When not
perverted
by his translators, it is perhaps better
## p.
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Warner - World's Best Literature - v01 - A to Apu
-477)
F the life of this lyric poet we have little exact knowledge.
We know that he was an Ionian Greek, and therefore by
racial type a luxury-loving, music-loving Greek, born in the
city of Teos on the coast of Asia Minor. The year was probably
B. C. 562. With a few fellow-citizens, it is supposed that he fled to
Thrace and founded Abdera when Cyrus the Great, or his general
Harpagus, was conquering the Greek cities of the coast. Abdera,
however, was too new to afford luxurious living, and the singing
Ionian soon found his way to more genial
Samos, whither the fortunes of the world
then seemed converging. Polycrates was
“ tyrant,” in the old Greek sense of irre-
sponsible ruler; but withal so large-minded
and far-sighted a man that we may use a
trite comparison and say that under him
his island was, to the rest of Greece, as
Florence in the time of Lorenzo the Mag-
nificent was to the rest of Italy, or Athens
in the time of Pericles to the other Hellenic
States. Anacreon became his tutor, and
may have been of his council; for Herodo-
ANACREON
tus says that when Orætes went to
see
Polycrates he found him in the men's apartment with Anacreon the
Teian. Another historian says that he tempered the stern will of
the ruler. Still another relates that Polycrates once presented him
with five talents, but that the poet returned the sum after two nights
## p. 493 (#527) ############################################
ANACREON
493
made sleepless from thinking what he would do with his riches, say-
ing it was not worth the care it cost. ”
After the murder of Polycrates, Hipparchus, who ruled at Athens,
sent a trireme to fetch the poet. Like his father Pisistratus, Hip-
parchus endeavored to further the cause of letters by calling poets to
his court. Simonides of Ceos was there; and Lasus of Hermione, the
teacher of Pindar; with many rhapsodists or minstrels, who edited
the poems of Homer and chanted his lays at the Panathenæa, or high
festival of Athena, which the people celebrated every year with de-
vout and magnificent show. Amid this brilliant company Anacreon
lived and sang until Hipparchus fell (514) by the famous conspiracy
of Harmodius and Aristogeiton. He then returned to his native
Teos, and according to a legend, died there at the age of eighty-
five, choked by a grape-seed.
Anacreon was a lyrist of the first order. Plato's poet says of him
in the 'Symposium,' “When I hear the verses of Sappho or Anacreon,
I set down my cup for very shame of my own performance. ” He
composed in Greek somewhat, to use a very free comparison, as Her-
rick did in English, expressing the unrefined passion and excesses
which he saw, just as the Devonshire parson preserved the spirit of
the country festivals of Old England in his vivid verse.
To Anacreon music and poetry were inseparable. The poet of his
time recited his lines with lyre in hand, striking upon it in the
measure he thought best suited to his song. Doubtless the poems of
Anacreon were delivered in this way. His themes were simple,
wine, love, and the glorification of youth and poetry; but his imagin-
ation and poetic invention so animated every theme that it is the
perfect rendering which we see, not the simplicity of the common-
place idea. His delicacy preserves him from grossness, and his grace
from wantonness. In this respect his poems are a fair illustration of
the Greek sense of self-limitation, which guided the art instincts of
that people and made them the creators of permanent canons of
taste.
Anacreon had no politics, no earnest interest in the affairs of life,
no morals in the large meaning of that word, no aims reaching
further than the merriment and grace of the moment. Loving luxury
and leisure, he was the follower of a pleasure-loving court. His cares
are that the bowl is empty, that age is joyless, that women tell him
he is growing gray. He is closely paralleled in this by one side of
Béranger; but the Frenchman's soul had a passionately earnest half
which the Greek entirely lacked. Nor is there ever any outbreak
of the deep yearning, the underlying melancholy, which pervades
and now and then interrupts, like a skeleton at the feast, the gayest
verses of Omar Khayyam.
## p. 494 (#528) ############################################
494
ANACREON
His metres, like his matter, are simple and easy. So imitators,
perhaps as brilliant as the master, have sprung up and produced a
mass of songs; and at this time it remains in doubt whether any
complete poem of Anacreon remains untouched. For this reason the
collection is commonly termed Anacreontics. ' Some of the poems
are referred to the school of Gaza and the fourth century after
Christ, and some to the secular teachings and refinement of the
monks of the Middle Ages. Since the discovery and publication of
the text by Henry Stephens, in 1554, poets have indulged their lighter
fancies in such songs, and a small literature of delicate trifles now
exists under the name of Anacreontics) in Italian, German, and
English. Bergk's recension of the poems appeared in 1878. The
standard translations, or rather imitations in English, are those of
Cowley and Moore. The Irish poet was not unlike in nature to the
ancient Ionian. Moore's fine voice in the London drawing-rooms
echoes at times the note of Anacreon in the men's quarters of Po-
lycrates or the symposia of Hipparchus. The joy of feasting and
music, the color of wine, and the scent of roses, alike inspire the
songs of each.
DRINKING
THE
HE thirsty earth soaks up the rain,
And drinks, and gapes for drink again,
The plants suck in the earth, and are
With constant drinking fresh and fair;
The sea itself (which one would think
Should have but little need of drink)
Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up,
So filled that they o'erflow the cup.
The busy Sun (and one would guess
By 's drunken fiery face no less)
Drinks up the sea, and, when he's done,
The Moon and Stars drink up the Sun:
They drink and dance by their own light;
They drink and revel all the night.
Nothing in nature's sober found,
But an eternal health goes round.
Fill up the bowl then, fill it high,
Fill all the glasses there; for why
Should every creature drink but I?
Why, man of morals, tell me why?
ley's Translation.
## p. 495 (#529) ############################################
ANACREON
495
AGE
OT
FT am I by the women told,
Poor Anacreon, thou grow'st old!
Look how thy hairs are falling all;
Poor Anacreon, how they fall!
Whether I grow old or no,
By th' effects I do not know;
This I know, without being told,
'Tis time to live, if I grow old;
'Tis time short pleasures now to take,
Of little life the best to make,
And manage wisely the last stake.
Cowley's Translation.
THE EPICURE
I
F
Ill the bowl with rosy wine!
Around our temples roses twine!
And let us cheerfully awhile,
Like the wine and roses, smile.
Crowned with roses, we contemn
Gyges' wealthy diadem.
To-day is ours, what do we fear ?
To-day is ours; we have it here:
Let's treat it kindly, that it may
Wish, at least, with us to stay.
Let's banish business, banish sorrow;
To the gods belongs to-morrow.
II
U
NDERNEATH this myrtle shade,
On flowery beds supinely laid,
With odorous oils my head o'erflowing,
And around it roses growing,
What should I do but drink away
The heat and troubles of the days?
In this more than kingly state
Love himself shall on me wait.
Fill to me, Love, nay fill it up;
And, mingled, cast into the cup
## p. 496 (#530) ############################################
496
ANACREON
Wit, and mirth, and noble fires,
Vigorous health, and gay desires.
The wheel of life no less will stay
In a smooth than rugged way:
Since it equally doth flee,
Let the motion pleasant be.
Why do we precious ointments show'r?
Noble wines why do we pour ?
Beauteous flowers why do we spread,
Upon the monuments of the dead ?
Nothing they but dust can show,
Or bones that hasten to be so.
Crown me with roses while I live,
Now your wines and ointments give
After death I nothing crave;
Let me alive my pleasures have,
All are Stoics in the grave.
Cowley's Translation.
GOLD
A
MIGHTY pain to love it is,
And 'tis a pain that pain to miss;
But, of all pains, the greatest pain
It is to love, but love in vain.
Virtue now, nor noble blood,
Nor wit by love is understood;
Gold alone does passion move,
Gold monopolizes love;
A curse on her, and on the man
Who this traffic first began!
A curse on him who found the ore!
A curse on him who digged the store!
A curse on him who did refine it!
A curse on him who first did coin it!
A curse, all curses else above,
On him who used it first in love!
Gold begets in brethren hate;
Gold in families debate;
Gold does friendship separate;
Gold does civil wars create.
These the smallest harms of it!
Gold, alas! does love beget.
Cowley's Translation.
## p. 497 (#531) ############################################
ANACREON
497
THE GRASSHOPPER
H
APPY Insect! what can be
In happiness compared to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy Morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup does fill;
'Tis filled wherever thou dost tread,
Nature's self's thy Ganymede.
Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing;
Happier than the happiest king!
All the fields which thou dost see,
All the plants, belong to thee:
All that summer hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice.
Man for thee does sow and plow;
Farmer he, and landlord thou!
Thou dost innocently joy:
Nor does thy luxury destroy;
The shepherd gladly heareth thee,
More harmonious than he.
Thee country hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripened year!
Thee Phæbus loves, and does inspire;
Phæbus is himself thy sire.
To thee, of all things upon Earth,
Life's no longer than thy mirth.
Happy insect, happy thou !
Dost neither age nor winter know;
But, when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung
Thy fill, the flowery leaves among,
(Voluptuous, and wise withal,
Epicurean animal! )
Sated with thy summer feast,
Thou retir'st to endless rest.
Cowley's Translation,
THE SWALLOW
F
OOLISH prater, what dost thou
So early at my window do,
With thy tuneless serenade?
Well 't had been had Tereus made
Thee as dumb as Philomel;
There his knife had done but well.
11-32
## p. 498 (#532) ############################################
498
ANACREON
In thy undiscovered nest
Thou dost all the winter rest,
And dreamest o'er thy summer joys,
Free from the stormy season's noise:
Free from th' ill thou'st done to me;
Who disturbs or seeks out thee ?
Hadst thou all the charming notes
Of the wood's poetic throats,
All thou art could never pay
What thou hast ta'en from me away.
Cruel bird! thou'st ta'en away
A dream out of my arms to-day;
A dream that ne'er must equaled be
By all that waking eyes may see.
Thou, this damage to repair,
Nothing half so sweet or fair,
Nothing half so good, canst bring,
Though men say thou bring'st the Spring.
Cowley's Translation.
THE POET'S CHOICE
I
F HOARDED gold possessed a power
To lengthen life's too fleeting hour,
And purchase from the hand of death
A little span, a moment's breath,
How I would love the precious ore!
And every day should swell my store;
That when the fates would send their minion,
To waft me off on shadowy pinion,
I might some hours of life obtain,
And bribe him back to hell again.
But since we ne'er can charm away
The mandate of that awful day,
Why do we vainly weep at fate,
And sigh for life's uncertain date ?
The light of gold can ne'er illume
The dreary midnight of the tomb!
And why should I then pant for treasures ?
Mine be the brilliant round of pleasures;
The goblet rich, the hoard of friends,
Whose flowing souls the goblet blends!
Moore's Translation.
## p. 499 (#533) ############################################
ANACREON
499
DRINKING
1
CARE not for the idle state
Of Persia's king, the rich, the great!
I envy not the monarch's throne,
Nor wish the treasured gold my own.
But oh! be mine the rosy braid,
The fervor of my brows to shade;
Be mine the odors, richly sighing,
Amid my hoary tresses flying.
To-day I'll haste to quaff my wine,
As if to-morrow ne'er should shine;
But if to-morrow comes, why then-
I'll haste to quaff my wine again.
And thus while all our days are bright,
Nor time has dimmed their bloomy light,
Let us the festal hours beguile
With mantling cup and cordial smile;
And shed from every bowl of wine
The richest drop on Bacchus's shrine !
For Death may come, with brow unpleasant,
May come when least we wish him present,
And beckon to the sable shore,
And grimly bid us — drink no more!
Moore's Translation.
A LOVER'S SIGH
T"
He Phrygian rock that braves the storm
Was once a weeping matron's form;
And Procne, hapless, frantic maid,
Is now a swallow in the shade.
Oh that a mirror's form were mine,
To sparkle with that smile divine;
And like my heart I then should be,
Reflecting thee, and only thee!
Or could I be the robe which holds
That graceful form within its folds;
Or, turned into a fountain, lave
Thy beauties in my circling wave;
Or, better still, the zone that lies
Warm to thy breast, and feels its sighs!
Or like those envious pearls that show
So faintly round that neck of snow!
## p. 500 (#534) ############################################
500
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
1
Yes, I would be a happy gem,
Like them to hang, to fade like them.
What more would thy Anacreon be?
Oh, anything that touches thee,
Nay, sandals for those airy feet –
Thus to be pressed by thee were sweet!
Moore's Translation.
1
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
(1805-1875)
BY BENJAMIN W. WELLS
»
HE place of Hans Christian Andersen in literature is that of
the “Children's Poet,” though his best poetry is prose.
He was born in the ancient Danish city of Odense, on April
20, 1805, of poor and shiftless parents. He had little regular instruc-
tion, and few childish associates. His youthful imagination was first
stimulated by La Fontaine's Fables) and the Arabian Nights,' and
he showed very early a dramatic instinct, trying to act and even to
imitate Shakespeare, though, as he says, “hardly able to spell a single
word correctly. ” It was therefore natural that the visit of a dramatic
company to Odense, in 1818, should fire his fancy to seek his theatri-
cal fortune in Copenhagen; whither he went in September, 1819, with
fifteen dollars in his pocket and a letter of introduction to a danseuse
at the Royal Theatre, who not unnaturally took her strange visitor
for a lunatic, and showed him the door. For four years he labored
diligently, suffered acutely, and produced nothing of value; though
he gained some influential friends, who persuaded the king to grant
him a scholarship for three years, that he might prepare for the
university.
Though he was neither a brilliant nor a docile pupil, he did not
exhaust the generous patience of his friends, who in 1829 enabled
him to publish by subscription his first book, A Journey on Foot
from Holm Canal to the East Point of Amager): a fantastic ara-
besque, partly plagiarized and partly parodied from the German
romanticists, but with a naïveté that might have disarmed criticism.
In 1831 there followed a volume of poems, the sentimental and
rather mawkish Fantasies and Sketches,' product of a journey in
Jutland and of a silly love affair. This book was so harshly criti-
cized that he resolved to seek a refuge and new literary inspiration
in a tour to Germany; for all through his life, traveling was Ander-
sen's stimulus and distraction, so that he compares himself, later, to
1
## p. 500 (#535) ############################################
2
2
## p. 500 (#536) ############################################
. . . und l'any
2:19. i
s : .
Vit-
I
iTCPSCV
pri.
AI;
idi. . .
了 A
1
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1
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indi
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1
. i. ;
## p. 500 (#537) ############################################
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.
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## p. 501 (#539) ############################################
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
501
a pendulum bound to go backward and forward, tic, toc, tic, toc,
till the clock stops, and down I lie. ”
This German tour inspired his first worthy book, Silhouettes,'
with some really admirable pages of description. His success encour-
aged him to attempt the drama again, where he failed once more,
and betook himself for relief to Paris and Italy, with a brief stay in
the Jura Mountains, which is delightfully described in his novel,
(O. T. '
Ital had n him much the ame clarifying effect that it had
on Goethe; and his next book, the novel Improvisatore' (1835),
achieved and deserved a European recognition. Within ten years
the book was translated into six languages. It bears the mark of its
date in its romantic sentiments. There is indeed no firm character-
drawing, here or in any of his novels; but the book still claims
attention for its exquisite descriptions of Italian life and scenery.
The year 1835 saw also Andersen's first essay in the Wonder
Stories, which were to give him his lasting title to grateful remem-
brance. He did not think highly of this work at the time, though
his little volume contained the now classic (Tinderbox,' and Big
Claus and Little Claus. Indeed, he always chafed a little at the
modest fame of a writer for children; but he continued for thirty-
seven years to publish those graceful fancies, which in their little
domain still hold the first rank, and certainly gave the freest scope
to Andersen's qualities, while they masked his faults and limitations.
He turned again from this “sleight of hand with Fancy's golden
apples,” to the novel, in the ‘O. T. ' (1836), which marks no advance
on the Improvisatore'; and in the next year he published his best
romance, Only a Fiddler,' which is still charming for its autobio-
graphical touches, its genuine humor, and its deep pathos. At the
time, this book assured his European reputation; though it has less
interest for us to-day than the “Tales,' or the Picture Book without
Pictures (1840), where, perhaps more than anywhere else in his work,
the child speaks with all the naïveté of his nature.
A journey to the East was reflected in A Poet's Bazaar' (1842);
and these years contain also his last unsuccessful dramatic efforts,
“The King Dreams' and 'The New Lying-in Room. In 1843 he was
in Paris, in 1844 in Germany, and in the next year he extended his
wanderings to Italy and England, where Mary Howitt's translations
had assured him a welcome. Ten years later he revisited England
as the guest of Dickens at Gadshill.
