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Title: Children's Stories in English Literature: From
   Shakespeare to Tennyson
Author: Wright, Henrietta Christian (d. 1899)
Date of first publication: 1891
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1907
Date first posted: 24 October 2009
Date last updated: 24 October 2009
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #406

This ebook was produced by:
Brenda Lewis, Therese Wright
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net

This file was produced from images generously made
available by the Internet Archive/American Libraries




CHILDREN'S STORIES

        IN

ENGLISH LITERATURE

_FROM SHAKESPEARE TO TENNYSON_




BY THE SAME AUTHOR

CHILDREN'S STORIES IN AMERICAN LITERATURE,
    1861-1896. One vol., 12mo.       $1.25

CHILDREN'S STORIES IN AMERICAN LITERATURE,
    1660-1860. One vol., 12mo.       $1.25

CHILDREN'S STORIES OF AMERICAN PROGRESS.
    One vol., 12mo. Illustrated      $1.25

CHILDREN'S STORIES IN AMERICAN HISTORY.
    One vol., 12mo. Illustrated      $1.25

CHILDREN'S STORIES OF THE GREAT SCIENTISTS.
    One vol., 12mo. Illustrated      $1.25

CHILDREN'S STORIES IN ENGLISH LITERATURE.
    FROM TALIESIN TO SHAKESPEARE. One vol.,
    12mo.                            $1.25

CHILDREN'S STORIES IN ENGLISH LITERATURE.
    FROM SHAKESPEARE TO TENNYSON. One vol.,
    12mo.                            $1.25

THE PRINCESS LILLIWINKINS AND OTHER STORIES.
    One vol., 12mo. Illustrated      $1.25




CHILDREN'S STORIES

        IN

ENGLISH LITERATURE

_FROM SHAKESPEARE TO TENNYSON_

          BY

HENRIETTA CHRISTIAN WRIGHT

      NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
        1907




  COPYRIGHT, 1891, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS


        TROW DIRECTORY
PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY
        NEW YORK




CONTENTS.


                                                        PAGE
      CHAPTER I.
SHAKESPEARE--SIXTEENTH CENTURY,                            1

      CHAPTER II.
BACON--SIXTEENTH CENTURY,                                 69

      CHAPTER III.
MILTON--SEVENTEENTH CENTURY,                             100

      CHAPTER IV.
JOHN BUNYAN--SEVENTEENTH CENTURY,                        143

      CHAPTER V.
THE ESSAY AND THE POETRY OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY,      193

      CHAPTER VI.
THE BIRTH OF THE NOVEL--EIGHTEENTH CENTURY,              210

      CHAPTER VII.
JONATHAN SWIFT--EIGHTEENTH CENTURY,                      239

      CHAPTER VIII.
HISTORY IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY,                       280

      CHAPTER IX.
JOHNSON--EIGHTEENTH CENTURY,                             310

      CHAPTER X.
THE ROMANTIC NOVEL--NINETEENTH CENTURY,                  336

      CHAPTER XI.
NINETEENTH CENTURY PROSE,                                371

      CHAPTER XII.
NINETEENTH CENTURY POETRY,                               406




CHAPTER I.

SHAKESPEARE--SIXTEENTH CENTURY.


In the year 1564 Stratford-on-Avon, in Warwickshire, England, was a
quiet little village that differed in no way from hundreds of others
scattered over England at that time. In these little villages the
houses were built commonly of wood, with the upper stories overhanging
the lower, and with windows of lattice work or horn, as glass was then
seldom used except in the houses of the wealthy, where there could
also be found carved oaken doors and ornamented balconies, and
house-fronts covered with plaster or decorated with panels of oak.
Sometimes the village consisted of one long straggling street, which
began in the open country and ended perhaps in a moor or bog. But more
often the houses were built around a large green, in the centre of
which were the may-pole and common well. There the villagers came in
the evening to chat and gossip, and on holidays they made merry with
dancing and feasting, and the Robin Hood games which were so popular
at that time.

Each cottage had its garden wherein grew rosemary and fennel and all
kinds of herbs, in closest neighborhood to the roses and daffodils and
violets which were the pride of the cottagers; and in the fields
beyond, the paths led through scarlet poppies and golden primroses to
the great forests which were then found all over England.

Quite outside the villages, and often far removed from them, were the
manor-houses of the wealthy squires, the castles of the great nobles,
and the abbeys and cathedrals whose fine architecture so beautified
the country.

But in Stratford itself the beauty consisted mainly in the prettily
kept gardens; the beautiful river Avon, which wound round the village
on its way to join the Severn; in the graceful yew, elm, and lime
trees which shaded the cottage roofs; and in the old church, built
possibly in the days when the Normans were still trying to make the
English nation become French, and which may have served as a refuge
more than once for some merry band like Robin Hood's.

In one of these cottages, which was richer than many of its neighbors
by possessing two stories instead of one, and which had furthermore
some dormer windows in its roof and a pent-house over its door, was
born in 1564 William Shakespeare, whose name stands far above every
other in the story of English literature, and whose genius has made
the village of Stratford immortal.

Very little is known of Shakespeare's childhood and boyhood, except
that they were spent at Stratford. But we know that his father was a
man of some importance in the village, and that the boy's early days
must have been comfortable and happy. When he was seven years of age
he entered the free grammar-school of the village, where pupils were
admitted as soon as they knew how to read. Here for seven years he
learned from books the things that were then taught in the
grammar-schools, including no doubt some Latin and Greek and as much
English as was considered necessary; for in those days English was
thought of little importance, and to be a scholar meant to know
certain languages and sciences which the learner would probably never
use.

But outside of school Shakespeare learned much, and stored the
knowledge well in his heart. He knew all the flowers, plants, and
trees which were to be found for miles around in the fields and
meadows and woods. He spent hours in poring over the history of
Stratford Church, where he had been christened and to which he went
regularly every Sunday, and which joined the England of his day with a
past that was full of the glorious and stirring history of the English
nation. This old church must have told him many stories of other days,
and of the time when England knew no such peace and honor as she knew
in Shakespeare's time. Not far away was the city of Coventry, where
were given at stated times and with great splendor the religious or
miracle plays which Shakespeare must have seen many a time. And a few
miles away from Stratford were the great castles of Warwick and
Kenilworth, the former of which was rich in memories of the wars of
the Roses, when England was a great battle-field from end to end, and
which was second in interest only to Kenilworth, where Queen Elizabeth
came from time to time with her train of lords and ladies to be
entertained by the great Lord Leicester.

And Shakespeare also learned much from the travel which constantly
passed through the village, for Stratford was cut into four sections
by the two great public highways which ran through the place from the
great neighboring cities, and over which went all the travel of that
part of the kingdom. In this way he heard of the great world beyond
Stratford. He learned of those great heroes of the sea, Frobisher, and
Hawkins, and Gilbert, and Drake, and followed them in imagination in
their voyages across the ocean to the unknown continents and islands
of the new world. And he heard in the same way of the affairs of
London, what the Queen and the great nobles were about, and who was
famous and who was not, and what was thought to be fine in the sight
of London folk, and what they despised as poor and mean.

And the boy learned strange things, too, from the village folk, who
believed in all the superstitions of the day. He could tell which
plants were used by witches to concoct poisonous broths, and what
herbs the village apothecary gathered to dispel evil charms, and why
he recommended blood of dragons and oil of scorpions, and powdered
mercury for different diseases. He heard also of the alchemists who
could turn iron into gold and clay into silver, and who knew the value
and use of every precious stone, and could tell why pearls had mystic
virtues, and diamonds brought valor to the possessor, and why the
topaz could cure madness, and the hyacinth protect from lightning.
And, too, at the county fairs where every kind of ware was sold, the
boy Shakespeare could see people buying charms to keep off sickness,
or bad luck, or to bring happiness and fortune. Here one could buy
love-philters, and crocodiles' tears, and amulets graven with texts of
scripture, and cabalistic rings, and could hear strange talk of the
wonders produced by the last eclipse of the sun, such as wars and
sicknesses, and treason, and could pay an astrologer to calculate his
lucky and unlucky days, and purchase a charm which would keep at bay
the influence of witches and evil spirits and wicked fairies, and
could even buy, were he rich enough, the magical fern-seed which would
give to the owner the power of walking invisible among his fellow-men.

Among other things which would be of interest to the youth in
Shakespeare's boyhood, may be counted the royal progresses when Queen
Elizabeth went from palace to palace throughout the country to be
entertained by the great lords of the realm. The Queen on these
occasions was always attended by an immense retinue, and the journey
was usually made on horseback. At such times the villages through
which she passed vied with one another to do her honor. Arches of
greenery were erected for her to pass under, flowers and wreaths were
scattered before her, the church bells were rung, and the villagers
turned out dressed in holiday attire to welcome the Queen, and to see
her brilliant company. The lords and ladies in their beautiful
costumes, the horses with their trappings of gold and silver, the
trumpeters sounding the approach, the beat of drums, and to crown all,
the gracious smile and words of the Queen, were things never to be
forgotten.

When Kenilworth was the palace visited, all Stratford was alive with
interest, and every villager knew of, and many of them saw, the
stately ceremonies of the event, for Queen Elizabeth kept great state
always. All the men who served her--chamberlains, cupbearers, carvers,
ushers, trumpeters, and grooms--were required to be of fine appearance
and manner, and even the smallest service was performed with great
ceremony. The bearer of a letter had to deliver it kneeling, and kiss
it before placing it in the Queen's hands. When the meals were served,
the attendants were required to kneel once or twice after placing the
dishes on the table, and if she dined in public she was waited upon
by the great lords of the realm. And all these things formed subject
of talk around Stratford, and all eyes were turned toward Kenilworth
when Elizabeth was there.

Most interesting of all the events connected with her visit were the
masks and revels, shows and plays which were given at the castle in
her honor. One of the royal progresses to Kenilworth occurred when
Shakespeare was about twelve years of age, and very likely the boy was
present at the entertainments given there, and watched with eager eyes
the scene before him. No expense or trouble was spared to make the
masks and interludes as perfect as possible, and lords and ladies of
high rank were often the performers. Gods and goddesses of the sea,
wood nymphs, fairies, mermaids, and witches flitted before the eyes of
the audience, and lakes, seas, groves, castles, gardens, and towers
appeared and disappeared as if with magic touch.

There was also given at this time a pageant representing the massacre
of the Danes in early English history, and knights appeared on
war-horses, fighting with spears, and on foot, fighting with swords,
mimicking a real battle, the performance ending by the defeat of the
Danes and the appearance of some English women leading in bands of
captives. These plays and interludes were very often acted by
children, and there were four companies of these young actors who were
especially devoted to the Queen's service. These were called the
children of St. Paul's, the children of Westminster, the children of
the Chapel, and the children of Windsor, according to the different
schools from which they were taken; and they were in charge of the
Master of Revels, whose duty it was to provide their costumes, to
rehearse them for the plays, and to attend to the stage properties,
which included, among other things, crowns and spangles for angels,
sea-horses, devils' eyes, castles, and scenes representing the
infernal regions.

Besides these entertainments in honor of the Queen, Shakespeare saw
from time to time the companies of regular players who travelled from
London throughout the country, frequently stopping at Stratford, where
they gave their performances, as was usual at a time when there were
no theatres, in the court-yard of the inn. In this way the boy
Shakespeare became familiar with the best plays and players of the
day, and this, joined with his visits to Coventry, where the great
religious plays were given on the feasts of the Church, must have
given him many a glimpse of the life beyond his native village.

Amid such scenes and impressions Shakespeare grew to manhood, and it
is easy to trace their influence in his works; and thus we know, that
when he speaks of elves and fairies, of spirits, charms, and
witchcraft, or when he describes the character of a rustic or the
manners of a courtier, he does so from the intimate knowledge he
gained of such things in his boyhood.

When Shakespeare was twenty-one he went to London to try his fortunes
in that great city, and a very interesting place was the London of his
day. The Palace and Abbey of Westminster, the Tower of London, the
river Thames, where one could see the tall masts of ships glistening
like so many clustered spears, and the wherries plying in every
direction, and the flocks of white swans floating, and at night the
lights of silken-covered pleasure-boats filled with gayly dressed
ladies and gentlemen on their way to some mask or party, enlivening
their journey with songs and music. Then there was famous London
Bridge and St. Paul's Cathedral, and palaces, and markets, and
taverns, and beer-gardens, and long streets full of shops where could
be bought cups of gold from Venice, and jewelry of all kinds, and
carpets, and silks, and shawls which may have been taken perhaps as
plunder from some Spanish ships home-bound from Asia, run down by
English sailors. Then, too, there were the daily crowds where could be
seen people from all over the world. Knights and courtiers jostling
country squires, and scholars and divines touching as they passed the
highwayman or thief who had won fame by his clever robberies. Here
also were noblemen dressed in velvet and gold from Italy and Spain
and France, slaves from Spanish America, sea captains and priests,
soldiers and servants, all held by chance or interest within the gray
walls which circled London, and whose gates gave welcome to as strange
a crowd as could be found in the world.

Into this curious crowd came Shakespeare, quick to see and eager to
learn, and before long all these strange sights were as familiar to
him as the faces of his own townsfolk; and each one told its story to
him so plainly that, as before he had learned the secrets of the
fields and woods, so now he learned men and the interests which made
up the great world. And he learned these lessons so well, that when he
came to write his plays, he made such use of them as no writer ever
made before or since; for it is the use of this knowledge of the
world, combined with his own genius, that makes Shakespeare the
greatest dramatist that has ever lived.

But when Shakespeare first entered London the objects of greatest
interest to him were the theatres; for since his boyhood two or three
regular theatres had been opened, though when the first one was built,
or rather made out of some dwelling-houses, the mayor of London and
other officials complained that a place where such large crowds could
come together would surely spread the plague, which was then raging in
the city. And some people even said that the players were the whole
cause of the plague, because the acting of plays was a sinful thing.

But when Shakespeare reached London the theatres had been for some
years recognized as respectable and proper places of amusement, and
persons of all ranks in life visited them daily. One of the principal
theatres was that called Blackfriars, which, like the first one, had
been made out of some dwelling-houses, and which took its name from
the monastery of Blackfriars near by. And it was this poor little
play-house--lit by candles, and with its floor of earth, and its stage
covered with rushes, and with an audience that smoked, laughed,
talked, and ate as the play went on--that Shakespeare entered soon
after he reached London, and by so doing crowned it with a fame as
immortal as that which rests upon Stratford itself.

The company which acted at this theatre had more than once been seen
by Shakespeare in his boyhood, as it was one of the regularly licensed
companies, and under the protection of the Earl of Leicester; and it
is not unlikely that Shakespeare considered himself very lucky in
obtaining a place there, though the place was probably a very humble
one at first.

The plays that were then most popular were in many cases written by
the actors themselves, and as the company at Blackfriars consisted of
some of the leading actors of the day, Shakespeare was at once thrown
into the society that would best bring out his talents as an actor and
playwright. All London then was wild over the plays of Christopher
Marlowe, whose genius had first made the English drama seem a picture
of real human life. These plays were either full of exciting and
splendid scenes from the life of some great Eastern hero, who moved
around the stage like a prince in the "Arabian Nights," or dealt with
some trait of human character in such a way that it seemed for the
time that the only thing of interest in the world was whether the hero
of the play should keep true to his noble nature, or yield to some
temptation.

It was in such pictures of character that Marlowe gained the greatest
control over his audience, for the struggle between good and evil is
one that is constantly going on in men's souls everywhere. Shakespeare
frequented the theatres, and acted himself in a small way for a while,
perhaps a year or two, and then began to write for the stage himself.

At first he simply joined with some fellow-actor in writing a new
play, or in re-writing an old one; but this only continued for a short
time, and soon he had begun the series of wonderful plays which stand
alone in all literature.

Shakespeare gathered the materials for his plays from many sources,
for nearly all the authors of ancient times had been translated into
English, and the playwright of the day could choose his plot from many
different scenes. In fact, the literature that was open to
Shakespeare was as rich and varied as a casket of precious stones, and
he made good use of his opportunity. He was familiar with the old
writers of Greece and Rome, and knew all the old tales of love and
adventure and revenge which filled the pages of Italian writers, and
was wise in the old chronicles of England, whose history was as
romantic and interesting as a fairy tale. And besides this, he read
the tales of those adventurers who had travelled in the far East and
told thrilling tales of Arab and Moor and Turk, or excited the
imagination by relating the dangers of the Southern Ocean or the
Arctic Sea, and the perils among hostile tribes and savage beasts in
distant America.

And all this knowledge of books he combined with his knowledge of men,
and put both into his plays, and made them so real and true that when
people saw them on the stage they forgot that what they saw was
acting, and could fancy that they were looking at the real scenes
which Shakespeare had in mind when he was writing. And so they laughed
over his clowns, and fools, and jesters, and wept over his unhappy
kings, and wretched queens, and murdered princes, whose pitiful
stories made them think the more tenderly of their own children safe
at home. And when the play was over and they came back to everyday
life again, it was to declare that this Shakespeare, who also acted in
his plays sometimes, was the greatest writer of dramas that had yet
appeared, and they crowded the theatre and would listen to no other
plays if they might hear his.

Among the plays which Shakespeare put upon the stage of Blackfriars,
or that of the Globe Theatre, which was built a few years after he
came to London--for his plays were only performed at these two
theatres--we find one which takes us back to the time when Chaucer
wrote the _Knight's Tale_ and gave us the romantic story of the love
of the knights Palamon and Arcite for the beautiful Emilie, the sister
of Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons, whom Theseus, Duke of Athens, had
married after first taking her prisoner in his war with Thebes.

The old story of Chaucer dealt with a time before elves and fairies
had forever left the earth, and when people still believed in fabulous
races like the Amazons; and this suggested to Shakespeare the idea of
writing a play which should take his English audience back to Athens
in the days of the great Theseus, and show them how the great lords
and ladies, the common folk, lovers and sweethearts, kings and queens,
were duped and made the sport of Oberon, king of the fairies, and his
wife Titania, aided by the mischievous Puck. The play is called _A
Midsummer Night's Dream_, and most of the scenes are laid at night in
a grove near Athens, the favorite haunt of elves and fairies.

This is the story: The beautiful Hermia, daughter of Egeus, had two
suitors, Lysander and Demetrius, and she loved Lysander, who seemed to
her to have every virtue, and despised Demetrius, who displeased her
in every way; and this in itself would not have mattered, but
unhappily for Hermia her father heartily liked Demetrius, and heartily
disliked Lysander, and thus it was impossible for them to agree as to
which of the two Hermia should marry. Now, there was a cruel law in
Athens which declared that when a maid refused to marry as her father
desired, she should either be made to die a cruel death, or enter a
nunnery, and Egeus grew so tired of Hermia's disobedience that at last
he resolved to appeal to this law. So, hardly had Theseus returned to
Athens with the captive Hippolyta, when there came to him Egeus
bringing his wilful daughter, and attended by the two suitors, neither
of whom intended to give Hermia up. Theseus listened to the complaint,
and tried in vain to persuade Hermia to obey her father and marry
Demetrius, and then, not finding it in his heart to punish her for her
disobedience, he dismissed them, telling Hermia that he would give her
four days to think the matter over before deciding finally what to do
with her; for the law of Athens must be carried out, no matter how
cruel it might seem. At this Hermia was much dejected, for she had
fully resolved never to marry Demetrius, and things would have
appeared very dark indeed, had not Lysander managed to console her by
proposing that they should run away from Athens, and so get beyond the
reach of the cruel law, and thus be happy in spite of it.

This seemed a happy way out of the difficulty, and Hermia agreed to
meet Lysander the next night in a grove that was near Athens, in which
she had gone maying many a time, and run away with him, and so get
beyond her father's anger and the law's injustice. And this plan would
have been carried out, and Egeus would never have known what had
become of his daughter, but for one thing, and this was the fact that
this same Demetrius, whom Hermia despised, was deeply loved by her
friend Helena, to whom she told her plan of flight.

Now, Helena loved Demetrius as deeply and truly as Hermia loved
Lysander, and she had even a harder lot to bear than her friend; for
while Demetrius had once loved her in return, he now cast her off
utterly and would have nothing to do with her, though she tried in
every way to win back his love. And she was so unhappy that even one
kind word from Demetrius would have been most precious to her. So she
resolved to tell Hermia's plan to Demetrius, and make him at least
think kindly of her once again, even though it might be the means of
losing him forever. Now, the return of Theseus to Athens had stirred
all the city to devise means of doing him honor, and all sorts of
entertainments were to take place to celebrate his return and his
marriage to Hippolyta. Among others, a certain number of mechanics had
determined to play the interlude of _Pyramus and Thisbe_, if they
could induce Theseus to see it, thinking that their fine acting would
win them both regard and reward from the Duke.

And it was their intention to meet in the grove near Athens and
rehearse their parts, so that they might keep their play a secret;
and, as it happened, the night for their rehearsal was the very one
fixed for the meeting of Hermia and Lysander in the same grove. And
all these plans might have been carried out, had it not been for an
old quarrel between Oberon and Titania, the king and queen of
fairyland. The cause of the trouble was a little Indian boy whom
Titania refused to give up to Oberon, who had taken a fancy to have
the boy in his train, and for a long time the fairy king and queen had
hardly spoken to each other. But on the very night that the lovers and
players were to meet in the grove, thence came also Oberon roving
through the moonlit woods, dull in spirits, and angrier than ever at
Titania, for, try how he would, he could not get the Indian boy away
from her.

And hardly had he entered with his train, when Titania came also upon
the scene, and the two began quarrelling so fiercely that all the
attendant elves and fairies crept into acorn cups for fear, and
trembled as they heard Titania rebuke Oberon and tell him that the
flocks had died and harvests failed, and the land been covered with
poisonous fogs which brought diseases to mortals, and that the roses
had been bitten with frost, and summer buds had bloomed in winter, and
in fact the whole course of nature changed because of his jealousy;
and her words so enraged Oberon that he resolved to humble Titania's
pride and get the boy, cost what it might.

And so, as soon as Titania had gone on her way Oberon sent Puck to
gather the little flower called _love-in-idleness_; for he meant with
this to work a charm that would bring the proud queen to his will, for
the juice of this little flower pressed upon the eyelids of one who
was sleeping, would cause the sleeper to fall in love with the first
object he should see on awaking, and Oberon declared that whether
Titania fell in love with monkey or ape, he would not remove the charm
until she gave up her little page to him. But hardly had Puck departed
on his errand when Demetrius and Helena came in sight in search of
Hermia and Lysander, and Oberon making himself invisible, heard poor
Helena's laments; for Demetrius, while willing to take her help, would
yet not give her the least kind word, and the fairy king seeing that
Helena was young and fair, had his elfin heart touched, and resolved
to do her a good service and bring her lover's heart back to her.

And so, when Puck came back, bringing _love-in-idleness_ with him, he
gave him some of it, and told him to anoint the eyes of Demetrius with
it, taking care to do it only when the first thing that Demetrius
would see after might be the lady Helena. And Puck departed in high
glee, for he loved to mix with the affairs of mortals, who all knew it
was he who entered their dairies at night and robbed the milk of its
cream, and who lurked about in dark corners frightening village maids,
and led country lads miles out of their way across bog and brier, all
out of pure mischief; or if he chose, would turn unexpectedly up at
hard moments and bind sheaves by moonlight, and weave cloth in the
dark, so that he might enjoy the amazement of those for whom he had
worked.

But this time Puck made a mistake, for roving through the grove he
came upon Hermia and Lysander fast asleep, for they had lost their way
and had grown too weary to go on, and as Oberon had told him he would
know Demetrius by his Athenian dress, he now pressed the juice upon
the eyes of Lysander, who also wore the Athenian dress, and thinking
his work well done, the mischievous elf flew away to see what Oberon
had been about. And so he did not know that as soon as he left, Helena
came up, still following Demetrius, who would yet not listen to her,
though he knew she was exhausted and could go no farther. And seeing
Lysander lying before her, and thinking him dead, Helena called his
name again and again until he awoke, when he straightway fell in love
with her, and began praising her beauty and sweetness, and at this
poor Helena was more grieved than ever, thinking that Lysander was
making cruel sport of her because of her unreturned love for
Demetrius. And so she fled from him, not seeing Hermia, who awoke the
next moment to find her lover gone, and started through the wood to
find him, fearing that some evil had happened him.

In the meantime the players had come to the grove for their rehearsal.
Bottom, the weaver, Flute, the bellows-mender, Tom Snout, the tinker,
Snug, the joiner, Starveling, the tailor, and Peter Quince, all met
to play the tragedy of _Pyramus and Thisbe_, two ill-fated lovers who
were parted from each other by a cruel father, and who were in the
habit of talking to each other through a chink in the wall which
separated their houses. The tragedy relates that one night they agreed
to meet at Ninus' tomb by moonlight, and that Thisbe coming first, was
frightened away by a roaring lion, and fled leaving her mantle on the
ground, and that Pyramus, coming to the place soon after, saw the
mantle all stained with blood from the lion's wounds, and thought that
Thisbe was dead, and so drew sword and killed himself; and hardly had
this happened when Thisbe came back--for the lion had run off in the
meantime--and seeing Pyramus dead, she stabbed herself with the same
sword, and thus ended the play. In the cast the part of Pyramus was
given to Bottom, the weaver, who insisted upon an explanation in the
prologue, to the effect that he did not really kill himself with a
sword, but only made believe, for fear the ladies in the audience
would faint. Flute, the bellows-maker, had the part of Thisbe, with
the injunction that he should speak in a very small voice, so that he
would be thought a real woman. Snug was the lion, being directed to
let his nails grow long so that they should hang out like the lion's
claws, and to roar as gently as a sucking-dove, or a nightingale, so
that the ladies would not be alarmed. Snout was to be spattered with
plaster, and hold up his fingers joined in a circle to typify the
chink in the wall through which the lovers talked, and another was to
have a thorn bush, dog, and lanthorn to represent the moon.

The rehearsal had just begun, and Bottom had said his lines, when as
he retired into the brake to wait for his cue, he was seized upon by
Puck who had come wandering around in search of whatever mischief he
could find, and who fastened upon him an ass's head; and when he next
came forward to speak, his strange appearance so frightened the other
players that they fled in dismay, and the rehearsal was broken up.

But Bottom, not knowing of his transformation, stayed on and began
singing a lively tune, and it was this air which woke Queen Titania,
who was sleeping near by, and upon whose eyes Oberon had so spitefully
pressed the juice of _love-in-idleness_. And so the poor Queen, being
under the charm, had to fall in love with Bottom, as he was the first
object her eyes fell upon when waking; so deep was the enchantment
that she mistook him for a creature of surpassing loveliness, and
commanded Peas-blossom, and Cobweb, and Moth, and the other fairies to
attend him wherever he went, and to bring to him dewberries, and figs,
and grapes, and honey to eat, and the wings of butterflies "to fan the
moonbeams from his sleeping eyes." And no sooner had Puck seen this
than away he flew to tell his master that Titania had fallen in love
with an ass, at which Oberon rejoiced greatly.

Now, while they stood there along came Hermia and Demetrius, she still
looking for Lysander, and he trying in vain to make her listen to his
suit. Growing weary at length, he threw himself upon the ground and
then Puck learned from Oberon that he had made a mistake, and that he
should have anointed the eyes of Demetrius and arranged it so that
Helena should be by his side when he awoke. So Oberon sent Puck forth
to bring Helena, and he himself pressed the juice of _love-in-idleness_
upon Demetrius' eyes, and Demetrius awoke just in time to see Helena
enter, followed by Lysander, who was offering her his love. But Helena
would not listen to him, and only rejoiced that Demetrius loved her
once more, and after the two men had had some bitter words and were
about to lay hands on one another, Puck, who had, by his arts, sent
them roaming through the woods, making them lose sight of each other,
came to Lysander where he lay asleep quite worn out with fatigue, and
removed the fateful charm by applying the juice of another herb, so
that when he awoke he would again love Hermia.

Now, in the morning, ere the sun was up, there came Theseus with a
hunting party--among them Hermia's father--through the woods, and saw
all the lovers asleep on the ground, for they had all drawn near the
same place without knowing it, the night before. And Egeus had the
huntsmen sound their horns, and at the sound the lovers all started up
in amazement. And Theseus and Egeus were in still greater amazement
when they heard Demetrius declare that he no longer loved Hermia but
Helena, although he knew not what had changed him, for no one dreamed
that Oberon and Puck had been busy with the affairs of mortals. But
Theseus declared himself satisfied at the new turn of affairs, and
said that the lovers should be married at the same time that his own
wedding was celebrated.

In the meantime Titania had given the little Indian boy to Oberon, for
she had no thought of anyone but Bottom, and Oberon having the boy
safe in his possession, removed the charm, brought the queen to her
senses, and she forgot Bottom and loved Oberon once more, and went off
with him and the other fairies to prepare for Theseus' wedding-night.
And Bottom woke to find his ass's head gone--for Puck had taken it
off--and went back to Athens just in time to join his company and
play the part of Pyramus before Theseus and Hippolyta and the great
company assembled in their honor. And Oberon and Titania and their
band were present also, flitting around unseen by mortal eyes, and
hearing with amusement how Demetrius and Lysander and Bottom were
still in wonder about what took place in the grove on that strange
midsummer night, when they had gone to sleep, and waked to find that
what had been so real to them the day before had now but the character
and substance of a dream.


Another play of Shakespeare was the tragedy of _King Lear_, which was
taken from a collection of stories gathered together first, perhaps,
by Geoffrey of Monmouth, at the same time that he collected the
legends of King Arthur. In Shakespeare's tragedy Lear is a British
king who, after reigning successfully for many years, decided in his
old age to give up the kingdom to his three daughters, Goneril, Regan,
and Cordelia, reserving for himself only the crown and a hundred
knights for personal attendants.

As he desired to test the love of his daughters for him, he said that
he would give the largest share of the kingdom to the one who loved
him the most, and so on an appointed day he called together Goneril
and Regan and their husbands, and Cordelia, who was unmarried, and
told them of his design and asked each daughter in turn how much she
loved him. And Goneril said she loved him beyond all power of speech,
and that health, beauty, honor, liberty, and life itself could not
compare with her love for him. And for this answer Lear gave her great
forests and wide meadows and broad rivers in the rich country which
was her dower.

Then Regan spoke and said she loved her father as much as Goneril did,
and even more, for she found no other thing in life worth living for
but her father only. And to her Lear gave likewise a third of the
kingdom, consisting of as rich lands as those he had given to Goneril.
But when the old king asked Cordelia how much she loved him, she was
silent, for it seemed to her that love was not a thing to be measured
or counted by words. And when Lear insisted upon an answer she said
that, though she loved and honored him far more than she could tell,
yet she could not say, as Goneril and Regan did, that she loved
nothing else beside; for if she were married, as her sisters were, she
should think it right to give some love and honor to her husband. And
at this answer Lear fell into a rage and disowned her utterly, and
said that from that time she should no more be considered his child,
and gave her portion to her sisters; for to him words carried great
weight, and Goneril and Regan seemed loving daughters because their
words were fair and pleasant to listen to.

Poor Cordelia might have fared badly enough--for the only one at her
father's court who spoke a fair word for her was the Duke of Kent, and
him the king banished immediately as a punishment for advising him to
forgive Cordelia--had it not been that at this time there was a suitor
for her hand at court, who loved her for herself alone and was glad
to take her for his bride, though she was poor and forsaken and
despised, and so he bore her away to become a great queen, for he was
the King of France.

But the old king soon found that fair words do not always mean fair
deeds, for Goneril and Regan had no love for him in their selfish
hearts, and soon began to treat him very cruelly. One thing followed
another, and at last Goneril told her steward to treat the king's
servants with open disrespect, knowing well that her father would
resent it, and when Lear chided her for it she told him that one
hundred knights were too many for his service, and that he really
needed but fifty. And at this King Lear got into a rage--as she knew
he would--and declared he would go to Regan, who could never treat him
so. Thereupon, he went to Regan, taking with him his train, and his
fool, who still remained faithful to him, and one new attendant who
had lately come and who was really Kent, in disguise, whose love and
faithfulness could not suffer him to leave the country when he knew
the king might need him at any moment.

But when they reached Regan's castle they found no entrance, for
hearing that her father was coming, she had gone to the Duke of
Gloucester's, a great nobleman of the land, as she wished to show him
all the disrespect she could. And when Lear sent the disguised Kent on
with letters, she put him in the stocks because he had drawn his sword
upon Goneril's servant. Then when Lear arrived and told her how
Goneril had treated him, she answered that Goneril was in the right,
for he should be willing to dismiss all his knights and let his
daughters' servants serve him if they so desired. Just then Goneril
herself came in, having travelled thither in great haste, and with
these and other unkind words, they showed him that their hearts were
both unloving and cruel. Then the old king saw that although he loved
these daughters and had given them all he had, yet they had no love
for him, and their fair words had meant only a desire to gain the
kingdom.

And at this discovery all his love turned to hate and bitterness, and
he reproached them so bitterly that it seemed to them all that he was
going mad with grief. And he left them and went forth into the wild
storm that had begun to rage, and Goneril and Regan commanded the Duke
of Gloucester and his servants to make no search for him, and to deny
him entrance should he return.

But news of the way in which the old king was treated had reached
France, and the King and Cordelia had sent an army to take up Lear's
cause, and this army landed at Dover just about the time that Goneril
and Regan had cast their father off, and Kent, yet in disguise,
knowing this, sent a message to Cordelia to tell her what had
happened. But the Duke of Gloucester, in spite of the commands of
Goneril and Regan, followed the old king out in the storm, and took
him to a place of safety near by, and hearing later that there was a
plot against Lear's life, warned his friends to take him straight to
Dover, for he had also heard that Cordelia was there. And for this
act of loyalty, which was immediately discovered, Gloucester was
seized, and his eyes put out by order of Goneril and Regan, and he was
driven forth into the storm as Lear had been, and his estates were
given to his son Edmund, who was as base as Goneril and Regan, and who
had persuaded his father that his brother Edgar was a traitor to him,
so that the Duke had driven him from his presence, and no longer owned
him. But Edgar, disguising himself by feigning madness, still lingered
around his home and met his father as he was driven forth helpless and
blind, and not letting him know who he was, led him across the stormy
moor to a place of safety, reaching Dover at last where Kent and Lear
had already arrived. And here there was a great battle fought between
the French and the forces of Goneril and Regan, and the French were
defeated, and Cordelia and her father were taken prisoners, and Edmund
ordered the jailer to strangle Cordelia, and then make it appear that
she had killed herself.

Immediately after the battle Edgar and Edmund met in mortal combat,
and here Edmund received his death-wound; but before he breathed his
last a messenger entered to say that Goneril and Regan were both dead,
for Goneril had poisoned Regan in a fit of jealousy and then stabbed
herself, and so all their wicked scheming had done them no good.

And then came in Lear bearing the dead Cordelia in his arms, and the
play ends with the death of the old mad king, for this last sorrow had
broken his heart.


Another of Shakespeare's plays, called _The Tempest_, is taken from
some old tale, which was heard first perhaps in Italy. This is the
story:

Once upon a time there was a duke who reigned over Milan, and who was
so wise and kind that he was beloved by his people as though he had
been their father, so that the court of Milan was celebrated
throughout Italy for its just laws, and the inhabitants of the duchy
were envied for having so liberal and wise a prince for their ruler.
But the duke, whose name was Prospero, was much fonder of study than
of anything else in the world, and very often, instead of being in the
court of justice or in the council chamber, he would be far away in
his study, buried deep in some book. The books that he read were of
all sorts and kinds. Books of history, philosophy, mathematics, and
science, and it was even said that he understood magic and witchcraft.
Because of these two last things he was held in great wonder, and the
people did not complain because he spent so much time in his study,
and left the ruling of the country to his brother Antonio. Thus all
was quiet in the land, and Prospero was happy and full of peace, when
suddenly all was changed. One night he found himself seized by rough
soldiers, who forced him with his little daughter Miranda to leave the
castle, and took the two unfortunates down to the sea. They then
hurried them in an open boat miles from the shore, and there left them
alone in a vessel without sail, mast, or rigging, thinking that thus
they would come quickly to their death. For these ruffians were hired
by Antonio, who had seized the kingdom while his brother was thinking
of nothing but books, and who, by the help of Alonso, the King of
Naples, raised such a strong force to defend himself, and promised
such rich rewards to those who would help him in the plot, that he
carried out his wicked design without much trouble.

But Prospero had one friend, the good Gonzalo, at court who knew of
the design, although he could do nothing to prevent it. And through
his means there were carried aboard the ship some food and water and
garments, and also some of the books that Prospero loved so well. And
by fair fortune, it happened that the ship did not go down, but bore
them safely to an island far away from the Italian shores, where they
found comfort and peace; for on the island there were fresh springs
and beautiful flowers, and trees which bore fruits and nuts; and for
owner there was none save the monster Caliban, whom Prospero first
subdued by the power of witchcraft, and then tried in every kind way
to win to goodness. There Prospero and Miranda lived many years,
having nothing to annoy them but the wickedness of Caliban, whom
Prospero was forced at last to make his slave, and when he did not
need him, to confine him in a rock so that he could do no mischief,
for Caliban's heart could not be touched by kindness, and he hated
Prospero because of his power.

Now, the island was enchanted, and inhabited by spirits of the air,
and by deep study of his books of magic Prospero was able at last to
command these spirits to do his will, so that although he had landed
on the island without a single follower, he soon found one who was
willing and able to obey his every wish. This was Ariel, the beautiful
chief of the spirits of the air, who before Prospero came had been
imprisoned in a pine-tree by Caliban's mother, who was a witch, and
who had died leaving Ariel confined for twelve years, as she had no
power to let him out. But Prospero had such knowledge of witchcraft
that he released Ariel upon his promise to serve him a certain length
of time, and for this Ariel and all the spirits of the air gave him
cheerful obedience always. By their help and his own powers of magic,
Prospero could call up storms and hurricanes, and darken the earth
with clouds, and lash the sea into fury; and for him Ariel would fly
through the air, or descend into the earth, or dive to the bottom of
the ocean, or go with his master on his journeys, when Prospero made
himself invisible and floated through the air as if he himself were an
air spirit.

Thus Prospero was lord of the whole island and of the inhabitants of
the air above, and had no enemy but Caliban, who often had to be
punished with cramps and pinches and aching bones ere he would do his
duty. Now, it happened after many years--so many in fact that Miranda
had grown to womanhood--that the King of Naples gave his daughter in
marriage to an African prince, and as he was returning from the
wedding with a large company, among whom were Antonio the usurping
duke of Milan, the king's son Ferdinand, and the good old Gonzalo, the
vessel bearing them passed very near the island where Prospero was
living. Prospero, who knew everything by the power of his witchcraft,
had knowledge of this and immediately formed a plan by which he might
get back his lost dukedom. And first he sent Ariel to raise a furious
tempest which would cast the ship on shore and bring all his enemies
into his power. So Ariel took on the form of a spirit of flame, and
amid the dashing of waves and rush of rain he boarded the ship and
darted hither and thither, now flaming on the beak, now on the deck,
and again in the cabin, or climbing the masts spread over sail and
rigging, till the vessel looked like a great ship of fire, and crew
and passengers were alike filled with horror and thought that their
last hour had come. Then all the Duke's party leaped in terror from
the burning ship, preferring death in the sea rather than to stay amid
such terrors. But by the magic of Ariel not one was lost and all
reached the island safely, though separated into different parties,
for that was what Prospero wished. The sailors who had remained on
board were then thrown into an enchanted sleep while the vessel
drifted to a safe harbor in a little bay, where the calm waters and
the fragrance of dew-laden flowers, and the music of the invisible
air-spirits would keep them in peaceful dreaming till Prospero should
have accomplished his design.

Then Ariel flew to his master and told him of his success, and was
promised his freedom if he would but help Prospero in this last
enterprise. In the meantime Prospero called Miranda to him and told
her the real story of their lives, and she was amazed to learn that
her father was a great duke and she herself of noble birth, for of
these things she had never dreamed. She was also glad to know that her
father had had good reason for raising the storm, as it had grieved
her sadly to watch the burning ship and the unfortunate passengers
struggling with the waves; not knowing that Ariel had conducted them
safely to land. And having heard this story, Miranda was thrown into
an enchanted sleep and did not wake until Ariel again appeared, though
visible to Prospero only, leading by magic songs young Ferdinand,
whom he had found sitting on the shore, alone and disconsolate,
mourning for his father. And Miranda and Ferdinand immediately fell in
love with one another, as Prospero meant they should, for this was
part of his plan.

Then Prospero, with the help of Ariel and the other air-spirits, led
Antonio and his party into all sorts of queer adventures where they
saw mysterious shapes, heard voices singing in the air above them, and
were continually led from one delusion to another. And all this time
graver things were happening, for Sebastian, brother of the King of
Naples, formed a plot with Antonio to murder Alonso, who was sick with
grief over the loss of his son Ferdinand, and succeed to the kingdom;
and Caliban, with the assistance of some of the servants, formed a
plot to murder Prospero. But Prospero discovered this by the power of
his art and laid charms upon all the plotters, so that nothing could
come of their designs, and then having tested Ferdinand's love for
Miranda by making him perform many hard tasks, he prepared to bring
the adventure to an end.

So he clothed himself in his magic robes and drew a charmed circle,
and into this circle Ariel brought first the King and his friends, who
stood there helpless and amazed, looking upon Prospero as they might
have looked upon a ghost, and fearing that they were all going mad.
And then Prospero told them how they had all been brought to the
island by his power and demanded his dukedom back, and Antonio and
Alonso were both filled with dread, seeing how their wicked plot had
come to an end, and knowing that they were both helpless before the
power of Prospero. But Alonso's fear was also mixed with grief at the
loss of his son, and Prospero was touched by this grief, and being
well pleased that his plan had worked so nicely, he revealed to them
Miranda and Ferdinand playing chess together; and when Alonso could
believe that it was really his son that he saw, and not one of the
island illusions, his joy was beyond words. And then Caliban and the
servants were brought into the charmed circle and their plots
revealed, and glad enough were they to escape with their lives, for
they too saw that nothing could withstand Prospero's magic power.

Then Prospero invited them all to a banquet, and promised them a fair
voyage home to Naples, where the marriage of Ferdinand and Miranda
should be celebrated. And after this he burned his magic robes, buried
his wand, and sunk his magic books deep into the sea, for he had
ceased to be king of the enchanted isle and was content to become once
more Duke of Milan, and to rule his people and be loved by them as
they had loved him before his banishment.


Shakespeare's plays are generally divided for convenience into
tragedies, comedies, and historical plays. All of the historical
plays, with the exception of three, are based upon facts in English
history. They may be enumerated as follows: _King John_, _Richard
II._, _Henry IV._, in two parts; _Henry V._, _Henry VI._, _Richard
III._, in three parts; _Henry VIII._, and what are called the three
Roman plays, _Coriolanus_, _Julius Csar_, and _Antony and
Cleopatra_.

The plays from English history are taken, as a rule, from older plays
by the same name written by minor playwrights, or from the old
chronicles which describe so minutely and interestingly the affairs of
history. And as these events were transcribed in the main by
contemporaries, they are full of life and color, and would thus appeal
very strongly to the imagination of Shakespeare. Hollinshed, Hall, and
Fabyan are the chroniclers most often consulted.

The long series presents, with some breaks, a splendid panorama of
English history, from the days of John to those of Henry VIII., in
which move in stately procession the great historical personages of
the Middle Ages in England. All the great events and important
characters--the kings and queens, the knights and barons, the princes
and dukes, the soldiers and populace of this time--live again in these
plays with the interest of reality.

_King John_, founded upon an older play of the same name, contains
some of the most celebrated of Shakespeare's characters. It is a story
of Norman days (John was the great-great-grandson of the Conqueror),
and of the cruel deeds and lawless acts which men committed in those
times when kings came to the throne by power and not by right. John
had no right to the throne, as the true heir was Arthur, son of
Geoffrey, an elder brother of John. Arthur's rights were supported by
the French King, and Shakespeare has taken the incidents of this war
for the throne, and woven them into a play of such interest, that it
will forever represent the master in one of his greater moods. The
character of Constance, the mother of Arthur, is one of the most
famous in all Shakespeare. Her pride, and grief, and despair are drawn
with Shakespeare's finest touch, while the pitiful story of the little
prince is perhaps the most pathetic child-story in Shakespearian art.
Arthur is taken prisoner by John and carried to England, and then
because he fears further trouble, John decides upon the death of the
boy. This horrible deed he intrusts to Hubert, Arthur's keeper,
instructing him to burn out the child's eyes with red-hot irons.
Hubert goes to the cell to do the deed, and then follows the striking
passage in which the heart of the jailer is turned from the crime by
the pathetic pleading of Arthur. It is a beautiful picture of depraved
manhood kept from utter wickedness by the innocent faith of helpless
childhood. And so great is the art shown in drawing the picture that
it appeals to us not as art but as a faithful representation of
nature.

The play ends with the death of John, supposedly by poison, and the
entrance of his son Henry as his successor, Arthur having been killed
by falling from the walls of his prison while trying to escape. The
drama has a fine flavor of the old Norman rule ere John had met his
barons at Runnymede, and been forced to sign the great charter which
heralded in the true liberty of the English nation. As it is also the
first written of the historical plays, it marks the dawning of a new
epoch in the English drama, which became from that time a means of
portraying national interests and affairs as it had never done before.

_Richard II._ is, in a literary sense, one of the first of the plays,
and contains passages of exquisite beauty. It is the story of the
rise of the House of Lancaster through the deposition of Richard by
Henry, who thereupon became Henry IV.

There are two parts to the story of the latter's reign--_Henry IV._,
_Parts I._ and _II._ The central thought of Henry IV. is the
development of the character of the young Prince of Wales, from a mere
fun-loving boy into the royal-hearted, knightly Henry V. The famous
Falstaff, one of Shakespeare's most celebrated characters, figures in
these plays. He is the typical comic character of the stage of
Shakespeare's day and was a prime favorite with the crowds which
thronged the pit of the Globe and Blackfriars. Falstaff belonged to
the masses, and his fat person, and coarse but jolly humor, his
fondness for sack, and the merry company he always had around him,
delighted the audiences, which saw in him one of their own kind, and
recognized the picture as well drawn. His was a humor that could
always be understood, because it was English, and his tastes and
delights were understood, because they were also English. This
character, therefore, standing for one of the national types, is one
of the greatest creations of Shakespearian comedy.

