No More Learning

And yet the bride is fair and young!
Is it St. Joseph would say to us all
That love o’erhasty precedeth a fall?
Oh no! for a maiden frail, I trow,
Never bore so lofty a brow!
What lovers: they give not a single caress!
To see them so careless and cold to-day,
These are grand people, one would say.
What ails Baptiste ? what grief doth him oppress?
It is that half-way up the hill,
In yon cottage, by whose walls
Stand the cart-house and the stalls,
Dwelleth the blind orphan still,
Daughter of a veteran old;
And you must know, one year ago,
That Margaret, the young and tender,
Was the village pride and splendor,
And Baptiste her lover bold.
Love, the deceiver, them ensnared;
For them the altar was prepared;
But alas! the summer's blight -
The pestilence that walks by night -
Took the young bride's sight away.
All at the father's stern command was changed;
Their peace was gone, but not their love estranged.
Wearied at home, ere long the lover Aled;
Returned but three short days ago,
The golden chain they round him throw;
He is enticed and onward led;


## p. 8201 (#401) ###########################################

JACQUES JASMIN
8201
To marry Angela, and yet
Is thinking ever of Margaret.
Then suddenly a maiden cried,
"Anna, Theresa, Mary, Kate!
Here comes the cripple Jane! ) And by a fountain's side
A woman, bent and gray with years,
Under the mulberry-trees appears,
And all towards her run, as fleet
As had they wings upon their feet.
It is that Jane, the cripple Jane,
Is a soothsayer, wary and kind.
She telleth fortunes, and none complain :
She promises one a village swain,
Another a happy wedding-day;
And the bride a lovely boy straightway.
All comes to pass as she avers :
She never deceives, she never errs.
But for this once the village seer
Wears a countenance severe;
And from beneath her eyebrows thin and white
Her two eyes flash like cannons bright
Aimed at the bridegroom in waistcoat blue
Who, like a statue, stands in view;
Changing color, as well he might,
When the beldame wrinkled and gray
Takes the young bride by the hand,
And, with the tip of her reedy wand
Making the sign of the cross, doth say:
« Thoughtless Angela, beware!
Lest, when thou weddest this false bridegroom,
Thou diggest for thyself a tomb! »
And she was silent; and the maidens fair
Saw from each eye escape a swollen tear;
But on a little streamlet silver-clear,
What are two drops of turbid rain ?
Saddened a moment, the bridal train
Resuined the dance and song again;
The bridegroom only was pale with fear.
And down green alley's
Of verdurous valleys,
With merry sallies,
They sang the refrain:


## p. 8202 (#402) ###########################################

8202
JACQUES JASMIN
« The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom,
So fair a bride shall leave her home!
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,
So fair a bride shall pass to-day! ”
II
And by suffering worn and weary,
But beautiful as some fair angel yet,
Thus lamented Margaret,
In her cottage lone and dreary :-
“He has arrived! arrived at last!
Yet Jane has named him not these three days past;
Arrived, yet keeps aloof so far!
And knows that of my night he is the star!
Knows that long months I wait alone, benighted,
And count the moments since he went away!
Come! keep the promise of that happier day,
That I may keep the faith to thee I plighted!
What joy have I without thee? what delight?
Grief wastes my life, and makes it misery;
Day for the others ever, but for me
Forever night! forever night!
When he is gone 'tis dark! my soul is sad!
I suffer! O my God! come, make me glad.
When he is near, no thoughts of day intrude;
Day has blue heavens, but Baptiste has blue eyes!
Within them shines for me a heaven of love,
A heaven all happiness, like that above;
No more of grief! no more of lassitude!
Earth I forget — and heaven - and all distresses,
When seated by my side my hand he presses;
But when alone, remember all!
Where is Baptiste ? he hears not when I call!
A branch of ivy, dying on the ground,
I need some bough to twine around!
In pity come! be to my suffering kind!
True love, they say, in grief doth more abound!
What then -- when one is blind?
“Who knows? perhaps I am forsaken!
Ah, woe is me! then bear me to my grave!
O God! what thoughts within me waken!
Away! he will return! I do but rave!
He will return! I need not fear!
He swore it by our Savior dear;


