Harris and the doctor; for the old lady could not
submit to my leaving her daughter in her present condition.
submit to my leaving her daughter in her present condition.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v10 - Emp to Fro
The consequence
of this was so severe a whipping, that it possibly fell little
short of the torture with which confessions are in some countries
extorted from criminals.
## p. 5717 (#301) ###########################################
HENRY FIELDING
5717
Tom bore this punishment with great resolution; and though
his master asked him between every stroke whether he would
not confess, he was contented to be flayed rather than betray his
friend, or break the promise he had made.
The gamekeeper was now relieved from his anxiety, and Mr.
Allworthy himself began to be concerned at Tom's sufferings: for
besides that Mr. Thwackum, being highly enraged that he was
not able to make the boy say what he himself pleased, had car-
ried his severity much beyond the good man's intention, this
latter began now to suspect that the squire had been mistaken,
which his extreme eagerness and anger seemed to make probable;
and as for what the servants had said in confirmation of their
master's account, he laid no great stress upon that. Now, as
cruelty and injustice were two ideas of which Mr. Allworthy
could by no means support the consciousness a single moment, he
sent for Tom, and after many kind and friendly exhortations,
said, "I am convinced, my dear child, that my suspicions have
wronged you; I am sorry that you have been so severely pun-
ished on this account; » and at last gave him a little horse to
make him amends, again repeating his sorrow for what had
passed.
Tom's guilt now flew in his face more than any severity could
make it. He could more easily bear the lashes of Thwackum than
the generosity of Allworthy. The tears burst from his eyes, and
he fell upon his knees, crying, "Oh, sir, you are too good to me.
Indeed you are.
Indeed I don't deserve it. " And at that very
instant, from the fullness of his heart, had almost betrayed the
secret; but the good genius of the gamekeeper suggested to him
what might be the consequence to the poor fellow, and this con-
sideration sealed his lips.
Thwackum did all he could to dissuade Allworthy from show-
ing any compassion or kindness to the boy, saying "he had
persisted in untruth"; and gave some hints that a second whip-
ping might probably bring the matter to light.
ment.
But Mr. Allworthy absolutely refused to consent to the experi-
He said the boy had suffered enough already for conceal-
ing the truth, even if he was guilty, seeing that he could have.
no motive but a mistaken point of honor for so doing.
"Honor! " cried Thwackum with some warmth: «< mere stub-
bornness and obstinacy! Can honor teach any one to tell a lie,
or can any honor exist independent of religion? "
## p. 5718 (#302) ###########################################
5718
HENRY FIELDING
This discourse happened at table when dinner was just ended;
and there were present Mr. Allworthy, Mr. Thwackum, and a
third gentleman, who now entered into the debate, and whom,
before we proceed any farther, we shall briefly introduce to our
reader's acquaintance.
THE CHARACTERS OF MR. SQUARE THE PHILOSOPHER AND
OF MR. THWACKUM THE DIVINE
From Tom Jones'
THE
HE name of this gentleman, who had then resided some time
at Mr. Allworthy's house, was Mr. Square. His natural
parts were not of the first rate, but he had greatly im-
proved them by a learned education. He was deeply read in the
ancients, and a professed master of all the works of Plato and
Aristotle; upon which great models he had principally formed
himself, sometimes according with the opinion of one, and some-
times with that of the other. In morals he was a professed
Platonist, and in religion he inclined to be an Aristotelian.
But though he had, as we have said, formed his morals on
the Platonic model, yet he perfectly agreed with the opinion of
Aristotle, in considering that great man rather in the quality of
a philosopher or a specialist than as a legislator. This sentiment
he carried a great way; indeed, so far as to regard all virtue as
matter of theory only. This, it is true, he never affirmed, as
I have heard, to any one; and yet upon the least attention to
his conduct, I cannot help thinking it was his real opinion, as
it will perfectly reconcile some contradictions which might other-
wise appear in his character.
This gentleman and Mr. Thwackum scarce ever met without
a disputation; for their tenets were indeed diametrically opposite
to each other. Square held human nature to be the perfection
of all virtue, and that vice was a deviation from our nature in
the same manner as deformity of body is. Thwackum, on the
contrary, maintained that the human mind since the fall was
nothing but a sink of iniquity, till purified and redeemed by
grace. In one point only they agreed, which was, in all their
discourses on morality never to mention the word "goodness. "
The favorite phrase of the former was the natural beauty of
virtue; that of the latter was the Divine power of grace. The
## p. 5719 (#303) ###########################################
HENRY FIELDING
5719
former measured all actions by the unalterable rule of right, and
the eternal fitness of things; the latter decided all matters by
authority; but in doing this he always used the Scriptures and
their commentators, as the lawyer doth his 'Coke upon Lyttle-
ton,' where the comment is of equal authority with the text.
After this short introduction the reader will be pleased to
remember that the parson had concluded his speech with a
triumphant question, to which he had apprehended no answer;
viz. , Can any honor exist independent of religion?
To this, Square answered that it was impossible to discourse
philosophically concerning words till their meaning was first es-
tablished; that there were scarce any two words of a more vague
and uncertain signification than the two he had mentioned, for
that there were almost as many different opinions concerning
honor as concerning religion. "But," says he, "if by honor you
mean the true natural beauty of virtue, I will maintain it may
exist independent of any religion whatever. Nay," added he,
"you yourself will allow it may exist independent of all but
one; so will a Mahometan, a Jew, and all the maintainers of all
the different sects in the world. "
Thwackum replied this was arguing with the usual malice of
all the enemies to the true Church. He said he doubted not but
that all the infidels and heretics in the world would, if they
could, confine honor to their own absurd errors and damnable
deceptions. "But honor," says he, "is not therefore manifold
because there are many absurd opinions about it; nor is religion
manifold because there are various sects and heresies in the
world. When I mention religion, I mean the Christian religion;
and not only the Christian religion, but the Protestant religion;
and not only the Protestant religion, but the Church of England.
And when I mention honor, I mean that mode of Divine grace
which is not only consistent with but dependent upon this reli-
gion; and is consistent with and dependent upon no other.
Now, to say that the honor I here mean, and which was, I
thought, all the honor I could be supposed to mean, will uphold,
much less dictate, an untruth, is to assert an absurdity too shock-
ing to be conceived. "
"I purposely avoided," says Square, "drawing a conclusion
which I thought evident from what I have said; but if you per-
ceived it I am sure you have not attempted to answer it. How-
ever, to drop the article of religion, I think it is plain, from
## p. 5720 (#304) ###########################################
5720
HENRY FIELDING
what you have said, that we have different ideas of honor; or
why do we not agree in the same terms of its explanation? I
have asserted that true honor and true virtue are almost syn-
onymous terms, and they are both founded on the unalterable
rule of right, and the eternal fitness of things; to which an un-
truth being absolutely repugnant and contrary, it is certain that
true honor cannot support an untruth. In this, therefore, I think
we are agreed; but that this honor can be said to be founded
on religion, to which it is antecedent, if by religion be meant
any positive law—»
"I agree," answered Thwackum, with great warmth, "with a
man who asserts honor to be antecedent to religion? Mr. All-
worthy, did I agree — »
He was proceeding, when Mr. Allworthy interposed, telling
them very coldly, they had both mistaken his meaning, for that
he had said nothing of true honor. It is possible, however, he
would not have easily quieted the disputants, who were growing
equally warm, had not another matter now fallen out, which put
a final end to the conversation.
PARTRIDGE AT THE PLAYHOUSE
From Tom Jones'
MR.
R. JONES having spent three hours in reading and kissing
the aforesaid letter, and being at last in a state of good
spirits from the last-mentioned considerations, he agreed
to carry an appointment, which he had before made, into execu-
tion. This was to attend Mrs. Miller and her younger daughter
into the gallery at the play-house, and to admit Mr. Partridge as
one of the company. For as Jones had really that taste for
humor which many affect, he expected to enjoy much entertain-
ment in the criticisms of Partridge; from whom he expected the
simple dictates of nature, unimproved indeed, but likewise un-
adulterated by art.
In the first row then, of the first gallery, did Mr. Jones, Mrs.
Miller, her youngest daughter, and Partridge take their places.
Partridge immediately declared it was the finest place he had
ever been in. When the first music was played, he said "it was
a wonder how so many fiddlers could play at one time without
putting one another out" While the fellow was lighting the
## p. 5721 (#305) ###########################################
HENRY FIELDING
5721
upper candles he cried out to Mrs. Miller, "Look, look, madam;
the very picture of the man in the end of the Common Prayer
Book, before the gunpowder-treason service! " Nor could he help
observing with a sigh, when all the candles were lighted, that
"there were candles enough burnt in one night to keep an honest
poor family for a whole twelvemonth. "
As soon as the play, which was 'Hamlet, Prince of Denmark,’
began, Partridge was all attention, nor did he break silence till
the entrance of the Ghost; upon which he asked Jones, "What
man that was in the strange dress; something," said he, "like
what I have seen in a picture. Sure, it is not armor, is it? "
Jones answered, "That is the Ghost. "
To which Partridge replied with a smile: -"Persuade me to
that, sir, if you can. Though I can't say I ever actually saw a
ghost in my life, yet I am certain I should know one if I saw
him, better than that comes to. No, no, sir; ghosts don't appear
in such dresses as that, neither. " In this mistake, which caused
much laughter in the neighborhood of Partridge, he was suffered
to continue, until the scene between the Ghost and Hamlet, when
Partridge gave that credit to Mr. Garrick which he had denied
to Jones, and fell into so violent a trembling that his knees
knocked against each other. Jones asked him what was the mat-
ter, and whether he was afraid of the warrior upon the stage?
"Oh, la! sir,” said he, "I perceive now it is what you told me.
I am not afraid of anything, for I know it is but a play; and if
it was really a ghost, it could do one no harm at such a distance,
and in so much company; and yet if I was frightened, I am not
the only person. "
"Why, who,” cries Jones, "dost thou take to be such a coward
here, besides thyself? "
"Nay, you may call me a coward if you will; but if that little
man there upon the stage is not frightened, I never saw any man
frightened in my life. Ah, ah, go along with you! Ay, to be
sure! Who's fool then? Will you? Lud have mercy upon such
foolhardiness! Whatever happens, it is good enough for you.
Follow you? -I'd follow the Devil as soon. Nay, perhaps it is
the Devil, for they say he can put on what likeness he pleases.