In _Henry V._, Shakespeare took for his subject the victories of the
famous hero king over the French, the last act of the great drama of
the hundred years' war which had been waging between England and
France. Henry V., the soldier king, was ideally loved by the nation
whose glory he had made his own, and his victories at Harfleur and
Agincourt were the pride of English history. This story of glory and
conquest Shakespeare put into his play and gave to the world an ideal
English king, brave, generous, and royal, weaving into the plot
besides such a wealth of incident, humor, and romance that it will
ever be one of the most popular of the historical plays.

_Henry VI._, which is in three parts, relates the fall of the House of
Lancaster through the defeat of Henry VI. and the death of his only
son.

_Richard III._, one of the finest of the historical plays, opens with
the famous soliloquy of Richard upon the old prophecy which said that
the sons of King Edward IV. should be murdered by one whose name began
with the letter G, the initial of Richard's own title as Duke of
Gloster. In this play one of the darkest chapters of English history
is portrayed, that in which Richard murders successively his brother
Clarence, the Duke of Buckingham, the little heir to the throne and
his brother, and a number of other persons whom he fancied stood in
the way of his advancement. He gains the crown through these foul
means, but he has made himself so detested that the people are glad
when the Earl of Richmond claims the crown and declares war upon
Richard. Richmond was the representative of the Lancastrian party, as
Richard was of that of York, and as he had married Richard's daughter,
the Princess Elizabeth, the two families which had made the Wars of
the Roses famous in England were in this struggle set against each
other for the last time. The play ends with the victory of Richmond,
who came to the throne as Henry VII., and the death of Richard on
Bosworth Field. It is one of the greatest of Shakespeare's plays, the
dramatic interest being so powerful that we are carried along from
scene to scene with almost breathless intensity. The character of
Richard is one of the greatest portraits in all literature of
wickedness and ability personified.

_Henry VIII._ is the story of Catharine of Aragon, the first wife of
Henry VIII., and the mother of Queen Mary, and of her unhappy divorce
from that monarch.


The three Roman plays are taken from Plutarch's "Lives of
Distinguished Men of Antiquity." These plays, which picture the
severity of the Roman republic in _Coriolanus_, the splendor of the
imperial beginnings in _Julius Csar_, and the luxury and magnificence
of the epoch just following in _Antony and Cleopatra_, also portray
every variety of human passion and make the characters of two thousand
years ago as real as if they were people of our own time. Of the
three, _Antony and Cleopatra_ is the most poetic--as it is indeed one
of the most poetic of all Shakespeare's plays. _Julius Csar_ is a
storehouse of political wisdom, full of meaning to the England of
Shakespeare's day, as well as to all countries in all times. This play
contains the well-known orations of Brutus and Antony over the body of
Csar, whose assassination by Brutus, Cassius, and other friends of
Csar forms the climax of the play. These orations produce a dramatic
effect which calls back to life that old Roman world as does nothing
else in the plot. In the stately and polished arraignment of Brutus,
who loved Csar well, but Rome more, as in the passionate pleading of
Antony, whose love kept faith even with death, we have a backward
glance into those far-off days when the eloquence of the orator
brought to pass what law or justice might not effect. These orations
make the strange power of those old Greek and Roman orators
understood, and call up pictures of the crowds which thronged the
courts of Athens and Rome to listen to the voices which should depose
tyrants or make kings, or inspire deeds of deathless heroism.

The quarrel between Brutus and Cassius, before their defeat by
Antony, and the heir of Csar, is also one of the striking features of
this play, being one of the most famous scenes in the Shakespearian
drama.


In his comedies Shakespeare gave full rein to his imagination and
fancy, and has left recorded in them some of the most perfect of his
works. They are founded upon Italian and French romances as a rule,
and show Shakespeare's light and airy humor, and his grace of fancy in
striking contrast with his serious vein. In these comedies one feels
the joy of life and sees the heart in its sunny moods, with perhaps
just enough seriousness intermixed to remind us that it is human life
we see and not the picture of a dream. The comedies are: _A Midsummer
Night's Dream_, _The Comedy of Errors_, _Love's Labor's Lost_, _The
Taming of the Shrew_, _Two Gentlemen of Verona_, _All's Well that Ends
Well_, _Much Ado about Nothing_, _As You Like It_, _The Merry Wives of
Windsor_, _The Winter's Tale_, _Measure for Measure_, _The Tempest_,
_The Merchant of Venice_, and _Twelfth Night_; perhaps in this list
would also be included _Cymbeline_, a sort of tragi-comedy.

_As You Like It_ is one of the most charming of the comedies, and,
next to _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ and _The Tempest_, shows, perhaps,
Shakespeare's fancy in its lightest mood, though, unlike them, its
interest is purely human, with no machinery of fairy, elf, or spirit
introduced. It is the story of some lovers whom chance has driven into
a forest where already reside a banished duke and his court. The free
life of the woods, the out-of-door freshness, the introduction of
tree, and rock, and stream as agents in the plot, the poetic
rhapsodies of Jacques, the lovers, and the philosophical reflections
of the Duke's friend and counsellor, all suggest the pastoral and
idyllic life of such an existence as might have been spent by happy
shepherds and shepherdesses in Arcadia or some other region of the
imagination. It is indeed Arcadia reproduced in the forest of Arden,
Arden woods, where grow English flowers, and whose brooks are familiar
to English eyes. The lovers hang their love-notes upon the boughs of
the oak, and medlar, and hawthorn, names dear to English hearts, and
the whole atmosphere of the play is ideally perfect in the portrayal
of that mood of fancy which all love to indulge in at times. In the
end, Rosalind, the princess, who roams the forest in the dress of a
page, marries the hero, Orlando, and the Duke recovers his
inheritance, but this is one of Shakespeare's plays in which the plot
seems less important than the poetic translation of an arial mood,
and it is this ideality which makes the play unique among the
comedies.

_The Merchant of Venice_ is a play founded upon the promise of a young
Venetian to forfeit a pound of his own flesh if he did not pay at a
certain time his debt to a Jewish merchant who held his bond to this
effect. There is a love-story interwoven, in which Portia, the
heroine, who is in love with Bassanio, a friend of Antonio, saves
Antonio's life; for Shylock, the merchant, because he hates the young
Christians who borrow money of him and then despise him, has
determined to execute his bond, and demands the pound of flesh to be
cut off above Antonio's heart. Portia enters the court-room disguised
in the gown of a lawyer as the scene is going on, and by her eloquent
and ingenious pleading, she shows that the agreement does not provide
for shedding one drop of Antonio's blood, and rescues Antonio, causing
all the property of Shylock to be confiscated and himself banished.
This is one of the comedies which deals with the deeper emotions of
the heart, and the intricate and subtle intellectual passions are
handled with such masterly skill by Shakespeare that it ranks as one
of his greatest plays.

_The Taming of the Shrew_ is an amusing story of a lady whose sharp
tongue made her feared by everyone, but who was subdued by the
ingenuity of her husband, who scolded her so incessantly that she had
no chance ever to say a word back. It has always been one of the most
popular of the comedies, and is among the most frequently acted.

_The Comedy of Errors_ is founded upon the comical mistakes and
adventures which befall two men and their slaves, who resemble each
other so closely that they are constantly being mistaken for one
another.

_Much Ado about Nothing_ relates the love-story of the maid Beatrice
and the bachelor Benedict, who, having vowed to hate each other,
promptly fell in love when their friends mischievously and deceitfully
assured each one privately of the other's love.

And so through all the comedies runs the wide stream of universal
sympathy with and understanding of the virtues and faults and foibles
of human nature, so skilfully treated and delicately handled that they
must forever stand among the best of Shakespeare's productions.

The greatest of Shakespeare's tragedies are _Hamlet_, _King Lear_,
_Macbeth_, _Othello_, and _Romeo and Juliet_. _Hamlet_, perhaps the
greatest of Shakespeare's plays for its study of the human heart, is
founded upon an old Danish story of one of the kings of Denmark, who
killed his brother and then married the widowed queen and succeeded to
the throne. Hamlet, the son, is visited by the ghost of his father,
which reveals the horrible story to him, and the play is the story of
Hamlet's vengeance. In with the plot is woven the beautiful love-story
of Ophelia and Hamlet with its unhappy ending. Ophelia is one of the
most perfectly drawn woman characters in Shakespeare's works.

The play of _Hamlet_ contains a philosophy of life. In it the feelings
of the heart are brought out and marshalled before the eyes like the
actors on a stage. We see the weakness of Hamlet's character
contrasted with his intellectual greatness, just as we might see one
character in a play standing before another. Thus we are made to feel
that it is not the ambition of the king, nor the wickedness of the
queen, nor the treachery of friends which leads to the final
catastrophe, but Hamlet's own irresolute spirit, which could never
rise to the proper height, and which constantly wavered and drew back
at critical moments. It is this marvellous portrayal of the mingled
strength and weakness of the soul that makes Hamlet one of the most
perfect and human creations in all literature.

The tragedy of _Macbeth_, taken from Hollinshed's chronicles, is
founded upon one of those dark tales of murder which fill the pages
of early Scottish history. Macbeth, thane of Glammis and Cawdor, is
excited by the prophecy of three witches to murder Duncan, the king,
and usurp the crown. His courage, however, would have failed him at
the last moment had not Lady Macbeth urged him on to the deed. He
murders Duncan at night, and Lady Macbeth throws suspicion upon the
two servants of the king by placing their bloody daggers (with which
Macbeth had done the deed) beside them as they slept. Macbeth is
crowned, and all goes well for a time. Then suspicions arise. Lady
Macbeth walks in her sleep and is watched by her attendants, who see
her washing her hands as if trying to wipe out blood-stains. Macbeth
himself sees ghosts and has visions of the crimes he has committed,
but is comforted by a prophecy to the effect that no harm shall reach
him till Birnamwood, the distant forest, shall come to his palace at
Dunsinane. But the trouble forms, enemies rise, an army is formed
against the usurping king headed by Malcolm, son of Duncan. The
soldiers advance to Dunsinane Castle bearing boughs from Birnamwood
upon their shoulders, and thus fulfil the prophecy, and Macbeth, after
more than one bloody deed, dies at last by the hand of Macduff, one of
Malcolm's captains.

In _Macbeth_, Shakespeare has made a powerful study of the effect of
conscience upon conduct. This play is remarkable from the fact that
the downfall of Lady Macbeth and her husband is due to no outside
influence or circumstance, but comes solely from within. As in
_Hamlet_ we see two emotions of the heart placed opposite and warring
one with the other. And this unseen war of conscience with crime is
the one agent which leads to the downfall of the murderers. If Lady
Macbeth had been entirely wicked, her husband might have lived and
died king of Scotland. But no one is entirely wicked. Behind the
ambition which plotted the murder stood the conscience which guarded
the soul, and which might not be slain as kings are slain. It was this
conscience, more terrible than swords of foes, which turned and
betrayed her, and delivered her into the hands of her enemies--another
instance of the masterly insight of Shakespeare into the human soul
and the springs of human action.

In the play of _Othello_, Shakespeare has painted one of the darkest
pictures in all his tragedies. The plot was taken from an Italian
novel, a popular story of Shakespeare's day. _Romeo and Juliet_, also
taken from Italian source, is, perhaps, next to _Hamlet_, the most
popular of the tragedies. It is the story of the two young lovers,
Romeo and Juliet, whose love was crossed by a fate so unkind that all
lovers who hear their story must weep for them. These two lovers each
represented the great houses of Capulet and Montague, which had been
at bitter feud for years, and from this fact they knew that their
cause was hopeless, as the heads of the families would rather have
seen their children dead than united in marriage.

Juliet, in order to prevent a marriage with a young nobleman whom her
father had chosen, takes a sleeping potion which makes her appear as
if dead, and she is interred in the tomb of the Capulets on what was
to have been her wedding-day. Romeo, who had been banished for
killing a follower of the Capulets, hears of Juliet's burial, and
procuring a poison, goes to the tomb to die by her side. He takes the
drug and Juliet wakes to find him dead, and in the despair of love
kills herself with his dagger.

This tale of old Verona was made by Shakespeare to live again with new
life in this powerful drama, which is now the most famous love-story
in the world. It is full of beauty, pathos, and strength, and ranks
among the great masterpieces of the poet.

Thus we see from a study of the different plays of Shakespeare that
there is no passion of the heart that he has not touched, and that he
represents in his works the life of man in whatever society or
condition. It is this human interest which invests his pages with a
charm that can never die, and which, combined with his poetic genius,
places him at the head of all other writers.


Shakespeare always considered Stratford his home, and bought there an
estate where he visited his family from time to time. When he had
accumulated a sufficient fortune he sold his interest in the Globe
Theatre and retired to Stratford to spend the rest of his life. There
he died four years later, on the anniversary of his fifty-second
birthday, and was buried in the little parish church so closely
connected with his first childish memories of the outside world.

Outside of his plays he is known as the author of a few other poems
and songs and more than a hundred sonnets possessed of exquisite
beauty, but it is his great dramas which have won for Shakespeare the
fame which has placed his name far above and beyond any other in the
history of the world.


Shakespeare's friend and contemporary, Ben Jonson, was, next to
Marlowe, the most popular of the playwrights who formed the group of
which Shakespeare himself was the head. Jonson's plays were, in nearly
every sense, comedies based upon the affairs and manners of the day
and particularly of London life. He introduced all kinds of odd
characters into his dramas, and made them ridiculous by setting their
oddities against one another, or gave the play a humorous cast by
bringing in some absurd or extravagant whim of the moment as the
centre spring of the plot. His best known plays are: _Every Man in his
Humor_, _Every Man out of his Humor_, _Bartholomew Fair_, _The
Alchemist_, _Volpone_, and _The Silent Woman_, an unfinished drama of
great beauty, called _The Sad Shepherd_, and the tragedy, _Catiline_.
Jonson was also the author of many beautiful masques which were given
at the court entertainments, among which may be mentioned _The Masque
of Oberon_, _The Masque of Queens_, and _The Paris Anniversary_.
Besides his dramas, Jonson wrote many songs which have become famous,
and which place him high among English lyrical poets. These songs
occur in his masques and also in his collected poems, called _Forest
and Underwoods_.




CHAPTER II.

BACON--SIXTEENTH CENTURY.


While Shakespeare was a lad wandering among the lanes and fields of
Stratford, and learning the wisdom of nature from the lips of nature
herself, another boy, two or three years older, was wandering through
the streets of London, or visiting the court, and learning the ways of
the world and the wisdom of men from the crowds that thronged what was
then perhaps the most interesting city in the world.

This was Francis Bacon, son of Nicholas Bacon, Lord Keeper of the
Great Seal, and a man of influence at court. The boy was born at York
House, so called because it had been formerly the dwelling of the
Archbishop of York, and, outside of the royal palaces, it was
considered one of the finest mansions in London.

His mother, who was a daughter of Sir Anthony Cook, tutor to Queen
Elizabeth's brother, Edward VI., had studied in the evening the same
lessons that the young prince learned in the morning, and was
considered a woman of fine education in those days, when all ladies of
high birth read Greek and Latin poetry, and studied grave questions of
philosophy and religion. She was Bacon's first teacher, and it was
well for him that besides a knowledge of books she also possessed a
strong, earnest character, so that from the beginning his great talent
was well directed by this wise and loving friend. But learning from
books was but a small part of his early education. At his father's
house gathered all the great and learned men of the day. Thither came
the great statesmen and lords of the realm, who discussed grave
matters of state, and the part that England was to play in the history
of the world. And close beside them could be seen those famous men
whose names were ringing all over Europe, because they were the
champions of Protestantism, the new religion which England fostered,
and for which so many thousands had lately laid down their lives on
the battle-fields of the Netherlands. And there also were to be found
great men of science, who were studying the secret laws of nature, and
men of adventure who had carried the English flag into hitherto
unknown regions of the earth, and men of letters whose works were to
be a glory to England forever; and in such company as this, both in
his father's house and in the homes of his young playmates, Bacon
learned those lessons which can never be taught from books, and which
give to the learner knowledge of men and the world.

Bacon was also frequently present at those grand entertainments which
Elizabeth loved to give and take part in, and he no doubt saw many a
time the same representations of the miracle plays and masques which
charmed the soul of the boy Shakespeare away in quiet Stratford. Only
there was this difference, that while Shakespeare went to Kenilworth
an unknown and uninvited visitor, taking only such cheer as was given
to the humble village folk, Bacon visited the court and the houses of
the nobility as a welcome guest, the pet of the Queen, who called him
her little Lord Keeper, a favorite among the sons of nobles, respected
by the great men who honored his father, and the idol of the
fashionable ladies, who admired his beauty and wit.

Thus from the beginning the world was a wide place to Bacon, and he
began early to think about those questions which were being discussed
by the great men of the times, and to take an interest in those great
events which were happening. For England was then passing through one
of the most important periods of her history. The Protestants of the
Netherlands were looking to her for help in the struggle for freedom
from the tyranny of their King, Philip II. of Spain; great companies
were being formed for the purpose of colonizing America; the English
navy was just beginning that career of greatness which made the flag
of England feared in every sea, and above all, the English people
themselves were divided into two parties, one of which was loyal to
Elizabeth and Protestantism, while the other favored the Catholic
Church, and was continually plotting to bring the Queen of Scots to
the throne. It was a time for wise thought, careful plans, and great
action, for no one could guess the answer to any of the difficult
questions that the English nation was then called upon to solve, and
every thoughtful man could not but feel the importance of the hour.

But besides these great political questions, other subjects were then
demanding attention. Problems in natural science that no man had been
able to unravel were now being studied out, and as each question was
answered it seemed to lead the way to still greater discoveries, so
that the world of science appeared like a fairy land, the gates to
which were being unbarred one after another, so that all who would
might enter in and share its wonders. And all these things Bacon heard
discussed day after day, and they were as familiar to him as the
legends of the elves and fairies who inhabited the woods and dales of
Warwickshire were to the boy Shakespeare.

When a boy has such surroundings as these he becomes thoughtful, and
when he hears continually great questions discussed by great men, from
many points of view, he also gains the habit of thinking
independently, and learns that the wisest man is he who studies and
thinks for himself. Therefore Bacon, when very young, began to ponder
over the questions that few of his companions troubled themselves
about, even in that age when boys took up the responsibilities of life
very early, and when every great man was still a young man.

This early training showed its influence upon Bacon, who was gifted
with an inquiring mind, and who was continually trying to find out
causes. There is a story told that, in his tenth year, he left off
playing with his companions one day to find out the reason of an echo
which came from a vault near the playground; and when he was only
twelve he was thinking upon the laws which govern the imagination. He
entered Cambridge at thirteen, and remained at the University three
years, during which time he made few friends among the professors, as
he thought them too willing to follow what was accepted as truth,
without seeking to discover whether it were really truth or not. He
said that his fellow-students were shut up in little cells and spun
cobwebs, instead of living in the light and seeking knowledge for
themselves. And he compared the university to a becalmed ship, which
only moved by the breath which came from the outside.

In these college days Bacon planned a university which should be a
true help and guide to earnest students, and this plan he put in
writing many years after. Also at this time there came to him a hint
of that system of philosophy which was to make his name immortal. And
so, although his college training was of little direct use to Bacon,
and he might have spent the time more profitably in private study, yet
the very defects that he found led in time to the publication of his
own great work, which was meant to remedy the evils that existed. He
left Cambridge without taking a degree, and went to Paris under charge
of the English Ambassador, as his father wished him to enter
political life.

After four years spent on the Continent he returned to England and
began the study of law, and from this time on the history of Bacon is
closely connected with the history of English politics and English
literature. His political life began in the House of Commons, and
extended up to his sixtieth year, when he occupied the position of
Lord High Chancellor, and held the title of Viscount St. Albans. But
during this long period his work for literature and science was
unceasing, and so important that his fame as a philosopher and writer
will endure long after the memory of his political career shall have
faded away.

Bacon's first important publication was a volume of essays written in
English, and treating of almost every subject that is of interest to
man. And it is in this volume that he shows his great knowledge of
human nature, and his wide sympathy with human life. These essays
include thoughts on character, truth, riches, fame, right living,
friendship, love, and death, besides a variety of other subjects, not
the least important being the essays on the building of houses and the
making of gardens, which show so plainly the writer's interest in the
things of common life, and his love and sympathy with the works of
nature.

But the great desire of Bacon's life was to found a system of
philosophy which would give to the world a better method of acquiring
truth and knowledge than then existed. This thought had come to him
dimly in his college days, and when he was twenty-five he made a
sketch of a great work which should revolutionize the accepted methods
of acquiring knowledge, and lead mankind into truer ways of thought,
and throughout his long political career this idea never left him. It
followed him everywhere, and at all times he cherished it as his chief
joy, and in the excitement of political life found this work his
greatest comfort and refreshment.

Up to this time the whole world of learned men had implicitly followed
the doctrines of Aristotle, the Greek philosopher who lived about 300
B.C., and whose great mind had bestowed some new gift upon every
branch of knowledge. The system of Aristotle was based upon the method
of first laying down some law in regard to any subject or operation of
nature, and then gathering together all the facts possible to prove
that the law was true. Thus, in studying the cause of sound, Aristotle
claimed that sound was governed by certain laws, and then gathered
facts to prove this statement. This is called the Deductive method of
reasoning, because the mind goes from the general law down to a
particular fact or number of facts for proof. This method had been
used in the schools for centuries, and was considered the only true
way of arriving at a knowledge either of the laws of nature, or of any
other department of learning.

But to Bacon this method of reasoning seemed false, and he believed
that he could find the key to the interpretation of nature by exactly
the opposite means--that is, by studying first the operations of
nature and upon a knowledge of these building the laws which seem to
govern the universe. This method of first collecting facts and from
these establishing a law, is called the Inductive method, or often the
Baconian Method, after its originator. And this system of Bacon was so
new and startling that it came upon the world of learning with as
great a shock as the discovery of the new world by Columbus. By this
method every operation of nature was to be studied, and experiment
after experiment made and proved before any conclusion could be
proclaimed.

This method had really been followed many and many a time by the
earnest workers for science, for the old alchemists and other students
of nature had spent long lives in experimenting, and had arrived at
some clear knowledge of many of the laws of nature. But these men were
not great philosophers, and were, sometimes only learned in one
direction. They were often regarded by their fellow-men as men who
were striving to reach some unscalable height, and more than once they
were only rewarded by seeing their work scorned, and by being
themselves accused of witchcraft and sympathy with the spirits of
evil.

But Bacon changed all this. In a day of great minds his was one of the
greatest, and his voice was the voice of authority. He proclaimed the
new gospel which made the crucible of the alchemist and the scales of
the philosopher the _open sesame_ to the undiscovered realms of
nature, and made experiment the magic wand which placed the wonders of
the world at the feet of the careful student. His philosophy, in fact,
taught men not to make laws, but to find truth, and this is the
greatest thing that any man can teach.

This alone was the true philosopher's stone which could turn all
things to gold, and with it men learned to find great laws of nature
revealed in the tint of the rose or the wings of the butterfly, or the
stones that they trod over daily.

Thus the world of nature was thrown open to all, and even a child
might enter in and learn its mysteries.

Bacon planned a great work which should set forth his system, but
only a part of it was ever finished.

This work, written in Latin, was to have been called the _Instauratio
Magna_, or Great Institution of True Philosophy, and was to consist of
separate books which should contain, among other things, a summary of
all knowledge then existing, a complete explanation of Bacon's new
methods of discovering truth, a record of facts and experiments in the
different branches of knowledge, and a summary of the results obtained
by the Inductive method.

The most important part of this work was the second book, called the
_Novum Organum_, in which Bacon lays down the principles of his new
method, and it is this on which his fame as a philosopher rests, for
it was the proclamation of the Inductive method which placed him among
the great discoverers of the world. Indeed, Bacon himself was content
with the glory of having given this great idea to the race, and was
well satisfied to leave the work of proving its value to others. In
this respect he says of himself: "I sound the clarion, but I enter
not into the battle," and the succeeding ages have shown that this
trumpet call led indeed to glorious conquest.


The idea of a model college, which should be an ideal institution of
learning, had followed Bacon from his own college days, and one of the
most interesting of his works is a romance called _The New Atlantis_
in which he draws a picture of what a university should be.

This is the story: A ship, sailing from Peru to China, was sent by
contrary winds far out of its course, and for many days was driven
helplessly through the waters of an unknown sea. The provisions gave
out and despair settled upon all hearts, for the sailors well knew
that, even if the wind changed, they should all starve long before
they had time to reach their destination, and that no other ship would
ever flash its white sails upon the gray horizon that shut them in,
for these waters had never been explored, and no chart of them
existed.

And so they gave themselves up to despair and prayed that God would
either deliver them out of their trouble or permit them to die
speedily, for no human help seemed near. But as the ship still drifted
on through strange waters and under strange skies, they saw one day,
toward evening, a sight which gladdened all hearts and brought hope to
the most despairing. Far away on the edge of the horizon they saw
where the clouds seemed to darken and hold their shape, and by this
they dared hope that land was near, and so all night they steered the
ship toward that place. When the day dawned they saw that their hope
had not been in vain, for an unknown land lay before them with its
shores covered with trees, and a little sailing brought them into a
good harbor which they perceived to be the port of a fair city, and so
they made all the more haste to land.

But before they could leave the ship a crowd of people appeared
warning them off with gestures, and presently a small boat carrying
eight persons came up to the ship, and one who appeared to be the
leader came on board and presented a scroll of yellow parchment on
which was written, in Greek and Hebrew and Latin and Spanish, an
order forbidding the strangers to land, and ordering them to leave the
coast in sixteen days; yet offering help if they were in any need
through sickness or other trouble. The chief man of the ship's company
wrote an answer in Spanish, declaring that unless they were permitted
to land many of their sick would die, and when this reply was carried
to the land another boat came back bearing one of the officers of the
city, who signed to them to send some one to meet him. And so they
sent their chief man in a boat which was allowed to come only within
six yards of the other, and then the visitor from the city stood up,
and in a loud voice asked if the ship's company were Christians. And
when he received answer that they were, he said that if they would
swear that they were not pirates, nor had shed blood within forty
days, they might land. And as everyone could take this oath in
sincerity, they were told that they would be allowed to enter the
city.

In a short time after this they were permitted to go on shore, and
were given a shelter in the Stranger's House, a mansion devoted to the
use of all strangers who might come to the land. The weary voyagers
here received the best care and attention from the servants appointed
to the management of the house, and the sick were so carefully nursed,
and treated with such excellent remedies that in a few days every one
was well. And then, the people of the city, seeing that their visitors
meant them no harm and were grateful for all the kindness they
received, did everything in their power to make the days pass
pleasantly. For these people were very hospitable, and delighted in
entertaining strangers, and showing them their beautiful city, with
its fine mansions and fair streets and gardens, and the visitors did
not wonder when their entertainers told them strangers who came to
that city never wanted to return to their own homes again.

But what puzzled the visitors very much was, that although this island
was quite unknown to the rest of the world, and no one had ever heard
its name, yet the rest of the world seemed to be very well known to
the people of the island. They could talk about all the different
places of Europe and Asia and Africa, could speak the languages of
many countries, and knew all the latest inventions in mechanics, and
all the latest discoveries in science, besides being familiar with the
history of many persons famous throughout the world. Another thing
that was also puzzling was the fact that none of the inhabitants of
the city could be persuaded to accept the slightest payment for the
services they performed for their guests. If one were pressed to
accept money he would answer that it was considered the highest crime
for any one to be twice paid for the same service, and that each
citizen was expected by the city to be kind to strangers, that being
the law of the land, to provide for which there was a special fund set
aside. Therefore no one would receive any gift, though the visitors
offered them gold and velvet and jewels, and other things of value.

But all this was understood when the governor of the city explained
their peculiar customs one day to the chief men of the ship's
company. He said that about three thousand years before, this island,
which was called Bensalem, was renowned for its commerce, and had in
its service fifteen hundred strong ships which sailed to every port of
the world, carrying merchandise and bringing back the products of
other nations. That then the ships of China and Egypt, Phoenicia and
other Eastern nations, came regularly to their harbors, bringing gold
and jewels and merchandise of every kind, and carrying also as
passengers men from Persia and Arabia and Chaldea, who had heard of
the fame of Bensalem, and had come to look upon its glories. And that,
furthermore, there traded with them the people of that great country
Atlantis, which lay to the west, and which was famous for its
magnificent temples and palaces and cities, and also the people of
Peru and Mexico, two other proud and mighty kingdoms. And he said that
these latter nations were so great that they determined to conquer all
the rest of the world. So a great expedition was sent eastward across
the Atlantic, and through the Mediterranean Sea, to conquer the
nations of Europe, but what happened to it no one in Atlantis ever
knew, for not one man returned from that voyage. The manner of their
death, or what nation held them captive, was never told, and it was
only known that their ships had passed like a flight of birds across
the gray bars of the horizon never to return again.

At the same time an expedition was sent to conquer Bensalem, and this
likewise came to an unfruitful end, for the King of Bensalem was a
mighty warrior, and he made a cunning plot by which all the ships and
men fell into his hands before a blow could be struck, and then being
merciful as well as mighty, he allowed the captives to return home
again upon their oath that they would never again bear arms against
him. And so neither of the two expeditions conquered the world, or any
part of it.

But because the people of Atlantis had not been content with their own
greatness and wealth, and had sought to harm other nations, vengeance
overtook them, and a great deluge fell upon the land, and all the
mountains poured down their swollen streams into the valleys, till
not a place of safety remained, so that nothing escaped save a few
beasts and birds, and some wild races of men who fled to the caves in
the mountains. This flood lay over the land so long that, when the
waters dried up, the land was desolate everywhere, and not a trace
remained of all its glory. The few people who were left were forced to
clothe themselves with skins of beasts, or to migrate to the warm
valleys and wander naked, for they had no material or skill for making
clothing. And so Atlantis passed away from the memory of man, for no
ships left her shores, and all knowledge of this great country was
lost to Europe and the rest of the world excepting Bensalem alone. But
the ports of Bensalem still remained open to strangers for centuries,
and ships came thither from all the countries of the East, so that
knowledge of the island was spread abroad, and some account of it
crept into the histories that were written by the ancient nations. And
traditions of its greatness were handed down from one generation to
another long after those nations had ceased to visit it. For their
voyages ceased after a time, owing to the fact that the old nations
fell into decay, and new nations sprung up to take their places, and
all this brought about wars and conquests and occupations enough at
home. Then fewer voyages were undertaken, and gradually all commerce
with Bensalem ceased, and navigation declined, and men only went on
short voyages in familiar waters, carried in ships that were worked by
oars, and that were not strong enough to brave the rough waves of the
outer ocean. And in time, too, the ships of Bensalem ceased to visit
other nations, and the reason of this is as follows:

About a thousand years after the destruction of Atlantis a ruler of
great power came to the throne of Bensalem, and being wise and
thoughtful, he pondered constantly on the best means of bringing
greater happiness and prosperity to the kingdom. But this seemed hard
to accomplish, as throughout the length and breadth of the land there
were peace and plenty everywhere, and not one subject had cause to
complain of his lot.

Then the king, who was learned in the history of all the nations of
the world, thought that since he could bring no greater happiness to
his country than that which already existed, he would at least try to
make that happiness enduring, so that when he passed away he could
leave behind him a promise of perpetual prosperity. He therefore
ordained certain laws which forbade any stranger to land upon the
coasts of the island, and which also forbade the people of Bensalem to
go abroad, for he believed that all the troubles which vexed the
nations of the old world came from intercourse with strangers.

But in order that the people of the island should not become utterly
indifferent to the welfare of others, he ordered that all ships coming
to their coast should be received for a few days, if help of any kind
was needed. And if the ship's company wished, they could also be
allowed to make the island their home, on condition that they would
never ask to return to their own country. Besides ordaining these
laws, this wise king did another thing which kept his memory ever
before the people, and this was the erection of a great temple of
learning, called Solomon's House, in which knowledge of every kind was
taught. The teachers of this college were allowed from time to time to
visit other countries for the purpose of studying and bringing back
with them any new knowledge which might come to the world. These
voyages were conducted with such secrecy, and under such disguise,
that the presence of the visitors was never suspected in the different
countries which they visited, and so the memory of Bensalem passed
almost entirely away, though its own people were kept familiar with
all the progress of the world. And this was the reason why the island
was not down upon any maps or charts then used, and why the people of
the ship had been led to think that they had come to some land unknown
to the rest of the world.

The governor of the city furthermore told them how the country had
been converted to Christianity. He said that one dark night the people
saw a great pillar of light shining far out at sea, upon the top of
which blazed a large cross. The whole population of that part of the
coast was soon gathered on the beach watching this strange sight, and
several of the chief men rowed out in boats to see what it might mean.
But as they neared the light a strange feeling bound them so they
could not move, and they were therefore forced to remain in the boats
at some distance from it. And at this, one of the men present, who was
a member of Solomon's House, fell upon his face and prayed that God
would deign to reveal what this thing might mean. And presently he
found that his boat was able to move, and he approached the column of
light, but as he came nearer, the pillar and cross broke up into
thousands and thousands of stars, which floated away and were lost in
the space of heaven, and there was nothing left but a small cedar
chest, out of one end of which a green branch of palm was growing.
This ark floated toward him of its own will, and he received it into
his boat, and opening it found therein the books of the New Testament
which had been committed to the sea by one of the apostles, in order
that the message of Christ might be carried to distant lands. And so
the members of Solomon's House read the book, and finding in it a
message of love and peace to mankind, they accepted its story, and
called themselves Christians from that day.

This history of Bensalem interested the visitors very much, and they
were glad to accept the invitation of the governor of the city and
visit the House of Solomon and see for themselves some of the wonders
that it held. And they found that this college excelled all other
colleges that had ever been seen or heard of in ancient or modern
times.

It not only had great buildings especially devoted to study, but it
had resources such as no other seat of learning had ever possessed. It
had great lakes and rivers under its control, both of salt and fresh
water, for the study of the fish and water-fowl that inhabited them.
It had artificial wells and fountains tinctured with medicines for the
cure and study of disease, and great houses where artificial rain,
snow, hail, and ice were produced. There were also certain rooms,
called chambers of health, where the air was laden with those perfumes
and odors of plants that were considered preservative to the health.
Then there were great orchards and gardens wherein grew every kind of
tree or shrub or flower known to the whole earth. There were parks and
enclosures for birds and beasts, both of those kinds that had their
home in the island and those that had been brought from the various
parts of the world.

There were factories where paper, linen, silks, velvets, dyes and
stuffs of every kind were manufactured. There were houses for studying
light and heat and motion, and so far advanced were they in their
knowledge of these subjects that they could bring light from dark
objects, make artificial rainbows, produce colors, shadows, and
figures of things that were far off or not in sight, and make things
that were near by appear at a great distance or vanish utterly before
the eyes of the spectator. In the house of sound there were bells and
rings and instruments of all kinds for producing strange sounds. All
the voices and notes of beasts and birds were exactly imitated by some
instruments, while others gave forth echoes and sounds of the human
voice, sometimes making the voice shriller and sometimes deeper. There
were also trumpets and pipes to carry sound from one place to another.

There was besides, a house of precious stones where were kept great
stores of gems, and numbers of fossils and minerals, and these were
used for study, and were not considered a part of the wealth of the
kingdom. There was also a house devoted to the study of motion. Here
were machines for flying, and boats and ships that could sail under
water, and swimming girdles, and images of men, beasts, birds, fishes,
serpents, and other animals, which were worked by machinery and
imitated exactly the motions of the thing each represented; there were
here also all kinds of engines of war, and compositions of gunpowder,
and curious powder that was unquenchable and could burn in water, and
fireworks of all kinds. There was also a house for the study of
mathematics, geometry, and astronomy, furnished with the most perfect
instruments.

And there was a house of deceit, where all manner of juggling was
taught, together with tricks of various kinds, so that it would be
impossible for anyone educated in that house ever to be imposed upon.

There were besides, great towers built upon high mountains, for the
purpose of studying the wind and atmosphere and stars, so that the
people would know whether to expect tempests, earthquakes, plagues,
comets, drought, and other calamities, and could be taught how to
prepare against them. There were also deep mines and caves where one
could study the interior of the earth, and where new metals were
produced by laws of chemistry not known to the Eastern world. And, in
fact, there were separate houses for the study of every possible art
or science, not the least interesting being a gallery of invention
where were samples of every art known to the world, and which was
adorned with busts of all the great inventors, such as the inventor
of music, the inventor of letters, the inventor of printing, and so
on.

The visitors were lost in amazement at the resources and wealth of
this wonderful college, and when they thought of the wisdom of these
people and their wealth and power, which they used only for good, they
could well believe the assertion that of all the ships which had ever
visited this land not one ever returned, and out of all the many
strangers who had come there since the proclamation of the law against
aliens, only thirteen had ever gone back to their own land.


Bacon did not finish the New Atlantis, and we can only guess what the
end might have been, but the part that he has left gives us a clear
idea of what he thought a state should be, and of his broad views of
education.

This dream of an ideal commonwealth where all men were brothers and
each one was given a fair chance in life, shows that Bacon, like other
great philosophers, did not think such a thing an impossibility and
had faith in the good that the future might bring to mankind. Bacon
died in 1626 from the effects of a cold caught while trying the effect
of snow to arrest decay in the dead bodies of animals. He was buried
at St. Albans in the church of St. Michael's.




CHAPTER III.

MILTON--SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.


England throughout the greater part of the seventeenth century was a
vast field of war on which were fought some of the greatest battles in
history. Sometimes these battles were fought by armed men, as when the
troops of Charles I. met the troops of Cromwell and both struggled for
victory. And in this struggle the people finally triumphed and
established civil and religious liberty in the land.

But more often the battles of this period were fought without any
weapons, and the conflict was not between man and man--Royalist
against Puritan--but between man and his own conscience. The Puritan
spirit, which looked upon this world as a passing show, had permeated
every thoughtful mind, and men everywhere were thinking of spiritual
things, and wondering whether the Puritans were right in saying that
the glory of this world, which would fade away, was nothing in
comparison to the glory of noble living and the conquest of evil in
the soul. This question held the hearts of the people as nothing had
ever held them before, and it was a question that each one must answer
for himself. And so the battles fought on these battle-fields were
silent ones, and whether one were victorious or not, none could tell
save the victor or vanquished himself. Men turned from the things of
daily life to ponder upon the mysteries of the spiritual life, and
gain and honor here seemed to sink into insignificance, and each man
was engaged in following what he considered the right rather than in
achieving worldly success. And this warfare left its mark. The
children of these people grew up in homes where spiritual things were
talked of continually, and where a good life was considered the one
important thing. Even their very names, such as Patience, Honor, and
Hope, had a spiritual meaning, and they were taught that life meant
only a conflict between good and evil, in which each one must fight
as a brave soldier on the side of righteousness.

Throughout this great world of puritanism the Bible was the one book
that was read and discussed, and was in fact a part of the daily life
of the household. To the Puritan child the sight of the Bible was as
familiar as his own father's face, and in fact often one seemed
inseparable from the other; and he was taught that this wonderful
book, with its stories of prophets and saints and martyrs, and its
visions of heavenly beauty, was the only guide which could lead him
safely through this life and fit him for the life beyond. And from the
time they could remember they were used to seeing their fathers and
brothers go forth in round hat and doublet to fight the king, with
sword and Bible as their companions.

This puritanism took deep hold of the middle and lower classes, and
though it was often unwise in its actions and uncharitable in its
judgment, yet it still was the vital force which so moulded the
character of the age that the English race became forever its debtor,
while English literature received from it two books which stand alone
in the world of literature.

The first of these books, _Paradise Lost_, dealt with the Paradise
which man had lost through his sin, and was a vision of the Eden
wherein the heart of man was as pure as the heart of a little child.
The second book took up the story of man laden with sin and sorrow,
and showed him on his journey through this world to the heavenly
kingdom, wherein he should find his lost inheritance awaiting him.
This book was called _Pilgrim's Progress_, and was published three
years after the publication of _Paradise Lost_.

The author of _Paradise Lost_ was John Milton, a Puritan of the middle
class. The author of _Pilgrim's Progress_ was John Bunyan, the son of
a tinker and a tinker himself by trade.

Milton, like Chaucer, Spenser, and Bacon, was born in London, and the
first memories of his childhood were connected with the sights and
sounds of a great city. But the London of Milton's early years was not
quite the one familiar to the young eyes of Bacon, for the family of
Milton belonged to the middle class, and the future poet's
surroundings were very different from those of the son of the lord
keeper.

The father of Milton was a scrivener, a man who drew up wills, leases,
and other legal documents, and who carried on his business either in a
plain little shop, or at the homes of his patrons. A scrivener would
never be seen at court or in the houses of the nobility unless sent
for to pursue his calling, and the manner of his life was far removed
from that of the great world of the court.

In those days the life of the middle class was simple and wholesome.
Tradesmen, merchants, mechanics, brewers, and all men engaged in
business were included in this class, and as each trade formed a guild
or corporation which was always rich and powerful, the members were
highly respected, and represented a certain influence in all questions
of the day.

This class lived, as a rule, in the streets that were devoted to
business, and their families occupied the rooms at the back or over
the shop. The master's apprentices always formed part of the family,
sharing the meals and having equal privileges in many respects with
the children, and it was no uncommon thing for an apprentice to
succeed to his master's business and marry one of the daughters of the
house.

Bread Street near Cheapside was one of the principal business streets
of the city at that time, and was occupied almost entirely by wealthy
merchants. The houses were substantial and often handsome, standing
with gable end toward the street and bearing over their doors the arms
which stood for their calling, many of these being very fantastic and
gorgeous, as each man's shop was known to the business world only by
the sign or emblem over the door. Thus one shop was known as the
Silver Shield, because that was the sign of the silver-smith who
carried on his business therein, and another would be known as the
Golden Arrow, because of the sign which told that the master was a
dealer in weapons of warfare. In Bread Street there was a row of
houses all adorned with the showy arms of the goldsmith's guild and
the figures of wood-men riding on monstrous beasts, because the
builder had been a goldsmith by the name of Woodman, and not far away
from this spot Milton was born, in 1608, in a comfortable house having
over its doors the device of an eagle with spread wings, which
probably stood for the arms of the corporation of scriveners to which
Milton's father belonged.

But whatever its origin, the sign was used to denote that in that
house dwelt a scrivener having the King's authority for the
prosecution of his business. And, as in many other cases, the house in
time gave its name to the immediate locality, and the little court at
the upper end of which it stood came to be known as Black Spread Eagle
Court, a name that stuck to it long after merchants had ceased to
depend upon the signs over their doors for identification and houses
were properly numbered. The London of those days was much given to
shows and pageants of all kinds in which the merchants and mechanics
took a prominent part, and besides these there were the many holidays
in which the master and his family would leave the town and spend the
day in the country, taking with them certain of the apprentices so
that all might share in the pleasant time.

Thus there was mutual respect and good feeling among this class, who
represented perhaps the truest way of living in a time when between
very rich and very poor there was an almost impassable gulf. Into this
commonwealth of the middle class Milton was born, amid fortunate
surroundings for a poet, for this class was in close touch with the
outside world, and Bread Street itself was in the heart of London and
represented all the business life of that great city. Here were shops
of merchants whose ships were sailing the waters of the Mediterranean,
the Indian Ocean, and the South Sea, and displayed in their windows
were the silks and velvets and carpets which they had imported from
those far-off places. Here daily could be met ship-masters who had
fought with pirates and captured Spanish freebooters, and had seen
with their own eyes the wonders of those great cities of the New World
whose temples blazed with gold and jewels and whose treasure-houses
contained inexhaustible wealth taken from their native mines.

Here too were the celebrated inns for the accommodation of the
carriers who traversed England from end to end carrying merchandise
and passengers, and for the use of travellers who had come to visit
London on business or pleasure or curiosity; while near at hand were
the two parish churches of All Hallows and Bow Church, whose famous
bells were destined to ring out many a strange story in future years.

But perhaps the object of most interest of all in this neighborhood
was that famous tavern, called The Mermaid, where Shakespeare and Ben
Jonson and other celebrities used to meet and make merry. This inn was
famous even then, for it was toward the latter part of Shakespeare's
life that Milton was born, and the child must have listened many a
time to the stories told of the great poets whose names were known all
over England, and whose plays thousands thronged daily to see.

These, then, were the associations of Milton's childhood--the
prosperous business life of a great city, whose thrifty merchants
visited his father's house and with whose children he played; the
atmosphere of foreign lands clinging to the bronzed merchantmen and
sailors who passed his door daily; the vision of the great pageants
for which London was famous, when he and others of his companions
looked wonderingly on to see the King and great nobles and lords of
the realm passing by; and not least, the murmur of the name and fame
of Shakespeare, who must have passed the house of the Spread Eagle
many a time, and was no doubt seen more than once by the child with
the wonderful eyes and auburn hair, whose beauty was a proverb among
his friends.

Milton's home was an ideal one in many ways. His father was a man of
fine character and deep thought, and his mother, whom he tenderly
loved, was celebrated in the neighborhood for her kindness and
generosity. The family was well to do, for the scrivener had brought
to his business much sagacity and cleverness, and the children were
carefully bred and nurtured. And this home-life, so wholesome and
happy, was, besides, made beautiful by the sympathy which existed
between the parents and children, and which made all the affairs of
the family common. The father was a musician, as well as a man of
education, and was not unknown to the musical world of London. He had
composed the music for many of the psalms and hymns used in the
services of the church, and from time to time had published, in
connection with other poets, several madrigals and poems.

Thus, from his infancy, Milton was familiar with the group of artists
who gathered in his father's house from time to time, and sang and
practised to the accompaniment of the organ and other musical
instruments which graced the house in Bread Street; and as he
inherited his father's taste for music, he very early took a share in
these performances. His father also taught him the organ, upon which
he became a skilful player, and well acquainted with the best music of
his time.

The father also noticed early that the boy had a natural fondness and
aptitude for learning of all kinds, and that he had inherited the
gift of writing verse, for as early as his tenth year the young
Milton, who was looked upon as a prodigy by his brother and sister,
had begun to write poetry and had made amazing progress in his
studies. In his twelfth year he entered St. Paul's Grammar School, not
far away from Bread Street, and from this time on his passion for
study increased daily. He devoured his text-books as another child
would devour fairy-stories, and it was no uncommon thing for him to
sit up till twelve o'clock at night studying--a practice for which he
paid dearly in later years. But his will seems to have been law in the
household, as his father not only allowed him to sit up till midnight
to study, but ordered the maid to wait attendance upon him in case he
should need anything for his comfort. The time thus spent was so well
used, as far as learning from books was concerned, that in five years
he entered Cambridge possessing a good knowledge of Latin and Greek,
some amount of French, Italian, and Hebrew, and a familiarity with the
works of Spenser, Shakespeare, and other English poets. He was also
known as a pupil who at fifteen had written very fair verse.

