlvniry, allowvd hito to ero«A 
Klhcriit TRo^r&tattoa, Tlicn followri! the fierce convict in which 
loth fell, while some of hii uatodatei flecL Vet oCh«rt. aa tbe 
port ifiJcs nn to relale. foi^i^hl to mveutc their lord's clcalb. The 
Ummted Brihtnnth wis hiTritd bi the Abboy of Hly. hoi hU hone* 
vcre ftinoved in tbe eifcbtcenth eentiuy to the Cathedral* where a 



S8 



7HH world's P&OCRESa 



LriMet rrcnH* liN bcnpractioDs to the Cfaurcli, and A vrlndo* bcu« hU 
ci&gy. The r:»lIowinj; po«iical nntlniti^ of Ub« btlUd U ty U- W. 

Tbr hemld of lire VikjagH siooJ beside Hic river short; 

And thcdcarover'fl haughty words before tlic £<ir[ hchore: 

*' Ffom Mftmcn lK>!d Icomc: thc]^ bid that thou thalt straightway 

wnd 
Treasure for rKasotn : better 't^ll be for you in the end 
To buy with gifts our onsIaughiofT than with as war to hold; 
?f o need to fight if >'c agree — \tc'1I uialtc ?t peace for jgold ; 
If so thcu ordcrcst it, who here among the rest trc chief, 
That thou wilt net thy pecple free, then bid for their relief^ 
That they shtll lo the seanieu give ai aeameii shall deoee, 
Tictsure fur peace: iLcii like yc peace, and wc will put to act 
With bootylftdcn ^ihips, BTid pcaw: heticcforth between us be ! " 
Then firihtnoUi lifted up hi:s voice— his shield he brandished 
high, 
And shook his slender asheu shaft — and thus ht made reply ; 
Wratbful and resolute hespflVc: "O lhi>u sea robber, hear 
What aaith this folk [ To you they give no tribute but the spear, 
Tlie vcTiomed point, t?ie old keen edge, and all the battle-gear 
Thai works no good for you in fight I Go. wauiean herald, any 
This message of yet deeper hale : that here, an Earl I stay 
Ucdatmted, with my men to guard the kingdom, folk and land 
Of ^thelred my lord. Tti war the henthcn jJiaU Tint stand I 

That yc sliould with our spoil £o hcuce uufought* siucc th-T« ye 
came 

Su far iuto this land of ours, loo great lue^eenis the shume: 

Nor think ye to win j^old with ca^ — rather sbaU jn^ni war play, 

Andsword and spear our compact make ere we willtribiUc payi" 

With that he hade his men go forth : tbrir bueklcrs them Ihey 

bore 

TUI at the tanding-place tliey stood, beside tlic Hvcr shore. 

Neither crmld reach thcother there, between them flowed the tid«; 

For after all Ihe flood rolled np, it filled the channel xvide. 

And till their spears together dashed too \oiz^ the time did seeta 

To Vikings and East Sflxou ranks arrayed by Pant&*s streum. 

For neither could the other hurt, save by the arrow's flight. 

Tin ebb of tide. Then r^eady there and bitmtng for the fight 

Th J Vikings stood, llic neauien hont, RutWulf^ttsu — warrior old. 

The SOD ol Ceola -with his kin by Brihtnotb sent to hold 

The bridge against them, withthelanccihefoiemoot Vikingeiew, 



M«WAKVAL STOB!8S. 



Wlio stepped foolhardy oti the JaridKc. WithWulf^tanbcroca tivo, 
wElphcie uml Maccus, firmly £lood, no po&iage would tbcy yield. 
But bravely fought against ihcfoe whilf they coiiM wr-.i^xnvt wield. 
Now when tlic luitcd strangers aaw tbc bridgc-waids tbcrc m> 
stout, 
Th^y changed thdr ground, end to the ford tbey led their forccsout. 
Tlien for the heathen ticst tbe EjitI made way, and overbold 
Men hcaid the Mm of Brihthelm about acroft» the waters cold : 
"J«o! here Is room for yout Coedc en. come, warriors, to the 

fray 1 
Gcd only knowit which ofn* twi;iiii sbflll hold the field today.'* 
TLcn onward canK Uie wolrea uf warn tliey recked not uf the flood : 
Wetftvr&rd o'er i'antai** gleaming waves they bore their &bie1dfl 

amd Stood 
Upon the bank. Tliere 'gainst their foes were Brihtnolh's mm 

an'Jiycd, 
And at hid word they bcld their ground, and buckler wall they 
made. 
Kow drew the time of glorious deeds, the tide of battle, nigh; 
And now tbe fatal hour was cccic when dcatb'doomed men must 

die I 
Now loud upro«e the b*ltle-CT>\ and greedy for their prey, 
Tbe nveos wheeled, the eagles srreiimed, On eanh wfis noEse 

of fray T 
From lund was burled the sharp filed spear, the whetted arrow 

flew, 
Tliie bow was busy, sliield met speur, and fierce the comhnt grew. 
Ou eilber side brave soldiers fell. There Brihtnolh's kinamau died^ 
Wulfnuer, bis sister's son, all hewn with sword-wourds deep and 

wide. 
But to the Vikings reoonipense was fully paid : T know 
That ^adward Miiote one with hh sword, not did the stroke forego 
Till et his Jcet the doomed foe lay. For this bis lord j;a^ thanks 
To his bowcT-thanc in i;cai(ou due^ Thus stoutly in the ranks 
Tbe wnirion fought with weapous sharp, and each one utrcivc to be 
Tbe first whose 5pear mifj'ht reach tbe life of deatb*doomed enemy. 
On earth was daughter! Firm they stood; and Bribtnoth's 

worda of flame 
Stirred every bcsrt to bide the bnint and win a glorious name. 
Forth went ihc hero eld in war, be raiwd his shelienng Ahield 
And dKok hi:i spear, snd onward went into the battle-field, 
TbiM of ooc mind went esrl and churl— alike tlieir fell intent- 



90 THE world's FROCRESS. 

A southern lance the warrior's lord now pierced, by Vikiog sent ; 
But with his shield he thrust at it, the shaft to splinters broke 
And bent the head till out it sprang : then fierce his wrath awoke, 
And at the foe who dealt the wound he hurled his deadly spear. 
Skilled was the leader of the host— he sent the javelin sheer 
Through the youth's neck: bis guiding hand the Viking sought 

to slay; 
And then another swift he shot, through corselet it made way, 
And in the heart through rings of mail the venomed lance-hcad 

stood. 
The blither was the Earl for that—he laughed, the bold of mood, 
And for the day's work rendered thanks that God to bimhad given. 
But from a warrior's clenched hand a dart was fiercely driven ; 
Too sure it went, and pierced the noble thane of .^helred. 
Beside him stood a beardless youth — a boy in battle dread — 
Young Wulfmaer, son of Wulfstan : he swifl from the hero dtew 
The bloody dart and hurled it back : the hardened spear-head flew, 
And ou the earth the Viking lay who thus had reached his lord- 
Then rushed a warrior armed to seize the goodly graven sword, 
Bracelets and corselet of the Earl, but Brihtnoth drew his blade, 
Brown-edged and broad, and fierce the strokes he on his corselet 

laid. 
Too soon another smote his arm and hindered him. Then rolled 
On earth the yellow-hilted sword, nor longer could he hold 
Keen blade, nor weapon wield; but still the grey-haired leader 

l>ade 
His men keep heart and onward press, good comrades undis- 
mayed- 
No longer could he stand upright, his eyes to heaven he bent: 
' ' Ruler of nations ! I give thanks for all that Thou hast lent 
Of joys ill this world. Now have I, gracious Lord 1 most need 
That Thou show favor to my soul, that it to Thee may speed, 
And to Thy kingdom, Lord of Angels ! pass in peace. I pray 
That hell-foes do me no despite." They hewed him as he lay — 
The heathen dogs!— and two with him, ^dfnoth and Wulfinscr; 

there 
Beside their lord they gave their lives. .... 

Thus fell the leader of the host, the Earl of ifithelred, 
And all his hearth-companions saw that there their lord lay dead. 
But hotly thither came proud thanes and dauntless men drew 

nighr 
Cue thing alone they all desired — to take revenge or die I 



MEDIAEVAL STORIES 



9» 



CHAPTER XU. 



ROLAND- 



Some time laler the stone* of Charlemagne and RoUncJ 
developdl These also were composed to edify fighting men, 
but ft^veral striking <3ifTerence* arc apparent. They grew up m 
France and there is fervxrni painoiism permeating ibem ; more- 
ox'er, chivalrous aliitiide toivanl love is pre^nL As a matter 
of fact, there is good reason to believe thai in the earlier ver- 
Mon the love ihcine yvtis. yet tmtoudied and that it wa* later 
interpolated to meet ilic populnr demand for love stories. 

The story in l>rief in this: Charlemagne was the iwwerful 
king who h:i<l 4lefe:ite<l his enemies, one hy oiie^ tmtil a gt^at 
rcahn had been crcjiled. This included much of France. Ger- 
many and Italy. The song of Roland places tlic center of action 
in the Pyrenees, Cliarlcmagne has been fighting the Saracens 
and they have been making overtures to him for peace. His 
nephew, Roland, a brave and valiant knight, counsels ag^ainit 
maWing peace, reverting lo an earlier experience when Ibe 
Saracens had deceived an army in this wny um\, iip*>n tt% with- 
drawal, had attacked the rear guard. Bui Roland's step- 
latlicr. Ganelon, with many older ones, favors making- an 
end of warfare and retuming home. This opinion prevails. 
The question next arises as to who shall carry ihe answer to 
the Saracens — the danger of such a mission being recognized. 
Roland offers to go, hut others fed tliai he is loo valuaUc lo 
hil couiilry to he needlessly exposed. Roland slighlingly Sug- 
gests his stepfather, Ganelon, who is actually ai>pointed a* 
peace ambassador. The deep hatred between Roland and 
Ganclon is now increased ; Ganelon thinks Roland is using ihia 
means for getting rid of him altogether; Roland tannts him of 
lade of braver>\ This so incites Ganelou that he decides to 
betray his people lo the Saraccna. He goes to them as 
appointed* but instead of negotiating according lo the king's 
direction, tie ad%'ises them to make the peace and attack the 
rear of lh« army when Chaflemagne withdraws. This being 
determined upon, he returns to make lure ttiat Roland fthaQ 



92 THE world's progress. 

be in this vanguard and so destroyed. Matters develop as 
planned. The Saracens are suddenly upon the flower of 
Charlemagne's chivalry. Oliver, Roland's friend, urges him 
to sound upon his powerful horn, which will summon Charie- 
magne and thus the Saracens will be put to rout But Roland 
feels that to summon aid at once would prove his own lack 
of worth and he refuses to do so. Instead, he tries to with- 
stand the attack, but his small band, being overwhelmingly 
outnumbered, fall to a man, and when at last Roland blows 
the horn, the effort causes his death. Terrible now is the 
revenge taken by the great king. Roland's death and the 
death of his comrades is the occasion for fearful slaughter of 
the Saracens. 

This story was carried to many lands. Based upon slight 
historical foundations, it was elaborated upon according to the 
taste of the reciter. As a matter of fact, Charlemagne was a 
great conqueror; Roland was not his nephew, but was probably 
older than he by a century; an army was once overtaken in the 
Pyrenees^ but not by Saracens. Thus it is largely a fanciful 
product of the age when men fought, but now for the glory 
of country and the triumph of Christianity. The age of 
wonder is not passed, for God stays the sun in the heavens, 
as in the days of Joshua, until the Saracens are put to shame 
and confusion. 

When transplanted to Germany, the story was expanded 
to emphasize the religious aspect of the struggle; when related 
in Italy, love affairs of the knights were dwelt upon. Nor 
should the moral aspect of the song be overlooked wherein 
Oliver rebukes Roland for sacrificing soldiers needed in the 
service of the king for personal pride. 







Ttttt cariUst form which Freitcl) litcmture assumed \i tliat of the 
"C1iAi»otia t\t Gc*Hp," Sonira of Pf^Mlfl; ih^y ^t^ narrAhv« or *plc 
poenu, rcUtinc tocpUodoi of French hi5tor>'< nn'mij^ in nutiu^ of 
flrbitrmry Imgth, «nob line ranlninirg Irti or twrlw sytlablcs. «ndfiig 
With rhytncn in uhich Utc vowel Bouncld) thoui;t3 not the ccnaonantA, 

wert Irovvcms, of ktiigliily or priwtly rcuik. Th* bwl productions) of 
tbi> kinil «Ulr fioiii (Tii.' twelfth ccnUtry- 

Thc "ChATi»oii d« Roland.*' the earliest of tbc«c, ift 4appo«cd i<> 
have heen urittcn bcf«^re the clg«e of the eleventh century- Tht oldest 
manuAcnpt of tha pora la in the OxfoM coUtctiun, aati contains 4001 
ten^yllabk lines, The Author Is believed to have been a Ni/]i;mI] 
Iwwtv ^re naised Tb^rotilde. It telb the tale of the de^ith of Roland at 
Ronccs^-alTc^. atiil ChiiTlcuiat:a^'fi Tcn;icducC' U has been IrannUled 
Into EnglUli by JoJin oHngan find by t.,eoticc Rabillon. 

Ujunila. Ihc pagan kio^ of Soiagosaa. oScra botati^ to Charle- 
miffO^ If h* wiU reiom lo Kninc^. Rf>lan<l oppooes, Gftir^lnn sitpports 
tlte proposal. Roland, d<n{ed the «nibAAfiy to &knigo&sa. reccrmmeticta 
Ganl^lon, who goe*, IhoMgh reluolanlly. Marsiln, discovering Gaii^ 
lon'a jealousy of Rolaail, ucrJtiL^crt him to aid in an attack on the 
Pimcb rwii^i.ird in the piwit of Ihc J'\Teii««- The false axnbdsiidor 
sow rtlunia wtth hoatngec and glfla- RoUnd g;inrds the rtar. ag^itisi 
which MaisiU K'^thcTsa vust host, InclndiiiE^ luatiy r;;:rcauL knighLa, 
At Roncenvalles they ovcrulcc mxd aurr^iund Rcflaitd otid the peers, 
Oai^cr. valisnt but vr'tx. uTgc.i Ki>knd to sound hi^ horn and briag 
Ch^rlmia^ne 10 the wacne. The hero refnEee, Archbishop Tiirpin, 
aflrT lile»!(ins theCUjiMiaii h*j^l, (jluiigr^ tnto thr fi^'ht and is sUin. 
Tbonsafid« are fctlled : and Rornnd, when it it Vdg Lnlen blows a blut 
vpOD his honi. Before Ch<ulcmat:uc can reach the ^M. Roland, lajt 
ef bin haet, ii desid. Chartpmngn*' puTSuca tha already floeirg pi^JE^n 
armr, and e??act:i tcrribte vcnjfCiVKe. Onnclon is tried and is put to 
death wiih hii kinsmes. In many subsequent romances GaneLon iA 

W 




ti4 The wobijd*& progress. 

named as the typical traitor, from whom the breed of traitors Is 
A?^ceT]de<1. Under the name of Orlando* Roland ia cdeteated by later 
poeu aa tlie typical Ouistiaa hero. 



Roland's Phide, 

"Tm mighty strength are the heathen crew^" 

Oliver 5aid> '' and our Franks are few, 

My comrade Roland, sound on your horn, 

Kart will hear and his hosts return." 

"I were mad," said Roland, '* to do such deed; 

Lost in France were my glory's meed ; 

My Ditrindana shall smite full bard. 

And her Jiilt be red to the golden guard. 

The heathen felons shall find their fate, 

Their death, I swear, in the pass they wail." 

" O Roland, sound on your ivory hor.i, 
To the ear of Karl shall the blast be borne, 
He shall bid his legions backward bend 
And all his barons their aid shall lend.'^ 

" Nay, God forbid it for very shame^ 

That for rae my kindred were stained with blame. 

Or thflt gentle France to such vileness fell ; 

This jr<>od sword that hath served me well, 

My Ihirindatia such strokes shall deal. 

That with blood eucrimsoned shall be the steel ; 

lly their evil star arc the felons led, 

Tliey shall }yti numbered among the dead/' 

■'Roland, Roland, j'ct sound one blast, 

Karl shflll hoar ere the gorge be passed, 

And the Franks return on their path fhll £asL'* 

" 1 will tiol Aonud on my ivory bom. 

11 jtball uc\Tr lie sp<^ken of me in swffu, 

Tliat fi^r heathen frlons one blast I tfcw; 

1 may not dishi-rtior my lineage true. 

Umi I will strike ere this fight be o'er 

A ihouHAud Mrokcs and wven hundred ioor, 

And Tnv l>nriudana shall drip with gore. 

Old l-^anVh iihall bear them tike \'assal5 brav^ 

Tlie 8ai^t>en flook hnt find a gravt" 



MEDIA^VAI, STORT^, 95 

*' I deem of neither reproach nor stain, 

I have seen the Saracen host of Spain 

Over plain and valley and mountains spread 

And the regions hidden beneath their tread; 

Countless the swarm of the foes, and wtf 

A marvellous JiCtle company." 

Roland answered him, '* All the mor^ 

My spirit within me bums therefore ; 

God and bis angels of Heaven defend 

That France through me from her glory bend; 

Death were better than fame laid low, 

Our emperor loveth a downright blow." 

The Horn of Roland, 

As Roland gazed on his slaughtered men, 
He bespake his gentle compeer again : 
"Ah, dear companion, may God thee shield! 
Behold, our bravest lie dead on the field I 
Well may we weep for France the fairi 
Of her noble barons despoiled and bare. 
Had be been with us, our king and friend [ 
Speak, my brother, thy counsel lend, — 
How unto Karl shall we tidings send ? " 
Oliver answered, " I know not how* 
Liefer death than be recreant now," 

' I will sound," said Roland, " upon my horn, 
Karl, as he passes the gorge, to warn. 
The Franks, I know, will return apace." 
Said Oliver, " Nay, it were foul disgrace 
On your noble kindred to wreak such wrong; 
They would bear the stain their lifetime long, 
Erewhile I sought it, and sued in vain ; 
But to sound thy horn thou wouldst not deign. 
Now shall not mine assent be won, 
Nor shall I say it is knightly don^." . . . 

"Ah, why on me doth thy. anger fall ?" 
" Roland, 'tis thou who hast wrought it all* 
Valor and madness are scarce allied, — 
Better discretion than daring pnde. 



g6 THE Xk'OULDS PROGRESS. 

AH hy thj folly cnr Frsnks lie sUin, 
Nor will lender service to Earl again. 
As I implored thee, if tbou hadst ilooe. 
The king had come, and the field were won ; 
Marsil captive or slain, I tit>w. 
Thy daring, Roland, hath wronght <nir woe- 
No service more to Karl we pay, 
That first of men, till the jndgmeat dar, 
Thoti shalt die, and France dishonored be. 
Ended our loyal company — 
A woeful parting this eve *Jiall see/' 

Ardibishop Turpin their strife hath heard. 
His steed with the spnra of gold he spuited« 
And thus rebuked them, riding near : 
'^ Sir Roland, and thou. Sir Olirier, 
Contend not, in God's great name, I crave. 
Not now availeth the horn to save i 
And yet behoves you to nind its call ; 
Kari will come to avenge our iall/' . , , 
Said Roland, " Vea, *tis a goodly rede," 
Then to his lips the horn he drew, 
And full and lustily he blew. 
The mountain pealcs soared high around; 
Thirty leagues was borne the sound ; 
Karl hath heard it aud all his band. 
"Our men ha\-e battle/' said he, "on hand/' . 
With deadly tiavail, iu stress and pain. 
Count Roland sounded a mightj- strain^ 
Forth &om his mouth the bright blood sprang, 
And his temples burst from the ver>' pang- 
On and onward was borne the bL^st, 
Till Karl hath heard, as the goi^ he passed. 
And Xaimes aud all his men of war. 
" It is Roland's horn," said the Emperor, 
'^ Aud save in battle he had not blown/* 

Death of Archbishop Tcrpin. 

Tbb arclibishop, whom God loved in high degree. 
Beheld his wounds all bleeding fresh and &ee; 
And then his cheek more ghastly grew and wan, 
.\nd a faint shudder through his members ran. 



HEDIAEVAI. STORIES, 97 

Upon the battle-field his knee was bent ; 

Brave Roland saw, and to his succor went, 

Straightway his helmet from his hrow unlaced, 

And tore the shining haubert froiu his breast; 

Then raising in his arms the man of Godj 

Gently he laid him on the verdant sod. 

"Rest, Sire," he cried,— *' for rest thy suffering needs/' 

The priest replied, "Think but of warlike deeds ! 

The field is ours ; well may we boast this strife I 

But death steals on, — there is no hope of life ; 

In Paradise, where the almoners live again, 

There are our couches spread, — there shall we rest from 

pain." 
Sore Roland grieved ; nor mar\el I, alasl 
That thrice he swooned upon the thick green ^asa. 
When he revived, with a loud voice cried he, 
"O Heavenly Father! Holy Saint Mariel 
Why lingers death to lay me in my grave ? 
Beloved France ! how have the good and brave 
Been torn from thee and left thee weak and poor ] " 
Then thoughts of Aude, his lady-love, came o'er 
His spirit, and he whispered soft and slow, 
"My gentle friend ! — what parting full of woet 
Never so true a liegeman shalt thou see ; — 
Whatever my fate, Christ's benison on thee [ 
Christ, who did save from realms of woe beneath 
The Hebrew prophets from the second death-" 
Then to the paladins, whom well he knew, 
He went, and one by one unaided drew 
To Turpin's side, well skilled in ghostly lore; — 
No heart had he to smile, — but, weeping sore, 
He blessed them in God's name, with faith that he 
Would soon vouchsafe to them a glad eternity. 

The archbishop, then, — on whom God's benison rest I — 
Exhausted, bowed his head upon bis breast ; — 
His mouth was full of dust and clotted gore^ 
And many a wound his swollen visage bore. 
Slow beats his heart,'— his panting bosom heaves, — 
Death comes apace, — no hope of cure relieves. 
Towards heaven he raised his dying hands and prayed 
Hiat God, who for our sins was mortal made, — 

V— 1 



9S THE WOKLD*S PROGRESS. 

Bora of the Virgin, — scorned and crucified, — 
In Paradise would {dace him by his side. 

Then Ttirpin died in service of Cbarlon, 
Id battle great and eke great orison ; 
'Gainst Pagan host alway strong champion ] — 
God grant to him his holy benison ! 

— Translated by H. W. Lokofsllow. 



Death of Roland, 

That death was on him he knew full well, 
Down from his head to his heart it fell. 
On the grass beneath a pine-tree's shade, 
With face to earth, his form he laid ; 
Beneath him placed his horn and sword 
And turned his face to the heathen horde. 
This hath he done the sooth to show, 
That Karl and his warriors all may know. 
That the gentle count a conqueror died. 
''Mea culpa " full oft he cried, 
And, for his sins, unto God above. 
In sign of penance he raised his glove- 

Roland feeleth his hour at hand, 
On a knoll he lies towards the Spanish land ; 
With one hand beats be upon his breast : 
" In thy sight, O God, be my sins confessed. 
From my hour of birth, both the great and small, 
Down to this day, I repent them all." 
As his glove he raised to God on high, 
Angels of Heaven descend liim nigh- 



On his memory rose full many a thought, 
Of the lands he won and the fields he fought, 
Of his gentle France, of his kin and line, 
And his nursing father. King Karl benign. 
He may not the tear and sob control ; 
Nor yet forgets he his parting soul ; 
To God's compassion he makes his cry : 
" O Father true, who canst not lie. 
Who didst Lazarus raise into bfe again 



UEOrACVAL STORTES. 

Daniel sJileM in the lion'c den ; 
'9l!e-M uiy soul froiu iib pvril <1ue. 
Vortlic Bins I fciim^ my lifctitiic through." 
He <li<l his Tigbt tmnd ^lovc upliil, 
S^int Gflbricl t^ok Irom hitt band th« gift, 
TlwTi drooped h\n brad upon hifihrraKl, 
And ivilh clA-^ijicd lioiKb he went to re^t, 
God from on hij^h e^uI down to him 
One of his angel clieiubim ; 
St. Micbael or Pnil of tlic Soji. 
St. Oabnel in compAny. 

From IIett\<cn they came for that »otil of price. 
And they bare it with them to I'aradUe. 



$9 





m*u 



CHAPTER XIIL 

EAULV 
FRENCH LITERATURE 





F the Iberians and Celts who scUld in Fraoc« 
before KuTojKrjin histoty bcgtas^ inuigtncd thai 
tlicy would be midi<(turbec1, ibey fnilnl to 
rralir-r \hni Praurr was the highway to Spain 
;m<l BiiUiiUf br^klr^ being next tlcKir iiei^hbar 
to tumultuous Germany, and exposed ou the north 
to the sJI -tie voii ting .Scant! iiuivi^ns. Sotitbeni Prance, an the 
Mediterranean, aftcnraxds to be Provciicc, was early occopied 
by GrrrU cnlmiists; but it was Cac^r who first conqtiered 
"all Oau!." about fifty ycara before CUrinl. Lmin tbca 
Wc^mc (be official lans^uage^ stud soon Uic picv^Un^ ^pcccli ; 
hill, four IminJrcd ycArs later, in ponrcd GolhN Franks und 
BurgTiudiaas Ami the Merovingian motutrdiy under Clovia 
wa.H -ict up in 486. Now the lan^iiftg<c was thrown into dire 
coufusior ; but the Southciti Gauls (who claimed to he 
Roinan^y called their illitcnite speech the Roman totigat. 
At the lime of Chailcmaiine, OermaEi, spokeii by his court, 
waft added to the others; h^tm was used by writerc; tbe late 
Roinati, now cnllcd Romance, wa* relegated to the common 
peo|iIe, But it had n wide vogue, aud has charactemed the 
It3li;iii, Spanish, auri others, which became tnown collec* 
lively as tl^e Rotnance languages, [ti tbe tenth centur>' tbe 
NoTiraiis invaded whnt hM !iince been called Normandy, 
adopte^l tho :(peech nf the people, and regulated iL Tliis 
Nofman Fretieh, the hv^u^ tfoit (from the manner in *'htcli 
the word for *"yei" wan prunoiLnced)j divided tlie cnuutry 

lOD 



UCDtAEVAl. STOIIICS. 



lOI 



wjtii the Soutlieiu iur^$t€ d^oC'^^alot tbe altcriuitivr jjru- 
nunciation. [u the Iwcrlflb century ibc)- a[>])car as French 
Aud Pioveii^al, rcspct: lively j and latei, owiu^ lo the giuwiug 
«5C<udaiicy of Paris aad tUc kuig, the fonuci grew to be tbc 
mlmg fonn of speech. It was le55 soft and rbythnjicsl than 
Ibc otber, \nii mcic vij^orous; Francis I,, am! afterwards 
Ricbcllcu (who fouatlcd Ihc French Academy), perfected it, 
until finally it became the most accurate of modem tongues. 

In the era of the Crusades the poetry of Provence won tlic 
cor of tbc wofld. Pioveng;! song is a beautiful curiosity oi 
literature. It rose to it3 height in the intdst of ^inont 
cbildisU igucTaiicc. Not only did most of these poets 
not understand hoiv to read or write, but they were destitute 
of knowledge of history, myLholos;y aiid claasleal literature. 
Their sole re^otircc^ were tbeir delight m a new lanj^age, 
their bigli auitual apirii^ and iheir fantastic devotion to their 
nitJitresbcs ; and the perfections of the Utter a^id the sangers^ 
own love paug^ fonudd the staple of their efl'u&ioiu. It waa 
a movement led by aTid largely constiliitcd of the aristoc- 
racy ; it WHS strenglhened by the enthusiasm of the Cni^ades, 
and by the eoncomiianl cliivalrou-i iJevotioii in women. 
Morality, however, appears at its lowest ebb, in the songs 
<.•£ many iTonhadours, and in tbe eonduet of tbelr lives; it 
was an age of clmrniinjj but exagj;enilyd st^nliTnenl antl sen* 
suality ; it pioduced no great poet or poem, and, after lasting 
two lumdreil years, the poetry ceased, and the language 
disappeai~ed save as a dialect; Ui'gely owing lo the fierce 
pervctttioit *jf tlic Albigciiscs, wlio were fiimlly stamped out 
in the thiitccuih cei^ttiry. 

&teanwbik, in the north, the troiivircs arose, and achieved 
enduring Ciiiic. The name has thu same significance as 
troubadour (*'iioder*M. but that which the nortbcni poeta 
found was of a different ^lainp. The Norman.t, tnie to (heir 
Scandinaviou origin were, first of all, warriors, and their love 
was ennobled by the mHrnCuline strain of battle- For more 
than a ceutnry after 1140, the subject of Artlmriau romance 
was the leading: theme, both of their poetry and their prose. 
In the year named, one Geoffrey of Monmouth, a Welshman, 
and probably a monk of St. Benedict^ obtained from Areh 



J02 TH£ WOBU^E PKDC«£S&. 

deacon Walter of Oxfoxd ^according to Lie am nn^wutt) ^g^ 
materia iijT a biston* of the Kingdom of ^rntm. 7bc 
foundation of t3ttr work may lia\t been Xcnmu^'E "Hsdxiria 
Bntonum/^ writteii in the nicth ccDtim\ and fiomic niw lost 
coiiCctioD of BieLoQ Icgcods- It was^ like the Xilx^hn^co- 
lied^ a hud^I::?^ of lusloiic tiaditjons Tith imafinElTTC 
de\~elopmen*>£ or variations- Be ihat as it maj^ the ima^sm- 
lion of Eaicjjc bad fonnd food to il5 tast^ and in fiftt- j^ais 
llie on^a] Ijo^A Imd been manipiilai^ and *'^*|'***^ by 
Oennany, Italy arn2 France, Tlie centra] fignre of die sIk^ 
is King Arihcr, and ilit atr_ion is concerned ^wizh the banA^ 
ing of the Rocnd Table, and ibe adventures tba-e&iini 
ing. A few years after Jt* appearance in Hcg-Iand it 
translated ujio Atiglo-Xorma;: b\' Geo&ey Gaimar aod 
Wace. By some chroniclers of tbe time, ii Tras accepted as 
genuine history- The exploits of tne various knights of the 
Round Table avoided inexhans^ible material for poetic and 
romantic conception, and an Anhnrian liteiatme arine on all 
sides. The first French prodnction Tas the firrton romaiice 
of Trisian- by a Xonnsn knight, Liicas de Gast, in 1170L 
Before the end of the century- appeared the tale of Lancelot, 
by Walter Map. anotber Welshman, who studied in Paris. 
This was in prose, as was also the fir^ printed version, by Sir 
Thomas Malorv, "Mone Anhure," pcblisbcd in 1485. At 
this period languages were not so strictly con£ned within 
geographical limits as they are now, and it is diffictilt to ap- 
portion to one or another people the credii for productions of 
origin so indeterminate and popularity- so wide. 

A media:\'al romance ecualjV iamous in this century, and 
^j{ older lineage, but which is now almost forgotten, was that 
of AlexaT:cer. Its beginning goes back to the time of Alex- 
ander himself, whose companion. CallistheneSf wrote the 
chronicle of his victories in a book now losL But in the 
third centur)' a fabulous storv of the hero's career was pro- 
duced in Ale:^ndTia, and Callisthcues* name attached to it 
Latin. Syriac, Annenian and Hebrew translations followed. 
As many as twent>' French poets were inspired by the tale, 
and one of them — Lambert li Cort — in collaboration with 
Alexander de Paris, e\'olved, ia 1 1S4, what was accepted as 



UeOIAKVAt, STORIES* 



105 



the standard version. It is from thU that the Al^xcnclnre 
c, 5iill a«d in French serious poctrj-, takes its nanic. 
Still another prose romance— that of Arnodis of Gaul — is, in 
Aptle of it5 tiame^ pnived to be of PortuguefC creation. 
FinaUy, there was tlie Charlcmaj^c cycle of romance, which 
^longed to Germany .is well a»J rmuce. In those days of 
w books, each uatiou miv&t have the general favorites in the 
costume of its counlr>". 

Besides tlieir romance* of chivaln', the trouv^re^i were the 
inventors of inctliarval allegr>rin^, of -which the Romance of the 
Rcse wan Uie fir*t ;iml the moat iiilenninable. Tastes cbaiij^e. 
lu QUIT clay allcgones arc so little appiecTalcd thnt rot even 
llie genius of Spenset can render hLv '*Faene Qucciie" popn- 
lai rcadiiifs:. But tlic Roniaucc of the Rose, begua about 
t36t\ by Gnilbume tie I^ms, and tini^hed fifty years later 1j>' 
the s&ttrical Jean de Mciiu|e, was devoured b>' ciuifc popula* 
tions. According to the BngLish critic. Saintsbuo', its vogue 
wa»dnc to the fact iliut ii cni!>odicd the mental attitude of its 
period. It was a pcrioii in which tree thought was begfinntag 
oppose the do^maa of reli£:iou ; in which dreams of social 
[Qality were Kradnally inisctlliuc the foundatioD£ of caale; 
which scn<iuslily atul a-^cetuV'iii were armymy themselves 
a-^inM each other, and the dcsirefor wider homous of knowl- 
cdjfe was not yet directed hy any recogiii:(ed canons of crili- 
ct.tiD. All these matters are discussed or represented in ilic 
poem, which i^: a poeni in name only, as being written in 
■tneaftured instead of unmeasured prose. We must also 
remember that it was the first book of its kind. The osteiisi- 
bte theme \s the ait of h>ve; hni many esoteric sipiificances 
were rc/id into it, and il w.as the snbjccl of many learned mys- 
timl tieatbtes. The faslnou of nainmg characters according 
to their divers naturesaud dispositions w.ts cQniinued lliroiigh 
the Elixiihctliiin period, in the works of S|jenscr and Ben 
Jon3<m aad others; appears in the Queen Anne dtaniali^ts, 
and is occHa-Moiially adopted even now. To the general leader 
the mo^t familiar example of it:* use is Bunyan^s '* Pilgrim's 
Progress." It is a device which onlv genius can render 
tolerable, and which t-vcn genius finds a burden. 





of itw 

witocn 
E»ded 

|»'«K Roaao^ and 
Hen* xfttr tix 

to be 
far histxxy 
c»f Ljtift. known 
bf Ac Fraiikidi 
Lonxd cicrkSk koob^ !• fIcsR ttc wspcoKTS 
bror. md cy dri ly tbr Mms (vte kpcw little or 
i), kp* •• fi i rii^tf poetry m ikit B i mimi lugtiagv. 
cram OK "****r* RBjvMt s dts- 
of aao d gt u po**T- ^o^ sOraJy 
nc cnuiiJi Mj >itCt jnd was dwou tnuufcrrtd to 



o< pRBDca and boUcs U» iBlivt 
tte Mypcra of it. cafled Tnxtba- 
(or nHkn), were ttt^y; hooomL Sane of tbem wete 
DtfVt ocpcn R)0c frovn EnsnUe ***C*wi ov ihctt abtl* 
Ac iMfiin^t of t nftr armocnOc pstioiv^ ncsidc^ 
Ttoabohdon, or compMm ctf tbr sonp^ wlio often nng 
wcfl, dKfv W19 abo notfacr dass caBod /ogAirj 
hmgUwrs; Ltdn, jccidatortf^ or pfa]rcn), who per* 
104 



MCDIAKVAL ATORt&fl, 



10.'; 



formed or recited die coniposiiious of the fnriijer. SiiiTT^Iinirs, 
imtccri. a Joglar aiivjincccl to tlic rank of a Troubadour, but 
commonly they remaincil dtstiact. In later lirne^H ioglars 
(linglbh. jugglers) were merely wandering nuisictaiu^ who 
added to tlKir attractions various featA of a^lily ard other 
Am;ising pcrfonnancc-v. 

War and religion (umi^cd themes for the Troubadours. 
And didactic And satirical pieces are also found, hut, in far the 
larger proportion of their poetry, love was the predominant 
inotiv'c. The body of ihi* literature is called Proven^l, from 
Pioveuce^ the country in which it originated, tJiougli it spread 
not onlyovex southern France, but through norihcm Spam 
and Italy. Its pecutiar character and history give it a place 
«ieparatc from the main str<!am of French Hlcrature. The frc^^ 
plefuiiTe-hntiig spirit of tliL* pTovern;al court, unrestrained by 
local pfltriolisTu, is excmplifi^ in llic verses wliich Count 
Rayijumd BpTimg;ir TIT recited before the Kmperor Frederic 
II., at Turiu. in 1 162 ; ^^ I like a cavulitr of France, Rud a 
CatiloniAn lady ; the comtes)' of the Genoese and the at.nlcli* 
ncM of Castile ; the sweet soiigs of Froveuce and the daucc 
Trcvi^an ; the fonn of the Aragoncsc, and the speech Julian ; 
thcband^and face of the English, and the youth of Tuscany/' 
The Crusades, begun in the eleventh century to rescue the 
Holy Land from the Saracen5, attempted in the thirteenth to 
extirpate heresy ia Christendom. The home of the Trouba- 
douis vos found to he the most tainted with infidelity, nnd a 
fierce war was excited against the Albigcuses, who had been 
protected by the liberal Countsof Toulouse as iheirinost InyaL 
fnbject^ The North of France \vas orthodox^ and its aid was 
{nvoked against the prosperous Southn Heresy was suppressed, 
bat il»e covmiry was devajitaied. It* political ]>ower aT:d 
nfined civilizatiou were wantonly destroj-ed. The Ptovcl^I 
Ktemtnre died in its; birthplace, bnt many mamiscripts were 
preserved in Italy, and were brought to light in the eighteenth 
century by M. dcr St, PaUye. Subsc<iueni Mudy has raised 
them ag;tin to their proper plnce ir the lilrratnre <if ihe wnrM. 
The Uvea of the Troubadours have been found a» roinatitlc as 
tbcar songs. 

Scvci3l] fornin of poetry prevailed among (lie TrmiUidoiir^ 



Io6 YHE world's PK0GRQ5& 

First, was the canson, consisting of several similar stanzas, 
followed by a shorter one, the envoi, in which the song was 
apostrophized and its mission declared. Second, came the 
sonnet, which was chanted to the sound of a musical instru- 
ment, and had not yet been limited to the form which Petrarch 
consecrated. The last was the ballade, which was originally 
a dance song. There were also poems classified according to 
their subject, as plaints, or complaints against fate, or ;^ainst 
suffering imposed by mistresses; aubades, or songs of the 
dawn, putting an end to love's endearments; serenades, which 
were less frequent; iensojis (contentions), in which a pair of 
lovers or disputants, vie in alternate verses. There were also 
a few larger poems, some setting forth the duties and rewards 
of Crusaders; others, called tresors (treasures), giving general 
instruction in regard to life, or to the wonders of the world. 

WILLIAM OF POITIERS. 

Thb first troubadour ^hose songs ha\e been preserved to tia u 
William, the niDth Count of Poitiers, who, at the age of Gfteen, suc- 
ceeded fais lather in the government ; he was bom in 1071. and died in 
1 137. Tn his youth he was handsome as well as brave - in disposition 
inclined to ^aitrty and recklessness ; and he was gifted with a voice of 
irresistihle cliann^ He married early : but repudiated his first wife ia 
otdcr to wed Philippa, daughter of the Count of Toulouse, seeking 
through this conn«t ion to make himself master of that centre of refine- 
ment. At the outset of his carter lie failed to share the prevalent 
religious enthasiasm. and when the other nobles of France flocked to 
the fiist Crusade, William stayed at home. Nevertheless, when word 
was brought of their valor and success, the young Count summoned 
his vassals and stt forth for the Holy Land. But on the banks of the 
Halys, in Asia Minor, his troop was attacked by the Turks and de- 
sttoyed. Count William alone escaping from the slaughter^ and finally 
airiviiig as a simple pilgrim at Jerusalem, 

When Wil'iiaui retuxned home, he resumed his pleasurt-seetiug. 
He dallied with fair women, and encouraged the lilts and toumamcnts 
ofchivalri'. He affecte^l a certain whimsical fastidiousness, and boasted 
in his songs that no Frenchman or Norman had ever been received at 
his court. When, in 11 14, a bishop was about to pronounce upon him 
sentence of excommunication. William drew his sword and threatened 
to kill the prelate, shoiild he dare to uttei the dread fonnnla. The 
bishop paused a mom?ut as if to collect bims^ll i then spoke the fifttjd 
words vith solemn emphasis, adding, " Strike now \ *' Bat the Conotr 



MEDIAEXAL STOIEieS. 10/ 

bowiaif with caiclcsa grace, sheathed his veapon. "No/* qooth he; 
" I do not love yon enough to st^d 3'ou to Meaven by my hand ! *' 

Wdliain uttiii^tely lost possession of Toulouse, while engaged in 
war agaioat the Moslems in Spain. Eleven short poents are ascribed 
10 him ; but they are valuable from a historical rather than from a lit- 
craty standpoint. They are all lo\'e-5ongST but of widely dlfiering 
character, some beitig refined and delicate, otheis gross aod indecent. 
The latter seem to embody aTlus ions to the author's personal adven- 
tures ; the former exemplify the peculiar tone and style of Proven^l 
poetiy in its most flourishing period. The poem inspired by the Cni- 
aade in which he took part has been lost. 



The Tbouradour^s Lay. 

Anew I time my lute to love, 
Ere stonna disturb the tranquil hour, 

For her who strives my truth to prove. 
My only pride and beauty's flower, 

Who will ne'er my pain remove, 

Who knows and triumphs in her power. 

I am, alas I her willing thrall, 
She may record me as her own ; 

Nor my devotion weakness call, 
That her I prize, and her alone. 

Without her can I live at all, 
A captive so accustomed grown f 

What hope have I, O lady dear? 

Do I then sigb in vain for thee? 
And wilt thou ever thus severe 

Be as a cloistered nun to me ? 

Methinfcs this heart but ill can bear 
An unrewarded slave to be 1 

Why banish love and joy thy bowers, 
Why thus my passion disapprove? 

When, lady, all the world were ours, 
If thou conldst learn, like mc, to love] 



loS The worlpD's progress. 



AUBADE. 

ThB fbllowjng Aubade, or dann-song, by an unknown poet, truiB- 
latctl by F. Hucffer, ia the prototype of A. C- owinbumc'a "la the 
Orcluird." 

Bcneatb a faawthom, on a blooming lawn, 
A lady to her side her iriend had drawn, 
Until the watcher saw the ccrly dawn. 

Ah God, ah God 1 The dawn 1 It comes so soon I 

"Oh, that the sheltering night wootd never fiee, 
Oh. that my friend would never part from rae, 
And never might the watch the dawning see I 

Ah God, ah God \ The dawn f It comes so soon 1 

"Now, sweetest friend, to me with kisses cling, 
Down in the meadow where the ousels sing ; 
No harm shall hate and jealous envy bring. 

Ah God, ah God ! The dawn I It comes so soon I 

" There let with new delight our love abound — 
The sweet-voiced birds are caroling aiound— 
I'ntil the watcher's warning note resound. 

Ah God, ah God ! The dawn ! It comes so scum I 

" I drink the air that softly blows my way, 
From my true friend, so blithe, so fair, so gay. 
And wi:U his fragrant breath my thirst allay. 

Ah Gv>l, ah God ! The dawn ? It comes so soon ! " 

Thf* lady is of fair and gentle kind. 

And ninny a bean her beauty has entwined, 

lUit U* one friend is aye her heart inclined. 

Ah GtvJ, ab Gi>l 1 The dawn ! It comes so soofq I 



nKRTRAND DH BORX- 

TmsnolP-WniSht fln<l tt^MibfldonTwa* « native of Bora, Perigorf, in 
t'lAn^H niMiit 1 L4<\ Ait^ dtfvl »u^Tnc time betbre the year J215, His nature 
w^f' i*"Ml<'*m ^^^\]c nn^l niiTnoinWc , he was r mischief-brewer, and con- 
^(iimU> nivi^lvol 111 t^LAri^iiliTe?^ ^^f his^ cutfi prv^vokiuf:. Bat his poana 
v^H'vt- IvMlUnl, nn.l li**' <1t'Ath tw^t plftce in a Tnonastery. 

Rt,1if,r<l, H--iTi oi 11oni> n oi Fngland. after having eflecdvely 
ULcn iho part ^^ Beitiand'K broUMT, m/hem Bertmid had expelled 



HCJ>rAl!VAI. STOBICS. 



109 



port ihaX the Utlcr priiscd bim in a cpirited ode But he aided Prince 
Henry in irijclHwi A^aiu^t tbc kiui;. in ijunishmoit for which thr 
xn^ntfCb b«8i#^d and rApturvd B>rlrand ft oiwtlc of Hautcfcrt, Is tbc 
i&tcrricw UiAt followed, Iioacvct. the pocl ^pokc iu aticb loving t«nua 
of Uiedevd prince tliat tLe kinf^, wrvpin^.^nnini^nrted thM hf4 poftirft* 
aUtn* be rtalorcd to bim. 

When KichiVTd aKwndnl ihe thmne, Bcrirand tried to stir up v^r 
between him and ThiUp Au^uttTuq of France, Hut the Ivo polcntatea 
comprTimkr^I their<llffe«iioci hy ngTedng to lake p»ii tngpthtr In n 
CnUAdc, on which Bcrtrand did not nccoiupany them- He hod r^ot yet 
bees lEDi|{hln1 ; imd since, in ordrrr tu uttniti t1jal hontjr. IL Whi» necef.- 
atry to aelect a Iai!/ to receive hi» hoiuajce^ Richftrd cugffciiflted ttiAt he 
■dcUrM hi» M>iig9 to hiA sister. KleanoT PlELiitajceneL When, later. Khe 
norri«d thv Dulce of Saxony. BertMud pnid bis court Xa Mu^ns de 
MonUicnttc, utfe uf TrtlleyTainl do redgoid. She. beizoiujui; je«l^^l]^> 
dii;roU>^cd him ; and when be fouod his petitions to be ftitorrd to favor 
rejected, he cUose aiidher Udy-loven Tihtige di: MoutAuaifrn vrho, in 
»ceofdAr:ce wtth th^ str^n^r fomiiihtles ptescnhed by thn laws of gal- 
lantry* '"succeeded in recouciling hiui m^lUi Meciu. He is onid to have 
b«m 90 unknighlly aa afterwurdn to have stiUM her fnir lamp. 

At ltiij:tb, fflfler 30 much iriiacbtef- malting, the warrior- poet ttSAuxacd 
the hahit of a Ci^tervinn mnnk, and died tn iheo4!Drof Mnrlity. In hin 
Infcmn, Dnnte rrprcsi^nls Bertrand dc Bom aaa headless trunk, bearing 
his srvfTTiI hraA " InnierH'Wiae in his hand." Tills was Jr r^uiLal of 
lti5 having tempted King Henry's nons to treuon- 



Ei,2CY ON Young King Henrv. 

tfEMftV II.. King of Englund, in m?? appointed hiA eldest ion, 
HcaryK ruler of Atiiou. aud aftetwHrds fair? boitu Richard ami GrofTiey 
mlcf* of other part* of his Continental potseaaion* Voung Henry 
died in iiSj, bcfuie his fdUiCTt nod his death vn^ bitterly lamented by 
ftertrand de Bom. whose elegy is translated by f . Hneffier. 

If all the pain, tlie gricT the bitter tears. 

The sorrow, tbc remorse, the scornful atight. 
Of which mjin 111 this life the burden bears 

"Wen; thrtiwn £iheap, their balance would be light 
Agalodt the deutb of our young English King. 

Vabr and yotith ataud wailing at his loss ; 

The world Ifi wute and dark nnd doloroua. 
Void of all ^oy, ftiJ of regret aud sorrow. 

All-pfCBcnt dcatli. rmel and fiill of 1raT>. 
Kow Qiayst thou boAat that of the tioblcst bxu£ht 



no Tn^ W09LI/3 PSOGRESS. 

Whose deeds were ever sung to htmum eais. 
Thou hast deprived the world. No bme so bright 

That it could darken our young English King. 
*Twere better, if it pleased our Lord, to give 
Life back to him, than that the traitors live 

Who to good men cause but regret and sorrow. 

The world is base and dark and full of tears, 

Ita love has fled ; its pleasure passed away ; 
A falsehood is its truth. Each day appears, 

But to regret its better yesterday, 
1,00k up, all ye, to our young English King, 

The best among the brave and valorous! 

Now is his gentle heart afar from us, 
And we are left to our regret and sorrow* 

THE COURTS OF LOVE- 

In Southern Fiance, seven hundied years ago, conrt etiquette and 
the fonn9 of social intercourse among the nobility were regulated by 
women. War yielded to love and the cnltivation of the "gay scienec^*' 
Each Troubadour must elect some lady — generally the wife or daughter 
of hia patron— as the object of his addresses. Gallantry, however, 
must not transcend certain conventional limits, under pain of banish- 
ment or of dire physical penalties, of which the history of the Trouba- 
dours furnishes not a few examples. This separation of passionate 
de\'otioii from the idea of marriage has not been without its eflect upon 
subsequent society and literature. 

The establishment of Courts of Love seems so fantastic that their 
very existence has been doubted. They were composed of noble ladies, 
whose authority was regulated by a Code of I^ve, disobedience to 
which was punished by expulsion. This code is given by Andre le 
Chapelain io a Latin treatise, written about iiSo. Of its thirly-cne 
maxims we quote the following : 

He who conceals not his feelings from others, cannot love. 
No one can be bound by a double love. 
Wedlock is no excuse against love, 
l^ve is ever increasing or diminishing- 

She who survives her lover is bound to a two years' widow- 
hood. 

It is shame to love those to marry whom is shame. 

Love published rarely endurcs- 

Basy acceptance repels love, coyness encourages love. 



UaDUl^AL STOBrKti. 



Ill 



True lo« craves not the embrace of any, aavf i(» companion* 
E^'**)' l*^cr '^ **'**^* *o pale in (ireM-Dcc of his love. 
Full of }o\t 11 full of fear. 
To « lover, love can deny nolhiriR, 
He rtiai U overburiJened bv }uEMr>' csnnol love- 
Nutbmg prevents one woman being loved by two men, or two 
men by one woman. 

PIERRE VIDAL. 



PtKaKB ViPAL h^L btm cttll*^ Uiv L>oa l2^ixot« of the Trocite- 
ioan. Bean of bJinLtit|KLicsUb.T^3uloiuc.he *:Ml;MBekidiinw viMot 
«nd poetic lAlenL . U dtrobOQ tc tbft fair mx 'Itt iaSanwd by tbi 
JehMJoB Hut be wts a tiJCL-u.! object of tbcii adiaiimtioo. Yet hi* Gnt 
Mfrtntar* scarc-^5 var.^ftnied thU penvAnos, lUricg tpokefl ligfall)' 
of ■ Udy, bcr biuUmd took reren^ hf «plictitiK ibc pott's tanic&^ 
Tbift «OQ0d, bowvor. was mred by the eorapouian at Kagaa, tht 
l>f<d of Baux. to wbodc service be sttacbed hinudf. Bvral, Viicounl 
of Mmeilla, alao ■ce o fVd him tpnirial bnoctf. and Ihv port nude Ibit 
Sovd'a vile. AdcLifdc, the tbeajc of bk sonuf* nsdo- the naae of Aj>- 
dkn4. or VimuL The Udy »hio«rrl the port *ume ^voTh tmtU one 
d»y wbea abe wm skcpui; alooc, VidaX etok into lb« rooBi awi ko««l- 
1«I by ba beJ. kisMil her cb«ek, AdcUidc «wokc, thi«klnv ft «M 
bat fiodii^ bcr mistake^ cficd ovttebelp, and the pr«- 
poet led, Tbe bdj told bcr boihaJ Bid iiLcd ^ \m- 
«tt 1b« povt'e ia*oln»ee. Baml mada b^ of lb* »4v«fft«ft. 
bBtVUal b^ to^pttt. UcvcaittoCaKtt«>nd Ibllioved Ekbud 1. 
iibiaCmade. 

Vid^r « BdOfs paw look a oew tara, aad wcie £Ucd vlth boafCa of 
Him cottfT^des. pUyis|f tipm hi4 Tumy, ifidottd b«l Id 

tadj of Cvpraa. iriio tbej p wtcnded v«> skcc of tbc 
Hia ranntle JiwaftoariaB baeatta poMMMlwItb 
MeiiMtbatbevMa^aatlycacbadedfrMntbetbfose. Be 
titta aad di^»itj of Evpfrer, cxiMpd a tbreaa to far eaniad 
L> aad Made pw|iiatlijii tooiaert bJ rigbta. VHbcfafcotootbia 
life, sd to amve fctfontiaa of bia Itamot. b; vat b^fc to 
tW Viacom^ of HwariDaa. TTii fniMii iiaiiiiBi 
L*d J AdiWdc mm iLHiulit to wl^pdfy bfe 
b>r pvl^ bia frodT tba kiM ba 
Ibe Bad yoit v« >eal i^Oa «itb Iba ctaEM ef^ a ladr 
Lapedr naaat^Md iii ihiw ba ibiai^.hiiii 11m sa^of 

aad to ovdiv w be Baflglcd tb^ be 
tbe Wljavi ter 
















-:3E=I_ ;i=tn TI^!^ SnL TTtJTiW. 



J" -^ ' "f 



=1 i. 















*^ art TTJ^t TtC T'TC ilTL: .^T"- 



If in glory 1 abound 
To liier praise k must redound 
Who inspires my w>rig wiih pa^^ion. 



ThB TkOUBADOUR'S iNSPlkAlTCW. 

Abl if nnowii attend my name. 

And if delist await my song, 
Thine is the glory, thine tlic fame, 

Tlic praise, tLc joy to tlicc belong; 
For 'Iwaa thy beauty taught mc first 

To emulate the poot'a lay, 
Thy smile my trembling numlkers nuist. 

And soothed my early feais away. 
If aught I brcrjtlit uf good and sweel. 

The strain by tijce is taught to flow, 
My aans^i thy accents but repeat, 

Their purity to tliec they owe. 

If gazing crowd*; around mc sigh, 

And listen with euraptured car, 
'Ti» that thy spirit hoveis mgh, 

"Tis tliat thy t'.'ucler \okc they hear. 
When Jaint aiid low I touch ttie stnng, 

The failing sounds, alas! are mine; 
But when inspired and rapt I sing. 

The puvrcr, Uic diarui, LIic soul is thinel 

FLAMENCA. 

Tmmott notable narraUvcjwiem of rroven^nl origin isFlamenca, 
frabably co*npo*cd in the ^-arly pan of the thirteenth eciuufj. The 
onTy maiiuacHpt of it vrsi found al Cdroat^ciiiiic in an imperfect MaIc, 
to that the uiTihcr'i namr it nnknown, li hat been edited liy M. Fatil 
Mcjef, *ho ndited a tr^iwlatioii into modem PVench, The story givea 
a Ytviii ploiure of t^KiJixval IiIl-, aitil yet in tpirit a nut far from a 
modem novel, 

Tbe valiant knight* Archimbuttt Count of Bourbon, sought in 
lliMmajEe Planimt^r the dnu};hter i>f CuuTit Gui de Ntmour^ 
vhoni be had never seen, and the father preftned him even to the 
KiofE of Hun^a^y. Being assured of accq3tancc» Archimbaut set 
out in grand style, while a splendid reception was prepared for 



Ai 



world's PAOCEeSS. 



him at Nemours. Count Gui introchtccd the noble suitor (o his 
dau^tcr abruptly, "Here ii >'Our bri<lc; lake bcr it ycu like." 
Court Archinibaut replied. "Sir, if t-hc docs not gamsay it. I wa« 
ntvrr su wilting to Ukr sinylhinj: in my lifci" and the bdy^ 
smiling, addressed her father, "Sir. one can «e that you have 
me En your power, iinct you give me away so efttUy aa it is your 
will. I consent." At these words Arcbimbaut h fill«l wiih joy 
and presses her band wannly. But tlic iather leads him out, 
while Flamencfl followed him with her e>'efi, s&jiug, "God be 
with you-" A ia;*gnificcol wcibUng ctLMipd, 6ve bii^hnp^ and lea 
abbots assisting at the ceremony. At the Ijanquet, the bride's 
father aud tbc groom wail on the table, as custom required. But 
the gloom's eyes watcli the bride, and he is tired of tlje feaatiuff 
of the guests and the singing of the joglarri, Nine day? the ft^ 
tivities lasted, and then the zroom rcuirncd to prepare hb castle sC 
Bourbon in Auvergne, tor its ncvr miblre:^- So Far all is bti^bt 
and cheerful, and the poet shows bis skill and pkdmr« iu deacrit^ 
ing courtly feslivitles. 

The kiiig of Fmncc honor* hi* trusty hwon Qui dc Nemonrs 
by escorting Flan^enea to her husband. I'he <[ueeii and all the 
court attend the celebration prepared by Count ArchimVvuL At 
the tourtiaEueiit the king cani^^s on the point of bis iancc the 
sleeve of a lady's dress. The queen, however, auapocta that It la 
Flauieiica's, and soon informs the, new hn'-band of her anaf^docL 
Jealousy immediately takes pu^;;es9;]an of his soul, and though h* 
conceals his feeling boftire his gueMls. he lages inwardly. "What 
was I dreaming of, when I took a wife ? God ! I was mad. Waa 
I not well oif and happy before * IM befall my parenta that they 
advised me to take what never did good to any man 1 ' ' 

The jt^^tloii'i htisb^tid chu^nges Ins iTehnvior. He shuts hhxiaelf 
Up, and prctcada to be very luucb occupied. He suspects e\-ciy 
visitor of designs on his wife and mutters that he would like to 
throw them o<ut headlong. Then he ironically invites thtm to 
slay far dinner. lUal Ihey nuy have gooi upixjrtmiity for Imre- 
makmg. Yet all the while he looks tike a suarliug do|;. 3ooii 
he grows so wild and fierce in hid moods, that he nef;I«ct9 his 
person, and goes about unwashed, letting his fieard grow loDg 
and malted like n badly^madc sht-af of oats, and rvcn tmringout 
his bair> Next the craxy knight resolves to keep his wife a close 
prisoner, and exclaims. '* May I be hanged, if ahe ever go out 
without mv except to church to hear mius, and that only on high 
ieast days I"* Yet the lady, shut up in the tower, bss two devoted 



MSDiAHVAi. rroEtnis, 



"5 



maidens, Alice tad Margaxido. Unaware of any readdO on her 
part for her hatband's strange conduct and harsh trcaLmenti she 
ccuwx to lore hira. 

Msuitimtf Ardiimhaut's actions have been limiltcl ai3n>a<I. 
and knigbts and Uoul^a^Ionrs unite in condcmniu^ iLc Miva^e 
l^Tant^ GtuUeEn de Ncvers. a rich and v^^Liant knighl, a lover 
ci portry, who has been erliicated at the Univereitj' of Paris, 
decides that the Iat3y must l* ccunforled and the jealous hu^bnnd 
ponl^icd. Dtit bow can thii feat be performed ? How can the 
lady be even cpproached? The tower is loo finniy guarded. 
How cculd be meet bci even In church, where she is screeued in 
a private pew ? 

Gnillcci dc Never* i* a pcholar, an4 thus finds means lo gain 
the favor of the pnc^t, who makes him his clerk. According to 
th* practice of the tlrae», he thus has th^ opportunely of carrying 
to her the taaaa-book which was kivs^^d by tlie people- Flanenca 
Hotkey the fasudAomc new clerk, but slic is astonished when, 
itjstoid of the formula, "Peace be with tlteel" he whisper* 
" Ahw ! " Returning home she nm^ea on Ihe clerk's word. At 
first she iaindij^imnl at his imjjeiliueucc, "What light has he 
to grieve for mc? He is stion^ and free and should be happy* 
Why should he mock at my snlTcring? 1 must sigh and weep, 
The household drudge is enviable compared with me. I could 
not bp wcrw with artval or a stepmother/" Bui the maidyervant* 
scggcAt cjtlier Ihoughln. Margarida declares, "* Your beauty hoa 
woe the clerk's heart. He heia tio other chance of speaking to 
you, and therefore has mn this risk to show you his feeling,'* 
With KiKh mjggescions Flaroenca is persuaded to pardon, and 
even to look favorably ou the clerk's coiiduct, and the three 
women con:»ult what should be said when next the clerk and lady 
meet. Two syllabled caa only be whiapercd, and the fair con- 
»pIrator8 agrve iijion the <^i]e*itioJi, Qu^ pintts^s f *' What do yoii 
grieve for?'* Guiltem is visibly moved when FlamcDca utters the 
words, but she is not certain that he has understood them. She 
therefore rehearses the scene in her chamber, while her maid, 
Alice, hoWs out to her a book, as the eltrk had done. The maid 
her that he must have heard and uudcrstood the qac»* 
'tioo. A week, however, must intcn^ne before the answer can be 
cbtused, and then thederlc replies, " I die." 

Thia itingnlar dialogue, strictly limited to two whispered syl- 
lablCB each Sunday, and canicd on before the eyes of the jealou» 
husband, is proloagcd for many weeks. Its further course ran 




ut 



THS WO^tLDS PROGRESS. 



thui; /7«BT^nAr.— Of what? Giiiltfm^ — Of lort F. — For 
whom? G.' -For yuu. F. — What cau I? G^ — Heal me- F- — 
How so? G.—Bj craft. A— Use it. G.—l have. A— What 
C«ft? t.— You must go. /^— Wheie lo? C— The baths. 

Tlie milhor describes these baths, which were on the estste of 
Count Archimbiiiit- Diseased [icople of various ikati<ju?i resorted 
lo tlitm. aud fouud written >a each com for what makdy !t was 
pood. Hot and cold hnths were supplied, on tencns fixed l>y the 
Iftudlord. There were also rooms in which people could lij down 
and rest, or refresh Ihmiselves, as they pleaseil There was a 
remedy for ever>' ailnient, and every one might go away cured. 
H<rre Guillem bad won the good will of the landlord and hiB wife 
l>y paying promptly and living familiarly. He now induced 
them to let Ihar house to him for a season, while ihey went else- 
where. Guillcm then had a snbtetraucous passage constructed 
from the house lo one of the balhing-cclls. Cai-ryiug out the 
plot, Flanienca soon requires the baths to relieve her pain and 
want of sleep, .^rchimbaut is persuaded t'j grant the request, and 
conducts his wife lo the place, Tlic gallant landlord shows her 
every attentioD, and leads bcr, with her two faithful maidens, lo 
the bath. The husband locks the door of the bathroom on the 
outside, while the maidens Ixilt it on the inside. But the subter- 
raneous passa^ leads to a nxnn splendidly adorned for the dis- 
tinguished visitor. 

Arcbimbaut had already noticed a change in his wife's maJi' 
ner towards him. She became careless, showed no affection— 
hardly common politeness. At last, when the lady proposed th:i' 
she be restored to liberty on promise of faithfulncsfi lo her hua- 
band, he found himself tired of playing jailor, and consented. 
The lady then vtiws to him, in the presence of her maidens, 
"Henceforth I will guard myself quile as well as you have 
hitherto guarded mc." The lady therefore leaves her lover, who 
departs to win new fame. Yet she agrees to see him again at a 
tourtiament, which Archimlmut intends to hold in celebration of 
his good fortune. Guillcm, restored lo bis rank, becomes re- 
nowned for his prowess. He is invited by Arcbimbaut lo attend 
his feast, and is Introduced to Flamenca as a valiant and famous 
knight. At the tournament Guillem is easily first among the 
combataiLts. while Archimbaut^ freed from his wretched jealousy- 
takes the second rank. 

Here the manuscript ends abniptly. yet the story has evidently 
l>een told. 




iitDtACvAL stcnuioe 



"7 



CHAPTKR XIV. 

LEGENDS OP KING ARTHUR, 

The Tale* of King Arthur and the Legend of the Holy 

trail greiv out of kni((1it enaatry. As in tlie previous scotk-s, 

»e cuitmion pcojjli* arc lillk tunsittcred and scitlom purtrayctl 

all. Their stones arc many of tlictn preserved to us in the 

^abticux — nicrry, satirical laics- The idealft aurroundin^f 

'chiii'alr>' arc seen best in these two legenfls. which setting forth 

the quintessence of knighthood, have influenced all poslcntj'- 

The irsiruciiofii given to each kniglit: "Go fonh into the 

'orld, redres* all wrong, defend the wi-ak, ht injc,'' are 

where cIm: exemplified so forcefully or in such a \ariet>" of 

Sks in the StorieA of King Arthur 

How Damk Ki«atk£. Galahad's Mother, Camg is GrcaT 

E^ATif UxTO Camklot, anij How Sir Launcslot 

Urhavi»u> MiM Thkke. 

And when Dame Elaine, the daughter of King Pelles, 
heard of this fc?flt» she v^cnt to her father, and required him 
that he would ^Wc her leave to ride to that feasl. The king 
iBwercd, [ will well ye go thither, but in any wise, as yc 
n't me and will have my blessing, that ye be well bescen in 
\i wise; and luiik that ye spate tin! for no co*il : ask. 
Lall have all that you ntcdclh. Then, hy the ad\'iLe 
of Dame BrLsen, Iter maiden, all thiug was apparelled unto 
the purpoi^r ard there wa^t never no hdy more richly beseen, 
she rode wiiTi iweuiy kntghis and ton Iadie»> and gcnilc- 
ten to thtr mimlicr of a htmdred horses- And when she 
came to Camclol. King Arthur aucl Queen Cueiicvcr said, and 
all tlic knights, that I>anK Elaine was llic fairest and the best 
bescai lady that c%"cr was seen in that court 

And anon as King Arthur wist that she was come, he met 
and u1ute<l her, at^ ko did the most pan of all the knCgbt^ 
[jf ihc Rmmd Tahle, both Sir Tnsfram, Sir Rlcrthens> and 
>ir Gawaine, and many more that I will nut rehearse. But 




lis 



Tiie WORLD'S rftocac&s. 



utue 



when Sir Launcclot saw her he was 50 o^hnnwd, and that 
because he dr€w his sword on her. that he would not talote 
her nor speak to her, and yet Sir Launceloc thought she w 
the fairest woman that ever he saw in bis life days. Bu; wh 
D^Tiie EI;i]n<? s;iw Sir Ijiuncdoc that would not s]>eak lo 
she was so hca\'y that she wer^ her heart would have to b 
For wit ye well, out of nvca^jrc she loved him. And th«n 
Elaine siid unto her woman. Dame Brisen, The unkindnecs 
of Sir Launcclot slayeth me near. Ah peace, madam, said 
Dame Bn5«n, I will undenake that he shall conx to yoti, and 
ye would hold you «tJll. Tl^l were me lever, *kii<l Dame 
Elaine, than all the goM thM ti above tl,c earth. Let n>c deal 
said Dame Briscn, So when Elaine was brought unto Qnccn 
Guenevcr, either made other ^ood cheer by cotintenance, but 
nothing; with hearts. Buc all men and women ^palcc of the 
beatity of Dame EUine. and of her great riches. Then the 
qtieen corrmiamlei! that Daiiie EUine should sleep in a charnber 
ni^h unio her cliamher. aiul all under one rooL And 50 it 
was done as the queen had commanded. Then the queen sent 
for Sir Launcclot, and bid him come to l^r, or else, I am 
sure, said the queen, that ye will gK> to your tady, Dame 
Elaine, by whom ye had Galahad- Ah, madam, satd Sir 
Launcdot, never say ye so: for that was againa my will 
Tlieii, said the citieeii, look ihat ye come lo mc wlien I icnd 
for yow, >fadam. said Sir Launcclot, I sJiall not fail you, but 
I shall be ready at your commandment. This bar^n was 
soon done and made between them, btit Dame Bri.<cn knew 
It by her crafts, and told it to her tady, Dame Elaine. Alas, 
said she, how shall I doi Let me deal, said Dame Brisen, for 
1 shall bring him by the hand, es-en to you. and he shall ween 
that I am Queen Gticnc\Tr's mcssager. Now well 1% me. 
Dame Elaine, for ^1 the worid I love not so mndi as 
Sir Launcelotp 

So then Dame Brisen came to Sir Launceloc and 
Sir Launcclot du Lake, my lady. Queen Quenever. awai 
upon you. O my fair lady, said Sir LauncrloC, I am re 
to go witli you where ye ivill have me. So Sir LautKelol i 
bis sword in his hand, ar»l llien Dame Brisen took him by the 
fin^r and led him unto her lady. Dame Elaine; and then 
she departed and left them together. Wit ye well the lady 



ween 




UnUACVAL STOIUCS. 



119 



W2S gild, 2T)d lo 7i*as Sir Litmctlol, for h« wend ihat it wis 
iht queca Then Queen Gu*iwvcr sent one of her women 
imto Sir Launcrlot; and when she came tl^ere, il^ fonnd Sir 
Ltuncelot was awa;: sn she came in llic <inttn ami hj)d l>cr 
al. AUs, !akl die queen, where is t1:at falae knight become? 
Then was the queen nigh out of her wit» and then she writhed 
2ad weltered as a mad woman: and M bst the queen met 
wiih Sir Launcelot, ard thus she said, false traitor knight 
that ihou art. look ihou never abide in my court, and not so 
kardy, llioti false ti^iior knight ili;^! ihou .it1, that ever thou 
cvme in my ^ight Alas, said Sir Lrtiuncclot; and ihcrcwilh 
he took such an hc4trtly wrrow at her words that he fell down 
lo the floor in a swoon. And therewithal (Juecn Cucnevcr 
tiepartcd. And when Sir X<auncelot awoke of his swoon, he 
leapt out at a bay-window imo a garden, and there wiih ihoms 
he was all to-5cralcIied in his visage and his body, and so he 
ran forth he wist nnl whither, and was w'M wood as c\er was 
inan: and vo he ran two year, t^J^ii never man might have j|:Tace 
to know him. 



So it befell, that King- Pelles had a nephew, his name was 
GiHtor, and kq he desired of the king to Ijp made knight, and 
so at the request of this Caslor, \hc king made him knight 
at the feast of Candlanas, And when Sir Castor was made 
knight, that <:>nic day he ^vc many go^-ns. And then Sir 
Castor tent for the fool, th^t was Sir Launeelot. And wtien 
lie was come afore Sir Castor, he gave Sir Launcelot a n^ 
of scarlet and all that hduujjerl urto him, Ard when Sir 
Latinctlot wa-t so arrayed tike a knight, he was ihe ^crmliest 
man in alt the court, and none so well made. So when he saw 
his time he went into the garden, and there Sir Launcelot laid 
him down by a well and slep^ And fo, at afternoon, Dsme 
QaJne and her maidens came into the garden to ptay them. 
and as lliey roamed up and down, orw of Dame Elaine'* 
■ttidens e^ieil wliere fay a gcwully man by ihe well sleeping, 
and anon showed him to Dame Elaine. Peace, mi Duat 
Elaine, and say no word; and then she brought Dame Elaine 
where be lay. And when that she behcW him, anon she (ell 
)hi ranciBbraocc of him, and knew him verily for Sir E^uncc 




^^ 



I20 



TUB WO»U>'S rStOCftHSS. 



M, and therewirhal she fell on wwiJing so heartily that she 
Mnk even 1o ihc e^irih. And when ??he had Ihus wepi a gtr^t 
while, then she arose and called her maidcDS. and said she was 
sic]<. And so she went out of the garden, and she went 
Etraij^ht to her father, and Ihert she took him apart by herself, 
and then ftbe ^aid. Oh, failier, now 1 h;Ave rteed of your help, 
and but if that ye help itic, faiewett my gwMl days forever, 
Wh;il isthal, dstighicr^ ^M King Pelle^> Str, ^he^^id. (hn* is 
it : in your garden I went for to sport, and there by ihc well I 
found Sir Launcclot du irakc sleciiing. I may iK>t believe ttist, 
said King Pclles, Sir j^he said, truly he h there, and me scem- 
,eth he should be dUtract out of hi* wtt. Then hold you still, 
said the king, and lei me deal. Then the king called to him sueh 
StH he n»iM IniMfi!, n frnir pervitt*, ;mii1 pAuir Eliilne, his 
daughter, and when they came to the well and bcbcW Sir 
L^iiincelot, anon Dame Bnsen knew him. Sir. aid Dome 
Brisen, we must be wise how to deal with him, for this knight 
is out of his mind, and if we awake him nidcly, what he will dn 
we all know not. Bitt ye shall abide, and 1 shall thmw siicb an 
ench^rtnient upon him ihi^t he fhati not itwake within tSe 
space of an hour; and ao she did. Then within a little while 
after King Pdle* commanded that all people should avoid, 
that none .<hotild be in that way there as the king would come. 
And so when thts was done, these four men and these ladieft 
laid hand on Sir Ivauncelot, And «o they bare liim into a 
tfiwer, and so Into a chamljcr where wa;* the holy vessel of tHe 
Sancgreal, and by force Sir Launcclot was laid by thai holy 
^■es^l. and there cnmc a holy man and tmcovered that vessel, 
and so by miracle, and by viruie of that holy vessel. Sir 
LaunceW was healed and recoverer!. And when that he was 
awaked lie grnancd and sighed, ajid compbincd greatly that 
he was passing sore- 

And when Sir Latincelol saw King Pelles and l^latne he 
waxed ashamed, and said thus: Oh Lord Jt'iu, how came I 
here^ Tor God's sake, my lorcf» iel me wit how I came here? 
Sir, said Dame Rlaine, Into this countrj' j-e came like? a mad 
man clean out of your wit. And here have yc been kept as 
a fool, and no creature here knew what yc were, until by 
fortune a maiden of mine brought me unto you, where aa yc 
lay sleeping by a well, and anon, a$ I verily beheld you, 1 



|£a>tAEVAL STOnTCS. 



131 



knew you. And then I told my father, and »o were yc brought 
afore this holy veiisel, ard by the virtue of it thuw were ye 
healed O, said Sir l^imcHot, if thi* be sooth, how many 
iticre Ijc thai Ictiow of my woodncss. Truly, said KblnCt no 
more but my fallier and 1 and Daric Briscn. Now< I pray 
you, said Sir Launccloi, keep Jt in couttsc], and let no man 
know it in the world, for 1 am sore aaliamcd that I have been 
thus niiscarned, for I am banUhed om of the country of 
Logrig forever, that is for lo «ay, the country of England. 
And so Sir l^atiiicelol lay rnort than a fortnight, or cvrr th«t 
he might stir for soreness. And then upon a day he said 
unto Dame Elaine these words: Lady Elaine, for your sake 
[ have had much travel, eare and angn-iisb. it nccdcth not to 
rehearse it, ye know how, Notwiihstandinjj I know well I 
have done foul to you, when that I drew my sword to you, 
for to have slatn you. And all was ihe cause that ye and 
l>nme Brwn decrivcti me. That i> Imth, said Dame Hlaine. 
Now will yc for my love, said Sir Launcclot, go unto your 
father, and get me a place of him wherein I may dwell: for 
in the court of Kinjr Arthur may I never come- Sir, said 
Dame ElainCp 1 will live and die with yon, and only for your 
sake, and if my life might not avail you, and my death might 
avail ymi, wit ye well I wonld die for your sake. And T will 
go to my father, and I am sure there is nothing that 1 cm 
dcAJTc of him but I shall have it And where yc be. my lord, 
Sir Launcclot, doubt ye not but I will he with you willi all 
the service that I may do. So forihwiihal she went to her 
father, and said, Sir, my lord. Sir I^inmekit, dewrtih to be 
here by you in some castle of yonrs. Well, daughter, said 
the king:, sith it is his dtfsirc to abide in these marches, he shall 
be in tJic castle of Bliant, and there shall yc be with him, and 
twenty of the fairest ladies that be in ilii* country, and they 
shall be of the great blood; and yc shall have ten kni^hi^ with 
you. For. dnughler, 1 will that ye wit we all be honored by 
tlic btoocl of Sir Launcelut. 

PARCTV^AI* 

PATtCTVAt, wBfl cducAtfd I'V hiii widowct motlwT Tn pmfimnd rrtlf^ 
int-il in the foirot- I It grrw up grave, aerioui, inrt htgh'miaded, full 
of vague dc»irC4« ftod Jt<ipirnhoii», WliiU roomtDf pensively in the 



iGL 




i2z The world's progress* 

woods, he saw three knights in bright armor, mounted on spirited 

horses. A longing for adventure took possession of his'soal, and he 
begged his mother's permission to enter the great world in which hia 
fether had been renowned. When she gave a sad consent, Parcival 
hastettedtotbecourtof King Arthur, Here be wins general admiration 
by his surpassing beauty, courage, skill in feats of arms, and all manly 
exercises, and perfect knighthood- Hearing that a fair princess is 
besieged in her castle by rebelHous subjects, be hastens to her rescue, 
overcomes her enemies, and receives her hand as his reward. But a 
higher destiny awaits him. He soon bids his bride farewell, being 
filled with desire to inform Ms mother of his success and happiness. 
While on his rttum, some fishennen lead him to a lofty castle. He 
enters a spacious hall, and finds four hundred knights seated on ele- 
gant couches. But on the most splendid he sees a person of tingly 
aspect, who yet sbows signs, of grief and sufEeting. This la King 
Asfortas, the guardian of the Holy Grail, and the castle is the temple 
of that mysterious vessel. Parcival remains in ignorance of the fact, 
though entrance to this place was indeed the reward ui his Christian 
chivoliy. 

He gazed awhile f the changes rung ! 
The gates of steel have open flung 
Their portals; two sweet maidens there 

Appear, with veil and flowery wreath, 
Binding the tresses long and fair 

Which fall in wavitig locks beneath. 
Two candlesticks of beaten gold 

This lovely pair, all graceful, bear ; 
If aught could move the king to lovei 

Sick as he is, he'd find it there. 
Tt was the Couiitess Terriprobe, 

And her sweet friend ; a girdle bright 
Confined the rich and scarlet robe» 

"Which floated o'er her form of lightl 

A second pair then nearer drew ; 
Of these one was a duchess too. 
A tray oi ivory pure she bore ; 

Her lips were red as summer roses* 
Her robe with gems all studded o'er 

A hue deep as her lips discloses ; 
The virgins bow'd and placed the tray 
Before the monarch where he lay. 
Four more, with torches, then appear, 

And then fotir more who bear a stone 



MEDIAEVAL StOK]£S. 12} 

Sbiuittg with Tmlifincc, bnf;:ht and dear, 

That e>e am acarcely fiUKe upon I 
Tlnrse Im'rly m^ids, so young uticl fnh. 
Dad wrcatli£ of flowers amid their tali : 
Tli«r TohcA, ti^Iit hciiiid witb jcwcll'd aone-. 
Were ^{rvi'U x% graK«, when ftt^hly grown I 

At kngfth ;ipf»cflrcd Ihc quctfii nloHc^ 

A liKhl (rota her nweet ietiturv:; shone, 

Asvrheu, •: Ui«flpi.rk3achof*lny, 

Shinu, tlirongli ilt^cU^Kf^. th«buii*sbright n%'> 

Upon a cu^liioti aoft au^l filr 

or fiiicwt &ilk that Pcrsift wove. 
5h« bor« tbat treasure, lich and r^n, 

AUcailTilyjoy. or bliss abovcl 
To wbicli no mortal <]nrc sispircl 
Above the r^ic!h ot all desire. 
The Holy Grai) ! 

Ptrclval retires to icat. NcsLt moraing ht Giid^ bcsitlc biui Lis 
vcstmcutA aad a ricli scimitar the lulxtg h^d prcscutcd him ; a horse, 
rtttdy saddled and bridled, stands at tbe e^tle gate, but no human 
form is to be aceD. PareLvot mounts his steed and is riding slowly 
avray, whcrtt he hears n mocking voit* Hud b^hohis a dwarf upon 
tbc castle walls, who LiunUiij^ly reproaches htm frjr not haviug 
inquired the mcumis of oU the Gtruuge sighU he hod fieeii ; the 
dwarf then, with a wild, nneartbly laugh, disappears. Soon 
Pdrcivfll raee':s -t lovely niaiilen, overwhelmed with ^titrC and 
holding in her :imi5 4 bkcding corpscn It is his cousin Si^'^ine* 
bearing the body of her beloved husband, aud, though it is the 
fir$t time they have ever met, they recognise each other a* rcla- 
ti\^rs. Ptoiii lier, Paraval Icarus his fiital oini^on in not inquir* 
itig the Tianic of the <:;aatlc where be had been welcomed ; for by 
him oloue eootd Aulortm; be restored to health. 

While musing on iill tbene e^ftraordioaty proceedings, I*ardval 
perceives three drops of liloixl 'm ihe snow, and lliese dmpt iccall 
the recollection of his wife. Years, howev-cr, pass before he 
osain beholdfi her or his twin boy^, to whom, since his depirture, 
%he bai glveti birth. His pre^nt journey proves a useless one. 
Socm after hEs departure, bis sad and broken-beaitcd mother, 
whose affcctiojis bad been bound up in her soa, brtd died. 



JK 



134 



Tlltf world's FitOCUSBL 



After many ttd^XDturcs, Pardvftl ittunis to King Arthor'A 
court* vbcre he is ftbont to be rccctveil as Imight oi the KonDd 
Table, when an esichantre» mppeors And pronouncei a cuist oo 
him for tli^t otnteslon which had led 10 such CAlsxnhouK mult* : 
for Airfovtas is uttLI a vktim to Uifi wound, Sftd. yet itsiKQcd, 
the yotinj£ hero rcnonoccs his Ebnd hopes of distinctKm; he 
resolves, as ta expiatiou of hU tuconscious stn, to devote hlinaeU 
henceforward lo iht defence of the Holj- Gmll, if pcrmitie<l ihb 
high hODor. Thcu mounting Iiis sAxxd, Itc rJdc» botruvrfnlly 
ftwar- 

Por four long and weary years does ParciTsI wander tfaronsh 
the worlds He has lost his Cmst in man and God, At length he 
mcebi 4 VnigUtwha. by bii iriae and holy coungel. ^nulually 1e*ds 
back Ilia ciriug spint to faith, trust aod hope. By him be b cwi- 
dncted to on aged hermit who, he Icams, is hn uncle, who baa 
long devoted bioisetf to thesen ice ol'C^, and who teaches him that 
pride aiul seV-e^eem utv: ohsiucks u> tJiat high and holy ofilce, 
which is uow the aim of all UU desires- It was thcac pa»sioa!t 
which had subjected Aiifortai to the power of the demon and 
exposed htm to that terrible woui^d torn which he vmt to recover 
only when Parcivnl, ta whom he was to deliver up the sfnereiguty, 
should cuter Ujc fortrcKi aud ask those atmple yet nijsterioas 
questioos, 

Parci\-[U, diddaiuuig worldly Ume or honor, henceforth d«TOitea 
tile whole energies of his noble nature to these duties and sftCfi- 
ficcs, cvhtcb aloue call Tiiokc him worthy of becoming the guardian 
of the Holy Grail. After encouiiteriRg many dangers, and T&a- 
qmfibLng iQSuy foes, the penitent knight obtains admittance igain 
Into the mysterious oasile, and now does not forgrt hfs quesdoa. 
He has the Hatisfactinn of res(i>ri]Lg Ihckiuf^ la health and of once 
more beholding; his tong-lost wife Aud cmbrscitig the children be 
had ne%-eT yet b«li«ld. To the youngest of these sons he givca 
over his temporal kingdom ; the elier, Lohengrfln. Is to raooeed 
hiiu in the luore precious scweteignty which be himself nMnmea^ 
But. Irom this moment, a law is promulgated bywbkhalL knights 
of the Holy Grail are forbidden, when thej' have once left the 
pqredncts of the fomew, to disclose to any earthly ear Irom vi^iat 
otigiu they tax spnmg. 



UED1A£VAI^ STOEtSSw 



135 



REYNARD THE FOX. 

The oppontc side of ll>e picture is re^xalcd in another 
mcdiccxal fitOT)': Reynard the Fox — a satire upon the deceit^ 
Msity and prclcdse of the Middle Agci- Since the time of 
JEsc/p, tlie iiovelry of making anitita!s talk to exemplify the 
fcfUy *jf itiaiikitid \\;i% beer popular. We have only to recall 
the Jungle Stone* of Kipling and the Stories of Uncle Remus 
among recent writings, and Chanticleer and The Blue Bird 
among modern plays, to perceive the truth of this statement. 

It is difficnlt lo say ju^ whal the earlier versions of Rey- 
naid the Fox JncltJded, for as it remains to us it contains the 
rcncclion of many men tipoii uiedije^al society ami tls abuses. 
It is not a clostly connected, logical story— nitlicr a series ol 
stones* 

Kii^ Noble — the lion— holds coLirt; all the animals attend 
upon him save only Reynard the Fox. One after another de- 
mand justice againn Reynard for his depredations. The King 
passe^i over in^ny of theiv complaints as trivial, but at lengfli 
a w<infidcfl Hen is borne into the presence of the King, the 
Cock and companion h^ns weepitig over her sid demise. The 
Kin^ sends for the miscreant, but the Cat and Wolf who go 
to fetch him return torn and bleeding. At last the Badger, 
anned with the royal seal, succeeds in bringing him to court- 
The Fox is iried and sentenced to be executed; however, he 
turns |»enilent and begs lo go upon a pilgrimage for (he salv^" 
lion of his *onl ere (he sentence is carried out- The King, 
nrwcd by his grief, pardons him; whereupon as quickly as he 
has passed beyond the immcdmtc precincts* he gleefully re- 
pairs to his former haunts and contimies his misdoings. 

It is scarcely necessary to explain the keen shafts of satire; 
cunning rascality is everywhere successful ; it prevails over alt 
justice and right. A life nf misdeeds may be atrtnrd tor by 
a pilgrimage and a bit of palm from the Holy Laud offset 
years of oppression and tyranny. 



■f 



CHAPTKR XV. 
SPANISH LlTIiUATURE. 



[HE coiintTv known aii Spain is a geogn i phica! 
cul-de-sac. DiviiW from tlic rest of Knrcpc 
on tlie landvard side by ihc Pyrenees actoss the 
{stbmus^ it issnmnindrd i«i all other Md« by 
scafi. All itiva:iiof]> front the eii^t inu-nt end 
hercL ll wasficcupicdbcfoTctliebeginningof recorded 
history bj' the Iberians. Ikfore than tvtn Itundrrd yram liefore 
Ctirist the Carttiiisitiixii.N, <|uickly fulluwcd by llie Ruiduih, 
invadrd it, >uid lite letter's doniinatioxi tasted six hiiiidied 
year& Beforr the fall of the Wcslcni Kmpire come llic Van^ 
dais, Snc\'i aud Alaiu, and the VbigothiG kingdom, then 
erected, continued nntil the appearance of the Anbiana la 
710 A.IX Ajtahist X stubborn resistance the latter gradually 
po59Qtsed thcm^ehTs of the Pcnin^nlo, until 3nl>' nxnoug the 
mo;mta:ix3 of the A^tunos in the tiorthirest aid an uncou* 
qaered remnant find shelter. The Mohamtncdaa role lasted 
till 1031, tvbeu the caliphate bef-on to cnmbl^ imd the Span- 
laids to reocctipy their tcrritoTi'. Steadily they poshed the 
inx-aders back. The Berber fimatica exooed the Straits of 
Gibraltar in the eleventh century and conqiMred an adjoining 
nttlm, from ivhich they vrerc not finally ottfted for two bun- 
dttd yean. Bui, in 1479^ CastOe and Amgon were nnited, 
sni*, in t4s^ the Moon vrez^ c!ri\'en from their last stznog^ 
bold in Gninada. In the succeeding centcry, ^aln Te ach c J 
her apQsrc of (loiy. In the Mvmteenih her d«!ltiw t»g«n, 

136 



UKlMAKt'At. STORtE& 



127 



Slid it li^ continued until to-day sheMFho once dominated 
the civilized world aroiises^ only ilj; contempL 

Kowhere more dearly than iu tins story is ibe logic of 
events exemplified. The SpanturtU whom the Moors attacked 
were a brave people aud loved freedom; llieir political pcMd- 
tion aud ibe mountainous topography ard Inspinng climate 
of thetr conntry rnade them jao. In additiDnj they wereKtimu- 
laied hy the sacred duty of dL'fciidiiig the cause of the Ciusa 
agflinj^l ihc Ctesccut, Thns, Ihey btcame a n^tian of hcror*. 
Aud ivheii at last victory came to them, ihcy were eaiahed 
witb a noble pride, an<l Oieir i^iinds, aroused in every facnlty 
verc open tu rrccivc iUc benefits of that cultuir which the 
Saraceus had communicated to the couulij', Iu both physical 
and iutellectiial vigor they towercfl above their contempor- 
aries. But, in the midst of this brilliant prosperity, the ser- 
pent of the ln<)uisitiou crawled into view aiid instilled its 
paialyxing poi:;on into the veil i^ of the nation. Spain fcl1> 
becoming fim the enemy, then the byword of mankind 

The language followed tlie development of the political 
history. In thcbegiuniugof the Christian Kia, Latin, in a 
COTTvpted form, was the language of tlie country- It was still 
further modified imder tlie Gothic dispensation ; and when tlie 
inhabitants were forced back to the Asiurias, they found there 
a settlement of Iberians whose original tongue had scarcely 
changed cinco the prc-Cbristian period. VIeuce came anew 
anutlgamation ; but when the Moslem yoke was ItAcd, and 
the northwestern champions descended among their country* 
men who had liuhmUtcd to it, they found tht.-m possessed of a 
language 't- many respects difFering from theirs, and of a 
quite superior dvilization. They a^imilatetl both ; and now, 
in lli«^ Ca^ilia-. dialect, the speech of the nation assumed its 
final totm. Other dialects, such as the Catalan, thrrc were, 
but they were not cultivated. The Caslilian tuost fully 
cjcptesscd th-^ genius and nviture of the people. It is icsonant^ 
orotund an^". distinct, the language of men who fear none and 
19pcct themselves; and it is distinguished from the other 
Romance Iang;uagc5 by the strong, masculine guttmals 
derived from the Arabic and Gothic. It became the vehicle 
of a literature second to none in eloquence, humanity and 



huiDx^r. Th« laj^guagc and the literature reinalu ; but thif 
cliaractof of their creators Is no more. 

The first literary moniunctit is the Poem of the Cid, pro- 
duced about 1200. The poem, of nearly fi>ur ihousaud lincfi, 
is probably baited upon popular ballads of eailier dale. It* 
uaknown author has caught thr xtny siptrit of the time, and 
combines with poetry sonittimes of almost Homeric quality, 
a living piciure of the character and manucrs of the Spain of 
the eleventh ccnniiy. In 1 250 the jjixjm- Chronicle of Spain 
waxwHlten hy Alfonso llic Wb>t, and tcmain* the stiindan) 
autbority on the Cid's career. Frrun it tlic distinct Chronicle 
of the CId \v;h cutnpilcd. Its popular tmaginalion tfie bcro 
Huun became a being of ideal attributes \ but, in 3obcr (act, he 
was no doubt ouc of the graiid %nrcA of hislDry. IIls title^ 
The Cid, was bestowed by fi\"c Moslem cbic& wliom he had 
forced to Qcknovle<lgc hi:» sway in a ^nglc battle ; El Seyyid, 
The Ijof^t IS Uie Arabic fonn; to it his coimtrymcn added 
CampeadoT, Champion. His name was Kodrigo [iias dc 
Bivar, the cxstle of Bivar, near B^tij^ix, having been hi^ biitb-* 
pk« in the year 104a Be died at Valencia, in 1099, 

Passing; by Oonzalo Berceo, the author of some piot» 
versil^eLl platitudes, ive find in Alfonso the Wise the first 
named author of Spain. Perliaps his title would be better 
translated Learned than Wise ; for great though were his intel- 
lectual eminence and hbfi acquiTemrntv, he made bat an indif- 
ferent ruler, and was 6ually driven from the throne by hk 
son Sancho. His code of lawv^ known as '* La? Siete Pani- 
das,*' TIk Seven Parts, became the foundation of Spanish 
Jurisprudence, and some of its rales arc accepted in modem 
law. He chiimhI an OAtrontimical tiible to be compiled, and 
be ctmijxi^ed a history of bis countr>', which begimt wtlli the 
creflttik>u of the world, and b carried don-n to the period of his 
bthcr'a death. The st>'1c of tliis work is dijrnificd, yet free 
and piclnreaqnc, and has acrvcd as a model to writers wlio 
came after him. AJCbnso made the Castilian dialect the 
\Yhicle of his tnukslation of the Holy Scriptures, and ordered 
thai it ahonbl be emplo>'ed in all legal proceeding there- 
by coiiGrmipiE it as the oSicial and popular Un^na^ of the 
country. Hb merit as a writer b dcmooAnitcd by ibc iofcrior 



EJ 



UEDIAEVAI, STORIES. 



129 



of tht chronickrs ^Iio continued his liiatofy. It u ttot 
Cflsyto overcstimalc Ihc bcti eft Li which thi^mcnarch bc»towc<l 
upon ihc land which he nevertheless failed successfully to 
goverru 

The ''Conde Lueaoor*' of his nephew Don Juau Manuel, 
A turbulent and wnrvly prince, but endowed with sUikinj 
gifts of mind aud gctiiuB, has been called ** the most vaJuablc 
xnonutncnt of Spanish litcrnture in the fourteenth ceniury ; " 
St Is the only one identifiable among LweKe bool:s which he 
claims to have composed. It consists of fifty tales conceived in 
the Oriental Sityle, and i&oneoflhe earliest worlcs inCastiliaa 
prose. Th^ Decameron of Boccaccio was its Italian conteinpo* 
rary ; but, whcrcss tliat work was designed solely to amtue, 
the book of Don Jitan shows the working of ;l vigiirou» and 
earnest brain, seeking to instruct as well as to entertain. It 
was a mine for much subac<iueiit literature, and Shakespeare, 
amonf^ others, found in it the suggestion for liis '^ Taming oC 
the Shrew-*' This noble writer atid statedman is one of the 
most ^itrongly maikcd and animated ^guresof hi^ age 

The poet Juan Ruiz, whose life cover* the middle part of 
the fourteenth century, has been compared with Chaucer, 
He bad a satiric and humorous vein, and skill iu uarrativc, 
and his ** Battle of Don Carnival witli Madame X,cut," ia a 
quaint and diverting allegorj, though devoid of the human 
touch which Chaucer gave. He was nicknamed Archprieat 
of Hita» that being the place of his abode.— The Dance of 
I, in its first Spanish form, is by some ascribed to the 
[ew Rabbi Santob, a fourteentli century genius, but the con- 
ception was universally popular^ and appeared iu so many 
rgnises and languages that it is di£Bcult to trace its origin* It 
probably owes its first suggestion to Gemiany, 

The period from the appearance of the Poem of the Cid to 
the end of the fourteenth century shows the Spanish Court 
as the centre of literary culture. Hut, side by side with this, 
there was a rnde and racy popular literatnrej even inoie valn- 
ahletu the student of the human mind. The ballads of Spain 
^have been famous ever since they were written, Over one 
lonsand are ktiown^ but of none of these have the authors 

been identihcd. They gicw up Ukc haidy wayside planu, 

v-« 



"30 



THE WORLD S PROGRESS. 



which all were free to pluck and enjoy. Their subjects aie 
the heroes of chivalry and their adventures ; Moorish stories ; 
episodes of Spanish domestic life ; and, in bric^ they picture 
the life of the people as it was not portrayed in the T^:iilar 
chronicles. Their method is direct and simple, but there is a 
humorous keenness in the treatment, and a fidelity to the 
national traits, which place them above other literature of 
their class. The verse is octosyllabic, and the poem is some- 
times divided into four-line stanzas. One hundred and sixty 
ballads on the Cid are extant ; twenty on Feman Gonzales, a 
half -mythical hero of the tenth century; Bernardo del Carpio's 
tragic story is recounted in another group; and The Seven 
I«ords of Lara supply the theme of others. Charlemagne anu 
his Paladins, whose story has enriched so mnch European 
literature, are not forgotten by the Spanish balladist The 
Moorish ballads are of another type ; they reflect a more sen- 
suous, fantastic and lu?curious life than that of the country in 
generaL Yet, without this element, the Spanish nature is not 
complete. 




»tl>lAHVAl STOHIKS. 



»3' 



run POKM OF rrrc cm. 

Tne foilowiug huta} traudnuun by BuTkr Clarke r>f a fsvortto 
[Sk»«a4[< in the I*(xm of the Ciil illuMratc* "' the hcrok aimplidly, ihc 
ttpid movemcn:, the lifc-likc j»ictiirei ihc poem prrtrnu nf the turbd- 
\<tti \im^% in which it wa.4 fompotcd, And the ircc anil light' he&rEc-l 
epirit it brc^ihca thro-uchoui/' 

Thty cla*p their shields before thdr hcarU; 
Thrir liUMVs ntv leveleil wiLli ptmniuiLH decked; 
icit hmds they t>ciit low over the VLildlc; 
'o smite Ihcm Uicy wcul with valiant hcartA, 

IrfCmdly €«lls " He who was 3oni in a happy Hour,"" 
"Strike lln'm^ my knighUiT for l<rt'c of charity! 
l&m Ruy Ty'inx xhc Cid Cttm\icador oi Bivar!*' 

One and wW shower hlows on th? band round Pern Vcrmufs; 
hundred UncfA are they. ea;:li with its pennant decked; 
'A Moor «picco they killed, each with a single blow. 
And when ihvy wheeled about, diey slew as many more. 

There mtght one see many fances rise and sink and rise again, 
Maiiy a shtrh! pierced und 11-iruHi llinni^h, 
Nfany a corsrlrl bitr^t and lirokt-n. 

ly a white pennant come lorth red in blood, 
ly a Rood hor*c free withtmt b. master. 
Th« Mooffi cnJI on Mahomert, the Christians on St. lago: 
fa but a little space a thouieand and three hundred Moors are slun. 



TlIK ClD AND TUS C0UMT» Ol' CaRKION. 

The Old, after beinjc biniEhed from the Kingdom c»f Aragctn, nindc 
imtt oil l\it MoorA, conquered die <ily of Valencia and C5l»bli:«h(-d 
rlf a« il» ruler The king (hen reneweJ hia favor and reqiwsied 
''ihc Cid to b»tow his two dati£:hicrs in marriage upon the infants 
(Prifice») of Carijon, Tlie Ctd eoniplicd, aitd the marriagic was ecie- 
bniled vk'it^i great pomp »v Valencia. But the Cid't fnllowrrt charge 
Ihe rriocn with cowardice, and they rt-solvc ta depart The Cid dis- 
nuMct ihcm in the mcni SnciuMy naiincr, given Ihcra Im»o famous 
iwordfi, nr>(l kadt them with prcirntv. Out the Infants in pausing 
th?oui:h a foreit ^<iid their rcliouc nhead And (hen nlrip Ihcir hridct, 
:it ihem and lie thetn 1o Efeei>. Hcrre llie nofortunate ladic« mlfEht 
have perished, had not an adherent of the Cid, suspeccinf; treachery, 

* This b one of the favt>rite names of the Cid. 



13* 



The woru>'s pwdtm. 



fallowed then %t iciRc dislBfic«. Tht7 wvre brought h^ak to ViUnfu.] 
Tkc Cld d«nand«d jutticr, anti Ihc Itinff f-ummoTxtl ibc Cortes on tbc 
occuio*!. The nL}ble« A»«mbte, Kn4 th« Cid a»k« f>nt <ot his »wordt, 
wWch a»r «t once jcsEorcd Th*n he iiki for tcMoration of his KOO^k 
whkh the ]nfu:ts rvsibt but 1h« Corlci ded<2« >gainie th«fiL Wben 
Ihty ;i1cii(] lh»t they sr« untblc to pay intiDcdiiltly, ibetr property i» 
Iftken at in apprait^mfnt. Finally the Cid <]ee>af^(Ji utltlacUon for 
the icault to hU dauf htcr«. 



The Infants give up all they have, their i^oods arc at «n end: 
They ^ about in liASte to thdr kindred and thdr friend; 
They borrow 3t l!i*ry can, tjvit all will scarce scAce; 
The iltcndants of the CkI take cJtch ihin^ at a prM; 
But as soon as this was ended, he beg^n a new dcvkc. 
"Jtislice ard mercy, my Lord the Kinf?, 1 bet«eeh you of your 

grace! 
I have yd a grievance left behiod, which noihbg can efface. 
Let all irieo present in the coarl atiend and judgi^ the cau. 
Listen to what these counts have done, and pily m> disgrace. 
Dishonored as J am, J cannot be ^o h&sc. 
But here, before I leave them, to defy them to their £ac«^ 
Say, Infant*, how had I deserved, iti earnest or ir jc«. 
Or on whslcvcr pTca yon can defend it best, 
That you should rend and l^ar the heart-strings from my breast?. 
1 gave you at A'alcncia my daughters in your hand, 
I gave you wealth and honors, and treasure at command; 
Had yoii been wtary of thcin, lo cover )our neglect, 
YoL might have left tlicm with me, in honor and respect. 
Why did you take than from mc, dog^ and traitors as you were? 
In the forest of Corpe*, why did you >irir> them ihcrc? 
Why did you mangle iheni with whipa? why di(! you l«vc them 

bare H 

To tbc vultures and the wolves, and to the wintry air? ^ 

The court will hear your an^^wer, and judge what you have done; 
I £ay, your name and ho:ior henceforth is lost and gone." 

The Count Dan Oarcia wa* ihe first to ri^e: 
"We crave your favor, my Lord llic King, you ate always Jnsfc^ 

and wise. 
The Cid is come lo your court in such an uncotith guiM, 
He has left hi^ beard lo grow and tied it in a braid. 
We arc half of us a.'^toniihcd, the other half afraid. 
The blood of the Counts of Canion is of too high a line 



Jfe 




UEDIACVAL STORHC^ 



133 



To fakr a ibiiighlrr from hU hoiiw, ihoiigh for a connihitic; 
A concubine or Icm^n from llic Une;i|:c of the Cid, 
They could have done no oihcr llian kavc Ihcm a^ ihcy cfid. 
\Vc neither care for whit he says nor fear what he may threat/' 

With th^t ihr nnhlr Cifl tokt «]> fmm hi^ ^ratr 
Kc took Uis hesTti In M-\ hand: "It thb beard 1% fair and even, 

I Qitist thank the Lord above, who made both Cdrth find heaven. 
It has been cherished with rt^pcct. and therefore it ha* Thnv«i; 

II never Mtffercr] an affron: ^intc the day it Jit*I wai worn; 
What business. Count, have you to speak of it with scorn? 
ft never yet was shaken, nor plucked away, nor torn. 

By Qiristian nor by Moor, ncr by man of woman bom, 
A* youis was oticc, Sir Count, the diy Cabra wa* taken; 
When I was mailer of Cabra. that beard of yours was shaken; 
There was never a footboy in my camp but twitched away a bit ; 
The side that I tore off grows at! nneverr yet." 

Fcman Ctonitalci Nlarted forth upon the Hoor; 
He cried with ft loud voice: "Cid, let ua hear no more. 
Your claitn for goads and money was satisfied twfore. 
I^t noc a frud arise betwixt our friends and you. 
We are ihc Counts of Carrion i from them our birth we drew, 
Dauehters of emperors or kings were a match for our degree: 
W« hold ourselves too good for a baron's like to ihee. 
H we ah^incloneil, as yon say, and left and ffjve fhem ii'er, 
We vouch tl:at wc did right, and pri^c ouiselvcs the more." 

Th« Cid looked nt Bermuez, that was &itting at bid foot : 
*' Speak Ihfiu^ Peter the Dumb I what niU thee to sit mnte? 
My daughters and thy nieces are the parties in dispute: 
Stand forth and make repl^-, if you would do them right. 
If I should rise to speak, you cannot hope to ^bt." 

Peter Bennuez rose ; somewhat he had to say; 
'Tlic word-i were strancted in hh thtoat. they could not Hud their 

W4y; 
Tilt forth they came at once, without a stop or stay : 
" Cid, I'll le!l you what, this always is your way ; 
You have alwiiya served me thus : whenever wc have eomc 
To meet here in the Corte:5. you call tnc Peter Ihc Dumk 
1 cnxuiot help my nature; I never talk nor rail ; 
B'Ji when a thing is to be done, you know I never fyai, 
Pcraando, you have lied, you ha\'e lied in every word : 
Vou haTG been honored by the Cid. and favored an-d prcfciTed. 
1 know of ftll your tricks, and can teU them to yoar face i 



>34 



THE WOIU-D'S fXOCReSS, 



JDd yon r«iD«&bcr m Valeticia the aikinntth and the ^uje? 

Tou uktnl Icav«<^tht^Cid tu niKl^e ttie first atudc: 

Ten went ia meet a hlixiv. but ycu »ooa came nutulng bftcki 

] met the Moor aud killed him, or he vonld faftvc kUkd you ; 

1 gAv« you itp hiA anii«, arid fill that wtu my due^ 

Up to this vrty hour, I iit^vrt NtiJ ii wont: 

You praiMTtl youi^Jf befv^e llic Cid, *iid I stfX)d by and hcftrd 

How you had killed the Moor, and done ft vnliuit set : 

Aiid they believed yoii all, but ihcy never knew the IdcL 

Yon are tall tnough and hiimlsumc, but cxiwardly nud wetk. 

Thou tongiie without a baud, bow c^in you d^rc to apcflk ? 

There's the story of tlie lion should uevcf be fot^ : 

Now lei us hear, Femando, what answer have you got? 

The Cid was sleeping in his chair, wUh :x\\ his kuighU on^unJ ; 

The cry went forth along the hall th<it the lion vta unbound. 

What did you do, Fernando? Like & coward as you wtf*. 

You alunk behind the Cid, and crouched beneath bist^iAtr. 

We pressed aiouad the thtuiir. ta shiHd f>;iT lord from harm, 

Till the good Cid awoke : he ro;ie without alarm ; 

He went to meet the lion, with hi» tunnite ou his aim ; 

The lion was abashed the noble CW to meet ; 

He bowed his mane to the earth, hU nniTzIc at hia feeU 

The Cid by the neck and mane drew him to his den. 

He thrust him in at the hatch, ondeame to the hall oi^in; 

He found hh knights, hU vassals, and all hiit valiant men ; 

He ojiked for hisM^ns^in-law; they were Tieither of llii.'m there, 

I defy you for a coward and a traitor aa you arc 

For the daughters of the Cid, you have done them *Tcal uurtKht: 

In the wrong that they have su.ffer?d, you stand dishonored ignite. 

