But of simple plots and actions, the episodic are the worst. But I call the plot episodic, in which it is neither probable nor necessary that the episodes follow each other. Such plots, however, are composed by bad poets, indeed, through their own want of ability; but by good poets, on account of the players. For, introducing [dramatic] contests, and extending the plot beyond its capabilities, they are frequently compelled to distort the connection of the parts. But tragedy is not only an imitation of a perfect action, but also of actions which are terrible and piteous, and actions principally become such (and in a greater degree when they happen contrary to opinion) on account of each other. For thus they will possess more of the marvelous than if they happened from chance and fortune; since also of things which are from fortune, those appear to be most admirable which seem to happen as it were by design. Thus the statue of Mityus at Argos killed him who was the cause of the death of Mityus by falling as he was surveying it. For such events as these seem not to take place casually. Hence it is necessary that fables of this kind should be more beautiful.

ON PHILOSOPHY

Quoted in Cicero's 'Nature of the Gods'

If there were men whose habitations had been always under ground, in great and commodious houses, adorned with statues and pictures, furnished with everything which they who are reputed happy abound with: and if, without stirring from thence, they should be informed of a certain divine power and majesty, and after some time the earth should open and they should quit their dark abode to come to us, where they should immediately behold the earth, the seas, the heavens; should consider the vast extent of the clouds and force of the winds; should see the sun and observe his grandeur and beauty, and perceive that day is occasioned by the diffusion of his light through the sky; and when night has obscured the earth they should contemplate the heavens, bespangled and adorned with stars, the surprising variety of the moon in her increase and wane, the rising and setting of all the stars and the inviolable regularity of their courses,—when, says he, "they should see these things, they would undoubtedly conclude that there are gods, and that these are their mighty works."

ON ESSENCES

From 'The Metaphysics,' Book xi., Chapter I

The subject of theory (or speculative science) is essence. In it are investigated the principles and causes of essences. The truth is, if the All be regarded as a whole, essence is its first (or highest) part. Also, if we consider the natural order of the categories, essence stands at the head of the list; then comes quality; then quantity. It is true that the other categories, such as qualities and movements, are not in any absolute sense at all, and the same is true of [negatives, such as] not-white or not-straight. Nevertheless, we use such expressions as "Not-white is."

Moreover, no one of the other categories is separable [or independent]. This is attested by the procedure of the older philosophers; for it was the principles, elements, and causes of essence that were the objects of their investigations. The thinkers of the present day, to be sure, are rather inclined to consider universals as essence. For genera are universals, and these they hold to be principles and essences, mainly because their mode of investigation is a logical one. The older philosophers, on the other hand, considered particular things to be essences; e.g., fire and earth, not body in general.

There are three essences. Two of these are sensible, one being eternal and the other transient. The latter is obvious to all, in the form of plants and animals; with regard to the former, there is room for discussion, as to whether its elements are one or many. The third, differing from the other two, is immutable and is maintained by certain persons to be separable. Some make two divisions of it, whereas others class together, as of one nature, ideas and mathematical entities; and others again admit only the latter. The first two essences belong to physical science, for they are subject to change; the last belongs to another science, if there is no principle common to all.

ON COMMUNITY OF STUDIES

From 'The Politics,' Book 8

No one, therefore, can doubt that the legislator ought principally to attend to the education of youth. For in cities where this is neglected, the politics are injured. For every State ought to be governed according to its nature; since the appropriate manners of each polity usually preserve the polity, and establish it from the beginning. Thus, appropriate democratic manners preserve and establish a democracy, and oligarchic an oligarchy. Always, however, the best manners are the cause of the best polity. Further still, in all professions and arts, there are some things which ought previously to be learnt, and to which it is requisite to be previously accustomed, in order to the performance of their several works,; so that it is evident that it is also necessary in the practice of virtue.

Since, however, there is one purpose to every city, it is evident that the education must necessarily be one and the same in all cities; and that the attention paid to this should be common. At the same time, also, no one ought to think that any person takes care of the education of his children separately, and privately teaches them that particular discipline which appears to him to be proper. But it is necessary that the studies of the public should be common. At the same time, also, no one ought to think that any citizen belongs to him in particular, but that all the citizens belong to the city; for each individual is a part of the city. The care and attention, however, which are paid to each of the parts, naturally look to the care and attention of the whole. And for this, some one may praise the Lacedaemonians; for they pay very great attention to their children, and this in common. It is evident, therefore, that laws should be established concerning education, and that it should be made common.



HYMN TO VIRTUE

Virtue, to men thou bringest care and toil; Yet art thou life's best, fairest spoil! O virgin goddess, for thy beauty's sake To die is delicate in this our Greece, Or to endure of pain the stern strong ache. Such fruit for our soul's ease Of joys undying, dearer far than gold Or home or soft-eyed sleep, dost thou unfold! It was for thee the seed of Zeus, Stout Herakles, and Leda's twins, did choose Strength-draining deeds, to spread abroad thy name: Smit with the love of thee Aias and Achilleus went smilingly Down to Death's portal, crowned with deathless fame. Now, since thou art so fair, Leaving the lightsome air. Atarneus' hero hath died gloriously. Wherefore immortal praise shall be his guerdon: His goodness and his deeds are made the burden Of songs divine Sung by Memory's daughters nine, Hymning of hospitable Zeus the might And friendship firm as fate in fate's despite.

Translation of J. A. Symonds.



JON ARNASON

(1819-1888)

Jon Arnason was born in 1819, at Hof. Akagastroend, in Iceland, where his father, Arm Illugason, was clergyman. After completing the course at the Bessastad Latin School, at that time the most famous school in Iceland, he took his first position as librarian of the so-called Stiptbokasafn Islands (since 1881 called the National Library), which office he held till 1887, when he asked to be relieved from his official duties. During this period he had been also the first librarian of the Reykjavik branch of the Icelandic Literary Society; a teacher and the custodian of the library at the Latin School, which in the mean time had been moved from Bessastad to Reykjavik; secretary of the bishop, Helgi Thordersen, and custodian of the growing collection of Icelandic antiquities which has formed the nucleus of a national museum. He had found time, besides, during these years, for considerable literary work; and apart from several valuable bibliographies had, alone and in collaboration, made important contributions to his native literature. He died at Reykjavik in 1888.

His principal literary work, and that by which alone he is known outside of Iceland, is the collection of folk-tales that appeared in Iceland in 1862-64, in two volumes, with the title 'Islenzkar Thoosoegur og AEfintyri' (Icelandic Popular Legends and Tales). A small preliminary collection, called 'Islenzk AEfintyri' (Icelandic Tales), made in collaboration with Magnus Grimsson, had been published in 1852. Subsequently, Jon Arnason went to work single-handed to make an exhaustive collection of the folk-tales of the country, which by traveling and correspondence he drew from every nook and corner of Iceland. No effort was spared to make the collection complete, and many years were spent in this undertaking. The results were in every way valuable. No more important collection of folk-tales exists in the literature of any nation, and the work has become both a classic at home and a most suggestive link in the comparative study of folk-lore elsewhere. Arnason thus performed for his native land what the Grimms did for Germany, and what Asbjoernsen and Moe did for Norway. He has frequently been called the "Grimm of Iceland." The stories of the collection have since found their way all over the world, many of them having been translated into English, German, French, and Danish.

In his transcription of the tales, Arnason has followed, even more conscientiously, the plan of the Grimms in adhering to the local or individual form in which the story had come to him in writing or by oral transmission. We get in this way a perfect picture of the national spirit, and a better knowledge of life and environment in Iceland than from any other source. In these stories there is much to say of elves and trolls, of ghosts and "fetches," of outlaws and the devil. Magic plays an important part, and there is the usual lore of beasts and plants. Many of them are but variants of folk-tales that belong to the race. Others, however, are as plainly local evolutions, which in their whole conception are as weird and mysterious as the environment that has produced them.



All the stories are from 'Icelandic Legends': Translation of Powell and Magnusson.

THE MERMAN

Long ago a farmer lived at Vogar, who was a mighty fisherman; and of all the farms about, not one was so well situated with regard to the fisheries as his.

One day, according to custom, he had gone out fishing; and having cast down his line from the boat and waited awhile, found it very hard to pull up again, as if there were something very heavy at the end of it. Imagine his astonishment when he found that what he had caught was a great fish, with a man's head and body! When he saw that this creature was alive, he addressed it and said, "Who and whence are you?"

"A merman from the bottom of the sea," was the reply.

The farmer then asked him what he had been doing when the hook caught his flesh.

The other replied, "I was turning the cowl of my mother's chimney-pot, to suit it to the wind. So let me go again, will you?"

"Not for the present," said the fisherman. "You shall serve me awhile first." So without more words he dragged him into the boat and rowed to shore with him.

When they got to the boat-house, the fisherman's dog came to him and greeted him joyfully, barking and fawning on him, and wagging his tail. But his master's temper being none of the best, he struck the poor animal; whereupon the merman laughed for the first time.

Having fastened the boat, he went toward his house, dragging his prize with him over the fields, and stumbling over a hillock which lay in his way, cursed it heartily; whereupon the merman laughed for the second time.

When the fisherman arrived at the farm, his wife came out to receive him, and embraced him affectionately, and he received her salutations with pleasure; whereupon the merman laughed for the third time.

