Laplace's improvement of the lunar tables not only promoted maritime intercourse between distant countries, but preserved the lives of mariners. Thanks to an unparalleled sagacity, to a limitless perseverance, to an ever youthful and communicable ardor, Laplace solved the celebrated problem of the longitude with a precision even greater than the utmost needs of the art of navigation demanded. The ship, the sport of the winds and tempests, no longer fears to lose its way in the immensity of the ocean. In every place and at every time the pilot reads in the starry heavens his distance from the meridian of Paris. The extreme perfection of these tables of the moon places Laplace in the ranks of the world's benefactors.

In the beginning of the year 1611, Galileo supposed that he found in the eclipses of Jupiter's satellites a simple and rigorous solution of the famous problem of the longitude, and attempts to introduce the new method on board the numerous vessels of Spain and Holland at once began. They failed because the necessary observations required powerful telescopes, which could not be employed on a tossing ship. Even the expectations of the serviceability of Galileo's methods for land calculations proved premature. The movements of the satellites of Jupiter are far less simple than the immortal Italian supposed them to be. The labors of three more generations of astronomers and mathematicians were needed to determine them, and the mathematical genius of Laplace was needed to complete their labors. At the present day the nautical ephemerides contain, several years in advance, the indications of the times of the eclipses and reappearances of Jupiter's satellites. Calculation is as precise as direct observation.

Influenced by an exaggerated deference, modesty, timidity, France in the eighteenth century surrendered to England the exclusive privilege of constructing her astronomical instruments. Thus, when Herschel was prosecuting his beautiful observations on the other side of the Channel, we had not even the means of verifying them. Fortunately for the scientific honor of our country, mathematical analysis also is a powerful instrument. The great Laplace, from the retirement of his study, foresaw, and accurately predicted in advance, what the excellent astronomer of Windsor would soon behold with the largest telescopes existing. When, in 1610, Galileo directed toward Saturn a lens of very low power which he had just constructed with his own hands, although he perceived that the planet was not a globe, he could not ascertain its real form. The expression "tri-corporate," by which the illustrious Florentine designated the appearance of the planet, even implied a totally erroneous idea of its structure. At the present day every one knows that Saturn consists of a globe about nine hundred times greater than the earth, and of a ring. This ring does not touch the ball of the planet, being everywhere removed from it to a distance of twenty thousand (English) miles. Observation indicates the breadth of the ring to be fifty-four thousand miles. The thickness certainly does not exceed two hundred and fifty miles. With the exception of a black streak which divides the ring throughout its whole contour into two parts of unequal breadth and of different brightness, this strange colossal bridge without foundations had never offered to the most experienced or skillful observers either spot or protuberance adapted for deciding whether it was immovable or endowed with a motion of rotation. Laplace considered it to be very improbable, if the ring was stationary, that its constituent parts should be capable of resisting by mere cohesion the continual attraction of the planet. A movement of rotation occurred to his mind as constituting the principle of stability, and he deduced the necessary velocity from this consideration. The velocity thus found was exactly equal to that which Herschel subsequently derived from a series of extremely delicate observations. The two parts of the ring, being at different distances from the planet, could not fail to be given different movements of precession by the action of the sun. Hence it would seem that the planes of both rings ought in general to be inclined toward each other, whereas they appear from observation always to coincide. It was necessary then that some physical cause capable of neutralizing the action of the sun should exist. In a memoir published in February, 1789, Laplace found that this cause depended on the ellipticity of Saturn produced by a rapid movement of rotation of the planet, a movement whose discovery Herschel announced in November of the same year.

If we descend from the heavens to the earth, the discoveries of Laplace will appear not less worthy of his genius. He reduced the phenomena of the tides, which an ancient philosopher termed in despair "the tomb of human curiosity," to an analytical theory in which the physical conditions of the question figure for the first time. Consequently, to the immense advantage of coast navigation, calculators now venture to predict in detail the time and height of the tides several years in advance. Between the phenomena of the ebb and flow, and the attractive forces of the sun and moon upon the fluid sheet which covers three fourths of the globe, an intimate and necessary connection exists; a connection from which Laplace deduced the value of the mass of our satellite the moon. Yet so late as the year 1631 the illustrious Galileo, as appears from his 'Dialogues,' was so far from perceiving the mathematical relations from which Laplace deduced results so beautiful, so unequivocal, and so useful, that he taxed with frivolousness the vague idea which Kepler entertained of attributing to the moon's attraction a certain share in the production of the diurnal and periodical movements of the waters of the ocean.

Laplace did not confine his genius to the extension and improvement of the mathematical theory of the tide. He considered the phenomenon from an entirely new point of view, and it was he who first treated of the stability of the ocean. He has established its equilibrium, but upon the express condition (which, however, has been amply proved to exist) that the mean density of the fluid mass is less than the mean density of the earth. Everything else remaining the same, if we substituted an ocean of quicksilver for the actual ocean, this stability would disappear. The fluid would frequently overflow its boundaries, to ravage continents even to the height of the snowy peaks which lose themselves in the clouds.

No one was more sagacious than Laplace in discovering intimate relations between phenomena apparently unrelated, or more skillful in deducing important conclusions from such unexpected affinities. For example, toward the close of his days, with the aid of certain lunar observations, with a stroke of his pen he overthrew the cosmogonic theories of Buffon and Bailly, which were so long in favor. According to these theories, the earth was hastening to a state of congelation which was close at hand. Laplace, never contented with vague statements, sought to determine in numbers the rate of the rapid cooling of our globe which Buffon had so eloquently but so gratuitously announced. Nothing could be more simple, better connected, or more conclusive than the chain of deductions of the celebrated geometer. A body diminishes in volume when it cools. According to the most elementary principles of mechanics, a rotating body which contracts in dimensions must inevitably turn upon its axis with greater and greater rapidity. The length of the day has been determined in all ages by the time of the earth's rotation; if the earth is cooling, the length of the day must be continually shortening. Now, there exists a means of ascertaining whether the length of the day has undergone any variation; this consists in examining, for each century, the arc of the celestial sphere described by the moon during the interval of time which the astronomers of the existing epoch call a day; in other words, the time required by the earth to effect a complete rotation on its axis, the velocity of the moon being in fact independent of the time of the earth's rotation. Let us now, following Laplace, take from the standard tables the smallest values, if you choose, of the expansions or contractions which solid bodies experience from changes of temperature; let us search the annals of Grecian, Arabian, and modern astronomy for the purpose of finding in them the angular velocity of the moon: and the great geometer will prove, by incontrovertible evidence founded upon these data, that during a period of two thousand years the mean temperature of the earth has not varied to the extent of the hundredth part of a degree of the centigrade thermometer. Eloquence cannot resist such a process of reasoning, or withstand the force of such figures. Mathematics has ever been the implacable foe of scientific romances. The constant object of Laplace was the explanation of the great phenomena of nature according to inflexible principles of mathematical analysis. No philosopher, no mathematician, could have guarded himself more cautiously against a propensity to hasty speculation. No person dreaded more the scientific errors which cajole the imagination when it passes the boundary of fact, calculation, and analogy.

Once, and once only, did Laplace launch forward, like Kepler, like Descartes, like Leibnitz, like Buffon, into the region of conjectures. But then his conception was nothing less than a complete cosmogony. All the planets revolve around the sun, from west to east, and in planes only slightly inclined to each other. The satellites revolve around their respective primaries in the same direction. Both planets and satellites, having a rotary motion, turn also upon their axes from west to east. Finally, the rotation of the sun also is directed from west to east. Here, then, is an assemblage of forty-three movements, all operating alike. By the calculus of probabilities, the odds are four thousand millions to one that this coincidence in direction is not the effect of accident.

It was Buffon, I think, who first attempted to explain this singular feature of our solar system. "Wishing, in the explanation of phenomena, to avoid recourse to causes which are not to be found in nature," the celebrated academician sought for a physical cause for what is common to the movements of so many bodies differing as they do in magnitude, in form, and in their distances from the centre of attraction. He imagined that he had discovered such a physical cause by making this triple supposition: a comet fell obliquely upon the sun; it pushed before it a torrent of fluid matter; this substance, transported to a greater or less distance from the sun according to its density, formed by condensation all the known planets. The bold hypothesis is subject to insurmountable difficulties. I proceed to indicate, in a few words, the cosmogonic system which Laplace substituted for it.

According to Laplace, the sun was, at a remote epoch, the central nucleus of an immense nebula, which possessed a very high temperature, and extended far beyond the region in which Uranus now revolves. No planet was then in existence. The solar nebula was endowed with a general movement of rotation in the direction west to east. As it cooled it could not fail to experience a gradual condensation, and in consequence to rotate with greater and greater rapidity. If the nebulous matter extended originally in the plane of its equator, as far as the limit where the centrifugal force exactly counterbalanced the attraction of the nucleus, the molecules situate at this limit ought, during the process of condensation, to separate from the rest of the atmospheric matter and to form an equatorial zone, a ring, revolving separately and with its primitive velocity. We may conceive that analogous separations were effected in the remoter strata of the nebula at different epochs and at different distances from the nucleus, and that they gave rise to a succession of distinct rings, all lying in nearly the same plane, and all endowed with different velocities.