At Cambridge Milton remained seven years, passing, for the most part,
an uneventful life there, though in England even then was beginning
that great struggle between the Crown and the people, the one
demanding absolute obedience, and the other absolute freedom in
matters of religion; and this struggle from the first made a deep
impression upon Milton. Already he knew the discontent and unrest of
the people, for his father was a Puritan, and in his twelfth year, the
year he entered St. Paul's, the Pilgrims had sailed away from England
to find in the New World a place where they might worship God in their
own way, freed from the tyranny of a bigoted king. Already he knew too
that the faith that he had been reared in had had more than one
martyr, and that it must have many more before peace would come.

But for all this dark threatening, the trouble only touched Milton in
his college days as a shadow passing by, and he was to see many happy
years before it actually reached him. It was during his college days,
however, that he seriously decided to give his life to literature,
though from his childhood his father had desired him to be a man of
letters. And there is not recorded in the history of any other great
poet such a solemn dedication of his life to a great work as we see in
Milton's. To him it seemed that the poet, like the knight of old, had
a holy mission to fulfil, and that mission was to teach men the beauty
and sacredness of life, and to make them so love truth that they would
follow nothing else. And as the knight, before he received the
accolade, had to learn to be noble in thought, brave in act, and pure
in heart, so he thought that the poet must prepare himself for his
work by noble living so that he might be worthy to record the deeds of
great heroes who had lived purely and died gloriously, and being the
servant of righteousness, be able to lead others in the same paths.

It was about this time, and with these thoughts in his mind, that
Milton first dreamed of writing a great poem which should so lift
men's souls to higher planes that they would not willingly let it
die. Only he thought then that the poem would relate the deeds of
Arthur or some other great English knight and hero whose name still
shone with splendor through the mists of many centuries; but in this
respect his dream did not come true. It was also during his college
days that he wrote some short poems in English, which first
foreshadowed his coming glory as a poet, one of these, _The Ode on the
Nativity; or, Birth of Christ_, being sometimes called the finest ode
in the English language.

He left Cambridge in 1632 and went to live with his father, who had
bought a place in the country, and there Milton spent the next seven
years of his life, learning of nature the things that the country-born
learn in childhood, and becoming familiar with the wealth of meadow
and pasture land, of blossoming orchards and old forests, and pleasant
river banks. Milton took in this beauty with the poet's own gift, and
made it a part of his soul, so that in reading his poems one can see
the spring skies, the clouds of blossoms, the floods of sunlight, the
creeping shadows, and the misty twilight, and hear the nightingale
singing in the dusk. During this time Milton wrote six poems, which
are so full of the soul and feeling of nature, and so perfect and true
in expression, that they could be as readily understood by a child, or
one who was unlearned, as by the greatest scholar, for they are
pictures of things familiar and beautiful with the grace of daily life
and thus appeal to all. These are _L'Allegro_, a poem illustrative of
joy; _Il Penseroso_, a poem illustrative of melancholy; two masques,
and _Lycidas_, a poem written on the death of his friend, Edward King.

With the last of these poems his country life came to an end, and a
short time after he left England for a tour on the Continent. There he
stayed two years, making friends wherever he went, and was received
into the society of the most famous people of the day. While there he
paid a visit to Galileo, then old and in prison for teaching his
pupils that the earth moved around the sun, while all the famous
churchmen of the day denied this truth, and no doubt the memory of
this visit must have come to Milton many a time in later years when
he himself suffered persecution and imprisonment for the sake of the
truth.

His stay abroad was cut short by news he received from home, for
England was then in the midst of many troubles. The King, Charles I.,
was trying to force the English and Scotch Puritans into accepting
religious views which differed widely from those that the Puritans
held, and as Charles was tyrannical and determined to assert his
kingly powers, and the Puritans were obstinate and would have thought
it a deadly sin to make the smallest concession, there was no hope of
a peaceful ending to the quarrel.

Charles was supported by the nobles, clergy, and the upper class
generally, and the Puritans, who in themselves represented the
powerful middle class, had the support of many of the most earnest
thinkers of the day, who saw that religious liberty was the
corner-stone of civil liberty, and that England never could be called
a nation of free people so long as it suffered itself to be led by the
arbitrary will of a king. Milton heard of these troubles and came
back to England to take his part in the conflict, saying that he
thought it disgraceful to be travelling abroad for pleasure while his
fellow-countrymen were fighting for liberty; and from the moment of
his return his voice was heard continually speaking for the cause of
the Puritans.

The trouble grew. The King and the Puritans took up arms against each
other, and England felt all the horrors of civil war and that state of
doubt when no man could tell whether even his own brother was true to
him or not.

For nearly nine years there was open warfare between the King and the
Puritans, and during this time Milton's pen was ever busy in the
Puritan cause. His tracts on religious and civil liberty, the freedom
of the press, and like subjects were of priceless value to the
Puritans. When in the end the Puritans triumphed, and Charles was
beheaded and the Commonwealth proclaimed, Milton was made Latin
Secretary to the State, and for ten years longer he wrote pamphlet
after pamphlet defending the rights of the people. In this war with
old beliefs he became known throughout Europe as a powerful thinker
and as a man whose honor and patriotism were beyond reproach. Even his
bitterest enemies respected always the purity of his motives and the
honesty of his life.

But this time of political triumph was one of bitter personal grief
for Milton, for in 1652 his eyes, which had always troubled him,
failed utterly and he became blind.

But the Commonwealth came to an end and Charles II. was placed upon
the throne. He issued a pardon to all who had taken part in the late
rebellion, excepting only those who were immediately connected with
the death of his father, and among this latter number Milton was
included. The evil days touched Milton at last, and he was judged
guilty of regicide--the murder of a king--and was sentenced to
imprisonment while waiting the final decision. At this time some of
the pamphlets he had written were burned by the hangman, and what
fortune he had once possessed was lost. Thus, at fifty we see him
poor, blind, and in prison, and the cause for which he had given all,
in appearance hopelessly lost.

But through the influence of a personal friend, Milton regained his
liberty, and then finding a home in a quiet street, he set himself
seriously to the work that he had had it in his heart to do since his
college days; this was the writing of an epic poem which should
celebrate the deeds of some great hero. He had long since decided not
to found his work upon the story of King Arthur, or of any historical
hero, but to choose rather for his theme some subject taken from the
Bible. And after much thought he selected the story of the creation of
the world, and the expulsion of man from the Garden of Eden. This poem
was to be called _Paradise Lost_. He drew up a rough draft of this
work very soon after his return to England from the Continent, but it
was not till twenty years later that he found the leisure to write it.

It was then, during the latter part of his life, that he wrote the
great poem which has made his name immortal, and which stands among
the grand epics of the world. And it was during the days when the
beauty of this world was sealed to his eyes forever that he saw those
wonderful visions of earth and heaven which are to be found in
_Paradise Lost_ alone.

The poem was indited by many different hands, as Milton was dependent
entirely upon the services of others; sometimes one of his daughters,
sometimes a friend, often a paid secretary, performed the office of
amanuensis, but the work went on steadily and harmoniously to the end,
and when it was published placed Milton at once among the great poets
of the world, and gave to English literature an epic poem.

Milton by his choice of subject joined the England of his time with
those far-off days when Caedmon sang the first English songs in Whitby
choir. It is worthy of remembrance that that first note of melody
which deepened at last into the deathless music of Shakespeare, should
have kept throughout its divine sweetness and purity, and that Milton,
the last great poet whose life touched Shakespeare's, should have so
crowned and glorified the whole.

The story of _Paradise Lost_ is as follows:

Far back in the dawn of time, before the earth or man was created, the
angels of God wandered through the ways of heaven as pure as the
light and happy in their utter ignorance of sin. For them the trees of
Paradise bore golden fruits and the flowers shed perfume and the
rivers wound in beauty through the green meadows, and in the midst of
these blissful abodes the angels were ever joyous, for they knew not
what change meant and any knowledge of pain had never been theirs.

But a change came, for one of the great angels, named Lucifer, because
of his splendid beauty, took to his heart one day a thought that grew
there like a poisonous weed and drove all happiness away from him, so
that he shunned the company of his companions and the looks of his
friend, the great archangel Michael, who kept the gates of heaven.

The thought grew stronger and stronger, until it was like a great
shadow, barring out the light, so that heaven ceased to be beautiful;
and it also stood like a drawn sword between the angel and his friend,
and kept them apart, though the archangel Michael knew not the reason.
This thought, which dimmed for Lucifer the brightness of heaven, and
blighted the flowers, and made the fruit seem as ashes in his mouth,
was the knowledge that throughout the length and breadth of heaven the
angels gave homage and adoration to God alone, and that no one else
could claim their worship.

Lucifer brooded long over this, and knowing his own strength and
power, grew jealous of the greatness of God; and he formed at last a
project so daring and awful that he dared not even think of it except
when alone, and the knowledge of it brought even fear to him who had
never known fear before. But by long familiarity the thought came to
seem less fearful, and at last, very slowly, Lucifer let first one and
then another see what was in his mind; and some shuddered and were
afraid, and others admired and reverenced him the more, for he was one
of the highest of the angels, and one whose friendship was deemed an
honor by the lesser angels.

As the knowledge of this project spread among the angelic hosts, it
turned the hearts of many away from their loyalty to God, until at
last one-third of the angels had promised to aid and support Lucifer
in his mighty undertaking; for he had determined to overthrow the
power of God and either rule in heaven himself, or at least share the
sovereignty; for he was weary of obedience and had stood so high in
favor that he had come to think himself equal with the Creator.

Among the multitudes that promised him allegiance were many of those
great angels whose beauty and wisdom were the glory of heaven, and as
Lucifer numbered over his vast army he felt that victory must be his,
and that he should be able to reward his faithful friends with power
such as had never been theirs before.

But to the Archangel Michael he breathed no word of his design,
knowing that angel to be as incorruptible as truth itself; only, as
the time for his revolt came nearer, he went less and less into the
presence of Michael, whose glance alone seemed to pierce the soul of
Lucifer and make his fair hopes fade like blighted flowers.

So the time came, and one day the music of heaven was drowned by
sounds never heard there before, for Lucifer, the shining one, had
drawn his vast host into battle array, and their white wings and
glistening shields lighted the wide space in which they stood till it
seemed as if all the glory of paradise was gathered there. And, in
response to this dread challenge, came Michael the Archangel, leading
the loyal legions of heaven, the numberless forces crowding close
around him whose majesty was beyond the majesty of all other angels,
and whose power was invincible, and the dreadful combat began.

But though the forces of Lucifer were of the angelic host and he,
himself, was one of the princes of heaven, they could not win the
victory; for Michael fought with the sword of God and his followers
were beyond the power of failure, having never known either fear or
sin. Battle after battle was lost to Lucifer and he was at last
conquered, and with his legions was cast down from the heights of
heaven, and fell through deep spaces of darkness till he reached the
shores of hell, which was thereafter to be his eternal abode, bearing
with him, out of the conflict which was to have ended so gloriously,
only bitter defeat and unending disgrace. And on those shores of
darkness he and his armies lay for a long time stunned, unconscious
even of defeat.

For nine days and nights they lay there, at the end of which time his
power came again to the vanquished leader, who was to be known no
longer as Lucifer, the shining one, but who was called thereafter
Satan, the enemy of God. And he rose and summoned his legions back to
consciousness, and called his great chieftains to a council to decide
what next to do, for though vanquished he had not yet given up hope.

The fallen angels sprang readily to their master's bidding, for his
old authority still held them under its spell, and from the dark
storehouses of hell they gathered gold and silver and precious stones,
and built therewith a stately and beautiful palace from whose arched
roof rows of starry lamps shed their light upon the throne, beneath
which blazed countless jewels; and thither came Satan and his great
ministers to deliberate what to do.

Some advised another battle, being unwilling to believe that their
cause was forever lost, and some advised submission, feeling how vain
it was to fight against heaven; and at last Satan himself proposed
that they should accept their defeat, and instead of trying to conquer
heaven, which could not be conquered, set about seeking some means of
revenge; for though they never again could win back their lost glory,
they could at least war continually with whatever God loved. Then
Beelzebub, next to his master, chief of the fallen princes, recalled
to their minds the old tradition that had long existed in heaven, that
God intended to create a new race of beings, equal to but different
from the angels, and that for their use he was also to create a place
called paradise, which should partake of the divine beauty of heaven
and be a fitting home for the pure beings who were to dwell therein.
And he urged them to win their revenge by tempting this race to
rebellion against God even as they had rebelled, so that the work of
God might be marred and the beings that he created in love become his
enemies and haters.

This last suggestion was accepted by the powers of hell, for Satan did
not doubt his ability to tempt the new race to rebellion against God,
as he still possessed the majestic power and wisdom which had been his
when he roamed through heaven, the peer of the archangels and the
favored of God. But now the lost beauty of heaven appeared hateful to
him and only that which was evil seemed desirable, for his soul had
lost its angel nature, and its whiteness was marred with shadows as
dark as those which lay over the borders of hell.

Then the council having come to an end, Satan started forth to see if
he could find the new world and its dwellers, not knowing whether they
had yet been created. He travelled through the wide spaces of darkness
borne on his mighty wings, and felt neither fear nor fatigue till he
reached the boundaries of hell and came to its nine portals of brass
and iron and rock, and heeded not the fire-encircled shapes which
guarded them, and forced Death, its warder, to unbar the gates.

Traversing the outer regions, he saw at last a gleam of light, and
drew nearer until he saw the walls of heaven gleaming down upon him,
and attached to it by golden chains, the shining sphere which held the
new-created universe. Then he quickly winged his way through the
regions of the stars, and came at last to the sun in splendor above
them all; then he alighted and saw standing near him an angel shape,
whose hair was of the color of the sun, and upon whose brow blazed a
crown of many precious stones, and whose wings hung motionless as if
he waited some command. Although the face of the angel was turned
away, Satan knew him to be Uriel, one of the seven great angels who
stand nearest the throne of God, and are ever his chosen messengers.
And because he knew that this holy angel would not hold converse with
such as he, Satan changed himself speedily into another shape, and
stood there with flowing curls crowned with gold, and with wings of
myriad colored plumes, smiling in youthful grace, and begged the angel
to tell him in which of the shining orbs beneath them dwelt the new
race of man, or whether all those spheres were his homes at different
times, for he would fain look upon this great work of God.

Uriel, who knew not deceit, nor could detect it in others, pointed out
the earth shining far beneath, and told Satan that that was the home
that God had made for man; and with this answer Satan took his leave,
and sped through the starry spheres till he came to the new earth, and
alighted there and took his way onward till he came to Eden, the
beautiful garden wherein dwelt the new race. There he saw the trees
hanging with blossom and fruit, and the herbs with their perfumed
buds, and the many colored flowers, and clear streams and shady walks,
and in the midst the tree of life, taller than any other tree, and
bearing rich stores of golden fruit; and next to it the tree of the
knowledge of good and evil, whose fruit no one might touch. And this
view so enchanted Satan that he knew beyond doubt that man must also
be found in that garden, and he spread his wings and passed the walls
and took his flight to the tree of life, and sheltered himself in its
spreading branches so that none might see him.

Then looking down, he saw the new creatures that God had made, and
found that they were as fair as the angels themselves, while around
them played other living creatures which had been created for their
use, and which joined in their play and shared their food; for there
was no such thing known as fear or hatred.

As Satan looked down and saw Adam and Eve walking through this fair
garden, where grew every kind of delicious food, and where the lion
played with the lamb and the tiger sported with the fawn, he was
filled with hatred of the goodness of God, and he resolved to change
this abode of peace to one of ruin and despair, if he could. Then he
quickly came down from his high place, and changing his form
constantly into the shapes of the different beasts who played around
them, he came at last to the noble pair, and heard them praise the
beauty of the garden and their happy lot therein, and heard also that
of all the delights of the garden, one alone was denied them, and
that was the fruit of the tree of knowledge, which had been forbidden
them by God.

And hearing this, Satan resolved to make this command the means of
their ruin, and to excite in them such a wish for this fruit that they
would eat it at all hazards. And having determined thus, he left them
for the time.

Now, the great angel Uriel had watched Satan as he winged his way
earthward, and seeing that he cast looks full of evil around him as he
entered paradise, Uriel feared that he meant harm to the dwellers
therein. So he hastened to the Archangel Gabriel, who kept guard at
the gates, and bade him search the garden for the intruder; and
Gabriel sent the two angels Ithuriel and Zephon to search the garden
and find any stranger who might be therein. And Ithuriel found Satan
where he was hidden and touched him with his shining spear, and bade
him arise and follow him, not knowing who he was, for his form was
marred and his beauty was dimmed, and the glory of angelhood vanished
from him; and Ithuriel was filled with wonder when Satan made himself
known, so greatly had he changed.

Then he was brought into the presence of Gabriel, yet feared him not
till Gabriel threatened him with chains and torture if he went not
away; and so Satan returned to hell for the time, though he held his
purpose still firm in his mind. And in the morning God sent the great
angel Raphael down from heaven to warn Adam that an enemy would try
and make him break his faith, and to warn him to be steadfast. And
Raphael, with his six wings of rainbow hue that shed perfume as he
went, sped through the ways of heaven, whose hosts all bowed in
reverence as he passed, and came to paradise and warned Adam of his
peril, praying him above all things to touch not the tree of
knowledge. Then Raphael related to him the strange story of the war in
heaven, and how Satan and his legions had been cast out forever more,
and God had created a new race to fill their places in his love. And
after relating these marvels, and warning them again to keep their
faith, Raphael spread his wings and soared heavenward and was lost to
their view.

So Adam and Eve dwelt in security in the garden, and the tree of
knowledge hung its golden fruits above their heads and they looked
upon it with no wish to eat thereof, it being their chief joy to obey
the commands of God. And for seven days and nights Satan hovered near
the earth but dared not enter paradise, because of the presence of the
angelic guardians and the eyes of Uriel, whose glances saw all things.

But on the eighth night he returned at midnight, and hovering near the
garden, wondered if he might enter in safety, for the darkness hid him
and he knew that daylight would soon reveal his presence if he tarried
longer. Then fearing to pass the boundaries in a shape that could be
seen, for he knew not what hosts of angels kept the ward, he plunged
into the river which flowed just outside of paradise and part of whose
waters, coursing underground, rose again in a fountain near the tree
of life. And from this fountain Satan rose in the form of a mist, and
viewing all the different beasts which were sleeping around him, he
entered at last the body of a sleeping serpent, knowing that in this
disguise his presence would not be suspected.

During the hours of the next morning, as Eve was walking amid the
roses of the garden, she saw a serpent of wondrous beauty approaching,
not crawling on the ground in the manner of other serpents, but
walking erect. And her wonder at this soon changed to greater wonder
still, for as the serpent drew near he began to speak, and the tones
of his voice were sweet and pleasing, and his speech was such as that
used by Adam and Eve themselves.

But the serpent pretended not to see her wonder and began talking to
her of her beauty, and when she asked him from whence he had obtained
his gift of speech, he answered that he too had been created, like the
other serpents and beasts of the field, to be the slaves of Adam and
Eve, and that at first, like his fellows, he had been content to
grovel on the ground. But, he said, coming one day to a certain tree,
he was seized with a desire to eat of the red and golden fruit that
hung there; so he wound himself up the trunk till he reached the high
branches on which the fruit hung so temptingly, and gathering a goodly
store he ate greedily, much envied by the other beasts who stood
watching him below. And from that hour the gift of speech had been his
and knowledge of all things, so that he was equal to the angels in
wisdom and knew many of the secrets of the Creator.

Then Eve was desirous to see this wonderful tree and begged the
serpent to lead her to it, but when they came near it she saw that it
was the tree of knowledge, and she confessed that she dared not eat of
its fruit, for God had commanded them neither to eat or touch it,
saying that if they disobeyed him death would follow. But the serpent
answered her with such cunning words that she could find no reply to
them, telling her that this command she had received had been given to
the beasts also, but that he had eaten of this tree, and instead of
hurt he had received knowledge and the power of speech, and that death
even could not harm him. And at last, after much persuasion, Eve came
to believe that God had forbidden them the fruit of this tree because
he feared that they should come to wisdom like his own; then she
ceased to fear death, seeing that the serpent had only grown in beauty
and power since he had eaten of the tree; so she plucked the golden
fruit and ate it greedily, and seeing this the serpent slunk back into
the thicket, for his work was accomplished.

But to Eve there came not the happiness she had expected, for although
the taste of the fruit pleased her she could not utterly believe the
words of the serpent, and she began to fear that death might after all
come to her. And then she decided to tempt Adam too to eat the fruit,
so that if she were to die he might also die, for she dreaded the
thought of bearing her punishment alone. So she bore the fruit to Adam
and confessed that she had eaten of it, and Adam was lost in sorrow
and amazement, but yet, at her persuasion, he ate also, choosing death
with her, if death should come, because of his great love for her.

But instead of happiness and joy, their disobedience brought to Adam
and Eve something that they had never known before, and that was
fear, which came and dwelt in their hearts as it had dwelt in the
hearts of the angels who rebelled against God. Then the beauty of Eden
was dimmed for them, and they wandered through its bowers with
shrinking souls, fearing constantly lest some evil thing might happen.

And all the angel hosts which had guarded the gates of paradise flew
back to heaven, for their mission was over since Satan had entered the
place and tempted man to his ruin; so that there was left in paradise
no creature of heavenly birth. And in the twilight Adam and Eve heard
the voice of God calling to them, and they hid themselves in the dusk
of the trees, for they were seized with bitter fear. But they could
not free themselves from the presence of the Creator, and to him at
last they confessed their sin, knowing that he knew it and that all
disguise would be in vain. Then they learned that instead of blessing,
the fruit had brought woe and eternal sorrow, for even as they had
disobeyed, so now they must suffer the consequences; for God said that
from that day all the heavenly influences which made the earth so
beautiful should be destroyed, since man himself had snapped the
golden cord which bound him to heaven, and had chosen rather to obey
the voice of Satan, the enemy of God. And thereafter the earth should
yield fruits to man only in return for toil and care, and the beasts
that had been created for his service should become his enemies,
filled with the hatred of all mankind because their master had chosen
evil rather than good; for the influence of Satan in paradise had been
like a blighting breath which crept into all created things, and
imbued them with its own power for evil, which was doubly potent
because Adam and Eve had been warned against it and yet had sinned.

This was the sentence which God pronounced as he talked with them in
the twilight; and its weight pressed all the more heavily because they
knew that they had had the choice of better things, but choosing evil,
had shut themselves out from the heavenly beauty and had brought, not
only to themselves alone but to all the earth, the blight and shadow
of evil.

Then God sent the great angel Michael to drive Adam and Eve forth
from paradise, so that they might seek a home elsewhere, and Michael,
attended by the chief archangels, came down to earth and bade the two
transgressors prepare to leave the beautiful garden which had been
their home. But, in pity for their grief, he first showed Adam a
vision of future ages in which the race of man, purified by sorrow and
through the mission of Christ, the divine Son, should regain those
blissful abodes and find the lost paradise of their first parents
freed from trace of evil, and beautiful as in its first beauty, and
that they should dwell therein peacefully, with all power of sin
destroyed.

And with this hope in their hearts Adam and Eve went forth from Eden,
and the archangel closed the shining gates behind them, and set on
either side of the gates the awful four-faced cherubim, whose eyes
looked toward the four corners of the earth, and whose wings were
many-hued, and shadowed them like a rainbow; and over the gates he
placed a fiery sword whose flames shot out on every side. And having
thus finished his work, he sped heavenward and entered the presence
of God, while Adam and Eve still wandered homeless, looking for an
abiding place, and the cherubim kept watch over the barred gates.


_Paradise Lost_ was published in 1667, when Milton was fifty-nine
years old, although it had been finished for two years. Before its
publication he had written a second part, called _Paradise
Regained_--which connected the story of Eden with the story of the
temptation of Christ by Satan, as related in the New Testament. This
poem, which is much shorter than _Paradise Lost_, showed Satan still
warring with goodness, because goodness was loved of God, and in it we
see the figure of Satan shorn of its beauty and majesty, which it has
lost in its long conflict against God, and are shown the fallen angel
with his strength gone, and only cunning and malice left to him as
weapons. Against these the soul of Christ stands firm, and with this
last lost battle Satan acknowledges his own defeat, the bitterest
grief that he has felt since the day that he had been driven from
heaven.

_Paradise Regained_ was published in 1671, in the same volume with
another poem called _Samson Agonistes_--Samson the Wrestler--a tragedy
having for its subject the Samson of the Bible.

This tragedy shows, by its great power and pathos, that Milton's
strength had not declined, and that the great epic, which had been
living in his heart for thirty years, had not driven out that love for
tragedy which he had felt in early life, when it was yet a question
with him whether the work he was to write should take on the dramatic
or epic form.

This tragedy, which takes up the life of Samson after he has become
blind, has been compared by some with the tragedy of Milton's own
life, which throughout had been full of many sorrows. Samson, in his
blindness and strength, seeming to typify Milton in his blindness and
strength, doing his greatest work after life had laid her crown of
sorrow upon him. But whether this comparison be true or not, we know
this, which is better still, that Milton himself crowned his great
work with a life still greater; that in the midst of tyranny he was
the champion of liberty; that through many private sorrows he kept his
soul serene and pure; and that in prosperity and adversity alike he
bore himself like those stainless knights of old, who he had said in
early years should be the poet's ideal, and thus gained the life
victory which comes only to him who is worthy.




CHAPTER IV.

JOHN BUNYAN--SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.


John Bunyan was born in the village of Elstow in 1628, twenty years
after the birth of Milton. Elstow was a pretty little hamlet, situated
in what are called the English midlands, a low country where bogs and
fens abound, and where the streams run slowly and linger by the sides
of the fields, as if they found the quiet pleasant after their rush
from the hill districts.

The village of Elstow was not far from Bedford, the chief town of
Bedfordshire, and the main street of which was the highway to London;
and Bedfordshire was puritan, and furnished many recruits for
Cromwell's army. In fact, the great dukes of Bedford and Kent were
among the chief supporters of the puritan cause, and throughout the
whole history of puritanism Bedfordshire played an important part.

The father of Bunyan was a tinker, and wandered from village to
village carrying his tools with him, and following his calling
contentedly with no thoughts of greater things in his mind. As a boy,
Bunyan often accompanied his father on these trips through the
different villages, whose people were for the most part poor but
kindly disposed, and where the different affairs of the village, the
county, and the state were discussed from house to house, and thus an
interest and connection kept up with the great world. Thus, though
Bunyan was born of parents who were very poor in this world's goods,
his childhood was not touched by that meanness which makes up a life
of poverty in a great city; for if the family of the tinker was poor,
no one else in Elstow was very rich, and in the affairs and interests
of the village life, one voice was of almost as great importance as
another.

So, as Bunyan passed through the pretty streets of Elstow, whose
quaint cottages, with overhanging upper stories and dormer windows,
may yet be seen, or as he took his way to the village green and
joined in the May-day festivals, fairs, market-day happenings, and
public rejoicings of every kind, he went as one entitled to respect
and the equal of many there, even though his father pursued one of the
humblest of callings, and one in which gypsies, vagrants, and even
beggars, were often found.

And this, perhaps, was not only because the village life of Elstow was
simple in itself, but because Bunyan early showed his great strength
and originality of character; so that wherever he went people were
impressed by him, even though they often censured his actions. For in
this village life Bunyan was always a leader, and his companions were
always willing to trust to him to lead them into all kinds of
mischief. Sometimes the mischief was harmless and resulted only in
fun, sometimes it was more serious, and the mischief-makers put
themselves in danger of the law. Whichever way it was, Bunyan was at
the head of it, for even in his boyhood days people acknowledged and
yielded to his strange power of compelling others to his own way of
thinking.

Poor as his parents were, they sent him for some time to a little
school where he learned to read and write, though he learned little
else; and in speaking of his education Bunyan says he knew neither
Aristotle nor Plato, but was brought up in a very mean condition among
the poorest people, his father's house being of that rank which was
despised by all the families of the land. But this cannot be taken as
literally true, for though the calling of a tinker was often
considered disreputable, yet Bunyan's own family was respectable, and
his ancestors had been known in Elstow for generations.

Going back to Elstow, then, two hundred years ago, we should see the
boy Bunyan, big-bodied and bright-eyed, and clad in homespun, going to
and from the village school, playing with his companions among the
fields, visiting the village green on Fair days, and looking curiously
at the wares displayed there, listening to the mountebanks and
jugglers who practised their arts there, standing in Bedford watching
the procession of travellers on its way to London, and attending on
Sundays the little church to which his mother went regularly, and in
which he had been christened.

We should see him also in one of those strange moods, which often
seized him, when in the midst of a game he would suddenly cease
playing, and stand, with his eyes fixed and staring, as if he were
looking on strange sights. For this healthy, mischief-loving lad had,
even in childhood, the singular experiences which belong to those
natures that are gifted beyond their fellows. Whether in school or at
home, or wandering through the lanes with his father, the fit would
come upon him, and all the scenes about him would fade away, and it
would seem as if he were living another life in another world far away
from this. But these day dreams into which he fell troubled him much
less than the dreams that came to him in the darkness of the night,
and which played such an important part in his early life; for these
latter dreams influenced his mind and affected his conduct even in
childhood, and it is possible to think that they had much to do with
the character of his later life.

These dreams were always sombre and terrifying, and Bunyan often awoke
from them filled with horror that could not be dispelled, for the
dream, in whatever form it came, always appeared to threaten him with
dread punishment for wrong-doing. Sometimes, after a day of healthy
work and play, he would go to bed with his mind filled with the peace
of healthy nature, and would wake horrified by an awful vision of the
end of the world and the wrath of God, who had refused him entrance to
heaven. Sometimes falling asleep, and hearing only the rustle of the
trees and the murmur of the little stream outside the cottage, he
would awake with shrieks and groans sounding in his ears, and horrible
noises echoing back from some dream of the infernal regions. Wherever
he went, or whatever he did, made no difference, he could not escape
from his dreams, which followed him and stood waiting to turn his
nights into horror.

Thus even in childhood he was known as the dreamer, and there is no
doubt that these vivid and terrifying experiences left such an
impression upon the mind of Bunyan, that we can trace to them many of
those striking and wonderful descriptions of mental anguish which
distinguish the _Pilgrim's Progress_, and make it seem like an actual
experience.

These dreams had their source, no doubt, in very natural
circumstances. Bunyan was gifted with great imaginative power, and
had, besides, that intense sympathy which made it easy for him to
imagine the feelings of others. He had also a very tender conscience,
and evil doing by him was always followed by quick and bitter remorse.
The preachers of that day loved to dwell upon the consequences of sin
and the punishments that followed the sinner, and in their sermons
they drew terrifying pictures of the punishment of the wicked after
death. Sunday after Sunday Bunyan would enter the little church at
Elstow, whose gray walls shut out the beautiful world of nature, and
there listen to the gloomy and harrowing Puritan sermons, which dwelt
only on the wrath of God and the terrors of the law, and took no heed
of the gospel of love and forgiveness.

Thus it is easy to see how an imaginative child, listening to one of
these discourses, would go home with his mind filled with terrifying
images, and his soul shaken with horror of the dreadful fate that was
surely to overtake him; and then would come the dreams of the night
and the waking visions, in which he suffered such anguish that it left
an impression which never passed away.

Speaking of this time Bunyan says, that often when at work or play,
there would come a voice from above threatening him with torment
unless he changed his life and left all the joys of this world behind
him, and he adds that often at such times his heart would rise in
rebellion and he would shut the voice out, refuse to listen, and would
hope rather that if there were devils in hell, then he might become
one also, so that he could torment others instead of being himself
continually tormented.

This strange struggle went on in his soul constantly, and was no doubt
due to the condition of the times when men who called themselves
religious thought they must turn away from all the pleasures of this
life and find comfort only in thinking of heaven. This Bunyan could
not do, for this world seemed to him a beautiful and kindly place
wherein one could find much comfort and enjoyment. But as this belief
was directly contrary to the doctrines which he heard preached
constantly, he was always being drawn first one way and then another,
fearing pleasure and yet not wishing to give it up utterly; and this
conflict was all the harder because he was naturally of a deeply
religious nature. Therefore, the Puritanism of the day was like a whip
from which he could never escape, for no preacher of those days ever
showed to his followers any picture of a human soul which could find
reason for the beauty of this life or see any charm in the glory of
the world of nature; but the pictures were always dark and repelling,
and made religion seem a thing of gloom.

Bunyan has left us a picture of his life in a book called _Grace
Abounding_, and though this work is called an autobiography, it is
strange to see how little of his outside life has a place in it. It is
really a picture of the soul, and shows us that strange war which he
fought with himself continually. This book is unique in its power of
making us see the actual struggle that went on in Bunyan's soul, and
reading its pages we seem to have before us real battle-fields and
actual victories and defeats. In this strange story we are thrilled
with those awful words which sound like a trumpet-call, and which over
and over again break in upon his peaceful hours. Then, as he starts in
fear, we watch him as he meets the call with words of mockery or
promises of amendment, or hopeless resignation to a fate which he may
not avert; and as we read all seems as real to us as to him. He tells
us that once, as he was walking through the street, he suddenly saw,
in a vision, a high mountain on the sunny slopes of which all his
friends and acquaintances wandered up and down, refreshing themselves
in the beautiful sunlight, while he himself stood below shivering in
the cold and surrounded with frost and snow and dark clouds; and that
as he tried to pass to his friends he could not, for between stood a
great wall compassing every side of the mountain, and through this
wall he could find no passage. But as he was wandering in despair he
came at last to a narrow gap, and although it seemed hardly possible
that he could push his way through this, yet, by great effort, he
finally succeeded, and so he came into the company of his friends and
was comforted. And this vision, he said, revealed to him that by great
striving even he might enter the kingdom of heaven.

Another time he tells us that once, as he was praying, Satan stood
beside him and told him to cease praying, for he was the chief of
sinners and for him there was no forgiveness. And still again, he
would have a vision of himself walking through this world peacefully
and happily, because of some great hope that had been given him.

Such scenes as these make up the strange story of _Grace Abounding_,
and they take us back to other stories of the doubts and fears of the
human soul and the battle of good with evil, and we feel the great
power of the book, knowing that it deals with the one subject that
must ever interest mankind, and that here too, as in the _Vision_ of
the old poet Langlande, or in the mystic legends of the knights who
followed the Holy Grail, the same picture is before us--the vision of
the soul trying, with burdened wings, to strive after ever loftier and
purer heights.

This unrest and unhappiness followed Bunyan on through his early
manhood, and in _Grace Abounding_ we still read of his later doubts
and fears in regard to the spiritual world, though there is hardly a
line to tell us what part he was playing in the work-a-day world
around him. It was at this time that he married and began housekeeping
in one of the poorest cottages of Elstow, earning his living by means
of his trade. But in the record he has left us he does not speak of
poverty or ambition or success from a worldly point of view; to him
the little cottage with the forge attached to it was a place good
enough to work and sleep in, and the rest of his life meant that
strange existence within himself which went on regardless of the world
outside. Even the most harmless pleasures often, at this time, seemed
to him wicked, and he either shut himself off from them entirely, or
gave himself up to them utterly, as hope or despair ruled him. At one
time he would spend the whole of Sunday in sport and games, and
another time would find him so convinced that he was the chief of
sinners, that he would refuse to go into the belfry and ring the bells
for church, saying that he was unfit for such an office. This last was
a great denial to him, for he loved to join the other ringers and send
the music of the bells pealing across the fields and lanes of Elstow,
and in one of these despairing moods he would steal to the belfry
tower and stand looking on, while the bells rang out their sweet
message, and feel that he was forever shut out from all that was good
and beautiful.

But this wretched state passed at last, and Bunyan came into ways of
peace, and as his was one of those earnest natures in which doing
meant everything, as soon as he felt comfort in his own soul he began
to preach to others. And because of the strange experience of his life
and his natural eloquence, he soon became one of the most popular of
preachers, and his fame spread abroad, even to London, whither he
went more than once. During these visits to London he preached to
large congregations, and many people of all ranks in life came eagerly
to hear him. But this period of his life was also one of great trial
outwardly; for during these years of earnest work, Bunyan suffered
cruelly from the injustice and bigotry which still pursued the Puritan
faith, after the fall of the Puritan power and the crowning of Charles
II. There was, in Bunyan's case, no reason for persecution, except
from a religious point of view, as he was a man of mean position in
life, and but for his religion, his name would never have been heard
beyond Bedford.

But because he preached the Puritan doctrines he was considered an
enemy to the state, and, in 1660, he was imprisoned in the county jail
of Bedford and held there for twelve years, because he would not
promise to give up what he considered his life's work. During this
time his family suffered the greatest poverty and Bunyan suffered with
them, not knowing how to provide bread for the wife and little
children, one of whom was blind. Some work he could do, though it
brought little money, and while making shoe-laces, and doing other
such work as could be done in prisons, his mind was full of sorrow,
knowing that through him his family must suffer hunger and all the
hardships of the poor, while he could do nothing to help them.

Bunyan's friends made many efforts to obtain his release, but year
after year passed away, leaving him still in prison, and even when,
after twelve years, he was freed, his liberty was again taken from
him, and he was made a prisoner for conscience's sake. But this latter
imprisonment lasted less than two years, and at the end of that time
he was a free man once more, with the liberty of going whither he
would and preaching whatever doctrines seemed best to him.

With this liberty came to him also some of that great fame which soon
crowned him, for during his prison life he had written many books,
which had been widely read by all classes of people. These books
preached the Puritan faith as persistently and eloquently as Bunyan's
own lips had preached it; and thus, in spite of his weary
imprisonment, his great missions had still been carried on. But the
great book of all, the book which brought him his immortal fame, was
not published until after his release. In fact, there is some doubt as
to whether the entire work was finished in prison, but we know that
the greater part was written there, and that it was completed
immediately after his release, if not before, so that it belongs to
this period of his life, whether the actual words were written down
then or not.

This book he called _Pilgrim's Progress_, saying that it portrayed the
journey of the human soul from this life to the heavenly kingdom. It
is thus an allegory, and the genius of Bunyan made it the greatest
allegory that has ever been written, both because it dealt with a
subject of interest to all mankind, and because as a literary work it
stands on a level with the great masterpieces of the world.

The book is written under the form of a dream, and with his strange
power Bunyan takes us with him to the world of sleep, and makes it so
real to us that only the waking seems odd and unreal. The book was
published in 1678 by Nathaniel Ponder, a London bookseller, who had
already suffered the penalty of the law for publishing Puritan tracts
and pamphlets. It was a little brown book bearing on the cover only
the title and the date of publication. It was printed on yellowish
paper and from new Dutch type, and the title-page, as well as the rest
of the book, was adorned with many of those fanciful and unique
characters which soon after passed into disuse. There is an
introduction in verse, which Bunyan called _An Apology_, in which he
gives his reasons for writing the story, and to which his name is
attached. And at the end of the book there is another bit of verse
called _The Conclusion_. The dream itself, which ends with the word
_Finis_, occupies two hundred and thirty pages, which are
wide-margined and clear in type. Perhaps of all the great books of the
world _Pilgrim's Progress_ is the smallest, as its first appearance
may have been the humblest, for outside the initial letter, a capital
A on a spray of flowers, there is no attempt at decorations, and it is
evident that Nathaniel Ponder thought only of doing his work honestly
and with as little show as possible.

But this humble little book, written in such language as was used by
the middle-class countrymen, was soon perceived to be a wonder, and
took its rank in the world of literature by the side of Milton's
splendid epic, for, like that, it was possessed by a genius such as
the world seldom sees. It was read eagerly by all classes, it was
accorded a high place by scholars, and the author was looked upon as
one of the world's favored ones.

Bunyan's life, after the publication of _Pilgrim's Progress_, was one
of constant and earnest work. It was during this time that he made
those visits to London which gave him such fame as a preacher. He also
published other books rich in thought and powerful in their effect
upon the minds of the day, of which the chief is _The Holy War_, like
_Pilgrim's Progress_, an allegory, in which the celestial and infernal
armies contend for the possession of the town of "Mansoul." But his
great work was _Pilgrim's Progress_, and it is this book which gives
him his place in English literature. It has been read since then in
every quarter of the world, and has been translated into seventy
different dialects.

Bunyan died, in 1688, in London, and was buried in Bunhill Fields, one
of the great burial places near London.

The story of _Pilgrim's Progress_ is as follows:


Bunyan says that as he walked through the wilderness of the world he
came to a den where he laid himself down to sleep, and as he slept he
dreamed a dream. The den was the prison at Bedford in which he was
confined, and the dream was the vision of _Pilgrim's Progress_, in
which he saw the hero Christian standing before him clothed in rags,
and bearing upon his back a heavy burden. And in his hand there was an
open book which he read continually, weeping all the while, for from
this book he learned that the city in which he dwelt, and which had
always seemed to him a fair and beautiful place, was doomed to be
destroyed soon with fire, and that all the inhabitants who remained
there would be burned in the flames.

But while Christian thus wept, not knowing whither to go to escape
this fate, there came a stranger to him and asked him why he wept. And
when Christian told him, the stranger comforted him by telling him of
a beautiful city which had been built as a refuge for all those who
wished to leave the doomed city of destruction. Then he showed him a
bright light shining across the wide plain, and told Christian that
close beside the light stood a wicket gate, and the gate-keeper would
tell him the way to the beautiful country if he wished to go. He also
gave him a parchment roll containing many directions about the way.
And at this Christian was greatly comforted, and started immediately
toward the wicket gate, nor would he go back, though his friends and
neighbors tried hard to persuade him. Then one of his friends joined
him across the plain and said that he too would leave the City of
Destruction. But as they were thus walking together, they fell all at
once into a miry slough called the Slough of Despond, because many
who fell therein became discouraged and would not go any further. And
in this place Christian's companion left him, and the Pilgrim went on
his way alone, struggling hard to cross the miry ground, and weighed
down by the burden on his back. And he became almost discouraged
himself, and might have turned back also had not one named Help come
to his assistance and showed him the way out of the slough. And then
Christian perceived a curious thing, and one that comforted him
greatly, which was that the King of the Celestial City, knowing how
hard was the way thither, and how full of difficulties and dangers,
had set certain of his servants in different places in the road to
guard and help the poor pilgrims travelling along it. Help was one of
these, and it was well for Christian that he came at the right moment
to help him out of his trouble, for he was unused to travel, and the
City of Destruction was a place where one thought of pleasure only,
and where lessons of endurance and fortitude were seldom learned.
Then Christian went on his way and came at last to the wicket gate,
over which was written, _Knock and it shall be opened unto you_. He
knocked cheerily, and presently the porter came and opened the gate,
and on hearing Christian's story showed him a narrow path leading
straight from the gate, and told him that that was the road to the
Celestial City, and that by keeping to it he would be in no danger of
losing his way. For this road, he said, was distinguished from all
others by being straight and narrow, never turning either to the right
or the left, or joining itself to any other road. The porter also told
Christian that a little distance beyond stood the House of the
Interpreter, built by the King of the Celestial City, where he could
learn many things useful for his journey. So Christian left him and
went on his way, following the little narrow path, though he could go
but slowly, owing to the burden upon his back, till he came to the
house of which the porter had spoken. And when someone came to open
the door in answer to his knocking, Christian perceived that this was
the most wonderful house he had ever seen; for it was full of pictures
of pilgrims on their way to the Celestial City. Some pictures showed
them happy and prosperous, and others showed them discouraged and
fearful, and from these pictures he gained many a hint for his own
journey. The Interpreter also showed him other strange things. In one
room he saw two children sitting, one weeping and full of anger, and
the other silent and full of peace; and the name of the one was
Passion, and the name of the other Patience; and the Interpreter said
that Passion wept because he could not have all the pleasures of life
brought to him at once, and Patience was calm because he was willing
to wait, knowing that whatever he was worthy of would come to him at
last. Christian saw that from this he was to learn a lesson of
patience, because when all the treasures which Passion desired were
brought to him, he squandered them at once and presently had nothing
left but rags, nor could hope for anything more, while Patience still
could look forward to a reward that would be his when he had at last
earned it faithfully.

And many other things the Interpreter showed him, among them being a
stately palace, upon the roof of which walked many people dressed in
garments of gold. Before the palace doors stood many persons desirous
of getting in, but fearing the men in armor who kept guard. So no one
tried to pass the men till one man came, braver than the others, who
rushed upon the armed men and, after a fierce fight, entered the
palace victoriously, and was welcomed by those who walked upon the
house-top, and was given a garment of gold. And this Christian saw was
a picture of the opposition which a pilgrim must meet on his way to
the Celestial City, and that if he would win his way he must boldly
attack all enemies, and know neither fear nor faint-heartedness.

With such thoughts in his mind Christian left the House of the
Interpreter and went on his way. As he went slowly along stooping
under his heavy burden, he came to a place where the path made a
little ascent, and looking to the higher ground above him he saw a
cross standing; and as he came up to the cross his burden suddenly
loosed itself from his back and rolled away from him, and tumbled at
last into a pit beneath the cross. And at this Christian was much
rejoiced, though it did not seem strange to him, for the cross was the
symbol of the king of that country whither he was going, and by its
means many were able to overcome difficulties that might otherwise
have overwhelmed them.

As he stood looking at the cross, there came to him three shining ones
who said _Peace be to thee_, for they were also the servants of the
king; and with this they stripped him of his rags and clothed him in
fair garments, and gave him a roll of parchment sealed with the king's
seal, telling him to keep this safely, for no one would be admitted to
the Celestial City who possessed not one of these rolls. Then they
left him, and Christian went on with a light heart and a light foot,
for his burden lay behind him in the pit, and the shining ones had
given him words of good cheer and blessed hope.

