No More Learning

Spake to me, alanah: say
that you're not kilt, darling; do now. Oh, wirra! what'll I ever
say to the master? and you doing so beautiful! Wouldn't he
give the best baste in his stable to be looking at you to-day?
There, take a sup: it's only water. Bad luck to them, but it's
hard work beatin' them. They're only gone now. That's right;
now you're coming to. "
"Where am I, Mike? "
"It's here you are, darling, resting yourself. "
"Well, Charley, my poor fellow, you've got sore bones too,"
cried Power, as, his face swathed in bandages and covered with
"It was a gallant
blood, he lay down on the grass beside me.
thing while it lasted, but has cost us dearly.
Poor Hixley — »


## p. 9036 (#32) ############################################

9036
CHARLES LEVER
"What of him? " said I, anxiously.
"Poor fellow! he has seen his last battle-field. He fell across
me as we came out upon the road. I lifted him up in my arms
and bore him along above fifty yards; but he was stone dead.
Not a sigh, not a word escaped him; shot through the forehead. "
As he spoke, his lips trembled, and his voice sank to a mere
whisper at the last words: "You remember what he said last
night. Poor fellow! he was every inch a soldier. "
Such was his epitaph.
I turned my head toward the scene of our late encounter.
Some dismounted guns and broken wagons alone marked the
spot; while far in the distance, the dust of the retreating col-
umns showed the beaten enemy, as they hurried towards the
frontiers of Spain.


## p. 9037 (#33) ############################################

9037
YOG
GEORGE HENRY LEWES
(1817-1878)
HE work of Mr. Lewes admirably illustrates the intellectual
change which characterizes the nineteenth century.
He
was born in London April 18th, 1817, and died at the Priory,
St. John's Wood, November 28th, 1878; so that the active period of
his life covered those years when, consciously or unconsciously, many
thinkers were being strongly affected by the influence of Auguste
Comte, and when the investigations and teachings of Spencer, Darwin,
Huxley, and others were revolutionizing science and philosophy, and
in a large degree theology also. Lewes
reflected the spirit of the time in the most
positive fashion. He was a careful student
of philosophy, but rejected the metaphysi-
cal method. He was as ardent a seeker as
any Gradgrind for "facts, sir! facts! " but
the facts which he sought were those which
seemed capable of use in a larger and more
stable philosophy. He would perhaps have
claimed that the house which is to endure
must be built from the foundation up, and
not from the chimney down. English in
birth and fibre, much of his youth was spent
in France and Germany, so that insular GEORGE HENRY LEWES
prejudices did not control him. Devoted to
investigation and to philosophical speculation, he nevertheless inher-
ited from his grandfather, who had been a prominent actor, a love of
the drama and predilection for the stage which tempered the influ-
ence of his more abstruse studies and broadened his outlook upon
life. He studied medicine, but did not pursue the profession, because
he could not endure the sight of so much pain as he was called upon
to witness. For a time he was an inmate of a notary's office, and
again for a short period he tried commerce and trade in the employ
of a Russian merchant. The attractions of literature were too great
to be exceeded by any other, even by those of the stage, to which
he was greatly drawn. He indeed appeared behind the footlights at
various times, even so late as in 1850, when he sustained a part in a
play of his own called 'The Noble Heart'; and he appears to have



## p. 9038 (#34) ############################################

9038
GEORGE HENRY LEWES
been an actor of some ability. His Shylock was considered especially
good.
As early as in his sixteenth year, Lewes had written a play for
private performance. At nineteen he was discussing Spinoza as a
member of a philosophical debating club. At about this time he
planned a work in which philosophy should be treated from the physi-
ological point of view; and thus began the undertaking which claimed
his most earnest thought for the remainder of his life. His career in
this respect may be divided into three periods. In the first, through
his 'Biographical History of Philosophy,' published in 1845-6, he un-
dertook to show the futility of metaphysics. In it he combined a
history of philosophical theories with entertaining biographical sketches
of those who propounded them; and thus clothed the dry bones, and
gave living interest to what might otherwise have offered little to
attract the ordinary reader. The work was afterward much modified
and extended, and reissued as a 'History of Philosophy from Thales
to Comte. ' In his second period he became a careful investigator of
biological phenomena, and subsequently published the results of his
investigations in a number of interesting and popular works: 'Sea-
side Studies (1858), Physiology of Common Life' (1859-60), 'Studies
in Animal Life' (1862). In the third he combined, as it were, the
results of the work of the two preceding periods, in the 'Problems
of Life and Mind,' in four volumes (1874-1879); in which he sought
to establish the principles of a rational psychology, and to lay the
foundations for a creed. In this series may also be included his
work on 'Comte's Philosophy of the Sciences' (1853); 'Aristotle: A
Chapter from the History of the Sciences' (1864); and 'The Study of
Psychology: Its Object, Scope, and Method' (1879). He was always
deeply interested in the philosophy of Auguste Comte; but criticized
Comte freely, and thereby, he says, lost his friendship.
In 1854, upon uniting his fortunes with those of George Eliot,
he made a visit to Germany; and at Weimar he completed his 'Life
of Goethe,'-next to the 'History of Philosophy,' probably the best
known of his works. He had previously (1849) published a 'Life of
Maximilian Robespierre. ' His early love for the drama, in addition
to the work previously cited, recorded itself in 'The Spanish Drama:
Lope de Vega and Calderon' (1847), and in 'On Actors and the Art
of Acting' (1875). He was also the author of two novels,-'Ran-
thorpe' (written in 1842 but not published until 1847), and Rose,
Blanche, and Violet' (1848). He was not at his best, however, in
fiction.
Mr. Lewes wrote extensively for the reviews, and upon a great
variety of topics. His style is, as Leslie Stephen well says, "bright,
clear, and independent. " His views were positive, and he did not


