over the very top of the ears there came gliding
very quickly towards me, not Vassya, but Christ himself!
very quickly towards me, not Vassya, but Christ himself!
Warner - World's Best Literature - v26 - Tur to Wat
”
"And so you go on lying here all the time? ” I asked again.
“Yes, sir, I've been lying here seven years.
In the summer-
time I lie here in this shanty, and when it gets cold they move
me out into the bath-house: I lie there. "
« Who waits on you ? Does any one look after you ? »
“Oh, there are kind folks here as everywhere; they don't
desert me. Yes, they see to me a little. As to food, I eat
nothing to speak of: but water is here in the pitcher; it's always
kept full of pure spring water.
I can
reach to the pitcher
myself: I've one arm still of use. There's a little girl here, an
orphan; now and then she comes to see me, the kind child. She
was here just now. You didn't meet her ? Such a pretty, fair
little thing. She brings me flowers. We've some in the garden
- there were some, but they've all disappeared. But you know,
wild flowers too are nice; they smell even sweeter than garden
Howers. Lilies of the valley, now — what could be sweeter ? »
"And aren't you dull and miserable, my poor Lukerya ? "
“Why, what is one to do? I wouldn't tell a lie about it. At
first it was very wearisome: but later on I got used to it, I got
more patient - it was nothing; there are others worse off still. ”
How do you mean? ”
Why, some haven't a roof to shelter them, and there are
some blind or deaf; while I, thank God, have splendid sight, and
hear everything - everything. If a mole burrows in the ground
-I hear even that. And I can smell every scent, even the
faintest! When the buckwheat comes into flower in the meadow,
or the lime-tree in the garden - I don't need to be told of it,
even; I'm the first to know directly. Anyway, if there's the least
bit of a wind blowing from that quarter. No, he who stirs God's
wrath is far worse off than me. Look at this, again: any one
in health may easily fall into sin; but I'm cut off even from sin.
The other day, Father Aleksy, the priest, came to give me the
sacrament, and he says, “There's no need,' says he, (to confess
you: you can't fall into sin in your condition, can you ? ' But I
said to him, How about sinning in thought, father? Ah, well,
says he, and he laughed himself, that's no great sin. ' But I
fancy I'm no great sinner even in that way, in thought,” Lukerya
went on; "for I've trained myself not to think, and above all,
not to remember. The time goes faster. ”
(
((
## p. 15123 (#59) ###########################################
IVAN TURGENEFF
15123
his gun.
I must own I was astonished. “You're always alone, Lukerya:
how can you prevent the thoughts from coming into your head ?
or are you constantly asleep? "
" «Oh, no, sir! I can't always sleep. Though I've no great
pain, still I've an ache, there, - right inside, - and in my bones
too; it won't let me sleep as I ought. No; but there, I lie by
myself; I lie here and lie here, and don't think: I feel that
I'm alive, I breathe; and I put myself all into that. I look and
listen. The bees buzz and hum in the hive; a dove sits on the
roof and cooes; a hen comes along with her chickens to peck
up crumbs; or a sparrow Aies in, or a butterfly — that's a great
treat for me. Last year some swallows even built a nest over
there in the corner, and brought up their little ones.
Oh, how
interesting it was! One would fly to the nest, press close, feed
a young one, and off again. Look again: the other would be in
her place already. Sometimes it wouldn't fly in, but only fly
past the open door; and the little ones would begin to squawk,
and open their beaks directly. I was hoping for them back again
the next year, but they say a sportsman here shot them with
And what could he gain by it? It's hardly bigger, the
swallow, than a beetle. What wicked men you are, you sports-
men! »
"I don't shoot swallows," I hastened to remark.
"And once,” Lukerya began again, "it was comical, really.
A hare ran in; it did, really! The hounds, I suppose, were after
it; anyway, it seemed to tumble straight in at the door! It
squatted quite near me, and sat so a long while; it kept sniffing
with its nose, and twitching its whiskers - like a regular officer!
and it looked at me. It understood, to be sure, that I was no
danger to it. At last it got up, went hop-hop to the door, looked
round in the doorway; and what did it look like? Such a funny
fellow it was! »
Lukerya glanced at me, as much as to say, “Wasn't it funny? ”
To satisfy her, I laughed. She moistened her parched lips.
"Well, in the winter, of course, I'm worse off, because it's
dark: to burn a candle would be a pity, and what would be the
use? I can read, to be sure, and was always fond of reading;
but what could I read? There are no books of any kind; and
even if there were, how could I hold a book ? Father Aleksy
brought me a calendar to entertain me; but he saw it was no
good, so he took and carried it away again. But even though
## p. 15124 (#60) ###########################################
15124
IVAN TURGENEFF
a
So we
it's dark, there's always something to listen to: a cricket chirps,
or a mouse begins scratching somewhere. That's when it's a
good thing - not to think! -
“And I repeat the prayers too,” Lukerya went on, after taking
breath a little; "only I don't know many of them — the prayers,
I mean. And besides, why should I weary the Lord God? What
can I ask him for ? He knows better than I what I need. He
has laid a cross upon me: that means that he loves me.
are commanded to understand. I repeat the Lord's Prayer, the
Hymn to the Virgin, the Supplication of all the Afflicted, and I
lie still again, without any thought at all, and am all right! ”
Two minutes passed by. I did not break the silence, and did
not stir on the narrow tub which served me as a seat. The cruel
stony stillness of the living, unlucky creature lying before me
communicated itself to me; I too turned, as it were, numb.
“Listen, Lukerya,” I began at last; “listen to the suggestion
I'm going to make to you. Would you like me to arrange for
them to take you to a hospital — a good hospital in the town?
Who knows - perhaps you might yet be cured; anyway, you
would not be alone. ”
Lukerya's eyebrows fluttered faintly. Oh, no, sir,” she an-
swered in a troubled whisper: “don't move me into a hospital;
don't touch me. I shall only have more agony to bear there!
How could they cure me now? Why, there was a doctor came
here once; he wanted to examine me. I begged him for Christ's
sake not to disturb me.
He began turning
me over, pounding my hands and legs, and pulling me about.
He said, 'I'm doing this for science; I'm a servant of science
a scientific man! And you,' he said, really oughtn't to oppose
me, because I've a medal given me for my labors, and it's for
you simpletons I'm toiling. He mauled me about, told me the
name of my disease some wonderful long name and with that
he went away; and all my poor bones ached for a week after.
You say I'm all alone; always alone. Oh, no, I'm not always:
they come to see I'm quiet - I don't bother them. The
peasant girls come in and chat a bit; a pilgrim woman will
wander in, and tell me tales of Jerusalem, of Kiev, of the holy
towns. And I'm not afraid of being alone. Indeed, it's better
ay, ay! Master, don't touch me, don't take me to the hospi-
tal. Thank you, you are kind: only don't touch me, there's a
dear! ”
((
It was
no
use,
me.
## p. 15125 (#61) ###########################################
IVAN TURGENEFF
15125
»
C
“Well, as you like, as you like, Lukerya. You know I only
suggested it for your good. ”
"I know, master, that it was for my good. But master dear,
who can help another? Who can enter into his soul ? Every
man must help himself! -You won't believe me, perhaps: I lie
here sometimes so alone; and it's as though there were no one
else in the world but me. As if I alone were living! And it
seems to me as though something were blessing me. I'm carried
away by dreams that are really marvelous ! »
« What do you dream of, then, Lukerya ? ”
« That too, master, I couldn't say: one can't explain. Besides,
one forgets afterwards. It's like a cloud coming over and burst-
ing; then it grows so fresh and sweet: but just what it was,
there's no knowing! Only my idea is, if folks were near me, I
should have nothing of that, and should feel nothing except my
misfortune. ”
Lukerya heaved a painful sigh. Her breathing, like her limbs,
was not under her control.
