Act III
Scene I.—The cloisters of a convent. Athanasios the Patriarch, and the Templar.
Athanasios: Heaven keep you in your valour, good Sir Knight!
You seek my counsel? It is yours; say on.
Templar: Suppose, my reverend father, that a Jew
Brought up a Christian child, in ignorance
Of her own faith and lineage, as his daughter,
What then?
Athanasios: Is this mere supposition, sir?
If in our diocese such impious act
Were done in truth, the Jew should die by fire.
You will not name the man? I'll to the sultan,
Who will support us.
Templar: I'll to Saladin,
And will announce your visit.
Athanasios: Was it then
A problem merely? Nay, this is a job
For Brother Bonafides. Here, my son!
[Exit Athanasios, talking with the friar.
Scene II.—A room at the palace of Saladin. Slaves bring in money-bags to Saladin and Sittah.
Saladin (to Sittah): Here, pay yourself with that.
And look, I found
This portrait 'midst the heap of plate and jewels.
It is our brother Assad. I'll compare
The likeness with our Templar. Ah, who's there?
The Templar? Bid him enter.
[Enter the Templar.
Templar: Saladin,
Thy captive, sire, who's life is at thy service!
Saladin: Ah, brave young man, I'm not deceived in thee.
Thou art indeed, in soul and body, Assad!
Came Nathan with thee?
Templar: Who?
Saladin: Who? Nathan
Templar (coldly): No.
Saladin: Why so cold?
Templar: I've nothing against Nathan,
But I am angry with myself alone
For dreaming that a Jew could be no Jew.
He was so cautious of my suit that I,
In swift resentment, though unwitting, gave
Him over to the Patriarch's bloody rage.
Sultan, the maiden is no child of his;
She is a Christian whom the Jew hath reared
In ignorance of her faith. The Patriarch
Foredooms him to the stake.
Saladin: Go to, go to.
The case is scarcely hopeless. Summon Nathan,
And I shall reconcile you. If indeed
You're earnest for the maid, she shall be thine.
Scene III.—The hall in Nathan's house. Nathan and the friar, Bonafides.
Bonafides: The Patriarch hath ever work for me,
And some I like not. Listen. He hath heard
That hereabouts there dwells a certain Jew
Who hath brought up a Christian as his child.
Nathan: How?
Bonafides: Hear me out. I fear me that I gave
Occasion for this sin, when I, a squire,
Brought you, full eighteen years ago, the babe,
The orphan babe of Leonard, Lord of Filnek.
He fell at Askalon.
Nathan: Ay so; and I,
Bereft by Christians of my wife and sons,
Received the infant as a gift from Heaven,
And made it mine. And now, belike, I suffer
For this my charity. But tell me now,
Was not the mother sister to a Templar,
Conrade of Stauffen?
Bonafides: Let me fetch a book,
In Arabic, I had from my dead lord.
'Tis said to tell the lineage of the babe.
Nathan: Go, fetch it quickly.
[Exeunt.
Scene IV.—A place of palms. Nathan and the Templar.
Nathan: Who hath betrayed me to the Patriarch?
Templar: Alas! 'twas I. You took my suit so coldly
That when from Daya I had learned your secret,
I fancied you had little mind to give
A Christian what from Christians you had taken.
I thought to use my knowledge as a lever,
And so, not having you, I put the matter
In problem-wise before the Patriarch.
Suppose he find you out. What then? He cannot
Seize Recha, if she be no longer yours.
Ah! give her then, to me, and let him come.
Nathan: Too late! You are too late, for I have found
Her kinsfolk. Hark you, Recha has a brother.
Templar: Well, he's the man to fit her with a husband.
Of thee and me she'll have no longer need.
Scene V.—Saladin's palace. Saladin and his sister, Sittah, are talking with Recha.
Sittah: Ah! I guessed it.
Recha: Guessed it? What? that I
Am Christian and not Nathan's daughter?
[She swoons.
Saladin: What!
Whose cruelty hath sown this sharp suspicion
In thy fond heart? Ah! if there be two fathers
At strife for thee, quit both, and take a third.
Take Saladin for father! I'll be kind.
Sittah: Brother, you make her blush.
Saladin: In a good hour. Blushing becomes the fair.
But see, our Nathan's coming, with another.
Canst guess, sweet girl? Ay, when he comes, blush crimson.
[Enter Nathan and the Templar.
Come, stickle not for niceties with him.
Make him thy offer, doing for him more,
Far more, than he for thee, for what was that
But make himself a little sooty. Come!
[Seeks to lead her to the Templar.
Nathan (solemnly): Hold, Saladin; hold, Sittah! There's another
Whom I must speak with first—the maiden's brother.
Templar (bitterly): He has imposed a father on her, now
He'll shark her up a brother! Where's the man?
Nathan: Patience sir.
Saladin: Christian, such words as yours had never passed
My Assad's lips.
Nathan: Forgive him, Saladin.
Oh! Christian, you have hid from me your name.
Conrade of Stauffen is no name of yours,
But Guy of Filnek—mark. I tax you not
With falsehood; for your mother was a Stauffen.
Her brother's name was Conrade. He perchance
Adopted you?
Templar: Even so the matter stands.
Nathan: Your father was my friend. He called himself
Leonard of Filnek, but no German he.
He had espoused a German.
Templar: Ah! no more,
I beg, but tell me who is Recha's brother.
Nathan: Thou art the man!
Templar: What, I? I Recha's brother?
Recha: My brother—he?
Sittah: So near akin—
Recha (offering to embrace him): My brother!
Templar: (withdrawing): Brother to her!
Recha (to Nathan): It cannot be. His heart
Knows nothing of it.
Saladin: What! not acknowledge
A sister such as she? Go!
Templar: Saladin!
Mistake not my amazement. Thy Assad
At such a moment, had done likewise.
Oh, Nathan, you have taken, you have given—
Yes, infinitely more—my sister—sister!
[Embraces Recha.
Nathan: Blanda of Filnek! Guy! My children both!
Sittah: Oh! I am deeply moved.
Saladin: And I half tremble
At thought of the emotion still to be.
Nathan, you say her father was no German.
What was he, then?
Nathan: He never told me that.
But ah! he loved the Persian speech and owned
He was no Frank.
Saladin: The Persian! Need I more? Twas my Assad!
Nathan: Look in this book!
Saladin: Ay! 'tis his hand, even his.
Oh, Sittah, Sittah, they're my brother's children.
[He rushes to embrace them. Sittah also embraces the pair.
Now, now, proud boy, thou canst not choose but love me.
(To Recha) And I to thee am all I sought to be,
With or without thy leave.
Templar: I of thy blood? Then all the tales I heard
In infancy were more than idle dreams.
[Falls at Saladin's feet.
Saladin (raising him): There's malice for you!
Knew it all the time,
And yet he would have let me murder him.
Boy, boy! [They embrace in silence.
