No More Learning

――
He The way they all do it. I came, threw myself into a
chair:-"How bad the weather is! How tired the pavement
makes one! " Then some scraps of town gossip:
« At
the last Amateur Concert there was an Italian woman who sang
like an angel.
Poor Dumênil doesn't know what to say
or do," etc. , etc.
"Come, mademoiselle, where is your
music-book? " And as mademoiselle displays no great haste,
searches every nook and corner for the book, which she has mis-
laid, and finally calls the maid to help her, I continue:- « Little
Clairon is an enigma. There is talk of a perfectly absurd mar-
riage of what is her name? " "Nonsense, Rameau, it isn't
possible. "—"They say the affair is all settled. "
"There
is a rumor that Voltaire is dead. "-"All the better. " — "Why
all the better? "-"Then he is sure to treat us to some droll
skit. That's a way he has, a fortnight before his death. " What
more should I say? I told a few scandals about the families in
the houses where I am received, for we are all great scandal-
mongers. In short, I played the fool; they listened and laughed,
and exclaimed, "He is really too droll, isn't he? " Meanwhile
the music-book had been found under a chair, where a little dog
or a little cat had worried it, chewed it, and torn it. Then the
pretty child sat down at the piano and began to make a frightful
noise upon it. I went up to her, secretly making a sign of
approbation to her mother. "Well, now, that isn't so bad," said
the mother; "one needs only to make up one's mind to a thing;
but the trouble is, one will not make up one's mind; one would
rather kill time by chattering, trifling, running about, and God
knows what. Scarcely do you turn your back but the book is
closed, and not until you are at her side again is it opened.
Besides, I have never heard you reprimand her. " In the mean
time, since something had to be done, I took her hands and
placed them differently. I pretended to lose my patience; I
shouted, "Sol, sol, sol, mademoiselle, it's a sol. " The mother:
"Mademoiselle, have you no ears? I'm not at the piano, I'm
not looking at your notes, but my own feeling tells me that it
ought to be a sol. You give the gentleman infinite trouble.
You remember nothing, and make no progress. " To break the
―
-
-
·


## p. 4698 (#492) ###########################################

4698
DENIS DIDEROT
force of this reproof a little, I tossed my head and said: "Pardon
me, madame, pardon me. It would be better if mademoiselle
would only practice a little, but after all it is not so bad. "—" In
your place I would keep her a whole year at one piece. ”—“Rest
assured, I shall not let her off until she has mastered every diffi-
culty; and that will not take so long, perhaps, as mademoiselle
thinks. "—"Monsieur Rameau, you flatter her; you are too good. "
And that is the only thing they would remember of the whole
lesson, and would upon occasion repeat to me. So the lesson
came to an end. My pupil handed me the fee, with a grace ful
gesture and a courtesy which her dancing-master had taught her.
I put the money into my pocket, and the mother said, "That's
very nice, mademoiselle. If Favillier were here, he would praise
you. " For appearance's sake I chattered for a minute or two
more; then I vanished; and that is what they called in those
days a lesson in accompaniment.
I-And is the case different now?
He-Heavens! I should think so. I come in, I am serious,
throw my muff aside, open the piano, try the keys, show signs
of great impatience, and if I am kept a moment waiting I shout
as if my purse had been stolen. In an hour I must be there or
there; in two hours with the Duchess So-and-so; at noon I must
go to the fair Marquise; and then there is to be a concert at
Baron de Bagge's, Rue Neuve des Petits Champs.
I-And meanwhile no one expects you at all.
He-Certainly not.
And precisely because I can
further my fortune through vices which come natural to me,
which I acquired without labor and practice without effort, which
are in harmony with the customs of my countrymen, which are
quite to the taste of my patrons, and better adapted to their
special needs than inconvenient virtues would be, which from
morning to night would be standing accusations against them, it
would be strange indeed if I should torture myself like one of
the damned to twist and turn and make of myself something
which I am not, and hide myself beneath a character foreign to
me, and assume the most estimable qualities, whose worth I will
not dispute, but which I could acquire and live up to only by
great exertions, and which after all would lead to nothing,— per-
haps to worse than nothing. Moreover, ought a beggar like me,
who lives upon the wealthy, constantly to hold up to his patrons
a mirror of good conduct? People praise virtue but hate it; they
.