"When I come to think, master, of you,” she began again,
"you are very sorry for me. But you mustn't be too sorry,
really! I'll tell you one thing; for instance, I sometimes, even
Do you remember how merry I used to be in my time ?
A regular madcap! So do you know what ? I sing songs even
now. ”
"Sing? You ? »
“Yes: I sing the old songs- songs for choruses, for feasts,
Christmas songs, all sorts !
I know such a lot of them, you see,
and I've not forgotten them. Only dance songs I don't sing. In
my state now, it wouldn't suit me. ”
“How do you sing them ? — to yourself?
« To myself, yes; and aloud too. I can't sing loud, but still
one can understand it. I told you a little girl waits on me. A
clever little orphan she is. So I have taught her: four songs
she has learnt from me already. Don't you believe me? Wait a
minute, I'll show you directly. ”
Lukerya took breath. The thought that this half-dead creat-
ure was making ready to begin singing raised an involuntary
feeling of dread in me. But before I could utter a word, a long-
drawn-out, hardly audible, but pure and true note, was quivering
in my ears; it was followed by a second and a third.
« In the
meadows,” sang Lukerya. She sang, the expression of her stony
now
(
>
## p. 15126 (#62) ###########################################
15126
IVAN TURGENEFF
face unchanged, even her eyes riveted on one spot.
one spot. But how
touchingly tinkled out that poor struggling little voice, that
wavered like a thread of smoke; how she longed to pour out all
her soul in it! I felt no dread now; my heart throbbed with
unutterable pity.
“Ah, I can't! ” she said suddenly. "I've not the strength: I'm
so upset with joy at seeing you. "
She closed her eyes.
I laid my hand on her tiny, chill fingers. She glanced at me,
and her dark lids, fringed with golden eyelashes, closed again, and
were still as an ancient statue's. An instant later they glist,
ened in the half-darkness. They were moistened by a tear.
As before, I did not stir.
«How silly I am! ” said Lukerya suddenly, with unexpected
force, and opened her eyes wide; she tried to wink the tears out
of them. "I ought to be ashamed ! What am I doing? It's a
long time since I have been like this - not since that day when
Vassya Polyakov was here last spring. While he sat with me
and talked, I was all right; but when he had gone away, how I
did cry in my loneliness! Where did I get the tears from ?
But there! we girls get our tears for nothing. Master,” added
Lukerya, “perhaps you have a handkerchief. If you don't mind,
wipe my eyes. ”
I made haste to carry out her desire, and left her the hand-
kerchief. She refused it at first. “What good's such a gift to
me ? ” she said. The handkerchief was plain enough, but clean
and white. Afterwards she clutched it in her weak fingers, and
did not loosen them again. As I got used to the darkness in
which we both were, I could clearly make out her features; could
even perceive the delicate flush that peeped out under the cop-
pery hue of her face; could discover in the face, so at least it
seemed to me, traces of its former beauty.
“You asked me, master,” Lukerya began again, whether I
sleep. I sleep very little, but every time I fall asleep I've dreams
- such splendid dreams! I'm never ill in my dreams; I'm always
so well, and young There's one thing's sad: I wake up and
long for a good stretch, and I'm all as if I were in chains. I
once had such an exquisite dream! Shall I tell it you? Well,
listen. I dreamt I was standing in a meadow, and all round me
was rye, so tall, and ripe as gold! and I had a reddish dog with
e- such a wicked dog; it kept trying to bite me. And I had
me-
## p. 15127 (#63) ###########################################
IVAN TURGENEFF
15127
a sickle in my hands: not a simple sickle; it seemed to be the
moon itself — the moon as it is when it's the shape of a sickle.
And with this same moon I had to cut the rye clean.
Only
I was very weary with the heat, and the moon blinded me, and
I felt lazy; and corn-flowers were growing all about, and such big
ones! And they all turned their heads to me. And I thought in
my dream I would pick them: Vassya had promised to come, so
I'd pick myself a wreath first; I'd still time to plait it. I began
picking corn-flowers; but they kept melting away from between
my fingers, do what I would. And I couldn't make myself a
I
I
wreath. And meanwhile I heard some one coming up to me, so
close, and calling, Lusha! Lusha! ' 'Ah,' I thought, 'what a
pity I hadn't time! No matter, I put that moon on my head
instead of corn-flowers, I put it on like a tiara, and I was all
brightness directly; I made the whole field light around me.
And, behold!
over the very top of the ears there came gliding
very quickly towards me, not Vassya, but Christ himself! And
how I knew it was Christ I can't say: they don't paint him
like that -- only it was he! No beard, tall, young, all in white,
only his belt was golden; and he held out his hand to me.
'Fear not,' said he, my bride adorned: follow me; you shall lead
the choral dance in the heavenly kingdom, and sing the songs
of Paradise. And how I clung to his hand ! My dog at once
followed at my heels, but then we began to float upwards! he
in front,- his wings spread wide over all the sky, long like a
sea-gull's - and I after him! And my dog had to stay behind.
Then only I understood that that dog was my illness, and that in
the heavenly kingdom there was no place for it. ”
Lukerya paused a minute.
"And I had another dream, too,” she began again; “but
maybe it was a vision. I really don't know. It seemed to me I
.
was lying in this very shanty; and my dead parents, father and
mother, come to me and bow low to me, but say nothing. And
I asked them, Why do you bow down to me, father and mother? '
Because,' they said, you suffer much in this world, so that you
have not only set free your own soul, but have taken a great
burden from off us too. And for us in the other world it is
much easier. You have made an end of your own sins; now you
are expiating our sins. ' And having said this, my parents bowed
down to me again, and I could not see them; there was nothing
but the walls to be seen. I was in great doubt afterwards what
## p. 15128 (#64) ###########################################
15128
IVAN TURGENEFF
had happened to me. I even told the priest of it in confession.
Only he thinks it was not a vision, because visions come only to
the clerical gentry. ”
"And I'll tell you another dream,” Lukerya went on. « I
dreamt I was sitting on the high-road, under a willow; I had a
stick, had a wallet on my shoulders, and my head tied up in a
kerchief, just like a pilgrim woman! And I had to go some-
where, a long, long way off, on a pilgrimage. And pilgrims kept
coming past me: they came along slowly, all going one way;
their faces were weary, and all very much like one another. And
I dreamt that moving about among them was a woman, a head
taller than the rest, and wearing a peculiar dress, not like ours
not Russian. And her face too was peculiar,- a worn face
and severe.
And all the others moved away from her; but she
suddenly turns, and comes straight to me. She stood still, and
looked at me; and her eyes were yellow, large, and clear as a
falcon's. And I ask her, Who are you? ' And she says to me,
I'm your death. Instead of being frightened, it was quite the
other way: I was as pleased as could be; I crossed myself! And
the woman, my death, says to me: I'm sorry for you, Lukerya,
but I can't take you with me.
Farewell! Good God! how
sad I was then! Take me,' said I, 'good mother; take me, dar-
ling! ' And my death turned to me, and began speaking to me.
I knew that she was appointing me my hour, but indistinctly, in-
comprehensibly. After St. Peter's day,' said she. With that I
awoke. Yes, I have such wonderful dreams! »
Lukerya turned her eyes upwards, and sank into thought.
“Only the sad thing is, sometimes a whole week will go by
without my getting to sleep once. Last year a lady came to
see me, and she gave me a little bottle of medicine against sleep-
lessness; she told me to take ten drops at a time. It did me so
much good, and I used to sleep; only the bottle was all finished
long ago.
Do you know what medicine that was, and how to
a
get it? »
The lady had obviously given Lukerya opium. I promised to
get her another bottle like it, and could not refrain from again
wondering aloud at her patience.