Then said the farmer to the merman, "You have laughed three times, and I am curious to know why you have laughed. Tell me, therefore."

"Never will I tell you," replied the merman, "unless you promise to take me to the same place in the sea wherefrom you caught me, and there to let me go free again." So the farmer made him the promise.

"Well," said the merman, "I laughed the first time because you struck your dog, whose joy at meeting you was real and sincere. The second time, because you cursed the mound over which you stumbled, which is full of golden ducats. And the third time, because you received with pleasure your wife's empty and flattering embrace, who is faithless to you, and a hypocrite. And now be an honest man, and take me out to the sea whence you brought me."

The farmer replied, "Two things that you have told me I have no means of proving; namely, the faithfulness of my dog and the faithlessness of my wife. But the third I will try the truth of; and if the hillock contain gold, then I will believe the rest."

Accordingly he went to the hillock, and having dug it up, found therein a great treasure of golden ducats, as the merman had told him. After this the farmer took the merman down to the boat, and to that place in the sea whence he had brought him. Before he put him in, the latter said to him:

"Farmer, you have been an honest man, and I will reward you for restoring me to my mother, if only you have skill enough to take possession of property that I shall throw in your way. Be happy and prosper."

Then the farmer put the merman into the sea, and he sank out of sight.

It happened that not long after seven sea-gray cows were seen on the beach, close to the farmer's land. These cows appeared to be very unruly, and ran away directly the farmer approached them. So he took a stick and ran after them, possessed with the fancy that if he could burst the bladder which he saw on the nose of each of them, they would belong to him. He contrived to hit the bladder on the nose of one cow, which then became so tame that he could easily catch it, while the others leaped into the sea and disappeared.

The farmer was convinced that this was the gift of the merman. And a very useful gift it was, for better cow was never seen nor milked in all the land, and she was the mother of the race of gray cows so much esteemed now.

And the farmer prospered exceedingly, but never caught any more mermen. As for his wife, nothing further is told about her, so we can repeat nothing.

THE FISHERMAN OF GOeTUR

It is told that long ago a peasant living at Goetur in Myrdalur went out fishing round the island of Dyrholar. In returning from the sea, he had to cross a morass. It happened once that on his way home after nightfall, he came to a place where a man had lost his horse in the bog, and was unable to recover it without help. The fisherman, to whom this man was a stranger, aided him in freeing his horse from the peat.

When the animal stood again safe and sound upon the dry earth, the stranger said to the fisherman, "I am your neighbor, for I live in Hvammsgil, and am returning from the sea, like you. But I am so poor that I cannot pay you for this service as you ought to be paid. I will promise you, however, this much: that you shall never go to sea without catching fish, nor ever, if you will take my advice, return with empty hands. But you must never put to sea without having first seen me pass your house, as if going toward the shore. Obey me in this matter, and I promise you that you shall never launch your boat in vain."

The fisherman thanked him for this advice; and sure enough it was that for three years afterward, never putting to sea till he had first seen his neighbor pass his door, he always launched his boat safely, and always came home full-handed.

But at the end of the three years it fell out that one day in the early morning, the fisherman, looking out from his house, saw the wind and weather favorable, and all other fishers hurrying down to the sea to make the best of so good a time. But though he waited hour after hour in the hope of seeing his neighbor pass, the man of Hvammsgil never came. At last, losing his patience, he started out without having seen him go by. When he came down to the shore, he found that all the boats were launched and far away.

Before night the wind rose and became a storm, and every boat that had that day put to sea was wrecked, and every fisher drowned; the peasant of Goetur alone escaping, for he had been unable to go out fishing. The next night he had a strange dream, in which his neighbor from Hvammsgil came to him and said, "Although you did not yesterday follow my advice, I yet so far felt kindly toward you that I hindered you from going out to sea, and saved you thus from drowning; but look no more forth to see me pass, for we have met for the last time." And never again did the peasant see his neighbor pass his door.

THE MAGIC SCYTHE

A certain day-laborer once started from his home in the south to earn wages for hay-cutting in the north country. In the mountains he was suddenly overtaken by a thick mist and sleet-storm, and lost his way. Fearing to go on further, he pitched his tent in a convenient spot, and taking out his provisions, began to eat.

While he was engaged upon his meal, a brown dog came into the tent, so ill-favored, dirty, wet, and fierce-eyed, that the poor man felt quite afraid of it, and gave it as much bread and meat as it could devour. This the dog swallowed greedily, and ran off again into the mist. At first the man wondered much to see a dog in such a wild place, where he never expected to meet with a living creature; but after a while he thought no more about the matter, and having finished his supper, fell asleep, with his saddle for a pillow.

At midnight he dreamed that he saw a tall and aged woman enter his tent, who spoke thus to him:—"I am beholden to you, good man, for your kindness to my daughter, but am unable to reward you as you deserve. Here is a scythe which I place beneath your pillow; it is the only gift I can make you, but despise it not. It will surely prove useful to you, as it can cut down all that lies before it. Only beware of putting it into the fire to temper it. Sharpen it, however, as you will, but in that way never." So saying, she was seen no more.

When the man awoke and looked forth, he found the mist all gone and the sun high in heaven; so getting all his things together and striking his tent, he laid them upon the pack-horses, saddling last of all his own horse. But on lifting his saddle from the ground, he found beneath it a small scythe blade, which seemed well worn and was rusty. On seeing this, he at once recalled to mind his dream, and taking the scythe with him, set out once more on his way. He soon found again the road which he had lost, and made all speed to reach the well-peopled district to which he was bound.

When he arrived at the north country, he went from house to house, but did not find any employment, for every farmer had laborers enough, and one week of hay-harvest was already past. He heard it said, however, that one old woman in the district, generally thought by her neighbors to be skilled in magic and very rich, always began her hay-cutting a week later than anybody else, and though she seldom employed a laborer, always contrived to finish it by the end of the season. When by any chance—and it was a rare one—she did engage a workman, she was never known to pay him for his work.

Now the peasant from the south was advised to ask this old woman for employment, having been warned of her strange habits.

He accordingly went to her house, and offered himself to her as a day laborer. She accepted his offer, and told him that he might, if he chose, work a week for her, but must expect no payment.

"Except," she said, "you can cut more grass in the whole week than I can rake in on the last day of it."

To these terms he gladly agreed, and began mowing. And a very good scythe he found that to be which the woman had given him in his dream; for it cut well, and never wanted sharpening, though he worked with it for five days unceasingly. He was well content, too, with his place, for the old woman was kind enough to him.

One day, entering the forge next to her house, he saw a vast number of scythe-handles and rakes, and a big heap of blades, and wondered beyond measure what the old lady could want with all these. It was the fifth day—the Friday—and when he was asleep that night, the same elf-woman whom he had seen upon the mountains came again to him and said:—

"Large as are the meadows you have mown, your employer will easily be able to rake in all that hay to-morrow, and if she does so, will, as you know, drive you away without paying you. When therefore you see yourself worsted, go into the forge, take as many scythe-handles as you think proper, fit their blades to them, and carry them out into that part of the land where the hay is yet uncut. There you must lay them on the ground, and you shall see how things go."

This said, she disappeared, and in the morning the laborer, getting up, set to work as usual at his mowing.

At six o'clock the old witch came out, bringing five rakes with her, and said to the man, "A goodly piece of ground you have mowed, indeed!"

And so saying, she spread the rakes upon the hay. Then the man saw, to his astonishment, that though the one she held in her hand raked in great quantities of hay, the other four raked in no less each, all of their own accord, and with no hand to wield them.

At noon, seeing that the old woman would soon get the best of him, he went into the forge and took out several scythe-handles, to which he fixed their blades, and bringing them out into the field, laid them down upon the grass which was yet standing. Then all the scythes set to work of their own accord, and cut down the grass so quickly that the rakes could not keep pace with them. And so they went on all the rest of the day, and the old woman was unable to rake in all the hay which lay in the fields. After dark she told him to gather up his scythes and take them into the house again, while she collected her rakes, saying to him:—

"You are wiser than I took you to be, and you know more than myself; so much the better for you, for you may stay as long with me as you like."

He spent the whole summer in her employment, and they agreed very well together, mowing with mighty little trouble a vast amount of hay. In the autumn she sent him away, well laden with money, to his own home in the south. The next summer, and more than one summer following, he spent in her employ, always being paid as his heart could desire, at the end of the season.

After some years he took a farm of his own in the south country, and was always looked upon by all his neighbors as an honest man, a good fisherman, and an able workman in whatever he might put his hand to. He always cut his own hay, never using any scythe but that which the elf-woman had given him upon the mountains; nor did any of his neighbors ever finish their mowing before him.

One summer it chanced that while he was fishing, one of his neighbors came to his house and asked his wife to lend him her husband's scythe, as he had lost his own. The farmer's wife looked for one, but could only find the one upon which her husband set such store. This, however, a little loth, she lent to the man, begging him at the same time never to temper it in the fire; for that, she said, her good man never did. So the neighbor promised, and taking it with him, bound it to a handle and began to work with it. But, sweep as he would, and strain as he would (and sweep and strain he did right lustily), not a single blade of grass fell. Wroth at this, the man tried to sharpen it, but with no avail. Then he took it into his forge, intending to temper it, for, thought he, what harm could that possibly do? but as soon as the flames touched it, the steel melted like wax, and nothing was left but a little heap of ashes. Seeing this, he went in haste to the farmer's house, where he had borrowed it, and told the woman what had happened; she was at her wits' end with fright and shame when she heard it, for she knew well enough how her husband set store by this scythe, and how angry he would be at its loss.