## p. 9039 (#35) ############################################

GEORGE HENRY LEWES
9939
mince his words. Though the biographer of Goethe, whom he
esteemed very highly, he was not fond of the German literary style;
and he admired Lessing in part, it is said, because he was "the least
German of all Germans. " Von Schlegel he called a philosophical
impostor, and Cousin he thought a charlatan. He was the first editor
of the Leader, and subsequently of the Fortnightly; and as an editor
he was successful, but he disliked the drudgery. In the Fortnightly
he introduced the custom of signed reviews. He was an important
member of a literary circle which included, among others, Carlyle,
Thackeray, and J. S. Mill.
GOETHE AND SCHILLER
HERE are few nobler spectacles than the friendship of two
great men; and the history of literature presents nothing
comparable to the friendship of Goethe and Schiller. The
friendship of Montaigne and Étienne de la Boétie was perhaps
more passionate and entire: but it was the union of two kindred
natures, which from the first moment discovered their affinity;
not the union of two rivals, incessantly contrasted by partisans,
and originally disposed to hold aloof from each other. Rivals
Goethe and Schiller were and are; natures in many respects
directly antagonistic; chiefs of opposing camps, and brought into
brotherly union only by what was highest in their natures and
their aims.
To look on these great rivals was to see at once their pro-
found dissimilarity. Goethe's beautiful head had the calm vic-
torious grandeur of the Greek ideal; Schiller's the earnest beauty
of a Christian looking towards the future. The massive brow
and large-pupiled eyes,-like those given by Raphael to the
infant Christ, in the matchless Madonna di San Sisto; the strong
and well-proportioned features, lined indeed by thought and suf-
fering, which have troubled but not vanquished the strong man;
a certain healthy vigor in the brown skin,—make Goethe a strik-
ing contrast to Schiller, with his eager eyes, narrow brow, tense
and intense; his irregular features, worn by thought and suffer-
ing and weakened by sickness. The one looks, the other looks
out. Both are majestic; but one has the majesty of repose, the
other of conflict. Goethe's frame is massive, imposing: he seems
much taller than he is. Schiller's frame is disproportioned; he


## p. 9040 (#36) ############################################

9040
GEORGE HENRY LEWES
seems less than he is. Goethe holds himself stiffly erect; the
long-necked Schiller "walks like a a camel. " Goethe' chest is
like the torso of the Theseus; Schiller's is bent, and has lost a
lung.
A similar difference is traceable in details. "An air that was
beneficial to Schiller acted on me like poison," Goethe said to
Eckermann. "I called on him one day; and as I did not find
him at home, I seated myself at his writing-table to note down
various matters. I had not been seated long before I felt a
strange indisposition steal over me, which gradually increased,
until at last I nearly fainted. At first I did not know to what
cause I should ascribe this wretched and to me unusual state,
until I discovered that a dreadful odor issued from a drawer near
me.
When I opened it, I found to my astonishment that it was
full of rotten apples. I immediately went to the window and
inhaled the fresh air, by which I was instantly restored. Mean-
while his wife came in, and told me that the drawer was always
filled wit rotten apples, because the scent was beneficial to
Schiller, and he could not live or work without it. "
As another and not unimportant detail, characterizing the
healthy and unhealthy practice of literature, it may be added that
Goethe wrote in the freshness of morning, entirely free from
stimulus; Schiller worked in the feverish hours of night, stimu-
lating his languid brain with coffee and champagne.
In comparing one to a Greek ideal, the other to a Christian
ideal, it has already been implied that one was the representative
of realism, the other of idealism. Goethe has himself indicated
the capital distinction between them: Schiller was animated with
the idea of freedom; Goethe, on the contrary, was animated
with the idea of nature. This distinction runs through their
works: Schiller always pining for something greater than nature,
wishing to make men demigods; Goethe always striving to let
nature have free development, and produce the highest forms of
humanity. The fall of man was to Schiller the happiest of all
events, because thereby men fell away from pure instinct into
conscious freedom; with this sense of freedom came the possibility
of morality. To Goethe this seemed paying a price for morality
which was higher than morality was worth; he preferred the ideal
of a condition wherein morality was unnecessary. Much as he
might prize a good police, he prized still more a society in which.
a police would never be needed.