Although Ihiry are but women, and each of you a kni^ht^ 

I hold them worthier iar ; and here vny word I pliglit, 

fiefbre the Kin- Alfonso, upon tlii^ pica to fi^t : 

And if it be God's wili. before th? battle part, 

Thou shalt avow it with thy mouth, like u traitor a* thou art/' 

Uprose Diego Gonzales and auawcted as he stood ; 
" By onr hneage we are counts, and of the purest blood ; 
This matc^ was too unerjual, it never could hold good. 
For tl:e daughters of the Cid we acknowWgc no rtgret; 
We leave them to lament the chaati^ment they met ; 
It will follow them through life for a scandal and a jeat : 
I Etand upon this plea to combat with the best, 
That, haviuif left them as we did, ovir honor \*i Increaatd.' 




HlCniAKVAt STOltERS. 



155 



Upvtw Martin Anlonliit^, wlicii Diego cmMil ; 
"Ttvx, xhotx lying cioulhl thcu traitor cow&rd, pcaccJ 
The EtoTy of ihe lion should have uiight you £bftmc, at Ic&st : 
Vou Tt»;hed <nit at the door, und ran nway >o hardi 
You fell into Ihc tewp<M>l lliiil w^i?* open in Lhc yard. 
Wc drasgcd you forth, in all mcna siglit, dripping from ihc 

dioiR : 
Pot shame, never Tvcar a mantle iku* a knightly robe again I 
I fight u]Kin this |>ka wilhout more mdu : 
Tlw <lau£htcr» of the Cid arc worthier far haii you. 
Befove the combat part, you shall avow ii true, 
And that you have be«n a traitor, and a rcnvard loo.'' 
Tliu» ctidcd wuA tbc parley atid cliallcngc 'twixt thc5c twu. 



Thr Cin Pawns Hw Coffsrs. 



Tbr Pov«o»tiib Cii>, describe**, tiM only his eiploiUia thefieM 
but aIbo the domottic affairs of the ht:ro nod hin dau;;htcTS. and inci- 
drauoortirnf a }i£h14^rnT1d occastonatly humarouaaort. The folio wtnj; 
b<ir]eofUicl>cat specimens of thia kind. 

Unto hb Iruity henchman AnioTiiner ^pakc the Ctrl : 
" In faith and love I ^^c\X do ktiow tbou'lt du □» thou art bid : 
My gold Is dotie, and silver, loo ; there's uoU:li^g left 1o ypeod ; 
And now our hroketi forlunef^ thou shalt hd[> us to ametid. 
And first pray wc tliat our device the good Gixl will foigive. 
For harm to no man would we do — but noble knixbtd mtut 

lire! 
So vt will bilc(f two goodly rlicsta, covered nitli (.'mma-iic^ 
Itigbt richly dight with uaiU of gold, each locked with golden 

key, 
l^t for to hold a king's treasure (though treasure 'a what we 

Uck>. 
Bui with this golden »ard right full these coffers we will pack ; 
And when all safely they are lockt, ord bolted tight arid Lnitt 
Dri f hf>u forthwith betake thyself to Vidns the rich Jew : 
And uuto him and Rjcltel cuast thou wliUper this true lale^^ 
'Alaa, good fricnda, my 1uckI<^^ evil state I sore: bewail: 
Ad outlaw I, in peril sore, nrd wearied iu my flight, 
Tvro cbe<c« well-heaped wiUi treasure mucli diatr^M me, day and 

uigbt. 



I3« 



Tn£ WOAU>'S PROGR««& 



T^ kins: bcmoann hb lov, and i would »flk to btd^ th«m tien 
In pledge with yt, my trtisiy friendfi,— i>odang«rnc«d yc iii«rJ'" 

Tli« lalthfii] Afitonincz bowed unio tbe Cid, and laughed : 
No tf ord apake lie, but crc he nciit, oiic ACtrrui^up be quAffcd ; 
Then hied him on his Arab steed nghl svrillly to tbe Jews, 
Who grciiUy niarvdled at hi* mi^ii and «ke at W* Strang Dews. 
He viilh uiil'i tliciEi privily: " I Imsl ye 3a m/ frleiidiv 
For hi this little matter we docotnpaM mutual enda; 
Bclr»y mc to no Christian, nor yet to any Moor, 
And riL make ye *o rich» ye cannot make youraelvei groi»? poor. 
My Cid the Cnmi>cndoT hath ta'tii tlie lax-man's July — 
Hatli gathered in :Ue king his uamc peat store of t:<>ldcii booty. 
Aod yon two codgers that yoa see are crammed with ftlitteriaj; 

gold. 
Too weighty to be carried, m) he wnnU them U> be iiold. 
Meanwhik he begs you hold them, and loan htm wh&t u ^r 
Upon Ihcm : so come now with me, lit place tbem in yoor care. 
But first, to seal our compaet, and to nafely screen u% t>oth, 
Give mc your haniht in niiicr, atid swear n binding Hehrew nnth, 
That ye will not these coficra ope, nor pr>- between their joints, 
For one clear year, or till such day as my tnie Cid appodnta^" 

Then up spate ^ager Vida* ; — " And how mtich will he pay 
To me and Jtadiel here to ktt?p these treflsnres^offerft — sayf" 

Saith Aittonine2 then, " My Cid will pay yoa io full mcaacue 
A guerdon that will &wcll your generous bosoms high with 

pleasure. 
He Decd» one hundred marks thisday, which yeehall give to me; 
Or ride ye with me to him now : be gladly will ye sec." 

Then swift they mounted and away unto the Cid his tent : 
He laughed a gt^ret laugh aa low these Jew» before bim bent ; 
Hi-? hand they kf^iscd. and signed (he bond which Antonine; 

penned J 
That never lock ithoutd be undone, until a year should end. 
Then back lode ihey, the Cid also, the money for to pay ; 
But first the Jews es§ayed those dougtity coffers twatn to wrigh. 
Then up spake Rachel. -" Cam pcador, a boon I crave of thee: 
Wilt thou a fine red Moorish skin make gift of unto ma?" 

Quick quoth the Cid, *'Most gladly 1 this gift to thee will 
offer; 
But if perchance I should forget, then charge it on thlacolltr." 

And now upon the floor a gorgeous Bagdad carpet spread, 
Whereon a spotless linen sheet was laid from oJT tha bed. 



MCt>]ACVAt, STORIES. 



137 



And ont nptvn the abcct did Vidad shinins shckcJs pour, 

Tlu^cc htmdred marks lu silver, then three himdicd gold omxt 

more: 
Six hi3fidred tnfirks those Jevt^ held cheap figainst the Cfd his 

coflcfs, 
Which Antonitiez slowly picked rmd counted : then be ptoffers 
Thia merry wc»rd,— " My ser\'ic« in this sddlng to your riches^ 
DewrvcA, niethiiik^. a meed of tliaoks. if Lot » pair of breechc«!" 
" Here's thirty luflrks," quctb Vidaa. ''which wc freely give to 

yovt; 
And you cftTi buy a fcx^in cloak and paXr of breeehes too/' 

TlicD In high glee away hi^d Antoninez and the Cid, 
Aod long and mcrnly they laughed upon the Inck they did. 
But Booa the Cid hin fommcs by succcsires did restore. 
And ihen tho«e Jews be padd in full, with a hundied marks 

more. 




U 



'38 



TKF. W0«U>'3 rvOGKCSS. 



THE cm BALLADS. 

The Youn(; Cnx 

Tuit Count of GAnirx. nic-knairird harjitia, hnd qnnrrrtnl vrlth t>ii» 
CJd's Inthcr About tli« ^anlittn^bip or Prince Sancbo, and stntck him 
In the r.iircriri the Iciii^'ri i>Tc:M:ncc. The young Cid nsolTcdto STtnce 
the diApmcc Uutic lo bi» aged father- 

The Cid was yet of initleT age, and dprp in thought Iw stood, 
Hr>w1wat to riglit WiS i^Xhtr'^ vrron^^ in Count Loudo'a tdood- 
IIc looked upon bi^ powerful fo«, &uru>uudcd by hin tTAin, 
Who bom tlic wild A^mrian hills could hrUig a tbouMuid men, 
Who in the cMnnri t)( Frrdinaml ^hoiic out the foreriHMt fltar ; 
Hu vuic« in council ever first, liis Arm the tii^ in m^ir. 
Full Ultle recked he of the man, but much of the disgr«cc» 
Tbe first th&t e'er hud coat a suin on I^yn CaJvo's fcice. 
Prom HeaTCTi he IjesgeJ lor justice, irom Earth a field of 6ght, 
Permission from his aged Aire, &OEI Honor :u:;iily might. 
He minded not his tender afcc, for from hift vcrr . outh 
A e&valier U trained to die for honor n.iid for truth. 

He took him down an ancSetii sword, Mudarm*** of CaKtile : 
tt Ticcmed lo mourn its lu&stcr': dcAtli. lliAt old aiid tuaty atccl. 
And knowing well that it alone would lor the deM auflice. 
before he girt it round hiti waist, tlie ^N>uth, with dariog:, cries: 
'' O valianiswonl, hi'think thcr mine is ?Judflmj's arm; 
A cau^^ like his t1ion liLi^t to rit^ht, a quuricl and a harm, 
t know full well tbou hlushest now *.hy miutcr'a linnd to lack ; 
Ifut never wilt thori have to bkish to see mc turn my bock. 
A* trnr as i^ ihy trnipercd steel thoii'lt find mr on the field ; 
Tliy sec^iTid madder, like thy first, wa-i never Ijoth lo >idil, 
But should tbe focmai^ master thee* not tons tlic 5hamc aTiaII rest ; 
Up to the hilt I'll drive thee atrnight, ftnd sheathe tbee in my 

hroa^l. 
To meet the Count I/i^Hino the Iiotir is now at liand : 
And woe betide that braggart knight, bin ahamelcn tongue sad 

hmid." 
So dnuutlc^ly the Cid cocs forth, eo high his spirits mount, 
Tliat in the ispace of one ihort hour he mot and slew tbe count, 

"Mudarra wai ■ ba»tird ton of Lara: hit molttr wii the mier ot 
the Mooriih kinj; ^^ Cordova, Itc won renown by Avenging Ibe dcftlh 
of hit seven UvJtLmaie brolheri. who vrnc (lain by ihc treachery of 
their uncl«. 



UBDUKV'AI. GTORICS. 



'» 



Tas CiD*5 Last Commands. 

AvoNG tbc\<iino<iitf 1niceUtioii«of the ballads of thcCicUtboM br 
J. V. Gibcfun ukc liii:b ruik. Titc Ibllpwiag i» n gooO caijuuplc- 

Thc CiJ Uy dying, dowly dyiiij^, two daya wcul<3 end his Ufc; 
Hp bade ihcfn bring Ximciia, tiis well-beloved wlile. 
He cflllcd for Vkiti Crroo^mo^ fnr Alvsr Fafl«r loo, 
Bcraud^z snd Gil Di&i, hi^ ^rvanc Ir.il iiiid tniic. 
When a]] the five had £atbcre<i» otid ^tood nrou&d hi« bed. 
H« looked at Ihem wiU-. loving e>-^, amd thtia he 5]owl>- uid: 
" Right well y<^ kti(Hv itie ttdiiigs, King Bncar Is £it biitid. 
With thiity kiug& aud cotiutlcss Moors, to ukc fiotti tiic Uus hiod. 
My l«st commanda I give you, bcnr now wlial Tx'c to tell ; 
When the bieath has left my Ixxly. I pniy you vfosh il well ; 
And iak^ thcr tnyirli ami h:ihflm> tlic Siiltmr*^ ^\(i to me, 
And fiuni tbc bead do\fu lu llic feet aooiiit it IcivJiigly. 
And thou, my dcur Xiuienn, and uli thy wgnier. here, 
When I hftve guiie and pa:5seO uwny, ittied not a vio|;Ie tear; 
Xo fftniud ufgnf^f or witHiii^ tiv lit^nid ^^ithln Iht bull, 
Fur if Ibc Moors ibuuU It^im juy death mucli evil wuuld befnIL 
And when King Bucar marches with all his proud array. 
And plauU his tont& around the town, be joyful oo that day. 
Send crery tovrUKmau to the walU, »s mimy at may be. 
And Ijc^at the drumn and sHiund the hnrn.n, vrltL shuutin]£^ and 

with glee. 
And when ye all ar:: ready to jonmoy ij Castile, 
Send sern?c tnessagr to ymir iTir-n, and keep tlie matter «lll. 
Let not ft single Mnonnun in nil the subiirbs kiitiw; 
Collcet your trcostim erery one, in readiness to go. 
Then saddle Bavieca with harness of the be&t, 
■And plAce my body cm hi- hack, in m^-mly gaimpnts dr^i^ ; 
And fix it well and truly, that it msy firmly stand; 
And let my awonl Tisonn be held within luy bond, 
I^t the Bishop Uon Geronttuo go forward at my «lde; 
And let the rix^I Gil Dial my Ravirea guide, 
A:tdtbou. Pedro Bermndci-, do thou my baancr hold. 
As tbou host nobly held it in many a fight of old. 
Awl Ibon, brave Alvir Karez, go forh ngainM the Moor, 
For thoufjh his husis lie nvrndrous strong* thy victory is suni 
This bocoi hath Heaven ^aii*ed in answer to my prayer : 



t4D 



Tire WORLDS PftOCftBaS. 



Thoo dnlt in Uiumpli kavc the fidd, with weahhjr spoilt umI 

ran. 
I kavt tcitil to-morrcw what more I hate to nj; 
And trbfn to-morrow'c sua hath set, I (hall have p»sed awaj." 



TfIR DtAP Cio's VlCTOtY. 



Cold, cold In death Rodrigo by, the Cld of noble name; 
To do hia master's last bebcu the p3o6 Gil Diaz came. 
He llrii embalmed the body, and womlrotift was the »ight; 
The face retained its bcautjr, with color fresh and briiiit 
The eycfl were wid« aikd open, and comely was the bm4 ; 
Of <l^th l!irie wt:n no tokens m> lifc-Iikc ht appeared 
He placed a board behind die back, and one upon the bretst ; 
And in hJi chair» boih firm and straight, he l^ft the CW !a rest. 

Twelve days were g:onc; the men of war were ready for the 
6irht, 
To chafe Kmg Buear from ihe land, whh all hi<i m^n of might 
They saddled Bavicca. and there at eventide 
They placwl the dead Cid on hi* back. s< he was worn to ride- 
\Viih drc^s and liosc and armlets of colors blick and white. 
He looked 9£ he was wont to be, when hame^^ed as a knight 
A shield, wilh wavin}^ prtJutl device, did frorn hUiteck Eiang down; 
A helm of painted parchment vii-as planted on his crOwn: 
It looked wirhal hke btitnished steel, wrought by a ainninghand: 
And with his arm uprai^ he held luona, his gsod br^nd. 

At dead of nigttt- when all was itill, the Mlent march beipn : 
With stalwart knigbts. four hundred slroog. ficrmodcz led the 

van; 
He rode in front, with banner <4>read, the baggage carae behind; 
To g>iard its preeicus treasures fotir hundred were assigned. 
Kexl came the body of the Cid in midst of all the train: 
Upon his right the Bishop rode, Gil Diai held the rein, 
A hundred noble knighrs were round 10 guard the borkired cone; 
Ximcna fcUowcd with her maids, and twice three hundred horse. 
They seemed to be but twenty, so silcrtly ihey passed ; 
And when they left the town behind, the day was breaking fa*L 

Now first wns Alvar Vantz to hurry to the fijfht; 
AgainKt the powrr of Bucar and all hi« men of might; 
\Micn lo! a swarthy Mooress rcxlc tip to strike a blow. 
Of gallant mien and cunning hand to draw the Turkish bow; 
Her name ;t was E^lrdla, for Like a atar she shot 



inEDTAEVAL STORIBS. 



m 



K«r sf^Tcln^ dtrts tbat tied Tlw .^Ir, ind iirrer ^icen-^ n jot. 
A huadtcd Mislcnt bUck as night rode onward In her train ; 
They fought th«t day a c^llai-t £ght, but died upon the plain. 

An&zed tftODd Bucar und Iii:; kiag«, to see the Chri^tiaD throng ; 
Arrayed In sliining lobeft, they ceemed full seventy thoas&ud 

stroug. 
Bnt there wa.^ one of statclj' laicti, that towered above the reat; 
His cbaigcr white ols dnveu ituow, a led eross on bi£ breast, 
A burner whUe was in his liand, his falchion gkam«d like fin; , 
And ua he rodt^ tbtr MrjonueD down, ht ^tucte them iit hU ire. 
^A juitiie aciccd the Pu^au ranks, to fight Ihcry bfid no mind: 
Jug Bucar fled wilb aU Jiis kitt^, iind lelt the field behind, 
'ith harry-Kcurry tn their ships they every man did flee; 
»e Ch(]%tjiuia smote ibexti hip and thigh, aud chit-sed Ihem to the 
sea. 
TcD tbousaud *mid the TCAters sank, aud ntaoy mcie were slain ; 
The rest embarked, and hoisted &n\\, and Le^ the comh of SpaiUn 
King Bucar found a safe rctrent ; there died fult twenty kings ; 
Cid'5 men captuicd all thcLr tcnta. thdr cold and precious 
things, 
le poorest men grew wealthy then, the rich were richer still ; 
With merry heait^ they took the road, aud jouiucycd to CaMiLc, 
Within Cardenas cloister, aiid in San Pedro's fane^ 
Ttiey laid the body of the Cid, who gave renown to Spain. 

THE CHRONICLE OF THE CID. 

How THK CiD MaDR Tlifi COWABD A HrKO. 

Whek the Cid first began to lay siege totti* city of Valencia, 

Unin PeUez came nnio him ; he was a kni^bi, a native of San- 

la in Afiturias, a hidalgo, great of bod/ and strong of timb. 

wdl-made man and of goodly semblance, but withal a right 

iward ac heart, which he had shown in many places when he 

'was among fcat^uf arms. And the Cid was sorty when he came 

^uatobinMhonghhcwouldtiotlctbim perceive this ; for hckncw 

was not fit to be ol his company. Howbeit he thought thai 

[ncc he was come he would make him brave whether be would 

or not. And when the Cid began to war upon the lown, and sent 

parlies agiinstittwiceand thrice a day, for the Cid wasalways 

upon the alert, there was fi^hlirg and tourneytng every day. 

One day it fell out that the Cid and his kinsmen and friends 

vassals wcrv engaged in a great cocounter, and this Martin 




142 



tHE world's ruoCRCBa. 



Ptlaex n-«ft well ftnned ; aud wheu he aaw that the Mooora nad 
ChriUians nvre st \i, lie ficd and betook himself to bi« lodginf{, 
and there hid hiri^lf till the Cid Tctiimrd to tUonen And the 
Cul Niw vih'At MuTtin Pdaej^ did, and whcii lie liad euuqoercd tlie 
MooTfl he returned to h\a lodgicig to dinDcr. Novr St -k^s the 
custom of ihc Lid to eat at a high tablti letted on his tvuch, at 
llie head, Atid Hon Alvnr Faflci:, and Pero BerBiiid«t, aad other 
pr^ioi:» kriieht.<v, ate in niiothcT part, at hi^^b tiihlct, fnit bonor- 
ably, and noiie other kni^htn whatsoever dared take their ftcatf 
vHUi lliem, unless they were such as deserved to bo there ; and 
the others wliowcrc not so ftpjjrovcd in arms ale upon estradct, al 
tables with niAhion^. Tlii* was the order in the house of th« 
Cid, and every one knew the pltice where he *-a* to nil nl Tiic*t, 
and every one etrovu all he could to gaiu llie hoiKr of Mttitij; to 
eat at the table of Don Alvar Fafiez aud his covupaniom, by 
strrnuonHly IHiaring himself in nil featnof srinf^: and thus the 
honour of the Cid wa» advanced. T\\\i\ Martin Pelaet. thiuktns 
that none had 5een his hoAcnetv;, wonheif his handtt in turn with 
the otLer knights, and wonld hjivo taken his place ainong them. 
Aud the Cid went unto hiui, and took him by llic liaud aud ui4, 
You ore not Mich a one a:! dcficrvc?* to iiit with thew, for they arc 
worth more than you or ttiau I ; but 1 will have you with nic; 
and he seated him with himself at table. And he, for lack of 
under HUuidiug. thought that the Cid did thb to honor him above 
all the others. 

On t!te morrow the Cid and lu£ company rode toward Valetada, 
and the Moors came out to the tourney ; and Martin Pelaer wetit 
uul well anned, and wai among the foremoot who cliargnl Ihc 
Moors, and when he was in nmong them he turned the rcba.n. and 
went hack to his lodging; and the Cid took heed to all that he 
did, and saw that thongh he had done liodly he itad one better 
than the first day. And when tljc Cid had driwn the Mnois inio 
the town, he returned to hirs lod^n^, njid §A be Aat down to meat 
he took this Martin Peine:! hy the hand, and seated him with 
himself, and hadt him «il witli him lu the same <Ii*h. for he had 
deserved more ihat day than he had the firat. And the knlghl 
^ve heed to that a^ying and was abaabcd ; ho^vbeit he did u tL« 
Cid commanded him; and after h« had dined he went to his 
lodging and hegnn to think npon what the Cid bad taid unto 
him, and perceived that he had ?icm nil the baienna which be 
bad done; and thei^ he tinder^tood that for this canac he wotild 
not let him sit at board with the other knights who were prcdoos 



Uff&'AKVAl, TTOklKS. 



>43 



I 



I 



ui arms, but had seated him with hEmaetf, more <o afTroni him 
tbu) to do Inm ht>[ior, for ihcrr were oilier kniglilt tlicrc bcucT 
than he, and h^ did not show ihcm thai honor Then reH^lved 
he in his heart lo do bi-'l(i'T (haii he had d*>;ie herriof^re. 

Another t\ay the Cid nnd hh company an<1 M^irtin Pclau ro<lc 
toward Valencia^ and the Moors came out to the tourney full 
rescluiely. anil MartSr Pelapji wa^ atriottg the fini, and charged 
then righl boldly ; ajid he smoic down and slew presently a ^ood 
knight, and he lost there all Ihc had feur wUicb he had had, and 
irajft llul ddy uue uf llit? beat knighUi Ibcie. ;iiid lu luii]^ uh tlie 
tourney luted there he rcuiaincd, smiling and slaying and over- 
throwing ihc Moors, tdl they were driven within the gales, iu 
such manner that the Mfmri nmn'rlled dl him, imd aiiknl where 
that de^^tt canie fiuni. fur ihey had uevt^r neen Inru before, Aiul 
the Cid iraa in a plaec where he could eec all Ibu aa going cm, 
and h9 gave gooi heed to him, and had grent ]itc»8urc in behold- 
ing htm, lo sace how well he hsd forgoitcn the grc^t Ifcar whit-h he 
WBK wont to b^ii'e. And when i\x Mf>ur^ were &hut up witliin the 
towD, tlic Cid ami all hi» pco]*lc rclurocd lo Iheir lod],'ing, and 
Maitin IVtaes, full lei«nrcly and quietly, went to hi: lodging also, 
like a good knight. And when it w:is the hour f eating the Cid 
vraitcd f<jr Maitni Pcloez, and when he came, and they liad wajtbed, 
the Cid took him by the huud and said. My &icml, youurciiot^ucb 
a one as deaervts; to sil with ine from heneefofth, but sil you here 
whh Doo Alvar Faflra, and with these other good knights, for Che 
good feats which you hHve done Ihis day have inndc ynil a com- 
patuoii for thcin ; and from thnt day forward he weis placed iu the 
company of the good. And the history eaid that from that day 
forward this kriight Nfartln Pelaer was a Tight good otic, and a 
rlghl valiant, aiid a light preciout, in all places where he chancetl 
aatotig feats of ann-ii aiid he lived alway ^vjth the Cid, and served 
him right well and truly* 

And the hi§^tory ^itli, thai after the Cid had won The eity Of 
Valenda, on the dsy Vflicn they cont^uered and discoudlteil the 
Kingof Seville, Ihia Martin PcIacK woasoRood a one, that setting 
aside the body of the Cid himself, there waa no such good ktiight 
there, nor one who l)ore sitch |»:irt, a* well in the battle as in the 
puf^uiL And so greiit W4s the uioitality which be made auiung 
the Moors that day, that whei3 he returned from the bii^ineas the 
■leevea of his mail were clotted with blood, up to the elbow ; iuso- 
nati^ that for what he did that day hit name i« written in thta 
btstory, that it may never die. And wlicu tlie Cid oaw him come 




"44 



TIIC world's I'ftOCItKSS; 



En tbflt f:iur<c, he did bim speat bonor» sudt Sfl he never had dooe 
10 Riiy knight htfot^ that day, and frooi tbencdbrwird gtv« liim 
a place m all hi« flotjoiiii ai:d in all hts secrets, asd he was hia 
great Cnoad- In thii knight KaHiu Pdacz was fulfilled tbe 
example which salth, that be who hetaketh himself to a good 
tr^e hith godd ahade, o.m\ he vho ^T\e% a good lord vrfnneth 
good guerdon ; for by reason of the good service which he did the 
Cid, he cauK to such good state that Lc waa spoleea of ss ye have 
heard ; for the Cid knew how to make tt good km^ht, as a good 
groom knows how to moke a good hor»e. 



CHRONfCLE OF DON JAYME OF ARAGOV. 

Bkfoux the Costilmu disdcct hod Kcutcd litentry supremacy fa 
the Spani^li Iniigiia^e. the Catalan was its chief rival. Oite of lh« 
chief prose works in this dialect U the Cbrovkk of Jswea i., of 
Ara^oc^ surname thp Cont^ueroTH writtm hy himitlf- Its qoalrt dic- 
tion and RAlvc exhibition of the m&ancrs arid coMoma of hia time 
nijikc ilsUIJ ititeiesling- The following pa^vige glvrs a ckar vicwof 
bis father, who is catled. in the Cstalon dialect, Ea Pcre. corre^iODdiDg 
to Don Pedro in Csstilian. 

After my birth. En Simon de Montfon, who had tbc land of 
Csrcasfiotie and Bad^iirea aiid of Toulouse, which th« king of 
France had conquered, desired to have friendship with my fath^r^ 
and asked fur me, that he might bring uie up at hii court. My 
father trusted so much in Motittort and bis fricndiihip, that he 
delivered me to hiui to bring up. And, while I woa in hia power, 
tbe people of those countries came to my fiiTbefflTid ;oM him that 
he might well become lord of tbo9« countries, if he would only 
occupy them. The King, En Pere, my &ther, was liberal and 
ccmpassionate, and for the pity that he had of the deputies, said 
that he would take possessifiii. But they dcceivrd him with lair 
wordd: for if, ou tlie one hand, tbcy gave hiiLi piomisc^. ou the 
other they were deficient in deedrt. And I afterwards heard it 
aaid by Eu Guilkn de Cen,*era and others who were with iny 
father, that tlie deputies said to him, '* My lord, here sre our 
castles and our tovius; take possession of thcui« and put your 
otTicers in them." But when my fatlicr was about to take pos- 
session of the land Ihey said, "My lord, will you Vxrti our wiircs 
out of our houses? Wc and tliey will I* yours; we will do your 
will." But they did nothing that they had promised him. Aud 



UEDLVEVAL STORTC& 



US 



tbey ithovccl hUa tbcir wivcn atid their daughter and tbdr kina- 
womca, lh« fair«si tUey couM find. But wheit ihey fouii<l that 
fair WAS a wcmiari's muii. tli«y tuok away LIm gooi.1 thoughts, ami 
turacd Uitui lo wliat ihcy wisltcd. Ilowcvcr, it would tak<^ tac 
too long a time to relate these niJittcr»i and I will pass on to more 
importAnt af&im. 

En Simon de Montforl was « Murel wilb frtwn eight hundred 
to a tUou^and Ucnfcmcii, and my fithcr cautc on biui Iberc. 
There were with him from Aragoti Bon Miguel dc Luzta , . • , 
and others of his household, and I recoUect hetLiiug i^omc cf them 
lay that, with Ihr cxctqjlion of Don Gome* und some who were 
killed in the buttle, all ibe tci^t abondoDcd him and Actl. I also 
itcotltct h^ariug that Don Nurto Snnxcs and Kii Guillen dc Moiit^ 
eada Wtre not ;n the battle ; they bent a message to the king that 
be should wait for themj but the king would not wait, and 
fougbt the battle with those few that were with Iiiin. 

The night of the day that the battle was l^ougbt the king had 
passed in dchaucher^'* so Ihat, as I afterwards heard» bis own 
seneschal, called Gill (who afterwards became Knight Hospiial- 
lerX ajid many other wititc&acs, say the king was fo exhausted 
by the prtcedirig di:haucb that he could not stand up at Ma^. 
when it cam« to tbe Goapcl. but kept hi^ seat alt the while it was 
md. And b^or« the battle Kn Simon de Montfon wished to put 
himiclf In his |>ower and do his will. lie wanted to come to 
terms with him, but my father would not accept of them* And 
when Count Simon and thost; within Murel saw that, they con- 
fessed and recYivtd the body of J^^'^ii*) ClkH^t, atid said, *'We will 
rather die In the field than here* shut up iu this town/' And 
thereon they came out to fijiht in o body. On my father's side 
the men did not know how to range lor the battle, nor bow to 
move logeiher; eveo' baron ftJiighl by himself, and against the 
order of war- Tbu^ through bad order, through our siiia, and 
tbroQ|:h the Murcliann fighting desperately siiiec they foimd no 
taercy at my father*a hands, the battle was lost. There died my 
^ther. for such has ever been the fate of my race, ti> conquer or 
(lie iu battle. 



V-io 




CHAPTKK XVI. 

THE XIBELL'NGENLIED- 

Tbh Sodj; of the Nibctufl^i, tbough wnttcn Alter 120CIA.D., relAlcfl 
a toonplvx Mory uf tbc liftl) ofntury- It Liit^ cvidimtly been ab.ipc^l by 
i\& ^llcd UiutLor ftoiii ktcrbd^ which hnd Iwcn cuitvtil ftroi>ns Uic people 
for centuitr^. The cntuc pocai. cumpiij^iiij more Uimi ij.^^oo liiutt, 
relates iiKifly U>ity atlvculurp*, (M.*otn)jm|{ Hi*t i«* U»*n tliirty j'fArt, 
As Lhc scifuc vAiic^ Truin Bujiiut^ily W ElmJUtiiyt ^"^ tlicclik/ pciM>u- 
Ajpos from ihe lutlf^iviliicd Fr^nkfi to ilu- i;nvii^'p Gothn and Uanv. it 
t:iircA Atrl Icing picture cf the nmnncri nnd cuMonia of the a^c Tbert 
an nucy diittchr^uiiiYis. anJOmttgli tlieMory betoiijcs tothctitncsuii^ 
ccdcut to ihc iotrotluctioiJ oftlLc: Cbri-fitioxi faith in GcnuAny, thcexUr* 
ittU of both Chmtinnity iintl chivalry mtvc ns draptry, under which 
beathcn characlcri^tica arc still visible^ Yet the aitrhor, like Hoiner, 
nevcrohtntdc^hlf) prnionnliiy, Vphili^tbc niJc ytrt iioblr WArrlan whOM 
dccda be recites, and the pauionnte qiiccEto, v^pac pnde and Hvnlry 
fumishlhe motive of Iht itLv ute vividly |KjrtnytJ- Tlieminordur- 
QCtcTS rUsu^Tv trtie tu Ufc, nnd ibcir t\pcd are Still iound lU the *fltignfl 
opfapymg cetitml Humpe. 

The bcfiiitiful Princess KncinbiM liv^ vrith bcr TiiotUcrand 
three brothers in the city ^jf Woniis, in Butgundy, A fri^blhil 
dream had warned her tlut htr hitHbsiud should be Kbin. and kIiv 
thrrefore refused luiiny oiTcis uf laaixiage. But tUt noble Sitif- 
fricd. soa of Sicgcmund jtiid Sicgelitidc, of Santeu. famed lor hb 
exploits, especially in wiiniiii^ tbe treofure c>f the Nibclougs, 
heard of htt beauty and resolved to sttk hrr fur hi< wtfe, Siogv- 
mmid and Siegeliude vnrii th«:ir sud of tljc j>rtde of ttit BuT]^n- 
UiAus. and tb? tcmptr uf their uncle Hft^cn. But Siegfried rcTiueai 
counsel, fttid sets out ou his eiLterpriec accompanied by twelve 
ch?impiaus. On the seventh day Ibcy "ride up the sand" to 
Wunn^. Kin^' Gimthcr, Kriemhild'n bn>tbe*r. imjutrcTs of h!s 
knights wiio the splendidly -equipped slraiificr is. Only the wise 
Hagen is nbl^ to lell liitu. and to lel^te how Siegfried happened 
upon tbetwo Nibehing^i princes escamining; their trcaaure, whidi 
hail Ijccti brought otit of a cavern en the htU'iide, where il vras 
giiurOcd by a dwarf; bow they invUed Siegfried to djvtdc it for 
them, bill in tbcir impntience provoked him. uvhcreupon, with the 
sword BalmuniTt which they had offered hint for his trouble, be 
slew ihein and their twelve ^inntn, nnd com^ipllcd the dwarf to 
swcit alle^ance. and then becanic owner of the treaviur- fttid the 
TunkAppc, wbieh tiot ouly tendered the wearer invisible, bat 



HCDUe^-At 3T0R1CS. 



ur 



endoired him nith Uic strength of twclvi; men. tlnc:rn Also tcUrs 
how Sicg&iccl oucc «Iqw a tciriblc dra|;on, aud. by bathing in tts 
bloM. hccftmc inviiliif ruble, Upoii tlii*, Siegfried h w*Icom«d 
by GuiitLcr and hii Wolhcrs, but when lie HinlWD^i's tlic kiug lo 
comboi, propo^iing that tbc victov -ibouM }« kmg, the vriath of 
Uag«ai ttud OHvin is rou^d. oiid there i6 an ttpnaicjc of the 
viffuU. ni^y are ?.oon appeased, and Siegfried speticls a whole 
j"e*r at Wormsj withniil liaviii^ liiiilcd at his rnaiid. or having 
«ccii lii:^ lady ]ovc. althgush :Oic. front her wiiidow-lAUicc, bud 
often bebcld the baiid^otiit; stranger a& be returned victonous 
from the krighUy exercise 

A time anivcd when tlic D^tdsli King fjudgasi atid bUftaxon 
filly King Ludgci demand tribute froiu Ounther. which lie refuses 
to pay- Warcnnuos and Sicfrfried joiiw the BxitisunHinns, and 
by jncani: of the good sword Balniuiig, ii chtetly In^tnimcnUl in 
conqiirnny ibe Iwo Icings. atKl efTediiig tlieir cftpiure. The vio 
turiEJu:) army icturiis to Woruia; the captive kings mvcui fealty, 
and a great festival is appointed in honor of the victor. Kings 
and princcji riany, ancl more thun five thonund v^ju^ak, meet on 
lA'hitsun-mandng tojonsi and te\'rl, and Knciuhdd is present to 
grace the nporbi. Siegfried and Krieinlitld ncnv xDcel for the fini 
time and walk wooingly side by side, 

Meantitue, tidings come over tlie Rhine of many fair nmidena, 
<iiu« of whoTu King Cunther thtrnght to win. He ha« set his 
he-drt on Brunhild, queen of Istulaud, "far over the sea," She 
wj» very beautiful, but capricious. Any suitor had lo compete 
with her, in burling tbe &pear, in leaping, and in throwing the 
»tone. Jf successful, lie could claim her for bis wife ; if not, he 
forfeited hia own iifc> Siegfried objects to Ibis cDlcrprise, but b 
easily persuaded lo accompany Gutithcr, when j^nMiiiMd KticiD' 
hild'ft hand aa a rewarcl. They set out^ accompanied by the two 
warrior*, Hagen and Donkwart. Siegfried pilots ilic vessel, and 
in twcKe diiy-% Ihiy arrive ;a the palace tf Iscii*lcin- They dis- 
erabaikin victv of many fiiir one* looking from the casUc windows, 
in Ihc midat of yihoin stood the snow-white maiden Bmnhild, 
Siegfried, for reaaona of hie nwn, has stipulated thai he sliall art 
the pari of vassal to Kin;; Ountber. His reception by the (jueen 
U somewhat cool, a» be explain?^ with polished courtesy, that he 
h present ta an attendant on his soi'CTeign lord, who has coaie lo 
sue for her hand. The conditions of wooing are stated, and the 
ground U cleared for thr cnnte^t, Brunhild performs prodigJes nf 
ttrmgth and HgJtity, but Sieg&ied in the tamkappe (eapof in* 



148 



TtIC WORU>'s PKOCllCSS. 



risibility) tod rtroDj; m^ twelve men, sUntb by OtuUief, vbo 
go» through tbe motioos And sutares, vbUe Si«gfru<d hurls thv; 
ftpear. and throws Hie stone. The Anuiom has to confoj* with 
aluune that atic is laiily outdoue. But tilie bcsiutca to %o wftii 
Gunthcf, A£id Urf!:c nuoibcn of her vaaesls appear in Anns before 
tbc caitle. Siegfried tlipn down to the beflch, pnu on the tam- 
knppe, and pilou the vfisel to Nibelnnglanri, whence be quickly 
retutiiA with a thoiutaud picked men. 

Bruahild dclairfl Do looecr, but inunedjatcly acts out with tbe 
king to Worm*, where, when she arrives, she reoeires a foyftl 
welcome ffom Queen Ute and Kriemhild. T;v<i brulahi are ccle> 
brated mX tbc aamc time, for Sicfi&ied receives bis reward, aud srcal 
fcativitiea foUoWp But fttill Brunhild has ai: evil c>-c oa Siegfried, 
and teJls the king that it grieves her sore to pee a V3«s.ti sitting by 
the side of the princ^es. Giinthrr replies that hie in a kin^*j« son, 
wttbuany lands and castlea ; bat she isnut&jiii;(£cd. She Is still 
flullcn when they retire to the bridal chamber ; and as tbc kins: 
does not reply to her liking when she further quc^tiona him, she 
binds him hand and foni, and suspends him from 3 peg on ihew^ll. 
In tbc nLOming he tdU bis sorrow to Siegfried, who prop05es to 
take his place that tvunc uigbL Then Siegfried in bis tamkoppe 
wrestle:! In tUe darkness with the queen and deapoiits ber of her 
girdle and rifign without which she la powerless aa any other 
wotnaun Of cuuoc. &hc Ia imdcr ihe iuipicsaion tliat it ja puuthcf 
who hasvauqui^hcd her. Knemhild questions ber lord about bia 
abftcncei he evade* at first, hut at last coafeiMSt and presenta 
ber with Brunhild's ring and girdle. The honeymoon Is over ; 
SieKfritd gives Krieniliild the Nibeluti^ ire»suic aa a biitlal poi- 
tiou. and they retuni to Santen, where tbcv nrc received wiUi 
great rejoicings, and remain in peace for ten years. 

Bmnhild now pretends to wonder whySiegfried being a vaxttl 
dues not render homage, and cxpresfics a desire to aee KricmbiM. 
At her request, they nre invited, and cordially received by Gun 
ther and his queen. Great festivities take place and all goes well 
for eleven days, when the two proud Veentemperrd w<3men Iwgin 
quarreling over the merits of their re-%pct:livc htisl-aiuK and the 
matter of precedence. Kriembild dresses her forty maidens in the 
finest appaiel. ori.1ers out all her husband's knights, and walka 
foremost to the minster where mass h to be said. BranhUd, ont- 
doue in *^pleudoT, is furinus, but, on qiiecn. clnimH precedence of 
KrJ^mhild at thechvirch-door. but the lalter r<:fur*cs to xvalk he- 
bind cue who bad been Siegfried's uu»tr«ss, Bnmbild waita at 



MEOCAEVAL STOICnES. 



149 



the gate till afln- aervicc. an<l dctontidi proof of the accuj^tloii. 
whereupon KriemHild produced the rm^' and girdle, ivIijcIl Ahe 
kD«iv had Xnxa cotan by iiuiooentl/ eiiougb. Brunhild bursts into 
trars^ and "rues full sore tliril ovrr slic was bon«.*' Miscbl^f U 
iK>v afoot. Hagcii, undci trc^clicrojd piofcAsiaiiA of Iricndtibjp, 
findi out the a(*cret of Skftfricd's vulnerability, fttid bdieviajc 
bUa to be a sincere frknd, KriemhiLd, in im e\^l houT, embroiden 
a Uttle silken cr»js4overlLc vulnerable s|iolbtiwe«i ihe shcruldtTs^ 
trhere Ihc Uttdcu l«af fcU wlica lie bathed In tlic dragoira blood, 

A great hunt id ordered in the Odciiwald ; Sief:frled is to ic- 
conp^uy tlic kiti|^. ICiiemhild hoi evil forcbodingn and be- 
•eedkex him nut to go ; he embrace* ber teodM'ly and bids her 
farewelL Afler a merry chuM and a hunter's repast, they Lie to 
a »prin§^ to drink. While Sie^ifricd ia stooping to drinks Hageii 
chni^ta Lis spear through the silLeii cross cmhroidcred on bis 
ganuetit, mod flcrs pursued by the wouuJtd man. who, with the 
spear still stuck belvreeu his shoulders, heats the traitor with his 
BbleLd till it is broken iu pivccs. Then tbi; hero's strength fails ; 
hefallfi, and alVr a short struggle, duriug which hecommends his 
wife to the eaie of hrr kin, he breathes his tost. Kriemhild's 
grief u bouitdleiui ; jtlie can only sit in tears, stxid puur out ^mrruw 
and love iu vain. For more than llirec years she spoke not a 
word to Guuther, nor ouce looked at Hageu; but at length a 
reeondlialion Is efli?cled through Gemot and Giselher, and sbe la 
persuaded to «end for the Nihelung tiea&ure to Worms. She is 
ao lavi-ih with her cifli thnt Hagcn fenting her influence amonsf 
the vassalft, has the ho^ird sunk in the Rhine, From this time 
fofth the Burgundians, as possessors of the treasure, bear the 
uameof Nibcluug- 

Thirteen years have paMcd. and XHemhitd still bewaila the 
krts of her hu&band. Khc was about to retire to an abbey for the 
rest of her life when King Krzel, of Hungary (Attila the Hun), 
acud^ Rudigcr to sue for her haiidn At first she listens like a 
woman of stone, but when Kiidigcr hints at EtxcVs power Co 
avenf;e her wrouga, abe iii M ^ittention, and suddenly eonseitts. 
Hij^n forebfiding evil, btlttrlyopjicses thisnalcb, which Guntlitr 
bvoTL Takinj^ cold leave of her relation?. Kricmhild sets or,l 
with Her brothers Gemot and G:»elliei as chief of the convoy. 
They are met at l*uln by Etael with a royal e*cort, among whom 
orv- Detrich oJ Bern {ThetvlnTie of Verona), and the kin^^S own 
btutbcT BlcKleU The nuptiAh are celebrated when ihcjT leadi 
Vlcuaa, and acii-cuteeu daya of festivities foUow. 



lA 



^ WORLD'S PDOGRCSS. 

Sevvo ywra had ^ssfd in ihe laiwt of the Hubs, when Qtimi 
EricDtliiLd buic a sou- Six more yciAn pass before bcr pluu fW 
vcngc&iicc are AUly Ui<L Ilcr husboikd » «fi<ctiooat£ aod hod- 
pttnble, sbc herself u utiivrrKoll]? esteemed for her tdndcc^s. She 
dtiitts., or pret«iid« to d^rc, tosee ber reL*ti^ i^s. At luer reqoect, 
iKr «i5)r Iibsbaud M^iad-s lib minatrdn to iuvitc the BuigondiaBi 
to A fjCAt luidiummcr (cfitivil : tbcy liavc atrict iiijnnctjoofl frocn 
Kriemhild not to leave Hagcii behind. CuDthcr find his brolhen 
accept the invitation with pleasure ; bat Hogvn i« bitterly vp- 
putcd lu iL But Ahctt Gixdhcr hiiiU tbut he U mfratd, the old 
wamor dctcnninca to gOw With nine tbouaaad vaBMb, « thou* 
sQiidaiid sixty knights in gay atlirc, aiid his brotfaer Dankwan 
and V.ilker of AUcy in close uttcndanrc, Hngen M*Uout on th« 
fitefal juuTDcy. In twelve dayx they reach tlic D^iube, where 
Hagen interriews the tncnnoids, strikes oGT the ferryuiflu's bead, 
ferries hU men acTOSS flnd breaks the boat iii pjeoes AfUf a 
fierce fight with the ]fa7;»riaiift, they rcaeU Pasftsn, where ihey 
uic cuU^rtained hy Bit^Iicp PeUe^n, oixL pci»s on to Bechlorcn* 
where they ate n£am hoitpitably rcceit'cd by Rudigcr. wbodc 
daughter Dietelind is betrothed to Giselber 

On the confines of Kuel's territories, they are id(M Ijy Dietrich 
orBem. whohascoinetosjt!utcthi^miuM\y.uii tlietu ofappiuucV 
iiig evil. On arrivioE at Etj;ers cotirt, Ihcy arc received by 
Kticcuhild with trenchcry in her sonl. >She ki^^fies GifleUier otid 
takes hira by the hind ; bat Hagen she <^)etily deAe^ and is 
opi^ly Lleficd hy biriL At tbi;^ |>olnt a v^ry fine jnctiire id drawn 
of Hftgcti's friendf^hip with Vulker, the Fiddler, one aide oT whose 
fiddle bow wn« o kecn-cdgcd sword. That ni^^ht the Nibdangs 
had sumptuooK lodgings, but Hafien ottd Volker keep watch. 
Volker, leantni^ bU sliield aguiiist iliewall. takes hlsvtoS and plays 
thectrcworu uicn to sleep. 

Next day a great fe^tiral i^ held. Ag the kntj{htf are taking 
their seats m the banqueting hall, ICriemhiM urges Dietrich to 
ic^enge hex ou hct eiiemioi. He lefuMr*, Eliel's LiutfacT BlOdcl 
is then induced, under promise of a beautiful laJ> for his hridc^ 
to fall upon the Nibeluugs in their <iuaitcrfl. The Huns, with «n 
overpowering force, Klay all the Nibehuig %'ttssaU and twelve 
kuighb^ Dankwart nlnnc in left ; streaming with bbxHt, he nishrs 
to the hall- Ila^en tells him to truanl the door and not to let a 
tingle Hunnlsh knight cotnc out ali\-e. Jnnt before Dankwart 
cuter*, Ortlieb, the king's sou, lias been shown to the fftMCtt, 
Hugen maka some disdainful remsrk, which causes anger. 



XL 



HltDTA^Al, SrOttJM$f 



15» 



Krictnhild inciUs ihts sitirc, and for auswer sees her son'« head 
soiticn off hj- Hflgfn, A fierce Jiantl-toluird rom^-it t:;kf* pltee, 
Tdklcr y/iiw D.ii)l:ii;trt ai the door to iircvciit Uic lluii» comiti£ 
in to belp their fcIEowA. Tlic conical ragci. KrtcmbiJd c^Is on 
Dietrich to protect lier. nud for au luataiu the tumtilt ccavca, 
Gunther, Dteirich, and ili? f]iiecii wilhflrflw. Tli? combat Js 
renewed with double Airy. The Hiin^ f^uiroiiud tlic hall in large 
n'jinbcrs. Gunthcr. Ccmol. and OiM:lhcr }kz UicJr aistcr lo be 
allowed to \csL\-it the hall end fifrht in the opcii air She offers to 
spare tlitir live* ir they vitl deliver Hagen into her hand*, but 
nol uncr xtill civiim:iiI. ^\iv \livii tiiders the Hm;ii to Trrv Ihn hall. 
The fig:hters <juciich die fire atid aUkc their UiirstwitU blood. 
Tlic uprr>&r coiitinuc5 cLt »hort hitcrva]« &1L tlironffh the nifihtt 
_5vcr followed \yy a brief but terriLIe tiilencc. 

1n the morning MX haiidred7<itMuEi^^aivhLmiitive. Rudi^er 

luctantly eiiicrs the h.ill by the <]uccn^5 coniniftnds to fitiiAh the 
conflict. He and Gcritol fall hy each other'.i hnnd. At loM otily 
Hagen and Cuoshtr nre Jeft. end they ave fiiint i>iid wounded. 
Dietrich bimls* ihi^m mid hiin^s tlit^m bcfure the it^eeiit I'occtrh- 
hig hcT to aT>arc their live*. She qucsiicns Haj^it about the 
treaflnre, but he refuses lo tell. Then she ordem Cunther's head 
\o he stniek off, nnd hold* that by the h.iir in front nf him; but 

1^ only answer she lecrived was: ** Of the hoard tnoweih no 
^c but God ftnd inc : frtnn thee, nhcdcvil. shall it ever he hid," 
Upon tluTi. vnth her hubbauda sword, Balmuug, the enraged 
queen. Strikes off 'hi^ head. Old Hildebrand, the only one of 
Dietrich's men left. exaspcn*tcfl at her cruelty, springs upon her 
and stabs her to the he-irt, the kinc Htzcl. not opposing llic 
deed. Such is the feoriul caUiitrophe of the bloody tragedy of 
NibeluD^ 



StKGFRtED AT KiNO GuyTTHEIl'S COVIIT. 

Tints spoke the coimliy'* ruler, " He ehall be welcome here, 

Sold is th« Icuight and tioble, th^t I (liACo^er clear, 

And much shsU it avail him cm our Hurgundian ground." 

Then thilhcr w^it kint; Gnnthcr where he Siegfried fouti-.!. 

The Ivoat and his compmiiuna so well receiv'd the gueti, 

That nothing there was wanltnu that courtesy expressed^ 

Aitd Irnv luHin'd the w;irri'»r to Jill in presence tlwre. 

Since thry had Kiv'n him j^iceliugso friendly an J so fair 

*'i wonder much/* sjnd Guntbcit "and foiii would underataud, 



152 THE WORLD'S PROCRESS, 

Whence comes the noble Siegfried to this Burgundian land. 

And what he here b seeking at Worms upon the Rhine/' 

To the kit^ the guest made answer, *' Concealment is no art of 

mine. 
Afar I heard the tidings, e'en in my father's land, 
That here with you were dwelling (fain would I know the band) 
The best and prowest champions, so voic'd by all and some, 
That ever king surrounded ; therefore I'm hither come. 
Your own renown I've heard too through all this country ring, 
That never eye of mortal has seen so bold a Icing. 
Your prowess and your knighthood arevouch'dbyhigh and low, 
Now ne'er will I turn homeward till this by proof I know. 
I too am a warrior and shall a sceptre sway, 
And I would fain bring all men perforce of me to say. 
That I both lands and liegemen have nobly merited. 
This to maintain I'll freely pledge my honor and my head. 
Now since you are so famous for manhood and for skill. 
Nought reck I, if my purpose be taken well or ill. 
But all that's own'd by Gunther I'll win by strength of hand. 
And force to my obedience his castles and his land-^' 
The king was lost in wonder, and with him all the rest. 
At such a strange pretension from that o'erwecning guest, 
Who claim'd his whole possessions that stretch 'd so wade aronnd. 
His vassals heard the challenge, and for anger sternly frown'd. 
'*How»" cried the valiant Gunther, "have I descrv'd this wrong. 
That what my noble father with honor mrd so long, 
I now should yield to any, o'ermaster'd by his might? 
Ill should I show, that I too can bear me like a knight 1 " 
'* I'll ne'er renounce my purpose," the fiery youth replied; 
*'If through thy might thy country cannot in peace abide, 
I'll take on me to rule it. and what I hold in fee. 
If thou by strength canst take it, shall alike submit to thee. 
Let thy broad lands and also mine be laid in equal scale^ 
And whichsoe'er in battle o'er th' other shall prevail, 
To bim let aU be subject, the liegemen and the land." 
But Hagen sought, and Gemot, such purpose to withstand. 



UEDr\EVAL &T0E1SS. 



<53 



KRJHMBII.D& 




[8 ctme out from h«r diamber ; bo comes the momSnfr red 
trth from th« gloomy doiuk ; upon lier drc&s were sprrarl 
ipht Ecms; her glovrine checks her secret Icivc coufcfised; 
aU (he mitjda oii earth she the fnircst was and best. 

>r as among the alatit the full luooii clearly gleams 
Axi<l acAtterd every cloud with her bright and silver beams, 
So 'mid the other ladies Xriemhilde's heawtx' shone : 
The hearts of many berocs heal high a-* they looked nn. 

The chflmbcrbins before her wtilked, in costly garments dressed, 
To see the lovely maidtu tlie warriors ontv-ard pressed ; 
r Ai Siegfried stood cxpecliug to look upon Ler face, 
LBy ttirii* dcspnir «nd love found within his hosoin place 

^Bliuit fuiid he to himself — ** How could I ever deem 
^ That I could win the maid ?— 'twas but an idle dream. 
tttt if I cautioi wiu her, then I were better dead/' 
id vrhh hi* thought* hi* cheek* b>' turn* were pnle and red. 




its found the hero bold, — Siegfried of Ketherland, 
inn iwrfelitTn holdly ci^me ni front of all th« vrarriom' hsind ; 
*'KinK Onnther tohi?t|>rcscncc i* plcnwd to sntumnn yqn. 
That hia aidtcr may salute you, and give the honor due.'* 




154 THB world's rROCESSS. 

His son] rose higti within him when be saw Kriemhilde ther^ 
And rosy flushed his cheeks as spoke the "^»A*¥i ^^ ■ 
" 1 bid you weJcome, Siegfried, a warrior good and brave," 
The kindly salatation new strength and courage gave. 

To thank her for her kindness the hero bowed his head, 
And all that he bad longed to say was in a moment said; 
For, as be bowed his bead, a stolen glance was cast. 
And suddenly from eye to eye the tender secret passed* 

In all the snmmet season, or the pleasant month of May, 

Ife never bad such pleasure as on that happy day — 

When he walked beside the maiden whom be came to make his 

bride, 
When Kriemhilde whom he loved was walking by his side* 

How Siegfried was Betrayed. 

Ok£ day it fell that Siegfried dose whispering found the band. 

When thus began to ask them the knight of Netherland, 

" Why creep the king and chieltains so sorrowful along^ 

I'll help you to revenge it, if you have suffered W7i>ng," 

*' Good cause have I for sorrow/' Gunther straight replied, 

** Ludegast and Ludger both have me defied. 

With open force they threaten to ravage all my land." 

Then spake the dauntless champion, " Their pride shall Sieg&ied'd 

hand, 
Both to your boot and honor, bring lower, and once moie 
I'll do nnto those boasters e*en as I did before. 
Ere I end^ o'er castles, o'er lands, o*er all I'll spread 
Wide waste and desolation, or forfeit else my head. 
Do yon and your good warriors sit by the chimney side; 
Wiih my knights here about me thither let me ride. 
How willingly I sen'e you, my acts and deeds shall show, 
And every one shall feel it who boasts himself your foe/' 
"Ah ! how this promise cheers me ! '* the kiiig dissembling said, 
As though rejoicM in earnest at that free-proffer'd aid. 
Low bow'd to him the false one with fawning semblance fair, 
Then retom'd Sir Sicgfiied, " Take now no farther care_*' 

For the march the Burgundians prepared in show the whll^ 
Yet Siegfried and his warriors 't was done but to beguile. 
Then bade he straight make ready each Netherlandish knight- 



UKl>IAirVAt« ST0R1XS. 



»S5 



Stt 



tbc best hamcds aiid &urc&t sniu they mifltt 
valifltit Siegfried, "Sir Sicgrcuud, fatlwT tuinc, 
Be4t tarry here in qtUct till we return to Rhine, 
CoiKiuctt, if GutI bcfrictitl us, wc Miortly liack *ib;ill hiing, 
Mc&uvrbilc \Wc blithe auO merry vrtth our goud host the kins/' 
Tli« flags ftuou \r«rc hoisted, and forward nil would fart; 
Among Ihp ram of Gnnthcr many a one was lh«re 
Wlio knew not hi:^ lurtl"* M-iTicl. ni^d thought no tri-achCT>"« 
ere mieht you act with Siegfried a itttKhty company, 
beir bdma and f kc their muikoat^ upon their steeds were tied. 
M±Liiy a knight of prowc*.* i^ady w>* lo ride, 
facu Hagcn, lord of Troiiy, ns had t>cfLiru breii iilunn'd, 
cat to tokc Icnvc of Kricmhild ere yet they left the laud. 
"Ah \ well isnic:," ^aid Kriembild, *' tlmt Tve a lord who Ictida 
Sucli firm asfiUunce ev*r to hack my (le:ire«l fritnds, 
Aa utjw dues \ay biiive Siegfiied lur my bnrllireii's suke; 
creforc." »id the lady fair, " good courage will 1 taka 
f f^ood fricml. Sir ILi^en, bear in remembrance stilt 
liow much I {i>vt my Iciii^iiir;!!, nor ever wish'd Ihein ilL 
For lliiaretjuitK^ uiy hualwiul, iioi let mcvaiuly king; 
He Ahould not pay the forfeit, if £ did Bntuhild wroug. 
My fault," pursued she sadly, ''good cause hnd I li> rue 
For it 1 have f;ir"d badly ; he beat tue black and blue: 
h Tui-vi'hief'raiikiKg lullk- bis jialicncc coalil t^ot htoot, 
for it ample veiigeiuicc ou my poor Wmhs he look." 
Vou'U be friends tagctlier," eaid he, *' some other day. 
nt, KriembilcS. my dear lady, tell me uow, 1 pray, 
t my hflntU in your hnsdipud what service can be done. 
Fahi would r do it, lady, better love I iiriiit^" 
The noble dame made cua^tr, *" Fear should I uotat all. 
That by the sword of auiy my lord iti fight would fall, 
t Ih:j1 he rashly ftvllows hiH fiery nturtial mood, 
cuu^d uo harm hcf.tU the lioblc kid^ht and good." 
" Lady," thcu aiiswer'd Hageii, "since thus you harbor feai 
lAfX luMtile force should slay him, let me yet further haar. 
What best may *ei^^e our purpose the warrior to defend. 
On foot, on hor*^, I'll watch liini, hi> ^"^rdiiiii and hi» fricud>*' 
Said slie, '*Th^u art my ooumii, atid I alike am thine; 
To thy irood fnith commend I this dearest lord of mine: 
That thno will tend hi* welfiire, assurance firm I hold." 
Then told *hc him the secret far Ijettcr left untold, 
Said vhCf " My hudbaud'a daring, and thereto stout of limb- 



' ror 
T 

m 



156 THK world's progress. 

or old, when on the mountain he slew the dragon gtim, 

1q its blood he bath'd ham, and thence no more can feel 

In hla charmAd person the deadly dint of dteeL 

Still am I ever anxionfi, whene'er in £ght he stands. 

And kcen-edg'd darts are hailing from strong heroic hands, 

Lest I by one should lose him, my own beloved make. 

Ah I how my heart is beating still for my Sieg^ed'a sake I 

So now I'll tell the secret, dear friend, alone to thee 

(For thou, I doubt not, cousin, will keep thy faith with me). 

Where sword may pierce my darling, and death sit on the thmsl. 

See, in thy truth and honor how iiill, how firm my trust 1 

As from the dragon's death-wounds gush'd out the crimaongore. 

With the smoking torrent the warrior washed him o'er. 

A leaf then 'twixt his shoulders fell from the linden bough. 

Tl^ere only steel can harm him ; for that I tremble now." 

Then said the chief of Trony, "A little token sew 

Upon his outer garment ; thus shall I surer kuow 

The spot that needs protection as in the fight we stand." 

She thought his life to lengthen, the while his death was planu'd. 

Said she, " Upon his vesture with a fine silken thread 

I'll sew a secret croslet ; by this small token led 

Thy hand shall guard my husband, as through the press he goes. 

And in shock of battle confronts his swarming foes." 

■* So will I do," said Hagen, *'my honor'd lady dear,'* 

She thought her lord to profit, and keep from danger clear. 

But all she did to aid him served but to betray. 

Leave then took Sir Hagen, and joyous strode away. 

What he had leam'd irom Kriemhild his lord then bade him show. 

" Put oS this march," said Hagen, **aud let us hunting go; 

Now have I all the secret ; now in my hand is he ; 

Could you but contrive it?" " For that," said Gunther, " trust 

to me." 
The false king and his cotirtiers to hear his words were fain. 
I ween, so base a treason knight ne'er will do again, 
As then was done by Hagen, when to his faith for aid 
So lair a lady trusted, and so foully was betrayed. 




Kriy GunUsrr, wftli TTajsn}, Sitjcfnn!. antl ollivr Ibllovpni, iror<i to 
hittit ivitjl boan in a forest- Kricinhili1« liAd a foRboding of evil, osd 
catfTtttnl the liffnj not to join in the cb«9& 

Tb«a said the hero Sicf^ri^d, ** Knctnhilde, do not monm ; 
yo erll thing shall hflppen tne, nnd soon 1 will n-tum ; 
Of eiicEuies aSout the cumt I know not 1 hnve one ; 
Your brother owes rac kindncw sure i^ all tbnt I hnvc dontn 

B&t Itim n^tn Haul Krirxuhildc, "OIi, Sicgfrinl, kcrp nwny. 
I hod another dream just bd'orc I woke to-day : 
Two rnck* fell down upon ns as you walked alone the valt, 
A»d hid yon from my rigJn 9A I wolcp, wilh w*vpiiig pale-" 

TUcn Siefr^ed folded closely Kricmhildc in hi» aniM, 
And klsoed h^r many limen, to banish her alinn*, 
Till ohc Ka^< him leave Id go ; then he Ijo-iteiird to the chi 
But Bcwr more saw Krientbilde her bunband'a livioc laca. 

Afttt ofaylflA: imj^tiT uelld Animal, tha b«ro*» wtal toifHhtt l» 
Bloke <keir thirst at a ipriiis iu the fuitvL 



ISSt THB world's progress. 

The spring was clear and cool and sweet : King Gunther stooped 

to driolE 
Beside the hero Siegfried, who kneeled upon the brink ; 
And when the king had quenched his thirst, he rose and stood 

again, 
But Siegfried, while he bowed his head, by Hagen's hand was 

slain. 

First Hagen took the hero's bow and falchion from his side,_ 
And carried them away 'mid the forest leaves to hide ; 
Then, with javelin in hand, he looked upon the coat 
Where the ^tal spot was marked, and then suddenly he smote 1 



Etzel Marries Kkiehhilix 

And now rode on King Ktzel (with Dietrich at his side. 
And a countless host of followers) to greet his chosen bride: 
Thus to herself said Kriemhild, when she saw the endlesft 

throng — 
'* Tis well ; I shall have warriors now who will avenge my 

wrong!" 

Then to the queeu spake Rudiger ;— '* My lady, here we stay — 

King Etzel comes ; of followers, lo I what a vast array 1 
I will name to you the warriors most worthy of a kiss ; 
For you cannot give to all in a company like this I " 

So saying, noble Rudiger gave to IV.e queen his hand, 
And from her steed she lighted down upon the Austrian land t 
All the heroes stood aside, while through the glittering throng. 
To meet the beauteous Kriemhild, King Etzel walked along- 

And now her veil is lifted, and her subjects all behold 

Her beauty shining out, as from a shrine of gold ; 

The beauty of her counteuance a geaeral pleasure spread ; 

" Queen Helke was not fairer," all the Hunuish warriors said. 

When Etzel had sainted her, she turned, at Rudiger's sign, 
And gave a kiss to Bl6delj who was in the royal line ; 
And twelve most noble princes of such favor had a share ; 
But she looked with grace and kindness on all the heroes there. 

And now the king commanded, for all the pleasure of his brid^ 
That o'er the plain of Tulna his companies should nde ; 



CtiTt£tja£i kiti^htn niM hcolbcu warriors, iu Enany'cotoircd dnsA. 
To uukc A mnrbul bpccUick, Logvtlicr onward |>rc^s. 

And now arose loudcUngor ffom meeting ^tar and «hid<t, 
Soon ninny splinteretl lAOca^ were scnctered o'er the field ; 
Now many colors glittered logetbcr in tbc air ; 
What aoand^ of umd and bottle-oics were loudly rin^og there ; 

To ^^ tti« splendid louriiaiuent forth ^^-«llt bolh kiTig and qu«vu; 
In i\ic ccTitre of tlie plain ihtir jkivilioti was w<-n ; 
It wns decked iiiLh glorioLi^ colors, find on the jtrosay gii^uiid 
A hiuidred tvnte for noble knii^hta ncre atalionctL oil around. 

So with many doUIc tourucyft llicy pa^^cd the luerry day, 
And the heroes went to rest in the evening cool and ^ti*y ; 
There WAS KttLltie^s tm the pUin mitlL moniiiig cicnr niid bright, 
Wlicn King Et/cl sutm dtrvi^cd for liTs i|ticen a new delight. 

In procttwioEi to Vienna lie bad« hU heroes go, 
IViih all llicir clan* in fiiU arrfly they raade a wondrous sImw, 
But more bc^inlcjjs wa-* the view of Viciiha for the qiiccn^ 
Here Au.'itria's iairest ladies all in drc:jic* j^iiy were 5«en. 

or people out of nmny laiidi^ the crowd waA now !k> t;reat. 
They could not all be entertained within the city gate ; 
but Ktzel's kiii^htaund warrion;, at Kudiger's command. 
DttperKcd Iheir various compiitTties c/er nil the ueighlMjon^ l&lld. 

And berCt in /ny ViennA, on the feoKt of Whitsuntide, 
Kriemhild, "who hid hid her iionxiwft all. wu» once Dfrain st 

bride ; 
Whcu bIic beheld the thousands who were all her subjects now, 
Though sorrow tttll wuii in her heart, pride leathered on her 

tiFOW. 

So ccstly were the jeweU which to maoy knights slie ^ave, 
So many were lier gilla to ivtzel's heroes brave, 
They disbelieved the atory of her loss so often told - 
**Ourt|ueen/' aaJd Uicy, ''has siirrly biuughL the Nibeluugen 
gold!" 

A fe3li\"iil of jicventeen days was m \'ienna held ; 

The poj;ennlry of ever/ '^^y all fonncr days excelkxl ; 

I oaatU>t tell you half of th« pleasures that were pl^uued ; — 

'l^ra* T^nicmbered as a wonder long in all the Avstriac lard. 



i6> 



tat womb's pBocBCss. 



Now Kfj^mhild was a qii»n againf With Eti^ at her tide, 
SJw* fooked upon Ite host of men, her followers, with pride: 
And thus she whispered to hersdi— "O'er such a mighty band 
Evtn ^egfri^d, in his day of power, did never bold commandi" 

Yet in the midst of aJl this festival airay^ 

The thoughts of Knemliild oftca would wander far away, 

And to hide the tears upon her face her head 5hc would incline. 

For her heart was still with Siegfried; in his casUe on the Rhine. 



GUDRUN, 

Of th^ tvo ffr^at merlivvat epiea ci poputar origifl Ihe N^b^Iunjr- 

enlicd may he cOTiipiired to the vaer MbsU&ippi. varvini: much in iCd 
prolongctl cuuise; uow peaceful aiu] bright, but ag4in drcailful with 
its swoH^n flood; but the poem of Gudriin ii like a shorter river, with 
Bmoolh, yet strong, currcnr. The litter pocin is divtdrJ Into thrct 
part*, ami comprises ahojiclhrr ihirty-twu chapter* or advcniurcs. It 
bcpna with ih« story of Hagen, son of Sigtband, Kmg of Eijirland or 
Ireland, ThU Ireland is thouifht to have bee:) a part of Holland. 

While King SJg^batrd and hh guests were enjoying a festival, 
Hagen. aged seven, was in charge of a noble maiden in the cairtle 
grounds. Suddenly a huge grilhn swooped down upon the child 
and corried liini oLT to a londy island, as food for the young 
griffins- One of the broc>dr in hopping from bongh to bough 
with the child, alighted on one which gave way. The boy was 
dropped, scrambled out of sight, and by and by made his way to 
a eavr, m which were three noh\c maidens who had also escaped 
from tlte monster. Under their care he j^ew up. Once he 
chanced upon the corpses of some sailors on Uie strand. Among 
tlicm «AS a knight in full armor. This dress the 3'outh quickly 
ptit on. Scarcely hid he done m. when he was attacked by the 
grilQn. The monster was slain, and also a number of others that 
eamc to the rescue. While tiuntin^ one day Hagcn was attacked 
bv u dragon. Him he also slew, drank of the dragon's blood, 
ftnd was endowed with superhuman strength, 

After some time he and hii* companions hailed a ship, onboard 
which they were taken and kindly treated by the captain, who 
lunied nut tf] bt the Count Garadie, i>etween whom and Hagen's 
liUtfr tlicrc was a mr^rtid fend. The count, on learning the 
]routb'9 parentage, thought to detain him as a hostage; but 
UiC«>> aiter throwing thirty of the crew overboard and threaten- 




ItKlllAKVAI. STOHIK^ 



l6l 



IDS the count* compcIUd him lo steer to Ireland. Whea Ha^q 
at last reached homc^ he wns received witli great joy by lib 
fKirenis, who hiiJ b^.'liev*^d Inm dtiid, Si|[e1]Bnd and the count 
bcc&mc friends; flagcii kibcritcd hl^ father's^ LTomt. aad tnanied 
Hildc, an Indian pnncctia, who had httai oiie of his compiinions 
oil che i&land- They had a IjeaulUal daughter named HiMe after 
hcT motJier, 

The story of Hdde forms the rtccond di\*isMjn of the poem. 
She bad many suitors, but as all had to enter the ti&ts with Ma- 
ger, and ilII wirre coniiiierti! tjy him, 5he hnJ in aJtipt othrr 
scbcniia. I1ctd» King of the llefcUngs in North Germany, bad 
bc^d of the lady'fi charms, but was afraid to eaoounter the father. 
He wished tt* send cme of his three staunchest retainers to do but- 
tle for Uiui. They were Wat* Ilorant and Foul, But none of 
them dared to meet tlic fierce Uogcn. They resorted to strata- 
gem, A sleudld cypress-woad ve&iel was budt, and armed men 
wrre stiiwed in the hold. A suitahle convoy of other craft also, 
containing urmcd men, accompanied the flag-ship to llagcn's aca- 
fortrcs^ where the three delegates g.ive themselves out us mer- 
chants banishc^d from HetcVs dominions. By their liberal dral- 
ingSi and masuiEicent presents to the Icing, the queen, and her 
ladies, they iound tlieir way to the court, where Horant charmed 
the queen by his iingirig- HJIde secretly invited the minstrel to her 
apartments, and was appjised of Hetel's desire. She reurilly con- 
sented to accompany the tliree merchants. The king, queen and 
HiJde were invited to escort them to their vessels, as King Hotel 
was now reconciled, 'niis llicy reiidily <litl. HiM*? was pur- 
posely separated from her parents, aud quickly boarded the cy- 
pKsa bark. Armed men sprang to the deck on alt the vessels, 
and they set sail Hagen had no ^hip ready to pursue, hut next 
day he icHched Hetel's sliores with a shipload of warriors, A 
despo&te battle was fought, ia wltioli botli kings were ^vouudcd- 
Tluy were reconciled by Hildc'ii entreaties;, and she ticeame H^ 
td'» queen wilh the cimsettt of hi-r father. 

The third section of the poem relates tlie story of Oudnm, the 
beautiful dauf;hter of Hetel and E-hldc. Many were the royal and 
noble wooers who sought her hand, but all wj?re aconifully re- 
jected by TIctcl, who had now become a^ haughty and imperious 
lu hii father in-law. The principal suiturs were Siegfried ol 
MoorJand, Herwtg of Seeland, and Hartmut, son of Ludwig, 
KJDK of Normandy. The two fust were repelled with sccjm; 
UarUnut visited Hetel's castle in disguise, hut was advised by 



l62 THE world's progress. 

Gudnm to flee for his life. Suddenly Henrig mads a descent on 
Hetel's castle with three thousand knights; a flerce contest took 
place; Hetel and Herwig had a hand-to-hand combat. However, 
peace was established through Gudnin; she was betrothed to 
Herwig, and the marriage was to take place in a year. As soon 
as Siegfried heard of the betrotlial, he invaded Herwig's domin- 
ions with a powerfid army, Herwig would surely have been 
overpowered by overwhelming numbers, had not Tletel come to 
the rescue. Siegfried was driven into a fortress end be^eged. 
New complications now arose. Ilartmut, hearing of HeteVs 
absence, renewed his suit to Gudrun, and whea informed that 
she was betrothed to Herwig, destroyed the casUe, and car- 
ried her off with sixty of her maidens. Word was sent to Hetel, 
who, with Siegfried and Herwig, pursued the Normans, and over- 
took them at Wulpeusand Island at the mouth of the Scheldc, 
where the Normans had anchored and gone on shore. The bat- 
tle that ensued lasted from early morn till sunset, and in it Hetel 
was slain by Ludwig. During the night the Normans stole to 
their ships and escaped. The Hegclings and their allies were in no 
condition to pursue. Thirteen years elapsed, during which Gud- 
run and her maids suffered the worst indignities at the hands 
of Gerlint, Hartmut's mother. Meantime the Hcgeling youth 
had grown up; an army of eighty thousand attacked the Norman 
castle, razed it to the ground, and returned in triumph to the land 
of the Hegelings with Gudrun and her sixty maidens, and with 
Hartmut with eighty of his knights as prisoners of war. 

All ended happily; virtue was rewarded; vice received due 
punishment. Ludwig, who seized Gudrun by the hair and threw 
her into the sea, and slew her father Hetel, was himself slain by 
Herwig in the attack on the Norman castle. On the same day, 
the wicked Queen Gerlint had her head struck off by Wat. 
Hartmut was released, and married Hildeburg, Gudrun's compan- 
ion in captivity. Hartmut's sister Ortrun was married to Gud- 
run's brother, Ortwein. Herwig's sister was married to Siegfried. 
Gudrun, of course, was married to Herwig. Thus four royal 
marriages were celebrated in one day, and peace was established 
amoag these savage sea-^kings. 




'^i^-^^^^ 



CHAPTER XVII. 
THE MINNESINGERS. 



The Minnesiiigrts iLove^inKers) in Germaxiy oorrespoml 
to the TToubadoiirx of Southern Europe. Tliey were poeu 
dooely attaclied lo the conrls of tlie feudal nobles, and sang 
in short Ijtics of love and u-ar. While the TToubfldorrs, 
vbether iu France, Italy or Spain, adopted the Proven^U 
language, with its elaborate fomiFi of vrme^ the Germans 
adhexed fnitlifnlly to their ovn speech, and produced lyrics 
in which considerable original-ly was sIiowil Tlie tone is 
nobler And le^s sentimental, l^e'^tting (he ideas and traditlous 
of the Teutonic race. This epidemic of courtly poetry pre- 
vailed in Germany, as m Southem Kurope, from Xhe middle 
of the elevealli ccntnry to the end of the lliirtccnth- lis 
greatest exponents were Whither von der \^ogcIweide and 
Wolfram von Eschenbach ; but there were hundn^s of minor 
tunc who were known only by single lyrics. As in the case 
of the Troubadours, Uie Hvcs of many Minnesingers were 

even moTc intcTc:(ting and romantic than their sougs. la the 

163 



164 The world's progress. 

same a^ there appeared popular hero-ballads and nadonal 
epics entirely distinct from the efi^isions of the coartier-like 
Mimicsingers, The old heroic poetry banished from the 
incad-halls of kings and barons had taken refuge in the 
gatherings of the common folk. The minstrels, once the 
companions of rulers, had been compelled to wander from 
city to city, and from village to village, entertaining the 
crowds at fairs and market-places. The Minnesingers, min- 
istering to the entertainment of the ladies of the castle, chfisc 
personal themes and treated them in sentimental style. 



CONRAD VON KIRCHBERG. 

Count Conead von Kircbbhhg was a Snabian, wlio lived in the 
latter part of the twelfth century. The following ia the beat of his 
songs. 

May, sweet May, again is come, 
May that frees the land from gloom ; 
Children, children, up and see 
- All her stores of jollity. 
On the laughing hedgerow's side 
She hath spread her treasures wide; 
She is in the greenwood shade, 
Where the nightingale hath made 
Every brancli arid every tree 
Ring with her sweet melody; 
Bill and dale are May's own treasures. 
Youths rejoice I Tn sportive measures 
Sing ye ! join the chorus gayl 
Hail this merry, merry Mayl 

Up, then, children ! we will go 

Where the blooming roses grow; 
Tn a joyful company 
We the bursting flowers will see; 
Up, your festal dress prepare! 
Where gay hearts are meeting, there 
May hath pleasures most inviting, 
Heart and sight and ear delighting, 
Listen to the birds' sweet song. 
Hark, how soft it floats alongl 



USDIAEVAL STORIES. 165 

Courtly dames our pleasures share I 
Never saw I May so fair; 
Therefore dancing will we go. 
Youths, rejoice i the flowerets blow! 

Sing ye ! join the chorus gay! 
Hail this merry, merty Mayl 



Our m?.:ily youths, — where are Ihey now? 

Bid them up aud with us go 

To the sporters on tlie plain ; 

Bid adieu to care and pain 

Now, thou pale and wounded lover ! 

Thou thy peace shalt soon recover. 

Many a laughing IJp and eye 

Speaks the light heart's gayety; 

Lovely flowers around we find. 

In the smiling verdure twined, 

Richly steepe<l in May-dew's glowing. 

Youths rejoice 1 the flowers are blowing 1 
Sing ye, join the choms gayl 
Hail this merry^ merry Mayl 

Oh, if to my love restored, — 
To her, o'er all her sex adored, — 
What supreme dehght were minel 
How would care her sway resign I 
Merrily iu the bloom of May 
"Would I weave a garland gaj\ 
Better than the best is she, 
Purer than all purity^ 
For her spotless self alone 
I will praise this changeless one; 
Thankful or unthankful, she 
Shall ray song, my idol be. 

Youths, then join the chorus gayf 
Hail this merry, merry May! 



i66 ThS world's progress. 



WALTHER VON DER VOGELWEIDR 

Born about ii6q in Tyrol, and wandering: iti tnaDhoorl from the 
Adriatic to the Baltic, Walther von det Vogelweide was the highest 
type of the Minnesinger. He was a welcome guest at the courts of 
emperors, dulcf s and landgraves, but he preserved a noble independence 
amid all the vicissitudes of a turbulent time. He acquired cot only 
wide experience of the world, social and political, but a lofty genuiae 
patriotism not limited to a small principality, but embraciug the whole 
German race. In his conception of love this grand poet was true to 
the nobler ideas of that race. He regarded it not as the fleeting passion 
of a day or a season, but as the life-long devotion of two hearts to each 
other- In style he shows the gracefulness of the Troubadour, but he 
does not sacrifice truth to form or artificial rules. His songa espress 
a natural purity as well as a vehemence of passion. This truthfulness 
reudera them readable when the sweetness of minor poets cloys the 
taste. He avoids wearisome detail and a multiplicity of figures, but 
dashes olf in a happy phrase a truthful portrait or a memorable incident. 
The decline of the Minnesingers may be dated from the death of their 
greatest representative in 1227. 



A TvAMENT. 

Ah ! my best years have fled away, 
Like dreams, or like a minstrers lay; 
I see, once more, my native ground. 
And wontler as I loot around ; 
For now I see a stranger here, 
Where many faces once were dtar: 
My playmates all are gray and old ; 
The land itself seems drear and cold : 
They've felled the trees on yonder hill ; 
The river flows beside it still ; 
But my best years have passed away 
As on the sea the drops of spray. 
Or like the waves upon the shore — 
I say " Alas ! " for evermore. 

Time, like the earth with flowers bespread 
In youthful spring, is dark and dead 
When age and cares are coining on, 
And friends and pleasures all are gone. 



UEDIAHVAL 5TOREE5. 167 

One consolation now remains — 
To combat on the holy plaius, 
Not for riches, nor renown, 
But for an everlasting crowii ; 
For absolntion, for release 
From all my sins; for rest and peace. 
May I but tread that sacred shore I 
Then will I say "Alas" no more I 



To THE Ladies of Germany. 

This song^ is supposed to have been written by Walthtr on his 
return from an embassy to France in 1201, 

Ye should bid me welcome, ladies, 

For my word is now to you, 
All that ye have heard before this 

Is but empty vain halloo. 
But ye sbould reward me nobly ; 

If my recompense is right, 
I can tell you what will please yon ; 

Help me then with all your might. 

I will tell to German maidens 

Such a word that all tbe more 
They shall delight the universe, 

And I will ask slight pay therefor. 
What then shall I ask in payment? 

They are all so good, so dear, 
That my earnest prayer is lowly : 

Let them give me welcome cheer. 

Many lands I've wandered over ; 

From their glories I have come 
111 would sure befall the rover, 

Should I rest afar from home. 
What true pleasure could I ever 

Have in foreign court or hall? 
What avails me to seek falsehood ? 

German truth surpasses all. 

From the Elbe west to the Rhineland, 
And back again to Hungary's plain. 



l6S THB W0RU>'S PR0CR£SS. 

These are still of lands the fairest 
That in all the worM remain. 

Furthermore^ I swear by Heaven* 
That in person, mien and grace, 

Fairer than all other ladies 
German ladies take their place. 



j^ 






WOLFRAM VON ESCHENBACH. 

WoLHRAM VON EscHEfJBACH hold^ an honorable plnte amonf 
mediasval poets. He was a Icnight of Bavaria, and died in laao, being 
about sixty years of age. Although the form of his work is marked 
by the characteristics of his period, there is a tone in his poetry which 
seems essentially nitxlem. While thoroughly Christian in spirit, he 
does not yield entirely to the churchly and ascetic ideas then preva- 
lent. He liolds stoutly to the primilive ideals of a German warrior. 
He recognizes the virtues of the heathen, Uie manliness of sport and 
\v:ir, and the love of adventure. The Arthurian legend had been 
diffused through Europe, and Wolfram took as his chief hero Pai^ival, 
the Christian knight, and for his tli^mc the quest of the Holy Grail. 
Vet he does not treat this famous medieval allegory in a mechanical 
spirit. He dwells upon the development of the perfect knight from 
the erring man, and shows how his own experience of evil was neces- 
sary, as well BS early and late instructions, to make him fit for Bis self- 
imposed task and its g-lorious accomplishment. In Titurel he went back 
to a stiU earlier period, yet without much change of characters. 

The Beloved Lady. 

Would I the lofty spirit melt 
Of that proud dame who dwells so high. 



UEDIAEVAL STORIES, i6q 

Kiud HeaTen must aid me, or asrelt 

By her will be its agon^'. 
Joy in my soul tio place can find ; 

As well might I a suitor be 
To thunderbolts, as hope her mind 

Will turn in softer mood to tne. 

Those checks arv beautifnl, are bright 

As the red rose with dewdropa graced; 
And ikultless is the lovely light 

or those dear eyes, that, on me placetl. 
Fierce to my very heart, aud fill 

My soul with lore's coosaming fires. 
While passion bums and tcigns at will ; 

So deep the love tha^ &ir insjuie^ I 

But joy npo^ her beauteoiis form 

Attends, her hues so bright Ic shed 
O'er those red lips, before whose warm 

And beaming smile all care is ded. 
She is to m= all hght and joy -, 

I laint, I die, before her &own ; 
Even Venus, lived she yet on earth, 

A fairer goddess here must own. 



While many mourn the vanished light 

Of summer, and the sweet sun's face, 
1 mo-jra that these, however bright. 

No anguish from the 5oul can cha^e. 
By love infiicted: all around. 

Nor song of birds, nor ladies' bloom, 
N ~*r flowers upspringing from the ground. 

Can ch;ise or cheer the spirit's gloom. 

Yet still thine aid, beloved, impart; 

Of all thy power, thy lore, make trial: 
Bid joy revive in this sad heart, 

Joy that expires at thy denial ■ 
Weil may 1 pour my pra>-cr to thee 

Beloved lady, since 't is thine 
Alone to send such c^r^ oa me ; 

Ajone £^ thee Z ceaseksa pine. 



lyo THE world's progress. 



Thh Watchman and the Lovers, 

I HHAKD before the dawn of day 

The watchman loud proclaim : 
■* If any knightly lover slay 

In secret with his dame. 
Take heed, the sun wilJ soon Appear; 
Tlicii fly, ye knights, your ladies dear. 
Fly ere the daylight dawn 1 

** Brightly gleams the firmament. 

In idlvety splendor gay, 
Rejoicing that the night is spent, 

The lark salutes the day : 
Then fly, ye lovers, and be gone ! 
Take leave, before the night is done. 
And jealous eyes appear 1 " 

That waCchmati's call did wound my heart, 

And banished my delight : 
"Alas! the envious sun will part 

Our loves, my lady bright 1 ' ' 
On me she looked with downcast eye, 
Despairing at my mournful cry, 
'■ We tarry here too long 1 "* 

Straight to Ihe wicket did she speed: 
" Good watchman, spare thy joke 1 

"Warn nnl itiy love, till o'er the mead 
The morning sun has broke. 

Too short, alas ! the time, since here 

1 tarried with my leman dear, 

In love and converse sweet." 

*' Lady, be warned ! on roof and mead 

The dewdrops glitter gay ; 
Then quickly bid thy leman qjeed, 

Nor linger till the day ; 
For by the twilight did I mark 
Wolves hastinfr to their covert dark, 
And stags to covert fiy," 



MEDIAEVAL STORIES. I?! 



THK GARDEN OF ROSES. 

In the "Gflfdeti of Roses" the old heroic ballad t^kes a burlesque 
turn, which shows that chivalry was declining when it was written. 

'Mongst the roses Staudenfuss trod with mickle pride j 
With rage and with impatience, his foe he did abide ; 
Much he feared no Loiigobard would dare to meet his blade i 
But a bearded monk lay ready for the fight arrayed. 

'^Brother Ilsan, raise thine eyes,*' spake Sir Hildebrand, 

"Wherej 'mongst the blooming roses, our threatening foe does 

stand ; 
Staudenfuss, the giant hight, bom upon the Rhine. 
Up, and shrive him of bis sins, holy brother mine ! " 

"It's I will fight him," cried the monk; "my blessing shall he 

gain; 
Never 'mongst the roses shall be wage the fight again/* 
Straight above his coat ol mail his friar's cowl he cast, 
Hid his sword and buckler, and to the garden passed. 

Among the blooming roses leaped the grisly monk: 

With laughter ladies viewed his beard, and Iiis visage brown and 

shrunk ; 
As he trod with angry step o'er the fiowery green, 
Many a maiden laughed aloud, and n^any a knight, T ween. 

Up spake Lady Chrimhild, — '^Father, leave thine ire ! 
Go and chant thy matins with thy brothers in the choir/' 
"Gentle lady," cried the monk, "roses must I have, 
To deck my dusky cowl in guise right gay and brave." 

Loudly laugheil the giant, when he saw his beard so rough : 
"Should I laughing die to-morrow. I had not laughed enotigh: 
Has the kemp of Bern sent me his fool to fight?" 
"Giant, straight thy hide shall ieel that I have my wits aright," 

Up heaved the monk his heavy list, and he struck a weighty blow, 
Down among the roses he felled his lataghing foe. 
Fiercely cried Sir Staudenfuss, *'Thou art the devil's priest I 
Heavy penance dost thou deal with thy wrinkled fist." 



l?2 THS world's PR0GRH5& 

Together rushed the uncouth ketnps; each drew bi5 trusty blade ; 
With heavy tread below their feet they crushed tbe rocas red ; 
AH the garden flowed with tbeir purple blood; 
£)ach did strike full sorry blows with their falchions good. 

Cruel looks their eyes did cast, and fearful was their war, 
But the friar cut his enemy o'er the head a bloody scar; 
Deeply carved his trusty sword through the helmet bright 
Joyful was tbe hoary monk, for he had won the Bght, 

They parted the two champions speedily asunder: 
The friar's heavy interdict lay the giant under. 
Up rose Queen Chrimhild, to Sir Ilsan has she sped, 
On his bald head did she lay a crown of roses red. 

Through the garden roved he, as in the merry dance ; 
A Iciss the lady gave him, where madly he did prance. 
"Hear, thou lady fair; more roses must I have; 
To my two-and-fifty brothers I promised chaplets brave. 

" If ye have not Iceraps to fight, I must rob thy garden fair, 

And right sorry should I be to work thee so much care." 

' ' Fear not, the battle shalt thou wage with champions bold and 

true: 
Crowns and kisses niay'st thou gain for thy brothers fifty-two." 

Up spake the queen, — '* Monk Ilsan, see your chaplets ready dight ; 
Champions two-and-fiftj' stand waiting for the fight," 
Ilsan rose, and doimed his cowl, and ran agaiii^.t them all ; 
There th^ monk has given them many a heavy fall. 

To the ground he felled them, and gave them his benison : 
Beneath the old monk's falchion lay twelve champions of renown : 
And full of fear and sorrow the other forty were ; 
Their right hands held they forth, begged him their lives to spare. 

Quickly ran the monk, to the Queen Chrimhild he hied: 

" Lay thy champions in the grave, and leave thy mickle pride ; 

I have dight them for their death ; I did shrive them and anoint 

them: 
Never will th:;y thrive or speed in the task thou didst appoint them. 

"When attain thy roses blow, to the feast the monk invite." 
The Lady Chrimhild gave htm two-and-fifty chaplets brighL 



MEDIAEVAL STORIES. 173 

** JTsiy, l^y Qu«o, remind thee 1 By the holy order mine, 
I clcim two-and-fifty kisses from yom* H^ 3c red and fine," 

And when Cbrimhild, the queen, gave him kisses fiity-two^ 
With his rough and grisly beard full sore he made her rue, 
That from her lovely cheek 'gan flow the rosy blood : 
The queen was full of sorrow, but the monk — it did him good. 

Thus should unfaithful maiden be kissed, and made to bleed, 
A.nd feel such pain and sorrow, for the mischief she did breed. 

LAURIN, THE DWARF KING, 

"Thb Little Garden of Roses" Is a collection of poems ascribed tc 
Henry of Ollerdingen. The story nins thus : The Lady Similt, with 
her brother Dietlieb, goes forth to revel in the spring festival under 
the linden tiee in the forest. Thence she is carried off by the dwarf 
King Laurtn, whose tam-cap renders him invisible, Dietlieb and 
bis knights seek for her. and are told of the dwarf, his exploits und 
power— and particularly of his rose garden, around which a silken 
line is drawn. Dietrich of Bern (Theodoric of Veronaj and his friend 
Wittich resolve to spoil his garden, but on arriving at the spot Dietrich 
fbrbears. while Wittich destroys its beanty. Afterwards they rest, 
ontil suddenly the little king appears. 

Bbhold there came a little king 

In warlike manner dight, 
A king he was o'er many a land. 

And Laurin was he bight 
A lance with gold entwined around 

The little king did bear, 
And on the lance a pennon gay 

Wav'd fluttering in the air. 

And thereupon two greyhounds fleet 

Right seemly were portrayed, 
And alway looked as though they chased 

The roebuck through the glade. 
His courser bounded like a fawn, 

WitL golden trappings gay, 
And costly gems, too, sparkled round, 

Bnght glittering as tlip day. 

And 1 '. hi:: bands the hero gr&sped 
Right firm the golden refai ; 



1^4 THH world's progress 

With ruby-red the saddle gleamed 

As he pricked o'er the plain 

Around his waist a girdle fair 
He wore of magic might; 

The power of twelve the stoutest men 
It gave him for the fight. 

Cunning he was and deep in skill. 

And when his wrath arose 
The foe must be of micklc power 

That could withstand his blows 

And tall at times his stature grew 

With spells of grammary, 
That to the noblest princes he 

A fellow meet might be. 

A crown of purest gold he bore 

Upon his helmet bright^ 
With richer gems or finer gold 

No mortal king is dight. 
Upon the crown and on the helm 

Birds sing their merry lay; 
The nightingale and lark did chant 

Their melodies so gay; 

It seem'd as on the greenwood tree 

They tuned their minstrelsy; 
By hand of master were they wrought 

With spells of grammary. 
Upon his arm a buckler bright 

Showed spar'hawks swift and gay. 
While a fierce leopard 'mongst the trees 

Was ravening for his prey. 

A savage combat ensued; and the kinjif is obliged to yield to the 
superior force of Dietrich. He then makes use of his tarn-cap, and, 
lost to sight, strikes with greater effect, But^ tinally* his cap falls off, 
and the contending parlies effect a reconciliation. The king conducts 
Ihe champions through lovely meadovi'S to his palace within the 
mountain. They pass through a golden gate, and another of sleel, 
which are closed behind them. Then a necromancer casts a spell upOD 
them, so that they cannot behold each other, and they cry out against 
the king's broken faith, but he assures them they shall not suffer. 
They enter the royal halL 



M1trWAi:VAl, 9TY>RICa. 



175 



Tm\ DWARP KiNO'3 COTOT. 

Many n wiriAomr ilwarf v^^s seen, gtsithed in rich attim j 
Gnniici^t*! bri^lu with gold ,:it4 gems bore e«ch little sire, 
From the gems lull mii-hty .^-trviigth bml ihe dwarfish chivalry : 
Quaintly thv->' <Ianccd, and 01; tU^ steeds ih^y r^xle nght cuo* 
nhtgly. 

Far they oast th« hc-^vy Etocie, and, in Ui£;r warlike :;tuuf, 
Thty brokr thr Untv, and t'lnmeyed before tlit: !:nig!il„ of ffini^. 
Tbctc maiif harpem tuned their lay, and played mCh mittli and 

IfOddJy, in tho royal haJl, their m^iry tuiiutrcUy. 

Before the tabic high appeared four learned sniKia^ mcia» 
Two *hoTt, and iwo o( fttJiUire lall, ^nd rung in conrlly strain. 
Soon to the l:iblc sjiid thf king, aiui bade bis nieitiy nil 
Wait upou bia uuMc ^c?tt&, in ihc luyal balL 

SimUt, the lady fair, besrd of lli« rnyal Ibsstfi! 
or her scrv^nL< did she a*k, "Who nrc ihc rt ranger gTiestfi?" 
'* Noble knigbts of Ccfman birth/' ^pukca kcmp of stature small; 
" l^aurui bids ye speed I-j court, fcr well ye kiioi.r iben: all." 

Quickly Bpakctbclady,—" Up my dftmsL-Ufair! 

D«k ye in your richest guise, for to eourt wc will repair/' 

Soon ibty dii{lil them rtiyally in glittering flmiy ; 

Pull blithe they were to apccJ to court with Shuilt, the gentle may. 

Tticre csnic many a tmiiatrel, tuiihjs^ hiL l^y of niinh ; 
Shawms and trumpets ^rdl they blew, thu Mveetcst on the earth. 
There full itiaity n sonj* wa* sun<; by learned siii^in^* nt-T? ; 
Of irar and cliiv^lrou^ einprUc they tmicd the noble dlmiii. 

Now lo court, in brighl nrmy, all the maids arc ccn*e, 

Wttb many a knight not two feet long ; otjc leapc<l , the other niu ' 

Merry were They nil; and befcre the lovel/ <^^f^^- 

Two tall, l\yc Uttlc glecn^eu saix^ the aouj: cf fame 

Before Ib^ queen they cUairtcd the merr/ niinatr-dcy, 
AdJ ftU who hcord Ibcir . ■ia*!er-:-0tef' dwelt in mirth and ghe. 
^Ti.;re tid<'t07s titiftin', appcaTcd, though sinall their stature were, 
llArcb*:i|[« tnxj mid two. befoce the Udy fcir. 




1/6 



tut W0R14>'S rROGKltSS. 



Similt into the palace came, with her little malJcns all; 
Garments they wore which glittered brightly irt the ha!l, 
Of fur HT^l coMly cj'ddtomi^ and hroiKlics of fine- gold: 
Ko richer guise m roy^l courts might mortal man bdiol<l. 

The gentle Lady SimiU lore a golden crown; 

Full iiTaay a pr eciouu itonc around the Cftvcrn shone; 

l!iit one tcJoK tlic others gliuer*^il go^^;B.)ll^l)' ; 

'Hie wight who wore that nohle gem ever blithe moat he 

And wow Ihe *pcU was laVii awa>' ffom ilic duiupioiis bold ; 
Full ^lad they were when openly their fi're* Ihcy mi^ht behold 
Ritihi noble cheer was (tffert-d in th*r diampious brave : 
Jn royal guise the feast was bcld the whole ilay in the cave. 




CHAl'TKR XVm. 
NORSE STORIES. 

Tnt etneral name "Eclda" wjvs pven to the miscd- 
lancotJt cohcction of wrilin^ laboriously gatbtrcd and skill- 
fully cla^^ificd by Sturluson, which arc now desi^ated the 
Fro^c, or Younger l""d'.la, to distitigiiish 1h<Tn from the older 
mytliological poenis discovered in 1643 by Bishop Sveinsson, 
and cslkd ihc Hldcr EJda. The original meaning of the 
word "Edibi" w;i* "(frtal-graiidiiiolljcr," ;ind Siurluson's 
chc^cc of Oiis as titit- for his collection of ancient traditions 
no doubt spring from \he saint simple motive which led to 
the naming of Sir Walter Scx^lt's "Talcs of a Grandfather/' 

The mythological hero-songs bore no internal c\t::vr cither 
to their authorship) or collector As the legends evidently be- 
longed to the ninth century, or earlier, it seemed reasonable 
to Sveiitsfon lo credit one Sxnnmd Sigfiisson, a learned noble 
of Noru^ay, who liverl Jn IceUitd between 1055 and 1 132, wiih 
their prcwrvaiiun. The)' were thus niudc known as the 
"Edda SiPTTiundi Muhiscii." Later investigation has rejected 
R;rmund entirely, while retaining the descriptive title oF 
Edda for cgnvemcme, and for m^ other reason. The poem* 
arc now -lAsigned to the thirteenth century, having been gath- 
ered from various quarters by various hands during the pre* 
eedinfT centuries. 

The Eddas exhibit the various a£i>ecls of the Scandinavian 
religious system. This U in the highest degree sombre. pi<.'tnr- 
esque and impressive. The earth is a vast circular plane, 
round which lies coiWI (he fterpent of M:dgard- Tn its centre 
ttaiids the ash tree YggdrasiL whi^e br-inche^ pierrr hcijvrn, 
while its mots petrel r;ite Asgard. the aUnle of the gods, 
Jotunlieim» where dwell the giants, and Nifihel, the realm 
of death. Under each root springs a fountain; amidst the 
boughs, whose dc\v is lioney, sit an eagle, a squirrel and four 
Slags. The squirrel nms vip and down, sowing enmity be- 
tween the eagle and the snake NithhogRr. which gnaws 
below. 

Mi<lgard, the earth, was formed from the eyebrow of ihe 



178 



TBIC world's pnoGRUS^ 



giaot of lite sea, Vmir, generated first of crcfttorcs from the 
iiiUrcuiir^of hcdtand cold mtlieabywGiunungagap. Od;a 
aiif! hin brotbciH ult-w aud cast liui into the gulf? bis fic5h» 
bones, hair and blood became re^>cctiTcly the Iiud, tuoua- 
Liia\ forests and rivers, Jotunhciiu, or lltgaid Ulic outct 
eaith}, vra.s aitualcd at tlic cxtieuic north, lu Niiihcl rtig&ed 
over the dead the goddess Hel ; it v&s bcncjitb the earth, rad 
W&3 eiivtronc<i by the nvcr SHd, xQ^imgover a bed of nrords. 
Ill the south was Muspel from which at the end of all things 
Stirt its king would come with aword of fire to dc&troy the 
world. Asgard, above^ had several diNnsioiu, one of whieh, 
Valhotla in Gladsheim, was the meeting pbcc cf the goda 
At the foot of Vggdrasil dwelt ll;e Uiree virfpnj^oddcsfe^ th« 
Norti5 or Fates, whose decrees were irrevocable, 

I.old, haud^me and evil, the god of deslrttctioa^ was &- 
iher of the Midgard seipeiU, of Hcl, and of the wolf Fcnm, 
a water-demon, who was destined to slay Odin, and to be 
slain himself by Odin's son \*idar, Loki was bound bj- the 
gods till the ^nd, wlien he should bi? lix>scfl and slain by 
Heimdal, the warder of Hea\'eii, whom he alsoahonld slay. 
This final cataclysm, in which the powers of good and evil 
meet, was called Ragnatok (Twilight of tht; Go(U)j thvn 
perish gods, demons, and the universe itself; but from iti 
mills springs a new oi^d more lovely world, with a new i&cc 
of men, forever freed from evil. 

The twelve gods — Odin, Thor, Balder and Uie rest; the 
twelve goddesses, and all the otlicr mytliologic pcTV^aagts, 
good and evil, arc thus seen to be but mortal, though in 
a category diSerent from that of c«rth*$ inhabiunt^ There 
is an unknown, unnamed Power above all, whose will for 
good must iinally prevail. This conception is unlike both 
the Hindu and the Greek, though there are in it traces of 
both; it is more human and fiynipathctic thau either. The 
history of its development deserves the deepest study ; and wc 
are as yet only upon the threshold of its hidden meanii^s. 

Allied to the mythology is the great romance of the Nibe- 
lungenlied. This poem was written by an unknown aerobe 
in Sonthem Germany about the middle of the thincenth cen- 
tury - but the materials were the prodtict of an earlier tini^ 




MCDUri'AL STOSieS, 



179 



uid Are of Gothic cdgin, Th« OTd None v<prsioa te found 
m thr Vnlftuiifpi Sag4 luid ibe K<1d;i. Tbe Koitm; Sigurd, 
die bero of i\k talc, 1>«?<:oiiic?) the German Siegfried; his 
wtfc, Gudrun, is Uic Kricinhild of the tatttr version; tbc 
Norse Brunhild \s a Valk>'ric. won by Sigurd for Guiuur. 
Tbc Valkyries arc the Dtuc Itstndinaidctis of Odin, who serve 
at the buiqnct:t of Volhulla, cuid in batUej, flyiniC throti^h the 
air. touch witli ihcir spcors ihc heroes who arc to fall, and 
GOoduGt their ioub to tbe ubod4t^ of thu blessed. Vobung is 
the great -grandson of Odin, and the fatJier of Sigmnnd, from 
whom Sigurd deicended. The story h free from Uie CbHstian 
tKemenls which are introduced into the German poem; it i> 
beatbeti Ibrotighout, and the god^ take active part tn die 
dranui- In spirit it is ^ublhnr iind brriiic, yrt prnfciundly hu* 
ai&n; the passion and tragedy arc titanic, yet strictly m ao 
conl with tbe tiutb c^f tlie bcv^t. ^Iic men and women pnr* 
tiayed arc endovrcd with godlike beauty and franks impetuous 
natures. Nothtog in ancient da^c poetry 5urpa»cs thex 
mighty conccptionjt; and it is evident that a slor>" conceived 
with such power and insight mnet assume many inearnationa 
in nicceuiv« ages; the very soul of the Norse is In it. It U 
upon those ancient ballads, and not upon the Germaii, that 
Wagncr'K cycle of operas ts based. 

The "Volnspa" (Prophecy of tbe Sibyl) is the most 
and«nc and jLtrtkirt^ potm in the Klder Edda. There i% a 
fasdnation in its mysticism and gloomy tone, heightened by 
the beauty of a style lli^t is all its own. Wr Imve not peiir* 
tiaiQcl the meaning of the sliroudc-d etUusions as the sibyl 
chaota to great Odin and tlic li^tcuitig Ic»er goda ul tlie 
beginning of things of the making of mortals and the 
tremeadous doom that shall fall with Ragnurok. the battle 
and chaotic end of the world and life. " The mckdies of 
xhis earliest Ecdandic verse, elaborate in their extreme and 
itvttt timphdty. arc wholly rhythmical and oUttcrative, and 
relum npon themselves lite a lolcmn incantation " 

About ten poems contain tbe mythological portioa of the 

F3der Fdda. The favorite and most poetical of thc^e is the 

'Thrymskviiha, '* Song of Thrym, the giant who stole tbc 

imcr of Thor. The ttory progresses in the most natural 



l8o THE world's progress. 

way, never losing force for the sake of display. It tdls how 
the hammer was taken, and on his trying to regain it Thar 
was told that Thrym would not give it up mitil the goddess 
Freyia should be given him in marriage. Thereupon Thor 
himself undertook the trick of impersouatiBg Freyia» and 
thus deceived and slew the thief. 

The rest of the Hdda recounts the deeds of the legendary 
heroes. The " Volundarkvitha " Song of Volundr, and the 
songs of Helgi, the son of Hiovarth, and of Helga. the 
Hunding's Bane, are romances of love and war. In the score 
of poems which connectedly follow the mEun lines of these 
two> we have the story of the family feuds between the Vol- 
sui^ and the Nibelungs which forms the basis of the old Ger- 
man Nibelungenlied, inferior in poetic force to the original 
Icdandic 

The Voluspa, 

The prophetess Vola, baving imposed sifence on all intellectual 
beings, declares that she is goin}> to reveal the decrees of the All-father- 
She begins with a description of the chaos; and proceeds to the 
formatton of the world, and of its various inhabitants, giants, mca, 
and dwarfs. She explains the employments of the Noms or fatea^attd 
of the gods; their most remarkable adventures; their quarreU with 
Loki, and the vengeance that ensued. She concludes with a descrip- 
tion of the end of the world; the battle of the inferior deriies and the 
evil beings; the renovation of the universe; the bksscdness of the 
good, aud the pimishment of the wicked. 

GivB silence, all 
Ye sacred race, 
Both great and small, 
Of Ueimdal sprung: 
Val -father's deeds 
I wilt relate. 
The ancient tales 
Which first I learned. 

I know giants early bom, my ancestors of former times; nine 
worlds I know, with their nine poles of tender wood, beneath the 
earth. 

In early times, when Ymer lived, there wos no sand, nor sea# 
nor cooling wave; no earth was found, nor heaven above; one 
diaos all and nowhere grass. 



jmnASVAL STORIES, 



i8] 



Until Bor't fionc upraitec! the cxpinfte, by whom Mutganl the 
grtat was ma<lc. From the f<m\h the sun shgne on the walls; 
Uwti <|icl the earth Rrcen hcrhs produce. 

