ATHENAEUS

(Third Century A.D.)

Little is known that is authentic about the Graeco-Egyptian Sophist or man of letters, Athenaeus, author of the 'Deipnosophistae' or Feast of the Learned, except his literary bequest. It is recorded that he was born at Naucratis, a city of the Nile Delta; and that after living at Alexandria he migrated to Rome. His date is presumptively fixed in the early part of the third century by his inclusion of Ulpian, the eminent jurist (whose death occurred A.D. 228) among the twenty-nine guests of the banquet whose wit and learning furnished its viands. He was perhaps a contemporary of the physician Galen, another of the putative banqueters, who served as a mouthpiece of the author's erudition.

Probably nothing concerning him deserved preservation except his unique work, the 'Feast of the Learned.' Of the fifteen books transmitted under the above title, the first two, and portions of the third, eleventh, and fifteenth, exist only in epitome—the name of the compiler and his time being equally obscure; yet it is curious that for many centuries these garbled fragments were the only memorials of the author extant. The other books, constituting the major portion of the work, have been pronounced authentic by eminent scholars with Bentley at their head. Without the slightest pretense of literary skill, the 'Feast of the Learned' is an immense storehouse of Ana, or table-talk. Into its receptacles the author gathers fruitage from nearly every branch of contemporary learning. He seemed to anticipate Macaulay's "vice of omniscience," though he lacked Macaulay's incomparable literary virtues. Personal anecdote, criticism of the fine arts, the drama, history, poetry, philosophy, politics, medicine, and natural history enter into his pages, illustrated with an aptness and variety of quotation which seem to have no limit. He preserves old songs, folk-lore, and popular gossip, and relates whatever he may have heard, without sifting it. He gives, for example, a vivid account of the procession which greeted Demetrius Poliorketes:—

"When Demetrius returned from Leucadia and Corcyra to Athens, the Athenians received him not only with incense and garlands and libations, but they even sent out processional choruses, and greeted him with Ithyphallic hymns and dances. Stationed by his chariot-wheels, they sang and danced and chanted that he alone was a real god; the rest were sleeping or were on a journey, or did not exist: they called him son of Poseidon and Aphrodite, eminent for beauty, universal in his goodness to mankind; then they prayed and besought and supplicated him like a god."

The hymn of worship which Athenaeus evidently disapproved has been preserved, and turned into English by the accomplished J.A. Symonds on account of its rare and interesting versification. It belongs to the class of Prosodia, or processional hymns, which the greatest poets delighted to produce, and which were sung at religious festivals by young men and maidens, marching to the shrines in time with the music, their locks crowned with wreaths of olive, myrtle, or oleander; their white robes shining in the sun.

"See how the mightiest gods, and best beloved, Towards our town are winging! For lo! Demeter and Demetrius This glad day is bringing! She to perform her Daughter's solemn rites; Mystic pomps attend her; He joyous as a god should be, and blithe, Comes with laughing splendor. Show forth your triumph! Friends all, troop around, Let him shine above you! Be you the stars to circle him with love; He's the sun to love you. Hail, offspring of Poseidon, powerful god, Child of Aphrodite! The other deities keep far from earth; Have no ears, though mighty; They are not, or they will not hear us wail: Thee our eye beholdeth; Not wood, not stone, but living, breathing, real, Thee our prayer enfoldeth. First give us peace! Give, dearest, for thou canst; Thou art Lord and Master! The Sphinx, who not on Thebes, but on all Greece Swoops to gloat and pasture; The AEtolian, he who sits upon his rock, Like that old disaster; He feeds upon our flesh and blood, and we Can no longer labor; For it was ever thus the AEtolian thief Preyed upon his neighbor; Him punish Thou, or, if not Thou, then send Oedipus to harm him, Who'll cast this Sphinx down from his cliff of pride, Or to stone will charm him."

The Swallow song, which is cited, is an example of the folk-lore and old customs which Athenaeus delighted to gather; and he tells how in springtime the children used to go about from door to door, begging doles and presents, and singing such half-sensible, half-foolish rhymes as—

"She is here, she is here, the swallow! Fair seasons bringing, fair years to follow! Her belly is white, Her back black as night! From your rich house Roll forth to us Tarts, wine, and cheese; Or, if not these, Oatmeal and barley-cake The swallow deigns to take. What shall we have? or must we hence away! Thanks, if you give: if not, we'll make you pay! The house-door hence we'll carry; Nor shall the lintel tarry; From hearth and home your wife we'll rob; She is so small, To take her off will be an easy job! Whate'er you give, give largess free! Up! open, open, to the swallow's call! No grave old men, but merry children we!"

The 'Feast of the Learned' professes to be the record of the sayings at a banquet given at Rome by Laurentius to his learned friends. Laurentius stands as the typical Maecenas of the period. The dialogue is reported after Plato's method, or as we see it in the more familiar form of the 'Satires' of Horace, though lacking the pithy vigor of these models. The discursiveness with which topics succeed each other, their want of logic or continuity, and the pelting fire of quotations in prose and verse, make a strange mixture. It may be compared to one of those dishes known both to ancients and to moderns, in which a great variety of scraps is enriched with condiments to the obliteration of all individual flavor. The plan of execution is so cumbersome that its only defense is its imitation of the inevitably disjointed talk when the guests of a dinner party are busy with their wine and nuts. One is tempted to suspect Athenaeus of a sly sarcasm at his own expense, when he puts the following flings at pedantry in the mouths of some of his puppets:—

"And now when Myrtilus had said all this in a connected statement, and when all were marveling at his memory, Cynulcus said,—

'Your multifarious learning I do wonder at, Though there is not a thing more vain and useless.'

"Says Hippo the Atheist, 'But the divine Heraclitus also says, 'A great variety of information does not usually give wisdom.' And Timon said, ... 'For what is the use of so many names, my good grammarian, which are more calculated to overwhelm the hearers than to do them any good?'"

This passage shows the redundancy of expression which disfigures so much of Athenaeus. It is also typical of the cudgel-play of repartee between his characters, which takes the place of agile witticism. But if he heaps up vast piles of scholastic rubbish, he is also the Golden Dustman who shows us the treasure preserved by his saving pedantry. Scholars find the 'Feast of the Learned' a quarry of quotations from classical writers whose works have perished. Nearly eight hundred writers and twenty-four hundred separate writings are referred to and cited in this disorderly encyclopedia, most of them now lost and forgotten. This literary thrift will always give rank to the work of Athenaeus, poor as it is. The best editions of the original Greek are those of Dindorf (Leipzig, 1827), and of Meineke (Leipzig, 1867). The best English translation is that of C.D. Yonge in 'Bonn's Classical Library,' from which, with slight alterations, the appended passages are selected.

WHY THE NILE OVERFLOWS

From the 'Deipnosophistae'

Thales the Milesian, one of the Seven Wise Men, says that the overflowing of the Nile arises from the Etesian winds; for that they blow up the river, and that the mouths of the river lie exactly opposite to the point from which they blow; and accordingly, that the wind blowing in the opposite direction hinders the flow of the waters; and the waves of the sea, dashing against the mouth of the river, and coming on with a fair wind in the same direction, beat back the river, and in this manner the Nile becomes full to overflowing. But Anaxagoras, the natural philosopher, says that the fullness of the Nile arises from the snow melting; and so too says Euripides, and some others of the tragic poets. Anaxagoras says this is the sole origin of all that fullness; but Euripides goes further and describes the exact place where this melting of the snow takes place.

HOW TO PRESERVE THE HEALTH

From the 'Deipnosophistae'

One ought to avoid thick perfumes, and to drink water that is thin and clear, and that in respect of weight is light, and that has no earthy particles in it. And that water is best which is of moderate heat or coldness, and which, when poured into a brazen or silver vessel, does not produce a blackish sediment. Hippocrates says, "Water which is easily warmed or easily chilled is alway lighter." But that water is bad which takes a long time to boil vegetables; and so too is water full of nitre, or brackish. And in his book 'On Waters,' Hippocrates calls good water drinkable; but stagnant water he calls bad, such as that from ponds or marshes. And most spring-water is rather hard.

Erasistratus says that some people test water by weight, and that is a most stupid proceeding. "For just look," says he, "if men compare the water from the fountain Amphiaraus with that from the Eretrian spring, though one of them is good and the other bad, there is absolutely no difference in their respective weights." And Hippocrates, in his book 'On Places,' says that those waters are the best which flow from high ground, and from dry hills, "for they are white and sweet, and are able to bear very little wine, and are warm in winter and cold in summer." And he praises those most, the springs of which break toward the east, and especially toward the northeast, for they must be inevitably clear and fragrant and light. Diocles says that water is good for the digestion and not apt to cause flatulency, that it is moderately cooling, and good for the eyes, and that it has no tendency to make the head feel heavy, and that it adds vigor to the mind and body. And Praxagoras says the same; and he also praises rain-water. But Euenor praises water from cisterns, and says that the best is that from the cistern of Amphiaraus, when compared with that from the fountain in Eretria.

That water is really nutritious is plain from the fact that some animals are nourished by it alone, as for instance grasshoppers. And there are many other liquids that are nutritious, such as milk, barley water, and wine. At all events, animals at the breast are nourished by milk; and there are many nations who drink nothing but milk. And it is said that Democritus, the philosopher of Abdera, after he had determined to rid himself of life on account of his extreme old age, and after he had begun to diminish his food day by day, when the day of the Thesmophorian festival came round, and the women of his household besought him not to die during the festival, in order that they might not be debarred from their share in the festivities, was persuaded, and ordered a vessel full of honey to be set near him: and in this way he lived many days with no other support than honey; and then some days after, when the honey had been taken away, he died. But Democritus had always been fond of honey; and he once answered a man, who asked him how he could live in the enjoyment of the best health, that he might do so if he constantly moistened his inward parts with honey, and the outer man with oil. And bread and honey was the chief food of the Pythagoreans, according to the statement of Aristoxenus, who says that those who eat this for breakfast were free from disease all their lives. And Lycus says that the Cyrneans (a people who live near Sardinia) are very long-lived, because they are continually eating honey; and it is produced in great quantities among them.