This being once admitted, it is easy to see that the permanent stability of the rings would have required a regularity of structure throughout their whole contour, which is very improbable. Each of them, accordingly, broke in its turn into several masses, which were obviously endowed with a movement of rotation coinciding in direction with the common movement of revolution, and which, in consequence of their fluidity, assumed spheroidal forms. In order, next, that one of those spheroids may absorb all the others belonging to the same ring, it is sufficient to suppose it to have a mass greater than that of any other spheroid of its group.

Each of the planets, while in this vaporous condition to which we have just alluded, would manifestly have a central nucleus, gradually increasing in magnitude and mass, and an atmosphere offering, at its successive limits, phenomena entirely similar to those which the solar atmosphere, properly so called, had exhibited. We are here contemplating the birth of satellites and the birth of the ring of Saturn.

The Nebular Hypothesis, of which I have just given an imperfect sketch, has for its object to show how a nebula endowed with a general movement of rotation must eventually transform itself into a very luminous central nucleus (a sun), and into a series of distinct spheroidal planets, situate at considerable distances from one another, all revolving around the central sun, in the direction of the original movement of the nebula; how these planets ought also to have movements of rotation in similar directions; how, finally, the satellites, when any such are formed, must revolve upon their axes and around their respective primaries, in the direction of rotation of the planets and of their movement of revolution around the sun.

In all that precedes, attention has been concentrated upon the 'Mecanique Celeste.' The 'Systeme du Monde' and the 'Theorie Analytique des Probabilites' also deserve description.

The Exposition of the System of the World is the 'Mecanique Celeste' divested of that great apparatus of analytical formulae which must be attentively perused by every astronomer who, to use an expression of Plato, wishes to know the numbers which govern the physical universe. It is from this work that persons ignorant of mathematics may obtain competent knowledge of the methods to which physical astronomy owes its astonishing progress. Written with a noble simplicity of style, an exquisite exactness of expression, and a scrupulous accuracy, it is universally conceded to stand among the noblest monuments of French literature.... The labors of all ages to persuade truth from the heavens are there justly, clearly, and profoundly analyzed. Genius presides as the impartial judge of genius. Throughout his work Laplace remained at the height of his great mission. It will be read with respect so long as the torch of science illuminates the world.

The calculus of probabilities, when confined within just limits, concerns the mathematician, the experimenter, and the statesman. From the time when Pascal and Fermat established its first principles, it has rendered most important daily services. This it is which, after suggesting the best form for statistical tables of population and mortality, teaches us to deduce from those numbers, so often misinterpreted, the most precise and useful conclusions. This it is which alone regulates with equity insurance premiums, pension funds, annuities, discounts, etc. This it is that has gradually suppressed lotteries, and other shameful snares cunningly laid for avarice and ignorance. Laplace has treated these questions with his accustomed superiority: the 'Analytical Theory of Probabilities' is worthy of the author of the 'Mecanique Celeste.'

A philosopher whose name is associated with immortal discoveries said to his too conservative audience, "Bear in mind, gentlemen, that in questions of science the authority of a thousand is not worth the humble reasoning of a single individual." Two centuries have passed over these words of Galileo without lessening their value or impugning their truth. For this reason, it has been thought better rather to glance briefly at the work of Laplace than to repeat the eulogies of his admirers.



JOHN ARBUTHNOT

(1667-1735)

Arbuthnot's place in literature depends as much on his association with the wits of his day as on his own satirical and humorous productions. Many of these have been published in the collections of Swift, Gay, Pope, and others, and cannot be identified. The task of verifying them is rendered more difficult by the fact that his son repudiated a collection claiming to be his 'Miscellaneous Works,' published in 1750.



John Arbuthnot was born in the manse near Arbuthnot Castle, Kincardineshire, Scotland, April 29th, 1667. He was the son of a Scotch Episcopal clergyman, who was soon to be dispossessed of his parish by the Presbyterians in the Revolution of 1688. His children, who shared his Jacobite sentiments, were forced to leave Scotland; and John, after finishing his university course at Aberdeen, and taking his medical degree at St. Andrews, went to London and taught mathematics. He soon attracted attention by a keen and satirical 'Examination of Dr. Woodward's Account of the Deluge,' published in 1697. By a fortunate chance he was called to attend the Prince Consort (Prince George of Denmark), and in 1705 was made Physician Extraordinary to Queen Anne. If we may believe Swift, the agreeable Scotchman at once became her favorite attendant. His position at court was strengthened by his friendships with the great Tory statesmen.

Arbuthnot's best remembered work is 'The History of John Bull'; not because many people read or will ever read the book itself, but because it fixed a typical name and a typical character ineffaceably in the popular fancy and memory. He is credited with having been the first to use this famous sobriquet for the English nation; he was certainly the first to make it universal, and the first to make that burly, choleric, gross-feeding, hard-drinking, blunt-spoken, rather stupid and decidedly gullible, but honest and straightforward character one of the stock types of the world. The book appeared as four separate pamphlets: the first being entitled 'Law is a Bottomless Pit, Exemplified in the Case of Lord Strutt, John Bull, Nicholas Frog, and Lewis Baboon, Who Spent All They Had in a Law Suit'; the second, 'John Bull in His Senses'; the third, 'John Bull Still in His Senses'; and the fourth, 'Lewis Baboon Turned Honest, and John Bull Politician.' Published in 1712, these were at once attributed to Swift. But Pope says, "Dr. Arbuthnot was the sole writer of 'John Bull'"; and Swift gives us still more conclusive evidence by writing, "I hope you read 'John Bull.' It was a Scotch gentleman, a friend of mine, that writ it; but they put it on to me." In his humorous preface Dr. Arbuthnot says:—

"When I was first called to the office of historiographer to John Bull, he expressed himself to this purpose:—'Sir Humphrey Polesworth, I know you are a plain dealer; it is for that reason I have chosen you for this important trust; speak the truth, and spare not.' That I might fulfill those, his honorable intentions, I obtained leave to repair to and attend him in his most secret retirements; and I put the journals of all transactions into a strong box to be opened at a fitting occasion, after the manner of the historiographers of some Eastern monarchs.... And now, that posterity may not be ignorant in what age so excellent a history was written (which would otherwise, no doubt, be the subject of its inquiries), I think it proper to inform the learned of future times that it was compiled when Louis XIV. was King of France, and Philip, his grandson, of Spain; when England and Holland, in conjunction with the Emperor and the allies, entered into a war against these two princes, which lasted ten years, under the management of the Duke of Marlborough, and was put to a conclusion by the treaty of Utrecht under the ministry of the Earl of Oxford, in the year 1713."

The characters disguised are: "John Bull," the English; "Nicholas Frog," the Dutch; "Lewis Baboon," the French king; "Lord Strutt," the late King of Spain; "Philip Baboon," the Duke of Anjou; "Esquire South," the King of Spain; "Humphrey Hocus," the Duke of Marlborough; and "Sir Roger Bold," the Earl of Oxford. The lawsuit was the War of the Spanish Succession; John Bull's first wife was the late ministry; and his second wife the Tory ministry. To explain the allegory further, John Bull's mother was the Church of England; his sister Peg, the Scotch nation; and her lover Jack, Presbyterianism.

That so witty a work, so strong in typical freehand character drawing of permanent validity and remembrance, should be unread and its author forgotten except by scholars, is too curious a fact not to have a deep cause in its own character. The cause is not hard to find: it is one of the books which try to turn the world's current backward, and which the world dislikes as offending its ideals of progress. Stripped of its broad humor, its object, rubbed in with no great delicacy of touch, was to uphold the most extreme and reactionary Toryism of the time, and to jeer at political liberalism from the ground up. Its theoretic loyalty is the non-resistant Jacobitism of the Nonjurors, which it is so hard for us now to distinguish from abject slavishness; though like the principles of the casuists, one must not confound theory with practice. It seems the loyalty of a mujik or a Fiji dressed in cultivated modern clothes, not that of a conceivable cultivated modern community as a whole; but it would be very Philistine to pour wholesale contempt on a creed held by so many large minds and souls. It was of course produced by the experience of what the reverse tenets had brought on,—a long civil war, years of military despotism, and immense social and moral disorganization. In 'John Bull,' the fidelity of a subject to a king is made exactly correspondent, both in theory and practice, with the fidelity of a wife to her husband and her marriage vows; and an elaborate parallel is worked out to show that advocating the right of resistance to a bad king is precisely the same, on grounds of either logic or Scripture, as advocating the right of adultery toward a bad husband. This is not even good fooling; and, its local use past and no longer buoyed by personal liking for the author, the book sinks back into the limbo of partisan polemics with many worse ones and perhaps some better ones, dragging its real excellences down with it.

In 1714 the famous Scriblerus Club was organized, having for its members Pope, Swift, Arbuthnot, Gay, Congreve, Lord Oxford, and Bishop Atterbury. They agreed to write a series of papers ridiculing, in the words of Pope, "all the false tastes in learning, under the character of a man of capacity enough, but that had dipped into every art and science, but injudiciously in each." The chronicle of this club was found in 'The Memoirs of the Extraordinary Life, Works, and Discoveries of Martinus Scriblerus,' which is thought to have been written entirely by Arbuthnot, and which describes the education of a learned pedant's son. Its humor may be appreciated by means of the citation given below. The first book of 'Scriblerus' appeared six years after Arbuthnot's death, when it was included in the second volume of Alexander Pope's works (1741). Pope said that from the 'Memoirs of Scriblerus' Swift took his idea of 'Gulliver'; and the Dean himself writes to Arbuthnot, July 3d, 1714:—

"To talk of 'Martin' in any hands but Yours is a Folly. You every day give better hints than all of us together could do in a twelvemonth. And to say the truth, Pope, who first thought of the Hint, has no Genius at all to it, in my mind; Gay is too young; Parnell has some ideas of it, but is idle; I could put together, and lard, and strike out well enough, but all that relates to the Sciences must be from you."