The nun iiirncd «ouib; the mooit thonc: her right hand held 
llie lnwsc vi heaven. Tlie stm knew nut hi.s iin>|ier i^ihtfrc; the 
Fvtars knew not their proper pl&cc ; the moon knew not her proper 
powtr. 

Tlini a!I the powcis went to the throne, (he holy gtxls. and 
■llcid council ; !hoy gave night and cack-crowing their names, 
noming ulso, ami ncjon-d;^/ Hi^e, and afternoon, the years to tell- 

Tlic Asas njcl on Itlfi's plain^i: they ujsrd altars and hu3t 
temples; arviU they laid, and mciney coined; their strength they 
tried tn variodft ways, when making songs, and forming tooU. 

Oa die greeii tliey playeil In joyful niouJ, nur knew at all the 
wart of zo^iA, tintil there came three Thiirsa maida^ exceeding 
Sircfiff. from Jolunhcim: 

Unlil there c^anic ait of the rank>. p^jwerfiil and fair, ihree 
A£3S lumc, find found on tborct in helpless plight. Ask and Embla 
wiiltout tlidr fate. 

They had not \et spirit or mind, blood or heauty. or lovely 
hne. Odin gave spirit. Heinir gave mind, Lothur gyve blood and 
lovely hue. 

T luiow an ash, named Vggdrasil, a stately tree, with white 
dasx strewed. Thence come the dews that wet the dale*; it 
[Aands aye green over Urtla'e well. 

TTiencc come the maids who know a!l ihine^; three from Ihc 
ball beneath Ihc tree; one they rfinied Wa&, and the next Being, 
Ibe thirtl. Shall Be» on the shield they cuL 

>>•••* ■« 

She &at without when the Ancient came, tlic awful god, and 

viewed his eye, 

Wliat a^ik ye n\c> Why tempt ye me? Full well J know. 

great Odin, where thine eye tliou Lo:&t; in Mtmir's well, the foun- 

,tatn pure; mead Mimir drinks each morning new, with Odin'£ 
ledg^- Conceive yc this } 
To her the z^*\ of battle?; gave bcth costiy rine^i and shining 

gold, die art of wcalUi, ard witchcraft wbc, b); which 6hc saw 

tbraugli every world- 
She saw Valkyries come from afar, ready lo ride io Ihe :ribt» 

of god» ; Skuld held the sliield. Slcuugul can^e next. Gunnr, Hildr. 

Giandiil, and Geir-skaiiigiil. I'hus now are told the Warrior's 

NoTDs, ready to ride the Valkyrica. 



- 



l82 THQ WORXJS'S PROCRESS. 

Heitli she was named wherever she eame, the prophetess of 
cunning arts. She knew right well bad luck to seethe, and mii- 
chief was her only sport- 
Murder she saw, the first that ever was in the world, when 
Gullveig was placed on the spear, when in Hair's hall they burnt 
her: thrice she was burnt, thrice she was bom, oft, not seldonif 
and yet she lives. 

Then all the powers went to the throne, the holy gods, and 
hdd council: what punishment they should infiict on the Asas 
now for bad advice; or whether all the gods should hcdd con- 
vivial feasts: 

Now the casUe-walls of Asaborg were broken, by mur-derous 
Vanes who took the 6eld: forth Odin flew and shot around: this 
murder was the first that ever was in the world. 

When all the powers went to the throne, the holy gods, and 
held council : who had involved the air in flames, or given Odder's 
maid to giants: 

There Thor alone was in ill mood; he seldom sits when told 
the like; broken were oaths and promises and all contracts that 
had been made. 

She knows where Heimdal's hom lies hid, full deep beneath 
the sacred tree: she sees a flood rush down the fall from Odin's 
pledge. Conceive ye yet? 

The sun turns pale; the spacious earth the sea engulf; from 
heaven fall the lucid stars : at the end of time, the vapors rage, 
and playful flames involve the skies. 

She sees arise, the second time, from the sea, the earth com- 
pletely green: the cascades fall; the eagle soars, that on the hills 
pursues his prey. 

The gods convene on Ida's plains, and talk of man, the worm 
of dust: they call to mind their former might, and the ancient 
runes of Fimbultyr. 

The fields unsown shall yield their growth; all ills shall ceftse; 
Balder shaU come, and dwell with Hauthr in Hropt's abodes. 
Say, warrior gods, conceive ye yet? 

She sees a hall outshine the sun» of gold its roof, it stands in 
heaven: the virtuous there shall always dwell, and evermore 
enjoy delights. 



UfDlARVAl, 3T0IUES. 



183 



Flow Thor RrcovTREn ma Hammb*. 

WsOTii waxfiH Thnr. whoi his sleep viui fluvtu, 
And he found his truatj hammer goac ; 
He iimotc Ui£ brow, his be:trd he abook. 
The son of^flrtU 'gflii rotiDdhim look; 
And thi« the fintt wnni IK^I hr spoke: 
"Now liMca wh*t 1 tcLl thtc, Loke, 
Which oevUxer ou enriU below Is known, 
Nor in Heaven above: my hammer'^ gone." 
Tlieii way to Freyia's bower they took, 
Ad4 this the first word that he ^poke: 
''Thou, ^''rej'ia, must lend a wlo^M robe. 
To seek my hammer round the globe," 

Fr^i^, That shouldst thon have, though 'Iwcie of 

gold, 

And that, though iwcic of silver, hold. 

Away dew IvOte; the winged robe sounds, 
Ere he has left the Asgard grounds, 
And ere be has reached the Jotutiheim houDdi. 
High un a mound, in haught> state, 
Thryta. the King of llie Thursi, sat; 
For his dogs he was twisting collars of ffoM, 
And trimming the manes of his courscni bold. 

Thrym. How fare the Asi ? — the Alfi Low 1 
Why coui'»t thou alone I0 Jotunhcim now? 

Loke. Ill &re the Asi ; the Alfi moum; 
Thor"* hammer from him Thou haal torn. 

Thwym. 1 hftve ihe Thutiderer'« hammer bound 
I'athoms etghl beneath tlie ground ; 
Wilh it shall no one bduieward tread, 
TiU he bring mc Freyia to share my bed. 

Away fiew l^ke ; the winged robe sounds, 
Kre he has left the Jotuuhdm bucds^ 
Asd ere be has Te^cbeil the Angard gToandb 
At Midgard Thor met crafty Loke. 



]g4 ^^^ world's progress. 

And this the first word that he spoke: 
"Have you your errand and labor done? 
Tell from aloft the course you run: 
For, sitting, oft the story fails ; 
And, lyings oft the lie prevails," 

Loke. My labor is past, mine errand I bring* 
Thrym has thine hammer, the giant king; 
With it shall no one homeward tread, 
Till he bear him Freyia to share his bed. 

Their way to lovely Freyia they took. 
And this the first word that he spoke: 
"Now, Freyia, busk as a blooming bride : 
Together we must to Jotunheim ride/' 
Wroth waxed Freyia with ireful look; 
All Asgard's hall with wonder shook; 
Her great bright necklace started wide : 
"Well may ye call me a wanton bride. 
If 1 with you to Jotunheim ride." 

The Asi did all to council crowd, 
The Asinia all talked fast and loud ; 
This they debated, and this they sought, 
How the hammer of Thor should home be brought 
Up then and spoke Heimdaller free, 
Like the Vani, wise was he: 
'*Now busk we Thor as a bride so fair; 
Let him that great bright necklace wear; 
Round him let ring the spousal keys. 
And a maiden kirtle hang to his knees, 
And on his bosom jewels rare, 
And high and quaintly braid his hair/' 
Wroth waxed Thor with godlike pride: 
"Well may the Asi me deride. 
If I let me be dight as a blooming bride/' 
Then up spoke Loke, Laufeyia's son : 
"Now hush thee, Thor — this must be donet 
The giants will straight in Asgard reign 
If thou thy hammer dost not regain/' 

Then busk'd they Thor as a bride so fair. 
And the great bright necklace gave him to wear ; 



USDIACVAL STORieS. 

ItOQDd him kt riti^ ihc spoti^l kcya» 
Atiri It mEudec kirtl? h.^rg to his knees. 
And on his bcwom jcwcU rare, 
And high aiid i^uaiuUy bmidetl hix hair. 
Up then rose Ihc crafty Loke, 
LauRyLUA iiou, niid thii8 bt tipoke: 
"A servfluc I thy slrp,* will tend, 
Together wp must to Jotnnbcim wrml." 
Kon' home the goabi toscUicr hie. 
Yoked to the rmlc tbcy cwiUly fly> 
The mountains shook, the earth burned ivd. 
As Odiir» son to Jolunheim sped. 

Then Thrym, the King of the Thursi. saM : 
" Gionb^ fttand up— -Itt the nentH be e^^read: 
BHug Preyla, Nford^'s daughUr, down, 
Toshflrc my bed, from Noaiun. 
With liorn!^ nil eill cnch coal biflck beast 
li UhI to deck the gmtiU' Jea»t; 
lArg« u'valtU and jevp'ela have I stored, 
I lack hut Preyla la giace ti\y board.'" 
Betimes at evening tUcy approached, 
And the mantling ale the pftnts hroAclicd, 
The Epou9% of Sifia ate alone 
Kight _<ci1niini« and an ox fiill grown 
And all the calcs on which vomeii feeci. 
And drnik three firkins of sparkling mead*" 

Then Thrym, the King of the Thnrsi, said: 
•' Where have ye beheld siich a hnrgry maid? 
Ke'*^r Haw I bride ho keenly feed, 
Not (iTiiik no do«p of fht' sparktirtg mtfad. 
Tbcn forward leaned the crafty Loke. 
And thus the giant he bespoke ; 
" Nacghl has she eaten for eight long nights, 
So (jid she long for the nuptial titeSL" 

He bloop^ l>cncfith her veil to kia*, 
Bnt he stArtM the length of the hall, I wis: 
" Wily are the looks of Preyta so dire? 
It Kcmi Aft her eycSa'ls glislcued with fire'* 
Then forward le^ancd Ihc crafty Lokc^ 
And thus the giant be bespoke: 



>ss 



UEbfAEVAL STOEISS. 



i«7 



THE YOUNGER EDDA. 

Thh "Hdda Snona Sturlusonar" is so called from h«v* 
ing l>eeo collected, aTranjjed, aiid enriched b/ the very tc- 
inArkAble man whose life marlcs an epoch in the bistuiy of 
IcelaEul and its lileratore. He stards tiut from the ca.nva4, a 
unique Sgiire in the gallery of national poitTAits. Snorrif son 
of Stnria, was boni in 1 1/^, Ihr yunngcsl son of ,a western 
chief, and was trained to lUeraiy tastes 1>> another powerful 
noble, Jon Loptsson. His early iiiarria^ brought wealth, 
which enabled him in 1206 to biuld an imposing pile at 
Rcyl^oholt, including a costly bath of hewn stones, into 
which water wa,*t conducted from a hot :ipTing in the ncigh* 
borhood- The bath and luius of the eristic aic still to be ia- 
spccted- Snorh studied law for a few years and became chief 
magistrate of Iceland in 1215. He visited the young King 
Hakon in Norway^ remaining there a long timc^ when dis- 
putes af03c between Norwegian and Icelandic traders and 
made £cnou£ trouble. Earl Skiiti, tutor to the King^ proposed 
to despatch a tiiiltuiry expedition to Iceland^ but wa^ dissuaded 
by Snorri on his pledge to procure the submission of the Ice- 
landers. Thereupon Snorri became the va&sal of the King 
of Norway, aud by virtue of his position was able for 
some fifteen years to enrich himself rather than his ma^iter. 
Then Hakon turned against Snorri, who fled from his Keyk- 
jaholt oastle in 1^36 in fear of his own people^ and rcturn^rd 
to Norway the next year. Earl Sknli was planning a revull. 
Soom at once elected to join the ttRitoT, t!iongh not openly. 
Three yeant later he rrtnmed to Iceland, on hearing of mur- 
derous feuds in his family, thoitgh Hakon h:id te^u^ed permit* 
non for the visit Wliile Snorri wasaway» Hakon learned of 
the treachery, and put an end to Stuli's revolt. Gissur, son- 
in-law of Snorri. had kilted a cottsin of the latter, wliich waa 
what led Snorri to retina and settle family matters as best 
be could. Hakon sent orders to Oissnr to seijic Snorri and 
Kod him captive to Norway for pimishment. This loyal 
viassAl attacked his £ather-in-law in his Rcykjaliolt stronghold 
and there slew him on the 22d of September, 1241. 



iS8 



The world's pnocRsss. 



If Snorri is not to be rcvcra! '4% ^ mixld of civk vii 
ami kiiighil> courage, he caiinol lie denied his title tu ham 
u ihe rescuer, ihc iireitcrvcr, and the adonter of as noble a'! 
national liieratiirc as the world of his day could show. He 
was al once a maker of history, a historiart. and a bom man of 
letters- The traditions of his pco])1e he carefully gatheretl, 1 
assorted, and beautified by the stron^f and fiiinple lani;fuagc infl 
which he gave them immortality. His sturdy sense shine* om" 
in ni;iny a quaint utterance* atch as thi$ bit from one of 
his prefaces, which well shows hi? blunt ityle. "When Har- 
old Huirfair w^» King tn Xortvay, Iceland was settlei], and 
with the king were scalds whow siiiigs folk yet know by 
heart, yea and all sungs on the kings who !iavc since held] 
sway in Nctrway; and mo5l store we set by thai which i* sai< 
in such songs as wctc sung before the chiefs themselves ofj 
the sons of them; and wc liold all that for true, whicb i< 
fouiul in theie songs concerning their way-farings and ihttn 
batllet. Now it is the manner of *calds to praiite lhc«e most\ 
whom tliey stand before while giving forth their song, but no] 
one would dare to tell the king himself deeds, which a!1 who 
hearkened, yea and himself \vith3], knew well were but windy 
talk and lying; for no praise would that be, but inocicing 
rather." 

The Prose Edda consists of the /'Vrwiutf, Preface; the 
Gyifagmning, or Delusion of Gyifi; the Bragcmetkur <ir\ 
Skaldskapormal, dialogue of Bragi and CRgir on the art of 
ixjetry; the Hottatat, a discourse on metres used in Snonft 
ihree poems !n praise of Hakon and Skulf. The Cylfaginnmg 
presents the cfimj>lete*t and bert qWfome of the early myiW- 
ogy of Scandinavia accessible^ This :md the Vngltfig saga 
give the doings nf the gods and the craitlon of the Nurthemfl 
lands with wonderftil graphic power and detail, tlic prose of" 
Snorri surpassing the poem in the purity atij fi-^cc of its flow. 

TitOR AKI> TUI^ ClANT. 

OxE day the god Tlmr let onr with t^oki, hi hw own rha 
drawn by two he-goats ] but> night coming on, they were obliged 
to put up at a peasant's cottage. The god Thor immediatdy 
jiew his two he-goats« and, having flkiimed them, ordered them 



I 




d^ 



MWIAZVAU STOTUES. 



t«9 



to be <!f«sed for luppet. When iliis wa* done, ht aai down to 
tabic, ami mviied the peasant aiid his cliilflrcii to partaki: ivhh 
him. Tttc son of hU hoM wa» nftmcd Thialfc, the dauc:htcr Raaka. 
Tbor batic tbcm throw all the bonc» ;iito the akiiia of the goats, 
u-bich he held extended near the table; but young Thialfe, to 
come ai the marrow, broke, wiili hia krife» cwie o( the shank- 
boiies of the goats. Having passed the night in Thi* place, Thor 
arose early in the morning, ami, dressing lumseir reared the 
handle of hi* hammer; which he had no sooner done, than the 
two i^oats reafsimied their wonted form, only that cue of them 
now halted npon one of hi* hind legs. The god, seeing this. 
immcidUlcly jiidgGi! Ihat thr jira^ant, or one of his family, had 
handled tlic bones of Ihi:^ ^oat too rouG:b]y. Enregcd at their 
folly, he knit hh eyebrowSi rolled his e><s, and, seizing his ham- 
mer, grasprd it wiih M\ch force, that the vrry joints of his fingers 
were white ag^iin. The iicii^ant, trembling, w;»s aftaiil of being 
ttTack down by ore of his looks : he tlierefore, with his children, 
made joint *uil for pardon, offering whatever they possessed in 
recompense of any ibrnuge lliat had hern done, Thor at la^l snf- 
Jered himr.cif to be appeased, and wa^ content to carry away with 
him Thialfe and Ra&ka. 

t-eaving hi» he-g(»al<t in that place Tlior set mit on his road for 
the cctintry of the Giants; aJid, coming to the matgin of the sea. 
»wam across it. aceompanied tiy TliiaUe, Ra^ka and I.oki. The 
first of these was ar txcellerU nmncr, and carrieil Tliors wallet or 
batT- When tiicy had made some advaTice. Uiey found tbemaelvcs 
in a vant plain, through which they marched all day, till they were 
rciluced to great want of provisions. When inglit approached, 
they searched on all M'des for a place to sleep in, and at last, in 
the dark, found the honse of a cenain giant; the gate of which 
was so large, that It took up one whole side of the mansion. Here 
they parsed (he nicht; but abont the middle of it were alarmed 
by an earthjjitake, which violently shook the whole fabric. Thor, 
rising up. called upon his companions to seek along with him 
some place of safety. On the riKht they met with an adjoining 
chamber, into which they entered ; but Thor remained at the entry, 
and whilst tJie others, terrified with fear, crept to the farthest 
comer of iheir retrenl. he armed himself with his hammer, to b< 
In readiness to defend himself at all events. Meanwhile they 
heard a teriiljle noise, and when the morning was come, Thor 
went out, and observed near him a man of enormous bulk, who 
iDored pretty loud. Thor found that thii was the noise which 



tgo 



THK WOKJJ>S l-aCORCSS. 



had ffo dtfihirhcd him, Tbor girded en hia l3«U ^prowcfls, which 
lisd the virtue cf iucreflfiiug strtngtli ; but the giuit swakiDg, 
Thor was afiVfj^ihtcd, and durst not launch his hammer, but con- 
tented hinLsclfwiihftakiiig hia name *' My naiiie iaSkrymncr." 
replied the ether; "a^ for you, 1 need not inquire whether yon 
are ihe god Thor. Pray, tell t»e, have wot yon jHdcid up my 
glove?" nien prestutty stretching forth his haijd to lake It up, 
Thor perceived that the house wherein they had passed the ui|:ht 
WAS tbftt very *:l**vc, mid the chamber was only one of it* fiof^ers. 
Ileretipon Skrymtier Asked whether tbcy might not join com- 
p^ny^ nnd Thor cuuseiiling, the giatil ui>timl hin wallet, and 
too^ out Mmethiug to caL Thor und hia coiupiiiiona ha^inc 
dotic the »ame, Skr^niuer put both their walleta together, and, 
Inying them i>n his shoulder, began to niflrch at a great rate. At 
night, when the olhfrrs w%re ccme np, the ginnt went to rcpcue 
nndcr an oak, showing Thor where he intended to lie, and biddiu( 
hiui help himsiJf to vicLnab out of the waUel. Meanwhile he 
fell to snore strongly- Bui, what is very incredible, when Thor 
cnmt? to open the wnllet, he criuld not uMie one »iiglc knot. 
Vexed at this, be seiried his h^mntei, and Launched It at the 
eiaut's head. Ho, awakm^. a&ked, what haf had fallen upoti his 
head, or what it could be. Thor pietei^ded to go to sleep nader 
another oak; but observhig about midnight thai Skrymnernnorvd 
agaiu* be took his huLitiicr and diovc it into the hinder port oE 
hishea:]. The ginnt, awakifi^, deinaitda of Thor, whether some 
■moll grain of dnnt had not &llea upon his head, and why be did 
not goto sletp. Thor answ'ered, he was going; hut, ptnently 
aflcr, rewjiving to havc^ a tlnnl blow at bis eucmy, be collectj^ all 
his force, and launches his hammerwith so nnieh violence againat 
the giant's cheek, that h forced its way into it up to the handle. 
Skr^-mner. awaking, slightly raises his hend to his cheek, saying 
*'Atc there any birds perched upon thi* tree? I thought one of 
Iheir feather* had fallen upon rut" Then he added. "WJai 
keeps you awake, Thor^ l fancy it is now tine for tis to get up, 
and drcsa ourselves. You are now not very far from the city of 
Utgard. I have h^ard yoii whisper to one another, that I was of 
very talT *^taiurc; but you will see inary there much larger than 
myself. Wherefore I advise you, when you come Ihtthcr, not to 
take upon you too much ; for in that place they will not bear with 
il from »nch liule men as you, Kay» I even be1ie\-e that yo^jf 
best way is to turn back again: bitt if you »ttll per»5t in your 
resolution, take the road that leads eastward ; for, « for me, mine 



: 




u^ui£VAi, sTouas. 



191 



noTthH*' HcTcupon Skryntncr thrvw hu vrfiTltft avtr 

I never could hcur tbat th^ god Thor wi»hc<l him a ^ocxl jour- 
ner ; but proc«c<lfiig on his way, along wllh hiA companiotts, he 
p^TCcivol, aoout iiooTi, a d I y situated \u the mirldjc of a va«t 
plaid. Tliis city wjaa so lofty, that one could uot look up to the 
top of it, wilhout thr^vnne his head quite back tipan the shoul- 
d»tt. The gate-way ytsa cbwsd with a {^ate, which Thor iiet^er 
could have opeued ; but he and his compauiotts crept tlircu^b the 
baii^. Butcrhit,' lu, they tMW & large palace and uiicii of a pio- 
difciouB stature. Then addressing the king, who wns tumcd 
Utf^ardft'l^oke, they saluted him with great rcjcpect. The king, 
having at liLit discenii-d them, bTcike oiit Into mich a bnral of 
tau^^'l*^^ 1"* di*ituuijxxieJ every feature of his fiuuc. " It would 
take up too much time." 8a>'3 he, "to a^k you coueeraing the 
long journey you hnve perfoniicd ; yet, if 1 do not mistake, that 
little man whom I sc< there should be Thor: jwrhaps, indeed, he 
is larger than he appears to me to be; but m oitler to judge of 
thia/' ftdded he, addrcssmg his diacour^ to Thor, " let me «cc a 
specimen of those arti by wiiich you arc distinguished, you and 
your compflnit^ns : for nobody is permitled to rtmatn here, unless 
he uudcrstiind some art. atid excel in it all other men/' lA^ki 
then aaid, that his art consisted ui eating more than any other 
man in the world^ and that he would challenge any one at that 
kind of combat. " It utu^l, indeed, be owned," replied the king, 
"that you arc cot wanting in dexterity, if you are able to perform 
what yoa promise. Come, then, let us put it to the proof." At 
tiu aame time he ordered one of his courtierG, who waa sitting on 
ft fldd^becch, and who&e name wiLs I^ge {i.f. Flame^, to eome 
li)aivard, and try his F^kill willi Lold in the ait they were speaking 
oC Then he caused a pxat trough, full of provisioHn-^, to be 
placed upon tlic bar, nnd the two champions at euch end of it; 
who immediately fell to devour the vicliials with so muoh eager- 
Vtsm. ihAl they piescnlly met in the middle of the trough, aud 
w«re obliged to desist. But Lokt h^d eat only tlie fiesh of his 
portion ; whereas the other had devoured both flesh and bones. 
All the company therefore adjudged that Loki was vanquished. 

Then Uie king a^ked what that young man could do who 
accompanied Thor. Thial^ answered, that, in running upon 
ikfttM be would dispute the prt^e with any of the courtiers. The 
klog OTrned that the laknt he ^poke of w;is a very fine one; but 
that he mnT<t exert hinuclf, if be would come off conqueror- He 




■* ■ " '^' 



I<j3 



TUC WORU>'S F&OGRSSS. 



thc-n nrtN^ Qfi'f conducted Thiairc* to n "niony*' pAftin. giving 
bim n yoaug mtta i^amcd tlugo (T]iou2ht)todi9]>(iiJ: th? ]>n£Cof 
swiftaesa with bioL. But this Hu^ !»o much ooti^tnpped ThJAiA: 
thsLt, In rettiming to th« bani«r wL«nce tbey fJtX out, tbejr m«t &ce 
tofnc«. Then said the king, "Another mal. ami you may per- 
hftps exert y^'VursclfbcUcr." Tlity llicrtforc rau a kccowIcouisc 
tti<iThin]fc yn^ a full bo^r-?Iiot ^m t]ic Txiundno' when Hti^ 
ltrri\'«d At it. Ttury lou a tliird time, but Hugo had oircfidj 
reacbed tlie goa! before Thialfc Jind got half wny. Hereupon til 
vtho wcic |jicbc-iit t^ML-d oiLt, tli4t iLae biid bccu a 6uf&cicut thai 
of .-ikiU in tlLJs kitid of exercise. 

Tbeii tbc king SLAktd Thor in ^vbat art h« would choose to 
give proof at chnt tlexleriiy for which Le was &o famotu. Tbor 
replied, tliul lie wuuU con lest the pjiitc uf dimkiug with any per- 
50EI belonging to liis court. T1:c kirig consetitcd, end inunc- 
dijitely went into liiit palace to look for a large horn, out of whicb 
b1?i courtiers wen? oliltgeJ Xa drink wbtni iliey land coanroitted any 
treepaaa against Uie ciuUima of tlic court. Thi» tbc cup-bearer 
filled to the brim and prcsvntcd Co Thor, whilst ihe king apakc 
tfaos: "Whoever is a good drinker will empty that honi at a 
single drsnght ; snmr persons niikt two of il, but tlit must puny 
driukci cf all can du it at three." Tlior luoked «t tbc Ik/iu, aud 
was fistonishcd at ita length ; however he wa» very thirsty* he aet 
it to Jns mouth, aiid without drawiug hrentli, pulled as long and 
as deeply as he could, that he might not l>e olsligcd to ntakv a 
second draught uf it; but when lie withdrew the cup from hi» 
mouth, in order to look in, he could scarcely perceive any of tbe 
liquor gone' To it be went agum with all his might, but suc- 
ceeded TiQ better than before. Al lust, ftilJ of indignaiitin, he 
agaiu set the hom to bis ]ip7«, anil exrrled hiTn^If to the utiaort 
to empty it eutircly — then looking: in, he found that the liquor 
waa a little lowereil ; upon thU, he resoivvd to attempt it no 
more, but gave buck the horu. 

"T tiow sec plainly," said tbc ktuK, "that thou ait uot quite 
ao atout fiA we thought tbce ; btu art thou williug to make uiy 
more triaLi?" '*! am sure," said Thor, "bucb draughts aa I 
have been dHnkiug would not have been reckoned small among 
theguds; but what view UioJ have you to propose?" "We have 
a trifliug game here." replied the king, "in which wecvcrdae 
none but children. It constats in Ufttug my cat from the i^TOtiud. 
Kor nhfiuld 1 have meutioned it, if I hnd not already cbserred 
that you an bv no means what wc tuuk >vu Sot." I mmed iately a 



UEDEAEVAi, stonrcs. 



193 



laigc iron colored cat leaped into the ciiddle of the hnlU Tbor, 
'Mivanciiigt put hi» band under tbe oar$ bell)', uud did hu uuuo6t 
to r««e him from lUe grouud— but llie cal, iMrudiii^ liia ba^k, had 
only oijc tjf Im feet lifted up, '' The event," says ilic kiug, ''is 
jtifit what I forciaw; the cat is latere but Thor is litilc ia com- 
ptrj^ODorthamcti her«." *' Mttleu I asti,'* say* Thor, "letme 
«ec who will wrestle with njc" Thtr king, lookitijf round him, 
my^, " I ncc nubudy hetc wbu wtjuld vol thtuk it beneath him lo 
enter ihc liata with you 1 let soiucbody, howcvtr, call hither toy 
nur^ HcLi (Dcsth) to wrcsilc witli this god Tbor; she hath 
thrown to ilie ground mnny a IjcIIct man than he/* Iniin«liflttly 
a t;xJtl]lc?>:4 ciM woman entacd Ltic bsill. ** This is abc,'' su>& tbe 
kiuff, " wilb whom you must wrc^Hllc." 

Thor and tbc woman struggled long, but tbe more vigorously 
Thor Assaf!ed her, tht^ more immnv^hle she storxl. At length the 
old wumon had tcconrM: to atrata^ms^ mid Thcr cuiild ti4>t ke<:p 
his icet au steadily, but that slie, hy a violeut :^trugglcr brought 
him upon one knee. Thui the Lin^ came lo them oad ordered 
them TO desist — adding, (here now Teniairied nobody In hta court 
whom be could ask with honor to condescend to fij^ljt with Thor. 

Thor parsed the ni^ht tn thut place with hi.i compauioiid, and 
was preparing so depatt lhe»t« early the next niominx't when the 
kbig ordered him to be sent for. and gave hba a magntficcut cnier- 
Uiutncut, Aftei this he accotup^uicd him out uf the city. When 
tiicy were just Koinf to hid adieu to each oihcr. the kiu^ «»ked 
Thor what hethongUt of the »ncccw of hts expedition. Thor told 
him be coultl not but own that bew<?Tit away very much ashamed 
«ud dlsappcriiued. "* It behouve^i me then." '^yn tlir king, "to 
discover the truth to you, iiircc you are out of my city, which you 
shall never re-enter whilst 1 live and r«i^. And I a^isure you, 
tliat bad I kiicJwu tjeforehand you hnd T>een ^ strong and mighty, 
I woulJ not Iiavc suffered you lo enter now. Bnt I rnchanled 
yon by toy illusions: first of all in the forest, where I arrived 
before you. And there you wcrft not able lo mitie your wallet* 
beciu^e 1 had fastened it with a ri:igic chain. You aflerwanls 
ajmcd thiee Mowa at me with your humitier: tlie first stroke, 
though alight, would have brought me to the eround, had I 
receive it; but when yon are gone beuoe you will meet with an 
tmmeuKe rock, in which arc thrrv n;irrnw valleya of a »qnare 
iwm. one of them in purlicuhir rcmarlcnhly dcrp, Tlirrse are the 
breaches made by your hammer, ict J al that time by concealed 
behind the rock, which you did nut ncrceivc, 

V-ll 





t94 



THE WORLDS PROGRESS. 



"I have uMd ihc Mffic illusions in the contents yoti haw ha<l 
witli the people of my cuurL In Uic fin&L, [.okc. like hunger 
iudf, <I<rvourcd all th&t was set berorc him: but hi& opponent, 
l-ogc, was nothing eUe but u waudering Fitc, which itj*,lantJy 
consumed not only the meat, buC the bones. ai]<l die vcr> iiuu^h 
Itself. Ilufio, with whom 'I'hialfc disputed the prue of swiftndfi. 
wa$ no other than Thoitghc, and Jl was impo^^blt for Tliialfe to 
keep pacr with thau When ycni attempted iw empty die horn, 
you performed, upon my word, a deed so niarvcJou* that 1 should 
never have believed it^ if I bad not «een it myself; for one end of 
the horn reached to the sea, a ctraHn>tdiKC >oii did i:ot observe: 
but the tint time you go to the ac^Mde, you wtl) ^ee hovt^ much it 
h diminitbcd. You perfnrmpd rny less a miracle in lifting the 
cat: and, to letl you the tnidi, when we saw thai cne of her 
paws had cjuitted the earth, we were aII extremely f-urprited and 
terrified ; for what you look for a cat wa; in reality ihc great Ser- 
pmt of Mldgar<], which encompasdcn the earth, and he wa> then 
scarce long eriongh to touch the earth widi his head uid lap; w 
high had your hand raided him up towards heaven. As to >oor 
wrestling ^hith an old woman, it is very astonishing that she could 
only bring you down upon one of your knece; for it was Deatfa 
you wrtitled with, wh», firxt or last, wJTl bring evrr^' one low, 

■*But now, as we arc going to part, let mc tell you, tlial it will 
be equally for your advflnlage and mine, that you never come 
near me agnin; T^r, should you do so, I shall again defend myself 
by uiher illusions ami enchantments, so tlui yuu will never prevail 
against me." — As he utteret! thece words, Thor» in a rage, laid 
hold of his hammen and would have launclied it at the king, bat 
he suddenly disappeared, ard when th? god would have relumeii 
to the city to destroy it, he found nothing all around him but vast 
plains ci^vered with verdure^ Continuing, thrrefore; hi» course, 
he returned, without ever stopping, to his palace. 



DhaTh ok Bai,deb. 

(The jSa]t w«r« 1h« gods of die Pagan Notm; and Balder was ibdr 
Apollo,) 

Bmjicr tuk Goo]> Itaving been tormented with terriUe 
dreams, indicating that hi^ life was in great peril, eormnunicaied 
them to the assembled ^sir. who rcsalvcU to conjuir all things 
to avert from him the thrcatentd danger. Then Frigga exacted 
an oath froni fire and water, from iron, and all oiher mctali, as 
well as from nones, earths, diseases^ beasts, birds. poUcna. aii^ 



UEI>IAKVAL STOKISS. 



"95 



creeping tbin^. llifil iivuc of llicm wuuld do »iiy bann la Falrler. 
WbcD thb was (lone, it bec^iinc a favorite pftatimc of tlie JEw, si 
thdr meetings, to get Balder to stand up find serve them as a 
iikarle^ fiome hurling dans at him, »oitie stones, while otlicr» hewed 
at liim iritb their iiwords aud balUe'axcs, fur do tLey what Ibey 
iroitld Dooe of them could bona hin, and this was regarded by 
all aiA great honor ^howii to Balder. But wheu X/>ki, the »on 
of Laufity, bf^held llie w*ne, be v-ms sorely vexed that Balder was 
not hurl. Assuuiiug, lUercfoj*. the ^apc of a wouiaii, be weitt 
to Fensflbr, The tuaimon of FrigKa. That icoddeu, vbcn she 
taw the prvteiided wontan, iuquired if nhc knew what the Mnr 
were doing at thrir meetings. She replied, iliHt they were tbTow 
lug darts ai:d stouca at Balder williout Lciii^ aUc to burl bint. 

"Aye," said HriKRo, " neither metal nor wood can hurt Balder, 
for I have exacted au oath frorti all of tbem." 

" Wliair* exclaimed the worn un, 'have all things Hworn to 
apaie Bolder?" 

"All tbiusE^" Tcplred FriEga, "except a little shrub that 
grows on the esislem Mde of Valhalla, and in called MiKtietoc, 
nncl which I tbiiughl ttHJ youny anti feeble la crave an oath 
Erooi/' 

Aa soon afi Lolei heard this he ^<ent away , and, rcfiumttig \xva 
natural shapt, cut otT the mistletoe, and repaired to the place 
Vvbete the grsds were assembled. There he fonnd Hodiir stand' 
lug apart, wilbout partaking of the sports, on account of bis 
blindness, and going up to htm, said, " Why dost tbou not alao 
thrtjw lomethiiip at Balder ?" 

"Beca^iso I Jim blind." answerefl Hodiu, " and see not where 
Balder ia, and have, moreover, uothlng to throw witb/' 

" Come then," naid Ix^ki, " do like the rest, ftnd show honor 
to Bolder by throwing' tbi» twig at him, and I will direct thy arm 
toward the pliice where he •tlauds/* 

Hodur then look tbc miatLctoe, and under Ibe guidjujoe of 
IfOld, darted it at Balder, who, fierced through and through, 
t, lifdc^. Surely never wns there witnessed, either 
or men, a more atrocious deed than thisl Wbcu 
Balder fell, the jEsir were struck speechless with horror, and 
tbCD tbey looked at each other, and all were of one mind to lay 
btada on him who bad done the deed, but they were obbged to 
delay their vengeance out of respect for the sacred place (Peae*- 
ateadi where Ehey were ns^embled. Thc>' at length gave vent to 
tbdr grief by loud lameatatious, though not one of tbcm could 



196 



tHE world's progress. 



Sad warcb to express the pot^nuncy of hii fcdinga. Odin, tspt- 
tanXiy wad more scn^bLc thnu tb^ oihtr% of the losw thty had suf- 
fered, fnr he fnrcHiw whiii himn Baliler\ di^lh vrtjuM Ixr lo llic 
Sajt. Wlioi Uit god* came lo Ui«nsclvts» Frigga stskcd who 
wnong dttfn wished to ii^iun all her los'e and ^ood witt; "For 
thfa,** said she, "»Iul! h« have who wdl ride ta Hcl and if)- to 
find Balrler, and ofTrr Hda » ratimm if »hc will Id him irtixtn 
to AsKCLrd;" whereupon TEcnnod, sumumcd the Nimblcii tbc aoa 
ol Odia, o0cred to uadcnakc %li^ journey. Odin*fi horso Sldpnir 
wa*^ thm Ir^cf forth, on wHrh llmnod iruiunLeil, ujid gsdlt^Hrd 
awa3- on hi^ mL^Mn1l. 

The ^Ubit thcD took the dtstd boi\y und bore it to the ecuhorti 
where Ktood Btilder^t ship Hringhrjnk. whirh piLtted for thft 
largest in th« wurld. Bui Ahiru tticy w^ated to Umidi it in order 
to m^kc HfiMcr's Funcml pile on it, they were uimbic to make it 
itir. in tliis cocjunciure they seat to Jotimlieitn for a certain 
giantess namt-d Hyrrokin, who came mounted on a wolf« having 
twisted serpents for n bridle. A.% 30on n^ she alightc<l, Odin 
ordered four 6erectkif to l^olj het &Leed fast, who w«ie, honxvefr 
obliged to throw ihe AniitiAl nn thr ^»mnnd rre they miilrl elTrer 
Lhcir purpose^ !fyirokui then went lo the sbipp and with a sin- 
gle push set it ailoat, but the motion was so violent that hre 
sparkled from the nillen:, and the earth (hook all around- Thor, 
enraged at the sight, gniN|H"d his niallirt* and but fcr tlie tnlofcr- 
ence of the ^^Esir would have broken the woman's skuU. Baldcr's 
body was then borne to the funeral pile on board the (bip, and 
this ceremony liad such effect on Nanna, tJie daughter of Kep, 
that her heart broke with grief, and her body wa^ burnt on the 
some pile with her huEbcuid's, Thnr then flood up and hallowed 
the pile with MJolnir, and during the ceremony kicked a dwarf 
named Litur» who Vt^as rumiing lirfcjre hin feet, into the fire- 
Thcre was a vast eoneoursc ci various kinds cf people at Balder'^ 
ob£e(]uics- Fir^t came Odin, accompanied by Frigga, the Vfll- 
kyrjor Juid hb ravens; llicu Fiey m liis lar diawn hy a tvMr; 
Hcimdo] rode his hor« called Gulltopp. and Freyja drove in her 
chariot drawn by cats. There were td*o a great many Proat- 
giapts and giants of the mountains present- Odhi bud on the 
pile the gold ring colled Draupnirn which afterwards acquired the 
property of prrxluclBg every ninth night eight rings of eqtul 
weight. Balder;^ hor?»e wa* led lo the pile fully capahsoned, and 
consumed in the same flames en the body of hik master. 

Meanwhile, Hcnood was proceeding on bis mlBsioa. For the 



A 



MI?T>IAKVAL STORIES. 



197 



%^<LCe of nine dxyn, and u many nighu, he rode tbrou^ t^cep 
gletti so dart ihal he roiiM ncit tU*ceni anything uiiiil Ut- nrrivnl 
at tlie ri\'er GjqU, wbidj Lc pttaoed over »ii j briUj^c covcicd with 
i;]incTinf gold. Modgttdur, Uic maiden wh<^ kept the bridge, 
Ackcd htm hifi riAtne and lineage^ telling bim that the day bcfcn 
fivp Irnndiiof dead prrsons hsd riddm over (he bridge, and did 
not nhake it »o luudi a« he aloiic- " But.'* she a<3ded, "Ihou 
baet not death's line on thee ; why then ridut thou here on the 
way toH*i? ■ 

"I ride TO Hd," at»3werei.l Henuod, "to seek Bftlder. Bfist 
thou perchance seen Ijiin p&s^ IhU way?" 

" Bolder," >hc replied, " hnth nddcu over OjoU*ft bridge, hut 
ther« below, towanlfl the north, lie» the wuy to the obodee ci 
deft til." 

neruiod then puisucd Ills jouruey nuUl be came to the barred 
galea oi^ licl. Here he alighted, girthed hi^ luiddle ti^btcr^ and 
fetnotrntiiign clapped both itpur^ to his honie, wiio cleared the t;ute 
by a trenurmJous leap wicliout louchtiig it. Herwod ih^i rode 
on to the palace, wbeic he found lii&biuthcf Balder occupy lug tlie 
moflt diatincutshcd £cat in the ball, and passed the nifcbt in hi^ 
COmpoJiy. The next morning he besought Hda (Death) to kt 
Balder ride huine wiih hiin, assuring her that nolhinjf but 
Unieiitatloui wcie to be beard amon^ the ^odti. Hela au^weied 
that it shouM now be tried ^^hetlier Balder waa ao beloved oa he 
waft uLid to bc- 

"If therefore," >;hc added, **all things in the world, bolh living 
aad lifelead. wec]i for him. thru alidl be returu to tlie «&ir, but 
if any one thing speak agoiui^t bim or refuse to weep, he shall be 
keptm Hel," 

Hennod then rnnc, and Bftlderled himontof the halt and gave 
him tlie riuiE Dtanpnir, to present as r kceifiake to Odin. Nanna 
also ^nt Frigga a lincii cudsock and other i^IU, and to Fulla a 
gold fingcr-ring. Heimod theii rode back to Asgard, and gave 
an account of all hr hat] heard and witnessed. 

The god-<i upon tbia despatdtefl messengers throughout the 
world* lo bcx everything In weep, in order that Balder tniglit be 
delivered froro Kel. AH tltiugsver)- willingly complie^l with this 
rrqnni, both nien and every other living lieing. as well aseartht 
mad stones, and tiecs and miruU, just sui thon Uivst have wen 
tbcK thtnf^ weep when they are brought from n tvld place into a 
bot one- A.* the in«itsenger« were returning with llie conviction 
that their toisaon had been qnke snccvssful, they fourd an old 



"■^ '"^ — — 



•98 



TVt W01EIJ>» rROCRlHB, 



liMff named Tliaukt Aittiog in a cavcm. nnd begged h«r to vccp 
JBaldcr out ol H«I> iJut slic aD&u««r«d, 

- ThAukt win W4U 
Wlih Arid tMift 
BoldcT't bale fire. 

By run'n ton u-xin I. 

Let Mela holi wbals hen-" 

Tt wa4 strongly ^uq^ccted ibat thk 1ia|r «fis ito other ifian Lokl 
Lioucir, wbo ucvcr evaded to work evi) amon^ tli« .fair. 



TUA PUNtSUMEKT OF TjOXL 

WnKi« Loki perceived bow exasperated tite gods were for the 
filayiiig of littlder, he fled and hu\ himsjclf in Uie mountains. 
There he built him n dwelling with (i^iir doors, so that he could 
see everythinK that paasecl nround him, Often in the dojitmc be 
»st^umcd the likened of a !tolin(^» and concealed bisueU tukdcr 
llie waters of a cascade called Kraiiangiirsfori, wbf re he employed 
hmifielf in diviuiu)^' and ciictnuventing whrttrwr stiatdgeius tlie 
^slt might have recourse to in order to catch him. One daj, &« 
hefiflt in hi^ dwelling he took Hnx aad yora^ and vrorked tbem 
into meshes iu ihts tnanncr tUnt ncUt have ^hice b^eti made by 
Ji.sheTTneuH Odin, however, had de:<riied hiHTetie^l oittof Hltit^dt* 
jalf, ai:(l Loki bccumiug awaie tl;at lUe godd were approochiug* 
threw bis net into the tire, and ran to codceal himself in the river. 
When the gods t^ntered the hoii:^ Kvo^ir, who ww the moAt difl- 
linguislied Hiuong them all fur his {juickncvt awl prtietTatiKi, 
traced out in the hot embers the ^'e^ti{^s of the net which had 
heen burnt, and told Odin tbal it must be an invi^ition to catch 
6^h. Whereupon They set to work and wove a net after Ibemodd 
they saw tnipn'ntetl in the Bshe%. 

Thid net. when fitiiahed, the>' threw into the river in which 
Loki bud hidden laiusclf- Thor held one end of the uet> aud all 
the other gods Idid hold of the other end, ihns jointly drawing It 
:il(ing the stream. Not with standing ell tlieir prceautioTis the net 
passed t»ver Loki. who bad crept hrtwecn tvro stones, and the godla 
only perceived that some ItvHn;; thing had toiKhed the mesbca. 
They therefore cast their net a second time, banging so grest a 
weight to it that ic everywhere raked the bed of the river. Bat 
Lold, perceiving that he had bat t ahort dtatanc^ from the sea, 



URDlAffi^At STO&IES* 



<» 



nvflin onwarri^ and leapt over the net into the wnterfnll. The 
Majt msiiUtlXy followed him, and divided themselves inlo iwn 
baoda. Thor, wailiu^; tilou^ eh miJ-atrcun. fallowed tlie ucl, 
wbtUt the others drAgfi:cd it olorin; tuw^rds the ^a. hokx then 
ptrccsvcd that he had only two cliancea of escape, eillicr to swim 
Otit to *ea, at in lc;ip n^nm over the net. He ^Ouwr thr tnLirr. but 
s» he tw>k u trcmendtftut Icip. 'that csuglit him in hi» hdncl. 
Dcing« however, cxtreajcly ftlipptr>'< h*; would have cdcopfd, hod 
not Thor held him fast by the taiU and this is the reAsoii why 
atlmoft^ have harl their lailsever since sn f ne and ihin. 

Tl)c god:* having thua captiiretl t,dk\, dragged him without 
GOtmniAcriition into a csvcni, wheretn Uiey pUced Uirce sbarp- 
pMnted rocIcA, boring a hole through e&cU of Them» Hriviitg also 
telijed LoU'ft childreu. Vali And Nari, They cliaiiged ihe former 
into a wolf, and In tlim UkcncSi^ he toi? his brother to pieces and 
dCTOured him. The god* then made cotds of his intestines, with 
which they l>oiind I^kt on the points of tlie rock*, one cord pass' 
ing under bi& vlionldt^ii, ^inollK-r uiidi_-r bis Unm, and a third niid«r 
bb bani!i« and aflervr;irda tij^u&foruied thr&c cords into chains of 
iron. Skadi thcu suspended a serpent over him in such a manticr 
tliat the venom f^hould fall on his face, drop by drop. But Sigjn, 
ht-t wife, standi hy bim nnd receives the drops as ihL-y fall in a 
mp. which she emptier a% often as it ts filled. But while slie ia 
doing this, venom folia upon Loki, which makes bim liowl wUb 
horror, and twist hie body al^otit so vioIenUy thai the whole earth 
shakers and thi4 producer wl;at men call earthquakes. There 
will Lokl lie until Ra^ATuk. 



FRITHIOF AND ANOAKTVR, 

Tmt writing of ibe Sat^a of Fritliiyf (or Fridthiof ) is asMigned 
Vi|>ii«ly to the luTL'inh or thirteenth ctntur>". The name of tli* aulhet 
la uukoovtD. and tlic story belongs ruUier to loiuantic liieratuic than 
to hiiloty. In the eaily years of the nineteenth eentuiy, the teamed 
Gweditfb poet, Biehoi> Es^tas Tcgncr, rctoM the story in such atttae- 
live vray^ at roi only Ift win n!*tifinai approval , hut tnallract uuivrrsnl 
jittnit^n, %^QSt of hia work has had the ^ood fortune to be rendered 
into HngTinb hy Longfi^noWn aspartof "TbeTatiriiof ihp W^jside Inn," 
OthfT Eni^lJali vcriiiuns hnvc nppcattdi and the followinK exlrnct frcm 
th«t by R- G^ I^lhflm is g^iven ns lesi generaUy knr^wn, yet preserHng 
tbc TvJrit of the on^rinal. 

'TwAS when the sun was sinking, »o like a swan of gold, 
That all bis uiai were drinkin^H with Augantyr the bold; 



JCyO THE WOftLDS PROGRESS. 

Thftr beards were all in motion^ their halla were all of (rtnc. 
They looked upon the ocean and watched its foamy brine; 

And Halvar, old and hoary, stood by the portals pale ; 
He shared the heroes* glory, and served the heroes' ale: 
A slow and solemn speaker; a swordsman stem and stout; 
That only filled his beaker, and only drank it out; 

But now did send it sliding along the door, and cried : 
"I spy a vessel riding in trouble on the tide ; 
Its men be weak and weary, their days are welUni^ o'er; 
Though two big giants carry their drooping hulks ashore." 

The Earl looked o'er the ocean, so mirrorlike and dear ; 
Saw brine and bark in motion^ her steersman standing near : 
He tells him by his bearing, and by his looks so free ; 
No man of Norway's rearing was herolike as he. 

From round the dnnking-tabte. the Berserk Atlc broke ; 
His beard was shagged and sable, he thundered as he spoke : 
"Now try we what «*as vauntrd about this doughty foe; 
That Frithiof ne'er was daunted, betide him weal or woe," 

l*p!itart at Atle's starting twelve sea^ldi^ big as he; 

They scared the winds at parting, they slashed their swords 

so free; 
The ship lay weak and wear^. her crew sat on the strand: 
Yet Friihioi kopi hir:^ cheeiy\ and cheered his drooping band. 




>"'.'.V -T-r-*::^ ^-iv; I f.-^r banle:" *a? FHtScofs weary 

> r. .'-: ■ ^.*?-'?K-'^ t^-^f ^\ttT>_ "_' try rr:^ : . '-. j^* 5wtt\!.^ 
Vv ' ''.v/^i-/ :V' *>.'^:.> ST >Tir^r. aT>i s^^oe their swords 

\.^*- . - v;., : *:-\-k.r< St\r* — ^r^ ;!■,-* >EMfjer ^nc* tw^n: 

r-,-^' ^. - - - .'.- ^ --^rc^r-j; fJ^-'^ V-wrs'^ rxog fist. 



CHAPTER XIX. 

AUCASSIN AND NICOLETE. 

!w Tvcntt yran the jitoUy fionK-sl-JnT of the Jove nod a^rcntnr«« 
of AacoMin and Nicolctc hva lutciv captLvAled the bcutA of »^ r^vcf a 
nf lucnlurt. It has )wm doiw mlo Hn^lich by Andrew Lan^, end 
other «xceI1<^t writer*, w!io hnvc all comnicndcd the skill and orir>a- 
alily of the niimfl&s Author Wliilp hr rrprodiir™ ihr mnnTicni 
und tone of n dintaiit a£;e. he tnadiu chord* ^hUh Tihfntc in 
Mfii\cTj\ hc-ifU. StrdniMn wnd Mhcr fKnU nf tn-day ha\r jinid Irilmte 
tr> the medi^wal mojitcr of their lui. Some eritic8 object to the bur- 
Itaquc interlude of tlie country of Totrlorr, but this b raerely the 
fuitjuiic rcvcrae of th* fciry t*lt of tli« lovrre. 

Fair Nicolet^ woa in prison in the chamber. An<l Che tioi»c 
and bniit of it w«nt through alt the country' ;tiid utl the Ijnd. how 
thai Nifnlftt* WBs IfKt, Sr.mr s:*id ^^c hnd Pod thr <*oiititr>', and 
.vrme tliAt the Count GaTin dc DiniicAirc li^d caused h^r to be 
dJain. \Vlioaocvcr had joy Ihercfif, hi^ .ion Ancanrin had none, m> 
lie weui lo the CnpEain of the town and !ip:\kc tc htm* paying : 

"SirCaptftin, what lift*.! ilinii niftdf of Nloolcle, my sweet U(ly 
iui4 IovCh the thing that best I Iotc tu all the world I nost thou 
carried her off or ravbhcd her away from rac? Know wtU that 
If I die of it. the price »Ual) be demanded of thee, and that will 
be well done, for it sli&U be even as if thim hiiUt sTalii nie with 
Ihy two band^ for tbou hast Xok^ii fium me the tlitng that iii this 
world r loved Ihc l)C5t." 

" F:iir Sir," A^id the Captain, " let these things be. Nicolete 
U ;i on[ilive tUftt I did Iniii^ from a Hlrange eonntrj-. Veai, I 
bought her at toy oww dmrKc^ of tlic Saracenft, and I bred her up 
and baptiied her, and made her my daughter in Cod. And I 
have cheriihed her, and one of these days I would ha^*e given 
her u yonng nun, to win htr bread lioiKniibly. With ih:a hast 
Ifaoa ti^kUgbt to do. btit do thou take the daughter of a King 

a Count, Nay more, what wouldst thou deem thee to has^e 
Lineal, had»t ihon made her thy lem^n^ and taken her to thy 
bed? Flenliful luck of amiforl hadst thou got thercliy, for in HpII 
would Ui) aoul have lain while Uie world endures, and into Para- 
dise wouldst tbou b&TC entered never/' 

"In Paradise what have I to win? Therein I seek not to 
enter, but *>nly to have Nicolete, my sweei Udy that f love sn 
well. For into PaTadij<c go none but nuch folk as I shall tell thee 
now: Thttber gothear same old priests, am! hall old men and 
QUinwd, who all day and nirht cower continually before the altars. 



202 THE world's PKOCR^SS. 

and in the crypts; and such folk as wear old amices and old 
clouted frocks, and naked folk and shoeless, and covered with 
■ores, perishing of hunger and thirst, and of cold» and of little 
eaae- The^ be they that go into Paradise ; with them have I 
naught to do- But into Hell would I fain go; for Into Hell 
fare the goodly clerks, and goodly knigfats that fall in toumeys 
and great wars, and stout men at arms, and all men noble. With 
these would I liefly go. And thither pass the sweet ladies and 
courteous that have two lovers, or three, and their lords also 
thereto. Thither goes the gold, and the silver, and cloth of vair, 
and cloth of grts, and harpers, and makers, and the prince of this 
world. With these I would gladly go, let me but have with me 
Nicoletc, my sweetest lady," 

**Certes," quoth the Captain, "in vain wilt thou speak thereof 
for never shalt thou see her ; and if thou hadst word with faer, 
and thy father knew it, he would let bum in a fire both her and 
me, and thyself might well be sore adread.'* 

"That is even what irketh me," quoth Ancassin. So he went 
from the Captain sorrowing- Here singeth one : 

Ancassin did so depart Sweet thy foot Jail, sweet thine 
Much in dole and heavy at heart eyes. 

Pot his love so bright and dear. Sweet the mirth of thy replies. 

None might bring him any Sweet thy langhter, sweet thy 

cheer, fece, 

Nonemightgiv'e good words to Sweet thy lips and svreet thy 

hear, brow. 

To the i^laee doth he fare, Andthe touch of thine embrace. 

Climbrlh up the palace^stair. All frr Ihee I sorrow now, 

Pastfieth to a chamber there* CaptiA'e tn an evil placet 

Thus Kr^**t sorT\*w iSoth he Sear Whence I ne'er may go my 
For hi* laiiy and lo^'e so fair. ways. 

*^ Nicv^ete, how ijLiT art thou. Sister, sweet frieod!*' 

So »y they, ^^j^ they. teU they the Tale : 

While AucasKH wa* in the chamber sforrowing for Nicoletc his 
k*veK ewa thtMi the Cok;i: Bougai^ de Valence, that had his war 
to wat(Ce, Vfjj;:it it iiv> whit, bet had oiUe^i up his bcaaeuKu and 
hi* lOotTutu, A> Tji-iJ,e he cor the ojstle to stonn it. And the cry 
ol' brttttr JLTv^se. iud the din. iad knights ai^i m«x at axnxs bnaked 
iheoi, A»i Ti^ to waVji iu^i i»t«s to hold the keep. And the 
K^wttt'JoUs ons»<wited :o ^w Nirtietaeats, and cast down bolts and 
!f^e«. Then whiV ^c ,u«;tute was gxeaL and eren at its beJgh^ 



IdCDrAeVAL STORUS. 



aoj 



thr Count G^TiD de BiaucaiTe came Iniotbe clisirabi?r where \\\^ 
c^f^]t\ wa> [ji;tking lamcitt, scnrowiiig for Nlcolct?, hh »vcct Iwiy 
that he loved so well. 

'' Ha! son/' cjuotb be, * how caitiff ait thou, and cowardly, 
that canst see men nssaii tliy goodliest casTle uiid atrODgtjit! 
Kiiiiw tbuu thut if ihuti Iuac it, tbuu lobv^t alt. Sun. gu tu, take 
aims, and mouiU thy horac, aud defend iby Imid. and help thy 
men, and fare irtto the sX^xxr. Thou necdsl not smite nor be smiX- 
t«ii. If they do but see thcc among ibeni^ better will ihey gtiard 
Ihrfr substance, and their lives, and Iby land aud mine. And 
thou art 5o great, and hardy of thy hands, tliat ncW mightst tbou 
do this tbin£. aud to do it is thy devoir." 

"Father," said Aueassiu, "what ia this thou sayeat bowf 
God grant me never might of niy dei-iire, if T be dubhed Itnight, 
or moLiDt Atccd, or go iuto the siour ^ihcrc kaigbts do smite and 
arc staittciip if thou ^tvcat me not Nicoletc. my sweet lady, whom 
£ loveso well." 

"Sotin" ijuolh hin father, "this iTiay never be: rather would 
I be quite disitihcrited and lose all that is ukiiic. than that thou 
sbould:^t hnvchcrto thy wife, or tolom /tar amaurff."* 

So he turned him about. But when Aucossin saw him gohig 
he called to him a^arn. saying, 

'* Father, go to now, I will make with thee fa« t'Oveuont, *' 

'* Wbat covenaut, fair sun ? " 

" [ ivLll take up arms and go into the stour, on this covenant^ 
that, if God bring tnc back sound and safe, thou will M me sec 
Nicolete, my awcrt lady, even so long that I may have of her two 
vrorda or three, and one ki5.<i.'* 

"That will I prant." said bis father. 

At this was Aueasslu glad, Here one singeth^ 



Of the kiss heard Aucassin 
That rctumhig he shall win, 
Nou« so glad would be have 

been 
Of a myriad marks of gold, 
Of a hundred thousand told. 
Culled lor ratiueut brave of steel, 
Then ihey dad him, head to 

heel: 
TwoEold haul^crV doib be doii, 
E^naly braced the belraet on ; 



Girt the aword with hill of told, 
Horse doth mount, and lance 

doth wield, 
I,nf>kK to stirrups and to shield. 
Wondrous brave he rode to ficld- 
Drenroing of bis lady dear, 
Sctteth spiirs to the destrtre, 
Rideth forward without few, 
Through the gate and forth 

away 
To the fray. 



204 THK world's FR0CRES3. 

So speak they, say they, tell they the Talc: 

Aucassin was armed and nxmnted as ye have heard tell, GodT 
how goodly sat the shield on his shoulder, the helm on liis head, 
and the baldric on his left haunch I And the damcnseaii * was 
tall, fair, featly fashioned, and hardy of his hands, and the horse 
whereon he rode swill and keen, and straight had he sponed him 
forth of the gate. Now believe ye not that his mind was on kine 
nor cattle of the booty, nor thought he how be might strike ft 
knight, nor be stticken again: nor no such thing. Nay, no 
memory had Aucassm of aught of these ; rather he so dreamed of 
Nicoletc, his sweet lady, that he dropped his reins, forgetting all 
there was to do, and his horse that had felt the spur, bore him 
into the press and hurled among the foe, and they laid hands on 
him all about, and took him captive, and seized away his spear 
and shield, and straightway they led him off a prisoner, and wer« 
even now discoursing of what death he should die. 

And when Aucassin heard them, 

'*Ha! God." said he, "sweet Saviour, Be these my deadly 
enemies that have taken me, and will soon cut off my head ? And 
once my head is off, no more shall I speak with Nicolete, my 
sweet lady that I love so well. Nathless have I here a good 
sword, and sit a good horse unwearied. If now I keep not my 
head for her sake, God help her never, if she love me more I " 

The damoiseau was tall and strong, and the horse whereon 
he sat was right eager. And he laid hand to sword, and fell 
a-smiting to right atid left, and smote through helm and nasal, and 
arm and clenched hand, making a murder about him, like a wild 
boar when hounds fall on him in the forest, even till he struck 
down ten knighls. and seven he hurt, and straightway he hurled 
out of the press, and rode back again at full speed, sword in band. 
The Count Bougars de Valence heard saj- they were about hang- 
ing Aucassin, hisenem^', so he came into tliat place, and Aucassin 
was ware of him, and gat his sword into his hand, and lashed at 
his helm with such a stroke that he drave it down on his bead, 
and he, being stunned, fell grovelling. And Aucassin laid hands 
on him, and caught him by the wtfja/of his helmet, and gave him 
to his father. 

" Father," quoth Aucassin. *' lo, here is your mortal foe, who 
hath so warred on you with all mischief. Full twenty years did 
this war endure, and might not be ended by man/' 

" Young knight 



^JIUASVAL STOSJES. 



aoS 



"Fur Mm/' nld bi« father, " t^y l«a!& of youth shouldn thou 
do, uid not w«k aOer fii^ljr/' 



Wlim Lhc Cuitnt Gaiin dntb 

know 
Tljulhifl child would ncVrforcRC 
r»vc of bpf that ]f'V^i him w, 
Nicolete, the Ijright of brow, 
In a c1uiigc<»Q deep below 
Child« AiicafisiiL did b« throw, 
Qven there the Chtlde must 

dwdl 
[n a dtm-woUcd marble cell, 
Tbere he waikth m his woe, 
Crylsg thus as yc shall know: 



" Nlcnlele, tijoa IJjy white. 
My sweet Udy. bright of brow. 
Sweeter thAH th« grape ikrt thou, 
Sweeter ihnn saek posset good 
In A rujt of tnaple wood I . . , 
I for love of thee am bound 
In this dungeon under ground, 
All for loving tliee mwX He 
Here wJiere li>ud on llit-c T <:ry. 
Here for loving Ihec raost die, 
For tliee» my love- ' 



Thcu wy they, speak they, tell they the Talc: 
Aucaviin wns ca^^t tnio prlf^ii n^ ye hnve heard tell, aud Nico- 
tete, of her pait, was in the cbftnibcr. Now it was suniincf tiuic, 
the month of Mfiy, when clays ore wnrm and long and f^lcar, and 
the night still and aen^e. Nicolete lay one night on her bed, and 
saw tlic moou shine dear tLrough a window, yea, aud heard the 
filgthtUigalc iluj^ Iti the garden, mj fdic minded her of Auca-vdn 
her lover whom she loved so well. Then fell she to ihougbts of 
Count Garin dc liiaucairc, that hnlcd her to the rfeaih ; therefore 
deemed ?vhe that tliere she wonld no lunger Hbide, fear that, if she 
were told of, aud Ihe Coiinl kntw wbere she lay, jin ill death 
would he make her die. Xow she knew that the old woman slept 
who hdd her comp^iny, Th&n she arov^, aud ctad her in r mantle 
ofsUlc she hnd l»y her, very goo<lly, and to^lc napkinse^ ami sheets 
of the bed, and knotted one to the other, and made therewith a 
cord 08 long as she mij^ht, so knitted it to a pillar in the window, 
and let herself slip down tnif> the gaidcn, tben caught up her rai- 
ment in both han'K liehind and before, and kilted up her kirtlc, 
because of the dew that ^he saw lying deep on the grass ^nd ho 
went her way down Ihrotigh the garden. 

Her locks wero yellow and curled, her eyed blue and amiling, 
her lace fetitly fa^ihinned, the nns» high and fairly set, the lipa 
more red than chcny or loie in time of summer, her teeth white 
and small ; ber breasts so drra that they bore up the folds of her 
bodictt u thc^' had been two apples ; so slim she waa in the waist 



306 



tHt WaRU)S PROGKESS- 



Ihat yotu" two 1iaud» mij^lit liave clipped ber, and llic daisy flotrcrs 
thtiX brake becealh her as she wait lip-toe, and that bcal iibovc 
h^r inst^, seeitieri Mack against her feet, so while was llie maiden. 
She came Id tlie postem gate, nncl unbarreil it. nnd went owl 
through the streets of Biaucairc, keeping always on the shadowy 
side, for llie moon was shining light clear, and so wandered slie 
tiU she came to the tower where her lover lay. The low er was 
flftaked \M\tU bullre\se'i, and she rowored iinJer one of them, 
wrapped in her tn.ijitlc, Tlica thinst she her head thrau>;h a 
crevice of Uie towtr that wn.t old and worn, and s>q heard she 
Aucflosla wailing within, and mftUiig dole amd lament for the 
sweet lafly he loved so well. 



Here one ^iingcth : 

Hieolete, the bright of brow. 
On a pillar leanest thou, 
Alt Auca&sin's wail dost heu 
For his love that is eo dear. 
Theii thou spakest, shrill and 

clear, 
*' Gentle kuigbt withou Leu fear, 
little good bcisllclh ihee, 
Little help of si^h or tear, 
Ne'er shaltthnn have jr^y of rae. 
Kevcr shall lliou win me , still 
Am 1 held in evil will 



Of thy father and thy kin. 
Therefore niusi X rross the&ea, 
And another lantl must win." 
Then she cut her curls of gold. 
Cast them in thednngeon hold ; 
Aticassin doth dasp ihera there. 
Kissed tlie curls that were so 

fair, 
Them doth in his bosoiu becTp 
Tber he wept, even as of old, 
All for his love ! 



^ 



Then aay they, speak they, tell tbcy the Tsle: 

When AiK'assin heard Niiolete say that she woiikl pass into a 
far counlo', he wa^ alt in wrath. 

"Fair, sweet frimd." quoth he, ^'Ihousbalt not go, for Ihcu 
WfttiJdst thou be my death, And ih& Srst man that saw thee and 
had the might withal, would lake thee straightway into his bed 
to be his leman. And once thou earnest into a man's bed, and 
that bed not mine, know ye well that I would not lorry till I had 
found a knife to pierce my heart and slay myself.*' 

" Aucasiin,* ' she iaid, ' ' I trow thou lovest me not as much as 
thotJ sayesl, but I love thee more than thou lovest me." 

" Ah, fair, sweet friend," said Aucassin, " it may not be that 
thou shoulist love me even us I love thee. Woman may not love 
man n* man love*; woman, for a woman's love lle^ in tlie glance 
of htx eycp and the bud of her breast, and Ler foot's tip-toe, but 




UKDIACVAL STORIES. 



M? 



tba lovi: oi man it in bis hr^rt planted, whence H can never i%wt 
ionh and pas* awiy." 

No*- while Aiica^^in and Nicolcle held ihi* parley tog:«iher. 
Ibe towD*9 i^itardd carne down a street, with iworda drawn beneath 
thrir cloaks, for xhr Count Garin Itad charged thrm thai if ihry 
cotitd ukc her they should *lay her, ISut Ili« sentinel that v*-a^ 
on the lower »aw them coniTnf:, and heard them spcakinj;; of 
KicoJete 2% they wert. and threatening to «Iay her. 

Here one hiugeili: 



Valiant wa-s the sentinel, 
Coartcott«, kind, and i^ructtoed 

well, 
So a son^ did auig; aud tdl 
Oftbe peril that befell 
'* Uaiden fsJr that lingere&t here 
Gentle maid cjf merry cheer» 
Hmi of );uMh aiid eyes &a clear 
As the wntcr in a mere, 
Thou, me^u^enuE, hail ^puL^u 

wunl 



To thy lover and thy Ion!, 
That would <iie for thee, bit 

dear; 
Now beware the lU utxHjrd 
Of the cloaked mcu of the 

Kword; 
These have »wi>ni and keep 

their word. 
They will pill Ihce to the afly>rd 
Save Uiou take beed 1 ** 



Then speak they, say they, tell ihcy the Tale: 

"Ha! " qnoth Nieulrle, "he the wml of thy fQlher and Ih^ 
amii of thy mother ia the rc!«t of Paradise, so fairly and so cour* 
t«ou5ly hast thou *pokcn mc ! Fkase God, I will be right ware 
of them, God keep me out of iheir hand^/' 

So she shrank tindcrr her mantle into tht^ sh^ulow of the pillar 
till they h;id passed by, and Ihcii took she farewell of Ane^xuin, 
and so fared till ahe came unto the cuslle wall, Now tliat wall 
was wasted and broken. an(l some deal roendcrl, sn ghe clomb 
thci^coii till she rani« between wall and fo<>£c, ^ml sn ln^rked itdAit, 
and naw that the fbnac wa.i deep and nCcep, whereat nhc was itott 
adrtad. 

'• Ah God/' salth she. "sweet Savlottrl If I let myself fall 
hcmr, f ^hftU hnruk my neck, aiid if here I abide, lo-nioriow tliey 
will take me, and btni me in a firc^ Vet Hefcr would I perish 
here than that to-morrow the folk should atare on me for a 
gsfing-sioolc-*' 

Then she crofwed htmelf, and so let herieir »Hp into the fo«ae, 
t&d when she had come to the bottoan. Iier bir feet and fair 
bands that bad not custom thereof, were bruised «fid frayed, and 



2o8 THB W0aiJ)'S PROGRESS* 

the blood springing from a dozen places, yet felt she no pain nor 
hurt, by reason of the great dread wherein she went. But if she 
were in cumber to win there, in worse was she to win out. But 
she deemed that there to abide was of none avail, and she found 
a pike sharpened, that they of the city had thrown out to keep 
the hold. Therewith made she one stepping-place after another, 
till, with much travail, she climbed the wall. Now the forest lay 
within two crossbow-shots, and the forest was of thirty leagues 
this way and that. Therein also were wild beasts and serpents, 
and she feared that if she entered there they would slay her. But 
anon she deemed that if men found her there they would hale her 
back into the town to burn her. 

Here one singeth : 

Nicolete, the fair of face, Boars and lions terrible, 

Climbed upon the coping-stone, Many in the wild wood dwelt < 

There made she lament and But if I abide the day, 

moan Surely worse will come of it, 

Calling on our Lord alone Surely will the fire be lit 

For his mercy and his grace. That shall burn my body awa> 

[e^us. Lord of Majesty, 

" Father, King of Majesty, Better seemeth it to me. 

Listen, for I nothing know That within the wood I fare. 

Where to flee or whither go. Though the wolves devour me 
If within the wood I fare, there. 

Lo, the wolves will slay me Than within the town to go. 

there, Ne'er be it so!" 

Then speak they, say they, tell they the Tale: 

Nicolete made great moan, as ye have heard; then commended 
she herself to God. and anon fared till she came unto the forest. 
But to go deep in it she dared not, by reason of the wild beasts 
and serpents. Anon crept she into a little thicket, where sleep 
came upon her, and she slept till prime next day, when the shep- 
herds issued forth from the town and drove their sheep between 
wood and water. Anon came they all into one place by a fair 
fountain which was on the fringe of the forest : thereby spread 
they a mantle, and thereon set bread. So while they were eating, 
Nicolete wakened, with the sound of the singing birds and the 
shepherds. 

[Then she endeavored to hire the shepherds to bid Aucassin 
hunt in the forest, but they promised little.] 



MEDIARVA3L STOEIKS. 



309 



Hcrc»itKCth coe; 
'rom the shepherds tioUi slic 

below the blo«socu«d bou^li 
b*hrrc aa audctit way tlicic 
WW, 
OviergTO^int and cljoked with 

TiU ftUc fi»vuiil the vnjao-rxMi!*' 

where 
Scvca path» do all way fArc, 
kThien %t^ dt^nwth »bc will try. 
Should lid luiL-i p4Hi theic;Li>r 
If he love her loyally. 



So site gather^ white lUlcft, 
O.ikl&ir, that in ^ixrcii wood u, 
l^cav-c:& of many a braiKb I wi*^ 
TberewiUi built a lodge ofgiMn , 
Goodlier mt^ ticvcr seen ; 
Svi-oic by Ood who way not tic, 
''If my h>%*c th« lodgt dioald 

He will p»t n while thereby, 
If be love me loyally/' 
Tbu£ bift taith »:hcdcciDod to try, 
"Or I love hua :iot, bot 1, 
Nof lie loves me ! ' ' 



Then speak they, say they, tell they the Tele : 

Kicoletc built her ]oJ);e of bcugbs, oa yc have heard, right fair 
snd ticatly, and wox'e it 'ceell, withio and without, of flowers 
aud leaves. So lay she hard by \hc !odgc in n deep tTJi>picv to 
what Aucauiti will do. And the cry and the biuit went 
'ibroad throtigh all the cour]tr>' and oU the Inud, thut Nicolele vrta 
h>flt, itomeiold that she hud jled, and some that the Count Gorin 
htid let <is*y hrr. Whosoever had joy iheref>f, no joy had Aticns- 
nn But the Comit Gsrin, lib fatlier. had taken biiu out of 
priaon^ and had sent for the kniKhtd of that laiid, and Ihe ladic5, 
and made a nght gre«t feast, for the conifoniug of AucawLiii, 
bUaon. Now ai the blgh time of the fcsst wn^ Auc^k^sih leaning 
from a galieryv all wofiil and diacoLiiforted, 

[Out a kni}rht advi^d him to ride out hi the forest and hc-ir 
the birds ^ng,] 

He pgAMil out of llie hatl, and went down ihe fJinirs. iind e-^ime 
to tbe Atable where his hoisc wa&. lie saddled and bridled him, 
and mounted, and rode forth from the CA^.tlc, and wandered till he 
came to the ft^resl, lie rode till he oame to the fountain and foand 
the fthepberdii at j^oinl of nixrii. An<1 th?y hai.] a in^jiEtle Hlretcbed 
OQ tbcgra:^ aud were eating bread, and tuakliig great joy. 



Here one Mn^feth: 

There w«re gathered ahepherda 

bTI, 
Uwtio, Eamcric. and Hal, 



T— M 



Aubrey, Robin, gretii and Ainnll. 
SaiLhtheoHf, '"Goodfrllow-iall, 
God keep Auca»m tlie fair. 



2lO 



TBK WOKLD'S rKOCRESS. 



Aod the mold witb y«Uow luir, 
Bnghi of brow and ey«& of vair. 
Shv that gHiv« as gold lo wute. 
C»kcslhcii:wkh toLuyycknow. 



Goodly knivca uul 9b«ttkfl«ltto. 
Flutes to pUy, aud pipes to 
blow. 

May Godhlmhcall*' 



Hctc Apvak lUcy. buy tlicy. idl Uiey tlic Tsdc: 
Whm Aticassiit] hc^ird the ahephcrdi^, anon he betltonght him 
of Nicolelc, bin nwcct lady he loved san well, Uid he dcaDcd Uut 
9<bc had pooled thcrtby ; thcc Mt he ^pun to bia horM, and ao 
cam« to ihf thepherds, 

(After M>ine floJIyipg, they Idl him th«ir mesugc-] 

"Sir, wc were tu this place i& UlUc time a^osic. between pricnc 
and ticrcG,* and were catinj^ our bread by this ibuntain, cveti M 
now wc do. when a moid came pAiit, the fairest thing ita thewocM, 
whereby we deemed ihol slie sJioukl be a (ny, and all the wood 
flboQC round about bcr> Aiion ahc gave us of that abc had, 
whereby wc ui&de covouaut with her, that if ye caiiic hither wc 
would bid you hum in ih'ia forest, wherciu is such a beitt that, 
au ye might take liim, ye would tint give one linib of him for fivo 
huudred markft of silver, nor for no r^n^ui ; (or ihia beast b so 
mighty of mediciae, that, an yc could take him.y ye should be 
healed of your tonortit, nnd within three days must yt tak« him, 
and if yel&ke him not then, tirvrr will ye look on hliu. Socbaiar 
ye the beaat, au ye will, or an yc will let it be, for my ]>romiae 
have I kept with her. ' ' 

*'Fair boys. ' quoth Aucaaain. 'ye hav« said ettougfa. God 
gram me tn find this^juarry/' 



Here one Mngeth: 

Aucflssin, when he had heard, 
Sofe within hisbeajIwas^tiTred, 
Left the shepbtidsiou that wurd. 
Far into the forest spurred 
Eode into the wood ; and tleet 
Tied hi-t horne lliraugh paths 

of It. 
Three words spake be of hia 

Nweet, 
" Nieolete the fair, Ibe dear. 



"Vis for thee I follow bert 
Nor track of boar, nor idot of 

deer, 
But iLy sweet body and eyea sw 

elc^r. 
All thy mirth and merry cheer. 
That my very beait have nbun. 
^ pleoM God me to maintain, 
I shall see my lovt ttgaia, 

Sweet sister, friend ! " 



* The Hm Olid third cAnoaiciii houra of iLc U«y, 



;^-£ 



kfKDiAEVAl. ATORnU, 



211 



Tbec speak they, nay tbe^-, tell the>- the T«ler 

Aucft»Hn fared thrciigh the forest ^oi ptth to path «fter 
Nicoktc, And hi.% Iujim- tiaic tiliu fiinoiMly. Tbitik yc ncit that 
the thonu bim spared^ nor the briars, nay, Dot 90, but t^re hifl 
raimetit, tbut scarce a knot might be tied with the soundest pArt 
thereof, and the blood sprang from hU arm* and fianit* and legs, 
In fony placef^, or thirty, so that behind Ihe Childe tnoi might 
follow oit the track of bia blood iu the ^raaa. But so much he 
went in thoughts of Nicolete, bin Udy i^ivcet, that he felt no pain 
nor torraent, and all the day hurled through the farest m this 
&*thiuti i:Lir h«ranl nu witrJ uf hvi. Aud wbm he anw V'cspcra 
draw nigh, he began to weep for that lie found her not, 

Tbe ni^^ht was fair and still, and so long he went that hectne 
10 the lodge cf boughs^ that Nicolete bad builded and woven 
wtthiti and wiUioul, ovct and nnder with IIqwctSi and it waa the 
faiie^t lodge that might he fteeu^ When Aucasiin was ware of it, 
he MopT>cd Middcnly, and the liffht of the moou fell therein* 

*'God ! ' (jnoth Auca^Ain, " here wan Nicolete. my sweet lady, 
and this Itidgt^ builded nhc with ht-r fair hands. For the swrri- 
neaa of it, an<I for love of beri will I alight, and rest here thin 
night lonR," 

He drew forth htii foot from the stirrup to alight, and the 
steed was great and tull. He dreamed so much on Nicolete, his 
right sweel lady, that be iilipped on a stone, and dravc his shoul- 
der out of \ti place- Thcu knew he lliat he was hurt sore, 
natblesR he horc him with wbat force he might, and fastened 
with the other hand the mare** son to a thom. Then lumed he 
cm bis aide, and crept hackwise into the lodge of boughs. And 
be looked through a gap in the lodge and sawthcstarsJn heaven, 
and one that was brighter than the re«t \ »o began he to say ; 



Here one singelh : 

"SlAT. that I from far behold. 
Star* tbe Moon calls to her fold, 
Kicolete with the* doth dwell. 
ICy sweet love with locka of 

goldt 
God would have her dwell afar 
Dwell with him for evening $xbj- 
Would to Ood, whatever befell. 



Would that with her I might 

dwelL 
r would clip her close and strait. 
Nay. wetc I of much estate. 
Some king's son desirable. 
Worthy ahe to be my mate* 
Me to kiss and clip me n^II, 
Sister* awect friend ■" 



212 THE WOIOD'S PROGRESS. 

So speak diey, say they, teU they the Talc: 

When Nicolete heard Aucas^i light eo came she unto him, 
for she was not far away. She passed within the lodge, and 
threw her arms about his neck, and clipped and kissed faim. 

" Fair, sweet friend, welcome be thon." 

*' And thou, feir, sweet love, be thou welcome.'' 

So either kissed and clipped the other, and &ir joy wa9 them 
between. 

*'Hal sweet love," quoth Aucassin, "but now was I sore 
hurt, and ray shoulder wried, but I take no force of it, nor have 
uo hurt therefrom since I have thee.'* 

Right so felt she his shoulder and found it was wried from its 
place. And she so handled it with her white hands, and so 
wrought in her surgery, that by God's will who loveth lovers, it 
went back into its place. Then took she flowciB, and fr^sh grass, 
and leaves green^ and bound these herbs on the hurt with a strip 
of her smock, and he was all healed. 

"Aucassin," saith she. "'fair, sweet love, take counsel what 
thou wilt do. If thy father search this forest to-morrow, and 
men find me here, they will slay me, corae to thee what will." 

"Certes, fair, sweet love, therefore should I sorrow heavily 
but, an' if I may, never shall they take thee." 

Anon gat he on his horse, and his lady before htm, Idssing 
and clipping her, and so rode they at adventure. 

Here one singeth: 

Aucassin, the frank, thefair, "Sweet my love, I take no care, 

Aucassin of the yellow hair, Thou art with me everywhere!" 

Gentle knight and true lover, So they pass the woods and 
From the forest doth he fare, downs, 

Holds his love before him there, Pass the villages and towns^ 

Kissing cheek, and chin, and Hills and dales and open land, 

eyes. Came at dawn to the sea sand, 

But she spake in sober wise, Lighted down upon the strtnd, 
' ' Aucassin, true love and fair, Beside the sea. 

To what laud do we repair?" 

Then say they, speak they, tell they the Tale: 

Aucassin lighted down and bis love, as ye have heard sijig. 
He hcH his horse by the bridle, and his lady by the hands ; so 
went they along the seashore, and on the sea they saw a ship, and 
bit called unto the sailors, and they came to him. Then hdd he 



JURDtAKVAU ^OKlKS. 



213 



eucb speech witti iLcui thai Lc &uJ hia U<1> were biou)$Ut aboaiil 
Uut 5bip, ftud wbcu they were ot> the bijcli «m, bcbold a mighty 
wiad and tyrannoufi arotc, in^melJouG niul gn^at. &tid dmv^ tlicai 
^tn laod to laud, IQI tbcy came unto a s^traiige country, sud vron 
the liBvieii uf thf L- i?*tlc *>f Tottlorc. Tlicn askrt! thry wh^t lli» 
land niigbt be, ami men told them tlut it vroa the country of^ the 
iCiug of Torclorc- Then he luikcd vrhat maniier ot mau vta:* he, 
and woA there vr^ir afoot, mid men said, 

"Vea, oud tnighJy!" 

Therewith took he ftiivu'cJl of the uicichauta, ami llicy com- 
tnicvdcd htui to Cod. Auoii Aucauiii mounted hi^ horse, with 
bkdword girt, and hit Indy t*eforc him. aiud rode at adventure till 
be was ctmic to the castle. Then an^xd he where the King wa5, 
and they Kiid th;tt be vritv hi childbed. 

" Thcu where h hia wife > '* 

And they told hiiu she was with the host> aud had ltd wKh 
hex all the force r^f Ihjit cimntfy. 

Now when AuE-^^HMLi heard thai ^Hyiut^» lie mudir great mur- 
vct, aud came iiiU> the caatle, aad hghted down* he imd hb lady, 
ond bis lady held hU horse. Right no weut be up iut^ the cu^Ue. 
with his f^wgrd girt, and fared hither and thither till h« caiue to 
Ulc cb^inbcr whtrrc the King vttks lyiug. 

Here oue lingeth : 



Wheu my month i» over and 

gone. 
And my healing fnirly dooe; 
To the Mm*ter will I fare 
And w ill ilo niy chuidiing there. 
As my fatlicr did repair. 
Then will sally forth lo war, 
Then will drive ray foes afiv 
Piom my counLrieJ" 



Auc;i-<oii], thecourteuti-skijighl. 
To the chamber wciil forthright. 
To the bci\ with liiicn dight 
Even where the King woi; laid. 
Tlierehe\tcHidljyhimimd^d: 
"Fool, what mak't^t thou bete 

abed>" 
Qootb the Kitig : ' " I am bttnigbt 

to 1>ed 
or a fair soa. and anon 

Tben speak they, nay tli*y, tcU they Ibc Tale : 

Wlicn AucjAsin heard the King tfpcok oo thi.i wise, he took 
nil the t^eetn thui covere<l him, and threw tlicm all abroad aboot 
the chamber. Then sow he hpliind him a cudgel, and caught it 
into hht baitd, nud turned, and liiok tlie TCin)^, nnd beat him titi 
lie wm well-ui^b dead. 

" Ha I fair sir/' qtioth the King, " what wotild y<Ki witii m«: 
Alt tboo bcdde thyself, that beateat me in mine own house } " 



-14 



TRK WOtLD'% PftOCUSfc 



"By Gcd'3 IkvC" qaaih Aocuam, "tboo 111 •oo of an ill 
wctscht I will flUr lb«c if thou nrwr ttU that t>cv«r ah^U tar 
mac m all tby Und lie in of chikl Iwtt otfortb for «Tcr."* 

So he dkl Uui uath, ud when belind done h« *'5fr/' mU 
Aocaaaiti. ' bring tnc nvw wh^rr thy wile is with Uk botl." 

" Sir. irith good vriUi" qooth the King. 

Ht mou&tMl his horse, and Ancasstn gat oa hia own, tad 
Nio^tcte abotlp in thr Qtteen'a cluunher- Anoa tod* Ai»:aaaU 
and the Kiug ewn lill Ujry «nie to lUai pbce where llic Queen 
«'a5> and lo' men were warring with 1ja*£ed apples, and with egxSi 
and with frc^ cheeses, and AucASsm began to look ott tbeo, tad 
Eoade great marvel. 

Here one Hingeth : 
Ancaasiti his horse doth nt^y. 
Proa the saddle watched the 

All the itotir atsd fierce array ; 
Right fresh cheeses carried 
llKy, 



Applet baked, and mmbrooDu 

Wboso spUsbeth mo&t tbc ted 
He is iiiastct called and lonL 
Auc4^n «U>th gaze a while 
Tbcct beg^an to laugh and smile 
And made gmme. 



Then speak the>-. say they, tell they the Tale : 

When Aiicasu^in brhcld thr?«? fium-rk. he came lo the King, 
and said» **Sir, be Lbcac thine enemies^" 

" Vea, Sir," quoth the King. 

" And will ye that I should avenge you of them ? ** 

"Yea," qnotli he, ' witli all my hrnrt." 

Then Aucassin put liand to sword, and hurled amoug tbcm. 
and began to smite to the right hand and the tdi, aiid slew toany 
of ttaecK And when the King saw that he slew them, be caught 
at hi^ bridle atid natd, 

"Hal fail »lr» stay than not in such wise." 

" How," quoth Aucassin. "will ye not that I rfjould avtagt 
youof tbem?" 

••Sir/'<]uoth the King, " overmuch ttreadyhartihou avenged 
mCn It i> ni^wiK our custom to slay ench other. " 

Anoo turned they and fled. Then the King aud Aucustn be- 
took them agrtiu to the csalle of Torelore, and the folk of that 
land counAcllcd the King to put Aucfisdn forth, and keep Hicolete 



*This barbaroua eustom. ealled the evtnm^, lingered loog in the 
tDOijotflins of SouChem Pranee. 



MEfWAEVAt. STOHmSr 



aiS 



for hxa son's wife* for that s\^ seemed t lady of hiftb. lincafr«> Aad 
NicoUte heard them, and had ttojoy of it, ao b«gAn to aay: 



Here singcth one: 
Thu^ slie spake, the bright of 

brow; 
•* Lcnl of Torriort and kinff. 
Thy folk deemmcAlight thing* 
When my love doth mccmbnoci 
Fair he ftnds me, iu good caM^ 



Then am t in 5uch derray. 
Neither harp, nor lyre, nor Uy. 
Dance tior game, nor rtbacfc 
p!fty, 

Werctfoaneet." 



Tlicn apeak ihcy, say they* tell they the Tale: 

AucAsnin dwelt In the caatle of Torelor& iu (treat csmt ntid 

STtftt delight for thut he had with him Nicoktc, his fiwtet low, 

whom he loved w well. 

[The »tory runs on thai three years later the Sorocvuis invade 
the land and carry off Aucassin and Nicoletc- The ships were 
scsiiered by a storm, and Aucav^iii wiis jihipwrccked at Biaucaire; 
wheic he Ijccanic ruler. Nicoktc wel** carried to Carthage* where 
s]]C recogni»sl the home oC her childhood, and woi accepted aa 
the King's daughter. But when they wished her to marry she 
stole away, disguised us a harper. Taken on a ^hip. she reached 
ProTcncc, and pnA^<icd to Biaucairc. Here ahc sang her own atoiy 
and was rcnnitml ti> Ancarviin,] 



When Aucasaiu hcareUi now 
That his lady bright of brow 
Dwclleth in Hi« own conn- 

trir, 
Never man wan gUd oi he. 
To her cattle doth he hie 
With the lady Kpcedily, 
Pflvsrth to the chamber high, 
Findeth Niculctc thereby. 
Of her true love found agaia 
Never maid was hnlf so fain. 
Stfniight »hc leaped upon her 

feet: 
When his tove he saw at last, 
Arms aboni her did be caai, 



KiaaeU her often, kiesoed licr 

sweet. 
Kissed her lips and brow and 

eyes. 
Thus all ingbl do they devise, 
Kven till the morning white- 
Then Aucossin wedded her, 
Made her Lady of Biaucnire. 
Many years abode they there. 
Many years in shade or sun. 
In great gladness and detighi, 
Ne*cr hath AitcdAAiii regret 
Nor his lady Nicolcte, 
Now my story all is don^ 
Said and sung I 



2l6 



TH15 iiitwijra'* PROC»E^ 



Fkoissart's Book. 
I. Sip John Froissart, treasurer and canon <ii Qiititay, h^d, 
during my stay in Abbeville, a great Ucsirc to £cc xh< Kingdon] 
of En^and ; more especidJy since it was a time of truce. Sev- 
eral reaM>ns urged me to make this journey, but principally 
because in my youih I had been educated ai ihc court of King 
Hdwnrd, ami ihstt good I^Iy PhiUiijist* lib queen, with their 
children- T haJ lakcn care to form a cnllrcTion of all (he 
poetiy on Itivc mul tiinialiry rhui T liar! composed during the 
last twenty-four ycars^ which I had caused to be f^rly writ- 
ten and illuminated^ I was also minded to go to England from 
a dentrc to sec King Richard, whom I had not seen since the 
time of liis christening in the cathedral of Bordeaujc; and my 
book of poesy, finely ornamented, bound in velvet, and deco- 
rated with fiilver-gilt clasps ami studs, I took as a present for 
him. Having provided myself with horses, I crossed from 
Calais to Dover, on the I2ih day of July, and on Wednes<Iay 
by nine uVtiRk ^iTTived at Canlrrhuryj to vial the shrtnr of Si. 
Thomas and the lonib of the late Prince of Wales, who had 
been buncd there, I heard high n)ass, made my ofTerings at 
the shrire, nml relumed to my inn for dinner; when I heard 
that the king was to come on a pilgrimage to St. Thomas. I 
ihftufrht, therefore, that it would be well to wait his arrival, 
which I did; and on the morrow he came in great state, ac- 
companied by lords and ladies, with whom 1 mixed; but they 
were a!l new faces to me. I did not remember one of them: 
Hmrs and j>er!irin* had greatly changed stncr I was last tn Kng- 
land, eighty-and -twenty years past I addressed myself to 
Sir Thomas Percy, High Steward of England, whom I found 
gracious and of agreeable manners, and who offered to present 
mc to the king, . . . 

On being iniroduced to ihc king I waa graciously and kind- 
ly received. He took all the letters 1 presented to him. and 
having read them attentively, said I was welcome, and since 
1 had belonged to the household of the late king and queen. I 
must consider myself still as of the roya! homehold of Et^- 
land. This day I did not ofFer him the book I had brought, 
for Sir Thomaa Percj' fold rae it was noi a fit ojjjjorlimtty, 
as he was much occupied with serious business. , . . , 



MEDIAEVAL STORIES. 



217 



On the Sunday the whole council went to London except 
the Duke of York, who remained with the king, and Str Rich- 
ard Slurry. These two, in conjunction with Sir Thomas 
Percy, mentioned me again to the king, who desired to see the 
book I had brought for him. I presented it to him in his 
chamber, and laid it upon his bed. He opened it and looked 
into it with much pleasure. He ought to have been pleased, 
for it was handsomely written and illuminated, and bound in 
crimson velvet, with ten silver-gilt studs, and roses of the same 
in the middle, with two large clasps of silver-gilt, richly worked 
with roses in the center. The king asked me what the book 
treated of. I replied — Of love. He was pleased with the 
answer, and dipped into several places, reading parts aloud; 
for he read and spoke French perfectly well; and then gave it 
to one of his knights to carry to his oratory, and made me 
many acknowledgments for it • . . 

— Froissarfs Chronicles^ 



r^ 



%M^ 



A UtaiAEVAL SOOK. 



MUSIC-ITS DEVELOPMENT AND 
POSSIBILITIES 




F all the arcs, music b the most potent. Its su1> 
jcct matter — sound — is capable of more <lelic3te 
gradation? than the malerial of any other art. 
It can appeal to more people and move their 
emotions more strongly than ixny known human 
means of expression. It is able tc briiig nlxml ^ululc sharTes cf 
feeJing which the most carefully selected words are powerless 
to convey. And it can lead the hearts and minds of men to 
regions far removed from cver>'day life. 

When music first came into beings who shall say? All 
nature is full of it. Tlie singing of the birds, the droning of the 
in-seclSn ibepiirrmgof ourcat — these, and other familiar sounds, 
are but instances of the pleasure shown by the higher creatures 
in pouring forth the happiness they Ihemsclvcs enjoy. 

What we recognize as music is probably but a small part 
of the possible nuBic of the universe, and this because our 
facuhies are exceedingly limited. For aught we know, a kind 
of music, unlike anything else on earlh, may he given forth as 
the infiinlesima] atom vibrates in space. This is not so improb- 
able as it might first appear. For rhythmic movement lies at 
the basis of music, and the delicate undulations of the tiny atom 
arc of this same character. And then, at the other extreme — 
mighty in their extent — are the ordered rhythms of ihe earth 
itself, and of the planets and satellites. Perhaps, after all. the 
great Pythagoras' "'Music of the Spheres" was something more 
than a figure of speech ; perhaps after all there was truth 
prompting Goethe's utterance at the beginning of '*Faust" when 
he speaks of the "Suns thunder-march sublime-' If a piano- 
forte string by moving periodically emits sound, why may not 
the atom and the planer do the same, since they all ob^ the 
great law of rhythm? because we ourselves do not bear the 
many hidden tones of Nature is no evidence that they arc non- 
existent. 

2lS 



KIHTORY fiy MIISEC* 



319 



And K>, music U sometliitfi- universal in its extent His- 
tOlkftlly, it can be traced into the far otf niglit of tine. Nations, 
compsred with whose aiitK;uJty oiirn is bii( ;»* ye*iterdayf po4- 
Mued it and ii^icd it iii many ways. The »iirie^iil nvilizatioiis of 
China and India had their type of music^ howovcr <jiiTcrcnl it 
w« from what we undcraund by the term. Mainly it \sas of 
a melodic character, whereas ours is harmonic* Various tones 
were employed which made a peculiar impression en the lem- 
pcramctit of the hearer. In cenam forms of Mindu music thr 
5oft notes emitted had. ami have, a powerful effect in bringing 
the mind into an attitude of religious devotion — a service which 
is one of the greatest music can render. 

In the early history of European music we find two main 
streams of development, represented, on tlic one hand, by the 
church, und, nn the nlher, hy the prf>})V. ft is h^rtl tn trace 
the origin of church music Some of the old modes were doubt- 
less borrowed from the ancient Creeks who. in their turn, may 
perhaps have elaborated them from a still earlier source. The 
best of the early ecclesicstical music, as seen in the noblest ex- 
amples of "Plain Song/" is noteworthy for the strong feelings 
'jf aspiration and reverence which, under the l»e*l conditions, 
it cin arouse. Althnugh lielonging la a somewhat later dale, 
this same characterisiic is wonderfully apparent in the fine 
choral works of Johann Sebastian Bach, and in such masterpieces 
of his as the famous B minor Mnss and the Matthew Paf^sion 
there is breathed a depth of pathos and poetry of expression 
as of some other world. 

But deipitc such gtms as ihese which arc well worthy our 
mosl earnest study, it remained for the people, rather than for 
the church, to bring about those fine art-forms which in later 
days did so much to nphft the musical standard of the world. 
For the chi:rch, having in it rigid dogmas and rituals, did not 
seem to possess that free and exuberant aimcj^iiihcre tn the midst 
of which the most varietl gcnins will flourish. 

Al first the music of the people was little more than snatches 
of melody sung without definite purpose. The shepherd would 
troll his mem' chant on the homeward journey when his day's 
¥rork waft done; the har\'e»tcr wnuld sing a strain of gladness 
In praise of the bounty of Nature, and aroimd (he fireside in the 
winter's evening, childish pnitllc and laughter woi}ld lead to a 
aon^ in which all the family would take part 



220 



THfi world's rKGGRESS. 



These rustic melodies — Folk Songs, as tliey have been calkd 
—developed in course of time into something niorc elaborate. 

Village insirumcntalists wouM use tliem as a basis upon which 
to fasiiion their dances, and its the wandering players and 
miristreTs travelled from country to ccuniry, the different na- 
tional dance* wrmit] be he-ird at many a wayside inn, and 
gr^dn^iliy give n>c to lluu lecogniicil tullctlion of such excerpts 
known as the Suite^ 

PVom the Siiite» probably some of the greatest of the later 
iuEtnimental forms evolved. Of course, for such devdopment 
a£ this many years were required, during which composers were 
groping about, selecting here, rejecting ihere, but gradually 
perfcciinganddaboraiinj;lbeirarL Someiimes a genius would 
appear who in one bfctimc would. 35 it were, summarize the 
work of his predecessors. Such a one was Beethoven, whose 
use of ihe Sonata form^ far surpassed anythinp^ previous!)" at- 
templed. Whereas before his days it bad l>een Jitlte more than 
a piece of ingeniou^i mechanism, in bis bands it liecame a means 
of expressing some of the grandest emotions that fill the heart 
of mam 

Indeed, we may say that aa music progrresses it becomes 
more and more a hiting instrument lo portray the life wilh which 
It i« infused. At first tlte mechanism is clumsy and the technique 
of the most rudimentary character. But as time goes on, ihese 
imperfections *lowly drop away — as all imiier feci ions must — 
until ar last we have an art exquisitely sensitive to catch the high- 
est thought in the mind of the composer and to reproduce it 
before the world with wonderful fidehty. 

Three names stand out in the history of music like giant 
HKiUruain pealoi agjjinst ibe clear bhie sky. These arc Bach, 
Beellioven, and Wagner, Each brought to a high state of 
excellence one particular branch of the art, epitomizing the 
labors of his forerunners and forging aliead to heights hitherto 
undreamt. 

To Bach may justly be ascribed the title "Father of Modern 
Music," for he laid the foundation of the vast artistic super- 
structure wbith succce<ling generations have built As a writer 
of church music he is without superior, and his marvellous 
achievanents in this direction are mfu&cd with a fervor and 
devotion which all mjst n«ds admircp Then, again, he de- 



niSTORV OF MtJ&IC. 



221 



vrfopefl an<! cootrfrnalrc! tlic S»ir<", that cnllrction nf raiirrti?!! 
dances to which we have nlrr^idy alluded. And, furthermore, lie 
perfected that fine form known as the*' fugue," which under hi* 
masic teach, ^Kcnuse a wondcrfull)' effective and subtle piece 
of irusicaJ machinery, $o difTercnt from the conventional type 
mrt with in earlier composers. His fugues arc indeed like 
limpid rivulets in whidi the present day musician may refresh 
his thirst for beauty. They range ihrou^li the entire gamut of 
human emotion that is worthy to be ext>re55ed, whether it be 
linht-henrted merriment, mnjestic dif^ity, or that peace borne 
of confidence in the hereafter- 
Beethoven, tlic great ftotil who« rugged exterior clothed a 
Sfnril of exceeding loftinr*« and purity, added yet ancihcr p3gc 
to musical advancement IIis principal means of expression 
was the Sonata form, snd in this special type his whole musical 
bcinfT seems to have been centered. Jiisi as was the fugue to 
Bach, 90 to him the sonata became a very languai^ of the 
emotions. Who is there whose heart has not been thnlled by 
the lelc-stlal message breathed forth in his (<real pianoforte 
works and in his C minor and Choral symphonies? A child 
of nature, a lover of all living things, he was a wortliy recipient 
of the Divine afflatua. 

One of the greaicsl geniuses of the last century was Richard 
Wagner. As a musician he was excelled by none, and, in f;trt. 
some con<iider hini the finest of all. Btil music was not the 
only hall-mark of this man's IraTisccndent ability. As a master 
of stas^ crnft he probably made more useful inno\"ation9 than 
any ether one person ; ns a poet he will be-ir comparison with the 
most famous Germany hat ever produced : as a philosopher he 
brought prominently b(^fore the world thai deep mystfcl^m which 
has been of absorbing inlerr^t to many of the noblest minds of 
all time, and as an ethical teacher he gave forth moral truths as 
beautiful and inspiring as any ever preached in the hallowed 
fane an<l the vast catfiedral. 

With this unusual versatility none was better qualified to 
place opera upon a souml and dignified basj^. Fnr several hun- 
dred years before his time ihta species of musical and dramatic 
enlerl^tinment had been in an unsatis factor)' and almost decadent 
condition. Very little connection existed between the music, 
the words, and the acting, and, as likely as not. the composer 



223 



TRS WOHUd'S rKOTiSinn. 



vrould write his arias for no other purpose ihan making them 
tuneful an<I e?<p1ot!ing the viinial eccctJtricilics of famous shigerv 
Hence. opcr;i wa^ aUjui as artificial a production as the ingenuity 
of man could devise. But thtnp icon became altered when 
Wagner took the matter in hand. At once he saw the triviality 
of the early Italian opera, and with consumTiiate cnerfi^ and a 
determination which brooked no opposition he set out to remedy 
theparlous slate of afTairs. Opera was to him not merely a fonn 
of enteriainmenl, but a method of representing sublime con- 
cq>ts ami lofty imagery. Like the Greek drama of old, it was 
to be a teacher and inspirer to noUc action ; words, scenery, ges- 
Hn"c, music— ^verj'tliing— related and all conspiring to "hold 
as 't were the mirror up to Nature" — to embody a munificent 
ideal 

In the realm of music Wagner accomplished what none of 
his predecessors had deemed possible — actually portraying in 
terms of sound the very thoughts and feelings of the actors- 
There is no more fascinating study than carefully to peruse the 
score of one of his later uorks and note how a slight change in 
the music is the concomitant of a corresponding altmtion in 
thought, and vice versa- 
Each of his maturcr music firainas, if interpreted aright, 
conveys some far reaching lesson, "Tristan und Iscidt" while 
ostensibly a romantic love opera, holds before one the noblity 
and grandeur of true Eclfsacrificc; "Die Mwttrsmg^ v&n 
Nuernberg/' with its charming humor and perfect portrayal of 
German life in the Middle Ages, is an example and an encour- 
agement to every plodding artist and Jiniccd to all who would 
fain reach an ideal, and it gives a&siirancc that if only the 
aspirant persevere long enough, the goal is bound to be gained; 
Drr Ring des NibcUmgen, by the aid of m>-tholog>", tells of 
the mighty workings of the universe. For the different char< 
acters represent not so much actual personages as great cosmic 
laws whose interaction is (he same yesterday, today, and forever. 
And Parsifal, the fitting consummation of a well spent life. 
gives in a beautiful allegory the old, old story of man's aKcnt 
along the Path wh:ch leads to Holiness and I>ivinity. 

In approaching this maner wc should do well to remembct 
that music is the youngest of the ans and that its present Si^^ 
of advancennent — at least so far as European musjc i& con 



HISTORV oPMusra 



aas 



ccrned — lias taken |)]ace in die Aliorl xpacc of only a few hun* 
dred yeari. With so much alrcatjy done and so little lime given 
10 accomplish it, the future of music iray indeed Icxiik most 
hopeful. When it li as old as the sister arts of poetry and 
archiicciorc, who knows what towering moumain pcaJcs its 
votaries may not have climbed ? 

In years to come music bids fair to be as general an accom- 
plishment as to-day is reading: aiul writing'. Within & few gen* 
crattona — perhaps leas — we can confidently expect that every 
man, woman, and child will be able to read mu»ic with ease 
and thus have access tn the great ttinal maiiterpieccft of the 
world. The effect of this acquired facility as a means of rais- 
ing the culture of thecommumly will be something inntTciilable. 
For it will not only proii»fc intellectual growth, but help for- 
ward to a remarkable extent the moral evolution of the race. 
Those who know the spiritualizing' power of fine music — and 
who does not — can easily foresee tlut when humanity as a 
whole becomes batlied in its beneficent stream, all wars will 
cea^ atnil a milleimintn of universal brnthi*rlif Kid will not be far 
distant. 

To help spread the great art, a simphfied musical notation 
might advantageously be introduced. The present system in 
vofifue Js somewhat cumbrous and has little logical connection 
with tlie sounds produced. But just as spelling has been ren- 
dered phonetic, so by dint of carefid study a musical "short- 
hand" could ultimately be invented which, on account of beirg 
easier to leam* would aid materially in popularizing the art. 
Indeed, efforts have already been made in this direction. 

Perhaps one of the mo&t useful applications of music in the 
future will be as a therapeutic agent This is even now being 
considered a« a prol>abi1ity by some who are in the vanguard 
of prngre*«- Rut up to ihc present, so far as we know, the basis 
of no definite science has been hid The modern tendency of 
medicine is to attach great importance to the mental condition 
of the patient, Antl e\'eryday experience proves that if the 
sufferer be happy and hopeful the chances of recovery are 
greatly increased. This being so, and the power of music to 
produce a joyoiis and peaceful state uf mtnd Iwing admitted, 
lis value as a healing asset becomes at once app^retil. ^\^li1e 
all good music will exert a health-pvirg inthicnce, each per- 



a24 Th£ world's progress. 

son, having his own idiosyncrasy, will be more amenable to one 
type of composition than another, and the science of the future 
will see to this and correlate judiciouslyj music with personality. 
The relation between music, color, and form will also receive 
the great attention it deserves ; the peculiar effects engendered 
in the hearer's consciousness by certain chords and precessions 
will be amply investigated ; and the value of music, not only 
as an aid to, but as a concomitant of, religion, will be shown in 
a clearer manner than ever before In our present judgment of 
the rcmaHcable potency of sound, wc see as through a glass 
darkly, but with the vastly extended hearing and vision which 
new methods of investigation will give, we shall view the matter 
face to face* And in the days that are to come, music will serve 
us not merely as an amusement, nor as a species of intellectual 
enlightenment — important though these may be — but as a means 
whereby man may be brought nearer and nearer to the Divine* 
until at last he reaches that Source whence he came. 