"Ah, master! ” she answered, “why do you say so? What do
you mean by patience? There, Simeon Stylites now had patience
certainly, great patience; for thirty years he stood on a pillar:
And another saint had himself buried in the earth, right up to
## p. 15129 (#65) ###########################################
IVAN TURGENEFF
15129
(C
his breast, and the ants ate his face. And I'll tell you what I
was told by a good scholar: there was once a country, and the
Ishmaelites made war on it, and they tortured and killed all
the inhabitants; and do what they would, the people could not
get rid of them. And there appeared among these people a holy
virgin; she took a great sword, put on armor weighing eighty
pounds, went out against the Ishmaelites, and drove them all be-
yond the sea. Only when she had driven them out, she said to
them: Now burn me; for that was my vow, that I would die a
death by fire for my people. And the Ishmaelites took her and
burnt her, and the people have been free ever since then! That
was a noble deed, now! But what am I! »
I wondered to myself whence and in what shape the legend
of Joan of Arc had reached her; and after a brief silence, I asked
Lukerya how old she was.
“Twenty-eight - or nine. It won't be thirty. But why count
the years! I've something else to tell you — ”
Lukerya suddenly gave a sort of choked cough, and groaned.
"You are talking a great deal," I observed to her; it may
be bad for you. ”
"It's true,” she whispered, scarce audibly; "it's time to
end our talk; but what does it matter! Now, when you leave
me, I can be silent as long as I like. Anyway, I've opened my
heart. ”
I began bidding her good-by. I repeated my promise to send
her the medicine, and asked her once more to think well and tell
me if there wasn't anything she wanted.
“I want nothing: I am content with all, thank God! ” she
articulated with very great effort, but with emotion; "God give
good health to all! But there, master, you might speak a word
to your mamma: the peasants here are poor - if she could take
the least bit off their rent! They've not land enough, and no
advantages. They would pray to God for you. But I want
nothing. I'm quite contented with all. ”
I gave Lukerya my word that I would carry out her request,
and had already walked to the door. She called me back again.
“Do you remember, master,” she said, -and there was a
gleam of something wonderful in her eyes and on her lips,-
what hair I used to have ? Do you remember, right down to
my knees! It was long before I could make up my mind to it.
Such hair as it was! But how could it be kept combed ?
>>
a
In my
## p. 15130 (#66) ###########################################
15130
IVAN TURGENEFF
state! So I had it cut off. Yes. Well, good-by, master! I can't
I
talk any more. "
That day, before setting off to shoot, I had a conversation
with the village constable about Lukerya. I learnt from him
that in the village they called Lukerya the Living Relic”: that
she gave them no trouble, however; they never heard complaint
or repining from her. “She asks nothing, but on the contrary
she's grateful for everything; a gentle soul, one must say, if
any there be.
Stricken of God," so the constable concluded, for
her sins, one must suppose; but we do not go into that.
And as
for judging her, no- – no, we do not judge her. Let her be! »
>
A few weeks later I heard that Lukerya was dead. So her
death had come for her and “after St. Peter's day. ” They told
me that on the day of her death she kept hearing the sound of
bells, though it was reckoned over five miles from Aleksyevka to
the church, and it was a week-day. Lukerya, however, had said
that the sounds came not from the church, but from above!
Probably she did not dare to say — from heaven.
-
## p. 15131 (#67) ###########################################
15131
MOSES COIT TYLER
(1835-)
He literary historian who performs for his country a double
service to criticism and literature deserves its gratitude. Ad-
mirable criticism often lacks the literary touch and tone, -
yet these are especially welcome in the critic of literature. Professor
Moses Coit Tyler, in the thorough-going and attractive studies he has
for years been making of the American literary past, stands alone in
the dignified endeavor to cover the whole field with scholarly care,
and by the methods of broad comprehensive criticism. His task is
still incomplete; but he has published ex-
haustive and stimulating volumes upon the
literature of the Colonial and Revolutionary
periods, of such a quality as to declare him
master of the field. His treatment of ma-
terial that in some hands would inevitably
prove dull in the handling, has made the
tentative literary struggles and efforts warm
and full of illumination.
To this attractiveness may be added the
solider characteristics which go to make up
the critic truly called to his vocation: judg-
ment, the sense of proportion, an apprecia-
tion of what are the underlying principles Moses Coit TYLER
in the development of American life and
letters, and a sound moral insight. Professor Tyler is by birth and
training the right sort of man to give a critical survey of the earlier
American literature, which is in intent and result so predominantly
earnest and ethical.
Moses Coit Tyler is a New-Englander; born in Griswold, Connecti-
cut, on August 2d, 1835. He was graduated from Yale in 1857, and
studied theology there and afterwards at Andover Theological Semi-
nary, Andover, Massachusetts. From 1860 to 1862 he was pastor
of the First Congregational Church of Poughkeepsie, New York. In
1863 he went to England, and resided there four years. On his return
he was appointed to the English chair of the University of Michigan.
In 1881 he became Professor of History at Cornell, which position
he has since held. He was made a priest of the Protestant Episcopal
Church in 1883.
## p. 15132 (#68) ###########################################
15132
MOSES COIT TYLER
ure.
Professor Tyler's literary activity began with the publication of
the (Brawnville Papers) in 1869,- a series of essays on physical cult-
The initial part of his chief life work was put forth in 1878:
A History of American Literature During the Colonial Time,' in two
volumes. The preface announced the author's intention of making
successive studies, covering the growth of American letters up to the
present time. In 1897 (A Literary History of the American Revolu-
tion' appeared in pursuance of this scheme. Professor Tyler also pub-
lished in 1879, in conjunction with Professor Henry Morley, a Manual
of English Literature. He contributed to the American Statesmen'
Series the monograph on Patrick Henry (1887); and in 1894 appeared
(Three Men of Letters,' - appreciations of Bishop Berkeley, President
Dwight, and Joel Barlow. A volume entitled “Essays from the Nation'
is made up of contributions to that journal while the writer was in
England.
Professor Tyler's criticism of the American literary production is
based upon a recognition of its vital relation to history, to politics,
and society. He apprehends that the “penmen” have exerted an
influence upon the course of American affairs not second to the
statesmen and generals. This sense of the significant bearing of the
native literature upon native life gives his study a fresh, interesting
point of view. Hence it is a contribution to American history. When
he shall have completed his survey and included the literature of the
Republic up to the century-end, it will stand as the one authoritative
and complete word upon the subject. Professor Tyler's style is very
enjoyable for liveliness, color, and euphony. His writing has, dis-
tinctly, the artistic touch, and it is never dry, formal, or conventional
either in manner or thought. The selections appended sufficiently
illustrate this trait.
(
EARLY VERSE-WRITING IN NEW ENGLAND
From <A History of American Literature. ) Copyright 1878, by G. P.
Putnam's Sons
A.
HAPPY surprise awaits those who come to the study of the
early literature of New England with the expectation of
finding it altogether arid in sentiment, or void of the spirit
and aroma of poetry. The New Englander of the seventeenth
century was indeed a typical Puritan; and it will hardly be said
that any typical Puritan of that century was a poetical personage.