AN ACCOUNT OF SOME GREAT EATERS

From the Deipnosophistae

Heraclitus, in his 'Entertainer of Strangers,' says that there was a woman named Helena who ate more than any other woman ever did. And Posidippus, in his 'Epigrams,' says that Phuromachus was a great eater, on whom he wrote this epigram:—

This lowly ditch now holds Phuromachus, Who used to swallow everything he saw, Like a fierce carrion crow who roams all night. Now here he lies wrapped in a ragged cloak. But, O Athenian, whosoe'er you are, Anoint this tomb and crown it with a wreath, If ever in old times he feasted with you. At last he came sans teeth, with eyes worn out, And livid, swollen eyelids; clothed in skins, With but one single cruse, and that scarce full; Far from the gay Lenaean Games he came, Descending humbly to Calliope.

Amarantus of Alexandria, in his treatise on the Stage, says that Herodorus, the Megarian trumpeter, was a man three cubits and a half in height; and that he had great strength in his chest, and that he could eat six pounds of bread, and twenty litrae of meat, of whatever sort was provided for him, and that he could drink two choes of wine; and that he could play on two trumpets at once; and that it was his habit to sleep on only a lion's skin, and when playing on the trumpet he made a vast noise. Accordingly, when Demetrius the son of Antigonus was besieging Argos, and when his troops could not bring the battering ram against the walls on account of its weight, he, giving the signal with his two trumpets at once, by the great volume of sound which he poured forth, instigated the soldiers to move forward the engine with great zeal and earnestness; and he gained the prize in all the games ten times; and he used to eat sitting down, as Nestor tells us in his 'Theatrical Reminiscences.' And there was a woman, too, named Aglais, who played on the trumpet, the daughter of Megacles, who, in the first great procession which took place in Alexandria, played a processional piece of music; having a head-dress of false hair on, and a crest upon her head, as Posidippus proves by his epigrams on her. And she too could eat twelve litrae of meat and four choenixes of bread, and drink a choenus of wine, at one sitting.

There was besides a man of the name of Lityerses, a bastard son of Midas, the King of Celaenae, in Phrygia, a man of a savage and fierce aspect, and an enormous glutton. He is mentioned by Sositheus, the tragic poet, in his play called 'Daphnis' or 'Lityersa'; where he says:—

"He'll eat three asses' panniers, freight and all, Three times in one brief day; and what he calls A measure of wine is a ten-amphorae cask; And this he drinks all at a single draught."

And the man mentioned by Pherecrates, or Strattis, whichever was the author of the play called 'The Good Men,' was much such another; the author says:—

"A.—I scarcely in one day, unless I'm forced, Can eat two bushels and a half of food. B.—A most unhappy man! how have you lost Your appetite, so as now to be content With the scant rations of one ship of war?"

And Xanthus, in his 'Account of Lydia,' says that Cambles, who was the king of the Lydians, was a great eater and drinker, and also an exceeding epicure; and accordingly, that he one night cut up his own wife into joints and ate her; and then, in the morning, finding the hand of his wife still sticking in his mouth, he slew himself, as his act began to get notorious. And we have already mentioned Thys, the king of the Paphlagonians, saying that he too was a man of vast appetite, quoting Theopompus, who speaks of him in the thirty-fifth book of his 'History'; and Archilochus, in his 'Tetrameters,' has accused Charilas of the same fault, as the comic poets have attacked Cleonymus and Pisander. And Phoenicides mentions Chaerippus in his 'Phylarchus' in the following terms:—

"And next to them I place Chaerippus third; He, as you know, will without ceasing eat As long as any one will give him food, Or till he bursts,—such stowage vast has he, Like any house."

And Nicolaus the Peripatetic, in the hundred and third book of his 'History,' says that Mithridates, the king of Pontus, once proposed a contest in great eating and great drinking (the prize was a talent of silver), and that he himself gained the victory in both; but he yielded the prize to the man who was judged to be second to him, namely, Calomodrys, the athlete of Cyzicus. And Timocreon the Rhodian, a poet and an athlete who had gained the victory in the pentathlum, ate and drank a great deal, as the epigram on his tomb shows:—

"Much did I eat, much did I drink, and much Did I abuse all men; now here I lie:— My name Timocreon, my country Rhodes."

And Thrasymachus of Chalcedon, in one of his prefaces, says that Timocreon came to the great king of Persia, and being entertained by him, did eat an immense quantity of food; and when the king asked him, What he would do on the strength of it? he said that he would beat a great many Persians; and the next day having vanquished a great many, one after another, taking them one by one, after this he beat the air with his hands; and when they asked him what he wanted, he said that he had all those blows left in him if any one was inclined to come on. And Clearchus, in the fifth book of his 'Lives,' says that Cantibaris the Persian, whenever his jaws were weary with eating, had his slaves to pour food into his mouth, which he kept open as if they were pouring it into an empty vessel. But Hellanicus, in the first book of his Deucalionea, says that Erysichthon, the son of Myrmidon, being a man perfectly insatiable in respect of food, was called AEthon. Also Polemo, in the first book of his 'Treatise addressed to Timaeus,' says that among the Sicilians there was a temple consecrated to gluttony, and an image of Demeter Sito; near which also there was a statue of Himalis, as there is at Delphi one of Hermuchus, and as at Scolum in Boeotia there are statues of Megalartus and Megalomazus.

THE LOVE OF ANIMALS FOR MAN

From the 'Deipnosophistae'

And even dumb animals have fallen in love with men; for there was a cock who took a fancy to a man of the name of Secundus, a cupbearer of the king; and the cock was nicknamed "the Centaur." This Secundus was a slave of Nicomedes, the king of Bithynia; as Nicander informs us in the sixth book of his essay on 'The Revolutions of Fortune.' And at AEgium, a goose took a fancy to a boy; as Clearchus relates in the first book of his 'Amatory Anecdotes.' And Theophrastus, in his essay 'On Love,' says that the name of this boy was Amphilochus, and that he was a native of Olenus. And Hermeas the son of Hermodorus, who was a Samian by birth, says that a goose also took a fancy to Lacydes the philosopher. And in Leucadia (according to a story told by Clearchus), a peacock fell so in love with a maiden there that when she died, the bird died too. There is a story also that at Iasus a dolphin took a fancy to a boy, and this story is told by Duris, in the ninth book of his 'History'; and the subject of that book is the history of Alexander, and the historian's words are these:—

"He likewise sent for the boy from Iasus. For near Iasus there was a boy whose name was Dionysius, and he once, when leaving the palaestra with the rest of the boys, went down to the sea and bathed; and a dolphin came forward out of the deep water to meet him, and taking him on his back, swam away with him a considerable distance into the open sea, and then brought him back again to land."

The dolphin is in fact an animal which is very fond of men, and very intelligent, and one very susceptible of gratitude. Accordingly, Phylarchus, in his twelfth book, says:—

"Coiranus the Milesian, when he saw some fishermen who had caught a dolphin in a net, and who were about to cut it up, gave them some money and bought the fish, and took it down and put it back in the sea again. And after this it happened to him to be shipwrecked near Myconos, and while every one else perished, Coiranus alone was saved by a dolphin. And when at last he died of old age in his native country, as it so happened that his funeral procession passed along the seashore close to Miletus, a great shoal of dolphins appeared on that day in the harbor, keeping only a very little distance from those who were attending the funeral of Coiranus, as if they also were joining in the procession and sharing in their grief."

The same Phylarchus also relates, in the twentieth book of his 'History,' the great affection which was once displayed by an elephant for a boy. And his words are these:—

"Now there was a female elephant kept with this elephant, and the name of the female elephant was Nicaea; and to her the wife of the king of India, when dying, intrusted her child, which was just a month old. And when the woman did die, the affection for the child displayed by the beast was most extraordinary; for it could not endure the child to be away; and whenever it did not see him, it was out of spirits. And so, whenever the nurse fed the infant with milk, she placed it in its cradle between the feet of the beast; and if she had not done so, the elephant would not take any food; and after this, it would take whatever reeds and grass there were near, and, while the child was sleeping, beat away the flies with the bundle. And whenever the child wept, it would rock the cradle with its trunk, and lull it to sleep. And very often the male elephant did the same."



PER DANIEL AMADEUS ATTERBOM

(1790-1855)

Among the leaders of the romantic movement which affected Swedish literature in the earlier half of the nineteenth century was P.D.A. Atterbom, one of the greatest lyric poets of his country. He was born in Ostergoethland, in 1790, and at the age of fifteen was already so advanced in his studies that he entered the University of Upsala. There in 1807 he helped to found the "Musis Amici," a students' society of literature and art; its membership included Hedbom, who is remembered for his beautiful hymns, and the able and laborious Palmblad,—author of several popular books, including the well-known novel 'Aurora Koenigsmark.' This society soon assumed the name of the Aurora League, and set itself to free Swedish literature from French influence. The means chosen were the study of German romanticism, and a treatment of the higher branches of literature in direct opposition to the course decreed by the Academical school. The leaders of this revolution were Atterbom, eighteen years old, and Palmblad, twenty!

The first organ of the League was the Polyfem, soon replaced by the Phosphorus (1810-1813), from which the young enthusiasts received their sobriquet of "Phosphorists." Theoretically this sheet was given to the discussion of Schelling's philosophy, and of metaphysical problems in general; practically, to the publication of the original poetry of the new school. The Phosphorists did a good work in calling attention to the old Swedish folk-lore, and awakening a new interest in its imaginative treasures. But their best service lay in their forcible and earnest treatment of religious questions, which at that time were most superficially dealt with.

