No More Learning

If modern paint-
ing and sculpture owe to ancient art the perfection of form, the
artists of the Middle Ages have preceded us in the choice of
expression.
Besides the invention of printing, it may be noted that dur-
ing that time were manufactured for the first time in Europe,
sugar, silk tissues, plate mirrors, clocks, and watches. New con-
ditions of life, comforts unknown to the ancients, such as body
linen and chimneys, characterized the private life of the Middle
Ages.
The world itself was enlarged. No Roman navigator had, like
the Scandinavians, or perhaps the Basques, brought the ancient
world in contact with America; no Roman explorer had, like
Marco Polo and his emulators, revealed to his compatriots central
Asia and the extreme Orient.
The majority of the weak points in the civilization of the
Middle Ages are identical with those of the Roman civilization;
for example, the barbarism of criminal procedure, the cruelty of
torture, and the grosser superstitions.
Our old French civilization on only three points of view-
the glory and the perfection of the arts, the liberty of thought,
and the power of the scientific spirit—is perhaps inferior to the
civilization of the Greeks, which was the mother of all the others,
and which has remained incomparable as the initiative, original,
and prolific. But assuredly our own old civilization is not inferior
to the Roman civilization. Between that of the Romans and
that of our ancestors there is a difference, not of degree, but of
nature. A colder climate, instincts and needs peculiar to the
Gallic and Germanic races, and the great influence of the reli-
gious sentiment, have contributed to this result. It is the civil-
ization of the north contrasted with the civilization of the south.
One cannot say that the France of the thirteenth century was
barbaric in comparison with the Rome of the emperors; for amid
the ruins of the Empire it regained all that it was possible to
possess of political culture.
-


## p. 12060 (#98) ###########################################

12060
ALFRED RAMBAUD
THE CLOSE OF THE MIDDLE AGES
The close of the medieval period is marked by the following
stages:
In the political order: The taking of Constantinople, and the
establishment of the Turks in Oriental Europe upon the débris
of the Greek empire; the fall of the papacy as the directing.
power of Europe; the succeeding of national wars to holy wars;
the birth of the patriotic sentiment; the progress of the royal
power; the new form taken by the power of the third estate,
which is not the form of local communes, but the national form
of general States.
In the social order: The emancipation of the rural classes; the
enrichment of the middle classes, and their increasing influence.
In the religious order: The appearance of new heresies, nota-
bly that of John Huss in Bohemia, which appears to have pre-
pared the way for the advent of Protestantism.
In the literary order: The end of chivalric poetry; the appear-
ance of philosophy in history (under Comines); the decadence
of the ancient theatre, the "mysteries" and the "moralities ";
the first steps in the progress of printing; and the introduction
in the Occident, after the fall of Constantinople, of new Greek
and Latin manuscripts.
In the scientific order: The tendency of the sciences to free
themselves from the yoke of scholasticism and theology through
the resumption of the theory of the world according to Nicholas
de Cusa; and by the revival of medicine in the times of Louis
XI.
In the artistic order: The relaxation in the construction of
ogival (pointed arched) cathedrals; the emancipation of the arts
-sculpture, painting, and music-from the religious influence.
In the military order: The decline of the ideas of chivalry;
the perfection of cannon and portable firearms; the establish-
ment of permanent armies; the improvement of infantry.
In the economic order: The discovery of new routes of com-
munication with the Indies; the development of navigation, and
the first voyages across the ocean.


## p. 12061 (#99) ###########################################

12061
ALLAN RAMSAY
(1686-1758)
HE criticism which ranks Allan Ramsay with Theocritus and
Tasso, as a writer of pastoral poetry, is to a great degree
justifiable. The Edinburgh wig-maker resembles the singer
of Greece and the singer of Italy in that his verse is redolent of the
soil. In an age given over to the composition of artificial pastorals,
of impossible Arcadias, peopled by Strephons and Chloes and Phyl-
lises, Ramsay portrayed real shepherds in the actual country life
of the Scotch peasantry. Instead of placing high-flown, impossible
language upon their lips, he made them use
the familiar Lowland Scotch dialect. He
wrote a poem breathing of the fields, and
full of the homely sights and sounds of
rustic existence. His naturalness and his
spontaneity in an artificial age constitute
his right to be named as a worthy pro-
genitor of Burns.

The author of The Gentle Shepherd'
was born in 1686, in Leadhills, Lanarkshire,
Scotland, in the heart of the Lowther hills.
It is significant that the future poet, while
born and bred among the peasantry, was far
enough removed from them by a strain of
gentler blood to be in the position of ob-
server and critic, rather than in that of a comrade. On his father's
side he was related to the Earls of Dalhousie, on his mother's to the
great Douglas clan. Neither his father nor his mother were native
to Leadhills, and between Ramsay and the rough mining population
there could have been little sympathy. He remained in the bleak
region until his sixteenth year, aiding his stepfather, David Crich-
ton, on his farm; he was then apprenticed to an Edinburgh wig-
maker, whom he served until 1707, when having received back his
indentures, he began business for himself.
The Edinburgh of this period, deprived of its political promi-
nence by the Act of Union, passed in 1707, which united England and
Scotland under the name of Great Britain, gave itself up to certain
literary and social activities, which took concrete form in a variety of
ALLAN RAMSAY


