" So it was; and that he became a rascal was
to a great extent due to the treatment he received at his father's
hands, while he became a great man in spite of it.
to a great extent due to the treatment he received at his father's
hands, while he became a great man in spite of it.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v13 - Her to Hux
I shan't do
it; I had rather get the publishers to return the money you
have invested in these pages. Besides, I have forgotten a good
deal of it. I shall tell only what I like of what I remember.
――――――
__
-My idea was, in the first place, to search out the picturesque
spots which the city affords a sight of to those who have eyes.
I know a good many, and it was a pleasure to look at them in
company with my young friend. There were the shrubs and
flowers in the Franklin Place front yards or borders: Commerce
is just putting his granite foot upon them. Then there are cer-
tain small seraglio gardens, into which one can get a peep through
the crevices of high fences: one in Myrtle Street, or at the back
of it; here and there one at the North and South Ends. Then
the great elms in Essex Street. Then the stately horse-chestnuts
## p. 7491 (#297) ###########################################
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
7491
in that vacant lot in Chambers Street, which hold their outspread
hands over your head (as I said in my poem the other day), and
look as if they were whispering, "May grace, mercy, and peace
be with you! "—and the rest of that benediction. Nay, there are
certain patches of ground, which, having lain neglected for a
time, Nature, who always has her pockets full of seeds, and holes
in all her pockets, has covered with hungry plebeian growths,
which fight for life with each other until some of them get broad.
leaved and succulent, and you have a coarse vegetable tapestry
which Raphael would not have disdained to spread over the fore-
ground of his masterpiece. The Professor pretends that he found
such a one in Charles Street, which, in its dare-devil impudence.
of rough-and-tumble vegetation, beat the pretty-behaved flower-
beds of the Public Garden as ignominiously as a group of young
tatterdemalions playing pitch-and-toss beats a row of Sunday-
school boys with their teacher at their head.
But then the Professor has one of his burrows in that region,
and puts everything in high colors relating to it. That is his
way about everything. —I hold any man cheap, he said, of whom
nothing stronger can be uttered than that all his geese are swans.
How is that, Professor? said I: I should have set you down for
one of that sort. Sir, said he, I am proud to say that Nature
has so far enriched me, that I cannot own so much as a duck
without seeing in it as pretty a swan as ever swam the basin
in the garden of the Luxembourg. And the Professor showed
the whites of his eyes devoutly, like one returning thanks after a
dinner of many courses.
I don't know anything sweeter than this leaking in of Nature
through all the cracks in the walls and floors of cities. You heap
up a million tons of hewn rocks on a square mile or two of earth
which was green once. The trees look down from the hillsides
and ask each other, as they stand on tiptoe, "What are these
people about? " And the small herbs at their feet look up and
whisper back, "We will go and see. " So the small herbs pack
themselves up in the least possible bundles, and wait until the
wind steals to them at night and whispers, "Come with me. "
Then they go softly with it into the great city,-one to a cleft in
the pavement, one to a spout on the roof, one to a seam in the
marbles over a rich gentleman's bones, and one to the grave
without a stone where nothing but a man is buried,—and there
they grow, looking down on the generations of men from moldy.
## p. 7492 (#298) ###########################################
7492
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
roofs, looking up from between the less-trodden pavements, look-
ing out through iron cemetery railings. Listen to them, when
there is only a light breath stirring, and you will hear them say-
ing to each other, "Wait awhile! " The words run along the
telegraph of those narrow green lines that border the roads
leading from the city, until they reach the slope of the hills, and
the trees repeat in low murmurs to each other, "Wait awhile! "
By-and-by the flow of life in the streets ebbs, and the old leafy
inhabitants—the smaller tribes always in front-saunter in,
one by one, very careless seemingly, but very tenacious, until they
swarm so that the great stones gape from each other with the
crowding of their roots, and the feldspar begins to be picked out
of the granite to find them food. At last the trees take up their
solemn line of march, and never rest until they have encamped
in the market-place. Wait long enough and you will find an old
doting oak hugging a huge worn block in its yellow underground
arms; that was the corner-stone of the State House. Oh, so
patient she is, this imperturbable Nature!
-Let us cry! —
―――――――
But all this has nothing to do with my walks and talks with
the schoolmistress. I did not say that I would not tell you some-
thing about them. Let me alone, and I shall talk to you more
than I ought to, probably. We never tell our secrets to people
that pump for them.
Books we talked about, and education. It was her duty to
know something of these, and of course she did. Perhaps I was
somewhat more learned than she, but I found that the difference
between her reading and mine was like that of a man's and a
woman's dusting a library. The man flaps about with a bunch
of feathers; the woman goes to work softly with a cloth. She
does not raise half the dust, nor fill her own eyes and mouth
with it, but she goes into all the corners and attends to the
leaves as much as to the covers. - Books are the negative pict-
ures of thought, and the more sensitive the mind that receives
their images, the more nicely the finest lines are reproduced. A
woman (of the right kind), reading after a man, follows him as
Ruth followed the reapers of Boaz, and her gleanings are often
the finest of the wheat.
But it was in talking of life that we came most nearly to-
gether. I thought I knew something about that,- that I could
speak or write about it somewhat to the purpose.
## p. 7493 (#299) ###########################################
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
7493
To take up this fluid earthly being of ours as a sponge sucks
up water,- to be steeped and soaked in its realities as a hide
fills its pores lying seven years in a tan-pit,- to have winnowed
every wave of it as a mill-wheel works up the stream that runs
through the flume upon its float boards, to have curled up in
the keenest spasms and flattened out in the laxest languors of
this breathing-sickness, which keeps certain parcels of matter un-
easy for three or four score years,- to have fought all the devils
and clasped all the angels of its delirium,- and then, just at the
point when the white-hot passions have cooled down to cherry-red,
plunge our experience into the ice-cold stream of some human
language or other, one might think would end in a rhapsody with
something of spring and temper in it. All this I thought my
power and province.
―――
―――――
The schoolmistress had tried life too. Once in a while one
meets with a single soul greater than all the living pageant which
passes before it.
As the pale astronomer sits in his study with
sunken eyes and thin fingers, and weighs Uranus or Neptune as
in a balance, so there are meek, slight women who have weighed
all which this planetary life can offer, and hold it like a bauble
in the palm of their slender hands. This was one of them. For-
tune had left her, sorrow had baptized her; the routine of labor
and the loneliness of almost friendless city life were before her.
Yet as I looked upon her tranquil face, gradually regaining a
cheerfulness which was often sprightly, as she became interested
in the various matters we talked about and places we visited, I
saw that eye and lip and every shifting lineament were made for
love,― unconscious of their sweet office as yet, and meeting the
cold aspect of Duty with the natural graces which were meant
for the reward of nothing less than the Great Passion.
I never addressed one word of love to the schoolmistress in
the course of these pleasant walks. It seemed to me that we
talked of everything but love on that particular morning. There
was perhaps a little more timidity and hesitancy on my part
than I have commonly shown among our people at the boarding-
house. In fact, I considered myself the master at the breakfast-
table; but somehow I could not command myself just then so
well as usual. The truth is, I had secured a passage to Liver-
pool in the steamer which was to leave at noon,- with the con-
dition, however, of being released in case circumstances occurred
to detain me. The schoolmistress knew nothing about all this, of
course, as yet.
## p. 7494 (#300) ###########################################
7494
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
It was on the Common that we were walking. The mall, or
boulevard of our Common, you know, has various branches lead-
ing from it in different directions. One of these runs down from
opposite Joy Street southward across the whole length of the
Common to Boylston Street. We called it "the long path," and
were fond of it.
I felt very weak indeed (though of a tolerably robust habit)
as we came opposite the head of this path on that morning. I
think I tried to speak twice without making myself distinctly
audible. At last I got out the question, Will you take the long
path with me? -Certainly, said the schoolmistress; with much
pleasure. Think, I said, before you answer: if you take the
long path with me now, I shall interpret it that we are to part
no more! The schoolmistress stepped back with a sudden move-
ment, as if an arrow had struck her.
One of the long granite blocks used as seats was hard by,-
the one you may still see close by the Gingko-tree. — Pray, sit
down, I said. —No, no, she answered softly: I will walk the long
path with you!
-The old gentleman who sits opposite met us walking arm-
in-arm about the middle of the long path, and said very charm-
ingly, "Good-morning, my dears! "
-
THE LARK ON SALISBURY PLAIN
From Our Hundred Days in Europe'
ON
NE incident of our excursion to Stonehenge had a significance
for me which renders it memorable in my personal experi-
ence. As we drove over the barren plain, one of the party
suddenly exclaimed, "Look! Look! See the lark rising! " I
looked up with the rest. There was the bright blue sky, but not
a speck upon it which my eyes could distinguish. Again, one
called out, "Hark! Hark! Hear him singing! " I listened, but
not a sound reached my ear. Was it strange that I felt a moment-
ary pang? Those that look out at the windows are darkened, and
all the daughters of music are brought low. Was I never to see
or hear the soaring songster at heaven's gate, unless,— unless,—
if our mild humanized theology promises truly, I may perhaps
hereafter listen to him singing far down beneath me? For in
whatever world I may find myself, I hope I shall always love
our poor little spheroid, so long my home, which some kind angel
## p. 7495 (#301) ###########################################
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
7495
may point out to me as a gilded globule swimming in the sun-
light far away. After walking the streets of pure gold in the
New Jerusalem, might not one like a short vacation, to visit the
well-remembered green fields and flowery meadows? I had a
very sweet emotion of self-pity, which took the sting out of my
painful discovery that the orchestra of my pleasing life entertain-
ment was unstringing its instruments, and the lights were being
extinguished,—that the show was almost over. All this I kept
to myself, of course, except so far as I whispered it to the unseen
presence which we all feel is in sympathy with us, and which, as
it seemed to my fancy, was looking into my eyes, and through
them into my soul, with the tender, tearful smile of a mother
who for the first time gently presses back the longing lips of her
as yet unweaned infant.
[The foregoing selections from the works of Oliver Wendell Holmes are
copyrighted, and are reprinted by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. ,
publishers, Boston. ]
## p. 7496 (#302) ###########################################
7496
HERMANN EDUARD VON HOLST
(1841-)
H
ERMANN EDUARD VON HOLST, the historian, was born at Fellin,
Livonia, June 19th, 1841, and was educated at Heidelberg
and Dorpat. While traveling in Germany he published a
pamphlet which was offensive to the Russian authorities, and was
forbidden to return to the land of his birth. Soon afterwards he
came to the United States, where he occupied himself in literary
work for several years. In 1872 he was appointed to a professorship
in the University of Strassburg, and two years later became pro-
fessor of modern history at Freiburg, retain-
ing that chair till 1892, when he was called
to Chicago University. His chief work is
his Constitutional and Political History of
the United States' (1876-85), translated from
the German by J. J. Lalor and A. B. Mason.