## p. 8203 (#403) ###########################################

JACQUES JASMIN
8203
He could not come at his own will;
Is weary, or perhaps is ill!
Perhaps his heart, in this disguise,
Prepares for me some sweet surprise!
But some one comes! Though blind, my heart can see!
And that deceives me not! 'tis he! 'tis he! »
And the door ajar is set,
And poor, confiding Margaret
Rises, with outstretched arms but sightless eyes;
'Tis only Paul, her brother, who thus cries :-
“Angela the bride has passed!
I saw the wedding guests go by:
Tell me, my sister, why were we not asked ?
For all are there but you and I! )
“Angela married! and not send
To tell her secret unto me!
Oh, speak! who may the bridegroom be? »
“My sister, 'tis Baptiste, thy friend! »
C
A cry the blind girl gave, but nothing said ;
A milky whiteness spreads upon her cheeks;
An icy hand, as heavy as lead,
Descending, as her brother speaks,
Upon her heart that has ceased to beat,
Suspends awhile its life and heat.
She stands beside the boy, now sore distressed,
A wax Madonna as a peasant dressed.
At length the bridal song again
Brings her back to her sorrow and pain.
«Hark! the joyous airs are ringing!
Sister, dost thou hear them singing ?
How merrily they laugh and jest!
Would we were bidden with the rest!
I would don my hose of homespun gray,
And my doublet of linen striped and gay:
Perhaps they will come; for they do not wed
Till to-morrow at seven o'clock, it is said! ”
“I know it! » answered Margaret;
Whom the vision, with aspect black as jet,
Mastered again; and its hand of ice
Held her heart cruished as in a vise !


## p. 8204 (#404) ###########################################

8204
JACQUES JASMIN
«Paul, be not sad! 'Tis a holiday:
To-morrow put on thy doublet gay!
But leave me now for awhile alone. ”
Away, with a hop and a jump, went Paul;
And, as he whistled along the hall,
Entered Jane, the crippled crone.
“Holy Virgin! what dreadful heat!
I am faint and weary, and out of breath!
But thou art cold, - art chill as death:
My little friend! what ails thee, sweet? ”
“Nothing! I heard them singing home the bride;
And as I listened to the song,
I thought my turn would come ere long:
Thou knowest it is at Whitsuntide.
Thy cards forsooth can never lie,
To me such joy they prophesy;
Thy skill shall be vaunted far and wide
When they behold him at my side.
And poor Baptiste — what sayest thou ?
It must seem long to him ; — methinks I see him now! ”
Jane, shuddering, her hand doth press :-
“Thy love I cannot all approve;
We must not trust too much to happiness; –
Go, pray to God that thou mayst love himn less ! »
« The more I pray, the more I love!
It is no sin, for God is on my side! ”
It was enough; and Jane no more replied.
.
Now to all hope her heart is barred and cold;
But to deceive the beldame old
She takes a sweet, contented air;
Speak of foul weather or of fair,
At every word the maiden smiles !
Thus the beguiler she beguiles;
So that, departing at the evening's close,
She says, “She may be saved! she nothing knows! ”
Poor Jane, the cunning sorceress!
Now that thou wouldst, thou art no prophetess!
This morning, in the fullness of thy heart,
Thou wast so, far beyond thine art!


## p. 8205 (#405) ###########################################

JACQUES JASMIN
8205
III
Now rings the bell, nine times reverberating,
And the white daybreak stealing up the sky
Sees in two cottages two maidens waiting,-
How differently!
Queen of a day, by flatterers caressed,
The one puts on her cross and crown,
Decks with a huge bouquet her breast,
And flaunting, fluttering up and down,
Looks at herself, and cannot rest.
The other, blind, within her little room,
Has neither crown nor flower's perfume;
But in their stead for something gropes apart,
That in a drawer's recess doth lie,
And, 'neath her bodice of bright scarlet dye,
Convulsive clasps it to her heart.
The one, fantastic, light as air,
'Mid kisses ringing
And joyous singing,
Forgets to say her morning prayer!
The other, with cold drops upon her brow,
Joins her two hands, and kneels upon the floor,
And whispers as her brother opes the door,
«O God! forgive me now! )
And then the orphan, young and blind,
Conducted by her brother's hand,
Towards the church, through paths unscanned,
With tranquil air, her way doth wind.
Odors of laurel, making her faint and pale,
Round her at times exhale,
And in the sky as yet no sunny ray,
But brumal vapors gray.
Near that castle, fair to see,
Crowded with sculptures old, in every part,
Marvels of nature and of art,
And proud of its name of high degree,
A little chapel, almost bare,
At the base of the rock is builded there;
All glorious that it lifts aloof
Above each jealous cottage roof