## p. 12062 (#100) ##########################################

12062
ALLAN RAMSAY
clubs. Of one of these, "The Easy Club," Ramsay was made a mem-
ber; and it was through its encouragement and stimulus that his
poetical talents bore fruit. He published occasional pieces- "elegies,”
as he called them full of humor and insight into the life of which
he formed a part. In 1716 appeared the poem which first showed
him to be a master in the portrayal of rustic Scottish life. This was
'Christ's Kirk on the Green. ' King James I. of Scotland had writ-
ten a single canto under this title, describing a brawl at a country
wedding. Ramsay supplied a second and a third canto, imitating
so perfectly the spirit and form of the royal author's work that the
whole appears as the work of one hand.
-
In 1725 The Gentle Shepherd' was published. The immediate
cause of its composition is said to have been an article in the Guard-
ian for April 7th, 1713; which, taking Pope's Windsor Forest' as
its starting-point of discussion, proceeded to describe the character-
istics of a true pastoral poem. These differed essentially from the
popular ideal, which regarded the "shepherd» of literature as a kind
of Dresden-china embodiment of all the virtues; a silken swain living
an exquisite life among beribboned sheep and dainty shepherdesses.
Ramsay, with the instinct of the true poet, brushed this flummery
aside, and following the prescription of nature as set forth in the
Guardian, went direct to the "common people" to obtain material for
his pastoral. 'The Gentle Shepherd' is a poetical embodiment of
rustic Scotland. It is written in the language of the peasantry; it is
an intimate reproduction of their life. The simple tale, told with such
truthfulness of detail and sincerity of feeling, became at once popular
with all classes. It found its way not only into the homes of the
London and Edinburgh wits, but into the farm-houses of the country
people, to whom it became a kind of Bible. Its maxims passed into
proverbs; its many passages of beautiful verse found their true home
in the hearts of those whose manner of life had been the author's
inspiration.
It is through The Gentle Shepherd' that Allan Ramsay is chiefly
remembered as a poet only second to Burns himself. Yet he claims
recognition as one who did not a little for the literature of his coun-
try by the publication of the Tea-Table Miscellany and the Ever-
green,' collections of ancient Scottish verse, which went far to
revive interest in that golden age of Scotland's literature extending
from the time of King James I. to the death of Drummond of Haw-
thornden.
The remainder of Ramsay's life was uneventful. He opened a
book-store in Edinburgh, with which was connected the first circulat-
ing library ever established in the country. He continued to write
until late in his life: many of his poems were issued in "broadsides,"


## p. 12063 (#101) ##########################################

ALLAN RAMSAY
12063
or quarto sheets, which were hawked through the streets of Edin-
burgh; their popularity was enormous. They have long since dropped
into the limbo of obscurity; but The Gentle Shepherd' is read and
loved in Scotland to this day.
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD
Prologue to the Scene
ENEATH the south side of a craigy bield,
B
Where crystal springs the halesome waters yield,
Twa youthfu' shepherds on the gowans lay,
Tenting their flocks ae bonny morn of May.
Poor Roger granes, till hollow echoes ring;
But blyther Patie likes to laugh and sing.
Sang
Tune-The Wauking of the Faulds. '
PATIE
My Peggy is a young thing,
Just entered in her teens,
Fair as the day, and sweet as May,
Fair as the day, and always gay.
My Peggy is a young thing,
And I'm not very auld,
Yet well I like to meet her at
The wauking of the fauld.
My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,
Whene'er we meet alane,
I wish nae mair to lay my care,-
I wish nae mair of a' that's rare.
My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,
To a' the lave I'm cauld;
But she gars a' my spirits glow,
At wauking of the fauld.
My Peggy smiles sae kindly,
Whene'er I whisper love,
That I look down on a' the town,-
That I look down upon a crown.
My Peggy smiles sae kindly,
It makes me blyth and bauld;


## p. 12064 (#102) ##########################################

12064
ALLAN RAMSAY
And naething gi'es me sic delight
As wauking of the fauld.
My Peggy sings sae saftly,
When on my pipe I play,
By a' the rest it is confest,—
By a' the rest, that she sings best.
My Peggy sings sae saftly,
And in her sangs are tauld.
With innocence, the wale o' sense,
At wauking of the fauld.
This sunny morning, Roger, cheers my blood,
And puts all nature in a jovial mood.
How heartsome is't to see the rising plants,-
To hear the birds chirm o'er their pleasing rants!
How halesome is't to snuff the cawler air,
And all the sweets it bears, when void of care!
What ails thee, Roger, then? what gars thee grane?
Tell me the cause of thy ill-season'd pain.
ROGER
I'm born, O Patie! to a thrawart fate;
I'm born to strive with hardships sad and great!
Tempests may cease to jaw the rowan flood,
Corbies and tods to grein for lambkins' blood,
But I, opprest with never-ending grief,
Maun ay despair of lighting on relief.
PATIE
The bees shall loath the flower, and quit the hive,
The saughs on boggie ground shall cease to thrive,
Ere scornfu' queans, or loss of warldly gear,
Shall spill my rest, or ever force a tear!
ROGER
Sae might I say; but it's no easy done
By ane whase saul's sae sadly out of tune.
You have sae saft a voice, and slid a tongue,
You are the darling of baith old and young.
If I but ettle at a sang, or speak,
They dit their lugs, syne up their leglens cleek,
And jeer me hameward frae the loan or bught,
While I'm confused with mony a vexing thought.


## p. 12065 (#103) ##########################################

ALLAN RAMSAY
12065
Yet I am tall, and as well built as thee,
Nor mair unlikely to a lass's ee;
For ilka sheep ye have, I'll number ten;
And should, as ane may think, come farther ben.
PATIE
But aiblins! nibour, ye have not a heart,
And downa eithly with your cunzie part:
If that be true, what signifies your gear?
A mind that's scrimpit never wants some care.
ROGER
My byar tumbled, nine braw nowt were smoored,
Three elf-shot were, yet I these ills endured:
In winter last my cares were very sma',
Though scores of wathers perished in the snaw.
PATIE
Were your bein rooms as thinly stocked as mine,
Less ye wad loss, and less ye wad repine.
He that has just enough can soundly sleep;
The o'ercome only fashes fowk to keep.
ROGER
May plenty flow upon thee for a cross,
That thou may'st thole the pangs of mony a loss;
Oh, may'st thou doat on some fair paughty wench,
That ne'er will lout thy lowan drowth to quench:
Till brised beneath the burden, thou cry dool,
And awn that ane may fret that is nae fool.
PATIE
Sax good fat lambs, I sald them ilka clute
At the West-port, and bought a winsome flute,
Of plum-tree made, with iv'ry virles round,
A dainty whistle, with a pleasant sound:
I'll be mair canty wi't,- and ne'er cry dool,-
Than you with all your cash, ye dowie fool!
ROGER
Na, Patie, na! I'm nae sic churlish beast;
Some other thing lies heavier at my breast.
I dreamed a dreary dream this hinder night,
That gars my flesh a' creep yet with the fright.
XXI-755