Besides this he has written lives of John
C. Calhoun and John Brown, The Constitu-
tional Law of the United States of America'
(1887), and The French Revolution Tested
by Mirabeau's Career' (1894).
་
Von Holst had unusual advantages as a
student of American politics and history.
His foreign birth and education might well
have served to give to his work such a
HERMANN VON HOLST
character of impartiality as it would have been more difficult for the
native historian to secure. The great Civil War which was going on
when he came to the United States appealed powerfully to his sym-
pathies, and determined him to search for its historical causes. Un-
fortunately for his repute as a historian, he saw these causes with
the eye of a partisan of the North, and he traversed the past like a
belated Nemesis dealing out to our departed statesmen the retribu-
tion which he thought their sins deserved. To his mind the slavery
question assumed proportions so enormous that the entire history
of the country was nothing but a record of the struggle between
freedom and the "slavocracy," and the latter's insidious purposes are
discernible everywhere. In spite of this, it is safe to say that no
historian since the war has exerted a wider influence than Von Holst.
## p. 7497 (#303) ###########################################
HERMANN EDUARD VON HOLST
7497
If his conclusions are not wholly accepted, his zeal, his vigor, his
picturesque manner, and his sincerity have stimulated others to good
work. Few recent historical books have been more widely read, and
that despite a certain roughness of style and confusion of metaphor
which make many of his passages hard reading. In the matter of
style, however, the translators of his Constitutional History' are in
part at fault, and his lives of Brown and Calhoun are more concise
and readable. For many years his history was regarded as the stand-
ard American work on the period since the adoption of the Consti-
tution, and was constantly used by teachers, in Northern colleges at
least, as a book of reference. Of late, special treatises on portions
of the period covered have superseded it to a certain extent.
Dr. Von Holst's power of picturesque and dramatic presentation
is seen to good advantage in the volume on the French Revolution
from which the selections are made. The story is centred around its
most striking personality, and after the manner of Carlyle, that per-
sonality is made vital and hence explicable. History writing, even
upon this most fascinating of themes, is seldom made so attractive.
This gift of making his subject-matter interesting also comes out in
Dr. Von Holst as a lecturer: he is a very stimulating man with whom
to come into the relation of auditor or pupil.
MIRABEAU
From The French Revolution Tested by Mirabeau's Career. Copyright 1894,
by Callaghan & Co.
"D
ON'T be frightened! " It is said that on March 9th, 1749,
these ill-omened words announced to Victor Riquetti,
Marquis Mirabeau, that the longed-for son and heir was
born to him. The warning was to prepare him to see a twisted
foot and an over-sized head of uncommon ugliness, rendered the
more impressive by two premature teeth. If a prophet's hand
had lifted for him the curtain concealing the future, he would
have seen that there were other and infinitely graver reasons to
frighten him. With that ill-shaped baby Providence had com-
mitted to his hands a trust of incalculable import to France, and
thereby to the world. He knew it no more than the child knew
that the very first thing it did in life was to cause deep vexation
to its irritable father by its unsightliness. If he had known it,
he might have understood his duty towards the child somewhat
differently, and some of history's most awful pages might possi-
bly have a somewhat different tale to tell.
## p. 7498 (#304) ###########################################
7498
HERMANN EDUARD VON HOLST
In his last years Mirabeau rather prided himself upon his
ugliness. He declared it no mean element in his extraordinary
power over men, and there was in fact a strange fascination
in its forceful impressiveness. The father, however, was proof
against its charm. If I read the character of the eccentric man
correctly, the baby acted most unwisely in furnishing good cause
for that horrified exclamation. Any father's child is to be pitied
that is bid such a welcome upon its entrance into the world; and
if there was a father whose feelings could not with impunity be
trifled with, it was the famous author of the Friend of Men. '
Forsooth a proud title. A brighter diadem than a crown, if it
had been conferred by others. Bestowed by himself it savored
of presumption. Still it was by no means a false, mendacious
pretension. A great and warm heart beat with an uncommonly
strong pulse in the rugged chest. But when this heart set to
reasoning, as it was fearfully prone to do whenever it was hurt,
it always did so with the sledge-hammer's logic. And as to this
baby it at once began to reason, because it was deeply wounded
in a most tender spot by its extravagant ugliness. From the
first dismayed look the father took at his offspring, it was certain
that unless the son proved a paragon of all virtues according
to the father's conceptions, fair weather would be the exception
rather than the rule in their relations. Ere the child is fairly
out of the nursery they begin to take a tragical turn. When
Gabriel Honoré is still a lithe-limbed boy, a veritable tragedy is
well under way.
The beard does not yet sprout on the chin of
the youth, and bitter wrangling degenerates into a fierce feud.
The same blood flows in their veins, but as to each other every
drop of it seems to turn into corrosive poison. No diseased
imagination of a sensational novelist has ever invented a wilder
romance and used more glaring colors in painting characters and
scenes. It is indescribably revolting, but at the same time of
overwhelming, heart-rending pathos; not only because it is life
and not fiction, but principally because both, father and son, are
infinitely more to be pitied than to be blamed, though the guilt of
both is great. As to this there can be no difference of opinion.
But for more than a century it has been a much-controverted
question whether the father or the son was the more culpable.
I shall give no doubtful answer to the question as to what I
think on this head. By far the greater stress, however, I lay on
the assertion that the principal culprit was the ancien régime. If
## p. 7499 (#305) ###########################################
HERMANN EDUARD VON HOLST
7499
this be not made the basal line in examining the case, it is
impossible to do full justice to either of the parties; and in my
opinion all the historians of the portentous family tragedy have
thus far more or less failed to see, or at least to do, this.
Unless Marquis Victor could exempt himself from the law
that causes have effects, his being constantly in hot water in
regard to his family affairs was inevitable. The hot sun of the
Provence tells upon the temperature of the blood, and with the
Mirabeaus it seemed to rise a degree or two with every gen-
eration. In this respect nothing was changed by the fact that
any ordinary man would have died if he had lost half the quan-
tity of blood that flowed in the wars of Louis XIV. from the
wounds of Jean Antoine, Victor's father. He deemed it his
due always to be sent where death was sure to reap the richest
harvest, and he was not possessed of any charm rendering him
steel-and-bullet-proof. Of one of the battles he used to speak
as "the day on which I died. " The soldiers said of him: "He
is a Mirabeau: they are all devils. "
It was an uncommonly ugly baby,-that is all I have thus far
said of him who was to render the name Mirabeau immortal,
and yet I have said already enough to decide the mooted ques-
tion, whether the father or the son was more to blame that the
story of their relations was written with gall and venom, and
the latter's name became a stench in the nostrils of all decent
people. I have said enough to decide this question, unless one
is prepared to contend that not parents have to educate their
children, but children their parents, and to deny that example
is one of the most essential elements in education.
Surely the children of the marquis would have needed a treble
set of guardian angels, to come out of the atmosphere of this
household uncontaminated. As to Honoré, a whole battalion of
them would have been of no avail, for against them father and
son were from the first the closest allies. All that was out of
joint and awry in the father's way of feeling, thinking, and act-
ing, was brought to bear upon the hapless child systematically,
with dogged persistency and the utmost force. Not enough that
he was born so ugly that the most mealy-hearted father, intend-
ing to make his son the head of one of the great families of
France, would have felt justly aggrieved. As if he wanted to
try just how much the father's patience would stand, he became
still more disfigured by small-pox. The bailli was informed that
## p. 7500 (#306) ###########################################
7500
HERMANN EDUARD VON HOLST
his nephew vied in ugliness "with the Devil's nephew. " Starting
from this basis, the marquis soon commenced to discover that
he resembled this disreputable personage in many other respects
also. Small wonder! The precocious child was a most genu-
ine twig of the old tree, and most people judge those defects of
character with the greatest severity which characterize themselves.
Upon the hot-tempered father, afflicted with the infallibility delus-
ion and the duty craze, the faithful reproduction of his own un-
confessed faults in his son necessarily had the effect that a red
cloth has upon the turkey-cock; and the logical consequence was
a pedagogical policy necessarily producing results diametrically
opposed to those it was intended to have. Dismay grew into
chronic anger, baffled anger into provoking passion, thwarted pas-
sion into obdurate rigor and obstinacy, defied rigor into system-
atic injustice and cruelty, breeding revengeful spite and more
and more weakening and wrenching out of shape all the springs
of moral volition.
The brain in the oversized head of the boy worked with
unnatural intensity, and molten iron instead of blood seemed to
flow in his veins. What he needed above all was therefore a
steady hand to guide him. The hand, however, cannot possibly
be steady if the judgment is constantly whirling around like a
weathercock. Now the father sees in him "a lofty heart under
the jacket of a babe, with a strange but noble instinct of pride";
and only four days later he has changed into "a type of unutter-
ably deep baseness, of absolute platitude, and the quality of an
uncouth and dirty caterpillar which will not undergo a trans-
formation. " Then again: "An intelligence, a memory, a capacity,
which overpower, exciting astonishment, nay, fright. " And not
quite four weeks later: "A nothing, embellished with trivialities.
that will throw dust into the eyes of chatterboxes, but never be
anything but a quarter of a man, if peradventure he should ever
be anything at all. "
Unquestionably it was no easy task properly to educate this
boy, for there was a great deal of solid foundation for every one
of the father's contradictory judgments: the boy was like the
father, as "changeable as the sea. " Still, by conforming the
education, with untiring, loving patience, to the strongly pro-
nounced individuality of the child, a good pedagogue would have
been sure to achieve excellent results. The application of any
cut-and-dried system based upon preconceived notions was certain
## p. 7501 (#307) ###########################################
HERMANN EDUARD VON HOLST
7501
to work incalculable mischief. This the marquis failed to see,
and his system was in all its parts as adapted to the intellectual
and moral peculiarities of the boy as a blacksmith's hammer to
the repairing of a chronometer.
Many years later, the Baron von Gleichen wrote to the father:
"I told you often that you would make a great rascal of the
boy, while he was of a stuff to make a great man of him. He
has become both.