The failure of an epic, Ahasuerus’ (1847), and of a novel, “The
Two Baronesses' (1849), made him turn with more interest to wonder
tales and fairy dramas, which won a considerable success; and when
the political troubles of 1848 directed his wanderings toward Sweden,
## p. 502 (#540) ############################################
502
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
>
he made from them I Sverrig' (In Sweden: 1849), his most exquisite
book of travels. As Europe grew peaceful again he resumed his in-
defatigable wanderings, visiting Germany, France, Italy, Switzerland,
Spain, Bohemia, and England; printing between 1852 and 1862 nine
little volumes of stories, the mediocre but successful In Spain? (1860),
and his last novel, (To Be or Not To Be (1857), which reflects the
religious speculations of his later years.
He was now in comparatively easy circumstances, and passed the
last fifteen years of his life unharassed by criticism, and surrounded
with the “honor, love, obedience, troops of friends,” that should
accompany old age. It was not until 1866 that he made himself a
home; and even at sixty-one he said the idea “positively frightened
him — he knew he should run away from it as soon as ever the first
warm sunbeam struck him, like any other bird of passage. ”
In 1869 he celebrated his literary jubilee. In 1872 he finished his
last (Stories. That year he met with an accident in Innsbrück from
which he never recovered. Kind friends eased his invalid years; and
so general was the grief at his illness that the children of the United
States collected a sum of money for his supposed necessities, which
at his request took the form of books for his library. A few months
later, after a brief and painless illness, he died, August ist, 1875. His
admirers had already erected a statue in his honor, and the State gave
him a magnificent funeral; but his most enduring monument is that
which his Wonder Tales) are still building all around the world.
The character of Andersen is full of curious contrasts. Like the
French fabulist, La Fontaine, he was a child all his life, and often a
spoiled child; yet he joined to childlike simplicity no small share of
worldly wisdom. Constant travel made him a shrewd observer of
detail, but his self-absorption kept him from sympathy with the broad
political aspirations of his generation.
In the judgment of his friends and critics, his autobiographical
(Story of My Life is strangely unjust, and he never understood the
limitations of his genius. He was not fond of children, nor personally
attractive to them, though his letters to them are charming.
In personal appearance he was limp, ungainly, awkward, and odd,
with long lean limbs, broad flat hands, and feet of striking size.
His eyes were small and deep-set, his nose very large, his neck very
long; but he masked his defects by studied care in dress, and
always fancied he looked distinguished, delighting to display his
numerous decorations on his evening dress in complacent profusion.
On Andersen's style there is a remarkably acute study by his
fellow-countryman Brandes, in Kritiker og Portraiter' (Critiques and
Portraits), and a useful comment in Boyesen's Scandinavian Litera-
ture.
When not perverted by his translators, it is perhaps better
## p. 503 (#541) ############################################
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
503
suited than any other to the comprehension of children. His syntax
and rhetoric are often faulty; and in the “Tales' he does not hesitate
to take liberties even with German, if he can but catch the vivid,
darting imagery of juvenile fancy, the “ohs” and “ahs” of the nurs-
ery, its changing intonations, its fears, its smiles, its personal appeals,
and its venerable devices to spur attention and kindle sympathy.
Action, or imitation, takes the place of description. We hear the
trumpeter's taratantara and the pattering rain on the leaves, rum
dum dum, rum dum dum. ” The soldier «comes marching along, left,
right, left, right. ” No one puts himself so wholly in the child's place
and looks at nature so wholly with his eyes as Andersen. If you
hold one of those burdock leaves before your little body it's just like
an apron, and if you put it on your head it's almost as good as an
umbrella, it's so big. " Or he tells you that when the sun shone on
the flax, and the clouds watered it, "it was just as nice for it as it
is for the little children to be washed and then get a kiss from
mother: that makes them prettier; of course it does. ” And here, as
Brandes remarks, every right-minded mamma stops and kisses the
child, and their hearts are warmer for that day's tale.
The starting-point of this art is personification. To the child's
fancy the doll is as much alive as the cat, the broom as the bird,
and even the letters in the copy-book can stretch themselves. On
this foundation he builds myths that tease by a certain semblance of
rationality, — elegiac, more often sentimental, but at their best, like
normal children, without strained pathos or forced sympathy.
Such personification has obvious dramatic and lyric elements; but
Andersen lacked the technique of poetic and dramatic art, and
marred his prose descriptions, both in novels and books of travel, by
an intrusive egotism and lyric exaggeration. No doubt, therefore,
the most permanent part of his work is that which popular instinct
has selected, the Picture Book without Pictures,' the Tales and
Stories); and among these, those will last longest that have least of
the lyric and most of the dramatic element.
Nearly all of Andersen's books are translated in ten uniform but
unnumbered volumes, published by Houghton, Mifflin and Company.
Of the numerous translations of the “Tales,' Mary Howitt's (1846) and
Sommer's (1893) are the best, though far from faultless.
The Life of Hans Christian Andersen' by R. Nisbet Bain (New
York, 1895) is esteemed the best.
Bani hello
## p. 504 (#542) ############################################
504
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
THE STEADFAST TIN SOLDIER
From Collected Fairy Tales, newly translated
T"
HERE were once twenty-five tin soldiers, who were all brothers,
for they were cast out of one old tin spoon. They held
their muskets, and their faces were turned to the enemy;
red and blue, ever so fine, were the uniforms. The first thing
they heard in this world, when the cover was taken from the
box where they lay, were the words, “Tin soldiers! ” A little
»
boy shouted it, and clapped his hands. He had got them because
it was his birthday, and now he set them up on the table. Each
soldier was just like the other, only one was a little different.
He had but one leg, for he had been cast last, and there was
not enough tin. But he stood on his one leg just as firm as the
others on two, so he was just the one to be famous.
On the table where they were set up stood a lot of other
playthings; but what caught your eye was a pretty castle of
paper. Through the little windows you could see right into the
halls. Little trees stood in front, around a bit of looking-glass
which was meant for a lake. Wax swans swam on it and were
reflected in it. That was all very pretty, but still the prettiest
thing was a little girl who stood right in the castle gate. She
was cut out of paper too, but she had a silk dress, and a little
narrow blue ribbon across her shoulders, on which was a spark-
ling star as big as her whole face. The little girl lifted her
arms gracefully in the air, for she was a dancer; and then she
lifted one leg so high that the tin soldier could not find it at all,
and thought that she had only one leg, just like himself.
“That would be the wife for me,” thought he, “but she is too
fine for me. She lives in a castle, and I have only a box, which
I have to share with twenty-four. That is no house for her.
.
But I will see whether I can make her acquaintance. ” Then he
lay down at full length behind a snuff-box which was
on the
table. From there he could watch the trig little lady who kept
standing on one leg without losing her balance. When evening
came, the other tin soldiers were all put in their box, and the
people in the house went to bed. Then the playthings began to
play, first at "visiting,” then at "war” and at "dancing. ” The
“
tin soldiers rattled in their box, for they would have liked to
join in it, but they could not get the cover off. The nutcracker
((
(
»
((
## p. 505 (#543) ############################################
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
505
turned somersaults, and the pencil scrawled over the slate.
There was such a racket that the canary-bird woke up and began
to sing, and that in verses. The only ones that did not stir were
the tin soldier and the little dancer. She stood straight on tip-
toe and stretched up both arms; he was just as steadfast on his
one leg. He did not take his eyes from her a moment.
Now it struck twelve, and bang! up went the cover of the
snuff-box, but it wasn't tobacco in it: no, but a little black Troll.
It was a trick box.
« Tin soldier! ” said the Troll, "will you stare your eyes out ? ”
But the tin soldier made believe he did not hear. “You wait
till morning! ” said the Troll.
When morning came, and the children got up, the tin soldier
was put on the window ledge; and whether it was the Troll, or
a gust of wind, all at once the window flew open and the tin
soldier fell head first from the third story. That was an awful
fall. He stretched his leg straight up, and stuck with his bay.
onet and cap right between the paving-stones.
The maid and the little boy came right down to hunt for
him, but they couldn't see him, though they came so near that
they almost trod on him. If the tin soldier had called “Here I
am,” they surely would have found him; but since he was in
uniform he did not think it proper to call aloud.
