Journeys Through Bookland, Vol. 6

by Charles Herbert Sylvester

SOHRAB

When Rustem had gone Tehmina wept bitterly, but consoled herself with the thought that her husband would soon return. After her child was born, she devoted herself to the wonderful boy and waited patiently for the father that never returned. She remembered the parting words of Rustem, and fastened upon the arm of her infant son the magic bracelet of his race.

He was a marvelous boy, this son of Rustem and Tehmina. Beautiful in face as the moon when it rides the heavens in its fullness, he was large, well-formed, with limbs as straight as the arrows of his father. He grew at an astonishing rate. When he was but a month old he was as tall as any year-old baby; at three years of age he could use the bow, the lasso and the club with the skill of a man; at five he was as brave as a lion, and at ten not a man in the kingdom was his match in strength and agility.

Tehmina, rejoicing in the intelligent, shining face of her boy, had named him Sohrab, but as she feared that Rustem might send for his son if he knew that he had so promising a one, she sent word to her husband that her child was a girl. Disappointed in this, Rustem paid no attention to his offspring, who grew up unknown to his parent, and himself ignorant of the name of his father.

When Sohrab was about ten years old he began to notice that, unlike the other young men, he seemed to have no father. Accordingly he went to his mother and questioned her.

“What shall I say,” he inquired, “when the young men ask me who is my father? Must I always tell them that I do not know? Whose son am I?”

“My son, you ask and you have a right to know. You need feel no shame because of your father. He is the mighty Rustem, the greatest of Persian warriors, the noblest man that ever lived. But I beg you to tell no one lest word should come to Rustem, for I know he would take you from me and I should never see you again.”

Sohrab was overjoyed to hear of his noble parentage and felt his heart swell with pride, for he had heard all his life of the heroic deeds of his father.

“Such a thing as this cannot be kept secret,” he cried. “Sooner or later every one in the world will know that I am Rustem’s son. But not now will we tell the tale. I will gather a great army of Tartars and make war upon Kaoos, the Persian king. When I have defeated him I will set my father Rustem upon the throne, and then I will overthrow Afrasiab, King of the Turanians, and take his throne myself. There is room in the world for but two kings, my father Rustem and myself.”

The youthful warrior began his preparations immediately. First he sought far and wide for a horse worthy to carry him, and at last succeeded in finding a noble animal of the same breed as the famous Raksh. Mounted on this splendid steed he rode about and rapidly collected an army of devoted followers.

The noise of these preparations spread abroad and soon came to the ears of Afrasiab, who saw in this war an opportunity for profit to himself and humiliation for Kaoos. Accordingly, he sent offers of assistance to Sohrab, who accepted them willingly and received among his followers the hosts of the Turanian king.

But Afrasiab was a wily monarch, and sent to Sohrab two astute counsellors, Haman and Barman with instructions to watch the young leader carefully and to keep from him all knowledge of his father.

“If possible,” said the treacherous monarch, “bring the two together and let them fight, neither knowing who the other is. Then may Sohrab slay his mighty father and we be left to rule the youthful and inexperienced son by our superior cunning and wisdom. If on the other hand Rustem shall slay his son, his heart will fail him, and he will die in despair.”

When the army was fully in readiness Sohrab set forth against Persia. In his way lay the great White Fort whose chief defender was the mighty Hujir. The Persians felt only contempt for the boyish leader and had no fear of his great army. As they approached, Hujir rode forth to meet them and called aloud in derision.

“Let the mighty Sohrab come forth to meet me alone. I will slay him with ease and give his body to the vultures for food.”

Undismayed by these threats Sohrab met the doughty Persian and unhorsed him in the first encounter. Springing from his horse Sohrab raised his sword to strike, but the Persian begged so lustily for quarter that he was granted his life, though sent a prisoner to the king.

Among those who watched the defeat of Hujir was Gurdafrid, the daughter of the old governor of the White Fort. She was stronger than any warrior in the land and fully accustomed to the use of arms. When she became aware that Hujir was indeed vanquished she hastily clothed herself in full armor, thrust her long hair under her helmet and rode gallantly out to meet Sohrab. The girl shot a perfect shower of arrows at Sohrab, but all glanced harmlessly from his armor. Seeing that she could not find a weak spot in his mail she put her shield in rest and charged valiantly at her foe. However, she was no match for her antagonist and was borne from her saddle by the fierce lance of her enemy. As she fell, however, she drew her sword and severed the spear of Sohrab. Before he could change weapons she had mounted her horse and was galloping wildly toward the fort with her late antagonist in full pursuit. Long ere the castle walls were reached Sohrab overtook her and seized her by the helmet, when its fastenings gave way and her long hair fell about her shoulders, disclosing the fact that he had been fighting with a woman.

Struck by the beauty of the girl and ashamed that he had been fighting with her, Sohrab released her after she had promised that she would make no further resistance and that the castle would surrender at his approach. The fierce Gurdafrid, however, had no idea of giving up the fort, but as soon as she was within, the gates were closed, and she, mounting upon the walls, jeered at the waiting Sohrab.

“It is now too late to fight, but when morning comes I will level your fort to the earth and leave not one stone upon the other.” With these words the incensed warrior galloped back to his camp. When in the morning he marched his army against the fort he found that his prey had escaped, for during the night Gurdafrid had led the whole garrison out through a secret passage and had gone to warn King Kaoos of the approach of the mighty Sohrab and his powerful army. The allied Tartars and Turanians followed as rapidly as they might, but it was some time before they could come anywhere near the Persian capital.

What was happening in Persia has been very well told by Alfred J. Church in his story of Sohrab and Rustem:

“When King Kaoos heard that there had appeared among the Tartars a mighty champion, against whom, such was the strength of his arms, no one could stand; how he had overthrown and taken their champion and now threatened to overrun and conquer the whole land of Persia, he was greatly troubled, and calling a scribe, said to him, ‘Sit down and write a letter to Rustem.’

“So the scribe sat down and wrote. The letter was this: ‘There has appeared among the Tartars a great champion, strong as an elephant and as fierce as a lion. No one can stand against him. We look to you for help. It is of your doing that our warriors hold their heads so high. Come, then, with all the speed that you can use, so soon as you shall have read this letter. Be it night or day, come at once; do not open your mouth to speak; if you have a bunch of roses in your hand do not stop to smell it, but come; for the warrior of whom I write is such that you only can meet him.’

“King Kaoos sealed the letter and gave it to a warrior named Giv. At the same time he said, ‘Haste to Rustem. Tarry not on the way; and when you are come, do not rest there for an hour. If you arrive in the night, depart again the next morning.’

“So Giv departed, and traveled with all his speed, allowing himself neither sleep nor food. When he approached Zabulistan, the watchman said, ‘A warrior comes from Persia riding like the wind.’ So Rustem, with his chiefs, went out to meet him. When they had greeted each other, they returned together to Rustem’s palace.

“Giv delivered his message, and handed the king’s letter, telling himself much more that he had heard about the strength and courage of this Tartar warrior. Rustem heard him with astonishment, and said, ‘This champion is like, you say, to the great San, my grandfather. That such a man should come from the free Persians is possible; but that he should be among those slaves the Tartars, is past belief. I have myself a child, whom the daughter of a Tartar king bore to me; but the child is a girl. This, then, that you tell me is passing strange; but for the present let us make merry.’

“So they made merry with the chiefs that were assembled in Rustem’s palace. But after a while Giv said again: ‘King Kaoos commanded me, saying, “You must not sleep in Zabulistan; if you arrive in the night, set out again the next morning. It will go ill with us if we have to fight before Rustem comes.” It is necessary, then, great hero, that we set out in all haste for Persia.’

“Rustem said, ‘Do not trouble yourself about this matter. We must all die some day. Let us, therefore, enjoy the present. Our lips are dry, let us wet them with wine. As to this Tartar, fortune will not always be with him. When he sees my standard, his heart will fail him.’

“So they sat, drinking the red wine and singing merry songs, instead of thinking of the king and his commands. The next day Rustem passed in the same fashion, and the third also. But on the fourth Giv made preparations to depart, saying to Rustem, ‘If we do not make haste to set out, the king will be wroth, and his anger is terrible.’

“Rustem said, ‘Do not trouble yourself; no man dares to be wroth with me.’ Nevertheless, he bade them saddle Raksh and set out with his companions.

“When they came near the king’s palace, a great company of nobles rode out to meet them, and conducted them to the king, and they paid their homage to him. But the king turned away from them in a rage. ‘Who is Rustem,’ he cried, ‘that he forgets his duty to me, and disobeys my commands? If I had a sword in my hand this moment, I would cut off his head, as a man cuts an orange in half. Take him, hang him up alive on gallows, and never mention his name again in my presence.’

“Giv answered, ‘Sir, will you lay hands upon Rustem?’ The king burst out again in rage against Giv and Rustem, crying to one of his nobles, ‘Take these two villains and hang them alive on gallows.’ And he rose up from his throne in fury.

“The noble to whom he had spoken laid his hand upon Rustem, wishing to lead him out of the king’s presence, lest Kaoos in his rage should do him an injury. But Rustem cried out, ‘What a king are you! Hang this Tartar, if you can, on your gallows. Keep such things for your enemies. All the world has bowed itself before me and Raksh, my horse. And you—you are king by my grace.’

“Thus speaking, he struck away the hand that the noble had laid upon him so fiercely that the man fell headlong to the ground, and he passed over his body to go from the presence of the king. And as he mounted on Raksh, he cried: ‘What is Kaoos that he should deal with me in this fashion? It is God who has given me strength and victory, and not he or his army. The nobles would have given me the throne of Persia long since, but I would not receive it; I kept the right before my eyes. Verily, had I not done so, you, Kaoos, would not be sitting upon the throne.’ Then he turned to the Persians that stood by, and said, ‘This brave Tartar will come. Look out for yourselves how you may save your lives. Me you shall see no more in the land of Persia.’

“The Persians were greatly troubled to hear such words; for they were sheep, and Rustem was their shepherd. So the nobles assembled, and said to each other: ‘The king has forgotten all gratitude and decency. Does he not remember that he owes to Rustem his throne—nay, his very life? If the gallows be Rustem’s reward, what shall become of us?’

“So the oldest among them came and stood before the king, and said: ‘O king, have you forgotten what Rustem has done for you and this land—how he conquered Mazanieran and its king and the White Genius; how he gave you back the sight of your eyes? And now you have commanded that he shall be hanged alive upon a gallows. Are these fitting words for a king?’

“The king listened to the old man, and said: ‘You speak well. The words of a king should be words of wisdom. Go now to Rustem, and speak good words to him, and make him forget my anger.’

“So the old man rode after Rustem, and many of the nobles went with him. When they had overtaken him, the old man said, ‘You know that the king is a wrathful man, and that in his rage he speaks hard words. But you know also that he soon repents. But now he is ashamed of what he said. And if he has offended, yet the Persians have done no wrong that you should thus desert them.’

“Rustem answered, ‘Who is the king that I should care for him? My saddle is my throne and my helmet is my crown, my corselet is my robe of state. What is the king to me but a grain of dust? Why should I fear his anger? I delivered him from prison; I gave him back his crown. And now my patience is at an end.’

“The old man said, ‘This is well. But the king and his nobles will think, “Rustem fears this Tartar,” and they will say, “If Rustem is afraid, what can we do but leave our country?” I pray you therefore not to turn your back upon the king, when things are in such a plight. Is it well that the Persians should become the slaves of the infidel Tartars?’

“Rustem stood confounded to hear such words. ‘If there were fear in my heart, then I would tear my soul from my body. But you know that it is not; only the king has treated me with scorn.’

“But he perceived that he must yield to the old man’s advice. So he went back with the nobles.

“As soon as the king saw him, he leaped upon his feet, and said, ‘I am hard of soul, but a man must grow as God has made him. My heart was troubled by the fear of this new enemy. I looked to you for safety, and you delayed your coming. Then I spoke in my wrath; but I have repented, and my mouth is full of dust.’

“Rustem said, ‘It is yours to command, O king, and ours to obey. You are the master, and we are the slaves. I am but as one of those who open the door for you, if indeed I am worthy to be reckoned among them. And now I come to execute your commands.’

“Kaoos said, ‘It is well. Now let us feast. To-morrow we will prepare for war.’

“So Kaoos, and Rustem, and the nobles feasted till the night had passed and the morning came. The next day King Kaoos and Rustem, with a great army, began their march.”

Matthew Arnold, the great English critic, scholar and poet, has used the incidents that follow as the subject of one of his most interesting poems. To that poem we will look for a continuation of the story. Arnold alters the story at times to suit the needs of his poem, and he often employs a slightly different spelling of proper names from that used in the above account.