HISTORY OF MUSIC 

CHAPTER I. 
Early CituRi;u Music 

oE man5 mind, it has developed more slowly than tlic other 
ftrta. The painter and ihc sculptor look to nature fur their 
models; even ardiitccture \s related to ihe natural tn \xs util- 
ity* though not in its expression ; and poetry is symbolic of 
human experiences. Music, alone of all llie arts, has had no 
inodelt from whidi to eop>-, ard it is fcr this reason that she 
has so slowly found her modes of opressiori. 

Many theories have been advanced as lo the probable ori- 
gin of muMC-'-^nonc of thrtn wh^illy ^iitii factory- TTic suhject 
at best is one of conjecture, and, though of jnieresl, is not of 
bnportance to the sUideat of nta^tic. It may haftly be assumed 
that music began in ±onic mysterious impulse ani dates back 
to prehistoric times, probably before the need of a laoguagc 
was felt. 

With the Savage and the Anciem alike, mu»ic was but one 
phase of the religious and social life, and was so inseparably 
bound up with the dajice. atid later with poetry, that its indl* 
vidual devek»pmrni was rcrdcrcil imjio'i'iiblr. We are often 
led to suppose that the P!cbrcws had a highly developed music, 
but it was, in fact, very simple and notsy, and wsis entirely 
subordinate to the dance and poetic repetition. 'There is no 
reason to suppose th^t niuiic among the Oriental monardiics 
ever progressed much beyond its condition among barbarous 
peoples of the present day- Musie was not a free art. but was 
held in almost complete dependence upon poetry, dancing and 
religious ceremony. It was rude, simple and unprogreBsive, 
Harmony was evidently unknown and musical rhythm con* 
formed to that of verse and dance step. The effect of musie 
upon the mind and its efficiency in education and worship were 
largely dur to the ;issorTniinn of crTl;uTi metodirs ami inslni* 
ments with moral, religious and patriotic ideas"* 

>Dickmwc*i HUtoiy ci Mtttk, chap^ d. P- & 



226 THE WOBU/S FKOGABSS. 

Greek music alone attained any d^ree of refinement and 
ddicacy. To the Greeks we owe a scale ^-stem which has 
descended to the present day, and they were the first to con- 
ceive of music as an independent art. '*They developed a 
rational scale system based on a knowledge of acoustic laws ; 
their philosophers subjected the aesthetics of music to a minute 
examination, they devised a tolerably accurate system of nota- 
tion which has survived. The Gredc musical system was the 
precursor of that of the early Christian church, and the line of 
descent is unbroken from Greece, through Rome, to ihc Mid- 
dle Ages and modem times/'" Rome made no contributions 
to the art Her instruments and melodies were borrowed 
chiefiy from the Greeks, and her music was a degenerate form 
used in the theatre and circus. 

It is correct to call music a Christian art, for while it had 
been known to men before the beginning of the Christian era, 
it was not until that epoch that it began to find definite forms 
of expression. 

With this as a starling point it is possible to trace the his- 
tory and development of the many phases which make up our 
modem music, and to see how it has come to be regarded as an 
tiplifting and necessary factor in the social world today. 

The age of the apostles offers a most interesting field for 
study to the musical student. It is not to-be supposed that there 
was any sharp distinction between the music of this period and 
that which had been used by the Ancients in their temples, for 
the change was gradual and the development slow. The study 
of the music of this period is so closely allied with that of the 
ritual of the early Roman church, that a knowledge of one 
necessitates a familiarity with the other. Interest is centered 
in the rise of liturgies and ceremonies, their alliance with 
music, and the origin of hymns and chants. In tracing the 
development of these fonns, one notes an ever-increasing ten- 
dency on the part of the clergy to create an elaborate ritualistic 
system, and steady decrease in the part the laity took in 
the church service. 

In the very nature of the case a new spirit was needed in 
the art of music when it came to be employed in the ministry 

'Dickinson's Hiilory of Music, chap. 3, p. 9. 



BiSTORV or UUSIC. 



237 



of tJie Oirisiian Mtgion, for a new motive bad cmereJ relig- 
ious consciou&oess. Tlie CliristLm lavUltfil upon his nevr- 
foimd failh a devotion th^t far suqiassctl any loyally lo fam- 
ily or country, "This religion was aiiplialiciUly oiic of ji>y^ 
a joy so jkb^rbing, 50 comi>lctely satisfying. m> foimded ou ihe 
loftiest bopcs that the human mind is able to cDterlain. llut 
evcii Uic ecstatic wcrsliip of Ajx>llo or Dionysus seems melan- 
choly and hopeless in comiwtrisoa Yet it was not a joy that 
was prone to expand itself in noi!>y demon^tratigns. Il was 
mingled wtih such a profound sense of personal unwonhiness 
and ihe most solemn resi>orstbi]ilies, tempered wiih sentiments 
of awe and wonder in tlu? prcseiiCL- of un fathomahle my^tleries, 
ihat the man! festal 10 us of k niu^l {ye Mihdiied lo modrnttion, 
expressed in forms that ccaild appropriately typify spiritual 
and eternal relationships. Ai;d so, as sculpture was tlie art 
which most adequately eml>odiod the hum^inistic conceptions 
of Greek theology, poetr>' ^nd music became the arts in which 
Christinnity found a vehicle of expression most suited to her 
genius/'^ 

New forms were needed lo express the new emotions, but 
these could not be created at once to meet the novel demands. 
More than a molive is re^iuiretl to bring an art to its perfec- 
tion, and the mastery of form is of slow and tedious growth. 

There arc to be found but few direct allu&ions to music in 
the New Tesianieui. In his Hpisiles, St, Paul speaks of 
"pMilms, h)-mn* ;md *pTTitual songs,"* and agjiin m^ilces rcrfcr- 
cncc to a peculiar usage known as '*g1awolalia/* or •'speaking 
of tongues." Tliis is described as an emotional, inarticulate 
warbling brought about by intense religious «(citcmcnt, and 
must liave been quite unintelligible to the hearer. However, 
out of this cru<le musical utterance (jrcw the hymns, in which 
the deeds and powers of Christ were directly commemorated. 
We arc told that the Christian follc-song began to appear in 
the first century, rude am] primitive in melody and fonn, but 
embodying the rrligicm* *piril cif the age. 

Of the very few hymns and fragments of songs that have 
come down fiufn thi^ early period, the most perfect is a twi-* 

*Dickin>on*> 'Mcsk in the HisCoo of the Western Chitrch, p. Sf. 
* Eph, T- la 



228 THK W€UJ>'S 

li^it hywn tang evcrj- cvtsnng in the catsaoof of li^tfrng the 
lanqML Tliis has been made Icdowii to Eiii^iUh readers tfaiOQ^ 
Longfellow's "Goidca L^omI": 

''O giadsomc light 
Of the Faihcr ItansortaJ, 
And of thecdestial 
Sacred and blessed 
Jesos, our Sanoorl 

Now to the ntnset 
Agam thou hast br ou g h t us; 
And, seeing the erening 
TwOigbt, we Uess thee, 
liaise thee, adore thee 1 

Father fxnnipotent f 
Son, the Life-giver t 
SfriHt, the Comfonerl 
Wor^y at aO times 
Of worship and wonder I" 

The period in which the laity were allowed to participate 
in any but the simplest offices of the church was brief, and their 
share in hymn singing seems to have been confined to responses 
at the end of the verse, which was sung by some one ap- 
pointed to the office. Gradually, but surely, the growth of 
ritualism deprived the general body of believers of all initia- 
tive in the services and centralized the offices of worship in 
the hands of the clergy. The clergy came to be but a medium 
through which divine grace was transmitted, and were no 
longer the servants of the people. 

Little by little a few chief men gained control of things, 
and out of this system grew the offices of Bishop, with his 
assistant priests, and over all the Pope. Certain forms became 
systematized and fixed by law, atid music shared in this ritu- 
alistic movement. 

By the fourth century congregational singing had almost 
disappeared) being supplanted by official choirs. The chief rea- 
son for this was the fear that heresy might creep into the 



329 

church i( the people were allowed to tinjj the hjinm, and so it 
flfas desired to keep the whole sen-'ice in the haiKl* of the ckrgy. 
Tl w;is feared fluit a rel;txail'»n m one pari of the service might 
lead fo a loosening of the whole- 

The distinct ion hciween the liturgicai and non*fiturgicaI 
*ong must \yc kept dearly in mind, for it waa only from Ihc 
former that the Iait>" were excluded. By liturgical hymns is 
meant those meloflicB that became & part of the fixed hturg>", 
while ihe ftong?i. jtuhjecl to cK-vnge, which were interspersed 
throughout the service, were known 3s Don-liiurg!cal Of the 
early Chnsttan chant? only a few have siimvcd. and it is from 
the*e that we get o«r uTea* of the mu^ic of Uie perioiL Amorg 
rticm are (he wefl-known Gloria in KxcrUiH, Gloria Patria, Tc 
Deinn, Magnificat (Song of Maryl, and the Dcnedicliis (Song 
of f^acHariaa)^ It 1% prohahle that tnost of the melodies were 
taken from the old Greek ser^-icc, but they were materially 
altered, for while the Greek and Roman poetry was metrical, 
that of Che early Christians was most unmeirical. Then, too, 
the pagan melodies were sung to instrumental accompaniment, 
while the music of the Christians wa* largely vocal. 

Tliere has been some question in the mind* of hiMorians 
ifS to the place muMtal instnmients occupied in the early Chris- 
dan worship. Generally sjjcakiTjg, they were conHcmncil lie* 
cause the pagans used them in ihcir temples, and their use 
was connected with the corrupting and rcvohing scenes of the 
theatres. Probably ihcy were used to a greater extent in the 
Grcdc churches than in Rt^maa 

The separation of the Eastern and Western branches of the 
Churches was completed in the eighth century. The influence 
which the Eastern church has ex«rrci*ed over the onwan! 
course of religion has been so flight that it has almoM dropped 
from the stght of cimrcli ItjMorians. It is in the Western 
branch alone that wc fiml development of the liturgical and 
musical form. 

As llie Western church boasts of tU title "Catbotk," the 
Eastern glori:-s in the title ''Orthodox/' ''The Western the- 
o1og>- is essentially logical in form, and based on law. The 
Ea&tent is rhetorical in form and is based on philosophy, 
. . . , Let any one enter an Oriental church and he will 



2y> 



The world's rsocBEsa 



at on« be struck by the contrart which (h< architecture, the 
paintings, the vtry aspect of the ceremonial, present lo the 
churches of the A\'cst. There h ro aiming at effect, no dim 
religious light, no be:iuty of form or color beyond what is 
prntUtml hy the rii^^play of gorgeous and barbaric pomp."* 

The fact that the liiciaturc uS Hiv Eastern diurch has no 
uravcrsal text, but has been wrlUen in several largiiages, is 
in a large measure responsible for this oMivioa Latin has 
been retained as the languai^ of tlic liturg}- of the Church of 
the West because it was the bngtut|^ found tn the Roman 
empire when the Roman church was established. The very 
conception of the Catholic church inv<dves the use of a "catho- 
lic " or universal, form of utterance. The expr«t:on of a lit- 
urgy in n?iHnral i;tngaiagi'^ can only lead to national differences 
in (he churches themselves. 

The Crttholic liturgy is the rstahh^hc*i ritujil of the Church, 
a collection of authorircfl prayers of divine worship, fixed and 
immovable. It must not be supposed that this i& the work of 
any one man or of one age, or thai its present form was even 
aniicipnted by its originators. At first it was ver^' simpfe. 
Gradualh* new scrv'ices were addled, parts of Xhe old ca*t aside, 
until finally from tliis germ grew the complex liturgy of the 
present day. The sixth century tnarlced the cfimplclinn of 
this wonderful religious poem. Than which there is nothing 
more perfect m fcnn and lang\iage in ail the world of litera- 
ture- It IS a masterpiece of ecclesiastical art in which dogma, 
poetry and drama ore welded into expressive unity, 

"This great prayer of the Catholic church is mainly com* 
posed of contributions made by the Eastern church during 
the first four centuries. Its essential features were adopted 
and transferred lo Latin by the Church of Rome, and after a 
process of sifting and rearranpfing, with some addiUons, its 
form was completed by the end of (he sixth century essentially 
as it stands today- The litut^ i«, therefore, the voice of the 
Church, weighted with tradition, resounding with the com- 
manding tone of her spcwfolic aitthon'ty, rlcKnient witli the 
longing and the asMirancf of innunicrahle martyrs and con- 
fessors, the mystic twlimony to the commission which the 

•Stanley; Ht»t ©f tht Ewtefti Churefe 



HlffTOBr OP MUSIC. 



^s^ 



QiurcU bclicvfs to have been Laid upon bcr b^ th« Holy Spirit. 
It i% not STirprisin(f, iliereforf, that devout Catholics hav€ cocnc 
to consider iliia Hturgy as divinely tDspiredr raised above all 
mere human speech^ the bngia^e of sainti and angeh, a tmljr 
ctlcstial poem; and that Catholic writers have wcll-nSgh ex- 
hausted the vx)cabulary of cnthu£iann in expounding its spir- 
ittiaJ si^ificance: 

"The insistence upon the use of one unvaryinjj lanj;n^aj*e 
in the Mas$ and all the other oflices of the Catholic Church is 
necessarily involved in ihe v«y corteption of caiholidiy and 
immutabilily. A nnivcrsa] Chtirch nixii-l have a universal 
form of speech; naltonal languages imply national churches; 
the adoption of the vcmactilfir would be the first step toward 
disintqirTation. The Catholic, into whatever Mraiii^e l^uid he 
may waller, is everywhere at home the moment he enters a 
sanctuary of hif failh. for he hcnrs ihe f^nie xinrship, in the 
same tongtJtr, aaoTnp;iniecl with ihc same VTmnonies, that has 
beta familiar to him from childhood. This universal language 
must inevitably be the Latin. Unhkc all living [angnages it 
i$ never subject to change, and hence there is no donf^er thai 
any misunderstanding: of refined points of doctrine or ob- 
servance will creep in through alteration in the e^mnotation 
of words/'* 

The word mass h derived by *ome from the Hebrew word 
"missah," which means an offering. Others trace it to the 
wortl "missa," which is used to announce the e:ic of the serv- 
ice. We find it today in our words Candle^rjias and Christmos. 
Cardinal Gibbons says of this office; 

"The sicrihce of the Mas*! 13 the consecration of the bread 
and wine into the body :ind blood of ChriKt, nnd the oblation 
of this btxly and bW»d to God, by the ministry of the priest, 
for a perpciual menK>ri^] of Christ's sacrifice on the croBS> 
The sacrifice of tlie Mass is identical with that of th? cro^, 
both having tiie same victim and High Priest — Jesns Christ. 
The only dilTcrencc consists in the manner of the oblation. 
Christ was offered up on the cross in a bloody manner, and in 
the Mass He is offered up in an unbloody manner. On the 
cross He purchased our ransom, and in the Eucharistic fiacri- 
6ct Ihe price of tliat ransom is applied to our souls. Hence 

■DickinuD: Mutt'e in Hiilory of WeM*fn Chiirth, jl St. 




1 T^-''" Zt^ 31C iscir 3=5^ "r^ r-nr3&, i i * xa 3C-^ ^^rr, 
Sjric ZlesciL -I j:i ' : sc Zjcsct*- iDii ^-rm jo. '^•Br-'^*^^ T^ei 

5alcw m aan-gscn ±k Toiler g-: up J£ sxrz -irsyt^^s n>_ 




« dns pens lai i fcikjwei by zx Tnsic n 

in ±e ^f]3SL :m rfciaizcn 11 :« H-,^^ imi C!aiic=_ Zr 3 i 
dns .g eyjc uj :aac tire "jr^i; mii ttik :s D tL^^ALgr ^cr m 

irw^ ±E ?T*nK=. Ji:;:::? ■r:[ii ±e ^oscn. its itw^T? caanr 

den zcrr?^:! :i:e nro= :: 51^^ ;,7v: :rw -rr.:^^:^ ^-Trrc^rrcn 

par: 3: -re :&:- :f ±« Sacnio- rf r« Mass* ex. ±« twt? 

T-er- IT- 5r--n; itisws. r^e Hi^ >fis$ b«*rr$ ±c *ci=c> 
sri S*:!ern His^ >£iS5 is ^s&<I:^:aZ^- rn- same, "jut !s jr^^i 
' ^"kzth 'f '_*ir -idBEn: ^^^nnmi GiKvra& 



niSTOlEV or ML'SIC 



333 



wKh more pomp and ceremony. Low Mass 13 grvcn in a 
speaking voice withojt tltc aid of the chotr, and t» \csa formal 
than the other Ma»cs. It is u^ed only in the caHy morning 
service- The Requiem Mass differs more widely from the 
usual fon^ and many beautiful Re<iuienif> hav-e been written by 
both Otholic and Protestant campo?;cr3- It takes its name 
from the first word of the Retroit, and is given for the repose 
of souls after death. In it the Crerfo and Gbria arc omitted, 
their place bring taken by the great judgment hymn» Dies Irae, 

Tlic liciirgy was complc^leil (!unng Ihe nile of Gregnny the 
Great (590-604) and bj- the last of the sixth century had been 
^vcn a complete musical sctttnft;. The ideal of pure church 
music was e^t^ibtishcd by the creators of the ritual, and that 
this ideal has been rigorously upheld is shown in l!ic fact that 
today the Romon Catholic can jtistly lay da:m to the purest 
church music in existence. 

Tlie text of the Mais is entirely mtiMcal in its theory and 
conception, and is admirably adapted to its rhytlimical settinf*. 
From the earliest times the priesc has used a cluinitrg voice-^ 
partly that hU tones might carry farther and partly because it 
appcaU to the emotions. Some of Ihe service U chanted all on 
nnc lane, wiih a *lighl inflex at the end, k'nown as "inlomng"" 
sometimes with the assistance of the organ and choir, but often 
unaccompanied. To the casual spectator this scerns unmusical 
and even barbarous, but becomes most beautiful a^ the car is 
trained to detect Uie music in the intonations. 

"llic art of singing these melodies is far more difficult than 
might be imagined, and rcfiuircs good vocal ability, as well as 
dear enunciation of the Latin text Then, (oo, the rhythm U 
difficult, for the value of the notes ts not fixed, but is deter- 
mined by the length of the syllable. The manner of singing 
is affected by conditions of time and place. dcgiM? of solem- 
tilty ref|iiired and the acousfiL' prfii>eTlies of ihe building used 

The melodies i!ius intoned are properly known as "Plain- 
songs," The term "Gregorian" chant*, the one hy which 
ihcse hymns are more gt-nr-raTIy known, U based on a belief 
(hat they were composed by Tofte Gregory, but thU ha^ l»cen 
proved to be an error Thry were not Ihe woric of any indi- 
vidual, bt:t are the reoulcs of a gradual growth, an evolution. 



*34 



Wri WORU>'f PROGRESS. 



We fimi that records of fht chsnt date back 1o Uk year 40OV 
and their compilation was the work of popca of the scvtmtti 
and eighth ccntiiri«. It is tme that Pope Grcgorj' ai(lc^ in 
ihij gigantic labor, but probably to no greater extent than 
many others. Some of the old melodies have undergone 
changes in the process of repeaterl copying*, ard because their 
srdem of roiaiif^n wa^ ^o crude, but there has been no mate- 
ria! alteration in cither the chant or liturgy in the last fifteen 
huTidreil year^. 

Tlie purest and niosi sfriclfy ccdeniaHtical inutic in exist- 
ence is t!ic chant, because the melody in itself is capable of 
giving no definite impressions, but is entirely ftuhordirjate to 
the text, "Tiic chant appears to be the natiira] and funda- 
mental form of music employed in all liturgical systems the 
world over, ancient and modem. The sacrificial song of the 
EjTj'ptians, the Hebrews, and the Greek*, was a chant, and thb 
if the form of music adopted by the Ea«teni church, the 
Anglican, and evrry system in wliich worship is offered in 
common and pjcscribed forms. Tlie chaiil fonn is chosen 
because it does not make an independent impression, but can 
be held In strict subordination to the sacred words; its sole 
function is to carry the text over with greater force upon the 
attention and the emotions^ It is in this relationship of text 
and tone chat the chant differs from true melody." 

It iG for this reason that the church fathers have Inbored 
to restore and retain the unison chant exclusively. The mod- 
ern reaction against all modem harmonized forms can never 
be wholly successful, but is prompted by a truly revcrentirf 
spirit, and a desire to maintain the ideals of the earliest church 
music. 

The plain-song melodies may be divided into two generd 
classes: { 1 ) Simple chanTs, those in which one syllable of the 
Text is sung to one note, and (2) Florid chants, those in which 
there arc a number of words to one note. Another convement 
classification would be according to the text. The group of 
melodies rscd in chanting the psalms is the most important. 
These "psalm tones" or "Gregorian" tones are eight in num- 
ber and arc exceedingly beautiful in melody. The study of the 
Gregorton chant and Gregorian modes (scales upon which the 



HisToay OF MUSIC. 235 

chants are based), is most interesting and should receive the 
careful attention of every musical student. 

Singing schools were established in nearly every monas- 
tery, for the purpose of tnstructtng the priesthood in the 
proper rendering of the chant. Special orders of monks gave 
all thdr time and attention to this branch of ecclesiastical 
work, and a familiarity with the church hymns became a nec- 
essary part of the trainii^ of every clergyman. It was by 
means of these convent schools that the early music was fos- 
tered and preserved in written form, and the labor of these 
monks cannot be overestimated. 

Protestants, as well as Catholics, have found and are con- 
stantly finding much of value in the rhythm and melody of the 
liturgic hymn. The lover of pure church music will not fait 
to justify the exalting of the Gr^orian plain-song to the place 
tt holds in the worship of the Roman Catholic church* 



236 



TBS world's rROCKESS. 



CHAPTER U. 
McDiACvAL Music— *Several-Pa»t Melody. 

TTic first period in ihc history of church music may be 
said to have included tliose years m which the titni^c chant 
(Plain Song) was the only pcrmitlcd form in the Catholic 
worship. We now come to a second period — thai in which 
the imacc*>mpamerl choni* was employw! in the parts of the 
service in which die chant was not cbligalory. The eustom 
of writing notes and t1ie practice of :iingirtg more than fmn 
part of 2 mdody at the same titnc had thdr beginnings in these 
ycari. 

The earliest system of notation coii»iMcd of link pen- 
strokes which were much like our shorthand cliaractcra of tO' 
day. These little "neumac" were developed from the Greek 
accent marlcs. and were placed over ilie words merely to aid 
the singer's memory and to give him a relative idea of the 
pitch, rather than to rcgiilale the (inie. Tlie art of printing 
had not bcrn applied to mn»ital noir*, cnTTtnuniration was dif- 
fHiih, and Llie knowledge of this musical syslcni was fi|tread 
only by meaoft of the monastery 5ch*>nls. It is not hard to 
imagine the utter confusion that must have been caused by this 
haphajF^rd method of notaiionp No two singers agreed on the 
fMtch of a note, and there was no attempt to refrulate it* time. 
The first step in the way of progress was the emplovinenl of a 
line lo indicate the pitch of certain notes The first one to be 
determined was F; finally another line was nser! and C became 
established, Frnm this system uf lines added to aid the 
singer's memory grew our musical staff. Then followed the 
development of the clefs, aIt!)ough they were at first movable 
and could indicate a variety of pitches. It was a great adN'anoc- 
mcnt for Ihc art of music when the length of notes became 
fixed and tliey were no longer altered according to the indi- 
vidual fancy of every singer. 

In its earliest stages miisic was metcdic and, no matter how 
many voices were employed, but one melody was heard. Soon 



mstORv oP uusrc. 



337 



it became apparent ibat tliere would have to be a resuljustmcnt 
of nidody if it vftxt to be sung by both men ard boys, because 
of the great difference in the compass of ll*ar voices. The 
Greeks had happene<l {:pon a plan of singing in octaves, and 
\h\% llicy callnl '^magadizing." The octave is the simplest con- 
sunani. inleiv^l ui<] wa» iiutuntlly the ftm to be employed. In 
the early Christian churches melodies of greater range came to 
be used, thus preventing tlic practice of ain^'ng in umson or 
octaveSp Some method had to be devised by which they could 
sing their religious tunes in a more agreeable way, and this 
the monks in the monasteries undertook lo sccomplbh. 

If it 13 satisfactory for the voices to ^ing in unison or in 
octaves, they argued, why can we not let one group of voices 
sing the melody a% before, and another group lake it up ai an 
interval of four or five tones above or below ? For example : 



4 



Ini^L^i 



1^ 



^^- 



■*^ 



-t^ -^ ^ 



This pliui seems to have been generally approved and so^ 
for them, the problem was solved. To our ears, accu:^toincd to 
mtKleni harmonies, this *'Organiiiii," or ailvancecl mag;idi7ing, 
Hould sound intolcrfibly har§h and unmusical ; but to them it 
was net distastcfuJ, and it allowed a dioir of monks to fting 
the same melody simultaneously, notwithstanding the differ- 
enccs of their voice range. At first the melody was simply 
duplicated at a distance of a fourth or fifth, the two voices 
moving in parallel motion. Gradually composers came to see 
the advantage of writing ihc parts in opposite or "contrary" 
iroiion. Until the end of the cWenth century tlic voices of 
choral music were carried through from beginning to end, 
without llie variety aiid retirf of having oiic pait discontin- 
ued even for a measure, Tlie same volume of sound was 
heard throughout the composition and must have been veiy 
monotcmous and wearing to the hearer. 

"X^omposcrs seem to have thought that it was an advaiitage 
to keep the parts going; and when they gave any voice a rest 
of long duration, it was generally less for the sake of artistic 




a in IT X 

^ "iiE ITS. 'Rue X jKfe arae- m ^ :i£ri tsct- ^»:i;£.^ ^ p^ . - jf ^ 
^e II ^1 ' i-fci 3P9KKT- JK Jnits "jutx ui!& ]CE£ "ycr j 'is ^ ■ n i j 



■w^ ^ 




£ 



.:: :se i^r.^ ?cl^ :: T-r^iczvc ::c r-^^^::> %-iS^ .r^OwC zr 



-ilEC A 



RISTOkY OP MUSIC 



239 



Cotrnteq^oint ii boKd on tiie study of siOKk notes or 
ntciody^ while harmony has to do vrith combinations of tones, 
or chords. In its broadesi sense cotintcrpoinr means adding 
aocdnipanytTig p^ina to 3 ^veii nttrUidy, In harmony we Uiink 
of a succession of tone* in jwrrpmdiciilar fnrm, antl not iheir 
progression in nicluily. 

A« long as mtivc was prcFmoltd only witliin the chtirclicfi 
and monastery sciiools it was entirely vocal and quite devoid 
of any rhythmic quality. Thi» waj not without its advantages, 
for It was the indirect cause of the invention of harmony. 
Dance music, even today, demands but little in the way of har- 
mony; but choral mufiic, sung by voices of different pitch, 
reqiTires the aid of harmonic stniawrcH A rh)lhm which was 
independent of the dance measure could never have been devel- 
ii\)n\ Um] it not hem that chnr^tl intiKir fell \ih rieeiL 

■'it is perfectly easy to keep inslnimentii or voicra together 
when the music is regulated by a dance rliytlmi, hut in pure 
choral music* such as was cultivated from the tenth century 
till the sixteenth, one of the most bcawtiful effects, whicli com- 
posers Aou^ht after most keenly, was the gliding from har- 
mony to harmony by steps which were so hidden that the mind 
was willingly deceived into thinking that ihcy had melted into 
one another"* 

Jn this way modem harmoniied fonns began in counter- 
point and tlie two developed side by side, one strengthening 
ihc other. Gradually the ear became trained to more refined 
intervals, and then thirds and sistlhs liegan to be used. The 
progress of part wnimg was slow and it developed under dif* 
Scttlties, for there were no models from which to copy. The 
musicof t]teMid<tlc Ages was not artistic; it was ex|>crnncn1al 

Two centuries later we find that the desire to cariy the art 
of coimterpoint to its utmost resulted in productions that far 
more resembled mathematical problems than they did musical 
compositions. This period fi40O-i55O> was known as the 
"Age of the MeiherTaiMlers" bec:iiise the work was carried on 
by mu^dans of Northern Frani-e am! tlie Ijow ConntTies. 
Wliilc some music was pi^^iduccd indicating that a few compos- 
ers were striving for a truly musical efFect, on the whole it 

■Parry: Tb- Art of Muik.SO. 



*40 



Ttn wokld's pfiocftKss, 



must be sdmined that music became the exercise i^round for 
the fertile minds of sdiolartt anil Uworist^, mther than the fkid 
of labor (or reaJ muskriaTs. 

"CountcrpoiQt ^ngle, double, qtodnsple, augmented and 
dimimslieil, direct, retn^raile and mverlefl, became the joy of 
composers. The notation became equally bcwiidcrifig. . > . 
Rhythm v^as obocured ami (he words hopdeuly lost in tltc 
web of crosMHEf parts. Composer? larg^y occupied themKlves 
with the mechanical side of their art Tcclinical dcvcmess 
wai the upi>ermoi3t aim, rather than beauty or devotional 
expression."* 

The practice of borrowing tunes from sectdar as well as 
religious sources led to an absurd abu^e. The composition toolc 
its tiame from the borrowed air. anil mav^rs atwl moirt* by 
such names n% '*Mass of tlie Armed Man." and "Adteu, My 
Love Mavs" were not uncommon. No Irreverence was in- 
tcDdcd by such adaptation of melody and Twmc; composen 
seem to have simply failed to sec the inartistic and rtalJy 
htunorous aspect of the practice 

The complexity of this musical algebra was amazing, and 
wonderful was the skill required in teaching and handling it. 
When the effort to create new forms and sojve new puazles 
had reached its height, tl:e work of the NetherLanders was 
finished. Insomuch as it taiig'ht composers the thorough mas- 
tery of counterpoint, it was useful and even necessary. It is 
sometimes asked why the music of this period, wTuch has 
aroused the in\t admiration among contnipuniiits of all 
times, is not presented to the world today. The answer is not 
hard to find. Only a small part of these old works have ever 
been printed and, of those that were put in permanent form, 
many have been lost. Thcn^ too, there arc fashions even m 
church mu«lc, and with the influx of ihe fascinating Italian 
meltxiy and warn tone-ccjlor which jsermejtlei! all Europe in 
the sevenieenth century, the more austere and complex forms 
were forgotten. 

The Music of the PEOPt.E. 

Every art ia the combination of two elcmcnls*-{ r ) the lA- 
Tcmion of ideas and fancy, and (2) mcdianical skill. In ordcf 

* Dickinson, Mu^c !ii the \Vc>(etn Church. iy> 



HISTORY OF MUSIC. 



34f 



to Iiavr ^ prtjgrrssivr music wc miisl have the sdctirific knowl' 
edgf of tht ihtoriit and (Tic ^pomancou* iiieloily of the people; 
ifu-M; two factors necessarily *ict and react v]Kn^ one smother, 
llic invention of melodies must be accompanied by a thorough 
groumiwork of harmony and counterpoint. 

In the MiddJc Ages the woik of the scientific musician 
was not lo create melodies, but to give borrowed tunes a carc- 
fuilv conceived form and contrapuntal treatment. On the 
other hand, the common people possessed a wealth of beauti- 
ful ideas but lacked tlie sdcnufic skill to work ihera out. So 
long as mnjtieal iheori^Ts lalKJred o7ily within the wall* of ihe 
monasteries music lacked that spirit that ortly contact wilh the 
real jtjya and struggles of life can g^ivc. 

The period from the eleventh to the fourteen centuries was 
otic of great brilliancy in European history. With tlic awak- 
ening: of men's encrgfies and the revival of learning: came an 
increase in culture and wealth, and a rapid expansion of all 
the arts. The order of knighthood Rpi>earcd, bringing chiv- 
alry whh its conception of honor and courtesy. The knightly 
calling not only demanded a knowledge of the use of anns* 
but also an acquaintance wilh the gentle arts of poetry and 

*OlTg- 

Seeular mu^iebos-^and by these are meant all whose 
labors were carried on outiide the church^-of the Middle Ages 
were wanderers over Europe. They were the strolling inin* 
slrels, troubadours, ininncsingcrs and mastcr'singeis, their 
names difFcring according to the nation and station in life to 
which they belonged, "liiis song-minstrelsy had its origin in 
the French court and first found expression with the troaba- 
dours in Province. Probably because of its proximity to Spain 
tliis district led all others in the spirit of chivalry and love of 
gayety; In atiy evetit it became the rallying ground for the 
finest arts of the age, 

The troubadour was a port rather than a musician. Often 
he was totally unskilled in music and had to employ someone 
to sing and play his poems for him. Tliese aisistants, or min- 
strel* as they were called, comprised a large and varied group; 
they belonged to the lower ranks of sncicty. while the trouba- 
dour was nf kmghily calling, A few possessed both f)oetic&l 



?4^ 



Hit woRui's rRoaness. 



and musical ability, a» in t1i« cjiac of Atlam de b Hiile, of iho 
thtrteenlh ccnlury. The trouWdour's song was of lovCr 
exiting woniHn'» beauty, am! Uic few melodies th^t have conie 
down to U5 show true musical fctling, strong rhytlim and a 
scale system much tike our own. The troubadours helped 
mere than any other class of musicians to Icoep insinuncutal 
music alive, and in this work performed great scnicc 

On the journeys from castle to castJc, or from town to 
town, the minstrels were in constant attendance upon the gay 
troubadourfi. Not only did ihey (in^ tticir knight's !a>-s, \mt 
often performed tlie duties of an tipper scn-ani ; at the banquet 
table the minstrel s^i below hi* master, wTio, being of noble 
hinh, was entiiicd to «!vcry altenlion. 

Speaking of the gieat class of niinslrcia, Mr. Cliambeta in 
hi3 MrdvaciMl Stage say* ; *'Thcy wandered at their will from 
caatlc to castle, and in lime from borough to borough, sure o( 
their ready ^-clcomc alike in the village tavern, llic guitdhall 
and the bnron's keq). They ^ang and jeMed in the market 
places, slopping cunningly at a critical moment in the perform- 
ance 10 gather their han-est of small coin from the bystanders. 
In the great cai:t!es, while fords and ladies supped or sat arrjund 
the fire, it was theirs to while away many a long ev-ening with 
courtly j^eMt or witty sally. Al wedding or l^lrulhal, treaty 
or tournament, their presence was indispensable. The greater 
festivities saw them literally in their hundreds, and rich was 
their rcwiinl in money and in jewels, in costly garments, and 
in broad acres. They were liccn^ vagiibonds with free right 
of entry into the presence-chambers of the land." 

The accomplifihments of the minftrel were varied and often 
inchided the arts of our present-day juggler. One of the 
ablest, Robert le Manis, said: "I can play the lutc^ the violin, 
the pipe, the bagpL|>e, the syrinx, the harp, the giguc, llic gittem, 
the svTiiphony, the psahcrj-, (he organiMmm, the regals the 
tabor and the rote I can sing a song well and make tales and 
fables." Because he was constantly strolling about the conn* 
try and cotild call no place his home, the bard of this a^c 
could claim the protection of r</ country. He was an outlaw 
in the eycfi of socielyi locked upon as an enlertaiiier solely, and 
never taken seriously. 



RidVotty OF MUSIC. 



Il is but a sTiorl di^lanctf acrosi iTie Rliinc into Ihe Fallicr- 
Und, and the lay of ihc Iroub^nlwir soon fownd a counterpart 
in the minncsong. Before the German minncsin^rs could 
{Stn their titles there was riccrous training to be undergone. 
Many of them were, like the troubadour, of noble birth and 
received a knight's training. When about seven years of aire 
the would-be songster entered the scnice of some kniglit, wait- 
ing upon him as a page and Ie:irning ihe ^iccompHshmentJi of a 
grntlrman. At the agr of twenty-one, his pa»;t record being 
irreproachable* he was knighted at his lord's castle, receiving 
his !itlc and bis sword, upon which be swore to protect wonian 
aiid tlie holy cause of rcliKion, and thus equipped set out in 
the world independently. 

"This ceremotiy being concluded, the young knight was by 
custom coTuprllecl to siirnicr forth into thr woHd, and gener- 
ally by poverty to keep on sauntering in thii fashion all his life 
long. Then he perfected hitnsclf in the art of eoni]>osing vmgs 
and playing some stringed instrument, which became both a 
source of infinite enjoyment, and an unfailing source of reve- 
nue if the knight was poor With his art he paid his boarding- 
bills; his art furnished him with clothes, horses and equip- 
menis. More than all, his art won him the love of his lady.'** 

The song of the mirnesinger was, like that of the trouba- 
dour, in praise of woman, and was even more extravagant in 
lauding her virtues, AUhougli the poetry of the Germans was 
superior, their iTielody was rot so spontaneous. Ctetierally 
speakin}^. the minnesingers weie musicians and did not have to 
dtpcnd upon minstrels to sing their poems for them. 

"At a time when cities had as ycl barely come into exist* 
encc in Germany, and the caMles of the lorf!s were the chief 
gathering-places of the vast floating population of the erusad 
ing times, these minnesingers, with little or nothing beside their 
^wcrd, fiddle, or harp^ and some bit of love-ribbon or the like 
from the sweetheart, wandered from village to village and 
castle to caUle, everywhere welcomed with gladress, and re- 
ceiving their expected rrmnrwration with the proud unconcern 
of strolling vagabonds. Throngs gathered to hear their songs. 
retained them !n memory, and transmitteil them to the succeed- 
log generation,"* 

*Knxs<T, The BifimicjifLBcr {n Gvrininy, ;, Ibid ,S , 



2+4 'ms world's progress. 

For the most part, they were unable to read or write» and 
we owe nearly all our knowledge of their songs to tradition. 
How these unlettered knights could develop the art of song 
and poetry to such a degree of excellence is a marvel. No 
such grace and beauty of song appeared again in Gennan lit- 
erature until Goethe heralded the dawn of a second brilliant 
period of poetr>". It is impossible to give in an English trans- 
lation the musical beauty of these lyrics^ but the following 
stanzas will serve to give an idea of their style. The first is 
attributed to Ulrich von Lichenstein. 

"Summer glow 
Lieth low 
Upon heath, field, wood and graas. 

Here and there 

In the glare. 
White, red, gold peeps from the place. 

Full of joy 

Laughs the sky, 
Laughs what on the earth doth rove. 

Happy man 

He who can 
Live so all things him move 

To love, to love." 

The two following were writen by Walther von der Vogel- 
weide, who seems to have been one of the most gifted and 
popular of the minnesingers: 

Ecstasy of Love. 

"I am now so full of joy, 
That into any folly I might throw me; 

For there's a chance that I 
Can win my lady signs of love to show me. 

Look! thus rise my hopes and blow me 
Far higher than the sunshine floats; — be 

Gracious, maid, unto me. 



HISTORY OF MUSIC. 245 

Ne'er X on the fair one glanced 
But with love's glow my eyes 'gan sparkle clearer. 

This always to me chanced ; 
And e'en cold winter to my heart grew dearer. 

Others deemed't a churlish cheever, 
What time to me it seemed as if May had 

Indeed drawn nearer. 

This most pleasant song I've sung 
In honor of my lady, and unchary. 

She must thank me for't ere long. 
Then for her sake will I be ever merry. 

Though she wound my heart unwary; 
What of it? whether't hurteth me? It may 

Do the contrary. 

No one may so far succeed. 
To part me ever from the love I bear her. 

If I were turned from her indeed, 
Then where should I find maiden nobler, dearer. 

One more guileless, debonnairer ? 
Than Helen or Diana she is better famed 

And fairer." 

The death of the German Emperor Henry VL changed the 
whole character of the times, and the care-free minstrel days 
came to an end. The country was in confusion and rent by 
party dispute, some favoring Otto of Bavaria, and others his 
rival, Philip, for the next ruler. This verse, taken from a poem 
written to encourage Philip, shows the poet to have been a 
thoughtful and keen observer of the affairs of the day ; 

"I heard a water skimming, 
And saw the fishes swimming; 
I saw what in the world there was ; 
Fields and woods, leaves, reeds, and grass. 
What crawleth and ascendeth, 
And feet to th' earth downbendeth. 
This saw I, and I tell you that 
None of these all live without hate. 
The beasts, and e'en the crawling 
Worms e'er are fighting and bawling 



J4^ THE world's progress. 

Thus e'en the birds do. Still I see 
That in one thin^ they do agree — 
They'd hold themselves destroyed. 
Lest they one court employed. 
Hence king and taw they choose by a word. 
And order servant man and lord. 
Ah, woe thee, German nation ! 
How great thy degradation I 
The very fly her king doth own; 
And lol thine honor goeth down; 
Repent thee, O repent thee! 
Thy selfish princes rent thee, alack 1 
O Philip, take the emperor's crown, and teU the others 
to stand back." 

The poetry of the minnesinger reached its heighi in the 
middle of the thirteenth century, and completely died out in 
the fourteenth. The performances of these musical bards of 
Europe, till about the year 1450, had been of a low moral 
order, for they were the most irresponsible people of a coarse 
and careless age. Although they kept alive the love of pure 
melody, their work must not be overestimated^ their impor- 
tance is greater in the history of human culture than it is in the 
history of music. 

Gradually the strolling musicians were brought under con- 
trol; slowly they came to settle in cities, where they became 
useful citizens. In most of the European cities they, like all 
skilled artisans, formed companies or guilds, somewhat simi- 
lar to the present-day trade unions. To this order belonged 
all grades and classes of music lovers, from the apprentice to 
the poet, and, highest of all, the master-singer. The latter 
class rendered final decisions on all matters pertaining to music, 
and made rigid and prccir^e rules for their mechanical composi- 
tions. The regulations governing their composing were so 
artificial that their productions could not live. 

Of the many thousands who attained the rank of master- 
singer only one is remembered today. Wagner has made im- 
perishable the name of the greatest of the guild workers — Hans 
Sachs — in his great comic opera, "Die Meistersinger von 



HISTORY OP MUSIC- 



347 



Nuremberg," In ihis he ^ves us the following desniption of 
a master>song: 

"Each master-created sUvc 

Its regular measurcrrcnt mu^t have. 

By sundry re^lationa stated 

And never violated. 

What we call a section is two stanzas; 

For each the self-same melody answers; 

A stanza several lines doth blend. 

And each line wilh a rhv-ine must end. 

Then come we to the "After Song/' 

Which must he aUo sonic Uncs long^ 

And have its especial melody. 

Which from the other different must he. 

So staves and sections of each mcastire 

A master-song may have at pleasure. 

He who a new song can outpottr 

Which in four syllables; — not more— 

Another strain doih plagiame. 

He may obtain (he master priro." 

The same impulse that produced this music made the folk- 
song possible among the common people The folk-song dif- 
fers from the so-called art song in that its authorship is un- 
knowUf and so it secnis as if it came from the heort of the 
pcnple. Probably many of lliem have more than fine author — 
that is. they have been altered and added to from time to time. 
They are simple and imaflfeclcdH and it is in them that we find 
the real musical character of a nation. 

The Gcrnian fnlk-song was independent of the minnesong. 
and has had a great influence upon higher musical arl Com- 
posers of all times have turned to the people's melodies for 
themes and insptralion. That these simple folk-tunes are 
capable of a high degree of development is beautifully illus- 
trated in the works of Johann Sebastian Bach. 




CHAPTER IIL 
Early Paotbctakt Music 

The original chan^^a in Ihc scnicc of the ncwly-foutided 
church ivere few. Portions of ihc Maw were at first sutifj; 
by the choir, but finally the form was abanOoned altogeiher. 
The grealest cliaiiges in [?ie service, historically ajieiilcing. 
were (l) that il was given iti the German tongue instead of 
Latin, and (2) that congrcgationnl singini^ took the place 01 
the clerical chant, 

Luther was not tJic founder of congrc^tional sinking, a» 
is often supposed. There were traces of it as early as the 
tenth cenuiry in ihe KjHe eleison sung as a refrain in the 
Catholfc mass. In thr fuiirteentli ceniiiry thtrre were many 
rc1igiiiu3 songs taken from secular airs, while a Imndrei! yvar^ 
latci the religious folk-song flourished in Gcraiany and Bo* 
hernia. Rather it ahoul<l be 3,\itl chat Luther was the father 
of Frotcstoftt eongregntional singing, 

Tlie aid which he has given in the matter of hymn-making 
has been greatly overestimated. It is true that he wrote the 
words of alx^ut ihirty-five hymnft— which, by the way, ihow 
very htile origitiaUly — hut, although he seems to have pos- 
seAsed a profound musical insight, Luther ild not compo«« 
hymn tuneSn In a preface to one of the church song books 
he says that he saw no need of aboliahing artistic music from 
ihc church — that all things beautiful sliould be usetl to pro- 
mote religions feeling. It was hts great delight to have 
musicians alx3Ui him, and he did much to advance the knowl* 
edge of music in the schools. 

14$ 



niSTOXY Off >iV%tC, 



a^9 



rhf Gcmian h>Tnn-tiinc, or "chorale," is x stately song 
wilh an ausjcrc hKimy (!isimct!y iis own It was generally 
printed ill half notes ami was sung vciy slowly, althougli iis 
character was oftentimes most joyoua- It may be said to 
come from three different sources: (i) the chauls of the 
Catholic chuTcli. (3) religious songs of Germany which 
antedated the Refomialion, and (^) the secular folk-song. 

"The chorale-melodies of the Lutheran church have 
exerted a powerful, although irdireci, inflLicncc on cia«sicsl 
mustCr an influence far greater than that of any of the older 
ecclesiastical plain-sorg mclcxlies with the possible exception 
of the 'Dies Ira*." One main cause of this is that the com- 
posers of the classical school were mostly Germans, and to 
ihem and their hearers the cliorafcs a^orded an obvious 
means Of coi^vcying the expression cf many moods of 
emotion; and another Important cause was derived from 
the circuinstaifccs that the chorale-tunes were hi a special 
inaniier the property of the people, of the coiigre^atinn. 
rather tlian of [he trained choir. It was t] lis ctrcumstance 
which in the earlier days made it necessary tG pause at 
the end of each line of the hymn, in order to allow a 
margin of time for the laggards among the congregation 
to overtake ilie resi before tjegjnning a new line. The 
organist very soon found that these pauses allowed room 
for ihe intro<hicticn of impromptu interludes, and by de- 
grees the interludes grew in imjaortancc and in organic 
connection wiih the chontletunc in which Ihey occurred, 
until the ingenious musicians were accused of distracting 
the congregation by means uf the interludes — a charge 
actually brought again:«t Spohr."* 

Luther retained mncli thiit he considered worthy in the 
Catholic service, and many of the Protestant hvmns were 
directly translated froni the liturgy. Then, too, it was very 
natural that ;he Gennaii pcojilc shculd turn to the beloved 
fnlk-lnue% U\ express ihcJr ichgiiJus cmotioitH. At first all 
sang llic melody of the chorale; later they employed a kind 
of simple counterpoint, the choir singing the melody and the 
body of worsliippcrs the accotnpammcnt. These h>'TOns set 

* Crow'* Dictionarr. 



-****^*— ■ 



2SO The WORtD'S PROGRESS. 

forth their doctrines and beliefs and had a triumphal ring 
which savors strongly of the battlefield of religion. Yet they 
arc less antagonistic and dogmatic than might be expected, 
considering the intolerance of these religious enthusiasts. 

"We read marvelous stories of the effect of these hymns; 
of Lutheran missionaries entering Catholic churches during 
service and drawing away the whole congregation by their 
sin^ng; of wandering evangelists standing at street corners 
and in the market places, sin^ng to excited crowds, then dis- 
tributing the hymns upon leaflets so that the populace might 
join in the paean, and so winning entire cities to the new faith 
almost in a day. This is easily to be believed when we con- 
sider that the progress of events and drift of ideas for a 
century or more had been preparing the German mind for 
Luther's message; that as a people the Germans are extremely 
susceptible to the enthusiasms that utter themselves in song; 
and that these hynms carried the truths for which their souls 
had been thirsting, in language of extraordinary force, clothed 
in melodies which they had long known and loved."* 

The finest of the chorales is "Ein 'festc Bnrg" which 
bears the date of 1527. Carlyle has made it known to the 
English-speaking world in the following translation: 

"A safe stronghold our God is still, 

A trusty shield and weapon ^ 
He'll help us clear from all the ill 

That hath us now overtaken. 
The ancient Prince of Hell 
Hath risen with purpose fell; 
Strong mail of Craft and Power 
He weaveth in this hour, 
On Earth is not his fellow. 

"With force of arms we nothing can, 

Full soon were we down ridden; 
But for us fights the proper Man. 

Whom God himself hath bidden- 
Ask ye, Who is this same? 
Christ Jesus is his name, 



Dickinson : ''Music in tbe Western Church," 2U- 



RIStOBY OF MUSIC Jjt 

Tlic Lore! 2tbaotl)*» Son; 
He find riu ctlifr one 
Shall conquer in the battle, 

"And were tins world all Devila o'er 

And Mbarching to devour ui» 
Wc lay it nol to heart so sore. 

Not ihcy can ovrtpowcr lu. 
Ant! let the Triiicc of lU 
Look grim as e'er he will. 
He hams us not a whit : 
For why? his doom is writ, 
A word shall <]uickly tlay him, 

*'GotI*a Wortt, for all ili^ir cfSfl and force. 

One mon^ent witl not linger. 
But ^pitc of llcll ii\\\] have its coarse, 

Tis written by hh fingcn 
And though they take our life, 
Goods, honour, children, wi£e, 
Yet K their profit small: 
Thew things shall vanish all, 
Tlie City of God rciimincih." 

That ihcre was no bitter hostility between the Catl:olic 
and Proteslam churches at llii^ period is shown in the fact 
that not only did the Lutherans appropriate many of the 
Litvrgic tunes, but Catholic hymn books were published in 
which some of the German chorales were adopted. This 
jieriod of frienflliness lasted until the IwginnJng of the Thirty 
Years' War. 

The Reformation took a vastly difFcrcnt course in England 
than on the Comincnl. In Germany and France the revolt 
against the Papal authority had iti beginnings in the ranks 
of the people an<l but slowly gained th« recognition of the 
nobility. Quite comrarj* to this movement, in England the 
withdrawal froin Rome and esiablishmert of a national 
church was due partly to the j>er*onal grievance of the kin^ 
against Pope Clement VIT, and parlly to ^ gmwing feeling 
of nationality which resented foreign interference of any kind 



17^ - -^T-. - —". 









r y-.T. i 



™T •'.-J^ 






IHSTORV 09 MUSIC. 



iS3 



line of the English, or Anglican, service w!th lliat of the 
Catholic liturg)' gfivcti in a previous ch^cr will show their 
great similarily in fonn and composition. 

Akcucan Sservice. 



Tc DcuTii 

Benedicts {from Hock of Lnk«) 

JnbilMv (Pialm 100) 

Kvti* elciidn 

Hjc«nr Creed 



Sftnctus 

G!oriA in excel »U 

Maipiifical 

Canute OommJno Cfiifm I^) 



Dcua MJienlor (Pulm 67) 

The Litan/. <Jircctly tramUtcd frrmi the I^tin^ ib the 
oldest portion of the Prayer Book and was given its musical 
netting in 1550, bj John Murbcck, The chant was retained, 
ahhovgh the (irtgorian form was greatly niodilied. There 
never have been fixeJ nilcs regarding the arrangement of 
notes to the words in the ProEesrant chant 

Tliere arc three different ways of performing lervicc in 
the Epi^'[>p^l church: (1) thc! catlirtfral nuxk, {3) the parO' 
chial mode and (3) mixed mode. Thr choral or c^fhi^dral 
mudc 15 used in large cathedrals and royal cliapcis, where it 
is possible to hav<: an endowed choir. In this ser\'icc every- 
thing is sung except the Scripture lesson. Since services arc 
held several times each week day. as wcQ as on Sunday, in 
English cathednis, it involves the f^eal expense of maintain- 
ing a choir whose entire time shall tie devoted to this church 
singing. The panjchfal miHlt- U tiM-d in smaller churches, 
where pari of the service is recited in speaking tones inMead 
of being sung. The mode in common use in the Episcopal 
churches of America is a mixture of th<:^c tivo; in it the 
prsycrs. creed, and litany are recited by the congregation and 
min:*^ter, while other parts arc surg or chanted. 

ITie anthem is not a part of the litany, but ii is under- 
stood that it* ttxt shall l»e taken frnm ihi; Bible or Prayer 
Book- Although it has been adopted by all Protestants, the 
aiilheni IwUnigs distinctly to the Episcopal churcli. Al Gnti 
it was written for chorus alone, but graduaQy solo passages 
were inserted. 

There had ticcii many composers before the Kefonnation 
mrho held equal rank witti those on the ContinenL Many of 



254 ^BE wokld's frogrsss. 

them were given salaried positions, which were more or less 
pemuLnent, notwithstanding the frequent changes in the estab- 
lished religion. Generally speaking, these churdi composers 
were as ready to write for one church as another. The only 
names of the writers of music in this period that are remem- 
bered today are those of Thomas Tallas, Richard Byrde, 
Orlando Gibbons and Henry PurcelL 




lAKLY rORU OF THE OSOAK. 



HISTORY OF MUSIC- 



255 



CHAPTER IV. 
EARLY GERMAN COMPOSERS, 

JOUAHN SSSA^IAI? BaCH (1685-J75O). 

Bach was born al Hiicnacb, Gennany. on the twenty first 
<lay of March, J6d£, This period, after the tumult arnl up- 
heaval tau^ieij by the Thirty Yc;ir?*' War, was cndauhtrrdly 
favorable for his work. Por. dnpiCe tlic fact that so much 
)ia(1 Ixcn (lone to destroy Geniian faith 111 human inMitutions, 
there remained, even more firmly rooted, a dinging faith in 
God and the national church^ 

Although Uic greatest genius of a fantity who^e musical 
talent had for six generaiions attracted the attention of all 
Germany, the life of Johann Seb;istian, like theirs, was simple 
and iineventfitl. Thrift and extnrme pieiy were the char- 
aeleiistics of this family. They hdonged !» the Murdy niidille 
class of society, and were rather a clannish people, tnuMC 
being the strong common bond. The Bachs held many impor- 
tant positions as instructors and directors of music, and are 
the most musical family known to history. The life and 
work of Johann Sebastian would seem to prove the theory 
ihat man owes much to herediiy, for in him all the most 
admirable trails of his ancestors arc reflected. 

For tlie first nine years of his life his edncalion wha en- 
tirely directed by his father, who gave him lessons on the 
violin and taught him something of musical theory. At the 
age of tcni both parents being de^d, Uic boy was left to the 
care of an older brother, then an organist ia tlie town of 
Ohrdurf- Tliis brother taught Sabastian clavichord -playing, 
but he evidently was not wholly in sympathy with the young 
lad's ambitions. 

The story is lold that Sebastian wished to secure some 
music to play, beyond what was given to him (or lessons. He 
was greatly attracted by a volume of the masters of the 
day in his brother's library, but was forbidden its use. Deter- 
mined, however, lo know thii music, Sebastian crept down- 



256 The worij>'s progbess. 

stairs every night, stole the coveted book from its shelf and, 
by the dim light of a candle, patiently copied every note: 
This difficult task was six months in the process^ and then, 
alas! when it was finished, the brother happened upon the 
cc^y and took it from him. 

At the age of thirteen he went to Luneberg, where his 
beautiful soprano voice gained him admittance to the chapel 
choir of St. Michael and also to the choir training school. 
It was the aim of Bach's life to become a master of the 
organ, and in this school he came under the notice of an 
able organist, who instructed and greatly encouraged him. 

In five years his changing voice left him no longer desired 
as a singer, so he went to Weimar and later to Arnstadt, 
where he began his wonderful career as organist and com- 
poser. For the next fifteen years he held positions as choir 
director and organist, his duties requiring a vast amount of 
vocal and instrumental composition. During this time he 
wrote many of his most famous fugues, passions, cantatas and 
his Mass in B Minor. 

Bach's life contained little of romantic interest. We know 
that he married twice and that several of his children won 
fame in the musical world. The third son, Carl Philip Eman- 
uel, inherited his father's lofty ideals and much of his talent. 

In 1723 he was called to Leipsic as cantor of the Thomas 
school and director of music at the Thomas church. Here he 
remained, playing and composing, till his death, in 1750. His 
sight had been failing for some time and he, like Handel, 
spent the last few years of his life in blindness. 

Bach was distinctly national in all his traits, and his work 
can only be understood with German national and religious 
history as a background. He never once travelled outside 
his own country, but his compositions do not reflect narrow- 
ness of thought or design. It might be said of him that he, 
like Dante, "was not world-wide, but was world-deep." His 
hfe was systematically simple, and he was not subject to the 
discouragements that have beset many composers, yet a mar- 
vellous range of feeling and pathos pervades his work. 

He left the field of opera untouched, his labors being 
first and foremost for the church. His one desire was to 
reform and develop its musiCj and to this end his life-long 



HISTORV OP UUEIC 



«y 



bbors wcTv direclnL He smns lt> havr hvta inApJiTd hy 
nmdi the »mc z«al ^5 th:it vrluch made po^5iMc tfie gigantic 
work of ^lanin Luther, of whom in many respects he refninds 
us. The history of the GcmiaD Protestant churth i» dosdy 
allied with that of its musk and the fiudy of the devetoptnent 
of the so-ealled "church forms" offer* an in«ght into the 
character and genius of thi« devout composer not afforded 
by his secular wHlings. 

It is as an organic and writer for the organ that Bach 
is best known to the world He was so unquestionably the 
greatest organ composer thai ever lived tt:at no orw thinks 
of chiadirg any other with him. He was al*o. in respect to 
hi^ skill as tmprovisor, the ablest organist the world has pro- 
duced- The forms in which lie wrote, — prehide, fugue, sonata, 
passion, cantata, mass, etc. — had already reached ^rvzi ctmi- 
plcteness in style and form- It remained for Joltann 
Sebastian Bach to liro^dcn, ny*(tenializc nnd lefinc them, ^ind 
develop them to such perfeclion that they h:k\x made no fur- 
ther progfrCES ance his day. 

"Bach waft no isolated phenomenon cf his time. He 
created no new (t^Ies ; be gave art no new direction. I Ic was 
cue out of many poorly paid and overworked charch inu- 
ifcians, performing the duties that were traditionally attached 
to his ufiicr> improvising fnguc* ;md prclndc*. and accompany- 
ing choir and congregation at certain moments in the service, 
composing motets, cantatas, and occasionally a larger work 
for the regular order of the day, prf>vi<Unc special niiisic for 
a church fe5lival, a public funeral, the inanguration of a town 
council, or the instidlation of a pastor. Wlint distinguished 
Bach was simply the superiority of his work on tliese time- 
honored lines, the ama^inj; variety of sentimcni which he 
extracted fr^^n tliese t.'imvcnt]i)Ti;il fornis, ihe Acieiiliric Itannng 
wliicli puts him among the greatest icehniciins tn ihe whole 
range of an, the prodigality of ideas, depiTi of feeling, and a 
sort of introspective mystical qtiL^lily wMcli he was able to 
impart to the involved and sevrre diction of his age,"* 

His style is ba*ed on tbr German "chorale^' or hymn- 
tune. It was the niMom f'>r the church organist to play a 

* DicVinton'fl "History ot Mu&ic id tli« \Vc*Ccra Cfcuteh." 



rfmn gt^ncc beixt ±c ^^t±e ^egan. vaica. v^ bssed oi 

-^c^Ensc cf "frac "^rng 3B^r«r Mrfed t't^ crjuncsncns "±33 
iis 'i'»:i arrr ^tre ±ar ^re zmnaaer gr^acaed mc rfr gr"^ ser* 
^cc : 3cr of se ^i;^ ^jzl jrnncd »::::yic£> bun r^iiei . ^'r ' - fh 

T^^cc ^ acilxj -- ecsnrwinzE ^ceir 1=7 '^g' ji' i -wtmri r zTg^ 
te gr^^Ei 'TT' ti '■as qtam ^ansnl -rmr riE ■'ry in r^ ^iicui 

ahcarfin £eiC fir :re leecnm cf "^^^^^ri^^ w^itfL v^rc 
cfccr^Ij ia srji arc ac=fti^ ■: £ ttlt^ irtairnea. 

Of irx ^^nrlrrmfe if ciirnle ^rtinics 'vrrica Ba ^ ^ ^E=cr>' 
pcrrzi:; cTcrr Sczifij- iclt i2:*:ct lo? ^nmir^i jnti £f^ biiw 
ccizix 'fitTTTi ii' TS_ Of :rc:!=e *azK ar^ rniv as Icc^ 2s r!^ 
^- i T-r. hjdf- ctrcrs stveral ^a^?^ jtot- \^~ii ^~^ rx brrrra 
dA-T-iij v%s ^rre: cct l==c ly lizDc iisiaZj by roe tckc ar a 
n=ae_ izc scparsr-C by ':irT:an:era:i! rasss^fe*^ Tz=s guve r^ 
to 'ire izrr:! "i cfxr^Ie-rjm^iic Te^rse ^az ^ -r gyg fn 01^^ 
rznsic i= fclr zzd^j- Becaise ±e premie rieiMS wi;rt tisrst 
of tht r -^ -r ?; -. cbere wis a dcscr ojcraecrijc bcTB^er: '^ crgaa 
Tof:ir:arTg5 a:^ ^e rest of the Tcr^irp Aan e_^i5cs Ea oar 
Krrkt T^i= $3ii:ie f^mi b ap parczE iz azanj cf Bach's vocal 
wrhi=g=^ — ^':: his citxmh carirata^ am! ::5Jt«s ta :^wse the 
vTjicc-wcavrng iras oncn so rmricate as ro be ttx <fepair of 
vocs!Ur_i, "±»; :':r_:rsptrniai devel'zrrrii^rru frec^er^riv !<'i.'izzg a 
pan T/jiTC 1^— :f v::ce rar^. 

a -*ar:^t7 c: :r^:ri'±rt arc exrre<i-:rT a^ cr t1< rrg^^ wcrfe 
The cne '^'r^z relieves the ^crrTriE? cf 3^:b. t: be a rm^^'e^■^^l5 

err-'0^::ri, hai 'trJ/ Ij e_Tnir:r-e rJj -rr^jj: rr^iuc^^ arvi fug^ics 
to fiT-d c/err ?hs.'ie of hurnar fwling. hi s^-.zi ci :he rarfcer 
nj^A fcmi :r. which they ar^ clrch^l The fu^^e. which was 
an o'jtj^ro'ath of rhe Italian "carzoca," reached its highest 
deTf-elopmenr. xuvitv him: Bach alone srccee^ied {a ccn:b:mng 
truly m"ii3ical ideas with this convcnrlonal stnicture. He ap- 
parently thoughc in term; of the organ, arid hi; iiKaginacion 
worked as freely in the fugue as that of modem composers 
in other forms. Of the v^st number of his organ works, 
many present themselves to the student as being superb ex- 
amples of his perfect workmanshipL The F major toccata, the 



iTOT MVSIC 



2S9 



G major fdnta^ic nnd the prelculc aiMl fugtic in G nay be 
Mlect^ as apt illiiMi atioris. 

A very imporuni grtnip of Bach's instrumental vrorks is 
the collection of preludes and fngucs written for the clavi- 
chord, known as ihc '*Wcll-TcinpcTCd Gavichord." This 
takes its name from tJie new method of tuning, the possi- 
bility and praetit-ahility of wliich was unquir<tion;i!>Iy demon- 
strated by this work. By the old metho<l, iiol all of Ihc keys 
couM be used. The basis of tuning is the ocCavc, which in- 
cindcs twelve half-Mcps, If they arc all perfectly in tunc, 
the octave will ix a little sharp: in order to ;ivoid thi5» the 
difference must Ik distrilmled evenly among the intcrvalsn 
Many conservative composers opposed this ne^* method of 
modifying or "icnipering" the intervals, but Bach wrote this 
work to pnivr tfuU Jl cotilrl Iw must iidv^nl^igccnisly lined, 
Thr^e fortyTight preludes ;jnrl fugues (one inrcKiflc and one 
fugix in every major and minor key) are more compact in 
style than his organ compositions; but for all tliat, they arc 
none the less expressive and alive. There iB something; singu- 
larly virile, strong and sincere about this collection, ft has 
stood the test of lime and is studied with diligence by pianists 
of every rank. 

Mtisic of the piano class had, up to Bach's time, been of 
A light and superficial vein, lie was probably the first to 
use depth of feeling in piano music. Altliough the instru- 
ment for which he wrote was entirely inadequate for his 
needs, he seems to have anticipated tlie possihiltte^ of modem 
instruments, and many of his tlgures recpiire the largest grand 
piano of today. His other instrumental works include the 
Chromatic Fantasie, the Italian Concerto, and a largr group 
of suites. 

Some critics have attempted to compare Bach's "St 
Matthew" with the "Messiah," but they arc utterly unlike 
in spirit and treatment The "St. Matthew" was written for 
the chinch, wliile Haiidel's "Messiah" is purely concert 
music. The first performance of tliis great Passion was given 
in April. 1729, Later it was rewritten, but with one excep- 
tion was not heard again until 1829, when it was given under 
the direction of Mendelssohn. 



^HE WORLDS PIIOORBSa 



"An atmosphere of proioundcst gloom pervades the work 
from bcgrinning tc cnd> growing darlccr as the scene* of the 
terrible drama advance and culminate, yet here and there 
relieved by g:leams of divine tenderness and human pity. 
Tliat Bach was able to carry a single mood, and that a de* 
jncsstng' one, through a composihon of three hours' length 
without falling into monotony at any point is one of the 
miracles of musical creation/'* 

In respect Xo musical science, Batch's i^'^^^t production is 
his MaES in B minor. Some have deemed it strange that such 
a devout Lutheran should have written a mass for the Caili- 
dic chnrc'h, Imt it will he rernembeTed that Luther himself 
reuinrd nuny clemcnfR of the Callmlic service; and ihc mass 
has always been a favorite fonii witi) composers, wltatcver 
their rclifn^us belief. The New Bach Society* with head* 
quartern at Leipsic, was established in 1900, for the purpose 
of making his choral works belter known and restoring them 
to their old place in the scn-nce of Evangelical churches. 

Some of his most beautiful writing is contained in hifi 
works for strings. The "Chaconnc" is perhaps the greatest 
single piece for violin *tf)lo, and is always a favorite concert 
number. 

The list of his vocal works is longest and, in the con* 
sideration of tlie composer, includes his best elToft&. Tlicy 
arc not so wcl! known as arc his ciunpoiilions for the organ, 
because their great technical ihfhcuhic$ arc so appalling. This 
group includes cantatas, motets and passions. 

A cantata might be called a long and elaborate anthem, 
and consislfl of solos and chonises with accompeninicnt. The 
words of a cantata refer to some devotional Uieme and the 
form is strictly related to ttie diurch service, Bach's can- 
tatas show his greal hn-;ifhh and rleplh of concqrtioa They 
usually end with a chorale as it stands in the Geiman hymn 
bookn 

The passion dates from the Middle Ages and grew out of 
the practice in the Catholic church cf holding special exer- 
cises in commemoration of Christ's last days. One pnest 
would take the pan of Christ, others wottid impersonate Peter, 
Pilate, etCj while a group of priests chanted the pans of the 
'Dickinson'* "Huc^ry oi Miuie in the Wcitem Chorcli-" 910. 



BiSTOKV OF UVtlC. 



36t 



tnob. It grew anci developed into a form known as "Passion 
MiisJc," its «ibjccl bdr^ (h<r trials anH death of Christ At 
first llic words were taken dirccilj from the Bible; Uier on, 
other worils approfiiatc to Uje *iubjecc urcre broui^it into use. 
Thew nddcd texts were (reqiiently j)ut m the months of 
imaginary spectators, who represented ihc opinion of the 
Church Universal. It was for some time a part of the reirutar 
Catholic service, beinj; f^iven four times during; Holy Weelc- 

Of Bach's five Passions the most perfect is his ''Passion 
according to St. Matthew." This is not so contrapuntal in 
style as somt^ of his worbs; its greatness lies in its paihos 
an<l oecaifional drafnatic passages. Three hours arc m^iiired 
for its performance, and it is rarely heard in its entirety. 

Bacii is proclaimed by &H to be the greatest chnrch com- 
poser who ever lived, and there arc many critics who do not 
hesitate to cal! him the greatest — reUgtous or secubr — of all 
times. 

In all Bach's compositions we find rhc same mastery of 
treatment and i)erfeetinn of finish. Olher composers have 
failed in some of their pn«luc!ions — Beetiiovrn faikd in 
writing oratorios and Schubert in opera — but Bach was always 
at his best. 

ClassuiH) List of His Works. 

Instrumental: Organ works (including Fugues, preludes, 
fant^i^ic'^, tocciitds, ehoral picludcs, and sonatas). Pi;ino 
works (preludes, fugues, dances, suites, invcniions and varia* 
tions) : a few works for piano with other instruments, solos 
for viohn, concertos and suites for orchestra. 

Vocal works: Cantatas, masses and other works in Latin 
text, motets, passitms, and a large amount of miscellaneous 
music 

Geohce Fbedebic Handel ("685-1750). 

The history" of music in the eighteenth orntury contains 
two names of great renown. Bach and Handel were born 
in the same year and in towns not far distant. Both were 
men of unusual Slrcngih of diaracier, composers of the great- 
est ability, able organists, players of the violin and clavi- 
chord; and each died totally blind Rut. strangely enou^ 



262 THE world's PROGRESS. 

the two never met and their lives present an absolute contrast 
to one another. 

Bach never went outside his own country, was not widely 
known, nor in favor with the nobility; his compositions 
brought him but small remuneration and he probably never 
heard them well performed. Handel, on the other hand, 
traveled considerably and became well known throughout 
Europe. His friends included many of influence in roya! 
circles, and he was, generally speaking, well paid for his 
writing, "It is impossible to compare these men. Each was 
strong in his individual way; each composed works which will 
always be regarded as masterpieces; but these masterpieces 
are so unlike, !t is so impossible to set them side by side for 
comparison, that we are forced — and happily — not to compare 
them, but to accept them as individual expressions of two 
unlike minds," 

George Frederic Handel was bom at Halle, in February 
of 1685. His father, a barber-surgeon, wished his son to 
become a lawyer and was not at all in sympathy with the 
lad's musical ambitions, but in spite of all obstacles he learned 
something of clavichord playing. 

When George was seven years old his father went on a 
journey to visit a relative who was in the service of the Duke 
of Saxe Weissenfels. The boy begged to be taken, but was 
refused. Wlien the coach started he ran behind and no words 
could turn him from his purpose. By and by his father, 
seeing he could not be driven back, allowed him to ride in the 
coach to the palace. There he made friends with some of 
the musicians in the Duke's chapel and one day was allowed 
to play the organ. So wonderful was his skill that the Duke, 
overhearing the playing, sent for the boy's father and urged 
upon him the necessity of encouraging such genius. The 
reluctant surgeon finally yielded and, on their return, young 
Handel became a pupil of Zachau, a famous organist of Halle, 
under whom he studied composition, organ, harpsichord, violin 
and hautbois (oboe). 

At the end of three years, Zachau declared that the boy 
knew more than he himself did. and sent him to Berlin. 
There his ability as organist brought him to the notice of the 



HI3T0RV OP UU31C. 



Klectnr, who ofFrrml him a iXHition at his court, but 1o thjs 
Handct's father objcclcd. The hoy returned fiontt and oucc 
more tock up his work with iiachau. 

The ncxl year — 1697 — bis father died and il bccftme neo- 
tssiry for Handel to accept what employment o^erc^l in order 
to earn a Itvehhood. As offfamu in one of ihe Halle churches 
be received only a small salary, bi:t gaimxl a large experience 
in coftduciing mus'cal servicer Mr left in six years for 
Hamburg, where he was ^vcn a place in a tTiealre ordiejitra 
as violinist. At that time Hamburg was a fitnious center of 
music and there Handel wa:^ able to become acquainted with 
f^eat compositions and to mingle with the best writers of 
the day. He himself produced two operas — "Ahnira'* and 
"Nero" — before he was twcnTy. Kcitlicr were of lasting 
worth, 1ml they brought the young comjxiscr f4vOTal)ly lit^fure 
the public 

His reputation as an opera writer being established, he 
went to Italy, whci^ he gave senous attention to his com- 
posing and produced several operas and much sacred music 
The Italians have always led tlie world in tlie exquisite beauty 
of their melrwly, hut at that time their opera was little more 
than a concert whrrr ^tngrrs might sliow their marvelous 
vocal feats. The dramatic clement was saaificed to Oiat of 
brilliant singing and. m consequence, the opera became an 
emply form, in favor chiefly with the nobility, who desired 
first of fill to be entertained. 

There is no trace of reform in Handel's operas. He, too, 
catered to the public taste and wc note the effects of the 
strong Tt;iHan influence in his writing. Undouhiedly his were 
much more perfect in their artistic finish and subject matter 
than were the operas of his contemporaries: biit he belongs 
to the eight ecnih-century Italian school and, although some 
of his arias arc slill heard upon the concert stage, his operas 
have vanished forexer- 

In 1710 he returned to Germany and was again oflFcred 
the poiiition of capell-meister [chapel master) to the Elector 
of Hanover He accepted on conrlitton ihar ht- shrndd first 
be al!owe<l to visit England : and to this the Elector Agreed- 
Italian opera was very popular in London at this time, and 
Handel was there recognized as a master. His oper^ 



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HTSTOIV O^ WTlStC. 



afiS 



alone that turned his attcnibn toward the oratorio; his work 
in this field began y-cors before he left the opera. The church 
authontica would not permit operas to be performed during 
Lent, and unless sometliing was given in ihelr place, great 
tfinanrtal Ins* wfniltT rc'Mill- T<» meet ihU flc-iTi;mil lie prndnced 
oratorios, and ihcy were cordially received by all clasw*- So 
we set that it was through practical motives that the great 
Handct took up the writing of religious forms. 

The oratorio is not church music. For it* origin we must 
turn 10 lialy, where the form was created. Dramatic music 
is divided into twn branches, one being ihc opera and the other 
ihc oratorio. Tliere arc rdigioiis oi*eTas aiwl dramatic ora- 
lorios- In the opera tlic atiiiosphefc and sigmfic^nce of Ihe 
drama is made manifest by me^n* cf costumes, scenery and 
action: in the oratorio this is, in a way, supplied by means 
of the chorus, which sets forth the gt!neTEl mood and moral 
purpose of the text. In its earliest period the oratorio was 
iiaged as an opera, bur in time it was not decnie<] appropriate 
to ]TFrw-nl religiini,*! Mibjrcls in this way. The Old Testament 
has funiishcd suhjeds far many oratorios: its cliaraclers and 
stories arc so familiar and simple, that its narratives arc well 
adapted for musical settings. 

By "church music* is meant only that music which has 
been written for or has grown up in the church ; and, although 
parts of an oratorio may be fitted into a religious service, it 
could not he given there as an entirely. 

Wr h;ive seen Ihal it was nul fur icUgioiis reasons that 
Handd turned his attention toward the writing of oratorios, 
but. nevertheless, into ihcm he poured all his fervid spirit for 
the moral uplifting of mankind. Although he derived his 
idea from the Italian form, he was never hampered by iw 
limitations, nor did he confuse the opera style with that of 
the oratorio. He brought the fonn to a height which has 
ne\'er been stirpasscd, and may he said to fjave accomptislicd 
for the oratorio what R;ich did for the ixission. 

It is in his choruses that Handel excels. By means of the 
Himptcst devices he produces truly mafpnificent and thrilling 
effects. It is to the chorus that the grandeur of an oratorio 
is due: no other achievement in musical art can produce such 
an overwhelming effect. Noise should not be confused with 



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HrSTORV OP Muac, 



rf7 



Handel created no new "school" of music and has not 
influenced modem writers aa Each has done. Many of \\h 
mslnimeiitaf compositions arc studied today, bnl they do not 
reflect his best worlc He h^s been accused of plagiarizing, 
but in hia times the appropriating of others' themes was not 
considered musical theft Between contemporary composers 
th«re is often a decided similarity of thought, and it %f> difficult 
to say just where coincidence of ideas leaves off and music:Ll 
plagiarism begins. Undoubtedly Handd used the maierial of 
olhers freely, but it is due to the fact thai the |)tTiod in whidi 
he wrote did not lay stress on the nercwsity of originaHty of 
musical ideas, rather than any lack ol creative abihty on the 
part of the composer. 

Handel was a man greatly to be admired: he was of irre- 
proachable moral character, independent in spirit, true to the 
best in a noble nature, and a master of his art. 

Classified List of His Works. 

Vocal works: Forty-seven operas, twenty-two oratorios, 
six miscellaneous pieces, seven odes, serenatas, anthems, 
hymns and other religious works, duets and songs. Instni- 
mcatal; Preludes, fugues, dances, suites and concertos. 




^eo^t f^-n'ff J^nP^ 



268 ThK world's PROGftSSS, 



CHAPTER V, 
LATER CLASSICAL COMPOSERS, 
Joseph Haydn (1732-1809). 

The Golden age of German instmmental music begins 
with Joseph Haydn. Bom in Hungary, near the border of 
Austria, he inherited the characteristics of both countries. His 
parents were poor peasants and unable to give the boy musical 
advantages, although the iove of song was always fostered in 
the humble home. 

Fortunately, Josej^ possessed a beautiful voice and, com- 
ing under the notice of a musician in Vienna, was admitted 
to the St. Stephen choir school ; there he remained eight years, 
studying and singing. When he was sixteen his voice changed 
and he was no longer desired as a choir-boy; he was conse- 
quently turned adrift in the streets of Vienna, penniless, and 
with no friend to whom he might turn. After wandering all 
one November night, he chanced upon a former school friend, 
a tenor by the name of Spangler. He was older than Haydn 
and, out of compassion for the friendless lad, invited him to 
share his garret, which offer Haydn gratefully accepted. 

He at once set about to earn a living, and because of his 
talents and genial manner soon procured a few pupils. In 
a few years he was able to rent his own humble lodgings, 
where he luckily fell under the kindiy protection of Metastasio, 
writer of opera texts, who aided him in many ways. 

When Haydn was still struggling amid great adversity, he 
happened to make the acquaintance of a wig-maker by the 
name of Keller. He was a frequent visitor at the Keller 
home and fell desperately in love with the younger daughter. 
A little later she entered a convent, and the father urged him 
to marry the other daughter, who was three years older than 
Haydn and most unattractive. Perhaps the young man felt 
indebted for the kindness that had been shown him by the 
family; at any rate, in a strange and sudden impulse, he con- 
sented to marry the girl. It was not long before they both 
discovered the unhappy mistake. 



HISTORY or UtrSlC 



269 



"The parlni?r lie liad taken for life was si vixm, foul- 
momhetl, quarrcUomc^, a bigot tn religion, rcckle&s in extrava- 
gance, utterly uJiappreci£.tivc of licr husband's g^ius and, a3 
he Gomplatred^ *did not care whether he was an artist or a 
cobbler/ » , . Naturally genial and affeclionate and 
peculiarly fitted for a happy domestic life by hit peaceful 
and amiable temperament, it is not surprising* that he soon 
wearied of the woman who made existence a torture to him. 
, , • Thfy Uvcil ;i\i'ATi during the grcalrr ]»fTrlItJii of their 
married life, but were not formally separated until thirty-five 
years later."* 

In i759 Haydn was ^ven the position of musica] director 
to a Bohemian nobleman. It wns the custom for nobles of 
means to maintain private orchctirat and choruses under the 
leadership of some talented musician. These private clire^lurs 
were obliged to write a va&l aTnaunt of music for difTcrrnt 
occasions, axnX. .-tlthoiifih it affoided excellent practice for a 
young composer, much of it was necessarily routine wort 
The musiciatis were compelled to follow the taste of their 
masters, who looked upon them as upper servants^ 

In this capacity Haydn two yeara btcr emered the princely 
house of Esterhazy, where he remained for thirty years. It 
gives us an insight into the sodal condition of musicians of 
that day to know of his bargain with the Estcrhazya, It was 
stipulated that Haydn should be tcini>cratc. and ab?»tAin from 
\Tilgarity in eating, drinking and convcr*ation; th?it he must 
take care of all the music and instruments and bo held respon- 
sible for an>* neglect of the same; and when summoned to 
play in company be and tlie members of his orchestra should 
appear in "wlifttf »itotkings, white linen, powder, arid either 
with 3 pig-i.iil or tie-wig," For this he was to receive a 
sal^iy of 400 florins, whicli is about SiRo Jn our money- 
Nothing offensive was intended by these absurd regulatitnis, 
and they were not so considered by the musicians themsclves- 
It was thought thai the musician was brought into being to 
make life more attractive for those in quest of entertainment, 
and the poor artist was unable to change existing conditions. 
Not nntil the eonct^ri i}ttem was established was the musician 
independent of the aristocracy, and judged according to bis 
true merits. 

"Tamoui CompOMT* and 7\wr Work».* 




3^ 



THE WORLD S PROT.KP.'^ 



H:iydn always expre&sed the greatest aKJmiration for Count 
E^erhazy, and he, on his tide, was not blind to the lalenu 
of hh mwsic-iraitcr. bcsiowing ;i pensinn u^xjn htm after he 
kfi his scr\'icc. His cxpt-ricncr with this noble family may 
\tc asiuX lo Ik picpaistoiy, hisi bc^t work l>euig done iifier he 
waj* fifty. 

By 1791 he was wcJJ known all over Europe and was called 
to London to direct some of his own worka. England has 
always welcomed foreii^n composerft, and this is portly tht 
cause of her having no distinclly national tchoot of music 
Haydn's success in London was great; he was granted the 
degree of Doctor of Music ffom Oxford UniverMiy, and the 
Queen orTertrrl liini ;i|iHtl]:ieuls in ihe p;i1;uc if htt wuuUI re- 
main, but at the end of a year and a half he returned to the 
Lsicrhazj'S. His last years were spent in Vienna, where 
many of his Rieatcst compositions were written. He died on 
May 31, 1809- 

HaydTi':4 work c;:tiinot be justly estimated unless we under- 
stand the fcnns in which he wrote. He has been called the 
*'Father of the sonata, syinphony and quariet,*' tnit this is an 
exaggerated statement: many contemporary com|>3sers were 
working along the same lines. He saw the possibilities of the 
sonata form and d^:^'clopcd it to a state of artistic completeness. 

By musical "form" is meant the unity of conception in 
a composition and the relation of its parts to eacli other atu! 
to the whole. In the seventeenth century the word sonata 
did not refer to any cenain form, but simply meant a piece 
for several in&tninieiils. The sonata fomi as used by ITaydn 
consisted of four niovcniciils or sections — the first Tnovemcnt 
containing the principal and secondar>' themes; the second, 
usually in slow time, might be called the working-out section, 
and the third consisted of a minuet (the fashionable dance 
of the time) or set of variations, while the fourth movement 
was more brilliant than the others and contained (he coda or 
closing secdon- 

This form has been modified in modern times, but it still 
retains much of its early character When it is applied to 
composition for single instrument, or for piano and other 
tDstrument, it is called sonata; when arranged for piano and 
orchestra it is called <cncfrfQ; trie when written for thret 



niSTORV OP MUSIC. 



271 



instruniciils, quartet for (our, quinkt tor five, «tc. The word 
symphony literally means "soumling together" and vrai orig- 
inaJly given to a variety of pieces. Later it came to rneaii 
the overture to Italian operas; then composers began to write 
in this form apart from operas. The symphony is an enlarge- 
ment of the sonata farm written for orchestra, Haydn began 
writing *ym[>lioiiie4 M the age of twenty-seven and produced 
in ^11 one hundred and Iwcnly-fivc, 

Next in importance to his symphonies come his quartela. 
In tliem is shown his grc^l ability as a part writer. The 
itnngcd quartet, while not admitting of the varied (Teatmcnt 
of a &yin|}hony, is perhaps the most lefincd form of music 
It i« harder to write a great quartet than a great symphony, 
for no one instrument must be allowed to stand out above the 
other ihitc ; there must he 3 per feet balance of ihe p^irts, whidi 
is far more dlfficuh to maintain than might be imagined. The 
quartet is played by a first and second violin. vioU and cello. 

ITic iniluence of the common people from which he sprang 
is noticeable in the sprightly dance-themes in much of Haydn's 
music. Xone of the pathos and struggle of his hfe is reflected 
in his writing, which may be described as cheerful and full 
of hope. 

Haydn's oratorios compose an important class of hh com- 
positions. The gTcate:^! is his '^Creation/' the text being taken 
indirectly from Milton's "Paradise Lost,'* In this the com- 
poser is at his best. As Handel excelled in the chona, 50 
Haydn surpasses in his arias. The chorus^ "The Heavens 
are telling the glory of God," however, h as well known as 
any of Handel's, Haydn's last public appearance was at a 
performance of the "Creation/' As he entered the hall there 
was great applause and a burst of truni[>eU, He was seated 
by the side of Princess Esterhazy. It 13 said that at the 
chorus, "And there wa* tight," the applause was terrific and 
so affected the aged man that he had to be carried from the 
hall. The "Seasons." telling of pastoral life in ditferent 
seasons of the year, has much charm, but is not so masterly 
a work 99 the "CtckIuiii.*' 

His masses arr full of beauty and are frequently used in 
the Catholic church. The charm of Hay<In's compo^-itions 
docs not lie in rich harmonics* but rather in pure melody and 



2/2 The world's progress, 

brigfitf optimistic tone. There is a sunny naturalness in his 
writing that sets him apart from all other composers of his 
own or later times. 

Classified List of His Works. 

Vocal works : Four oratorios^ twenty operas^ many arias, 
songs and masses. Instrumental works: Fifty-three piano 
sonatas, seventy-seven string quartets, 125 symphonies, thirty 
string trios, thirty-eight piano trios, and concertos. 

Wolfgang Amade Mozart (1756-1791), 

Mozart came into the world at a time and in a place most 
unfavorable for his work. Poverty and hardship were his lot 
through life, but his writing bears no trace of the struggle. 
His compositions are the most perfect models of pure classic 
form, combining the elements of exquisite melody, simplicity 
of expression and faultless grace of design. When we con- 
sider that his life was forty-two years shorter than that of 
Haydn^ who was twenty-four when Mozart was born and 
lived eighteen years after his death, and that during his brief 
working period he produced over three hundred compositions, 
we gain some idea of his musical precocity. 

He was born at Salzburg, January 27, 1756. His father, 
a composer and violinist of good ability, was quick to perceive 
the early signs of genius in the boy, and immediately set 
about to direct his training. Of the other six children, only 
one survived — Maria Anne, usually called Nannerl, who also 
had great musical talent, though not in such a marked degree 
as Wolfgang. 

Nannerl was nearly five years older than her brother, and 
it is said that when her father was giving her lessons on the 
harpsichord, Wolfgang — then only three — used to watch her 
attentively, and would afterward amuse himself by attempting 
to play what he could remember of her lesson. When he 
was four his father began to instruct him. and the child's 
progress was most astonishing. In this age, when the term 
"prodigy'* usually implies pale and sickly youth of unusual 
ability, forced by hot-house methods to unnatural attainments, 
blossoming full blast into the world to live but a day and 
then sink into oblivion, it is difficult to understand the full 



HISTORY or MV-SJC. 



273 



force of ihc word when appliH to the chiM Moiart, There 
was noihing unTiatnral or forc<.tt in liis ir:iimT)g, wlilch was 
most zealously superintended b>- his fallicr. ihc only te^idicr 
lie ever had. Wolfgang was in truth bom with the kiiowledc^c 
i1 has talccn most coTnpGscrs years to attaia 

At the age of S€\M;n he had composed several niiniKta 
that were clearly conceived in form and not lacking in melody; 
at iiv-'h-e lie had written ait t)\wTZ and was one of the most 
ImTli^iil !i:iqiM[."lior(1 uluyerx in all Kunnie, Tl w;is whm lie 
was six years old that hi* father took tlic Iwo children to 
Munich on their first concert tour; there they j^Iaycd before 
the Elector, who iimrvcled at tlxir skill. In the fall of that 
&ame year the family journeyed to Vienna, WoUgan^^ and 
Nannerl giving Kttcces^ful concerts all along the way. So 
ianiou5 had ihc^r infiint protHgifs fx-comc that people crowded 
lo hear liicm play, and in Vienna they were received by the 
Empress Maria Tliercix It is said thai Wolfgang, never 
embarrassed in the comi^any of the great, jninpetl into the 
empress' lap and^ much to the ;imu3cment of all present^ threw 
his arms about her neck and kissed her 

Many tours followed in rapid successioa They journeyed 
lo Paris, where ihey played before the king am! queen; and 
from there to f jjndim, wlirre they were ^Iso received at luiirt. 
Proud as he was of his children's talent, Leopold Mozart 
fully realized the importance of their receiving a most rigid 
training and never once failed in his duty toward tlicm. How 
deeply he felt this responsibility is expressed in one of his 
letters: *'It is important that there should T>e a homedife for 
me specially devoted to my children, God has given them 
stich talent as, selling aside my obligations as 3 father, would 
ineitc nic !o sacnfice everything to their good education- 
Every moment that I lose is lost fnrcver; ai:d if 1 ever knew 
how valuable time is in youth ! know it now. You know that 
my children are used to work. If they were to get into idle 
habits on the pretext iliac one thing or another hindered them, 
my whole structure would fall to the ground. Habit is an 
ircm ]i;ith, and yoti know yoursrlf how mni'h my Wolfgang 
has still to learn/' 1*hc touis were takcii with the idea of 
the artistic benefit tJiey would bring, rather than that of 
exhibiting the wonderful ability of the young virtuosos. 



^4 TH£ WORLDS rVOGWSfi. 

lo 1769 the farhgr and Woligang «t out for Icalj, where 
the boy — then durtecn ycar^ o£ age — was greeted by kamed 
tna^d^ns as an accomplished maaer of liicir art. There be 
became acqaainted with the Italian 3ty[e which so stroo^T 
characterizea his cOEiipositiocs. The following' is one of mainr 
incidents which show the boy's skilL *'Thcy arrivwi in Rome 
in Pajision Week and went at ooce to the Ststine Chapel to 
hear the nmsic Here they heard snog a Miserere by Gregorio 
AUegri, a cotii|>05ition so highly regarded by the chtxrch that, 
on pain of excomnn micari on, no one was to take a copy from 
the choir, or to make a copy of iL Wolfgang heard it otice. 
and wrote it om from memory; a day or two later^ 00 Good 
Friday, he heard it again and corrected an error or two. He 
thus had a copy acquired in a manner so astonishing to e\*ery 
one, that instead of being held to have done wrongs he was 
greatly honored for the skill he displayed-'^ 

They returned hotne after an absence of tilteen months^ 
After such success as he had met in Italy, life in Salzburg 
teemed almost intolerable to the boy. Salzburg was the seat 
of the archbishop's court and it was here that Mozart was 
retained as concert-meister. The archbishop seems rwt to ha^-c 
been cognizant of Mozart's genius; he treated him most abom- 
inably, and for his servnces gave hhn about foe dollars a year! 
With him Mozart remained until he was twent>'-one. although 
the time was frer^uently interrupted with travel. This period 
of his life was marked chiefly by the produaion of many 
church works and a few sonatas. His strained relations with 
the archbishop finally becoming intolerable, he decided to leave 
Salzburg in search of more remunerative emplo>Tnenl. His 
object in so doing was to obtain a salaried position in some 
musical center where he might have an opportunity lo give 
his attention to composition; but lucrative commissions were 
exceedingly rare in the musical profession at thai time and 
Mozart never realized his desire. 

From that time on his life was a constant struggle for a 
livelihood, and the story of his efforts is one of great pathos. 
After many vicissitudes and suffering keenly the death of his 
mother, who died while slaying with him in Paris, he located 

'Tapper's "First Studies ip Music Biography/* page 139- 



BlSrOBY OF MUSIC. 



i7S 



tD Vienna. In Paris he had heard Gluck's ofKras pcrfonncd 
and many by Itatian composers, learning mucb from them m 
the way of orchcstntion. Ihc reforms of Gluck bad not yet 
taken a strong hold upon the minds of composers. :ind Italian 
opera was virtu;Jly whui k had been bi th« early part of the 
century.* 

Soon after hi* arrival [n Vienna, Mo»rt married Con- 
stance \Vel>rr. with wbnw f;»niHy he had become acquainted 
while on a previous lour. His father strongly objf?cteid lo ihe 
attachment, and for many years would hold no communieAtiofi 
with cither Wolfgang or his wife. The story of tlieir married 
life shows tbern to have t>een coii^nial companions, but 
obliged to praaice (he stricEett economy and not infrequently 
to have suffered actual want 

In July of the year 1782, Mozart's opera, **Thc Abduc- 
tion,'* was performed and its merits were waniily praised by 
Gluck. The cnjpcror's criticlMn was, however: "A prc-it deal 
too many notes"; to which the genius rciOicd : 'T-xactly as 
mary notes as are neeewary, your majesty!" Just after his 
thirtieth birthday his father relented in his hostile attitude 
and paid him a visit. He came at a time when great honor 
was being shown the compo&er, and on one occasion Haydn 
told I.ropohJ Mo/arl thar he regarded his son lo hr the greatest 
composer who had ever lived. 

In spite of the fact that his fame was constantly jncrras* 
ing. Mozart's financial condiuon never improved. "His genius 
was actually too i^rcat for the public to appreciate, and, while 
lesser men grew rich by printing trivial compositions, Mozart's 
publishers declined many of }m be&t works; at too learned 
His constant craving for liveliness, combined with his uncer- 
tain income, made him always ready to enjoy the passing 
moment, and his cotnpanions, chosen for their gaieiy, were not 
always of the best. T!c was Ihe most lender-hearted and 
afTccttonate of men, and in return for his natural kindliness 
the world treated him with contempt and slander during his 
life, and gave hirn a |>auprr's grave in deatli, Tlic contraiit 
leems only heightened by the fact that jnsit a1 the last, when 
his prospects appeared to brighten, he was no longer able lo 

•S« etiap. on 'The Eafly Opera," 



27ti THE world's PROGKCS& 

lake adi~aiitagc of the faroraUc offers that came to him frtMU 
Holtaiid."* 

Poverty and disappointment finally wore oat his strci^th 
and he died on Dcconber 5, 1791. at the age of thim--five. 
The body was taken to a patrper's grave on a day so stonnj 
that the foUowers tamed back, and only the attendants were 
presoit at the buriaL Today there remains no trace of the 
spot where this genios was Lud. 

Mozart's xnstmmenta] ctxnpositkHis may be said to have 
been preparatory' for his greater work in the opera DckL Of 
the fom-ooe symphonies which be wrote, only three aie 
played at the jwesent rime. These three last s^Titphonies w^re 
wrinen in the tnost distre*:sed period of his life, when he was 
in great pbvsical aixl financial trot^e. bat they bear no signs 
01 his misformnes- Tschaikowsky sa>^ that every anist must 
lead a dooble tdstence — that i*. real life need not affect his 
work. This was the case wi;h Mozart Tbe Ust. often called 
the "J^t^^^^n^ Sym^toay" is tEore bold and powcrfc! chan the 
others: it is fcgal in tieauiKoi of its chemes, bat doc En form. 
AH three show a richer orchestration th an anv of Havdn's 
STinpbooks : Mozart was a master of the orchestra and pos- 
sessed a fine sense for tone qcality. Hts piar!o sonatas were 
written for his own or his pcf«b" tise and he himselt attadwd 
lirtle L-rrpc nance 10 ihem. 

Trie plice that Mozart Lrl-Is tccay is ^ce :o thrre operas 
wrinen in his latttr life: "Tr.^: Marriage ::z Fi^ro," '"Don 
Gio^-'anrJ" arid "The Mjgic P,::'e/' He is ".he crly com- 
cc^er who 2ct^:a!Iy s:x^:rex?'ie'i :r_ deric:;r.^ h-.r::an character 
by means cf h:s zr"^:c- Tr r:~ nlrji vv35 ^ve:: ;ha: viral 
prwer of ck'irscTt-^^cn exh*^::ec wi'h s^jch c:?cstnrirnate 
skill :- h:s later -.ceTai "I: is r.c tfx:i^;^ri:::" :.^ say :hat 
M::ar:'s :rr-:s;c ^eve:lI^ the ".-.it^-s: sju! _:" :he characters of 
his ccera as pla:r_:y is ■: :hey ^ere li^-^isse-i ircc a prir.ted 
^age," The text ::" "The Marria^ . : 7:^^r:" is :t a some- 
what tnv'rlc^:^ TJLTiTt. thr:'A-i.-iJ [i^t .r. "-he cxis^.^ social 
ccciditicrjs of that time: l:'zi th^re is a ^at c-cr^e^ct^" rf plot 
that aifcrtls v^j^iv _^f ttrtisical t7ea:~er.t- 

Figarc- ^he vale^ of Cccrt .^.Irt^ari -a. is eti^a^ed to Scz- 
anna, masd to the Cocntess, r.cri'itl-^taiic-r^g the fact that the 

^ELraoTt 'A Critical Hiscccr Qt O^nJ* pafc M5. 



HISTOBV OF UVSIC. 



277 



old duenna, Marcellina. pretends lo have cUiulk upcjii him. 
AltliougU the Count has catricd on a llirtaiion with the chanti- 
irg Sur^nnna. he ia madly jealous of hi* wife, whom he sus* 
pcct5 of being fond of her heautifuJ pagCi Cherubino. In the 
second act the Countess, aided by Susanna and Figaro, plan 
a scheme by which ihcy may have a jest at the expense of the 
Count, who has written a note to Stizanna a^ing for a secret 
meeting in the garden. They drrvt Oiemhinn in the maid's 
costume, but the Count appears loo soon and the sclicrac is 
(ivcn up- While Figaro is explaining away the confttsion and 
suspicious actions of the others, MarceJhna enteral and pre^nts 
Figaro's written engagement with her. This secretly ddighcs 
the Count, who has never wished to see Siizanna married, 
and he promises Marccllina that shr j^haU have justice. The 
next acl, however, proves Figaro fo be ihe lorg-loi^t son of 
Marcellina, and Tigaro is again juhiUnt. Ttie trick planned 
in ihe firM act is cirried through; l)y an exch-inge of costume, 
the Counter* is ma<ic love to ti>" her own liushard^ who in 
the darkness supposes her to be Suzanna, and soon after tliinks 
he sees first Cherubino and then Kigaro flirting desperately 
with his wife, though ii is in reality her maid. Finally the 
Countess maVe?i her i<feiility krKiwn and the Cnnnl, fhormighly 
aslianicd of himself, vows her eternal allegiance and restores 
SuzaTina to I-igaro. 

MoEnrt*s next opera, "Don Giovanni," also in Italian text, 
furnishes n rtupemntural libretto which admits of a wide scope 
of imagination in iis musical selling. His marvelous power 
of differentiating his c^raeterfc' n^jtitre:} is nowhere more 
strikingly ^hown. This opera met with great success and is 
a general favunle in our own time, Streatfcild made the crit- 
icism: "If there be such a thing as immortality for any work 
of art, it must surely be con<:e<led to *'Don Giovanni." 

"The Magic i'luic" is the most important in that it sug- 
gests the eslablishmem of a distinctly German school of opera. 
Before this work appeared atl countries had adopter] not only 
Italian melody and fonn In Their opeias. hut ihe 1t;t1ian lan- 
guage as well. Although "The Magic Flute" is not so great 
a work as either of tlic other two operas, it possesses unques- 
tionable merit Written in German text, it contain5 many 
K>ngs in imitation of the native folk song and readily fotind 
a warm weleoma in all German hcaru. 



Z7i 



Ttie world's PIH)GIIES& 



Its libretto xh partly allegorical aiid partly fictiliou^L A» 
Ihc curtain riaes Prince Tamino is seen rushing in. pursuett 
by a horrible scq>ent. and f^tlli^ exhausted at ihc foot of tht 
(cDiplc of the iJuccD oi Night. He is spied by three kdics- 
in-waitinfr^ wTio nish out and kill the snake willi their silver 
speirs. They Ihcti show Taiiiino a portrait of Paminsi, the 
daughter of thdr mistress, ;ind he ii; filled with a great longing 
to see the maidciL Pamina, he is informed, has been stolen 
by Sarastrti. llie old high-prk-st of Uis, arul i* Ijt'ifig lieM a 
prisoner in his palace. Tamino resolve,^ to rescue the mfiiden, 
and the ladies present him with a ma^c flute, which will act 
as a charm and ward off all danger. Pagagcro, a gay fellow, 
is anncd with Tuagic bells and assigned to him as a companion, 
and together they set out Three genii are sent with them 
10 point out the way. 

Arrived at the palace, Tamino is refused admittance, but 
Pagagciio contrives by some means lo gel in. and persuades 
Pamina to f)cc with tlicm. She agrees, but as tliey sian 
they (vre intercepted by a Moor, whom Sarasiro haf set a$ 
a guard over his prisoner. Finally the high-priest himself 
appears and says that Tamino and Pamino shall not be united 
until ihey have undergone trials CO test their love. To this 
the lovers agree, go through ihc jjeiifx! of jnobation Miciess- 
fully and arc hapjnty married. Tlie Queen of Night and 
her kingdom arc then vanquished and a reign of wisdom and 
light is established. 

The hand of death was already upon Moiart when he 
finished this opera, but he had begun a siill gfeater work. 
His Re<]iuem Ma^s is one of the most lieautiful compfisititini 
the Caihnlit- church jwsscsscs. When analyzing this mass we 
must rcniciiihcr ilial it was written by a dying man, and 
allow for certain defects. It is a most worthy farewell to 
the world and a fitting testimony to the greatness of the sotil 
of its creator. He icfi it unfinished, but a pupil who worked 
with him ha^ given it an admirable completion. 

Moian was in no respect a reformer He was content to 
take forms ^t he found them and willi comunmiate skill make 
ihcm perfect models of their kind His innucnce over mod- 
ern composers cannot be exaggerated: without him the work 
of Weber and Wagner would have been impossible. To 



ttitroRV or Mcsic 



Z79 



modem earji. arcii^tnTnrfl lo rit-h ami hig^ily-colorcd liarmonies, 
Mozart's orchestral fori sounds lliin and of(cn monotonous, 
and lie never allowed cxpfcssicn lo interfere with the con- 
vcTtlional farm in which he clothed his beautiful melody. But 
he stands fls Ihe highest type of the purely dassic^il com- 
poser; in his «ty!e we sec a blending of German depth, Italian 
beauty and French truth to facts. 

CLASSt?l£E) LlST of HiS WoRKS, 

InAtrumenta] ; Forty-one symphonies, twenty-eight sere- 
nades for orchestra, tliJrty-onc string <]uaneG(, twenty-eight 
cona-rtos. foriy-*ix ionatas for piano and violin, twenty-one 
piano ^natas and f3^t;1M^T^, marches, qiiintei^, sets of varia- 
lioiih aril! 3. vast number of minor pieces. Vocal: Twenty- 
one operas, sixteen masses, arias, trioa, i^uartets and songs. 

LiTDWiG Vam Beethoven (1770-1837), 

In the year 1770, about the sixteenth of December, Lud- 
wig van Beethoven was bcm in Bonn, a little town in northern 
Gcimany. Of humble birth and family at times citiclly pov- 
erty-stricken, Beethoven received but a very meagre school 
training. 'Iliis was a sore gnevance to him all his life, and 
even as a child was a great disappointment: but his father, 
a dissipated and somewhat worthless man, wa* determined 
that his son'* time should be spent in developing hi* already 
marked geniu*. For thr hiy gave prtimi^iing signs of becom- 
ing a prodigy, and m this possibility was seen a source of 
livelihood for the family. 

Ludwig was at first instructed on the piano-foric and 
violin by his father, who was himself a tenor itinger of good 
ability, and many tale? are told of ihe seventy imposed upon 
tile lad in rcfprd to his practice; among them is the story 
thai when Lurfwig was but four years of age his father would 
Itrrp him al the keyboard for hours at a lime. If thi* !«■ 
ti^c. it is mar\elous that Ihe cl^ild did not learn to despise 
music before his geniua had a chance to assert it«lt Later 
he was put under the super^-ision of Pfefffer, a good musician 
but a man of irregidar habits, and Neefe, who gave him his 
first instruction in composition- His first three sonatas, which 



28o THE world's PROGRESS. 

were dedicated to the Elector, appeared before he was thirteert 

With the possible exception of a trip to Holland, Beethoven 
did not leave home until 1787, when he went to Vienna. 
During his visit in that city he played before Mozart, who 
» exclaimed: '*Pay heed to this youth; he will make a noise in 
the world." His stay was cut short by the news that his 
mother was dying. He returned home at once and arrived 
while she was yet living, though the end came shortly after. 
She had been the one cheerful and helpful influence in the 
home, and drearier than ever seemed life to the motherless 
boy. His desolate grief was expressed in a few lines written 
to the friend who had aided him in his return journey from 
Vienna: "Who was happier than 1 when I could still pro- 
nounce the sweet word 'mother' and have it heard? To whom 
can I speak it now?" 

He spent the next few years in Bonn, busy with writing 
and teaching, and caring for his younger brothers. The death 
of his father in 1792 left Ludwig in charge of the other 
childreUi and the responsibility of directing their education 
fell upon him alone. During his four years* stay in Bonn he 
won warm friends in the family of Madame von Breuning 
and Count Waldstein (to whom was afterward dedicated the 
famous '^Waldstein" sonata — Opus 53). 

When he was twenty-two years of age, Beethoven was 
again able to go to Vienna, this time as a student or at least 
a systematic worker. He went with the intention of studying 
composition with Haydn, but this plan did not prove suc- 
cessful. Haydn, over sixty and extremely conservative, found 
the passionate and radical boy a great perplexity. Beethoven 
did not think he was receiving proper attention and went to 
other teachers. He is reported as having said: *'It is true 
Haydn gave me lessons* but he taught me nothing," Probably 
no one could have helped him greatly, for his genius seems 
not to have needed outside guidance and he never received 
suggestions kindly. 

