No More Learning

The body of
the dead man — for whom this world is over, and who sleeps in


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JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS
9
peace awaiting resurrection, and thereby not wholly dead, around
whose tomb watch sympathizing angels or contemplative genii -
was therefore the proper subject for the highest Christian sculp-
ture. Here if anywhere the right emotion could be adequately
expressed in stone; and the molded form be made the symbol
of repose, expectant of restored activity. The greatest sculptor
of the modern age was essentially a poet of Death.
Painting, then, for the reasons already assigned and insisted
on, was the art demanded by the modern intellect upon its
emergence from the stillness of the Middle Ages. The problem,
however, even for the art of painting, was not simple. The
painters, following the masters of mosaic, began by setting forth
the history, mythology, and legends of the Christian Church, in
imagery freer and more beautiful than lay within the scope of
treatment by Romanesque or Byzantine art. So far their task
was comparatively easy; for the idyllic grace of maternal love
in the Madonna, the pathetic incidents of martyrdom, the cour.
age of confessors, the ecstasies of celestial joy in redeemed souls,
the loveliness of a pure life in modest virgins, and the dramatic
episodes of sacred story, furnish a multitude of motives admira-
bly pictorial. There was therefore no great obstacle upon the
threshold, so long as artists gave their willing service to the
Church. Yet, looking back upon this phase of painting, we are able
to perceive that already the adaptation of art to Christian dogma
entailed concessions on both sides. Much, on the one hand, had
to be omitted from the programme offered to artistic treatment,
for the reason that the fine arts could not deal with it at all.
Much, on the other hand, had to be expressed by means which
painting in a state of perfect freedom would repudiate. Allegori-
cal symbols, like Prudence with two faces, and painful episodes
of agony and anguish, marred her work of beauty. There was
consequently a double compromise, involving a double sacrifice of
something precious. The faith suffered by having its mysteries
brought into the light of day, incarnated in form, and humanized.
Art suffered by being forced to render intellectual abstractions to
the eye through figured symbols.
As technical skill increased, and as beauty, the proper end of
art, became more rightly understood, the painters found that their
craft was worthy of being made an end in itself, and that the
actualities of life observed around them had claims upon their
genius no less weighty than dogmatic mysteries. The subjects


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JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS
14347
they had striven at first to realize with all simplicity, now
became the vehicles for the display of sensuous beauty, science,
and mundane pageantry. The human body received separate and
independent study as a thing in itself incomparably beautiful,
commanding more powerful emotions by its magic than aught
else that sways the soul. At the same time the external world,
with all its wealth of animal and vegetable life, together with the
works of human ingenuity in costly clothing and superb build-
ings, was seen to be in every detail worthy of most patient imi-
tation. Anatomy and perspective taxed the understanding of the
artist, whose whole force was no longer devoted to the task of
bringing religious ideas within the limits of the representable.
Next, when the classical revival came into play, the arts, in obe-
dience to the spirit of the age, left the sphere of sacred sub-
jects, and employed their full-grown faculties in the domain of
myths and pagan fancies. In this way painting may truly be
said to have opened the new era of culture, and to have first man-
ifested the freedom of the modern mind. When Luca Signorelli
drew naked young men for a background to his picture of the
Madonna and the infant Christ, he created for the student a sym-
bol of the attitude assumed by fine art in its liberty of outlook
over the whole range of human interests. Standing before this
picture in the Uffizzi, we feel that the Church, while hoping to
adorn her cherished dogmas with æsthetic beauty, had encour-
aged a power antagonistic to her own; a power that liberated the
spirit she sought to enthrall, restoring to mankind the earthly par-
adise from which monasticism had expelled it.
Not to diverge at this point, and to entertain the difficult
problem of the relation of the fine arts to Christianity, would be
to shrink from the most thorny question offered to the under-
standing by the history of the Renaissance. On the very thresh-
old of the matter, I am bound to affirm my conviction that the
spiritual purists of all ages - the Jews, the Iconoclasts of Byzan-
tium, Savonarola, and our Puritan ancestors - were justified in
their mistrust of plastic art. The spirit of Christianity and the
spirit of figurative art are opposed, not because such art is im-
moral, but because it cannot free itself from sensuous associa-
tions. It is always bringing us back to the dear life of earth,
from which the faith would sever us. It is always reminding us
of the body which piety bids us to forget.
Painters and sculp-
tors glorify that which saints and ascetics have mortified. The
-


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JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS
masterpieces of Titian and Correggio, for example, lead the soul
away from compunction, away from penitence, away from wor-
ship even, to dwell on the delight of youthful faces, blooming
color, graceful movement, delicate emotion. Nor is this all: reli-
gious motives may be misused for what is worse than merely
sensuous suggestiveness. The masterpieces of the Bolognese and
Neapolitan painters, while they pretend to quicken compassion
for martyrs in their agony, pander to a bestial blood-lust lurking
in the darkest chambers of the soul. Therefore it is that piety,
whether the piety of monastic Italy or of Puritan England, turns
from these æsthetic triumphs as from something alien to itself.
When the worshiper would fain ascend on wings of ecstasy to
God the infinite, ineffable, unrealized, how can he endure the con-
tact of those splendid forms, in which the lust of the eye and
the pride of life, professing to subserve devotion, remind him
rudely of the goodliness of sensual existence ? Art, by magnify-
ing human beauty, contradicts these Pauline maxims: "For me to
live is Christ, and to die is gain;” “Set your affections on things
above, not on things on the earth;” “Your life is hid with Christ
in God. ” The sublimity and elevation it gives to carnal loveliness
are themselves hostile to the spirit that holds no truce or com-
promise with the flesh. As displayed in its most perfect phases,
in Greek sculpture and Venetian painting, art dignifies the actual
mundane life of man; but Christ, in the language of uncom-
promising piety, means everything most alien to this mundane
life,- self-denial, abstinence from fleshly pleasure, the waiting
for true bliss beyond the grave, seclusion even from social and
domestic ties. «He that loveth father and mother more than me,
is not worthy of me. ” “He that taketh not his cross and follow-
eth me, is not worthy of me. ” It is needful to insist upon these
extremest sentences of the New Testament, because upon them
was based the religious practice of the Middle Ages, more sincere
in their determination to fulfill the letter and embrace the spirit
of the Gospel than any succeeding age has been.
If then there really exists this antagonism between fine art
glorifying human life and piety contemning it, how came it, we
may ask, that even in the Middle Ages the Church hailed art
as her coadjutor? The answer lies in this: that the Church has
always compromised. When the conflict of the first few centuries
of Christianity had ended in her triumph, she began to mediate
between asceticism and the world. Intent on absorbing all existent
>