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SOHRAB AND RUSTUM

AN EPISODE

By Matthew Arnold

And the first gray of morning fill’d the east,
And the fog rose out of the Oxus[173-1] stream.
But all the Tartar camp along the stream
Was hush’d, and still the men were plunged in sleep;
Sohrab alone, he slept not; all night long
He had lain wakeful, tossing on his bed;
But when the gray dawn stole into his tent,
He rose, and clad himself, and girt his sword,
And took his horseman’s cloak, and left his tent,
And went abroad into the cold wet fog,
Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa’s[173-2] tent.
Through the black Tartar tents he pass’d, which stood
Clustering like beehives on the low flat strand
Of Oxus, where the summer floods o’erflow
When the sun melts the snow in high Pamere;[173-3]
Through the black tents he pass’d, o’er that low strand,
And to a hillock came, a little back
From the stream’s brink—the spot where first a boat,
Crossing the stream in summer, scrapes the land.
The men of former times had crown’d the top
With a clay fort; but that was fall’n, and now
The Tartars built there Peran-Wisa’s tent,
A dome of laths, and over it felts were spread.
And Sohrab came there, and went in, and stood
Upon the thick piled carpets in the tent,
And found the old man sleeping on his bed
Of rugs and felts, and near him lay his arms.
And Peran-Wisa heard him, though the step
Was dull’d; for he slept light, an old man’s sleep;
And he rose quickly on one arm, and said:—
“Who art thou? for it is not yet clear dawn.
Speak! is there news, or any night alarm?”
But Sohrab came to the bedside, and said:—
“Thou know’st me, Peran-Wisa! it is I.
The sun is not yet risen, and the foe
Sleep; but I sleep not; all night long I lie
Tossing and wakeful, and I come to thee.
For so did King Afrasiab bid me seek
Thy counsel and to heed thee as thy son,
In Samarcand,[174-4] before the army march’d;
And I will tell thee what my heart desires.
Thou know’st if, since from Ader-baijan first
I came among the Tartars and bore arms,
I have still served Afrasiab well, and shown,
At my boy’s years, the courage of a man.

This too thou know’st, that while I still bear on
The conquering Tartar ensigns through the world,
And beat the Persians back on every field,
I seek one man, one man, and one alone—
Rustum, my father; who I hoped should greet,
Should one day greet, upon some well-fought field,
His not unworthy, not inglorious son.
So I long hoped, but him I never find.
Come then, hear now, and grant me what I ask.
Let the two armies rest to-day; but I
Will challenge forth the bravest Persian lords
To meet me man to man; if I prevail,
Rustum will surely hear it; if I fall—
Old man, the dead need no one, claim no kin.
Dim is the rumor of a common[175-5] fight,
Where host meets host, and many names are sunk;
But of a single combat fame speaks clear.”
He spoke; and Peran-Wisa took the hand
Of the young man in his, and sigh’d, and said:—
“O Sohrab, an unquiet heart is thine!
Canst thou not rest among the Tartar chiefs,
And share the battle’s common chance with us
Who love thee, but must press forever first,
In single fight incurring single risk,
To find a father thou hast never seen?
That were far best, my son, to stay with us
Unmurmuring; in our tents, while it is war,
And when ’tis truce, then in Afrasiab’s towns.
But, if this one desire indeed rules all,
To seek out Rustum—seek him not through fight!
Seek him in peace and carry to his arms,
O Sohrab, carry an unwounded son!
But far hence seek him, for he is not here.
For now it is not as when I was young,
When Rustum was in front of every fray;
But now he keeps apart, and sits at home,
In Seistan,[176-6] with Zal, his father old.
Whether that[176-7] his own mighty strength at last
Feels the abhorr’d approaches of old age,
Or in some quarrel with the Persian King.
There go!—Thou wilt not? Yet my heart forbodes
Danger or death awaits thee on this field.
Fain would I know thee safe and well, though lost
To us; fain therefore send thee hence, in peace
To seek thy father, not seek single fights
In vain;—but who can keep the lion’s cub
From ravening, and who govern Rustum’s son?
Go, I will grant thee what thy heart desires.”
So said he, and dropped Sohrab’s hand and left
His bed, and the warm rugs whereon he lay;
And o’er his chilly limbs his woolen coat
He passed, and tied his sandals on his feet,
And threw a white cloak round him, and he took
In his right hand a ruler’s staff, no sword;
And on his head he set his sheepskin cap,
Black, glossy, curl’d, the fleece of Kara-Kul;
And raised the curtain of his tent, and call’d
His herald to his side and went abroad.
The sun by this had risen, and cleared the fog
From the broad Oxus and the glittering sands.
And from their tents the Tartar horsemen filed
Into the open plain; so Haman bade—
Haman, who next to Peran-Wisa ruled
The host, and still was in his lusty prime.
From their black tents, long files of horse, they stream’d;
As when some gray November morn the files,
In marching order spread, of long-neck’d cranes
Stream over Casbin and the southern slopes
Of Elburz, from the Aralian estuaries,
Or some frore[177-8] Caspian reed bed, southward bound
For the warm Persian seaboard—so they streamed.
The Tartars of the Oxus, the King’s guard,
First, with black sheepskin caps and with long spears;
Large men, large steeds; who from Bokhara come
And Khiva, and ferment the milk of mares.[177-9]
Next, the more temperate Toorkmuns of the south,
The Tukas, and the lances of Salore,
And those from Attruck and the Caspian sands;
Light men and on light steeds, who only drink
The acrid milk of camels, and their wells.
And then a swarm of wandering horse, who came
From far, and a more doubtful service own’d;
The Tartars of Ferghana, from the banks
Of the Jaxartes, men with scanty beards
And close-set skullcaps; and those wilder hordes
Who roam o’er Kipchak and the northern waste,
Kalmucks and unkempt Kuzzacks, tribes who stray
Nearest the Pole, and wandering Kirghizzes,
Who come on shaggy ponies from Pamere;
These all filed out from camp into the plain.
And on the other side the Persians form’d;—
First a light cloud of horse, Tartars they seem’d,
The Ilyats of Khorassan; and behind,
The royal troops of Persia, horse and foot,
Marshal’d battalions bright in burnish’d steel.
But Peran-Wisa with his herald came,
Threading the Tartar squadrons to the front,
And with his staff kept back the foremost ranks.
And when Ferood, who led the Persians, saw
That Peran-Wisa kept the Tartars back,
He took his spear, and to the front he came,
And check’d his ranks, and fix’d[178-10] them where they stood.
And the old Tartar came upon the sand
Betwixt the silent hosts, and spake, and said:—
“Ferood, and ye, Persians and Tartars, hear!
Let there be truce between the hosts to-day,
But choose a champion from the Persian lords
To fight our champion Sohrab, man to man.”
As, in the country, on a morn in June,
When the dew glistens on the pearled ears,
A shiver runs through the deep corn[178-11] for joy—
So, when they heard what Peran-Wisa said,
A thrill through all the Tartar squadrons ran
Of pride and hope for Sohrab, whom they loved.
But as a troop of peddlers, from Cabool,
Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus,
That vast sky-neighboring mountain of milk snow;
Crossing so high, that, as they mount, they pass
Long flocks of traveling birds dead on the snow,
Choked by the air, and scarce can they themselves
Slake their parch’d throats with sugar’d mulberries—
In single file they move, and stop their breath,
For fear they should dislodge the o’erhanging snows—

