Read Ebook: Library of the World's Best Literature Ancient and Modern — Volume 13 by Mabie Hamilton Wright Editor Runkle Lucia Isabella Gilbert Editor Warner Charles Dudley Editor Warner George H Editor

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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

JOS? 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 The Lay of Thrym Of the Lamentation of Gudrun over Sigurd Dead: First Lay of Gudrun Waking of Brunhilde on the Hindfell by Sigurd

ALFRED EDERSHEIM 1825-1889 5145 The Washing of Hands

MARIA EDGEWORTH 1767-1849 5151 Sir Condy's Wake Sir Murtagh Rackrent and His Lady

ANNE CHARLOTTE LEFFLER EDGREN 1849-1893 5162 Open Sesame A Ball in High Life

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 The Notion of Action and Agency Entertained by Mr. Chubb and Others Excellency of Christ Essence of True Virtue

GEORGES EEKHOUD 1854- 5189 Ex-Voto Kors Davie

EDWARD EGGLESTON 1837- 5215 Roger Williams, the Prophet of Religious Freedom

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 Village Worthies The Hall Farm Mrs. Poyser "Has Her Say Out" The Prisoners "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

PAGE Gothic Bible of Ulfilas Colored Plate Frontispiece Georg Ebers 5091 "Babylonian Marriage Market" 5098 Egyptian Hieroglyphic Writing 5226 "The Sphynx" 5260 "Egyptian Funeral Feast" 5290 "Uncial Greek Writing" 5338 George Eliot 5359 Ralph Waldo Emerson 5421 "Concord Battle Monument" 5466

VIGNETTE PORTRAITS

John S. Dwight Jonathan Edwards Maria Edgeworth Edward Eggleston

TORU DUTT

In 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 Jos?phin Soulary, and a series of English translations of poetry, were the fruit of her labor. The translations, including specimens from B?ranger, Th?ophile Gautier, Fran?ois Copp?e, 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!" 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, 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."

"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, 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 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 tranc?d 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.

JOHN S. DWIGHT

John 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."

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

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