## p. 8206 (#406) ###########################################

8206
JACQUES JASMIN
Its sacred summit, swept by autumn gales,
And its blackened steeple high in air,
Round which the osprey screams and sails.
Paul, lay thy noisy rattle by!
Thus Margaret said. « Where are we? we ascend! )
« Yes; seest thou not our journey's end ?
Hearest not the osprey from the belfry cry?
The hideous bird that brings ill luck, we know!
Dost thou remember when our father said,
The night we watched beside his bed,
O daughter, I am weak and low;
Take care of Paul: I feel that I am dying! )
And thou and he and I all fell to crying ?
Then on the roof the osprey screamed aloud;
And here they brought our father in his shroud.
There is his grave; there stands the cross we set:
Why dost thou clasp me so, dear Margaret?
Come in! The bride will be here soon:
Thou tremblest! ( my God! thou art going to swoon! ”
She could no more, the blind girl, weak and weary!
A voice seemed crying from that grave so dreary,
“What wouldst thou do, my daughter? » — and she started,
And quick recoiled, aghast, faint-hearted;
But Paul, impatient, urges evermore
Her steps towards the open door;
And when, beneath her feet, the unhappy maid
Crushes the laurel near the house immortal,
And with her head, as Paul talks on again,
Touches the crown of filigrane
Suspended from the low-arched portal,
No more restrained, no more afraid,
She walks, as for a feast arrayed,
And in the ancient chapel's sombre night
They both are lost to sight.
At length the bell
With booming sound
Sends forth, resounding round,
Its hymeneal peal o'er rock and down the dell.
It is broad day, with sunshine and with rain;
And yet the guests delay not long,
For soon arrives the bridal train,
And with it brings the village throng.


## p. 8207 (#407) ###########################################

JACQUES JASMIN
8207
In sooth, deceit maketh no mortal gay,
For lo! Baptiste on this triumphant day,
Mute as an idiot, sad as yester-morning,
Thinks only of the beldame's words of warning.
And Angela thinks of her cross, iwis;
To be a bride is all! The pretty lisper
Feels her heart swell to hear all round her whisper,
“How beautiful! how beautiful she is ! »
But she must calm that giddy head,
For already the mass is said;
At the holy table stands the priest;
The wedding-ring is blessed; Baptiste receives it;
Ere on the finger of the bride he leaves it,
He must pronounce one word at least !
'Tis spoken; and sudden at the groomsman's side
<< 'Tis he! ) a well-known voice has cried.
And while the wedding guests all hold their breath,
Opes the confessional, and the blind girl see!
Baptiste,” she said, "since thou hast wished my death,
As holy water be my blood for thee! »
And calmly in the air a knife suspended!
Doubtless her guardian angel near attended,
For anguish did its work so well,
That ere the fatal stroke descended,
Lifeless she fell!
c
At eve, instead of bridal verse,
The 'De Profundis filled the air;
Decked with flowers a simple hearse
To the church-yard forth they bear;
Village girls in robes of snow
Follow, weeping as they go;
Nowhere was a smile that day,
No, ah no! for each one seemed to say:-
«The road should mourn and be veiled in gloom,
So fair a corpse shall leave its home!
Should mourn and should weep, ah, well-away!
So fair a corpse shall pass to-day! ”
Longfellow's Translation. By courtesy of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. , publishers,
Boston
1


## p. 8208 (#408) ###########################################

8208
JAYADEVA
(ABOUT THE TWELFTH CENTURY A. D. )
BY A. V. WILLIAMS JACKSON
was
a
J
(
a
AYADEVA
Sanskrit lyric poet, author of the Gita-
Govinda' or 'Shepherd's Canticle,' an Indian (Song of
Songs. This passionate lyrist, who is presumed to have
lived in the twelfth century of our era, is believed to have been
native of Kinduvilva in the district of Bengal. With all the fervor
of a Theocritus piping in the vales of Sicily, he sang in melting
strains the divine love of the god Vishnu, incarnate as herdsman
and shepherd on the banks of the Indian Jumna. Little is known of
his life. A passing mention in his poem implies that his father's
name was Bhoja-deva, and that his mother's name was Rāma-devī;
but that is all. We know also from the poem that he was a reli-
gious devotee of the Vaishnavite sect, for the praise of Vishnu forms
the burden of the refrains in his song. He is to be distinguished,
acco
cording to general opinion, from a Sanskrit dramatist of the same
name. The article "Indian Literature) should be consulted in order
to give an idea of the age in which Jayadeva flourished.
The poem (Gīta-Govinda! (literally «song of the cowherd”) is
one of the most celebrated compositions in Sanskrit literature.
It
is a lyrical-dramatic piece, a musical pastoral, or a sort of Oriental
opera in narrative. As before remarked, the theme of this religious
canticle is the story of the love of Vishnu, incarnate as Krishna or
Hari, for his devoted Rādhā. The half-human yet divine Krishna,
a very Apollo in beauty, has strayed from the true love of his heart,
the herdsman's daughter Rādhā, and he disports himself with the
gõpis, or shepherd damsels, in all the enchanting ecstasies of transi-
tory passion. The neglected and grieving Rādhā searches for her
erring lover to reclaim him. A handmaiden, her lone companion,
bears the messages to Krishna, whose fleeting frenzied passion for
the shepherdesses is soon spent, and who longs for reunion with his
soul's idol, the perfect maiden Rādhā. All this is rendered with gen-
uine dramatic power, yet there is no dialogue: the poet simply tells
the story, but he tells it in so vivid a way that it is truly dramatic.
The handmaid finally brings about the reconciliation of the lovers,
and accomplishes their reunion in a moonlit bower amid a
flooded with Oriental coloring.
scene
a