And angry indeed he was, when he came home, and he beat his wife well for her folly in lending what was not hers to lend. But his wrath was soon over, and he never again, as he never had before, laid the stick about his wife's shoulders.

THE MAN-SERVANT AND THE WATER-ELVES

In a large house, where all the chief rooms were paneled, there lived once upon a time a farmer, whose ill-fate it was that every servant of his that was left alone to guard the house on Christmas Eve, while the rest of the family went to church, was found dead when the family returned home. As soon as the report of this was spread abroad, the farmer had the greatest difficulty in procuring servants who would consent to watch alone in the house on that night; until at last, one day a man, a strong fellow, offered him his services, to sit up alone and guard the house. The farmer told him what fate awaited him for his rashness; but the man despised such a fear, and persisted in his determination.

On Christmas Eve, when the farmer and all his family, except the new man-servant, were preparing for church, the farmer said to him, "Come with us to church; I cannot leave you here to die."

But the other replied, "I intend to stay here, for it would be unwise in you to leave your house unprotected; and besides, the cattle and sheep must have their food at the proper time."

"Never mind the beasts," answered the farmer. "Do not be so rash as to remain in the house this night; for whenever we have returned from church on this night, we have always found every living thing in the house dead, with all its bones broken."

But the man was not to be persuaded, as he considered all these fears beneath his notice; so the farmer and the rest of the servants went away and left him behind, alone in the house.

As soon as he was by himself he began to consider how to guard against anything that might occur; for a dread had stolen over him, in spite of his courage, that something strange was about to take place. At last he thought that the best thing to do was, first of all to light up the family room; and then to find some place in which to hide himself. As soon as he had lighted all the candles, he moved two planks out of the wainscot at the end of the room, and creeping into the space between it and the wall, restored the planks to their places, so that he could see plainly into the room and yet avoid being himself discovered.

He had scarcely finished concealing himself, when two fierce and strange-looking men entered the room and began looking about.

One of them said, "I smell a human being."

"No," replied the other, "there is no human being here."

Then they took a candle and continued their search, until they found the man's dog asleep under one of the beds. They took it up, and having dashed it on the ground till every bone in its body was broken, hurled it from them. When the man-servant saw this, he congratulated himself on not having fallen into their hands.

Suddenly the room was filled with people, who were laden with tables and all kinds of table furniture, silver, cloths, and all, which they spread out, and having done so, sat down to a rich supper, which they had also brought with them. They feasted noisily, and spent the remainder of the night in drinking and dancing. Two of them were appointed to keep guard, in order to give the company due warning of the approach either of anybody or of the day. Three times they went out, always returning with the news that they saw neither the approach of any human being, nor yet of the break of day.

But when the man-servant suspected the night to be pretty far spent, he jumped from his place of concealment into the room, and clashing the two planks together with as much noise as he could make, shouted like a madman, "The day! the day! the day!"

On these words the whole company rose scared from their seats, and rushed headlong out, leaving behind them not only their tables, and all the silver dishes, but even the very clothes they had taken off for ease in dancing. In the hurry of flight many were wounded and trodden under foot, while the rest ran into the darkness, the man-servant after them, clapping the planks together and shrieking, "The day! the day! the day!" until they came to a large lake, into which the whole party plunged headlong and disappeared.

From this the man knew them to be water-elves.

Then he returned home, gathered the corpses of the elves who had been killed in the flight, killed the wounded ones, and, making a great heap of them all, burned them. When he had finished this task, he cleaned up the house and took possession of all the treasures the elves had left behind them.

On the farmer's return, his servant told him all that had occurred, and showed him the spoils. The farmer praised him for a brave fellow, and congratulated him on having escaped with his life. The man gave him half the treasures of the elves, and ever afterward prospered exceedingly.

This was the last visit the water-elves ever paid to that house.

THE CROSSWAYS

It is supposed that among the hills there are certain cross-roads, from the centre of which you can see four churches, one at the end of each road.

If you sit at the crossing of these roads on Christmas Eve (or as others say, on New Year's Eve), elves come from every direction and cluster round you, and ask you, with all sorts of blandishments and fair promises, to go with them; but you must continue silent. Then they bring to you rarities and delicacies of every description, gold, silver, and precious stones, meats and wines, of which they beg you to accept; but you must neither move a limb nor accept a single thing they offer you. If you get so far as this without speaking, elf-women come to you in the likeness of your mother, your sister, or any other relation, and beg you to come with them, using every art and entreaty; but beware you neither move nor speak. And if you can continue to keep silent and motionless all the night, until you see the first streak of dawn, then start up and cry aloud, "Praise be to God! His daylight filleth the heavens!"

As soon as you have said this, the elves will leave you, and with you all the wealth they have used to entice you, which will now be yours.

But should you either answer, or accept of their offers, you will from that moment become mad.

On the night of one Christmas Eve, a man named Fusi was out on the cross-roads, and managed to resist all the entreaties and proffers of the elves, until one of them offered him a large lump of mutton-suet, and begged him to take a bite of it. Fusi, who had up to this time gallantly resisted all such offers as gold and silver and diamonds and such filthy lucre, could hold out no longer, and crying, "Seldom have I refused a bite of mutton-suet," he went mad.



ERNST MORITZ ARNDT

(1769-1860)

Sprung from the sturdy peasant stock of the north, to which patriotism is a chief virtue, Ernst Moritz Arndt first saw the light at Schoritz, Island of Ruegen (then a dependency of Sweden), December 29th, 1769. His father, once a serf, had achieved a humble independence, and he destined his clever son for the ministry, the one vocation open to him which meant honor and advancement. The young man studied theology at Greifswald and Jena, but later turned his attention exclusively to history and literature. His early life is delightfully described in his 'Stories and Recollections of Childhood.' His youth was molded by the influence of Goethe, Klopstock, Buerger, and Voss. After completing his university studies he traveled extensively in Austria, Hungary, and Northern Italy. His account of these journeys, published in 1802, shows his keen observation of men and affairs.



He began his long service to his country by his 'History of Serfdom in Pomerania and Sweden,' which contributed largely to the general abolition of the ancient abuse. He became professor of history in the University of Greifswald in 1806, and about that time began to publish the first series of the 'Spirit of the Times.' These were stirring appeals to rouse the Germans against the oppressions of Napoleon. In consequence he was obliged to flee to Sweden. After three years he returned under an assumed name, and again took up his work at Greifswald. In 1812, after the occupation of Pomerania by the French, his fierce denunciations again forced him to flee, this time to Russia, the only refuge open to him. There he joined Baron von Stein, who eagerly made use of him in his schemes for the liberation of Germany. At this time his finest poems were written: those kindling war songs that appealed so strongly to German patriotism, when "songs were sermons and sermons were songs." The most famous of these, 'What is the German's Fatherland?' 'The Song of the Field-marshal,' and 'The God Who Made Earth's Iron Hoard,' still live as national lyrics.

Arndt was also constantly occupied in writing pamphlets of the most stirring nature, as their titles show:—'The Rhine, Germany's River, but Never Germany's Boundary'; 'The Soldier's Catechism'; and 'The Militia and the General Levy.' After the disasters of the French in Russia, he returned to Germany, unceasingly devoted to his task of rousing the people. Though by birth a Swede, he had become at heart a Prussian, seeing in Prussia alone the possibility of German unity.

In 1817 he married Schleiermacher's sister, and the following year was appointed professor of history in the newly established University of Bonn. Shortly afterward suspended, on account of his liberal views, he was forced to spend twenty years in retirement. His leisure gave opportunity for literary work, however, and he availed himself of it by producing several historical treatises and his interesting 'Reminiscences of My Public Life.' One of the first acts of Frederick William IV., after his accession, was to restore Arndt to his professorship at Bonn. He took a lively interest in the events of 1848, and belonged to the deputation that offered the imperial crown to the King of Prussia. He continued in the hope and the advocacy of German unity, though he did not live to see it realized. The ninetieth birthday of "Father Arndt," as he was fondly called by his countrymen, was celebrated with general rejoicing throughout Germany. He died shortly afterward, on January 29th, 1860.

Arndt's importance as a poet is due to the stirring scenes of his earlier life and the political needs of Germany. He was no genius. He was not even a deep scholar. His only great work is his war-songs and patriotic ballads. Germany honors his manly character and patriotic zeal in that stormy period of Liberation which led through many apparent defeats to the united Empire of to-day.

The best German biographies are that of Schenkel (1869), W. Baur (1882), and Langenberg (1869); the latter in 1878 edited 'Arndt's Letters to a Friend.' J.R. Seeley's 'Life and Adventures of E.M. Arndt' (1879) is founded on the latter's 'Reminiscences of My Public Life.



WHAT IS THE GERMAN'S FATHERLAND?

What is the German's fatherland? Is it Prussia, or the Swabian's land? Is it where the grape glows on the Rhine? Where sea-gulls skim the Baltic's brine? Oh no! more grand Must be the German's fatherland!