As he went he saw other persons also travelling in the same direction,
and some were asleep by the wayside and were bound with fetters, and
some were travelling outside the narrow path, and told Christian that
they had not even entered by means of the Wicket Gate; and when he
tried to free them of their fetters, or persuade them to journey to
the Celestial City by the way the king had directed, they only laughed
at him, so he had his trouble for nothing. But some of them still
journeyed near him until they came to a great hill called the Hill of
Difficulty, up which the narrow path led directly to the steepest
part. And here Christian lost his companions, for they would have none
of the narrow path, but took another road which led around the side of
the hill, and Christian found he must go on his way alone. But this
did not trouble him, as ever since the burden had dropped off his back
he had felt brave-hearted and fresh; and so after taking a refreshing
drink from the little spring which welled up at the foot of the hill,
he took his way up the steep slopes, singing as he went, though the
way was rough with stones, and there was not even a shrub or tree by
which he might help himself along the way; for he knew that however
difficult at first, the little path would lead him at last to the
beautiful country on which his heart was fixed. When he had gone
half-way up the hill, he saw something that encouraged him greatly;
right before him stood a little arbor, green with running vines, and
pleasant with flowers and songs of birds; and here Christian was glad
to rest, as the arbor had been built by the king of the Celestial City
for the rest and comfort of weary pilgrims. But as Christian sat there
thinking over the events of his journey, and gathering strength for
the remainder of the hill, the quiet and beauty of the place lulled
him to sleep, and he slept many hours, while the day sped on till the
sun began sinking in the west; then a warning voice sounded in his
ears, and he woke from his slumbers with a start, and went on his way
without thought of further rest, till he came to the top of the hill.
And he was glad at this, for he dreaded the perils of the night in
such a lonely place. But as he went along he saw two men running
toward him with faces full of fear; and when they came up to him they
told him that a little way beyond stood two lions in the path, whose
roaring had frightened them back, though, like him, they were pilgrims
on their way to the Celestial City. Then as Christian could not
persuade them to turn back, he had to go on his way alone. Being much
troubled by thought of the lions, he put his hand in his bosom to take
out the parchment roll which the shining ones had told him to read
when he felt downcast or fearful, but found to his distress, that the
roll was gone, for he had lost it while he slept. As he could not
enter the Celestial City without the roll, there was nothing for him
to do but turn back; so Christian retreated his way step by step,
searching everywhere eagerly; but he saw nothing of the roll, and came
back at last to the green arbor where he had slept, and there he sat
down and wept, for his heart was heavy with fear and sorrow. But as he
sat there weeping, he chanced to look down under the seat, and there
he saw his precious roll lying unharmed, and with great joy he
snatched it up and put it safe in his bosom, and began his second
journey up the hill, being now more fearful than ever of the strange
way; for before he had arrived at the top the sun went down, and the
twilight settled over the land; and the twilight gave place to the
night, and Christian found himself alone upon the hill with darkness
around him, and his heart filled with fearful thoughts of the lions in
the pathway beyond.

Still he went on as bravely as he might and reached the top at last,
and followed the narrow path till he saw before him a stately
dwelling, which stood by the highway side, called The Palace
Beautiful. Christian pressed on, hoping to find shelter there for the
night; but as he came nearer, he saw the way guarded by the two fierce
lions, whose roars were frightful to hear. And at this sight Christian
stood still, for his heart failed him utterly. But as he stood there,
the porter called to him from the lodge to come on, as the lions were
chained; and at this Christian took heart and went on, though he had
to pass right between the lions, which gnashed their teeth at him and
tried in vain to reach him; and then he was admitted to the Palace
Beautiful, for this also belonged to the king, and was for the use of
all pilgrims.

After Christian had told the inmates of the palace something of his
journey, and had been refreshed with food and wine, he was taken to a
chamber called Peace, where he lay down and slept till the day broke.

Here Christian stayed two days and was showed all the wonders of the
house; and of these there were many, as it contained mementoes of all
the great pilgrims who had passed that way to the Celestial City since
the beginning of the world. They showed him also from the housetops a
view of a mountainous land far away in the south, and which was
beautiful with woods, vineyards, flowers, fruits, springs, and
fountains, and told him that that was Immanuel's land, through which
he would pass on his way, and that the mountains were called the
Delectable Mountains, from whose summit could be seen even the gates
of the Celestial City.

Then they took him to the armory and dressed him in complete armor,
and gave him weapons to defend himself from the enemies he might meet;
and so, with many words of comfort and counsel, they let him go.

It was well for Christian that he had this rest and comfort, for just
beyond he came to the Valley of Humiliation, wherein dwelt the foul
fiend Apollyon, who passed his life in warring against all pilgrims.
And when Christian saw this monster, who was clad in scales and had
wings like a dragon, and from whose mouth came forth smoke and fire,
he was right glad that he had on his staunch breast-plate and heavy
helmet; for he saw that unless he turned back, he must fight his way
through. At first Apollyon tried to persuade Christian to leave his
pilgrimage and serve him, and promised him great rewards if he would
do so. But when he found that Christian would not listen to these
offers, his rage knew no bounds, and he challenged him to deadly
combat, feeling sure that the pilgrim would be easily vanquished. So
Christian stood still and awaited the attack, knowing now that he must
fight his way through the Valley or turn back. First Apollyon threw
one of his fiery darts at him, but Christian quickly raised his
shield, so that the dart glanced off; then Christian drew his sword
and advanced toward Apollyon, who threw one dart after another, till
the pilgrim was wounded in his head, and hands, and feet, and grew
faint with the loss of blood before he had given Apollyon one blow.
Then though his heart was still brave, he had to fall back a little,
and Apollyon, seeing this, closed in upon him and gave him such a
blow, that Christian fell to the ground and his sword flew from out
his hand, and he gave himself up to death, feeling that his hour had
come; for Apollyon followed one blow with another, all the while
uttering such hideous yells and shrieks, that the valley echoed with
them from end to end. But just as Christian had given up all hope, he
reached out his hand suddenly and touched his good sword again, and
gathering together all his strength, he struck Apollyon one last
blow. This thrust came upon Apollyon so unexpectedly that he had no
time to defend himself, while the sword bit so fiercely, that he had
to shrink back in spite of himself; and with this Christian gathered
up hope and prepared for another blow. But Apollyon had received a
deadly wound, and such faintness spread through all his body, that he
could do nothing but spread his great wings and soar out of reach, and
the victory was with Christian.

As he lay there weak and helpless, he saw a hand above his head
holding some leaves from the tree of life, which heals all manner of
hurts, and these leaves Christian took and applied to his wounds and
was healed immediately, so that he went on his journey.

But this dread valley only led to another called the Valley of the
Shadow of Death, and which also abounded in dangers of every kind,
though there was no Apollyon to bar the way. This valley was as dark
as night, and in it were deserts and pits and bogs and ditches, and
therein dwelt hobgoblins and satyrs and dragons; but the narrow path,
on one side of which was a deep ditch and on the other a bottomless
bog, led directly through the valley, and through these dangers
Christian must pass if he would reach the Celestial City.

So he called courage to his heart and began the perilous journey,
though because of the darkness and the pitfalls, he could go but
slowly, and knew not at what moment he might step aside or fall into
one of the traps and snares which the dwellers of the valley had set
for all travellers. But at last he passed safely through, though the
cries and shrieks of the dragons sounded so dismally in his ears, that
he thought he should die from very fright; and when the end of the
valley was reached he saw the day breaking, and looking back, was glad
that he had made the passage in the night, when most of the hideous
sights were hidden from him; for the daylight showed him things so
terrible that he felt sure his heart would have failed him, had he
tried to pass them. So he left the valley, at the end of which had
dwelt two giants in olden time, and where yet lay the bones and ashes
of the pilgrims they had put to death, and came out once more into
sunlight and safety.

And now something happened which brought him great happiness and
cheer, for just before him he saw another pilgrim walking in the
narrow path, and when he came up to him he found it was one of his own
neighbors, who had also left the city of Destruction through fear of
the fate that was to come upon it, and who was now on his way to the
Celestial City. Christian saw that he would now have a companion for
his journey, and his heart grew light indeed, and he and Faithful went
on very happily together. And as they presently entered a vast
wilderness, they found much comfort in passing the time by telling
each other their various adventures since they had left home.

Beyond the wilderness lay the town of Vanity, where there was a great
fair held throughout the year, and as the narrow path led directly
through this fair, Christian and Faithful could not help seeing the
merchandise exhibited and the crowds which came there daily to buy.
Now, the governors of this fair, one of whom was Apollyon himself,
were bitter enemies of the king of the Celestial City, and they had
set up the fair in the narrow path, so that all pilgrims would have to
pass through its streets, hoping thus to entice them to linger in the
town and buy the wares of Vanity Fair, and thus bring their pilgrimage
to an end. Many a pilgrim had fallen a victim to the designs of the
governors, for in this fair were displayed silver and gold and
precious stones, and all manner of things to be desired, all offered
at such a price that even the poorest could buy; and by tempting
pilgrims with these wares Apollyon gained many subjects, and thus
exulted over the king of the Celestial City, whom he hated.

Now, as Christian and Faithful entered the fair all the people stopped
buying and looked at them, for it was seen at once that they were
strangers in the town, being dressed in such garments as were never
worn in Vanity Fair. And those who were near by pressed nearer, and
those who were farther away came closer, and there was so much
commotion and excitement that soon everyone knew that something
unusual had happened. Christian and Faithful paid no attention to this
hubbub and tried to go on their way quietly; but at this the crowd
grew more excited than ever, and the merchants offered their wares,
and the lookers-on pressed around the more eagerly to see what the
strangers would buy; and when it was found that the pilgrims would
neither buy nor linger at the booths, all the people of the fair took
it as an insult to themselves, and they raised such cries of disdain
and anger that the lord of the fair sent in haste to see what was the
matter.

Then they told him that two unknown men had entered the fair dressed
in strange garments, and speaking a language hardly to be understood,
and that they had created a disturbance by their disorderly conduct.
And at this the lord of the fair ordered Christian and Faithful to be
put in a large iron cage as a punishment for disturbing the peace, and
before they could defend themselves the pilgrims were seized and put
in the cage, where they were left many days, while all the inhabitants
of the town crowded around them daily and reviled them, and treated
them as if they had been wild beasts.

But Christian and Faithful answered nothing back, and were so quiet
and patient under all their misfortune, that some of the people of the
fair began to wonder if the pilgrims were really such bad men as they
had been represented to be; and so gradually there gathered around the
cage a few who sympathized with the prisoners, and who would have been
glad to set them free. This so offended the chief men of the fair that
they hated Christian and Faithful more than ever, and accused them of
enticing others to their own evil ways; and so the pilgrims were taken
out of the cage and beaten and put in irons, and were led in chains up
and down the fair so that every one might look upon them, while the
governors threatened a like fate to all who sympathized with them.

But this only won the pilgrims still more friends, for many now
perceived that the strangers were unjustly treated; and at last the
lord of the fair ordered the pilgrims to be brought to trial for
disturbing the peace of the town and deluding the people of the fair;
for Christian and Faithful had talked continually since their
imprisonment of the joys of the Celestial City, and many had expressed
a desire to go thither. So the trial was called and the pilgrims were
questioned by the judges, who tried in vain to frighten them into
submission, and at last Faithful was judged guilty of death, though
some mercy was shown to Christian, who was sent back to jail for a
time.

Then Faithful was brought out for punishment, and was beaten and
stoned and cut with knives, and then burned. But by the help of one of
the townspeople, Christian was able to elude his keepers and escape
out of the town in the darkness. And with him went also Hopeful, who
had helped him escape, and the people of Vanity Fair never saw either
of them again. At first they could go but slowly, for Christian was
worn with his imprisonment; but after a few days they came to a
beautiful river which flowed close by the side of the narrow path, and
on the banks of the river grew many trees whose leaves could heal all
kinds of sickness, and whose fruits were both delicious and
strengthening; and thus Christian found remedies for his wounds, and
refreshment for his spirits, for the water of the river soothed all
who drank of it.

There were also pleasant meadows on either side of the river, green
all the year round and beautified with lilies, and in these meadows
the pilgrims slept many nights, till Christian was cured of his wounds
and had recovered his strength.

And as they went on their way they were glad to find that the rivers
still followed the narrow path, and so for a while the journeying was
most pleasant. But they came to a place at last where the path turned
aside from the river and led over stony places, and at this Christian
was much discouraged, for his feet were yet tender and the stones hurt
him cruelly. But they dared not leave the narrow path, though the
ground became rougher and rougher, so that Christian groaned
continually with pain.

A little way beyond the path took its way by the side of another
meadow which seemed to them as fresh and beautiful as the first, and
on the other side of the fence a little path led right beside their
own, and in the fence was set a stile so that whoever wished might
enter the meadow at his will. And Christian, seeing that the soft
grass would make easy walking for his feet, persuaded Hopeful to leave
the narrow path and walk in the meadow for a while.

As they passed over the stile they saw just before them a man walking
in the same path, and when they called to him to know who he was, he
told them he was a pilgrim on his way to the Celestial City; and then
Christian and Hopeful felt sure that they had not done wrong in
leaving the narrow path. So they went on pleasantly enough till the
night came, when the darkness grew so thick that the man who went
before lost his way and fell into a deep pit, and Christian and
Hopeful heard him groan in great agony. But when they called to him
they received no answer, excepting cries of pain, and then they stood
still in fear, not knowing what was before them. And while they
waited it began to lighten and thunder and rain, and the rain fell in
such torrents that the whole meadow seemed suddenly like a river. Then
they feared to stand still and thought it best to try and get back to
the stile, but this they could not accomplish, for they lost their way
continually, and were forced at last to take shelter under some
bushes; and being very weary, they fell asleep.

Now, this meadow was owned by a grim giant, whose name was Despair,
and who lived in a gloomy castle near by. At daybreak, as this giant
came walking through the meadow, he espied Christian and Hopeful fast
asleep, and awoke them, and told them they were his prisoners, because
he had caught them trespassing on his grounds. Then he led them away
to Doubting Castle, and confined them in a dungeon far underneath the
ground; and here they lay for three days and nights without anything
to eat, and in utter darkness, expecting every moment that Giant
Despair would enter and make away with them. And so bitter was their
despair that they gave up all hope of reaching the Celestial City.

But about midnight of the third night, Christian suddenly gave a great
start and sprang to his feet with joy, for he remembered that he had a
key in his bosom called Promise, which would unlock the doors of
Doubting Castle and let them out. Then he and Hopeful set to work
carefully and quietly to unlock the door of their cell, and found to
their great joy that the key fitted the lock perfectly. Then they
stole cautiously into the corridor and unlocked one door after
another, until at last they reached the outer door; and here their
hearts gave way, for the key would not turn in the lock. But after
much trial and pushing this lock too finally yielded, and the door
swung open; but the hinges were so rusty from disuse, and the door was
so heavy, that the noise of the opening awoke Giant Despair, and
suspecting that the pilgrims had escaped, he rushed in great haste
after them. They were fortunate enough, however, to elude him, and got
out into the air and safe across the meadow and over the stile into
the narrow path. And then, seeing how much danger the meadow path held
for pilgrims, they set up a stone before the stile and wrote on it an
inscription, warning all pilgrims that the way across that meadow led
to the castle of Giant Despair; and by this means they saved the lives
of many who came after them.

Glad enough were they then to keep to the narrow path, for the stones
were better than the walls of Doubting Castle, and the grim voice of
Giant Despair. And after a while the path grew less stony, and entered
a pleasant countryside, where they had a view of fair distant
mountains, and as they drew nearer they found that these were the
Delectable Mountains, about which Christian had been told at the
Palace Beautiful; and at this they were greatly rejoiced, for they
were sure of a warm welcome.

These mountains, which lay always in the sunshine, abounded in
pleasant things: there were orchards, and vineyards, and gardens, and
fountains, and beautiful rivers; and the shepherds who lived there
were servants of the king of the Celestial City, and found their
chief pleasure in showing kindness to the pilgrims who were
continually passing through their country. Here Christian and Hopeful
remained for a day or two, and the shepherds showed them wonderful
things from the top of the mountains. Among other sights they saw afar
off in the valley a place of tombs, where blind men were walking up
and down; and the shepherds said that these men were prisoners of
Giant Despair, whom he had captured as he had captured Christian and
Hopeful, and that it was his custom, after keeping his captives in the
dungeon for a while, to put out their eyes and set them among the
tombs to wander up and down till they died.

They saw also many dangerous places that lay before them on their
journey, and the shepherds showed them how to avoid these dangers, and
gave them a note of the way so they might pass them by unharmed. And,
last of all, the pilgrims had a view of the gates of the Celestial
City, which shone dimly through the distance, and with this they were
forced to say farewell to the shepherds and go on their way. So they
passed down the mountain side into the king's highway again, and as
they went on they saw other men in the guise of pilgrims walking in
the narrow path, with whom they talked about their journey. Some of
these travellers Christian and Hopeful saw were honest pilgrims like
themselves, and others were only going that way because of some
selfish end they had in view; and presently these latter came to a
place where their pilgrim robes fell off, and they were forced to
leave the narrow path, and were cast out from the company of all good
men. And amid such experiences Christian and his companion passed over
a large part of their way, and came at last to a certain country which
seemed to them a beautiful and restful place; for the air had in it a
quality which was so soothing that it made one feel that sleep was the
best thing in the world. Then Hopeful, being very weary, proposed that
they should lie down there and sleep a while; and Christian would have
consented, had he not suddenly remembered that this country was one
of the sights he had seen from the Delectable Mountains, and that the
shepherds had warned them that it was enchanted ground, and whoever
slept there would never wake again. And when he heard this Hopeful
started to his feet wide awake, and he and Christian hurried over the
enchanted ground as fast as they could, telling each other stories of
the Celestial City and talking of many things to keep from falling
asleep; so they came safely at last to the end of the ground where
even the flowers seemed to sleep, and the trees all nodded drowsily.

Just beyond the enchanted ground they entered the Land of Beulah,
where the sun shone ever as it did on the Delectable Mountains. Here
the air was sweet and pleasant, and flowers grew everywhere, and the
birds sang continually. And everywhere the pilgrims met people clothed
in shining garments, walking up and down, and talking about the beauty
of the heavenly country; for the Land of Beulah lay close beside the
Celestial City, and Christian and Hopeful could even see the city
plainly, for it was built of gold and shone like the sun. In this land
were orchards, and vineyards, and gardens kept by the king's gardener,
and beautiful arbors, where weary pilgrims might refresh themselves
with sleep; and journeying through this beautiful country they came at
last in sight of the gates of the city, and knew that their long
pilgrimage was nearly at an end.

But between the Land of Beulah and the Celestial City flowed a deep
river across which there was no bridge, and when they saw this river
Christian and Hopeful stood still in fear, not knowing what to do.
While they stood thus, there came to them two shining ones whose
raiment shone like gold, and whose faces were illumined with the light
of the city, and they told the pilgrims that unless the river was
passed over, the gates could not be reached, as there was no other way
thither.

And at this Christian and Hopeful were filled with dismay, and stood
for a time unable to speak. But at last they gathered up courage, and
knowing that other pilgrims had made the passage of the river, they
entered the water; the cold waves came up close to their heads and the
rough billows dashed them hither and thither, and Christian began to
lose courage from the fright, and he would have sunk beneath the
waters, had not Hopeful kept his head above the waves and comforted
him with cheering words. Christian also saw visions of hobgoblins and
evil spirits, and heard dreadful noises such as he had heard in his
fight with Apollyon. But by Hopeful's aid the dreadful passage was at
last made and they came to the other side, where stood the two shining
ones ready to receive them. The shining ones led them up to the gates,
telling them all the while of the great joys that awaited them; and as
they came to the gates they were met by a great host of the dwellers
of the heavenly city who came out to meet them, singing songs of
welcome. Then Christian and Hopeful gave their rolls to the warder of
the gates, who sent them to the king, and when he had read them the
king commanded the gates to be opened. Then Christian and Hopeful
entered the gates, and were immediately clothed in shining raiment and
were crowned with crowns of gold, and had golden harps given them so
that they might join in the hymns of thanksgiving. And then all the
bells of the city rang for joy as they were led into the presence of
the king. And so their long journey came to an end, and they found the
Celestial City at last fair as they had hoped, and received their
reward for all the troubles and dangers of the way.




CHAPTER V.

THE ESSAY AND THE POETRY OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.


In English literature the seventeenth century is joined to the
eighteenth by four writers whose names occupy high places in the
history of letters. These men were all born during the lifetime of
Milton and Bunyan, and their lives also touched those writers who
belong entirely to the eighteenth century, so that they form an
unbroken link between the two periods.

But although these men lived during the same literary period, their
writings are so different in character, purpose, and style that each
one may be said to have marked an epoch in literature. Unlike the
seventeenth century, when the Puritan idea influenced the thoughts of
the greatest minds, this period is remarkable for the widely different
characters of the men who were its representatives. It was also
remarkable as the birth-time of some new forms of literature.

The four men who distinguished the early part of the eighteenth
century were Daniel Defoe, the founder of the English novel; Jonathan
Swift, the greatest satirist of modern times; Joseph Addison, one of
the creators of the essay, and John Dryden, the most popular poet
since the sixteenth century.

The essay was in the eighteenth century made so popular by the two
writers, Steele and Addison, who also brought it to such perfection
that it is generally considered to date from that time.

The essay of those days was a paper upon any subject which the writer
thought would interest his readers, and appeared always in a little
journal that was published daily, tri-weekly, or weekly, and which
held beside the essay some general news and advertisements.

The first of these journals from which the modern essay dates was
called the _Tatler_, and appeared in 1709, ten years before the
publication of the first English novel. The _Tatler_ was founded by
Steele, but soon after its appearance Addison joined with Steele in
its production, and from this time on the two men worked together,
sometimes one contributing the chief paper and sometimes the other.

Coming in between the decline of the theatre and the birth of the
novel, gave the _Tatler_ an instant success, for society at that time
was depending greatly for itself upon amusement, and the amusements
were not always successful or satisfactory. People often grew weary of
entertainment, though the life of England at that time was more purely
social than it has ever been since. There were clubs everywhere and of
all kinds, and these, with the coffee-houses, where the men of the day
met to talk, and the tea-tables, where the women met to gossip, were
the great bonds of social union. It was an age of talk, and people
found nothing too high or too low, too serious or too flippant, to
talk about. And besides this, fashionable society had come to regard
learning and literature as old-fashioned accomplishments, and fops
and fine ladies even boasted their ignorance of books and their lack
of education.

Steele and Addison set themselves to better this state of things, and
the way they chose was such a pleasant one that people found their
taste improving and a love for good literature growing, without even
suspecting that they themselves had not brought it about.

This was done by making the _Tatler_, and the _Spectator_--the journal
which succeeded it--so bright, chatty, witty, and amusing, that
reading it at the club or tea-table seemed like listening to a good
story told by one of the members, with the exception that the story
was more interesting and better told than those they had been
accustomed to. The charm was also heightened by the illusion which was
kept up in regard to the journal itself, for the _Spectator_ was
represented as being the mouth-piece of a fashionable club. To this
imaginary club belonged Sir Andrew Freeport, the wealthy and important
merchant; Captain Sentry, the brave and dashing soldier; Will
Honeycomb, the fashionable man about town; and Sir Roger de Coverley,
the old-fashioned country gentleman, whose true courtesy, genial
humor, and gracious charity, were the types of that fine old school of
elegance which it was the fashion to deride. To the club also belonged
Mr. Spectator himself, who is always known as the short-faced
gentleman, good-humored and observing, but of less importance than the
others.

The experiences, adventures, conversations, and reflections of this
imaginary club became a daily delight to fashionable London. The
_Spectator_ was read at the clubs, in the coffee-houses, and at the
tea-table; it became the fashion, and not to read it was a sign of
being out of the fashionable world; and everyone, no matter what his
tastes, could find something to his liking. Sometimes one of the
imaginary members would visit the opera, or the play, and the
_Spectator_ would contain a paper so full of humor and fine
observation, yet so full also of suggestion for a higher kind of play,
that the reader would begin to criticise what he had before admired,
and to talk himself of the degeneration of the drama. Again, there
would be a paper on some great poet, as for instance, Milton, and the
reader finding himself addressed as if he were familiar with this
great poet, had to admit an interest or lose his standing of
comradeship with the now popular imaginary club. And so on; no matter
what was the subject of the essay, the reader gradually found his
tastes grow finer, his judgment improving, and a love for good
literature springing up in him. For above and beyond everything else,
the essays of the _Tatler_, the _Spectator_, and the _Guardian_ were
remarkable for the purity and elegance of their language, and this
influence in an age of frivolity and bad taste, was priceless as a
means of elevating the tone of society, as well as of incalculable
benefit in reviving a taste for good literature.

This, then, was the mission of the essay, a mission that it fulfilled
at a time when preaching would not have been listened to, and when any
other great work of literature would have failed because of the lack
of an audience capable of understanding it. But because Addison and
Steele were men who understood and mingled with other men, and who
spoke to them in their own tongue, they were able to establish first a
feeling of comradeship, next to raise the tone of society, and lastly
to create a love for good literature; and so their work was a noble
one even above and beyond the fact that the essays themselves, from a
purely literary point of view, rank with the masterpieces of English
fiction and criticism.


The eighteenth century produced no great poet like Chaucer or Spenser
or Milton, and it is chiefly noted, not for the excellence of its
poets, but for the work it did for poetry.

John Dryden, who knew Milton, connected the poetry of the seventeenth
century with that of the eighteenth century, and was one of the first
poets who wrote for the stage after the fall of the Puritan power,
when the theatres were again allowed to be opened. For twenty years no
theatres had been open in England, and the charm of the Elizabethan
drama was unknown to the generation which had grown accustomed to
Puritan gloom and severity of thought. But when the Stuarts came back
to the throne the theatres were again opened, and a demand for plays
began; and as England was very tired of Puritan dreariness, it
welcomed eagerly the gay and frivolous pleasures which Charles II.
introduced, and which were the foundation of a new drama. All the
playwrights immediately began to write such plays as would please the
court and the gay ladies and lords who were the king's intimate
friends, and all the comedies of this period are marred by the
immorality of the times.

Dryden was regularly paid to write three plays a year for the king,
and produced a number of comedies and tragedies which, though
satisfying the taste of the day, lack skill in drawing a character and
in picturing the emotions of the heart, two qualities which may not be
absent from great dramas. He was a man of great ability, and possessed
one of the finest minds in the whole range of English literature, but
in his dramas he is clever rather than great, and although many of his
sentences and lines compare worthily with the Shakesperean school,
the plays as a whole cannot be placed with the best dramatic
literature, even though redeemed in some cases by a style whose force,
vigor, and majesty took in his own day the place of inspiration and
genius.

Besides his dramas, Dryden wrote a number of long poems on satirical
and religious subjects. He also translated into English verse some of
the Latin writers. Among these translations was one of Virgil which,
as a translation, is considered one of the best in English poetry.
Besides this, he produced a series of poems which he called fables,
but which were in reality a set of stories from old French and Italian
poets introduced in a new dress. Many of them were the same as those
which Chaucer used as foundations for his immortal poems, and in some
cases Dryden simply modernized the old English of Chaucer into the
speech of his time. These fables are among the best poems that he
wrote.

But his greatest work as a poet is found in the single poem on music
which was written in honor of St. Cecilia's Day, and was called
_Alexander's Feast_. This poem has inspiration, melody, and exquisite
perfection of form. It is one of the great lyrics of English
literature, and it is safe to say that it will be remembered when all
the rest of his poetry is forgotten; for the poetry of Dryden, though
polished and magnificent in style, full of countless beauties and the
production of one of the greatest men of his age, yet lacks the
creative power which distinguishes the greatest poets.

But yet his work for English poetry was great and original, and of
service to his age, for this century, which was the century of style
in writing, left also its impress on the verse, which it refined and
polished, and made beautiful in a sense that it had never known
before. This period is sometimes called the age of the correct poets,
because whoever wrote verse was guided by certain rules of composition
which had never been so rigorously followed before. It was, in fact,
an age in which English poetry brought forth few great works, but in
which workmen learned to polish and beautify and enhance the value of
poetry, as the lapidary learns to polish and perfect the beauty of
the diamond. This work of perfecting had for its two great apostles
Dryden, whose prose essays on poetry are so valuable that he is called
the first critic who raised criticism to an art, and his disciple
Alexander Pope, who was born twelve years before Dryden's death.

Pope's greatest contributions to English literature were a translation
of Homer, a philosophical poem called _An Essay on Man_, an exquisite
little burlesque called the _Rape of the Lock_, in which the stealing
of a lock of hair is made the subject of a poem resembling in form one
of the great epics, a long satirical poem called _The Dunciad_, in
which the poet ridicules many of the prominent writers of the day, and
an immense number of fragmentary poems in the shape of essays,
epistles, pastorals, elegies, and other forms. Like Dryden, Pope is
one of the great figures of the eighteenth century, though he is
considered by many as a great man of letters rather than a great poet.
There is one thing which distinguishes him above every other writer of
the century, and that is his immense popularity, which began with his
first publications, followed him through life, and for fifty years
after made him the criterion for all who pursued poetry as an art.

Dryden and Pope thus created what is called the classical school of
poetry, the poetry which depends upon form rather than inspiration for
its power, and which, with the development of history, the essay, and
the novel, was the great work which the eighteenth century
accomplished for literature.


But the latter part of this period saw the birth of a new school of
poetry even while the classic school was still in power, and a new
group of men arose who dreamed, not of producing a polished bit of
verse which should be beyond the criticism of artists, but who desired
rather to interpret nature, or to find some treasure of poetic thought
in an old-time ballad, or to speak a word whose pathos would touch the
heart because it came from the heart.

This was the beginning of what is called sometimes the Romantic, and
sometimes the Naturalistic, school of poetry, because its disciples
set themselves in opposition to the classical school, and cared for
romance, sentiment, and the interpretation of nature rather than for
form.

This school had many followers, for the poets of the eighteenth
century are very numerous, and many fine poems of this class were
produced. The greatest of the group are James Thompson, whose great
poem called the _Seasons_, is a description of nature in every season
of the English year; William Collins, celebrated for his Odes; Thomas
Gray, whose _Elegy in a Country Churchyard_ is considered the finest
elegy in the English language; William Cowper, the poet of domestic
life whose greatest poem, the _Task_, celebrates the joys of home;
Young, the author of the celebrated poem _Night Thoughts_, or
_Meditations on Life_, _Death_, _and Immortality_; and Thomas
Chatterton, who died before he was eighteen, but who left behind him a
number of poems of such great promise that there is no doubt that if
he had lived he would have become one of the great poets of the
world. Besides these there were numbers of other poets who wrote
dramas and lyric poetry, the age between Dryden and Chatterton
producing in all nearly thirty writers in verse.

The last of the eighteenth century poets is Robert Burns, the greatest
genius that Scotland has ever seen, and one of the greatest
song-writers of the world. There is no greater contrast possible than
that between the lives of the other poets of the eighteenth century
and that of Burns. Almost without an exception they were all men who
had the advantages of education and of association with other writers;
they were all also familiar with the world, and with that literature
which formed the guide for writers of those times. To all these things
Burns was a stranger. He was the son of a Scotch peasant who was so
poor that he did not even own the miserable thatch-roofed cottage
which sheltered his family, and all the education which the boy had in
his young days was received in a little parish school, which he went
to for a few years while he was growing big enough to help his father
with the work of the farm. But this peasant lad, born in the lowliest
rank of life, had come into the world with a gift that belongs to very
few, the poet's gift, but which enables him who has it to call the
whole world his kingdom, and makes him brother to the greatest men
that have ever lived.

Very early in life the child discovered that this gift was his, and
his young days were enriched with those subtle impressions and
understandings of nature which only the poetic mind can receive. All
the world around him held wonderful meanings, and its beauty taught
him lessons which books and masters could never have taught. So he
grew up in the school of Nature, nurtured by her until his soul had
absorbed many of her secrets and knew her moods, and felt that some of
her wisdom and sympathy and tenderness had become his. With this early
training it is not strange that Burns should be able to touch the
heart and sympathies of his readers, for what he gave them came from
his own heart, and was due to his subtle but powerful sympathy with
all life and all forms of nature. And his sweetest and strongest
poems are those in which he transcribes this wide and universal
sympathy, for they sing those emotions which govern every heart, and
to which every soul must respond. In these poems he is like an artist
who places in a city window a picture of some shaded fern-draped
brook, which runs its quiet course far away from the noise and glare
of crowded streets, and which takes those who see it back to
long-forgotten days, so that they hear again the songs of wild birds
in the woods, and smell the wild flowers by brook-sides and in green
meadows. Thus the picture becomes a memory, or reminiscence of life,
and it is this quality of reminiscence which so distinguishes the
poetry of Burns. He sings, and his hearers feel again the emotions
that they felt in the great moments of life, and they are held, not by
any new charm, but by an old and familiar one sweet with the memories
of days that can never come again.

It is this power of transcription which makes the great lyric poet,
the poet who sings songs. And in this way it is as high as the
creative power which enables the great dramatist to write dramas that
are placed among the immortal works of the world. In fact the lyric
poet who chooses his subjects from the every-day world around him
reaches perhaps a larger audience than any other kind of poet, for he
endows with grace things that to the world at large appear
commonplace, and sees beauty in what to careless eyes seems without
charm; thus he becomes a teacher, teaching those who know nothing of
books the eternal glory of the world around them.

Among the most famous of the shorter poems of Burns are his _Lines to
a Mountain Daisy_, the one _To a Mouse on Turning up her Nest with a
Plough_, the love song, _Ae Fond Kiss and then we Sever_, his
patriotic poem, _Scots wha hae wi' Wallace Bled_, and that lament for
the past, _The Banks of Bonny Doon_. But indeed all his poetry is so
full of the truest pathos, tenderness, humor, and deep feeling that it
is hard to decide where the greatest merit lies.




CHAPTER VI.

THE BIRTH OF THE NOVEL--EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.


English literature began with the stories that the old bards and
minstrels used to chant and sing in the halls of the great chiefs or
at the firesides of the peasantry, in the beginning of the nation's
history. And for centuries after, popular literature, the literature
of the people, was thrown into the form of a tale or romance, so that
if we look at English letters from the earliest times down to the
sixteenth century, we shall see that it is always a story in some form
or another which fascinated the nation at large, though books on
history or religion might claim the attention of the scholar.

Whether it were Beowulf, King Arthur, Robin Hood, Sir John Mandeville,
the Canterbury Pilgrims, or the Adventures of the Red Cross Knight,
depended upon the date and history of the time, but the book for the
people must be a story-book.

Spenser was the last of the great romance writers who threw their
stories into the form of poetry, for with the exception of the legends
of King Arthur and the tales of Mandeville, nearly all the stories
were written in verse. A little before, and during, the lifetime of
Spenser, the love of this form of literature seemed to grow less, so
that for nearly a hundred years after the publication of _The Faery
Queene_ no story of any importance was written in England with the
exception of Bacon's _Atlantis_, which belongs to the same period as
_The Faery Queene_ itself. This was because the genius of the great
English writers was during this time engaged in developing and
perfecting the English drama, and all the great works then produced
were thrown into the dramatic form. Ever since the twelfth century,
when the miracle and mystery plays fascinated the heart of the English
people, the drama had been slowly growing to the height it reached in
the time of Shakespeare, whose genius, with that of Marlowe, Ben
Jonson, and their friends and successors, made the English nation a
nation of play-lovers and theatre-goers.

This love for the drama held strong for a hundred years, and then only
relaxed because the works of the great dramatists had been put aside
to make room for plays which had so little merit that they soon
wearied the better class, and were chiefly patronized by those who
cared rather for pantomime and nonsense than the true drama.

And it was just at this time, when the people swung back into their
old habit of reading stories instead of going to see them played, that
one of the greatest stories in the English language was written; and
the fact that it was written in prose and was a pure fiction, a thing
designed to please and amuse only, has given the author the position
of founder of the English novel. This great book was _Robinson
Crusoe_, which was first given to the world in 1719.

Daniel De Foe, the author of _Robinson Crusoe_, was born in London in
1661, and was the son of a butcher. His father was a Dissenter, as
those Protestants are called in England who do not belong to the
English Church, and for this reason De Foe could not be educated at
any school under the jurisdiction of the Church, but was sent to one
of those seminaries which the Dissenters founded to supply the place
of the Church schools and colleges. At this school, at Stoke
Newington, De Foe laid the foundation of a good education which served
him well in after-life; and either at school or later on, he must have
been at some time a diligent scholar, as he knew Greek, Latin,
Spanish, Italian, and French, besides being well versed in history,
astronomy, and various other branches of study.

His father intended him to be a preacher, but De Foe did not feel
called to the ministry, and after he left school he was engaged for
some years in business. But business could not satisfy such a mind as
his, which was interested in literature, religion, and politics more
than in anything else, and as his thinking was of an earnest and
original kind, it followed naturally that after a time he began to
put his thoughts into words printed and open to all who would read. He
first came into notice as a writer of political pamphlets and
religious tracts, and for ten years edited a tri-weekly paper which
was partly political and partly literary in its aims. He also had
office under the government for a time. But his career was from the
first one of ups and downs. He would prosper a while financially, to
lose suddenly all his money and find himself in debt. At one time he
was in favor with the king, at another he was imprisoned two years on
a charge of disloyalty. He once wrote a pamphlet which sentenced him
to the pillory, because it championed the cause of the Dissenters; and
yet this very disgrace showed him his power with the people, for
multitudes of his friends stood around the pillory for the three days
of his punishment, covered it with flowers, and drank his health. And
so it continued through his long career, during which he produced so
many tracts, pamphlets, and papers of every kind that even a list of
them would fill pages. But although De Foe won for himself a place as
a brilliant political writer, his claim to one of the greatest places
in English literature was not made till he was nearly sixty years of
age.

And this claim was not based upon his power as a political writer, or
as a defender of any religious sect, but upon his gift of
story-telling, a gift so great that it has placed him among the
geniuses of the world. The time in which he lived was celebrated for
those marvellous adventures on land and sea which filled the ears of
people with stories of pirates, freebooters, and fights between
men-of-war of different nations, for each country had its own cruisers
out on the high seas, and England, France, and Spain were jealous of
the enterprises and ambitions of one another.

The Spanish ships were not allowed to touch at English ports, and
English vessels on the sea were sure of one thing only when they
engaged a Spanish enemy, that they must either conquer or spend the
rest of their lives in working as slaves in the mines of Spanish
America. Still the spirit of enterprise could not be crushed, and
long voyages were continually undertaken to remote parts of the world
and many expeditions made entirely around the world.

One of these voyages was undertaken by Captain Woodes Rogers, a
well-known seaman of the time, and had for its object the
circumnavigation of the globe. Rogers had command of two vessels, the
Duke, and the Duchess of Bristol, and was bound first for the South
Seas, thence to the East Indies, and home again by the way of the Cape
of Good Hope, and there could be no doubt that such a route offered
abundant hope for adventure. This hope was realized. There were fights
with Spaniards, and adventures with the natives along the South
American coast, from the Amazon to the La Plata, and the log-book of
the captain was full of valuable descriptions of the countries
visited, and contained many maps that would be of use to future
voyagers. But the most surprising incident of the voyage occurred
while they were yet outbound, and within the waters of the South Sea.
The captain was uncertain of the latitude of the island of Juan
Fernandez, and as they wished to make that land, the outlook kept keen
watch day and night. But instead of the misty outlines which denoted
land, they saw one night a bright fire blazing not far away, and then
they grew fearful, thinking that some enemy was near. But in the
morning they saw no signs of ships, and as they sighted the island
they drew near and sent off a boat to reconnoitre.

But the boat did not return for such a long time that the captain grew
anxious and signalled for it, and this at last brought it back to the
ship. And then came such a wonder as had never been seen before,
though captain and crew had sailed on many a voyage before, for the
boat's crew brought with them a creature clothed in goat skins, and of
such wild appearance that the captain in his narrative says: "He
looked wilder than the goats themselves, and spoke a kind of language
that it was difficult to believe was meant for English."

The ship's company crowded around the strange man, who created more
astonishment than the discovery of a new kind of animal would have
done, and at last succeeded in drawing his story from him. His name
was Alexander Selkirk, and, four years and four months before, he had
been marooned or abandoned on that island by the captain of the Cinque
Ports, for disobedience and disloyalty. At first he thought he might
soon be rescued and took his fate calmly. He had a good store of
clothes, a gun, some powder and bullets, some tobacco, a hatchet, a
knife, a kettle, a Bible, and some mathematical instruments, and for a
time was hopeful and comfortable; but as time passed and no ship came
in sight, he began to realize his position and was often driven to
despair. Still he tried to make the best of things, and when his
powder was gone, he produced fire by rubbing two sticks of pimento
together. He built two huts of pimento or pepper trees, covered them
with grass, and lined them with goat skins. In one of these he slept
and the other he occupied during the day.

He lived on crawfish and goat's flesh, which he seasoned with pimento
and thus made palatable, though he could never get used to going
without salt and bread. He also ate the turnips which grew upon the
island, and the seed of which had originally been sown by a sea
captain whose ship once touched there. For amusement he wandered over
the island and cut his name on the trees, and sometimes, when hard
pressed for company, he would dance with the tame kids and cats,
singing his own music. The cats, besides being useful as companions,
also performed valuable service for Selkirk, in keeping off the rats,
which at first showed a disposition to devour his clothing and
otherwise molest him. Both cats and rats were descended from ancestors
which had originally been left on the island by a passing ship, and to
the former and to the tame animals which learned to love him, Selkirk
owed all the companionship he had; but they loved him with that
faithful love that animals give to their human friends, and their
merry company did much to brighten his lonely hours; for during the
four years he was there, only two ships came to anchor off the
island.

Both of these ships were Spanish, so that Selkirk did not claim
assistance, fearing that they would only carry him off to work in the
South American mines. The sailors of one of the ships, however, caught
sight of him as he was lurking in the bushes, and gave chase. Selkirk
saved himself by climbing a tree, under which his pursuers passed as
they returned from their fruitless search, and these were the only
human beings that stepped on the island while he was there.

When his clothes gave out he first made clothing of goat-skins pinned
together by thongs, though he afterward made a needle of a nail and
ravelled up his stockings for thread. When his faithful knife wore out
he made another of some iron hoofs he found, and for fire and light he
used the pimento wood, which burned clearly and gave a pleasant odor.
On clear nights he never went to bed till it became too dark to watch
the sea for a ship, and it was the light from his fire which the men
of Captain Rogers's company had seen the night before the island was
discovered. He became an expert runner, catching all the goats he
required by running them down. Once this accomplishment nearly cost
him his life, as a goat he was chasing led him to the bank of a
precipice over which he fell, injuring himself seriously. During his
stay there, he caught over a thousand goats, the greater number of
which he marked on the ear and let go again.

Great was the wonder of the crews and passengers of the Duke and of
the Duchess of Bristol on hearing this strange story, which excelled
in romance anything ever heard before in real life. Selkirk was their
guide over the island, and showed his speed in running by outstripping
the best runners in the crew, besides the trained dogs. When the ships
sailed he went with them as mate on one of the vessels, which
completed their voyage and reached England again in 1711.

In 1712 Captain Woodes Rogers published an account of his adventures,
in which he devoted several pages to the episode of Alexander Selkirk.
The thick little book, with its plain cover of dark calf-skin, was
eagerly read by the public, which delighted in tales of all kinds,
and especially those which related to the far-off regions of the
world. Selkirk's story was also related in one or two periodicals and
papers, so that it was soon generally known in England.

It was this story which De Foe took and, seven years after the
publication of Woodes Rogers's Journal, gave to the world under the
now famous title of _Robinson Crusoe_. Only the first part of the book
was published at first, and it is interesting to know that the name
Crusoe was borne by one of De Foe's school-mates when he was a pupil
at Stoke Newington, and studying for the Dissenting ministry. De Foe
had his hero remain on the island twenty-eight years, and gave him for
companion a trusty and wise dog. And the skill with which he wove the
Selkirk episode into a romantic tale of pure fiction was so great,
that one who read the story without knowing it to be an invention
would think he was reading a true narrative.

De Foe took a common English sailor and invested him with a charm
that made him immortal, though he did no deed of valor or chivalry,
and had for his highest aims only the hope of getting away from the
scene of his own adventures. But in spite of this he stands in the
company of the Knights of the Round Table, and the Canterbury
Pilgrims, and the heaven-bound traveller of Bunyan, and is worthy of
the place because like them he is the creation of genius.

England went mad over Robinson Crusoe, and edition after edition
failed to satisfy the demand for this marvellous tale, which all could
understand. The working-classes especially exulted over this hero, who
was just like themselves, and who did just the things they would have
done under the same circumstances. They admired his good sense, his
homely invention, his matter-of-fact way of going about things, and of
making the best of things. When he came to a difficulty they could
anticipate the manner in which he would deliver himself from it, and
if he had done differently they would have criticised him for a ninny.
But he always did the right thing. He had the ingenuity of the poor
and their skill in making expedients. He knew how to make one thing do
the work of another; he had also the practical patience of his class,
which tries one thing after another till something is found to fit the
emergency.

Every farmer reading the book would in his mind see the sailor-brother
who perhaps had sailed away never to return. Every farmer's boy, poor
in boyish treasures, would know what the loss of the knife meant;
every restless soul hemmed in by narrow circumstances, would lead for
a time a life so real in that far-off island, that closing the book
seemed really like stepping ashore from the vessel that bore Crusoe
back to England. Here was a story indeed, because it was not a story
but a bit of real life.

And so the English novel was born--a form of prose so different from
the romantic prose romances of Arcadia, Utopia, or Atlantis, that it
must be placed in a separate class. And a form also since used by some
of the greatest writers in English literature. De Foe was the author
of many other tales of life, but the story of the desert island is
alone the one which has made his name familiar in every quarter of the
globe, and upon which his fame as one of England's greatest writers
rests. He died in 1731, after a life of such strange changes that it
has been said that _Robinson Crusoe_ was only the type of his own
adventures in the great battle of life, where he was buffeted by
fortune and driven hither and thither by a fate that left him at last
worn out with the struggle. He was buried in Bunhill Fields, where
Bunyan had been laid to rest thirty years before.


The English novel which was thus brought into literature was in one
sense of the word already perfect, since no work of fiction has ever
yet excelled _Robinson Crusoe_. But the story of the desert island was
the story of a man who was separated from his fellow-men, and who
lived his life in a place far from England and the influences of
English life. For this reason the book does not portray any of those
emotions of the heart which control the actions of men who are in
constant association with other men, and upon which the English drama
was founded. But the eighteenth century was also remarkable for the
perfection of the novel, as well as for its birth, and there were five
writers who lived during this century whose novels dealt with
every-day domestic life, and who by their genius are considered among
the greatest, if not the greatest, English novelists.

These men were Samuel Richardson, Henry Fielding, Tobias George
Smollett, Laurence Sterne, and Oliver Goldsmith. These men wrote
novels of English life as it then existed, and they made character
rather than adventure the subject of their books. This was a new thing
outside of the drama, and the story of character and conduct in the
novel was eagerly read by the same class which a century before had
been spell-bound by the story of character and conduct in the drama.

This kind of writing made it possible for every man to imagine himself
the hero of a book, for these novels dealt only with the temptations
and experiences which are the lot of all, and which do not depend
upon adventure or romance for their interest.

