Puslapio vaizdai

the Maharaj, through her tears, for the myste- in Kate's ear. “ There is local holy man in rious death of Moti. One thing only seemed ab- the courtyard, and he is agitating their minds. solutely clear to her, when she rose red-eyed Also, I myself feel much indisposed.” and unrefreshed the next morning: her work “ But what does all this mean?" demanded was with the women as long as life remained, Kate again. and the sole refuge for her present trouble was For the hospital was in the hands of a hurin the portion of that work which lay nearest to rying crowd, who were strapping up bedding her hand. Meanwhile the man who loved her and cooking-pots, lamps and linen, calling to remained in Gokral Seetarun, in deadly peril one another up and down the staircases in subof his life, that he might be within call of her; dued voices, and bringing the sick from the and she could not call him, for to summon him upper wards as ants bring eggs out of a broken was to yield, and she dared not.

hill, six or eight to each man — some holding She took her way to the hospital. The dread bunches of marigold flowers in their hands, and for him that had assailed her yesterday had be- pausing to mutter prayers at each step, others come a horror that would not let her think. peering fearfully into the dispensary, and yet

The woman of the desert was waiting as others drawing water from the well and pourusual at the foot of the steps, her hands clasped ing it out around the beds. over her knee, and her face veiled. Behind In the center of the courtyard, as naked as her was Dhunpat Rai, who should have been the lunatic who had once lived there, sat an among the wards; and she could see that the ash-smeared, long-haired, eagle-taloned, halfcourtyard was filled with people — strangers mad, wandering native priest, and waved above and visitors, who, by her new regulations, were his head his buckhorn staff, sharp as a lance allowed to come only once a week. This was at one end, while he chanted in a loud, monotnot their visiting-day, and Kate, strained and onous voice some song that drove the men and worn by all that she had passed through since women to work more quickly. the day before, felt an angry impulse in her heart As Kate faced him, white with wrath, her go out against them, and spoke wrathfully. eyes blazing, the song turned to a yelp of fierce

“What is the meaning of this, Dhunpat hatred. Rai?" she demanded, alighting.

She dashed among the women swiftly — her “ There is commotion of popular bigotry own women, whom she thought had grown to within,” said Dhunpat Rai. “It is nothing. I love her. But their relatives were about them, have seen it before. Only do not go in.” and Kate was thrust back by a bare-shouldered,

She put him aside without a word, and was loud-voiced dweller of the out-villages in the about to enter when she met one of her pa- heart of the desert. tients, a man in the last stage of typhoid fever, The man had no intention of doing her being borne out by half a dozen clamoring harm, but the woman of the desert slashed him friends, who shouted at her menacingly. The across the face with her knife, and he withdrew woman of the desert was at her side in an in- howling. stant, raising her hand, in the brown hollow of “Let me speak to them,” said Kate, and which lay a long, broad-bladed knife. the woman beside her quelled the clamor of

“ Be still, dogs!” she shouted in their own the crowd with uplifted hands. Only the priest tongue. “ Dare not to lay hands on this peri, continued his song. Kate strode toward him, who has done all for you!"

her little figure erect and quivering, crying in " She is killing our people!” shouted a vil- the vernacular, “ Be silent, thou, or I will find lager.

means to close thy mouth!” ** Maybe," said the woman, with a flashing The man was hushed, and Kate, returning smile; "but I know who will belying here dead to her women, stood among them, and began if you do not suffer her to pass. Are you Raj- to speak impassionedly. puts; or Bhils from the hills, hunters of fish and “O my women, what have I done ? " she diggers after grubs, that you run like cattle cried, still in the vernacular.

If there is any because a lying priest from nowhere troubles fault here, who should right it but your friend ? vour heads of mud? Is she killing your peo- Surely you can speak to me day or night.” ple? How long can you keep that man alive She threw out her arms. Sunlo, hamarre with your charms and your muntras !” she de- bhain-log! Listen, my sisters! Have you gone manded, pointing to the stricken form on the mad, that you wish to go abroad now, half

tretcher. "Out-go out! Is this hospital your cured, sick, or dying? You are free to go at own village to defile? Have you paid one penny any hour. Only, for your own sake, and for for the roof above you or the drugs in your the sake of your children, do not go before I bellies? Get hence before I spit upon you !” have cured you, if God so please. It is sumShe brushed them aside with a regal gesture. mer in the desert now, and many of you have

** It is best not to go in,” said Dhunpat Rai come from many coss distant.”


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“She speaks truth, she speaks truth,” said Kate picked up the plaster, smiling. a voice in the crowd.

