Part 1
# Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern — Volume 11 ### By Unknown
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_THE OLDEST LOMBARDIC MANUSCRIPT._
Facsimile from an Edict of King Rotharis, A.D. 643.
Translation.
LXX If anybody of another the great toe from the foot severs, he pays solidi sixteen. LXXI If the second toe from the foot he severs, he pays solidi six. LXXII If the third toe he severs, he pays solidi three. LXXIII If the fourth toe he severs, he pays solidi three. LXXIIII If the fifth toe he severs, he pays solidi two. LXXV Upon all these damages or injuries, above described, which among men exempt occurred, therefore, a heavier punishment, have we placed than our ancestors, that the Faida (feud, vendetta), that is, the hatred, after the receiving the above described (ssta--suprascripta) punishment, may cease, and, moreover, not be required, nor craftiness
[Illustration]
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. XI.
1896
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.
ALCEE 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.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
VOL. XI
LIVED PAGE RICHARD HENRY DANA, SENIOR 1787-1879 4285 The Island ('The Buccaneer') The Doom of Lee (same) Paul and Abel ('Paul Felton')
RICHARD HENRY DANA, JUNIOR 1815-1882 4302 A Dry Gale ('Two Years Before the Mast') Every-Day Sea Life (same) A Start; and Parting Company (same)
DANTE 1265-1321 4315
BY CHARLES ELIOT NORTON
From 'The New Life': Beginning of Love; First Salutation of His Lady; Praise of His Lady; Her Loveliness; Her Death; The Anniversary of Her Death; The Hope to Speak More Worthily of Her
From the 'Banquet': Consolation of Philosophy; Desire of the Soul; The Noble Soul at the End of Life
From the 'Divine Comedy': Hell--Entrance on the Journey Through the Eternal World; Hell--Punishment of Carnal Sinners; Purgatory--The Final Purgation; Purgatory--Meeting with His Lady in the Earthly Paradise; Paradise--The Final Vision
JAMES DARMESTETER 1849-1894 4379 Ernest Renan ('Selected Essays') Judaism (same)
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN 1809-1882 4385
BY E. RAY LANKESTER
Impressions of Travel ('A Naturalist's Voyage') Genesis of 'The Origin of Species' ('Life and Letters') Curious Atrophy of AEsthetic Taste (same) Private Memorandum concerning His Little Daughter (same) Religious Views (same) Letters: To Miss Julia Wedgwood; To J.D. Hooker; To T.H. Huxley; To E. Ray Lankester; To J.D. Hooker The Struggle for Existence ('Origin of Species') Geometrical Ratio of Increase (same) Of the Nature of the Checks to Increase (same) Complex Relations of All Animals and Plants to Each Other in the Struggle for Existence (same) Of Natural Selection: or the Survival of the Fittest (same) Progressive Change Compared with Independent Creation (same) Creative Design ('Variation of Animals and Plants under Domestication') Origin of the Human Species ('The Descent of Man')
ALPHONSE DAUDET 1840- 4435
BY AUGUSTIN FILON
The Two Tartarins ('Tartarin of Tarascon') Of "Mental Mirage," as Distinguished from Lying (same) Death of the Dauphin ('Letters from My Windmill') Jack Is Invited to Take Up a "Profession" ('Jack') The City of Iron and Fire (same) The Wrath of a Queen ('Kings in Exile')
MADAME DU DEFFAND (Marie de Vichy-Chamrond) 1697-1780 4471
Letters: To the Duchesse de Choiseul; To Mr. Crawford; To Horace Walpole Portrait of Horace Walpole
DANIEL DEFOE 1661-1731 4479
BY CHARLES FREDERICK JOHNSON
From 'Robinson Crusoe': Crusoe's Shipwreck; Crusoe Makes a New Home; A Footprint
From 'History of the Plague in London': Superstitious Fears of the People; How Quacks and Impositors Preyed on the Fears of the People; The People Are Quarantined in Their Houses; Moral Effects of the Plague; Terrible Scenes in the Streets; The Plague Due to Natural Causes; Spread of the Plague through Necessities of the Poor
From 'Colonel Jack': Colonel Jack and Captain Jack Escape Arrest; Colonel Jack Finds Captain Jack Hard to Manage; Colonel Jack's First Wife Is Not Disposed to be Economical
The Devil Does Not Concern Himself with Petty Matters ('The Modern History of the Devil')
Defoe Addresses His Public ('An Appeal to Honor and Justice')
Engaging a Maid-Servant ('Everybody's Business is Nobody's Business')
The Devil ('The True-Born Englishman')
There Is a God ('The Storm')
EDUARD DOUWES DEKKER 1820-1887 4513
Multatuli's Last Words to the Reader ('Max Havelaar') Idyll of Saidjah and Adinda (same)
THOMAS DEKKER 1570?-1637? 4521
From 'The Gul's Horne Booke': How a Gallant Should Behave Himself in Powles Walk; Sleep Praise of Fortune ('Old Fortunatus') Content ('Patient Grissil') Rustic Song ('The Sun's Darling') Lullaby ('Patient Grissil')
JEAN FRANCOIS CASIMIR DELAVIGNE 1793-1843 4528
BY FREDERIC LOLIEE
Confession of Louis XI.