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JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS
14349
elements of life and power, she conformed her system to the
Roman type, established her service in basilicas and pagan temples,
adopted portions of the antique ritual, and converted local genii
into saints. At the same time she utilized the spiritual forces of
monasticism, and turned the mystic impulse of ecstatics to account.
The Orders of the Preachers and the Begging Friars became her
militia and police; the mystery of Christ's presence in the Eucha-
rist was made an engine of the priesthood; the dreams of Paradise
and Purgatory gave value to her pardons, interdictions, jubilees,
indulgences, and curses. In the Church the spirit of the cloister
and the spirit of the world found neutral ground, and to the
practical accommodation between these hostile elements she owed
her wide supremacy. The Christianity she formed and propagated
was different from that of the New Testament, inasmuch as it
had taken up into itself a mass of mythological anthropomorphic
elements. Thus transmuted and materialized, thus accepted by
the vivid faith of an unquestioning populace, Christianity offered
a proper medium for artistic activity. The whole first period
of Italian painting was occupied with the endeavor to set forth
in form and color the popular conceptions of a faith at once un-
philosophical and unspiritual, beautiful and fit for art by reason
of the human elements it had assumed into its substance. It was
natural, therefore, that the Church should show herself indulgent
to the arts, which were effecting in their own sphere what she
had previously accomplished; though purists and ascetics, holding
fast by the original spirit of their creed, might remain irreconcil-
ably antagonistic to their influence. The Reformation, on the
contrary, rejecting the whole mass of compromises sanctioned
by the Church, and returning to the elemental principles of the
faith, was no less naturally opposed to fine arts; which after giving
sensuous form to Catholic mythology, had recently attained to
liberty and brought again the gods of Greece.
A single illustration might be selected from the annals of
Italian painting, to prove how difficult even the holiest minded
and most earnest painter found it to effect the proper junction
between plastic beauty and pious feeling. Fra Bartolommeo,
the disciple of Savonarola, painted a Sebastian in the cloister
of S. Marco; where it remained until the Dominican confessors
became aware, through the avowals of female penitents, that this
picture was a stumbling-block and snare to souls. It was then
removed, and what became of it we do not know for certain. Fra


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JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS
Bartolommeo undoubtedly intended this ideal portrait of the mar-
tyr to be edifying. St. Sebastian was to stand before the world
as the young man, strong and beautiful, who endured to the end,
and won the crown of martyrdom. No other ideas but those of
heroism, constancy, or faith, were meant to be expressed: but the
painter's art demanded that their expression should be eminently
beautiful; and the beautiful body of the young man distracted
attention from his spiritual virtues to his physical perfections.
A similar maladjustment of the means of plastic art to the pur-
poses of religion would have been impossible in Hellas, where
the temples of Erôs and of Phoebus stood side by side; but in
Christian Florence the craftsman's skill Sowed seeds of discord
in the souls of the devout.
This story is but a coarse instance of the separation between
piety and plastic art. In truth, the difficulty of uniting them
in such a way that the latter shall enforce the former lies far
deeper than its powers of illustration reach. Religion has its
proper end in contemplation and in conduct.
Art aims at pre-
senting sensuous embodiment of thoughts and feelings with a
view to intellectual enjoyment. Now, many thoughts are in-
capable of sensuous embodiment; they appear as abstractions to
the philosophical intellect or as dogmas to the theological under-
standing. To effect an alliance between art and philosophy or
art and theology, in the specific region of either religion or spec-
ulation, is therefore an impossibility. In like manner there are
many feelings which cannot properly assume a sensuous form;
and these are precisely religious feelings, in which the soul
abandons sense, and leaves the actual world behind, to seek her
freedom in a spiritual region. Yet while we recognize the truth
of this reasoning, it would be unscientific to maintain that until
they are brought into close and inconvenient contact, there is
direct hostility between religion and the arts. The sphere of the
two is separate; their aims are distinct: they must be allowed to
perfect themselves each after its own fashion. In the large phi-
losophy of human nature, represented by Goethe's famous motto,
there is room for both, because those who embrace it bend their
natures neither wholly to the pietism of the cloister nor to the
sensuality of art. They find the meeting-point of art and of reli-
gion in their own humanity; and perceive that the antagonism of
the two begins when art is set to do work alien to its nature,
and to minister to what it does not naturally serve.


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JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS
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THE INVASION OF ITALY BY CHARLES VIII. OF FRANCE
From "History of the Renaissance in Italy)
was in the
W* French found themselves, –a land whose marble palaces
were thronged with cut-throats in disguise, whose princes
poisoned while they smiled, whose luxuriant meadows concealed
fever, whose ladies carried disease upon their lips ? To the cap-
tains and the soldiery of France, Italy already appeared a splen-
did and fascinating Circe, arrayed with charms, surrounded with
illusions, hiding behind perfumed thickets her victims changed to
brutes, and building the couch of her seduction on the bones of
murdered men. Yet she was so beautiful that, halt as they might
for a moment and gaze back with yearning on the Alps that they
had crossed, they found themselves unable to resist her smile.
Forward they must march through the garden of enchantinent;
henceforth taking the precaution to walk with drawn sword, and
like Orlando in Morgana's park, to stuff their casques with roses
that they might not hear the siren's voice too clearly. It was
thus that Italy began the part she played through the Renais-
sance for the people of the North. The White Devil of Italy'
is the title of one of Webster's best tragedies. A white devil,
- a radiant daughter of sin and death, holding in her hands
the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil, and tempting the
nations to eat,- this is how Italy struck the fancy of the men of
the sixteenth century. She was feminine, and they were virile;
but she could teach and they must learn. She gave them pleas-
ure; they brought force. The fruit of her embraces with the
nations was the spirit of modern culture, the genius of the age
in which we live.
Two terrible calamities warned the Italians with what new
enemies they had to deal. Twice at the commencement of the
invasion did the French use the sword which they had drawn
to intimidate the sorceress. These terror-striking examples were
the massacres of the inhabitants of Rapallo on the Genoese Rivi-
era, and of Fivizzano in Lunigiana. Soldiers and burghers, even
prisoners and wounded men in the hospitals, were butchered, first
by the Swiss and German guards, and afterwards by the French,
who would not be outdone by them in energy. It was thus that
the Italians, after a century of bloodless battles and parade cam-
paigning, learned a new art of war, and witnessed the first act


