{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_55650/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_55650","id":"gutenberg_55650","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/55650","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Legends","Short stories","Tales"],"text":"STRAY LEAVES FROM\n\nSTRANGE LITERATURE\n\nAND\n\nFANTASTICS\n\nAND OTHER FANCIES\n\nBY\n\nLAFCADIO HEARN\n\n\n\nBOSTON AND NEW YORK\n\nHOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY\n\nMDCCCCXXII\n\n\n[Illustration: A Dock Scene in New Orleans.]\n\n\n\nNOTE\n\nThe thanks of the Publishers are due to Dr. A. K. Coomaraswamy, of the\nBoston Museum of Fine Arts, for corrections in the spelling of proper\nnames in the Tales from India and Buddhist Literature included in this\nvolume.\n\n\n    CONTENTS\n\n    STRAY LEAVES FROM STRANGE LITERATURE\n\n    Explanatory xvii\n\n    STRAY LEAVES\n\n    THE BOOK OF THOTH. _From an Egyptian Papyrus_\n    THE FOUNTAIN MAIDEN. _A Legend of the South Pacific_\n    THE BIRD WIFE. _An Esquimau Tradition_\n\n\n    TALES FROM INDIAN AND BUDDHIST LITERATURE\n\n    THE MAKING OF TILOTTAMA\n    THE BRAHMAN AND HIS BRAHMANI\n    BAKAWALI\n    NATALIKA\n    THE CORPSE-DEMON\n    THE LION\n    THE LEGEND OF THE MONSTER MISFORTUNE\n    A PARABLE BUDDHISTIC\n    PUNDARI\n    YAMARAJA\n    THE LOTUS OF FAITH\n\n\n    RUNES FROM THE KALEWALA\n\n    THE MAGICAL WORDS\n    THE FIRST MUSICIAN\n    THE HEALING OF WAINAMOINEN\n\n\n    STORIES OF MOSLEM LANDS\n\n    BOUTIMAR, THE DOVE\n    THE SON OF A ROBBER\n    A LEGEND OF LOVE\n    THE KING'S JUSTICE\n\n\n    TRADITIONS RETOLD FROM THE TALMUD\n\n    A LEGEND OF RABBA\n    THE MOCKERS\n    ESTHER'S CHOICE\n    THE DISPUTE IN THE HALACHA\n    RABBI YOCHANAN BEN ZACHAI\n    A TRADITION OF TITUS\n    BIBLIOGRAPHY\n\n\n    FANTASTICS AND OTHER FANCIES\n\n    INTRODUCTION, BY CHARLES WOODWARD HUTSON\n\n    IN THE \"ITEM\"\n\n    ALL IN WHITE\n    September 14, 1879\n\n    THE LITTLE RED KITTEN\n    September 24, 1879\n\n    THE NIGHT OF ALL SAINTS\n    November 1, 1879\n\n    THE DEVIL'S CARBUNCLE\n    November 2, 1879\n\n    LES COULISSES\n    December 6, 1879\n\n    THE STRANGER\n    April 17, 1880\n\n    Y PORQUE?\n    April 17, 1880\n\n    A DREAM OF KITES\n    June 18, 1880\n\n    HEREDITARY MEMORIES\n    July 22, 1880\n\n    THE GHOSTLY KISS\n    July 24, 1880\n\n    THE BLACK CUPID\n    July 29, 1880\n\n    WHEN I WAS A FLOWER\n    August 13, 1880\n\n    METEMPSYCHOSIS\n    September 7, 1880\n\n    THE UNDYING ONE\n    September 18, 1880\n\n    THE VISION OF THE DEAD CREOLE\n    September 25, 1880\n\n    THE NAME ON THE STONE\n    October 9, 1880\n\n    APHRODITE AND THE KING'S PRISONER\n    October 12, 1880\n\n    THE FOUNTAIN OF GOLD\n    October 15, 1880\n\n    A DEAD LOVE\n    October 21, 1880\n\n    AT THE CEMETERY\n    November 1, 1880\n\n    \"A\u00cfDA\"\n    January 17, 1881\n\n    EL V\u00d3MITO\n    March 21, 1881\n\n    THE IDYL OF A FRENCH SNUFF-BOX\n    April 5, 1881\n\n    SPRING PHANTOMS\n    April 21, 1881\n\n    A KISS FANTASTICAL\n    June 8, 1881\n\n    THE BIRD AND THE GIRL\n    June 14, 1881\n\n    THE TALE OF A FAN\n    July 1, 1881\n\n    A LEGEND\n    July 21, 1881\n\n    THE GYPSY'S STORY\n    August 18, 1881\n\n    THE ONE PILL-BOX\n    October 12, 1881\n\n\n    IN THE \"TIMES-DEMOCRAT\"\n\n    A RIVER REVERIE\n    May 2, 1882\n\n    \"HIS HEART IS OLD\"\n    May 7, 1882\n\n    MDCCCLIII\n    May 21, 1882\n\n    HIOUEN-THSANG\n    June 25, 1882\n\n    L'AMOUR APR\u00c8S LA MORT\n    April 6, 1884\n\n    THE POST-OFFICE\n    October 19, 1884\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\nA DOCK SCENE IN NEW ORLEANS _Frontispiece_ From a\npainting, by Robert W. Grafton, in the St. Charles Hotel, New Orleans.\nBy the courtesy of Alfred S. Amer.\n\nINDRA IN HIS COURT From a Fifteenth Century Jain manuscript.\n\nTHE OLD CREOLE OPERA HOUSE, NEW ORLEANS\n\nJUTTING BALCONIES IN THE CREOLE CITY\n\nExcept as otherwise stated, the illustrations are from photographs by\nCHARLES S. OLCOTT\n\n\n\n\nSTRAY LEAVES FROM STRANGE LITERATURE\n\nSTORIES\n\nRECONSTRUCTED FROM THE ANVARI-SOHE\u00cfLI, BAIT\u00c1L PACH\u00cdS\u00cd, MAHABHARATA,\nPANTCHA-TANTRA, GULISTAN, TALMUD, KALEWALA, ETC.\n\n\nTO MY FRIEND\n\nPAGE M. BAKER\n\nEDITOR OF THE NEW ORLEANS TIMES-DEMOCRAT\n\n\n\n\nEXPLANATORY\n\n\nWhile engaged upon this little mosaic work of legend and fable, I felt\nmuch like one of those merchants told of in Sindbad's Second Voyage,\nwho were obliged to content themselves with gathering the small jewels\nadhering to certain meat which eagles brought up from the Valley of\nDiamonds. I have had to depend altogether upon the labor of translators\nfor my acquisitions; and these seemed too small to deserve separate\nliterary setting. By cutting my little gems according to one pattern,\nI have doubtless reduced the beauty of some; yet it seemed to me their\ncolors were so weird, their luminosity so elfish, that their intrinsic\nvalue could not be wholly destroyed even by so clumsy an artificer as I.\n\nIn short, these fables, legends, parables, etc., are simply\nreconstructions of what impressed me as most fantastically beautiful\nin the most exotic literature which I was able to obtain. With few\nexceptions, the plans of the original narratives have been preserved.\nSometimes I have added a little, sometimes curtailed; but the\naugmentations were generally made with material drawn from the same\nsource as the legend, while the abbreviations were effected either with\na view to avoid repetition, or through the necessity of suppressing\nincidents unsuited to the general reading. I must call special\nattention to certain romantic liberties or poetic licenses which I have\ntaken.\n\nIn the Polynesian story (\"The Fountain Maiden\") I have considerably\nenlarged upon the legend, which I found in Gill's _Myths and Songs\nof the South Pacific_--a curious but inartistic book, in which much\nadmirable material has been very dryly handled. In another portion of\nMr. Gill's book I found the text and translation of the weird \"Thieves'\nSong\"; and conceived the idea of utilizing it in the story, with some\nfanciful changes. The Arabic \"Legend of Love\" is still more apocryphal,\nas it consists of fragmentary Arabian stories, borrowed from De\nStendhal's _L'Amour_, and welded into one narrative.\n\nIn the Rabbinical legends I have often united several incidents related\nabout one personage in various of the Talmudic treatises; but this\nsystem is sufficiently specified by references to the _Gemara_ in the\ntext. By consulting the indices attached to Hershon's _Miscellany_, and\nSchwab's translations of the Jerusalem Talmud, it was easy to collect a\nnumber of singular traditions attaching to one distinguished Rabbi, and\nto unite these into a narrative. Finally, I must confess that the story\nof \"Natalika\" was not drawn directly from Ferista, or Fihristah, but\nfrom Jacolliot, a clever writer, but untrustworthy Orientalist, whose\nbooks have little serious value. Whether true or false, however, the\nlegend of the statue seemed to me too pretty to overlook.\n\nIn one case only have I made a veritable translation from the French.\nL\u00e9ouzon Le Duc's literal version of the \"Kalewala\" seemed to me\nthe most charming specimen of poetical prose I had met with among\ntranslations. I selected three incidents, and translated them almost\nword for word.\n\nNearly all of the Italic texts, although fancifully arranged, have\nbeen drawn from the literatures of those peoples whose legends they\nintroduce. Many phrases were obtained from that inexhaustible treasury\nof Indian wisdom, the _Pantchatantra_; others from various Buddhist\nworks. The introductory text of the piece, entitled \"The King's\nJustice,\" was borrowed from the Persian _Mantic Utta\u00efr_, of Farid Uddin\nAttar; and the text at the commencement of the Buddhist Parable (which\nwas refashioned after a narrative in Stanislas Julien's _Avadanas_)\nwas taken from the _Dhammapada._ The briefer stories, I think, have\ngenerally suffered less at my hands than the lengthier ones. That\nwonderful Egyptian romance about the Book of Thoth is far more striking\nin Masp\u00e9ro's French translations from the original papyrus; but the\nEgyptian phrases are often characterized by a nakedness rather more\nstartling than that of the dancing girls in the mural paintings....\n\nUpon another page will be found a little bibliography of nearly all the\nsources whence I have drawn my material. Some volumes are mentioned\nonly because they gave me one or two phrases. Thus, I borrowed\nexpressions or ideas from \"Amarou,\" from Fauche's translation of the\n_Ritou Sanhara_, and especially from the wealth of notes to Ch\u00e9zy's\nsuperb translation of _Sacountala._\n\nThis little collection has no claim upon the consideration of scholars.\nIt is simply an attempt to share with the public some of those novel\ndelights I experienced while trying to familiarize myself with some\nvery strange and beautiful literatures.\n\nDuring its preparation two notable works have appeared with a partly\nsimilar purpose: Helen Zimmern's _Epic of Kings_, and Edwin Arnold's\n_Rosary of Islam._ In the former we have a charming popular version of\nFirdusi, and upon the latter are exquisitely strung some of the fairest\npearls of the \"Mesnewi.\" I hope my far less artistic contribution to\nthe popularization of unfamiliar literature may stimulate others to\nproduce something worthier than I can hope to do. My gems were few\nand small: the monstrous and splendid await the coming of Sindbad, or\nsome mighty lapidary by whom they may be wrought into jewel bouquets\nexquisite as those bunches of topaz blossoms and ruby buds laid upon\nthe tomb of Nourmahal.\n\nNEW ORLEANS, 1884\n\n\n\n\nSTRAY LEAVES\n\nTHE BOOK OF THOTH\n\n    An Egyptian tale of weirdness, as told in a demotic papyrus\n    found in the necropolis of Deir-el-Medineh among the ruins\n    of hundred-gated Thebes.... Written in the thirty-fifth year\n    of the reign of some forgotten Ptolom\u00e6us, and in the month\n    of Tybi completed by a scribe famous among magicians....\n    Dedicated, doubtless, to Thoth, Lord of all Scribes, Grand\n    Master of all Sorcerers; whose grace had been reverently\n    invoked upon whomsoever might speak well concerning the same\n    papyrus....\n\n...Thoth, the divine, lord of scribes, most excellent of workers,\nprince of wizards, once, it is said, wrote with his own hand a book\nsurpassing all other books, and containing two magical formulas only.\nWhosoever could recite the first of these formulas would become\nforthwith second only to the gods--for by its simple utterance the\nmountains and the valleys, the ocean and the clouds, the heights of\nheaven and the deeps of hell, would be made subject unto his will;\nwhile the birds of air, the reptiles of darkness, and the fishes of the\nwaters, would be thereby compelled to appear, and to make manifest the\nthoughts secreted within their hearts. But whosoever could recite the\nsecond formula might never know death--for even though buried within\nthe entrails of the earth, he would still behold heaven through the\ndarkness and hear the voices of earth athwart the silence; even in the\nnecropolis he would still see the rising and setting of the sun, and\nthe Cycle of the Gods, and the waxing and waning of the moon, and the\neternal lights of the firmament.\n\nAnd the god Thoth deposited his book within a casket of gold, and the\ncasket of gold within a casket of silver, and the casket of silver\nwithin a casket of ivory and ebony, and the casket of ivory and ebony\nwithin a casket of palm-wood, and the casket of palm-wood within a\ncasket of bronze, and the casket of bronze within a casket of iron.\nAnd he buried the same in the bed of the great river of Egypt where it\nflows through the Nome of Coptos; and immortal river monsters coiled\nabout the casket to guard it from all magicians.\n\n\nNow, of all magicians, Noferkephtah, the son of King Minibphtah (to\nwhom be life, health, and strength forevermore!), first by cunning\ndiscovered the place where the wondrous book was hidden, and found\ncourage to possess himself thereof. For after he had well paid the\nwisest of the ancient priests to direct his way, Noferkephtah obtained\nfrom his father Pharaoh a royal cangia, well supplied and stoutly\nmanned, wherein he journeyed to Coptos in search of the hidden\ntreasure. Coming to Coptos after many days, he created him a magical\nboat and a magical crew by reciting mystic words; and he and the\nshadowy crew with him toiled to find the casket; and by the building\nof dams they were enabled to find it. Then Noferkephtah prevailed also\nagainst the immortal serpent by dint of sorcery; and he obtained the\nbook, and read the mystic formulas, and made himself second only to the\ngods.\n\nBut the divinities, being wroth with him, caused his sister and wife\nAhouri to fall into the Nile, and his son also. Noferkephtah indeed\ncompelled the river to restore them; but although the power of the\nbook maintained their life after a strange fashion, they lived not as\nbefore, so that he had to bury them in the necropolis at Coptos. Seeing\nthese things and fearing to return to the king alone, he tied the book\nabove his heart, and also allowed himself to drown. The power of the\nbook, indeed, maintained his life after a strange fashion; but he lived\nnot as before, so that they took him back to Thebes as one who had\npassed over to Amenthi, and there laid him with his fathers, and the\nbook also.\n\nYet, by the power of the book, he lived within the darkness of the\ntomb, and beheld the sun rising, and the Cycle of the Gods, and the\nphases of the moon, and the stars of the night. By the power of the\nbook, also, he summoned to him the shadow of his sister Ahouri,\nburied at Coptos--whom he had made his wife according to the custom\nof the Egyptians; and there was light within their dwelling-place.\nThus Noferkephtah knew ghostly happiness in the company of the Ka, or\nshadow, of his wife Ahouri, and the Ka of his son Mikhonsou.\n\n\nNow, four generations had passed since the time of King Minibphtah;\nand the Pharaoh of Egypt was Ousirmari. Ousirmari had two sons who\nwere learned among the Egyptians--Satni was the name of the elder;\nAnhathorer\u00f4ou that of the younger. There was not in all Egypt so wise\na scribe as Satni. He knew how to read the sacred writings, and the\ninscriptions upon the amulets, and the sentences within the tombs,\nand the words graven upon the stel\u00e6, and the books of that sacerdotal\nlibrary called the \"Double House of Life.\" Also he knew the composition\nof all formulas of sorcery and of all sentences which spirits obey,\nso that there was no enchanter like him in all Egypt. And Satni heard\nof Noferkephtah and the book of Thoth from a certain aged priest, and\nresolved that he would obtain it. But the aged priest warned him,\nsaying, \"Beware thou dost not wrest the book from Noferkephtah, else\nthou wilt be enchanted by him, and compelled to bear it back to him\nwithin the tomb, and do great penance.\"\n\nNevertheless Satni sought and obtained permission of the king to\ndescend into the necropolis of Thebes, and to take away, if he might,\nthe book from thence. So he went thither with his brother.\n\nThree days and three nights the brothers sought for the tomb of\nNoferkephtah in the immeasurable city of the dead; and after they\nhad threaded many miles of black corridors, and descended into many\nhundred burial pits, and were weary with the deciphering of innumerable\ninscriptions by quivering light of lamps, they found his resting-place\nat last. Now, when they entered the tomb their eyes were dazzled; for\nNoferkephtah was lying there with his wife Ahouri beside him; and the\nbook of Thoth, placed between them, shed such a light around, that it\nseemed like the brightness of the sun. And when Satni entered, the\nShadow of Ahouri rose against the light; and she asked him, \"Who art\nthou?\"\n\nThen Satni answered: \"I am Satni, son of King Ousirmari; and I come for\nthe book of Thoth which is between thee and Noferkephtah; and if thou\nwilt not give it me, I shall wrest it away by force.\"\n\nBut the Shadow of the woman replied to him: \"Nay, be not unreasoning\nin thy words! Do not ask for this book. For we, in obtaining it, were\ndeprived of the pleasure of living upon earth for the term naturally\nallotted us; neither is this enchanted life within the tomb like unto\nthe life of Egypt. Nowise can the book serve thee; therefore listen\nrather to the recital of all those sorrows which befell us by reason of\nthis book....\"\n\nBut after hearing the story of Ahouri, the heart of Satni remained as\nbronze; and he only repeated: \"If thou wilt not give me the book which\nis between thee and Noferkephtah, I shall wrest it away by-force.\"\n\nThen Noferkephtah rose up within the tomb, and laughed, saying: \"O\nSatni, if thou art indeed a true scribe, win this book from me by\nthy skill! If thou art not afraid, play against me a game for the\npossession of this book--a game of _fifty-two!_\" Now there was a\nchess-board within the tomb.\n\nThen Satni played a game of chess with Noferkephtah, while the Kas, the\nShadows, the Doubles of Ahouri, and the large-eyed boy looked on. But\nthe eyes with which they gazed upon him, and the eyes of Noferkephtah\nalso, strangely disturbed him, so that Satni's brain whirled, and the\nweb of his thought became entangled, and he lost! Noferkephtah laughed,\nand uttered a magical word, and placed the chess-board upon Satni's\nhead; and Satni sank to his knees into the floor of the tomb.\n\nAgain they played, and the result was the same. Then Noferkephtah\nuttered another magical word, and again placed the chess-board upon\nSatni's head; and Satni sank to his hips into the floor of the tomb.\n\nOnce more they played, and the result was the same. Then Noferkephtah\nuttered a third magical word, and laid the chess-board on Satni's head,\nand Satni sank up to his ears into the floor of the tomb!\n\nThen Satni shrieked to his brother to bring him certain talismans\nquickly; and the brother fetched the talismans, and placed them upon\nSatni's head, and by magical amulets saved him from the power of\nNoferkephtah. But having done this, Anhathorer\u00f4ou fell dead within the\ntomb.\n\nAnd Satni put forth his hand and took the book from Noferkephtah,\nand went out of the tomb into the corridors; while the book lighted\nthe way for him, so that a great brightness traveled before him, and\ndeep blackness went after him. Into the darkness Ahouri followed him,\nlamenting, and crying out: \"Woe! woe upon us! The light that gave life\nis taken from us; the hideous Nothingness will come upon us! Now,\nindeed, will annihilation enter into the tomb!\" But Noferkephtah called\nAhouri to him, and bade her cease to weep, saying to her: \"Grieve not\nafter the book; for I shall make him bring it back to me, with a fork\nand stick in his hand and a lighted brazier upon his head.\"\n\n\nBut when the king Ousirmari heard of all that had taken place, he\nbecame very much alarmed for his son, and said to him: \"Behold! thy\nfolly has already caused the death of thy brother Anhathorer\u00f4ou; take\nheed, therefore, lest it bring about thine own destruction likewise.\nNoferkephtah dead is even a mightier magician than thou. Take back the\nbook forthwith, lest he destroy thee.\"\n\nAnd Satni replied: \"Lo! never have I owned a sensual wish, nor done\nevil to _living_ creature; how, then, can the dead prevail against me?\nIt is only the foolish scribe--the scribe who hath not learned the\nmastery of passions--that may be overcome by enchantment.\"\n\nAnd he kept the book.\n\n\nNow it came to pass that a few days after, while Satni stood upon\nthe parvise of the temple of Pthah, he beheld a woman so beautiful\nthat from the moment his eyes fell upon her he ceased to act like one\nliving, and all the world grew like a dream about him. And while the\nyoung woman was praying in the temple, Satni heard that her name was\nThoutboui, daughter of a prophet. Whereupon he sent a messenger to her,\nsaying: \"Thus declares my master: I, the Prince Satni, son of King\nOusirmari, do so love thee that I feel as one about to die.... If thou\nwilt love me as I desire, thou shalt have kingliest gifts; otherwise,\nknow that I have the power to bury thee alive among the dead, so that\nnone may ever see thee again.\"\n\nAnd Thoutboui on hearing these words appeared not at all astonished,\nnor angered, nor terrified; but her great black eyes laughed, and\nshe answered, saying: \"Tell thy master, Prince Satni, son of King\nOusirmari, to visit me within my house at Bubastes, whither I am even\nnow going,\"... Thereupon she went away with her retinue of maidens.\n\n\nSo Satni hastened forthwith to Bubastes by the river, and to the house\nof Thoutboui, the prophet's daughter. In all the place there was no\nhouse like unto her house; it was lofty and long, and surrounded by a\ngarden all encircled with a white wall. And Satni followed Thoutboui's\nserving-maid into the house, and by a coiling stairway to an upper\nchamber wherein were broad beds of ebony and ivory, and rich furniture\ncuriously carved, and tripods with burning perfumes, and tables of\ncedar with cups of gold. And the walls were coated with lapis-lazuli\ninlaid with emerald, making a strange and pleasant light.... Thoutboui\nappeared upon the threshold, robed in textures of white, transparent\nas the dresses of those dancing women limned upon the walls of the\nPharaohs' palace; and as she stood against the light, Satni, beholding\nthe litheness of her limbs, the flexibility of her body, felt his\nheart cease to beat within him, so that he could not speak. But she\nserved him with wine, and took from his hands the gifts which he had\nbrought--and she suffered him to kiss her.\n\nThen said Thoutboui: \"Not lightly is my love to be bought with gifts.\nYet will I test thee, since thou dost so desire. If thou wilt be loved\nby me, therefore, make over to me by deed all thou hast--thy gold and\nthy silver, thy lands and houses, thy goods and all that belongs to\nthee. So that the house wherein I dwell may become thy house!\"\n\nAnd Satni, looking into the long black jewels of her eyes, forgot the\nworth of all that he possessed; and a scribe was summoned, and the\nscribe drew up the deed giving to Thoutboui all the goods of Satni.\n\nThen said Thoutboui: \"Still will I test thee, since thou dost so\ndesire. If thou wilt have my love, make over to me thy children, also,\nas my slaves, lest they should seek dispute with my children concerning\nthat which was thine. So that the house in which I dwell may become thy\nhouse!\"\n\nAnd Satni, gazing upon the witchery of her bosom, curved like ivory\ncarving, rounded like the eggs of the ostrich, forgot his loving\nchildren; and the deed was written.... Even at that moment a messenger\ncame, saying: \"O Satni, thy children are below, and await thee.\" And he\nsaid: \"Bid them ascend hither.\"\n\nThen said Thoutboui: \"Still will I test thee, since thou dost so\ndesire. If thou wilt have my love, let thy children be put to death,\nlest at some future time they seek to claim that which thou hast given.\nSo that the house in which I dwell may be thy house!\"\n\nAnd Satni, enchanted with the enchantment of her pliant stature, of her\npalmy grace, of her ivorine beauty, forgot even his fatherhood, and\nanswered: \"Be it so; were I ruler of heaven, even heaven would I give\nthee for a kiss.\"\n\nThen Thoutboui had the children of Satni slain before his eyes; yet he\nsought not to save them! She bade her servant cast their bodies from\nthe windows to the cats and to the dogs below; yet Satni lifted not\nhis hand to prevent it! And while he drank wine with Thoutboui, he\ncould hear the growling of the animals that were eating the flesh of\nhis children. But he only moaned to her: \"Give me thy love! I am as one\nin hell for thy sake!\" And she arose, and, entering another chamber,\nturned and held out her wonderful arms to him, and drew him to her with\nthe sorcery of her unutterable eyes....\n\nBut as Satni sought to clasp her and to kiss her, lo! her ruddy\nmouth opened and extended and broadened and deepened--yawning wider,\ndarker, quickly, vastly--a blackness as of necropoles, a vastness as\nof Amenthi! And Satni beheld only a gulf before him, deepening and\nshadowing like night; and from out the gulf a burst of tempest roared\nup, and bore him with it, and whirled him abroad as a leaf. And his\nsenses left him....\n\n\n... When he came again to himself, he was lying naked at the entrance\nof the subterranean sepulchres; and a great horror and despair came\nupon him, so that he purposed ending his life. But the servants of the\nking found him, and bore him safely to his father. And Ousirmari heard\nthe ghostly tale.\n\nThen said Ousirmari: \"O Satni, Noferkephtah dead is a mightier magician\nthan even thou living. Know, my son, first of all that thy children are\nalive and well in my own care; know, also, that the woman by whose\nbeauty thou wert bewitched, and for whom thou hast in thought committed\nall heinous crimes, was a phantom wrought by Noferkephtah's magic.\nThus, by exciting thee to passion, did he bring thy magical power to\nnought. And now, my dear son, haste with the book to Noferkephtah, lest\nthou perish utterly, with all thy kindred.\"\n\nSo Satni took the book of Thoth, and, carrying a fork and stick in his\nhands and a lighted brazier upon his head, carried it to the Theban\nnecropolis and into the tomb of Noferkephtah. And Ahouri clapped her\nhands, and smiled to see the light again return. And Noferkephtah\nlaughed, saying: \"Did I not tell thee beforehand?\" \"Aye!\" said Ahouri,\n\"thou wert enchanted, O Satni!\" But Satni, prostrating himself before\nNoferkephtah, asked how he might make atonement.\n\n\"O Satni,\" answered Noferkephtah, \"my wife and my son are indeed buried\nat Coptos; these whom thou seest here are their Doubles only--their\nShadows, their Kas--maintained with me by enchantment. Seek out their\nresting-place at Coptos, therefore, and bury their bodies with me, that\nwe may all be thus reunited, and that thou mayst do penance.\"...\n\nSo Satni went to Coptos, and there found an ancient priest, who told\nhim the place of Ahouri's sepulture, saying: \"The father of the\nfather of my father told it to my father's father, who told it to my\nfather.\"... Then Satni found the bodies, and restored to Noferkephtah\nhis wife and his son; and thus did penance. After which the tomb of\nNoferkephtah was sealed up forever by Pharaoh's order; and no man\nknoweth more the place of Noferkephtah's sepulture.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FOUNTAIN MAIDEN\n\n    A legend of that pacific land where garments are worn by\n    none save the dead; where the beauty of youth is as the\n    beauty of statues of amber; where through eternal summer\n    even the mountains refuse to don a girdle of cloud....\n\n   MIGHTY OMATAIANUKU!\n     Dark Avaava the Tall!\n     Tall Outuutu!\n     Shadow the way for us!\n     Tower as the cocoa-palms before us!\n     Bend ye as dreams above the slumberers!\n     Make deeper the sleep of the sleepers!\n\nSleep, ye crickets of the threshold! Sleep, ye never\nreposing ants! Sleep, ye shining beetles of the night!\n\nWinds, cease ye from whispering! Restless grass,\npause in thy rustling! Leaves of the palms, be still!\nReeds of the water-ways, sway not! Blue river, cease thy\nlipping of the banks!\n\nSlumber, ye beams of the house, ye posts, great and\nsmall, ye rafters and ridge-poles, thatchings of grass,\nwoven work of reeds, windows bamboo-latticed, doors\nthat squeak like ghosts, low-glimmering fires of sandal-wood--slumber\nye all!\n\n     O Omataianuku!\n     Tall Outuutu!\n     Dark Avaava!\n     Make shadowy the way for us!\n     Tower as the cocoa-palms before us!\n     Bend ye as dreams above the slumberers!\n     Make deeper the sleep of the sleepers--\n     Deeper the sleep of the winds--\n     Deeper the sleep of the waters--\n     Dimmer the dimness of night!\n     Veil ye the moon with your breathings!\n     Make fainter the fires of the stars!\n     In the name of the weird ones:\n     Omataianuku!\n     Outuuturoraa!\n     Ovaavaroroa!\n     Sleep!\n     Sleep!\n\nSo, with the rising of each new moon, was heard the magical song of\nthe thieves--the first night, low as the humming of the wind among\nthe cocoa-palms; louder and louder each succeeding night, and clearer\nand sweeter, until the great white face of the full moon flooded the\nwoods with light, and made silver pools about the columns of the palms.\nFor the magic of the full moon was mightier than the witchcraft of\nthe song; and the people of Rarotonga slept not. But of other nights\nthe invisible thieves did carry away many cocoanuts and taros, and\nplantains and bananas, despite the snares set for them by the people of\nRarotonga. And it was observed with terror that cocoanuts were removed\nfrom the crests of trees so lofty that no human hand might have reached\nthem.\n\n\nBut the chief Aki, being one night by the fountain Vaipiki, which\ngushes out from the place of waters that flow below the world, beheld\nrising up from the water, just as the thin moon looked into it,\na youth and a girl whiter than the moon herself, naked as fishes,\nbeautiful as dreams. And they began to sing a song, at whose sound Aki,\nhidden among the pandanus leaves, stopped his ears--the wizard-song, E\ntira Omataianuku, E tira Outuuturoroa! And the winds were stilled, and\nthe waves sank to sleep, and the palm-leaves ceased to nod, and the\nsong of the crickets was hushed.\n\n\nThen Aki, devising to capture them, set a great fish-net deep within\nthe fountain, and waited for their return. The vast silence of the\nnight deepened; the smoke of the mountain of fire, blood-tinted from\nbelow, hung motionless in the sky, like a giant's plume of feathers.\nAt last the winds of the sea began their ghost whisperings among the\npalm-groves; a cricket chirped, and a million insect-chants responded;\nthe new moon plunged one of her pale horns into the ocean; the east\nwhitened and changed hue like the belly of a shark. The spell was\nbroken, the day was dawning.\n\nAnd Aki beheld the White Ones returning, bearing with them fruits and\nnuts and fragrant herbs. Rising suddenly from his hiding-place among\nthe leaves, he rushed upon them; and they leaped into the fountain,\nlike fishes, leaving their fruits scattered upon the brink. But, lo!\nthey were caught in the net!\n\nThen Aki strove to pull the net on shore; and, being a strong man, he\neasily moved it. But, in turning, the male leaped through the opening\nof the net, and flashed like a salmon through the deeps down to the\nunknown abyss of waters below, so that Aki caught the girl only. Vainly\nshe struggled in the net; and her moon-white body took opalescent\ngleams, like the body of a beautiful fish in the hands of the captor.\nVainly she wept and pleaded; and Aki blocked up the bottom of the\nfountain with huge blocks of coral, lest, slipping away from him, she\nmight disappear again. But, looking upon the strangeness of her beauty,\nhe kissed her and comforted her; and she ceased at last to weep. Her\neyes were large and dark, like a tropical heaven flashed with stars.\n\n\nSo it came to pass that Aki loved her; more than his own life he loved\nher. And the people wondered at her beauty; for light came from her as\nshe moved, and when she swam in the river her passage was like the path\nof the moon on waters--a quivering column of brightness. Only, it was\nnoticed that this luminous beauty waxed and waned contrariwise to the\nwaxing and waning of the moon: her whiteness was whitest at the time of\nthe new moon; it almost ceased to glow when the face of the moon was\nfull. And whensoever the new moon rose, she wept silently, so that Aki\ncould not comfort her, even after having taught her the words of love\nin the tongue of his own people--the tongue, many-voweled, that wooes\nthe listener like the mockery of a night-bird's song.\n\n\nThus many years passed away, and Aki became old; but she seemed ever\nthe same, for the strange race to which she belonged never grow old.\nThen it was noticed that her eyes became deeper and sweeter--weirdly\nsweet; and Aki knew that he would become a father in his age. Yet she\nwept and pleaded with him, saying:\n\n\"Lo! I am not of thy race, and at last I must leave thee. If thou\nlovest me, sever this white body of mine, and save our child; for if\nit suckle me, I must dwell ten years longer in this world to which I\ndo not belong. Thou canst not hurt me thus; for though I seem to die,\nyet my body will live on--thou mayst not wound me more than water\nis wounded by axe or spear! For I am of the water and the light, of\nmoonshine and of wind! And I may not suckle thy child.\"...\n\nBut Aki, fearing that he might lose both her and the child, pleaded\nwith her successfully. And the child was beautiful as a white star, and\nshe nursed it for ten happy years.\n\nBut, the ten years having passed, she kissed Aki, and said to him,\n\"Alas! I must now leave thee, lest I die utterly; take thou away,\ntherefore, the coral rocks from the fountain.\" And kissing him once\nmore, she vowed to come back again, so that he complied at last with\nher request. She would have had him go with her; but he could not,\nbeing only mortal man. Then she passed away in the fountain deeps, like\na gleam of light.\n\n\nThe child grew up very tall and beautiful, but not like his\nmother--white only like strangers from beyond the sea. In his eyes\nthere was, nevertheless, a strange light, brightest at the time of\nthe new moon, waning with its waxing.... One night there came a great\nstorm: the cocoa-palms bent like reeds, and a strange voice came with\nthe wind, crying, calling! At dawn the white youth was gone, nor did\nhuman eyes ever behold him again.\n\nBut Aki lived beyond a hundred years, waiting for the return by the\nVaipiki fountain, until his hair was whiter than the summer clouds. At\nlast the people carried him away, and laid him in his house on a bed of\npandanus leaves; and all the women watched over him, lest he should die.\n\n... It was the night of a new month, and the rising of the new moon.\nSuddenly a low sweet voice was heard, singing the old song that some\nremembered after the passing of half a hundred years. Sweeter and\nsweeter it grew; higher rose the moon! The crickets ceased to sing;\nthe cocoa-palms refused obeisance to the wind. And a heaviness fell\nupon the watchers, who, with open eyes, could move no limb, utter no\nvoice. Then all were aware of a White Woman, whiter than moonlight,\nlithe-fashioned as a lake-fish, gliding between the ranks of the\nwatchers; and, taking Aki's gray head upon her bright breast, she sang\nto him, and kissed him, and stroked his aged face....\n\nThe sun arose; the watchers awakened. They bent over Aki, and it seemed\nthat Aki slept lightly. But when they called him, he answered not; when\nthey touched him, he stirred not. He slept forever!...\n\n\n\n\nTHE BIRD WIFE\n\n\n    There the Moon becometh old and again young many times,\n    as one that dieth often and is reanimated as often by\n    enchantment; while the Sun moveth in a circle of pallid\n    mists, and setteth not. But when he setteth at last, it is\n    still light; for the dead make red fires in the sky above\n    the icebergs until after many, many dim months he riseth\n    again.\n\n\nAll things there are white, save the black sea and the wan fogs; and\nyet it is hard to discover where the water ends and the land begins,\nfor that part of the world the gods forgot to finish. The ice-peaks\ngrow and diminish, and shift their range north-ward and southward,\nand change their aspects grotesquely. There are Faces in the ice that\nlengthen and broaden; and Forms as of vanished creatures. When it is\nfull moon the innumerable multitude of dogs, that live upon dead fish,\nhowl all together at the roaring sea; and the great bears hearing\nhuddle themselves together on the highest heights of the glaciers, and\nthence hurl down sharp white crags upon the dogs. Above all, rising\ninto the Red Lights, there is a mountain which has been a fountain of\nliving fire ever since the being of the world; and all the surface of\nthe land about is heaped with monstrous bones. But this is summer in\nthat place; in winter there is no sound but the groaning of the ice,\nthe shrieking of the winds, the gnashing of the teeth of the floes.\n\nNow there are men in those parts, whose houses are huts of snow,\nlighted by lamps fed with the oil of sea-creatures; and the wild dogs\nobey them. But they live in fear of the Havstramb, that monster which\nhas the form of an armless man and the green color of ancient ice; they\nfear the Margige, shaped like a woman, which cries under the ice on\nwhich their huts repose; and the goblin Bear whose fangs are icicles;\nand the Kajarissat, which are the spirits of the icebergs, drawing the\nkayaks under the black water; and the ghostly ivory-hunter who drives\nhis vapory and voiceless team over ice thinner than the scales of fish;\nand the white Spectre that lies in wait for those who lose their way by\nnight, having power to destroy all whom he can excite to laughter by\nweird devices; and the white-eyed deer which must not be pursued. There\nalso is the home of the warlocks, the wizards, the Iliseetsut--creators\nof the Tupilek.\n\nNow the Tupilek is of all awful things the most awful, of all\nunutterable things the most unutterable.\n\nFor that land is full of bones--the bones of sea monsters and of earth\nmonsters, the skulls and ribs of creatures that perished in eons ere\nman was born; and there are mountains, there are islands, of these\nbones. Sometimes great merchants from far southern countries send\nthither ivory-hunters with sledges and innumerable dogs to risk their\nlives for those white teeth, those terrific tusks, which protrude from\nthe ice and from the sand, that is not deep enough to cover them. And\nthe Iliseetsut seek out the hugest of these bones, and wrap them in\na great whale skin, together with the hearts and the brains of many\nsea creatures and earth animals; and they utter strange words over\nthem. Then the vast mass quivers and groans and shapes itself into a\nform more hideous, more enormous, than any form created by the gods;\nit moves upon many feet; it sees with many eyes; it devours with\ninnumerable teeth; it obeys the will of its creator; it is a Tupilek!\n\n\nAnd all things change form in that place--even as the ice shifts its\nshapes fantastically, as the boundaries of the sand eternally vary,\nas bone becomes earth and earth seems to become bone. So animals also\ntake human likeness, birds assume human bodies; for there is sorcery\nin all things there. Thus it came to pass, one day, that a certain\nivory-hunter beheld a flock of sea-birds change themselves into women;\nand creeping cautiously over the white snow--himself being clad in\nwhite skins--he came suddenly upon them, and caught hold of the nearest\none with a strong hand, while the rest, turning again to birds, flew\nsouthward with long weird screams.\n\nSlender was the girl, like a young moon, and as white; and her eyes\nblack and soft, like those of the wild gulls. So the hunter--finding\nthat she struggled not, but only wept--felt pity for her, and, taking\nher into his warm hut of snow, clothed her in soft skins and fed her\nwith the heart of a great fish. Then, his pity turning to love, she\nbecame his wife.\n\nTwo years they lived thus together, and he fed her with both fish and\nflesh, being skillful in the use of the net and the bow; but always\nwhile absent he blocked up the door of the hut, lest she might change\ninto a bird again, and so take wing. After she had borne him two\nchildren, nevertheless, his fear passed from him, like the memory of\na dream; and she followed him to the chase, managing the bow with\nwonderful skill. But she prevailed upon him that he should not smite\nthe wild gulls.\n\nSo they lived and so loved until the children became strong and swift.\n\nThen it came to pass one day, while they were hunting all together,\nthat many birds had been killed; and she called to the children,\n\"Little ones, bring me quickly some feathers!\" And they came to her\nwith their hands full; and she laid the feathers upon their arms and\nupon her own shoulders, and shrieked to them, \"Fly! ye are of the race\nof birds, ye are the Wind's children!\"\n\nForthwith their garments fell from them; and, being changed into wild\ngulls, mother and children rose in the bright icy air, circling and\ncircling, higher and higher, against the sky. Thrice above the weeping\nfather they turned in spiral flight, thrice screamed above the peaks of\nglimmering ice, and, sweeping suddenly toward the far south, whirred\naway forever.\n\n\n\n\nTALES FROM INDIAN AND BUDDHIST BUDDHIST LITERATURE\n\n\n\n\nTHE MAKING OF TILOTTAMA\n\n\n    Which is told of in the holy \"Mahabharata,\" written by\n    the blessed Rishi Krishna-Dvaipayana, who composed it\n    in twenty-four thousand slokas[1], and who composed six\n    millions of slokas likewise. Of the latter are three\n    millions in the keeping of the gods; and one million five\n    hundred thousand in the keeping of the Gandharvas, who\n    are the musicians of Indra's Heaven; and one million four\n    hundred thousand in the keeping of the Pitris, who are the\n    ghosts of the blessed dead; and one hundred thousand in the\n    keeping of men.... And the guiltiest of men who shall hear\n    the recital of the \"Mahabharata\" shall be delivered from all\n    his sins; neither sickness nor misfortune shall come nigh\n    him.\n\n\nNow I shall tell you how it happened that the great gods once became\nmultiple-faced and myriad-eyed by reason of a woman's beauty, as the\nsame is recounted in the Book of Great Weight--in the Mahabharata.\n\n\nIn ancient years there were two Daityas, twin brothers sprung from the\nrace of the Asouras, the race of evil genii; and their names were\nSounda and Oupasounda. Princes they were born; cruel and terrible they\ngrew up, yet were ever one in purpose, in thought, in the pursuit of\npleasure, or in the perpetration of crime.\n\nAnd in the course of time it came to pass that the brothers resolved\nto obtain domination over the Three Worlds, and to practice all those\nausterities and sacrifices by which the holiest ascetics elevate\nthemselves to divinity. So they departed to the solitude of the\nmountain Vindhya, and there devoted themselves to contemplations and\nto prayer, until their mighty limbs became slender as jungle-canes,\nand their joints like knots of bone. And they ceased all the actions\nof life, and fore bore all contact with things earthly--knowing that\ncontact with earthly things begetteth sensation, and sensation desire,\nand desire corruption, and corruption existence. Thus by dint of\nmeditation and austerity the world became for them as non-existent.\nBy one effort of will they might have shaken the universe; the world\ntrembled under the weight of their thoughts as though laboring in\nearthquake. Air was their only nourishment; they offered up their own\nflesh in sacrifice; and the Vindhya, heated by the force of their\nausterities, smoked to heaven like a mountain of fire.\n\nTherefore the divinities, being terrified, sought to divert them from\ntheir austerities, and to trouble their senses by apparitions of women\nand of demons and of gods. But the Asouras ceased not a moment to\npractice their mortifications, standing upon their great toes only, and\nkeeping their eyes fixed upon the sun.\n\n\nNow, after many years, it came to pass that Brahma, Ancient of Days,\nFather of the Creator of Worlds, appeared before them as a Shape of\nlight, and bade them ask for whatsoever they desired. And they made\nanswer, with hands joined before their foreheads: \"If the Father of the\nFather of Worlds be gratified by our penances, we desire to acquire\nknowledge of all arts of magic and arts of war, to possess the gifts of\nbeauty and of strength, and the promise of immortality.\"\n\nBut the Shape of Brahma answered unto them: \"Immortality will not\nbe given unto you, O Princes of Daityas, inasmuch as ye practiced\nausterities only that ye might obtain dominion over the Three Worlds.\nYet will I grant ye the knowledge and power and the bodily gifts ye\ndesire. Also it shall be vouchsafed you that none shall be able to\ndestroy you; neither among creatures of earth nor spirits nor gods\nshall any have power to do you hurt, save ye hurt one another.\"\n\nThus the two Daityas obtained the favor of Brahma, and became\nunconquerable by gods or men. And they returned to their habitation,\nand departed utterly from the path of righteousness, eating and\ndrinking and sinning exceedingly, more than any of their evil race\nhad done before them; so that their existence might be likened to one\nnever-ending feast of unholy pleasures. But no pleasures could satiate\nthese Asouras, though all mortals dwelling with them suffered by reason\nof monstrous excesses.\n\nBy the two Daityas, indeed, repose and sleep were never desired nor\neven needed--night and day were as one for them; but those mortals\nabout them speedily died of pleasure, and the Daityas were angry with\nthem because they died.