## p. 9041 (#37) ############################################

GEORGE HENRY LEWES
9041
Goethe and Schiller were certainly different natures; but had
they been so fundamentally opposed as it is the fashion to con-
sider them, they could never have become so intimately united.
They were opposite and allied, with somewhat of the same differ-
ences and resemblances as are traceable in the Greek and Roman
Mars. In the Greek mythology, the god of war had not the
prominent place he attained in Rome; and the Greek sculptors,
when they represented him, represented him as the victor return-
ing after conflict to repose, holding in his hand the olive branch,
while at his feet sat Eros. The Roman sculptors, or those who
worked for Rome, represented Mars as the god of war in all his
terrors, in the very act of leading on to victory. But different as
these two conceptions were, they were both conceptions of the god
of war.
Goethe may be likened to the one, and Schiller to the
other: both were kindred spirits united by a common purpose.
Having touched upon the points of contrast, it will now be
needful to say a word on those points of resemblance which
served as the basis of their union. It will be unnecessary to
instance the obvious points which two such poets must have had
in common; the mention of some less obvious will suffice for our
present purpose. They were both profoundly convinced that art
was no luxury of leisure,- no mere amusement to charm the
idle or relax the careworn,-but a mighty influence, serious in
its aims although pleasurable in its means; a sister of religion,
by whose aid the great world-scheme was wrought into reality.
This was with them no mere sonorous phrase. They were thor-
oughly in earnest. They believed that culture would raise human-
ity to its full powers; and they, as artists, knew no culture equal
to that of art. It was probably a perception of this belief that
made Karl Grün say, «< Goethe was the most ideal idealist the
earth has ever borne; an æsthetic idealist. " And hence the ori-
gin of the wide-spread error that Goethe "only looked at life as
an artist,”—i. e. , cared only for human nature inasmuch as it
afforded him materials for art; a point which will be more fully
examined hereafter. The phases of their development had been.
very similar, and had brought them to a similar standing-point.
They both began rebelliously; they both emerged from titanic
lawlessness in emerging from youth to manhood. In Italy the
sight of ancient masterpieces completed Goethe's metamorphosis.
Schiller had to work through his in the gloomy North, and under
the constant pressure of anxieties. He too pined for Italy, and
XVI-566


## p. 9042 (#38) ############################################

GEORGE HENRY LEWES
9042
thought the climate of Greece would make him a poet. But his
intense and historical mind found neither stimulus nor enjoyment
in plastic art. Noble men and noble deeds were the food which
nourished his great soul. "His poetic purification came from
moral ideas; whereas in Goethe the moral ideal came from the
artistic. " Plutarch was Schiller's Bible. The ancient master-
pieces of poetry came to him in this period of his development,
to lead him gently by the hand onwards to the very point where
Goethe stood. He read the Greek tragedians in wretched French
translations, and with such aid laboriously translated the 'Iphi-
genia' of Euripides. Homer in Voss's faithful version became to
him what Homer long was to Goethe. And how thoroughly he
threw himself into the ancient world may be seen in his poem,
'The Gods of Greece. ' Like Goethe, he had found his religious
opinions gradually separating him more and more from the ortho-
dox Christians; and like Goethe, he had woven for himself a
system out of Spinoza, Kant, and the Grecian sages.
At the time, then, that these two men seemed most opposed
to each other, and were opposed in feeling, they were gradually
drawing closer and closer in the very lines of their development,
and a firm basis was prepared for solid and enduring union.
Goethe was five-and-forty, Schiller five-and-thirty. Goethe had
much to give which Schiller gratefully accepted; and if he could
not in return influence the developed mind of his great friend,
nor add to the vast stores of its knowledge and experience, he
could give him that which was even more valuable, sympathy and
impulse. He excited Goethe to work. He withdrew him from
the engrossing pursuit of science, and restored him once more to
poetry. He urged him to finish what was already commenced,
and not to leave his works all fragments. They worked together
with the same purpose and with the same earnestness; and their
union is the most glorious episode in the lives of both, and re-
mains as an eternal exemplar of a noble friendship.
Of all the tributes to Schiller's greatness which an enthusiastic
people has pronounced, there is perhaps nothing which carries a
greater weight of tenderness and authority than Goethe's noble
praise. It is a very curious fact in the history of Shakespeare,
that he is not known to have written a single line in praise of
any contemporary poet. The fashion of those days was for each
poet to write verses in eulogy of his friends, and the eulogies
written by Shakespeare's friends are such as to satisfy even the


