Library Of The Worlds Best Literature Ancient And Modern Vol XIII

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Title: Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern, Vol. 13

Author: Various

Editor: Charles Dudley Warner

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Language: English

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THE GOTHIC BIBLE OF ULFILAS.

Codex Argenteus. Library of Upsala.

Socrates, a Greek ecclesiastic of the fifth century, and several other Byzantine writers, inform us, that
Ulfilas, belonging to a family of Cappadocia, having been carried away captive by the Goths, when they
invaded that country in A.D. 366, was subsequently elevated to the episcopal dignity in his new country,
which had been converted to Christianity; that he was sent as a legate to the Emperor Valens, at
Constantinople, in the year 377, to ask for a province of the empire, as a refuge for the Goths from the
Huns, by whom they had been conquered; that Ulfilas obtained permission for them to settle in Moesia, on
the right bank of the Danube; and that, in order to confirm them in the Christian faith, he translated the Old
and New Testaments into the Gothic language, and invented for that purpose an especial alphabet; which,
from this circumstance, has been named the alphabet of Ulfilas, or the alphabet of the Goths of Moesia.
This translation of the Bible is the oldest existing literary monument in the Germanic languages. The
principal manuscript is the Codex Argenteus, written in silver characters on a purple ground. The
accompanying facsimile is from the Gospel according to St. Mark, chapter VII., beginning in the 3d verse
at the words "Jews eat not," and ending in the 7th verse at "In vain do they worship me, teaching...."

LIBRARY OF THE

WORLD'S BEST LITERATURE

ANCIENT AND MODERN

CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER

EDITOR

HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE

LUCIA GILBERT RUNKLE
GEORGE HENRY WARNER

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Connoisseur Edition

Vol. XIII.

NEW YORK

THE INTERNATIONAL SOCIETY

Connoisseur Edition

LIMITED TO FIVE HUNDRED COPIES IN HALF RUSSIA

No. ..........

Copyright, 1896, by

R. S. PEALE AND J. A. HILL

All rights reserved

THE ADVISORY COUNCIL

CRAWFORD H. TOY, A. M., LL. D.,

Professor of Hebrew, Harvard University, Cambridge, Mass.

THOMAS R. LOUNSBURY, LL. D., L. H. D.,

Professor of English in the Sheffield Scientific School of Yale University, New Haven, Conn.

WILLIAM M. SLOANE, Ph. D., L. H. D.,

Professor of History and Political Science, Princeton University, Princeton, N. J.

BRANDER MATTHEWS, A. M., LL. B.,

Professor of Literature, Columbia University, New York City.

JAMES B. ANGELL, LL. D.,

President of the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, Mich.

WILLARD FISKE, A. M., Ph. D.,

Late Professor of the Germanic and Scandinavian Languages and Literatures, Cornell University,

Ithaca, N. Y.

EDWARD S. HOLDEN, A. M., LL. D.,

Director of the Lick Observatory, and Astronomer, University of California, Berkeley, Cal.

ALCÉE FORTIER, LIT. D.,

Professor of the Romance Languages, Tulane University, New Orleans, La.

WILLIAM P. TRENT, M. A.,

Dean of the Department of Arts and Sciences, and Professor of English and History, University of

the South, Sewanee, Tenn.

PAUL SHOREY, Ph. D.,

Professor of Greek and Latin Literature, University of Chicago, Chicago, Ill.

WILLIAM T. HARRIS, LL. D.,

United States Commissioner of Education, Bureau of Education, Washington, D. C.

MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN, A. M., LL. D.,

Professor of Literature in the Catholic University of America, Washington, D. C.

[Pg v]

TABLE OF CONTENTS

VOL. XIII

LIVED
PAGE

TORU DUTT
1856-1877
5075

Jogadhya Uma

Our Casuarina-Tree

JOHN S. DWIGHT
1813-1893
5084

Music as a Means of Culture

GEORG MORITZ EBERS
1837-
5091

The Arrival at Babylon ('An Egyptian Princess')

JOSÉ ECHEGARAY
1832-
5101

From 'Madman or Saint?'

From 'The Great Galeoto'

THE EDDAS

5113

BY WILLIAM H. CARPENTER

Thor's Adventures on his Journey to the Land of the Giants ('Snorra Edda')

The Lay of Thrym ('Elder Edda')

Of the Lamentation of Gudrun over Sigurd Dead: First Lay of Gudrun

Waking of Brunhilde on the Hindfell by Sigurd (Morris's 'Story of Sigurd the Völsung')

ALFRED EDERSHEIM
1825-1889
5145

The Washing of Hands ('The Life and Times of Jesus the Messiah')

MARIA EDGEWORTH
1767-1849
5151

Sir Condy's Wake ('Castle Rackrent')

Sir Murtagh Rackrent and His Lady (same)

ANNE CHARLOTTE LEFFLER EDGREN
1849-1893
5162

Open Sesame

A Ball in High Life ('A Rescuing Angel')

JONATHAN EDWARDS
1703-1758
5175

BY EGBERT C. SMYTH

From Narrative of His Religious History

"Written on a Blank Leaf in 1723"

The Idea of Nothing ('Of Being')