## p. 12066 (#104) ##########################################

12066
ALLAN RAMSAY
PATIE
Now, to a friend, how silly's this pretense,—
To ane wha you and a' your secrets kens!
Daft are your dreams, as daftly wad ye hide
Your well-seen love, and dorty Jenny's pride.
Take courage, Roger, me your sorrows tell,
And safely think nane kens them but yoursell.
ROGER
Indeed now, Patie, ye have guessed o'er true;
And there is naithing I'll keep up frae you.
Me dorty Jenny looks upon asquint,-
To speak but till her I dare hardly mint;
In ilka place she jeers me air and late,
And gars me look bombazed and unco blate.
But yesterday I met her yont a knowe,-
She fled as frae a shelly-coated kow.
She Bauldy looes,— Bauldy that drives the car,-
But gecks at me and says I smell of tar.
PATIE
But Bauldy looes not her. Right well I wat
He sighs for Neps. Sae that may stand for that.
ROGER
-
I wish I couldna looe her- but in vain:
I still maun doat, and thole her proud disdain.
My Bawty is a cur I dearly like:
Till he yowled sair she strak the poor dumb tyke;
If I had filled a nook within her breast,
She wad have shawn mair kindness to my beast.
When I begin to tune my stock and horn,
With a' her face she shaws a cauldrife scorn.
Last night I played,-ye never heard sic spite:
'O'er Bogie' was the spring, and her delyte,
Yet tauntingly she at her cousin speered
Gif she could tell what tune I played, and sneered!
Flocks, wander where ye like, I dinna care:
I'll break my reed, and never whistle mair!
PATIE
E'en do sae, Roger, wha can help misluck?
Saebeins she be sic a thrawn-gabbit chuck,—
————
1
1
1


## p. 12067 (#105) ##########################################

ALLAN RAMSAY
12067
Yonder's a craig, since ye have tint all houp:
Gae till't your ways, and take the lover's lowp!
ROGER
I needna mak sic speed my blood to spill:
I'll warrant death come soon enough a-will.
PATIE
Daft gowk! leave aff that silly whingin way;
Seem careless, - there's my hand ye'll win the day.
Hear how I served my lass I looe as weel
As ye do Jenny, and with heart as leel.
Last morning I was gay and early out;
Upon a dyke I leaned glowring about;
I saw my Meg come linking o'er the lee;
I saw my Meg, but Meggy saw na me,-
For yet the sun was wading through the mist,
And she was close upon me e'er she wist;
Her coats were kiltit, and did sweetly shaw
Her straight bare legs that whiter were than snaw.
Her cockernony snooded up fou sleek,
Her haffet locks hang waving on her cheek;
Her cheek sae ruddy, and her een sae clear;
And oh! her mouth's like ony hinny pear.
Neat, neat she was, in bustine waistcoat clean,
As she came skiffing o'er the dewy green.
Blythsome I cried, "My bonny Meg, come here:
I ferly wherefore ye're sae soon asteer;
But I can guess, ye're gawn to gather dew. "
She scoured awa, and said, "What's that to you? »
"Then fare ye weel, Meg-dorts; and e'en's ye like! "
I careless cried, and lap in o'er the dyke.
I trow, when that she saw, within a crack
She came with a right thieveless errand back :
Miscawed me first; then bad me hound my dog,
To wear up three waff ewes strayed on the bog.
I leugh; and sae did she; then with great haste
I clasped my arms about her neck and waist;
About her yielding waist, and took a fouth
Of sweetest kisses frae her glowing mouth.
While hard and fast I held her in my grips,
My very saul came lowping to my lips.
Sair, sair she flet wi' me 'tween ilka smack,
But weel I kend she meant nae as she spak.
-


## p. 12068 (#106) ##########################################

12068
ALLAN RAMSAY
Dear Roger, when your jo puts on her gloom,
Do ye sae too, and never fash your thumb:
Seem to forsake her, soon she'll change her mood;
Gae woo anither, and she'll gang clean wood.
Sang
Tune — 'Fye, gar rub her o'er wi' strae. '
-
EAR Roger, if your Jenny geck,
And answer kindness with a slight,
Seem unconcerned at her neglect;
For women in a man delight,
But them despise who're soon defeat,
And with a simple face give way
To a repulse: then be not blate,-
Push bauldly on, and win the day.
D
When maidens, innocently young,
Say often what they never mean,
Ne'er mind their pretty lying tongue,
But tent the language of their een:
If these agree, and she persist
To answer all your love with hate,
Seek elsewhere to be better blest,
And let her sigh when 'tis too late.
ROGER
Kind Patie, now fair fa' your honest heart,—
Ye're ay sae cadgy, and have sic an art
To hearten ane! for now, as clean's a leek,
Ye've cherished me since ye began to speak.
Sae, for your pains, I'll mak ye a propine
(My mother, rest her saul! she made it fine):
A tartan plaid, spun of good hawslock woo,
Scarlet and green the sets, the borders blue;
With spraings like gowd and siller crossed with black:
I never had it yet upon my back.
Weel are ye wordy o't, wha have sae kind
Redd up my raveled doubts, and cleared my mind.
PATIE
Weel, had ye there! And since ye've frankly made
To me a present of your braw new plaid,