Oh! here he is again. No farther! No, you have gone far
enough already; farther than I'd have gone for all the king's
dominion. " Jones offered to speak, but Partridge cried, "Hush,
hush, dear sir, don't you hear him! " And during the whole
## p. 5722 (#306) ###########################################
HENRY FIELDING
5722
speech of the Ghost he sat with his eyes fixed partly on the
Ghost and partly on Hamlet, and with his mouth open; the
same passions which succeeded each other in Hamlet succeeding
likewise in him.
When the scene was over, Jones said, "Why, Partridge, you
exceed my expectations. You enjoy the play more than I con-
ceived possible. "
"Nay, sir," answered Partridge, "if you are not afraid of the
Devil, I can't help it; but to be sure, it is natural to be surprised
at such things, though I know there is nothing in them; not
that it was the Ghost that surprised me neither, for I should
have known that to have been only a man in a strange dress;
but when I saw the little man so frightened himself, it was that
which took hold of me. "
"And dost thou imagine then, Partridge," cries Jones, "that
he was really frightened? "
"Nay, sir," said Partridge, "did not you yourself observe
afterwards, when he found out it was his own father's spirit, and
how he was murdered in the garden, how his fear forsook him
by degrees, and he was struck dumb with sorrow, as it were,
just as I should have been had it been my own case? But
hush! oh, la! What noise is that? There he is again. Well, to
be certain, though I know there is nothing at all in it, I am
glad I am not down yonder where those men are. " Then, turn-
ing his eyes again upon Hamlet, "Ay, you may draw your
sword: what signifies a sword against the power of the Devil? "
During the second act, Partridge made very few remarks.
He greatly admired the fineness of the dresses; nor could he
help observing upon the King's countenance. "Well," said he,
"how people may be deceived by faces! Nulla fides fronti is, I
find, a true saying. Who would think, by looking in the King's
face, that he had ever committed a murder? " He then inquired
after the Ghost; but Jones, who intended that he should be sur-
prised, gave him no other satisfaction than that he might possi-
bly see him again soon, and in a flash of fire.
Partridge sat in fearful expectation of this; and now when the
Ghost made his next appearance Partridge cried out:-" There,
sir, now: what say you now? Is he frightened now, or no? As
much frightened as you think me; and to be sure, nobody can
help some fears. I would not be in so bad a condition as what's-
his-name, Squire Hamlet, is there, for all the world. Bless me!
## p. 5723 (#307) ###########################################
HENRY FIELDING
5723
What's become of the spirit? As I am a living soul, I thought
I saw him sink into the earth. "
"Indeed, you saw right," answered Jones.
"Well, well," cries Partridge, "I know it is only a play; and
besides, if there was anything in all this, Madam Miller would
not laugh so; for as to you, sir, you would not be afraid, I be-
lieve, if the Devil were here in person. There, there
wonder you are in such a passion; shake the vile wicked wretch
to pieces. If she was my own mother I should serve her so.
To be sure, all duty to a mother is forfeited by such wicked
doings. Ay, go about your business; I hate the sight of you. "
-ay, no
Our critic was now pretty silent till the play which Hamlet
introduces before the King. This he did not at first understand
till Jones explained it to him; but he no sooner entered into the
spirit of it than he began to bless himself that he had never
committed murder. Then, turning to Mrs. Miller, he asked her
if she did not imagine the King looked as if he was touched;
"though he is," said he, "a good actor, and doth all he can to
hide it. Well, I would not have so much to answer for as that
wicked man there hath, to sit upon a much higher chair than he
sits upon.
No wonder he ran away; for your sake I'll never
trust an innocent face again. "
The grave-digging scene next engaged the attention of Par-
tridge, who expressed much surprise at the number of skulls
thrown upon the stage. To which Jones answered that "it was
one of the most famous burial-places about town. "
"No wonder, then," cries Partridge, "that the place is
haunted. But I never saw in my life a worse grave-digger. I
had a sexton, when I was clerk, that should have dug three
graves while he is digging one. The fellow handles a spade as
if it was the first time he had ever had one in his hand. Ay,
ay, you may sing. You had rather sing than work, I believe. "
Upon Hamlet's taking up the skull, he cried out, "Well, it is
strange to see how fearless some men are; I never could bring
myself to touch anything belonging to a dead man on any
account. He seemed frightened enough, too, at the Ghost, I
thought. Nemo omnibus horis sapit. "
Little more worth remembering occurred during the play, at
the end of which Jones asked him which of the players he had
liked best?
To this he answered, with some appearance of indignation at
the question, "The King, without doubt. "
## p. 5724 (#308) ###########################################
5724
HENRY FIELDING
"Indeed, Mr. Partridge," says Mrs. Miller, "you are
the same opinion as the town; for they are all agreed that Ham-
let is acted by the best player who was ever on the stage. "
"He the best player! " cried Partridge, with a contemptuous
sneer; "why, I could act as well as he myself. I am sure if I
had seen a ghost, I should have looked in the very same man-
ner, and done just as he did. And then, to be sure, in that
scene, as you call it, between him and his mother, where you
told me he acted so fine, why, Lord help me! any man,—that is,
any good man,- that had had such a mother, would have done
exactly the same. I know you are only joking with me; but
indeed, madam, though I was never at a play in London, yet I
have seen acting before in the country; and the King for my
money; he speaks all his words distinctly, half as loud again as
the other. Anybody may see he is an actor. "
While Mrs. Miller was thus engaged in conversation with
Partridge, a lady came up to Mr. Jones whom he immediately
knew to be Mrs. Fitzpatrick. She said she had seen him from
the other part of the gallery, and had taken that opportunity
of speaking to him, as she had something to say which might
be of great service to himself. She then acquainted him with
her lodgings, and made him an appointment the next day in the
morning, which upon recollection she presently changed to the
afternoon; at which time Jones promised to attend her.
Thus ended the adventure at the play-house; where Partridge
had afforded great mirth, not only to Jones and Mrs. Miller, but
to all who sat within hearing, who were more attentive to what
he said than to anything that passed on the stage.
He durst not go to bed all that night for fear of the Ghost;
and for many nights after, sweat two or three hours before he
went to sleep with the same apprehensions; and waked several
times in great horrors, crying out, "Lord have mercy upon us!
there it is. "
## p. 5725 (#309) ###########################################
HENRY FIELDING
5725
THE FAREWELL
From Amelia'
"I
I AM not mistaken, madam," continued Booth, "I was just
going to acquaint you with the doctor's opinion, when we
were interrupted by the keeper.
"The doctor, having heard counsel on both sides, that is to
say, Mrs. Harris for my staying and Miss Betty for my going,
at last delivered his own sentiments. As for Amelia, she sat
silent, drowned in her tears; nor was I myself in a much better
situation.
"As the commissions are not signed,' said the doctor, 'I
think you may be said to remain in your former regiment; and
therefore I think you ought to go on this expedition: your duty
to your King and country, whose bread you have eaten, requires
it; and this is a duty of too high a nature to admit the least
deficiency; regard to your character likewise requires you to go;
for the world, which might justly blame your staying at home
if the case was even fairly stated, will not deal so honestly by
you; you must expect to have every circumstance against you
heightened, and most of what makes for your defense omitted;
and thus you will be stigmatized as a coward, without any pallia-
tion. As the malicious disposition of mankind is too well known,
and the cruel pleasure which they take in destroying the reputa-
tions of others, the use we are to make of this knowledge is to
afford no handle to reproach: for bad as the world is, it seldom
falls on any man who has not given some slight cause for cen-
sure, though this perhaps is often aggravated ten thousandfold;
and when we blame the malice of the aggravation, we ought not
to forget our own imprudence in giving the occasion. Remem-
ber, my boy, your honor is at stake; and you know how nice the
honor of a soldier is in these cases. This is a treasure which he
must be your enemy indeed who would attempt to rob you of;
therefore you ought to consider every one as your enemy, who
by desiring you to stay would rob you of your honor. '
"Do you hear that, sister? ' cries Miss Betty. 'Yes, I do
hear it,' answered Amelia, with more spirit than I ever saw her
exert before; and would preserve his honor at the expense of
my life.
I will preserve it if it should be at that expense; and
since it is Dr. Harrison's opinion that he ought to go, I give my
consent. Go, my dear husband,' cried she, falling upon her
## p. 5726 (#310) ###########################################
5726
HENRY FIELDING
knees; may every angel of heaven guard and preserve you! '
I cannot repeat her words without being affected," said he, wip-
ing his eyes; "the excellence of that woman no words can paint.
Miss Matthews, she has every perfection in human nature.
"I will not tire you with the repetition of any more that
passed on that occasion, nor with the quarrel that ensued be-
tween Mrs.
Harris and the doctor; for the old lady could not
submit to my leaving her daughter in her present condition. She
fell severely on the army, and cursed the day in which her daugh-
ter was married to a soldier, not sparing the doctor for having
had some share in the match. I will omit, likewise, the tender
scene which passed between Amelia and myself previous to my
departure. "
"Indeed, I beg you would not," cries Miss Matthews: "noth-
ing delights me more than scenes of tenderness. I should be
glad to know, if possible, every syllable which was uttered on
both sides. "
"I will indulge you then," cries Booth, "as far as it is in
my power. Indeed, I believe I am able to recollect much the
greater part; for the impression is never to be effaced from my
memory. "
He then proceeded as Miss Matthews desired; but lest our
readers should not be of her opinion, we will, according to our
usual custom, endeavor to accommodate ourselves to every taste;
and shall therefore place this scene in a chapter by itself, which
we desire all our readers who do not love, or who perhaps do
not know the pleasure of tenderness, to pass over; since they
may do this without any prejudice to the thread of the narrative.
A SCENE OF THE TENDER KIND
From Amelia'
"THE
HE doctor, madam," continued Booth, "spent his evening at
Mrs. Harris's house, where I sat with him whilst he
smoked his pillow-pipe, as the phrase is. Amelia was re-
tired above half an hour to her chamber before I went to see her.
At my entrance I found her on her knees, a posture in which I
never disturbed her. In a few minutes she arose, came to me,
and embracing me, said she had been praying for resolution to
support the cruelest moments she had ever undergone, or could
## p. 5727 (#311) ###########################################
HENRY FIELDING
5727
possibly undergo.
I reminded her how much more bitter a fare-
well would be on a death-bed, when we never could meet, in
this world at least, again. I then endeavored to lessen all those
objects which alarmed her most, and particularly the danger I
was to encounter, upon which head I seemed a little to comfort
her; but the probable length of my absence, and the certain
length of my voyage, were circumstances which no oratory of
mine could even palliate. 'Oh heavens! ' said she, bursting into
tears; 'can I bear to think that hundreds, thousands, for aught I
know, of miles or leagues-that lands and seas are between us?