By their skill in thus analyzing and painting the human heart, this
group of writers won for itself the highest place in the new form of
literature, a place which has since been reached only by a very few.
They also gave to the novel its permanent place in English literature,
and made it accepted as a new force in the world of letters, a force
which dealt with the conduct of life, the most important thing in the
world, and therefore worthy of the regard of the highest minds. Thus
the old story of the ancient minstrel was developed into a form of art
which in human interest stands only next to the drama.

Of this group of novelists, Oliver Goldsmith was in point of date the
last, and although he wrote but one of the famous novels of the
eighteenth century, it was so perfect that it has always been one of
the masterpieces of English literature. Goldsmith was born in the
village of Pallas, county of Longford, Ireland, in 1728, and was the
son of a poor English curate who was trying hard decently to bring up
a large family on a small salary. But the home life was happy and
healthy in spite of the poverty, and in the little villages where his
father was placed at different times, Goldsmith spent a boyhood that
was full of pleasant scenes and the memory of which sweetened many
after hours. When he was six years old he began his school life in the
little village school, and perhaps, if there was any bitter drop in
his early life, it came from association with the boys who were his
school companions, and who ridiculed his small figure and pock-marked
face, his lack of pocket-money, and above all, his amazing stupidity.
For all of Goldsmith's boyish brightness went to fun and mischief; in
school he was dull and uninterested, and was called a blockhead and
dunce, because the lessons which his companions found so easy were to
him weary and incomprehensible. But though he was thus looked down
upon by his associates, both in the village and afterward at
boarding-school, this period of his life seemed to Goldsmith to hold
only golden hours. Years afterward, when he was a man struggling with
poverty and discouragement, in _The Deserted Village_ he describes
just such a little village as he must have lived in, and just such a
schoolmaster as may have been his teacher; and the picture is so full
of sweetness and tender memory that it sounds like a sigh for that
lost youth that had fled forever.

Goldsmith's school life ended with a mistake so natural, and yet so
comic, that it was used by him as the foundation of one of his
best-known comedies. Returning home from boarding-school with a guinea
in his pocket, he came at night to a little village and asked the way
to the "best house." The person he addressed being a wag, pointed to
the mansion of the squire, and thither Goldsmith betook himself, and
thinking it was an inn, ordered a room, supper, and a bottle of wine,
and invited the squire, the supposed landlord, his wife, and daughter
to supper.

Fortunately for Goldsmith, the squire loved a joke, and so the mistake
ended pleasantly enough, and with a God-speed from the squire, and the
guinea still in his pocket, he went on his way in the morning, all
the better off for the adventure. It is this incident which he made
the basis of his plot in _She Stoops to Conquer_--a comedy which
differed so widely from the sentimental drama of the times that it may
be said to have been the foundation of a new school of English plays.
In this play Goldsmith turned entirely away from the fashionable plays
of the period, and introduced natural characters--the men, women,
masters, and servants whom one would find in English middle-class
life--and because the plot was so probable, the fun so good-natured,
and the characters drawn so true to life, it was recognized at once as
a new and valuable contribution to the stage, and is still considered
one of the finest examples of English comedy.

Goldsmith entered Trinity College, Dublin, at the age of seventeen,
and remained there four years. He was not a good student, and he was
in continual trouble because he would neither follow the course of
study, nor obey the college rules, and in consequence he was a
favorite with none save some other students who like himself, thought
more of fun than anything else, and who would leave their lessons any
time to play a joke. During this time he knew well what poverty meant,
for he had to depend much upon himself, and had many a time to leave
off joking and consider where the next meal was to come from.
Sometimes he wrote street ballads which brought him in a little money;
once he gained a little prize money; somehow he managed to get through
college, and as his father was now dead, found himself at twenty-one
with his degree in his hand and the world before him, the only friend
he could really count upon being an uncle who had helped him through
Trinity.

He had not yet decided what should be his calling, and he and his
uncle talked much about this serious matter. At last it was thought
best for him to enter the ministry, and he presented himself to a
certain bishop as an applicant for holy orders. But the bishop did not
think Goldsmith would make a good clergyman, and declined to receive
him. Then he taught for a while, and getting a little money together,
went off to seek his fortune with thirty pounds and a good horse. But
he soon came back without horse, or pounds, or fortune, and was glad
enough to take fifty pounds from his uncle and go to Dublin to study
medicine. Here he remained a year and a half, and then decided to go
to Holland in order to carry on his studies more profitably, for
Holland was the home of famous physicians. His uncle again furnished
money, and for three years Goldsmith lived in Holland, which he left
for the purpose of making a tour of Europe on foot. He had one guinea
in his pocket, having spent all the rest of his money for
tulip-roots--a rare and expensive flower which his uncle had often
longed for. Goldsmith despatched the roots to Ireland, and left Leyden
happy.

For a year he wandered over Europe, going from place to place mostly
on foot, and living probably as the student travellers lived in those
days, when even begging for food was not considered a disgrace by the
university students, who often spent their vacations in making foot
tours of Germany, or France, or Switzerland. Whether Goldsmith
begged, or earned his way by playing on the flute, singing, or doing
odd jobs of one kind or another, is not known, but he returned to
London in 1756, and settled down there, being twenty-eight years old,
without friends, without any profession, and it is likely, not having
even a guinea in his possession. He lived in a garret sometimes,
sometimes in a better place, and taught, practised medicine, and
corrected for the press, and after a while he began writing himself.
This, his last choice, remained his permanent one, though it brought
little pay and because of his extravagance and hopeless inability to
take care of money he was always in debt, and often was kept out of
prison only through the kindness of Dr. Johnson and other friends, who
loved him and admired his genius, though they declared that he had no
common sense.

Although Goldsmith was the author of many works, his most valuable
contributions to English letters are the comedy _She Stoops to
Conquer_ and his novel _The Vicar of Wakefield_. The former is
considered one of the best comedies in English literature, and the
latter is placed among the most charming of English novels. He died in
1774, leaving behind him the memory of a life which injured no man,
and which was brave, honest, and generous to the end, leaving also to
English literature a priceless legacy of two of the finest works of
the eighteenth century.

_The Vicar Of Wakefield_ is the story of the family of a country
clergyman, and is one of the best pictures we have of English country
life at that time. The Vicar, Dr. Primrose, tells the story of how,
after losing all his fortune, he and his family went to live in a
farming community, and of the ups and downs of their domestic life.
The story is told so charmingly, and with such reality, that in
reading it we cannot help believing that we are reading the veritable
journal of some worthy minister's daily life. Nothing happens to these
people except what might happen to any other family in middle-class
life, and yet so great is the art of the book that this little story
of home life and simple pleasures holds us as closely as a tale of
romantic adventure. The family consists of the father, mother, two
daughters, a grown son, and two little boys. There is also another son
who is seeking his fortune abroad. They live in a little thatched
cottage of five rooms; a brook winds down the green slope of meadow
outside, a lawn and a group of trees add comfort and beauty to the
place, and though forced to work for their daily bread, the Vicar and
his family have such merry and cheerful spirits that their life reads
like an idyl of Arcadia. They go out in the morning and work in the
hay-field, the daughters working with their brothers, and perhaps a
neighbor or two sharing the labor; at nooning they lie under the trees
and listen to the genial Vicar's talk, or recite and sing ballads; in
the evening they have a moonlight dance on the lawn, and are in great
joy if afterward the pantry is able to furnish some simple
refreshment. On Sunday they walk two miles to church to listen to
their father's sermon on the blessedness of charity, the beauty of
love, the majesty of duty; and the words reach their hearts because
they are the same words that they hear from his lips every day. The
Vicar in the pulpit is also the father who gives sugarplums to the
little boys for offering to share their bed with a homeless stranger,
who counts all men his brothers, and loves the poorest ones the best,
and who makes every day's duty necessary and beautiful, because it
fits that day and no other.

If the girls are silly at times, and want to wear finer clothes than
their circumstances warrant, or to concoct washes for the face and
pastes for the hair, the Vicar becomes firm and sternly forbids such
frivolity, but soothes their wounded feelings by giving them money to
have their fortunes told by the next strolling gypsy. And when the son
goes to the market-town to exchange their old horse for a better, and
returns only with a gross of green spectacles which a clever rogue has
palmed upon him, the father is gently sympathetic, and does not
reprove him for his lack of worldly knowledge, and to teach him how to
barter goes himself the next time, taking the remaining horse. And
when the same clever rogue, under a different disguise, cheats him
also by giving him a worthless note in exchange for the horse, the
Vicar marvels greatly at the wickedness that could overreach such
worldly wisdom as his own.

The book is full of like homely incidents which are treated with such
skill that as we read them we find ourselves feeling for the trials of
this interesting family as deeply as though they were our own. We are
in despair when the Vicar finds he has been cheated or when the crops
fail. And when grave trouble comes at last to the household, the
undeserved afflictions, the fine fortitude, and the patient
resignation of the whole family win our love and respect. The story
ends happily, leaving the Vicar and his children well to do and with
fine hopes of the future, and we take our leave of them as if they
were dear friends; for such indeed they have become.

This picture of English life, where one sees the hawthorn bloom and
hears the songs of robins and the murmur of brooks, has only increased
its value since Goldsmith first gave it to the world. And while other
great novels treat of heroic emotions and deeds, and hold their
places in literature not only because of the genius of their authors,
but also because of their subjects, this little tale stands on an
equal height, because, like an old ballad, it has that feeling which
alone reaches the heart, and that simplicity which genius alone can
touch to greatest art.




CHAPTER VII.

JONATHAN SWIFT--EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.


Swift was born in 1667, in Dublin, and was thus an Irishman by birth,
though of English family. When he was a year old his nurse, who was an
Englishwoman, was obliged to return to England, and being very fond of
the child she carried him off with her without his mother's knowledge.
As he was a very delicate child, the mother feared to risk the voyage
back until he was stronger, and consequently he remained nearly three
years at his nurse's home in Whitehaven, and was so carefully watched
and cared for by the good woman that he came back a comparatively
healthy child, while his education had advanced so far that he was
able to read any chapter in the Bible.

As his mother was a widow with only a very small income, Swift was
again separated from her after two years and sent to Kilkenny School
by an uncle, who from that time took charge of the boy. Nothing is
known of his school life. When fifteen he entered Trinity College,
Dublin, where he remained four years, giving considerable trouble to
his tutors because of his disregard for college law, and becoming
himself much embittered because of his poverty, which made him
dependent upon his uncle for every penny he received. After his
college days he spent some time as secretary to a distant relative in
England, and during this time was admitted to the church. After the
death of this relative he went to Ireland as chaplain to the viceroy,
and from this time his career as a public man began. He had already
written a religious satire called The _Tale of a Tub_, in which he
held up to ridicule the different religious sects of the day, and from
this time on his pen was never idle. Nearly all his writings consist
of satires directed against the vanities and faults of mankind, or
against the politics of the day. And such was his genius that he was
able to render great service to the party to which he belonged, even
though his own friends feared his cutting words. Swift was a man of
unbounded ambition, and aimed at high places in the church and state,
but as in both cases he was disappointed, his nature became even more
bitter as years went on. The highest point he reached in the church
was the appointment of Dean of St. Patrick's, Dublin, in 1713, when he
was forty-six years old; and although he performed important service
for the state as a writer and politician, he was never rewarded with
any post of honor.

Swift wrote an immense number of political pamphlets and letters, but
while these show his ability as a writer, they owed their greatness to
the day to which they belonged. His greatest work, and one which will
always interest mankind, is a profound satire upon human life called
the _Travels of Gulliver_, in which a ship-surgeon is supposed to
visit unknown countries whose people and customs he compares with
those of his own nation, teaching by comparison how small and mean
mankind appears when engaged only in selfish interests and ignoble
aims.

_Gulliver's Travels_ consists of four narratives of voyages to
Liliput, Brobdingnag, and two other countries; but the last two parts
are so full of unpleasant descriptions that they are less read than
the others. The two other narratives are as follows:


A ship on its voyage from England to India was wrecked off an unknown
coast and all the crew lost, with the exception of Lemuel Gulliver,
the surgeon, who found himself tossed on shore late at night, out of
sight or sound of any living creature. Being weary and exhausted by
the waves, Gulliver decided to make no exploration of the country that
night, and so laid himself down to sleep, unconscious whether he was
in the midst of friends or foes. Hour after hour he slept on and awoke
in the morning with a rested body and a heart full of courage, for he
was of a brave disposition and had had many an adventure with
barbarous people in unknown seas. But when he attempted to rise he
found that he was not able to stir, for while he slept his arms and
legs had been firmly fastened to the ground, and as his hair, which
was long and thick, had been also tied down, he could not even turn
his head and could only look upward, where the sun was blazing high in
the skies. He lay there for a little while, stunned with his
misfortune, and in great wonder as to what kind of people he had
fallen among, feeling almost certain that from their first act they
intended only evil. While conjecturing how he might escape out of
their hands, he felt something moving along his left leg, and
presently a little human creature, about six inches high, came into
sight, with bow and arrow in his hands and a quiver on his back. This
creature was followed by scores of his companions, who swarmed over
Gulliver's body much as a company of ants would swarm over a fallen
log, and he perceived that these people must be the inhabitants of the
land, and that it was to them he owed his bonds. And with this he
roared out so loudly in astonishment that the creatures all ran back
in fright and fled away. But as he lay quiet they presently returned.
One of them ventured within sight of Gulliver's eyes and expressed by
signs the greatest amazement and admiration, but as their prisoner
managed, by struggling with his bonds, to free his left arm and turn
his head a little, they once more ran off in terror, and presently
Gulliver felt a number of darts pricking his face and hands, and
feared that war was declared. The arrows were sharp, and stung him so
badly that he could not help groaning aloud, and when he tried again
to free himself still another shower of darts fell upon him, almost
blinding him; and then he decided it would be better for him to lie
quiet while the day lasted and steal away from the country in the
night. But as soon as he became quiet the dwarfs gave over shooting,
and presently they built a platform which reached up to his ear and
upon which one, who seemed to be a chief, mounted and delivered a long
speech. Gulliver gathered from his signs and gestures that the dwarf
offered him shelter and friendship if he would be peaceable, or war
and death if he would not submit; and as he was desirous of being
freed from his bonds he signified by signs that he would be
peaceable, if they would liberate him and give him something to eat
and drink. At this the small creatures seemed rejoiced, and presently
hundreds of them appeared bearing baskets of meat and loaves of bread
about the size of a bullet. This food Gulliver devoured by the
basketful, to the great astonishment of the natives, and making a sign
that he wished something to drink, they brought him two hogsheads of
wine, each holding about half a pint, which they lifted with great
effort upon the platform and rolled forward so that he could reach
them with his hand. When he had performed the feat of drinking the
entire contents of the two hogsheads the people danced upon his breast
with joy, and shouted out their wonder in shrill cries, screaming
wildly as he tossed the empty casks into the air, for they had never
seen such strength before.

This country into which Gulliver had come was the country of Liliput,
and the Liliputians were famous for their skill and ingenuity in
carrying on war with their enemies, and in contriving machines for
doing their work. They had come to the shore in the morning and had
been greatly astounded to find this immense giant asleep in the king's
domains, and while some of them stayed to bind and guard him, others
had gone to a distant city to see the king and ask his advice. The
king immediately ordered a large machine built which would transport
the stranger to the capital, and while Gulliver was being refreshed
with food and drink, five hundred carpenters and engineers were busy
in the king's city making the huge machine he had ordered.

Seeing that Gulliver intended to keep his promise not to break the
peace, the dwarfs anointed his wounds with a soothing ointment, and as
they had already mixed some drug with the wine he had drunk, their big
captive presently fell into a sleep which lasted until the machine for
transporting him to the capital arrived. Gulliver was then drawn up to
the machine by pulleys, the operation taking three hours. Fifteen
hundred horses were attached to the machine, and the procession
started on the way to the king's city.

They travelled the rest of the day, and rested at night, Gulliver
being guarded by five hundred soldiers who stood ready to shoot him if
he stirred. The next day, about noon, they arrived at the city. The
king had ordered that the prisoner should be lodged in an ancient
temple which stood outside the city gates, and the procession
therefore stopped here, and after having his left leg secured by
ninety chains, Gulliver was allowed to rise. The astonishment and even
terror of the people at seeing this gigantic creature stand on his
feet was so great that many of the inhabitants fled in haste. But the
king and his courtiers remained, and his majesty approached Gulliver
as near as he could force his horse to come, for that animal showed
great fear at the sight of such an enormous creature, and the king
only kept his seat by the most expert horsemanship. His majesty
conversed some time with Gulliver by means of signs, and though he
would not promise the prisoner his freedom, Gulliver was made to
understand that he should not be harmed if he kept the peace. The king
then ordered food and drink brought to him, and Gulliver devoured
thirty casks of meat and wine, to the great astonishment of the court.

When the king departed, the common people swarmed around the prisoner
like ants, and five or six were so daring as to shoot their arrows at
him for sport. But at this the guards seized the offenders and
delivered them up to Gulliver to do with as he pleased, for the king
had left explicit orders that the prisoner should not be harmed.

Gulliver took the six culprits in his hands and bestowed five of them
in his pocket. He then took out his penknife and pretended that he was
going to devour the remaining one, and at this the little creature
fell into such a fit of terror that his screams could be heard to the
outermost edge of the vast crowd which had gathered around, and which
numbered hundreds of thousands. But Gulliver meant only to frighten
these offenders, and so he presently gave them their freedom and they
quickly ran off, while the crowd admired both his strength and
kindness, for it was known that even if he had taken their lives the
king would have pardoned him, because they were the first offenders.
Shortly after this, as Gulliver was tired, he crept into his house and
went to sleep, and the crowd dispersed.

Now, at the court great was the wonder and excitement over the
man-mountain, as Gulliver was called, for they did not know what to do
with him. Some said kill him, and some said keep him prisoner, and no
one knew what to do, for they said that even if they killed him they
could not get such a great body out of the way, and if they kept him
prisoner his enormous appetite would cause a famine, and so they were
greatly distressed. But just as they were talking it over an officer
arrived and told the court how merciful Gulliver had been to the six
soldiers who had shot at him, and this decided the king to let him
remain alive for the time anyway. So an imperial edict was issued
ordering all the neighboring villages to send in every morning six
beeves and forty sheep, together with bread and wine, for the
prisoner's use, and six hundred persons were assigned to wait upon
him. These servants lived in tents outside the temple and performed
any service that Gulliver required. The king also ordered three
hundred tailors to make Gulliver a suit of clothes like those worn in
that country, and six of the greatest scholars in the kingdom were
ordered to teach him the language.

The king himself paid him daily visits and conversed with him, and
praised his readiness at learning. But for all this kindness Gulliver
was still kept chained to the temple and guarded by soldiers, while
his watch, purse, pistols, sword, pencils, snuff-box, pouch of powder,
and some bullets which happened to be in his pocket were taken from
him for greater safety. Since, with the exception of the pistols and
sword, none of the councillors could imagine the use of any of these
things, all feared that they were dangerous machines of war. The watch
in particular, which was carried off by two men, who bore it between
them on a pole, so excited the wonder of the king that he thought from
its noise and motion it must be a god.

Numerous were the adventures that Gulliver had in the country of the
Liliputians and many were the strange sights he saw. During the first
part of his confinement the king ordered a platform built near the
temple, upon which all the jugglers and professional tricksters
performed wonderful feats.

The cavalry also was exercised before him daily so that the horses
might get used to his great stature, and Gulliver even made a plain of
his handkerchief by stretching it firmly from four pegs, and upon this
plain, which was raised about two feet from the ground, he induced the
king to allow certain regiments of cavalry to manoeuvre and fight a
mock battle, a thing which so amused the king that he ordered it
repeated day after day.

At length, when the king became fully assured that Gulliver was of a
kind and peaceable nature, he gave him his liberty on the conditions
that Gulliver would not leave the country without permission; that he
would not enter the city without an express order from the king, so
that the people might have two hours' warning to keep within doors,
and not be trampled under foot; that the man-mountain should walk only
in the high-roads, and never lie down in the meadows or corn-fields;
that he should carry a messenger and horse in his pocket once a month
for a six-days' journey, if the king desired to send such a messenger
to a distant part of the realm, and that if war were declared the
man-mountain should fight on the side of the Liliputians. To these
conditions Gulliver consented gladly and was given his liberty.

The first thing that he did was to visit the city, which he had a
great desire to see, and he found much entertainment in looking at the
tiny palaces and squares and temples, the people keeping within doors
all the while for fear of being trampled upon. And Gulliver declares,
in his account of this voyage, that he never had seen anywhere such
magnificence and splendor as he saw in the royal palaces of Liliput.

But his liberty was not to be entirely devoted to pleasure, for before
long the king's chamberlain came to him and told him that although
the kingdom of Liliput seemed so peaceable, there were really grave
dangers threatening it. The whole country, he said, was divided into
two parties, one of which loved the king and wished him to remain upon
the throne, while the other was composed of such bitter enemies that
no one knew what measures they might take to show their hatred. The
king's party was named _Slamecksan_, meaning low-heeled, and the other
party was named _Tramecksan_, meaning high-heeled, from the kind of
shoes that they wore, and though the king had only the _Slamecksan_ in
his employ, the _Tramecksan_ were so numerous that the worst fears
were entertained by the king as to what they might do.

The chamberlain also said that the kingdom of Liliput was threatened
by another people which dwelt in the island of Blefuscu, and that war
had then existed for over three years between these kingdoms for the
empire of the earth, as the chamberlain, like all the other
Liliputians, believed that the whole earth consisted only of the
empires of Liliput and Blefuscu, and that Gulliver had dropped from
the moon or some other heavenly body.

The chamberlain said that the original cause of all the trouble was
very simple. It began in fact with the present king's grandfather, who
when he was a boy refused to break an egg in the same manner that eggs
had been broken since the beginning of the world. This prince, when a
boy, had cut his fingers while trying to open an egg by breaking the
larger end, and the emperor, his father, had therefore commanded that
thereafter all true and loyal subjects should break the smaller end of
their eggs and leave off the ancient practice of breaking the larger
ends. And this was the cause of the two rival parties, for some
refused to break the egg at the smaller end, saying that the king had
no right to interfere with such an ancient custom of the country. The
people of Blefuscu sympathized with these rebellious subjects and
always welcomed them to their country when they were exiled from
Liliput, therefore the present king feared that the _Tramecksan_ party
would join hands with the Blefuscudians and deprive him of his
kingdom. This story was told by the chamberlain with many sighs, and
Gulliver immediately promised to aid and serve the king to the utmost
of his power, and at this the chamberlain brightened considerably,
knowing that the man-mountain was a host in himself.

The kingdom of Blefuscu consisted of a large island which was
separated from Liliput by a channel eight hundred yards wide, and the
war for this reason was carried on chiefly by the navy. It was
evident, therefore, that the greatest blow that could be inflicted
upon the Blefuscudians would be to deprive them of their ships, and
this Gulliver decided to do. Lying down behind a hillock he was able
to get a view of the enemy's ships without being seen, for his
presence in Liliput was unknown to the Blefuscudians, and then,
finding that the depth of the channel was only six feet at high tide,
Gulliver started for Blefuscu, taking with him some iron cables and
bars for the purpose of bringing the fleet back if he succeeded in
capturing it.

The Blefuscudians stared in horrified wonder when they saw this
gigantic creature approaching, and as he neared the ships the
terrified seamen sprang into the water and swam shoreward for their
lives. Gulliver was thus spared the necessity of fighting, and in a
few minutes he had fastened a cable to the prow of each ship and tied
all the cables together at the loose ends. During this time thousands
of the natives stood on shore and shot poisoned arrows at him, aiming
particularly at his eyes, which he protected by putting on his
spectacles, and thus escaped without serious harm.

The fifty men-of-war thus tied together formed almost the entire fleet
of Blefuscu, and a great wail went up from the shore when Gulliver
stepped out into the channel and began to pull at the cables. The
ships, however, would not stir, as their anchors held tight, and
Gulliver had to step back and cut each of the cables that fastened the
anchors with his penknife, receiving about two hundred arrows in his
face and hands while about it, and then he began dragging the ships
after him. The Blefuscudians could not imagine what the motive of this
act could be, for they did not, of course, know that Gulliver was in
the employment of the king of the Liliputians, but when they saw their
whole fleet of war being drawn toward the enemy's country they set up
such a cry of despair that even Gulliver's heart was touched.

The king of Liliput stood ready on shore to receive the fleet, and
great honors were paid to Gulliver, who was created a peer of the
realm, and, as the Blefuscudians could do nothing without their ships,
they sent ambassadors in a few days to sue for peace, and thus the war
came to an end without the loss of a single soldier.

Gulliver was able now, by his new position as a nobleman, to do the
Blefuscudians a great service, for the king of Liliput, elated with
success, desired to invade the island of Blefuscu and with the
assistance of Gulliver subdue the country and make it a part of his
own kingdom. But Gulliver refused to give his aid to subdue a free
people, and for this service the Blefuscudian ambassadors thanked him
heartily and invited him to visit their country, where they promised
every honor should be paid him. Before long he was glad to avail
himself of this invitation, for the king of Liliput was so incensed at
Gulliver's refusal to help enslave the Blefuscudians that he speedily
began showing his ill-will, and Gulliver was warned by a friend that
the king had become his enemy and was determined to put out his eyes
so that he would be helpless and at the mercy of the court. This news
determined Gulliver to leave Liliput immediately. He therefore sent
word to the king that he was going to visit the Blefuscudians, and
then hastened across the channel determined never to return. He was
received with great honor at Blefuscu, where he remained for several
days before his hosts knew the real reason of his visit, for the king
of Liliput, not knowing that Gulliver had been told of the design to
put out his eyes, supposed that the man-mountain would return in good
season and be again in his power. But at last, suspecting something
wrong, the king sent a messenger to Blefuscu, demanding that the
man-mountain be sent back to him. And as the king of Blefuscu refused
to do this, there would probably have been another war between the two
countries had not Gulliver discovered a means of leaving the island
and so putting himself out of the power of harm. As he was walking one
day on the sea-shore he saw something that looked like an overturned
boat, and wading out two or three hundred yards he perceived that the
object was in truth a ship's boat which had probably been driven
shoreward by a tempest. Gulliver quietly returned to the city and
requested the help of the seamen to bring in this prize, and then
swimming out to it, he was able, by pushing it and with the aid of
cables attached to some men-of-war, to bring it ashore. Three thousand
men and twenty of the tallest ships were needed for this work, and
when the boat was brought to shore the Blefuscudians were lost in
amazement at the sight of a vessel that could hold at least twenty
creatures as big as the man-mountain.

With the permission of the king Gulliver hewed down some of the
highest trees for oars and masts, and five hundred workmen made sails
for the boat out of the royal store of linen. Also the king gave three
hundred oxen and five hundred sheep, with wine and bread, to provision
the boat, and some live sheep and cows for Gulliver to exhibit if he
ever reached England again. But the king refused Gulliver permission
to carry away even one of the natives, and searched his pockets
carefully just before he sailed to see that none were hidden away.

So, with good wishes from his new friends, Gulliver left the curious
country of the dwarfs and sailed out into the great ocean and was
before long picked up by a home-bound ship, and so came safe to
England, where he made much money by exhibiting the tiny sheep and
cows as curiosities, and finally sold them to a great nobleman, who
could afford such luxuries, for the care of them was very costly. And
had it not been for his roving disposition Gulliver might now have
settled down comfortably for life; but this he could not do, because
the taste for adventure was so strong that it overbalanced the love of
home or friends, and money, and presently he said good-by to his
family and was away on another voyage, which was destined to be as
full of strange happenings as the first.


On this second voyage the ship in which Gulliver sailed was, like the
first, driven far out of its way by a tempest and entered a part of
the ocean unknown to any of the company. But spying land they made for
it, and seeing on a near approach that it was a green and inviting
country, some of the crew went on shore to lay in fresh water and
whatever they might find in the way of provisions. Gulliver went along
in the boat, prompted by a curiosity to see something of this strange
land, and while the crew was busy looking for fresh water he wandered
some distance away to make what discoveries he could. But finding
nothing of interest to reward him for his walk he returned to the
shore and was amazed to see the boat already some distance away and
the men rowing hard for the ship, while a human creature of gigantic
size was pursuing them. Fortunately for the men, the sea at that point
was full of pointed rocks, so that the monster was forced to give
over the chase and return to the shore, whereupon Gulliver immediately
hurried back out of sight. Taking the first road he saw, he came
presently to a high hill, which he climbed in order to get as good a
view of the country as possible. And now the most surprising sight met
his eye, for he found the whole land as far as he could see under fine
cultivation, and saw everywhere marks of civilization, though he had
supposed he was in one of those barbarous regions of which he had
often heard.

But one thing puzzled him greatly, and that was the strange size of
everything he saw. The grass grew twenty feet high, the corn was
shaking its golden tassels forty feet above the ground, the hedges
reached the height of one hundred and twenty feet, and the trees were
so tall that their branches seemed to touch the clouds. This sight put
Gulliver into such amazement that he thought for some time he must be
back in Liliput dreaming of his own home, whose inhabitants seemed
giants compared to the Liliputians. But it was no dream, and he was
in the land of giants indeed, as he soon found. Coming down to the
level ground he took his way through a corn-field, hoping to find a
path that would lead him to some place of safety, but the corn-field
only came to an end, where another of the same size began, and between
the two, which were separated by a hedge, stood a stile which Gulliver
could not mount, for every step was six feet high and the upper stone
twenty. He then looked for a gap in the hedge, and while busy about
this he saw a huge monster in the shape of a man advancing from the
next field. This giant was as tall as a church-steeple, and took ten
yards at every step, and mounting the stile he uttered a call so loud
that Gulliver thought it was thunder. But he was only calling his men,
seven of whom presently came bearing in their hands huge reaping
hooks, and immediately began reaping the corn in the field where
Gulliver lay concealed.

Gulliver made his way quickly to another part of the field, but here
he was forced to remain, for the wind had bent the corn almost down
to the ground, and it was impossible to force his way through it. As
he lay there he was horrified to find one of the reapers approaching
nearer and nearer, cutting great swathes with every motion of the
scythe, and looking so fierce and strong that Gulliver's heart sank
within him, and he began to realize how his own strength and size had
impressed the tiny Liliputians. The giant, however, saw nothing but
the corn, and fearing that he would be trampled to death, Gulliver
raised his voice and screamed out as loud as he could; and at this the
reaper paused suddenly in his work, and looking around cautiously, at
last observed Gulliver crouching close beside one of his enormous
feet. He stooped and picked him up, and held him close to his face so
that he might see him more clearly, and Gulliver took advantage of
this to place his hands together in a supplicating position and to beg
humbly for his life.

The giant was so astonished to find that this small creature could
speak that for a time he could do nothing but stare, but at last he
came to his senses, and putting Gulliver inside his coat, ran as
swiftly as possible to his master, who was the same person that had
come first to the stile.

The master called his men together, and their wonder knew no bounds.
Here was a creature who wore clothes, who could talk, and who appeared
harmless, and yet who was of such a size that he must belong to a race
they had never heard of before. The master placed Gulliver on the
ground gently, and he and his men sat round in a circle and watched
him gravely, half-tempted to think they were dreaming. Gulliver pulled
off his hat and made a bow, then he fell upon his knees and lifting
his hands and eyes toward heaven, prayed their mercy in loud tones,
and lastly he took out his purse, full of gold, and humbly presented
it to the master.

The giants looked at him curiously, thinking him a new kind of animal
which had been taught pretty tricks. But the purse of gold they could
not understand. Gulliver poured out all the coins into the master's
hand, and he gazed upon them as if they were so many grains of sand,
having no idea what they were; and at this Gulliver was in despair,
knowing not how to treat with people who knew not the value of money.

At last the farmer seemed to comprehend that this midget had a brain
and ears to hear with, and he spoke to Gulliver in a voice that
sounded like the roaring of a mill; but Gulliver could not understand
his speech, for the language was strange to him. Neither could the
giant understand Gulliver, though he addressed him in all the
languages he knew; and being a man of adventure he knew many; so the
two were forced to talk in dumb show like mutes, and for this reason
they got on but slowly, and Gulliver could not explain how he came to
be walking through the corn-field, and the giant could not fully
express his wonder at finding him there.

But after a little while the farmer sent his men back to work again,
and spreading his handkerchief upon his hand, he wrapped Gulliver up
in it and carried him carefully to the farm-house, and showed him to
his wife, who ran away screaming, thinking it was a new kind of
mouse, and only became reconciled to his presence when her husband
assured her that the strange creature was perfectly harmless.

Very soon she, too, became charmed with the intelligence of such a
tiny creature, and when dinner was served she placed Gulliver on the
table and gave him some bits of bread and meat from the platter which
stood in the centre of the table and which measured twenty-four feet
across. Gulliver made her a low bow for thanks, and taking his knife
and fork out of his pocket began to eat, to the great delight of the
farmer's family, who regarded him much as we should regard a trained
monkey. But Gulliver did not find the situation quite so delightful
when he attempted to walk across the table to where the master sat;
for first the farmer's son seized him between his thumb and finger and
held him high in the air, as if he meant to drop him in the
pudding-dish; and then the cat came in and jumped into her mistress's
lap, and looked at the new arrival as if she were considering how he
would taste, and as she was three times as large as an ox Gulliver
could not help trembling greatly when he saw her enormous eyes and
savage mouth. But he determined to show no fear and walked five or six
times right before her, whereupon she drew back and took no further
notice of him. Then the dogs came in and stared curiously at him, and
as they were of the size of elephants, Gulliver also stared curiously
back. Finally the nurse came in, bringing the youngest child, who was
a baby, and the baby immediately put out its hands and cried for
Gulliver, thinking him a new kind of plaything; and as this baby
always had everything it wanted, Gulliver presently found himself
inside its mouth in great danger of being swallowed, and he broke into
such terrific roaring at this that the baby hastily let go, and
Gulliver dropped out of her mouth and was rescued by the mother, who
caught him in her apron, and thus saved him from breaking his neck.

Finally the dinner came to an end and the master went back to his
work, leaving Gulliver in charge of the mistress, who put him to bed
so that he could take a nap. And being very fatigued, he really did
fall into a sleep which lasted two hours, and woke to find himself
confronted by two rats the size of mastiffs; but these Gulliver slew
with his sword, and this was his last adventure that day, for he was
then given in charge of the farmer's daughter, a girl of nine years,
who took the tenderest care of the little guest, thinking him far more
interesting than any doll she had ever had; and from this time on she
protected him from all harm.

Gulliver's life in this world of big things was very curious. His
nurse, the farmer's daughter, who was very bright for her age, taught
him the language of the country, fitted up a little bed for him out of
the baby's cradle, and made such clothing as he needed, so that his
stay among these people was very comfortable. Gulliver grew very fond
of this child, whom he called Glumdalclitch--which in the language of
that country means _little nurse_--and he took care to remember all
that she taught him of the manners and courtesies of the country, so
that he could amuse his master's guests when they came to see him. For
his fame soon spread abroad, and hundreds came to see the little
creature who ate, spoke, and walked like a human creature, but yet was
so small that he would not make a mouthful for a baby. And now, the
farmer, seeing that Gulliver excited so much attention, conceived the
idea of making money by showing him off in other villages, and
Glumdalclitch was told to prepare her charge for exhibition at the
next town. The good child wept sorely at this and begged her father to
let her have Gulliver for her very own, but this he refused, and she
was obliged to accompany her father to town on the next market day,
carrying Gulliver along in a box which had a little door on one side
and gimlet holes for letting in the air. The party took a room at one
of the inns, and there Gulliver was exhibited to crowds of people who
wondered to see so small a creature eat, drink, speak, drill with a
pike, and flourish a sword, besides doing numberless other things. And
now his life became very wearisome notwithstanding the kindness of his
nurse, for his master, spurred on by the love of money, kept
exhibiting him daily, travelling from place to place, till Gulliver
was almost worn out, besides being in frequent danger from the
curiosity of the crowd, which often came near trampling on him out of
their desire to get near him, and more often indulged in jokes at his
expense--a school-boy one time even jeopardizing his life by throwing
a hazelnut, the size of a pumpkin, at his head.

While they were travelling around in this way, the news of such a
wonder reached the court, and the queen sent word to the farmer to
bring Gulliver to the palace. This the farmer was delighted to do, for
the constant journeying and performing had worn considerably upon
Gulliver's health, and his master was anxious to make all the money he
could, lest his charge should suddenly die. When they came to the
court the queen was so delighted with Gulliver's appearance and
accomplishments, that she offered the farmer a large sum for him. The
farmer thinking that Gulliver would die shortly, consented to the
terms, and it was agreed that Glumdalclitch should also remain at
court and continue her care of him. And so it came about that
Gulliver found himself an inmate of the royal palace, and
Glumdalclitch found herself a member of the queen's family, with a
governess to carry on her education and a suite of servants at her
command.

Gulliver's life at court was easy. The queen grew very fond of him,
and delighted to show him off to her royal guests. The king, at first,
thought the farmer had deceived his wife by selling her a toy that
went by machinery, and he called a council of wise men to decide
whether the creature were human or not. The learned men decided that
this mite did breathe and think like human kind, and then the king
soon came to be interested in his new subject, who could talk about
the affairs of life, and seemed for the most part a wise and
well-meaning creature. They had many curious talks about England and
English customs, and Gulliver related to the king the entire history
of England, and told him by what means his native country had grown so
rich and powerful. But the king refused to see anything wonderful
about the English nation, and said that its history consisted of
nothing but a series of wars and bloodshed of every kind, which were
due no doubt to the fact that the race was so small and resembled
insects rather than human beings. Then he sighed and said that it was
degrading to humanity to think that such insignificant creatures could
so imitate the ways of great nations and have their kings and queens,
and courts and laws; and the wise men sighed too, and Gulliver could
say nothing, though he was much incensed.

But in the main Gulliver's life at the court was free enough from
annoyance, though there were many little things that bothered him; for
instance, the flies of that country gave him much trouble, and he
frequently had to slay them with his sword; and the queen's dwarf, a
creature thirty feet high, made all sorts of fun of him, one time even
going so far as to drop him in the cream pitcher, where he would have
been drowned had not his nurse rescued him. Another time also, when he
was left alone in the garden, the gardener's favorite spaniel spying
him, picked him up between his teeth and carried him carefully to his
master's feet. Still another time a monkey seized him and bore him to
the roof of the palace, and the servants had to get ladders and rescue
him. Such accidents as these could not fail to make Gulliver realize
his absurd position in that country, and he longed daily for an
opportunity to escape.

But he was such a favorite at court that he was never allowed out of
sight, and many weary hours he spent sighing for his native land. In
order to while away his time Gulliver took to study, and spent long
days in learning to read. A little later he found he could read nicely
by mounting up to the open book by means of a step-ladder, and then
walking along from one end of the line to the other till he had
finished the two pages. By using two hands he could turn the leaves
nicely, and when this was accomplished he passed much time in studying
the laws and customs of the country, finding therein much wisdom and
good sense; so that when he returned to his native country he was able
to carry with him quite a number of suggestions for improving and
simplifying English laws.

His departure from this strange land was the most curious thing
connected with his adventure. It was the custom for the court to
travel from place to place, and there had been a strong box prepared
for Gulliver to be carried in so that the jolting might not break his
bones, or crack his skull. This box was sixteen feet square and twelve
feet high, and had a door and two closets. It had a quilted lining,
and the door had a lock so that rats and mice might be kept out. It
had windows, and was furnished with chairs and tables and a hammock,
and on the outside were two handles through which a rope was passed,
so that it could be fastened around Glumdalclitch's waist.

One day the queen ordered Glumdalclitch to prepare for a journey, as
they were going to a distant place and she could not bear to leave
Gulliver behind, for his tricks and accomplishments amused her
greatly. He could drive away a fit of the blues by his manner of
playing on the piano, which consisted in running up and down upon a
bench placed before the key-board and striking the keys with two long
sticks. And the misfortunes that he endured because of his size also
amused the queen. So wherever she went Gulliver must go also.
Glumdalclitch therefore made all things ready, and in due time a
distant palace near the sea-shore was reached where the court was to
spend a few days.

Gulliver was tired and longed to get a glimpse of the ocean, which
might perhaps give him a means of escape, so he begged Glumdalclitch
to allow a page to carry him down to the shore so that he might get a
breath of the sea air. To this Glumdalclitch consented, and when the
page had carried him to the shore Gulliver sat looking seaward a long
time, thinking many sad thoughts; for the sea made his home seem
nearer than ever, and yet he knew not how to reach it. At last, being
very weary, he lay down in the hammock and told the boy he was going
to take a nap. After closing the window to keep out the cold the page
wandered up and down looking for birds' eggs and shells, and turning
a curve, quite lost sight of the box, while Gulliver inside soon fell
asleep and dreamed of England. And then a queer thing happened:
Gulliver was suddenly rudely awakened by feeling a violent pull at the
ring on top of his box, and presently he felt the box being raised
first high in the air and then carried forward at an immense speed.
Outside his window he saw nothing but clouds and sky, and though he
called and called, there was no answer save that overhead he fancied
he heard the flapping of wings. This went on for some time, when he
heard another noise which sounded like two birds fighting; then his
box swayed to and fro and suddenly began falling with such speed that
he almost lost his breath. A great shock came as it struck and plunged
through the water, but presently it rose to the surface, and as it was
perfectly water-tight, it began floating quietly along. Gulliver now
knew that the box had been carried by an eagle which had been attacked
by another eagle, and so forced to drop its prey, and he immediately
planned a way of escape out of his difficulties by opening the slide
in the top of his box and letting in air enough to keep him alive,
knowing that if the box kept afloat he might be picked up by some
ship, unless he starved to death in the meantime. But before long he
heard a grating noise and then felt he was being towed along, and
mounting a chair, he thrust his handkerchief out of the slide in the
hope of attracting attention. But no notice was taken of his signal,
and he had to remain quiet till the box was brought to a sudden
standstill. Then a voice called down through the hole to see if anyone
were inside, and Gulliver knew he was saved. He shouted up for them to
lift the lid of the box, and at this he heard a great shout of
laughter and remembered that he was in his own world again, where men
could not lift boxes sixteen feet square.

But at last his rescuers sawed a hole through the top of the box and
let him out, and Gulliver was rejoiced to find that he was again in
the company of English sailors, even though they thought him crazy for
a long time because of his queer talk of the big country he had left,
and because he always shouted at the top of his voice, from his habit
of talking to people who were sixty feet above him. And so Gulliver
came safe home again and made no more voyages for that time.

In these satires Swift desired to teach the English nation those
lessons which every nation must learn before it can follow out the
lines of right conduct in its affairs. Swift must therefore be
considered a teacher, though he taught by showing the weakness and
pointing out the errors of government, rather than by laying down new
principles.




CHAPTER VIII.

HISTORY IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.


The first bit of history ever written in England was probably some old
war-song, which may have been sung a century before it was inscribed
on a wooden tablet or a piece of parchment by the ancient bard who
thus made himself the oldest English historian. When or by whom this
song was given a written form we do not know, but as the history of
every people is at first a mere statement of great events, we know
that English history must have begun in the same way. Perhaps the old
singer was afraid that his song would be lost, for it may be that no
younger disciple stood ready to carry it into the future by a similar
gift of music; perhaps some great chieftain ordered his favorite
battle-lay to be thus preserved, that he might put it beside his chief
treasures as an heirloom for his descendants. We do not know. We only
know that gradually and slowly the history of England began to be
written, in fragments here and there, in the different parts of the
country where there were the most battles, perhaps, or where there
were the sweetest singers. And from these scattered bits someone,
after a time, wrote the first page of real history. If we could see
this curious leaf, which centuries ago crumbled away to dust, it might
read something like this: On such a day was fought a great battle. On
such a day there was a most bloody massacre. On such a day was a great
king crowned with a crown that he had won from war-loving enemies.
This is all that history meant at first--a simple statement of the
principal event of the year, whether it were a victory, a defeat, a
famine, or a peace. And such statements were not even called history,
and they were never read, for no one read anything, everyone was too
busy fighting. But these records served a good purpose, for later on
they were incorporated into other records of events that were then
happening, so that the past and present were connected by the dates
of great events, and this was a great step forward.

These latter records were called chronicles, and as time went on it
became quite the fashion to write chronicles. Every old monk or
scholar who was not sure he could write anything else, was always
certain that he could write a chronicle; and for the sake of variety,
and because he did not want his work to read like an old story, the
writer would sometimes add much or little to the original statement by
putting in some old legend or fable which had never before been
written down, but which was generally accepted as truth. And he would
also embellish his story of the present by a little description of the
place or the personages, and would tell, perhaps, what causes led to
such and such events; also, if he were very devout, he might add a
pleasant moral, and with homely wisdom point out wherein things might
have been done for the better or worse. Thus the chronicle, which was
simply a statement of event and date, grew up toward genuine history,
the narrative of a nation's life teaching by the story of success and
failure, the philosophy or wisdom which should govern the nation's
conduct.

Many of these old chronicles, like the first records, lived only long
enough to be incorporated into more important accounts, and were then
lost, which does not so much matter since their work was done. For,
like every other form of literature, history was not the work of any
epoch or time, but grew as the nation grew, from small beginnings
upward. And at last there came a time when the old chronicles were so
carefully preserved in monasteries and schools and the libraries of
kings, that they ceased to be totally lost or destroyed by
carelessness, and were classed among the most precious possessions of
the nation, and from this time on they were guarded so carefully that
many of them are still to be found.

Among the old chroniclers who thus laid the foundations of English
history we find the name of Gildas, son of one of the British kings
who lived in the sixth century, and that of Nennius, another writer of
the same period. But the works of these men are so full of legends,
myths, and traditions, that it is hard to sift the true from the
false. Their names are important only because they stand out from the
mist that surrounds these old historians, whose names as a rule are
lost. Gildas and Nennius thus represent a class. We can imagine them
moving among their people with their heads full of all the wisdom of
the time, and their hearts full of piety and religious fervor. And
into their books they put a strange mixture that only the ignorance of
the time could call history. There were bits of the old Druid lore
which could never be held anything but sacred by the Britons, no
matter how christianized they became. And there were fragments of
fierce battles between Briton and Saxon, which sound like echoes of
the old heathen war-chants. And interspersed with these would be a
statement of some genuine historic fact, of such importance and of
such inestimable value that it shines out from the confusion around it
like a ray of pure light. Close beside this would be perhaps an
account of some miracle performed by one of the early saints. And this
was what history meant in those days.