\n\n\nNow, at last, the two Asouras resolved to forego pleasure awhile, that\nthey might make the conquest of the Three Worlds by force of that\nmagical knowledge imparted to them by will of Brahma. And they warred\nagainst Indra's Heaven; for it had been given them to move through air\nmore swiftly than demons. The Souras, indeed, and the gods knowing of\ntheir coming and the nature of the powers that had been given them,\npassed away to the Brahmaloka, where dwell the spirits of the holiest\ndead. But the Daityas, taking possession with their army of evil genii,\nslew many of the Yakshas, who are the guardians of treasures, and the\nRakshasas, which are demons, and multitudes of all the beings which\nfly through the airs. After these things they slew all the Nagas, the\nhuman-visaged serpents living in the entrails of the world; and they\novercame all the creatures of the sea.\n\nThen they made resolve to extend their evil power over the whole\nearth, and to destroy all worshipers of the gods. For the prayers\nand the sacrifices offered up by the Rajarshis and the Brahmans\ncontinually augmented the power of the gods; and these Daityas\ntherefore hated exceedingly all holy men. Because of the power given\nthe wicked princes, none could oppose their will, nor did the mighty\nimprecations of the hermits and the Brahmans avail. All worshipers of\nthe gods were destroyed; the eternal altar-fires were scattered and\nextinguished; the holy offerings were cast into the waters; the sacred\nvessels were broken; the awful temples were cast down; and the face\nof the earth made vast with desolation, as though ravaged by the god\nof death. And the Asouras, changing themselves by magical art into\nthe form of tigers, of lions, of furious elephants, sought out all\nthose ascetics who lived in the secret hollows of the mountains or the\nunknown recesses of the forest or the deep silence of the jungles, and\ndestroyed them. So that the world became a waste strewn with human\nbones; and there were no cities, no populations, no smoke of sacrifice,\nno murmur of prayer, no human utterance--vast horror only, and hideous\ndeath.\n\n\nThen all the holy people of air--the Siddhas and the Devarshis and the\nParamarshis--aghast at the desolation of the world, and filled with\ndivinest compassion for the universe, flocked to the dwelling-place\nof Brahma, and made plaint to him of these things which had been\ndone, and besought him that he would destroy the power of Sounda and\nOupasounda. Now Brahma was seated among the gods, surrounded by the\ncircles of the Siddhas and the Bramarshis; Mahadeva was there, and\nIndra, and Agni, Prince of Fire, and Vayou, Lord of Winds, and Aditya,\nthe Sun-god, who drives the seven-headed steeds, and Chandra, the\nlotus-loving god of the Moon. And all the elders of heaven stood about\nthem--the holy Marichipas and Ajas and Avimoudhas and Tejogharbas;\nthe Vanaprasthas of the forest, and the Siddhas of the airs, and\nthe Vaikhanas who live upon roots, and the sixty thousand luminous\nBalakhilyas--not bigger than the thumb of a man--who sprang from the\nhairs of Brahma.\n\nThen from the violet deeps of the eternities Brahma summoned unto\nhim Viswakarman, the Fashioner of the Universe, the Creator of\nWorlds--Viswakarman, Kindler of all the lights of Heaven. And\nViswakarman arose from the eternities as a star-cloud, and stood in\nlight before the All-Father.\n\nAnd Brahma spake unto him, saying: \"O my golden son, O Viswakarman,\ncreate me a woman fairer than the fairest, sweeter than the\nsweetest--whose beauty might even draw the hearts of all divinities, as\nthe moon draweth all the waters in her train.... I wait!\"\n\nSo Viswakarman, veiling himself in mists, wrought in obedience to\nthe Father of Gods, invisibly, awfully, with all manner of precious\ngems, with all colors of heaven, with all perfume of flowers, with all\nrays of light, with all tones of music, with all things beautiful and\nprecious to the sight, to the touch, to the hearing, to the taste, to\nthe sense of odors. And as vapors are wrought into leafiest lacework of\nfrosts, as sunbeams are transmuted into gems of a hundred colors, so,\nall mysteriously, were ten thousand priceless things blended into one\nnew substance of life; and the substance found shape, and was resolved\ninto the body of a woman. All blossom-beauty tempted in her bosom;\nall perfume lingered in her breath; all jewel-fires made splendor for\nher eyes; her locks were wrought of sunlight and of gold; the flowers\nof heaven rebudded in her lips; the pearl and the fairy opal blended\nin her smile; the tones of her voice were made with the love-songs\nof a thousand birds. And a name was given unto her, Tilottama, which\nsignifies in that ancient Indian tongue, spoken of gods and men,\n\"Fair-wrought of daintiest atoms.\"... Then Viswakarman passed away as\nthe glory of evening fades out, and sank into the Immensities, and\nmingled with the Eternities where no time or space is.\n\n\nAnd Tilottama, clothed only with light as with a garment, joining her\nhands before her luminous brows in adoration, bowed down to the Father\nof Gods, and spake with the sweetest voice ever heard even within the\nheaven of heavens, saying: \"O thou universal Father, let me know thy\nwill, and the divine purpose for which I have been created.\"\n\nAnd the deep tones of gold made answer, gently: \"Descend, good\nTilottama, into the world of men, and display the witchcraft of thy\nbeauty in the sight of Sounda and Oupasounda, so that the Daityas may\nbe filled with hatred, each against the other, because of thee.\"\n\n\"It shall be according to thy desire, O Master of Creatures,\" answered\nTilottama; and, having prostrated her beautiful body thrice before\nBrahma, she glided about the circle of the gods, saluting all as she\npassed.\n\nNow the great god Siva, the blessed Maheswara, was seated in the\nsouth, with face turned toward the east; the other gods were looking\ntoward the north; and the seven orders of the rishis--the Devarshis,\nBramarshis, Maharshis, Paramarshis, Rajarshis, Kandarshis, and\nSroutarshis--sat upon every side. And while Tilottama passed around\nthe circle, the gods strove not to gaze upon her, lest their hearts\nshould be drawn irresistibly toward that magical beauty, created not\nfor joy, indeed, but verily for destruction. So for a moment Indra and\nthe blessed Sthanou made their hearts strong against her. But as she\ndrew near to Maheswara, who kept his face to the east, there came to\nMaheswara another face, a face upon the south side, with eyes more\nbeautiful than lotus-flowers. And when she turned behind him, there\ncame to him yet another face upon the west side; and even as she turned\nto the north, there came to him a face upon the north side, so that\nhe could not choose but gaze upon her. And even great Indra's body,\nas she turned around him, blossomed with eyes, before, behind, on\nevery side, even to the number of a thousand eyes, large and deep and\nruddy-lidded. Thus it was that Mahadeva became the Four-Faced God,\nand Balasoudana the God with a Thousand Eyes. And new faces grew upon\nall the divinities and all habitants of heaven as Tilottama passed\naround them; all became double-faced, triple-faced, or myriad-faced,\nin despite of their purpose not to look upon her, so mighty was the\nmagic of her loveliness! Only Brahma, Father of all the Gods, remained\nimpassive as eternity; for unto him beauty and hideousness, light and\ndarkness, night and day, death and life, the finite and the infinite,\nare ever one and the same....\n\n\nNow Sounda and Oupasounda were diverting themselves with their wicked\nwomen among the mountains, when they first perceived Tilottama\ngathering flowers; and at the sight of her their hearts ceased to\npulsate. And they forgot not only all that they had done, and their\nriches and their power and their pleasures, but also the divine\nprovision that they could die only by each other's hands. Each drew\nnear unto Tilottama; each sought to kiss her mouth; each repulsed his\nbrother; each claimed her for himself. And the first hatred of each\nother made flame in their eyes. \"Mine she shall be!\" cried Oupasounda.\n\"Wrest her from me if thou canst!\" roared Sounda in mad defiance. And\npassing from words to reproaches, and from reproaches to mighty blows,\nthey fell upon each other with their weapons, and strove together until\nboth were slain.\n\nThen a great fear came upon all the evil company, and the women fled\nshrieking away; and the Asouras, beholding the hand of Brahma in these\nthings, trembled, and took flight, returning unto their abode of fire\nand darkness, even unto the Patala, which is the habitation of the\ndamned.\n\n\nBut Tilottama, returning to the Brahmaloka, received the commendation\nof the gods, and kindly praise from Brahma, Father of Worlds and Men,\nwho bade her ask for whatsoever grace she most desired. But she asked\nhim only that she might dwell forever in that world of splendors and\nof light, which the blessed inhabit. And the Universal Father made\nanswer, saying: \"Granted is thy prayer, O most seductive among created\nbeings! thou shalt dwell in the neighborhood of the sun, yet not among\nthe gods, lest mischief be wrought. And the dazzle of thy beauty shall\nhinder the eyes of mortals from beholding thee, that their hearts be\nnot consumed because of thee. Dwell therefore within the heaven of the\nsun forevermore.\"\n\nAnd Brahma, having restored to Indra the dominion of the Three Worlds,\nwithdrew into the infinite light of the Brahmaloka.\n\n\n[Footnote 1: According to the exordium in the _Adi-Parva_ of the\n_Mahabharata_, this now most gigantic of epics at first consisted of\n24,000 slokas only. Subsequent additions swelled the number of its\ndistiches to the prodigious figure of 107, 389.--L. H.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE BRAHMAN AND HIS BRAHMANI\n\n\n    The wise will not attach themselves unto women; for women\n    sport with the hearts of those who love them, even as with\n    ravens whose wing-feathers have been plucked out.... There\n    is honey in the tongues of women; there is nought in their\n    heart save the venom halahala.... Their nature is mobile as\n    the eddies of the sea; their affection endures no longer\n    than the glow of gold above the place of sunset: all venom\n    within, all fair without, women are like unto the fruit of\n    the goundja.... Therefore the experienced and wise do avoid\n    women, even as they shun the water-vessels that are placed\n    within the cemeteries....\n\n\nIn the \"Panchopakhyana,\" and also in that \"Ocean of the Rivers\nof Legend,\" which is called in the ancient Indian tongue\n\"Kathasaritsagara,\" may be found this story of a Brahman and his\nBrahmani:\n\n...Never did the light that is in the eyes of lovers shine more\ntenderly than in the eyes of the Brahman who gave his life for the\nlife of the woman under whose lotus-feet he laid his heart. Yet what\nman lives that hath not once in his time been a prey to the madness\ninspired by woman? ...\n\nHe alone loved her; his family being loath to endure her presence--for\nin her tongue was the subtle poison that excites sister against\nbrother, friend against friend. But so much did he love her that\nfor her sake he abandoned father and mother, brother and sister, and\ndeparted with his Brahmani to seek fortune in other parts. Happily his\nguardian Deva accompanied him--for he was indeed a holy man, having\nno fault but the folly of loving too much; and the Deva, by reason of\nspiritual sight, foresaw all that would come to pass.\n\nAs they were journeying together through the elephant-haunted forest,\nthe young woman said to her husband: \"O thou son of a venerable man,\nthy Brahmani dies of thirst; fetch her, she humbly prays thee, a little\nwater from the nearest spring.\" And the Brahman forthwith hastened to\nthe running brook, with the gourd in his hand; but when he had returned\nwith the water, he found his beloved lying dead upon a heap of leaves.\nNow this death was indeed the unseen work of the good Deva.\n\nSo, casting the gourd from him, the Brahman burst into tears, and\nsobbed as though his soul would pass from him, and kissed the beautiful\ndead face and the slender dead feet and the golden throat of his\nBrahmani, shrieking betimes in his misery, and daring to question the\ngods as to why they had so afflicted him. But even as he lamented,\na voice answered him in syllables clear as the notes of a singing\nbird: \"Foolish man! wilt thou give half of thy life in order that thy\nBrahmani shall live again?\"\n\nAnd he, in whom love had slain all fear, answered untremblingly to\nthe Invisible: \"Yea, O Narayana, half of my life will I give unto her\ngladly.\" Then spake the Invisible: \"Foolish man! pronounce the three\nmystic syllables.\" And he pronounced them; and the Brahmani, as if\nawaking from a dream, unclosed her jewel-eyes, and wound her round arms\nabout her husband's neck, and with her fresh lips drank the rain of his\ntears as the lips of a blossom drink in the dews of the night.\n\n\nSo, having eaten of fruits and refreshed themselves, both proceeded\nupon their way; and at last, leaving the forest, they came to a great\nstretch of gardens lying without a white city--gardens rainbow-colored\nwith flowers of marvelous perfume, and made cool by fountains flowing\nfrom the lips of gods in stone and from the trunks of elephants of\nrock. Then said the loving husband to his Brahmani: \"Remain here a\nlittle while, thou too sweet one, that I may hasten on to return to\nthee sooner with fruits and refreshing drink.\"...\n\nNow in that place of gardens dwelt a youth, employed to draw up water\nby the turning of a great wheel, and to cleanse the mouths of the\nfountains; and although a youth, he had been long consumed by one of\nthose maladies that make men tremble with cold beneath a sky of fire,\nso that there was little of his youthfulness left to him excepting\nhis voice. But with that voice he charmed the hearts of women, as the\njuggler charms the hooded serpent; and, seeing the wife of the Brahman,\nhe sang that she might hear.\n\nHe sang as the birds sing in the woods in pairing time, as the waters\nsing that lip the curves of summered banks, as the Apsarases sang in\nother kalpas; and he sang the songs of Amarou--Amarou, sweetest of all\nsingers, whose soul had passed through a century of transmigrations\nin the bodies of a hundred fairest women, until he became the world's\nmaster in all mysteries of love. And as the Brahmani listened, Kama\ntranspierced her heart with his flower-pointed arrows, so that,\napproaching the youth, she pressed her lips upon his lips, and\nmurmured, \"If thou lovest me not, I die.\"\n\n\nTherefore, when the Brahman returned with fruits and drink, she coaxed\nhim that he should share these with the youth, and even prayed him\nthat he should bring the youth along as a traveling companion or as a\ndomestic.\n\n\"Behold!\" answered the Brahman, \"this young man is too feeble to bear\nhardship; and if he fall by the wayside, I shall not be strong enough\nto carry him.\" But the Brahmani answered, \"Nay! should he fall, then\nwill I myself carry him in my basket, upon my head\"; and the Brahman\nyielded to her request, although marveling exceedingly. So they all\ntraveled on together.\n\nNow one day, as they were reposing by a deep well, the Brahmani,\nbeholding her husband asleep, pushed him so that he fell into the\nwell; and she departed, taking the youth with her. Soon after this\nhad happened, they came to a great city where a famous and holy king\nlived, who loved all Brahmans and had built them a temple surrounded\nby rich lands, paying for the land by laying golden elephant-feet in\nlines round about it. And the cunning Brahmani, when arrested by the\ntoll-collectors and taken before this king--still bearing the sick\nyouth upon her head in a basket--boldly spake to the king, saying:\n\"This, most holy of kings, is my dearest husband, a righteous Brahman,\nwho has met with affliction while performing the good works ordained\nfor such as he; and inasmuch as heirs sought his life, I have concealed\nhim in this basket and brought him hither.\" Then the king, being filled\nwith compassion, bestowed upon the Brahmani and her pretended husband\nthe revenues of two villages and the freedom thereof, saying: \"Thou\nshalt be henceforth as my sister thou comeliest and truest of women.\"\n\n\nBut the poor Brahman was not dead; for his good Deva had preserved his\nlife within the well-pit, and certain travelers passing by drew him up\nand gave him to eat. Thus it happened that he presently came to the\nsame village in which the wicked Brahmani dwelt; and, fearing with an\nexceeding great fear, she hastened to the king, and said, \"Lo! the\nenemy who seeketh to kill my husband pursueth after us.\"\n\nThen said the king, \"Let him be trampled under foot by the elephants!\"\n\nBut the Brahman, struggling in the grasp of the king's men, cried out,\nwith a bitter cry: \"O king! art thou indeed called just, who will not\nhearken to the voice of the accused? This fair but wicked woman is\nindeed my own wife; ere I be condemned, let her first give back to me\nthat which I gave her!\"\n\nAnd the king bade his men stay their hands. \"Give him back,\" he\ncommanded, in a voice of tempest, \"that which belongs to him!\"\n\nBut the Brahmani protested, saying, \"My lord, I have nought which\nbelongs to him.\" So the king's brow darkened with the frown of a\nmaharajah.\n\n\"Give me back,\" cried the Brahman, \"the life which I gave thee,\nmy own life given to thee with the utterance of the three mystic\nsyllables--the half of my own years.\"\n\nThen, through exceeding fear of the king, she murmured, \"Yea, I render\nit up to thee, the life thou gavest me with the utterance of the three\nmystic syllables.\" And fell dead at the king's feet.\n\nThus the truth was made manifest; and hence the proverb arose:\n\n    She for whom I gave up family, home, and even the half of my\n    life, hath abandoned me, the heartless one! What man may put\n    faith in women?\n\n\n\n\n\nBAKAWALI\n\n\n    There is in the Hindustani language a marvelous tale written\n    by a Moslem, but treating nevertheless of the ancient gods\n    of India, and of the Apsarases and of the Rakshasas. \"The\n    Rose of Bakawali\" it is called. Therein also may be found\n    many strange histories of fountains filled with magical\n    waters, changing the sex of those who bathe therein;\n    and histories of flowers created by witchcraft--never\n    fading--whose perfumes give sight to the blind; and, above\n    all, this history of love human and superhuman, for which a\n    parallel may not be found....\n\n\n...In days when the great Rajah Zainu'l-Mulk reigned over the eastern\nkingdoms of Hindostan, it came to pass that Bakawali, the Apsaras,\nfell in love with a mortal youth who was none other than the son of\nthe Rajah. For the lad was beautiful as a girl, beautiful even as the\ngod Kama, and seemingly created for love. Now in that land all living\nthings are sensitive to loveliness, even the plants themselves--like\nthe Asoka that bursts into odorous blossom when touched even by the\nfoot of a comely maiden. Yet was Bakawali fairer than any earthly\ncreature, being a daughter of the immortals; and those who had seen\nher, believing her born of mortal woman, would answer when interrogated\nconcerning her, \"Ask not us! Rather ask thou the nightingale to sing of\nher beauty.\"\n\nNever had the youth Taju'l-Mulk guessed that his beloved was not of\nmortal race, having encountered her as by hazard, and being secretly\nunited to her after the Gandharva fashion. But he knew that her eyes\nwere preternaturally large and dark, and the odor of her hair like\nTartary musk; and there seemed to transpire from her when she moved\nsuch a light and such a perfume that he remained bereft of utterance,\nwhile watching her, and immobile as a figure painted upon a wall. And\nthe lamp of love being enkindled in the heart of Bakawali, her wisdom,\nlike a golden moth, consumed itself in the name thereof, so that she\nforgot her people utterly, and her immortality, and even the courts of\nheaven wherein she was wont to dwell.\n\n\nIn the sacred books of the Hindus there is much written concerning\nthe eternal city Amaranagar, whose inhabitants are immortal. There\nIndra, azure-bearded, dwells in sleepless pleasure, surrounded by his\nnever-slumbering court of celestial bayaderes, circling about him as\nthe constellations of heaven circle in their golden dance about Surya,\nthe sun. And this was Bakawali's home, that she had abandoned for the\nlove of a man.\n\nSo it came to pass one night, a night of perfume and of pleasure, that\nIndra started up from his couch like one suddenly remembering a thing\nlong forgotten, and asked of those about him: \"How happens it that\nBakawali, daughter of Firoz, no more appears before us?\" And one of\nthem made answer, saying: \"O great Indra, that pretty fish hath been\ncaught in the net of human love! Like the nightingale, never does she\ncease to complain because it is not possible for her to love even more;\nintoxicated is she with the perishable youth and beauty of her mortal\nlover; and she lives only for him and in him, so that even her own\nkindred are now forgotten or have become to her objects of aversion.\nAnd it is because of him, O Lord of Suras and Devas, that the rosy one\nno longer presents herself before thy court.\"\n\nThen was Indra wroth; and he commanded that Bakawali be perforce\nbrought before him, that she might render account of her amorous\nfolly. And the Devas, awaking her, placed her in their cloud-chariot,\nand brought her into the presence of Indra, her lips still humid with\nmortal kisses, and on her throat red-blossom marks left by human lips.\nAnd she knelt before him, with fingers joined as in prayer; while\nthe Lord of the firmament gazed at her in silent anger, with such a\nfrown as he was wont to wear when riding to battle upon his elephant\ntriple-trunked. Then said he to the Devas about him: \"Let her be\npurified by fire, inasmuch as I discern about her an odor of mortality\noffensive to immortal sense. And even so often as she returns to her\nfolly, so often let her be consumed in my sight.\"...\n\n[Illustration: _Indra in his Court_ _From a Fifteenth-Century fain\nmanuscript_] Accordingly they bound the fairest of Apsarases, and cast\nher into a furnace furious as the fires of the sun, so that within\na moment her body was changed to a white heap of ashes. But over the\nashes was magical water sprinkled; and out of the furnace Bakawali\narose, nude as one newly born, but more perfect in rosy beauty even\nthan before. And Indra commanded her to dance before him, as she was\nwont to do in other days.\n\nSo she danced all those dances known in the courts of heaven, curving\nherself as flowers curve under a perfumed breeze, as water serpentines\nunder the light; and she circled before them rapidly as a leaf-whirling\nwind, lightly as a bee, with myriad variations of delirious grace,\nwith ever-shifting enchantment of motion, until the hearts of all who\nlooked upon her were beneath those shining feet, and all cried aloud:\n\"O flower-body! O rose-body! O marvel of the Garden of Grace! Blossom\nof daintiness! O flower-body!\"\n\n\nThus was she each night obliged to appear before Indra at Amaranagar,\nand each night to suffer the fiercest purification of fire, forasmuch\nas she would not forsake her folly; and each night also did she return\nto her mortal lover, and take her wonted place beside him without\nawaking him, having first bathed her in the great fountain of rosewater\nwithin the court.\n\nBut once it happened that Taju'l-Mulk awoke in the night, and reaching\nout his arms found she was not there. Only the perfume of her head upon\nthe pillow, and odorous garments flung in charming formlessness upon\nevery divan....\n\nWhen she returned, seemingly fairer than before, the youth uttered no\nreproach, but on the night following he slit up the tip of his finger\nwith a sharp knife, and filled the wound with salt that he might\nnot sleep. Then, when the aerial chariot descended all noiselessly,\nlike some long cloud moon-silvered, he arose and followed Bakawali\nunperceived. Clinging underneath the chariot, he was borne above winds\neven to Amaranagar, and into the jeweled courts and into the presence\nof Indra. But Indra knew not, for his senses were dizzy with sights of\nbeauty and the fumes of soma-wine.\n\nThen did Taju'l-Mulk, standing in the shadow of a pillar, behold beauty\nsuch as he had never before seen--save in Bakawali--and hear music\nsweeter than mortal musician may ever learn. Splendors bewildered his\neyes; and the crossing of the fretted and jeweled archwork above him\nseemed an inter-crossing and interblending of innumerable rainbows.\nBut when it was given to him, all unexpectedly, to view the awful\npurification of Bakawali, his heart felt like ice within him, and he\nshrieked. Nor could he have refrained from casting himself also into\nthat burst of white fire, had not the magical words been pronounced and\nthe wizard-water sprinkled before he was able to move a limb. Then did\nhe behold Bakawali rising from her snowy cinders--shining like an image\nof the goddess Lakshmi in the fairest of her thousand forms--more\nradiant than before, like some comet returning from the embraces of the\nsun with brighter curves of form and longer glories of luminous hair....\n\nAnd Bakawali danced and departed, Taju'l-Mulk likewise returning even\nas he had come....\n\n\nBut when he told her, in the dawn of the morning, that he had\naccompanied her in her voyage and had surprised her secret, Bakawali\nwept and trembled for fear. \"Alas! alas! what hast thou done?\" she\nsobbed; \"thou hast become thine own greatest enemy. Never canst thou\nknow all that I have suffered for thy sake--the maledictions of my\nkindred, the insults of all belonging to my race. Yet rather than turn\naway my face from thy love, I suffered nightly the agonies of burning;\nI have died a myriad deaths rather than lose thee. Thou hast seen it\nwith thine own eyes!... But none of mankind may visit unbidden the\ndwelling of the gods and return with impunity. Now, alas! the evil hath\nbeen done; nor can I devise any plan by which to avert thy danger, save\nthat of bringing thee again secretly to Amaranagar and charming Indra\nin such wise that he may pardon all.\"...\n\n\nSo Bakawali the Apsaras suffered once more the agony of fire, and\ndanced before the gods, not only as she had danced before, but\nso that the eyes of all beholding her became dim in watching the\nvarying curves of her limbs, the dizzy speed of her white feet, the\ntossing light of her hair. And the charm of her beauty bewitched the\ntongues of all there, so that the cry, \"O flower-body!\" fainted into\nindistinguishable whispers, and the fingers of the musicians were\nnumbed with languor, and the music weakened tremblingly, quiveringly,\ndying down into an amorous swoon.\n\nAnd out of the great silence broke the soft thunder of Indra's pleased\nvoice: \"O Bakawali! ask me for whatever thou wilt, and it shall be\naccorded thee. By the Trimurti, I swear!\"... But she, kneeling before\nhim, with bosom still fluttering from the dance, murmured: \"I pray\nthee, divine One, only that thou wilt allow me to depart hence, and\ndwell with this mortal whom I love during all the years of life\nallotted unto him.\" And she gazed upon the youth Taju'l-Mulk.\n\nBut Indra, hearing these words, and looking also at Taju'l-Mulk,\nfrowned so darkly that gloom filled all the courts of heaven. And he\nsaid: \"Thou, also, son of man, wouldst doubtless make the same prayer;\nyet think not thou mayst take hence an Apsaras like Bakawali to make\nher thy wife without grief to thyself! And as for thee, O shameless\nBakawali, thou mayst depart with him, indeed, since I have sworn; but I\nswear also to thee that from thy waist unto thy feet thou shalt remain\na woman of marble for the space of twelve years.... Now let thy lover\nrejoice in thee!\"...\n\n...And Bakawali was placed in the chamber of a mined pagoda,\ndeep-buried within the forests of Ceylon; and there did she pass the\nyears, sitting upon a seat of stone, herself stone from feet to waist.\nBut Taju'l-Mulk found her and ministered unto her as to the statue of a\ngoddess; and he waited for her through the long years.\n\nThe ruined pavement, grass-disjointed, trembled to the passing tread of\nwild elephants; often did tigers peer through the pillared entrance,\nwith eyes flaming like emeralds; but Taju'l-Mulk was never weary nor\nafraid, and he waited by her through all the weary and fearful years.\n\nGem-eyed lizards clung and wondered; serpents watched with marvelous\nchrysolite gaze; vast spiders wove their silvered lace above the\nhead of the human statue; sunset-feathered birds, with huge and\nflesh-colored beaks, hatched their young in peace under the eyes\nof Bakawali.... Until it came to pass at the close of the eleventh\nyear--Taju'l-Mulk being in search of food--that the great ruin\nfell, burying the helpless Apsaras under a ponderous and monstrous\ndestruction beyond the power of any single arm to remove.... Then\nTaju'l-Mulk wept; but he still waited, knowing that the immortals could\nnot die.\n\nAnd out of the shapeless mass of ruins there soon grew a marvelous\ntree, graceful, dainty, round-limbed like a woman; and Taju'l-Mulk\nwatched it waxing tall under the mighty heat of the summer, bearing\nflowers lovelier than that narcissus whose blossoms have been compared\nto the eyes of Oriental girls, and rosy fruit as smooth-skinned as\nmaiden flesh.\n\nSo the twelfth year passed. And with the passing of its last moon, a\ngreat fruit parted itself, and therefrom issued the body of a woman,\nslender and exquisite, whose supple limbs had been folded up within\nthe fruit as a butterfly is folded up within its chrysalis, comely as\nan Indian dawn, deeper-eyed than ever woman of earth--being indeed an\nimmortal, being an Apsaras--Bakawali reincarnated for her lover, and\nrelieved from the malediction of the gods.\n\n\n\n\nNATALIKA\n\n\n    The story of a statue of sable stone among the ruins of\n    Tirouvicaray, which are in the Land of Golconda that was....\n    When the body shall have mouldered even as the trunk of a\n    dead tree, shall have crumbled to dust even as a clod of\n    earth, the lovers of the dead will turn away their faces and\n    depart; but Virtue, remaining faithful, will lead the soul\n    beyond the darknesses....\n\n\nThe yellow jungle-grasses are in the streets of the city; the hooded\nserpents are coiled about the marble legs of the gods. Bats suckle\ntheir young within the ears of the granite elephants; and the hairy\nspider spins her web for ruby-throated humming-birds within the\nchambers of longs. The pythons breed within the sanctuaries, once\nornate as the love-songs of Indian poets; the diamond eyes of the\ngods have been plucked out; lizards nestle in the lips of Siva; the\ncentipedes writhe among the friezes; the droppings of birds whiten the\naltars.... But the sacred gateway of a temple still stands, as though\npreserved by the holiness of its inscriptions:\n\n    The Self-existent is not of the universe.... Man may not\n    take with him aught of his possessions beyond the grave;\n    let him increase the greatness of his good deeds, even as\n    the white ants do increase the height of their habitation.\n    For neither father nor mother, neither sister nor brother,\n    neither son nor wife, may accompany him to the other world;\n    but Virtue only may be his comrade...\n\nAnd these words, graven upon the stone, have survived the wreck of a\nthousand years.\n\n\nNow, among the broken limbs of the gods, and the jungle grasses, and\nthe monstrous creeping plants that seem striving to strangle the\nelephants of stone, a learned traveler wandering in recent years came\nupon the statue of a maiden, in black granite, marvelously wrought. Her\nfigure was nude and supple as those of the women of Krishna; on her\nhead was the tiara of a princess, and from her joined hands escaped a\ncascade of flowers to fall upon the tablet supporting her exquisite\nfeet. And on the tablet was the name NATALIKA; and above it a verse\nfrom the holy Ramayana, which signifies, in our tongue, these words:\n\n    ...For I have been witness of this marvel, that by crushing\n    the flowers in her hands, she made them to exhale a sweeter\n    perfume.\n\n\nAnd this is the story of Natalika, as it is told in the chronicle of\nthe Moslem historian Ferista:\n\nMore than a thousand years ago there was war between the Khalif Oualed\nand Dir-Rajah, of the Kingdom of Sindh. The Arab horsemen swept over\nthe land like a typhoon; and their eagle-visaged hordes reddened the\nrivers with blood, and made the nights crimson with the burning of\ncities. Brahman ab ad they consumed with fire, and Alan and Dinal,\nmaking captives of the women, and putting all males to the edge of the\nscimitar. The Rajah fought stoutly for his people and for his gods;\nbut the Arabs prevailed, fearing nothing, remembering the words of the\nProphet, that \"Paradise may be found in the shadow of the crossing of\nswords.\" And at Brahmanabad, Kassim, the zealous lieutenant of the\nKhalif, captured the daughter of the Rajah, and slew the Rajah and all\nhis people.\n\n\nHer name was Natalika. When Kassim saw her, fairer than that\nLove-goddess born from a lotus-flower, her eyes softer than dew, her\nfigure lithe as reeds, her blue-black tresses rippling to the gold\nrings upon her ankles---he swore by the Prophet's beard that she was\nthe comeliest ever born of woman, and that none should have her save\nthe Khalif Oualed. So he commanded that a troop of picked horsemen\nshould take her to Bagdad, with much costly booty--jewelry, delicate\nand light as feathers, ivory carving miraculously wrought (sculptured\nballs within sculptured balls), emeralds and turquoises, diamonds\nand rubies, woofs of cashmere, and elephants, and dromedaries. And\nwhosoever might do hurt to Natalika by the way, would have to pay for\nit with his head, as surely as the words of the Koran were the words of\nGod's Prophet.\n\n\nWhen Natalika came into the presence of the Khalif of Bagdad, the\nCommander of the Faithful could at first scarcely believe his eyes,\nseeing so beautiful a maiden; and starting from his throne without so\nmuch as looking at the elephants and the jewels and the slaves and the\nother gifts of Kassim, he raised the girl from her knees and kissed her\nin the presence of all the people, vowing that it rather behooved him\nto kneel before her than her to kneel before him. But she only wept,\nand answered not....\n\nAnd before many days the Khalif bade her know that he desired to make\nher his favorite wife; for since his eyes had first beheld her he could\nneither eat nor sleep for thinking of her. Therefore he prayed that she\nwould cease her weeping, inasmuch as he would do more to make her happy\nthan any other might do, save only the Prophet in his paradise.\n\nThen Natalika wept more bitterly than before, and vowed herself\nunworthy to be the bride of the Khalif, although herself a king's\ndaughter; for Kassim had done her a grievous wrong ere sending her to\nBagdad....\n\n\nOualed heard the tale, and his mustaches curled with wrath. He sent\nhis swiftest messengers to India with a sealed parchment containing\norders that Kassim should leave the land of Sindh forthwith and hasten\nto Bassora, there to await further commands. Natalika shut herself up\nalone in her chamber to weep; and the Khalif wondered that he could not\ncomfort her. But Kassim, leaving Sindh, wondered much more why the\nCommander of the Faithful should have recalled him, notwithstanding the\nbeauty of the gifts, the loveliness of the captives, the splendor of\nthe elephants. Still marveling, he rode into Bassora, and sought the\ngovernor of that place. Even while he was complaining there came forth\nmutes with bow-strings, and they strangled Kassim at the governor's\nfeet.\n\n\nDays went and came; and at last there rode into Bagdad a troop of\nfierce horsemen, to the Khalif s palace. Their leader, advancing into\nOualed's presence, saluted him, and laid at his feet a ghastly head\nwith blood-bedabbled beard, the head of the great captain, Kassim.\n\n\n\"Lo!\" cried Oualed to Natalika, \"I have avenged thy wrong; and now, I\ntrust, thou wilt believe that I love thee, and truly desire to set thee\nover my household as my wife, my queen, my sweetly beloved!\"\n\nBut Natalika commenced to laugh with a wild and terrible laugh. \"Know,\nO deluded one,\" she cried, \"that Kassim was wholly innocent in that\nwhereof I accused him, and that I sought only to avenge the death of\nmy people, the murder of my brothers and sisters, the pillage of our\nhomes, the sacrilegious destruction of the holy city Brahmanabad.\nNever shall I, the daughter of a Kshatrya king, ally myself with one\nof thy blood and creed. I have lived so long only that I might be\navenged; and now that I am doubly avenged, by the death of our enemy,\nby thy hopeless dream of love for me, I die!\" Piercing her bosom with a\nponiard, she fell at the Khalif s feet.\n\n\nBut Natalika's betrothed lover, Udayah-Rajah, avenged her even more,\ndriving the circumcised conquerors from the land, and slaughtering all\nwho fell into his hands. And the cruelties they had wrought he repaid\nthem a hundred-fold.\n\nYet, growing weary of life by reason of Natalika's death, he would not\nreign upon the throne to which he had hoped to lift her in the embrace\nof love; but, retiring from the world, he became a holy mendicant of\nthe temple of Tirouvicaray....\n\nAnd at last, feeling his end near, he dug himself a little grave under\nthe walls of the temple; and ordered the most skilful sculptors to make\nthe marble statue of his beloved, and that the statue should be placed\nupon his grave. Thus they wrought Natalika's statue as the statues of\ngoddesses are wrought, but always according to his command, so that\nshe seemeth to be crushing roses in her fingers. And when Udayah-Rajah\npassed away, they placed the statue of Natalika above him, so that her\nfeet rest upon his heart.\n\n    I have been witness of this marvel, that by crushing the\n    flowers within her hands she made them to exhale a sweeter\n    perfume!\n\nWere not those flowers the blossoming of her beautiful youth, made\nlovelier by its own sacrifice?\n\nThe temple and its ten thousand priests are gone. But even after the\nlapse of a thousand years a perfume still exhales from those roses of\nstone!\n\n\n\n\nTHE CORPSE-DEMON\n\n\n    There is a book written in the ancient tongue of India, and\n    called \"Vet\u00e1lapanchavinsati,\" signifying \"The Twenty-Five\n    Tales of a Demon.\"... And these tales are marvelous above\n    all stories told by men; for wondrous are the words of\n    Demons, and everlasting.... Now this Demon dwelt within a\n    corpse, and spake with the tongue of the corpse, and gazed\n    with the eyes of the corpse. And the corpse was suspended by\n    its feet from a tree overshadowing tombs....\n\n    Now on the fourteenth of the moonless half of the month\n    Bhadon, the Kshatrya king Vikramaditya was commanded by a\n    designing Yogi that he should cut down the corpse and bring\n    the same to him. For the Yogi thus designed to destroy the\n    king in the night....\n\n    And when the king cut down the corpse, the Demon which was\n    in the corpse laughed and said: \"If thou shouldst speak once\n    upon the way, I go not with thee, but return unto my tree.\"\n    Then the Demon began to tell to the king stories so strange\n    that he could not but listen. And at the end of each story\n    the Demon would ask hard questions, threatening to devour\n    Vikramaditya should he not answer; and the king, rightly\n    answering, indeed avoided destruction, yet, by speaking,\n    perforce enabled the Demon to return to the tree.... Now\n    listen to one of those tales which the Demon told:\n\n\nO King, there once was a city called Dharmpur, whose rajah Dharmshil\nbuilt a glorious temple to Devi, the goddess with a thousand shapes\nand a thousand names. In marble was the statue of the goddess wrought,\nso that she appeared seated cross-legged upon the cup of a monstrous\nlotus, two of her four hands being joined in prayer, and the other two\nuplifting on either side of her fountain basins, in each of which stood\nan elephant spouting perfumed spray. And there was exceeding great\ndevotion at this temple; and the people never wearied of presenting to\nthe goddess sandal-wood, unbroken rice, consecrated food, flowers, and\nlamps burning odorous oil.\n\nNow from a certain city there came one day in pilgrimage to Devi's\ntemple, a washerman and a friend with him. Even as he was ascending the\nsteps of the temple, he beheld a damsel descending toward him, unrobed\nabove the hips, after the fashion of her people. Sweet as the moon\nwas her face; her hair was like a beautiful dark cloud; her eyes were\nliquid and large as a wild deer's; her brows were arched like bows well\nbent; her delicate nose was curved like a falcon's beak; her neck was\ncomely as a dove's; her teeth were like pomegranate seeds; her lips\nruddy as the crimson gourd; her hands and feet soft as lotus-leaves.\nGolden-yellow was her skin, like the petals of the champa-flowers; and\nthe pilgrim saw that she was graceful-waisted as a leopard. And while\nthe tinkling of the gold rings about her round ankles receded beyond\nhis hearing, his sight became dim for love, and he prayed his friend to\ndiscover for him who the maiden might be.... Now she was the daughter\nof a washerman.\n\nThen did the pilgrim enter into the presence of the goddess, having\nhis mind filled wholly by the vision of that girl; and prostrating\nhimself he vowed a strange vow, saying: \"O Devi, Mahadevi--Mother of\nGods and Monster-slayer--before whom all the divinities bow down, thou\nhast delivered the earth from its burdens! thou hast delivered those\nthat worshiped thee from a thousand misfortunes! Now I pray thee, O\nMother Devi, that thou wilt be my helper also, and fulfill the desire\nof my heart. And if by thy favor I be enabled to marry that loveliest\nof women, O Devi, verily I will make a sacrifice of my own head to\nthee.\" Such was the vow which he vowed.\n\nBut having returned unto his city and to his home, the torment of\nbeing separated from his beloved so wrought upon him that he became\ngrievously sick, knowing neither sleep nor hunger nor thirst, inasmuch\nas love causes men to forget all these things. And it seemed that he\nmight shortly die. Then, indeed, his friend, being alarmed, went to the\nfather of the youth, and told him all, so that the father also became\nfearful for his son. Therefore, accompanied by his son's friend, he\nwent to that city, and sought out the father of the girl, and said\nto him: \"Lo! I am of thy caste and calling, and I have a favor to\nask of thee. It has come to pass that my son is so enamoured of thy\ndaughter that unless she be wedded to him he will surely die. Give me,\ntherefore, the hand of thy daughter for my dear son.\" And the other\nwas not at all displeased at these words; but, sending for a Brahman,\nhe decided upon a day of good omen for the marriage to be celebrated.\nAnd he said: \"Friend, bring thy son hither. I shall rub her hands with\nturmeric, that all men may know she is betrothed.\"\n\nThus was the marriage arranged; and in due time the father of the\nyouth came with his son to the city; and after the ceremony had\nbeen fulfilled, he returned to his own people with his son and his\ndaughter-in-law. Now the love these young people held each for the\nother waxed greater day by day; and there was no shadow on the young\nman's happiness saving the memory of his vow. But his wife so caressed\nand fondled him that at last the recollection of the oath faded utterly\naway.\n\nAfter many days it happened that the husband and wife were both invited\nto a feast at Dharmpur; and they went thither with the friend who had\nbefore accompanied the youth upon his pilgrimage. Even as they neared\nthe city, they saw from afar off the peaked and gilded summits of\nDevi's temple. Then the remembrance of his oath came back with great\nanguish to that young husband. \"Verily,\" he thought within his heart,\n\"I am most shameless and wicked among all perjurers, having been false\nin my vow even to Devi, Mother of Gods!\"\n\nAnd he said to his friend: \"I pray thee, remain thou here with my wife\nwhile I go to prostrate myself before Devi.\"\n\nSo he departed to the temple, and bathed himself in the sacred pool,\nand bowed himself before the statue with joined hands. And having\nperformed the rites ordained, he struck himself with a sword a mighty\nblow upon his neck, so that his head, being separated from his body,\nrolled even to the pillared stem of the marble lotus upon which Devi\nsat.\n\nNow after the wife and the dead man's friend had long waited vainly,\nthe friend said: \"Surely he hath been gone a great time; remain thou\nhere while I go to bring him back!\" So he went to the temple, and\nentering it beheld his friend's body lying in blood, and the severed\nhead beneath the feet of Devi. And he said to his own heart: \"Verily\nthis world is hard to live in!... Should I now return, the people would\nsay that I had murdered this man for the sake of his wife's exceeding\nbeauty.\" Therefore he likewise bathed in the sacred pool, and performed\nthe rites prescribed, and smote himself upon the neck so that his head\nalso was severed from his body and rolled in like manner unto Devi's\nfeet.\n\nNow, after the young wife had waited in vain alone for a long while,\nshe became much tormented by fear for her husband's sake, and went\nalso to the temple. And when she beheld the corpses and the reeking\nswords, she wept with unspeakable anguish, and said to her own heart:\n\"Surely this world is hard to live in at best; and what is life now\nworth to me without my husband? Moreover, people will say that I, being\na wicked woman, murdered them both, in order to live wickedly without\nrestraint. Let me therefore also make a sacrifice!