What is the prospect from that mount in our garden, where I
have sat so many happy hours with my Billy? what is the
distance between that and the farthest hill which we see from
thence, compared to the distance which will be between us?
You cannot wonder at this idea: you must remember, my Billy,
at this place this very thought came formerly into my fore-
boding mind. I then begged you to leave the army-why
would you not comply? Did I not tell you then, that the
smallest cottage we could survey from the mount would be with
you a paradise to me? It would be so still. Why can't my Billy
think so? Am I so much his superior in love? Where is the
dishonor, Billy? or, if there be any, will it reach our ears in our
little hut? Are glory and fame, and not his Amelia, the happi-
ness of my husband? Go, then, purchase them at my expense!
You will pay a few sighs, perhaps a few tears, at parting, and
then new scenes will drive away the thoughts of poor Amelia
from your bosom; but what assistance shall I have in my afflic-
tion? Not that any change of scene could drive you one moment
from my remembrance; yet here every object I behold will place
your loved idea in the liveliest manner before my eyes. This is
the bed in which you have reposed; that is the chair in which
you sat; upon these boards you have stood; these books you
have read to me. Can I walk among our beds of flowers with-
out viewing your favorites, nay, those which you have planted
with your own hands? Can I see one beauty from our beloved
mount which you have not pointed out to me? ' Thus she went
on; the woman, madam, you see, still prevailing. "—"Since you
mention it," says Miss Matthews, with a smile, "I own the same
observation occurred to me. It is too natural to us to consider
ourselves only, Mr. Booth. "-"You shall hear," he cried: "at
last, the thoughts of her present condition suggested themselves.
## p. 5728 (#312) ###########################################
5728
HENRY FIELDING
'But if,' said she, 'my situation even in health will be so in-
tolerable, how shall I, in the danger and agonies of childbirth,
support your absence! ' Here she stopped, and looking on me
with all the tenderness imaginable, cried out:-'And am I then
such a wretch as to wish for your presence at such a season?
Ought I not to rejoice that you are out of the hearing of my
cries or the knowledge of my pains? If I die, will you not have
escaped the horrors of a parting ten thousand times more dread-
ful than this? Go, go, my Billy; the very circumstance which
made me most dread your departure has perfectly reconciled me
to it.
I perceive clearly now that I was only wishing to support
my own weakness with your strength, and to relieve my own
pains at the price of yours. Believe me, my love, I am ashamed
of myself. I caught her in my arms with raptures not to be
expressed in words, calling her my heroine (sure none ever better
deserved that name); after which we remained some time speech-
less, and locked in each other's embraces. ”
"I am convinced," said Miss Matthews with a sigh, "there are
moments in life worth purchasing with worlds. "
"At length the fatal morning came. I endeavored to hide
every pang in my heart, and to wear the utmost gayety in my
countenance. Amelia acted the same part. In these assumed
characters we met the family at breakfast; at their breakfast, I
mean,- for we were both full already.
were both full already. The doctor had spent
above an hour that morning in discourse with Mrs. Harris, and
had in some measure reconciled her to my departure.
He now
made use of every art to relieve the poor distressed Amelia; not
by inveighing against the folly of grief, or by seriously advising
her not to grieve; both which were sufficiently performed by Miss
Betty. The doctor, on the contrary, had recourse to every means
which might cast a veil over the idea of grief and raise comfort-
able images in my angel's mind. He endeavored to lessen the
supposed length of my absence, by discoursing on matters which
were more distant in time. He said he intended next year to
rebuild a part of his parsonage house; and you, captain,' says
he, shall lay the corner-stone, I promise you;' with many other
instances of the like nature, which produced, I believe, some good
effect on us both.
"Amelia spoke but little; indeed, more tears than words
dropped from her; however, she seemed resolved to bear her
affliction with resignation: but when the dreadful news arrived
## p. 5729 (#313) ###########################################
HENRY FIELDING
5729
that the horses were ready, and I, having taken my leave of all
the rest, at last approached her, she was unable to support the
conflict with nature any longer; and clinging round my neck, she
cried, 'Farewell-farewell forever! for I shall never, never see
you more! At which words the blood entirely forsook her lovely
cheeks, and she became a lifeless corpse in my arms.
"Amelia continued so long motionless, that the doctor, as well
as Mrs. Harris, began to be under the most terrible apprehen-
sions, so they informed me afterwards; for at that time I was
incapable of making any observation. I had indeed very little
more use of my senses than the dear creature whom I supported.
At length, however, we were all delivered from our fears, and
life again visited the loveliest mansion that human nature ever
afforded it.
"I had been, and yet was, so terrified with what had happened,
and Amelia continued yet so weak and ill, that I determined,
whatever might be the consequence, not to leave her that day;
which resolution she was no sooner acquainted with than she fell
on her knees, crying, 'Good Heaven! I thank thee for this re-
prieve at least. Oh that every hour of my future life could be
crammed into this dear day! '
"Our good friend the doctor remained with us; he said he
had intended to visit a family in some affliction; but I don't
know,' says he, 'why I should ride a dozen miles after affliction,
when we have enough here. ' Of all mankind the doctor is the
best of comforters. As his excessive good-nature makes him
take vast delight in the office, so his great penetration into the
human mind, joined to his great experience, renders him the
most wonderful proficient in it; and he so well knows when to
soothe, when to reason, and when to ridicule, that he never ap-
plies any of those arts improperly, which is almost universally
the case with the physicians of the mind, and which it requires
very great judgment and dexterity to avoid.
"The doctor principally applied himself to ridiculing the dan-
gers of the siege, in which he succeeded so well that he some-
times forced a smile even into the face of Amelia. But what
most comforted her were the arguments he used to convince her
of the probability of my speedy, if not immediate, return. He
said the general opinion was that the place would be taken
before our arrival there; in which case we should have nothing
more to do than to make the best of our way home again.
X-359
## p. 5730 (#314) ###########################################
5730
HENRY FIELDING
"Amelia was so lulled by these arts that she passed the day
much better than I expected. Though the doctor could not
make pride strong enough to conquer love, yet he exalted the
former to make some stand against the latter; insomuch that
my poor Amelia, I believe, more than once flattered herself, to
speak the language of the world, that her reason had gained an
entire victory over her passion; till love brought up a reinforce-
ment, if I may use that term, of tender ideas, and bore down
all before him.
"In the evening the doctor and I passed another half-hour
together, when he proposed to me to endeavor to leave Amelia.
asleep in the morning, and promised me to be at hand when she
awaked, and to support her with all the assistance in his power;
he added that nothing was more foolish than for friends to take
leave of each other. 'It is true indeed,' says he, 'in the com-
mon acquaintance and friendship of the world, this is a very
harmless ceremony; but between two persons who really love
each other, the Church of Rome never invented a penance half
so severe as this which we absurdly impose on ourselves. '
"I greatly approved the doctor's proposal, thanked him, and
promised if possible to put it in execution. He then shook me
by the hand and heartily wished me well, saying in his blunt
way, Well, boy, I hope to see thee crowned with laurels at thy
return: one comfort I have at least, that stone walls and a sea
will prevent thee from running away. '
"When I had left the doctor I repaired to my Amelia, whom
I found in her chamber, employed in a very different manner
from what she had been the preceding night: she was busy in
packing up some trinkets in a casket, which she desired me to
carry with me. This casket was her own work, and she had just
fastened it as I came to her.
"Her eyes very plainly discovered what had passed while she
was engaged in her work; however, her countenance was now
serene, and she spoke at least with some cheerfulness; but after
some time, 'You must take care of this casket, Billy,' said she;
'you must, indeed, Billy, for her passion almost choked her
till a flood of tears gave her relief, and then she proceeded -
'for I shall be the happiest woman that ever was born when I
see it again. I told her, with the blessing of God, that day
would soon come. 'Soon? answered she, 'no, Billy, not soon;
a week is an age; but yet the happy day may come. It shall, it
## p. 5731 (#315) ###########################################
HENRY FIELDING
5731
must, it will! Yes, Billy, we shall meet never to part again -
even in this world, I hope. ' Pardon my weakness, Miss Mat-
thews, but upon my soul I cannot help it," cried he, wiping
his eyes.
"Well, I wonder at your patience, and I will try it no longer.
Amelia, tired out with so long a struggle between a variety of
passions, and having not closed her eyes during three successive
nights, towards the morning fell into a profound sleep, in which
sleep I left her; and having dressed myself with all the expedi-
tion imaginable, singing, whistling, hurrying, attempting by every
method to banish thought, I mounted my horse, which I had
over-night ordered to be ready, and galloped away from that
house where all my treasure was deposited.
"Thus, madam, I have in obedience to your commands run
through a scene, which if it has been tiresome to you, you must
yet acquit me of having obtruded upon you. This I am convinced
of, that no one is capable of tasting such a scene who has not a
heart full of tenderness, and perhaps not even then, unless he
has been in the same situation. "
## p. 5732 (#316) ###########################################
5732
VINCENZO DA FILICAIA
(1642-1707)
ITERARY historians agree that Italian poetry reached its lowest
ebb in the early part of the seventeenth century. The verse
of the imitators of Marini degenerated into mere artifice.
Brought to a high technical perfection, it yet lacked substance and
truth of feeling, and was become a mere plaything in the hands of
skillful versifiers. Near the end of the century a group of Roman
literary men founded a society called "The Arcadia," whose avowed
object was to repudiate this verse-making à la mode, and to bring
poetry back to nature. But they marred
still further what they had set out to mend.
In their hands simplicity became inanity.
Instead of returning to nature they played
at being shepherds and shepherdesses, while
their pastoral Muse wore patches and French
heels.
In this period of make-believe, almost
the only genuine voice was that of Vin-
cenzo da Filicaia. Born in Florence in 1642
of an ancient and noble family, he was lib-
erally educated, at first in the schools of
his native city and afterwards at the Uni-
VINCENZO DA FILICAIA versity of Pisa. Then, withdrawing to a
small villa near Florence, he gave himself
up to study and to writing. Like all his contemporaries, he began by
composing amatory verse. After the marriage and early death of the
lady whom he had celebrated, he burned all these youthful effusions,
and dedicated his muse to God and to Italy. In 1683, when John
Sobieski raised the siege of Vienna and saved the civilization of Eu-
rope from the invading Turks, Filicaia, thrilled by the heroism of the
Polish king, celebrated his victory in six famous odes. Uplifted by
the grandeur of his theme, the poet rose to heights of lyric enthusiasm
that set him among the inspired singers of his country. Read in all
the courts of Europe, the modest poet who had hardly dared to show
his verses to his friends, suddenly found himself face to face with a
European reputation. The Christian nations, trembling to see their
fate hang in the balance, found in these odes a passionate expression
of their joy in deliverance, and of their admiration for the warrior
king.