## p. 12069 (#107) ##########################################

ALLAN RAMSAY
12069
My flute's be yours; and she too that's sae nice
Shall come a-will, gif ye'll take my advice.
ROGER
As ye advise, I'll promise to observ't;
But ye maun keep the flute, ye best deserv't.
Now tak it out, and gie's a bonny spring,
For I'm in tift to hear you play and sing.
OH,
PATIE
But first we'll take a turn up to the height,
And see gif all our flocks be feeding right:
Be that time bannocks, and a shave of cheese,
Will make a breakfast that a laird might please;
Might please the daintiest gabs were they sae wise
To season meat with health instead of spice.
When we have ta'en the grace drink at this well,
I'll whistle syne, and sing t'ye like mysell.
BESSY BELL AND MARY GRAY*
H, Bessy Bell and Mary Gray!
They are twa bonny lasses;
They bigged a bower on yon burn-brae,
And thecked it o'er with rashes:
Fair Bessy Bell I looed yestreen,
And thought I ne'er could alter,
But Mary Gray's twa pawky een
They gar my fancy falter.
Now Bessy's hair's like a lint tap,
She smiles like a May morning,
When Phoebus starts frae Thetis's lap,
The hills with rays adorning;
White is her neck, saft is her hand,
Her waist and feet's fou genty,
With ilka grace she can command;
Her lips, oh, wow! they're dainty.
And Mary's locks are like the craw,
Her eyes like diamonds glances;
[Exeunt.
*The first four lines of this are from an old ballad,- see under The Bal-
lad, Vol. iii. of this work.
>


## p. 12070 (#108) ##########################################

12070
ALLAN RAMSAY
She's ay sae clean red up and braw,
She kills whene'er she dances;
Blyth as a kid, with wit at will,
She blooming, tight, and tall is:
And guides her airs sae graceful still,
O Jove! she's like thy Pallas.
Dear Bessy Bell and Mary Gray,
Ye unco sair oppress us;
Our fancies jee between you twae,
Ye are sic bonny lasses:
Wae's me! for baith I canna get,-
To ane by law we're stinted;
Then I'll draw cuts, and take my fate,
And be with ane contented.
LOCHABER NO MORE
F
AREWELL to Lochaber, and farewell my Jean,
Where heartsome with thee I've mony day been;
For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more,
We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more.
These tears that I shed, they are a' for my dear,
And no for the dangers attending on wear,
Though bore on rough seas to a far bloody shore,
Maybe to return to Lochaber no more.
Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind,
They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind;
Though loudest of thunder on louder waves roar,
That's naething like leaving my love on the shore.
To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained;
By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained;
And beauty and love's the reward of the brave,
And I must deserve it before I can crave.
Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse!
Since honor commands me, how can I refuse?
Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee,
And without thy favor I'd better not be.
I gae then, my lass, to win honor and fame,
And if I should luck to come gloriously hame,
I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er,
And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more.


## p. 12071 (#109) ##########################################

ALLAN RAMSAY
12071
AN THOU WERE MY AIN THING
N THOU were my ain thing,
I would love thee, I would love thee;
A
An thou were my ain thing,
How dearly would I love thee.
Like bees that suck the morning dew
Frae flowers of sweetest scent and hue,
Sae wad I dwell upo' thy mou',
And gar the gods envy me.
An thou were, etc.
Sae lang's I had the use of light,
I'd on thy beauties feast my sight;
Syne in saft whispers through the night
I'd tell how much I looed thee.
An thou were, etc.
How fair and ruddy is my Jean!
She moves a goddess o'er the green:
Were I a king, thou should be queen,
Nane but myself aboon thee.
An thou were, etc.
I'd grasp thee to this breast of mine,
Whilst thou like ivy, or the vine,
Around my stronger limbs should twine,
Formed hardy to defend thee.
An thou were, etc.
Time's on the wing and will not stay;
In shining youth let's make our hay,
Since love admits of no delay;
Oh, let na scorn undo thee.
An thou were, etc.
While love does at his altar stand,
Hae, there's my heart, gi'e me thy hand,
And with ilk smile thou shalt command
The will of him wha loves thee.
An thou were, etc.


## p. 12072 (#110) ##########################################

12072
ALLAN RAMSAY
A SANG
Tune-Busk ye, my bonny bride. '
USK ye, busk ye, my bonny bride;
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny marrow;
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bride,
Busk, and go to the braes of Yarrow:
There will we sport and gather dew,
Dancing while lavrocks sing the morning;
There learn frae turtles to prove true:
O Bell! ne'er vex me with thy scorning.
B
To westlin breezes Flora yields;
And when the beams are kindly warming,
Blythness appears o'er all the fields,
And nature looks máir fresh and charming:
Learn frae the burns that trace the mead,-
Though on their banks the roses blossom,
Yet hastily they flow to Tweed,
And pour their sweetness in his bosom.
Haste ye, haste ye, my bonny Bell,
Haste to my arms, and there I'll guard thee;
With free consent my fears repel,
I'll with my love and care reward thee. -
Thus sang I saftly to my fair,
Wha raised my hopes with kind relenting:
O queen of smiles! I ask nae mair,
Since now my bonny Bell's consenting.
THE
THE HIGHLAND LASSIE
HE Lawland maids gang trig and fine,
But aft they're sour and unco saucy;
Sae proud they never can be kind
Like my good-humored Highland lassie.
Chorus
O my bonny, bonny Highland lassie,
My hearty, smiling Highland lassie,
May never care make thee less fair,
But bloom of youth still bless my lassie.


## p. 12073 (#111) ##########################################

ALLAN RAMSAY
12073
Than ony lass in borrows-town,
Wha makes their cheeks with patches motie,
I'd take my Katie but a gown,
Barefooted, in her little coatie.
Chorus.
Beneath the brier or breken bush,
Whene'er I kiss and court my dautie,
Happy and blyth as ane wad wish,
My flighteren heart gangs pittie-pattie.
O'er highest heathery hills I'll sten,
With cockit gun and ratches tenty,
To drive the deer out of their den,
To feast my lass on dishes dainty.
Chorus.
Chorus.
There's noane shall dare, by deed or word,
'Gainst her to wag a tongue or finger,
While I can wield my trusty sword,
Or frae my side whisk out a whinger.
Chorus.
The mountains clad with purple bloom,
And berries ripe, invite my treasure
To range with me; let great fowk gloom,
While wealth and pride confound their pleasure.
Chorus.