Now it began to rain. The drops chased one another. It
was a regular shower. When that was over, two street boy's
came along
“Hallo! ” said one, « There's a tin soldier. He must be off
and sail. ”
Then they made a boat out of a newspaper, put the tin sol.
dier in it, and made him sail down the gutter. Both boys ran
beside it, and clapped their hands. Preserve us! What waves
there were in the gutter, and what a current! It must have
rained torrents. The paper boat rocked up and down, and some-
times it whirled around so that the tin soldier shivered. But he
remained steadfast, did not lose color, looked straight ahead and
held his musket firm.
All at once the boat plunged under a long gutter-bridge. It
was as dark there as it had been in his box.
"Where am I going now? ” thought he. “Yes, yes, that is
the Troll's fault. Oh! if the little lady were only in the boat, I
would not care if it were twice as dark. ”
## p. 506 (#544) ############################################
506
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
At that instant there came a great water-rat who lived under
the gutter-bridge.
Have you a pass ? ” said the rat. « Show me your pass. ”
But the tin soldier kept still, and only held his musket the
firmer. The boat rushed on, and the rat behind. Oh! how he
gnashed his teeth, and called to the sticks and straws:-
"Stop him! Stop him! He has not paid toll. He has showed
no pass. ”
But the current got stronger and stronger. Before he got to
the end of the bridge the tin soldier could see daylight, but he
heard also a rushing noise that might frighten a brave man's
heart. Just think! at the end of the bridge the gutter emptied
into a great canal, which for him was as dangerous as for us to
sail down a great waterfall.
He was so near it already that he could not stop. The boat
went down. The poor tin soldier held himself as straight as he
could. No one should say of him that he had ever blinked his
eyes. The boat whirled three or four times and filled with
water. It had to sink. The tin soldier stood up to his neck in
water, and deeper, deeper sank the boat. The paper grew
weaker and weaker. Now the waves went over the soldier's
head. Then he thought of the pretty little dancer whom he
never was to see again, and there rang in the tin soldier's
ears:
«Farewell, warrior! farewell!
Death shalt thou suffer. ”
Now the paper burst in two, and the tin soldier fell through,
— but in that minute he was swallowed by a big fish.
Oh! wasn't it dark in there. It was worse even than under
the gutter-bridge, and besides, so cramped. But the tin soldier
was steadfast, and lay at full length, musket in hand.
The fish rushed around and made the most fearful jumps.
At last he was quite still, and something went through him like
a lightning flash. Then a bright light rushed in, and somebody
called aloud, « The tin soldier ! » The fish had been caught,
brought to market, sold, and been taken to the kitchen, where
the maid had slit it up with a big knife. She caught the soldier
around the body and carried him into the parlor, where everybody
wanted to see such a remarkable man who had traveled about
in a fish's belly. But the tin soldier was not a bit proud. They
## p. 507 (#545) ############################################
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
507
put him on the table, and there — well! what strange things do
happen in the world — the tin soldier was in the very same room
that he had been in before. He saw the same children, and the
same playthings were on the table, the splendid castle with the
pretty little dancer; she was still standing on one leg, and had
the other high in the air. She was steadfast, too.
. That touched
the tin soldier so that he could almost have wept tin tears, but
that would not have been proper. He looked at her and she
looked at him, but they said nothing at all.
Suddenly one of the little boys seized the tin soldier and
threw him right into the tile-stove, although he had no reason
to. It was surely the Troll in the box who was to blame.
The tin soldier stood in full light and felt a fearful heat; but
whether that came from the real fire, or from his glowing love,
he could not tell. All the color had faded from him; but
whether this had happened on the journey, or whether it came
from care, no one could say. He looked at the little girl and
she looked at him. He felt that he was melting, but still he
stood steadfast, musket in hand. Then a door opened. A whiff
of air caught the dancer, and she flew like a sylph right into the
tile-stove to the tin soldier, blazed up in flame, and was gone.
Then the tin soldier melted to a lump, and when the maid next
day took out the ashes, she found him as a little tin heart. But
of the dancer only the star was left, and that was burnt coal-
black.
TI
THE TEAPOT
From “Riverside Literature Series': copyright 1891, by Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
HERE was a proud Teapot, proud of being porcelain, proud of
its long spout, proud of its broad handle. It had something
before and behind — the spout before, the handle behind
and that was what it talked about. But it did not talk of its
lid — that was cracked, it was riveted, it had faults; and one does
not talk about one's faults- there are plenty of others to do
that. The cups, the cream-pot, the sugar-bowl, the whole tea-
service would be reminded much more of the lid's weakness, and
talk about that, than of the sound handle and the remarkable
spout. The Teapot knew it.
"I know you,” it said within itself, "I know well enough,
too, my fault; and I am well aware that in that very thing is
## p. 508 (#546) ############################################
508
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
cil.
In my
>
seen my humility, my modesty. We all have faults, but then
one also has a talent. The cups get a handle, the sugar-bowl a
lid; I get both, and one thing besides in front which they never
got, - I get a spout, and that makes me
a queen on the tea-
table. The sugar-bowl and cream-pot are good-looking serving
maids; but I am the one who gives, yes, the one high in coun-
I spread abroad a blessing among thirsty mankind.
insides the Chinese leaves are worked up in the boiling, taste-
less water. ”
All this said the Teapot in its fresh young life. It stood on
the table that was spread for tea, it was lifted by a very delicate
hand; but the very delicate hand was awkward, the Teapot fell.
The spout snapped off, the handle snapped off; the lid was no
worse to speak of — the worst had been spoken of that. The
Teapot lay in a swoon on the floor, while the boiling water ran
out of it. It was a horrid shame, but the worst was that they
jeered at it; they jeered at it, and not at the awkward hand.
"I never shall lose the memory of that! ” said the Teapot,
when it afterward talked to itself of the course of its life. “I
was called an invalid, and placed in a corner, and the day after
was given away to a woman who begged victuals. I fell into
poverty, and stood dumb both outside and in; but there, as I
stood, began my better life. One is one thing and becomes quite
another. Earth was placed in me: for a Teapot that is the same
as being buried, but in the earth was placed a flower bulb. Who
placed it there, who gave it, I know not; given it was, and it
took the place of the Chinese leaves and the boiling water, the
broken handle and spout. And the bulb lay in the earth, the
bulb lay in me, it became my heart, my living heart, such as I
never before had. There was life in me, power and might. My
pulses beat, the bulb put forth sprouts, it was the springing up
of thoughts and feelings; they burst forth in flower. I saw it, I
bore it, I forgot myself in its delight. Blessed is it to forget
one's self in another. The bulb gave me no thanks, it did not
think of me - it was admired and praised.
So glad at
that: how happy must it have been! One day I heard it said
that it ought to have a better pot. I was thumped on my
back that was rather hard to bear; but the flower was put in a
better pot — and I was thrown away in the yard, where I lie as
an old crock. But I have the memory: that I can never lose. ”
I was
## p. 509 (#547) ############################################
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
509
THE UGLY DUCKLING
From (Riverside Literature Series): copyright 1891, by Houghton, Miffin & Co.
I — THE DUCKLING IS BORN
1
T WAS glorious in the country. It was summer; the cornfields
were yellow, the oats were green, the hay had been put up
in stacks in the green meadows; and the stork went about
on his long red legs, and chattered Egyptian, for this was the
language he had learned from his mother. All around the fields
and meadows were great woods, and in the midst of these woods
deep lakes. Yes, it was right glorious in the country.
In the midst of the sunshine there lay an old farm, with deep
canals about it; and from the wall down to the water grew great
burdocks, so high that little children could stand upright under
the tallest of them. It was just as wild there as in the deepest
wood, and here sat a Duck upon her nest. She had to hatch her
ducklings, but she was almost tired out before the little ones
came; and she seldom had visitors. The other ducks liked better
to swim about in the canals than to run up to sit under a bur-
dock and gabble with her.
At last one egg-shell after another burst open. “Pip! pip! "
each cried, and in all the eggs there were little things that stuck
out their heads.
Quack! quack! ” said the Duck, and they all came quacking
out as fast as they could, looking all around them under the
green leaves; and the mother let them look as much as they
liked, for green is good for the eye.
«How wide the world is! ” said all the young ones; for they
certainly had much more room now than when they were inside
the eggs.
