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

CORNELL

UNIVERSITY

LIBRARY

GIFT OF

Donald Stetson

CORNELI UNIVERCIT < LIBRfll

3 1924 071 562 320

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JEbition be Xure

THE LITERATURE OF ALL NATIONS
AND ALL AGES

R- BErSCHLAG, Pjnx

ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE

THE

Literature of All Nations

AND ALL AGES

HISTORY, CHARACTER, AND INCIDENT

EDITED BY

JULIAN HAWTHORNE JOHN PORTER LAMBERTON

OLIVER H. G. LEIGH JOHN RUSSELL YOUNG

INTRODUCTION BY

JUSTIN MCCARTHY

Member of Parliament, 1879-1899 '

Author of "HISTORY OF OUR OWN TIMES." "DEAR LADY
DISDAIN/ AND OTHER NOVELS •««••.«•«•<

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

COMPLETE IN TEN VOLUMES

VOLUME IV

CHICAGO NEW YORK MELBOURNE

E. R. DuMONT

1901

Copyright, 1899,
By ART LIBRARY PUBLISHING CO.

Copyright, 1900,
By E. R. DU MONT

MADE or

THE WERNER COMPANV
AKRON, OHIO

^ PAGB

GREEK LITERATURE— Period IV g

History and Philosophy g

Herodotus 12

The Egyptian King's Treasure 14

Pythius the Lydian 17

The Battle of Marathon 20

Thucydides 25

Harmodius and Aristogiton : 27

[ The Sword and the Myrtte} 30

Pausanias the Spartan 30

The Character of Pericles . . 35

Cleon's Victory at Sphacteria .' 36

Alcibiades Vindicates Himself ' 43

Xbnophon 48

How Xenophon Became a General 50

The Ten Thousand Reach the Sea 53

Gobryas the Assyrian 57

Araspes and Panthea 62

The Visit of Socrates to Theodota 69

The Choice of Hercules 71

Eari,y Greek Philosophers 76

The Seven Wise Men 79

Knowledge of God 80

The Golden Age 80

The Symbols of Pythagoras 80

The Golden Verses of Pythagoras 81

Anacreon 84

On His Lyre 85

The Weapon of Beauty 85

Cupid as a Guest 86

The Ideal Portrait 87

In Praise of Wine 88

I

2 TABI,B OF CONTENTS.

PAGB

GREEK LITERATURE— Pbriod IV. (Continded).

Plea for Drinking ^^

Anacreon's Dove *9

The Grasshopper 9°

Cupid andihe Bee 9'

LATIN LITERATURE— Period III 92

^Ai,i,usT 95

Juguriha at Rome 9S

Caius Marius Seeks the Consulship 99

CAIUS JUWUS C^SAR loi

Ccesar^s First Invasion of Britain 102

The Battle of Pharsalia 109

VlRGll< 112

Tityrus and Meliboeus 1 14

Pollio 117

Orpheus and Eurydice 119

Laocoon and his Sons 121

The Death of Priam 123

Dido on the Funeral Pile 125

The Young Marcellus 129

The Descent of Avernus 130

Horace 131

To the Roman People 132

Mizcenas, Patron a?id Friend 134

His Daily Life in Rome 134

Invitation to Phyllis 13S

The Literary Bore 136

Horace's Monument 138

Ovid 139

Niobe 141

Pyramus and Thisbe 147

Baucis and Philemon 150

TlBUI,I,US 155

Elegy to Delia 155

Sulpicia on Cerinthus Going to the Chase 156

Cerinthus to Sulpicia ijy

PROPERTIUS 158

The Image of Love j eg

Love's Dream Realized !-„

TABI,B op CONTENTS. 3

FACB

PERSIAN LITERATURE— PBRiOD III 160

Khakani 161

The Unknown Beauty 161

NiZAMi , 162

Ferhad the Sculptor 163

The Eye of Charity 165

The Oriental Alexander iffs

The World Beyond 166

JEI,AI<BDDIN RUMI 167

The Merchant atid the Parrot 168

The Destiny 0/ Man 170

The Fairest Land 171

The Lover's Death 171

The Religion of the Heart 172

Sadi 173

Proem to the Gulistan 174

^ 5 The Kipg's Gift to the Dervish 178

The Wrestlers 179

The Judge's Transgression 180

The Sinner and the Monk 184

The Moth and the Flame 185

King Toghrul and the Sentinel 186

ITALIAN LITERATURE— Period II 187

LuiGi Pui,ci 190

Orlando and the Giants 191

The Villain Margutte 196

Niccoi,o Machiavei-W 198

Should Princes be Faithful to their Engagements ? 200

The Rustic Outwits the Devil ' 202

The Credulous Fool 205

Matteo Maria Boiardo 206

Prasildo and Tisbina 20^

Rinaldo Punishedby Cupid ; 215

Bai<dassare Castigwone 217

The Courtier's Addresses 218

LuiGi DA Porto 218

Love in- the Tomb 219

VlTTORIA COLONNA 222

A Branch of the Vine 223

Heavenly Union ' 223

4 TABLE OF CONTENTS.

PAGE

ITALIAN LITERATURB— Period II. (Continued).

Michel Angelo Buonarroti 224

On Danie 225

The Model and the Statue • 226

Love the Liffht-giver 226

Heavenly and Earthly Love 226

After the Death of Vittoria Colonna 227

Lament for Life Wasted 227

Giorgio Vasari 228

Bujfalmalco the Jesting Fainter 228

Benvenuto Celuni 231

The Onion Stew 232

Crossing the Bridge 238

GiACOMo Sannazaro 239

Elegy from the Arcadia 239

King Alphonso of Naples 240

FRENCH LITERATURE— Period III 241

Francis 1 243

The Brightness of his Lady 243

Marguerite op Navarre '. 244

The Rejected Bridegroom . 246

The Pt^iADE 250

The Ruins of Rome 253

The Winnowers^ Hymn 255

The Lovers' Prayer to Venus 255

April 256

The Wreath of Roses 258

The Rose 258

To his Young Mistress 259

Of his Lady's Old Age 260

His Lady's Death 260

BRAiirT6ME. ...» 260

Mary Queen of Scots Leaving France 261

Mary Queen of Scots 264

On the Death of her Husband, Francis II. 265

Farewell to France 266

Francois de Malherbe 266

Phyllis and Glycera 267

Consolation for a Daughter's Death 268

TABLB OP CONTENTS. 5

PAGE

SCANDINAVIAN LITERATURE— Section II 270

The Heimskringi,a 270

Gyda^ Eric's Daughter 271

The Birth of Olaf Tryggvesson 272

The Wedding of Olaf Tryggvesson 275

The Building of the Long Serpent 276

Olaps Dog Vigi 277

Queen Sigrid the Haughty 278

Saga of Frithiof the Bold 279

Frithiof and Ingebore 280

Fridthjof Plays Chess 282

Ingebore's Lament ' 283

Frithiof Visits King Ring 285

The Reconciliation 288

ENGLISH LITERATURE— Period III 291

Sir Thomas More 295

Gold in Utopia 297

Wyatt and Surrey 301

To His Mistress 302

The Address to his Lule 303

A Complaint by Night of the Lover not Beloved 304

Lovers Vassal 304

Roger Ascham 305

Fair Shooting 306

I Two Wings better than One 307

Sir Philip Sidney 307

A Stag Hunt 309 ,

An Arcadian Love-Letter ^10

Stella X. .■ 311

The Stolen Kiss 311

Edmund Spenser 312

Alcyon'' s Lament for Daphne 314

The Epithalamion 317

The Faerie Queene 322

The Red Cross Knight and Utia 323

Sir Walter Raleigh 325

English Valor 328

J he Nymph's Reply to the Passionate Shepherd 329

6 TABLB OF CONTENTS.

PAGE

ENGLISH UTERATURE— Period III. (ConTinubd).

Eari,y English Drama 33°

Noali's Flood 33^

Christopher Mari,owe 33S

The Passionate Shepherd to his Love 337

The Doom of Doctor Faustus 33°

Hero and Leander 34°

Love at First Sight 34°

George Chapman 344

The Drowned Lover 345

William Shakespeare 348

Romeo and Juliet 356

The Tomb of the Capulets 361

The Pound of Flesh 364

Hainlet and Ophelia 371

Othello and Desdem.ona 374

Lear and Cordelia 379

Rosalind 382

Falstaff and the Merry Wives 385

Shakespeare's Sonnets 391

The Poet Confers Immortality 391

The Eternal Summer 392

The Happiness of True Love 392

Ben Jonson 393

Sir Epicure Mammon 395

Captain Bobadil 398

Ode to Himself 399

To Celia 400

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

VOLUME IV.

Orpheus and EtjrydicB - Ji. Beyschlag . Frontispiece

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

Horace at Tibitr A. Leloir 135

Thisbe E. Paupion 147

The Fate of Ferhad S. J. Ferris 164

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

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

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

Hero and Leander C. Von Bodenhausen . 345

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

GREEK LITERATURE.

Period IV. b.c. 450-350.
HISTORY AND PHII,OSOPHY. ,

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

But the introduction and diffusion of the art of writing,

9

lO WTERATURE OF ALL NATIONS.

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

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

GREEK LITERATURE. It

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

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

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

HERODOTUS.

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

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

12

GREEK LITERATURE. 1 3

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

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

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

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

14 WTERATURB OF ALI, NATIONS.

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

The Egyptian King's Treasure.

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

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

GREEK WTERATUEE. 15

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

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

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

I6 ilTERATURE OP ALI, NATIONS.

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

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

GREEK LITERATURE. 1 7

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

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

PyTHIUS the IvYDIAN.

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

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

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

IV— 2

l8 tITERATURB OF ALI, NATIONS.

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

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

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

GREEK LITERATURE. 19

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

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

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

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

20 WTBRATURB OF AXX, NATIONS.

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

The Battle op Marathon.

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

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

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

GREBK LITERATURE. 21

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

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

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

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

22 LITERATTTRB O^ ALt NATIONS.

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

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

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

GJLBBK LITERATURB. 23

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

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

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

24 LITERATURE OF ALI, NATIONS.

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

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

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

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

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

THUCYDIDBS.

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

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

25

26 LITBEATURE OF ALI, NATIONS.

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

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

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

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

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

GRBBK WTERATUfiE. 27

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

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

Harmodius akd Aristogiton.

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

28 WTERATURE OF ALI, NATIONS.

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

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

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

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

GREEK WTERATURE. 29

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

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

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

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

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

30 LITERATURE OF ALI. NATIONS.

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

The Sword and the Myrtle.

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

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

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

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

Patjsanias the Spartan.

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

GREEK WTSRATURE. 31

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

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

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

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

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

32 WTERATURE OK Aht, NATIONS.

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

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

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

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

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

GREEK WTERATURE. 33

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

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

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

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

34 WTBRATURie OF AI,L NATIONS.

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

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

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

QREEK LITERATURE. 35

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

The Character op Pericles.

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

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

36 WTBRATURB OP ALI, NATIONS.

Cleon's Victory at Sphacteria.

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

GREEK LITERATURE. 37

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

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

38 LITEEATURE OP AI,I, NATIONS.

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

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

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

GREEK WTERATITRS. 39

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

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

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

40 LITERATURE OP ALL NATIONS.

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

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

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

GREEK LITERATURE. 4I

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

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

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

42 LITERATTTRE OP ALL NATIONS.

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

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

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

GREEK LITERATURE. 43

Alcibiades Vindicates Himself.

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

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

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

44 LITERATURE OF AliX, NATIONS.

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

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

-5«

GREBK WTBRATURB. 45

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

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

46 LITERATURE OP A.-LX, NATIONS.

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

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

GREEK WTERATURE.

47

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

48

WTBRATURE OF Ali NATIONS.

XENOPHON.

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

GRBEK WTERATURE. 49

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

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

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

50 LITERATURE OP MX, NATIONS.

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

How Xe;nophon Became a General.

• (From the "Anabasis.")

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

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

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

GREBK tl'TERATuaE. 51

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

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

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

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

52 LITERATURE OF KIX, NATIONS.

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

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

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

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

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

GREEK LITERATURE. 53

The Ten Thousand Reach the Sea.

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

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

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

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

54 UTERATURS OP AIX, NATIONS.

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

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

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

GREEK WfERATtJRE. 55

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

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

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

;6 LITERATURE OP AI,I, NATIONS.

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

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

GREEK LITERATURE. 57

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

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

GOBRYAS THE ASSYRIAN.
(From the " Cyropsedia.")

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

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

58 WTERATUfee OF" AtX, NATIONS.

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

GREEK LITBRATURE. 59

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

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

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

6o UTERATURB OP AtL NATIONS.

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

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

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

GREEK WTERATURE. 6l

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

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

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

62 LITERATUHB OP AXX, NATIONS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

GRKBK UTERATURE. 63

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

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

64 WTERATURB OF AI.I, NATIONS.

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

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

GREEK LITERATURE. 65

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

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

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

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

need not be wondered at

IV— S

66 LITERATURE OP Att, NATIONS.

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

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

GRBIOK WTBB.ATUK.E. 67

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

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

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

68 LITERATURE OP ALL NATIONS.

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

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

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

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

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

GRBEK LITERATURE. 69

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

Thk Visit of Socrates to Theodota,

(From the " Memorabilia of Socrates.")

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

70 LITERATURB OP AI,I, NATIONS.

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

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

ORBEK WTERATURB. 7*

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

The Choice oif Hercules.

(Erom the "Memorabilia of Socrates.")

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

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

72 WTBRATURE OF AI<I< NATIONS.

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

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

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

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

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

GRBBK I,ITBRATURE. 73

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

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

my dear Hercules, through what long and difficult ways this

woman would lead you to her promised delights? Follow

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

to happiness. ' '

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

74 LITERATURE OF ALI, NATIONS.

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

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

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

GRBEK WTERATURE.

75

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

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

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

EARLY GREEK PHILOSOPHERS.

B.C. 600-450.

Greek Philosophy, which reached its
highest excellence at Athens in the fourth
century before Christ, had its origin two hundred years earlier
in the outlying settlements of the Hellenic race in Asia Minor,
Thrace, Sicily and Southern Italy, rather than in Greece
proper. The founding of colonies and frequent changes of
government in the older states led thoughtful men to study
the constitution of man and of society. Such were most of
those who have become famous as "The Seven Wise Men."
They were prominent in their respective cities and some were
known as "tyrants," that is, persons who had seized supreme
power. Other thinkers turned from the unsatisfactory explan-
ations of the external world, its phenomena and origin, em-
bodied in the current mythology, to direct investigation of
nature, and thus laid the foundations of science, as now under-
stood. First and foremost among these was Thales of Ephe-
sus, to whom the Ionic School of Philosophy traced its origin.
His knowledge of astronomy was shown by his predicting the
eclipse of the sun which took place in 585 B.C. His physical
researches led him to the notion that there must be a primary
element of all things, and this he maintained to be water,
probably taking that as the representative of all fluids. His
successor, 'Anaximenes of Miletus, half a century later, substi-
tuted air for water. Heraclitus of Epliesus, who flourished
about 520 B.C., regarded fire as the fundamental principle.
The writings of this philosopher " On Nature," are among the
oldest relics of Greek prose. Prom the difiiculty of under-
standing his meaning, Heraclitus was called the Obscure,
but he is also popularly known as the Weeping Philosopher
76

GREEK I.ITSRATURE. 77

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

78 WTBRATURE OP ALL NATIONS.

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

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

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

GRB^K I,I1>ER4TURB. 79

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

The; Sev^jst Wisk Men.

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

Solon of Athens . . . Know thyself.

Child of Sparta .... Consider the end.

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

Bias of Priene Most men are bad.

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

8o WTERATURB OP ALL NATIONS.

Knowledge of God.

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

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

The Golden Age.

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

The Symbols of Pythagoras.

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

Go not beyond the balance.

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

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

GRBEE UTEJRATURK. 8l

Having reached the border, turn not back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Seek not notoriety.)

The Golden Verses of Pythagoras.

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

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

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

82 LITERATURE OP AI<I, NATIONS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

GR5BK UTBRATURB. 83

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

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

ANACREON.

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

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

The songs which from ancient times have been loosely
attributed to Anacreon are marked by sweet simplicity and
buoyant cheerfulness. His poems in praise of wine inculcate
only moderate indulgence, and are far removed from excess.
His best imitators in English have been Abraham Cowley,
Richard Bourne and Thomas Moore. The last has been
justly called the modem Anacreon, as having the playful
spirit of the Greek, but his versions are paraphrases, rather
than exact translations. The following specimens are taken
chiefly frotn Bourne, as being more faithful to the original.
84

enEEK LITBHATURS. 85

On His I/Yre.

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

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

The Weapon of Beauty.

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

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

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

86 LITERATURE OP AI,I, NATIONS.

Cupid as a GxmsT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

GREEK LITERATURE. , 87

Too truly aimed, the fatal dart

My bosom pierced with painful smart. —

Up sprang the boy with laughing eyes,

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

"My bow is sound in every part ;

Thou' It find the arrow in thy heart 1"

The Ideal Portrait.

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

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

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

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

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

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

88 WTERATURB OF AXL, NATIONS.

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

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

In Praise of Wine.

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

Plea for Drinking.

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

ORBlSK tITSRATURB. 89

Anacreon's Dove.

(Translated by Dr. Samuel Johnson.)

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

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

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

90 WTBRATURB OF AH NATIONS.

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

The Grasshopper.

(Translated by Abraham Cowley.)

Happy insect ! what can be

In happiness compared to thee ?

Fed with nourishment divine,

The dewy morning's gentle wine !

Nature waits upon thee still.

And thy verdant cup does fill ;

'Tis filled wherever thou dost tread,

Nature's self's thy Ganymede.

Thou dost drink and dance and sing ;

Happier than the happiest king !

All the fields which thou dost see.

All the plants belong to thee ;

All that summer hours produce ;

Fertile made with early jtdce.

Man for thee does sow and plough ;

Farmer he, and landlord thou !

Thou dost innocently joy ;

Nor does thy luxury destroy ;

The shepherd gladly heareth thee.

More harmonious than he.

Thee country-hinds with gladness hear.

Prophet of the ripen'd year !

Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire ;

Phoebus is himself thy sire.

To thee, of all things upon earth,

I<ife's no longer than thy mirth.

Happy insect, happy, thou

Dost neither age nor winter know;

But, when thou'st drunk and danced and sung

Thy fill, the flowery leaves among.

GREEK LITERATURE. 9I

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

Cupid and the Bee.

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

LATIN LITERATURE.

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

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

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

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

Q8

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

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

94 WTERATURie OP AI,I, NATIONS.

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

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

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

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

Jugurtha at Rome.

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

95

96 WTSRATtTRB OP AI,I, NATIONS.

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

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

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

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

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

tATIN LITBRATURS. 97

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

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

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

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

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

98

WTERATURS OF ALI, NATIONS.

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

I^TIN WTBRATURB. 99

Caitjs Marius Seeks the Consulship.

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

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

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

lOO WTERATURS OP KLX, NATIONS.

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

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

LATIN I,ITERATtrRB.

lOI

CAIUS JULIUS CMSAR.

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

I02 WTSRATURB OP AI<I, NATIONS.

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

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

Caesar's First Invasion ob- Britain.

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

I<ATIN LITERATURE. 103

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

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

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

I04 LITERATURE OP ALL NATIONS.

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

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

I^A.tIS UTBRATtTRB. I05

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

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

I06 WTERATURB OF ALX, NATIONS.

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

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

I*A.TIN LITBRATURB. lOJ

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

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

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

I08 LITERATURE OP ALL NATIONS.

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

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

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

L,ATIN LITERATURB. IO9

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

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

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

The Battle op Pharsalia.

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

no LITERATURE OP AI,I, NATIONS.

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

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

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

1A.TIN WTBRATURB. Ill

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

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

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

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

Virgil's reputation among his contemporaries was first

112

1,ATIN LITERATURE. II3

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

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

114 WTBRATURB OF AI<I, NATIONS.

TiTYRUS AND MELIBCEUS.

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

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

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

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

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

I,ATIN tlTERATURB. II5

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

But country towns, compar'd with her, appear

Like shrubs, when lofty cypresses are near.

Mel. What great occasion called you hence to Rome ?

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

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

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

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

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

Il6 WTERATUR^ OF ALI, NATIONS.

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

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

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

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

I,ATIN WTERATURE. 11?

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

PoivUO.

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

Sicilian Muse, begin a loftier strain !

Though lowly shrubs and trees, that shade the plain.

Delight not all ; Sicilian Muse, prepare

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

The last great age, foretold by sacred rhymes,

Renews its finish'd course : Satumian times

Roll round again ; and mighty years begun

From their first orb, in radiant circles run.

The base degenerate iron offspring ends,

A golden progeny from heaven descends.

O chaste lyucina ! speed the mother's pains,

And haste the glorious birth ! thine own Apollo reigns !

The lovely boy, with his auspicious face.

Shall PoUio's consulship and triumph grace :

Majestic months set out with him to their appointed race.

The father banished virtue shall restore ;

And crimes shall threat the guilty world no more.

The son shall lead the life of gods, and be

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

The jarring nations he in peace shall bind,

And with paternal virtues rule mankind.

Unbidden, earth shall wreathing ivy bring.

And fragrant herbs, the promises of spring.

As her first offerings to her infant king.

The goats, with strutting dugs, shall homeward speed.

And lowing herds, secure from lions, feed.

His cradle shall with rising flowers be crown' d;

The serpent's brood shall die ; the sacred ground

Shall weeds and poisonous plants refuse to beai ;

Each common bush shall Syrian roses wear.

But when heroic verse his youth shall raise,

And form it to hereditary praise,

Il8 WTBRATtTRB OF ALI, NATIONS.

Unlabored harvests shall the fields adorn,

And clustered grapes shall blush on every thorn ;

The knotted oaks shall showers of honey weep,

And through the matted grass the liquid gold shall creep.

Yet, of old fraud some vestige shall remain :

The merchant still shall plough the deep for gain ;

Great cities shall with walls be compassed round,

And sharpened shares shall vex the fruitful ground ;

Another Tiphys shall new seas explore,

Another Argo land her chiefs upon th' Iberian shore ;

Another Helen other wars create,

And great Achilles urge the Trojan fate.

And when to ripen' d manhood he shall grow.

The greedy sailor shall the seas forego :

No keel shall cut the waves for foreign ware,

For every soil shall every product bear.

The laboring hind his oxen shall disjoin :

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

Nor wool shall in dissembled colors shine ;

But the luxurious father of the fold.

With native purple and unborrowed gold.

Beneath his pompous fleece shall proudly sweat ;

And under Tyrian robes the lamb shall bleat.

The Fates, when they this happy web have spun.

Shall bless the sacred clue and bid it smoothly run.

Mature in years, to ready honors move.

Son of celestial seed ! O foster son of Jove !

See, laboring Nature calls thee to sustain

The nodding frame of heaven, and earth and main !

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

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

To sing thy praise, would heaven my breath prolong.

Infusing spirits worthy such a song.

Not Thracian Orpheus should transcend my lays.

Nor Linus, crowned with never-fading bays ;

Though each his heavenly parent should inspire.

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

Should Pan contend in verse, and thou my theme,

Arcadian judges should their god condemn.

Begin, auspicious boy ! to cast about

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

Thy mother well deserves that short delight,

1*A.TIN UTERATURB. 1 19

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

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

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

Orpheus and Eurydice.

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

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

* The Manes were the spirits of the dead.

I20 LITERATURB OF ALL NATIONS.

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

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

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

I^ATIN WTBRATURB. 121

Mourns her lost brood untimely snatch' d away,

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

Tore yet unfledg'd from the maternal breast:

She on the bough all night her plaint pursues,

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

No earthly charms had power his soul to move.

No second hymeneal lured to love.

'Mid climes where Tanais freezes as it flows,

'Mid deserts hoary with Rhipsean snows,

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

And the vain gift of hell's relenting lord.

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

Laocoon and His Sons.

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

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

122

LITERATURE OF AI,I, NATIONS.

Dart their forked tongue, and hiss for ire.

We fly distraught ; unswerving they

Toward I^aocoon hold their way ;

First round his two young sons they wreathe,

And grind their limbs with savage teeth :

Then, as with arms he comes to aid,

The wretched father they invade

And twine in giant folds ; twice round

His stalwart waist their spires are wound,

Twice round his neck, while over all

Their heads and crests tower high and tall.

He strains his strength their knots to tear.

While gore and slime his fillets smear,

And to the unregardful skies

Sends up his agonizing cries :

A wounded bull such moaning makes,

When from his neck the axe he shakes.

Ill-aimed, and from the altar breaks.

The twin destroyers take their flight

To Pallas' temple on the height ;

There by the goddess' feet concealed

They lie and nestle 'neath her shield.

I,ATIN UXBRATURB. 1 23

The Death of Priam.

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

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

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

134 WTBRATURB OF ALI, NATIONS.

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

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

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

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

I<ATIN WTBRATXJRK. 125

His left lie twisted in his hoary hair :

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

The lukewarm blood came rushing through the wound.

And sanguine streams distained the sacred ground.

Thus Priam fell, and shar'd one common fate

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

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

Whom monarchs like domestic slaves obey'd.

On the bleak shores now lies th' abandoned king,

A headless carcass, and a nameless thing.

Dido on the Funerai^ Pile.

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

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

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

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

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

126 WTERATURE OP KLX, NATIONS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* Another name of Dido.

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

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

I Victims for sacrifice. I| Funeral pile.

1,ATIN UTSRATURB. 127

With burning flecks, and otherwliere dead-wliite with death

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

128 LITSRATURB OP AI,!. NATIONS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I,ATIN LITER ATURB. 129

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

The Young Marcellus.

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

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

* The Campus Martlus at Rome.
IV— 9

I30 WTERATURS OF ALI, NATIONS.

Mirror of ancient faith in early youth !

Undaunted worth, inviolable truth !

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

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

Much less in arms oppose thy matchless force.

When thy sharp spurs shall urge thy foaming horse.

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

A new Marcellus shall arise in thee I

Full canisters of fragrant lilies bring,

Mix'd with the purple roses of the spring ;

I/Ct me with funeral flowers his body strow ;

This gift which parents to their children owe,

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

ViRGn, READING TO Augustus and Octavia.

The Descent of Avernus.

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

The journey down to the abyss

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

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

May task a hero's might.

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

131

13a LITERATURB OP AI.I, NATIONS.

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

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

To THE Roman People.

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

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

I,ATIN MTERATURE. 133

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* Quirinus was the name under which Romulus was deified and
worshiped.

134 tlTBRATURE OP ALI, NATIONS.

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

M^CENAS, Patron and Friend.

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

His Daily I,ipe in Rome.

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

I,ATIN MTBRATXTRB. 1 35

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

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

Invitation to Phyllis.

I HAVB laid in a cask of Albanian wine,

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

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

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

Enwreathed with chaste vervain and choicest of blooms.

Every hand in the household is busily toiling.

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

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

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

A day to me dearer than any besides.

13^ MTERATURE OP AtL NATIONS.

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

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

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

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

How to charm away care with the magic of song.

The Literary Bore.

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

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

I.ATIN UTERATURB. 137

It's no use making all this pother.

My mind's made up to stick by you ;

So where you go, there I go too."

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

So very far out of your way.

I'm on the road to see a friend

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

Away beyond the Tiber far,

Close by where Caesar's gardens are."

" I've nothing in the world to do,

And what's a paltry mile or two ?

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

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

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

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

138 LITERATURB OF At,!, NATIONS.

Horace's Monument.

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

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

Rain shall not sap, nor driving blast

Disturb its settled base,
Nor countless ages rolling past

Its symmetry deface.

I shall not wholly die. Some part,

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

And his grim festival.

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

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

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

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

As one who rose from mean estate.

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

To the Italian lyre.

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

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

tATlN UTBRATITRB. 139

OVID.

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

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

140 UTERATURB OP AI<I< NATIONS.

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

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

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

I,ATIN UTERATUES. I4I

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

NiOBE.

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

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

142 WTERATURB OP AI,I, NATIONS.

Her haughty eyes round from her lofty stand

Wide darting, cried : " What madness this to place

Reported gods above the gods you see 1

Why to lyatona's altars bend ye low,

Nor incense burn before my power divine ?

My sire was Tantalus : of mortals sole,

Celestial feasts he shared. A Pleiad uymph

Me bore. My grandsire is the mighty king,

Whose shoulders all the load of heaven sustain.

Jove is my father's parent : him I boast

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

Bend to my sway. The hall of Cadmus owns

Me sovereign mistress. Thebes' high towering walls,

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

Who dwell inclosed, his rule and mine obey.

Where'er within my palace turn mine eyes,

Treasures immense I view. Brightness divine

I boast : to all seven blooming daughters add,

And seven fair sons ; through whom I soon expect.

If Hymen favors, seven more sons to see.

And seven more daughters. Need ye further seek

Whence I have cause for boasting ? Dare ye still

I,atona, from Titanian Casus sprung, —

The unknown Caeus, — she to whom all earth

In bearing pangs the smallest space denied : —

This wretch to my divinity prefer ?

Not heaven your goddess would receive ; not earth ;

Not ocean : exiled from the world, she wept,

Till Delos sorrowing, — ^wanderer like herself,

Exclaimed : ' Thou dreary wanderest over the earth,

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

A resting spot afforded. There becom'e

Only of two the mother — can she vie

With one whose womb has sevenfold hers surpassed?

Blest am I. Who can slightly e'er arraign

To happiness my claim ? Blest will I still

Continue. Who my bliss can ever doubt ?

Abundance guards its surety. Far beyond

The power of fortune is my lot upraised :

Snatch them in numbers from me, crowds more great

Must still remain. My happy state contemns

Even now the threats of danger. Grant the power

I,ATIN WTBRATURB. 143

Of fate this nation of my womb to thine, —

Of part deprived, impossible I shrink

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

From mothers childless ! Quit your rites ;— quick haste

And tear those garlands from your flowing hair."

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

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

144 I,ITERATUR» OP AI,I, NATIONS.

He tumbled. Sipylus gave unchecked scope

To his, when through the empty air he heard

The rattling quiver sound : thus speeding clouds

Beheld, the guider of the ruling helm,

A threatening tempest fearing, looses wide

His every sail to catch the lightest breeze.

I^ose flowed his reins. The inevitable dart

The flowing reins quick followed. Quivering shooK,

Fixed in his upper neck, the naked steel.

Far through his throat protruding. Prone he fell

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

The ground defiling. Hapless Phcedimas,

And Tantalus, his grandsire's name who bore,

Their accustomed sport laborious ended, strove

With youthful vigor in the wrestling toil.

Now breast to breast they strained with nervous grasp,

When the swift arrow from the bended bow

Both bodies pierced, as close both bodies joined ;

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

With agonies convulsed, prone on the earth ;

At once their rolling eyes the light forsook ;

At once their souls were yielded forth to air.

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

LATIN WTERATURB.

145

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

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

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

146 I<ITERATURE OF AI,I< NATIONS.

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

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

rOPYRI HT 1

E. PAUPION, Pi

THISBE

LATIN LITERATURB. 147

Pyramus and Thisbe.

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

148 UTBRATURB 0» ALL NATIONS.

Their guards evading in the silent night,

To pass the outer gates. Then, when escaped

From home, to leave the city's dangerous shades

But lest, in wandering o'er the spacious plains

They miss to meet, at Ninus' sacred tomb

They fix their assignation, — hid concealed

Beneath the umbrageous leaves. There grew a tree,

Close bordering on a cooling fountain's brink ;

A stately mulberry; — snow-white fruit hung thick

On every branch. The plot pleased well the pair.

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

tATIN LITERATURE. 149

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

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

Him dying thus, — ^her lacerated veil,

^5° tlTERATURS Off AI.t NATIONS.

The ivory scabbard emptied of its sword,

She saw, — at once the truth upon her mind

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

Has wrought thy ruin : but to me the hand.

In this, at least, shall equal force display,

For equal was my love ; and love will grant

SufiScient strength the deadly wound to give.

In death I'll follow thee ; with justice called

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

Thou, whom but death seemed capable to part

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

Ye wretched mourning parents, his and mine !

The dying prayers respect of him, — of me :

Grant that, entombed together, both may rest;

A pair by faithful love conjoined, — by death

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

Of one the miserable corpse; and two

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

Of the sad deed eternal ; — tinged be thy fruit

With mournful coloring — monumental type

Of double slaughter." Speaking thus, she placed

The steely point, while yet with blood it smoked,

Beneath her swelling breast; and forward fell.

Her final prayer reached heaven ; her parents reached :

Purple the berries blush, when ripened full;

And in one urn the lovers' ashes rest.

Baucis and Philemon.

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

I.ATIN WTBRATURB. 15!

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

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

152 UTBRATURS OP ALL NATIONS.

And shortened the delay by pleasing chat.

A beam there was, on -which a be6chen pail

Hung by the handle on a driven nail :

This filled with water, gently warmed, they set

Before their guests ; in this they bathed their feet,

And after with clean towels dried their sweat.

This done, the host produced the genial bed,

Sallow the feet, the borders, and the stead.

Which with no costly coverlet they spread,

But coarse old garments ; yet such robes as these

They lay alone at feasts on holydays.

The good old housewife, tucking up her gown.

The table sets ; the invited gods lie down.

The trivet-table of a foot was lame,

A blot which prudent Baucis overcame,

"Who thrust beneath the limping leg a sherd ;

So was thp mended board exactly reared ;

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

A wholesome herb, that breathed a grateful scent.

Pallas began the feast, where first was seen

The party-colored olive, black and green ;

Autumnal cornels next in order served.

In lees of wine well pickled and preserved.

A garden salad was the third supply.

Of endives, radishes, and succory :

Then curds and cream, the flower of country fare,

And new-laid eggs, which Baucis' busy care

Turned by a gentle fire, and roasted rare.

All these in earthenware were served to board,

And, next in place, an earthen pitcher stored

With liquor of the best the dottage could afford.

This was the table's ornament and pride.

With figures wrought : like pages at his side

Stood beecheii bowls ; and these were shining clean,

Varnished with wax without, and lined within.

By this the boiling kettle had prepared

And to the table sent the smoking lard ;

On which with eager appetite th6y dine,

A savory bit, that served to relish wine ;

The wine itself was suiting to the rest,

Still working in the must, and lately pressed.

The second course succeeds like that before.

I<ATIN LITERATURE. . 1 53

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

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

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

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

154 UTERATURS OP ALI, NATIONS.

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

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

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

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

I,ATm WTERATTMlB. 155

I saw myself the garlands on their boughs,

And tablets hung for gifts of granted vows ;

And offering fresher up, with pious prayer,

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

And such as honor Heaven shall heavenly honor share."

TIBUI.I.US.

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

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

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

Elegy to Delia.

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

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

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

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

156 LITERATURE OF AI,I, NATIONS.

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

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

Yes — and another now enjoys the prize,

And reaps the fruit of all my vows for thee ;

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

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

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

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

To rural god ripe clusters for the vine,

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

Slaves — all shall own her undisputed rule ;

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

The sweetest apples from the choicest trees ;

And, honoring one so great, for him prepare

And serve the banquet with her own white hands.

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

SutPiciA ON Cerinthtjs Going to the Chase.

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

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

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

* The unfermented juice of the grape.

LATIN LITBRATURB. 1 57

Woula track the bounding stags througli tainted grounds.

Beat up their covers and unchain thy hounds.

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

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

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

CEB-INTHtrS TO SULPiaA,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No ; not though Heaven itself sent down

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

WovM I for ber forsake tbose charms.

158 LITKRATURB OF ALL NATIONS.

PROPERTIUS.

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

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

The Image oe Love.

Had he not hands of rare device, whoe'er

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

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

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

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

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

And those inflicted wounds forever last.

I,ATIN LITER ATURB. I59

I
In me are fixed those arrows — in my breast ;

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love's Dream Realized.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PERSIAN LITERATURE,

Period III. a.d. 1150-1300.

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

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

160

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

PERSIAN UTERATTJRB. l6l

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

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

KHAKANI.

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

The Unknown Beauty.

O waving cypress ! cheek of rose !

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

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

life destroyer ! — who art thou ?

1 saw thy form of waving grace !

I heard thy soft and gentle sighs ;

IV— II

l62 WTERATURE OF AI,!, NATIONS.

I gazed on that enchanting face,

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

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

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

Thy rich cheek shames the rose — thy brow

Is like the young moon— who art thou?

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

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

What bliss can life accord me now

But once to know thee ! — who art thou?

NIZAMI.

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

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

PBRSIAN LITER ATURB. 1 63

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

Ferhad the Sculptor.

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

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

164 LITERATURE OF ALL, NATIONS.

Into fantastic shapes and forms of grace,

That crowd each nook of that majestic place.

The piles give way, the rocky peaks divide,

The stream comes gushing on, a foaming tide, —

A mighty work for ages to remain.

The token of his passion and his pain.

As flows the milky flood from Allah's throne,

Rushes the torrent from the yielding stone.

And, sculptured there, amazed, stern Khosru stands,

And frowning sees obeyed his harsh commands :

While she, the fair beloved, with being rife,

Awakes from glowing marble into life.

O hapless youth ? O toil repaid by woe !

A king thy rival, and the world thy foe.

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

And only genius, truth, and passion thine ?

Around the pair, lo ! chiselled courtiers wait,

And slaves and pages grouped in solemn state;

From columns imaged wreaths their garlands throw,

And fretted roofs with stars appear to glow :

Fresh leaves and blossoms seem around to spring,

And feathered throngs their loves seem murmuring.

.The hands of Peris might have wrought those stems

Where dew-drops hang their fragile diadems.

And strings of pearl and sharp-cut diamonds shine.

New from the wave, or recent from the mine.

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

At every stroke fresh miracles arise.

"For thee my life one ceaseless toil has been ;

Inspire my soul anew,— alas, Shireen !"

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

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

CnpYHIfhT tlOO

THE FATE OF FERHAD

PERSIAN WTERATURE. 165

Far in the wide expanse his axe te flung,

And from the precipice at once he sprung.

The rocks, the sculptured caves, the valleys green,

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

The Eye of Charity.

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

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

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

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

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

The Oriental Alexander.

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

Some entitle him I<ord of the Throne,

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

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

Inscribe his diploma with the name of Sage ;

Some, for his purity and devotion to the Faith,

Give him admission to the order of the Prophets.

l66 LITERATURE OF ALL NATIONS.

The World Beyond.

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

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

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

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

PBRSIAN INITIOS ATURE. 1 67'

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

JELALEDDIN RUMI.

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

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

1 68 LITER ATURB OP AI^L NATIONS.

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

The Merchant and the Parrot.

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

PERSIAN UTBRATURB. 169

He Stayed his liorse, and he lifted his voice,

And he repeated his message, and deposited his trust ;

And one of those parrots suddenly fluttered.

And fell to the ground, and presently died.

Bitterly did the merchant repent his words ;

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

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

Their bodies perchance were two and their souls one.

Why did I this ? why gave I the message ?

I have consumed a helpless victim by my foolish words !

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

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

Strike not together in thy folly the flint and steel,

Whether for the sake of kind words or vain boasting ;

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

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

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

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

I70 WTEEATURE OF ALL NATIONS.

And to prove its own words itself did die."

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

The Destiny op Man.

Seeks thy spirit to be gifted

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

O'er earth's storm and strife.

Spurn its joys — its ties dissever ;

Hopes and fears divest ;
Thus aspire to live forever —

Be forever blest !

Faith and doubt leave far behind thee ;

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

Thou shalt Time outdate.

Merge thine individual being

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

For pure bliss above.

Earth receives the seed and guards it ;

Trustfully it dies ;
Then, what teeming life rewards it

For self-sacrifice !

With green leaf and clustering blossom

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

Ever sunward shoot !

Thus, when self-abased, Man's spirit

From each earthly tie
Rises disenthralled t' inherit

Immortality I

PERSIAN LITBRATURB. 1 71

The Fairest Land.

" Tell me, gentle traveler, thou

Who hast wandered far and wide,

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

Say, of all thine eyes have seen.

Which the fairest land has been ?"

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

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

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

The Lover's Death.

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

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

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

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

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

death.

* The river of Paradise.

172

tITBRATURS OF MX, NATIONS.

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

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

The Religion op the Heart.

Beats there a heart within that breast of thine ?

Then compass reverently its sacred shrine :

For the true spiritual Caaba is the heart,

And no proud pile of perishable art.

When God ordained the pilgrim rite, that; sign

"Was meant to lead thy thought to things divine.

A thousand times he treads that round in vain

Who e'en one human heart would idly pain.

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

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

God spurns the riches of a thousand coffers,

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

Nor gold nor silver seek I, but above

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

Yea, one sad contrite heart, which men despise,

More than my throne and fixed decree I prize."

Then think not lowly of thy heart, though lowly.

For holy is it, and there dwells the Holy.

God's presence-chamber is the human breast ;

Ah, happy he whose heart holds such a guest !

PERSIAN LITERATXIRB.

173

SADI.

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

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

174 LITERATURE OF ALI, NATIONS.

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

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

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

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

Proem to the Gulistan.

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

PERSIAN I,ITBRATURE. 175

I

One breatli of life each moment flies,

A small remainder meets my eyes.

Sleeper, whose fifty years are gone,

Be these five days at least thy own.

Shame on the dull, departed dead, '

Whose task is left unfinished.

In vain for them the drum was beat.

Which warns us of man's last retreat.

Sweet sleep upon the parting-day

Holds back the traveller from the way.

Each comer a new house erects.

Departs — the house its lord rejects ;

The next one forms the same conceit.

This mansion none shall e'er complete.

Hold not as friend this comrade light,

With one so false no friendship plight.

Since good and bad alike must fall.

He's best who bears away the ball.

Send to the tomb an ample store ;

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

With empty hand hast thou sought the mart?

I fear thou wilt with thy turban part.

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

At the true harvest can but glean.

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

There is the way — ^be manful and proceed.

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

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

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

176 WTERATURB OP ALL NATIONS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To speak unwished, or speak unseasonably.

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

When thou contendest choose an enemy

Whom thou mayst vanquish or whom thou canst fly.

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

PERSIAN WTBRATUKB. 177

Vestments green upon the trees,

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

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

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

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

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

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

What use to thee that flower-vase of thine?

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

Those roses but five days or six will bloom ;

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

IV— 12

178 WTBRATURE OP ALL NATIONS.

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

The King's Gift to the Dervish.

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

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

PERSIAN WTERATURE. ■ 179

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

The Wrestlers.

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

l8o LITERATUBB OF A.1X, NATIONS.

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

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

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

The Judge's Transgression.

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

PERSIAN WTERATURB. iSl

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

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

The Cazy approved the admonition of his cordial friends,

I82 WTERATURB OF AI,I, NATIONS.

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

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

That very night they carried intelligence to the king of

PBRSIAN WTERATURB. 183

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

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

1 84 LITBRATURB OF ALI, NATIONS.

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

The Sinner and the Monk.

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

That Satan from him shrank, appalled in every attribute.

He in a sea of pleasures foul uninterrupted swam,

And gluttonized on dainty vices, sipping many a dram.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

here. '

PERSIAN LITBRATURB. 1 85

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

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

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

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

From Heaven's throne a revelation instantaneous broke,

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, faintly hoping pity, pours his supplications there.

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

My mercy chooses him a citizen of Paradise.

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

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

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

The Moth and the Flame.

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

These words between the moth and light did me surprise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And with each tear crackled a separation shriek.

Then from her mouth these further words of pleading fall :

1 86 LITERATURE Olf ALL NATIONS.

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

King Toghrul and the Sentinel.

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

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

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

ITALIAN LITERATURE.

Period II. — 1400-1550.

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

' See Volume I., p. 199.

,187

1 88 UTERATURE OP ALL NATIONS.

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

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

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

ITALIAN UTERATURB. 1 89

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

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

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

igo LITERATURE OP A1,L NATIONS.

LUIGI PULCL

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

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

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

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

ITAUAN WTERATURE. 19I

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

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

Orlando and the Giants.

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

The abbot was called Clermont, and by blood

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

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

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

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

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

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

And was baptized a Christian ; and then showed

How to the abbey he had found his road.

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

And that you may not, Cavalier, conceive

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

192 WTERATURE Off AH NATIONS.

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

" When hither to inhabit first we came

These mountains, albeit that they are obscure,

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

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

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

Against domestic beasts with watch and ward.

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

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

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

And these so much our orisons derange,

I know not what to do, till matters change.

" Our ancient fathers, living the desert in,

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

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

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

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

Plucks up pines, beeches, poplar trees and oaks,

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

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

Which nearly crushed Rondello, came tumbling over,

So that he took a long leap under cover.

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

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

Dear Abbot," Roland unto him replied.

ITALIAN UTERATURB. 193

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

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

Orlando bade them take care of Rondello,

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

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

" That Passamont has in his hand three darts, —

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Surveyed him fore and aft, with eyes observant.

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

And promised him an office of great ease.

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

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

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

And being returned to where Orlando stood,

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

194 WTERATURE OF AI,I, NATIONS.

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

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

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

But more than dead, he seemed so stupefied.

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

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

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

While the giant goes to put off his defences,

Orlando has recalled his force and senses ;

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

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

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

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

And turned about, and stopped his journey on.

And then he stooped to pick up a great stone.

Orlando had Cortana bare in hand ;

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

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

And most devoutly Macon [Mahomet] still blasphemed ;
But while his crude, rude blasphemies he heard,

Orlando thanked the Father and the "Word, —

Saying, " What grace to me thou'st this day given 1

And I to thee, O I/ord, am ever bound.
I know my life was saved by thee from heaven,

Since by the giant I was fairly downed.
All things by thee are measured just and even ;

Our power without thine aid would naught be found.
I pray thee, take heed of me till I can.
At least return once more to Carloman."

ITALIAN LITERATURB. 195

And having said tliis much, he went his way;

And Alabaster he found out below,
Doing the very best that in him lay

To root from out a bank a rock or two.
Orlando, when he reached him, loud 'gan say,

"How think' St thou, glutton, such a stone to throw ? "
"When Alabaster heard his deep voice ring.
He suddenly betook him to his sling.

And hurled a fragment of a size so large,
That, if it had in fact fulfilled its mission,

And Roland not availed him of his targe.

There would have been no need of a physician.

Orlando set himself in turn to charge.
And in his bulky bosom made incision

With all his sword. The lout fell ; but, o'erthrown, he,

However, by no means forgot Macone.

Morgante had a palace in his mode.

Composed of branches, logs of wood, and earth,
And stretched himself at ease in this abode.

And shut himself at night within his berth.
Orlando knocked, and knocked again, tp goad

The giant from his sleep ; and he came forth.
The door to open, like a crazy thing;
For a rough dream had shook him slumbering.

He thought that a fierce serpent had attacked him ;

And Mahomet he called ; but Mahomet
Is nothing worth, and not an instant backed him ;

But praying blessed Jesu, he wa^ set
At liberty from all the fears which racked him ;

And to the gate he came with great regret.
"Who knocks here? " grumbling all the while, said he.
"That," said Orlando, "you will quickly see.

" I come to preach to you, as to your brothers, —
Sent by the miserable monks, — repentance ;

For Providence Divine, ip you and others.

Condemns the evil done my new acquaintance.

'Tis writ on high, your wrong must pay another's ;
From heaven itself is issued out this sentence.

196 UTBRATtJRB OF ALL NATIONS.

Know, then, that colder now than a pilaster
I left your Passamont and Alabaster."

Morgante said, "O gentle Cavalier,
Now, by thy God, say me no villany !

The favor of your name I fain would hear,
And, if a Christian, speak for courtesy."

Replied Orlando; " So much to your ear
I, by my faith, disclose contentedly ;

Christ I adore, who is the genuine lyord,

And, if you please, by you may be adored."

The Saracen rejoined, in humble tone,
' ' I have had an extraordinary vision :

A savage serpent fell on me alone.
And Macon would not pity my condition ;

Hence, to thy God, who for ye did atone
Upon the cross, preferred I my petition ;

His timely succor set me safe and free.

And I a Christian am disposed to be."

The Villain Margutte.