## p. 4699 (#493) ###########################################

DENIS DIDEROT
4699
fly from it, let it freeze; and in this world a man has to keep
his feet warm. Besides, I should always be in the sourest humor:
for why is it that the pious and the devotional are so hard, so
repellent, so unsociable? It is because they have imposed upon
themselves a task contrary to their nature. They suffer, and
when a man suffers he makes others suffer. Now, that is no
affair of mine or of my patrons'. I must be in good spirits, easy,
affable, full of sallies, drollery, and folly. Virtue demands rever-
ence, and reverence is inconvenient; virtue challenges admiration,
and admiration is not entertaining. I have to do with people
whose time hangs heavy on their hands; they want to laugh.
Now consider the folly: the ludicrous makes people laugh, and I
therefore must be a fool; I must be amusing, and if nature had
not made me so, then by hook or by crook I should have made
myself seem so. Fortunately I have no need to play the hypo-
crite. There are hypocrites enough of all colors without me,
and not counting those who deceive themselves.
Should
it ever occur to friend Rameau to play Cato, to despise fortune,
women, good living, idleness, what would he be ? A hypocrite.
Let Rameau remain what he is, a happy robber among wealthy
robbers, and a man without either real or boasted virtue. In
short, your idea of happiness, the happiness of a few enthusiastic
dreamers like you, has no charm for me.
I-He earns his bread dearly, who in order to live must
assail virtue and knowledge.
He I have already told you that we are of no consequence.
We slander all men and grieve none.
[The dialogue reverts to music. ]
-
I- Every imitation has its original in nature. What is the
musician's model when he breaks into song?
He-Why do you not grasp the subject higher up? What is
song?
I-That, I confess, is a question beyond my powers. That's
the way with us all. The memory is stored with words only,
which we think we understand because we often use them and
even apply them correctly, but in the mind we have only indefi-
nite conceptions. When I use the word "song," I have no more
definite idea of it than you and the majority of your kind have
when you say reputation, disgrace, honor, vice, virtue, shame,
propriety, mortification, ridicule.


## p. 4700 (#494) ###########################################

4700
DENIS DIDEROT
He-Song is an imitation in tones, produced either by the
voice or by instruments, of a scale invented by art, or if you
will, established by nature; an imitation of physical sounds or
passionate utterances; and you see, with proper alterations this
definition could be made to fit painting, oratory, sculpture, and
poetry. Now to come to your question, What is the model of
the musician or of song? It is the declamation, when the model
is alive or sensate; it is the tone, when the model is insensate.
The declamation must be regarded as a line, and the music as
another line which twines about it. The stronger and the more
genuine is this declamation, this model of song, the more numer-
ous the points at which the accompanying music intersects it,
the more beautiful will it be. And this our younger composers
have clearly perceived. When one hears "Je suis un pauvre
diable," one feels that it is a miser's complaint. If he didn't
sing, he would address the earth in the very same tones when
he intrusts to its keeping his gold: "O terre, reçois mon trésor. "
. In such works with the greatest variety of characters,
there is a convincing truth of declamation that is unsurpassed.
I tell you, go, go, and hear the aria where the young man who
feels that he is dying, cries out, "Mon cœur s'en va. " Listen
to the air, listen to the accompaniment, and then tell me what
difference there is between the true tones of a dying man and
the handling of this music. You will see that the line of the
melody exactly coincides with the line of declamation.
I say
nothing of the time, which is one of the conditions of song; I
confine myself to the expression, and there is nothing truer than
the statement which I have somewhere read, "Musices seminarium
accentus," the accent is the seed-plot of the melody. And for
that reason, consider how difficult and important a matter it is
to be able to write a good recitative. There is no beautiful aria
out of which a beautiful recitative could not be made; no beauti-
ful recitative out of which a clever man could not produce a
beautiful aria. I will not assert that one who recites well will
also be able to sing well, but I should be much surprised if a
good singer could not recite well. And you may believe all that
I tell you now, for it is true.
(And then he walked up and down and began to hum a few
arias from the 'Île des Fous,' etc. , exclaiming from time to time,
with upturned eyes and hands upraised:-) "Isn't that beautiful,
great heavens! isn't that beautiful? Is it possible to have a pair