## p. 8209 (#409) ###########################################

JAYADEVA
8209
Like the Song of Solomon, which should be read in this con-
nection, the Gīta-Govinda' is frequently interpreted as an allegory,
portraying figuratively a struggle of the soul amid human passions
and the final attainment of supreme spiritual bliss. Such figurative
methods of expression and symbolic imagery in poetry have indeed
prevailed in the East since time immemorial, as is seen in the case
of Hāfiz (the article on whom might be consulted); and it is hardly
to be questioned that a religious element is present in the 'Gīta,' for
Jayadeva's oft repeated refrains of pious devotion stand out in quite
clear tone amid the erotic strains. On the other hand, the sacred
erotism of the poem may show something of the sensuality of the
Vishnu-Krishna cult. In whichever way we criticize the poem, we
inust allow the presence of a devotional element and the consequent
possibilities, as we would in Solomon's Divine Song.
As a poem, the “Gīta-Govinda' is a masterpiece of art. To read
it in the original is the true way to gain an idea of the charm and
artistic finish of the composition. The ever changing rhythms, the
rich rhymes which are often interlaced or concealed, the alliteration,
assonance, fanciful metrical devices, and a dozen subtle graces which
belong to the Sanskrit art poesy, surprise by their variety and their
abundance. The diversity in tone and shade adds to the effect; the
feeling is tender and delicate, but sometimes it is passionate to excess,
and is expressed with a warmth and fervor or a lavishness of Oriental
coloring that is occasionally too exuberant for Occidental taste.
The
poem is divided into twelve short cantos, and it contains more than
twenty lyrical gems. The text provides for musical accompaniments
in different measures and modes, suited to the lyrical effusion which
forms its burden or which is expressed in its refrain. It is almost
impossible in translation to convey a true idea of the finish and deli-
cacy of the original. The German poetical rendering by Rückert is
.
believed to have come nearest to success in this. Sir Edwin Arnold's
paraphrase, “The Indian Song of Songs,' may well be read to catch
something of the spirit of the composition. Lassen's Latin version is
one of the classic works on the subject. The prose rendering into
English by Sir William Jones in the fourth volume of his Collected
Works, in spite of abridgment and some alterations, is sufficiently
near to the original to convey a good idea of the merits — and to
our mind, of some of the defects — of this Sanskrit masterpiece.
Selections from that rendering, with slight changes in spelling, are
appended. Rādhā is searching for her erring lover Krishna.
Ar. weel and
Jackan
XIV-514


## p. 8210 (#410) ###########################################

8210
JAYADEVA
RĀDHĀ AND KRISHNA
R
ADHĀ long sought her love Krishna in vain, and her thoughts
were confounded by the fever of desire; she roved in the
1. 7. vernal morning among the twining Väsantis covered with
soft blossoms, when a damsel thus addressed her with youthful
hilarity: «The gale that has wantoned round the beautiful clove-
plants breathes now from the hills of Malaya; the circling arbors
resound with the notes of the Kokila [cuckoo] and the murmurs of
the honey-making swarms. Now the hearts of damsels whose lov-
ers travel at a distance are pierced with anguish; while the blos-
soms of Bakul are conspicuous among the flowerets covered with
bees. The Tamāla, with leaves dark and odorous, claims a tribute
from the musk which it vanquishes; and the clustering flowers
of the Palāça resemble the nails of Kāma [Cupid], with which he
rends the hearts of the young. The full-blown Keçara gleams like
the sceptre of the world's monarch, Love; and the pointed Thyrse
of the Ketaka resembles the darts by which lovers are wounded.
See the bunches of the Pătali-flowers [trumpet flowers] filled
with bees, like the quiver of Smara full of shafts; while the ten-
der blossom of the Karuna smiles to see the whole world laying
shame aside. The far-scented Mādhavi (spring creeper] beautifies
the trees round which it twines; and the fresh Mallikā (jasmine)
seduces with rich perfume even the hearts of hermits; while the
Amra-tree with blooming tresses is embraced by the gay creeper
Atimucta, and the blue streams of Yamunā wind round the
groves of Vrindāvan. In this charming season, which gives pain
to separated lovers, young Krishna sports and dances with young
damsels. ”
[The jealous Rādhā gives no answer, and the maid continues by describing
how the forgetful Krishna disports with the gay shepherdesses. )
I. 12,
“With a garland of wild flowers descending even to the
yellow mantle that girds his azure limbs, distinguished by smiling
cheeks and by earrings that sparkle as he plays, Krishna exults
in the assemblage of amorous damsels. One of them presses him
to her swelling breast, while she warbles with exquisite melody.
Another, affected by a glance from his eye, stands meditating
on the lotos of his face. A third, on pretense of whispering a
secret in his ear, approaches his temples and kisses them with