But later on we come to a true historian in Bede, who wrote the
history of the Anglo-Saxons from their first settlement in England,
and in his work sifted the old chronicles and tales to such good
purpose that he is considered the one authority for the history of
that early period. Bede had the aid of the most learned men of his
country in collecting these old stories of England, during the time
when the country was divided up into a number of small kingdoms, each
with its own king and separate history, from the time that the Saxons
had first landed in England and divided the country up among their
great chieftains. And the work is doubly important because it was
during the latter part of Bede's lifetime, in 828, that all these
little kingdoms were united into one by Egbert, and the history of
England as one of the great nations of modern times begun.

Bede wrote his history in Latin and called it "The Ecclesiastical
History of the Church," because part of his intention was to write the
history of Christianity in England. But it is the account of the
beginning and growth of the English nation that makes it chiefly
valuable, and although the old book is full of traditions that could
never have been verified, and has story after story of miracles that
could never have happened, yet, after all the defects are considered,
there remains enough good to place Bede as the first historian in
point of time.

In the next century Alfred the Great translated Bede's history into
English, or Anglo-Saxon, which was the language of the people, and
about this same time there was begun a curious old record called the
_Saxon Chronicle_. This Chronicle related in a brief way the history
of the people from the beginning down to Alfred's time, and after his
death was continued by successive writers for nearly two hundred and
fifty years, during which period the Norman Conquest occurred and the
history of England was changed forever by the introduction of a
foreign king and nobility, with their love for romance, songs, and
tales of all kinds. The Normans brought into England also a fondness
for historical narratives, and many books of chronicles were compiled
by the scholars of the day. Among these chronicles the most important
are those of William of Malmesbury and Geoffrey of Monmouth,
Geoffrey's history being also famous because it contains the story of
King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table, which was then for the
first time read in England.

These old chronicles of the Norman period are, like the earlier ones,
full of myths and legends, and so little did the historians of that
day realize the importance of the work they were about that they often
wrote their narratives in verse.

This fashion of writing history in verse continued in England long
after the Saxon and Norman races had joined in one, and modern English
was spoken. Up to the sixteenth century the most important events of
English history were recorded in poems which were written often by the
most learned men of the day. The old histories in verse and the
chronicles which related the lives of different kings, or the events
of certain reigns, are all that we possess in the way of historical
literature from the time of Chaucer to Elizabeth. They are quaint and
interesting, and full of the gossip of the time. When they were not
written by the learned, but by some citizen of leisure or some officer
of the court, who wrote for amusement rather than anything else, they
often contain curious descriptions of the life of the time, which make
them very valuable; for it is from these old chronicles that
Shakespeare and other dramatists drew their materials for the pictures
of those times which they used in their dramas. The principal of the
old chroniclers are Fabyan, an alderman and sheriff of London; Hall, a
judge of one of the city courts; Daniel, poet-laureate to Elizabeth;
Drayton, another poet; John Stow, a citizen of London, and Hollinshed,
the most famous of all the old chroniclers. All of these belong to the
sixteenth century. It is in these old chronicles that we read
descriptions of the pageants, masques, and other entertainments of
those days, and see pictures of the courtiers dressed in satin and
velvet, wearing velvet shoes embroidered with gold and silver, and see
ladies in robes of gold embroidered silk. In this way, too, we learn
that Queen Elizabeth had three thousand dresses in her wardrobe, and
that once when Henry VIII. gave a banquet, two hundred different
dishes were served, and his majesty appeared before his guests dressed
in cloth of gold, and surrounded by a company of maskers, all wearing
the costliest costumes. We also see the other side of life, and read
in these old pages how bishops and chancellors and monks and common
people alike, suffered death at the stake because of their religion.
So the old stories are full of the life of those times and invaluable
records of the past.

This century also produced one writer whose work belongs to the domain
of history proper. This was Sir Walter Raleigh, who began a history of
the world while he was a prisoner in the Tower of London on a charge
of treason. Only a small part of the work was completed, but because
of its carefulness, its dignity, and, above all, its purity of style,
it is considered one of the finest examples of English prose, and
makes Raleigh the leader of that group of writers whose works have
made history one of the classic forms of English literature. For a
hundred years after the death of Raleigh two men only claim honor as
writers of history; but the work of both these men is so important
that without it there would be a gap in English history which no later
work could fill. Both of these men were active politicians and men of
the times, and this gives their work an added value, as they wrote of
the events that happened in their own day, and thus transcribed the
page of history that was being made right before their eyes.

The first of these was Edward Hyde, Chancellor of England and Earl of
Clarendon, who lived during the stirring times of the Revolution which
drove the Stuart family from the throne and raised the Puritan party
into power, and of the Restoration which brought the exiled Stuarts
back again to their inheritance. Clarendon is the historian of one of
the great critical periods of English history, and of the fortunes of
those two sovereigns of the Stuart race whose romantic story reads
like a tale of medival life. He was born in the same year as Milton,
and like the great poet, his earliest impressions of life were
connected with those grave questions of individual duty and national
liberty, civil and religious, which England then was trying so hard to
solve. Early in his career Clarendon became an ardent Royalist,
supporting the King's party against the Puritan power. And when the
Puritans triumphed and the King was executed, Clarendon accompanied
the exiled family abroad, and through all their troubles was their
faithful friend and counsellor, sharing their privation and poverty,
and finding his highest reward in the trust that was reposed in him.

When Cromwell died and the Puritan power fell, Clarendon came back to
England with the Stuarts, and for fourteen years was a witness of the
events which followed the Restoration, one of which was his own fall
from power through the ingratitude of the King. Thus the life of
Clarendon is the life of England for nearly seventy of the most
momentous years of her national existence. It is this life which
Clarendon saw as in a picture, and transcribed in his book called the
_History of the Great Rebellion_. In these pages the principal actors
of that time stand out from the background of causes and events like
great portraits by some master-hand. And although he was a Royalist
always, his judgment was never bitter, and we are therefore able to
form from his works a very clear idea of the period. This personal
account of the days of the Civil War when Royalist and Puritan turned
England into a big battle-ground, where cities were besieged, villages
turned into camps, and roar of cannon and beat of drum were heard
everywhere, is of priceless value as history, though the work has not
the form of a regular history, but reads rather like the memoirs of a
private life.

Next to Clarendon in point of time comes Gilbert Burnet, a politician
and clergyman, and the author of many works on theology. He wrote a
valuable history of the Reformation, but his more popular work is one
which was yet unpublished at the time of his death, and which he
directed should remain unprinted for six years. This work he called a
_History of My Own Times_, and in its way it is just as important as
Clarendon's, for like Clarendon, Burnet lived during a very important
period of English history. During this period occurred the Second
Revolution, which drove James II., brother of Charles II., from the
country and brought to the throne his daughter Mary, who was married
to a Protestant prince of Holland, and who was herself a Protestant;
for this time the trouble was not between the Royalists and the
Puritans, but between the Catholic and Protestant churches, and
England was determined on having a Protestant sovereign. For this
cause James II. was deposed, and his son, who was also a Catholic, was
by an act of Parliament shut off from the succession. This caused
troublous times in England, and everywhere there were plots and
counterplots, and spies and secret messengers, and no one knew whether
the stranger who came to his house was really a friend or a secret foe
sent to spy upon him.

Burnet was the religious adviser of Mary before she was called to the
throne, and he gives an account of the arrival of her husband's army
in English territory and of the events which followed, together with
the causes which led to the Revolution, and a general survey of the
times. Like Clarendon's, the work of Burnet took the form of accounts
of the different events and transactions of the times, and contains a
minute description of scenes which could only have been familiar to a
looker-on. Thus both Clarendon and Burnet are valuable historians
because of the information they impart, though their works do not
belong to the highest order of historical writing.

But the eighteenth century, which gave birth to the novel and the
essay, saw history also raised to a fine art, and this was brought
about by three of the greatest English historians that have yet
appeared. The first of these was David Hume, born in Edinburgh in
1711, and educated in the university of that city. His early writings,
which consisted of essays on philosophy and politics, brought him very
little fame at the time, though highly appreciated by scholars, and
since then universally recognized as of the very highest value; and he
was over forty years of age before he began the great work which
brought him such immense popularity in his day, and which is still
considered one of the finest examples of English prose. This work was
the history of England from the accession of the Stuarts to the flight
of James II. in 1688. It was the same period which Clarendon and
Burnet had made familiar to English readers, and the first volume
appeared in 1754. The style of this work was so different from any
that had preceded it, that Hume may easily be called the first English
writer who made history an art, and revealed the fact that in its form
historical literature could be made as perfect as poetry or the novel,
and historic events could be treated in such a manner that they would
become as interesting to the reader as a romance or tale of adventure.

It is this new sight into the uses of history that gives Hume his
highest claim to be ranked with the great historians. Hitherto history
had chiefly been a chronicle of events, or a personal account of the
period considered. But Hume took the great events of the nation's
life and grouped them skilfully together, and gave them a place in
literature that they had never had before. He wrote an account of a
battle as one would write a poem, using the most eloquent language and
the most powerful imagery, till one fairly saw the conflict before his
eyes. He summed up the causes which led to an event, or the results
which followed from it, in sentences so polished and yet so strong,
that the philosophy of history became as interesting as the study of a
character in a romance. And he drew such a vivid picture of the forces
which controlled events, and of the principal men of the times, that
the period which he treated appeared like an act in a great drama, of
which the whole national life of England was the subject.

Hume was the first historian thus to invest history with that great
element called style, or the manner of doing a thing considered apart
from the thing itself. Not the mere narration of a historic event, but
the manner of narration, must be from this time forth also considered,
and this was a priceless gift to English prose, and raised history to
the high level of pure literature. Henceforth history could not be the
recreation of one whose life was given to politics, war, or other
business, and who wrote merely as an amusement or afterthought. But
the historian would have to feel that he was not only telling facts,
but that he had entered the domain of literature and must prove
faithful to the work he had undertaken. At first Hume had the
mortification of seeing his volumes unappreciated and neglected, but
the newness and beauty of such work soon won a place for it, and one
of the greatest tributes to his genius lies in the fact that his
history became so popular that it was read not only by scholars, but
by the people at large. History became fashionable in a good sense,
and this was not the least victory to win for a branch of literature
that for the most part had hitherto been considered as uninteresting
as legal documents or papers of state.

Hume afterward added to his work by writing the history of England
from the time of the landing of Julius Csar down to the accession of
the Stuarts. His work, so remarkable for its beauty of style, has one
fault so great that it can never be placed among the most perfect
examples of historic writing. This is the many inaccuracies which
occur in it, and which make it impossible to be relied upon as a
perfect statement of truth--a fault which comes from the fact that
Hume relied too much upon tradition, and did not search carefully
enough for the exact facts. Yet even this error cannot take away from
him the honor of being the first writer to win for history the high
place that it now holds.

Hume's work for history was carried on by William Robertson, a Scotch
Presbyterian minister, who produced three important books, _A History
of Scotland_, _A History of the Reign of Charles V._, and _A History
of the Discovery of America_. Robertson has Hume's faults and beauties
in a remarkable degree, and one of his works, _The Discovery of
America_, had the added charm of a subject which was forever
fascinating to European hearts. America, in the time of Columbus, was
deemed a fairy land, a kingdom of romance, a realm of beautiful
mystery. The great Spanish adventurers, Columbus, Pizarro, Cortez, De
Leon, were knights of heroic deeds whose stories were unparalleled in
history or fiction. No event in the history of the world was ever so
startling and unexpected as the discovery of America, and every
circumstance connected with its exploration and settlement was
regarded as nothing short of a wonder.

Robertson, with the poetic gift, put himself back into the period when
Europe was yet dazed with the splendor of the discovery, and he drew a
brilliant, magical picture of those far-off days when Spanish ships
sailed away to the sound of music and the solemn chanting of priests,
to win honor and fortune for Spain in the new world.

His descriptions of this region of enchantment, of the gorgeous
ceremonial with which the Spaniards took possession, of the
healthfulness of the climate, luxuriance of the forests, beauty of the
thousand kinds of flowers, untold wealth of the mines, and the
teachable and humane character of the inhabitants, sounded like a
page from Sir John Mandeville or of Marco Polo, but had the added
fascination of truth.

Just as in the case of Hume, the success of Robertson's work was
largely due to the quality called style, for in many cases he
neglected those authorities which would have enabled him to place his
statements beyond the reach of question. But there is no doubt that in
spite of their defects, these two men did a greater work for history
than more careful but less interesting work would have done, for they
lifted it from the level of the commonplace to regions of the ideal,
and made a subject that had hitherto been considered dry and only of
use for the student, fascinating to the general reader and valuable to
every lover of literature.

But the perfect historian, one who would combine style with judgment,
and a carefulness above suspicion, was also the product of the
eighteenth century, and came in the person of Edward Gibbon, who
finished a great historical work ten years after the publications of
Robertson's last volume. Gibbon was an Englishman, born near London
and educated at no one place, as he was so delicate as a child that he
was constantly being taken from school to be nursed back to the health
that was always forsaking him. But notwithstanding this serious
drawback he managed to pick up a good deal of information, and says
himself that when he went up to Oxford, at the age of fifteen, he
possessed a stock of erudition which might have puzzled a doctor,
though he also had a degree of ignorance of which a schoolboy might
have been ashamed. About his boyhood there was only one circumstance
that indicates the future historian, and that was a fondness for
hunting up odd facts of history and a positive genius for taking
pains. Nothing was too much trouble if it would only prove a point.
Oxford did little for this boy, whose lack of training had not fitted
him for the studies he was expected to pursue there, but college life
accomplished one thing for him which in the end proved to be the
greatest blessing he could have had.

Groping around in the college library, he came upon a book which led
him to turn from the Protestant faith and become a Roman Catholic.
And at this his father was so horrified that he promptly took him from
Oxford and sent him to Switzerland, to be taught by a tutor whose
Protestantism was so strong that it was hoped he would turn the lad
back again to the faith of his father.

It was here, at Lausanne, that Gibbon first began that course of
systematic study which trained him for the careful duties of a
historian, and it was his long residence away from England which so
broadened his mind that he was able to take a clear and unprejudiced
view of mankind as a whole. To be a perfect historian one must have
sympathy without prejudice, and be able to look at a question from
many points of view. These things Gibbon acquired while away from
England, and thus his debt to foreign travel was great.

He was abroad nearly five years, and came home suddenly because of the
war that was then raging in Europe; and it is a strange freak of
fortune to find the young student next employed in drilling a company
of militia, of which he was an officer. Gibbon, with the energy that
was his great characteristic, put his whole soul and mind into this
work. He was determined that his company should be thoroughly drilled,
and marching, exercising, and reviewing were conducted with as much
spirit as if an enemy were already within the country. He lived in
camp and barracks for two years and a half, learning all the minor
details of a soldier's life, and studying military tactics from the
point of view of a professional.

Yet, he still in quiet moments kept his old love for books, and had
even then dreams of writing some historical work. When the militia
disbanded, his father, who had desired Gibbon to enter Parliament, but
had given up this wish because of Gibbon's dislike to the idea,
furnished him with the same amount of money as would have bought his
seat in the House of Commons, and with this sum Gibbon started on a
tour abroad.

At this time Gibbon was conscious of one thing only in regard to his
life's work, and that was that he would write a history. What his
subject would be he did not know, for like Milton, many subjects had
presented themselves, one after the other, to be rejected for some
reason or other. Among these were an account of the Second Crusade, a
history of Sir Philip Sidney, one of Sir Walter Raleigh, and one of
Edward the Black Prince. But none of them held his mind for very long,
and Gibbon started on his foreign travels with a subject for a
historical work still undiscovered.

Gibbon visited France and Switzerland, staying a year at Lausanne, and
studying hard all the while, and at last he came to Italy, the land of
poetry, and to Rome, the city of great deeds. During his stay at
Lausanne Gibbon had been busy studying the life of Italy when Rome was
mistress of the world. All the old authors were searched through and
description after description of the ancient glories of Rome was
eagerly studied; and to further familiarize himself with the country
he compiled a work on the provinces and towns of ancient Italy and
copied some of the old descriptions out in full.

It was then with this book in his hand that Gibbon traversed the
country that was so full of mighty memories, and to him the Italy of
the time seemed but an illusion of the day, while the true Italy lived
in the ruined temples, the ancient battle-grounds, the famous rivers
and mountains, and the cities celebrated for many a bloody siege. It
is no wonder, then, that as he neared Rome this impression deepened,
and the ghosts of the past seemed to him the only living things, and
that the Eternal City itself appeared in all its old splendor, shining
from out the mist of the dead centuries with an immortal glory that no
time could dim.

In this mood of dreams and fancies Gibbon traversed the streets of
Rome, whose ancient temples had long since crumbled to dust, or had
been transformed into places of Christian worship. And while in this
double world of reality and unreality, the idea of his great work
flashed upon him like an inspiration, and with a power that could not
be withstood. He has left us a record of this inspiration in a
sentence which has become classic. "It was at Rome, on October 15,
1764, as I sat musing amid the ruins of the Capitol, while the
bare-footed friars were singing vespers in the temple of Jupiter, that
the idea of writing the decline and fall of the city first started to
my mind."

Thus his work came to him as in a vision, a subject whose wide scope
and magnificent opportunities place it among those chosen by the great
poets who have written the immortal epics of the world.

Never had historian chosen such a mighty theme as this, for in the
whole history of the world no city had ever such a career as that of
Rome, whose empire was so vast, whose power was so great, whose
triumphant conquests changed the destiny of every nation she touched,
and whose laws and principles of government still form the foundations
of every state in Europe. Gibbon was twenty-seven years old when he
made the Italian journey, and though he spent years in other
employment, the idea of his great work never left him. He began it
finally in 1770 in London, and worked on it faithfully for seventeen
years, the work including six volumes, and being published under the
title, _The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_. In this work
nothing is too great or too small to escape his fine sense of what is
necessary. Whether it is the description of a great council, a
decisive battle, or the palace of a pleasure-loving monarch, all is
done with that judgment which marks the instinct of the true
historian, while the work as a whole is elevated and adorned with a
style whose magnificence has never been surpassed by any other writer.

The period that Gibbon treated covered thirteen centuries, beginning
with the time when the power of Rome was greatest, and ending with the
capture of Constantinople by the Turks; for during part of its career
the Roman Empire was divided into two great sections, the Eastern
Empire, of which Constantinople was the chief city, and the Western,
of which Rome was the capital. And although Rome itself fell in 476
A.D., the Eastern Empire continued for a thousand years longer. During
the time of the Roman Empire occurred some of the most important
events in history, such as the rise of Christianity, the fall of the
old heathen religions, the establishment of Mohammedanism, the birth
of the modern nations of Europe, and the institution of chivalry and
feudalism, the orders which divided nations into great military
powers, and by which all lands were held on condition of military
service to the king and nobles. These events were the causes which led
to the making of the nations of Europe as they now exist, and Gibbon
has shown the relation between these causes and effects as only a
great philosopher could show it. His great genius for history has been
shown by the manner in which he gathered his materials for the work,
for he had to depend greatly upon annals and chronicles written in
such exaggerated and prejudiced style, that it was very hard to sift
poetry from history and truth from fiction. Above all he had to
present as living men the dwellers of a past so remote, that they
seemed almost like shadows, and to bring his readers into sympathy
with the ambitions, desires, hopes, and fears of a people whose
national life was entirely different from their own. And this he was
also able to do because he had a poet's imagination. So the _Decline
and Fall of the Roman Empire_ stands as one of the greatest books ever
written.




CHAPTER IX.

JOHNSON--EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.


Samuel Johnson was born at Lichfield, in Staffordshire, in 1709. His
father was a bookseller on a small scale, and Johnson early learned
that in his family poverty was something more than a name. He also
learned early the lesson which delicate health teaches, as from his
birth he was sickly, and suffered so terribly from disease that no one
dreamed that he could look forward to a very long life. His father's
character was plain, straightforward, and practical; his mother was
something of a dreamer, and believed that the disease from which her
child suffered could be cured by a touch of the Queen's hand. She
therefore carried the three-year-old boy up to London, to be touched
by Queen Anne. In spite of her faith, however, the disease remained
and Johnson suffered from it all his life. He suffered also from the
superstition that he inherited from his mother; for notwithstanding
the wisdom and knowledge that he acquired in later years, he was ruled
to such a degree by whimsical superstition that it very often governed
his actions.

While a boy he attended the Lichfield grammar school, and in 1728
entered Pembroke College. Here he led a life in which pride and
ambition struggled with poverty and misfortune, and because of his
fine character gained a noble victory. Johnson was so poor that he
could not dress respectably, and his rags excited the ridicule of the
mean and the pity of the generous. The ridicule he could bear well
enough, knowing well that he was the superior of those who made sport
of him. But the pity he could not endure, for his pride was as great
as his poverty. He wore his old clothes as proudly as though he
desired none other; and once, when a kind-hearted friend placed a pair
of new shoes outside his door, Johnson kicked them away in a fury.
Besides his poverty, he was also rough in manner and uncouth in
appearance, while the disease from which he suffered caused his face
to twitch and his eyes to wink, and gave him a shambling, awkward
gait, so that altogether this village lad who had come to Pembroke to
learn the classics, cut rather a sorry figure.

But for all that, Pembroke guessed somewhat what manner of boy he was.
His independence made his rags seem honorable; his wit won admiration;
the amount of knowledge he had picked up was so rare in a lad of his
age that it brought him respect, and when it became known that this
boy could write compositions in Latin with the ease that other boys
played cricket, Johnson ceased to be pitied and was regarded with that
share of respect that a college gives a pupil who may in after-days
bring it honor and glory. Because of his father's death, Johnson was
obliged to leave college without taking his degree, and shortly after
he began his career by taking the position of usher in a school, and
from this time on for thirty years his life was one of hard work and
almost bitter poverty. For, although he attempted to earn his living
in a variety of ways, he was successful only in remaining poor. He had
a school of his own, wrote for the magazines, and produced some of the
finest work of the eighteenth century, but he was over fifty years of
age before he knew what it was to be sure of his daily bread.
School-teaching failed because he frightened the boys by his fits of
sudden temper and by the contortions of his face. Hard work for the
periodicals brought him hardly enough to buy bread, and for the great
works of his manhood he received very little except fame.

But through all his life Johnson was generous and great-hearted,
though the battle of life went strong against him. He was one of
Goldsmith's dearest friends, and the one who never failed when
Goldsmith was threatened with starvation because of his poverty, or
prison because of his debts; and though Johnson was gruff and
unceremonious, and was called a bear even by those who loved him, his
heart was ever open to those who were poorer than himself, and his
brain was ever at the service of those who needed advice or
assistance. When he was fifty-three he was granted a pension by the
king, and from this time on his life was comparatively easy and happy.
He had an admiring crowd of friends who never tired of listening to
his conversation, and who were always honored by his attention. He
supported a number of old women and men whom he bullied and who
humored him to his heart's content, and who regarded him with grateful
veneration. Best of all, he had in himself that capacity for
friendship that made him give to his friends as tender and faithful a
love as that which they gave him.

At the club to which he belonged, and where the greatest men of the
day met to chat and converse, Johnson was always the lion of the hour.
Everyone listened when he talked, everyone admired his wit and
learning, and no one wished to dispute him, even if it had not been
dangerous to do so. And so the end of his life was peaceable and
pleasant, brightened by the knowledge that his well-earned fame was
dear to many hearts, and secure in the belief that he had won from
life true honor, and from friendship true regard. He died in 1795. His
most important works are a series of essays like those of Addison,
printed under the titles of the _Rambler_ and the _Idler_, a
_Dictionary_ of the English language, two philosophical poems, a moral
tale called _Rasselas_, which he wrote to defray the expenses of his
mother's funeral, the _Lives of the English Poets_, and an edition of
Shakespeare's works. He wrote besides many tracts on political and
moral questions.

Although Johnson's works do not stand by the side of the greatest in
English literature, few other writers ever enjoyed the measure of fame
that he received while he lived. Much of this was due to his immense
learning, which made it possible for him to talk or write upon any
subject, and much of it was due also to the fact that, although he was
not one of the greatest of writers, he was the greatest writer of his
time who combined in himself so many different talents. Add to this
his wit, his genius for conversation, his original way of looking at
all subjects, and his splendid strength and simplicity of character,
and it is easy to see that much of his fame was due to the fact that
he was a great man as well as a great writer. And the fact also that
his strength became tenderness when he had to deal with the weaknesses
of his friends, and that his fine mind was always ruled by his
generous heart when brought into the presence of suffering, explains
the unique leadership he held in that brilliant world of thought which
was so proud to call him king.

The story of Rasselas is as follows:


In the great kingdom of Abyssinia there was no place so beautiful and
peaceful as the Happy Valley, where dwelt all the royal princes and
princesses till the time came for them to succeed to the throne. This
valley was surrounded by lofty mountains so steep that even the wild
animals could not reach their summit, and the only means of entrance
or egress was a dark cavern which passed under the mountain to the
world outside. The mouth of this cavern was guarded by heavy gates of
iron which could only be moved by machinery, and was opened only once
a year, when the king came to see all his children and remained for
eight days, feasting and making merry with the inhabitants and with
the retinue which accompanied him.

At such times the dwellers in the valley had the privilege of wishing
for anything that they liked, as this was the law of the land, and so,
during the king's visit, everyone had everything he desired. The fame
of the Happy Valley had spread far and near, and many were desirous of
being admitted among its inhabitants. But no one outside of the royal
family could be admitted to this valley, unless he proved his
superiority in music, dancing, or some other art, or had some gift
that would bring additional comfort or happiness to the inhabitants;
and thus it happened that at every visit the king was accompanied by
scores of persons who excelled in various arts, and who exerted all
their power to please the royal family and thus be admitted to the
Happy Valley for life.

All who returned to the world again at the end of the royal visit,
told only marvellous stories of the beauty of the valley, and the
splendor of the palaces, and the loveliness of the air, and the happy
lot of the inhabitants who had every wish gratified, and whose days
were spent entirely in pleasure of every kind.

The valley was indeed a beautiful place. Far up their slopes the
mountains were covered with verdure and trees, and sent down
innumerable brooks and streams whose banks were covered with flowers.
The level ground was covered with lawns, gardens, arbors, orchards,
and bowers, and pastures where wandered every species of grass-feeding
animal. Beautiful lakes were scattered everywhere, inhabited by every
kind of fish, and the whole place was musical with the songs of birds
from every quarter of the globe. The palaces were most magnificent,
and the different rooms were so arranged that one never felt the heat
of summer or the cold of winter, but instead, the windows were
wide-open always, and the scent of flowers and the songs of birds were
as much a part of the indoor as of the outdoor life.

Thus, to outward appearances, the Happy Valley contained everything
of greatest value in the world, and seemed the abode of peaceful
content, and as the royal children knew of no other existence, and
their teachers told them constantly that the world outside was full of
trouble and annoyance, a murmur of discontent was never heard.

And so all went well in the Happy Valley till one day Prince Rasselas,
who had reached his twenty-sixth year, awoke with a strange feeling of
discontent in his heart. All through the day the amusements of his
friends wearied him, and the conversation of his teachers appeared
tiresome, and even when he left the palace and went out-doors, the
songs of the birds irritated him, the flowers no longer delighted him,
the fruits could not tempt him, and in fact nothing in the Happy
Valley could please him.

This frightened Rasselas, and he began to seek for the cause of his
discontent, and at last he decided that he felt unhappy because he had
everything he wished. As soon as he came to this decision he began to
wonder if there were not something that he might wish for that he did
not know of, and he spent many days in trying to think of some new
kind of pleasure. But try as he might, there was nothing that he
wished for that was not immediately supplied by his attendants, and at
last he gave up in despair and resolved to be forever unhappy, because
he could discover no new thing to wish for.

At last one of his teachers reproved him for his discontent, and
advised him to return to his companions and share once more their
studies and amusements. "Why," said the old man, "are you unhappy when
you have everything you want?"

And at this Rasselas no longer concealed the truth, and confessed that
he was unhappy only because he had not a single want in the world. The
old man was so surprised at this that he could think of nothing to
reply for a long time, but at last he told Rasselas that if he had
seen the miseries of the outside world he would know how to value the
Happy Valley. And thinking he had said a very wise thing, the tutor
was much astonished and grieved to hear Rasselas immediately exclaim
that at last he had something to wish for, for, since it was necessary
to see the miseries of the world in order to be happy, he should
henceforth long constantly to behold them.

For two years Rasselas was quite happy in thinking that at last he had
something to wish for, and in dreaming what he should do when he left
the Happy Valley. At the end of this time he came suddenly to his
senses and began to think how foolish he had been to spend so much
precious time in dreaming, and his regret was so deep that for a long
time he did nothing but lament his folly. At last, however, he ceased
pining over the past and decided to find some means of leaving the
valley at once.

But escape seemed impossible. The mountain slopes were searched vainly
for concealed apertures, and the iron gates no man could open except
by machinery, and after ten months spent in the search, Rasselas
decided that he must either remain in the valley or find some means of
escape that he had not yet thought of. But through all this time he
was happy because he had now a wish which no one could gratify.

Among the dwellers of the Happy Valley was one who was famous for his
skill in the mechanical arts. He had invented a wheel which forced the
waters of the stream into the highest rooms of the palace, and built a
pavilion in which the air was kept cool by artificial showers. In one
of the rivulets which ran through a grove he had fixed wheels which
put fans in motion for ventilating the grove, and produced music upon
instruments of music, and these and other inventions had brought him
into great prominence in the Happy Valley. One day, as Rasselas was
visiting the workshop of this man, he beheld the design of a sailing
chariot, and was told by the master that, wonderful as this invention
was by which a chariot could be propelled over the level ground by
sails, it was nothing in comparison to another idea he had in his
mind, which was the invention of a flying machine by which man could
rival the birds of the air in motion, and thus be enabled to journey
where he would.

The artisan said that, as man had learned to swim in the water like a
fish, so he might fly through the air like a bird, and this argument
appeared so reasonable to Rasselas that he divulged his secret wish to
leave the valley, and received the promise of the artisan to furnish
him with a pair of wings on a certain day, if he would agree to reveal
the secret to no one, and would not ask him to make wings for anyone
but themselves. This Rasselas readily promised, and now it seemed that
there at last was a chance to escape. But, alas! when after a year's
work, the artisan pronounced the wings finished, and made a trial
flight from a little promontory, he dropped plump into the lake like a
piece of lead, and Rasselas dragged him from the water half-dead with
terror. And so all thought of flying from the Happy Valley was
abandoned.

The prince next took into his confidence Imlac, the philosopher who
had visited every part of the earth, and whose learning was so immense
that he stood alone in the world. He had lived in the Happy Valley for
a long time, and always said that his varied experiences had shown
him that he alone was happy who kept himself busy with the study of
philosophy. Imlac, however, had not entirely lost his love for the
world, and he heard the confession of Rasselas with as much pleasure
as surprise, and readily consented to assist him out of the valley and
to be his guide when they should have reached the outside world.

While Imlac and his pupil were contriving means for their escape, they
came one day to some small holes in the side of the mountain dug by a
colony of conies which had been driven from their burrows by heavy
rains, and as Imlac looked at these holes he immediately conceived the
thought that he and the prince might do well to take a hint from the
conies and see if they could not dig their way out through the
mountains. This was not so impossible as it might seem, as the
mountains which surrounded the Happy Valley were of such a shape that
their summits overhung the middle slopes, and thus by digging upward
through the part that hung over, the prince and Imlac might hope to
reach the outer world at last, if they only persevered. Looking
earnestly among the bushes they discovered a small cavern, and here
they began their mine the next day. The work was slow, as they had to
steal time when there was least danger of discovery, but they came to
the outside world at last; their secret had been discovered by the
Prince's sister Nekayah, who also wished to leave the Happy Valley,
and they decided to lose no time but proceed on their journey
immediately; and as Nekayah declared she could not leave her companion
Pekuah behind, the little party numbered four when all was ready.

The prince and princess, by Imlac's advice, concealed all their jewels
among their clothing, and on the first night of the full moon all left
the valley, and hurrying through the cavity, came at last to the open
side of the mountain.

Imlac desired to take them to the sea-shore, so that they might take
ship to a foreign country and thus be out of the way of pursuit; and
so they at once began journeying seaward, though they travelled but
slowly, as Imlac had to accustom the prince and princess to the sight
of strange people who showed no fear in their presence, and who did
not prostrate themselves before them as did their subjects in the
Happy Valley.

Pekuah, the companion, was able to assist the princess in many useful
ways, and travelling in this fashion they came at last to the sea and
took passage for Cairo, where could be found travellers and merchants
from every part of the earth, and where the prince hoped to study life
carefully and at length decide upon a career for himself.

As Imlac took upon him the character of a merchant, their jewels were
easily changed into money, which procured them every luxury, and
Rasselas and his sister passed for wealthy strangers who were
travelling for curiosity, and so their appearance in Cairo excited no
surprise or comment.

Rasselas did not doubt that he would soon be able to make a choice of
a career, and he spent many hours in imagining his happiness when he
should be at last settled in some honorable profession; and as he
thought that happiness could best be studied from the happy, he set
himself about finding happy men. But this appeared very difficult. He
visited young men who spent their entire time in enjoyment, and
philosophers who lectured daily on the vanity of pleasure, and men who
said that art or science or the gaining of riches was the chief thing
in the world. But though he tried many months, Rasselas could not find
anyone who would own that he enjoyed happiness. This puzzled him
greatly, for in Cairo was to be found every condition of life that
existed. At last he heard of a hermit who lived at a great distance
from Cairo, and whose fame for piety had reached every ear, and
Rasselas decided that he would visit this holy man and see if he had
found the secret of happiness.

The hermit lived in a little dell shaded with palms and made musical
by the murmur of a cataract not far away. His dwelling consisted of a
cavern which was divided into a number of rooms, and here the
travellers were glad to find that everything spoke of peace and
happiness. But when they told the hermit that they had come hither to
inquire of him how to find happiness, he shook his head, sighed, and
after relating the history of his life, said that it was his
determination to leave his retreat on the morrow, as his solitude of
fifteen years had given him nothing but a desire to see the world once
more. Though stunned with surprise, the prince offered to conduct the
hermit back to the city with them, and first digging up some treasure
hid among the rocks, the hermit joined them, and as they approached
the city, greeted it with such expressions of joy that the prince
almost feared he had gone mad. Although Rasselas and Nekayah had been
disappointed in the hermit, they yet did not despair of finding
someone who could tell them the way to happiness. They continued to
visit all sorts of people--rich, wise, poor, and ignorant--but no one
would admit that he was happy, and the brother and sister at last
became discouraged. But just then Imlac said that the only true way to
find happiness was by studying the history of the past and comparing
it with the present, so as to see wherein those nations which were
considered happy differed from those that were unhappy, and he
proposed that for the purpose of this study they should all visit the
great Pyramids, and learn from those vast monuments of antiquity the
secret of happiness.

To this the brother and sister readily consented, and the next day
they started for the Pyramids, taking with them camels, tents, and
attendants, as they resolved to stay among the Pyramids till they had
learned all it was possible to learn from them concerning happiness.

But on the second day of their arrival a sad accident happened, which
destroyed all their plans. On this day they had decided to enter the
great Pyramid and examine the inner rooms, but as they came to the
first entrance, Pekuah, the companion of the princess, drew back
trembling, and declared that she should die if she entered a place
which she knew was filled with ghosts, and as nothing could drive this
thought from her mind they were obliged to leave her behind them.

They passed through the different rooms of the Pyramid, examining the
costly chambers and marble vaults with great interest, and when they
came to the outer world again Nekayah had her mind full of the wonders
which she should relate to Pekuah. But as they approached the tents
they found all the attendants filled with terror, for during their
absence a party of Arabs from the desert had galloped down upon the
encampment, seized Pekuah and two of her maids, and borne them off
before the surprised attendants could interfere. They had been driven
off by some Turkish horsemen who had opportunely appeared, and who
were then in pursuit, and the attendants said there was nothing to do
but wait until their return to see what had been the fate of Pekuah.

The princess was overcome by this sad news, and when the Turks
returned and said that they had been unable to overtake the Arabs, her
grief knew no bounds. They returned to Cairo, and from that day
Rasselas and Nekayah forgot all about the pursuit of happiness, and
thought only of recovering Pekuah from the Arabs, for it was generally
believed that they would restore her if a large ransom were offered.

And in this they were right, for no sooner had the Arab chief
discovered, by the richness of her apparel, and the deference of her
maids, that Pekuah was a lady of high position, than he became very
respectful to her, and ordered all his followers to treat her with the
greatest consideration. He bore her to his castle on an island in the
river, and except for the fact that she was a prisoner, Pekuah
suffered no hardships. The chief was delighted with her knowledge of
the world, and spent hours in conversing with her, and as he was also
a student of astronomy, he instructed her in the mysteries of the
heavens, and the time was in the main filled with pleasant
occupations.

Here Pekuah remained many months, during which Rasselas and the
princess tried constantly to obtain news of her. Messenger after
messenger was sent out to carry on the search, but all returned
unsuccessful, and at last Nekayah became so discouraged that she
threatened to enter a convent and pass the rest of her life in
mourning for Pekuah.

But at last a messenger came in one day, announcing that he had
discovered the Arab's retreat, and that Pekuah would be returned upon
the payment of a certain sum. This news brought hope again to Nekayah,
and the whole party proceeded toward the spot where Pekuah was to be
brought. And in a few days the princess had the great happiness of
seeing her favorite once more, and they all returned to Cairo.

About this time the party formed the acquaintance of an old
astronomer, who was renowned for wisdom and philosophy, but whose mind
was so unsettled by long study that he imagined he possessed the power
of controlling the laws of nature, and could call up tempests or
sunshine at his will. On every other point the astronomer was sane and
reasonable, but he persisted in thinking that he had control of the
weather. And this affliction seemed so pitiable to the prince's party
that they, one and all, set about the kindly task of bringing the old
man back to his senses.

With this in view they planned to keep the astronomer constantly
occupied with other things, so that he should have no time to think of
the weather. They therefore invited him to their house daily, made him
share their amusements, and listened with delight to his talk; for he
had vast stores of knowledge; and this plan succeeded so well that the
old man soon ceased to think continually of the weather, and no longer
thought it necessary to regulate the rising and the setting of the
sun.

Rasselas and his sister were so rejoiced at the success of their
amiable plan, that they experienced the truest pleasure that they had
felt since their flight from the Happy Valley, and had they kept on
with such works of kindness, it is possible that they might at last
have reached the happiness that they were always seeking. But having
cured the astronomer, they began again to search for some condition of
life which would bring them happiness, and one state after another was
discussed and dismissed, until they began to wonder whether any
vocation would bring them what they desired. Just as they came to this
question the rising of the Nile kept them prisoners within the house,
and they spent many days in arguing what life they should choose.
Pekuah finally decided that she would like to enter a convent, and
pass her life in quiet. The princess thought that she might be happy
if she should found a great college for women over which she should
preside, and spend her life in conversing with the wise and
instructing the young. Rasselas said that he should like to have a
little kingdom which he might govern as he pleased, and Imlac and the
astronomer decided to make no choice, but to drift along wherever life
might lead them. Having at last settled upon what they desired, they
began to think of ways of obtaining it. But this they found to be very
difficult, and after endless talks and plans they were as far off from
their wishes as ever, and when they realized this it seemed so strange
to them that they could talk of nothing else for a long time.

They had now been away from Abyssinia a long time, and their search
for happiness had been utterly vain. They had found not one happy
person in all their wanderings, and the pursuits and enjoyments of the
outside world seemed as tiresome as the monotonous existence of the
Happy Valley. Since this was true, it was clear that they had gained
nothing by their journey, and their surprise at this discovery was so
great that they could do nothing but talk of it for the rest of the
time that they were confined to the house. And then, since there
seemed no use in continuing their travels, they resolved to return to
Abyssinia as soon as the Nile subsided, and acknowledge to the friends
they had left, that their search for happiness had been all in vain.




CHAPTER X.

THE ROMANTIC NOVEL--NINETEENTH CENTURY.


The history of England is from the beginning celebrated for the number
and popularity of certain heroes, who represented the epochs in which
they lived to such a degree that the story of the hero is the story of
the times. Thus the history of the earliest ages of England is only to
be found in the tales of the old British and Saxon chieftains, as the
history of early Christian times in England is preserved in the story
of King Arthur and his blameless knights, and the record of Norman
influence is found in the exploits of jolly Robin Hood and his merry
men.

Every age, in fact, produced its popular hero, the idol of the people
and the representative of the times, and around these heroes gradually
grew up a literature which pictured the national life, because it was
founded upon events which made the nation's history. And no pages in
all the story of England's growth are more full of romance and
picturesqueness than those which treat of that long warfare between
England and Scotland, when the Scots were fighting for their freedom.
The early part of the struggle between England and Scotland is often
spoken of as the period of Border warfare, because the conflict was
carried on chiefly between the clans and families which lived near the
boundary lines, and consisted of long years of raiding and guerilla
warfare rather than of pitched battles and sieges. These old times are
alive with incidents and events of the most romantic nature. Princes
and chieftains and leaders, clans and retainers and followers, castles
and dungeons and mountain retreats, are the materials which go to make
up the history of those days when life meant danger and adventure and
sudden turns of fortune, and peace and security seemed impossible
dreams. The memory of these times came down to later days, bringing a
legacy of traditions sacred to every Scot. But of these old days
there existed no literature and no history, save in the folk-songs
which were sung in highland wilds or lowland villages, songs which had
been made and sung by the old bards and minstrels who wandered from
castle to castle in those troublous days, and whose lays had come down
from generation to generation, priceless and sole heirlooms of the
past.

There came a time, however, when this far distant period began to
possess an interest to scholars and students of literature, and when
the old song ceased to be looked upon merely as an old song, and was
considered of great value because it was a refrain from those days
when the history of the country was being made. And there grew up a
great desire to study the history of that time, so that the dead past
might be brought back and its shadowy dwellers once again pass before
the eye like living men and women.

In England this desire resulted in the publication of a book by Bishop
Percy, called _Reliques of Ancient Poetry_, in which were put
together as many of the old songs and ballads as the compiler could
find. In this curious and valuable book were grouped together a
strange medley of ancient legends gathered from many sources. Some of
the ballads had been taken from old manuscript, yellow and worn with
time. Others had been jotted down from the lips of some village poet,
the last descendant of the old bards. Others still were rudely
printed, and had been circulated among the peasant class for hundreds
of years. Some were in Highland, some in Lowland, some in English
speech of many different counties. Some recorded great battles, and
others homely incidents of love and domestic life. But all were full
of the life of those distant ages, and brought back the old days with
the vividness of a picture.

This interesting book drifted for twenty years among the haunts of
book lovers, and won for itself a warm welcome everywhere, and then it
fell one day into the hands of a blue-eyed lad who looked and read,
and straightway was lost to the present, having wandered back into
that golden past which the old poems called up. This lad was a Scot,
by name Walter Scott, and in his veins ran the blood of those old
chieftains whose deeds he was reading, for both his father and mother
were descended from those ancient historic families whose achievements
were the glory of Scottish history. In speaking of his first
acquaintance with this book, Scott says that his heart was stirred as
with the sound of a trumpet, and perhaps it is not the least glory of
the old ballads that they dropped into this boyish mind the seeds
which in later years bore such golden harvests for English literature.

Scott was born in 1771 at Edinburgh, but being delicate passed much of
his childhood in the country, and here, among the farmer folks, his
mind was filled with all those legends and quaint superstitions in
which the country people so firmly believed. These impressions sank
into his mind, found fruitful soil, grew and flourished, and gave form
and color to his imagination in such a degree that when the time came
for him to write books, he reproduced the spirit of the old days as no
other writer could have done, because it was the same spirit that had
influenced him when a child.

Scott was educated in the High School and University of Edinburgh, and
was trained for the practice of the law. But as his tastes ran toward
literature he found the law little to his liking, and in very early
manhood began the translation of German poetry, in which he was quite
successful. It was fortunate, however, that he soon discovered that
his work for literature must lie in other directions.

With the tastes of his childhood days strong within him, he turned his
mind toward the old songs and ballads which made up a large part of
Scottish poetry, and he resolved to try and bring into some definite
form all the numerous and interesting legends which were woven into
the pages of his country's history.

He travelled through the regions celebrated in history, and from
cotter and shepherd and farmer, and curious old written songs, he
gathered together legends, myths, and old traditions, and became
familiar with the scenery and manners of the places where each song or
legend had been found. Then he studied, sifted, and edited, and at
last bound together in definite form these old bits of history which
had been first made by the old harpers and minstrels, and published
them in a book called the _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_. This
book was more than a compilation of old songs, it was the reproduction
of a part of the national history, and it won for Scott the honor and
recognition that he deserved.

In this work Scott seems to have been searching for the right path in
which to work, and the results show that he found that which he
sought, for in 1805 he gave to the world an original poem, _The Lay of
the Last Minstrel_, which was founded upon the romantic incidents of
the old Border warfare. Then came the poems called _Marmion_, founded
upon the battle of Flodden Field, in 1513, when James IV. of Scotland
was slain and the English gained the victory, the hero Marmion being a
fictitious character representing one of the English leaders; _The
Lady of the Lake_, founded upon the romantic adventures of Henry V. of
Scotland, while wandering in disguise through the western Highlands;
_Rokeby_, in which the scene is laid directly after the battle of
Marston Moor, where Charles I. was defeated by the revolutionists;
_The Lord of the Isles_, relating to the stirring days of Robert Bruce
and Scotland's battle for independence; and several minor ones. These
poems were unique in English literature, and their appearance marked a
new epoch.

But great as was his success in these poems, Scott was really at this
period only finding his way toward his true work. The poems were
splendid pictures of the romantic and chivalrous ages, and were thrown
into those fascinating metres which appeal to lovers of music and to
the people at large. A passage or description from one of these poems
could almost be chanted like an old battle hymn, and this lyric
quality added greatly to their popularity.

But still they were pictures of times and events rather than anything
else, and lacked that human interest which marks the masterpieces of
all literature. And Scott's fame, therefore, as one of the great
writers of romance does not rest upon his poems, popular as they were
in his day, but upon his long series of romantic novels in which is
shown such a clear understanding and portrayal of the motives that
make human conduct. These novels are based upon incidents in English,
Scottish, and Continental history, or upon domestic life, and in each
of these departments Scott produced a masterpiece.

His first novel was founded upon the attempt of Charles Edward Stuart,
grandson of James II., to gain the English throne.

In 1745 the young prince, an exile from England, landed with seven
friends on one of the Hebrides and raised the standard of the Stuarts.
The throne of England was occupied by George II., and the English
nation, under the wise direction of the elder Pitt, one of the
greatest statesmen that England has ever known, was well enough
content with its ruling house. The young Pretender, as the prince is
called in history, had small chance of gaining the throne; but the
Highland clans rallied to his standard, and in a few weeks he found
himself at the head of six thousand men.