Up to this lime his compositions were few and not espe- 
cially important; they showed a clear mind and no little talent, 
but none of ihem are played today. It was as a pianist that 
Beethoven was first known to the world. He won a wide- 
spread fame, not alone for his technical ability but by his 



msToity OP uusic 



j6i 



mar%'ctoii» flcill in improvising; in this he excelled all others. 
Wc arc trid that he played with 50 much feeling that his 
hearers wctUd be moved to tears by the pathos, or held spell- 
bound by the brilliancy of his imerpreiation. His supply of 
(hemes was seemingly inexhausiive ; i«hers rivaletl him in 
mech^i;ic-i1 tkitl, but nfJiic could ^ipjinjach hhn in vmfailitig 
richness of (houghl and intense individuality, Beethoven was 
the fir^t musician of rank to profit by the establiEhnient of 
ihc concert system, by which tlic composer was made inde- 
pendent of the patronaf^ of the aristocracy, and was for the 
first time able to make hi* works directly known to iht world 
by playing them txf'>re pitblic aiidiencea. 

Aided by letters of inirothjclitm frtwn tbe von T^rrunings 
and Count WalcTsteiii, he wo!i influential friends in Vienna- 
Chief among thcni were Prince Ltchnowsky and hJB wife, who 
welcomed him at all limes to their home; they were willinf; 
to overlook hi« external roughness of manner, for beneath it 
nil they discerned the true character of the yonng genius. 
Money was of no moment to Beethoven and he looked with 
open contempt upon those high in social rank, on one occa- 
sion remarking: "My nobility if) here, and here** (pointing to 
his heart and head). But, notwithstanding tliis superior scorn 
of worldly >^'calch and position, we note that he dedicated a 
vastninnbcr of his composiiiors to tilled nobility. Beethoven's 
was a social nature and he loved the gaiety and spJendor of 
the princely houses, in *pite of the fad that he seemed to 
live in a world of his own. The fiict tliai he w^is welcomed 
in tlie hlglicst society, despite his unt]uc&lionahle personal 
dr-iwlKicki. show*; what respect his genius commanded. 

He wvis of small slnture, dark, itn^nceful imd almost 
ugly in appearance, ^nit with a wonderful head and features 
that betrayed his intense passion and i^owers of emotion. He 
was frequently in love, passionately so, but seldom bestowed 
hi* affections for any length of time_ His idi<>?iyncra^ie< have 
been dwelt upon to great excess by sumc biogmpliers* hit 
deserve only passing attention. 

There is no satisfactory biography of Beethoven written 
in Iinglish, and the best clue to hi? real viovs aiid personality 
may be found in his private letters and in his will. They 
show him to be well aware of his personal faults and draw- 



2S2 TBC wrmiDs nocMxss~ 

backs, bnt be pleads bis |iCracal affioiaas uxl neccssarilj 
solhanr life as tbc caise^ In tfacm. totx is exp re aa e d h^ 
tUKMng bcfief in a Divine Providence, ahbongfa fonnalidcs 
of T^^OQ were to bjut bd onptv fomK. 

His iDiMSS of 1797 restihed m partial dcafavss^ which 
r^Mdlv grrv wonc and witfain a Tcar the heanog of one 
ear ms tcKaUr dcstrcved. It is cnpossiUe to t^aim^*^ the 
effect of this dtftiTssing Eiialadj opOD his compo s f ti on^ The 
direct resah was to catise tbc senshive man to r e n c at mm^ 
and more f nxn the outer wtnid into ooe of his own oeation, 
and ibis tnav, or mav not, have ahercd the cfaarader of his 
work. In addition 10 bringing silence to this maiter of tones, 
it caused acute suffering, for noises mred and bozzed coo- 
stanth- in his aching bead. This deafness, which was but 
ooe phase of his gene r al tQ-heahh, drove ten to suth angnisb 
of mind diat be once corrtemiJated taking his own life. As 
he himself ezqdaincd: "It was irrtpc^sible tor rxx ^ sav to 
others: speak loader: ^lom' for I am deaf. Ah! was it 
possible for me to proclaim a dedciency in that one sense which 
in my case onght to have been more perfect than in all others, 
whidi I bad once possesised in greatest perfection, to a d^ree 
of perf^:tk>n. indeed, whidi few of mv profession have ever 
enjoyed? How great was the hantiliatioa when one who 
stood beside me heard the distant scirrid of a shepherd's pipe, 
and 1 heard nothing; or heard the shepherd singing, and 1 
heard ncthing. Such tvpeneiKes brough: r::e ::■ :he verge of 
despair — bin lirile more snd I s.ho"^u have pu: an end to mv 
life. Art, art alcne, deterred rne," Siirely a mor« tragic 
fate cot:Jd rot ha^e bef^Iler. this rsre genius^ 

As a bC'V Beethoven mace a c-.:n=t5nt practice of carrying 
a note bcok with him upon his ramble? :n the bea'^Lirtil coimtn" 
about Bonn> jcning dovm i^eas ar.J ntu^iral ihen:es as im- 
pressions came to him_ Ccmpcsir.g wss n-r: sprntaneous with 
him as with some com.posers— he :il\va;.-5 a-im-ttec ti to be 
somewhat of an euon : but he did i: wi:h all possible care 
and never had to retrace his steps. In a talk ^"ith Louis 
Schlc-ssen, a >-oung musician, Beerhc%-en said: 

"I carry my ihcjghis abont me for a long time, often a 
very long time* before I write then down; meanwhile my 
memory is so faithful that I am sure ne\'er to forget, not 



IIIST01CY OP UL'SIC. 



»83 



even in years, a theme that has once occurred to me. T change 
many things, discard, and tr>' again until T am satisfied. Then, 
however, there begins in my head the <Ieve!opment in every 
dirrclion, anJ, ina^niuch as I know exactly wh^il I want, the 
fundamenla! idea never deserts me — It arises before me, grows 
^l sec and hear the picture in alJ its extent and dimensions 
Bland before my mind Jikc a casc» and there remains nothing 
for me but the labor of wriiinj; it down, which is quickly 
accomplished wlien I have the time, for I sometimes take up 
othrr work, hi;t never to the cunfnsion of one with the other 
You will ask mc where I get my ideas. Thai I c:annot tdl 
you witli certainty; they come unsummoned, directly, indi* 
reclly — I couM scikc them with my hand» — out in the open 
air; in the woods; while walking:; in the silence of the nights: 
earty in the morning; incited by moods which are translated 
by the poet into words, by me into tones thai sound and roai 
and stortn about me until I have tet thtm down in notes."* 

Beethoven wa% the firsl to express all form* of passion 
in his music. We see the sublime, heroic, thoughtful, ami 
occasionally the humorous (as illustrated in the Scherxo of 
Opus 3r. No. 3t worked out ^vith Cf^ual skill. Form and 
expression cannot be separated in any art- Beethoven's ex- 
ternal form was not'original with him; it had been used by 
Mozart and Haydn, but neither of ihem ever sacrificed per- 
fection of form and pleaiing melody lo the expression of 
human emotions, Beethoven wa» a master of fotm, but he 
never allowed it to hamper his flow cf thought in the least 
degree. He performed a great and lasting service to musical 
form, expanding, enriching the details and adding new in- 
tensiiy of expres&ioa His later works sliow an ever-increas- 
ing tendency to break away from the conventional sonata 
Stnicture, as if hi^ grniiis eotild he fxmnd liy no rigid lines. 

Although Becihovcn was not such a master of counteqioint 
and fugue as Bach^ in the perfection of theme development 
he far surpas^^cd the earlier composer. The fugue seemed 
too confined and rigid a form for him to wse wJlli ease, and 
he attempted it but little. He did not depart altogether from 
the rules and ideas of ihe older composers, but he brought 
new principles into use and made radical changes in har- 
monies and rhythm. One important form that he greatly 



jS« 



tkk wKmu>'% 



i«as ibe Varia- 



■BVilOpBtlt boOl in bttfOVtfMl 

boo. la U» bfvr wciffa his 

IfOUl CDC tlltHM WI WiJM 2 vpnq 

It « dMkitlt to draw a tixcd Sm ^ariOkig ^ny Gfe inco 
pemds, bat K^ntfiQ j j pcri dnc > tbtrc may be »ki fa be three 
€90ClSi n Beethoven s woric whicb. ibuuKb ovcrlappn^ one 
smiMi'r nevcrthBCM marfc 'hftiiKf ftagcs tn hts edumcjI d^ 
i^to y n c j i i, Tbe ^x indwln ba first twottj woHcs. In 
dm* maiy hr aocircij thr stva^lr growing iodependrm with 
wliich he cxprcswa hb ilioufhi^. It h inirrcMing to note 
rhar rhe thr«e somtj;! of hU Opta Two arr (!«i!icnEn[ to 
Joseph H^rdn- In the second period be wrote the wortcs best 
fcnown to msskal stodents and the cocwcn-worid. Tbcy 
indock tfic flo-oIM "Moonii^u^ and "Appnssiooita'* sonatas 
-^crfiafM all a^ lo Opos loo— his greatest ifoanets and all 
but rbe b«i of hi« ftjrmpboniea. TTke works of hb later years 
are appaFlin^ in ihdr di^niltie^ ^nd Are -telclDro heard; ihey 
HhiMr the ^niAang devclopinent o£ a woDdcrfol doul and scan 
the inspiration of another world. 

Ii is tjrvtuesiiooabJ}' easier to trace Beetho\'en's artistic 
evofution in the Mnjita forms; the>' are leis oocnplex and 
afford a beoer opportunity for under^sinding hx$ personality. 
Bat rt h in his <inartrt5 and MTUpbomp* thai h^ is ;m h\% grt-al- 
^aL II has hem said thai tn ih<* sonatas he rrfcrs lo hb 
innermost self, but in tlie s/mphonies the sentiment is more 
KcnerAl in character and truly grander. In aJI be makes me 
of startling: morluLittons, wonderfullr rich harmonies and 
ruMt}f( arpen^o and ficak pa$.»ge«. He was most at ease 
in writing for the orchestra, and his soci^ are not in pipnlar 
use Urgefy becamr of ibe fact that be frequently carries (he 
pkfin quite out nf voice ran^e;. He acknovi kdged that the 
•ymphony was his real element when he said: "UTtcn sotinds 
ring rn me I always hear the full orchestra; f can ask any- 
thing of tnstnmientahsts. but when writing for the voice 1 
mittl com inually ask myself: "Can that he «mg?' '' 

"ThU tillc i* wholly without wftrrdnt. "Iln orfjcin " due to Bdl- 
Mib, who, in <lf»cribing the 6rst ixiovfmrnt. drew a picture of a unatl 
htt*% in tht mo<rnU^tt on L«ke Lucern«. tn Vivn:ia a iradition 
JKsi B««t1iov«n had conpo%t6 it *n an arbor rsvp rite to ihc till* 
Avbor #fn«ta-' Title* a! th» chtradrr work niLid) mUclncf ir rh« 
■mfllftir tnfnd hy aivrnjE riM to TAuUtiic conccplioDi of the con* 
itnia of tJic muilcL — ir E. KrchUvL 



nJSTOBY or MUSIC. 



385 



Although Bfctlinvcii waA the \ns.{ i>f thr »o-ni11ct1 citissical 
i^tonposcrs (the other* bcmg BacH» irandd,' Haydn ard 
THfeiart), there is in his compositions a tendency toward defi- 
nite expression, cspcdaMy in his sonatas and syinphomcs wtlh 
titles, thai anticipates the Rcmanlic School 

All his symphonies, with the exception of bin last — the 
Ninth—anf heard frequently ant! are kntiwr to every attend- 
ant of symphony concerts. Possibly the Fifth, in C minor, 
is the most popular, and is the work that has made hun *o 
widely known to the i^encra) public. The TJiird symphony, 
written in 1803, wai dedicated to Napoleon, then the hero of 
the hour, wh<nn Beeihovtn greatly admired, Bvt when the 
newE came that he had proclaimed himself Emperor and 
asntmed the royal purple, Beethoven's rage knew no bounds. 
He seized the dedkation page and lore it to shreds, while 
the manuscript of the "Heroic" symphony fell to the floor, 
where it lay tintouchcd for days. This ardent lover of repub- 
licanism did not easily recover from the disappointment of 
SKine his idol fall shattered to the ground. It is aaid that 
he exclaimed with grcai feeling: "Pity I do not understand 
the art at war :i?i 1 do the an of muiic: I should yet eoiiquer 
Napoleon, " Thi* work wa^ written in his later style and is 
in advance of his fonncr compositions. The famous "Funeral 
Mardi" forms the second movement, followed by a Scherzo 
in marked contract to the sombre gloom of the death march. 

The Ninth symphony is seldom performed in this country, 
as it involves choral work of intense difficulty- Wa^er gave 
tl as his opinior that Beethoven rraltxed he had developed 
instrumental music lo its limit, and fell that any further prog- 
ress in musical exprc^ion lay in the combination of voices 
and tnstrumenta. His Mass in D is a colossal work written 
for the Catholic church, but its difficulty prevents its fre- 
quent use. 

All the wories of Beethoven's later Ufe show a marked tend- 
ency to break away from the convetilioual forms. Ni:ibellerex- 
ample of this is given llutn in the Sonata Opus 106, written 
in i8r8; its first tnovemcnt is constructed on two themes in 
violent contrast to each other, and the whole is buiil on a 
gigantic scale- These later works possess such magnituilc 

■ ^ach and Hjindcl properly belonr to a ci^trapunl4l i^ool. 



286 



.rnt W0RU>'3 l^ROGAKtt. 



and complexity of Ihougttt thai lhc>' required a wideness of 
»ci>f}c iioi possible in the cofiveiilioiijil forma. 

Bccthoven's cue opera, "Kidelio/* was a great succew and 
IS often heard today. The plot is not worthy of such masterly 
ireaiment buE gives ample 6eld for his marvelous betrayal 
of pajtaioa The music haj been criticised a» following the 
text rather too closely, but the composer sought by this means 
to supplement the act ion by expressing definite ihoughu instead 
of V2£ue emotions. 

The story of llie opera is briefly this: Horcstao, a Span- 
ish nobleman, incurring the wrath of Don Pizurro. Govcmor 
of the state prison, is seized secretly and cast into a vile diin- 
geon, Then Piaarro causes the report to be circulated that 
Florestan is dead : but his wife will noi believe the evil report 
aiit! delerminrji lo fir»U uul whellicr her husband has been 
imprisoned. Disguised in male attire, under the name of 
Fidelio she Kcurcs a position as assistant to Rocco, the jailer 
She makes wann friends at the prison, among them Koceo 
himself and his dauf^hter Marcelline, who falls violently in 
love with the supposed youtli snd forsakes her faithful lover, 
Jac<]uino- But try as she may, Fidelio cannot find her hus* 
band among the prisoners who daily file in and out the gate- 
Finally Don PuaiTo receives a letter announcing the 
approaching visit of the Minister to the prison. Now, 
Pixarro fesrs to have him find his friend Florestan cruelly 
treated, so resolves to icill his priw^rierH He summons Rocco 
to dig a grave in the dungeon, that all traces of the crime 
may l>e hidden. The jailer confides the secret to Fidelio, who 
begs to help him in the work. Together they go ami find 
Florestan chainnl to a stone and wasted to a skelrton for 
lack of food. He is so exhausted that he is gradually losing 
his reason and calls incessantly for his wife. When she sees 
his awful state she ahnoat faints, but by a mighty effort goes 
on with her work. When the dire task is accompliilied Roceo 
leaves, but Fidelio hides behind a pillar, resolved to save her 
husband or die with him. 

Pizarro then enters and, lifting high his dagger, rushes 
at Florestan, but Fidelio throws herself between him and his 
victim. Pizarro is so surprised that he loses his presence of 
mind, and she points her pistol ai his head. At this moment 



dife 



VISTOAV Of liunc. 



287 



tnunpecs sound aiinoiincinji; the Minister, and Pizarro is com- 
pelled to retreat. The Minis-tcr is much gneved to And 
Floreslan in nuch a slate and, learning ihe cause, has Piiarro 
lc6 away in chaim. The de^oteil husband and wife are thus 
ufiited* aiul M^rcdUne, mudi einbarra^sed at her mistake, 
returns to her faithful Jacrintno, 

In 1&15 Beethoven's brother Carl died, leaving him in 
care of a worthless neplicw. to whom the cnmpo&er was pas- 
sionately devoted, but who gave him much worry and prob- 
ably hastened his breakdow^n. His now total deafnc^ made 
public performance and orchestral eonduciing impossible. The 
folltjwing jitory h lolU of i;tie of his last appearances an con- 
ductor: "At ihc Hrst petfornuncc of the Ninth Symphnny the 
concert was arranged for amid great diflicultic*; ihc hou« was 
crowded by an immense attdienccH The people were eager 
not only to hear the work but to sec the great composcn He. 
a dweller in silence, not only did not hear the thunderous 
applause that greeted hiin, bat stood with his back to the 
audieiK'e still moving his batun. A singer Imrlied hiin and 
drew his attention to the applauding people. 'When the deaf 
musician bent his head in acknowledgment, many an eye 
among the faces he so calmly confronted was dim with 
tears/ "^ 

In the winter of 1826 he was taken seriously ill and died 
within a few months, after intense suffering. The thousands 
that gathered at his funeral bore testimony to the place he held 
in the heans of the people. 

One of the incidental results of Reelhrjvrn's wiirk was 
the improvement in Ihe technical skill of pianists. In playing 
Mozart's piano compositions great skill is not required, but 
Beethoven exacted marvelous tcchni<iuc, great atrength of 
arm. wrist and fingers. !iis compositions abound in difficulty 
of execvition, but merely as a means of expression rather than 
an end in itself. 

He wrote in a style far in advance of his time and, because 
misunderstood by his critics, was often misjudged His was 
a peculiar, almost dual, nature. Compelled by fate to become 
a philosopher at ihc age of twcnty-cight and endure hfe rather 

■Tapper*! "Firct Slndiet in Misik Riogripby," pae« 1S4, 



----** 



-^^^--•^-^ 



288 THE world's progrgss. 

than enjoy it, he sou^t solace in music, which was to him the 
highest means of expression. 

"Beethoven's relation to art might almost be described aa 
persona]. Art was his goddess to whom he made petition, 
to whom he rendered thanks, whom he defended. He praised 
her as his savior in times of despair; by his own confession 
it was only the prospect of her comforts that prevented him 
from laying violent hands on himself. Read his words and 
you shall find that it was his art that was his companion in 
his wanderings through field and forest, the sharer of the 
solitude to which his deafness condemned him. The concepts 
of Nature and Art were intimately bound up in his mind. 
His lofty and idealistic conception of art led him to proclaim 
the purity of his goddess with the hot zeal of a priestly fanatic. 
Every form of pseudo or bastard art stirred him with hatred 
to the bottom of his soul; hence his furious onslaughts on 
mere virtuosity and all efforts from influential sources to 
utilize art for other than purely artistic purposes. And his 
art rewarded his devotion richly; she made his sorrowful hfe 
worth living with gifts of purest joy/'* 

Too great emphasis cannot be laid upon Beethoven's influ- 
ence in nearly every form of music. He brought the sonata 
and symphony to a height hitherto undreamed of and never 
again equalled. He indirectly raised the standard of piano 
playing, set orchestration on a new and firmer basis and left 
a wealth of musical productions that will always be standards 
of form and make the world belter because of their purity 
and unsurpassed beauty. 

Classified List of His Works. 

Instrumental : Nine symphonies^ nine overtures, one violin 
concerto, five piano concertos, string quartets, trios for piano 
and strings, ten sonatas for violin, five sonatas for cello, 
thirty-two sonatas for piano alone, sets of variations for piano. 
Vocal : Two masses, one oratorio, one opera and many songs. 

*H. E. Krehbiel. 



KliVmiEY OF MUSIC* 



CHAPTER VL 
THE ROMANTIC COMPOSERS, 



Early in Uic ninctecntli century two movaiicnis made tlidr 
appearance in German muiic (i) Homantic opera and (2) 
the Cicrman art song. With the fonncr wc connect the name 
of Wcbcr and with the latter that oi Sdiubert; these two 
composers beji^an ttieir work when Beethoven was at his 
height. 

The opera and song are connected with the Romantic 
moveniem then pnrvalert in German ail aiid literature. Tlie 
first Mq) in thii dirccljon was made about llic jcar 1800 li/ 
a group of one hundred or more men vrh;j banded to|^thcr 
to create a new depariincnt in literature. 1 his group of poets 
came to be known as the "Romantic School*' and later on the 
name was applied to a school of artists, and, last of all, to 
musicians. Romanticist* in poetry and painting hav* botn 
almost entirely superseded by ReaTist*. but the Romantic school 
of laii&ic ^titl exiils- 

It h difHcuh lo define the Romantic movement bec^u&e 
it embraced so many different things. It was the result of an 
attempt on the part of German writers and critics to break 
away from the classic Et>-Ie cmd create one that should be dis- 
tinctly national. Their subjects were drawn from the behefs 
and stories of the middle ages and, because these early Ro- 
manticists were poets rather than historians, they portrayed 
meEliaei/al life not ns il really w;is, buE as tliey Fandnl i1 to 
have been. These alories were not witboui histoHcal basis, 
but they were idealized and altered to such an extent that 
they lost their original cliaracter and became beautiful mythi 
and fairy tales. 

Pater gives as his definition of romanticism; '"It 35 Ae 
addition of strangeness to beauty that constitutes the romantic 
character in an ; and the dtMre of btMuty being a fixed element 
in every »Tii«tic org^niMtion, it is the addition of ctiriosity 
to the rfesirc of beauty that constitutes ihc lomantic lentjwr" 
The spirit of TOinanticIsm suppl-inted tb-nt of the more con- 
servative classicism, and has existed in some degree in cveiy 
art in every age 



290 THE world's progress. 

Although Beethoven belonged to the classic school, he 
opened the door that gave romantic music its liberty when 
he forced the detached and impersonal language of the early 
classic composers to give place to one expressive of individ- 
ual passion and personal feeling. The Romanticists did not 
confine their subjects to German lore; their love of the bizarre 
and highly colored led them to Spain and the Orient, In the 
new style of opera the comic element was sometimes woven 
into the plot, but never the burlesque. The strength of this 
movement lay in the fact that it developed patriotism and 
the imagination; its weakness, as we shall see, was due to 
the sentimentality to which it tended. Schubert possessed 
qualities of both the romantic and the classic school, but Weber 
was an out-and-out Romanticist. Down to the beginning of 
the nineteenth century opera had been Italian in its melody, 
text and treatment ; it remained for Weber to establish a form 
of musical drama which should be distinctly German in all its 
traits. 

Weber (1786-1826). 

Carl Maria von Weber was bom in Prussia in the year 
1786. His father was a wandering theatre director and the 
boy's early life was spent amid strange and often degrading 
scenes. His education was of necessity irregular, but Weber 
had strong literary tastes and soon made himself master of 
his circumstances. Although he was gay and reckless as a 
young man, his early surroundings do not seem to have made 
a lasting impression upon his character In his later life his 
resolute determination and simplicity of habits were very 
apparent. 

He possessed in a strong degree the dramatic sense> which 
he eariy turned to account. Romanticism appealed to him 
strongly and the varied circumstances of his life confirmed 
this tendency. "His brightness, his peculiarities, his lively 
melodies and artistic wanderings were in full accord with the 
romantic spirit of German national life, and made him seem 
more like a troubadour of old than a man of the practical 
nineteenth century." " 

^Elson— "A Critic»] Hist of the Op«n," p. 134. 



niSTORY OF MUSIC. 



39T 



His first opera of imporlancc was "Silvaiuia." written in 
1810, and ihc following year his comic opera "Abu Hassan" 
made its appearance, l^ic years from iBtj to 1817 he spent 
as opera direelor, crilic and composer; at this lime the patri- 
otic ztal of his countrymen was turned against Napoleon, and 
Weber wrote many sonijs, expressing the feelir^f of Prussia, 
which added greatly to his popuhmiy. In 1817 he wa^ called 
to Dresden lodired (he opera, and this afforded him excellent 
opportunity lt> help Gcrnmii opera ga'm a firm foothold Tlic 
next nine years were ipcnC in composing and directing, and 
during this lime his three greatest operas were produced: 
"Der Freischiit/," "Oberon" and "iiuryanthe." His later life 
was spent in ill-health away from all his friends, but his com- 
positions show nothing 0/ his sorrow. He died sudden!^ in 
l-ordon on June 4, 18:26- A few year* later his body was 
removed Xo Dresden, where a funeral oration was delivered by 
Rich art! Wagner- 
Weber did nol create German romantic opera, which had 
already been foreshadowed by Mozart, but he gave it the 
distinctive character wliich it has retained. The real ante- 
cedent of his work may be found in the German "Songspier' 
of the eighteenth century. This was an entenaimnert in 
which dialogtie was interspersed with songT^, some of thrm 
based on fairy tales and allegories. Out of this song-play 
grew the romantic opera of Weber and later composers. 

The plot cf "DcT Frcischiitr,'* which means "one who 
shoots with magic builds," is taken from an old tradition of 
a forest demon who is able to furnish magic at the price of 
the purchaser's soul. Max, in love with Agatha, must win 
her by proving himself the bes! marksman in the forest. In 
a preliminary trial he is defeated and, urged by Kaspar, enler* 
into an agreemenl with the demon, Zantcl, for use of his 
magic bullets. Kasjiar himself is in tlie power of the evil 
spirit, and unless he can furnish another victim as substitute 
will have to forfeit his soul; f-^r this reason he has persuaded 
Max to enter into a similar compact. 

Meanwhile Agatha is filled with forebodings of evil and 
tdls her fears ift a pious hermif, who gives her a magic wreath 
of roses which will ward ofT all harm. The day of the contest 
arTi%es and Max easily defeats his competitors with llie first 



292 THE WTXLSi ?9C<aSSi. 

aitrf Max 3 free to ^""^ aia br!dc 

cf WebcTi bTiHLaiiCT vidt :he '""■■^'"' r smn&diT of ibc 
Geman y^iiszi^si, w^n a snccesf rfsar was act ctdj LiPiicu- 
■icna ai rfie sor^ bet as lascr^ as azEj ^ :f:e ^rahn cf opera. 
"Tlic Gc^caa Trarrc Tcit wud tttii -ieiigia; ever tfecir new 
dranra. Weber hii=se££_ arsr L?_ t:i=i3;LJ r Tg a pe-?rcEance of it 
in Vrrrra, wr^te ^ his d^arp": ''3r«acer eaiacaaaii zhere 
canrrc be, and I rr=fcic ta trrtirfc cf :ia ninirt fnr it is 
scarccij pii^b^ X rae higher :han rds. To Gcd aj3iie tfse 
ptaiser T!tt cEchfc tcm ccartere c£ zbe <7 w er zir g. tfic tHM^cr 
pra-Tcr ii Agacba. tbc bri^ hi-TTv-g cfxzrrrsK t£tc 5Cii±ce 
gr anrfftr r cf tiic rrant a rx cs, :!w bareiy cccrf cr ti ggs of Ance 
and the bndcaisids, 3^ rue ic^iifccal f-'^rr^T '^■ing have 
dealt an overwficlcris^ hicw ^ rx L ' r i ",g>^r:i-^Tr3i^f^K that sdH 
rdnamcd in. tiac cld--5^!e ■:OTras_'^ 

"Enrvajitbe'' has to <fo wict ±e zdlznirj f ^ivatit^ 30 popti- 
lar wiA wTitcri cf opera fgr^^ T^j~ fi was 3ct wfa^Hj soc- 
ocgfal is diDC to die trlv - a liEy cf ics pice fcr i^csicall^ ir b one 
of die finest wr:rics ever pr:d:a:ed by Ge^rra^ gcmns. In 
"E^ryamhe"" WeLer anenirted zz- =eT^ :he ar-ji wi:* die 

rncaic Tfhich fzTmerf a ^cnVj: :=icTi c: pzetrv- If we wish 
: J ■ir.rr'zare V-'^cer wi^ Wi^-ter. vt sctrTiTc ccrrrrare "Ecry- 
anthc" ATji "L-:c^::grizi," fir ^--hccgh rhe larter is scrcnger in 

In "Obcrzzi^ are sho-sn diree iirerent rcases cf r oir a n - 
ticisz- — fsirv, rrflirarj anc cccr: life, which are represented 
bv ir^cdics :: f r^— >rr-g hesury. I:: his rver^irrs Weter car- 
rwi OCT the pnr.dpies cscahLisheti by Gl-ck ami shewed grea: 
crigir^itT in die cse of the oniesrra trr dranzadc prrposes. 
He pnd^xed zcvd c&ecr? and ctierwc a new icid in onAestral 
pcssibtlitics. He ciade :r7.Ki ::?« :f "''i^ra! ccicr," which 
ten:: when applied :c ni'^ic rzcans bnn^jrg to die hearer's 
Ernd the a55ocfaticr_ c-rcrrtectcd wi-^h certain: =ceces and epochs, 
by means of rr:t:sical ±enics- For eaaciple, if Oricotal scenes 



HISTOBY OF UirSIC* 



^93 



arc to be presented, the modem composer mcs characteristie 
Oriental musk to accompany them- Thus local color becomes 
a means of artistic expression : this inclination to call up scenes 
by means of musical rounds connected with them U a thor- 
oughly romantic trait. 

The Romantic School of Opera reached its culmination 
under Richard Wagner, twit hi* work would have been Impoa- 
»ibfe had it not been for the foundation laid hy Weber. 



Schubert (i^gy-iSaS), 

Franx Schubert was the virtual founder of the German 
Lied and was the first to make song the medium for every 
shade of personal feeling. The story of his life contains 
little of interest; he lived unknown to the world and was 
unappreciated all his life. The form known as "song" may 
be defined as one in which a single thought or sentiment is 
expressed. It is not narrative, but an expression of a single 
mn<KT, ^lici is characfeHzcd by simplicity of thought and 
feeling, 

"The Lied is distinguished from the earlier forms of solo 
song faria. ode) in this reapcc!. that no longer the niuiic but 
the Viord-tcxi appears as the chief clement. Ahout the middle 
of the eigliccenth century Lied texts were composed to already 
exJsiing melodies; the modern Lied composer, however, sets 
music to a poem; he seelcs by his art to enhance the effect of 
the poet's words,'*' 

Schubcit was Tioni in a litllc village near Vienna, January 
31, 1797. Wlien but a cJnld he began the sludy of inuMC 
under the direction of his father, who was a school-master 
with some knowledge of violin-playing. Frani possessed a 
fine soprano voice and tlius gained admittance to the Si. 
Stephen's choir school in Vienna, where he was ^ven instruc' 
don in singing and learned something of composition. At 
the age of sixteen his voice changed and he returned home 
to begin his work as assistant in his father's schnoT. 

He was to a great extent a sclf-ftl nested musician, for, 
altliough his rare gifts attracted his teachers* attention, he 
was a constant puzzle to them, and he never found any one 

* DickiUBon— "HUt of Murie." p. 199- 



J*94 



TUC WORLD'S PnOCRESS. 



who could givr him (ht^ ngxl training tie neeiLeth He seemed 
1o Irani by inttiitton, as one of his instructors exj^aincd ; 
"Whenever I wAritctI to teadi him anything new* E found 
that he had already mastered tt." During the years m which 
he taught with his father he found time to write a vast amotuit 
of music, among which were some of his fijicat songs — "The 
ErI-King" and "The Wanderer" 

The value of his songs was firtt discovered by VogI, a 
famous tenor singer in Vienna, ft was he who persuaded 
him lo leave die school drudgery and dcvoic him^eU entirely 
to music So upon his advice Sdiu1>crt went to Vienna and 
joined a little group of talented young men of literary and 
musicaJ taster, and soon became the leader of the circle: From 
this time on his career was one of unbroken activity in 
composition. 

Schubert could not gain the recognition of fnihliftheni and 
none of his works were printal inttil frnir years before his 
death* His life seems mclauclioly and even distressing in 
its lack of all that he, as a true gcniu^t, might iiavc commanded, 
but it was not so to him. If he was a poor man he at least 
had a poor man's tastes, and thus knew nothing of the bitter- 
ness that has filled so many composers' lives. He is described 
as "a short, sEout man, with rourid shoulders, thick, blunt 
fingers^ low forehead, projecting lips, stumpy no*e, and 
shorl curly hair/' Unattractive physically and fond of gay 
Bohemian life, he was always ill at case in the bc5t society, 

'*To drink his mug of beer and cat his sausage, to flirt 
with pretty ser\"ant -maids and peasant girls, to discourse youth- 
ful philosophy and play practical jokes with convivial poets. 
painters and students, above all to fill realms of paper with the 
melodies that were always flooding his braitk^this was his 
concrption nf sufficing happiness." 

His compositions are marked Ivy a tinge of melancholy, 
but this was due to his natural temperament lather titan hia 
unfortunate circumstances. AUhough he was not a dissi- 
pated man, liis irregular habits ncccssariiy undermined his 
vitality, and he was unable to recover from a fe\'er to whidi 
he fell victim. He died at the age of thirty-one, just as he 
was entering the prime of life. 

The German art song exists in three different forms : ( i ) 



urtorv of uu&ic 



»>5 



5tansa form, in vrhich the same music is (ivcn to all stanias; 
(2) MoUtfTcd stanza fonn, in which Die music of the laM 
stanza differs from ihai of the others, and (3) The Throu^- 
CompOEcd (durchcomponirt ) form, in which there U no 
division of music into stanzas, the inclody being continuous. 
Tln» is uf ctjuTM?, 1I1C lii^htr^t form of K>ng and the unc most 
often employed by Schubert- 

His songs were vastly different from the operatic style 
and required a different kind of singing. This partially 
explains why they were so little known to his contemporaries; 
it look time to develop the lyric quality in the art of singing, 
Schtibert appeared at a time when a new school of German 
poetry was being produced, the style of which was In perfect 
sympathy with his. He possessed in an intense degree [meltc 
imagination and hi^ melodies arc wedded to the poems he 
used. His greatest genius was in the emphasis lie laid upon 
the accompaniments of his songs : he was the first to reveal the 
pO£sit>i]itiei of the pinno accompaniment. 

Although Schubert is best known as the creator of the 
German Lied, he has written many instrumental woiics, some 
of them of great value. He was jtist l>egiiinitig to show bis 
real ability in thU field when an nntimely death prt an end to 
his career It is probable that, had he lived to an old age* 
Sdiubert could not have surpassed his best songs, but his 
instrumental compositions would certainly have sJiotvn a 
steadily-developing genius. His unfinished s>-nTpbory in B 
minor, the one in C, and his string quartets portray a marked 
originality and are unsurpassed in musical beauty. 

Schubert's piano wf^^Wfi are known today by all piami 
students^ but many of the ?Jinner oomposiliom show an 
unevenncss of treatment, a confusion and even laxness of style 
that is probably due to his lack of early training. Inter- 
spersed lhrou^>out the loveliest melodies — which, by the way. 
are often better suited to soogs than instrumental pi6c<»-*arc 
passages of tritling themes that cover pages with their monoto- 
nous repetilioRi, and scan carelessly thrown in as mere 
"padding" rather than a pan of a carefully conceived form. 
Tfie best of this group are (he fanrasie In C, waltzes ai>d 
prnproroptm. 

Notwitttsianding the fact iIqI it was his diief aim to 




296 THE world's progress. 

write a good opera, in this field he invariably failed, for he 
did not possess the dramatic gift; his style was purely lyric. 
The romantic traits arc not as pronounced in Schubert's com- 
positions as in those of Weber; he is the link that joins the 
Oassic and the Romantic schools, and displays many of the 
characteristics of both, 

"The Serenade/' "Am Meer," which suggests the majesty 
of the sea, "Hark! Hark] the Lark/' one of the loveliest 
songs in existence, ''The Wanderer/' "The Erl-King/' and 
"Sylvia" are a few of the songs by which he is most widely 
known. But there are others which better reveal the real 
depth and grandeur of his style: "Du bist die Ruh," "Der 
Tod und das Madchen/' and the song cycles "Die schone 
Miillerin" and "Die Winterreise." Schubert wrote in all 
over 450 songs, dramatic pieces, chamber music (trios, quar- 
tets. elc.)> nine symphonies, twenty-four sonatas for piano, 
and a large number of miscellaneous pieces. 

Never did death come to a composer more inopportunely. 
It is impossible to tell to what heights this genius might have 
risen, had he been allowed to continue the work so nobly 
begun. 

Development of the Piano, 

Before taking up the group of Romantic piano composers 
we may well consider briefly the kind of instrument for which 
they wrote. 

The piano is of Italian origin, the invention of Christofori, 
and dates back to about the year 1710. It was the gradual 
outgrowth of the dulcimer and not of the clavichord or harpsi- 
chord, as is sometimes supposed. About the only new feature 
that the inventor claimed for this instrument was its ability 
to play both soft and loud, and from this characteristic it takes 
its name — -piano-forte. It did not, however, gain popular 
favor at once and was lost sight of for a time. When next 
it was heard of, about seven years later, it was as the invention 
of Silberman of Germany. 

The principal mechanism of the early instruments was 
practically the same as in those in use today, but very many 
improvements have been added, until now the only apparent 



niSTOIIY OP MUSIC. 



297 



deficiency is its inability to increase the tone when once a key 
has been stTUck. The esaenlial dilTercncc between Ehe piano 
and the inMruments jnftt preceding it h that in the latter the 
keys were plucked instead of being struck by a hammer. In 
the earliest pianos these hammers were covered with leather. 
|)TiHUiciiLg A Itine lh;it v^ns har-sh Hiid riii^ie niclallic than in 
tho^e of ntodeni make. The rscaf'tment, thai aku»c?( the ham* 
mcr to spring back leaving the strings fr« to vibrate, is most 
imporlani and did mucli Co advance the general use of the 
instrument. The introduction of the pedal in 1775 marks an 
important stage in the hiMory of piano-playing ancJ greatly 
aided in establishing ihc iMano in popular favor The damper 
pedal, sometimes erroneously called "loud" pedal, by sus- 
taining ibe noiv makes the overtoni-s auihbltr. ihtjft prochicin^ 
a far richer and deeper effect than could be obtained iny means 
of the harpsichord* 

The change from the old to the new inslruments was by 
no means sudden and unchecked. Bach thought the piano 
too hard to execute and its tone thin, though hift judgment was 
passed on an in^lnimcm rhat we should consider far from 
jierfcct- Haydn wrote aliiiast entirely for the clavier and he 
nfFerei.1 ntjllnng ntw in ihc way of originality of ejcenilion. 
With Beethoven began a new epoch in the history of piano 
playing and piano music: his ccmpositions necessitated an 
entirely new technique Partly to meet the new demand, 
there arose new ''schools" of pianists, — virtuosos who, neg- 
lecting the study of ihc masters, undertook to procure for 
themselves marvellotis technical ability, bnl who possessed 
little or no artistic merit Greater strength nf arm and wrist 
wa» required and more freedom in single Jliigcr technique. 
As a class they advanced piano playing very little, if at all. for 
they played their own works exclusively. Out of this class 
and above those of mediocre worth there arose a group who 
stand in the foremost ranks of technical players and com- 
posers. They understood the possibiliiics of the piano and 
sottghl 3 means to effect their expression. It was necessary 
for pidiio music to pass ihrcugh this sla^ that the inslnrment 
itself could reach its best, 

Schumann entered the field when piano music was growing 
iDonotonous in its lack of variety, and introduced the poetic 



2^8 THE WtlKlI>*5 

f Pflllf Irt tfut W3S £TCatlT OKQCU- lie V3S DDC GCOBSITCtv A 

Kiiu uj !lici9t. ntf Ins unTiiTigc hao 9 ciccmpq bc2ini^ qd tlBt 
KhooL 

ScHCMAinv f 1810-1856). 

Robert Sdttanami w^is bom tn Zwickan^ Saxony, oat far 
froDi Leipzig in i8iol His parens dcsind bhn to bcMMue a 
iawTcr and wetr so stiouglj opposed to his adopdug niiEic as 
a profȣwa that be rdnctandr abandoned the idea. At the 
age of ei|!itceT] he enter^ the Umrcracr at Lopzig and 
became a stadem of law ; there be tried to iot e i t si himself in 
ftiidy but Ins heart was not in his work. His passkn for 
nncic was irreprtssibfe and he soon foond himself the center 
of a dnJe of friends whose interest Ur in nmsc, rather than 
tbe k^ profession. Certainly there coold have been little 
in tbe law to attract this imaginative and romantic yoctfa. 

In 1830 Schnmann became oimvinced that he was wasdi^ 
his tinie in porsning a stndy so foreign 10 his taste^ and finally 
persuaded his mother to allow him sijc months in wliich to 
try bis skin with the piano, under the gnidance of Friedricb 
Wledc- "My whole life," he wrote in a letter to his mother, 
"has been a twenty years' struggle between poetry and prose, 
or, if yon like to call it so, ^lusic and Law/' Gaining her con- 
sent, he began his study with Wieck, at ihe same time con- 
tinuing his work at the Univcf^ity. 

Schumann possessed a strong love for literature and 
became passionately fond of the productions of Jean Paul 
Richtcr, whose emotional and highly- wrought ideas gained a 
powerful influence upon the young composer. The effect of 
the power which the writings of this idol of his youth exerted 
upon Schumann's work was apparent dironghout his life. 

He spent one year in the old university town of Heidel- 
berg, his object being primarily that of attending law lec- 
tures; but his study received only a small pan of his attention, 
for he gave himself almost unreservedly to music. Having 
finally decided to abandon the law for all time and follow his 
own inclination, Schumann set about with such haste to make 
up for the many years in which he had been deprived of 
mtisical trainiig that he did himself permanent injure-- He 
recklessly attempted to stretch the ligaments of his hands and 



HI5TORV OF UVSIC. 



399 



thus find a short road to ihc acquirement of a good tecliniquc. 
The result was that he lamed his right hand so seriously thai 
he never Again wa» able 1o use tt for piano pbyin^. The 
indirect consequence of tlib injury was moM benelkial for 
the world of music, for he was obliged to lt:m his gemu* in 
the channels of cotnpositionr to which he had given little 
attention prior to this lime. 

Tilt influence of Chra Wieck, wltom he afterward mar- 
ried, upon Schumann's work accounts for much in the steady 
advancement ol his genius. iJhc was the e«^'^t woman 
pianist in Europe at that time, and her artistic co-operation 
was a powerful inspiration to turn ill his life. He was of a 
very reserved temperament and not even his friends could be 
said to Trally know bim. 

Tiw wliolc character of his music !s robust and whole* 
some; his style is more original than that of any other com- 
poser, for a!thoii|:h lie sometimes resembles Beethoven, it may 
be truthfully said that Schumann credited his own models, 
He tried to bring music into a closer relationship with litera- 
ture, and his earlier compositions may be described as *'word- 
picturea." 

It WAS as a piano coni|]oseT that he first catne to the notice 
of the musical world. His piano pieces arc very condenscdn 
intricate in styk and difficuh of execution because his har^ 
mony is so rich and complex. He employed broken chords 
and wide skips, often spreading a chord over the interval of a 
tenth or even a fourteenth, and his compositions re<|Lnrc great 
strength of arm and wHst He relied upon harmonic effects 
rather than melody, aiKl in the variety of his rhythms showed 
great originality 

"The inexhaustible tunefulness of the early Schtimann is 
little short of mancllous. Few composers have been so 
prodigal of lovely melodies. They arc like the king's daugh- 
ters in the fairy tales, each more t>eautiful than the last; and 
though there is dotibtless a family re&emblance, each had a 
distinct physiognomy, a pronounced individiwliiy. They are. 
for the most part, indeed, brief, striking motives rather llian 
deliberately comiwijed lune5, |>effect hul minule cryslals of 
most various shapes, forming spontaneously in the highly 
oaturated solution of the musical thought. No effort is made 



300 



TI1C world's PROOaESS. 



to purify, separate, or collect iheni; what their corT4>oser 
seniu diiefly to v^luf is their profuaicn and Uixuriance. To 
statr ihc same tiling in more tnihiiicat trrms, thtrc is itcxc to 
no llicnialic <1cvc1ofirnenl ; there i^ simply tJtc pit:MrntatK^i of 
one charmmg phrase after another. The result b of course 
a certain fragmcntarincss and whimsicabty, the music im- 
presses Its not by its cumulative power, its orderly advance, 
but by the sheer charm of its primitive dements."* 

Schumann's piano pieces with titles were a result of an 
effort to make music more expressive of definite moods, 
although it was his cusibtn to give a piece its title after it was 
written. His genius was slow in developing and he did not 
attempt the larger foniis until later. Of these early set* of 
pieces arc Ihe "Scenes from Childhood." the "Night Pieces," 
and, most famous of aU. the ''Carnival Scenes." The latter 
i« a series of short characieriitic pieces of unsurpassed beauty 
and originality. Among his larger works for piano arc the 
gonata in F sharp minor, the faniasie in C, and the concerto 
in A minor. 

Schumann's rarest (|ua1ities are to be found in his songH. 
He is one cf the great song-wrilcrs, — probably rardcing next to 
Schubert, although some critics place him firat. His songs 
are not so spontaneous nor varied in range, nor did he equal 
Schubert as a melodist, but in richness of harmony and wcaJth 
of piano accompaniments he surpassed him. His rare 
literary taste is exhibited in his selection of poems. A large 
pioportinn of his songs dt%il with kjvc, and he most beautifully 
pictured the "soul-life" of woman, as, for example^ in the 
'^Fraucn-Liebe und Leben" (A Woman's Life and Lovc^ 
His finest lyrics arc contained in the "Uederkrcis/' "Mrythen" 
(Opus 35) » and "DichlerUcbe" (Opus 48)- In 1840. the 
year in which he was married, he composed one hundred and 
thirty-eight songs, 

Schumann wrote five symphonies; the ,?frwaj; (Bfla') and 
Cologne (K flat) sympliontes show great freihness and 
breadth tn their treatment. Many critics consider his cham* 
ber works the most perfect of his compositions* Of these 
the string quartets and the piano quintet in E flat are best 
known. The mo^t popular of hi;; works for folo, chorus and 

'M«*Mt— "The Roiuu4ic Compa^eit," ^ lUL 



HISTORY OP MCSIC, 



30t 



OTchfstni U "pAradhe ^iiil lltir Pcri,*^ ti\t ftiitijcd wliich wait 
taken from Thomas Moore's "LalU Rookh." Schumann 
wrote otic opera, but this was a failure, for he, like Schubert. 
did not possess the dramatic instinct 

Schumann's importance lay not alone in his ability as 
composer* for he was an important critic as well. In 1634 
he and a few friends established a journal at Leipzig which 
was known as f?iV ncue 2eitschnfl fiir Musik. They slated 
that their object wa* "to honor the olfK to welcome the new 
with a wann heart, to dcnouiKc whatever was untrue in art, 
to proclaim anything that was worthy no matter from what 
source it came, to elevate national taste by natic^nal an" 
Gradually the others withdrew and Schumann became sole 
editor of the joumaJ. He had all the qualincations of an 
able critic : high ideals, liberal views, great readit^ess of exprcs* 
sion and a thorough techniciil knowledge of the subject in 
hand. Tlie inflnencr he rxcrtt^ for the aflvancemenl of the 
art of niusic is felt at the present time. Although a champion 
of romanticLsm. he considered it but a natiiral out^owth of 
classical laws and tried to draw public taste away from the 
superficiality of the fo-called virtuosos of the day tc a more 
sincere appreciation of tlie great masters. 

Among ihe composers whose merits were first recogniied 
by Schumann we find the names of Chopin and Brahms, That 
he failed to appreciate the genius of Richard Wagner is not 
to his discredit, for Wagtier's style was crUirely new and it 
was small wonder that it took time to gain true appreciation. 

A nervous disorder whidi came upon Schumann in early 
life gradually affected his mind and resulted in insanity. The 
malady was no doubt aggravated by the high tension under 
which he worked, and his last years were a tragic existence of 
depression and melancholia. He dted in an asylum near Bono, 
July, 1856, 

Mendelssobk (1809-1847). 

Mendelssohn was one of the best balanced and most whole- 
some men in the list of composers. He possessed extraordi- 
nary talent rather than genius, and this should be kept in 
mind in attemptijig a criticism of his work. Sod of a wealthy 



^^ 



303 



tut WOHU>'$ rBOGR£S& 



hanker and born to liigli iiocia) position, hU life was Alidter«d 
and even, anil this umloulrtcdlj had a direct benring «|>on the 
charaacr of his work. He was noi a composer who worked 
along lines which were in advance of his time and thus did 
not have to create a spirit of appreciatioa Master of patho« 
and the GttbUme ir music he was noi; his &tylc was graceful 
and sympathrtic. and tliercforc easily understood. 

Pelix MvndeU^ohTi-Bartholtly was Loni tn Hamburg in 
itki^. He WHS (jf pure Ji'wi^h Miuiil; his grandfather, M<wes 
Mcfidchsoliii. was a philosophical writer, and the composer's 
mother was a woman of superior education. The name Bar- 
choEdy was taken by hifl father when he embraced the Chria- 
tian faith. Like Mozart, Felix had a lister a few years older 
than him&dip who \^-a& also a remarkable musician. Faniue 
MendeUiohn forsook wliat would probably have been a won- 
derful musical career when she married Hensel, the painter; 
her rare judgment and sympathy were always of the greater 
aid to her brothcn 

Felix received his early education in Berlin, His parents 
ddtrmirtcd that he should not allow his musicaJ ability to 
interfere wiih other interests, and he wa£ given a liberal edu- 
cation, passing through the gymnasium, attending lectures at 
The Univcrshy and travelling extensively in England, Switwr- 
land and Italy, The Mendelssohn home in Berlin was the 
favorite report of many scholars, statesmen and artists, and 
tlic young composer was constantly in an atmosphere of refine- 
ment and culture- "He never knew the squalor of poverty* 
the paralysis of dradgery, the t>itteTnesa of inaptitude, the 
dull ache of disapp^jintment. In his bright, precocious child- 
hood he was the idol of a wise father, a fond mother, brothers 
and sisters who shared his tastes and in some meastu^ hts 
ahililifs, and a circle of literary and artistic friends at the 
head of whidi was the aged Goethe, In later years he had 
all the advantages of university training, the best teachers in 
music, foreign travel, varied friei^dships, a happy marriage, 
and a fame extending to all corners of Europe. Appropriately 
indeed was he named FeJix/'* 

He was a precocious pianist, organist and compOBcr; be 
appeared as a public player at the age of nine, coinpOMd the 

'Hid., p. i^. 



HtSTOftV OP UU5IC. 



i03 



famous "Rondo Caj^rtccioao" when fourlccu aiid tlic overture 
to "A M]t1:turnn)er Night's Drc^m" at (he Age of acventecn. 
This overture b most original in its fairy-like and graceful 
beauty, and is technically one of his most perfect productions. 
While fllill a studert in Berlin. Mcndt Usohn organized the first 
performance of Bach's "St. Maiihevv Pa&sioii'* since that 
com|jri!Lfr*N dejttb. It wiit a dtil'icuk t:i*»k but Mc^(td%.<(ohn 
was most successful; this marked the heginning of the Batch 
revjval- 

Thc next fcvv years were spent in travel throu£^i Hng^and 
and Scotlard, of wliich hi» imiTre^^ions are recorded in the 
"Hebrides" overture and the "Scotch" symphony. 

His reputation as a composer was e&tablishtd in 1S35 in 
Cologne by the production of ihe oratorio "St. Patil," and in 
1843 lie waii ^ppoititcc] direelor uf the Leipzig Conxer\'atory^ 
This was a great honor to be given Ihe young composer, but 
he disliked the routine of insirucling and was not very suc- 
cessful. Three years lalcr he directed the first performance 
of perhaps his greateit work — Ihe Oratorio of Elijah. This 
performance took place in Birmingham and was a gift to the 
English people. At that time Mendelssohn was almost idol- 
ized in England and critics today agree that his influence was 
moi^i harmful lo ihe music of that country, for he w;is imi- 
tated to an unwarrantable extcni- This blind worship of himt 
however, it now a thing cf the past. 

"Elijah" was written in Mendelssohn's maturity and con- 
teina passages of unsurpassed beauty and strength. Especially 
notable are the episodes in the desert when Elija}i despairs and 
is comforted by his visions ('It is Enough" and '"He Watch- 
ing Over fsrael"). 

Mruflelswkhn was a man of charming personality and greai 
warmth of afl^ection. Ptrhaps his sheltered life of ease and 
comfort wai detrimental to hi^ muAical devdopinenl, — lie 
never was able to express the depths of human passion; but 
there are some natures that seem to require the sunshine of 
life and at least we may eay tJiat prosperity never destroyed 
his ideals. He was passionately, almost jealously, devoted 
to hit friends: the death of his sister, Fanny, closely follow- 
ing that of his parents, was a shock from which he never 
rtcovereil. He was conlempbting a trip to VietimL to liear 



304 



Tits WOtlD'S PKOCRJEtt, 



Jenny Lind sing in "Elijali" when he was suddenly taken ill 
and t\'K<\, November 4, 1847. 

Although he wrote much piano music Mendelssohn did 
not advance the art of piano playing or composing. Hia style 
is ofUn very fcrmal and too refined to be expressive His 
"Songs Without Words*' were very popubr when they first 
appeared, iheir melodies and easy pcrfomiancc attracting 
popular tasle» but now they rccci\"e lUtlc aitenttoa Their 
iruinolonoMH rliylhriis ami rather drying h;innonies h;ive 
excited harsh criticism, but certain of llicm, such as the 
"Spring Song." the ^'Spinning Song" and the "Gondola Song" 
in G minor remain favorites today. His strongest work in 
the field of piano composition arc the "Serious Variations." 
His organ sonatas are of great vahtc to students and place 
him in the foremost rank of organ composers since Bach. 

Mendelssohn shows far greaicr originaUty in his works for 
orchestra; ihcy arc delightful in mrltnly antl orchesftalion, 
and display a frcslmess and sympathetic feeling. The finest 
of these productions arc the "Scotch" Svmi^ony. and the "A 
Midsummer Nighl's Dream," "Hebrides" and "The Beautiful 
Meiusine" overtures- His violin concerto is perhapj better 
loved than any other; its themes are masterly and its difGcuI- 
ties are not execs Ive, 

The songs for single voice do not comrwire favorably with 
those of reiiUy great song writers, but many of them contain 
much of value. 

Mendelssohn's fame today depends on llie two oratorios, 
"St. Paul" and ^'Elijah," and a few orchestral works. His 
influence al the present time lies in the fact that he checked 
the element of extreme Romanticism in music and restored 
the importance of the classical school. Few composers hav^ 
gained Ihc |xjpii!an"ly and real love lihown ihi* cnmposei during 
his lifethnc; indeed, the praise given hhn was out of aW keep- 
ing with the real merit of his wort Now the pendultun has 
swung too far in the opposite direction and Mendelssohn is 
among the i^Wcn gods. As one cntic has said, "It has become 
almost a fashion to sneer or to smile at his music," The 
importance of his work was seemingly tenporaiy, but it 
remains for the fuinrc lo relegate him to his proper pfacv 
among the composers of the world. 



E£i 



HlSTOStr OF Mi;uc. 



FnratKic Cconx (1809 1S49), 



30S 



The middle of ihc mnclecnlh cciUury saw piaro music 
raised to a pmnacJc of perfection never before equaled nor 
since surpassed The three men to whom this development 
it chieBy due are Sbumann as coii:po5cr, Liszt as pianist aDd 
Oioptn as both player and compoier 

Frederic Cliopin, the "Poet of the Piano/' has exerted a 
more subtle iitHtience upon his art than any oihcr writer of 
instrumental music With but few exceptions he labored in 
one field — that of piano composition — and he expressed him- 
self in the smaller niusica] forms. That a composition is 
colossal in proportions does not signify that it is great, and 
tome of the slione^t of Chopin's productions are genis of the 
mrcst beauty. At the present time it is the lest of a good 
pianist to be able to play his works with understanding. 

He was born in Zelarowa Wnia, Poland, in 1809, His 
father was a Frenchman of high intelligence, and his mother a 
rc6ned Polish womaa iiis curly education and musical train- 
ing were received in Warsaw, where he found excellent 
teachers. At an early age he di^tin;;fui&hed him^lf as a 
pianist^ hU precocity cau«ing much wonder. He was gladly 
received into the houses of titled nobility and found their 
habits entirely in keeping with his own faiiidious tastes. At 
the age of twrnty-onc he left Poland to study in Parrs, vi«ting 
Vienna on the way, where he gave several successful con- 
certs. He was at that time already a composer of consider- 
able note, a bnlliant pianist of good general education and 
was well prcp-ired to treat his art in a scholarly manner. 
There he remained, teaching and composing* until bis death in 
1849- 

"He Iivcil a rrtJred life as composer and teacher, little 
known to the world at large, but honored and beloved by a 
circle of friends, which included some of the most accom- 
plished musicians, artists and auihors in Paris. Chopin was 
a man of exfjuJMte rehncment, dehcalc and high-strung, of an 
ardent, and in early life at least, playftd disposition. The prc- 
•ailinfT impression that he was morbid, over- sens! live and a 
prey to dejection come* from the records of his later years of 
declining healih. The remarkable friendship between O^opin 



506 



THE WORIJ>S PHOCltrtaS. 



and Georf^ Sand, with the final rupture and il5 lamentable 
consequence:^ has done more than anything ebe to prcdtKe 
erronecus imprc»*ions of Choinu'* clUiKBtfion-'*' 

Although he never again saw hU Woved country, Chopin 
remained to die last an iiUensc patriot. He, perhaps tii a 
greater degree than any other composer, reflects hts own 
diaractcr in hi5 music The two prcdominaiiitg clcmcms of 
his productions are lliose of personality and naiionality. He 
expresses himself with perfect cleamej^i and reReets his own 
poetic soul. At limes he seems rather too sensitive, but again 
he displays intense power and strength. 

Poland hail been a strong military power In the sixteenth 
and seveiileenlh centuries ;ind lis di>wiir;il1, rtilmhiMltrg m the 
seirure of Warsaw by the Russians, caused the deepest despair 
in that valiai^t htilc country. We find strong traces of the 
melancholy Polish temperament in Giopin's music atid of its 
undatinted couraf^e as well. In addition. French inlluence may 
be traced in the delicacy of his style and finifth, and he pos* 
sessed German mastery, of musical scicrnce. 

Coiiitaty to the tendency of the lime, Qiopin did not give 
poetic titles lo his pieces, hut there i» a clear |x3etic meaning 
behind his work. His sharp contracts of mood, the vague- 
ness of outline and variety of rhythm arc all characteristics 
of the Komanlic School. The ninnirc paasaf^ require a 
peculiar teclTnif|ue which he himself invented- He exacts 
great things of the pedal, fingers and wri*t, and his compo- 
sitions require the most delicate touch and an car of the finest 
training. As a rule the best Cliopin players are Poles and 
Russians, tlicy having a national sympathy. 

Although he seldom played in public conceit halls, Chopin 
was one of the greatest pianists of his day. He had remark- 
able flexible hands and a peculiarly singing touch, while his 
G>'mpathetic use of the pedal is said to have been a revelation. 
Schumann said, in deftcribtng his playing: "Tniagine art 
aeoHan Iiaq> tlist has all the scales, and (hat thc*e are jumhied 
together by ihc hand of an atlist into all sorts of fantastic 
arabesques, but in such a manner that a deep fundamental 
tone ard a softly singing upiJcr part are always audible, and 
you have an idea of his playing/' 

Polish folk-music is rich in songs and dances, and Cho^rin 
*Dlckin»«n : Hist, of Music, 244. 



ax 



iSi 



HISTORY OF UUSTC 



307 



parly ;ia|ua(nlfil liimurlf witli tlirir nie-ltitlits- The form* 
kroiATi as mazurka »m1 poionalsf onginaicd in Poland. 
Cbopir's mazurkas arc imitations of national dances, but arc 
cnlargtd and ^catly developed. By means of intricate har- 
mony and varied trealment the common dance becomes one 
of the higher mustciil forms, Chopin wrote hU mazurkas in 
a style distincily his cwn: no other composer has so fully 
eaugtit (he spirit of ijiis national dance. Their fascination 
largerly lie* in tlie Tretjuent cliange of mond — some arc chccr» 
ful, others sad and depressing — and the Polish temperament 
is discernible in all. 

The polonaise Is a stalely march, or procession, mther than 
a dance. It onj£inate«t at court and was a most brilliant spec- 
tacle, often led by the king and qticen- This dance of high 
society has now declined and is rarely danced at the present 
ibne. Cltof^tTk's polonaises may be divided into two classes: 
( t ) ihnsc that are heroic, almost military in character, as the 
one in A flat> and (2) tho^c that arc melancholy in tone, as 
Ihc V sharp minor poJonaisc- 

The scherzos and ballades arc among Chopin's finest woric 
Hitherto the sc]ier20 had been a movement of a sonata, but he 
applied the form to an indq^endent piece for piano. The bal- 
lades were probably ^uggcstf'd by Polish poems ; he is itndoubt- 
edly at his best in his ballades, cmdes, inipromptui and fan* 
Usies< The nocturnes are not so difficult of cxeculion as the 
other compositions and arc consc<jtiently better known. They 
arc, for the most part, rather dreamy and languishing m their 
l^neral tone and are responsible for the prevailing opinion 
that Chopin was sa<l and of an unlienfthy temperamert. The 
prekidev are sketches rather ihan pieces, but each is complete 
in its form- They are original and beautiful in their concrp- 
tion and deserve more attcnlion than they coininorly receive. 

Chopin wrote nothing of im|>orlatice for the circhcslra; it 
is evident that he did not care to undergo the training ncces* 
sary for this field of composition, for his ordicstniiion is thin 
and uninteresting. He understood the powers of the piano 
perfectly and developed them to their utmost. 

His last years were spent in great phvsical suffering and 
distress; his finances were at a low ehh and his firi:[1 break 
with Ger^rge Sarid tn TR47 ad<led lf> his general unTinpprnext. 



him 



308 



Tn« wo»t.n's rxockitss. 



CHAPTER VIL 
Frockauue Music 

The final ouUomc of t!ic Romanlic inovcmcnt in musk was 
the establishment of ilic "programme" acliool. The tendency 
to make music reflect dclinhe thcughts and scenes of nature 
may be said lo have Ijeen founded and CLrried to its citlmina^ 
don by Berlioz .-uid Lif^itl. 

By prngramme mnwc, or "music with a poetic basis," is 
nkeant that which jirc-sents a:i idea that could he expressed iti 
wortis. It 15 ill (lirecl conIr<ist.to the "abstract" music y>( the 
classical composers, which sought only to express geno'cl ideas 
or moods, and clothed them in conwnlional fonns, such as 
sonatas, fugues or rondos. Profrnimme music, which includes 
all instrumental music with lilies, may be divided inlo two 
classes. First, that expressing some single thought or image, 
and is not connected with a sti?ry; Schumann's compo^itio:»s 
illustrate ihii class. Tu this division, also, belongs modern 
"landscape" music, describing some phase of nature. 

Music that is associated with a story or succession of scenes 
is more strictly of the programme scttool. In writing music 
of thit class, the composer selects or creates some poem or 
narrative, and lets thr movement of his music follow thai of 
the story- Tfns pvftic counterpart is called tfu: programme^ 
It nattu^lly follows that in this st>-k of production it is well- 
nigh impoa^ble to n^odel upon the old fonns, and the order 
of composition is necessarily 'lelached. 

The finest programme music is that which sets forth con- 
trast of emotion, rather than tbnl imitative of outward actior. 
The effort to suggest the externa! in music ha^ often led to 
amusing and sometimes to absurd effects. The final lest of 
programme music, as of any other, is its masiccl value. The 
programme must l>c carefully chosen but its mission at best is 
only that of lending interest, not creating it. The finest of 
poetic suggestions cannot counteract poor nnisic. 



nisroEY Of UU3IC. 



Beruoz (1803*1869). 



309 



The woM original comjKiwr of ihc romantic school U 
Hector Berlioz. Although his cotnpoHitiona are seldom heard 
today, he has exerted & powerful influence upon musical crit* 
kism. 

"The interest in t^ie worlcs of Berlioz is not measured wholly 
by iheir permanent artistic value, but largely by the a^-itheiic 
pmblems they offer. Thry apply the prngTamm*- priiiripte wiili 
starttSrg^ amiaril/; ihcy ifliistmte some of it* iicblet acltievc- 
incnts, and also its positibk abuses. As a man Berlioz h an ex* 
mnple of what the artistic tanperamcnl m^y become wlicn un- 
balanced by »onnd rcRcctivc judgment. The traits lh;it mike 
him fliich a fascinatinfif and puiKlin^ figfure were not exceptional 
amcng the anisrs of his time. He is the representative in 
music of the romantic movement in French Htcramre and art 
which broke out in 1830 imdcr the lead of Victor ITngn, and 
produced a series of art works whose brilHancy, boldness and 
frequent cxtravafi:ancc have bad no parallel in any other coun- 
try in recent limes. The world was aeardicd for uos^l and 
stimulating subjects; every mean» was taken to excite the 
nerves and thrill the imagination. With the subsiding of the 
ferment, works were produced which at this day may hv c:dlcd 
even dasftic in their moderation and obedience to tJie elenial 
laws of beaufy. But the kcyuote of l!»c nioveineiit was the 
»carch for the novel, picturesque, remote." ' 

Hector Bcrliox was bom in southern France, in the year 
1803. In his early youth he evinced a gp-eat love for poetry 
and music but his father, hinuetf a physician, intended his son 
to enter the medical profession and would allow him no mtiMcal 
advantagfca. At the n^c of eiG:htecn he was sent to Pari- to 
begin the study of medicine but he immediately turned his 
whole attention to music, thereby causing his parents to cut off 
his allowance in high displeasure. The Ind thus brought upon 
himr^f a penod of great privation, during which he all but 
starred; ho^vcvcr, his suffering never caused him to turn from 
his purpose. His father iinally relented and gfave him pcrmts- 
aon to enter the !*aris Conscrvatorie, on condition that if Iw 

'DickinMn: Stud; of thtt HUtoryof Mmic^SCl- 



310 



THE WORLD S PROGSCSS. 



did not prove successful in the muaicaL profcj^on he should 
return to his medical study. 

Although he showed remarkable ability in mastering musical 
science, Rerlioz watj not Q jwrfonncr of any instrument, unless. 
indeed, his playing: of the guitar and the fiageoTet is taken into 
coiisicleratioa He possessed a genius for orchestration never 
equalled in any oiher composer, and while in the Conservaltirie 
won the "grand prize of Roroen" which entitled him to two 
years' study in Italy. The rest of his life was spent in PariSu 

From the first he wrote in the largest forms, and titc 
magnittide and extravagance of his earJier compositions quite 
astounded the musical public, BerlioE was a man of radical and 
egotistical tendencies, visionary, passionately de\-oted to his an, 
and his music reflects these characteristics. Although his love 
of the unusual sometimes carried him beyond the limits of good 
taste (as, for Instance, in his Requiem Mass. where bt em- 
ployed twelve horns, sixteen trumpets, sixteen trombones, eight 
pairs of ketik drums, two baas drums, five bass horns, three 
pairs of cymbate and a f:on^), hts music is, generally speaking, 
artistic and often simple in effect. He submitted the scor^ of 
the uiaslers to crhical an:dy^is and wroitr text biMjks on the sub- 
ject of orchestration. He had great insight into the possibilities 
of the comhiuations of instruments and made the orchestra a 
new foKc. His tcna! effects are most brilliant in their color* 
ing; with Berlioz the tone-color was a part of the original de- 
sign and did not exist apart from the melody- 
One of his compositions is of great historic interest in that 
it marks Ihe beginning of the pmgiamme idea in music: the 
symphony eniilled '*An Episode in the Life of an Artist.*' Its 
programme was written in tile midst of one of BcHior' love 
affairs and pictures his own feelings at that lime. The fir^t 
movement is lyrical in cliaracter. The artist has long dreamed 
of his ideal and at last bis vision is reati^^ed; she is always de- 
picted by the same melody, which vanes with the setting. The 
second movciiient changes from ihe realm of reflection to actual 
life. The hero sees his love at a ball, and leaves the brilliancy 
of the ball-room and goes out beneath the moon to dream of 
her The third is a pastoral movement, picturing the artist 
among the hill* waiting for bis beloved to come to him, while 
the sound of the shepherds' pipes gradually calms his mind. In 



TinfntY OF HfftJsic- 



3" 



the next section he beconws convinced thai his love i» unfaith- 
ful and. in despair, takes opimii- This does not kill him, how- 
ever, bul cause* him ir> dre;tm wildly. The last mfivcrncnt ts ;i 
perfect orgy of Imie-^ The slc^i^er seeing In l>e j^ttenrling hiH 
own funeral while goblins fiance to weird sound*, in which the 
love moiiff is distorted into a vuJgar dance tunc, Althotij^h we 
may condemn hiit choice of subject, in tfiis symphony Berlku 
displays gfrent power and the work ir^rk^ a new epoch in 
French mu»ic. 

Anotfier form cultivated in the nmerernth century was the 
"dramatic symphony" or "ode symphony." a^ it is ^omelimes 
GiDed. It consists of parts for orchestra, chorus and single 
voice; doubtless it was sunffcsted by Beethoven's Ninth Sym- 
phony but it was developed :ilon^ different hnes. In the Frtnch 
ode iijtrphony each movement hait a definite peptic ftul>ject- 
Berlioz created this form in hh *'Romeo and Juliet* symphony, 
which illustrates scenes from Sliakcspcare's drama, lie pic- 
tures the balomy scnic in a lovely adagio ami the pranks of 
Queen Mab in a sdicrzo ihat is truly ex<im5itc, but tlic effect 
of the whole is weakened in rhe last movanent. In the scene 
at the tomb he forces the pniprammc idea to such an extent 
that he niins the musical effects True pnigramme music does 
not attempt to describe external action minutely; the idea at 
once cpnvicts itself to failure, Thi* can be effected m opera but 
not by means of instnimcntal mn*ic alnnr 

^'Harold in Italy,*' aug:gC3ted by Byron's poem and his own 
Italian experience, is unique in conception and is a truly 
notable work, it is generally conceded by musical critics that 
the greatest of Berlioz* compositions is "The Damnation of 
Faust," founileii i>t» Goethe's poem of that nam& 

"It conjii**!^ nf a xelection of scenes, vocal and rn^trumental, 
including Faust on the plains of Hungary (introducing a Hun- 
l^arian march), Haust in his study, the Easter song, the meet- 
ing of Faust and Mcphistopheles, scene in Auerbach's cellar, 
dances of gnomes and sylphs, scenes between Faust and 
Crclchen, Faust's invocation to nature, the course to the abys*, 
pandeinonimn, chorus of the (Limne^l and of ilemons, heavm, 
cliorus of c^ldtial spirits^ redemption of Gretclicn. Berlioz 
does not linger upon the spiritual import of Goethe's work, hut 
rather upon the emotional, especially the spectacular elements. 



313 



tut woRu>*s moORrss. 



TIjc task is perfeclly cong:enial and Iw produces in this \i'orfe 
some of hii nK>^t tcn<lcr, passicin&tc ;tiul orijt^nal music/' * 

Berlioz, who was so bold and druinf; in his instnitnenutl 
music, was conservative and even timid in his works for ihc 
siaRc. None cf his operas are lieard today, even in Trance- 
His music i» perhaps Tno&t saiiftfjin^ At the first hearinfr- In 
ceruin p;i«^ges he rtscs to grealness but his wortc it so tme\"en 
as fo be almost patdiy; he relics loo much iijiOd the nrrvoiis 
efTccl of rhythm and meic sound. His influence is largely in 
the cxpcrimcnul value of his work and he b today in favor 
with but a *mnn circle. 

His cloinain was the orchestra and he opened to it a new 
horbon. He had a rare ^nius for scddn^ out new tonat 
effects and re-crcaicd the art of oichestratipn. No aim^ioser 
since D«tho^'eTl ha* poiuted ihc w;!y to so itiany new means of 
musical expression as did Hector Berlioz. 



Liszt (r8ii-i88G). 

Frans Liszt was bom near Oedenburg, in Htinf^ary, on 
October 22, iSii. His fatlier was a Hungarian in llie employ 
of Count Esterhaay, with whom Haydn was so long connected, 
his mother of German descent. It was from his father that 
Pranz received his firsi piano lessons, and he duplaycd such 
precocity that Hie family movcil to Vienna in order ih^t he 
might receive further instruction. For a >xar and a half Franc 
studied with Czcmy, and after the aire of twelve he loiA no 
iessons of anyone. 

At that time he was acknowled^s^d to be the equal of any 
pianist in Europe. He api^tared frec[nentty in public concerts 
and excited great admiration. A current joufnal of the time 
tells us cf his receplion m Paris, where in 1823 the family had 
made (heir home. "A year went by during; which Liszt was, 
so to speak, the ido! of all the ladies in Paris. Everywhere be 
was petted and csressed. His triclcs and pranlcs. his moods and 
whims were all noted and discussed everyw^licrc : everjHhing 
was considered enchanting. Though barely ihinccn years old, 
lie already excited love, caused jealousy and stirred up enmity. 
He was the ccnlml figure of interest in every circle of society, 

'Dick^Aon; Scudy^f the Hifttc^ryof .Mu«ic, ECiSl 



•t 



nisnrovv op music. 



3»3 



Jn time thU fiatttry gave place lo true rtspcct £fi<l apprecia- 
tion of his worth. TIic fipri*t caused by hi* father's <Ieath in 
1827, together wiili bt£ natural relijS^iotis iticlin^Ltious, resulted 
in his withdrawing from public life lo one of great seclusion. 
He gave himself up to moody meditation, which tended toward 
religicru* inysliciMn; ihh tenclrncy »o developed in later life 
Ihat he was finally led to take orders in the Roman Catholic 
Church, 

Tlie young: pianist spent the next eight yestra in teaching 
and composing. "His conduct ai this crisis." Mason says. '*il* 
lustrates that keen sense of honor which was so agreeable a 
trail in his t:|]aracter Con^iUcring that the money he hat! ac- 
cumulated hy his iTiaiiy sut^ressful cOTK:erts was rightfully his 
Tnothcr'5 becni]5c of all the sacrifices she h^cl made to his career, 
he made it over lo her in a lump sum. and took up teaching for 
hi& own livelihood. It was an set of delicate justice, freely 
and cheerfully perfornicd. Outwardly Liszt's life now became 
quite simple and tabcricu^, almost plodding; but inwardly It 
was developing apace, and ramifying tn many directiisn^, under 
ihc provocations of this brilliant and complex Paris." 

He was so aroused by the plaj-ing of Paganini, who visited 
Paris in 1831, that he could not rest until he had succeeded in 
reproducing on the piano tite effects Paganini had produced on 
the violin; in short, he was resolved to become the Paganini of 
the piano. This necessitated an enlargement of piano technique, 
and to accomplish this Liszt devoted three years to con«<tant 
study of the resources of his instnimcnt. 

In 1834 he again appeared fis a public pianist Making 
Paris his headquarters he toured Euro^ic, everywhere meeting 
with the same success; no pianist, l)efore or since, has ever 
crtatcd such a sensaiion. Lisxt possessed a certain personal 
magnetism that set him apan from all othet^, and his genius 
illiirimiatcd cvemhiiig he played. Amy Fay, eoncerl pianist 
and pupil of Lis^u thus describes his playing in her cliarming 
compilation. Music-Sfudy in Germany: 

*'Hift playing was a complete revelation to me, and has given 
me an entirely new insight into music You cannot conceive, 
without hearing him, how poetic he is, or the thousand nMOfic^s 
that he can throw into the simplest thing, and he is equally 
(preat on all sides. From the zcphi,T to the tempest, the whole 



V4 



TIIR WOR]J>S rftocB?,sa 



sksl}€ b equally at his commaDd* . . . Anything ^o pcr- 
feclty beautiful as he looks when he sits at the piAno I TMrvei 
sawr and yet h« is almost an old mart nov^. J enjoy him as I 
ivould art excfuisite work of art. Hts personal ina£TketiSTti i) 
imrnCTise, and I c:in starctly bear it when he playfL He can 
make mc cry all he chooser and that is spying a good deal 
because I've heard 50 much music, and nrt'tr have been afTccted 
!jy \t. Even Joachinit whorn I tltiak olivine, never movct! me. 
When lAszi plays anythinf^ pathctic> it sounds as if be had been 
throug^h c^erythmg, and opens all one's wounds afresh. All 
that one has ever suffered comf3 before one a^TO." 

Liszt's social triumphs were as great as his musical suc- 
cesses. He was a polished and cidmred man of society and was 
the inlimale fncmJ of titled nobJTily, The story i* t[>ld that 
when he was leaving Berlin, after a moM brilliant concert 
season, half the populace was in the streets to give him a last 
farewell The king, who chanced to be ilriving. by accident 
got into the midst of the ihrorg and was scarcely noticed, so 
intent were the people on seeing the last of thdr tdoL The 
circumstance was said to have put the king in great il!-humour 
and cAusctI much amuscnient at court, where Lis/,t was a gen- 
eral favorilc. 

His rank as composer ha& not yet been determined. There 
arc those critics who maintain that he lacked originality and 
thai he was constantly laboring for effect, while his disciples 
fimily believe that he will ultimately be classed with the great 
cnmjwsexs. His piann works divide themselves Into two classes: 
Iran script ions, and original compositions. It is not possible to 
draw a distinct line between the two. for many of the trans- 
criptions contain much original material. His own works be- 
long to the programme school, and reelect much of his own per- 
sonality. The Etudes. "Legendes" and the Concerto in £ flat 
arc great favorites with cnncert ]>!ayers of today. 

Liszt's transcriptions of many of Schubert's songs art 
familiar to every piano student and music lover. In them he 
retains the original melodies but adorns them in varieties of 
ways and clothes them in a perfect glory of tone One well* 
known group of transcriptions includes the "Hiingarian Rhap- 
Rodies." These were a result of Lisrt's viRits to his native 
country, where the playing of the national bands is one of (be 



HISTUIEY OP VUMC. 



3IS 



fcsturci of auiTimtr life- Thdr mujic is very spirited and pc*- 
dcsses 2. p«ctiltar wild charm. Liszt transcribed this native 
music in fifteen "Rh^paodie*," which are delightful in their 
colorinjif and freetJom of trentmenL 

Although not as daring as Bcrliojr in the matter of ordie(>- 
tmtion, Lis/t was hi< s-nperior in his K'^sp upon musical science 
amd artistic feeling, lie proved himsdf a. inaMcr of the modern 
orrhesira, and some cf his finest work is to be found in hlS 
Symphomc Poem3^ This form was create*! by Uset. and is a 
work in a single movement in which sometimes is pictured a 
aeries of ideas, sometimes a single conception. It stands half 
way between the poetic overture of Weber and the ode sym- 
phony of Berlioz, Its structure ie free, the music closely fol- 
lowing the programme. The title* of some of these poetic sjm* 
phonies :it once sng'ge*it the programme Idea : Orpheus, Prome' 
thtit^, HatnUt. Uungaritu J^attlc of ihtr ffun.^. Whet U Heard 
n^on the MoMfitcins (Victor Hugfo). 

The poetical sug^esiivencss of Uszt's pro^^mmes, which 
renders them so favorable to musical treatment, is clearly il- 
lustrated in that of his "Preludes." "MVhat is our life but a 
series of Preludes lo that unknown song of which death slrilces 
the first solemn note? Love is the enchanted dawn of every 
life; but where is the deditiy in which tlie lirst pleasures of hap- 
piness are not interrupted by some storm, whose deadly breath 
di55ipalc5 its fair illusions, whose fatal thunderbolt consumes 
its altar? And where is the soul which, cruelly wounded, docs 
Dot scel<, at the coming of one of these storms, to calm its 
memories in the tranquil life of the country? Man, however, 
cannot long resign himself to the kindly tedium which has at 
firxt channed him in the companionship of nature, and when 
'the trumpet has sounded the signal of alarms/ he hasten* to 
the post of peril, whatever may be the strife which cslls him to 
its ranks, in order lo regain in combat the full consciousness 
of himself and the complete command of his puwers." 

Another group of JJstt's compositions consists of religious 
worKs — oratorios, masses and paalms. in these is displayed 
the inten^ty of hts own religious feelings, Lim was always 
a devoted Catholic and was granted tlte order of abbe in that 
church. It is somewhat hard to reconcile this with the tin- 



3r6 THE world's progress. 

conventionality of some of his worldly relationships. It is more 
than probable that he sought the quiet of the Church as a means 
of getting away from the public life of which he was heartily 
tired, rather than as an end in itself. He never took a higher 
order than that of abbe, and he did not assume duties that 
should in any way interfere with his musical work, 

Liszt's chief service to his art lay in his teaching/ in- 
terpretation of the masters and his invention of new technical 
effects^ rather than in the compositions he has left to the world. 
Pianists of his own time said that no one could play his pieces, 
but after he taught them his own methods it was no longer 
impossible, Liszt employed daring skips, rapid scales, intricate 
runs and trills played by both hands at once. His works 
necessitate every possible position of the hand and novel sys- 
tems of fingering. It may be truly said that he revolutionized 
piano technique. 

Liszt was the most versatile of musicians; he was great as 
pianist, teacher, composer and conductor. His remarkable in- 
tellect and personal fascination made him the most compelling 
force of his time. Were it not for his work, musical culture 
of today would be far different than it is. He died suddenly 
in Bayreuth in 1886 while attending the Wagner festival. 

iListz's teaching was entirety gratuitous in his later life. 



HISTOBY OF MVnC. 



3i7 



CHAPTER Vin. 
FAMOUS OPERAS AND THEIR COMPOSERS. 

Although the hn^age of mi^c is cosmopolitan, yet the 
art of any nation reflecti ihe individual lasie and style oi iu 
I)e<*plc. T^li^ is pfHi;i|)s tnoic cleady ilepitied in ihe o|>cra of 
the various countries than in any other branch o( their muaic- 
An opera always t<ikc5 the national name of the lang^uafc iii 
which it h viTJlten. 'thus, an opera written in French is a 
French opera. rcKardIe*s of the fact thai it may have been 
wrtiicn by a German in distinctive German style. 

Generally (Speaking, it iiiay be ^aid that Italian opera is 
distinguished by its t)eaii1y of melody aiid regular form, the 
French by its piquancy of text and treatment, ihc Gcmian by 
its more complicated form and deep meaninj: underlying the 
plot, while Hnglnnh opera, ahhough companitively new, po*- 
*es*es at Iciis-t ihe commendable quality of sincere simplicity- 
Notwithstanding ihesc differences, it is well known that the 
development of an art in one country cannot but influence its 
progress in olhcr cotmtrics. 

The idea of the modem opera was first conceived about 
1580 by a group of scholars aiul tnasiL':d rmiatcurs knov^n ai 
the "Rardi circle/' Thi* group of men held regular meetings 
at the home of Count Byrdi^ tn Florence, to discuss matters of 
import to literature, science and art. Among the subjects 
which iiroiised the intet^st of these enthusiasts was the pos- 
sibility of treating a form of music which could be used for 
dramatic purposes. All ihcy desired was a kind of melody 
which could be subordinate to the text, but would render verse 
more effective liy acting as its accompaniment. They im- 
agined this res;ilt had been attained b>' the ancient Greeks in 
their drama, and accordingly set about to rcvi« the classic 
form. Many difliculiies presented lliemselve*, for there was 
no way of asceriaining Just what kind of music had been used 
in Alben*. Their experiment^* did not residt in a restoration 
of the noljlc Greek tragedy, as tbcy bad hoped, biit in an in- 
tonation which was hajf-way between speech and song. Out 



— ^^J*-^ 



3i8 ¥hE world's progress, 

of this grew the "recitative," a kind of musical dedamation, 
consisting of an irregular rising and falling of the voice upor 
which modem opera is based. 

Gradually sustained melody was required because it was 
frequently found necessary for an actor to represent a fixed 
mood, and this can.be effected only by means of a sustained 
air. When melody is thus developed in regular form it is 
called an aria, this name being given to the long solo parts 
of an opera. The effect of music upon the mind is quite dif- 
ferent than that of poetry. It acts directly upon the emotions, 
while the appeal of poetiy is made through an understanding 
of its meaning. Music expresses what words cannot, and 
aids the text of a drama by making the hearer more sensitive 
to the plot. 

Opera exists in two forms: serious and comic — called 
in Italy opera seria and opera buffa. In its early history the 
Italian serious or grand opera often included comic elements, 
but later they were discarded and developed into a distinct 
form» known as opera bufTa. This grew out of the old bur- 
lesque and puppet show> for which Italy, especially Rome, has 
been noted since antiquity. These entertainments, designed to 
amuse the masses, were free from the conventional and stere- 
otyped restraints of the serious opera. The body of the play 
was given in recitative style. The whole tendency of the 
opera buffa was toward truth and simplicity; its constant ef- 
fort was to portray life as it really is. and in this it exerted a 
most wholesome effect. To be sure» the early — and many of 
the later — comic operas contained much that was undesirable 
and even vulgar, but gradually they became more refined and, 
because of their variety and naturalness, developed the elc 
ments of true musical drama. 

Opera has taken various forms in France, Italy and Ger- 
many and its progress in one country has reacted upon that 
of the others. It is more convenient for the student of 
music, as well as the average concert attendant, to trace its 
development through the three schools of opera which have 
brought it to its present stage: for this reason we shall begin 
with its origin in Italy and later follow the story of its growth 
under French and German influence. 



niaroRV ok Nvstc 



3>9 



ITALIAN OPERA, 

In Italy opera rose out of the niysiery pUy^ and recitative 
musical declanianon^^fir^t appeared m that branch of 
t1rain;ilic niusu' c;i1ln1 t/rnUiTW^ In ibe mlildle of the nix- 
tccnlh ccntnry PhiUip uf Ncn fcnindcci an order of preachers 
to supply (he grrowing 4lcman<l of the times; the church in 
which he preached thus came io be c^JIed the Church of the 
Oratorio. He coticeived the idea of Lining music to attraa a 
larger congregation and employed a poet lo wrile a series of 
pieces based upon the mystery, and incUidmg dances and 
scenery. Thc^c were sci to music ami produced with great 
9uccei9. From this drsmalic music grew Ihe fonn of oratorio* 
so-named from its having first been fi^iven in thai particular 
church. This fonn of cniertammeiu proved *o popular lint 
in a short lime music was regarded a* a necessary factor and 
even iiidispensaljlc iji ihe madrigal. 

Tliis doirs \ni\ imply Uiat music had not been allied lo 
dramatic pcrfomTancc previous to ihat lime, for Italy had al- 
ways been in touch with ancient Greece and Egypt, where the 
musical dance had existed almost from time immemorial ; 
but it wav nut until the beginning of the seventeenth century 
that we find a definite sian toward moilem oper;* and ora- 
torio. For a long time secular music was in e\'idence only in 
connection with court fcstivilics. but in 1637 a theater for 
the production of musical drama was opened to the public. 
This was the Theatre of San Cassiano, in Venice, and hence- 
forrh p\iblic tasie was a facior to be taken Into account In 
the devclDijment of Italian opera, 

Moute%citle (15^8-1643) was the fint ^n)u» to give his 
entire attention to the opera. He loosened some of its rigid 
laws and proved (hot dramatic nction may be expressed in 
music aft well 2& in poetry. For some time before Morte- 
verde's death, Venice was the center of the opera world. It 
\% *aid that six hundred and fifly different operas were per- 
formed there in one centurj-- So great was the success of the 
public opera hoitsc Ihal b>' (be end of l^ic century ten others 
bad been built in Venice and were eagerly patronized. In 
Rome none were opened until 1671, but we hear of operas be- 
iit^ given out of door* or in private houKS aft early as 163a- 



320 The world's progress. 

Before the seventeenth century, woman held a most insig- 
nificant place in the musical world, but the new art of song 
brought the feminine voice into great prominence. Many 
singing schools were established, and by the latter part of the 
seventeenth century singers of marvelous technical ability 
sprang up. 

"The world has never seen a more complete devotion to a 
single branch of art. The Italian method became the law for 
Europe. The great singer was the pet of fashionable society, 
and his gains were fabulous. , , , The work existed 
solely for the honor and glory of the singer, purely as singer, 
not as singer and actor combined. The audience cared little 
or nothing for the play, and listened only to the arias, which 
they judged with the greatest keenness on technical grounds/" 

Scarlatti (1659-1725), founder of the influential Neapoli- 
tan school, was by far the most famous composer of his time. 
As director of the Royal School and writer of church and 
opera music, he was in a position to aid greatly in the develop- 
ment of his art, and many of his pupils became well known 
throughout Europe. He increased the scope of the aria and 
accompanied recitative, and enlarged the overture to a form 
of three movements, from which the symphony was later de- 
veloped. But his works reflect the superficiality of his age 
and, like the others, soon sank into oblivion. 

Operatic history from this point is that of the struggle 
between music written for dramatic illustration and that de- 
signed merely to please the car, and. as we shall see, the lat- 
ter finally triumphed. Composers wrote with the vocal pow- 
ers of a favorite singer of the times ever in mind, and would 
even submit to constant varying of text and melody to suit 
the latter's whims. New methods of singing necessarily 
arose to provide the vocal technique required by the brilliant 
runs, trills and all manner of florid embellishments then in 
vogue, while plot and action were given but passing thought 

In addition to being entirely given over to vocal display, 
Italian grand opera of the eighteenth century was most arti- 
ficial and stereotyped in form. The number of its characters 
was generally limited to six, three of each sex; and it was a 

^DickinsoD: Tb<! History of Music, page 109. 



RistoRr or MUSIC. 



3*1 



pmctice rarely departed from to maVe tliem all Iwcr*— a 
custom that introduced wcaknt^is and absurdity into other- 
wise worthy operas. The piece was iavariably divided into 
three acts, each not to exceed a certain number of verses, 

"The excessive and exclusive laate of the Italians for vo- 
Gfilizable melodic mu^ic led to the dreariest period in the his- 
tory of an, because it necessanly excltukd j-o much that i» 
needed to make nnt^ic permanently intcrctiting. The accom- 
paniments had to be kept in subordination to prevent their 
distracting' the ear from the full enjoyment ci the singers 
ricill; wherefore all the higher qualities of direct expression 
which depend upon harmony were excluded. Variety of 
form became superfluous, because Uie vocalist naturally liked 
to dispUiy his powers in cadences and other formalities in the 
same parta of his ari,ns. Dramatic development became super- 
fluous because the audiences were not concerned with the in- 
terest of the Etory set. but with the music and the perfomiert. 
How these influences continued to drag Italian opera down 
lower and lower into i!ie sloughs of shams, and e\"en to the 
most vapid vulgarity, it Is not necessary to recall."' 

But technical resources must be cultivated before great 
thoughts can be expressed, and mere ravings of hysterical 
passion are no more lasting in miiMc thun they are in lltera* 
ture. Gradually n>ore attention was given to the context of 
the play itself and. although Italian opera has alivays been 
and is today a display ground for the showy art of the vocal- 
ist, by the latter part of the eighteenth century ilierc began to 
be some conttnmly of plot and action. 

After reaching the highest pinnacle of glory in the tech- 
nical perfection of its melody, Italian opera steadily declined. 
It£ success had been due to the development cf *howy vocal- 
ism alone, and when this could be carried no further there 
was nothing whatsoever in the fonn or plot of the opera to 
redeem it. The inevitable result was a gradual sliding back* 
ward and for many years no coniposer appeared to check its 
(all 

Italy, the land of sunsliinc and song, has been the birth- 
place of most of our mu.'iical forms, but it has always been 

■Oxford Hiftory of Uuiic. 

T-tl 



3W 



*Tnz world's progkess. 



left for 4omc olhcr country to develop the ideas suggested by 
her composers. While Germany \vas producinn: audi men as 
Haydn, Mozart. Bccihovcn, Schubert and Scliuinann. halj's 
imponance in Uie musical xvorkL was rapidly growing Less. 
That she hiia deteriorated rather than advanced in the art of 
music is proved by the fact thai she coniribtitea praclkally 
nothing to (tie moit varied concert progntm of toitay. H«r 
one iTffid of niitsJcal devetopnient has bern in the fidd of 
<ij>cra and, ir onder to produce operas that woiild Mit-cced, 
ber coniposeni ha\e been forcnl to cater to popular taste. 
which was conlent with a plrasrng melody combined with a 
trivial plot requiring no mental exertion to follow iti dc' 
velopinent. 

When Italian gr^nd opera had declined to such an extent 
that it was i>Tactica]Iy extinct, it suddenly burst forth with re- 
newed splendor under the inspiration of Rossini and his fol- 
lowers, and for a shon time Italian melody once more held 
stway, 

Gioacchino Antonio Rossim ( 1729-186$) came of humble 
parentage, his fiifher being a town inmi|>eier and hii motlicr 
the daughter of a baker. His aplifudc for music showed itself 
ui an early agf. and when very young he beg^in (lie >1udy of 
singing, cello and counterpoint in liis native town of Pesaro. 
The vkhole history of music tells of no composer vkho has met 
with such instant success, for from the bcginnhig of his career 
Rossini had all Italy at his feet- He was in no way a reformer 
and cared not at all for the lasting value of the means he em* 
ployed to divert an unreflecting audience. He appeared at a 
time lAhen musical taste was at a low ebb and, accepting it 
just as he found it, he exploited the popular fonm wiih gresl 
skill. 

It would hr unju*t snd ex^en abMird iv boh! him re*p>n- 
^ible for the ^lallowness of his limes and it must be conceded 
that he pouretl new life into the it;iguant opera of Uie day. 
Moreover, he curbed the license of singers to alter notes at 
will and introduced a far higher grade of melody and Mnging. 
His early operas were written in the Serin style and were 
faithful imitations of other Italian operas of hia day. It i* 
in opera buffa that Rosiini was at his lest, for it alone af- 



1^ 



-* *■■ ^^'" 



TKI6T0RY OF UUEIC- 



3»3 



forded him an opportunity' to display his lovt of brilKant 
effect* and "vocal fireworks." 

Pfrhaps tbe Tno?il jiopiilar of Rossini's work^ 3ind a»«iiredl)' 
the liest opc-m InifTa tn cxistt?nce is his '*B;tfl)iim di Srvjglia" 
(Barber of Seville), written in Rome in i8i6l Among its 
aria£ in popular use as concert numbers today arc the aria 
"Una Voce Poco Fa," and the final trio of the Count, Rosioa 
and Fig:3iro — ''Zitti, Zitii." This delightful comedy is based 
on the love affair of Count Almaviva, who is enamored of 
Rn&tna, the prtlty ward of Dficlor Bailolo, However, Hct 
gnuxli^ wishes to wed her himself And sq zealously guards 
her from all would-be suitors- After serenading to no avail, 
the count disguises himself as a soldier and, aided by Figaro, 
the witty barber of Scvilie. attempts to enter the Doctor's 
house but is foiled by a guard. Not daunted by this failure, 
the count next a^ipears as a ^ubsiiiuie sent by Basilo, Rosina'a 
singing teacher, who, he reports, is seriously ill. Of course 
the count maUes E:ood use of hi* hour to adv^nce his tint, 
which is suddenly interrupted by the appearance of Basilo 
himself. But Figaro bribes him lo retreat and Rosina agrees 
to elope that night- Many humourous difTicultte^ present them- 
selves but finally the lovers flec and are married before Bartolo 
and his friends appear. 

In his last opera, "Gxiillaume Tell,*^ is shown a broader 
and more tnily musical style. This, the last of Rossim*a 
Operas, is his most perfect work judged from a dramatic a* 
well as ft musical standpoint. The text is founded on the 
well-known story of Tell, the hrro who freed his Fa(h<-rland 
from one of its most cniel despots. 

The first act opens wilh a chorus of peasants who arc 
c^lchralirg a marriage feast Tell enters and cannot refrain, 
even amid so much mirth, from Bpe^kin^ of the tyranny and 
oppression which hangs over them all Arnold, son of a Swiss 
soldier. Is present and noiwiihstanding liis love for Mathilda, 
Princess of Hapsburg, whom he once saved from drowning, 
promises to stand by his own countrymen and to join Tel! 
in an effort to liberate Switzerland from Austrian tyTanny, 
A little later, Leuthold, a Swiss peasant approaches: he is a 
fugitive, having killed an Austrian officer who attempted ilie 
abduction of his dau^ter. His only safety lies in quickly 



3^ 



Tas woni.ns pRocntss. 



cros^ng tlie lalce, but a storm h on the apprc^ach and none of 
the fishermen will venture oiiL Tell offer* hi* aid and, scia- 
mg the oars, Tow^ LettthoM safely across. He has been gone 
but a few momcjits when Rudolf von Hairas rushes on the 
scene with his soldiers, only lo find his prey has escaped No- 
body beinjT willing to betray the nani« of the deliverer. Ar- 
nold's father is sdzed and imprisoned, with the hope that the 
iruih may be forced from him. 

%[eaTiwli[le Arnold has again met the Princess Malhiliki, Haii 
she is returning from a hunt, and declares his love to hcr- 
Just then Tell enters with Walter Ftirst and infonns Amold ol 
his father's captivity. At once roused from his lovedrcaras, 
Amold vows to foi^ his own desires till he has freed Switz- 
erland from such tyranny. The three men pledge rc\'enj^ by 
the famous oath taken on tlic RuUI. With the war cry "To 
arms!" ringing to the sky, Ihey depart on ihdr bloody mis- 
sion. 

In the bst act Ccssler has caused hLS hat to be placed on 
a pole in the market-place of Altdorf, to be greeted by the 
Swiss as if it were himself in person. None dare to disobey 
Ihis distasteful order until TcU passes by with his son and 
refuses to salute the hat Gcaslcr witnesses this act of de- 
fiance and by way of punishment orders him lo shoot an apple 
off hia little son's head. Tell is forced to submit, despite his 
terrible fear that he may miss the mark and kill the boy; cart* 
fully selecting two arrows, he hits the center of ihe apple with 
the first. Gessler then compels him to tell why he has thus 
provided a second arrow and Tell confesses that with It he 
would have shot the tyrant, had he missed his aim. Upon 
this he is seized by die guards in spite of the entreaties of the 
Princess Mathilda, who has witnessed the pross Injustice. 
But Gessler'fl time has come. At this last insult llie Swi^ 
Join in revolt, the fortresses of Austria fall and Mathilda 
herself beg5 to he admitted into the alliance of free citizens* 
Tell kills Gessler in his strugg'lc and in a majestic chorus the 
Swiss announce the day of liberty. 

Quite unaccountably, after the tremendous success whkh 
met this opera Rossini suddenly left the dramadc fidd of 
music; perhaps he realized that he had reached the height of 
his musical powers and that any further attempt would but 




HXSTOaV OP MUSIC. 



335 



decrease his fame. His siylc was adopted by a brilliant 
group of compcse^^, none of whom equ.i)lcfl htm in the in- 
vention of nidody and, although the/ were tmmersely popu- 
lar at the time, few of their oprras arc known today. The 
most accomplished cf the group were Doiiizctli aiid Bdlini, 
who were nearly as giited as ihcir master and whose bewitch- 
ing melodies are still enjoyed when iheir Iwanty is displayed 
by such artists as Sembrich and Cini?to. Verdi (iSiviOO^) 
is sometimes classed with this group of composers, but al- 
though his early operas mishl easily have been the produc- 
(Sons of Domzefti or Bellini, his later works mark the be* 
ginningf of a more modern style and proves him a gfrcater 
genius than any of the so-called "Rossini School' of Italian 
musicians. 

Giuseppe Verdi was bom in a little Italian hamlet on 
Offober 10. 1813, the same year in which s still greater 
gen iufr— Richard Wagner— came into the world, Eviiidng a 
love for music when very young, Verdi was allowed to fol- 
low the bent of liis genius^ He received lessons on the organ 
and in counterpoint and when nineteen was prepared to ably 
fill any position as or^nist. The following story related by 
Elson tells of his early skill and independence: 

"It happened that in the competition for an organist's post, 
none of the twenty-eight aspirants was able to write a correct 
fugue on llie subject given by Basily, When he complained 
to Lavigna.' the Tatter waged that Verdi could do it. The 
yoitng student, who was sitting near by, at once took pen and 
paper and soon finished the composition. Basity read the pro- 
duction with asioniphmert, and wa* forcetl to compliment 
Verdi on his skill. 'But how is it ihat you have written a 
double canon on my subject?* queried the master. "Beciiuse 
I fotird it rather poor, and wished to embellish iV was Verdi's 
instant reply." 

Although his early operas have been relegated to the ob- 
scurity which they desen*c. his later works ?ivc evidence of 
a superior intellect and true artistic feehng. He was a man of 
broad interests, an intense patriot and during his lifetime hdd 
several diplomatic positions. In all, be wrote twenty-seven 

■L^vigcii wu V«rdi*» Tetdi«/, 



336 



THE world's progress. 



QpemSt but no more than six of IhcfC tre performed today. 
He is perhaps bc5i known as the composer of "11 Trovatorc," 
although the merits of tliis opera by no meana justify its pop- 
ularity. 

The plot of "II Trov^iore" is very confused and trivial; 
indeed, it has beexi called by one able critic ^'njclixirama run 
mad'* Its $ucee&s \s due to its catchy and very efTective mel- 
odies ^hich appeal stnmgly to tlie g^Titler part of opera-at- 
tending audiences. "The music is often distrcsiingly simple 
and tawdry, but in &pitc of that <iuj)]ity it poasesses such direct 
melodic and dramatic force thai tlie opera deserve* far more 
praise than the crilic* are wiHini- lo accord to a work of the 
purely tuneful order thnt tnsi^ire^ our street orj^ans. Despite 
it* weak plot, it has the strength of a mtuical setting excel- 
lent in design and workmanship, though written as if in words 
of one syllable to plea&e a public that wa^ wholly childlike in 
its emoltons." 

Two men seek the hanti of l.ei>nure. Countess of Sergaste, 
one a miii3Erel by (he name of Manrico, and the other Count 
Luna. Azuccna, a gipsy, is supposed to be the mother of Man- 
rico and she vows revenge on Count l-una because his father 
has caused her mother to be burned as a witch, Azuccna has 
stolen one of his children for revenge, named him Manrico 
and brought him up as her own son. After exciting incidents, 
Manrico and Azucena are imprisoned by the wicked Countr 
who threatens to kill them unless Leonore will pToniise lo 
marry him. She is sent to tell Manrico, but he declines to 
accq>l liberty at such a price, and Js cousequcnlly executed trt 
Ihc [ircsaicc of Azncena, Rather than keep llic promise which 
she had made only to save her lover's life, l„eonore takes 
poison. The gipsy then tells the Count that Manrico was 
not her son, but his own brother, and, filled with rage at the 
error she has allowed him to commit, the Count orders bcr 
to be bunied at the stake. 

The "Anvil Chorus" the "Miserere" and music of the 
famous prison scene contain some of the magnificent melodies 
in which this opera abound, Uit unfortunately they are tjifown 
together with little judgment or regard to the effect of the 
opera as a whole. 



Mi 



BTSTORV OF UUSrC 



327 



In a later opera, "Aida/* Verdi <it&f)lays a power and 
<lipiity mcit asionishinjj when we take into consideratioii the 
lri\'iality of His earlier work. It is a ma&tcrpicct' of dramatic 
force, and most ably leftects Uie magic beauty of the Nile 
country. "Aida" wa* wrilleti as r result of a conitnisiion 
from ihc Khedive of Epypt. in !86g» to write a national opera 
for the celebration attendant upon opcninfi: the Suez CanaL 
The etTect of this work wa* lo bririj; to Verdi the rccoffniiion 
of the highest niu^ic^l circles of Enrope- 

Thf «rene of die opera is laid in ancient rg>pt» and Jta 
high1y*ccilGtrd and sonirwhat sensuous melodies art* <^uitc in 
keeping with Easteiii mystieiam and romance Aida is die 
daughter of the Ethiopian king and is living as a hostage at 
Ihe Egfyptian court. There Rhadanies, a younf; w^Lrrior, falls 
in love with her, not knowing thai Khe h the daughter of a 
king. In the ensmn^ war wJih the Ethioi>i3nt, Rhadames 
covers hinwclf with glory ami returns with a host of prisoncrSj 
among whom is Aida's father Amonasro. The king cele- 
brates the overwhelming victory by freeing all but Araonasro 
and rewards the unwilling Rhadames with the hand of Pria- 
cesft Amncris. 

When Alda's father leanis of her attachment with his con- 
queror, he persuades her to mflnt-nce him lo join thfir i';ni-He 
and leave his native hnd. Rtit the plot is overheard by the 
jealous Amficris, who betrays Uhadames to the government. 
He is thereupon tried and found guilty, but is offered pardon 
if he will renounce Atda and many Ainneris. This he refuses 
to do, so is sentenced to the horrible de;ith of being buried 
alive in a vault. There Atda conceals herself and the faithful 
lover* die in each other's arms. 

Two other oj)era5 written in this later period justify the 
high position which Verdi holdft in the Italian opera-world ; 
"Othello" and "Falstaff" are both bawd upon Shakespearean 
stone* and characters. Opera repertoire C(^niaint no more 
original and vivacious comedy than "FaUtaflf/' which was 
written in the composer's eightieth year- 
Some critics have accused Verdi of iinitating Wagner's 
style, but this indicates either a shallow perception or the in- 
ability to recogniie nationctl characteristics when they are mo«t 
apparent, Verdi is a^ tliorougfily Italian in his style as Wag- 



Eiiril 



3=8 



rut woKLii 3 ritoGKtas. 



tier is Ocniian in bts, aitd lie %-cII clr^crvcs ibc nunc fw has 
won as a creator of most ravishiuij melody. 

Within the past few years a new schoo! of opera has ap- 
peared in Italy, which may be calletl a counterpart of the 
naturalistic schoci in the *pc^ken drama. In the productions of 
this ^loup of wrik'is, not nnly is Tc;i! life depictc<l in detail 
Iml the phy»jca[ side of human nature may be ^aid to be o\-rr- 
cmplinsi^ed and instinctive pa55ion9 displayed m all their na- 
tive cnidiiv, Considerable talent lias been expended upon 
these operas but they contain HlUe noble sentiment to redeem 
them. The music is sometimes rich and effective, but it is 
more often sensational to a fault and at time* even blatant. 