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JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS
of those Apocalyptic tragedies which were destined to drown the
peninsula with French, Spanish, German, Swiss, and native blood.
Meanwhile the French host had reached Parma; traversing,
all through the golden autumn weather, those plains where mul-
berry and elm are married by festoons of vines above a billowy
expanse of maize and corn. From Parma placed beneath the
northern spurs of the Apennines, to Sarzana on the western
coast of Italy, where the marbles of Carrara build their barrier
against the Tyrrhene Sea, there leads a winding barren mountain
pass. Charles took this route with his army, and arrived in
the beginning of November before the walls of Sarzana. Mean-
while we may well ask what Piero de' Medici had been doing,
and how he had fulfilled his engagement with Alfonso. He had
undertaken, it will be remembered, to hold the passes of the
Apennines upon this side. To have embarrassed the French
troops among those limestone mountains, thinly forested with
pine and chestnut trees, and guarded here and there with ancient
fortresses, would have been a matter of no difficulty. With like
advantages, 2000 Swiss troops during their wars of independence
would have laughed to scorn the whole forces of Burgundy and
Austria. But Piero, a feeble and false tyrant, preoccupied with
Florentine factions, afraid of Lucca, and disinclined to push for-
ward into the territory of the Sforza, had as yet done nothing
when the news arrived that Sarzana was on the point of capitu-
lation. In this moment of peril he rode as fast as horses could
carry him to the French camp, besought an interview with
Charles, and then and there delivered up to him the keys of
Sarzana and its citadel, together with those of Pietra Santa,
Librafratte, Pisa, and Leghorn. Any one who has followed the
sea-coast between Pisa and Sarzana can appreciate the enormous
value of these concessions to the invader. They relieved him of
the difficulty of forcing his way along a narrow belt of land,
which is hemmed in on one side by the sea, and on the other by
the highest and most abrupt mountain range in Italy. To have
done this in the teeth of a resisting army and beneath the walls
of hostile castles would have been all-but impossible. As it was,
Piero cut the Gordian knot by his incredible cowardice, and for
himself gained only ruin and dishonor. Charles, the foe against
whom he had plotted with Alfonso and Alexander, laughed in
his face, and marched at once into Pisa. The Florentines, whom
he had hitherto engaged in an unpopular policy, now rose in fury,


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JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS
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expelled him from the city, sacked his palace, and erased from
their memory the name of Medici except for execration. The
unsuccessful tyrant, who had proved a traitor to his allies, to his
country, and to himself, saved his life by flying first to Bologna
and thence to Venice, where he remained in a sort of polite cap-
tivity – safe, but a slave - until the Doge and his council saw
,
which way affairs would tend.
On the oth of November, Florence after a tyranny of fifty
years, and Pisa after the servitude of a century, recovered their
liberties, and were able to reconstitute republican governments.
But the situation of the two States was very different. The Flor-
entines had never lost the name of liberty, which in Italy at
that period meant less the freedom of the inhabitants to exercise
self-government than the independence of the city in relation to
its neighbors. The Pisans on the other hand had been reduced
to subjection by Florence; their civic life had been stifled, their
pride wounded in the tenderest point of honor, their population
decimated by proscription and exile. The great sin of Florence
was the enslavement of Pisa; and Pisa in this moment of anarchy
burned to obliterate her shame with bloodshed. The French,
understanding none of the niceties of Italian politics, and ignor-
ant that in giving freedom to Pisa they were robbing Florence
of her rights, looked on with wonder at the citizens who tossed
the lion of the tyrant town into the Arno, and took up arms
against its officers. It is sad to witness this last spasm of the
long-suppressed passion for liberty in the Pisans, while we know
how soon they were reduced again to slavery by the selfish sis-
ter State, herself too thoroughly corrupt for liberty. The part of
Charles - who espoused the cause of the Pisans with blunder-
ing carelessness, pretended to protect the new republic, and then
abandoned it a few months later to its fate - provokes nothing
but the languid contempt which all his acts inspire.
After the flight of Piero and the proclamation of Pisan lib-
erty, the King of France was hailed as savior of the free Italian
towns. Charles received a magnificent address from Savonarola,
who proceeded to Pisa, and harangued him as the chosen vessel
of the Lord and the deliverer of the Church from anarchy. At
the same time the friar conveyed to the French King a court-
eous invitation from the Florentine republic to enter their city
and enjoy their hospitality. Charles, after upsetting Piero de'
Medici with the nonchalance of a horseman in the tilting-yard,
XXIV-898


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JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS
and restoring the freedom of Pisa for a caprice, remained as
devoid of policy and as indifferent to the part assigned him by
the prophet as he was before. He rode, armed at all points,
into Florence on November 17th, and took up his residence in
the palace of the Medici. Then he informed the elders of the
city that he had come as conqueror and not as guest, and that he
intended to reserve to himself the disposition of the State.
It was a dramatic moment. Florence, with the Arno flowing
through her midst, and the hills around her gray with olive-
trees, was then even more lovely than we see her now. The
whole circuit of her walls remained, nor had their crown of
towers been leveled yet to make resistance of invading force
more easy Brunelleschi's dome and Giotto's tower and Arnol-
fo's Palazzo and the Loggie of Orcagna gave distinction to her
streets and squares. Her churches were splendid with frescoes
in their bloom, and with painted glass over which as yet the
injury of but a few brief years had passed. Her palaces, that
are as strong as castles, overflowed with a population cultivated,
polished, elegant, refined, and haughty. This Florence, the city of
scholars, artists, intellectual sybarites, and citizens in whom the
blood of the old factions beat, found herself suddenly possessed
as a prey of war by flaunting Gauls in their outlandish finery,
plumed Germans, kilted Kelts, and particolored Swiss. On the
other hand, these barbarians awoke in a terrestrial paradise of
natural and æsthetic beauty. Which of us who has enjoyed the
late gleams of autumn in Valdarno, but can picture to himself
the revelation of the inner meaning of the world, incomprehens-
ible yet soul-subduing, which then first dawned upon the Breton
bowmen and the bulls of Uri ? Their impulse no doubt was to
pillage and possess the wealth before them, as a child pulls to
pieces the wonderful flower that has surprised it on some mount-
ain meadow. But in the very rudeness of desire they paid a hom-
age to the new-found loveliness of which they had not dreamed
before.
Charles here as elsewhere showed his imbecility. He had
entered and laid hands on hospitable Florence like a foe. What
would he now do with her ? -reform the republic - legislate-
impose a levy on the citizens, and lead them forth to battle?
No. He asked for a huge sum of money, and began to bargain.
The Florentine secretaries refused his terms. He insisted. Then
Piero Capponi snatched the paper on which they were written,