Swift's opinion that Arbuthnot "has more wit than we all have, and his humanity is equal to his wit," seems to have been the universal dictum; and Pope honored him by publishing a dialogue in the 'Prologue to the Satires,' known first as 'The Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot,' which contains many affectionate personal allusions. Aitken says, in his biography:—

"Arbuthnot's attachment to Swift and Pope was of the most intimate nature, and those who knew them best maintained that he was their equal at least in gifts. He understood Swift's cynicism, and their correspondence shows the unequaled sympathy that existed between the two. Gay, Congreve, Berkeley, Parnell, were among Arbuthnot's constant friends, and all of them were indebted to him for kindnesses freely rendered. He was on terms of intimacy with Bolingbroke and Oxford, Chesterfield, Peterborough, and Pulteney; and among the ladies with whom he mixed were Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, Lady Betty Germain, Mrs. Howard, Lady Masham, and Mrs. Martha Blount. He was, too, the trusted friend and physician of Queen Anne. Most of the eminent men of science of the time, including some who were opposed to him in politics, were in frequent intercourse with him; and it is pleasant to know that at least one of the greatest of the wits who were most closely allied to the Whig party—Addison—had friendly relations with him."

From the letters of Lord Chesterfield we learn that

"His imagination was almost inexhaustible, and whatever subject he treated, or was consulted upon, he immediately overflowed with all that it could possibly produce. It was at anybody's service, for as soon as he was exonerated he did not care what became of it; insomuch that his sons, when young, have frequently made kites of his scattered papers of hints, which would have furnished good matter for folios. Not being in the least jealous of his fame as an author, he would neither take the time nor the trouble of separating the best from the worst; he worked out the whole mine, which afterward, in the hands of skillful refiners, produced a rich vein of ore. As his imagination was always at work, he was frequently absent and inattentive in company, which made him both say and do a thousand inoffensive absurdities; but which, far from being provoking, as they commonly are, supplied new matter for conversation, and occasioned wit both in himself and others."

Speaking to Boswell of the writers of Queen Anne's time, Dr. Johnson said, "I think Dr. Arbuthnot the first man among them. He was the most universal genius, being an excellent physician, a man of deep learning, and a man of much humor." He did not, however, think much of the 'Scriblerus' papers, and said they were forgotten because "no man would be the wiser, better, or merrier for remembering them"; which is hard measure for the wit and divertingness of some of the travesties. Cowper, reviewing Johnson's 'Lives of the Poets,' declared that "one might search these eight volumes with a candle to find a man, and not find one, unless perhaps Arbuthnot were he." Thackeray, too, called him "one of the wisest, wittiest, most accomplished, gentlest of mankind."

Thus fortunate in his sunny spirit, in his genius for friendship, in his professional eminence, and in his literary capacity, Dr. Arbuthnot saw his life flow smoothly to its close. He died in London on February 27th, 1735, at the age of sixty eight, still working and playing with youthful ardor, and still surrounded with all the good things of life.



THE TRUE CHARACTERS OF JOHN BULL, NIC. FROG, AND HOCUS

From 'The History of John Bull,' Part I.

For the better understanding the following history, the reader ought to know that Bull, in the main, was an honest, plain-dealing fellow, choleric, bold, and of a very unconstant temper; he dreaded not old Lewis either at backsword, single falchion, or cudgel play; but then he was very apt to quarrel with his best friends, especially if they pretended to govern him. If you flattered him, you might lead him like a child. John's temper depended very much upon the air; his spirits rose and fell with the weather-glass. John was quick and understood his business very well; but no man alive was more careless in looking into his accounts, or more cheated by partners, apprentices, and servants. This was occasioned by his being a boon companion, loving his bottle and his diversion; for, to say truth, no man kept a better house than John, nor spent his money more generously. By plain and fair dealing John had acquired some plums, and might have kept them, had it not been for his unhappy lawsuit.

Nic. Frog was a cunning, sly fellow, quite the reverse of John in many particulars; covetous, frugal, minded domestic affairs, would pinch his belly to save his pocket, never lost a farthing by careless servants or bad debtors. He did not care much for any sort of diversion, except tricks of High German artists and legerdemain. No man exceeded Nic. in these; yet it must be owned that Nic. was a fair dealer, and in that way acquired immense riches.

Hocus was an old, cunning attorney; and though this was the first considerable suit that ever he was engaged in, he showed himself superior in address to most of his profession. He kept always good clerks, he loved money, was smooth-tongued, gave good words, and seldom lost his temper. He was not worse than an infidel, for he provided plentifully for his family, but he loved himself better than them all. The neighbors reported that he was henpecked, which was impossible, by such a mild-spirited woman as his wife was.

* * * * *

HOW THE RELATIONS RECONCILED JOHN AND HIS SISTER PEG, AND WHAT RETURN PEG MADE TO JOHN'S MESSAGE

From the 'History of John Bull,' Part I.

John Bull, otherwise a good-natured man, was very hard-hearted to his sister Peg, chiefly from an aversion he had conceived in his infancy. While he flourished, kept a warm house, and drove a plentiful trade, poor Peg was forced to go hawking and peddling about the streets selling knives, scissors, and shoe-buckles; now and then carried a basket of fish to the market; sewed, spun, and knit for a livelihood till her fingers' ends were sore: and when she could not get bread for her family, she was forced to hire them out at journey-work to her neighbors. Yet in these, her poor circumstances, she still preserved the air and mien of a gentlewoman—a certain decent pride that extorted respect from the haughtiest of her neighbors. When she came in to any full assembly, she would not yield the pas to the best of them. If one asked her, "Are you not related to John Bull?" "Yes," says she, "he has the honor to be my brother." So Peg's affairs went till all the relations cried out shame upon John for his barbarous usage of his own flesh and blood; that it was an easy matter for him to put her in a creditable way of living, not only without hurt, but with advantage to himself, seeing she was an industrious person, and might be serviceable to him in his way of business. "Hang her, jade," quoth John, "I can't endure her as long as she keeps that rascal Jack's company." They told him the way to reclaim her was to take her into his house; that by conversation the childish humors of their younger days might be worn out.

These arguments were enforced by a certain incident. It happened that John was at that time about making his will and entailing his estate, the very same in which Nic. Frog is named executor. Now, his sister Peg's name being in the entail, he could not make a thorough settlement without her consent. There was indeed a malicious story went about, as if John's last wife had fallen in love with Jack as he was eating custard on horseback; that she persuaded John to take his sister into the house the better to drive on the intrigue with Jack, concluding he would follow his mistress Peg. All I can infer from this story is that when one has got a bad character in the world, people will report and believe anything of them, true or false. But to return to my story.

When Peg received John's message she huffed and stormed:—"My brother John," quoth she, "is grown wondrous kind-hearted all of a sudden, but I meikle doubt whether it be not mair for their own conveniency than for my good; he draws up his writs and his deeds, forsooth, and I must set my hand to them, unsight, unseen. I like the young man he has settled upon well enough, but I think I ought to have a valuable consideration for my consent. He wants my poor little farm because it makes a nook in his park wall. You may e'en tell him he has mair than he makes good use of; he gangs up and down drinking, roaring, and quarreling, through all the country markets, making foolish bargains in his cups, which he repents when he is sober; like a thriftless wretch, spending the goods and gear that his forefathers won with the sweat of their brows; light come, light go; he cares not a farthing. But why should I stand surety for his contracts? The little I have is free, and I can call it my own—hame's hame, let it be never so hamely. I ken well enough, he could never abide me, and when he has his ends he'll e'en use me as he did before. I'm sure I shall be treated like a poor drudge—I shall be set to tend the bairns, darn the hose, and mend the linen. Then there's no living with that old carline, his mother; she rails at Jack, and Jack's an honester man than any of her kin: I shall be plagued with her spells and her Paternosters, and silly Old World ceremonies; I mun never pare my nails on a Friday, nor begin a journey on Childermas Day; and I mun stand becking and binging as I gang out and into the hall. Tell him he may e'en gang his get; I'll have nothing to do with him; I'll stay like the poor country mouse, in my awn habitation."

So Peg talked; but for all that, by the interposition of good friends, and by many a bonny thing that was sent, and many more that were promised Peg, the matter was concluded, and Peg taken into the house upon certain articles [the Act of Toleration is referred to]; one of which was that she might have the freedom of Jack's conversation, and might take him for better or for worse if she pleased; provided always he did not come into the house at unseasonable hours and disturb the rest of the old woman, John's mother.