In proportion to his devotion to the ideas that won for him the
derisive honor of his name, was he at war with nearly every
form of the beautiful. He himself believed that there was an
## p. 15133 (#69) ###########################################
MOSES COIT TYLER
15133
»
inappeasable feud between religion and art; and hence the duty
of suppressing art was bound up in his soul with the master-
purpose of promoting religion. He cultivated the grim and the
ugly. He was afraid of the approaches of Satan through the
avenues of what is graceful and joyous. The principal business
of men and women in this world seemed to him to be not to
make it as delightful as possible, but to get through it as safely
as possible. By a whimsical and horrid freak of unconscious
Manichæism, he thought that whatever is good here is appropri-
ated to God, and whatever is pleasant, to the Devil. It is not
strange if he were inclined to measure the holiness of a man's
life by its disagreeableness. In the logic and fury of his tremen-
dous faith, he turned away utterly from music, from sculpture
and painting, from architecture, from the adornments of costume,
from the pleasures and embellishments of society,- because these
things seemed only the Devil's flippery and seduction to his
“ascetic soul, aglow with the gloomy or rapturous mysteries of
his theology. ” Hence, very naturally, he turned away likewise
from certain great and splendid types of literature, — from the
drama, from the playful and sensuous verse of Chaucer and his
innumerable sons, from the secular prose writings of his contem-
poraries, and from all forms of modern lyric verse except the
Calvinistic hymn.
Nevertheless the Puritan did not succeed in eradicating poetry
from his nature. Of course, poetry was planted there too deep
even for his theological grub-hooks to root it out. Though denied
expression in one way, the poetry that was in him forced itself
into utterance in another. If his theology drove poetry out of
many forms in which it had been used to reside, poetry itself
practiced a noble revenge by taking up its abode in his theology.
His supreme thought was given to theology; and there he nour-
ished his imagination with the mightiest and sublimest concep.
tions that a human being can entertain — conceptions of God and
man, of angels and devils, of Providence and duty and destiny,
of heaven, earth, hell. Though he stamped his foot in horror
and scorn upon many exquisite and delicious types of literary
art; stripped society of all its embellishments, life of all its amen-
ities, sacred architecture of all its grandeur, the public service
of divine worship of the hallowed pomp, the pathos and beauty,
of its most reverend and stately forms; though his prayers were
often a snuffle, his hymns a dolorous whine, his extemporized
## p. 15134 (#70) ###########################################
15134
MOSES COIT TYLER
liturgy a bleak ritual of ungainly postures and of harsh monoto-
nous howls: yet the idea that filled and thrilled his soul was one
in every way sublime, immense, imaginative, poetic,- the idea
of the awful omnipotent Jehovah, his inexorable justice, his holi-
ness, the inconceivable brightness of his majesty, the vastness of
his unchanging designs along the entire range of his relations
with the hierarchies of heaven, the principalities and powers of
the pit, and the elect and the reprobate of the sons of Adam.
How resplendent and superb was the poetry that lay at the heart
of Puritanism, was seen by the sightless eyes of John Milton,
whose great epic is indeed the epic of Puritanism.
Turning to Puritanism as it existed in New England, we may
perhaps imagine it as solemnly declining the visits of the Muses
of poetry, sending out to them the blunt but honest message —
"Otherwise engaged. ” Nothing could be further from the truth.
«
Of course, Thalia and Melpomene and Terpsichore could not
under any pretense have been admitted; but Polyhymnia — why
should not she have been allowed to come in ? especially if she
were willing to forsake her deplorable sisters, give up her pagan
habits, and submit to Christian baptism. Indeed, the Muse of
New England, whosoever that respectable damsel may have been,
was a Muse by no means exclusive: such as she was, she cor-
dially visited every one who would receive her — and every one
would receive her. It is an extraordinary fact about these grave
and substantial men of New England, especially during our earli-
est literary age, that they all had a lurking propensity to write
what they sincerely believed to be poetry, - and this, in most
cases, in unconscious defiance of the edicts of nature and of a
predetermining Providence. Lady Mary Montagu said that in
England, in her time, verse-making had become as common as
taking snuff. In New England, in the age before that, it had
become much more common than
than taking snuff - since there
were some who did not take snuff. It is impressive to note, as
we inspect our first period, that neither advanced age, nor high
office,' nor mental unfitness, nor previous condition of respecta-
bility, was sufficient to protect any one from the poetic vice.
We read of venerable men, like Peter Bulkley, continuing to
lapse into it when far beyond the great climacteric. Governor
Thomas Dudley was hardly a man to be suspected of such a
thing, yet even against him the evidence must be pronounced
conclusive: some verses in his own handwriting were found upon
-
-
## p. 15135 (#71) ###########################################
MOSES COIT TYLER
15135
his person after his death. Even the sage and serious governor
of Plymouth wrote ostensible poems. The renowned pulpit ora-
tor, John Cotton, did the same; although in some instances, he
prudently concealed the fact by inscribing his English verse in
Greek characters upon the blank leaves of his almanac. Here
and there, even a town clerk, placing on record the deeply pro-
saic proceedings of the selectmen, would adorn them in the
sacred costume of poetry. Perhaps, indeed, all this was their
solitary condescension to human frailty. The earthly element,
the passion, the carnal taint, the vanity, the weariness, or what-
ever else it be that in other men works itself off in a pleasure
journey, in a flirtation, in going to the play, or in a convivial
bout, did in these venerable men exhaust itself in the sly dissi-
pation of writing verses. Remembering their unfriendly attitude
toward art in general, this universal mania of theirs for some
forms of the poetic art — this unrestrained proclivity toward the
«lust of versification” – must seem to us an odd psychological
freak. Or shall we rather say that it was not a freak at all, but
a normal effort of nature, which, being unduly repressed in one
direction, is accustomed to burst over all barriers in another;
and that these grim and godly personages in the old times fell
into the intemperance of rhyming, just as in later days, excellent
ministers of the gospel and gray-haired deacons, recoiling from
the sin and scandal of a game at billiards, have been known to
manifest an inordinate joy in the orthodox frivolity of croquet ?
As respects the poetry which was perpetrated by our ancestors,
it must be mentioned that a benignant Providence has its own
methods of protecting the human family from intolerable misfor-
tune; and that the most of this poetry has perished. Enough,
however, has survived to furnish us with materials for everlast-
ing gratitude, by enabling us in a measure to realize the nature
and extent of the calamity which the Divine intervention has
spared us.
It will be natural for us to suppose that at any rate, poetry
in New England in the seventeenth century could not have been
a Gaya Sciencia, as poetry was called in Provence in the thir-
teenth century. Even this, however, is not quite correct; for no
inconsiderable part of early New England poetry has a positively
facetious intention, - that part, namely, which consists of elegies
and epitaphs. Our ancestors seem to have reserved their wit-
ticisms principally for tombstones and funerals. When a
died, his surviving friends were wont to conspire together to
man
## p. 15136 (#72) ###########################################
15136
MOSES COIT TYLER
-
write verses upon him,- and these verses often sparkled with
the most elaborate and painful jests. Thus in 1647, upon the
death of the renowned Thomas Hooker of Hartford, his colleague
in the pastorate, Samuel Stone, wrote to an eminent minister in
Massachusetts certain words of grave and cautious suggestion:
“ You may think whether it may not be comely for you and
myself and some other elders, to make a few verses for Mr.
Hooker, and transcribe them in the beginning of his book. I do
but propound it. ” The appeal was effectual: and when, a few
years later, it came Samuel Stone's turn to depart this life, those
who outlived him rendered to his memory a similar service; his
name furnishing an unusually pleasant opportunity for those
ingenuities of allusion, and those literary quirks and puns, that
were then thought to be among the graces of a threnody.
THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE
From "The Literary History of the American Revolution. Copyright 1897,
by Moses Coit Tyler. Reprinted by permission of G. P. Putnam's Sons,
publishers.
I"
Tis proper for us to remember that what we call criticism is
not the only valid test of the genuineness and worth of any
piece of writing of great practical interest to mankind: there
is also the test of actual use and service in the world, in direct
contact with the common-sense and the moral sense of large
masses of men, under various conditions, and for a long period.
,
a
Probably no writing which is not essentially sound and true has
ever survived this test.