\"...\n\nSaying these words, she departed to the sacred pool and bathed therein,\nand, having performed the holy rites, lifted a sword to her own smooth\nthroat that she might slay herself. But even as she lifted the sword a\nmighty hand of marble stayed her arm; while the deep pavement quivered\nto the tread of Devi's feet. For the Mother of Gods had arisen, and\ndescended from her lotus seat, and stood beside her. And a divine voice\nissued from the grim lips of stone, saying, \"O daughter! Dear hast\nthou made thyself to me! Ask now a boon of Devi!\" But she answered,\nall-tremblingly, \"Divinest Mother, I pray only that these men may be\nrestored to life.\" Then said the goddess, \"Put their heads upon their\nbodies.\"\n\nAnd the beautiful wife sought to do according to the divine command;\nbut love and hope and the fear of Devi made dizzy her brain, so that\nshe placed her husband's head upon the friend's neck, and the head of\nthe friend upon the neck of her husband. And the goddess sprinkled the\nbodies with the nectar of immortality, and they stood up, alive and\nwell, indeed, yet with heads wonderfully exchanged.\n\n    Then said the Demon: \"O King Vikramaditya! to which of these\n    two was she wife? Verily, if thou dost not rightly answer,\n    I shall devour thee.\" And Vikramaditya answered: \"Listen!\n    in the holy Shastra it is said that as the Ganges is chief\n    among rivers, and Sumeru chief among mountains, and the\n    Tree of Paradise chief among trees, so is the head chief\n    among the parts of the body. Therefore she was the wife of\n    that one to whose body her husband's head was joined.\"...\n    Having answered rightly, the king suffered no hurt; but\n    inasmuch as he had spoken, it was permitted the corpse-demon\n    to return to the tree, and hang suspended therefrom above\n    the tombs.\n\n    ...And many times, in like manner, was the Demon enabled to\n    return to the tree; and even so many times did Vikramaditya\n    take down and bind and bear away the Demon; and each time\n    the Demon would relate to the king a story so wild, so\n    wonderful, that he could not choose but hear.... Now this is\n    another of those tales which the Demon told:\n\nO King, in the city of Dharmasthal there lived a Brahman, called Kesav;\nand his daughter, who was beautiful as an Apsaras, had rightly been\nnamed Sweet Jasmine-Flower, Madhumalati. And so soon as she was nubile,\nher father and her mother and her brothers were all greatly anxious to\nfind her a worthy husband.\n\nNow one day the father and the brother and the mother of the girl each\npromised her hand to a different suitor. For the good Kesav, while\nabsent upon a holy visit, met a certain Brahman youth, who so pleased\nhim that Kesav promised him Madhumalati; and even the same day, the\nbrother, who was a student of the Shastras, met at the house of his\nspiritual teacher another student who so pleased him that he promised\nhim Madhumalati; and in the meantime there visited Kesav's home another\nyoung Brahman, who so delighted the mother that she promised him\nMadhumakti. And the three youths thus betrothed to the girl were all\nequal in beauty, in strength, in accomplishments, and even in years, so\nthat it would not have been possible to have preferred any one of them\nabove the rest. Thus, when the father returned home, he found the three\nyouths there before him; and he was greatly troubled upon learning\nall that had taken place. \"Verily,\" he exclaimed, \"there is but one\ngirl and three bridegrooms, and to all of the three has our word been\npledged; to whom shall I give Madhumalati?\" And he knew not what to do.\n\nBut even as he was thinking, and gazing from one to the other of the\nthree youths, a hooded serpent bit the girl, so that she died.\n\nForthwith the father sent out for magicians and holy men, that they\nmight give back life to his daughter; and the holy men came together\nwith the magicians. But the enchanters said that, by reason of the\nperiod of the moon, it was not possible for them to do aught; and the\nholy men avowed that even Brahma himself could not restore life to one\nbitten by a serpent. With sore lamentation, accordingly, the Brahman\nperformed the funeral rites; and a pyre was built, and the body of\nMadhumalati consumed thereupon.\n\nNow those three youths had beheld the girl in her living beauty, and\nall of them had been madly enamoured of her; and each one, because he\nhad loved and lost her, resolved thenceforth to abandon the world and\nforego all pleasure in this life. All visited the funeral pyre; and\none of them gathered up all the girl's bones while they were yet warm\nfrom the flame, and tied them within a bag, and then went his way to\nbecome a fakir. Another collected the ashes of her body, and took them\nwith him into the recesses of a forest, where he built a hut and began\nto live alone with the memory of her. The last indeed took no relic\nof Madhumalati, but, having prayed a prayer, assumed the garb of a\nYogi, and departed to beg his way through the world. Now his name was\nMadhusudam.\n\nLong after these things had happened, Madhusudam one day entered the\nhouse of a Brahman, to beg for alms; and the Brahman invited him\nto partake of the family repast. So Madhusudam, having washed his\nhands and his feet, sate him down to eat beside the Brahman; and the\nBrahman's wife waited upon them. Now it came to pass, when the meal was\nstill but half served, that the Brahman's little boy asked for food;\nand being bidden to wait, he clung to the skirt of his mother's dress,\nso that she was hindered in her duties of hospitality. Becoming angry,\ntherefore, she seized her boy, and threw him into the fireplace where\na great fire was; and the boy was burned to ashes in a moment. But\nthe Brahman continued to eat as if nothing had happened; and his wife\ncontinued to serve the repast with a kindly smile upon her countenance.\n\nAnd being horror-stricken at these sights, Madhusudam arose from his\nsitting-place, leaving his meal unfinished, and directed his way toward\nthe door. Then the Brahman kindly questioned him, saying: \"O friend,\nhow comes it that thou dost not eat? Surely both I and my wife have\ndone what we could to please thee!\"\n\nAnd Madhusudam, astonished and wroth, answered: \"How dost thou dare ask\nme why I do not eat? How might any being, excepting a Rakshasa, eat in\nthe house of one by whom such a demon-deed hath been committed?\"\n\nBut the Brahman smiled, and rose up and went to another part of the\nhouse, and returned speedily with a book of incantations--a book of the\nscience of resurrection. And he read but one incantation therefrom,\nwhen, lo! the boy that had been burned came alive and unscorched from\nthe fire, and ran to his mother, crying and clinging to her dress as\nbefore.\n\nThen Madhusudam thought within himself: \"Had I that wondrous book, how\nreadily might I restore my beloved to life!\" And he sat down again,\nand, having finished his repast, remained in that house as a guest.\nBut in the middle of the night he arose stealthily, and purloined the\nmagical book, and fled away to his own city.\n\nAnd after many days he went upon a pilgrimage of love to the place\nwhere the body of Madhumalati had been burned (for it was the\nanniversary of her death), and arriving he found that the other two who\nhad been betrothed to her were also there before him. And lifting up\ntheir voices, they cried out: \"O Madhusudam! thou hast been gone many\nyears and hast seen much. What hast thou learned of science?\"\n\nBut he answered: \"I have learned the science that restores the dead to\nlife.\" Then they prayed him, saying, \"Revive thou Madhumalati!\" And he\ntold them: \"Gather ye her bones together, and her ashes, and I will\ngive her life.\"\n\nAnd they having so done, Madhusudam produced the book and read a charm\ntherefrom; and the heap of ashes and cindered bones shaped itself to\nthe command, and changed color, and lived, and became a beautiful\nwoman, sweet as a jasmine-flower--Madhumalati even as she was before\nthe snake had bitten her!\n\nBut the three youths, beholding her smile, were blinded by love, so\nthat they began to wrangle fiercely together for the sake of her....\n\n    Then the Demon said: \"O Vikramaditya! to which of these was\n    she wife? Answer rightly, lest I devour thee.\"\n\n    And the king answered: \"Truly she was the wife of him who\n    had collected her ashes, and taken them with him into the\n    recesses of the forest, where he built a hut and dwelt alone\n    with the memory of her.\"\n\n    \"Nay!\" said the Demon; \"how could she have been restored to\n    life had not the other also preserved her bones? and despite\n    the piety of those two, how could she have been resurrected\n    but for the third?\"\n\n    But the king replied: \"Even as the son's duty is to preserve\n    the bones of his parents, so did he who preserved the\n    bones of Madhumalati stand to her only in the place of a\n    son. Even as a father giveth life, so did he who reanimated\n    Madhumalati stand to her only in the place of a father. But\n    he who collected her ashes and took them with him into the\n    recesses of the forest, where he built a hut and dwelt alone\n    with the memory of her, he was truly her lover and rightful\n    husband.\"\n\n\n    ...Many other hard questions the Demon also asked,\n    concerning men who by magic turned themselves into women,\n    and concerning corpses animated by evil spirits; but the\n    king answered all of them save one, which indeed admitted of\n    no answer:\n\nO Vikramaditya, when Mahabal was rajah of Dharmpur, another monarch\nstrove against him, and destroyed his army in a great battle, and slew\nhim. And the wife and daughter of the dead king fled to the forest for\nsafety, and wandered there alone. At that time the rajah Chandrasen was\nhunting in the forest, and his son with him; and they beheld the prints\nof women's feet upon the ground. Then said Chandrasen: \"Surely the feet\nof those who have passed here are delicate and beautiful, like those\nof women; yet I marvel exceedingly that there should be women in this\ndesolate place. Let us pursue after them; and if they be beautiful,\nI shall take to wife her whose feet have made the smallest of these\ntracks, and thou shalt wed the other.\"\n\nSo they came up with the women, and were much charmed with their\nbeauty; and the rajah Chandrasen married the daughter of the dead\nMahabal, and Chandrasen's son took Mahabat's widow to wife. So that the\nfather married the daughter of the mother, and the son the mother of\nthe daughter...\n\n    And the Demon asked: \"O Vikramaditya, in what manner were\n    the children of Chandrasen and his son related by these\n    marriages?\" But the king could not answer. And because he\n    remained silent the Demon was pleased, and befriended him\n    in a strange and unexpected manner, as it is written in the\n    \"Vet\u00e1lapanchavinsati.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE LION\n\n\n    Intelligence is better than much learning; intelligence is\n    better than science; the man that hath not intelligence\n    shall perish like those who made unto themselves a lion.\n    ...And this is the story of the lion, as related by the holy\n    Brahman Vishnousarman in the \"Panchopakhyana.\"\n\n\nIn days of old there were four youths of the Brahman caste--brothers,\nwho loved each other with strong affection, and had resolved to travel\nall together into a neighboring empire to seek fortune and fame.\n\nOf these four brothers three had deeply studied all sciences, knowing\nmagic, astronomy, alchemy, and occult arts most difficult to learn;\nwhile the fourth had no knowledge whatever of science, possessing\nintelligence only.\n\nNow, as they were traveling together, one of the learned brothers\nobserved: \"Why should a brother without knowledge obtain profit by our\nwisdom? Traveling with us he can be only a burden upon us. Never will\nhe be able to obtain the respect of kings, and therefore must he remain\na disgrace to us. Rather let him return home.\"\n\nBut the eldest of all answered: \"Nay! let him share our good luck; for\nhe is our loving brother, and we may perhaps find some position for him\nwhich he can fill without being a disgrace to us.\"\n\nSo they journeyed along; and after a time, while passing through a\nforest, they beheld the bones of a lion scattered on the path. These\nbones were white as milk and hard as flint, so dry and so bleached they\nwere.\n\nThen said he who had first condemned the ignorance of his brother: \"Let\nus now show our brother what science may accomplish; let us put his\nignorance to shame by giving life to these lion-bones, and creating\nanother lion from them! By a few magical words I can summon the dry\nbones together, making each fit into its place.\" Therewith he spake\nthe words, so that the dry bones came together with a clattering\nsound--each fitting to its socket--and the skeleton rejointed itself\ntogether.\n\n\"I,\" quoth the second brother, \"can by a few words spread tendons over\nthe bones--each in its first place--and thicken them with muscle, and\nredden them with blood, and create the humors, the veins, the glands,\nthe marrow, the internal organs, and the exterior skin.\" Therewith he\nspake the words; and the body of the lion appeared upon the ground at\ntheir feet, perfect, shaggy, huge.\n\n\"And I,\" said the third brother, \"can by one word give warmth to the\nblood and motion to the heart, so that the animal shall live and\nbreathe and devour beasts. And ye shall hear him roar.\"\n\nBut ere he could utter the word, the fourth brother, who knew nothing\nabout science, placed his hand over his mouth. \"Nay!\" he cried, \"do\nnot utter the word. That is a lion! If thou givest him life, he will\ndevour us.\"\n\nBut the others laughed him to scorn, saying: \"Go home, thou fool! What\ndost thou know of science?\"\n\nThen he answered them: \"At least, delay the making of the lion until\nthy brother can climb up this tree.\" Which they did.\n\nBut hardly had he ascended the tree when the word was spoken, and the\nlion moved and opened his great yellow eyes. Then he stretched himself,\nand arose, and roared. Then he turned upon the three wise men, and slew\nthem, and devoured them.\n\nBut after the lion had departed, the youth who knew nothing of science\ndescended from the tree unharmed, and returned to his home.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LEGEND OF THE MONSTER MISFORTUNE\n\n\n    He that hath a hundred desireth a thousand; he that hath\n    a thousand would have a hundred thousand; he that hath a\n    hundred thousand longeth for the kingdom; he that hath a\n    kingdom doth wish to possess the heavens. And being led\n    astray by cupidity, even the owners of riches and wisdom\n    do those things which should never be done, and seek after\n    that which ought never to be sought after.... Wherefore\n    there hath been written, for the benefit of those who do\n    nourish their own evil passions, this legend taken from the\n    forty-sixth book of the \"Fa-youen-tchou-lin\":\n\n\nIn those ages when the sun shone brighter than in these years, when the\nperfumes of flowers were sweeter, when the colors of the world were\nfairer to behold, and gods were wont to walk upon earth, there was a\ncertain happy kingdom wherein no misery was. Of gems and of gold there\nwas super-abundance; the harvests were inexhaustible as ocean; the\ncities more populous than ant-hills. So many years had passed without\nwar that plants grew upon the walls of the great towns, disjointing\nthe rampart-stones by the snaky strength of their roots. And through\nall that land there was a murmur of music constant as the flow of the\nYellow River; sleep alone interrupted the pursuit of pleasure, and even\nthe dreams of sleepers were never darkened by imaginary woe. For there\nwas no sickness and no want of any sort, so that each man lived his\ncentury of years, and dying laid him down painlessly, as one seeking\nrepose after pleasure--the calm of slumber after the intoxication of\njoy.\n\nOne day the king of that country called all his counselors and\nministers and chief mandarins together, and questioned them, saying:\n\"Behold! I have read in certain ancient annals which are kept within\nour chief temple, these words: '_In days of old Misfortune visited the\nland._' Is there among you one who can tell me what manner of creature\nMisfortune is? Unto what may Misfortune be likened?\"\n\nBut all the counselors and the ministers and the mandarins answered: \"O\nking, we have never beheld it, nor can we say what manner of creature\nit may be.\"\n\nThereupon the king ordered one of his ministers to visit all the lesser\nkingdoms, and to inquire what manner of creature Misfortune might be,\nand to purchase it at any price--if indeed it could be bought--though\nthe price should be the value of a province.\n\nNow there was a certain god, who, seeing and hearing these things,\nforthwith assumed the figure of a man, and went to the greatest market\nof a neighboring kingdom, taking with him Misfortune, chained with a\nchain of iron. And the form of Misfortune was the form of a gigantic\nsow. So the minister, visiting that foreign market, observed the\ncreature, which was made fast to a pillar there, and asked the god what\nanimal it was.\n\n\"It is called the female of Misfortune,\" quoth the god.\n\n\"Is it for sale?\" questioned the minister.\n\n\"Assuredly,\" answered the god.\n\n\"And the price?\"\n\n\"A million pieces of gold.\"\n\n\"What is its daily food?\"\n\n\"One bushel measure of needles.\"\n\n\nHaving paid for the beast a million pieces of good yellow gold, the\nminister was perforce compelled to procure food for it. So he sent out\nrunners to all the markets, and to the shops of tailors and of weavers,\nand to all the mandarins of all districts within the kingdom, to\nprocure needles. This caused much tribulation in the land, not only by\nreason of the scarcity of needles, but also because of the affliction\nto which the people were subjected. For those who had not needles were\nbeaten with bamboos; and the mandarins, desiring to obey the behest\nof the king's minister, exercised much severity. The tailors and\nothers who lived by their needles soon found themselves in a miserable\nplight; and the needlemakers, toil as they would, could never make\nenough to satisfy the hunger of the beast, although many died because\nof overwork. And the price of a needle became as the price of emeralds\nand diamonds, and the rich gave all their substance to procure food\nfor this beast, whose mouth, like the mouth of hell, could not be\nsatisfied. Then the people in many parts, made desperate by hunger and\nthe severity of the mandarins, rose in revolt, provoking a war which\ncaused the destruction of many tens of thousands. The rivers ran with\nblood, yet the minister could not bring the beast to the palace for\nlack of needles wherewith to feed it.\n\nTherefore he wrote at last to the king, saying: \"I have indeed been\nable to find and to buy the female of Misfortune; but the male I have\nnot been able to obtain, nor, with Your Majesty's permission, will I\nseek for it. Lo! the female hath already devoured the substance of this\nland; and I dare not attempt to bring such a monster to the palace.\nI pray Your Majesty therefore that Your Majesty graciously accord me\nleave to destroy this hideous beast; and I trust that Your Majesty will\nbear in mind the saying of the wise men of India: 'Even a King who will\nnot hearken to advice should be advised by faithful counselors.'\"\n\nThen the king, being already alarmed by noise of the famine and of the\nrevolution, ordered that the beast should be destroyed.\n\n\nAccordingly, the female of Misfortune was led to a desolate place\nwithout the village, and chained fast with chains of iron; and the\nminister commanded the butchers to kill it. But so impenetrable was\nits skin that neither axe nor knife could wound it. Wherefore the\nsoldiers were commanded to destroy it. But the arrows of the archers\nflattened their steel points upon Misfortune, even when directed\nagainst its eyes, which were bright and hard as diamonds; while swords\nand spears innumerable were shattered and broken in foolish efforts to\nkill it.\n\nThen the minister commanded a great fire to be built; and the monster\nwas bound within the fire, while quantities of pitch and of oil and\nof resinous woods were poured and piled upon the flame, until the\nfire became too hot for men to approach it within the distance of\nten li. But the beast, instead of burning, first became red-hot and\nthen white-hot, shining like the moon. Its chains melted like wax, so\nthat it escaped at last and ran out among the people like a dragon of\nfire. Many were thus consumed; and the beast entered the villages and\ndestroyed them; and still running so swiftly that its heat increased\nwith its course, it entered the capital city, and ran through it and\nover it upon the roofs, burning up even the king in his palace.\n\nThus, by the folly of that king, was the kingdom utterly wasted and\ndestroyed, so that it became a desert, inhabited only by lizards and\nserpents, and demons....\n\n\nNOTE. This and the following fable belong to the curious collection\ntranslated by M. Stanislas Julien from a Chinese encyclop\u00e6dia, and\npublished at Paris in 1860, under the title, \"Les Avad\u00e2nas\"--or \"The\nSimilitudes\"--a Sanscrit term corresponding to the Chinese Pi-yu, and\njustified by the origin of the stories, translated by the Chinese\nthemselves, or at least reconstructed, from old Sanscrit texts. I have\nventured, however, to accentuate the slightly Chinese coloring of the\nabove grotesque parable. L. H.\n\n\n\n\nA PARABLE BUDDHISTIC\n\n\n    ...Like to earthen vessels wrought in a potter's mill, so\n    are the lives of men; howsoever carefully formed, all are\n    doomed to destruction. Nought that exists shall endure;\n    life is as the waters of a river that flow away, but\n    never return. Therefore may happiness only be obtained by\n    concealing the Six Appetites, as the tortoise withdraws its\n    six extremities into its shell; by guarding the thoughts\n    from desire and from grief, even as the city is guarded by\n    its ditches and its walls....\n\n\nSo spoke in gathas Sakya-Mouni. And this parable, doubtless by him\nnarrated of old, and translated from a lost Indian manuscript into\nthe Chinese tongue, may be found in the fifty-first book of the\n\"Fa-youen-tchou-lin \":\n\n\n...A father and his son were laboring together in the field during the\nseason of serpents, and a hooded serpent bit the young man, so that he\npresently died. For there is no remedy known to man which may annul\nthe venom of the hooded snake, filling the eyes with sudden darkness\nand stilling the motion of the heart. But the father, seeing his son\nlying dead, and the ants commencing to gather, returned to his work and\nceased not placidly to labor as before.\n\nThen a Brahman passing that way, seeing what had happened, wondered\nthat the father continued to toil, and yet more at observing that his\neyes were tearless. Therefore he questioned him, asking: \"Whose son was\nthat youth who is dead?\"\n\n\"He was mine own son,\" returned the laborer, ceasing not to labor.\n\n\"Yet, being thy son, how do I find thee tearless and impassive?\"\n\n\"Folly!\" answered the laborer; \"even the instant that a man is born\ninto the world, so soon doth he make his first step in the direction\nof death; and the ripeness of his strength is also the beginning of\nits decline. For the well-doing there is indeed a recompense; for the\nwicked there is likewise punishment. What avail, therefore, tears and\ngrief? In no wise can they serve the dead.... Perchance, good Brahman,\nthou art on thy way to the city. If so, I pray thee to pass by my\nhouse, and to tell my wife that my son is dead, so that she may send\nhither my noonday repast.\"\n\n\"Ah! what manner of man is this?\" thought the Brahman to himself. \"His\nson is dead, yet he does not weep; the corpse lies under the sun, yet\nhe ceases not to labor; the ants gather about it, yet he coldly demands\nhis noonday meal! Surely there is no compassion, no human feeling,\nwithin his entrails!\" These things the Brahman thought to himself; yet,\nbeing stirred by curiosity, he proceeded none the less to the house of\nthe laborer, and beholding the mother said unto her: \"Woman, thy son is\ndead, having been stricken by a hooded snake; and thy tearless husband\nbade me tell thee to send him his noonday repast.... And now I perceive\nthou art also insensible to the death of thy son, for thou dost not\nweep!\"\n\nBut the mother of the dead answered him with comparisons, saying: \"Sir,\nthat son had indeed received only a passing life from his parents;\ntherefore I called him not my son. Now he hath passed away from me,\nnor was it in my feeble power to retain him. He was only as a traveler\nhalting at a tavern; the traveler rests and passes on; shall the tavern\nkeeper restrain him? Such is indeed the relation of mother and son.\nWhether the son go or come, whether he remain or pass on, I have no\npower over his being; my son has fulfilled the destiny appointed, and\nfrom that destiny none could save him. Why, therefore, lament that\nwhich is inevitable?\"\n\nAnd wondering still more, the Brahman turned unto the eldest sister\nof the dead youth, a maiden in the lotus bloom of her maidenhood, and\nasked her, saying: \"Thy brother is dead, and wilt thou not weep?\"\n\nBut the maiden also answered him with comparisons, saying: \"Sometimes\na strong woodman enters the forest of trees, and hews them down with\nmighty axe-strokes, and binds them together into a great raft, and\nlaunches the raft into the vast river. But a furious wind arises and\nexcites the waves to dash the raft hither and thither, so that it\nbreaks asunder, and the currents separate the foremost logs from\nthose behind, and all are whirled away never again to be united. Even\nsuch has been the fate of my young brother. We were bound together by\ndestiny in the one family; we have been separated forever. There is no\nfixed time of life or death; whether our existence be long or short, we\nare united only for a period, to be separated forevermore. My brother\nhas ended his allotted career; each of us is following a destiny that\nmay not be changed. To me it was not given to protect and to save him.\nWherefore should I weep for that which could not be prevented?\"\n\nThen wondering still more, the Brahman addressed himself to the\nbeautiful wife of the dead youth, saying: \"And thou, on whose bosom he\nslept, dost thou not weep for him, thy comely husband, cut off in the\nsummer of his manhood?\"\n\nBut she answered him also with comparisons, saying: \"Even as two birds,\nflying one from the east and one from the south, meet and look into\neach other's eyes, and circle about each other, and seek the same\nsummit of tree or temple, and sleep together until the dawn, so was\nour own fate. When the golden light breaks in the east, the two birds,\nleaving their temple perch or their tree, fly in opposite ways each to\nseek its food. They meet again if destiny wills; if not, they never\nbehold each other more. Such was the fate of my husband and myself;\nwhen death sought him his destiny was accomplished, and it was not in\nmy power to save him. Therefore, why should I weep?\"\n\nThen wondering more than ever, the Brahman questioned the slave of the\ndead man, asking him: \"Thy master is dead; why dost thou not weep?\"\n\nBut the slave also answered him with comparisons, saying: \"My master\nand I were united by the will of destiny; I was only as the little calf\nwhich follows the great bull. The great bull is slain: the little calf\ncould not save him from the axe of the butcher; its cries and bleatings\ncould avail nothing. Wherefore should I weep, not knowing how soon\nindeed my own hour may come?\"\n\nAnd the Brahman, silent with wonder, watched the slender figures of the\nwomen moving swiftly to and fro athwart the glow of golden light from\nwithout, preparing the noonday repast for the tearless laborer in the\nfield.\n\n\n\n\nPUNDARI\n\n\n    A story of the Buddha, who filled with light the world, the\n    soles of whose feet were like unto the faces of two blazing\n    suns, for that he trod in the Perfect Paths.\n\n\n...In those days Buddha was residing upon the summit of the mountain\nGridhrakuta, overlooking that ancient and vanished city called\nRajagriha--then a glorious vision of white streets and fretted arcades,\nand milky palaces so mightily carven that they seemed light as woofs\nof Cashmere, delicate as frost! There was the cry of elephants heard;\nthere the air quivered with amorous music; there the flowers of a\nthousand gardens exhaled incense to heaven, and there women sweeter\nthan the flowers moved their braceleted ankles to the notes of harps\nand flutes.... But, above all, the summit of the mountain glowed with\na glory greater than day--with a vast and rosy light signaling the\npresence of the Buddha.\n\nNow in that city dwelt a bayadere, most lovely among women, with whom\nin grace no other being could compare; and she had become weary of the\ndance and the jewels and the flowers--weary of her corselets of crimson\nand golden silk, and her robes light as air, diaphanous as mist--weary,\nalso, of the princes who rode to her dwelling upon elephants, bearing\nher gifts of jewels and perfumes and vessels strangely wrought in\ncountries distant ten years' journey. And her heart whispered her to\nseek out Buddha, that she might obtain knowledge and rest, becoming\neven as a Bhikshuni.\n\nTherefore, bidding farewell to the beautiful city, she began to ascend\nthe hilly paths to where the great and rosy glory beamed above. Fierce\nwas the heat of the sun, and rough the dizzy paths; and the thirst and\nweariness of deserts came upon her. So that, having but half ascended\nthe mountain, she paused to drink and rest at a spring clear and bright\nlike diamond, that had wrought a wondrous basin for itself in the heart\nof the rock.\n\nBut as the bayadere bent above the fountain to drink, she beheld in\nits silver-bright mirror the black glory of her hair, and the lotus\nsoftness of her silky-shadowed eyes, and the rose-budding of her\nhoney-sweet mouth, and her complexion golden as sunlight, and the\npolished suppleness of her waist, and her slender limbs rounder than\nan elephant's trunk, and the gold-engirdled grace of her ankles. And a\nmist of tears gathered before her sight. \"Shall I, indeed, cast away\nthis beauty?\" she murmured. \"Shall I mask this loveliness, that hath\nallured rajahs and maharajahs, beneath the coarse garb of a recluse?\nShall I behold my youth and grace fade away in solitude as dreams of\nthe past? Wherefore, then, should I have been born so beautiful? Nay!\nlet those without grace and without youth abandon all to seek the Five\nPaths!\" And she turned her face again toward the white-glimmering\nRajagriha, whence ascended the breath of flowers, and the liquid melody\nof flutes, and the wanton laughter of dancing girls....\n\nBut far above, in the rosiness, omniscient Buddha looked into her\nheart, and, pitying her weakness, changed himself by utterance of the\nWord into a girl far comelier and yet more lissome than even Pundari\nthe bayadere. So that Pundari, descending, suddenly and in much\nastonishment became aware of the loveliest of companions at her side,\nand asked: \"O thou fairest one! whence comest thou? Who may the kindred\nbe of one so lovely?\"\n\nAnd the sweet stranger answered, in tones softer than of flutes of\ngold: \"I also, lovely one, am returning to the white city Rajagriha;\nlet us journey together, that we may comfort each other by the way.\"\n\nAnd Pundari answered: \"Yea, O fairest maiden! thy beauty draws me to\nthee as the flower the bee, and thy heart must surely be precious as is\nthy incomparable face!\"\n\nSo they journeyed on; but the lovely stranger became weary at last,\nand Pundari, sitting down, made a pillow of her round knees for the\ndainty head, and kissed her comrade to sleep, and stroked the silky\nmagnificence of her hair, and fondled the ripe beauty of the golden\nface slumbering, and a great love for the stranger swelled ripening in\nher heart.\n\nYet while she gazed the face upon her smooth knees changed, even as\na golden fruit withers and wrinkles, so wizened became the curved\ncheeks: strange hollows darkened and deepened about the eyes; the silky\nlashes vanished with their shadows; the splendid hair whitened like the\nashes of altar fires; shrunken and shriveled grew the lips; tooth-less\nyawned the once rosy mouth; and the bones of the face, made salient,\nfore-shaped the gibbering outlines of a skull. The perfume of youth was\ngone; but there arose odors insufferable of death, and with them came\nthe ghastly creeping things that death fattens, and the livid colors\nand blotches that his shadowy fingers leave. And Pundari, shrieking,\nfled to the presence of Buddha, and related unto him the things which\nshe had seen.\n\nAnd the World-Honored comforted her, and spake:\n\n\"O Pundari, life is but as the fruit; loveliness but as the flower! Of\nwhat use is the fairest body that lieth rotting beside the flowings\nof the Ganges? Old age and death none of us may escape; yet there are\nworse than these--the new births which are to this life as the echo to\nthe voice in the cavern, as the great footprints to the steps of the\nelephant.\n\n\"From desire cometh woe; by desire is begotten all evil. The body\nitself is a creation of the mind only, of the foolish thirst of the\nheart for pleasure. As the shadows of dreams are dissipated with the\nawakening of the sleeper, even so shall sorrow vanish and evil pass\naway from the heart of whosoever shall learn to conquer desire and\nquench the heart's thirst; even so shall the body itself vanish for\nthose who tread well in the Five Paths.\n\n\"O Pundari, there is no burning greater than desire; no joy like unto\nthe destruction of the body! Even as the white stork standing alone\nbeside the dried-up lily-pool, so shall those be whose youth passes\nfrom them in the fierce heat of foolish passion; and when the great\nchange shall come, they will surely be born again unto foolishness and\ntears.\n\n\"Those only who have found delight in the wilderness where others\nbehold horror; those who have extinguished all longings; those\nself-made passionless by meditation on life and death--only such do\nattain to happiness, and, preventing the second birth, enter into the\nblessedness of Nirvana.\"...\n\nAnd the bayadere, cutting off her hair, and casting from her all\ngifts of trinkets and jewels, abandoned everything to enter the Five\nPaths. And the Devas, rejoicing, made radiant the mountains above the\nwhite city, and filled the air with a rain of strange flowers. And\nwhosoever would know more of Buddha, let him read the marvelous book\n\"Fah-Kheu-King,\"--the Book \"Dhammapada.\"\n\n\n\n\nYAMARAJA\n\n\n    The Legend Maggavago; or, \"The Way\"--which is in the\n    marvelous book of the \"Dhammapada.\"... A story of the Buddha\n    at whose birth the stars stopped in their courses....\n\n\nThe Brahman's son was dead--dead in the blossoming of his beautiful\nyouth, as the rose in whose heart a worm is born, as the lotus bud when\nthe waters of the pool are cut off. For comeliness there was none like\nhim, even among the children of the holiest caste; nor were there any\nso deeply learned in the books of religion, in just reasoning regarding\nthe Scriptures, in the recitation of the slokas of singers divinely\ninspired. Thrice the aged priest fainted away upon the body of his\nson; and as often as they would have led him to his home, he shrieked\nand fainted again, so that, at last, even while he lay as dead, they\ntook the body from his arms, and, having washed it with the waters of\npurification, wrapped it in perfumed linen, and laid it upon a bier\ndecked with Indian flowers, and bore it away to the place of interment.\nThus, when the unhappy father came to himself, all was accomplished;\nand the stern elders of his caste, gathering about him, so harshly\nreproved him for his grief that he was perforce compelled to reason\nwith himself regarding the vanity of lamentation and the folly of human\ntears.\n\nBut not ceasing to meditate upon his great loss, a wild hope at last\nshaped itself within his heart. \"Lo!\" he thought, \"I have heard it said\nthat certain mighty Brahmans, having acquired the Five Virtues, the\nFive Faculties, the Ten Forces, were enabled to converse face to face\nwith Yamaraja, the Lord of Death! To me it hath not indeed been given,\nby reason perchance of my feeble will, to obtain the supreme wisdom;\nyet my love and faith are of the heart, and I will seek out Yamaraja,\nKing of Death, and pray him to give me back my son.\" Therefore the\nBrahman, investing himself with sacerdotal vestments, performed the\nholy ceremonies ordained in the law; and having offered the sacrifice\nof flowers and of incense, he departed to seek the Lord of Death, the\nMaharajah of vanished kingdoms, Yama. And he questioned all whom he met\nas to where Yama might be found.\n\n\nSome, opening astounded eyes, answered him not at all, deeming him to\nbe mad; some there were that mocked him; some counseled that he should\nreturn home, lest he find Yama too speedily! Kshattrya princes with\njewel-hilted sabres answered him as they rode by in glittering steel\nand glimmering gold: \"Yama may be found in the tempest of battles,\nbeneath the bursting of arrow-clouds, amidst the lightning of swords,\nbefore the armored ranks of the fighting elephants.\" Swarthy mariners\nreplied, with rough laughter as of sea winds: \"Thou mayst seek Yama\nin the roaring of waters and raving of typhoons; let the spirit of\nstorms answer thee!\" ...And dancing girls, singing the burning hymn of\nOurvasi, paused to answer with their witchery: \"Seek Yama rather in\nour arms, upon our lips, upon our hearts; exhale thy soul in a kiss.\"\n...And they laughed shrilly as the bells of the temple eaves laugh when\nthe wind lips their silver tongues.\n\n\nSo he wandered on, by the banks of many rivers, under the shadowing of\nmany city walls, still seeking, until he came to the great wilderness\nbelow the mountains of the east, where dwelt the most holy, who had\nobtained supreme wisdom. Serpents hooded like mendicants protruded\ntheir forked tongues; the leopard thrust aside the jungle grasses to\ngaze at him with eyes of green flame; the boa moved before him, making\na waving in the deep weeds as the wake of a boat upon water. But\ninasmuch as he sought Yama, he could not fear.\n\nThus he came at last to where the most holy of Brahmans dwelt, who\nhad obtained supreme wisdom, nourishing themselves upon the perfumes\nof flowers only. The shadow of the rocks, the shadows of the primeval\ntrees, lengthened and shortened and circled with the circling of the\nsun; but the shadows of the trees beneath which they sat circled not,\nnor did they change with the changing of the universal light. The eyes\nof the hermits gazed unwinking upon the face of the sun; the birds of\nheaven nestled in the immobility of their vast beards. All tremblingly\nhe asked of them where Yamaraja might be found.\n\n\nLong he awaited in silence their answer, hearing only the waters\nchanting their eternal slokas, the trees whispering with all their\nflickering leaf-tongues, the humming of innumerable golden flies, the\nheavy movement of great beasts in the jungle. At last the Brahmans\nmoved their lips, and answered, \"Wherefore seekest thou Yama?\" And at\ntheir utterance the voices of the waters and the woods were hushed; the\ngolden flies ceased the music of their wings.\n\nThen answered the pilgrim, tremblingly: \"Lo! I also am a Brahman, ye\nholy ones; but to me it hath not been given to obtain the supreme\nwisdom, seeing that I am unworthy to know the Absolute. Yet I sought\ndiligently for the space of sixty years to obtain holiness; and our law\nteaches that if one have not reached wisdom at sixty, it is his duty,\nreturning home, to take a wife, that he may have holy children. This\nI did; and one son was born unto me, beautiful as the Vasika flower,\nlearned even in his childhood. And I did all I could to instill into\nhim the love of uttermost wisdom, teaching him myself until it came to\npass that he knew more than I, wherefore I sought him teachers from\nElephanta. And in the beauty of his youth he was taken from me--borne\naway with the silk of manhood already shadowing his lip. Wherefore I\npray ye, holy men, tell me in what place Yamaraja dwells, that I may\npray him to give me back my boy!\"\n\n\nThen all the holy voices answered together as one voice, as the tone of\nmany waters flowing in one cadence: \"Verily thou hast not been fitted\nto seek the supreme wisdom, seeing that in the winter of thine age thou\ndost still mourn by reason of a delusion. For the stars die in their\ncourses, the heavens wither as leaves, the worlds vanish as the smoke\nof incense. Lives are as flower-petals opening to fade; the works of\nman as verses written upon water. He who hath reached supreme wisdom\nmourneth existence only.... Yet, that thou mayst be enlightened, we\nwill even advise thee. The kingdom of Yama thou mayst not visit, for\nno man may tread the way with mortal feet. But many hundred leagues\ntoward the setting of the sun, there is a valley, with a city shining\nin the midst thereof. There no man dwells, but the gods only, when\nthey incarnate themselves to live upon earth. And upon the eighth day\nof each month Yamaraja visits them, and thou mayst see him. Yet beware\nof failing a moment to practice the ceremonies, to recite the Mantras,\nlest a strange evil befall thee! ...Depart now from us, that we may\nreenter into contemplation!\"\n\n\nSo, after journeying many moons, the good Brahman stood at last upon\nthe height above the valley, and saw the ivory-white city--a vision of\nlight, like the heaven Trayastrinshas. Not Hanoumat, the messenger\nof Rama, beheld such splendor, when he haunted the courts of Lanka by\nnight, and beheld in Ravana's palace the loveliest of women interlaced\nin the embrace of sleep, \"the garland of women's bodies interwoven.\"\nTerraces fretted by magical chisels rose heavenward, tier upon tier,\nuntil their summit seemed but the fleeciness of summer clouds; arches\ntowered upon arches; pink marble gates yawned like the mouths of\nslumbering bayaderes; crenellated walls edged with embroidery of\ninlaid gold surrounded gardens deep as forests; domes white-rounded,\nlike breasts, made pearly curves against the blue; fountains,\nsilver-nippled, showered perfumed spray; and above the great gate of\nthe palace of the gods, where Devas folded their wings on guard, flamed\na vast carbuncle, upon whose face was graven the Word comprehended only\nby those who have attained supreme wisdom. And standing before the\ngate, the Brahman burnt the holy incense and recited the holy Mantras,\n...until the Devas, pitying him, rolled back the doors of gold, and\nbade him enter.\n\n\nLofty as heaven seemed that palace hall, whose vault of cerulean blue\nhung, self-sustained, above the assembly of the gods; and the pavement\nof sable marble glimmered like a fathomless lake. Yet, as the Brahman\nprostrated himself, not daring to lift his eyes, he felt that it\nquavered under the tread of mortal feet even as when earth trembles.\nIn its reflection he beheld the gods seated in assembly, not awful of\nimage as in earthly temples, but as beings of light, star-diademed,\nrosy with immortality.... Only Yamaraja's brow bore no starry flame;\nand there was in his gaze a profundity as of deep answering unto deep.\nTo the ears of the worshiper his voice came like the voice of waters\npouring over the verge of an echoless abyss, ...and in obedience to\nthat voice the Brahman uttered his prayer.\n\nAnd the Lord of Death, replying in strange tones, said: \"Pious and just\nis this prayer, O child of Brahma! Thy son is now in the Garden of the\nEast. Take him by the hand and go thy way.\" ...\n\n\nJoyfully the Brahman entered that garden of fountains that flow\nforever; of fruits, eternally ripe, that never fall; of flowers\nimmortal, that never fade. And he discerned, among children innumerable\ndisporting, his own beloved son playing beside the fountains; so that\nhe cried out with a great cry, and ran to him and clasped him and wept\nover him, exclaiming: \"O sweet son! O my beloved first-born! dost thou\nnot know me, thy father who mourned thee so long--who hath even entered\nthe presence of Yamaraja, the Lord of Death, to seek thee?\"...\n\nBut like a mist the child passed from his embrace, and answered, with a\nwonder in his eyes: \"_I know thee not!_\"...\n\nThen, kneeling in tears before the boy, the Brahman cried: \"O sweetest\nson, hast thou indeed forgotten the father who loved thee more than his\nown life--who taught thy infant lips to utter the holy prayers--who\ndenied thee no wish of thy heart, bringing thee up as the son of\na rajah, teaching thee all the wisdom of the Brahmans? Hast thou\nforgotten thy mother, also, who weeps for thee now all alone, seeing\nthat I have journeyed so long to find thee? Nay! Look at me with thy\neyes! Look at me again, that thou mayst know me! Or is it because my\ngrief hath so changed me that I am no longer the same in thy sight?\"...\n\nBut the child ever replied: \"I know thee not!