The Notion of Action and Agency Entertained by Mr. Chubb and Others ('Inquiry into the Freedom of

the Will')

[Pg vi]

Excellency of Christ

Essence of True Virtue ('The Nature of True Virtue')

GEORGES EEKHOUD
1854-
5189

Ex-Voto

Kors Davie

EDWARD EGGLESTON
1837-
5215

Roger Williams, the Prophet of Religious Freedom ('The Beginners of a Nation')

EGYPTIAN LITERATURE

5225

BY FRANCIS LLEWELLYN GRIFFITH AND KATE BRADBURY GRIFFITH

The Shipwrecked Sailor

Story of Sanehat

The Doomed Prince

Story of the Two Brothers

Story of Setna

Inscription of Una

Songs of Laborers

Love Songs: Love-Sickness; The Lucky Doorkeeper; Love's Doubts; The Unsuccessful Bird-Catcher

Hymn to Usertesen III.

Hymn to the Aten

Hymns to Amen Ra

Songs to the Harp

From an Epitaph

From a Dialogue Between a Man and His Soul

'The Negative Confession'

Teaching of Amenemhat

The Prisse Papyrus: Instruction of Ptahhetep

From the 'Maxims of Any'

Instruction of Dauf

Contrasted Lots of Scribe and Fellâh

Reproaches to a Dissipated Student

JOSEPH VON EICHENDORFF
1788-1857
5345

From 'Out of the Life of a Good-for-Nothing'

Separation

Lorelei

GEORGE ELIOT
1819-1880
5359

BY CHARLES WALDSTEIN

The Final Rescue ('The Mill on the Floss')

[Pg vii]

Village Worthies ('Silas Marner')

The Hall Farm ('Adam Bede')

Mrs. Poyser "Has Her Say Out" (same)

The Prisoners ('Romola')

"Oh, May I Join the Choir Invisible"

RALPH WALDO EMERSON
1803-1882
5421

BY RICHARD GARNETT

The Times

Friendship

Nature

Compensation

Love

Circles

Self-Reliance

History

Each and All

The Rhodora

The Humble-Bee

The Problem

Days

Musketaquid

From the 'Threnody'

Concord Hymn

Ode Sung in the Town Hall, Concord, July 4, 1857

FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS

VOLUME XIII

PAGE

Gothic Bible of Ulfilas
Colored Plate

Frontispiece

Georg Ebers (Portrait)
5091

"Babylonian Marriage Market"
(Photogravure)
5098

Egyptian Hieroglyphic Writing (Outline Fac-
Simile)
5226

"The Sphynx" (Photogravure)
5260

"Egyptian Funeral Feast" (Photogravure)
5290

"Uncial Greek Writing" (Fac-Simile)
5338

George Eliot (Portrait)
5359

Ralph Waldo Emerson (Portrait)
5421

"Concord Battle Monument" (Photogravure)
5466

VIGNETTE PORTRAITS

[Pg viii]

[Pg ix]

I

José Echegaray
Maria Edgeworth
Jonathan Edwards
Edward Eggleston

TORU DUTT

(1856-1877)

n 1874 there appeared in the Bengal Magazine an essay upon Leconte de Lisle, which showed not only

an unusual knowledge of French literature, but also decided literary qualities. The essayist was Toru
Dutt, a Hindu girl of eighteen, daughter of Govin Chunder Dutt, for many years a justice of the peace at
Calcutta. The family belonged to the high-caste cultivated Hindus, and Toru's education was conducted
on broad lines. Her work frequently discloses charming pictures of the home life that filled the old

garden house at Calcutta. Here it is easy to see the studious child poring over French, German, and English lexicons,
reading every book she could lay hold of, hearing from her mother's lips those old legends of her race which had been
woven into the poetry of native bards long before the civilization of modern Europe existed. In her thirteenth year Toru
and her younger sister were sent to study for a few months in France, and thence to attend lectures at Cambridge and
to travel in England. A memory of this visit appears in Toru's little poem, 'Near Hastings,' which shows the
impressionable nature of the Indian girl, so sensitive to the romance of an alien race, and so appreciative of her friendly
welcome to English soil.

After four years' travel in Europe the Dutts returned to India to resume their student life, and Toru began to learn
Sanskrit. She showed great aptitude for the French language and a strong liking for the French character, and she made
a special study of French romantic poetry. Her essays on Leconte de Lisle and Joséphin Soulary, and a series of
English translations of poetry, were the fruit of her labor. The translations, including specimens from Béranger,
Théophile Gautier, François Coppée, Sully-Prud'homme, and other popular writers, were collected in 1876 under the
title 'A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.' A few copies found their way into Europe, and both French and English
reviewers recognized the value of the harvest of this clear-sighted gleaner. One critic called these poems, in which Toru
so faithfully reproduced the spirit of one alien tongue in the forms of another, transmutations rather than translations.