OF THE RUDIMENTS OF MARTIN'S LEARNING

From 'Memoirs of Martinus Scriblerus'

Mrs. Scriblerus considered it was now time to instruct him in the fundamentals of religion, and to that end took no small pains in teaching him his catechism. But Cornelius looked upon this as a tedious way of instruction, and therefore employed his head to find out more pleasing methods, the better to induce him to be fond of learning. He would frequently carry him to the puppet-show of the creation of the world, where the child, with exceeding delight, gained a notion of the history of the Bible. His first rudiments in profane history were acquired by seeing of raree-shows, where he was brought acquainted with all the princes of Europe. In short, the old gentleman so contrived it to make everything contribute to the improvement of his knowledge, even to his very dress. He invented for him a geographical suit of clothes, which might give him some hints of that science, and likewise some knowledge of the commerce of different nations. He had a French hat with an African feather, Holland shirts, Flanders lace, English clothes lined with Indian silk, his gloves were Italian, and his shoes were Spanish: he was made to observe this, and daily catechized thereupon, which his father was wont to call "traveling at home." He never gave him a fig or an orange but he obliged him to give an account from what country it came. In natural history he was much assisted by his curiosity in sign-posts; insomuch that he hath often confessed he owed to them the knowledge of many creatures which he never found since in any author, such as white lions, golden dragons, etc. He once thought the same of green men, but had since found them mentioned by Kercherus, and verified in the history of William of Newburg.

His disposition to the mathematics was discovered very early, by his drawing parallel lines on his bread and butter, and intersecting them at equal angles, so as to form the whole superficies into squares. But in the midst of all these improvements a stop was put to his learning the alphabet, nor would he let him proceed to the letter D, till he could truly and distinctly pronounce C in the ancient manner, at which the child unhappily boggled for near three months. He was also obliged to delay his learning to write, having turned away the writing-master because he knew nothing of Fabius's waxen tables.

Cornelius having read and seriously weighed the methods by which the famous Montaigne was educated, and resolving in some degree to exceed them, resolved he should speak and learn nothing but the learned languages, and especially the Greek; in which he constantly eat and drank, according to Homer. But what most conduced to his easy attainment of this language was his love of gingerbread: which his father observing, caused to be stamped with the letters of the Greek alphabet; and the child the very first day eat as far as Iota. By his particular application to this language above the rest, he attained so great a proficiency therein, that Gronovius ingenuously confesses he durst not confer with this child in Greek at eight years old; and at fourteen he composed a tragedy in the same language, as the younger Pliny had done before him.

He learned the Oriental languages of Erpenius, who resided some time with his father for that purpose. He had so early a relish for the Eastern way of writing, that even at this time he composed (in imitation of it) 'A Thousand and One Arabian Tales,' and also the 'Persian Tales,' which have been since translated into several languages, and lately into our own with particular elegance by Mr. Ambrose Philips. In this work of his childhood he was not a little assisted by the historical traditions of his nurse.



THE ARGONAUTIC LEGEND

The legend of the Argonauts relates to the story of a band of heroes who sailed from Thessaly to AEa, the region of the Sun-god on the remotest shore of the Black Sea, in quest of a Golden Fleece. The ship Argo bore the heroes, under the command of Jason, to whom the task had been assigned by his uncle Pelias. Pelias was the usurper of his nephew's throne; and for Jason, on his coming to man's estate, he devised the perilous adventure of fetching the golden fleece of the Speaking Ram which many years before had carried Phrixus to AEa, or Colchis. Fifty of the most distinguished Grecian heroes came to Jason's aid, while Argus, the son of Phrixus, under the guidance of Athena, built the ship, inserting in the prow, for prophetic advice and furtherance, a piece of the famous talking oak of Dodona. Tiphys was the steersman, and Orpheus joined the crew to enliven the weariness of their sea-life with his harp.

The heroes came first to Lemnos, where the women had risen in revolt and slain fathers, brothers, and husbands. Here the voyagers lingered almost a year; but at last, having taken leave, they came to the southern coast of Propontis, where the Doliones dwelt under King Cyzicus. Their kind entertainment among this people was marred by ill-fate; for having weighed anchor in the night, they were driven back by a storm, and being mistaken for foes, were fiercely attacked. Cyzicus himself fell by the hand of Jason. They next touched at the country of the Bebrycians, where the hero Pollux overcame the king in a boxing-match and bound him to a tree; and thence to Salmydessus, to consult the soothsayer Phineus. In gratitude for their freeing him from the Harpies, who, as often as his table was set, descended out of the clouds upon his food and defiled it, the prophet directed them safe to Colchis. The heroes rowing with might, thus passed the Symplegades, two cliffs which opened and shut with such swift violence that a bird could scarce fly through the passage. The rocks were held apart with the help of Athena, and from that day they became fixed and harmless. Further on, they came in sight of Mount Caucasus, saw the eagle which preyed on the vitals of Prometheus, and heard the sufferer's woeful cries. So their journey was accomplished, and they arrived at AEa, and the palace of King AEetes.

When the king heard the errand of the heroes he was moved against them, and refused to give up the fleece except on terms which he thought Jason durst not comply with. Two bulls, snorting fire, with feet of brass, Jason was required to yoke, and with them plow a field and sow the land with dragon's teeth. Here the heavenly powers came to the hero's aid, and Hera and Athena prayed Aphrodite to send the shaft of Cupid upon Medea, the youthful daughter of the king. Thus it came about that Medea conceived a great passion for the young hero, and with the magic which she knew she made for him a salve. The salve rendered his body invulnerable. He yoked the bulls, and ploughed the field, and sowed the dragon's teeth. A crop of armed men sprang from the sowing, but Jason, prepared for this marvel by Medea, threw among them a stone which she had given him, whereupon they fell upon and slew one another.

But AEetes still refused to fetch the fleece, plotting secretly to burn the Argo and kill the heroic Argonauts. Medea came to their succor, and by her black art lulled to sleep the dragon which guarded the fleece. They seized the pelt, boarded the Argo, and sailed away, taking Medea with them. When her father followed in pursuit, in the madness of her love for Jason she slew her brother whom she had with her, and strewed the fragments of his body upon the wave. The king stopped to recover them and give them burial, and thus the Argonauts escaped. But the anger of the gods at this horrible murder led the voyagers in expiation a wearisome way homeward. For they sailed through the waters of the Adriatic, the Nile, the circumfluous stream of the earth, passed Scylla and Charybdis and the Island of the Sun, to Crete and AEgina and many lands, before the Argo rode once more in Thessalian waters.

The legend is one of the oldest and most familiar tales of Greece. Whether it is all poetic myth, or had a certain foundation in fact, it is impossible now to say. The date, the geography, the heroes, are mythical; and as in the Homeric poems, the supernatural and seeming historical are so blended that the union is indissoluble by any analysis yet found. The theme has touched the imagination of poets from the time of Apollonius Rhodius, who wrote the 'Argonautica' and went to Alexandria B.C. 194 to take care of the great library there, to William Morris, who published his 'Life and Death of Jason' in 1867. Mr. Morris's version of the contest of Orpheus with the Sirens is given to illustrate the reality of the old legends to the Greeks themselves. Jason's later life, his putting away of Medea, his marriage with Glauce, and the revenge of the deserted princess, furnish the story of the greatest of the plays of Euripides.

THE VICTORY OF ORPHEUS

From 'The Life and Death of Jason'

The Sirens: Oh, happy seafarers are ye, And surely all your ills are past, And toil upon the land and sea, Since ye are brought to us at last.

To you the fashion of the world, Wide lands laid waste, fair cities burned, And plagues, and kings from kingdoms hurled, Are naught, since hither ye have turned.

For as upon this beach we stand, And o'er our heads the sea-fowl flit, Our eyes behold a glorious land, And soon shall ye be kings of it.

Orpheus: A little more, a little more, O carriers of the Golden Fleece, A little labor with the oar, Before we reach the land of Greece.

E'en now perchance faint rumors reach Men's ears of this our victory, And draw them down unto the beach To gaze across the empty sea.

But since the longed-for day is nigh, And scarce a god could stay us now, Why do ye hang your heads and sigh, And still go slower and more slow?

The Sirens: Ah, had ye chanced to reach the home Your fond desires were set upon, Into what troubles had ye come! What barren victory had ye won!

But now, but now, when ye have lain Asleep with us a little while Beneath the washing of the main, How calm shall be your waking smile!

For ye shall smile to think of life That knows no troublous change or fear, No unavailing bitter strife, That ere its time brings trouble near.

Orpheus: Is there some murmur in your ears, That all that we have done is naught, And nothing ends our cares and fears, Till the last fear on us is brought?

The Sirens: Alas! and will ye stop your ears, In vain desire to do aught, And wish to live 'mid cares and fears, Until the last fear makes you naught?

Orpheus: Is not the May-time now on earth, When close against the city wall The folk are singing in their mirth, While on their heads the May flowers fall?

The Sirens: Yes, May is come, and its sweet breath Shall well-nigh make you weep to-day, And pensive with swift-coming death Shall ye be satiate of the May.

Orpheus: Shall not July bring fresh delight, As underneath green trees ye sit, And o'er some damsel's body white, The noon-tide shadows change and flit?

The Sirens: No new delight July shall bring, But ancient fear and fresh desire; And spite of every lovely thing, Of July surely shall ye tire.

Orpheus: And now when August comes on thee, And 'mid the golden sea of corn The merry reapers thou mayst see, Wilt thou still think the earth forlorn?

The Sirens: Set flowers on thy short-lived head, And in thine heart forgetfulness Of man's hard toil, and scanty bread, And weary of those days no less.