Answered Margutte : " Friend, I never boasted:
I don't believe in black more than in blue,

But in fat capons, boiled or may-be roasted ;
And I believe sometimes in butter too.

In beer and must, where bobs a pippin toasted ;
Sharp liquor more than sweet I reckon true ;

But mostly to old wine my faith 1 pin.

And hold him saved who firmly trusts therein.

" Apollo's nought but a delirious vision.
And Trivigant perchance a midnight spectre :

Faith, like the itch, is catching ; what revision
This sentence needs, you'll make, nor ask the rector:

To waste no words you may without misprision
Dub me as rank a heretic as Hector :

I don't disgrace my lineage, nor indeed

Am I the cabbage-ground for any creed.

" Faith's as man gets it, this, that, or another !
See then what sort of creed I'm bound to follow:

ITAUAN tlTERATURB. 1 97

For you miist know a Greek nun was my mother,
My sire at Brusa, 'mid the Ttirks, a moUah ;

I played the rebeck first, and made a pother
About the Trojan war, flattered Apollo,

Praised up Achilles, Hector, Helen fair,

Not once, but twenty thousand times, I swear.

" Next, growing weary of my light guitar,

I donned a military bow and quiver;
One day within the mosque I went to war.

And shot my grave old daddy through the liver :
Then to my loins I girt this scimitar,

And journeyed forth o'er sea, land, town and river.
Taking for comrades in each holy work
The congregated sins of Greek and Turk.

"That's much the same as all the sins of hell !

I've seventy-seven at least about me, mortal ;
Summer and winter in my breast they swell :

Guess now how many venial crowd the portal !
'Twere quite impossible, I know full well.

If the world never ended, to report all
The crimes I've done in this one life alone;
Each item too is catalogued and known.

"I pray you listen for one little minute;

The skein shall be unraveled in a trice : —
When I've got cash, I'm gay as any linnet.

Cast with who calls, cut cards, and fling the dice ;
All times; all places, or the devil's in it,

Serye me for play ; I've spent on this one vice
Fame, fortune — staked my coat, my shirt, my breeches ;
I hope this specimen will meet your wishes.

" Don't ask what juggler's tricks I teach the boxes ! ,

Or whether sizes serve me when I call.
Or jumps an ace up ! — Foxes pair with foxes ;

The same pitch tars our fingers, one and all ! —
Perhaps I don't know how to fleece the doxies ?

Perhaps I can't cheat, cozen, swindle, bawl?
Perhaps I never learned to patter slang ? —
I know each trick, each turn, and lead the gang,"

The name of Niccolo Machiavelli lias stood for infamy
throughout three centuries, and even yet has a flavor of the
diabolic about it. The Elizabethan playwright brought out
the figure of Machiavelli as prologue ' much as if it repre-
sented Fiendishness incarnate; and to-day Machiavellian
politics are regarded as synonymous with arbitrary power sup-
ported by cunning craft. In reality Niccolo Machiavelli was,
if his newer and brighter rehabilitation be correct, a warm
lover of freedom. As Snell puts the case: " Machiavelli' s
' II Principe ' (The Prince) is a scientific presentment of
certain very abstruse results which he had accomplished in
his ' Commentary on Livy' — a treatise on political science.
In- spite of its evil savor, it was written, there is every reason
to believe, with the best intentions. The actual design of
Machiavelli is to show on what terms sovereignty can be
attained and upheld, human nature remaining what it is.
' II Principe ' at first sight presents no ideal, and this is pro-
bably the^ reason for the disappointment and disgust with
which many, especially modern, readers have perused it.
Certainly Machiavelli takes a very low view of ordinary
morality, but the facts with which observation and experience
had rendered him familiar in practical life, justified and
almost necessitated this pessimism. Machiavelli had a politi-
cal as well as a scientific aim in writing this book, and it
was not adverse to liberty. He looked (as he tells us in the
last sentence) for the regeneration of Italy, the expulsion of
193

ITAtlAN I,ITBRATURB. 199

the foreigner, tlie unity of rule. His work, in fact, was com-
posed with the view to the freeing of his country by some
petty prince, whose skill and genius, assisted by the counsels
of wise nien, should do what indeed was done later by the
Savoyard princes. . . . Instead of this the work came to be
regarded as a convenient manual for tyrants, and it is probable
that no book has ever done more harm to its author or more
mischief to humanity. Charles V., Catherine de Medicis,
Henri III. and Henri IV. made it their daily companion, and
its fame having reached the Levant, Mustapha III. caused it
to be' translated into Turkish. More recently Napoleon
Bonaparte is said to have studied it in the hope of discover-
ing some hints for the maintenance of his huge and ill-gotten
empire. ' '

Machiavelli seems to have chosen an idealized Cesare
Borgia for his hero. Although he called the real Cesare a
"basilisk" and a "hydra," he admired Borgia's statecraft,
unscrupulous though he was. Machiavelli wished his ideal
Prince to mingle the natures of the fox and the lion, and he
speaks of " honorable fraud " and "splendid rascality." As
Macaulay declared, Machiavelli, was, after all, an Italian of
his day and generation. He advocated a national army and
militia for his national tyrant, and foreshadowed the coming
monarchies of Europe.

Niccolo Machiavelli was born at Florence in 1469., He
was for some time Secretary of the Florentine Republic, and
he wrote the History of Floretlce in eight books, from the
fall of the Roman Empire to the rise of the Italiap, Republics.
This history is justly distinguished for its style and its spirit
of philosophy. But Machiavelli also shone in the golden age
of the Medici as dramatist and novelist, his versatility being
remarkable.- In his comedy " Mandragola, " he satirized the
social parasite and the religious impostor in a plot of a gulled
husband who carves his own horns. His great, and only
extant, novel is "Belphegor." The whimsical plot of the
story was first narrated in an old Latin MS. An old English
play (1691), modelled on Macjiiavelli's novella, was entitled
"Belphegor, or, the Marriage of the Devil."

20O LITERATURB OF ALL NATIONS.

Should Princes be Faithful to their Engagements?

The work on which the fame of Machiavelli, for good or evil,
rests, is "The Prince." It was written about 1514; but was not printed
until 1532 — five years after the author's death. It is chiefly devoted to the
character which must be possessed by the prince who has become the
ruler of a .state, by conquest, election, or hereditary right, and wishes
to retain his power. Towards the close of the work he discusses the
question, ' ' Whether Princes should be faithful to their Engagements ? ' '
and decides that they should not be so, unless this course be for their
interest. This eighteenth chapter especially has given rise to the term
" Machiavellian," to denote a crafty and unscrupulous mode of policy.

It is unquestionably , very praiseworthy in princes to be
faithful to their engagements ; but among those of the pres-
ent day who have performed great exploits few of them have
piqued themselves on this fidelity, or have been scrupulous in
deceiving those who relied on their good faith. It should,
therefore, be known that there are two methods of warfare ;
one of which is by laws, the other by force. The first is
peculiar to men, the other is common to us with beasts. But
when laws are not powerful enough, it is very necessary to
recur to force. A prince ought to understand how to fight
with both these kinds of arms.

The doctrine is admirably displayed to us by the ancient
poets in the allegorical history of the education of Achilles
and many other princes of antiquity by the Centaur Chiron
who, under the double form of man and beast, taught those
who were destined to govern that it was their duty to use by
turns the arms adapted to each of these species, seeing that
one without the other cannot be of any durable advantage.

Now those animals whose forms the prince should know
how to assume are the fox and the lion. The first can but
feebly defend himself against the wolf, and the other readily
falls into snares that are laid for him. Prom the first a prince
will learn to be dexterous, and avoid the snares ; and from the
other to be strong, and keep the wolves in awe. Those who
despise the part of the fox understand but little of their trade.
In other words, a prudent prince cannot nor ought to keep his
word, except when he can do it without injury to himself, or

ITALIAN UTEEATURE. 20I

when the circumstances under which he contracted the
engagement still exist. ,

I should be cautious of inculcating such a principle if all
men were good; but as they are all wicked and ever ready-
to break their words, a prince should not pique himself on
keeping his more scrupulously— and it is always easy to
justify this want of faith. I could give numerous proofs of it,
and show how many engagements and treaties h^ive been
broken by the infidelity of princes ; the most fortunate of
whom has always been he who best understood how to assume
the character of the fox. The object is to act his part well,
and to know how in due time to feign and dissemble. And
men are so simple and so weak that he who wishes to deceive
easily find dupes.

One example, taken from the history of our own times,
will be sufiicient : Pope Alexander VI. played during his
whole life a game of deception ; and notwithstanding his
faithless conduct was extremely well known, he was in all
his artifices successful. Oaths and protestations cost him
nothing. Never did a prince so often break his word, nor
pay less regard to his engagements. This was because he
knew perfectly veil this part of the art of government.

There is, therefore, no necessity for a prince to possess all
the good qualities I have enumerated ; but it is indispensable
that he should appear to have them. I will even go so far as
to say that it is sometimes dangerous to make use of them,
though it is always useful to seem to possess them. It is the
duty, of a prince most earnestly to endeavor to gain the repu-
tation of kindness, clemency, piety, justice, and fidelity to
his engagements. He ought to possess all these good quali-
ties, but still to retain such power over himself as to display
their opposites whenever it may be expedient. I maintain
that a prince — and more especially a new prince — cannot with
impunity exercise all the virtues, because his own self-preser-
vation will often compel him to violate the laws of charity,
religion, and humanity. He should habituate himself to
bend easily to the various circumstances which may , from
time to time surround him. In a word, it will be as useful to
him to persevere in the path of rectitude, while he feels no

202 LITERATURE OF AhL, NATIONS.

inconvenience in doing so, as to know how to deviate from it
when circumstances shall require it. He should, above all,
study to utter nothing which does not breathe kindness,
justice, good faith, and piety.

The last quality is, however, that which it is the most
important for him to appear to possess, as' men in general
judge more by their eyes than by their other senses. Every
man can see, but it is allotted to but few to know how to
rectify the errors which they commit by the eyes. We easily
discern what a man appears to be, but not what he really is ;
and the smaller number dare not gainsay the multitude, who
besides have with them the strength and the splendor of
government.

Now when it is necessary to form a judgment of the minds
of men — and more especially of those of princes — as we
cannot have recourse to any tribunal, we must attend only to
results. The point is to maintain his authority. I^et the
means be what they may, they will always appear honorable,
and every one will praise them ; for the vulgar are always
caught by appearances, and judge only by the event. Now,
the "vulgar" comprehend almost every one, and the few are
•of no consequence except when the multitude know not on
whom to rely.

A prince who is now on the throne, but whom I do not
choose to name,* always preaches peace and good faith ; but
if he had observed cither the one or the other, he would more
than once have lost his reputation and his dominions.

The Rustic Outwits the Devil.

The fiend Belphegor had been allowed to come on earth. He
assumed the name Roderigo and was married, but the haughty airs of
his wife drove all servants from his house and finally compelled him to
desert her. He was pursued by her relatives, but rescued by Matteo,
whom he rewarded by allowing him twice to remove the fiend from
persons whom he had entered, and thus get great wealth. But Roderigo
warned him not to carry this practice further.

Matteo returned to Florence after receiving fifty thousand

* He refers to Ferdinand V., King of Castile, who acquired the
kingdoms of Naples and Navarre.

ITAI^IAN I,ITERATURB. 203

ducats from his majesty,, in order to enjoy his riches in peace,
and never once imagined that Roderigo would come in his
■way again. But in this he was deceived ; for he soon heard
that a daughter of Louis, King of France, was possessed by
an evil spirit, which disturbed our friend Matteo not a little,
thinking of his majesty's great authority and of what Rode-
rigo had said. Hearing of Matteo's great skill, and finding
no other remedy, the king despatched a messenger for him,
whom Matteo contrived to send back with a variety of excuses.
But this did not long avail him; the king applied to the
Florentine council, and our hero was compelled to attend.
Arriving with no very pleasant sensations at Paris, he was
introduced into the royal presence, when he assured his ma-
jesty that though it was true he had acquired some fame in
the course of his demoniac practice, he could by no means
always boast of success, and that some devils were of such a
desperate character as not to pay the least attention to threats,
enchantments, or even the exorcisms of religion itself. He
would, nevertheless, do his majesty's pleasure, entreating at
the same time to be held excused if it should happen to prove
an obstinate case. To this the king made answer, that be the
case what it might, he would certainly hang him if he did
not succeed. It is impossible to describe poor Matteo's terror
and perplexity on hearing these words ; but at length muster-
ing courage, he ordered the possessed princess to be brought
into his presence. Approaching as usual close to her ear, he
conjured Roderigo in the most humble terms, by all he had
ever done for him, not to abandon him in such a . dilemma, .
but to shaw some sense of gratitude for past services and to leave
the princess. ' ' Ah ! thou traitorous villain ! ' ' cried Rode-
rigo, "hast thou, indeed, ventured to meddle in this business?
Dost thou boast thyself a rich man at my expense ? I will
now convince the world and thee of the extent of my power,
both to give and to take away. I shall have the pleasure of
seeing thee hanged before thou lea vest this place. ' '

Poor Matteo finding there was no remedy, said nothing
more, but wisely set his head to work in order to discover some
other means of expelling the spirit ; for which purpose he said
to the king, " Sire, it is as I feared ; ^there are certain spirits of,

204 WfBRATURB OP AI,I. NATIONS.

SO malignant a character that there is no keeping any terms
with them, and this is one of them. However, I will make
a last attempt, and I trust that it will succeed according to
our wishes. If not, I am in your majesty's power, and I hope
you will take compassion on my innocence. In the first place,
I have to intreat that your majesty will order a large stage to
be erected in the centre of the great square, such as will ad-
mit the nobility and clergy of the whole city. The stage
ought to be adorned with all kinds of silks and with cloth of
gold, and with an a;ltar raised in the middle. To-morrow
morning I would have your majesty, with your full train of
lords and ecclesiastics in attendance, seated in order and in
magnificent array, as spectators of the scene at the said place.
There, after having celebrated solemn mass, the possessed
princess must appear ; but I have in particular to intreat that
on one side of the square may be stationed a band of men
with drums, trumpets, horns, tambours, bagpipes, cymbals, and
kettle-drums, and all other kinds of instruments that make
the most infernal noise. Now, when I take my hat off, let
the whole band strike up and approach with the most horrid
uproar towards the stage. This, along with a few other secret
remedies which I shall apply, will surely compel the spirit to
depart."

These preparations were accordingly made by the royal
command ; and when the day, being Sunday morning, arrived,
the stage was seen crowded with people of rank and the square
with common people. Mass was celebrated, and the possessed
princess conducted between two bishops, with a train of nobles,
to the spot. Now, when Rbderigo beheld so vast a concourse
of people, together with all this awful preparation, he was
almost struck dumb with astonishment, and said to himself,
" I wonder what that cowardly wretch is thinking of doing now?
Does he imagine I have never seen finer things than these in
the regions above — ay ! and more horrid things below ! How-
ever, I will soon make him repent it, at all events." Matteo
then approaching him, besought him to come out ; but Rode-
rigo replied, " Oli, you think you have done a fine thing now !
What do you mean to do with all this trumpery? Can you
escape my power, think you, in this way, or elude the ven-

ITAUAN WTERATURB. 205.

geance of the king? Thou poltroon villain, I will have thee
hanged for this ! ' ' And as Matteo continued the more to
entreat him, his adversary still vilified him in the same strain.
So Matteo, believing there was no time to be lost, made the
sign with his hat, when all the musicians who had been sta-
tioned there for the purpose suddenly struck up a hideous
din, and, ringing a thousand peals, approached the spot.- Ro-
derigo pricked up his ears at the sound, quite at a loss what
to think, and ra.ther in a perturbed tone of voice he asked
Matteo what it meant. To this the latter returned, appareiitly
much alarmed, ' ' Alas ! dear Roderigo, it is your wife ; she is
coming for you ! " It is impossible to give an idea of the
anguish of Roderigo' s mind and the- strange alteration which
his feelings underwent at that name. The inoment the name,
of "wife" was pronoiinced he had no longer presence of
mind to consider whether it were probable, or even possible-,
that it could be her. Without replyiiig a single word, he
leaped out and fled in the utmost terror, leaving the lady to
herself, and preferring rather to return to his infernal abode
and render an account of his adventures, than run the risk of
any further sufferings and vexations under the 'matrimonial
yoke.. And thus Belphegor again made his appearance in the
infernal domains, bearing ample testimony to the evils iiitro-
duced into a household by a wife ; while Matteo, on. his part,
who knew more of the matter than the devil, returned tri-
umphantly home, not a little proud of the victory he had
achieved.

The Credulous Fooi,.

(Chorus from "I<a Mandragola.")

How happy is he, as all may see
Who has the good fortune a fool to be,
And what you tell him will always believe !
No ambition can grieve,

No fear can affright him,
Which are wont to be seeds

Of pain and annoy.
This doctor of ours,

'Tis not hard to delight him —
If you tell him 'twill gain him

200 WTEKATURB OF ALI, NATIONS.

His heart's wish and joy,
He'll believe in good faith that an ass can fly,^
Or that black is white, and the truth a lie, —
All things in the world he may well forget —
Save the one whereon his whole heart is set.

MATTEO MARIA BOIARDO.

It was the fate of the second Italian poet who took, Orlando
as his hero to be obliged to leave his work unfinished. A
successor took it up, retouched almost every line, and issued
it as his own. The later version is better known than the
first, and though Boiardo's name is duly recorded in all his-
tories of Italian literature, Berni's "Orlando Innamorato" is
more frequently printed and read. Gradually it has been
discerned that the greater merit belongs to the elder poet.

Matteo Maria Boiardo, born in 1434, near Ferrara, was
educated at its university, and was attached to the court of
Hercules, Count of Ferrara. Among other public employ-
ments he was sent on embassies to several Italian cities, was
captain of Modena and governor of Reggio. He was an in-
dulgent master and fonder of making love-verses than of the
sterner duties of his office. His learning was early shown in
translations from the Greek classics, and afterwards in his
drama, "Timon," founded on I^ucian's "Misanthrope."
But his fame rests on his " Orlando Innamorato," which was
interrupted by the French invasion of Italy, and afterwards
recast in a less sober style by Berni. The epic romance con-
sists of three chief parts : the search for Angelica, the beaur
tiful but deceitful princess of Cathay, by Orlando and other
lovers ; the siege of her father's city, Albracca, by the Tar-
tars ; arid the siege of Paris by the Moors. Yet there are
numerous episodes loosely interwoven, and the scene shifts
easily from France to China. Boiardo created the character
of Angelica, and spun this epic for the amusement of Duke
Hercules and his court of Ferrara. He has described his
own chateau and grounds in the landscape of this poem,
and (it is even said) gave the names of some of his peasants
to the Saracen warriors, Mandricardo, Gradasse, Sacripant and
Agramante.

ITAI,IAN WTERATURJE, 207

Prash,do and Tisbina.

Iroxdo, a knight of Babylon, had to wife a lady of the
name of Tisbina, whom he loved with a passion equal to that
of Tristan for Iseult ; and she returned his love with such
fondness, that her thoughts were occupied with him from
morning till night. They had a neighbor who was accounted
the greatest nobleman in the city ; and he deserved his credit,
for he spent his great riches in doing honor to his rank.
He was pleasant in company, formidable in battle, full of
grace in love ; an open-hearted, accomplished gentleman.

This personage, whose name was Prasildo, happened one
day to be of a party with Tisbina, who were amusing them-
selves in a garden, with a game in which the players knelt
down with their faces bent on one another's laps, and guessed
who it was that struck them. The turn came to himself, and
he knelt down at the lap of Tisbina ; but no sooner was he
there, than he experienced feelings he had never dreamed of:
and instead of trying to guess correctly, took all the pains he
could to remain in the same position. These feelings pursued
him all the rest of the. day, and still more closely at night.
He did nothing but think and sigh, and find the soft feathers
harder thati any stone. Nor did he get better as time
advanced. His once favorite pastime of hunting now ceased
to afford him any delight. Nothing pleased him but t6 be
giving dinners and balls, to make verses and sing them- to his
lute, and to joust and tourney in the eyes of his love, dressed
in the most sumptuous apparel.

The passion which had thus taken possession of this gen-
tleman was not lost upon the lady for want of her knowing
it. A mutual acquaintance was always talking to her on the
subject, but to no purpose ; she never relaxed her pride and
dignity for a moment. The' lover 'at last fell ill ; he fairly
wasted away, and was so unhappy that he gave up all his
feastings and entertainmeilts. The only, solace he found was
in a solitary wood, in which he used to plunge himself in
order to give way to his grief and lamentations. It happened
one day, early in the morning, while he was thus occupied,

2o8 WTERATURB OF AI<I, NATIONS.

that Iroldo came into the wood to amuse himself with bird-
catching. He had Tisbina with him ; and as they were com-
ing along, they overheard their neighbor during one of his
paroxysms, and stopped to listen to what he said.

"Hear me," exclaimed he, "ye flowers and ye woods.
Hear to what a pass of wretchedness I am come, since that
cruel one will hear me not. Hear, O sun that hast taken away
the night from the heavens, and you, ye stars, and thou the
departing moon, hear the voice of my grief for the last time,
for exist I can no longer ; my death is the only way left me
to gratify that proud beauty, to whom it has pleased Heaven
to give a cruel heart with a merciful countenance. Fain
would I have died in her presence. It would have comforted,
me to see her pleased even with that proof of my love. But
I pray, nevertheless, that she may never know it ; since, cruel
as she is, she might blame herself for having shown a scorn
so extreme ; and I love her so, I would not have her pained
for all her cruelty. Surely I shall love her even in my
grave."

With these words, turning pale with his own mortal
resolution, Prasildo drew his sword, and pronouncing the
name of Tisbina more than once with a loving voice, as
though its very sound would be sufficient to waft him to Para-
dise, was about to plunge the steel into his bosom, when the
lady herself, by leave of her husband, whose manly visage
was all in tears for pity, stood suddenly before him.

" Prasildo," said she, " if you love me, listen to me. You
have often told me that you do so. Now prove it. I happen
to be' threatened with nothing less than the loss of life and
honor. Nothing short of such a calamity could have induced
me to beg of you the service I am going to request ; since
there is no greater shame in the world than to ask favors from
those to whom we have refused them. But I now promise
you, that if you do what I desire, your love shall be returned.
I give you my word for it. I give you my honor. On the
other side of the wilds of Barbary is a garden which has a
wall of iron. It has four gates. Life itself keeps one ; Death
another ; Poverty the third ; the fairy of Riches the fourth.
He who goes in at one gate must go out at the other opposite;

ITALIAN LITERATURE. 209

and in the m^dst of the garden is a tree, tall as the reach of
an arrow, which produces pearls for blossoms. It is called
the Tree of Wealth, and has fruit of emeralds and boughs of
gold. I must have a bough of that tree, or suffer the most
painful consequences. Now, then, if you love me, I say,
prove it. Prove it, and most assuredly I shall love you in
turn, better than ever you loved myself. ' '

What need of saying that Prasildo, with haste and joy,
undertook to do all that she required? If she had asked the
sun and stars, and the whole universe, he would have promised
them. Quitting her in spite of his love, he set out on the
journey without delay, only dressing himself before he left
the city in the habit of a pilgrim.

Now you must know, that Iroldo and his lady had set
Prasildo on that adventure, in the hope that the great dis-
tance which he would have to travel, and the change which
it might assist time to produce, would deliver him from his
passion. At all events, in case this good end was not effected
before he arrived at the garden, they counted to a certainty
on his getting rid of it when he did ; because the fairy of that
garden, which was called the Garden of Medusa, was of such
a nature, that whosoever did but look on her countenance
forgot the reason for his going thither ; and whoever saluted,
touched, and sat down to converse by her side, forgot all that
had ever occurred in his lifetime.

Away, however, on his steed went our bold lover ; all alone,
or rather with Love for his companion ; and so, riding hard
till he came to the Red Sea, he took ship, and journeyed
through Egypt, and came to the mountains of Barca, where
he overtook an old grey-headed palmer.

Prasildo told the palmer the reason of his coming, and the
palmer told him what the reader has heard about the garden ;
adding, that he must enter by the gate of Poverty, and take
no arms or armor with him, excepting a looking-glass for a,
shield, in which the fairy might behold her beauty. The old
man gave him other directions necessary for his passing out
of the gate of Riches ; and Prasildo, thanking him, went on,
and in thirty days found himself entering the garden with
the greatest ease, by the gate of Poverty. '

IV— 14

2IO WTERATURS OF AIX, NATIONS.

The garden looked like a Paradise, it was so full of beauti-
ful trees and flowers and fresh grass. Prasildo took care to
hold the shield over his eyes, that he might avoid seeing the
fairy Medusa ; and in this manner guarding his approach, he
arrived at the Golden Tree. The fairy, who was reclining
against the trunk of it, looked up, and saw herself in the
glass. Wonderful was the eflFect on her. Instead of her own
white-and-red blooming face, she beheld that of a dreadful
serpent. The spectacle made her take to flight in terror ; and
the lover, finding his object so far gained, looked freely at the
tree, climbed it, and bore away a bough.

With this he proceeded to the gate of Riches. It was all
of loadstone, and opened with a great noise. But he passed
through it happily, for he made the fairy who kept it a present
of half the bough ; and so he issued forth out of the garden,
with indescribable joy.

Behold our loving adventurer now on his road home.
Every step of the way appeared to him a thousand. He took
the road of Nubia to shorten the journey ; crossed the Arabian
Gulf with a breeze in his favor ; and traveling by night as
well as by day, arrived one fine morning in Babylon.

No sooner was he there than he sent to tell the object of
his passion how fortunate he had been. He begged her to
name her own place and time for receiving the bough at his
hands, taking care to remind her of her promise ; and he
could not help adding, that he should die if she broke it.

Terrible was the grief of Tisbina at this unlooked-for
news. She threw herself on her couch in despair, and
bewailed the hour she was born. "What on earth am I to
do?" cried the wretched lady ; " death itself is no remedy for
a case like this, since it is only another mode of breaking my
word. To think that Prasildo should return from the garden
of Medusa ! Who could have supposed it possible? And yet,
in truth, what a fool, I was to suppose anything impossible to
love! O my husband! little didst thou think what thou
thyself advisedst me to promise !"

The husband was coming that moment towards the room;
and overhearing his wife grieving in this distracted manner,
he entered and clasped her in his arms. On learning the

itAUAN WTSRATURE. 211

cause of her aflaiction, he felt as though he should have died
with her on the spot.

"Alas!" cried he, "that it should be possible for me to
be miserable while I am so dear to your heart. But you
know, O my soul ! that when love and jealousy come together,
the torment is the greatest in the world. Myself— myself,
alas ! caused the mischief, and myself alone ought to suffer
for it. You must keep your promise. You must abide by the
word you have given, especially to one who has undergone
so much to perform what you asked him. Sweet face, you
must. But oh ! see him not till after I am dead. Let For-
tune do with me what she pleases, so that I be saved from a
disgrace like that. It will be a comfort to me in death to '
think that I alone, while I was on earth, enjoyed the fond
looking of that lovely face. Nay," concluded the wretched
husband, " I feel as though I should die over again, if I could
call to mind in my grave how you were taken from me."

Iroldo became dumb for anguish. It seemed to him as if
his very heart had been taken out of his breast. Nor was
Tisbina less miserable. She was as pale as death, and could
hardly speak to him or bear to look ^t him. At length
turning her eyes upon him, she said, " And do you believe I
could make my poor sorry case out in this world without
Iroldo? Can he bear, himself, to think of leaving his Tis-
bina? he who has so often said, that if he possessed heaven
itself, he should not think it heaven without her? O dearest
husband, there is a way to make death not bitter to either of
us. It is to die together. I must only exist long enough to
see Prasildo ! Death, alas ! is in that thought ; but the same
death will release us. It need not even be a hard death, sav-
ing our misery. There are poisons so gentle in their deadli-
ness, that we need but faint away into sleep, and so, in the
course of a few hours, be delivered. Our misery and our
folly will then alike be ended."

Iroldo assenting, clasped his wife in distraction ; and for
a long time they remained in the same posture, half stifled
with grief, and bathing one another's cheeks with their tears.
Afterwards they sent quietly for the poison ; and the apothe-
cary made up a preparation in a cup, without asking any

212

LITERATURE OP MX, NATIONS.

questions ; and so the husband and wife took it. Iroldo drank
first, and then endeavored to give the cup to his wife, utter-
ing not a word, and trembling in every limb ; not because he
was afraid of death, but because he could not bear to ask
her to share it At length, turning away his face and look-
ing down, he held the cup towards her, and she took it
with a chilled heart and trembling hand, and drank the
remainder to the dregs. Iroldo then covered his face and
head, not daring to see her depart for the house of Prasildo ;
and Tisbina, with pangs bitterer than death, left him in
solitude.

Tisbina, accompanied by a servant, went to Prasildo, who
could scarcely believe his ears when he heard that she was at
the door requesting to speak with him. He hastened down
to show her all honor, leading her from the door into a room
by themselves ; and when he found her in tears, addressed
her in the most considerate and subdued, yet still not unhappy,
manner, taking her confusion for bashfulness, and never
dreaming what a tragedy had been meditated.

Finding at length that her grief was not to be done away,
he conjured her by what she held dearest on earth to let him
know the cause of it ; adding that he could still die for her

ITALIAN LITERATURE. 213

sajce, if his death would do her any service. Tisbina spoke
at these words ; and Prasildo then heard what he did not wish
to hear. " I am in your hands," answered she, "while I am
yet alive. I am bound to my word, but I cannot survive the
dishonor which it costs me, nor, above all, the loss of tlie
husband of my heart. You also, to whose eyes I have been
so welcome, must be prepared for my disappearance from the
earth. Had my aflFections not belonged to another, ungentle
would have been my heart not to have loved yourself, who
are so capable of loving; but (as you must well know) to love
two at once is neither fitting nor in one's power. It was for
that reason I never loved you, baron; I was only touched
with compassion for you ; and hence the miseries of us all.
Before this day closes, I shall have learned the taste of death.' '
And without further preface she disclosed to him how she
and her husband had taken poison.

Prasildo was struck dumb with horror. He had thought
his felicity at hand, and was at the same instant to behold it
gone for ever. She who was rooted in his heart, she who
carried his life in her sweet looks, even she was sitting there
before him, already, so to speak, dead. "It has pleased
neither Heaven nor you, Tisbina," exclaimed the unhappy
young man, "to put my best feelings to the proof. Often
have two lovers perished for love ; the world will now behold
a sacrifice of three. ' Oh, why did you not make a request to
me in your turn, and ask me to free you from your promise ?
You say you took pity on me ! Alas, cruel one, confess that
you have killed yourself, in order to kill me. Yet why?
Never did I think of giving you displeasure ; and I now do
what I would have done at any time to prevent it, I absolve
you from your oath. Stay or go this instant, as it seems
best to you. ' '

A stronger feeling than compassion moved the heart of
Tisbina at these words. "This indeed," replied she, "I feel
to be noble ; and truly could I also now die to save you. But
life is flitting; and how may I prove my regard?"

Prasildo, who had in good earnest resolved that three
instead of two should perish, experienced such anguish at the
extraordinary position in which he found all three, that even

214 WTERATURE OF AI,I, NATIONS.

her sweet words came but dimly to his ears. He stood like a
man stupefied ; then begged of her to give him but one kiss,
and so took his leave without further ado, only intimating that
her way out of the house lay before her. As he spake, he
removed himself from her sight.

Tisbina reached home. She found her husband with his
head covered up as she left him ; but when she recounted
what had passed, and the courtesy of Prasildo, and how he
had exacted from her but a single kiss, Iroldo got up, and
removed the covering from his face, and then clasping his
hands, and raising it to heaven, he knelt with grateful
humility, and prayed God to give pardon to himself, and
reward to his neighbor. But before he had ended, Tisbina
sank on the floor in a swoon. Her weaker frame was the first
to undergo the efiects of what she had taken. Iroldo felt icy
chill to see her, albeit she seemed to sleep sweetly. Her
aspect was not at all like death. He taxed Heaven with
cruelty for treating two loving hearts so hardly, and cried out
against Fortune, and life, and Love itself.

Nor was Prasildo happier in his chamber. He also
exclaimed against the bitter tyrant "whom men call Love ;"
and protested, that he would gladly encounter any fate, to be
delivered from the worse evils of his false and cruel ascendancy.

But his lamentations were interrupted. The apothecary
who sold the potion to the husband and wife was at the door
below, requesting to speak with him. The servants at first
had refused to carry the message ; but the old man persisting
and saying it was a matter of life and death, entrance for him
into the master's chamber was obtained.

"Noble sir," said the apothecary, "I have always held you
in love and reverence. I have unfortunately reason to fear
that somebody is desiring your death. This morning a hand-
maiden of the lady Tisbina applied to me for a secret poison ;
and just now it was told me, that the lady herself had been
at this house. I am old, sir, and you are young ; and I warn
you against the violence and jealousies of womankind. Talk
of their flames of love ! Satan himself burn them, say I, for
they are fit for nothing better. Do not be too much alarmed,
however, this time : for in truth I gave the young woman

ITAWAN WTEEATURE. 215

nothing of the sort that she asked for, but only a draught so
innocent, that if you have taken it, it will cost you but four
or five hours' sleeep. So, in God's name, give up the whole
foolish sex ; for you may depend on it, that in this city of
ours there are ninety-nine wicked ones among them to one
good. ' '

You may guess how Prasildo's heart revived at these
words. Truly might he be compared to flowers in sunshine
after rain ; he rejoiced through all his being, and displayed
again a cheerful countenance. Hastily thanking the old
man, he lost no time in repairing to the house of his neigh-
bors, and telling them of their safety ; and you may guess
how the like joy was theirs.

But behold a wonder ! Iroldo was so struck with the
generosity of his neighbor's conduct throughout the whole
of this extraordinary affair, that nothing would content bis
grateful though ever-grieving heart, but he must fairly give
up Tisbina after all. Prasildo, to do him justice, resisted the
proposition as stoutly as he could ; but a man's powers are ill
seconded by an unwilling heart ; and though the contest was
long and handsome, as is customary between generous natures,
the husband adhered firmly to his intention. In short, he
abruptly quitted the city, declaring that he would never again
see it, and so left his wife to the lover.

RiNALDO PUNISHEU BY CUPID.

WhBN to the leafy wood his feet were brought,
Towards Merlin's Fount at once he took his way ;

Unto the fount that changes amorous thought
Journeyed the Paladin without delay ;

But a new sight, the which he had not sought,
Caused him upon the path his feet to stay.

Within the wood there is a little close

Full of pink flowers, and white, and various :

And in the midst thereof a naked boy,
Singing, took solace with surpassing cheer ;

Three ladies round him, as around their joy,
Danced naked in the light so soft and clear.

2l6 LITERATURE OF ALI, NATIONS.

No sword, no shield, hath been his wonted toy ;
Brown are his eyes ; yellow his curls appear ;
His downy beard hath scarce begun to grow :
One saith 'tis there, and one might answer, No ,! .

With violets, roses, flowers of every dye,

Baskets they filled and eke their beauteous hands :

Then as they dance in joy and amity.
The I/ord of Montalbano near them stands :

Whereat, "Behold the traitor ! " loud they cry.
Soon as they mark the foe within their bands ;

" Behold the thief, the scorner of delight.

Caught in the trap at last in sorry plight ! "

Then with their baskets all with one consent

Upon Rinaldo like a tempest bore :
One flings red roses, one with violets blent

Showers lilies, hyacinths, fast as she can pour :
Each flower in falling with strange pain hath rent

His heart and pricked his marrow to the core,
Ivighting a flame in every smitten part,
As though the flowers concealed a fiery dart.

The boy who, naked, coursed along the sod,
Emptied his basket first, and then began,

Wielding a long-grown leafy lily rod.

To scourge the helmet of the tortured man :

No aid Rinaldo found against the god.
But fell to earth as helpless children can ;

The youth who saw him fallen, by the feet

Seized him, and dragged him through the meadow sweet.

And those three dames had each a garland rare
Of roses ; one was red and one was white :

These from their snowy brows and foreheads fair
They tore in haste, to beat the writhing knight :

In vain he cried and raised his hands in prayer ;
For still they struck till they were tired quite :

And round about him on the sward they went.

Nor ceased from striking till the morn was spent.

Nor massy cuirass, nor stout plate of steel,
Pould yield defence against those bitter blows ,:

ITAIvIAN LITBRATUKE. 217

His flesh was swollen with many a livid weal
Beneath his mail, and with such fiery woes

Inflamed as spirits damned in hell may feel ;
Yet theirs, upon my troth, are fainter throes :

Wherefore that Baron, sore and scant of breath.

For pain and fear was well-nigh brought to death.

Nor whether they were gods or men he knew :
Nor prayer, nor courage, nor defence availed,

Till suddenly upon their shoulders grew

And budded wiUgs with gleaming gold engrailed,

Radiant with crimson, white and azure blue ;
And with a living eye each plume was tailed.

Not like a peacock's or a bird's, but bright

And tender as a girl's with love's delight.

Then after small delay their flight they took,
And one by one soared upward to the sky,

Leaving Rinaldo sole beside the brook.
Full bitterly that Baron 'gan to cry,

For grief and dole so great his bosom shook
That still it seemed that he must surely die ;

And in the end so fiercely raged his, pain

That like a corpse he fell along the plain.

BAIvDASSARE CASTIGUONE.

A SINGLE work has given to Castiglione a high reputa-
tion. His treatise "II Cortegiano," "The Courtier," written
in 1 5 14, set forth in elegant style the ideal gentleman of the
Renaissance. The Italians called it "the book of gold." It
was in the form of a discussion between distinguished gentle-
men and ladies at the court of Urbino, then the most refined
in Italy. The theme selected, after several suggestions, was,
"What Constitutes a Perfect Courtier?" Four nights are
occupied in the discussion, a principal speaker being chosen
for each night, and the other members of the group criticis-
ing his speech. The divisions are : The form and manner of
court life ; the qualifications of a courtier ; the accomplish-
ments of a court lady ; the duty of a prince. The discussion
shows the adaptation of the old rule3 of the Courts of lyove
to more modern requirements.

2l8 LITBRATURS OP AXX, NATIONS.

Baldassare Castiglione was born near Mantua in 1478, and
educated at Milan. In youth lie entered the service of Ludo-
l^ico Sforza, Duke of Milan, and afterwards was attached to
the court of the Duke of Urbino. Castiglione was employed
on various embassies, and visited England and Spain. Here
he was made Bishop of Avila and was charged with settling
the dispute between Pope Clement VII. and the Emperor
Charles V. He died at Toledo in 1527. It is acknowledged
that throughout his life Castiglione was a perfect example of
the model that he drew.

The Courtier's Addresses.

They who are too precipitate and show a presumption,
and, as it were, a mad pertinacity in their addresses, often
miss their mark, and that deservedly ; for it is always dis-
pleasing to a noble lady to be so little esteemed as that any
one should, without due respect, require her love before he has
done her due service. In my opinion, the way that a courtier
should declare his love to his mistress is by signs and tokens
rather than by words. For without doubt more love is shown
in a sigh, or in some mark of timidity or reverence, than can
be shown in a thousand words ; and the eyes may afterwards
be made the faithful messengers of the heart, because they
frequently declare, with more eloquence, the inward passion,
than can open speech, a letter, or any other kind of message.

I.UIGI DA PORTO.

Shakespeare drew more than one plot from the Italian
novelists, but none more noteworthy than that of "Romeo
and Juliet." For this he was indebted to Luigi da Porto, a
poet, scholar, and novelist of Italy during the first quarter of
the sixteenth century. " I^a Giulietta " is the sole story that
survives from Porto's pen, although he is said to have pro-
duced several other novels. Porto was of noble descent, and
fought for the republic of Venice in the wars connected with
the League of Cambray. A wound crippled him and gave
him to literature. He died in 1529, at the age of forty-four.

ITALIAN UTERATURB. 219

His single story was based on a previous tale by Massuccio
Salernitano, and it may serve to show how far the dramatist,
who has not, indeed, improved upon his model of Massuccio,
has fallen short of the pathetic beauty of Luigi da Porto's
story in its conclusiop. It is only in the latter that we meet
with the affecting circumstance of Juliet rising from her
trance before the death of Romeo. It is this Italian story
which has since suggested the improvement that has been
adopted on the stage at the close of the tragedy, where Romeo
does not expire before the revival of Juliet. The entire story
is indelibly linked in modern memory with the Italian family
feuds, has been actually traced to a Greek romance, and was
once historically treated as a real event.

Love in the Tomb.

On the evening of the day after Juliet's interment Romeo
arrived at Verona without being discovered by any one. The
game night, as soon as the city became hushed, he resorted to
the convent of the Frati Minori, where the tombs of the
Cappelletti lay. The church was situated in the Cittadella,
where the monks at that time resided, although, for some rea-
son, they have since left it for the suburb of San Zeno, now
called Santo Bernardino, and the Cittadella was formerly, in-
deed, inhabited by San Francesco himself. Near the outer
walls of this place there were then placed a number of large
monuments, such as we see round many churches, and beneath
one of these was the ancient sepulchre of all the Capelletti, in
which the beautiful bride then lay. Romeo approaching near
not long after midnight, and possessing great strength,
removed the heavy covering by force, and with some wooden
stakes which he had brought with him he propped it up to
prevent it from closing again until he wished it, and he then
entered the tomb and replaced the covering. The lamp he
carried cast a lurid light around, while his eyes wandered in
search of the loved object, which, bursting open the living
tomb, he quickly found. When he beheld the features of the
beautiful Juliet, now mingled with a heap of lifeless dust and
bones, a sudden tide of sorrow sprung into his eyes, and

220 I,ITBRATURB OF AI,I< NATIONS.

amidst bitter sobs he thus spoke : "O eyes, which while our
loves to Heaven were dear, shone sweetly upon mine ! O
sweeter mouth, a thousand and a thousand times so fondly
kissed by me alone, and rich in honeyed words ! O bosom, in
which my whole heart lay treasured up, alas 1 all closed and
mute and cold I find ye now ! My hapless wife, what hath
love done for thee, but led thee hither? And why so soon
perish two wretched lovers? I had not looked for this when
hope and passion first whispered of other things. But I have
lived to witness even this !" and he pressed his lips to her
mouth and bosom, mingling his kisses with his tears. ' ' Walls
of the dead ! " he cried, "why fall ye not around me and
crush me into dust ? Yet, as death is in the power of all, it
is a despicable thing to wish, yet fear it, too." Then taking
out the poison from under his vest, he thus continued : " By
what strange fatality am I brought to die in the sepulchre of
my enemies, some of whom this hand hath slain ? But as it is
pleasant to die near those we love, now, my beloved, let me die ! ' '
Then, seizing the fatal vial, he poured its whole contents into
his frame, and catching the fair body of Juliet in his arms in
a wild embrace, "Still so sweet," he cried, " dear limbs, mine,
only mine ! And if yet thy pure spirit live, my Juliet, let it
look from its seat of bliss to witness and forgive my cruel
death ; as I could not delighted live with thee, it is not for-
bidden me with thee to die," and winding his arms about her
he awaited his final doom.

The hour was now arrived when, the vital powers of
the slumbering lady reviving and subduing the icy cold
ness of the poison, she should awake. Therefore while still
straitly folded in the last embraces of Romeo, she suddenly
recovered her senses, and, uttering a deep sigh, she cried,
"Alas! where am I? in whose arms? whose kisses? Oh, un-
bind me, wretch that I am ! Base friar, is it thus you keep
your word to Romeo, thus lead me to his arms ?" Great was
her husband's surprise to feel Juliet alive in his embrace.
Recalling the idea of Pygmalion, " Do you know me, sweet
wife? " he cried. " It is your love, your Romeo, hither come
to die with you. I came alone and secretly from Mantua to
find your place of rest," Finding herself within the sepul-

ITAWAN LITERATURE. 221

ihre and in the arms of Romeo, Juliet would not at first give
credit to her senses ; but, springing out of his arms, gazed a
moment eagerly on his face, and the next fell on his neck
with a torrent of tears and kisses. " O Romeo, Romeo, what
madness brings you hither? Were not my letters which I
sent you by the friar enough to tell you of my feigned death,
and that I should shortly be restored to you? " The wretched
youth, aware of the whole calamity, then gave loose to his
despair. " Beyond all other griefs that lovers ever bore, Ro-
meo, thy lot has been ! My life, my soul, I never had thy
letters!" And he told her the piteous tale which he had
heard from the lips of her servant, and that, concluding she
was dead, he had hastened to keep her company and had
already drunk the deadly draught. At these last words his
unhappy bride, uttering a wild scream, began to beat her
breast and tear her hair, and then in a state of distraction she
threw herself by the side of Romeo, already lying on the
ground, and pouring over him a deluge of tears, imprinted
her last kisses on his lips. All pale and trembling, she cried,
" O my Romeo ! will you die in my sight, and I, too, the
occasion of your death.? Must I liye even a moment after
you ? Ah, would that I could give my life for yours ? Would
that I alone might die?" In a faint and dying tone her hus-
band replied, " If my love and truth were ever dear to you,
my Juliet, live ; for my sake, live; "for it ig sweet to know
that you will then be often thinking of him who now dies for
you, with his eyes still fixed on yours." "Die! yes! you
die for the death which in me was only feigned ! What, there-
fore, should I do for this, your real, cruel death? I only
grieve that I have no means of accompanying you, and hate
myself that I must linger on earth till I obtain them. But it
shall not be long before the wretch who caused your death
shall follow you ; ' ' and uttering these words with pain, she
swooned away upon his body. On again reviving, she felt
she was catching the last breath, which now came thick and
fast, from the breast of her husband.

VITTORIA COLONNA.

This gifted lady was the daughter of Fa-
brizio Colonna, grand constable of the kingdom of Naples.
She was born in 1490 and died in 1547. Michael Angelo
declared that before he knew her he was a half-finished statue
to which her chisel gave form. One result of the great sculp-
tor' s admiration for her is that he turned poet hirhself and
became a noble Petrarchist. Most of Vittoria's own poetry
is dedicated to her husband, Francisco D'Avalos, son of the
Marquis of Pescara, to whom she was betrothed when only
four years old at the instance of Ferdinand of Aragon, and
to whom she was married at the age of seventeen after she
had refused a duke of Savoy. In 1 5 1 1 Francisco offered his
sword to the Holy lycague, and during the succeeding long
exile of campaigning the young wife and husband corre-
sponded in passionate verse and prose. Pescara became one
of Charles V.'s bravest captains. He was offered the crown of
Naples if he would join the emperor's enemies, but Vittoria
kept him from that treason. She was hastening to his side
when she learned of his death at Milan from his wounds.
Michael Angelo in his sixty-fourth year met this sweet Italian
woman at Rome and became a devoted admirer. He made
drawings for her, wrote sonnets to her and spent hours in her
charming society. She removed to Orvieto in 1541, and
afterwards to Viterbo, but the great sculptor continued to
visit her. The young widow meanwhile composed a number
of "Rime Spirituali." Her elegiac and her amatory poems
do not reveal any great poetic genius ; but they gain note
from her sex and personality.
222

COPYRIGHT, 1900

J. J. LEFEeVHE, PiNX

VITTORIA COLONNA

ITALIAN I,IT:eRATURB. , 223

A Branch GI^ the; Vine.

Fathbr of heaven ! if by Thy mercy's grace
A living branch I am of that true Vine
Which spreads o'er all, — and would we did resign
Ourselves entire by faith to its embrace ! —
In me much drooping, lyord. Thine eye will trace.
Caused by the shade of these rank leaves of mine,
Unless in season due Thou dost refine
The humor gross, and quicken its dull pace.
So cleanse me, that, abiding e'er with Thee,
I feed me hourly with the heavenly dew.
And with my falling tears refresh the root.
Thou saidst, and thou art truth, thou'dst with me be :
Then willing come, that I may bear much fruit.
And worthy of the stock on which it grew.

Heavenly Union.