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JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS
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>
»
and tore it in pieces before his eyes. Charles cried, "I shall
sound my trumpets. Capponi answered, “We will ring our
bells. ” Beautiful as a dream is Florence; but her'sombre streets,
overshadowed by gigantic belfries and masked by grim brown
palace fronts, contained a menace that the French King could
not face. Let Capponi sound the tocsin, and each house would
become a fortress, the streets would be barricaded with iron
chains, every quarter would pour forth men by hundreds well
versed in the arts of civic warfare. Charles gave way, covering
with a bad joke the discomfiture he felt: Ah, Ciappon, Ciappon,
voi siete un mal Ciappon! The secretaries beat down his terms.
All he cared for was to get money. He agreed to content him-
self with 120,000 florins. A treaty was signed, and in two days
he quitted Florence.
Hitherto Charles had met with no serious obstacle. His in-
vasion had fallen like the rain from heaven; and like rain, as
far as he was concerned, it ran away to waste. Lombardy and
Tuscany, the two first scenes in the pageant displayed by Italy
before the French army, had been left behind. Rome now lay
before them, magnificent in desolation: not the Rome which the
Farnesi and Chigi and Barberini have built up from the quarried
ruins of amphitheatres and baths, but the Rome of the Middle
Ages; the city crowned with relics of a pagan past, herself still
pagan, and holding in her midst the modern Antichrist. The
progress of the French was a continued triumph. They reached
Siena on the second of December. The Duke of Urbino and
the lords of Pesaro and Bologna laid down their arms at their
approach. The Orsini opened their castles. Virginio, the captain-
general of the Aragonese army and grand constable of the
kingdom of Naples, hastened to win for himself favorable terms
from the French sovereign. The Bagliono betook themselves to
their own rancors in Perugia. The Duke of Calabria retreated.
Italy seemed bent on proving that cowardice and selfishness and
incapacity had conquered her. Viterbo was gained; the Ciminian
heights were traversed; the Campagna, bounded by the Alban
and the Sabine hills, with Rome a bluish cloud upon the low-
lands of the Tiber, spread its solemn breadth of beauty at the
invader's feet. Not a blow had been struck when he reached
the Porta del Popolo, upon the 31st of December, 1494. At three
o'clock in the afternoon began the entry of the French army.
It was nine at night before the last soldiers, under the flaring


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JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS
light of torches and flambeaux, defiled through the gates, and
took their quarters in the streets of the Eternal City. The
gigantic barbarians of the cantons, flaunting with plumes and
emblazoned surcoats, the chivalry of France splendid with silk
mantles and gilded corslets, the Scotch guard in their wild cos-
tume of kilt and philibeg, the scythe-like halberds of the Ger-
man lanzknechts, the tangled elf-locks of stern-featured Bretons,
stamped an ineffaceable impression on the people of the South.
On this memorable occasion, as in a show upon some holiday,
marched past before them specimens and vanguards of all those
legioned races which were soon to be too well at home in every
fair Italian dwelling-place. Nothing was wanting to complete the
symbol of the coming doom but a representative of the grim,
black, wiry infantry of Spain.
THE GENIUS OF GREEK ART
From (Studies of the Greek Poets. Published by Harper & Brothers
TH
HE Greeks had no past; "no hungry generations trod them
down: ” whereas the multitudinous associations of immense
antiquity envelop all our thoughts and feelings. “O Solon,
Solon,” said the priest of Egypt, "you Greeks are always child-
ren! »
The world has now grown old; we are gray from the
cradle onwards, swathed with the husks of outworn creeds, and
rocked upon the lap of immemorial mysteries. The travail of
the whole earth, the unsatisfied desires of many races, the
anguish of the death and birth of successive civilizations, have
passed into our souls. Life itself has become a thousandfold
more complicated and more difficult for us than it was in the
springtime of the world. With the increase of the size of na-
tions, poverty and disease and the struggle for bare existence
have been aggravated. How can we, then, bridge over the gulf
which separates us from the Greeks? How shall we, whose souls
are aged and wrinkled with the long years of humanity, shake
hands across the centuries with those young-eyed, young-limbed,
immortal children? Can we make criticism our Medea, — bid the
magnificent witch pluck leaves and flowers of Greek poetry and
art and life, distilling them for us to bathe therein, and regener-
ate our youth like Æson?


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14357
Like a young man newly come from the wrestling-ground,
anointed, chapleted, and very calm, the Genius of the Greeks
appears before us. Upon his soul there is yet no burden of the
world's pain; the creation that groaneth and travaileth together
has touched him with no sense of anguish, nor has he yet felt
sin. The pride and the strength of adolescence are his: audacity
and endurance, swift passions and exquisite sensibilities, the alter-
nations of sublime repose and boyish noise, grace, pliancy, and
stubbornness and power, love of all fair things and radiant in
the world, the frank enjoyment of the open air, free merriment,
and melancholy well beloved. Of these adolescent qualities, of
this clear and stainless personality, this conscience whole and
pure and reconciled to nature, what survives among us now?
The imagination must be strained to the uttermost before we
can begin to sympathize with such a being. The blear-eyed
mechanic, stified in a hovel of our sombre Northern towns, can-
opied through all the year with smoke, deafened with wheels
that never cease to creak, stiffened by toil in one cramped post-
ure, oblivious of the sunlight and green fields, could scarcely
be taught even to envy the pure, clear life of art made perfect
in humanity, which was the pride of Hellas. His soul is glad-
dened, if at all, by a glimpse of celestial happiness far off. The
hope that went abroad across the earth so many centuries ago
has raised his eyes to heaven. How can he comprehend a mode
of existence in which the world itself was adequate to all the
wants of the soul, and when to yearn for more than life affords
was reckoned a disease ?
We may tell of blue Ægean waves, islanded with cliffs that
seem less real than clouds, whereon the temples stand, burning
like gold in sunset or turning snowy fronts against the dawn.
We may paint high porches of the gods, resonant with music and
gladdened with choric dances; or describe perpetual sunshine and
perpetual ease, - no work from year to year that might degrade
the body or impair the mind, no dread of hell, no yearning after
heaven, but summer-time of youth and autumn of old age and
loveless death bewept and bravely borne.
The life of the schools,
the theatre, the wrestling-ground, the law courts; generous con-
tests on the Pythian or Olympian plains; victorious crowns of
athletes or of patriots; Simonidean epitaphs and funeral orations
of Pericles for fallen heroes; the prize of martial prowess or
poetic skill; the honor paid to the pre-eminence of beauty,— all