Orpheus: Or wilt thou climb the sunny hill, In the October afternoon, To watch the purple earth's blood fill The gray vat to the maiden's tune?

The Sirens: When thou beginnest to grow old, Bring back remembrance of thy bliss With that the shining cup doth hold, And weary helplessly of this.

Orpheus: Or pleasureless shall we pass by The long cold night and leaden day, That song and tale and minstrelsy Shall make as merry as the May?

The Sirens: List then, to-night, to some old tale Until the tears o'erflow thine eyes; But what shall all these things avail, When sad to-morrow comes and dies?

Orpheus: And when the world is born again, And with some fair love, side by side, Thou wanderest 'twixt the sun and rain, In that fresh love-begetting tide;

Then, when the world is born again, And the sweet year before thee lies, Shall thy heart think of coming pain, Or vex itself with memories?

The Sirens: Ah! then the world is born again With burning love unsatisfied, And new desires fond and vain, And weary days from tide to tide.

Ah! when the world is born again, A little day is soon gone by, When thou, unmoved by sun or rain, Within a cold straight house shall lie.

Therewith they ceased awhile, as languidly The head of Argo fell off toward the sea, And through the water she began to go; For from the land a fitful wind did blow, That, dallying with the many-colored sail, Would sometimes swell it out and sometimes fail, As nigh the east side of the bay they drew; Then o'er the waves again the music flew.

The Sirens: Think not of pleasure short and vain, Wherewith, 'mid days of toil and pain, With sick and sinking hearts ye strive To cheat yourselves that ye may live With cold death ever close at hand. Think rather of a peaceful land, The changeless land where ye may be Roofed over by the changeful sea.

Orpheus: And is the fair town nothing then, The coming of the wandering men With that long talked-of thing and strange. And news of how the kingdoms change, The pointed hands, and wondering At doers of a desperate thing? Push on, for surely this shall be Across a narrow strip of sea.

The Sirens: Alas! poor souls and timorous, Will ye draw nigh to gaze at us And see if we are fair indeed? For such as we shall be your meed, There, where our hearts would have you go. And where can the earth-dwellers show In any land such loveliness As that wherewith your eyes we bless, O wanderers of the Minyae, Worn toilers over land and sea?

Orpheus: Fair as the lightning 'thwart the sky, As sun-dyed snow upon the high Untrodden heaps of threatening stone The eagle looks upon alone, Oh, fair as the doomed victim's wreath, Oh, fair as deadly sleep and death, What will ye with them, earthly men, To mate your threescore years and ten? Toil rather, suffer and be free, Betwixt the green earth and the sea.

The Sirens: If ye be bold with us to go, Things such as happy dreams may show Shall your once heavy lids behold About our palaces of gold; Where waters 'neath the waters run, And from o'erhead a harmless sun Gleams through the woods of chrysolite. There gardens fairer to the sight Than those of the Phaeacian king Shall ye behold; and, wondering, Gaze on the sea-born fruit and flowers, And thornless and unchanging bowers, Whereof the May-time knoweth naught.

So to the pillared house being brought, Poor souls, ye shall not be alone, For o'er the floors of pale blue stone All day such feet as ours shall pass, And 'twixt the glimmering walls of glass, Such bodies garlanded with gold, So faint, so fair, shall ye behold, And clean forget the treachery Of changing earth and tumbling sea.

Orpheus: Oh the sweet valley of deep grass, Where through the summer stream doth pass, In chain of shadow, and still pool, From misty morn to evening cool; Where the black ivy creeps and twines O'er the dark-armed, red-trunked pines. Whence clattering the pigeon flits, Or brooding o'er her thin eggs sits, And every hollow of the hills With echoing song the mavis fills. There by the stream, all unafraid, Shall stand the happy shepherd maid, Alone in first of sunlit hours; Behind her, on the dewy flowers, Her homespun woolen raiment lies, And her white limbs and sweet gray eyes Shine from the calm green pool and deep, While round about the swallows sweep, Not silent; and would God that we, Like them, were landed from the sea.

The Sirens: Shall we not rise with you at night, Up through the shimmering green twilight, That maketh there our changeless day, Then going through the moonlight gray, Shall we not sit upon these sands, To think upon the troublous lands Long left behind, where once ye were, When every day brought change and fear! There, with white arms about you twined, And shuddering somewhat at the wind That ye rejoiced erewhile to meet, Be happy, while old stories sweet, Half understood, float round your ears, And fill your eyes with happy tears. Ah! while we sing unto you there, As now we sing, with yellow hair Blown round about these pearly limbs, While underneath the gray sky swims The light shell-sailor of the waves, And to our song, from sea-filled caves Booms out an echoing harmony, Shall ye not love the peaceful sea?

Orpheus: Nigh the vine-covered hillocks green, In days agone, have I not seen The brown-clad maidens amorous, Below the long rose-trellised house, Dance to the querulous pipe and shrill, When the gray shadow of the hill Was lengthening at the end of day? Not shadowy or pale were they, But limbed like those who 'twixt the trees Follow the swift of goddesses. Sunburnt they are somewhat, indeed, To where the rough brown woolen weed Is drawn across their bosoms sweet, Or cast from off their dancing feet; But yet the stars, the moonlight gray, The water wan, the dawn of day, Can see their bodies fair and white As hers, who once, for man's delight, Before the world grew hard and old, Came o'er the bitter sea and cold; And surely those that met me there Her handmaidens and subjects were; And shame-faced, half-repressed desire Had lit their glorious eyes with fire, That maddens eager hearts of men. Oh, would that I were with them when The risen moon is gathering light, And yellow from the homestead white The windows gleam; but verily This waits us o'er a little sea.

The Sirens: Come to the land where none grows old, And none is rash or over-bold Nor any noise there is or war, Or rumor from wild lands afar, Or plagues, or birth and death of kings; No vain desire of unknown things Shall vex you there, no hope or fear Of that which never draweth near; But in that lovely land and still Ye may remember what ye will, And what ye will, forget for aye. So while the kingdoms pass away, Ye sea-beat hardened toilers erst, Unresting, for vain fame athirst, Shall be at peace for evermore, With hearts fulfilled of Godlike lore, And calm, unwavering Godlike love, No lapse of time can turn or move. There, ages after your fair fleece Is clean forgotten, yea, and Greece Is no more counted glorious, Alone with us, alone with us, Alone with us, dwell happily, Beneath our trembling roof of sea.

Orpheus: Ah! do ye weary of the strife, And long to change this eager life For shadowy and dull hopelessness, Thinking indeed to gain no less Than this, to die, and not to die, To be as if ye ne'er had been, Yet keep your memory fresh and green, To have no thought of good or ill, Yet keep some thrilling pleasure still? Oh, idle dream! Ah, verily If it shall happen unto me That I have thought of anything, When o'er my bones the sea-fowl sing, And I lie dead, how shall I pine For those fresh joys that once were mine, On this green fount of joy and mirth, The ever young and glorious earth; Then, helpless, shall I call to mind Thoughts of the flower-scented wind, The dew, the gentle rain at night, The wonder-working snow and white, The song of birds, the water's fall, The sun that maketh bliss of all; Yea, this our toil and victory, The tyrannous and conquered sea.

The Sirens: Ah, will ye go, and whither then Will ye go from us, soon to die, To fill your threescore years and ten With many an unnamed misery?

And this the wretchedest of all, That when upon your lonely eyes The last faint heaviness shall fall, Ye shall bethink you of our cries. Come back, nor, grown old, seek in vain To hear us sing across the sea; Come back, come back, come back again, Come back, O fearful Minyae!

Orpheus: Ah, once again, ah, once again, The black prow plunges through the sea; Nor yet shall all your toil be vain, Nor ye forget, O Minyae!



LUDOVICO ARIOSTO

(1474-1533)

BY L. OSCAR KUHNS

Among the smaller principalities of Italy during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, none was more brilliant than the court of Ferrara, and none more intimately connected with the literature of the times. Here, on September 8th, 1474, was born Ludovico Ariosto, the great poet of the Renaissance. Here, like Boiardo before him and Tasso after him, he lived and wrote; and it was to the family of Este that he dedicated that poem in which are seen, as in a mirror, the gay life, the intellectual brilliancy, and the sensuous love for beauty which mark the age. At seventeen he began the study of the law, which he soon abandoned for the charms of letters. Most of his life was passed in the service first of Cardinal d'Este, and afterward of the Duke of Ferrara. But the courtier never overcame the poet, who is said to have begun the famous 'Orlando Furioso' at the age of thirty, and never to have ceased the effort to improve it.

The literary activity of Ariosto showed itself in the composition of comedies and satires, as well as in that of his immortal epic. The comedies were written for the court theatre of Ferrara, to which he seems to have had some such relation as that of Goethe to the theatre at Weimar. The later comedies are much better than the early ones, which are but little more than translations from Plautus and Terence. In general, however, the efforts of Ariosto in this direction are far less important than the 'Orlando' or the 'Satires.' At the first appearance of his plays they were enormously successful, and the poet was hailed as a great dramatic genius. But these comedies are interesting to-day chiefly from the fact that Ariosto was one of the very first of the writers of modern comedy, and was the leader of that movement in Italy and France which prepared the way for Moliere.