## p. 12074 (#112) ##########################################

12074
LEOPOLD VON RANKE
(1795-1886)
EOPOLD VON RANKE, the founder of the objective school of
history, was born at Wiehe in Thuringia, on December 21st,
1795. He studied at the gymnasium at Pforta, famous for
the excellence of its training in the humanities, and at the university
of Leipzig, where he devoted himself to theology and philology. He
took the degree of doctor of philosophy in 1817, and the year after
became a teacher in the Gymnasium at Frankfort-on-the-Oder.
His reading as a Protestant student of
divinity had aroused his interest in the his-
tory of the Reformation. He regarded the
Reformation as the beginning of modern
history; and its importance was enhanced
in his mind by the fact that it illustrated
in an admirable manner his theory of the
unity of history. He held that European
civilization was fundamentally a unit; and
that it was made up of a mixture of Ro-
manic and Germanic elements, represented
by the French, the Spaniards, and the Ital-
ians on the one hand, and by Germany,
England, and Scandinavia on the other.
Accordingly, at Frankfort, he began that
research into the history of the Reformation and of the counter-
Reformation which occupied the better part of his life. His first
book, which bore the title History of the Romanic and Germanic
Peoples,' appeared in 1824; and in conformity with its author's con-
ception of European history, aimed to exhibit in a single view the
great religious and political movements that simultaneously agitated
the Romanic and Germanic nations at the beginning of the Reforma-
tion. It opened with the year 1494, when all Europe met in the wars
of Italy; and closed with the year 1514.

LEOPOLD VON RANKE
The History of the Romanic and Germanic Peoples' formulated
the theory of the unity of history. It announced, besides, a new aim
and a new method of history. Von Ranke maintained that the aim
of history was, not to enforce preconceived theological or political
views, but to narrate events as they happened, without regard to
their moral worth. He denied that history was auxiliary to politics,


## p. 12075 (#113) ##########################################

LEOPOLD VON RANKE
12075
theology, or ethics; and insisted that it was an independent science.
As the aim of history was to narrate the simple and unadulterated
truth, it followed that the writer of history must divest himself as
far as possible of his own opinions and prejudices. He must adopt
the objective style of narration, and let the events speak for them-
selves. Literary art was not to be excluded, but it must be sub-
servient to the facts.
This dignified conception of history demanded a new method
of historiography. Hitherto writers of history had depended chiefly
on th
printed accounts of persons contemporary with the events
related, such as memoirs and formal histories. Von Ranke showed
the untrustworthiness of such sources; for even if the contempo-
raneous author had a personal knowledge of the events of which he
wrote, and even if, in addition, he intended to tell the truth con-
cerning them, it was not at all certain that he had appreciated their
relative importance, or that he had narrated them clearly. Von
Ranke therefore insisted that the true method of historiography was
to rely upon primary sources of information, such as diplomatic cor-
respondence and State papers generally; in short, on original docu-
ments. Succinctly stated in his own words, the aims and methods of
history were "a critical study of the genuine sources, an impartial
apprehension of their contents, an objective representation,
the presentation of the whole truth. "
The History of the Romanic and Germanic Peoples' took its place
at once as a classic in German historical literature. In recognition of
its extraordinary merits, Von Ranke, a year after its appearance, was
appointed to a professorship of history in the University of Berlin.
His personal history, aside from his scientific achievements, is devoid
of incident. At the age of thirty he became a university professor;
thirty years later he retired from the active duties of his professor-
ship; the remaining thirty years of his life were devoted wholly to
literary labors. In 1841 he was appointed historiographer of Prussia,
and in 1865 he was raised to the rank of the hereditary nobility.
During the years of his professorship he trained hundreds of young
men in his own peculiar method of historical research; and most of
the leading historians of Germany have either sat under his oral in-
struction, or have been influenced by his writings.
As to his works, the 'History of the Romanic and Germanic Peo-
ples' was followed by a series of histories of the separate States in
the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, in which the aim was to
exhibit the special national aspect which the great religious and
political movements of the period assumed among the several nations.
This series included 'Fürsten und Völker von Südeuropa im XVI. und
XVII. Jahrhundert' (The Princes and Peoples of Southern Europe in


## p. 12076 (#114) ##########################################

12076
LEOPOLD VON RANKE
the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries), 1827; 'Die Römischen
Päbste, ihre Kirche und ihr Staat im XVI. und XVII. Jahrhundert '
(The Roman Popes, their Church and their State in the Sixteenth
and Seventeenth Centuries), 1834-36; Deutsche Geschichte im Zeit-
alter der Reformation' (German History in the Period of the Refor-
mation), 1839-47; 'Neun Bücher Preuszischer Geschichte' (Nine Books
of Prussian History), 1847-48; 'Französische Geschichte, Vornehmlich
im XVI. und XVII. Jahrhundert (French History, Especially in the
Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries), 1852-61; Englische Geschichte
im XVI. und XVII. Jahrhundert' (A History of England, Principally
in the Seventeenth Century), 1859-68; 'Geschichte Wallensteins' (His-
tory of Wallenstein), 1869; and Zur Deutschen Geschichte vom Reli-
gionsfrieden bis zum Dreiszigjährigen Kriege (German History from
the Religious Peace to the Thirty Years' War), 1869. Other works
dealt with the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth cen-
turies.
In his eighty-third year Ranke undertook a history of the world,
the first volume of which appeared in 1880, when he was fourscore
and five years of age. Thenceforward a new volume appeared each
year until his death, which occurred on May 23d, 1886. The seventh
volume, which was nearly ready for the press at the time of his
death, brought the history down to the beginning of the Middle
Ages.
The most typical, certainly the most popular, of all Ranke's works
is his 'History of the Popes. ' Macaulay speaks of it as the "work of
a mind fitted both for minute researches and for large speculations. "
By way of introduction, it gave a rapid sketch of the rise of the
papal power, emphasizing the characteristic features of the principal
epochs or stages of its development, and frankly recognizing its
importance as an agency of civilization during the Middle Ages. The
body of the work discussed with admirable clearness, fullness, and
insight the causes, political and religious, of the Reformation and
of the counter-Reformation. In symmetry of plan, in animation of
thought, and in directness of language, the History of the Popes'
was a model of historical writing, and was no less notable as a con-
tribution to literature than as a contribution to historical science.