## p. 4701 (#495) ###########################################

DENIS DIDEROT
4701
of ears on one's head and question its beauty? " Then as his
enthusiasm rose he sang quite softly, then more loudly as he
became more impassioned, then with gestures, grimaces, contor-
tions of body. "Well," said I, "he is losing his mind, and 1
may expect a new scene. " And in fact, all at once he burst out
singing.
He passed from one aria to another, fully
thirty of them,- Italian, French, tragic, comic, of every sort.
Now with a deep bass he descended into hell; then, contracting
his throat, he split the upper air with a falsetto, and in gait,
mien, and action he imitated the different singers, by turns rav
ing, commanding, mollified, scoffing. There was a little girl that
wept, and he hit off all her pretty little ways. Then he was a
priest, a king, a tyrant; he threatened, commanded, stormed;
then he was a slave and submissive. He despaired, he grew
tender, he lamented, he laughed, always in the tone, the time,
the sense of the words, of the character, of the situation.
•
All the chess-players had left their boards and were gathered
around him; the windows of the café were crowded with passers-
by, attracted by the noise. There was laughter enough to bring
down the ceiling. He noticed nothing, but went on in such a
rapt state of mind, in an enthusiasm so close to madness, that I
was uncertain whether he would recover, or if he would be
thrown into a cab and taken straight to the mad-house; the while
he sang the Lamentations of Jomelli.
With precision, fidelity, and incredible warmth, he rendered
one of the finest passages, the superb obligato recitative in which
the prophet paints the destruction of Jerusalem; he wept himself,
and the eyes of the listeners were moist. More could not be
desired in delicacy of vocalization, nor in the expression of over-
whelming grief. He dwelt especially on those parts in which the
great composer has shown his greatness most clearly. When he
was not singing, he took the part of the instruments; these he
quickly dropped again, to return to the vocal part, weaving one
into the other so perfectly that the connection, the unity of the
whole, was preserved. He took possession of our souls and held
them in the strangest suspense I have ever experienced. Did
I admire him? Yes, I admired him. Was I moved and melted?
I was moved and melted, and yet something of the ludicrous
mingled itself with these feelings and modified their nature.
But you would have burst out laughing at the way he imi-
tated the different instruments. With a rough muffled tone and


## p. 4702 (#496) ###########################################

4702
DENIS DIDEROT
puffed-out cheeks he represented horns and bassoon; for the oboe
he assumed a rasping nasal tone; with incredible rapidity he
made his voice run over the string instruments, whose tones he
endeavored to reproduce with the greatest accuracy; the flute
passages he whistled; he rumbled out the sounds of the German
flute; he shouted and sang with the gestures of a madman, and
so alone and unaided he impersonated the entire ballet corps, the
singers, the whole orchestra,-in short, a complete performance, —
dividing himself into twenty different characters, running, stop-
ping, with the mien of one entranced, with glittering eyes and
foaming mouth.
He was quite beside himself. Ex-
hausted by his exertions, like a man awakening from a deep
sleep or emerging from a long period of abstraction, he remained
motionless, stupefied, astonished. He looked about him in be-
wilderment, like one trying to recognize the place in which he
finds himself. He awaited the return of his strength, of his con-
sciousness; he dried his face mechanically. Like one who upon
awaking finds his bed surrounded by groups of people, in com-
plete oblivion and profound unconsciousness of what he had been
doing, he cried, "Well, gentlemen, what's the matter? What
are you laughing at? What are you wondering about? What's
the matter? »
I- My dear Rameau, let us talk again of music. Tell me
how it comes that with the facility you display for appreciating
the finest passages of the great masters, for retaining them in
your memory, and for rendering them to the delight of others
with all the enthusiasm with which the music inspires you,-
how comes it that you have produced nothing of value yourself?
(Instead of answering me, he tossed his head, and raising his
finger towards heaven, cried:—)
The stars, the stars! When nature made Leo, Vinci, Pergo-
lese, Duni, she wore a smile; her face was solemn and com-
manding when she created my dear uncle Rameau, who for ten
years has been called the great Rameau, and who will soon be
named no more. But when she scraped his nephew together,
she made a face and a face and a face. (And as he spoke he
made grimaces, one of contempt, one of irony, one of scorn.
He went through the motions of kneading dough, and smiled
at the ludicrous forms he gave it.
Then he threw the strange
pagoda from him. ) So she made me and threw me down among
other pagodas, some with portly well-filled paunches, short necks,
-
-