FOOTNOTES:
[S] Gotthold Ephraim Lessing, one of the greatest names in German literature, was born January 22, 1729, at Kamenz, in Saxon Upper Lusatia, where his father was a clergyman of the most orthodox Lutheran school. After working very hard for five years at a school in Meissen, he proceeded to the University of Leipzig, in 1746, with the intention of studying theology, but he soon began to occupy himself with other matters, made the acquaintance of actors, and acquired a great fondness for dramatic entertainment. This sort of life, however, pained his strict relatives, who pronounced it "sinful," and for a short time Lessing went home. Later he proceeded to Berlin, and while there, formed many valuable literary friendships, and established the best literary journal of his time. "Nathan the Wise" ("Nathan der Weise") arose out of a bitter theological controversy in which Lessing had been engaged. It was written during the winter of 1778-79, and expresses ideas and theories its author had already largely developed in prose. Primarily the play is a strong plea for tolerance, the governing conception being that noble character belongs to no particular creed, but to all creeds, as set forth herein in the parable of the wonderful ring. And thus it follows that there is no sufficient reason why people holding one set of religious opinions should not tolerate others who maintain totally different doctrines. Purely as a drama the play may be disappointing, but regarded as a poem it ranks with the noblest dramatic literature of the eighteenth century. The characters abound in vitality, and some of the passages rise to heights of great splendour. Lessing died on February 15, 1781 (see also Vol. XX, p. 239).
[HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW][T]
[Evangeline, A Tale of Acadie]
I.—The Betrothal and the Exile
On the night when Evangeline, the beautiful daughter of Benedict Bellefontaine, the richest farmer of Grand-Pré, was to be betrothed to Gabriel, the son of Basil Lajeunesse the blacksmith, the two fathers were engaged in discussing the reason of the presence of several English war vessels which were riding at anchor at the mouth of the Gaspereau. Basil was inclined to take a gloomy view, and Benedict a hopeful one, when the arrival of the notary put an end to his discussion.
Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table, Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with brown ale, While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and ink-horn, Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties, And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin. Then the notary, rising and blessing the bride and bridegroom, Lifted aloft the tankard of ale, and drank to their welfare. Wiping the foam from his lips, he solemnly bowed and departed, While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside, Till Evangeline brought the draught board out of its corner. Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old men Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuvre. Meanwhile, apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure, Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise Over the pallid sea, and the silvery mists of the meadows.
Pleasantly rose next morn. And lo! with a summons sonorous, Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat. Thronged ere long was the church with men. Without, in the churchyard, Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the headstones Garlands of autumn leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest. Then came the guards from the ships, and entered the sacred portal. Straight uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar.
"You are convened this day," he said, "by his majesty's orders. Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous. Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch; Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kinds, Forfeited be to the crown; and that you yourselves from the province Be transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell there Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people!" In the midst of the tumult and angry contention that broke out, Lo! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician Entered with solemn mien, and ascended the steps of the altar. Raising his hand, with a gesture he awed the throng into silence. "What is this that ye do?" he said. "What madness has seized you? Forty years of my life have I laboured among you and taught you, Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another! Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations? Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness?" Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his people Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate outbreak, While they repeated his prayer, and said, "O Father, forgive them!"
Four times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farmhouse. Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession, Came from the neighbouring hamlets and farms the Acadian women, Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the seashore, Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings, Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland. Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen, While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings. Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beach, Piled in confusion, lay the household goods of the peasants. Great disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusion Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their children Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties. So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried, While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father.
Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red Moon climbs the crystal wall of heaven, and o'er the horizon, Titan-like, stretches its hundred hands upon the mountain and meadow, Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows together. Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village, Gleamed on the sky and sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead. Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr. Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting, Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred housetops Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled. Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the maidens Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them; And as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion, Lo! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the seashore, Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed.
With the first dawn of the day, the tide came hurrying landward. Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking; And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbour, Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins.
II.—The Quest and the Finding
The exiles from Acadie landed some on one coast, some on another; and the lovers were separated from one another. Evangeline sought everywhere for Gabriel, in towns and in the country, in churchyards and on the prairies, in the camps and battlefields of the army, and among missions of Jesuits and Moravians. But all in vain. She heard far and distant news of him, but never came upon him. And so the years went by, and she grew old in her search.
In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware waters, Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn, the apostle, Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded. There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty, And the streets still re-echo the names of the trees of the forest, As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they molested. There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile, Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country. Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image, Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him. Over him years had no power; he was not changed, but transfigured; He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent. Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others— This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her. Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour. Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy; frequenting Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city, Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected.
Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city. Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm the oppressor; But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger— Only, alas! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants, Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless. Thither, by night and day, came the Sister of Mercy. The dying Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendour, Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles, Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance. Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial, Into whose shining gates ere long their spirits would enter.
Thus on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and silent, Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the almshouse. Sweet on the summer air was the odour of flowers in the garden; And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them, That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and beauty. And with light in her looks, she entered the chamber of sickness. Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered, Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her presence Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a prison. And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler, Laying his hand on many a heart, had healed it forever. Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder, Still she stood, with her colourless lips apart, while a shudder Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped from her fingers, And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning. Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows. On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man. Long and thin and grey were the locks that shaded his temples; But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood. Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit, exhausted, Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the darkness— Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and sinking.
Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations, Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like, "Gabriel! O my beloved!" and died away into silence. Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood; Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them, Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and walking under their shadow, As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision. Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bed-side. Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered, Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have spoken. Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him, Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom. Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into darkness, As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement. All was ended now—the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow, All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience; And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom, Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, "Father, I thank Thee!"
FOOTNOTES:
[T] Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, the best-known and best-beloved of American poets, was born at Portland, Maine, on February 27, 1807. The son of a lawyer, he graduated at Bowdoin College at the age of eighteen, and then entered his father's office, not, however, with any intention of adopting the law as a profession. Shortly afterwards, the college trustees sent him on a European tour to qualify himself for the chair of foreign languages, one result of which was a number of translations and his book "Outre Mer." "Voices of the Night," his first volume of original verse, appeared in 1839, and created a favourable impression, which was deepened on the publication in 1841 of Ballads, and Other Poems," containing such moving pieces as "The Wreck of the Hesperus," "The Village Blacksmith," and "Excelsior." From that moment Longfellow's reputation as poet was established—he became a singer whose charm and simplicity not only appealed to his own countrymen, but to English-speaking people the world over. In 1847 he produced what many regard as the greatest of his works, namely, "Evangeline, a Tale of Acadie." The story is founded on the compulsory expatriation by the British of the people of Acadia (Nova Scotia), in 1713, on the charge of having assisted the French (from whom they were descended) at a siege of the war then in progress. The poem is told with infinite pathos and rare narrative power. Longfellow died on March 24, 1882.
[The Song of Hiawatha][U]
I.—Of Hiawatha and His Battle with Mudjekeewis
Hiawatha was sent by Gitche Manito, the Master of Life, as a prophet to guide and to teach the tribes of men, and to toil and suffer with them. If they listened to his counsels they would multiply and prosper, but if they paid no heed they would fade away and perish. His father was Mudjekeewis, the West Wind; his mother was Wenonah, the first-born daughter of Nokomis, who was the daughter of the Moon. Wenonah died in her anguish deserted by the West Wind, and Hiawatha was brought up and taught by the old Nokomis. He soon learned the language of every bird and every beast; and Iagoo, the great boaster and story-teller, made him a bow with which he shot the red deer. When he grew into manhood he put many questions concerning his mother to the old Nokomis, and having learned her story, resolved, despite all warnings, to take vengeance on Mudjekeewis.