## p. 12077 (#115) ##########################################

LEOPOLD VON RANKE
12077
THE FALL OF STRAFFORD
From A History of England, Principally in the Seventeenth Century>
THE
HE King was still very far from giving up his own or Straf-
ford's cause. On Saturday, May 1st, he declared that he
would never again endure Strafford in his council or his
presence, but that he thought him not deserving of death; and
the Lords seemed of the same opinion. Equally little did it seem
necessary to give way to the proposals against the bishops. On
Sunday, May 2d, the wedding of the young Prince of Orange
with the princess Mary of England-who however was but ten
years old, and was to stay longer in England-was celebrated at
Whitehall. Charles himself presided with address and good-
humor over the wedding festivities, and seemed to be well pleased
with his new son-in-law. Once more a numerous court crowded
with the usual zeal around the highest personages in the coun-
try. Yet at that very hour the pulpits of the city were ringing
with fiery addresses on the necessity of bringing the arch-offender
to justice; disquieting rumors were in the air, and kept every one
in suspense. The next morning, Monday, May 3d, Westminster
presented a disorderly spectacle. In order to throw into the
scale the expression of their will on impending questions, which
already had been so effective once, thousands of petitioners
repaired to the Houses of Parliament; the members of the lower
House who had voted for the Bill of Attainder, and the unpopu-
lar Lords, were received on their arrival with insults and abusive
cries. At the hour when the sitting of the lower House ought
to have begun,- prayers were already over,- all the members
remained in profound silence. There was a presentiment of what
was coming: the attempt of the clerk to bring on some unim-
portant matter was greeted with laughter. After some time the
doors were closed, and John Pym rose to make a serious com-
munication. He said that desperate plots against the Parliament
and the peace of the realm were at work within and without the
country, for bringing the army against Parliament, seizing the
Tower, and releasing Strafford; that there was an understanding
with France on the subject, and that sundry persons in immedi-
ate attendance on the Queen were deep in the plot.
Pym might and did know that the French government was
in no way inclined to take part with the Queen; and the Parlia-
mentary leaders had already sent their joint thanks to Cardinal


## p. 12078 (#116) ##########################################

12078
LEOPOLD VON RANKE
Richelieu for preventing the Queen's journey. We must leave
it in doubt whether Pym was notwithstanding led by the appear-
ance of things and by rumor to believe in the possibility of
an alliance between the French government and the Queen, or
whether he merely thought it advisable to arouse the apprehen-
sion in others. His speech conveyed the idea that a plot was at
work for the overthrow of Parliament and the Protestant religion,
which must be resisted with the whole strength of the nation.
The mob, assembled outside the doors, where vague reports of
Pym's exordium reached them, certainly received this impression:
a conspiracy had been detected, as bad as the Gunpowder Plot
or worse, for massacring the members of Parliament, and even
all Strafford's opponents among the inhabitants. The fact that
the Tower, which commanded the city, was reckoned on for this
purpose, caused an indescribable agitation. At times the cry
"To Whitehall! " was heard: at others it seemed as if the mob
would go to the Tower in order to storm it.
With these tumultuous proceedings were connected a consist-
ent and systematic series of decisive measures taken by Parlia-
ment. The strongest motive for agitation in England as well as
in Scotland was the danger to religion: and a similar attempt
was made to obtain security on this point. A kind of covenant
was devised in England also,-a Parliamentary and national oath,
- by which every man pledged himself to defend with body and
life the true Protestant religion against all Popish devices, as well
as the privileges of Parliament and the liberties of the subject.
Since in this oath the doctrines, if not the constitution, of the
English Church were maintained, and the allegiance due to the
King was mentioned, no great trouble was found in obtaining
its acceptance by Parliament and the nation. Its importance lies
in the connection it established between Protestantism and the
interests of Parliament: whoever took it pledged himself to de-
fend the privileges of Parliament. Amid the general agreement
it was not forgotten that an eye must be kept on the immediate
sources of danger. The undeniable needs of the army were pro-
vided for, and precautions taken against any possible movement
in that quarter.
For several days the rumor of impending danger grew. The
French ambassador was warned at that time, as if he or his
government had a share in the matter, and it might still at
any moment be carried out. But in truth the disclosure of the


## p. 12079 (#117) ##########################################

LEOPOLD VON RANKE
12079
scheme was equivalent to its defeat. Jermyn and Percy fled;
other persons suspected or implicated were arrested; the Queen
herself one day prepared to quit London. But she had nowhere
to go: she could not but be aware that the Governor of Ports-
mouth, with whom she intended to take refuge, had caused the
discovery of the scheme.
Little as her attempt to cause a reaction may have been ma-
tured, it had nevertheless the effect of doubling the violence of
the previous movement. The royal power itself immediately felt
the force of the shock. The King had sanctioned the proposal
to strengthen his hold on the Tower with trustworthy troops:
the number of men that he desired to introduce was not more
than a hundred, but even this now appeared a dangerous inno-
vation. The commandant Balfour hesitated to admit the troops;
the tumultuous mob directed against it a more urgent petition
than ever. The Lords were induced to make representations on
the subject to the King; who justified the arrangement on the
score of his duty to provide for the safety of the ammunition
stored in the Tower, but in view of the popular agitation did
not insist on its being carried out. The Lords further empowered
the Constable and Lord Mayor, if necessary, to introduce a body
of militia into the Tower; and thus the control of the fortress
which might keep the city in check began to slip out of the
King's hands. The measures taken for the security of Ports-
mouth, for the arming of the militia in several inland counties
for this purpose, and for the defense of Jersey and Guernsey,—
those islands seeming to be in danger from France,- were in
effect so many usurpations of the military authority of the Crown,
however well justified they may have been under the circum-
stances.
Out of the necessity for satisfying the English army arose an
idea involving the most serious consequences. As the Scottish
army must be paid and the Irish one disbanded, which was im-
possible without discharging the arrears due them, new and extens-
ive loans were needed. Yet who was likely to lend money to
the Parliament, so long as its existence depended on the resolve
and arbitrary will of the King, with whom it had engaged in
violent strife? As the only security for the capitalists, a provis-
ion was desired that Parliament should not be dissolved at the
simple will of the King. On May, 5th a motion was made to
this effect: on the 6th the special committee brought the bill