But in spite of the loyalty of the brave Highlanders, Charles Edward
was defeated and was obliged to escape to France. But his campaign was
so romantic in its nature, and he himself was looked upon as such a
hero by his friends, that his attempt to win England was regarded as
an adventure of the olden times, when exiled kings won back their
inheritance by deeds of personal bravery. This was the last effort of
the Stuarts to gain the throne. And with the defeat of Charles Edward
the Highlanders ceased to inspire the terror that they had hitherto
done. There was even passed an act of Parliament forbidding the clans
to wear the tartan, and with this defeat the Highland Scot as a power
against the English throne passed out of history. But during the early
years of Scott the campaign of the young Pretender was still fresh in
the memory of the nation, and the beauty, bravery, and romantic deeds
of the prince were among the favorite themes discussed at Scottish
firesides. This story Scott wove into his novel which he called
_Waverley, or 'Tis Sixty Years Since_, and which he gave to the world
in 1814, without appearing as the author.

This novel was received with the same enthusiasm which had greeted his
poetry, though few suspected the authorship. And in this work Scott at
once reached the highest point of his art. None of the brilliant
romances which followed exceeded _Waverley_ in magnificent
description, stirring adventure, or those peculiarities of human life
which make the novels of Scott so dramatic. _Waverley_ was followed by
a series of stories of such power that they won for the romantic novel
one of the highest places in literature.

In _Kenilworth_ Scott told the love-story of the Earl of Leicester and
the unfortunate Amy Robsart. This picture is one of the most brilliant
that Scott has drawn, the story indeed reading like a description by
some old chronicler of the pageants for which London was so famous in
the days of Elizabeth.

Leicester, the most powerful of Elizabeth's earls--so great, indeed,
that he was looked upon as a possible suitor for her hand--was in love
with the beautiful Amy Robsart, daughter of Sir Hugh Robsart, a
country baronet. As this great difference in rank could not admit of
open courtship their love was kept secret, and Leicester induced Amy
to marry him privately, and then carried her to Cumnor Place, one of
his country houses, and left her in charge of his dependent, Anthony
Foster, who was entirely devoted to Leicester's interests. Before
Amy's arrival at Cumnor Place some rooms in the old dwelling had been
beautifully fitted up for her reception, as Leicester wished to honor
her as far as he could. The walls were hung with velvet and silken
drapery, and tapestry from the famous looms of Flanders. There were
chairs ornamented with arabesque needlework; and mirrors from Venice;
foot-cloths and carpets from Spain; silver sconces which reflected the
polish of the wainscoting, made from the foreign woods that had been
brought from the West Indies; and a chair of state with a canopy,
cushions, side curtains, and foot-cloth of velvet embroidered with
pearls and surmounted by two coronets, and beautiful pictures adorning
the walls everywhere. But Amy was not happy amid these surroundings,
whose splendor only dazzled the eyes of the simple country girl, and
left her heart still hungry for Leicester's presence; for he was away
from her almost constantly, and even when he did come to see her his
visits were stolen, and made at times when Elizabeth supposed him away
from court on some far different errand.

Thus, even in the first picture of her married life, there is a shadow
cast by the loneliness of the young wife, which contrasted strangely
with her husband's life at the brilliant court of Elizabeth. This
love-story, which begins under such sad conditions, is made by Scott
to form the centre of a group of brilliant pictures of the Elizabethan
days. From Amy Robsart, in her lonely state at Cumnor Place we are led
to her father's house, and have a glimpse of the life of a country
gentleman of the sixteenth century. We see the generous and
true-hearted baronet, lavish in hospitality and with a loyal devotion
to his queen, now bowed under the weight of a great sorrow, and
mourning his daughter's absence all the more deeply because he does
not know whither she had gone, and supposed in fact that she had fled
with Richard Varney, a friend of Leicester's.

Again, we see a picture of one of those country inns where all sorts
of people meet to spend the night, and find among these chance
acquaintances the typical landlord, Giles Gosling, stout and ruddy and
jolly, just such a host as Shakespeare saw many a time on his way from
Stratford up to London. Here too is the reckless soldier of fortune
who has spent his youth warring in France and Spain and the
Netherlands, and who has come back to England without the fortune he
hoped to make. Beside him sit the village characters--the mercer, who
thinks only of his wares, and listens to stories of life in America
and the Indies because they suggest to him fortunes that might be made
by trade, and the mechanics who have come to drink ale, and the quiet
traveller whose air of distinction sets him apart from the others,
and whose courteous comradeship marks him a man of the world. All
these meet and chat in the old inn, the purpose of the picture being
the introduction of Edmund Tressilian, a former lover of Amy Robsart
and her father's dearest friend, who has set out to find her in spite
of all the precautions that Leicester has taken.

The inn is in a little village near Cumnor Hall, and through various
expedients Tressilian gains access to the house and has an interview
with Amy, though he cannot persuade her to return to her father's
house. From this point the story rises in dramatic interest, till the
highest point is reached in the flight of Amy to Kenilworth Castle,
whither the court has gone on a visit to the Earl of Leicester; in
this scene Scott brings in a description of those famous
entertainments which always occurred at a royal visit. We see
Kenilworth in holiday attire, with its portal guarded by warders,
whose dress and arms imitated those of the old Britons who were said
to have tenanted the castle in the days of King Arthur. At the
entrance to the gate stood some of Leicester's retainers, all of
gentle birth, forming a double row like a guard of honor through which
the queen must pass. These gentlemen carried no arms excepting their
swords and daggers, and their dress was the most magnificent that
their means allowed; velvet, silk, gold and silver lace, ribbons,
feathers, and jewels, served to make their appearance worthy of the
eyes of the queen, who demanded always that her attendants should wear
the most elegant apparel; and it is interesting to know that among
this group Scott has introduced the figure of the gallant and courtly
Sir Walter Raleigh, then just rising into fame.

In the twilight of the summer day which Scott describes, the queen and
her train of lords and ladies approached Kenilworth and received the
homage of the hundreds of country people who thronged the wayside, and
among whom may have been the boy Shakespeare, then in his twelfth
year. From every tower and battlement of the castle came the sound of
drum and trumpet and cannon, and with the salvos of the multitude
ringing in her ears, the queen, mounted on a milk-white horse, and
preceded by two hundred horsemen carrying lighted torches, passed
through the gates of Kenilworth. On the right hand rode Leicester, his
dress flashing with gold and jewels, followed by the ladies of the
train and the highest-born nobles of the land. From the bridge which
led to the entrance tower the queen saw the whole lake illuminated
with torches and filled with floating islands upon which rested
tritons, nereids, and sea-horses, and in the centre of which stood a
masker in the character of the Lady of the Island, who welcomed
Elizabeth to Kenilworth, and who claimed to be the famous Lady of the
Lake, so familiar to the lovers of the stories of King Arthur and his
knights.

With this welcome the queen entered the castle hall, while a blaze of
fireworks shooting from the towers overhead announced to the multitude
outside that the festivities of the royal visit had begun. The
entertainment that followed was on a scale of great magnificence:
banquets, masques, and hunting parties succeeded one another, and
Kenilworth was turned into a vast hall of pleasure. Persons of all
sorts and conditions had flocked to the castle to ply their accustomed
professions, and jugglers, players, wandering musicians, and showmen
of every description, were to be found within the walls, turning the
place for a time into a miniature of the great world of London.

Under cover of one of these companies of travelling showmen, Amy
Robsart had come to Kenilworth to beg Leicester to acknowledge her as
his wife. Her life at Cumnor Place had become unbearable, and she
feared much from the ill-will of Anthony Foster and Richard Varney,
the one friend of Leicester who knew of her marriage. So she had
stolen away from her prison and had made her way in disguise to
Kenilworth, which she entered without revealing herself to anyone.
Edmund Tressilian was among the guests present, and through an
accident he became aware of her presence in the castle and resolved to
guard her from all harm if he could. But this one friend could do very
little good in the face of the desperate circumstances which
surrounded her. Through a succession of misunderstandings, the queen
discovered Amy to be Leicester's wife, and Leicester himself was led
to doubt Amy's love for him, and ordered her carried back to Cumnor
Place and put to death. After Amy had left the castle, Leicester
discovered that she was still true to him, and sent a messenger in
haste to forbid the crime. But this messenger did not reach Cumnor
Place in time, and Amy was cruelly murdered. This story, which Scott
has made so familiar by the pages of _Kenilworth_, was repeated all
over England in Shakespeare's day and for many years afterward.
Ballads were written upon it, strange and weird experiences were
related in connection with it, and Cumnor Place became forever
celebrated in English history as the scene in this dark page of
Leicester's life. Floating down the centuries it came into the hands
of Scott, who has made it immortal and has placed it among the famous
love-stories of the world.

In _Ivanhoe_ Scott went back to those adventurous times when England
was still Norman and Saxon instead of being purely English, and
contrasts the life of the Norman conqueror with that of the conquered
Saxon. Prince John was ruling on behalf of his brother, Richard
_Coeur de Lion_, who had been taken prisoner in Germany while
returning from the crusades, and John's well-known wish to set his
brother aside and gain the crown for himself, had divided England into
two political parties, the one which favored John and the one that
still remained faithful to the absent king.

Richard, disguised as the Black Knight, is introduced into the story
of Ivanhoe, which besides being a tale of splendid dramatic interest,
is a picturesque description of those troublesome days. Besides the
character of Richard many strange personages, that represent the
social life of the times, are also introduced. Thus we have a glimpse
of the order of the Knights Templar, one of the most powerful
organizations of the Middle Ages, whose members were sworn to redeem
the Holy Sepulchre. We see also some of those Free Companions, or
men-at-arms, who drifted through Europe from one country to another,
serving in any army that would pay them, and ready for any adventure.
We see, too, the Saxon peasant wearing the brass collar which
proclaims him a serf and tells the name of his master; and the
crusader just returned from the Holy Land; and, as in a picture by
Chaucer, the figure of a monk on his way to the rich priory of his
order, and beside him a hardy yeoman with his bow of yew. And Robin
Hood himself flits through the pages as Locksley, the chivalrous
outlaw, side by side with _Coeur de Lion_. Then we have descriptions
of tournaments and feasts, and midnight adventures with Robin Hood,
and the storming of castles, and banqueting in Saxon halls which were
old when the Norman first came to England. And all the persons and
incidents are woven together in such a manner that they form a perfect
picture of those days, and make at the same time a story of such
dramatic interest that it will ever be considered one of Scott's most
famous romances.

Scott took his idea of the story from an old English ballad, gathered
his materials from old Anglo-Saxon manuscripts, named his hero
_Ivanhoe_ from an old rhyme, which stated that _Twing_, _Wing_, and
_Ivanhoe_ were three manors which had been lost to their owner because
he struck the Black Prince with a racket while playing tennis with
him; and then proceeded to write his first romance which dealt with a
remote period.

In the story, Ivanhoe, the son of Cedric, the most powerful of the
Saxon earls, has been banished from his father's house because he
loves Rowena, a Saxon lady of high birth and his father's ward. Rowena
is the promised bride of Athelstane, the last representative of the
Saxon kings, and Cedric is determined to bring the match about, even
though he knows that Rowena returns Ivanhoe's love. Ivanhoe joins the
crusaders and wins laurels in the Holy Land, returning to England
about the same time that _Coeur de Lion_ appears on the scene in the
disguise of the Black Knight. In a tournament that follows, Ivanhoe
himself, also in disguise, vanquishes all the great Norman noblemen
who have entered the lists, and proclaims Rowena queen of the
tournament. But he himself is wounded in the last encounter, and only
saved from defeat by the help of the Black Knight. As Ivanhoe falls
fainting at Rowena's feet, he is recognized by her and by Cedric, but
his father still refuses to acknowledge him.

When Ivanhoe first returned to England, he spent one night at his
father's house, disguised as a palmer, and at that time rescued from
peril Isaac, a wealthy Jew, who afterward lent him his horse and armor
in return for the kindness. Isaac and his daughter Rebecca now came to
the relief of the wounded knight, and cared for him, and from this
time on the story revolves almost entirely around the beautiful and
devoted Jewess. Many strange adventures, possible only to that age,
follow. Rebecca is loved by the Templar Bois-Guilbert, who captures
her and carries her off to the convent of the Knights Templar. Here
she is accused of witchcraft by the Templars, who say that
Bois-Guilbert only loves her because she has bewitched him. She is
judged guilty, but is allowed to ask for a champion to defend her,
according to that curious custom of the age by which a prisoner's
innocence or guilt was decided. In some instances, the guilt of a
prisoner was proved if he flinched while grasping a red-hot iron; in
others, innocence was allowed if the hand did not burn when passed
through flames; in the case of Rebecca, she would gain her freedom if
a knight would come forward in her defence and vanquish the champion
chosen by the Order. Ivanhoe proclaimed himself her champion, but on
the day of the combat, Bois-Guilbert, the champion of his Order, fell
dead at the first shock of the charge, before Ivanhoe could make one
fatal stroke. This sudden death from no apparent cause was considered
the judgment of God against a knight who had disobeyed the rules of
his Order by loving a woman, and Rebecca was pronounced innocent. The
story reaches its climax at this point. The marriage of Ivanhoe and
Rowena follows, Cedric having been brought to give his consent through
the persuasion of Richard, who was again on the throne. The king
himself and all the great Norman nobles attended this wedding, and so
the book ends with a hint of the peaceful days to come when Norman and
Saxon should have mingled together to form the great English nation.
Rebecca and her father leave England forever and find refuge in
Granada, in Spain, then ruled by the Moors, and the one country in the
world where their race might find peace, secure in the knowledge that
when the Mohammedan passed his word of honor it was sacred, even
though given to a Jew.

In _Ivanhoe_, Scott has introduced some passages of extraordinary
power and magnificence. Thus the description of the tournament, with
its gorgeous setting of feudal incident, is the finest picture of the
days of chivalry to be found in English literature. The lists, filled
with fighting knights, the amphitheatre, crowded with beautiful and
elegantly dressed ladies, the pages, squires, and yeomen looking on,
the jolly followers of Robin Hood shooting for the forester's prize,
and the celebrated Knights Templar, famed for their bravery and for
their powerful Order all go to make the scene alive with the breath
of a past full of that romance and sentiment which has departed
forever.

The description of the siege of Torquilstone, Front de Boeuf's
castle, is equally powerful, and is made more dramatic by being put
into the mouth of Rebecca, who stands in a window overlooking the
wall, guarding herself by an old buckler, and reports the progress of
the siege to the wounded Ivanhoe. Nowhere is there found a more
graphic account of the storming and carrying of a feudal castle, in
those days when every nobleman's home was a military fort, manned and
guarded for defence to the death.

The trial scene of Rebecca in the hall of the Knights Templar, is
still another interesting picture of those dark days when witchcraft,
sorcery, and communion with evil spirits were as firmly believed in as
the power of the church and the king; and indeed, the whole book is so
surrounded by the atmosphere of the times it represents, that it
becomes a study of the past as well as a romance, and thus fulfils the
true mission of the historical novel.

In _Rob Roy_, Scott again touches Scottish history. Rob Roy belonged
to the famous clan of MacGregor, noted for their persistent hatred of
the English, for their bravery in battle, and powerful position among
the other Highland clans. The name MacGregor had been a terror to
English ears for centuries, and even in the reign of Queen Mary there
was a commission granted to the most powerful nobles to pursue the
clan Gregor with fire and sword, while anyone who offered meat, drink,
or clothes to any member of the clan, was made liable to the law.
Later on even the name MacGregor was abolished by an act of the crown,
and all who bore it were under sentence of death. Death was also
promised to any assembly of MacGregors which numbered more than four
people, as it was hoped that by this measure the clan would be
dispersed.

But the MacGregors laughed at king and parliament and nobles. They
kept their rude state secure in their power, and their chief was the
only lord they knew. Fire and sword could not reach them, and terrible
was the vengeance they wrought on their enemies. It is true that,
hunted and hounded as they were, they often met with loss, but
scarcely would the loss be known when, from tribe to tribe and
chieftain to chieftain, would run the messengers of war summoning the
clan to vengeance. And then, starting up like shadows, armed men would
fill the hill passes, and the misty Highlands would be alive with the
camp-fires of the clan MacGregor. Sure of their chief and of their own
devotion, acquainted with every stone and rocky height, careless of
death and familiar with danger, they formed a formidable power against
the English, and represented in their later days the last remnant of
the Scottish spirit which it cost England so much to subdue. But in
the course of centuries the power of the MacGregors became weakened,
and even the name was seldom heard, as the clan had been forced to
take other names to save themselves from death; their new names they
took from the families among which they happened to be scattered, and
many of them became known as Drummonds, Campbells, Grahams, Stewarts,
and so on, though they were still loyal in their hearts to the name
MacGregor.

In the reign of George I., the last important representative of the
old clan was Rob Roy MacGregor, who called himself Robert Campbell,
and whose exploits and adventures gained him the title of the Scottish
Robin Hood. In his retreat at Craig Royston, on the side of Loch
Lomond, Rob Roy kept the state and dignity of his ancestors, ruling
over his clan and acknowledging no higher authority than his own will.
And it was this character that Scott introduced into his romance by
that name. In this book Rob Roy, noted for his daring highway
robberies, and for his genius in escaping the law, is also made one of
the principal agents in what is known as the Rebellion of 1717. This
rebellion was the last effort but one of the Stuart family to regain
the throne of England. Naturally the Stuart prince looked to the
Scottish Highlands for help, and the Earl of Mar responded by setting
up the standard of the Stuarts and proclaiming James Stuart king. Rob
Roy, as leader of the MacGregor clan which knew no loyalty save to
him, was looked upon as a powerful ally by the Jacobites, as the
Stuart followers were called, and he figures in the book as one who
might do much to make the rebellion successful. His secret missions to
Jacobite agents, his dangerous adventures on behalf of the cause, and
his narrow escapes from death, show well the perils which the
Jacobites endured; and his romantic life as chief of a daring band of
outlaws gives the story such picturesqueness as belongs only to tales
of adventure. Every dale, rock, wood, glen, and harbor of Scotland was
known to Rob Roy. His whistle would gather a band of devoted followers
around him at any moment, and his message of war would summon at a few
hours' notice body after body of men from remote corners of the
Highlands. His name was all the more dreaded because he seldom met his
enemies in open fight, but depended rather upon sudden surprises,
unexpected ambushes, and other stratagems for his success.

In Scott's story the love episode centres around Die Vernon, a
daughter of one of the leading Jacobites, and two of her admirers,
one of whom is Rashleigh Osbaldistone, a Jacobite agent. Rob Roy is
the friend of Die Vernon and of Ralph Osbaldistone, cousin of
Rashleigh, whom she loves, and the devotion and loyalty of the outlaw
chieftain form a picturesque background to the love incident.

The wife of Rob Roy, Helen Campbell, is one of Scott's best
characters, and the picture of this daughter of the Highlands holding
sway at Craig Royston while her husband and sons are away, is full of
fine dramatic power. In the end the Jacobites fail through the
treachery of Rashleigh and other agents, the lovers are married, and
Rob Roy fades back again into the half obscurity which wrapped his
romantic career. The book has a powerful interest as showing the
methods which attended the famous rebellion, and is invaluable as
recording the exploits of the Scottish Robin Hood, pursuing his outlaw
life in a century which boasted the civilization and culture of the
reign of Queen Anne, and which was famous for its development of
English constitutional law. Rob Roy was the last hero of the Scottish
Highlands, and his picturesque career is the last link binding the
Scotland of to-day with its romantic past. The book is therefore more
than a tale of adventure. It is a scene from one of the great dramas
of the world's history, closing in shadow as Rob Roy vanishes among
the mists of the Highlands, and leaves behind him only a memory like
that which lingers around the far-off days of Scotland's national
greatness.

In the _Talisman_ Scott has taken for his theme a story of the
crusaders, with Richard _Coeur de Lion_ at their head, fighting in
the Holy Land. The book takes its name from a famous talisman which
possessed the power of healing, and which cured Richard of a deadly
fever. In this story the crown prince of Scotland, in the disguise of
the Red Cross knight, journeys to the East to join the Crusaders,
meets and fights with the great Mohammedan chieftain Saladin, himself
in the disguise of one of his followers, enters the camp of Richard
without allowing his station to be known, is made guardian for a night
of the royal standard of England, forsakes his post for an hour at
the solicitation of one who claims that a dear friend is in urgent
necessity of seeing him, returns to find the standard gone, is
sentenced to death by Richard, but has his sentence changed to
banishment through the efforts of Saladin, who, in the disguise of a
physician, has cured Richard of deadly sickness, and, after a series
of romantic and exciting adventures, finally wins back his lost honor
and weds the heroine of the story, whose hand had been denied him
because of his supposed obscure station in life. Many of those
incidents which make the tales of the Crusaders sound like fairy
stories figure in this tale, and many of those personages whose names
and glory are forever connected with the history of those times. We
have the character of Richard, brave and warlike, but often childishly
impulsive, opposed to that of the great Saladin, the sultan of the
East, and a chivalrous and courtly warrior whose word was as good as a
Christian's oath, and whose name inspired such terror in Christian
countries that it was used as a spell to frighten children with. Many
curious characters go to make up this picture of the East in the
Middle Ages, which represents the character of that credulous and
adventurous age when men believed in sorcery, witchcraft, and marvels
of all kinds, and when danger and death were reckoned naught in the
quest for personal renown and martial glory.

Scott wrote in all twenty-nine romances. Among them we find stories of
the Scotch Puritans and English Cavaliers of the seventeenth century,
legends of the Border, tales of London when Shakespeare lived there,
tales of the Crusaders, and many stories of private and domestic life.
In _The Monastery_ and _The Abbot_ we have the story of Mary, Queen of
Scots; in _Woodstock_ a tale of the Civil Wars and the Commonwealth;
in _Quentin Durward_, a tale of the times of Louis XI. of France; and
in _Count Robert of Paris_, another story of the Crusaders. These are
among the most famous of the historical romances. _Guy Mannering_,
_The Antiquary_, and _The Heart of Midlothian_ are the most famous of
the novels of domestic life. In these Scott writes the history of the
human heart with as true a hand as that which penned the great deeds
of history, and thus connects himself with the great novelists of the
eighteenth century and with his successors of the nineteenth, keeping
the line of pure English fiction unbroken, while at the same time his
romantic novels founded a new school.

The whole series of romances is now known under the name of the
Waverley novels. They were all published anonymously, though it was
generally believed, even at the time, that Scott was the author. It
was not until the Waverley novels had long been given a place among
English classics that Scott acknowledged the authorship. He died in
1832.




CHAPTER XI.

NINETEENTH CENTURY PROSE.


In English literature the nineteenth century, called the Victorian
age, is so great that it stands next to the age of Elizabeth. It has
produced some of the greatest poets and novelists, and is remarkable
for its brilliant writers in other departments of literature, such as
philosophy, science, history, and the essay. It is also the age of the
development of those reviews, magazines, and other periodical
literature which do so much toward moulding public thought, and
cultivating the popular taste.


The leading historians of this age are George Grote, whose history of
Greece is a monument of learning; Henry Hallam, the author of
histories of the Middle Ages, of the English Constitution, and of
European Literature; Thomas Babington Macaulay, whose unfinished
history of England from the accession of James II., and numerous
historical essays, are classic works; Henry Hart Milman, author of a
History of Latin Christianity; James Anthony Froude, who has made the
Tudor epoch his own; and more recently the learned constitutional
historians Freeman, Stubbs, and Gardiner, and the brilliant and
popular John Richard Green. These men worked, more or less, in the
broad lines that had first been laid down by Gibbon, and their
productions are among the finest prose of the Victorian age.


In science the achievements of this century are unparalleled. Within
this period Davy has discovered those great laws of chemistry which
bind the works of nature together, and brought those subtle and
mysterious forces which the old alchemists dreamed of with awe into
the realm of pure science. In geology, Lyell has read the history of
the earth, and by the print of the fern in the dark layers of coal, or
by the presence of the tiny shell in the chalky rock, has followed
the wonderful story of the earth's life from the earliest time to the
present day.

Faraday and Tyndall have studied the wonders of electricity and heat,
and have shown the relationship that exists between the forces of
nature and the laws of life. And Darwin, Wallace, and Huxley have gone
farther still and have explored the sources of life itself, bringing
back from their search such stores of knowledge that the great
mysteries of the universe almost seem to stand ready to unfold
themselves to the comprehension of man. All these earnest students of
nature have put the results of their work into books which form a
literature unique in the history of letters, and which of themselves
would stamp any literary epoch with greatness.

In philosophy, John Stuart Mill and Herbert Spencer have laid down
systems in which are treated the laws that govern thought and the
moral nature. They have traced the career of man as a creature of
intelligence and reasoning power, and have shown the growth of his
mind through all periods of this strange development; from the time
when the human race was but little higher than the brute, to the
present day, when man has proven himself capable of controlling the
mightiest forces of nature. And this story of the intellectual life of
man is a contribution to the literature of the nineteenth century
worthy of rank with the story of his physical life, as told by Wallace
and Darwin.


In the department of the essay, Carlyle, Macaulay, Matthew Arnold, and
John Ruskin, have made history, art, and ethics as interesting as
romance, while De Quincey and Lamb have given us those unique
productions which deal with the virtues and faults of mankind so
wisely and sympathetically that they have won a permanent place in
English literature. De Quincey is one of the masters of English prose,
and his work is a model of elegant style. He produced fourteen volumes
of essays and narratives, historical, critical, and humorous, and
though many of these are fragmentary, their literary merits are so
distinguished that they have procured him a unique place in
literature.

Charles Lamb has left in his _Essays of Elia_ some of the most
charming essays in English literature. Lamb was distinctly a humorist
as well as being a man of the finest sentiment and feeling, and his
writings show a mixture of wit, pathos, and fresh, original
impressions that has never been equalled. Lamb lived all his life in
London, and found his inspiration in its busy work-a-day life; but it
was true inspiration, and the work he produced has a fineness and
flavor inseparable from the gift of genius. Lamb has given to English
literature some of the most exquisite pictures of child-life ever
produced. The most famous among them are _Dream Children_, the _Child
Angel_, and _Rosamund Gray_, creations which he called out from the
shadowy world of dream and vision, giving to them a place and name
that is loved and cherished by all lovers of literature.


Apart from the great body of miscellaneous writers who have made it
remarkable, the century is particularly rich in the possession of
some of the greatest writers in fiction and poetry. The most famous
writers of fiction, after Scott, are Bulwer, Thackeray, Dickens, and
George Eliot, though such names as Jane Austen, George Meredith, and
others stand scarcely lower on the roll of distinction.

Bulwer, who was raised to the peerage as Lord Lytton, in recognition
of his services to his political party, was born in 1805, the year in
which Scott published his first volume of poems. His novels are mainly
of two kinds, those founded upon historical events or upon some
strange belief in certain hidden laws of nature, and those founded
upon incidents of domestic life.

Bulwer's best-known novels of domestic life are _The Caxtons_ and _My
Novel_, in which he follows the traditions of the English school of
novel writing as founded by the great novelists of the eighteenth
century. These novels show him at the highest point of his art.
_Rienzi_, a story of Italy in the fourteenth century, is one of the
finest of Bulwer's historical works. It is a splendid picture of the
old Roman days, which it called back to life, and is full of that
dramatic interest which Bulwer introduced with such fine effect in his
historical novels. _The Last Days of Pompeii_ is founded upon the
destruction of Pompeii by the eruption of Vesuvius, in the year 79
A.D. This strange event, by which one of the most famous Italian
cities was buried for eighteen hundred years, was made by Bulwer the
subject of a story so thrilling and dramatic, that in reading it one
feels as if he were really wandering back into the past, which the
writer re-created and peopled with forms of life. _Harold_ and the
_Last of the Barons_ are novels founded upon English history, and are
brilliant pictures of those old days when England was making its way
to greatness. _Harold_ has for its hero the last of the Saxon kings.
It is a reproduction of that stormy spirit of the times which
witnessed the Norman conquest and the apparent death of English
liberty, and the character of Harold is so well drawn that it seems to
sum up in itself all the heroism and despair of that fateful hour of
England's history. The _Last of the Barons_ has for its hero Warwick,
known as the king-maker during the Wars of the Roses, one of the most
celebrated characters in English history. Like _Harold_, it is a
representative picture of the times it describes, and is marked by the
same dramatic force and vigor.

The most famous of Bulwer's novels that deal with the experiences that
are called supernatural are _Zanoni_ and _A Strange Story_. These
stories both reveal Bulwer as a dreamer and a mystic, as well as a
student of certain laws of nature which are little understood. The
most celebrated of his remaining works are _Eugene Aram_ and _Ernest
Maltravers_, both of which show his peculiar genius at its best.


Mary Ann Evans, who wrote under the name of George Eliot, is the most
celebrated woman in the history of English fiction. Her novels are in
every sense novels of character, and are strong studies of the
struggle between good and evil which takes place in every human heart.
George Eliot found the materials for her books sometimes in the
puritanic honesty of middle-class English people, sometimes in the
strange and vital individuality which has preserved the Jewish
national and race spirit through all the ages that have witnessed the
rise and fall of other nations, and sometimes in the pictures of
heroism and self-denial which are found in the lives of the medival
monks; but wherever she turned for inspiration the result was always
the same: the story of the human soul in its desires and aspirations,
and in this sense her works possess an interest found only in the
greatest writers of fiction or of the drama. Her success is all the
more remarkable as she never depends upon outside circumstances in
producing her effects. The stories of her heroes and heroines resemble
more closely the spiritual struggles of Bunyan as described in _Grace
Abounding_ than anything else in English literature. Indeed, it might
be said that George Eliot is Bunyan's literary successor, who has put
into the form of fiction the same warfare of the soul that thrills
through the pages of _Pilgrim's Progress_. Her best known books are
_Adam Bede_, by which she first gained her fame; _Middlemarch_, a
description of English middle-class life, which contains some of the
best examples of the development of character; the _Mill on the
Floss_, whose first pages contain a remarkable description of child
life; _Romola_, a study of Italy in the times of the great reformer
Savonarola; _Daniel Deronda_, a picture of modern Hebrew character in
its finest form; and _Silas Marner_, an exquisite little story of an
old miser who was won back to manhood by the love of a little child.


Charles Dickens, who among other distinctions is the novelist of
child-life, was born at Landport, in Hampshire, in 1812. He was the
son of a government clerk, and two years after his birth his family
moved to London, and thence to Chatham dockyard, where Dickens began
his school life, and where he lived until his tenth year. The father
of Dickens was poor and the family life was of the simplest kind, but
the home held a little library of good books, _The Vicar of
Wakefield_, _Robinson Crusoe_, some novels of Fielding and Smollett,
and the _Tatler_, _Spectator_, and _Idler_ among them, and over these
books Dickens pored many an hour. A boy cousin also took him sometimes
to the theatre, and once spent much precious vacation time in getting
up private theatricals, and this experience, together with the
inspiration he received from his reading, prompted Dickens to take to
writing himself. So he wrote a play, a tragedy called _The Sultan of
India_, and no doubt the production brought much joy to the hearts of
him and his boy friends.

This was a happy and careless period of life, but it did not last. The
family removed back to London, and as the father was unlucky in
business, the burden of poverty grew so heavy that in a few months the
father was in prison for debt. The mother went to live with the father
in prison, and the family was so poor in friends that Dickens was set
to earn his living by covering blacking-pots in a shop. He received
six shillings a week for wages, and out of this sum he had to support
himself and pay lodgings to the old lady with whom he lived. Those
were dark days for the ten-year-old boy. The home was entirely broken
up; everything had been pawned or sold; even the precious books did
not escape the general ruin, and Dickens was lonely enough and sad
enough to have been made the hero of one of his own stories.

Things brightened a little when he removed to lodgings near the prison
and took breakfast and supper with the family, at which times they
were waited upon by a small serving-maid whom Dickens afterward
converted into one of his most celebrated characters. As it was a
family trait to look on the bright side of things, the prison life was
not intolerable, and by and by better days came and the boy had a
couple of years of school life; then he became office boy in a
lawyer's office, and finally, in his seventeenth year, he became a
reporter, having learned short-hand in the reading-room of the British
Museum.

His career as a writer of fiction began a few years later, when he
contributed some street sketches to a paper which was too poor to pay
for them. It was in this magazine, in August, 1837, that Dickens first
signed the name "Boz" to his contributions. A year later he was
regularly employed to supply a number of these sketches to a
newspaper, and received good pay for them. The sketches were well
liked by the public, and soon afterward appeared in book-form as
_Sketches by Boz_.

This led to an offer from a publishing firm for a series of sketches
to illustrate a set of comic drawings they were about to issue, and in
March, 1836, Dickens gave to the world the first instalment of the
famous _Pickwick Papers_, as he had formed the idea of making his
sketches relate the adventures of an imaginary club of Londoners
during sundry visits to the country. By the time that the sixth number
of _Pickwick_ was reached, Dickens was famous. He was twenty-five
years old, and the world was ready to welcome him as a new writer of a
unique genius. The next year Dickens produced his first regular novel,
_Oliver Twist_, which appeared monthly in a magazine called "Bentley's
Miscellany," of which Dickens had become the editor. _Oliver Twist_
struck a new note in fiction, and gave the pitch to the life-work of
the author; for, from this time on, his genius never wavered in his
purpose, which was the portrayal of the life of the lower classes and
the righting of social wrongs.

Dickens was the first novelist--with philanthropic motive, at
least--who looked below the surface, and brought to view the human
side of the uneducated and often degraded lives of those in the lowest
rank of society, and showed that this element had ambitions, hopes,
fears, and virtues which differed only in degree from those of the
upper classes. In fact, he found that man was always interesting as
man quite outside of his surroundings, and he proved the truth of his
discovery; for when he gave these pictures of low life to the world he
immediately claimed an audience greater than any novelist had ever had
since the days of _Robinson Crusoe_. _Oliver Twist_ deals almost
entirely with the criminal classes, and contains the story of a young
orphan boy whose lot, by a bitter fate, was joined with that of one of
the worst characters in London, the miserable Fagin, who kept a
training-school for thieves, and whose custom it was to initiate young
boys and girls into all kinds of wickedness. These children, whom he
picked up here and there, and kept in his power, were his unhappy
slaves, and he was their relentless task-master. All their comfort in
life, their food, shelter, and freedom from blows, depended upon their
ability in thieving and other dishonest practices. And the story of
Oliver, with its despairing note of pathos, runs through the book,
till a happier fortune relieves him from his bondage and brings him to
the dawn of better things. But this sad story, which was brought to a
happy ending by the art of the novelist, was known to be a picture
from life, and the suggestion it brought with it touched the heart
with strange power. All who read it knew that even then just such
children of sorrow were living their unchildlike lives in the filth
and wretchedness of London streets, and thus _Oliver Twist_ stood for
much more than a powerful and tragic story by a new and popular
writer. It was in reality the introduction to polite society of a
world lying close beside its own, but whose misery and degradation
made its inhabitants seem like aliens. Who could think of childhood as
wicked, scheming, depraved, and shorn of all the innocence which makes
it divine? Yet this was what _Oliver Twist_ showed, and the world was
forced to think that somehow and somewhere there was a cruel wrong to
be righted by those whose happier fate had placed them in pleasanter
paths.

In his next novel, _Nicholas Nickleby_, Dickens did more than lay bare
the evils of the criminal class, which were the more easily exposed
because they were the results of open wrong-doing by people who made
no pretence of goodness. In _Nicholas Nickleby_ he attacked that class
which, while being openly respectable, still treats the unguarded
helplessness of childhood in a way that leads to results both
physically and morally degrading. In this book he indicts that class
of cheap schoolmasters whose schools were only abodes of misery for
the unhappy pupils. Here Dickens attacked a very grave social wrong,
but he did it in his own way and used his own weapon, that of
good-natured sarcasm and broad humor, which disarms hostility and
makes of ridicule a two-edged sword. If half the picture were true,
these schools for children of the respectable poor must have been very
prisons for their miserable victims. The masters were dishonest, mean,
and cruel, the fare was wretched and insufficient, the discipline
aimed only to break the spirit and develop craven heartedness,
cheating, and lying. In _Nicholas Nickleby_ the character Smike, the
unfortunate and unhappy, is made to represent the victims of this
demoralizing system. Smike is a most powerful example of the miserable
children whose only idea of home was found in these schools. He is
wretched, ill-treated, starved, and his moral nature dragged into
depths of abject slavery. Because of his utter helplessness, utter
innocence, and the undeserved misery of his fate, Smike stands as one
of the most pathetic of Dickens's pictures of unhappy childhood.

In _Dombey and Son_, Dickens has given us another view of child life,
and shown us how a child may be poor in other things than money or
home and friends. Little Paul Dombey is the only son of his father,
who has such a desire to perpetuate his fame and achievements in life,
that as soon as the child is born his name is joined with that of his
father over the door of the great warehouse where the business is
carried on. Henceforth it is "Dombey and Son," and the poor little
junior partner is one of Dickens's best loved and most pathetic
characters. He is simple-hearted, affectionate, and cares only to be
loved, but his father wishes him to become a prosperous business man,
a duplicate in fact of his pompous self, and so the battle of life
begins early for little Paul. He is taught only that he must grow up
and be a man like his father, and that to obtain a partnership in the
firm is the greatest ambition in life. When he is five years old his
father talks to him as if he were grown, and is horrified if the child
shows a fondness for anything childlike. At six he is sent to school
to learn Latin and Greek, and mathematics, and the creed that his
father is the greatest man in the world. No pains are spared, no
money is withheld to make this child a fit heir to the Dombey
greatness. But little Paul could not live up to this expectation. At
six years of age he still persisted in remaining a child, with the
ambitions and likings of a child, and thought more of the stories his
sister told him as he sat on her knee than of all the glory that
should come to him as heir of the Dombey name. Yet, still he wished to
please his father whom he loved, and tried to master the hard lessons
in grammar and mathematics when his mind was full of visions of the
dream-world of childhood instead, and the trees and winds were
whispering the secrets that only childhood knows, and when the great
sea moaned out its sad stories that darkened his eyes with tears, and
brought to him hints of other worlds than his own; even sometimes of
that world farthest away of all, where dwelt the mother who had
drifted away from life when little Paul was born.

And so somehow, between this conflict of what he wanted and what his
father thought best for him, little Paul himself found the burden of
life too hard for his little weak shoulders. And one day he slipped it
off, and went away to that beautiful world of his dreams of which the
sea had often sung to him, and found his mother waiting for him with
eyes of love, and left behind him only his poor little wasted body to
remind his father that the firm "Dombey and Son" had ever existed. It
is a sad story of misunderstood childhood, and shows Dickens in one of
his most poetic moods, one in which he grasped the depth and
significance of a child's heart as few poets are capable of doing.

One of the most popular of Dickens's books is _David Copperfield_,
which is written in the form of an autobiography, and which is
supposed to contain many reminiscences of the author's own life. In
this book occur some of the most famous of the Dickens characters.
David Copperfield himself worked in a factory at ten years of age,
just as Dickens did, and his unhappy life in the company of his rude
companions at his work reveals what Dickens might have suffered
himself when he was a lad employed in pasting blacking-pots. Here too
comes in the famous Peggotty, friend and nurse of David's childhood,
whose tales charmed his childish ears, and whose love was the one
bright spot in his life after his mother's death, when he was set to
earn his own living. The visit of David to the boat-house where lived
Peggotty's brother and her niece, "little Em'ly," and her nephew, Ham,
is full of the quaint, homely fascination so irresistible to children.
What delight to live in a boat which is a real boat, though moored
fast so that it cannot drift off and drown one in the night! How
blissful to hear the waves beat and the winds blow against the sides,
and to recall all of Peggotty's most blood-curdling tales, and yet to
know that one is snug and warm, and Peggotty herself just outside the
door busy about some act of kindness. And then the walks upon the
beach with "little Em'ly," and their talks about all the wonders of
life, under the light of the solemn stars which the children feared
yet loved. It is a pretty picture, and the reader of Dickens lingers
over it lovingly, feeling that this bit of child romance is too sweet
and pure ever to fade away into the region of forgetfulness.

In this book, too, are the Micawbers, with whom David lives while
working in the factory after his mother's death. They are always out
of luck, they are eternally in debt, but, nevertheless, they smile
serenely in the hope of better days. David shares their joys and
sorrows, and their suppers when they have any. He lends them money out
of his paltry wages, carries their teaspoons to the pawnbroker's, and
is as sure as they are that a bright future awaits this remarkable
family. It is pleasant to know that when David Copperfield had grown
to be a rising young author, with the prospect of a happy life before
him, the Micawbers really did come into the good fortune that they had
so confidently expected, that Mr. Micawber paid all his old and
numerous debts, and that like the people in a fairy story they were
happy forevermore.

In _Bleak House_, one of his greatest works, Dickens deals with the
long and cruel delays of the law in settling up estates. The chancery
suits, as they were called, were a great blot upon the administration
of the law, and often whole estates were swallowed up in the expenses
caused by years of delay, and not a penny would be left for the
rightful heirs. In his book Dickens took the imaginary case of
"Jarndyce and Jarndyce" to illustrate the injustice of this system,
and the story is an eloquent protest against such wrong. Besides this
idea, the story contains one of the most powerful tragedies of
domestic life, and brings in incidentally a number of the most famous
of the characters of Dickens. Among these is poor Jo, the little
street Arab, who has no home, no friends, no happiness in life, and
whose only knowledge of the civilization of which the English nation
boasts comes from the policemen, who are continually telling him to
"move on" when his weary little body seeks refuge in some doorway. The
story of poor Jo is one of the saddest, because it is one of the most
truthful, that Dickens ever told. Anyone familiar with London streets
could see the original of this poor little hero, ragged, starved,
utterly friendless and alone, and who never knows what human sympathy
means until he lies dying. Then, indeed, the kind-hearted young
surgeon who attends him redeems the world for Jo and makes it seem a
place not wholly bad, though even then there has been so little good
in his life that the child is very willing to close his eyes and leave
it behind him forever.

Among his other works Dickens produced a series of tales from year to
year, called the Christmas Stories. The first of these, _A Christmas
Carol_, appeared in 1843, and for a number of years one story of this
kind appeared every year. The most celebrated of the Christmas stories
besides the _Christmas Carol_ are _The Cricket on the Hearth_ and _The
Chimes_. In these stories Dickens did much more than give to the world
novel and interesting tales of domestic life. He really introduced a
new and beautiful spirit of Christmastide which taught its own sweet
lesson of peace and goodwill. And that this was needed was shown by
the wave of Christmas cheer which began to sweep over the land, and
which makes the English Christmas the happy, jolly, merry time of
loving and giving that it was in the old days of Father Christmas,
King Misrule, and the other saints whom the Puritans of Milton's day
tried in vain to dethrone. In the _Christmas Carol_ comes the
character of Tiny Tim, the little cripple, whose father is clerk in a
counting-house with just enough salary to keep his family from
starvation. But poor as they were, there was always a little family
feast on Christmas-day, and the description of this holiday when Tiny
Tim rides home from church on his father's back, and of the roast
goose and plum pudding and general joy which followed, shows Dickens
in one of his most sympathetic moods. It is a story full of cheer and
happy suggestion; and the story of the miser Scrooge, who is won back
to his better nature by a dream in which his selfishness and
miserliness are seen in their true light, and who thenceforth becomes
an ideal friend to the poor, is one of Dickens's happiest conceptions.
From that Christmas-day Scrooge is a different man. His friends know
it, and his business acquaintances, and the nephew whom he has always
snubbed because he was poor, and the clerks whose salaries he raises.
And as one of these clerks was Bob Cratchitt, Tiny Tim's father, there
was unlimited rejoicing in that family, and Tiny Tim well expressed
their joy and thankfulness when he said, "God bless us, every one," in
honor of the never-to-be-forgotten day.

The most celebrated perhaps of all Dickens's child characters is that
of Little Nell in _The Old Curiosity Shop_. Little Nell is the
granddaughter of the keeper of a little shop where all sorts of odd
and curious things may be found for sale. The picture of the fair,
blue-eyed, delicate child standing among the suits of rusty mail, odd
china figures, and fantastic carvings in wood, iron, and ivory, is
very striking. It at once makes the character seem far off and unreal,
as if belonging to another world than that of workaday London, and
this atmosphere surrounds little Nell to the end. She is a being of
another sphere from that in which her companions live, and her life
only touches theirs as a beautiful and holy influence, which they but
dimly feel and cannot understand. Little Nell was happy enough with
her grandfather, until the old man took to gambling in the hope of
winning a great fortune, and then all her troubles began. Night after
night the grandfather went to gambling dens and lost all the money he
could get from his poor little business or by borrowing, until at last
the little shop lost all its wares, the household furniture was
pawned, and there was nothing left in the world for the child and her
grandfather save the love which still lay between them, and which no
loss could impair. Then leaving London and all its false hopes and
bitter disappointments far behind, they started out to seek a new home
in a new place, walking everywhere, for they had no money. And then
Little Nell learned many things of life. She learned first that
London, with its miles of streets and thick black, smoky air, was only
a tiny part of the great world outside, and that this new world had
delights which even the richest of London folk could not have. Here
were fair skies, and green trees, and gay flowers which she might
pick and call her very own. Here were quiet rivers where little boats
glided to and fro as if the world were taking a holiday. And as they
walked through this quiet and peaceful world her grandfather was as
happy as she, so that life seemed very good and beautiful to her. They
wandered miles and miles from London, and had many strange
experiences. They were often weary, sometimes hungry, but never
unhappy, and their love for each other was like a bright star even in
their darkest hours. Other wanderers overtook them and joined their
fortunes to theirs for a little while, and this seemed but natural,
for it appeared as if the whole world had gone gypsying. Sometimes
they were in danger from association with bad men who tried to work
them evil. Once Little Nell became assistant to the renowned Mrs.
Jarley, who travelled through the country exhibiting her collection of
wax figures to village folk and young ladies' schools. And again they
were entertained by a kindly schoolmaster, whose little home seemed a
paradise to these homeless ones. The best of it all was that Little
Nell never went back to the horrors of London. Her little wandering
feet brought her after awhile to a little sleepy village whose
pavements were worn with time, and where a ruined church and neglected
graveyard filled the air with memories of far-away days. Beyond the
village lay fields, and woods, and pastures with wide spaces of sky
above them, making the village itself seem more shadowy and sleepy
still. And here Little Nell folded her hands together one day, after
some weeks of pleasant rest, and shut her eyes to all earthly sight,
as a flower might close its petals, and they laid her in the shade of
the little church which she had learned to love, and where she slept
so peacefully after her long journey that all who loved her could only
be glad that she had found this rest at last.