Forth he strode into the forest, Crossed the rushing Esconaba, Crossed the mighty Mississippi, Passed the Mountains of the Prairie, Passed the dwellings of the Blackfeet, Came unto the Rocky Mountains, To the kingdom of the West Wind, Where upon the gusty summits Sat the ancient Mudjekeewis, Ruler of the winds of Heaven. Filled with awe was Hiawatha At the aspect of his father. Filled with joy was Mudjekeewis When he looked on Hiawatha. "Welcome," said he, "Hiawatha, To the kingdom of the West Wind! Long have I been waiting for you. Youth is lovely, age is lonely; You bring back the days departed, You bring back my youth of passion, And the beautiful Wenonah!" Many days they talked together, Questioned, listened, waited, answered; Much the mighty Mudjekeewis Boasted of his ancient prowess. Patiently sat Hiawatha Listening to his father's boasting. Then he said: "O Mudjekeewis, Is there nothing that can harm you?" And the mighty Mudjekeewis Answered, saying, "There is nothing, Nothing but the black rock yonder, Nothing but the fatal Wawbeek!" And he looked at Hiawatha With a wise look and benignant, Saying, "O my Hiawatha! Is there anything can harm you?" But the wary Hiawatha Paused awhile as if uncertain, And then answered, "There is nothing, Nothing but the great Apukwa!" Then they talked of other matters; First of Hiawatha's brothers, First of Wabun, of the East Wind. Of the South Wind, Shawondasee, Of the north, Kabibonokka; Then of Hiawatha's mother, Of the beautiful Wenonah, Of her birth upon the meadow, Of her death, as old Nokomis Had remembered and related. Then up started Hiawatha, Laid his hand upon the black rock. With his mittens, Minjekahwun, Rent the jutting crag asunder, Smote and crushed it into fragments Which he hurled against his father, The remorseful Mudjekeewis, For his heart was hot within him, Like a living coal his heart was. But the ruler of the West Wind Blew the fragments backward from him, Blew them back at his assailant; Seized the bulrush, the Apukwa, Dragged it with its roots and fibres From the margin of the meadow. Long and loud laughed Hiawatha. Like a tall tree in the tempest Bent and lashed the giant bulrush; And in masses huge and heavy Crashing fell the fatal Wawbeek; Till the earth shook with the tumult And confusion of the battle. Back retreated Mudjekeewis, Rushing westward o'er the mountains, Stumbling westward down the mountains, Three whole days retreated fighting, Still pursued by Hiawatha To the doorways of the West Wind, To the earth's remotest border. "Hold!" at length called Mudjekeewis, "'Tis impossible to kill me. For you cannot kill the immortal. I have put you to this trial But to know and prove your courage. Now receive the prize of valour! Go back to your home and people, Live among them, toil among them, Cleanse the earth from all that harms it. And at last when Death draws near you, When the awful eyes of Pauguk Glare upon you in the darkness, I will share my kingdom with you; Ruler shall you be thenceforward Of the North-west Wind, Keewaydin, Of the home wind, the Keewaydin."
II.—Of Hiawatha's Friends and of His Fight with Pearl-Feather
The first exertion which Hiawatha made for the profit of his people was to fast for seven days in order to procure for them the blessing of Mondamin, the friend of man. At sunset of the fourth, fifth, and sixth days Hiawatha wrestled with the youth Mondamin, and on the evening of the seventh day Mondamin, having fallen lifeless in the combat, was stripped of his green and yellow garments and laid in the earth. From his grave shot up the maize in all its beauty, the new gift of the Great Spirit; and for a time Hiawatha rested from his labours, taking counsel for furthering the prosperity of his people with his two good friends—Chibiabos, the great singer and musician; and Kwasind, the very strong man. But he was not long inactive. He built the first birch canoe, and, with the help of Kwasind, cleared the river of its sunken logs and sand-bars; and when he and his canoe were swallowed by the monstrous sturgeon Mishe-Nahma, he killed it by smiting fiercely on its heart. Not long afterwards his grandmother, Nokomis, incited him to kill the great Pearl-Feather, Megissogwon, the magician who had slain her father. Pearl-Feather was the sender of white fog, of pestilential vapours, of fever and of poisonous exhalations, and, although he was guarded by the Kenabeek, the great fiery surpents, Hiawatha sailed readily in his birch canoe to encounter him.
Soon he reached the fiery serpents, The Kenabeek, the great serpents, Lying huge upon the water, Sparkling, rippling in the water, Lying coiled across the passage, With their blazing crests uplifted, Breathing fiery fogs and vapours, So that none could pass beyond them. Then he raised his bow of ash-tree, Seized his arrows, jasper-headed, Shot them fast among the serpents; Every twanging of the bow-string Was a war-cry and a death-cry, Every whizzing of an arrow Was a death-song of Kenabeek. Then he took the oil of Nahma, Mishe-Nahma, the great sturgeon, And the bows and sides anointed, Smeared them well with oil, that swiftly He might pass the black pitch-water. All night long he sailed upon it, Sailed upon that sluggish water, Covered with its mold of ages, Black with rotting water-rushes, Rank with flags and leaves of lilies, Stagnant, lifeless, dreary, dismal, Lighted by the shimmering moonlight, And by will-o'-wisps illumined, Fires by ghosts of dead men kindled, In their weary night encampments. Westward thus fared Hiawatha, Toward the realm of Megissogwon, Toward the land of the Pearl-Feather, Till the level moon stared at him, In his face stared pale and haggard, Till the sun was hot behind him, Till it burned upon his shoulders, And before him on the upland He could see the shining wigwam Of the Manito of Wampum, Of the mightiest of magicians. Straightway from the shining wigwam Came the mighty Megissogwon, Tall of stature, broad of shoulder, Dark and terrible in aspect, Clad from head to foot in wampum, Armed with all his warlike weapons, Painted like the sky of morning, Crested with great eagle feathers, Streaming upward, streaming outward. Then began the greatest battle That the sun had ever looked on. All a summer's day it lasted; For the shafts of Hiawatha Harmless hit the shirt of wampum; Harmless were his magic mittens, Harmless fell the heavy war-club; It could dash the rocks asunder, But it could not break the meshes Of that magic shirt of wampum. Till at sunset, Hiawatha, Leaning on his bow of ash-tree, Wounded, weary, and desponding, With his mighty war-club broken, With his mittens torn and tattered, And three useless arrows only, Paused to rest beneath a pine-tree. Suddenly, from the boughs above him Sang the Mama, the woodpecker: "Aim your arrow, Hiawatha, At the head of Megissogwon, Strike the tuft of hair upon it, At their roots the long black tresses; There alone can he be wounded!" Winged with feathers, tipped with jasper, Swift flew Hiawatha's arrow, Just as Megissogwon, stooping Raised a heavy stone to throw it. Full upon the crown it struck him, And he reeled and staggered forward. Swifter flew the second arrow, Wounding sorer than the other; And the knees of Megissogwon Bent and trembled like the rushes. But the third and latest arrow Swiftest flew, and wounded sorest, And the mighty Megissogwon Saw the fiery eyes of Pauguk, Saw the eyes of Death glare at him; At the feet of Hiawatha Lifeless lay the great Pearl-Feather. Then the grateful Hiawatha Called the Mama, the woodpecker, From his perch among the branches, And in honour of his service, Stained with blood the tuft of feathers On the little head of Mama; Even to this day he wears it, Wears the tuft of crimson feathers, As a symbol of his service.
III.—Hiawatha's Life with His People and His Departing Westward
When Hiawatha was returning from his battle with Mudjekeewis he had stopped at the wigwam of the ancient Arrow-maker to purchase heads of arrows, and there and then he had noticed the beauty of the Arrow-maker's daughter, Minnehaha, Laughing Water. Her he now took to wife, and celebrated his nuptials by a wedding-feast at which Chibiabos sang, and the handsome mischief-maker, Pau-Puk-Keewis, danced. Minnehaha proved another blessing to the people. In the darkness of the night, covered by her long hair only, she walked all round the fields of maize, making them fruitful, and drawing a magic circle round them which neither blight nor mildew, neither worm nor insect, could invade. About this same time, too, to prevent the memory of men and things fading, Hiawatha invented picture-writing, and taught it to his people. But soon misfortunes came upon him. The evil spirits, the Manitos of mischief, broke the ice beneath his friend Chibiabos, and drowned him; Pau-Puk-Keewis put insult upon him, and had to be hunted down; and the envious Little People, the mischievous Puk-Wudjies, conspired against Kwasind, and murdered him. After this ghosts paid a visit to Hiawatha's wigwam, and famine came upon the land.