So the pale Persians held their breath with fear.
And to Ferood his brother chiefs came up
To counsel; Gudurz and Zoarrah came,
And Feraburz, who ruled the Persian host
Second, and was the uncle of the King;
These came and counsel’d, and then Gudurz said:—
“Ferood, shame bids us take their challenge up,
Yet champion have we none to match this youth.
He has the wild stag’s foot, the lion’s heart.
But Rustum came last night; aloof he sits
And sullen, and has pitch’d his tents apart.
Him will I seek, and carry to his ear
The Tartar challenge, and this young man’s name.
Haply he will forget his wrath, and fight.
Stand forth the while, and take their challenge up.”
So spake he; and Ferood stood forth and cried:—
“Old man, be it agreed as thou hast said!
Let Sohrab arm, and we will find a man.”
He spake: and Peran-Wisa turn’d, and strode
Back through the opening squadrons to his tent.
But through the anxious Persians Gudurz ran,
And cross’d the camp which lay behind, and reach’d
Out on the sand beyond it, Rustum’s tents.
Of scarlet cloth they were, and glittering gay,
Just pitch’d; the high pavilion in the midst
Was Rustum’s and his men lay camp’d around.
And Gudurz enter’d Rustum’s tent, and found
Rustum; his morning meal was done, but still
The table stood before him, charged with food—
A side of roasted sheep, and cakes of bread,
And dark-green melons, and there Rustum sate
Listless, and held a falcon on his wrist,
And play’d with it; but Gudurz came and stood
Before him; and he look’d, and saw him stand,
And with a cry sprang up and dropped the bird,
And greeted Gudurz with both hands, and said:—
“Welcome! these eyes could see no better sight.
What news? but sit down first, and eat and drink.”
But Gudurz stood in the tent door, and said:—
“Not now! a time will come to eat and drink,
But not to-day; to-day has other needs.
The armies are drawn out, and stand at gaze;
For from the Tartars is a challenge brought
To pick a champion from the Persian lords
To fight their champion and thou know’st his name—
Sohrab men call him, but his birth is hid.
O Rustum, like thy might is this young man’s!
He has the wild stag’s foot, the lion’s heart;
And he is young, and Iran’s chiefs are old,
Or else too weak; and all eyes turn to thee.
Come down and help us, Rustum, or we lose!”
He spoke; but Rustum answer’d with a smile:—
“Go to! if Iran’s chiefs are old, then I
Am older; if the young are weak, the King
Errs strangely; for the King, for Kai Khosroo,[181-12]
Himself is young, and honors younger men,
And lets the aged molder to their graves.
Rustum he loves no more, but loves the young—
The young may rise at Sohrab’s vaunts, not I.
For what care I, though all speak Sohrab’s fame?
For would that I myself had such a son,
And not that one slight helpless girl I have—
A son so famed, so brave, to send to war,
And I to tarry with the snow-hair’d Zal,[181-13]
My father, whom the robber Afghans vex,
And clip his borders short, and drive his herds,
And he has none to guard his weak old age.
There would I go, and hang my armor up,
And with my great name fence that weak old man,
And spend the goodly treasures I have got,
And rest my age, and hear of Sohrab’s fame,
And leave to death the hosts of thankless kings,
And with these slaughterous hands draw sword no more.”
He spoke, and smiled; and Gudurz made reply:—
“What then, O Rustum, will men say to this,
When Sohrab dares our bravest forth, and seeks
Thee most of all, and thou, whom most he seeks,
Hidest thy face? Take heed lest men should say:
‘Like some old miser, Rustum hoards his fame,
And shuns to peril it with younger men,’”
And, greatly moved, then Rustum made reply:—
“Oh, Gudurz, wherefore dost thou say such words?
Thou knowest better words than this to say.
What is one more, one less, obscure or famed,
Valiant or craven, young or old, to me?
Are not they mortal, am not I myself?
But who for men of naught would do great deeds?
Come, thou shalt see how Rustum hoards his fame!
But I will fight unknown, and in plain arms;
Let not men say of Rustum, he was match’d
In single fight with any mortal man.”
He spoke, and frown’d; and Gudurz turn’d and ran
Back quickly through the camp in fear and joy—
Fear at his wrath, but joy that Rustum came.
But Rustum strode to his tent door, and call’d
His followers in, and bade them bring his arms,
And clad himself in steel; the arms he chose
Were plain, and on his shield was no device,
Only his helm was rich, inlaid with gold,
And, from the fluted spine atop, a plume
Of horsehair waved, a scarlet horsehair plume.
So arm’d, he issued forth; and Ruksh,[183-14] his horse,
Follow’d him like a faithful hound at heel—
Ruksh, whose renown was noised through all the earth,
The horse, whom Rustum on a foray once
Did in Bokhara by the river find
A colt beneath its dam, and drove him home,
And rear’d him; a bright bay, with lofty crest,
Dight with a saddlecloth of broider’d green
Crusted with gold, and on the ground were work’d
All beasts of chase, all beasts which hunters know.
So follow’d, Rustum left his tents, and cross’d
The camp, and to the Persian host appear’d.
And all the Persians knew him, and with shouts
Hail’d; but the Tartars knew not who he was.
And dear as the wet diver to the eyes
Of his pale wife who waits and weeps on shore,
By sandy Bahrein, in the Persian Gulf,
Plunging all day in the blue waves, at night,
Having made up his tale[183-15] of precious pearls,
Rejoins her in their hut upon the sands—
So dear to the pale Persians Rustum came.
And Rustum to the Persian front advanced,
And Sohrab arm’d in Haman’s tent, and came.
And as afield the reapers cut a swath
Down through the middle of a rich man’s corn,
And on each side are squares of standing corn,
And in the midst a stubble, short and bare—
So on each side were squares of men, with spears
Bristling, and in the midst, the open sand.
And Rustum came upon the sand, and cast
His eyes toward the Tartar tents, and saw
Sohrab come forth, and eyed him as he came.
As some rich woman, on a winter’s morn,
Eyes through her silken curtains the poor drudge
Who with numb blacken’d fingers makes her fire—
At cock-crow, on a starlit winter’s morn,
When the frost flowers the whiten’d window-panes—
And wonders how she lives, and what the thoughts
Of that poor drudge may be; so Rustum eyed
The unknown adventurous youth, who from afar
Came seeking Rustum, and defying forth
All the most valiant chiefs; long he perused
His spirited air, and wonder’d who he was.
For very young he seem’d, tenderly rear’d;
Like some young cypress, tall, and dark, and straight,
Which in a queen’s secluded garden throws
Its slight dark shadow on the moonlit turf,
By midnight, to a bubbling fountain’s sound—
So slender Sohrab seem’d, so softly rear’d.[184-16]
And a deep pity enter’d Rustum’s soul
As he beheld him coming; and he stood,
And beckon’d to him with his hand, and said:—
“O thou young man, the air of heaven is soft,
And warm, and pleasant; but the grave is cold!
Heaven’s air is better than the cold dead grave.
Behold me! I am vast, and clad in iron,
And tried; and I have stood on many a field
Of blood, and I have fought with many a foe—
Never was that field lost, or that foe saved.
O Sohrab, wherefore wilt thou rush on death?
Be govern’d![185-17] quit the Tartar host, and come
To Iran, and be as my son to me,
And fight beneath my banner till I die!
There are no youths in Iran brave as thou.”
So he spake, mildly; Sohrab heard his voice,
The mighty voice of Rustum, and he saw
His giant figure planted on the sand,
Sole, like some single tower, which a chief
Hath builded on the waste in former years
Against the robbers; and he saw that head,
Streak’d with its first gray hairs;—hope fill’d his soul,
And he ran forward and embraced his knees,
And clasp’d his hand within his own, and said:—
“Oh, by thy father’s head! by thine own soul!
Art thou not Rustum? speak! art thou not he?”
But Rustum eyed askance the kneeling youth,
And turn’d away, and spake to his own soul:—
“Ah me, I muse what this young fox may mean!
False, wily, boastful, are these Tartar boys.
For if I now confess this thing he asks,
And hide it not, but say: ‘Rustum is here!’
He will not yield indeed, nor quit our foes,
But he will find some pretext not to fight,
And praise my fame, and proffer courteous gifts,
A belt or sword perhaps, and go his way.
And on a feast tide, in Afrasiab’s hall,
In Samarcand, he will arise and cry:
‘I challenged once, when the two armies camp’d
Beside the Oxus, all the Persian lords
To cope with me in single fight; but they
Shrank, only Rustum dared; then he and I
Changed gifts, and went on equal terms away.
So will he speak, perhaps, while men applaud;
Then were the chiefs of Iran shamed through me.”
And then he turn’d, and sternly spake aloud:—
“Rise! wherefore dost thou vainly question thus
Of Rustum? I am here, whom thou hast call’d
By challenge forth; make good thy vaunt, or yield!
Is it with Rustum only thou wouldst fight?
Rash boy, men look on Rustum’s face and flee!
For well I know, that did great Rustum stand
Before thy face this day, and were reveal’d,
There would be then no talk of fighting more.
But being what I am, I tell thee this—
Do thou record it in thine inmost soul:
Either thou shalt renounce thy vaunt and yield,
Or else thy bones shall strew this sand, till winds
Bleach them, or Oxus with his summer floods,
Oxus in summer wash them all away.”
He spoke; and Sohrab answer’d, on his feet:—
“Art thou so fierce? Thou wilt not fright me so!
I am no girl, to be made pale by words.
Yet this thou hast said well, did Rustum stand
Here on this field, there were no fighting then.
But Rustum is far hence, and we stand here.
Begin! thou art more vast, more dread than I,
And thou art proved, I know, and I am young—
But yet success sways with the breath of heaven.
And though thou thinkest that thou knowest sure
Thy victory, yet thou canst not surely know.
For we are all, like swimmers in the sea,
Poised on the top of a huge wave of fate,
Which hangs uncertain to which side to fall.
And whether it will heave us up to land,
Or whether it will roll us out to sea,
Back out to sea, to the deep waves of death,
We know not, and no search will make us know;
Only the event will teach us in its hour.”
He spoke, and Rustum answer’d not, but hurl’d
His spear; down from the shoulder, down it came,
As on some partridge in the corn a hawk,
That long has tower’d in the airy clouds,
Drops like a plummet; Sohrab saw it come,
And sprang aside, quick as a flash; the spear
Hiss’d and went quivering down into the sand,
Which it sent flying wide;—then Sohrab threw
In turn, and full struck Rustum’s shield; sharp rang,
The iron plates rang sharp, but turn’d the spear.
And Rustum seized his club, which none but he
Could wield; an unlopp’d trunk it was, and huge,
Still rough—like those which men in treeless plains
To build them boats fish from the flooded rivers,
Hyphasis or Hydaspes, when, high up
By their dark spring, the wind in winter time
Hath made in Himalayan forests wrack,
And strewn the channels with torn boughs—so huge
The club which Rustum lifted now, and struck
One stroke; but again Sohrab sprang aside,
Lithe as the glancing snake, and the club came
Thundering to earth, and leapt from Rustum’s hand.
And Rustum follow’d his own blow, and fell
To his knees, and with his fingers clutch’d the sand;
And now might Sohrab have unsheathed his sword,
And pierced the mighty Rustum while he lay
Dizzy, and on his knees, and choked with sand;
But he look’d on, and smiled, nor bared his sword,
But courteously drew back, and spoke, and said:—
“Thou strik’st too hard! that club of thine will float
Upon the summer floods, and not my bones.
But rise, and be not wroth! not wroth am I;
No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my soul.
Thou say’st, thou art not Rustum; be it so!
Who art thou then, that canst so touch my soul?
Boy as I am, I have seen battles too—
Have waded foremost in their bloody waves,
And heard their hollow roar of dying men;
But never was my heart thus touch’d before.
Are they from Heaven, these softenings of the heart?
O thou old warrior, let us yield to Heaven!
Come, plant we here in earth our angry spears,
And make a truce, and sit upon this sand,
And pledge each other in red wine, like friends,
And thou shalt talk to me of Rustum’s deeds.
There are enough foes in the Persian host,
Whom I may meet, and strike, and feel no pang;
Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom thou
Mayst fight; fight them, when they confront thy spear!
But oh, let there be peace ’twixt thee and me!”
He ceased, but while he spake, Rustum had risen,
And stood erect, trembling with rage; his club
He left to lie, but had regained his spear,
Whose fiery point now in his mail’d right hand
Blazed bright and baleful, like that autumn star,
The baleful sign of fevers; dust had soil’d
His stately crest, and dimm’d his glittering arms.
His breast heaved, his lips foam’d, and twice his voice
Was choked with rage; at last these words broke way:—
“Girl! nimble with thy feet, not with thy hands!
Curl’d minion, dancer, coiner of sweet words!
Fight, let me hear thy hateful voice no more!
Thou are not in Afrasiab’s gardens now
With Tartar girls, with whom thou art wont to dance;
But on the Oxus sands, and in the dance
Of battle, and with me, who make no play
Of war; I fight it out, and hand to hand.
Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and wine!
Remember all thy valor; try thy feints
And cunning! all the pity I had is gone;
Because thou hast shamed me before both the hosts
With thy light skipping tricks, and thy girl’s wiles.”

He spoke, and Sohrab kindled at his taunts,
And he too drew his sword; at once they rush’d
Together, as two eagles on one prey
Come rushing down together from the clouds,
One from the east, one from the west; their shields
Dash’d with a clang together, and a din
Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters
Make often in the forest’s heart at morn,
Of hewing axes, crashing trees—such blows
Rustum and Sohrab on each other hail’d.
And you would say that sun and stars took part
In that unnatural[189-18] conflict; for a cloud
Grew suddenly in heaven, and dark’d the sun
Over the fighters’ heads; and a wind rose
Under their feet, and moaning swept the plain,
And in a sandy whirlwind wrapp’d the pair.
In gloom they twain were wrapp’d, and they alone;
For both the onlooking hosts on either hand
Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure,
And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream.
But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot eyes
And laboring breath; first Rustum struck the shield
Which Sohrab held stiff out; the steel-spiked spear
Rent the tough plates, but fail’d to reach the skin,
And Rustum pluck’d it back with angry groan.
Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustum’s helm,
Nor clove its steel quite through; but all the crest
He shore away, and that proud horsehair plume,
Never till now defiled, sank to the dust;
And Rustum bow’d his head; and then the gloom
Grew blacker, thunder rumbled in the air,
And lightnings rent the cloud; and Ruksh, the horse,
Who stood at hand, utter’d a dreadful cry;—
No horse’s cry was that, most like the roar
Of some pain’d desert lion, who all day
Hath trail’d the hunter’s javelin in his side,
And comes at night to die upon the sand.
The two hosts heard that cry, and quaked for fear,
And Oxus curdled as it cross’d his stream.
But Sohrab heard, and quail’d not, but rush’d on,
And struck again; and again Rustum bow’d
His head; but this time all the blade, like glass,
Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm,
And in the hand the hilt remain’d alone.
Then Rustum raised his head; his dreadful eyes
Glared, and he shook on high his menacing spear,
And shouted: “Rustum!”—Sohrab heard that shout,
And shrank amazed: back he recoil’d one step,
And scann’d with blinking eyes the advancing form;
And then he stood bewilder’d, and he dropp’d
His covering shield, and the spear pierced his side.[191-19]
He reel’d, and, staggering back, sank to the ground;
And then the gloom dispersed, and the wind fell,