When the 'Phosphorus' was in its third year the Romanticists united in bringing out two new organs: the Poetical Calendar (1812-1822), which published poetry only, and the Swedish Literary News (1813-1824), containing critical essays of great scientific value. The Phosphorists, who had shown themselves ardent but not always sagacious fighters, now appeared at their best, and dashed into the controversy which was engaging the attention of the Swedish reading public. This included not only literature, but philosophy and religion, as well as art. The odds were now on one side, now on the other. The Academicians might easily have conquered their youthful opponents, however, had not their bitterness continually forged new weapons against themselves. In 1820 the Phosphorists wrote the excellent satire, 'Marskall's Sleepless Nights,' aimed at Wallmark, leader of the Academicians. Gradually the strife died out, and the man who carried off the palm, and for a time became the leader of Swedish poetry, was Tegner, who was hardly a partisan of either side.

In 1817 Atterbom had gone abroad, broken down in health by his uninterrupted studies. While in Germany he entered into a warm friendship with Schelling and Steffens, and in Naples he met the Danish sculptor Thorwaldsen, to whose circle of friends he became attached. On his return he was made tutor of German and literature to the Crown Prince. In 1828 the Chair of Logics and Metaphysics at Upsala was offered him, and he held this for seven years, when he exchanged it for that of Aesthetics. In 1839 he was elected a member of the Academy whose bitterest enemy he had been, and so the peace was signed.

Atterbom is undoubtedly the greatest lyrical poet in the ranks of the Phosphorists. His verses are wonderfully melodious and full of charm, in spite of the fact that his tendency to the mystical at times makes him obscure. Among the best of his productions are a cycle of lyrics entitled 'The Flowers'; 'The Isle of Blessedness,' a romantic drama of great beauty, published in 1823; and a fragment of a fairy drama, 'The Blue Bird.' He introduced the sonnet into Swedish poetry, and did a great service to the national literature by his critical work, 'Swedish Seers and Poets,' a collection of biographies and criticisms of poets and philosophers before and during the reign of Gustavus III. Atterbom's life may be accounted long in the way of service, though he died at the age of sixty-five.

THE GENIUS OF THE NORTH

It is true that our Northern nature is lofty and strong. Its characteristics may well awaken deep meditation and emotion. When the Goddess of Song has grown up in these surroundings, her view of life is like that mirrored in our lakes, where, between the dark shadows of mountain and trees on the shore, a light-blue sky looks down. Over this mirror the Northern morning and the Northern day, the Northern evening and the Northern night, rise in a glorious beauty. Our Muse kindles a lofty hero's flame, a lofty seer's flame, and always the flame of a lofty immortality. In this sombre North we experience an immense joyousness and an immense melancholy, moods of earth-coveting and of earth-renunciation. With equal mind we behold the fleet, charming dream of her summers, her early harvest with its quickly falling splendor, and the darkness and silence of the long winter's sleep. For if the gem-like green of the verdure proclaims its short life, it proclaims at the same time its richness,—and in winter the very darkness seems made to let the starry vault shine through with a glory of Valhalla and Gimle. Indeed, in our North, the winter possesses an impressiveness, a freshness, which only we Norsemen understand. Add to these strong effects of nature the loneliness of life in a wide tract of land, sparingly populated by a still sparingly educated people, and then think of the poet's soul which must beat against these barriers of circumstance and barriers of spirit! Yet the barriers that hold him in as often help as hinder his striving. These conditions explain what our literature amply proves; that so far, the only poetical form which has reached perfection in Sweden is the lyrical. This will be otherwise only as the northern mind, through a growing familiarity with contemporaneous Europe, will consent to be drawn from its forest solitude into the whirl of the motley World's Fair outside its boundaries. It is probable that the lyrical gift will always be the true possession of the Swedish poet. His genius is such that it needs only a beautiful moment's exaltation (blissful, whether the experience be called joy or sorrow) to rise on full, free wings, suddenly singing out his very inmost being. Whether the poet makes this inmost being his subject, or quite forgets himself in a richer and higher theme, is of little consequence.

If, again, no true lyric can express a narrow egoism, least of all could the Swedish, in spite of the indivisible relation between nature and man. The entire Saemunds-Edda shows us that Scandinavian poetry was originally lyrical-didactic, as much religious as heroic. Not only in lyrical impression, but also in lyrical contemplation and lyrical expression, will the Swedish heroic poem still follow its earliest trend. Yes, let us believe that this impulse will some day lead Swedish poetry into the only path of true progress, to the point where dramatic expression will attain perfection of artistic form. This development is foreshadowed already in the high tragic drama, in the view of the world taken by the old Swedish didactic poem; and in some of the songs of the Edda, as well as in many an old folk-song and folk-play.

THE LILY OF THE VALLEY

O'er hill and dale the welcome news is flying That summer's drawing near; Out of my thicket cool, my cranny hidden, Around I shyly peer.

He will not notice me, this guest resplendent, Unseen I shall remain, Content to live if of his banquet royal Some glimpses I may gain.

Behold! Behold! His banquet hall's before me, Pillared with forest trees; Lo! as he feasts, a thousand sunbeams sparkle, His gracious smiles are these.

Hail to thee, brilliant world! Ye heavens fretted With clouds of silver hue! Ye waves of mighty ocean, tossing, tossing, Fair in my sight as new!

Far in the past (if years my life has numbered, Ghost-like in thought they drift), Came to me silently the truth eternal— Joy is life's richest gift.

Thus, in return for life's abundant dower, A gift have I: I bear A spotless soul, from whose unseen recesses Exhales a fragrance rare.

Strong is the power in gentle souls indwelling, Born of a joy divine; Theirs is a sphere untrod by creatures earthly, By beings gross, supine.

Fragile and small, and set in quiet places, My worth should I forget? Some one who seeks friend, counselor, or lover, Will find and prize me yet.

Thou lovely maid, through mossy pathways straying, Striving to make thy choice, Hearing the while the brook which downward leaping, Lifts up its merry voice, Pluck me; and as a rich reward I'll whisper Things them wilt love to hear: The name of him who comes to win thy favor I'll whisper in thine ear!

SVANHVIT'S COLLOQUY

From 'The Islands of the Blest'

SVANHVIT (alone in her chamber)

No Asdolf yet,—in vain and everywhere Hath he been sought for, since his foaming steed, At morn, with vacant saddle, stood before The lofty staircase in the castle yard. His drooping crest and wildly rolling eye, And limbs with frenzied terror quivering, All seemed as though the midnight fiends had urged His swiftest flight through many a wood and plain. O Lord, that know'st what he hath witnessed there! Wouldst thou but give one single speaking sound Unto the faithful creature's silent tongue, That momentary voice would be, for me, A call to life or summons to the grave.

[She goes to the window.]

And yet what childish fears are these! How oft Hath not my Asdolf boldest feats achieved And aye returned, unharmed and beautiful! Yes, beautiful, alas! like this cold flower That proudly glances on the frosty pane. Short is the violet's, short the cowslip's spring;— The frost-flowers live far longer: cold as they The beautiful should be, that it may share The splendor of the light without its heat; For else the sun of life must soon dissolve The hard, cold, shining pearls to liquid tears; And tears—flow fast away.

[She breathes on the window.]

Become transparent, thou fair Asdolf flower, That I may look into the vale beneath! There lies the city,—Asdolf's capital: How wondrously the spotless vest of snow On roof, on mount, on market-place now smiles A glittering welcome to the morning sun, Whose blood-red beams shed beauty on the earth! The Bride of Sacrifice makes no lament, But smiles in silence,—knowing sadly well That she is slighted, and that he, who could Call forth her spring, doth not, but rather dwells In other climes, where lavishly he pours His fond embracing beams, while she, alas! In wintry shade and lengthened loneliness Cold on the solitary couch reclines.—

[After a pause.]

What countless paths wind down, from divers points, To yonder city gates!—Oh, wilt not thou, My star, appear to me on one of them? Whate'er I said,—thou art my worshiped sun. Then pardon me;—thou art not cold; oh, no! Too warm, too glowing warm, art thou for me.

Yet thus it is! Thy being's music has A thousand chords with thousand varying tones, Whilst I but one poor sound can offer thee Of tenderness and truth. At times, indeed, This too may have its power,—but then it lasts One and the same forever, sounding still Unalterably like itself alone; A wordless prayer to God for what we love, 'Tis more a whisper than a sound, and charms Like new-mown meadows, when the grass exhales Sweet fragrance to the foot that tramples it.

Kings, heroes, towering spirits among men, Rush to their aim on wild and stormy wings, And far beneath them view the world, whose form For ever varies on from hour to hour. What would they ask of love? That, volatile, In changeful freshness it may charm their ears With proud, triumphant songs, when high in air Victorious banners wave; or sweetly lull To rapturous repose, when round them roars The awful thunder's everlasting voice!

Mute, mean, and spiritless to them must seem The maid who is no more than woman. How Should she o'er-sound the storm their wings have raised?

[Sitting down.]

Great Lord! how lonely I become within These now uncheerful towers! O'er all the earth No shield have I,—no mutual feeling left! Tis true that those around me all are kind, And well I know they love me,—more, indeed, Than my poor merits claim. Yet, even though They raised me to my Asdolf's royal throne, As being the last of all his line,—ah me! No solace could it bring;—for then far less Might I reveal the sorrow of my soul! A helpless maiden's tears like raindrops fall, Which in a July night, ere harvest-time, Bedew the flowers, and, trembling, stand within Their half-closed eyes unnumbered and unknown.

[She rises.]

Yet One there is, who counts the maiden's tears;— But when will their sad number be fulfilled?—

[Walking to and fro.]

How calm was I in former days!—I now Am so no more! My heart beats heavily, Oppressed within its prison-cave. Ah! fain Would I that it might burst its bonds, so that 'Twere conscious, Asdolf, I sometimes had seemed Not all unworthy in thine eyes.

[She takes the guitar.]