## p. 4703 (#497) ###########################################

DENIS DIDEROT
4703
protruding goggle eyes, and an apoplectic appearance; others
with lank and crooked necks and emaciated forms, with animated
eyes and hawks' noses. These all felt like laughing themselves
to death when they saw me, and when I saw them I set my
arms akimbo and felt like laughing myself to death, for fools
and clowns take pleasure in one another; seek one another out,
attract one another. Had I not found upon my arrival in this
world the proverb ready-made, that the money of fools is the
inheritance of the clever, the world would have owed it to me.
I felt that nature had put my inheritance into the purse of the
pagodas, and I tried in a thousand ways to recover it.
I-I know these ways. You have told me of them. I have
admired them. But with so many capabilities, why do you not
try to accomplish something great?
He-That is exactly what a man of the world said to the
Abbé Le Blanc. The abbé replied: "The Marquise de Pompa
dour takes me in hand and brings me to the door of the
Academy; then she withdraws her hand; I fall and break both
legs. " "You ought to pull yourself together," rejoined the man
of the world, "and break the door in with your head. ” — “I
have just tried that," answered the abbé, "and do you know
what I got for it? A bump on the head. "
(Then he
turned to
drank a swallow from what remained in the bottle and
his neighbor. ) Sir, I beg you for a pinch of snuff. That's a
fine snuff-box you have there. You are a musician? No! All
the better for you. They are a lot of poor deplorable wretches.
Fate made me one of them, me! Meanwhile at Montmartre
there is a mill, and in the mill there is perhaps a miller or a
miller's lad, who will never hear anything but the roaring of the
mill, and who might have composed the most beautiful of songs.
Rameau, get you to the mill, to the mill; it's there you belong.
But it is half-past five. I hear the vesper bell which
summons me too. Farewell. It's true, is it not, philosopher, I
am always the same Rameau ?
I-Yes, indeed. Unfortunately.
He-Let me enjoy my misfortune forty years longer. He
laughs best who laughs last.
Translated for A Library of the World's Best Literature. '
-
•
·


## p. 4704 (#498) ###########################################

4704
FRANZ VON DINGELSTEDT
(1814-1881)
RANZ VON DINGELSTEDT was born at Halsdorf, Hessen, Ger-
many, June 30th, 1814. He attained eminence as a poet
and dramatist, but his best powers were devoted to his
principal calling as theatre director.
His boyhood's education was received at Rinteln. At the Univer-
sity of Marburg he applied himself to theology and philology, but
more especially to modern languages and literature. After leaving
the university he became instructor at Ricklingen, near Hanover.
He was characterized, even as a young
man, by his political freedom and inde-
pendence of thought; and at Cassel, where
in 1836 he was teacher in the Lyceum, he
was on this account looked upon so much
askance that it was found expedient to
transfer him to the gymnasium at Fulda
(1838). He resigned this position, however,
in order to devote himself to writing. A
collection of his poems appeared in 1838-45,
and of these, 'Lieder eines Kosmopoli-
tischen Nachtwächters' (Songs of a Cosmo-
politan Night-Watchman: 1841) may be
said to have produced a genuine agitation.
These were not only important as literature,
but as political promulgations, boldly embodying the radical senti-
ments of freethinking Germany.

DINGELSTEDT
In 1841 he went to Augsburg, connected himself with the Allge-
meine Zeitung, and traveled as newspaper correspondent in France,
Holland, Belgium, and England. 'Das Wanderbuch' (The Wander-
Book), and 'Jusqu'à la Mer - Erinnerungen aus Holland' (As Far as
the Sea- Remembrances of Holland: 1847), were the fruits of these
journeys. He had in contemplation a voyage to the Orient, and pre-
paratory to this he settled for a short time in Vienna; but the jour-
ney was not undertaken, for just at this time he was appointed
librarian of the Royal Library of Stuttgart, and reader to the king,
with the title of Court Councilor. Here in 1844 he married the cele-
brated singer Jenny Lutzer. He returned to Vienna, where in 1850
his drama 'Das Haus der Barneveldt' (The House of the Barneveldts)