" So it was; and that he became a rascal was
to a great extent due to the treatment he received at his father's
hands, while he became a great man in spite of it. Appeals
to reason, pride, honor, noble ambition, and above all affection,
always awakened a strong responsive echo in his bosom; the
father, however, whenever he was provoked,- and the high-
spirited unruly boy constantly provoked him,- had only stern-
ness, stinging sarcasm, sharp rebuke, and severe punishment for
him. Instead of educating him by methodically developing his
better qualities, he persists in trying to subdue him by fear,
although he cannot help confessing that the word fear is not to
be found in the boy's vocabulary. Contradicting himself, he
then again proudly asserts that while Honoré is afraid of no one
else, he fears him. That was a delusion. He knew that from
the father he had to expect nothing but punishment, and that
he tried to elude by hook and by crook; having, in spite of his
fearlessness, no more a liking for it than any other boy. The
father accused him, now and ever afterwards, of being by nature
a liar. It was he who had caused the germ of untruthfulness,
which is liable to be pretty strong with most very vivacious
children, to sprout so vigorously and to cast such deep roots, by
systematically watering it every day. From his early childhood
to the day of his death, Mirabeau was possessed of a secret
charm that in spite of everything, opened him the hearts of
almost all people with whom he came into close contact. Even
the father was by no means, as he pretended to be, wholly
proof against it. But as he was extraordinarily skillful in deceiv-
ing himself on this head, he also admirably succeeded in con-
cealing it from the son. The boy learned more and more to
look upon his father as his one natural enemy, whom it was a
matter of course to oppose by all available means, fair and foul.
He did his best to make himself a terror to his son, and he not
only deadened natural affection, but also undermined filial re-
spect. To reimpose the punishments remitted by the teacher, to
make everybody, from the father confessor down to the comrades,
## p. 7502 (#308) ###########################################
7502
HERMANN EDUARD VON HOLST
a spy and informant, purposely and confessedly to exaggerate to
instructors and superiors his moral shortcomings,—that was a
policy to drive an angel to revolt. It would have been nothing
less than a miracle if it had not goaded into viciousness an un-
usually bright and hot-tempered boy, with a superabundance of
human nature in his every fibre. There is no surer way utterly
to ruin a full-blooded colt than madly to tear and jerk the bridle,
while brutally belaboring him with spur and whip.
Honoré was still a child, and the marquis already persuaded
himself that he was in the strict sense of the word a criminal.
He not only said so, but he also treated him as such, though he
admitted that in truth, thus far only boyish pranks could be laid
to his charge. As a last attempt to save him from perdition,
he was at the age of fifteen years intrusted to the Abbé Cho-
quard. The marquis himself applies to the institution the harsh
name "reformatory school. " It was not so bad as that. Among
Honoré's comrades were even some English boys "of family,"
who were not at all suspected of being candidates for the hang-
man's kind attentions. Not by putting him into this institution
did the marquis disgrace his son, but he did brand him by depriv
ing him of his name. As Pierre Buffière he was entered in the
lists. Loménie - facile princeps among Mirabeau's biographers
- makes light of this. He is even strongly inclined to suppose
that as Buffière was the name of a large estate forming part of
the prospective inheritance of his wife, the marquis was largely
induced by the desire to gratify his pride to impose this name
on the son. A strange way of distributing light and shadow in
painting this family tragedy! The marquis states in the plain-
est words that he intends to burn a mark upon the forehead of
the son.
Here again Mirabeau soon gained the vivid affection, not only
of his comrades, but also of his teachers. A touching demonstra-
tion of the former induced his father to refrain from carrying out
the intention of punishing him for the crime of accepting some
money presents from his mother, by taking him out of the school
and casting him adrift on the sea of life in a way which would
have burned an indelible mark on his, the father's, forehead.
In 1767 Pierre Buffière was put into the army. From this time
the feud between father and son rapidly sinks into darker and
darker depths. The son now comes in for a steadily and fast
increasing share of real guilt; but his guilt is always outrun by
his father's unreasonable, unjust, and despotic paternalism.
## p. 7503 (#309) ###########################################
HERMANN EDUARD VON HOLST
7503
Debts, contracted at the gambling-table and in all sorts of
other indulgences of a more or less reprehensible character, and
an indiscreet and impure love affair, caused his father to resume
the idea I just alluded to. He thought of sending the son to the
Dutch colonies, because their mephitic climate would render it
rather more than likely that he would never return from them.
Many a year later Mirabeau wrote from his terrible dungeon in
Vincennes to his father:-"You have confessed to me in one of
your letters, that from the time of my imprisonment on the Isle
of Rhé you have been on the point of sending me to the Dutch
colonies. The word has made a deep impression upon me, and
influenced in a high degree my after life.
What had I
done at the age of eighteen years, that you could conceive such
an idea, which makes me tremble even now, when I am buried
alive?
I had made love. " Why do Loménie and Stern
not quote this letter? It seems to me that it must be quoted, if
one is to judge fairly.
The project was abandoned in favor of a milder means, which
the ancien régime offered to persons of high standing and influ-
ence to rid themselves of people who were in their way, the
so-called lettres de cachet. The person whose name a complacent
minister entered upon the formulary was arrested in the name
of the king, and disappeared without trial or judgment in some
State prison, for as long a time as his persecutor chose to keep
him caged. By this handy means the marquis now began to
drag his son from prison to prison, in his "quality of natural
tribunal," as he said.
.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
Loménie lays considerable stress upon the fact that once or
twice Mirabeau seems to have been rather satisfied with thus
being taken care of, because he was thereby protected from his
creditors. The marquis however gains but little by that. As to
his son, he appears in regard to this particular instance in a
better light than before this fact was unearthed, but from the
other side a new shadow falls upon him. Where did this fanatic
of duty find the moral justification to prevent the creditors from
getting their due, by thus putting their debtor "under the hand
of the king," as the phrase ran? It certainly could not be de-
rived from any paragraph in his catechism. It is a most genuine.
piece of the code of the ancien régime.
For a number of years Mirabeau's debts constituted his prin-
cipal wrong.
He was
one of those men who would somehow
## p. 7504 (#310) ###########################################
HERMANN EDUARD VON HOLST
7504
manage to get into debt even on a desert island, and with Robin-
son's lump of gold for a pillow. But he would have had no
opportunity to run up in the briefest time an account of over
200,000 francs, if he had not closely followed the father's bad
example in choosing a wife. Miss Marignane was also an heiress,
but-though bearing no resemblance to the née Miss Vassan —
in almost every other respect pretty much the reverse of what
a sensible man must wish his wife to be. Mirabeau would cer-
tainly never have thought of offering her his hand, if she had
not been an heiress. His main reasons for wooing her seem,
however, to have been the longing to become more independent
of his father, and a freak of petty vanity: he was tickled by the
sensation it would cause, that in spite of his ugliness the much-
coveted prize was carried off by him. He did not even scruple
to force the hand of the girl by gravely compromising her. But
when she was his wife, he was only too gallant a knight. She
was one of those women whose whole existence is comprised
in sipping the cup of pleasure. She is, so to speak, all outside
without any inside at all. If you want to get at her intellectual
life, you must listen to her merry laugh about nothing at the
picnic parties, and the animated recitation of her part on the
amateur stage, on which she is quite a star; and to find her
heart, you must go to the milliner's and jeweler's shop. To them
and to the caterers Mirabeau carried the bulk of the money
he borrowed from the usurers. She had eaten up with her fri-
volities most of the money, for the squandering of which he had
to pine his youth away in prison. And that was not all she had
to answer for. She too had enjoyed all the advantages of good
example, and she profited as much by it as Mirabeau. Her
grandmother and her mother were separated from their husbands,
and very soon she gave Mirabeau the right to bid her leave his
house forever. He forgave her the adultery, of which she stood
convicted by her own confession; and he never told any one of
her shame, until he thought that by revealing his magnanimity
he could induce the courts to compel her to rejoin him.
She
thanked him for his generosity by telling him that he was a fool,
when he implored and commanded her to join him in his place
of detention, in order to stand between him and the temptation.
which threatened to close the gulf over him by pushing him
from guilt into crime. Aye, Mirabeau sinned much, but he was
infinitely more sinned against.
## p. 7505 (#311) ###########################################
7505
LUDWIG HEINRICH CHRISTOPH HÖLTY
(1748-1776)
B
ÖLTY, one of the best of the German lyric poets of the
eighteenth century, was born in Mariensee, near Hannover.
The son of a country minister, he was excellently grounded
by his father in the classics and modern languages. Though inces-
santly, even as a boy, poring over his studies, and thereby weaken-
ing his constitution, he yet escaped being a bookworm; for, growing
up in the country, he early developed that passion for nature and
for solitude which colored all his poetry. In 1769 he went to Göt-
tingen to study theology. Here, falling in
with Bürger, Voss, the Stolbergs, and other
poets of kindred tastes, he became one of
the founders of the Göttingen "Hainbund. "
This league of young enthusiasts was aflame
for Klopstock, then considered the greatest
German poet, for patriotism and for friend-
ship, detested Wieland's sensual poems and
his Frenchified manner, read the classics
together, and wrote poetry in friendly em-
ulation. Hölty's constitutional melancholy
deepened when the girl whom he had cele-
brated under the name of "Laura" married.
His health was further undermined by the
shock of the death of his father, to whom
he was fondly attached. The year after, on September 1st, 1776, he
died of consumption, not quite twenty-eight years of age.
Hölty is an engaging figure. His poems reveal a lovable person-
ality. The strain of sentimentality that runs through all his work
is not affectation, as it was with so many of the younger poets of
that age in which Rousseau had made sentimentality fashionable, but
was the true expression of Hölty's nature. He chose by preference
themes in which the thought of death was in some shape present, and
he was most effective where this thought served as the shadow in
the bright picture of fleeting joys. A presentiment of his own early
death hovered constantly about him; but it neither marred his enjoy-
ment of the present, nor did it diminish his delight in the beauties of
nature, or prevent his outbursts of youthful frolic. His range was
XIII-470
HÖLTY
## p. 7506 (#312) ###########################################
7506
LUDWIG HEINRICH CHRISTOPH HÖLTY
small; but within its limits his work was perfect, and many of his
songs have become the common property of the people. His wide
knowledge of ancient and modern poetry made him familiar with
many verse forms; his own poems are marked by harmony of form
and matter, and by great technical skill in the handling of subjects
both gay and grave. They show on the one hand a deep feeling for
nature and solitude, and again an innocent gayety in treating of the
simple social relations. He combined in a curious degree a capacity
for enjoyment of the passing moment with a profound melancholy
and longing for death. The influence of the English poets with whom
Hölty was well acquainted is easily traceable, and in his verse one
hears the mournful echo of Young's 'Night Thoughts. '
COUNTRY LIFE
APPY the man who has the town escaped!
To him the whistling trees, the murmuring brooks,
The shining pebbles, preach
Virtue's and wisdom's lore.
H₁
The whispering grove a holy temple is
To him, where God draws nigher to his soul;
Each verdant sod a shrine,
Whereby he kneels to Heaven.
The nightingale on him sings slumber down;
The nightingale rewakes him, fluting sweet,
When shines the lovely red
Of morning through the trees.
Then he admires thee in the plain, O God!