But marvelous as is the mastery shown over the subtleties of thought and the difficulties of translation, the achievement
remains that of acquirement rather than of inspiration. But Toru's English renditions of the native Indian legends, called
'Ancient Ballads of Hindustan,' give a sense of great original power. Selected from much completed work left
unpublished at her too early death, these poems are revelations of the Eastern religious thought, which loves to clothe
itself in such forms of mystical beauty as haunt the memory and charm the fancy. But in these translations it is touched
by the spirit of the new faith which Toru had adopted. The poems remain, however, essentially Indian. The glimpses of
lovely landscape, the shining temples, the greening gloom of the jungle, the pink flush of the dreamy atmosphere, are all
of the East, as is the philosophic calm that breathes through the verses. The most beautiful of the ballads is perhaps that
of 'Savitri,' the king's daughter who by love wins back her husband after he has passed the gates of death. Another,
'Sindher,' re-tells the old story of that king whose great power is unavailing to avert the penalty which follows the
breaking of the Vedic law, even though it was broken in ignorance. Still another, 'Prehlad,' reveals that insight into things
spiritual which characterizes the true seer or "called of God." Two charming legends, 'Jogadhya Uma,' and 'Buttoo,' full
of the pastoral simplicity of the early Aryan life, and a few miscellaneous poems, complete this volume upon which
Toru's fame will rest.

A posthumous novel written in French makes up the sum of her contribution to letters. 'Le Journal de Mlle. D'Arvers'
was found completed among her posthumous papers. It is a romance of modern French life, whose motive is the love of
two brothers for the same girl. The tragic element dominates the story, and the author has managed the details with
extraordinary ease without sacrificing either dignity or dramatic effect. The story was edited by Mademoiselle Bader, a
correspondent of Toru, and her sole acquaintance among European authors. In 1878, the year after the poet's death,
appeared a second edition of 'A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields' containing forty-three additional poems, with a brief
biographical sketch written by her father. The many translators of the 'Sakoontala' and of other Indian dramas show
how difficult it is for the Western mind to express the indefinable spirituality of temper that fills ancient Hindu poetry.
This remarkable quality Toru wove unconsciously into her English verse, making it seem not exotic but complementary,
an echo of that far-off age when the genius of the two races was one.

JOGADHYA UMA

"Shell bracelets, ho! Shell bracelets, ho!

Fair maids and matrons, come and buy!"

[Pg x]

[Pg 5075]

[Pg 5076]

[Pg 5077]

Along the road, in morning's glow,

The peddler raised his wonted cry.

The road ran straight, a red, red line,

To Khigoram, for cream renowned,

Through pasture meadows where the kine,

In knee-deep grass, stood magic bound

And half awake, involved in mist

That floated in dun coils profound,

Till by the sudden sunbeams kist,

Rich rainbow hues broke all around.

"Shell bracelets, ho! Shell bracelets, ho!"

The roadside trees still dripped with dew

And hung their blossoms like a show.

Who heard the cry? 'Twas but a few;

A ragged herd-boy, here and there,

With his long stick and naked feet;

A plowman wending to his care,

The field from which he hopes the wheat;

An early traveler, hurrying fast

To the next town; an urchin slow

Bound for the school; these heard and passed,

Unheeding all,—"Shell bracelets, ho!"

Pellucid spread a lake-like tank

Beside the road now lonelier still;

High on three sides arose the bank

Which fruit-trees shadowed at their will;

Upon the fourth side was the ghat,

With its broad stairs of marble white,

And at the entrance arch there sat,

Full face against the morning light,

A fair young woman with large eyes,

And dark hair falling to her zone;

She heard the peddler's cry arise,

And eager seemed his ware to own.

"Shell bracelets, ho! See, maiden; see!

The rich enamel, sunbeam-kist!

Happy, oh happy, shalt thou be,

Let them but clasp that slender wrist;

These bracelets are a mighty charm;

They keep a lover ever true,

And widowhood avert, and harm.

Buy them, and thou shalt never rue.

Just try them on!"—She stretched her hand.

"Oh, what a nice and lovely fit!

No fairer hand in all the land,

And lo! the bracelet matches it."

Dazzled, the peddler on her gazed,

Till came the shadow of a fear,

While she the bracelet-arm upraised

Against the sun to view more clear.

Oh, she was lovely! but her look

Had something of a high command

That filled with awe. Aside she shook

Intruding curls, by breezes fanned,

And blown across her brows and face,

And asked the price; which when she heard

She nodded, and with quiet grace

For payment to her home referred.

"And where, O maiden, is thy house?

But no,—that wrist-ring has a tongue;

No maiden art thou, but a spouse,

[Pg 5078]

Happy, and rich, and fair, and young."

"Far otherwise; my lord is poor,

And him at home thou shalt not find;

Ask for my father; at the door

Knock loudly; he is deaf, but kind.

Seest thou that lofty gilded spire,

Above these tufts of foliage green?

That is our place; its point of fire

Will guide thee o'er the tract between."

"That is the temple spire."—"Yes, there

We live; my father is the priest;

The manse is near, a building fair,

But lowly to the temple's east.

When thou hast knocked, and seen him, say,

His daughter, at Dhamaser Ghat,

Shell bracelets bought from thee to-day,

And he must pay so much for that.

Be sure, he will not let thee pass

Without the value, and a meal.

If he demur, or cry alas!

No money hath he,—then reveal;

"Within the small box, marked with streaks

Of bright vermilion, by the shrine,

The key whereof has lain for weeks

Untouched, he'll find some coin,—'tis mine.