## p. 9043 (#39) ############################################

GEORGE HENRY LEWES
9043
idolatry of admirers in our day; but there exists no eulogy, no
single verse, from him whose eulogy was more worth having than
that of all the rest put together. Had literary gossip, pregnant
with literary malice, produced the absurd impression that Shake-
speare was cold, selfish, and self-idolatrous, this curious fact would.
have been made a damning proof. I have so often in these pages.
used Shakespeare as a contrast to Goethe, that it would be wrong
not to contrast him also on this point. Of all the failings usually
attributed to literary men, Goethe had the least of what could be
called jealousy; of all the qualities which sit gracefully on great-
ness, he had the most of magnanimity. The stream of time will
carry down to after ages the memory of several whose names will
live only in his praise, and the future students of literary history
will have no fact to note of Goethe similar to that noted of
Shakespeare: they will see how enthusiastic was his admiration of
his rivals Schiller, Voss, and Herder, and how quick he was to
perceive the genius of Scott, Byron, Béranger, and Manzoni.
ROBESPIERRE IN PARIS, 1770
HⓇ
E LED a life of honorable poverty, seclusion, and study,-the
life that is led by thousands of young men both in Eng-
land and in France. He occupied a small apartment au
cinquième in the Rue St. Jacques. His slender means admitted of
but very little of that dissipation with which young law students
seek relief from their wearisome studies.
Jurisprudence did not, however, wholly occupy him. He was
in Paris, in the midst of its pleasures, its frivolities, its debates.
Too poor to enjoy many of these delights, of a disposition natur-
ally reserved and unsocial, he had little to interrupt his studies;
so that when not attending lectures or bending over digests, he'
was walking along the quays or down the shady, dusty avenues of
the Tuileries, meditating on the destinies of mankind, and striv-
ing, with the help of Rousseau and others, to solve the vexed
problems which then agitated Europe.
He was in Paris; yet not in its giddy vortex, not among its
brilliant courtiers, not moving amid the rustling hoops of its
court nor adding to the elegant frivolity of its salons. He was
in its dark and narrow streets, amidst its misery and squalid


## p. 9044 (#40) ############################################

9044
GEORGE HENRY LEWES
rage. He fought no duels, sparkled at no suppers, was the hero
of no bonnes fortunes. He was near enough to the court and
the salons to know what passed there; far enough removed from
them to feel some hatred at the distinction. He could see that
the Great were only the Privileged, and had no real title to be an
aristocracy. Any common observer might have seen that; but
the serious, unfriended Robespierre saw it with terrible distinct-
ness.
Aristocracy had indeed fallen more completely than even
kingship. If the nobles ever were the foremost, topmost men,
they long had ceased to be so. A more finished grace of deport-
ment, a more thorough comprehension of the futilities and ele-
gances of luxurious idleness, and perhaps a more perfect code of
dueling, might be conceded to them. If life were as gay and
frivolous a thing as Paris seemed to believe, if its interests were
none other than the ingenious caprices of otiose magnificence,—
then indeed these were the topmost men, and formed a veritable
aristocracy.
But the brilliant fête was drawing to a close; and while the
beams of morning made the rouged and fatigued cheeks of the
giddy dancers look somewhat ghastly, there was heard the distant
tramp of an advancing army, which told them that a conflict was
at hand. Some heard it, and with reckless indifference danced on,
exclaiming like Madame de Pompadour, "Après nous le Déluge! "
Others resolutely shut their ears, and would not hear it.
Since the last days of the Roman Empire, no such spectacle
had been exhibited by society as that exhibited by France dur-
ing the eighteenth century. To look at it from afar, as seen in
books, how gay and brilliant it appears! What wit, what elo-
quence! What charming futilities, what amiable society! What
laughter, what amusement! If man's life were but a genteel
comedy, acted before well-fed, well-bred, well-dressed audiences,
this was a scene to draw forth all our plaudits. A Secretary
of State at eighteen (M. de Maurepas) decides State questions
with a bon-mot. A miserable negro page, Du Barri's favorite, is
thought fitted to become the governor of a royal château. Storms
lower on the horizon: they are met with epigrams! Dandy abbés
make their lacqueys repeat the breviary for them; and having
thus discharged the duties of their office, set themselves with all
seriousness to turning couplets, and to gaining the reputation of
gallantry. Women of the highest rank go to hear mass; but take