What is the German's fatherland? Bavaria, or the Styrian's land? Is it where the Master's cattle graze? Is it the Mark where forges blaze? Oh no! more grand Must be the German's fatherland!

What is the German's fatherland? Westphalia? Pomerania's strand? Where the sand drifts along the shore? Or where the Danube's surges roar? Oh no! more grand Must be the German's fatherland!

What is the German's fatherland? Now name for me that mighty land! Is it Switzerland? or Tyrols, tell;— The land and people pleased me well! Oh no! more grand Must be the German's fatherland!

What is the German's fatherland? Now name for me that mighty land! Ah! Austria surely it must be, So rich in fame and victory. Oh no! more grand Must be the German's fatherland!

What is the German's fatherland? Tell me the name of that great land! Is it the land which princely hate Tore from the Emperor and the State? Oh no! more grand Must be the German's fatherland!

What is the German's fatherland? Now name at last that mighty land! "Where'er resounds the German tongue, Where'er its hymns to God are sung!" That is the land, Brave German, that thy fatherland!

That is the German's fatherland! Where binds like oak the clasped hand, Where truth shines clearly from the eyes, And in the heart affection lies. Be this the land, Brave German, this thy fatherland!

That is the German's fatherland! Where scorn shall foreign triflers brand, Where all are foes whose deeds offend, Where every noble soul's a friend: Be this the land, All Germany shall be the land!

All Germany that land shall be: Watch o'er it, God, and grant that we, With German hearts, in deed and thought, May love it truly as we ought. Be this the land, All Germany shall be the land!

THE SONG OF THE FIELD-MARSHAL

What's the blast from the trumpets? Hussars, to the fray! The field-marshal[2] rides in the rolling mellay: So gay on, his mettlesome war-horse he goes, So fierce waves his glittering sword at his foes. And here are the Germans: juchheirassassa! The Germans are joyful: they're shouting hurrah!

[Footnote 2: Bluecher]

Oh, see as he comes how his piercing eyes gleam! Oh, see how behind him his snowy locks stream! So fresh blooms his age, like a well-ripened wine, He may well as the battle-field's autocrat shine. And here are the Germans: juchheirassassa! The Germans are joyful: they're shouting hurrah!

It was he, when his country in ruin was laid, Who sternly to heaven uplifted his blade, And swore on the brand, with a heart burning high, To show Frenchmen the trade that the Prussians could ply. And here are the Germans: juchheirassassa! The Germans are joyful: they're shouting hurrah!

That oath he has kept. When the battle-cry rang, Hey! how the gray youth to the saddle upsprang! He made a sweep-dance for the French in the room, And swept the land clean with a steel-ended broom. And here are the Germans: juchheirassassa! The Germans are joyful: they're shouting hurrah!

At Luetzen, in the meadow, he kept up such a strife, That many thousand Frenchmen there yielded up their life; That thousands ran headlong for very life's sake, And thousands are sleeping who never will wake. And here are the Germans: juchheirassassa! The Germans are joyful: they're shouting hurrah!

On the water, at Katzbach, his oath was in trim: He taught in a moment the Frenchmen to swim. Farewell, Frenchmen; fly to the Baltic to save! You mob without breeches, catch whales for your grave. And here are the Germans: juchheirassassa! The Germans are joyful: they're shouting hurrah!

At Wartburg, on the Elbe, how he cleared him a path! Neither fortress nor town barred the French from his wrath; Like hares o'er the field they all scuttled away, While behind them the hero rang out his Huzza! And here are the Germans: juchheirassassa! The Germans are joyful: they're shouting hurrah!

At Leipzig—O glorious fight on the plain!— French luck and French might strove against him in vain; There beaten and stiff lay the foe in their blood, And there dear old Bluecher a field-marshal stood. And here are the Germans: juchheirassassa! The Germans are joyful: they're shouting hurrah!

Then sound, blaring trumpets! Hussars, charge once more! Ride, field-marshal, ride like the wind in the roar! To the Rhine, over Rhine, in your triumph advance! Brave sword of our country, right on into France! And here are the Germans: juchheirassassa! The Germans are joyful; they're shouting hurrah!

PATRIOTIC SONG

God, who gave iron, purposed ne'er That man should be a slave: Therefore the sabre, sword, and spear In his right hand He gave. Therefore He gave him fiery mood, Fierce speech, and free-born breath, That he might fearlessly the feud Maintain through life and death.

Therefore will we what God did say, With honest truth, maintain, And ne'er a fellow-creature slay, A tyrant's pay to gain! But he shall fall by stroke of brand Who fights for sin and shame, And not inherit German land With men of German name.

O Germany, bright fatherland! O German love, so true! Thou sacred land, thou beauteous land, We swear to thee anew! Outlawed, each knave and coward shall The crow and raven feed; But we will to the battle all— Revenge shall be our meed.

Flash forth, flash forth, whatever can, To bright and flaming life! Now all ye Germans, man for man, Forth to the holy strife! Your hands lift upward to the sky— Your heart shall upward soar— And man for man, let each one cry, Our slavery is o'er!

Let sound, let sound, whatever can, Trumpet and fife and drum, This day our sabres, man for man, To stain with blood we come; With hangman's and with Frenchmen's blood, O glorious day of ire, That to all Germans soundeth good— Day of our great desire!

Let wave, let wave, whatever can, Standard and banner wave! Here will we purpose, man for man, To grace a hero's grave. Advance, ye brave ranks, hardily— Your banners wave on high; We'll gain us freedom's victory, Or freedom's death we'll die!



EDWIN ARNOLD

(1832-)

The favorite and now venerable English poet, Edwin Arnold, showed his skill in smooth and lucid verse early in life. In 1852, when twenty years of age, he won the Newdigate Prize at Oxford for a poem, 'The Feast of Belshazzar.' Two years later, after graduation with honors, he was named second master of Edward the Sixth's School at Birmingham; and, a few years subsequent, principal of the Government Sanskrit College at Poona, in India. In 1856 he published 'Griselda, a Tragedy'; and after his return to London in 1861, translations from the Greek of Herodotus and the Sanskrit of the Indian classic 'Hitopadeca,' the latter under the name of 'The Book of Good Counsels.' There followed from his pen 'Education in India'; 'A History of the Administration in India under the Late Marquis of Dalhousie' (1862-64); and 'The Poets of Greece,' a collection of fine passages (1869). In addition to his other labors he has been one of the editors-in-chief of the London Daily Telegraph.

Saturated with the Orient, familiar with every aspect of its civilization, moral and religious life, history and feeling, Sir Edwin's literary work has attested his knowledge in a large number of smaller poetical productions, and a group of religious epics of long and impressive extent. Chiefest among them ranks that on the life and teachings of Buddha, 'The Light of Asia; or, The Great Renunciation' (1879). It has passed through more than eighty editions in this country, and almost as many in England. In recognition of this work Mr. Arnold was decorated by the King of Siam with the Order of the White Elephant. Two years after its appearance he published 'Mahabharata,' 'Indian Idylls,' and in 1883, 'Pearls of the Faith; or, Islam's Rosary Being the Ninety-nine Beautiful Names of Allah, with Comments in Verse from Various Oriental Sources.' In 1886 the Sultan conferred on him the Imperial Order of Osmanli, and in 1888 he was created Knight Commander of the Indian Empire by Queen Victoria. 'Sa'di in the Garden; or, The Book of Love' (1888), a poem turning on a part of the 'Bostani' of the Persian poet Sa'di, brought Sir Edwin the Order of the Lion and Sun from the Shah of Persia. In 1888 he published also 'Poems National and Non-Oriental.' Since then he has written 'The Light of the World'; 'Potiphar's Wife, and Other Poems' (1892); 'The Iliad and Odyssey of Asia,' and in prose, 'India Revisited' (1891); 'Seas and Lands'; 'Japonica,' which treats of life and things Japanese; and 'Adzuma, the Japanese Wife: a Play in Four Acts' (1893). During his travels in Japan the Emperor decorated him with the Order of the Rising Sun. In 1893 Sir Edwin was chosen President of the Birmingham and Midland Institute. His latest volume, 'The Tenth Muse and Other Poems,' appeared in 1895.

'The Light of Asia,' the most successful of his works, attracted instant attention on its appearance, as a novelty of rich Indian local color. In substance it is a graceful and dramatic paraphrase of the mass of more or less legendary tales of the life and spiritual career of the Buddha, Prince Gautama, and a summary of the principles of the great religious system originating with him. It is lavishly embellished with Indian allusions, and expresses incidentally the very spirit of the East. In numerous cantos, proceeding from episode to episode of its mystical hero's career, its effect is that of a loftily ethical, picturesque, and fascinating biography, in highly polished verse. The metre selected is a graceful and dignified one, especially associated with 'Paradise Lost' and other of the foremost classics of English verse. Sir Edwin says of the poem in his preface, "I have sought, by the medium of an imaginary Buddhist votary, to depict the life and character and indicate the philosophy of that noble hero and reformer, Prince Gautama of India, the founder of Buddhism;" and the poet has admirably, if most flatteringly, succeeded. The poem has been printed in innumerable cheap editions as well as those de luxe; and while it has been criticized as too complaisant a study of even primitive Buddhism, it is beyond doubt a lyrical tract of eminent utility as well as seductive charm.