"CavaHeria Ru»tii:ana'* was the first of thefre realisttc 
apttSiS and took the whole continent of Europe bv storm. 
Pieiro Masca^m. its composer, has since wnttcn several op- 
eras, none of wliich has been wcH received. ITie story of 
"Cavalleria Rwsticana," presented in one aet, is briefly ihb: 

Tutrfdu, a Sicilian peasant, has loved Lola and been ac* 
ccplcdp but after an absence paMcd in military service he re- 
turns to find her married to the wealthy Alfio, He tries to 
console himself with SnntuKxa. a peasant girl, and promisca 
to marry her. I<o[a, howijvcr, alihou|tb happily wedded, will 
not have her former lover profess devotion to another, and re- 
news lier friendship with him. receiving him often in her hus- 
band's aljsence. 

This excites Santu^^a'a jealousy and she pours out her 
grief to Turridu's mother, who tries in vain to comfort her. 
In a stormy interview with Turridu she entreats him not to 
forsake her but he angjily flings her from hira. Now des- 
perate wth love and jealousy. Santuzza tells Alfio of his wife's 
falj^ericss and lie imTncdialety challenges the falv lover to Ji 
ducL Turridn, repenting too late of his folly and his treach- 
ery to SantUffa. accepts the challeni^e and is killed in the en- 
counter. Peasants nish in to announce his death, whereupon 
Santu;?aa falls lifeless and the curtain falls upon the double 
tragedy. 

The success of this oppnt ha* been due to the vivid actkm 
and intensity of passion, rsthrr than to its musical worth. "In 
the opera are these elements: simple means employed by sim- 
ple characters shake and harrow the spectators; dramatic 



HISTPORY OT MU5tC. 



3«) 



touches arc blows in their <iircctiicss; the occasional absence 
of judicious arl is forgotten in ihc exhibJli^ir of fierce Iruili. 
In his haste to icll bin story Mafiaipi) \iaA no time to construct 
Ihejnes of baljiiiccd length- Phrases arc sliort and intcm&e: 
rhythm frets; dissonances rage ^nd scream. There is feverish 
unrest from beginning: to end ; but the fever i» the fever of a 
sturdy, hotbloodcd youth, and not the artificial flr»h of a 
jadrd maker of mu§ic/' 

Other prominent writers of this school are Tasca, SpincUi 
and Puccini, The latter is the best kno\^^l of the group and 
his operas have met with remarkable success, ]t is always dif- 
ficult to judge the lasting worth of our contem|)orafies, and it 
is still a question whether Puccini's operas wtl! stand tlie lest 
cf lime. Although hts '*Mai!arK" Butterfly" is exceedingly 
popular, none of the present-day Itah'an operas is more oftrn 
presented than is "La Tosca/" written a few years earlier. 

"La Tosca" was first produced at Covent Garden, London, 
in 1900, Although the text is not one particularly adapted 
to operatic treatment, yet it is most cleverly orchestrated 
and tfie nmsic i* strong and original in style. Tlw scene is 
laid in RoriiCi the first act opening in the interior of the 
Church of Sarla Andrea: time, the year i8oa Angclotti, a 
Roman consul who has been unjustly impnsoncd, is aided by 
his sister to make his escape and appears in ihe church, still 
in prison garb, to find the key she has hidden for him. This 
he ^luh hiTi jtisi as he is Waring he hears approaching foot- 
step?i and conceals himself. The intruder proves to be Cavara- 
dossi, an artist and old friend of nAngclotti's, wlio has come to 
the church to paint a portrait of tbe Madonna- The fugitive 
make* himself known and CavaradossJ promises to help him 
m his escape: just then they are interrupted by Tosca. a noted 
Mnger who is madly in love with the artist. She has heard 
him in convcrsatiim wiih nomt. one and at once becomes sus- 
picious of hi* fidelity. After much pcrsuasioTi, she is finally 
indtice<I to withdraw, without seeing the visitor. Cavaradossi 
then takes his friend to his own villa, just as the booming of 
the priiton cannon is heard, proclafmtrg the escape of an in- 
mate. As they hurry out of the churchy Scarpia. chief of pc^ 
IJce, enters l>y another door in search of Angclotii; failing in 
this effort, the wtly Scarpia makes Tosca believe that her lover 



330 THE world's progress. 

has been in secret meeting with another woman, showing her 
a fan dropped by Angelotti's sister, as proof. 

The second act takes place in the apartments of Scatpia. 
Cavaradossi has been seized in his villa and is summoned to 
disclose the hiding place of the prisoner, but this he refuses 
to do. Scarpia then orders Tosca to be brought before him, 
hoping to torture the artist by gaining her favor; to his 
amazement, however, Tosca throws herself into her lover's 
arms, rejoiced to find him unharmed. Thoroughly enraged 
and jealous, Scarpia then orders Cavaradossi to the torture 
chamber; at last distracted by her lover's groans of pain, 
Tosca agrees to reveal the hiding place of Angellotti, So 
Cavaradossi is again brought in, this time unconscious, and 
Scarpia fiendishly orders him to be executed unless Tosca 
will grant him her favor. After vain entreaty she consents, 
after he shall have signed a passport for the artist to leave 
the country. While he is doing so, Tosca steals up behind 
and stabs him. 

The last act shows Cavardossi in the Castle Santa Angelo, 
awaiting his sentence, Tosca rushes in with the passport and, 
not knowing that the soldiers have already Iwen ordered to 
shoot the prisoner, tells him that they will only pretend to 
shootj and that he must fall as if dead, after whidi she will 
take him secretly away in her carriage. After a volley of 
shots from the soldiers, Cavaradossi falls, but when Tosca 
hurries to his side, she finds that he has in truth been killed. 
Crazed by her grief, she leaps to the parapet of the terrace 
and throws herself into space, before the horror-stricken 
soldiers. 

"Madame Butterfly" was first produced in Milan in 1904 
and was brought to this country two years later. The story 
is based upon a drama of the same name by David Belasco 
and is one of pathetic tragedy throughout. 

The first act opens in Nagasaki, Japan, and discloses Lieut 
Pinkerton, a United States Naval oflicer. inspecting the house 
to which he is going to take his bride, Cho-Cho-San, who is 
called Madame Butterfly on account of her light-hearted, 
dainty ways. The American Consul is with him and earnestly 
seeks to dissuade him from entering upon this marriage to 
one whose traditions and ideals are so different than his own. 



niSTORT OF MUSIC. 



331 



but his entreaties art in vain. During the discussioa the 
brkle arrives with friends and tclU PinTtcrion that she has 
renounced her faith that she iiiay share In:* ri-lii:io:i and com- 
mtt herself JihAolulely li> his care. The niarri^Lge roiitract 
is signcdn but when the wedding feast begins Madame But- 
terfly's uncle, a pric&t. arrives and curses her for renouncing 
her religion. Exasperated by such intrusion, Pinkcrton turns 
him 2nd the oiher Japanese relatives out of the houae, and is 
left alone with his bride. 

Three years elapse and the second act sl^ows Madame 
Butterfly awaiting her husband's rehim from an ofTlcial ab- 
sence to America, Meanwhile Pinkcrton, never having taken 
his Japanese alliance seriously, marries an American wife and 
informs the Consul that he is about to bring her to Nagasaki. 
A wcaltliy Japanese is in love with Madame Butterfly and 
enireai* her to no longer wait for the faithless husband but 
she will not Usten to his pleadings. 

Tile Consul undertakes tlie difficult task of informing: her 
of her husband's intended ictum, but cannot make her crrasp 
tile situation. When he ines to explain that her hus^band now 
cares for another, her only reply is 10 bring him their baby 
txty. Falling utterly in his mission, the Consul departs just 
as the guns announce the arrival of Pinkerlon's ship in the 
harbor. Madame Butterfly is in a transport of joy; with her 
maid's help she decorates the house for his reception and then 
wait« for his approach. The maid and the baby fall asleep 
but the little Japanese wife never ceas«s her vigit 

The third act opens on ihr same acetic. The long-looked 
for arrival takes place and Pinkcrtnn enters with liis American 
bride: he discovers Madame BLitterfly and seems dazed when 
he takes in the full tragedy of the situatioa Unable to face 
the crisis he rushes away, leaving ihe Consul to explain. He 
appeals to the maid to make Madame Butterfly realize the cir- 
cumstances and urge her to leave the bahy to be brought iip 
a^ an American child. With tlie outward c^lm characteristic 
of her race and with rare nobility, little Madame Butterfly 
wishes her rival much hrppiness and s^Gmh word to her faith- 
less husband that she, too, will sc}on find peace. She realizes 
only that she is standing in the way of the hnppiness of one *he 
dcarlv loves and rather than this should continue, ?sl;e kills 



33^ ^HE WORU)*S PROGRESS. 

herself with her father's dagger. The tragedy closes when 
FinkertOD and the Consul come upon her lifeless body. 

The music of this opera is Oriental throughout and is tn 
perfect keeping with the movements of the sad story, showing 
passages of graceful brilliancy as well as deepest pathos. 

Although once the leader of musical progress, Italy now 
shows no such promise of future greatness as France, Italian 
music at present means merely opera music and the vigorous 
instrumental advancement in which lies the hope of French 
music today finds no parallel in Italy. Italian composers in 
recent times have been numerous, yet few of them have made 
any particular impression outside their own country. 



HTSrOBY or MUSIC 



33J 



CHAPTER IX. 
FRENXH OPERA. 

Opcm was not introduced into France until the mtddTe of 
the scwntecnth ctntury and was, from the first, quite inde- 
pendent of Italian influences. Great importance was ^ven to 
the chorus and ballot, and in (he endeavor to perfect dramatic 
action 8nd scenic effects, musical shortcomtnins were entirely 
overlooked. The French arc always fond of witty dialogue, 
and this Ihey interspersed freely throughout their operas: 
they gave great importance to the so-called "dry" recitative, 
a monotonous and unmusical form of speech- Often an opera 
was bul a scries of chonises and ballets, loosely joined together 
by endless recitative. In comparison to the polished and 
brilliant execution of the Italians, the inferior singing and 
ever-present ballets of the French must have presented a 
strange contrast- The Italians overestimated the imporlanct 
of the musical side of drama, wbile the French laid their 
cntphasis on the side of plot and action. Each had glaring 
defects and each was positive of its own superiority. Later 
we find these two Influences acting and redacting upon one 
another^ making possible the work of the nineteenth century, 

Goldoni has given an amusing account of early French 
opera which has been translated from his aulobiography ; "I 
kept waiting for the airs, the music of which. I thought, would 
have least amused me; when, l>ehold! out comes the ballet 
agsin, and concludes the act, I. thinking that the whole act 
had been without a single air, turn to my neighbour for ex* 
planation on that poinL He begins lo laugh, and assure* nw 
that the act I have heard contained no less than six airs. 
'How? I am not deaf/ It turns out that I had tikcn all the 
airs for an endlees recit&tive. A minute later out came the 
three actors, all sin^ng together; this was meant for a trio, 
Init again I mistook it for a recitative. In short, all was 
beautiful, grand, magnificent, excepting the music When 



3M 



Ttta WOStm'S PROCRSSCL 



the ctiftain had fallen, all my acctoaiaunces asktd mc how 1 
had liked the opera. The answer bursis oui of my lips. "TU 
;i paradise for l!it eyes, but :i hdl for ihe ears-' " 

The works of Jean BapliMe de Lully rcprcsail Ihe be5t in 
French opent. Althou|:h a native Italian, he is clashed T^-ith 
ihc French school ; he did not, like h:s cQurtrymcn. permit the 
mufical side of his dnmas to overbaJanct all other eletnenti. 
A* a boy his experiences were varied; when thirteen year* old 
he was retained ^^ a helper in ihc Royal kilclien in Paris, Inil 
he attracted attention hy his untisual skiU as a dancer and 
violin player and was ^adually advanced tmtil he reached 
the position of coinposcr and music-master to the French 
king. The greatest service he performed wa& in his treatment 
of the overture; his melodies are pleasing but his operas 
reflect the formal tone of all French muse of the seventeenth 
century. 

The period from 1750 to 1780 is very important in the 
hifitory of the opem. The rise of opera-comique and the 
reforms of Cluck set loose the influences that paved the way 
for o;ir modem drama We have sttn ihal llic Italian grand 
Opera was characterized by vocal display, which sacrifiCifid 
flctton and text; ihat the tendency of French opera was just 
the opposite — ^ving great place to dramatic effect and woe- 
fully laclcing on the musical side. Operatic ht*tory ever since 
has centered about the conflict of the*e two tendencics- 

Thc French opcra-comiquc is very simitar in origin to the 
Italian opera buffa, and grew out of the vaudeville, the favor- 
ite enlcrlainmcnt of the lower classes. As early as 1714 
it was ihc custom for holiday-makers to gather in the maricet 
places and watch the performance of burlestjues— often coarse 
in character, but always uproariously a^jplauded- Ttiese rude 
farces were plentifully intcrsper^d with popular songs, in 
which the audience joined with great gusto. When songs in 
direct connection with the plot of the farce were introduced 
we have the beginning of comic opera, ft was the invariable 
result of tlie growinct demand for naiuralnes* and spontaneity 
in dramaiic rcprcsciuaiiou. At the presciit time *'opcFa- 
eomi<iue*' means any n])cra that has l»en bought out at the 
Theatre dc rCTpcra-comiquc, in Paris, and does not imply the 
comic element. Thus the tenn is oflen applied to tragedies, 
»iich as Biiet'* "Carmen" and Puccini's "Madanw Butterfly/' 



The invasion of an Italian buffa company in Paris in the 
year 1752 did much to destroy the structure of French i^rand 
open and direct more aiicniion toward the opcracomiqut 
Many were weary of artificiality and turned ca^rly to Italian 
muaic. The success ol the bufEa troupe called forth heated 
criticism on the part of I'rench cuinposeri and two stronjf 
factions arose, wiih supporters among all classes. One party 
wa» in favor of adopting Tialiar opem ;ind the other violently 
opposed it ; even the king and qticen took pan in (he (.Usai»<ion 
^-011 Gpp(jsite side,*- The result of this co:itetitioii was most 
wholesome; it roused the people from the ap^lhy into which 
they ha<i fallen* and paved the way for an opera in which 
music and drama should not be opposed to one another, but 
in which they could be blended into a com]x>silc whole. A 
composer then appearetl who tlarcd to up^et the cherished 
traditions — one who marks the dividing line between the old 
and modem school of opera. 

Oiri^tcph W'ilibald Gluck waft liom in Bavaria in the ^^ear 
1714. His p;irrnts were poor, and at the age of twelve he 
was sent to a Jesuit ichoo!, where for six years he studied 
singing, violin, or^n and the classics. After this he devoted 
himself e;cditsive]y to his musical work, stkidyiug and pUying 
at Prague. For many years he had no idea of writing any 
but grand operas; his early works, writtai in the conventional 
Italian style, met with such 3i:cces5 that he was called to 
London. Here he produced two operas that proved to be 
utter failures, and Gluck beiook himself and his wounded 
pride to Paris. 

By ij6o he had become convinced that the form of grand 
opera wa^ shallow, and even yh^jnl ; he pti&sessed a itrimg 
dnmatic inscmctp was a devoted student of Greek poetry, and 
desireil to create opeias that should be in accordance with the 
Athenian tragedies. Nolhittg worth ineniioning came from 
his pen until 1762, when his great reform opera. "Orpheus 
and Eurydice," appeared. This drama is divided into three 
acta. 

The curtain rises upon a scene showing a grassy valley 
iritfi the tomb of Kurydtcc in the foreground. A chonis of 
mourners is interrupted by a cry of grief from Orpheus, hus- 



band of iht dead Eurydice. who vows he will foUow htr lo 
the underworld The god Arior appears aiul lelti him of the 
pcrHous condilions inipo&ed oii aEi>- niorLal who would aUcmpt 
to bring: ^ shade hack from Hadu; but Orpheus dcicrmines 
to accomplish his purpose. 

Ace 11 takes plact in Hade«» opening will) a chonit of the 
Purieft, in which the harking of tlie dog Cerbenjs i& often 
heard. In thr mid?^t of ^11 thi« nproar Oq>hcu:« cniers and 
by mcsns of heart-rending strains on his lyre makes an inipas* 
sioned appeal for mercy* At last, moved by the beauty o£ the 
song, the Furies allow him to pass beyond into the Elysian 
Fields. By command of the gods, Orpheus may not look 
upon his dq>3ned love, si> he trie* lo find her by instinct. 
Compassionate spirits become interested and place licr hand 
in his. 

In the last act Orpheus is discovered leading Enrydice, 
who is transported with joy; finally she notices that he holds 
his face aloof and will not gaze upon her. For this she 
rejiroachcs him and at last, ovcqujwered by her ciitTeatiesi, 
Orpheus tuij^ and. as he lookit upon her, iihe falU dead. 
Then follows the exquisite melody, "What shall 1 do without 
Eurydice?" In the midat of hh hopeless grief, Amor returns 
and restores Eurydice to her f^iiihful lo^er, 

Gluck found great difficiihy with hi* singers, for in his 
endeavor U> assign music to its proper place he went to the 
other extreme and did not give the vocalists enough oppor- 
tunity. In his later operas. "Alccsiis/' produced in 1767, 
"Iphigenia in Aulis" and ''Iphigcnia !n TaiinV — the latter 
written to show his superiority over a rival composer — he 
displayed greater skill in depicting dramatic scenes, l^ie 
principles which Gluck tried to lay down may be stated briefly 
as follows: He desired to do away with the artificiality that 
had grown up ir the opera, and compel actors to sing the 
notes as they were written by the composer: he thought the 
overture ought to indicate the general diaracter of the opera; 
that the orchestra should be used an a means of expression* 
not merely an accompaniment; and that there should be no 
disparity belween the aria and the reciiaLivc. In short, his- 
whole aim tended toward simplicity, and he introduced and 
made permanent principles of dramatic simplicity and unity. 



H15roitY OF UUSIC. 



357 



Gluck wan not imr of tlK* ^reat iricUxiists, 2tul hi» opetaa 
trc selclum heard loclay; but ll»c prindpkit which lie estab- 
lished have ncrvcr been iaid aside. Hts was a fnvolouit a^, 
and hi* rcJorms required ihc expenditure of & moral strens:ih 
thst commsMcIf; the higbctt rtfpee: and admiraiion. 

After ihc iriunnjha] elose cf what inight \k icrmrd the 
Gludc fcfomi Lampaign, Pans bcciimc the oiwratic center of 
all Europe The reputation of no <lrajiiattc coinposci' was 
regarded as established until I^aris had favorably received 
his productions. It is somewhat difficult to classify French 
operas of the nineteenth century* for ihecreiically there are 
but two general classes — grand opera am! oi*era-comique- 
TIic stH-i>nd dsss is (he c.iu^e of po>^ililr confiisinn In the 
tninds of music amateurs, for gndu;tlly the fcnn of comic 
opera expanded and developed until it took in elements ether 
than those of comedy and combined those of tragedy as well- 
It is impossible to tell from the text or treatment of many 
Frmch operas to which of the two cla»es they belong, there 
bcmg no distinctive difTcrcnct helwecn them; their dasslfica* 
lion depend? solely upon >Ahcthcr they were lirst produced at 
the Academic de Musique or the Opera-coniique. 

Another confusing element h the f:ict ibat the (jreater 
share of tlie oiwrat cf the French ^hool were written by 
foreign Tntmci'inK. Atnong thci>« who h^d mticli to do with 
the development of French oi^era are Chcrubini ;tn(] Sponljni, 
Italians, and Meyerbeer and Offenbach, Ccrman*. W'c can 
only bear in mind the fact that an opera belongs to the national 
school of that language in which it is written. However, th« 
peculiar dtamaiic sense of the Frtnch people, together with 
French spirit and taste, se^iarated the whole treatment of their 
Opera from that of the Italians. 

The first locontiibute hugely to the modem French school 
was Luigi Cherubini (17601842), His musical talent dis- 
played ilAclf at an early age, and when but sixteen he had 
already composed many works for the stage. It was not 
until 1780 that his first opera appeared, and from that time 
on for fourteen years he was busily en^a^ed in operatic com- 
position. He did much for the development of French opera, 
was made a Chevalier of the Legion of Honor by Napoleon, 
vkl in 1822 became director of the Paris Ccn&ervatolre. None 



S38 



tBt WOSIjrS PROGRKSS. 



of his Operas ^re presented loday wtih the exception of "LtB 
deux jounj^s/' known in England atid America as "The Water 
Carrier.*' This is the opera, ihc proJuclion of whidi, in 
Beethoven's opinion, placed Chciubini at the head of al! his 
contemporaries. 

It ifi deaigrutcd by some writers as ^ gfrand opera, but from 
its general i'h;*racier it is more correctly opera'COitutjue. It 
was first prcjduretl in Paris, iSoo. Tiic finil act oprris at the 
house of Michclc. a water carrier of Paris: his son Antonio» 
is about to wed Angelinc, a peasant girl living at Genessc. 
Michelc is interested in a Court Armand, who is bcit^ perac- 
cated by Cardinal Mazariti; so fearful is he thai the Count 
may e?icapi: ihat he has the city gates cun^tanlly watched, artd 
no one may leave without a f>ass. Since Michcle lias passes 
for hi& son and daughter, he devises 2. plan by which Count 
Armand and his wife can escape from the city. After nnicb 
persuasion, his daughter in induced to give up going to her 
brother's wedding; so in her disguise, t!ie Count's wife is able 
tn pass through the gates, under Alltt^ni<l'^ protection. Il is 
more difftcult to effect a means of escape for the Count, but 
this is done by conccahng him in a water barrel. Arrived 
safely outside, he hides in a hollow tree, il being arranfiied 
that when all is clear bis wife shal! clap her hands ajB a slgnaL 
She does so, but soldiers are concealed among the roclcs uiid at 
once seize her. whereupon ConiTt Armand rushes forth and 
covers them with his pistol. lie is obliged to give himself up, 
however and just as tlic soldiers arc about to take him away, 
Michele comes bearing the news that the persecution has 
ceased and that the Count's liberty is restored to him. 

The opera is characterized by a simplicity that is at once 
dignified and dramatically forceful. Its beautiful overture 
is frequently heard as a concert number* and the dramatic 
ensemble for -^nonio, Coaianza anti llie soldiers at the be- 
ginning of the second act is a masterpiece of dramatic writing, 
it is to be regretted that ihis charming opera i^ not more often 
given. 

Tlie history of French grand opera readie.>i its height in 
Giacomo Meyerl»ccr (1791-1864). He was a German Jew 
and was born in Bcrha Tor a time he studied in Munich. 
later went to Italy, where he becante a great admirer and 



HISTORY or utrsic 



W9 



imitator of Rossini; went to Paris in 1826 and there dropped 
the style he had afTcctcd and became the originator of one 
purely his owu. He is perhaps beet known by his operas "Lcs 
Hugnenots." "Robert le DiabJc" and "LAiricainc" 

"Few composers have been so much culogiied and so ninch 
reviled ai Mryeilw^r. Tlur opinion of Wagner and Sdiu- 
mann. who denounced htm as an unmitigated diarlatan and 
trickstcn may be set off against the view of his French ad- 
mirers, many of Ibein able critics, wtio pronounce hnn one of 
the greatest of mnsico-dramauc geniuses. The truth doubt- 
Its* lies between ihe*ie two esiiuiaiesL, While in slieer nmskal 
imagination and science he c^nnut be called one of the grciitcit 
of musician5, yet he was not lacking in ideas, and was deficient 
in sustained development rather tlian in thematic invention. 
Hi* ingenuity and command in the nutter of orchestral com- 
bination for dramatic purposes h unciuestioned, He had 
many great inspiiation^, and there are p^gcs in his works 
that will always rank among the most powerful in opera his- 
toiy. . . « No operatic composer was ever more uncveo, 
and this is due not only to a lack of spontaneity in creation 
but still more to his intense desire to make *eflecr at every 
point* no matter at what los^ of musical unity. A work of 
fiis is. therefore, as Mrs. Julian Marshall says, a cnnamumatc 
piece of mosaic rather than an organic stmclure.*'' 

Yet Meyerbeer intrtjduced many lejritimate inno^'ation5. 
his range of expression was wide and he permanently in- 
fluenced not only French opera, but German and ttalian as 
well- His greatest work is coT»ceded by all critics to be 'Tjcs 
Kugucnots," which seems destined to hold its place among 
the best of musical dramas. 

This is a grand opera in five acts, first produced at th€ 
Academic dc Mu^icjue, February SQ, 1836. The action of 
the play passes in the latf pari of the sixteenth century, tim 
in Touraine and later in Paris: this, it will be remembered, 
y/t^ durinf; tlie time of the bloody persecutions of the Huguc- 
nols, as the French Protestants were called. The Duke of 
Medids haft to all appeannces made peace with Admiral 
Coligny, leader of the Huguenots, and we are at once intro* 
dtved to the caslle of Count Ncverj, Here are gathered 



■JDkfeiDsoit** HItiory of Miuic, pa«« 801 



340 THE WOBUS'S PROGRESS. 

many Catholic noblemen and with them is the Protestant 
Raoul de Nangis, lately promoted to the rank of captain. 
During the banquet they talk of love and each guest is asked 
to give the name of his sweetheart Raoul then tells them 
how once^ when vpaJking, he came upon a group of students 
molesting a lady riding in a litter. He rescued her and found 
her to be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Although 
he does not know her name his heart bums for her. At this 
point a lady is announced to Count Rivers and Raoul at once 
recognizes in her the lady of his dreams. She has come to 
ask Nevers to release her from her engagement to him, which 
he does with great reluctance. Returning to the table he 
gives no explanation, and Raoul at once suspects her of being 
Never's mistress. Presently a page enters with an invitation 
for Raoulj and the others, recognizing the seal of Queen 
Margarita of Valois. at once try to seek his friendship. 

Next we find Raoul at the court of the beautiful Queen, 
who is expending the utmost energy to reconcile the Catholics 
with the Protestants. To help toward this end she has dc- 
cided to unite Raoul with her lady-of-honor, Valentine^ 
daughter of Count of St, Bris and a staunch Catholic. Valen- 
tine has told her that it was Raoul who rescued her from the 
rude students and that she loves him. Raoul is ready to com- 
ply with the Queen's wish, but when Valentine is brought in 
and he sees in her the one whom he thinks so unworthy of 
honest love, he takes back his promise. All are amazed and 
the girl's father vows bloody revenge. 

In the third act Marcel, Raoul's servant, brings a challenge 
to St. Bris, but meanwhile the latter has been informed of 
another means of making way with his foe; he, however, 
accepts the chailcTige. His daughter, although mortally 
offended at Raoul, still loves him and resolves to save his life. 
Seeing Marcel, she bids him tell his master not to come to the 
duel alone. Meanwhile Raoul has gone to meet his enemy, 
who appears with four comrades; while they are fighting, a 
disturbance between Catholic and Protestant citizens arises, 
which is stopped by Queen Margarita. Valentine is brought 
in to bear witness in the impromptu trial and then Raoul 
hears what her errand to Nevers had really been. But this 
knowledge comes too late, for Valentine's father has promised 



HTSTORY OP MUSIC* 



34' 



Nevers that he shall wfid Ws daughter, and the latter Appears 
to cliim his bride. The prwwncc of the ^icen prevents an 
opm outbreak, liuE Rauiil drparls from [he scene miiTi deadly 
hate in his heart. 

In the next act, the dreadful nif^t of St. Bartholomevr i% 
fast appfx>aehin(;r< Valcntme is in her, room; Raoul enters to 
take a last farewell, but almo^ immediately St. Bris enters 
with a party of Catholic* and Raoul I* forced to hide in Ihe 
nex( rooni, Thtfnr he hrars a corispinicy for the terrible 
destruction of the Protestants. Nevcrs alone reftiscs to aid 
ir such murder, and fearinfi: he will cum traitor, the oUiera 
bind him tn the room. Jn spite oi Valentine's entreaty to 
stay with her, Ra<>u1 rushes; out to save his comrades from a 
bloody death. 

In the hiNt act he is found, pale and excited, in the coutt 
of Queen Margarita and her husbarw!, [fenry of Navarre. He 
tells them of the plot and urges that ihey help to prevent it; 
but it is loo late, for most of tlic Huguenots have already 
been tnasfiacred. Raoul once more meel^ Valcnline, who 
promises to save him if he will go over to her faitlu This he 
refuses to do and, it new being impossible for him to be saved, 
she resolves tu dSe with hinu She ;iceept« his creed and they 
die together at the hand of an assassin, 

CharW Gounod (181^1893) is the most widely known 
represeiitaiive of the modern French sdiool- "Lihe many 
other composers he has distinguished himself both as writer 
for tlic theauc .uid for the ihurciv the unii.in of the mystical 
and the sensuous in hii temperament producing that warm, 
seductive^ lanj:uishing and ecsMtic manner which is peculiar 
to him and is felt in both his religious and his secular music. 
There 19 a certain softness and effeminacy in this style which 
IE hardly in keeping witli the highest demands of dramatic 
music ccrtamly not with those of church music Gounod's 
immense popularity is due to his rcmarlcabic gift of voluptuous 
melody^ which completely cnptivates at the fir?;t hearing, and 
although it may cloy at last and never sounds the lowest 
depths of paS(»ion, at its be&t it is ftincere and forcible and 
bears tlie marks of genuine feeling/*" 

'Didcliuon'a Hiicory cf Mmk, |uge 351. 



P\2 



TIIC WORU>*S PROGRESS. 



Hi* masterpiece i» undoubtedly "Fausl," the stoiy of which 
is as foIlfJWA: Faant, .1 student ir Cermany. after living a life 
of close »tud/ and meditation, bccouLes consumed with a 
desire to unravel the my&leHcs of nature. To attain this 
result he calls upon the Evil Spirit, who apjH^ni in the form 
of Mcphi^lojjhelcs, By means of his uncArllily povrcr, 
MephJMoplieles restorer Faust to youth, wtlh ii5 illusions and 
passions, cmlowing him also with pcr^naJ beauty and rich 
altire. For this he receives Kanst's promise to ser\c him in 
the hereafter. Then by means of a vigion Mephistopheleft 
reveah to him Margaret^ the lovely village maiden^ with 
whom Faust imtnt^dulely falls deHpcraiely and violently in 
lovt His desire trj meet her ii*i gratifiwl. 

Now Margarel. noted iiliVc fur her puiily and lovdiness- 
has beer Icfl by her brother, Valenrinc, under the cire of 
Dame Martha during hi,s absence as a 3>o1dicr. Upon meeting 
Fau5t> Margaret at first rejects the advances of the stranger 
but the latter is aided by the demoniacal inBuencc of Meplits- 
tophclcs, who is bent upon destroying another human soul, and 
overcomes her resistance. 

Upon his return from the wars, Valentine leams that 
Faust has been the cause of Mar^ret's downfall, and chal- 
lenges him to a duel. Tlirougl* the help of Mephistopheles 
the sediicer wins in the encounter and Valentine is slain, 
Margaret, horror-stricken at tlie calamity of which she is 
the cause, gives way to unreasoning despair, and in 3 fit of 
frenzy kills her child. For thi* crime she is thrown into 
prison, Faust again implores the aid of Mephistophclcs who 
enables him lo enter her pri-son eel! and \xnh urge her to flee 
for liberty. Bui Margaret, in whom the horror of her an 
has given way to holier feelings, refuses lo go, Ant\ jjbcrs her 
reliance in repentance and prayer. At last, overcome with 
sorrow and remorse, the unliappy girl expires with a prayer 
on her hps- 

Mcphistophclcs triumphs over the double catastrophe he 
has ciujscd, but at this point a chorus of celestial vdcei is 
heard, proclaimmg pardon for the repentant sinner, while the 
Evil Spirit, completely foiled ard overcome, crouches suppli- 
antty as the accents of divine love and forgiveness are heard. 



.i*. 



BTOTDBV OF MUSXC- 



343 



the spirit of Marg;aret 14 wafted by angels to lis ti^avenly 

Tlic opera of "Fausl" \s considered by many crilics to be 
ihe most popular work on Ihc modem stage, and undoubtedly 
it contnjns Gourod's best music, it has been given more than 
a tiiousand limes in Paris alonr The love ecenea between 
Faust and Marfi:arct and the tragic prison episode show 
the composer's jwjwer of melofly and dramatic expression, but 
we r^niuil help but ferl tliiit the porlray;tl of F;iirtt {% litlle 
more than that of the tntditional stag^e lover and that he is a 
mere go-bctwccn in an amorous escapade- The German title 
of this opera — Morgucritc — seems rather more approprialc 
than ihe title by which it is generally known, for it is the 
dramatization of but a single episode in Goethe's powerful 
poem. 

The naiTic i>f Camile S;iint-Saens \^ among tlie foremost 
of present-day French composers. He was most versatile 
and his works include chamber music, piano solos and con- 
certos, oratorios and operas. lie was not only a sticcessful 
composer, one of the foremost pianists in Europe and a briU 
liani organist, but was also a writer of great literary merit 
In elegance and fmish, cleverness and clearness of touch, he is 
a representative artist of the French school. 

The mo^■t popular of his operas is perhaps "Proserpine," 
U lyric drama in four acts. It is not based on the cla&ftical 
Story that its name implies, but its scene is hid in Italy, in the 
sixteenth century. Proserpine is in love with Sabatino, who 
is quite unaware of her iifTccntJii and is devoted to Angola, 
sister of his friend, Rcnio, When Sabatino discovers her 
secret, he fails to treat her with rct^pect and fihe becomes 
furious when she learns t^al he loves another. In order to 
avenge lier^clf she seek? aid from a ruffian named Squarocca, 
whom she has releaseiJ when he was cawght stealing in her 
palace 

The accomplice tmdertakes to seize Angiola as she is 
coming from a convent, and arranges (or her to meet Proser- 
pine. In the ensuing interview the latter tries to persuade 
her not to marr>' Sabatino. Angiola resists all persuaj^ion 
and, as her rival is about to sub her, is reamed by her brother 
Proserpine is forced to wait for her revenge till the wedding 



344 ^^^ world's progress. 

day of Sabatino and Angiola» when she turns upon the bride 
and slabs her with a concealed dagger. Thinking his wife 
dead, Sabatino then kills Proseipine; Angiola recovers and 
is restored to her husband. 

Although certain passages of this work are delightful, 
yet in the main the musical effect has to be sacrificed to meet 
the demands of the plot, which is one of melodramatic 

absurdity. 

Probably of more lasting worth is the opera, "Samson 
and Dalila/' by the same composer. This is based upon the 
biblical story of these characters and closely follows the 
narrative found in Judges. The opera opens in Palestine, 
where Samson is trying to encourage the disheartened 
Hebrews, Abinelech appears with a host of Phihstines, but 
is slain by Samson and his soldiers dispersed. When the 
High Priest discovers the dead body of Abinelech, he calls 
upon the Philistines to avenge their leader's death, but in vain. 

Realizing that Samson cannot be captured by force, the 
priest resorts to cunning; seeking the assistance of the beauti- 
ful Dalila, he persuades her to exert her charms on his enemy, 
and she proves so seductive that the hero is ready to yield, 
despite the warnings of the Hebrews, 

The second act is laid in the beautiful valley of Soreck; 
here the High Priest is plotting with Dalila to deliver Samson 
over to the Philistines by means of her wiles. After repeat- 
edly asking Samson wherein lies his strength, and as many 
times having the real answer refused her, Dalila at length 
succeeds in coaxing the true secret from her lover; he finally 
admits that his strength lies in his hair. Then soothing him 
to sleep, Dalila discloses her secret to her people, the Philis- 
tines, who with her help cut off his hair and put out his eyes. 
He is then easily captured and imprisoned. 

In the third act Samson is discovered sorrowfully turning 
a handmill and listening to the rebukes of his fellow captives, 
who chide him for his weakness in yielding to a woman. The 
last scene shows the interior of the temple where the Philis- 
tines are rejoicing over fhelr victory and praising Dalila for 
her cleverness. Samson is then led in by a youth and is 
hailed with derision ; the blind captive remains silent, being 
overcome with grief. The High Priest pours out a cup of 



ITJSTOHV OF MUSIC. 



345 



wine into which h? has poured a deadly poison and commAndfi 
C^lila to serve it to ihe victim; the latter, however, whimpers 
lo (he ^'oiilii to Te^d him to iti& pillars o( the temple. Thtre he 
prayft aloud to ihr Ood of Lsi^ct lo ^ivi; tiim liack hi& Mrcngth 
for jitat one inManC. The prayer is ^«int«d .'iml, ^et^ini: the 
pilLarj;, Samson overttirn.* ihcm and the temple cyllapsefl amid 
the shrieks of (he terrified Philistines. 

T*his opera is undoubtedly the maKterpicce of the com- 
poser and is intensely dramatic Througiiont. It contains some 
exquisite mdodies, wliile the duct between Samson and Dalila 
is one of tlie finest love scenes in opera repertoire, 

Charles Ambroi^c Thomas is one of the modem French 
musicians whose opcran are mttcli loved in all countries. No 
more charming musical drama exists tbar his "Mignon/' 
l)Hsrd npon G"ttbr"s '^Wilbflm Mcislcr*' Aut} fJr«»I prodncnj ui 
the Opcra-Coniiqncr Noveml»cr 17, 1866. 

The accnc of the first two acts is laid in Germany, and 
that of the last in Italy, The overture pivcs out the kadlng: 
motifs of the drama. whJcli opens with a chorus of towns- 
people in the yard before a German inn. A troupe of actors 
ift among them resting on their way to the caMle of a neighbor- 
ing pnncr THnr h3qicr is an old num of nnblc birth whose 
daughicn Mignon, was stolen while a mere child by a band 
of gypsies. Disguised in this way the old man has wandered 
for years, hoping to find her in his travels. A stroUinu t>and 
of gypfties enters the court-yard and he ;tgaEn resumes his 
«Ient search- Mignon, who i* indeed with them, in ordered 
to iiPTfnnn hrr famous r^^g ilnnr»", ;md whrn *ihe refuses 
because she is so weary^ is abused hy Oiarno, the le^ider of the 
band. The oJd harper interposes in her behalf biu not until 
Wilhelm Mcister, a young student, steps forth is 5hc rescued 
from the pypsey. To save her from such cruelty, Meifiter 
engages Minion as his page and takes her with him. He, 
toi>, ift of excellent family InU is traveling with this troupe of 
comedians for the experience he uMy gain and biis fallen in 
love with one of its members — Phihnc, who is full of arts 
and graces. 

Touched by his kindness to her, Mignon also falls in love 
with the young sttident, who is quite unconscious of her de- 
votion and is becoming more and nH>re a prey to ibe wiles of 



346 



THK WORU>'& PHOCRESS, 



Philinc. They joumcy en to llic caKtlc. the harper with them: 
he ifi rcmimjecl by Mignon of his lost daughter and she is 
;ittnicte<l to him because his lonely stale is so like her own. 
Arrived at the castle, \\'ilh«!m enicrs with the others, bidding 
Mignon w^it uufside. This H<w.iVciis hiircr jt^iUjusy in her 
nidnd and she i» considering drowning herself in a nearby 
lake, when she hear» the rotes of Lothario's harp. She goes 
to him for counsel and expresses to him the foolish wish 
that the palace in ivhieh the luted Philine is playing might be 
ftruck 1^' lightning. Ktnhiitnrd hy his own grief and her 
troubles, Lothario steals aw^y and sets fire lo the castle. 
Meanwhile ihe play hs finished, the actors emerge and Philine 
orders ^fi£:non to go back and bring some flowers she has 
thoughtlessly left inside. Mignon obeys and sijddcnl>' the 
flames leap out of the windows; Wiihelm rushes tnio the 
burning palace and brings out the unconscious girl in his arms. 

The third net carries us to Itdy. whither Mignon ha* been 
taken; Wiihelm has discovered her lo\'e for him in her 
delirium an<l tia£ freed himself from the fascinations of the 
aarcss- L^^ihano, no longer a harper, take* them to Italy, 
wl>ere Mign»n lu* *o longifd Icj return, and receives them in 
his palace. Gmdually Mignon ranembers having seen certain 
thir^ abotTl the pl^cc Iwfore, and finally recognises her 
raoClier's picture on the wall. This rennivrs tlie la^t stiadow 
of doubt and Lothcirin, rejoiced that his ttit^hter lus come 
to him at Lisi, presents l>cr to his subjects who ha\x gathered 
to greet him, and givc^ his bfcsain^ to Wilhchiu her chosen 
htis1)and. 

"Mignon" has always been a success, and by ^'irtue of its 
fresh and exquisite mclo<lies will prct>ably retain its popularity. 
Among tlw most delightful of thi^ composer's inspiraliocvs is 
the duet which, tn the firEt act, is sung by Wiihelm and 
Mignon. He has quest>oned her as to her past history, and 
when hesa)"S: 

"Were I to bre^ thy chains and set thee free. 
To what belnveil s;pot vrouldst thou lake ihy way?^ 

she replies in the beatitiful romania, translated directlj' from 
Goethe: 



HlfrTORY OF UUSIC ^ 

"ICnow«l thovi the Und where dtrofi-applcs bJcom, 
And oranges tike gold in leafy gloom, 
A ^ntlc wind from deep bhic heaven blows, 
Tlir myrlle lliirk, ami high fhp laurel grow§ 
Knowst thou il then? 

Th thcfrT Tia thercl 
O my true loved one, thou with mc must go !'* 

George Br/ct (1838*1875) was a composer of great indi- 
viduality and was a most ardent daoice of the modem 
romantic achool of music Had not his career been cut short 
by his untimely deatli, it i$ quite probable that tlic French 
school woult! have been gjeaily influenced by his rare ability. 
His fame rest* almost entirely upon the opera '^Carmen/ 
whiuli is miivi;r.>^lly siorrplr<1 as oiu- of the inmt origiii^d ^>r<i- 
ductions on the French stage. 

The story of "CaruKn" is so well known that it requires 
but little explanation. It has of late been produced on the 
staf^e without music and h included in the repertoire of aUnofit 
every stock theatrical company. Tliis opera is disiinctly 
Spanish in i[« i^enerul di;iT.ielei' ; tiol oidy is the plot based 
upon southern itas^ion and emotion* but its muiic al»o 19 
Spanish to a high degree. 

Carmen, the heroine, is a Spanish ffypscy end ia a combi- 
nation of fickleness and wild charm. She naturally has many 
admirer* but is betrothed to Don Jose, a brigadier Of course 
she so<iri lircs of hitn ;uid plans a thousand ways to ai^aicn 
It in jeulinuy. 

Unknown to ihem al!. Don Jose already has a wife at 
home, the sweet Micacla. but forgets her in his passion for the 
gypsey. Micaela comes to find her husband, bringing^ the 
portrait and hcnedicrion of his mother, whom he dearly loves, 
but her attentions are spumed by Don Jose, who ha* cyrs for 
no one but the bewitching Carmem Meanwhile ihJs passionate 
creature has t|uarrcled with one of her companion workers 
in a cig;ircite factory and i:* taken to prison, but Don Jose 
securer her release; she promisees to meet him tliat eveninff 
stt a certain inn. The second act fihox^'* them there together, 
Mirrounded by the whole band of gypsies. Don Jo*e t* no 
infatuated with Cannen*s chdnns that he is willictg to become 
one of them, although he knows they are smugglers and he 



348 THE world's progress. 

13 an officer of the law. He even engages in a dangerous 
enterprise with them to show his sincerity^ but the gypsey no 
sooner sees that he will relinquish honor and life itself for 
her than she begins to be wearied by his attentions ; she trans- 
fers her affections to a bull-fighter by the name of Escamillo, 
who is as passionate as herself. In the quarrel between the 
rivals, BUcamiHo's knife is broken and he is about to be killed 
by Don Jose when Carmen rushes in and stays his ann. Now 
realizing her treachery, Don Jose desires only revenge. 

Meanwhile Micaela follows him everywhere, still loving 
him and often entreating him to return to his dying mother, 
who grieves for her absent son. At last he consents to go 
back with her, but still promises himself bloody revenge on 
his rival. The last act carries us to Madrid, where there is 
to be a bull-fight with Escamillo as the principal contestant for 
honors. Don Jose goes to the field of contest, hoping to win 
back the love of Carmen; he finds her and, kneeling at her 
feetj vows never to forsake her and even to go back to her 
people, but the fearless Carmen declares her infatuation for 
the bull-fighter. Fairly crazed with love and jealousy, Jose 
attempts to take her by force, but she escapes from him, 
throwing the ring he has given her at his feet. In a perfect 
fury of grief, he overtakes her just as the trumpets 
announce Escamillo's victory, and stabs her through the heart. 

Conspicuous among composers of French opera today is 
Jules Massenet. A composer of great refinement and good 
taste, Massenet well deserves the popularity he has won. He 
is especially noted for his skill in portraying love scenes, and 
as a melodist may be compared with Gounod. His opera, 
"Manon," adapted from Abbe Prevost^s romance, Motion 
LescQut^ is ranked as one of the best exhibited on the French 
stage today. 

The action takes place in the year T721, first in an inn at 
Amiens, There Guillot, Minister of Finance, is making merry 
with a party of friends when Manon, a beautiful adventuress, 
enters with her cousin, Lescaut, of the Royal Guards. Guillot 
is at once attracted by Manon's beauty and, deserting his com- 
panions, tries to entice her to leave with him, but she refuses 
and he is obhged to withdraw. 



HISTORY OP MUSIC. 



349 



Kext L«scaut is fcrc>ed to i;:o away on a short business 
trip and wams hh coui^tn nf:aiiist t1>e advances of Guillot; 
ffi:rirg bis absence the Clievalier Dc* Gneux co:ne* lo the inn, 
iini\ ;i]tlui[)gh ahoni E<i ukc iinltris in ibr r1nin:}i, fftlU in Uive 
with Manon on account of her beauty and seeming innocence 
He becomes so infatuated with her that he consents lo her 
plan of doping to Paris, where in the second act ihey arc 
established in cozy aparlniems. Here they are discovered by 
the Iraie l.eftcaut arid hij: frien<I De Breiigny. a nobleman, aiid 
n\%ii m hivr with Mancin The)' lifnjnie ji^irlially iiadfied on 
learning thai Dcs Griciix has written lo his father for con- 
sent to marry, but when tliis consent is refused they have 
Dcs Grleux sei/cd and imprisoiKd, 

The third act sliows the fete of Cours ia Rdnc, where 
De Brctigny ha* assumed the protection of Manon. Together 
they chance to inett the father of Dca Grieux and leani from 
him llmi W\\ *nii h-ls brrti srj/rd with rctn*jrsc for Ins con- 
dnct And has taken the orders of priest. Hearing this, all 
her former love returns and Manon Hccs from De Brctigny 
and goes back to seek her loven Once more under her influ- 
ence. Dc» Grieux forficts his vows and succumbs to her 
entreaties to forsake hit holy office. Together ihey return to 
the gay whtM and ihc ncxl act reveals them in the interior 
of a fashionable gambling resort in Paris- Des Grieux playft. 
at Manon's request, and wins contt[iuou£ly from Guillot. who 
unjustly says that cheating: was tlic cause of such success. 
Trouble follows and Dee Grieux and Manon are both on the 
verge of arrest when the fonner's father appears and secures 
his release, hui Manon i* captured and iemenced to exile. 

Tn the last act both Dcs Grieux and l^escaui arc concealed 
in a lonely spot along the road where Manon is to pass on 
her way to exile. The unhappy lover bribes her guard to let 
him interview her for the last tinic; he secretly urges her to 
try and escape with Iiiir. But Manon's spirit is utterly broken 
and exhausted hy ihe nervous sirritn; she repents of her mis- 
spent life and expiree In the arms uf lier gTief-slricken lovei. 



The condition of the French operatic stage today promises 
much for the future- There is a Etrong "nationality" in the 
music that is a wholesome sign of advancement; to be sure. 



this de&re to express individuality often leads to bizarre 
effects, but always with the avowed purpose of bringing music 
into closer union with literature. 

A noticeable characteristic in the history of modem French 
music is the breadth of range in its compositions. Formerly 
a composer could not become renowned until he had produced 
at least one suoxssful opera, but today many writers of 
musical drama have gained their fame through concert music. 
This tendency exercises a favorable influence upon operatic 
music, for it indirectly demands that a dramatic composer 
shall first be a master of musical science. This required study 
in turn affects all forms of composition — especially the art 
of orchestration, which in itself can make or ruin an opera. 

It is impossible to forecast the future of the modem Froicb 
school of music. Those who wish to follow its greatest 
progress must loc^ to its instrumental forms rather than its 
dramatic, for in the former lies the greatest hope of the 
national mu^ of Fiancet 



HISTORY OP tfUSC. 



3S» 



CHAPTER X. 
GERMAN OPERA. 

Tl was not uniil ihe early pan of tlie nineiccmh centmy 
that Gcrnuiiiy created z fijrm uf tjpcra xhtit was worihy of 
comparison with the musical drama of Italy ard Prance. Up 
to that time Germany had been dominated by forci£:n influ- 
ence ard Ihe struggle to free itself from the mastery of its 
rivals was of far-reachinff results. There began to be a de- 
mand for a nalioiinl school not only of nmfi:c but art, litera- 
ture and iiliiU*"pliy ;ls well; il f^ more* than iiTerr coinndcncc 
that Ihe achievement of this desire was contemporaneous with 
the overthrow of Na|>olcon's tyranny and the beginnings of a 
German government. 

The opera of this nation, like that of Italy, originated in a 
Wnd of eiitcnainment composed of songs and dialogue. Tlii* 
singspiri f song-play) was ti<iua1ly bastrd upon episcilcs from 
the Bible but was often given outside the diurch to celebrate 
any festival. "Dr, Fraiu Gchruug, of Vienna, *tatC3 thai it 
was from those given outside — as being of a freer and (ulti- 
mately) of a humorous character — ^that the stngs/ttfl more 
directly developed, these being (he miracle plays, to which the 
passions ( perfunticr! wttltin iht- tliuruh) gave rise; and thai 
it was in the plays ifjven outside that the German language 
gradually superseded the Latin — at first In the dialogue and 
aftcnvardH in the song*. He also gives the name of a Gcr- 
man miracle piny in which all the wor<U are sung in German, 
this being 'Spiel v<nj4s den «bn jiing framen/ which was per* 
fcrnied at Kisprnach in 1322/' 

The development of the opera from the singsfnel was of 
coarse ^cry gradual. The conception of modern opera dates 
only from the time of Cluck f I7i4>i787) and it will be re- 
membcred that his ^^'o^k was carried on in Paris. Moaart 
may be said to be ihe fimt distinctly German oi^era composer, 
and only one of his three great operas was written In the 
native language. In "Die Zauberflote" wc find the first in- 
fliiencc& of the Ucd to be found in operatic mu^c. 



35^ THE world's PKOGSfiSS, 

The story of the growth of German opera from this time 
on to the appearance of Wagner's music-dramas may be 
traced in Beethoven's one opera, "Fidelio" and the works of 
Carl Weber, all of which are fully discussed in the lives of 
these composers previously given. 

Too much credit cannot be given these early writers for 
the high ideals they upheld in the face of many difficulties 
To Weber and Spohr is due the establishment of German 
romantic opera, the results of which can hardly yet be esti- 
mated. Romantic opera writers closely following Weber are; 
Heinrich Marschner (1795-1861), Kreutzer (1780-1849) 
and Albert Lortzing (1803-1852). These composers were 
far excelled by Weber in real genius but none the less they 
possessed the same romantic spirit, which was later com- 
pleted and transcended by Wagner. 

Germany has not been lacking in opera composers since 
the time of Richard Wagner. Herman Goetz (1840-1876) 
evinced great talent in his brilliant comic opera "Des Wider- 
spenstigen Ziihnumg." freely adapted from Shakespeare's 
'Taming of the Shrew." Karl Goldmark made himself fa- 
mous by a single opera — **Die Konigin von Saba " based upon 
an imaginary love adventure of Solomon and the Queen of 
Sheba. Like all devotees of the romantic school, Goldmark 
has the pift of creating tuneful melody, but his work lades 
tnie depth of feeling. 

The storv of his ojiera is brietlv this: King Solomon, 
leaniiui: th^t the Queen of Sheba h about to ^^sit him, sendi 
a favoriie ^vunier As.'^d. to escort her on her journey. Now 
Asi5ad is l>etn>ihoil (o Snlamith. dauirhler of the high-priest, 
biit on his rtniy u> meet the rtieen. he sees in a forest a beauti^ 
ful nymph, wh^^se beauty s^-» impresses him thai he forgets hi* 
love icT St:!a:v.:dv Uiv^n his return to announce their arrival 
to SoVrrvr.. Ass^^d ci"*iu"esses his secret and the wise king 
i.v;irse's h:r: to forcet tlie ep:si\ie and marr>- his betrothed 
the r:e\t d^v. Ass.id ir'^es his nroi:^:se to do this and the 

r:":T.ei by her ru;es::c re:::i.ie, :he Qtieen of St«ha et- 
terf w'-^e 1 -uh^-ir,: chor;;s s:r;^ "T.^ :he Stm of zhe Soctfa 
C-zr 'I'/ilcj— e Vi"e Prir.i:." 0:!y whe" she ?ra:!ds before the 
Kzz:z l=*el: i-:e5 :he t^-ee:: /.:t her \^n and xbea. with a 



niflTORV 05 UtTSlC 



353 



alart, AssAtl Tccugnia« licr ah hi$ nymph of the forest. The 
proud Queen affca* nut to know him, bin ivlitii shir Ur:irns that 
he IS to Vkcd another, love for him secretly rix^ in her heart. 

Although she 15 too proud to rt3J£:n her position and 
marry him, yet llie Queen ia fuil uf jeal\>u5v' toward the joiing 
bride and swears veugeanee on her rival That ntgUt on^; of 
her shve*woiiien alUire« Anad to the garden, where he finds 
ihe Queen aw;iiliijg hini. So toniplelrly does she faKJnatc 
him v\ iih her arts that he ignores his promise to iltc King and 
makc:^ love to her. as she wishes him to do. 

The next day the wedding is celebrated as ananfiiect and 
Assad leads SuUniith to the altar jvsi ;l> he i» about to ac- 
cept Ihe ring ufiTcred by tlie bride'i iather, lite Qiieeii of 
Slielkt a]i)ie;irs bringing A ibi/.rliiig wt^ddlitg gift in the fnnn 
of a groldcn cup (ille<l with pearls. Again falling under the 
Queen's influence. Assad throws the ring from liim and falls 
at her feet All w^it for the yucen to explain and Solomon, 
who guesses the trntli, bids her speak, but for the second lime 
she refuses to publicly adtnit of her Irfaiuation, and scorns 
her lovcn Assad, huwever. encuufuged by lier icciet impas- 
sioned glance, declares tlial ^e h his divinity ai\d falls at her 
feet as if lo ivorahip her as jucli. Incensed willi wrath, tlat 
such bJiL^phetny fihnll take pince in the tcinplc> Ihe prie'^ts in- 
stantly demand hi^ death. The Queen repents having allowed 
the a^air to take so serious a turn and both she and Sulamith 
plead in his behalf. 

In all the cxeitenient Solomon alone rcitiains calm ; be dis- 
mia&ca the priests, for he himself will jud£:c the courtier. He 
adjourns to the hamtuet-hall. where a dch|:htfu1 ballet is t^ven 
in Ihe roynl guest's honor. At the end of tlie feast, the Queen 
deiiuinds Assad's partlon, but ihi* Solomon refuse*. Sljc then 
Ines to ensnare him by her ch;inns hut the King tr«ils her 
with cold contempt: fairly beside hencif with rage and morti' 
fication, the fair ruler vows to free Assad and to seek ^xn- 
gcance on his caplor Solomon, fvdiy imdcrstatidin^ tlial the 
will go to any lengths to aiuiin her etid. changes the sentence 
of the prisoner to banishment from the coiuitry, 

Kext we find A»^d alone in the docri, whitlier he hafi 

been exiletl; he H ulleily wearied and heartily repents of his 

folly. Suddenly the Queen appears un the scene, crosstnir the 
V— a 




354 



ynt woTHjis ntocfticss. 



dcscn Willi Itt-r retinue. She once more iri« to lure him wilTi 
soft words, but in vniu — he rttugni^cs her ficklentss ami pre- 
fers to die alone in the desert rather ihan succumb to her will, 
lie is aboitc to expjrc in tiie awful dcscil heal, when Sulamith 
appears, having followed him willioiit restinK night or day. 
Jusl then a simoon blows across the desen and they perish 
in each other's arms, while in a mirage fhe Queen's procession 
id iceii juiinieying on hs w;iy. 

Another star in the finnamcnl of German opera composers 
is IngcLLcrt Ikmiperclinck, Boni t^eplcmbc^ i, 1854, at Sic^- 
burg on ihe Khinc, he cvii^ccd n^irkcd abihty at a very early 
age. lie studied at Munich and later in Italy, wnere he at- 
tracted the attention of Wagner, and two years later was in- 
vited by that master to go la Venice as his guesL He is con- 
ddercd by many critics to be the only living composer who 
gives promise of develojnng the music-drama as it was con- 
ceived by Wagner. 

His opera '^Hansel and Gretel" is one of th« most chann< 
ing in :i11 i]rani;ttic repertoire ^nd is ftequeiitly heard in all 
countries loday. Tlie story closely follows tJiat of the 
Grimm's fairy talc of the same name, the text being: arranged 
by the composer's sister; ihis she did for the amusement of 
her own children and was aidetl by her Lroiher by his writing 
simple melodies to accompany the performance. Later, how- 
ever, he saw its possibiHtie?' ;nnl gave it the form in which it 
is known to opera atlcntlaiitTi ti.idny. Sit-gfTied, &on of Rich- 
ard Wagner, has declared it to be the most important German 
opera since "Parsifal." despite its simplicity. 

The curtain ri&es upon the home of Peter, a broom-maker. 
He and his wife arc both away to seek food for the Inmgry 
children, who have been left behind to kntt and make brooms- 
Hansel and Grclel sin^ a charming Lluel. siarimg with a la- 
ment against poverty and endinsr in n perfect romp of childifth 
glee. This is interrupted by the reinm of the mother, who 
comes emptV'handefi ; she chides them for vvasiinj* their time 
and in her anger upsets the milk jug, which contained their 
oidy hope for supper. Tired out with the disappoinimcnifi 
of the day, she wn»n f^lls asleep; %i»ixi, however, she is awak- 
ened hy the return of Peter, who has Ijevn more fortunate in 
sccuritig proviz^iuni. They both miss the cliildren, and know 



UJSrOBY t)f HU5IC. 



355 



ai once thai they musi stitt be in ihc wocxU, whither they hav-c 
bfcij hem to gather sirawljerric*, Peter rccounii^ the grcw- 
sonic ta!e of the witch who h:iuni5 ihe wooHs aticl lives in a 
candy houM. enticing little children there that she may devour 
them. 

In the next act the children arc 5cen in ihc forest, mak- 
ing garlands and mockirg the cnckoos with beautiful eclio 
arcompariincnt, Finally their play ceases atul they realke 
that they cannot find ihcir way uut of the niiwc nf Urva.. The 
sleep fairy approaches than nn^ soothes their fear, ptitting 
t!wm lo #lcep with a wo(^d!and hiUaby. 

Then is ptdiirtd the witch's hoiist Hansel and Gretel 
are itill sleeping, but the Dawn-Fairy shaken dewdrop& irpon 
llient, sintjing ihc delightful song: "I'm tip with early dawn- 
ing.*" Grelcl wakens lirst ami hastily rouses Hansel by telling 
him all &he ha5 seen tn her dream. Now they discover tlic 
wo«iderful house, with an oven on one side and a cage on the 
other, both joined to the hoii^c by a ^inj:;:erbread fence; the 
house Itself h constnicied of candies and «vveets, which appeal 
strongly to the hungry chiklrea Breaking i)flf a piece, they 
proceed to devour it, when stiddcnly the o!<l witch appears 
and surprises them. After many antics upon her broomstick, 
which arc cleverly rclicctcd in the niusic, she makes ready lo 
cook Gretct in the lire: the child affects not to know how to 
enter the oven and rcrjticsts the witch to show her first. Bend- 
ing low before tlie door, ihe old woman h suddenly shovcfl 
into il by the ipiirk i-hiUlieu, who then shiil the dcKir. They 
rush into the house and hastily break od swcdmcnts and nuts, 
which they gather in Crctd's apron. 

Stiddcnly the oven fnlls to pieces and ;i crwd of little 
girls and boys tumble otit, released from the gingerbread dis- 
guises. They are happy to be set free and the children fall 
into a joyous dance. Just then IVler and his wife appear on 
the 5cene, and rapttironsly embrace their children. The old 
witch falls out of the broken oven in the form of a large 
honey-cake and all Join in a song of thanksgiving. 

The central fi.^ire in musical Cennany today is Richard 
Strauss, who has set the whole world simply aghast \vith won- 
der. So far has he carried the realiiittc idea in muitic that ho 
picture* wi»h startling vividness the sqiteaVing of a wind-mill. 



35*5 The world's progress. 

the bleating of a flock of sheep or the tumult of a battlefield. 

Whether or not this is really music, in its highest sense, re- 
mains an open question, but certain it is that this composer 
has made orchestral instruments phant to his will as has no 
other, and that his powers of orchestration arc seemingly 
without limit. It is impossible to forecast the place he will 
hold in musical history; some critics think he is as marvelous 
a genius as Wagner, while others scoff at the idea of his 
works standing the test of time. Years alone will decide the 
question and the student of music would do well to follow his 
career carefully, for undoubtedly he is opening a new field 
of art. 



miSTOBr ojr icufre; 



357 



CHAPTER XL 



WAGKEK AND HIS MUSIC DRAMAS. 

Tilt study of Richard Wa^er— hi* purposes, his concep- 
tions as pC5et, draaiaust and musician — is the most diffinilt in 
alJ the hUtury of metric His pruduclioiu uie complex in tlic 
exirenie and involve problems of ethics, liistory, ftociolof^ and 
philosophy. HiH piin^oae wn^ fo make ihe opera a serious form 
of art. Instead of a mcaiis of diversion ; to allow it to treat of 
moral and iittcllectual subjects, and to weld music, poetry, 
Ktncry and action into a perfect an<l composite whole. 

He was bom at Leipzig, May 32, 1S13, His father died 
wlien Richard was a mere child, leaving six other children- 
Soon afterward his mother married Luflwi^ Geyer, a well* 
known actor and writer of oDmcdics. Thus from his earliest 
recollection* Richard was surrounded by the influence of the 
ihcAtre ; wvcr^l of Otr nthcr chihTmi liccnme actors and concert 
singers. His instincts were for ihc di;ima ami wlien dcvrn he 
resolved lo become ;l poet, Iril>oring for two years on a tragedy 
in which he IcilJcd all his characters, forty-two in number, at 
the out£«t and had to brinj; tliem back as }s:liost3 in onler to 
finish the remaininfif acts! With the exception of this amur^ing 
outburst, Wagner displayed no signs of genius in his early 
childhood; he wa^ fond of play and fairy tales, like any ether 
bpy. Not until he was fifteen did his musical atiility a«ftert 
ttxelf, hut from th;il time on it devclnpevl with M;irll{rtg rapKlity. 
With the exception of a few months spent under the direction 
of Wcinli^. the ^ealcr part of hia musical knowledge was 
gained by his own ^iwdy of the older masters. In L^pdjr and 
Dresden he heard Weber's operas perfonned and they set him 
aflame with new ideas. 

In 1^33 he *<^cnred hi* firsi Kil;iri«^1 jxxitiim, ih^t of chorus 
master in a local ihcatrc. Soon afleraard he married an 
actress. Wtlhclmiiic Planer, and in 1S39 located in I^ris. His 



r^ y^g V'lMLJ r 2 



1 "i^n 1'^ ^ TT ^ns l u^ ■■- nni ~V35 TfiHg ?*t 3j ^|g*w[ jm py <ei r ^ 
"^ignc ^^13^ 3inpc£CL tn ':i3:rc litrct in x rc^t v^^cd; ^ Sox- 

ICV' Xi" ^flC pnrpCSC ir r;»ni"n^ nor^ -^^TT?TnT''1J"H iiJg '-^^ jrrf 

bzE^y ^"^^»B? J-'"" "J T^ ^*^ ' -"* "^ if 'iie lufttgr ate mC 
ntfl-T £s*vn. OTt 1] jsTmt funin ^ "xnimie "roit in 4 m fi*! a'tt* 

iliii '^^ii _jcu& T!tis pc^cii if ^cdc ^wos ^laae "^^* nyii»i Jfff 
^ "fte -^ti -1 H f^g^' 'g^ t 'Big imrw^ji jcd 3CIC him ^rQm Ftide 

ri^rr Whn T9^SS 119375 X £■ ' ' *J li(t mil '^n-^^1iT ■Il WTl^ ^ Wa^l^f _ 
r Jiif^iW ' fii* II tig Tp ^ "jtc ^ ^4-^40 inn _5P*PC iiwr -fjc -Tr^^fip^ 

^ir^ of "*The 3:tTg - zf -ic NTbecn^ " 

In :Sic he -was ilEcw« xt r^un tt jdnanv anrf was 
5a»e± ^nni inriie .oECr^s 17' ^Zii^ Liomi^ EL of Hs^r^nL- 
wfen ^iiTimrirp^f "-mrr 5: KumcL Vrnier Es mvai n^i:iB^ 
Wignc "was ihic ^ orriiiic^ sc^^^rm Tf 113 T^Trfe. hnt x czwrie 
if ^vai -mT™"'=gTg ■ ^ ir'- jf-iigfF -itc fi^tnuiio^ rf x diearrt whie S t 
JEontd be x mne xr his mtstc li.iiHaL^ imi x r niiiLTTu. srfteol 
^:r ijnnnacs: sns^r^ j. "^^T^ jlwcvc soct x bwtTnTn^ w3B 
ff^re;: n 3i''^^?!itn. ttc^ i^khr^ t 's r« ^i::— re rt 'fte juinu! 

'HIS ?i:'jti:i: :tf -ze :^=::7^ :r jtc n:tr^ v T-ti. >\:r ^rre sa."^ ns 

rhc ir::lL:w::ts^ -fOr "ire r-'^nr -ru^^trs- r.:?^:^^ rvi'' its !iie tt:Hc 
> s tcr "ire ■:T:r^i:^?e r 'z::^ 3«rjii 7: :"?=Tn3r iri nMna.- 

■^cs 'f 'tis Tzrs ]z:l= x ::r^:x ':trsr-n'z ::>^:t i-x ?r:^:" :: -'- 1^ 
!:er ■±e :E«n. :cr V^ :— i -- :: v:^ :-e n^r^rir -:: :: ris 



ai5!rORv OP utrstc. 



359 



eeiv^d t!wt Ihc musical clcmcnl of an c^»cra shouM be merely 
Ihc tncatis, the dramatic clement the (*«/, To accomplish thi* 
he made use of "endless mdody ;" that is, his music is condn- 
uotis — not divided into ariaa. duets nnd the like, and reflects 
Ihc jjitilitest mtivfTin^U or rhanj^E' nf sJliiiitTon cmi the sfa^. 

"Wh;it was this womkrhjl new mdhod? Merely thai the 
characters on iht sta^c, instead of prancing to the foolH^hts 
and pouring out roulades nt the audience, should move, act 
and ftmfT in a way thot suited the situation, accontinj:; to the 
laws of ordinary common scnje. On ihc dnmaiic stage, how 
absurd it would seem fcr the actors to ignore one an-ithcr, and 
rccilc their line* »l the audience as if ihc occasinn were merely 
an e7<hibilion cf ilecbniaiuin inste^id n{ a play. Yet that would 
Irt an exact ana!og:>' to the Il^ilian ^in^mjr-opCTa, and even to- 
day there are many who will sii through just such a vocal con- 
cert wiihdut rccof^iieinET the fact that the melodies which afford 
them so much pleasure might just as well be pveii in a sonp 
recital, and that ihe great posslhillties of stage action in union 
with ai)]>ropTiAte muHie are often utterly wasted in such plays," ' 

He never permitted a pause in the action that a singer might 
deliver a vncal "nmnlwri" each actor was but one of the many 
elements which combine to form a perfect whole. Waipicr wa? 
himself the author cf his texts and so was nol obliged to make 
his niLisic conform to another's ideas; he used a prjclical. not 
a musical, form. It is in the ponrayal of fceting that he dis- 
pTaycrl his greatest jviwers, Wagner sought to express general 
jMS-Hioiis mthrr titan iiuHviihial feeling, and ga%e iIh- 1e-<ding 
melodies to the orchestra instead of the voices. 

To bring the music, text and action into unity he employed 
"leading motives.'*' !n hh ilrama* each person or object on 
whnm the deve[o]imcnt of the plot depends is associated with a 
certain melody, which h heard whenever it is de*irat>le to sug- 
gest that person or object (o the hearer's mind. These motives 
are altered lo meet the rced^ of the siliialif>n, but their frequent 
recurrence give* cotiesiveness to the othcrwi!*c formless music. 

"It must not be supposed that Wagner uks leadmg-niotircs 
merely to tell tlicaudiencc what to sec with their mental eye^, as 
though the orchestral score were a sort of picture book. Tlic 
WagTier atialysis books are largely responsible for thi& defective 

'A flint iff It Ihc ttonni niudf>1 phrase. 



YTIC WORLDS PR0CRF55, 



nolior — they give namca to tile leading-niouvei wliicti are in 
most caws merely fnnciftil, not thought of by AVagncr, His 
eipccial aim wii-t lo give his music, ntlicrwisc vagiic and form- 
less, a cohesion and organic plan, as a syrniJiouy writer builds 
up his work upon the development of IcaJing themes. There is 
a close aiialcffy here, Wa^^er simply vs-wg his motives in such 
a way that the tnuMc is tied to the words and action instead of 
bringing In the mutivts »t randf^m."^ 

No ftihcr composer has ever shown such marvelous crea- 
tive dcvelopmeMl. for between his earlier works ard his later 
masteqiieces lies a wide abyss. His compositions grew steadily 
in breadth, iinlil Ihoy became most bewildenng^ in iheir com- 
plexity. He produced wonderfLd sta|^ effects, than which 
there have been displayed none more beautiful. The Grait 
eastle scene (ParsiCal) and the forest scenes in "Der Ring," 
arc unparalleled! in lite history of the siagt. But, as i* the 
case with all the iitlicr e!elnen^^, scenic hrilliiincy witli W^ner 
WAS but a means, not an end. 

As conductor he was one of the foremost of the modem 
^hool. He himself personally directed the rehearsals of Hh 
works and m detail of costume nor action escap<:d him, "Sud- 
denly something: goes wronp with the scenery/* writes a spec- 
tator; "he springs up from his chair, darts to the back of ihe 
scenes; you hear the ^triinping nf feet, the sound of sh^rp 
words; but the man who returns to the front of the scene has a 
face calm and unrufUcd a* before. Then a singer has to be 
corrected- A line or passage is not interpreted aright, and the 
composer walks quietly across the stage, take3 Siegfried's shield 
and *pear and silently shows Herr Ungcr Ihc proper dramatic 
gesture. The ccmposec will frequcmly sing and act a passage 
as he withes it given, and it is an infinite pleasure to see how 
cbeerfuUy such great artists as Ret?. Nirnumn, Cnra, Hill, and 
the rest ciirry i«it ttie Meistcr's suggestions and instructions. 
Nothing caT> e^c.tpc Wagner's eye or car. The orchestra is 
repeatedly stopped, and the ^od-natured Hans Richtcr looks 
up interrogatively from his 'mystic abys^' otherwise called the 
"conductor's gra-.'e.' where he conducts in his shirt-sleeves and 
open vcsL 'Mein liebcr Richier, just repeat that passage: but 

*Dickinton" Hniory of Muiie, 326. 



IirSTOftV OP MUSIC, 



301 



ihe bass more MtbclucdV , . » Sol Cat! Cut! that is 
better!" and tbe Mcittcr fettles down s^in in lis cfiair at the 
conier of The stage, and ibe rchcai^l proceeds/' 

\V,ignH- w^onld never allow The draniaiic efTeci to be rfe* 
stroycd by pcnnilliiij; an actor fn be imIIc*! Iieftirc ihe curiam, 
and his wish in this regard i* Mill re*pecled in hi* opera hoitsc 
at Bayreiith. 

fiicHci, the first of the opera?, is rarely hcaix! today, Thf 
Plyinfi DiiUhwfjn was the next puMifihed work and» while but 
a roujjh sketch in companwwi with Warmer's later works, it 
{orecasied *'mwihmg: ct{ the composer** genhis. With Tarw* 
Imuscr IregHH a new cm in operatic history. It is frequently 
heard today and its plot is too well known to need repetition, 
Lohen^H, produced in 1S50. is derived from the old le^rend of 
the Knight of the Holy Crail. Tnshjn and Isolde is a beauti- 
fnt love story and contains some of Wafer's most impas- 
sioned music, Thi* Mast^r-Sitrgrrs of Nttr^mberi* is the com- 
poser's one comk opcra_ tl is a satire on the artificial rules of 
l!ie rid Oc*mi;ni Citild <A Mristeritiri^r ami 1% iiKif^t original in 
It5 treatment. 

Die Tetrahgie dcr Biitg d^s Nxbclungcn is the mo»t complex 
And prctcntioti* of Wapncrs works. It \% composed of four 
p9Tt», each requiring several liours for performance. ''Da* 
RhcinRold" may be reprardcd as the prolciifuc. followed by "Die 
WaUcure " "Siegfried" and "G6tterdaminer«nfi:" (Twilight of 
Ihe Gnds). Pcrsifai. although thr h*t tn 1* written, had long 
been talcing shaiK- in ibc comp^ist^N mind, Tt i* emircty alle- 
fipn'ciil and i*^ supposed to represent the filial triumph of good 
over evil and ibc pilgrimage of the soul to heights of fipiritual 
glory. 

Wapicr was a master of the firxt order and hif; work can- 
not bt overestimated. He Fct at defiance aU the con^-entional 
operatic nilcs ; indeed he 50 entirely disregarded the form that 
his works are no( properly operas at all, hnt, as he himself 
named them, "music dnunas," His purpose was to unite muftic, 
poetry, action and scenery into perfect productions for the lyric 
stage, and in this respect his *irama* will always be Ihc model 
for future opera composers. There is no VN^agnerian school 01 
mujic and it is safe 10 say thai imitaiicn of ihis master could 
only result tn failure. His was an exceptional intellcei and 



362 THE world's progress. 

probably no other could have carried his problems to so happy 

a sohition. 

Lohengrin. 

Lohengrin is Ihc most popular of Wagner's operas. The 
scene is laid in Gemiany, near Antwerp ; time, the tenth century. 
The old Duke of Brabant at his death left two children : a 
daughter, Elsa, and a son, Godfrey, who is to inherit his 
father*s throne, Elsa is engaged to marry Count Telramund. 
One day, when she and her brother are out walking, the latter 
mysteriously disappears, and all accuse Elsa of having killed 
him. Telramund, with the others, believes her guilty and re- 
nounces her to many Ortrud, a sorceress. In vain does Elsa 
declare her innocence, for all believe that none other could 
have perpetrated the crime. 

Finally the King, Henry the Fowler, who believes the fair 
girl to be guiltless, resolves to \cX a iluci decide the question. 
Telramund makes ready for the fray, but no one is willing to 
champion Elsa- At last a heavenly knight appears to her. all 
in silver armour and his boat conveyed by a white swan. He 
offers to fight for her on two conditions: that she will become 
his wife and that she ne^er ask his name or descent. Elsa 
agrees and the combat is fotight, tt '^'iliing in a complete victory 
for the strange knight, and Telramund and Onnid are out- 
lawed. 

Act IL shows Telramund in a great rage at his wife, for she 
admits she has tricked hini into bringing dishcncr upon his 
knightly calling. OnrvAl. t: :ippcars, had herself transformed 
Godfrey into a white swan, iu hopes that her husband might 
inherit his poshes* icr.s. But Ona:d says there is yet a chance, 
for her knowledge of sorcen.- has revealed to her what to do. 
First of all, she says, the}- must sow distrust in Elsa's heart, 
and lead her to doubt her champion^s veracitv. In his rage, 
Tdramurd consents to the trickery, and when Elsa appears at 
her wedding the evil work is bcgim, 

Ortrud stops Elsa's bridal procession as if enters :hc church, 
saying that her husband has bet.'n deceived and refuses to ac- 
knowledge the defeat until the mysterious kni^h: pr\?ves his 
nobility. She intimates that he has grave reasons for keeping 
his past hidden from his bride. In ^-ain dc^es Elsa try to stop 



niSTOBY or MUSIC* 



3«3 



this UfTwt of slander; noiliing but the approach of the king 
pulft an end to the tiniilc. The procession a^hi ?^tar1& and U 
about to enter the church when Telmnmnd in hh turn Mops 
the bridal party and presents his «iccti5atian» a^iitst the bnd&- 
EToom. in the presence of the Kirj;. He demands the name and 
origin of the slranffe knight, but thi& the bridegroom rcfM*e* 
lo reveal Only R^sa, he cUims, can draiv the answer from 
hini» and she still trusts him siiTiicienily not to ask tht.* fatal 
(jiTe&lioTi, The ceremony is al last perfonnciL hut the evil seed 
has t;d(en root in EIm's heart; once a^in, on the return from 
the church. Tclramund demands the stranger'* n.imc. and once 
ag;ain Klsa's love stands the test. 

But in the third act, when the lovers are left nlcne. «hc 
becomes possessed by the ffital idea and asks for the Icnoi^-ledgi.- 
which slie h;ts pr^nuiHeid never to seek, Hartlly has she pro- 
rKninced the wonjs when Tclrannind niilies hi to sUy his 
cncm>', but is killed with one stroke of bi5 adversary'* sword, 
iilsa's hnshnnd then \aMh her before the Kinj; and announcei 
to the astounded hearers that he is none other tbiin l^^hengrin, 
son of Parsifal and Keeper of the Holy Crail. and that he is 
alTowed to stay with mortals only so long as his identity is un- 
known The ^wan ihen api^far* to carry him away, when 
Ortrud enters and admits that she changfod Gxlfrcy into a »wan- 
On hearing this, Lohcn^in loosens the swan's chain, where- 
u|wn the t>irTl dtp^ into the water and in his place nses God- 
frey, A whin; dove then draws Lohengrin's b*wii away, as EIu 
itwoons in her brother's arms. 

Tristan and Isolds. 

This has been called the "Romeo and Juliet of music," and 
its mnsfc is universally considered the most perfect e\er writ- 
ten by this composer. It is based upon an old Celtic legend 
and was written wtirn VVa^nrr wA^i mig^iged in writing his 
colossal wtirk "The Ring of the NiMuiig." Tlie dram.i opens 
on board ibc shiE> in xvhich Tristan, a Cornish knight, is taicing 
Isolde to be the unwilling bride of his tincic, the King of Corn- 
wall Isolde, however, loves Tristan, bnt he hris sworn faith lo 
his uncle and holdshimfielf aloof from her Jn despair and grief, 
Isolde resolves to poison herself and Tristan, and prepares a 
poisonous draught. But her maid ha^ guessed her intentions 



364 THfi world's progress. 

and secretly changes the liquid for a love potion, and when they 
drinkitthey are overcomewith the passion of their love. When 
the ship lands they are met in great state, but arc entirely ob- 
livious to their surroundings. 

The second act shows the wedding of Isolde to King Mark, 
but the power of the love draught is still strong upon her, and 
after the king has left to go out upon a night hunt, she holds 
a secret interview with Tristan, whose sense of honor has been 
deadened by the same potion. It is here that the beautiful love 
music is heard, an impassioned dialogue between the two. 
Finally they are betrayed by Melot, the supposed friend of 
Tristant and the King is greatly grieved at his nephew's per- 
fidy. Tristan offers no explanation, but provokes Melot to a 
duel and is mortally wounded. 

The third act opens in Tristan's home in Brittany^ where 
Kurvenal has carried his master to restore him to health. 
Isolde, who has a magic power in healing wounds, has been 
sent for, but her ship is delayed. When at last it is sighted, 
Tristan, in delirious joy, tears the bandage from his wounds 
and Isolde arrives in time to catch him in her arms as he ex- 
pires. While she is bewailing her loss, a second vessel is see-i 
approaching, bearing the King and his train. He has come to 
pardon the lovers, but Kurvenal mistakes his mission and runs 
his sword through Melot's heart and. himself fatally wounded, 
falls dead at his master's feet. Isolde, insane with grief, in an 
exquisite song suggestive of the love themes of their former 
duet, pours out a passionate farewell to her lover, and falls on 
hiG body, dead. 



BISTOIEY OP MUSia 



5*5 



CHAPTER XII. 



THE TETRALOGY OF THE RING OF THE 
NIRKLUNG. 

Tbc pli't of iTic Ring of the NibeltiHg h one of ihc most 
involved of all Wa^jner's musiL-draiiNiv Titer ultl Sciinditia* 
vi&it epic of the Nibdurgcnlictl, iipun wliidi it i?h b;i»c<t, has 
been creatly nrtiiodclled and smpUlicd by the composer's 
mighty gentiis. 

The four<lram:LS which make up the Rinf; story arc: Das 
RhrmgM (RhinrgoM), Die tyali^Urt (The Wallcyne), Sieg-^ 
fried and DtV GdUerdammerun^ (The TwiUghl of the Gorfs)- 
The development of many changes of fonimc brought about 
by the curse Niljcluii(: Albcrich has pkccd rpon the powcr- 
Uriving King — whicli he forged frorn the gold $loIcn from the 
Rhine-maidens and which, in ttim» Wotan hcis wrested from 
him — !* the foundation of this complex drama. The Riog 
brings a curse upon all who possess it and finally causes tlie 
[le^hllrluJt^ of ihr entirr tuvr of g(id%: ll> yfiwer L■e'3^es only 
when it is rcttimcd io the purifying waters of the Rhine. 

These m>ths arc greatly altered from their originAl form. 
and may be said to belong lo Wagnerian mythology, rather 
than that of the Northland or the Rhine, in t:ii<mfi up the 
plots of llwse sev^cral dramas, we have introduced certain of 
the leading tutftkes in aid tn following ihe story. It is im- 
pos>iblc lu study Wagner's opern> ivilhr»nt understanding Hij 
use of "continuous mdody/' which is cflccled b>' means of 
themes that become associated ^ith hi* characters and their 
deeds. The tendency of musical amateurs in their ;tiulysl£ of 
these music-dramas is to attach a Bemhnemal interpretation to 
these leading:- motives never intended by their author. 

The attempt to merge music, verse, action and scenery into 
a perfect unity has produced a kind of ccwilinuous melody, 
found in the operas of composers before Waipicr. With him 
this melody is a pan of the poetic conception and reflects the 
slightest change of mood or situation upon the i^tage. 



366 



■rae WORUJ'S PROGRESS. 



"Now let it be admitted, which is not difficult, that Wag- 
ner thought in music, that is to say, that every objective, or 
subjective idea with him assumed a musical form, a melodic 
contour, which thenceforth clung to it, and I think the best 
demcntary notion of what a Leii'tnotiv is will be gained- 

'*ll is, so to speak, the musical embodiment of an idea, and 
W^ner is neither the first nor the only one who has thus 
thought in music and given to a character, a fact, or a particu- 
lar impression, a form which is clearly recognizable and per- 
ceptible to the hearing. 

"Musical language, notwithstanding its lack of precision, 
or perhaps for that very reason, constitutes the highest, purest 
and most sincere expression of human thought, the one fur- 
thest removed from materialism and conventionalism. Who- 
ever comes to think in music as he would think in the language 
he is accustomed to use, thereby finds the horizon of his ideas 
strangely widened. This faculty in its full power is reserved 
for the elect, but there is not a single true musician \^'ho has 
not felt something of it."* 

The story of the Ring follows, each section taken wp sep- 
arately and as much in detail as is necessary for an inWlUgent 
understanding of the work. 

Das Rh^incold. 

The orchestral prelude to "The Rhine-gold" is based upon 
a single figure which is known as the Rhine motif; this pic- 
tures the movement of the water and the calm at the bottom of 
the depths: 




The three Daughters of the Rhine frolic in the water 
while guarding the precious treasure of gold, which their 



•Translated from Levianac. 



niStOXV OF MUSIC. 



3fi7 



fatiicr has cntnistccl to their arc. Albericb. llic moit hidcoui 
oi Iht NitwhmRs, a r.-^cc of dwarfs, glitlci into their abade 
with the c\il purpoac of seducing the nymphs. They entice 
him with deceitful proTni»;c6 and ihen make sport of ium, but 
xvhilc they frolic Albench's eye chances to fall upon (he goM 
and )k^ ilHcrjtiines lo jjnf^^cf^s it. Tlic fcilfowini^ Tiiuti^'c; is ;iJ^ 
ways heflrxl when the Rhine-daughters are synibo1i2«;d ; 




By their bubbling they reveal the mystery ijf tlie ircasure; 
forged into a Ring, il will crmfer uj>on it* posMrssor unlimited 
power over the ^^llok universe, on condition that the owner 
renounces love forc«r. 

The Rhinedauuhlerft do not dream of Alberich's stealing 
ilie gold, localise he appear* to be so much hi tove with them, 
but they art *.iMm umleccived; ^t-alin^ the rrick on whiih tht- 
treasure lir\ he seizes il and dcpiirls wirh a nIiouI <*f sinister 
laughter. The river is then shrouded In gloom, and the maid* 
ens arc not able to pursue the thief. The heavy fog gradunlly 
lifts and ahowa daybreak in a country, where, on the aiuiiinit 
of the hic^hest nioiuitait:, a castle standi illuminated by the ris- 
ing Mm. 

Wntau ^nd Fririca are sreti cnntemipt^ding ihf wimderful 
stnictuie, which has just bceji hiiiU by ihc giants according to 
Wotan's orders. The god is apprehensive lest the btuldcrs 
shall soon claim Freia. sister of Fricka and goddess of love 
and beauty, as the reward for their labor. Loge, god of fire. 
has atfreett to find a siibsiiTme for her but. alihouglr he has 
searched fhe world over, has not been able ttj obtain anything 
titat can equal her in attraelion. I.oge cnteTS and tells of his 
unsuccessful 4«arch und also of the robbery of the treasure, 
when Qgain the Goid motif ifl heard : 



j3_- 



^^^tfef^ 



368 THE world's progress. 

The avarice of the giants is at once aroused and, after 
holding consultation together, they propose to exchange 
Freia for the treasure. Wotan promises to get it for them 
and they bear away the goddess as a hostage. The goddess 
of love departed, the heavens become dark and all about is in 
gloom; the gods suddenly become old and arc gradually losing 
their divine power, when Wotan determines to go in quest of 
the power-giving gold. Accompanied by Loge, he descends 
into the gloomy kingdom of the dwarfs, who are always at 
work in the bowels of the earth, forging metals. Opaque 
clouds arise as they enter a crevice and as the vapours clear 
away, a rocky cavern is seen; to the right, a passage leads to 
the earth; to the left, a forge with flickering flames. 

Here, in the realm of the ugly elves, Alberich has made 
himself master, thanks to the power of his magic Ring. See- 
ing his visitors, he turns his fury against them; the outraged 
Wotan is about to draw his sword, but the more cautious Loge 
delays the stroke and, addressing the dwarf, congratulates him 
on his new-found power, the extent of which he rather calls 
into question. Somewhat piqued and anxious to exhibit his 
magic strength, Alberich transforms himself first into a ter- 
rible dragon and then into a toad ; he is now easily captured 
by Wotan and Loge, who carry him to the earth. 

They force him to deliver all his treasures, which at his 
magic words, the Nibelungs bring from the depths of the 
earth ; then they compel him to produce the enchanted helmet 
and, finally, the coveted Ring- Now furious with disappoint- 
ment and rage. Alberich calls down a terrible curse upon ibe 
god who is robbing him of his treasure: '^Henceforth may its 
charm bring death to wliosoever wears it ; . . , may lie 
who possesses it be torn by anguish, and he who does not pos- 
sess it be consumed with envy ; . . . may no one profit by 
it, but may it light the thief to his throat; . . . may the 
villain become a slave to fear; . , . may the master of 
the Ring become its servant; . , . and may this endure 
until the Nibelung recovers possession of the treasure which 
is now wrested from him!" Uttering these terrible words, the 
dwarf disappears in the rock. The giants now come in to 
claim the treasure, bringing Freia with them. At her ap- 



HISTORY OF MUEIC, 



3^ 



preach, the other divinities fe«! thtir youth and power return- 
ing and welcome her with gbd acctaim. 

Wot;rn is willing to give up the other treasure but reftises 
to give the Ring to the giants. The other gods implore him 
to make good hia bargain but he remains obstinate. At last 
Erda, to whom all thing» — past, present and future — are 
known, appears from the depths of a grotto* surrounded by a 
pale hght She foreseen; the gloomy end of Ihc gods and ad- 
vUea Wotan to give tip tlw King, which can bring him only 
torment »nd nnrest Astonished at her words, Wotan darts 
forward lo force her to explain, bill the prophetess lias van- 
ished and the grotto is no more visible: the god falb into deep 
meditation and at last decider to tlirow the King on the pile 
with the other treasure. No sooner has he done so than the 
giants begin to wrangle among themselves, they being ihe 
first to be affected by the curse of the NibeUing, 

Woian sadly turn* to enter Walhalla, which the giants 
have built at so great a sacrifice on his part. The castle looms 
in the distance, bathed in the light o* the setting sun and a 
brilliant rainbow forms an arched bridge from the valley to 
the castle door. The gods are filled with dclipht at ibis mag- 
nificent «cene but Wotan is ijtill «ilent anil gloomy. At last a 
new thought come* into his mind ; he will himself beget a son 
who shall makr icparation for this injustice by victory with 
his sword Now hopeful Wotan rouses from his meditation 
and, taking Fricka by the hand, enters Walhalla with joy. As 
the gods pass over the rainbow-bridije. the plaintive song of 
the Rhine^aughiers h heard, softly appealing, but the gods 
only laugh mockingly and the sad strain is soon overpowcTed 
by the pealing march in the castle. The curtain falls upon tlie 
triumphant entrance into their new abodc- 
Ute WalkCrk, 

Act L The action passes in a rustic cabin built around a 
large ash tree. In the trunk of this tree may be seen the hilt 
of a sword, ihe entire blade being buried in the trunk. A 
storm is raging cjutsidp afitl the cabin is deKerled. Suddenly 
the door at the back of the cabin is opened and an unanned 
warrior enters; bis clothes are in disorder and he looks ut- 
terly exhausted. E^inding no one about, he sinks on the fun 
it! front of the hearth and is soon asleep. Six descending 

V— 14 



370 



ThK WORI*d'S progress. 



notes characterize Siegmund's fati^c as he stagers in buf- 
feted by the storm : 



i 



-ff,' 



^X2.< 



i 



SSI 



b'j y •■ 



^ 



^^ 



^ 



U J i. j'j. i 



ipr. 



5r- 



■^■ 



Presently the mistress of the cabin comes iti and seeing in 

astonishment a stranger before her fire awakens him^ inquiring 
how he came there. When she learns that he is being tracked 
by enemies and that his weapons have been wrested from him, 
she is at once sympathetic and gives him a refreshing draught 
to drink. Here the first motif is now united with another 
which we shall often find associated with it; this personifies 
Sieglinde's compassion for Siegmund: 



^ 



E± 



3 



^ 




His interest in her is aroused, when suddenly her hus- 
band, Hunding, is heard approaching; he appears surprised at 
the presence of the stranger and asks him to tell his story. As 
he hstens, Hunding is struck by the remarkable resemblance 
between the newcomer and his wife. 

The story is one of hardship and misfortune; the stranger 
relates that his infancy was spent with his father — named 
Walse (the Wolf)» — his mother and a twin sister. He tells 
how one day. on his return with his father from the hunt, he 
found their house burned to the ground and his mother slain, 
while no trace could be found of his sister. The perpetrators 
of this crime were the Neidungs, sons of Hatred and Envy. 
Then he used to wander in the woods with his father til! one 
day the old man, too, disappeared. As for himself, he had 
been ceaselessly pursued by misfortune. 



VISTORY Of MUSIC. 



37" 



Hundiiig likens interntly lo this story but almosi from (he 
Brst has r«cognuc<I in llic fugitive an cncniy of his race whom 
he has just beer cnlle<l u|»on to fight by hi3 own people, Hos- 
pitahty prevents his attackingr a gucsl but he vows the next 
day to call bim out to ^RhX* He intiniatefi this and orders his 
wife lo prepare his evctiinp draught and then to retire. Sieg- 
linde. however, mixes p ^leepiiiff potion instead of the usual 
draught and, before she departs, casts a long and tender look 
at the stranger and tries to point out to him the Imnk of fhc 
aah ill which the sword lies imbedded, but tlii* (jlance is sur- 
prised by Huiiding. who orders b«r to go to lier room, and 
50on follows her. 

The scene is now illiiniinatcd by the dying embers, which 
make the hilt of the aword gleani as if afire. 'ITic warrior 
fails to notice thi* and arxrously asks himself if he will find 
the sword which his father has promised him would appear 
when its need ^^-as createst. Hts thouphis return to Sieglindc 
and the emotioris *he has awakened in his heart. Finally. 
when the fire is almost extinguislied^ Sieglindc steals inio the 
room. She tells the gueat nf her unhappy lot with Hunding 
and how s^ie was forced to uiairy him against her wilb Tlirn 
she relates bow ur her wedding d^y ah old man bad entered 
the but, terrifying everyone but herself, who recogntxcd him 
as a protector, with the features of her father; how he drove 
a sword up to the very htlt into the trunk of the ash and 
t>rcmit^:cl that it should belong to the hero who was able lo 
draw it our So far no one has succeeded, but Sieglinde feels 
that its conqueror will be none other than the warrior who is 
their giicst. They gaie at one another ardently, when the door 
of the hut opens of itielf and barber the room in nwonbght 
Sicglintic trfrnblingly inquires who h;if; gone onl but il. i* 
rather that some one has coint; iti,— sweel Spring, who enters 
as a symbol of the love which blossoms deep in their hearts. 

Looking more closely at her companion, Siegbnde thinks 
she has known him in former days and their memories arc 
roused at the same time; they must both be of the same heroic 
race of the Watsungs, children of the same father and Sieg- 
mund must be the name of the hero for whom the sword was 
intended. For him also must be reserved lhe task of delivering 



^n 



TRH WOKtD S PROCBESS^ 



Sieglin<le from her present bondage. Wilh a bound of en- 
thusbsm, Siegtnund springs tcnrard the ash, scUn; ibc iword 
by the hiU and (ears li out of :hc iriink This he calls 
Nothiing, t\xf wiMiHm [irnm:strd to rescue limi from liis great- 
est distress, and Sic^Hndc thrown her«lf into the arms ol her 
deliverer* 

Act 1L The scene represents the inountatnft of the gods 
and discloses Wotan in conversation wilh hi« favoriic daugti- 
tcr, Br&nnhilde, whom he charges *vith ihe faic of Siegmund 
in his encoiiTitrr with Huticliiig'^ He hUls her guard him 
during ihc fight and tn awanl To him the victory, BruiinhtMc 
dqjaris, hapjiy with iJic mission intrusted to her; as she dis- 
appears among the rocks, ahoutin^r this weird cry of tht 
Walkyries 




^ 



fe #^> 1 



Fricka. who is the coTisorl ul \\ oian atiJ goddess of mar- 
riage and guardian of the sacred lies of family, ai>pear& She 
is ootraged by the giiilty love of Sicgmund and Sieglinde, and 
a sfonny dialogue fotlow*. Tn vain Wotan upholds thr cau^e 
of those who love each other and in vain explains to the god- 
drss that he inuKl preserve Siegmund to aid llic goiU them- 
selves, Derp down in his heart Wotan is forced to recognize 
the justice of Tricka's words and at l&st yields to }ier demand. 
The goddess departs in her chariot drawn by two rams and 
Wotan again summons his daughter to instruct her anew. 

Bruniihilde approach*^ her father, whcim she finds much 
cast down because of the oath he has been forced to make. 
She beg* him to unburden his heart to her and he finally ^o^9i 
so. reviewing the causes that had l«d to this result and of the 
obligations he has incurred in his greed for power, and of the 
robbery of the Ring. The Ring, he says, should have been 
resioretl to the depths of (he Rhine, but VVoran has used il in 
payment for the castle Walhall;), which the giants butll and it 
is now deep iii the cave of Fafner, Only one l^eing r4n be- 
come possessed of tlie Ring and this one must be a hcTc who 
wiH involuntarily perform tile mission, Wotan has chosen 
his son, Si<^:nfiuBd, to be this hcn>, and to this end he 9ta)<cd 



HiSTilHr OK MUSIC. 



373 



wih him in his jouih, and upon leaving htin bwtowfd upon 
liiiTi an invinciMt sword His fury br«ak& mil anew at itic 
thought of ilcftcrting Iii* son whom he luvc*; m vain doc* 
Briinnhtlde plead his caiifc and urge thai she nmy act in ac- 
cordance with his first orders. Woian bitterly commands her 
to obey Fricka and tlireatcni the Walkyric with tcrribJe pun- 
ishment if she dareA to (li^ob«y. So RriinnhUde sadly takes 
her way to the groitn in the wood* where her h^irse is resting, 
and watchfx Sie^tmncl and Sirgtindr whtt »Te asceiuHng the 
hill. 

Sicglindc i* urging her tovxrr to hasten and is so fearful 
that he will losC in tlic fifiht with Hurding that when *he 
hears the distaiit sound of a horn and hounds she falls in a 
faint to tlie jrr^juncl, Siegmund places her s^enlly upon a hil- 
lock and carefully suppom her. Meanwhile Briinnhifdc ad- 
vances leadinff lier horse. She makes herself known to Siejr- 
mund and tcils him that he has been destined to perish in the 
encounter and that, like all heroes, after death he must ac- 
company her to W;tlhilla, Sif^^nnd dtws nnf fnir dr.ith 
and is only anxious to know whether he will find his beloved 
Siegh'nde there. When he learns thai his loved one must 
r^naiti Ijehinrl v\90n the e^rth, l!ie warrior vow.s that liefore he 
dies he will first kilt her, Uiat they may be together In vain 
does Prunnhilde try to rc%cal In him that in so doinc he will 
be destroying iwo lives: he draws his sword and is about to 
S^ve the fatal blow when Briinnhilde, touched by such com- 
passionate love, promises him her support in the hour of com- 
bat. She de|)arts. promising to meet him on the battle-field, 
and Siegmund is transfi^red with happiness. Placing the 
sleepJnc Sieglinde on a stone seat, he hastens to meet the 
enemy and soon the clash ^jf iheir arms is heard 

A sudden gleam of light shows Brtinnhildc hovering over 
Sitgmund, protecting him with her shield; but just a* he is 
about to give Hunding hts death-blow. VVofan appears on a 
storm dond and bte^k^ the m;igic sword inin pieces. His 
encTuy f>eliig thus disarmed. Hunding mortally wounds him 
2nd Sicgmund falU dead ;tl his feet, BriJnnhildc then lifts 
the insensible Sieglindc on her steed and rides away. At this 
moment the cloudi break and reveal Wotan gazing despair- 



374 



THZ WOHLD*S PROCRSSS. 



tngly at his <lca<l son: he darts «o terrible a look at Hunting 
that he, loo. fail* dead. Then the god vcm* hU fury on lh€ 
daufifhLer who dared to dUoljey him and statu in pursuit. 

Act III, The stage Tei>rcsenl£ a rocky glen with a heavy 
fog being driven by ihc wind The air i* filled with ihe wild 
cries of ihe W;ilkyrle« a« they come riding in, bearing the 
dead bodies of warriors on their saddles, Jwlging from a 
musical standpoint this rush of steeds, amid the oft-rrpcaictl 
cry (jf ihcr Walkyrie\ is aiiumg ihcr mosi wonderful of all 
operatic passages, Brutinhildc arrives, bearing Sie^Iindc witli 
her; she is in Icars and contrasts strangely with the re5t of 
the exultant ihnwgH She gives ihe fragmaila of the sword 
to Sicglinde and bids her live, that she may give birth to a 
Vokung; then ihe appeals to her si si er- warriors to save her 
froni the wrath of her father, who is even now approaching, 
a* the rolling tbwndcr bears wifnt^s. Although they are filletl 
with compa^^ron for her disiresSn none dare to incur Wolan'% 
wialh by giving ?irr aid. She ^'ainly Uicii to bide ainun^ tlie 
restp but Wotan's \'oice- terrible in its anger, bids her to 
come forth, and she steps bravely out to receive her punish- 
metit. 

When the god charges her with disobeying his commands, 
she repliefi. "1 obeyed not ihy order but thy secret wish " 
Her fate, however, is sealed; he vows to exile her from Wal- 
halla, to take away her divinity, and leave her asleep and de- 
fcnieless by the wayside, to be the prey of the first passerby. 
At this ihe other Walkyrles wtler cries of despair, but WiKau 
tells them Ihe same fate will be mricd out to them if they 
rebel, so they ride aw.ay and disappear in llie cloudi 

BnJnnhildc beseeches VVolan lo be more merciful and give 
her a punishment not ao unworthy of his daughter, she mcrdy 
thout-ht to act in accordance with hi* inmost thoughts by 
helping bis sor. But the god remains firm and refuses to Its- 
sen her sentence; then she implores that ai least a terrible 
barrier may be put aroimd her while she sleep*, that none but 
the most brave may achieve the conquest. Moved by her 
bravery, Wotan caiistnti to put up a Ijiimitig barrier, tln?n 
lakes farewell of her in a scene of majestic pathos. Placing 
her upon a rocky coucli, he evokes Loge, the god of fire; 



BISTOaV OF UUSIC 



375 



three times he striken on the rack with his ^c»r and l^ames 
spring up all about her. This magiiiticent bdt of fire forrna 
an insiirmowmable barrier around the sleq>irg maidcri, whiTc 
we hear the mysterious melody of BrunnhiJdc's Sleep: 




The curtain fall* tlowly upon a *cene unequalled on th« 
lyric stage for its impressive beauty. 



A large cax-em in the mi<lst of Ihe forest b shown, whert 
Mime has his forge and rude dvrelltn^. In the foreRfroond is 
»ficn a bed covcrctl wilh the sJcins of artmah; on the left arc 
the bellows and hcartb of the forf:e, while iKick cinders cover 
ever^'thinjf. 

Mime, cursing anil growling llie while, as forging a new 
swonl for Siegfried, who has heretofore broken every blade 
he has made for hitn, lie utterly despairs of uniting the 
fragTOents of Nothung, Sieifiniind's sword, allbough he be- 
lieves that if he could succeed in joining the pieces of this 
marvelous weapon perhaps he could wrest the Ring from 
Fafner 

Siegfried enters in hunting costume, leading a bear whidi 
he h-w tamed in the forest. He tcasingly sets it upon the 
frightened Mime and rallies him for his cowardice. Then, 
freeing the bear, he demands the sword which he has ordered 
the Nibclung to make for him, and proceeds to break it upon 
Ihe anvil at the first attempt. His whole manner indicates 
the low esteem in which he holds the dwarf, who — goaded by 
his tcasings and insults — finally asks Siegfried why it is, hat- 
ing him ai he doe«, that he daily come$ to his abode: he in- 
timates that he is Siegfried's father, which idea the youth 
laughs lo scorn. He urges Mime to tell htm who his real par- 
ents were, and at last the dwarf confesses tliat he is the son of 
an tinJiappy fugiiivc and that he was bom in the forest. 



376 



tun worid's TEcocitKSs; 



Sicjrfricd disp}ay5 great cmotioa when he karna ih&t hi» 
tnother died at his birth and here it is that the motif of Fitiftl 
hove i& introduced : 



^i ^rl^ ^ ^M^i^ 




Cradually he forces the rest of ihc story from the unwiHing- 
teller. The dwarf jj^ crafty enough to lay RTeat emphasii 
upon alt the bcnefiis he has bestowed upon (he child, whom the 
dying Sirglindc gave to his cart; he r<^lates that liia father had 
been slain in a conihat and tlial his only herii;*ge was llic 
fiagmcnts of a swortL whicli was broken in ihc fatal fray. 

At this, Stcc:fned <]cniAiida that the pieces be at once 
welded together, thai he may leave the forest; he is impatient 
of any delay and orders Mime to forge it at once. Left alone, 
the dwarf is in a slate of despair; he cannot unite the pieces 
of rebel sled but wliy he knows nnt. While he Is thus re- 
flecting, a stranger walks into die cavern. The visitor is 
heavily mulHed in a long cloak nnd even his face is concealed. 
He is in truth none other than tlie god Wotan Imt he docs not 
reveal his idemhy to Mime: he nierdy *ays that he is a Wan- 
derer and l!i:(t he wishes to rest. The dwarf receives him very 
reluctantly, but tbe god ^Cs down at the hearth and tells his 
host thai he often repays the hospitality he receives by giving 
wise counsel to those who desire it; indeed, he offers to give 
Ms head as a forfeit if any question is asked which he cannot 
answer To get rid of him, the dwarf asks Ihrce questions: 
'*Who are the people Itvmg in the bowels of the esrtlr?" first 
asks Mime.' — 'They are the Nihelung!^, wfaurn tlieir chief 
Albcrich subjugated, thanks to the magnc power of the Rtnp," 
the stranger replies. "What race lives on the surface of the 
earth?" — "The race of the giant*, whOM princes, E'atolt and 
Fafner, acquired the treasures of the Rhine and the curwd 



aiSTOity OF MUSIC. 



377 



Rinp, Fafner fcillecl hi* brother, and now, tran£fonne<l into 
a fli^igtnn gunrtJs this treasure," Mime, who is deeply inter- 
ested in the WfLndcrer, ag^in asks him: "Who are die tnhabj- 
lantft of the climdy heij;hls?*' — *They are Ihe himinoiis elves 
who dwell iii Walhalla, and their chief. Wctan. hiLs con- 
quered the universe by virtue of bis lance, on which arc graved 
the sacred nmcs." 