## p. 4705 (#499) ###########################################

FRANZ VON DINGELSTEDT
4705
was produced with such brilliant success that he was thereupon
To
appointed stage manager of the National Theatre at Munich.
this for six years he devoted his best efforts, presenting in the
most admirable manner the finest of the German classics. The merit
of his work was recognized by the king, who ennobled him in 1857.
He was pre-eminently a theatrical manager, and served successively
at Weimar (1857) and at Vienna, where he was appointed director of
the Court Opera House in 1867, and of the Burg Theatre in 1870.
He brought the classic plays of other lands upon the stage, and
his revivals of Shakespeare's historical plays and the Winter's Tale,'
and of Molière's 'L'Avare' (The Miser), were brilliant events in the
theatrical annals of Vienna. He was made Imperial Councilor by the
Emperor, and raised in 1876 to the rank of baron. In 1875 he took
the position of general director of both court theatres of Vienna. He
died at Vienna, May 15th, 1881.
The novels 'Licht und Schatten der Liebe' (The Light and
Shadow of Love: 1838); 'Heptameron,' 1841; and 'Novellenbuch,'
1855, were not wholly successful; but in contrast to these, Unter
der Erde' (Under the Earth: 1840); 'Sieben Friedliche Erzählungen'
(Seven Peaceful Tales: 1844), and 'Die Amazone' (The Amazon:
1868), are admirable.
Regarded purely as literature, Dingelstedt's best productions are
his early poems, although his commentaries upon Shakespeare and
Goethe are wholly praiseworthy. He was successful chiefly as a
political poet, but his muse sings also the joys of domestic life.
'Hauslieder' (Household Songs: 1844), and his poems upon Chamisso
and Uhland, are among the most beautiful personal poems in German
literature.
A MAN OF BUSINESS
From The Amazon': copyrighted by G. P. Putnam's Sons
HⓇ
ERR KRAFFT was about to reply, but was prevented by the
hasty appearance of Herr Heyboldt, the first procurist, who
entered the apartment; not an antiquated comedy figure in
shoe-buckles, coarse woolen socks, velvet pantaloons, and a long-
tailed coat, his vest full of tobacco, and a goose-quill back of his
comically flexible ear; no, but a fine-looking man, dressed in
the latest style and in black, with a medal in his button-hole,
and having an earnest, expressive countenance. He was house-
holder, member of the City Council, and militia captain; the
gold medal and colored ribbon on his left breast told of his
VIII-295


## p. 4706 (#500) ###########################################

4706
FRANZ VON DINGELSTEDT
having saved, at the risk of his own life, a Leander who had
been carried away by the current in the swimming-baths.
-
His announcement, urgent as it was, was made without haste,
deliberate and cool, somewhat as the mate informs the captain.
that an ugly wind has sprung up. "Herr Principal," he said,
"the crowd has broken in the barriers and one wing of the gate-
way; they are attacking the counting-house.
"Who breaks,
pays," said Krafft, with a joke; "we will charge the sport to their
account. " — "The police are not strong enough; they have sent to
the Royal Watch for military. "-"That is right, Heyboldt. No
accident, no arms or legs broken? "—"Not that I know of. ” –
"Pity for Meyer Hirsch; he would have thundered magnificently
in the official Morning News against the excesses of the rage for
speculation. Nor any one wounded by the police? "-"Not any,
so far. " "Pity for Hirsch Meyer. The oppositional Evening
Journal has missed a capital opportunity of weeping over the
barbarity of the soldateska. At all events, the two papers must
continue to write one for, the other against us. Keep Hirsch
Meyer and Meyer Hirsch going. "-"All right, Herr Prin-
cipal. " "Send each of them a polite line, to the effect that
we have taken the liberty of keeping a few shares for him, to
sell them at the most favorable moment, and pay him over the
difference. " — "It shall be attended to, Herr Principal. ” — “So our
Southwestern Railway goes well, Heyboldt ? "-"By steam, Herr
Principal. " The sober man smiled at his daring joke, and Herr
Krafft smiled affably with him. "The amount that we have left
to furnish will be exhausted before one has time to turn around.
The people throw money, bank-notes, government bonds, at our
cashiers, who cannot fill up the receipts fast enough. On the
Bourse they fought for the blanks. " "For the next four weeks
we will run the stock up, Heyboldt; after that it can fall, but
slowly, with decorum. "-"I understand, Herr Principal. "
A cashier came rushing in without knocking. "Herr Princi-
pal," he stammered in his panic, "we have not another blank,
and the people are pouring in upon us more and more vio-
lently. Wild shouts call for you. " "To your place, sir," thun-
dered Krafft at him. "I shall come when I think it time. In
no case," he added more quietly, "before the military arrive.
We need an interference, for the sake of the market. " The mes-
senger disappeared; but pale, bewildered countenances were to
be seen in the doorways of the comptoir; the house called for
―――――