THE YOUTH OF BUDDHA

From 'The Light of Asia'

This reverence Lord Buddha kept to all his schoolmasters, Albeit beyond their learning taught; in speech Right gentle, yet so wise; princely of mien, Yet softly mannered; modest, deferent, And tender-hearted, though of fearless blood: No bolder horseman in the youthful band E'er rode in gay chase of the shy gazelles; No keener driver of the chariot In mimic contest scoured the palace courts: Yet in mid-play the boy would oft-times pause, Letting the deer pass free; would oft-times yield His half-won race because the laboring steeds Fetched painful breath; or if his princely mates Saddened to lose, or if some wistful dream Swept o'er his thoughts. And ever with the years Waxed this compassionateness of our Lord, Even as a great tree grows from two soft leaves To spread its shade afar; but hardly yet Knew the young child of sorrow, pain, or tears, Save as strange names for things not felt by kings, Nor ever to be felt. But it befell In the royal garden on a day of spring, A flock of wild swans passed, voyaging north To their nest-places on Himala's breast. Calling in love-notes down their snowy line The bright birds flew, by fond love piloted; And Devadatta, cousin of the Prince, Pointed his bow, and loosed a willful shaft Which found the wide wing of the foremost swan Broad-spread to glide upon the free blue road, So that it fell, the bitter arrow fixed, Bright scarlet blood-gouts staining the pure plumes. Which seeing, Prince Siddartha took the bird Tenderly up, rested it in his lap,— Sitting with knees crossed, as Lord Buddha sits,— And, soothing with a touch the wild thing's fright, Composed its ruffled vans, calmed its quick heart, Caressed it into peace with light kind palms As soft as plantain leaves an hour unrolled; And while the left hand held, the right hand drew The cruel steel forth from the wound, and laid Cool leaves and healing honey on the smart. Yet all so little knew the boy of pain, That curiously into his wrist he pressed The arrow's barb, and winced to feel it sting, And turned with tears to soothe his bird again. Then some one came who said, "My Prince hath shot A swan, which fell among the roses here; He bids me pray you send it. Will you send?" "Nay," quoth Siddartha: "If the bird were dead, To send it to the slayer might be well, But the swan lives; my cousin hath but killed The godlike speed which throbbed in this white wing." And Devadatta answered, "The wild thing, Living or dead, is his who fetched it down; 'Twas no man's in the clouds, but fallen 'tis mine. Give me my prize, fair cousin." Then our Lord Laid the swan's neck beside his own smooth cheek And gravely spake:—"Say no! the bird is mine, The first of myriad things which shall be mine By right of mercy and love's lordliness. For now I know, by what within me stirs. That I shall teach compassion unto men And be a speechless world's interpreter, Abating this accursed flood of woe. Not man's alone; but if the Prince disputes, Let him submit this matter to the wise And we will wait their word." So was it done; In full divan the business had debate, And many thought this thing and many that, Till there arose an unknown priest who said, "If life be aught, the savior of a life Owns more the living thing than he can own Who sought to slay; the slayer spoils and wastes, The cherisher sustains: give him the bird." Which judgment all found just; but when the King Sought out the sage for honor, he was gone; And some one saw a hooded snake glide forth. The gods come oft-times thus! So our Lord Buddha Began his works of mercy.

Yet not more Knew he as yet of grief than that one bird's, Which, being healed, went joyous to its kind. But on another day the King said, "Come, Sweet son! and see the pleasaunce of the spring, And how the fruitful earth is wooed to yield Its riches to the reaper; how my realm— Which shall be thine when the pile flames for me— Feeds all its mouths and keeps the King's chest filled. Fair is the season with new leaves, bright blooms, Green grass, and cries of plow-time." So they rode Into a land of wells and gardens, where, All up and down the rich red loam, the steers Strained their strong shoulders in the creaking yoke, Dragging the plows; the fat soil rose and rolled In smooth dark waves back from the plow; who drove Planted both feet upon the leaping share To make the furrow deep; among the palms The tinkle of the rippling water rang, And where it ran the glad earth 'broidered it With balsams and the spears of lemon-grass. Elsewhere were sowers who went forth to sow; And all the jungle laughed with nesting-songs, And all the thickets rustled with small life Of lizard, bee, beetle, and creeping things, Pleased at the springtime. In the mango-sprays The sunbirds flashed; alone at his green forge Toiled the loud coppersmith; bee-eaters hawked, Chasing the purple butterflies; beneath, Striped squirrels raced, the mynas perked and picked, The nine brown sisters chattered in the thorn, The pied fish-tiger hung above the pool, The egrets stalked among the buffaloes, The kites sailed circles in the golden air; About the painted temple peacocks flew, The blue doves cooed from every well, far off The village drums beat for some marriage feast; All things spoke peace and plenty, and the Prince Saw and rejoiced. But, looking deep, he saw The thorns which grow upon this rose of life: How the swart peasant sweated for his wage, Toiling for leave to live; and how he urged The great-eyed oxen through the flaming hours, Goading their velvet flanks: then marked he, too, How lizard fed on ant, and snake on him, And kite on both; and how the fish-hawk robbed The fish-tiger of that which it had seized; The shrike chasing the bulbul, which did chase The jeweled butterflies; till everywhere Each slew a slayer and in turn was slain, Life living upon death. So the fair show Veiled one vast, savage, grim conspiracy Of mutual murder, from the worm to man, Who himself kills his fellow; seeing which— The hungry plowman and his laboring kine, Their dewlaps blistered with the bitter yoke, The rage to live which makes all living strife— The Prince Siddartha sighed. "Is this," he said, "That happy earth they brought me forth to see? How salt with sweat the peasant's bread! how hard The oxen's service! in the brake how fierce The war of weak and strong! i' th' air what plots! No refuge e'en in water. Go aside A space, and let me muse on what ye show." So saying, the good Lord Buddha seated him Under a jambu-tree, with ankles crossed, As holy statues sit, and first began To meditate this deep disease of life, What its far source and whence its remedy. So vast a pity filled him, such wide love For living things, such passion to heal pain, That by their stress his princely spirit passed To ecstasy, and, purged from mortal taint Of sense and self, the boy attained thereat Dhyana, first step of "the Path."

THE PURE SACRIFICE OF BUDDHA

From 'The Light of Asia'

Onward he passed, Exceeding sorrowful, seeing how men Fear so to die they are afraid to fear, Lust so to live they dare not love their life, But plague it with fierce penances, belike To please the gods who grudge pleasure to man; Belike to balk hell by self-kindled hells; Belike in holy madness, hoping soul May break the better through their wasted flesh. "O flowerets of the field!" Siddartha said, "Who turn your tender faces to the sun,— Glad of the light, and grateful with sweet breath Of fragrance and these robes of reverence donned, Silver and gold and purple,—none of ye Miss perfect living, none of ye despoil Your happy beauty. O ye palms! which rise Eager to pierce the sky and drink the wind Blown from Malaya and the cool blue seas; What secret know ye that ye grow content, From time of tender shoot to time of fruit, Murmuring such sun-songs from your feathered crowns? Ye too, who dwell so merry in the trees,— Quick-darting parrots, bee-birds, bulbuls, doves,— None of ye hate your life, none of ye deem To strain to better by foregoing needs! But man, who slays ye—being lord—is wise, And wisdom, nursed on blood, cometh thus forth In self-tormentings!"

While the Master spake Blew down the mount the dust of pattering feet, White goats and black sheep winding slow their way With many a lingering nibble at the tufts, And wanderings from the path, where water gleamed Or wild figs hung. But always as they strayed The herdsman cried, or slung his sling, and kept The silly crowd still moving to the plain. A ewe with couplets in the flock there was: Some hurt had lamed one lamb, which toiled behind Bleeding, while in the front its fellow skipped, And the vexed dam hither and thither ran, Fearful to lose this little one or that; Which when our Lord did mark, full tenderly He took the limping lamb upon his neck, Saying, "Poor wooly mother, be at peace! Whither thou goest I will bear thy care; 'Twere all as good to ease one beast of grief As sit and watch the sorrows of the world In yonder caverns with the priests who pray." "But," spake he of the herdsmen, "wherefore, friends! Drive ye the flocks adown under high noon, Since 'tis at evening that men fold their sheep?"

And answer gave the peasants:—"We are sent To fetch a sacrifice of goats fivescore, And fivescore sheep, the which our Lord the King Slayeth this night in worship of his gods."

Then said the Master, "I will also go!" So paced he patiently, bearing the lamb Beside the herdsmen in the dust and sun, The wistful ewe low bleating at his feet. Whom, when they came unto the river-side, A woman—dove-eyed, young, with tearful face And lifted hands—saluted, bending low:— "Lord! thou art he," she said, "who yesterday Had pity on me in the fig grove here, Where I live lone and reared my child; but he, Straying amid the blossoms, found a snake, Which twined about his wrist, while he did laugh And teased the quick forked tongue and opened mouth Of that cold playmate. But alas! ere long He turned so pale and still, I could not think Why he should cease to play, and let my breast Fall from his lips. And one said, 'He is sick Of poison;' and another, 'He will die.' But I, who could not lose my precious boy, Prayed of them physic, which might bring the light Back to his eyes; it was so very small, That kiss-mark of the serpent, and I think It could not hate him, gracious as he was, Nor hurt him in his sport. And some one said, 'There is a holy man upon the hill— Lo! now he passeth in the yellow robe; Ask of the Rishi if there be a cure For that which ails thy son.' Whereon I came Trembling to thee, whose brow is like a god's, And wept and drew the face-cloth from my babe, Praying thee tell what simples might be good. And thou, great sir! didst spurn me not, but gaze With gentle eyes and touch with patient hand; Then draw the face-cloth back, saying to me, 'Yea! little sister, there is that might heal Thee first, and him, if thou couldst fetch the thing; For they who seek physicians bring to them What is ordained. Therefore, I pray thee, find Black mustard-seed, a tola; only mark Thou take it not from any hand or house Where father, mother, child, or slave hath died; It shall be well if thou canst find such seed.' Thus didst thou speak, my lord!"