That will enable him to pay

The bracelet's price. Now fare thee well!"

She spoke; the peddler went away,

Charmed with her voice as by some spell;

While she, left lonely there, prepared

To plunge into the water pure,

And like a rose, her beauty bared,

From all observance quite secure.

Not weak she seemed, nor delicate;

Strong was each limb of flexile grace,

And full the bust; the mien elate,

Like hers, the goddess of the chase

On Latmos hill,—and oh the face

Framed in its cloud of floating hair!

No painter's hand might hope to trace

The beauty and the glory there!

Well might the peddler look with awe,

For though her eyes were soft, a ray

Lit them at times, which kings who saw

Would never dare to disobey.

Onward through groves the peddler sped,

Till full in front, the sunlit spire

Arose before him. Paths which led

To gardens trim, in gay attire,

Lay all around. And lo! the manse,

Humble but neat, with open door!

He paused, and blessed the lucky chance

That brought his bark to such a shore.

Huge straw-ricks, log huts full of grain,

Sleek cattle, flowers, a tinkling bell,

Spoke in a language sweet and plain,

"Here smiling Peace and Plenty dwell."

Unconsciously he raised his cry,

"Shell-bracelets, ho!" And at his voice

Looked out the priest, with eager eye,

And made his heart at once rejoice.

[Pg 5079]

[Pg 5080]

"Ho, Sankha peddler! Pass not by,

But step thou in, and share the food

Just offered on our altar high,

If thou art in a hungry mood.

Welcome are all to this repast!

The rich and poor, the high and low!

Come, wash thy feet, and break thy fast;

Then on thy journey strengthened go."

"Oh, thanks, good priest! Observance due

And greetings! May thy name be blest!

I came on business, but I knew,

Here might be had both food and rest

Without a charge; for all the poor

Ten miles around thy sacred shrine

Know that thou keepest open door,

And praise that generous hand of thine.

But let my errand first be told:

For bracelets sold to thine this day,

So much thou owest me in gold;

Hast thou the ready cash to pay?

"The bracelets were enameled,—so

The price is high."—"How! Sold to mine?

Who bought them, I should like to know?"

"Thy daughter, with the large black eyne,

Now bathing at the marble ghat."

Loud laughed the priest at this reply,

"I shall not put up, friend, with that;

No daughter in the world have I;

An only son is all my stay;

Some minx has played a trick, no doubt:

But cheer up, let thy heart be gay,

Be sure that I shall find her out."

"Nay, nay, good father! such a face

Could not deceive, I must aver;

At all events, she knows thy place,

'And if my father should demur

To pay thee,'—thus she said,—'or cry

He has no money, tell him straight

The box vermilion-streaked to try,

That's near the shrined'"—"Well, wait, friend, wait!"

The priest said, thoughtful; and he ran

And with the open box came back:—

"Here is the price exact, my man,—

No surplus over, and no lack.

"How strange! how strange! Oh, blest art thou

To have beheld her, touched her hand,

Before whom Vishnu's self must bow,

And Brahma and his heavenly band!

Here have I worshiped her for years,

And never seen the vision bright;

Vigils and fasts and secret tears

Have almost quenched my outward sight;

And yet that dazzling form and face

I have not seen, and thou, dear friend,

To thee, unsought-for, comes the grace:

What may its purport be, and end?

"How strange! How strange! Oh, happy thou!

And couldst thou ask no other boon

Than thy poor bracelet's price? That brow

Resplendent as the autumn moon

Must have bewildered thee, I trow,

[Pg 5081]

And made thee lose thy senses all."

A dim light on the peddler now

Began to dawn; and he let fall

His bracelet-basket in his haste,

And backward ran, the way he came:

What meant the vision fair and chaste;

Whose eyes were they,—those eyes of flame?

Swift ran the peddler as a hind;

The old priest followed on his trace;

They reached the ghat, but could not find

The lady of the noble face.

The birds were silent in the wood;

The lotus flowers exhaled a smell,

Faint, over all the solitude;

A heron as a sentinel

Stood by the bank. They called,—in vain;

No answer came from hill or fell;

The landscape lay in slumber's chain;

E'en Echo slept within her shell.

Broad sunshine, yet a hush profound!

They turned with saddened hearts to go;

Then from afar there came a sound

Of silver bells;—the priest said low,

"O Mother, Mother, deign to hear,

The worship-hour has rung; we wait

In meek humility and fear.

Must we return home desolate?

Oh come, as late thou cam'st unsought,

Or was it but some idle dream?

Give us some sign, if it was not;

A word, a breath, or passing gleam."

Sudden from out the water sprung

A rounded arm, on which they saw

As high the lotus buds among

It rose, the bracelet white, with awe.

Then a wide ripple tost and swung

The blossoms on that liquid plain,

And lo! the arm so fair and young

Sank in the waters down again.

They bowed before the mystic Power,

And as they home returned in thought,

Each took from thence a lotus flower

In memory of the day and spot.

Years, centuries, have passed away,

And still before the temple shrine

Descendants of the peddler pay

Shell-bracelets of the old design

As annual tribute. Much they own

In lands and gold,—but they confess

From that eventful day alone

Dawned on their industry, success.