Oh, the long and dreary winter! Oh, the cold and cruel winter! Ever thicker, thicker, thicker Froze the ice on lake and river; Ever deeper, deeper, deeper Fell the snow o'er all the landscape, Fell the covering snow, and drifted Through the forest, round the village. All the earth was sick and famished; Hungry was the air around them, Hungry was the sky above them, And the hungry stars in heaven Like the eyes of wolves glared at them! Into Hiawatha's wigwam Came two other guests, as silent As the ghosts were, and as gloomy. Looked with haggard eyes and hollow At the face of Laughing Water. And the foremost said, "Behold me! I am Famine, Buckadawin!" And the other said, "Behold me! I am Fever, Ahkosewin!" And the lovely Minnehaha Shuddered as they looked upon her, Shuddered at the words they uttered; Lay down on her bed in silence. Forth into the empty forest Rushed the maddened Hiawatha; In his heart was deadly sorrow, In his face a stony firmness; On his brow the sweat of anguish Started, but it froze and fell not. "Gitche Manito, the Mighty!" Cried he with his face uplifted In that bitter hour of anguish, "Give your children food, O father! Give me food for Minnehaha— For my dying Minnehaha!" All day long roved Hiawatha In that melancholy forest, Through the shadow of whose thickets, In the pleasant days of summer, Of that ne'er-forgotten summer, He had brought his young wife homeward From the land of the Dacotahs. In the wigwam with Nokomis, With those gloomy guests that watched her, She was lying, the beloved, She, the dying Minnehaha. "Hark!" she said; "I hear a rushing, Hear the falls of Minnehaha Coming to me from a distance!" "No, my child!" said old Nokomis, "'Tis the night-wind in the pine-trees!" "Look!" she said; "I see my father Beckoning, lonely, from his wigwam In the land of the Dacotahs!" "No, my child!" said old Nokomis. "'Tis the smoke that waves and beckons!" "Ah!" said she, "the eyes of Pauguk Glare upon me in the darkness; I can feel his icy fingers Clasping mine amid the darkness! Hiawatha! Hiawatha!" And the desolate Hiawatha, Miles away among the mountains, Heard that sudden cry of anguish, Heard the voice of Minnehaha Calling to him in the darkness. Over snowfields waste and pathless, Under snow-encumbered branches, Homeward hurried Hiawatha, Empty-handed, heavy-hearted; Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing, "Would that I had perished for you, Would that I were dead as you are!" And he rushed into the wigwam, Saw the old Nokomis slowly Rocking to and fro and moaning, Saw his lovely Minnehaha Lying dead and cold before him; And his bursting heart within him Uttered such a cry of anguish That the very stars in heaven Shook and trembled with his anguish. Then he sat down, still and speechless, On the bed of Minnehaha. Seven long days and nights he sat there, As if in a swoon he sat there. Then they buried Minnehaha; In the snow a grave they made her, In the forest deep and darksome. "Farewell!" said he. "Minnehaha! Farewell, O my Laughing Water! All my heart is buried with you, All my thoughts go onward with you! Come not back again to labour, Come not back again to suffer. Soon my task will be completed, Soon your footsteps I shall follow To the Islands of the Blessed, To the Kingdom of Ponemah, To the Land of the Hereafter!"
Hiawatha indeed remained not much longer with his people, for after welcoming the Black-Robe chief, who told the elders of the nations of the Virgin Mary and her blessed Son and Saviour, he launched his birch canoe from the shores of Big-Sea-Water, and, departing westward,
Sailed into the fiery sunset, Sailed into the purple vapours, Sailed into the dusk of evening.
FOOTNOTES:
[U] In 1854 Longfellow resigned his professorship at Harvard. "Evangeline" had been followed by "Kavanagh," a novel of no particular merit, a cluster of minor poems, and in 1851 by the "Golden Legend," a singularly beautiful lyric drama, based on Hartmann van Aue's story "Der arme Heinrichs." Leaving the dim twilight of mediæval Germany, the poet brought his imagination to bear upon the Red Indian and his store of legend. The result was the "Song of Hiawatha," in 1855. Both in subject and in metre the poem is a conscious imitation of the Finnish "Kalevala." It was immensely popular on its appearance, Emerson declaring it "sweet and wholesome as maize." If the poem lacks veracity as an account of savage life, it nevertheless overflows with the beauty of the author's own nature, and is typical of those elements in his poetry which have endeared his name to the English-speaking world. With the exception of "Evangeline," it is the most popular of Longfellow's works.
[LUCRETIUS][V]
[On the Nature of Things]
I.—The Invocation and the Theme
Mother of Romans, joy of men and gods, Kind Venus, who 'neath gliding signs of heaven Dost haunt the main where sail our argosies, Dost haunt the land that yieldeth crops of grain, Since 'tis of thee that every kind of breath Is born and riseth to behold the light; Before Thee, Lady, flit the winds; and clouds Part at thine advent, and deft-fingered earth Yields Thee sweet blooms; for Thee the sea hath smiles, And heaven at peace doth gleam with floods of light. Soon as the fair spring face of day is shown And zephyr kind to birth is loosed in strength; First do the fowls of air give sign of Thee, Lady, and of Thy entrance, smit at heart By power of Thine. Then o'er the pastures glad The wild herds bound, and swim the rapid streams. Thy glamour captures them, and yearningly They follow where Thou willest to lead on. Yea, over seas and hills and sweeping floods, And leafy homes of birds and grassy leas, Striking fond love into the heart of all, Thou mak'st each race desire to breed its kind. Since Thou dost rule alone o'er nature's realm, Since without Thee naught wins the hallowed shores Of light, and naught is glad, and naught is fair, Fain would I crave Thine aid for poesy Which seeks to grasp the essence of the world. On the high system of the heavens and gods I will essay to speak, and primal germs Reveal, whence nature giveth birth to all, And growth and nourishment, and unto which Nature resolves them back when quite outworn. These, when we treat their system, we are wont To view as "matter," "bodies which produce," And name them "seeds of things," "first bodies" too, Since from them at the first all things do come.
THE TYRANNY OF RELIGION AND THE REVOLT OF EPICURUS
When human life lay foully on the earth Before all eyes, 'neath Superstition crushed, Who from the heavenly quarters showed her head And with appalling aspect lowered on men, Then did a Greek dare first lift eyes to hers— First brave her face to face. Him neither myth Of gods, nor thunderbolt; nor sky with roar And threat could quell; nay, chafed with more resolve His valiant soul that he should yearn to be First man to burst the bars of nature's gates. So vivid verve of mind prevailed. He fared Far o'er the flaming ramparts of the world, And traversed the immeasurable All In mind and soul: and thence a conqueror Returns to tell what can, what cannot rise, And on what principle each thing, in brief, Hath powers defined and deep-set boundary. Religion, then, is cast to earth in turn And trampled. Triumph matches man with heaven.
The profoundest speculations on the nature of things are not impious. Let not the reader feel that in such an inquiry he is on guilty ground. It is, rather, true that religion has caused foul crimes. An instance is the agonising sacrifice of sweet Iphigenia, slain at the altar to appease divine wrath.