In the ascending pomp of dawning day,-
Thee in thy glorious sun,
The worm, the budding branch;
Where coolness gushes, in the waving grass
Or o'er the flowers streams the fountain, rests:
Inhales the breath of prime,
The gentle airs of eve.
His straw-decked thatch, where doves bask in the sun,
And play and hop, invites to sweeter rest
Than golden halls of state
Or beds of down afford.
## p. 7507 (#313) ###########################################
LUDWIG HEINRICH CHRISTOPH HÖLTY
To him the plumy people sporting chirp,
Chatter, and whistle, on his basket perch,
And from his quiet hand
Pick crumbs, or peas, or grains.
Oft wanders he alone, and thinks on death;
And in the village church-yard by the graves
Sits, and beholds the cross,
Death's waving garland there,
The stone beneath the elders, where a text
Of Scripture teaches joyfully to die,
And with his scythe stands Death,
An angel too with palms.
Happy the man who thus hath 'scaped the town:
Him did an angel bless when he was born,
The cradle of the boy
With flowers celestial strewed.
SPRING SONG
HE snow melts fast,
May comes at last,
Now shoots each spray
THE
Forth blossoms gay,
The warbling bird
Around is heard.
From Fraser's Magazine.
Come, twine a wreath,
And on the heath
The dance prepare
Ye maidens fair!
Come, twine a wreath,
Dance on the heath!
Who can foretell
The tolling bell,
When we with May
No more shall play?
Canst thou foretell
The coming knell?
7507
## p. 7508 (#314) ###########################################
7508
LUDWIG HEINRICH CHRISTOPH HÖLTY
Rejoice, rejoice!
To speak his voice
Who gave us birth
For joy on earth.
God gives us time,--
Enjoy its prime.
Translation of A. Baskerville.
HARVEST SONG
ICKLES Sound;
On the ground
Fast the ripe ears fall;
Every maiden's bonnet
Has blue blossoms on it:
Joy is over all.
ST
Sickles ring,
Maidens sing
To the sickle's sound;
Till the moon is beaming,
And the stubble gleaming,
Harvest songs go round.
All are springing,
All are singing,
Every lisping thing.
Man and master meet,
From one dish they eat;
Each is now a king.
Hans and Michael
Whet the sickle,
Piping merrily.
Now they mow; each maiden
Soon with sheaves is laden,
Busy as a bee.
Now the blisses,
And the kisses!
Now the wit doth flow
Till the beer is out;
Then, with song and shout,
Home they go, yo ho!
Translation of C. T. Brooks.
## p. 7509 (#315) ###########################################
LUDWIG HEINRICH CHRISTOPH HÖLTY
WINTER SONG
S⁹
UMMER joys are o’er;
Flowerets bloom no more;
Wintry winds are sweeping:
Through the snow-drifts peeping,
Cheerful evergreen
Rarely now is seen.
Now no plumèd throng
Charms the woods with song;
Ice-bound trees are glittering;
Merry snow-birds, twittering,
Fondly strive to cheer
Scenes so cold and drear.
Winter, still I see
Many charms in thee;
Love thy chilly greeting,
Snow-storms fiercely beating,
And the dear delights
Of the long, long nights.
Translation of C. T. Brooks.
DEATH OF THE NIGHTINGALE
SHE
HE is no more, who bade the May month hail;
Alas! no more!
The songstress who enlivened all the vale,—
Her songs are o'er;
She whose sweet tones, in golden evening hours,
Rang through my breast,
When, by the brook that murmured 'mong the flowers,
I lay at rest.
How richly gurgled from her deep full throat
The silvery lay,
Till in her caves sweet Echo caught the note,
Far, far away!
7509
Then was the hour when village pipe and song
Sent up their sound,
And dancing maidens lightly tripped along
The moonlit ground.
## p. 7510 (#316) ###########################################
LUDWIG HEINRICH CHRISTOPH HÖLTY
7510
A youth lay listening on the green hillside,
Far down the grove,
While on his rapt face hung a youthful bride
In speechless love.
Their hands were locked oft as thy silvery strain
Rang through the vale;
They heeded not the merry dancing train,
Sweet nightingale!
They listened thee till village bells from far
Chimed on the ear,
And like a golden fleece, the evening star
Beamed bright and clear.
Then, in the cool and fanning breeze of May,
Homeward they stole,
Full of sweet thoughts, breathed by thy tender lay
Through the deep soul.
Translation of C. T. Brooks.
THE OLD FARMER'S ADVICE TO HIS SON
Y SON, be honest truth thy guide,
And to thy dying day
Turn not a finger's breadth aside
From God's appointed way.
Then shall thy pilgrim pathway lie
Through meadows sunny-green;
Then shalt thou look on death with eye
Unshrinking and serene:
MY
Then shall the pathway to thy tomb
By frequent feet be trod,
And summer flowers of sweet perfume
Spring from the moistened sod;
For oft shall children's children, led
By fond affection's care,
At evening seek thy grave, and shed
The tear of sorrow there.
Translation of C. T. Brooks.
## p. 7511 (#317) ###########################################
LUDWIG HEINRICH CHRISTOPH HÖLTY
Α
CALL TO JOY
WAY with pouting and with pining,
So long as youth and springtime bloom!
Why, when life's morning sun is shining,
Why should the brow be clothed in gloom?
On every road the Pleasures greet us,
As through life's pilgrimage we roam;
With wreaths of flowers they come to meet us.
And lead us onward to our home.
The rivulet purls and plays as lightly
As when it danced to Eden's breeze;
The lovely moon still beams as brightly
As when she shone through Adam's trees.
Translation of C. T. Brooks.
THE DREAM-IMAGE
HERE art thou, image guarding me,
WHE There in the garden dreaming,
That bound my hair with rosemary,
Which round my couch was teeming?
Where art thou, image guarding me,
And in my spirit peering,
While my warm cheek all tenderly
Thou prest with touch endearing?
I seek for thee, with sorrow moved,
By linden-shaded river,
Or in the town, idea beloved,
And find thee nowhere, never.
I wander 'neath the sun's sharp heat,
If raining or if snowing,
And look into each face I meet
Along my pathway going.
7511
Thus am I doomed still to and fro
With sighs and tears to wander,
And Sundays at the church doors view
The maidens here and yonder.
Toward every window do I look,
Where but a veil doth hover,
I
I
1
## p. 7512 (#318) ###########################################
7512
LUDWIG HEINRICH CHRISTOPH HÖLTY
And in no house or street or nook
Can I my love discover.
Come back, sweet image of the night,
With thy angelic bearing,
Clad in the shepherd garments light
Which marked thy first appearing;
And with thee bring the swan-white hand
Which stole my heart completely,
The purple-scarlet bosom-band,
The nosegay scented sweetly;
The pair of great and glad blue eyes,
From whence looked out an angel;
The forehead, in such kindly guise,
Amenity's evangel;
The mouth, love's paradise abode;
The dimples laughing clearest,
Where Heaven's bright portal open stood,-
Bring all with thee, my dearest!
HOMAGE
O
Pay I till my death,
YE beauties,
All my duties
Song-strains while upraising;
Ever till my death
All your virtues praising.
Ye, O good ones,
Joy-imbued ones,
Give life its sweet guise,
Man an angel making,
And a paradise
Of a world law-breaking.
Who the blisses
Of true kisses
Never tasted hath,
Wanders like one fleeing
O'er life's beaten path,-
Is an unborn being.
## p. 7513 (#319) ###########################################
LUDWIG HEINRICH CHRISTOPH HÖLTY
7513
Who the blisses
Of true kisses
Fully tasted hath,
Glows with Heaven's brightness,
And along his path
Rose-groves spring in lightness.
TO A VIOLET
AFTER ZAPPI
VIOLET, hide within thy calyx blue
O
The tears of anguish till my sweetheart true
This spring shall visit. If she thee shall take
From here, adornment for her breast to make,
Cling close then to her heart, and tell her true
That these pearl drops within thy calyx blue
From soul of truest youth on earth were brought,
Who wept his soul away, and then death sought.
ELEGY AT THE GRAVE OF MY FATHER
LEST are they who slumber in the Lord;
Β΄
Thou, too, O my father, thou art blest:
Angels came to crown thee; at their word,
Thou hast gone to share the heavenly rest.
Roaming through the boundless, starry sky,
What is now to thee this earthly clod?
At a glance ten thousand suns sweep by,
While thou gazest on the face of God.
In thy sight the eternal record lies;
Thou dost drink from life's immortal wells;
Midnight's mazy mist before thee flies,
And in heavenly day thy spirit dwells.
Yet beneath thy dazzling victor's crown,
Thou dost send a father's look to me;
At Jehovah's throne thou fallest down,
And Jehovah, hearing, answereth thee.
Father, oh when life's last drops are wasting,-
Those dear drops which God's own urn hath given,-
--
## p. 7514 (#320) ###########################################
LUDWIG HEINRICH CHRISTOPH HÖLTY
7514
When my soul the pangs of death is tasting,
To my dying bed come down from heaven!
Let thy cooling palm wave freshly o'er me,
Sinking to the dark and silent tomb;
Let the awful vales be bright before me,
Where the flowers of resurrection bloom.
Then with thine my soul shall soar through heaven,
With the same unfading glory blest;
For a home one star to us be given,-
In the Father's bosom we shall rest.
Then bloom on, gay tufts of scented roses;
O'er his grave your sweetest fragrance shed!
And while here his sacred dust reposes,
Silence reign around his lowly bed!
Translation of C. T. Brooks.
## p. 7515 (#321) ###########################################
7515
THE LEGEND OF THE HOLY GRAIL
BY GEORGE MCLEAN HARPER
HE modern poets, in their search for epic material, have laid
under tribute the history of the world and the mythologies
of all races. Yet the limited number of really epic subjects
thus discovered testifies either to the weakness of literary invention
or to the narrow bounds of heroic possibilities. A few old themes,
already used in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, have served
again for most of the ambitious narrative compositions of the nine-
teenth. Tennyson, Browning, William Morris, and Swinburne, in Eng-
lish, and Richard Wagner in German, have been the chief narrative
poets of our time, and their work has very largely been to infuse
modern poetical sentiment and modern philosophy into mediæval
stories. Except Browning, who is a son of the Renaissance, these
poets have all found a great part of their epic material in the early
traditions of the Celtic and Germanic races.
The most heroic of these traditions celebrate the gods and heroes
of the ancient Northern religion-Wodin, Thor, Freya, Balder, Loki,
Siegfried, Brunhild,- the terrible and beautiful figures which have
grown out of the Edda, through the Nibelungen-Lied, into Wagner's
stupendous tetralogy. The most romantic are the tales of Arthur
and the Round Table; British in origin, and appropriate in charac-
ter to the soft Celtic race and to the gentle modern poet who has
popularized them again in 'The Idylls of the King.
it; I had rather get the publishers to return the money you
have invested in these pages. Besides, I have forgotten a good
deal of it. I shall tell only what I like of what I remember.