## p. 14358 (#552) ##########################################

14358
JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS
these things admit of scholar-like enumeration.
Or we may
recall by fancy the olive groves of the Academy; discern Hymet-
tus pale against the burnished sky, and Athens guarded by her
glistening goddess of the mighty brow,- Pallas, who spreads her
shield and shakes her spear above the labyrinth of peristyles
and pediments in which her children dwell. Imagination can
lead us to the plane-trees on Cephisus's shore, the labors of the
husbandmen who garner dues of corn and oil, the galleys in Pei-
ræan harborage. Or with the Lysis and the Charmides beneath
our eyes, we may revisit the haunts of the wrestlers and the
runners; true-born Athenians, fresh from the bath and crowned
with violets,-chaste, vigorous, inured to rhythmic movements of
the passions and the soul.
Yet after all, when the process of an elaborate culture has
thus been toilsomely accomplished, when we have trained our
soul to sympathize with that which is so novel and so strange
and yet so natural, few of us can fairly say that we have touched
the Greeks at more than one or two points. Novies Styx inter-
fusa coercet: between us and them crawls the nine times twisted
stream of death. The history of the human race is one; and
without the Greeks we should be nothing. But just as an old
man of ninety is not the same being as the boy of nineteen, -
nay, cannot even recall to memory how and what he felt when
the pulse of manhood was yet gathering strength within his
veins,- even so now, civilized humanity looks back upon the
youth of Hellas, and wonders what she was in that blest time.
A few fragments yet remain from which we strive to recon-
struct the past. Criticism is the product of the weakness as well
as of the strength of our age.
In the midst of our activity,
we have so little that is artistically salient or characteristic in
our life that we are not led astray by our own individuality,
or tempted to interpret the past wrongly by making it square
with the present. Impartial clearness of judgment in scientific
research, laborious antiquarian zeal, methodic scrupulousness in
preserving the minutest details of local coloring, and an earnest
craving to escape from the dreary present of commonplace rou-
tine and drudgery into the spirit-stirring freedom of the past,-
these are qualities of the highest value which our century has
brought to bear upon history. They make up in some measure
for our want of the creative faculties which more productive but
less scientific ages have possessed, and enable those who have


## p. 14359 (#553) ##########################################

JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS
14359
our
but little original imagination to enjoy imaginative pleasures at
second hand, by living as far as may be in the clear light of
antique beauty.
The sea, the hills, the plains, the sunlight of the South, to-
gether with some ruins which have peopled Europe with phan-
toms of dead art and the relics of Greek literature, are
guides in the endeavor to restore the past of Hellas. Among
rocks golden with broom-flowers, murmurous with bees, burning
with anemones in spring and oleanders in summer, and odorous
through all the year with thyme, we first assimilate the spirit of
the Greeks. It is here that we divine the meaning of the myths,
and feel those poems that expressed themselves in marble 'mid
the temples of the gods to have been the one right outgrowth
from the sympathy of man, as he was then, with nature. In the
silence of mountain valleys thinly grown with arbutus and pine
and oak, open at all seasons to pure air, and breaking downwards
to the sea, we understand the apparition of Pan to Pheidippi-
des, we read the secret of a nation's art that aimed at definition
before all things. The bay of Naples, the coast of Sicily, are
instinct with the sense of those first settlers, who, coasting round
the silent promontories, ran their keels upon the shelving shore,
and drew them up along the strand, and named the spot Neap-
olis or Gela. The boys of Rome were yet in the wolf's cavern.
Vesuvius was a peaceful hill on which the olive and the vine
might slumber. The slopes of Pozzuoli were green with herbs,
over which no lava had been poured. Wandering about Sor-
rento, the spirit of the Odyssey is ours. Those fishing-boats with
lateen sail are such as bore the heroes from their ten-years' toil
at Troy. Those shadowy islands caught the gaze of Æneas
straining for the promised land. Into such clefts and rents of
rock strode Herakles and Jason when they sought the golden
apples and the golden fleece. Look down. There gleam the
green and yellow dragon scales, coiled on the basement of the
hills, and writhing to each curve and cleavage of the chasm.
it a dream ? Do we in fact behold the mystic snake, or in the
twilight do those lustrous orange-trees deceive our eyes ? Nay,
there are no dragons in the ravine — only thick boughs and bur-
nished leaves and snowy bloom and globes of glittering gold.
Above them on the cliff sprout myrtle rods, sacred to love; myr-
tle branches, with which the Athenians wreathed their swords
in honor of Harmodius. Lilies and jonquils and hyacinths stand,