“And who says there is devil's work in this ?" Ay, I do speak truth. And I have dealt she demanded. fairly by ye. Surely it is upon your heads to “ The holy man, the priest. Surely he should tell me the cause of this flight, and not to run know.” away like mice. My sisters, ye are weak and Nay, ye should know," said Kate, patiently. ill, and your friends do not know what is best She understood now, and could pity. “ Ye have for ye. But I know."

worn it. Did it work thee any harm, Pithira ? " Arre! But what can we do?” cried a She pointed directly toward her. “ Thou hast feeble voice. “It is no fault of ours. I, at thanked me not once but many times for givleast, would fain die in peace, but the priesting thee relief through this charm. If it was the says"

devil's work, why did it not consume thee ? " Then the clamor broke out afresh. “There “Indeed, it burnt very much indeed,” reare charms written upon the plasters — ” sponded the woman, with a nervous laugh.

“Why should we become Christians against Kate could not help laughing. “That is true. our will? The wise woman that was sent away I cannot make my drugs pleasant. But ye know asks it."

that they do good. What do these people, your “What are the meanings of the red marks friends — villagers, camel-drivers, goatherds on the plasters ?”

know of English drugs? Are they so wise “Why should we have strange devil-marks among their hills, or is the priest so wise, that stamped upon our bodies ? And they burn, they can judge for ye here, fifty miles away too, like the fires of hell.”

from them? Do not listen! Oh, do not listen ! “The priest came yesterday, - that holy man Tell them that ye will stay with me, and I will yonder,— and he said it had been revealed to make ye well. I can do no more. It was for him, sitting among the hills, that this devil's plan that I came. I heard of your misery ten thouwas on foot to make us lose our religion — sand miles away, and it burnt into my heart.

“And to send us out of the hospital with Would I have come so far to work you harm? marks upon our bodies — ay, and all the babies Go back to your beds, my sisters, and bid these we should bear in the hospital should have tails foolish people depart.” like camels, and ears like mules. The wise There was a murmur among the women, as woman says so; the priest says so.” if of assent and doubt. For a moment the de

“ Hush! hush !” cried Kate, in the face of cision swayed one way and the other. these various words. “What plasters ? What Then the man whose face had been slashed child's talk is this of plasters and devils? Not shouted, “What is the use of talking ? Let us one child but many have been born here, and take our wives and sisters away. We do not all were comely. Ye know it! This is the word wish to have sons like devils. Give us your of the worthless woman whom I sent away voice, O father!” he cried to the priest. because she was torturing you."

The holy man drew himself up, and swept “Nay; but the priest said

away Kate's appeal with a torrent of abuse, im“What care I for the priest ? Has he nursed precation, and threats of damnation; and the

I you ? Has he watched by you of nights? Has crowd began to slip past Kate by twos and he sat by your bedside, and smoothed your threes, half carrying and half forcing their kinspillow, and held your hand in pain? Has he folk with them. taken your children from you and put them to Kate called on the women by name, besleep, when he needed an hour's rest ?” seeching them to stay, reasoning, arguing, ex

“ He is a holy man. He has worked mira- postulating. But to no purpose. Many of them cles. We dare not face the anger of the gods.” were in tears; but the answer from all was the

One woman, bolder than the rest, shouted, same. They were sorry, but they were only “Look at this !” and held before Kate's face poor women, and they feared the wrath of their one of the prepared mustard-leaves lately or- husbands. dered from Calcutta, which bore upon the back, Minute after minute the wards were depopuin red ink, the maker's name and trade-mark. lated of their occupants, as the priest resumed

“What is this devil's thing?" demanded the his song, and began to dance frenziedly in the woman, fiercely.

courtyard. The stream of colors broke out The woman of the desert caught her by the down the steps into the street, and Kate saw shoulder and forced her to her knees. the last of her carefully swathed women borne

"Be still, woman without a nose!” she cried, out into the pitiless sun-glare — only the woman her voice vibrating with passion. “She is not of the desert remaining by her side. of thy clay, and thy touch would defile her. Re- Kate looked on with stony eyes. Her hosmember thine own dunghill, and speak softly." pital was empty.