――――――
__
-My idea was, in the first place, to search out the picturesque
spots which the city affords a sight of to those who have eyes.
I know a good many, and it was a pleasure to look at them in
company with my young friend. There were the shrubs and
flowers in the Franklin Place front yards or borders: Commerce
is just putting his granite foot upon them. Then there are cer-
tain small seraglio gardens, into which one can get a peep through
the crevices of high fences: one in Myrtle Street, or at the back
of it; here and there one at the North and South Ends. Then
the great elms in Essex Street. Then the stately horse-chestnuts
## p. 7491 (#297) ###########################################
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
7491
in that vacant lot in Chambers Street, which hold their outspread
hands over your head (as I said in my poem the other day), and
look as if they were whispering, "May grace, mercy, and peace
be with you! "—and the rest of that benediction. Nay, there are
certain patches of ground, which, having lain neglected for a
time, Nature, who always has her pockets full of seeds, and holes
in all her pockets, has covered with hungry plebeian growths,
which fight for life with each other until some of them get broad.
leaved and succulent, and you have a coarse vegetable tapestry
which Raphael would not have disdained to spread over the fore-
ground of his masterpiece. The Professor pretends that he found
such a one in Charles Street, which, in its dare-devil impudence.
of rough-and-tumble vegetation, beat the pretty-behaved flower-
beds of the Public Garden as ignominiously as a group of young
tatterdemalions playing pitch-and-toss beats a row of Sunday-
school boys with their teacher at their head.
But then the Professor has one of his burrows in that region,
and puts everything in high colors relating to it. That is his
way about everything. —I hold any man cheap, he said, of whom
nothing stronger can be uttered than that all his geese are swans.
How is that, Professor? said I: I should have set you down for
one of that sort. Sir, said he, I am proud to say that Nature
has so far enriched me, that I cannot own so much as a duck
without seeing in it as pretty a swan as ever swam the basin
in the garden of the Luxembourg. And the Professor showed
the whites of his eyes devoutly, like one returning thanks after a
dinner of many courses.
I don't know anything sweeter than this leaking in of Nature
through all the cracks in the walls and floors of cities. You heap
up a million tons of hewn rocks on a square mile or two of earth
which was green once. The trees look down from the hillsides
and ask each other, as they stand on tiptoe, "What are these
people about? " And the small herbs at their feet look up and
whisper back, "We will go and see. " So the small herbs pack
themselves up in the least possible bundles, and wait until the
wind steals to them at night and whispers, "Come with me. "
Then they go softly with it into the great city,-one to a cleft in
the pavement, one to a spout on the roof, one to a seam in the
marbles over a rich gentleman's bones, and one to the grave
without a stone where nothing but a man is buried,—and there
they grow, looking down on the generations of men from moldy.
## p. 7492 (#298) ###########################################
7492
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
roofs, looking up from between the less-trodden pavements, look-
ing out through iron cemetery railings. Listen to them, when
there is only a light breath stirring, and you will hear them say-
ing to each other, "Wait awhile! " The words run along the
telegraph of those narrow green lines that border the roads
leading from the city, until they reach the slope of the hills, and
the trees repeat in low murmurs to each other, "Wait awhile! "
By-and-by the flow of life in the streets ebbs, and the old leafy
inhabitants—the smaller tribes always in front-saunter in,
one by one, very careless seemingly, but very tenacious, until they
swarm so that the great stones gape from each other with the
crowding of their roots, and the feldspar begins to be picked out
of the granite to find them food. At last the trees take up their
solemn line of march, and never rest until they have encamped
in the market-place. Wait long enough and you will find an old
doting oak hugging a huge worn block in its yellow underground
arms; that was the corner-stone of the State House. Oh, so
patient she is, this imperturbable Nature!
-Let us cry! —
―――――――
But all this has nothing to do with my walks and talks with
the schoolmistress. I did not say that I would not tell you some-
thing about them. Let me alone, and I shall talk to you more
than I ought to, probably. We never tell our secrets to people
that pump for them.
Books we talked about, and education. It was her duty to
know something of these, and of course she did. Perhaps I was
somewhat more learned than she, but I found that the difference
between her reading and mine was like that of a man's and a
woman's dusting a library. The man flaps about with a bunch
of feathers; the woman goes to work softly with a cloth. She
does not raise half the dust, nor fill her own eyes and mouth
with it, but she goes into all the corners and attends to the
leaves as much as to the covers. - Books are the negative pict-
ures of thought, and the more sensitive the mind that receives
their images, the more nicely the finest lines are reproduced. A
woman (of the right kind), reading after a man, follows him as
Ruth followed the reapers of Boaz, and her gleanings are often
the finest of the wheat.
But it was in talking of life that we came most nearly to-
gether. I thought I knew something about that,- that I could
speak or write about it somewhat to the purpose.
## p. 7493 (#299) ###########################################
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
7493
To take up this fluid earthly being of ours as a sponge sucks
up water,- to be steeped and soaked in its realities as a hide
fills its pores lying seven years in a tan-pit,- to have winnowed
every wave of it as a mill-wheel works up the stream that runs
through the flume upon its float boards, to have curled up in
the keenest spasms and flattened out in the laxest languors of
this breathing-sickness, which keeps certain parcels of matter un-
easy for three or four score years,- to have fought all the devils
and clasped all the angels of its delirium,- and then, just at the
point when the white-hot passions have cooled down to cherry-red,
plunge our experience into the ice-cold stream of some human
language or other, one might think would end in a rhapsody with
something of spring and temper in it. All this I thought my
power and province.
―――
―――――
The schoolmistress had tried life too. Once in a while one
meets with a single soul greater than all the living pageant which
passes before it.
As the pale astronomer sits in his study with
sunken eyes and thin fingers, and weighs Uranus or Neptune as
in a balance, so there are meek, slight women who have weighed
all which this planetary life can offer, and hold it like a bauble
in the palm of their slender hands. This was one of them. For-
tune had left her, sorrow had baptized her; the routine of labor
and the loneliness of almost friendless city life were before her.
Yet as I looked upon her tranquil face, gradually regaining a
cheerfulness which was often sprightly, as she became interested
in the various matters we talked about and places we visited, I
saw that eye and lip and every shifting lineament were made for
love,― unconscious of their sweet office as yet, and meeting the
cold aspect of Duty with the natural graces which were meant
for the reward of nothing less than the Great Passion.
I never addressed one word of love to the schoolmistress in
the course of these pleasant walks. It seemed to me that we
talked of everything but love on that particular morning. There
was perhaps a little more timidity and hesitancy on my part
than I have commonly shown among our people at the boarding-
house. In fact, I considered myself the master at the breakfast-
table; but somehow I could not command myself just then so
well as usual. The truth is, I had secured a passage to Liver-
pool in the steamer which was to leave at noon,- with the con-
dition, however, of being released in case circumstances occurred
to detain me. The schoolmistress knew nothing about all this, of
course, as yet.
## p. 7494 (#300) ###########################################
7494
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
It was on the Common that we were walking. The mall, or
boulevard of our Common, you know, has various branches lead-
ing from it in different directions. One of these runs down from
opposite Joy Street southward across the whole length of the
Common to Boylston Street. We called it "the long path," and
were fond of it.
I felt very weak indeed (though of a tolerably robust habit)
as we came opposite the head of this path on that morning. I
think I tried to speak twice without making myself distinctly
audible. At last I got out the question, Will you take the long
path with me? -Certainly, said the schoolmistress; with much
pleasure. Think, I said, before you answer: if you take the
long path with me now, I shall interpret it that we are to part
no more! The schoolmistress stepped back with a sudden move-
ment, as if an arrow had struck her.
One of the long granite blocks used as seats was hard by,-
the one you may still see close by the Gingko-tree. — Pray, sit
down, I said. —No, no, she answered softly: I will walk the long
path with you!
-The old gentleman who sits opposite met us walking arm-
in-arm about the middle of the long path, and said very charm-
ingly, "Good-morning, my dears! "
-
THE LARK ON SALISBURY PLAIN
From Our Hundred Days in Europe'
ON
NE incident of our excursion to Stonehenge had a significance
for me which renders it memorable in my personal experi-
ence. As we drove over the barren plain, one of the party
suddenly exclaimed, "Look! Look! See the lark rising! " I
looked up with the rest. There was the bright blue sky, but not
a speck upon it which my eyes could distinguish. Again, one
called out, "Hark! Hark! Hear him singing! " I listened, but
not a sound reached my ear. Was it strange that I felt a moment-
ary pang? Those that look out at the windows are darkened, and
all the daughters of music are brought low. Was I never to see
or hear the soaring songster at heaven's gate, unless,— unless,—
if our mild humanized theology promises truly, I may perhaps
hereafter listen to him singing far down beneath me? For in
whatever world I may find myself, I hope I shall always love
our poor little spheroid, so long my home, which some kind angel
## p. 7495 (#301) ###########################################
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
7495
may point out to me as a gilded globule swimming in the sun-
light far away. After walking the streets of pure gold in the
New Jerusalem, might not one like a short vacation, to visit the
well-remembered green fields and flowery meadows? I had a
very sweet emotion of self-pity, which took the sting out of my
painful discovery that the orchestra of my pleasing life entertain-
ment was unstringing its instruments, and the lights were being
extinguished,—that the show was almost over. All this I kept
to myself, of course, except so far as I whispered it to the unseen
presence which we all feel is in sympathy with us, and which, as
it seemed to my fancy, was looking into my eyes, and through
them into my soul, with the tender, tearful smile of a mother
who for the first time gently presses back the longing lips of her
as yet unweaned infant.
[The foregoing selections from the works of Oliver Wendell Holmes are
copyrighted, and are reprinted by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. ,
publishers, Boston. ]
## p. 7496 (#302) ###########################################
7496
HERMANN EDUARD VON HOLST
(1841-)
H
ERMANN EDUARD VON HOLST, the historian, was born at Fellin,
Livonia, June 19th, 1841, and was educated at Heidelberg
and Dorpat. While traveling in Germany he published a
pamphlet which was offensive to the Russian authorities, and was
forbidden to return to the land of his birth. Soon afterwards he
came to the United States, where he occupied himself in literary
work for several years. In 1872 he was appointed to a professorship
in the University of Strassburg, and two years later became pro-
fessor of modern history at Freiburg, retain-
ing that chair till 1892, when he was called
to Chicago University. His chief work is
his Constitutional and Political History of
the United States' (1876-85), translated from
the German by J. J. Lalor and A. B. Mason.