DEMOSTHENES 384-322 B.C. 4535
BY ROBERT SHARP
The Third Philippic Invective Against License of Speech Justification of His Patriotic Policy
THOMAS DE QUINCEY 1785-1859 4555
BY GEORGE R. CARPENTER
Charles Lamb ('Biographical Essays') Despair ('Confessions of an English Opium-Eater') The Dead Sister (same) Levana and Our Ladies of Sorrow (same) Savannah-La-Mar (same) The Bishop of Beauvais and Joan of Arc ('Miscellaneous Essays')
PAUL DEROULEDE 1848- 4580
The Harvest ('Chants du Paysan') In Good Quarters ('Poemes Militaires') "Good Fighting" (same) Last Wishes (same)
RENE DESCARTES 1596-1650 4585
Of Certain Principles of Elementary Logical Thought ('Discourse on Method') An Elementary Method of Inquiry (same) The Idea of God ('Meditations')
PAUL DESJARDINS 4596
BY GRACE KING
The Present Duty Conversion of the Church Two Impressions ('Notes Contemporaines')
SIR AUBREY DE VERE 1788-1846 4609
The Crusaders The Children Band ('The Crusaders') The Rock of Cashel The Right Use of Prayer The Church Sonnet
BERNAL DIAZ DEL CASTILLO 1498-1593 4613
From the 'True History of the Conquest of Mexico': Capture of Guatimotzin; Mortality at the Conquest of Mexico; Cortes; Of Divine Aid in the Battle of Santa Maria de la Vitoria; Cortes Destroys Certain Idols
CHARLES DIBDIN 1745-1814 4620
Sea Song Poor Jack Song: The Heart of a Tar Tom Bowling
CHARLES DICKENS 1812-1870 4625
BY LAURENCE HUTTON
The One Thing Needful ('Hard Times') The Boy at Mugby ('Mugby Junction') Burning of Newgate ('Barnaby Rudge') Monseigneur ('A Tale of Two Cities') The Ivy Green
FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS
VOLUME XI
PAGE The Oldest Lombardic Manuscript (Colored Plate) Frontispiece Dante Alighieri (Portrait) 4316 Charles Robert Darwin (Portrait) 4386 "The Ape-Man" (Photogravure) 4398 Alphonse Daudet (Portrait) 4436 Daniel Defoe (Portrait) 4480 "Robinson Crusoe" (Facsimile) 4486 Demosthenes (Portrait) 4536 Thomas De Quincey (Portrait) 4556 Rene Descartes (Portrait) 4586 Charles Dickens (Portrait) 4626 "Gadshill" (Photogravure) 4634
VIGNETTE PORTRAITS
Richard Henry Dana Richard Henry Dana, Jr. Madame du Deffand Jean F. C. Delavigne Paul Deroulede Sir Aubrey De Vere Charles Dibdin
RICHARD HENRY DANA, SENIOR
(1787-1879)
[Illustration: RICHARD H. DANA]
Richard Henry Dana the elder, although he died less than twenty years ago, belonged to the first generation of American writers; he was born in 1787, in Cambridge, four years after Washington Irving. He came of a distinguished and scholarly family: his father had been minister to Russia during the Revolution, and was afterwards Chief Justice of Massachusetts; through his mother he was descended from Anne Bradstreet. At the age of ten he went to Newport to live with his maternal grandfather, William Ellery, one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence, and remained until he entered Harvard. The wild rock-bound coast scenery impressed him deeply, and ever after the sea was one of his ruling passions. Only one familiar with all the moods of the ocean could have written 'The Buccaneer'. After quitting college he studied law, and was admitted to the Boston bar. Literature however proved the stronger attraction, and in 1818 he left his profession to assist in conducting the then newly founded North American Review. The critical papers he contributed to it startled the conservative literary circles by their audacity in defending the new movement in English poetry, and passing lightly by their idol Pope. Indeed, his unpopularity debarred him from succeeding the first editor. He withdrew, and began the publication of The Idle Man in numbers, modeled on Salmagundi and the Sketch-Book. His contributions consisted of critical papers and his novelettes 'Paul Felton,' 'Tom