( That
(
I am
“D'ye think this is all the world ? ” said the mother.
stretches far across the other side of the garden, quite into the
parson's field; but I have never been there yet. I hope you are
all together, and she stood up.
F the life of this lyric poet we have little exact knowledge.
We know that he was an Ionian Greek, and therefore by
racial type a luxury-loving, music-loving Greek, born in the
city of Teos on the coast of Asia Minor. The year was probably
B. C. 562. With a few fellow-citizens, it is supposed that he fled to
Thrace and founded Abdera when Cyrus the Great, or his general
Harpagus, was conquering the Greek cities of the coast. Abdera,
however, was too new to afford luxurious living, and the singing
Ionian soon found his way to more genial
Samos, whither the fortunes of the world
then seemed converging. Polycrates was
“ tyrant,” in the old Greek sense of irre-
sponsible ruler; but withal so large-minded
and far-sighted a man that we may use a
trite comparison and say that under him
his island was, to the rest of Greece, as
Florence in the time of Lorenzo the Mag-
nificent was to the rest of Italy, or Athens
in the time of Pericles to the other Hellenic
States. Anacreon became his tutor, and
may have been of his council; for Herodo-
ANACREON
tus says that when Orætes went to
see
Polycrates he found him in the men's apartment with Anacreon the
Teian. Another historian says that he tempered the stern will of
the ruler. Still another relates that Polycrates once presented him
with five talents, but that the poet returned the sum after two nights
## p. 493 (#527) ############################################
ANACREON
493
made sleepless from thinking what he would do with his riches, say-
ing it was not worth the care it cost. ”
After the murder of Polycrates, Hipparchus, who ruled at Athens,
sent a trireme to fetch the poet. Like his father Pisistratus, Hip-
parchus endeavored to further the cause of letters by calling poets to
his court. Simonides of Ceos was there; and Lasus of Hermione, the
teacher of Pindar; with many rhapsodists or minstrels, who edited
the poems of Homer and chanted his lays at the Panathenæa, or high
festival of Athena, which the people celebrated every year with de-
vout and magnificent show. Amid this brilliant company Anacreon
lived and sang until Hipparchus fell (514) by the famous conspiracy
of Harmodius and Aristogeiton. He then returned to his native
Teos, and according to a legend, died there at the age of eighty-
five, choked by a grape-seed.
Anacreon was a lyrist of the first order. Plato's poet says of him
in the 'Symposium,' “When I hear the verses of Sappho or Anacreon,
I set down my cup for very shame of my own performance. ” He
composed in Greek somewhat, to use a very free comparison, as Her-
rick did in English, expressing the unrefined passion and excesses
which he saw, just as the Devonshire parson preserved the spirit of
the country festivals of Old England in his vivid verse.
To Anacreon music and poetry were inseparable. The poet of his
time recited his lines with lyre in hand, striking upon it in the
measure he thought best suited to his song. Doubtless the poems of
Anacreon were delivered in this way. His themes were simple,
wine, love, and the glorification of youth and poetry; but his imagin-
ation and poetic invention so animated every theme that it is the
perfect rendering which we see, not the simplicity of the common-
place idea. His delicacy preserves him from grossness, and his grace
from wantonness. In this respect his poems are a fair illustration of
the Greek sense of self-limitation, which guided the art instincts of
that people and made them the creators of permanent canons of
taste.
Anacreon had no politics, no earnest interest in the affairs of life,
no morals in the large meaning of that word, no aims reaching
further than the merriment and grace of the moment. Loving luxury
and leisure, he was the follower of a pleasure-loving court. His cares
are that the bowl is empty, that age is joyless, that women tell him
he is growing gray. He is closely paralleled in this by one side of
Béranger; but the Frenchman's soul had a passionately earnest half
which the Greek entirely lacked. Nor is there ever any outbreak
of the deep yearning, the underlying melancholy, which pervades
and now and then interrupts, like a skeleton at the feast, the gayest
verses of Omar Khayyam.
## p. 494 (#528) ############################################
494
ANACREON
His metres, like his matter, are simple and easy. So imitators,
perhaps as brilliant as the master, have sprung up and produced a
mass of songs; and at this time it remains in doubt whether any
complete poem of Anacreon remains untouched. For this reason the
collection is commonly termed Anacreontics. ' Some of the poems
are referred to the school of Gaza and the fourth century after
Christ, and some to the secular teachings and refinement of the
monks of the Middle Ages. Since the discovery and publication of
the text by Henry Stephens, in 1554, poets have indulged their lighter
fancies in such songs, and a small literature of delicate trifles now
exists under the name of Anacreontics) in Italian, German, and
English. Bergk's recension of the poems appeared in 1878. The
standard translations, or rather imitations in English, are those of
Cowley and Moore. The Irish poet was not unlike in nature to the
ancient Ionian. Moore's fine voice in the London drawing-rooms
echoes at times the note of Anacreon in the men's quarters of Po-
lycrates or the symposia of Hipparchus. The joy of feasting and
music, the color of wine, and the scent of roses, alike inspire the
songs of each.
DRINKING
THE
HE thirsty earth soaks up the rain,
And drinks, and gapes for drink again,
The plants suck in the earth, and are
With constant drinking fresh and fair;
The sea itself (which one would think
Should have but little need of drink)
Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up,
So filled that they o'erflow the cup.
The busy Sun (and one would guess
By 's drunken fiery face no less)
Drinks up the sea, and, when he's done,
The Moon and Stars drink up the Sun:
They drink and dance by their own light;
They drink and revel all the night.
Nothing in nature's sober found,
But an eternal health goes round.
Fill up the bowl then, fill it high,
Fill all the glasses there; for why
Should every creature drink but I?
Why, man of morals, tell me why?
ley's Translation.
## p. 495 (#529) ############################################
ANACREON
495
AGE
OT
FT am I by the women told,
Poor Anacreon, thou grow'st old!
Look how thy hairs are falling all;
Poor Anacreon, how they fall!
Whether I grow old or no,
By th' effects I do not know;
This I know, without being told,
'Tis time to live, if I grow old;
'Tis time short pleasures now to take,
Of little life the best to make,
And manage wisely the last stake.
Cowley's Translation.
THE EPICURE
I
F
Ill the bowl with rosy wine!
Around our temples roses twine!
And let us cheerfully awhile,
Like the wine and roses, smile.
Crowned with roses, we contemn
Gyges' wealthy diadem.
To-day is ours, what do we fear ?
To-day is ours; we have it here:
Let's treat it kindly, that it may
Wish, at least, with us to stay.
Let's banish business, banish sorrow;
To the gods belongs to-morrow.
II
U
NDERNEATH this myrtle shade,
On flowery beds supinely laid,
With odorous oils my head o'erflowing,
And around it roses growing,
What should I do but drink away
The heat and troubles of the days?
In this more than kingly state
Love himself shall on me wait.
Fill to me, Love, nay fill it up;
And, mingled, cast into the cup
## p. 496 (#530) ############################################
496
ANACREON
Wit, and mirth, and noble fires,
Vigorous health, and gay desires.
The wheel of life no less will stay
In a smooth than rugged way:
Since it equally doth flee,
Let the motion pleasant be.
Why do we precious ointments show'r?
Noble wines why do we pour ?
Beauteous flowers why do we spread,
Upon the monuments of the dead ?
Nothing they but dust can show,
Or bones that hasten to be so.
Crown me with roses while I live,
Now your wines and ointments give
After death I nothing crave;
Let me alive my pleasures have,
All are Stoics in the grave.
Cowley's Translation.
GOLD
A
MIGHTY pain to love it is,
And 'tis a pain that pain to miss;
But, of all pains, the greatest pain
It is to love, but love in vain.
Virtue now, nor noble blood,
Nor wit by love is understood;
Gold alone does passion move,
Gold monopolizes love;
A curse on her, and on the man
Who this traffic first began!
A curse on him who found the ore!
A curse on him who digged the store!
A curse on him who did refine it!
A curse on him who first did coin it!
A curse, all curses else above,
On him who used it first in love!
Gold begets in brethren hate;
Gold in families debate;
Gold does friendship separate;
Gold does civil wars create.
These the smallest harms of it!
Gold, alas! does love beget.
Cowley's Translation.
## p. 497 (#531) ############################################
ANACREON
497
THE GRASSHOPPER
H
APPY Insect! what can be
In happiness compared to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy Morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup does fill;
'Tis filled wherever thou dost tread,
Nature's self's thy Ganymede.
Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing;
Happier than the happiest king!
All the fields which thou dost see,
All the plants, belong to thee:
All that summer hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice.
Man for thee does sow and plow;
Farmer he, and landlord thou!
Thou dost innocently joy:
Nor does thy luxury destroy;
The shepherd gladly heareth thee,
More harmonious than he.
Thee country hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripened year!
Thee Phæbus loves, and does inspire;
Phæbus is himself thy sire.
To thee, of all things upon Earth,
Life's no longer than thy mirth.
Happy insect, happy thou !
Dost neither age nor winter know;
But, when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung
Thy fill, the flowery leaves among,
(Voluptuous, and wise withal,
Epicurean animal! )
Sated with thy summer feast,
Thou retir'st to endless rest.
Cowley's Translation,
THE SWALLOW
F
OOLISH prater, what dost thou
So early at my window do,
With thy tuneless serenade?
Well 't had been had Tereus made
Thee as dumb as Philomel;
There his knife had done but well.
11-32
## p. 498 (#532) ############################################
498
ANACREON
In thy undiscovered nest
Thou dost all the winter rest,
And dreamest o'er thy summer joys,
Free from the stormy season's noise:
Free from th' ill thou'st done to me;
Who disturbs or seeks out thee ?
Hadst thou all the charming notes
Of the wood's poetic throats,
All thou art could never pay
What thou hast ta'en from me away.
Cruel bird! thou'st ta'en away
A dream out of my arms to-day;
A dream that ne'er must equaled be
By all that waking eyes may see.
Thou, this damage to repair,
Nothing half so sweet or fair,
Nothing half so good, canst bring,
Though men say thou bring'st the Spring.
Cowley's Translation.
THE POET'S CHOICE
I
F HOARDED gold possessed a power
To lengthen life's too fleeting hour,
And purchase from the hand of death
A little span, a moment's breath,
How I would love the precious ore!
And every day should swell my store;
That when the fates would send their minion,
To waft me off on shadowy pinion,
I might some hours of life obtain,
And bribe him back to hell again.
But since we ne'er can charm away
The mandate of that awful day,
Why do we vainly weep at fate,
And sigh for life's uncertain date ?
The light of gold can ne'er illume
The dreary midnight of the tomb!
And why should I then pant for treasures ?
Mine be the brilliant round of pleasures;
The goblet rich, the hoard of friends,
Whose flowing souls the goblet blends!
Moore's Translation.
## p. 499 (#533) ############################################
ANACREON
499
DRINKING
1
CARE not for the idle state
Of Persia's king, the rich, the great!
I envy not the monarch's throne,
Nor wish the treasured gold my own.
But oh! be mine the rosy braid,
The fervor of my brows to shade;
Be mine the odors, richly sighing,
Amid my hoary tresses flying.
To-day I'll haste to quaff my wine,
As if to-morrow ne'er should shine;
But if to-morrow comes, why then-
I'll haste to quaff my wine again.
And thus while all our days are bright,
Nor time has dimmed their bloomy light,
Let us the festal hours beguile
With mantling cup and cordial smile;
And shed from every bowl of wine
The richest drop on Bacchus's shrine !
For Death may come, with brow unpleasant,
May come when least we wish him present,
And beckon to the sable shore,
And grimly bid us — drink no more!
Moore's Translation.
A LOVER'S SIGH
T"
He Phrygian rock that braves the storm
Was once a weeping matron's form;
And Procne, hapless, frantic maid,
Is now a swallow in the shade.
Oh that a mirror's form were mine,
To sparkle with that smile divine;
And like my heart I then should be,
Reflecting thee, and only thee!
Or could I be the robe which holds
That graceful form within its folds;
Or, turned into a fountain, lave
Thy beauties in my circling wave;
Or, better still, the zone that lies
Warm to thy breast, and feels its sighs!
Or like those envious pearls that show
So faintly round that neck of snow!
## p. 500 (#534) ############################################
500
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
1
Yes, I would be a happy gem,
Like them to hang, to fade like them.
What more would thy Anacreon be?
Oh, anything that touches thee,
Nay, sandals for those airy feet –
Thus to be pressed by thee were sweet!
Moore's Translation.
1
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
(1805-1875)
BY BENJAMIN W. WELLS
»
HE place of Hans Christian Andersen in literature is that of
the “Children's Poet,” though his best poetry is prose.
He was born in the ancient Danish city of Odense, on April
20, 1805, of poor and shiftless parents. He had little regular instruc-
tion, and few childish associates. His youthful imagination was first
stimulated by La Fontaine's Fables) and the Arabian Nights,' and
he showed very early a dramatic instinct, trying to act and even to
imitate Shakespeare, though, as he says, “hardly able to spell a single
word correctly. ” It was therefore natural that the visit of a dramatic
company to Odense, in 1818, should fire his fancy to seek his theatri-
cal fortune in Copenhagen; whither he went in September, 1819, with
fifteen dollars in his pocket and a letter of introduction to a danseuse
at the Royal Theatre, who not unnaturally took her strange visitor
for a lunatic, and showed him the door. For four years he labored
diligently, suffered acutely, and produced nothing of value; though
he gained some influential friends, who persuaded the king to grant
him a scholarship for three years, that he might prepare for the
university.
Though he was neither a brilliant nor a docile pupil, he did not
exhaust the generous patience of his friends, who in 1829 enabled
him to publish by subscription his first book, A Journey on Foot
from Holm Canal to the East Point of Amager): a fantastic ara-
besque, partly plagiarized and partly parodied from the German
romanticists, but with a naïveté that might have disarmed criticism.
In 1831 there followed a volume of poems, the sentimental and
rather mawkish Fantasies and Sketches,' product of a journey in
Jutland and of a silly love affair. This book was so harshly criti-
cized that he resolved to seek a refuge and new literary inspiration
in a tour to Germany; for all through his life, traveling was Ander-
sen's stimulus and distraction, so that he compares himself, later, to
1
## p. 500 (#535) ############################################
2
2
## p. 500 (#536) ############################################
. . . und l'any
2:19. i
s : .
Vit-
I
iTCPSCV
pri.
AI;
idi. . .
了 A
1
*!
1
1
61
indi
! ! !
1
. i. ;
## p. 500 (#537) ############################################
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.
## p. 500 (#538) ############################################
## p. 501 (#539) ############################################
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
501
a pendulum bound to go backward and forward, tic, toc, tic, toc,
till the clock stops, and down I lie. ”
This German tour inspired his first worthy book, Silhouettes,'
with some really admirable pages of description. His success encour-
aged him to attempt the drama again, where he failed once more,
and betook himself for relief to Paris and Italy, with a brief stay in
the Jura Mountains, which is delightfully described in his novel,
(O. T. '
Ital had n him much the ame clarifying effect that it had
on Goethe; and his next book, the novel Improvisatore' (1835),
achieved and deserved a European recognition. Within ten years
the book was translated into six languages. It bears the mark of its
date in its romantic sentiments. There is indeed no firm character-
drawing, here or in any of his novels; but the book still claims
attention for its exquisite descriptions of Italian life and scenery.
The year 1835 saw also Andersen's first essay in the Wonder
Stories, which were to give him his lasting title to grateful remem-
brance. He did not think highly of this work at the time, though
his little volume contained the now classic (Tinderbox,' and Big
Claus and Little Claus. Indeed, he always chafed a little at the
modest fame of a writer for children; but he continued for thirty-
seven years to publish those graceful fancies, which in their little
domain still hold the first rank, and certainly gave the freest scope
to Andersen's qualities, while they masked his faults and limitations.
He turned again from this “sleight of hand with Fancy's golden
apples,” to the novel, in the ‘O. T. ' (1836), which marks no advance
on the Improvisatore'; and in the next year he published his best
romance, Only a Fiddler,' which is still charming for its autobio-
graphical touches, its genuine humor, and its deep pathos. At the
time, this book assured his European reputation; though it has less
interest for us to-day than the “Tales,' or the Picture Book without
Pictures (1840), where, perhaps more than anywhere else in his work,
the child speaks with all the naïveté of his nature.