Blest union, that in heaven was ordained
In wondrous manner, to yield peace to man,
Which by the spirit divine and mortal frame
Is joined with sacred and with love-strong tie !
I praise the beauteous work, its author great ;
Yet fain would see it moved by other hope,
By other zeal, before I change this form,
Since I no longer may enjoy it here.
The soul, imprisoned in this tenement,
Its bondage hates ; and hence, distressed, it can
Neither live here, nor fly where it desires.
My glory then will be to see me joiped
With the bright sun that lightened all my path ;
For in his life alone I learned to live.

MICHEL ANGELO BUONARROTI.

Supreme in the realm of art as painter,
sculptor and architect, Michel Angelo
claims also a place in the republic of letters. The greatest
Christian church, with its marvelous dome, is his eternal
monument. His sculpture strove to embody a meaning which
belongs more directly to the wider region of poetry. His life
was marred by variances with successive popes, which com-
pelled him to waste precious time in performing work for
which inferior men were competent, while opportunity was
denied him to execute his own sublime plans. Yet in spite of
all obstacles his Titanic genius struggled on to the accomp-
lishment of masterpieces which remain to baffle the ingenuity
of critics and to challenge the admiration of the world.

Michel Angelo Buonarroti was born of noble family in
the castle of Caprese in Tuscany in March, 1475. His first
training was in the academy founded by lyorenzo the Magnifi-
cent at Florence, and he gained the favor of that potentate.
Statues and bas-reliefs still remain in Florence to attest his
youthful skill. In the flush of his manhood he was called
to Rome by the warlike pontiff, Julius II., and by his orders
commenced the pope's tomb, which, partly owing to the
quarrel of these two proud, imperious natures, was never
completed in its original grandeur. The frescoes of the Sis-
tine Chapel in the Vatican, showing the prophets and heroes
and striking episodes of sacred Scripture, are the chief
witness of Michel Angelo's ability as a painter. The sub-
limity of his conceptions is equalled only by the power and
facility with which they are executed. The luxurious Leo
X., in spite of his love of art, wantonly neglected the greatest
224.

ITAWAN LITERATURE. 225

genius of his age, and assigned to him unworthy tasks. Paul
III. recalled the master to suitable work and appointed him
architect of St. Peter's church, which he had suggested long
before. He formed the model for the dome, though he did
not live to see it completed. He died in February, 1564.

It was his admiration and aflFection for Vittoria Colonna
which led the great master of the plastic arts to express his
thoughts in verse worthy of his fame. It was not until his
sixtieth year that he had the good fortune to meet this gifted,
pious woman; thenceforth until her death iu, 1547, her
friendship was the great solace of his life. Previously he had
been stern and solitary in disposition ; now in old age the
tenderness of his heart was revealed. His passion was per-
fectly pure, and while it inspired him to sing her praises and
to celebrate Platonic love, it found expression also in mystic
songs relating to the Christian religion and to the art which
had heretofore dominated his mind. Though his paintings
(apart from his frescoes) have been lost in the ravages of time,
his sonnets and lyrics, thrown off amid the pressure of work,
remain to win new admiration for the Olympian Zeus of
Christian art.

On Dante.

From heaven his spirit came, and robed in clay,
The realms of justice and of mercy trod :
Then rose a living man to gaze on God,

That he might make the truth as clear as day.

For that pure star, that brightened with his ray
The undeserving nest where I was born,
The whole wide world would be a prize to scorn ;

None but his Maker can due guerdon pay.

I speak of Dante, whose high work remains
Unknown, unhonored by that thankless brood,
Who only, to just men deny their wage.

Were I but he ! Born for like lingering pains,
Against his exile coupled with his good
I'd gladly change the world's best heritage.
IV— 15

226 LITERATURE OF ALI, NATIONS.

The Model and the Statue.

(To Vittoria Colonna.)

When that which is divine in us doth try

To shape a face, both brain and hand unite
To give, from a mere model frail and slight. ,

lyife to the stone by Art's free energy.

Thus too before the painter dares to ply

Paint-brush or canvas, he is wont to write
Sketches on scraps of paper, and invite

Wise minds to judge his figured history.

So, born a model rude and mean to be
Of my poor self, I gain a nobler birth,
I^ady, from you, you fountain of all worth !

Bach overplus and eaCh deficiency

You will make good. What penance then is due.
For my fierce heat, chastened and taught by you ?

Love the Light-giver.

(To Tommaso de Cavalieri.)

With your fair eyes a charming light I see.

For which my own blind eyes would peer in vain ;

Stayed by your feet, the burden I sustain
Which my lame feet find all too strong for me ;
Wingless upon your pinions forth I fly;

Heavenward your spirit stirreth me to strain ;

E'en as you will, I blush and blanch again.
Freeze in the sun, burn 'neath a frosty sky.
Your will includes and is the lord of mine ;
Life to my thoughts within your heart is given ;

My words begin to breathe upon your breath ;
Like to the moon am I, that cannot shine
Alone ; for lo ! our eyes see naught in heaven

Save what the living sun illumineth.

Heavenly and Earthly Love.

Love is not always harsh and deadly sin.

When love for boundless beauty makes us pine ;
The heart, by love left soft and infantine,

ITAI,IAN WTBRATURE. 227

"Will let the shafts of God's grace enter in.
Love wings and wakes the soul, stirs her to win

Her flight aloft, nor e'er to earth decline;

*Tis the first step that leads her to the shrine

Of Him who slakes the thirst that burns within.
The love of that whereof I speak ascends :
Woman is different far ; the love of her

But ill befits a heart manly and wise.
The one love soars, the other earthward tends ;
The soul lights this, while that the senses stir ;

And still lust's arrow at base quarry flies.

After the Death oe Vittoria Colonna.

W:ei,i< might I in those days so fortunate,

What time the sun lightened my path above.

Have soared from earth to heaven, raised by her love

Who winged my laboring soul and sweetened fate.

That sun hath set, and I with hope elate

Who deemed that those bright days would never move,
Find that my thankless soul, deprived thereof.

Declines to death, while heaven still bars the gate.

•Love lent me wings ; my path was like a stair ;
A lamp unto my feet, that sun was given ;
And death was safety and great joy to find.

But dying now, I shall not climb to heaven.

Nor can mere memory cheer my heart's despair —
What help remains when hope is left behind ?

Lament for Life Wasted.

Ah me ! Ah me ! whene'er I think

Of my past years, I find that none
Among those many years, alas, was mine ;
False hopes and longings vain have made me pine,
With tears, sighs, passions, fires, upon life's brink.

Of mortal loves I have known every one.

Full well I feel it now ; lost and undone.

From truth and goodness banished far away,

I dwindle day by day.
Longer the shade, more short the sunbeams grow ;
While I am near to falling, faint and low.

1^-^

GIORGIO VASARI.

As tlie biographer of the famous artists
of Italy, Giorgio Vasari (1511-1574), of
Arezzo, must receive high praise. He was
a pupil of the great Michel Angelo and of Andrea del Sarto.
He was aided by the Medici princes. In 1529 he visited
Rome and studied the works of Raphael and his school. His
own paintings, although admired in the sixteenth century, are
feeble parodies of Michel Angelo. He painted the wall and
ceiling frescoes of the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence. He
amassed a fortune by his art, and rose to the supreme ofl&ce
of gonfaloniere of his native town. He was singularly free
from vanity and able to appreciate the works of others — even
Cimabue and Giotto. Vasari also had a keen eye for charac-
ter, and he has left us as superb prose portraits of the old
masters of Italian art as any brush portraits by Raphael,
Rembrandt or Van Dyke. His master-piece of biography was
published (1550) under the title, "Delle Vita de' piu Eccel-
lenti Pittori, Scultori, ed Architettori." It was dedicated to
his patron Cosimo de' Medici.

BUFFALMACCO THE JESTING PaINTER.

BuoNAMico Di Cristofako, nicknamed BuflFalmacco, was
a pupil of Andrea Tafi, and has been celebrated as a jester by
Boccaccio. Franco Sacchetti also tells how, when Buffal-
macco was still a boy with Andrea, his master had the habit,
when the nights were long, of getting up before day to work,
and calling his boys. This was displeasing to Buonamico,
who had to rise in the middle of his best sleep, and he con-
sidered how he might prevent Andrea from getting up before

328

ITALIAN WTBRATURB. 229

day to work, and this was what occurred to him. Having
found thirty great beetles in an ill-kept cellar, he fastened on
each of their backs a little candle, and at the hour when
Andrea was used to rise, he put them one by one through a
hole in the door into Andrea's chamber, having first lighted
the candles. His master awaking at the hour for calling
Buflfalmacco, and seeing the lights, was seized with terror and
began to tremble like a fearful old man as he was, and to say
his prayers and repeat the psalms ; and at last, putting his
head under the clothes, he thought no more that night of
calling Baffalmacco, but lay trembling with fear till daybreak.
The morning being come, he asked Buonamico if, like him,
he had seen more than a thousand devils. Buonamico an-
swered, "No," for he had kept his eyes closed, and wondered
he had not been called. "What!" said Tafi, "I had some-
thing else to think of than painting, and I am resolved to go
into another house." The next night, although Buonamico
put only three beetles into Tafi's chamber, yet he, from the
last night's terror and the fear of those few devils, could get
no sleep at all, and, as soon as it was day, left the house de-
termined never to return, and it took a great deal of good
counsel to make him change his mind. At last Buonamico
brought the priest to him, to console him. And Tafi and
Buonamico discussing the matter, Buonamico said : "I have
always heard say that demons are the gre'atest enemies of God,
and consequently they ought to be the chief adversaries of
painters, because not only do we always make them hideous,
but we also never cease making saints on all the walls, and so
cause men in despite of the devils to become more and more
devout. So these devils being enraged against us, as they
have greater power by night than by day, they come playing
us these tricks, and it will be worse if this custom of getting
up early is not quite given up." With such words Buffal-
macco managed the matter, what the priest said helping
him ; so that Tafi left off getting up early, and the devils no
longer went about the house at night with candles. But not
many months after, Tafi, drawn by the desire of gain, and
having forgotten his fears, began afresh to get up early and to
call Buffalmacco ; whereon the beetles began again to appear,

230 WTERATCRB OF ALl, NATIONS.

until he was forced by his fears to give it up entirely, being
earnestly counseled to do so by the priest. And the matter
being noised abroad in the city for a time, neither Tafi nor
any other painter ventured to get up at night to work.

While painting the church of the convent of Faenza, at
Florence, BuflFalmacco, who was very careless and negligent
in his dress, as in other things, did not always wear his hood
and mantle, as was the fashion at the time ; and the nuns,
watching him through the screen they had erected, began to
complain that it did not please them to see him in his doub-
let. At last, as he always appeared in the same fashion, they
began to think that he was only some boy employed in mix-
ing colors ; and they gave him to understand, through their
abbess, that they should prefer to see his master, and not
always him. To this Buonamico answered good-humoredly
that when the master came he would let them know, under-
standing, nevertheless, how little confidence they had in him.
Then he took a stool, and placed upon it another, and on the
top he put a pitcher or water-jug, and fastened a hood on the
handle, and covered up the rest of the jug with a cloak, fasten-
ing it well behind the tables ; and having fixed a pencil in
the spout of the jug, he went away. The nuns coming again
to see the picture through a hole that they had made in the
screen, saw the supposed master in his fine attire, and not
doubting that he was working with all his might, doing very
different work from what that boy did, for several days were
quite content. At last, being desirous to see what fine things
the master had done in the last fortnight (during which time
Buonamico had not been there at all), one night, thinking he
was gone, they went to see his picture, and were overcome
with confusion when one more bold than the rest detected the
solemn master, who during the fortnight had done no work
at all. But, acknowledging that he had only treated them as
they desei;ved, and that the work which he had done was
worthy of praise, they sent their steward to call Buonamico
back ; and he with great laughter went back to his work,
letting them see the difference between men and water-jugs,
and that it does not always do to judge a man's work by his
clothes.

BENVENUTO CEI.I.INI

famous

raphies in the literature of the world is
that of Benvenuto Cellini, of Florence
(1500-1569). He was a contemporary of Vasari, and an artist
like him. Cellini's father was a musician and maker of instru-
ments, but Benvenuto early desired to become a goldsmith.
He became skilled in all the mysteries of that craft. He also
practised flute-playing, and was one of Pope Clement VII.' s
court musicians. For this Pope's cope he made a mag-
nificent button. His greatest achievement in art was the
bronze group of Perseus holding the head of Medusa, which
was placed in front of the old ducal palace at Florence, — " a
work," as has been declared, " full of the fire of genius and
the grandeur of a terrible beauty ; one of the most typical
and unforgettable monuments of the Italian Renaissance."

But it is Cellini the adventurer, the duellist, the warrior,
the romantic hero of amours, who has become most famous.
His violent temper early led him into quarrels and even homi-
cide. He was obliged to escape in disguise after one such
episode. At the sack of Rome by the Constable de Bourbon,
Cellini himself — if we believe his own tale — shot the constable
dead and afterwards wounded the Prince of Orange. Among
other exploits, he avenged a brother's murder by slaying the
slayer. He was thrown into the castle of Saint Angelo on
the charge of having embezzled during the war the gems of
the pontifical tiara, and though he effected a romantic escape
down the tower, he was recaptured. Not being sent to the
scaffold, he departed for the court of Francis I. at Fontaine-
bleau and to Paris, where he had other adventures galore that
lose nothing in his telling. He returned to his native city and

231

232 LITERATURB OF ALL NATIONS.

produced numerous works of art which won general admira-
tion. The regard of his fellow-citizens was attested when he
was buried with great pomp. " His autobiographical memoirs,"
declares William M. Roscoe, "are a production of the utmost
energy, directness and racy animation, setting forth one of the
most singular careers in all the annals of fine art. His
amours and hatreds, his passions and delights, his love of the
sumptuous and exquisite in art, his self-applause and self-
assertion, running now and then into extravagances which it
is impossible to credit, and difficult to set down as strictly
conscious falsehoods, make this one of the most singular and
fascinating books in existence. Here we read of the devout
complacency with which Cellini could regard a satisfactorily
achieved homicide ; of the legion of devils which he and a
conjuror evoked in the Colosseum, after one of his numerous
mistresses had been spirited away from him by her mother ;
of the marvelous halo of light which he found surrounded his
head at dawn and twilight after his Roman imprisonment,
and his supernatural visions and angelic protection during
that adversity, and of his being poisoned on two occasions."

The Onion Stew.

I CONTINUED to work for the Pope [Clement VII. J, execu-
ting now one trifle and now another, till he commissioned
me to design a chalice of exceeding richness. So I made
both drawing and model for the piece. The latter was con-
structed of wood and wax. Instead of the usual top, I
fashioned three figures of a fair size in the round; they
represented Faith, Hope and Charity. Corresponding to
these, at the base of the cup, were three circular histories in
bas-relief One was the Nativity of Christ, the second the
Resurrection, and the third Saint Peter crucified head down-
wards; for thus I had received commission. While I had
this work in hand, the Pope was often pleased to look at it ;
wherefore, observing that his Holiness had never thought
again of giving me anything, and knowing that a post in the
Piombo was vacant, I asked for this one evening. The good
Pope, quite oblivious of his extravagances at the termination

ITAUAN LITERATURB. 233

of the last piece, said to me : " That post in the Piombo is
worth more than eight hundred crowns a year, so that if 1
gave it you, you would spend your time in scratching your
paunch, and your magnificent handicraft would be lost, and I
should bear the blame." I replied at once thus: "Cats of
a good breed mouse better when they are fat than starving ;
and likewise honest men who possess some talent, exercise it
to far nobler purport when they have the wherewithal to live
abundantly ; wherefore princes who provide such folk with
competences, let your Holiness take notice, are watering the
roots of genius; for genius and talent, at their birth, come
into this world lean and scabby ; and your Holiness should
also know that I never asked for the place with the hope of
getting it. Only too happy am I to have that miserable post
of mace-bearer. On the other I built but castles in the air.
Your Holiness will do well, since you do not care to give it
me, to bestow it on a man of talent who deserves it, and not
upon some fat ignoramus who will spend his time scratching
his paunch, if I may quote your Holiness' s own words. Fol-
low the example of Pope Julius of illustrious memory, who
conferred an office of the same kind upon Bramante, that
most admirable architect."

Immediately on finishing this speech, I made my bow,
and went off in a fury. Then Bastiano Veneziano the
painter approached, and said : " Most blessed Father, may
your Holiness be willing to grant it to one who works assidu-
ously in the exercise of some talent ; and as your Holiness
knows that I am diligent in my art, I beg that I may be
thought worthy of it." The Pope replied: "That devil
Benvenuto will not brook rebuke. I was inclined to give it
him, but it is not right to be so haughty with a Pope.
Therefore I do not well know what I am to do." The
Bishop of Vasona then came up, and put in a word for
Bastiano, saying: "Most blessed Father, Benvenuto is but
young ; and a sword becomes him better than a friar's frock.
Let your Holiness give the place to this ingenious person
Bastiano. Some time or other you will be able to bestow on
Benvenuto a good thing, perhaps more suitable to him than
this would be." Then the Pope, turning to Messer Barto-

234 WTERATURE OF AH NATIONS.

lommeo Valori, told him : ' ' When next you meet Benvenuto,
let him know from me that it was he who got that office in
the Piombo for Bastiano the painter, and add that he may
reckon on obtaining the next considerable place that falls ;
meanwhile let him look to his behavior and finish my com-
missions."

The following evening, two hours after sundown, I met
Messer Bartolommeo Valori at the corner of the Mint; he
was preceded by two torches, and was going in haste to the
Pope, who had sent for him. On my taking off my hat, he
stopped and called me, and reported in the most friendly
manner all the messages the Pope had sent me. I replied
that I should complete my work with greater diligeUce and
application than any I had yet attempted, but without the
least hope of having any reward whatever from the Pope.
Messer Bartolommeo reproved me, saying that this was not
the way in which one ought to reply to the advances of a
Pope. I answered that I should be mad to reply otherwise —
mad if I based my hopes on such promises, being certain to
get nothing. So I departed, and went off to my business.

Messer Bartolommeo must have reported my audacious
speeches to the Pope, and more perhaps than I had really
said ; for his Holiness waited above two months before he
sent for me, and during that while nothing would have induced
me to go uncalled for to the palace. Yet he was dying with
impatience to see the chalice, and commissioned Messer
Ruberto Pucci to give heed to what I was about. That right
worthy fellow came daily to visit me, and always gave me
some kindly word, which I returned. The time was drawing
nigh now for the Pope to travel toward Bologna ; so at last,
perceiving that I did not mean to come to him, he made
Messer Ruberto bid me bring my work, that he might see
how I was getting on. Accordingly, I took it ; and having
shown, as the piece itself proved, that the most important
part was finished, I begged him to advance me five hundred
crowns, partly on account, and partly because I wanted gold
to complete the chalice. The Pope said : "Go on, go on at
work till it is finished." I answered, as I took my leave, that I
would finish it if he paid me the money. And so I went away.

ITALIAN LITBRATURB. 235

When the Pope took his journey to Bologna, he left Car-
dinal Salviati as Legate of Rome, and gave him commission
to push forward the work that I was doing, adding : " Ben-
venuto is a fellow who esteems his own great talents but
slightly, and us less ; look to it then that you keep him always
going, so that I may find the chalice finished on my return."

That beast of a Cardinal sent for me after eight days, bid-
ding me bring the piece up. On this I went to him without
the piece. No sooner had I shown my face, than he called
out: "Where is that onion-stew [hodge-pod^e] of yours?
Have you got it ready?" I answered: "Omost reverend
Monsignor, I have not got my onion-stew ready, nor shall I
make it ready, unless you give me onions to concoct it with."
At these words, the Cardinal, who looked more like a donkey
than a man, turned uglier by half than he was naturally, and
wanting at once to cut the matter short, cried out: "I'll send
you to a galley, and then perhaps you'll have the grace to go
on with your labor." The bestial manners of the man made
me a beast too, and I retorted : " Monsignor, send me to the
galleys when I've done deeds worthy of them ; but for my
present neglect, I snap my fingers at your galleys ; and what
is more, I tell you that, just because of you, I will not set
hand further to my piece. Don' t send for me again, for I
won't appear, no, not if you summon me by the police."

After this, the good Cardinal tried several times to let me
know that I ought to go on working, and to bring him what
I was doing to look at. I only told his messengers : " Say to
Monsignor that he must send me onions, if he wants me to
get my stew ready." Nor did I ever give any other answer ;
so that he threw up the commission in despair.

The Pope came back from Bologna, and sent at once for
me, because the Cardinal had written the worst he could of
my affairs in his despatches. He was in the hottest rage
imaginable, and bade me come upon the instant with my
piece. I obeyed. Now, while the Pope was staying at
Bologna, I had suffered from an attack of inflammation in
the eyes, so painful that I scarce could go on living for the
torment ; and this was the chief reason why I had not carried
out my work. The trouble was so serious that I expected

236 WTBRATURB OF ALI, NATIONS.

for certain to be left without my eyesight ; and I had reck-
oned up the sum on which I could subsist, if I were blind for
life. Upon the way to the Pope, I turned over in my mind
what I should put forward to excuse myself for not having
been able to advance his work. I thought that, while he was
inspecting the chalice, I might tell him of my personal
embarrassments. However, I was unable to do so ; for when
I arrived in the presence, he broke out coarsely at me : " Come
herewith your work ; is it finished?" I displayed it; and
his temper rising he exclaimed : "In God's truth I tell thee,
thou that makest it thy business to hold no man in regard,
that, were it not for decency and order, I would have thee
and thy work chucked out of windows." Accordingly, when
I perceived that the Pope had become no better than a vicious
beast, my chief anxiety was how I could manage to withdraw
from his presence. So, while he went on bullying, I tucked
the piece beneath my cape, and muttered under my breath :
" The whole world could not compel a blind man to execute
such things as these." Raising his voice still higher, the
Pope shouted : " Come here ; what sayest thou?" I stayed
in two minds, whether or not to dash at full speed down the
staircase ; then I took my decision and threw myself upon
my knees, shouting as loudly as I could, for he too had not
ceased from shouting: "If an infirmity has blinded me, am
I bound to go on working ? ' ' He retorted : ' ' You saw well
enough to make your way hither, and I don't believe one
word of what you say." I answered, for I noticed he had
dropped his voice a little: " I^et your Holiness inquire of
your physician, and you will find the truth out." He said:
"So ho ! softly ; at leisure we shall hear if what you say is
so." Then, perceiving that he was willing to give me hear-
ing, I added: "I am convinced that the only cause of this
great trouble which has happened to me, is Cardinal Sal-
viati ; for he sent to me immediately after your Holiness' s
departure, and when I presented myself, he called my work a
stew of onions, and told me he would send me to complete it
in a galley ; and such was the effect upon me of his knavish
words, that in my passion I felt my face inflame, and so intol-
erable a heat attacked my eyes that I could not find my own

ITAMAN WTBRATURE. 237

way home. Two days afterwards, cataracts fell on both my
eyes ; I quite lost my sight, and since your Holiness's depar-
ture I have been unable to work at alh"

Rising from my knees, I left the presence without further
license. It was afterwards reported to me that the Pope had
said : " One can give commissions, but not the prudence to per-
form them. I did not tell the Cardinal to go so brutally about
this business. If it is true that he is suffering from his eyes, of
■ which I shall get information through my doctor, one ought to
make allowance for him ." A great gentleman, intimate with
the Pope, and a man of very distinguished parts, happened
to be present. He asked who I was, using terms like these :
"Most blessed Father, pardon if I put a question. I have
seen you yield at one and the same time to the hottest anger
I ever observed, and then to the warmest compassion : so I
beg your Holiness to tell me who the man is ; for if he is a
person worthy to be helped, I can teach him a secret which
may cure him of that infirmity." The Pope replied: "He
is the greatest artist in his own craft that was ever bom ; one
day, when we are together, I will show you some " of his
marvellous works, and the man himself to boot ; and I shall
be pleased if we can see our way toward doing something to
assist him." Three days after this, the Pope sent for me
after dinner-time, and I found that great noble in the pre-
sence. On my arrival, the Pope had my cope-button brought,
and I in the meantime drew forth my chalice. The noble-
man said, on looking at it, that he had never seen a more stu-
pendous piece of work. When the button came, he was still
more struck with wonder; and looking me straight in the
face, he added : ' ' The man is young, I trow, to be so able in
his art, and still apt enough to learn much." He then asked
me what my name was. I answered: "My name is Ben-
venuto." He replied: "And Benvenuto [welcome] shall I.
be this day to you. Take flower-de-luces, stalk, blossom, root,
together ; then decoct them over a slack fire, and with the
liquid bathe your eyes several times a, day, you will most
certainly be cured of that weakness ; but see that you purge
first, and then go forward with the lotion. ' ' The Pope gave
me some kind Words, and so I weiit away half satisfied.

238 literature; of axx, nations.

Crossing the Bridge.

When we had passed Mount Simplon we found a river
near a place called Indevedro. This river was very wide and
rather deep, and crossed by a little narrow bridge without a
parapet. There was a hard frost that morning, and when I
reached the bridge — for I was in front of the rest, and saw
that it was very dangerous — I ordered my young men and the
servants to dismount and lead their horses by the bridle.
Thus I passed the said bridge in safety, and went on talking
with one of those two Frenchmen, who was a gentleman.
The other was a notary, who had remained somewhat behind
and jeered at that gentleman and at me, saying that for fear
of nothing at all we had preferred the discomfort of going on
foot ; to whom I turned, and seeing him on the middle of the
bridge, prayed him to come softly, for that it was a very dan-
gerous place. This man, who could not help showing his
French nature, said to me in French that I was a man of
little courage, and that there was no danger at all. While he
was saying these words he pricked his horse with the spur,
through which means it suddenly slipped over the edge of the
bridge, and fell close beside a large stone, turning over with
its legs in the air ; and as God very often shows compassion
to fools, this beast, along with the other, beast, his horse, fell
into a great and deep hole, wherein both he and his horse
went under water. As soon as I saw this I began to run, and
with great difficulty leaped upon the stone aforesaid, and,
holding on by it and hanging over the brink, I seized the
edge of a gown which that man was wearing, and by that
gown I pulled him up, while he was still under water ; and
because he had drunk a great quantity of water, and within
a little would have been drowned, I, seeing him out of dan-
ger, told him I was rejoiced at having saved his life. Whereat
he answered me that I had done nothing — that the most
important thing were his parchments, which were worth
much money. It seemed that he spoke thus in anger, all
soaked through as he was, and muttering confusedly. At this
I turned to the guides we had with us and promised to pay

ITALIAN LITERATURE. 239

them if they would help this beast. One of the guides valor-
ously, and with great diificulty, set himself to do what he
could, and fished up all the parchments, so that he lost
nothiug ; the other would not put himself to any trouble to
help him.

GIACOMO SANNAZARO.

Arcadia is synonymous in literature with the ideal land of poetic
dreams. This use, though founded on ancient examples, was estab-
lished for modern times by the pastoral of Sannazaro, written in
mingled prose and verse. The author was born at Naples in 1458, and
was early proficient in Greek and I,atin, but was led by his love for
Carmasina Bonifacia to celebrate her charms in her native tongue. He
was patronized and rewarded by King Ferdinand and his successor, to
whom he remained faithful even after the loss of the kingdom. He
died in 1532.

ElvEGY FROM THE ArCADXA.

O BRIEF as bright, too early blest.
Pure spirit, freed from mortal care.
Safe in the far-off mansions of the sky.
There, with that angel take thy rest.
Thy star on earth ; go, take thy guerdon there !
Together quaff the immortal joys on high.
Scorning our mortal destiny ;
Display thy sainted beauty bright,
'Mid those that walk the starry spheres,
Through seasons of unchanging years ;
By living fountains, and by fields of light,
I^eading thy blessed flocks above ;
And teach thy shepherds here to guard their care with love.

Thine, other hills and other groves.

And streams and rivers never dry.

On whose fresh banks thou pluck'st the amaranth flowers ;

While, following other lyoves

Through sunny glades, the Fauns glide by,

Surprising the fond Nymphs in happier bowers.

Pressing the fragrant flowers,

Androgeo there sings in the summer shade,

By Daphnis' and by Melibceus' side,

Filling the vaulted heavens wide

240 LITBRATURE OP Atl, NATIONS.

With the sweet music made ;
While the glad choirs, that round appear,
Listen to his dear voice we may no longer hear.

As to the elm is his embracing vine,
As their bold monarch to the herded kine,
As golden ears to the glad sunny plain,
Such wert thou to our shepherd youths, O swain !
Remorseless Death ! if thus thy flames consume
The best and loftiest of his race.
Who may escape his doom ?
What shepherd ever more shall grace
The world like him, and with his magic strain
Call forth the joyous leaves upon the woods,
Or bid the wreathing boughs embower the summer floods ?

King Alphonso of Naples.

O THOU, so long the Muse's favorite theme.

Expected tenant of the realms of light.

Now sunk for ever in eternal night, .
Or recollected only to thy shame !
From my polluted page thy hated name

I blot, already on my loathing sight

Too long obtruded, and to purer white
Convert the destined record of thy fame.
On thy triumphant deeds far other strains

I hoped to raise; but thou defraud' st the song,
Ill-omened bird, that shunn'st the day's broad eye !
Go, then ; and whilst the Muse thy praise disdains,

Oblivion's flood shall sweep thy name along.
And spotless and unstained the paper lie.

FRENCH LITERATURE.

Period III. 1500-1600.

["RENCH Literature in the sixteenth centuiy shows
the profound effects of three great causes — the
i^Mj invention of printing, the revival of classical
learning, and the attempts to reform the Church.
The earlier writers of this time, especially the scur-
rilous Rabelais, and the skeptical Montaigne, have
already been treated.* The poets and the less prominent
prose writers remain to be considered here. They belonged
chiefly to the latter part of that tumultuous century. The
attacks on the corruptions of the Church led to a reaction
against Christianity, both scholastic and practical. Mar-
guerite, Queen of Navarre, though a patron of the Reforma-
tion, is generally regarded as the author of the tales of " The
Heptameron," a palpable imitation, in style and subject, of
Boccaccio's "Decameron." It was not published, however,
till after her death, and shows more literary power than the
other works she had produced. The stories are occupied with
the higher classes of society, and show a voluptuous refine-
ment of manners, but a low state of morals.

In the middle of the century there was a remarkable
movement among the poets of France. A group of seven
men banded themselves together for the reduction of the
French language, and especially French poetry, to the rules of
the ancient classics. They became known by the classical
name of the " Pl^iade," which had been applied to seven
poets of the court of the Ptolemies. Ronsard and Du Bellay

See Volume III., pp. 171-206.
IV— 16 241

242 WTSRATDRB OF AI,I, NATIONS.

were the leaders of the movement. They cast aside as
unworthy the rude and vigorous ballads of Villon and estab-
lished the forms and rules of verse which have since pre-
vailed in French poetry. Pierre Ronsard was called "the
Prince of Poets ' ' by his contemporaries, and his odes were
the first practical illustration of the aims and methods of the
new school. But his epic, the " Franciade," though his most
ambitious work, was an utter failure. The critical poet
Boileau afterwards condemned Ronsard, but his merits have
been recalled by recent writers. Joachim du Bellay was
called "the Apollo of the Pldiade," and was esteemed equally
as a poet and prose-writer. R^my Belleau, a third of the
stars, made many poetical translations, and was noted for
his descriptions of country life. The other members of the
Pl^iade were of less account. It would be possible to select
seven more poets of that age showing equal talent. Du Bartas
was called "the Protestant Ronsard," and his "First Week,"
describing the Creation, went through many editions. It
established the long Alexandrine of fourteen syllables as the
verse for serious poetry in French. It was translated into
English and had its eflfect upon Milton.

Agrippa d'Aubign6 is noted both as a prose-writer and
poet, but chiefly as an inflexible Huguenot, who remained
attached to Henry IV. , after the king, for the restoration of
peace, professed conversion to the Roman Catholic faith.
D' Aubign6 was a vigorous satirist as well as historian, and
did not spare even his royal master. His masterpiece is a
series of poems called "Les Tragiques," treating of the
religious wars and contemporary abuses.

The critical faculty which has ever been strong in France
was manifested in a new movement for the reform of the
French language. The grammarian Malherbe attempted to
reduce it to strict rule. So successful were his instruction
and example that his successor, the great critic Boileau,
declared that classical literature began with Malherbe. All
writing before that time was regarded as barbarous, unworthy
of study or attention. Only in recent days has this verdict
been set aside, and the merits of the older French poetry
been recognized.

FRENCH WTBRATURB. 243

FRANCIS I.

Thb age of Francis I. was full of poetry as well as of momentous
political events. The king Jiimself was a lyrical poet, and the vellum
manuscript of his songs is now in the National Library at Paris.
Francis I. was bom in 1494, and died in 1547.

The Brightness of his I^ady.

As at my window — all alone —

I stood about the break of day,
Upon my left Aurora shone

To guide Apollo on his way.
Upon my right I could behold
My love, who combed her locks of gold ;
I saw the lustre of her eyes,

And, as a glance on me she cast,
Cried, "Gods, retire behind your skies,

Your brightness is by hers surpassed.

As gentle Phoebe, when at night

She shines upon the earth below,
Pours forth such overwhelming light,

All meaner orbs must faintly glow,
Thus did my lady, on that day,
Eclipse Apollo's brighter ray,
Whereat he was so sore distressed.

His face with clouds he overcast,
And I exclaimed, " That course is best, —

Your brightness is by hers surpassed."

Then happiness my bosom cheered ;

But soon Apollo shone once more,
And in my jealous rage I feared

He loved the fair one I adore.
And was I wrong ? — Nay, blame who can,
When jealous of each mortal man,
The love of gods can I despise, ?

I hope to conquer fear at last.
By crying, " Keep behind your skies,

Ye gods, your brightness is surpassed ! "

244

LITERATURE OF AH NATIONS.

MARGUERITE OF NAVARRE.

The reputed author of tlie
Heptameron is known in history
by three names : Marguerite d ' An-
gouleme from her family ; Mar-
guerite de Valois from her house,
and Marguerite of Navarre from
the kingdom, claimed but not
enjoyed by her husband. She
was the sister of Francis I. , and
~ was two years his senior, being
born in 1492. The Heptameron
had circulated in manuscript, but was not published until after
her death in 1549 ; but the gossipy Brantome distinctly avers :
" The Queen of Navarre composed most of these novels in
her litter as she traveled ; for her hours of retirement were
employed in aflFairs of importance. I have heard this account
from my grandmother who always went with her in her
litter, as her lady of honor, and held her standish for her ;
and she wrote them down as quickly and readily, or rather
more so, than if they had been dictated to her." The second
edition was dedicated by Claude Gruget, the editor, to Mar-
guerite's only daughter, Jeanne d'Albret, mother of Henry
IV. Some scholars to-day hold the belief, nevertheless, that
Des P^riers, Marot and the wits of Marguerite's Court wrote
these licentious tales for her, she supplying only the more
pious prologues and epilogues, and maybe a few of the less
questionable stories.

Marguerite's other literary relics consist of a collection of
poems styled "Les Marguerites de la Marguerite des Prin-
cesses" (The Pearls of the Pearl of Princesses), and her Letters.
In Paris she was the chief patroness of literature. After the
death of her first husband, Charles, Due d'Alengon, she wedded
Henri d' Albret, King of Navarre ; but Francis I. never suc-
ceeded in reconquering that kingdom for them as he had
promised. Marguerite was possessed by a mystical pietism,
and was a protector for the Reformers ; still she saw no harm

FRENCH IvITBRATUKB. 245

in her "Second Decameron," as she intended to entitle her
great work in imitation of Boccaccio. She had collected only
seventy- two tales for it, however, and Gruget rechristened
it the Heptameron. Marguerite, called by Francis "Ma
Mignonne," was more than tolerant of the illicit amours
in which her royal brother openly revelled. She even pro'
nounced, in her "Ddbat d' Amour," a pompous eulogy on
one royal mistress, Madame d' Etampes. Her husband treated
her most roughly. The Sorbonne passed a secret censure
on her.

Of the seventy-two tales of the Heptameron Dunlop
declares that " few of them are original ; for, except about
half-a-dozen which are historically true, and are mentioned
as having fallen under the observation of the Queen of
Navarre, they may all be traced to the Fabliaux, the Italian
novels, and the Hundred Ancient Tales. ' ' But in her pro-
logue the queen declares that all the tales are founded on
fact. Certainly some of them are only half-veiled scandals
of the court of Francis I. Brantome analyzes a number of
the stories and gives many purportedly real names of the
masked characters. He assures us that the queen portrayed
herself as a Princess of Flanders, relating the audacious
attempt made upon her chastity by Admiral de Bonnivet.
Madame Oisille, for instance, appears to be Marguerite's
mother, lyouise of Savoy. Oisille relates many of the tales
of the Franciscans or Cordeliers. In this typical work of the
age stories and comments of a very ticklish nature are char-
acteristically mingled with the most pious reflections. The
framework of the series of tales is inferior to that of Boccacio's
fugitives from the Florentine plague. In the Heptameron
ten French ladies and gentlemen, intercepted by a perilous
inundation on their return from the baths of Cauterets, take
shelter in a monastery of the Pyrenees. La Fontaine has
drawn apjireciably upon this store of tales. "The Hepta-
meron" must be pronounced to be, however, a weak sort of
Decameron. The exact original version was first published
from the manuscript as late as 1853.

246 LITERATURE OP ALL NATIONS.

The Rejected Bridegroom.

In the town of Valencia there lived a gentleman who
during five or six years had loved a lady so perfectly that
neither of them was hurt in honor nor in conscience thereby;
for his intention was to make her his wife, — and reasonably
enough, as he was handsome, rich and of a noble house, and
had not placed himself at her service without first making
known his desire to arrange a marriage with the good-will of
her friends ; and these, being assembled for that purpose,
found the match in every way fitting, if the girl herself should
be of their mind. But she, either hoping to find a better, or
wishing to hide the love she had for the youth, discovered an
obstacle ; so the company was broken up, not without regret-
ting that she could not give the affair a better ending, seeing
that on both sides the match was good. But, above all assem-
bled, the poor gentleman was wroth, who could have borne his
misfortune patiently had he believed the fault to lie with her
friends and not with her : but knowing the truth (to believe
which were more bitter than death), he returned home with-
out a word to his lady-love or to any other there ; and having
put some order in his affairs, he went away into a desolate
place, where he sought with pains and trouble to forget this
affection, and to turn it wholly to the love of our Saviour,
Jesus Christ, to which affection he was, without comparison,
the more obliged. And during this time he never heard either
from his lady or from her friends ; therefore he resolved, having
failed in the happiest life he could have hoped, to take and
choose the most austere and disagreeable ; and full of this sad
thought, which one might call despair, he went to become a
monk at a Franciscan monastery, close to which lived several
of his friends.

These friends, having heard of his despair, made every
effort to hinder his resolve ; but so firmly was it rooted in his
heart, they could not turn him from it. Nevertheless, know-
ing his ailment, they thought to find the medicine, and went
to her who was the cause of his sudden devotion. They found
Jier much bewildered and astonished at their news, for sh?

FRENCH WTERATURB. 247

had meant her refusal, which was but for a time, to test the
true love of her lover, and not to lose it forever ; and seeing
the evident danger of this, she sent him an epistle, which,
rudely rendered, runs as follows :

Because, unless it well be proven, love
As strong and loyal no one can approve,
I wished to wait till proven to my mind
Was that I longed so ardently to find.
A husband full of perfect love it was
That I desired, a love that would not pass ;
And so I begged my parents not to haste,
Still to delay, let one year, two years, waste
Before I played the game that must endure
Till death, which many a one repents, for sure.

I never said I would not have your love ;
So great a loss I was not dreaming of,
For certes, none but you I loved at all —
None other would I lord and husband call.
Ah me ! my love, what bitterness to say
That thou without a word art gone away !
A narrow cell, a convent life austere, —
These are your choice ; oh, misery to hear !
Now must I change my office pleading so.
As once in guileless words you used to do —
Requiring that which was of me required,
Acquiring him by whom I was acquired.
Nay, now, my love, life of the life of me,
I do not care to live berett of thee.

Ah ! turn again thy distant eyes to mine ;
Turn on thy steps, if so thy will incline.
I^eave thou the cowl of gray, the life austere ;
All of my love and all my heart are here.
By thee so many times so much desired.
Time hath not changed my heart, it hath not tired.
For thee, for thee alone, I keep my heart.
And that must break if thou must keep apart.
Come, then, again return ; believe thy dear ;
Consider in thy mind how many a year
We might be happy, joined in holy marriage ;
And me believe, and not thy cruel courage.
Be sure I never meant to say or do

248 LITERATURE OF AhL, NATIONS.

A word to wound, a deed to make thee rue.
I meant to make you liappy, dear, enough,
When I had full assurance of your love.
And now, indeed, my heart is fixed and sure ;
Thy firmness, faith and patience to endure,
And over all, thy love I know and see,
And they have gained me wholly, dear, to thee.
Come, now, and take the thing that is thine own •
For thine am I, and be thou mine alone.

This letter, carried by one of his friends, along with all
possible remonstrances, was received by the gentleman Fran-
ciscan with a very mournful countenance, and with so many
sighs and tears it seemed as though he meant to burn or drown
the poor little letter. But he made no answer to it, telling the
messenger that the overcoming of his extreme passion had
cost him so dear that he now neither cared to live nor feared
to die ; wherefore he begged her who had been the occasion of
his grief, since she had not chosen to gratify the passion of
his great desires, not to torment him now that he was quit of
them, but to content herself with the evil done, for which he
could find no other remedy than the choice of this rude life,
whose continual penance put his sorrow out of mind, and by
fasts and discipline enfeebled his body so that the remembrance
of death had become his sovereign consolation ; and, above
all, he prayed her never to let him hear any news of her, for
even the memory of her name had become an insupportable
purgatory to him. The gentleman returned with this mourn-
ful answer, delivering it to her, who could not hear it without
incredible regret.

But Love, which lets not the spirit fail until it is in ex-
tremity, put it into her fancy that if she could only see him, the
sight of her and the voice of her would have more force than
writing. Wherefore, accompanied by her father and the nearest
of her kin, she set out for the monastery where he dwelt, having
left nothing that could heighten the aspect of her beauty ;
and sure she felt that if he could but see her once and hear
her speak, it would be impossible that the flame so long con-
tinued in their hearts should not light up again, .and stronger

FRENCH LITERATURB. 249

than before. Therefore, entering the monastery about the
end of vespers, she had him called to a chapel in the clois.
ters. He, knowing not who was asking for him, went to
fight the hardest battle he had ever fought. And when she
saw him, all pale and undone, so that she scarcely knew him
again, yet filled none the less with a grace no less amiable
than before, then love constrained her to stretch out her arms,
thinking to embrace him ; but the pity of seeing him in such
a state sent such a sudden weakness to her heart that she fell
down fainting. Then the poor monk, who was not destitute
of brotherly charity, lifted her up and placed her on a seat
which was in the chapel. And he himself, who no less needed,
succor, made as if he felt no passion, strengthening his heart
in the love of his God against the opportunity that tempted
him, so that he seemed, from his countenance, to be ignorant
of that which he saw.

The lady, coming to life again, turned on him her eyes,
that were so beautiful and piteous they would have softened
stone, and began to tell him all the thoughts she had to draw
him from that place ; to which he answered in the most vir-
tuous manner that he could. But in the end the poor monk,
feeling his heart melt before the abundant tears of his darling
(as one who sees Love, the cruel archer, whose wound he has
long suffered from, make ready his golden arrow to strike him
in a fresh and mortal part), even so he fled away from Love
and his beloved, as though the only force left to him lay in
flight. And being shut in his chamber, not wishing to let
her go without some resolution taken, he wrote to her a few
words in Spanish, and these words, he sent to her by a little
novice, who found her still in the chapel in such despair that
had it been lawful for her to take the veil in that monastery,
she would have stayed. But on seeing the writing; which
said, " Return whence thou camest, my heart, for among the
sad lives is mine." Knowing by these words that all her
hopes had failed, she determined to follow the counsel of him
and of her friends, and returned home, to lead there as melan-
choly a life as her lover spent austerely in his monastery.

Thus you see, ladies, the vengeance this gentleman took
on his hard-hearted love, who, thinking to make an experi-

250 WTERATURB OF AI<I, HATIONS.

ment of his truth, drove him to despair in such a manner that
when she would she could not have him again.

"I am sorry," said Nomerfide, "that he did not doff his
cowl aud marry her ; for then, methinks, there would have
been a perfect marriage."

" Of a truth,' ' said Simontault, "I think he was very wise ;
for one who has well considered the married state will not
esteem it less vexatious than an austere devotion ; and he, so
greatly weakened by fasts and abstinences, feared to take
upon him such a life-long burden.' '

"It seems to me," said Hircan, "she did very wrong to
so weak a man in tr>'ing to tempt him with marriage ; that is
too much for the strongest man in the world. But had she
only spoken of love and friendship, with no other bondage
than that of will, there is no cord that would not have been
broken nor knot untied ; yet, seeing that for escape from
purgatory she offered him hell, I think he had good reason
to refuse."

" In faith, ' ' said Emarsuitte, ' ' there are many who intend-
ing to do better than others, do worse ; or, at least, the very
reverse of what they would."

THE PLEIADE.

Seven Greek poets of Alexandria had been named the
Pleiades, after the constellation of the sailing stars. Prom
them the first French school of classical poets took its name.
It was called into being by Joachim du Bellay (i 524-1 560J,
and shone in its most refulgent glory in Pierre de Ronsard
( 1 5 24- 1585). Both of these poets were bom in the same year,
and both, as well as a brother-Pldiad, Rdmy Belleau, were
extremely deaf The minor stars of this classic galaxy were
Jean Daurat (1507-15 88), Jean Antoine de Baif, Pontus de
Tyard and Etienne Jodelle. The honor of being the founder
of this Parnassian society is assigned to Daurat, who might
be Rabelais' s Limousin, since he was born in Limoges and
was brought before Francis I. He became director of the
College de Coqueret, where he had Ronsard, Baif, Belleau
and Tyard for pupils. Ronsard, later, recruited Du Bellay,

FRENCH WTERATURB. 251

and Jodelle, tlie father of the classical French tragedy, was
the last to join. Daurat was styled "the royal poet" by
King Charles IX., but his verses scarcely deserve mention.

The first real poet of the Pl^iade, the sounder of its key-
note, Joachim du Bellay, proclaimed the new literary pro-
gramme in his "Defence et Illustration de la langue fran-
9ai§e," which appeared in 1549, only five years after the
death of Clement Marot. It was not only one of the earliest
pieces of literary criticism in French, but, as Van Laun
asserts, "the first articulate profession of the classical theory
of French poetry, and marked the inauguration of a literary
epoch in verse which was (despite Malherbe's criticism) only
to be overthrown completely by the poets of the C^nacle in
the early years of this nineteenth century.' ' The Pl^iade set
an artificial neo-classical style so decided that, says the
same critic, "for upwards of two hundred years France
had no poet of superlative genius or originality. . . . The
man who consents to lace and pad his body, to wear stays and
a wig, may look excellently well in a minuet or court dance,
but the free play of the limbs, the natural agility and vigor
which he might have enjoyed, must be sacrificed on the shrine
of his adopted fashion. ' ' Joachim du Bellay was a nephew
of the Cardinal du Bellay, Rabelais' s powerful friend and pro-
tector. He was born, quite prophetically, at Lyre. Confined
to his bed by a long illness, he turned for solace to the Latin
and Greek poets, and soon burned to imitate them in French.
In his " Defence et Illustration " he sounds the trumpet call :

"Thither, then, O Frenchmen, advance courageously
towards that illustrious Roman city, and with the booty plun-
dered from her, as you have more than once done, adorn your
temples and your altars. Fear no more those cackling geese,
that fierce Manlius and that traitor Camillus. . . . Enter that
false-tongued Greece, and plant there once again the famous
nation of Gallo-Greeks. Pillage without scruple the sacred
treasures of that Delphic temple, as you did of old, and fear
no more that dumb Apollo, his false oracles and his rebound-
ing arrows. . . . Leave all these old French poems to the
Floral Games of Toulouse, and to the />uy (dramatic festivals)
pf Rouen* such ^s rondeaus, ballades, virelais, royal songs

252 LITERATURE OP AH NATIONS.

lays, and other such spicy things, which corrupt the taste
of our language, and are of no other value than to bear wit-
ness to our ignorance."