And the bright sun broke forth, and melted all
The cloud; and the two armies saw the pair—
Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet,
And Sohrab, wounded, on the bloody sand.
Then, with a bitter smile, Rustum began:—
“Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to kill
A Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse,
And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab’s tent;
Or else that the great Rustum would come down
Himself to fight, and that thy wiles would move
His heart to take a gift, and let thee go;
And then that all the Tartar host would praise
Thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame,
To glad thy father in his weak old age.
Fool, thou art slain, and by an unknown man!
Dearer to the red jackals shalt thou be
Than to thy friends, and to thy father old.”
And, with a fearless mien, Sohrab replied:—
“Unknown thou art; yet thy fierce vaunt is vain.
Thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful man!
No! Rustum slays me, and this filial heart.
For were I match’d with ten such men as thee,
And I were that which till to-day I was,
They should be lying here, I standing there.
But that beloved name unnerved my arm—
That name, and something, I confess, in thee,
Which troubles all my heart, and made my shield
Fall; and thy spear transfix’d an unarm’d foe.
And now thou boastest, and insult’st my fate.
But hear thou this, fierce man, tremble to hear:
The mighty Rustum shall avenge my death!
My father, whom I seek through all the world,
He shall avenge my death, and punish thee!”
As when some hunter in the spring hath found
A breeding eagle sitting on her nest,
Upon the craggy isle of a hill lake,
And pierced her with an arrow as she rose,
And follow’d her to find her where she fell
Far off;—anon her mate comes winging back
From hunting, and a great way off descries
His huddling young left sole;[193-20] at that, he checks
His pinion, and with short uneasy sweeps
Circles above his eyry, with loud screams
Chiding his mate back to her nest; but she
Lies dying, with the arrow in her side,
In some far stony gorge out of his ken,
A heap of fluttering feathers—never more
Shall the lake glass[193-21] her, flying over it;
Never the black and dripping precipices
Echo her stormy scream as she sails by—
As that poor bird flies home, nor knows his loss,
So Rustum knew not his own loss, but stood
Over his dying son, and knew him not.
But, with a cold incredulous voice, he said:—
“What prate is this of fathers and revenge?
The mighty Rustum never had a son.”
And, with a failing voice, Sohrab replied:—
“Ah yes, he had! and that lost son am I.
Surely the news will one day reach his ear,
Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tarries long,
Somewhere, I know not where, but far from here;
And pierce him like a stab, and make him leap
To arms, and cry for vengeance upon thee.
Fierce man, bethink thee, for an only son!
What will that grief, what will that vengeance be?
Oh, could I live till I that grief had seen!
Yet him I pity not so much, but her,
My mother, who in Ader-baijan dwells
With that old king, her father, who grows gray
With age, and rules over the valiant Koords.
Her most I pity, who no more will see
Sohrab returning from the Tartar camp,
With spoils and honor, when the war is done.
But a dark rumor will be bruited up,
From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear;
And then will that defenseless woman learn
That Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more,
But that in battle with a nameless foe,
By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain.”
He spoke; and as he ceased, he wept aloud,
Thinking of her he left, and his own death.
He spoke; but Rustum listen’d, plunged in thought.
Nor did he yet believe it was his son
Who spoke, although he call’d back names he knew;
For he had had sure tidings that the babe,
Which was in Ader-baijan born to him,
Had been a puny girl, no boy at all—
So that sad mother sent him word, for fear
Rustum should seek the boy, to train in arms.
And so he deem’d that either Sohrab took,
By a false boast, the style of Rustum’s son;
Or that men gave it him, to swell his fame.
So deem’d he: yet he listen’d, plunged in thought;
And his soul set to grief, as the vast tide
Of the bright rocking Ocean sets to shore
At the full moon; tears gather’d in his eyes;
For he remember’d his own early youth,
And all its bounding rapture; as, at dawn,
The shepherd from his mountain lodge descries
A far, bright city, smitten by the sun,
Through many rolling clouds—so Rustum saw
His youth; saw Sohrab’s mother, in her bloom;
And that old king, her father, who loved well
His wandering guest, and gave him his fair child
With joy; and all the pleasant life they led,
They three, in that long-distant summer time—
The castle, and the dewy woods, and hunt
And hound, and morn on those delightful hills
In Ader-baijan. And he saw that youth,
Of age and looks to be his own dear son,[195-22]
Piteous and lovely, lying on the sand,
Like some rich hyacinth which by the scythe
Of an unskillful gardener has been cut,
Mowing the garden grassplots near its bed,
And lies, a fragrant tower of purple bloom,
On the mown, dying grass—so Sohrab lay,
Lovely in death, upon the common sand.
And Rustum gazed on him with grief, and said:—
“O Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son
Whom Rustum, wert thou his, might well have loved!
Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else men
Have told thee false—thou art not Rustum’s son.
For Rustum had no son; one child he had—
But one—a girl; who with her mother now
Plies some light female task, nor dreams of us—
Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, nor war.”
But Sohrab answer’d him in wrath; for now
The anguish of the deep-fix’d spear grew fierce,
And he desired to draw forth the steel,
And let the blood flow free, and so to die—
But first he would convince his stubborn foe;
And, rising sternly on one arm, he said:—
“Man, who art thou who dost deny my words?
Truth sits upon the lips of dying men,
And falsehood, while I lived, was far from mine.
I tell thee, prick’d upon this arm I bear
That seal which Rustum to my mother gave,
That she might prick it on the babe she bore.”[196-23]
He spoke: and all the blood left Rustum’s cheeks,
And his knees totter’d, and he smote his hand
Against his breast, his heavy mailed hand,
That the hard iron corselet clank’d aloud;
And to his heart he press’d the other hand,
And in a hollow voice he spake, and said:—
“Sohrab, that were a proof which could not lie!
If thou show this, then art thou Rustum’s son.”
Then, with weak hasty fingers, Sohrab loosed
His belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm,
And show’d a sign in faint vermilion points
Prick’d; as a cunning workman, in Pekin,
Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain vase,
An emperor’s gift—at early morn he paints,
And all day long, and, when night comes, the lamp
Lights up his studious forehead and thin hands—
So delicately prick’d the sign appear’d
On Sohrab’s arm, the sign of Rustum’s seal.
It was that griffin,[196-24] which of old rear’d Zal,
Rustum’s great father, whom they left to die,
A helpless babe, among the mountain rocks;
Him that kind creature found, and rear’d and loved—
Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign.
And Sohrab bared that image on his arm,
And himself scann’d it long with mournful eyes,
And then he touch’d it with his hand, and said:—
“How say’st thou? Is that sign the proper sign
Of Rustum’s son, or of some other man’s?”
He spoke; but Rustum gazed, and gazed, and stood
Speechless; and then he utter’d one sharp cry:
“O boy—thy father!” and his voice choked there.
And then a dark cloud pass’d before his eyes,
And his head swam, and he sank down to earth.
But Sohrab crawl’d to where he lay, and cast
His arms about his neck, and kiss’d his lips,
And with fond faltering fingers stroked his cheeks,
Trying to call him back to life; and life
Came back to Rustum, and he oped his eyes,
And they stood wide with horror; and he seized
In both his hands the dust which lay around,
And threw it on his head, and smirch’d his hair,—
His hair, and face, and beard, and glittering arms;
And strong convulsive groanings shook his breast,
And his sobs choked him; and he clutch’d his sword,
To draw it, and forever let life out.
But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his hands,
And with a soothing voice he spake, and said:—
“Father, forbear! for I but meet to-day
The doom which at my birth was written down
In heaven, and thou art heaven’s unconscious hand.
Surely my heart cried out that it was thou,
When first I saw thee; and thy heart spoke too,
I know it! but fate trod those promptings down
Under its iron heel; fate, fate engaged
The strife, and hurl’d me on my father’s spear.
But let us speak no more of this! I find
My father; let me feel that I have found!
Come, sit beside me on the sand, and take
My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks,
And wash them with thy tears, and say: ‘My son!’
Quick! quick! for number’d are my sands of life,
And swift; for like the lightning to this field
I came, and like the wind I go away—
Sudden, and swift, and like a passing wind
But it was writ in heaven that this should be.”
So said he, and his voice released the heart
Of Rustum, and his tears broke forth; he cast
His arms round his son’s neck, and wept aloud,
And kiss’d him. And awe fell on both the hosts,
When they saw Rustum’s grief; and Ruksh, the horse,
With his head bowing to the ground and mane
Sweeping the dust, came near, and in mute woe
First to the one then to the other moved
His head, as if inquiring what their grief
Might mean; and from his dark, compassionate eyes,
The big warm tears roll’d down, and caked the sand,
But Rustum chid him with stern voice, and said:—
“Ruksh, now thou grievest; but, O Ruksh, thy feet
Should first have rotted on their nimble joints,
Or ere they brought thy master to this field!”
But Sohrab look’d upon the horse, and said:—
“Is this, then, Ruksh? How often, in past days,
My mother told me of thee, thou brave steed,
My terrible father’s terrible horse! and said,
That I should one day find thy lord and thee.
Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane!
O Ruksh, thou art more fortunate than I;
For thou hast gone where I shall never go,
And snuff’d the breezes of my father’s home.
And thou hast trod the sands of Seistan.
And seen the River of Helmund, and the Lake
Of Zirrah; and the aged Zal himself
Has often stroked thy neck, and given thee food,
Corn in a golden platter soak’d with wine,
And said: ‘O Ruksh! bear Rustum well,’—but I
Have never known my grandsire’s furrow’d face,
Nor seen his lofty house in Seistan,
Nor slaked my thirst at the clear Helmund stream;
But lodged among my father’s foes, and seen
Afrasiab’s cities only, Samarcand,
Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste,
And the black Toorkmun tents; and only drunk
The desert rivers, Moorghab and Tejend,
Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed their sheep,
The northern Sir; and this great Oxus stream,
The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die.”
Then, with a heavy groan, Rustum bewail’d:—
“Oh, that its waves were flowing over me!
Oh, that I saw its grains of yellow silt
Roll tumbling in the current o’er my head!”
But, with a grave mild voice, Sohrab replied:—
“Desire not that, my father! thou must live.
For some are born to do great deeds, and live,
As some are born to be obscured, and die.
Do thou the deeds I die too young to do,
And reap a second glory in thine age;
Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine.
But come! thou seest this great host of men
Which follow me; I pray thee, slay not these!
Let me entreat for them; what have they done?
They follow’d me, my hope, my fame, my star.
Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace.
But me thou must bear hence, not send with them,
But carry me with thee to Seistan,
And place me on a bed, and mourn for me,
Thou, and the snow-hair’d Zal, and all thy friends.
And thou must lay me in that lovely earth,
And heap a stately mound above my bones,[200-25]
And plant a far-seen pillar over all.
That so the passing horseman on the waste
May see my tomb a great way off, and cry:
‘Sohrab, the mighty Rustum’s son, lies there,
Whom his great father did in ignorance kill!’
And I be not forgotten in my grave.”
And, with a mournful voice, Rustum replied:—
“Fear not! as thou hast said, Sohrab, my son,
So shall it be; for I will burn my tents,
And quit the host, and bear thee hence with me,
And carry thee away to Seistan,
And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee,
With the snow-headed Zal, and all my friends.
And I will lay thee in that lovely earth,
And heap a stately mound above thy bones,
And plant a far-seen pillar over all,
And men shall not forget thee in thy grave.
And I will spare thy host; yea, let them go!
Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace!
What should I do with slaying any more?
For would that all that I have ever slain
Might be once more alive; my bitterest foes,
And they who were call’d champions in their time,
And through whose death I won that fame I have—
And I were nothing but a common man,
A poor, mean soldier, and without renown,
So thou mightest live too, my son, my son!
Or rather would that I, even I myself,
Might now be lying on this bloody sand,
Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of thine,
Not thou of mine! and I might die, not thou;
And I, not thou, be borne to Seistan;
And Zal might weep above my grave, not thine;
And say: ‘O son, I weep thee not too sore,
For willingly, I know, thou met’st thine end!’
But now in blood and battles was my youth,
And full of blood and battles is my age,
And I shall never end this life of blood.”
Then, at the point of death, Sohrab replied:—
“A life of blood indeed, though dreadful man!
But thou shalt yet have peace; only not now,
Not yet! but thou shalt have it on that day[201-26]
When thou shalt sail in a high-masted ship,
Thou and the other peers of a Kai Khosroo,
Returning home over the salt blue sea,
From laying thy dear master in his grave.”
And Rustum gazed in Sohrab’s face, and said:—
“Soon be that day, my son, and deep that sea!
Till then, if fate so wills, let me endure.”
He spoke; and Sohrab smiled on him, and took
The spear, and drew it from his side, and eased
His wound’s imperious anguish; but the blood
Came welling from the open gash, and life
Flow’d with the stream;—all down his cold white side
The crimson torrent ran, dim now and soil’d,
Like the soil’d tissue of white violets
Left, freshly gather’d, on their native bank,
By children whom their nurses call with haste
Indoors from the sun’s eye; his head droop’d low,
His limbs grew slack; motionless, white, he lay—
White, with eyes closed; only when heavy gasps,
Deep heavy gasps quivering through all his frame,
Convulsed him back to life, he open’d them,
And fix’d them feebly on his father’s face;
Till now all strength was ebb’d, and from his limbs
Unwillingly the spirit fled away,
Regretting the warm mansion which it left,
And youth, and bloom, and this delightful world.
So, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dead;
And the great Rustum drew his horseman’s cloak
Down o’er his face, and sate by his dead son.
As those black granite pillars, once high-rear’d
By Jemshid in Persepolis, to bear
His house, now ’mid their broken flights of steps
Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain side—
So in the sand lay Rustum by his son.
And night came down over the solemn waste,
And the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair,
And darken’d all; and a cold fog, with night,
Crept from the Oxus. Soon a hum arose,
As of a great assembly loosed, and fires
Began to twinkle through the fog; for now
Both armies moved to camp, and took their meal;
The Persians took it on the open sands
Southward, the Tartars by the river marge;
And Rustum and his son were left alone.

But the majestic river floated on,
Out of the mist and hum of that low land,
Into the frosty starlight, and there moved,
Rejoicing, through the hush’d Chorasmian waste,
Under the solitary moon;—he flow’d
Right for the polar star, past Orgunjè,
Brimming, and bright, and large; then sands begin

To hem his watery march, and dam his streams,
And split his currents; that for many a league
The shorn and parcel’d Oxus strains along
Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles—
Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had
In his high mountain cradle in Pamere,
A foil’d circuitous wanderer—till at last
The long’d-for dash of waves is heard, and wide
His luminous home of waters opens, bright
And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bathed stars
Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea.[204-27]

Matthew Arnold was one of England’s purest and greatest men. As scholar, teacher, poet and critic he labored zealously for the betterment of his race and sought to bring them back to a clearer, lovelier spiritual life and to win them from the base and sordid schemes that make only for material success.

He was born in 1822 and was the son of Doctor Thomas Arnold, the great teacher who was so long headmaster of the famous Rugby school, and whose scholarly and Christian influence is so faithfully brought out in Hughes’s ever popular story Tom Brown’s School Days.