## p. 5733 (#317) ###########################################
VINCENZO DA FILICAIA
5733
The brilliant Christina of Sweden drew the poet into her circle in
Rome, and undertook to educate his two sons. Cosmo III. , Grand
Duke of Florence, made him governor of Volterra and of Pisa. Fili-
caia spent the last few years of his life at Florence, where he had
been raised to the rank of a senator. He died in that city Septem-
ber 24th, 1707.
Although himself an Arcadian, and the most noted of that school,
Filicaia was remarkably free from its extravagances. He was saved
from bathos by the depth of his thought, the strength and energy of
his expression, his mastery over technique, and the genuineness of his
enthusiasm. Yet, sincere though he was, he did not quite escape the
charge of affectation. His fame in consequence has undergone some
mutations. Much of his poetry is still read with admiration, and his
famous sonnet on Italy, which Byron has so finely paraphrased in the
fourth canto of Childe Harold,' all Italians still know by heart.
TIME
SAW a mighty river, wild and vast,
I
Whose rapid waves were moments, which did glide
So swiftly onward in their silent tide,
That ere their flight was heeded, they were past;
A river, that to death's dark shores doth fast
Conduct all living with resistless force,
And though unfelt, pursues its noiseless course,
To quench all fires in Lethe's stream at last.
Its current with creation's birth was born;
And with the heaven's commenced its march sublime,
In days and months, still hurrying on untired.
Marking its flight, I inwardly did mourn,
And of my musing thoughts in doubt inquired
The river's name: my thoughts responded, Time.
OF PROVIDENCE
UST as a mother, with sweet pious face,
J
Turns towards her little children from her seat,
Gives one a kiss, another an embrace,
Takes this upon her knees, that on her feet;
And while from actions, looks, complaints, pretenses,
She learns their feelings and their various will,
To this a look, to that a word dispenses,
And whether stern or smiling, loves them still;-
――――――――
## p. 5734 (#318) ###########################################
5734
VINCENZO DA FILICAIA
So Providence for us, high, infinite,
Makes our necessities its watchful task,
Hearkens to all our prayers, helps all our wants;
And even if it denies what seems our right,
Either denies because 'twould have us ask,
Or seems but to deny, or in denying grants.
TO ITALY
TALIA, O Italia! hapless thou,
IT
Who didst the . fatal gift of beauty gain,—
A dowry fraught with never-ending pain,
A seal of sorrow stamped upon thy brow:
Oh, were thy bravery more, or less thy charms!
Then should thy foes, they whom thy loveliness
Now lures afar to conquer and possess,
Adore thy beauty less, or dread thine arms!
No longer then should hostile torrents pour
Adown the Alps; and Gallic troops be laved
In the red waters of the Po no more;
No longer then, by foreign courage saved,
Barbarian succor should thy sons implore,-
Vanquished or victors, still by Goths enslaved.
## p. 5735 (#319) ###########################################
5735
FIRDAUSĪ
(935-1020)
BY A. V. WILLIAMS JACKSON
the national poet of Persia.
IRDAUSĨ, author of the 'Shah Namah,' or Book of Kings, is
With the name of Firdausī in
the tenth century of our era, modern Persian poetry may be
said to begin. Firdausī, however, really forms only one link in the
long chain of Iranian literature which extends over more than twenty-
five centuries, and whose beginnings are to be sought in the Avesta,
five hundred years before the birth of Christ.
A brief glance may first be taken at the history of the literary
development of Persia. The sacred Zoroastrian scriptures of the
Avesta, together with the Old Persian rock inscriptions of the Achæ-
menian kings, Darius, Xerxes, and Artaxerxes, form the ancient
epoch known as Old Iranian Literature, beginning at least in the fifth
century before the Christian era. A second great division in the lit-
erary history of Iran is constituted by the Middle Persian. This is
the period inaugurated by the Sassanian dynasty in the third century
A. D. , and it extends beyond the Mohammedan conquest of Persia
(651) to about the ninth century. The language and literature of
this Middle Persian period is called Pahlavi. The Pahlavi records are
chiefly writings relating to the Zoroastrian religion. The Mohamme-
dan conquest of Iran by the Arabs somewhat resembles, in its effect
upon Persian literature, the Norman conquest of England. Hardly
two centuries had elapsed before an Iranian renaissance is begun to
be felt in Persia. Firdausī comes three hundred years after the battle
of Nihāvand, in which the eagle of the Persian military standard
sank before the crescent of Allah's prophet and the Mohammedan
sword; just as Chaucer followed the battle of Hastings by three hun-
dred years.
Such was the literary situation at the end of the ninth century.
Firdausi was the poet in whom the wave of the national epos culmi-
nated in the tenth century. But as there were English poets who
struck the note before Chaucer, so in Persia, Firdausī had his literary
predecessors. A mere mention of the more important of these must
suffice. Abbas of Merv (809) was one of these earlier bards.
greater repute was Rūdagi (died 954), who is said to have composed
no less than a million verses. But Firdausi's direct predecessor and
Of
## p. 5736 (#320) ###########################################
5736
FIRDAUSI
inspirer in the epic strain was Daqiqi. This young poet, like Mar-
lowe, the herald of Shakespeare, was cruelly murdered when he had
sung but a thousand lines. Yet these thousand verses are immortal,
as Firdausi has incorporated them into his poem and has thus hap-
pily preserved them. They are the lines that describe the founding
of the religion of Zoroaster, priest of fire. There was possibly a cer-
tain amount of tact on Firdausī's part in using these, or in claiming
to employ Daqiqi's rhymes: he thus escaped having personally to
deal with the delicate religious question of the Persian faith in the
midst of the fanatical Mohammedans, who are said to have assassi-
nated Daqiqi on account of his too zealous devotion to the old-time
creed. With Firdausi, then, the New Persian era is auspiciously in-
augurated in the tenth century; its further development through the
romantic, philosophic, mystic, didactic, and lyric movements must be
sought under the names of Nizami, Omar Khayyam, Jalāl-ad-din
Rūmi, Sa'di, Hafiz, and Jāmi.
Firdausī is pre-eminently the heroic poet of Persia. The date of
his birth falls about 935. His full name seems to have been Abul-
qasim Hasan (Ahmad or Mansur); the appellative "Firdausī " (Para-
dise), by which he is known to fame, was bestowed upon him,
according to some accounts, by his royal patron the Sultan Mahmud.
Firdausi's native place was Tūs in Khorasan. By descent he was
heir to that Persian pride and love of country which the Arab con-
quest could not crush. By birth, therefore, this singer possessed
more than ordinary qualifications for chanting in rhythmical measures
the annals of ancient Iran. He had undoubtedly likewise made long
and careful preparation for his task, equipping himself by research
into the Pahlavi or Middle Persian sources, from which he drew ma-
terial for his chronicle-poem. From statements in the Shah Namah'
itself, we may infer that Firdausi was nearly forty years of age when,
with his extraordinary endowments, he made the real beginning of
his monumental work. We likewise know, from personal references
in the poem, that he had been married and had two children. The
death of his beloved son is mourned in touching strains. One of the
crowning events now in the poet's life was his entrance into the lit-
erary circle of the court of Sultan Mahmud of Ghazna, who ruled
998-1030. To Mahmud the great epic is finally dedicated, and the
story of Firdausi's career may best be told in connection with the
masterpiece.
The removal of the heroic bard Daqiqi by fate and by the assas-
sin's dagger had left open the way for an ambitious epic poet. Fir-
dausi was destined to be the fortunate aspirant. A romantic story
tells of his coming to the court of Sultan Mahmud. This legendary
account says that when he first approached the Round Table, the
## p. 5737 (#321) ###########################################
FIRDAUSI
5737
three court poets, Ansari, Farrukhi, and Asjadi wished no intruder
into their favored circle of poetic composition, and accordingly sought
to rid themselves of his unwelcome presence by putting him to shame.
They suggested a trial of metrical skill in improvisation. The first
of the three poets chose a very difficult Persian word (javshan ·
« cuirass ") to which there was hardly a rhyming word known,—like
the English twelfth, window, silver, chilver (woolly ewe). Firdausī,
they thought, would not be able to complete the quatrain. So Ansari
began:-
"The glance of thy face rivals moonlight or silver;"
Farrukhi matched this with:-
-:
«Thy cheek's downy bloom is as soft as the chilver;"
Asjadi continued the puzzling catchword by:
"Thy eyelashes pierce through the warrior's cuirass;»
Firdausī instantly added:
"As did Giw's fatal lance-stroke at Pashan harass. "
The readiness of this response, and the interesting historical allu-
sion, which was unknown to the coterie until Firdausī proceeded in
perfect verse to tell the story of the fateful battle between the two
heroes whom he had mentioned,- both these facts won generous
admiration and applause from Ansari, Farrukhi, and Asjadī. Charmed
by Firdausi's poetic grace, and impressed by his power and his learn-
ing, they unhesitatingly recognized him as their compeer or superior,
and proceeded in every way to advance him in favor with the Sul-
tan. If true, such an example of disinterestedness would not be easy
to parallel in the East or elsewhere. Unfortunately this pretty story,
although it is written in very choice Persian, is commonly now re-
garded as mere fiction or a baseless fabrication. Nevertheless it
conveys some idea of the general estimate in which Firdausī's genius
was held. We also know that this poet laureate lived long in the
sunshine of the court, and was promised a gold piece for each line
he composed. The liberality of Sultan Mahmud's favor called forth
from Firdausi a splendid poetical panegyric, that is only eclipsed by
the fierce savageness of the scathing satire which later the poet
poured out against his royal patron, when disappointed in old age of
the promised reward that was to crown his great work.
Tradition narrates that Firdausī was a septuagenarian when he
finished the last line of the sixty thousand rhyming couplets that
make up the 'Shah Namah. ' He now looked for the reward of his
· -
-:
## p. 5738 (#322) ###########################################
5738
FIRDAUSI
life's work. But jealousy and intrigue against him had not been idle
during his long residence at court. The Grand Vizier appears to have
induced the Sultan to send Firdausi sixty thousand silver dirhems,
instead of the promised gold.
of this was so severe a whipping, that it possibly fell little
short of the torture with which confessions are in some countries
extorted from criminals.