Du Bellay himself cultivated the sonnet, which he was
the first French poet to use with fluency. His love-sonnets,
' ' Iv'Olive,' ' celebrate in Petrarchian fashion a mistress Viole,
and his ' ' Les Regrets ' ' tell of his fiery passion in Rome for
a married beauty, who passes under the poetic title of Colum-
belle. For these amatory poems he was crowned as the
French Ovid. His other poems have a certain force and sub-
limity that appealed to Edmund Spenser, who translated
sixty of the Roman sonnets into English. Du Bellay's
' ' Winnowers' Hymn ' ' has been declared to be one of the love-
liest lyrics of the age. The admiring Spenser annexed the
following envoi to his translation of the " Ruins of Rome : "

"Bellay, first garland of free Poesie

That France brought forth, thou fruitful! of brave wits,
Well worthie thou of immortalitie,

That long hast travel' d by thy learned wits
Old Rome out of her ashes to revive,

And give a second life to dead decayes !
Needes must he all eternitie survive.

That can to others give eternall days :
Thy dayes therefore are endless, and thy praise

Excelling all that ever went before."

The greatest of the poets of the Pl^iade was, however,
Ronsard, a native of the Vendome, who was Du Bellay's par-
ticular intimate to the end, despite a quarrel over the priority
in a new form of ode. While Du Bellay died Archbishop of
Bordeaux, and was buried in Notre Dame, Ronsard's father
was"maitre d'hotel" to Francis the First, and the young
Pierre began as a page to the king's son, Charles, Duke of
Orleans. Traveling with the Duke to England, Ronsard may
have met there those pioneers of English song — Wyatt, Sur-
rey and Gabriel Harvey. Deserting Mars for the Muses, he
placed himself under Daurat, with Baif as a fellow-student.
For seven years he devoted himself to Latin and Greek.
He was the latest of the famous seven to sing, not pub-

FRENCH LITBRATURE. 253

Hshing his four books of odes until 1550. He aske^ to be
crowned the first French lyricist, and such is the inscrip-
tion on the monument erected to his memory in 1872.
Montaigne declared that in Ronsard French poetry had
attained its standard and could not advance beyond him. He
was hailed as the Pindar, the Petrarch of France. Marguerite
of Savoy accepted the dedication of both his "Hymns" and
his ' ' Amours." Queen Elizabeth sent him a diamond. Even
Tasso forwarded him the first outline of "Jerusalem Deli-
vered.' ' Nor was Ronsard in any danger from the Catholic
court. His " Discourse about the Miseries of these Times, ' '
directed against the Calvinists, won him the public thanks of
Catharine de Medici, and she also suggested the publication
of his heroic poem, the "Franciade" (1572). This epic ap-
peared only twenty days after the St. Bartholomew massacre.
Ronsard purposed to prolong it in twenty-four books, tracing
the glories of the French kings from Francion, a child of
Hector and a Trojan by birth. When but four books had
been finished Charles IX. died, and the disheartened court-
poet laid aside his task. Ronsard, praised by Andrew Lang
to-day as "Prince of Poets," boasted not only that he had
labored indefatigably for his mother tongue, but that he had
put her poetry into such shape that " the French could rival
the Romans and Greeks.' ' He ended his days as a priest in
Tours.

Of De Baif, who founded the Acad6mieeRoyale de Mu-
sique and was a wealthy courtier, it may be added that he
was a delicate rhymer of "amours, sports and pastimes."
Pelleau wrote pastorals, and has been styled the French
Herrick.

The Ruins op RomE;
(By Joachim du Bellay. Translated by Edmund Spenser.)

It was the time, when rest, soft sliding down
From heaven's height into men's heavy eyes,

In the forgetfulness of sleep doth drown
The careful thoughts of mortal miseries ;

Then did a ghost before mine eyes appear,

On that great river's bank that runs by Rome ;

254 WTBRATURB OP AL,l, NATIONS.

Whicli, calling me by name, bade me to rear

My looks to heaven, whence all good gifts do come.

And, crying loud, " I/O ! now behold," quoth he,
" What under this great temple placed is :

1,0, all is nought but flying vanity ! "
So I, that know this world's inconstancies,

Since only God surmounts all time's decay.

In God alone my confidence do stay.

On high hill's top I saw a stately frame.

An hundred cubits high by just assize,
With hundred pillars fronting fair the same.

All wrought with diamond after Doric wise :
Nor brick nor marble was the wall in view,

But shining crystal, which from top to base
Out of her womb a thousand rayons threw.

One hundred steps of Afric gold's enchase :
Gold was t\ve parget; and the ceiling bright [wall-covering

Did shine all scaly with great plates of gold ;
The floor of jasp and emerald was dight.

O world's vainness ! While thus I did behold,
An earthquake shook the hill from lowest seat,
And overthrew this frame with ruin great.

Then did a sharp spire of diamond bright.

Ten feet each way in square, appear to me,
Justly proportion' d up unto his height,

So far as archer might his level see :
The top thereof a pot did seem to bear.

Made of the metal which we most do honor ;
And in this golden vessel couched were

The ashes of a mighty emperor :
Upon four corners of the base yvete. pight, \Jixed

To bear the frame, four great lions of gold ;
A worthy tomb for such a worthy wight.

Alas ! this world doth nought but grievance hold !
I saw a tempest from the heaven descend.
Which this brave monument with flash did rend.

I saw a wolf under a rocky cave

Nursing two whelps ; I saw her little ones

In wanton dalUance the teat to crave,
While she her neck wreath' d from them for the nones :

FRBNCH WTBRATURE. 255

I saw her range abroad to seek her food,

And, roaming through the field with greedy rage,
T' imbrue her teeth and claws with lukewarm blood

Of the small herds, her thirst for to assuage :
I saw a thousand huntsmen, which descended

Down from the mountains bord'ring I^mbardy,
That with an hundred spears her flank wide rended :

I saw her on the plain outstretched lie.
Throwing out a thousand throbs in her own soil ;
Soon on a tree uphanged I saw her spoil.

The Winnowers' Hymn.

In this hymn, by Du Bellay, the winds are invoked by the win-
nowers of the wheat.

To you, troop so fleet.
That with wing6d wandering feet.

Through the wide world pass.
And with soft murmuring
Toss the green shades of spring

In woods and grass,
I/ily and violet
I give, and blossoms wet,

Roses and dew ;
This branch of blushing roses,
Whose fresh bud uncloses,

Wind-flowers too.
Ah, winnow with sweet breath,
Winnow the holt and heath,

Round this retreat ;
Where all the golden mom
We fan the gold o' the corn,

In the sun's heat.

The I^overs' Prayer to Venits.

(By Joachim Du Bellay.)

We that with like hearts love, we lovers twain.
New wedded in the village by thy fane,
I^ady of all chaste love, to thee it is
We bring these amaranths, these white lilies,
A sign and sacriflce ; may Love, we pray,

256 I,ITKKATURB OF AI,I, NATIONS.

I^ike amarantliine flowers, feel no decay;
I<ike these cool lilies, may our loves remain
Perfect and pure and know not any stain ;
And be our hearts, from this thy holy hour,
Bound each to each, like flower to wedded flower.

April.

(By R6my Belleau.)

April, pride of woodland ways,

Of glad days,
April, bringing hope of prime,

To the yotmg flowers that beneath

Their bud sheath
Are guarded in their tender time ;

April, pride of fields that be

Green and free.
That in fashion glad and gay,
Stud with flowers, red and blue,

Every hue.
Their jeweled spring array;

April, pride of murmuring

Winds of spring.
That beneath the winnowed air,
Trap with subtle nets and sweet

Flora's feet.
Flora's feet, the fleet and fair ;

April, by thy hand caressed.

From her breast
Nature scatters everywhere
Handfuls of all sweet perfumes.

Buds and blooms.
Making faint the earth and air.

April, joy of the green hours.

Clothes with flowers
Over all her locks of gold
My sweet Lady; and her breast

"With the blest
Buds of summer manifold.

FRBNCH WTKRATURB. 257

April, with thy gracious wiles,

lyike the smiles,
Smiles of Venus ; and thy breath
I/ike her breath, the Gods' delight,

(From their height
They take the happy air beneath);

It is thou that,^ of thy grace,

From their place
In the far-off isles dost bring
Swallows over earth and sea,

Glad to be
Messengers of thee and Spring.

Daffodil and eglantine.

And woodbine,
lyily, violet, and rose.
Plentiful in April fair.

To the air
Their pretty petals do unclose.

Nightingales ye now may hear,

Piercing clear,
Singing in the deepest shade ;
Many and many a babbled note

Chime and float,
Woodland music through the glade.

April, all to welcome thee,

Spring sets free
Ancient flames, and with low breath
Wakes the ashes gray and old

That the cold
Chilled within our hearts to death.

Thou beholdest, in the warm

Hours, the swarm
Of the thievish bees, that flies
Evermore from bloom to bloom

For perfume,
Hid away in tiny thighs.

Her cool shadows May can boast,
Fruits almost
rv — 17

258 LITERATURB OF ALI, NATIONS.

Ripe, and gifts of fertile dew,
Manna-sweet and honey-sweet.

That complete
Her flower garland fresh and new.

Nay, but I will give my praise,

To these days.
Named with the glad name of Her*
That from out the foam o' the sea

Came to be
Sudden light on earth and air.

The Wreath of Roses.

This poem and the four following pieces are by Pierre Ronsard,
and are, with one exception, translated by Andrew Lang.

I SEND you here a wreath of blossoms blown
And woven flowers at sunset gathered,
Another dawn had seen them ruined, and shed

Ivoose leaves upon the grass at random strown.

By this, their sure example, be it known.
That all your beauties, now in perfect flower.
Shall fade as these, and wither in an hour,

Flowerlike, and brief of days, as the flower sown.

Ah, time is flying, lady — time is flying ;
Nay, 'tis not time that flies, but we that go.

Who in short space shall be in churchyard lying,
And of our loving parley none shall know,

Nor any man consider what we were ;

Be therefore kind, my love, while thou art fair.

The Rose.

See, Mignonne, hath not the Rose,
That this morning did unclose

Her purple mantle to the light,
Lost, before the day be dead.
The glory of her raiment red.

Her color, bright as yours is bright?

* Aphrodite, from which name the poet incorrectly supposes April
is derived.

FRENCH WTERATURS. 259

Ah, Mignonne, in how few hours,
The petals of her purple flowers

All have faded, fallen, died ;
Sad Nature, mother ruinous.
That seest thy fair child perish thus

'Twixt matin song and eventide.

Hear me, my darling, speaking sooth,
Gather the fleet flower of your youth,

Take your pleasure at the best ;
Be merry ere your beauty flit,
For length of days will tarnish it,

I,ike roses that were loveliest.

To His Young Mistress.

Fair flower of fifteen springs, that still
Art scarcely blossomed from the bud.
Yet hast such store of evil will,
A heart so full of hardihood.
Seeking to hide in friendly wise
The mischief of your mocking eyes.

If you have pity, child, give o'er;

Give back the heart you stole from me.
Pirate, setting so little store

On this your captive from I^ove's sea.
Holding his misery for gain.
And making pleasure of his pain.

Another, not so fair of face,

But far piore pitiful than you, '
Would take my heart, if of his grace.
My heart would give her of I^ove's due ;
And she shall have it, since I find
That you are cruel and unkind.

Nay, I would rather that it died.

Within your white hands prisoning,
Would rather that it still abide
In your ungentle comforting.
Than change its faith, and seek to her
That is more kind, but not so fair.

3(5o LITERATURE OF AI,I< NATIONS.

Of His Lady's Old Age.

When you are very old, and by the candle's flame,
Sitting beside the fire, you talk and spin and sing
My songs o' nights, then you will say, half wondering :
" Ronsard in bygone days hath sung my beauty's fame."

When those around thee hear this word, no serving dame
Of thine, already at her task half slumbering,
But at the echo of my name awakening,

With everlasting praise shall rise and bless thy name.

But I, a formless ghost within the earth full deep,
Beneath the myrtle shadows I shall lie asleep ;

While thou before the fire art crouching, old and gray,
Weeping for my lost love and for thy proud disdain.
Wait not the morrow, but live now, if thou wilt deign

To hear me ; pluck the roses of thy life to-day.

His Lady's Death.

Twain that were foes, while Mary" lived, are fled ;
One laurel-crowned abides in heaven, and one

Beneath the earth has fared, a fallen sun,
A light of love among the loveless dead.
The first is Chastity, that vanquished

The archer I^ove, that held joint empery

With the sweet beauty that made war on me,
When laughter of lips with laughing eyes was wed.
Their strife the Fates have closed, with stem control.
The earth holds her fair body, and her soul

An angel with glad angels triumpheth ;
Love has no more that he can do ; desire
Is buried, and my heart a faded fire,

And for Death's sake, I am in love with Death.

BRANTOME.

Pierre de Bourdeilles, Seigneur de Brantome (1540-
i6i4),has been aptly styled by Van Laun as "the Grammont
and the Pepys of his age, who, if he could have kept his

FRENCH LITERATURE. 26I

eyes upon its best rather than upon its worst features, might
possibly have been its Plutarch." As it is, his works furnish
an admirable picture of the general court life of his time,
with its undisguised and unblushing profligacy. Brantome
was the third son of the Viscount de Bourdeilles, and he was
brought up in the court of Marguerite of Navarre. That
princess's nephew. King Henri II., bestowed on Pierre de
Bourdeilles the abbey of Brantome, but to the end of his life
the recipient remained more a refined courtier than a prbper
ahh6. Early in life he had espoused the profession of arms,
only to lay them down after tjie death of Charles IX. On the
field he had proved himself a brave soldier, a fact which
later, no doubt, caused him to be chosen as one of the com.-
panions of Mary Queen of Scots in her voyage from France
to Scotland. To the last he idolized Mary as a martyr,
the victim of "lies and abuse." But, alas, he also made
idols of Catharine de Medici and the dissolute Marguerite
of Valois, wife of Henry IV. The fact is that he was essen-
tially a courtier of liis age, who could not truly perceive
the stains on the dames galantes and homines illustres
of his worship. Nevertheless this very unconscious view of
them adds a piquancy to his gallery of portraits ; and although
his scandals and chronicles are not of the most trustv/orthy,
yet as a whole they furnish an almost unexampled picture of
the times. It is a satisfaction to read Rabelais in the light of
Brantome. His style is naive and conversational, and he does
not neglect the foreign captains and duels he has seen in
dwelling on the picturesque and vivacious annals of the court
of the Valois.

Mary Queen of Scots Leaving- France.

When the beginning of autumn had come, it was neces-
sary that the queen who had been delaying should leave
France. She set out by land to Calais, accompanied by my
lords her uncles and my Iprd of Nemours, and by most of the
grand and honorable persons of the court, together with the
ladies, as Madame de Guise and others, all regretting and
weeping with abundant tears the loss of such a queen.

262 LITBRATUKE OP ALL NATIONS.

She found in port two galleys, one belonging to my I^ord
de Mevillon, the other to Captain d'Albize, and two ships of
burden. This was the entire fleet, and after six days' rest at
Calais, having said her sad qnd mournful adieus to all the
grand company which was there, from the highest to the
lowest, she embarked, having with her her uncles, my lords
d'Aumale, Grand Prior, and d'Elben, and my Lord Damville,
now my Lord Constable, and most of the nobility of us that
were with her in the galley of my Lord de Mevillon, as being
the better and finer.

Just when she was wishing to begin leaving the harbor,
and the oars were commencing to turn, she saw a ship put
out to sea, and full in view sink and perish before her, arid
the greater part of the sailors drowned, through not having
well learned the current and the ground. Seeing this, she
cried out at once, ' ' Ah, God ! what an omen for a voyage is
this ! " The galley having left the harbor, and a slight wind
having arisen, they set sail, and the oars had rest. She,
without thinking of other action, leaned her arms on the stern
of the galley beside the helm, and melted in a flood of tears^
steadfastly casting her lovely eyes on the harbor and the town
which she had left, ever and anon uttering these sad words,
"Adieu, France ! — adieu, France ! " — repeating them at every
turn. This mournful fit lasted nearly five hoiirs, until night
began to come On, and they asked her if she would not move
from the spot and take some food. Then redoubling her
weeping more than ever, she said, "It is at this hour I lose
you forever from sight, dear France, since the dark night
is jealous of my beholding you as long as I could, and
draws a black veil before my eyes to deprive me of such a
joy. Adieu, then, my dear France ; when I lose you from
sight, I shall see you nevermore!" Thus she withdrew,
saying that she had done just the opposite to Dido, who did
nothing but gaze upon the sea, when ^neas departed from
her, while she looked steadily at the land.

The queen resolved to lie down without eating, and would
not descend to the cabin in the > stern ; but they prepared
the deck of the galley above the stern for her, and there
arranged ier couch. There resting a little, yet not forgetting

PRSNCH WTERATtJRB. 263

her sighs and tears, she directed the helmsman, as soon as it
should be day, if he still saw or descried the land of France,
that he should awake her and not fear to call her. In this
fortune favored her, for the wind having ceased, and recourse
being had to the oars, they made little way that night ; so
that when daylight appeared the coast of France was still in
view, and the helmsman did not neglect the command she had
given. She rose on her couch, and again began to watch the
shore of France as long as she could. But as the galley
withdrew she lost this solace, and saw no more her beautiful
land. Then again she repeated those words, ' ' Adieu, France !
It is finished. Adieu, France ! I feel that I shall see you
nevermore!" She even expressed a wish at that time that
an English fleet should appear and so threaten us, that she
might be compelled to fall behind and escape to the harbor
whence she had set out. But in this matter God did not
favor her desires.

Without any hindrance we arrived at Little Luc'(the port of
I/cith.) As for the voyage, I shall mention this little inci-
dent, that the first evening after we embarked the Lord of
Chastelard (who was afterwards executed in Scotland for his
overboldness, and not for a crime; he was a well-bred
cavalier, a good soldier, and a good scholar) when he saw
them lighting the lantern of the galley, used this witty
remark : that there was nb need of that lantern nor of a torch
to lighten us on the sea, for the beautiful eyes of the queen
were bright and brilliant enough to light up all the sea with
their beautiful fires, without even setting fire to them for any
need.

It should be noted, that a day before the Sunday morning
on which we arrived in Scotland, there sprang up so great. a
fog that we could not see from the stern to the prow, in con-
sequence of which the pilot and his comrades were astonished,
so that it was necessary to cast anchor in the open sea, and
to take soundings to know where we were. This fog lasted a
day and a night, until the next morning at eight o'clpck,
when we found ourselves surrounded by a large number of
rocks ; so that if we had gone ahead or aside we should have
struck them, and should have all perished. But the Queen

264

WTERATURE OF ALI, NATIONS.

said, that for her part she would not have been troubled nor
wished for anything so much as death, but that she should
not wish or desire that for the welfare of the kingdom of
Scotland. On the morning after the lifting of this fog, when
we recognized and viewed the coast of Scotland, there were
some augured from that fog that we were going to land in a
kingdom full of confusion and quarrels and misfortunes.

MARY, QUEEN OE SCOTS.

Historians still dis-
pute the character and
actions of the beautiful
and unfortunate Mary
Stuart, Queen of Scots.
She lived in a time of the
bitterest religious contro-
versy, and was firmly at-
tached to the Roman
Church. Though heiress
of the Scottish crown, she
had been married to the
dauphin of France, and
would have preferred to
remain in that sunny land
had fate permitted. On
the death of Francis II.
she was obliged to return
to Scotland to take an active part in the conflict with a rude
and turbulent people. In th6 bleak and dreary Northern land
there was little to attract the youthful lover of gayeties, such as
she had shared in the French court. No wonder that she gave
her affection to the foreigners who ministered to her pleasures,
and roused the hatred of the fickle Darnley, whom she had
been persuaded to marry. Whatever may have been her
ambition with regard to the English crown, she bitterly
expiated in prison and on the scaffold any offence she had
committed. The few literary relics she has left are in the
French language.

FRENCH LITERATURE. 265

On the Death of Her Husband, Francis II.

In accents sad and low,

And tones of soft lament,
I breathe the bitterness of woe

O'er this sad chastisement:
With many a mpurnful sigh
The days of youth steal by.

Was e'er such stern decree

Of unrelenting fate ?
Did merciless adversity

E'er blight so fair a state
As mine, whose heart and eye
In bier and coffin lie, —

Who, in the gentle spring

And blossom of my years,
Must bear misfortune's piercing sting.

Sadness, and grief, and tears, —
Thoughts, that alone inspire
Regret and soft desire ?

What once was blithe and gay,

Changed into grief I see ;
The glad and glorious light of day

Is darkness unto me :
The world — the world has naught
That claims a passing thought.

Deep in my heart and eye

A form arid image shine.
Which shadow forth wan misery

On this pale cheek of mine.
Tinged with the violet's blue,
Which is love's favorite hue..

Where'er my footsteps stray,

In mead or wooded vale.
Whether beneath the dawn of day,

Or evening twilight pale, —
Still, still my thoughts ascend
To my departed friend.

266 WTERATURE OF AI.L NATIONS.

If towards his home above

I raise my mournful sight,
I meet his gentle look of love

In every cloud of white ;
But straight the watery cloud
Changes to tomb and shroud. '

When midnight hovers near,

And slumber seals mine eyes,
His voice still whispers in miiie ear,

His form beside me lies ;
In labor, in repose.
My heart his presence knows.

Farewei.Iv to France.

Farewell, beloved France to thee.

Best native land !

The cherished strand
That nursed my tender infancy !
Farewell, my childhood's happy day!
The bark that bears me thus away

Bears but the poorer moiety hence ;
The nobler half reniains with thee, —

I leave it to thy confidence,
But to remind thee still of me !

FRANCOIS DE MALHERBE.

The great French critic who trampled the laurels of
Ronsard and the Pldiade in the dust was Frangois de Mal-
herbe (15 55-161 8). He clasped the fetters of a new formalism
on French verse — shackles not to be broken until the rise of
Victor Hugo and Romanticism. The Graeco-Gallic innova-
tions of the Pldiade were certainly far too luxuriant, but
the modern verdict has sided with Ronsard against Malherbe.
Malherbe's own poems are all contained in a thin little
volume of small intrinsic merit outside of a few severely
polished gems, such as the poem "Consolation k Du Perrier,"
addressed to an old Proven5al friend on the loss of his
daughter. But while Malherbe was by no means so splendid
a poet as Ronsard, he was vastly superior to the minor Pl^i-

FRENCH IvITBRATURB. 267

adists and their grotesque imitators ; and if his cold formal-
ism sinned against the true poetic spirit, it may well be
doubted whether the great romahtic school of the early nine-
teenth century which rose so triumphantly against the slavery
of his rules, could really have been, had Malherbe not first
have swept away the exaggerated conceits of his predecessors
and early contemporaries. He was thirty years old when
Ronsard died, and the latest survivor of the PMiade — Des-
portes — lived to grace Malherbe's pillory. The critic, indeed,
did not hesitate to insult this worthy elder poet at his own
table. ' ' Your soup is better than your ' Psalms, '"he once
said to his host. The anecdote sheds a vivid light on the inso-
lent character of Malherbe. He was a servile flatterer of the
great, an obstinate suitor for favors, and yet a bearish fellow
to his equals. His criticism is infected with jealousy, and is
frequently downright unfair. The eldest son of a king's coun-
sellor in the magistracy of Caen, he swore to ' ' degasconlze "
French poetry, that is, to free it from the infection of the
Troubadours. His ungratefulness is visible in the fact that
after dedicating a collection of servile verses to King Henry
III., he libelled that monarch. His success dates from his
submissive courtiership to Marie de Medici. His friend
Recan wrote a Bbswell-like life of him, while Regnier,
Desportes' half-vagabond nephew, of all men, defended the
PMiade that had condemned Villon, and embalmed the great
satirist in a suprenie satire. Regnier declared that to judge
and write poetry after Malherbe's fashion, "is to make prose
of poetry and poetry of prose." But Boileau, in his sum-
mary of the origin of French poetry, praised Malherbe's life
labors as a critic in his sententious and famous line, "At last
arrived Malherbe."

PhYLWS and GIvYCERA.

Phyli,is sees me pine away,

Sees my ravished senses Stray,
Down my cheeks the tear-drops creeping.

When she seeks the cause of pain,

Of her charms she is so vain,
That she thinks for her I'm weeping.

268 I^ITERATURB OP AIX, NATIONS.

Sorry I sliould be, forsooth.

Did I vex her with the truth.
Yet it surely is permitted

Just to point out her mistakes,

When herself the cause she makes
Of a crime she ne'er committed.

'T was a wondrous school, no doubt.

Where she found her beauty out,
Which, she thinks, can triumph o'er me;

So that deeming her divine,

I can languish, weep and pine,
With so plain a truth before me.

Mine would be an easy case

If a happy resting place
In her den she could insure me ;

Then for solace to my woe

Far I should not have to go, — *
E'en the vilest herbs might cure me.

'Tis from Glycera proceeds

Grief with which my bosom bleeds

Beyond solace or assistance.
Glycera commands my fate.
As she pleases to dictate, ^

Death is near or at a distance.

Sure of ice that heart is made

Which no pity can invade,
Even for a single minute ;

But whatever faults I see.

In my soul still bideth she, —
Room for thee is not within it.

Consolation for a Daughter's Death.

The following is translated from his " Consolation a Du Perrier,"
written to a friend who had lost his only daughter.

I KNOW with what delights her infancy was filled,

And I have not undertaken,
As hurtful friend, to console thy grief.

By making light of it.

FRSNCH UTERATtJRB. 269

Yet she was of this world, where the finest things

Have the sorest fate ;
And a rose herself, she has lived as the roses

The brief space of a morning.

• ■ • • • a

For me, already twice have I been maimed

By the like fire from heaven,
And twice has reason fortified my soul

That I lament no more.

Yet it is pain to me, because the tomb

Owns what I held so dear ;
But that which knows no remedy should be

Devoid of idle plaint.

Death has his cruel terrors unsurpass'd ;

In vain we sue for grace.
The harsh oppressor shuts his ruthless ears,

And lets his victims sue.

The wretch half-sheltered by his roof of straw

Is subject to his will ;
No faithful guard who stands at I^ouvre's gate

Can shield the heads of kings.

SCANDINAVIAN
LITERATURE.

THE HEIMSKRINGLA.^

;HE "Heimskringla," or " Round World," is a
work of great historic interest, being the sagas
of the kings of Norway. Snorri's preface to
this bead-roll of honor begins with this short
summary of what was known of " parts of the earth :' '
" The round world, wherein mankind dwell, is much
sheared apart by gulfs ; great seas go from the outer sea into
the earth, and men know surely that a sea goeth from Niorvi's
Sound right up to the land of Jerusalem ; from that sea goeth a
long gulf to the north-east, which is called the Black Sea,
and sundereth the two World-Ridings ; to the east is Asia,
but to the west is called Europe by some, but by some Enea ;
but north of the Black Sea lies Sweden the Great on the Cold.
. . . Mighty lordships there are in Sweden, and peoples of
,manifold kind, and many tongues withal ; there are giants
and dwarfs, yea, and Blue-rmen, and folk of many kinds and
marvellous ; and there are sayage beasts, and dragons won-
drous great."

Snorri knew nothing of the bold Eric and Ivcif Ericson
who had long before discovered the still more wonderful con-
tinent, afterwards named America, but he tells us the circum-
stantial tale of Odin and Freyia and all the royal deities
whose romantic adventures form the burden of these sagas of
the Ynglings, down to the year 1 177. We learn of the immi-
gration of the ^sir into Sweden and the doings of their suc-
cessors, the kings of Upsala, and of the Norwegian kings,

* For General Introduction to Scandinavian I<iterature, see Volume
II., pp. 340-345-
270

SCANDINAVIAN LITERATURE. 271

particularly of Olaf Tryggvesson and Saint Olaf. He acknow-
ledges his indebtedness to Ari the Learned, the mass-priest,
for the "many ancient tales" that make up these histories.
Several of these stories from the Saga of King Olaf have
been versified in Longfellow's "Tales of a Wayside Inn."

Gyda, Eric's Daughter.

King Harald sent his men after a certain maiden called
Gyda, the daughter of King Eric of Horfaland, and she was at
fostering at Valldres with a rich bonder. Now the king would
fain have her to his bed-mate, because she was a maiden ex-
ceeding fair and withal somewhat high-minded. So when
the messengers came there they put forth their errand to the
maiden, and she answered in this wise : "I will not waste my
maidenhood for the taking of a husband who has no more
realm to rule over than a few folk. Marvellous it seems to
me that there be no king minded to make Norway his own,
and be sole lord thereof in such wise as Gorm of Denmark or
Eric of Upsala have done." Great words, indeed, seemed
this answer to the messengers, and they asked her concerning
her words, what this answer should come to ; and they say
that Harald is a king so mighty that the offer is right meet
for her. But yet, though she answered to their errand other-
wise than they would, they see no way as at this time to have
her away but if she were willing thereto, so they arrayed them
for their departing, and when they were ready, men led them
out. Then spake Gyda to the messengers: "Give this my
word to King Harald, that only so will I say yea to being his
sole and lawful wife, if he will first do so much for my sake
as to lay under him all Norway, and rule that realm as freely
as King Eric rules the Swede-realm, or King Gorm Denmark ;
for only so may he be called aright a king of the people."

Thereupon the messengers fare back to King Harald
and tell him of this word of the maiden, calling her overbold
and witless, and saying withal that it would be but meet for
the ting to send after her with' many men, for the doing of
some shame to her. Then answered the king that the maid
had spoken naught of ill, and done naught worthy of evil
reward. Rather he bade her much thanks for her word, ' ' For

272 LITERATURE OF ALU NATIONS.

she has brought to my mind that matter which it now seems
to me wondrous I have not had in my mind heretofore." And
moreover he said, "This oath I make fast, and swear before
that God who made me and rules over all things, that never
will I cut my hair nor comb it till I have gotten to me all
Norway, with the scat [revenue] thereof and the dues, and
all rule thereover, or else will I die rather.' ' For this word
Duke Guthorm thanked him much, and said it were a work

worthy of a king to hold fast this word of his

Now King Harald was feasting in Mere at Earl

Rognvald's, and had now gotten to him all the land. So
King Harald took a bath and then he let his hair be combed,
and then Earl Rognvald sheared it. And heretofore it had
been unshorn and uncombed for ten winters. Aforetime he
had been called Shockhead, but now Earl Rognvald gave him
a by-name and called him Harald Harfagr (Fair hair), and all
who saw him said that that was a most proper name, for
he had most plenteous hair and goodly.

The Birth op Olaf Tryggvesson.

King Tryggve Olafsson had married a wife who was
called Astrid. She was a daughter of Eric Biodaskalde, a
great man, who dwelt at Ofrostad. But after Tryggve' s
death Astrid fled, and privately took with her all the loose
property she could. Her foster-father, Thoralf Lusiskiaeg,
followed her, and never left her; and others of her faithful
followers spied about to discover her enemies, and where
they were. Astrid was pregnant with a child of King
Tryggve, and she went to a lak,e, and concealed herself in a
holm or small island in it with a few men. Here her child
was born, and it was a boy ; and water was poured over it,
and it was called Olaf after the grandfather. Astrid remained
all summer here in concealment; but when the nights
became dark, and the day began to shorten and the weather
to be cold, she was obliged to take to the land, along with
Thoralf and a few other men. They did not seek for houses,
unless in the night time, when they came to them secretly ;
and they spoke to nobody. One evening, towards dark, they

SCANDINAVIAN UTEEATURS. 273

came to Ofrostad, where Astrid's father Eric dwelt, and pri-
vately sent a man to Eric to tell him ; and Eric took them
to an out-house, and spread a table for them with the best of
food. When Astrid had been here a short time her travelling
attendants left her, and none remained behind with her but
two servant girls, her child Olaf, Thoralf Lusiskiseg, and his
son Thorgils, who was six years old ; and they remained all
winter.

After Try ggve Olafsson's murder, Harald Greyskin and his
brother Gudrod went to the farm which he owned; but
Astrid was gone, and they could learn no tidings of her. A
loose report came to their ears that she was pregnant to King
Tryggve ; but they went away northwards, as before related.
As soon as they met their mother Gunhild, they told her all
that had taken place. She inquired particularly about Astrid,
and they told her the report they had heard ; but as Gun-
hild's sons the same harvest and winter after had bickerings
with Earl Hakon, as before related, they did not seek after
Astrid and her son that winter.

The spring after Gunhild sent spies to the Uplands, and
all the way down to Viken, to spy what they could about
Astrid , and her men came back, and could only tell her that
Astrid must be with her father Eric, and it was probable was
bringing up her infant, the son of Tryggve. Then Gunhild,
without delay, sent oflf men well furnished with arms and
horses, and in all a troop of thirty ; and as their leader she
sent a particular friend of her own, a powerful man called
Hakon. Her orders were to go to Ofrostad to Eric, and take
King Tryggve' s son from thence, and bring the child to her ;
and with these orders the men went out. Now when they
were come to the neighborhood of Ofrostad,- some of Eric's
friends observed the troop of travellers, and about the close
of the day brought him word of their approach. Eric imme-
diately, in the night, made preparation for Astrid's flight,
gave her good guides, and sent her away eastward to Sweden,
to his good friend Hakon Gamle, who was a powerful man
there. I^ong before day they departed, and towards evening
they reached a domain called Skon. Here they saw a large
mansion, towards which they went, and begged a night's
IV— 18

274 LITBRATURE OP KIX, NATIONS.

lodging. For the sake of concealment they clad in mean
clothing. There dwelt here a bonder called Biom Edder-
quise, who was very rich, but very inhospitable. He drove
them away; and, therefore, towards dark, they went to
another domain close by that was called Vither. Thorstein
was the name of the bonder ; and he gave them lodging, and
took good care of them, so that they slept well, and were well
entertained. Early that morning Gunhild's men had come
to Ofrostad, and inquired for Astrid and her son. As Eric
told them she was not there, they searched the whole house,
and remained till late in the day before they got any news of
Astrid. Then they' rode after her the way she had taken, and
late at night they came to Biorn Edderquise in Skon, and
took up their quarters there. Hakon asked Biorn if he knew
anything about Astrid, and he said some people had been
there in the evening wanting lodgings; "but I drove them
away, and I suppose they^'have gone to some of the neighbor-
ing houses."

Now Thorstein' s laborer was coming from the forest,
having left his work at nightfall, and called in at Biorn' s
house because it was in his way ; and finding there were
guests come to the house, and learning their business, he
comes to Thorstein and tells him of it. As about a third
part of the night was still remaining, Thorstein wakens his
guests, and orders them in an angry voice to go about their
business ; but as soon as they were out of the house upon the
road, Thorstein tells them that Gunhild's messengers were at
Biorn' s house, and are upon the trace of them. They entreat
of him to help them, and he gave them a guide and some
provisions. He conducted them through the forest to a lake,
in which there was an islet overgrown with reeds. They
waded out to the islet, and hid the;mselves among the reeds.'
Early in the morning Hakon rode away from Biorn's into
the township, and wherever he came he asked after Astrid ;
and when he came to Thorstein' s he asked if she had been
there. He said that some people had been there ; but as soon
as it was daylight they had set off again, eastwards, to the
forest. Hakon made Thorstein go along with them, as he
knew all the roads and hiding-places. Thorstein went with

SCANDINAVIAN WTBRATURS. 275

them ; but when they were come into the woods, he led them
right across thp way Astrid had taken. They went about and
about the whole day to no purpose, as they could find no
trace of her ; so they turned back to tell Gunhild the end of
their travel. Astrid and her friends proceeded on their jour-
ney, and came to Sweden, to Hakon Gamle (the Old), where
she and her son remained a long time, and had friendly
welcome.

The Wedding of OlaF Tryggvesson.

Oi,AE lay by Borgund-holm, but there got they bitter
wind and a storm at sea, so that they might no longer lie
there, but sailed south under Wendland, and got there good
haven, and faring full peacefully, abode there awhile.

Burislaf was the name of the king in Wendland, whose
daughters were Geira, Gunnhild and Astrid. Now Geira, the
king's daughter, had rule and dominion there, where Olaf
and his folk came to the land, and Dixin was the name of
him who had most authority under Queen Geira. And so
when they heard that alien folk were come to the land, even
such as were noble of mien, and held them ever in peaceful
wise, then fared Dixin to meet them with this message, that
she bade those new-come men to guest with her that winter-
tide, for the summer was now far spent and the weather hard
and storms great. So when Dixin was come there he saw
speedjly that the captain of these men is a noble man both of
kin and aspect. Dixin told them that the queen bade them
to her in friendly wise. So Olaf took her bidding, and fared
that autumn-tide unto Queen Geira, and either of them was
wondrous well pleased with the other, so that Olaf fell a woo-
ing, and craved Queen Geira to wife. And it was brought to
pass that he wedded her tMt, winter, and became fuler of that
realm with her. Hallfred the Troublous-skald telleth of this
in the Drapa [song] he made upon Olaf the King :

The king he made the hardened
Corpse-banes in blood be reddened
At Holme and east in Garth-realm.
Yea, why should the people hide it ?

276

LITERATURE OP ALI, NATIONS.

The Building of the Long Serpent.

The winter after King Olaf came from
Halogaland, he had a great vessel built at Lade-
hammer, which was
larger than any ship
in the country, and of
which the beam-knees
are still to be seen.
The length of keel
that rested upon the
grass was seventy-four
ells. Thorberg Skaft-
ing was the man's
name who was the
master-builder of the
ship ; but there were
many others besides,
— some to fell wood,
some to shape it, some
to make nails, some
to carry timber; and
all that was used was
of the best. The ship was both long and broad and high-
sided, and strongly timbered. While they were planking the
ship, it happened that Thorberg had to go home to his farm
upon some urgent business ; and as he remained there a long
time, the ship was planked up on both sides when he came
back. I;i the evening the king went ont, and Thorberg with
him, to see how the vessel looked, and every body said that
never was seen so large and so beautiful a ship of war. Then
the king returned to the town. Early next morning the king
returns again to the ship, and Thorberg with him. The
carpenters were there before them, but all were standing idle
with their arms across. The king asked "what was the
matter?" They said the ship was destroyed ; for somebody
had gone from stem to stem, and cut one deep notch after
the other down the one side of the planking. When the,

SCANDINAVIAN WTERATURE. 277

king came' nearer he saw it was so, and said, with an oath,
" The man shall die who has thus destroyed the vessel out of
envy, if he can be discovered, and I shall bestow a great
reward on whoever finds him out."

"I can tell you, king," says Thorberg, "who has done
this piece of work."

"I don't think," replies' the king, "that any one is so
likely to find it out as thou art."

Thorberg says, " I will tell you, king, who did it. I did
it myself.' '

The king says, " Thou must restore it all to the same con-
dition as before, or thy life shall pay for it. ' '

Then Thorberg went and chipped the planks until the
deep notches were all smoothed and -made even with the rest ;
and the king and all present declared that the ship was much
handsomer on the side of the hull which Thorberg had
chipped, and bade him shape the other side in the same way,
and gave him great thanks for the improvement. Afterwards
Thorberg was the master-builder, of the ship until she was
entirely finished. The ship was a dragon, built after the one
the king had captured in Halogaland ; but this ship was far
larger, and more carefully put together in all her parts. The
king called this ship " Serpent the Long,' ' and the other " Ser-
pent the Short." The Long Serpent had thirty-four benches
for rowers. The head and the arched tail were both gilt, and
the bulwarks were as high as in sea-going ships. This ship
was the best and most costly ship ever made in Norway.

Olap's Dog Vigi.

Now when Olaf was in Ireland he was warring on a time,
and on shipboard they fared and needed a strand-slaughtering.
When the men went on land and drove down many beasts,
then came to them a certain goodman who prayed Olaf to
give him back his own cows. Olaf bade him take them if he
could find them: "But let him not delay the journey!"
Now the goodman had there a great herd-dog, to which dog
he showed the herd of neat, whereof were being driven many
hundreds. Then the hound ran all about the herd, and drave

278 HTBRATURE OF AI.I, NATIONS.

away just so many neat as the goodman had claimed for his,
and they were all marked in one wise ; wherefore men deemed
it sure that the hound verily knew them aright, and they
thought him wondrous wise. Then asked Olaf of the good-
man if he would sell his hound. "With a good will," said
the goodman. But the king gave him a gold ring there and
then and promised to be his friend. That dog was called
Vigi, and was the best of all dogs. Olaf had him for long
afterward.

Queen Sigrid the Haughty.

Queen Sigrid in Sweden, who had for surname the
Haughty, sat in her mansion, and during the same winter
messengers went between King Olaf and Sigrid to propose
his courtship to her, and she had no objection ; and the
matter was fully and fast resolved upon. Thereupon King
Olaf sent to Queen Sigrid the great gold ring he had taken
from the temple door of I^ade, which was considered a dis-
tinguished ornament. The meeting for concluding the busi-
nesss was appointed to be in spring on the frontier, at the
Gotha river. Now the ring which King Olaf had sent Queen
Sigrid was highly prized by all men; yet the queen's gold-
smiths, two brothers, who took the ring in their hands, and
weighed it, spoke quietly to each other about it, and in a
manner that made the queen call them to her, and ask, "what
they smiled at?" But they would not say a word, and she
commanded them to say what it was they had discovered.
Then they said the ring is false. Upon this she ordered the
ring to be broken in pieces, and it was found to be copper
inside. Then the queen was enraged, and said that Olaf
would deceive her in .more ways than this one.

Early in spring King Olaf went eastwards to Konghelle
to the meeting with Queen Sigrid; and when they met the
business was considered about which the winter before they
had held communication, namely, their marriage; and the
business seemed likely to be Concluded. But when Olaf
insisted that Sigrid should let herself be baptized, she
answered thus : " I must not part from the faith Which I have
held, and my forefathers before me ; and, on the other hand,

SCANDINAVIAN WTERATURS. 279

I shall make no objection to your believing in tbe god that
pleases you best." Then King Olaf was enraged, and
answered in a passion, "Why should I care to have thee, an
old faded woman, and a heathen jade ? ' ' and therewith struck
her in the face with his glove which he held in his hands,
rose up, and they parted. Sigrid said, "This may some day
be thy death." The king set oflf to Viken, the queen to
Sweden.

SAGA OP FRITHIOF THE BOLD.

The author of this famous epic — for such it is, though
given in a series of ballads in varying measures to suit the
events described — is unknown ; it is ascribed to the twelfth
century. The modern Swedish poet Esaias Tegner has trans-
lated it. It opens with the childhood of Frithiof and Inge-
borg on the sea-shore ; he glad to dare the waves, climb the
cliffs, and climb trees, to give her pleasure. Becoming a
great hunter, he one day brings her the carcass of a great
bear as a trophy of his prowess. Seeing that she embroiders
on her tapestry legends of the gods and goddesses, he swears
that no divinity could equal her. The foster-parents of the
lovers frown upon their love, making it known that Frithiof
is only the son of Thorsten Vikingsson, while she is daughter
of King Bele. But she tells how King Bele with Frithiof 's
father by his side calls his sons Hege and Halfden to give
them his last counsels before he dies. The one is an austere
priest, the other a delicately natured youth. With these
comes young Frithiof; and after the king has given his
counsel, Frithiof 's father addresses similar advice to him, for
he means to die with his king. Bele now commends his
daughter Ingeborg to the care of his sons. After the king's
death Helge and Halfden divide the kingdom and Frithiof
settles in his ancestral home, in which are three treasures —
the sword Angurvadel, the gold arm-ring of Vauland, and
the dragon-ship "EUida." In due course Frithiof claims
Ingeborg as his bride, and is refused by the brothers. Old
King Ring also asks her in marriage, and being likewise
refused declares war against Helge and Halfden. One day,

280 LITERATURE OF AI<I< NATIONS.

Pri thief playing chess with his friend Bjorn, Ingeborg's
foster-father enters and says that Helge and Halfden ask his
help against Ring. Frithiof, continuing his game, remarks
that a pawn may save a king, and that the queen must be
reserved. At last he answers that since Helge and Halfden
have wounded his honor he cannot save them. After many
stirring episodes, the story ends with the happiness of the
lovers.

pRlTHIOIf AND InGEBORE.

In this rendering of Tegner's " Frithiof 's Saga," by R. G.
Latham, the name Ingeborg is made Ingebore and Ingeborow for
metrical reasons.

In Hilding's hut and Norway's clime,
Grew two sweet plants in perfect prime ;
And ne'er before were fairer given
To smile on earth or gaze at heaven.
There grew the sturdiest of them,
Like sapling oak with spear-shaped stem ;
Whose crest, as e'en a helmet's glancing,
"Wooed each wild wind to keep it dancing.
And one was like a rose, the day
That Christmas chills have passed away;
And spring, within its burning bosom.
Dreams of its fast unfolding blossom.
When storms shall drtve v/here winds may blow
The oak shall brave both wind and snow ;
But summer's sun and springtide's shower
Shall help to ope that rose's flower.
I say, they grew towards flowers and fruit.
And Frithiof was the sapling shoot ;
And Ingebore the rose that vied it,
The lovely rose that blushed beside it.

Who sees the pair while sunbeams shine,
May deem himself in Freya's shrine;
Where urchin loves be deftly going
With wings of light and tresses flowing.
Who sees them with the pale moonlight
To lead their dancing steps aright,
May deem there trip it, light and airy.
The elfin king and queen of faery.

SCANDINAVIAN I,ITE;rATURE. 28 1

What Frithiof learned the day beforCj
He taught the next to Ingebore ;
And proud was he when Bele's daughter
Had learned the letters Frithiof taught her.
If long and late they sat afloat,
On dark blue sea, in open boat,
It pleased her, as the sails were filling,
To clap her hands and help their swelling.
Oft as he clomb to steal her nests
From tops of trees or mountain crests.
The ravished eagle screaming, clanging.
Bewailed their nestlings' eyry hanging.
When floods were deep and streams ran hoarse,
He bore his tender charge across ; '

Pleased if the currents lashed around him.
And her small arms the tighter bound him.
When springtide came with springtide's host,
He plucked the flowers she loved the most ;
The ears of corn that first turned yellow,
And strawberries as each grew mellow.

But childhood's hours fleet away.
And then there comes in later day
Those looks of fire in youths who sue.
And budding breasts in maids they woo.
Then Frithiof hunted day by day,
And"brought the forest spoils away;
Yet few before had e'er attended,
Such chase unscathed and undefended.
For bears and he in battle brunt
Oft hugged each other front to front ;
The stripling won, and on the morrow
Displayed their spoils to Ingeborow.
Yes ! heart of man and female breast
Suit each to each, like hehn and crest,
When bravest hearts deserve the dearest.
And strongest hands may win the fairest.
In winter's evenings each gave heed
To runic rhymes they wont to read ;
How gods had loved and heroes striven,
And how Valhalla's halls were heaven.
The locks o'er Freya's front of snow
May wave like corn when breezes blow ;

282 IdTBRATURB OF AI<I, NATIONS.

One tress of hers lie valued higher

Than all the vaunted curls of Freyer.

Iduna's rich and regal breast

May beat beneath her silken vest,

And white it was ; yet scarcely vying

With that which heaved at Frithiof 's sighing.

Fridthjof PIvAys Chess.

In this rendering, by George Stephens, the older form Fridthjof is
used for Frithiof.

BjORN and Fridthjof, both contending
O'er their splendid board were bending ;

Now on silver squares thick gather.

Now on gold, the struggling foes.
Then came Hilding, gladly greeted, —
"Welcome ! — the high chair waits, be seated.

Drain thy horn, kind foster-father,

Ivet our doubtful contest close."

"Bele's sons," quoth Hilding, "send me;
Armed with pray'rs, to thee I wend me.

Kvil tidings round them hover.