A gentle friend—the Master from Vallandia— Has taught me how I may converse with thee, Thou cherished token of my Asdolf's love! I have been told of far-off lakes, around Whose shores the cypress and the willow wave, And make a mournful shade above the stream. Which, dark, and narrow on the surface, swells Broad and unfathomably deep below;— From these dark lakes at certain times, and most On Sabbath morns and eves of festivals. Uprising from the depths, is heard a sound Most strange and wild, as of the tuneful bells Of churches and of castles long since sunk; And as the wanderer's steps approach the shore, He hears more plainly the lamenting tone Of the dark waters, whilst the surface still Continues motionless and calm, and seems To listen with a melancholy joy, While thus the dim mysterious depths resound; So let me strive to soften and subdue My heart's dark swelling with a soothful song.

[She plays and sings.]

The maiden bound her hunting-net At morning fresh and fair—

Ah, no! that lay doth ever make me grieve. Another, then! that of the hapless flower, Surprised by frost and snow in early spring.

[Sings.]

Hush thee, oh, hush thee, Slumber from snow and stormy sky, Lovely and lone one! Now is the time for thee to die, When vale and streamlet frozen lie. Hush thee, oh, hush thee!

Hours hasten onward;— For thee the last will soon be o'er. Rest thee, oh, rest thee! Flowers have withered thus before,— And, my poor heart, what wouldst thou more? Rest thee, oh, rest thee!

Shadows should darkly Enveil thy past delights and woes. Forget, oh, forget them! 'Tis thus that eve its shadows throws; But now, in noiseless night's repose, Forget, oh, forget them!

Slumber, oh, slumber! No friend hast thou like kindly snow; Sleep is well for thee, For whom no second spring will blow; Then why, poor heart, still beating so? Slumber, oh, slumber!

Hush thee, oh, hush thee! Resign thy life-breath in a sigh, Listen no longer, Life bids farewell to thee,—then die! Sad one, good night!—in sweet sleep lie! Hush thee, oh, hush thee!

[She bursts into tears.]

Would now that I might bid adieu to life; But, ah! no voice to me replies, "Sleep well!"

THE MERMAID

Leaving the sea, the pale moon lights the strand. Tracing old runes, a youth inscribes the sand. And by the rune-ring waits a woman fair, Down to her feet extends her dripping hair.

Woven of lustrous pearls her robes appear, Thin as the air and as the water clear. Lifting her veil with milk-white hand she shows Eyes in whose deeps a deadly fire glows.

Blue are her eyes: she looks upon him—bound, As by a spell, he views their gulf profound. Heaven and death are there: in his desire, He feels the chill of ice, the heat of fire.

Graciously smiling, now she whispers low:— "The runes are dark, would you their meaning know? Follow! my dwelling is as dark and deep; You, you alone, its treasure vast shall keep!"

"Where is your dwelling, charming maid, now say!" "Built on a coral island far away, Crystalline, golden, floats that castle free, Meet for a lovely daughter of the sea!"

Still he delays and muses, on the strand; Now the alluring maiden grasps his hand. "Ah! Do you tremble, you who were so bold?" "Yes, for the heaving breakers are so cold!"

"Let not the mounting waves your spirit change! Take, as a charm, my ring with sea-runes strange. Here is my crown of water-lilies white, Here is my harp, with human bones bedight."

* * * * *

"What say my Father and my Mother dear? What says my God, who bends from heaven to hear?" "Father and Mother in the churchyard lie. As for thy God, he deigns not to reply."

Blithely she dances on the pearl-strewn sand, Smiting the bone-harp with her graceful hand. Fair is her bosom, through her thin robe seen, White as a swan beheld through rushes green,

"Follow me, youth! through ocean deeps we'll rove; There is my castle in its coral grove; There the red branches purple shadows throw, There the green waves, like grass, sway to and fro,

* * * * *

"I have a thousand sisters; none so fair. He whom I wed receives my sceptre rare. Wisdom occult my mother will impart. Granting his slightest wish, I'll cheer his heart."

* * * * *

"Heaven and earth to win you I abjure! Child of the ocean, is your promise sure?" "Heaven and earth abjuring, great's your gain, Throned with the ancient gods, a king to reign!"

Lo, as she speaks, a thousand starlights gleam, Lighted for Heaven's Christmas day they seem. Sighing, he swears the oath,—the die is cast; Into the mermaid's arms he sinks at last.

* * * * *

High on the shore the rushing waves roll in. "Why does the color vary on your skin? What! From your waist a fish's tail depends!" "Worn for the dances of my sea-maid friends."

High overhead, the stars, like torches, burn: "Haste! to my golden castle I return. Save me, ye runes!"—"Yes, try them now; they fail. Pupil of heathen men, my spells prevail!"

Proudly she turns; her sceptre strikes the wave, Roaring, it parts; the ocean yawns, a grave. Mermaid and youth go down; the gulf is deep. Over their heads the surging waters sweep.

Often, on moonlight nights, when bluebells ring, When for their sports the elves are gathering, Out of the waves the youth appears, and plays Tunes that are merry, mournful, like his days.



AUCASSIN AND NICOLLETE

(Twelfth Century)

BY FREDERICK MORRIS WARREN

This charming tale of medieval France has reached modern times in but one manuscript, which is now in the National Library at Paris. It gives us no hint as to the time and place of the author, but its linguistic forms would indicate for locality the borderland of Champagne and Picardy, while the fact that the verse of the story is in assonance would point to the later twelfth century as the date of the original draft. It would thus be contemporaneous with the last poems of Chretien de Troyes (1170-80). The author was probably a minstrel by profession, but one of more than ordinary taste and talent. For, evidently skilled in both song and recitation, he so divided his narrative between poetry and prose that he gave himself ample opportunity to display his powers, while at the same time he retained more easily, by this variety, the attention of his audience. He calls his invention—if his invention it be—a "song-story." The subject he drew probably from reminiscences of the widely known story of Floire and Blanchefleur; reversing the parts, so that here it is the hero who is the Christian, while the heroine is a Saracen captive baptized in her early years. The general outline of the plot also resembles indistinctly the plot of Floire and Blanchefleur, though its topography is somewhat indefinite, and a certain amount of absurd adventure in strange lands is interwoven with it. With these exceptions, however, few literary productions of the Middle Ages can rival 'Aucassin and Nicolette' in graceful sentiment and sympathetic description.

The Paris manuscript gives the music for the poetical parts,—music that is little more than a modulation. There is a different notation for the first two lines, but for the other lines this notation is repeated in couplets, except that the last line of each song or laisse—being a half-line—has a cadence of its own. The lines are all seven syllables in length, save the final half-lines, and the assonance, which all but the half-lines observe, tends somewhat towards rhyme.

The story begins with a song which serves as prologue; and then its prose takes up the narrative, telling how Aucassin, son of Garin, Count of Beaucaire, so loved Nicolette, a Saracen maiden, who had been sold to the Viscount of Beaucaire, baptized and adopted by him, that he had forsaken knighthood and chivalry and even refused to defend his father's territories against Count Bougart of Valence. Accordingly his father ordered the Viscount to send away Nicolette, and he walled her up in a tower of his palace. Later, Aucassin is imprisoned by his father. But Nicolette escapes, hears him lamenting in his cell, and comforts him until the warden on the tower warns her of the approach of the town watch. She flees to the forest outside the gates, and there, in order to test Aucassin's fidelity, builds a rustic tower. When he is released from prison, Aucassin hears from shepherd lads of Nicolette's hiding-place, and seeks her bower. The lovers, united, resolve to leave the country. They take ship and are driven to the kingdom of Torelore, whose queen they find in child-bed, while the king is with the army. After a three years' stay in Torelore they are captured by Saracen pirates and separated. Contrary winds blow Aucassin's boat to Beaucaire, where he succeeds to Garin's estate, while Nicolette is carried to Carthage. The sight of the city reminds her that she is the daughter of its king, and a royal marriage is planned for her. But she avoids this by assuming a minstrel's garb, and setting sail for Beaucaire. There, before Aucassin, she sings of her own adventures, and in due time makes herself known to him. Now in one last strain our story-teller celebrates the lovers' meeting, concluding with—

"Our song-story comes to an end, I know no more to tell."

And thus he takes leave of the gentle and courageous maiden.

The whole account of these trials and reunions does not occupy over forty pages of the original French, which has been best edited by H. Suchier at Paderborn (second edition, 1881). In 1878, A. Bida published, with illustrations, a modern French version of the story at Paris, accompanied by the original text and a preface by Gaston Paris. This version was translated into English by A. Rodney Macdonough under the title of 'The Lovers of Provence: Aucassin and Nicolette' (New York, 1880). Additional illustrations by American artists found place in this edition. F.W. Bourdillon has published the original text and an English version, together with an exhaustive introduction, bibliography, notes, and glossary (London, 1887), and, later in the same year, Andrew Lang wrote out another translation, accompanied by an introduction and notes: 'Aucassin and Nicolette' (London). The extracts given below are from Lang's version, with occasional slight alterations.



'TIS OF AUCASSIN AND NICOLETTE

Who would list to the good lay, Gladness of the captive gray? 'Tis how two young lovers met, Aucassin and Nicolette; Of the pains the lover bore, And the perils he outwore, For the goodness and the grace Of his love, so fair of face.

Sweet the song, the story sweet, There is no man hearkens it, No man living 'neath the sun, So outwearied, so fordone, Sick and woeful, worn and sad, But is healed, but is glad, 'Tis so sweet.

So say they, speak they, tell they The Tale,

How the Count Bougart of Valence made war on Count Garin of Beaucaire,—war so great, so marvelous, and so mortal that never a day dawned but alway he was there, by the gates and walls and barriers of the town, with a hundred knights, and ten thousand men-at-arms, horsemen and footmen: so burned he the Count's land, and spoiled his country, and slew his men. Now, the Count Garin of Beaucaire was old and frail, and his good days were gone over. No heir had he, neither son nor daughter, save one young man only; such an one as I shall tell you. Aucassin was the name of the damoiseau: fair was he, goodly, and great, and featly fashioned of his body and limbs. His hair was yellow, in little curls, his eyes blue-gray and laughing, his face beautiful and shapely, his nose high and well set, and so richly seen was he in all things good, that in him was none evil at all. But so suddenly was he overtaken of Love, who is a great master, that he would not, of his will, be a knight, nor take arms, nor follow tourneys, nor do whatsoever him beseemed. Therefore his father and mother said to him:—

"Son, go take thine arms, mount thine horse, and hold thy land, and help thy men, for if they see thee among them, more stoutly will they keep in battle their lives and lands, and thine and mine."