## p. 4707 (#501) ###########################################

FRANZ VON DINGELSTEDT
4707
its master: the trembling daughter sent again and again for her
father.
"Let us bring the play to a close," said Herr Krafft, after
brief deliberation; he stepped into the middle office, flung open a
window, and raising his harsh voice to its loudest tones, cried to
the throng below, "You are looking for me, folks. Here I am.
What do you want of me? " "Shares, subscriptions," was the
noisy answer. "You claim without any right or any manners.
This is my house, a peaceable citizen's house. You are breaking
in as though it were a dungeon, an arsenal, a tax-office,-as
though we were in the midst of a revolution. Are you not
ashamed of yourselves? " A confused murmur rang through the
astonished ranks. "If you wish to do business with me,"
‚» con-
tinued the merchant, << you must first learn manners and disci-
pline. Have I invited your visit? Do I need your money, or do
you need my shares? Send up some deputies to convey your
requests. I shall have nothing to do with a turbulent mob. " So
saying, he closed the window with such violence that the panes
cracked, and the fragments fell down on the heads of the assail-
ants.
-
-
"The Principal knows how to talk to the people," said Hey-
boldt with pride to Roland, the mute witness of this strange
scene. "He speaks their own language. He replies to a broken
door with a broken window. "
Meantime a company of soldiers had arrived on double-quick,
with a flourish of drums. The officer's word of command rang
through the crowd, now grown suddenly quiet: "Fix bayonets!
form line! march! " Yard and passages were cleared, the doors
guarded; in the street the low muttering tide, forced back, made
a sort of dam. Three deputies, abashed and confused, appeared
at Krafft's door and craved audience. The merchant received
them like a prince surrounded by his court, in the midst of his
clerks, in the large counting-room. The spokesman commenced:
"We ask your pardon, Herr Krafft, for what has happened. "
"For shame, that you should drag in soldiers as witnesses and
peacemakers in a quiet little business affair among order-loving
citizens. " "It was reported that we had been fooled with these
subscriptions, and that the entire sum had been already disposed
of on the Bourse. " "And even if that were so, am I to be
blamed for it? The Southwestern Railway must raise thirty
millions. Double, treble that amount is offered it. Can I prevent


## p. 4708 (#502) ###########################################

4708
FRANZ VON DINGELSTEDT
the necessity of reducing the subscriptions? " "No; but they
say that we poor folks shall not get a cent's worth; the big men
of the Bourse have gobbled up the best bits right before our
noses. " "They say so? Who says so? Court Cooper Täubert,
I ask you who says so? "-"Gracious Herr Court Banker - "
<< Don't Court or Gracious me. My name is Krafft, Herr Hans
Heinrich Krafft. I think we know each other, Master Täubert.
It is not the first time that we have done business together.
You have a very snug little share in
little share in my workingmen's
bank. Grain-broker Wüst, you have bought one of the houses in
my street.
Do I ever dun you for the installments of purchase
money? " "No indeed, Herr Krafft; you are a good man, a
public-spirited man, no money-maker, no leech, no Jew! " cried
the triumvirate of deputies in chorus. "I am nothing more than
you are: a man of business, who works for his living, the son of
a peasant, a plain simple citizen. I began in a smaller way
than any of you; but I shall never forget that I am flesh of your
flesh, blood of your blood. Facts have proved it. I will give
you a fresh proof to-day. Go home and tell the people who
have sent you, Hans Heinrich Krafft will give up the share
which his house has subscribed to the Southwestern Railway, in
favor of the less wealthy citizens of this city. This sum of five
hundred thousand thalers shall be divided up pro rata among the
subscriptions under five hundred dollars. »
"Heaven bless you, Herr Krafft! " stammered out the court
cooper, and the grain-broker essayed to shed a tear of gratitude;
the confidential clerk Herr Lange, the third of the group, caught
at the hand of the patron to kiss it, with emotion. Krafft drew
it back angrily. "No self-abasement, Herr Lange," he said.
"We are men of the people; let us behave as such. God bless
you, gentlemen. You know my purpose. Make it known to the
good people waiting outside, and see that I am rid of my billet-
ing. Let the subscriptions be conducted quietly and in good
order. Adieu, children! " The deputation withdrew. A few
minutes afterwards there was heard a thundering hurrah:-
«< Hurrah for Herr Krafft! Three cheers for Father Krafft! "
He showed himself at the window, nodded quickly and soberly,
and motioned to them to disperse.
While the tumult was subsiding, Krafft and Roland retired into
the private counting-room. "You have," the latter said, "spoken
nobly, acted nobly. "—"I have made a bargain, nothing more,
--
-