(To be continued.)



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HE difficulty that con- characteristics of the field, we see that there fronts one who enters are, at all events, two streams into which its upon a general dis- vast galaxy is divided — though they intersect cussion of poetry is its each other again and again, and in modern universal range. The times seem almost blended. These do not reportals of his observa- late to the technical classification of poetry: tory tower before him, to its partition by the ancients into the epic, flashing yet frowning, dramatic, lyric, and the idyllic — unto which and inscribed with we have added the reflective, and have merged

great names of all the them all in the composite structures of modern ages. Mount its stairway, and a chart of the art. Time has shown that we cannot overrate field disclosed is indeed like that of the firma- the method of those intuitive pagans. No one ment. In what direction shall we first turn ? cares for Wordsworth's division of his own To the infinite dome at large, or toward some verse into poems of imagination, of fancy, and particular star or group? We think of inspi- the like, the truth being that they all, with the ration, and a Hebrew seer glows in the pro- exception of a few spontaneous lyrics, are phetic East; of gnomic wisdom and thought, poems of reflection, often glorified by the imand many fixed white stars shine tranquilly agination, sometimes lightened by fancy, but along the equinox, from Lucretius to Emer- of whose predominant spirit their author was son; of tragedy and comedy, the dramatic apparently the least successful judge. The coil and mystery of life, and group after group Greeks felt that the spirit shapes the form invite the lens — for us, most of all, that Eng- of art, and therefore is revealed by it. Aslish constellation blazing since “ the spacious sume, then, the fitness of poetic orders, styles, times of great Elizabeth ”; of beauty, and the and measures; that these are known to you long train of poetic artists, with Keats like his and me, and thus we may leave dactyls and own new planet among them, swims into our choriambs to the metrical anatomists, and ken. Asia is somewhere beyond the horizon, rhymes to the Walkers and Barnums. Passand in view are countless minor lights

— the ing to the more essential divisions of expresfolk-singers and minstrels of many lands and sion, you will find their types are defined by generations.

the amount of personality which they respecThe future lecturer will have the satisfaction tively hold in solution; that poetry is differof giving his attention to a single master or entiated by the Me and the Not Me— by the school — to the Greek dramatists, to Dante, poet's self-consciousness, or by the representaor Milton, or Goethe; more than one will tion of life and thought apart from his own expend his resources upon the mimic world individuality. of Shakspere, yet leave as much for his suc- That which is impersonal, and so very great cessors to accomplish as there was before. at its best, appears the more creative as being Their privilege I do not assume; since these a statement of things discerned by free and initiatory discourses have to do with the ele- absolute vision. The other order is so affected ments of which poetry is all compact, and with by relations with the maker's traits and tastes the spirit in fealty to which its orbs shine, and that it betokens a relative and conditioned have their being, and rehearse the burthen of imagination; and is thus by far the larger their radiant progress :

division, since in most periods it is inevita

ble that the chief impulse to song should be a Beneath this starry arch

conscious or unconscious longing for personal Nought resteth or is still : But all things hold their march,

expression. As if by one great will: Moves one, move all: hark to the footfall! The gift of unconditioned vision has been On, on, forever!

vouchsafed both to the primitive world, and to

races at their height of action and invention. Still, I wish in some way to review this pro- The objective masterpieces of poetry consist, gress of poesy. Essaying then, for the little first, of those whose origin is obscure, and which that can be done, to look first at the broad are so naturally inwrought with history and



popular traits that they seem growths rather lock were looked upon as rather mild and exthan works of art. Such are the Indian epics, emplary modes of criticism. the Northern sagas, the early ballads of all Now, in distinction from unsophisticated and nations, and of course the Homeric poems of creative song, comes the voice of the poet abGreece. These are the lusty product of the sorbed in his own emotions and dependent on youth of mankind, the song and story that come self-analysis for his knowledge of life. Here is when life is unjaded, faith unsophisticated, and your typical modern minor poet. But here also human nature still in voice with universal Pan. are some of the truest“bards of passion and of The less spontaneous but equally vital types pain " that the world has known. Again, there are the fruit of later and constructive periods are those who are free from the Parnassian ego