"Father," answered Aucassin, "what are you saying now? Never may God give me aught of my desire, if I be a knight, or mount my horse, or face stour and battle wherein knights smite and are smitten again, unless thou give me Nicolette, my true love, that I love so well."

"Son," said the father, "this may not be. Let Nicolette go. A slave girl is she, out of a strange land, and the viscount of this town bought her of the Saracens, and carried her hither, and hath reared her and had her christened, and made her his god-daughter, and one day will find a young man for her, to win her bread honorably. Herein hast thou naught to make nor mend; but if a wife thou wilt have, I will give thee the daughter of a king, or a count. There is no man so rich in France, but if thou desire his daughter, thou shall have her."

"Faith! my father," said Aucassin, "tell me where is the place so high in all the world, that Nicolette, my sweet lady and love, would not grace it well? If she were Empress of Constantinople or of Germany, or Queen of France or England, it were little enough for her; so gentle is she and courteous, and debonnaire, and compact of all good qualities."

IMPRISONMENT OF NICOLETTE

When Count Garin of Beaucaire knew that he would not avail to withdraw Aucassin, his son, from the love of Nicolette, he went to the viscount of the city, who was his man, and spake to him saying:—"Sir Count: away with Nicolette, thy daughter in God; cursed be the land whence she was brought into this country, for by reason of her do I lose Aucassin, that will neither be a knight, nor do aught of the things that fall to him to be done. And wit ye well," he said, "that if I might have her at my will, I would burn her in a fire, and yourself might well be sore adread."

"Sir," said the Viscount, "this is grievous to me that he comes and goes and hath speech with her. I had bought the maid at mine own charges, and nourished her, and baptized, and made her my daughter in God. Yea, I would have given her to a young man that should win her bread honorably. With this had Aucassin, thy son, naught to make or mend. But sith it is thy will and thy pleasure, I will send her into that land and that country where never will he see her with his eyes."

"Have a heed to thyself," said the Count Garin: "thence might great evil come on thee."

So parted they each from the other. Now the Viscount was a right rich man: so had he a rich palace with a garden in face of it; in an upper chamber thereof he had Nicolette placed, with one old woman to keep her company, and in that chamber put bread and meat and wine and such things as were needful. Then he had the door sealed, that none might come in or go forth, save that there was one window, over against the garden, and quite strait, through which came to them a little air.

Here singeth one:— Nicolette as ye heard tell Prisoned is within a cell That is painted wondrously With colors of a far countrie. At the window of marble wrought, There the maiden stood in thought, With straight brows and yellow hair, Never saw ye fairer fair! On the wood she gazed below, And she saw the roses blow, Heard the birds sing loud and low, Therefore spoke she woefully: "Ah me, wherefore do I lie Here in prison wrongfully? Aucassin, my love, my knight, Am I not thy heart's delight? Thou that lovest me aright! 'Tis for thee that I must dwell In this vaulted chamber cell, Hard beset and all alone! By our Lady Mary's Son Here no longer will I wonn, If I may flee!"

AUCASSIN AND THE VISCOUNT

[The Viscount speaks first]

"Plentiful lack of comfort hadst thou got thereby; for in Hell would thy soul have lain while the world endures, and into Paradise wouldst thou have entered never."

"In Paradise what have I to win? Therein I seek not to enter, but only to have Nicolette, my sweet lady that I love so well. For into Paradise go none but such folk as I shall tell thee now: Thither go these same old priests, and halt old men and maimed, who all day and night cower continually before the altars, and in these old crypts; and such folks as wear old amices, and old clouted frocks, and naked folks and shoeless, and those covered with sores, who perish of hunger and thirst, and of cold, and of wretchedness. These be they that go into Paradise; with them have I naught to make. But into Hell would I fain go; for into Hell fare the goodly clerks, and goodly knights that fall in tourneys and great wars, and stout men-at-arms, and the free men. With these would I liefly go. And thither pass the sweet ladies and courteous, that have two lovers, or three, and their lords also thereto. Thither goes the gold, and the silver, and fur of vair, and fur of gris; and there too go the harpers, and minstrels, and the kings of this world. With these I would gladly go, let me but have with me Nicolette, my sweetest lady."

AUCASSIN CAPTURES COUNT BOUGART

The damoiseau was tall and strong, and the horse whereon he sat was right eager. And he laid hand to sword, and fell a-smiting to right and left, and smote through helm and nasal, and arm, and clenched hand, making a murder about him, like a wild boar when hounds fall on him in the forest, even till he struck down ten knights, and seven he hurt; and straightway he hurled out of the press, and rode back again at full speed, sword in hand. Count Bougart of Valence heard it said that they were to hang Aucassin, his enemy, so he came into that place and Aucassin was ware of him. He gat his sword into his hand, and struck at his helm with such a stroke that it drave it down on his head, and he being stunned, fell groveling. And Aucassin laid hands on him, and caught him by the nasal of his helmet, and gave him up to his father.

"Father," quoth Aucassin, "lo, here is your mortal foe, who hath so warred on you and done you such evil. Full twenty months did this war endure, and might not be ended by man."

"Fair son," said his father, "thy feats of youth shouldst them do, and not seek after folly."

"Father," saith Aucassin, "sermon me no sermons, but fulfill my covenant."

"Ha! what covenant, fair son?"

"What, father! hast thou forgotten it? By mine own head, whosoever forgets, will I not forget it, so much it hath me at heart. Didst thou not covenant with me when I took up arms, and went into the stour, that if God brought me back safe and sound, thou wouldst let me see Nicolette, my sweet lady, even so long that I may have of her two words or three, and one kiss? So didst thou covenant, and my mind is that thou keep thy word."

"I?" quoth the father; "God forsake me when I keep this covenant! Nay, if she were here, I would have burned her in the fire, and thou thyself shouldst be sore adread."

THE LOVERS' MEETING

Aucassin was cast into prison as ye have heard tell, and Nicolette, of her part, was in the chamber. Now it was summer-time, the month of May, when days are warm, and long, and clear, and the nights still and serene. Nicolette lay one night on her bed, and saw the moon shine clear through a window, and heard the nightingale sing in the garden, and she minded her of Aucassin her friend, whom she loved so well. Then fell she to thoughts of Count Garin of Beaucaire, that he hated her to death; and therefore deemed she that there she would no longer abide, for that, if she were told of, and the Count knew where she lay, an ill death he would make her die. She saw that the old woman was sleeping who held her company. Then she arose, and clad her in a mantle of silk she had by her, very goodly, and took sheets of the bed and towels and knotted one to the other, and made therewith a cord as long as she might, and knotted it to a pillar in the window, and let herself slip down into the garden; then caught up her raiment in both hands, behind and before, and kilted up her kirtle, because of the dew that she saw lying deep on the grass, and so went on her way down through the garden.

Her locks were yellow and curled, her eyes blue-gray and smiling, her face featly fashioned, the nose high and fairly set, the lips more red than cherry or rose in time of summer, her teeth white and small; and her breasts so firm that they bore up the folds of her bodice as they had been two walnuts; so slim was she in the waist that your two hands might have clipped her; and the daisy flowers that brake beneath her as she went tiptoe, and that bent above her instep, seemed black against her feet and ankles, so white was the maiden. She came to the postern-gate, and unbarred it, and went out through the streets of Beaucaire, keeping always on the shadowy side, for the moon was shining right clear, and so wandered she till she came to the tower where her lover lay. The tower was flanked with pillars, and she cowered under one of them, wrapped in her mantle. Then thrust she her head through a crevice of the tower, that was old and worn, and heard Aucassin, who was weeping within, and making dole and lament for the sweet friend he loved so well. And when she had listened to him some time she began to say:—

Here one singeth:—

Nicolette, the bright of brow, On a pillar leaned now, All Aucassin's wail did hear For his love that was so dear, Then the maid spake low and clear:— "Gentle knight, withouten fear, Little good befalleth thee, Little help of sigh or tear. Ne'er shalt thou have joy of me. Never shalt thou win me; still Am I held in evil will Of thy father and thy kin. Therefore must I cross the sea, And another land must win." Then she cut her curls of gold, Cast them in the dungeon hold, Aucassin doth clasp them there, Kiss'th the curls that were so fair, Them doth in his bosom bear, Then he wept, e'en as of old, All for his love!

Thus say they, speak they, tell they The Tale.

When Aucassin heard Nicolette say that she would pass into a far country, he was all in wrath.

"Fair, sweet friend," quoth he, "thou shalt not go, for then wouldst thou be my death. And the first man that saw thee and had the might withal, would take thee straightway into his bed to be his leman. And once thou earnest into a man's bed, and that bed not mine, wit ye well that I would not tarry till I had found a knife to pierce my heart and slay myself. Nay, verily, wait so long I would not; but would hurl myself so far as I might see a wall, or a black stone, and I would dash my head against it so mightily that the eyes would start and my brain burst. Rather would I die even such a death than know that thou hadst lain in a man's bed, and that bed not mine."

"Aucassin," she said, "I trow thou lovest me not as much as thou sayest, but I love thee more than thou lovest me."

"Ah, fair, sweet friend," said Aucassin, "it may not be that thou shouldest love me even as I love thee. Woman may not love man as man loves woman; for a woman's love lies in her eye, and the bud of her breast, and her foot's tiptoe, but the love of a man is in his heart planted, whence it can never issue forth and pass away."