"Religion could such wickedness suggest." Tales of eternal punishment frighten only those ignorant of the real nature of the soul. This ignorance can be dispelled by inquiring into the phenomena of heaven and earth, and stating the laws of nature.
II.—First Principles and a Theory of the Universe
Of these the first is that nothing is made of nothing; the second, that nothing is reduced to nothing. This indestructibility of matter may be illustrated by the joyous and constantly renewed growth that is in nature. There are two fundamental postulates required to explain nature—atoms and void. These constitute the universe. There is no tertium quid. All other things are but properties and accidents of these two. Atoms are solid, "without void"; they are indestructible, "eternal"; they are indivisible. To appreciate the physical theory of Epicurus, it is necessary to note the erroneous speculations of other Greek thinkers, whether, like Heraclitus, they deduced all things from one such fundamental element as fire, or whether they postulated four elements. From a criticism of the theories of Empedocles and Anaxagoras, the poet, return to the main subject.
A HARD TASK AND THREEFOLD TITLE TO FAME
How dark my theme, I know within my mind; Yet hath high hope of praise with thyrsus keen Smitten my heart and struck into my breast Sweet passion for the Muses, stung wherewith In lively thought I traverse pathless haunts Pierian, untrodden yet by man. I love to visit those untasted springs And quaff; I love to cull fresh blooms, and whence The Muses never veiled the brows of man To seek a wreath of honour for my head: First, for that lofty is the lore I teach; Then, cramping knots of priestcraft I would loose; And next because of mysteries I sing clear, Decking my poems with the Muses' charm.
This sweetening of verse with: "the honey of the Muses" is like disguising unpalatable medicine for children. The mind must be engaged by attractive means till it perceives the nature of the world.
As to the existing universe, it is bounded in none of its dimensions; matter and space are infinite. All things are in continual motion in every direction, and there is an endless supply of material bodies from infinite space. These ultimate atoms buffet each other ceaselessly; they unite or disunite. But there is no such thing as design in their unions. All is fortuitous concourse; so there are innumerable blind experiments and failures in nature, due to resultless encounters of the atoms.
CALM OF MIND IN RELATION TO A TRUE THEORY OF THE UNIVERSE
When tempests rack the mighty ocean's face, How sweet on land to watch the seaman's toil— Not that we joy in neighbour's jeopardy, But sweet it is to know what ills we 'scape. How sweet to see war's mighty rivalries Ranged on the plains—without thy share of risk. Naught sweeter than to hold the tranquil realms On high, well fortified by sages' lore, Whence to look down on others wide astray— Lost wanderers questing for the way of life— See strife of genius, rivalry of rank, See night and day men strain with wondrous toil To rise to utmost power and grasp the world.
Man feels an imperious craving to shun bodily pain and secure mental pleasure. But the glitter of luxury at the banquets of the rich cannot satisfy this craving: there are the simpler joys of the open country in spring. But the fact is, no magnificence can save the body from pain or the mind from apprehensions. The genuine remedy lies in knowledge alone.
Not by the sunbeams nor clear shafts of day, Needs then dispel this dread, this gloom of soul, But by the face of nature and its plan.
PROPERTIES OF ATOMS
Particles are constantly being transferred from one thing to another, though the sum total remains constant. In the light hereof may be understood the uninterrupted waxing and waning of things, and the perpetual succession of existence.
Full soon the broods of living creatures change, Like runners handing on the lamp of life.
Greater or less solidity depends on the resilience of atoms. Their ceaseless motion is illustrated by the turmoil of motes in a stream of sunlight let into a dark room. As to their velocity, it greatly exceeds that of the sun's rays. This welter of atoms is the product of chance; the very blemishes of the world forbid one to regard it as divine. But the atoms do not rain through space in rigidly parallel lines. A minute swerve in their motion is essential to account for clashings and production; and in the ethical sphere it is this swerve which saves the mind from "Necessity" and makes free will possible. Though the universe appears to be at rest, this is a fallacy of the senses, due to the fact that the motions of "first bodies" are not cognisable by our eyes; indeed, a similar phenomenon is the apparent vanishing of motion due to distance; for a white spot on a far-off hill may really be a frolicsome lamb.
Oft on a hillside, cropping herbage rich, The woolly flocks creep on whithersoe'er The grass bejewelled with fresh dew invites, And full-fed lambs disport and butt in play— All this to eyes at distance looks a blur; On the green hill the white spot seems at rest.
The shapes of atoms vary; and so differences of species, and differences within the same species, arise. This variety in shape accounts, too, for the varying action and effects of atoms. Atoms in hard bodies, for example, are mainly hooked; but in liquids mainly smooth. In each thing, however, there are several kinds, which furnish that particular thing with a variety of properties. Furthermore, atoms are colourless, for in themselves they are invisible; they never come into the light, whereas colour needs light—witness the changing hues of the down on a pigeon's neck, or of a peacock's tail. Atoms are themselves without senses, though they produce things possessed of senses. To grasp the origin of species and development of animate nature, one must realise the momentous importance of the arrangement and interconnection of atoms. Wood and other rotting bodies will bring forth worms, because material particles undergo, under altered conditions, fresh permutations and combinations. One may ask, what of man? He can laugh and weep, he can discuss the composition of all things, and even inquire into the nature of those very atoms! It is true that he springs from them. Yet a man may laugh without being made of laughing atoms, and a man may reason without being made of reasonable atoms!
EPICURUS AND THE GODS
O thou that from gross darkness first didst lift A torch to light the path to happiness, I follow thee, thou glory of the Greeks! And in thy footsteps firmly plant my steps, Not bent so much to rival as for love To copy. Why should swallow vie with swan? Thou, father, art discoverer of things, Enriching us with all a father's lore; And, famous master, from thy written page, As bees in flowery dells sip every bloom, So hold we feast on all thy golden words— Golden, most worthy, aye, of lasting life. Soon as thy reasoning, sprung from mind inspired, Hath loud proclaimed the mystery of things, The mind's fears flee, the bulwarks of the world Part, and I see things work throughout the void. Then Godhead is revealed in homes of calm, Which neither tempests shake nor clouds with rain Obscure, nor snow by piercing frost congealed Mars with white fall, but ever cloudless air Wraps in a smile of generous radiancy. There nature, too, supplieth every want, And nothing ever lessens peace of mind.
III.—Of Mind and Soul and Death
Mind and soul are portions of the body. While mind is the ruling element, they are both of the nature of the body—only they are composed of exceedingly minute and subtle atoms capable of marvellous speed. Therefore, when death deprives the body of mind, it does not make the body appreciably lighter.
It is as if a wine had lost its scent, Or breath of some sweet perfume had escaped.
Mind and soul consist of spirit, air, heat, and an elusive fourth constituent, the nimblest and subtlest of essences, the very "soul of the soul." It follows that mind and soul are mortal. Among many proofs may be adduced their close interconnection with the body, as seen in cases of drunkenness and epilepsy; their curability by medicine; their inability to recall a state prior to their incarnation; their liability to be influenced by heredity like corporeal seeds. Besides, why should an immortal soul need to quit the body at death? Decay surely could not hurt immortality! Then, again, imagine souls contending for homes in a body about to be born! Consequently, the soul being mortal, death has no sting.
To us, then, death is nothing—matters naught, Since mortal is the nature of the mind, E'en as in bygone time we felt no grief When Punic conflict hemmed all Rome around. When, rent by war's dread turbulence, the world Shuddered and quaked beneath the heaven's high realm, So when we are no more, when soul and frame Of which we are compact, have been divorced, Be sure, to us, who then shall be no more, Naught can occur or ever make us feel, Not e'en though earth were blent with sea and sky.