A journey to the East was reflected in A Poet's Bazaar' (1842);
and these years contain also his last unsuccessful dramatic efforts,
“The King Dreams' and 'The New Lying-in Room. In 1843 he was
in Paris, in 1844 in Germany, and in the next year he extended his
wanderings to Italy and England, where Mary Howitt's translations
had assured him a welcome. Ten years later he revisited England
as the guest of Dickens at Gadshill.
The failure of an epic, Ahasuerus’ (1847), and of a novel, “The
Two Baronesses' (1849), made him turn with more interest to wonder
tales and fairy dramas, which won a considerable success; and when
the political troubles of 1848 directed his wanderings toward Sweden,
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HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
>
he made from them I Sverrig' (In Sweden: 1849), his most exquisite
book of travels. As Europe grew peaceful again he resumed his in-
defatigable wanderings, visiting Germany, France, Italy, Switzerland,
Spain, Bohemia, and England; printing between 1852 and 1862 nine
little volumes of stories, the mediocre but successful In Spain? (1860),
and his last novel, (To Be or Not To Be (1857), which reflects the
religious speculations of his later years.
He was now in comparatively easy circumstances, and passed the
last fifteen years of his life unharassed by criticism, and surrounded
with the “honor, love, obedience, troops of friends,” that should
accompany old age. It was not until 1866 that he made himself a
home; and even at sixty-one he said the idea “positively frightened
him — he knew he should run away from it as soon as ever the first
warm sunbeam struck him, like any other bird of passage. ”
In 1869 he celebrated his literary jubilee. In 1872 he finished his
last (Stories. That year he met with an accident in Innsbrück from
which he never recovered. Kind friends eased his invalid years; and
so general was the grief at his illness that the children of the United
States collected a sum of money for his supposed necessities, which
at his request took the form of books for his library. A few months
later, after a brief and painless illness, he died, August ist, 1875. His
admirers had already erected a statue in his honor, and the State gave
him a magnificent funeral; but his most enduring monument is that
which his Wonder Tales) are still building all around the world.
The character of Andersen is full of curious contrasts. Like the
French fabulist, La Fontaine, he was a child all his life, and often a
spoiled child; yet he joined to childlike simplicity no small share of
worldly wisdom. Constant travel made him a shrewd observer of
detail, but his self-absorption kept him from sympathy with the broad
political aspirations of his generation.
In the judgment of his friends and critics, his autobiographical
(Story of My Life is strangely unjust, and he never understood the
limitations of his genius. He was not fond of children, nor personally
attractive to them, though his letters to them are charming.
In personal appearance he was limp, ungainly, awkward, and odd,
with long lean limbs, broad flat hands, and feet of striking size.
His eyes were small and deep-set, his nose very large, his neck very
long; but he masked his defects by studied care in dress, and
always fancied he looked distinguished, delighting to display his
numerous decorations on his evening dress in complacent profusion.
On Andersen's style there is a remarkably acute study by his
fellow-countryman Brandes, in Kritiker og Portraiter' (Critiques and
Portraits), and a useful comment in Boyesen's Scandinavian Litera-
ture.
When not perverted by his translators, it is perhaps better
## p. 503 (#541) ############################################
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
503
suited than any other to the comprehension of children. His syntax
and rhetoric are often faulty; and in the “Tales' he does not hesitate
to take liberties even with German, if he can but catch the vivid,
darting imagery of juvenile fancy, the “ohs” and “ahs” of the nurs-
ery, its changing intonations, its fears, its smiles, its personal appeals,
and its venerable devices to spur attention and kindle sympathy.
Action, or imitation, takes the place of description. We hear the
trumpeter's taratantara and the pattering rain on the leaves, rum
dum dum, rum dum dum. ” The soldier «comes marching along, left,
right, left, right. ” No one puts himself so wholly in the child's place
and looks at nature so wholly with his eyes as Andersen. If you
hold one of those burdock leaves before your little body it's just like
an apron, and if you put it on your head it's almost as good as an
umbrella, it's so big. " Or he tells you that when the sun shone on
the flax, and the clouds watered it, "it was just as nice for it as it
is for the little children to be washed and then get a kiss from
mother: that makes them prettier; of course it does. ” And here, as
Brandes remarks, every right-minded mamma stops and kisses the
child, and their hearts are warmer for that day's tale.
The starting-point of this art is personification. To the child's
fancy the doll is as much alive as the cat, the broom as the bird,
and even the letters in the copy-book can stretch themselves. On
this foundation he builds myths that tease by a certain semblance of
rationality, — elegiac, more often sentimental, but at their best, like
normal children, without strained pathos or forced sympathy.
Such personification has obvious dramatic and lyric elements; but
Andersen lacked the technique of poetic and dramatic art, and
marred his prose descriptions, both in novels and books of travel, by
an intrusive egotism and lyric exaggeration. No doubt, therefore,
the most permanent part of his work is that which popular instinct
has selected, the Picture Book without Pictures,' the Tales and
Stories); and among these, those will last longest that have least of
the lyric and most of the dramatic element.
Nearly all of Andersen's books are translated in ten uniform but
unnumbered volumes, published by Houghton, Mifflin and Company.
Of the numerous translations of the “Tales,' Mary Howitt's (1846) and
Sommer's (1893) are the best, though far from faultless.
The Life of Hans Christian Andersen' by R. Nisbet Bain (New
York, 1895) is esteemed the best.
Bani hello
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HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
THE STEADFAST TIN SOLDIER
From Collected Fairy Tales, newly translated
T"
HERE were once twenty-five tin soldiers, who were all brothers,
for they were cast out of one old tin spoon. They held
their muskets, and their faces were turned to the enemy;
red and blue, ever so fine, were the uniforms. The first thing
they heard in this world, when the cover was taken from the
box where they lay, were the words, “Tin soldiers! ” A little
»
boy shouted it, and clapped his hands. He had got them because
it was his birthday, and now he set them up on the table. Each
soldier was just like the other, only one was a little different.
He had but one leg, for he had been cast last, and there was
not enough tin. But he stood on his one leg just as firm as the
others on two, so he was just the one to be famous.
On the table where they were set up stood a lot of other
playthings; but what caught your eye was a pretty castle of
paper. Through the little windows you could see right into the
halls. Little trees stood in front, around a bit of looking-glass
which was meant for a lake. Wax swans swam on it and were
reflected in it. That was all very pretty, but still the prettiest
thing was a little girl who stood right in the castle gate. She
was cut out of paper too, but she had a silk dress, and a little
narrow blue ribbon across her shoulders, on which was a spark-
ling star as big as her whole face. The little girl lifted her
arms gracefully in the air, for she was a dancer; and then she
lifted one leg so high that the tin soldier could not find it at all,
and thought that she had only one leg, just like himself.
“That would be the wife for me,” thought he, “but she is too
fine for me. She lives in a castle, and I have only a box, which
I have to share with twenty-four. That is no house for her.
.
But I will see whether I can make her acquaintance. ” Then he
lay down at full length behind a snuff-box which was
on the
table. From there he could watch the trig little lady who kept
standing on one leg without losing her balance. When evening
came, the other tin soldiers were all put in their box, and the
people in the house went to bed. Then the playthings began to
play, first at "visiting,” then at "war” and at "dancing. ” The
“
tin soldiers rattled in their box, for they would have liked to
join in it, but they could not get the cover off. The nutcracker
((
(
»
((
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505
turned somersaults, and the pencil scrawled over the slate.
There was such a racket that the canary-bird woke up and began
to sing, and that in verses. The only ones that did not stir were
the tin soldier and the little dancer. She stood straight on tip-
toe and stretched up both arms; he was just as steadfast on his
one leg. He did not take his eyes from her a moment.
Now it struck twelve, and bang! up went the cover of the
snuff-box, but it wasn't tobacco in it: no, but a little black Troll.
It was a trick box.
« Tin soldier! ” said the Troll, "will you stare your eyes out ? ”
But the tin soldier made believe he did not hear. “You wait
till morning! ” said the Troll.
When morning came, and the children got up, the tin soldier
was put on the window ledge; and whether it was the Troll, or
a gust of wind, all at once the window flew open and the tin
soldier fell head first from the third story. That was an awful
fall. He stretched his leg straight up, and stuck with his bay.
onet and cap right between the paving-stones.
The maid and the little boy came right down to hunt for
him, but they couldn't see him, though they came so near that
they almost trod on him. If the tin soldier had called “Here I
am,” they surely would have found him; but since he was in
uniform he did not think it proper to call aloud.