## p. 5717 (#301) ###########################################
HENRY FIELDING
5717
Tom bore this punishment with great resolution; and though
his master asked him between every stroke whether he would
not confess, he was contented to be flayed rather than betray his
friend, or break the promise he had made.
The gamekeeper was now relieved from his anxiety, and Mr.
Allworthy himself began to be concerned at Tom's sufferings: for
besides that Mr. Thwackum, being highly enraged that he was
not able to make the boy say what he himself pleased, had car-
ried his severity much beyond the good man's intention, this
latter began now to suspect that the squire had been mistaken,
which his extreme eagerness and anger seemed to make probable;
and as for what the servants had said in confirmation of their
master's account, he laid no great stress upon that. Now, as
cruelty and injustice were two ideas of which Mr. Allworthy
could by no means support the consciousness a single moment, he
sent for Tom, and after many kind and friendly exhortations,
said, "I am convinced, my dear child, that my suspicions have
wronged you; I am sorry that you have been so severely pun-
ished on this account; » and at last gave him a little horse to
make him amends, again repeating his sorrow for what had
passed.
Tom's guilt now flew in his face more than any severity could
make it. He could more easily bear the lashes of Thwackum than
the generosity of Allworthy. The tears burst from his eyes, and
he fell upon his knees, crying, "Oh, sir, you are too good to me.
Indeed you are.
Indeed I don't deserve it. " And at that very
instant, from the fullness of his heart, had almost betrayed the
secret; but the good genius of the gamekeeper suggested to him
what might be the consequence to the poor fellow, and this con-
sideration sealed his lips.
Thwackum did all he could to dissuade Allworthy from show-
ing any compassion or kindness to the boy, saying "he had
persisted in untruth"; and gave some hints that a second whip-
ping might probably bring the matter to light.
ment.
But Mr. Allworthy absolutely refused to consent to the experi-
He said the boy had suffered enough already for conceal-
ing the truth, even if he was guilty, seeing that he could have.
no motive but a mistaken point of honor for so doing.
"Honor! " cried Thwackum with some warmth: «< mere stub-
bornness and obstinacy! Can honor teach any one to tell a lie,
or can any honor exist independent of religion? "
## p. 5718 (#302) ###########################################
5718
HENRY FIELDING
This discourse happened at table when dinner was just ended;
and there were present Mr. Allworthy, Mr. Thwackum, and a
third gentleman, who now entered into the debate, and whom,
before we proceed any farther, we shall briefly introduce to our
reader's acquaintance.
THE CHARACTERS OF MR. SQUARE THE PHILOSOPHER AND
OF MR. THWACKUM THE DIVINE
From Tom Jones'
THE
HE name of this gentleman, who had then resided some time
at Mr. Allworthy's house, was Mr. Square. His natural
parts were not of the first rate, but he had greatly im-
proved them by a learned education. He was deeply read in the
ancients, and a professed master of all the works of Plato and
Aristotle; upon which great models he had principally formed
himself, sometimes according with the opinion of one, and some-
times with that of the other. In morals he was a professed
Platonist, and in religion he inclined to be an Aristotelian.
But though he had, as we have said, formed his morals on
the Platonic model, yet he perfectly agreed with the opinion of
Aristotle, in considering that great man rather in the quality of
a philosopher or a specialist than as a legislator. This sentiment
he carried a great way; indeed, so far as to regard all virtue as
matter of theory only. This, it is true, he never affirmed, as
I have heard, to any one; and yet upon the least attention to
his conduct, I cannot help thinking it was his real opinion, as
it will perfectly reconcile some contradictions which might other-
wise appear in his character.
This gentleman and Mr. Thwackum scarce ever met without
a disputation; for their tenets were indeed diametrically opposite
to each other. Square held human nature to be the perfection
of all virtue, and that vice was a deviation from our nature in
the same manner as deformity of body is. Thwackum, on the
contrary, maintained that the human mind since the fall was
nothing but a sink of iniquity, till purified and redeemed by
grace. In one point only they agreed, which was, in all their
discourses on morality never to mention the word "goodness. "
The favorite phrase of the former was the natural beauty of
virtue; that of the latter was the Divine power of grace. The
## p. 5719 (#303) ###########################################
HENRY FIELDING
5719
former measured all actions by the unalterable rule of right, and
the eternal fitness of things; the latter decided all matters by
authority; but in doing this he always used the Scriptures and
their commentators, as the lawyer doth his 'Coke upon Lyttle-
ton,' where the comment is of equal authority with the text.
After this short introduction the reader will be pleased to
remember that the parson had concluded his speech with a
triumphant question, to which he had apprehended no answer;
viz. , Can any honor exist independent of religion?
To this, Square answered that it was impossible to discourse
philosophically concerning words till their meaning was first es-
tablished; that there were scarce any two words of a more vague
and uncertain signification than the two he had mentioned, for
that there were almost as many different opinions concerning
honor as concerning religion. "But," says he, "if by honor you
mean the true natural beauty of virtue, I will maintain it may
exist independent of any religion whatever. Nay," added he,
"you yourself will allow it may exist independent of all but
one; so will a Mahometan, a Jew, and all the maintainers of all
the different sects in the world. "
Thwackum replied this was arguing with the usual malice of
all the enemies to the true Church. He said he doubted not but
that all the infidels and heretics in the world would, if they
could, confine honor to their own absurd errors and damnable
deceptions. "But honor," says he, "is not therefore manifold
because there are many absurd opinions about it; nor is religion
manifold because there are various sects and heresies in the
world. When I mention religion, I mean the Christian religion;
and not only the Christian religion, but the Protestant religion;
and not only the Protestant religion, but the Church of England.
And when I mention honor, I mean that mode of Divine grace
which is not only consistent with but dependent upon this reli-
gion; and is consistent with and dependent upon no other.
Now, to say that the honor I here mean, and which was, I
thought, all the honor I could be supposed to mean, will uphold,
much less dictate, an untruth, is to assert an absurdity too shock-
ing to be conceived. "
"I purposely avoided," says Square, "drawing a conclusion
which I thought evident from what I have said; but if you per-
ceived it I am sure you have not attempted to answer it. How-
ever, to drop the article of religion, I think it is plain, from
## p. 5720 (#304) ###########################################
5720
HENRY FIELDING
what you have said, that we have different ideas of honor; or
why do we not agree in the same terms of its explanation? I
have asserted that true honor and true virtue are almost syn-
onymous terms, and they are both founded on the unalterable
rule of right, and the eternal fitness of things; to which an un-
truth being absolutely repugnant and contrary, it is certain that
true honor cannot support an untruth. In this, therefore, I think
we are agreed; but that this honor can be said to be founded
on religion, to which it is antecedent, if by religion be meant
any positive law—»
"I agree," answered Thwackum, with great warmth, "with a
man who asserts honor to be antecedent to religion? Mr. All-
worthy, did I agree — »
He was proceeding, when Mr. Allworthy interposed, telling
them very coldly, they had both mistaken his meaning, for that
he had said nothing of true honor. It is possible, however, he
would not have easily quieted the disputants, who were growing
equally warm, had not another matter now fallen out, which put
a final end to the conversation.
PARTRIDGE AT THE PLAYHOUSE
From Tom Jones'
MR.
R. JONES having spent three hours in reading and kissing
the aforesaid letter, and being at last in a state of good
spirits from the last-mentioned considerations, he agreed
to carry an appointment, which he had before made, into execu-
tion. This was to attend Mrs. Miller and her younger daughter
into the gallery at the play-house, and to admit Mr. Partridge as
one of the company. For as Jones had really that taste for
humor which many affect, he expected to enjoy much entertain-
ment in the criticisms of Partridge; from whom he expected the
simple dictates of nature, unimproved indeed, but likewise un-
adulterated by art.
In the first row then, of the first gallery, did Mr. Jones, Mrs.
Miller, her youngest daughter, and Partridge take their places.
Partridge immediately declared it was the finest place he had
ever been in. When the first music was played, he said "it was
a wonder how so many fiddlers could play at one time without
putting one another out" While the fellow was lighting the
## p. 5721 (#305) ###########################################
HENRY FIELDING
5721
upper candles he cried out to Mrs. Miller, "Look, look, madam;
the very picture of the man in the end of the Common Prayer
Book, before the gunpowder-treason service! " Nor could he help
observing with a sigh, when all the candles were lighted, that
"there were candles enough burnt in one night to keep an honest
poor family for a whole twelvemonth. "
As soon as the play, which was 'Hamlet, Prince of Denmark,’
began, Partridge was all attention, nor did he break silence till
the entrance of the Ghost; upon which he asked Jones, "What
man that was in the strange dress; something," said he, "like
what I have seen in a picture. Sure, it is not armor, is it? "
Jones answered, "That is the Ghost. "
To which Partridge replied with a smile: -"Persuade me to
that, sir, if you can. Though I can't say I ever actually saw a
ghost in my life, yet I am certain I should know one if I saw
him, better than that comes to. No, no, sir; ghosts don't appear
in such dresses as that, neither. " In this mistake, which caused
much laughter in the neighborhood of Partridge, he was suffered
to continue, until the scene between the Ghost and Hamlet, when
Partridge gave that credit to Mr. Garrick which he had denied
to Jones, and fell into so violent a trembling that his knees
knocked against each other. Jones asked him what was the mat-
ter, and whether he was afraid of the warrior upon the stage?
"Oh, la! sir,” said he, "I perceive now it is what you told me.
I am not afraid of anything, for I know it is but a play; and if
it was really a ghost, it could do one no harm at such a distance,
and in so much company; and yet if I was frightened, I am not
the only person. "
"Why, who,” cries Jones, "dost thou take to be such a coward
here, besides thyself? "
"Nay, you may call me a coward if you will; but if that little
man there upon the stage is not frightened, I never saw any man
frightened in my life. Ah, ah, go along with you! Ay, to be
sure! Who's fool then? Will you? Lud have mercy upon such
foolhardiness! Whatever happens, it is good enough for you.
Follow you? -I'd follow the Devil as soon. Nay, perhaps it is
the Devil, for they say he can put on what likeness he pleases.