Matthew Arnold received his preparatory education in his father’s school at Rugby, and his college training at Oxford. He was always a student and always active in educational work, as an inspector of schools, and for ten years as professor of poetry at Oxford. He twice visited the United States and both times lectured here. His criticisms of America and Americans were severe, for he saw predominant the spirit of money-getting, the thirst for material prosperity and the absence of spiritual interests. In 1888, while at the house of a friend in Liverpool, he died suddenly and peacefully from an attack of heart disease.

Arnold was one of the most exacting and critical of English writers, a man who applied to his own works the same severe standards that he set up for others. As a result his writings have become one of the standards of purity and taste in style.

The story of Sohrab and Rustum pleased him, and he enjoyed writing the poem, as may be seen from a letter to his mother, written in 1853. He says:

“All my spare time has been spent on a poem which I have just finished, and which I think by far the best thing I have yet done, and I think it will be generally liked; though one can never be sure of this. I have had the greatest pleasure in composing it, a rare thing with me, and, as I think, a good test of the pleasure what you write is likely to afford to others. But the story is a very noble and excellent one.”

Two men, both competent to judge, have given at length their opinion of Matthew Arnold’s character. So admirable a man deserves to be known by the young, although most of his writings will be understood and appreciated only by persons of some maturity in years. Mr. John Morley says:

“He was incapable of sacrificing the smallest interest of anybody to his own; he had not a spark of envy or jealousy; he stood well aloof from all the hustlings and jostlings by which selfish men push on; he bore life’s disappointments—and he was disappointed in some reasonable hopes—with good nature and fortitude; he cast no burden upon others, and never shrank from bearing his own share of the daily load to the last ounce of it; he took the deepest, sincerest, and most active interest in the well-being of his country and his countrymen.”

Mr. George E. Woodbury in an essay on Arnold remarks concerning the man as shown in his private letters:

“A nature warm to its own, kindly to all, cheerful, fond of sport and fun, and always fed from pure fountains, and with it a character so founded upon the rock, so humbly serviceable, so continuing in power and grace, must wake in all the responses of happy appreciation and leave the charm of memory.”

[173-1] The Oxus, 1300 miles long, is the chief river of Central Asia, and one of the boundaries of Persia.

[173-2] Peran-Wisa was the commander of King Afrasiab’s troops, a Turanian chief who ruled over the many wild Tartar tribes whose men composed his army.

[173-3] Pamir or Pamere is a high tableland called by the natives “the roof of the world.” In it lies the source of the Oxus. Arnold has named many places for the purpose of giving an air of reality to the poem. It is not necessary to locate them accurately in order to understand the poem, and so the notes will refer to them only as the story is made clearer by the explanation.

[174-4] Samarcand is a city of Turkistan, now a center of learning and of commerce.

[175-5] Common here means general. The idea is that little fame comes to him who fights in a general combat in which numbers take part. What is the real reason for Sohrab’s desire to fight in single combat? Arnold gives a different reason from that in the Shah Nameh. In the latter case it is that by defeating their champion Sohrab may frighten the Persians into submission.

[176-6] Seistan was the province in which Rustum and his father Zal had ruled for many years, subjects of the King of Persia.

[176-7] Whether that and Or in beginning the second line below may be understood to read Either because and Or because of.

[177-8] Frore means frozen.

[177-9] From mares’ milk is made koumiss, a favorite fermented drink of Tartar tribes.

[178-10] Fix’d means halted. He caused his army to remain stationary while he rode forward.

[178-11] The corn is grain of some kind, not our maize or Indian corn.

[181-12] Kai Khosroo was one of the Persian kings who lived in the sixth century B. C., and is now understood to be Cyrus. He was the grandson of Kai Kaoos, in whose reign the Shah Nameh places the episode of Sohrab and Rustum. Here as elsewhere Arnold alters the legend to suit his convenience and to make the poem more effective. For instance, he compresses the combat into a single day, while in the Persian epic, the battle lasts three days. This change gives greater vitality and more rapid action to the poem.

[181-13] Zal was born with snowy hair, a most unusual thing among the black-haired Persians. His father was so angered by the appearance of his son that he abandoned the innocent babe in the Elburz mountains, where, however, a great bird or griffin miraculously preserved the infant and in time returned it to its father, who had repented of his hasty action.

[183-14] Ruksh, also spelled Raksh.

[183-15] Tale means count or reckoning. The diver had gathered all the pearls required from him for the day.

[184-16] This description by Arnold scarcely tallies with the idea we have obtained of the powerful Sohrab from reading the accounts taken from the Shah Nameh. Arnold’s is the more poetic idea, and increases the reader’s sympathy for Sohrab.

[185-17] Be governed, that is, take my advice.

[189-18] It is not natural for father and son to fight thus.

[191-19] In the Shah Nameh Rustum overpowers Sohrab and slays him by his superior power and skill. Arnold takes the more poetic view that Sohrab’s arm is powerless when he hears his father’s name.

[193-20] Sole means solitary, alone.

[193-21] Glass her means reflect her as in a mirror.

[195-22] He sees that this young men, as far as age and appearance are concerned, might be a son of his.

[196-23] Again Arnold departs from the Persian tale, in which Sohrab wears a bracelet or amulet on his arm. Arnold’s work gives a more certain identification.

[196-24] The griffin spoken of in note 13.

[200-25] The Persian tradition is that over the spot where Sohrab was buried a huge mound, shaped like the hoof of a horse, was erected.

[201-26] It is said that shortly after the death of Sohrab the king himself died while on a visit to a famous spring far in the north, and as the nobles were returning with his corpse all were lost in a great tempest. Unfortunately for Sohrab’s prophecy, Persian traditions do not include Rustum among the lost.

[204-27] This beautiful stanza makes a peculiarly artistic termination to the poem. After the storm and stress of the combat and the heart-breaking pathos of Sohrab’s death, the reader willingly rests his thought on the majestic Oxus that still flows on, unchangeable, but ever changing. The suggestion is that after all nature is triumphant, that our pains and losses, our most grievous disappointments and greatest griefs are but incidents in the great drama of life, and that, though like the river Oxus, we for a time become “foiled, circuitous wanderers,” we at last see before us the luminous home, bright and tranquil under the shining stars.

---

THE POET AND THE PEASANT

FROM THE FRENCH OF EMILE SOUVESTRE

A young man was walking through a forest, and in spite of the approach of night, in spite of the mist that grew denser every moment, he was walking slowly, paying no heed either to the weather or to the hour.

His dress of green cloth, his buckskin gaiters, and the gun slung across his shoulder might have caused him to be taken for a sportsman, had not the book that half protruded from his game-bag betrayed the dreamer, and proved that Arnold de Munster was less occupied with observing the track of wild game than in communing with himself.

For some moments his mind had been filled with thoughts of his family and of the friends he had left in Paris. He remembered the studio that he had adorned with fantastic engravings, strange paintings, curious statuettes; the German songs that his sister had sung, the melancholy verses that he had repeated in the subdued light of the evening lamps, and the long talks in which every one confessed his inmost feelings, in which all the mysteries of thought were discussed and translated into impassioned or graceful words! Why had he abandoned these choice pleasures to bury himself in the country?

He was aroused at last from his meditations by the consciousness that the mist had changed into rain and was beginning to penetrate his shooting-coat. He was about to quicken his steps, but in looking around him he saw that he had lost his way, and he tried vainly to determine the direction he must take. A first attempt only succeeded in bewildering him still more. The daylight faded, the rain fell more heavily, and he continued to plunge at random into unknown paths.

He had begun to be discouraged, when the sound of bells reached him through the leafless trees. A cart driven by a big man in a blouse had appeared at an intersecting road and was coming toward the one that Arnold had just reached.

Arnold stopped to wait for the man and asked him if he were far from Sersberg.

“Sersberg!” repeated the carter; “you don’t expect to sleep there to-night?”

“Pardon me, but I do,” answered the young man.

“At Sersberg?” went on his interlocutor; “you’ll have to go by train, then! It is six good leagues from here to the gate; and considering the weather and the roads, they are equal to twelve.”

The young man uttered an exclamation. He had left the château that morning and did not think that he had wandered so far; but he had been on the wrong path for hours, and in thinking to take the road to Sersberg he had continued to turn his back upon it. It was too late to make good such an error; so he was forced to accept the shelter offered by his new companion, whose farm was fortunately within gunshot.

He accordingly regulated his pace to the carter’s and attempted to enter into conversation with him; but Moser was not a talkative man and was apparently a complete stranger to the young man’s usual sensations. When, on issuing from the forest, Arnold pointed to the magnificent horizon purpled by the last rays of the setting sun, the farmer contented himself with a grimace.

“Bad weather for to-morrow,” he muttered, drawing his cloak about his shoulders.

“One ought to be able to see the entire valley from here,” went on Arnold, striving to pierce the gloom that already clothed the foot of the mountain.

“Yes, yes,” said Moser, shaking his head; “the ridge is high enough for that. There’s an invention for you that isn’t good for much.”

“What invention?”

“The mountains.”

“You would rather have everything level?”

“What a question!” cried the farmer, laughing. “You might as well ask me if I would not rather ruin my horses.”

“True,” said Arnold in a tone of somewhat contemptuous irony. “I had forgotten the horses! It is clear that God should have thought principally of them when he created the world.”

“I don’t know as to God,” answered Moser quietly, “but the engineers certainly made a mistake in forgetting them when they made the roads. The horse is the laborer’s best friend, monsieur—without disrespect to the oxen, which have their value too.”

Arnold looked at the peasant. “So you see in your surroundings only the advantages you can derive from them?” he asked gravely. “The forest, the mountains, the clouds, all say nothing to you? You have never paused before the setting sun or at the sight of the woods lighted by the stars?”

“I?” cried the farmer. “Do you take me for a maker of almanacs? What should I get out of your starlight and the setting sun? The main thing is to earn enough for three meals a day and to keep one’s stomach warm. Would monsieur like a drink of cognac? It comes from the other side of the Rhine.”

He held out a little wicker-covered bottle to Arnold, who refused by a gesture. The positive coarseness of the peasant had rekindled his regret and his contempt. Were they really men such as he was, these unfortunates, doomed to unceasing labor, who lived in the bosom of nature without heeding it and whose souls never rose above the most material sensations? Was there one point of resemblance which could attest their original brotherhood to such as he? Arnold doubted this more and more each moment.

These thoughts had the effect of communicating to his manner a sort of contemptuous indifference toward his conductor, to whom he ceased to talk. Moser showed neither surprise nor pain and set to whistling an air, interrupted from time to time by some brief word of encouragement to his horses.

Thus they arrived at the farm, where the noise of the bells announced their coming. A young boy and a woman of middle age appeared on the threshold.

“Ah, it is the father!” cried the woman, looking back into the house, where could be heard the voices of several children, who came running to the door with shouts of joy and pressed around the peasant.

“Wait a moment, youngsters,” interrupted the father in his big voice as he rummaged in the cart and brought forth a covered basket. “Let Fritz unharness.”

But the children continued to besiege the farmer, all talking at once. He bent to kiss them, one after another; then rising suddenly:

“Where is Jean?” he asked with a quickness that had something of uneasiness in it.

“Here, father, here,” answered a shrill little voice from the farm-house door; “mother doesn’t want me to go out in the rain.”

“Stay where you are,” said Moser, throwing the traces on the backs of the horses; “I will go to you, little son. Go in, the rest of you, so as not to tempt him to come out.”

The three children went back to the doorway, where little Jean was standing beside his mother, who was protecting him from the weather.

He was a poor little creature, so cruelly deformed that at the first glance one could not have told his age or the nature of his infirmity. His whole body, distorted by sickness, formed a curved, not to say a broken line. His disproportionately large head was sunken between two unequally rounded shoulders, while his body was sustained by two little crutches; these took the place of the shrunken legs, which could not support him.

At the farmer’s approach he held out his thin arms with an expression of love that made Moser’s furrowed face brighten. The father lifted him in his strong arms with an exclamation of tender delight.

“Come!” he cried, “hug your father—with both arms—hard! How has he been since yesterday?”

The mother shook her head.

“Always the cough,” she answered in a low tone.

“It’s nothing, father,” the child answered in his shrill voice. “Louis had drawn me too fast in my wheeled chair; but I am well, very well; I feel as strong as a man.”

The peasant placed him carefully on the ground, set him upon his little crutches, which had fallen, and looked at him with an air of satisfaction.

“Don’t you think he’s growing, wife?” he asked in the tone of a man who wishes to be encouraged. “Walk a bit, Jean; walk, boy! He walks more quickly and more strongly. It’ll all come right, wife; we must only be patient.”