Of more importance than the comedies, and second only in interest to the 'Orlando' are the 'Satires' seven in number, the first written in 1517 and the last in 1531, thus representing the maturer life of the poet. Nearly everything we know of Ariosto's character is taken from this source. He reveals himself in them as a man who excites neither our highest admiration nor our contempt. He was not born to be a statesman, nor a courtier, nor a man of affairs; and his life as ambassador of Cardinal Ippolito, and as captain of Garafagno, was not at all to his liking. His one longing through all the busy years of his life was for a quiet home, where he could live in liberty and enjoy the comforts of cultured leisure. A love of independence was a marked trait of his character, and it must often have galled him to play the part he did at the court of Ferrara. As a satirist he was no Juvenal or Persius. He was not stirred to profound indignation by the evils about him, of which there were enough in that brilliant but corrupt age. He discussed in easy, familiar style, the foibles of his fellow-men, and especially the events of his own life and the traits of his own character.

The same views of life, the same tolerant temper, which are seen in the 'Satires,' form an important part of the 'Orlando Furioso,' where they take the form of little dissertations, introduced at the beginning of a canto, or scattered through the body of the poem. These reflections are full of practical sense and wisdom, and remind us of the familiar conversation with the reader which forms so great a charm in Thackeray's novels.

In the Italian Renaissance there is a curious mingling of classical and romantic influences, and the generation which gave itself up passionately to the study of Greek and Latin still read with delight the stories of the Paladins of Charlemagne and the Knights of the Round Table. What Sir Thomas Malory had done in English prose, Boiardo did in Latin poetry. When Ariosto entered the service of Cardinal Ippolito, every one was reading the 'Orlando Innamorato,' and the young poet soon fell under the charm of these stories; so that when the inward impulse which all great poets feel toward the work of creation came to him, he took the material already at hand and continued the story of 'Orlando.' With a certain skill and inventiveness, Boiardo had mingled together the epic cycles of Arthur and Charlemagne. He had shown the Saracen host under King Agramante driving the army of Charlemagne before them, until the Christians had finally been shut up within the walls of Paris. It was at this critical moment in his poem that Boiardo died. Ariosto took up the story where he had left it, and carried it on until the final defeat of Agramante, and his death at the hands of Orlando in the desert island.



But we must not think that the 'Orlando Furioso' has one definite plot. At first reading we are confused by the multiplicity of incident, by the constant change of scene, and by the breaking off of one story to make place for another. In a single canto the scene changes from France to Africa, and by means of winged horses tremendous distances are traveled over in a day. On closer examination we find that this confusion is only apparent. The poet himself is never confused, but with sure hand he manipulates the many-colored threads which are wrought into the fabric of the poem. The war between the Saracens and the Christians is a sort of background or stage; a rallying point for the characters. In reality it attracts but slightly our attention or interest. Again, Orlando's love for Angelica, and his madness,—although the latter gave the title to the book, and both afford some of the finest episodes,—have no organic connection with the whole. The real subject, if any there be, is the loves of Ruggiero and Bradamante. These are the supposed ancestors of the house of Este, and it is with their final union, after many vicissitudes, that the poem ends.

But the real purpose of Ariosto was to amuse the reader by countless stories of romantic adventure. It was not as a great creative genius, as the inventor of new characters, as the earnest and philosophical reformer, that he appears to mankind, but as the supreme artist. Ariosto represents in its highest development that love for form, that perfection of style, which is characteristic of the Latin races as distinguished from the Teutonic. It is this that makes the 'Orlando Furioso' the great epic of the Renaissance, and that caused Galileo to bestow upon the poet the epithet "divine."

For nearly thirty years Ariosto changed and polished these lines, so that the edition of 1532 is quite different from that of 1516. The stanzas in which the poem is written are smooth and musical, the language is so chosen as always to express the exact shade of thought, the interest never flags. What seems the arbitrary breaking off of a story before its close is really the art of the poet; for he knows, were each episode to be told by itself, we should have only a string of novelle, and not the picture he desired to paint,—that of the world of chivalry, with its knights-errant in search of adventures, its damsels in distress, its beautiful gardens and lordly palaces, its hermits and magicians, its hippogriffs and dragons, and all the paraphernalia of magic art.

Ariosto's treatment of chivalry is peculiar to himself. Spenser in the sixteenth century, and Lord Tennyson in our own day, pictured its virtues and noble aspirations. In his immortal 'Don Quixote,' Cervantes held its extravagances up to ridicule. In Ariosto's day no one believed any longer in the heroes or the ideals of chivalry, nor did the poet himself; hence there is an air of unreality about the poem. The figures that pass before us, although they have certain characteristics of their own, are not real beings, but those that dwell in a land of fancy. As the poet tells these stories of a bygone age, a smile of irony plays upon his face; he cannot take them seriously; and while he never goes so far as to turn into ridicule the ideals of chivalry, yet, in such episodes as the prodigious exploits of Rodomonte within the walls of Paris, and the voyage of Astolfo to the moon, he does approach dangerously near to the burlesque.

We are not inspired by large and noble thoughts in reading the 'Orlando Furioso.' We are not deeply stirred by pity or terror. No lofty principles are inculcated. Even the pathetic scenes, such as the death of Zerbino and Isabella, stir no real emotion in us, but we experience a sense of the artistic effect of a poetic death.

It is not often, in these days of the making of many books of which there is no end, that one has time to read a poem which is longer than the 'Iliad' and the 'Odyssey' together. But there is a compelling charm about the 'Orlando,' and he who sits down to read it with serious purpose will soon find himself under the spell of an attraction which comes from unflagging interest and from perfection of style and construction. No translation can convey an adequate sense of this beauty of color and form; but the versions of William Stewart Rose, here cited, suggest the energy, invention, and intensity of the epic.

In 1532 Ariosto published his final edition of the poem, now enlarged to forty-six cantos, and retouched from beginning to end. He died not long afterward, in 1533, and was buried in the church of San Benedetto, where a magnificent monument marks his resting-place.



THE FRIENDSHIP OF MEDORO AND CLORIDANE

From 'Orlando Furioso,' Cantos 18 and 19

Two Moors among the Paynim army were, From stock obscure in Ptolomita grown; Of whom the story, an example rare Of constant love, is worthy to be known. Medore and Cloridane were named the pair; Who, whether Fortune pleased to smile or frown, Served Dardinello with fidelity, And late with him to France had crost the sea.

Of nimble frame and strong was Cloridane, Throughout his life a follower of the chase. A cheek of white, suffused with crimson grain, Medoro had, in youth, a pleasing grace; Nor bound on that emprize, 'mid all the train, Was there a fairer or more jocund face. Crisp hair he had of gold, and jet-black eyes; And seemed an angel lighted from the skies.

These two were posted on a rampart's height, With more to guard the encampment from surprise, When 'mid the equal intervals, at night, Medoro gazed on heaven with sleepy eyes. In all his talk, the stripling, woeful wight, Here cannot choose, but of his lord devise, The royal Dardinel; and evermore Him left unhonored on the field, deplore.

Then, turning to his mate, cries, "Cloridane, I cannot tell thee what a cause of woe It is to me, my lord upon the plain Should lie, unworthy food for wolf or crow! Thinking how still to me he was humane, Meseems, if in his honor I forego This life of mine, for favors so immense I shall but make a feeble recompense.

"That he may not lack sepulture, will I Go forth, and seek him out among the slain; And haply God may will that none shall spy Where Charles's camp lies hushed. Do thou remain; That, if my death be written in the sky, Thou may'st the deed be able to explain. So that if Fortune foil so far a feat, The world, through Fame, my loving heart may weet."

Amazed was Cloridane a child should show Such heart, such love, and such fair loyalty; And fain would make the youth his thought forego, Whom he held passing dear: but fruitlessly Would move his steadfast purpose; for such woe Will neither comforted nor altered be. Medoro is disposed to meet his doom, Or to inclose his master in the tomb.

Seeing that naught would bend him, naught would move, "I too will go," was Cloridane's reply: "In such a glorious act myself will prove; As well such famous death I covet, I. What other thing is left me, here above, Deprived of thee, Medoro mine? To die With thee in arms is better, on the plain, Than afterwards of grief, shouldst thou be slain."

And thus resolved, disposing in their place Their guard's relief, depart the youthful pair, Leave fosse and palisade, and in small space Are among ours, who watch with little care; Who, for they little fear the Paynim race, Slumber with fires extinguished everywhere. 'Mid carriages and arms they lie supine, Up to the eyes immersed in sleep and wine.

A moment Cloridano stopt, and cried, "Not to be lost are opportunities. This troop, by whom my master's blood was shed, Medoro, ought not I to sacrifice? Do thou, lest any one this way be led, Watch everywhere about, with ears and eyes; For a wide way, amid the hostile horde, I offer here to make thee with my sword."

So said he, and his talk cut quickly short, Coming where learned Alpheus slumbered nigh; Who had the year before sought Charles's court, In med'cine, magic, and astrology Well versed: but now in art found small support, Or rather found that it was all a lie. He had foreseen that he his long-drawn life Should finish on the bosom of his wife.

And now the Saracen with wary view Had pierced his weasand with the pointed sword. Four others he near that Diviner slew, Nor gave the wretches time to say a word. Sir Turpin in his story tells not who, And Time has of their names effaced record. Palidon of Moncalier next he speeds; One who securely sleeps between two steeds.