The Master smiled Exceeding tenderly. "Yea! I spake thus, Dear Kisagotami! But didst thou find The seed?"

"I went, Lord, clasping to my breast The babe, grown colder, asking at each hut,— Here in the jungle and toward the town,— 'I pray you, give me mustard, of your grace, A tola—black' and each who had it gave, For all the poor are piteous to the poor: But when I asked, 'In my friend's household here Hath any peradventure ever died— Husband or wife, or child, or slave?' they said:— 'O sister! what is this you ask? the dead Are very many and the living few!' So, with sad thanks, I gave the mustard back, And prayed of others, but the others said, 'Here is the seed, but we have lost our slave!' 'Here is the seed, but our good man is dead!' 'Here is some seed, but he that sowed it died! Between the rain-time and the harvesting!' Ah, sir! I could not find a single house Where there was mustard-seed and none had died! Therefore I left my child—who would not suck Nor smile—beneath the wild vines by the stream, To seek thy face and kiss thy feet, and pray Where I might find this seed and find no death, If now, indeed, my baby be not dead, As I do fear, and as they said to me."

"My sister! thou hast found," the Master said, "Searching for what none finds, that bitter balm I had to give thee. He thou lovedst slept Dead on thy bosom yesterday; to-day Thou know'st the whole wide world weeps with thy woe; The grief which all hearts share grows less for one. Lo! I would pour my blood if it could stay Thy tears, and win the secret of that curse Which makes sweet love our anguish, and which drives O'er flowers and pastures to the sacrifice— As these dumb beasts are driven—men their lords. I seek that secret: bury thou thy child!"

So entered they the city side by side, The herdsmen and the Prince, what time the sun Gilded slow Sona's distant stream, and threw Long shadows down the street and through the gate Where the King's men kept watch. But when these saw Our Lord bearing the lamb, the guards stood back, The market-people drew their wains aside, In the bazaar buyers and sellers stayed The war of tongues to gaze on that mild face; The smith, with lifted hammer in his hand, Forgot to strike; the weaver left his web, The scribe his scroll, the money-changer lost His count of cowries; from the unwatched rice Shiva's white bull fed free; the wasted milk Ran o'er the lota while the milkers watched The passage of our Lord moving so meek, With yet so beautiful a majesty. But most the women gathering in the doors Asked, "Who is this that brings the sacrifice So graceful and peace-giving as he goes? What is his caste? whence hath he eyes so sweet? Can he be Sakra or the Devaraj?" And others said, "It is the holy man Who dwelleth with the Rishis on the hill." But the Lord paced, in meditation lost, Thinking, "Alas! for all my sheep which have No shepherd; wandering in the night with none To guide them; bleating blindly toward the knife Of Death, as these dumb beasts which are their kin."

Then some one told the King, "There cometh here A holy hermit, bringing down the flock Which thou didst bid to crown the sacrifice."

The King stood in his hall of offering; On either hand the white-robed Brahmans ranged Muttered their mantras, feeding still the fire Which roared upon the midmost altar. There From scented woods flickered bright tongues of flame, Hissing and curling as they licked the gifts Of ghee and spices and the Soma juice, The joy of Indra. Round about the pile A slow, thick, scarlet streamlet smoked and ran, Sucked by the sand, but ever rolling down, The blood of bleating victims. One such lay, A spotted goat, long-horned, its head bound back With munja grass; at its stretched throat the knife Pressed by a priest, who murmured, "This, dread gods. Of many yajnas cometh as the crown From Bimbasara: take ye joy to see The spirted blood, and pleasure in the scent Of rich flesh roasting 'mid the fragrant flames; Let the King's sins be laid upon this goat, And let the fire consume them burning it, For now I strike."

But Buddha softly said, "Let him not strike, great King!" and therewith loosed The victim's bonds, none staying him, so great His presence was. Then, craving leave, he spake Of life, which all can take, but none can give, Life, which all creatures love and strive to keep, Wonderful, dear and pleasant unto each, Even to the meanest; yea, a boon to all Where pity is, for pity makes the world Soft to the weak and noble for the strong. Unto the dumb lips of his flock he lent Sad, pleading words, showing how man, who prays For mercy to the gods, is merciless, Being as god to those; albeit all life Is linked and kin, and what we slay have given Meek tribute of the milk and wool, and set Fast trust upon the hands which murder them. Also he spake of what the holy books Do surely teach, how that at death some sink To bird and beast, and these rise up to man In wanderings of the spark which grows purged flame. So were the sacrifice new sin, if so The fated passage of a soul be stayed. Nor, spake he, shall one wash his spirit clean By blood; nor gladden gods, being good, with blood; Nor bribe them, being evil; nay, nor lay Upon the brow of innocent bound beasts One hair's weight of that answer all must give For all things done amiss or wrongfully, Alone, each for himself, reckoning with that The fixed arithmetic of the universe, Which meteth good for good and ill for ill, Measure for measure, unto deeds, words, thoughts; Watchful, aware, implacable, unmoved; Making all futures fruits of all the pasts. Thus spake he, breathing words so piteous With such high lordliness of ruth and right, The priests drew back their garments o'er the hands Crimsoned with slaughter, and the King came near, Standing with clasped palms reverencing Buddha; While still our Lord went on, teaching how fair This earth were if all living things be linked In friendliness of common use of foods, Bloodless and pure; the golden grain, bright fruits, Sweet herbs which grow for all, the waters wan, Sufficient drinks and meats. Which, when these heard, The might of gentleness so conquered them, The priests themselves scattered their altar-flames And flung away the steel of sacrifice; And through the land next day passed a decree Proclaimed by criers, and in this wise graved On rock and column:—"Thus the King's will is: There hath been slaughter for the sacrifice And slaying for the meat, but henceforth none Shall spill the blood of life nor taste of flesh, Seeing that knowledge grows, and life is one, And mercy cometh to the merciful." So ran the edict, and from those days forth Sweet peace hath spread between all living kind, Man and the beasts which serve him, and the birds, Of all those banks of Gunga where our Lord Taught with his saintly pity and soft speech.



THE FAITHFULNESS OF YUDHISTHIRA

From 'The Great Journey,' in the Mahabharata

Thenceforth alone the long-armed monarch strode, Not looking back,—nay, not for Bhima's sake,—But walking with his face set for the mount; And the hound followed him,—only the hound.

After the deathly sands, the Mount; and lo! Sakra shone forth, the God, filling the earth And heavens with thunder of his chariot-wheels. "Ascend," he said, "with me, Pritha's great son!" But Yudhisthira answered, sore at heart For those his kinsfolk, fallen on the way: "O Thousand-eyed, O Lord of all the gods, Give that my brothers come with me, who fell! Not without them is Swarga sweet to me. She, too, the dear and kind and queenly,—she Whose perfect virtue Paradise must crown,—Grant her to come with us! Dost thou grant this?"

The God replied:—"In heaven thou shalt see Thy kinsman and the Queen—these will attain—And Krishna. Grieve no longer for thy dead, Thou chief of men! their mortal covering stripped, These have their places; but to thee the gods Allot an unknown grace; Thou shalt go up, Living and in thy form, to the immortal homes."

But the King answered:—"O thou Wisest One, Who know'st what was, and is, and is to be, Still one more grace! This hound hath ate with me, Followed me, loved me: must I leave him now?"

"Monarch," spake Indra, "thou art now as we,— Deathless, divine; thou art become a god; Glory and power and gifts celestial, And all the joys of heaven are thine for aye; What hath a beast with these? Leave here thy hound."

Yet Yudhisthira answered:—"O Most High, O, Thousand-eyed and wisest! can it be That one exalted should seem pitiless? Nay, let me lose such glory; for its sake I cannot leave one living thing I loved."

Then sternly Indra spake:—"He is unclean, And into Swarga such shall enter not. The Krodhavasha's wrath destroys the fruits Of sacrifice, if dogs defile the fire. Bethink thee, Dharmaraj; quit now this beast! That which is seemly is not hard of heart."

Still he replied:—"Tis written that to spurn A suppliant equals in offense to slay A twice-born; wherefore, not for Swarga's bliss Quit I, Mahendra, this poor clinging dog,— So without any hope or friend save me, So wistful, fawning for my faithfulness; So agonized to die, unless I help Who among men was called steadfast and just."