## p. 14360 (#554) ##########################################

14360
JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS
each straight upon his stem, - a youth, as Greeks imagined, slain
by his lover's hand, or dead for love of his own loveliness, or
cropped in love's despite by death that is the foe of love. Scar-
let and white anemones are there: some born of Adonis's blood,
and some of Aphrodite's tears. All beauty fades; the flowers
of earth, the bloom of youth, man's strength, and woman's grace,
all wither and relapse into the loveless and inexorable grave.
This the Greeks knew, mingling mirth with melancholy, and love
with sadness, their sweetest songs with elegiac melodies.
Beneath the olive-trees, among the flowers and ferns, move
stately maidens and bare-chested youths. Their eyes are starry-
softened or flash fire, and their lips are parted to drink in the
breath of life. Some are singing in the fields an antique, world-
old monotone of song. Was not the lay of Linus, the burden
of yarpai tai òpies ŭ Mevaiza (High are the oak-trees, O Menalcas),
some such canzonet as this? These late descendants of Greek
colonists are still beautiful - like moving statues in the sunlight
and the shadow of the boughs. Yonder tall, straight girl, whose
pitcher, poised upon her head, might have been filled by Electra
or Chrysothemis with lustral waters for a father's tomb, carries
her neck nobly as a Fate of Pheidias. Her body sways upon the
hips, where rests her modeled arm; the ankle and the foot are
sights to sit and gaze at through a summer's day. And where,
if not here, shall we meet with Hylas and Hyacinth, with Gany-
mede and Hymenæus, in the flesh ? As we pass, the laughter
and the singing die away. Bright dresses and pliant forms are
lost. We stray onward through the sheen and shade of olive
branches.
The olive was Athene's gift to Hellas, and Athens carved its
leaves and berries on her drachma with the head of Pallas and
her owl. The light which never leaves its foliage, silvery beneath
and sparkling from the upper surface of burnished green; the
delicacy of its stem, which in youth and middle and old
age
retains the distinction of finely accentuated form; the absence of
sombre shadow on the ground beneath its branches, — might well
fit the olive to be the symbol of the purity of classic art. Each
leaf is cut into a lance-head of brilliancy, not jagged or fanciful
or woolly like the foliage of Northern trees. There is here no
mystery of darkness, no labyrinth of tortuous shade, no conflict
of contrasted forms. Excess of light sometimes fatigues the eye
amid those airy branches, and we long for the repose of gloom


## p. 14361 (#555) ##########################################

JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS
14361
to which we are accustomed in our climate. But gracefulness,
fertility, power, radiance, pliability, are seen in every line. The
spirit of the Greeks itself is not more luminous and strong and
subtle. The color of the olive-tree, again, is delicate. Its pearly
grays and softened greens in no wise interfere with the lustre
which is the true distinction of the tree, Clear and faint like
Guido's colors in the Ariadne of St. Luke's at Rome, distinct as
the thought in a Greek epigram, the olive branches are relieved
against the bright blue of the sea. The mountain slopes above
are clothed by them with light as with a raiment; clinging to
knoll and vale and winding creek, rippling in hoary undulations
to the wind, they wrap the hills from feet to flank in lucid haze.
Above the olives shine bare rocks in steady noon, or blush with
dawn and evening. Nature is naked and beautiful beneath the
sun,-- like Aphrodite, whose raiment falls waist downward to
her sandals on the sea, but whose pure breasts and forehead are
unveiled.
Nature is thus the first, chief element by which we are en-
abled to conceive the spirit of the Greeks. The key to their
mythology is here. Here is the secret of their sympathies, the
well-spring of their deepest thoughts, the primitive potentiality
of all they have achieved in art. What is Apollo but the magic
of the sun whose soul is light ? What is Aphrodite but the
love charm of the sea ? What is Pan but the mystery of nature,
the felt and hidden want pervading all? What, again, are those
elder, dimly discovered deities, the Titans and the brood of
Time, but forces of the world as yet beyond the touch and ken
of human sensibilities? But nature alone cannot inform us what
that spirit was. For though the Greeks grew up in scenes which
we may visit, they gazed on them with Greek eyes, eyes differ-
ent from ours; and dwelt upon them with Greek minds, minds
how unlike our own! Unconsciously, in their long and unsophisti-
cated infancy, the Greeks absorbed and assimilated to their own
substance that loveliness which it is left for us only to admire.
Between them and ourselves — even face to face with mountain,
sky, and sea, unaltered by the lapse of years — flow the rivers of
Death and Lethe and New Birth, and the mists of thirty centu-
ries of human life are woven like a veil. To pierce that veil,
to learn even after the most partial fashion how they transmuted
the splendors of the world into æsthetic forms, is a work which
involves the further interrogation of their sculpture and their
literature.


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14362
JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS
RAVENNA
From (Sketches in Italy)
The
HE Emperor Augustus chose Ravenna for one of his two naval
stations, and in course of time a new city arose by the sea-
shore, which received the name of Portus Classis. Between
this harbor and the mother city a third town sprang up, and was
called Cæsarea. Time and neglect, the ravages of war, and the
encroaching powers of nature, have destroyed these settlements,
and nothing now remains of the three cities but Ravenna. It
would seem that in classical times Ravenna stood, like modern
Venice, in the centre of a huge lagoon, the fresh waters of the
Ronco and the Po mixing with the salt waves of the Adriatic
round its very walls. The houses of the city were built on piles;
canals instead of streets formed the means of communication,
and these were always filled with water artificially conducted from
the southern estuary of the Po. Round Ravenna extended a vast
morass, for the most part under shallow water, but rising at
intervals into low islands like the Lido or Murano or Torcello
which surround Venice. These islands were celebrated for their
fertility: the vines and fig-trees and pomegranates, springing from
a fat and fruitful soil, watered with constant moisture, and fos-
tered by a mild sea wind and liberal sunshine, yielded crops that
for luxuriance and quality surpassed the harvests of any orchards
on the mainland. All the conditions of life in old Ravenna seem
to have resembled those of modern Venice: the people went
about in gondolas; and in the early morning, barges laden with
fresh fruit or meat and vegetables flocked from all quarters to
the city of the sea. Water also had to be procured from the
neighboring shore; for as Martial says, a well at Ravenna was
more valuable than a vineyard. Again, between the city and the
mainland ran a long low causeway all across the lagoon, like that
on which the trains now glide into Venice. Strange to say, the
air of Ravenna was remarkably salubrious: this fact, and the ease
of life that prevailed there, and the security afforded by the sit-
uation of the town, rendered it a most desirable retreat for the
monarchs of Italy during those troublous times in which the em-
pire nodded to its fall. Honorius retired to its lagoons for safety;
Odoacer, who dethroned the last Cæsar of the West, succeeded
him; and was in turn supplanted by Theodoric the Ostrogoth.
Ravenna, as we see it now, recalls the peaceful and half Roman