## p. 9045 (#41) ############################################

GEORGE HENRY LEWES
9045
with them under guise of prayer-book some of those witty and
licentious novels which are to be compared only to the 'Satyricon '
of Petronius.
These charming women "violated all the common duties of
life, and gave very pleasant little suppers. " They had effaced the
negative from the seventh Commandment, and made marriage, as
the witty Sophie Arnould felicitously defined it, "the sacrament.
of adultery. "
The treasury was drained to enrich favorites, and to supply
splendid fêtes. "Sometimes," says Louis Blanc, "there were cav-
aliers emulous of the preux de Charlemagne, who in sumptuous
gardens, under trees upon which were suspended shields and
lances, feigned a magic sleep, till the Queen appearing deigned
to break the spell. Sometimes after reading of the loves of deer,
these cavaliers took it into their heads to transform themselves
into stags, and to hide themselves clothed in skins in the thickest
part of the shady park. In the days when the nobility had manly
passions, they amused themselves with tournaments which counter-
feited war; now it was dancers who, mingling with the nobles,
wore the colors of their ladies in fêtes counterfeiting tourna-
ments! "
What could France think of her aristocracy, while the high-
est people in the realm were objects of contempt? Her Queen,
the lovely Marie Antoinette, whom France had welcomed with
such rapture and such pride, what figure did she make in this.
dissolute court? Did she set an august example of virtue and
of regal grandeur? Could hopes be formed of her? Alas, no!
Young, ardent, quick-blooded, fond of pleasure, reckless as to
means, careless of appearances, she was no longer the queen to
whom a gallant Brissac, pointing to a jubilant crowd, could say,
"Behold! they are so many lovers! " She had become the object
of hatred. She had been imprudent, perhaps worse; and princely
libelers had circulated atrocious charges against her. She had
forgotten herself so far as to appear at the Bal de l'Opéra. She
had worn a heron's plume which Lauzun had taken from his hat
to give her. It was said that dancing with Dillon, and thinking
herself out of hearing, she had told him to feel how her heart
beat; to which the King sternly replied, "Monsieur Dillon will
take your word for it, madame! " This and more was said of her;
and an irritated nation eagerly credited the odious reports which
transformed their young Queen into a Messalina. That she was


## p. 9046 (#42) ############################################

9046
GEORGE HENRY LEWES
libeled, no one pretends to doubt; but then those libels were
almost universally accredited.
And the King? His great occupation was lock-making! His
brothers were less innocently employed: the one devoting him-
self to intrigue, a shameless libeler and daring conspirator; and
the other to flaunting at bals masqués.
Thus were the great names of France illustrious only in the
annals of debauchery or folly; and the people asked themselves,
"Are these our rulers? " The few exceptions to the general
degradation only make the degradation more patent. Nobles,
heretofore so proud, were now ambitious of repairing their ruined
fortunes by marrying the daughters of opulent financiers. The
courts of justice were scandalized by trials for robbery, in which
noblemen figured as criminals. Not only had they lost their self-
respect, but they had also lost the respect of the nation.
Seriousness and serious topics were by no means banished:
they were only transformed into agréments. Philosophy was
rouged and wore a hoop. It found ready admission into all
salons. Ruddy lips propounded momentous problems; delicate
fingers turned over dusty folios. The "high argument" of God's
existence and man's destiny, the phenomena of nature, the deep-
est and most inscrutable of questions, were discussed over the
supper table, where bons-mots and champagne sparkled as brightly
as the eyes of the questioners. No subject was too arid for
these savant-asses (to use Mademoiselle de Launay's admirable
expression): mathematics did not rebut them; political economy
was charming; and even financial reports were read as eagerly
as romances. And amidst this chaos of witticisms, paradoxes,
and discussions, colonels were seated, occupied with embroidery
or with parfilage; noblemen made love to other noblemen's
wives; while a scented abbé
"Fait le procès au Dieu qui le nourrit. ”
Society never ex ited greater contrasts nor greater anarchy;
old creeds and ancient traditions were crumbling away; and
amidst the intellectual orgies of the epoch the most antagonistic
elements had full play. D'Alembert, Lalande, Lagrange, Buffon,
and Lavoisier, were jostled by Cagliostro, Mesmer, Saint-Martin,
and Weishaupt: the exact sciences had rivals in the wildest chime-
ras and quackeries. Atheists proclaimed with all the fervor of
conviction their faith in the eternal progress of humanity; skeptics


## p. 9047 (#43) ############################################

GEORGE HENRY LEWES
9047
who assailed Christianity with all the powers of mockery and
logic were declared the apostles of the three fundamental prin-
ciples of Christianity, the principles of charity, fraternity, and
equality. Voltaire attacked all sacred institutions, devoting him-
self to écraser l'infâme. Montesquieu examined with no reverent
spirit the laws of every species of established government. Rous-
seau went deeper still, and struck at the root of all society by a
production as daring as it was well-timed, the 'Discours sur
l'Inégalité. '
The gayety, frivolity, wit, and elegance of France, so charm-
ing to those who lived in the salons, formed as it were but the
graceful vine which clustered over a volcano about to burst; or
rather let me say it was the rouge which on a sallow, sunken
cheek simulated the ruddy glow of health. Lying deep down in
the heart of society there was profound seriousness: the sadness
of misery, of want, of slavery clanking its chains, of free thought
struggling for empire. This seriousness was about to find utter-
ance. The most careless observer could not fail to perceive the
heavy thunder-clouds which darkened the horizon of this sunny
sky. The court and the salons were not France: they occupied
the foremost place upon the stage, but another actor was about
to appear, before whom they would shrink into insignificance;
the actor was the People.