Thornton,' and 'Edward and Mary.' Not finding many readers, he discontinued it after the first volume. He then contributed for some years to the New York Review, conducted by William Cullen Bryant, and to the United States Review. In 1827 appeared 'The Buccaneer and Other Poems'; in 1833 the same volume was enlarged and the contributions to The Idle Man were added, under the title 'Poems and Prose Writings.' Seventeen years later he closed his literary career by publishing the complete edition of his 'Poems and Prose Writings,' in two volumes, not having materially added either to his verse or fiction. After that time he lived in retirement, spending his summers in his seaside home by the rocks and breakers of Cape Ann, and the winters in Boston. He died in 1879.
Dana's literary activity falls within the first third of this century. During that period, unproductive of great work, he ranked among the foremost writers. His papers in the North American Review, as the first original criticism on this side of the Atlantic, marked an era in our letters. He was one of the first to recognize the genius of Wordsworth and of Coleridge; under the influence of the latter he wrote the poem by which he is chiefly known, 'The Buccaneer.' He claimed for it a basis of truth; it is in fact a story out of 'The Pirate's Own Book,' with the element of the supernatural added to convey the moral lesson. His verse is contained in a slender volume. It lacks fluency and melody, but shows keen perception of Nature's beauty, especially in her sterner, more solemn moods, and sympathy with the human heart. Dana was not so much a poet born with the inevitable gift of song (he would otherwise not have become almost silent during the last fifty years of his life), as a man of strong intellect who in his youth turned to verse for recreation.
Though best known by his poems, he stands out strongest and most original as novelist. 'Paul Felton,' his masterpiece in prose, is a powerful study of a diseased condition of mind. In its searching psychologic analysis it stands quite apart from the more or less flaccid production of its day. He indeed could not escape the influence of Charles Brockden Brown, whom he greatly admired, and he in turn reached out forward toward Poe and other writers of the analytic school. One powerful story of Poe's, indeed, seems to have been suggested by Dana's work: the demon horse in 'Metzengerstein' is a superior copy of the Spectre Horse in 'The Buccaneer.' These stories were not popular in his day: they are too remote from ordinary life, too gloomy and painful; they have no definite locality or nationality; their characters have little in common with every-day humanity. His prose style however is clear, direct, and strong.
Even after he ceased to write, he had an important influence on American letters by the independence of his opinions, his friendships with literary men, chief among whom was Bryant, and his live interest in the younger literature produced under conditions more favorable and more inspiring than he had known.
THE ISLAND
From 'The Buccaneer'
The Island lies nine leagues away; Along its solitary shore Of craggy rock and sandy bay, No sound but ocean's roar, Save where the bold wild sea-bird makes her home, Her shrill cry coming through the sparkling foam.
But when the light winds lie at rest, And on the glassy, heaving sea, The black duck with her glossy breast Sits swinging silently, How beautiful! no ripples break the reach, And silvery waves go noiseless up the beach.
And inland rests the green, warm dell; The brook comes tinkling down its side; From out the trees the Sabbath bell Rings cheerful, far and wide, Mingling its sound with bleatings of the flocks That feed about the vale among the rocks.