Having: answered thcw questions to the nalisfaclion of the 
dvrarf, who now rccogfnire* his visitor, Wofan in tnrn ques- 
tion* him. holding: htm to the same fate ii he does not answer 
He B*ks: "What race is persecuted by Wotan despite the 
love he bears them?" — "The Walsim;;s" replies Mime, who 
rapidly sketches thdr hiftlory. "What sword is intended, ac- 
cording to thr dflik dcni^* of a Mibelnng. to slay Fafncr. I»y 
the agency of Siegfried, ard make the dwarf maslrr of the 
Ring?" — *'Knlhurg." crirs Mime, carried ^w^y liy the inter- 
est he lakes in the qttestion. Finally. "Who is the skilful 
amith who will succeed in rcunilinif the wondroiH fragments 
of the blade ^"^ At th:5 last question Mime shivers with fear, 
only to be told by Wotan that he who knows not fear alone 
ean perfom that diflri<:ntl task. Mime's life ia row in the 
bandi of the Wanderer who, bequeathing the gnome's head to 
him who has never known fear, disappears into the forest. 

Mime sinks down behind the anvil, a complete victim to the 
terror whidi hrfi po*se*.*ed him; in imagination lie sees the 
tcrriblf dragon Ktifner, who guards the coveted treasure. At 
this jtt>int. Sie^fned returns ;iiu1 apain asks for the sword, Imi 
the dwarf now understands that it is this yonlh, who never 
has known any fear, to wliom Wotan lias bequeathed his head. 
As a last resort, he tells Siegfried that it was hts mother's 
wish that he should not leave the forest until he had first 
learned fear He pictures die terrors of tlie woods al night, 
when mmeriotis sonnds interrupt the savage cries of animals; 
the youth only scoffs at this, for he is well iicquainted with 
the forcftt at all hours. Then Mime telTs of the hideous 
dragon at the extremity of the cave, who devours all who at- 
tempt to approach him. 

Instcad of arousing fear, this tale excites the interest of 
Siegfried* who wants to act out in quest of the monster. For 



378 TH^ WORUj'S FHOGRESS. 

tbe last time, he calls upon the Nibelung to con^lete his 
sword that he may start out without deUy. As Mime only 
breaks out afresh about the terrors of the forest, Siegiried 
impatiently aeizes the pieces of sword, grinds the fragfments 
into filings and proceeds to forire it himself, while the Anvil 
motif is again heard: 



\ 4m m q 



As he works, he sings a triumphant song, "Notkungf 
Nothung! neidiiches Schwert." This is one of tiic most beau- 
tiful of the woodland scenes in which this play abounds. 

The dwarf meanwhile is plotting how he may undo the 
power Siegfried will gain if he succeeds in welding the pieces 
together, and determines upon a magic draught — a few drops 
of which will put the hero into a deep sleep. While Mime is 
mixing the potion, Siegfried fastens the hilt to the blade and 
polishes the sword. Then, breaking out in a new song, he 
swings it in the air, and, bringing it down with a crash, breaks 
the anvil in two. The music of this scene, imitative of the 
forge, the fire, the hissing water and the anvil blows is realism 
in music carried to its bei^t. 

The deed is at last accomplished and Siegfried is in pos* 
session of Siegmund's sword. Mime then takes him to the 
cave where Fafner is guarding the gold, and with comparative 
ease Siegfried plunges his sword into the monster's heart. As 
he draws out the blade, he discovers that his hand is covered 
with blood and he instinctively lifts his iingers to his lips. 
Suddenly he realizes that he understands the language of the 
birds and that one in particular is singing directly to him. He 
listens breathlessly, while it tells him to go in the cave and 
secure the Ring; then with it in his keeping to go to the rescue 
of the beautiful maiden Briinnhilde, who sleeps on a solitary 
rock surrounded by fiames, awaiting the lover who is brave 
enough to leap through the fire. The bird offers to lead the 
way to her resting place, and Siegfried makes haste to secure 
the treasure in the cave. To accomplish this, it is necessary to 
first slay Mime, who already has the Ring in his possession 
and thus the threat of the god Wotan is carried ouL Then 



HISTORY OF MUSIC- 379 

in a state of exultation, Siegfried seizes his sword and follows 
his winged guide. 

The last act once more shows us the god still plunged in 
gloom. The doom of his race seems certain; the gods will 
disappear and Walhalla be effaced. Just then he sees Sieg- 
fried still following the bird. Now Wotan knows that the hero 
is coming and that his own end ts drawing near. He thrusts 
forth his lance, and tries to bar the way of the youth, but to 
no avail; the sword Nothung shatters the other at a touch, — 
the power of the gods is broken and the beginning of the end 
is at hand. 

Siegfried dashes over the rocks until he reaches the one 
where the sleeping maiden lies. Overpowered by her beauty 
and his love, the hero wakes her with a lingering kiss. Briirni- 
hilde opens her eyes and gazes with delight upon her de- 
liverer. With the passionate duct of the lovers : 

''Away, Walhalla, 
In dust crumble 
Thy myriad towers. 
Farewrell, greatness, 
And gift of the gods. 
You, Norns^ unravel 
The rope of the runes. 
Darken upwards. 
Dusk of the gods. 
Night of annulment. 
Draw near with thy cloud. 
I stand in sight 
Of Siegfried^s star. 
For me he was, 
And for me he will ever be," 

This section of the tetralogy comes to a close in a scene of 
unsurpassed beauty and emotion. 

Die G6tT£rdXmmerung. 

The last section of this great tragedy represents the three 
Noms — or Fates — weaving the cord of destiny, which they 



ato 



The world's procrsss. 



pass from one to another; their movements are syniWiienl by 
the following thfine: 




The olileU Norn ties tht^ golden *tra™l to ihe branch of a 
fir, relating the while how one day tlie god Wotan catnc to a 
pool, where she was spinning, to drink: how he tore off a 
Mron^ limb of on n^h tree to make a lance tor himscU, and 
how from that moment the tree began to wither. She then 
tosses the strand to ihc second Norn, who takes up the tale. 
Wotan, she says, engraved on this lance magic words illus* 
iralivc of his (jowcr: hi?* ^vca[]on was shattered by a young 
hero atid then lie ifathcrcd all younj: warriors lo Walhalla and 
bade them destroy the ash tree. The Kom ihen invites licr 
youngest lister lo speak and, taking the cord, the laiter goes 
on with the »iory. With the w(«mI ihus gathered, the young 
heroes built ^n immense pyre arntind Walhalla: \i this wooJ 
take? fire, that will be the end of the race of gods. Just then 
the sirand which the Norns arc weaving breaks, and with it 
is destroyed their gift of prop]iecy. In terror they clutch the 
ends of the cord but in vain; immediately they are lost in 
the depths of the earth. 

Tlie sun has been slowly rising and now it is full daylight, 
Siegfried and Briinuhilde are seen approaching, the latter 
lending her charger. Crane, by the bridle. Siegfried's mission 
is not yet fuhiiled and he longs to be off to perform new deeds. 
Briinnhildc has told him the story of Walhalla and many 
secrets of the gods. As an assurance of his faith, Siegfried 
leaves the Ring with the maiden, while she gi\'cs him her be- 
lovnl horse to aid him in his exploits. After many vows 
of fidelity and love. Siegfried starts on his mission. 

The foregoing may be regarded as a prologue to the play, 
which begins at this point. The scene represents the 
Gibichung's hall or the Rhine ; there Guniher and his sister 



ittSTOfEV OP wrsic 



381 



Gulrune arc sitting in compati^r with their nx>rose hJf- 
broiher. Hagcn. The lAttcr ha§ hrard of ihc beaulirul Bmnn- 
hildc guardcil by flames and urges his broilier to seek Iier oul 
and marry her. He knows that Siegfried i* the only one vir- 
tuous ruuj brave enouf^h to rescue her and he advisee Gtmther 
to olTer Gutrune to the hero in exc1i:m;^ for his loved Bninn- 
hililt. To accomplish thh, H^igfii prejwrcs a draught whiHi 
sTial! cauHT it% cfriEiWrr lo forgrt all pnM love; although he U 
well aware of Siegfried's union with Dfiinnhildc. both his 
brotlicr and sister arc ignorant of it 

Sief^fricd arrives at the hall, lor t1 ts in the path oi his 
journey, and is made itiosi welcome; Haven's evil plans carry 
and by mean* of i!ie magic potion, Siegfried forgets hi* pai- 
Mtm fur BniitnhiUte and fallft tii kive with (iiilninc. t^irning 
that Cuntlier winhe^ to weJ a maiden who 1* Mjrroiinrjcd by 
flames, he offers lo secure her for him» and they dq>art lo- 
gcthcr. So thoroughly has the Invc draught done its wortt 
thai the name Briinnkdde suggests only a vague rcntiniscenct 
to Siegfried, and he willingly consent* to obtain her for 
Cunthtr. Disguising himself in the ic^rh and personality of 
the latter* he again makes his way tliroiif^h the flamen: 
Bninnhildc vainly struggles against the 5uppo^ed stranger* 
who wrests the King from her, and so conquers her. Still in 
the guise of Cunther, Siegfried forces her to follow him and 
enter the grotto to await the other's coming. 

Act If. displays tlie river Rhine in front of the palace of 
llie Oibichungs. It is mgtit. with just ciiongh light to fthow 
Hagen sitting motionless before the palace door. 

Alberich, hb father. aUhou|::h invisible, ftpe&k^ in him and 
uT^ref him on in his project 10 recover the Ring, Day slowly 
breaks and disclo»es Siegfried hastening to bring rcwi of his 
triutrph. Gtinthrr will mmju rettirn with hi» bride and Gu- 
trune prepares an elaborate welrome for them, flagen. 
usually savage and morose, is gay over the success of his plan 
and aifis in the preparations. 

Finally a boat brings Cunlher and hia bride, who, with pale 
face and sorrowful eyes, is presented to alt. At the sight of 
Siegfried* Britnnhildr almost faints, so great is her astotitsh- 
foent* while lie is quite unconscious of the reason. Catclnng 
sight of the Ring, whirh is once more in hii |K>»seftsion. slie 




mt world's rROCKKssL 



denunds to know Iiow he bas come b>- h, to which Ik rqilies 
onl^ Uul be remembers having worn il in his fight i^ith 
the drason- Hagcn goads BninnhUdc on to revenue, altbou^h 
the rc4t (liscbim any ireachery. The excitenienl is at its 
height wben Bruiinhilcle, tTiaj&>itc In her ivraih, doomft Si^*- 
fried to drAiti in hin n^xt aanhAi, knowing that by i!r;i(h jilone 
can she re^in his lovt When he bas vrithdrawn with Gu- 
trune. Hasrcn offers to aveQe:c Briinnhilde. who in her anger 
bclraya to hixn the hero's one vuhicrabk spot— directly beneath 
the shoulder. 

Act, IlL opens in a glen on the banks of the Rhine, from 
whence comes the melody of "Rhine-gold-** Tlie waler- 
m;Lir!cnK apjicar^intl he.^cet'h Siegfried Xo return their Ring aru! 
have about pcrftu^dcd him to throw it into the Rhine when 
ihey mention the evil which will befall him should be refuse; 
this arouses the resentment of the fearless hero and he leav-es 
them in scorn. 

Fellow -hunters now overtake him and. while he relates 
bih encounter willi the Rhinc-^laughtersj Tiagcii niixcs an herb 
with hi« wine that enables him to remember all be has forgot- 
ten; while the hero is thus tortured by remorse, the traitor 
plun^tft hi* *word into his back. With his last breath Sieg- 
fried sings a death-song of un*Lrpas«ed beauty and then ex- 
pires with the name of Rriinnhilde on his lip*. His com- 
panions place his body on a litter of lioughs ami the funeral 
procession journeys out of the glade. Gunlher sadly follovving. 
The music of this death march rises to stiblimc heights and 
ie probably the most manclous funeral music ever written. 
When the last follower has gone» the scene is in almost total 
darkness. 

Out of the silent palace at length come* Cetnmc. anxiously 
watching for the return of her brother and Siegfried; she has 
been asleep and dreamed that she beard Brimnhildc's laug^ of 
triumph. Xlagen appears and she asks him why the hunts- 
men are delayed, only to be told that the one she loves has 
been slain by a wild l>oar. Just ihen the sad proctfssion ar- 
rives ami the unhappy girl swoons by ihe lifeless Urtiy of the 
hcTO- Gunlher then reveals M^^n'^ crime, calling cvrftca 
upon his head Thus foiled, the traitor comes forward and 
professes his guilty boldly claiming the Ring as his prize 



ntSTORY OF UVSEC, 



383 



Clinthcr draws bifi eword to pre\'eiit his stealing the treasure 
and is pkrccd ihrcugh by his brother's blade Just as tlie 
a^assin U about to take the Riii^» the- hard of the corpse U 
raided sts if in [iroiesl am] he sduiiik^ bad;, afraid. Bruini* 
hitdc then A[3jjur^ at the back of the Mla^c aiid cnhnly com- 
mands the confusion lo ctn^. Gutrunc hiucrly reproaches her 
for having brought so much misfortune to their palace but, 
with great dlpfnitv- Briinnhitdc explains that slie Is the hero's 
[awful wife and the only one he truly loved. Brouglu to a 
realization of the <xlinuH p»rt she !]»< hem (urcetl tu t^Uy. 
Gutrunc is utterly overwhelmed with gnef 

Gazing long on Siegfried's face, Brijnnhildc orders the 
servants to build a funeral pyre about the hero's corpse, and 
then sends for her faithful steed, Grane, Takinp the Ring in 
her hand, she bequeaths it to tlie Rhine-daughters, that its 
curse may conic to an erul. She telli the assembled mortals 
vrhat she h;i^ le^irnrd at such treincndfniv co5t; that the race of 
gods is powerless before man, and 15 now extinct; but there 
is something left to them which is more precious th;in gold or* 
knowledge itself — Love This alone is worth the conquest 
and alone can give perfect happiness. 

Then, mounting her horse, she springs into the (laming 
pyre ; in fear the speciaforA Flee ;lu(1 ihc scene is lost in s:ntjke. 
Soon this (l:es down, and the waters of the river arc seen 
overflov^ing to the very threshold of the palace. The Rhine- 
daughters come to claim their treasure and again is heard the 
song of the Ring: 




Hagen tries to rescue it by plunging into the waters, but be 
is dragged into the depths and disappears, while ihe water- 
nymphs liiinnpltanlly display llie Ring, which is once more 
tlicirs- 

The distant scene is stilt red with fire, Walhalla is en- 
gulfed in the flames and the Etoiy of the King of the Nibe- 
lung iii ;it an end- 



3»4 



Ta% wo«ld'5 PftOCMB^ 



CHAPTER Xllt 



THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 

The foUowmg letter, written by Wagner to a FrcxKh friend, 
Francois Villoa, has been used as a preface lo a prose translft- 
tton of bis bbretli ami U valued highly aince it embodies the 
master compOMr'a own expftislon: 
My honoiiTed Friend : 

Voti iJe»ired lo recdve from me personaUjr, some ctar 
ddinition of thofe vdcaa wbidi I pubH^ied some years a|:o in 
Ccnnany in a Mrrics of art essays, and which excited enough 
attevitfon, as well as opposiiion, to prepare for me a curious 
and expecUnt reception In France also. You considered this 
Id be iinfjonani for my own interest a$ well, as you kindly 
believed that you n:j^ht a»iirne that much error and prejudice 
would be dispelled by a wcU-considcrcd cxpfdnacion of my 
ideas, and that many perplexed critics would feel themselves in 
a better situation, on the intended production of one of my 
musical dramas in Paris, 10 erhicire only the work of art tt" 
acif, and not al the aanie time to give their judgment on an 
apjarenily f^ucHi ]i»:iahk thory. 

I confcji* that it would have been extremely difficult for mc 
to have c^>mpticd with your kindly meant requcil, if you had 
not at the same lime pointed cut lo nic the only ^^y in which 1 
iKlieved I could do so, by your expressed wish to lay before 
the public a translatior of my operaiic poems. For it would 
have seemed impossible lo me to again wander ihrough the 
labyrinth of theoretical «|}eculatioii in purely abstract fashion; 
and I can recojniizc, from the diMikc thai now keeps me from 
even reading over a|^n my theoretical writini^s, the fact that 
at the time I wrote those works. I was in a thoroughly ab- 
normal Slate, such as may be experienced once in the life of 
an arrirt, but cjnmil well be repeated, 

Allow mc f^rst of al! to describe this state to you in its 
prircipal characteristic features, as far as I can at present 
recognize them. If you will gnint mc some space for this 
purpose, 1 can then hope, proceeding from the detcripiion of 
a subjective mood, to place before you the concrete contents 



HISTOftV OF MUSIC. 



385 



of artistic theories which it would novr be iinpo^Kiblc for dig 
to repent in a purely abstract form, — while this letter wouM 
also be a hindrance Hj the object of my cominunicaiion. 

If wc may regard all nature, looked at as a whole, as a 
process of c!evclo;ancnl from the unujuNcions Ut toii_sirimi4TW!ts, 
tml ii tliia process appears mo^it con^iiiruoii^ly in the human 
individual, ihc ol»scrvatto« of it in the life of the artist 11 cer- 
tainly one of the iro«l intercstinj;, because in him anil his 
creationt> the world repreicntsi itielf and corner to conscious 
exUtence. But in the artist, 100, the presenting furce t« in 
its very nature u neon scion s^m si i nc 1 1 vc : ami even where he 
requires thought in order to form the outline of his intiiitioii, 
by the aid of tlic technical ability with which be 13 endowed, 
into an objective work of art, it h not exactly ret!eclion that 
decides for him the choice of hi« niean« of expre^i^ion, but 
rather an instinctive iitipiil>£e, which con^lituiefi, indeed, the 
character of his peculiar talent. Tlie necessity for continued 
reflection \\ill only come to him, when he meets with some 
great obstacle to the apphcation of the means necessary for 
his expression— that is, where the means for the presentation 
of his ailistic purpose are continually rendered difficult or are 
even furbidtlcn to him. 

Tli;tt arlisi will find himself much the moitt frequently in 
the latter pa*Itioii. who reqviircs for represcntatioTi of hi» 
object not only hfclcss tools, but a union o[ living artistic 
forces. Such a union, in llic most extended sense, is a neces- 
sity to the dramatic poet, in order to give lo his poem the 
most intelliijible expresston. And for this he has lo go to tlie 
stage, which, as the exponent or representative, forma of 
itaclf. with ihc laws peculiar to it, a special aTt*<lepartmcnl. 
The dramatic poet gws to this stage as to a completed art- 
element; he must mingle himself with it and its peculiar na- 
titre^ in order to fee bis artistic purpose realized. If his ien<* 
dencies are fully in accord with those of the stage, there e;in he 
no talk of stKh a conflict as T have menlitmed; and only the 
cliaracler of lhi« accord neeil.t to \ic nieiitioLicd, to determine 
the worth of the work of art called into bcine by it. If, on 
the contrary, those tendencies arc entirely di^xrgenl, it i* easy 
to understand the sore need of the artist who sees himself 
forced to employ for the expression of his artistic purpose an 



38(1 THt WOlU/8 PIOGUn 

iit-lnitrunwnt which in its nature belongs to wather purpose 
thin hii own. 

Tbs GOnaciounuu that was forced upon roe, that I found 
myiflf in sudi a situation, compelled me during a certain 
pviod of my life to confine myself to the more or less m- 
conwious methods of artistic productioo, in order to gain hj 
ptrditent reaction aome knowledge of this prohlcmatic ntn- 
ation by the investigaticsn of its reasons. I may assume that 
the problem hcr« presented had nevfr pressed so hard tqwn an 
artltt as prtdtdy upon me. because the artistic dements that 
entered hito ^ matter had certainly never before stood in 
audi nianilbU and peculiar rdatioos to one another as here, 
whert poetry and music on the one hand, and the modern lyrk 
scene on the other* should unite in the most untmstwof^ 
and e^TOCal institntioii of our ti m e - -die operatic stage 
And twre let me at once prait out to you the difference — 
very inflpoftaiil ui my eye^ whirn exists between tlic retattcai 
of operatic cotn|iosers to the operatic stage m Frann and 
Italy* and that "MA pre^-aib in Gemony. It b so oonsider- 
iMe that iron wiO <a^ peirare^ from Ac dafxtcsnstics of 
this diffB«nc«. bow it » that the problem 1 bvre dca cr fcd 
COttU Sk> vfsiMy pre!$ent ilsdf only to a Gmnan aiAor 

In Italy, where me opera was fint eUxnted. no other 
laA has ever been $ct be6>re the mu^tcian dun to wnc a 
numit^t ^>f wrs f^^r spcctjd s^ngere^ :n whom *irararx tij-iE 
was <«ttritty a **wndinr corsioeninoc : — airs that ifccmi *t^^ 
the*e vviw^^ *« *.^>iv^^i:try -v" bnn^ rrto ptiy t'-re-r sv^^cnl 
S^Sl?c vvv^ p».m^^rs, Atl :^iK cV>etr>- oral so?n«y cTxricrsii 

liihk* Jluh.x^ pcws>fN :he st:rar t^: tS- ocbcr a=$: xrc ri« 
ife»M£^ ?*-'<crT 40*! *:t^ctt :iac bat pnre 3«cre. 3is 'mna 



Bisrofty 01* Huac 



387 



mcnt of tlie ^rand opent, a ^itrtcl s1>k- was gmhi^tUy forutcd, 
borrotvcd iii its main fisttirci frnm tlic mlt^ of ihc Theatre 
FrancaU, which iricUidc<I in itsdf all the arrangienients arul 
rcquiremeiils of a dramjitic rcprc^cnlation. Without cliar- 
actenzing h more padicularly at this moment, Wt us bear in 
mind the one fact ihat (here existed here a theater that Sty^vd 
AS a models in which UiU style wai developed, ctjirally dc- 
(cmiininir the cour=* nf hoth |>crfonner and author; tlmt the 
author found the exactly defined frame all ready prepared, 
which he was 10 till with action and niii*«ic: that he had kno^vii 
and tt^ined sinjjjers and Impersonator* in mind, with whom he 
wa% in perfect accord 3* to \\\^ pnrpOMr. 

TJir opera rracherl Germany, however, a« an entirely com- 
pleted foreign prrxIucL — foreign, in iU ^'cry nature, to the 
whole character of llx nation. Fir*t of all, German princes 
brought Italian opera troupes to their courts; German com- 
posers had to visit Italy to perfect ihem*elves there in the art 
of operatic composition. At a later period the theaters them- 
selves t<v)W it np, c?i]Kvially ihe public prrxlnrtion nf tran^la- 
lions of French operas. Attempts at Gernwn opera consisted 
an nothing but the recitations of forci|:n oper<i5 in the Gctman 
lon^uage. No central theater, to serve as a model for this 
purpose, was ever established. All remained vtx the greatest 
anardiy — Italian and French style* and German imitations 
side \yy side, F^ideavors to make from the onginaK unde- 
veloped, German nnisical drama, an indq>endeni and popular 
ga\rf. were almost always repressed by the influence of 
formal elaboration, as it came from foreign countries. . . . 

You ;>crccive that there was practically no operatic theater 
in existence for the true and eirneat musician. If his in- 
clination or edticatitm inclined him toward tlie theater, he was 
forctril to I>ct;Lkr him*plf to wriltng in ll;*ly for the Italian, or 
in France for the French opera; and while Mozart and Gluck 
wTote Italian and I-'rench works, the really national music of 
Germany grew up upon an entirely different basis from that 
of the opera. Turning away from the opera altogether, and 
in thai very branch of composition from which tbe Italians had 
diverged wiili the first appearance of the opera, a truly char- 
acteristic music developed in Germany, from B&cb to Bce- 
thos'en, up to tlie climax of its mar%-clous richness, — a school 



388 



TIIV, wo»i.u'fi ritOCtiESS. 



that has led Ocmian music to iU univcrsaUy rco^nizcd im* 
porta ncc. 

For the German musician who looked out from his own 
fi«Jd of choral and instrumental music upon thai of dramatic 
irmsif, iherr rxiMi-il mi cimi|>l(^!c ;trd atlmctive fonn in the 
line of Optra, wliicli. hy it* relative pcrfccl:on, couM «rve him 
HA in example m 5iich a way as he coutd be served in these 
clasecfi of music %vhich \^'crc more in his own school, While 
a noble, completed form of composition lay Iwforc h\m in the 
oratorio, and especially in tlie s>-mphony, the opera merely of- 
fered Mm a cliscdnnecied cha*)s of inflmjr and undevelo|wd 
methods, upon xvhich theic rcMcd llie burden of a convention- 
ahly mcomprchensibic to him, and subversive of all cfforls to- 
ward free development - . . 

I*ei us establish first of all the fact that the onf true form 
cf music is ntfiody; that without melody muBic is inconceiv- 
able, atid that muf^tcand niclotly are inseparable. That a piece 
of tiiuHic lias no meliwly, tan IhrreHire only mean Ihat the 
musiciim ha* not aftAtned to the real formation of an eflfcctiv« 
form, that can have a decisive influence upon the fectrnji:?; 
which simply show's the absence of talent in the composer, — 
his want of oriKinality compelling him to maVc up his piece 
from hackneyed melodic phrases to which the ear is utterly 
indifTerenl. But, in the month of llie uncidlaretl frequcnler of 
the ojwra, and wlini used with rejcard to real mtisic, Ihe ex- 
pression of this opinion betrays the iact that only a fixcii and 
narrow form of melody is meant, such as fas we have already 
seenl belongs to a very childish stap* of musical art; and for 
this reason an exclusive liWnji for such a form must also seem 
childish to ua In this ease we have less to do with mrMy 
tlian with the primhive and narrow form of it, — the dttncfi 
form fTanzform), 

And I do not mean to have expressed myself contemptu- 
ously with rcgrard to this first orifTJn of melody. Indeed. 1 
believe that I have proved that It w:is the basts of the com- 
pleted artistic form of the Beethoven symphony — ^which err* 
(aiiJy RIVETS n% ;i wonderful de*tl !n ihanlc il for. But one 
tiling miiHt he cnti?*idcrcd: That Ihin *imp!e fonn, which is 
pre«rvcd iti its entirely undeveloped stale in the Italian opera, 
has received an elaboration in the symphony, which give* it 



HISTORY OP MUSIC, 



389 



something 5u<:h a reloliiDii to the ori^nal as a ftill-(]<nvcrin|: 
pJant n)a>- be supposed \o bcir lo the shoot from wliich it vras 
raised. I fii)!/ aowpt tlic nnporOncc of the primilive melodic 
form in the dance-form; and following the ruJe that every 
fonn, however higlilv dcvduiiiri!, zmjst W.\r JI^ origin m somr 
reoofnizable shai>e ivtthm it if tt i% at all imrlHgiblc, I am pre* 
pared to find cbJs dancc-mclody in the symphony of Beethoven 
— yiSt even to consider ihat symphony, 33 a mdodioua com- 
pUxity, as nothing dsc but the idealised dance-fomi itself. 

But let us fir*! consider that thU fonn extends through M 
tilt' parts of the symphony, and in ihi* h tlie very cpposilc of 
the Italian ui>era. in so (ar ds m that the mctotly Mands en- 
tirely alone, ard the 5paces between the passa^rts of melody 
art filled out by an employment of mi:5ic which we must set 
do^vn ^s a]>fto1ute1y ir'imifloflioui:, because in it ninsiie doeii not 
separate itself from the character of mere noise. Even 
among the predecessors of Bceihoven we find ihcse donbtfvd 
gaps stretching cwn in symphonies between the leading 
melodic passages. If Hadyn, it is true, could generally give 
tJiesc interval* an interesting significance. Mo;tart, on the other 
hand, who, in this respect approached far nearer to ihe Italian 
idea of melodious form, often — indeed almost habitually- 
fell back npon that frivolous phrase-making that often ex- 
hibits liis symphonic passages in the as|)ect of tlie so-called 
table music — that is, a music which. 1>ctwecn the presenta- 
tion of attractive melodteft. al^o presents an attractive noise 
for purpose* of conversation. To n\t at leasts ibe reffitlarly 
repeated and noisily diffused modulations of Mozart's sym- 
phonies appear as though I heard the noise of wtling and 
clearing away a royal banquet, set to music. The original 
and thoroiipbly hrilliaof method of Beethoven, on the contrary, 
tcndci! to^vard the complete disappearance of these interval 
passages, and toward giving the connections between the 
principal melodies themselves the character of melody. 

To explain this method more in detail, thrmgh it would !je 
unusually interesting, would occupy too much space at present 




THE CONDUCT OF LIFE 



Nothing brmg% before uk more vividly tlie iirisvitW, trun* 
sitory snn'al life of llie i>rc-HCiTi ihiy tbnii u liricf o1i«^rvatiosi ni 
and reflection upon the conduct oi tlic rising ^ncration and 
the generation just risen, Not only would the founders of our 
grcnt republic be astoimdcci could they bui pare tipon Ihe mate- 
rial progress ibat has ovenakcu us. but they would be shocked 
beyond measure by the deponment of iwemielh eentur>- men. 
women ruid cbildirii. Bihiks on euquclte weie unce ainuidant ; 
today they are rarely seen. The formal rcCTulfttiona govern- 
ing social usa^ are indeed available but arc read \>y the 
average citizen as liille as the lawt of Iii* atatt- The truth 
is that we are living in a tranntion period; unparalleled devel- 
opment in maienal ways has led to rapid acctimubtion of 
wealth, but time has rot permitted the assimihtion of cul- 
ture, which we instinctively associate as its fitting accompani- 
mentn The behavior of people in public places, in the bus>* 
martd of men, in homes and in social assemblies i;;ive5 evidence 
of a chaotic social condition. Even in sekct compamcs, as 
found in clnb-room<; and at brilliant functions, extraordinary 
latk of good breeding is not infreciuertly displayed. 

America 1ack5 the leisure class of England and other Euro* 
pcan countries: and however wc may regard such a (octal 
stratum, we must concede tliat the gracious bearing it usiially 
exemplifies does sonicthing to siimiilatc other elements of 
society to act similarly. We have to look al certain of onr 
New England town^n where an aristocracy bawd upon cstab- 
l!:(hed family and position has grown up. to draw a companion 
picture 

Wealth has been most coveted in the Xew World. Eagvr 
to amass a fortune quickly, everything else has been sacrificed 

390 



rnt CONDUCT or ufk, 



39^ 



1^ ihc ambitious. Eurcpeans ^txnd ;ij;h2st Ac tlie speciacle 
of a nation niihm^ on in a maci quest for ffold. Tht wmi 
envied have hccu ihe weatihiest, bin unfortuti;iteIy ibey have 
not always l^eti^n most w«)riliy of eTiinlaiicm. Grral rk\\c% 
have been allfmcd to oflF»ct b«<I manner*, (jross exhil»tion» 
of creed and selfishness and objectionable condua generally. 

Nor can ili^ tireless pursuit of wealth atone account for 
the existing social chao«. The entrance of women, first into 
the inMihitioiK of bigUer teaming, and later imo the biiMnes* 
world, has tended to further complicate the situation. 

People now bving: can testify to the altitude shown to- 
wards the young women who first broke with cstabJisticd cus- 
tom siifRcicrily to enter "co^ucaiional" institutions. Refer- 
ring to a family disgraced by a daughter powering such ex- 
traordinary ambitions, il ba* Xxcix feiid : "People refiained 
from making inquiries almnt lier, as iliougb she bail coin- 
milled a crime — to spare her mother'* feehngs!" Vet hciw- 
ever absurd this now appear};, wc may be sure a future gen- 
eration wit! similarly regard some of the prejudices obtain- 
ing toilay. 

The early stages of human existence are likely to be 
Domadic. A wandering life pro\'icIcs no means by which a 
woman can earn a living; consequently polygamy is to be 
found among nomadic tribes. An Bociety ha» advanced, slaves 
have fref]uently performed the labor and niarriage remained 
the nnly avenne open to wottien. Neither in ancieni nor 
mrrli;rvat time« c;tn we read 'if wrmien earning irde[ieTident 
livings. In modern timc^ the abolition of sla%-er>" anrJ the end 
of feudal ser%'ioc forced the privileged — or indepcntJent — classes 
to employ helpers in new capacities and to compensate them. 
Need of someone to care for the sick, to supply necessary 
apparel and commodities pro\'ided some ways by which 
women nnght make a lining. In Kew England fifty or sixty 
years ago there were three occupations open to them : nursing, 
dressmaking or tailoring, and teaching school-teachers being 
frequently compensated but cigtit dollars per month. 

With the education of women ha* come increased indepen- 
dence, W^ile a natural instinct always prompts a wunnan to 
create a home, two conditions have tended bitterly to modify 
her attitude in this regard: first, the opinion mually prevail- 



392 The world's progress* 

ing that when women marry, they must largely abandon their 
earlier interests, whatever these may have been or however 
proficient they may have become in them; and second, the 
utter vagueness that confronts the one who stands upon the 
verge of renouncing her free life as to the degree of inde- 
pendence a married slate will bring — this, being absolutely 
dependent upon the temperament, disposition and training of 
the one she marries, being impossible to foresee. The present 
status of marriage, the frequency of the dividing ways, are 
too constantly criticised; suffice it to say that the spectacle 
presented by the numerous unhappy marriages, whether en- 
dured to the end or renounced, deters men and women alike 
from accepting the earlier mode of life as the only desirable 
one. 

Business interests have overwhelmingly increased in the 
last few decades. A corresponding increase has resulted in 
the number of persons required to discharge business duties. 
Trained women have found their place by the side -of trained 
men. They have grown to observe and comprehend the world 
through their own eyes rather than to conceive of it as pic- 
tured to them by others. They have become property-holders 
and, experiencing the responsibilities thus entailed, they have 
latterly reminded fathers^ brothers and husbands of their 
early slogan : "No taxation without representation." Several 
states have yielded to the argument ; others are bound to do 
so as the desire for citizen's rights becomes more representa- 
tive. Inevitably it has resulted that these changes, crowded 
into a few brief years, have produced wholly unsettled ideas 
as to what shall be the attitude of men toward women in these 
new relationships. Shoiild a foreigner ask what is the atti- 
tude of American men toward women in these new activities, 
it would have to be answered that there is yet no uniformity 
of opinion: that each settles it for himself and his conclusion 
depends wholly upon his sweep of vision and mental horizon. 

Thus we cannot today divide the subject conveniently as 
was once the case into what is becoming for the lady, for the 
gentleman, for the child, but must take the more inclusive 
subject of what is becoming for people generally in their 
relations to one another. Even this would be answered in a 



TllB CCNDCCT OP IJFt 



3M 



varidj of ways ,ii)d the opinions of certain social writers arc 
here ciitd for companion and intcrcit. 



On tmu Bettkr Teachinx of Maxneks-* 

A gie4it (leal of time is ^j^nit \n tlic^c *lay» in tltscuKMtig 
wlial is the \itsi cquipntcni fur Micce^^ in life, and thoJte of m 
who have the heavy responsibility of deciding important i^Mics 
for another generation pass anxions hours in ^veighing the 
comparative merits of such and such branches of learning, 
as preparaiion for snch and such careers. But wc contrive 
to omit completely from tliai delilierately fornnilatetl scheme 
of instruction the thinp: that prohahly matters most; and that 
ia the manner, as v^cll as the n^anncrs, in conjunction with 
which that excellent e(|uipmcnt is goinf; to be u^ed, through 
which it IS. going lo be interpreted, and on which will most 
certainly dejfend ita tiltinute incce4,t. However well stored 
ytMir mind may lie, hcjwever valiiaMr the intellectual ware* 
yoii may have to offer, it is obvious that if your method of 
calling yonr fcHowmim's attention to them is to give him a 
'^ilap in the face at the same time, you will probably not stic- 
ceed in enlisting his kindly interest in your further achievc- 
rnents. And yet we all know human beings, of good pans 
and of sterling worlh, who contrive by so:ne unfortunate 
pecu!i:ir]ly of manner to give us a moral slap in the fare 
every time wc meet them, simply Ix^cause they did not receive 
any sy^^tematic teaching in suitable demeanor at a time of life 
when fiuch teaching is mo*t ]mport;int- It i* a pity that ihc 
wtird "dqsortment*' *honh! hiive beoinc indi^tolubly aw-tv 
ciated in our minds unib the absurdities cind excellencies of 
the immortal Mn Turvcydrop. as it now suggests mainly an 
exaggerated c)aboratcnc*s oi bearing of whose associations 
we cannot gel rid. Through all the ages we have been con- 
fronted by a series of maxims about manners and demeanor, 
which arc just far-reaching enough to comfort us with the 
sense of having an TJiiexceptional code lo hold by, precluding 
the need of any further search for the truth, just as the per- 
son who has a favourite remedy which has always proved 
sufficient is not inclined to try a newer noslnim recommended 

■BdJ: The Minor MoraJitt. 



394 ^^^ WORLDS PROGRESS. 

by his more advanced friend. There is plenty of excellent 
grounding in elementary manners to be had in the nursery 
and the schoolroom. The extraordinary fertility of invention 
with which a child will find ever-fresh ways of transgressing^ 
every human ordinance is kept in check and corrected by 
those about himj who are constantly saying, "Don't do this," 
**Don*t do that," until, insensibly guided by this handrail of 
prohibitive maxim, the child learns in a rough-and-ready 
way to bear himself more or less well at this stage of his pas- 
sage through the world. Unfortunately, however, the more 
grown-up faults of manner do not generally show themselves 
until the offender has passed the age when they might with- 
out loss to his dignity fitly have been corrected. It is easy to 
tell a boy of twelve not to annoy other people by drumming 
with his feet on the floor during dinner; but it is more diffi- 
cult to tell him when he is twenty not to make himself offen- 
sive by laying down the law. That difficulty of admonition 
increases as the years go on, and it may safely be asserted 
that the fault of manner which is not cured at twenty-five 
will still be there at seventy-five. And, alas! in half a cen- 
tury there is time to offend a great many people. Surely it 
would be quite possible to obviate this danger by timely and 
systematic instruction. We take a great deal of trouble to 
impress on a young child certain quite arbitrary rules of 
demeanor, which are so constantly reiterated and insisted 
upon that he gradually takes iheiu as a matter of course, and 
obeys them automatically for (he rest of his life, until it 
would be utterly impossible for him, arrived at manhood, so 
to fly in the face of his early training as lo lie his table- 
napkin round his neck ai a dinner-party, to put his knife in 
his mouth, or to attack his gravy with a spoon. Why should 
it not be possible to have a course of second-grade instruc- 
tion in demeanor, so lo speak, which should in tts turn be as 
thoroughly taught as the primary one, as insensibly assimi- 
lated and automatically obeyed? But it does not seem to 
occur to most people that this is necessary. Our usual plan» 
or rather want of plan, is to furnish the young with some 
stray haphazard generalities, and then consider that we have 
done enough. There are few things more dangerous than the 
half-truths — necessarily and obviously half-untruths as well — 



Tlie CONDUCT OP UFC 



395 



vhich we thrust into the ^ps of our code of conduct m a 
nukc&hifi fashion, and thu^ exclude truer or more complete 
ordinances. And so, without a mi!igiving, wc proceed lo lelt 
young people thai "Manners inakeih man/' or "Good man- 
ners jiroceed from a i^'jood hean " and ihci expect ihat they 
ihemaelvcs should fil! in the details for ihcir own daily guid- 
ance. We might as well Icll them the formula of the law of 
f^ivitAtion, and then expect them nev'cr to tumble <1< wn. 

It is a matter of re|^el that ihe earnest, the hifih-minded, 
the elect thinker* and doers of the world, their energies con- 
centraied on loftier aim*, should so often praaically tf not 
explicitly <-4jnElcmn the "iiiiduc" intjitjrtajice — ti»e very word 
bejfs the qucition— ^vcn to what they call trifling obflcrv- 
ances, on the ^otmd that lime and cner^" arc thus diverted 
from the larger iE«ues. L would diffidently point out that 
none of these small observances are incompatible with lofty 
aims and earnest thoiighK On the contrary, 1 will venture 
to assert that not only arc they compatible with them, but 
that every form of good and earnest endeavour will be incal- 
culably furthered by attention bcinp paid to ccnain details of 
manner which some people consider trilling, although others 
call them essentiaL In tlu* case, as in others, the looker-on 
may sec most of ihe game; ^nd llie idler standing by may 
perhaps realize more clearly than the active and slrcnuon* 
worker* whose minds arc full of wider ^ispiraiiuns, how 
greatly their po^ibilitics of u^efulne^ may be minimiired, 
how much the influence of their goodness may be i*'€3kcncd, 
by being presented lo the world under a crnde and unattrac- 
tive aspect. It is quite a mistake to think that goodness 
unadorned adorns the most It should have as many adom- 
ment» as possible, in order that the outward c^mc^s may cor- 
respond to the inward, in order that the impulse of those 
brought face to face with it may not be one of involuntary 
recoil, first from the unattractive manner, and then, perhaps, 
unconsciously to themselves, from the admirable virtues that 
under lie it. 

1 go. for instance, to visit a noted philanthropist. I am 
not there on business, so to speak, and 1 oug:ht to accept 
that she is not professionally called upon to love me; and I 
feel It ts ausurd thai it should be a factor in my opinion of 



^6 Tu£ wo&ld's progress. 

her real worth that she should forget to pour out my tea, ao 
busy is she haranguing me in a dictatorial and unsmiling: 
manner. I ought to remember that she would hold a cup of 
water to the lips of a pauper more tenderly than a cup of 
tea to mine. 1 ought to remind myself that the manner so 
displeasing to me has been acquired when exhorting and 
instructing some less favored by fortune than I whose horizon 
she may thus incalculably have widened. And yet I confess 
that I find myself wondering if it would not have been pos- 
sible for her to combine both forms of excellence, and to be 
deferential, courteous, solicitously hospitable to the well-to-do, 
as well as helpful and admirable towards the badly off; and 
why, when great and noble ideals of conduct were bring placed 
before her, some of the minor graces of demeanour should 
not as a matter of course have been imparted as well. It is 
foolish that we should in our intercourse with a fellow- 
creature be biased by superficial deficiencies and thus lose 
sight of essential excellencies. But we are foolish, most of 
us — that fact we must accept, however much we should like 
to think otherwise; and if we honestly search our experience 
and our memories, we shall realize how much we are liable 
to be influenced by things which appear insignificant, we shall 
recall how slight an incident lias sometimes produced an 
unfavorable impression that is never wholly erased- 1 remem- 
ber an instance of this which struck me very vividly. A 
septuagenarian of dignity and position, Sir X. Y., happened 
to meet at a public gathering I\lr, Z,, another magnate of 
his own standing, full of years and worth, Mr Z. was 
anxious to enlist Sir X- Y.'s interest in a certain scheme, and 
to obtain his co-operation and pecuniary support. And he 
would doubtless have succeeded, for Sir X, Y., an urbane 
old man, albeit with a clear consciousness of his own deserts, 
was entirely well disposed, and advanced with out-stretched 
hand to meet 'Mr. Z. with cordiality. But, alas! at that 
moment Mr. Z. happened to sec someone else by whom his 
attention was suddenly diverted, and, all unwitting' of his 
crime, he shook hands with Sir X. Y. M'ithout looking at 
him. tlK-reby losing in that one moment of thoughtlessness, 
the good will of his interlocutor, his kindly interest, and his 
possible help. Mr. Z, had almost certainly been taught in 



THE COTTDUCT OF UPB- 



397 



his youth, always lo give hts right hand mstcad of bis left 
when shaking; hard* with peoijlc. and he hid probably karnt 
it so thoroughly thai it would never have occurred to him 
to do an)ihing else- But he had apparently not been tatight 
al^o to Itxik Ills iiitciloailiit m thr. i-mi: n\ the same lline. a& 
if it gave him pleaAi:re to meet him. And ret thi* supple- 
mentary' ordinrince might ha^'c been just as easily and Ihor- 
oiiphlv taught as the firel rule, if h had occurred to any one 
that it was necessary and a^h'ieable to teach it. We cciild 
all of us, probably, cit^ many tnstancrs of the same kind. 
Mrs. A, and Mr, B. being Iwjth interested in a certain school, 
MrfM A. went to 5cc Mr, B. to <lis^l^^ with h!nj »unic point 
m the management of it. Suddenly Mr. B. caught <iighl of 
an open letter lying on the table in front of hhn. and he look 
it up iind li^Kjkcd mechanically through it as she *pokc. The 
result was, that although he vras in reality more than willing 
to meet Mrs, A/s x\iftlic$ alxjui the school, his manner quite 
Lmtntcntionally produced a feeling of unreasoning resentment 
in hefj and she was far more angr^* with him for agreeing 
Inatiemivdy wiih her views thnn she wouki have been if he 
had diiTcrcd from them after listening to her attentively and 
eourteously. All thtis means an ab*^lutefy unnectf^ry expen- 
diture of encrg\'. Mrs. A.» being given the wrong biai at 
the beginning of (he interview, wa* then annoyed with her- 
self for being annoyed with Mr B. ; the irritation in her 
manner commiinintted itM-lf to hi*, according to a law of 
nature as defniiiely ascertained as Uiat of the propagation of 
the waves in ^he ether, and the qiicMi^in they bfld met to 
discuss was settled with an incalculable amount of friction, 
whicJi might have been cnurely avoided. It arose purely 
from Mr. B/s defective training in manners. He had prob- 
ably l>een caught as a definite precept of eon<Iuc1 in his youth, 
obeyed e^'c^ &:ncc quite unconsciously without a separate effort 
of will or intention, to get up when a lady entered hit room» 
and not to sit dovr-n with his back to her afterwards; but it 
would have been well for him if he l^d also been taught not 
morally to turn bis l>ack upon her by reading a letter while 
she was >i.peaking in biui of something else. This is one of 
tlie most exasperating and most prevalent forms of boid man- 



398 



TRR world's PROCRESfl. 



nettt and cine wliicli rviippears in an inftnitc vuridy of 
shapes. . . , 

The (lemeimour of the younger generation !a a good deal 
crtticbed in these days, and [ cannot deny thai much of the 
adverse criticism may be triK. 1 am ready to admit that the 
manner of some young men — roi of all — is conceited, familiar, 
totally wanting in discinction and in chivalroufi connesy. But 
this, perhaps, Ia partly due ia the fact that the manner of 
^nie young girls — not of all — h diaracteri«d hy an unplcas- 
inif decision, by a want of dignity and reserve, 1^ an ugly 
sort of slapdash as-iurance, and ]yy a total want of delicate 
lialf'tofies in the atmosphere that surrounds them, 1 deplore 
all rliese regrctiahle manifeatationi^ ; I ckpUire thai there should 
1)C sons who come down In lirp;ikfa\t wtlh a sttjwI, and t!;tngh* 
ters who contradict their mothers; and I sympathize with the 
grievance, if not with the clamour, of the people who write 
anielcs in magaaincs and newspapers to complain bitterly of 
the manner of the present day. and especially of the want of 
defrrencc shown by the young Xo ohlcr people. At the same 
time I fancy tliat statistics would show that these articles arc 
all written by the generation that is offended by that want 
of defcrencCn Voung people do not, as a rule, write articles 
on the manners of uUler ones. That, at lea^l, we have so 
far been spared. But I fancy that If they did, and put forth 
their views with the candour wiih which their own manners 
arc criticised^ we should find that they in turn were often 
very unpleasantly aScctcd by our manner If they were 
always addressed courteously and smilingly, never admon- 
i^ed irritably— and of one thing 1 am quite stirc, that the 
wrong moment to rebuke a fault is when it has just been 
commiited — never sileticed, or snubbed, or sneered at. how- 
ever much Hieir uUcranca** may seem at limes to demand 
such treatment, they would prohaWy in their turn feci inclined 
to reply more amiably, and we should perhaps not hear of so 
many despairing discussions and inquiries as to the be« way 
of getting on with one's family. But tnstead of Xhh it is too 
often received that in the intimacy of the home circle it !s 
allowable and even advi»i])Te to dispense with the small adorn- 
meats of cvcnday courtesy. The influence of such a code 
on the grace of daily intercourse must necessarily be disas- 



THK coffDucr or Lire. 



399 



troui. Some duldfCTi I n^vc kiirw, n?wtl, whenever ibey 
hinttcd A ihing (o one anot!ier. to Jo >o combntive!y, with a 
violcnl ]ni5k which invariably succeeded in infuriating^ the 
recipiein. The «mc vtnplcasing effect is produced when chil- 
dren of 2 larger growth contmue the procej^s, and push their 
remarlcs or their argiimctiis home with a momentuni which 
arou^s an unreasoning fury in ihoir inierloeutor. We all 
know what it is to argue with such people. It is like trying 
to write one's ojiinions on sandpaper in^cad of on a fair while 
sheet, it is a crime to allow a human being to grow up with 
such a manner. . . . 

We are told that in the days of Mrs. Chapoiie there stood 
ill the courtyard of a board itig-»chuul at Brighton an cinpty 
iroach, in urder ih^t the yfAing Utdie?i — it was |ian of their 
daily course of study— might practice getting in and out of 
it without showing iheir ankles. 1 am not advocating that 
this practice should conihuic. I fear that some of the modem 
pastimes to which younK women are addicted necessitate 
showing a good deal more of Their ankles, to put it mildly, 
ihan the coutemiKtraries of Mrs. Clrpijiuiic woiikl willingly 
have beheld* But I do ihJnk it would be an excellent plan, 
although I fear it might be attended with some practical dif- 
ficulties, if an empty railway carriage could stand in cver>' 
courtyard* witli a crowd of inlendinn; passengers to practice 
upon. Then people might study tbe art of getting in quietly, 
courteously. ;ind in iheir inni, imie;id ni pushing their way 
pH«t in order to get in f>r«l. declining In make room for other 
people* and generally indulging in all the numerous forms of 
bad oianncTS that railway travel seems to induce- Such an 
exercise would also be found useful as a guide to behaviour 
at drawing-room emertainmenia and other occasions of the 
same kind where people ardently desire lo secure the best 
seals. 





Manners MArrtR Mucn.* 



The way in wliidi ihiugs sre done is oflcn more impor- 
tani than the tilings themselves- ""A bcauliiul behaviour is 
beuer <han a beautiful form; it gives a higher pleisure Uian 
statues and pictures; it is the finesi of fm* an*-" If yoo are 
a musician or a^ ^-liiitcr, >uii cannot exhibit thcM- accrrmplish- 
ments in M pUcc» and &t all tinea. You cannot well strike 
up a song from ar opera in a rail^^-ay carria^c^ or exhibit 
your pictures in a tram-car; but wliere is tlic place that yoxi 
cannot show good manners? Gentus, if allien! to ^n unpleas- 
ant ^Jtrsonalily. starves in garrels ; while agr<M?abIt lucdioc- 
lily ba4 ^oldni opiionuuiiies iliiuwn^ hi it?i way. Faults of 
manner arc faults which the world has a^^rccd to exaggerate ; 
they have been the ruin of hne iibihlies and of great careers. 
It is It pity; but we must remember that cf people who see 
us the majority only see us fur perhapsi half an hotir in their 
lives, unci they jtulgc us hy wlul llicy scr in that h;4lf-!ioiir. 

In a fine [las^agc Burke says; *'Manncrs are of more 
importance than laws- Upon them, in a great mca5nrc, the 
bws depend. The l:tw touches us hut here and there, now 
and then. Manners arc what vex or soothe, corrupt or purify, 
exalt or dchn^tr. b.trhan?c or refine us, by a constant, steady, 
tmiionii, insensible operatiuH, like that of the air we breathe 
in. 1'hey give t^icir whole form and colour lo our lives. Ac- 
eortlinj: to their quality, they aid morals, they supply them, 
or they totally destroy them." . . . 

In tournamenti; for a lady's heart and hand is it not & 
natural selection when manners clecide the contest? This, at 
leasts is what flie famotis Wilkes ihtmght. for he u»ed to say; 

*Haidy: How lo Be lU^tpr tliou^h Civil, 

4C0 



THE coKDuct or 



401 



"I am the ugliest man in ihc ihrtc kingdOTtu and yet U any 
one gives Qie d quarter of an hour's ^tart 1 AhM gain the 
licari oi any woman before the handsoiiicai"— ^ his nunncr. 

The vain man can %aiTct\y be wdl-rn^mnered, for he i$ so 
^■^orbed in the conttrmpbtion of his own perfections that he 
caiinot th'ixyk of other |je4i}i1i; a.nd Hhiily ihc^ir ft^Htngi^ Vul- 
garians think oiily of tlicmsehcs and ihcir own concerns. 
Their ancestors were all heroes, and Ihcy themselves arc 
more heroic than c/cn they were. 'ITicre is no art or ac- 
complUhimni in which they do not exceh Their children 
are better than any other children; so ;ire tlieJr servants, 
hordes, and everything that they honor hy pdisesfting. All 
their gec^e are swiins- \nw, surrly, if U not a very grnilc- 
manly thing for a man to spend his time ui trying to make 
himself «ee big and others in comparison <nialh and he need 
no! he Mirpnscd if the others vote him a boor and a bore. . . . 

Bui the most productive source of bad manners i^ want of 
sympathy. Our manners arc bad because we have not ihe 
fellow- feeling which v.^ ought to have. 

Tht! two chief rule« for niamteM, ;ire, iirwt, think of other*; 
second, do not think of yourself, and these cannot be carried 
nut without *ynij*athy- Wr mn%i be M>!e Ut gn out cf onr- 
selves and lealizc the feelings and circumstances of another 
if we wotdd confer pleasure and avoid InRicting pain. 

Want of sytnijatliy it is which conMilutcs tlic Imrd man. 
one who, without committing am-thing thut might be called 
a fault, rides roughly over the moat sensitive feelings oi your 
nature, 

A good manner is the art of putting onr associates at 
their ea«e. Whoever inakci the fewest persons uncomfort- 
able is the best-mannered person in a room. We cunnot 
imagine a case in which a man eoultl be at a los^ what to say 
or do in company if he were always con*tdcr;ite for the feel- 
ings of otherft, forgot him^Helf, and did not lose his head or 
leave his common sen«e al home. Such an one niiiy not have 
Mudied eiiqnette: he may Iw chaotic lather ihaii "k^>>*1 fonn" 
n^ Ihe sUi:g expressHin is: and yel, because his heart and 
head arc wund. he will speak and act as Iwccines a gentleman. 
On the other hand, a very pedant in form and bigot in cere- 



402 The world's progress. 

monies may be nothing; better than the "mildest-mannered 
man that ever cut a throat." 

It has been said that to be a social success one must be 
a moral failure, but this is not the case. It is not insincerity, 
but real sympathy that wins hearts. Certainly those who con- 
sciously aim at social success and at that alone are often beasts. 

A badly mannered person makes you feel old, ugly, and 
disagreeable, and one with good manners that you are very 
nice, and that your presence at the time is quite indispensable 
to his or her happiness, A visitor calls at a most inconvenient 
time, but the lady of the house, if she have unselfish manners, 
will never allow the individual to discover the fact. If this 
be deceit, may I always be deceived I ! Trying to please is 
not always vanity; it may come from a genuine desire to 
make others happy. 

Good Breeding.* 

Know then that as learning, honor, and virtue are abso- 
lutely necessary to gain you the esteem and admiration of 
mankind, politeness and good breeding are equally necessary 
to make you welcome and agreeable in conversation and 
common life. Great talents, such as honor, virtue, learning, 
and parts, are above the generality of the world, who neither 
possess them themselves nor judge of them' rightly in others; 
but all people are judges of the lesser talents, such as civility, 
affability, and an obliging, agreeable address and manner, 
because they feel the good effects of them as making society 
easy and pleasing. Good sense must in many cases determine 
good breeding; becriuse the same thing that would be civil 
at one time, and to one person, may be quite otherwise at 
another time, and to another person: but there are =iome 
general rules of good breeding that hold always trne, and in 
all cases. As, for example, it is always extremely rude to 
answer only Yes, or No, to anybody, wiiliout adding sir, my 
lord, or madam, according to the quality of tiie person you 
spealv to, — as in French you must always say, monsieur, 
milord, madame. and niademoist^lle, I suppose you know 
that every married woman is in French madame, and every 
unmarried one is mademoiselle. It is likewise extremely rude 

•Leiiers of Lortl Chesterfield. 



not to give Ibc proper altcntion and a civil answer vhcn pcQ- 
pic speak to you. or tc go away, or be doing ^onicthing else, 
when ihey are spcakiD^ to you; for that corvincc^ rhcm tJiat 
you despise them, and <lo rot ihink it wonli >"our wlnlc to 
bear or ;iiihwtr wliat iht-y s;iy. 1 ibre ^ly f reeil itot Lell 
you how Tttilc it i« to t;tkc ihc bcM pUce in a room, or to 
scixc immediately upon what you like at tabic, without offer- 
ing first to help othcrs,^as if you considered nobody but 
yourself. On the contrarj-, you should always endeavor to 
procure all the convenience you cart lo the people you are 
wilh. Besides W:u^ tivil» wlikh h absfJiUdy necessary, the 
perfection of j^ood breeding la io be civil wi:b c.i». and in 
a jEcntlernan-like manner. For thij. you should obs<rvc the 
French people, who excel in it, and whose politeness seems 
as easy and n:iiura1 as any olher part of their conversation ; 
whereas the Englif^h arc often awkward in tJieir civilities, and 
when ihcy mean lo be civil arc loo much ashamed To get 
it out But, pray, do you rcmeniber nc%^f to be ashamed of 
doing what is right; you would have a great deal of reason 
to be ashamed if you were not civil, but what reason can you 
have to be ashamed of being civil? And why not say a dvi] 
and obliging thing a* easily and as naiiirrilly as ynu would 
ask what nVWk it i-^? This kind nf iMsbfnlnrss, whirh i\ 
justly called by the Trench rnouvaisc hoHtt\ is the dislinguiili- 
ing character of an t-Inglish booby, who is frightened out of 
his witfi when people of fashion speak to him; and when he 
Is to ansu'cr them, blushes, fitammers, and can hardly get out 
what he would say, and becomes really ridiculous from s 
groundless fear of being laughed at ; whereas a re^l well-bred 
man wculd speak to alt the king:^ in the worlcl tvith as tittle 
concern and a^ much case z\» he would speak to you. 

Remember, then, that to be civil, and to be civil wilh case 
fwhich ii; properly called good breeding), i» the only way 
lo be beloved and well received in company : that to be ill 
bred and rude ts intolerable, and the way to be kicked out of 
company; and that to be bashful is to be ridiculous. 



If I had faith in philters and tove potions ! sKould suspect 
that you bad g^\cn Sir Charles Williams some by the maimer 



404 THE world's progress. 

in which he speaks of you, not only to me but to everybody 
else- I will not repeat to you what he says of the extent and 
correctness of your knowledge, as it might cither make you 
vain or persuade you that you had already enough of what 
nobody can have too much. You will easily imagine how 
many questions I asked, and how narrowly I sifted him upon 
your subject; he answered me, and 1 dare say with truth, 
just as I could have wished, till, satisfied entirely with his 
accounts of your character and learning, I inquired into other 
matters intrinsically indeed of less consequence but still of 
great consequence to every man» and of more to you than to 
almost any man, — I mean your address, manners, and ain 
To these questions the same truth which he had observed 
before obliged him to give me much less satisfactory answers. 
And as he thought himself in friendship both to you and me 
obliged to tell me the disagreeable as well as the agreeable 
truths, upon the same principle I think myself obliged to 
repeat them to you. 

He told me then that in company you were frequently 
most provokingly inattentive^ absent, and distrait; that you! 
came into a room and presented yourself very awkwardly ; 
that at table you constantly threw down knives> forks, nap- 
kins, bread, etc., and that you neglected your person and 
dress to a degree unpardonable at any age, and much more 
so at yours. 

These things, howsoever immaterial they may seem to 
people who do not know the world and the nature of man- 
kind, give me, who know them to be exceedingly material, 
very great concern. 1 have long distrusted you and therefore 
frequently admonished you upon these articles: and T tell you 
plainly that I shall not be easy till I hear a very diflfercnt 
account of them. I know nb one thing more offensive to a 
company than that inattention and distraction. It is showing 
them the utmost contempt, and people never forgive contempt 
No man is distrait with (he man he fears, or the woman he 
loves; which is a proof that every man can get the better of 
that distraction when he thinks it worth his while to do so, 
and take my word for it. it is always worth his while. For 
my own part I would rather be in company with a dead man 
than with an absent one; for if the dead man gives me no 



mt coxDvct or rife. 



40S 



pleasure, at least he shcnvs mc no coniciupt: whcrta& ihc 
absent nun, silcnily iiid-ircfl hul very plainly- tells nic tliat he 
doc« not think mc worth his attentioiu Besides, cau an ab^nt 
man malet any ot>5er\'aiioiift \i\yn\ the characters, cufitoni9, and 
manners of the eompany? Ko. He may be in ilie best com- 
pities M his lifeliiTie (if lltey wiU arhiiit htni. which it 1 were 
they I would not) ami nrver be ot« jot tlie wiser, I ne\'cr 
will converse with an <ib5cnt mnn : one may a5 well talk to il 
(leaf one. It is in Irmh a pnictiol bUuulcr to address our- 
selves to a man who vrt see plainly neither htars, mindc, or 
iirdemtands v^. Morco\'cr, 1 aver ihal no man is ir any 
degree fit for either husliie^^ or convi?rsaltoii v^ho cannot and 
docs not direct And command his aKention lo Uic present 
object, be that what it will. Vou know by cxi>criencc that I 
enidj;>e no expense in your education, but f will pc^itively 
not keep yon a Happer. You may read in Dn Swift the 
deiicriplion t>S thc^e lfajii}erH, and ihe nse they were of to 
your frienils tlir Lapntims, whuse minds (Gulliver says) are 
3o taken lip with intense speculations that they neither can 
speak nor attend to the discourses of others withont bcirif 
roused by some external taction upon the orifans of speech 
and hearinj;: for which reason those people who are able to 
afford it ahvay* keep a flapper in their family as one of their 
donieslicN tuiT e\xrr w;ilk alxnil or make visits without him. 
This flapper ]« likETwi^e employed diligently to attend his mas- 
ter in his walk?, nnd upon occasion to ^vc d soft flap upon 
hi* C)'es, hecatise he i^ always so wrapped up in co^tation 
that lie is in manifevt danger of falling down every precipice 
and Ixjuncing hi< licad ag^tinst every po>it, and in the street* 
of jostling olhcTs, or being jostled into the kennel himself. 
If Christian will tmdcrtakc this province into tlic bargain, 
with all my hcarl; but I will not allow him any increase of 
wages tipon that score; In short, I give you fair warning 
that when we meet, if you are absent in mind I will scon 
lie abient in body, for it will l»e muK-wsible ffir me to stay in 
the nMiii; and if at table yuii throw ilown yiiur knife, plate, 
bread, etc., and hack the wing of a chicken for half an hour 
without l)cing able lo cut it oflf, and >"our sleeve all the linie 
in another dish. I must rise from tabic to escape the fever 
you would certainly give me. Good God! how 1 ^iKxtld he 



4o6 THK world's progress, 

shocked if you came into my room for the first time with 
two left legs, presenting* yourself with all the graces and 

dignity of a tailor, and your clothes hanging upon you like 
those in Monmouth Street, upon tenterhooks! whereas 1 ex- 
pect, nay, require to see you present yourself with the easy 
and genteel air of a man of fashion who has kept good com- 
pany. I expect you not only well dressed but very well 
dressed; I expect a gracefulness in all your motions, and 
something particularly engaging in your address. All this I 
expect, and all this it is in your power, by care and attention, 
to make me find; but to tell you the plain truth, if I do not 
find it we shall not converse very much together, for I cannot 
stand awkwardness and inattention, — it would endanger my 
health. You have often seen and I have as often made you 

observe L *s distinguished inattention and awkwardness. 

Wrapped up like a Laputan in intense thought, and possibly 
sometimes in no thought at all (which T believe is very often 
the case with absent people), he does not know his most inti- 
mate acquaintance by sight or answers them as if he were at 
cross purposes. He leaves his hat in one room, his sword 
in another, and would leave his shoes in a third, if his buckles^ 
though awry, did not save them; his legs and arms by his 
awlavard management of them seem to have undergone the 
question extroordwaire; and his head always hanging upon 
one or other of his shoulders seems to have received the first 
stroke upon a block. T sincerely value and esteem him for his 
parts, learning, and virtue, but for the soul of me I cannot 
love him in company. This will be universally the case in 
common life of every inattentive, awkward man, let his real 
merit and knowledge he ever so ^reat. When I was of your 
age I desired to shine as far as I was able in every part of 
life, and was as attentive to tny manners, my dress* and my 
air in company of evenings as to my books and my tutor in 
the mornings, A young fellow should be ambitious to shine 
in everything, and of the two always rather overdo than 
underdo. The^e things are by no means trifles; they are of 
infinite consequence to those who are to be thrown into the 
great world and who would make a figure or a fortune in it- 
It is not sufficient to deserve well; one must please well* too. 
Awkward, disagreeable merit will never carry anybody far. 



THi! cownt-ct op upe. 



407 



Wherever y<iM find l Qx^od d&ndnii^-mastcr, pray let him put 
you upon your baunclics: not 50 much for the sake ol dancing 
&ft for coming; into a rootn and presenting yoursd( genteelly 
and gracefully. Women, whom j-ou ougln to endeax^r to 
|)1cnHe, atniKit fnrgiv«^ vulgar and awlcward >tirs muI gt^urcs. 
• ■,• • ■ ■,• •■• • 

Before it is very long, ] nm of opinion tUn you will both 
thmk and $\>eok more favoMUy of women than yoii do rvow- 
Vou »eeiti to tliitik xlxan from Eve ilownnards they liave done 
& grrtit drat of nii^chirf, Afi for ifwl lady, 1 give hrr up to 
you; but since her lime, hi^'tory will inform you that men 
have done much more mischief in the world than women; 
and to say the truth, 1 would not advise you to trust cither 
more than h absolutely ueceMar>'_ But tins I win advise you 
to, which is, never 10 attack whole bodies of any kind; for 
besides that all general rules have their exceptioiis you unnec* 
c-HMnly mivke yournelf a gr«t iuim!)cr ni eoemics hy stick- 
ing a coqjs collcctivclvH Among women, as among men. 
there arc good as well as bad; anj it may be i\ill ar> many or 
morc^od than nmong men. This rule hoMs a* to lawy<;r*, 
(oldiert, parsons, cotirtfcr*, citii'^tis, etc. They arc all men, 
subject to the same passions and sciilimcnts, differing only 
in the iii;*nner, pKCordIng lo their several educations; and it 
would be as im^>rudent sls unjust I0 attack any of them hy 
the lump. Individuals forgi\'e ftometimcs; but bodies and 
societies never do. Many youn^ i^eople think it very f^enteel 
and witly to abiuc the clcrg>-; in which they are extremely 
nttsiaVrn, »inrc in my opininn parwms arc very like nicn, and 
neither the better nor the w<itsc for wearing a Mack gown. 
All general reflections upon nations and societies arc the trite, 
thrcftdbarc jokes of those who set up for wit without having 
any. and so have recourse to commonphcc/. Judge of indi- 
viduals from your own knowledge of them, and not from 
their sex, profession, or denomination. 



Makhers Wucx Travio-ukc-* 

Travelling is eillier useful or not, according to the motive 
with which it is uinlertid^cfL Some thtrre arc whose sole object 

*IUrdT: Uftnn«» MAkelh Ma^ 



408 THE world's progress. 

is to get over a number of countries just to have to say they 
were in them. Such globe-lrotters neither improve them- 
selves nor increase their happiness. They never do anj^htngf 
they themselves care for, but follow conventionalism as the 
best tourist's guide. They admire by means of their Baedekers 
and Hurrays and are "charmed" with the things with which 
they ought to be charmed. In picture galleries they do not 
look at the pictures but read before them out of a guide-book, 
for the sake of future conversation, a short notice of the birth 
and death of "this eminent artist" It has been said that 
'*life would be tolerable but for its pleasures," and in their 
heart of hearts many would like going on the Continent, only 
for its art-galleries, museums, cathedrals, and objects of Inter- 
est generally. '^Hungry work it is doing pictures. I have 
always to eat two steaks after each collection; besides, it tires 
the neck so!" — th^s is the honest confession once heard by the 
writer on coming out of a celebrated gallery. . . . 

We certainly cannot be said to travel wilh advantage unless 
cither happiness, health, or culture, is increased on our return. 
Many people during a tour are rather playing at happiness 
than enjoying it. . , . 

One object of travelling should be to improve our man- 
ners by intercourse with the polite foreigner, and to lay up a 
stock of beautiful thoughts and mental pictures that would 
tend to elevate our conduct. Instead of this too many seem 
to lose what little manners and morals they have when they 
go abroad. They copy what is bad in foreigners, but not so 
readily what is good. 

Drhss.* 

Your dress (as insignificant a thing as dress is in itself) 
is now become an object worthy of some attention; for I 
confess I cannot help forming some opinion of a man's sense 
and character from liis dress, and 1 believe most people do as 
well as myself. Any affectation whatsoever in dress implies, 
in my mind, a flaw in the understanding. Most of our young 
fellows here display some character or other by their dress; 
some affect the tremendous, and wear a great and fiercely 
cocked hat, an enormous sword, a short waistcoat, and a black 



* Chcsterfieldu 



THfl CONDUCT OF UPt. 409 

cravat; these 1 should be almost tempted to swear the peace 
against, in my own defense, if I were not convinced that they 
are but meek asses in lions' skins. Others go in brown frocks, 
leather breeches, great oaken cudgels in their hands, their 
hats uncocked, and their hair unpowdered; and imitate 
grooms, stage-coachmen, and country bumpkins so well in 
their outsides, that I do not make the least doubt of their 
resembling them equally in their insides. A man of sense 
carefully avoids any particular character in his dress; he is 
accurately clean for his own sake, but all the rest is for other 
people's. He dresses as well, and in the same manner, as the 
people of sense and fashion of the place where he is. If he 
dresses better as he thinks, that is, more than they, he is a 
fop; if he dresses worse, he is unpardonably negligent: but 
of the tAvo. 1 would rather have a young fellow too much 
than too little dressed; the excess on that side will wear off 
with a little age and reflection; but if he is negligent at twenty^ 
he will be a sloven at forty. Dress yourself fine v/here others 
are fine, and plain where others are plain ; but take care always 
that your clothes arc well made and fit you, for otherwise they 
will give you a very awkward air. When you are once well 
dressed for the day think no more of it afterwards; and with- 
out any stiffness for fear of discomposing that dress, let all 
your motions be as easy and natural as if you had no clothes 
on at all. So much for dress, which I maintain to be a thing 
of consequence in the polite world. 



VK: ./'='^ 




HAPPINESS, 



"What is the highest good?" asked the early Greek phi- 
losophers. "Happiness," was the inevitable answer. It was 
the second question that created disagreement. "Wherein lies 
happiness?" And the replies were as various as those made 
today. If each were asked today; "What would you Uke 
best?" the answer would come, "To be happy." The second 
question, "What would make you happy?" would call forth 
the usual divergent and conflicting ideas. Each strives for 
what he fancies will make him happy; each dreams of a time 
when he shall have accomplished his purpose and when happi- 
ness will be his indeed. Wealth, fame» position, leisure, 
knowledge, travel, family relations, popularity — there is 
scarcely any limit to the answers which peojjle consciously 
or unconsciously make to the question, and each life is largely 
governed by the struggle to attain the coveted end. In ancient 
times one school of philosophers replied that happiness was 
to be found only in pleasure. This precipitated a new ques- 
tion» and pleasure grew to be understood largely as indul- 
gence. Another school answered: You can never hope to 
satisfy every desire, for new ones appear as rapidly as heads 
on the hydra slain by Hercules. Curb your desires; minimize 
your wants. Only by reducing them to the last degree can 
you find happiness. These two extremes can be paralleled 
today. Some seek for pleasure in a vain attempt to gratify 
the wildest impulses and extreme fancies. Others there l>e 
who advocate the theory of self-denial. In the happy mean 

410 



Tlfft CONI>UCY Ol* Mflt 



4' 



safety li«^ To enjoy the best life offers, substance must be 
gainird, bul when all eujoymeiii of years as ihey pass is sac- 
nRccd to gi'ccil ir onler tu accjuifc more Ui^ti waul<l abuti- 
dantly suffice. pccs>k have lost ihc ^nic appreciation of value*. 
From the numerous writers upon haiijjmct^*'. bolh in early 
and recent imiet*. oj)inions as lo liow it i* to \k obtain^ arc 
fiiven- 

Of A lUrrv Lirs anp WhurKis It CcBfsisTi" 

Tbeie is not anylhii^g^ in ihis worlds perhaps, tlijti is inorc 
talked uf. and less tinderstood. than the business of z haffy 
life. It i» «vcry man's wish and desiii:n; and yet not one of 
a thousand tliat knows wherein that happiness consists. We 
lix'e, however, in a blmd and eager injrtuit of it; and the 
more haste we malcc in a wrong way, ihc farllirr we are froan 
our journey's end. Let us lliLTefort', first, consider "'what it 
is wt should be ai"; and, secondly, "which is the readiest way 
to compass it." If we be n'lfhl. wc :ihall find every day how 
much we improve; but if wt either follow the cry, or the 
tracW, of people that are out of the way, we must expect to 
be misled, and to continue cur days in wiinderm^ ;md error 
Wherefore, it highly concerns us to take along with tis a 
skilful j;;itide; for it is not in Ihis, as in utlicr voyages, wliere 
the highway brings us to onr place of rc]X3Sc: of if a man 
should hap;>cn to be out, where the inhaL;iiants rnii:ht set him 
right again: but on the contrary, the beaten road is here the 
moftt dangerous, and the people, instead of helping uu, mis- 
guide us. Let us not therefore follow, hke beasts, but raiher 
govern ourselves by T£<ison than liy ^xampU, It farps with 
us In human life as in a routed ;irn:y; one >tumblrs first, and 
then another falls ujjon him. and so they follow, one upon 
the neck of another, until the whole ticld comes to be but one 
heap of miscarriage*. And the mischief is "that the number 
of die uiultitude carries il against truth and justice''; *o that 
wc must le;ivc tl»e crowd, if we would be happy: for the 
que&tiiin (if a hafifty Hfe U not to be decided by vot^: nay, so 
far from it, that plurality of vuice« ix sttll an argument of 
the wrong i the common people fuid it easier to believe than 

'Senco; Uofili. 



412 



rut WOSU) 9 PROCRC53 



to jiid^e, and comcfit ih<m»elres with what is usual nevtr 
cxamming whether it be goo<l or not. By the common ffopU 
is mt«ii<lc<l th( mon of title as wdl a^ the clouted shoe: for 
I do not distingfuisJi them b)' the eye but by the mind, which 
i» rhe proper judge oi the man. Worldly fHicity, 1 know, 
ttrakc*^ llie head giddy: hut if ever a man comes to hitn^l 
jigain, he will cunfefi. thai "whatsoever he hai done, he vrishcs 
undone" ; and that "the thin^* he feared ^"ere better than !ho»e 
he prayed for," 

The true felicity of life i« to be free from pertmbaiion*; 
to undcTfitand our duties t'ward Cod and man: to enjoy the 
present wi[)tuu1 any anxiouji de^idence upon the future. 
Not to amuse ourselves with cither hopes or fcais: but to 
ftst satisfied with what wc have, whidi is abundantly suffi- 
cient: for he that t^ so. wants nothini;. The grtitt blessings 
of mankind are witliin us and within our reach; but we shut 
our cyei, and, like people in the <Iark, we fall fmd upon ihe 
very thing we searth fur wilhoiil riniliii^ it. ''Tramiinlltly i* 
a certain equality of mind, which no condition of fortune can 
cither exalt or depress." Nothing can make it l«s: for t\ 
is the state of hmnan perfection; it raif^s ti£ as high as we 
can go; and makes every man hifi own supporter; whereas 
lie that is bonie up by anything else may fall. He ihat judgei 
ari(tht, and jieise\<;res in itn enjoys ;l perfwtual cahu: he take% 
a true prospect of things; he obaerves an order, nieanure. a 
decorum in all his ^ction.s : he ha* a benevolence in hi* nature; 
he squares his life according to reason; and 4raws to himself 
love and admiration. Without n certain and an uiKhangeable 
judgment, all the re%i \s but lluctualion: but "he thai alwayt 
wilh and nills the :^nic thing, is unduublcdiy in the right," 
Liberty and serenity of mind must necessarily ensue upon the 
mastering of those things which either allure or affright us; 
when instead of those flashy pleftsures (which even at the best 
arc both vain and hurtful together) we shall find ourselves 
possessed of joy transporting and everlaitiiig. It imtst be a 
sound mind that niakcii a happy man; llterc must be a con*- 
stancy in all conditions, a care for the thing:^ of this world, 
but without trouble; nnd -such an indiffcrcncy for tiw bounties 
of fonune, that either witli them, or witltout them, wc may 
live contentedly. There mu^t be neither Umentalion nor 



-*- '^^-^■^-w^' 



ThK C0HI>UCT or UVE* 



413 



quarreling, nor sloih, nor f«^ar; for it makes a discord in a 
man's li(e. "He Ihal fcais, serves." Tlie joy of a wise man 
stands finn without intcrrupiion; in all places at all times 
ind in al! conditions his thout^lits arc cheerful and ^luict. As 
It never cam^ in to bini from withcut, so it wUI never leave 
him; but it is lorn withtn him, and inseparable from him. It 
is a solicicouv life lfi;it it egged on wilh the ho|>e of ^ny 
thing, ihoiigh never m> iipcn nxn] ra^y, naj', ihcnigh a n«in 
should never suffer any sort of disappointment, I ilo not 
speak (his either as a bar to the fair enjoymcrH of lawful 
pleasures, or to the gentle flatteries of reasonable cxpeeta- 
tions; but. on the contrary-, 1 would have men to be always 
in good hwmor, provided that it arises from their own souls, 
and Ijc rhcri^hnl in their nwn hrca-its. Other delights are 
trivial ; they may smooth the lirow» but they do not fill and 
affect the heart. "True joy is a serene and sober motion;'* 
and they arc mi^eralily out that take iau^PiW^ for t^jo'xcing. 
The jteat of it is within, And there \% no cheerfulness like the 
rrsniiition of a brave mind, that h-As fortune under his feet* 
He that can look death in the f;ice, and hid it welcome: open 
his door to poverty, and bridle his appetites; this is the man 
whom i'rovidence haa established in the possession of invi- 
olable delights. The pleasures of the vulgar are ungrounded, 
thin, and »uf>etf;cial ; hut the other are solid and eternal. At 
the body itself \% ratlicr a nccrssajy thing, than a grfat; so 
the comfoTia of it arc hut temporary and vain; beside that, 
without extraordinary moderation, their end is only pain and 
repentance: whereas a peaceful conscience, honest thoughts, 
virtuous actions, and an indifference for casual events, arc 
blessings without end. satiety, or mcasarc. This consum- 
mated state of felicity is only a submission to the dictate of 
right nature; "The foumlaiinn of ii is wiseloni and virtue; 
the knowledge of what we ought to do. and ihe conformity of 
the will to that hnowlcdge/' 

How many things are there that the fancy makes terrible 
by night which the day turns into ndtcitlous! What is there 
in labor, or in death, tliat a man should be afraid of? They 
are much slighter in act than in contemplation: and we fuay 
eontemn them, but tve -unH not: *o that it is not becaitsc they 
are hard that we dread them, but they are hard because we 



414 ^H£ world's progress. 

are first afraid of them. Pains, and other violences of For- 
tune, are the same thing to us that goblins are to children; 
we are more scared with them than hurt. We take up our 
opinions upon trust, and err for company, still judging that 
to be best that has most competitors. We make a false calcu- 
lation of matters, because we advise with opinion, and not 
with Nature; and this misleads us to a higher esteem for 
riches, honor, and power than they are worth: we have been 
used to admire and recommend them, and a private error is 
quickly turned into a public. Tlie greatest and the smallest 
things are equally hard to be comprehended; we account many 
things greatj for want of understanding what effectually is 
so: and we reckon other things to be small, which we find 
frequently to be of the highest value. Vain things only move 
vain minds. The accidents that we so much boggle at are 
not terrible in themselves, but they are made so by our infirm- 
ities; but we consult rather what we hear than what we feel, 
without examining, opposing, or discussing the things we 
fear; so that we either stand still and tremble, or else directly 
run for it, as those troops did, that, upon the raising of the 
dust, took a flock of sheep for the enemy. When the body 
and mind are corrupted, it is no wonder if all things prove 
intolerable; and not because they are so in truth; but because 
we are dissolute and foolish : for we arc infatuated to such a 
degree, that, betwixt the common madness of men, and that 
which falls under the care of the physician, there is but this 
diiference, the one labors of a disease, and the other of a false 
opinion. 

The Stoics hold, that all those torments that commonly 
draw from us groans and ejaculations are in themselves trivial 
and contemptible. But these highflown expressions apart {how 
true soever) let us discourse the point at the rate of ordinary 
men, and not make ourselves miserable before our time; for 
the things we apprehend to be at band may possibly never 
come to pass. Some things trouble us more than they should, 
other things sooner; and some things again disorder us that 
ought not to trouble us at all; so that we either enlarge, or 
create, or anticipate our disquiets. For the first part, let it 
rest as a matter in controversy; for that which I account light, 
another perhaps will judge insupportable! One man laughs 



TRK COKDUCT OF UPC 



4IS 



under the lash, and anotlwr whines for & iilUp. How sad a 
calamiiy is povxrty 10 one man, which 10 another appear* 
raiher desirable ihan iiicorivirrHeni? For the (simr m.iiu who 
lias notliin^ 10 Lo^, hafi iioihiii^ to f&tr : slihI he that would 
enjoj" himself to (he ^iitiafaclion of his soul, must be cltlicr 
poor indeed, or at leasi look as if he ^vcrc so- Some people 
are extremely dejcctdd with ^ckness and pain; whereas £pi- 
ciiru* Messed hi* fate with his last breath, in the acutest tor- 
ni(rnts of the stoni' iriaginable. And so for banJBhmcnt, which 
to one nian is so gncvDus. ami yd lo another is no more tliaii 
a hare chang:e of place: a thiii|f that wc do every day for our 
health, pleasure, nay, and u\ion the account even of connnoii 
business. How terrible is deuth to one man, which to an- 
other appears the greatest providence in nature, even toward 
;r1l ugvs and nindiiitm^! It is the tvish nf some* ihr relief 
of many, ami the end of all. It sets the rlavc at liberty, 
carries the banishcil man home, and places all niorlaU upon 
:hc same level: insomuch, that life itself were piuiishmcnt 
without it. Wlien I see tyrants, tortures, violences, the pros- 
pea of death is a consolation to me. and ilic only remedy 
against the injurie* of life. 

Nay, so great are our mistake* in the trnr c%lim«le of 
things, tliat vac have hardly done anything tliat we have not 
had reason to wish undone; and wc have found the things we 
feared to be more desirable than thasc wc coveted. Our vcTy 
prayers have been more pernicious than the ctir^c* of our ene- 
mies; and we must pray again to have our former prayer* 
forgiven. Wlicre is the wise man that wishes to himself Ihc 
wishes of his mother, nurse, or his tutor ; the worst of enemies, 
with the intention of tlic best of fnends? We are undone if 
their prayers be heard; and it isi our duty to pray that they 
may not; for they arc no other ihati well-meaning execra- 
tions- They take evil for gowl, and nne wisti HglLiK with 
another: give nir rather the contcnipl of all llioNe thing* 
whereof tbcy ^^ish nic the greatest plenty. VVc arc c<iuallr 
hurt by some that pray for us, and by oibcrs that curse u*: 
the one imprints in tis a false fear, and the other does lU 
mischief by a mistake: so thai it is no wonder if mankind be 
miserable, when wc arc brought up from the very cradle under 
tltc i^lI>^ecatiotl^ of our [larcnts. \^'e pray for trifles, without 



4l6 THE WORLD'S PROGRESS, 

50 much as thinking of the greatest blessings; and we are 
not ashamed many times to ask God for that which we should 
blush to own to our neighbour. 

Man the Maker of Happiness.* 

Man is the maker of happiness and misery. Further, he 
is the creator and perpetuator of his own happiness and misery. 
These things are not externally imposed; they are internal 
conditions. Their cause is neither deity nor devil, nor circum- 
stance, but Thought. They are the effects of deeds, and deeds 
are the visible side of thoughts. Fixed attitudes of mind de- 
termine courses of conduct, and from courses of conduct come 
those reactions called happiness and unhappimss. This being 
so, it follows that, to alter the reactive condition, one must 
alter the active thought. To exchange misery for happiness, 
it is necessary to reverse the fixed attitude of mind and hab- 
itual course of conduct which is the cause of misery, and the 
reverse effect will appear in the mind and life. A man has 
no power to be happy while thinking and acting selfishly; he 
cannot be unhappy while thinking and acting unselfishly. 
Wheresoever the cause is, there the effect will appear. Man 
cannot abrogate effects, but he can alter causes. He can 
purify his nature; he can remould his character. There is 
great joy in self-conquest ; there is great joy in transforming 
oneself. 

Each man is circumscribed by his own thoughts, but he 
can gradually extend their circle; he can enlarge and elevate 
his mental sphere. He can leave the low, and reach up to 
the high; he can refrain from harbouring thoughts that are 
dark and hateful, and can cherish thoughts that are bright 
and beautiful; and as he does this, he will pass into a higher 
sphere of power and beauty, will become conscious of a more 
complete and perfect world. 

For men live in spheres low or high according to the 
nature of their thoughts. Their world is as dark and narrow 
as they conceive it to be, as expansive and glorious as their 
comprehensive capacity. Everything around them is tinged 
with the colour of their thoughts. 

*J»mc£ Alien: Mind, Body and Circunutancc. 



The conduct op upb- 



417 



Consider the man whose niiii<l is Tiu^fpktous, co^'^tous, 
envious. How irtiali and mean :md <irwir cv^rythir^ appears 
to htrn. Having no grandeur in himself, lie sees no gran^letir 
anywliere; being ignolile himself he is incapable of sedng 
nobility in any being. Kvcn hi*i god is a covetous bcmg tbal 
can be bnbcd, and he Judges all men and women to be just 
as petty and selfish as he himscH is. so that he sees in the 
mofit exalted acts of unselfishness only motives that are mean 
and ba^e. 

Consider again ihe man wluue ntJnd i& uiiMiK|iec:t]TTg, gen* 
eroua. magnanimous. How womlrous and beautiful ts his 
wortdn He is can:(ciou3 of some kind of nobihiy in all crea- 
tures and beings. He «ecs men as true, and to hrm they arc 
iiue, In hi* presence the mcareKt forget their nature, and 
for ih<r moment become like himself, gcnirg a glimpse, albeit 
confused, in that temporary upiifinicni, of a higher ofder of 
things, of an immeasurably nobler and happier life. 

That small-minded man and this larG;e-hcdTtcd man live 
in two diJTerent worlds, though they be neichbours. Their 
consciousness embracer totally difTerent principles. Their 
actions are each the reverse of the (ilber Their mora! in?^ght 
in cotilrary. They cadi look uut u[)nn ;t dilTereni t)rrfer of 
things. Their mental spheres arc separate, and, like two 
detached circles, ihcy never mingle. The one is in hell, the 
other in heaven, as truly as they will ever be. and death will 
not place a greater gulf between them than already exists. To 
the one, the world is a den of thieves; to iJie other, it is the 
dwelliMj^-|ibicr of grnU, Tlie our ket-pt a revolver h.itidy. and 
ijt AilwAys on his gunrd against being nibbed or cheated (im- 
conjKnou5 of the fact that he is all the time robbing and cheat- 
ing himself), the other keeps ready a banquet for the best. 
He throws open hh doors to talent, l>cauty, genius, goodne^f. 
His friends are of arisiocracy of character. They have be- 
come a pan of himscir. Thej' are In his sphere of thought, 
his world of coiiHciousness. From his heart pours forth nobil- 
ity, and it Tcfurns to him tenfold in the multitude of those who 
Im'e him and do him honour. . . . 

Hach man mores in ^he limited or expansive drde of hit 
own thoughlf, and all outside iliat circle Is non-exiKient to 
bhn. He only knows that which he has bfcotnt. The nar* 




4i8 mt worud's progress, 

rower the boundary, the more convinced is the man that there 
is no further limits no other circle. The lesser cannot contain 
the greater, and he has no means of apprehending the larger 
minds; such knowledge comes only by growth. The man who 
moves in a widely extended circle of thought knows all the 
lesser circles from which he has emerged, for in the larger 
experience all lesser experiences arc contained and preserved; 
and when his circle impinges upon the sphere of perfect man- 
hood, when he is fitting himself for company and communion 
with them of blameless conduct and profound understanding, 
then his wisdom will have become sufficient to convince him 
that there are wider circles still beyond of which he is as yet 
but dimly conscious, or is entirely ignorant . . , 

Each man is as low or high, as little or great, as base or 
noble, as his thoughts; no more, no less. Each moves within 
the sphere of his own thoughts, and that sphere is his world. 
In that world in which he forms his habits of thought, he 
finds his company. He dwells in the region which harmon- 
izes with his particular growth. But he need not perforce 
remain in the lower worlds. He can lift his thoughts and 
ascend. He can pass above and beyond into higher realms, 
into happier habitations. When he chooses and wills he can 
break the carapace of selfish thought, and breathe the purer 
airs of a more expansive life. 

Happiness Through the Pursuit and Use of Money. 

Tn their dreams of the ideal commonwealth all reformers 
and statesmen have held that happiness involves not only free- 
dom, intelligence, but abundance also. During the last cen- 
tury society achieved liberty, and led the black race far from 
the slave market, and the white race away from the debtor's 
dungeon. Colleges, and schools, too, were increased, until the 
paths that lead to the schoolhouse are open to all young feet, 
while the educator has exposed all those pitfalls associated 
with ignorance, vice, and crime. Now comes an age of abun- 
dance, when wealth is here, to build a highway of happiness 
for society, and to hasten all footsteps along this way that 
leads unto intelligence and integrity, to peace and prosperity. 
As never before, property has become an evangelist, and 



Imt CONDUCT OF UFE. 



419 



weollb a distributer o( Iiappiness. The lime Vi^& wben prop- 
erty owner* vrere a little cla«* by themselves, but now prop- 
erty owning IS a characteri*tic of all iKH:iely, 

Wtalth conceni rateiJ in the lisnds of a few, it has been 
said. [& as dangcrotts as the snow when coUcctcd hx drifts. 
while wealth cvaily diffused la like ihc snow blanket, a I'cr- 
tilizer for tlie eitlire land. Already the people of tJiis country 
are tlie po^iessors of property representiiiif eifchty billions of 
treasure, in towns ard ciiiei^, anU farni« and factories, in shtps 
^Mct railwayf!, in institutions of art mu\ ^ieiicc, cihicaiicm and 
religion, Each year ircrea^ics Ihc treasure. I-et!grs arc lacing 
uncovered that sparkle with treasure beyond at) the dreams 
of avarice. Under the iww methods of cultivation the black 
toil of the prairies is seen to hold a richness for sheaf and 
duster thai has hiiheno been ihc despair of the laboraicrics. 
Every month, also, brings some new discovery as to the use 
of the nielaK with cut!, copper and iron. For ihe trca*ure5 
of the wildcrnci© arc as yet unbroken. 

With the incresise of iutelligence, al^>, i» coming an in- 
crease of riches; for wealth is comJenscd brain and integrity. 
Nature compacts the riches of soil and snn and air into a 
single duster of ripe fi^s. In themselves, however, clay and 
air and sun.shine ate wonhless Uu fooil - ciHiihined and passed 
tIirouf;:h root and branch, they charge their form nnd hceornc 
apple or orange. Similarly, raw iron and wood are compara- 
tively worthless; passing through man's mind and hand, they 
take on value. Iron plus inieileet is an engine. Wool pltu 
intellecl is a coat. Leather plus intellect is the shf.>e. Stone 
and brick plus inlellect 1>ecoi7ic a temple or a house Eacli 
new tool abbreviates labor, and frees the boy for study; each 
new convenience frees the girl to read or write or sing. Other 
ages Iiave been taught by war, by the revival of learning-, by 
the Reformation, by the overthrow of feudaliftm, but ours i» 
an area when property h freeing men from drudgery unto the 
higher life. 

Say what wc will, happiness, individual and social, is indis- 
solubly boun<l up with wealth. Long ago Carlyle said, "An 
Englishman's hell wa» want of money." Wendell Phillips 
U'as even more severe regarding his own eoui^trymen, saying 
that if an American saw a silver dollar on the other side of 



420 tut world's progress. 

hell he would jump for it. Angered by the misuses of wealth 
and the cruelty of great corporations, men who misunderstand 

the problem heap execrations upon property. Many have 
come to think that wealth is a veritable Pandora's box, out 
of which comes every possible ill. No sentence is more fre- 
quently on the lips than Paurs words, "The love of money 
13 a root of all evil/' Nevertheless, that statement is a half 
truths for money is also a root of all good. Strictly speaking, 
money is neither good nor ill. It is a force, like water or 
wind or electricity, and in itself is therefore without moral 
quality. 

Money is simply energy made portable: convertible man- 
hood. It is as foolish to inveigh against fire because it bums 
careless people, or against steam because it scalds ignorant 
ones, as to inveigh against money because it is misused by 
bad men, and avaricious. In their foolish diatribes against 
money men forget that if the wind and tide hurl careless 
captains upon the rocks they sweep the wise one into the har- 
bor. Thus money is a force, made good or bad by its use. 
Analyzed, wealth begins with two loaves of bread, when but 
one is needed; with two suits, when only one can be worn; 
with a horse for riding, when a man could walk; with a boat 
to cross the stream, when one could swim; with an axe for 
firewood, when one could break the sticks; with the book 
that takes one through Iceland in an evening, without tire 
or exposure, when the trip itself would involve years of both ; 
and with this saving against tomorrow's need, the scholar has 
leisure to go apart and feed his genius, the poet has solitude 
for pluming his wings, the philanthropist has freedom to be- 
come the knight-errant for the poor and the weak, the states- 
man and the missionary can toil unrequited for the common 
people. Therefore Professor Brownson defines property as 
"communion with God through material things," 

Fundamentally, God creates all treasure. Man cannot 
create gold: he uncovers it. He cannot create diamonds: he 
finds them; nor can he create the raw material of wealth. In 
exahed mental moods Handel communes with God through 
his symphony, Von Rile through his aspiring arches, Lowell 
through his solemn prayer and poem. Not otherwise, all 
those forms of treasure for which man digs and delves reprc- 



THE CONDUCT OF UPC> 



4^1 



sent i}te |>]uJanlIiropy of Cod nxn-hmg into tho»c vtsiUc shapes 
called a sheaf, a waving pine or p:Jm. the shining Mgt of 
gold- If the inavlerpiiM.e of some anisi is precious, ihcn 
surety i1iis example of God's artistry n;imed a «tieaF H as 
5acrcd as a sacranKiiL A certain {oTm of divinity also belongs 
\o cvcr>" ledge and mine, and trade hs^H may well be lookc<l 
iLpoti as a fon» of worship. No artist ever lingfcred ovtr hts 
picture aa the infmite God liiif^ra over a cornfield, putting; ttte 
last touches upon the »heaf an<l shock for man'i aidmimtion 
and dtflighl. T.,Di)kitig :it the D;itn;4Mnu lihidc, we ^idmirc the 
skill that tempered and polisJied it; Uit the Creator was the 
first worker in iron, heating and al]o>-in^ cvcr>' ^o" of the 
ron^U ore in mines. Wc marvel at ihc cr>'staUiie<J carbon 
that men dig out of the earth, that make« the soft climate of 
California portable; bui what infinite lator was involved in 
taking the masses of ferns and blossoms and boughs, and 
pressing them into ihesc blocks of anthracite that yield wanntli 
to our winter 

Nor should we be iurprised that the pursuit of riches con- 
tributes to man's happiness, when we consider that the genius 
of bnHincKs h xhs genius of the teacher All the fundamental 
kncjttlrdgcs liave grown out of the necessity of producing 
wealth, and preserving and distributim; it. Take away the 
good habits that come through trade, destroy the moralities 
developed through the right use of wealth, and man would 
beeome a mere pulp of animalism. In the long igo man wa« 
*ent away to school. The earth was the room in which he 
studied, and the habits of patience, scl f-relianre. and courage, 
in providing against the exigencies of winter, with cold and 
hunger, represent the Ics^sons tliat man is learning. Trees 
are rooted to the earth llvtt they m^y srow, and the handi- 
crafts arc roots that hoki man to the csrlh that he inay grow 
and ftnd cnnchmcnt- 

A» the race ri«es in the scale of manhood, and becomes 
wise towards furrow, loresi, and field, it moves toward wealth. 
What moralitiea. bringing liapiiincss, are tauglit by world 
When man wished for some luscious frjit. the tree refused 
to grow the plum in u single night, but promised that fruit 
tinio long-continued thoiight and care. Seven years of caring 
for the tree finally ripened the plum for our father man, but 
better Mill, ripened these fruits nametl [fittiencc and courage 



422 THE world's PROGRESS. 

within the human heart. Seeking treasure for wife or child, 

man made himself impervious unto heat and coM, and wet 
and dry. For the enrichment of his home he sweltered in the 
tropics and shivered in the arctics; and having searched out 
all forests, and the riches of all seas and rivers, he returned 
from far-off islands, bringing back his "golden fleece'' indeed, 
but bringing the greater riches named self-reliance, fortitude, 
fertility of resource. 

The man at his loom, therefore, the potter with his vase, 
the husbandman with his sickle, the men who cut and carve, 
and plough and plant, and so create objects of use and beauty, 
are also creating a manhood, and achieving a character, so 
precious as to make their material products comparatively 
contemptible. Riches, therefore, enrich the individual, and 
are the school of character, as well as the almoner of bounty 
unto art and science, liberty and religion. AU philosophers 
have noted that if individuals have sometimes prospered in 
poverty, nations never have. A great nation means colleges, 
schools, libraries, galleries, hospitals, a thousandfold conven- 
iences in cottage and mansion; and these imply wealth as the 
fruitage of labor. God, who makes one rose to be a blessing, 
does not turn it into a curse when this one sweetbrier be- 
comes a thousand. There can be, therefore, no warfare be- 
tween wealth and the God who created it. Gold is sometimes 
defiled, but it borrows that filth from a bad man*s fingers. 

The relationship between wealth and happiness becomes 
the clearer when we consider how wealth has contributed to 
the nation's upward progress. The production of wealth, its 
control, its use, and enjoyment, is one of the most powerful 
of all the stimulants to social advancement. When the savage 
starts toward work, he starts toward weahh and greatness, 
because Nature knew of no better way of changing a babe 
into a man, crowned with full power of facuhy. God made 
it necessary for the youth to earn his own livelihood, placed 
him in competition with his fellows, surrounded him with 
stimulants to ambition, and provocatives to properly. At first 
his vices wasted wealth, later his virtues began to assemble 
it. The early savage man was a sluggard who wore a coat 
of skin, and dwelt in a bark hut, ate raw meats, lived by 
hurfing clubs. The problem was, given a savage, how can 



THE CONDUCT OF UFE. 



423 



>otJ turn hill) irrtn a Uesn ami a ftchoTar unil ;i Kiiiit ? Then 
the wmicr was Mrnt, wilh ilft snow and piin» to smite man 
for hi» laz>' life, his tack of thrift and lorc^ight. 

Shivering wilh cold, iiwin wciit forth to pluck the soft 
wool from the sheep, the cotton from ibt po<l» the linen from 
the flax, and foon he wove all these imo j^armenti! against 
the winler's f;nuw. In the Mimmer, nT;iii ate the wild apple 
!iu<l ihc pr,ir, or rnbl.»rfl out the hamlfnU of rice growing in 
the field, but when the winter came there were no fruits on 
the boughs. 00 nuts on the branches, no roots in the ground. 
Then hunger lifted its scourge, and Nature pointed man to 
the squirrel, that had harvested the nuu, to the bees that bad 
hived their honey. Then man went fonh to dig up the apple 
trees and iiUnt ihein In hi* garden, near tlie lenf, untl cut 
down a forke<l stick wttl: which to scratch the grroimd, to 
tame a bullock with which to draw his new implement; 
founded a frranary also, 10 held his little store. 



TuR Akt ok Havinu Timc* 

I have no time, — that is not only the most familiar and 
convenient excuse for not doin^' one's duty ; it is ;ilso, one 
must confess, the excuse which has in it the greaite^t appear* 
ance of truth. Is it a good excuse? I roust at once admit 
that within certain limits the excuse is reasonable, bm I shall 
tT}' 1o show how it is that this lack of lime occurs, and how 
one may, at least id some degree, find the lime lie needs. 
Thus my sermon differs from those of the preachers in hav- 
ing, not three heads, but only one. This I say to propitiate 
those who may protest lliat they have no time for rcadingf. 

The most immediate rcascn. then, for lack of time is to 
be found in the character of the present age. There is just 
now a prevailing restlessness, and a continuous mood of ex- 
citement, from which, unless one makes himself a hermit, he 
cannot wholly escape- One who lives at all in these days 
must live fast. If one could observe !he nwdeni world as a 
bird might look down upon it, and at the s-ime time could 
diiiingui!^h ihe detat1?t of (Is Hfe, tie wuuUI see bcneAlh him a 
picture like that of a restless and swarming anthill, where 



4^4 I'HE WORLD S PBOGRES5. 

even the railway trains, as they cross and rccross each other 
by night and day, would be enough to bewilder his brain. 
Something of this bewilderment is, in fact, felt by almost 
everyone who is involved in the movement of the time. There 

are a great many people who have not the least idea why they 
are thus all day long in a hurry. People whose circumstances 
permit complete leisure arc to be seen rushing through the 
streets, or whirling away in a train, or crowding out of the 
theatre, as if there were awaiting them at home the most 
serious tasks. The fact is that they simply yield to the gen- 
eral movement. One might be led to fancy that the most 
precious and most unusual possession on earth was the pos- 
session of time. We say that time is money, yet people who 
have plenty of money seem to have no time; and even the 
people who despise money are constantly admonishing us, 
and our over-worked children, to remember the Apostle's say- 
ing, and "to redeem the time." Thus the modern world seems 
pitiless in its exhortation to work. Human beings are driven 
like horses until they drop. Many lives are ruined by the 
pace but rhere are always more lives ready like horses to be 
driven. 

Yet the results of this restless haste are in the main not 
convincing. There have been periods in history when people, 
without the restlessness and fatigue that now prevail, accom- 
plished far more in many forms of human activity than men 
achieve today. W^liere are we now to find a man like Luther, 
who could write his incomparable translation of the Bible in 
an incredibly brief space of time, and yet not break down at 
the end of the task, or be forced to spend months or years in 
recreation or vacation? Where are the scholars whose works 
fill thousands of volumes, or the artists like Michael Angelo 
and Rapliael, who could be at once painters, architects, sculp- 
tors and poets? Where shall we find a man like Titian, who 
at ninety years of age could still do his work without the 
necessity of retiring each year to a summer resort or sani- 
tarium? The fact is that the nervous haste of our day cannot 
be wholly explained by assuming that modern men do more 
work, or better work, than their predecessors. It mu^t be 
possible to live, if not without perfect rest, still without haste, 
and yet accomplish something. 



TEE CONDl'Cr OP LlPg. 



425 



The first condition of escape from this ineffective ba*te 
is beyoi^d doitbt, the re^olutio^ not to be sttcpi away by the 
prevailing currcm of the age, as though one had no will of 
his own. On the contrary, ore miisf oppose this eiirreni and 
d«tenrmic to live a% a frev n;;m, and thU m ;l slave either of 
vroHc or of pleasure. Chir pire^cnt :tyfticiii of the organization 
of labor makes this resolution far from easy. Indeed, oiir 
wliole manner of thinking ahoiil money-maWmg and our 
painstaking provi*ion of money for fwtiire generations— our 
capitslisi system, in short — incrc^ise the difficulty. Here ts 
(he solemn liackgrcund of our present question, wirh wWch I 
do not propose to deal. Wc may simply notice that the 
problem of the use of time is closely involved with the prob- 
lem of that radical change which civilisation hself must 
experience before it reache*; a more equitable division of labor 
and a more etjuitahle diMrilmhrtn of prosperity. So long as 
(here arc people, and e*|>cclally educated people, who work 
only when they are forced to work and for no other pur- 
pose than to free themselves and their children 5s soon as 
possible from the burden of ivork : so long as there &re people 
\i-ho proudly «y: "J^ *^"* d'lme famille on on n'avait pas de 
plume qu'aux chapcaiix " — so long musi there be many people 
who have t(M> liltle time simply lietr.iu^e a frw h^ve too much. 
All of this, however, i% of the future. The only practkal 
problem for our oati age is to maintain a sort of dcfcn*<ivc 
rittitude toward our lack of time, and to ^eek less radical 
ways of fortifying ouriehes. Let mc enumerate some of 

The be.<t way of all to have time is to have the habit of 
regular work, not to work by fits and starts, but in definite 
hours of the day, — though not of the niehtn — and to work 
six days in the week, not live and not 5e^'en. To inm night 
into day or Sunday into a work-day is the t>est way to have 
rehher time nor capacity for work, Hven a vacation fails of 
its purpose, if it be given to no occupalton whatever. I am 
not without hofie that the time may come when medical 
acicncc will positively demonstrate that regular work, r.f/v- 
ciaiiy aj one groivs aider, H the bc?t prcser\cithe both of 
phyijcai and intellectual health. 1 may even add for the sake 
of women among my readers, that here is tlw be^t preserva- 



426 THB world's PRCfGR£SS. 

tive of beauty also. Idleness is infinitely more wearisome 
than work, and induces also much more nervousness; for it 
weakens that power of resistance which is the foundation 
of health. . . , 

In close connection with this point shouW be mentioned 
the habit of using fragments of time- Many people have no 
time because they always want to have a lai^ amount of 
uninterrupted time before they set themselves to work. In 
such a plan they are doubly deceived. On the one hand, in 
many circumstances of life these prolonged periods are diffi- 
cult to secure, and, on the other hand, the power of work 
which one possesses is not so unlimited that it can continu- 
ously utilize long stretches of time. This is peculiarly true of 
such intellectual work as is devoted to productive effort. Of 
such work it may be said without exaggeration that the first 
hour, or even the first half-hour, is the most fruitful. Dis- 
missing, however, these large inteUectual undertakings, there 
are to be found in connection with every piece of work a great 
number of subordinate tasks of preparation or arrangement 
which are of a mechanical nature, and for each of which a 
quarter of an hour or so is sufficient. These minor matters, 
if not disposed of in small fragments of time which would 
otherwise be wasted, will absorb the time and power which 
should be devoted to one's important task. It might, indeed, 
be reasonably maintained that the use of these fragments of 
time, together with the complete dismissal of the thought, 
''It is not worth while to begin today" accounts for half 
of the intellectual results which one attains. 