## p. 12080 (#118) ##########################################

12080
LEOPOLD VON RANKE
before the assembled House: on the 7th it passed the third read-
ing, and went to the upper House, where it was agreed to after
a few objections of trifling importance.
The fate of Strafford formed the central point of all these
movements in the nation and in Parliament; of the tumultuous
agitation in the one, and the far-seeing resolutions of the other.
For new loans and for the payment of taxes one condition was
on all sides insisted on: that the Viceroy of Ireland should first
expiate his crimes by death.
The Lords had alleged the troubles as the reason why they
could not immediately deal with the bill of attainder: but the
continued terror at length made all further opposition impossible.
The sittings were now attended chiefly by those in whom gov-
ernment by prerogative, such as Strafford aimed at, had awakened
from the first a spirit of aristocratic resistance. And when an
opinion of the Court of King's Bench was given, to the effect
that on the points which had been taken as proved by the Lords,
Strafford certainly merited the punishment for high treason, all
opposition was at length silenced: the bill of attainder passed the
upper House by a majority of 7 votes, 26 against 19.
A deputation of the Lords went immediately to the King, to
recommend him to assent to the bill on account of the danger
which would attend a refusal. It was Saturday, May in the
afternoon the bill, together with the one for not dissolving Par-
liament, was laid before him by the two Houses, with a prayer
for his immediate assent to both. Two or three thousand men
had assembled at Whitehall to receive his answer.
To their great
indignation the King deferred his decision until Monday.
The following Sunday was to him a day for the most painful
determination; - for what an admission it was, to recognize as a
capital crime the having executed his own will and purposes!
The political tendency it fully carried out, obviously was to sep-
arate the Crown from its advisers, and make them dependent on
another authority than that of the King; to make the King's
power inferior to that of the Parliament. Charles I. had solemnly
declared that he found the accused not guilty of high treason;
he had given him his word to let no evil befall him, not to let
a hair of his head be harmed. Could he nevertheless sanction
his execution? Verily it was a great moment for the King: what
glory would attend his memory had he lived up to his convic-
tions, and opposed to the pressure put upon him an immovable


## p. 12081 (#119) ##########################################

LEOPOLD VON RANKE
12081
moral strength! To this end was he King, and possessed the
right of sanctioning or of rejecting the resolutions of Parliament:
that was the theory of the Constitution. But among the five
bishops whom the King called to his side in this great case of
conscience, only one advised him to follow his own convictions.
The others represented that it was not the King's business to
form a personal opinion on the legality of a sentence; that the
acts which Strafford himself admitted had now been pronounced
to be treasonable; and that he might allow the judgment without
being convinced of its accuracy, as he would a judgment of the
King's Bench or at the assizes. This may be the meaning of
the doctrine attributed to Bishop Williams, that the King has a
double conscience, a public and a private one, and that he may
lawfully do as King what he would not do as a private man.
But the constitutional principle essentially was that personal con-
victions in this high office should possess a negative influence.
The distinction must be regarded as an insult to the theory-
of the Crown, implying its annihilation as a free power in the
State. King Charles felt this fully; all the days of his life he
regretted, as one of his greatest faults, that in this case he had
not followed the dictates of his conscience. But he was told that
he must not ruin himself, his future, and his house for the sake
of a single man: the question was not whether he would save
Strafford, but whether he would perish with him. The move-
ment begun in the city was spreading throughout the country;
from every county, men were coming up to join the city popu-
lace. From a letter of one of the best informed and most intel-
ligent eye-witnesses, we gather that the idea of appealing to the
Commons of the country against the King's refusal was mooted
in the lower House. And so far as the assurances given to the
Viceroy of Ireland were concerned, a letter from Strafford was
laid before the King, in which he released him from his promise,
and entreated him to avoid the disasters which would result from
the rejection of the bill, and to sacrifice him, the writer, as he
stood in the way of a reconciliation between the King and his
people.
So it came to pass that on May 10th the King commissioned
Lord Arundel and the Lord Keeper to signify his royal assent
to the bill of attainder. The next day he made another attempt
to return from the path of justice to that of mercy. Would it
not be better to consign Strafford to prison for life, with the
XXI-756


## p. 12082 (#120) ##########################################

12082
LEOPOLD VON RANKE
provision that for any participation in public affairs, or attempt
at flight, his life would certainly and finally be forfeited. He
asked the Lords whether this was possible: they replied that it
would endanger himself and his wife and children. For no relax-
ation was to be obtained from the universal disposition both in
Parliament and in the city. Unless the King gave way it would
be scarcely possible to maintain his government any longer.
At the news of the King's submission, Strafford exclaimed
that "No one should trust in princes, who are but men. ” The
genuineness of his letter has been denied, it being supposed that
others wrote it in order to remove the King's personal scruples;
but a thorough examination of the fact removes every doubt.
Though Strafford confirmed in his own person the experience
expressed in the words of Scripture,* he himself with his last
words gave, with high-minded forbearance, the opinion that it
was necessary to sacrifice him, in consideration of the general
circumstances and of the possible consequences.
Strafford went to the scaffold in an exalted frame of mind.
On his way he saw Laud, who at his request appeared at the
window of his prison. The archbishop was unable to speak.
Strafford bade him farewell, and prayed that God might protect
his innocence; for he had no doubt that he was in the right in
fulfilling his King's will, and establishing his prerogative. He
persisted that he had never intended either to destroy the parlia-
mentary constitution, or to endanger the Protestant Church. He
did not appeal to the judgment of posterity, as if he had been
conscious that great antagonisms are transmitted from generation
to generation: he looked for a righteous judgment in the other
world.
Such moments must come, in order to bring to light the
absolute independence of success and of the world's judgment
which strong characters possess.
His guilt was of a nature entirely political; he had done his
best to guide the King in these complications, undoubtedly in the
belief that he was right in so doing, but still with indiscreet
zeal. So also his execution was a political act: it was the expres-
sion of the defeat which he had suffered and occasioned, of the
triumph of the ideas against which he had contended to the
death.
*«Put not your trust in princes" was the exact phrase he used.