* * * * *

Rearing th' insidious blade, the pair are near The place where round King Charles's pavilion Are tented warlike paladin and peer, Guarding the side that each is camped upon, When in good time the Paynims backward steer, And sheathe their swords, the impious slaughter done; Deeming impossible, in such a number, But they must light on one who does not slumber.

And though they might escape well charged with prey, To save themselves they think sufficient gain. Thither by what he deems the safest way (Medoro following him) went Cloridane Where in the field, 'mid bow and falchion lay, And shield and spear, in pool of purple stain, Wealthy and poor, the king and vassal's corse, And overthrown the rider and his horse.

* * * * *

The silvery splendor glistened yet more clear, There where renowned Almontes's son lay dead. Faithful Medoro mourned his master dear, Who well agnized the quartering white and red, With visage bathed in many a bitter tear (For he a rill from either eyelid shed), And piteous act and moan, that might have whist The winds, his melancholy plaint to list;

But with a voice supprest—not that he aught Regards if any one the noise should hear, Because he of his life takes any thought, Of which loathed burden he would fain be clear; But lest his being heard should bring to naught The pious purpose which has brought them here— The youths the king upon their shoulders stowed; And so between themselves divide the load.

Hurrying their steps, they hastened, as they might, Under the cherished burden they conveyed; And now approaching was the lord of light, To sweep from heaven the stars, from earth the shade, When good Zerbino, he whose valiant sprite Was ne'er in time of need by sleep down-weighed, From chasing Moors all night, his homeward way Was taking to the camp at dawn of day.

He has with him some horsemen in his train, That from afar the two companions spy. Expecting thus some spoil or prize to gain, They, every one, toward that quarter hie. "Brother, behoves us," cried young Cloridane, "To cast away the load we bear, and fly; For 'twere a foolish thought (might well be said) To lose two living men, to save one dead;"

And dropt the burden, weening his Medore Had done the same by it, upon his side; But that poor boy, who loved his master more, His shoulders to the weight alone applied: Cloridane hurrying with all haste before, Deeming him close behind him or beside; Who, did he know his danger, him to save A thousand deaths, instead of one, would brave.

* * * * *

The closest path, amid the forest gray, To save himself, pursued the youth forlorn; But all his schemes were marred by the delay Of that sore weight upon his shoulders borne. The place he knew not, and mistook the way, And hid himself again in sheltering thorn. Secure and distant was his mate, that through The greenwood shade with lighter shoulders flew.

So far was Cloridane advanced before, He heard the boy no longer in the wind; But when he marked the absence of Medore, It seemed as if his heart was left behind. "Ah! how was I so negligent," (the Moor Exclaimed) "so far beside myself, and blind, That, I, Medoro, should without thee fare, Nor know when I deserted thee or where?"

So saying, in the wood he disappears, Plunging into the maze with hurried pace; And thither, whence he lately issued, steers, And, desperate, of death returns in trace. Cries and the tread of steeds this while he hears, And word and threat of foeman, as in chase; Lastly Medoro by his voice is known, Disarmed, on foot, 'mid many horse, alone.

A hundred horsemen who the youth surround, Zerbino leads, and bids his followers seize The stripling; like a top the boy turns round And keeps him as he can: among the trees, Behind oak, elm, beech, ash, he takes his ground, Nor from the cherished load his shoulders frees. Wearied, at length, the burden he bestowed Upon the grass, and stalked about his load.

As in her rocky cavern the she-bear, With whom close warfare Alpine hunters wage, Uncertain hangs about her shaggy care, And growls in mingled sound of love and rage, To unsheath her claws, and blood her tushes bare, Would natural hate and wrath the beast engage; Love softens her, and bids from strife retire, And for her offspring watch, amid her ire.

Cloridane, who to aid him knows not how, And with Medoro willingly would die, But who would not for death this being forego, Until more foes than one should lifeless lie, Ambushed, his sharpest arrow to his bow Fits, and directs it with so true an eye, The feathered weapon bores a Scotchman's brain, And lays the warrior dead upon the plain.

Together, all the others of the band Turned thither, whence was shot the murderous reed; Meanwhile he launched another from his stand, That a new foe might by the weapon bleed, Whom (while he made of this and that demand, And loudly questioned who had done the deed) The arrow reached—transfixed the wretch's throat And cut his question short in middle note.

Zerbino, captain of those horse, no more Can at the piteous sight his wrath refrain; In furious heat he springs, upon Medore, Exclaiming, "Thou of this shalt bear the pain." One hand he in his locks of golden ore Enwreaths, and drags him to himself amain; But as his eyes that beauteous face survey, Takes pity on the boy, and does not slay.

To him the stripling turns, with suppliant cry, And, "By thy God, sir knight," exclaims, "I pray, Be not so passing cruel, nor deny That I in earth my honored king may lay: No other grace I supplicate, nor I This for the love of life, believe me, say. So much, no longer, space of life I crave, As may suffice to give my lord a grave.

"And if you needs must feed the beast and bird, Like Theban Creon, let their worst be done Upon these limbs; so that by me interred In earth be those of good Almontes's son." Medoro thus his suit, with grace, preferred, And words to move a mountain; and so won Upon Zerbino's mood, to kindness turned, With love and pity he all over burned.

This while, a churlish horseman of the band, Who little deference for his lord confest, His lance uplifting, wounded overhand The unhappy suppliant in his dainty breast. Zerbino, who the cruel action scanned, Was deeply stirred, the rather that, opprest, And livid with the blow the churl had sped, Medoro fell as he was wholly dead.

* * * * *

The Scots pursue their chief, who pricks before, Through the deep wood, inspired by high disdain, When he has left the one and the other Moor, This dead, that scarce alive, upon the plain. There for a mighty space lay young Medore, Spouting his life-blood from so large a vein He would have perished, but that thither made A stranger, as it chanced, who lent him aid.

THE SAVING OF MEDORO

From 'Orlando Furioso,' Canto 19

By chance arrived a damsel at the place, Who was (though mean and rustic was her wear) Of royal presence and of beauteous face, And lofty manners, sagely debonnair. Her have I left unsung so long a space, That you will hardly recognize the fair Angelica: in her (if known not) scan The lofty daughter of Catay's great khan.

Angelica, when she had won again The ring Brunello had from her conveyed, So waxed in stubborn pride and haught disdain, She seemed to scorn this ample world, and strayed Alone, and held as cheap each living swain, Although amid the best by fame arrayed; Nor brooked she to remember a gallant In Count Orlando or King Sacripant:

And above every other deed repented, That good Rinaldo she had loved of yore; And that to look so low she had consented, (As by such choice dishonored) grieved her sore. Love, hearing this, such arrogance resented, And would the damsel's pride endure no more. Where young Medoro lay he took his stand, And waited her, with bow and shaft in hand.

When fair Angelica the stripling spies, Nigh hurt to death in that disastrous fray, Who for his king, that there unsheltered lies, More sad than for his own misfortune lay, She feels new pity in her bosom rise, Which makes its entry in unwonted way. Touched was her naughty heart, once hard and curst, And more when he his piteous tale rehearsed.

And calling back to memory her art, For she in Ind had learned chirurgery, (Since it appears such studies in that part Worthy of praise and fame are held to be, And, as an heirloom, sires to sons impart, With little aid of books, the mystery,) Disposed herself to work with simples' juice, Till she in him should healthier life produce.

And recollects an herb had caught her sight In passing thither, on a pleasant plain: What (whether dittany or pancy hight) I know not; fraught with virtue to restrain The crimson blood forth-welling, and of might To sheathe each perilous and piercing pain. She found it near, and having pulled the weed, Returned to seek Medoro on the mead.

Returning, she upon a swain did light, Who was on horseback passing through the wood. Strayed from the lowing herd, the rustic wight A heifer missing for two days pursued. Him she with her conducted, where the might Of the faint youth was ebbing with his blood: Which had the ground about so deeply dyed Life was nigh wasted with the gushing tide.

Angelica alights upon the ground, And he, her rustic comrade, at her best. She hastened 'twixt two stones the herb to pound, Then took it, and the healing juice exprest: With this did she foment the stripling's wound, And even to the hips, his waist and breast; And (with such virtue was the salve endued) It stanched his life-blood, and his strength renewed.

And into him infused such force again, That he could mount the horse the swain conveyed; But good Medoro would not leave the plain Till he in earth had seen his master laid. He, with the monarch, buried Cloridane, And after followed whither pleased the maid. Who was to stay with him, by pity led, Beneath the courteous shepherd's humble shed.

Nor would the damsel quit the lowly pile (So she esteemed the youth) till he was sound; Such pity first she felt, when him erewhile She saw outstretched and bleeding on the ground. Touched by his mien and manners next, a file She felt corrode her heart with secret wound; She felt corrode her heart, and with desire, By little and by little warmed, took fire.

The shepherd dwelt between two mountains hoar, In goodly cabin, in the greenwood shade, With wife and children; in short time before, The brand-new shed had builded in the glade. Here of his grisly wound the youthful Moor Was briefly healed by the Catayan maid; But who in briefer space, a sorer smart Than young Medoro's, suffered at her heart.

[She pines for love of him, and at length makes her love known. They solemnize their marriage, and remain a month there with great happiness.]