Oh! here he is again. No farther! No, you have gone far
enough already; farther than I'd have gone for all the king's
dominion. " Jones offered to speak, but Partridge cried, "Hush,
hush, dear sir, don't you hear him! " And during the whole
## p. 5722 (#306) ###########################################
HENRY FIELDING
5722
speech of the Ghost he sat with his eyes fixed partly on the
Ghost and partly on Hamlet, and with his mouth open; the
same passions which succeeded each other in Hamlet succeeding
likewise in him.
When the scene was over, Jones said, "Why, Partridge, you
exceed my expectations. You enjoy the play more than I con-
ceived possible. "
"Nay, sir," answered Partridge, "if you are not afraid of the
Devil, I can't help it; but to be sure, it is natural to be surprised
at such things, though I know there is nothing in them; not
that it was the Ghost that surprised me neither, for I should
have known that to have been only a man in a strange dress;
but when I saw the little man so frightened himself, it was that
which took hold of me. "
"And dost thou imagine then, Partridge," cries Jones, "that
he was really frightened? "
"Nay, sir," said Partridge, "did not you yourself observe
afterwards, when he found out it was his own father's spirit, and
how he was murdered in the garden, how his fear forsook him
by degrees, and he was struck dumb with sorrow, as it were,
just as I should have been had it been my own case? But
hush! oh, la! What noise is that? There he is again. Well, to
be certain, though I know there is nothing at all in it, I am
glad I am not down yonder where those men are. " Then, turn-
ing his eyes again upon Hamlet, "Ay, you may draw your
sword: what signifies a sword against the power of the Devil? "
During the second act, Partridge made very few remarks.
He greatly admired the fineness of the dresses; nor could he
help observing upon the King's countenance. "Well," said he,
"how people may be deceived by faces! Nulla fides fronti is, I
find, a true saying. Who would think, by looking in the King's
face, that he had ever committed a murder? " He then inquired
after the Ghost; but Jones, who intended that he should be sur-
prised, gave him no other satisfaction than that he might possi-
bly see him again soon, and in a flash of fire.
Partridge sat in fearful expectation of this; and now when the
Ghost made his next appearance Partridge cried out:-" There,
sir, now: what say you now? Is he frightened now, or no? As
much frightened as you think me; and to be sure, nobody can
help some fears. I would not be in so bad a condition as what's-
his-name, Squire Hamlet, is there, for all the world. Bless me!
## p. 5723 (#307) ###########################################
HENRY FIELDING
5723
What's become of the spirit? As I am a living soul, I thought
I saw him sink into the earth. "
"Indeed, you saw right," answered Jones.
"Well, well," cries Partridge, "I know it is only a play; and
besides, if there was anything in all this, Madam Miller would
not laugh so; for as to you, sir, you would not be afraid, I be-
lieve, if the Devil were here in person. There, there
wonder you are in such a passion; shake the vile wicked wretch
to pieces. If she was my own mother I should serve her so.
To be sure, all duty to a mother is forfeited by such wicked
doings. Ay, go about your business; I hate the sight of you. "
-ay, no
Our critic was now pretty silent till the play which Hamlet
introduces before the King. This he did not at first understand
till Jones explained it to him; but he no sooner entered into the
spirit of it than he began to bless himself that he had never
committed murder. Then, turning to Mrs. Miller, he asked her
if she did not imagine the King looked as if he was touched;
"though he is," said he, "a good actor, and doth all he can to
hide it. Well, I would not have so much to answer for as that
wicked man there hath, to sit upon a much higher chair than he
sits upon.
No wonder he ran away; for your sake I'll never
trust an innocent face again. "
The grave-digging scene next engaged the attention of Par-
tridge, who expressed much surprise at the number of skulls
thrown upon the stage. To which Jones answered that "it was
one of the most famous burial-places about town. "
"No wonder, then," cries Partridge, "that the place is
haunted. But I never saw in my life a worse grave-digger. I
had a sexton, when I was clerk, that should have dug three
graves while he is digging one. The fellow handles a spade as
if it was the first time he had ever had one in his hand. Ay,
ay, you may sing. You had rather sing than work, I believe. "
Upon Hamlet's taking up the skull, he cried out, "Well, it is
strange to see how fearless some men are; I never could bring
myself to touch anything belonging to a dead man on any
account. He seemed frightened enough, too, at the Ghost, I
thought. Nemo omnibus horis sapit. "
Little more worth remembering occurred during the play, at
the end of which Jones asked him which of the players he had
liked best?
To this he answered, with some appearance of indignation at
the question, "The King, without doubt. "
## p. 5724 (#308) ###########################################
5724
HENRY FIELDING
"Indeed, Mr. Partridge," says Mrs. Miller, "you are
the same opinion as the town; for they are all agreed that Ham-
let is acted by the best player who was ever on the stage. "
"He the best player! " cried Partridge, with a contemptuous
sneer; "why, I could act as well as he myself. I am sure if I
had seen a ghost, I should have looked in the very same man-
ner, and done just as he did. And then, to be sure, in that
scene, as you call it, between him and his mother, where you
told me he acted so fine, why, Lord help me! any man,—that is,
any good man,- that had had such a mother, would have done
exactly the same. I know you are only joking with me; but
indeed, madam, though I was never at a play in London, yet I
have seen acting before in the country; and the King for my
money; he speaks all his words distinctly, half as loud again as
the other. Anybody may see he is an actor. "
While Mrs. Miller was thus engaged in conversation with
Partridge, a lady came up to Mr. Jones whom he immediately
knew to be Mrs. Fitzpatrick. She said she had seen him from
the other part of the gallery, and had taken that opportunity
of speaking to him, as she had something to say which might
be of great service to himself. She then acquainted him with
her lodgings, and made him an appointment the next day in the
morning, which upon recollection she presently changed to the
afternoon; at which time Jones promised to attend her.
Thus ended the adventure at the play-house; where Partridge
had afforded great mirth, not only to Jones and Mrs. Miller, but
to all who sat within hearing, who were more attentive to what
he said than to anything that passed on the stage.
He durst not go to bed all that night for fear of the Ghost;
and for many nights after, sweat two or three hours before he
went to sleep with the same apprehensions; and waked several
times in great horrors, crying out, "Lord have mercy upon us!
there it is. "
## p. 5725 (#309) ###########################################
HENRY FIELDING
5725
THE FAREWELL
From Amelia'
"I
I AM not mistaken, madam," continued Booth, "I was just
going to acquaint you with the doctor's opinion, when we
were interrupted by the keeper.
"The doctor, having heard counsel on both sides, that is to
say, Mrs. Harris for my staying and Miss Betty for my going,
at last delivered his own sentiments. As for Amelia, she sat
silent, drowned in her tears; nor was I myself in a much better
situation.
"As the commissions are not signed,' said the doctor, 'I
think you may be said to remain in your former regiment; and
therefore I think you ought to go on this expedition: your duty
to your King and country, whose bread you have eaten, requires
it; and this is a duty of too high a nature to admit the least
deficiency; regard to your character likewise requires you to go;
for the world, which might justly blame your staying at home
if the case was even fairly stated, will not deal so honestly by
you; you must expect to have every circumstance against you
heightened, and most of what makes for your defense omitted;
and thus you will be stigmatized as a coward, without any pallia-
tion. As the malicious disposition of mankind is too well known,
and the cruel pleasure which they take in destroying the reputa-
tions of others, the use we are to make of this knowledge is to
afford no handle to reproach: for bad as the world is, it seldom
falls on any man who has not given some slight cause for cen-
sure, though this perhaps is often aggravated ten thousandfold;
and when we blame the malice of the aggravation, we ought not
to forget our own imprudence in giving the occasion. Remem-
ber, my boy, your honor is at stake; and you know how nice the
honor of a soldier is in these cases. This is a treasure which he
must be your enemy indeed who would attempt to rob you of;
therefore you ought to consider every one as your enemy, who
by desiring you to stay would rob you of your honor. '
"Do you hear that, sister? ' cries Miss Betty. 'Yes, I do
hear it,' answered Amelia, with more spirit than I ever saw her
exert before; and would preserve his honor at the expense of
my life.
I will preserve it if it should be at that expense; and
since it is Dr. Harrison's opinion that he ought to go, I give my
consent. Go, my dear husband,' cried she, falling upon her
## p. 5726 (#310) ###########################################
5726
HENRY FIELDING
knees; may every angel of heaven guard and preserve you! '
I cannot repeat her words without being affected," said he, wip-
ing his eyes; "the excellence of that woman no words can paint.
Miss Matthews, she has every perfection in human nature.
"I will not tire you with the repetition of any more that
passed on that occasion, nor with the quarrel that ensued be-
tween Mrs.
Harris and the doctor; for the old lady could not
submit to my leaving her daughter in her present condition. She
fell severely on the army, and cursed the day in which her daugh-
ter was married to a soldier, not sparing the doctor for having
had some share in the match. I will omit, likewise, the tender
scene which passed between Amelia and myself previous to my
departure. "
"Indeed, I beg you would not," cries Miss Matthews: "noth-
ing delights me more than scenes of tenderness. I should be
glad to know, if possible, every syllable which was uttered on
both sides. "
"I will indulge you then," cries Booth, "as far as it is in
my power. Indeed, I believe I am able to recollect much the
greater part; for the impression is never to be effaced from my
memory. "
He then proceeded as Miss Matthews desired; but lest our
readers should not be of her opinion, we will, according to our
usual custom, endeavor to accommodate ourselves to every taste;
and shall therefore place this scene in a chapter by itself, which
we desire all our readers who do not love, or who perhaps do
not know the pleasure of tenderness, to pass over; since they
may do this without any prejudice to the thread of the narrative.
A SCENE OF THE TENDER KIND
From Amelia'
"THE
HE doctor, madam," continued Booth, "spent his evening at
Mrs. Harris's house, where I sat with him whilst he
smoked his pillow-pipe, as the phrase is. Amelia was re-
tired above half an hour to her chamber before I went to see her.
At my entrance I found her on her knees, a posture in which I
never disturbed her. In a few minutes she arose, came to me,
and embracing me, said she had been praying for resolution to
support the cruelest moments she had ever undergone, or could
## p. 5727 (#311) ###########################################
HENRY FIELDING
5727
possibly undergo.
I reminded her how much more bitter a fare-
well would be on a death-bed, when we never could meet, in
this world at least, again. I then endeavored to lessen all those
objects which alarmed her most, and particularly the danger I
was to encounter, upon which head I seemed a little to comfort
her; but the probable length of my absence, and the certain
length of my voyage, were circumstances which no oratory of
mine could even palliate. 'Oh heavens! ' said she, bursting into
tears; 'can I bear to think that hundreds, thousands, for aught I
know, of miles or leagues-that lands and seas are between us?