Absurd may be the tale I tell,

Ill-suited to the marching times;

I loved the lips from which it fell,

So let it stand among my rhymes.

OUR CASUARINA-TREE

Like a huge python, winding round and round

[Pg 5082]

J

The rugged trunk, indented deep with scars
Up to its very summit near the stars,

A creeper climbs, in whose embraces bound

No other tree could live. But gallantly

The giant wears the scarf, and flowers are hung
In crimson clusters all the boughs among,

Whereon all day are gathered bird and bee;

And oft at night the garden overflows
With one sweet song that seems to have no close,
Sung darkling from our tree, while men repose.

Unknown, yet well known to the eye of faith!

Ah, I have heard that wail far, far away
In distant lands, by many a sheltered bay,

When slumbered in his cave the water wraith,

And the waves gently kissed the classic shore

Of France or Italy, beneath the moon,
When earth lay trancèd in a dreamless swoon;

And every time the music rose, before

Mine inner vision rose a form sublime,
Thy form, O tree! as in my happy prime
I saw thee in my own loved native clime.

But not because of its magnificence

Dear is the Casuarina to my soul:
Beneath it we have played: though years may roll,

O sweet companions, loved with love intense,

For your sakes shall the tree be ever dear!

Blent with your images, it shall arise
In memory, till the hot tears blind mine eyes.

What is that dirge-like murmur that I hear

Like the sea breaking on a shingle beach?
It is the tree's lament, an eerie speech,
That haply to the Unknown Land may reach.

When first my casement is wide open thrown

At dawn, my eyes delighted on it rest;
Sometimes,—and most in winter,—on its crest

A gray baboon sits statue-like alone,

Watching the sunrise; while on lower boughs

His puny offspring leap about and play;
And far and near kokilas hail the day;

And to their pastures wend our sleepy cows;

And in the shadow, on the broad tank cast
By that hoar tree, so beautiful and vast,
The water-lilies spring, like snow enmassed.

JOHN S. DWIGHT

(1813-1893)

ohn Sullivan Dwight was born in Boston, Massachusetts, May 13th, 1813. After graduation at Harvard in

1832, he studied at the Divinity School, and for two years was pastor of a Unitarian church in
Northampton, Massachusetts. He then became interested in founding the famous Brook Farm
community, which furnished Hawthorne with the background for 'The Blithedale Romance'; and he is
mentioned in the preface to this book with Ripley, Dana, Channing, Parker, etc. This was a

"community" scheme, undertaken by joint ownership in a farm in West Roxbury near Boston; associated with the names
of Hawthorne, Emerson, George William Curtis, and C.A. Dana,—a scheme which Emerson called "a perpetual picnic,
a French Revolution in small, an age of reason in a patty-pan." This community existed seven years, and to quote again
from Emerson,—"In Brook Farm was this peculiarity, that there was no head. In every family is the father; in every
factory a foreman; in a shop a master; in a boat the skipper; but in this Farm no authority; each was master or mistress
of their actions; happy, hapless anarchists."

[Pg 5083]

[Pg 5084]

Here Mr. Dwight edited The Harbinger, a periodical published by that community; taught languages and music, besides
doing his share of the manual labor. In 1848 he returned to Boston and engaged in literature and musical criticism; and
in 1852 he established Dwight's Journal of Music, which he edited for thirty years. Many of his best essays appeared in
the Atlantic Monthly, and he contributed to various periodicals.

He was one of the pioneers of scholarly, intelligent, original, and literary musical criticism in America, and he possessed
fine general attainments and a distinct style. It is because of his clear perception of the indispensableness of the arts—
and especially of the art of music—to life, and because of his clear statement of their vital relationship, that his work
belongs to literature.

MUSIC AS A MEANS OF CULTURE

From the Atlantic Monthly, 1870, by permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company

We as a democratic people, a great mixed people of all races, overrunning a vast continent, need music even more than
others. We need some ever-present, ever-welcome influence that shall insensibly tone down our self-asserting and
aggressive manners, round off the sharp, offensive angularity of character, subdue and harmonize the free and ceaseless
conflict of opinions, warm out the genial individual humanity of each and every unit of society, lest he become a mere
member of a party, or a sharer of business or fashion. This rampant liberty will rush to its own ruin, unless there shall be
found some gentler, harmonizing, humanizing culture, such as may pervade whole masses with a fine enthusiasm, a
sweet sense of reverence for something far above us, beautiful and pure; awakening some ideality in every soul, and
often lifting us out of the hard hopeless prose of daily life. We need this beautiful corrective of our crudities. Our
radicalism will pull itself up by the roots, if it do not cultivate the instinct of reverence. The first impulse of freedom is
centrifugal,—to fly off the handle,—unless it be restrained by a no less free impassioned love of order. We need to be
so enamored of the divine idea of unity, that that alone—the enriching of that—shall be the real motive for assertion of
our individuality. What shall so temper and tone down our "fierce democracy"? It must be something better, lovelier,
more congenial to human nature than mere stern prohibition, cold Puritanic "Thou shalt not!" What can so quickly
magnetize a people into this harmonic mood as music? Have we not seen it, felt it?