The farmer’s wife made no reply, but her eyes turned toward the feeble child with a look of despair so deep that Arnold trembled; fortunately Moser paid no heed.

“Come, the whole brood of you,” he went on, opening the basket he had taken from the cart; “here is something for every one! In line and hold out your hands.”

The peasant had displayed three small white rolls glazed in the baking; three cries of joy burst forth simultaneously and six hands advanced to seize the rolls, but they all paused at the word of command.

“And Jean?” asked the childish voices.

“To the devil with Jean,” answered Moser gayly; “there is nothing for him to-night. Jean shall have his share another time.”

But the child smiled and tried to get up to look into the basket. The farmer stepped back a pace, took off the cover carefully, and lifting his arm with an air of solemnity, displayed before the eyes of all a cake of gingerbread garnished with almonds and pink and white sugar-plums.

There was a general shout of admiration. Jean himself could not restrain a cry of delight; a slight flush rose to his pale face and he held out his hands with an air of joyful expectancy.

“Ah, you like it, little mole!” cried the peasant, whose face was radiant at the sight of the child’s pleasure; “take it, old man, take it; it is nothing but sugar and honey.”

He placed the gingerbread in the hands of the little hunchback, who trembled with happiness, watched him hobble off, and turning to Arnold when the sound of the crutches was lost in the house, said with a slight break in his voice:

“He is my eldest. Sickness has deformed him a little, but he’s a shrewd fellow and it only depends upon us to make a gentleman of him.”

While speaking he had crossed the first room on the ground-floor and led his guest into a species of dining-room, the whitewashed walls of which were decorated only with a few rudely colored prints. As he entered, Arnold saw Jean seated on the floor and surrounded by his brothers, among whom he was dividing the cake given him by his father. But each one objected to the size of his portion and wished to lessen it; it required all the little hunchback’s eloquence to make them accept what he had given them. For some time the young sportsman watched this dispute with singular interest, and when the children had gone out again he expressed his admiration to the farmer’s wife.

“It is quite true,” she said with a smile and a sigh, “that there are times when it seems as though it were a good thing for them to see Jean’s infirmity. It is hard for them to give up to each other, but not one of them can refuse Jean anything; it is a constant exercise in kindness and devotion.”

“Great virtue, that!” interrupted Moser. “Who could refuse anything to such a poor, afflicted little innocent? It’s a silly thing for a man to say; but, look you, monsieur, that child there always makes me want to cry. Often when I am at work in the fields, I begin all at once to think about him. I say to myself Jean is ill! or Jean is dead! and then I have to find some excuse for coming home to see how it is. Then he is so weak and so ailing! If we did not love him more than the others, he would be too unhappy.”

“Yes,” said the mother gently, “the poor child is our cross and our joy at the same time. I love all my children, monsieur, but whenever I hear the sound of Jean’s crutches on the floor, I always feel a rush of happiness. It is a sign that the good God has not yet taken our darling away from us. It seems to me as though Jean brought happiness to the house just like swallows’ nests fastened to the windows. If I hadn’t him to take care of, I should think there was nothing for me to do.”

Arnold listened to these naive expressions of tenderness with an interest that was mingled with astonishment. The farmer’s wife called a servant to help set the table; and at Moser’s invitation, the young man approached the brushwood fire which had been rekindled.

As he was leaning against the smoky mantelpiece, his eye fell upon a small black frame that inclosed a withered leaf. Moser noticed it.

“Ah! you are looking at my relic. It’s a leaf of the weeping-willow that grows down there on the tomb of Napoleon! I got it from a Strasbourg merchant who had served in the Old Guard. I wouldn’t part with it for a hundred crowns.”

“Then there is some particular sentiment attached to it?”

“Sentiment, no,” answered the peasant; “but I too was discharged from the Fourth Regiment of Hussars, a brave regiment, monsieur. There were only eight men left of our squadron, so when the Little Corporal passed in front of the line he saluted us—yes, monsieur, raised his hat to us! That was something to make us ready to die to the last man, look you. Ah! he was the father of the soldier!”

Here the peasant began to fill his pipe, looking the while at the black frame and the withered leaf. In this reminder of a marvelous destiny there was evidently for him a whole romance of youth, emotion, and regret. He recalled the last struggles of the Empire, in which he had taken part, the reviews held by the emperor, when his mere presence aroused confidence in victory; the passing successes of France’s famous campaign, so soon expiated by the disaster at Waterloo; the departure of the vanquished general and his long agony on the rock of Saint Helena.

Arnold respected the old soldier’s silent preoccupation and waited until he should resume the conversation.

The arrival of supper roused him from his reverie; he drew up a chair for his guest and took his place at the opposite side of the table.

“Come! fall to on the soup,” he cried brusquely. “I have had nothing since morning but two swallows of cognac. I should eat an ox whole to-night.”

To prove his words, he began to empty the huge porringer of soup before him.

For several moments nothing was heard but the clatter of spoons followed by that of the knives cutting up the side of bacon served by the farmer’s wife. His walk and the fresh air had given Arnold himself an appetite that made him forget his Parisian daintiness. The supper grew gayer and gayer, when all at once the peasant raised his head.

“And Farraut?” he asked. “I have not seen him since my return.”

His wife and the children looked at each other without answering.

“Well, what is it?” went on Moser, who saw their embarrassment. “Where is the dog? What has happened to him? Why don’t you answer, Dorothée?”

“Don’t be angry, father,” interrupted Jean; “we didn’t dare tell you, but Farraut went away and has not come back.”

“A thousand devils! You should have told me!” cried the peasant, striking the table with his fist. “What road did he take?”

“The road to Garennes.”

“When was it?”

“After dinner: we saw him go up the little path.”

“Something must have happened to him,” said Moser, getting up. “The poor animal is almost blind and there are sand pits all along the road! Go fetch my sheepskin and the lantern, wife. I must find Farraut, dead or alive.”

Dorothée went out without making any remark either about the hour or the weather, and soon reappeared with what her husband had asked for.

“You must think a great deal of this dog,” said Arnold, surprised at such zeal.

“It is not I,” answered Moser, lighting his pipe; “but he did good service to Dorothée’s father. One day when the old man was on his way home from market with the price of his oxen in his pocket, four men tried to murder him for his money, and they would have done it if it had not been for Farraut; so when the good man died two years ago, he called me to his bedside and asked me to care for the dog as for one of his children—those were his words. I promised, and it would be a crime not to keep one’s promise to the dead. Fritz, give me my iron-shod stick. I wouldn’t have anything happen to Farraut for a pint of my blood. The animal has been in the family for twenty years—he knows us all by our voices—and he recalls the grandfather. I shall see you again, monsieur, and good-night until to-morrow.”

Moser wrapped himself in his sheepskin and went out. They could hear the sound of his iron-shod stick die away in the soughing of the wind and the falling of the rain.

After awhile the farmer’s wife offered to conduct Arnold to his quarters for the night, but Arnold asked permission to await the return of the master of the house, if his return were not delayed too long. His interest in the man who had at first seemed to him so vulgar, and in the humble family whose existence he had thought to be so valueless, continued to increase.

The vigil was prolonged, however, and Moser did not return. The children had fallen asleep one after another, and even Jean, who had held out the longest, had to seek his bed at last. Dorothée, uneasy, went incessantly from the fireside to the door and from the door to the fireside. Arnold strove to reassure her, but her mind was excited by suspense. She accused Moser of never thinking of his health or of his safety; of always being ready to sacrifice himself for others; of being unable to see a human being or an animal suffer without risking all to relieve it. As she went on with her complaint, which sounded strangely like a glorification, her fears grew more vivid; she had a thousand gloomy forebodings. The dog had howled all through the previous night; an owl had perched upon the roof of the house; it was a Wednesday, always an unfortunate day in the family. Her fears reached such a pitch at last that the young man volunteered to go in search of her husband, and she was about to awaken Fritz to accompany him, when the sound of footsteps was heard outside.

“It is Moser!” said the woman, stopping short.

“Oho, there, open quickly, wife,” cried the farmer from without.

She ran to draw the bolt, and Moser appeared, carrying in his arms the old blind dog.

“Here he is,” he said gayly. “God help me! I thought I should never find him: the poor brute had rolled to the bottom of the big stone quarry.”

“And you went there to get him?” asked Dorothée, horror-stricken.

“Should I have left him at the bottom to find him drowned to-morrow?” asked the old soldier. “I slid down the length of the big mountain and I carried him up in my arms like a child: the lantern was left behind, though.”

“But you risked your life, you foolhardy man!” cried Dorothée, who was shuddering at her husband’s explanation.

The latter shrugged his shoulders.

“Ah, bah!” he said with careless gayety; “who risks nothing has nothing; I have found Farraut—that’s the principal thing. If the grandfather sees us from up there, he ought to be satisfied.”

This reflection, made in an almost indifferent tone, touched Arnold, who held out his hand impetuously to the peasant.

“What you have done was prompted by a good heart,” he said with feeling.

“What? Because I have kept a dog from drowning?” answered Moser. “Dogs and men—thank God I have helped more than one out of a hole since I was born; but I have sometimes had better weather than to-night to do it in. Say, wife, there must be a glass of cognac left; bring the bottle here; there is nothing that dries you better when you’re wet.”

Dorothée brought the bottle to the farmer, who drank to his guest’s health, and then each sought his bed.

The next morning the weather was fine again; the sky was clear, and the birds, shaking their feathers, sang on the still dripping trees.

When he descended from the garret, where a bed had been prepared for him, Arnold found near the door Farraut, who was warming himself in the sun, while little Jean, seated on his crutches, was making him a collar of eglantine berries. A little further on, in the first room, the farmer was clinking glasses with a beggar who had come to collect his weekly tithe; Dorothée was holding his wallet, which she was filling.

“Come, old Henri, one more draught,” said the peasant, refilling the beggar’s glass; “if you mean to finish your round you must take courage.”

“That one always finds here,” said the beggar with a smile; “there are not many houses in the parish where they give more, but there is not one where they give with such good will.”

“Be quiet, will you, Père Henri?” interrupted Moser; “do people talk of such things? Drink and let the good God judge each man’s actions. You, too, have served; we are old comrades.”

The old man contented himself with a shake of the head and touched his glass to the farmer’s; but one could see that he was more moved by the heartiness that accompanied the alms than the alms itself.

When he had taken up his wallet again and bade them good-by, Moser watched him go until he had disappeared around a bend in the road. Then drawing a breath, he said, turning to his guest:

“One more poor old man without a home. You may believe me or not, monsieur, but when I see men with shaking heads going about like that, begging their bread from door to door, it turns my blood. I should like to set the table for them all and touch glasses with them all as I did just now with Père Henri. To keep your heart from breaking at such a sight, you must believe that there is a world up there where those who have not been summoned to the ordinary here will receive double rations and double pay.”

“You must hold to that belief,” said Arnold; “it will support and console you. It will be long before I shall forget the hours I have passed in your house, and I trust they will not be the last.”

“Whenever you choose,” said the old soldier; “if you don’t find the bed up there too hard and if you can digest our bacon, come at your pleasure, and we shall always be under obligations to you.”

He shook the hand that the young man had extended, pointed out the way that he must take, and did not leave the threshold until he had seen his guest disappear in the turn of the road.

For some time Arnold walked with lowered head, but upon reaching the summit of the hill he turned to take a last backward look, and seeing the farm-house chimney, above which curled a light wreath of smoke, he felt a tear of tenderness rise to his eye.

“May God always protect those who live under that roof!” he murmured; “for where pride made me see creatures incapable of understanding the finer qualities of the soul, I have found models for myself. I judged the depths by the surface and thought poetry absent because, instead of showing itself without, it hid itself in the heart of the things themselves; ignorant observer that I was, I pushed aside with my foot what I thought were pebbles, not guessing that in these rude stones were hidden diamonds.”

---

JOHN HOWARD PAYNE AND “HOME, SWEET HOME”

About a hundred years ago, a young man, little more than a boy, was drawing large audiences to the theaters of our eastern cities. New York received him with enthusiasm, cultured Boston was charmed by his person and his graceful bearing, while warm-hearted Baltimore fairly outdid herself in hospitality. Until this time five hundred dollars was a large sum for a theater to yield in a single night in Baltimore, but people paid high premiums to hear the boy actor, and a one-evening audience brought in more than a thousand dollars.

About the same time in England another boy actor, Master Betty, was creating great excitement, and him they called the Young Roscius, a name that was quickly caught up by the admirers of the Yankee youth, who then became known as the Young American Roscius.