## p. 9048 (#44) ############################################

9048
JONAS LIE
(1833-)
ONAS LIE is one of three men who make up the literary trium-
virate of Norway. Björnson, Ibsen, and Lie are the veteran
writers of the present day who have given international
importance to Norwegian belles-lettres. Lie lacks the heroic proportions
of the other two; but his position in his own land is as secure as
theirs, and his work deserves and receives critical foreign attention.
Jonas Lauritz Idemil Lie (the family name is pronounced Lee) was
born June 11th, 1833, at Eker, a small town in southern Norway. His
father was a lawyer, who when Jonas was
a lad moved in some official capacity to
the wild northern seaport of Tromsö. This
early presence of the sea may have given
color and direction to Lie's subsequent lit-
erary work, in which coast life is so prom-
inent a theme. This residence also gave
him opportunity for an acquaintance with
the primitive fishing districts. He entered
the naval academy at Frederiksværn, but
near-sightedness compelled him to stop. He
was then sent to school at Christiania to fit
for the university at Heftberg's Gymnasium,
where he fell in with Björnson and Ibsen,
forming friendships kept up in the case of
the former through later years. At the university, Lie studied juris-
prudence, and began to practice law at Kongsvinger; he prospered
in his profession, and soon was socially prominent. But in the Nor-
wegian financial crisis of the sixties he was ruined; and in 1868-
having hitherto done journalistic and literary work enough to test his
talent - he went to Christiania, there to devote himself single-eyed to
letters.
JONAS LIE

He had the usual young literary man's struggle at first; did a lit-
tle teaching; and got on his feet by his first novel, The Visionary'
(1870), which had immediate recognition. After the enlightened cus-
tom of the country, the Norwegian government sent him to the far
north to study life, and later allowed him a stipend to travel abroad
for the purpose of cultivating himself as a poet. His Tales and
Sketches from Norway' (1872) was written mostly in Rome. The


## p. 9049 (#45) ############################################

JONAS LIE
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two novels The Bark "Failure" and "The Pilot and his Wife' (1874)
are typical sea stories, in which Lie excels. This year he was granted
the "poet's pension," the same official recognition received by Björn-
son and Ibsen. 'The Pilot and his Wife' is perhaps the best known
of his novels; and from this time Lie has worked steadily to produce
the score of volumes constituting his literary baggage and adding
solidly to his reputation. In the main he has lived abroad, in differ-
ent German cities and in Paris,-like Ibsen in this respect; but he
spent the summer of 1893 in Norway, after an absence of twelve
years, and this visit was signalized by festivities in Christiania and
other cities.
Lie's Italian experience brought forth Frankfulla,' 'Antonio Ban-
niera,' and 'Faustina Strozzi' (1875), minor works not calling out his
native gift. Thomas Ross' (1878) and 'Adam Schrader' (1879) depict
city life. In 'Rutland' (1881) and 'Press On' (1882) he returns to the
sea for inspiration. The Slave For Life' (1883) is a strong story,
ranking among the best of his maturest productions. The Family
at Gilje' appeared the same year. 'A Malstrom (1884), Eight
Stories' (1885), 'The Daughters of the Commodore,' a finely represent-
ative work (1886), Married Life' (1887), 'Evil Powers' (1890), Troll
I. and II. (1891-2: a group of marine horror tales), and Niobe'
(1893), complete the list of fiction. A three-act comedy, 'Grabow's
Cat' (1880), after rejection at Copenhagen, was successful at Christi-
ania and Stockholm; and another comedy, 'Merry Women,' is of so
recent date as 1894.
Lie's earlier works are marked by keen characterization, sympa-
thy for the life described, truthful observation of traits external and
internal, and a certain pathos and poetry of treatment which give
his fiction charm. Of late years Lie, like his literary compeers Björn-
son and Ibsen, like so many distinguished writers in other lands, has
moved pretty steadily towards realism and the unflinching present-
ment of unpalatable fact,-retaining, however, his sympathetic touch.
A powerful but unpleasant story like The Slave For Life,' written
more than a dozen years ago, is a significant work in denoting this
change in Lie; the same is true of the following novel, The Family
at Gilje,' although this study is relieved by humor. When the novel-
ist writes of the sea which he knows so marvelously well, when he
limns the simple provincial folk who live by the water or go forth
upon it for their daily bread,—he is admirably true, and a master at
home with his subject. Björnson said of Lie in a public address:
"His friends know that he only needs to dip the net down into him-
self to bring up a full catch. " To carry out the figure, the fattest
catch with Lie is a sea catch. When writing in scenes the most
remote from the marine atmosphere, he has caught the very spirit