—“golden” ages, whose masterpieces are ism, but whose manner is so pronounced that composed with artistic design and still un- every word they utter bears its author's stamp: wearied genius. Whether epic or dramatic, their tone and style are unmistakable. Finally, and whether traditional or the product of many are confined implacably to certain limits. schools and nations in their prime, the signifi- One cares for beauty alone, an artist pure and cance of objective poetry lies in its present- simple; another is a balladist; a third is gifted ment of the world outside, and not of the with philosophic insight of nature; still another microcosm within the poet's self. His ideal has a genius for the psychological analysis of mood is that of the Chinese sage, from whose life. Each of these appears to less advantage wisdom, now twenty-six centuries old, the ar- outside his natural range. The vision of all tist La Farge, himself imbued with the spirit these classes is conditioned. of the “ most eastern East," has cited for me An obvious limitation of the speechless arts these phrases: “I am become as a quiet water, is that they can be termed subjective only with or a mirror reflecting what may be. It keeps respect to motive and style. We have the natnothing, it refuses nothing. What it reflects is ural landscapist, and the figure-painter, while there, but I do not keep it: it is not I.” And nearly all good painters, sculptors, architects, again: “ One should be as a vacuum, so to be musicians, are recognizable, as you know, by filled by the universe. Then the universe will their respective styles, but otherwise all arts, fill me, and pour out again.” Which dark say- save those of language, are relatively impering I interpret here as an emblem of the re- sonal and objective. ceptivity of the artist to life at large. This it The highest faculties of vision and execution is his function to give out again, illumined, are required to design an absolutely objective but unadulterate. The story is told, the song poem, and to insure its greatness. There is no chanted, the drama constructed, with the sim- middle ground; it is great, or else a dull and plest of understandings between audience and perfunctory mechanism. The force of the hemaker: as between children at their play, ar- roic epics, whose authorship is in the crypt of tisans at their handicraft, recounter and hear- the past, seems to be not that of a single soul ers around the desert fire. Every literature has but of a people; not that of a generation, but more or less of this free, absolute poetry. But of a round of eras. Yet the final determination only in the drama, and at distinctively imagi- of poetic utterance is toward self-expression. native periods, have poets of the Christian era The minstrel's soul uses for its medium that been quite objective; not even there and then, slave of imaginative feeling, language. It is a without in most cases having “unlocked" their voice — a voice — and the emotion of its poshearts by expression of personal feeling. This sessor will not be denied. The poet is the Mariprocess — exemplified in the sonnets of Shak- ner, whose heart burns within him until his tale spere, and in the minor works of Dante, Tasso, is told: Cervantes, Calderon, Camoëns - rarely suggested itself to the antique poets, whose verses

I pass, like night, from land to land;