Besides this he has written lives of John
C. Calhoun and John Brown, The Constitu-
tional Law of the United States of America'
(1887), and The French Revolution Tested
by Mirabeau's Career' (1894).
་
Von Holst had unusual advantages as a
student of American politics and history.
His foreign birth and education might well
have served to give to his work such a
HERMANN VON HOLST
character of impartiality as it would have been more difficult for the
native historian to secure. The great Civil War which was going on
when he came to the United States appealed powerfully to his sym-
pathies, and determined him to search for its historical causes. Un-
fortunately for his repute as a historian, he saw these causes with
the eye of a partisan of the North, and he traversed the past like a
belated Nemesis dealing out to our departed statesmen the retribu-
tion which he thought their sins deserved. To his mind the slavery
question assumed proportions so enormous that the entire history
of the country was nothing but a record of the struggle between
freedom and the "slavocracy," and the latter's insidious purposes are
discernible everywhere. In spite of this, it is safe to say that no
historian since the war has exerted a wider influence than Von Holst.
## p. 7497 (#303) ###########################################
HERMANN EDUARD VON HOLST
7497
If his conclusions are not wholly accepted, his zeal, his vigor, his
picturesque manner, and his sincerity have stimulated others to good
work. Few recent historical books have been more widely read, and
that despite a certain roughness of style and confusion of metaphor
which make many of his passages hard reading. In the matter of
style, however, the translators of his Constitutional History' are in
part at fault, and his lives of Brown and Calhoun are more concise
and readable. For many years his history was regarded as the stand-
ard American work on the period since the adoption of the Consti-
tution, and was constantly used by teachers, in Northern colleges at
least, as a book of reference. Of late, special treatises on portions
of the period covered have superseded it to a certain extent.
Dr. Von Holst's power of picturesque and dramatic presentation
is seen to good advantage in the volume on the French Revolution
from which the selections are made. The story is centred around its
most striking personality, and after the manner of Carlyle, that per-
sonality is made vital and hence explicable. History writing, even
upon this most fascinating of themes, is seldom made so attractive.
This gift of making his subject-matter interesting also comes out in
Dr. Von Holst as a lecturer: he is a very stimulating man with whom
to come into the relation of auditor or pupil.
MIRABEAU
From The French Revolution Tested by Mirabeau's Career. Copyright 1894,
by Callaghan & Co.
"D
ON'T be frightened! " It is said that on March 9th, 1749,
these ill-omened words announced to Victor Riquetti,
Marquis Mirabeau, that the longed-for son and heir was
born to him. The warning was to prepare him to see a twisted
foot and an over-sized head of uncommon ugliness, rendered the
more impressive by two premature teeth. If a prophet's hand
had lifted for him the curtain concealing the future, he would
have seen that there were other and infinitely graver reasons to
frighten him. With that ill-shaped baby Providence had com-
mitted to his hands a trust of incalculable import to France, and
thereby to the world. He knew it no more than the child knew
that the very first thing it did in life was to cause deep vexation
to its irritable father by its unsightliness. If he had known it,
he might have understood his duty towards the child somewhat
differently, and some of history's most awful pages might possi-
bly have a somewhat different tale to tell.
## p. 7498 (#304) ###########################################
7498
HERMANN EDUARD VON HOLST
In his last years Mirabeau rather prided himself upon his
ugliness. He declared it no mean element in his extraordinary
power over men, and there was in fact a strange fascination
in its forceful impressiveness. The father, however, was proof
against its charm. If I read the character of the eccentric man
correctly, the baby acted most unwisely in furnishing good cause
for that horrified exclamation. Any father's child is to be pitied
that is bid such a welcome upon its entrance into the world; and
if there was a father whose feelings could not with impunity be
trifled with, it was the famous author of the Friend of Men. '
Forsooth a proud title. A brighter diadem than a crown, if it
had been conferred by others. Bestowed by himself it savored
of presumption. Still it was by no means a false, mendacious
pretension. A great and warm heart beat with an uncommonly
strong pulse in the rugged chest. But when this heart set to
reasoning, as it was fearfully prone to do whenever it was hurt,
it always did so with the sledge-hammer's logic. And as to this
baby it at once began to reason, because it was deeply wounded
in a most tender spot by its extravagant ugliness. From the
first dismayed look the father took at his offspring, it was certain
that unless the son proved a paragon of all virtues according
to the father's conceptions, fair weather would be the exception
rather than the rule in their relations. Ere the child is fairly
out of the nursery they begin to take a tragical turn. When
Gabriel Honoré is still a lithe-limbed boy, a veritable tragedy is
well under way.
The beard does not yet sprout on the chin of
the youth, and bitter wrangling degenerates into a fierce feud.
The same blood flows in their veins, but as to each other every
drop of it seems to turn into corrosive poison. No diseased
imagination of a sensational novelist has ever invented a wilder
romance and used more glaring colors in painting characters and
scenes. It is indescribably revolting, but at the same time of
overwhelming, heart-rending pathos; not only because it is life
and not fiction, but principally because both, father and son, are
infinitely more to be pitied than to be blamed, though the guilt of
both is great. As to this there can be no difference of opinion.
But for more than a century it has been a much-controverted
question whether the father or the son was the more culpable.
I shall give no doubtful answer to the question as to what I
think on this head. By far the greater stress, however, I lay on
the assertion that the principal culprit was the ancien régime. If
## p. 7499 (#305) ###########################################
HERMANN EDUARD VON HOLST
7499
this be not made the basal line in examining the case, it is
impossible to do full justice to either of the parties; and in my
opinion all the historians of the portentous family tragedy have
thus far more or less failed to see, or at least to do, this.
Unless Marquis Victor could exempt himself from the law
that causes have effects, his being constantly in hot water in
regard to his family affairs was inevitable. The hot sun of the
Provence tells upon the temperature of the blood, and with the
Mirabeaus it seemed to rise a degree or two with every gen-
eration. In this respect nothing was changed by the fact that
any ordinary man would have died if he had lost half the quan-
tity of blood that flowed in the wars of Louis XIV. from the
wounds of Jean Antoine, Victor's father. He deemed it his
due always to be sent where death was sure to reap the richest
harvest, and he was not possessed of any charm rendering him
steel-and-bullet-proof. Of one of the battles he used to speak
as "the day on which I died. " The soldiers said of him: "He
is a Mirabeau: they are all devils. "
It was an uncommonly ugly baby,-that is all I have thus far
said of him who was to render the name Mirabeau immortal,
and yet I have said already enough to decide the mooted ques-
tion, whether the father or the son was more to blame that the
story of their relations was written with gall and venom, and
the latter's name became a stench in the nostrils of all decent
people. I have said enough to decide this question, unless one
is prepared to contend that not parents have to educate their
children, but children their parents, and to deny that example
is one of the most essential elements in education.
Surely the children of the marquis would have needed a treble
set of guardian angels, to come out of the atmosphere of this
household uncontaminated. As to Honoré, a whole battalion of
them would have been of no avail, for against them father and
son were from the first the closest allies. All that was out of
joint and awry in the father's way of feeling, thinking, and act-
ing, was brought to bear upon the hapless child systematically,
with dogged persistency and the utmost force. Not enough that
he was born so ugly that the most mealy-hearted father, intend-
ing to make his son the head of one of the great families of
France, would have felt justly aggrieved. As if he wanted to
try just how much the father's patience would stand, he became
still more disfigured by small-pox. The bailli was informed that
## p. 7500 (#306) ###########################################
7500
HERMANN EDUARD VON HOLST
his nephew vied in ugliness "with the Devil's nephew. " Starting
from this basis, the marquis soon commenced to discover that
he resembled this disreputable personage in many other respects
also. Small wonder! The precocious child was a most genu-
ine twig of the old tree, and most people judge those defects of
character with the greatest severity which characterize themselves.
Upon the hot-tempered father, afflicted with the infallibility delus-
ion and the duty craze, the faithful reproduction of his own un-
confessed faults in his son necessarily had the effect that a red
cloth has upon the turkey-cock; and the logical consequence was
a pedagogical policy necessarily producing results diametrically
opposed to those it was intended to have. Dismay grew into
chronic anger, baffled anger into provoking passion, thwarted pas-
sion into obdurate rigor and obstinacy, defied rigor into system-
atic injustice and cruelty, breeding revengeful spite and more
and more weakening and wrenching out of shape all the springs
of moral volition.
The brain in the oversized head of the boy worked with
unnatural intensity, and molten iron instead of blood seemed to
flow in his veins. What he needed above all was therefore a
steady hand to guide him. The hand, however, cannot possibly
be steady if the judgment is constantly whirling around like a
weathercock. Now the father sees in him "a lofty heart under
the jacket of a babe, with a strange but noble instinct of pride";
and only four days later he has changed into "a type of unutter-
ably deep baseness, of absolute platitude, and the quality of an
uncouth and dirty caterpillar which will not undergo a trans-
formation. " Then again: "An intelligence, a memory, a capacity,
which overpower, exciting astonishment, nay, fright. " And not
quite four weeks later: "A nothing, embellished with trivialities.
that will throw dust into the eyes of chatterboxes, but never be
anything but a quarter of a man, if peradventure he should ever
be anything at all. "
Unquestionably it was no easy task properly to educate this
boy, for there was a great deal of solid foundation for every one
of the father's contradictory judgments: the boy was like the
father, as "changeable as the sea. " Still, by conforming the
education, with untiring, loving patience, to the strongly pro-
nounced individuality of the child, a good pedagogue would have
been sure to achieve excellent results. The application of any
cut-and-dried system based upon preconceived notions was certain
## p. 7501 (#307) ###########################################
HERMANN EDUARD VON HOLST
7501
to work incalculable mischief. This the marquis failed to see,
and his system was in all its parts as adapted to the intellectual
and moral peculiarities of the boy as a blacksmith's hammer to
the repairing of a chronometer.
Many years later, the Baron von Gleichen wrote to the father:
"I told you often that you would make a great rascal of the
boy, while he was of a stuff to make a great man of him. He
has become both.