Neither from this test has the great Declaration any need to
shrink. Probably no public paper ever more perfectly satisfied
the immediate purposes for which it was set forth.
"And so you go on lying here all the time? ” I asked again.
“Yes, sir, I've been lying here seven years.
In the summer-
time I lie here in this shanty, and when it gets cold they move
me out into the bath-house: I lie there. "
« Who waits on you ? Does any one look after you ? »
“Oh, there are kind folks here as everywhere; they don't
desert me. Yes, they see to me a little. As to food, I eat
nothing to speak of: but water is here in the pitcher; it's always
kept full of pure spring water.
I can
reach to the pitcher
myself: I've one arm still of use. There's a little girl here, an
orphan; now and then she comes to see me, the kind child. She
was here just now. You didn't meet her ? Such a pretty, fair
little thing. She brings me flowers. We've some in the garden
- there were some, but they've all disappeared. But you know,
wild flowers too are nice; they smell even sweeter than garden
Howers. Lilies of the valley, now — what could be sweeter ? »
"And aren't you dull and miserable, my poor Lukerya ? "
“Why, what is one to do? I wouldn't tell a lie about it. At
first it was very wearisome: but later on I got used to it, I got
more patient - it was nothing; there are others worse off still. ”
How do you mean? ”
Why, some haven't a roof to shelter them, and there are
some blind or deaf; while I, thank God, have splendid sight, and
hear everything - everything. If a mole burrows in the ground
-I hear even that. And I can smell every scent, even the
faintest! When the buckwheat comes into flower in the meadow,
or the lime-tree in the garden - I don't need to be told of it,
even; I'm the first to know directly. Anyway, if there's the least
bit of a wind blowing from that quarter. No, he who stirs God's
wrath is far worse off than me. Look at this, again: any one
in health may easily fall into sin; but I'm cut off even from sin.
The other day, Father Aleksy, the priest, came to give me the
sacrament, and he says, “There's no need,' says he, (to confess
you: you can't fall into sin in your condition, can you ? ' But I
said to him, How about sinning in thought, father? Ah, well,
says he, and he laughed himself, that's no great sin. ' But I
fancy I'm no great sinner even in that way, in thought,” Lukerya
went on; "for I've trained myself not to think, and above all,
not to remember. The time goes faster. ”
(
((
## p. 15123 (#59) ###########################################
IVAN TURGENEFF
15123
his gun.
I must own I was astonished. “You're always alone, Lukerya:
how can you prevent the thoughts from coming into your head ?
or are you constantly asleep? "
" «Oh, no, sir! I can't always sleep. Though I've no great
pain, still I've an ache, there, - right inside, - and in my bones
too; it won't let me sleep as I ought. No; but there, I lie by
myself; I lie here and lie here, and don't think: I feel that
I'm alive, I breathe; and I put myself all into that. I look and
listen. The bees buzz and hum in the hive; a dove sits on the
roof and cooes; a hen comes along with her chickens to peck
up crumbs; or a sparrow Aies in, or a butterfly — that's a great
treat for me. Last year some swallows even built a nest over
there in the corner, and brought up their little ones.
Oh, how
interesting it was! One would fly to the nest, press close, feed
a young one, and off again. Look again: the other would be in
her place already. Sometimes it wouldn't fly in, but only fly
past the open door; and the little ones would begin to squawk,
and open their beaks directly. I was hoping for them back again
the next year, but they say a sportsman here shot them with
And what could he gain by it? It's hardly bigger, the
swallow, than a beetle. What wicked men you are, you sports-
men! »
"I don't shoot swallows," I hastened to remark.
"And once,” Lukerya began again, "it was comical, really.
A hare ran in; it did, really! The hounds, I suppose, were after
it; anyway, it seemed to tumble straight in at the door! It
squatted quite near me, and sat so a long while; it kept sniffing
with its nose, and twitching its whiskers - like a regular officer!
and it looked at me. It understood, to be sure, that I was no
danger to it. At last it got up, went hop-hop to the door, looked
round in the doorway; and what did it look like? Such a funny
fellow it was! »
Lukerya glanced at me, as much as to say, “Wasn't it funny? ”
To satisfy her, I laughed. She moistened her parched lips.
"Well, in the winter, of course, I'm worse off, because it's
dark: to burn a candle would be a pity, and what would be the
use? I can read, to be sure, and was always fond of reading;
but what could I read? There are no books of any kind; and
even if there were, how could I hold a book ? Father Aleksy
brought me a calendar to entertain me; but he saw it was no
good, so he took and carried it away again. But even though
## p. 15124 (#60) ###########################################
15124
IVAN TURGENEFF
a
So we
it's dark, there's always something to listen to: a cricket chirps,
or a mouse begins scratching somewhere. That's when it's a
good thing - not to think! -
“And I repeat the prayers too,” Lukerya went on, after taking
breath a little; "only I don't know many of them — the prayers,
I mean. And besides, why should I weary the Lord God? What
can I ask him for ? He knows better than I what I need. He
has laid a cross upon me: that means that he loves me.
are commanded to understand. I repeat the Lord's Prayer, the
Hymn to the Virgin, the Supplication of all the Afflicted, and I
lie still again, without any thought at all, and am all right! ”
Two minutes passed by. I did not break the silence, and did
not stir on the narrow tub which served me as a seat. The cruel
stony stillness of the living, unlucky creature lying before me
communicated itself to me; I too turned, as it were, numb.
“Listen, Lukerya,” I began at last; “listen to the suggestion
I'm going to make to you. Would you like me to arrange for
them to take you to a hospital — a good hospital in the town?
Who knows - perhaps you might yet be cured; anyway, you
would not be alone. ”
Lukerya's eyebrows fluttered faintly. Oh, no, sir,” she an-
swered in a troubled whisper: “don't move me into a hospital;
don't touch me. I shall only have more agony to bear there!
How could they cure me now? Why, there was a doctor came
here once; he wanted to examine me. I begged him for Christ's
sake not to disturb me.
He began turning
me over, pounding my hands and legs, and pulling me about.
He said, 'I'm doing this for science; I'm a servant of science
a scientific man! And you,' he said, really oughtn't to oppose
me, because I've a medal given me for my labors, and it's for
you simpletons I'm toiling. He mauled me about, told me the
name of my disease some wonderful long name and with that
he went away; and all my poor bones ached for a week after.
You say I'm all alone; always alone. Oh, no, I'm not always:
they come to see I'm quiet - I don't bother them. The
peasant girls come in and chat a bit; a pilgrim woman will
wander in, and tell me tales of Jerusalem, of Kiev, of the holy
towns. And I'm not afraid of being alone. Indeed, it's better
ay, ay! Master, don't touch me, don't take me to the hospi-
tal. Thank you, you are kind: only don't touch me, there's a
dear! ”
((
It was
no
use,
me.
## p. 15125 (#61) ###########################################
IVAN TURGENEFF
15125
»
C
“Well, as you like, as you like, Lukerya. You know I only
suggested it for your good. ”
"I know, master, that it was for my good. But master dear,
who can help another? Who can enter into his soul ? Every
man must help himself! -You won't believe me, perhaps: I lie
here sometimes so alone; and it's as though there were no one
else in the world but me. As if I alone were living! And it
seems to me as though something were blessing me. I'm carried
away by dreams that are really marvelous ! »
« What do you dream of, then, Lukerya ? ”
« That too, master, I couldn't say: one can't explain. Besides,
one forgets afterwards. It's like a cloud coming over and burst-
ing; then it grows so fresh and sweet: but just what it was,
there's no knowing! Only my idea is, if folks were near me, I
should have nothing of that, and should feel nothing except my
misfortune. ”
Lukerya heaved a painful sigh. Her breathing, like her limbs,
was not under her control.