Another important means of saving time is the habit 
of changing the kind of work in which one is engaged. 
Change is almost as restful as complete rest, and if one 
acquire a certain degree of skill in his ways of change — a skill 
which comes from experience rather than from theorizing — 
one may carry on his work for almost the entire day. More- 
over, so far as my experience goes, it is a mistake to plan that 
one piece of work shall be finished before another is begun. 
The judicious course, on the contrary, is that which prevails 
among artists, who are often engaged on a whole series of 
sketches, and turn, according to the momentary inclination 
which overmasters them, first to one piece of work and then 



THE CONDUCT OF LIFE. 



427 



to anollicr. H«ie, icx>, it m»y be remarked 1^ sm excellent 
way of iiiairtairtin^ unc'H s*U<ontro!. The ol(J Ad.im in us 
often persuades the bcHcr nature that he is not rciilly lazy, 
but 35 simply not in the irood for a certain piece of work. In 
ihli fttaie of thing*, one should forthwith say to himself: 
"Well, if you do not feel inclined to ihis piece of work, take 
up with another." Then ore will discover whether the diffi- 
culty is a disiiiclinalion tc a special form of work to which 
one might yield, or a disinclination to do any work at a]l. 
In short, one mu£t not permit oneself to deceive oneself. 

Another point to be considered Is ihe habit of workingf 
quickly, m>t giving lori mncli c;irc to outward fornu but 
devesting one's elTorts to ihe content of iht- ta-sk. The experi- 
ence of most worker* will bear mc out when 1 say that the most 
profitable and effective tasks arc tho^c which have been done 
quickly. I am well aware tliat Horace ad\'ise5 one to take 
nine years for the perfecting of verges: hut tuch scrupulous- 
ness presuppose* an excessive notion of the quality of one's 
work. Thoroughness is a very beautiful and necessary trait, 
insofar ai ii concerns truth, for truth cannot be too thoroughly 
explored: but there a a spurious thoTouf^hncss which absorbs 
Itself in all manner of details and subordinate questions which 
are not wonh investigating or which cannot be wholly 
known. Thorotighncs* of this kind is never »atiKfied with 
itself. It is sometimes mistaken for great learning: for to 
many people learning is profound only when wholly detached 
from practical usefulness, or when an author, for a whole 
lifetime, baa brooded over one book. . , , 

But, after all. we have not yet named the chief element 
in the ar? of havin;; line. It consists in banishing from 
one\ life all Miperfluflicv- Much which modem civiliiation 
regards as essential, is, in reality, superfluous, and while I 
shall indicate several things which appear to me unnecessary, 
I shall be quite eontetn to have my reader supplement them 
1^ his ovf-n impressions. . _ , 

T may name as a second M]|Krrl^uity the excessive leading 
of newspapers. Tlierc are in our day people who regard 
Ihcnisclvcs as educated, and who yet read nothing but news- 
paperSn Their houses are built and fumu'hed in all posrtibl^^ 
and impossible — styles, and yet you will find in them hardly 



4JB 



The WOrUJ>'S PROCRfiSS, 



« cloien good books. They g:ct their whok supply of ideas 
out of the newsjiaperft and mafj^azinc^^ and these publkaUoits 
are more and more des^i^ned lo meet the needs of such people 
Thi* excessive, or even exclusive, reading of newspapers is 
often cxaivcO on arrmint of 'nir puliluMi interests; but oiic 
has only lo iiolicc what it is in the newspai^rs which people 
arc most anxious lo read to arrive al a judgment whether ihts 
excuse is sound. 1 may add that the time of day dedicated 
lo the newspaper is by no means unimponant. People, for 
instance, who devote ihrir first hour in the morning lo the 
reading of one or iwo newspapers lose thereby the freshest 
inlercAt in their il^y'i, work. 



The MiRACiE op Tact.* 

Tact h an extremely delicate quality, difficult to define, 
liarci lo cultivate, but iibsoluttly indispensable to one who 
wishes to get on in the world rapidly and smoothly. 

Some people possess this exquisite sense in such a degree 
lliai they never cflfend, and yet they say everything that they 
wish to. They app^irently do not restrahi themselves and say 
thine:^ with impuniiy which, if said by many others would 
give mortal ofEcnsc. 

On the other hnnd. certain people, no matter what ihey say. 
Cftnnot «eetn to avoid irritating the sensitiveness of others, 
although ihey mean well- Snch people go throngh hfc misun- 
derstood, for they cannot quite adjust themselves to eircam- 
atances. The way is never quite dear Tlicy arc continually 
running against something. They arc always causing offense 
without meaniuK lo. uncovering blemishes or sore spots. They 
invariably appear at tlie wrong time and do the wrong thing. 
They never get hold of the right end of the thread, so that 
the skein does not unravel, but the more ihey pnll, the worse 
they tangle the threads. 

Who can estimate the loss to the world which results from 
the Idck of tact, — the bhrndenn^, the stumbling, the slips, the 
falls, the faul mistakes which come to people because they do 
not know how to do the right thing at the right time! How 
often we see sjtlcndid ability wasted, or not used effectively, 

'Mardcn; Sdf-Dc\c1oi>niciit. 



THE corroucT OP UFS. 



4^ 



b«cau» people lack Ihis irdefinablc, cxqinsttc quality which 
vft call "tact/" 

You may have a collie education ; you may have a rare 
trainirg in your »[>«iaity; you may be a genius in certain 
lines, and yet noi grt on in the W'>ri(l ; biU if you have lact and 
one latent combined with stick-to-it-ive*nes«* yru will be pro- 
nioied» you will 5ure]y climbi 

No matter how mmh z\n\ity a man may have, if he lacks 
the tad to direct i: effectively, to say the right thing and to 
do the right thing at fust the rif^ht time, be cannot make it 
effective. 

Thousands of people accomplish more with *mall at^lily 
;jnd great taci tTian those with great ability ami litjlc tact. 

Kvcnivhcrc wc sec people tripping themselves up. making 
breaks which cost friendship, customers, money, simply be- 
cause they have never developed this faculty. Merchants are 
losinjir customers; lawyers, iiiTltiential clients; physicians, pa- 
tients, editors sactSficing subscribers; clerg)'men losing their 
power in the pulpit and thrtr hold \i\xm the pulille; teacl^rs 
lonng their ^ituationM politicians losing their hold upon the 
people, because of the lack of tact. 

Tad is a great asset in businc:^, especially for a merchant. 
In a large city where hundreds of concerns are Irving to at* 
tfBCt the customer's attention, tact plays a very imporunt part. 

One prominent business man puts tact at the head of the 
list in his success recipe, the otlicr three things being: Eo- 
thusiasni; knowledge of business; dress. 

The following paragraph, in a letter which a merchant sent 
out to his customers, is an example of shrewd business tact : 

"We should be thankful for any information of any dis- 
itisfaction with any former transactions with us, and we will 
faltr immrdialr sirps to rrmcdy it/* 

Think of the wealthy customers that have been driven 
away iajm banki^ by the lack of tact on the part of a cashier 
orie!!erl 

A man mu^t posKss the happy faculty of winning t]»c con*- 
fidence of his fcUowbeings ami making steadfast friends, if 
he would be successful in his business or profession. Good 
iriends praise our books at every opportunity, "talk up'* our 



430 



THE world's rftncftssa 



wsm, expatiate at 1en£:lh on oui list ca^e in court, or on our 
eiKcieiicy in trebling some patient; Xhcy ]>TX)iect our nime when 
abii<lcrctl. ttrd rebuke our maligiicrj. Without tact, ihc ^in- 
ing of friends who will retidcr such f^crvices is intpos^iblc 

A young; man with very ordinary ability gained a seal in 
the Uniteil States senate largely because of liia wonderful tacr. 

A great many men are held down, kept back, bccatisc ihcy 
cinnot get along well with otlici^i. They arc so ccn&titutcd 
thai they nettle oiher*.. nm against ilieir prejudices. They 
cannot seem l« coi)]»eratc with other people. The result is they 
have to work alone, and llicy lose the strcn^h which comes 
from solidarity. 

1 know Q man whose success during a very strenuous life 
has been aloioat ruined by the lack of tact He can never get 
along wiJli |»cijjjle. He seems to ha%'e every cither f^uality 
necessary iv nrnke cl large sum, a leader of men. hnt his faculty 
for artagonjjring others has crippled his life- He i^ always 
doing the wrong thing, saving the wrong thing, hurting peo- 
ple's feelings without meaning to, count t^racting the effective- 
ness of hi* own work, because he has not ihe slightest appre- 
ciation of what the word tact means. He is tronManlly giving" 
oflfcnse. 

We all know nit-n whr» pride tlienisHves on saying wluit 
they think, on being hlnnt. Tliey ihink it is honest. ;i sign uf 
Mrcngih oi thamcter; ^in<l thai it U weak tu "beat about the 
bush" and lo resort to diplomacy in defiling with people. Tlicy 
believe in 'Striking right out froni the shoulder." ''calling 
things by their right rflmcs/' 

These men liave never been intich of a mcccss. People 
believe them lo be honest, but their lack of tact, good jodg- 
inent^ and good sense is all Ihe time C|iieering their propoai- 
tions. They do not know how to manage peoplc,^<annot get 
along with them, and arc always "in hot water," 

The truih is, we all like to Iwr treated with consideration, 
with lacr, and to deal with people v\lio usl' cliploiTiacy- Diplo* 
nmcy is conuiion ^nsc reduced tii a fine art 

liluntncss is a quality which people do not like or appr^ 
ciatc. People who pride themselves on saying just what they 
think, do not usually have a great many friends, nor a very 



"as CONDUCT OF UVt. 



«! 



large busmcsa, or successful profession. Often truths which 
will hurt are better unsaid: 

Mark Twain says: "Truth ts so very precious tbnt we 
should use it sjiariri];;!/-*' 

"A nan in;iy not lia^M* mitrh Iramtng nor wit/' sa)"S Addi- 
son, ''but if he has common sense and something friendly in 
his behaviour, it will condliotc mcn'5 minds more than the 
brightest thoughts without this disposition/' 

"A little management may often \mvt resistance which a 
vasi force may vainly strive lo overcome/' says another writer. 

To (juote agam : 

"A laclful nun will not only nwkc ihc most of cvcrytliing 
he doe* know, but aho of many thing:* he docs nol kno^-, and 
will g.iin more credit by Uh adroit mode of hiding his ignor- 
ance than a pedant by his attempt to exhibit his enidition." 

When the I'rench revolution was at its height and the ex- 
citing mob was surging through the Paris strwls, a detach- 
ment of soldiers filled ore of the streets and a commanding 
officer was about to order his men to lire, \* ben a young lieu- 
tenant asked permi&f icn to appeal to the people. Riding out in 
front of Che soldiers, he doffed hi» hat and said: "Gentlemen 
will have the kindness to retire, for I am ordered to ihoi>t 
ilotvn the nibble/' The mub 'At once dispersed as if l)y niagic« 
and the street was cleared without bloodshed. 

Tact enabled Lincoln to extricate himself from a thousand 
unfortunate and painful situations with politicians during the 
Civil War, ]o fad, without it, the result of the war might 
have been entirely changed 

"The kindly element of humor almost ahvays entcrv into 
the use of lact. and sweetens its mild coercion- Wc cannot 
help smiling, oftentimes, at the deft way in which wc have 
been induced to do what wc aftcnvards recognize as altogether 
right and best. There nctd be no deception in this use of tact, 
only such a presentation of rightful inducements as shall most 
effectively appeal to a h«iialing mind. It is ilie fine art of 
gelling the right thing dime in the nick of time." _ . . 

Tiicrc is no better discipline in the world than lo force our- 
seh-cs to be sociable and interesting to those for whom wc do 
not care. It is really surprising how much one can find of in- 
terest, even in those who at 6rst repel us. It is not difiicult for 



432 TB£ WOUJ»'S PftOG&CSa 

an inteUigcnt, culti%~ated person to find sooxthii^ of nal m- 
itT^t in tvtry one. 

The fact is, our prejudices are often very saperfidal, based 
frequently npon an unfortunate fii3t impression, so tbat we 
often find that people who repelled as at 5ist, who aeen Ml 
very unattractiver and not likely to ha%~c anythiu^ m rt^nmnn 
with us, finally become our best friends^ Koowix^ this* we 
ccghc at least to gjivt another the advantage of a &ir tml 
before we j^inip to the conclusion that we are cot going to 
like him or her. 

Wc arc creatures of prejudice, and we kiKTw from oc^ 
perlencc tbat even people towards whocn we feel IdndlT often 
ciisJTsdge and do not like us srmply because tbey do not know 
cs. Tfcey are prejudiced by some false impressoa or hasty 
opinion of tis: but when they are better acqcainted tbc preju- 
iiiire wears off and cfaey can appreciate our good points. 

Some wnter has :hus describe'! the qoalidcs which enrer 
izTJ ca^: 

*A syrrrpaihetic txmte-igc of h'man tamrt, its rears- 
weaknesses, expecntiorsv arul 'Jicliraii-ios, 

"The abtlicy to pet >"ocr*eLi ^ ihe other person's place, and 
:j consider :ie Tnarter as -c appears to hio. 

"Th< rra^T^anirriiry ?? certy ermressicn ro snch of your 
rbcughEs as mi^bc -^innec^ssar-.lv .:cend another. 

"Tbe xziiir- 7: yerctr-v-j :;^cs:y A-a: is rhe es^^ci^nt 
:"v.::^ ind :^e vllr-.^^^^-^s r: :*'Lik^ t::^: -e-j^siary orro^ssicr::^. 

:";m ;ri":<.;:i, ;: ■\ 'vc:: ; .cr . v". '^ ":i;i :r:e, 

" \ ^■'""" '- ---:^^"i^d 'v':c"t;s< juc!: is '^J'g^^ e*en an 










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TRS COJiOUCT Of urt. 



I^RTEKDSHIP.* 

The problem of friendship is the problem of life ii«U, 
He who ha* learre^I to love — and only lie — lioi Ic-nmed to 
IK'e, ThiK, 1 siipp09«, i* lo be ddiberately, evci* pIiilD*o|Aic- 
Ally. uid. For if life is correspondence lo rnvirofimeni, the 
fulfillment of rclalicns, ccrlamty our relalions lo llimg». ifV 
only sccoTKiary, a kind of mere preliminary lo living; while 
our reUiiona to pcrsotu alone are primary. Here we iruly 
Inv. And tills needs saying in tbi;; age of pliysdcal science, of 
mcclutiisrn, and of emphasis on chirgv 

For pcrsoTM arc, after alt, ihc itwjt Cfrioin of aD facia— no 
pliiJosophy has ever succeeded in serioualy qucstionmif them, 
though phitosophy has called into queitron everything ebc 
Persons are for ns. even more mamfcstly the most important 
fad*, for it is solely in the pernonal world that llicrc lie for 
U5 ihc suprciiie and |jcreiintal iiources of cbafaictcr. of influ- 
ence, and of happtnca»— life's greatest |:ifu and achievemcnli. 
Character and mRtieoce can hardly be coneeiraUy either 
acqtiired or shown outside of personal rebtiont. And of our 
iiitr% it is not only true that frieridiliip it m chief sonrce; 
it will he funnd on rdleclion, I think, tliai even that 
that we do not think of as primarily personal at all 
m its orifpn. tike enjoyment of nature or an« still o«resachief 
part of tn charm to three elements, all gouif back to personal 
relatjonft: to the f»ct that in it, whethtr conacioiiily or not, 
wc are co en i r^ into the revebiion of the perwjrcil life of 
•**hcr— Cod or man; thii its pleasure, » Kant kjng aif> 
pomted cot, can be ihortd: and ilia at least the social Ufe 
fonrn the wctsre bockfrottzd lor it aH 

The oeily tftrnuf ihiii|:B, too, are peraocv and pcraooal 
rtlatjona. They abide fore^-er. "Lore new faitetk" Men 
°^^ ^^ instinctive insight brre; and every man who has 
WW awakened to a cemmieiy unsdfish love aamxA fadp 
hat-mg a reefing of ki eternal quality- 

So that to be 4 trve fricod in every rdalioo scms lo be 
»"n of an. It is favdy poidhle lo poi nwre Into llw 
«OTdof any \%U than b ifopficd in the ijuainily lextdrr aad 



W 



4M 



tHB WOBIJJ'S PHOCRBSS, 



beautiful €|iita(fti in llic inner ciiuft of We?itfninslrr Ablieyt 
"Jaii« LiMer — V)aiv Cliildc/' And l!ic cJiargc of ircadicry 
on tlic other b;Liid, is the mof^ tlammn^ acciiiatiofi againM a 
man that can Ic m,ide- . . . 

And, firKl. what must be lh« 6afiV of any InJt friemlihip. 
human or dmtic? How is an ideal Tclaticjnship betwrm two 
pcr^m lo be established? What arc ihc preieqiiisites? 

Sc f^r as I can 5ce tlic ba&is must be fourfold : inlcgrity. 
breadth, and dq^th of personality: aomc deep commuiiit)* of 
interests; tiititual self-revelation and answering; tfiBC; and 
mutual ^f-^iving'. 

The significance of a friendship must depend, first of all, 
upon the signiricance of i!ie pcfioiis concenied. Nerther can 
^Ive aiiytliiLi^ e^i^enttal but htniMrlf. T\M neU, then^ if oi^e 
seeks a friend&tnp of real 5i£iiificaiicc. ou^ht to be the best 
possible. -\nd that requires irtlial integrity of spirit and 
clear recognition of the duty cf steady culture and growth. 
There \», then, no way of avoiding the demand for «ome 
brr;iilih ;ind *Ieprh am} intrgrify of jjersoTiality for any friettd- 
ship that IS to descn-c the name. The addition of two cipbers 
gives no significant number. After all. in stricti^css, it is 
worth remembering that what wc call the "relation" has no 
existence of its own; it is only our way of stating facts that 
hold only of the sole rcalitiea in the case— the personalities 
fhcinsdveH. If the relationship h to he significant the person- 
alities tlicinselves mttst be stgntficaTit. that in, h:ive integrity, 
brcat[th» and dq)th. Though this is not lo be asserted as if any 
ol these qualities of the self could either concretely exist or be 
manifested or developed in isolation, apart from persona) 
relations. 

Kor is this to t>e taken as justifying the all too easy spirit 
of cxclusiveiicss, ur what Bishoi) Bicnt calls the ''wealdwa* 
for interesting people." For, on the one hand, the man next 
you is interesting, if you have the wit to ftound lum; and the 
great common qualities of men are. after all, thd mo^ essen- 
iiaV and the most capable of continuous cuhure and growth- 
The veins cf mir pnvaCe idiosyncnicir-s arc inylh lexi prrcious 
and are sooner worked out. The deepest ctiftnrc is never the 
culture of the schools, And» on the other hand, so far ns our 
individualities arc more permanent and signiiicant, we Dced 




THK CONDUCT OF UFI. 



4*5 



Uic Mj(iplrmcnl and s|nir of onr anotTicr's iiutivKLualitics. And 
wc may not safely spare "one of thrst* least," 1( i^ mnrc than 
probable that our litilc exclusive coterie, of which wc arc so 
proud, docs not contain fill wc need. It is not. then, iti any 
exclusive spirit that one must make Uie fint prerequisite of a 
worthy fricudahip, integrity, breadth, and depth of person- 
ality. . . . 

For. firtl of all I am -ifntid ii wetiU to i)c said, in oMer to 
ha^-e a fricntlship ^"Orthy the name there must be vital intcpHty 
of spirit, the Eoving piirpo;^ tt5e1f> the simple intention in this 
new relation to btf s good friend. Where this is lacking, wc 
may call the relation by what name we will, there exists only 
a thinly veneered selfishness. How casTly men and xvomcn 
talk of love, where Ihere h no sin^^lc vcsifp-^ uf ill How 
perpetually love's holy name is hiasphemcd. while it:* praises 
are atini;:! 

And yet. the capacity for love is <leep Inid m the very 
nature of man. In Ixjdy and mind he u made for pergonal 
asportation, and he i^ a cff^tiirr fi^H^ed of hl% ctk! urttl he 
come* into uJ^^clf^^h friendMiips. Even the body of man bears 
witness here. Its long infancy. \t& peculiarly revealing 
countenance, ifs capacity for work that expresses tnan's pur- 
poses, and its po&^sibilities for speech, all show powers of self- 
mam fe& tat ion, and so of association, far beyond the bruies. 
Let the inevitable^ self-defeating lopic of a pure egoism alone 
indicate how surdy in mind, to**, man is made for per^nal 
as^ociEttion. And intention miisl match capacity. It ii. thus, 
laid npon man by the inescapeibie logHc of his owii beinj; that 
he must bring to c\'cry personal relation the purpose lo be 
Inie to it. 

No friendship, then, is solidly hfl^e<l. in which there i^ not 
present in each friend that wholesome integrity of spirit that 
cannot endure that performance should not fit pcixeption. 
Integrity demands ihal the sense of the meaning of life should 
carr>' with it the determination to live it out; that to every 
pergonal relation there should be brought the steadfast pur- 
(Hise to Iw true lu trnc's (iwn highest visioti. and in that liglit 
to be true to one'* friend, "This/" Emerson says — and he 
has no Imer word concerning friendship — "this is the office of 
a friend, to make us do what wc can." And my love, there- 



43^ 



Tim woRU>3 rftoctiss. 



fore, m«y be neither sdfish on my part, nor sentimentally 
short'STjfhtcd for my fricticl. For the man who believes thai 
only love 1% tnie life. muM Iciiow wrll iliat no true love fuUilU 
ilHcH in i-iillivAlin^ ^r1fl^1lIkcs^ in 1ho?ic lovrd. . . . 

For a jipiifiaint fncndsbip, besides intcpnty of spirit, 
there must be breadth of personality^ Man is a many-sided 
cixamrc — marked off from the animal world, for one thing, 
by the grenter mulntiidc of his inslinets, and the muhiplidty 
of his esthetic and practical JntercrsU. This is tnir of man as 
inan. It is lx>lU a psycholugkal ^aiid a pbibwophical coninKwi- 
placc, but it5 sugg^estion for friendship is all too litlk heeded. 
Any refusal b)- a in^n to recofni^ Ibis broad complexity 
of his life must narrow every perftcnul relation. For the 
(implc fact h, lh:it the man who mesm to bring a large, a 
sane, a free, or an influi-nlial per)»oniility to his friend, must 
have brcadlh of intcrc5ts, for evcrj- one of these qualities 
depends on such a wide range of interest. And one mu^ wish 
the same thing for hb friend as well There mast be room 
for the moat varied inter-play of mind on mind, if a friendship 
IS lo be permanently interesting and atimulatinff. 

To secure siidi :i store of permanent and v:ili]ahle inleieits 
haK bc*tn truly niTfed one nf the ntn'in aims of eiliKalifm ; it is, 
not less, one o! the largest natural factors in a rewarding 
fricrd^hip. Tlic nian> therefore* who means to be all a friend 
should be, will recognize the plain duty of steady growih. 
And many fricndfhips break down at just this point There 
has been no earnest effort To retain an interesting personality. 
One needs seriously to ask himself: Am I here making^ it 
certain that I dcserse this high friendship? For if friend- 
ahtps arc to abide, there must be some solid basis for an 
abiding interest; and few of us h;»ve s^ich native gifts as can 
warrant any neglect of steady euliure in some form, that *haU 
insure a breadth of personality that may cuunt in friendship. 
And then we are lo make it count, . . * 

Into this solid base underlying every frkndsbip worthy 
the namc» there must enter also some deep community of 
interests. Let friendship, Emerson says, "be an alliance of 
two large, formidable natures, mutually beheld, mutually 
feared, before yet tbey recognize the deep identity which 
beneath these disparities, unite them." The recognition of 



Hft 



rut CONDUCT oT un. 



437 



identity natuntll)" follows ihc sens^ oE the si^ibcancc of ibc 
persons concerned. And that dfjcp idcntitj" there must be, 
if ihc friendship i* to bo of the highest. 

There need not be likeness, tnily, whether of deposition, 
temperament, or ctlucauon. One can liardiv cluuht that 
ArUtoUc dem^iukd too much at tbi» point. Indeed, the most 
Ifenuine unity must be of that ortjcmic kind that U ix>uiblG 
only where differeticeft cxiM, and nre jifladly recc^fniied and 
welcomed. 

Nor need the cominiinit)' be in les«cr mwHrrs of whims or 
f;tncies, or even tasic* or oiTUpaiions. Much is often irade of 
these likenesses; bui it is <iiiitc probable that ihc friendship 
may be finally more satisfyingf and more fruitful, where there 
are differences in all these respecls- 

Bul yet, deep down under all these more «nperltcia1 like- 
nesses or iliffereTices, there must be cominimiiy in the great 
fuDdameiilal moral and njiirilual ideah and purpofkeit of lilc. 
if there is not to Ijc traipc failure in the friendship. No 
friendship is so poverty stricken, so fatally defcctirc, as that 
in which there is no sympathy in the highest moinents- This, 
imdoiibtcdiy, is Paul's thought in hi* exhortation to ihe 
Corinthians to "be net unequally yoked logclher with unbe- 
lievers/' He is not seeking, as seems somctijucs [bought, to 
put some narrowing limit upon their lives, shutting llicni out 
from rich experiences. Rather, it is as though lie said. 1 
would save you. if I mi(j!u, from ihe bitterness of finding 
yoursdves bound up in the most Intimate relations of life 
with those who r^n have im sympathy with yim tn yoiir 
highest aims itnJ a?pinLtiuu5^ 

One may well pray to be saved from such close and inti*- 
mate relation with those who can never share his best, upon 
whom he nmst lum his back when he would be absolutely true 
iQ his best vision. There is sntall promise surely of a satisfying 
love, where each despises ibe ideals of the other. Has life any 
direr tragedy than this deep sundering of souls closely bound 
together? . . . 

If for any true fncnd^ip there must be in the friends 
themselves integrity, breadth, and depth of personality. ;md 
some deep community of interests: l>etween iliem there must 
be, even more manSfesily, honest mutual self -re vela I ion and 



438 



TBR world's PROCRESS, 



answering tru«t, :ind mtitua) self-giving. These are equally 
bixic Willi the otiier fjualiiies. How can there be any friend- 
ship without them? 

CcrUinty there must be honest mutual acU*rcvdalvon and 
answcrmg trust. No acqusintonce is possible at all without 
real mutual sclMi sclo£UR\ Othcrwt^ ihe relation is only 
an imaginary one, and there is no tnje groimd for Xxmsl The 
self-reveblioTi may lake place in most diverse niaDncts, by 
every mode of nianifesUtion, subtler or outspoken^ but take 
place it must, or the personalities will remain bidden from 
each other and no genuine acqttaintance result 

Honesty of <x>urse, tlie revelation must be; how should 
it be reielution el«e? Eineri^on makei^ truth oiie of ihe two 
sovereign elements in f riendsltiji : ^ikI he even dcfiiie-S a frtetid 
as "a person with whom I may be sincere.*' "Before him 
I may think aloud." Pretense hurt* ocr>"wherc And e*sential 
falseness makes friendship simply impossible. 

I suppose the desire to avoid every possible pretence is 
the key to the Friend*' meeting, with tlieir sitiirg in ^Innre, 
It wishes no nianifestation that is not pbtiily from God, and 
is not a kind of inevitable revelation of the inner life of the 
speaker. Reality i^ tlie supreme end sou^rht. The method ha& 
it$ own dangers, but the f^I is a ^eat ore. 

Certainly we cannot build on pretense in any rebtion. If 
fundamental tnith is lacking one ha« neither an Itonesi self 
to give, nor can he bear honest witness, cither, concerning 
those values that he conceives himself most to prize. lie is 
ccnam therefore to fail in the two grcalc*! services that any 
man can render another. 

Not less manifestly must the self-revelation be mutuoK if 
the relation is noi to he altogether defective. The spirit of 
faiibfial, unselfish Ujvc on (be pari of otie nuy be maintained. 
no dotibt, though the other <iuite fail; but the friendship as 
a mutual relation breaks down. For friendship involves the 
sharing of selves. And one of the greatest as|)e<rts, certainly, 
of love is "joy in personal life/' Each friend must be able 
to give tliat jny and to enter into Jt. 

And the iniimac>" of the friendship depends on the extent 
of the mutual self- revelation. One can almost classify his 
friendships by this test alone. There are many with whovn 



THE COHDUCT OP UFE. 



439 



one hardly gtts farther than to lalk about the weather: iherc 
is pnichcally no rcvchtioti of the pcr?;on»hty. cxc^t a casual 
good will, And there irc all gradatioufi of ^icquaimance, 
from this weather d^ree to the complttest revelation that it 
is possible far one soul to make to another in the closest 
reUtJons cf hfe. 

The many-sidedness of some persoiialitics h *iich that 
they probably reveal ihciiiscl^'es but very partially in any one 
relation. The full meaninj:; of such a life can be disclosed only 
as ihe sdf*revelatioii» in many different relaiionK are made 
lo Htippleinerit each olher. And it i< one of the delightful 
ftiir|)ri«^* of ihe tlumglufiil aJid synipatheiic to find unlooked- 
for depths even in persons diought quite commonpUct. Even 
the human spirit can hardly be plumbed with a bnttor and a 
string. The phcnonjcna of multiple pcrsonalit>' and of 
subliminal consciouf^ness and evon the characteristic* of many 
of our dreams, may well suggest the possibility of many 
unplumlted dq>lhs in us aU. And a creature like man, capable 
of cndle53 dc\'clopTncnt, can hardly be esacntiall)' shallow. 
Where this seems to be the ca&e, we !iavc probably simply 
not yet found die key to the hidden treasures. , . . 

Once more, at die basis of every wort}iy friendship there 
miLM l)r innlnal srlf-ijh'itig. \t is the ":ic law for every rda^ 
tion, human or divine. Perhaps the best definition we can 
give of love is simply this: the giving of self. And if one 
starts from another definition of love, as "joy in personal 
life.*' he will as certainly reach the fundamental need of 
mutual self-giving. We do not enter fully into one anoihrr's 
personality by any olher roule_ To know about my friend 
is not enough; even that he should himself tell mc does not 
suffice. Not knowledge about my friend, but acquaintance 
with him i<i the aim. I am not seeking information simply, 
nof a certain kiml of treatment, still le$« the things of my 
friend, bni my friend himself; and uule'^s there i^ in his self- 
re^-eUlion that indefinable, inner sclf-cfjuinmnication that dc» 
sires ^m\ purposes a kind of intermingling of personalities. I 
am still on the outside, a spectator onh-, not a participator, and 
know myself to be such- And it is no ^tisfaction of love 
that my friend — ^rtot wisJimg rcaUy to give himself — should 
be* even unusually punclilions in information and treatment 
and gifts. All these for love arc trash, without the self 




Wc h;iv<! A sjcui dc^l more ktrdness than tfl ever spoloca 
Maugrc all the 3c;ii,shn«:s3 that chilh like east winds the world, 
the whole human family Ig bathed with an clement of love like 
a line ether. How many pcraom we meet in houses, whom we 
scarcely «peak to, wht^iri yet we honor, arul w!jo honor us! 
How many we ^c in the street, or ¥\r with in chtirch^ whom, 
though silcnily, wc warnil> rejoice to Ijc with! Read the lan- 
guage of these wardering cye-bcama. The heart kxMwetb, 

The effect of the indulgence of this human affection is a 
ccrtaiji cordial exhilaration. In poetry and in common speech 
the emotions d henevolence and complacency which arc fell 
towards others are likened to the material effecu of fire; so 
swift, or much more swift» more active, more cheering, are 
these fine inward irradiations. From the highest degree of 
p;iss!onate love to the lowest degree of goixl-wilt, they make 
the sweetness of life. 

Our intcikctusl and active powers increase with our af- 
fection. The scholar sits down to write, and all his years of 
medhation do not furnish him wiih one good thought or happy 
exprcssinn; but it ifi necesdary to write a letter to a friend, — 
and forthwith troojw of gentle thoughts inv«t themselves, on 
every liand, with chosen words. Sec, in any house where vir- 
Itir and self-respect abide, the ;KiI|ii!aiioTi which the approach 
of a stranger causcSp A commended stranger is expected and 
annoitnced. and an wneasincss betwixt pleasure and pain in- 
vades all the hearts of a household. His arrival almost brings 
fear to the good hearts that would welcome him. The bouse 

it dusted, all things fly into their places, the ctd coat U cx- 

440 



THR CONDUCt OF UFfc 



441 



cfuingcd tot die new^ xiiil ihey nmst get up x (tiimer if they 
can. Of a ccmmcndcd stranger, ottly the good rqjorl is told 
by others, only iht good ai»d new is heard by vs. He stands 
to U5 for humanity. He b what we wish. Hanng imagined 
end invested him, vc ask how we should stand related in con- 
versation and action with sudi a man, and arc uneasy with 
fear. The same idea exalts conversation with him. We talk 
better than we arc wont. We have the nimblest fancy, a richer 
memory, and our dumb devil has laken leave for the time. For 
long hours we Ciin continue a series of sincere, graceful, rich 
communications, drawn from the oldest, sccrcteat exi^iience, 
»o that they who sit by, of our own kinsfolk and acquaintance. 
shall fetl a lively surprise at our unusual powers. Bm as 
flooa as the stranger begins to intrude \m partialities, his 
deflnidoni, his defects into tlie conversation, it is all over. He 
has heanl the first, the last and lK*t he will ever hear from us> 
He i* no stranger now. VuTgaiity, ignorance, misapprehen- 
sion are oM aci|iiamlanccs. N'uw, vthen he corner, he may get 
the order, the dress and ihc dinncn— but the throbbing of the 
heart and the comimmications of the soul, no more. 

What 13 30 pleasant as these jcu of a^ection which make 
a young world for me again ? What so delicious as a just and 
firm encounter of two, in a thought, in a feeling? How l>ean- 
tiful, on their approach to this beating heart, the steps and 
fonna of the gified and the true! Tlie moment we indulge 
our aflTrclions thr rarih is meiamarjihospcl ; there it no win* 
Icr and no night i all tragedies, all ennuis vanish,— all duties 
even; nothing fills the proceeding eternity but the forms all 
radiant of belwtd persons. Let the soul be assured that some- 
where in the universe it should rejoin its friend, and it would 
be contem and dieerful alone for a thousand years. 

I awoke this morning wiih devout ilianksgtving for my 
friends, the old ant! the new. Shall I not call God tlie Beauti- 
ful, who daily showeth himself so to me in his gifta? I chide 
society, 1 embrace solitude, and yet I am not so ungrateful 
as not to see tlie wise, the lovely and the noE^e-minded, as from 
time to time they pass my gate- Who hears me, who under* 
stands me, becomes mine, — a possession for all time. Nor is 
Nature so poor Imt she gives me this joy several times, and 
thus we weave social threads of our own, a new web of re- 



443 



THE WORU>S FftOGUCSSw 



Ijuions; and, as muiy ihoughts in succeision subsurilite ihem 
^Wes, we ^fiall b)- an<l hy «luml in a :i«u- world of our own 
CTcaiiGiT, and no longer strangers and pilgrims in a traditionary 
glnbc. My fricmis hav« come lo nic unsought. TTw: great 
God gave ihcm lo mc. By oldest right, by the divim: ailiTUty of 
vimic with iise]f. I firwi them, or rather not 1, but the Deity 
in me and in them derides and ciincels tJic thick walU of iii'- 
dividual character, relation, age. gex, cirainistance, at which 
he usually connives, arwl now makes many one. High thank* 
T {}wp you, extcllenl luvers, wh(» furry iiul (he world for me lo 
new and noble depths, and cnbrge tlic meaning of all my 
thoughts. These are new poetry of the first Bard. — poetry 
withont stop. — h>^]ln, ode and epic, poetry still flowing, Apollo 
and ihe Miista chanting tiiill. Will these loo separate them* 
selves from me again, or some of them^ I know not, but I 
fear it not; for my relation to them is so pure that we hold by 
simple afTniily, and i!ie Genius of my life beiTig tlms ^oeiat, the 
Hiniif ufTm'ity will «*xeTl its energy on wlumwtjrver is as noljle 
as these men and women, wherever I may bt 

I confess to an extreme tenderness of nalurc on this point 
It is almost clanf^crotas to mc to "crush tlie sweet poison of 
mistised wine*' of the affections. A new iKrson Is to me a ifr^dt 
c^ent and hinders me from sleep. I have often had fine fancies 
about persons whidi liavc given me delicious hours; but the 
[oy ends in the day ; it yields no fruJL Tliought is not born of 
it ; my Action is vrry little ttiodificd, I musi feel pri(!e in my 
friend's accomplishments as if they were mine, and a property 
in his virtues. I feci as wfinnly when he is praised, as the 
lover when he heara applause of hia engaged maiden. We 
over-esiimate the eonscienct of our frienri. His goodness 
seems better than our goodness, hts nature finer, his tempta- 
tions less. Evcfyihing that is his, — his name, his form, his 
dress, bodks and in^nimienls, — fancy cnliances. Our own 
Ihou^t aoumls new and larger from his mouth. 

Yet Ibc systole and diastole of the heart arc not without 
their analogy in the ebb and flow vi lovc- Kricnds}>ip, like the 
immortality of the soul, is loo fiood to be believed. The lover, 
beholding his maiden, half knows that she is not verily that 
which he worships; ami in the golden hour of friendship we 
arc surprised with shades of suspicion and unbelief. We doubt 



TH« CONDUCT OF UFt 



443 



tfiat wc bestow on our hero the vinucs in which he shines, 
and afterwards wcfship the form ici ^hich we have ascri!x!d 
ihi.H divine inhaiAUtinn, In sliktiicis, ihc sou) does not re- 
spect men as it respects itself. In strict science all persons 
underlie the s&me condition of an infinite remoicncsa. Shall 
we fear to cool our Kjve by mining for the metaphysical foun- 
dation of this Elysian teoiple? Shall 1 not be as real as the 
things I see? If I am, 1 shall not fear to know ilien for what 
ihcy are. Their essence is not less twautiful than iheir ap- 
pearance, th(}Ugt] It need*! finer organs for its apprdieitsion. The 
root of the plant is not unsightly tc science, though for chap- 
lets and festoons wc cut the &tcni sliort. And 1 must hazard 
the production of the bald fact Amidst itiesc pleasing reveries, 
though it shonlcl prove rn Rgyptian skull at our banquet. A 
man who stands united with his thought conceives magniti- 
cenily of himself. He U conscious of a universal success, even 
though bought by nniforin particiibr faiKiTe<<, No advantages. 
no powers, tkj gold or fi>rce, can he any match fnr him, T 
cannot choose but rely on my own poverty more than on your 
wealth. I cfiimot make your consciousness tantamount to 
mine. Only the star dazzles; the planet hri.'i a faint, moonlike 
ray- I hear what you say of the admirable parts and tried tern* 
per of the party you praise, but I see well ihat, for all his pur- 
ple cloaks, I shall not like him, unless he is at lea&t a poor 
Greek like me. I cannot deny it, O friend, that the va»l 
shaflow of the Phenomenal includes ihec also in its pied and 
painted immensity, — llicc also, compared with whom all else 
is shadow. Thou art not Bcinj;, as Truth h. as Justice is, — 
thou art not my soul, but a picture and eiftgy of Ihat. Thou 
hnst come to nic lately, and already thou art sei«ng thy hat 
and cloak. Is it not that the soul puts forth friends as the 
tree puts forth leaves, and presently, by the gemiination of 
new buds, exiruilesi the old leaf? Tlie law of nature is alter- 
n^ition for evermore. Esich electrical state superinduces the 
opposite. The soul environs itself with friends that it may 
enter into a grander self ^acquaintance or solitude: and it goes 
alone for a season that it may exalt its con%ersalion or society. 
Tbi« method betray* itself along the whole history of our per- 
sonal relations. The instinct of affection revives the hope of 
union Willi our maies^ and the returning sense of insulation 



— ' '— "^^ 



444 



Tax W0RU>*3 PROCRSSS. 



recalls us from the chase. Thus tvcry man parses his life tn 
Oie search after friendship, an4 if he should record his Inii 
smijment. he migtn wnie a letter like this to each new candi- 
date for his love:— 

DcMe Frcend^ 

If I was sure of thee, sure of ih}' eapaeity, snre to match raf 
mood with thine, I thutild nev^r i)iinlc again of trIAea b r^latioo 
lo thy oc>ming% Ard goings. I atn nttt very wbc; my nuxxt* m 
quite attainable* and T respect thy gcaiu»; it i> to mc 4» yet 
unfathomcd ; yet d&rc I not prcsitnic in thcc a perfect intelligence 
of me, And M thou art to mc a dclicictia lormoit. TbiiK ever, or 
never. 

Vet these uneasy pleasures a»d fine pains are for curioaty 
and not for life. TJiey are not to be indulged. This ii to 
weave cobweb* and not cJoth. Our friendKhtps hurry to short 
and poor cuijclu.'iiotis, because wc have made ihcm a texture of 
vrint! and dre^fiLS, irLSttad of ihc lou|[li Ghre of the huinan 
he^rt. The Inws of friendship arc austere and ctemaK of oik 
vreb with the laws of nature and of morals. But wc have 
aimed at a swift and petty bcneht, to suck a sudden sweetness. 
We snatch at the slowest fruit in the whole ^rden of God, 
which many sumTners and many winters must ripen. We *cdt 
our friend not sacredly, but with an adulterate passion which 
would appropriate hini to ourselves. In vain. Wc are armed 
all over with suhtle antagonisms, which, as soon as we meet, 
begin to play, and translate all poetiy into stale prose Almost 
all people descend to meet. All association must be a com- 
promise, and, what is worst, the very flower and aroma of 
the flower of each of the beautiful natures disappears as they 
approach each other. What a perpetual disappointment ii 
actual society, even of the virtuous and gifted! After inter- 
view* have been compassed with long foresight we must be 
tormented presently by bnlHecI blows, by suddciu unseasonable 
apathies, by epilepsies of wit and of antmcil spirits, in the hey- 
day of friendship and thought Our faculties do not (day tia 
true, and both parties are relieved by solitude, 

I ought lo be equal to every relation. It tnaket no differ- 
ence how many friends T have and what content I can 6nd 
in conversing with each, if there he ore to whom I am not 



■"*■ *' 




THE COJJDUCT OF UFK- 



445 



equal. If I liAv« shmiik unequal from one contest the joy 
) find tn all tbc rest becomes ine«n mi<l cowardly. I ,^uld 
hale myself, if then I made my other friends my asylum:— 

"The valiant ^varricr famouscd for fight. 
After a hurwlted viclories, cnce foiled, 
1% from the hook of honor nied <|uite 
And all ihe rest forgot for which he tolled/* 

Our impatience i» ihtin sharply rebuked. Bashfulness and 
^athy are a tough huj^k in which a delicate organization is 
protected from premature ripening. It would be lost if it 
knew itself before any of the best souls were yci ripe enough 
To knew and uwr it, T^rsj^rct llic noturitiHijsamknt which 
hardens the ruby in a million years, and works in duration in 
which AlfW an(! Aiwlcs c<«ue and go as rainbows. The good 
spirit of our life has no heaven which is the price of rashness. 
Love, which is the essence of God, is not for levity, Iwit for the 
total worth of maa Let us not have this childish luxury in our 
regards, hut the au^terest worth ; let us approach our friend 
with an audacious tnist in the tnuh of his heart, in the breadth, 
impossible to be overtjmcd, of his foundations. 

The atlranions of thlit subject ate not to be resisted, »nd 
[ leave, for the time, all account of subordinate social benefit, 
to speak of that select aiid sacred relation which is a kind of 
absolute, and whidi even leaves the lani^uage of love sus- 
picious and common, so much is thift purer, and nothing is so 
much divine. 

I do nor wish to treat friendships daintily, but with rough- 
est courage, Wlien they are real, they are not glass thread* or 
frostwork, but the solidest thing wc know. For now, after 
so many ages of experience, what do wc know of nature or 
of ourselves? Not ore step has man taken toward the solu- 
tion of the problem of his destiny. In one condemnation of 
folly stand the whole universe of men. But the sweet sin- 
cerity of joy and peace which I draw from this alliance with 
my brother's soul is the nut itself whereof all nature and all 
thought 15 but the husk ami shell. Haj>j]y tv the huu»e that 
shehen; a friend ! It might well be buih. like a festal bower or 
arch, to entertain him a single day. Happier, if he know the 
solemnity of that relation and honor its law! He who offers 



446 



rut W0AIJ)8 rKO(;R1t38. 



himself a candidal!^ for tbar cx>vm3nt cnmes up, like an Olym- 
pian, lo ihc grr^t g^jTics where the first-boni oi tl)r world arc 
the competitors. He proposes hbiisclf for contests where 
Time, Want, Danger, are in (he liMa. and he alone U virtor 
who has truth enough in hh constitution to preserve the deli- 
cacy of his bcauiy from the wear and tear of aJl these. The 
gjtU of forltane may be present or absent* but all the speed in 
that contest dtpends on intrinsic nobleness and the coniempt 
of triflesL There are two eirmenis that go lo the composition 
of fiietuUhip, each 5^ fvovcrtign that I caii detect no superior- 
it}' in cither, no reiuori why cither should he firHt n^uncd. One 
is truth. A friend 15 a person with whom 1 may be sincere. 
Before him I may think aloud, i oin arrived at last in the 
presence of a man so real and equal tJ^at I may drop even 
those undermost garments of dissimulation, courlesy, and 
second Ihonght, which men never put off, and may deal with 
him with the simplicity and wholeness with which one chemical 
atom mecls anoiher, Sinccrily is the luxury allowed, hlce 
diadems and authority, only lo the highest rank ; i/toi being per- 
mitted to speak Inith, a-* having none above it to court or con- 
form unlo. Every man atone is sincere. At the entrance of a 
second person, hypocrisy begins. We parry and fend the ap- 
proach of our fellow-man by compliments, by gossip, by 
amusements, by affair*. We cover up our thought from him 
under a hundred folds. I knew a man who under a certain 
religious frenzy cast off this drapery, and omittii^ all com- 
pliment and commonplace, spoke to the oonscienoc of every 
person he encountered, and that with great insight and beauty. 
At fint he was resisted, and all men a^jrccd he was mad. But 
persisting — as indeed he could not help doing — for some time 
in this course, he attained to the advantage of bringing every 
man of Iiis acr]naintance into true n4:*ii«Tis with htm. No luan 
would think of speaking falsely with him, or by putting him 
off with any chat of markets or rc^ding-roortiav But every 
mar was constrained by so much sincerity 10 the like plain- 
dealing, and what love of nature, what poetry, what symbol 
of truth he had, he did certainly show him, But to most of 
us society shows not its face and eye, hut its si'Ie and iu back. 
To stand in true relations with men in a false 3g«- is worth a 
fit of insanity, is It not? We can seldom go erect Almost 




The coswct or ure. 



«7 



tvery nun we meet requires tovne civjltty — requires to bt 
horooml: be has some fame, some ukm, sorm whim of 
rtBgioi) or phibmhrupy tn liis head that U i>oi u> be <|iics- 
licniril. and whirl] s]huU »l\ cti»vcr%ation wtlh hrm. But a 
friend is a $aiic n^n >\'ho exercises not my ingaiutty. buL nic. 
My fficrul ipvts ntc oUertamitKiil widioiA re^uirinj^ «jiy ttify- 
ulation on my part. A friend therefore ifl a son of paradox 
in nature. J who nione nm, 1 who f^e nolTiiitg in nature whose 
existence 1 can afhrm with equal cviilcnce lo my own, behold 
now the semblance of my being* in all it« heiglit, variety and 
cururtity, reifenitfd in ai foreign fomi; so lliat a friend may 
well be reckoned (he niasterpiccc of nature. 

TliG otiicr element of frietidshi|j is Icndefneu. We arc 
holdcn lo men by every iorl of tie, by blood, by pride, by 
fear, by hope, by lucre, by fu&t, by hatc> by admiiAtioa by 
every circumGtancc and badge and iritlc,— but we can acarc« 
believe ihat so much cliaracier car) &ubsiit in another ai to 
draw U9 by love. Czn anoiher be 90 blessed and we so pure 
thai wt- nin offer hini tciulernrwi? Wlien a man bi»:omei dcir 
to me I have touched (he goal uf fortune. I find very little 
written directly lo llic heart tjf ihis matter in Ixx^k*. And yet 
I have one text which 1 cannot choose but remember. My 
author says,—"! offer myself faintly and blunlly lo those 
whose 1 effectually am, and tender tny^elf ka.il to him to whom 
I am the mo4C devoted." I wish thai frtemUhip should have 
tvet, as well as e>Ts and eloquence, I1 must pbni itself on the 
ground, before it vauhs over the moon. 1 wish ll to be a little 
of a citizen, before il is quite a dieruh We cliide tlie citizen 
because he make:^ love a cnmnKKlity, It is an exchange of 
gifl5, of uscfid loans ; it is good neighborhood : it watches with 
the sick ; it holds the pall at the funeral : and quite loses sight 
of the delicacies and nobility of the relation. Bui thooiRh we 
cannot Und the g;ofl under this disguise of a stiller, yet on tlie 
other hand we canncX forgive the poet if he spins hts thread 
loo line and does not substantiate his romance by the munJOfAl 
virtues of justice, [mnctualiry. Rdelity and pity. I hale the 
prostitution of the name of friendship lo ngnify modish and 
woHcUy aQiancea. I much prefer the company of p]fA^bofW 
and trnpeddkrs to the silken and perfumed amity whjdi cek* 
brates its day of erxounler by a frivok»s dually, by ride* In 



448 



Tue woRu>'s rBOCRSSS. 



a curricle and dinners at tlic best taveroA. Tlic end of frtecid- 
ship ift a commerce the most strict and homely that can be 
joined; more ttricl than any of which we have experience It 
ifi for aid and comfort tbrou^ all the relations and j^assagcs 
of life and death. It if fit for serene days and graceful gifts 
and country rambler, but ^d^o fur ruugti niiiib and tuird fare, 
shipwreck, poverty and persecution. Ii keeps company with 
the sallies of the wit and the trances of rdigtoa Wc arc 
to dignify to each other the daily needs and offices of man'a 
life, and embellish it by eourafre, wisdom and unity. It should 
never fall into 5;ointfthtr^ iKtial ind settled, but should be alert 
and irvemive anO add rhyme and reason to what was drudgery. 
Friendship may be said to require natures so rare and 
costly, each so well Icmpeied and in happily adapted, and 
wilhal ft> cirnimHlanced (for even in that partioilar, a poet 
says, love demands that the parties be altogether paired), that 
its satisfnclion can very seldom be nssnrrd. It cannot subsist 
in its perfection, say some of those who arc learned in this 
warm lore of the heart, betwixt more than two. I am not 
qwtte so strict in my terms, jierhaps because 1 have never 
kiio^vit so higii a fellowship as others I please my imagination 
more with a circle of f^dlike men and women variously 
refate*J to each other and between whom subsists a lofty intel- 
ligence. But I find this law of onf to one pCTemptor>- for 
conversation, which is the practice and consummation of friend- 
ship. Do not mix waters too much. The befl mix as HI as 
good and bad. Vou stiall have very u*f fnl and cheering dw- 
conrse at several times witli two several men, but let all three 
of you come together and you shall not liavc one new and 
hearty word. Two may talk and one may hear, but three can- 
not take part \r\ a conversation of the most sincere and search*- 
ing sort. In g:ood company there is never siKh discourse 
between two, across the tabl?. as takes place when you leave 
them alone. In good company ihe imiividuals merge tbeir 
egotism into a social soul exactly crj-extensivc with the Mvcnl 
consciousnesses there present. No partialities of friend to 
friend^ no fondnesses of brother to sister, of wife to husband, 
arc there pertinent, but quite otherwise. Only be may then 
speak who can sail on thtt common thought of the party, and 
not poorly limited to his own, Now this convention, which 



TKi! coMftucr or u»ic. 



449 



good sense denunds, destroys the high freedom of great con* 
veri^tion, whidi requires an abSQlutc running of two souls 
into one. 

No two men but bdng trft alone with rnch other cmer into 
-iiinpler relaTJoiis. Yrl it is iif!iiiily tli;il detcnnines which fwo 
sball converse. Unrelated men give little joy to each other, 
will nc\'er suspect the latent powers of eac3i. Wc talk some- 
lime* of a great taJeiit for conversation, as if it were a per- 
manent property in some individuals Conversation is an 
evanescent relation, — no more- A man is reputed to have 
tliougln and eloquence; he cannot, for atl thai, say a word to 
hi* cimi^in or hi* iiiide, Tliey accuser his ftiltncc witli as niudi 
rrason v^% ihey would hT^tme thr inKigriiftrAnre i>f ;i a\va\ in the 
sJiadc, In the sun it uill mark the hour. Among those who 
enjoy his thtJught he will regain his longuc. 

Fricnd»hip requires that rare mean lictwixt hkencss and 
iinlikcncss that piqnes each with the presence of power and 
of consent in tl»c other party- Let mc be alone to the end of 
the world, rather than that my friend should overstep, by a 
word or a lo<A, his real sympathy, I am ec[ual]y balked by 
antagonism and by compliance. Let him rol cease an instant 
to tie himself. The only joy 1 have in liis being mine, is tliat 
the not mine b nunc, I bate, where T looked for a manly 
furtherance or at least a manly resistance, to tind a mush oi 
concession. Better be a nettle in the side of your friend than 
his echo. The condition which high friendship demands is 
ability to do without it. That high office requires great and 
sublime part^ Thrre must be very two, before there can be 
very one. I^t ti t>e .in alliance of two large, fomiidable na- 
tures, mutually beheld* mutually feared. l>efore yet they rcc- 
ognixc the deep identity which, benealh these disparities, unites 
them. 

He only is 6t for this society who is magnanimous ; wlio is 
sure that greatne*s and goo<lne« arc always economy; who is 
not swift lo intermeddle with his fortunes. Let him not in- 
termeddle with this. Leave to the diamond ics ages to grow, 
nor expect to accelerate the birtlis of the eleriukl. Frieudsltip 
demands a religious ireatment. We talk of choosing our 
frknds, but friends arc seli-ciected. Reverence is a great 
part of it- Treat your friend aa a spectacle. Of course be 

V I* 



450 THE WOHLU'S PROGRESS. 

has merits that are not yours, and that you cannot honor 
if you must needs hold him close to your person. Stand aside; 
give those merits room; let them mount and expand. Are you 
the friend of your friend's buttons, or of his thought? To 
a great heart he will still be a stranger in a thousand particu- 
lars, that he may come near in the holiest ground. Leave it 
to girls and boys to regard a friend as property, and to suck 
a short and all -con founding pleasure, instead of the noblest 
benefit. 

Let us buy our entrance to this guild by a long probation. 
Why should we desecrate noble and beautiful souls by in- 
truding on them? Why insist on rash personal relations with 
your friend? Why go to his house, or know his mother and 
brother and sisters? Why be visited by him at your own? 
Are these things material to our covenant? Leave this touch- 
ing and clawing. Let him be to me a spirit, A message, a 
thought, a sincerity, a glance from him, I want, but not news, 
nor potage- I can get politics and chat and neighlwrly con- 
veniences from cheaper companions. Should not the society 
of my friend be to me poetic, pure, universal and great as na- 
ture itself? Ought I to feel that our tie is profane in com- 
parison with yonder bar of cloud that sleeps on the horizon, or 
that clump of waving grass that divides the brook? Let us 
not vilify, but raise it to that standard. That great defying 
eye, that scornful beauty of his mien and action, do not pique 
yourself on reducing, but rather fortify and enchance. Wor- 
ship his superiorities; wish him not less by a thought, but 
hoard and teli them all. Guard him as thy counterpart. Let 
him be to thee for ever a sort of beautiful enemy, untamable, 
devoutly revered, and not a trivial convenience to be soon out- 
grown and cast aside. The hues of the opal, the light of the 
diamond, are not to be seen if the eye is too near. To my 
friend I write a letter and from l:im 1 receive a letter. That 
seems to you a little. It suffices me. It is a spiritual gift, 
worthy of him to give and of me to receive. It profanes no- 
body. In these warm lines the heart will trust itself, as it will 
not to the tongue, and pour out tlie prophecy of a godlier ex- 
istence than all the annals of heroism have yet made good. 



THE CONDUCT OP UFE- 



451 



FRIENDSHIP.* 

Tlif Book of l*roverbs mAght almost be called a treatise 
on fricnilship, so full is it of advice aboui thi: M>rl of jicr^on 
SL young nia^j should consort wjlh. ;iiul tlit lorL of person he 
should avoid. It )» fidl of nhrewd, and pnidcnt» and wise, 
somctimcf .^Iniofit K-orUlU-vvise. count^t. U h cnuslic in 
its «atiru about fali^e fricn<U» ard »lK>m the way in whkh 
fTitndships arp broVrn, *'Thi" riclt hath niany ffiCTids/' wilh 
an easily nndcrslotwl iniplkadon conccmidg tlicir quality. 
*'Evcr>- man is a friciid lo him ihat givcth e'tits,' is ils sar- 
castic comment on the ordinary mot]%'c5 of mean men. lis 
pielure of the plausible, fickic, lip-praisinpj and tinie-serviiic 
man. who blesseth his frietid wilh a loud voice, risin;^ early in 
the mormug, U a ddicate piece of s;ttirc. The fragile connec- 
lions among meii, as easily brukcn <is mendctl poitcry. get 
illustration in the miwrhicf-muker who loves to divide men. 
"A whi5|KT sep:ir;itdh chief fricrds/" There is Icccn irony 
here over the qualiiy of ordinary" friendship, as wcU as con- 
demnali<jn of ihe tale-bearer and his sordid ^oiiL 

Tliis cynica! atiitnde is so canimoa thai wc hardly expect 
sui4i n Mirewd kjok to s^wak beariJIy nf ihc [jossiljililirs uf 
huni;m friendship. lt« object rather is to put yr;ulb en it!^ 
fruard ae:;rtr5t the danKcrs and pilfalls of social life. It gives 
found commercial advice about avoiding becoming surety for 
a friend. It warns against the tnclcs, and cheats, and bad 
faith, which ^wyrnied in ihc- sircers of a city then, as they do 
still It laughs, a lillle bitterly* at the thought that fnendsliip 
can be as common as tlic eager, generous heart of youth 
imaginev. It alma?t sneers at the gnllihihty of men in thi* 
whole matter. "He that maketh many friemb doeih it to his 
O^n destruction/' 

And yet there is no book, even in classical Ificratnre, whkrh 
50 exalts the idea of friendship, and is so anxious lo have it 
truly valued, and carefully kept. The worldly-wise warnings 
arc, after all. in the interests of true friendship. To condemn 
hypocrisy is not, as is so oficn imagined, to condemn religion. 
To spuni The spurious is not to reject the true, A sneer at 



45^ tHE world's progress. 

foJly may' be only a covert argument for wisdom. Satire is 
negative truth. The unfortunate thing is that most men who 
begin with the prudential worldly-wise philosophy end there. 
They never get past the sneer. Not so this wise book. In 
^ite of its insight into the weakness of man, in spite of its 
frank denunciation of the common masquerade of friendship, 
it speaks of the true kind in. words of beauty that have never 
been surpassed in all the many appraisements of this subject 
'*A friend loveth at all times, and is a brother bom for ad- 
versity. Faithful are the wounds of a friend. Ointment and 
perfume rejoice the heart, so doth the sweetness of a man's 
friend by hearty counsel. Thine own friend and thy father's 
friend forsake not.*' These are not the words of a cynic, who 
has lost faith in man. 

True, this golden friendship is not a common thing to be 
picked up in the street. It would not be worth much if it 
were. Like wisdom it must be sought for as for hid treasures, 
and to keep it demands care and thought. To think that 
every goose is a swan, that every new comrade is the man of 
your own heart, is to have a very shallow heart. Every 
casual acquaintance is not a hero. There are pearls of the 
heart, which cannot be thrown to swine. Till we learn what 
a sacred thing a true friendship is, it is futile to speak of the 
culture of friendship. The man who wears his heart on his 
sleeve cannot wonder if the daws peck at it. There ought to 
be a sanctuary, to which few receive admittance. It is great 
innocence, or great folly, and in this connection the terms 
are almost synonymous, to open our arms to everybody to 
whom we are introduced. The Book of Proverbs, as a manual 
on friendship, gives as shrewd and caustic warnings as are 
needed, but it does not go to the other extreme, and say ihat 
all men are liars, that there are no truth and faithfulness to 
be found. To say so is to speak in haste. There is a friend 
that sticketh closer than a brother, says this wisest of books- 
There is possible such a blessed relationship, a state of love 
and trust, and generous comradehood, where a man feels safe 
to be himself, because he knows that he will not easily be 
misunderstood. 

The word friendship has been abased by applying it to low 
and unworthy uses, and so there is plenty of copy still to be 



THE CONDUCT OF UPE, 



453 



got from life by tbc cyme and the satirist. The sacred rame of 
friend }i<is been b.inJiccI about till it rum the rlak of loting its 
true meaning. Rosi;cui's vcrsick finds its point in life : — 

"Was it a friend or a foe that spread these lies? 
'N'ay. who but infanis qursilon ^n such wis^? 
' Twas one of aty most intimate cnctnicdr' 

It h uscleAA lo speak of ctiltAVAting the great gift of fncitd- 
ihip tinier wc miikc clear to ourscivc* what we mean b>" a 
friend. We m^ikc connections and acquaintances and call 
them friends, \Vc have few friendships, because we are not 
willing to pay the price of friendship. 

If we tlu'nk it in nuE wonh (lie pTict?, tlot i% another mjl- 
Icr, Am\ iHtitiile an inlelligiblcr pj^sitiunjjiit we ntnsl nut u%c the 
word in di^erent sense?, and ihcn rail at fate because there it 
no miracle ot beauty and joy about our sort of friendship. 
Like all other spiritual blessings it comes to all of us at some 
time or other, and, like thenit is often let ^lip. Wc have the 
opponunitics, but wc do not make use of them. Most men 
uiake fricndn c;i*ily enough; few keej) ihcni. T!iey do not 
give the subject the cire. ^nn] thought, and trouble, it requires 
and deserves- We want the pleasure of society without the 
duty. Wc would hkc to get the good ot our tricnds, without 
burdening ourselves with any responsibility about keeping 
them friends. The commonest mistrtke we make is that we 
spread our intercourse over a mass an<J have no depth of 
heart left. We lament that we liave no hlaujidi and faithful 
friend when wc have not really expended the love which pro- 
duc^ such. Wc want to reap where we have not sown, the 
fatuousness of which we shoiild itt as soon as it is mentioned, 
*'She that asks her dear five hundred fricrd*" (as Cowper 
satirically describes a well-known tjpe), cannot expect the 
exclusive affection which she has not given. 

The secret of frirndsliip Is just the secret of all rpinlual 
blessing. The way to get is to give. The scUisli in the cud 
can never get anything but scUishness. The hard hnd hardness 
everywhere. As you mete, it is meted out lo you. 

Some men have a genius for frlendslilp. That is because 
they are open, and re^^Hmsive, and ufi»Ui^lv They truly make 
the most of life; for, apart from llicir special joys, even in- 



■"- - ■ 




454 ^Q£ worui's progress. 

tcllect is sharpened by the development of the affections. No 
material success in life is comparable to success in friendship. 
We really do ourselves harm by our selfish standards. There 
is an old Latin proverb expressing the worldly view, which 
says that it is not possible for a man to love and at the same 
time to be wise. This is only true when wisdom is made 
equal to prudence and selfishness, and when love is made the 
same. Rather it is never given to a man to be wise, in the 
true and noble sense, until he is carried out of himself in the 
purifying passion of love, or the generosity of friendship. 
The self-centered being cannot keep friends, even when he 
makes them ; his selfish sensitiveness is always in the way, like 
a diseased nerve ready to be irritated. 

The culture of friendship is a duty, as every gift represents 
a responsibility. It is also a necessity; for without watchful 
care it can no more remain with us than can any other gift. 
Without cuhure it is at best only a potentiality. We may let 
it slip, or we can use it to bless our lives. The miracle of 
friendship, which came at first with its infinite wonder and 
beauty, wears off, and the glory fades into the light of com- 
mon day. The early charm passes, and the soul forgets the 
first exaltation. We are always in danger of mistaking the 
common for the commonplace. We must not look upon it 
merely as the great luxury of life, or it will cease to be even 
that. It begins with emotion, but if it is to remain it must be- 
come a habit. Habit is fixed when an accustomed thing is or- 
ganized into life; and, whatever be the genesis of friendship, 
il must become a habit, or it is in danger of passing away as 
other impressions have done before. 

Friendship needs delicate handling. We can ruin it by 
stupid blundering at the very birth, and we can kill it by 
neglect. It is not every flower that has vitality enough to 
grow in stony ground. Lack of reticence, which is only the 
outward sign of lack of reverence. Is responsible for the death 
of many a fair friendship. Worse slill, it is often blighted at 
the very beginning by the insatiable desire for piquancy in 
talk, which can forget the sacredness of confidence. '^An ac- 
quaintance grilled, scored, devilled, and served with mustard 
and cayenne pepper, excites the appetite; whereas, a slice of 
cold friend with currant jelly is but a sickly, unrelishing 



Tmt CONDUCT ov urn 



455 



meat" Nothing is givcD to the man who is not worthy 1o 
possess it, and the ^lallow hcan can nc^cr know the joy of a 
friendship^ for tlic kccpins: of which he i& not ahic to fuJlil] 
the eSiiemial comhiicns. Here, aUo, it is true that from the 
man that hath not, 'a taken away cvefi liiat which he hath. 

The incih<xl for ihe culture of fnend*hii> finds it» best and 
briefest Mjnnimty in the GokJen Rule. To do to, and for. your 
friend what you woitld have him do to, and for, you, is a sim- 
ple compendium of the ^vholc duty of fricnd^tip. llie vciy 
STAi principle of friendship is that It is a mutual thtn^r, as 
anion^ fipinUi:il equals, and therefore it claims recipn^city, rrru- 
iiial confidfriicc and faiiljfnhitss. There nuiM Iv s>iiijia(1iy lo 
keej> in tnurh with each other* huL sympathy neeib lo 1>e (^in- 
stantly exercised, [t 15 a channel of coinnninicntion, which 
h35 to be kept open, or it will !K>on be cl<^ged and cbscd. - . , 

Trust is the (inxx requisite for making a fnend. How can 
we be anything but alone. If ot;r altitude to men h one of 
anned nnnmlity, if wr are suspicions, HMd ;issirrlive, and 
qucndous and over-cautious in our advances? Su^fncion kills 
friendship. There tnusl he some magnanimity and openness 
of mind, before a friendship can be formed. Wc must be 
willini; to pvc ourselves freely and tinreservedly. 

The SiMPLS Lii^" 

Men seek retreats for themselves, houses in the eounlry, 
liores, and mountains; and thou, tot), are ^vonl to desire 
"sach things very much. This i* ahogetber a mark or the 
most comiTK^n son of man, fnr it i* in ihy power whenever 
lliou frhult choose to retire into thyself. For nowhere cither 
with more q\iicl or more freedom from trouble docs a man 
retire tlinn into his own soul, particularly when he has within 
bim such thoughts that by looking into thetn he is immedi- 
ately in perfect tranquillity; and 1 affirm that iranqulllily is 
notliing else iliaji the good ordering of the mind. Constantly 
then give to thyself this retreat, and renew thyself : and let tliy 
principles be brief and fund,imental. which, aa soon as thou 
sbaU recur to them wiM be sufficient to cleanse the soul com- 
pletely, and to send Ihec back free from all discontent with tlie 

*Bfarcoi AureJiui. 



- ' 



45^ THE WORU)*S PBOGRESS. 

things to which thou retumcst, For with what art thou 
discontented? With the badness of men? Recall to thy mind 
this conclusion, that rational animals exist for one another, 
and that to endure is a part of justice, and that men do 
wrong: involuntarily; and consider how many already, after 
mutual enmity, suspicion, hatred, and fighting, have been 
stretched dead, reduced to ashes; and be quiet at last — But 
perhaps thou are dissatisfied with that which is assigned to 
thee out of the universe. — Recall to thy recollection this 
alternative; either there is providence or atoms (fortuitous 
concurrence of things) ; or remember the arguments by which 
it has been proved that the world is a kind of political com- 
munity (and be quiet at last). — But perhaps corporeal things 
will stiH fasten upon thee. — Consider then further that the 
mind mingles not with the breath, whether moving gently 
or violently, when it has once drawn itself apart and dis- 
covered its own power, and think also of all that thou hast 
heard and assented to about pain and pleasure (and be quiet 
at last). — But perhaps the desire of the thing called fame 
will torment thee — sec how soon everything is forgotten, and 
look at the chaos of infinite time on each side of (the present), 
and the emptiness of applause, and the changeableness and 
want of judgment in those who pretend to give praise, and 
the narrowness of the space within which it is circumscribed 
(and be quiet at last). For the whole earth is a point, and 
how small a nook in it is this thy dwelling, and how few are 
there in it, and what kind of people are they who will praise 
thee. 

This then remains: Remember to retire into this little 
territory of thy own and above all do not distract nor strain 
thyself, but be free, and look at things as a man, as a human 
being, as a citizen, as a mortal. But among the things readiest 
to ihy hand to which thou shalt turn, let there be these, which 
are two. One is that things do not touch the soul, for they 
are external and remain immovable; but our perturbations 
come only from the opinion which is within. The other is 
that all these things, which thou scest. change immediately 
and Will no longer be; and constantly bear in mind how many 
of these changes thou hast already witnessed. The universe 
is transformation: life k opinion. . . . 



THK COKDUCT OP lATZ^ 



457 



Take away the o^nion and xhen ihcrc is tsktn away the 
oomplaint, "I have been harmed. " Take away ihe complaint, 
**1 bavT been hanTicd/' and rhc hiiTtn is taken away. 

Thai which does iioi make sl man worse than be was, 
alBO iocs net make hi» life worse, nor doc5 i1 liami bfm 
cither Ironi \vilhout or from within. 

The nalure of ihat which is (umversally) useful has been 
compelled to do thf*. 

Cnnsiilcr ihiil tverylliing whteh hajijiens, happens jiully. 
and if thou obKrvest carefully thou wilt find it to be so. I 
do not say only with respect to the continuity of The 5cnc» 
of thing:^* but with respect to what is just, and as if it were 
done by one who assif;ns to each thinij iis value. Observe 
then as ihoti hast begun; and whatever Ihoii docst, dolt in 
ccujtmctioT] with this, iht? bcuif.; i^od. aixl in the sense in 
which a man is properly understood to be good. Keep la 
this in every action. 

Di) nrit liave such an opinion of ihingH as he has who 
docs tliec wrong or such as he wishes thee to have, but look 
at thcin as they are In truth. 

A ni^n :ihouM always have these two rules m readiness; 
tlie one, to do only whatever the rcasou of the ruling and 
legislating fnciiUy may ^uggeM for the uw of TUen; ibe 
otiicr. to change thy opinion, if there is any one at hard who 
sets thee right and moves thee from any opinion. But this 
change of opinion must proceed only from d certain per- 
suasion, as of what is jaU or oi common advantage, and the 
like, not because it appears pleasant or brings reputation. 

Hasi thou reason? I have. — Why then dost thou not use 
it? For if this does its own work, what else dost thou with? 

Thou hast existed as a part. Thou shall disappear in 
that which produced thee; but rather shah ihou lie received 
hack into iis seminal principle by t ran smut a lion- 
Many grains of frankincense on the same nttar: ore falls 
before, another falls afier; but it makes no dtiTerence. 

Within ten days thou wilt sccni a goil lo ihcjsc lo whom 
thou art now a beast and an ape if thou wiU return lo thy 
principles and the worship of reason. 

Do not act as if thou wert going to live ten iliousand 



45^ THt world's progress. 

years. Death hangs over thee. While thou livest, while it 
is in thy power, be good. 

How much trouble he avoids who does not look to sec 
what his neighbor says or does or thinks, but only to what 
he does himself, that it may be just and pure; or as Agathon 
says, look not round at the depraved morals of others, but 
run straight along the line without deviating from it. 

He who has a vehement desire for posthumous fame does 
not consider that every one of those who remember him will 
himself also die very soon; then again also they who have 
succeeded them, until the whole remembrance shall have been 
extinguished as it is transmitted through men who foolishly 
admire and perish. But suppose that those who will remem- 
ber are even immortal, and that the remembrance will be 
immortal, what then is this to thee? And I say not what is 
it to the dead, but what is it to the living. What is praise, 
except indeed so far as it has a certain utility? For thou 
now rejectest unseasonably the gift of nature clinging to 
something else. . , . 

Do not be whirled about, but in every movement have 
respect lo justice, and on the occasion of every impression 
maintain the faculty of comprehension (or understanding). 

Everything harmonizes with me, which is harmonious to 
thee, O Universe. Nothing for me is too early nor too late, 
which is in due lime for thee. Everything is fruit to me 
which thy seasons bring. O Nature: from thee are all things, 
in thee are all things, to thee all things return. The poet 
says. Dear city of Cecrops; and wilt not thou say. Dear City 
of Zeus? 

Occupy thyself with few things, says the philosopher, if 
thou wouldst be tranquil. — But consider if it would not be 
better to say, Do what is necessary, and whatever the reason 
of the animal which is naturally social requires, and as it 
requires. For this brings not only the tranquillity which 
comes from doing well, but also that which comes from doing 
few things. For the greatest part of what we say and do 
being unnecessary, if a man takes this away, he will have 
more leisure and less uneasiness. Accordingly on every occa- 
sion a man should ask himself, Is this one of the unnecessary 
things? Now a man should take away not only unnecessary 



THE CONDUCT OF UFE. 459 

acts, but also unneces^iy thoughts, for thus superfluous acts 
will not follow after. 

Try how the life of the good man suits thee, the life of 
him who is satisfied with his portion out of the whole, and 
satisfied with his own just acts and henevolent disposition. 

Hast thou seen those things? Look also at these. Do 
not disturb thyself. Make thyself all simplicity. Does any 
one do wrong? It is to himself that he does the wrong. Has 
anything happened to thee? Well; out of the universe from 
the beginning everything which happens has been apportioned 
and spun out to thee. In a word, thy life is short. Thou 
must turn to profit the present by the aid of reason and 
justice. Be sober in thy relaxation. 

Either it is a well arranged universe or a chaos huddled 
together, but still a universe. But can a certain order subsist 
in thee, and disorder in the All? And this too when all things 
are so separated and diffused and sympathetic. 

A black character^ a womanish character, a stubborn 
character, bestial, childish, animal, stupid, counterfeit, scurril- 
ous, fraudulent, tyrannical. 

If he is a stranger to the universe who does not know 
what is in it, no less is he a stranger who does not know what 
is going on in it. He is a runaway, who flies from social 
reason; he is blind, who shuts the eyes of the understanding; 
he is poor, who has need of another, and has not from him- 
self all things which are useful for life. He is an abscess on 
the universe who withdraws and separates himself from the 
reason of our common nature through being displeased with 
the things which happen, for the same nature produces this; 
and has produced thee, too: he is a piece rent asunder from 
the state, who tears his own soul from that of reasonable 
animals, which is one. 

The one is a philosopher without a tunic, and the other 
without a book: here is another half naked: Bread I ha\'e 
not, he says, and I abide by reason — and I do not get the 
means of living out of my learning, and 1 abide (by my 
reason). 

Love the art, poor as it may be. which thou liast Icanwd. 
and be content with it; and pass tliroi^h tlw rest of life like 
one who has intrusted to the gods with his whi^ s*wl M ihit 



462 THE world's progress. 

it is ripe, blessing nature who produced it, and thanking the 
tree on which it grew. 

Be like the promoniory against which the waves con- 
tinually breaks but it stands firm and tames the fury of the 
water around it. 

Unhappy am 1, because this has happened to me — Not so, 
but Happy am I, though this has happened to me, because 
1 continue free from pain, neither crushed by the present nor 
fearing the future. For such a thing as this might have 
happened to every man; but every man would not have con- 
tinued free from pain on such an occasion. Why then is that 
rather a misfortune than this a good fortune? And dost 
thou in all cases call that a man's misfortune, which is not a 
deviation from man's nature? And does a thing seem to thee 
to be a deviation from man's nature, when h is not contrary 
to the will of man's nature? Well, thou knowest the will of 
nature. Will then this which has happened prevent thee 
from being just, magnanimous, temperate, prudent, secure 
against inconsiderate opinions and falsehood; will it prevent 
thee from having modesty, freedom, and everything else, by 
the presence of which man's nature obtains all that is its own ? 
Remember too on ever>' occasion which leads thee to vexation 
to apply this principle: not that this is a misfortune, but that 
to bear it nobly is good fortune. 

It is a vulgar, but still a useful help towards contempt of 
death, to pass in review those who have tenaciously stuck to 
life. What more then have they gained than those who have 
died early? Certainly they lie in their tombs somewhere at 
last, Cadicianus, Fabius, Julianus, Lepidus, or any one else 
like theni» who have carried out many to be buried, and then 
were carried out themselves. Altogetber the interval is small 
(between birth and death); and consider with how much 
(rouble, and in company with what sort of people and in 
what a feeble body this interval is laboriously passed. Do 
not then consider life a thing of any value. For look to the 
immensity of time behind thee and to the time which is before 
thee, another boundless space. In this infinity then what is 
the difference between him who lives three days and him 
who lives three generations? 

Always run to the short way; and the short way is the 



raz CONDUCT of ufs. 



* 



I 



natural: accordingly say aiul do «veryUiing in cronfomiiiy 
wilh Uic .'*otmJc*i r<»a*or. For i-ticfi a imrp(i*ie freti a iiian 
frEim trouble, ami w^rfarc^ and all artifice Aiid uatciiULtJou* 
tlisplay^ 

Thk E^ssKffce or SiMPuciTv.* 

Before con&idermg tlic (^ut-stion of a jiractical relum 10 
Ihc simplicity uf wluch wc drcaii^ it will be necessary to ddinc 
iimplicity in it* very u^ncc For, in rcsrard lo it. people 
ctmnnii tljc same error thai wc bave juii denounced, con- 
founding the secondary with tlie ex^ntial, siibsiinc^ wiih 
fonn. They arc icmptrd lo believe that smiplichy present* 
certain extendi ch;ir^ctenslics hy wfikb il may lie recognized, 
and in which it really consists. Simplicity and lowly station, 
plain dr€A», a nirxlcsl dwelling, slender means, poverty^Uiese 
things seem to go together, Ncverihclc^^. this is not the case: 
Jnsi now I pa^M:d three men on the street ; the first in hi* ear* 
riage« the others on foot, and one of ihem shocici*, Tlw 
shoclc^'* mail doc* not necessarily lead the least comptcx life 
of the three. It may be. indeed, tliat he who rides in his car- 
riage ift sincere and nnQHecteil, in spite of his position, and i% 
not at all the slave of his wealth; it may be also lliat the pe- 
dcsiri;tii in shoes ndiher envies him who rides nor despi&es 
him who goc% ntiihod; and laaly, it is pOT**ihlc llial under 
hia ra^. his feel in the diiiC, the third man has a hatred of 
siniplicit)% of labour, of sobriety, and dreams only of idleness 
and pleasnrc. l-or among tlie Icisl simple and straightforward 
of men itnm be reckcne<l profesjiion.il beggars, knight* of the 
road, parasites and the whole tribe of tlie obsequious and en- 
vious, whose Af^pirations arc summed up in ihi*: To arrive at 
seizing a morsel — the biggest jx^ssible — of that prey which 
the fortunate of earth conMuifc-, And to this same category, 
htllc matter what their station in life, belong tlic prortJRaie. 
Uie arrogant, the miserly, the weak, the craft)-. Livery counts 
(or nothing : we must tee the l«arl. No class Jia* the pieroga- 
J>W of simplicity: "o dre^, however humble in appearance, 
o «* unfailing badge. It* dwelling i>ee«l not be a garret, a 
vLt '^^^ ^* ^^^ astnic nor tbe lowliest fisherman's bark- 
tMcr all the forms in which life vests itself, in all social 

•ChaiJ*.W.tr«r: The Sin>plc Life 



464 THfi world's progress, 

positions, at the top as at the bottom of the ladder, there are 
people who live simply^ and others who do not. We do not 
mean by this that simplicity betrays itself in no visible sigtis, 
has not its own habits, its distinguishing tastes and ways; but 
this outward show, which may now and then be counterfeited, 
must not be confounded with its essence and its deep and 
wholly inward source. Simplicity is a state of mind. It 
dwells in the main intention of our lives. A man is simple 
when his chief care is the wish to be what he ought to be, 
that is, honestly and naturally human. And this is neither so 
easy nor so impossible as one might think. At Irottom, it con- 
sists in putting our acts and aspirations in accordance with 
the law of our being, and consequently with the Eternal Inten- 
tion which willed that we should be at all. Let a flower be 
a flower, a swallow a swallow, a rock a rock, and let a man 
be a man, and not a fox, a hare, a hog, or a bird of prey. 
This is the sum of the whole matter. 

Here we are led to formulate the practical ideal of man. 
Everywhere in life we see certain quantities of matter and 
energy associated for certain ends. Substances more or less 
crude are thus transformed and carried to a higher degree of 
organization. It is not otherwise with the life of man. The 
human ideal is to transform life into something more excellent 
than itself. We may compare existence to raw material. 
What it is, matters less than what is made of it, as the value 
of a work of art lies in the flowering of the workman's skill. 
We bring into the world with us different gifts; one has re- 
ceived gold, another granite, a third marble, most of us wood 
or clay. Our task is to fashion these substances. Everyone 
knows that the most precious material may be spoiled, and he 
knows, too, that out of the least costly an immortal work may 
be shaped. Art is the realization of a permanent idea in an 
ephemeral form. True life is the realization of the higher vir- 
tues, — justice, love, truth, liberty, moral power, — in our daily 
activities, whatever they may be. And this life is possible in 
social conditions the most diverse, and with natural gifts the 
most unequal. It is not fortune or personal advantage, but 
our turning them to account, that constitutes the value of hfe. 
Fame adds no more than does length of days; quality is the 
thing. 



THE CONDUCT OF UFB. 465 

Need we say that one does not rise to this point of view 
without a struggle? The spirit of simplicity is not an in- 
herited gift, but the result of a laborious conquest. Plain liv- 
ing, like high thinking, is simplification. We know that 
science is the handful of ultimate principles gathered out of 
the tufted mass of facts ■ but what groupings to discover them [ 
Centuries of research are often condensed into a principle 
that a line may state. Here the moral life presents strong 
analogy with the scientific. It, too, begins in a certain con- 
fusion, makes trial of itself, seeks to understand itself, and 
often mistakes. But by dint of action, and exacting from him* 
self strict account of his deeds, man arrives at a better knowl* 
edge of life. Its law appears to him, and the law is this; 
IVork out your inission. He who applies himself to aught 
else than the realization of this end, loses in living the raison 
d'etre of life. The egoist does so, the plea sure- seeker, the 
ambitious i he consumes existence as one eating the full corn 
in the blade,— he prevents it from bearing its fruil; his life 
is lost. Whoever, on the contrary, makes his life serve a 
good higher than itself, saves it in giving it. Moral precepts, 
which to a superficial view appear arbitrary, and seem made 
to spoil our zest for life, have really but one object — to pre- 
serve us from the evil of having lived in vain. That is why 
tbey are constantly leading us back into the same paths; that 
is why they all have the same meaning: Do not waste your 
life, make it bear fruit; learn how to give it, in order that it 
may not consume itself! Herein is summed up the experience 
of humanity, and this experience, which each man must re- 
make for himself, is more precious in proportion as it costs 
more dear. Illumined by its light, he makes a moral advance 
more and more sure. Now he has his means 01 orientation, 
his internal form to which he may lead ever^lhing back^ and 
from the vacillating, confused, and complex being that he was, 
he l)ecomes simple. By the ceaseless influence of this same 
law, which expands within him, and is day by day verified 
in tact, his opinions and habits become transformed. 

Once captivated by the beauty and simplicity of the true 

Hfe, by what is sacred and pathetic in this strife of humanity 

for truth, justice, and brotherly love, his heart holds the fas- 

cnuti<^ of it. Gradually ever>-thing subordinates itself to this 
T— ail 



466 Ths world's progress. 

powerful and pcrsislenl charm. The necessary hierarchy of 

powers is organized within him; the essential commands, the 
secondary obeys, and order is born of simplicity. We may 
compare this organization of the interior life to that of an 
army. An army is strong by Its discipline, and its disciphne 
consists in respect of the inferior for the superior, and the con- 
centration of all its energies toward a single end; discipline 
once relaxed, the army suffers. It will not do to let the cor- 
poral command the general. Examine carefully your life and 
the lives of others. Whenever something halts or jars, and 
complications and disorder follow, it is because the corporal 
has issued orders to the general. Where the natural law rules 
in the heart, disorder vanishes. 

1 despair of ever describing simplicity in any worthy fash- 
ion. All the strength of the world and all its beauty^ all true 
joy, everything that consoles, that feeds hope, or throws a ray 
of light along our dark paths, everything that makes us see 
across our poor lives a splendid goal and a boundless future, 
comes to us from people of simplicity, those who have made 
another object of their desires than the passing satisfaction 
of selfishness and vanity, and have understood that the art of 
living is to know how" to give one's life, 

I see no possible way of doing without money. The only 
Thing that theorists or legislators, who accuse it of all our ills, 
has hitherto achieved, has been to change its name or form. 
But ihey have never been able to dispense with a symbol rep- 
resentative of the commercial value of things. One might as 
well wish to do away with written language as to do away 
with money. Nevertheless, this question of a circulating me- 
dium is very troublesome. It forms one of the chief elements 
of complication in our life. The economic difficulties amid 
which we still flounder, social conventionalities, and the entire 
organization of modern life, have carried gold to a rank so 
eminent that it is not astonishing to find the imagination of 
man attributing to it a sort of royalty. And it is on (his side 
that we shall attack the problem. 

The term money has for appendage thai of merchandise. 
If there were no merchandise there would be no money; but 
as long as there is merchandise, (here will be money, little 
matler under \\hat form. The source of all the abuses which 



TH< CONDUCT or IJFR. 



467 



center around money lie* in a lack of cliscriminatifni, Pccipk* 
have confmnl ufutcr ihc tenn aod idra of mcrchaiulisr* things 
wliidi Iwvc no rctatioii witli oie anotJicr, They ha^x al- 
ternptccl !o give a venal value (o ihings which neither couJd 
have it tior oii^hl to. The idea of purchase and ^e has 
im'^ided ground where it may fuiUy be considered an enemy 
M\d a usurper. Tt h reUHoiublt? th;ii wheat, potatoes wine, 
f^hrici*, sbtJiild hr lx>ught and Sf4il, ;iiid tl is perfrutly ii;itiirn1 
ilut a niai/» kboLir procure him rights to life, and that there 
be put into hrs hamU something whose value rcpre^enls them; 
bill here already the analog^/ ceases tc be complete- A m^r^'s- 
Ubour is 1101 merdianJise in the same sense as a sack of flour 
or a ton of coal, !mo ihis labour enter elemenis whkh caiinot 
lir valiti^d in nunipy. In sluiM, there air tliin^s wliiili tan in 
no wi« be bought: SIec]\ for instance; kni:;wh:J|ce of ihc 
future; talent. He who offers them for sale must be consid- 
ered a fool or an impostor. And yet ihcre arc gvntleimnt who 
coin mon<'y by such traffic- They »;ell what does not belong to 
them, and their dnpes pay fictitious vahtes in verit;ib1e coJn. 
So, Too, there arc dealers in pleasures, dcaters in love, dealers 
in miracles, dealers in palriotisni. and ihc title of merchant, so 
lionnurahle when it represents st man sclljnfr that which is in 
truth a commodily of trade, becomes the worst of ^tij^ma!: 
when there is question of the heart, of rclijijion, of country. 

Almost all men arc agreed that to barter with ore's scntU 
meiits, his honour, his cloth, his iwn. or his note, i* inf^mou&. 
Unfcnunatcly this idea, whkli snifers »o contradiction as a 
theory and which thus stated seems rather a commonplace 
than ft high moral truth, has tnluiitc trouble to ma!<e iti ^say in 
practice. Traffic has invaded ihe world. The money- changers 
are c^ablisher] even in iJie &anctuar>', and by fcanctiiary I <lo 
not mean religious things alone, but whatever mankind holds 
sacred and Inviotahle. Il is not gold that complicates, cor- 
rupts, and debases life; it is our mercenary spirit 

The mercenary spirit resolves everything into a single 
question: How much is that going to brinjr me? and sums 
up everything m a single axiom: With money ynu can prcK 
cure anything. Follawing these two principle* of conducts 2 
sodcty may descend to a degree of Infamy impossible to de- 
scribe or to imagine. 



468 THE WORIJ)'S PROGRESS. 

How much IS it going to bring me? This question, so 
legitimate while it concerns those precautions which each 
ought to take to assure his subsistence by his labour, becomes 
pernicious as soon as it passes its limits and dominates the 
whole life. This is so true that it vitiates even the toil which 
gains our daily bread. I furnish paid labour ; nothing could be 
better; but if to inspire me in this labour 1 have only the desire 
to get the pay, nothing could be worse. A man whose only 
motive for action is his wages» does a bad piece of work. 
What interests him is not the doing, — it's the gold. If he can 
retrench in pains without lessening his gains, \k assured that 
he will do it. Plowman, mason, factory labourer, he who loves 
not his work puts into it neither interest nor dignity — is, in 
short, a bad workman. It is not well to confide one's life 
to a doctor who is wholly engrossed in his fees^ for the spring 
of his action is the desire to garnish his purse with the con- 
tents of yours. If it is for his interest that you should suffer 
longer, he is capable of fostering your malady, instead of forti- 
fying your strength. Tlie instructor of children who cares for 
his work only so far as it brings him profit, is a sad teacher; 
for his pay is indifferent, and his teaching more indifferent 
still. Of what value is the mercenary journalist? The day 
you write for the dollar, your prose is not worth the dollar you 
write for. The more elevated in kind is the object of human 
labour, the more the mercenary spirit, if it be present, makes 
this labour void and corrupts it. There are a thousand rea- 
sons to say that all toil merits its wage, that every man who 
devotes his energies to providing for his life should have his 
place in the sun, and that he who does nothing useful, docs 
not gain his h'vplihood. in short, is only a parasite. But 
there is no greater social error than to make gain the sole mo- 
tive of action. The best we put into our work — be that work 
done by strength of muscle, warmth of heart, or concentra- 
tion of mind — is precisely tliat for which no one can pay us. 
Nothing better proves that man is not a machine than this 
fact: two men at work with the same forces and the same 
movements, produce totally different results. Where lies the 
cause of this phenomenon? In the divergence of their inten- 
tions. One has the mercenary spirit> the other lias singleness 
of purpose. Both receive their pay, but the labour of the one is 



THK C02CDUCT OF UFE, 



4«9 



I 



barren; the oih«r lia* put his soul into h;R work. The work 
of tlic firii is like a grain of san<l, out of wbich ncthm^ comes 
througlL all ctcmily; the otlier*s work is like a living »e«rl 
thrown into tiic ground; it germinates ,ind bring* forlh 
harvcsU. This is ilic secret whicli explains why so many peo- 
ple have failed while employinii: the very processes by which 
others succeed, .^uioniatons tlo not reproduce their kind, and 
mercenary tabutir yields [to fruit. 

Right LniNo as a I-'iwe Art." 

The Divine Carpenter and his iinmortat band dwelt far 
from luxury. Poor indeed were Socratei^, rlie reformer, and 
Epictecus, the slave, and Virgi!, iJie poel. Bums, too, antl 
Wordsworih and Coleridge, with Keais and Shelley — all ihesc 
dwelt midway hclween poverty and Hclics. When thai youn^ 
Ef^Hsli scholar learned that ht^ rchttivc had iiville^l hini a 
fortune of 5,000 pounds he wrolc the dying man bcj^ging 
him 10 abandon hi« <1es]gn. saying that he :)]ready had one 
servant, and thai adderl care ;ind TES|ioTis.iliiUty mem! the 
cutting i»ff of ;i few niiiintc.^ for study in the murning and a 
few minutes for reflection at night. 

Here arc our own Hawthorne and Longfellow — 'con- 
tent with small means/ Here is Emcraon resigning his 
diurch in Boston and leaving fame behind him, that upon 
the Utile farm at Cuncord he might e«-ipe the tbousand and 
one details iliac lubbnl his mh:1 of iii Minplitily, Heiir is 
Thoreau building hi* log cabin by Waldcn Pondp living on 
forty dollars a year hecauiic he saw ihat man was being 
'd^troycd by his unwicldly and overgrown establishment, 
clutlerctl with much furniture ;ind tripped with his own trap*, 
nurcd by hjxury •au<\ hrrdlcw expense. whiKtc only htipe wa* 
in rigid economy and Spartan simplicity/ 

Ours is a world where Cervantes writes Don Quixote 
living lipon three l>owh o( porridcc brought by the jailer of 
the prison. The German philosopher aske<l one cluster of 
grapes, ore glass of milk and a slice of bread twice each day 
Having txjuipteied Ins philo^phy. the oh! scholar lool<«d back 
upon forty liappy years, saying that every fine dinner h'v^ 

-Iinu*. 



470 THE world's progress^ 

friends had given him had biuntcd his brain for one day, 
while indigestion consumed an amount of vital energy that 
would have sufficed for one page of good writing. 

A wise youth will think twice before embarking upon a 
career involving targe wealth. Some others are possessed of 
vast property whose duty it is to carry bravely their heavy 
burden in the interest of society and the increase of life's 
comforts, conveniences and happiness. Yet wise Agur's 
prayer still holds: 'Give me neither poverty nor riches/ Whit- 
tier, on his little farm, refusing a princely sum for a lecture, 
was content with small means. Wendell Phillips, preferring 
the slave and the contempt of Boston's merchants and her 
patrician society, chose to 'be worthy, not respectable.' Some 
Ruskinj distributing his bonds and stocks and lands to found 
workingmen's clubs, art schools and colleges, that he might 
have more leisure for enriching his imagination and heart, 
chose to *be wealthy, not rich.* Needing many forms of 
wisdom, our age needs none more than the grace to 'livo 
content with small means» seeking elegance rather than luxury^ 
and refinement rather than fashion.' 



Christmas. 

Something has happened to Christmas, or to our hearts; 
or to both, in order to be convinced of this it is only neces- 
sary to compare ihe present with tlie past In the old days 
of not so long ago the festival began to excite us in November. 
For weeks the house rustled with charming and thrilling 
secrets, and with the furtive noises of paper parcels being 
wrapped and unwrapped; the house was a whispering gallery. 
The tension of expectancy increased to such a point that there 
was a positive danger of the cord snapping before it ought 
to snap. On the Kve wc went to bed with no hope of settled 
sleep. We knew that we should be awakened and kept awake 
by the waits singing in the cold ; and we were glad to be kept 
so awake. On the supreme day we caine downstairs hiding 
our delicious yawns, and cordially pretending that we had 
never been more fit. The day was different from other days; 
it had a unique romantic quality, tonic, curative of all ills. 
On that day even the toothache vanished, retiring far into 



THE OONDCCT OF LIFE, 



47« 



Uic wilderness wtili llic spUcful word, the venoimius chought, 
and the unlovely (^cftlurc Wc «^aii|; witit gusto "Qimtians, 
awake, salute the ha|ipy mom/* Wc did salulc the happy 
mom. 

Ami wticii a)I the parcels were definiiely impcked, and 
ihc secrets of all lieart:^ disda^cd. wc spent the rcsi uf the 
happy morn in wailing* oindifily greedy, for the (irst of the 
great mcaK And ihcn wc aic. and wc drank, and vtc ate 
agfain: with no tlioU£:}it of milrilion* nor of rcasonabfcnc^s, 
nor of the morrow, nor of dyspepsia. We ate and drank 
without fear and without ^hamen abaiidoned ecstasy of oele* 
bmticvi. And hy njtan?* tif ntnlli'v paper headgear, fil nnly 
for a carTiiv;il, wc dis^nisE^d iMir^elveji in ihe most ;ali*<i]rd 
fashions^ ai>d yet did not make ourselves Kncusly ridiculous; 
for ridicule is in the vi3ion, not in what is £ccn. And wc 
lanced and «ang and larked, until wc could no more. And 
finally we chanted a sonfr of ceremony, and separated : endhiff 
the <.\:ky as we had commenced n. whh salvos of good willies. 
And the nesd iiionntL)^ we A'ere indisirtist'd and enfeehleil: 
and wcdid not care; we had our pain'5 worth, and more. This 
was the past. 



I do not mean thai our hearts arc hiack with despair on 
Chrlnmas Day. i do not mean that wc do not enjoy oursclve* 
on Christmas Day. There is no doubt that, with the inspir- 
iting help of the mysterious race, and h)- the force of tradi- 
tion, and hy otir own gift of pretending, we do still very much 
enjoy ourselves on Chri^linai Day. What I meant to insinu- 
ate, and to a.sscrt, is that hencaih thi* enjoyment is the discon- 
ceriinB: and distreitf-inj: conviction of unreality, of non-iipnifi- 
eance, of exAggcraied and even false sentiment. What I mean 
\i that wc have I" 1»racc and force oiirNclves itp to the enjoy- 
ment of Clirislmas, Wc have to induce deliberately the 
"Christmas feeling." We have to remind ourselves lliat "it 
wiU never do" to let the heartiness of Christmas be impaired* 
'he peculiarity of our altitude towards Christmas, which at 
fvorst is a vacation, may be clearly seen by contrasting it with 
our attitude towarcls amjther vacatur — the summer holiday. 
We do not have to br;ice and force riiird«-K-c» up to the enjoy- 



4/2 THE WORLDS PROGRESS. 

merit of the summer holiday. We experience no difficulty in 
inducing the holiday feeling. There is no fear of the institu- 
tion of the summer holiday losing its heartiness. Nor do we 
need the example of children to aid us in savouring the Ai^ust 
^'festivities." 



If the decadence of Christmas were a purely subjective 
phenomenon confined to the breasts of those of us who have 
ceased to be children, then it follows that Christmas has always 
been decadent, because people have always been ceasing to be 
children. It follows also that the festival was originally got 
up by disillusioned adults for the benefit of the children, 
which is totally absurd. Adults have never yet invented any 
institution, festival or diversion specially for the benefit of 
children. The egoism of adults makes such an effort impos- 
sible, and the ingenuity and pliancy of children make it unnec- 
essary. The pantomime, for example, which is now pre-emi- 
nently a diversion for children, was created by adults for the 
amusement of adults. Children have merely accepted it and 
appropriated it. Children, being helpless, arc of course fatal- 
ists and imitators. They take what comes, and they do the 
best they can with it. Atid when they have made something 
their own that was adult, they stick to it like leeches. 

No[ Tile decay of the old Clitiilnias spirit among adults 
is undeniable, and its cause is fairly plain. It is due to the 
labors of a set of idealists-^nicn whu cared not for money, 
nor for glory, nor for anything except their ideal Their ideal 
was to find out the truth concerning; nature and concerning 
human histor}' ; and they sacrificed all — thev sacrificed the 
peace of mind of whole generations — tu the pleasure of slak- 
ing their ardour for truth. For ihcni the most important 
thing in the world was the satisfaction of tlpcir curiosity. They 
would leave naught alone; and they scorned consequences. 
Useless to cry to them: "That is holy. Touch it not!" I 
mean the great ph!losoT>hers and men of science — especially 
the geologists — of the nineteenth century, 1 mean such utterly 
pure-minded men as Lvell, Spencer, Darwin and Huxley. 
They inaugurated the mighty age of doubt and skepticism. 



Te£ CONDUCT Of UFE. 



473 



They made it impossible to believe al) manner oi thin£:s which 
before ihent oone had questioned. The movcmf :tt spread until 
uneasineis wa« everywhere in ibe realm of ihcuRbt, aod peo- 
ple walhrd about therein fearsocndy, as bi a taiid subjea to 
carth^iakcs. It was a^^ if penf^le lunX muI : '*We il<>n*l know 
what will topfle next. Let'* liie ever>ihirg lo the ground, arul 
Ihcn we *hall feel safer." , . . They forget, ia their con- 
fusioa, that Che great princtples, sfnrittial and itK>raJ, remain 
abcoiutely intaa. Tb^ fofffet that, after aJl the fibatierii^ 
dttooveries of science and conclusions of philosophy, mankind 
haft uiW lo live wtth dignity amid ho&iile nature, and in tlie 
presence of an unknowable power, and that mankind am only 
succeed in thia tremendous feat by the exercise of faith and 
of that nnittuf ^ood will which is based on sincerity and char- 
ity. They forget that, while facts are nolMng. these principles 
are everjthing. And so, at that epoch of the year which 
naiure lier&cif has ordiiined for tJie furnial recognition of tl>e 
»lualio<i of nuiiiiiid in llie univer^ and of ils rr^uhlng 
duties to itself and to the Unknown — ^t that epoch, ttiey 
bcv^ad. sadly or impatiently or c>'nKaIIy; *"0h! The bottom 
has been knocked oiti of Christmas!" 



In order to £ee that there is underlying Gtristmas an klea 
of faith which will at any rale U^i as Icnig ;th tite planet lasts, 
it 1% only necessary' to a^ ami aiL*«weT the qixsiion: "Why 
was the Christmas feast hxcd for the twenty-hfth of Dccerrt- 
ber?' For it is absoiwiely certain, aiwl admitted by everybody 
of knowledge, that Christ was not bom on the twenty-fifth of 
December Those disturbing impassioned im^uirers after 
truth- who will not leave us peacefid in wir igiMrance. have 
Settled cliat for urt. hy ^icmiting out. atuong oilier things, that 
the twenty-fifth of Dccemljcr falls in tlie ver>* mid» oi the 
PaleMine rainy season, and that, therefore, shepherds were 
a«£ure4lly not on (hat dale ^^-atching their Htxk^ by night 
Chn«vi»ns were not. at first, umtetl in t1>e celehration of Chrirt- 
jn^%. Some kept Chri^lnm in Jamiary, i>lheM tn Apnl, others 
in May. It was a pre-Christian force v.\ikh drove them all 
iWo agrecnKni upon (he twaiiy-fiith ot December, Jmi as 
they isiacly took the Christmas tree from the Roman Satuma- 
lia, »o they took the date of their festival from the universal 



474 THE world's progress. 

pre-Christian festival of the winter solace, Yule> when man- 
kind celebrated the triumph of the sun over the powers of 
darkness, when the night begins to decrease and the day to 
increase, when the year turns, and hope is born again because 
the worst is over. No more suitaWy symboUc moment 
could have been chosen for a festival of faith, good will and 
joy. And the appositeness of the moment is just as perfect 
in this era of electric liglit and centra! heating, as it was in 
the era of Virgil, who, by the way, described a Christmas 
tree. We shall say this year, with exactly the same accents 
of relief and hope as our pagan ancestors used, and as the 
woaded savage used : "The days will begin to lengthen now !" 
For, while we often falsely fancy that we have subjugated 
nature to our service, the fact is that we are as irremediably 
as ever at the mercy of nature. 

Indeed, the attitude of us moderns toward the forces by 
which our existence is governed ought to be, and probably is, 
more reverent and awestruck than that of the earlier world- 
The discoveries of science have at once quickened our Imagi- 
nation and compelled us to admit that what we know is the 
merest trifle. The pagan in his ignorance explained every- 
thing. Our knowledge has only deepened the mystery, and 
all that we shall learn will but deepen it further. . . , 
And we are quite duly proud of knowledge. And much good 
does our knowledge do us! Well, it does do us some good, 
and in a spiritual way» too! For nobody can even toy with 
astronomy without picturing to himself, more clearly and 
starthngly than would otherwise be possible, a revolving globe 
that whizzes through elemental space around a ball of fire; 
which, in turn, is rushing with all its satelliles at an incon- 
ceivable speed from nowhere to nowhere ; and to the surface 
of the revolving, whizzing globe a multitude of living things 
desperately clinging, and these living things, in the midst of 
cataclysmic danger, and between the twin enigmas of birth 
and death, quarrelling and hating and calling themselves kings 
and queens and millionaires and beautiful women and aris- 
tocrats and genuises and lackeys and superior persons! Per- 
haps the highest value of astronomy is that it renders more 
vivid the ironical significance of such a vision, and thus brings 



THE CONDCCT OF LXrZ. 



47S 



home to us Uk truth that in spite of all the diifcrences which 
vrc have invcmcd, mankind is a fellowship of brothers, over* 
£h3>Jowcd by tnsohible ajnl fearful mysteries, anU dependent 
u|>orL mtituai jjp^odwill an<l ini&t for the happineift it nia> hope 
to achieve. . . . Lti n*- ^<■n1enltH^^ ih:U Chrisiiuaa is, 
ALmong^ oihcT things, Ihc winter i^oUiice, and tlat ilic liottoin 
ha& not yd bom knocked oiiL of the winter solstice, nor is 
likdy to be in the imtiicdiate future! 

U being: agreed, thciit that the Chrijstmaa festival has lo^ 
& great deal of its old vitality, and that, lo many people, it is 
a ^urce of tcdiimi and ihc cause of insincerity; and it being 
further agreed that the difficuhy cannot be got over by 
sini[jl)' atioliihiti^ tlie icslival. 4-s nu i»ie leiilly w;uLt^ it Co lie 
jtboli^hcd ; the q^JC-^lit>n rciiuiin^ — what should be doMe t^* 
vitalize it? The former spirit of faith, the spirit which made 
the great Chrifitmas of tlie guhlen days, h:L^ been weakened; 
but one e