What is the prospect from that mount in our garden, where I
have sat so many happy hours with my Billy? what is the
distance between that and the farthest hill which we see from
thence, compared to the distance which will be between us?
You cannot wonder at this idea: you must remember, my Billy,
at this place this very thought came formerly into my fore-
boding mind. I then begged you to leave the army-why
would you not comply? Did I not tell you then, that the
smallest cottage we could survey from the mount would be with
you a paradise to me? It would be so still. Why can't my Billy
think so? Am I so much his superior in love? Where is the
dishonor, Billy? or, if there be any, will it reach our ears in our
little hut? Are glory and fame, and not his Amelia, the happi-
ness of my husband? Go, then, purchase them at my expense!
You will pay a few sighs, perhaps a few tears, at parting, and
then new scenes will drive away the thoughts of poor Amelia
from your bosom; but what assistance shall I have in my afflic-
tion? Not that any change of scene could drive you one moment
from my remembrance; yet here every object I behold will place
your loved idea in the liveliest manner before my eyes. This is
the bed in which you have reposed; that is the chair in which
you sat; upon these boards you have stood; these books you
have read to me. Can I walk among our beds of flowers with-
out viewing your favorites, nay, those which you have planted
with your own hands? Can I see one beauty from our beloved
mount which you have not pointed out to me? ' Thus she went
on; the woman, madam, you see, still prevailing. "—"Since you
mention it," says Miss Matthews, with a smile, "I own the same
observation occurred to me. It is too natural to us to consider
ourselves only, Mr. Booth. "-"You shall hear," he cried: "at
last, the thoughts of her present condition suggested themselves.
## p. 5728 (#312) ###########################################
5728
HENRY FIELDING
'But if,' said she, 'my situation even in health will be so in-
tolerable, how shall I, in the danger and agonies of childbirth,
support your absence! ' Here she stopped, and looking on me
with all the tenderness imaginable, cried out:-'And am I then
such a wretch as to wish for your presence at such a season?
Ought I not to rejoice that you are out of the hearing of my
cries or the knowledge of my pains? If I die, will you not have
escaped the horrors of a parting ten thousand times more dread-
ful than this? Go, go, my Billy; the very circumstance which
made me most dread your departure has perfectly reconciled me
to it.
I perceive clearly now that I was only wishing to support
my own weakness with your strength, and to relieve my own
pains at the price of yours. Believe me, my love, I am ashamed
of myself. I caught her in my arms with raptures not to be
expressed in words, calling her my heroine (sure none ever better
deserved that name); after which we remained some time speech-
less, and locked in each other's embraces. ”
"I am convinced," said Miss Matthews with a sigh, "there are
moments in life worth purchasing with worlds. "
"At length the fatal morning came. I endeavored to hide
every pang in my heart, and to wear the utmost gayety in my
countenance. Amelia acted the same part. In these assumed
characters we met the family at breakfast; at their breakfast, I
mean,- for we were both full already.
were both full already. The doctor had spent
above an hour that morning in discourse with Mrs. Harris, and
had in some measure reconciled her to my departure.
He now
made use of every art to relieve the poor distressed Amelia; not
by inveighing against the folly of grief, or by seriously advising
her not to grieve; both which were sufficiently performed by Miss
Betty. The doctor, on the contrary, had recourse to every means
which might cast a veil over the idea of grief and raise comfort-
able images in my angel's mind. He endeavored to lessen the
supposed length of my absence, by discoursing on matters which
were more distant in time. He said he intended next year to
rebuild a part of his parsonage house; and you, captain,' says
he, shall lay the corner-stone, I promise you;' with many other
instances of the like nature, which produced, I believe, some good
effect on us both.
"Amelia spoke but little; indeed, more tears than words
dropped from her; however, she seemed resolved to bear her
affliction with resignation: but when the dreadful news arrived
## p. 5729 (#313) ###########################################
HENRY FIELDING
5729
that the horses were ready, and I, having taken my leave of all
the rest, at last approached her, she was unable to support the
conflict with nature any longer; and clinging round my neck, she
cried, 'Farewell-farewell forever! for I shall never, never see
you more! At which words the blood entirely forsook her lovely
cheeks, and she became a lifeless corpse in my arms.
"Amelia continued so long motionless, that the doctor, as well
as Mrs. Harris, began to be under the most terrible apprehen-
sions, so they informed me afterwards; for at that time I was
incapable of making any observation. I had indeed very little
more use of my senses than the dear creature whom I supported.
At length, however, we were all delivered from our fears, and
life again visited the loveliest mansion that human nature ever
afforded it.
"I had been, and yet was, so terrified with what had happened,
and Amelia continued yet so weak and ill, that I determined,
whatever might be the consequence, not to leave her that day;
which resolution she was no sooner acquainted with than she fell
on her knees, crying, 'Good Heaven! I thank thee for this re-
prieve at least. Oh that every hour of my future life could be
crammed into this dear day! '
"Our good friend the doctor remained with us; he said he
had intended to visit a family in some affliction; but I don't
know,' says he, 'why I should ride a dozen miles after affliction,
when we have enough here. ' Of all mankind the doctor is the
best of comforters. As his excessive good-nature makes him
take vast delight in the office, so his great penetration into the
human mind, joined to his great experience, renders him the
most wonderful proficient in it; and he so well knows when to
soothe, when to reason, and when to ridicule, that he never ap-
plies any of those arts improperly, which is almost universally
the case with the physicians of the mind, and which it requires
very great judgment and dexterity to avoid.
"The doctor principally applied himself to ridiculing the dan-
gers of the siege, in which he succeeded so well that he some-
times forced a smile even into the face of Amelia. But what
most comforted her were the arguments he used to convince her
of the probability of my speedy, if not immediate, return. He
said the general opinion was that the place would be taken
before our arrival there; in which case we should have nothing
more to do than to make the best of our way home again.
X-359
## p. 5730 (#314) ###########################################
5730
HENRY FIELDING
"Amelia was so lulled by these arts that she passed the day
much better than I expected. Though the doctor could not
make pride strong enough to conquer love, yet he exalted the
former to make some stand against the latter; insomuch that
my poor Amelia, I believe, more than once flattered herself, to
speak the language of the world, that her reason had gained an
entire victory over her passion; till love brought up a reinforce-
ment, if I may use that term, of tender ideas, and bore down
all before him.
"In the evening the doctor and I passed another half-hour
together, when he proposed to me to endeavor to leave Amelia.
asleep in the morning, and promised me to be at hand when she
awaked, and to support her with all the assistance in his power;
he added that nothing was more foolish than for friends to take
leave of each other. 'It is true indeed,' says he, 'in the com-
mon acquaintance and friendship of the world, this is a very
harmless ceremony; but between two persons who really love
each other, the Church of Rome never invented a penance half
so severe as this which we absurdly impose on ourselves. '
"I greatly approved the doctor's proposal, thanked him, and
promised if possible to put it in execution. He then shook me
by the hand and heartily wished me well, saying in his blunt
way, Well, boy, I hope to see thee crowned with laurels at thy
return: one comfort I have at least, that stone walls and a sea
will prevent thee from running away. '
"When I had left the doctor I repaired to my Amelia, whom
I found in her chamber, employed in a very different manner
from what she had been the preceding night: she was busy in
packing up some trinkets in a casket, which she desired me to
carry with me. This casket was her own work, and she had just
fastened it as I came to her.
"Her eyes very plainly discovered what had passed while she
was engaged in her work; however, her countenance was now
serene, and she spoke at least with some cheerfulness; but after
some time, 'You must take care of this casket, Billy,' said she;
'you must, indeed, Billy, for her passion almost choked her
till a flood of tears gave her relief, and then she proceeded -
'for I shall be the happiest woman that ever was born when I
see it again. I told her, with the blessing of God, that day
would soon come. 'Soon? answered she, 'no, Billy, not soon;
a week is an age; but yet the happy day may come. It shall, it
## p. 5731 (#315) ###########################################
HENRY FIELDING
5731
must, it will! Yes, Billy, we shall meet never to part again -
even in this world, I hope. ' Pardon my weakness, Miss Mat-
thews, but upon my soul I cannot help it," cried he, wiping
his eyes.
"Well, I wonder at your patience, and I will try it no longer.
Amelia, tired out with so long a struggle between a variety of
passions, and having not closed her eyes during three successive
nights, towards the morning fell into a profound sleep, in which
sleep I left her; and having dressed myself with all the expedi-
tion imaginable, singing, whistling, hurrying, attempting by every
method to banish thought, I mounted my horse, which I had
over-night ordered to be ready, and galloped away from that
house where all my treasure was deposited.
"Thus, madam, I have in obedience to your commands run
through a scene, which if it has been tiresome to you, you must
yet acquit me of having obtruded upon you. This I am convinced
of, that no one is capable of tasting such a scene who has not a
heart full of tenderness, and perhaps not even then, unless he
has been in the same situation. "
## p. 5732 (#316) ###########################################
5732
VINCENZO DA FILICAIA
(1642-1707)
ITERARY historians agree that Italian poetry reached its lowest
ebb in the early part of the seventeenth century. The verse
of the imitators of Marini degenerated into mere artifice.
Brought to a high technical perfection, it yet lacked substance and
truth of feeling, and was become a mere plaything in the hands of
skillful versifiers. Near the end of the century a group of Roman
literary men founded a society called "The Arcadia," whose avowed
object was to repudiate this verse-making à la mode, and to bring
poetry back to nature. But they marred
still further what they had set out to mend.
In their hands simplicity became inanity.
Instead of returning to nature they played
at being shepherds and shepherdesses, while
their pastoral Muse wore patches and French
heels.
In this period of make-believe, almost
the only genuine voice was that of Vin-
cenzo da Filicaia. Born in Florence in 1642
of an ancient and noble family, he was lib-
erally educated, at first in the schools of
his native city and afterwards at the Uni-
VINCENZO DA FILICAIA versity of Pisa. Then, withdrawing to a
small villa near Florence, he gave himself
up to study and to writing. Like all his contemporaries, he began by
composing amatory verse. After the marriage and early death of the
lady whom he had celebrated, he burned all these youthful effusions,
and dedicated his muse to God and to Italy. In 1683, when John
Sobieski raised the siege of Vienna and saved the civilization of Eu-
rope from the invading Turks, Filicaia, thrilled by the heroism of the
Polish king, celebrated his victory in six famous odes. Uplifted by
the grandeur of his theme, the poet rose to heights of lyric enthusiasm
that set him among the inspired singers of his country. Read in all
the courts of Europe, the modest poet who had hardly dared to show
his verses to his friends, suddenly found himself face to face with a
European reputation. The Christian nations, trembling to see their
fate hang in the balance, found in these odes a passionate expression
of their joy in deliverance, and of their admiration for the warrior
king.