"When I come to think, master, of you,” she began again,
"you are very sorry for me. But you mustn't be too sorry,
really! I'll tell you one thing; for instance, I sometimes, even
Do you remember how merry I used to be in my time ?
A regular madcap! So do you know what ? I sing songs even
now. ”
"Sing? You ? »
“Yes: I sing the old songs- songs for choruses, for feasts,
Christmas songs, all sorts !
I know such a lot of them, you see,
and I've not forgotten them. Only dance songs I don't sing. In
my state now, it wouldn't suit me. ”
“How do you sing them ? — to yourself?
« To myself, yes; and aloud too. I can't sing loud, but still
one can understand it. I told you a little girl waits on me. A
clever little orphan she is. So I have taught her: four songs
she has learnt from me already. Don't you believe me? Wait a
minute, I'll show you directly. ”
Lukerya took breath. The thought that this half-dead creat-
ure was making ready to begin singing raised an involuntary
feeling of dread in me. But before I could utter a word, a long-
drawn-out, hardly audible, but pure and true note, was quivering
in my ears; it was followed by a second and a third.
« In the
meadows,” sang Lukerya. She sang, the expression of her stony
now
(
>
## p. 15126 (#62) ###########################################
15126
IVAN TURGENEFF
face unchanged, even her eyes riveted on one spot.
one spot. But how
touchingly tinkled out that poor struggling little voice, that
wavered like a thread of smoke; how she longed to pour out all
her soul in it! I felt no dread now; my heart throbbed with
unutterable pity.
“Ah, I can't! ” she said suddenly. "I've not the strength: I'm
so upset with joy at seeing you. "
She closed her eyes.
I laid my hand on her tiny, chill fingers. She glanced at me,
and her dark lids, fringed with golden eyelashes, closed again, and
were still as an ancient statue's. An instant later they glist,
ened in the half-darkness. They were moistened by a tear.
As before, I did not stir.
«How silly I am! ” said Lukerya suddenly, with unexpected
force, and opened her eyes wide; she tried to wink the tears out
of them. "I ought to be ashamed ! What am I doing? It's a
long time since I have been like this - not since that day when
Vassya Polyakov was here last spring. While he sat with me
and talked, I was all right; but when he had gone away, how I
did cry in my loneliness! Where did I get the tears from ?
But there! we girls get our tears for nothing. Master,” added
Lukerya, “perhaps you have a handkerchief. If you don't mind,
wipe my eyes. ”
I made haste to carry out her desire, and left her the hand-
kerchief. She refused it at first. “What good's such a gift to
me ? ” she said. The handkerchief was plain enough, but clean
and white. Afterwards she clutched it in her weak fingers, and
did not loosen them again. As I got used to the darkness in
which we both were, I could clearly make out her features; could
even perceive the delicate flush that peeped out under the cop-
pery hue of her face; could discover in the face, so at least it
seemed to me, traces of its former beauty.
“You asked me, master,” Lukerya began again, whether I
sleep. I sleep very little, but every time I fall asleep I've dreams
- such splendid dreams! I'm never ill in my dreams; I'm always
so well, and young There's one thing's sad: I wake up and
long for a good stretch, and I'm all as if I were in chains. I
once had such an exquisite dream! Shall I tell it you? Well,
listen. I dreamt I was standing in a meadow, and all round me
was rye, so tall, and ripe as gold! and I had a reddish dog with
e- such a wicked dog; it kept trying to bite me. And I had
me-
## p. 15127 (#63) ###########################################
IVAN TURGENEFF
15127
a sickle in my hands: not a simple sickle; it seemed to be the
moon itself — the moon as it is when it's the shape of a sickle.
And with this same moon I had to cut the rye clean.
Only
I was very weary with the heat, and the moon blinded me, and
I felt lazy; and corn-flowers were growing all about, and such big
ones! And they all turned their heads to me. And I thought in
my dream I would pick them: Vassya had promised to come, so
I'd pick myself a wreath first; I'd still time to plait it. I began
picking corn-flowers; but they kept melting away from between
my fingers, do what I would. And I couldn't make myself a
I
I
wreath. And meanwhile I heard some one coming up to me, so
close, and calling, Lusha! Lusha! ' 'Ah,' I thought, 'what a
pity I hadn't time! No matter, I put that moon on my head
instead of corn-flowers, I put it on like a tiara, and I was all
brightness directly; I made the whole field light around me.
And, behold!
over the very top of the ears there came gliding
very quickly towards me, not Vassya, but Christ himself! And
how I knew it was Christ I can't say: they don't paint him
like that -- only it was he! No beard, tall, young, all in white,
only his belt was golden; and he held out his hand to me.
'Fear not,' said he, my bride adorned: follow me; you shall lead
the choral dance in the heavenly kingdom, and sing the songs
of Paradise. And how I clung to his hand ! My dog at once
followed at my heels, but then we began to float upwards! he
in front,- his wings spread wide over all the sky, long like a
sea-gull's - and I after him! And my dog had to stay behind.
Then only I understood that that dog was my illness, and that in
the heavenly kingdom there was no place for it. ”
Lukerya paused a minute.
"And I had another dream, too,” she began again; “but
maybe it was a vision. I really don't know. It seemed to me I
.
was lying in this very shanty; and my dead parents, father and
mother, come to me and bow low to me, but say nothing. And
I asked them, Why do you bow down to me, father and mother? '
Because,' they said, you suffer much in this world, so that you
have not only set free your own soul, but have taken a great
burden from off us too. And for us in the other world it is
much easier. You have made an end of your own sins; now you
are expiating our sins. ' And having said this, my parents bowed
down to me again, and I could not see them; there was nothing
but the walls to be seen. I was in great doubt afterwards what
## p. 15128 (#64) ###########################################
15128
IVAN TURGENEFF
had happened to me. I even told the priest of it in confession.
Only he thinks it was not a vision, because visions come only to
the clerical gentry. ”
"And I'll tell you another dream,” Lukerya went on. « I
dreamt I was sitting on the high-road, under a willow; I had a
stick, had a wallet on my shoulders, and my head tied up in a
kerchief, just like a pilgrim woman! And I had to go some-
where, a long, long way off, on a pilgrimage. And pilgrims kept
coming past me: they came along slowly, all going one way;
their faces were weary, and all very much like one another. And
I dreamt that moving about among them was a woman, a head
taller than the rest, and wearing a peculiar dress, not like ours
not Russian. And her face too was peculiar,- a worn face
and severe.
And all the others moved away from her; but she
suddenly turns, and comes straight to me. She stood still, and
looked at me; and her eyes were yellow, large, and clear as a
falcon's. And I ask her, Who are you? ' And she says to me,
I'm your death. Instead of being frightened, it was quite the
other way: I was as pleased as could be; I crossed myself! And
the woman, my death, says to me: I'm sorry for you, Lukerya,
but I can't take you with me.
Farewell! Good God! how
sad I was then! Take me,' said I, 'good mother; take me, dar-
ling! ' And my death turned to me, and began speaking to me.
I knew that she was appointing me my hour, but indistinctly, in-
comprehensibly. After St. Peter's day,' said she. With that I
awoke. Yes, I have such wonderful dreams! »
Lukerya turned her eyes upwards, and sank into thought.
“Only the sad thing is, sometimes a whole week will go by
without my getting to sleep once. Last year a lady came to
see me, and she gave me a little bottle of medicine against sleep-
lessness; she told me to take ten drops at a time. It did me so
much good, and I used to sleep; only the bottle was all finished
long ago.
Do you know what medicine that was, and how to
a
get it? »
The lady had obviously given Lukerya opium. I promised to
get her another bottle like it, and could not refrain from again
wondering aloud at her patience.