Nor holy bell nor pastoral bleat In former days within the vale; Flapped in the bay the pirate's sheet; Curses were on the gale; Rich goods lay on the sand, and murdered men: Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then.
But calm, low voices, words of grace, Now slowly fall upon the ear; A quiet look is in each face, Subdued and holy fear. Each motion gentle; all is kindly done-- Come, listen how from crime this Isle was won.
THE DOOM OF LEE
From 'The Buccaneer'
Who's sitting on that long black ledge Which makes so far out in the sea, Feeling the kelp-weed on its edge? Poor idle Matthew Lee! So weak and pale? A year and little more. And bravely did he lord it round this shore!
And on the shingles now he sits, And rolls the pebbles 'neath his hands; Now walks the beach; then stops by fits, And scores the smooth wet sands; Then tries each cliff and cove and jut that bounds The isles; then home from many weary rounds.
They ask him why he wanders so, From day to day, the uneven strand? "I wish, I wish that I might go! But I would go by land; And there's no way that I can find--I've tried All day and night!"--He seaward looked, and sighed.
It brought the tear to many an eye That once his eye had made to quail. "Lee, go with us; our sloop is nigh; Come! help us hoist her sail." He shook.--"You know the Spirit Horse I ride! He'll let me on the sea with none beside!"
He views the ships that come and go, Looking so like to living things. O! 'tis a proud and gallant show Of bright and broad-spread wings, Making it light around them, as they keep Their course right onward through the unsounded deep.
And where the far-off sand-bars lift Their backs in long and narrow line, The breakers shout, and leap, and shift, And send the sparkling brine Into the air, then rush to mimic strife: Glad creatures of the sea, and full of life!--
But not to Lee. He sits alone; No fellowship nor joy for him. Borne down by woe, he makes no moan, Though tears will sometimes dim That asking eye--oh, how his worn thoughts crave-- Not joy again, but rest within the grave.
* * * * *
To-night the charmed number's told. "Twice have I come for thee," it said. "Once more, and none shall thee behold. Come! live one, to the dead!"-- So hears his soul, and fears the coming night; Yet sick and weary of the soft calm light.
Again he sits within that room; All day he leans at that still board; None to bring comfort to his gloom, Or speak a friendly word. Weakened with fear, lone, haunted by remorse, Poor shattered wretch, there waits he that pale Horse.
Not long he waits. Where now are gone Peak, citadel, and tower, that stood Beautiful, while the west sun shone And bathed them in his flood Of airy glory!--Sudden darkness fell; And down they went,--peak, tower, citadel.
The darkness, like a dome of stone, Ceils up the heavens. 'Tis hush as death-- All but the ocean's dull low moan. How hard Lee draws his breath! He shudders as he feels the working Power. Arouse thee, Lee! up! man thee for thine hour!
'Tis close at hand; for there, once more, The burning ship. Wide sheets of flame And shafted fire she showed before;-- Twice thus she hither came;-- But now she rolls a naked hulk, and throws A wasting light; then, settling, down she goes.
And where she sank, up slowly came The Spectre Horse from out the sea. And there he stands! His pale sides flame. He'll meet thee shortly, Lee.
He treads the waters as a solid floor: He's moving on. Lee waits him at the door.
They're met. "I know thou com'st for me," Lee's spirit to the Spectre said; "I know that I must go with thee-- Take me not to the dead. It was not I alone that did the deed!" Dreadful the eye of that still, spectral Steed!
Lee cannot turn. There is a force In that fixed eye which holds him fast. How still they stand!--the man and horse. "Thine hour is almost past." "Oh, spare me," cries the wretch, "thou fearful one!" "My time is full--I must not go alone."
"I'm weak and faint. Oh let me stay!" "Nay, murderer, rest nor stay for thee!" The horse and man are on their way; He bears him to the sea. Hark! how the Spectre breathes through this still night! See, from his nostrils streams a deathly light!
He's on the beach, but stops not there; He's on the sea! that dreadful horse! Lee flings and writhes in wild despair! In vain! The spirit-corse Holds him by fearful spell; he cannot leap. Within that horrid light he rides the deep.