Men in general forget that death, in ending life's pleasures, also ends the need and the desire for them.
"Soon shall thy home greet thee in joy no more, Nor faithful wife nor darling children run To snatch first kiss, and stir within thy heart Sweet thoughts too deep for words. Thou canst no more Win wealth by working or defend thine own.
The pity of it! One fell hour," they say, "Hath robbed thee of thine every prize in life." Hereat they add not this: "And now thou art Beset with yearning for such things no more."
The dead are to be envied, not lamented. The wise will exclaim: "Thou, O dead, art free from pain: we who survive are full of tears."
"What is so passing bitter," we should ask, "If life be rounded by a rest and sleep, That one should pine in never-ending grief?"
Universal nature has a rebuke for the coward that is afraid to die. There are no punishments beyond. Hell and hell's tortures are in this life. It is the victim of passion or of gnawing cares that is the real victim of torment.
IV—The World's Origin and Its Growth
Not by design did primal elements Find each their place as 'twere with forethought keen, Nor bargained what their movements were to be; But since the atom host in many ways Smitten by blows for infinite ages back, And by their weight impelled, have coursed along, Have joined all ways, and made full test of all The types which mutual unions could create, Therefore it is that through great time dispersed, With every kind of blend and motion tried, They meet at length in momentary groups Which oft prove rudiments of mighty things— Of earth, and sea, and sky, and living breeds.
Amidst this primeval medley of warring atoms there was no sun-disk to be discerned climbing the vault, no stars, or sea, or sky, or earth, or air—nothing, in fact, like what now exists. The next stage came when the several parts began to fly asunder, and like to join with like, so that the parts of the world were gradually differentiated. Heavier bodies combined in central chaos and forced out lighter elements to make ether. Thus earth was formed by a long process of condensation.
Daily, as ever more the ether-fires And sun-rays all around close pressed the earth With frequent blows upon its outer crust, Each impact concentrating it perforce, So was a briny sweat squeezed out the more With ooze to swell the sea and floating plains.
PRIMEVAL FERTILITY OF THE EARTH
At first the earth produced all kinds of herbs And verdant sheen o'er every hill and plain; The flowery meadows gleamed in hues of green, And soon the trees were gifted with desire To race unbridled in the lists of growth; As plumage, hair, and bristles are produced On limbs of quadrupeds or frame of birds, So the fresh earth then first put forth the grass And shrubs, and next gave birth to mortal breeds, Thick springing multiform in divers ways. The name of "Mother," then, earth justly won, Since from the earth all living creatures came. Full many monsters earth essayed to raise, Uprising strange of look and strange of limb, Hermaphrodites distinct from either sex, Some robbed of feet, and others void of hands, Or mouthless mutes, or destitute of eyes, Or bound by close adhesion of their limbs So that they could do naught nor move at all, Nor shun an ill, nor take what need required. All other kinds of portents earth did yield— In vain, since nature drove increase away, They could not reach the longed-for bloom of life, Nor find support, nor link themselves in love.
SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST IN THE STRUGGLE FOR EXISTENCE
All things you see that draw the breath of life, Have been protected and preserved by craft,
Or speed, or courage, from their early years; And many beasts, which usefulness commends, Abide domesticated in our care.
The protective quality in such animals as lions is ferocity; in foxes, cunning; in stags, swiftness. Creatures without such natural endowments of defence or utility tend to be the prey of others, and so become extinct.
PRIMITIVE MAN
Primeval man was hardier in the fields, As fitted those that hardy earth produced, Built on a frame of larger, tougher bones And knit with powerful sinews in his flesh; Not likely to be hurt by heat or cold, Or change of food, or wasting pestilence. While many lustres of the sun revolved Men led a life of roving like the beasts. What sun or rain might give, or soil might yield Unforced, was boon enough to sate the heart. Oft 'neath the acorn-bearing oaks they found Their food; and arbute-berries, which you now In winter see turn ripe with scarlet hue, Of old grew greater in luxuriance. Through well known woodland haunts of nymphs they roamed, Wherefrom they saw the gliding water brook Bathe with a generous plash the dripping rocks— Those dripping rocks that trickled o'er green moss.
As yet mankind did not know how to handle fire, or to clothe themselves with the spoils of the chase; but dwelt in woods, or caves, or other random shelter found in stress of weather. Each man lived for himself, and might was right. The stone or club was used in hunting; but the cave-dwellers were in frequent danger of being devoured by beasts of prey. Still, savage mortality was no greater than that of modern times.
THE EVOLVING OF CIVILISATION
When men had got them huts and skins and fire, And woman joined with man to make a home, And when they saw an offspring born from them, Then first began the softening of the race. Fire left them less inured with shivering frames To bear the cold 'neath heaven's canopy. Then neighbours turned to compacts mutual, Desirous nor to do nor suffer harm. They claimed for child and woman tenderness, Declaring by their signs and stammering cries That pity for the weak becometh all.
The rudiments of humane sentiments sprang, therefore, in prehistoric family life. Language was the gradual outcome of natural cries, not an arbitrary invention. The uses of fire were learned from the lightning-flash and from conflagrations due to spontaneous combustion or chance friction. In time this opened out the possibility of many arts, such as metal-working; for forest fires caused streams of silver, gold, copper, or lead to run into hollows, and early man observed that when cooled, the glittering lumps retained the mould of the cavities. Nature also was the model for sowing and grafting. Those who excelled in mental endowment invented new modes of life. Towns and strongholds were founded as places of defence; and possessions were secured by personal beauty, strength, or cleverness. But the access of riches often ousted the claims of both beauty and strength.
For men, though strong and fair to look upon, Oft follow in the retinue of wealth.
Religious feelings were fostered by visions and dreams; marvellous shapes to which savage man ascribed supernatural powers. Recurrent appearances of such shapes induced a belief in their continuous existence: so arose the notion of gods that live for ever.
Our navigation, tillage, walls, and laws, Our armour, roads, and dress, and such-like boons, And every elegance of modern life, Poems and pictures, statues deftly wrought, All these men learned with slow advancing steps From practice and the knowledge won by wit. So by degrees time brings each thing to sight, And reason raiseth it to realms of day. In arts must one thing, then another, shine, Until they win their full development.
FOOTNOTES:
[V] To the Roman poet Titus Corus Lucretius (99-55 B.C.) belongs the distinction of having made Epicureanism epic. Possessed by a desire to free his fellow men from the trammels of superstition and the dread of death, he composed his poem, "On the Nature of Things." His reasonings were based on the atomic theory, which the Greek Epicurus had taken as the physical side of his system. In natural law Lucretius found the true antidote to superstition, and from a materialistic hypothesis of atoms and void he deduced everything. Against the futilities of myth-religion he protested with the fervour of an evangelist. On the ethical side, he accepted from Epicurus the conception that the ideal lies in pleasure—not wild, sensual pleasure, but that calm of mind which comes from temperate and refined enjoyment, subdual of extravagant passion, and avoidance of political entanglements. It is appropriate that the life of this apostle of scientific quietism should be involved in obscurity. The story of his insanity, so beautifully treated by Tennyson, may or may not be true. It is hardly credible that a work so closely reasoned was, as a whole, composed in lucid intervals between fits of madness; but, on the other hand, there are signs of flagging in the later portions, and the work comes to a sudden conclusion. The translations are specially made by Prof. J. Wight Duff, and include a few extracts from his "Literary History of Rome."
[JAMES MACPHERSON]
[Ossian][W]
I.—Carthon
A tale of the times of old—the deeds of days of other years.