All the land on thee relies."
Answered Fridthjof: "Bjorn, in danger,
Stands thy king ! beware the stranger ;

Yet a pawn can all recover —

Pawns were made for sacrifice. ' '

" Fridthjof, anger not the kings so ;
Strong, remember, eaglets' wings grow.
Forces Ring full well despises.
Conquer yet, opposed to thine."
" Bjorn, the foe my castle craveth !
But th' attack with ease it braveth ;
Grim and high the fierce wall rises.
Bright the shield-low'r shines within."

" Ing'borg wastes the day in weeping.
Sad, though in Balder's sacred keeping ;
Tempts not war for her release, and
Mourn unheeded her blue een ? ' '

SCANDINAVIAN WTERATURE. 283

" Bjom, thou in vain my queen pursuest,
She from childhood dearest, truest !

She's my game's most darling piece, and
Come what will, I'll save my queen ! "

"What ! not e'en reply conceded?
Fridthjof, go I thus unheeded?

Till that child's play yonder endeth

Must my suit unheard remain ? "
Fridthjof rose, and as he addresses
The old man, kind his hand he presses ;

"Father, nought my firm soul bendeth ;

Thou hast heard, yet liear again :

" Yes ! my words take back unvarnished, —
Deeply they've my honor tarnished ;
No strong ties to them unite me,
Never will I be their man."
" Well, in thine own path, thou goest ;
I blame not the rage thou showest.

All for the best guide Odin rightly."
So old Hilding's answer ran.

Ingebore's Lament.

Ths autumn hath a bitter breath

And unreposing sea ;
Yet I would brave both wind and wave,

So but abroad to be.

I watched his mast that yester e'en

Sank with the sinking sun ;
And blest were they, both sail and ray.

To go where he was gone.

Gently, gently blow, ye winds, '

Over the billows blue ;
Shine burning bright, ye stars of night.

Yet shiiie serenely too.

The spring shall bring the wanderer home

Across the foainy main.
But friend to greet or maid to meet,

Shall sigh for him in vain.

284 lylTBRATURE OK ALI, NATIONS.

The maiden that had welcomed him
Shall be both stark and still,

Or only lie for agony
To visit her at will.

His trusty hawk is left behind,

And welcome he shall be
To take his stand on Ingebore's hand.

And owe his food to me.

Which I will weave in arras work,

Astart from off his glove,
Astart so bold with claws of gold,

And silver wings above.

And Freya in her widowhood

On falcon wings did roam,
And wander forth both east and north.

To turn her Oder home.

Even if thou would lend me wings.

Far sweeter it would be.
To bide my hour when death's dark power

Bestowed its wings on me.

Then watch the wave, thou hunter-bird.
From off my shoulder here ;

Thou long mayst bide, ere breeze or tide.
Bring Frithiof 's vessel near.

When I shall lie beneath the sward,

And he return again ;
Then tell him how I kept my vow,

And how I hoped in vain.

SCANDINAVIAN WTERATURB.

285

Frithiof Visits King Ring.

King Ring was on his throne with, his red and rosy bride,
A drinking of his Christmas ale, his nobles by his side :
I<ike Spring and Autumn pairing the twain did seem to be.
For she was as the kindly Spring, but Autumnlike was he.
An aged man, unknown of all, did step right boldly in,
His mantle wrapped around his face, his clothes were all of skin,
His chin was leaned upon his breast, a staff in hand he bare ;
Yet taller he did seem to be than ere a noble there.
He sat him on a lowly bench, the bench was by the door.
The beggar sits there nowadays and there he sat of yore ;
The courtiers smiled and whispers strange around the chamber

ran.
And scornful fingers pointed at the shabby bear-skin-man.
Then fire flashed from the stranger's eyes, he viewed the nobles

round.
He stretched his hand, he seized a youth, he raised him from the

ground.
He jerked him up and twirled, him round, and rocked him fro

and to,
Then all the others held their tongues, the wisest thing to do.

286 LITERATURE OF AI,I, NATIONS.

' ' Who breaks my peace and quarrels there, so wanton and so free ?

Come hither, aged Stranger, and tell thy tale to me ;

Thy name and wants and whence ye come and whitherwards

ye go,"
The aged king all angrily bespoke the Stranger so.
" Ye ask enough," that old man said, " yet I will not repine.
To tell thee all except my name, 'tis all remains of mine;
In Anger was I born and bred, from land to land I roam.
My last night's lair was Wolfsden, and Broken is my home.
In days of yore I rode upon the dragons of the sea,
Their wings were spread as wings of strength and fast they flew

with' me :
But now the bark, that once was wight, lies cripple on the strand ;
Myself am old and bum for bread the salt by the sea sand.
'Tis all to see thy wisdom that I hie me here so lorn,
Thy courtiers met me scornfully, no mark am I for scorn ;
I gave a fool a twirl or so, yet set the idle thing
All scathless on his legs again ; forgive me that, King Ring."
"Ye speak the sooth," King Ring replied, "Old age must

honored be ;
Come, leave thy lowly cushion there and sit thee next to me ;
But first and foremost cast, I pray, thy strange disguise away;
For ill accordeth guest disguised with princes' festal day. ' '
Down dropped the shaggy bear-skin then, that ill-beseeming

vest ;
And lo ! a noble warrior before them stands confessed ;
Down and o'er his shoulders broad from off his lofty head,
The yellow locks, all comely, in curls of gold were spread.
A mantle o'er his back was hung of velvet blue and rare ;
A silver belt, five fingers broad, with pictured beasts was there.
The artist had embossed it so — and lifelikely they chased.
Each other round and round about the hero's girdled waist.
A massy ring of richest gold was twined around his hand;
A sword was shining on his thigh like lightning-flash at stand ;
All calmly and composedly he viewed the circle o'er,
And seemed as fair as Balder bright and tall as Asa-Thor.
The queen she reddened suddenly, then turned both pale and wan ;
So streamers bright may flaunt with light the snows they fall upon ;
Her heaving bosom beat as fast below her tightened vest,
As water-lilies sink and rise beneath the wild waves' crest.
Now silence in the royal hall ! now straight a call was heard,
The time was come for making vows and Freyer's boar appeared;

SCANDINAVIAN UTERATURB. 287

On shining silver charger borne its knees were bent beneath
With garlands round its breast of brawn and fruits between its

teeth.
So Ring the king upreared his self and shook his locks so hoar,
And vowed a vow and laid his hand on forehead of the boar :
" I swear to bait bold Frithiof, a dreadnought though he be;
So help me, Thor and Odin, and help me, mighty Frey."
With bitter smile upreared his self the stranger from his place;
A flush of hero-anger was mantling on his face ;
He dashed his sword on table that thundered as he spoke.
And each big warrior started up from off his bench of oak.
" Now hear, Sir King, my vow for me as I have heard thine own.
Young Frithiof is my friend of old, the firmest I have known ;
I swear to fight for Frithiof, come thou, come all thy horde ;
So help me my good Noma [fate], and help me that good sword."
King Ring replied, " Thy speech is plain and plain thy speech

should be ;
For Norman kings well love to hear the words that fall so free :
Queen ! take the biggest beaker up and fill it with the best.
And bid him drain it for our sake and bid him be our guest."
The noble lady took the horn, it stood before her hand ;
Horn of a bull King Ring had slain, the wildest in the land ;
It stood on feet of silver bright, was bound with rings of gold.
And cunning hands had graven on it histories of old.
With downcast eye and blushing cheek she took the goblet up.
Her fingers trembled as she raised that shining silver cup ;
Not evening rays so ruddily on lily -blossoms shine.
As on her taper hands did burn those ruby drops of wine.
The lady set the goblet down, the Stranger took it up,
Not two strong men, in these new days, could drain that mighty

cup ;
When lightly and unblenchingly to please the gracious queen,
The valiant hero drank it dry nor took one breath between.
A minstrel sat beside the throne, he sang his best that day.
And told a tale of tenderness, an old Norwegian lay;
Of Hacbart's fates and Signe's love — his voice was sweet and low.
That iron hearts began to melt, and tears were seen to flow.
He changed his hand and turned to sing Valhalla's championry.
How kings of old had fought by land, and how they swam by sea ;
Then gleamed each eye and shone each blade with hero-like

intent.
And fleetly round the drinking-board the mighty beaker went.

288 LITERATURE OF ALL NATIONS.

And now the duties of the night, the drinking-deep began ;
I say that every chieftain there drank dry a Christmas can ;
They went to bed, as best they might, when that carouse was o'er,
But Ring, the king, that aged man did sleep with Ingebore.

The Reconciliation.

When Frithiof returns from his wanderings a new temple to
Balder has been finished. He witnesses the solemn ceremonies of the
dedication, and his spirit is deeply moved. Then the aged priest bids
him welcome, expounds the religion of the Norsemen, and especially
the doctrine of expiation. The priest continues as follows :

" Dost thou not hate? hast thou not taught to fear,
The royal brothers, that thou shouldst revere ?
Only because their taunting chafed thy scorn.
And held a bondsman's son too meanly born
To mix his blood, and sit beside the throne
Of their fair sister, that was Odin's own.
True, thou may'st tell me pride in noble birth
Is all to fortune due, and nought to worth :
But tell me, Frithiof, for thy bosom can,
Does Chance or Merit make the proudest man ?
There is no Chance — what seems as such is given
An unearned bounty at the hands of Heaven ;
And humblest men are they who learn to prize,
More than their own deserts, the gifts of Deities.
Thyself art proud of thy victorious brand.
And proud, to madness, of thine iron hand :
But was it thou, or was it Asa-Thor [the god Thor],
That strung thy oak-tree sinews for the war ?
Is it thine own, that heaven-inspired strength,
Swells in thy bosom, till it bursts at length?
Is it thine own, that where thy eye-balls turn.
There lightning seems to flash, and fire to bum ?
No— higher Nomas [Fates], on thy natal day,
Sung o'er thy cradle some auspicious lay;
This is the merit in thy warlike worth, —
Nor less, nor greater than a king's in birth.
Speak not of pride in over-harsh a tone,
I<est the rude words condemn thee for thine own.

And now that Helge's fallen " " Where and when ? "

Such the short speech that broke from Frithiof then.

SCANDINAVIAN WT^eRATTJRE. - 289

"Vexing with war, he sallifed out, to chase
The mountain-dwellers of the lyapland race.
Built on a cliff there stood, beside the way,
A temple, dedicate to Yumala ; *
Tottering itself, over the archway stood
A massy form of what they deemed a god :
None had approached it ; for a legend ran
From ancient sire to son, from man to man.
Amongst his worshippers, that who first lay
His hand upon it should see Yumala.
When Helge heard he clomb the winding stair,
In scorn of him who sat enshrined there ;
The door was bolten to — he seized to shake
The rusted hinges, stern enough to break ;
The image, that had threatened to descend,
Fell on his scalp ; it crushed the Asa's friend ;
So he saw Yumala — and this was Helge' s end.
Now Halfdan sits alone in Bele's chair;
Proffer thy hand, and leave thy hatred there.
Else is the God but mocked by this fair fane.
And I, his priest, invoked him here in vain."

Just as the priest had ended, Halfdan trod
Across the copper threshold of the God :
Silent, uncertain how to speak, he stood
Beside the door, and, at his distance, viewed,
With eye askant, and half-uplifted head,
The foe he had not yet unlearned to dread.
Familiar with being feared, the chief unbraced
The helmet-hater, girded on his waist ;
I^eaned his broad buckler on the altar's stone,
And wore for arms his native strength alone.
" In strife like ours, where ancient feuds should cease.
He wins the palm who sues the first for peace."
Then first the blood returned to Halfdan's cheek;
Then first his lips, reluctant, strove to speak :
Swift as a merlin from the falconer's fist,
Slipped the steel gauntlet, beaming, from his wrist ;
Firm as a rock, they clasped, in friendship's bands.
Each other's long alienated hands. ^

* The chief deity of the I<apps.
IV— 19

290 WTERATURB OF AI,I, NATIONS.

Peace to thee, Frithiof ! Balder takes the ban
From off the shoulders of the exiled man.
Joy to thee, weary wanderer ! thou hast felt
That gods forgive and hearts of iron melt —
Whose is the maiden train that enters now ?
Who is yon lady of the regal brow ?
Bright as the moon, the empress of the sky.
While still attendant stars stand shining by ;
I<ovely and young, and looking like a bride,
Before the rest she moves to Halfdan's side,
And if her eye be wet, her cheek be pale,
But half conceals them with her silver veil.
Is it because she loves her brother best,
That so she sinks, in silence, on his breast ?
No, Frithiof, no ! There is a voice within.
Stronger than that of brotherhood or kin.
So sink the maids that, not unhoped for, meet
Friends of their childhood whom they fear to greet :
So proud and patient bosoms weakest prove
Before the spirits that alone they love.
I say, that Frithiof took her hand, before
The aoproving brother, and the priest did pour
Blessings on Frithiof and Ingebore.

the; TUDOR DYNASTY.
Part I. ,

Printing, introduced
into England by William
Caxton in 1474, was firmly
established before the beginning df the next century. The
ancient classics, Greek as well as Latin, were brought before
an ever-widening circle of students, and soon, by means of
translations, were made familiar to a still larger multitude of
readers. By this accession of knowledge the intellect of
the people was mightily aroused ; fresh interest was shown
in problems of all kinds, religious, philosophical and social.
Theories of government and education were discussed in
learned treatises, and made the themes of romance. The
frenzy for learning which arose in Italy in the fifteenth cen-
tury reached England at its close. The ill-fated Sir Thomas
More, the friend of Erasmus, was the ablest representative
of English scholarship. While he was active in ecclesiastical
and political affairs, he showed remarkable freedom of mind
in his " Utopia, ' ' a picture of an ideal commonwealth, pub-
lished in Ivatin in i S 16, but soon translated into English. The
barbarous execution of this learned chancellor checked the
free movement of literature in the universities. The question
of the papal supremacy, and afterwards controversies about the
whole system of Christian faith occupied the attention of the
learned. William Tyndale, having avowed his sympathy
with the ' ' new learning,' ' as the teaching of Luther was called,
was obliged to go to the Continent to carry out his purpose
of printing his translation of the New Testament directly
from the Greek. It was published in 1526, and was followed
by translations of parts of the Old Testament, and treatises in

which he supported Luther's views against the arguments of

291

292 LITERATURB OF ALL NATIONS.

Sir Thomas More. Tyndale's translation, being the basis of
the so-called Authorized Version of the Bible, has had im-
mense influence on the English language.

Throughout the first half of the sixteenth century there
were numerous translations from Greek and Latin authors,
from the great Italian poets, and from French and German
writings of various kinds. Sir Thomas Wyatt and the young
Earl of Surrey visited Italy and imbibed its poetic spirit.
They introduced the sonnet into English in translations and
imitations of Petrarch. Surrey incidentally rendered more
important service by giving a translation of part of the
iBneid in blank verse, which soon became the recognized
metre for serious dramatic and epic poetry. Among the
translators who supplied material for cultivating the minds of
readers and stimulating the invention of authors, the most
noted were Sir Thomas North who rendered, with idiomatic
spirit, "Plutarch's Lives of Illustrious Greeks and Romans;"
Sir John Harrington, who versified Ariosto's "Orlando
Eurioso ; " Fairfax, who performed similar service for Tasso's
"Jerusalem Delivered." Translated works of less merit and
renown supplied material for the enriching labor of Shake-
speare and his fellow-dramatists.

The greatest of the poets that took part in this work of
translation was Edmund Spenser, who yet is more distin-
guished for his original additions to English literature. Choos-
ing to employ an archaic style, and adhering to the mediaeval
allegory, which was already obsolete, he has caused his name
to be linked with that of Chaucer, as if he belonged to an
earlier period. His skill is rather in description, in the paint-
ing of rural scenes, than in the presentation of characters.
Yet he is so^ exuberant in fancy, and so successful in the
awaking of the finer feelings of the soul, that he has ever
been a favorite poet with poets. To him the English language
owes the elaborate Spenserian stanza of nine lines. Though
his grand poetic powers were dedicated to the glorification of
the Virgin Queen, he received but little substantial reward.

The greater glory of the Elizabethan period belongs to
the dramatists who then leaped into sudden fame. The medi-
aeval miracle-plays which had been intended by the clergy

ENGLISH WTERA.'tUEE. 293

to instruct the common people in Scripture history, and to
impress doctrine by apt examples, soon passed into the hands
of the religious orders, and afterwards into the direction of
the trade-guilds, which had grown to power in the large
towns. Though still given under sanction of the Church,
they were rendered more acceptable to the vulgar taste of the
town rabble by scenes of common life interjected among the
more exact renderings of the Biblical narrative. Instead of
these scriptural "Mysteries," allegorical "Moralities,"
founded on the mediaeval poerds of that class, were oflFered to
the more fastidious courts and pedantic colleges. For the
latter there were also occasional adaptations of Plautus and
Terence, which served as models when the dramatic genius
of England was aroused to its marvellous activity.

The homely scenes which had served to enliven the more
solemn parts of the Mysteries and Moralities were the germ of
the later comedies. The earliest English comedy was "Ralph
Roister Bolster," written by Nicholas Udall, head-master of
Eton College. Its date is uncertain, but it was quoted in
1551. There were thirteen dramatis personse, nine male and
four female, and the principal ones are strongly discriminated.

"Gammer Gurton's Needle," an inferior piece, formerly
claimed the priority; it was printed in iS/S, and is said to
have been written by John Still, afterwards a bishop. Another
bishop, John Bale, wrote a vigorous historical drama called
"Kynge Johan." Among the characters appear various
allegorical personages, such as Civil Order, Treason, Nobility,
Imperial Majesty, attesting the powerful hold which allegory
still preserved on the mind of the learned. The earliest
tragedy was "Ferrex and Porrex" or "Gojrbuduc," which
was played before Queen Elizabeth in 1 561. It was com-
posed by Thomas Sackville, who also contributed to " The
Mirror for Magistrates," and Thomas Norton, who was a
leader of the Puritans. Though a drama in form, it is wholly
undramatic in spirit, yet not altogether devoid of poetry.
Each act was preceded by a "dumb show," setting forth the
part of the story that was to follow. A chorus was also em-
ployed as in some plays of Shakespeare.

None of the dramas which appeared before 1580 has

394 WTRRATURB OF ALL NATIONS.

taken a sure place in English literature, but within the decade
succeeding a crowd of dramatists arose whose works are
recognized as part of the inheritance of English-speaking
people. The greatest of these was Christopher Marlowe,
who, though often turgid and bombastic, displayed wonderful
power in depicting scenes of terror and pathos. Robert
Greene, who died in 1592, was a versatile and unequal writer,
whose comedies are but rude farces. Other writers of this
period are John Ivyly, noted as the author of the fantastic
"Euphues," Thomas Kyd, author of the "Spanish Tragedy,"
and Thomas Lodge, who wrote in 1590 a prose tale " Rosa-
lynde," which furnished the basis of Shakespeare's "As You
Ivike It." All of these writers were college-bred men and
classical scholars.

They were all to be surpassed and even superseded on
their own chosen ground by a youth from Stratford-on-Avon,
who starting in a humble position at a London theatre, soon
became actor, author, manager, and proprietor, and then at
the age of forty-eight having won worldly fame and fortune,
retired to his native town to enjoy his wealth in peace. The
fame of this modest toiler in the world of letters has steadily
grown since his death until now the age in which he lived is
recognized by the name of the player Shakespeare as by that
of his sovereign Elizabeth. Shakespeare died in 1616 ; his
career as a writer extended over a quarter of a century. His
genius and works are treated in a special article. The con-
temporary dramatists, great as are their merits as poets and
forcible writers, have seldom presented such consistent, well-
drawn characters, as to inspire us with a belief in the exist-
ence of their personages, and to rouse an actual interest in
analyzing their thoughts and actions. Their drawing is dis-
torted and often incomplete, the movement is irregular and
confused, so that the attention is wearied before the horrors
of the catastrophe are reached. But the characters of Shakes-
peare's dramas are not only the subject of absorbing interest
by the multitude of his readers, but of the closest investiga-
tion by students of the human mind. In the delineation of
human character, and of preter-human beings, he stands
supreme.

ENGLISH WTERATURS. 295

SIR THOMAS MORE.

Whether the ill-fated Lord Chancellor of Henry VHI. is
regarded as scholar, lawyef, statesman,, philosopher, religious
leader or versatile writer, the purity of his character, no-
bility of his patriotism, and his intellectual greatness are
conspicuously revealed. To attempt a detailed account of
his career is outside the present purpose, which permits but
a summary of salient facts without analysis of their causes.
The times were fraught with tremendous issues, religious,
political, and, if minor, still fateful, personal influences. The
revival in learning had ueared its climax when Thomas More
gave this movement a new impetus by the force of his ele-
vated nature and the brilliancy of his gifts.

Born in 1478, More's capabilities were early recognized.
He won distinction at Oxford, and later, when about twenty-
three, in the practice of law, his income rising so high that
by the time he was little over thirty it brought him a
princely income. His profoundly religious temperament ex-
pressed itself in the practice of asceticism, even in his great
prosperity and necessarily luxurious surroundings. He gave
lectures on law and on the theological writings of St. Augus-
tine, and became a member of Parliament in 1 504. Though
a mere stripling in statecraft, he boldly opposed and defeated
the customary grant of a large subsidy to King Henry VII.
This step brought about the imprisonment of More's father
in the Tower on a spiteful accusation, and his own tacticail
withdrawal from public life, until the accession of Henry VIII.
brought him again to the front. In his retirement he translated
from the Latin of an unknown author, the "Historic of the
pittieful Life and unfortunate Death of King Edward V. arid
the Duke of York, his Brother."

With the innate piety which sweetened his life and aims
there was a strong vein of intellectual independence which
his enemies magnified into hostile skepticism. After his
promotion and knighthood he was employed by the crown in
various offices, to win him over to the king's side. His
undeviating adherence to the popular cause led to efforts to

295 WTSRATURE OF AXX, NATIONS.

promote him where he would be out of the way. King
Henry made it his object to secure More's friendship by
every courtly art. By 1529 he was made Lord Chancellor
in place of the fallen Wolsey. His deep-rooted religious
conservatism had made it easy for More to please the Church
and king by lending his pen to oppose the innovations,
which were to him radically heretical. Hence his long
list of polemical writings against Tyndale and Luther and
their "pestilential sect." His view of duty was to eflfect
reform of spiritual life within the Church, while at all hazards
maintaining its unity. He desired reform without revolu-
tion. In carrying out this conception More undoubtedly
did injustice to the Protestant cause, and his actual violence
to its upholders is the one indelible blot on an otherwise
stainless career. Though he did not actually condemn any
heretic to death, he openly justified the stake and allowed his
bigotry to culminate in acts of persecution. All this is in
strange contradiction to the large toleration he had advocated
in his "Utopia" for every form of opinion. In the matter
of the king's resolve to divorce Catharine, More, as Lord
Chancellor, tried to face both ways, wishing to please Henry
as far as was compatible with his sympathy for the queen.
Rather than actively oppose the marriage with Anne Boleyn
he resigned his office, a weakness which availed him little
against Henry's vengeful disposition. Before a year of abso-
lute poverty had passed, the king had found excuse for casting
his insufficiently pliant chancellor into the Tower, where,
after another year's confinement without privilege of pen
and ink, he was beheaded " for treason," on the 7th of July

1535-

The most famous of his works is the ' ' Utopia, or The
Happy Republic," written in Latin and published in 1516.
In this philosophico-whimsical romance More ventilates very
advanced opinions upon the great problems he foresaw would
demand solution, extending the intellectual movement beyond
literary and theological learning into the realm of practical
politics. Under the guise of a sailor' s description of an imagin-
ary island, "Nowhere," he gives a picture of ideal govern-
ment under which laws, customs, and social order have

ENGLISH WTBRATURE. 297

attained a perfection hitherto unknown. In not a few of his
fanciful flights the genius of More penetrate(^ not problems
only, but some of the solutions, which have been exercising
the wits of legislators in the nineteenth century. Religious
tolerance, sanitation, labor laws, economics, with other ques-
tions of high import, find philosophic treatment in this work,
suggested doubtless by the "Republic" of Plato, and imi-
tated in a satirical and burlesque way by Swift In ' ' Gulli-
ver's Travels." A recent critic of marked ability, Ten
Brink, characterizes "Utopia" as "without doubt the most
brilliant achievement which English humanism of that period
has to show. . . . What makes it, above all, valuable in the
estimation of posterity, is the expression of More's unbiased
and courageous opinions on political and religious subjects,
the peculiar combination of deeply moral and religious
seriousness, and thoroughly conservative ideas, with a fear-
less advance to higher culture. In this respect the work
appears to us the matured product of that intellectual move-
ment in which Colet, Erasmus, and with them More, stood as
the central figures." The original Latin was speedily trans-
lated into English by Ralph Robinson. Our extract is from
the later translation by Bishop Gilbert Burnet.

Gold in Utopia.

It is certain that all things appear so far incredible to us
as they difier from our own customs ; but one who can judge
aright will not wonder to find that since their other constitu-
tions differ so much from ours, their value of gold and silver
should be measured, not by our standard, but by one that is
very different from it ; for since they have no use of money
among themselves, but keep it for an accident, that, though
it may possibly fall out, may have great intervals, they value
it no farther than it deserves or may be useful to them. So
that it is plain that they must prefer iron either to gold or silver;
for men can no more live without iron than without fire or
water, but nature has marked out no use for the other metals
with which we may not very well dispense. The folly of
man has enhanced the value of gold and silver because of

298 LITERATURE OP ALL NATIONS.

their scarcity, whereas, on the contrary, they reason that nature,
as an indulgent parent, has given us all the best things very
freely and in great abundance, such as water and earth, but
has laid up and hid from us the things that are vain and
useless.

If those metals were laid up in any tower among them, it
would give jealousy of the prince and senate, according to
that foolish mistrust into which the rabble is apt to fall, as if
they intended to cheat the people and make advantages to
themselves by it ; or if they should work it into vessels or any
sort of plate they fear that the people might grow too fond
of it, and so be unwilling to let the plate be run down if a
war made it necessary to pay their soldiers with it ; therefore
to prevent all these inconveniences they have fallen upon an
expedient which, as it agrees with their other policy, so is
very different from ours, and will scarce gain belief among
us who value gold so much and lay it up so carefully : for
whereas they eat and drink out of vessels of earth or glass,
that though they look very pretty yet are of very slight mate-
rials, they make their chamber-pots of gold and silver, and that
not only in their public halls, but in their private houses. Of
the same metals they likewise make chains and fetters for
their slaves, and as a badge of infamy they hang an earring
of gold to some and make others wear a chain or a coronet of
gold ; and thus they take care, by all manner of ways, that
gold and silver may be of no esteem among them, and from
hence it is that whereas other nations part with their gold
and their silver as unwillingly as if one tore out their bowels,
those of Utopia would look on their giving in all their gold
or silver, when there were any use for it, but as the parting
with a trifle, or as we would estimate the loss of a penny. They
find pearls on their coast, and diamonds and carbuncles on
their rocks ; they do not look after them, but if they find
them by chance they polish them and with them they adorn
their children who are delighted with them and glory in them
during their childhood, but when they grow to years and see
that none but children use such baubles, they, of their own
accord, without being bid by their parents, lay them aside,
and would be as much ashamed to use them afterwards as

ENGLISH UTERATURS. 299

children among us when they come to years are of their nuts,
puppets and other toys.

I never saw a clearer instance of the different impressions
that different customs make on people, than I observed in
the ambassadors of the Anemolians who came to Amaurot
when I was there. And because they came to treat of affairs
of great consequence the deputies from several towns had
met to wait for their coming. The ambassadors of the nations
that lie near Utopia, knowing their customs, and that fine
clothes are of no esteem among them, that silk is despised and
gold is a badge of infamy, used to come very modestly clothed ;
but the Anemolians that lay more remote and so had little
commerce with them, when they understood that they were
coarsely clothed and all in the same manner, they took it for
granted that they had none of those fine things among them
of which they made no use, and they, being a vain-glorious
rather than a wise people, resolved to set themselves out with
so much pomp that they should look like gods, and so strike
the eyes of the poor Utopians with their splendor. Thus three
ambassadors made their entry with a hundred attendants
that were all clad in garments of different colors, and the
greater part in silk ; the ambassadors themselves, who were
of the nobility of their country, were in cloth of gold, and
adorned with massy chains, earrings and rings of gold, their
caps were covered with bracelets set full of pearls and other
gems ; in a word they were set out with all those things that
amqng the Utopians were either the badges of slavery, the
marks of infamy or children' s rattles. It was not unpleasant to
see on the one side how they looked big when they compared
their rich habits with the plain clothes of the Utopians, who
were come out in great numbers to see them make their
entry. And on the other side to observe how much they
were mistaken in the impression which they hoped this pomp
would have made on them ; it appeared so ridiculous a show
to all that had never stirred out of their country and so had
not seen the customs of other nations, that though they paid
some reverence to those that were the most meanly clad, as if
they had been the ambassadors, yet when they saw the ambas-
sadors themselves so full of gold chains, they looked upon

300 WTERATURE OP AXX, NATIONS.

them as slaves and made them no reverence at all. You might
have seen their children, who were grown up to that bigness
that they had thrown away their jewels, call to their mothers
and push them gently, and cry out, "See that great fool that
wears pearls and gems as if he were yet a child ! " And their
mothers answered them in good earnest, ' * Hold your peace ;
this is, I believe, one of the ambassadors' fools." Others cen-
sured the fashion of their chains, and observed that they were
of no use, for they were too slight to bind their slaves, who
could easily break them, and they saw them hang so loose
about them that they reckoned they could easily throw them
away and so get from them.

But after the ambassadors had stay6d a day among them,
and saw so vast a quantity of gold in their houses, which was
as much despised by them as it was esteemed in other nations,
and that there was more gold and silver in the chains and
fetters of one slave than all their ornaments amounted to,
their plumes fell, and they were ashamed of all that glory for
which they had formerly valued themselves, and so laid it
aside ; to which they were the more determined when upon
their engaging in some free discourse with the Utopians, they
discovered their sense of such things and their other customs.
The Utopians wonder how any man should be so much taken
with the glaring, doubtful lustre of a jewel or stone when he
can look up to a star or to the sun himself; or how any should
value himself because his cloth is made of a finer thread, for how
fine soever that thread may be, it was once no better than the
fleece of a sheep, and that sheep was a sheep still for all its wear-
ing it. They wonder much to hear that gold, which in itself is
so useless a thing, should be everywhere so much esteemed that
even man for whom it was made and by whom it has its value,
should yet be thought of less value than'it is ; so that a man
of lead, who has no more sense than a log of wood, and is as
bad as he is foolish, should have many wise and good men
serving him only because he has a great heap of that metal ; and
if it should so happen that by some accident or trick of law,
which does sometimes produce as great changes as chance
itself, all this wealth should pass from the master to the mean-
est varlet of his whole family, he himself would very soon

BNGWSH LITBRATURS. 301

become one of lis servants, as if lie were a thing that be-
longed to his wealth and so were bound to follow its fortune.
But they do much more admire and detest their folly, who,
when they see a rich man, though they neither owe him any
thing nor are in any sort obnoxious to him, yet merely because
he is rich they give him little less than divine honors, even
though they know him to be so covetous and base-minded
that, notwithstanding all his wealth, he will not part with
one farthing of it to them as long as he lives.

WYATT AND SURR^JY.

The glories of Elizabethan literature had their beginning
in the intellectual convulsions in the reign of Henry VIII. ,
memorable as the awakening of England to the new life of
the revival in literature and art, and the religious revolution.
They were stirring times for men of action as well as men of
thought. Even in the peaceful field of poetry the conquest of
the old forms by the new was achieved by leaders versed in
other and sterner arts than the literary, and it may seem
strange that the redemption of English poetry from its lost
and fallen state, into the high inheritance which it has not
yet entirely forfeited, should have been wrought by Wyatt,
soldier, diplomatist, and sometime prisoner in the Tower ;
and by Surrey, the fighting roysterer, who at thirty-one lost
his head for alleged treason.

Sir Thomas Wyatt, bom in 1503, died of a cold in 1542 ;
the Earl of Surrey, born in 15 16, was beheaded in 1547.
While on an -embassy, Wyatt came in contact with "the
sweet and stately measure and style of the Italian poesy,"
writes a contemporary, who declares of both, ' ' they greatly
polished our rude and homely manner of vulgar poesy from
what it had been before, and for that cause may justly be
said to be the first reformers of our English metre and
style." This verdict stands, with the important addendum
of later judgment which discriminates between rhythmical
construction and poetical spirit. This latter only came in
with the larger freedom of fancy and style in the spacious
days of Elizabeth. Except as indicating the track of the

302 LITERATURE OF AI,I, NATIONS.

new departure there is little value in the stiffly artificial
poems of the doleful Wyatt and the more artistic work of
Surrey, the brighter-witted votary of Eros. They did not
wholly renounce the simpler style of Chaucer. They kept up
the wholesome ballad rhyme and set the common people sing-
ing again. Eager to meet every taste, both these men put the
Psalms of David into popular verse. But their main output
was courtly poesy, burnished within and without, to add the
glitter of the fashionable foreign movement in literature to
the native product, now in transformation. Wyatt lacks the
lighter graces of Surrey, in the sonnet (which they first intro-
duced), and in the lyrics by which they are best remembered.
Their so-called satires owe what small merits they have to
the originals of which they are imitations. Surrey, however,
exceedingly enriched his native tongue by his invention of
blank verse, first employed in his translation of two books of
the -ffineid.

To His Mistress.

The following' is among the best examples of the usually serious
style of Wyatt.

Forget not yet the tried intent
Of such a truth as I have meant ;
My great travail so gladly spent,
Forget not yet !

Forget not yet when first began
The weary life, ye know since whan,
The suit, the service, none tell can ;
Forget not yet !

Forget not yet the great assays,
The cruel wrong, the scornful ways,
The painful patience in delays,
Forget not yet !

Forget not ! O forget not this.
How long ago hath been, and is
The mind that never meant amiss,
Forget not yet !

ENGWSH UTERATURB. 303

Forget not then thine own approved,
The which so long hath thee so loved,
Whose steadfast faith yet never moved,
Forget not this !

The Address to His IvUTk.

My lute, awake ! perform the last
Labor that thou and I shall waste.

And end that I have now begun ;
For when this song is sung and past,

My lute, be still, for I have done.

As to be heard where ear is none.
As lead to grave in marble stone,

My song may pierce her heart as soon :
Should we then sing, or sigh, or moan ?

No, no, my lute ! for I have done.

The rock doth not so cruelly

Repulse the wave continually.
As she may suit and affection ;

So that I am past remedy-
Whereby my lute and I have done.

Proud of the spoil that thou hast got,
Of simple hearts, through I<ove's shot,

By whom unkind thou hast them won ;
Think not he hath his bow forgot,

Although my lute and I have done.

Vengeance may fall on thy disdain.
That mak'st but game of earnest pain :

Trow not alone under the sun
Unquit to cause thy lover's plain.

Although my lute and I have done.

May chance thee lie wither' d and old
The winter nights that are so cold.

Plaining in vain unto the moon :
Thy wishes then dare not be told :

Care then who list ! for I have done.

304 WTERATURB OF AXX, NATIONS.

And then may chance thee to repent
The time that thou hast lost and spent,

To cause thy lover's sigh and swoon :
Then shalt thou know beauty but lent,

And wish and want as I have done.

Now cease, my lute ! this is the last
Labor that thou and I shalt waste,

And ended is that I begun ;
Now is this song both sung and past :

My lute ! be still, for I have done.

A Complaint by Night of thk Lover not Beloved.

The following sonnet by Surrey is interesting as one of the earliest
poems in that form in English. It is also the most poetical of all
written by these men.

Alas ! so all things now do hold their peace !

Heaven and earth disturbed in no thing :
The beasts, the air, the birds their song do cease :

The nightes car the stars about doth bring.
Calm is the sea ; the waves work less and less :

So am not I, whom love, alas ! doth wring,
Bringing before my face the great increase

Of my desires, whereat I weep and sing.
In joy and woe, as in a doubtful ease.

For my sweet thoughts sometime do pleasure bring ;
But by and by, the cause of my disease

Gives me a pang that inwardly doth sting.
When that I think what grief it is again
To live and lack the thing should rid my pain.

Love's Vassal.

This is Surrey's translation of one of Petrarch's sonnets.

Love that liveth and reigneth in my thought,
That built his seat within my captive breast ;

Clad in the arms wherein with me he fought ;
Oft in my face he doth his banner rest.

She, that me taught to love and suffer pain,
My doubtful hope, and eke my hot desire.

ENGLISH WTERATURB. 305

With shamefac'd cloak to shadow and restrain,
Her smiUng grace converteth straight to ire.

And coward lyove then to the heart apace

Taketh his flight, whereas he lurks, and plains

His purpose lost, and dare not show his face.
For my I^ord's guilt thus faultless bide I pains.

Yet from my I<ord shall not my foot remove :

Sweet is his death that takes his end by Love.

ROGER ASCHAM.

On:^ of the first prose books of worth written in English
was a quaint and scholarly treatise on archery, entitled "Tox-
ophilus ; the Schole or Partitiones of Shooting." Its author
thus defends his use of the vulgar tongue instead of Latin :
"If any man would blame me for writing in the English
tongue, this answer I may make him ; that what the best of
the realm think it honest for them to use, I, one of the mean-
est sort, ought not to suppose it vile for me to write. . . , He
that would write well in any tongue must follow this counsel
of Aristotle, to speak as the common people do, to think as
the wise men do. . . . Many English writers have not done
this, but by using strange words from foreign languages they
do make all things dark and hard." As the setter of the
fashion of using the mother tongue, simplifying and purify-
ing it, in the realm of letters Ascham's books have a distinc-
tion independently of their intrinsic merit.

Of humble birth, Roger Ascham was educated by his
father's employer, entering Cambridge in 1530, in his fifteenth
year, taking his M.A. degree seven years later. He had parti-
cular aptitude for Greek learning and was appointed Univer-
sity lecturer. His proficiency in Latin, which he wrote with
elegance of style and pennianship, led to his being employed
to write the public correspondence of the university. Ascham
was versatile and progressive. His "Toxophilus" is no more
a dry treatise upon archery than "The Compleat Angler" is
upon fishing ; both works seek to beguile the stay-at-home
scholar from his books into the open fields, from solitary study
into the health-giving exercise of the manly sport of the day,
when the bow and arrow were still in use as military weapons.
IV — 20 ^

3o6 WTBRATURB Of' AI,I, NATIONS.

Ascham was tutor from 1548 until 1550 to the Princess, after-
wards Queen Elizabeth. After a tour abroad, still holding
his university offices, Ascham was appointed I^atin secretary
to Queen Mary, which he retained under Elizabeth, who con-
tinued her studies under his daily supervision. At the re-
quest of the queen's advisers Ascham wrote "The Schole-
master ; or plaine and perfite W^y of teaching Children to
understande, write and speake the Latin Tong-, but specially
purposed for the private bringing up of Youth in Jentlemen
and Noblemen's Houses, and commodious also for all such as
have forgot the Latin Tonge, and would, by themselves, with-
out a Scholemaster, in short Tyme, and with small Paines,
recover a sufficient Habilitie to understand, write and speake
Latin." This work was written during the last seven years
of his life, which ended in December, 1568 ; it was published
in 1570, and is remarkable for the soundness and ingenuity of
the principles he advocated in line with modern views. Be-
sides these two works, whose wit, wisdom and easy English
diction make them excellent reading to this day, Ascham
published an account of his tour through Italy and Germany.

Fair Shooting.

I CAN teach you to shoot fair, even as Socrates taught a
man once to know God. For when he asked him what was
God? "Nay," saith he, " I can tell you better what God is
not, as God is not ill, God is unspeakable, unsearchable, and so
forth. Even likewise can I say of fair shooting, it hath not
this discommodity with it nor that discommodity, and at last
a man may so shift all the discommodities from shooting that
there shall be left nothing behind but fair shooting. And to
do this the better you must remember how that I told you
when I described generally the whole nature of shooting, that
fair shooting came of these things of standing, nocking, draw-
ing, holding and loosing ; the which I will go over as shortly
as I can, describing the discommodities that men commonly
use in all parts of their bodies, that, you if you fault in any such,
may know it, and go about to amend it. Faults in archers do
exceed the number of archers, which come with use of shoot-

ENGUSH tiTaRA^tma. 3^7

mg without teacWng. Use and custom separated from know-
ledge and learning, doth, not only hurt shooting, but the most
weighty things in the world beside. And, therefore, I marvel
much at those people which be the maintainers of uses
without knowledge, having no other word in their mouth
but this, "use, use, custom, custom." Such men, more
willful than wise, beside other discommodities, take all place
and occasion from all amendment. And this I speak gene-
rally of use and custom.

Two Wings Better than One.

I HAVE been a looker-on in the cockpit of learning these
many years ; and one cock only have I known, which, with
one wing, even at this day, doth pass all other, in mine
opinion, that ever I saw in Bngland though they had two
wings. Yet nevertheless, to fly well with one wing, to run
fast with one leg, are masteries, more to be marvelled at than
sure examples, safely to be followed. A bishop that now
liveth, a good man, whose judgment in religion I better like
than his opinion in perfectness in other learning, said once
unto me : "We have no need now of the Greek tongue, when
all things be translated into Latin.'* But the good man
understood not, that even the best translation is for mere
necessity but an evil imped wing to fly withal, or a heavy
stump leg of wood to g© withal. Such, the higher they fly,
the sooner they falter and fail ; the faster they run, the ofter
they stumble and sorer the fall. Such as will needs so fly,
may fly at a pye, and catch a daw ; and such runners shove
and shoulder to stand foremost, yet in the end they come
behind others, and deserve but the hopshackles, if the masters
of the game be right judgers.

SIR PHIUP SIDNEY.

Tradition and the evidence of his life and pen unite in
applying to Sir Philip Sidney the superlative praises poetry
has ever bestowed on knightly heroes. From his birth in
1554 he was reared in the gentle life of the cultured rich, and

3o8 LITERATURE OF ALL NATIONS.

at eighteen began his three years' round of travel on the
Continent and visited the learned of France and Italy. As
the nephew of I/Ord Leicester he soon came under the keen
eye of Elizabeth. As if to justify his Queen's honest avowal
that she esteemed him "as one of the jewels of my crown,"
Sir Philip delighted her court by writing the masque, "The
Lady of the May," which was played at Lord Leicester's his-
toric reception of Elizabeth at Kenilworth. Sidney was one
of the victorious knights in the tournament. In his twenty-
third year he was made ambassador, with a gorgeous retinue,
to carry the Queen's congratulations to the new emperor of
Germany, Rudolph II. The Queen dissuaded him from be-
coming a candidate for the crown of Poland. From 1578 until
his marriage in 1583 he lived the private life of a country
gentleman, with occasional visits to the court, pursuing his
literary work, which was with him a passion. He incurred
the Queen's disfavor by writing her a letter of protest against
her supposed inclination to marry the Duke of Anjou. In
1585 Sidney went with Leicester's expedition to the Nether-
lands. Two horses were shot under him at the battle of Zut-
phen. While mounting the third he received a fatal shot,
through his characteristically romantic, but foolish, act of
throwing away his leg-armor because he saw his commander
wore none. The tradition of his passing the cup of water,
untouched by his own parched lips, to a wounded soldier, is
in perfect keeping with the former strictly authentic fact.

That Sir Philip Sidney should have bent his romantic
genius to the versification of the Psalms is less singular than
the fact that none of his own writings were published during
his lifetime. And there is this to be remembered of one of
those modest writings, it was the first piece of purely literary
criticism and the first "Defence of Poetrie" in the language.
Chaucer and Lydgate had been put in type by Caxton, and
the old ballads had some vogue, though the fourteenth century
English was antiquated. The new style ushered in by Wyatt
and Surrey had not yet taken root, and the day of Spenser and
Shakespeare was to come. During his retirement in his Kent-
ish home Sidney wrote a long artificial romance after the Ital-
ian fashion, "The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia," Of its

ENGLISH LITERATURE. 309

florid class, and considering the taste of the time, this richly
and wearisomely elaborated pastoral story merited its popu-
larity during a hundred years. Some charming lyrics are
sprinkled among the impossible adventures, but Sidney's
poetic gift must be judged by his string of over a century of
sonnets, making literary love to his Penelope, daughter of the
Earl of Essex, who had been his sweetheart in his boyhood.
These sonnets, entitled "Astrophel and Stella," are the first
collected series of poems in this Italian form, and exhibit
great poetic feeling despite their inevitable artificiality. . The
"Defence," or, as Sidney first called it, "Apologie for Poe-
trie" at once became and will long remain a classic and a
treasury of strong Elizabethan English, comparable in dignity
of style and theme with Milton's "Areopagitica."

A Stag Hunt.

(From the " Arcadia.")

They came to the side of the wood, where the hounds
were in couples, staying their coming, but with a whining
accent craving liberty ; many of them in color and marks so
resembling, that it showed they were of one kind. The
huntsmen handsomely attired in their green liveries, as
though they were children of summer, with staves in their
hands to beat the guiltless earth, when the hounds were at a
fault ; and with horns about their necks, to sound an alarm
upon a silly fugitive : the hounds were straight uncoupled,
and ere long the stag thought it better to trust to the nimble-
ness of his feet than to the slender fortification of his lodg^
ing ; but even his feet betrayed him ; for, howsoever they
went, they themselves uttered themselves to the scent of
their enemies, who, one taking it of another, and sometimes
believing the wind's advertisements, sometimes the view of
— their faithful counsellors — the huntsmen, with open mouths,
then denounced war, when the war was already begun.
Their cry being composed of so well-sorted mouths that any
man would perceive therein some kind of proportion, but
the skillful woodmen did find a music. Then delight and
variety of opinion drew the horsemen sundry ways, yet

3IO LITERATURE OF AI,I, NATIONS.

cheering tlieir hounds with voice and horn, kept still as it
were together. The wood seemed to conspire with them
against his own citizens, dispersing their noise through all his
quarters ; and eveti the nymph Echo left to bewail the loss
of Narcissus, and became a hunter. But the stag was in the
end so hotly pursued, that, leaving his flight, he was driven
to make courage of despair ; and so turning his head, made
the hounds, with change of speech, to testify that he was at
a bay : as if from hot pursuit of their enemy, they were sud-
denly come to a parley.

An Arcadian I,ove I/ETTER.

Most blessed paper, which shall kiss that hand whereto all
blessedness is in nature a servant, do not disdain to carry
with thee the woful words of a miser [wretch] now despairing;
neither be afraid to appear before her bearing the base title
of the sender, for no sooner shall that divine hand touch thee
but that thy baseness shall be turned to most high preferment.
Therefore mourn boldly, my ink, foi; while she looks upon
you yout blackness will shine ; cry out boldly, my lamenta-
tion, for while she reads you your cries will be music. Say,
then, O happy messenger of a most unhappy message, that
the too soon born and too late dying creature, which dares
not speak — no, not look — no, not scarcely think, as from his
miserable self, unto her heavenly highness only presumes to
desire thee, in the times that her eyes and voice do exalt thee,
to say, and in this manner to say, not from him — oh, no, that
were not fit — but of him, thus much unto her sacred judg-
ment : O you, the only honor to women, to men the only ad-
miration ; you that, being armed by love, defy him that armed
you, in this high estate wherein you have placed me, yet let
me remember him to whom I am bound for bringing me to
your presence : and let me remember him who, since he is
yours, how mean soever he be, it is reason you have an ac-
count of him. The wretch — yet your wretch — though with
languishing steps, runs fast to his grave : and will you suffer
a temple — how poorly built soever, but yet a temple of your
deity — to be razed ? But he dieth, it is most true, he dieth ;
and he in whom you live to obey you, dieth. Whereof though

ENGWSH WTERATURB. 31 1

he plain, he doth not complain ; for it is a harm, but no
wrong, which he hath received. He dies because, in woful
language, all his senses tell him that such is your pleasure ;
for since you will not that he live, alas ! alas ! what followeth
— what followeth of the most ruined Dorus but his end ? End
then, evil-destined Dorus, end; and end, thou woful letter,
end ; for it sufficeth her wisdom to know that her heavenly
will shall be accomplished.