Now when Aucassin and Nicolette were holding this parley together, the town's watchmen were coming down a street, with swords drawn beneath their cloaks, for Count Garin had charged them that if they could take her, they should slay her. But the sentinel that was on the tower saw them coming, and heard them speaking of Nicolette as they went, and threatening to slay her.

"God," quoth he, "this were great pity to slay so fair a maid! Right great charity it were if I could say aught to her, and they perceive it not, and she should be on her guard against them, for if they slay her, then were Aucassin, my damoiseau, dead, and that were great pity."

Here one singeth:—

Valiant was the sentinel, Courteous, kind, and practiced well, So a song did sing and tell, Of the peril that befell. "Maiden fair that lingerest here, Gentle maid of merry cheer, Hair of gold, and eyes as clear As the water in a mere, Thou, meseems, hast spoken word To thy lover and thy lord, That would die for thee, his dear; Now beware the ill accord Of the cloaked men of the sword: These have sworn, and keep their word, They will put thee to the sword Save thou take heed!"

NICOLETTE BUILDS HER LODGE

Nicolette, the bright of brow, From the shepherds doth she pass All below the blossomed bough Where an ancient way there was, Overgrown and choked with grass, Till she found the cross-roads where Seven paths do all way fare; Then she deemeth she will try, Should her lover pass thereby, If he love her loyally. So she gathered white lilies, Oak-leaf, that in greenwood is, Leaves of many a branch, iwis, Therewith built a lodge of green, Goodlier was never seen. Swore by God, who may not lie: "If my love the lodge should spy, He will rest a while thereby If he love me loyally." Thus his faith she deemed to try, "Or I love him not, not I, Nor he loves me!"

AUCASSIN, SEEKING NICOLETTE, COMES UPON A COWHERD

Aucassin fared through the forest from path to path after Nicolette, and his horse bare him furiously. Think ye not that the thorns him spared, nor the briars, nay, not so, but tare his raiment, that scarce a knot might be tied with the soundest part thereof, and the blood spurted from his arms, and flanks, and legs, in forty places, or thirty, so that behind the Childe men might follow on the track of his blood in the grass. But so much he went in thoughts of Nicolette, his lady sweet, that he felt no pain nor torment, and all the day hurled through the forest in this fashion nor heard no word of her. And when he saw vespers draw nigh, he began to weep for that he found her not. All down an old road, and grass-grown, he fared, when anon, looking along the way before him, he saw such an one as I shall tell you. Tall was he, and great of growth, ugly and hideous: his head huge, and blacker than charcoal, and more than the breadth of a hand between his two eyes; and he had great cheeks, and a big nose and flat, big nostrils and wide, and thick lips redder than steak, and great teeth yellow and ugly, and he was shod with hosen and shoon of ox-hide, bound with cords of bark up over the knee, and all about him a great cloak two-fold; and he leaned upon a grievous cudgel, and Aucassin came unto him, and was afraid when he beheld him.

AUCASSIN FINDS NICOLETTE'S LODGE

So they parted from each other, and Aucassin rode on; the night was fair and still, and so long he went that he came to the lodge of boughs that Nicolette had builded and woven within and without, over and under, with flowers, and it was the fairest lodge that might be seen. When Aucassin was ware of it, he stopped suddenly, and the light of the moon fell therein.

"Forsooth!" quoth Aucassin, "here was Nicolette, my sweet lady, and this lodge builded she with her fair hands. For the sweetness of it, and for love of her, will I now alight, and rest here this night long."

He drew forth his foot from the stirrup to alight, and the steed was great and tall. He dreamed so much on Nicolette, his right sweet friend, that he fell heavily upon a stone, and drave his shoulder out of its place. Then knew he that he was hurt sore; nathless he bore him with that force he might, and fastened his horse with the other hand to a thorn. Then turned he on his side, and crept backwise into the lodge of boughs. And he looked through a gap in the lodge and saw the stars in heaven, and one that was brighter than the rest; so began he to say:—

Here one singeth:—

"Star, that I from far behold, Star the moon calls to her fold, Nicolette with thee doth dwell, My sweet love, with locks of gold. God would have her dwell afar, Dwell with him for evening star. Would to God, whate'er befell, Would that with her I might dwell. I would clip her close and strait; Nay, were I of much estate, Some king's son desirable, Worthy she to be my mate, Me to kiss and clip me well, Sister, sweet friend!"

So speak they, say they, tell they The Tale.

When Nicolette heard Aucassin, she came to him, for she was not far away. She passed within the lodge, and threw her arms about his neck, clipped him and kissed him.

"Fair, sweet friend, welcome be thou!"

"And thou, fair, sweet love, be thou welcome!"

So either kissed and clipped the other, and fair joy was them between.

"Ha! sweet love," quoth Aucassin, "but now was I sore hurt, and my shoulder wried, but I take no heed of it, nor have no hurt therefrom, since I have thee."

Right so felt she his shoulder and found it was wried from its place. And she so handled it with her white hands, and so wrought in her surgery, that by God's will who loveth lovers, it went back into its place. Then took she flowers, and fresh grass, and leaves green, and bound them on the hurt with a strip of her smock, and he was all healed.

NICOLETTE SAILS TO CARTHAGE

When all they of the court heard her speak thus, that she was daughter to the king of Carthage, they knew well that she spake truly; so made they great joy of her, and led her to the castle with great honor, as a king's daughter. And they would have given her to her lord a king of Paynim, but she had no mind to marry. There dwelt she three days or four. And she considered by what device she might seek far Aucassin. Then she got her a viol, and learned to play on it; till they would have married her one day to a rich king of Paynim, and she stole forth by night, and came to the seaport, and dwelt with a poor woman thereby. Then took she a certain herb, and therewith smeared her head and her face, till she was all brown and stained. And she had a coat, and mantle, and smock, and breeches made, and attired herself as if she had been a minstrel. So took she the viol and went to a mariner, and so wrought on him that he took her aboard his vessel. Then hoisted they sail, and fared on the high seas even till they came to the land of Provence. And Nicolette went forth and took the viol, and went playing through all the country, even till she came to the castle of Beaucaire, where Aucassin was.

Here singeth one:—

At Beaucaire below the tower Sat Aucassin on an hour, Heard the bird, and watched the flower, With his barons him beside. Then came on him in that tide The sweet influence of love And the memory thereof; Thought of Nicolette the fair, And the dainty face of her He had loved so many years. Then was he in dule and tears! Even then came Nicolette; On the stair a foot she set, And she drew the viol bow O'er the strings and chanted so:— "Listen, lords and knights, to me, Lords of high or low degree, To my story list will ye All of Aucassin and her That was Nicolette the fair? And their love was long to tell; Deep woods through he sought her well: Paynims took them on a day In Torelore, and bound they lay. Of Aucassin naught know we, But fair Nicolette the free Now in Carthage doth she dwell; There her father loves her well, Who is king of that countrie. Her a husband hath he found, Paynim lord that serves Mahound! Ne'er with him the maid will go, For she loves a damoiseau, Aucassin, that ye may know, Swears to God that never mo With a lover will she go Save with him she loveth so In long desire."



JOHN JAMES AUDUBON

(1780-1851)

The fame of this celebrated naturalist rests on one magnificent book, 'The Birds of America,' for which all his life may be said to have been a preparation, and which certainly surpasses in interest every other ornithological publication. For fifteen years before he thought of making use of his collections in this way, he annually went alone with his gun and his drawing materials into deep and unexplored forests and through wild regions of country, making long journeys on foot and counting nothing a hardship that added to his specimens. This passion had controlled him from early childhood. His father, a Frenchman, was living in New Orleans at the time of Audubon's birth in 1780, and with the view of helping him in his studies, sent him to Paris when he was fifteen years old, where he entered the drawing-class of David the painter. He remained there two years; and it was after his return that he made his memorable excursions, his home being then a farm at Mill Grove, near Philadelphia.

In 1808 he removed with his family to the West, still continuing his researches. Several years later he returned to Philadelphia with a portfolio of nearly a thousand colored drawings of birds. What befell them—a parallel to so many like incidents, as through Warburton's cook, Newton's dog, Carlyle's friend, and Edward Livingston's fire, that they seem one of the appointed tests of moral fibre—is best told in Audubon's own language:—

"An accident," he says, "which happened to two hundred of my original drawings, nearly put a stop to my researches in ornithology. I shall relate it, merely to show how far enthusiasm—for by no other name can I call my perseverance—may enable the preserver of nature to surmount the most disheartening difficulties. I left the village of Henderson, in Kentucky, situated on the banks of the Ohio, where I resided for several years, to proceed to Philadelphia on business. I looked to my drawings before my departure, placed them carefully in a wooden box, and gave them in charge of a relative, with injunctions to see that no injury should happen to them. My absence was of several months; and when I returned, after having enjoyed the pleasures of home for a few days, I inquired after my box, and what I was pleased to call my treasure. The box was produced and opened; but, reader, feel for me,—a pair of Norway rats had taken possession of the whole, and reared a young family among the gnawed bits of paper, which, but a month previous, represented nearly a thousand inhabitants of air! The burning heat which instantly rushed through my brain was too great to be endured without affecting my whole nervous system. I slept not for several nights, and the days passed like days of oblivion;—until, the animal powers being recalled into action through the strength of my constitution, I took up my gun, my note-book, and my pencils, and went forth to the woods as gayly as if nothing had happened. I felt pleased that I might now make better drawings than before; and ere a period not exceeding three years had elapsed, my portfolio was again filled."



In 1826 he sailed for Europe to exhibit his newly collected treasures to foreign ornithologists. He succeeded in obtaining pecuniary aid in publishing the work, and plates were made in England. The book was published in New York in four volumes (elephant folio) in 1830-39. The birds are life-size. 'The American Ornithological Biography,' which is the text for the plates, was published in Edinburgh, 1831-39, in five octavo volumes. Accompanied by his two sons he started on new excursions, which resulted in 'The Quadrupeds of America,' with a 'Biography of American Quadrupeds,' both published at Philadelphia, beginning in 1840. During that year he built a house for himself in the upper part of New York, in what is now called Audubon Park, and died there January 27th, 1851.