"Ah, master! ” she answered, “why do you say so? What do
you mean by patience? There, Simeon Stylites now had patience
certainly, great patience; for thirty years he stood on a pillar:
And another saint had himself buried in the earth, right up to
## p. 15129 (#65) ###########################################
IVAN TURGENEFF
15129
(C
his breast, and the ants ate his face. And I'll tell you what I
was told by a good scholar: there was once a country, and the
Ishmaelites made war on it, and they tortured and killed all
the inhabitants; and do what they would, the people could not
get rid of them. And there appeared among these people a holy
virgin; she took a great sword, put on armor weighing eighty
pounds, went out against the Ishmaelites, and drove them all be-
yond the sea. Only when she had driven them out, she said to
them: Now burn me; for that was my vow, that I would die a
death by fire for my people. And the Ishmaelites took her and
burnt her, and the people have been free ever since then! That
was a noble deed, now! But what am I! »
I wondered to myself whence and in what shape the legend
of Joan of Arc had reached her; and after a brief silence, I asked
Lukerya how old she was.
“Twenty-eight - or nine. It won't be thirty. But why count
the years! I've something else to tell you — ”
Lukerya suddenly gave a sort of choked cough, and groaned.
"You are talking a great deal," I observed to her; it may
be bad for you. ”
"It's true,” she whispered, scarce audibly; "it's time to
end our talk; but what does it matter! Now, when you leave
me, I can be silent as long as I like. Anyway, I've opened my
heart. ”
I began bidding her good-by. I repeated my promise to send
her the medicine, and asked her once more to think well and tell
me if there wasn't anything she wanted.
“I want nothing: I am content with all, thank God! ” she
articulated with very great effort, but with emotion; "God give
good health to all! But there, master, you might speak a word
to your mamma: the peasants here are poor - if she could take
the least bit off their rent! They've not land enough, and no
advantages. They would pray to God for you. But I want
nothing. I'm quite contented with all. ”
I gave Lukerya my word that I would carry out her request,
and had already walked to the door. She called me back again.
“Do you remember, master,” she said, -and there was a
gleam of something wonderful in her eyes and on her lips,-
what hair I used to have ? Do you remember, right down to
my knees! It was long before I could make up my mind to it.
Such hair as it was! But how could it be kept combed ?
>>
a
In my
## p. 15130 (#66) ###########################################
15130
IVAN TURGENEFF
state! So I had it cut off. Yes. Well, good-by, master! I can't
I
talk any more. "
That day, before setting off to shoot, I had a conversation
with the village constable about Lukerya. I learnt from him
that in the village they called Lukerya the Living Relic”: that
she gave them no trouble, however; they never heard complaint
or repining from her. “She asks nothing, but on the contrary
she's grateful for everything; a gentle soul, one must say, if
any there be.
Stricken of God," so the constable concluded, for
her sins, one must suppose; but we do not go into that.
And as
for judging her, no- – no, we do not judge her. Let her be! »
>
A few weeks later I heard that Lukerya was dead. So her
death had come for her and “after St. Peter's day. ” They told
me that on the day of her death she kept hearing the sound of
bells, though it was reckoned over five miles from Aleksyevka to
the church, and it was a week-day. Lukerya, however, had said
that the sounds came not from the church, but from above!
Probably she did not dare to say — from heaven.
-
## p. 15131 (#67) ###########################################
15131
MOSES COIT TYLER
(1835-)
He literary historian who performs for his country a double
service to criticism and literature deserves its gratitude. Ad-
mirable criticism often lacks the literary touch and tone, -
yet these are especially welcome in the critic of literature. Professor
Moses Coit Tyler, in the thorough-going and attractive studies he has
for years been making of the American literary past, stands alone in
the dignified endeavor to cover the whole field with scholarly care,
and by the methods of broad comprehensive criticism. His task is
still incomplete; but he has published ex-
haustive and stimulating volumes upon the
literature of the Colonial and Revolutionary
periods, of such a quality as to declare him
master of the field. His treatment of ma-
terial that in some hands would inevitably
prove dull in the handling, has made the
tentative literary struggles and efforts warm
and full of illumination.
To this attractiveness may be added the
solider characteristics which go to make up
the critic truly called to his vocation: judg-
ment, the sense of proportion, an apprecia-
tion of what are the underlying principles Moses Coit TYLER
in the development of American life and
letters, and a sound moral insight. Professor Tyler is by birth and
training the right sort of man to give a critical survey of the earlier
American literature, which is in intent and result so predominantly
earnest and ethical.
Moses Coit Tyler is a New-Englander; born in Griswold, Connecti-
cut, on August 2d, 1835. He was graduated from Yale in 1857, and
studied theology there and afterwards at Andover Theological Semi-
nary, Andover, Massachusetts. From 1860 to 1862 he was pastor
of the First Congregational Church of Poughkeepsie, New York. In
1863 he went to England, and resided there four years. On his return
he was appointed to the English chair of the University of Michigan.
In 1881 he became Professor of History at Cornell, which position
he has since held. He was made a priest of the Protestant Episcopal
Church in 1883.
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MOSES COIT TYLER
ure.
Professor Tyler's literary activity began with the publication of
the (Brawnville Papers) in 1869,- a series of essays on physical cult-
The initial part of his chief life work was put forth in 1878:
A History of American Literature During the Colonial Time,' in two
volumes. The preface announced the author's intention of making
successive studies, covering the growth of American letters up to the
present time. In 1897 (A Literary History of the American Revolu-
tion' appeared in pursuance of this scheme. Professor Tyler also pub-
lished in 1879, in conjunction with Professor Henry Morley, a Manual
of English Literature. He contributed to the American Statesmen'
Series the monograph on Patrick Henry (1887); and in 1894 appeared
(Three Men of Letters,' - appreciations of Bishop Berkeley, President
Dwight, and Joel Barlow. A volume entitled “Essays from the Nation'
is made up of contributions to that journal while the writer was in
England.
Professor Tyler's criticism of the American literary production is
based upon a recognition of its vital relation to history, to politics,
and society. He apprehends that the “penmen” have exerted an
influence upon the course of American affairs not second to the
statesmen and generals. This sense of the significant bearing of the
native literature upon native life gives his study a fresh, interesting
point of view. Hence it is a contribution to American history. When
he shall have completed his survey and included the literature of the
Republic up to the century-end, it will stand as the one authoritative
and complete word upon the subject. Professor Tyler's style is very
enjoyable for liveliness, color, and euphony. His writing has, dis-
tinctly, the artistic touch, and it is never dry, formal, or conventional
either in manner or thought. The selections appended sufficiently
illustrate this trait.
(
EARLY VERSE-WRITING IN NEW ENGLAND
From <A History of American Literature. ) Copyright 1878, by G. P.
Putnam's Sons
A.
HAPPY surprise awaits those who come to the study of the
early literature of New England with the expectation of
finding it altogether arid in sentiment, or void of the spirit
and aroma of poetry. The New Englander of the seventeenth
century was indeed a typical Puritan; and it will hardly be said
that any typical Puritan of that century was a poetical personage.