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JONAS LIE
of the ocean and its wayfarers. This is true of The Pilot and his
Wife' (the English translation of which is entitled 'A Norse Love
Story'), from which a chapter is given. Penned in a small Italian
mountain town, it is, as Edmund Gosse puts it, "one of the saltest
stories ever published. "
Lie has been much translated, and a number of his novels and
short stories have appeared in English.
ELIZABETH'S CHOICE
From A Norse Love Story. Copyright 1876, by S. C. Griggs & Co.
IN
N THE evening, when the gentlemen were sitting in the grove
alone, and Elizabeth came out with a fresh supply of hot
water for their toddy, the chairman permitted himself to offer
a joke which drove the blood up to her cheeks. She made no
reply, but the mug trembled in her hands as she put it down,
and at the same time she gave to the one concerned a glance so
decidedly bitter and scornful that he for an instant felt himself
corrected.
"By heavens, Beck! " he exclaimed, "did you see what eyes
she fixed on me? they fairly lightened. "
"Yes, she is a noble girl,” replied Beck; who was enraged,
but had his reason for being circumspect before his superior.
"Ah, a noble girl! " added the latter in an irritated tone,
which made Carl feel that he meant she ought rather to be
called an impudent servant.
"Yes, I mean a handsome girl," added Carl, evasively correct-
ing himself with a forced laugh.
Elizabeth had heard it. She was wounded, and commenced in
her own mind, for the first time, a comparison between the lieu-
tenant and Salve. Salve would not have prevaricated thus if he
had been in this one's stead.
When later in the evening he chanced upon her alone, as she
was putting things in order on the steps after their departure,
he said half anxiously:-
"You did not really take that to heart, Elizabeth, from the
old, coarse, blustering brute? He is really a brave and honest
fellow, who does not mean anything by his talk. "
Elizabeth was silent, and sought to leave him and go inside
with what she had in her hands.


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JONAS LIE
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"Yes, but I cannot endure that you should be insulted, Eliza-
beth! " he broke out suddenly in wild passion, and tried to seize
her arm: "this hand, with which you work, is dearer to me than
all the fine ladies' together. "
"Herr Beck! " she burst out wildly, with tears in her eyes,
"I go my way this very night if I hear more! "
She disappeared in the hallway, but Beck followed.
"Elizabeth," he whispered, "I am in earnest! " She tore
herself violently from him and went into the kitchen, where the
sisters were standing talking by the fire.
Young Beck, in the beautiful starlit night, took a lonely
walk into the interior of the island, and did not return until past
midnight.
He had not meant it so decidedly in earnest; but now, since
he had seen her before him, so wonderfully beautiful, with the
tears in her eyes-now, yes, now he did mean it in sober ear-
He was ready to engage himself to her in spite of all
considerations, if need be.
nest.
The next morning he went with his pleasure-boat to Arendal.
He had however first, in passing, whispered to her:-
"I am in earnest! "
These words, again repeated, entirely confused Elizabeth. She
had lain and thought upon this same remark during the night,
and resented it with indignation; for it could only signify that
he ventured to declare to her that he was charmed with her,
and she had already determined to carry out her threat to leave
the house. But now, repeated-in that tone! Did he really
mean to offer her his hand and heart-to become his, the officer's
wife?
There lay before her fancy a glittering expanse of early
dreams which almost intoxicated her. She was distracted and
pale the entire week, and thought with dread of Sunday, when
he should come again. What would he then say? And what
should she answer?
He did not come, however, since a business trip had un-
expectedly become necessary. On the contrary, Marie Fostberg
came, and she felt that the girl's disposition in some way or
other must have changed; for she evidently shunned every assist-
ance from her, and in glances which Marie accidentally caught
there was something hard and unfriendly. It affected her more
closely than she herself would admit. Faithful as she was, she