Who comes from the land of strangers, with his thousands around him? The sunbeam pours its bright stream before him; his hair meets the wind of his hills. His face is settled from war. He is calm as the evening beam that looks, from the cloud of the west, on Cona's silent vale. Who is it but Fingal, the king of mighty deeds! The feast is spread around; the night passed away in joy.
"Tell," said the mighty Fingal to Clessammor, "the tale of thy youthful days. Let us hear the sorrow of thy youth, and the darkness of thy days."
"It was in the days of peace," replied the great Clessammor. "I came in my bounding ship to Balclutha's walls of towers. Three days I remained in Reuthamir's halls, and saw his daughter—that beam of light. Her eyes were like the stars of night. My love for Moina was great; my heart poured forth in joy.
"The son of a stranger came—a chief who loved the white-bosomed Moina. The strength of his pride arose. We fought; he fell beneath my sword. The banks of Clutha heard his fall, a thousand spears glittered around. I fought; the strangers prevailed. I plunged into the stream of Clutha. My white sails rose over the waves, and I bounded on the dark-blue sea. Moina came to the shore, her loose hair flew on the wind, and I heard her mournful, distant cries. Often did I turn my ship, but the winds of the east prevailed. Nor Clutha ever since have I seen, nor Moina of the dark-brown hair. She fell in Balclutha, for I have seen her ghost. I knew her as she came through the dusky night, along the murmur of Lora. She was like the new moon seen through the gathered mist, when the sky pours down its flaky snow and the world is silent and dark."
"Raise, ye bards," said the mighty Fingal, "the praise of unhappy Moina."
The night passed away in song; morning returned in joy. The mountains showed their grey heads; the blue face of ocean smiled. But as the sun rose on the sea Fingal and his heroes beheld a distant fleet. Like a mist on the ocean came the strange ships, and discharged their youth upon the coast. Carthon, their chief, was among them, like the stag in the midst of the herd. He was a king of spears, and as he moved towards Selma his thousands moved behind him.
"Go, with a song of peace," said Fingal. "Go, Ullin, to the king of spears. Tell him that the ghosts of our foes are many; but renowned are they who have feasted in my halls!"
When Ullin came to the mighty Carthon, he raised the song of peace.
"Come to the feast of Fingal, Carthon, from the rolling sea! Partake of the feast of the king, or lift the spear of war. Behold that field, O Carthon. Many a green hill rises there, with mossy stones and rustling grass. These are the tombs of Fingal's foes, the sons of the rolling sea!"
"Dost thou speak to the weak in arms," said Carthon, "bard of the woody Morven? Have not I seen the fallen Balclutha? And shall I feast with Fingal, the son of Comhal, who threw his fire in the midst of my father's hall? I was young, and knew not the cause why the virgins wept. But when the years of my youth came on, I beheld the moss of my fallen walls; my sigh arose with the morning, and my tears descended with night. Shall I not fight, I said to my soul, against the children of my foes? And I will fight, O bard! I feel the strength of my soul."
His people gathered round the hero, and drew their shining swords. The spear trembled in his hand. Bending forward, he seemed to threaten the king.
"Who of my chiefs," said Fingal, "will meet the son of the rolling sea? Many are his warriors on the coast, and strong is his ashen spear."
Cathul rose, in his strength, the son of the mighty Lormar. Three hundred youths attend the chief, the race of his native streams. Feeble was his arm against Carthon; he fell, and his heroes fled. Connal resumed the battle, but he broke his heavy spear; he lay bound on the field; Carthon pursued his people.
"Clessammor," said the king of Morven, "where is the spear of my strength? Wilt thou behold Connal bound?"
Clessammor rose in the strength of his steel, shaking his grizzly locks. He fitted the shield to his side; he rushed, in the pride of valour.
Carthon saw the hero rushing on, and loved the dreadful joy of his face; his strength, in the locks of age!
"Stately are his steps of age," he said. "Lovely the remnant of his years! Perhaps it is the husband of Moina, the father of car-borne Carthon. Often have I heard that he dwelt at the echoing stream of Lora."
Such were his words, when Clessammor came, and lifted high his spear. The youth received it on his shield, and spoke the words of peace.
"Warrior of the aged locks! Hast thou no son to raise the shield before his father to meet the arm of youth? What will be the fame of my sword shouldst thou fall?"
"It will be great, thou son of pride!" began the tall Clessammor. "I have been renowned in battle, but I never told my name to a foe. Yield to me, son of the wave; then shalt thou know that the mark of my sword is in many a field."
"I never yield, king of spears!" replied the noble pride of Carthon. "Retire among thy friends! Let younger heroes fight."
"Why dost thou wound my soul?" replied Clessammor, with a tear. "Age does not tremble on my hand; I still can lift the sword. Shall I fly in Fingal's sight, in the sight of him I love? Son of the sea, I never fled! Exalt thy pointed spear!"
They fought, like two contending winds that strive to roll the wave. Carthon bade his spear to err; he still thought that the foe was the spouse of Moina. He broke Clessammor's beamy spear in twain; he seized his shining sword. But as Carthon was binding the chief, the chief drew the dagger of his fathers. He saw the foe's uncovered side, and opened there a wound.
Fingal saw Clessammor low; he moved in the sound of his steel. The host stood silent in his presence; they turned their eyes to the king. He came, like the sullen noise of a storm before the winds arise. Carthon stood in his place; the blood is rushing down his side; he saw the coming down of the king. Pale was his cheek; his hair flew loose, his helmet shook on high. The force of Carthon failed, but his soul was strong.
"King of Morven," Carthon said, "I fall in the midst of my course. But raise my remembrance on the banks of Lora, where my father dwelt. Perhaps the husband of Moina will mourn over his fallen Carthon."
His words reached Clessammor. He fell, in silence, on his son. The host stood darkened around; no voice is on the plain. Night came; the moon from the east looked on the mournful field; but still they stood, like a silent grove that lifts its head on Gormal, when the loud winds are laid, and dark autumn is on the plain; and then they died.
Fingal was sad for Carthon; he commanded his bards to sing the hero's praise. Ossian joined them, and this was his song: "My soul has been mournful for Carthon; he fell in the days of his youth. And thou, O Clessammor, where is thy dwelling in the wind? Has the youth forgot his wound? Flies he, on clouds, with thee? Perhaps they may come to my dreams. I think I hear a feeble voice! The beam of heaven delights to shine on the grave of Carthon. I feel it warm around.
"O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers! Whence are thy beams, O sun, thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty; the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave. But thou thyself movest alone. Who can be a companion of thy course? The oaks of the mountains fall; the mountains themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks and grows again; the moon herself is lost in heaven; but thou art for ever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy course.
"When the world is dark with tempests; when thunder rolls, and lightning flies, thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian thou lookest in vain, for he beholds thy beams no more; whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art perhaps, like me, for a season; thy years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds; careless of the voice of the morning. Exult thee, O sun, in the strength of thy youth! Age is dark and unlovely. It is like the glimmering light of the moon when it shines through broken clouds and the mist is on the hills; the blast of north is on the plain; the traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey."
II.—Darthula
Daughter of heaven, fair art thou! The silence of thy face is pleasant! Thou comest forth in loveliness. The stars attend thy blue course in the east. The clouds rejoice in thy presence, O moon! Look from thy gates in the sky. Burst the cloud, O wind, that the daughter of night may look forth, that the shaggy mountains may brighten, and the ocean roll its white waves in light!