The most celebrated of Dickens's other books are _Martin Chuzzlewit_,
a story of American life, _A Tale of Two Cities_, a story founded on
the French Revolution, _Great Expectations_, and _Barnaby Rudge_.
Dickens was also the founder and editor of a magazine called _All the
Year Round_.

The great fault of Dickens lay in his habit of exaggeration. Nearly
every character that he touched was thus either slightly caricatured
or slightly idealized from its natural type, a fault which mars his
art throughout. In this he differs from, and is a lesser artist than
his contemporaries George Eliot and Thackeray, whose characters will
exist for all time as types of mankind. But though Dickens was seldom
the perfect artist, his genius was so great that he easily holds his
place as one of the masters of modern fiction; and his devotion to his
work and the consecration of his talents to the uplifting of his
unfortunate fellow-men must forever stamp him as one of the greatest
humanitarians as well as one of the most popular writers in English
literature.


William Makepeace Thackeray, the greatest English novelist of the
nineteenth century, was born at Calcutta, India, in 1811. When he was
seven years old he was sent to England and became a pupil at the
famous Charterhouse school, which he ever afterward loved. Here he
showed a fondness for drawing, and amused himself and his
fellow-students by making caricatures of the persons and events
connected with their school life. After he entered Cambridge he became
the editor of a weekly paper called the _Snob_, published by the
students, and contributed to one of the numbers a parody on the poem
for which Tennyson, a fellow-student, had received a prize from the
university.

His connection with the _Snob_, however, meant nothing more to
Thackeray than the fun of the moment, as he had planned to become an
artist, thinking that his power lay in that direction, and he left
Cambridge without taking his degree, and went abroad to study art. He
travelled over Europe, seeing many of the great cities, studying in
Paris and Rome, visiting the great German poet Goethe at Weimar, and
filling his portfolios with sketches and caricatures of all the
quaint, odd, and interesting things that came in his way. Pictures he
did not paint. He was always intending to do it, but the time for
beginning was always delayed. During these years, however, when it
seemed doubtful if he would ever settle down to serious work of any
kind, Thackeray was laying up stores of priceless knowledge. He was a
born student of human nature, and this contact with men and things was
the best education he could have had. His keen gaze saw men as they
were, while his broad and generous heart could also measure accurately
the conditions and circumstances which made them so, and thus he was
able to sum up their worth honestly and truthfully.

While, therefore, he thought he was studying art, he was really
studying human nature with the directness and skill with which a
physician studies the human body. When a man finds his greatest
pleasure in analyzing and tracing the motives that prompt men's
actions, and the results that spring therefrom, and when he feels
tolerably sure that he can read the story of the human heart as one
reads a tale from a book, he does not become a painter. He becomes a
writer. Thackeray became a novelist.

He began in a very humble way, and his inborn love of fun prompted him
at first to enter the field of literature rather as a witty humorist
than anything else. He published in a magazine two stories of Irish
life, _Barry Lyndon_ and _The Great Hoggarty Diamond_. These stories,
which appeared over the name of Michael Angelo Titmarsh, together with
some burlesques, art criticisms, and humorous sketches, introduced
Thackeray to the public as a new writer, but no one dreamed that the
greatest novelist since Fielding had appeared.

Thackeray's literary career was one of honor and success, and the
reputation which soon came to him grew brighter and brighter as the
years went on. His greatest novels are _Vanity Fair_, the publication
of which placed him among the greatest English novelists, _Pendennis_,
_Henry Esmond_, and _The Newcomes_, though he wrote a number of novels
of lesser importance, as well as sketches, ballads, and the charming
fairy story, _The Rose and the Ring_, which show the same careful
touch that distinguishes his masterpieces.

Thackeray dealt with the conditions of city life, and with the life of
the middle and upper classes. He describes chiefly that world whose
dwellers have been born to the heritage of refinement, education, and
position in life, and thus his art is in striking contrast to that of
Dickens, who found his characters in the lower walks of society.
Thackeray looked below the surface of education, refinement, and
gentle birth, and found that the motives which governed the life of
the upper world did not greatly differ from those which influenced the
lower class, and that the heart of polite society was little, if any,
nobler than that which beat in the breast of the uneducated masses.
There was the same cruelty of selfishness, the same moral weakness,
the same yielding to, rather than conquering, untoward circumstances;
of course there were heroes in this upper world, but then there were
also heroes in the lower. His studies made him a teacher, and beneath
all his brilliant pictures of life one sees a hand that guides to
higher things. And in his teaching Thackeray used that most powerful
weapon of all, satire. But it was not the satire of Swift, pointed
with ire and weighted with bitterness; it was the satire of the friend
who sees the remedy with the disease, and finds the best foe of evil
in that principle of good which is eternal in the human heart.
Thackeray's satire therefore is genial and healthful, with a ring of
hopefulness in it. This, with his inexhaustible humor, his keen
insight, and broad humanity, make up his character as a novelist.




CHAPTER XII.

NINETEENTH CENTURY POETRY.


The nineteenth century, great as it is in prose, is quite as great in
poetry, and has produced a long list of famous verse writers. The
poets of this century fall naturally into groups according to the
period in which they lived, the first group including the poets Byron,
Shelley, and Keats, whose genius alone would have made the century
remarkable; the second group includes the men who are known as the
Lake Poets, and to the third belong the poets of the latter part of
the century.


_Byron_ was born in London on the 22d of January, 1788, but spent his
early childhood in Aberdeen, where he and his mother lived almost in
poverty. Under other conditions, this life, far away from the strife
of the great world, might have been a time of happy growth for the
future poet; but from his birth Byron was the victim of unhappy
circumstances. His mother was a woman of violent and ungovernable
temper, and at one moment she would caress the child passionately,
while the next might witness one of those fierce struggles of temper
between mother and son which, even in those early years, darkened and
embittered the home life. They were poor, too, and their poverty was
considered a reproach by both mother and son, while a slight lameness
caused Byron such agonies of mental suffering that there is no doubt
his whole nature was warped by brooding over this defect. Thus from
the first Byron's soul was clouded by false ideas of life, and outward
conditions were allowed to hinder all healthy growth.

When he was eleven years of age he inherited the title and estates of
his grand-uncle, Lord Byron, and this change of fortune took him and
his mother back to England and to Newstead Abbey, the family seat, not
far away from famous Sherwood Forest. In this district, ringing still
with the echoes of the early notes of English song, Byron spent
perhaps the happiest hours of his life. The stress of poverty was
removed, his school-days at Dulwich and Harrow were, on the whole,
pleasantly passed, and above all it was the period when the first hint
of the poet's gift came to him, though the verses he then wrote showed
little trace of the genius which developed later.

From Harrow he went to Cambridge, in his fourteenth year, and two
years afterward published his first volume of poems, a collection of
verses such as any clever, poetic boy might have written. They would
hardly deserve mention, except from the fact that they were criticised
so severely by the "Edinburgh Review" that Byron, in a passion of
revenge, wrote in their defence a furious satire called _English Bards
and Scotch Reviewers_. It was this satire which first brought him into
popular notice, and which first showed his mastery in versification,
and his keen and subtle wit. This event, too, first showed Byron his
own power, and it is not unlikely that it decided him to choose a
literary career.

After leaving Cambridge, Byron went abroad and made a long tour of
countries then but little known to English society. He visited Greece,
Turkey, and other countries of the East, and his impressions of these
remote places were given to the world in a series of brilliant poems
which took the public by storm. These poems were tales of people and
countries whose history was as full of picturesque incident as that of
Scotland, and Byron, by the power of his genius, carried the romantic
poem to a height never reached by any other English poet. Scott had
awakened a love for romantic poetry, and was, indeed, the founder of
the new school which won its way so quickly to favor. But Byron
crowned the work of Scott with a genius so splendid that it is his
name which shines above every other in the department of poetical
romance.

He returned to England from the East and for a time found himself the
lion of the day, but domestic trouble soon drove him abroad again,
and from that time his life was spent in foreign lands, Switzerland
and Italy being his favorite haunts. The history and scenery of these
countries he immortalized in a series of poems that are unique in
English literature.

Byron's life during all these years was wild and lawless, so that the
world was constantly divided in its opinions of him, some excusing his
faults because of his great genius, and others blaming him all the
more severely because his splendid talent was so often lost and
misdirected by his foolish life.

Later on his love of adventure and his great power of sympathy led him
to adopt the cause of the Greeks, who were then struggling with Turkey
for their independence. Byron threw his life and fortune into their
service. He became the idol of the Greek army, and by his practical
skill aided the Greek commanders in bringing their troops into fine
military order. But the unhealthy climate soon affected his health,
and three months after his arrival in Greece he died at Missolonghi,
of marsh fever, at the age of thirty-six. The Greek patriots mourned
for him as for one of their own chieftains, and his name will ever be
associated with the cause of Greek liberty.

Among the principal poems of Byron are _Childe Harold_, _Don Juan_,
_The Giaour_, _The Bride of Abydos_, _Manfred_, _The Prisoner of
Chillon_, _The Siege of Corinth_, _Mazeppa_, and _Cain_, though the
list is so long that it is hard to choose from. Besides his long poems
he also left some exquisite lyrics, among them the beautiful _Hebrew
Melodies_, which are so touched with pathetic reminiscence that they
sound like a refrain echoing from the long-past days of Jerusalem's
glory.

_Childe Harold_, Byron's longest poem except one, and the one which
brought him greatest fame in his life, is a descriptive poem of the
different places visited by Byron during his life on the Continent. In
this poem Byron brought in the manners and customs of the people as
well as some of the important events of their history. His magnificent
powers of description, the newness of the subject, and the romantic
charm of the old stories so seized upon his English readers that
_Childe Harold_ became to them a living person, and the places thus
described--the battle-field of Waterloo, the castles of the Rhine, the
Swiss lakes and mountains, the wooded slopes of the Apennines, the
Bridge of Sighs, and the Coliseum--were here-after forever associated
with the name of Byron.

In _The Prisoner of Chillon_ Byron tells an old story, from the times
when Switzerland was fighting for her liberty. One of the greatest of
the Swiss patriots was Bonnivard, who was imprisoned for three years
in the Chteau of Chillon, and Byron, with the poet's skill, arrays
before us in the poem all the incidents of that dreadful period; so
that we see again the gloomy dungeon far beneath the level of the
lake, the damp walls, the barred windows, the columns rising like
shadows through the dusk, and the prisoner, chained and helpless,
living to see all his companions die one by one before his eyes.

_The Giaour_, _The Bride of Abydos_, _The Siege of Corinth_, and _The
Corsair_, are tales from Turkish life and are among the best of
Byron's poems. _Mazeppa_ is the story of a young page who, for his
daring in loving a lady of higher rank than his own, was lashed to the
back of his horse and driven from his country into the land of his
enemies, who finally rescued him and became his friends. _Manfred_, a
dramatic poem, is a story founded upon one of those legends of the
Alps in which the hero, Manfred, holds communication with the unseen
spirits, which are supposed to lead him at last to his death. _Cain_
is a dramatic poem founded upon the Bible story of Cain and Abel, and
thrown into the form of one of the old mystery plays. Like _Manfred_,
it is one of the most powerful of all of Byron's productions.


Percy Bysshe Shelley, the eldest son of Sir Timothy Shelley, was born
at Field Place, Sussex, in 1792. Unlike that of Byron, his childhood
was happy and healthy, and in his comfortable country home, with the
companionship of his sisters, the boy led a pleasant life up to his
eighth year. But when he entered the great public school at Eton,
Shelley began that struggle with life which never ended until his
death, and in which his best time and strength were wasted. For
Shelley, like Byron, refused to acknowledge any higher authority than
his own will, and claimed that each man should lead his own life as
seemed best to him, without regard to all the laws of the state or
society.

And his first quarrel with the world came at Eton, where he refused to
fag. Fagging had always been a pet institution at Eton, and the pupils
regarded fagging and being fagged with the greatest veneration. But
Shelley pronounced it brutal and refused to submit to it, and this
unheard-of independence at once brought him into trouble. His
school-fellows began persecuting him as only school-boys could, and
Shelley suffered as only a high-minded, sensitive boy could suffer
from their brutal jokes and malicious tyranny. But he remained the
victor morally, and perhaps it was this experience in his school life
which developed so strongly in him the hatred of authority and law.

At Oxford, Shelley kept up the same spirit of opposition to all
established customs, and it is not strange to find that he was at last
expelled with the reputation of one whose views of life were dangerous
to his fellow-students, and whose peculiarities--such as refusing all
food but dry bread for days together, throwing stones, sailing paper
boats, and other childish amusements--showed perhaps that his mind was
not altogether right. Shelley was then seventeen years old, and his
expulsion from Oxford was really his entrance into the world, as he
never returned again to his father's house and five years after went
to live in Italy. During the last part of his college life he
published a volume of poems, but this collection gave no hint of his
great genius. And the next work that he did, a long poem called _Queen
Mab_, was printed only for private circulation.

But almost immediately after this Shelley began his real work for
English literature by the composition of poem after poem of such
beauty and power that he must ever stand among the greatest of English
poets.

As in the case of Byron, the poetry of Shelley suffered from his
unusual views of life, and from the troubles that came from holding
such views. But unlike Byron, Shelley did not always put himself into
his poems and draw pictures of his own sufferings. Instead, he wrote
poems which showed his heroes suffering from the unjust laws of the
state, or religion, or custom, and in which he endeavored to picture a
state of happiness which would follow the making of newer and better
laws.

All of Shelley's long poems, _Queen Mab_, the _Revolt of Islam_,
_Hellas_, _Alastor_, the _Witch of Atlas_ and _Prometheus Unbound_,
were written in revolt against what he considered the shams of
society. And with the exception of _Prometheus Unbound_, none of them
rank among his finest work, though all have parts of exquisite beauty
and perfection.

In _Prometheus Unbound_ Shelley reached the highest point of his art,
for it was a great subject treated by a master hand. For though it was
written in the same spirit which prompted the others, the idea here
was one which has appealed to the best minds in all ages. In the old
Greek myth, Prometheus, the light-bearer, who gave to man the
priceless gift of fire, was represented as bound by adamantine chains
to the rocky mountains of Caucasus, as a punishment for his sin
against the great gods who wished to keep mankind in helpless slavery.
And this story, with its mystical suggestion of self-sacrifice for the
sake of truth, is one which the poets of all ages have loved to dwell
upon. schylus, the greatest of the old Greek dramatists, put it in
immortal verse. And to Shelley, whose heart was ever tossed by doubt
and unrest, the strong, beautiful thought was the means of one of his
greatest inspirations.

In his poem he represents Prometheus as freed from his fetters by the
power of Truth, and a victor over the deities who chained him. The
poem was written in the dramatic form, and in it Shelley showed such
mastery over sublime and beautiful imagery, and invested the character
of Prometheus with such heroic grandeur, that the _Prometheus Unbound_
took rank with many critics as the greatest poem that had appeared
since the _Paradise Lost_. But though _Prometheus Unbound_ is the
grandest creation of Shelley's genius, it is by his minor poems that
he is best known to most readers.

In these poems Shelley seems to have loosened his restless spirit from
the wearying cares of earth, to let it soar upward and find rest in
the great heart of nature. So exquisite are they, that they seem but
transcriptions of the varying, beautiful moods and expressions of the
outer world, and they rank among the most perfect lyrics in the
English tongue.

In _To a Skylark_, _The Cloud_, _The Sensitive Plant_, _Ode to the
West Wind_, and other lyrics, we have the very spirit of melody,
motion, and power transmuted into the poet's song. And it is these
minor poems which show Shelley the companion and lover of nature, who
understands her changing moods, her different voices, and her divine
teachings. Here he is the true poet, uplifting and inspiring, and it
is in this department that his genius wrought its greatest work for
English literature, and that he becomes in so great measure the
inspiration of the great poets who succeeded him.

One of the last written of his poems is also one of the best, the
elegy called _Adonais_, on the death of the poet Keats. In this poem
the lament is so tender, the pathos so sincere, and the melody so
exquisite, that Shelley seems to have culled the most perfect flower
of his song to immortalize the memory of his brother-poet. In form it
is one of the finest elegies in English literature, and in view of the
sad fate of Keats, it is perhaps the one held nearest the hearts of
all lovers of English verse.

At the age of thirty, a few months after the completion of _Adonais_,
Shelley was drowned in the Gulf of Spezzia while sailing with a friend
from Leghorn. His body was burned in the presence of Lord Byron and
other English friends, and the ashes were then carried to Rome and
deposited in the Protestant cemetery, which contains also the grave of
Keats.


When Byron was eight and Shelley four years of age, a child was born
in the family of a groom living in Moorfields, London, who was
destined to share in their honor of creating a new poetic literature
for England. This was John Keats, of whose childhood little is known
except that it was in the main happy and comfortable, though his
family was poor, and he was but one of several children to be provided
for. We know, indeed, that Keats had a loving mother to guide his
early years, and that he returned her affection with a passionate love
far beyond that shown by most children. And we know that the little
home, with its humble surroundings, so guarded and cherished the ideal
of family love that the future poet ever kept its memory in his heart
as one of the most beautiful gifts that life had brought him. But
beyond this, up to his fifteenth year, very little is known about
Keats's early life.

But that matters little, for Keats came into the world with one of
those natures that seem to be independent of all outward
circumstances. He was an idealist, and a dreamer of dreams; one who
lived always in a world of his own, and peopled it with thoughts and
fancies that had no place in the life around him. And in this
beautiful world of unreality he grew and flourished, and did not know
that he missed anything that wealth or position might have brought.
And yet, if there were ever anything strange about genius, it would be
strange to find this child of the poor, humbly bred, and far removed
from the great world of literature and art, destined above all the
other poets of England to weave into its literature those immortal
forms of beauty which gave to it a grace never possessed before.

For Keats is the poet of beauty always. The whole world to him was a
vision such as was revealed to the old Greeks, who placed beauty above
every other thing, and he is in this way connected more closely with
the first great poets of the world than any other writer. In Shelley's
poetry one feels that the poet sought refuge in the ideal to free
himself from the disappointments of the actual world. In Keats one is
made to feel that there is but one world, the world of beauty, and
that this with its divine meanings is the true abode of man. This
sentiment is so much a part of him that he is often thought of as
belonging as much to the antique Greek world of art as to the present
day.

Keats became a poet very young, and when only eighteen published a
volume of verses. This volume, however, brought him into no notice,
and, indeed, except for its promise of better things, does not
indicate the great genius of the author. But a year later he brought
out another volume, and though this collection showed the presence of
a new poet in England, it was the hostile criticism it received which
first brought Keats widely into public notice. In this second volume
was incorporated the poem _Endymion_, one of the best known of Keats's
poems, and the one which attracted such harsh censure that its history
has become a part of English literature.

_Endymion_ is the story of the love of the goddess Diana for the
shepherd youth Endymion, as told in the old Greek myths, and into the
retelling of it Keats put all the fire and force of a nature just
awakened to the knowledge of its own gifts; so that the story became
new, as if he had brought back to life the very forms and scenes which
had become a part of Grecian mythology thousands of years before. And
this Keats could do, because that old world did exist for him, and he
lived in it, and thought in it, and wrought in it as the old Greeks
themselves had done. And so his poem had life and vigor and reality,
and this is what gives it its place as a new creation in art, even
though its beauty is marred by faults.

But to the England of 1819 _Endymion_ appeared as the folly of an
obscure boy who thought that fine language and picturesque description
could pass for live poetry. _The Quarterly Review_, one of the leading
critical journals, attacked the poem in a bitter article that noticed
only the blemishes, and passed quite over the spirit which set the
poem apart from anything of its kind that had yet appeared; and this
unfair criticism was almost the first notice that the literary world
received of the advent of the new poet.

To Keats himself the unjust criticism brought such a shock as he was
little able to endure, for his health had been poor for a long time,
and thus the blow was much harder to bear. But in spite of the faults
to be found in this volume, and of the hostility of the powerful
critics who attacked it, its publication gained Keats some friends
among those who were well suited to judge of its merits, and who saw
in it the promise of a true poet.

Two years afterward, in his twenty-fifth year, Keats published his
third and last book of poems, in which his genius seems to have
reached its full flower. It is these last poems which give Keats a
unique place among the greatest English poets, and which show us how
great a loss to English literature was his early death. Among these
poems are _The Eve of St. Agnes_, a love poem remarkable for its rich
coloring, _Lamia_, _Isabella, or the Pot of Basil_, six great odes,
and the fragment called _Hyperion_. If Keats did not attain his
highest point in _Hyperion_, he showed in it his greatest promise,
though it is unfinished and is indeed but a small portion of what was
to have been a long poem. In this poem Keats intended to relate the
story of the Titan, Hyperion, and his war with and victory over the
sun-god, Apollo, as related in the Greek myth. The story was only
begun by Keats in the fragment that he has left, but we are able to
judge from this what the remainder might have been. _Hyperion_ is
characterized by such strength and nobility that it is easy to see in
it the marks of highest genius, and had Keats lived it is more than
probable that English literature would have been enriched by another
great epic.

In his lyric poems Keats ranks with the greatest of English poets. His
_Ode to a Nightingale_ and _Ode on a Grecian Urn_, are particularly
celebrated for their exquisite melody and insight, and indeed all his
odes are so touched by the unique charm of his genius that it seems
almost as if here he stood alone. And this is true of almost every
poem in the volume last published by Keats. And as this volume was the
crowning of his work as a poet, we can see how Keats has come to be
regarded as the poet above all others who has infused into English
literature the spirit of the old Greeks. Keats not only added to
English literature his own beautiful work, but he has been one of the
greatest influences in the development of later English poets.

The greatest poets since his day have turned to him for inspiration,
and his own spirit has so diffused itself through the works of his
successors that he may be said to have left an impression upon English
verse which can never fade away, and which is as immortal as his own
immortal poems. But while Keats was thus giving to the world these
flowers of song, his life was most miserable and unhappy, for he was
burdened with care and striving with a wearing disease. So there will
ever hang about these last poems the sadness of his life, bringing
back with subtle pathos the picture of the young poet singing his
songs so bravely while the beauty of this world was fading from his
sight. The last months of his life were spent in Italy, whither he had
gone in search of health. His friend, Joseph Severn, a young artist of
great promise, accompanied him on this journey, and it was his
devotion which brought the only ray of light into the last days of the
young poet. Severn was poor too, like Keats, and the two had many a
bitter struggle with poverty, even in that last painful illness. But
through it all Severn was ever the thoughtful, care-taking, loving
brother who sought to make his love a shield between his friend and
the dark shadows which clouded him. There is, in all literature, no
picture so touching as that which shows us Severn in his devotion to
the young poet who lay dying, disappointed in every earthly wish, and
with the bitter remembrance that even his work had not yet won any
place in the world.

"Write on my tomb-stone--'Here lies one whose name was writ in
water'"--he said to Severn in the gloom of those last days. And this
was done, and may be still read on the stone that marks the grave. But
Severn lived to see this bitter prophecy quite blotted out by the fame
which crowned his friend's name, and which placed him among the best
loved of English poets.

These three poets, Byron, Shelley, and Keats, with a fourth, Walter
Savage Landor, one of the greatest of English poets and whose work is
also deeply imbued with the Greek spirit, form the first group of the
nineteenth century poets. The next group was composed of men who were
very closely connected by the ties of friendship. And because the
foremost of the group spent most of his life in the English lake
district, it was called the Lake School. This group of poets did not
form a new school of poetry, for although they were connected by
social ties, and by their sympathy with the religious and political
reforms which were then attracting the attention of Europe, their work
differed so widely that hardly a trace of the influence of one mind
upon another can be discovered.

Wordsworth, the founder of the school, and one of the greatest of
England's poets, was born at Cockermouth, Cumberlandshire, in 1770,
and it is his poetry particularly which has conferred lasting fame
upon the English lake region. From his earliest years, when he was at
school at Hawkshead, in the most beautiful part of Lancashire, to the
end of his life, Wordsworth was the lover and apostle of the world of
nature in a sense that no other English poet has ever been. Other
poets have sung the beauty of the outside world, for all great English
poets were lovers of nature, but to Wordsworth seemed to belong an
insight and comprehension which set him apart from the rest. Chaucer
brings before us the beauties of nature with a dewy sense of freshness
that seems a part of the beauty itself, and from this old singer down
to the present day poets have interpreted the varying moods and graces
of the natural world with loving sight and tender touch. But
Wordsworth not only saw the external beauty which dazzled his brother
poets, and felt the subtle charm which rang through the murmur of the
brook, or the song of the lark high in the sky, he saw and felt
something deeper. And reading his poems one goes beyond the outside
beauty, ever changing and evanescent, and feels that spiritual beauty,
the beauty of the soul, which remains always, and is the heart of all
other true beauty.

Thus Wordsworth in his poems seems not only to love and admire nature,
but to commune with her, to take from her her thoughts and meanings,
and it is this communion translated into verse which gives him a place
beyond that of any other poet of nature.

Wordsworth's first work was the publication, in 1793, of two poems,
called _An Evening Walk_ and _Descriptive Sketches_--the latter being
the record of a walking tour in the Alps. Very little notice was taken
of these poems, though it is said that Coleridge, who was then at
Cambridge, saw in them some promise of the great genius afterward
developed. But six years later Wordsworth produced, in conjunction
with Coleridge, a little book called _Lyrical Ballads_, in which were
four or five poems which distinctly marked the appearance of a new
poet.

_Lyrical Ballads_ was published with the object of obtaining enough
money for a trip abroad, and immediately after its publication
Wordsworth and Coleridge went to Germany for a short tour. It was
after his return from this journey that Wordsworth settled permanently
in the lake district, and that he and his friends received the name of
the Lake Poets.

From this time on Wordsworth settled himself to a purely literary
career, and his long and uneventful life gave him opportunity to bring
his art to its highest point. His longest poem is _The Excursion_, an
unfinished philosophical epic; his _Ode on Intimations of Immortality_
is perhaps the grandest ode in the English tongue, and a composition
that places Wordsworth next to Milton in sublimity of thought, though
his _Ode to Duty_ has been set even higher by some critics.

In his other poems he touches almost every phase of country life. In
the simplicity of his style Wordsworth differed widely from the poets
who preceded him. He cared nothing for the romantic and beautiful
imagery of Byron, Shelley, or Keats, and it was his great desire to
found a school of poetry which should be based upon the truth and
simplicity of natural feeling rather than upon unusual experiences or
heroic passions.

It is the indication of his great genius that he succeeded in doing
this, and that later poets have been glad to learn from him his art of
raising the common things of life to heights unattained before.
Wordsworth's work suffers greatly from his seeming inability to choose
his subject. Everything seemed to him worthy of poetry, and thus he
produced a vast quantity of work which has no poetic value, and which
mars his work as a whole. But he must be ranked, in spite of these
defects, by what he really accomplished for great poetry, and thus it
is easy to place him among the greatest of English poets.

Wordsworth's serene and happy life, consecrated to a beautiful art,
came to a close in 1850, in his eighty-first year.

Coleridge, the friend of Wordsworth, shared with him the honor of
making the Lake School famous. In the _Lyrical Ballads_, which the two
friends published together, the best and longest poem was by
Coleridge, and although he was then but twenty-five years of age, and
produced an immense amount of work afterward, this poem has always
been regarded as his best. It was called _The Ancient Mariner_, and
was a weird story of shipwreck and disaster thrown into the old
English ballad form.

The story is supposed to be related by an old sailor, one of the
unfortunate crew, and this endows it with a reality and homeliness
that make its fantastic wildness seem natural and common. In this poem
the superstitions of the sea, the unlikeness of its life to any other
existence, and the awful loneliness of the surviving mariner among his
dead companions, are pictured with a fidelity that brings them before
us as an actual experience. And it showed the power of Coleridge's
genius that he could produce this effect in spite of the mystical
atmosphere in which he clothed this poem, in which occur such strange
visions of the unearthly and supernatural that one cannot tell whether
the hero was possessed by some spirit of evil or whether he really did
see things hidden from the natural visions of man. The poem is also
one of the best examples of Coleridge's exquisitely melodious touch,
the metre being so perfect that the poem sounds like music.

There can be no greater contrast than that between the poetry of
Wordsworth and Coleridge. The one was the poet of nature, who saw and
interpreted the soul of the visible world; the other was the poet of
the imagination, as no poet has ever been before. To other poets came
dreams of heavenly or earthly beauty for their inspiration or
interpretation, but Coleridge seemed rather to dream of dreams. His
poetry is so unreal, so full of elusive mystery, so fantastic and
grotesque, that it seems as if he had woven into it the very web and
tissue of which dreams are made. Indeed, one of his most perfect
poems, _Kubla Khan_, he said always was merely a transcription of a
dream. Some one came and woke him as he slept, and the dream was
broken off; the part that remained in his memory he wrote out, making
_Kubla Khan_ a unique poem in the language. _Christabel_, another
beautiful poem, has the same wild charm. It is the story of a young
girl who is supposed to be under the influence and control of a witch,
and the mingling of reality and unreality is so subtle that they melt
together as one dream fades and mingles with another.

It is the poems of this class which set Coleridge apart from all other
English poets, and give him that individuality which belongs only to
the highest genius. Outside of these productions, however, Coleridge
produced some exquisite lyrics and love poems, and some odes of
wonderful melody and richness. He also made a masterly translation of
_Wallenstein_, the great trilogy of the German poet Schiller, and
wrote an original tragedy called _Remorse_, which contains some
beautiful examples of pure description, though it lacks dramatic
power.

But outside of his poetry Coleridge accomplished a wonderful amount in
the field of prose. Besides being a poet he was one of the most subtle
and original thinkers that England has ever known. His mind seemed to
embrace all subjects, and nothing seemed foreign to his universal
grasp. Philosophy, theology, and literature interested him equally,
and if he had been less of a dreamer, and more of a worker, one cannot
say where his achievements might have stopped. As it is, Coleridge
always impresses his admirers as being himself greater than anything
he produced, an instance in which genius seemed to take possession of
its object rather than to be possessed by it.

Coleridge's prose works consist of several volumes of talks, essays,
sermons, and criticisms, and show the immense range of his powers, and
the reason for the great influence he exerted upon his contemporaries
and successors. He was the first great thinker to introduce the German
philosophy and literature into England, and the first great critic to
analyze the plays of Shakespeare, and point out the laws which govern
the works of the Elizabethan drama, and it is to him that English
literature owes some of the best work of the men who found in
Coleridge that suggestive inspiration which distinguishes him above
all other writers.

Coleridge was born in Devonshire in 1772, and was educated at Christ's
Hospital and Cambridge. He travelled abroad, and was at one time so
deeply interested in socialism that he formed a plan of establishing
in America a model republic which should teach ideal democracy to all
the world. This, however, was never accomplished, as neither he nor
Southey, the two principal leaders, had any money to carry out their
plans.

Coleridge spent most of his days in quiet uneventfulness, admired and
loved by the students and literary followers who considered him their
guide and teacher, and happy in his half-dream-like life. He died in
1834.

The poet Southey was, next to Wordsworth and Coleridge, the most
famous of the Lake School of poets. But though Southey produced an
immense quantity of poetry, he was lacking in the true inspiration
which marks the lasting works of genius. Southey was famous in his
day, and was such a diligent worker that he produced one hundred and
nine volumes of writings. Among these were several long poems,
_Thalaba; or, The Destroyer_, a poem of Arabian adventure, and _The
Curse of Kehama_, a story of Hindu mythology, being the best known.
He also translated innumerable stories from the Spanish and
Portuguese, and from medival legends. His works all show great
learning, but perhaps his _Life of Nelson_, the famous English naval
hero, is the only one that approaches perfection of style. Southey is
read by students and lovers of poetry, but his work lacks the vital
force which would appeal to the general reader. Nevertheless, because
of his friendship and intimacy with Wordsworth and Coleridge, and the
position he held in his own day, his name will forever be connected
with the genius of the Lake School.


Later nineteenth century poetry has well realized the fair promise of
the beginning.

Among the poets of this period may be mentioned Matthew Arnold, whose
poetry is marked by such deep intellectual insight and feeling;
William Morris, whose _Earthly Paradise_ is an echo from the
pre-Shakespearean verse; Dante Gabriel Rossetti, in whose ballads and
sonnets one sees the fire of genius mingled with the quaint
romanticism of the days of chivalry, and Algernon Charles Swinburne,
whose _Atalanta in Calydon_ connects him with Keats, and so back to
the poetry of Greece, and whose lyric quality and rhythmic felicities
are unique.

All of these poets have a charm and vitality not possessed by any
other group of minor poets in any age, and they have produced work of
such a high order of merit, indeed, that they can only be called minor
when compared to the few great poets who stand beyond and above all
comparison.


Among the later poets also stands Robert Browning, whose genius
reaches to the greatest heights, and who must ever stand among the
greatest of English poets. Browning's verse is marked by such depth of
thought and insight into the human soul, and by such dramatic
intensity and power, that it forms a class by itself. His poems are
largely poems of the soul, dealing with those subtle problems and
questions that only the greatest genius could unravel or indicate the
solution of. His most famous poems are _Paracelsus_, the story of the
famous old alchemist who lived in the sixteenth century; _Sordello_,
an Italian poet of the Middle Ages; the dramatic poems _Pippa Passes_,
_Colombe's Birthday_, and _In a Balcony_; two acting plays, _Lucia_,
and _A Blot on the 'Scutcheon_, and _The Ring and the Book_, a poem of
Italian crime in which the story is repeated eleven times, in as many
different ways by the different actors in the scene.

But Browning's shorter poems also ring with deepest poetic feeling,
and in fact, whatever he touched left his hand bearing upon it the
seal of the master. His great defect as a poet is the ruggedness of
his verse, which is often strained and uncouth, and which seldom
possesses the melodic sweetness which thrills through the lines of
other great poets. But great as this defect is, it is so overshadowed
by his genius that in thinking of Browning one thinks only of the wide
grasp and fine touch which make him one of the greatest of England's
poets.

Browning was born in 1812, in the neighborhood of London, and died in
Venice in 1890. He married Elizabeth Barrett, and Mrs. Browning is the
woman poet whose _Sonnets from the Portuguese_ are among the most
beautiful sonnets in the English language, whose long narrative poem
_Aurora Leigh_ is a masterpiece, and whose minor poems show a depth of
feeling and pathos inseparable from true poetic genius.


In the early part of the century a little child, standing beneath the
swaying trees that shaded the lawn of the old rectory where he lived,
said to one near him, "I hear a voice in the wind." This was the first
line of poetry ever made by Alfred Tennyson, one of England's greatest
singers, and whose work, with that of Robert Browning, fitly crowns
the poetry of the nineteenth century.

Tennyson was born in 1809, in Lincolnshire, and was the son of a
clergyman. He began publishing poems at the age of eighteen, but it
was not until three years later that he produced anything that
indicated his great genius. At this time, however, he published a
little book called _Poems, Chiefly Lyrical_, which, though it
received little notice from the public, contained some verse marked
clearly by that indefinable thing called promise, and his literary
career may be said to date from that time.

Tennyson's most celebrated long poems are _The Princess_, _Maud_, _In
Memoriam_, _Enoch Arden_, _Locksley Hall_, _The Northern Farmer_,
_Idylls of the King_. But besides these he has written shorter poems
of such exquisiteness that they can only best be described by the word
Tennysonian, a word that stands for that rare combination of faultless
melody and color which this poet has introduced into English poetry.

_The Princess_ is the story of a young prince who left his father's
kingdom, and travelled far southward in search of the fair princess
who had been his betrothed from childhood. No one at his father's
court knew of the journey, and the young prince and his two companions
travelled in disguise, as they had no hope that the princess would
receive them when they reached her dominions. For the princess, when
she became of age, had refused to marry, and had built a great Palace
of Learning over which she presided with great dignity, and in which
she taught that marriage was not a thing to be considered by any woman
of courage or brains. And all the noble maidens who were her pupils
listened to this teaching with great respect and admiration, and none
of them ever dreamed of lovers, but all passed their days in studying
geometry and science, and in visions of what a beautiful place the
world would be if women ruled all the affairs of life, and there were
no men anywhere.

But the prince could not bear to give up the beautiful princess whom
he had loved from childhood, so he started out to seek her like a
knight of old, choosing danger and perhaps death rather than the loss
of her. And when he and his friends reached her palace, they found
entrance much more easily than they had hoped, for in their disguise
the princess took them for three maidens who had come to study with
her, and so welcomed them cordially. But this deception could not long
be kept up, and when it became known who the three new students were,
there was great commotion in the Palace of Learning, and the prince
was only saved from death by the arrival of his father's army, which
fought for him in the great battle that followed. Yet he was wounded
almost unto death in spite of his brave defenders, and the old king,
his father, wept bitter tears, fearing that he would have to return to
his country alone, and leave his son behind him in the grave. And this
might have happened, had not the princess suddenly found that,
notwithstanding her devotion to learning and her scorn of men, she was
very much in love with the young prince. This surprisingly happy
change, of course, made the prince give up all thought of dying, and
so the story came to a glad end.

_The Princess_ has an atmosphere of medival life, in which the modern
problem of woman's position in the world would seem strangely out of
place, but for the great art shown in the composition. The poem is
beautified by a number of Tennyson's most exquisite songs, and shows
throughout the touch of the master's hand.

_Enoch Arden_ is the story of a sailor who was shipwrecked, and
absent from home for many years, returning to find that he had been
looked upon as dead, and that his children had learned to call the
friend of his youth father. This is one of the most pathetic of
Tennyson's poems, and the picture of the returned husband, keeping his
identity unknown, so that he might spare his wife and children, is so
strongly and poetically drawn that it appeals at once to the heart.

_The Northern Farmer_ is a transcription of the homely life of a North
Country woman, touched with a poetic grace that lifts it out of the
commonplace and suggests the homespun genius of Burns.

_In Memoriam_ is an elegy on the death of Tennyson's friend, Arthur
Hallam. It is not one poem, but rather a series of short poems in
which the great subjects of life are discussed. The immortality of the
soul, the meaning of life and death, the relation between God and man,
and the uses of friendship, love, sorrow, and death are here made the
themes of some of the noblest philosophical verse that England has yet
seen. Tennyson was seventeen years in composing this poem, which
represents at once his highest art and intellectual grasp.

In the series of poems the _Idylls of the King_, Tennyson has retold
the Arthurian legends with a power and beauty that makes them seem
new. The old legends, as collected by Mallory in the fifteenth
century, have all the medival charm and simplicity that marks the
pre-Spenserian poetry. Mallory tells the stories as the old monks told
their tales of saints and legends of the fathers, with the directness
of utter faith, and in the language of the common people who heard
them. And these qualities connect them so closely with the old English
poetry that they seem like old songs thrown into the language of
prose. But Tennyson took some of the prose narratives and clothed them
with such richness of thought and description that it is as if one saw
the old picture of Mallory set with jewels and glowing in the radiance
of unfamiliar light.

In these _Idylls_ Tennyson relates the coming of Arthur to his kingdom
and the adventures of his most famous knights of the Round Table,
ending the series, with an account of the last battle and death of the
hero-king. One of the most interesting of the Idylls is that of
_Gareth and Lynette_. Gareth was the son of one of the old kings and
the news of Arthur's heroic deeds and the glory of his court had
filled his heart with longing to go to Camelot and become one of the
famous knights. But as he had two brothers already at court, his
mother refused him permission to go, and when she was at last overcome
by his entreaties, she said that he might go if he would promise her
to serve in the king's kitchen for a year, thinking that this hard
provision would keep him at home. But Gareth, since he could go in no
other way, said that he would accept the condition, as all service to
the king was honorable and worthy of one who desired to be a knight.
So he clothed himself as a serving-man, and with two old servants took
his way to Camelot, whose distant towers shone like an enchanted city
though all the weariness of the long way. But when they entered the
famous city, which had been built long ago to the music of harps
played by fairy kings and queens, they felt well repaid for all their
trouble, for the great hall of the king shone like the splendor of the
sun and the knights stood goodly and tall and strong, like trees of
the forest, and the king himself, the fairest and greatest among them,
looked like one whom all must serve gladly, whether life or death
might come from it.

Then Gareth, keeping his promise, begged of the king that he might
serve in the kitchen for a year, and this the king granted, and none
of the knights wondered at the request save the great Launcelot, for
they did not see beneath the disguise, but Launcelot saw, and wondered
that so noble a youth should crave such a boon. So Gareth served
faithfully for a month, and kept his secret well. But at the end of
that time his mother's heart could no longer stand the thought of such
indignity, and she released him from his vow and sent word to King
Arthur that it was her son who served in his kitchen. And then Arthur
yielded to Gareth's request to be sent on some mission, as was the
fashion of knights; and when there came to the court a fair maid who
had wrongs to be righted, Gareth came forward and begged that the
quest should be his, and everyone marvelled when the king granted the
boon, and the maid Lynette turned from Gareth in scorn and called him
a kitchen knave, and begged that Launcelot might be her deliverer. But
this the king would not grant, and Gareth and Lynette started out
together. Through all the perils and dangers of the way she scorned
him, though he fought her battles and gained victory over the knight
of the Morning Star and the Brotherhood of Day and Night, and after
each victory she would taunt him and say that he was a knave of the
kitchen and no true knight. And Gareth bore all her revilings
silently, saying only that his deeds would answer her words.

And so at last Lynette, won by his courage and knightly gentleness,
began to look upon him with favor, and scorned him no longer, and when
the quest was won she became his wife, caring not that he was lord of
a great realm, but cherishing always the thought of his perfect
manliness and stainless knighthood.

In the Idyll _Launcelot and Elaine_ Tennyson tells the story of
Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, who loved Launcelot so well that she
could only die when she found he had no love to give her back. This
poem, which shows us Elaine up in the tower guessing the devices on
Launcelot's shield, caring for him through his illness, confessing her
hopeless love for him, and then dead, floating down the river to
Launcelot in the lily-decked barge, is one of the most beautiful of
all the Idylls. It is full of sweet regret and tender pathos, and
justly ranks as one of the most perfect of Tennyson's poems.

In _Merlin and Vivien_ the poet tells how the great enchanter Merlin
yielded to the wiles of the wicked Vivien, and told her all the secret
of his art. _Geraint and Enid_ is the story of the trial of Enid's
faith by her husband, who bade her follow him through the world and
never speak to him, no matter what danger might come, and tells how at
last she proved her utter love and faithfulness.

_The Holy Grail_ is the story of the search for the Holy Grail, the
golden cup from which Christ drank at the Last Supper. Many of the
knights started on this quest, but save the pure-hearted Galahad no
knight might see it, and he saw it only dimly, floating before him in
the moonlight, gleaming across the wide wastes of moor and bog,
shining through the dusk of old forests, or kindling the sky with new
and unearthly radiance, but always at a distance, until at last it led
him across a bridge whose piers stretched far out into the great sea;
and then in a mystic vision he saw the Heavenly City and the Holy
Grail passing out of sight into the wonder of heaven, its trailing
glory falling rose-red upon the sea, and then fading to darkness.

Many were the knights who followed this holy adventure, and of those
who left the hall of the Round Table more than one lost his life in
the vain search, so that from that day the number of Arthur's knights
was lessened as no war or quest had ever lessened it before, leaving a
sadness in the king's heart that no after-time could soothe. In this
poem Tennyson has caught the old mystical feeling which thrilled
through the spiritual life of the medival monks who spent their days
and nights in dreams all ecstasies of devotion. He has also given the
note of pure religious fervor which characterized these men, and made
their lives consistent and beautiful, and thus its spiritual beauty
adds another grace to this exquisite Idyll.

The Idylls close with the _Passing of Arthur_, which contains the
account of the last battle fought by the king against the traitor
Modred, who was striving for the kingdom. The duel with Modred, whom
Arthur slays, and the death of the king from a wound he himself
received form the chief incidents of this poem, which is marked by
such grandeur of style that it is unique among the Idylls. The
description of Arthur lying in the faintness of death upon the silent
battle-field, where all his knights save one lie dead, is unparalleled
in English verse. The picture is so powerfully drawn, and so full of
the atmospheric effect, that the scene is brought before our eyes even
more perfectly than it could have been produced by a painter's brush;
while the rhythmic beat of the lines, the weird, melodic ebb and flow
sounding like the sea surge, runs through the verse like a fitting
accompaniment to the scene of action. And so we get our last glimpse
of Arthur dying by the winter sea, attended only by the faithful
Bedivere. And first Bedivere throws Excalibur, which no man save
Arthur may wield, into the lake, and then bears the king down to the
water side, and gives him in charge of the black-robed queens who have
come to bear him to the shadowy vales of Avalon. There, far beyond the
reach of mortal sight, he may be healed of his wounds, and come again
to earth to inaugurate a new order of noble knights, who shall wage
war against all unmanliness and sin, so the legend runs, a legend
which held the peasant mind for many centuries, during which the story
of Arthur's glorious life and mysterious passing was universally
accepted as truth.


Besides these long poems, Tennyson has produced a large number of
minor poems of such beauty that they alone would mark him as one of
England's noblest poets. Added to the exquisite quality of his verse,
which has made him loved by the poets who delight to call him master,
there is a charm that appeals to all who love beauty of any kind. It
is this which has made Tennyson one of the most popular poets that
have ever lived. His poetry is known and loved wherever the English
language is spoken, and the sound of it is familiar to many to whom
other poets are but sealed books. In this respect Tennyson enjoys a
fame shared only by those great song writers whose ballads have become
a part of the soul of English literature. It is rare to find a great
poet known as familiarly as the folk-songs of a people are known, but
this high distinction belongs to Tennyson, whose influence upon the
popular taste has been so ennobling and vast that one cannot well
compute the debt that is owed him.




       *       *       *       *       *




TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:


  The following changes have been made to the original text:

      Page  12: "bear-gardens" changed to "beer-gardens".

      Page  25: "love-in idleness" changed to "love-in-idleness".

      Page  32: "Hippolyte" changed to "Hippolyta".

      Page 182: "till" changed to "still".

      Page 212: "Ben Johnson" changed to "Ben Jonson".

      Page 236: "sugar, plums" changed to "sugarplums".

      Page 277: "two and fro" changed to "to and fro".

      Page 285: "Anglo Saxons" changed to "Anglo-Saxons".

      Page 355: "in behalf of" changed to "on behalf of".

      Page 365: "in behalf of" changed to "on behalf of".

  In addition to this, minor punctuation errors have been corrected
  without comment.

  All other variations in spelling and inconsistent hyphenation have
  been retained as they appear in the original book.




[End of _Children's Stories in English Literature: From
Shakespeare to Tennyson_ by Henrietta Christian Wright]