Audubon's descriptive text is not unworthy of his plates: his works are far from being mere tenders to picture-books. He is full of enthusiasm, his descriptions of birds and animals are vivid and realizing, and his adventures are told with much spirit and considerable literary skill, though some carelessness of syntax.

A DANGEROUS ADVENTURE

From 'The American Ornithological Biography'

On my return from the Upper Mississippi, I found myself obliged to cross one of the wide prairies which, in that portion of the United States, vary the appearance of the country. The weather was fine, all around me was as fresh and blooming as if it had just issued from the bosom of nature. My knapsack, my gun, and my dog, were all I had for baggage and company. But although well moccasined, I moved slowly along, attracted by the brilliancy of the flowers, and the gambols of the fawns around their dams, to all appearance as thoughtless of danger as I felt myself.

My march was of long duration; I saw the sun sinking beneath the horizon long before I could perceive any appearance of woodland, and nothing in the shape of man had I met with that day. The track which I followed was only an old Indian trace; and, as darkness overshadowed the prairie, I felt some desire to reach at least a copse, in which I might lie down to rest. The night-hawks were skimming over and around me, attracted by the buzzing wings of the beetles which formed their food, and the distant howling of wolves gave me some hope that I should soon arrive at the skirts of some woodland.

I did so, and almost at the same instant a fire-light attracting my eye, I moved toward it, full of confidence that it proceeded from the camp of some wandering Indians. I was mistaken. I discovered by its glare that it was from the hearth of a small log cabin, and that a tall figure passed and repassed between it and me, as if busily engaged in household arrangements.

I reached the spot, and presenting myself at the door, asked the tall figure, which proved to be a woman, if I might take shelter under her roof for the night. Her voice was gruff, and her attire negligently thrown about her. She answered in the affirmative. I walked in, took a wooden stool, and quietly seated myself by the fire. The next object that attracted my notice was a finely formed young Indian, resting his head between his hands, with his elbows on his knees. A long bow rested against the log wall near him, while a quantity of arrows and two or three raccoon skins lay at his feet. He moved not; he apparently breathed not. Accustomed to the habits of the Indians, and knowing that they pay little attention to the approach of civilized strangers (a circumstance which in some countries is considered as evincing the apathy of their character), I addressed him in French, a language not unfrequently partially known to the people in that neighborhood. He raised his head, pointed to one of his eyes with his finger, and gave me a significant glance with the other. His face was covered with blood. The fact was, that an hour before this, as he was in the act of discharging an arrow at a raccoon in the top of a tree, the arrow had split upon the cord, and sprung back with such violence into his right eye as to destroy it forever.

Feeling hungry, I inquired what sort of fare I might expect. Such a thing as a bed was not to be seen, but many large untanned bear and buffalo hides lay piled in a corner. I drew a fine timepiece from my breast, and told the woman that it was late, and that I was fatigued. She had espied my watch, the richness of which seemed to operate upon her feelings with electric quickness. She told me that there was plenty of venison and jerked buffalo meat, and that on removing the ashes I should find a cake. But my watch had struck her fancy, and her curiosity had to be gratified by an immediate sight of it. I took off the gold chain that secured it, from around my neck, and presented it to her. She was all ecstasy, spoke of its beauty, asked me its value, and put the chain round her brawny neck, saying how happy the possession of such a watch should make her. Thoughtless, and as I fancied myself, in so retired a spot, secure, I paid little attention to her talk or her movements. I helped my dog to a good supper of venison, and was not long in satisfying the demands of my own appetite.

The Indian rose from his seat, as if in extreme suffering. He passed me and repassed me several times, and once pinched me on the side so violently that the pain nearly brought forth an exclamation of anger. I looked at him. His eye met mine; but his look was so forbidding that it struck a chill into the more nervous part of my system. He again seated himself, drew his butcher-knife from its greasy scabbard, examined its edge, as I would do that of a razor suspected dull, replaced it, and again taking his tomahawk from his back, filled the pipe of it with tobacco, and sent me expressive glances whenever our hostess chanced to have her back towards us.

Never until that moment had my senses been awakened to the danger which I now suspected to be about me. I returned glance for glance to my companion, and rested well assured that whatever enemies I might have, he was not of their number.

I asked the woman for my watch, wound it up, and under pretense of wishing to see how the weather might probably be on the morrow, took up my gun, and walked out of the cabin. I slipped a ball into each barrel, scraped the edges of my flints, renewed the primings, and returning to the hut, gave a favorable account of my observations. I took a few bear-skins, made a pallet of them, and calling my faithful dog to my side, lay down, with my gun close to my body, and in a few minutes was to all appearance fast asleep.

A short time had elapsed, when some voices were heard; and from the corner of my eyes I saw two athletic youths making their entrance, bearing a dead stag on a pole. They disposed of their burden, and asking for whisky, helped themselves freely to it. Observing me and the wounded Indian, they asked who I was, and why the devil that rascal (meaning the Indian, who, they knew, understood not a word of English) was in the house. The mother—for so she proved to be—bade them speak less loudly, made mention of my watch, and took them to a corner, where a conversation took place, the purport of which it required little shrewdness in me to guess. I tapped my dog gently. He moved his tail, and with indescribable pleasure I saw his fine eyes alternately fixed on me and raised toward the trio in the corner. I felt that he perceived danger in my situation. The Indian exchanged a last glance with me.

The lads had eaten and drunk themselves into such condition that I already looked upon them as hors tie combat; and the frequent visits of the whisky bottle to the ugly mouth of their dam I hoped would soon reduce her to a like state. Judge of my astonishment, reader, when I saw this incarnate fiend take a large carving-knife and go to the grindstone to whet its edge. I saw her pour the water on the turning machine, and watched her working away with the dangerous instrument, until the cold sweat covered every part of my body, in spite of my determination to defend myself to the last. Her task finished, she walked to her reeling sons, and said, "There, that'll soon settle him! Boys, kill yon—, and then for the watch."

I turned, cocked my gunlocks silently, touched my faithful companion, and lay ready to start up and shoot the first one who might attempt my life. The moment was fast approaching, and that night might have been my last in the world, had not Providence made preparations for my rescue. All was ready. The infernal hag was advancing slowly, probably contemplating the best way of dispatching me, while her sons should be engaged with the Indian. I was several times on the point of rising and shooting her on the spot;—but she was not to be punished thus. The door was suddenly opened, and there entered two stout travelers, each with a long rifle on his shoulder. I bounced up on my feet, and making them most heartily welcome, told them how well it was for me that they should have arrived at that moment. The tale was told in a minute. The drunken sons were secured, and the woman, in spite of her defense and vociferations, shared the same fate. The Indian fairly danced with joy, and gave us to understand that as he could not sleep for pain, he would watch over us. You may suppose we slept much less than we talked. The two strangers gave me an account of their once having been themselves in a somewhat similar situation.

Day came, fair and rosy, and with it the punishment of our captives. They were now quite sobered. Their feet were unbound, but their arms were still securely tied. We marched them into the woods off the road, and having used them as Regulators were wont to use such delinquents, we set fire to the cabin, gave all the skins and implements to the young Indian warrior, and proceeded, well pleased, towards the settlements.

During upward of twenty-five years, when my wanderings extended to all parts of our country, this was the only time at which my life was in danger from my fellow-creatures. Indeed, so little risk do travelers run in the United States, that no one born there ever dreams of any to be encountered on the road, and I can only account for this occurrence by supposing that the inhabitants of the cabin were not Americans.

Will you believe, good-natured reader, that not many miles from the place where this adventure happened, and where fifteen years ago, no habitation belonging to civilized man was expected, and very few ever seen, large roads are now laid out, cultivation has converted the woods into fertile fields, taverns have been erected, and much of what we Americans call comfort is to be met with! So fast does improvement proceed in our abundant and free country.



BERTHOLD AUERBACH

(1812-1882)

The author of 'Black Forest Village Stories' and 'On the Heights' stands out in honorable individuality among modern German novelists, even if the latest fashions in fiction make his work already a little antiquated. Auerbach's biography is one of industry rather than of incident. His birth was humble. His life was long. He wrote voluminously and was widely popular, to be half forgotten within a decade after his death. He may perhaps be reckoned the founder of a contemporary German school of tendenz novel writers; a school now so much diminished that Spielhagen—who, however, wears Auerbach's mantle with a difference—is its only survivor.

Of Jewish parentage, his birthplace being Nordstetten, Wuertemberg (1812), Auerbach drifted from preparation for the synagogue toward law, philosophy, and literature. The study of Spinoza (whose works he translated) gave form to his convictions concerning human life. It led him to spend his literary talents on materials so various as the homely simplicity of peasant scenes and peasant souls, on the one hand, and on the other the popularization of a high social and ethical philosophy, specially inculcated through his larger fictions. His college education was obtained at Tuebingen, Munich, and Heidelberg.

Necessity rather than ambition prompted him to write, and he wrote as long as he lived. A partial list of his works begins with a pseudonymous 'Life of Frederick the Great' (1834-36), and 'Das Judenthum und der Neuste Literatur' (The Jew Element in Recent Literature: 1836), and passes to the semi-biographic novel 'Spinoza' (1837), afterward supplemented with 'Ein Denkerleben' (A Thinker's Life), 'Dichter und Kaufman' (Poet and Merchant: 1839),—stories belonging to the 'Ghetto Series,' embodying Jewish and German life in the time of Moses Mendelssohn; the translation in five volumes of Spinoza's philosophy, with a critical biography, 1841; and in 1842 another work intended to popularize philosophy, 'Der Gebildete Buerger: ein Buch fuer den Denkenden Menschen' (The Clever Townsman: a Book for Thinking Men).