## p. 8211 (#411) ###########################################

JAYADEVA
8211
ardor. One seizes his mantle and draws him toward her, point-
ing to the bower on the banks of Yamunā, where elegant Van-
julas interweave their branches. He applauds another, who dances
in the sportive circle, whilst her bracelets ring and she beats
time with her palms. Now he caresses one, and kisses another,
smiling on a third with complacency; and now he chases her
whose beauty has most allured him. Thus the wanton Krishna
frolics, in the season of sweets, among the maids of Vraja, who
rush to his embraces as if he were Pleasure itself assuming a
human form; and one of them, under a pretext of hymning his
divine perfections, whispers in his ear: (Thy lips, my beloved,
are nectar. ) »
II. I.
Rādhă remains in the forest: but resenting the pro-
miscuous passion of Krishna, and his neglect of her beauty which
he once thought superior, she retires to a bower of twining
plants, the summit of which resounds with the humming of
swarms engaged in their sweet labors; and there, falling lan-
guid on the ground, she thus addresses her female companion:
« Though he take recreation in my absence, and smile on all
around him, yet my soul remembers him. ”
[And the deserving and grieving Rādhā portrays in fairest colors the
depth of her love for the errant Krishna, and she begs the maid to bring him
to her bower. ]
III. 1. Meantime the destroyer of Kansa, having brought to
his remembrance the amiable Rādhā, forsook the beautiful dam-
sels of Vraja: he sought his devoted Rādhā in all parts of the
forest; his old wound from love's arrow bled again; he repented
his levity, and seated in a bower near the bank of the Yamunā,
the blue daughter of the sun, thus poured forth his lamentation.
“She is departed: she saw me, no doubt, surrounded by the
wanton shepherdesses; yet, conscious of my fault, I durst not
intercept her flight. Woe is me! She feels a sense of injured
honor, and is departed in wrath. How will she conduct herself ?
How will she express her pain in so long a separation? What
is wealth to me ? What are numerous attendants? What are the
pleasures of the world ? What joy can I receive from a heavenly
abode? I seem to behold her face with eyebrows contracting
themselves through her just resentment; it resembles a fresh
lotos over which two black bees are fluttering: I seem, so present
is she to my imagination, even now to caress her with eagerness.


## p. 8212 (#412) ###########################################

8212
JAYADEVA
IV. I.
Why then do I seek her in this forest? Why do I lament with.
out cause? O slender damsel! anger, I know, has torn thy soft
bosom; but whither thou art retired I know not. How can I
invite thee to return? Thou art seen by me, indeed, in a vision;
thou seemest to move before me. Ah! why dost thou not rush,
as before, to my embrace? Do but forgive me: never again will
I commit a similar offense. Grant me but a sight of thee, O
lovely Rādhā, for my passion torments me. ”
The damsel [as confidante] commissioned by Rādhā
[to seek the erring Krishna] found the disconsolate god under
an arbor of spreading Vaniras by the side of Yamunā; where,
presenting herself gracefully before him, she thus described the
affliction of his beloved:-
"She despises essence of sandalwood, and even by moonlight
sits brooding over her gloomy sorrow; she declares the gale of
Malaya to be venom, and the sandal-trees through which it has
breathed to have been the haunt of serpents. Thus, O Madhava,
is she afflicted in thy absence with the pain which love's dart
has occasioned; her soul is fixed on thee. Fresh arrows of desire
are continually assailing her, and she forms a net of lotos-leaves
as armor for her heart, which thou alone shouldst fortify. She
makes her own bed of the arrows darted by the flowery-shafted
god; but when she hoped for thy embrace, she had formed for
thee a couch of soft blossoms. Her face is like a water-lily
veiled in the dews of tears, and her eyes appear like moons
eclipsed. ”
[Krishna now sends a message in return by the damsel, who pictures to
Rādhā the longing of her lover's heart as follows:-)
((
V.
2.
“Whilst a sweet breeze from the hills of Malaya comes
wafting on his plumes the young god of Desire; while many a
flower points his extended petals to pierce the bosoms of sepa-
rated lovers, the deity crowned with sylvan blossoms laments,
friend, in thy absence. Even the dewy rays of the moon burn
him; and as the shaft of love is descending, he mourns inarticu-
lately with increasing distraction. When the bees murmur softly,
he covers his ears; misery sits fixed in his heart, and every
returning night adds anguish to anguish. He quits his radiant
palace for the wild forest, where he sinks on a bed of cold clay,
and frequently mutters thy name. In yon bower, to which the
pilgrims of love are used to repair, he meditates on thy form,