## p. 4709 (#503) ###########################################

FRANZ VON DINGELSTEDT
4709
nothing less; moreover, not a bad one. ". "How so? "—"In three
months I shall buy at 70, perhaps still lower, what I am now to
give up to them at 90. " "You know that beforehand? ».
"With
mathematical certainty. The public expects an El Dorado in the
Southwestern Railway, as it does in every new enterprise. The
undertaking is a good one, it is true, or I should not have ven-
tured upon it. But one must be able to wait until the fruit is
ripe. The small holders cannot do that; they sow to-day, and to-
morrow they wish to reap. At the first payment their heart and
their purse are all right. At the second or third, both are gone.
Upon the least rise they will throw the paper, for which they
were ready to break each other's necks, upon the market, and so
depreciate their property. But if some fortuitous circumstance
should cause a pressure upon the money market, then they drop
all that they have, in a perfect panic, for any price. I shall
watch this moment, and buy. In a year or so, when the road
is finished and its communications complete, the shares that were
subscribed for at 90, and which I shall have bought at 60 to 70,
will touch 100, or higher. "
-
-
"That is to say," said Roland, thoughtfully, "you will gain
at the expense of those people whose confidence you have
aroused, then satisfied with objects of artificial value, and finally
drained for yourself. " "Business is business," replied the familiar
harsh voice. "Unless I become a counterfeiter or a forger I can
do nothing more than to convert other persons' money into my
own; of course, in an honest way. "-"And you do this, without
fearing lest one day some one mightier and luckier than you
should do the same to you? "-"I must be prepared for that; I
am prepared. ” — "Also for the storm,—not one of your own creat-
ing, but one sent by the wrath of God, that shall scatter all this
paper splendor of our times, and reduce this appalling social
inequality of ours to a universal zero? " "Let us quietly abide
this Last Day," laughed the banker, taking the artist by the
arm.


## p. 4710 (#504) ###########################################

4710
FRANZ VON DINGELSTEDT
THE
THE WATCHMAN
HE last faint twinkle now goes out
Up in the poet's attic;
And the roisterers, in merry rout,
Speed home with steps erratic.
Soft from the house-roofs showers the snow,
The vane creaks on the steeple,
The lanterns wag and glimmer low
In the storm by the hurrying people.
The houses all stand black and still,
The churches and taverns deserted,
And a body may now wend at his will,
With his own fancies diverted.
Not a squinting eye now looks this way,
Not a slanderous mouth is dissembling,
And a heart that has slept the livelong day
May now love and hope with trembling.
Dear Night! thou foe to each base end,
While the good still a blessing prove thee,
They say that thou art no man's friend,-
Sweet Night! how I therefore love thee!


## p. 4711 (#505) ###########################################

4711
DIOGENES LAERTIUS
(200-250 A. D. ? )
T IS curious how often we are dependent, for our knowledge
of some larger subject, upon a single ancient author, who
would be hardly worthy of notice but for the accidental loss
of the books composed by fitter and abler men. Thus, our only gen-
eral description of Greece at the close of the classical period is
written by a man who describes many objects that he certainly did
not see, who leaves unmentioned numberless things we wish ex-
plained, and who has a genius for so misplacing an adverb as to
bring confusion into the most commonplace statement. But not even
to Pausanias do we proffer such grudging gratitude and such un-
grateful objurgations as to Diogenes Laertius, our chief- often our
sole-authority for the 'Lives and Sayings of the Philosophers. ' His
book is a fascinating one, and even amusing,- if we can forget what
we so much wanted in its stead. At second or third hand, from the
compendiums of the schools rather than from the original works of
the great masters themselves, Diogenes does give us a fairly intelli-
gible sketch, as a rule, of the outward life lived by each sage. This
slight frame is crammed with anecdotes, evidently culled with most
eager and uncritical hand from miscellaneous collections. Many of
these stories are so fragmentary as to be pointless. Others are un-
questionably attached to the wrong person. This method is at
maddest in the author's sketch of his namesake, the Recluse of the
Tub. (One of Ali Baba's jars, by the way, would give a better notion
of the real hermitage. ) Since this "philosopher» had himself little
character and no doctrines, the loose string of anecdotes, puns, and
saucy answers suits all our needs. Throughout the work are scattered
apocryphal letters, and feeble poetic epigrams composed by the com-
piler himself.
The leaning of our most unphilosophic author was
apparently toward Epicurus. The loss of that teacher's own works
causes us to prize doubly the extensive fragments of them preserved
in this relatively copious and serious study. The lover of the great
Epicurean poem of Lucretius on the 'Nature of Things' will often be
surprised to find here the source of many among the Roman poet's
most striking doctrines and images. The sketch of Zeno is also an
important authority on Stoicism. Instruction in these particular chap-
ters, then, and rich diversion elsewhere, await the reader of this most
gossipy, formless, and uncritical volume. The English reader, by the