Stella.

Stella, the only planet of my light,
1/iglit of my life, and life of my desire,
Chief good whereto my hope doth only aspire,

World of my wealth, and hfeav'n of my delight ;

Why dost thou spend the treasures of thy sprite,
With voice more fit to wed Amphion's lyre.
Seeking to quench in me the noble fire

Fed by thy worth, and kindled by thy sight ?

And all in vain : for whilfe thy breath most sweet
With choicest words, thy words with reasons rate.

Thy reasons firmly set on Virtue's feet,
I^abor to kill in me this killing care :

O think I then, what paradise of joy

it is so fair a virtue to enjoy !

The Stolen Kiss.

Love, still a boy, and oft a wanton is,

Schooled only by his mother's tender eye ;
What wonder then if he his lesson miss,

When for so soft a rod dear play he try ?
And yet my Star, because a sugared kiss

In sport I sucked while she asleep did lie,
Doth lower, nay chide, nay threat for only this.

Sweet, it was saucy I<ove, not humble I.
But no 'scuse serves ; she makes her wrath appear
In beauty's throne : see now, who dares come near

Those scarlet judges,- threat'ning bloody pain.
O heav'nly fool, thy most kiss-worthy face
Anger invests with such a lovely grace.

That Anger's self I needs must kiss again.

EDMUND SPENSER.

England's golden age of poetry began witli Spenser, first
and fairest of Elizabeth's cboir of true singers, then and still
honored as "the poets' poet," and rightly so, as few but poets
can claim much knowledge of his work. It ranks above the
heights scaled by the every-day reader for pleasure. His
master-work lacks popular attractiveness in being an allegory
and not a dramatic story. Its music is the subtle ^olian
harmony of sounds that most delight the most delicate ear.
And the unfamiliar look of that somewhat grotesque English,
ruffled with archaisms and starched with stiflF Italian forms,
counts substantially among the apologies for modem readers
whose taste is moulded by the fashion of their own century.

Yet the literature of Elizabeth's day, which still glorifies
that of the English language, is not to be properly understood
without a passing study of Spenser, who was a very grand
poet and more besides. Though eager to link his branch of
the Spenser clan with the ennobled Spencers, it is evident that
the poet, who was bom in 1552, was of humble Lancashire
origin. He got through Cambridge by a sizarship. Thence
north as a tutor on small pay, which possibly accounts for his
rejection by the "faithless Rosalind, and voyd of grace,"
over whom he wasted many inky tears and prentice efforts in
his "Shepherd's Calendar," twelve pastoral poems, in which
Colin Clout imitates the eclogues of Theocritus and Virgil.
This appeared in 1579. A college friend, Gabriel Harvey,
brought Spenser into friendly relations with Lord Leicester.
The result was the young poet's appointment as secretary to
the lord-deputy of Ireland in 1580.
312

ENGWSH WTBEATURE. 3I3

England was in a state of turmoil at home and abroad ;
there had been a rebellion, known as Desmond's, in Ireland,
which had tempted the young bloods of the aristocracy to
league themselves together for a raid of suppression, ,to be
rewarded with the spoils of war. Gentle spirit though the
poet had, his other self shared the romantic love for adventure
and for sordid gain, so characteristic of the time. Spenser ^
was only eight-and-twenty ; he ha,d lived in the house of the
knightly Philip Sidney, where his "Calendar" had been
:written, and breathed the same bracing air as Walter Raleigh,
his after associate. So he served, under Lord-Deputy Grey,
bore his part in the terrible suppression of the uprising, and
shared in the division of the Earl of Desmond's forfeited
estates. In all Spenser spent ten years in Ireland in various
government ofl&ces, the last four being the important clerk-
ship of the Council of Munster. Three thousand acres of
land, and the ancient seat of the Desmonds, Kilcolman Castle,
in County Cork, had been granted to Spenser in the spoli-
ation of Munster. In 1596 he had written, and Queen
Elizabeth and her ministers had studied, a matter-of-fact
state-paper which the poet, writing as a shrewd man of affairs,
had entitled, "View of the Present State of Affairs in Ire-
land.' ' It is thrown into the fanciful form of a dialogue
between a typical advocate of sound doctrine and another
who pleads for peace. Spenser gravely approves the harsh
policy of Lord Grey and other "very wise governors and
counsellors," which offered to the Irish the alternative of
submission or extermination. But Lord Grey's plan was
dropped after two years of bloodshed, and Spenser's "View"
was not printed until 1633.

The first instalment of the "Faerie Queene" appeared in
1590 as a qua'rto volume consisting of three "books," with
the announcement that it had been entered at Stationers'
Hall, and was "Aucthoryzed under thandes of the Arch-
bishop of Canterbury and bothe the. wardens." The whole
poem was to be "disposed into twelve Books, fashioning
XII. Morall Vertues." How Spenser had managed to build
up this monument of faery verse, instinct with serenest
beauty of thought and form, amid the turbulent scenes of

314 UTERATURS OF AI,I, NATIONS.

his life in Ireland, is a mystery of the craft. He went to
London to bask in the triumph awaiting him. Raleigh pre-
sented him to Elizabeth, who duly did homage to his genius.
He stayed there a year, disappointed if he had reckoned on
substantial court favors, for except the small pension of fifty
pounds a year, his royal patron did nothing for him. On his
return to Ireland two other books by him were published, the
' ' Daphnaida, ' ' an elegy in the pastoral style, and ' ' Complaints
and Meditations of the World's Vanity," a collection of mis-
cellaneous and mostly early verse. His friend Raleigh's
doleful experience of prison about that time helped both of
them to bewail in bitter earnest the delusive charms that glit-
ter from the distance in the patronage of courts. Spenser
returned to London the year after his marriage, in 1594, and
published the "Amoretti," sonnets of love, and his "Epi-
thalamion," best of his minor poems. Later pieces disclosed
the growing disappointments that were clouding years which
should have 'been his happiest. Three more books of the
"Faerie Queene" came out in 1596, and, among a. few other
pieces, the famous "Astrophel," his pastoral elegy, intro-
ducing various laments by other writers for the death of Sir
Philip Sidney. It is said, but not substantiated, that Spenser
had written more books of his great poem, which perished at
sea or by fire. In 1598 he was made sherifi" of Cork. Within
a few weeks Tyrone's rebellion broke out, his KilcoJiman
house was fired, the tradition being that his fifth child was
burnt to death. The poet escaped to England bearing des-
patches. His last Writing was a paper urging the old resort
to brule force to "pacify" the Irish. Broken in fortune and
spirit, probably in heart, too, he died on January 16, if 99.
He was buried near Chaucer in Westminster Abbey.

Alcyon's Lament for Daphne.

(From the "Daphnaida.")

" "Whilom I used, -as thou right well dost know,
My little flock on western downs to keep,

Not far from whence Sabrina's stream doth flow,
And flowery banks with silver liquor steep ;

Nought cared I then for worldly change or chance,

BNGWSH UTBRATURE. 315

For all my joy was on my gentle sheep,
And to my pipe to carol and to dance.

"It there befell, as I the fields did range

Fearless 'and free, a fair young lioness,
White as the native Rose before the change

Which Venus' blood did in her leaves impress,
I spi^d playing on the grassy plain

Her youthful sports and kindly wantonness.
That did all other beasts in beauty stain.

"Much was I mov6d at so goodly sight.

Whose like before mine eye had seldom seen.

And 'gan to cast how I her compass might.
And bring to hand that yet had never been ;

So well I wrought with mildness and with pain.
That I her caught disporting on the green.

And brought away fast bound with silver chain.

"And afterwards I handled her so fair.

That though by kind she stout and savage were.

For being born an ancient Irion's heir

And of the race that all wild beasts do fear.

Yet I her framed, and won so to my bent,
That she became so meek and mild of cheer.

As the least lamb in all my flock that went :

"For she in field, wherever I did wend.

Would wend with me, and wait by me all day ;

And all the night that I in watch did spend,
If cause required, or else in sleep, if nay.

She would all night by me or watch or sleep ;
And evermore when I did sleep or play.

She of my flock would take full wary keep.

"Safe then, aijd safest were my silly sheep.

Nor feared the wolf, nor feared the wildest beast,

All were I drowned in careless quiet deep ;
My lovely lioness without behest

So careful was for them, and for my good.
That when I wak6d, neither most nor least

I found miscarried or in plain or wood.

3l6 LITERATURE OP AI,Iv NATIONS.

"Oft did the shepherds, which my hap did hear,
And oft their lasses, which my luck envied,

Daily resort to me from far and near.
To see my I^ioness, whose praises wide

Were spread abroad ; and when her worthiness
Much greater than the rude report they tried,

They her did praise, and my good fortune bless.

"I,ong thus I joy^d in my happiness,

And well did hope mj"^ joy would have no end ;

But oh, fond man ! that in world's fickleness \_foolish
Reposedst hope, or weenedst thy friend

That glories most in mortal miseries.
And daily doth her changeful counsels bend

To make new matter fit for tragedies.

" For whilst I was thus without dread or doubt,
A cruel satyr with his murderous dart,

Greedy of mischief, ranging all about.

Gave her the fatal wound of deadly smart.

And reft from me my sweet companion.

And reft from me my love, my life, my heart ;

My I/ioness, ah, woe is me ! is gone !

"Out of the world thus was she reft away.
Out of the world, unworthy such a spoil,

And borne to heaven, for heaven a fitter prey;
Much fitter than the I^ion, which with toil

Alcides slew, and fixed in firmament ;

Her now I seek throughout this earthly soil,

And seeking miss, and missing do lament."

Therewith he 'gan afresh to wail and weep.

That I for pity of his heavy plight
Could not abstain mine eyes with tears to steep ;

But, when I saw the anguish of his spright
Some deal allayed, I him bespake again :

"Certes, Alcyon, painful is thy plight,
That it in me breeds almost equal pain.

"Yet doth not my dull wit well understand
The riddle.of thy loved I,ioness ;
For rare it seems in reason to be scanned.
That man, who doth the whole world's rule possess.

ENGLISH LITERATURE. 31?

Should to a beast his noble heart embase,

And be the vassal of his vassaless ;
Therefore more plain aread this doubtful case."

Then sighing sore, "Daphne thou know'st," quoth he,
' ' She now is dead : " nor more endured to say,

But fell to ground for great extremity ;
That I, beholding it, with deep dismay

Was much appalled, and, lightly him uprearing.
Revoked life, that would have fled away.

All were myself, through grief, in deadly drearing.

The Epithalamion.

Wake now, my love, awake ! for it is time :

The rosy morn long since left Tithone's bed.

All ready to her silver coach to climb ;

And Phoebus 'gins to show his glorious head.

■Hark ! how the cheerful birds do chant their lays

And carol of love's praise.

The merry lark her matins sings aloft ;

The thrush replies ; the mavis descant plays ;

The ouzel shrills ; the ruddock warbles soft ;

So goodly all agree, with sweet consent,

To this day's merriment.

Ah ! my dear love, why do ye sleep thus long.

When meeter were that ye should now awake,

To await the coming of your joyous make [mate],

And hearken to the bird's love-learndd song.

The dewy leaves among !

For they of joy and pleasance to you sing,

That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring.

My love is now awake out of her dreams,
And her fair eyes, like stars that dimmed were
With darksome cloud, now show their goodly beams
More bright than Hesperus his head doth rear.
Come now, ye damsels, daughters of delight,
Help quickly her to dight :
But first come, ye fair Hours, which were begot
In Jove's sweet paradise of Day and Night ;
Which do the seasons of the year allot,

3l8 UTBRATXJRB OF AXX, NATIONS.

And all that ever in this world is fair

Do make and still repair :

And ye three handmaids of the Cyprian Queen,

The which do still adorn her beauty's pride,

Help to adorn my beautifuUest bride :

And as ye her array, still throw between

Some graces to be seen ;

And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing.

The whiles the woods shall answer, and your echo ring.

Now is my love all ready forth to come ;

lyct all the virgins therefore well await ;

And ye fresh boys that tend upon her groom,

Prepare yourselves, for he is coming straight.

Set all your things in seemly good array.

Fit for so joyful day :

The joyfullest day that ever sun did see.

Fair sun, show forth thy favorable ray.

And let thy life-full heat not fervent be,

For fear of burning her sunshiny face.

Her beauty to disgrace.

O fairest Phoebus, father of the Muse,

If ever I did honor thee aright.

Or sing the thing that mote thy mind delight, [mighi

Do not thy servant's simple boon refuse ;

But let this day, let this one day, be mine — ,

I<et all the rest be thine.

Then I thy sovereign praises loud will sing,

That all the woods shall answer, and their echo ring.

Hark! how the minstrels 'gin to shrill aloud.

Their merry music that resounds from far,

The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling crowd, \_fiddle

That well agree withouten breach or jar.

But most of all the damsels do delight

When they their timbrels smite,

And thereunto do dance and carol sweet,

That all the senses they do ravish quite ;

The whiles the boys run up and down the street,

Crying aloud with strong confused noise,

As if it were one voice.

"Hymen, lo Hymen, Hymen," they do shout;

ENGLISH WTKRATURE. 319

That even to the heavens their shouting shriU

Doth reach, and all the firmament doth fill ;

To which the people standing all about,

A« in approvance do thereto applaud,

And loiid advance her laud ;

And evermore they *' Hymen, Hymen " sing,

That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring.

I/>, where she comes along with portly pace,

lyike Phcebe from her chamber of the east

Arising forth to run her mighty race.

Clad all in white, that seems a virgin best ;

So well it her beseems that ye would ween

Some angel she had been ;

Her long, loose yellow locks like golden wire

Sprinkled with pearl, and pearling flowers atween,

Do like a golden mantle her attire ;

And being crowned with a garland green.

Seem like some maiden queen.

Her modest eyes abashM to behold

So many gazers as on her do stare

Upon the lowly ground affixed are ; .

Nor dare lift up her countenance too bold.

But blush to hear her praises sung so loud.

So far from being proud.

Nathless do ye still loud her praises sing.

That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.

Tell me, ye merchants' daughters, did ye see

So fair a creature in your town before?

So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she.

Adorned with beauty's grace and virtue's store ?

Her goodly eyes like sapphires shining bright.

Her forehead ivory white,

Her cheeks like apples which the sun hath ruddied.

Her lips like cherries charming men to bite.

Her breast like to a bowl of cream uncrudded.

Her paps like lilies budded.

Her snowy neck like to a marble tower ;

And all her body like a palace fair.

Ascending up, with many a stately stair.

To honor's seat and chastity's sweet bower.

320 tlTBRATURE OP ALI, NATIONS.

Why stand ye still, ye virgins, in amaze,

Upon her so to gaze,

"Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing,

To which the woods did answer, and your echo ring ?

But if ye saw that which no eyes can see,
The inward beauty of her lively spright,
Garnished with heavenly gifts of high degree,
Much more then would ye wonder at that sight,
And stand astonished like to those which read
Medusa's mazefnl head.

There dwells sweet love, and constant chastity,
Unspotted faith, and comely womanhood, , '
, Regard of honor, and mild modesty ;
There virtue reigns as queen in royal throne.
And giveth laws alone,
The which the base affections do obey.
And yield their services unto her will ;
Nor thought of thing uncomely ever may
Thereto approach to tempt her mind to ill.
Had ye once seen these her celestial treasures.
And unrevealSd pleasures.
Then would ye wonder and her praises sing,
That all the woods should answer, and your echo ring.

Open the temple gates unto my love,
Open them wide that she may enter in,
And all the posts adorn as doth behove.
And all the pillars deck with garlands trim,
For to receive this saint with honor due.
That Cometh in to you.

With trembling steps, and humble reverence,
She Cometh in, before the Almigjity's view;
Of her, ye virgins, learn obedience.
When so ye come into those holy places.
To humble your proud faces :
Bring her up to the high altar, that she may
The sacred ceremonies there partake.
The which do endless matrimony make ;
And let the roaring organs loudly play
The praises of the I/jrd in lively notes ;
The whiles, with hollow throats,

ENGLISH UTBRATURB. JJI

The choristers the joyous anthem sing,

That all the woods may answer, and their echo ring.

Behold, whiles she before the altar stands^

Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks,

And blesseth her with his two happy hands.

How the red roses flush up in her cheeks,

And the pure snow with goodly vermeil stain

I/ike crimson dyed in grain;

That even the angels, which continually

About the sacred altar do remain.

Forget their service and about her fly.

Oft peeping in her face, that seems more fair

The more they on it stare.

But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground.

Are governed with goodly modesty,

That suffers not one look to glance awry

"Which may let in a little thought unsound.

Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand.

The pledge of all our band ?

Sing, ye sweet angels, Alleluia sing,

That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.

Now all is done : bring home the bride again,
Bring home the triumph of our victory :
Bring home with you the glory of her gain.
With joyance bring her and with jollity.
Never had man more joyful day than this.
Whom heaven would heap with bliss ;
Make feaSt therefore now all this livelong day, —
This day forever to me holy is.
Pour out the wine without restraint or stay.
Pour not by cups, but by the belly-full,
Pour out to all that wuU, '

And sprinkle all the posts and walls with wine.
That they may sweat, and drunken be withal.
Crown ye god Bacchus with a coronal.
And Hymen also crown with wreaths of vine;
And, let the Graces dance unto the rest,
For they can do it best ;
The whiles the maidens do their carol sing.
To which the woods shall answer, and their echo ring.
IV— 3 r

322 tlTBRATtTRB OF Ail, NATIONS.

The Faerie Queene.

The "Faerie Queene" transcends all other allegories in
two respects — it was, and still remains, the first pure English
poem, since Chaucer's day, of its range and beauty : and it
marks the new departure from mediaevalism through the
renaissance to the strong intellectualism which took its
second impetus from the Reformation, and wrought our later
civil and religious liberties. In this poem Spenser bridges
the gap between the old mythology and poetic romanticism
of the past, and the prophetic anticipation of great realities to
come from the quickening of mental and material activities
already at work. His Faerie, i. e. , spiritual. Queen is Gloriana,
the Glory of God, yet also meaning Elizabeth idealized. Una
is religious Truth ; the Red Cross Knight is Holiness, or St.
George, ever doing battle for the true Faith against the
Dragon of Error ; and Archimago, the Devil. Among the
enemies of Una is the witch Duessa, who stands for the
Church of Rome, and so through the play of his puppets
Spenser vents his bitter hostility to the cause represented by
Mary Stuart, whose speedy execution he pleads for. The first
Book thus allegorizes Religion, tightly robed in the bigotries
of the time. The second, third and fourth treat of Love in
all its manifestations, with Sir Guyon as the personification
of Temperance, and Britomart, the most charming heroine of
the whole poem, representing Chastity. Book V. is devoted
to Justice, and in the sixth and seventh, the last we possess
of the twelve contemplated by the poet, the minor virtues,
Courtesy and Constancy, are shown in their relations with
I/Ove and Justice. In Prince Arthur is typified Magnificence,
an idealized conception of the secondary Glory of God. Leav-
ing the ethical significance of the poem, though Spenser puts
it well in the fore-front of his work, the "Faerie Queene"
can be read at random for its poetical beauties without loss,
probably with more pleasure than as a whole. The chivalric
romance was the favorite reading of the people. The new
Italian and French forms of verse were familiar to Spenser —
\)VA. he added to the eight rhymed lines of Ariosto's stanza

ENGLISH LITBRATURE. 323

an Alexandrine as the ninth. This new form bears the name
of the Spenserian stanza. Thus the poet established not
simply a style, but a noble order of imaginative verse which
has been the delight and the envy of poets ever since.

The Red Cross Knight and Una.

A gentle Knight was pricking on the plaine, [riding
Yclad in mightie annes and silver shielde, \_clad

Wherein old dints of deepe woundes did remaine,
The cruell markes of many a bloody fielde ;
Yet armes till that time did he never wield.
His angry steede did chide his foming bitt,
As much disdayning to the curbe to yield :
Full jolly knight he seemd, and faire did sitt,
As one for knightly giusts and fierce encounters fitt. [jousts

And on his brest a bloodie Crosse he bore.
The deare remembrance of his dying I^ord,
For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he wore,
And dead, as living, ever him ador'd.
Upon his shield the like was also scor'd,
For soveraine hope which in his helpe he had.
Right faithfuU true he was in deede and word,
But of his cheere did seeme too solernne sad ;
Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad. [feared

Upon a great adventure he was bond,
That greatest Gloriana to him gave,
(That greatest Glorious Queene of Faery lond)
To winne him worshippe, and her grace to have,
Which of all earthly thinges he most did crave :
And ever as he rode his hart did earne [yearn

To prove his puissance in battell brave
Upon his foe, and his new force to learne,
Upon his foe, a Dragon horrible and stearne.

A lovely I^adie rode him faire beside.
Upon a lowly Asse more white then snow.
Yet she much whiter ; but the same did hide
Under a vele, that wimpled was full low, [veil

And over all a blacke stole shee did throw :

324 I,ITERAT0RE OF Atl, NATIONS.

As one that inly mourned, so was she sad,
And heavie sate upon her palfrey slow ;
Seemed in heart some hidden care she had ;
And by her, in a line, a milkewhite lambe she lad.

So pure and innocent, as that same lambe.
She was in life and every vertuous lore ;
And by descent from Royall lynage came [lineage

Of ancient Kinges and Queenes, that had of yore
Their scepters stretcht from East to Westerne shore,
And all the world in their subjection held ;
Till that infernall feerid with foule uprore
Forwasted all their land, and them expeld ;
Whom to avenge she had this Knight from far compeld.

Behind her farre away a Dwarfe did lag.
That lasie seemd, in being ever last.
Or wearied with bearing of her bag
Of needments at his backe. Thus as they past,
The day with cloudes was suddeine overcast.
And angry Jove an hideous storme of raine
Did poure into his I^emans lap so fast,
That everie wight to shrowd it did constrain ;
And this faire couple eke to shroud themselves were fain.

Enforst to seeke some covert nigh at hand,
A shadie grove not farr away they spide.
That promist ayde the tempest to withstand ;
"Whose loftie trees, yclad with sommers pride, \_clad

Did spred so broad, that heavens light did hide.
Not perceable with power of any starr :
And all within were pathes and alleles wide,
With footing worne, and leading inward farr.
Faire harbour that them seems, so in they entred are.

Note. — For a specimen of Spenser's translation from the French
of loachim du Bellay's "Visions," see pp. 253-255.

ENGLISH LITERATURE. 325

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

Chief among the romantic figures whose high gifts and
large activities made Elizabeth's reign illustrious, stands
the versatile Sir Walter Raleigh, most envied, most to be
pitied. His literary genius was subordinated to the necessi-
ties of other ambitions or he would have run his more famous
contemporaries hard in the race for popularity. He cannot
be denied a place among the great masters of nervous force
and style in both prose and v^se.

Born in 1552, he left Oxford in his seventeenth year
for seven years of adventurous service with the Huguenot
army in France. His next step was to join his half-brother,
Sir Humphrey Gilbert, in a voyage to America, and on this
being prevented by the Council, Raleigh became captain of
a small force sent to put down the insurrection in Ireland.
Both Spenser and Raleigh entered on this task of suppression
with the fiercest brutality and easy consciences. The massacre
of the Catholic garrison won them their sovereign's favor.
Monopolies were conferred upon the dashing soldier-courtier,
followed later by high offices of emolument. His restless
ambition craved for the manlier honors of fame and power
won by bold achievements, and this caused him, in his thirty-
second year, to risk his modest fortune in backing Sir
Humphrey Gilbert's expedition to colonize North America^
It was a glorious failure, ennobled by Gilbert's last words as
the storm sank his little ship, ' ' We are as near heaven by sea
as by land." In the next year Raleigh despatched another
fleet with pioneer settlers for the new land he named in honor
of his queen, Virginia, and though this and the expeditions
supplementary also failed, he is remembered as the first Eng-
lishman who planted the seed from which grew the great colo-
nies of after years. When, in 15^4, Raleigh received his grant
of land in Ireland in reward for his extermination services,
he tried to make the suppression of the Irish complete by
replacing them with English settlers. Unscrupulous as he
was in attaining his ends he was sagacious in helping the
colonists to acquire real interest in their new life, and with

326 UTERATURS OF AZX, NATIONS.

this end he introduced the potato and tobacco, which have
outlasted his colony schemes.

After many furious wranglings, Raleigh, who had made
more enemies than friends, gradually lost his hold on Eliza-
beth's goodwill. He retired to Ireland for a while under this
cloud, returning to London with Spenser in 1590, whom he
presented to the queen. Although Raleigh had spent fortunes
in attempting the expansion of the realm and had actively
shared in expeditions against Spain, including the defeat of
the Armada, Elizabeth cast her late favorite into the TTower,
for his intrigue with the maid of honor, who afterwards
became his wife. This was the beginning of his greater
adversity. His release was granted because Raleigh alone
could effect a satisfactory distribution of the spoils gathered,
by the last expedition he had sent out. On regaining his
freedom, stung by his hard unmerited fate, Raleigh deter-
mined to rise to unassailable eminence by a brilliant stroke.
He would be the discoverer of the fabled El Dorado, doing
what others only dreamed of, and in 159S, after receiving the
reports of his pioneers, he set out with five ships for the
Orinoco, explored it sufficiently to bring back glowing stories
gathered from the Indians, fortified with specimens of gold
ore. He wrote his account of the voyage, "The Discoverie
of the Empyre of Guiana, with a Relation of the Citie of
Manoa (which the Spanyards call El Dorado), and of the
Provinces of Emeria," etc. Next year, not being able to go
himself, Raleigh sent Capt. Keymis to make further researches,
while he led the attack of the British fleet under Lords
Howard and Essex against the Spanish fleet, being wounded
in the action that ended with the capture of Cadiz and the
establishing of English supremacy on the sea. The death
of Elizabeth brought Raleigh into conflict with her suc-
cesssor, James I., upon the policy of crushing Spain. The
king's reluctance to pursue this led to strong words from
Raleigh, which being construed as treasonable, caused his
arrest. After an attempt at suicide he was tried and con-
demned to death in 1603. At the last moment this was com-
muted to life imprisonment. In this dungeon, still to be
seen in the Tower, he wrote his incomplete " History of the

ENGLISH I,M?ERATTJRI{. 327

World," political tracts, and poems embittered with resent-
ment at the strokes of adverse fate. His wealth had been
confiscated, and the prospect, in his forty-second year, of
spending the rest of his life in prison, must have brought so
vigorous a character near madness. After fourteen years in
solitude he was permitted to indulge his dream of enriching
his ungrateful country with the El Dorado that had eluded
his messengers. His desperate scheme collapsed. The death-
sentence had been suspended, not annulled. He was executed
October 29, 16 18, the semblance of legality being^ secured by
the appointment of a commission, formed of Raleigh's
enemies, with Bacon as their mouthpiece, who condemned
Raleigh ostensibly on the original charge of treason, but
actually for being a greater Englishman, patriot, and literary
genius than his titular superior, the king.

Raleigh made a really dignified attempt to enlarge the
scope of general knowledge by writing his " History of the
World." Though no more than a fragment of its projected
scheme, its lofty conception and comprehensive sweep give it
distinction as a literary performance, the greater for the dole-
ful environment of its author's mind and body. His exquisite
sonnet on his friend's "Eaerie Queene" sufficiently illustrates
his capacity for pure poetry, as does the lyric in reply to Mar-
lowe's " Passionate Shepherd." The musings of a profound
mind, wearied with the falsity of much professed friendship,
find powerful expression in ' ' The Soul' s Errand. ' ' Raleigh' s
first printed composition is the stirring story of the last fight
of the battle-ship "The Revenge," in which Sir Richard
Grenville fought for fifteen hours against fifteen Spanish
men-of-war, his ship being but five hundred tons with some
two hundred men, of whom ninety were sick. She sank
three of the enemy's vessels and killed fifteen hundred men
before her masts went overboard. When her deck was level
with the sea and Grenville mortally wounded he ordered the
gunner to sink the ship. Raleigh, cousin to Grenville,
chronicles the incident as "The Last Fight of 'The Re-
venge' at Sea . . . described by Sir Walter Raleigh, Novem-
ber, 1591."

328 I,ITBRATURB OF AX,h NATIONS.

English Valor.

(From the "History of the World.")

All that have read of Cressy and Agincourt will bear me
witness that I do not allege the battle of Poitiers for lack of
other as good examples of the English virtue; the proof
whereof hath left many a hundred better marks in all quarters
of France, than ever did the valor of the Romans. If any
man impute these victories of ours "to the long-bow, as car-
rying farther, piercing more strongly, and quicker of discharge
than the French cross-bow,, my answer is ready — that in all
these respects it is also (being drawn with a strong arm) su-
perior to the musket ; yet is the musket a weapon of more
use. The gun and the cross-bow are of like force when dis-
charged by a boy or a woman as when by a strong man ;
weakness, or sickness, or a sore finger, makes the long-bow
unserviceable. More particularly, I say that it was the custom
of our ancestors to shoot, for the most Tpart, potni-rdlank; and so
shall he perceive that will note the circumstances of almost
any one battle. This takes away all objection, for when two
armies are within the distance of a butt's length, one flight
of arrows, or two at the most, can be delivered before they
close. Neither is it, in general, true that the long-bow reach-
eth farther, or that it pierceth more strongly than the cross-
bow. But this is the rare effect of an extraordinary arm,
whereupon can be grounded no common rule. If any man
shall ask, how then came it to pass that the English won so
many great battles, having no advantage to help him, I may,
with best commendation of modesty, refer him to the French
historian, who, relating the victory of our men at Crevant,
where they passed a bridge in face of the enemy, useth these
words: "The English comes with a conquering bravery, as
he that was accustomed to gain everywhere without any Stay ;
he forceth our guard, placed upon the bridge to keep the
passage. ' ' {John de Serves. ) Or I may cite another place of
the same author, where he tells us how the Britons [Bretons],
being invaded by Charles VIII., King of France, thought it
good policy to apparel twelve hundred of their own men in

ENGLISH LITERATURE. 329

English cassocks, that the very sight of the English red cross
would be enough to terrify the French. But I will not stand
to borrow of the French historians (all of which, excepting
de Serres and Paulus ^milius, report wonders of our nation) ;
the proposition which first I undertook to maintain, that the
military virtue of the English prevailing against all manner
of difficulties ought to be preferred before that of the Romans,
which was assisted with all advantages that could be desired.
If it be demanded, why then did not our kings finish the con-
quest as Cassar had done, my answer may be — I hope without
offense — ^that our kings were like to the race of the ^acidae,
of whom the old poet Ennius gave this note : Belli ,potentes
sunt mage quam sapienti potentes ; They were more, warlike
than politic. Whoso notes their proceedings may find that
none of them went to work like a conqueror, save only King
Henry V., the course of whose victories it pleased God to
interrupt by his death.

The Nymph's Reply to the Passionate Shepherd.

(See Marlowe's poem, p. 337.)
If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might one move
To live with thee and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold ;
And Philomel becometh dumb,.
The rest complain of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields ;
A honey tongue — a heart of gall.
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses.
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten.
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs.

330 UTSRATURB OP AI,I, NATIONS.

All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.

EARLY ENGLISH DRAMA.

The drama in modern Europe as well as in ancient
Greece, is of religious origin. It began in the Church itself
in the attempts to present vividly and reverently the scenes
of Christmas and Easter. These were probably introduced in
England in the twelfth century by the Normans. The Fran-
ciscan friars, who came first in 1224, appear in the next cen-
tury to have adopted plays or dialogues as a means of instruc-
tion. The liturgical dramas of the clergy and the didactic
plays of the friars made way for fuller representations of
Scripture history in the vernacular, none of which can be
traced earlier than the fourteenth century. These were chiefly
connected with the feast of Corpus Christi, which, though
instituted by Pope Urban IV. in 1264, was not recognized
until 131 1.

In these Miracle plays the actors were no longer priests,
but usually members of the various trade-guilds, whose shows
and processions were a prominent feature of mediaeval life.
The feast came early in June, and in the celebration each
guild undertook to represent some scriptural event in its "pa-
geant." The pageant or stage was a decorated structure of
two stories, which could be drawn by horses from station to
station in the streets. The lower story being enclosed, served
as a dressing-room for the actors, while on the . open upper
stage the performance was exhibited. Certain cities became
famous as centres of these Corpus Christi plays, especially
York and Chester. London is never mentioned in connection
with them. Besides the series of Miracle plays belonging to
these town-guilds, there are two others extant. One is called
the Towneley plays, from the family which long retained the
manuscript. These plays were connected witl; Wakefield in

BNGUSH IvITKRATURB,

331

Yorkshire, and seem to have been prepared by the Augus-
tinian Canons of Woodkirk, near by. The second series is
called the Coventry Plays, and is known to have been per-
formed in various places by the Franciscan or Grey Friars.

The themes of these Miracle plays were taken chiefly from
the Old and New Testaments, but also from apocryphal books
and mediaeval legends. In representations of the Gospels
Christ constantly appears, and even the details of his cruci-
fixion are shown; in the Creation all the Persons of the
Trinity are introduced ; in other scenes Lucifer is shown as
cast down to hell. For relief from the oppressive tragedies
or for the amusement of the rabble, humorous scenes were
sparingly introduced, though the Franciscans altogether ex-
cluded such parts. The characters in these additions were
persons not distinctly named in Scripture or legend, though
necessary to the performance, as Noah's wife, the soldiersVho
slay the innocents at Bethlehem, the beadle of Pilate's court,
the Roman soldiers who set up the cross. In treating these
obscure characters the dramatist was less hampdred by reli-
gious considerations, and took the opportunity to introduce
strokes of homely wit.

Besides the Miracle plays there sprang up in the fifteenth
century a parallel series, called Moralities. These were dra-

332 LITERATURE OP AL,t, NATIONS.

matic versions of those strange allegories which abounded in
the Middle Ages, and were intended to give practical instruc-
tion in the conduct of life. They set forth the superlative
excellence of the seven cardinal virtues and held up to scorn
the seven deadly sins. The dramatic essence lay in the
doubtful contest of these powers for the possession of man's
soul. The earliest extant play of this class is the " Castell of
Perseverance," composed about 1450. This long drama
rehearses the spiritual history of Man from his feeble birth
to the dreadful judgment. It depicts his struggles with
Mundus, Caro and Belial (the World, the Flesh and the
Devil), who are supported by the Seven Deadly Sins, while
Man receives help from his Good Angel and the Cardinal
Virtues, who shower roses on his assailants. Avarice, how-
ever, conquers him in his old age, and Man, dying, is almost
lost until Mercy, by pleading Christ's Passion, secures from
the Heavenly Father the salvation of his soul. Later plays
of this kind were shorter and were called Interludes. They
treat of portions of life, warn against special sins, advocate
the love of learning, and sometimes introduce theological
discussions. These Moralities faded away like pale ghosts
before the splendid and overpowering presence of the new
and glorious creations of Marlowe, Shakespeare and their
rival dramatists.

Noah's Flood.

The Building of the Ark and the Flood were a favorite subject
with the composers of the Miracle Plays. This version is taken from
the Chester Plays, all the manuscripts of which were written about
1600. The use of alliteration and other peculiarities indicate that it
is of much earlier origin, and A. W. Pollard assigns it to 1450. From
the text given in his Miracle Plays the following extract is taken, the
Spelling being modernized. God announces to Noah that the earth is
to be destroyed by a flood, and directs him to build the ark for the
safety of his family. Then Noah and his sons prepare to build the Ark.

Noye. Now in the name of God I will begin
To make the ship that we shall in,
That we may be ready for to swim

At the coming of the flood.
These boards here I pin together,

ENGWSa LITBRATURB. 333

To bear us safe from the weather,

That we may row both hither and thither,

And safe be from the flood.
Of this tree will I make the mast,
Tied with cables that will last,
With a sail-yard for each blast,

And each thing; in their kind.
With ,top-castle, and bowsprit.
With cords and ropes, I hold all meet
To sail forth at the next weet, \rain

This ship is at an end.
Wife, in this vessel we shall be kept :
My children and thou I would ye in leapt.
Noye's Wife. In faith, Noye, I had as lief thou slept !

For all thy fry msh fare, [ingenious

I will not do after thy rede. [advice

Noye. Good wife, do now as I thee bid;
Noye's Wife. By Christ ! not or I see more need, [ere

Though thou stand all the day and stare.
Noye. I<ord, that women be crabbed aye,

And none are meek, I dare well say.
This is well seen by me to-day.

In witness of you each one.
Good wife, let be all beare, [loud noise

That thou mayst in this place hear ;
For all they ween that thou art master.

And so thou art, by Saint John !

God then orders Noah to take into the ark clean beasts by sevens,
and unclean by twos. These animals were painted on the boards, and
Noah's wife and sons rehearse the list of them.

Noye. Wife, come in ; why standest thou there ?
Thou art ever froward, I dare well swear ;
■Come in, in God's name ! half time it were.

For fear lest that we drown.
Noye's Wife. Yea, sir, set up your sail,

And row forth with evil hail.
For withouten any fail,

I will-not out of this town.
But I have my gossips every one, [without

One foot further I will not gone :
They shall not drown, by Saint John,

334 LITERATURE OF AI,I, NATIONS.

An I may save their life.
They love me full well, by Christ !
But thou let them into thy kist, [ark

Else row now where thou list,
And get thee a new wife.
Nioye. Sam, son, lo ! thy mother is wrawe \wroth

Forsooth, such another I do not know.
Sem. Father, I shall fetch her in, I trow,
Withouten any fail.
Mother, my father after thee sends
And bids thee into yonder ship wend.
I<ook up and see the wind,
For we be ready to sail.
Noye's Wife. Sem, go again to him, I say.
I will not come therein to-day.
Noye. Come in, wife, in twenty devils' way !

Or else stand there without.
Ham. Shall we all fetch her in ?
Noye. Yea, sons, with Christ's blessing and mine !
I would you hied you betime.
For of this flood I am in doubt. [fear

JTie Good Gossips' Song.

The flood comes fleeting in full fast,

On every side that spreads full far ;
For fear of drowning I am aghast ;

Good gossips, let us draw near.
And let us drink or we depart, \ere

For oft-times we have done so ;
For at a draught thou drink'st a quart,

And so will I do ^r I go. \ere

Here is a pottle full of Malmsey, good and strong ;
It will rejoice both heart and tongue.
Though Noye think us never so long,

Here we will drink alike !

Japhet. Mother, we pray you all together,
For we are here, your own childer,
Come into the ship for fear of the weather,
For His love that you bought.
Noye's Wife. That will not I for all your call,

But I have my gossips all. \unless

ENGWSH WT^RATTTRE. 335

Sem. {Lifting her.) In faith, mother, yet you shall,

Whether thou wilt or not.
Noye. {Receiving her.) Welcome, wife, into this boat.
Noye's Wife. {Hitting him on the ear.) Have thou that for thy

nott. [head

Noye. Ha, ha ! Marry, this is hot.
It is good for to be still.
Ha ! children, methinks my boat remeves, {removes
Our tarrying here highly me grieves.
Over the land the water spreads ;

God do as He will.
This window will I shut anon.
And into my chamber will I gone,
Till this water, so great One,
Be slacked through Thy might.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.

When Marlowe's name is spoken, "Marlowe of the
mighty line," the, poets join in a chorus of praise for one of
the greatest among them, yet one whose life was short and
full of troubles, so that his fame is based on fragments. He
is pronounced by Swinburne to be the father of English
tragedy and the creator of English blank verse. Shake-
speare himself paid Marlowe the homage of resetting his
rough gems in golden verse. The two were born within a
few weeks of each other; in both innate genius came to early
maturity.

Marlowe's life is little more than the flash of a romantic
figure across a crowded stage, a brilliant gleam and then the
exit into silence. He was the son of a Canterbury shoe-
maker, bom in 1564, helped to a Cambridge scholarship,
winning his B.A. as "Marlyn," and his M.A. as "Marley,"
in the slipshod spelling of the day. A few translations,- and
some wild flings at the Christian religion are all that remain
of his earlier efforts. He then took to the stage and the
vagabond life of an actor. A broken leg and sundry scars
were his trophies during those scapegrace years, yet the
ambition of his gifts impelled him to the making of dramatic
poetry. He gave the rein to his fiery fancy as he wrote

336 WTERATURB OP AH NATIONS.

liis first tragedy for the stage, " Tamburlaine tlie Great."
Its hero, its theme and opportunities conspired to impress
Marlowe with a sense of boundless range for his powers.
Hence its dominant air of what seems inflated bombast,
but still magnificent and not unfitting for the Tamerlane
legend. Its exalted strain is tempered with many passages
of purest poetry, noble in spirit and of exquisite beauty. The
play appeared in 1587 and was printed two years later. So
great was its fame that the author produced a Second Part,
carrying on the story and the style of the first. The greater
glory of this tragedy lies in its being the first work in which
poetry and blank verse are blent together with complete suc-
cess. It established the rule for aftercomers to follow.

"The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus" was Mar-
lowe's next production. In this his genius reaches its highest
flight, scarcely second to Shakespeare at his best, though
uneven and bearing the marks of impetuous immaturity.
To these were added other plays, "The Jew of Malta," in
some sense kin to Shakespeare's later Shylock ; " Edward the
Second," the "Massacre of Paris," a mere fragment, and
"Dido, Queen of Carthage," completed by other hands
after Marlowe's death. This death occured on the ist of June,
IS93, in his thirtieth year, the result of a stab gotten in a
low-life fray. In strange contrast with his tragic vein and
the fascination of the prodigal life are his occasional excur-
sions into the sweeter scenes of simple rural happiness, mem-
ories that inspired such charming lyrics as " The Passionate
Shepherd," " that smooth song which was made by Kit Mar-
loWe," beloved of Izaak Walton and his readers.

The splendor of ' ' Doctor Faustus " as a creation of poetic
genius has been recognized by Goethe, the creator of the
better known version of the old legend. He marvelled at
the greatness with which Marlowe's work was planned. This
greatness is that of perfect siinplicity, as of the Pyramids ;
the play of the elemental forces of human nature in all their
sublime aspects, terrible and captivating in turn. The Faust
of Goethe is a very different being to Marlowe's Faustus.
The first is a philosophic weakling compared to the other's
passionate devotee of all the lusts fierce natures rage after.

ENGLISH LITERATURE. 337

Marlowe paints a realistic man, the creature but also the
creator of his destiny, and it is a picture so weird and awe-
inspiring as to remain unsurpassed of its kind. The play, or
dramatic poem, opens with Faustus, the necromancer who is
in touch with the other world, praying lyucifer for larger
powers. To him is sent Mephostophilis, prime minister of
-the Prince of Darkness, with whom Faustus makes the com-
pact binding him to surrender his body and soul twenty-four
years hence in return for the enjoyment' of supernatural
powers for that term. He is now able to fly as swiftly as
lightning, and make the powers of nature obey his every
whim. He has spumed the appeals of his good angel, and
now, when too late to accept, he is haunted by their echoes.
As the years lapse he yearns for the power to repent, but he
has bartered his self-command, and remorse goads him into
agony. The climax comes, and in language of appalling
tragic power Marlowe gives him up to his doom with the
most " tremendous monologue ' ' in all literature.

The Passionate Shepherd to his Loye.

(For tlie reply to this by Sir Walter Raleigh, see p. 329.)

Come live with me and be mylove,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That valleys, groves, and hills and field,
Woods or steepy mountains yield.

And we shall sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies ;
A cap of flowers and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle ;

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull,*
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.
IV— 22

338 WTERATURS OF AIX, NATIONS.

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs !
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my lOve.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing.
For thy delight each May-morning ;
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.

The Doom of Doctor Faustus.

[7%^ Clock strikes Eleven."]
Faust. O Faustus,
Now hast thou but one bare hour to live,
And then thou must be damned perpetually.
Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven,
That time may cease and midnight never come.
Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again and make
Perpetual day: or let this hour be but
A year, a month, a week, a natural day,
That Faustus may repent and save his soul.
O lente, lente, currite, noctis equi.^
The stars move still', time runs, the clock will strike.
The devil will come, and Faustus must be damned.
Oh, I will leap to heaven : who pulls me down ?
See where Christ's blood streams in the firmament:
One drop of blood will save me : O my Christ, —
Rend not my heart for naming of my Christ.
Yet will I call on him : O spare me, lyucifer.
"Where is it now ? 'tis gone !
And see a threatening arm and angry brow.
Mountains and hills, come, come and fall on me,
And hide me from the heavy wrath of heaven.
No ! then I will headlong run into the earth :
Gape, earth. Oh, no, it will not harbbr me.
You stars that reigned at my nativity.
Whose influence have allotted death and hell,
Now draw up Faustus like a foggy mist
Into the entrails of yon laboring cloud ;
That when you vomit forth into the air,

* O slowly, slowly run, ye steeds of Night.

BNGWSH WTERATURE. 339

My limbs may issue from your smoky mouths,
But let my soul mount and ascend to heaven.

[ The Watch strikes.
Oh, half the hour is past : 't will all be past anon.
Oh, if my soul must suffer for my sin.
Impose some end to my incessant pain.
IvCt Faustus live in hell a thousand years,
A hundred thousand, and at last be saved :
No end is limited to damned souls.
"Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul ?
Or why is this immortal that thou hast ?
Oh, Pythagoras' Metempsychosis, were that true.
This soul should fly from me, and I be changed
Into some brutish beast.
All beasts are happy, for when they die,
Their souls are soon dissolved in elements :
But mine must live still to be plagued in hell.
Cursed be the parents that engendered me :
No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse I^ucifer,
That hath deprived thee of the joys of heaven.

[ The Clock strikes Twelve.
It strikes, it strikes; now, body, turn to air,
Or lyucifer will bear thee quick to hell.
O soul, be changed into small water drops,
And fall into the ocean : ne'er be found.

[ Thunder, and enter the Devils.
Oh mercy, heaven, look not so fierce on me.
Adders and serpents, let me breathe awhile :
Ugly hell gape not, come not I^ucifer :
I'll bum my books : Oh, Mephostophilis !

■ •■••••

\Enter Scholars.

First Sch. Come, gentlemen, let us go visit Faustus,
For such a dreadful night was never seen
Since first the world's creation did begin ;
Such fearful shrieks and cries were never heard:
Pray heaven the Doctor have escaped the danger.

Sec. Sch. O help us heavens ! see, here are Faustus' liinbs
All torn asunder by the hand of death.

Third Sch. The devil whom Faustus served hath torn
him thus :
For 'twixt the hours of twelve and one, methought

340 WTERATURB OP ALL NATIONS.

I heard him shriek and call aloud for help ;

At which same time the house seemed all on fire

With dreadful horror of these damndd fiends.

Sec. Sch. Well, gentlemen, though Faustus' end be suet
As every Christian heart laments to think on ;
Yet, for he was a scholar once admired
For wondrous knowledge in our German schools,
We'll give his mangled limbs due burial :
And all the scholars, clothed in mourning black.
Shall wait upon his heavy funeral.

Chorus. Cut is the branch that might have grown full
straight,
And burned is Apollo's laurel bough
That sometime grew within this learned man :
Faustus is gone ! Regard his hellish fall,
Whose fiendful fortune may exhort the wise
Only to wonder at unlawful things :
Whose deepness doth entice such forward wits
To practice more than heavenly power permits.

Hero and Lkander.

Mus-Sus, a Greek poet of the fourth century before Christ, related
the tragical story of the love of Hero and Leander in three hundred
and forty-one lines. This poem attracted attention in the revival of
learning, and was first turned into English by Marlowe, who amplified
the story but left it incomplete. George Chapman (1557-1634) finished
the paraphrase, but not with equal success.

Of Marlowe's version of this favorite classic tale it will suffice to
quote Swinburne's estimate. " His poem stands alone in its age, and
far ahead of any possible competition between the death of Spenser and
the dawn of Milton. In clear mastery of narrative and presentation,
in melodious ease and simplicity of strength, it is not less pre-eminent
than in the adorable beauty and perfection of separate lines or passages."

IvOVE AT First Sight.