## p. 8213 (#413) ###########################################

JAYADEVA
8213
repeating in silence some enchanting word which once dropped
from thy lips, and thirsting for the nectar which they alone can
supply. Delay not, o loveliest of women; follow the lord of thy
heart: behold, he seeks the appointed shade, bright with the
ornaments of love, and confident of the promised bliss. Having
bound his locks with forest flowers, he hastens to yon arbor,
where a soft gale breathes over the banks of Yamunā; there,
again pronouncing thy name, he modulates his divine reed. Oh!
with what rapture doth he gaze on the golden dust which the
breeze shakes from expanded blossoms; the breeze which has
kissed thy cheek! With a mind languid as a dropping wing,
a
feeble as a trembling leaf, he doubtfully expects thy approach,
and timidly looks on the path which thou must tread. ”
[The damsel returns, and narrates to Krishna the love-born misery and
weakness of Rādhā. ]
VI. I. “She mourns, O sovereign of the world, in her verdant
bower; she looks eagerly on all sides in hope of thy approach;
then, gaining strength from the delightful idea of the proposed
meeting, she advances a few steps, and falls languid on the
ground. When she rises, she weaves bracelets of fresh leaves;
she dresses herself like her beloved, and looking at herself in
sport, exclaims, Behold the vanquisher of Madhu! ' Then she
repeats again and again the name of Krishna, and catching at a
dark blue cloud, strives to embrace it, saying, “It is my beloved
who approaches. ' Thus, while thou art dilatory, she lies expect-
ing thee; she mourns; she weeps; she puts on her gayest orna-
ments to receive her lord. ”
VII. I. By this time the moon spread out a net of beams
over the groves of Vrindāvan, and looked like a drop of liquid
sandal on the face of the sky, which smiled like a beautiful dam-
sel; while its orb with many spots betrayed, as it were, a con-
sciousness of guilt, in having often attended amorous maids to
the loss of their family honor. The moon, with a black fawn
couched on its disk, advanced in its nightly course; but Mādhava
had not advanced to the bower of Rādhā, who thus bewailed his
delay with notes of varied lamentation.
“The appointed moment is come; but Krishna, alas!
comes not to the grove. Must the season of my unblemished
youth pass thus idly away? Oh! what refuge can I seek, deluded
as I am by the guile of my female adviser ? The god with five
((
VII. 3.


## p. 8214 (#414) ###########################################

8214
JAYADEVA
arrows has wounded my heart; and I am deserted by him for
whose sake I have sought at night the darkest recess of the for-
est. Since my best beloved friends have deceived me, it is my
wish to die; since my senses are disordered, and my bosom is on
fire, why stay I longer in this world ? »
VII. 5.
[And as Krishna does not accompany the damsel, Rādhā supposes him to
be false; and fired by jealousy, she passes in anguish a sleepless night imagin-
ing her Krishna reposing in a rival's arms. ]
Her form is transfigured by the touch of her divine
lover; her garland quivers over her swelling bosom; her face like
the moon is graced with clouds of dark hair, and trembles, while
she quaffs the nectarous dew on his lip; her bright earrings
dance over her cheeks, which they radiate; and the small bells on
her girdle tinkle as she moves.
[But Krishna is faithful now to his true love, whom he fears he has lost.
His prolonged trial is at an end, and penitent he seeks Rādbā and falls weep-
ing at her feet. ]
X. 2.
"Speak but one mild word, and the rays of thy spar-
kling teeth will dispel the gloom of my fears. My trembling lips,
like thirsty Chakoras, long to drink the moonbeams of thy cheek.
O my darling, who art naturally so tender-hearted, abandon thy
causeless indignation. At this moment the fame of desire con-
sumes my heart: oh, grant me a draught of honey from the lotos
of thy mouth! Or, if thou beëst inexorable, grant me death from
the arrows of thy keen eyes; make thy arms my chains; and
punish me according to thy pleasure. Thou art my life; thou art
my ornament; thou art a pearl in the ocean of my mortal birth:
oh! be favorable now, and my heart shall eternally be grateful. ”
[And the reconciliation takes place in a beautiful moonlit bower, as de-
scribed above. ]
Translation of Sir William Jones.