He was a wonderful boy in every way, was John Howard Payne. One of a large family of children, several of whom were remarkably bright, he had from his parents the most careful training, though they were not able always to give him the advantages they wished. John was born in New York City, but early moved with his parents to East Hampton, the most eastern town on the jutting southern point of Long Island. Here in the charming little village he passed his childhood, a leader among his playmates, and a favorite among his elders. His slight form, rounded face, beautiful features and graceful bearing combined to attract also the marked attention of every stranger who met him.

At thirteen years of age he was at work in New York, and soon was discovered to be the editor in secret of a paper called The Thespian Mirror. The merit of this juvenile sheet attracted the attention of many people, and among them of Mr. Seaman, a wealthy New Yorker who offered the talented boy an opportunity to go to college free of expense. Young Payne gladly accepted the invitation, and proceeded to Union College, where he soon became one of the most popular boys in the school. His handsome face, graceful manners and elegant delivery were met with applause whenever he spoke in public, and a natural taste led him to seek every chance for declamation and acting. Even as a child he had showed his dramatic ability, and more than once he was urged to go upon the stage. But his father refused all offers and kept the boy steadily at his work.

When he was seventeen, however, two events occurred which changed all his plans. First his mother died, and then his father failed in business, and the young man saw that he must himself take up the burdens of the family. Accordingly he left college before graduation and began his career as an actor.

His success was immediate and unusual, if we may judge from the words of contemporary critics. His first appearance in Boston was on February 24, 1809, as Douglas in Young Norval. In this play occurs the speech that countless American boys have declaimed, “On the Grampian Hills my father feeds his flocks.” Of Payne’s rendition a critic says, “He had all the skill of a finished artist combined with the freshness and simplicity of youth. Great praise, but there are few actors who can claim any competition with him.” Six weeks later he was playing Hamlet there, and his elocution is spoken of as remarkable for its purity, his action as suited to the passion he represented, and his performance as an exquisite one that delighted his brilliant audience.

“Upon the stage, a glowing boy appeared
Whom heavenly smiles and grateful thunders cheered;
Then through the throng delighted murmurs ran.
The boy enacts more wonders than a man.”

Another, writing about this time, says, “Young Payne was a perfect Cupid in his beauty, and his sweet voice, self-possessed yet modest manners, wit, vivacity and premature wisdom, made him a most engaging prodigy.”

And again, “A more engaging youth could not be imagined; he won all hearts by the beauty of his person and his captivating address, the premature richness of his mind and his chaste and flowing utterance.”

His great successes here led him to go to England, where his popularity was not nearly so great, and where the critics pounced upon him unmercifully, hurting his feelings beyond repair. Still he succeeded moderately both in England and on the Continent, until he turned his attention to writing rather than to acting. Brutus, a tragedy, is the only one of the sixty works which he wrote, translated or adapted, that ever is played nowadays. In Clari, the Maid of Milan, one of his operas, however, appeared a little song that has made the name of John Howard Payne eternally famous throughout the world.

Home, Sweet Home had originally four stanzas, but by common consent the third and fourth have been dropped because of their inferiority. The two remaining ones are sung everywhere with heartfelt appreciation, and the air, whatever its origin, has now association only with the words of the old home song. Miss Ellen Tree, who sang it in the opera, charmed her audience instantly, and in the end won her husband through its melody.

In 1823, 100,000 copies were sold, and the publishers made 2,000 guineas from it in two years. In fact, it enriched everybody who had anything to do with it, except Payne, who sold it originally for £30.

Perhaps the most noteworthy incident connected with the public rendition of Home, Sweet Home occurred in Washington at one of the theaters where Jenny Lind was singing before an audience composed of the first people of our land. In one of the boxes sat the author, then on a visit to this country, and a favorite everywhere. The prima donna sang her greatest classical music and moved her audience to the wildest applause. Then in response to the renewed calls she stepped to the front of the stage, turned her face to the box where the poet sat, and in a voice of marvelous pathos and power sang:

“Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home!
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek through the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere.
Home, Home! Sweet, sweet Home!
There’s no place like Home!
There’s no place like Home!

“An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain!
O, give me my lowly thatched cottage again!
The birds singing gaily that came at my call;—
Give me them! and the peace of mind dearer than all!
Home, Home! Sweet, sweet Home!
There’s no place like Home!
There’s no place like Home!”[226-1]

The audience were moved to tears. Even Daniel Webster, stern man of law, lost control of himself and wept like a child.

Payne’s later life was not altogether a happy one, and he felt some resentment against the world, although it may not have been justified. He was unmarried, but was no more homeless than most bachelors. He exiled himself voluntarily from his own country, and so lost much of the delightful result of his own early popularity. He may have been reduced to privation and suffering, but it was not for long at a time. Some writers have sought to heighten effect by making the author of the greatest song of home a homeless wanderer. The truth is that Payne’s unhappiness was largely the result of his own peculiarities. He was given to poetic exaggeration, for there is now known to be little stern fact in the following oft-quoted writing of himself:

“How often have I been in the heart of Paris, Berlin, London or some other city, and have heard persons singing or hand organs playing Sweet Home without having a shilling to buy myself the next meal or a place to lay my head! The world has literally sung my song until every heart is familiar with its melody, yet I have been a wanderer from my boyhood. My country has turned me ruthlessly from office and in my old age I have to submit to humiliation for my bread.”

Upon his own request he was appointed United States consul at Tunis, and after being removed from that office continued to reside there until his death. He was buried in Saint George’s Cemetery in Tunis, and there his body rested for more than thirty years, until W. W. Corcoran, a wealthy resident of Washington, had it disinterred, brought to this country and buried in the beautiful Oak Hill Cemetery near Washington. There a white marble shaft surmounted by a bust of the poet marks his last home. On one side of the shaft is the inscription:

John Howard Payne,
Author of “Home, Sweet Home.”
Born June 9, 1792. Died April 9, 1852.

On the other side is chiseled this stanza:

“Sure when thy gentle spirit fled
To realms above the azure dome,
With outstretched arms God’s angels said
Welcome to Heaven’s Home, Sweet Home.”

Much sentiment has been wasted over Payne, who was really not a great poet and whose lack of stamina prevented him from grasping the power already in his hand. We should remember, too, that the astonishing popularity of Home, Sweet Home is doubtless due more to the glorious melody of the air, probably composed by some unknown Sicilian, than to the wording of the two stanzas.

When we study the verses themselves we see that the first three lines are rather fine, but the fourth line is clumsy and matter-of-fact compared with the others. In the second stanza “lowly thatched cottage” may be a poetic description, but the home longing is not confined to people who have lived in thatched cottages. Tame singing birds are interesting, but home stands for higher and holier things. All he asks for are a thatched cottage, singing birds and peace of mind: a curious group of things. The fourth line of that stanza is unmusical and inharmonious.

These facts make us see that what really has made the song so dear to us is its sweet music and the powerful emotion that seizes us all when we think of the home of our childhood.

[226-1] Capitals and punctuation as written by Payne.

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AULD LANG SYNE[228-1]

By Robert Burns

Note.—The song as we know it is not the first song to bear that title, nor is it entirely original with Robert Burns. It is said that the second and third stanzas were written by him, but that the others were merely revised. In a letter to a friend, written in 1793, Burns says, “The air (of Auld Lang Syne) is but mediocre; but the following song, the old song of the olden time, which has never been in print, nor even in manuscript, until I took it down from an old man’s singing, is enough to recommend any air.” This refers to the song as we know it, but the friend, a Mr. Thompson, set the words to an old Lowland air which is the one every one now uses.

At an earlier date Burns wrote to another friend: “Is not the Scottish phrase, auld lang syne, exceedingly expressive? There is an old song and tune that has often thrilled through my soul. Light be the turf on the breast of the heaven-inspired poet who composed this glorious fragment.”

We cannot be certain that this refers to the exact wording he subsequently set down, for there were at least three versions known at that time.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min’?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o’ lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,[229-2]
For auld lang syne.

We twa[229-3] hae[229-4] run about the braes,[229-5]
And pou’d[229-6] the gowans[229-7] fine;
But we’ve wandered mony[229-8] a weary foot
Sin’[229-9] auld lang syne.
For auld, etc.

We twa hae paidl’t[229-10] i’ the burn,[229-11]
Frae[229-12] mornin’ sun till dine;[229-13]
But seas between us braid[229-14] hae roared
Sin’ auld lang syne.
For auld, etc.

And here’s a hand, my trusty frere,[230-15]
And gie’s[230-16] a hand o’ thine;
And we’ll tak a right guid[230-17] willie-waught[230-18]
For auld lang syne.
For auld, etc.

And surely ye’ll be your pint-stoup,[230-19]
And surely I’ll be mine;
And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet
For auld lang syne.
For auld, etc.

[228-1] Literally, Auld Lang Syne means Old Long-Since. It is difficult to bring out the meaning of the Scotch phrase by a single English word. Perhaps The Good Old Times comes as near to it as anything. The song gives so much meaning to the Scotch phrase that now every man and woman knows what Auld Lang Syne really stands for.

[229-2] That is, we will drink for the sake of old times.

[229-3] Twa means two.

[229-4] Hae is the Scotch for have.

[229-5] A brae is a sloping hillside.

[229-6] Pou’d is a contracted form of pulled.

[229-7] Dandelions, daisies and other yellow flowers are called gowans by the Scotch.

[229-8] Mony is many.

[229-9] Sin’ is a contraction of since.

[229-10] Paidl’t means paddled.

[229-11] A burn is a brook.

[229-12] Frae is the Scotch word for from.

[229-13] Dine means dinner-time, midday.

[229-14] Braid is the Scotch form of broad.

[230-15] Frere means friend.

[230-16] Gie’s is a contracted form of give us.

[230-17] Guid is the Scottish spelling of good.

[230-18] A willie-waught is a hearty draught.

[230-19] A pint-stoup is a pint-cup or flagon.

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HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD

By Alfred Tennyson

Home they brought her warrior dead:
She nor swoon’d nor utter’d cry:
All her maidens, watching, said,
“She must weep or she will die.”

Then they praised him, soft and low,
Call’d him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;
Yet she never spoke nor moved.

Stole a maiden from her place,
Lightly to the warrior stept,
Took a face-cloth from the face;
Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Rose a nurse of ninety years,
Set his child upon her knee—
Like summer tempest came her tears—
“Sweet my child, I live for thee.”

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CHARLES DICKENS

To begin my life with the beginning of my life,” Dickens makes one of his heroes say, “I record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on a Friday, at twelve o’clock at night.” Dickens was born on a Friday, the date the 7th of February, 1812, the place Landport in Portsea, England. The house was a comfortable one, and during Charles’s early childhood his surroundings were prosperous; for his father, John Dickens, a clerk in the navy pay-office, was temporarily in easy circumstances. When Charles was but two, the family moved to London, taking lodgings for a time in Norfolk Street, Bloomsbury, and finally settling in Chatham. Here they lived in comfort, and here Charles gained more than the rudiments of an education, his earliest teacher being his mother, who instructed him not only in English, but in Latin also. Later he became the pupil of Mr. Giles, who seems to have taken in him an extraordinary interest.

Indeed, he was a child in whom it was difficult not to take an extraordinary interest. Small for his years, and attacked occasionally by a sort of spasm which was exceedingly painful, he was not fitted for much active exercise; but the aliveness which was apparent in him all his life distinguished him now. He was very fond of reading, and in David Copperfield he put into the mouth of his hero a description of his own delight in certain books. “My father had left a small collection of books in a little room upstairs, to which I had access (for it adjoined my own), and which nobody else in our house ever troubled. From that blessed little room, Roderick Random, Peregrine Pickle, Humphrey Clinker, Tom Jones, The Vicar of Wakefield, Don Quixote, Gil Blas and Robinson Crusoe came out, a glorious host, to keep me company. They kept alive my fancy, ... they, and the Arabian Nights and the Tales of the Genii—and did me no harm; for whatever harm was in some of them was not there for me; I knew nothing of it.... I have been Tom Jones (a child’s Tom Jones, a harmless creature) for a week together. I have sustained my own idea of Roderick Random for a month at a stretch, I verily believe. I had a greedy relish for a few volumes of Voyages and Travels—I forget what, now—that were on those shelves; and for days and days I can remember to have gone about my region of our house, armed with the center piece out of an old set of boot-trees—the perfect realization of Captain Somebody, of the Royal British Navy, in danger of being beset by savages, and resolved to sell his life at a great price.”