(From the First Sestiad by Marlowe.)

On Hellespont, guilty of true love's blood,
In view and opposite two cities stood,
Sea-borderers, disjoined by Neptune's might;
The one Abydos, the other Sestos hight.
At Sestos Hero dwelt ; Hero the fair.
Whom young Apollo courted for her hair,

engush: wteraturb. 341

And offered as a dower his burning throne,

Where she should sit, for men to gaze upon.

The outside of her garments were of lawn.

The lining purple silk, with gilt stars drawn ;

Her wide sleeves green, and bordered with a grove,

Where Venus in her naked glory strove

To please the careless and disdainful eyes

Of proud Adonis, that before her lies ;

Her kirtle blue, whereon was many a stain,

Made with the blood of wretched lovers slain.

Upon her head she wore a myrtle wreath,

From whence her veil reached to the ground beneath :

Her veil was artificial flowers and leaves,

Whose workmanship both man and beast deceives :

Many would praise the sweet smell as she passed,

When 'twas the odor which her breath forth cast;

And there for honey bees have sought in vain,

And, beat from thence, have lighted there again.

About her neck hung chains of pebble-stone.

Which, lightened by her neck, like diamonds shone.

She wore no gloves ; for neither sun nor wind

Would burn or parch her hands, but, to her mind.

Or warm or cool them, for they took delight

To play upon those hands, they were so white.

Buskins of shells, all silvered, used she,

And branched with blushing coral to the knee ;

Where sparrows perched, of hollow pearl and gold,

Such as the world would wonder to behold :

Those with sweet water oft her handmaid fills.

Which as she went, would cherup through their bills.

Some say, for her the fairest Cupid pin'd.

And, looking in her face, was strooken blind.

But this is true ; so like was one the other.

As he imagined Hero was his' mother ;

And oftentimes into her bosom flew,

About her naked neck his bare arms threw, "

And laid his childish head upon her breast.

And, with still panting rocked, there took his rest.

On this feast-day, — O cursed day and hour! —
Went Hero thorough Sestos, from her bower
To Venus' temple, where unhaRnily,

342 WTERATURB OF ALI, NATIONS.

As after chanced, they did each other spy.
So fair a church as this had Venus none :
The walls were of discolored jasper-stone,
Wherein was Proteus carved ; and over-head
A lively vine of green sea-agate spread,
Where by one hand light-headed Bacchus hung,
And with the other wine from grapes out-wrung.
Of crystal shining fair the pavement was ;
The town of Sestos called it Venus' glass :

For know, that underneath this radiant flower

Was Danae's statue in a brazen tower;

Jove slyly stealing from his sister's bed,

To dally with Idalian Ganymed,

And for his love Europa bellowing loud.

And tumbling with the Rainbow in a cloud ;

Blood-quaffing Mars heaving the iron net

Which limping Vulcan and his Cyclops set ;

Love kindling fire, to burn such towns as Troy ;

Silvanus weeping for the lovely boy

That now is turned into a cypress-tree.

Under whose shade the wood-gods love to be.

And in the midst a silver altar stood :

There Hero, sacrificing turtles' blood, \doves'

Veiled to the ground, veiling her eyelids close ;

And modestly they opened as she rose;

Thence flew Love's arrow with the golden head;

And thus X,eander was enamored.

Stone-still he stood, and evermore he gazed.

Till with the fire, that from his countenance blazed.

Relenting Hero's gentle heart was strook:

Such force and virtue had an amorous look.

It lies not in our power to love or hate,
For will in us is over-ruled by fate.
When two are stripped, long ere the course begin.
We wish that one should lose, the other win ;
And one especially do we affect
Of two gold ingots, like in each respect :
The reason no man knows ; let it suffice.
What we behold is censured by our eyes.
Where both deliberate, the love is slight :
Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?

«NGi,isH wT5RATur:e. 343

He kneeled ; but unto her devoutly prayed ;
Chaste Hero to herself thus softly said,
" Were I the saint he worships, I would hear him ; "
And, as she spake those words, came somewhat near him.
He started up ; she blushed as one ashamed ;
Wherewith I^eander much more was inflamed.
He touched her hand; in touching it she trembled:
lyove deeply grounded, hardly is dissembled.
These lovers parleyed by the touch of hand£ : '

True love is mute, and oft amazed stands.
Thus while dumb signs their yielding hearts entangled,
The air with sparks of living fire was spangled ;
And night, deep-drenched in misty Acheron,
Heaved up her head, and half the world upon
Breathed darkness forth (dark night is Cupid's day):
And now begins I,eander to display
Love's holy fire, with words, with sighs, and tears ;
Which,' like sweet music, entered Hero's ears ;
And yet at every word she turned aside,
And always cut him off, as he replied.

These arguments he used, and many more ;
Wherewith she yielded, that was won before.
Hero's looks yielded, but her words made war ;
Women are won when they begin to jar.
Thus having swallowed Cupid's golden hook.
The more she strived, the deeper was she strook :
Yet, evilly feigning anger, strove she still.
And would be thought to grant against her will.
So having paused awhile, at last she said,
" Who taught thee rhetoric to deceive a maid ?
Ay me ! such words as these should I abhor,
And yet I like them for the orator."
With that Leander stooped to have embraced her,
But from his spreading arms away she cast her,
And thus bespake him : ' ' Gentle youth, forbear
To touch the sacred garments which I wear.
Upon a rock, and underneath a hill.
Far from the town (where all is whist and still.
Save that the sea, playing on yellow sand,
Sends forth a rattling murmur to the land.
Whose sound allures the golden Morpheus

344 UTBRATURB OP AH, NATIONS.

In silence of the night to visit us),

My turret stands ; and there, God knows, I play

With Venus' swans and sparrows all the day.

A dwarfish beldam bears me company,

That hops about the chamber where I lie,

And spends the night, that might be better spent,

In vain discourse and apish merriment : —

Come thither." As she- spake this, her tongue tripped,

For unawares, " Come thither," from her slipped;

And suddenly her former color changed,

And here and there her eyes through anger ranged ;

And, like a planet moving several ways

At one self instant, she, poor soul, assays,

Loving, not to love at all, and every part

Strove to resist the motions of her heart :

And hands so pure, so innocent, nay, such

As might have made Heaven stoop to have a touch,

Did she uphold to Venus, and again

Vowed spotless chastity ; but all in vain ;

Cupid beats down her prayers with his wings ;

Her vows about the empty air he flings :

All deep enraged, his sinewy bow he bent,

And shot a shaft that burning from him went;

Wherewith she strooken, looked so dolefully.

As made Ivove sigh to see his tyranny ;

And, as she wept, her tears to pearl he turned,

And wound them on his arm, and for her mourned.

GEORGE CHAPMAN.

Keats'S famous sonnet, " On Reading Chapman's Homer,"
has given this translator lasting fame, not undeserved. Al-
though he deliberately undertook to "adorn his original,"
and introduced many peculiarities of Elizabethan verse, yet
he retained the fire and vigor of Homer. In no other trans-
lation is the rapidity of the Greek so well represented, though
often at the expense of its grand simplicity. In his " Iliads ' '
he used rhymed verses of fourteen syllables, thus approaching
more closely to the original hexameters than in the heroic
couplet used by Pope, or the blank verse of Cowper and Bry-
ant. In the "Odyssey" Chapman employed the ten-syllabled
iambic verse, but wielded it with less power than he had

COPYRIGHT, 1900

GrVON BOOe^JHAUSEN, Pinx

HERO AND LEANDER

ISNOLISH WTERATURB. 345

shown witli the other. ~ Chapman was bom in 1557, and re-
ceived a university education. He wrote many plays, but had
not true dramatic force. His best tragedy is the " Bussy
d' Ambois." He delighted in conceits and in a show of learning,
and when he found that readers did not care for it, he vowed
that he detested popularity. Besides translating the whole of
Homer, he took up Marlowe's unfinished " Hero and I^eander "
and brought the story to a close; He died in 1634.

The Drowned Lover.

(From the Sixth Sestiad of " Hero and Meander" by Chapman.)
Night, close and silent, now goes fast before
The captains and the soldiers to the shore,
On whom attend the appointed fleet'
At Sestos bay, that should I^eander meet.
Who feigned he in another ship would pass ;
Which must not be, for no one mean there was
To get his love home but the course he took.
Forth did his beauty* for his beauty look.
And saw her through her torch, as you behold
Sometimes within the sun a face of gold.
Formed in strong thought, by that tradition's force.
That says a god sits there and guides his course.
His sister was with him, to whom he showed
His guide by sea, and said — "Oft have you viewed
In one heaven many stars, but never yet
In one star many heavens till now were met.
See, lovely sister, see, now Hero shines.
No heaven but hers appears, each star repines,
And all are clad in clouds, as if they mourned
To be by influence of earth out-burned."
Off went his silk robe and in he leapt.
Whom the kind waves so licorously cleapt,
Thickening for haste one on another so.
To kiss his skin, that he might almost go
To Hero's tower, had that kind minute lasted ;
. But now the cruel Fates with Ate hasted
To all the winds, and made them battle fight
Upon the Hellespont for cither's right,
Pretended to the windy monarchy.

* A fantastic expression for his eye.

346 LITSRATURS OP AI,I, NATIONS.

And forth they break : the seas mixed with the sky,
And tossed distressed Leander, being in hell,
As high as heaven. — Bliss not in height doth dwell.
The Destinies sat dancing on the waves.
To see the glorious winds with mutual braves
Consume each other. Poor Iveander cried
For help to sea-born Venus — she denied ;
To Boreas, that, for his Atthea's sake.
He would some pity on his Hero take,
And for his own love's sake on his desires:
But glory never blows cold pity's fires.
Then called he Neptune, who through all the noise
Knew with affright his wracked I^eander's voice,
And up he rose : for haste his forehead hit
'Gainst heaven's hard crystal ; his proud waves he smit
With his forked sceptre, that could not obey;
Much greater power than Neptune's gave them .sway.
They loved I^eander so, in groans they brake,
When they came near him, and such space did take
'Twixt one another, loath to issue on,
That in their shallow furrows earth was shown.
And the poor lover took a little breath ;
But the cursed Fates sat spinning of his death
On every wave, and with the servile winds
Tumbled them on him. And now Hero finds.
By that she felt, her dear I<eander's state.
She wept and prayed for him to every Fate ;
And every wind that whipped her with her hair
About the face, she kissed and spake it fair,
, Kneeled to it, gave it drink out of her eyes.
To quench his thirst ; but still their cruelties
F'en her poor torch envied, and rudely beat
The bating flame from that dear food it ate :
Dear, for it nourished her Leander's life.
Which with her robe she rescued from their strife.
But silk too soft was such hard hearts to break,
And she, dear soul, e'en as her silk, faint, weak, '
Could not preserve it — Out, oh, out it went !

I/Cander still called Neptune, that now rent
His brackish curls and tore his wrinkled face.
Where tears in billows did each other chase ;
And, burst with ruth, he hurled his marble mace

KNGWSH l,lT:eRATURB. 347

At the stem Fates,: it wounded I^achesis,
That drew i^eander's thread, and could not miss
The thread itself, as it her hand did hit,
But smote it full, and quite did sunder it.
The more kind Neptune raged, the more he rased
His love's life's fort and killed as' he embraced;
O thievish Fates ! to let blood, flesh and sense.
Build two fairS^emples for their excellence,
To rob it with a poisoned influence.

And now did all the tyrannous crew depart,
Knowing there was a storm in Hero's heart
Greater than they could make and scorned their smart.
She bowed herself so low out of her tower,
That wonder 'twas she fell not ere her hour,
With searching the lamenting waves for him.
Like a poor snail^ her gentle supple limb
Hung on her turret's top, so most downright.
As she would dive beneath the darkness quite.
To find her jewel, jewel, her I^eander ;
A name of all earth's jewels pleased not her,
I/ike his dear name — ' ' Leander, still my choice !
Come nought but my Leander : O my voice,
Turn to I^eander ; henceforth be all sounds,
Accents and phrases, that show all grief's wounds,
Annalized in I^eander. O black change !
Trumpets, do you, with thunder of your clang,
Drive out this change's horror ; my voice faints,
Where all joy was, now shriek out all complaints."

Thus criM she, for her vexed soul could tell
Her love was dead. And when the morning fell
Prostrate upon the weeping earth for woe.
Blushes that bled out of her cheeks, did show
I^eander brought by Neptune bruised and torn.
With cities' ruins he to rocks had worn,
To filthy usuring rocks that would have blood,
Though they could get of him no other good.
She saw him and the sight was much, much more.
Than might have served to kill her, should her store
Of giant sorrow speak, burst, die, bleed.
And leave poor plaints to us that shall succeed.
She fell on her love's bosom, hugged it fast,
And with Meander's name she breathed her last.

a

Books innumerable have
done homage to Shake-
speare's genius, great libra-
ries in various languages
have grown in the process
of revealing his mastery
over thought and expres-
sion, sounding his depth and measuring his height as the
supreme poet of all time, and yet, after all, he dwells remote
as a star. His radiance we see and feel, his omniscience in
the realm of human nature declares itself, but the author of
those world-embracing, world-revealing works remains imper-
sonal, known by that face serenely noble, but hardly other
sure signs of common mortality ; an intangible embodiment
of all the forces and graces possible to prose and poetry.

William Shakespeare was born at Stratford-on-Avon,
Warwickshire, on St. George's day, April 23d, 1564. His
father a well-to-do trader in that market town, rose through
various honorary offices to be its high-bailiff, or mayor. He
was able to give William, the first-born of eight children,
as good an education as the town afforded. Ben Jonson un-
graciously tells us he had " little Latin and less Greek," but
there is evidence in his earliest plays, and in the choice of
theme for his poems, to show that Shakespeare had absorbed
the soul of classical learning. He was taken from school at
fourteen to help his father in business, and perhaps there
acquired the education in the world's ways that shows so
maturely in his earliest work. His father's prodigal good-
fellowship, leading to poverty and shame without positive
disgrace, did not lessen the son's aptitude for conviviality,
though it taught him prudence. There are some traditions

BNGWSH UTERATURB. 349

of a deer-Stealing frolic, with troublesome consequences. The
sudden marriage of this lad of eighteen to Anne Hathaway,
his senior by eight years, is one of the few leading facts of
this period. Before he reached his twenty-first birthday
Shakespeare was the father of three children, two being twins.
Shrewd as he was in worldly affairs, he had no taste for
the drudgery of the market-place. Doubtless he had revelled
in the stage-plays that were given on holidays, the mysteries,
masques and May-pole dances that linked mediaevalism w'ith
the new era of the Reformation and Renaissance. Three of
the foremost actor-playwrights of the new stage were Strat-
ford men, Burbage, Heminge and Greene, and they may have
pricked young Shakespeare's ambition. He went to London
when he was about three-and-twenty, and for the next five
years there are no details of his doings, except that he visited
his country home at least once each year, and took active
interest in his father's affairs as well as his own. He had
established himself as an actor and an acceptable writer of
plays by 1592. The "Venus and Adonis" was published
in 1593, with dedication to the Earl of Southampton, who
was not yet of age, but none the less a patron and something
more. This was the dawn of wider fame for the hard-work-
ing, versatile young countryman. Coldly classical, yet youth-
fully lavish in florid imagery and gorgeous color,, this rare
first effort disclosed powers which none were better able to
estimate at their full value than he. His envious, because
outstript, rival, Greene, wrote in that same year the well-
known snarl at the ' ' upstart crow, beautiful in our feathers,
that, with his tiger's heart wrapped in a player's hide,
supposes he is as well able to bombast out a blank verse
as the best of (us), and being an absolute Johannes Factotum,
is, in his own conceit, the only Shakescene in the country."
It was the rule to patch up and recast other people's plays,
and make new ones out of any old story that had the requisite
backbone of dramatic interest. Step by step Shakespeare felt
his way on this path to creative authorship. By 1599, besides
various collaborations with others, he had produced "Love's
Labor Lost," the " Comedy of Errors," " Two Gentlemen of
Verona," and "A Midsummer Night's Dream." By the time

350 liITERATURlt OF AI<I, NATIONS.

he was thirty-three he was able to buy a house in his native
town, with two gardens and barns. He was soon part owner
of the Blackfriars and Globe theatres.

The times were ripe for greatness in every venture. What
new forces came into play in those palpitating Elizabethan
days need no describing here. It was sunrise after night,
renewed life after seeming death. There had come a bracing
wave of inspiration which kindled enthusiasm in each strong
spirit. England was putting on her strength against the de-
signs of suspected enemies of church and state. Patriotic fervor
stirred poets no less than soldiers, and moved the playwrights
to turn history to account in their portrayal of mighty human
passions. This brought new interest and power to the thea-
tre. The defeat of the Spanish Armada turned old England
into a new world of great hearts, throbbing with high aspira-
tions, bent upon achieving conquests hitherto undreamed of.
Her sailors swept the seas in quest of glory and gold. Her
poets sang as never before of honor, love, beauty, national
greatness. Printing was done, but books were scarce. Yet
these voices must have a place to be heard, the moving scenes
of their own as well of ancient history demanded a stage-set-
ting to school the masses into patriotic pride, and to furnish
a vent for the proud gifts of the poets and players. So rose
the theatre to its highest pitch as a vital influence, and with it
rose the dramatists who understood the drift of things, and
saw into the secret of destiny in its workings on a strong
people. Shakespeare took the tide at its flood. He was him-
self the mirror of his times. Large and small, he had stored
something of every experience possible to boy, youth or man
in those stirring days. What balance of experience he missed
in his own person he richly made up by use of an imagination
that realized all that others only fancy. Power such as- this
inevitably compelled success, as it is accounted in the market,
and outwardly this was enough for him.

For twenty years Shakespeare worked at his theatrical
business, dropping out of the actor list. In 1596 his only son,
Hamnet, died, a lad of twelve, and several relations in the
same year. His Stratford properties, when he was forty-one,
yielded him an income equal to seventeen hundred dollars a

ENGWSH WTBRATURB.

351

SHAKESPEARE'S HOUSE.

year, and he got probably twice as much from the theatres.
In 1607 his eldest daughter, Susanna, married an eminent local
physician, and his mother died. Soon after this he retired
from lyondon and his professional life, spending his last years
in his native town. Remembering his father's embittered
latter years, Shakespeare husbanded his means with the prac-
tical sagacity that from the start was the secret of his success,
compared with the recklessness of such as Marlowe. After
a few years of opulent
ease as a country gentle-
man, delighting to play
the host to his old com-
rades, Ben Jonson, Dray-
ton and the rest, Shake-
speare was carried oft
by a three days' fever on
his •fifty-second birthday.
His monument in the
chancel of the Stratford church, and his epitaphs, there and
in the books, are well known. His widow survived him seven
years. His property he left to his daughters, with legacies to
some of his associates and to the poor of Stratford.

The sources on which Shakespeare drew for his English
historical plays were mainly Holinshed's "Chronicles," pub-
lished in 1577. North's English translation of Plutarch's
' ' Lives ' ' served for the Roman plays . The stories of Lear,
Cymbeline, Macbeth, and Hamlet, came from Holinshed and
other old chronicles, and Saxo Grammaticus, which had been
already used in poems and crude plays. For the Greek plots
Shakespeare was indebted to Caxton's histories of Troy, and
to Chaucer's and Chapman's poems. Romeo, Shylock, Bene-
dick and Beatrice, Othello, and a few light comedy charac-
ters came from the Italian, in which Shakespeare was more
or less versed, and the writings of Boccaccio, Ariosto, Ban-
dello, and others, were in the height of popularity. The
"Midsummer Night's Dream," "As You Like It," and the
"Winter's Tale," are English, as also one or two of the
group, " Love's Labor's Lost," " Two Gentlemen of Verona,"
" The Merry Wives of Windsor " and " The Tempest."

352 WTERATUKE OP Ail, NATIONS.

The earliest tragedy, "Titus Andronicus," is held to be
only partly, if at all, by Shakespeare. Certain it is that he
discarded this gruesome style ever after, though lines from it
are repeated in later plays of his. It may have been his
trial-piece leading up to his first serious attempt in tragedy,
on nobler lines than those chosen by Kyd and Marlowe before
him. His first entirely original piece was the whimsical
comedy "Love's Labor Lost," a sprightly poking of fun at
the pedantry then in fashion. But Shakespeare's profound
mastery of life as it is shows itself thus early in his dashing
down the cup of pleasure just as it touches the expectant
lip. This strikes the key-note of all Shakespeare's creations.
He sees that fortune's favorites no more than he can escape
the sudden lowering cloud with its torrent and thunderbolt,
even in the sunny joy of a midsummer day's frolic. This
grim reality he never forgets and never flinches from remind-
ing us. And the same recklessness of fate is thrust into the
tragedies, where intermittent gleams of irresistible humor
unexpectedly light up the scene when the tension gets
unbearable. This shows with what all-embracing grasp he
seizes upon the complete scene, whether of thought or action,
omitting no factor that goes to the making up of an abso-
lutely true picture to the life. Be it natural gift or acquired
art — or more likely both — the thing is unique in the produc-
tions of young men, and we must keep in mind that no poet
or painter, or man of action, however great his conquest,
ever comprehended so vast a diversity of achievements as are
found in a single play.

The early comedies indicate the trend towards grander
effort, as in the "Merchant of Venice," "Much Ado about
Nothing," and "As You Like it," and also towards tragedy.
The "Midsummer Night's Dream," when played at all, is
still presented as the masque it probably was written to be,
but there is a world of Shakespeare study in it. He gives
his genius free play in any and all directions it fancies, noble
characters majestically discourse and act, nature decks herself
in fullest charms, poetry soars like the eagle and sings like
the nightingale, and the enchanted realm of fairyland conde-
scends to become real to every sense. Then, as if to dare the

ENGWSH WTBRATURB. 353

perils of failure, Shakespeare picks up a handful of British
boors, rough, ignorant, clumsy and stupid, and sets them
gravely burlesquing the ranting tragedy that ruled the stage
and the public. He has made one of his heroes speak of the
poet, the lunatic, and the lover, as much the same in mental
make-up. Here if anywhere is to found the thin line that
divides madness from genius, for genius never towered higher
over conventionality than when Shakespeare so audaciously
mixed ugliness with beauty, nonsense with philosophy, tragic
elements with clownish simplicity, poesy with grossness, and
sprites with mortals, as in this illuminating fantasy.

The historical plays, in spite of their many-sidedness, show
Shakespeare as a true Briton. The English plays bristle with
all the activities of that restless time. The characters seem born
for the stage, strong temperaments moving simple-minded men
to great actions, good or bad. The scenes are crowded with
types of the country and period, kings, nobles, adventurers,
rakes, carousers, and women of every grade. They move in
all the actuality of daily life, letting out their real thoughts,
hiding nothing, qualifying no blunt utterance to suit a tender
taste, but, on the other hand, never did kings speak such
majestic English, nor the typical characters give voice to such
poetry, such eloquence or ruggedly powerful speech. It is
tempting to pick out our supposed Shakespeare from passages
in these plays which have the clear ring of individual sincer-
ity, but we are not in the presence of an individual, but of a
universal man, who interprets all that stirs all men's souls.
We may, however, safely trace the English heart of him in
every page. Dowden groups these plays, omitting the doubt-
ful Henry VHI., not wholly Shakespeare's, into two sets of
three each, one set consisting of studies of kingly weakness,
the other of kingly strength. In the former we have King
John, King Richard II. , and King Henry VI ; in the latter
King Henry IV., King Henry V., and King Richard III.

In the great tragedies the genius, the painstaking art, the
expanded powers, and the ripeness of Shakespeare's exper-
ience find their consummation. "Hamlet" was composed
in his thirty-ninth year, completed, most probably, after long
labor. Over this great tragic poem of action the profoundest

IV— 23

354 UTERATTJRB OF All, NATIONS.

minds of three centuries have never wearied trying " to pluck
the heart out of its mystery," without success in agreement.
To Hamlet, the pliant weathercock of every veering breeze,
succeeded Othello, the sport of brute passion, Lear, sublimest
tragedy of blind fatalism, Macbeth, weak victim of super-
stition and a stronger will, Antony, the prey of infatuation,
Coriolanus, the victim of pride, with the earlier Julius Csesar,
and the later Timon. They are seen on the stage, and read
and studied by young and old as part of our necessary cul-
ture, and the opinions of scholars, poets, and competent
actor-students are accessible to all. They place these trage-
dies, with their many blemishes, at the summit of human
achievement with mind and pen. '

Not tospeakof the thick stratum of fun that runs through
Shakespeare's work would be to forget an element as vital as
his poetic gift in any attempt to estimate his power. It is
not to be lightly labelled as humor, much less as wit, nor
even drollery. It is literally the natural expression of the
delight in fun innate in every human being, which expression
varies with breed and circumstances, but insists on its right
to share in every other expression of emotions. Shakespeare
would have abhorred the delusion that humor can be manu-
factured and purveyed to order. He allows it as free play
as tears and passion, and in its fine and coarse variety, ofteu
jarring but never pointless, we have one more evidence of his
fidelity to truth, and of his universality.

This word recalls the strange isolation, already referred
to, of the man from his work. He lives in it, paints his
mind's portrait somewhere on every page, yet so broken up
that it defies piecing with any certainty that the mosaic is
the true man. If he is a realist of realists in the plays, what
of his idealism in the Sonnets? Here his mysteriousness
grows still more vague. In them he is two personalities at
least, in his plays he is a hundred. Whatever he was when
he took up his pen, that was the man he then portrayed,
and who so faithfully, who so inexpressibly beautifully?
The Sonnets reflect every phase of the "lunatic lover's"
malady; he had gone through the entire experience, and
he frankly tells it. As sonnets they break through the

SNGWSH WTKRATURE. 355

strict rule, as indeed their author burst every fettering law
of poetical art, and grammar itself, when his Muse took
wing. Taine marks this unrestrainable rush of ideas : " He
imagines with copiousness and excess . . . Ready, impetu-
ous, impassioned, delicate, his genius is pure imagination,
touched more vividly and by slighter things than ours.
Hence his style, blooming with exuberant images, loaded
with exaggerated metaphors, whose strangeness is like inco-
herence, whose wealth is superabundant, the work of a mind
which, at the least incitement, produces too much and leaps
too far.' ' Anything next to hand is pressed into service to
eke out a line or give a thought the precise tint needed, but
how that thought burns, how that line sings, through and
above their verbal cage !

His measureless greatness has provoked attempts to rob
Shakespeare of his authorship, or to share it for him with
Lord Bacon, l^he thing is interesting only as throwing light
on a curious inisdirection of ingenuity, particularly that
which laboriously constructs a cipher out of the plays in
distant imitation of Poe's brilliant "Gold Bug" exploit.

Shakespeare being human, bad his limitations. It is
interesting to know that though he lived in the exciting
Reformation time he gives no portrait of either Catholic
or Protestant. Neither does he introduce an artist, a stu-
dent, or a printer, important factors in the Renaissance
then progressing. Nor is an Irishman grouped among
the Scotch and Welsh characters. Nor has he confessed
his convictions in matters religious, political, or social. He
honors strong kings and good people, cherishes true sym-
pathy with all sorts and conditions of men and women in
their struggle against the ills of life, and through his least
lovely characters, and in his surface vulg&rity at its worst, he
preaches the unvarying gospel of duty as the only true hap-
piness. He holds the mirror up to myriad-sided nature,
without caring one straw whether nature enjoys it or not.
He makes us see, whether we want to see or not, the working
of inexorable law, the sure penance that folly and evil bring,
and he has no compunction about illustrating the fall of
inscrutable Fate's blow on the good insteiad of the wicked.

356 WTERATURB OF AI,I, NATIONS.

In it all he detects a core of absurdity, wliicli he bids us
welcome and laugh at, as a relief. And above this mystery
of nature, pain, fate, he points to the stars, and above them
the silent Power that moves in ways mysterious to us, who
grope in the dark. Shakespeare's endowment was so vast,
so all-comprising, that the world sums up its veneration in
his own phrase, " None but himself can be his parallel."

RoMBo AND Juliet.

ScSTS^.-^Capulef s garden.

(Romeo, belonging to the Montague family of Verona, has fallen
in love with Juliet, of the family of the Capulets, with whom the
Montagues have a deadly feud. Romeo, with some friends, goes to the
Capulets' house. Returning, he outran his companions, climbed the
wall of Capulet's garden, and leaped down inside.)

Romeo. He jests at scars, that never felt a wound. -^

\_Juliet appears above, at a window.
But soft ! what light through yonder window breaks ?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun !
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief.
That thou her maid, art far more fair than she.
It is my lady : O, it is my love :
O, that she knew she were !

She speaks, yet says she nothing : what of that ?
Her eye discourses, I will answer it.
I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks :
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head ?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp ; her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright.
That birds would sing, and think it were not night.
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand !
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek !

Juliet. Ah me!

Romeo. She speaks : —
O, speak again, bright angel ! for thou art

ENGLISH WT^RATURB. 357

' As glorious to this night, being o'er my head,
As is a winged messenger of heaven
Unto the white-upturned wond'ring eyes
Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him.
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds,
And sails upon the bosom of the air.

Juliet O Romeo, Romeo ! wherefore art thou Romeo ?
Deny thy father, and refuse thy name ;
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love.
And I'll no longer be a Capulet.

Romeo. Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this ? {Aside.

Juliet. 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy ; —
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What's Montague? it is nor hand nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face. O be some other name !
What's in a name? that which we call a rose.
By any other name would smell as sweet ;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes,
Without that title.-;— Romeo, doff thy name ;
And for thy name, which is no part of thee.
Take all myself.

Romeo. I take thee at thy word :
Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized;
Henceforth I never will be Romeo.

Juliet. What man art thou, that thus bescreen'd in night
So stumblest on my counsel ?

Romeo. By a name
I know not how to tell thee who I am ;
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,
Because it is an enemy to thee ;
Had I it written, I would tear the word.

Juliet. My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words
Of thy tongue's uttering, yet I know the sound ;
Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague ?

Romeo. Neither, fair saint, if either thee displease.

Juliet. How cam'st thou hither, tell me? and wherefore?
The orchard wall is high, and hard to climb ;
And the place death, considering who thou art,
If any of my kinsmen find thee here.

Romeo. With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these
walls;

358 WTBBATURB OP ALI, NATIONS.

For stony limits cannot hold love out :

And what love can do, that dares love attempt ;

Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.

Juliet. If they do see thee, they will murder thee.

Romeo. Alack ! there lies more peril in thine eye,
Than twenty of their swords ; look thou but sweet,
And I am proof against their enmity.

Juliet. I would not for the world they saw thee here.

Romeo. I have night's cloak to hide me from their eyes ;
And, but thou love me, let them find me here ;
My life were better ended by their hate.
Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love.

Juliet. By whose direction found' st thou out this place?

Romeo. By love, that first did prompt me to inquire ;
He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes.
I am no pilot ; yet, wert thou as far
As that vast shore wash'd with the farthest sea,
I would adventure for such merchandise.

Juliet. Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face.
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek,
For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night.
Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny
What I have spoke. But farewell compliment !
Dost thou love me ? I know thou wilt say — Ay ;
And I will take thy word : yet, if thou swear'st,
Thou may'st prove false ; at lovers' perjuries,
Thej' say, Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo,
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully :
Or, if thou think' st I am too quickly won,
I'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay,
So thou wilt woo ; but, else, not for the world.
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond ;
And therefore thou may'st think my 'havior light:
But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true
Than those that have more cunning to be strange.
I should have been more strange, I must confess,
^ But that thou overheard'st, ere I was 'ware.
My true love's passion : therefore pardon me ;
And not impute this yielding to light love.
Which the dark night hath so discovered.'

Romeo. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear.
That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops, —

BNGWSH MTBRATURB. 359

Juliet. O, swear not by the moon, tli' inconstant moon,
That monthly changes in her circled orb,
I<est that thy love prove likewise variable.

Romeo. What shall I swear by ?

Juliet. Do not swear at all ;
Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,
Which is the god of my idolatry.
And I'll believe thee.

Romeo. If my heart's dear lov6 —

Juliet. Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee,
I have no joy in this contract to-night :
It is too rash, too unadvis'd, too sudden ;
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be,
Ere one can say — It lightens ! Sweet, good night !
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath.
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.
Good night, good night ! as sweet repose and rest
Come to thy heart, as that within my breast !

[Nurse calls within.

Juliet. I hear some noise within ; dear love, adieu !
Anon, good nurse ! — Sweet Montague, be true.
Stay but a little, I will come again! \Exit.

Romeo. O blessed, blessed night ! I am afeard,
Being in night, all this is but a dream.
Too flattering-sweet to be substantial.

Re-enter Juliet ^ above.
. Juliet. Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed.
If that thy bent of love be honorable,
Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow.
By one that I'll procure to come to thee.
Where, and what time, thou wilt perform the rite ;
And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay.
And follow thee my lord throughout the world.

Nurse (within). Madam.

Juliet. I come, anon: — But if thou mean'st not well,
I do beseech thee —

Nurse (within). Madam.

Juliet. By and by, I come. —
To cease thy strife, and leave me to my grief:
To-morrow will I send.

Romeo. So thrive my soul,—

360 LITERATURE OF AW. NATIONS.

Juliet. A thousand times good-night ! \_Exit.

Romeo. A thousand times the worse, to want thy light —
I/3ve goes toward love, as schoolboys from their books ;
But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.

[Retiring slowly,
Re-enter Juliet, above.

Juliet. Hist ! Romeo, hist ! — O, for a falconer's voice,
To lure this tassel-gentle back again !
Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud ;
Else would I tear the cave where echo lies,
And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine
With repetition of my Romeo's name.

Romeo (returning). It is my soul, that calls upon my
name:
How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night,
I/ike softest music to attending ears !

Juliet. Romeo.

Romeo. My sweet !

Juliet. What o'clock to-morrow
Shall I send to thee ?

Romeo. By the hour of nine.

Juliet. I will not fail : 'tis twenty year till then.
I have forgot why I did call thee back.

Romeo. I^t me stand here till thou remember it.

Juliet. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there,
Rememb'ring how I love thy company.

Romeo. And I'll still stay, to hav,e thee still forget,
Forgetting any other home but this.

Juliet. 'Tis almost morning, I would have thee gone :
And yet no further than a wanton's bird :
Who lets it hop a little from her hand,
Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves.
And with a silk thread plucks it back again,
So loving-jealous of his liberty.

Romeo. I would I were thy bird. !

Juliet. Sweet, so would I :
Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing.
Good night, good night ! parting is such sweet sorrow.
That I shall say good night, till it be morrow. {Exit.

Romeo. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy
breast !
Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest !

ENGWSH UTERATUHE. 361

The Tomb of the Capulets.

(Paris, to ■whom Juliet had been promised in marriage, mourns
her death. He sends his page to watch against intrusion, and then
scatters flowers before the door of the tomb, in which lies Juliet, sup-
posed to be dead.)

Paris. Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew,
(O woe ! thy canopy is dust and stones !)
Which with sweet water nightly I will dew,
Or, wanting that, with tears distilled by moans :
The obsequies that I for thee will keep,
Nightly shall be, to strew thy grave and weep.

(The boy then whistles as signal of some one's approach, and Paris
retires. Romeo and his servant Balthasar enter with a torch, mattock,
etc. Romeo having given Balthasar a letter to be delivered to his
father the next morning, commands him, on pain of instant death, to
leave him. Balthasar promises to do so, but resolves to wait in the
neighborhood, being frightened at his master's looks. Romeo then
proceeds to burst open the tomb, when he is interrupted by Paris, who
believing him to have come with some evil intent, rushes upon him
and endeavors to arrest him. Romeo, after praying him to depart and
not to tempt a desperate man, is compelled to draw in self-defence, and
after a short combat Paris falls. The Page, in terror, runs to call the
Watch.)

Paris. Oh, I am slain ! {falls). — If thou be merciful,
Open the tomb, lay me with Juliet (dies).

Romeo. In faith I will ; — lyet me peruse this face ;
Mercutio's kinsman, — noble county Paris:
"What said my man, when my betossM soul
Did not attend him as we rode ? I think
He told me Paris should have married Juliet ;
Said he not so? or did I dream it so ?
Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet,
To think it was so ? — Oh, give me thy hand,
One writ with me in sour misfortune's book !
I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave, —
A grave ? Oh no ; a lantern, slaughtered youth,
For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes
This vault a feasting presence full of light.
Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interred.

\Laying Paris in the monument.

362 UTBRATTJRE OP A1,I, NATIONS.

How oft when men are at the point of death
Have they been merry ; which their keepers call
A light'ning before death : Oh, how may I
Call this a light'ning ? — O my love ! my wife !
Death that hath sucked the honey of thy breath,
Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty :
Thou art not conquered ; beauty's ensign yet
Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks.
And death's pale flag is not advanced there —
Ah dear Juliet,

"Why art thou yet so fair ? — Kyes, look your last —
Arms, take your last embrace ! and lips, O you
The doors of breath seal with a righteous kiss,
A dateless bargain to engrossing death ! —
Come, bitter conduct — come, unsavory guide !
Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on
The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark !
Here's to my love ! {drinks) O true apothecary ;
Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die {dies).

(Friar Laurence enters at the other end of the churchyard with a
lantern, crow and spade. The Friar, stumbling along, comes upon
Balthasar, who tells him that Romeo is already at the tomb, on which
hehastens forward.)

Friar. Fear comes upon me.
Oh, much I fear some ill, unlucky thing.
Alack, alack, what blood is this, which stains
The stony entrance of this sepulchre ?
What mean these masterless and gory swords
To lie discolored by this place of peace?
Romeo ! Oh, pale ! — "Who else ? "What, Paris too ?
And steeped in blood ? — Ah, what an unkind hour
Is guilty of this lamentable chance ! —
The lady stirs. [Juliet wakes aud stirs.

Juliet. O comfortable friar ! where is my lord ?
I do remember well where I should be,
And there I am : where is my Romeo ? \Noise within.

Friar. I hear some noise. — Lady, come from that nest
Of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep ;
A greater power than we can contradict
Hath thwarted our intents. Come, — come away :
Thy husband in thy bosom there lies dead ;

ENGLISH MTERATTJRE.

363

And Paris too. Come, I'll dispose of thee
Among a sisterhood of holy nuns :
Stay not to question, for the watch is coming ;
Come, go, good Juliet — {noise again). I dare no longer
stay. {Exit.

Juliet. Go, get thee hence, for I will not away.
What's here? a cup, closed in my true love's hand !
Poison, I see, has been his timeless end :
O churl ! drink all ; and left no friendly drop
To help me after ? I will kiss thy lips ;
Haply some poison yet doth hang on them.
To make me die with a restorative. [Kisses him.

Thy lips are warm !

jst Watch (within'). Lead, boy! Which way? '

Juliet. Yea, noise? — then I'll be brief. — O haippy dagger!

[Snatching Romeo's dagger.

This is thy sheath ; {stabs herself) there rust and let me

die. [Falls on Romeo's body and dies.

(The Watch enters and, finding the dead bodies, send at once for
the Prince, while others search the churchyard, and presently bring in
'Balthasar and the Friar . The Prince arrives shortly after, with Capu-
let. Lady Capulet, and Montague, Lady Montague having died that
night through grief at her son's exile. The whole story is thei un-
folded by the Friar, Balthasar and the Page.)

364 LITBRATUKE OP AXX, NATIONS.

Prince. Where be these enemies ? Capulet ! Montague I
See what a scourge is laid upon your hate,
That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love ;
And I, for winking at your discords too,
Have lost a brace of kinsmen : all are punished.

Capulet. O brother Montague, give me thy hand.
This is my daughter's jointure, for no more
Can I demand.

Montague. But I can give thee more :
For I will raise her statue in pure gold ;
That while Verona by that name is known,
There shall no figure at that rate be set.
As that of true and faithful Juliet.

Capulet. As rich shall Romeo by his lady lie ;
Poor sacrifices of our enmity !

Prince. A gloomy peace this morning with it brings ;

The sun for sorrow will not show his head.
Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things ;

Some shall be pardoned, and some punished :
For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

The Pound of Flesh.

(From "The Merchant of Venice.")
Scene. — A Court of Justica in Venice.

Duke. Go one, and call the Jew into court.

Salanio. He is ready at the door : he comes, my lord.

[Enter Shy lock

Duke. Make room, and let him stand before our face.
Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too.
That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy malice
To the last hour of act ; and then 'tis thought
Thou' It show thy mercy and remorse, more strange,
Than is thy strange apparent cruelty;
And where thou now exact' st the penalty,
Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh,
Thou wilt not only lose the forfeiture.
But, touched with human gentleness and love,
Forgive a moiety of the principal ;
Glancing an eye of pity on his losses,

BNGWSH WTBRATURB. 365

That have of late so huddled on his back,
Enow to press a royal merchant down.
We all expect a gentle answer, Jew.

Shy lock. I have possessed your grace of what I purpose ;
And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn
To have the due and forfeit of my bond.
If you deny it, let the danger light
Upon your charter and your city's freedom.
You'll ask me, why I rather choose to have
A weight of carrion flesh than to receive
Three thousand ducats : I'll not answer that :
But, say, it is my humor : is it answered ?
What if my house be troubled with a rat.
And I be pleased to give ten thousand ducats
To have it baned ? What, are you answered yet?

Bassanio. This is no answer, thou unfeeling man.
To excuse the current of thy cruelty.

Shylock. I am not bound to please thee with my answer.

Bassanio. For thy three thousand ducats here is six.

Shylock. If every ducat in six thousand ducats
Were in six parts, and every part a ducat,
I would not draw them ; — I would have my bond.

Duke. How shalt thou hope for mercy, rendering none ?

Shylock. What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong?
You have among you many a purchased slave.
Which, like your asses, and your dogs and mules
You use in abject and in slavish parts,
Because you bought them : shall I say to you,
Let them be free, marry them to your heirs ?
Why sweat they under burthens ? let their beds
Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates
Be seasoned with such viands ? You will answer
" The slaves are ours : " so do I answer you :
The pound of flesh, which I demand of him,
Is dearly bought ; 'tis mine, and I will have it.
If you deny me, fie upon your law !
There is no force in the decrees of Venice.
I stand for judgment : answer: shall I have it?

Duke. Upon my power I may dismiss this court.
Unless Bellario, a learned doctor.
Whom I have sent for to determine this,
Come here to-day.

366 tiTERATURB OF AXX, NATIONS.

A messenger appears with a letter from Bellario, stating that he
cannot come, but sends a young doctor Balthasar in his stead.

Duke. You hear the learned Bellario, what he writes :
And here, I take it, is the doctor come.

\_Enter Portia, dressed like a doctor of laws.
Give me your hand. Came you from old Bellario ?

Portia. I did, my lord.

Duke. You are welcome : take your place.
Are you acquainted with the difference
That holds this present question in the court ?

Portia. I am informed throughly of the cause.
Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew ?

Duke. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth.

Portia. Is your name Shylock .?

Shylock. Shylock is my name.

Portia. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow ;
Yet in such rule that the Venetian law
Cannot impugn you as you do proceed.
[7b Antonio'\ You stand within his danger, do you not?

Antonio. Aye, so he says.

Portia. Do you confess the bond ?

Antonio. I do.

Portia. Then must the Jew be merciful.

Shylock. On what compulsion must I ? tell me that.

Portia. The quality of mercy is not strained,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath ; it is twice blest ;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes :
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest : it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown ;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty.
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this.
That, in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy;

BNGLISH WTERATURB. 367

And that same prayer dotli teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much
To niitigate the justice of thy plea,
Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice
Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.

Shylock. My deeds upon my head ! I crave the law.
The penalty and forfeit of my bond.

Portia. Is he not able to discharge the^money?

Bassanio. Yes, here I tender it for him in the court ;
Yea, twice the sum : if that will not suffice,
I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er.
On forfeit of my hands) my head, my heart :
If this will not suffice, it must appear
That maUce bears down" truth. And I beseech you,
Wrest once the law to your authority:
To do a great right, do a little wrong,
And curb this cruel devil of his will.

Portia. It must not be ; there is no power in Venice
Can alter a decree established :
'Twill be recorded for a precedent,
And many an error by the same example
Will rush into the state : it cannot be.

Shylock. A Daniel come to judgment ! yea, a Daniel :
O wise young judge, how I do honor thee !

Portia. I pray you, let me look upon the bond.

Shylock. Here 'tis, most reverend doctor, here it is.

Portia. Shylock, there's thrice thy money offered
thee.

Shylock. An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven ;
Shall I lay perjury upon my soul?
No, not for Venice.

Portia. Why, this bond is forfeit ;
And lawfully by this the Jew may claim
A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off
Nearest the merchant's heart. Be merciful :
Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond.

Shylock. When it is paid according to the tenor.
It doth appear you are a worthy judge ;
You know the law, your exposition
Hath been most sound : I charge you by the law.
Whereof you are a Well-deserving pillar.
Proceed to judgment : by my soul I swear

368

LITBRATURS OF ATX, NATIONS.

There is no power in the tongue of man
To alter me : I stay here on my bond.

Antonio. Most heartily I do beseech the court
To give the judgment.

Portia. Why then,
thus it is :
You must prepare your
bosom for his knife.
Shy lock. O noble
judge! O excellent
young man !
Fortia. For the intent
and purpose of the
law,
Hath full relation to the

penalty
Which here appeareth
due upon the bond.
Shy lock. 'Tis very
true: O wise and
upright judge !
How much more elder art thou than thy looks !

Portia. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge,
To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death.
Shylock. Is it so nominated in the bond ?
Portia. It is not so expressed : but what of that ?
'Twere good you do so much for charity.
Shylock. I cannot find it : 'tis not in the bond.
Portia. Come, merchant, have you anything to say ?
Antonio. But little : I am armed and well prepared.
Give me your hand, Bassanio : fare you well !
Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you ;
Repent not you that you shall lose your friend.
And he repents not that he pays your debt ;
For if the Jew do cut but deep enough,
I'll pay it instantly with all my heart.

Bassanio. Antonio, I am married to a wife [Portia],
Which is as dear to me as life itself;
But life itself, my wife, and all the world.
Are not with me esteemed above thy life :
I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all
Here to this devil, to deliver you.

BNGWSH MTBRATURB. 369

Portia. Your wife would give you little thanks for that,
If she were by, to hear you make the offer.

Shylock. We trifle time : I pray thee, pursue sentence.

Portia. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine :
The court awards it, and the law doth give it.

Shylock. Most rightful judge 1

Portia. And you must cut this flesh from off his breast :
The law allows it, and the court awards it.

Shylock. Most learned judge! A sentence! Come, prepare!

Portia. Tarry a little ; there is something else.
This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood ;
The words expressly are, "a pound of flesh."
Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh ;
But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed
One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods
Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate
Unto the state of Venice.

Gratiano. O upright judge ! Mark, Jew: O learned judge !

Shylock. Is that the law ?
- Portia. Thyself shall see the act :
For, as thou urgest justice, be assured
Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest.

Gratiano. O learned judge! Mark, Jew: a learned judge!

Shylock. I take this offer, then ; pay the bond thrice
And let the Christian go.

Bassanio. Here is the money.

Portia. Soft!
The Jew shall have all justice; soft 1 no haste:
He shall have nothing but the penalty.

Gratiano. O Jew ! an upright judge, a learned judge !

Portia. Therefore prepare thee to cut off the flesh.
Shed thou no blood, nor cut thou less, nor more, —
But just a pound of flesh : if thou tak'st more
Or less than a just pound, be it but so much
As makes it light or heavy in the substance,
Or the division of the twentieth part
Of one poor scruple,— nay, if the scale do turn
But in the estimation of a hair, —
Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate.

Gratiano. A second Daniel, — a Daniel, Jew !
Now infidel, I have thee on the hip.

Portia. Why doth the Jew pause ? take thy forfeiture,
w— 24

37° MTERATtmB OF ALI, NATIONS.

ShylGck. Give me my principal, and let me go.

Bassanio. I have it ready for tliee ; here it is.

Portia. He hath refused it in the open court :
He shall have merely justice and his bond.

Gratiano. A Daniel, still say I, a second Daniel I
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.