## p. 8215 (#415) ###########################################

8215
RICHARD JEFFERIES
(1848–1887)
N English essayist of unusual quality was Richard Jefferies,
whose birthplace was near the Wiltshire village of Swindon.
There, November 6th, 1848, the son of a farmer, he began the
life that was to end untimely before he had come to the age of forty.
His baptismal name was John Richard. Self-educated by sheer will-
power, struggling up out of untoward humble circumstances, Jefferies
offers an example of one of the finest spectacles earth affords: per-
sonal merit winning its way against odds.
He wrote early for local newspapers, and
contributed tentatively to Fraser's Maga-
zine. In 1877, still under thirty, he settled
at Surbiton near London, in order to take
up the literary career for better or worse.
He wrote for the Pall Mall Gazette, Long-
mans' Magazine, and like periodicals; his
essays attracting attention by their indi-
vidual note, fresh spirit, accurate descrip-
tions, and loving feeling for nature.
Although dying comparatively young, -
August 14th, 1887, at Goring in Sussex, (? )-
Jefferies was a voluminous writer, his list RICHARD JEFFERIES
of published works numbering twenty-four.
Of these, characteristic early works were (The Gamekeeper at
Home: or, Sketches from Natural History and Rural Life' (1878);
(The Amateur Poacher) (1879); Hodge and His Masters) (1880); and
Round About a Great Estate (1880). A number of novels also date
from this period; and while Jefferies was deficient in construction and
action, and not properly a maker of fiction, his fine descriptive powers
and strong thought give even his stories a certain value. But it is in
the essay devoted to the study and praise of nature that he becomes
a master. When he began to write of British scenery, of the birds,
flowers, and trees of his own region, he produced work that won him
a unique position among modern English essayists. Volumes like
Life of the Fields) (1884), the wonderful autobiographical sketch
(Story of My Heart) (1883), and the posthumous collection of papers
published by his widow under the title (Field and Hedgerow, illus-
trate phases of this activity.

-


## p. 8216 (#416) ###########################################

8216
RICHARD JEFFERIES
During the six final years of his life Jefferies was an invalid, and
spent his time in country villages in the quest of health; yet some
of the most suggestive and beautiful of his essays were written under
these conditions, the poetic and mystic in him coming out strong
towards the last, and lending a sort of magic to his pen.
Like the American John Burroughs, Jefferies unites knowledge
and love of his chief subject with the power of popular literary pres-
entation. Technicalities are forgotten in the infectious glow of his
enthusiasm. The two writers are not unlike, also, in their philosophy,
which interprets Nature without discovering in her the conventional
religious symbols. But Jefferies is more the prose poet, and has an
idealistic element which gives a peculiar charm to his essays.
The
exquisite passage which follows, from the Story of My Heart,' is
as good an illustration of this mystic quality as the whole body of
his writings affords. Seldom has a more remarkable confession of
spiritual travail been written down. The Story' is so candid, so
intimate, yet so delicate; and it is all true, "absolutely and unflinch-
ingly true,” as he says. One hardly knows at first whether it be a
real experience or a literary tour de force, — until more knowledge of
Jefferies, of his honesty and unconventionality, stamps the book as
naïvely genuine. The poetry of it will be felt by any one sensitive
to beautiful words that carry beautiful thoughts. An example is also
given of his earlier, more objective and practical mood and manner.
HILL VISIONS
From (The Story of My Heart)
He story of my heart commences seventeen years ago.
In the
T
It
in
I felt the necessity of a strong inspiration of soul-thought.
My heart was dusty, parched for the want of the rain of deep
feeling; my mind arid and dry, - for there is a dust which
settles on the heart as well as that which falls on a ledge.
is injurious to the mind as well as to the body to be always
one place, and always surrounded by the same circumstances.
A species of thick clothing slowly grows about the mind; the
pores are choked, little habits become a part of existence, and
by degrees the mind is inclosed in a husk. When this began to
form, I felt eager to escape from it, to throw it off like heavy
clothing, to drink deeply once more at the fresh fountain of life.
An inspiration - a long deep breath of the pure air of thought
- could alone give health to the heart.