\"\n\nThen, casting himself upon the ground, the Brahman wept as one smitten\nby infinite despair, and so sobbed, until the child, touching him,\nspoke again: \"I know thee not! Thou art to me a stranger! I know,\nindeed, that thou art foolish--uttering the terms _father_ and\n_mother_, signifying conditions that pass away like the grass of the\nearth. I perceive, also, that thou art sorrowful, and therefore a\nvictim of delusion; for sorrow springeth from ignorance and desire,\nas the fungus from corruption. Here we know not desire, we know not\nsorrow, neither do we harbor illusion. Thou art no more to me than\nthe wind to the moon, than the flame blown out is to the object once\nilluminated. Get thee from hence, therefore, as it will profit thee\nnothing to bring thy sorrow and thy folly into this place.\"...\n\nSo the Brahman departed, speechless for grief.\n\nOnly then did he seek the Buddha, the Shaman Gautama, that he might\nobtain advice and consolation. And the Buddha, pitying him, laid his\nhand upon his heart, and gave him rest, saying:\n\n\"O Brahman, thou hast only been punished for thy self-delusion and\nfolly.\n\n\"Know that the spirit of the dead receiveth a new bodily form after its\ndeparture, so that former relationship utterly ceaseth, even as one\nvisiting a tavern by the wayside is no longer a guest, having departed\ntherefrom.\n\n\"Much thou art to be pitied for thy weakness and this delusion of thy\nlove, nor canst thou find consolation but in supreme wisdom only.\n\n\"Vainly do men concern themselves regarding wife and child; for the end\ncometh to all as a roaring torrent, sweeping away whatsoever earthly\naffection clings to.\n\n\"Then neither father nor mother can save; then neither love nor\nstrength may succor; parent and kinsman become as blind men set to\nguard a burning lamp.\n\n\"Therefore the truly wise considereth not such things, seeking only\nto save the world, to enlighten men, to destroy sorrow by destroying\ndesire, to redeem himself.\n\n\"Even as the wind driveth away clouds, so should the wise seek to\nbanish thought, to banish worldly consciousness, and thus escape\nforever the future birth and death, attaining the eightfold\nWisdom--finding at last the eternal peace, the eternal rest.\n\n\"Whatsoever is high shall be brought low; wheresoever is agreement will\nsurely come division; where there is birth there shall surely be death\nalso.\n\n\"Therefore cast off, O Brahman, all passion, all affection, all regret,\nas the Vasika plant sheds its withered flowers; therefore flee the\nignorant, and seek in solitude the true wisdom, needing no companion,\nrejoicing as the elephant escaped from the herd....\"\n\n\nAnd, perceiving the vanity of life, the evanescence of joy, the folly\nof grief, that Brahman ceased to mourn, and besought permission to\nfollow the footsteps of the Teacher....\n\n\n\n\nTHE LOTUS OF FAITH; OR, THE FURNACE OF FIRE\n\n\n    Which is in the \"Jatakas\" of Buddha.... At his birth the\n    waters of the Sea became fresh, and the deeps of the Seven\n    Hells were illuminated. The blind received their sight,\n    that they might behold the bliss of the world; the deaf\n    their hearing, that they might know the tidings of joy; by\n    sevenfold lotus-flowers the rocks were riven asunder; the\n    light of glory immeasurable filled the world systems of ten\n    thousand suns....\n\n\nIn the years when Brahmadatta reigned over Benares--the holy city--the\ncity of apes and peacocks--the city possessing the seven precious\nthings, and resounding with the ten cries, with the trumpeting of\nelephants, the neighing of horses, the melody of instruments and voices\nof singing girls--then the future Buddha-elect was born as a son in the\nfamily of the royal treasurer, after having passed through kotis of\nbirths innumerable.\n\nNow the duration of one koti is ten millions of years.\n\nAnd the Buddha-elect, the Bodhisattva, was brought up in splendid\nluxury as a prince of the holy city, and while yet a boy mastered all\nbranches of human knowledge, and becoming a man succeeded his father\nas keeper of the treasury. But even while exercising the duties of his\noffice, he gave rich gifts to holy men, and allowed none to excel him\nin almsgiving.\n\nAt that time there also lived a holy Buddha, who, striving to fulfill\neach and all of the Ten Perfections had passed seven days and seven\nnights without eating so much as one grain of rice. Arousing himself\nat last from his holy trance, he cleansed and robed his person,\nand purified himself, and passing through the air by virtue of his\nperfection, alighted before the door of the treasurer's house, with his\nbegging-bowl in his hand.\n\nThen the Bodhisattva, beholding the sacred mendicant awaiting in\nsilence, bade a servant fetch to him the Buddha's bowl, that he might\nfill it with such food as those who seek supreme wisdom may permit\nthemselves to eat. So the servant proceeded to fetch the bowl.\n\nBut even as he advanced, and before he might reach out his hand, the\nground rocked and heaved like the sea beneath him; and the earth opened\nitself, and yawned to its entrails, making an abyss between the holy\nmendicant and the servant of the Bodhisattva. And the gulf became a\nhell of seething flame, like the hell of Avici, like the heart of a\nvolcano in which even the crags of granite melt as wax, pass away as\nclouds. Also a great and fantastic darkness grew before the sun, and\nblackened all his face.\n\nWherefore the servant and his fellows fled shrieking, leaving only the\nBodhisattva standing upon one verge of the abyss, and the Buddha,\ncalmly waiting, upon the other. Where the feet of the perfect mendicant\nstood, the abyss widened not; but it widened swiftly, devouring the\nground before the feet of the Bodhisattva, as though seeking to engulf\nhim. For Mara, Lord of Rakshasas and of evil ones, desiring that\nthe Buddha might die, sought thus to prevent the almsgiving of the\nBodhisattva. And the darkness before the sun was the darkness of Mara's\nawful face.\n\nAnd as a muttering of mountain thunder came a voice, saying: \"The\nBuddha shall not live by thine alms-gift; his hour hath come.... Mine\nis the fire between thee and him.\"\n\nAnd the Bodhisattva looked at the Buddha across the abyss of fire; and\nthe Buddha's face changed not, neither did he utter a word to dissuade\nnor give one sign to encourage.\n\nBut the Bodhisattva cried aloud, even while the abyss, widening, grew\nvaster to devour him: \"Mara, thou shalt not prevail! To thee power is\nnot given against duty!... My lord Buddha, I come to thee, fearing not;\ntake thou this food from the hands of thy servant.\"\n\nAnd with the dish of rice in his hands, the Bodhisattva strode into the\nroaring waste of fire, uttering these jewel-words: \"Better to enter\nwillingly into hell than neglect a duty or knowingly commit a wrong!\"...\n\nEven then the Buddha smiled on the other verge. And ere the\nBodhisattva could fall, there suddenly arose from the depths of the\npit of fire a vast and beautiful lotus-flower, like unto that from\nwhose womb of gold was Brahma born; and it received the feet of the\nBodhisattva, and bore him beyond the pit, upcasting over him a spray of\ngolden dust like a shower of stars. So he poured into the Buddha's bowl\nthe holy gift of alms.\n\nThe darkness vanished; the abyss was not; the Buddha, rising in air,\npassed over a bridge of rosy cloud to the mountain regions of Himalaya.\nBut the Bodhisattva, still standing upon the lotus of gold, long\ndiscoursed unto the people concerning holy things.\n\n\n\n\nRUNES FROM THE KALEWALA\n\n\n\n\nTHE MAGICAL WORDS\n\n\n    There is in the ancient Finnish tongue a strange book\n    written, called \"Kalewala,\" a book of runes, treating about\n    the beginning of the world, and about the god-smiths who\n    first wrought the foundations of the sky, and about the\n    witches and the enchanters of the farthest North. Of witches\n    Louhi was among the greatest; and her daughter was wooed\n    by gods and heroes--even by Wainamoinen the mightiest....\n    So fair was the virgin that her beauty gave light like the\n    moon; so white were her bones that their whiteness glimmered\n    through the transparency of her flesh; so clear was the\n    ivory of her bones that the marrow could be seen within\n    them.... And the story of how Wainamoinen built a boat that\n    he might sail to woo the virgin, is thus told in the runes\n    of the \"Kalewala\":\n\n\n...The aged and valiant Wainamoinen resolved to build himself a boat,\na swift war-boat. He hewed the trees, he hewed the trunks of the\npines and the firs, singing songs the while, chanting the runes that\nbanish evil. And as he sang the smitten trees answered him, the fibres\nof the oak and of the fir and of the mountain pine yielded up their\nsecrets in sounds that to other men seemed echoes only, but which to\nWainamoinen's ears were syllables and words--words wrung from the wood\nby enchantment.\n\nNow only the keel remained to be wrought; the strong keel of the\nwar-ship had yet to be fashioned. And Wainamoinen smote down a great\noak, that he might carve and curve its body as keels are curved and\ncarven. But the dying oak uttered its words of wood, its magical voice\nof warning, saying: \"Never may I serve for the keel of thy boat, for\nthe bottom of thy war-ship. Lo! the worms have made their crooked\ndwellings within my roots: yesterday the raven alighted upon my head;\nbloody was his back, bloody his crest, and blood lay clotting upon the\nblackness of his neck.\"\n\nTherefore the ancient Wainamoinen left the oak, and sought among the\nmountain firs and the mountain pines for flawless keel-wood; and he\nfound wood worthy of his war-boat, and he wrought the same into shape\nby the singing of magical songs.\n\nFor the words of enchantment by which shapes are shaped were known to\nhim; by magical words he had wrought the hull, with magical words had\nformed the oars; and ribs and keel were by wizard song interlocked\ntogether. But to perfect the prow three words must be sung, three\nwarlock words; and those three words Wainamoinen did not know, and his\nheart was troubled because he did not know them.\n\nThere was a shepherd dwelling among the hills--an ancient shepherd who\nhad beheld ten times a hundred moons; and him Wainamoinen questioned\nconcerning the three magical words.\n\nBut the ancient shepherd answered him dreamily: \"Surely thou mayst find\na hundred words, a thousand syllables of magical song, upon the heads\nof the swallows, upon the shoulders of the wild geese, upon the necks\nof the swans!\"\n\nThen the aged and valiant Wainamoinen went forth in search of the\nmagical words. He slew the flying swallows by thousands; thousands of\nwhite geese he slew; thousands of snowy swans were stricken by his\narrows. Yet he found no word written upon their heads, their shoulders,\ntheir necks, nor even so much as the beginning of a word. Then he\nthought unto himself: \"Surely I may find a hundred words, a thousand\nsyllables of song, under the tongues of the summer reindeer, within the\nruddy mouth of the white squirrel.\"\n\nAnd he went his way to seek the magical words. He strewed the vast\nplains with the bodies of slaughtered reindeer; he slew the white\nsquirrels by thousands and tens of thousands. But he found no word\nbeneath the tongue of the reindeer, no magical word in the mouth of the\nwhite squirrel, not even so much as the beginning of a word.\n\n\nYet again Wainamoinen thought to himself, saying: \"Surely I may find a\nhundred magical words, a thousand syllables of song, in the dwelling\nof the Queen of Death, in the land of Tuonela, in the underground\nplains of Manala.\"\n\nAnd he took his way unto the dwelling-place of Tuonela, to the moonless\nland of the dead, to the underground plains of Manala. Three days he\njourneyed thither with steps lighter than air; three days he journeyed\nas a shadow walking upon shadow.\n\nAnd he came at last unto the banks of the sacred river, the sable shore\nof the black river, over which the spirits of the dead must pass; and\nhe cried out to the children of Death: \"O daughters of Tuoni, bring\nhither your bark! O children of Manala, bring hither your bark, that I\nmay cross over the black river!\"\n\nBut the daughters of Death, the children of Hell, cried out, saying:\n\"The bark shall be taken over to thee only when thou shalt have told us\nhow thou hast come to Manala, how thou hast reached Tuonela--the abode\nof Death, the domain of ghosts.\"\n\nAnd Wainamoinen called out to them across the waters, saying: \"Surely\nTuoni himself hath conducted me hither; surely the Queen of Death hath\ndriven me to Tuonela.\"\n\nBut the daughters of Tuonela waxed wroth; the virgins of Kalma were\nangry. And they answered: \"We know the artifice of men; we perceive\nthe lie within thy mouth. For surely thou livest! No wound hath slain\nthee; no woe hath consumed thee; no disaster hath destroyed thee; no\ngrave hath been dug for thee. Who, therefore, hath brought thee alive\nto Manala?\"\n\nAnd Wainamoinen, answering, called out to them across the waters:\n\"Iron surely hath brought me to the land of death; steel surely hath\naccompanied me unto Manala.\"\n\nThe daughters of Tuonela waxed wroth; the virgins of Kalma were angry.\nAnd they answered: \"We know all artifices of men; we perceive the\nlie within thy mouth. Had iron brought thee to Tuonela, had steel\naccompanied thee unto Manala, thy garments would drip with blood....\nWho brought thee to Manala?\"\n\nAnd Wainamoinen called out again to them across the waters: \"Fire hath\nbrought me unto Manala; flame hath accompanied me to Tuonela.\"\n\nThe daughters of Tuonela waxed wroth; the virgins of Kalma were angry.\nAnd they cried out: \"We know all artifices of men; we perceive the\nlie within thy mouth. Had fire brought thee to Manala, had flame\naccompanied thee to Tuonela, thy garments would be consumed by the\nfire, the glow of the flame would be upon thee. Who brought thee to\nManala?\"\n\nAnd Wainamoinen yet again called out to them across the black river,\nsaying: \"Water hath brought me to Manala; water hath accompanied me to\nTuonela.\"\n\nThe daughters of Tuonela waxed wroth; the virgins of Kalma were angry.\nAnd they answered, saying: \"We know all the artifices of men; we\nperceive the lie within thy mouth. For there is no dripping of water\nfrom thy garments. Cease, therefore, to lie to us; for we know thou\nlivest; we perceive that no wound hath slain thee, no woe consumed\nthee, no disaster hath crushed thy bones. Who brought thee to Manala?\nwho guided thee to Tuonela?\"\n\nThen Wainamoinen called out to them across the river: \"Surely I will\nnow utter the truth. I have made me a boat by my art; I have wrought\nme a war-boat by magical song. With a song I shaped the hull; with a\nsong I formed the keel; with a song I fashioned the oars. Yet three\nwords are wanting to me--three magical words by which I may perfect\nthe carven prow in its place; and I have come to Tuonela to find\nthese three words; I have come to Manala to seek these three words\nof enchantment. Bring hither your bark, O children of Tuonela! bring\nhither your boat, O virgins of Kalma!\"\n\nSo the daughters of Death came over the dark river in their black\nboat, and they rowed Wainamoinen to the further shore, to the waste of\nwandering ghosts; and they gave him to drink of what the dead drink,\nand to eat of what the dead devour. And Wainamoinen laid him down and\nslept, being weary with his mighty journey.\n\nHe slept and dreamed; but his garments slept not--his enchanted\ngarments kept watch for him.\n\n\nNow the daughter of Tuoni, the iron-fingered daughter of Death, seated\nherself in the darkness upon a great stone in the midst of the waters;\nand with iron fingers wove a net of iron thread, one thousand ells in\nlength.\n\nThe sons of Tuoni, the sons of the Queen of Death, also seated\nthemselves in the same darkness upon the same great stone in the midst\nof the same waters, and with their hooked fingers, with their iron\nfinger-nails, also wove a net of iron thread, a thousand ells in length.\n\nAnd they cast their net into the river, across the river, that they\nmight ensnare Wainamoinen, that they might entangle the magician, that\nthey might prevent him from ever leaving the abyss of Manala, ever\nleaving the domain of Tuonela, so long as the golden moon should circle\nin heaven, even so long as the silver sun should light the world of men.\n\nBut the garments of Wainamoinen kept watch, the enchanted garments of\nthe magician slept not. And Wainamoinen uttered a magical word, and\nchanged himself into a stone; and the stone rolled into the black river.\n\nAnd the stone became a viper of iron, and passed sinuously through the\nmeshes of the nets, and through the river currents, and into the black\nreeds upon the black river's further bank.\n\nSo Wainamoinen passed from the kingdom of Tuoni, from the children of\nDeath; but he had not found the magical words, nor so much as the part\nof a word.\n\n\nThen thought Wainamoinen unto himself: \"Surely I may find a hundred\nwords, a thousand syllables of song, in the mouth of the earth-giant,\nin the entrails of the ancient Kalewa! Long is the way to his\nresting-place; one must travel awhile over the points of women's\nneedles, and awhile upon the sharp edges of warriors' swords, and yet\nagain awhile upon the sharp steel of the battle-axes of heroes.\"\n\nAnd Wainamoinen went to the forge of his brother\nIlmarinnen--Ilmarinnen, the Eternal Smith, who forged the vault of\nheaven, leaving no mark of the teeth of the pincers, no dent of the\nblows of the hammer--Ilmarinnen, who forged for men during the age\nof darkness a sun of silver and a moon of gold. And he cried out: \"O\nIlmarinnen, mighty brother, forge me shoes of iron, gloves of iron, a\ncoat of iron! forge me a staff of iron with a pith of steel, that I\nmay wrest the magic words from the stomach of Kalewa, from the dead\nentrails of the earth-giant.\"\n\nAnd Ilmarinnen forged them. Yet he said: \"O brother Wainamoinen, the\nancient Kalewa is dead; the grave of the earth-giant is deep. Thou\nmayst obtain no word from him--not even the beginning of a word.\"\n\nBut Wainamoinen departed; Wainamoinen hastened over the way strewn with\nthe points of needles and the edges of swords and axe-heads of sharpest\nsteel. He ran swiftly over them with shoes of iron; he tore them from\nhis path with gloves of iron, until he reached the resting-place of\nKalewa, the vast grave of the earth-giant.\n\nFor a thousand moons and more Kalewa had slept beneath the earth.\nThe poplar-tree, the haapa, had taken root upon his shoulders; the\nwhite birch, the koivu, was growing from his temples; the elder tree,\nthe leppa, was springing from his cheeks; and his beard had become\novergrown with pahju-bark, with the bark of the drooping willow.\nThe shadowy fir, the oravikuusi, was rooted in his forehead; the\nmountain-pine, the havukonka, was sprouting from his teeth; the dark\nspruce, the petaja, was springing from his feet.\n\nBut Wainamoinen tore the haapa from his shoulders, and the koivu from\nhis temples, and the leppa from his cheeks, and the pahju-bark from his\nbeard, and the oravikuusi from his forehead, and the havukonka from his\nteeth, and the petaja from his feet.\n\nThen into the mouth of the Mountain-Breaker, into the mouth of the\nburied giant, Wainamoinen mightily thrust his staff of smithied iron.\n\nAnd Kalewa awoke from his slumber of ages--awoke with groans of\npain--and he closed his jaws upon the staff; but his teeth could not\ncrush the core of steel, could not shatter the staff of iron. And as\nKalewa opened wider his mouth to devour the tormentor, lo! Wainamoinen\nleaped into the yawning throat and descended into the monstrous\nentrails. And Wainamoinen kindled a flame in the giant's belly--built\nhim a forge in his entrails.\n\nThen Kalewa, in his great agony, called on that god who leans upon\nthe axis of the world, and upon the blue goddesses of the waters, and\nupon the deities of the icy wildernesses, and upon the spirits of the\nforest, and even upon the great Jumala, at whose birth the brazen\nmountains trembled and lakes were changed into hills. But the gods came\nnot to aid him.\n\nThen Kalewa cursed his tormentor with a thousand magical curses--with\ncurses of wind and storm and fire--with curses that change men's faces\ninto stone--with curses that transport the accursed to the vast deserts\nof Laponia, where the hoof of the horse is never heard, where the\nchildren of the mare can find no pasturage. But the curses harmed not\nWainamoinen; the curses only called forth the laughter of scorn from\nthe lips of Wainamoinen.\n\nAnd Wainamoinen cried out unto Kalewa: \"Never shall I depart from\nhence, O thou mightiest singer of runes, until I have learned from thee\nthe three magical words which I desire--the three words of enchantment\nthat I have sought throughout the world in vain. Sing to me, O\nKalewa, thy songs, thy most wondrous songs, thy marvelous songs of\nenchantment.\"\n\nSo the giant Kalewa, the possessor of sublimest wisdom, the singer\nof marvelous runes, opened his mouth and sang his songs for\nWainamoinen--his most wondrous songs, his wizard songs.\n\nWords succeeded to words, verses to verses, wizard runes to wizard\nrunes. Ere Kalewa could sing all that he knew, could utter all that he\nhad learned, the mountains would cease to be, the waters of the rivers\nwould dry up, the great lakes be depopulated of their finny people, the\nsea have forgotten its power to make waves.\n\nUnceasingly he sang for many days, unceasingly for many sleepless\nnights; he sang the songs of wizards, the songs of enchantment, the\nsongs that create or destroy.\n\nHe sang the songs of wisdom, the runes sung by the gods before the\nbeginning of the world, the verses by whose utterance nothingness\nbecame substance and darkness became light.\n\nAnd as he sang the fair Sun paused in her course to hear him; the\ngolden Moon stopped in her path to listen; the awful billows of the sea\nstood still; the icy rivers that devour the pines, that swallow up the\nfirs, ceased to rage; the mighty cataracts hung motionless above their\nabysses; the waves of Juortana lifted high their heads to hear.\n\nAnd Wainamoinen heard at last the three words, the three magical words,\nhe sought for; and he ceased tormenting Kalewa, and departed from him.\nSo Kalewa sank again into his eternal slumber, and the earth that loved\nhim recovered him, and the forests rewove their network of knotted\nroots above his place of sleep....\n\n\n\n\nTHE FIRST MUSICIAN\n\n\n    In the ancient runes of the Finns, the runes of the\n    \"Kalewala,\" is related the creation of the world from the\n    yolk of an egg, and of the heavens from the shell of the\n    egg; also the origin of Iron and the birth of Steel and the\n    beginning of Music.... Now the first musician was no other\n    than Wainamoinen; and the first kantele, triple-stringed,\n    was made by him from the resonant wood of the fir, and from\n    the bones of a giant pike, as is told in the Twenty-Second\n    Rune. Out of the fir-tree was formed the body of the\n    kantele; out of the teeth of the pike-fish were the screws\n    wrought; and the strings were made of hairs from the black\n    mane of the steed of Hiisi the magician--from the shining\n    mane of the stallion of Hiisi, the herder of wolves and\n    bears....\n\n\n... So the instrument was completed, the kantele was prepared; and the\naged and valiant Wainamoinen bade the old men to play upon it, and to\nsing the runes of old.\n\nAnd they sang, but wearily, as winds in mountain wastes; and their\nvoices trembled frostily, and the instrument rebelled against the touch\nof their feeble fingers.\n\nThen the ancient and valiant Wainamoinen commanded the young men to\nsing. But their fingers became cramped upon the strings, and the sounds\ncalled forth were sorrowful, and the instrument rebelled against their\ntouch. Joy answered not unto joy, song responded not unto song.\n\nThen the ancient and valiant Wainamoinen sent the kantele to the wizard\npeople who dwelt in the wastes of ice, to the people of Pohjola, to the\nWitch of Pohjola.\n\nAnd the Witch sang, and the witch-virgins with her; the wizards also,\nand the children of the wizards. But joy answered not unto joy; song\nresponded not unto song. And the kantele shrieked beneath the touch of\ntheir fingers, shrieked like one who, fearing greatly in the blackness\nof the night, feeleth invisible hands upon him.\n\nThen spake an aged man who had seen more than two hundred winters--an\nancient man aroused by the shrieking of the kantele from his slumber\nwithin the recess of the hearth: \"Cease! cease! for the sounds which ye\nutter make anguish in my brain, the noises which ye make do chill the\nmarrow within my bones. Let the instrument be cast into the waters, or\nreturned forthwith unto him who wrought it.\"\n\nThen from the strings of the kantele issued sweet sounds, and the\nsounds shaped themselves into words, and the kantele answered with its\nvoice, praying: \"Cast me not into the deep, but return me rather unto\nhim who wrought me; for in the hands of my creator I will give forth\nsounds of joy, I will utter sounds of harmonious sweetness.\"\n\nSo they took back the kantele unto Wainamoinen, who had wrought it.\n\nAnd the ancient and valiant Wainamoinen washed his thumbs; he purified\nhis fingers; he seated himself by the sea upon the Stone of Joy, upon\nthe Hillock of Silver, even at the summit of the Hill of Gold; and he\ntook the instrument within his hands, and lifted up his voice, saying:\n\"Let him that hath never heard the strong joy of runes, the sweet sound\nof instruments, the sound of music, come hither and hear!\"\n\nAnd the ancient Wainamoinen began to sing. Limpid his voice as the\nvoice of running water, deep and clear, mighty and beautiful.\n\nLightly his fingers ran over the strings of the kantele; and\nthe kantele sang in answer--sang weirdly, sang wondrously, sang\nthrobbingly, like the throats of a thousand birds. And its joy answered\nunto the joy of the singer; its song responded unto Wainamoinen's song.\n\nAll the living creatures of the forest, all the living creatures of\nair, drew nigh unto the rune-singer, gathered themselves about the\nmighty chanter, that they might hear the suavity of his voice, that\nthey might taste the sweetness of his song.\n\nThe gray wolves came from their lurking-places in the vast marshes; the\nbears deserted their dwellings under the roots of the firs, within the\nhollows of the giant pines; and they clambered over the hedges in their\nway, they broke down the obstacles before them. And the wolves mounted\nupon the heights, the bears upon the trees, while Wainamoinen called\nJoy into the world, while Wainamoinen sang his wondrous song.\n\nThe lord of the forest, also, the old man of the black beard--Knippana,\nking of the joyous woods; and all the followers of Tapio, god of wild\ncreatures, came forth to hear, and were visible. Even the wife of the\nforest king, the goddess of savage beasts, the mistress of Tapiola,\ndonned her raiment of red, and put on her azure stockings, and ascended\na hollow birch that she might lend ear to the songs of the god.\n\nAll animals of the woods, all birds of the air, hurried to hear the\nmarvelous art of the musician, hastened to taste the sweetness of his\nsong.\n\nThe eagle descended from the clouds; the falcon clave the airs; the\nwhite gulls rose from the far sea-marshes, the swans from the clear\ndeeps of running water; the swift lark, the quick finch, the comely\nlinnet, came to perch upon the shoulders of the god.\n\nThe Sun, bright virgin of the sky--the Sun, rich in her splendors--and\nthe fair-shining Moon, had paused in their paths; the first upon the\nluminous vault of heaven, the other upon the end of a long cloud. There\nwere they weaving their subtle tissues of light--weaving with shuttle\nof gold, carding with carding-comb of silver. Suddenly they heard the\nunknown voice of song--the voice, mighty and sweet, of the rune-singer.\nAnd the shuttle of gold escaped from their hands, and the carding-comb\nof silver slipped from their fingers, and the threads of their tissue\nwere broken.\n\nAll animals living in the waters, all the thousand-finned fishes of\nthe deep, came to hear the voice of Wainamoinen, came to taste the\nsweetness of his song.\n\nSwiftly came the salmon and the trout, the pikes also and the sea-dogs;\nall the great fishes and all the little fishes swam toward the shore,\nand remained as nigh as they might remain, and lifted their heads to\nlisten.\n\nAnd Ahto, monarch of waters--Ahto, ancient as the ocean, and bearded\nwith water-weeds--arose upon his great water-lily above the waves.\n\nThe fertile wife of the sea-god was combing her hair with a comb of\ngold, and she heard the voice of the singer. And the comb fell from her\nhands; trembling of pleasure seized her, torture of desire came upon\nher to hear, so that she arose from the green abyss and approached the\nshore. There, leaning with her bosom upon the rock, she listened to\nthe sounds of the kantele, mingling with the voice of Wainamoinen--so\ntender the sounds, so sweet the song!\n\nAll the heroes wept; the hardest of hearts were softened; there were\nnone of all having never wept before who did not weep then.\n\nThe youths wept; the old men wept; the strong men wept; the virgins\nwept; the little infants wept; even Wainamoinen also felt the source of\nhis own tears rising to overflow.\n\nAnd soon his tears began to fall, outnumbering the wild berries of the\nhills, the heads of the swallows, the eggs of the fowls.\n\nThey streamed upon his cheeks; and from his cheeks they fell upon his\nknees, and from his knees they dropped upon his feet, and from his feet\nthey rolled into the dust.\n\nAnd his tear-drops passed through his six garments of wool, his six\ngirdles of gold, his seven robes of blue, his eight tunics all thickly\nwoven.\n\nAnd the tears of Wainamoinen flowed as a river, and became a river, and\npoured themselves to the shores of the sea, and precipitated themselves\nfrom the shores into the deeps of the abyss, into the region of black\nsands.\n\nThere did they blossom; there were they transformed into\npearls,--pearls destined for the crowns of kings, for the eternal joy\nof noblest heroes.\n\n\nAnd the aged Wainamoinen cried out: \"O youths, O daughters of\nillustrious race! is there none among ye who will go to gather up my\ntears from the deeps of the ocean, from the region of black sand?\"\n\nBut the youths and the elders answered, saying: \"There is none among us\nwilling to go to gather up thy tears from the deeps of the ocean, from\nthe region of black sand.\"\n\nThen a seamew, a seamew with plumage of blue, dipped her beak into the\ncold waves; and she gathered the pearls, and she gathered the tears, of\nWainamoinen from the deeps of the ocean, from the region of black sand.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HEALING OF WAINAMOINEN\n\n\n    ...She is all fair, the Goddess of Veins--the Goddess\n    Suonetar, the beneficent Goddess of Veins. Marvelously doth\n    she spin the veins of men with her wondrous spindle, with\n    her distaff of brass, with her spinning-wheel of iron....\n\n\nLike the leaping of the mountain stream, like the rushing of a torrent,\nthe blood issued from the knee of Wainamoinen, wounded by his own axe\nthrough the craft of Hiisi the Evil, through the malice of Lempo, the\nherder of wolves and bears.\n\nThe ancient and valiant Wainamoinen had knowledge of all wisdom, all\nspeech that is eternal, all magical words save only the word by which\nwizard wounds are healed. He invoked the magical art, he uttered the\nawful imprecation; carefully he read the Original Words, pronounced the\nrunes of science.\n\nBut he had forgotten the mightiest words--the Words of Blood, the\ncharmed words by which the palpitant torrent is checked, by which the\ngory stream is held back, by which invincible dikes are cast athwart\nthe places broken by iron, athwart the bites made by the blue teeth of\nsteel.\n\nAnd the blood ceased not to gush bubbling from the wound of the hero,\nfrom the knee of Wainamoinen.\n\nThe aged and valiant Wainamoinen harnessed his steed to his brown\nsledge; he mounted upon the seat, smote the swift horse, and cracked\nhis great whip adorned with pearls.\n\nThe steed flew over the long course, drawing the brown sledge,\ndevouring distance. Swift as wind was the driving of Wainamoinen, until\nhe neared the dwelling of the sorcerers, the first of the habitations\nof the wizards. And he halted at the threshold, and cried: \"Is there in\nthis habitation any man learned in the knowledge of iron--any man who\ncan oppose a dike to this river, who can check this torrent of blood?\"\n\nA child, a little child, was seated in the middle of the floor; and the\nchild answered, saying: \"There is no man here learned in the knowledge\nof iron--no man able to assuage with his breath even the bruises of\nwood, nor to ease the pain of heroes.... Go thou to another habitation.\"\n\nThe ancient and valiant Wainamoinen made his great whip, adorned\nwith pearls, whistle upon the flanks of his rapid courser. Swift as\nlightning his course, until they came to the middle dwelling; and\nWainamoinen halted at the threshold, and cried aloud: \"Is there in this\nhabitation any man learned in the knowledge of iron--any man able to\noppose a dike to this river, to check this torrent of blood?\"\n\nAn aged woman was there, lying under her blankets, chattering,\nbabbling, within the furthest end of the recess of the hearth--an aged\nwoman with three teeth only--the wisest woman in all that country. And\nshe arose and drew nigh unto the door, and made reply, saying: \"There\nis no man here learned enough to comprehend the misfortune of the hero,\nto ease his pain, to stop the river of the veins, the rainfall of\nblood, the torrent of blood out-rolling. Go, seek thou such a man in\nsome other habitation.\"\n\nThe aged and valiant Wainamoinen made his great whip, adorned with\npearls, whistle upon the flanks of his swift steed. Lightning-wise\nhe followed the long way leading to the highest habitation. And he\ndescended at the threshold, and leaning against a pillar, cried\naloud: \"Is there in this habitation any man learned in the knowledge\nof iron--any man able to oppose a dike to this river, to check this\ntorrent of blood?\"\n\nAn aged man dwelt within the great fireplace. His voice roared from\nthe recess of the glowing hollow: \"We have checked mightier ones, we\nhave enchained swifter ones, we have overcome greater dangers, we have\nbroken down loftier obstacles--even by the Three Words of the Creator,\nby the utterance of the Original Words, the holy words. By them the\nmouths of rivers, the courses of lakes, the fury of cataracts, have\nbeen overcome. We have separated straits from promontories; we have\nconjoined isthmuses with isthmuses.\"\n\nThe aged Wainamoinen descended from his sledge, and entered beneath the\nold man's roof. A cup of silver was brought to him, and a cup of gold;\nbut these could not contain the least part of the blood of Wainamoinen,\nthe blood of the noble god.\n\nThe old man roared from the recess of the hearth--the long-beard cried\nout: \"What manner of man art thou? What hero? Already have seven cups,\neight great vessels, been filled with the blood flowing from thy knee!\nAh! would I could utter other magical words--even the great Words of\nBlood! But, alas! I have forgotten the origin of Iron.\"\n\nThen said the aged Wainamoinen: \"I know the origin of Iron; I know\nthe birth of Steel. There were three children whose origin was the\nsame: Water, which is the eldest; Iron, which is the youngest; Fire,\nto which the middle rank belongs. And Fire soon displayed its rage;\nflames lifted themselves insolently, and waxed vast with pride. The\nfields were consumed, the marshes were scorched in that great year of\nsterility, in that fatal summer which devoured with inextinguishable\nfire all creatures of nature. Then did Iron seek a refuge, a place\nwherein to hide.\"...\n\nThe old man roared from the recess of the hearth: \"Where did Iron hide\nitself? Where did it find refuge in that great year of barrenness, in\nthat fatal summer which devoured all creatures of nature?\"\n\nThe aged Wainamoinen, the valiant Wainamoinen, made answer: \"Then Iron\nhid itself; Iron found a refuge in the extremity of a long cloud, in\nthe summit of an oak stripped of its branches, in the budding bosom of\na young girl.... There were three virgins, three affianced maidens, who\npoured forth upon the ground the milk of their breasts. The milk of the\nfirst was black; the milk of the second, white; the milk of the third\nwas ruddy. Of the virgin whose milk was black, Flexible Iron was born;\nof her whose milk was white, Fragile Iron was born; of her with the\nruddy milk was born Steel.... Then for two years Iron hid itself in the\nmidst of a vast marsh, upon the summit of a rock where the white swans\nlaid their eggs, where the wild duck hatched out her little ones. And\nthe wolf rushed through the marsh; and the bear rushed into the sterile\nplain; and they tore up the earth that concealed the Iron. But a god,\npassing through that barren place, saw the black sand that the wolf had\ntorn up, that the bear had trampled beneath his feet.... And that day\nthe Iron was taken out of the marsh, and purged from the slime of the\nearth, and purified by drying from the humidity of the waters.\"\n\nThe old man roared from the recess of the hearth: \"So that was the\norigin of Iron? that was the birth of Steel?\"\n\nBut the valiant Wainamoinen made answer: \"Nay! not yet has the origin\nof Iron been told. For, without devouring Fire, Iron may not be\nborn; without Water, it may not be hardened. Into the workshop of\nthe great smith it was borne, into the forge of Ilmarinnen; and the\nmighty craftsman, the Eternal Smith, said unto it: 'If I place thee\nwithin my fire, if I put thee into the flame of my forge-fire, thou\nwilt become arrogant, thou wilt wax strong, thou wilt spread terror\nabout thee, thou wilt slay thy brother, thou wilt kill the son of thy\nmother.'... Then the Iron within the forge fires, under the blows of\nthe hammer, sware this oath: 'I have trees to rend, hearts of stone to\ngnaw; no! never will I slay my brother, never will I kill the son of\nmy mother.'... Then did Ilmarinnen soften the Iron within the heart\nof the furnace, and shape it upon the anvil. But ere dipping it into\nthe water, he tested with his tongue, he tasted with his palate, the\ncreative juices of Steel, the water that gives hardness unto Iron. And\nhe cried: 'This water is powerless to create Steel, to harden Iron. O\nMehilainen, bird of Hiisi! O Herlihainen, my bird-friend! fly hither\nupon thine agile wings; fly over the marshes, over the lands, over the\nstraits of the ocean! bring me honey upon thy feathers; bear to me upon\nthy tongue the honey of seven meadow-stalks, of six flower-pistils,\nfor the Steel I am going to make, for the Iron I wish to harden.'...\nBut Herlihainen, the evil bird of Hiisi the Evil, brought the venom\nof blood, the black juices of a worm that his lizard-eyes had seen,\nthe hidden poison of the toad; and he gave these to Ilmarinnen for the\nSteel which was being prepared, the Iron that was to be tempered. And\nsuddenly the Iron quivered with rage; it growled; it moved; its oath\nwas forgotten; like a dog it swallowed its own oath, and it slew its\nbrother, it murdered the son of its mother. Even now it plunges into\nflesh, bites the knees of men, rages so that blood flows and flows and\noverflows in vast torrents.\"\n\nThe old man roared from the recess of the hearth: \"Now I know the\norigin of Iron, the fatal destiny of Steel!\" And to his memory came\nback the Original Words, the great Words of Blood; and he cursed the\nIron with magical curses, and quelled with caressing speech the panic\nof the fleeing blood. And the hurt of the Iron ceased, and the red\ntorrent stayed its flowing.\n\nThen the old man took within his fingers the extremities of the veins,\nand counted them, and uttered the magical prayer:\n\n\n    All fair is she, the Goddess of Veins--Suonetar, the\n    beneficent Goddess of Veins. Marvelously doth she spin the\n    veins of men with her beautiful spindle, with her distaff of\n    brass, with her spinning-wheel of iron.... Come, O Goddess\n    of Veins! Come unto me! I invoke thy succor, I call thy\n    name!... Bring hither in thy bosom a roll of ruddy flesh, a\n    blue skein of veins, that the wound may be filled, that the\n    ends of the veins may be tied!...\n\n\nAnd suddenly the hurt of Wainamoinen was healed: the flesh became\nfirmer than before; the severed veins were retied, the severed muscles\nrejoined, the broken bones reknit.\n\n\nAnd many other wonderful things said and done by the old man within\nthe recess of the hearth are told of in the Fourth Rune of the ancient\nKalewala.\n\n\n\n\nSTORIES OF MOSLEM LANDS\n\n\n\n\nBOUTIMAR, THE DOVE\n\n\n    ...Beyond the seas which are known roar the waters of that\n    Tenebrous Ocean that is unknown to mortals. There the long\n    breakers chant an eternal hymn, in tones unlike to the\n    voices of other seas. And in that ocean there is an island,\n    and in that island the Fountain of Youth unceasingly bubbles\n    up from the mystic caverns; and it was that fountain which\n    King Alexander, the Two-Horned, vainly sought. Only his\n    general, the Prophet Khader, found it, whereby he became\n    immortal. And of other mortals Solomon only beheld the\n    waters of that fountain, according to the Persian legend\n    written in the nine hundredth year of the Hejira, by the\n    goldsmith of language, Hossein ben Ali, also called El Va\u00ebz\n    u'l Kashifi. And it may be found in the \"Anvari Soheili,\"\n    which are \"The Lights of Canopus.\"...\n\n\nIn the Name of the Most Merciful God!... I have heard this tradition of\nSolomon, the unparalleled among kings, for whom all Genii, and Peris,\nand men, and beasts of earth, and birds of air, and creatures of the\ndeep begirt the loins of their souls with the girdle of obedience,\nand whose power was measurable only by the hoofs of the horse of the\nZephyr, \"whose morning course is a month's journey, and whose evening\ncourse is also equal to a month's journey, upon the swiftest of\nearthly steeds.\"\n\n...Now, Solomon being once enthroned upon the summit of the\nmightiest of mountains, which yet bears his name--the mountain at\nonce overlooking the plains of Iran and the kingdoms of India--all\nthe creatures of the universe gathered to do him honor. The birds\nof heaven formed a living canopy above him, and the spirits of air\nministered unto him. And, as a mist rising from the earth, a perfumed\ncloud shaped itself before him; and from out the cloud reached a hand,\nfairer than moonlight, holding a diamond cup in which a strange water\nmade jewel-glimmerings, while a voice sweeter than music spake to him\nfrom out the cloud, saying: \"The Creator of all--be His nature forever\nglorified and His power forever honored!--hath sent me to thee, O\nSolomon, with this cup containing the waters of youth and of life\nwithout end. And He hath desired thee to choose freely whether thou\nwilt or wilt not drink of this draught from the Fountain of Youth.\nTherefore consider well, O Solomon! Wilt thou drink hereof, and live\ndivinely immortal through ages everlasting, or wilt thou rather remain\nwithin the prison of humanity?... I wait.\"\n\nThen a deep silence brooded above the place; for Solomon dreamed upon\nthese words, while the perfumed cloud stirred not, and the white hand\nmotionlessly offered the jewel-cup. And so dreaming, he said unto his\nown heart: \"Surely the gold of life is good wherewith to purchase many\nthings at the great market of the Resurrection; the plain of life is\na rich soil wherein to plant the spice-trees of eternal felicity; and\njoyless is the black repose of death.... Yet must I ask counsel of the\nGenii, and the Peris, and the wisest of men, and the beasts of earth,\nand the birds of air, before I may resolve to drink.\"\n\nStill the moon-white hand offered the scintillating cup, and the\nperfumed cloud changed not. Then the Genii, and the Peris, and the\nwisest of men, and the beasts of earth, and the birds of heaven, all\nspeaking with one voice of agreement, prayed him that he should drink,\ninasmuch as the well-being of the world reposed upon his living wisdom,\nand the happiness of all creatures was sustained by the circle of his\nlife as a jewel held within the setting of a ring of gold.\n\nSo that Solomon indeed put out his hand, and took the cup from the\nluminous fingers; and the fingers withdrew again into the odorous\ncloud. Wondrous were the lights within the water; and there was a glow\nof rosiness unbroken all about the cup, as of the sempiternal dawn in\nthose islands beyond the Ocean of Shadows, where the sun rises never\nabove the east and there is neither night nor day. But hesitating yet\nonce more before he drank, he questioned again the creatures of the\nuniverse, asking: \"O ye administering Genii and Peri beings, ye wisest\namong wise men, ye creatures also of air and of earth, say if there be\nabsent from this assembly even one representative of all over whom I\nhold dominion!\"\n\nAnd they replied: \"Master, only Boutimar is not here--Boutimar the wild\ndove, most loving of all living creatures.