Shylock. Shall I not have barely my principal ?

Portia. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture,
To be so taken at thy peril, Jew,

, Shylock. Why, then the devil give him good of it !
I'll stay no longer question.

Portia. Tarry, Jew :
The law hath yet another hold on you.
It is enacted in the laws of Venice,
If it be proved against an alien.
That by direct or indirect attempts
He seek the life of any citizen.
The party 'gainst the which he doth contrive
Shall seize one-half his goods ; the other half
Comes to the privy coffer of the state ;
And the offender's life lies in the mercy
Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice.
In which predicament, I say, thou stand' st :
For it appears by manifest proceeding.
That, indirectly, and directly too.
Thou hast contrived against the very life
Of the defendant ; and thou hast incurred
The danger formerly by me rehearsed.
Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke.

Duke. That thou shalt see the difference of our spirit,
I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it :
For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's ;
The other half comes to the general state.
Which humbleness may drive unto a fine.

Portia. Ay, for the state, not for Antonio.

Shylock. Nay, take my life and all ; pardon not that :
You take my house when you do take the, prop
That doth sustain my house ; you take my life
When you do take the means whereby I live.

Portia. What mercy can you render him, Antonio ?

Antonio. So please my lord the duke and all the court
To quit the fine for one-half of his goods ;

BNGWSH I,ITBRATTJRE. 37 1

I am content, so lie will let me liave

Tlie other half in use, to render it,

Upon his death, unto the gentleman

That lately stole his daughter.

Two things provided more, — that, for this favor,

He presently become a Christian ;

The other that he do record a gift.

Here in the court, of all he dies possessed.

Unto his son Lorenzo and his daughter.

Duke. He shall do this, or else I do recant
The pardon that I late pronounced here.

Portia. Art thou contented, Jew? what dost thou say?

Shyiock. I am content.

Portia. Clerk, draw a deed of gift.

Shyiock. I pray you give me leave to go from hence ;
I am not well ; send the deed after me,
And I will sign it. {Exit Shyiock.

HAMI.ET AND Ophelia.

Hamlet. To be, or not to be, that is the question: —
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune ;
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles.
And by opposing end them? — To die,— to sleep, —
No more ; — and, by a sleep, to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, — 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die ; — to sleep ; —
To sleep ! perchance to dream ; — aye, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause : There's the respect.
That makes calamity of so long life :
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time.
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, •
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay.
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes.
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin ? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life ;

372

ilTERATURB OP AI,L NATIONS.

But that tlie dread of something after death, —
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn

No traveler returns, — puzzles the

will;
And makes us rather bear those

ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know
not of !
Thus conscience does
make cowards of us
all;
And thus the native

hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the
pale cast of thought ;
And enterprises of great

pith and moment.
With this regard, their

currents turn awry.
And lose the name of ac-
tion. — Soft you now !
The fair Ophelia !—
Nymph, in thy ori-
sons
Be all my sins remem-
bered.
Ophelia. Good my lord,
How does your honor for this many a day ?
Ham. I humbly thank you ; well, well, well.
Oph. My lord, I have remembrances of yours,
That I have longed long to re-deliver ;
I pray you, now receive them.

Ham. No, not I ;
I never gave you aught.

Oph. My honored lord, I know right well, you did;
And, with them, words of so sweet breath composed
As made the things more rich : their perfume lost.
Take these again ; for to the noble mind.
Rich gifts wax poor, when givers prove unkind.
There, my lord.

Ham. Ha, ha ! are you honest?
Oph. My lord?

ENGLISH LITERATURE. 373

Ham. Are you fair ?

Oph. What means your lordship ?

Ham. That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should
admit no discourse to your beauty.

Oph. Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with
honesty ?

Ham. Aye, truly ; for the power of beauty will sooner trans-
form honesty from what it is to a bawd, than the force of honesty
can translate beauty into his likeness; this was sometime a para-
dox, but now the time gives it proof. I did love you once.

Oph. Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so.

Ham. You should not have believed me : for virtue cannot so
inoculate our old stock, but we shall relish of it : I loved you not.

Oph. I was the more deceived.

Ham. Get thee to a nunnery; why wouldst thou be a breeder
of sinners? I am myself indifferent honest; but yet I could
accuse me of such things, that it were better, my mother had not
borne me: I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious; with more
offences at my beck, than I have thoughts to put them in, imagi-
nation to give them shape, or time to act them in : what should
such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven ! We
are arrant knaves, all; believe none of us: go thy ways to a
nunnery. Where's your father ?

Oph. At home, my lord.

Ham. I>t the doors be shut upon him ; that he may play the
fool nowhere but in 's own house. Farewell.

Oph. O, help him, you sweet heavens !

Ham. If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy
dowry : be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not
escape calumny. Get thee to a nunnery ; farewell. Or, if thou
■ wilt needs marry, marry a fool ; for wise men know well enough,
what monsters you make of them. To a nunnery, go; and
quickly too. Farewell.

Oph. O Heavenly powers, restore him !

Ham. I have heard of your paintings too, well enough ; God
hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another : you
jig. you amble and you lisp, and nick-name God's creatures, and
make your wantonness your ignorance : go to ; I'll no more on't ;
it hath made me mad. I say, we will have no more marriages :
those that are married already, all but one, shall live; the rest
shall keep as they are. To a nunnery, go. \Exit Hamlet.

Oph. Oh, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown !

374 LITERATDRB OF AI,I, NATIONS.

The courtier's, scholar's, soldier's, eye, tongue, sword:

The expectancy and rose of the fair state,

The glass of fashion, and the mould of form,

The observed of all observers ! quite, quite down !

And I, of ladies most deject and wretched,

That suck'd the honey of his music vows.

Now see that noble and most sovereign reason,

Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh;

That unmatched form and feature of blown youth,

Blasted with ecstasy : O, woe is me !

To have seen what I have seen, see what I see !

Othello and Desdemona.

Scene. — A Bedchamber : Desdemona in bed asleep.

Othello. It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul, —
Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars !
It is the cause. — Yet I'll not shed her blood ;
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow.
And smooth as monumental alabaster. \Takes off his sword.

Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men.

Put out the light, and then — put out the light:

If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,

I can again thy former light restore.

Should I repent me : — ^but once put out thy light,

Xhou cunning' St pattern of excelling nature,

BNGUSH LITERATURE. 375

I know not where is that Promethean heat,

That can thy light relume. "When I have pluck' d thy rose,

I cannot give it vital growth again,

It needs must wither : — I'll smell thee on the tree. {Kissing her.

balmy breath, that dost almost persuade
Justice to break her sword ! — One more, one more. —
Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee,
And love thee after: — Orie more, and that's the last:
So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep,

But they are cruel tears : this sorrow's heavenly;
It strikes where it doth love. — She wakes. —

Desdemona. Who's there? Othello?

Oth. Aye, Desdemona.

I>es. Will you come to bed, my lord ?

Oth. Have you prayed to-night, Desdemona ?

Des. Aye, my lord.

Oih. If you bethink yourself of any crime,
Unreconciled as yet to heaven and grace,
Solicit for it straight.

Iks. Alack, my lord, what may you mean by that ?

Oth. Well, do it, and be brief; I will walk by:

1 would not kill -thy unprepared spirit ;

No, — Heaven forfend ! — I would not kill thy soul.

Des. Talk you of killing ?

Oth. Aye, I do.

JDes. Then, heaven
Have mercy on me !

Oih. Amen, with all my heart !

Des. If you say so, I hope you will not kill me.

Oth. Humph!

Des. And yet I fear you : for you are fatal then.
When your eyes roll so : why I should fear, I know not,
Since guiltiness I know not ; but yet I feel I fear.

Oth. Think on thy sins.

Des. They are loves I bear to you.

Oth. Aye, and for that thou diest.

Des. That death's unnatural, that kills for loving.
Alas, why gnaw you so your nether lip ?
Some bloody passion shakes your very frame :
These are portents ; but yet I hope, I hope,
They do not point on me.

Oth. Peace, and be still !

376 UTERATDRB OF ALL NATIONS.

Des. I will SO. What's the matter?

0th. That handkerchief, which I so loved, and gave thee,
Thou gav'st to Cassio.

Des. No, by my life and soul ;
Send for the man and ask him.

0th. Sweet soul, take heed.
Take heed of perjury; thou'rt on thy death-bed.

Des. Aye, but not yet to die.

0th. Yes, presently:
Therefore confess thee freely of thy sin ;
For to deny each article with oath
Cannot remove, nor choke, the strong conception
That I do groan withal. Thou art to die.

Des. O Heaven have mercy on me !

0th. I say, amen.

Des. And have you mercy too ! — I never did
Offend you in my life ; never loved Cassio,
But with such general warranty of heaven
As I might love. I never gave him token.

Oth. By heaven, I saw my handkerchief in 's hand.

perjured woman ! thou dost stone my heart,
And mak'st me call, what I intend to do,

A murder, which I thought a sacrifice : *

1 saw the handkerchief.
Des. He found it then ;

I never gave it him : — Send for him hither,
I<et him confess a truth.

Oth. He hath confessed.

Des. What, my lord ?

Oth. That he hath— used thee.

Des. How? unlawfully?'

Oth. Aye.

Des. He will not say so.

Oth. No, his mouth is stopped ;
Honest lago hath ta'en order for't.

Des. My fear interprets then, — What, is he dead ?

Oth. Had all his hairs been lives, my great revenge
Had stomach for them all.

Des. Alas ! he is betray' d, and I undone.

Oth. Out, strumpet ! Weep'st thou for him to my face ?

Des. Oh, banish me, my lord, but kill me not.
* An expiation.

. ENGWSH I,ITBRATURB. 377

0th. Down, strumpet !

I>es. Kill me to-morrow ; let me live to-night.

Oth. Nay, if you strive,

Des. But lialf an hour.

Oth. Being done.
There is no pause.

Des. But while I say one prayer.

Oth. It is too late. {He smothers her.

Emilia {within). My lord, my lord ! what ho ! my lord !
my lord !

Oth. What noise is this ? — Not dead ? not yet quite dead ?
I, that am cruel, am yet merciful ;
I would not have thee linger in thy pain. —
So, so.

Emil. {within). What ho ! my lord ! my lord !

Oth. Who's there?

Emil. {within). O good my lord, I would speak a word
with yoa

Oth. Yes; — 'tis Emilia: — by-and-by. — She's dead.
"Tis like she comes to speak of Cassio's death:
The noise was high, — Ha ! no more moving ?
Still as the grave. Shall she come in ? Were't good?
I think she stirs again: — No — What's best to do ?
If she come in, she'll sure speak to my wife :
My wife ! my wife! what wife ? — I have no wife :
O insupportable ! O heavy hour !
Methinks it should be now a huge eclipse
Of sun and moon, and that the affrighted globe
Did yawn at alteration.

Emil. {within). I do beseech you I may speak with you,
O good my lord.

Oth. I had forgot thee : Oh, come in, Emilia : —
Soft, — by-and-by: — I^et me the curtains draw. —
Where art thou ? What's the matter with thee now ?

[ Unlocks the door.
Enter Emilia.

Emil. O good my lord, yonder' s foul murder done.

Oth. What? now?

Emil. But now, my lord.

Oth. It is the very error of the moon ;
She comes more nearer earth than she was wont,
And makes men mad.

378 LITERATURB OP AI,I. NATIONS.

Emit. Cassio, my lord, has killed a young Venetian,
Called Roderigo.

0th. Roderigo killed !
And Cassio killed ?

Emil. No, Cassio is not killed.

0th. Not Cassio killed ? Then murder's out of tune,
And sweet revenge grows harsh.

Des. Oh, falsely, falsely murdered !

Etnil. Alas ! what cry is that ?

Oth. That! what?

Emtl. Out, and alas ! that was my lady's voice: —
Help ! help, ho ! help ! — O lady, speak again !
Sweet Desdemona ! O sweet mistress, speak !

Des. A guiltless death I die.

Emil. Oh, who hath done
This deed ?

Des. Nobody; I myself; farewell: '

Commend me to my kind lord. Oh, farewell. \Du

Oth. Why, how should she be murdered ?

Emil. Alas, who knows ?

Oth. You heard her say herself, it was not I.

Emil. She said so ; I must needs report the truth.

Oth. She's, like a liar, gone to burning hell;
'Twas I that killed her.

Emil. Oh, the more angel she,
And you the blacker devil !

Oth. She turned to folly, and she was a whore.

Emil. Thou dost belie her, and thou art a devil.

Oth. She was false as water.

Emil. Thou art rash as fire, to say
That she was false ; Oh, she was heavenly true !

Oth. Thy husband knew it all.

Emil. My husband ?

Oth. Thy husband.

Emil. That she was false to wedlock ?

Oth. Aye, with Cassio.
Nay, had she been true.

If heaven would make me such another world
Of one entire and perfect chrysolite,
I'd not have sold her for it.

Emil My husband ?

Oth. Aye, 'twas he that told me on her first ;

SNGWSH LITBHAlTUBB.

379

An honest man he is, and hates the slime
That sticks on filthy deeds.
Emil. My husband ?

Oth. What needs this iterance, woman? I say, thy husband.
Emil. O mistress, villany hath made mocks with
love ! —
My husband say, that she was false ?
Oth. He, woman;
I say, thy husband: Dost understand the

word ?
My friend, thy husband, honest, honest lago.
Emil. If he say so, may his pernicious
soul
Rot half a grain a day ! he lies to the heart.
Oth. Ha!

Emil. Do thy worst.
This deed of thine is ,no more worthy

heaven.
Than thou wast worthy her.
Oth. Peace, you were best.
Emil. Thou hast not half the power to do
me harm.
As I have to be hurt. O gull ! O dolt !
As ignorant as dirt ! thou'st done a deed, —
I care not for thy sword ; I'll make thee known,
Though I lost twenty lives': — Help ! help ! ho ! help !
The Moor has killed my mistress. Murder ! murder !

I^EAR. AND Cordelia.
SCENB.— .^ Tent in the French Camp. Lear on a bed, asleep.

Cordelia. O thou good Kent, how shall I live and work,
To match thy goodness ? My life will be too short,
And every measure fail me.

Kent. To be acknowledged, madam, is o'erpaid.
All my reports go with the modest truth ;
Nor more, nor clipped, but so.

Cor. Be better suited :
These weeds are memories of those worser hours ;
I pr'ythee, put them off.

Kent. Pardon, dear madam ;
Yet to be known shortens my made intent ;

380 WTBRATURE OF ALI, NATIONS.

My boon I make it that you know me not
Till time and I think meet.

Cor. Then be 't so, my good lord. — How does the king?

Physicia7i. Madam, sleeps still.

Cor. O you kind gods,
Cure this great breach in his abused nature !
The untuned and jarring senses, Oh, wind up
Of this child-changed father !

Phys. So please your majesty,
That we may wake the king ? he hath slept long.

Cor. Be governed by your knowledge, and proceed
I' the sway of your own will. Is he arrayed ?

Gentleman. Aye, madam ; in the heaviness of his sleep,
We put fresh garments on him.

Phys. Be by, good madam, when we do awake him ;
I doubt not of his temperance.
Please you, draw near. — I^ouder the music there.

Cor. O my dear father ! Restoration, hang
Thy medicine on my lips ; and let this kiss
Repair those violent harms, that my two sisters
Have in thy reverence made !

Kent. Kind and dear princess !

Cor. Had you not been their father, these white flakes
Had challenged pity of them. Was this a face
To be opposed against the jarring winds?
To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder ?
In the most terrible and nimble stroke
Of quick, cross lightning? to watch, (poor perdu!)
With this thin helm ? Mine enemy's dog.
Though he had bit me, should have stood that night
Against my fire. And wast thou fain,^poor father,
To hovel thee with swine and rogues forlorn.
In short and musty straw ? Alack, alack !
'Tis wonder that thy life and wits at once
Had not concluded all. — He wakes ; speak to him.

Phys. Madam, do you; 'tis fittest.

Cor. How does my royal lord ? How fares your majesty?

Lear. You do me wrong, to take me out o' the grave : —
Thou art a soul in bliss ; but I am bound
Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears
Do scald like molten lead.

Cor. Sir, do you know me ?

ENGWSH LITERATURE. 381

Lear. You are a spirit, I know ; when did you die ?

Cor. Still, still, far wide !

Phys. He's scarce awake: let him alone awhile.

Lear. Where have I been ? — ^Where am I ? — Fair daylight —
I am mightily abused. — I should e'en die with pity,
To see another thus. — I know not what to say.
I will not swear these are my hands : — let's see ;
I feel this pin prick. Would I were assured
Of my condition.

Cor. O look upon me, sir.
And hold your hands in benediction o'er me: —
No, sir, you must not kneel.

Lear. Pray, do not mock me :
I am a very foolish fond old man.
Fourscore and upward ; not an hour more or less ;
And, to deal plainly,
I fear I am not in my perfect mind.
Methinks, I should know you, ani know this man :
Yet I am doubtful : for I am mainly ignorant
What place this is ; and all the skill I have
Remembers not these garment ; nor I know not
Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me ;
For, as I am a man, I think this lady
-To be my child Cordelia.

Cor. And so I am, I am.

Lear. Be your tears wet ? Yes 'faith. I, pray, weep not:
If you have poison for me, I will drink it.
I know you do not love me ; for your sisters
Have, as I do remember, done me wrong.
You have some cause, they have not.

Cor. No cause, no cause.

Lear. Am I in France?

Kent. In your own kingdom, sir.

Lear. Do not abuse me.

Phys. Be comforted, good madam : the great rage,
You see, is killed in him : and yet 't is danger
To make him even o'er the time he has lost.
Desire him to go in ; trouble him no more.
Till further settling.

Cor. Will't please your highness walk ?

Lear. You must bear with me :
Pray now, forget and forgive : I am old and foolish. [Exeunt.

382 UTERATtTRB OP Ail, NATIONS.

Scene. — The British Camp near Dover.
Enter Edmund with Lear and Cordelia as Prisoners.

Edmund. Some officers take them away : good guard ;
Until their greater pleasures first be known,
That are to censure them.

Cor. We are not the first,
Who, with best meaning, have incurred the worst.
For thee, oppressed king, am I cast down ;
Myself could else out-frown false fortune's frown.
Shall we not see these daughters and these sisters ?

Lear. No, no, no, no ! Come, let's away to prison:
We two alone will sing like birds i' the cage ;
When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down
And ask of thee forgiveness. So we'll live.
And pray and sing, and tell old tales and laugh
At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues
Talk of court news ; and we'll talk with them too, —
Who loses and who wins; who's in, who's out; —
And take upon us all the mystery of things.
As if we were God's spies: and we'll wear out.
In a walled prison, packs and sects of great ones.
That ebb and flow by the moon.

Edm. Take them away.

Lear. Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia,
The gods themselves throw incense. Have I caught thee ?
He that parts us ghall bring a brand from heaven.
And fire us hence, like foxes. Wipe thine eyes !

Rosalind.
Scene. — The Forest.
Duke. Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy
Can do all this that he hath promised ?

Orlando. I sometimes do believe, and sometimes do not :
As those that fear they hope, and know they fear.

Enter Rosalind (in male attire'), Sylvius and Phebe.

Ros. Patience once more, while our compact is urged :
You say, if I bring in your Rosalind, {To the Duke.

You will bestow her on Orlando here ?

Duke. That would I, had I kingdoms to give with her.

ENGLISH WTERATtma. 383

Ros. And you say you will have her when I bring her ?

\To Orlando.

Orl. That would I, were I of all kingdoms king.

Ros. You say, you'll marry me, if I be willing ? \ToPhebe.

Phebe. That will I, should I die the hour after.

Ros. But, if you do refuse to marry me,
You'll give yourself to this most faithful shepherd ?

Phe. So is the bargain.

Ros. You say that you'll have Phebe, if she will ?

\To Sylvius.

Syl. Though to have her and death were both one thing.

Ros. I have promised to make all this matter even.
Keep you your word, O duke, to give your daughter ;—
You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter ; —
Keep your word, Phebe, that you'll marry me ;
Or else, refusing me, to wed this shepherd : —
Keep your word, Sylvius, that you'll marry her,
If she refuse me : — and from hence I go
To make these doubts all even. \Exeunt Rosalind and Celia.

Duke. I do remember in this shepherd-boy
Some lively touches of my daughter's favor.

Orl. My lord, the first time that I ever saw him,
Methought he was a brother to your daughter ;
But, my good lord, this boy is forest-bom,
And hath been tutor' d in the rudiments
Of many desperate studies by his uncle.
Whom he reports to be a great magician,
Obscured in the circle of this forest.

Enter Touchstone and Audrey.

Jaques. There is, sure, another flood toward, and these couples
are coming to the ar£ ! Here comes a pair of very strange beasts,
which in all tongues are called fools.

Touchstone. Salutation and greeting to you all !

Jaq. Good my lord, bid him welcome: this is the motley-
minded gentleman that I have so often met in the forest ; he hath
been a courtier, he swears.

Touch. If any man doubt that, let him put me to my purga-
tion. I have trod a measure ; I have flattered a lady ; I have
been politic with my friend, smooth with mine enemy ; I have
undone three tailors ; I have had four quarrels, and like to have
fought one.

384 WTERATURE OF AI<I, NATIONS.

Jaq. And how was that ta'en up ?

Touch. 'Faith we met, and found the quarrel was upon the
seventh cause.

Jaq. How did you find the quarrel on the seventh cause ?

Touch. Upon a lie seven times removed. Bear your body
more seeming, Audrey : as thus, sir. I did dislike the cut of a
certain courtier's beard ; he sent me word, if I said his beard was
not cut well, he was in the mind it was. This is called the Retort
courteous. If I sent him word again, it was not well cut, he
would send me word, he cut it to please himself. This is called
the Quip modest. If again, it was not well cut, he disabled my
judgment. This is called the Reply churlish. If again, it was
not well cut, he would answer, I spake not true. This is called
the Reproof valiant. If again, it was not well cut, he would say,
I lie. This is called the Countercheck quarrelsome : and so to the
Lie circumstantial, and the Lie direct.

Jaq. And how oft did you say, his beard was not well cut ?

Touch. I durst go no further than the Lie circumstantial, nor
he durst not give me the Lie direct: and so we measured swords
and parted.

Jaq. Is not this a rare fellow, my lord ? He's as good at any-
thing, and yet a fool.

Enter Hymen, leading Rosalind {in female attire) and Celia.

Hym. Then is there mirth in heaven,
When earthly things made even

Atone together.
Good Duke, receive thy daughter,
Hymen from heaven brought her,

Yea, brought her hither ;
That thou mightst join her hand with his,
Whose heart within her bosom is.

Ros. To you I give myself, for I am yours. \To Duke.

To you I give myself, for I am yours. \To Orlando.

Duke. If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter.

Orl. If there be truth in sight, you are my Rosalind.

Phe. If sight and shape be true.
Why then, — my love, adieu !

Ros. I'll have no father, if you be not he ; \To Duke.

I'll have no husband, if you be not he : \To Orlando.

Nor ne'er wed woman, if you be not she. [Te Phtie.

KNGLISH WTBRATURB. 385

Hym. Peace, ho ! I bar confusion :
'Tis I must make conclusion
Of these most strange events :
Here's eight that must take hands,
To join in Hymen's bands,
If truth holds true contents.
You and you no cross shall part

[ To Orlando and Rosalind.
You and you are heart in heart : {To Oliver and Celia.
You {To Phebe\ to his love must accord.
Or have a woman to your lord :
You and you are sure together,

[ To Touchitone and Audrey.
As the -winter to foul weather.
Whiles a wedlock-hymn we sing,
Feed yourselves with questioning ;
That reason wonder may diminish.
How thus we met, and these things finish.

Song.
Wedding is great Juno's crown ;

O blessed bond of board and bed !
'Tis Hymen peoples every town ;

High wedlock then be honored :
Honor, high honor and renown.

To Hymen, god of every town !

Falstafp and thk Merry Wives of Windsor.

After Shakespeare had made Sir John FalstafF a popular though
ludicrous character in his historical plays, Queen Elizabeth is said to
have requested that he present Falstaff in love. The result was " The
Merry Wives of Windsor," in whifch the fun was still more farcical.

ScBNE- — A Room in Ford's House.

Mrs. Page. Give your men the charge, we must be brief.

Mrs. Ford. Marry, as I told you before, John and Robert, be
ready here hard by in the brewhouse ; and when I suddenly call
you, come forth, and (without any pause, or staggering) take this
basket on your shoulders : that done, trudge with it in all haste,
and carry it among the bleachers in Datchet mead, and there
empty it in the muddy ditch, close by the Thames side.
IV— 25

386

WTERATURE OP AI,I< NATIONS.

Mrs. Fage. You will do it ?

Mrs. Ford. I ha' told them over and over; they lack no
direction. Begone, and come when you are called.

\Exeunt Servants.
Mrs. Fage. Here comes little Robin.

Enter Robin.
Mrs. Ford. How now, my eyas-musket?* what news with you?
Robin. My master Sir John is come in at your back-door, mis-
tress Ford, and requests your company. . . .

Mrs. Fage. Thou'rt a
good boy ; this secrecy of
thine shalt be a tailor to
thee, and shall make thee
a new doublet and hose. —
I'll go hide me.

Mrs. Ford. Do so : — Go,

tell thy master I am alone.

\_Exeunt Robin and '

Mrs. Page.

Mrs. Ford. Go to, then ;

we'll use this unwholesome

humidity, this gross watery

pumpion ; — ^we'U teach him

to know turtles [doves]

from jays.

Enter Falstaff.

Falstaff. Have I caught
thee, my heavenly jewel?
Why, now let me die, for I
have lived long enough;
this is the period of my
ambition. O this blessed
hour!

Mrs. Ford. O sweet Sir
John.

Fal. Mistress Ford, I
cannot cog, I cannot prate, mistress Ford. Now shall I sin in
my wish : I would thy husband were dead. I'll speak it before
the best lord, I would make thee my lady.

* A young small hawk.

BNGUSH UTERATURE. 387

Mrs. Ford. I your lady, Sir Jolin ! alas, I should be a pitiful
lady.

Fal. I^t the court of France show me such another. I see
how thine eye would emulate the diamond. Thou hast the right
arched bent of the brow, that becomes the ship-tire, the tire-
valiant, or any tire of Venetian fashion.

Mrs. Ford. A plain kerchief, Sir John: my brows become
nothing else ; nor that well neither.

Fal. Thou art a tyrant to say so: thou wouldst make an
absolute courtier ; and the firm fixture of thy foot would give an
excellent motion to thy gait, in a semicircled farthingale. I see
what thou wert, if Fortune thy foe were not ; Nature is thy friend :
Come, thou canst not hide it.

Mrs. Ford. Believe me, there's no such thing in me.

Fal. "What made me love thee ? let that persuade thee there's
something extraordinary in thee. Come, I cannot cog, and say,
thou art this and that, like a many of these lisping hawthorn-
buds, that come like women in men's apparel, and smell like
Bucklersbury in simple-time; I cannot: but I love thee; none
but thee ; and thou deservest it.

Mrs. Ford. D6 not betray me, sir; I fear you love mistress
Page.

Fal. Thou mightst as well say, 1 love to walk by the Counter-
gate [the prison] ; which is as hateful to me as the reek of a lime-
kUn.

Mrs. Ford. Well, heaven knows how I love you ; and you shall
one day find it.

Fal. Keep in that mind ; I'll deserve it.

Mrs. Ford. Nay, I must tell you, so you do ; or else I could
not be in that mind.

Rob. \within\. Mistress Ford, mistress Ford; here's mistress
Page at the door, sweating and blowing, and looking wildly, and
would needs speak with you presently.

Fal. She shall not see me; I will ensconce me behind the
arras.
Mrs. Ford. Pray you, do so ; she's a very tattling woman.

\Falstaff hides himself.

Enter Mistress Page and Robin.

What's the matter? how now?

Mrs. Page. O mistress Ford, what have you done ? You are
shamed, you are overthrown, you are undone for ever.

388 WTERATURB OF ALt NATIONS.

Mrs. Ford. What's the matter, good mistress Page?

Mrs. Page. O well-a-day, mistress Ford ! having an honest
man to your husband, to give him such cause of suspicion !

Mrs. Ford. What cause of suspicion ?

Mrs. Page. What cause of suspicion ? — Out upon you ! how
am I mistook in you ?

Mrs. Ford. Why, alas ! what's the matter?

Mrs. Page. Your husband's coming hither, woman, with all
the oflScers in Windsor, to search for a gentleman, that, he says,
is here now in the house, by your consent, to take an ill advan-
tage of his absence. You are undone.

Mrs. Ford \Aside\. 'Tis not so, I hope.

Mrs. Page. Pray heaven it be not so, that you have such a
man here; but 'tis most certain your husband's coming, with
half Windsor at his heels, to search for such a one. I come
before to tell you. If you know yourself clear, why I am glad of
it : but if you have a friend here, convey, convey him out.
Be not amazed ; call all your senses to you ; defend your reputa-
tion, or bid farewell to your good life for ever.

Mrs. Ford. What shall I do ? — There is a gentleman, my dear
friend ; and I fear not mine own shame, so much as his peril : I
had rather than a thousand pound, he were out of the house.

Mrs. Page. For shame, never stand you had rather, and you
had rather ; your husband's here at hand, bethink you of some
conveyance : in the house you cannot hide him. — Oh, how have
you deceived me ! — lyook, here is a basket ; if he be of any rea-
sonable stature, he may creep in here ; and throw foul linen upon
him, as if it were going to bucking ; or, it is whiting-time, send
him by your two men to Datchet mead.

Mrs. Ford. He's too big to go in there : What shall I do ?

Re-enter Falstaff.

Fal. I,et me see't, let me see't ! Oh, let me see't ! I'll in, I'll
in ; — follow your friend's counsel ; — I'll in.

Mrs. Page. What ! Sir John Falstaff ! Are these your letters,
knight ?

Fal. I love thee. Help me away ; let me creep in here ; I'll
never —

\He goes into the basket ; they cover him with foul linen.

Mrs. Page. Help to cover your master, boy : Call your men,
mistress Ford. — You dissembling knight !

Mrs. Ford. What, John, Robert, John ! \_Exit Robin; re-enter

BNGUSH I<IXBRATURB.

389

servants.] Go, take up these clothes here, quickly. Where's the
cowl-staff? look, how you drumble :* carry them to the laundress
in Datchet mead ; quickly^ come.

Enter Ford, Page, Caius, and Sir Hugh Evans.

Ford. Pray you, come near : if I suspect without cause, why
then make sport at me, then let me be your jest ; I deserve it. —
How now ? whither bear you this ?

Serv. To the laundress, forsooth.

Mrs. Ford. "Why, what have you to do whither they bear it?
You were best meddle with buckwashing.

Ford. Buck ? I would I could wash myself of the buck ! Buck,
buck, buck ? Ay, buck ; I warrant you buck ; and of the season,
too, it shall appear. \JExeunt Servants with the basket^ Gentle-
men, I have dreamed to-night ; I'll tell you my dream. Here,
here, here be my keys : ascend my chambers, search, seek, find
out : I'll warrant, we'll unkennel the fox. I^et me stop this way
first : — So, now uncape.f

Page. Good master Ford, be contented ; you wrong yourself
too much.

Ford. True, master Page. Up, gentlemen ; you shall see
sport anon : follow me, gentlemen. , [Exit.

* Drone. t Unbag the fox.

390 UTBRATUHE OF AI,I, NATIONS.

Eva. This is fery fantastical humors and jealousies.

Caius. By gar, 'tis no de fashion of France; it is not jealous
in France.

Page. Nay, follow him, gentlemen ; see the issue of his search.

[Exeunt Evans, Page and Caius.

Mrs. Page. Is there not a double excellency in this ?

Mrs. Ford. I know not which pleases me better, that my hus-
band is deceived or Sir John.

Mrs. Page. What a taking was he in when your husband
asked who was in the basket !

Mrs. Ford. I am half afraid he will have need of washing ; so
throwing him into the water will do him a benefit.

Mrs. Page. Hang him, dishonest rascal ; I would all of the
same strain were in the same distress.

Mrs. Ford. I think my husband hath some special suspicion
of Falstaff's being here, for I never saw him so gross in his
jealousy till now.

Mrs. Page. I will lay a plot to try that : and we will yet have
more tricks with Falstaff ; his dissolute disease will scarce obey
this medicine.

Mrs. Ford. Shall we send that foolish carrion, mistress
Quickly, to him, and excuse his throwing into the water; and
give him another hope, to betray him to another punishment !

Mrs. Page. We'll doit; let him be sent for to-morrow, eight
o'clock, to have amends.

Re-enter Ford, Page, Caius, and Sir Hugh Evans.

Ford. I cannot find him ; may be the knave bragged of that
he could not compass.

Mrs. Page. Heard you that ?

Mrs. Ford. Ay, ay, peace : You use me well, master Ford, do
you?

Ford. Ay, I do so.

Mrs. Ford. Heaven make you better than your thoughts.

Ford. Amen.

Mrs. Page. You do yourself mighty wrong, master Ford.

Ford. Ay, ay ; I must bear it.

Eva. If there be any pody in the house, and in the chambers,
and in the coffers, and in the presses, heaven forgive my sins at
the day of judgment !

Caius. By gar, nor I too : dere is no bodies.

Page. Fie, fie, master Ford! are you not ashamed! What

BNGUSH WTBRATURB. 39I

Spirit, what devil suggests this imagination? I would not ha*
your distem^jer in this kind for the wealth of Windsor Castle.

Ford. 'Tis my fault, master Page : I suffer for it.

Eva. You suffer for a pad conscience : your wife is as honest a
'omans as I will desires among five thousand, and five hundred
too.

Caius. By gar, I see 'tis an honest woman.

Ford. Well, — I promised you a dinner. Come, come, walk m
the park: I pray you, pardon me ; I will hereafter make known
to you why I have done this. Come, wife ; come, mistress Page ;
I pray you, pardon me ; pray heartily, pardon me.

SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS.

Controversy has raged about Shakespeare's Sonnets as about his
dramatic works. Published in 1609, they were dedicated by the printer,
Thomas Thorpe, to Mr. W. H., as " the Onlie Begetter of these insuing
Sonnets." It has been guessed that this means William Herbert,
afterwards Earl of Pembroke. Though some critics insist that these
poems are a personal revelation, the fact that 126 out of the entire 154
are addressed to a man and 26 more to a woman, seems to indicate that
they were simply poetical exercises of an exuberant genius. Alto,
gether they constitute an amatory correspondence of singular beauty,
but are as free from autobiographical declarations as any of the
author's dramas. Shakespeare rejected the strict arrangement of the
Italian sonnet and used a simpler form— three quatrains followed by a
couplet.

The Poet Confers Immortality.

Who will believe my verse in time to come.

If it were filled with your most high deserts ?
Though yet. Heaven knows, it is but as a tomb

Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes.

And in fresh numbers number all your graces.
The age to come would say, "This poet lies ;

Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces."
So should my papers, yellow' d with their age,

Be scorn' d like old men of less truth than tongue.
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage

And stretched metre of an antique song.
But were some child of yours alive that time.
You should live twice : in it, and in my rhyme.

392 WTfilRATlIRB OF AI,I, NATIONS.

The Eternal Summer.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day ?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate ;
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines, -

By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest ;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander' st in his shade.

When in eternal lines to time thou growest.
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

The Happiness op True I/Ove.

I/ET those who are in favor with their stars

Of public honor and proud titles boast.
Whilst I, whom fortune of such honors bars,

Unlook'd for joy in that I honor most.
Great princes' favorites their fair leaves spread

But as the marigold at the sun's eye,
And in themselves their pride lies buried,

For at a frown they in their glory die.
The painful warrior famous^d for fight,

After a thousand victories once foil'd
Is from the book of honor razSd quite.

And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd.
Then happy I, that love and am beloved
Where I may not remove or be removed.

BEN JONSON.

The fotemost of the Elizabethan dram-
atists, next to Shakespearp, was the learned
Ben Jonson. From his birth, in 1573,
to his first success as a play-writer, in 1598, not much is
definitely known, except that he was of Scotch descent, got
his schooling at Westminster and Cambridge, and did 'pren-
tice work for his stepfather— a bricklayer. This he left for
service as a volunteer with the army in the Low Countries.
When back in London the stage was Ben's clear destiny, first
as one of the actors, but soon as actor-author, in which double
capacity Shakespeare had already earned fame and fortune.
The young playwright had a few months' experience of jail-
life for having killed a brother-actor in a duel, — and here he
became a Catholic. His earliest comedy, or the earliest per-
formed, was played by the Lord Chamberlain's company, and
one of the characters was acted by Shakespeare. This was
"Every Man in his Humor." From this sprang the friend-
ship, none the less cordial if tinctured with envy on Jonson's
side, between the genial rivals at the Mermaid Tavern. To
this play succeeded sundry patchwork contributions to other
men's plays; and then "Every Man Out of his Humor,"
which was performed in the presence of Queen Elizabeth. In
1600 Jonson sought to win her favor by a a skillful piece of
flattery, entitled " Cynthia's Revels,' ' in which certain satirical
passages wounded the dignity of Dekker and Marston, two of
his associate playwrights, and provoked a retort from the
former. Hearing that this was coming, Jonson hurried the
production of "The Poetaster," ridiculing the pettiness of
the versemakers. Within a year or two the jibing satirists
were friends again, collaborating in other plays. The classical

393

394 . WTBRATURS OP ALI, NATIONS.

tragedy entitled "Sejanus, his Fall," was performed in 1603,
witli Shakespeare in one of the parts.

The general run of Jonson's dramas is in the opposite
direction to that of popularity : the narrative is involved, the
wit bright and pungent, but hammered out too finely, and the
dialogue overlaid with pedantic veneering. The intellectual
strength underneath is unmistakable. His more serious
plays may be described as Dekker describes their author:
" Large of frame, bony, meagre of flesh (in his earlier years),
pockmarked, and with eager eyes for piercing glances and for
soaring up to the heights of poetry." His comedies, includ-
ing "Volpone, or. The Fox;" " Epiccene, or. The Silent
Woman;" "The Alchemist;" " Bartholemew Fair," and
"The Devil is an Ass," were written prior to 161 6, when for
ten years he ceased to write for the stage.

The death of Queen Elizabeth found Jonson turning to
the concocting of masques and similar entertainments, which
won the patronage of the king and nobility, in whose houses
they were performed. He succeeded better as poet than as
dramatist. Here and there in his plays — especially in the
tragedy, "Catiline, his Conspiracy" — are lyrics of the true
ring; and in his collections — "The Forest" and "Under-
woods" — are many examples of pure poetry in various meas-
ures, on varied themes. His "Epigrams," too, of which he
•vas tenderly proud, displayed his versatility of handiwork,
in 161 8 Jonson tramped from London to Scotland, where he
sojourned with congenial Drummond of Hawthomden, whose
recorded "Conversations" give a vivid picture of the English-
man. Despite his laureate pension Jonson was impecunious.
He says his plays had not brought him two hundred pounds
in all. So in 1625 he took to play-making again, without
great results. On the failure of the latest comedy, called " The
New Inn," Jonson published an epilogue protest against the
neglect on the part of the King and Queen. To this Charles
I. replied with the annual grant of ;^ioo, and a tierce of
Canary wine, which long continued to be the laureate's per-
quisite. His latter days were gladdened by the homage of
all lovers of literature. Jonson died on August 6, 1637, in
his sixty-fourth year.

BNGUSH UTBRATUIUS. 395

Sir Epicure Mammon.

Scene. — Subtle the Alchemist'' s House.

Mammon. Come on, sir. Now you set your foot on shore
In novo orbe. Here's the rich Peru :
And then within, sir, are the golden mines,
Great Solomon's Ophir ! He was sailing to 't
Three years, but we have reached it in ten months.
This is the day wherein to all my friends
I will pronounce the happy word, Be rich.
This day you shall be spectatissimi.
You shall no more deal with the hollow die,
Or the frail card. No more be at charge of keeping
The livery punk for the young heir, that must
Seal at all hours in his shirt. No more,
If he deny, ha' him beaten to 't, as he is
That brings him -the commodity. No more
Shall thirst of satin, or the covetous hunger
Of velvet entrails for a rude-spun cloak
To be displayed at Madam Augusta's, make
The sons of Sword and Hazard fall before
The golden calf, and on their knees whole nights

Commit idolatry with wine and trumpets ;

Or go a-feasting after drum and ensign ;

No more of this. You shall' start up young viceroys,

And have your punques and punquetees, my Surly:

And unto thee I speak it first. Be rich.

Where is my Subtle there ? within ho —

Face (within). Sir, he'll come to you by and by.
Mam. That's his fire-drake.

His Lungs, his Zephyrus, he that puffs his coals

Till he firk nature up in her own centre.

You are not faithful, sir. This night I'll change

All that is metal in thy house to gold :

And early in the morning will I send

To all the plumbers and the pewterers,

And buy their tin and lead up ; and to Lothbury

For all the copper.
Surly. What, and turn that too?

396 WTBRATURB OF AI<I, NATIONS.

Mam. Yes, and I'll purchase Devonshire and Cornwall,
And make them perfect Indies ! You admire now ?

Sur. No, faith.

Mam. But when you see the effects of the great medicine !
Of which one part projected on a hundred
Of Mercury, or Venus, or the Moon,
Shall turn it to as many of the Sun ;
Nay, to a thousand, so ad infinitum :
You will believe me.

Sur. Yes, when I see 't, I will.

Ma7n. Ha ! why.
Do you think I fable with you ? I assure you,
He that has once the flower of the Sun,
The perfect Ruby, which we call Elixir,
Not only can do that, but by its virtue
Can confer honor, love, respect, long life,
Give safety, valor, yea and victory.
To whom he will. In eight and twenty days
I'll make an old man of fourscore a child.

Sur. No doubt ; he's that already.

Mam. Nay, I mean.
Restore his years, renew him like an eagle.
To the fifth age ; make him get sons and daughters,
Young giants, as our philosophers have done
(The ancient patriarchs afore the flood,)
By taking, once a- week, on a knife's point,
The quantity of a grain of mustard of it,
Become stout Marses and beget young Cupids.

Sur. The decayed vestals of Pickt-hatch would thank you,
That keep the fire alive there.

Mam. 'Tis the secret
Of nature naturized 'gainst all infections.
Cures all diseases, coming of all causes ;
A month's grief in a day; a year's in twelve ;
And of what age soever, in a month :
Past all the doses of your drugging doctors ;
I'll undertake withal to fright the plague
Out o' the kingdom in three months.

Sur. Andril
Be bound the players shall sing your praises, then,
Without their poets.

Mam. Sir, I'll do 't. Meantime,

BNGUSH WTBRATURE. 397

I'll give away so much unto my man,
Shall serve the whole city with preservative
Weekly; each house his dose, and at the rate —

Sur. As he that built the water-work does with water !

Mam. You are incredulous.

Sur. Faith, I have humor.
I would not willingly be gulled. Your Stone
Cannot transmute me.

Mam. Pertinax Surly,
Will you believe antiquity ? Records ?
I'll show you a book, where Moses and his sister,
And Solomon, have written of the art !
Aye, and a treatise penned by Adam.

Sur. How ?

Main. Of the Philosopher's Stone and in High Dutch.

Sur. Did Adam write, sir, in High Dutch ?

Mam. He did ;
Which proves it was the primitive tongue.

Sur. What paper ?

Mam. Cedar-board.

Sur. O that, indeed, they say,
Will last 'gainst worms.

Mam. 'Tis like your Irish wood
'Gainst cobwebs. I have a piece of Jason's fleece too,
Which was no other than a book of Alchemy,
Writ in large sheep-skin, a good fat ram-vellum.
Such was Pythagoras' Thigh, Pandora's Tub,
And all that fable of Medea's charms,
The manner of our work ; the bulls, our furnace,
Still breathing fire: our Argent-vive, the Dragon:
The Dragon's teeth. Mercury sublimate,
That keeps the whiteness, hardness and the biting :
And they are gathered into Jason's helm,
(Th' Alembick,) and then sowed in Mars his field,
And thence sublimed so often, till they are fixed.
Both this, the Hesperian Garden, Cadmus' Story,
Jove's Shower, the Boon of Midas, Argus' Eyes,
Boccace his Demogorgon, thousands more,
All abstract riddles of our Stone.

39^ WTERATURB OP AI,I, NATIONS.

Captain Bobadil.

While the comedy "Every Man in His Humor" cannot bear
comparison as a whole with those of Shakespeare, yet in its broad
lines, and not less so in tnany of its detailed characterizations, it has a
power and incisiveness which few have equalled.

Captain Bobadil is a strongly-drawn type of gasconading heroes
who are their own trumpeters. While living at an obscure inn he is
visited by Knowell, whom he tries to make his dupe.

Bobadil. I will tell you sir, by the way of private, and under
seal, I am a gentleman, and live here obscure, and to myself; but
were I known to her majesty and the lords (observe me), I would
undertake, upon this poor head and life, for the public benefit of
the state, not only to spare the entire lives of her subjects in
general, but to save the one-half, nay three-parts of her yearly
charge in holding war and against what enemy soever. And how
would I do it, think you ?

Knowell. Nay, I know not, nor can I conceive,
Bobadil. Why, thus, sir. I would select nineteen more, to
myself, throughout the land ; gentlemen they should be of good
spirit, strong and able constitution ; I would choose them by an
instinct, a character that I have : and I would teach these nine-
teen the special rules — as your punto, your reverso, your stoccata,
your imbroccato, your passado, your montanto — till they could
all play very neat, or altogether as well as myself. This done,
say the enemy were forty thousand strong, we twenty would
come into the field the tenth of March, or thereabouts ; and we
would challenge twenty of the enemy ; they could not in their
honor refuse us; well, we would kill them; challenge twenty
more, kill them ; twenty more, kill them ; twenty more, kill them
too; and thus would we kill every man his twenty a day, that's
twenty score ; twenty score, that's two hundred ; two hundred a
day, five days a thousand ; forty thousand ; forty times five, five
times forty, two hundred days kills them all up by computation.
And this will I venture my poor gentleman-like carcass to per-
form, provided there be no treason practiced upon us, by fair and
discreet manhood ; that is, civilly by the sword.

«NGWSH MTBRATURB. 399

Ode to HiMSEtif.

On the failure of his comedy "The New Inn," -written after ten
years' abstention from stage work, and first acted January 19, 1629,
Jonson penned this contemptuous ^ing at the vulgar herd who could
not distinguish between acorns and wheat.

Come, leave the loathed stage,

And the more loathsome age ;
Where pride and impudence, in faction knit,

Usurp the chair of wit !
Inditing and arraigning every day
Something they call a play.

Let their fastidious, vain,

Commission of the bfain
Run on and rage, sweat, censure, and condemn ;
They were not made for thee, less thou for them.

Say that thou pour'st them wheat.

And they will acorns eat ;
'Twere simple fury still thyself to waste

On such as have no taste !
To offer them a surfeit of pure bread
Whose apfietites are dead !

No, give them grains their fill.

Husks, draff to drink or swill ;
If they love lees, and leave the lusty wine,
Envy them not, their palate's with the swine.

lyeave things so prostitute

And take the Alcaic lute ;
Or thine own Horace, or Anacreon's lyre ;

Warm thee by Pindar's fire ;
And though thy nerves be shrunk and blood be cold,
Ere years have made thee old,

Strike that disdainful heat,

Throughout, to their defeat.
As curious fools, and envious of thy strain,
May blushing swear no palsy's in thy brain.

But when they hear thee sing
The glories of thy king,

400 MTERATURE OP AI,I, NATIONS.

His zeal to God, and his just awe o'er men ;

They may, blood-shaken then.
Feel such a flesh-quake to possess their powers,
As they shall cry : " I^ike ours
In sound of peace or wars,
No harp e'er hit the stars.
In tuning forth the acts of his sweet reign,
And raising Charles his chariot 'bove his Wain."

To Ckua.

Drink to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine ;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise,

Doth ask a drink divine ;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath.

Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there

It could not withered be.
But thou thereon did'st only breathe,

And sent'st it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear.

Not of itself, but thee.

.JSh