## p. 4712 (#506) ###########################################

4712
DIOGENES LAERTIUS
way, ought to be provided with something better than the "Bohn"
version. This adds a goodly harvest of ludicrous misprints and other
errors of every kind to Diogenes's own mixture of borrowed wisdom
and native silliness. The classical student will prefer the Didot edi-
tion by Cobet, with the Latin version in parallel columns.
It has been thought desirable to offer here a version, slightly
abridged, of Diogenes's chapter on Socrates. The original sources,
in Plato's and Xenophon's extant works, will almost always explain,
or correct, the statements of Diogenes. Such wild shots as the
assertion that the plague repeatedly visited Athens, striking down
every inhabitant save the temperate Socrates, hardly need a serious
rejoinder. Diogenes cannot even speak with approximate accuracy
of Socrates's famous Dæmon or Inward Monitor. We know, on the
best authority, that it prophesied nothing, even proposed nothing,
but only vetoed the rasher impulses of its human companion. But
to apply the tests of mere accuracy to Diogenes would be like criti-
cizing Uncle Remus for his sins against English syntax.
Of the author's life we know nothing. Our assignment of him to
the third century is based merely on the fact that he quotes writers
of the second, and is himself in turn cited by somewhat later authors.
LIFE OF SOCRATES
From the 'Lives and Sayings of the Philosophers >
SOCR
OCRATES was the son of Sophroniscus a sculptor and Phæna-
rete a midwife [as Plato also states in the 'Theætetus'], and
an Athenian, of the deme Alopeke. He was believed to aid
Euripides in composing his dramas. Hence Mnesimachus speaks
thus:
And again:
"This is Euripides's new play, the 'Phrygians':
And Socrates has furnished him the sticks. "
"Euripides, Socratically patched. "
Callias also, in his 'Captives,' says:-
――
A-"Why art so solemn, putting on such airs?
B- Indeed I may; the cause is Socrates. "
Aristophanes, in the 'Clouds,' again, remarks:
"And this is he who for Euripides
Composed the talkative wise tragedies. "


## p. 4713 (#507) ###########################################

DIOGENES LAERTIUS
4713
He was a pupil of Anaxagoras, according to some authorities, but
also of Damon, as Alexander states in his 'Successions. ' After
the former's condemnation he became a disciple of Archelaus the
natural philosopher. But Douris says he was a slave, and carried
stones. Some say, too, that the Graces on the Acropolis are his;
they are clothed figures. Hence, they say, Timon in his 'Silli'
declares:
-
"From them proceeded the stone-polisher,
Prater on law, enchanter of the Greeks,
Who taught the art of subtle argument,
The nose-in-air, mocker of orators,
Half Attic, the adept in irony. "
For he was also clever in discussion. But the Thirty Tyrants,
as Xenophon tells us, forbade him to teach the art of arguing.
Aristophanes also brings him on in comedy, making the Worse
Argument seem the better. He was moreover the first, with his
pupil schines, to teach oratory. He was likewise the first who
conversed about life, and the first of the philosophers who came
to his end by being condemned to death. We are also told that
he lent out money. At least, investing it, he would collect what
was due, and then after spending it invest again. But Demetrius
the Byzantine says it was Crito who, struck by the charm of his
character, took him out of the workshop and educated him.
Realizing that natural philosophy was of no interest to men,
it is said, he discussed ethics, in the workshops and in the
agora, and used to say he was seeking
"Whatsoever is good in human dwellings, or evil. ”
And very often, we are told, when in these discussions he con-
versed too violently, he was beaten or had his hair pulled out,
and was usually laughed to scorn.