\"\n\nThen Solomon sent Hudh-hudh to seek the wild dove--Hudh-hudh, the bird\nof gold, created by the witchcraft of Balkis, Queen of Sheba, the\nsorceress of sorceresses; and the golden bird brought back with him\nBoutimar, the wild dove, most loving of all living creatures. Then it\nwas that Solomon repeated the words of the song which he had written:\n\"O my dove that dwellest in the clifts of the rock, in the secret\nhiding-places of the stairs, let me see thy face, let me hear thy\nvoice!... Is it meet that thy lord, Solomon, shall drink of the waters\nof youth and know the bliss of earthly immortality?\"\n\nThen the wild dove, speaking in the tongue of birds known to Solomon\nonly among mortals, asked the prophet-king, saying: \"How shall a\ncreature of air answer the source of wisdom? how may so feeble a mind\nadvise thy supernal intelligence? Yet, if I must counsel, let me ask\nthee, O Solomon, whether the Water of Life brought hither by this\nperfumed spirit be for thee alone, or for all with whom thy heart might\nincline thee to share it?\"\n\nBut Solomon answered: \"It hath been sent to only me, nor is there\nenough within the cup for any other.\"\n\n\"O prophet of God!\" answered Boutimar, in the tongue of birds, \"how\ncouldst thou desire to be living alone, when each of thy friends and\nof thy counselors and of thy children and of thy servants and of all\nwho loved thee were counted with the dead? For all of these must surely\ndrink the bitter waters of death, though thou shouldst drink the Water\nof Life. Wherefore desire everlasting youth, when the face of the world\nitself shall be wrinkled with age, and the eyes of the stars shall be\nclosed by the black fingers of Azrael? When the love thou hast sung of\nshall have passed away like a smoke of frankincense, when the dust of\nthe heart that beat against thine own shall have long been scattered\nby the four winds of heaven, when the eyes that looked for thy coming\nshall have become a memory, when the voices grateful to thine ear shall\nhave been eternally stilled, when thy life shall be one oasis in a\nuniversal waste of death, and thine eternal existence but a recognition\nof eternal absence--wilt thou indeed care to live, though the wild dove\nperish when its mate cometh not?\"\n\nAnd Solomon, without reply, silently put out his arm and gave back the\ncup, so that the white hand came forth and took it, and withdrew into\nthe odorous cloud, and the cloud dissolved and passed away forever. But\nupon the prophet-king's rich beard, besprinkled with powder of gold,\nthere appeared another glitter as of clear dew--the diamond dew of the\nheart, which is tears.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SON OF A ROBBER\n\n\n    ... A bud from the Rose-Garden of the Gulistan, planted in\n    the six hundred and fifty-sixth year of the Hejira by the\n    Magician of Speech, the Sheikh Moslih-Eddin Sadi of Shiraz,\n    and arranged after eight divisions corresponding with the\n    Eight Gates of Paradise.... In the reign of the King of\n    Kings, Abou-Bequer ben Sad, the Most Magnificent, Viceregent\n    of Solomon, Shadow of the Most High God upon Earth.... In\n    the Name of God the Most Merciful.\n\n\n... In those days there were robbers who dwelt in the mountain regions\nof the land, having fortresses above the eagles' nests, so that no\narmy might successfully assail them. Their name weighed as a terror\nupon the land, and they closed up the ways of the caravans, and wasted\nthe valleys, and overcame even the king's troops by their strength and\ntheir fierceness--all being mountain-born and worshipers of devouring\nfire. So the governors of the mountain provinces held council together,\nand devised cunning plans by which to allure the robbers from their\ninaccessible mountain dwelling, so as to destroy them utterly.\n\nTherefore it came to pass that while the robbers were pursuing after\na caravan, the bravest troops of the king concealed themselves in the\ndefiles of the mountain, and there in silence awaited the return of the\nband with many rich spoils and captives of price for ransom. And when\nthe robbers returned at night, hard pressed by that greatest enemy of\nthe wary, whose name is Sleep, the Persian soldiers set upon them, and\nsmote them, and bound their arms behind their backs, and drove them\nas a herd of wild sheep into the city. So they were brought into the\npresence of the king.\n\nAnd the king commended the wisdom of the governors of the provinces,\nsaying: \"Had ye not thus prevailed against them by craft, the strength\nof the robbers might have waxed with each day of immunity, until it\nwould have been beyond our power to destroy them. The spring may be\nclosed at its mouth with a small covering; but when it shall have been\nswollen to a river by long flowing, a man may not cross its current\neven upon the back of an elephant.... Let each and all of these\nprisoners be forthwith put to death as robbers are put to death under\nour law.\"\n\nBut among these robbers there was a youth slender and shapely as a\nyoung palm; and the fruit of his adolescence was yet unripe, the\nverdure of the rose-garden of his cheeks had scarcely begun to bud. And\nby reason of the beauty of the boy, a kindly vizier bowed his white\nbeard before the steps of the throne, and kissed the footstool of the\nking, and prayed him with words of intercession: \"Hear the prayer of a\nslave, O Master of the World, Axis of the Circle of Time, Shadow upon\nEarth of the Most High God!... This child hath never eaten of the\nfruit of life, never hath he enjoyed the loveliness of the flower of\nyouth.... O Master of Kings, thy slave hopes that in thy universal\ngenerosity and boundless bounty, thou wilt impose upon thy slave a\nfresh obligation of gratitude, by sparing the life of this child.\"...\n\nKindly was the king's heart, but his mind was keen also and clear as\nedge of diamond; and he knitted his brows because the discourse seemed\nto him unwise, and therefore pleased him not: \"O vizier, dost thou not\nknow that the influence of the good can make no impression upon the\nhearts of those whose origin is evil? Hast thou not heard it said that\nthe willow giveth no fruit, however fertilizing the rain of heaven?\nShall we extinguish a fire, and leave charcoal embers alight? Shall we\ndestroy only the adult viper, and spare her young? It is better that\nthese people be utterly destroyed, root and branch, race and name.\"...\n\nBut the aged vizier, bowing respectfully, again prayed the king, justly\ncommending the wisdom of his words, but seeking exceptions and parables\nfrom the sayings of the wise and the traditions of the prophets: \"The\nwords of the Successor of Solomon are wisdom supreme to thy slave; and\nwere this boy indeed raised up by the wicked, he would surely become\nas they. Yet thy slave believes that were he educated only by the best\nof men, he might become most virtuous. Nor would thy slave spare aught\nrequisite to adorn the boy's heart and to make blossom the garden of\nhis mind.... The prophetical tradition saith: 'There is no child born\nof woman that is not naturally born into Islam, though his father and\nmother might afterward make him a Jew, a Christian, or a Gheber.... And\neven the dog Kitmir, that followed and guarded the Seven Holy Sleepers\nof Mecca, was able to enter Paradise by seizing with his teeth the hem\nof their blessed robes.\"...\n\nThen many other ministers and rulers of provinces, unwisely bewitched\nby the beauty of the boy, united themselves with the vizier in potent\nintercession. The king's face moved not, and the shadow remained upon\nit; but he answered: \"I pardon the boy by reason of the weakness of\nyour hearts, yet I perceive no advantage therein. O vizier, bear in\nmind that the beneficent rains of heaven give radiance to the splendors\nof the tulip and strength to the venom of serpent-plants. Remember well\nthat the vilest enemy may not be despised, and that the stream now too\nshallow for the fish may so swell as to carry away the camel with his\nburthen.\"...\n\nBut the vizier, weeping with joy, took the boy home, and clothed\nhim and fed him, and brought him up as his own sons and as the sons\nof princes. Masters he procured for him, to make him learned in the\nknowledge of tongues and of graces and of military accomplishments--in\nthe arts of archery and sword-play and horsemanship, in singing and\nin the musical measurement of speech, in courtesy and truth, above all\nthings, and those high qualities desirable in the service of the King\nof Kings upon earth. So strong and beautiful he grew up that the gaze\nof all eyes followed whithersoever he moved, even as the waves all\nturn their heads to look upon the moon; and all, save only the king,\nsmiled upon him. But the king only frowned when he stood before him,\nand paid no heed to the compliments uttered concerning the young man.\nOne day, the vizier, in the pride of his happiness, said to the king:\n\"Behold! by the work of thy slave, the boy hath been reclaimed from\nthe ways of his fathers; the fountain of his mind hath been opened by\nwise teachers, and the garden of his heart blossoms with the flowers of\nvirtuous desire.\"\n\nBut the king only laughed in his beard, and said: \"O vizier, the young\nof the wolf will always be a wolf, even though he be brought up with\nthe children of a man.\"\n\n...And when the time of two winters had dimmed the recollection of\nthe king's words, it came to pass at last that the young man, riding\nout alone, met with a band of mountain robbers, and felt his heart\nmoved toward them. They, also, knowing his race by the largeness and\nfierceness of his eyes, and the eagle-curve of his nostrils, and\nthe signs of the wild blood that made lightnings in his veins, were\nattracted to him, and spake to him in the mountain-tongue of his\nfathers. And all the fierceness of his fathers returned upon him, with\nlongings for the wind-voices of the peaks, and the madness of leaping\nwater, and the sleeping-places above the clouds where the eagles\nhatched their young, and the secrets of the unknown caverns, and the\naltar of flickering fire.... So that he made compact with them; and,\ntreacherously returning, slew the aged vizier together with his sons,\nand robbed the palace, and fled to the mountains, where he took refuge\nin his father's ancient fortress, and became a leader of outlaws. And\nthey told the tale to the king.\n\nThen the king, wondering not at all, laughed bitterly and said: \"O ye\nwise fools! how can a good sword be wrought from bad iron? how may\neducation change the hearts of the wicked? Doth not the same rain which\nnourisheth the rose also nourish the worthless shrubs that grow in\nsalty marshes? How shall a salty waste produce nard? Verily, to do good\nunto the evil is not less blameworthy than to do evil unto the good.\"\n\n\n\n\nA LEGEND OF LOVE\n\n\n    Djemil the \"Azra\" said: \"While I live, my heart will love\n    thee; and when I shall be no more, still will my Shadow\n    follow thy Shadow athwart the tombs.\"...\n\n\nThou hast perchance beheld it--the strong white city climbing by\nterraces far up the mountain-side, with palms swaying in the blue\nabove its citadel towers, and the lake-waters damascened by winds,\nreflecting, all-quiveringly, its Arabian gates and the golden words of\nthe Prophet shining upon entablatures, and the mosque-domes rounded\nlike eggs of the Rok, and the minarets from which the voice of the\nmuezzin comes to the faithful with dying redness of sunset: \"O ye who\nare about to sleep, commend your souls to Him who never sleeps!\"\n\n... Therein also dwelt many Christians--may their bones be ground and\nthe names of them forever blotted out! Yea; all save one, whose name\nI have indeed forgotten. (But our master the Prophet hath written the\nname; and it hath not been forgotten by Him who never forgets--though\nit be the name of a woman!) Now, hard by the walls of the city there\nis a place of sepulchre for good Moslems, in which thou mayst see two\ngraves, the foot of one being set against the foot of the other; and\nupon one of these is a monument bearing a turban, while the form of the\ntumulary stone upon the other hath only flowers in relief, and some\nletters of an obliterated name, wherefore thou mightst know it to be\nthe grave of a woman. And there are cypress-trees more ancient than\nIslam, making darkness like a summer's night about the place.\n\n\n... Slender she was as the tulip upon its stalk, and in walking her\nfeet seemed kisses pressed upon the ground. But hadst thou beheld her\nface unveiled, and the whiteness of her teeth between her brown lips\nwhen she smiled!... He was likewise in the summer of his youth; and\nhis love was like the love of the Beni-Azra told of by Sahid Ben-Agba.\nBut she being a Christian maiden and he being a good Mussulman, they\ncould not converse together save by stealth; nor could either dare\nto let the matter become known unto the parents of the other. For he\ncould not indeed make himself one of the infidel--whose posterity may\nGod blot out!--neither could she, through fear of her people, avow the\nfaith of the Prophet!... Only through the lattice of her window could\nshe betimes converse with him; and with the love of each other it came\nto pass that both fell grievously ill. As to the youth, indeed, his\nsickness so wrought upon him that his reason departed, and he long\nremained as one mad. Then at last, recovering, he departed to another\nplace, even to the city of Damascus--not that he might so forget what\nhe could not wish to forget, but that his strength might return to him.\n\nNow the parents of the maiden were rich, while the youth was poor.\nAnd when the lovers had contrived to send letters one unto the other,\nshe sent to him a hundred dinars, begging him, as he loved her, that\nhe should seek out an artist in that city, and have a likeness of\nhimself painted for her that she might kiss it. \"But knowest thou not,\nbeloved,\" he wrote, \"that it is contrary unto our creed; and in the\nLast Day what wilt thou say unto God when He shall demand of thee to\ngive life unto the image thou hast had wrought?\" But she replied: \"In\nthe Last Day, O my beloved, I shall answer, Thou knowest, O Most Holy,\nthat Thy creature may not create; yet if it be Thy will to animate this\nimage, I will forever bless Thy name, though Thou condemn me for having\nloved more than mine own soul the fairest of living images Thou hast\nmade.\"...\n\n\nBut it came to pass in time that, returning, he fell sick again in the\ncity which I speak of; and lying down to die, he whispered into the\near of his friend: \"Never again in this world shall I behold her whom\nmy soul loveth; and I much fear, if I die a Mussulman, lest I should\nnot meet her in the other. Therefore I desire to abjure my faith, and\nto become a Christian.\" And so he died. But we buried him among the\nfaithful, forasmuch as his mind must have been much disturbed when he\nuttered those words.\n\nAnd the friend of the youth hastened with all speed to the place where\nthe young girl dwelt, she being also at the point of death, so grievous\nwas the pain of her heart. Then said she to him: \"Never again in this\nworld shall I behold him that my soul loveth; and I much fear if I die\na Christian, lest I should not meet him in the other. Therefore I give\ntestimony that there is no other God but God, and that Mahomet is the\nprophet of God!\"\n\nThen the friend whispered unto her what had happened, to her great\nastonishment. But she only answered: \"Bear me to where he rests; and\nbury me with my feet toward his, feet, that I may rise face to face\nwith him at the Day of Judgment!\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE KING'S JUSTICE\n\n\n    ... Praise to the Creator of all, the secret of whose\n    existence is unknown; who hath marked all His creatures with\n    an imprint, though there be no visible imprint of Himself;\n    who is the Soul of the soul; who is hidden in that which\n    is hidden!... Though the firmament open its myriad million\n    eyes in the darkness, it may not behold Him. Yet does\n    the Sun nightly bow his face of flame below the west, in\n    worship; monthly the Moon faints away in astonishment at His\n    greatness.... Eternally the Ocean lifts its thousand waves\n    to proclaim His glory; Fire seeks to rise to Him; Winds\n    whisper of His mystery.... And in the balance of His justice\n    even a sigh hath weight....\n\n\nIn the first recital of the First Book of the Gulistan, treating of the\nConduct of Kings, it is said that a Persian monarch condemned with his\nown lips a prisoner of war, and commanded that he be put to death.\n\nAnd the prisoner, being still in the force of youth and the fullness of\nstrength, thought within his heart of all the days he might otherwise\nhave lived, of all the beauty he might have caressed, of all the\nhappiness he might have known, of all the hopes unbudded that might\nhave ripened into blossom for him. Thus regretting, and seeing before\nhim only the blind and moonless night of death, and considering that\nthe fair sun would never rise for him again, he cursed the king in\nthe language of malediction of his own country, loudly and with mad\npassion. For it is a proverb: \"Whosoever washeth his hands of life,\ntruly saith all that is within his heart.\"\n\nNow the king, hearing the vehemence of the man, but nowise\nunderstanding the barbaric tongue which he spoke, questioned his first\nvizier, asking, \"What saith the dog?\"\n\nBut the vizier, being a kindly-hearted man, answered thus: \"O Master,\nhe repeateth the words of the Holy Book, the words of the Prophet of\nGod concerning those who repress their anger and pardon injury, the\nbeloved of Allah.\"\n\nAnd the king, hearing and believing these words, felt his heart moved\nwithin him; the fire of his anger died out, and the spirit of pity\nentered into him, so that he revoked his own command and forgave the\nman, and ordered that he should be set free.\n\nBut there was another vizier also with the king, a malevolent and\ncunning-eyed man, knowing all languages, and ever seeking to obtain\nelevation by provoking the misfortune of others. This vizier, assuming\ntherefore an austere face like to that of a praying dervish, loudly\nexclaimed: \"Ill doth it become trusted ministers of a king, men of\nhonorable place, such as we are, to utter in the presence of our master\neven so much as one syllable of untruth. Know, therefore, O Master,\nthat the first vizier hath untruthfully interpreted the prisoner's\nwords; for that wretch uttered no single pious word, but evil and\nblasphemous language concerning thee, cursing his king in the impotency\nof his rage.\"\n\nBut the king's brows darkened when he heard the words; and turning\nterrible eyes upon the second vizier, he said unto him: \"More pleasant\nto my ears was the lie uttered by my first vizier, than the truth\nspoken by thy lips; for he indeed uttered a lie with a good and\nmerciful purpose, whereas thou didst speak the truth for a wicked and\nmalignant purpose. Better the lie told for righteous ends than the\ntruth which provoketh evil! Neither shall my pardon be revoked; but as\nfor thee, let me see thy face no more!\"\n\n\n\n\nTRADITIONS RETOLD FROM THE TALMUD\n\n\n\n\nA LEGEND OF RABBA\n\n\n    Which is in the Gemara of the Berachoth of Babylon....\n    Concerning the interpretation of dreams, it hath been\n    said by Rabbi Benaa: \"There were in Jerusalem twenty-four\n    interpreters of dreams; and I, having dreamed a dream, did\n    ask the explanation thereof from each of the twenty-four;\n    and, notwithstanding that each gave me a different\n    interpretation, the words of all were fulfilled, even in\n    conformity with the saying: 'All dreams are accomplished\n    according to the interpretation thereof.'\"... We are Thine,\n    O King of all; Thine also are our dreams....\n\n\nMighty was the knowledge of the great Rabba, to whom the mysteries of\nthe Book Yetzirah were known in such wise, that, being desirous once to\ntry his brother, Rabbi Zira, he did create out of dust a living man,\nand sent the man to Zira with a message in writing. But inasmuch as the\nman had not been born of woman, nor had had breathed into him God's\nholy spirit of life, he could not speak. Therefore, when Rabbi Zira had\nspoken to him and observed that he did not reply, the Rabbi whispered\ninto his ear: \"Thou wert begotten by witchcraft; return to thy form\nof dust!\" And the man crumbled before his sight into shapelessness;\nand the wind bore the shapelessness away, as smoke is dissipated by a\nbreath of storm. But Rabbi Zira marveled greatly at the power of the\ngreat Rabba.\n\nNot so wise, nevertheless, was Rabba as was Bar-Hedia in the\ninterpretation of dreams; and Bar-Hedia was consulted by the multitudes\nin those parts. But he interpreted unto them good or evil only as\nthey paid him or did not pay him. According to many Rabbonim, to\ndream of a well signifieth peace; to dream of a camel, the pardon of\niniquities; to dream of goats, a year of fertility; to dream of any\nliving creature, save only the monkey and the elephant, is good; and\nthese also are good if they appear harnessed or bound. But Bar-Hedia\ninterpreted such good omens in the contrary way, unless well paid by\nthe dreamer; and it was thought passing strange that the evils which he\npredicted never failed of accomplishment.\n\n\nNow one day the Rabbonim Abayi and Rabba went to consult Bar-Hedia the\ninterpreter, seeing that they had both dreamed the same dream. Abayi\npaid him one zouz, but Rabba paid him nothing.\n\nAnd they asked Bar-Hedia, both together saying: \"Interpret unto us this\ndream which we have dreamed. Sleeping, it seemed to us that we beheld a\nscroll unrolled under a great light, and we did both read therein these\nwords, which are in the fifth book of Moses\":\n\n    Thine ox shall be slain before thine eyes, and thou shalt\n    not eat thereof.... Thy sons and thy daughters shall be\n    given unto another people. Thou shalt carry much seed out\n    into the field, and shalt gather but little in....\n\nThen Bar-Hedia, the interpreter, said to Abayi who had paid him one\nzouz: \"For thee this dream bodeth good. The verse concerning the ox\nsignifies thou wilt prosper so wondrously that for very joy thou shalt\nbe unable to eat. Thy sons and daughters shall be married in other\nlands, so that thou wilt be separated from them without grief, knowing\nthem to be virtuous and content.\n\n\"But for thee, Rabba, who didst pay me nothing, this dream portendeth\nevil. Thou shalt be afflicted in such wise that for grief thou canst\nnot eat; thy daughters and sons shall be led into captivity. Abayi\nshall 'carry out much seed into the field'; but the second part of the\nverse, 'Thou shalt gather but little,' refers to thee.\"\n\nThen they asked him again, saying: \"But in our dream we also read these\nverses, thus disposed\":\n\n    Thou shalt have olive trees, and thou shalt not anoint\n    thyself with oil.... All the people of the earth shall see\n    that thou art called by the name of the Lord, and they shall\n    be afraid of thee.\n\nThen said Bar-Hedia: \"For thee, Rabbi Abayi, the words signify that\nthou shalt be prosperous and much honored; but for thee, Rabba, who\ndidst pay me nothing, they portend evil only. Thou shalt have no\nprofit in thy labor; thou shalt be falsely accused, and by reason of\nthe accusation, avoided as one guilty of crime.\"\n\nStill Rabba, speaking now for himself alone, continued: \"But I dreamed\nalso that I beheld the exterior door of my dwelling fall down, and that\nmy teeth fell out of my mouth. And I dreamed that I saw two doves fly\naway, and two radishes growing at my feet.\"\n\nAgain Bar-Hedia answered, saying: \"For thee, Rabba, who didst pay me\nnothing, these things signify evil. The falling of thine outer door\naugurs the death of thy wife; the loss of thy teeth signifies that thy\nsons and daughters shall likewise die in their youth. The flight of the\ndoves means that thou shalt be divorced from two other wives, and the\ntwo radishes of thy dream foretell that thou wilt receive two blows\nwhich thou mayest not return.\"\n\nAnd all things thus foretold by Bar-Hedia came to pass. So that Rabba's\nwife died, and that he was arrested upon suspicion of having robbed the\ntreasury of the king, and that the people shunned him as one guilty.\nAlso while seeking to separate two men fighting, who were blind, they\nstruck him twice unknowingly, so that he could not resent it. And\nmisfortunes came to Rabba even as to Job; yet he could resign himself\nto all save only the death of his young wife, the daughter of Rabbi\nHisda.\n\nAt last Rabba paid a great sum to Bar-Hedia, and told him of divers\nawful dreams which he had had. This time Bar-Hedia predicted happiness\nfor him, and riches, and honors, all of which came to pass according to\nthe words of the interpreter, whereat Rabba marveled exceedingly.\n\nNow it happened while Rabba and Bar-Hedia were voyaging one day\ntogether, that Bar-Hedia let fall his magical book, by whose aid he\nuttered all his interpretations of dreams; and Rabba, hastily picking\nit up, perceived these words in the beginning: \"All dreams shall be\nfulfilled according to the interpretation of the interpreter.\" So\nthat Rabba, discovering the wicked witchcraft of the man, cursed him,\nsaying: \"Raca! For all else could I forgive thee, save for the death of\nmy beloved wife, the daughter of Rabbi Hisda! O thou impious magician!\ntake thou my malediction!\"...\n\nThereupon Bar-Hedia, terrified, went into voluntary exile among the\nRomans, vainly hoping thus to expiate his sin, and flee from the\nconsuming power of Rabba's malediction.\n\n\nThus coming to Rome, he interpreted dreams daily before the gate of the\nking's treasury; and he did much evil, as he was wont to do before. One\nday the king's treasurer came to him, saying: \"I dreamed a dream in\nwhich it seemed to me that a needle had entered my finger. Interpret me\nthis dream.\"\n\nBut Bar-Hedia said only, \"Give me a zouz!\" And because he would not\ngive it, Bar-Hedia told him nothing.\n\nAnd another day the treasurer came, saying: \"I dreamed a dream in which\nit seemed that worms devoured two of my fingers. Interpret me this\ndream.\"\n\nBut Bar-Hedia said only, \"Give me a zouz!\" And because he would not\ngive it, Bar-Hedia told him nothing.\n\nYet the third time the treasurer came, saying: \"I dreamed a dream\nin which it seemed to me that worms devoured my whole right hand.\nInterpret me this dream.\"\n\nThen Bar-Hedia mocked him, saying: \"Go, look thou at the king's stores\nof silk entrusted to thy keeping; for worms have by this time destroyed\nthem utterly.\"... And it was even as Bar-Hedia said.\n\nThereupon the king waxed wroth, and ordered the decapitation of the\ntreasurer. But he, protesting, said: \"Wherefore slay only me, since the\nJew that was first aware of the presence of the worms, said nothing\nconcerning it?\"\n\nSo they brought in Bar-Hedia, and questioned him. But he mocked the\ntreasurer, and said: \"It was because thou wast too avaricious to pay me\none zouz that the king's silk hath been destroyed.\"\n\nWhereupon the Romans, being filled with fury, bent down the tops of two\nyoung cedar trees, one toward the other, and fastened them so with a\nrope. And they bound Bar-Hedia's right leg to one tree-top, and his\nleft leg to the other; and thereafter severed the rope suddenly with a\nsword. And the two cedars, as suddenly leaping back to their natural\npositions, tore asunder the body of Bar-Hedia into equal parts, so\nthat his entrails were spilled out, and even his skull, splitting into\nhalves, emptied of its brain.\n\nFor the malediction of the great Rabba was upon him.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MOCKERS\n\n\n    ...A tradition of Rabbi Simon ben Yochai, which is preserved\n    within the Treatise Sheviith of the \"Talmud Yerushalmi.\"...\n    Is it not said in the Sanhedrin that there are four classes\n    who do not enter into the presence of the Holy One?--blessed\n    be He!--and among these four are scorners reckoned....\n\n\nConcerning Rabbi Simon ben Yochai many marvelous things are narrated,\nboth in that Talmud which is of Babylon and in that which is of\nJerusalem. And of these things none are more wonderful than the\ntradition regarding the fashion after which he was wont to rebuke the\nimpudence of mockers.\n\nIt was this same Rabbi Simon ben Yochai, who was persecuted by the\nRomans, because he had made little of their mighty works, saying that\nthey had constructed roads only to move their wicked armies more\nrapidly, that they had builded bridges only to collect tolls, that\nthey had erected aqueducts and baths for their own pleasure only,\nand had established markets for no other end than the sustenance of\niniquity. For these words Rabbi Simon was condemned to die; wherefore\nhe, together with his holy son, fled away, and they hid themselves in a\ncave. Therein they dwelt for twelve long years, so that their garments\nwould have crumbled into dust had they not laid them aside saving\nonly at the time of prayer; and they buried themselves up to their\nnecks in the sand during their hours of slumber and of meditation. But\nwithin the cave the Lord created for them a heavenly carob-tree, which\ndaily bore fruit for their nourishment; and the Holy One--blessed be\nHe!--also created unending summer within the cave, lest they should be\nafflicted by cold. So they remained until the Prophet Elijah descended\nfrom heaven to tell them that the Emperor of the Romans had died the\ndeath of the idolatrous, and that there remained for them no peril in\nthe world. But during those many years of meditation, the holiness\nof the Rabbi and of his son had become as the holiness of those who\nstand with faces wing-veiled about the throne of God; and the world\nhad become unfitted for their sojourn. Coming forth from the cave,\ntherefore, a fierce anger filled them at the sight of men ploughing and\nreaping in the fields; and they cried out against them, saying: \"Lo!\nthese people think only of the things of earth, and neglect the things\nof eternity.\"\n\nThen were the lands and the people toiling thereupon utterly consumed\nby the fire of their eyes, even as Sodom and Gomorrah were blasted\nfrom the face of the earth. But the Bath-Kol--the Voice of the Holy\nOne--rebuked them from heaven, saying: \"What! have ye come forth\nonly to destroy this world which I have made? Get ye back within\nthe cavern!\" And they returned into the cave for another twelve\nmonths--making in all thirteen years of sojourn therein--until the\nBath-Kol spake again, and uttered their pardon, and bade them return\ninto the world. All of which is written in the Treatise Shabbath of\nSeder Moed of the Talmud Babli.\n\n\nNow in the Talmud Yerushalmi we are told that after Rabbi Simon ben\nYochai had departed from the cave, he resolved to purify all the land\nof Tiberias. For while within the cave, his body had become sore\nsmitten with ulcers, and the waters of Tiberias had healed them. Even\nas he had found purification in Tiberias, so also, he declared, should\nTiberias find in him purification. And these things he said within\nthe hearing of mockers, who feared his eyes, yet who among themselves\nlaughed him to scorn.\n\nBut Rabbi Simon sat down before the city of Tiberias, and he took\nlupines, and cut up the lupines into atoms, and uttered over them words\nwhereof no living man save himself knew the interpretation. (For the\nmeaning of such words is seldom known by men, seeing that but few are\nknown even by the Angels and the Demons.) Having done these things,\nthe Rabbi arose and walked over the land, scattering the lupines about\nhim as a sower scatters seed. And wherever the lupines fell, the bones\nof the dead arose from below and came to the surface of the ground, so\nthat the people could take them away and bury them in a proper place.\nThus was the ground purified, not only of the bones of the idolaters\nand the giants who erst dwelt in the place of promise, but likewise of\nthe bones of all animals and living beings which had there died since\nthe coming of Israel.\n\nNow there was a certain wicked doubter, a Samaritan, who, desiring to\nbring confusion to Rabbi Simon ben Yochai, secretly buried an unclean\ncorpse in a place already purified. And the Samaritan came cunningly\nto Rabbi Simon, saying \"Me-thought thou didst purify such a spot in my\nfield; yet is there an unclean body there--the body of a man. Surely\nthy wisdom hath failed thee, or may-hap thy magic hath some defect in\nit? Come thou with me!\" So he took with him Rabbi Simon, and dug up the\nground, and showed to him the unclean corpse, and laughed in his beard.\n\nBut Rabbi Simon, knowing by divine inspiration what had been done,\nfixed his eyes upon the wicked face of the man, and said: \"Verily,\nsuch a one as thou deserveth not to dwell among the living, but rather\nto exchange places with the dead!\" And no sooner had the words been\nuttered than the body of the dead man arose, and his flesh became pure,\nand the life returned to his eyes and his heart; while the wicked\nSamaritan became a filthy corpse, so that the worms came from his\nnostrils and his ears.\n\nYet, as he went upon his way, Rabbi Simon passed an inhabited tower\nwithout the city; and a voice from the upper chamber of the tower\nmocked him, crying aloud: \"Hither cometh that Bar-Yochai, who thinketh\nhimself able to purify Tiberias!\" Now the mocker was himself a most\nlearned man.\n\n\"I swear unto thee,\" answered Rabbi Simon--\"I swear unto thee that\nTiberias shall be made pure in spite of such as thou, and their\nmockings.\"\n\nAnd even as the holy Rabbi spoke, the mocker who stood within the\nchamber of the tower utterly crumbled into a heap of bones; and from\nthe bones a writhing smoke ascended--the smoke of the wrath of the\nLord, as it is written: \"The anger of the Lord shall smoke!\"...\n\n\n\n\nESTHER'S CHOICE\n\n\n    A story of Rabbi Simon ben Yochai, which is related in the\n    holy Midrash Shir-Hasirim of the holy Midrashim.... Hear, O\n    Israel, the Lord our God is ONE!...\n\n\nIn those days there lived in Sidon, the mighty city, a certain holy\nIsraelite possessing much wealth, and having the esteem of all who knew\nhim, even among the Gentiles. In all Sidon there was no man who had so\nbeautiful a wife; for the comeliness of her seemed like that of Sarah,\nwhose loveliness illumined all the land of Egypt.\n\nYet for this rich one there was no happiness: the cry of the nursling\nhad never been heard in his home, the sound of a child's voice had\nnever made sunshine within his heart. And he heard voices of reproach\nbetimes, saying: \"Do not the Rabbis teach that if a man have lived ten\nyears with his wife and have no issue, then he should divorce her,\ngiving her the marriage portion prescribed by law; for he may not have\nbeen found worthy to have his race perpetuated by her?\"... But there\nwere others who spake reproach of the wife, believing that her beauty\nhad made her proud, and that her reproach was but the punishment of\nvainglory.\n\nAnd at last, one morning, Rabbi Simon ben Yochai was aware of two\nvisitors within the ante-chamber of his dwelling, the richest merchant\nof Sidon and his wife, greeting the holy man with \"Salem aleikoum!\"\nThe Rabbi looked not upon the woman's face, for to gaze even upon the\nheel of a woman is forbidden to holy men; yet he felt the sweetness of\nher presence pervading all the house like the incense of the flowers\nwoven by the hands of the Angel of Prayer. And the Rabbi knew that she\nwas weeping.\n\nThen the husband arose and spake:\n\n\"Lo! is now more than a time of ten years since I was wedded to Esther,\nI being then twenty years of age, and desirous to obey the teaching\nthat he who remaineth unmarried after twenty transgresseth daily\nagainst God. Esther, thou knowest, O Rabbi, was the sweetest maiden in\nSidon; and to me she hath ever been a most loving and sweet wife, so\nthat I could find no fault with her; neither is there any guile in her\nheart.\n\n\"I have since then become a rich Israelite; the men of Tyre know me,\nand the merchants of Carthage swear by my name. I have many ships,\nbearing me ivory and gold of Ophir and jewels of great worth from the\nEast; I have vases of onyx and cups of emeralds curiously wrought, and\nchariots and horses--even so that no prince hath more than I. And this\nI owe to the blessing of the Holy One--blessed be He!--and to Esther,\nmy wife, also, who is a wise and valiant woman, and cunning in advising.\n\n\"Yet, O Rabbi, gladly would I have given all my riches that I might\nobtain one son! that I might be known as a father in Israel. The Holy\nOne--blessed be He!--hath not vouchsafed me this thing; so that I\nhave thought me found unworthy to have children by so fair and good\na woman. I pray thee, therefore, that thou wilt give legal enactment\nto a bill of separation; for I have resolved to give Esther a bill of\ndivorcement, and a goodly marriage portion also, that the reproach may\nso depart from us in the sight of Israel.\"\n\n\nAnd Rabbi Simon ben Yochai stroked thoughtfully the dim silver of his\nbeard. A silence as of the Shechinah fell upon the three. Faintly, from\nafar, came floating to their ears the sea-like murmuring of Sidon's\ncommerce.... Then spake the Rabbi; and Esther, looking at him, thought\nthat his eyes smiled, although this holy man was never seen to smile\nwith his lips. Yet it may be that his eyes smiled, seeing into their\nhearts: \"My son, it would be a scandal in Israel to do as thou dost\npurpose, hastily and without becoming announcement; for men might\nimagine that Esther had not been a good wife, or thou a too exacting\nhusband! It is not lawful to give cause for scorn. Therefore go to thy\nhome, make ready a goodly feast, and invite thither all thy friends and\nthe friends of thy wife, and those who were present at thy wedding,\nand speak to them as a good man to good men, and let them understand\nwherefore thou dost this thing, and that in Esther there is no fault.\nThen return to me on the morrow, and I will grant thee the bill.\"\n\n\nSo a great feast was given, and many guests came; among them, all who\nhad attended the wedding of Esther, save, indeed, such as Azrael had\nled away by the hand. There was much good wine; the meats smoked upon\nplatters of gold, and cups of onyx were placed at the elbow of each\nguest. And the husband spake lovingly to his wife in the presence of\nall, saying: \"Esther, we have lived together lovingly many years; and\nif we must now separate, thou knowest it is not because I do not love\nthee, but only because it hath not pleased the Most Holy to bless us\nwith children. And in token that I love thee and wish thee all good,\nknow that I desire thee to take away from my house whatever thou\ndesirest, whether it be gold or jewels beyond price.\"\n\nSo the wine went round, and the night passed in mirth and song, until\nthe heads of the guests grew strangely heavy, and there came a buzzing\nin their ears as of innumerable bees, and their beards ceased to wag\nwith laughter, and a deep sleep fell upon them.\n\nThen Esther summoned her handmaids, and said to them: \"Behold my\nhusband sleeps heavily! I go to the house of my father; bear him\nthither also as he sleepeth.\"\n\nAnd awaking in the morning the husband found himself in a strange\nchamber and in a strange house. But the sweetness of a woman's\npresence, and the ivory fingers that caressed his beard, and the\nsoftness of the knees that pillowed his head, and the glory of the dark\neyes that looked into his own awakening,--these were not strange; for\nhe knew that his head was resting in the lap of Esther. And bewildered\nwith the grief-born dreams of the night, he cried out, \"Woman, what\nhast thou done?\"\n\nThen, sweeter than the voice of doves among the fig-trees, came the\nvoice of Esther: \"Didst thou not bid me, husband, that I should choose\nand take away from thy house whatsoever I most desired? And I have\nchosen thee, and have brought thee hither, to my father's home,...\nloving thee more than all else in the world. Wilt thou drive me from\nthee now?\" And he could not see her face for tears of love; yet he\nheard her voice speaking on--speaking the golden words of Ruth, which\nare so old yet so young to the hearts of all that love: \"Whithersoever\nthou shalt go, I will also go; and whithersoever thou shalt dwell, I\nalso will dwell. And the Angel of Death only may part us; for thou art\nall in all to me.\"...\n\nAnd in the golden sunlight at the doorway suddenly stood, like a statue\nof Babylonian silver, the grand gray figure of Rabbi Simon ben Yochai,\nlifting his hands in benediction.\n\n\"Schmah Israel!--the Lord our God, who is One, bless ye with\neverlasting benediction! May your hearts be welded by love, as gold\nwith gold by the cunning of goldsmiths! May the Lord, who coupleth\nand setteth the single in families, watch over ye! The Lord make this\nvaliant woman even as Rachel and as Lia, who built up the house of\nIsrael! And ye shall behold your children and your children's children\nin the House of the Lord!\"\n\nEven so the Lord blessed them; and Esther became as the fruitful vine,\nand they saw their children's children in Israel. Forasmuch as it is\nwritten: \"He will regard the prayer of the destitute.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE DISPUTE IN THE HALACHA\n\n\n    ..Told of in the Book \"Bava-Metzia; or, The Middle Gate\" of\n    the Holy Shas.... The Lord loveth the gates that are marked\n    with the Halacha more than the synagogues and the schools.\n\n\nNow, in those days there was a dispute between the Mishnic Doctors\nand Rabbi Eliezer concerning the legal cleanliness of a certain\nbake-oven, as is written in the Bava-Metzia of the Talmud. For while\nall the others held the oven to be unclean according to the Halacha,\nRabbi Eliezer declared that it was clean; and all their arguments he\noverthrew, and all their objections he confuted, although they would\nnot suffer themselves to be convinced. Then did Rabbi Eliezer at last\nsummon a carob-tree to bear witness to his interpretation of the law;\nand the carob-tree uprooted itself, and rose in air with the clay\ntrickling from its roots, and moved through air to the distance of four\nhundred yards, and replanted itself, trembling, in the soil.\n\nBut the Doctors of the Mishna, being used to marvelous things, were\nlittle moved; and they said: \"We may not admit the testimony of a\ncarob-tree. Shall a carob-tree discourse to us regarding the Halacha?\nWill a carob-tree teach us the law?\"\n\nThen said Rabbi Eliezer to the brook that muttered its unceasing prayer\nwithout: \"Bear me witness, O thou running water!\" And the rivulet\nchanged the course of its current; its waters receded, and, flowing\nback to their fountain-head, left naked the pebbles of their bed to dry\nunder the sun.\n\nBut the Disciples of the Sages still held to their first opinion,\nsaying: \"Shall a brook prattle to us of law? Shall we hearken to\nthe voice of running water rather than to the voice of the Holy\nOne--blessed be He!--and of His servant Moses?\"\n\nThen Rabbi Eliezer, lifting his eyes toward the walls above, bearing\nholy words written upon them, cried out: \"Yet bear me witness also,\nye consecrated walls, that I have decided aright in this matter!\" And\nthe walls quivered, bent inward, curved like a bellying sail in the\nmoment of a changing wind, impended above the hands of the Rabbis, and\nwould have fallen had not Rabbi Joshuah rebuked them, saying: \"What\nis it to you if the Rabbis do wrangle in the Halacha? Would ye crush\nus? Be ye still!\" So the walls, obeying Rabbi Joshuah, would not fall;\nbut neither would they return to their former place, forasmuch as they\nobeyed Rabbi Eliezer also--so that they remain toppling even unto this\nday.\n\nThen, seeing that their hearts were hardened against him even more than\nthe stones of the building, Rabbi Eliezer cried out: \"Let the Bath-Kol\ndecide between us!\" Whereupon the college shook to its foundation;\nand a Voice from heaven answered, saying: \"What have ye to do with\nRabbi Eliezer? for in all things the Halacha is even according to his\ndecision!\"\n\nBut Rabbi Joshuah stood upon his feet fearlessly in the midst, and\nsaid: \"It is not lawful that even a Voice from heaven should be\nregarded by us. For Thou, O God, didst long ago write down in the\nlaw which Thou gavest upon Sinai, saying, 'Thou shalt follow the\nmultitude.'\" And they would not hearken unto Rabbi Eliezer; but they\ndid excommunicate him, and did commit all his decisions regarding the\nlaw to be consumed with fire.\n\n    [Now some have it that Rabbi Nathan testified that the\n    Prophet Elijah declared unto him that God Himself was\n    deceived in this matter, and acknowledged error in His\n    decision, saying: \"My children have vanquished me! my\n    children have prevailed against me!\" But as we also know\n    that in punishment for the excommunication of Rabbi Eliezer\n    a third portion of all the barley and of the olives and of\n    the wheat in the whole world was smitten with blight, we may\n    well believe that Rabbi Eliezer was not in error.]\n\nNow, while yet under sentence of excommunication, Rabbi Eliezer fell\ngrievously ill; and the Rabbonim knew nothing of it. Yet such was his\nlearning, that Rabbi Akiva and all the disciples of the latter came\nunto him to seek instruction.... Then Rabbi Eliezer, rising upon his\nelbow, asked them, \"Wherefore came ye hither?\"\n\n\"We came that we might learn the Halacha,\" answered Akiva.\n\n\"But wherefore came ye not sooner?\"\n\nAnd they answered, \"Because we had not time.\"\n\nThen Rabbi Eliezer, feeling wroth at the reply, said to them also:\n\"Verily, if ye die a natural death, I shall marvel greatly. And as for\nthee, Akiva, thy death shall be the worst of all! It is well for thee\nthat I do not give thee my malediction, seeing thou hast dared to say\nthat one may not have time to learn the law!