It lights the sea around their track-- The curling comb, and dark steel wave: There yet sits Lee the Spectre's back-- Gone! gone! and none to save! They're seen no more; the night has shut them in. May Heaven have pity on thee, man of sin!
The earth has washed away its stain; The sealed-up sky is breaking forth, Mustering its glorious hosts again, From the far south and north; The climbing moon plays on the rippling sea.-- Oh, whither on its waters rideth Lee?
PAUL AND ABEL
From 'Paul Felton'
He took a path which led through the fields back of his house, and wound among the steep rocks part way up the range of high hills, till it reached a small locust grove, where it ended. He began climbing a ridge near him, and reaching the top of it, beheld all around him a scene desolate and broken as the ocean. It looked for miles as if one immense gray rock had been heaved up and shattered by an earthquake. Here and there might be seen shooting out of the clefts, old trees, like masts at sea. It was as if the sea in a storm had become suddenly fixed, with all its ships upon it. The sun shone glaring and hot on it, but there was neither life, nor motion, nor sound; the spirit of desolation had gone over it, and it had become the place of death. His heart sunk within him, and something like a superstitious dread entered him. He tried to rouse himself, and look about with a composed mind. It was in vain--he felt as if some dreadful unseen power stood near him. He would have spoken, but he dared not in such a place.
To shake this off, he began clambering over one ridge after another, till, passing cautiously round a beetling rock, a sharp cry from out it shot through him. Every small jut and precipice sent it back with a Satanic taunt; and the crowd of hollows and points seemed for the instant alive with thousands of fiends. Paul's blood ran cold, and he scarcely breathed as he waited for their cry again; but all was still. Though his mind was of a superstitious cast, he had courage and fortitude; and ashamed of his weakness, he reached forward, and stooping down looked into the cavity. He started as his eye fell on the object within it. "Who and what are you?" cried he. "Come out, and let me see whether you are man or devil." And out crawled a miserable boy, looking as if shrunk up with fear and famine. "Speak, and tell me who you are, and what you do here," said Paul. The poor fellow's jaws moved and quivered, but he did not utter a sound. His spare frame shook, and his knees knocked against each other as in an ague fit. Paul looked at him for a moment. His loose shambly frame was nearly bare to the bones, his light sunburnt hair hung long and straight round his thin jaws and white eyes, that shone with a delirious glare, as if his mind had been terror-struck. There was a sickly, beseeching smile about his mouth. His skin, between the freckles, was as white as a leper's, and his teeth long and yellow. He appeared like one who had witnessed the destruction about him, and was the only living thing spared, to make death seem more horrible.
"Who put you here to starve?" said Paul to him.
"Nobody, sir."
"Why did you come, then?"
"Oh, I can't help it; I must come."
"Must! And why must you?" The boy looked round timidly, and crouching near Paul, said in a tremulous, low voice, his eyes glancing fearfully through the chasm, "'Tis He, 'tis He that makes me!" Paul turned suddenly round, and saw before him for the first time the deserted tract of pine wood and sand which has been described. "Who and where is he?" asked Paul impatiently, expecting to see some one.
"There, there, in the wood yonder," answered the boy, crouching still lower, and pointing with his finger, whilst his hand shook as if palsied.
"I see nothing," said Paul, "but these pines. What possesses you? Why do you shudder so, and look so pale? Do you take the shadows of the trees for devils?"
"Don't speak of them. They'll be on me, if you talk of them here," whispered the boy eagerly. Drops of sweat stood on his brow from the agony of terror he was in. As Paul looked at the lad, he felt something like fear creeping over him. He turned his eyes involuntarily to the wood again. "If we must not talk here," said he at last, "come along with me, and tell me what all this means." The boy rose, and followed close to Paul.
"Is it the Devil you have seen, that you shake so?"
"You have named him; I never must," said the boy. "I have seen strange sights, and heard sounds whispered close to my ears, so full of spite, and so dreadful, I dared not look round lest I should see some awful face at mine. I've thought I felt it touch me sometimes."
"And what wicked thing have you done, that they should haunt you so?"