## p. 5733 (#317) ###########################################
VINCENZO DA FILICAIA
5733
The brilliant Christina of Sweden drew the poet into her circle in
Rome, and undertook to educate his two sons. Cosmo III. , Grand
Duke of Florence, made him governor of Volterra and of Pisa. Fili-
caia spent the last few years of his life at Florence, where he had
been raised to the rank of a senator. He died in that city Septem-
ber 24th, 1707.
Although himself an Arcadian, and the most noted of that school,
Filicaia was remarkably free from its extravagances. He was saved
from bathos by the depth of his thought, the strength and energy of
his expression, his mastery over technique, and the genuineness of his
enthusiasm. Yet, sincere though he was, he did not quite escape the
charge of affectation. His fame in consequence has undergone some
mutations. Much of his poetry is still read with admiration, and his
famous sonnet on Italy, which Byron has so finely paraphrased in the
fourth canto of Childe Harold,' all Italians still know by heart.
TIME
SAW a mighty river, wild and vast,
I
Whose rapid waves were moments, which did glide
So swiftly onward in their silent tide,
That ere their flight was heeded, they were past;
A river, that to death's dark shores doth fast
Conduct all living with resistless force,
And though unfelt, pursues its noiseless course,
To quench all fires in Lethe's stream at last.
Its current with creation's birth was born;
And with the heaven's commenced its march sublime,
In days and months, still hurrying on untired.
Marking its flight, I inwardly did mourn,
And of my musing thoughts in doubt inquired
The river's name: my thoughts responded, Time.
OF PROVIDENCE
UST as a mother, with sweet pious face,
J
Turns towards her little children from her seat,
Gives one a kiss, another an embrace,
Takes this upon her knees, that on her feet;
And while from actions, looks, complaints, pretenses,
She learns their feelings and their various will,
To this a look, to that a word dispenses,
And whether stern or smiling, loves them still;-
――――――――
## p. 5734 (#318) ###########################################
5734
VINCENZO DA FILICAIA
So Providence for us, high, infinite,
Makes our necessities its watchful task,
Hearkens to all our prayers, helps all our wants;
And even if it denies what seems our right,
Either denies because 'twould have us ask,
Or seems but to deny, or in denying grants.
TO ITALY
TALIA, O Italia! hapless thou,
IT
Who didst the . fatal gift of beauty gain,—
A dowry fraught with never-ending pain,
A seal of sorrow stamped upon thy brow:
Oh, were thy bravery more, or less thy charms!
Then should thy foes, they whom thy loveliness
Now lures afar to conquer and possess,
Adore thy beauty less, or dread thine arms!
No longer then should hostile torrents pour
Adown the Alps; and Gallic troops be laved
In the red waters of the Po no more;
No longer then, by foreign courage saved,
Barbarian succor should thy sons implore,-
Vanquished or victors, still by Goths enslaved.
## p. 5735 (#319) ###########################################
5735
FIRDAUSĪ
(935-1020)
BY A. V. WILLIAMS JACKSON
the national poet of Persia.
IRDAUSĨ, author of the 'Shah Namah,' or Book of Kings, is
With the name of Firdausī in
the tenth century of our era, modern Persian poetry may be
said to begin. Firdausī, however, really forms only one link in the
long chain of Iranian literature which extends over more than twenty-
five centuries, and whose beginnings are to be sought in the Avesta,
five hundred years before the birth of Christ.
A brief glance may first be taken at the history of the literary
development of Persia. The sacred Zoroastrian scriptures of the
Avesta, together with the Old Persian rock inscriptions of the Achæ-
menian kings, Darius, Xerxes, and Artaxerxes, form the ancient
epoch known as Old Iranian Literature, beginning at least in the fifth
century before the Christian era. A second great division in the lit-
erary history of Iran is constituted by the Middle Persian. This is
the period inaugurated by the Sassanian dynasty in the third century
A. D. , and it extends beyond the Mohammedan conquest of Persia
(651) to about the ninth century. The language and literature of
this Middle Persian period is called Pahlavi. The Pahlavi records are
chiefly writings relating to the Zoroastrian religion. The Mohamme-
dan conquest of Iran by the Arabs somewhat resembles, in its effect
upon Persian literature, the Norman conquest of England. Hardly
two centuries had elapsed before an Iranian renaissance is begun to
be felt in Persia. Firdausī comes three hundred years after the battle
of Nihāvand, in which the eagle of the Persian military standard
sank before the crescent of Allah's prophet and the Mohammedan
sword; just as Chaucer followed the battle of Hastings by three hun-
dred years.
Such was the literary situation at the end of the ninth century.
Firdausi was the poet in whom the wave of the national epos culmi-
nated in the tenth century. But as there were English poets who
struck the note before Chaucer, so in Persia, Firdausī had his literary
predecessors. A mere mention of the more important of these must
suffice. Abbas of Merv (809) was one of these earlier bards.
greater repute was Rūdagi (died 954), who is said to have composed
no less than a million verses. But Firdausi's direct predecessor and
Of
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FIRDAUSI
inspirer in the epic strain was Daqiqi. This young poet, like Mar-
lowe, the herald of Shakespeare, was cruelly murdered when he had
sung but a thousand lines. Yet these thousand verses are immortal,
as Firdausi has incorporated them into his poem and has thus hap-
pily preserved them. They are the lines that describe the founding
of the religion of Zoroaster, priest of fire. There was possibly a cer-
tain amount of tact on Firdausī's part in using these, or in claiming
to employ Daqiqi's rhymes: he thus escaped having personally to
deal with the delicate religious question of the Persian faith in the
midst of the fanatical Mohammedans, who are said to have assassi-
nated Daqiqi on account of his too zealous devotion to the old-time
creed. With Firdausi, then, the New Persian era is auspiciously in-
augurated in the tenth century; its further development through the
romantic, philosophic, mystic, didactic, and lyric movements must be
sought under the names of Nizami, Omar Khayyam, Jalāl-ad-din
Rūmi, Sa'di, Hafiz, and Jāmi.
Firdausī is pre-eminently the heroic poet of Persia. The date of
his birth falls about 935. His full name seems to have been Abul-
qasim Hasan (Ahmad or Mansur); the appellative "Firdausī " (Para-
dise), by which he is known to fame, was bestowed upon him,
according to some accounts, by his royal patron the Sultan Mahmud.
Firdausi's native place was Tūs in Khorasan. By descent he was
heir to that Persian pride and love of country which the Arab con-
quest could not crush. By birth, therefore, this singer possessed
more than ordinary qualifications for chanting in rhythmical measures
the annals of ancient Iran. He had undoubtedly likewise made long
and careful preparation for his task, equipping himself by research
into the Pahlavi or Middle Persian sources, from which he drew ma-
terial for his chronicle-poem. From statements in the Shah Namah'
itself, we may infer that Firdausi was nearly forty years of age when,
with his extraordinary endowments, he made the real beginning of
his monumental work. We likewise know, from personal references
in the poem, that he had been married and had two children. The
death of his beloved son is mourned in touching strains. One of the
crowning events now in the poet's life was his entrance into the lit-
erary circle of the court of Sultan Mahmud of Ghazna, who ruled
998-1030. To Mahmud the great epic is finally dedicated, and the
story of Firdausi's career may best be told in connection with the
masterpiece.
The removal of the heroic bard Daqiqi by fate and by the assas-
sin's dagger had left open the way for an ambitious epic poet. Fir-
dausi was destined to be the fortunate aspirant. A romantic story
tells of his coming to the court of Sultan Mahmud. This legendary
account says that when he first approached the Round Table, the
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FIRDAUSI
5737
three court poets, Ansari, Farrukhi, and Asjadi wished no intruder
into their favored circle of poetic composition, and accordingly sought
to rid themselves of his unwelcome presence by putting him to shame.
They suggested a trial of metrical skill in improvisation. The first
of the three poets chose a very difficult Persian word (javshan ·
« cuirass ") to which there was hardly a rhyming word known,—like
the English twelfth, window, silver, chilver (woolly ewe). Firdausī,
they thought, would not be able to complete the quatrain. So Ansari
began:-
"The glance of thy face rivals moonlight or silver;"
Farrukhi matched this with:-
-:
«Thy cheek's downy bloom is as soft as the chilver;"
Asjadi continued the puzzling catchword by:
"Thy eyelashes pierce through the warrior's cuirass;»
Firdausī instantly added:
"As did Giw's fatal lance-stroke at Pashan harass. "
The readiness of this response, and the interesting historical allu-
sion, which was unknown to the coterie until Firdausī proceeded in
perfect verse to tell the story of the fateful battle between the two
heroes whom he had mentioned,- both these facts won generous
admiration and applause from Ansari, Farrukhi, and Asjadī. Charmed
by Firdausi's poetic grace, and impressed by his power and his learn-
ing, they unhesitatingly recognized him as their compeer or superior,
and proceeded in every way to advance him in favor with the Sul-
tan. If true, such an example of disinterestedness would not be easy
to parallel in the East or elsewhere. Unfortunately this pretty story,
although it is written in very choice Persian, is commonly now re-
garded as mere fiction or a baseless fabrication. Nevertheless it
conveys some idea of the general estimate in which Firdausī's genius
was held. We also know that this poet laureate lived long in the
sunshine of the court, and was promised a gold piece for each line
he composed. The liberality of Sultan Mahmud's favor called forth
from Firdausi a splendid poetical panegyric, that is only eclipsed by
the fierce savageness of the scathing satire which later the poet
poured out against his royal patron, when disappointed in old age of
the promised reward that was to crown his great work.
Tradition narrates that Firdausī was a septuagenarian when he
finished the last line of the sixty thousand rhyming couplets that
make up the 'Shah Namah. ' He now looked for the reward of his
· -
-:
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FIRDAUSI
life's work. But jealousy and intrigue against him had not been idle
during his long residence at court. The Grand Vizier appears to have
induced the Sultan to send Firdausi sixty thousand silver dirhems,
instead of the promised gold.