" So it was; and that he became a rascal was
to a great extent due to the treatment he received at his father's
hands, while he became a great man in spite of it. Appeals
to reason, pride, honor, noble ambition, and above all affection,
always awakened a strong responsive echo in his bosom; the
father, however, whenever he was provoked,- and the high-
spirited unruly boy constantly provoked him,- had only stern-
ness, stinging sarcasm, sharp rebuke, and severe punishment for
him. Instead of educating him by methodically developing his
better qualities, he persists in trying to subdue him by fear,
although he cannot help confessing that the word fear is not to
be found in the boy's vocabulary. Contradicting himself, he
then again proudly asserts that while Honoré is afraid of no one
else, he fears him. That was a delusion. He knew that from
the father he had to expect nothing but punishment, and that
he tried to elude by hook and by crook; having, in spite of his
fearlessness, no more a liking for it than any other boy. The
father accused him, now and ever afterwards, of being by nature
a liar. It was he who had caused the germ of untruthfulness,
which is liable to be pretty strong with most very vivacious
children, to sprout so vigorously and to cast such deep roots, by
systematically watering it every day. From his early childhood
to the day of his death, Mirabeau was possessed of a secret
charm that in spite of everything, opened him the hearts of
almost all people with whom he came into close contact. Even
the father was by no means, as he pretended to be, wholly
proof against it. But as he was extraordinarily skillful in deceiv-
ing himself on this head, he also admirably succeeded in con-
cealing it from the son. The boy learned more and more to
look upon his father as his one natural enemy, whom it was a
matter of course to oppose by all available means, fair and foul.
He did his best to make himself a terror to his son, and he not
only deadened natural affection, but also undermined filial re-
spect. To reimpose the punishments remitted by the teacher, to
make everybody, from the father confessor down to the comrades,
## p. 7502 (#308) ###########################################
7502
HERMANN EDUARD VON HOLST
a spy and informant, purposely and confessedly to exaggerate to
instructors and superiors his moral shortcomings,—that was a
policy to drive an angel to revolt. It would have been nothing
less than a miracle if it had not goaded into viciousness an un-
usually bright and hot-tempered boy, with a superabundance of
human nature in his every fibre. There is no surer way utterly
to ruin a full-blooded colt than madly to tear and jerk the bridle,
while brutally belaboring him with spur and whip.
Honoré was still a child, and the marquis already persuaded
himself that he was in the strict sense of the word a criminal.
He not only said so, but he also treated him as such, though he
admitted that in truth, thus far only boyish pranks could be laid
to his charge. As a last attempt to save him from perdition,
he was at the age of fifteen years intrusted to the Abbé Cho-
quard. The marquis himself applies to the institution the harsh
name "reformatory school. " It was not so bad as that. Among
Honoré's comrades were even some English boys "of family,"
who were not at all suspected of being candidates for the hang-
man's kind attentions. Not by putting him into this institution
did the marquis disgrace his son, but he did brand him by depriv
ing him of his name. As Pierre Buffière he was entered in the
lists. Loménie - facile princeps among Mirabeau's biographers
- makes light of this. He is even strongly inclined to suppose
that as Buffière was the name of a large estate forming part of
the prospective inheritance of his wife, the marquis was largely
induced by the desire to gratify his pride to impose this name
on the son. A strange way of distributing light and shadow in
painting this family tragedy! The marquis states in the plain-
est words that he intends to burn a mark upon the forehead of
the son.
Here again Mirabeau soon gained the vivid affection, not only
of his comrades, but also of his teachers. A touching demonstra-
tion of the former induced his father to refrain from carrying out
the intention of punishing him for the crime of accepting some
money presents from his mother, by taking him out of the school
and casting him adrift on the sea of life in a way which would
have burned an indelible mark on his, the father's, forehead.
In 1767 Pierre Buffière was put into the army. From this time
the feud between father and son rapidly sinks into darker and
darker depths. The son now comes in for a steadily and fast
increasing share of real guilt; but his guilt is always outrun by
his father's unreasonable, unjust, and despotic paternalism.
## p. 7503 (#309) ###########################################
HERMANN EDUARD VON HOLST
7503
Debts, contracted at the gambling-table and in all sorts of
other indulgences of a more or less reprehensible character, and
an indiscreet and impure love affair, caused his father to resume
the idea I just alluded to. He thought of sending the son to the
Dutch colonies, because their mephitic climate would render it
rather more than likely that he would never return from them.
Many a year later Mirabeau wrote from his terrible dungeon in
Vincennes to his father:-"You have confessed to me in one of
your letters, that from the time of my imprisonment on the Isle
of Rhé you have been on the point of sending me to the Dutch
colonies. The word has made a deep impression upon me, and
influenced in a high degree my after life.
What had I
done at the age of eighteen years, that you could conceive such
an idea, which makes me tremble even now, when I am buried
alive?
I had made love. " Why do Loménie and Stern
not quote this letter? It seems to me that it must be quoted, if
one is to judge fairly.
The project was abandoned in favor of a milder means, which
the ancien régime offered to persons of high standing and influ-
ence to rid themselves of people who were in their way, the
so-called lettres de cachet. The person whose name a complacent
minister entered upon the formulary was arrested in the name
of the king, and disappeared without trial or judgment in some
State prison, for as long a time as his persecutor chose to keep
him caged. By this handy means the marquis now began to
drag his son from prison to prison, in his "quality of natural
tribunal," as he said.
.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
Loménie lays considerable stress upon the fact that once or
twice Mirabeau seems to have been rather satisfied with thus
being taken care of, because he was thereby protected from his
creditors. The marquis however gains but little by that. As to
his son, he appears in regard to this particular instance in a
better light than before this fact was unearthed, but from the
other side a new shadow falls upon him. Where did this fanatic
of duty find the moral justification to prevent the creditors from
getting their due, by thus putting their debtor "under the hand
of the king," as the phrase ran? It certainly could not be de-
rived from any paragraph in his catechism. It is a most genuine.
piece of the code of the ancien régime.
For a number of years Mirabeau's debts constituted his prin-
cipal wrong.
He was
one of those men who would somehow
## p. 7504 (#310) ###########################################
HERMANN EDUARD VON HOLST
7504
manage to get into debt even on a desert island, and with Robin-
son's lump of gold for a pillow. But he would have had no
opportunity to run up in the briefest time an account of over
200,000 francs, if he had not closely followed the father's bad
example in choosing a wife. Miss Marignane was also an heiress,
but-though bearing no resemblance to the née Miss Vassan —
in almost every other respect pretty much the reverse of what
a sensible man must wish his wife to be. Mirabeau would cer-
tainly never have thought of offering her his hand, if she had
not been an heiress. His main reasons for wooing her seem,
however, to have been the longing to become more independent
of his father, and a freak of petty vanity: he was tickled by the
sensation it would cause, that in spite of his ugliness the much-
coveted prize was carried off by him. He did not even scruple
to force the hand of the girl by gravely compromising her. But
when she was his wife, he was only too gallant a knight. She
was one of those women whose whole existence is comprised
in sipping the cup of pleasure. She is, so to speak, all outside
without any inside at all. If you want to get at her intellectual
life, you must listen to her merry laugh about nothing at the
picnic parties, and the animated recitation of her part on the
amateur stage, on which she is quite a star; and to find her
heart, you must go to the milliner's and jeweler's shop. To them
and to the caterers Mirabeau carried the bulk of the money
he borrowed from the usurers. She had eaten up with her fri-
volities most of the money, for the squandering of which he had
to pine his youth away in prison. And that was not all she had
to answer for. She too had enjoyed all the advantages of good
example, and she profited as much by it as Mirabeau. Her
grandmother and her mother were separated from their husbands,
and very soon she gave Mirabeau the right to bid her leave his
house forever. He forgave her the adultery, of which she stood
convicted by her own confession; and he never told any one of
her shame, until he thought that by revealing his magnanimity
he could induce the courts to compel her to rejoin him.
She
thanked him for his generosity by telling him that he was a fool,
when he implored and commanded her to join him in his place
of detention, in order to stand between him and the temptation.
which threatened to close the gulf over him by pushing him
from guilt into crime. Aye, Mirabeau sinned much, but he was
infinitely more sinned against.
## p. 7505 (#311) ###########################################
7505
LUDWIG HEINRICH CHRISTOPH HÖLTY
(1748-1776)
B
ÖLTY, one of the best of the German lyric poets of the
eighteenth century, was born in Mariensee, near Hannover.
The son of a country minister, he was excellently grounded
by his father in the classics and modern languages. Though inces-
santly, even as a boy, poring over his studies, and thereby weaken-
ing his constitution, he yet escaped being a bookworm; for, growing
up in the country, he early developed that passion for nature and
for solitude which colored all his poetry. In 1769 he went to Göt-
tingen to study theology. Here, falling in
with Bürger, Voss, the Stolbergs, and other
poets of kindred tastes, he became one of
the founders of the Göttingen "Hainbund. "
This league of young enthusiasts was aflame
for Klopstock, then considered the greatest
German poet, for patriotism and for friend-
ship, detested Wieland's sensual poems and
his Frenchified manner, read the classics
together, and wrote poetry in friendly em-
ulation. Hölty's constitutional melancholy
deepened when the girl whom he had cele-
brated under the name of "Laura" married.
His health was further undermined by the
shock of the death of his father, to whom
he was fondly attached. The year after, on September 1st, 1776, he
died of consumption, not quite twenty-eight years of age.
Hölty is an engaging figure. His poems reveal a lovable person-
ality. The strain of sentimentality that runs through all his work
is not affectation, as it was with so many of the younger poets of
that age in which Rousseau had made sentimentality fashionable, but
was the true expression of Hölty's nature. He chose by preference
themes in which the thought of death was in some shape present, and
he was most effective where this thought served as the shadow in
the bright picture of fleeting joys. A presentiment of his own early
death hovered constantly about him; but it neither marred his enjoy-
ment of the present, nor did it diminish his delight in the beauties of
nature, or prevent his outbursts of youthful frolic. His range was
XIII-470
HÖLTY
## p. 7506 (#312) ###########################################
7506
LUDWIG HEINRICH CHRISTOPH HÖLTY
small; but within its limits his work was perfect, and many of his
songs have become the common property of the people. His wide
knowledge of ancient and modern poetry made him familiar with
many verse forms; his own poems are marked by harmony of form
and matter, and by great technical skill in the handling of subjects
both gay and grave. They show on the one hand a deep feeling for
nature and solitude, and again an innocent gayety in treating of the
simple social relations. He combined in a curious degree a capacity
for enjoyment of the passing moment with a profound melancholy
and longing for death. The influence of the English poets with whom
Hölty was well acquainted is easily traceable, and in his verse one
hears the mournful echo of Young's 'Night Thoughts. '
COUNTRY LIFE
APPY the man who has the town escaped!
To him the whistling trees, the murmuring brooks,
The shining pebbles, preach
Virtue's and wisdom's lore.
H₁
The whispering grove a holy temple is
To him, where God draws nigher to his soul;
Each verdant sod a shrine,
Whereby he kneels to Heaven.
The nightingale on him sings slumber down;
The nightingale rewakes him, fluting sweet,
When shines the lovely red
Of morning through the trees.
Then he admires thee in the plain, O God!