\"\n\nAnd Rabbi Eliezer, folding his arms upon his breast to die, continued:\n\"Woe, woe is me! Woe unto these two arms of mine, that they are now\neven as two scrolls of the law rolled up, whereof the contents are\nhidden! Had ye waited upon me before, ye might have learned many\nstrange things; and now my knowledge must perish with me! Much have I\nlearned, and much have I taught, yet always without diminishing the\nknowledge of my Rabbis by even so much as the waters of the ocean might\nbe diminished by the lapping of a dog!\"...\n\nAnd he continued to speak to them: \"Now, over and above all those\nthings, I did expound three thousand Halachoth in regard to the growing\nof Egyptian cucumbers; and yet none save only Rabbi Akiva ben Joseph\never asked me so much as one question regarding them!... We were\nwalking on the road between the fields, when he asked me to instruct\nhim regarding Egyptian cucumbers. Then I uttered but one word; and,\nbehold! the fields forthwith became full of Egyptian cucumbers. He\nasked me concerning the gathering of them. I uttered but one word;\nand, lo! all the cucumbers did gather themselves into one place before\nme.\"...\n\nAnd even as Rabbi Eliezer was thus speaking, his soul departed from\nhim; and Rabbi Akiva with all his disciples mourned bitterly for him\nand for themselves, seeing they had indeed come too late to learn the\nlaw.\n\n\nBut the prediction of Rabbi Eliezer was fulfilled. ...For it came to\npass, when Rabbi Akiva had become a most holy man, and marvelously\nlearned, that the Romans forbade the teaching of the law in Israel;\nand Rabbi Akiva persisted in teaching it publicly to the people,\nsaying: \"If we suffer so much by the will of the Holy One--blessed be\nHe!--while studying the law, how much indeed shall we suffer while\nneglecting it!\"\n\nSo they led him out to execution, and tortured him with tortures\nunspeakable. Now it was just at that hour when the prayer must be said:\n\"Hear, O Israel! the Lord our God is One.\"\n\nAnd even while they were tearing his flesh with combs of iron, Rabbi\nAkiva uttered the holy words and died. And there came a mighty Voice\nfrom heaven, crying: \"Blessed art thou, O Rabbi Akiva, for thy soul and\nthe word ONE left thy body together!\"\n\n\n\n\nRABBI YOCHANAN BEN ZACHAI\n\n\n    There is in Heaven a certain living creature which hath\n    letters upon its forehead. And by day these letters, which\n    are brighter than the sun, form the word TRUTH, whereby the\n    angels know that it is day. But when evening cometh, the\n    letters, self-changing, do shape themselves into the word\n    FAITH, whereby the angels know that the night cometh....\n\n\nNow Hillel the Great, who gathered together the Sedarim of the Talmud,\nand who was also the teacher of that Jesus the Gentiles worship, had\neighty other disciples who became holy men. Of these, thirty were\nindeed so holy that the Shechinah rested upon them even as upon Moses,\nso that their faces gave out light; and rays like beams of the sun\nstreamed from their temples.\n\nAnd of thirty others it is said their holiness was as the holiness of\nJoshua, the son of Nun, being worthy that the sun should stand still at\ntheir behest. And the remaining twenty, of whom the greatest was Rabbi\nJonathan ben Uzziel, and the least of all Rabbi Yochanan ben Zachai,\nwere held to be only of middling worth. Yet there is now not one worthy\nto compare with the least of them, seeing that Rabbi Yochanan was\nholier than living man to-day.\n\nFor, humble as he was, Rabbi Yochanan ben Zachai was deeply learned in\nthe Scriptures--in the Mishna and the Gemara and the Midrashim--in the\nKabbalah, the rules of Gematria, of Notricon, and of Temurah--in the\nfive mystic alphabets, Atbash, Atbach, Albam, Aiakbechar, Tashrak--in\nlegends and the lesser laws and the niceties--in the theories of the\nmoon, in the language of angels and the whispering of palm-trees and\nthe speech of demons. And if all the seas were ink, and all the reeds\nthat shake by rivers were pens, and all the men of the earth were\nscribes, never could they write down all that Rabbi Yochanan ben Zachai\nhad learned, nor even so much of it as he taught in his lifetime, which\nendured for the period of one hundred and twenty years. Yet he was the\nleast of all the disciples of Hillel.\n\nOf the years of his life the first forty he devoted to worldly things,\nespecially to commerce, that he might earn enough to enable him to\ndevote unto good works the remainder of the time allotted him. And the\nnext forty years he devoted to study, becoming so learned that he was\nindeed accused of being a magician, as were also those Rabbis who, by\ncombination of the letters of the Name Ineffable, did create living\nanimals and fruits--as were also Rav Oshayah and Rav Chaneanah, who by\nstudy of the Book Yetzirah (which is the Book of Creation) did create\nfor themselves a calf, and did eat thereof.\n\nAnd the last forty years of his most holy life Rabbi Yochanan gave to\nteaching the people.\n\nNow, as it is related in the Book Bava Bathra, in Seder Nezikin of the\nTalmud, Rabbi Yochanan ben Zachai did upon one occasion explain before\na vain disciple the words of the Prophet Isaiah. And so explaining he\nsaid: \"The Most Holy--blessed be His name forever!--shall take precious\nstones and pearls, each measuring thirty cubits by thirty cubits, and\nshall cut and polish them till they measure twenty cubits by ten cubits\neach, and shall set them in the gates of Jerusalem.\"\n\nThen the vain and foolish disciple, the son of Impudence, laughed\nloudly, and with mockery in his voice said: \"What man hath ever seen an\nemerald or a diamond, a ruby or a pearl, even so large as the egg of a\nsmall bird? and wilt thou indeed tell us that there be jewels thirty\ncubits by thirty?\" But Rabbi Yochanan returned no answer; and the\ndisciple, mocking, departed.\n\nNow, some days after these things happened, that wicked disciple went\nupon a voyage; for he was in commerce and a great driver of bargains,\nand known in many countries for his skill in bartering and his ability\nin finding objects of price. Now, while in his vessel, when the sailors\nslumbered, waiting to raise the anchor at dawn, it was given to that\nwicked disciple to see a great light below the waters. And looking down\nhe saw mighty angels in the depths of the sea, quarrying monstrous\ndiamonds and emeralds, and opening prodigious shells to obtain enormous\npearls. And the eyes of the angels were fixed upon him, even as they\nworked below the water in that awful light. Then a dreadful fear came\nupon him, so that his knees smote one against another, and his teeth\nfell out; and in obedience to a power that moved his tongue against his\nwill, he cried aloud: \"For what are those diamonds and those mighty\nemeralds? For what are those monstrous pearls?\" And a Voice answered\nhim from the deep, \"For the gates of Jerusalem!\"\n\nAnd having returned from his voyage, the disciple hastened with all\nspeed to the place where Rabbi Yochanan ben Zachai was teaching, and\ntold him that which he had seen, and vowed that the words of Rabbi\nYochanan should nevermore be doubted by him.\n\nBut the Rabbi, seeing into his heart, and beholding the blackness of\nthe wickedness within it, answered in a voice of thunder: \"Raca! hadst\nthou not seen them, thou wouldst even now mock the words of the sages!\"\nAnd with a single glance of his eye he consumed that wicked disciple as\na dry leaf is consumed by flame, reducing the carcass of his body to a\nheap of smoking ashes as though it had been smitten by the lightning of\nthe Lord.\n\nAnd the people marveled exceedingly. But Rabbi Yochanan ben Zachai,\npaying no heed to the white ashes smoking at his feet, continued to\nexplain unto his disciples the language of palm-trees and of demons.\n\n\n\n\nA TRADITION OF TITUS\n\n\n    ...Which is in the Book \"Gittin\" of the Talmud.... Before\n    Titus the world was like unto the eyeball of man; the ocean\n    being as the white, the world as the black, the pupil\n    thereof Jerusalem, and the image within the pupil the Temple\n    of the Lord....\n\n\nVerily hath it been said, in Chullin of the Holy Shas, that \"sixty iron\nmines are suspended in the sting of a gnat.\"\n\nFor in those days Titus--may his ears be made into sockets for the\nhinges of Gehenna to turn upon!--came from Rome with his idolaters,\nand laid siege to the Holy City, and destroyed it, and bore away the\nvirgins into captivity. He who had not beheld Jerusalem before that day\nhad not seen the glory of Israel.\n\nThere were three hundred and ninety-four synagogues, and three hundred\nand ninety-four courts of law, and the same number of academies for\nthe youth.... When the gates of the temple were opened, the roar of\ntheir golden hinges was heard at the distance of eight Sabbath days'\njourney.... The Veil of the Holy of Holies was woven by eighty-two\nmyriads of virgins; three hundred priests were needed to draw it, and\nthree hundred to lave it when soiled. But Titus--be his name accursed\nforever!--wrapped up the sacred vessels in it, and, putting them in a\nship, set sail for the city of Rome....\n\nScarcely had he departed beyond sight of the land when a great storm\narose--the deeps made visible their darkness, the waves showed their\nteeth! And an exceeding great fear came upon the mariners, and they\ncried out, \"It is the Elohim!\"\n\nBut Titus, mocking, lifted his voice against Heaven, and the thunders,\nand the lightnings, and the mutterings of the sea, exclaiming: \"Lo!\nthis God of Jews hath no power save on water! Pharaoh He drowned;\nSisera He drowned also; even now He seeketh to drown me with my\nlegions! If He be mighty, and not afraid to strive with me on land, let\nHim rather await me on solid earth, and there see whether He be strong\nenough to prevail against me.\" (Now Sisera, indeed, was not drowned;\nbut Titus, being ignorant and an idolater, spake falsely.)\n\nThen burst forth a splendor of white fire from the darkness of the\nclouds; and deeper than the thunder a Voice answered unto him: \"O thou\nwicked one, son of a wicked man and grandson of Esau the wicked, go\nthou ashore! Lo! I have a creature awaiting thee, which is but little\nand insignificant in my world; go thou and fight with it!\"\n\nAnd the tempest ceased.\n\nSo Titus and his legions landed after many days upon the shore of the\nland called Italy--the shore that vibrated forever to the sound of the\nmighty city of Rome, whereof the Voice was heard unto the four ends\nof the earth, and the din whereof deafened Rabbi Yehoshuah even at the\ndistance of a hundred and twenty miles. For in Rome there were three\nhundred and sixty-five streets, and in each street three hundred and\nsixty-five palaces, and leading up to the pillared portico of each\npalace a marble flight of three hundred and sixty-five steps.\n\nBut no sooner had the Emperor Titus placed his foot upon the shore\nthan there attacked him a gnat! And the gnat flew up his nostrils, and\nentered into his wicked brain, and gnawed it, and tortured him with\nunspeakable torture. And he could obtain no cessation of his anguish;\nneither was there any physician in Rome who could do aught to relieve\nhim. So the gnat abode in his brain for seven years, and the face of\nTitus became, for everlasting pain, as the face of a man in hell.\n\n\nNow, after Titus had vainly sacrificed unto all the obscene gods of the\nRomans, it came to pass that he heard one day, within a blacksmith's\nshop, the sound of the hammer descending upon the anvil; and the sound\nwas grateful to his ears as the harping of David unto the hearing of\nSaul, and the anguish presently departed from him. Then, thinking unto\nhimself, he exclaimed, \"Lo! I have found relief\"; and having offered\nsacrifices unto the Smith-god, he ordered the smith to be brought to\nhis palace, together with anvils and hammers. And he paid the smith\nfour zouzim a day--as money is reckoned in Israel--to hammer for him.\n\nBut the smith could not hammer unceasingly; and whenever he stopped the\npain returned, and the gnat tormented exceedingly. So other smiths were\nsent for; and at last a Jewish smith, who was a slave. To him Titus\nwould pay nothing, notwithstanding he had paid the Gentiles; for he\nsaid, \"It is enough payment for thee to behold thy enemy suffer!\"\n\nYet thirty days more; and no sound of hammers could lessen the agony of\nthe gnawing of the gnat, and Titus knew that he must die.\n\nThen he bade his family that they should burn his body after he was\ndead, and collect the ashes, and send out seven ships to scatter the\nashes upon the waves of the Seven Seas, lest the God of Israel should\nresurrect his body at the Day of Judgment.\n\n    [But it is written in Midrash Kohelet, of the holy\n    Midrashim, that Hadrian--may his name be blotted out!--once\n    asked Rabbi Joshua ben Chanania, \"From what shall the body\n    be reconstructed at the Last Day?\" And the Rabbi answered,\n    \"From Luz in the backbone.\" When Hadrian demanded proof, the\n    Rabbi took Luz, the little bone of the spine, and immersed\n    it in water, and it was not softened. He put it into the\n    fire, and it was not consumed. He put it into a mill, and it\n    could not be ground. He hammered it upon an anvil; but the\n    hammer was broken, and the anvil split asunder.\n\n    Therefore the desire of Titus shall not prevail; and the\n    Lord will surely reconstruct his body for punishment out of\n    Luz in the backbone!]\n\nBut before they burned the corpse of Titus they opened his skull and\nlooked into his brain, that they might find the gnat.\n\nNow the gnat was as big as a swallow, and weighed two selas, as weight\nis reckoned in Israel. And they found that its claws were of brass, and\nthe jaws of its mouth were of iron!\n\n\n\n\nBIBLIOGRAPHY\n\n\n(There are very fine English translations of the works marked with an\nasterisk.)\n\nALLEGORIES, R\u00c9CITS, CONTES, etc, traduits de l'Arabe, du Persan,\nde l'Hindustani, et du Turc. Par M. Garcin de Tassy. Paris, 1876.\n(Includes \"Bakawali.\")\n\nAMAROU. _Anthologie \u00c9rotique._ Texte sanscrit, traduction, notes, etc.,\npar A. L. Apudy (Ch\u00e9zy). Paris, 1831.\n\nAVADANAS (Les). _Contes et Apologues Indiens._ Traduits par M.\nStanislas Julien. Paris, 1859.\n\nBUDDHA (ROMANTIC LEGEND OF). Translated by Rev. Samuel Beal. London,\n1875.\n\nCONTES \u00c9GYPTIENS. Par G. Masp\u00e9ro. Paris, 1882.\n\nDHAMMAPADA (The). Translated from the Chinese by Rev. Samuel Beal, B.A.\nBoston, 1878.\n\n*GITA-GOVINDA (Le), ET LE RITOU-SAKHARA. Traduits par Hippolyte Fauche.\nParis, 1850.\n\n*GULISTAN (Le), DE SADI. Traduit litt\u00e9ralement, par N. Semelet. Paris,\n1834.\n\nHINDOO PANTHEON (The). By Major Edward Moor. London, 1861.\n\n*HITOPAD\u00c9SA (L'). Traduit par E. Lancereau. Paris, 1882.\n\nJACOLLIOT. _Voyage aux Ruines de Golconde._ Paris, 1878.\n\nJATAKA-TALES. Translated by T. W. Rhuys Davids. Vol. I. Boston, 1881.\n\nKALEWALA. Traduction de L\u00e9ouzon Le Duc. Paris, 1845.\n\nMAHABHARATA (ONZE \u00c9PISODES DU). Traduit par Foucaux. Paris, 1862.\n\n*MANTIC UTTA\u00cfR. Traduit du Persan par M. Garcin de Tassy. Paris, 1863.\n\nMYTHOLOGIE DES ESQUIMAUX. Par l'Abb\u00e9 Morillot. Paris, 1874.\n\nMYTHS AND SONGS or THE SOUTH PACIFIC. By Rev. W. W. Gill London, 1877.\n\nPANCHATANTRA; OU, LES CINQ LIVRES. Traduit par E. Lancereau. Paris,\n1871.\n\nSTENDAHL (De). _L'Amour._\n\n*SACOUNTALA. Texte sanscrit, notes et traduction par Ch\u00e9zy. Paris, 1830.\n\nTALMUD. _Le Talmud de Jerusalem._ Traduit par Mo\u00efse Schwab. Vols. I-VI.\nParis, 1878-83.\n\nTALMUDIC MISCELLANY (A). By Rev. L. P. Hers hon. Boston, 1882.\n\nVET\u00c1LAPANCHAVINSAT\u00cd (HINDI VERSION OF THE). _Bait\u00e1l Pachisi; or, The\nTwenty-five Tales of a Demon._ Translated by W. B. Barker. London,\n1855.\n\n\n\n\nFANTASTICS AND OTHER FANCIES\n\nEDITED BY CHARLES WOODWARD HUTSON\n\n\n    There are tropical lilies which are venomous, but they are\n    more beautiful than the frail and icy-white lilies of the\n    North.\n                                               LAFCADIO HEARN\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n\"I am conscious they are only trivial,\" wrote Lafcadio Hearn from New\nOrleans in 1880 to his friend H. E. Krehbiel, speaking of the weird\nlittle sketches he was publishing from time to time in the columns\nof the _Daily Item_, the New Orleans newspaper which first gave him\nemployment in the city where he spent the ten years from 1877 to 1887.\n\n\"But I fancy,\" he goes on, \"that the idea of the fantastics is\nartistic. They are my impressions of the strange life of New Orleans.\nThey are dreams of a tropical city. There is one twin-idea running\nthrough them all--Love and Death. And these figures embody the story\nof life here, as it impresses me. I hope to be able to take a trip\nto Mexico in the summer just to obtain literary material, sun-paint,\ntropical color, etc. There are tropical lilies which are venomous, but\nthey are more beautiful than the frail and icy-white lilies of the\nNorth. Tell me if you received a fantastic founded upon the story of\nPonce de Leon. I think I sent it in my last letter. I have not written\nany fantastics since except one--inspired by Tennyson's fancy fancy--\n\n    \"My heart would hear her and beat,\n      Had it lain for a century dead--\n     Would start and tremble under her feet--\n      And blossom in purple and red.\"\n\nIt was this \"Fantastic,\" published first in the _Item_ on October 21,\n1880, and later re-written in more ornate style and published in the\n_Times-Democrat_ on April 6, 1884, under the title of \"L'Amour apr\u00e8s\nla Mort,\" which is the only one of the weird little sketches that has\nappeared in book form, outside of those which he himself republished in\n_Stray Leaves from Strange Literature_, and _Some Chinese Ghosts._\n\nFor it was this one which he sent to a friend with the deprecatory\ncriticism that it \"belonged to the Period of Gush\" and the request \"to\nburn or tear it up after reading.\" He had merely enclosed it to show\nhow and when he had first used the phrase \"lentor inexpressible\" to\nwhich his friend had objected.\n\n\"Fortunately his correspondent--as did most of those to whom he\nwrote--treasured everything in his handwriting,\" says his biographer,\nMrs. Elizabeth Bisland Wetmore, \"and the fragment which bore--my\nimpression is--the title of 'A Dead Love' (the clipping lacks the\ncaption) remains to give an example of some of the work that bears the\nflaws of his 'prentice hand, before he used his tools with the assured\nskill of a master.\" And she quotes the strange, fanciful little sketch\nin full, with the comment: \"To his own, and perhaps other middle-aged\ntaste, 'A Dead Love' may seem negligible, but to those still young\nenough, as he himself then was, to credit passion with a potency\nnot only to survive 'the gradual furnace of the world,' but even to\nblossom in the dust of graves, this stigmatization as 'Gush' will seem\nas unfeeling as always does to the young the dry and sapless wisdom\nof granddams. To them any version of the Orphic myth is tinglingly\ncredible. Yearningly desirous that the brief flower of life may never\nfade, such a cry finds an echo in the very roots of their inexperienced\nhearts. The smouldering ardor of its style, which a chastened judgment\nrejected, was perhaps less faulty than its author believed it to be in\nlater years.\"\n\n\"It was to my juvenile admiration for this particular bit of work,\"\nshe goes on, \"that I owed the privilege of meeting Lafcadio Hearn in\nthe winter of 1882, and of laying the foundation of a close friendship\nwhich lasted without a break until the day of his death.\"\n\nHis linking of love with death in this and the other \"Fantastics\"\nwas in full accord with the sombre atmosphere of the trebly stricken\ncity to which he had come--a city with a glorious and a joyous past,\nbut just then ruined by three horrors:--recent war, misrule under the\ncarpet-baggers, and oft-recurring pestilence. He had come expecting\nmuch from a semi-tropical environment. He found sorrow and trouble and\na wasted land; and his mood was soon in unison with the disastrous\nelements around him. His letter to his friend Watkin when he first came\nto this smitten Paradise shows how strong the impression was: \"When\nI saw it first--sunrise over Louisiana--the tears sprang to my eyes.\nIt was like young death--a dead bride crowned with orange flowers--a\ndead face that asked for a kiss. I cannot say how fair and rich and\nbeautiful this dead South is. It has fascinated me. I have resolved to\nlive in it; I could not leave it for that chill and damp Northern life\nagain.\"\n\nFrom the files of the _Item_ and the _Times-Democrat_ over a score of\nthese \"Fantastics\" have been gathered, and with them certain other\nfanciful little sketches that seem worth preserving, though they do not\ndeal so directly with the mystic \"twin-idea of Love and Death.\"\n\nIn his sympathetic Introduction to Hearn's _Leaves from the Diary of\nan Impressionist_, Mr. Ferris Greenslet deplores the loss of that\ncollection of these \"Fantastics\" made by Hearn himself as one section\nof the book he evidently planned to publish under the title _Ephemer\u00e6,\nor Leaves from the Diary of an Impressionist._ Says Mr. Greenslet:\n\n    Apparently it was Hearn's intention to add to the \"Floridian\n    Reveries\" a little collection of \"Fantastics,\" with such\n    savory titles as \"A\u00efda,\" \"The Devil's Carbuncle,\" \"A\n    Hemisphere in a Woman's Hair,\" \"The Fool and Venus,\" etc[1].\n\nThis group, however, is, unfortunately, lost. From the notebook labeled\nupon its cover \"Fantastics\" many leaves have been cut, and there\nremains only the paper on \"Arabian Women.\"\n\n\nBut for the solitary copy of the files of the _Item_, preserved in the\noffice of that paper, most of these earliest bits of original fantasy\nwrought by the shabby, eccentric young journalist, whose passion for\nexquisite words was so incomprehensible to the other \"newspaper boys,\"\nwould have been wholly lost.\n\n\"The modest _Item_ goes no farther than St. Louis,\" wrote Hearn to\nKrehbiel; and it was for this little two-page paper, too insignificant\nat that time to be preserved even in the city archives or in the\npublic libraries, that he wrote most of the \"tales of Love and Death\"\nreproduced in this volume. Twenty-nine out of the thirty-odd are to be\nfound only, so far as we know, in the brittle yellow pages of bound\nvolumes of the _City Item_, from June, 1878, to December, 1881, to\nwhich we have been given access through the courtesy of the present\nowners of the _New Orleans Item._ The other six, some of which were\nrearrangements and paraphrases of earlier \"Fantastics,\" appeared in\nthe _Times-Democrat_, of which several nearly complete files exist in\nlibraries.\n\nAmong these thirty-five brief but vitally imaginative sketches several\nare far superior to \"L'Amour apr\u00e8s la Mort.\"\n\nThe \"Fantastics\" proper and the \"Other Fancies\" have been grouped\nindiscriminately in chronological order, though differing greatly in\nspirit and in excellence of style. \"The Little Red Kitten\" and \"At the\nCemetery\" are less labored in point of diction; but they are charming\nin their simplicity and unaffected tenderness. In the earlier of these\nlittle pictures his sympathy with our \"poor brothers\"--in this case\n\"sisters\"--of the animal world, from first to last a striking trait in\nhis character, is beautifully expressed. There is delicate humor, too,\nas well as pathos, in the sketch. In the latter we have the glow of\nhis feeling for the sorrow of a child, and the spring of his wonderful\nimagination which a few handfuls of sand not native to the spot evoke.\nIn neither is there the least trace of the weird which is in so large\na degree characteristic of most of the others. Slight as they are in\ntexture, they seem to me to rise far above the more subtle and fanciful\ntales in the strength and beauty of simple truth to nature--to the best\nthat was in his own nature.\n\nBut the others, notably \"The Black Cupid,\" \"The Undying One,\"\n\"Aphrodite and the King's Prisoner,\" \"The Fountain of Gold,\" \"The\nGypsy's Story,\" are not to be undervalued. There is a power of vision,\nan imaginative magnificence, a weird melody of word-music in them that\ngrips the mind of the reader as in a vise.\n\n\"The Fountain of Gold\" was later reproduced in the form of \"A Tropical\nIntermezzo,\" recently given to a wider public in the pages of _Leaves\nfrom the Diary of an Impressionist._ It is interesting to compare\nthe first sketch with the finished picture. The earlier work is less\ndramatic, less convincing, less artistic, though full of a charm of its\nown. The whole design is transmuted into something immensely effective\nby the simple device of an equating the language of him who tells the\ntale.\n\nIn a less degree the same thing may be remarked in the comparison of\n\"A Dead Love,\" written for the _Item_, and \"L'Amour apr\u00e8s la Mort,\"\ncontributed to the _Times-Democrat._\n\nIn \"The Tale of a Fan\" may be traced, it seems to me, the germ of what\nhe later expanded or meant to expand into \"A Hemisphere in a Woman's\nHair,\" which has not been found.\n\nBut it is not alone the charm that clings about all that is weird and\nfanciful that gives value to this early work of Hearn's. It sheds rich\nlight upon one phase of his development and forms an essential part of\nhis biography; and it helps to furnish proof, along with much else of\nvarying form and excellence, that he put forth a vast deal of literary\neffort in the years of his stay in New Orleans before his engagement\nwith the _Times-Democrat._\n\nThe extent and value of his work as literary editor of the _Item_ has\nbeen wholly ignored by his biographers and critics. This is due largely\nto the fact that the matter he selected for publication in his earlier\nliterary career was drawn from the _Times-Democrat._ But to those who\nhave gone carefully over the files of the _Item_ it is evident that he\ndid far more original work for that paper than for the other. His forte\nwas supposed by the editors of the _Times-Democrat_ to be translation,\nand, with the exception of some striking editorials, his work for that\npaper was mostly translation. Even the _Stray Leaves from Strange\nLiteratures_ and _Some Chinese Ghosts_ belong to that category.\n\nBesides the \"Fantastics,\" he wrote for the _Item_ many editorials on\na variety of subjects and many book reviews, dramatic criticisms, and\ntranslations both from the French and the Spanish, as well as Creole\nsketches and certain fanciful squibs illustrated with quaint original\ndesigns distinctly akin to those that appear in _Letters from the\nRaven._\n\nBut unquestionably his most remarkable contributions to the _Item_ were\nthe \"Fantastics.\"\n\nFrom a hint given him by a traveler's tale, by a trivial street\nincident, by a couplet of verse, or a carven cameo in an antique shop,\nby an old legend, or a few grains of sand, his genius was able to\ncreate a series of vivid and mystical visions, more real to him and to\nhis readers than the political contests or the personal gossip which\nfill the surrounding columns of print.\n\nTo discover these vibrant bits of poesy in their commonplace setting is\nlike finding rare and glorious orchids in the midst of the crowfoots\nand black-eyed Susans that crowd the banquettes and gutters' edges of\nour New Orleans streets.\n\n\"He hated the routine work, and was really quite lazy about it,\"\ntestifies Colonel John W. Fairfax, former owner of the _Item_,\nand Hearn's first New Orleans employer and friend. At the age of\nseventy-two this genial old gentleman recalls many incidents of his\nassociation with the eccentric young literary editor who for three\nyears and a half aided him and Mark F. Bigney in the task of filling\nthe columns of the unpretentious little paper which he had purchased\nfrom the printers and tramp journalists who were its original\nowners--for the _Item_ was started on a cooperative, profit-sharing\nbasis.\n\n\"Hearn was really quite lazy about his regular work,\" Colonel Fairfax\ninsists. \"We had to prod him up all the time--stick pins in him, so to\nspeak. But when he would write one of his own little fanciful things,\nout of his own head--dreams--he was always dreaming--why, then he would\nwork like mad. And people always noticed those little things of his,\nsomehow, for they were truly lovely, wonderful. 'Fantastics' he called\nthem.\"\n\nIt was Colonel Fairfax who deserves the credit of \"discovering\" Hearn\nin New Orleans, when he applied, shabby and half-starved, at the _Item_\noffice for a job, just after he had written to his friend Watkin, June\n14, 1878: \"Have been here seven months and never made one cent in the\ncity. No possible prospect of doing anything in this town now or within\ntwenty-five years.\"\n\nBut his next letter (undated) says--and it is evident that the\nimpression he had made had secured him more than he had asked for:\n\n\"The day after I wrote you, I got a position (without asking for it) as\nassistant editor on the _Item_, at a salary considerably smaller than\nthat I received on the _Commercial_, but large enough to enable me to\nsave half of it.\"\n\nAnd the old gentleman appears still to regard the Hearn he recalls\nwith the sort of half-admiring, half-contemptuous, wholly marveling\naffection which a fine healthy turkey-cock would feel for the \"ugly\nduckling\" just beginning to reveal himself of the breed of swans.\n\nApparently he and Bigney allowed Hearn considerable latitude in his\nchoice and treatment of subject. The three years of his work in their\nemploy show bolder and more varied editorial comment, as well as five\nor six times as many \"Fantastics\" as are to be found in the six years\nof his work under the Bakers, and prove that the quality of his work\nwas already fine enough to justify Page Baker's choice of him for a\nplace on the staff of \"the new literary venture.\"\n\nHow these strange little blossoms of Hearn's genius attracted the\nadmiration of lovers of beauty and won him fame and friends among\nprofessional men and scholars is told most vividly in the words of\nDr. Rodolph Matas, now a surgeon of international reputation, who was\nHearn's friend and early foresaw his fame.\n\n    In those days [says he] I was not so busy as I am now, and\n    had more time to read the books I enjoyed, and to spend long\n    hours in talk with Hearn.\n\n    It was in the early eighties, I remember, that I knew him\n    first. Whitney, of the _Times-Democrat_, was a friend of\n    mine, and I asked him one day: \"Who writes those wonderful\n    things--translations, weird sketches, and remarkable\n    editorials--in your paper?\" And he told me, \"A queer little\n    chap, very shy--but I'll manage for you to meet him.\"\n\n    I became editor of the _New Orleans Medical and Surgical\n    Journal_ in 1883, and it must have been shortly before this\n    that I first met Hearn. He was astonished to find that I\n    knew him so well--but then, you see, I had been reading\n    these \"Fantastics\" and his wonderful book-reviews and\n    translations, and his editorials on all sorts of unusual\n    subjects, for a long time.\n\n    He often came to me to get information about medical\n    points which he needed in some of his work. He was deeply\n    interested in Arabian studies at that time, and I was\n    able to give him some curious facts about the practice of\n    medicine among the Arabs, which happened to be exactly what\n    he was seeking. Not only did he read every book on Arabia\n    which he could find, but he actually practiced the Arabic\n    script, and he used to write me fantastic notes, addressing\n    me as if I had been an Arab chief.\n\n    His capacity for reading swiftly--for getting the heart\n    out of a book--was amazing. While others read sentences,\n    he read paragraphs, chapters--in the time it would take an\n    ordinary reader to finish a chapter, he would have read\n    the whole book. And this in spite of his defective vision.\n    With his one great near-sighted eye roving over the page,\n    he seemed to absorb the meaning of the author--to reach his\n    thought and divine his message with incredible rapidity.\n    He knew books so well--knew the habits of thought of their\n    writers, the mechanics of literature. His power of analysis\n    was intuitive. Swiftly as he read, it would be found on\n    questioning him afterward that nothing worth while had been\n    over-looked, and he could refer back and find any passage\n    unerringly.\n\n    Both in taste and temperament he was morbid, and in many\n    respects abnormal--in the great development of his genius\n    in certain directions, and also in his limitations and\n    deficiencies in other lines. His nature towered like a\n    cloud-topping mountain on one side, while on others it\n    was not only undeveloped--it was a cavity! I understood\n    this better, perhaps, than others of his friends, knowing\n    as I did the pathology of such natures, and for that\n    reason our intercourse was singularly free and candid,\n    for Hearn revealed himself to me with a frankness and\n    unconventionality which would have startled another. I\n    never judged him by conventional standards. I listened\n    to the brilliant, erratic, intemperate outpourings of\n    his mind, aware of his eccentricities without allowing\n    them to blind me to the beauty and value of his really\n    marvelous nature. For example, he would bitterly denounce\n    his enemies--or fancied enemies--for he had an obsession\n    of persecution--in language that was frightful to listen\n    to--inventing unheard-of tortures for those whom he deemed\n    plotters against him. Yet in reality he was as gentle and as\n    tender-hearted as a woman--and as passionately affectionate.\n    But there was an almost feminine jealousy in his nature,\n    too, and a sensitiveness that was exaggerated to a degree\n    that caused him untold suffering. He was singularly and\n    unaffectedly modest about his work--curiously anxious to\n    know the real opinion of those whose judgment he valued,\n    on any work which he had done, while impatient of flattery\n    or \"lionizing.\" Yet with all his modesty he had, even\n    in those days of his first successes, a high and proud\n    respect for his work. He was too good a critic not to know\n    his value; and he consistently refused to cheapen it by\n    allowing it to appear in any second-rate medium--I mean,\n    any of his literary work, as distinct from the journalistic\n    matter he did for his daily bread. Nor would he lower\n    himself by criticizing any book or poem which he did not\n    consider worthy of his opinion. Thus he was obliged, in\n    spite of his kind nature, which impelled him to do anything\n    which a friend might ask, to refuse to criticize books of\n    inferior worth, and he was very firm and dignified about\n    such refusals. He would not debase his pen by using it on\n    inferior subjects.\n\n    At the time when I knew him best, he was already highly\n    esteemed by many who appreciated his great gifts, while\n    others regarded him with some jealousy and would gladly have\n    seen him put down. From the first I recognized his genius\n    so clearly that he used to laugh at me for my faith in his\n    future fame. For I would often predict that he would be\n    known to future generations as one of the great writers of\n    the century, though it was easy to foresee that he would not\n    receive full recognition in his lifetime.\n\n    And though he used to smile at my enthusiasm, he himself\n    felt, I am convinced, the same certainty as to the quality\n    of his gift, the ultimate fame that Fate held for him. It\n    was this that made him regard his work with a reverent\n    humility, and it was this that accounted in some degree for\n    his extraordinary shyness, which made him shrink from being\n    lionized or exploited by those who, at that time, would have\n    been glad enough to entertain him and make much of him,\n    for he had already begun to be quite an important literary\n    person in the circles here which cared for such matters.\n\n    But Hearn fled from social attentions as from the plague.\n    He was by nature suspicious and he loathed flattery and\n    pretense.\n\n    His sense of literary and artistic values was singularly\n    sure, and it has always seemed to me that it was\n    intuitive--a sort of instinctive feeling for beauty and\n    truth.\n\n    When he became acquainted with the work of Herbert\n    Spencer--through the enthusiasm of his friend Ernest Crosby\n    for that philosopher and for the Darwinian theory of\n    evolution, which we were all discussing with deep interest\n    at that time--he used that thinker's philosophy as a\n    foundation upon which to base his marvelous speculations as\n    to the ultimate development of the race and the infinite\n    truths of the universe. I used to listen in wonder while\n    he talked by the hour along these lines, weaving the most\n    beautiful and imaginative visions of what might be. For his\n    theory of the universe was essentially literary rather than\n    philosophical.\n\nIt was to Dr. Matas that \"Chita\" was dedicated, not only as a token of\nthe warm admiration and affection which the sensitive soul of Hearn\nfelt for the broad-minded young physician, but as an acknowledgment\nof the help Dr. Matas had given him in gathering the material for the\nsetting of the story. The physician's cosmopolitan rearing and his\nscattered practice among French, Spanish, and even Filipino settlers in\nthe region about Grand' Isle enabled him to give Hearn in each instance\nthe appropriate phraseology in the dialect of the people he was writing\nabout.\n\nSome of the \"Other Fancies\" are noteworthy for special reasons. In\n\"A River Reverie\" one gets an odd glimpse of Mark Twain reflected in\nthe personality of the dream-haunted Irish-Greek, who handles the\nvisit of the humorist in so unjournalistic a way. How ruthlessly\nhis recollections of the old river-captain would be excised by the\ncopy-reader of the modern newspaper!\n\nIn several of these sketches Hearn gives a picture of the horrors of\nyellow fever which shows even more clearly than his letters how vivid\nwas the impression made on him by that summer of 1878, when he passed\nthrough the epidemic with only an attack of the dengue, a mild form of\nthe tropical plague.\n\nOthers of these sketches show the influence of contact with Spanish\nfriends and acquaintances, and the strong longing for the tropics,\nwhich seems to have lasted all his life.\n\n\"A\u00efda\" is, of course, merely the story of the well-known opera by\nVerdi. Hearn wrote for the _Item_, during the opera season of 1880,\nbrief outlines like this of the stories of several of the operas played\nat the French Opera House that winter: this one is included in this\nvolume only because it is mentioned among the \"Fantastics\" in the\nlist given in Dr. George Gould's book, _Concerning Lafcadio Hearn._\n\"Hiouen-Thsang\" is included for the same reason, as it is not strictly\na \"Fantastic.\"\n\n\"The Devil's Carbuncle,\" besides being a translation, is not a\n\"Fantastic,\" according to Hearn's definition of the term: it is not a\nstory of love and death; it is a story of greed and death.\n\n\"The Post-Office\" is much more breezy and out-of-doors than any of the\n\"Fantastics,\" and does not properly belong with them; but it is so\ncharming a sketch of his visit to Grand' Isle, the place which gave him\nthe material for his first successful original story, \"Chita,\" that it\nseems worth while to reproduce it.\n\nIt has been almost a commonplace, with writers treating of Hearn's\ndevelopment, to date from this visit the beginnings of his interest\nin far-away lands. But they mistake in assigning a late date for his\ndelight in the tropics and his longing for Japan. His articles in the\n_Item_ years before go to show that from the first it was almost an\ninstinct with him to yearn for glimpses of the Orient and the Spanish\nMain. Throughout the volume of the _Item_ for 1879 the column headed\n\"Odds and Ends\" reveals his interest in Spanish-American countries. It\nis generally shown in translated citations or quotations from _La Raza\nLatina._\n\nIn finding these cameo-like studies buried in the pages of the\nnewspapers of a generation ago, and in identifying them beyond\nquestion as Hearn's, I have been aided by Mr. John S. Kendall and by my\ndaughter, Ethel Hutson, who have been for some years gathering traces\nof Hearn's journalistic activities in New Orleans. To Mr. C. G. Stith,\nof the _New Orleans Item_, we are indebted for the finding of the first\ntwo or three of the \"Fantastics\" in that paper, after we had located\nHearn's work in the _Times-Democrat._\n\nTo one who has studied his way of expressing himself in his imaginative\nwritings the internal evidence would be quite enough to prove that\nthese \"Fantastics\" were woven in the brain-cells of Lafcadio Hearn. But\nin addition to this we have the avowal of the editor-in-chief of the\n_Item_, elicited by the praise of the _Claiborne Guardian._[2]\n\nThe author named them only \"Fantastics.\" We have given to each its\nseparate title, as indicated by the most striking feature in the story.\nTo the \"Other Fancies,\" which we have included in the collection, he\ngave the titles under which they now appear, and some of them he signed.\n\nCHARLES WOODWARD HUTSON\n\n\n[Footnote 1: Among the papers held by Dr. Gould is a memorandum of some\nof the \"Fantastics,\" thus numbered:\n\n    1. A\u00efda.\n    2. Hiouen-Thsang.\n    3. El V\u00f3mito.\n    4. The Devil's Carbuncle.\n    5. A Hemisphere in a Woman's Hair.\n    6. The Clock.\n    7. The Fool and Venus.\n    8. The Stranger.\n\nTwo of these--\"A\u00efda\" and \"Hiouen-Thsang\"--were published under those\ntitles. Some of the others we think we have identified among the pieces\nentitled simply \"Fantastics\" at the time of their publication. \"The\nFool and Venus\" may have been meant for what we ave called \"Aphrodite\nand the King's Prisoner.\" \"The Clock\" we have not found.]\n\n[Footnote 2: In the issue of Sunday evening, September 19, 1880,\nappears this excerpt, with the editor's comment:\n\n    FANTASTICS\n\n    _Claiborne Guardian_\n\n    We do not remember to have ever read a series of more\n    brilliant articles than those which occasionally appear\n    under the above heading in that bright little paper THE CITY\n    ITEM. The writer, with a perfect command of the language,\n    unites a vivid imagination. His fancy is as exuberant as the\n    growth of tropical flowers, and is as pleasing as glowing\n    and fascinating. We always turn to the editorial page for\n    'Fantastics' when we receive the ITEM. Would it be out of\n    place to inquire who this rare genius is? It can't be that\n    grave and dignified gentleman, M. F. Bigney. We have read\n    many excellent sketches from his pen, but never anything\n    like these pieces. Who is the writer that adds another to\n    the many attractions of our prosperous and worthy exchange?\n\n    \"We gladly comply,\" replies the ITEM editorially, \"with\n    the request of our appreciative Claiborne contemporary.\n    The writer of 'Fantastics' is Mr. Lafcadio Hearne [_sic_],\n    who has been our assistant co-laborer for nearly three\n    years.--ED. ITEM.\"\n]\n\n\n\n\nFANTASTICS AND OTHER FANCIES\n\n\n\n\nALL IN WHITE[1]\n\n\n\"No,\" he said, \"I did not stay long in Havana. I should think it would\nbe a terrible place to live in. Somehow, in spite of all the tropical\nbrightness, the city gave me the idea of a huge sepulchre at times.\nOne feels in those narrow streets as though entombed. Pretty women?--I\nsuppose so, yes; but I saw only one. It was in one of the quaint\nstreets which make you think that the Spaniards learned to build their\ncities from the Moors--a chasm between lofty buildings, and balconies\njutting out above to break the view of the narrow strip of blue sky.\nNobody was in the street except myself; and the murmur of the city's\nlife seemed to come from afar, like a ghostly whisper. The silence was\nso strange that I felt as if walking on the pavement of a church, and\ndisturbing the religious quiet with my footsteps. I stopped before a\ngreat window--no glass, but iron bars only;--and behind the iron bars\nlay the only beautiful woman I saw in Havana by daylight. She could not\nhave been more than eighteen--a real Spanish beauty--dark, bewitching,\nan oval face with noble features, and long eyelashes resting on the\ncheek. She was dead! All in white--like the phantom bride of the German\ntradition--white robes, white satin shoes, and one white tropical\nflower in her black hair, shining like a star. I do not know what it\nwas; but its perfume came to me through the window, sweet and strange.