## p. 12083 (#121) ##########################################

LEOPOLD VON RANKE
12083
THE RISE OF THE JESUITS IN GERMANY
From the History of the Popes of Rome >
T THE diet of Augsburg, in the year 1550, Ferdinand I. was
AT accompanied by his confessor, Bishop Urban of Laibach.
Urban was one of the few prelates whose opinions had
remained unshaken. At home he often ascended the pulpit to
exhort the people, in their own provincial dialect, to be constant
to the faith of their fathers; he preached to them of the one
fold under the one Shepherd. At this time the Jesuit Le Jay
was also at Augsburg, and excited great attention by his conver-
sions. Bishop Urban made his acquaintance, and from him first
heard of the colleges which the Jesuits had founded in several
universities. In order to rescue Catholic theology from the neg-
lect into which it had fallen in Germany, he advised his mas-
ter to establish a similar college at Vienna.
Ferdinand eagerly
embraced the project; and in the letter he addressed on the
subject to Ignatius Loyola, he expressed his conviction that the
only means of propping the declining cause of Catholicism in
Germany was to give the rising generation learned and pious
Catholic teachers. The arrangements were quickly made. In
the year 1551 thirteen Jesuits, among whom was Le Jay him-
self, arrived at Vienna, where Ferdinand instantly granted them
a dwelling, chapel, and pension; and shortly after incorporated
them with the university, and assigned them the superintendence
of it.
They soon after rose into consideration at Cologne, where
they had already dwelt for two years, but had been so far from
making any progress that they had even been forced to live sep-
arate; nor was it till the year 1556 that the endowed school,
established under a Protestant regent, gave them the means of
acquiring a more secure footing.
secure footing. For as there was a party in
the city which was most deeply interested in keeping the univer-
sity Catholic, the partisans of the Jesuits at length prevailed on
the citizens to confide the direction of the establishment to that
order. Their great advocates were -the prior of the Carthus-
ians; the provincial of the Carmelites; and above all, Dr. Johann
Gropper, who occasionally gave a feast to which he invited the
most influential burghers, in order that after the good old Ger-
man fashion, he might further the interests he had most at heart,
-


## p. 12084 (#122) ##########################################

12084
LEOPOLD VON RANKE
over a glass of wine. Fortunately for the Jesuits, one of their
order was a native of Cologne,- Johann Rhetius, a man of patri-
cian family, to whom the endowed school could be more partic-
ularly intrusted. This could not however be done without very
considerable restrictions: the Jesuits were expressly forbidden to
introduce into the school those monastic rules of life which were
in force in their colleges.
At the same period they also gained a firm footing in Ingol-
stadt. Their former attempts had been frustrated chiefly by the
resistance of the younger members of the university, who would
not suffer any privileged school to interfere with the private in-
struction they gave. In the year 1556, however,- after the duke,
as we have already related, had been obliged to make important
concessions in favor of the Protestants,-the duke's counselors,
who were zealous Catholics, deemed it a matter of urgent neces-
sity to have recourse to some vigorous measures for the support
of the ancient faith. The principal movers were the chancellor,
Wiguleus Hund, a man who displayed as much zeal in the
support of the Church as in the study of her ancient history and
constitution, and the duke's private secretary, Heinrich Schwig-
ger. By their instrumentality the Jesuits were recalled, and eigh-
teen of them entered Ingolstadt on the day of St. Wilibald, the
7th of July, 1556. They chose that day because St. Wilibald was
said to have been the first bishop of the diocese. They still had
to encounter great difficulties in the town and in the university;
but they gradually overcame all opposition by the assistance of
the same patronage to which they owed their establishment.
From these three metropolitan settlements the Jesuits now
spread in all directions.
―――――――
From Vienna they immediately extended over the whole of
the Austrian dominions. In 1556, Ferdinand I. removed some
of them to Prague, and founded a school there, intended princi-
pally for the young nobility. To this he sent his own pages, and
the order found support and encouragement from the Catholic
portion of the Bohemian nobility, especially from the families of
Rosenberg and Lobkowitz. One of the most considerable men
in Hungary at that time was Nicolaus Olahus, Archbishop of
Gran,-of Wallachian extraction, as his name denotes. His father
Stoia, in a fit of terror for the murder of a woiwode of his
family, had consecrated him to the Church, and the success of
his destination was complete. Under the last native kings he


## p. 12085 (#123) ##########################################

LEOPOLD VON RANKE
12085
filled the important office of private secretary, and he had subse-
quently risen still higher in the service of the Austrian party.
At the time of the general decline of Catholicism in Hungary,
he perceived that the only hope of support for it was from the
common people, who were not entirely alienated. But here also
Catholic teachers were wanting; in order to form them, he
founded a college of Jesuits at Tyrnau in 1561, and gave them a
pension out of his own income, to which the Emperor Ferdinand
added the grant of an abbey. An assembly of the clergy of the
diocese had just been convoked when the Jesuits arrived. Their
first labors were devoted to an attempt to reclaim the Hunga-
rian priests and clergymen from the heterodox opinions to which
they leaned. They were immediately after summoned to Moravia
also. William Prussinowski, bishop of Olmütz, who had become
acquainted with the order when he was studying in Italy, invited
them to his diocese: Hurtado Perez, a Spaniard, was the first
rector in Olmütz. Shortly after we find them likewise established
at Brünn.
From Cologne the society spread over the whole of the Rhen-
ish provinces. We have already mentioned that Protestantism
had found adherents, and had occasioned some fermentation in
Trèves. The archbishop Johann von Stein had determined to
inflict only slight punishments on the recalcitrants, and to oppose
innovation by argument rather than by force. He summoned
the two principals of the Jesuit college of Cologne to repair to
him at Coblentz, and represented to them that he wished to
have some of the members of their body with him; "in order,"
as he expresses it, "to lead the flock intrusted to him in their
duty, rather by means of admonition and friendly instruction,
than by arms or threats. " He then addressed himself to Rome,
and very soon came to an understanding with both.