Not only did the little Charles read all he could lay hands upon; he made up stories, too, which he told to his small playmates, winning thereby their wondering admiration. Some of these tales he wrote down, and thus he became an author in a small way while he was yet a very small boy. His making believe to be the characters out of books shows another trait which clung to him all his life—his fondness for “play-acting.” It was, in fact, often said of the mature Dickens that he would have made as good an actor as he was a novelist, and Dickens’s father seems to have recognized in his little son decided traces of ability; for often, when there was company at the house, little Charles, with his face flushed and his eyes shining, would be placed on a table to sing a comic song, amid the applause of all present.

His early days were thus very happy; but when he was about eleven years old, money difficulties beset the family, and they were obliged to move to a poor part of London. Mrs. Dickens made persistent efforts to open a school for young ladies, but no one ever showed the slightest intention of coming. Matters went from bad to worse, and finally Mr. Dickens was arrested for debt and taken to the Marshalsea prison. The time that followed was a most painful one to the sensitive boy—far more painful, it would seem, than to the “Prodigal Father,” as Dickens later called him. This father, whom Dickens long afterward described, in David Copperfield, as Mr. Micawber, was, as his son was always most willing to testify, a kind, generous man; but he was improvident to the last degree; and when in difficulties which would have made melancholy any other man, he was able, by the mere force of his rhetoric, to lift himself above circumstances or to make himself happy in them.

At length all the family except the oldest sister, who was at school, and Charles, went to live in the prison; and Charles was given work in a blacking-warehouse of which a relative of his mother’s was manager. The sufferings which the boy endured at this time were intense. It was not only that the work was sordid, monotonous, uncongenial; it was not only that his pride was outraged; what hurt him most of all was that he should have been “so easily cast away at such an age,” and that “no one made any sign.” He had always yearned for an education; he had always felt that he must grow up to be worth something. And to see himself condemned, as he felt with the hopelessness of childhood, for life, to the society of such boys as he found in the blacking-warehouse, was almost more than he could endure. During his later life, prosperous and happy, he could scarcely bear to speak, even to his dearest friends, of this period of his life.

Though this period of his life seemed to him long, it was not really so, for he was not yet thirteen when he was taken from the warehouse and sent to school. Once given a chance, he learned rapidly and easily, although in all probability the schools to which he went were not of the best. After a year or two at school he again began work, but this time under more hopeful circumstances. He was, to be sure, but an under-clerk—little more than an office-boy in a solicitor’s office; but at least the surroundings were less sordid and the companions more congenial. However, he had no intention of remaining an under-clerk, and he set to work to make himself a reporter.

Of his difficulties in mastering shorthand he has written feelingly in that novel which contains so much autobiographical material—David Copperfield. “I bought an approved scheme of the noble art and mystery of stenography ... and plunged into a sea of perplexity that brought me, in a few weeks, to the confines of distraction. The changes that were rung upon dots, which in such a position meant such a thing, and in such another position something else, entirely different; the wonderful vagaries that were played by circles; the unaccountable consequences that resulted from marks like flies’ legs, the tremendous effect of a curve in the wrong place; not only troubled my waking hours, but reappeared before me in my sleep.”

When Dickens once made up his mind to do a thing, however, he always went through with it, and before so very long he had perfected himself in his “art and mystery,” and was one of the most rapid and accurate reporters in London.

At nineteen he became a reporter of the speeches in Parliament. Before taking up his newspaper work, he made an attempt to go upon the stage; but it was not long before he found his true vocation, and abandoned all thought of the stage as a means of livelihood. In 1833 he published a sketch in the Old Monthly Magazine, and this was the first of those Sketches by Boz which were published at intervals for the next two years.

The year 1836 was a noteworthy one for Dickens, for in that year he married Catherine Hogarth, the daughter of an associate on the Chronicle; and in that year began the publication of The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club. The publication of the first few numbers wakened no great enthusiasm, but with the appearance of the fifth number, in which Sam Weller is introduced, began that popularity which did not decline until Dickens’s death. In fact, as one writer has said, “In dealing with Dickens, we are dealing with a man whose public success was a marvel and almost a monstrosity.” Every one, old and young, serious and flippant, talked of Pickwick, and it was actually reported, by no less an authority than Thomas Carlyle, that a solemn clergyman, being told that he had not long to live, exclaimed, “Well, thank God, Pickwick will be out in ten days anyway!”

Oliver Twist followed, and then Nicholas Nickleby; and by this time Dickens began to get, what he did not receive from his first work, something like his fair share of the enormous profits, so that his growing family lived in comfort, if not in luxury. When the Old Curiosity Shop, and, later, Barnaby Rudge, appeared, the number of purchasers of the serials rose as high as seventy thousand.

Early in 1842 Dickens and his wife made a journey to America, leaving their children in the care of a friend. Shortly after arriving in the United States he wrote to a friend, “I can give you no conception of my welcome here. There was never a king or emperor upon the earth so cheered and followed by crowds, and entertained in public at splendid balls and dinners, and waited on by public bodies and deputations of all kinds;” and again, “In every town where we stay, though it be only for a day, we hold a regular levee or drawing-room, where I shake hands on an average with five or six hundred people.”

Dickens had come prepared to like America and Americans—and in many ways he did like them. But in other ways he was disappointed. He ventured to object, in various speeches, to the pirating, in America, of English literature, and fierce were the denunciations which this course drew upon him. Having fancied that in the republic of America he might have at least free speech on a matter which so closely concerned him, Dickens resented this treatment, and the Americans resented his resentment. However, it was with the kindliest feelings toward the many friends he had made in the United States, and with the most out-spoken admiration for many American institutions that he left for England. The publication of his American Notes and of Martin Chuzzlewit did not tend to reconcile Americans to Dickens; but there seems to have been no falling off in the sale of his books in this country.

Dickens’s life, like the lives of most literary men, was not particularly eventful. It was, however, a constantly busy life. Book followed book in rapid succession, and still their popularity grew. Sometimes in London, sometimes in Italy or Rome or Switzerland, he created those wonderful characters of his which will live as long as the English language. The first of the Christmas books, A Christmas Carol, appeared in 1843, and henceforward one of the things to which people looked forward at Yuletide was the publication of a new Dickens Christmas story.

One diversion—if diversion it can be called—Dickens allowed himself not infrequently, and enjoyed most thoroughly. This was the production, sometimes before a selected audience, sometimes in public, of plays, in which Dickens himself usually took the chief part. Often these plays were given not only in London, but in various parts of the country, as benefits for poor authors or actors, or for the widows and families of such; and always they were astonishingly successful. It is reported that an old stage prompter or property man said one time to Dickens “Lor, Mr. Dickens! If it hadn’t been for them books, what an actor you would have made.”

Naturally, a man of Dickens’s eminence had as his friends and acquaintances many of the foremost men of his time, and a most affectionate and delightful friend he was. His letters fall no whit below the best of his writing in his novels in their power of observation, their brightness, their humorous manner of expression.

In 1849 was begun the publication of David Copperfield, Dickens’s own favorite among his novels. It contains, as has already been said, much that is autobiographical, and one of the most interesting facts in connection with this phase of it is that there really was, in Dickens’s young days, a “Dora” whom he worshiped. Years later he met her again, and what his feelings on that occasion must have been may be imagined when we know that this Dora-grown-older was the original of “Flora” in Little Dorrit.

The things that Dickens, writing constantly and copiously, found time to do are wonderful. One of the matters in which he took great interest and an active part was the children’s theatricals. These were held each year during the Christmas holiday season at Dickens’s home, and while his children and their friends were the principal actors, Dickens superintended the whole, introduced three-quarters of the fun, and played grown-up parts, adopting as his stage title the “Modern Garrick.”

Though the story of these crowded years is quickly told, the years were far from being uneventful in their passing. Occasional sojourns, either with his family or with friends, in France and in Italy always made Dickens but the more glad to be in his beloved London, where he seemed most in his element and where his genius had freest play. This does not mean that he did not enjoy France and Italy, or appreciate their beauties, but simply that he was always an Englishman—a city Englishman. His observations, however, on what he saw in traveling were always most acute and entertaining.

His account of his well-nigh unsuccessful attempt to find the house of Mr. Lowther, English chargé d’affaires at Naples, with whom he had been invited to dine, may be quoted here to show his power of humorous description:

“We had an exceedingly pleasant dinner of eight, preparatory to which I was near having the ridiculous adventure of not being able to find the house and coming back dinnerless. I went in an open carriage from the hotel in all state, and the coachman, to my surprise, pulled up at the end of the Chiaja.

“‘Behold the house’ says he, ‘of Signor Larthoor!’—at the same time pointing with his whip into the seventh heaven, where the early stars were shining.

“‘But the Signor Larthoor,’ returns the Inimitable darling, ‘lives at Pausilippo.’

“‘It is true,’ says the coachman (still pointing to the evening star), ‘but he lives high up the Salita Sant’ Antonio, where no carriage ever yet ascended, and that is the house’ (evening star as aforesaid), ‘and one must go on foot. Behold the Salita Sant’ Antonio!’

“I went up it, a mile and a half I should think. I got into the strangest places, among the wildest Neapolitans—kitchens, washing-places, archways, stables, vineyards—was baited by dogs, answered in profoundly unintelligible Neapolitan, from behind lonely locked doors, in cracked female voices, quaking with fear; could hear of no such Englishman or any Englishman. By-and-by I came upon a Polenta-shop in the clouds, where an old Frenchman, with an umbrella like a faded tropical leaf (it had not rained for six weeks) was staring at nothing at all, with a snuff-box in his hand. To him I appealed concerning the Signor Larthoor.

“‘Sir,’ said he, with the sweetest politeness, ‘can you speak French?’

“‘Sir,’ said I, ‘a little.’

“‘Sir,’ said he, ‘I presume the Signor Lootheere’—you will observe that he changed the name according to the custom of his country—‘is an Englishman.’

“I admitted that he was the victim of circumstances and had that misfortune.

“‘Sir,’ said he, ‘one word more. Has he a servant with a wooden leg?’

“‘Great Heaven, sir,’ said I, ‘how do I know? I should think not, but it is possible.’

“‘It is always,’ said the Frenchman, ‘possible. Almost all the things of the world are always possible.’

“‘Sir,’ said I—you may imagine my condition and dismal sense of my own absurdity by this time—‘that is true.’

“He then took an immense pinch of snuff, wiped the dust off his umbrella, led me to an arch commanding a wonderful view of the Bay of Naples, and pointed deep into the earth from which I had mounted.

“‘Below there, near the lamp, one finds an Englishman, with a servant with a wooden leg. It is always possible that he is the Signor Lootheere.’

“I had been asked at six, and it was now getting on for seven. I went down again in a state of perspiration and misery not to be described, and without the faintest hope of finding the place. But as I was going down to the lamp, I saw the strangest staircase up a dark corner, with a man in a white waistcoat (evidently hired) standing on the top of it fuming. I dashed in at a venture, found it was the place, made the most of the whole story, and was indescribably popular.”

“Indescribably popular” Dickens was almost every place he went. And in 1858 there came to him increased popularity by reason of a new venture. In this year he began his public readings from his own works, which brought him in immense sums of money. Through England, Scotland, Ireland and the United States he journeyed, reading, as only he could read, scenes humorous and pathetic from his great novels, and everywhere the effect was the same.

Descriptive of an evening at Edinburgh, he wrote: “Such a pouring of hundreds into a place already full to the throat, such indescribable confusion, such a rending and tearing of dresses, and yet such a scene of good humor on the whole!... I read with the platform crammed with people. I got them to lie down upon it, and it was like some impossible tableau or gigantic picnic; one pretty girl in full dress hang on her side all night, holding on to one of the legs of my table. And yet from the moment I began to the moment of my leaving off, they never missed a point, and they ended with a burst of cheers.”

Meanwhile Dickens’s domestic life had not been happy. He and his wife were not entirely congenial in temper, and the incompatibility increased with the years, until in 1858 they agreed to live apart. Most of the children remained with their father, although they were given perfect freedom to visit their mother.

Among Dickens’s later novels are the Tale of Two Cities, Great Expectations, which is one of his very best books, and Our Mutual Friend, which, while as a story it has many faults, yet abounds with the humor and fancy which are characteristic of Dickens. In October, 1869, was begun Edwin Drood, which was published like most of its predecessors, as a serial. Six numbers appeared, and there the story closed; for on June 9, 1870, Charles Dickens died, after an illness of but one day, during all of which he was unconscious.

His family desired to have him buried near his home, the Gad’s Hill which he had admired from his childhood and had purchased in his manhood; but the general wish was that he should be laid in Westminster Abbey, and to this wish his family felt that it would be wrong to object. For days there were crowds of mourners about the grave, shedding tears, scattering flowers, testifying to the depth of affection they had felt for the man who had given them so many happy hours.

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A CHRISTMAS CAROL

By Charles Dickens