\nThe young woman, sleeping there all in white, against the darkness of\nthe silent chamber within, fascinated me. I felt as if it was not right\nto look at her so long; yet I could not help it. Candles were burning\nat her head and feet; and in the stillness of the hot air their yellow\nflames did not even tremble. Suddenly I heard a heavy tramping at the\nend of the street. A battalion of Spanish soldiers were coming towards\nme. There was no means of proceeding; and I had no time to retreat. The\nstreet was so narrow that I was obliged to put my back to the wall in\norder to let them pass. They passed in dead silence--I only heard the\ntread of the men, mechanically regular and heavily echoing. They were\nall in white. Every man looked at me as he passed by; and every look\nwas dark, sinister, suspicious. I was anxious to escape those thousands\nof Spanish eyes; but I could not have done it without turning my face\nto the wall. I do not think one of them looked at the dead girl at\nall; but each one looked at me, and forced me to look at him. I dared\nnot smile,--not one of the swarthy faces smiled. The situation became\nreally unpleasant. It was like one of those nightmares in which you\nare obliged to witness an endless procession of phantoms, each one of\nwhom compels you to look at it. If I had even heard a single \"Carajo\nAmericano,\" I should have felt relieved; but all passed me in dead\nsilence. I was transpierced by the black steel of at least two thousand\nSpanish eyes, and every eye looked at me as if I had been detected in\nsome awful crime. Yet why they did not look at that window instead\nof looking at me, I cannot tell. After they had passed, I looked an\ninstant at the dead girl again; and it seemed to me that I saw the\nghost of a smile--a cynical, mocking smile about her lips. She was\nwell avenged--if her consecrated rest had been disturbed by my heretic\neyes. I can still smell the white flower; and I can see even the silk\nstitches in the white satin shoes--the motionless yellow tongues of\nthe candles--the thin dead face that seemed to smile, and the thousand\nsinister faces that smiled not, and dared me to smile.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE LITTLE RED KITTEN[2]\n\n\nThe kitten would have looked like a small red lion, but that its ears\nwere positively enormous--making the head like one of those little\ndemons sculptured in medi\u00e6val stonework which have wings instead of\nears. It ate beefsteak and cockroaches, caterpillars and fish, chicken\nand butterflies, mosquito-hawks and roast mutton, hash and tumble-bugs,\nbeetles and pigs' feet, crabs and spiders, moths and poached eggs,\noysters and earthworms, ham and mice, rats and rice pudding--until\nits belly became a realization of Noah's Ark. On this diet it soon\nacquired strength to whip all the ancient cats in the neighborhood,\nand also to take under its protection a pretty little salmon-colored\ncat of the same sex, which was too weak to defend itself and had been\nunmercifully mauled every night before the tawny sister enforced reform\nin the shady yard of the old Creole house. The red kitten was not very\nbig, but was very solid and more agile than a monkey. Its flaming\nemerald eyes were always watching, and its enormous ears always on the\nalert; and woe to the cat who dared approach the weak little sister\nwith hostile intentions. The two always slept together--the little\nspeckled one resting its head upon the body of its protector; and\nthe red kitten licked its companion every day like a mother washing\nher baby. Wherever the red kitten went the speckled kitten followed;\nthey hunted all kinds of creeping things together, and even formed a\ncriminal partnership in kitten stealing. One day they were forcibly\nseparated; the red kitten being locked up in the closet under the\nstairs to keep it out of mischief during dinner hours, as it had\nevinced an insolent determination to steal a stuffed crab from the\nplate of Madame R. Thus temporarily deprived of its guide, philosopher,\nand friend, the speckled kitten unfortunately wandered under a\nrocking-chair violently agitated by a heavy gentleman who was reading\nthe \"Bee\"; and with a sharp little cry of agony it gave up its gentle\nghost. Everybody stopped eating; and there was a general outburst of\nindignation and sorrow. The heavy gentleman got very red in the face,\nand said he had not intended to do it. \"Tonnerre d'une pipe;--nom d'un\npetit bonhomme!\"--he might have been a little more careful!... An hour\nlater the red kitten was vainly seeking its speckled companion--all\nears and eyes. It uttered strange little cries, and vainly waited for\nthe customary reply. Then it commenced to look everywhere--upstairs,\ndownstairs, on the galleries, in the corners, among the shrubbery,\nnever supposing in its innocent mind that a little speckled body was\nlying far away upon a heap of garbage and ashes. Then it became very\nsilent; purring when offered food, but eating nothing.... At last a\nsudden thought seemed to strike it. It had never seen the great world\nwhich rumbled beyond the archway of the old courtyard; perhaps its\nlittle sister had wandered out there. So it would go and seek her.\nFor the first time it wandered beyond the archway and saw the big\nworld it had never seen before--miles of houses and myriads of people\nand great cotton-floats thundering by, and great wicked dogs which\nmurder kittens. But the little red one crept along beside the houses\nin the narrow strip of shadow, sometimes trembling when the big wagons\nrolled past, and sometimes hiding in doorways when it saw a dog, but\nstill bravely seeking the lost sister.... It came to a great wide\nstreet--five times wider than the narrow street before the old Creole\nhouse; and the sun was so hot, so hot. The little creature was so tired\nand hungry, too. Perhaps somebody would help it to find the way. But\nnobody seemed to notice the red kitten, with its funny ears and great\nbright eyes. It opened its little pink mouth and cried; but nobody\nstopped. It could not understand that. Whenever it had cried that way\nat home, somebody had come to pet it. Suddenly a fire-engine came\nroaring up the street, and a great crowd of people were running after\nit. Then the kitten got very, very frightened; and tried to run out of\nthe way, but its poor little brain was so confused and there was so\nmuch noise and shouting.... Next morning two little bodies lay side\nby side on the ashes--miles away from the old Creole house. The little\ntawny kitten had found its speckled sister.\n\n\n\n\nTHE NIGHT OF ALL SAINTS[3]\n\n\nThe Night of All Saints--a night clear and deep and filled with a glory\nof white moonlight.\n\nAnd a low sweet Wind came up from the West, and wandered among the\ntombs, whispering to the Shadows.\n\nAnd there were flowers among the tombs.\n\nThey looked into the face of the moon, and from them a thousand\ninvisible perfumes arose into the night.\n\nAnd the Wind blew upon the flowers until their soft eyelids began to\nclose and their perfume grew fainter in the moonlight. And the Wind\nsought in vain to arouse them from the dreamless sleep into which they\nwere sinking.\n\nFor the perfume of a flower is but the presence of its invisible soul;\nand the flowers drooped in the moonlight, and at the twelfth hour they\nclosed their eyes forever and the incense of their lives passed away\nfrom them.\n\nThen the Wind mourned awhile among the old white tombs; and whispered\nto the cypress trees and to the Shadows, \"Were not these offerings?\"\n\nAnd the Shadows and the cypresses bowed weirdly in mysterious reply.\nBut the Wind asked, \"To Whom?\" And the Shadows kept silence with the\ncypresses.\n\nThen the Wind entered like a ghost into the crannies of the white\nsepulchres, and whispered in the darkness, and coming forth shuddered\nand mourned.\n\nAnd the Shadows shuddered also; and the cypresses sighed in the night.\n\n\"It is a mystery,\" sobbed the Wind, \"and passeth my understanding.\nWherefore these offerings to those who dwell in the darkness where even\ndreams are dead?\"\n\nBut the trees and the Shadows answered not and the hollow tombs uttered\nno voice.\n\nThen came a Wind out of the South, murmuring to the orange groves, and\nlifting the long tresses of the palms with the breath of his wings,\nand bearing back to the ancient place of tombs the souls of a thousand\nflowers. And the Wind of the South whispered to the souls of the\nflowers, \"Answer, little spirits, answer my mourning brother.\"\n\nAnd the flower-souls answered, making fragrant all the white streets of\nthe white city of the dead:\n\n\"We are the offerings of love bereaved to the All-loving--the\nsacrifices of the fatherless to the All-father. We know not of the\ndead--the Infinite secret hath not been revealed to us; we know only\nthat they sleep under the eye of Him who never sleeps. Thou hast seen\nthe flowers die; but their perfumes live in the wings of the winds and\nsweeten all God's world. Is it not so with that fragrance of good\ndeeds, which liveth after the deed hath been done--or the memories of\ndead loves which soften the hearts of the living?\"\n\nAnd the cypresses together with the Shadows bowed answeringly; and the\nWest Wind, ceasing to mourn, spread his gauzy wings in flight toward\nthe rising of the sun.\n\nThe moon, sinking, made longer the long shadows; the South Wind\ncaressed the cypresses, and, bearing with him ghosts of the flowers,\nrose in flight toward the dying fires of the stars.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEVIL'S CARBUNCLE[4]\n\n\n    Ricardo Palma, the Lima correspondent of _La Raza Latina_,\n    has been collecting some curious South American traditions\n    which date back to the Spanish Conquest. The following\n    legend, entitled \"El Carbunclo del Diablo,\" is one of these:\n\nWhen Juan de la Torre, one of the celebrated Conquistadores, discovered\nand seized an immense treasure in one of the huacas near the city of\nLima, the Spanish soldiers became seized with a veritable mania for\ntreasure-seeking among the old forts and cemeteries of the Indians.\nNow there were three ballesteros belonging to the company of Captain\nDiego Gumiel, who had formed a partnership for the purpose of seeking\nfortunes among the huacas of Miraflores, and who had already spent\nweeks upon weeks in digging for treasure without finding the smallest\narticle of value.\n\nOn Good Friday, in the year 1547, without any respect for the sanctity\nof the day--for to human covetousness nothing is sacred--the three\nballesteros, after vainly sweating and panting all morning and\nafternoon, had not found anything except a mummy--not even a trinket\nor bit of pottery worth three pesetas. Thereupon they gave themselves\nover to the Father of Evil--cursing all the Powers of Heaven, and\nblaspheming so horribly that the Devil himself was obliged to stop his\nears with cotton.\n\nBy this time the sun had set; and the adventurers were preparing to\nreturn to Lima, cursing the niggardly Indians for the unpardonable\nstupidity of not having been entombed in state upon beds of solid gold\nor silver, when one of the Spaniards gave the mummy so ferocious a kick\nthat it rolled a considerable distance. A glimmering jewel dropped from\nthe skeleton, and rolled slowly after the mummy.\n\n\"Canario!\" cried one of the soldiers, \"what kind of a taper is that?\nSanta Maria! what a glorious carbuncle!\"\n\nAnd he was about to walk toward the jewel, when the one who had kicked\nthe corpse, and who was a great bully, held him back with the words:\n\n\"Halt, comrade! May I never be sad if that carbuncle does not belong to\nme; for it was I who found the mummy!\"\n\n\"May the Devil carry thee away! I first saw it shine, and may I die\nbefore any other shall possess it!\"\n\n\"Cepos quedos!\" thundered the third, unsheathing his sword, and making\nit whistle round his head. \"Sol am nobody?\"\n\n\"Caracolines! Not even the Devil's wife shall wring it from me,\" cried\nthe bully, unsheathing his dagger.\n\nAnd a tremendous fight began among the three comrades.\n\nThe following day some Mitayos found the dead body of one of the\ncombatants, and the other two riddled with wounds, begging for a\nconfessor. Before they died they related the story of the carbuncle,\nand told how it illumined the combat with a sinister and lurid light.\nBut the carbuncle was never found after. Tradition ascribes its origin\nto the Devil; and it is said that each Good Friday night travelers may\nperceive its baleful rays twinkling from the huaca Juliana, rendered\nfamous by this legend.\n\n\n\n\nLES COULISSES[5]\n\n\nSOUVENIRS OF A STRAKOSCH OPERA NIGHT\n\n\nSurely it cannot have been a poet who first inspired the popular mind\nwith that widely spread and deeply erroneous belief that \"behind the\nscenes\" all is hollow mockery and emptiness and unsightliness;--that\nthe comeliness of the pliant limbs which move to music before the\nstarry row of shielded lights is due to a judicious distribution of\nsawdust; and that our visions of fair faces are created by the magic\ncontained in pots of ointment and boxes of pearl powder of which the\nhiding-places are known only to those duly initiated into the awful\nmysteries of the Green Room.\n\n[Illustration: _The Old Creole Opera House, New Orleans_]\n\nNo; the Curtain is assuredly the Veil which hides from unromantic\neyes the mysteries of a veritable Fairy-World--not a fairyland so\nclearly and sharply outlined as the artistic fantasies of Christmas\npicture-books, but a fairyland of misty landscapes and dim shadows and\nbright shapes moving through the vagueness of mystery. There is really\na world of stronger enchantment behind than before the scenes; all\nthat movement of white limbs and fair faces--that shifting of shadowy\nfields and plains, those changing visions of mountain and wold, of\ntowers that disappear as in tales of knight-errantry, and cottages\ntransformed into palaces as in the \"Arabian Nights\"--is but a small\npart of the great wizard-work nightly wrought by invisible hands behind\nthe Curtain. And when, through devious corridors and dimly-lighted\nways--between rows of chambers through whose doors one catches sudden\nglimpses of the elves attiring in purple and silver, in scarlet and\ngold, for the gaslit holiday among canvas woods and flowing brooks\nof muslin, mystic, wonderful--thou shalt arrive within the jagged\nborders of the Unknown World itself to behold the Circles of bright\nseats curving afar off in atmospheres of artificial light, and the\nInhabitants of those Circles become themselves involuntary Actors for\nthe amusement of the lesser audience, then verily doth the charm begin.\nThere is no disillusion as yet. The Isis of the drama has lifted her\nouter veil; but a veil yet more impenetrable remains to conceal the\nmystery of her face. The Heart of all that Mimic Life--mimic yet warm\nand real--throbs about thee, but dost thou understand its pulsations?\nThou art in the midst of a secret, in the innermost chamber of the\nwitch-workers--yet the witchcraft remains. Thou hast approached too\nnear the Fata Morgana of theatrical enchantment--all has vanished\nor tumbled into spectral ruin. Fragments of castles and antiquated\ncities--torn and uneven remnants of pictures of various centuries\nhuddled together in mystic anachronism--surround and overshadow thee;\nbut to comprehend that harmonious whole, thou must retire to the outer\ncircles of the shining temple, before the tall Veil. About thee it is a\nworld wrought of many broken worlds;--a world of picturesque ruin like\nthe moon in heaven--a world of broken lights and shadows and haunted\nglooms--a wild dream--a work of goblinry. Content thyself, seek not\ndisillusion; for to the gods of this mysterious sphere human curiosity\nis the greatest of abominations. Satisfy thyself with the knowledge\nthat thou art in Fairyland; and that it is not given to mortals to\nlearn all the ways of elves. What though the woods be mockeries, and\nthe castles be thinner than Castles of Spain, and the white statues\nfair Emptinesses like the elf women of Northern dreams?--the elves and\ngnomes and fairies themselves are real and palpable and palpitant with\nthe ruddy warmth of life.\n\nPerhaps thou thinkest of those antique theatres--marble cups set\nbetween the breasts of sweetly-curving hills, with the cloud-frescoed\ndome of the Infinite for a ceiling, and for scenery nature's richest\ncharms of purple mountain and azure sea and emerald groves of olive.\nBut that beautiful materialism of the ancient theatre charmed not\nas the mystery of ours--a mystery too delicate to suffer the eye of\nDay;--a mystery wrought by fairies who dare only toil by night. One\nsunbeam would destroy the charm of this dusky twilight world. Strange!\nhow the mind wanders in this strange place! Yet it is easier to dream\nof two thousand years ago than to recollect that thou livest in the\nmaterial present--that only a painted ceiling lies between thy vision\nand the amethystine heaven of stars above, and that only a wall of\nplastered brick separates thee from the streets of New Orleans or the\ngardens westward where the bananas are nodding their heads under the\nmoon. For the genii of this inner world are weaving their spells about\nthee. Figures of other centuries pass before thy eyes, as in the steel\nmirror of a wizard: lords of Italian cities gorgeous as Emperor-moths,\ncaptains of free companies booted and spurred, phantoms, one may fancy,\nof fair women whose portraits hang in the Uffizi Gallery, and prelates\nof the sixteenth century. Did Macbeth's witches ever perform greater\nmagic than this?--a series of tableaux after Racinet animated by some\nelfish art? If the human character of the witchery does not betray\nitself by a pretty anachronism!--some intermingling of the costumes of\nthe sixteenth century with those of the seventeenth, a sacrifice of\nhistory to the beauty of woman--the illusion remains unbroken. Thou art\nliving, by magic, in the age of Lorenzo di Medici; and is it strange\nthat they should address thee in the Italian tongue?\n\nThere is an earthquake of applauding, the Circles of seats are again\nhidden, and this world of canvas and paint is tumbling about thy ears.\nThe spell is broken for a moment by Beings garbed in the everyday\nattire of the nineteenth century, who have devoted themselves to\nthe work of destruction and reconstruction--to whom dreamers are an\nabomination and idlers behind the scenes a vexation of spirit. Va t'en,\ninseq' de bois de lit!\n\nAye, thou mayst well start!--thou hast seen her before. Where?--when?\nIn a little French store, not very, very far from the old Creole Opera\nHouse. This enchantment of the place has transformed her into a fairy.\nAh, thou marvelest that she can be so pretty; nor Shakespeare's Viola\nnor Gautier's Graciosa were fairer to look upon than this dream of\nwhite grace and pliant comeliness in the garb of dead centuries. And\nyet another and another Creole girl--familiar faces to the dwellers\nin the Quaint Places of New Orleans. What is the secret of that\nstrange enchantment which teaches us that the modest everyday robe of\nblack merino may be but the chrysalis-shell within which God's own\nbutterflies are hidden?\n\nSuddenly through the motley rout of princes and princesses, of captains\nand conspirators, of soldiers and priests, of courtiers and dukes,\nthere comes a vision of white fairies; these be the Damosels of the\nPirouette. Thou mayest watch them unobserved; for the other beings heed\nthem not; Cophetua-like, the King in his coronation robes is waltzing\nwith a pretty Peasant Girl; and like Christina of Spain, the Queen\nis t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate with a soldier. The dancers give the impression of\nsomething aerial, ethereal, volatile--something which rests and flies\nbut walks not--some species of splendid fly with wings half-open. The\nvulgar Idea of Sawdust vanishes before the reality of those slender and\npliant limbs. They are preparing for the dance with a series of little\nexercises which provoke a number of charming images and call out all\nthe supple graces of the figure; it is Atalanta preparing to pursue\nHippomenes; it is a butterfly shaking its wings; it is a white bird\npluming itself with noiseless skill. But when the Terpsichorean flight\nis over, and the theatre shakes with applause; while the dancers shrink\npanting and exhausted into some shadowy hiding-place, breathing more\nhurriedly than a wrestler after a long bout--thou wilt feel grateful\nto the humane spirits who break the applause with kindly hisses, and\nrebuke the ignorance which seeks only its own pleasure in cries of\nencore.\n\nAnd the Asmodean Prompter who moves the dramatic strings that agitate\nall these Puppets of mimic passion, whose sonorous tones penetrate\nall the recesses of the mysterious scenery without being heard before\nthe footlights, resumes his faithful task; the story of harmony and\ntragedy is continued by the orchestra and the singers, while a Babel\nof many tongues is heard among the wooden rocks and the canvas trees\nand the silent rivers of muslin. But little canst thou reck of the\nmimic opera. That is for those who sit in the outer circles. The music\nof the many-toned Opera of Life envelops and absorbs the soul of the\nstranger--teaching him that the acting behind the Curtain is not all\na mimicry of the Real, but in truth a melodrama of visible, tangible,\nsentient life, which must endure through many thousand scenes until\nthat Shadow, who is stronger than Love, shall put out the lights, and\nring down the vast and sable Curtain. And thus dreaming, thou findest\nthyself again in the streets, whitened by the moon! Lights, fairies,\nkings, and captains are gone. Ah! thou hast not been dreaming, friend;\nbut the hearts of those who have beheld Fairyland are heavy.\n\n\n\n\nTHE STRANGER[6]\n\n\nThe Italian had kept us all spellbound for hours, while a great yellow\nmoon was climbing higher and higher above the leaves of the bananas\nthat nodded weirdly at the windows. Within the great hall a circle of\nattentive listeners--composed of that motley mixture of the wanderers\nof all nations, such as can be found only in New Orleans, and perhaps\nMarseilles--sat in silence about the lamplit table, riveted by the\nspeaker's dark eyes and rich voice. There was a natural music in those\ntones; the stranger chanted as he spoke like a wizard weaving a spell.\nAnd speaking to each one in the tongue of his own land, he told them\nof the Orient. For he had been a wanderer in many lands; and afar off,\ntouching the farther horn of the moonlight crescent, lay awaiting him a\nlong, graceful vessel with a Greek name, which would unfurl her white\nwings for flight with the first ruddiness of morning.\n\n\"I see that you are a smoker,\" observed the stranger to his host as he\nrose to go. \"May I have the pleasure of presenting you with a Turkish\npipe? I brought it from Constantinople.\"\n\nIt was moulded of blood-red clay after a fashion of Moresque art,\nand fretted about its edges with gilded work like the ornamentation\ngirdling the minarets of a mosque. And a faint perfume, as of the\ngardens of Damascus, clung to its gaudy bowl, whereon were deeply\nstamped mysterious words in the Arabian tongue.\n\n\nThe voice had long ceased to utter its musical syllables. The guests\nhad departed; the lamps were extinguished within. A single ray of\nmoonlight breaking through the shrubbery without fell upon a bouquet\nof flowers, breathing out their perfumed souls into the night. Only\nthe host remained--dreaming of moons larger than ours, and fiercer\nsummers; minarets white and keen, piercing a cloudless sky, and the\nmany-fountained pleasure-places of the East. And the pipe exhaled its\nstrange and mystical perfume, like the scented breath of a summer's\nnight in the rose-gardens of a Sultan. Above, in deeps of amethyst,\nglimmered the everlasting lamps of heaven; and from afar, the voice of\na muezzin seemed to cry, in tones liquidly sweet as the voice of the\nstranger--\"All ye who are about to sleep, commend your souls to Him who\nnever sleeps.\"\n\n\n\n\nY PORQUE[7]?\n\n\n\"Ah, caballero,\" said the Spanish lady, with a pretty play of fan and\neye as she spoke, \"you will not return to Mexico, the beautiful city?\"\n\n\"No, se\u00f1orita,\" replied the young man addressed, a handsome boy, about\ntwenty-two years old, olive-skinned and graceful, with black curly\nhair, that had those bluish lights one sees in the plumage of a raven.\n\n\"Y porque?\" asked the girl, laying aside her fan for a moment, and\nconcentrating all the deep fire of her eyes upon his face.\n\nThe boy did not answer. He made an effort to speak, and turned his head\naside. There was a momentary lull in the conversation. Suddenly he\nburst into tears, and left the room.\n\n\nThe beautiful city! Ah! how well he remembered it! The mighty hills\nsleeping in their eternal winding-sheets of snow, the azure heaven and\nthe bright lake rippled by mountain winds, the plaza and its familiar\nsights and sounds. Y porque? The question brought up all the old bright\nmemories, and the present for the moment melted away, and the dream of\na Mexican night rose in ghostliness before him.\n\nHe stood again within an ancient street, quaint with the quaintness of\nanother century, and saw the great windows of the hospitable Spanish\nresidence at which he had been so often received as a son. Again he\nheard the long chant of the sereno in the melancholy silence; again\nhe saw the white stars glimmering like lamps above the towers of the\ncathedral. The windows were tall and large, and barred with bars of\niron; and there were lights in one of them--flickering taper-lights\nthat made moving shadows on the wall. And within the circle of the\ntapers, a young girl lay all in white with hands crossed upon her\nbreast, and flowers in the dark hair. He remembered all with that\nterrible minuteness agony lends to observation--even how the flickering\nof the tapers played with the shadows of the silky eyelashes, making\nthe lids seem to quiver, as though that heart, to which all his hopes\nand aims and love had been trusted, had not forever ceased to beat.\nAgain the watchman solemnly chanted the hour of the night, with words\nof Spanish piety; and far in the distance that weird mountain which\nancient Mexican fancy called \"The White Lady,\" and modern popular\nimagination, \"The Dead One,\" lay as a corpse with white arms crossed\nupon its bosom, in awful mockery of the eternal sleep.\n\n\n\n\nA DREAM OF KITES[8]\n\n\nLooking out into the clear blue of the night from one of those jutting\nbalconies which constitute a summer luxury in the Creole city, the\neye sometimes marks the thin black threads which the telegraph wires\ndraw sharply against the sky. We observed last evening the infinitely\nextending lines of the vast web which the Electric Spider has spun\nabout the world; and the innumerable wrecks of kites fluttering\nthereupon, like the bodies of gaudy flies--strange lines of tattered\nobjects extending far into the horizon and tracking out the course of\nthe electric messengers beyond the point at which the slender threads\ncease to remain visible.\n\nHow fantastic the forms of these poor tattered wrecks, when the\nuniform tint of night robs them of their color, and only defines\ntheir silhouettes against the sky!--some swinging to and fro\nwearily, like thin bodies of malefactors mummified by sunheat upon\ntheir gibbets--some wildly fluttering as in the agony of despair\nand death--some dancing grotesquely upon their perches like flying\ngoblins--some like impaled birds, with death-stiffened wings,\nmotionlessly attached to their wire snare, and glaring with painted\neyes upon the scene below as in a stupor of astonishment at their\nuntimely fate.\n\nAll these represented the destruction of childish ambitions--each\nthe wreck of some boyish pleasure. Many were doubtless wept for, and\ndreamed of afterward regretfully on wet pillows. And stretching away\ninto the paler blue of the horizon we looked upon the interminable hues\nof irregular dots they made against it and remembered that each little\ndot represented some little pang.\n\nThen it was natural that we should meditate a little upon the vanity\nof the ways in which these childish losses had been borne. The little\nowners of the poor kites had hearts whose fibre differed more than that\nof the kites themselves. Some might weep, but some doubtless laughed\nwith childish heroism, and soon forgot their loss; some doubtless\nthought the world was all askew, and that telegraph wires ought never\nto have been invented; some, considering critically the question of\ncause and effect, resolved as young philosophers to profit by their\nexperience, and seek similar pleasures thereafter where telegraph\nwires ensnared not; while some, perhaps, profited not at all, but only\nmade new kites and abandoned them to the roguish wind, which again\ntraitorously delivered them up to the insatiable enemies of kites and\nbirds.\n\nIs it not said that the child is the father of the man?\n\nAnd as we sat there in the silence with the stars burning in the\npurple deeps of the summer night above us, we dreamed of the kites\nwhich children of a larger growth fly in the face of heaven--toys\nof love and faith--toys of ambition and of folly--toys of grotesque\nresolve and flattering ideals--toys of vain dreams and vain\nexpectation--the kites of human Hope, gaudy-colored or gray, richly\ntinseled or humbly simple--rising and soaring and tossing on the fickle\nwinds of the world, only to become entangled at last in that mighty web\nof indissoluble and everlasting threads which the Weird Sisters spin\nfor all of us.\n\n\n\n\nHEREDITARY MEMORIES[9]\n\n\n\"I was observing,\" continued the Doctor, \"that it very frequently\nhappens that upon seeing or hearing something new for the first\ntime--that is, something entirely new to us--we feel a surprise, not\ncaused by the novelty of that which we see or hear, but by a very\ncurious echo in the mind. I say echo. I would do better to use the word\nmemory-echo. It seems to us, although we know positively we have never\nseen or heard of this new thing in our mortal lives, that we heard or\nsaw it in some infinitely remote period. An old Latin writer considered\nthis phenomenon to be a proof of the theory of Preexistence. A Buddhist\nwould tell you that the soul, through all its wanderings of a million\nyears, retains faint memories of all it has seen or heard in each\ntransmigration and that each of us now living in the flesh possesses\ndim and ghostly recollections of things heard and seen \u00e6ons before our\nbirth. That the phenomenon exists there can be no doubt. I am not a\nbeliever in Buddhism nor in the soul; but I attribute the existence of\nthese vague memories to hereditary brain impressions.\"\n\n\"How do you mean, Doctor?\" asked one of the boarders.\n\n\"Why, sir, I mean that a memory may be inherited just like a mole,\na birthmark, a physical or a moral characteristic. Our brains, as a\nclever writer has expressed it, are like the rocks of the Sinaitic\nvalley, all covered over with inscriptions written there by the long\ncaravans of Thought. Each impression received upon the brain through\nthe medium of the senses leaves there a hieroglyphic inscription,\nwhich, although invisible under the microscope, is nevertheless\nmaterial and real. Why should not these hieroglyphs of the parent brain\nreappear in the brain of the child?--fainter and less decipherable to\nthe eyes of the memory, yet not so faint as to be wholly lost.\"\n\nThere was a long silence. The moon rose higher; the bananas did not\nwave their leaves; the air still glowed with the heat of the dead day;\nand the stars in the blue above sparkled with that luminosity only\nknown to Southern nights. Everything seemed to dream except the lights\nof heaven, and we dreamed also of the Infinite.\n\n\"Doctor,\" said a bearded stranger, who had remained silent all the\nevening, \"I want to ask you a question. I have lived in the West\nIndies, New Zealand, Canada, Mexico; and I am something of a traveler.\nI have a good memory, too. I seldom forget the sight of a city I have\nvisited. I remember every street and nook I have ever seen. How is it,\nthen, that I dream continually of places which I am positive I have\nnever seen, and hear in my sleep a tongue spoken that I have never\nheard while awake in any part of the world?\"\n\nThe Doctor smiled. \"Can you describe,\" he asked, \"the places you see in\nyour dreams?\"\n\n\"I can, because I have dreamed of them more than a hundred times.\nSometimes I do not dream of them for a year at a time; and then again\nI will dream of them every night for a week. And I always hear that\nstrange tongue spoken.\n\n\"I sail to these places from a vast port, surrounded by huge wharves of\ncut stone--white and even-worn by the friction of a mighty traffic. It\nis all sun there and light and air. There are tropical fruits heaped\nup, and wines and oils and spices; and many people in brightly colored\ndresses, blue and yellow. I have a queer idea that it might be some\nport in the Mediterranean.\n\n\"Then I arrive after a long voyage in a strange country. I do not\nremember the disembarking. I only remember a great city. It is not\nbuilt like any American or European city. Its houses are high; its\nstreets narrow and fantastic. I have seen in Spain a few buildings\nwhich reminded me of those I dream about; but they were old Moorish\nbuildings.\n\n\"There is an immense edifice in one part of the city, with two graceful\ndomes, rising like white breasts against a sky most intensely blue.\nThere are tall and very slender white towers near the domes. There are\nenormous stairways of white stone leading down into an expanse of still\nwater, reflecting the shadows of the palace, or whatever it may be. I\nsee birds there with immense beaks and flaming plumage, walking about\nnear the water. I have seen such birds stuffed, but never alive, except\nin dreams. But I do not remember where the stuffed birds came from.\n\n\"I feel that the city is as large as one of our great Western cities\nhere. I do not see it, but I feel it. There is a mighty current of\nhuman life flowing through its streets. The people are swarthy and\ngraceful. They look like statues of bronze. Their features are delicate\nand their hair black and straight. Some of the women are naked to\nthe waist, and exceedingly beautiful. They wear immense earrings and\ncurious ornaments of bright metal. The men wear turbans and brightly\ncolored dresses. Some are very lightly clad. There are so many dressed\nin white! All speak the same strange language I have told you of, and\nthere are camels and apes and elephants and cattle that are not like\nour cattle; they have a hump between the head and shoulders.\"\n\n\"Is that all?\" asked the Doctor.\n\n\"All I can remember.\"\n\n\"Were you ever in India?\"\n\n\"No, sir.\"\n\n\"Have you never visited India even through the medium of art--books,\nengravings, photographs?\"\n\n\"I do not believe I have ever read a single illustrated book\nupon India. I have seen articles brought from India, and some\npictures--drawings on rice paper; but this of very late years. I have\nnever seen anything in pictures like the place I have described to you.\"\n\n\"How long have you been dreaming of these places?\"\n\n\"Well, since I was a boy.\"\n\n\"Was your father ever in India, or your mother?\"\n\n\"My father was, sir; not my mother. But he died there when I was a\nchild. I was born in Europe.\"\n\n\"Hereditary impressions!\" cried the Doctor. \"That explains all your\nstories of metempsychosis. The memories of the father descending to the\nchildren, perhaps even to the third and fourth generation. You dream\nof Indian cities you have never seen and probably never will see. Why?\nBecause the delicate and invisible impressions made upon the brain of\nan English traveler in India, through the mediums of sight and sound,\nare inherited by his children born in a colder climate who have never\nseen the Orient, and will nevertheless be forever haunted by visions of\nthe Far East.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE GHOSTLY KISS[10]\n\n\nThe theatre was full. I cannot remember what they were playing. I did\nnot have time to observe the actors. I only remember how vast the\nbuilding seemed. Looking back, I saw an ocean of faces stretching away\nalmost beyond the eye's power of definition to the far circles where\nthe seats rose tier above tier in lines of illumination. The ceiling\nwas blue, and in the midst a great mellow lamp hung suspended like a\nmoon, at a height so lofty that I could not see the suspending chain.\nAll the seats were black. I fancied that the theatre was hung with\nhangings of black velvet, bordered with a silver fringe that glimmered\nlike tears. The audience were all in white.\n\nAll in white!--I asked myself whether I was not in some theatre of\nsome tropical city--why all in white? I could not guess. I fancied at\nmoments that I could perceive a moonlit landscape through far distant\noriel windows, and the crests of palms casting moving shadows like\ngigantic spiders. The air was sweet with a strange and a new perfume;\nit was a drowsy air--a poppied air, in which the waving of innumerable\nwhite fans made no rustle, no sound.\n\nThere was a strange stillness and a strange silence. All eyes were\nturned toward the stage, except my own. I gazed in every direction but\nthat of the stage! I cannot imagine why it was that I rarely looked\ntoward the stage. No one noticed me; no one appeared to perceive that\nI was the only person in all that vast assembly clad in black--a tiny\ndark speck in a sea of white light.\n\nGradually the voices of the actors seemed to me to become fainter and\nfainter--thin sounds like whispers from another world--a world of\nghosts!--and the music seemed not music, but only an echo in the mind\nof the hearer, like a memory of songs heard and forgotten in forgotten\nyears.\n\nThere were faces that I thought strangely familiar--faces I fancied I\nhad seen somewhere else in some other time. But none recognized me.\n\n\nA woman sat before me--a fair woman with hair as brightly golden as the\nlocks of Aphrodite. I asked my heart why it beat so strangely when I\nturned my eyes upon her. I felt as if it sought to leap from my breast\nand fling itself all palpitating under her feet. I watched the delicate\nmovements of her neck, where a few loose bright curls were straying,\nlike strands of gold clinging to a column of ivory;--the soft curve of\nthe cheek flushed by a faint ruddiness like the velvet surface of a\nhalf-ripe peach;--the grace of the curving lips--lips sweet as those\nof the Cnidian Venus, which even after two thousand years still seem\nhumid, as with the kisses of the last lover. But the eyes I could not\nsee.\n\nAnd a strange desire rose within me--an intense wish to kiss those\nlips. My heart said, Yes;--my reason whispered, No. I thought of the\nten thousand thousand eyes that might suddenly be turned upon me. I\nlooked back; and it seemed to me as if the whole theatre had grown\nvaster! The circles of seats had receded;--the great centre lamp seemed\nto have mounted higher;--the audience seemed vast as that we dream of\nin visions of the Last Judgment. And my heart beat so violently that I\nheard its passionate pulsation, louder than the voices of the actors,\nand I feared lest it should betray me to all the host of white-clad men\nand women above me. But none seemed to hear or to see me. I trembled as\nI thought of the consequences of obeying the mad impulse that became\nevery moment more overpowering and uncontrollable.\n\nAnd my heart answered, \"One kiss of those lips were worth the pain of\nten thousand deaths.\"\n\n\nI do not remember that I arose. I only remember finding myself beside\nher, close to her, breathing her perfumed breath, and gazing into eyes\ndeep as the amethystine heaven of a tropical night. I pressed my lips\npassionately to hers; I felt a thrill of inexpressible delight and\ntriumph; I felt the warm soft lips curl back to meet mine, and give me\nback my kiss!\n\nAnd a great fear suddenly came upon me. And all the multitude of\nwhite-clad men and women arose in silence; and ten thousand thousand\neyes looked upon me.\n\n\nI heard a voice, faint, sweet--such a voice as we hear when dead loves\nvisit us in dreams:\n\n\"Thou hast kissed me: the compact is sealed forever.\"\n\nAnd raising my eyes once more I saw that all the seats were graves and\nall the white dresses shrouds. Above me a light still shone in the\nblue roof, but only the light of a white moon in the eternal azure of\nheaven. White tombs stretched away in weird file to the verge of the\nhorizon; where it had seemed to me that I beheld a play, I saw only a\nlofty mausoleum; and I knew that the perfume of the night was but the\nbreath of flowers dying upon the tombs!\n\n\n\n\nTHE BLACK CUPID[11]\n\n\nThere was a small picture hanging in the room; and I took the light to\nexamine it. I do not know why I could not sleep. Perhaps it was the\nexcitement of travel.\n\nThe gilded frame, massive and richly moulded, inclosed one of the\nstrangest paintings I had ever seen, a woman's head lying on a velvet\npillow, one arm raised and one bare shoulder with part of a beautiful\nbosom relieved against a dark background. As I said, the painting was\nsmall. The young woman was evidently reclining upon her right side; but\nonly her head, elevated upon the velvet pillow, her white throat, one\nbeautiful arm and part of the bosom was visible.\n\nWith consummate art the painter had contrived that the spectator should\nfeel as though leaning over the edge of the couch--not visible in\nthe picture--so as to bring his face close to the beautiful face on\nthe pillow. It was one of the most charming heads a human being ever\ndreamed of; such a delicate bloom on the cheeks;--such a soft, humid\nlight in the half-closed eyes;--such sun-bright hair;--such carnation\nlips;--such an oval outline! And all this relieved against a deep black\nbackground. In the lobe of the left ear I noticed a curious earring--a\ntiny Cupid wrought in black jet, suspending himself by his bow, which\nhe held by each end, as if trying to pull it away from the tiny gold\nchain which fettered it to the beautiful ear, delicate and faintly rosy\nas a seashell. What a strange earring it was! I wondered if the black\nCupid presided over unlawful loves, unblest amours!\n\nBut the most curious thing about the picture was the attitude and\naspect of the beautiful woman. Her head, partly thrown back, with\nhalf-closed eyes and tender smile, seemed to be asking a kiss. The\nlips pouted expectantly. I almost fancied I could feel her perfumed\nbreath. Under the rounded arm I noticed a silky floss of bright hair in\ntiny curls. The arm was raised as if to be flung about the neck of the\nperson from whom the kiss was expected. I was astonished by the art of\nthe painter. No photograph could have rendered such effects, however\ndelicately colored; no photograph could have reproduced the gloss of\nthe smooth shoulder, the veins, the smallest details! But the picture\nhad a curious fascination. It produced an effect upon me as if I were\nlooking at living beauty, a rosy and palpitating reality. Under the\nunsteady light of the lamp I once fancied that I saw the lips move, the\neyes glisten! The head seemed to advance itself out of the canvas as\nthough to be kissed. Perhaps it was very foolish; but I could not help\nkissing it--not once but a hundred times; and then I suddenly became\nfrightened. Stories of bleeding statues and mysterious pictures and\nhaunted tapestry came to my mind; and alone in a strange house and a\nstrange city I felt oddly nervous. I placed the light on the table and\nwent to bed.\n\nBut it was impossible to sleep. Whenever I began to doze a little, I\nsaw the beautiful head on the pillow close beside me--the same smile,\nthe same lips, the golden hair, the silky floss under the caressing\narm. I rose, dressed myself, lit a pipe, blew out the light, and smoked\nin the dark, until the faint blue tints of day stole in through the\nwindows. Afar off I saw the white teeth of the Sierra flush rosily, and\nheard the rumbling of awakening traffic.\n\n\"Las cinco menos quarto, se\u00f1or,\" cried the servant as he knocked upon\nmy door--\"tiempo para levantarse.\"\n\n\nBefore leaving I asked the landlord about the picture.\n\nHe answered with a smile, \"It was painted by a madman, se\u00f1or.\"\n\n\"But who?\" I asked. \"Mad or not, he was a master genius.\"\n\n\"I do not even remember his name. He is dead. They allowed him to paint\nin the madhouse. It kept his mind tranquil. I obtained the painting\nfrom his family after his death. They refused to accept money for it,\nsaying they were glad to give it away.\"\n\nI had forgotten all about the painting when some five years after I\nhappened to be passing through a little street in Mexico City. My\nattention was suddenly attracted by some articles I saw in the window\nof a dingy shop, kept by a Spanish Jew. A pair of earrings--two little\nCupids wrought in black jet, holding their bows above their heads, the\nbows being attached by slender gold chains to the hooks of the earrings!\n\nI remembered the picture in a moment! And that night!\n\n\n\"I do not really care to sell them, se\u00f1or,\" said the swarthy jeweler,\n\"unless I get my price. You cannot get another pair like them. I know\nwho made them! They were made for an artist who came here expressly\nwith the design. He wished to make a present to a certain woman.\"\n\n\"Una M\u00e9jicana?\"\n\n\"No, Americana.\"\n\n\"Fair, with dark eyes--about twenty, perhaps, at that time--a little\nrosy?\"\n\n\"Why, did you know her? They used to call her Josefita. You know he\nkilled her? Jealousy. They found her still smiling, as if she had been\nstruck while asleep. A 'punal.' I got the earrings back at a sale.\"\n\n\"And the artist?\"\n\n\"Died at P--, mad! Some say he was mad when he killed her. If you\nreally want the earrings, I will let you have them for sixty pesos.\nThey cost a hundred and fifty.