## p. 8217 (#417) ###########################################

RICHARD JEFFERIES
8217
On a
warm
I re-
sun
There was a hill to which I used to resort at such periods.
The labor of walking three miles to it, all the while gradually
ascending, seemed to clear my blood of the heaviness accumu-
lated at home.
summer day the slow continued
rise required continued effort, which carried away the sense of
oppression. The familiar every-day scene was soon out of sight;
I came to other trees, meadows, and fields; I began to breathe a
new air and to have a fresher aspiration. I restrained my soul
till I reached the sward of the hill; psyche, the soul that longed
to be loose, -I would write psyche always instead of soul, to
avoid meanings which have become attached to the word “soul,”
but it is awkward to do so. Clumsy indeed are all words the
moment the wooden stage of commonplace life is left.
strained psyche, my soul, till I reached and put my foot on the
grass at the beginning of the green hill itself.
Moving up the sweet short turf, at every step my heart
seemed to obtain a wider horizon of feeling; with every inhala-
tion of rich pure air, a deeper desire. The very light of the
was whiter and more brilliant here, By the time I had
reached the summit I had entirely forgotten the petty circum-
stances and the annoyances of existence. I felt myself, myself.
There was an intrenchment on the summit, and going down
into the fosse I walked round it slowly to recover breath. On
the southwestern side there was a spot where the outer bank
had partially slipped, leaving a gap. There the view was over
a broad plain, beautiful with wheat and inclosed by a perfect
amphitheatre of green hills. Through these hills there was
one narrow groove or pass southwards, where the white clouds
seemed to close in the horizon. Woods hid the scattered hamlets
and farm-houses, so that I was quite alone.
I was utterly alone with the sun and the earth. Lying down
on the grass, I spoke in my soul to the earth, the sun, the air,
and the distant sea far beyond sight. I thought of the earth's
firmness -I felt it bear me up; through the grassy couch there
came an influence as if I could feel the great earth speaking to
I thought of the wandering air — its pureness, which is its
beauty: the air touched me and gave me something of itself. I
spoke to the sea;- though so far, in my mind I saw it green
at the rim of the earth and blue in deeper ocean; — I desired
to have its strength, its mystery and glory. Then I addressed
the sun, desiring the soul-equivalent of his light and brilliance,
me.


## p. 8218 (#418) ###########################################

8218
RICHARD JEFFERIES
ness.
his endurance and unwearied race. I turned to the blue heaven
over, gazing into its depth, inhaling its exquisite color and sweet.
The rich blue of the unattainable flower of the sky drew
my soul toward it, and there it rested; for pure color is rest of
heart. By all these I prayed: I felt an emotion of the soul
beyond all definition; prayer is a puny thing to it, and the word
is a rude sign to the feeling, but I know no other. By the
blue heaven, by the rolling sun bursting through untrodden
space, a new ocean of ether is every day unveiled. By the fresh
and wandering air encompassing the world; by the sea sound-
ing on the shore- the green sea white-flecked at the margin,
and the deep ocean; by the strong earth under me. Then
returning, I prayed by the sweet thyme, whose little flowers I
touched with my hand; by the slender grass; by the crumble of
dry, chalky earth I took up and let fall through my fingers.
Touching the crumble of earth, the blade of grass, the thyme
flower; breathing the earth-encircling air; thinking of the sea
and the sky, holding out my hand for the sunbeams to touch it,
prone on the sward in token of deep reverence,- thus I prayed
that I might touch to the unutterable existence infinitely higher
than Deity.
With all the intensity of feeling which exalted me, all the
intense communion I held with the earth, the sun and sky, the
stars hidden by the light, with the ocean - in no manner
the thrilling depth of these feelings be written. With these I
prayed as if they were the keys of an instrument, of an organ,
with which I swelled forth the notes of my soul, redoubling my
own voice by their power. The great sun burning with light;
the strong earth, dear earth; the warm sky; the pure air; the
thought of ocean, — the inexpressible beauty of all filled me
a rapture, an ecstasy, an inflatus. With this inflatus, too, I prayed.
Next to myself I came and recalled myself, my bodily existence.
I held out my hand; the sunlight gleamed on the skin and
the iridescent nails; I recalled the mystery and beauty of the
flesh. I thought of the mind with which I could see the ocean
sixty miles distant, and gather to myself its glory. I thought of
my inner existence, that consciousness which is called the soul.
These - that is, myself - I threw in the balance to weigh the
prayer the heavier. My strength of body, mind, and soul I Aung
into it; I put forth my strength; I wrestled and labored and
toiled in might of prayer.
The prayer, this soul-emotion, was in
can
with


## p. 8219 (#419) ###########################################

RICHARD JEFFERIES
8219
itself; not for an object - it was a passion. I hid my face in the
grass; I was wholly prostrated; I lost myself in the wrestle; I
was rapt and carried away.
Becoming calmer, I returned to myself and thought, reclining
in rapt thought, full of aspiration, steeped to the lips of my soul
in desire. I did not then define or analyze or understand this.
I see now that what I labored for was soul-life, more soul-nature,
to be exalted, to be full of soul-learning. Finally I rose, walked
half a mile or so along the summit of the hill eastwards, to soothe
myself and come to the common ways of life again.