## p. 14363 (#557) ##########################################

JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS
14363
rule of the great Gothic king. His palace, his churches, and the
mausoleum in which his daughter Amalasuntha laid the hero's
bones, have survived the sieges of Belisarius and Astolphus, the
conquest of Pepin, the bloody quarrels of iconoclasts with the
children of the Roman Church, the mediæval wars of Italy,
the victory of Gaston de Foix; and still stand gorgeous with
marbles and mosaics in spite of time and the decay of all around
them.
As early as the sixth century, the sea had already retreated
to such a distance from Ravenna that orchards and gardens
were cultivated on the spot where once the galleys of the Cæsars
rode at anchor. Groves of pines sprang up along the shore, and
in their lofty tops the music of the wind moved like the ghost of
waves and breakers plunging upon distant sands. This Pinetum
stretches along the shore of the Adriatic for about forty miles,
forming a belt of variable width between the great marsh and
the tumbling sea. From a distance the bare stems and velvet
crowns of the pine-trees stand up like palms that cover an oasis
on Arabian sands; but at a nearer view the trunks detach them-
selves from an inferior forest growth of juniper and thorn and
ash and oak, the tall roofs of the stately firs shooting their
breadth of sheltering greenery above the lower and less sturdy
brushwood. It is hardly possible to imagine a more beautiful
and impressive scene than that presented by these long alleys of
imperial pines. They grow so thickly one behind another that
we might compare them to the pipes of a great organ, or the
pillars of a Gothic church, or the basaltic columns of the Giant's
Causeway. Their tops are ever green, and laden with the heavy
cones from which Ravenna draws considerable wealth. Scores
of peasants are quartered on the outskirts of the forest, whose
business it is to scale the pines and rob them of their fruit at
certain seasons of the year. Afterwards they dry the fir-cones
in the sun, until the nuts which they contain fall out. The
empty husks are sold for firewood, and the kernels in their stony
shells reserved for exportation. You may see the peasants — men,
women, and boys — sorting them by millions, drying and sifting
them upon the open spaces of the wood, and packing them in
sacks to send abroad through Italy. The pinocchi, or kernels, of
the stone-pine are largely used in cookery, and those of Ravenna
are prized for their good quality and aromatic flavor. When
roasted or pounded, they taste like a softer and more mealy kind
:


## p. 14364 (#558) ##########################################

14364
JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS
of almonds. The task of gathering this harvest is not a little
dangerous. They have to cut notches in the straight shafts, and
having climbed often to the height of eighty feet, to lean upon
the branches and detach the fir cones with a pole — and this for
every tree. Some lives, they say, are yearly lost in the business.
As may be imagined, the spaces of this great forest form
the haunt of innumerable living creatures. Lizards run about by
myriads in the grass. Doves coo among the branches of the
pines, and nightingales pour their full-throated music all day and
night from thickets of white-thorn and acacia. The air is sweet
with aromatic scents: the resin of the pine and juniper, the may-
flowers and acacia blossoms, the violets that spring by thousands
in the moss, the wild roses and faint honeysuckles which throw
fragrant arms from bough to bough of ash or maple, join to
make one most delicious perfume. And though the air upon the
neighboring marsh is poisonous, here it is dry, and spreads a
genial health. The sea wind murmuring through these thickets
at nightfall or misty sunrise conveys no fever to the peasants
stretched among their flowers. They watch the red rays of
sunset flaming through the columns of the leafy hall, and flaring
on its fretted rafters of entangled boughs; they see the stars
come out, and Hesper gleam, an eye of brightness, among dewy
branches; the moon walks silver-footed on the velvet tree-tops,
while they sleep beside the camp fires; fresh morning wakes them
to the sound of birds and scent of thyme and twinkling of dew-
drops on the grass around. Meanwhile ague, fever, and death
have been stalking all night long about the plain, within a few
yards of their couch, and not one pestilential breath has reached
the charmed precincts of the forest.
You may ride or drive for miles along green aisles between
the pines in perfect solitude; and yet the creatures of the wood,
the sunlight and the birds, the flowers and tall majestic columns
at your side, prevent all sense of loneliness or fear.
Huge oxen
haunt the wilderness - gray creatures, with mild eyes and spread-
ing horns and stealthy tread. Some are patriarchs of the forest,
.
the fathers and the mothers of many generations who have
been carried from their sides to serve in plows or wagons on
the Lombard plain. Others are yearling calves, intractable and
ignorant of labor. In order to subdue them to the yoke, it is
requisite to take them very early from their native glades, or else
they chafe and pine away with weariness. Then there is a sullen


## p. 14365 (#559) ##########################################

JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS
14365
canal, which flows through the forest from the marshes to the
sea; it is alive with frogs and newts and snakes.
You may see
these serpents basking on the surface among thickets of the
flowering rush, or coiled about the lily leaves and flowers, - lithe
monsters, slippery and speckled, the tyrants of the fen.
It is said that when Dante was living at Ravenna he would
spend whole days alone among the forest glades, thinking of
Florence and her civil wars, and meditating cantos of his poem.
Nor have the influences of the pine wood failed to leave their
trace upon his verse.
VENICE
V ,
"
TENICE, thou Siren of sea cities, wrought
By mirage, built on water, stair o'er stair,
Of sunbeams and cloud shadows, phantom-fair,
With naught of earth to mar thy sea-born thought!
Thou floating film upon the wonder-fraught
Ocean of dreams! Thou hast no dream so rare
As are thy sons and daughters,— they who wear
Foam flakes of charm from thine enchantment caught.
O dark-brown eyes! O tangles of dark hair!
O heaven-blue eyes, blonde tresses where the breeze
Plays over sunburned cheeks in sea-blown air!
Firm limbs of molded bronze! frank debonair
Smiles of deep-bosomed women! Loves that seize
Man's soul, and waft her on storm melodies !
THE NIGHTINGALE
1
WENT a-roaming through the woods alone,
And heard the nightingale that made her moan.
Hard task it were to tell how dewy-still
Were flowers and ferns and foliage in the rays
Of Hesper, white amid the daffodil
Of twilight flecked with faintest chrysoprase;
And all the while, embowered in leafy bays,
The bird prolonged her sharp soul-thrilling tone.
I went a-roaming through the woods alone,
And heard the nightingale that made her moan.