The hard-working, jaded millions need expansion, need the rejuvenating, the ennobling experience of joy. Their toil,
their church, their creed perhaps, their party livery, and very vote, are narrowing; they need to taste, to breathe a larger,
freer life. Has it not come to thousands, while they have listened to or joined their voices in some thrilling chorus that
made the heavens seem to open and come down? The governments of the Old World do much to make the people
cheerful and contented; here it is all laissez-faire, each for himself, in an ever keener strife of competition. We must
look very much to music to do this good work for us; we are open to that appeal; we can forget ourselves in that; we
blend in joyous fellowship when we can sing together; perhaps quite as much so when we can listen together to a noble
orchestra of instruments interpreting the highest inspirations of a master. The higher and purer the character and kind of
music, the more of real genius there is in it, the deeper will this influence be.

Judge of what can be done, by what already, within our own experience, has been done and daily is done. Think what
the children in our schools are getting, through the little that they learn of vocal music,—elasticity of spirit, joy in
harmonious co-operation, in the blending of each happy life in others; a rhythmical instinct of order and of measure in all
movement; a quickening of ear and sense, whereby they will grow up susceptible to music, as well as with some use of
their own voices, so that they may take part in it; for from these spacious nurseries (loveliest flower gardens, apple
orchards in full bloom, say, on their annual fête days) shall our future choirs and oratorio choruses be replenished with
good sound material....

We esteem ourselves the freest people on this planet; yet perhaps we have as little real freedom as any other, for we
are the slaves of our own feverish enterprise, and of a barren theory of discipline, which would fain make us virtuous to
a fault through abstinence from very life. We are afraid to give ourselves up to the free and happy instincts of our nature.
All that is not pursuit of advancement in some good, conventional, approved way of business, or politics, or fashion, or
intellectual reputation, or professed religion, we count waste. We lack geniality; nor do we as a people understand the
meaning of the word. We ought to learn it practically of our Germans. It comes of the same root with the word genius.
Genius is the spontaneous principle; it is free and happy in its work; it is artist and not drudge; its whole activity is
reconciliation of the heartiest pleasure with the purest loyalty to conscience, with the most holy, universal, and
disinterested ends. Genius, as Beethoven gloriously illustrates in his Choral Symphony (indeed, in all his symphonies),
finds the keynote and solution of the problem of the highest state in "Joy," taking his text from Schiller's Hymn. Now, all
may not be geniuses in the sense that we call Shakespeare, Mozart, Raphael, men of genius. But all should be partakers
of this spontaneous, free, and happy method of genius; all should live childlike, genial lives, and not wear all the time the
consequential livery of their unrelaxing business, nor the badge of party and profession, in every line and feature of their
faces. This genial, childlike faculty of social enjoyment, this happy art of life, is just what our countrymen may learn from
the social "Liedertafel" and the summer singing-festivals of which the Germans are so fond. There is no element of
national character which we so much need; and there is no class of citizens whom we should be more glad to adopt and
own than those who set us such examples. So far as it is a matter of culture, it is through art chiefly that the desiderated

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genial era must be ushered in. The Germans have the sentiment of art, the feeling of the beautiful in art, and consequently
in nature, more developed than we have. Above all, music offers itself as the most available, most popular, most
influential of the fine arts,—music, which is the art and language of the feelings, the sentiments, the spiritual instincts of
the soul; and so becomes a universal language, tending to unite and blend and harmonize all who may come within its
sphere.

Such civilizing, educating power has music for society at large. Now, in the finer sense of culture, such as we look for in
more private and select "society," as it is called, music in the salon, in the small chamber concert, where congenial spirits
are assembled in its name—good music of course—does it not create a finer sphere of social sympathy and courtesy?
Does it not better mold the tone and manners from within than any imitative "fashion" from without? What society, upon
the whole, is quite so sweet, so satisfactory, so refined, as the best musical society, if only Mozart, Mendelssohn, Franz,
Chopin, set the tone! The finer the kind of music heard or made together, the better the society. This bond of union only
reaches the few; coarser, meaner, more prosaic natures are not drawn to it. Wealth and fashion may not dictate who
shall be of it. Here congenial spirits meet in a way at once free, happy, and instructive, meet with an object which
insures "society"; whereas so-called society, as such, is often aimless, vague, modifying and fatiguing, for the want of
any subject-matter. Here one gets ideas of beauty which are not mere arbitrary fashions, ugly often to the eye of taste.
Here you may escape vulgarity by a way not vulgar in itself, like that of fashion, which makes wealth and family and
means of dress its passports. Here you can be as exclusive as you please, by the soul's light, not wronging any one; here
learn gentle manners, and the quiet ease and courtesy with which cultivated people move, without in the same process
learning insincerity.

Of course the same remarks apply to similar sincere reunions in the name of any other art, or of poetry. But music is the
most social of them all, even if each listener find nothing set down to his part (or even hers!) but tacet.