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JONAS LIE
sought following a sudden impulse-to pat her in a friendly
way on the shoulder; but this apparently made quite another
impression,- she could just as well have caressed a piece of
wood: and when she entered the sitting-room she could not help
asking, "What has come over Elizabeth? " But the others had
remarked nothing.
Carl Beck, contrary to custom, came not the next Saturday,
but earlier, in the middle of the week; and he walked with rapid.
strides through the rooms when he did not see Elizabeth in the
sitting-room.
He found her at last up-stairs. She stood looking out of the
window in the upper hall, from which there was a view of
the grove up the mountain slope, and of the sky above. She
heard his step, and that he was coming up the stairs; and she
felt an unspeakable anxiety, a panic, almost as if she could spring
out of the window. What should she answer?
Then he came, and put his arm about her waist, and half
above a whisper asked:-
-
"Elizabeth! will you be mine? "
For the first time in her life she felt near fainting. She
hardly knew what she did, but pushed him, involuntarily, violently
from her.
He seized her hand again, and asked:
"Elizabeth, will you become my wife? "
She was very pale, as she answered:
"Yes. "
But when he would again place his arm about her waist, she
suddenly sprang back with an expression of terror.
"Elizabeth! " said he tenderly,—and sought again to draw her
to him, "what affects you so? If you knew how I have longed
for this hour! "
"Not now-no more now! " she prayed, while she held her
hand against him; "later-»
«<
Why, you say 'yes,' Elizabeth that you are my
But
he felt that now she would have him go. For a long time she
sat on a chest up there, silent and gazing before her.
It was accomplished, then. Her heart beat so loud that she
could hear it, and it was as if she felt a dull pain there. Her
face gradually assumed a rigid, cold look. She thought he was
now telling his stepmother that they were engaged, and she was
preparing herself for what she would have to endure.
-
-
>>


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JONAS LIE
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She waited to be called down; at last she determined to go
herself.
In the sitting-room each one sat wholly taken up with his
own work. The lieutenant pretended to be reading a book,—over
which, however, when she entered he sent her a stolen, tenderly
anxious glance.
Supper was brought in, and everything went on as usual. He
joked a little, as was his wont. She thought it was as if a fog
had enveloped them all. Mina asked her once if anything ailed
her, and she answered mechanically, "No. "
It was therefore to happen later in the evening. She went in
and out as usual with the tea things; still it was as if she could
not feel the floor under her feet, or what she carried in her hands.
The evening passed, and they retired without anything having
occurred. In the dim light of the stairway he grasped her hand
warmly, and said, "Good-night, my Elizabeth, my-my Elizabeth! "
But she would not return his grasp, and when he approached her
brow with his lips she drew back quickly.
"I came out. here alone to tell you this, dear, beloved Eliza-
beth! " whispered he, with a trembling fervor in his voice, while
he sought to embrace her. "I must return again to-morrow.
Shall I go without a sign that you care for me? "
She slowly bent her brow toward him, and he kissed it, when
she immediately left him.
"Good-night, my beloved! " whispered he after her.
Elizabeth lay long awake. She felt the need of having a good
cry, and her heart was chilled within her. When she at last slept
she did not dream about her lover, but about Salve-the whole
time about Salve. She saw him gazing at her with his earnest
face; it was so heavy with sorrow, and she stood like a criminal
before him. He said something which she could not hear, but
she understood that he cursed her, and that he had thrown her
dress overboard.
She arose early, and sought to engage her thoughts with
other dreams,- her future as the officer's wife. But it was as
if everything that heretofore had seemed only as gold would now
present itself before her as brass. She felt unhappy and rest-
less, and bethought herself a long time before entering the sitting-
room.
Carl Beck did not go that morning; he had perceived that
there was something or other that put Elizabeth out of sorts.


## p. 9054 (#50) ############################################

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JONAS LIE
During the forenoon, when his sisters were out and his step-
mother was occupied, he fortunately chanced to have the oppor-
tunity of speaking with her alone. She was still in a fever, and
expected that he had spoken to Madam Beck.
"Elizabeth," he said, gently smoothing her hair, for she
seemed so embarrassed as she stood looking down, "I could not
go before I had spoken with you again. "
Her eyes were still lowered, but she did not reject his hand.
"Do you really care for me? Will you become my wife? "
She was silent. At last, a little paler, and as if somewhat
overcome, she said:-
"Yes, Herr Beck! "
"Say du to me-say Carl," he fervently prayed, "and-look
at me! "
She looked at him; but not as he had expected. It was with
a fixed, cold glance, wherewith she said:-
"Yes-when we are betrothed. "
"Are we not betrothed ? »
"When will your stepmother know it? " she asked, somewhat
hesitatingly.
"Dear Elizabeth! they must not notice anything here at home
until until three months are past, when I am — »
But he now noticed the expression of her face, and the quick
way in which she withdrew her hand, which led him to reserve
what he had originally thought, and he corrected himself hastily:
Are you
"During next week, from Arendal I shall write to father, and
then I will tell my stepmother what I have written.
satisfied, Elizabeth, dear Elizabeth! or will you have it done
now? " he exclaimed resolutely, and again seized her hand.
"No, no, not now! -next week. - do not let it be done until
next week! " she broke out in sudden dread; at the same time
she almost beseechingly returned the pressure of his hand - the
first he had gotten from her.
"And then will you be mine, Elizabeth ?