## p. 14366 (#560) ##########################################

14366
JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS
But as I stood and listened, on the air
Arose another voice, more clear and keen,
That startled silence with a sweet despair,
And stilled the bird beneath her leafy screen:
The star of Love, those lattice boughs between,
Grew large and leaned to listen from his zone.
I went a-roaming through the woods alone,
And heard the nightingale that made her moan.
The voice, methought, was neither man's nor boy's,
Nor bird's nor woman's, but all these in one:
In Paradise perchance such perfect noise
Resounds from angel choirs in unison,
Chanting with cherubim their antiphon
To Christ and Mary on the sapphire throne.
I went a-roaming through the woods alone,
And heard the nightingale that made her moan.
Then down the forest aisles there came a boy,
Unearthly pale, with passion in his eyes;
Who sang a song whereof the sound was joy,
But all the burden was of love that dies
And death that lives,- a song of sobs and sighs,
A wild swan's note of Death and Love in one.
I went a-roaming through the woods alone,
And heard the nightingale that made her moan.
Love burned within his luminous eyes, and Death
Had made his fluting voice so keen and high,
The wild wood trembled as he passed beneath,
With throbbing throat singing, Love-led, to die;
Then all was hushed, till in the thicket nigh
The bird resumed her sharp soul-thrilling tone.
I went a-roaming through the woods alone,
And heard the nightingale that made her moan.
But in my heart and in my brain the cry,
The wail, the dirge, the dirge of Death and Love,
Still throbs and throbs, flute-like, and will not die,
Piercing and clear the night-bird's tune above,-
The aching, anguished wild swan's note, whereof
The sweet sad flower of song was overblown.
I went a-roaming through the woods alone,
And heard the nightingale that made her moan.


## p. 14367 (#561) ##########################################

JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS
14367
FAREWELL
I
Tis buried and done with,
The love that we knew :
Those cobwebs we spun with
Are beaded with dew.
I loved thee; I leave thee:
To love thee was pain;
I dare not believe thee,
To love thee again.
Like spectres unshriven
Are the years that I lost;
To thee they were given
Without count of cost.
I cannot revive them
By penance or prayer:
Hell's tempest must drive them
Through turbulent air.
Farewell, and forget me;
For I too am free
From the shame that beset me,
The sorrow of thee.
THE FEET OF THE BELOVED
F
EAR not to tread,- it is not much
To bless the meadow with your touch:
Nay, walk unshod; for as you pass,
The dust will take your feet like grass.
Oh dearest melodies, oh beat
Of musically moving feet!
Stars that have fallen from the sky
To sparkle where you let them lie;
Blossoms, a new and heavenly birth,
Rocked on the nourishing breast of earth;
Dews that on leaf and petal Aling
Multitudinous quivering;
Winged loves with light and laughter crowned;
Kind kisses pressed upon the ground!


## p. 14368 (#562) ##########################################

14368
JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS
EYEBRIGHT
A®
SA star from the sea new risen,
As the waft of an angel's wing,
As a lark's song heard in prison,
As the promise of summer in spring,
She came to me through the stillness,
The shadows that ring me round,
The dungeon of years and illness
Wherein my spirit is bound.
She came with her eyes love-laden,
Her laughter of lily and rose,
A fragile and flower-like maiden,
In the season of frosts and snows.
She smiled, and the shades departed;
She shone, and the snows were rain:
And he who was frozen-hearted
Bloomed up into love again.


## p. 14369 (#563) ##########################################

14369
TACITUS
(55 ? -? )
BY CHARLES E. BENNETT
UBLIUS CORNELIUS TACITUS (the prænomen Publius, long a mat.
ter of dispute, is now definitely assured) was born about 55
Suur A. D. The place of his birth is quite uncertain: by some
scholars this honor has been assigned to the Umbrian town Inter-
amna, by others to Rome; but neither of these views rests upon any
adequate foundation. Of the details of his
life we are but scantily informed. In his
Dialogus de Oratoribus' he tells us that
when a youth he attached himself to Mar-
cus Aper and Julius Secundus, the foren-
sic leaders of his day. Whether he also
enjoyed the instruction of Quintilian, the
famous rhetorician, is a matter of doubt.
In the year 78 he married the daughter of
Agricola, governor of Britain. Subsequently
he filled the offices of quæstor under Titus,
of prætor under Domitian, and of consul
(year 97) under Nerva. From the year 100
on, he appears to have held no public trust,
Tacitus
but to have devoted himself exclusively to
his literary labors. His death probably occurred shortly after the
publication of the Annals(115-117 A. D. ).

WORKS
1. The Dialogus de Oratoribus. Tacitus's earliest work was prob-
ably published about 81 A. D. , and gives an account of a discussion
at which the writer represents himself as having been present some
seven years previously. The chief disputants are Aper and Messalla;
the theme is the quality of contemporary eloquence. Aper maintains
that the new oratory really marks a great advance upon that of pre-
ceding epochs: it is brilliant and attractive, where the earlier oratory
was dull and tedious. An audience of to-day, Aper declares, would
not tolerate such speakers. Even Cicero, with all his fame, was not
free from the faults of his day; and was worthy of admiration only
in his later speeches.
XXIV–899


## p. 14370 (#564) ##########################################

TACITUS
14370
In reply to Aper, Messalla vigorously defends the oratory of the
Ciceronian era, and arraigns contemporary eloquence as disfigured by
meretricious embellishment. To Messalla's mind the prime cause of
this decadence is neglect in the training of the young. Formerly the
mother personally superintended the education of her children; now
these are given over to irresponsible slaves and nurses. Again, in
the earlier days, a young man preparing himself for the profession
of oratory was wont to attach himself to some eminent advocate or
jurist; and so to acquire the mastery of his art by practical experi-
ence. To-day, Messalla complains, it is the fashion merely to declaim
artificial show-pieces in the schools.
Secundus and Maternus, who share in the discussion, urge also
changed political conditions as another important reason for the
decline of eloquence. Under the republic there had been an active
political life and keen strife of parties; under the empire the for-
tunes of the State were directed by a single head. What wonder
then that eloquence had declined, when the causes that created it
were no longer in existence!
In its fine dramatic setting, its profound grasp of the moving
causes in Roman civilization, and in its elevated diction, the Dia-
logus) is a consummate literary masterpiece; Wolf well recognized
its merits and its charm when he characterized it as an aureus libellus
(golden little book).
2. The Agricola, Between the publication of the Dialogus) and
of the Agricola' seventeen years intervened.