In proportion to his devotion to the ideas that won for him the
derisive honor of his name, was he at war with nearly every
form of the beautiful. He himself believed that there was an
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MOSES COIT TYLER
15133
»
inappeasable feud between religion and art; and hence the duty
of suppressing art was bound up in his soul with the master-
purpose of promoting religion. He cultivated the grim and the
ugly. He was afraid of the approaches of Satan through the
avenues of what is graceful and joyous. The principal business
of men and women in this world seemed to him to be not to
make it as delightful as possible, but to get through it as safely
as possible. By a whimsical and horrid freak of unconscious
Manichæism, he thought that whatever is good here is appropri-
ated to God, and whatever is pleasant, to the Devil. It is not
strange if he were inclined to measure the holiness of a man's
life by its disagreeableness. In the logic and fury of his tremen-
dous faith, he turned away utterly from music, from sculpture
and painting, from architecture, from the adornments of costume,
from the pleasures and embellishments of society,- because these
things seemed only the Devil's flippery and seduction to his
“ascetic soul, aglow with the gloomy or rapturous mysteries of
his theology. ” Hence, very naturally, he turned away likewise
from certain great and splendid types of literature, — from the
drama, from the playful and sensuous verse of Chaucer and his
innumerable sons, from the secular prose writings of his contem-
poraries, and from all forms of modern lyric verse except the
Calvinistic hymn.
Nevertheless the Puritan did not succeed in eradicating poetry
from his nature. Of course, poetry was planted there too deep
even for his theological grub-hooks to root it out. Though denied
expression in one way, the poetry that was in him forced itself
into utterance in another. If his theology drove poetry out of
many forms in which it had been used to reside, poetry itself
practiced a noble revenge by taking up its abode in his theology.
His supreme thought was given to theology; and there he nour-
ished his imagination with the mightiest and sublimest concep.
tions that a human being can entertain — conceptions of God and
man, of angels and devils, of Providence and duty and destiny,
of heaven, earth, hell. Though he stamped his foot in horror
and scorn upon many exquisite and delicious types of literary
art; stripped society of all its embellishments, life of all its amen-
ities, sacred architecture of all its grandeur, the public service
of divine worship of the hallowed pomp, the pathos and beauty,
of its most reverend and stately forms; though his prayers were
often a snuffle, his hymns a dolorous whine, his extemporized
## p. 15134 (#70) ###########################################
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MOSES COIT TYLER
liturgy a bleak ritual of ungainly postures and of harsh monoto-
nous howls: yet the idea that filled and thrilled his soul was one
in every way sublime, immense, imaginative, poetic,- the idea
of the awful omnipotent Jehovah, his inexorable justice, his holi-
ness, the inconceivable brightness of his majesty, the vastness of
his unchanging designs along the entire range of his relations
with the hierarchies of heaven, the principalities and powers of
the pit, and the elect and the reprobate of the sons of Adam.
How resplendent and superb was the poetry that lay at the heart
of Puritanism, was seen by the sightless eyes of John Milton,
whose great epic is indeed the epic of Puritanism.
Turning to Puritanism as it existed in New England, we may
perhaps imagine it as solemnly declining the visits of the Muses
of poetry, sending out to them the blunt but honest message —
"Otherwise engaged. ” Nothing could be further from the truth.
«
Of course, Thalia and Melpomene and Terpsichore could not
under any pretense have been admitted; but Polyhymnia — why
should not she have been allowed to come in ? especially if she
were willing to forsake her deplorable sisters, give up her pagan
habits, and submit to Christian baptism. Indeed, the Muse of
New England, whosoever that respectable damsel may have been,
was a Muse by no means exclusive: such as she was, she cor-
dially visited every one who would receive her — and every one
would receive her. It is an extraordinary fact about these grave
and substantial men of New England, especially during our earli-
est literary age, that they all had a lurking propensity to write
what they sincerely believed to be poetry, - and this, in most
cases, in unconscious defiance of the edicts of nature and of a
predetermining Providence. Lady Mary Montagu said that in
England, in her time, verse-making had become as common as
taking snuff. In New England, in the age before that, it had
become much more common than
than taking snuff - since there
were some who did not take snuff. It is impressive to note, as
we inspect our first period, that neither advanced age, nor high
office,' nor mental unfitness, nor previous condition of respecta-
bility, was sufficient to protect any one from the poetic vice.
We read of venerable men, like Peter Bulkley, continuing to
lapse into it when far beyond the great climacteric. Governor
Thomas Dudley was hardly a man to be suspected of such a
thing, yet even against him the evidence must be pronounced
conclusive: some verses in his own handwriting were found upon
-
-
## p. 15135 (#71) ###########################################
MOSES COIT TYLER
15135
his person after his death. Even the sage and serious governor
of Plymouth wrote ostensible poems. The renowned pulpit ora-
tor, John Cotton, did the same; although in some instances, he
prudently concealed the fact by inscribing his English verse in
Greek characters upon the blank leaves of his almanac. Here
and there, even a town clerk, placing on record the deeply pro-
saic proceedings of the selectmen, would adorn them in the
sacred costume of poetry. Perhaps, indeed, all this was their
solitary condescension to human frailty. The earthly element,
the passion, the carnal taint, the vanity, the weariness, or what-
ever else it be that in other men works itself off in a pleasure
journey, in a flirtation, in going to the play, or in a convivial
bout, did in these venerable men exhaust itself in the sly dissi-
pation of writing verses. Remembering their unfriendly attitude
toward art in general, this universal mania of theirs for some
forms of the poetic art — this unrestrained proclivity toward the
«lust of versification” – must seem to us an odd psychological
freak. Or shall we rather say that it was not a freak at all, but
a normal effort of nature, which, being unduly repressed in one
direction, is accustomed to burst over all barriers in another;
and that these grim and godly personages in the old times fell
into the intemperance of rhyming, just as in later days, excellent
ministers of the gospel and gray-haired deacons, recoiling from
the sin and scandal of a game at billiards, have been known to
manifest an inordinate joy in the orthodox frivolity of croquet ?
As respects the poetry which was perpetrated by our ancestors,
it must be mentioned that a benignant Providence has its own
methods of protecting the human family from intolerable misfor-
tune; and that the most of this poetry has perished. Enough,
however, has survived to furnish us with materials for everlast-
ing gratitude, by enabling us in a measure to realize the nature
and extent of the calamity which the Divine intervention has
spared us.
It will be natural for us to suppose that at any rate, poetry
in New England in the seventeenth century could not have been
a Gaya Sciencia, as poetry was called in Provence in the thir-
teenth century. Even this, however, is not quite correct; for no
inconsiderable part of early New England poetry has a positively
facetious intention, - that part, namely, which consists of elegies
and epitaphs. Our ancestors seem to have reserved their wit-
ticisms principally for tombstones and funerals. When a
died, his surviving friends were wont to conspire together to
man
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MOSES COIT TYLER
-
write verses upon him,- and these verses often sparkled with
the most elaborate and painful jests. Thus in 1647, upon the
death of the renowned Thomas Hooker of Hartford, his colleague
in the pastorate, Samuel Stone, wrote to an eminent minister in
Massachusetts certain words of grave and cautious suggestion:
“ You may think whether it may not be comely for you and
myself and some other elders, to make a few verses for Mr.
Hooker, and transcribe them in the beginning of his book. I do
but propound it. ” The appeal was effectual: and when, a few
years later, it came Samuel Stone's turn to depart this life, those
who outlived him rendered to his memory a similar service; his
name furnishing an unusually pleasant opportunity for those
ingenuities of allusion, and those literary quirks and puns, that
were then thought to be among the graces of a threnody.
THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE
From "The Literary History of the American Revolution. Copyright 1897,
by Moses Coit Tyler. Reprinted by permission of G. P. Putnam's Sons,
publishers.
I"
Tis proper for us to remember that what we call criticism is
not the only valid test of the genuineness and worth of any
piece of writing of great practical interest to mankind: there
is also the test of actual use and service in the world, in direct
contact with the common-sense and the moral sense of large
masses of men, under various conditions, and for a long period.
,
a
Probably no writing which is not essentially sound and true has
ever survived this test.
Neither from this test has the great Declaration any need to
shrink. Probably no public paper ever more perfectly satisfied
the immediate purposes for which it was set forth.