In 1843 came the first set of the famous 'Schwarzwaelder Dorfgeschichten' (Black Forest Village Stories), followed by a second group in 1848. These won instant and wide favor, and were widely translated. They rank among the author's most pleasing and successful productions, stamped as they are with that truth which a writer like Auerbach, or a painter like Defregger or Schmidt, can express when sitting down to deal with the scenes and folk which from early youth have been photographed upon his heart and memory. In 1856 there followed in the same descriptive field his 'Barfuessele' (Little Barefoot), 'Joseph im Schnee' (Joseph in the Snow: 1861), and 'Edelweiss' (1861). His writings of this date—tales, sketches journalistic, political, and dramatic, and other papers—reveal Auerbach's varying moods or enthusiasms, chronicle his residence in different German or Austrian cities, and are comparatively insignificant among his forty or more volumes. Nor is much to be said of his first long fiction, 'Neues Leben' (New Life).

But with 'Auf der Hoehe' (On the Heights), a philosophic romance of court life in the capital and the royal country seat of a considerable German kingdom (by no means merely imaginary), inwoven with a minute study of peasant life and character, Auerbach's popular reputation was established. His plan of making ethics the chief end of a novel was here exhibited at its best; he never again showed the same force of conception which got his imperfect literary art forgiven. Another long novel, not less doctrinaire in scope, but dealing with quite different materials and problems, 'Das Landhaus am Rhein' (The Villa on the Rhine), was issued in 1868; and was followed by 'Waldfried,' a long, patriotic, and on the whole inert, study of a German family from 1848 until the close of the Franco-Prussian War.

In spite of his untiring industry, Auerbach produced little more of consequence, though he wrote a new series of Black Forest sketches: 'Nach Dreissig Jahren' (After Thirty Years: 1876); 'Der Forstmeister' (The Head Forester: 1879); and 'Brigitta' (1880). The close of his life was much embittered by the growth of the anti-Semitic sentiment; and his residence in Germany was merely nominal. He died at Cannes, France, in 1882.

'On the Heights' is doubtless Auerbach's best representative. 'The Villa on the Rhine' is in a lower key, with less appealing types, and less attractive local color. Moreover, it is weighted with more philosophizing, and its movement is slower. In 'On the Heights' the emotional situations are strong. In spite of sentimentality, a true feeling animates its technique. The atmosphere of a German royal residence, as he reveals it, appears almost as heavy as the real thing. Auerbach's humor is leaden; he finds it necessary to explain his own attempts at it. But the peasant-nurse Walpurga, her husband Hansei, and the aged grandmother in the family, are admirable delineations. The heroine, Irma von Wildenort, is genuinely human. The story of her abrupt atonement for a lapse from her better self, the gradual process of her fantastic expiation and of her self-redemption,—through the deliberate sacrifice of all that belongs to her treacherous past,—her successful struggle into a high ethical life and knowledge of herself (the element which gives the book its force), offer much that is consistent, and appealing and elevating to the conscience.

Auerbach crowds material into the book, tangles up too many different skeins of plot, offers too many types to study and interests to follow, and betrays a want of perspective in its construction. But in spite of all its defects it is a novel that should not be forgotten. For reflective readers it will always hold a charm, and its latent strength is proved by its triumph over its own faults.

THE FIRST MASS

From "Ivo the Gentleman," in "Black Forest Village Stories"

One Saturday afternoon the busy sound of hammer and adze was heard on the green hill-top which served the good folks of Nordstetten as their open-air gathering-place. Valentine the carpenter, with his two sons, was making a scaffolding, designed to serve no less a purpose than that of an altar and a pulpit. Gregory, the son of Christian the tailor, was to officiate at his first mass and preach his first sermon.

Ivo, Valentine's youngest son, a child of six years of age, assisted his father with a mien which betokened that he considered his services indispensable. With his bare head and feet he ran up and down the timbers as nimbly as a squirrel. When a beam was being lifted, he cried, "Pry under!" as lustily as any one, put his shoulder to the crowbar, and puffed as if nine-tenths of the weight fell upon him. Valentine liked to see his little boy employed. He would tell him to wind the twine on the reel, to carry the tools where they were wanted, or to rake the chips into a heap. Ivo obeyed all these directions with the zeal and devotion of a self-sacrificing patriot. Once, when he perched upon the end of a plank for the purpose of weighing it down, the motion of the saw shook his every limb, and made him laugh aloud in spite of himself; he would have fallen off but for the eagerness with which he held on to his position and endeavored to perform his task in the most workmanlike manner.

At last the scaffolding was finished. Lewis the saddler was ready to nail down the carpets and hanging. Ivo offered to help him too; but being gruffly repelled, he sat down upon his heap of chips, and looked at the mountains, behind which the sun was setting in a sea of fire. His father's whistle aroused him, and he ran to his side.

"Father," said Ivo, "I wish I was in Hochdorf."

"Why?"

"Because it's so near to heaven, and I should like to climb up once."

"You silly boy, it only seems as if heaven began there. From Hochdorf it is a long way to Stuttgart, and from there it is a long way to heaven yet.

"How long?"

"Well, you can't get there until you die."

Leading his little son with one hand, and carrying his tools in the other, Valentine passed through the village. Washing and scouring was going on everywhere, and chairs and tables stood before the houses,—for every family expected visitors for the great occasion of the morrow.

As Valentine passed Christian the tailor's, he held his hand to his cap, prepared to take it off if anybody should look out. But nobody did so: the place was silent as a cloister. Some farmers' wives were going in, carrying bowls covered with their aprons, while others passed out with empty bowls under their arms. They nodded to each other without speaking: they had brought wedding-presents for the young clergyman, who was to be married to his bride—the Church.

As the vesper-bell rang, Valentine released the hand of his son, who quickly folded his hands; Valentine also brought his hands together over his heavy tools and said an Ave.

Next morning a clear, bright day rose upon the village. Ivo was dressed by his mother betimes in a new jacket of striped Manchester cloth, with buttons which he took for silver, and a newly-washed pair of leathern breeches. He was to carry the crucifix. Gretchen, Ivo's eldest sister, took him by the hand and led him into the street, "so as to have room in the house." Having enjoined upon him by no means to go back, she returned hastily. Wherever he came he found the men standing in knots in the road. They were but half dressed for the festival, having no coats on, but displaying their dazzling white shirt-sleeves. Here and there women or girls were to be seen running from house to house without bodices, and with their hair half untied. Ivo thought it cruel in his sister to have pushed him out of the house as she had done. He would have been delighted to have appeared like the grown folks,—first in negligee, and then in full dress amid the tolling of bells and the clang of trumpets; but he did not dare to return, or even to sit down anywhere, for fear of spoiling his clothes. He went through the village almost on tiptoe. Wagon after wagon rumbled in, bringing farmers and farmers' wives from abroad; at the houses people welcomed them, and brought chairs to assist them in getting down. All the world looked as exultingly quiet and glad as a community preparing to receive a hero who had gone forth from their midst and was returning after a victory. From the church to the hill-top the road was strewn with flowers and grass, which sent forth aromatic odors. The squire was seen coming out of Christian the tailor's, and only covered his head when he found himself in the middle of the street. Soges had a new sword, brightly japanned and glittering in the sun.

The squire's wife soon followed, leading her daughter Barbara, who was but six years old, by the hand. Barbara was dressed in bridal array. She wore the veil and the wreath upon her head, and a beautiful gown. As an immaculate virgin, she was intended to represent the bride of the young clergyman, the Church.

At the first sound of the bell the people in shirt-sleeves disappeared as if by magic. They retired to their houses to finish their toilet: Ivo went on to the church.

Amid the ringing of all the bells, the procession at last issued from the church-door. The pennons waved, the band of music brought from Horb struck up, and the audible prayers of the men and women mingled with the sound. Ivo, with the schoolmaster at his side, took the lead, carrying the crucifix. On the hill the altar was finely decorated; the chalices and the lamps and the spangled dresses of the saints flashed in the sun, and the throng of worshipers covered the common and the adjoining fields as far as the eye could reach. Ivo hardly took courage to look at the "gentleman," meaning the young clergyman, who, in his gold-laced robe, and bare head crowned with a golden wreath, ascended the steps of the altar with pale and sober mien, bowing low as the music swelled, and folding his small white hands upon his breast. The squire's Barbara, who carried a burning taper wreathed with rosemary, had gone before him and took her stand at the side of the altar. The mass began; and at the tinkling of the bell all fell upon their faces, and not a sound would have been heard, had not a flight of pigeons passed directly over the altar with that fluttering and chirping noise which always accompanies their motion through the air. For all the world Ivo would not have looked up just then; for he knew that the Holy Ghost was descending, to effect the mysterious transubstantiation of the wine into blood and the bread into flesh, and that no mortal eye can look upon Him without being struck with blindness.

The chaplain of Horb now entered the pulpit, and solemnly addressed the "permitiant."

Then the latter took his place. Ivo sat near by, on a stool; with his right arm resting on his knee, and his chin upon his hand, he listened attentively. He understood little of the sermon; but his eyes hung upon the preacher's lips, and his mind followed his intentions if not his thoughts.

When the procession returned to the church amid the renewed peal of the bells and triumphant strains of music, Ivo clasped the crucifix firmly with both his hands; he felt as if new strength had been given him to carry his God before him.

As the crowd dispersed, every one spoke in raptures of the "gentleman" and of the happiness of the parents of such a son. Christian the tailor and his wife came down the covered stairs of the church-hill in superior bliss. Ordinarily they attracted little attention in the village; but on this occasion all crowded around them with the greatest reverence, to present their congratulations.

The young clergyman's mother returned thanks with tearful eyes; she could scarcely speak for joyous weeping. Ivo heard his cousin, who had come over from Rexingen, say that Gregory's parents were now obliged to address their son with the formal pronoun "they," by which strangers and great personages are spoken to, instead of the simple "thee and thou," by which German villagers converse with each other.

THE END