In the ascending pomp of dawning day,-
Thee in thy glorious sun,
The worm, the budding branch;
Where coolness gushes, in the waving grass
Or o'er the flowers streams the fountain, rests:
Inhales the breath of prime,
The gentle airs of eve.
His straw-decked thatch, where doves bask in the sun,
And play and hop, invites to sweeter rest
Than golden halls of state
Or beds of down afford.
## p. 7507 (#313) ###########################################
LUDWIG HEINRICH CHRISTOPH HÖLTY
To him the plumy people sporting chirp,
Chatter, and whistle, on his basket perch,
And from his quiet hand
Pick crumbs, or peas, or grains.
Oft wanders he alone, and thinks on death;
And in the village church-yard by the graves
Sits, and beholds the cross,
Death's waving garland there,
The stone beneath the elders, where a text
Of Scripture teaches joyfully to die,
And with his scythe stands Death,
An angel too with palms.
Happy the man who thus hath 'scaped the town:
Him did an angel bless when he was born,
The cradle of the boy
With flowers celestial strewed.
SPRING SONG
HE snow melts fast,
May comes at last,
Now shoots each spray
THE
Forth blossoms gay,
The warbling bird
Around is heard.
From Fraser's Magazine.
Come, twine a wreath,
And on the heath
The dance prepare
Ye maidens fair!
Come, twine a wreath,
Dance on the heath!
Who can foretell
The tolling bell,
When we with May
No more shall play?
Canst thou foretell
The coming knell?
7507
## p. 7508 (#314) ###########################################
7508
LUDWIG HEINRICH CHRISTOPH HÖLTY
Rejoice, rejoice!
To speak his voice
Who gave us birth
For joy on earth.
God gives us time,--
Enjoy its prime.
Translation of A. Baskerville.
HARVEST SONG
ICKLES Sound;
On the ground
Fast the ripe ears fall;
Every maiden's bonnet
Has blue blossoms on it:
Joy is over all.
ST
Sickles ring,
Maidens sing
To the sickle's sound;
Till the moon is beaming,
And the stubble gleaming,
Harvest songs go round.
All are springing,
All are singing,
Every lisping thing.
Man and master meet,
From one dish they eat;
Each is now a king.
Hans and Michael
Whet the sickle,
Piping merrily.
Now they mow; each maiden
Soon with sheaves is laden,
Busy as a bee.
Now the blisses,
And the kisses!
Now the wit doth flow
Till the beer is out;
Then, with song and shout,
Home they go, yo ho!
Translation of C. T. Brooks.
## p. 7509 (#315) ###########################################
LUDWIG HEINRICH CHRISTOPH HÖLTY
WINTER SONG
S⁹
UMMER joys are o’er;
Flowerets bloom no more;
Wintry winds are sweeping:
Through the snow-drifts peeping,
Cheerful evergreen
Rarely now is seen.
Now no plumèd throng
Charms the woods with song;
Ice-bound trees are glittering;
Merry snow-birds, twittering,
Fondly strive to cheer
Scenes so cold and drear.
Winter, still I see
Many charms in thee;
Love thy chilly greeting,
Snow-storms fiercely beating,
And the dear delights
Of the long, long nights.
Translation of C. T. Brooks.
DEATH OF THE NIGHTINGALE
SHE
HE is no more, who bade the May month hail;
Alas! no more!
The songstress who enlivened all the vale,—
Her songs are o'er;
She whose sweet tones, in golden evening hours,
Rang through my breast,
When, by the brook that murmured 'mong the flowers,
I lay at rest.
How richly gurgled from her deep full throat
The silvery lay,
Till in her caves sweet Echo caught the note,
Far, far away!
7509
Then was the hour when village pipe and song
Sent up their sound,
And dancing maidens lightly tripped along
The moonlit ground.
## p. 7510 (#316) ###########################################
LUDWIG HEINRICH CHRISTOPH HÖLTY
7510
A youth lay listening on the green hillside,
Far down the grove,
While on his rapt face hung a youthful bride
In speechless love.
Their hands were locked oft as thy silvery strain
Rang through the vale;
They heeded not the merry dancing train,
Sweet nightingale!
They listened thee till village bells from far
Chimed on the ear,
And like a golden fleece, the evening star
Beamed bright and clear.
Then, in the cool and fanning breeze of May,
Homeward they stole,
Full of sweet thoughts, breathed by thy tender lay
Through the deep soul.
Translation of C. T. Brooks.
THE OLD FARMER'S ADVICE TO HIS SON
Y SON, be honest truth thy guide,
And to thy dying day
Turn not a finger's breadth aside
From God's appointed way.
Then shall thy pilgrim pathway lie
Through meadows sunny-green;
Then shalt thou look on death with eye
Unshrinking and serene:
MY
Then shall the pathway to thy tomb
By frequent feet be trod,
And summer flowers of sweet perfume
Spring from the moistened sod;
For oft shall children's children, led
By fond affection's care,
At evening seek thy grave, and shed
The tear of sorrow there.
Translation of C. T. Brooks.
## p. 7511 (#317) ###########################################
LUDWIG HEINRICH CHRISTOPH HÖLTY
Α
CALL TO JOY
WAY with pouting and with pining,
So long as youth and springtime bloom!
Why, when life's morning sun is shining,
Why should the brow be clothed in gloom?
On every road the Pleasures greet us,
As through life's pilgrimage we roam;
With wreaths of flowers they come to meet us.
And lead us onward to our home.
The rivulet purls and plays as lightly
As when it danced to Eden's breeze;
The lovely moon still beams as brightly
As when she shone through Adam's trees.
Translation of C. T. Brooks.
THE DREAM-IMAGE
HERE art thou, image guarding me,
WHE There in the garden dreaming,
That bound my hair with rosemary,
Which round my couch was teeming?
Where art thou, image guarding me,
And in my spirit peering,
While my warm cheek all tenderly
Thou prest with touch endearing?
I seek for thee, with sorrow moved,
By linden-shaded river,
Or in the town, idea beloved,
And find thee nowhere, never.
I wander 'neath the sun's sharp heat,
If raining or if snowing,
And look into each face I meet
Along my pathway going.
7511
Thus am I doomed still to and fro
With sighs and tears to wander,
And Sundays at the church doors view
The maidens here and yonder.
Toward every window do I look,
Where but a veil doth hover,
I
I
1
## p. 7512 (#318) ###########################################
7512
LUDWIG HEINRICH CHRISTOPH HÖLTY
And in no house or street or nook
Can I my love discover.
Come back, sweet image of the night,
With thy angelic bearing,
Clad in the shepherd garments light
Which marked thy first appearing;
And with thee bring the swan-white hand
Which stole my heart completely,
The purple-scarlet bosom-band,
The nosegay scented sweetly;
The pair of great and glad blue eyes,
From whence looked out an angel;
The forehead, in such kindly guise,
Amenity's evangel;
The mouth, love's paradise abode;
The dimples laughing clearest,
Where Heaven's bright portal open stood,-
Bring all with thee, my dearest!
HOMAGE
O
Pay I till my death,
YE beauties,
All my duties
Song-strains while upraising;
Ever till my death
All your virtues praising.
Ye, O good ones,
Joy-imbued ones,
Give life its sweet guise,
Man an angel making,
And a paradise
Of a world law-breaking.
Who the blisses
Of true kisses
Never tasted hath,
Wanders like one fleeing
O'er life's beaten path,-
Is an unborn being.
## p. 7513 (#319) ###########################################
LUDWIG HEINRICH CHRISTOPH HÖLTY
7513
Who the blisses
Of true kisses
Fully tasted hath,
Glows with Heaven's brightness,
And along his path
Rose-groves spring in lightness.
TO A VIOLET
AFTER ZAPPI
VIOLET, hide within thy calyx blue
O
The tears of anguish till my sweetheart true
This spring shall visit. If she thee shall take
From here, adornment for her breast to make,
Cling close then to her heart, and tell her true
That these pearl drops within thy calyx blue
From soul of truest youth on earth were brought,
Who wept his soul away, and then death sought.
ELEGY AT THE GRAVE OF MY FATHER
LEST are they who slumber in the Lord;
Β΄
Thou, too, O my father, thou art blest:
Angels came to crown thee; at their word,
Thou hast gone to share the heavenly rest.
Roaming through the boundless, starry sky,
What is now to thee this earthly clod?
At a glance ten thousand suns sweep by,
While thou gazest on the face of God.
In thy sight the eternal record lies;
Thou dost drink from life's immortal wells;
Midnight's mazy mist before thee flies,
And in heavenly day thy spirit dwells.
Yet beneath thy dazzling victor's crown,
Thou dost send a father's look to me;
At Jehovah's throne thou fallest down,
And Jehovah, hearing, answereth thee.
Father, oh when life's last drops are wasting,-
Those dear drops which God's own urn hath given,-
--
## p. 7514 (#320) ###########################################
LUDWIG HEINRICH CHRISTOPH HÖLTY
7514
When my soul the pangs of death is tasting,
To my dying bed come down from heaven!
Let thy cooling palm wave freshly o'er me,
Sinking to the dark and silent tomb;
Let the awful vales be bright before me,
Where the flowers of resurrection bloom.
Then with thine my soul shall soar through heaven,
With the same unfading glory blest;
For a home one star to us be given,-
In the Father's bosom we shall rest.
Then bloom on, gay tufts of scented roses;
O'er his grave your sweetest fragrance shed!
And while here his sacred dust reposes,
Silence reign around his lowly bed!
Translation of C. T. Brooks.
## p. 7515 (#321) ###########################################
7515
THE LEGEND OF THE HOLY GRAIL
BY GEORGE MCLEAN HARPER
HE modern poets, in their search for epic material, have laid
under tribute the history of the world and the mythologies
of all races. Yet the limited number of really epic subjects
thus discovered testifies either to the weakness of literary invention
or to the narrow bounds of heroic possibilities. A few old themes,
already used in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, have served
again for most of the ambitious narrative compositions of the nine-
teenth. Tennyson, Browning, William Morris, and Swinburne, in Eng-
lish, and Richard Wagner in German, have been the chief narrative
poets of our time, and their work has very largely been to infuse
modern poetical sentiment and modern philosophy into mediæval
stories. Except Browning, who is a son of the Renaissance, these
poets have all found a great part of their epic material in the early
traditions of the Celtic and Germanic races.
The most heroic of these traditions celebrate the gods and heroes
of the ancient Northern religion-Wodin, Thor, Freya, Balder, Loki,
Siegfried, Brunhild,- the terrible and beautiful figures which have
grown out of the Edda, through the Nibelungen-Lied, into Wagner's
stupendous tetralogy. The most romantic are the tales of Arthur
and the Round Table; British in origin, and appropriate in charac-
ter to the soft Celtic race and to the gentle modern poet who has
popularized them again in 'The Idylls of the King.