I have strange power of speech; were composed for the immediate verdict of

That moment that his face I see, audiences great or small, and in the Attic I know the man that must hear me: period distinctly as works of art: necessarily To him my tale I teach. universal, and not introspective. Nor would much self-intrusion then have been tolerated. Races themselves have a bent toward one Imagine the Homeric laughter of an Athenian of the two generic types, so that with one naconclave, every man of them with something tion or people the creative poet is the exception, of Aristophanes in him, at being summoned to and with another the rule. The Asiatic inspilisten to the sonnetary sorrows of a blighted ration, even in its narrative reliquiæ, is more lover! There were few Werthers in those days. subjectively vague than that which we call the Bad poets, and bores of all sorts, were not likely antique — that of the Hellenes. But the exto flourish in a society where ostracism, the treme Eastern field requires special study, and custody of the Eleven, and the draught of hem- is beyond the limits of this course, so that I will only confess my belief that much of our prophet or chieftain as to the pride and rapture fashionable adaptation of Hindu, Chinese, Jap- of his people, with that which is personal and anese literature represents more honestly the relative, any more than I would count the ethics and poetic spirit of its western students winged Pindar in his splendid national odes, than the Oriental feeling and conceptions; that or even his patriotic Grecian followers, as it is a latter-day illumination of Brahmanic eso- strictly subjective, however lyrical and impasterics rather than the absolute Light of Asia, sioned. Such bards are trumpet-tongued with - whether better or worse, not a veritable the exaltation of their time and country: they transfer, but the ideal of Christendom grafted speak not of themselves, but for their people. on the Buddhist stock. It is doubtful, in fact, To the burning imagination of Moses and the whether the Buddhists themselves fully compre- prophets, and to the rhythmical eloquence of hend their own antiquities; and if our learned the Grecian celebrants, I may refer when noting virtuosos, from Voltaire and Sir William Jones the quality of inspiration. I think the national to Sir Edwin Arnold, fail to do so, they never- and religious utterance of the Hebrews even theless have found the material for a good deal more characteristic than their personal outgivof interesting verse. It will be a real exploit ings; they were carried out of and above themwhen some one does for the Buddhist epos and selves when moved to song. But there is no legendary what John Payne and Captain Bur- more wonderful poetry of the emotional order ton have done for the Arabic "Thousand than the psalms of David and his compeers Nights and One Night.” Then we shall at least relating to their own trials and agonies, their know those literatures as they are; nor will it loves and hates and adoration. As we agobe strange if they prove to be, in some wise, nize and triumph with a supreme lyrical nature, as much superior to our conception of them as its egoism becomes holy and sublime. The Payne's rendering of the “Arabian Nights" is stress of human feeling is intense in such poetry to that of Galland, or as Butcher and Lang's as that of the sixth Psalm, where the lyrist is prose translation of Homer is to Lord Derby's weary with groaning, and waters the couch with verse. Of such a paraphrase as Fitzgerald's his tears, exclaiming, “But thou, O Lord, how “Rubaiyát of Omar Khayyam,” one at once de- long? ” and that of the thirteenth, when he clares, in Landor's phrase, that it is more ori- laments: “How long wilt thou forget me, O ginal than the originals: the western genius in Lord ? Forever ?” and in successive personal this instance has produced an abiding poem, psalms wherein the singer, whether David or unique in its interfusion of the Persian and the another, avows his trust in the Deity, praying neo-English dispositions.

above all to overcome his enemies and to have But with Hebrew poetry, that of the Bible, his greatness increased. These petitions, of we have more to do, since we derive very course, do not reach the lyrical splendor of the closely from it. There is no literature at once psalms of praise and worship: “ The heavens so grand and so familiar to us. Its inherent, declare the glory of God," “ The earth is the racial genius was emotional and therefore lyri- Lord's and the fullness thereof;” and those of cal (though I am not with those who deem all Moses — “He that dwelleth in the secret place lyrical poetry subjective), and a genius of so of the Most High,” and its immediate sucfiery and prophetic a cast that its personal out- cessors. But the Hebrew, in those strains where bursts have a loftiness beyond those of any he communes with God alone, other protecother literature. The Hebrew was, and the or- tors having failed him, is at the climax of emothodox Israelite remains, a magnificent egoist. tional song. Himself, his past, and his future, are a passion. Modern self-expression is not so direct and But — and this is what redeems his egoism - simple. We doubt the passion of one who wears they are not his deepest passion; he has an his heart upon his sleeve. The naïveté of the intenser emotion concerning his own race, the Davidic lyre is beyond question, and so is the chosen people, a more fervent devotion to superb unrestraint of the Hebrew prophecy Jehovah — his own Jehovah, if not the God and pæans. We feel the stress of human naof a universe. Waiving the question whether ture in its articulate moods. This gives to the the ancient Jew was a monotheist, we know poetry of the Scriptures an attribute possessed that he trusted in the might of his own God as only by the most creative and impersonal litoverwhelmingly superior to that of all rivals. erature of other tongues — that of universality. His God, moreover, was a very human one. Again, it was all designed for music, by the But the Judaic anthropomorphism was of the poets of a musical race, and the psalms were most transcendent type that ever hath entered arranged by the first composers — the leaders into the heart of man.

of the royal choir. It retains forever the fresh I do not, then, class the Hebrew poetry, tone of an epoch when lyrical composition was which, though lyrical, gives vent not so much the normal form of expression. Then its rhythm to the self-consciousness of the psalmist or is free, unrestrained, in extreme opposition to

VOL. XLIV.- 20.

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