Now it began to rain. The drops chased one another. It
was a regular shower. When that was over, two street boy's
came along
“Hallo! ” said one, « There's a tin soldier. He must be off
and sail. ”
Then they made a boat out of a newspaper, put the tin sol.
dier in it, and made him sail down the gutter. Both boys ran
beside it, and clapped their hands. Preserve us! What waves
there were in the gutter, and what a current! It must have
rained torrents. The paper boat rocked up and down, and some-
times it whirled around so that the tin soldier shivered. But he
remained steadfast, did not lose color, looked straight ahead and
held his musket firm.
All at once the boat plunged under a long gutter-bridge. It
was as dark there as it had been in his box.
"Where am I going now? ” thought he. “Yes, yes, that is
the Troll's fault. Oh! if the little lady were only in the boat, I
would not care if it were twice as dark. ”
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HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
At that instant there came a great water-rat who lived under
the gutter-bridge.
Have you a pass ? ” said the rat. « Show me your pass. ”
But the tin soldier kept still, and only held his musket the
firmer. The boat rushed on, and the rat behind. Oh! how he
gnashed his teeth, and called to the sticks and straws:-
"Stop him! Stop him! He has not paid toll. He has showed
no pass. ”
But the current got stronger and stronger. Before he got to
the end of the bridge the tin soldier could see daylight, but he
heard also a rushing noise that might frighten a brave man's
heart. Just think! at the end of the bridge the gutter emptied
into a great canal, which for him was as dangerous as for us to
sail down a great waterfall.
He was so near it already that he could not stop. The boat
went down. The poor tin soldier held himself as straight as he
could. No one should say of him that he had ever blinked his
eyes. The boat whirled three or four times and filled with
water. It had to sink. The tin soldier stood up to his neck in
water, and deeper, deeper sank the boat. The paper grew
weaker and weaker. Now the waves went over the soldier's
head. Then he thought of the pretty little dancer whom he
never was to see again, and there rang in the tin soldier's
ears:
«Farewell, warrior! farewell!
Death shalt thou suffer. ”
Now the paper burst in two, and the tin soldier fell through,
— but in that minute he was swallowed by a big fish.
Oh! wasn't it dark in there. It was worse even than under
the gutter-bridge, and besides, so cramped. But the tin soldier
was steadfast, and lay at full length, musket in hand.
The fish rushed around and made the most fearful jumps.
At last he was quite still, and something went through him like
a lightning flash. Then a bright light rushed in, and somebody
called aloud, « The tin soldier ! » The fish had been caught,
brought to market, sold, and been taken to the kitchen, where
the maid had slit it up with a big knife. She caught the soldier
around the body and carried him into the parlor, where everybody
wanted to see such a remarkable man who had traveled about
in a fish's belly. But the tin soldier was not a bit proud. They
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507
put him on the table, and there — well! what strange things do
happen in the world — the tin soldier was in the very same room
that he had been in before. He saw the same children, and the
same playthings were on the table, the splendid castle with the
pretty little dancer; she was still standing on one leg, and had
the other high in the air. She was steadfast, too.
. That touched
the tin soldier so that he could almost have wept tin tears, but
that would not have been proper. He looked at her and she
looked at him, but they said nothing at all.
Suddenly one of the little boys seized the tin soldier and
threw him right into the tile-stove, although he had no reason
to. It was surely the Troll in the box who was to blame.
The tin soldier stood in full light and felt a fearful heat; but
whether that came from the real fire, or from his glowing love,
he could not tell. All the color had faded from him; but
whether this had happened on the journey, or whether it came
from care, no one could say. He looked at the little girl and
she looked at him. He felt that he was melting, but still he
stood steadfast, musket in hand. Then a door opened. A whiff
of air caught the dancer, and she flew like a sylph right into the
tile-stove to the tin soldier, blazed up in flame, and was gone.
Then the tin soldier melted to a lump, and when the maid next
day took out the ashes, she found him as a little tin heart. But
of the dancer only the star was left, and that was burnt coal-
black.
TI
THE TEAPOT
From “Riverside Literature Series': copyright 1891, by Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
HERE was a proud Teapot, proud of being porcelain, proud of
its long spout, proud of its broad handle. It had something
before and behind — the spout before, the handle behind
and that was what it talked about. But it did not talk of its
lid — that was cracked, it was riveted, it had faults; and one does
not talk about one's faults- there are plenty of others to do
that. The cups, the cream-pot, the sugar-bowl, the whole tea-
service would be reminded much more of the lid's weakness, and
talk about that, than of the sound handle and the remarkable
spout. The Teapot knew it.
"I know you,” it said within itself, "I know well enough,
too, my fault; and I am well aware that in that very thing is
## p. 508 (#546) ############################################
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HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
cil.
In my
>
seen my humility, my modesty. We all have faults, but then
one also has a talent. The cups get a handle, the sugar-bowl a
lid; I get both, and one thing besides in front which they never
got, - I get a spout, and that makes me
a queen on the tea-
table. The sugar-bowl and cream-pot are good-looking serving
maids; but I am the one who gives, yes, the one high in coun-
I spread abroad a blessing among thirsty mankind.
insides the Chinese leaves are worked up in the boiling, taste-
less water. ”
All this said the Teapot in its fresh young life. It stood on
the table that was spread for tea, it was lifted by a very delicate
hand; but the very delicate hand was awkward, the Teapot fell.
The spout snapped off, the handle snapped off; the lid was no
worse to speak of — the worst had been spoken of that. The
Teapot lay in a swoon on the floor, while the boiling water ran
out of it. It was a horrid shame, but the worst was that they
jeered at it; they jeered at it, and not at the awkward hand.
"I never shall lose the memory of that! ” said the Teapot,
when it afterward talked to itself of the course of its life. “I
was called an invalid, and placed in a corner, and the day after
was given away to a woman who begged victuals. I fell into
poverty, and stood dumb both outside and in; but there, as I
stood, began my better life. One is one thing and becomes quite
another. Earth was placed in me: for a Teapot that is the same
as being buried, but in the earth was placed a flower bulb. Who
placed it there, who gave it, I know not; given it was, and it
took the place of the Chinese leaves and the boiling water, the
broken handle and spout. And the bulb lay in the earth, the
bulb lay in me, it became my heart, my living heart, such as I
never before had. There was life in me, power and might. My
pulses beat, the bulb put forth sprouts, it was the springing up
of thoughts and feelings; they burst forth in flower. I saw it, I
bore it, I forgot myself in its delight. Blessed is it to forget
one's self in another. The bulb gave me no thanks, it did not
think of me - it was admired and praised.
So glad at
that: how happy must it have been! One day I heard it said
that it ought to have a better pot. I was thumped on my
back that was rather hard to bear; but the flower was put in a
better pot — and I was thrown away in the yard, where I lie as
an old crock. But I have the memory: that I can never lose. ”
I was
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509
THE UGLY DUCKLING
From (Riverside Literature Series): copyright 1891, by Houghton, Miffin & Co.
I — THE DUCKLING IS BORN
1
T WAS glorious in the country. It was summer; the cornfields
were yellow, the oats were green, the hay had been put up
in stacks in the green meadows; and the stork went about
on his long red legs, and chattered Egyptian, for this was the
language he had learned from his mother. All around the fields
and meadows were great woods, and in the midst of these woods
deep lakes. Yes, it was right glorious in the country.
In the midst of the sunshine there lay an old farm, with deep
canals about it; and from the wall down to the water grew great
burdocks, so high that little children could stand upright under
the tallest of them. It was just as wild there as in the deepest
wood, and here sat a Duck upon her nest. She had to hatch her
ducklings, but she was almost tired out before the little ones
came; and she seldom had visitors. The other ducks liked better
to swim about in the canals than to run up to sit under a bur-
dock and gabble with her.
At last one egg-shell after another burst open. “Pip! pip! "
each cried, and in all the eggs there were little things that stuck
out their heads.
Quack! quack! ” said the Duck, and they all came quacking
out as fast as they could, looking all around them under the
green leaves; and the mother let them look as much as they
liked, for green is good for the eye.
«How wide the world is! ” said all the young ones; for they
certainly had much more room now than when they were inside
the eggs.
( That
(
I am
“D'ye think this is all the world ? ” said the mother.
stretches far across the other side of the garden, quite into the
parson's field; but I have never been there yet. I hope you are
all together, and she stood up.