We have fancied ourselves entertaining a musical house together, but we must leave it with no time to make report or
picture out the scene. Now, could we only enter the chamber, the inner sanctum, the private inner life of a thoroughly
musical person, one who is wont to live in music! Could we know him in his solitude! (You can only know him in
yourself, unless he be a poet and creator in his art, and bequeath himself in that form in his works for any who know
how to read.) If the best of all society is musical society, we go further and say: The sweetest of all solitude is when one
is alone with music. One gets the best of music, the sincerest part, when he is alone. Our poet-philosopher has told us
to secure solitude at any cost; there's nothing which we can so ill afford to do without. It is a great vice of our society,
that it provides for and disposes to so little solitude, ignoring the fact that there is more loneliness in company than out of
it. Now, to a musical person, in the mood of it, in the sweet hours by himself, comes music as the nearest friend, nearer
and dearer than ever before; and he soon finds that he never was in such good company. I doubt if symphony of
Beethoven, opera of Mozart, Passion Music of Bach, was ever so enjoyed or felt in grandest public rendering, as one
may feel it while he recalls its outline by himself at his piano (even if he be a slow and bungling reader and may get it out
by piecemeal). I doubt if such an one can carry home from the performance, in presence of the applauding crowd,
nearly so much as he may take to it from such inward, private preparation.

Are you alone? What spirits can you summon up to fill the vacancy, and people it with life and love and beauty! Take
down the volume of sonatas, the arrangement of the great Symphony, the recorded reveries of Chopin, the songs of
Schubert, Schumann, Franz, or even the chorals, with the harmony of Bach, in which the four parts blend their several
individual melodies together in such loving service of the whole, that the plain people's tune becomes a germ unfolding
into endless wealth and beauty of meaning; and you have the very essence of all prayer, and praise, and gratitude, as if
you were a worshiper in the ideal church. Nothing like music, then, to banish the benumbing ghost of ennui. It lends
secret sympathy, relief, expression, to all one's moods, loves, longings, sorrows; comes nearer to the soul or to the
secret wound than any friend or healing sunshine from without. It nourishes and feeds the hidden springs of hope and
love and faith; renews the old conviction of life's springtime,—that the world is ruled by love, that God is good, that
beauty is a divine end of life, and not a snare and an illusion. It floods out of sight the unsightly, muddy grounds of life's
petty, anxious, doubting moments, and makes immortality a present fact, lived in and realized. It locks the door against
the outer world of discords, contradictions, importunities, beneath the notice of a soul so richly occupied: lets "Fate
knock at the door" (as Beethoven said in explanation of his symphony),—Fate and the pursuing Furies,—and even
welcomes them, and turns them into gracious goddesses,—Eumenides! Music, in this way, is a marvelous elixir to keep
off old age. Youth returns in solitary hours with Beethoven and Mozart. Touching the chords of the 'Moonlight Sonata,'
the old man is once more a lover; with the andante of the 'Pastoral Symphony' he loiters by the shady brookside, hand
in hand with his fresh heart's first angel. You are past the sentimental age, yet you can weep alone in music,—not weep
exactly, but find outlet more expressive and more worthy of your manly faith.

A great grief comes, an inconsolable bereavement, a humiliating, paralyzing reverse, a blow of Fate, giving the lie to
your best plans and bringing your best powers into discredit with yourself; then you are best prepared and best entitled
to receive the secret visitations of these tuneful goddesses and muses.

"Who never ate his bread in tears,
He knows you not, ye heavenly powers!"

So sings the German poet. It is the want of inward, deep experience, it is innocence of sorrow and of trial, more than
the lack of any special cultivation of musical taste and knowledge, that debars many people—naturally most young

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people, and all who are what we call shallow natures—from the feeling and enjoyment of many of the truest, deepest,
and most heavenly of all the works of music. Take the Passion Music of Bach, for instance; if you can sit down alone at
your piano and decipher strains and pieces of it when you need such music, you shall find that in its quiet quaintness, its
sincerity and tenderness, its abstinence from all striving for effect, it speaks to you and entwines itself about your heart,
like the sweetest, deepest verses in the Bible; when "the soul muses till the fire burns."

Such a panacea is this art for loneliness. But sometimes too it may intensify the sense of loneliness, only for more
heavenly relief at last. Think of the deep composer, of lonely, sad Beethoven, wreaking his pain upon expression in
those impatient chords and modulations, putting his sorrows into sonatas, and wringing triumph always out of all! Look
at him as he was then,—morose, they say, and lonely and tormented; look where he is now, as the whole world knows
him, feels him, seeks him for its joy and inspiration—and who can doubt of immortality?

Now, in such private solace, in such solitary joys, is there not culture? Can one rise from such communings with the
good spirits of the tone-world and go out, without new peace, new faith, new hope, and good-will in his soul? He goes
forth in the spirit of reconciliation and of patience, however much he may hate the wrong he sees about him, or however
little he accept authorities and creeds that make war on his freedom. The man who has tasted such life, and courted it till
he has become acclimated in it, whether he be of this party or that, or none at all; whether he be believer or "heretic,"
conservative or radical, follower of Christ by name or "Free Religionist,"—belongs to the harmonic and anointed body-
guard of peace, fraternity, good-will; his instincts have all caught the rhythm of that holy march; the good genius leads,
he has but to follow cheerfully and humbly. For somehow the minutest fibres, the infinitesimal atoms of his being, have
got magnetized as it were into a loyal, positive direction towards the pole-star of unity; he has grown attuned to a
believing, loving mood, just as the body of a violin, the walls of a music hall, by much music-making become gradually
seasoned into smooth vibration.