Quoth Indra:—"Nay, the altar-flame is foul Where a dog passeth; angry angels sweep The ascending smoke aside, and all the fruits Of offering, and the merit of the prayer Of him whom a hound toucheth. Leave it here! He that will enter heaven must enter pure. Why didst thou quit thy brethren on the way, And Krishna, and the dear-loved Draupadi, Attaining, firm and glorious, to this Mount Through perfect deeds, to linger for a brute? Hath Yudhisthira vanquished self, to melt With one poor passion at the door of bliss? Stay'st thou for this, who didst not stay for them,— Draupadi, Bhima?"

But the King yet spake:— "'Tis known that none can hurt or help the dead. They, the delightful ones, who sank and died, Following my footsteps, could not live again Though I had turned,—therefore I did not turn; But could help profit, I had stayed to help. There be four sins, O Sakra, grievous sins: The first is making suppliants despair, The second is to slay a nursing wife, The third is spoiling Brahmans' goods by force, The fourth is injuring an ancient friend. These four I deem not direr than the crime, If one, in coming forth from woe to weal, Abandon any meanest comrade then."

Straight as he spake, brightly great Indra smiled; Vanished the hound, and in its stead stood there The Lord of Death and Justice, Dharma's self! Sweet were the words which fell from those dread lips, Precious the lovely praise:—"O thou true King, Thou that dost bring to harvest the good seed Of Pandu's righteousness; thou that hast ruth As he before, on all which lives!—O son! I tried thee in the Dwaita wood, what time They smote thy brothers, bringing water; then Thou prayedst for Nakula's life—tender and just— Nor Bhima's nor Arjuna's, true to both, To Madri as to Kunti, to both queens. Hear thou my word! Because thou didst not mount This car divine, lest the poor hound be shent Who looked to thee, lo! there is none in heaven Shall sit above thee, King!—Bharata's son! Enter thou now to the eternal joys, Living and in thy form. Justice and Love Welcome thee, Monarch! thou shalt throne with us."

HE AND SHE

"She is dead!" they said to him: "come away; Kiss her and leave her,—thy love is clay!"

They smoothed her tresses of dark-brown hair; On her forehead of stone they laid it fair;

Over her eyes that gazed too much They drew the lids with a gentle touch;

With a tender touch they closed up well The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell;

About her brows and beautiful face They tied her veil and her marriage lace,

And drew on her white feet her white-silk shoes,— Which were the whitest no eye could choose,—

And over her bosom they crossed her hands, "Come away!" they said, "God understands."

And there was silence, and nothing there But silence, and scents of eglantere,

And jasmine, and roses and rosemary; And they said, "As a lady should lie, lies she."

And they held their breath till they left the room, With a shudder, to glance at its stillness and gloom.

But he who loved her too well to dread The sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead,

He lit his lamp, and took the key And turned it—alone again, he and she.

He and she; but she would not speak, Though he kissed, in the old place, the quiet cheek.

He and she; yet she would not smile, Though he called her the name she loved erewhile.

He and she; still she did not move To any passionate whisper of love.

Then he said, "Cold lips and breasts without breath, Is there no voice, no language of death,

"Dumb to the ear and still to the sense, But to heart and to soul distinct, intense?

"See, now; I will listen with soul, not ear: What was the secret of dying, dear?

"Was it the infinite wonder of all That you ever could let life's flower fall?

"Or was it a greater marvel to feel The perfect calm o'er the agony steal?

"Was the miracle greater to find how deep Beyond all dreams sank downward that sleep?

"Did life roll back its record dear, And show, as they say it does, past things clear?

"And was it the innermost heart of the bliss To find out so, what a wisdom love is?

"O perfect dead! O dead most dear! I hold the breath of my soul to hear.

"I listen as deep as to horrible hell, As high as to heaven, and you do not tell.

"There must be pleasure in dying, sweet, To make you so placid from head to feet!

"I would tell you, darling, if I were dead, And 'twere your hot tears upon my brow shed,—

"I would say, though the Angel of Death had laid His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid,—

"You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes, Which of all deaths was the chiefest surprise.

"The very strangest and suddenest thing Of all the surprises that dying must bring."

Ah, foolish world! O most kind dead! Though he told me, who will believe it was said?

Who will believe that he heard her say, With the sweet, soft voice, in the dear old way,

"The utmost wonder is this,—I hear And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear;

"And am your angel, who was your bride, And know that though dead, I have never died."

AFTER DEATH

From 'Pearls of the Faith'

He made life—and He takes it—but instead Gives more: praise the Restorer, Al-Mu'hid!

He who died at Azan sends This to comfort faithful friends:—

Faithful friends! it lies, I know, Pale and white and cold as snow; And ye say, "Abdullah's dead!" Weeping at my feet and head. I can see your falling tears, I can hear your cries and prayers, Yet I smile and whisper this:— "I am not that thing you kiss; Cease your tears and let it lie: It was mine, it is not I."

Sweet friends! what the women lave For its last bed in the grave Is a tent which I am quitting, Is a garment no more fitting, Is a cage from which at last Like a hawk my soul hath passed. Love the inmate, not the room; The wearer, not the garb; the plume Of the falcon, not the bars Which kept him from the splendid stars.

Loving friends! be wise, and dry Straightway every weeping eye: What ye lift upon the bier Is not worth a wistful tear. 'Tis an empty sea-shell, one Out of which the pearl is gone. The shell is broken, it lies there; The pearl, the all, the soul, is here. 'Tis an earthen jar whose lid Allah sealed, the while it hid That treasure of His treasury, A mind which loved Him: let it lie! Let the shard be earth's once more, Since the gold shines in His store!

Allah Mu'hid, Allah most good! Now Thy grace is understood: Now my heart no longer wonders What Al-Barsakh is, which sunders Life from death, and death from Heaven: Nor the "Paradises Seven" Which the happy dead inherit; Nor those "birds" which bear each spirit Toward the Throne, "green birds and white" Radiant, glorious, swift their flight! Now the long, long darkness ends. Yet ye wail, my foolish friends, While the man whom ye call "dead" In unbroken bliss instead Lives, and loves you: lost, 'tis true By any light which shines for you; But in light ye cannot see Of unfulfilled felicity, And enlarging Paradise; Lives the life that never dies.

Farewell, friends! Yet not farewell; Where I am, ye, too, shall dwell. I am gone before your face A heart-beat's time, a gray ant's pace. When ye come where I have stepped, Ye will marvel why ye wept; Ye will know, by true love taught, That here is all, and there is naught. Weep awhile, if ye are fain,— Sunshine still must follow rain! Only not at death, for death— Now I see—is that first breath Which our souls draw when we enter Life, that is of all life centre.

Know ye Allah's law is love, Viewed from Allah's Throne above; Be ye firm of trust, and come Faithful onward to your home! "La Allah illa Allah! Yea, Mu'hid! Restorer! Sovereign!" say!

He who died at Azan gave This to those that made his grave.

SOLOMON AND THE ANT

From 'Pearls of the Faith'

Say Ar-Raheen! call Him "Compassionate," For He is pitiful to small and great.

'Tis written that the serving angels stand Beside God's throne, ten myriads on each hand, Waiting, with wings outstretched and watchful eyes, To do their Master's heavenly embassies. Quicker than thought His high commands they read, Swifter than light to execute them speed; Bearing the word of power from star to star, Some hither and some thither, near and far. And unto these naught is too high or low, Too mean or mighty, if He wills it so; Neither is any creature, great or small, Beyond His pity, which embraceth all, Because His eye beholdeth all which are; Sees without search, and counteth without care. Nor lies the babe nearer the nursing-place Than Allah's smallest child to Allah's grace; Nor any ocean rolls so vast that He Forgets one wave of all that restless sea.

Thus it is written; and moreover told How Gabriel, watching by the Gates of Gold, Heard from the Voice Ineffable this word Of twofold mandate uttered by the Lord:— "Go earthward! pass where Solomon hath made His pleasure-house, and sitteth there arrayed, Goodly and splendid—whom I crowned the king. For at this hour my servant doth a thing Unfitting: out of Nisibis there came A thousand steeds with nostrils all aflame And limbs of swiftness, prizes of the fight; Lo! these are led, for Solomon's delight, Before the palace, where he gazeth now Filling his heart with pride at that brave show; So taken with the snorting and the tramp Of his war-horses, that Our silver lamp Of eve is swung in vain, Our warning Sun Will sink before his sunset-prayer's begun; So shall the people say, 'This king, our lord, Loves more the long-maned trophies of his sword Than the remembrance of his God!' Go in! Save thou My faithful servant from such sin.

"Also, upon the slope of Arafat, Beneath a lote-tree which is fallen flat, Toileth a yellow ant who carrieth home Food for her nest, but so far hath she come Her worn feet fail, and she will perish, caught In the falling rain; but thou, make the way naught-And help her to her people in the cleft Of the black rock."

Silently Gabriel left The Presence, and prevented the king's sin, And holp the little ant at entering in.

O Thou whose love is wide and great, We praise Thee, "The Compassionate"

THE AFTERNOON

From 'Pearls of the Faith'

He is sufficient, and He makes suffice; Praise thus again thy Lord, mighty and wise.

God is enough! thou, who in hope and fear Toilest through desert-sands of life, sore tried, Climb trustful over death's black ridge, for near The bright wells shine: thou wilt be satisfied.

God doth suffice! O thou, the patient one, Who puttest faith in Him, and none beside, Bear yet thy load; under the setting sun The glad tents gleam: thou wilt be satisfied.