Amid such pleasures, where, with tree o'ergrown, Ran stream, or bubbling fountain's wave did spin, On bark or rock, if yielding were the stone, The knife was straight at work, or ready pin. And there, without, in thousand places lone, And in as many places graved, within, Medoro and Angelica were traced, In divers ciphers quaintly interlaced.

When she believed they had prolonged their stay More than enow, the damsel made design In India to revisit her Catay, And with its crown Medoro's head entwine. She had upon her wrist an armlet, gay With costly gems, in witness and in sign Of love to her by Count Orlando borne, And which the damsel for long time had worn.

No love which to the paladin she bears, But that it costly is and wrought with care, This to Angelica so much endears, That never more esteemed was matter rare; This she was suffered, in the isle of tears, I know not by what privilege, to wear, When, naked, to the whale exposed for food By that inhospitable race and rude.

She, not possessing wherewithal to pay The kindly couple's hospitality,— Served by them in their cabin, from the day She there was lodged, with such fidelity,— Unfastened from her arm the bracelet gay, And bade them keep it for her memory. Departing hence, the lovers climb the side Of hills, which fertile France from Spain divide.



THE MADNESS OF ORLANDO

From 'Orlando Furioso,' Canto 23

The course in pathless woods, which without rein The Tartar's charger had pursued astray, Made Roland for two days, with fruitless pain, Follow him, without tidings of his way. Orlando reached a rill of crystal vein, On either bank of which a meadow lay; Which, stained with native hues and rich, he sees, And dotted o'er with fair and many trees.

The mid-day fervor made the shelter sweet To hardy herd as well as naked swain: So that Orlando well beneath the heat Some deal might wince, opprest with plate and chain. He entered for repose the cool retreat, And found it the abode of grief and pain; And place of sojourn more accursed and fell On that unhappy day, than tongue can tell.

Turning him round, he there on many a tree Beheld engraved, upon the woody shore, What as the writing of his deity He knew, as soon as he had marked the lore. This was a place of those described by me, Whither oft-times, attended by Medore, From the near shepherd's cot had wont to stray The beauteous lady, sovereign of Catay.

In a hundred knots, amid these green abodes, In a hundred parts, their ciphered names are dight; Whose many letters are so many goads, Which Love has in his bleeding heart-core pight. He would discredit in a thousand modes, That which he credits in his own despite; And would perforce persuade himself, that rind Other Angelica than his had signed.

"And yet I know these characters," he cried, "Of which I have so many read and seen; By her may this Medoro be belied, And me, she, figured in the name, may mean." Feeding on such like phantasies, beside The real truth, did sad Orlando lean Upon the empty hope, though ill contented, Which he by self-illusions had fomented.

But stirred and aye rekindled it, the more That he to quench the ill suspicion wrought, Like the incautious bird, by fowler's lore, Hampered in net or lime; which, in the thought To free its tangled pinions and to soar, By struggling is but more securely caught. Orlando passes thither, where a mountain O'erhangs in guise of arch the crystal fountain.

* * * * *

Here from his horse the sorrowing county lit, And at the entrance of the grot surveyed A cloud of words, which seemed but newly writ, And which the young Medoro's hand had made. On the great pleasure he had known in it, This sentence he in verses had arrayed; Which to his tongue, I deem, might make pretense To polished phrase; and such in ours the sense:—

"Gay plants, green herbage, rill of limpid vein, And, grateful with cool shade, thou gloomy cave, Where oft, by many wooed with fruitless pain, Beauteous Angelica, the child of grave King Galaphron, within my arms has lain; For the convenient harborage you gave, I, poor Medoro, can but in my lays, As recompense, forever sing your praise.

"And any loving lord devoutly pray, Damsel and cavalier, and every one, Whom choice or fortune hither shall convey, Stranger or native,—to this crystal run, Shade, caverned rock, and grass, and plants, to say, 'Benignant be to you the fostering sun And moon, and may the choir of nymphs provide, That never swain his flock may hither guide.'"

In Arabic was writ the blessing said, Known to Orlando like the Latin tongue, Who, versed in many languages, best read Was in this speech; which oftentimes from wrong And injury and shame had saved his head, What time he roved the Saracens among. But let him boast not of its former boot, O'erbalanced by the present bitter fruit.

Three times, and four, and six, the lines impressed Upon the stone that wretch perused, in vain Seeking another sense than was expressed, And ever saw the thing more clear and plain; And all the while, within his troubled breast, He felt an icy hand his heart-core strain. With mind and eyes close fastened on the block, At length he stood, not differing from the rock.

Then well-nigh lost all feeling; so a prey Wholly was he to that o'ermastering woe. This is a pang, believe the experienced say Of him who speaks, which does all griefs outgo. His pride had from his forehead passed away, His chin had fallen upon his breast below; Nor found he, so grief-barred each natural vent, Moisture for tears, or utterance for lament.

Stifled within, the impetuous sorrow stays, Which would too quickly issue; so to abide Water is seen, imprisoned in the vase, Whose neck is narrow and whose swell is wide; What time, when one turns up the inverted base, Toward the mouth, so hastes the hurrying tide, And in the strait encounters such a stop, It scarcely works a passage, drop by drop.

He somewhat to himself returned, and thought How possibly the thing might be untrue: That some one (so he hoped, desired, and sought To think) his lady would with shame pursue; Or with such weight of jealousy had wrought To whelm his reason, as should him undo; And that he, whosoe'er the thing had planned, Had counterfeited passing well her hand.

With such vain hope he sought himself to cheat, And manned some deal his spirits and awoke; Then prest the faithful Brigliadoro's seat, As on the sun's retreat his sister broke. Not far the warrior had pursued his beat, Ere eddying from a roof he saw the smoke; Heard noise of dog and kine, a farm espied, And thitherward in quest of lodging hied.

Languid, he lit, and left his Brigliador To a discreet attendant; one undrest His limbs, one doffed the golden spurs he wore, And one bore off, to clean, his iron vest. This was the homestead where the young Medore Lay wounded, and was here supremely blest. Orlando here, with other food unfed, Having supt full of sorrow, sought his bed.

* * * * *

Little availed the count his self-deceit; For there was one who spake of it unsought: The shepherd-swain, who to allay the heat With which he saw his guest so troubled, thought The tale which he was wonted to repeat— Of the two lovers—to each listener taught; A history which many loved to hear, He now, without reserve, 'gan tell the peer.

"How at Angelica's persuasive prayer, He to his farm had carried young Medore, Grievously wounded with an arrow; where In little space she healed the angry sore. But while she exercised this pious care, Love in her heart the lady wounded more, And kindled from small spark so fierce a fire, She burnt all over, restless with desire;

"Nor thinking she of mightiest king was born, Who ruled in the East, nor of her heritage, Forced by too puissant love, had thought no scorn To be the consort of a poor foot-page." His story done, to them in proof was borne The gem, which, in reward for harborage, To her extended in that kind abode, Angelica, at parting, had bestowed.

* * * * *

In him, forthwith, such deadly hatred breed That bed, that house, that swain, he will not stay Till the morn break, or till the dawn succeed, Whose twilight goes before approaching day. In haste, Orlando takes his arms and steed, And to the deepest greenwood wends his way. And when assured that he is there alone, Gives utterance to his grief in shriek and groan.

Never from tears, never from sorrowing, He paused; nor found he peace by night or day; He fled from town, in forest harboring, And in the open air on hard earth lay. He marveled at himself, how such a spring Of water from his eyes could stream away, And breath was for so many sobs supplied; And thus oft-times, amid his mourning, cried:—

* * * * *

"I am not—am not what I seem to sight: What Roland was, is dead and under ground, Slain by that most ungrateful lady's spite, Whose faithlessness inflicted such a wound. Divided from the flesh, I am his sprite, Which in this hell, tormented, walks its round, To be, but in its shadow left above, A warning to all such as trust in love."

All night about the forest roved the count, And, at the break of daily light, was brought By his unhappy fortune to the fount, Where his inscription young Medoro wrought. To see his wrongs inscribed upon that mount Inflamed his fury so, in him was naught But turned to hatred, frenzy, rage, and spite; Nor paused he more, but bared his falchion bright,

Cleft through the writing; and the solid block, Into the sky, in tiny fragments sped. Woe worth each sapling and that caverned rock Where Medore and Angelica were read! So scathed, that they to shepherd or to flock Thenceforth shall never furnish shade or bed. And that sweet fountain, late so clear and pure, From such tempestous wrath was ill secure.

* * * * *

So fierce his rage, so fierce his fury grew, That all obscured remained the warrior's sprite; Nor, for forgetfulness, his sword he drew, Or wondrous deeds, I trow, had wrought the knight; But neither this, nor bill, nor axe to hew, Was needed by Orlando's peerless might. He of his prowess gave high proofs and full, Who a tall pine uprooted at a pull.

He many others, with as little let As fennel, wall-wort-stem, or dill uptore; And ilex, knotted oak, and fir upset, And beech and mountain ash, and elm-tree hoar. He did what fowler, ere he spreads his net, Does, to prepare the champaign for his lore, By stubble, rush, and nettle stalk; and broke, Like these, old sturdy trees and stems of oak.

The shepherd swains, who hear the tumult nigh, Leaving their flocks beneath the greenwood tree, Some here, some there, across the forest hie, And hurry thither, all, the cause to see. But I have reached such point, my history, If I o'erpass this bound, may irksome be. And I my story will delay to end Rather than by my tediousness offend.