GEORG EBERS.

GEORG EBERS.

GEORG MORITZ EBERS

(1837-)

eorg Ebers, distinguished as an Egyptian archaeologist and as a historical novelist, was born in Berlin in 1837. At ten years

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G
of age he was sent to school in Keilhau, where under the direction of Froebel he was taught the delights
of nature and the pleasure of study. His university career at Göttingen was interrupted by a long and
serious illness. During his convalescence he pursued with avidity his study of Egyptian archæology, and
with neither dictionary nor grammar to help him in the mastery of hieroglyphics, he acquired to some
degree this ancient language. Later, under the learned Lepsius, he became a thorough and brilliant

scholar in the science which is his specialty. It was at this epoch that he wrote 'An Egyptian Princess,' for the purpose of
realizing to himself a period which he was studying. Thirteen years later his second work, 'Uarda' was published. When
restored to health, he launched himself with enthusiasm on the life of a university professor. He taught for a time at Jena,
and in 1870 removed to Leipsic. He has made several journeys into Egypt, sharing his experiences with the public.

'The Egyptian Princess' is Ebers's most representative romance. It is perhaps the subtle quality of popularity, rather than
exceptional merit, which has insured its success. The scene of the story is laid at the time when Egypt drew its last free
breath, unconscious that at the very height of its intellectual vigor its national life was to be cut off; the time when Amasis
held the throne of the Pharaohs, and Cambyses was king of Persia. 'Uarda' gives a picture of Egypt under one of the
Rameses. 'Homo Sum,' a tale of the desert anchorites in the fourth century, is filled with the spirit of the early Christians.
In the story of 'Die Schwestern' (The Sisters) Ebers takes the reader to Memphis, the temple of Serapis, and the palace
of the Ptolemies. The ethical element enters largely into the novel 'Der Kaiser' (The Emperor), of Christianity in the time
of Hadrian.

In the 'Frau Bürgermeisterin' (The Burgomaster's Wife), Ebers leaves behind him the world of antiquity, and deals with
the heroic struggle against the Spanish rule made in 1547 by the city of Leyden. 'Gred,' a long and quiet novel, most
carefully executed, is a minute picture of middle-class Nürnberg, some centuries ago. 'Ein Wort' (A Word: Only a
Word) also stands apart from the historical romances. It is a psychological and ethical story, working out the
development of inconspicuous character. Both in 'Serapis' and 'The Bride of the Nile,' the victory of Christianity over
heathenism is celebrated. Not less interesting than his fiction is his book of travels called 'Durch Gosen zum Sinai'
(Through Goshen to Sinai). In 1889, on account of his health, Ebers resigned his professorship. He now passes his
winters in Munich, where his life is that of a scholar and a writer.

THE ARRIVAL AT BABYLON

From 'An Egyptian Princess'

Seven weeks later, a long line of chariots and riders of every description wound along the great highway that led from
the west to Babylon, the gigantic city which could be seen from a long distance.

Nitetis, the Egyptian princess, sat in a gilt four-wheeled chariot, called a "Harmamaxa." The cushions were covered with
gold brocade; the roof was supported by wooden columns; its sides could be closed by means of curtains.

Her companions, the Persian nobles, the dethroned King of Lydia and his son, rode by the side of her chariot. Fifty
carriages and six hundred sumpter-horses followed, and a regiment of Persian soldiers on splendid horses preceded the
procession.

The road lay along the Euphrates, through luxuriant fields of wheat, barley, and sesame, which yielded two or even
three hundredfold. Slender date-palms, with heavy clusters of fruit, stood in the fields, which were intersected in all
directions by canals and conduits. Although it was winter, the sun shone warm and clear in the cloudless sky. The
mighty river was crowded with barges and boats, which brought the produce of the Armenian highlands to the
Mesopotamian plain, and forwarded to Babylon the greater part of the wares which were brought to Thapsacus from
Greece.

Engines, pumps, and water-wheels poured refreshing moisture on the fields and plantations along the banks, which were
dotted with numerous villages. Everything indicated that the capital of a civilized and well-governed country was close at
hand.

The carriage and suite of Nitetis stopped before a long building of brick covered with bitumen, by the side of which
grew numerous plane-trees. Croesus was helped from his horse, approached the carriage of the Egyptian princess, and
cried to her:—"We have reached the last station-house. The high tower that stands out against the horizon is the famous
tower of Bel, like your Pyramids one of the greatest achievements of mortal hands. Before the sun sets we shall reach
the brazen gates of Babylon. Permit me to help you from the carriage, and to send your women to you into the house.
To-day you must dress yourself according to the custom of Persian queens, so that you may be pleasant in the eyes of
Cambyses. In a few hours you will stand before your husband. How pale you are! See that your women skillfully paint
joyous excitement on your cheeks. The first impression is often decisive, and this is the case with your future husband,
more than with any one else. If, as I do not doubt, you please him at first sight, you have won his heart forever. If you
displease him, he will, in accordance with his rough habits, scarcely deign to look on you again with kindness. Courage,
my daughter. Above all things, remember what I have taught you."

Nitetis wiped away a tear, and returned:—"How shall I thank you for all your kindness, Croesus, my second father, my

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