Nathos is on the deep, and Althos, that beam of youth. Ardan is near his brothers. They move in the gloom of their course. The sons of Usnoth move in darkness, from the wrath of Cairbar of Erin. Who is that, dim, by their side? The night has covered her beauty! Who is it but Darthula, the first of Erin's maids? She has fled from the love of Caribar, with blue-shielded Nathos. But the winds deceive thee, O Darthula! They deny the woody Etha to thy sails. These are not the mountains of Nathos; nor is that the roar of his climbing waves. The halls of Cairbar are near; the towers of the foe lift their heads! Erin stretches its green head into the sea. Tura's bay receives the ship. Where have ye been, ye southern winds, when the sons of my love were deceived? But ye have been sporting on plains, pursuing the thistle's beard. Oh that ye had been rustling in the sails of Nathos till the hills of Etha arose; till they arose in their clouds, and saw their returning chief!
Long hast thou been absent, Nathos—the day of thy return is past! Lovely thou wast in the eyes of Darthula. Thy soul was generous and mild, like the hour of the setting sun. But when the rage of battle rose, thou wast a sea in a storm. The clang of thy arms was terrible; the host vanished at the sound of thy coarse. It was then Darthula beheld thee from the top of her mossy tower; from the tower of Selama, where her fathers dwelt.
"Lovely art thou, O stranger!" she said, for her trembling soul arose. "Fair art thou in thy battles, friend of the fallen Cormac! Why dost thou rush on in thy valour, youth of the ruddy look? Few are thy hands in fight against the dark-browed Cairbar! Oh that I might be freed from his love—that I might rejoice in the presence of Nathos!"
Such were thy words, Darthula, in Selama's mossy towers. But now the night is around thee. The winds have deceived thy sails, Darthula! Cease a little while, O north wind! Let me hear the voice of the lovely. Thy voice is lovely, Darthula, between the rustling blasts!
"Are these the rocks of Nathos?" she said. "This the roar of his mountain streams? Comes that beam of light from Usnoth's mighty hall? The mist spreads around; the beam is feeble and distant far. But the light of Darthula's soul dwells in the chief of Etha! Son of the generous Usnoth, why that broken sigh? Are we in the land of strangers, chief of echoing Etha?"
"These are not the rocks of Nathos," he replied, "nor this the roar of his streams. We are in the land of strangers, in the land of cruel Cairbar. The winds have deceived us, Darthula. Erin lifts here her hills. Go towards the north, Althos; be thy steps, Ardan, along the coast; that the foe may not come in darkness, and our hopes of Etha fail. I will go towards that mossy tower to see who dwells about the beam."
He went. She sat alone; she heard the rolling of the wave. The big tear is in her eye. She looks for returning Nathos.
He returned, but his face was dark.
"Why art thou sad, O Nathos?" said the lovely daughter of Colla.
"We are in the land of foes," replied the hero. "The winds have deceived us, Darthula. The strength of our friends is not near, nor the mountains of Etha. Where shall I find thy peace, daughter of mighty Colla? The brothers of Nathos are brave, and his own sword has shone in fight! But what are the sons of Usnoth to the host of dark-browed Cairbar? Oh that the winds had brought thy sails, Oscar, king of men! Thou didst promise to come to the battles of fallen Cormac! Cairbar would tremble in his halls, and peace dwell round the lovely Darthula. But why dost thou fall, my soul? The sons of Usnoth may prevail!"
"And they will prevail, O Nathos!" said the rising soul of the maid. "Never shall Darthula behold the halls of gloomy Cairbar. Give me those arms of brass, that glitter to the passing meteor. I see them dimly in the dark-bosomed ship. Darthula will enter the battle of steel."
Joy rose in the face of Nathos when he heard the white-bosomed maid. He looks towards the coming of Cairbar. The wind is rustling in his hair. Darthula is silent at his side. Her look is fixed on the chief. She strives to hide the rising sigh.
Morning rose with its beams. The sons of Erin appear, like grey rocks, with all their trees; they spread along the coast. Cairbar stood in the midst. He grimly smiled when he saw the foe. Nathos rushed forward, in his strength; nor could Darthula stay behind. She came with the hero, lifting her shining spear.
"Come," said Nathos to Cairbar—"come, chief of high Temora! Let our battle be on the coast, for the white-bosomed maid. His people are not with Nathos; they are behind these rolling seas. Why dost thou bring thy thousands against the chief of Etha?"
"Youth of the heart of pride," replied Cairbar, "shall Erin's king fight with thee? Thy fathers were not among the renowned, and Cairbar does not fight with feeble men!"
The tear started from car-borne Nathos. He turned his eyes to his brothers. Their spears flew at once. Three heroes lay on earth. Then the light of their swords gleamed on high. The ranks of Erin yield, as a ridge of dark clouds before a blast of wind! Then Cairbar ordered his people, and they drew a thousand bows. A thousand arrows flew. The sons of Usnoth fell in blood. They fell like three young oaks, which stood alone on the hill. The traveller saw the lovely trees, and wondered how they grew so lonely; the blast of the desert came by night, and laid their green heads low; next day he returned, but they were withered, and the heath was bare!
Darthula stood in silent grief, and beheld their fall! Pale was her cheek. Her trembling lips broke short a half-formed word. Her breast of snow appeared. It appeared; but it was stained with blood. An arrow was fixed in her side. She fell on the fallen Nathos, like a wreath of snow! Her hair spreads wide on his face. Their blood is mixing round!
"Daughter of Colla—thou art low!" said Cairbar's hundred bards. "When wilt thou rise in thy beauty, first of Erin's maids? Thy sleep is long in the tomb. The sun shall not come to thy bed and say, 'Awake, Darthula! Awake thou first of women! The wind of spring is abroad. The flowers shake their heads on the green hills. The winds wave their growing leaves.' Retire, O sun, the daughter of Colla is asleep! She will not come forth in her beauty. She will not move in the steps of her loveliness!"
Such was the song of the bards when they raised the tomb. I, too, sang over the grave when the king of Morven came to green Erin to fight with the car-borne Cairbar!
FOOTNOTES:
[W] No ancient or modern work in the history of literature has excited such wild admiration and such profound contempt as the "Ossian" of James Macpherson. It was Napoleon's favourite work; he carried it with him to Egypt and took it to St. Helena. Byron and Goethe and Chateaubriand were also touched to enthusiasm by it. Its author—or, as some still think, its editor—was a Scottish schoolmaster, James Macpherson, born at Ruthven, in Inverness-shire on October 27, 1736. The first part of the work, entitled "Fragments of Ancient Poetry, Collected in the Highlands of Scotland, and Translated from the Gaelic, or Erse, Language," was published in 1760; "Fingal" appeared in 1762, and "Temora" in the following year. Doctor Johnson said of Macpherson: "He has found names, and stories, and phrases, nay, passages in old songs, and with them has blended his own compositions, and so made what he gives to the world as the translation of an ancient poem"; and this verdict is now confirmed by the best authorities. Nevertheless, "Ossian" is a work of considerable merit and great historic interest. It contains some fine passages of real poetry, such as the invocation to the sun with which "Carthon" concludes, and it has served to attract universal attention to the magnificent Celtic traditions of Scotland and Ireland. Macpherson died in Inverness-shire on February 17, 1796.
[CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE][X]
[The Tragical History of Dr. Faustus]
Persons in the Play
Doctor Faustus
Wagner, his servant
Mephistophilis
Lucifer
The Emperor
Benvolio, Martino, Frederick, gentlemen of the emperor's court
Bruno
The Pope
Three Scholars, Cardinals, Lords, Devils, Phantoms, Good and Evil Angels, etc., Chorus.