By God's gold Afternoon! peace ye shall have: Man is in loss except he live aright, And help his fellow to be firm and brave, Faithful and patient: then the restful night!

Al Mughni! best Rewarder! we Endure; putting our trust in Thee.

THE TRUMPET

From 'Pearls of the Faith'

Magnify Him, Al-Kaiyum; and so call The "Self-subsisting" God who judgeth all.

When the trumpet shall sound, On that day, The wicked, slow-gathering, Shall say, "Is it long we have lain in our graves? For it seems as an hour!" Then will Israfil call them to judgment: And none shall have power To turn aside, this way or that; And their voices will sink To silence, except for the sounding Of a noise, like the noise on the brink Of the sea when its stones Are dragged with a clatter and hiss Down the shore, in the wild breakers' roar! The sound of their woe shall be this:—

Then they who denied That He liveth Eternal, "Self-made," Shall call to the mountains to crush them; Amazed and affrayed.

Thou Self-subsistent, Living Lord! Thy grace against that day afford.



ENVOI TO 'THE LIGHT OF ASIA'

Ah, Blessed Lord! Oh, High Deliverer! Forgive this feeble script which doth Thee wrong Measuring with little wit Thy lofty Love. Ah, Lover! Brother! Guide! Lamp of the Law! I take my refuge in Thy name and Thee! I take my refuge in Thy Law of God! I take my refuge in Thy Order! Om! The Dew is on the lotus—rise, great Sun! And lift my leaf and mix me with the wave. Om mani padme hum, the Sunrise comes! The Dewdrop slips into the Shining Sea!

From Harper's Monthly, copyright 1886, by Harper & Brothers

GRISHMA; OR THE SEASON OF HEAT

Translated from Kalidasa's 'Ritu Sanhara'

With fierce noons beaming, moons of glory gleaming, Full conduits streaming, where fair bathers lie, With sunsets splendid, when the strong day, ended, Melts into peace, like a tired lover's sigh— So cometh summer nigh.

And nights of ebon blackness, laced with lustres From starry clusters; courts of calm retreat, Where wan rills warble over glistening marble; Cold jewels, and the sandal, moist and sweet— These for the time are meet

Of "Suchi," dear one of the bright days, bringing Love songs for singing which all hearts enthrall, Wine cups that sparkle at the lips of lovers, Odors and pleasures in the palace hall: In "Suchi" these befall.

For then, with wide hips richly girt, and bosoms Fragrant with blossoms, and with pearl strings gay, Their new-laved hair unbound, and spreading round Faint scents, the palace maids in tender play The ardent heats allay

Of princely playmates. Through the gates their feet, With lac-dye rosy and neat, and anklets ringing, In music trip along, echoing the song Of wild swans, all men's hearts by subtle singing To Kama's service bringing;

For who, their sandal-scented breasts perceiving, Their white pearls—weaving with the saffron stars Girdles and diadems—their gold and gems Linked upon waist and thigh, in Love's soft snares Is not caught unawares?

Then lay they by their robes—no longer light For the warm midnight—and their beauty cover With woven veil too airy to conceal Its dew-pearled softness; so, with youth clad over, Each seeks her eager lover.

And sweet airs winnowed from the sandal fans, Faint balm that nests between those gem-bound breasts, Voices of stream and bird, and clear notes heard From vina strings amid the songs' unrests, Wake passion. With light jests,

And sidelong glances, and coy smiles and dances, Each maid enhances newly sprung delight; Quick leaps the fire of Love's divine desire, So kindled in the season when the Night With broadest moons is bright;

Till on the silvered terraces, sleep-sunken, With Love's draughts drunken, those close lovers lie; And—all for sorrow there shall come To-morrow— The Moon, who watched them, pales in the gray sky, While the still Night doth die.

* * * * *

Then breaks fierce Day! The whirling dust is driven O'er earth and heaven, until the sun-scorched plain Its road scarce shows for dazzling heat to those Who, far from home and love, journey in pain, Longing to rest again.

Panting and parched, with muzzles dry and burning, For cool streams yearning, herds of antelope Haste where the brassy sky, banked black and high, Hath clouded promise. "There will be"—they hope— "Water beyond the tope!"

Sick with the glare, his hooded terrors failing, His slow coils trailing o'er the fiery dust, The cobra glides to nighest shade, and hides His head beneath the peacock's train: he must His ancient foeman trust!

The purple peafowl, wholly overmastered By the red morning, droop with weary cries; No stroke they make to slay that gliding snake Who creeps for shelter underneath the eyes Of their spread jewelries!

The jungle lord, the kingly tiger, prowling, For fierce thirst howling, orbs a-stare and red, Sees without heed the elephants pass by him, Lolls his lank tongue, and hangs his bloody head, His mighty forces fled.

Nor heed the elephants that tiger, plucking Green leaves, and sucking with a dry trunk dew; Tormented by the blazing day, they wander, And, nowhere finding water, still renew Their search—a woful crew!

With restless snout rooting the dark morasses, Where reeds and grasses on the soft slime grow, The wild-boars, grunting ill-content and anger, Dig lairs to shield them from the torturing glow, Deep, deep as they can go.

The frog, for misery of his pool departing— 'Neath that flame-darting ball—and waters drained Down to their mud, crawls croaking forth, to cower Under the black-snake's coils, where there is gained A little shade; and, strained

To patience by such heat, scorching the jewel Gleaming so cruel on his venomous head, That worm, whose tongue, as the blast burns along, Licks it for coolness—all discomfited— Strikes not his strange friend dead!

The pool, with tender-growing cups of lotus Once brightly blowing, hath no blossoms more! Its fish are dead, its fearful cranes are fled, And crowding elephants its flowery shore Tramp to a miry floor.

With foam-strings roping from his jowls, and dropping From dried drawn lips, horns laid aback, and eyes Mad with the drouth, and thirst-tormented mouth, Down-thundering from his mountain cavern flies The bison in wild wise,

Questing a water channel. Bare and scrannel The trees droop, where the crows sit in a row With beaks agape. The hot baboon and ape Climb chattering to the bush. The buffalo Bellows. And locusts go

Choking the wells. Far o'er the hills and dells Wanders th' affrighted eye, beholding blasted The pleasant grass: the forest's leafy mass Wilted; its waters waned; its grace exhausted; Its creatures wasted.

Then leaps to view—blood-red and bright of hue— As blooms sprung new on the Kusumbha-Tree— The wild-fire's tongue, fanned by the wind, and flung Furiously forth; the palms, canes, brakes, you see Wrapped in one agony

Of lurid death! The conflagration, driven In fiery levin, roars from jungle caves; Hisses and blusters through the bamboo clusters, Crackles across the curling grass, and drives Into the river waves

The forest folk! Dreadful that flame to see Coil from the cotton-tree—a snake of gold— Violently break from root and trunk, to take The bending boughs and leaves in deadly hold Then passing—to enfold

New spoils! In herds, elephants, jackals, pards, For anguish of such fate their enmity Laying aside, burst for the river wide Which flows between fair isles: in company As friends they madly flee!

* * * * *

But Thee, my Best Beloved! may "Suchi" visit fair With songs of secret waters cooling the quiet air, Under blue buds of lotus beds, and patalas which shed Fragrance and balm, while Moonlight weaves over thy happy head Its silvery veil! So Nights and Days of Summer pass for thee Amid the pleasure-palaces, with love and melody!



MATTHEW ARNOLD

(1822-1888)

BY GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY

Matthew Arnold, an English poet and critic, was born December 24th, 1822, at Laleham, in the Thames valley. He was the son of Dr. Thomas Arnold, best remembered as the master of Rugby in later years, and distinguished also as a historian of Rome. His mother was, by her maiden name, Mary Penrose, and long survived her husband. Arnold passed his school days at Winchester and Rugby, and went to Oxford in October, 1841. There, as also at school, he won scholarship and prize, and showed poetical talent. He was elected a fellow of Oriel in March, 1845. He taught for a short time at Rugby, but in 1847 became private secretary to Lord Lansdowne, who in 1851 appointed him school inspector. From that time he was engaged mainly in educational labors, as inspector and commissioner, and traveled frequently on the Continent examining foreign methods. He was also interested controversially in political and religious questions of the day, and altogether had a sufficient public life outside of literature. In 1851 he married Frances Lucy, daughter of Sir William Wightman, a judge of the Court of Queen's Bench, and by her had five children, three sons and two daughters.

His first volume of verse, 'The Strayed Reveller and Other Poems,' bears the date 1849; the second, 'Empedocles on Etna and Other Poems,' 1852; the third, 'Poems,' made up mainly from the two former, was published in 1853, and thereafter he added little to his poetic work. His first volume of similar significance in prose was 'Essays in Criticism,' issued in 1865. Throughout his mature life he was a constant writer, and his collected works of all kinds now fill eleven volumes, exclusive of his letters. In 1857 he was elected Professor of Poetry at Oxford, and there began his career as a lecturer; and this method of public expression he employed often. His life was thus one with many diverse activities, and filled with practical or literary affairs; and on no side was it deficient in human relations. He won respect and reputation while he lived; and his works continue to attract men's minds, although with much unevenness. He died at Liverpool, on April 15th, 1888.