\"\n\n\n\n\nWHEN I WAS A FLOWER[12]\n\n\nI was once a flower--fair and large. My snowy chalice, filled with\na perfume so rich as to intoxicate the rainbow-winged insects that\nperched upon it, recalled to those who beheld me the beauty of those\nmyrrhine cups used at the banquets of the old C\u00e6sars.\n\nThe bees sang to me all through the bright summer; the winds caressed\nme in the hours of sultriness; the Spirit of the Dew filled my white\ncup by night. Great plants, with leaves broader than the ears of\nelephants, overshadowed me as with a canopy of living emerald.\n\nFar off I heard the river singing its mystic and everlasting hymn and\nthe songs of a thousand birds. By night I peeped up through my satiny\npetals at the infinite procession of the stars; and by day I turned\nforever to the eye of the sun my heart of yellow gold.\n\nHummingbirds with jeweled breasts, flying from the Rising of the Sun,\nnestled near me and drank the perfumed dews left lingering in my\nchalice, and sang to me of the wonders of unknown lands--of black roses\nthat grew only in the gardens of magicians and spectral lilies whose\nperfume is death which open their hearts only to tropical moons.\n\nThey severed the emerald thread of my life, and placed me in her hair.\nI did not feel the slow agony of death, like the fettered fireflies\nthat glimmered as stars in the night-darkness of those splendid\ntresses. I felt the perfume of my life mingling in her blood and\nentering the secret chambers of her heart; and I mourned that I was but\na flower.\n\n\nThat night we passed away together. I know not how she died. I had\nhoped to share her eternal sleep; but a weird wind entering through the\ncasement rent my dead leaves asunder and scattered them in white ruin\nupon the pillow. Yet my ghost like a faint perfume still haunted the\nsilent chamber and hovered about the flames of the waxen tapers.\n\n\nOther flowers, not of my race, are blooming above her place of rest.\nIt is her blood that lives in the rosiness of their petals; her breath\nthat lends perfume to their leaves; her life that vitalizes their veins\nof diaphanous green. But in the wizard hours of the night, the merciful\nSpirit of the Dew, who mourns the death of summer day, bears me aloft\nand permits me to mingle with the crystal tears which fall upon her\ngrave.\n\n\n\n\nMETEMPSYCHOSIS[13]\n\n\n\"Those theories which you call wild dreams,\" cried the Doctor, rising\nto his feet as he spoke, his features glowing with enthusiasm under\nthe moon, \"are but the mystic veils with which the eternal Isis veils\nher awful face. Your deep German philosophy is shallow--your modern\npantheism vaguer than smoke--compared with the mighty knowledge of the\nEast. The theories of the greatest modern thinkers were taught in India\nbefore the name of Rome was heard in the world; and our scientific\nresearches of to-day simply confirm most ancient Oriental beliefs,\nwhich we, in our ignorance, have spoken of as dreams of madmen.\"\n\n\"Yes, but surely, you cannot otherwise characterize the idea of the\ntransmigration of souls?\"\n\n\"Ah! souls, souls,\" replied the stranger, drawing at his cigar\nuntil it glowed like a carbuncle in the night--\"we have nothing\nto do with souls, but with facts. The metempsychosis is only the\nphilosophic symbol of a vast natural fact, grotesque only to those who\nunderstand it not,--just as the most hideous Indian idol, diamond-eyed\nand skull-chapleted, represents to the Brahmin a hidden truth\nincomprehensible to the people. Conscious of the eternity of Matter\nand Force;--knowing that the substance of whirling universes, like clay\nin the hands of the potter, has been and is being and will be forever\nfashioned into myriad shifting forms;--knowing that shapes alone are\nevanescent, and that each atom of our living bodies has been from the\nbeginning and will always be, even after the mountains have melted like\nwax in the heat of a world's dissolution--it is impossible to regard\nthe theory of transmigration as a mere fantasy. Each particle of our\nflesh has lived before our birth through millions of transmigrations\nmore wonderful than any poet has dared to dream of; and the life-force\nthat throbs in the heart of each one of us has throbbed for all time\nin the eternal metempsychosis of the universe. Each atom of our blood\nhas doubtless circulated, before our very civilization commenced,\nthrough the veins of millions of living creatures--soaring, crawling,\nor dwelling in the depths of the sea; and each molecule that floats in\na sunbeam has, perhaps, vibrated to the thrill of human passion. The\nsoil under my foot has lived and loved; and Nature, refashioning the\npaste in her awful laboratory into new forms of being, shall make this\nclay to live and hope and suffer again. Dare I even whisper to you of\nthe past transformations of the substance of the rosiest lips you have\nkissed, or the brightest eyes which have mirrored your look? We have\nlived innumerable lives in the past; we have lived in the flowers, in\nthe birds, in the emerald abysses of the ocean;--we have slept in the\nsilence of solid rocks, and moved in the swells of the thunder-chanting\nsea;--we have been women as well as men;--we have changed our sex a\nthousand times like the angels of the Talmud; and we shall continue the\neverlasting transmigration long after the present universe has passed\naway and the fires of the stars have burned themselves out. Can one\nknow these things and laugh at the theories of the East?\"\n\n\"But the theory of Cycles--\"\n\n\"It is not less of a solemn truth. Knowing that Force and Matter are\neternal, we know also that the kaleidoscope of changing shapes must\nwhirl forever. But as the colored particles within a kaleidoscope are\nlimited, only a certain number of combinations may be produced. Are\nnot the elements of eternal matter limited? If so, their combinations\nmust also be; and as the everlasting force must forever continue to\ncreate forms, it can only repeat its work. Then, we must believe that\nall which has already happened must have happened before throughout all\ntime, and will happen again at vast intervals through all eternity. It\nis not the first time we have sat together on the night of September\n6;--we have done so in other Septembers, yet the same; and in other New\nOrleanses, the same yet not the same. We must have done it centrillions\nof times before, and will do it centrillions of times again through the\n\u00e6ons of the future. I shall be again as I am, yet different; I shall\nsmoke the same cigar, yet a different one. The same chair with the same\nscratches on its polished back will be there for you to sit in; and we\nshall hold the same conversation. The same good-natured lady will bring\nus a bottle of wine of the same quality; and the same persons will\nbe reunited in this quaint Creole house. Trees like these will fling\ntheir shadows on the pavement; and above us shall we again behold as\nnow the golden swarm of worlds sparkling in the abysses of the infinite\nnight. There will be new stars and a new universe, yet we shall know\nit only as we know it at this moment that centrillions of years ago we\nmust have suffered and hoped and loved as we do in these weary years.\nGood-bye, friends!\"\n\nHe flung the stump of his cigar among the vines, where it expired in\na shower of rosy sparks; and his footsteps died away forever. NAY,\nnot forever; for though we should see him no more in this life, shall\nwe not see him again throughout the Cycles and the \u00c6ons? YEA, alas,\nforever; for even though we should see him again throughout the Cycles\nand the \u00c6ons, will it not be so that he always departeth under the same\ncircumstances and at the same moment, in s\u00e6cula s\u00e6culorum?\n\n\n\n\nTHE UNDYING ONE[14]\n\n\nI have lived for three thousand years; I am weary of men and of the\nworld: this earth has become too small for such as I; this sky seems a\ngray vault of lead about to sink down and crush me.\n\nThere is not a silver hair in my head; the dust of thirty centuries has\nnot dimmed my eyes. Yet I am weary of the earth.\n\nI speak a thousand tongues; and the faces of the continents are\nfamiliar to me as the characters of a book; the heavens have unrolled\nthemselves before mine eyes as a scroll; and the entrails of the earth\nhave no secrets for me.\n\nI have sought knowledge in the deepest deeps of ocean gulfs;--in\nthe waste places where sands shift their yellow waves, with a dry\nand bony sound;--in the corruption of charnel houses and the hidden\nhorrors of the catacombs;--amid the virgin snows of Dwalagiri;--in\nthe awful labyrinths of forests untrodden by man;--in the wombs of\ndead volcanoes;--in lands where the surface of lake or stream is\nstudded with the backs of hippopotami or enameled with the mail of\ncrocodiles;--at the extremities of the world where spectral glaciers\nfloat over inky seas;--in those strange parts where no life is, where\nthe mountains are rent asunder by throes of primeval earthquake, and\nwhere the eyes behold only a world of parched and jagged ruin, like the\nMoon--of dried-up seas and river channels worn out by torrents that\nceased to roll long ere the birth of man.\n\nAll the knowledge of all the centuries, all the craft and skill and\ncunning of man in all things--are mine, and yet more!\n\nFor Life and Death have whispered me their most ancient secrets; and\nall that men have vainly sought to learn has for me no mystery.\n\nHave I not tasted all the pleasures of this petty world--pleasures that\nwould have consumed to ashes a frame less mighty than my own?\n\nI have built temples with the Egyptians, the princes of India, and the\nC\u00e6sars; I have aided conquerors to vanquish a world; I have reveled\nthrough nights of orgiastic fury with rulers of Thebes and Babylon; I\nhave been drunk with wine and blood!\n\nThe kingdoms of the earth and all their riches and glory have been mine.\n\nWith that lever which Archimedes desired I have uplifted empires and\noverthrown dynasties. Nay! like a god, I have held the world in the\nhollow of my hand.\n\nAll that the beauty of youth and the love of woman can give to make\njoyful the hearts of men, have I possessed; no Assyrian king, no\nSolomon, no ruler of Samarcand, no Caliph of Bagdad, no Rajah of the\nmost eastern East, has ever loved as I; and in my myriad loves I have\nbeheld the realization of all that human thought had conceived or human\nheart desired or human hand crystallized into that marble of Pentelicus\ncalled imperishable--yet less enduring than these iron limbs of mine.\n\nAnd ruddy I remain like that rosy granite of Egypt on which kings\ncarved their dreams of eternity.\n\nBut I am weary of this world!\n\nI have attained all that I sought; I have desired nothing that I have\nnot obtained--save that I now vainly desire and yet shall never obtain.\n\nThere is no comrade for me in all this earth; no mind that can\ncomprehend me; no heart that can love me for what I am.\n\nShould I utter what I know, no living creature could understand;\nshould I write my knowledge no human brain could grasp my thought.\nWearing the shape of a man, capable of doing all that man can do--yet\nmore perfectly than man can ever do--I must live as these my frail\ncompanions, and descend to the level of their feeble minds, and imitate\ntheir puny works, though owning the wisdom of a god! How mad were those\nGreek dreamers who sang of gods descending to the level of humanity\nthat they might love a woman!\n\nIn other centuries I feared to beget a son--a son to whom I might have\nbequeathed my own immortal youth; jealous that I was of sharing my\nsecret with any terrestrial creature! Now the time has past. No son\nof mine born in this age, of this degenerate race, could ever become\na worthy companion for me. Oceans would change their beds, and new\ncontinents arise from the emerald gulfs, and new races appear upon the\nearth ere he could comprehend the least of my thoughts!\n\nThe future holds no pleasure in reserve for me:--I have foreseen the\nphases of a myriad million years. All that has been will be again:--all\nthat will be has been before. I am solitary as one in a desert; for men\nhave become as puppets in my eyes, and the voice of living woman hath\nno sweetness for my ears.\n\nOnly to the voices of the winds and of the sea do I hearken;--yet do\neven these weary me, for they murmured me the same music and chanted me\nthe same hymns, among aged woods or ancient rocks, three thousand years\nago!\n\nTo-night I shall have seen the moon wax and wane thirty-six thousand\nnine hundred times! And my eyes are weary of gazing upon its white face.\n\nAh! I might be willing to live on through endless years, could I\nbut transport myself to other glittering worlds, illuminated by\ndouble suns and encircled by galaxies of huge moons!--other worlds\nin which I might find knowledge equal to my own, and minds worthy of\nmy companionship--and--perhaps--women that I might love--not hollow\nEmptinesses, not El-women like the spectres of Scandinavian fable, and\nlike the frail mothers of this puny terrestrial race, but creatures of\nimmortal beauty worthy to create immortal children!\n\nAlas!--there is a power mightier than my will, deeper than my\nknowledge--a Force \"deaf as fire, blind as the night,\" which binds me\nforever to this world of men.\n\nMust I remain like Prometheus chained to his rock in never-ceasing\npain, with vitals eternally gnawed by the sharp beak of the vulture of\nDespair, or dissolve this glorious body of mine forever?\n\nI might live till the sun grows dim and cold; yet am I too weary to\nlive longer.\n\nI shall die utterly--even as the beast dieth, even as the poorest being\ndieth that bears the shape of man; and leave no written thought behind\nthat human thought can ever grasp. I shall pass away as a flying smoke,\nas a shadow, as a bubble in the crest of a wave in mid-ocean, as the\nflame of a taper blown out; and none shall ever know that which I was.\nThis heart that has beaten unceasingly for three thousand years; these\nfeet that have trod the soil of all parts of the earth; these hands\nthat have moulded the destinies of nations; this brain that contains a\nthousandfold more wisdom than all the children of the earth ever knew,\nshall soon cease to be. And yet to shatter and destroy the wondrous\nmechanism of this brain--a brain worthy of the gods men dream of--a\ntemple in which all the archives of terrestrial knowledge are stored!\n\n. . . . . . . . .\n\nThe moon is up! O death-white dead world!--couldst thou too feel, how\ngladly wouldst thou cease thy corpselike circlings in the Night of\nImmensity and follow me to that darker immensity where even dreams are\ndead!\n\n\n\n\nTHE VISION OF THE DEAD CREOLE[15]\n\n\nThe waters of the Gulf were tepid in the warmth of the tropical night.\nA huge moon looked down upon me as I swam toward the palm-fringed\nbeach; and looking back I saw the rigging of the vessel sharply cut\nagainst its bright face. There was no sound! The sea-ripples kissed\nthe brown sands silently, as if afraid; faint breezes laden with odors\nof saffron and cinnamon and drowsy flowers came over the water;--the\nstars seemed vaster than in other nights;--the fires of the Southern\nCross burned steadily without one diamond-twinkle;--I paused a moment\nin terror;--for it seemed I could hear the night breathe--in long,\nweird sighs. The fancy passed as quickly as it came. The ship's bells\nstruck the first hour of the morning. I stood again on the shore where\nI had played as a child, and saw through the palms the pale houses of\nthe quaint city beyond, whence I had fled with blood upon my hands\ntwenty-seven long years before.\n\n\nWas it a witch-night, that the city slumbered so deep a sleep and the\nsereno slept at his post as I passed? I know not, but it was well\nfor him that he slept! I passed noiselessly as the Shadow of Death\nthrough the ancient gates, and through the shadows flung down by the\nprojecting balconies, and along the side of the plaza unilluminated by\nthe gaze of the tropical moon, and where the towers of the cathedral\nmade goblin shapes of darkness on the pavement; and along narrow ways\nwhere the star-sprinkled blue of heaven above seemed but a ribbon\nof azure, jagged and gashed along its edges by sharp projections of\nbalconies; and beyond again into the white moonshine, where orange\ntrees filled the warm air with a perfume as that of a nuptial chamber;\nand beyond, yet farther, where ancient cypresses with roots and\nbranches gnarled and twisted as by the tortures of a thousand years of\nagony, bowed weirdly over the Place of Tombs.\n\n\nGigantic spiders spun their webs under the moon between the walls of\nthe tombs;--vipers glided over my feet;--the vampire hovered above\nunder the stars; and fireflies like corpse-lights circled about the\nresting-places of the dead. Great vines embraced the marbles green with\nfungus-growths;--the ivy buried its lizard feet in the stones;--lianas\nhad woven a veil, thick as that of Isis, across the epitaphs carven\nabove the graves. But I found HER tomb! I would have reached it, as I\nhad sworn, even in the teeth of Death and Hell!\n\nI tore asunder the venomous plants which clung to the marble like\nreptiles;--but the blood poured from my hands upon her name;--and I\ncould not find one unreddened spot to kiss. And I heard the blood from\nmy fingers dripping with a thick, dead sound, as of molten lead, upon\nthe leaves of the uptorn plants at my feet.\n\n\nAnd the dead years rose from their graves of mist and stood around\nme! I saw the moss-green terrace where I received her first kiss that\nfilled my veins with madness;--the marble urns with their carved\nbas-reliefs of naked dancing boys;--the dead fountain choked with\nwater-lilies;--the monstrous flowers that opened their hearts to\nthe moon. And SHE!--the sinuous outlines of that body of Corinthian\nbronze unconcealed by the feathery lightness of the white robe she\nwore;--the Creole eyes;--the pouting and passionate mouth;--and that\ncruel, sphinx-smile, that smile of Egypt, eternally pitiless, eternally\nmystical--the smile she wore when I flung myself like a worm before\nher to kiss her feet, and vainly shrieked to her to trample upon me,\nto spit upon me! And after my fierce moment of vengeance, the smile\nof Egypt still remained upon her dark face, as though moulded in\neverlasting bronze.\n\n\nThere was no rustle among the lianas, no stir among the dead\nleaves; yet SHE stood again before me! My heart seemed to cease its\nbeatings;--a chill as of those nights in which I had sailed Antarctic\nseas passed over me! Robed in white as in the buried years, with lights\nlike fireflies in her hair, and the same dark, elfish smile! And\nsuddenly the chill passed away with a fierce cataclysm of the blood, as\nthough each of its cells were heated by volcanic fire;--for the strange\nwords of the Hebrew canticle came to me like a far echo--\n\nLOVE IS STRONG AS DEATH!\n\nI burst the fetters with which horror had chained my voice;--I spake to\nher; I wept--I wept tears of blood!\n\nAnd the old voice came to me, argentine and low and mockingly sweet as\nthe voices of birds that call to each other through the fervid West\nIndian night--\n\n\"I knew thou wouldst come back to me--howsoever long thou mightst\nwander under other skies and over other seas.\n\n\"Didst thou dream that I was dead? Nay, I die not so quickly! I have\nlived through all these years. I shall live on; and thou must return\nhither again to visit me like a thief in the night.\n\n\"Knowest thou how I have lived? I have lived in the bitter tears thou\nhast wept through all these long years;--the agony of the remorse that\nseized thee in silent nights and lonesome wastes;--in the breath of thy\nyouth and life exhaled in passionate agony when no human eyes beheld\nthee;--in the images that haunt thy dreams and make it a horror for\nthee to find thyself alone! Yet wouldst thou kiss me--\"\n\nI looked upon her again in the white light;--I saw the same weirdly\nbeautiful face, the same smile of the sphinx;--I saw the vacant tomb\nyawning to its entrails;--I saw its shadow--my shadow--lying sharply\nupon the graves;--and I saw that the tall white figure before me _cast\nno shadow before the moon!_\n\nAnd suddenly under the stars, sonorous and vibrant as far cathedral\nbells, the voices of the awakening watchmen chanted--Ave Maria\nPur\u00edsima!--las tres de la ma\u00f1ana, y tiempo sereno!\n\n\n\n\nTHE NAME ON THE STONE[16]\n\n\n\"As surely as the wild bird seeks the summer, you will come back,\"\nshe whispered. \"Is there a drop of blood in your veins that does not\ngrow ruddier and warmer at the thought of me? Does not your heart beat\nquicker at this moment because I am here? It belongs to me;--it obeys\nme in spite of your feeble will;--it will remain my slave when you are\ngone. You have bewitched yourself at my lips; I hold you as a bird is\nheld by an invisible thread; and my thread, invisible and intangible,\nis stronger than your will. Fly: but you can no longer fly beyond the\ncircle in which my wish confines you. Go: but I shall come to you in\ndreams of the night; and you will be awakened by the beating of your\nown heart to find yourself alone with darkness and memory. Sleep in\nwhose arms you will, I shall come like a ghost between you; kiss a\nthousand lips, but it will be I that shall receive them. Though you\ncircle the earth in your wanderings, you will never be able to leave my\nmemory behind you; and your pulse will quicken at recollections of me\nwhether you find yourself under Indian suns or Northern lights. You lie\nwhen you say you do not love me!--your heart would fling itself under\nmy feet could it escape from its living prison! You will come back.\"\n\nAnd having vainly sought rest through many vainly spent years, I\nreturned to her. It was a night of wild winds and fleeting shadows and\nstrange clouds that fled like phantoms before the storm and across the\nface of the moon. \"You are a cursed witch,\" I shrieked, \"but I have\ncome back!\"\n\nAnd she, placing a finger--white as the waxen tapers that are burned at\nthe feet of the dead--upon my lips, only smiled and whispered, \"Come\nwith me.\"\n\nAnd I followed her.\n\nThe thunder muttered in the east; the horizon pulsated with lightnings;\nthe night-birds screamed as we reached the iron gates of the\nburial-ground, which swung open with a groan at her touch.\n\nNoiselessly she passed through the ranges of the graves; and I saw the\nmounds flame when her feet touched them--flame with a cold white dead\nflame like the fire of the glow-worm.\n\nWas it an illusion of broken moonlight and flying clouds, or did the\ndead rise and follow us like a bridal train?\n\nAnd was it only the vibration of the thunder, or did the earth quake\nwhen I stood upon _that_ grave?\n\n\"Look not behind you even for an instant,\" she muttered, \"or you are\nlost.\"\n\n\nBut there came to me a strange desire to read the name graven upon the\nmoss-darkened stone; and even as it came the storm unveiled the face of\nthe moon. And the dark shadow at my side whispered, \"Read it not!\"\n\nAnd the moon veiled herself again. \"I cannot go! I cannot go!\" I\nwhispered passionately, \"until I have read the name upon this stone.\"\n\nThen a flash of lightning in the east revealed to me the name; and an\nagony of memory came upon me; and I shrieked it to the flying clouds\nand the wan lights of heaven!\n\nAgain the earth quaked under my feet; and a white Shape rose from the\nbosom of the grave like an exhalation and stood before me: I felt the\ncaress of lips shadowy as those of the fair phantom women who haunt the\ndreams of youth; and the echo of a dead voice, faint as the whisper of\na summer wind, murmured: \"Love, love is stronger than Death!--I come\nback from the eternal night to save thee!\"\n\n\n\n\nAPHRODITE AND THE KING'S PRISONER[17]\n\n\nColumns of Corinthian marble stretching away in mighty perspective\nand rearing their acanthus capitals a hundred feet above the\npolished marble from which they rose;--antique mosaics from\nthe years of Hadrian;--Pompeiian frescoes limning all the\nsacrifices made to Aphrodite;--naked bronzes uplifting marvelous\ncandelabra;--fantastically beautiful oddities in terra cotta;--miracles\nof art in Pentelic marble;--tripods supporting vessels of burning\nspices which filled the palace with perfumes as intoxicating as\nthe Song of Solomon;--and in the midst of all a range of melodious\nfountains amid whose waters white nymphs showed their smooth thighs\nof stone and curved their marble figures into all the postures that\nharmonize with beauty. Vast gardens of myrtle and groves of laurel,\nmystic and shadowy as those of Daphne, surrounded the palace with a\nworld of deep green, broken only at intervals by the whiteness of\nParian dryads;--flowers formed a living carpet upon the breadth of the\nterraces, and a river washed the eastern walls and marble stairways of\nthe edifice. It was a world of wonders and of marvels, of riches and\nrarities, though created by the vengeance of a king. There was but one\nhuman life amid all that enchantment of Greek marble, of petrified\nloveliness and beauty made motionless in bronze. No servants were ever\nseen;--no voice was ever heard;--there was no exit from that strange\nparadise. It was said that the king's prisoner was served by invisible\nhands;--that tables covered with luxurious viands rose up through the\nmarble pavements at regular hours;--and the fumes of the richest wines\nof the Levant, sweetened with honey, perfumed the chamber chosen for\nhis repasts. All that art could inspire, all that gold might obtain,\nall that the wealth of a world could create were for him--save only\nthe sound of a human voice and the sight of a human face. To madden in\nthe presence of unattainable loveliness, to consume his heart in wild\nlongings to realize the ravishing myth of Pygmalion, to die of a dream\nof beauty--such was the sentence of the king!\n\n\nLovelier than all other lovelinesses created in stone or gem or eternal\nbronze by the hands of men whose lives were burnt out in longings\nfor a living idol worthy of their dreams of perfect beauty--a figure\nof Aphrodite displayed the infinite harmony of her naked loveliness\nupon a pedestal of black marble, so broad and so highly polished that\nit reflected the divine poem of her body like a mirror of ebony--the\nFoam-born rising from the silent deeps of a black \u00c6gean. The delicate\nmellowness of the antique marble admirably mocked the tint of human\nflesh;--a tropical glow, a golden warmth seemed to fill the motionless\nmiracle--this dream of love frozen into marble by a genius greater than\nPraxiteles; no modern restorer had given to the attitude of this bright\ndivinity the Christian anachronism of shame. With arms extended as if\nto welcome a lover, all the exquisite curves of her bosom faced the\neyes of the beholder; and with one foot slightly advanced she seemed in\nthe act of stepping forward to bestow a kiss. And a brazen tablet let\ninto the black marble of the pedestal bore, in five learned tongues,\nthe strange inscription:\n\n    Created by the hand of one maddened by love, I madden all\n    who gaze upon me. Mortal, condemned to live in solitude with\n    me, prepare thyself to die of love at my feet. The old gods,\n    worshiped by youth and beauty, are dead; and no immortal\n    power can place a living heart in this stony bosom or lend\n    to these matchless limbs the warm flexibility and rosiness\n    of life.\n\nAround the chamber of the statue ran a marble wainscoting chiseled\nwith Bacchanal bas-reliefs--a revel of rude dryads and fauns linking\nthemselves in amorous interlacings;--upon an altar of porphyry\nflickered the low flame of the holy fire fed with leaves of the myrtle\nsacred to love;--doves for the sacrifice were cooing and wooing in\nthe marble court without;--a sound of crystal water came from a\nfountain near the threshold, where beautiful feminine monsters, whose\nlithe flanks blended into serpent coils, upheld in their arms of\nbronze the fantastic cup from which the living waters leapt; a balmy,\nsensuous air, bearing on its wings the ghosts of perfumes known to the\nvoluptuaries of Corinth, filled the softly lighted sanctuary;--and on\neither side of the threshold stood two statues, respectively in white\nand black marble--Love, the blond brother of Death; Death, the dark\nbrother of Love, with torch forever extinguished.\n\nAnd the King knew that the Prisoner kept alive the sacred fire,\nand poured out the blood of the doves at the feet of the goddess,\nwho smiled with the eternal smile of immortal youth and changeless\nloveliness and the consciousness of the mighty witchery of her\nenchanting body. For secret watchers came to the palace and said:\n\n\"When he first beheld the awful holiness of her beauty, he fell\nprostrate as one bereft of life, and long so remained.\"\n\nAnd the King musingly made answer:\n\n\"Aphrodite is no longer to be appeased with the blood of doves, but\nonly with the blood of men--men of mighty hearts and volcanic passion.\nHe is youthful and strong and an artist!--and he must soon die. Let the\nweapons of death be mercifully placed at the feet of Aphrodite, that\nher victim may be able to offer himself up in sacrifice.\"\n\n\nNow the secret messengers were eunuchs. And they came again to the\npalace, and whispered in the ears of the silver-bearded King:\n\n\"He has again poured out the blood of the doves, and he sings the\nsacred Hymn of Homer, and kisses her marble body until his lips\nbleed;--and the goddess still smiles the smile of perfect loveliness\nthat is pitiless.\"\n\nAnd the King answered:\n\n\"It is even as I desire.\"\n\nA second time the messengers came to the palace, and whispered in the\nears of the iron-eyed King:\n\n\"He bathes her feet with his tears: his heart is tortured as though\ncrushed by fingers of marble; he no longer eats or slumbers, neither\ndrinks he the waters of the Fountain of Bronze;--and the goddess still\nsmiles the mocking smile of eternal and perfect loveliness that is\nwithout pity and without mercy.\"\n\nAnd the King answered:\n\n\"It is even as I had wished.\"\n\n\nSo one morning, in the first rosy flush of sunrise, they found the\nPrisoner dead, his arms madly flung about the limbs of the goddess in\na last embrace, and his cheek resting upon her marble foot. All the\nblood of his heart, gushing from a wound in his breast, had been poured\nout upon the pedestal of black marble; and it trickled down over the\nbrazen tablet inscribed with five ancient tongues, and over the mosaic\npavement, and over the marble threshold past the statue of Love who is\nthe brother of Death, and the statue of Death who is the brother of\nLove, until it mingled with the waters of the Fountain of Bronze from\nwhich the sacrificial doves did drink.\n\nAnd around the bodies of the serpent-women the waters blushed rosily;\nand above the dead, the goddess still smiled the sweet and mocking\nsmile of eternal and perfect loveliness that hath no pity.\n\n\"Thrice seven days he has lived at her feet,\" muttered the King; \"yet\neven I, hoary with years, dare not trust myself to look upon her for\nan hour!\" And a phantom of remorse, like a shadow from Erebus, passed\nacross his face of granite. \"Let her be broken in pieces,\" he said,\n\"even as a vessel of glass is broken.\"\n\nBut the King's servants, beholding the white witchery of her rhythmic\nlimbs, fell upon their faces; and there was no man found to raise his\nhand against the Medusa of beauty whose loveliness withered men's\nhearts as leaves are crisped by fire. And Aphrodite smiled down upon\nthem with the smile of everlasting youth and immortal beauty and\neternal mockery of human passion.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FOUNTAIN OF GOLD[18]\n\n\n    This is the tale told in the last hours of a summer night\n    to the old Spanish priest in the H\u00f4tel Dieu, by an aged\n    wanderer from the Spanish Americas; and I write it almost as\n    I heard it from the priest's lips:\n\n\nI could not sleep. The strange odors of the flowers; the sense of\nromantic excitement which fills a vivid imagination in a new land;\nthe sight of a new heaven illuminated by unfamiliar constellations,\nand a new world which seemed to me a very garden of Eden--perhaps all\nof these added to beget the spirit of unrest which consumed me as\nwith a fever. I rose and went out under the stars. I heard the heavy\nbreathing of the soldiers, whose steel corselets glimmered in the\nghostly light; the occasional snorting of the horses; the regular tread\nof the sentries guarding the sleep of their comrades. An inexplicable\nlonging came upon me to wander alone into the deep forest beyond, such\na longing as in summer days in Seville had seized me when I heard the\nbearded soldiers tell of the enchantment of the New World. I did not\ndream of danger; for in those days I feared neither God nor devil, and\nthe Commander held me the most desperate of that desperate band of men.\nI strode out beyond the lines;--the grizzled sentry growled out a rough\nprotest as I received his greeting in sullen silence;--I cursed him\nand passed on.\n\n. . . . . . . . .\n\nThe deep sapphire of that marvelous Southern night paled to pale\namethyst; then the horizon brightened into yellow behind the crests of\nthe palm trees; and at last the diamond-fires of the Southern Cross\nfaded out. Far behind me I heard the Spanish bugles, ringing their call\nthrough the odorous air of that tropical morning, quaveringly sweet in\nthe distance, faint as music from another world. Yet I did not dream of\nretracing my steps. As in a dream I wandered on under the same strange\nimpulse, and the bugle-call again rang out, but fainter than before. I\ndo not know if it was the strange perfume of the strange flowers, or\nthe odors of the spice-bearing trees, or the caressing warmth of the\ntropical air, or witchcraft; but a new sense of feeling came to me.\nI would have given worlds to have been able to weep: I felt the old\nfierceness die out of my heart;--wild doves flew down from the trees\nand perched upon my shoulders, and I laughed to find myself caressing\nthem--I whose hands were red with blood, and whose heart was black with\ncrime.\n\n. . . . . . . . .\n\nAnd the day broadened and brightened into a paradise of emerald\nand gold; birds no larger than bees, but painted with strange\nmetallic fires of color, hummed about me;--parrots chattered in the\ntrees;--apes swung themselves with fantastic agility from branch to\nbranch;--a million million blossoms of inexpressible beauty opened\ntheir silky hearts to the sun;--and the drowsy perfume of the dreamy\nwoods became more intoxicating. It seemed to me a land of witchcraft,\nsuch as the Moors told us of in Spain, when they spoke of countries\nlying near the rising of the sun. And it came to pass that I found\nmyself dreaming of the Fountain of Gold which Ponce de Leon sought.\n\n. . . . . . . . .\n\nThen it seemed to me that the trees became loftier. The palms looked\nolder than the deluge, and their cacique-plumes seemed to touch the\nazure of heaven. And suddenly I found myself within a great clear\nspace, ringed in by the primeval trees so lofty that all within their\ncircle was bathed in verdant shadow. The ground was carpeted with moss\nand odorous herbs and flowers, so thickly growing that the foot made no\nsound upon their elastic leaves and petals; and from the circle of the\ntrees on every side the land sloped down to a vast basin filled with\nsparkling water, and there was a lofty jet in the midst of the basin,\nsuch as I had seen in the Moorish courts of Granada. The water was\ndeep and clear as the eyes of a woman in her first hours of love;--I\nsaw gold-sprinkled sands far below, and rainbow lights where the rain\nof the fountain made ripples. It seemed strange to me that the jet\nleaped from nothing formed by the hand of man; it was as though a\nmighty underflow forced it upward in a gush above the bright level of\nthe basin. I unbuckled my armor and doffed my clothing, and plunged\ninto the fountain with delight. It was far deeper than I expected;\nthe crystalline purity of the water had deceived me--I could not even\ndive to the bottom. I swam over to the fountain jet and found to my\nastonishment that while the waters of the basin were cool as the flow\nof a mountain spring, the leaping column of living crystal in its\ncentre was warm as blood!\n\n. . . . . . . . .\n\nI felt an inexpressible exhilaration from my strange bath; I gamboled\nin the water like a boy; I even cried aloud to the woods and the birds;\nand the parrots shouted back my cries from the heights of the palms.\nAnd, leaving the fountain, I felt no fatigue or hunger; but when I lay\ndown a deep and leaden sleep came upon me,--such a sleep as a child\nsleeps in the arms of its mother.\n\n. . . . . . . . .\n\nWhen I awoke a woman was bending over me. She was wholly unclad, and\nwith her perfect beauty and the tropical tint of her skin, she looked\nlike a statue of amber. Her flowing black hair was interwoven with\nwhite flowers; her eyes were very large, and dark and deep, and fringed\nwith silky lashes. She wore no ornaments of gold, like the Indian\ngirls I had seen--only the white flowers in her hair. I looked at her\nwonderingly as upon an angel; and with her tall and slender grace she\nseemed to me, indeed, of another world. For the first time in all that\ndark life of mine, I felt fear in the presence of a woman; but a fear\nnot unmixed with pleasure. I spoke to her in Spanish; but she only\nopened her dark eyes more widely, and smiled. I made signs; she brought\nme fruits and clear water in a gourd; and as she bent over me again, I\nkissed her.\n\n. . . . . . . . .\n\nWhy should I tell of our love, Padre?--let me only say that those were\nthe happiest years of my life. Earth and heaven seemed to have embraced\nin that strange land; it was Eden; it was paradise; never-wearying\nlove, eternal youth! No other mortal ever knew such happiness as\nI;--yet none ever suffered so agonizing a loss. We lived upon fruits\nand the water of the Fountain;--our bed was the moss and the flowers;\nthe doves were our playmates;--the stars our lamps. Never storm or\ncloud;--never rain or heat;--only the tepid summer drowsy with sweet\nodors, the songs of birds and murmuring water; the waving palms, the\njewel-breasted minstrels of the woods who chanted to us through the\nnight. And we never left the little valley. My armor and my good rapier\nrusted away; my garments were soon worn out; but there we needed no\nraiment, it was all warmth and light and repose. \"We shall never grow\nold here,\" she whispered. But when I asked her if that was, indeed,\nthe Fountain of Youth, she only smiled and placed her finger upon her\nlips. Neither could I ever learn her name. I could not acquire her\ntongue; yet she had learned mine with marvelous quickness. We never had\na quarrel;--I could never find heart to even frown upon her. She was\nall gentleness, playfulness, loveliness--but what do you care, Padre,\nto hear all these things?\n\n. . . . . . . . .\n\nDid I say our happiness was perfect? No: there was one strange cause\nof anxiety which regularly troubled me. Each night, while lying in her\narms, I heard the Spanish bugle-call--far and faint and ghostly as a\nvoice from the dead. It seemed like a melancholy voice calling to me.\nAnd whenever the sound floated to us, I felt that she trembled, and\nwound her arms faster about me, and she would weep until I kissed away\nher tears. And through all those years I heard the bugle-call. Did I\nsay years?--nay, _centuries!_--for in that land one never grows old; I\nheard it through centuries after all my companions were dead.\n\n    The priest crossed himself under the lamplight, and murmured\n    a prayer. \"Continue, hijo mio,\" he said at last; \"tell me\n    all.\"\n\nIt was anger, Padre; I wished to see for myself where the sounds came\nfrom that tortured my life. And I know not why she slept so deeply that\nnight. As I bent over to kiss her, she moaned in her dreams, and I saw\na crystal tear glimmer on the dark fringe of her eyes--and then that\ncursed bugle-call--\n\n    The old man's voice failed a moment. He gave a feeble cough,\n    spat blood, and went on:\n\nI have little time to tell you more, Padre. I never could find my way\nback again to the valley. I lost her forever. When I wandered out among\nmen, they spoke another language that I could not speak; and the world\nwas changed. When I met Spaniards at last, they spoke a tongue unlike\nwhat I heard in my youth. I did not dare to tell my story. They would\nhave confined me with madmen. I speak the Spanish of other centuries;\nand the men of my own nation mock my quaint ways. Had I lived much in\nthis new world of yours, I should have been regarded as mad, for my\nthoughts and ways are not of to-day; but I have spent my life among the\nswamps of the tropics, with the python and the cayman, in the heart of\nuntrodden forests and by the shores of rivers that have no names, and\nthe ruins of dead Indian cities,--until my strength died and my hair\nbecame white in looking for her.\n\n    \"My son,\" cried the old priest, \"banish these evil thoughts.\n    I have heard your story; and any, save a priest, would\n    believe you mad. I believe all you have told me;--the\n    legends of the Church contain much that is equally strange.\n    You have been a great sinner in your youth; and God has\n    punished you by making your sins the very instrument of\n    your punishment. Yet has He not preserved you through the\n    centuries that you might repent? Banish all thoughts of the\n    demon who still tempts you in the shape of a woman; repent\n    and commend your soul to God, that I may absolve you.\"\n\n    \"Repent!\" said the dying man, fixing upon the priest's face\n    his great black eyes, which flamed up again as with the\n    fierce fires of his youth; \"repent, father? I cannot repent!\n    I love her!--I love her! And if there be a life beyond\n    death, I shall love her through all time and eternity:\n    more than my own soul I love her!--more than my hope of\n    heaven!--more than my fear of death and hell!\"\n\n\n    The priest fell on his knees, and, covering his face,\n    prayed fervently. When he lifted his eyes again, the soul\n    had passed away unabsolved; but there was such a smile upon\n    the dead face that the priest wondered, and, forgetting the\n    Miserere upon his lips, involuntarily muttered: \"He hath\n    found Her at last.\" And the east brightened; and touched\n    by the magic of the rising sun, the mists above his rising\n    formed themselves into a Fountain of Gold.\n\n\n\n\nA DEAD LOVE[19]\n\n\nHe knew no rest; for all his dreams were haunted by her; and when he\nsought love, she came as the dead come between the living. So that,\nweary of his life, he passed away at last in the fevered summer of a\ntropical city; dying with her name upon his lips. And his face was no\nmore seen in the palm-shadowed streets; but the sun rose and sank as\nbefore.\n\nAnd that vague phantom life, which sometimes lives and thinks in the\ntomb where the body moulders, lingered and thought within the narrow\nmarble bed where they laid him with the pious hope--que en paz descanse!\n\nYet so weary of his life had the wanderer been that he could not even\nfind the repose of the dead. And while the body sank into dust the\nphantom man found no rest in the darkness, and thought to himself, \"I\nam even too weary to rest!\"\n\nThere was a fissure in the wall of the tomb. And through it, and\nthrough the meshes of the web that a spider had spun across it, the\ndead looked, and saw the summer sky blazing like amethyst; the palms\nswaying in the breezes from the sea; the flowers in the shadows of the\nsepulchres; the opal fires of the horizon; the birds that sang, and\nthe river that rolled its whispering waves between tall palms and\nvast-leaved plants to the heaving emerald of the Spanish Main. The\nvoices of women and sounds of argentine laughter and of footsteps and\nof music, and of merriment, also came through the fissure in the wall\nof the tomb; sometimes also the noise of the swift feet of horses, and\nafar off the drowsy murmur made by the toiling heart of the city. So\nthat the dead wished to live again; seeing that there was no rest in\nthe tomb.\n\nAnd the gold-born days died in golden fire;--and the moon whitened\nnightly the face of the earth; and the perfume of the summer passed\naway like a breath of incense;--but the dead in the sepulchre could not\nwholly die.\n\nThe voices of life entered his resting-place; the murmur of the world\nspoke to him in the darkness; the winds of the sea called to him\nthrough the crannies of the tomb. So that he could not rest. And yet\nfor the dead there is no consolation of tears!\n\n\nThe stars in their silent courses looked down through the crannies of\nthe tomb and passed on; the birds sang above him and flew to other\nlands; the lizards ran noiselessly above his bed of stone and as\nnoiselessly departed; the spider at last ceased to renew her web of\nmagical silk; the years came and went as before, but for the dead there\nwas no rest!\n\nAnd it came to pass that after many tropical moons had waxed and\nwaned, and the summer was come, with a presence sweet as a fair\nwoman's--making the drowsy air odorous about her--that she whose name\nwas uttered by his lips when the Shadow of Death fell upon him, came to\nthat city of palms, and to the ancient place of burial, and even to the\ntomb that was nameless.\n\nAnd he knew the whisper of her robes; and from the heart of the dead\nman a flower sprang and passed through the fissure in the wall of the\ntomb and blossomed before her and breathed out its soul in passionate\nsweetness.\n\nBut she, knowing it not, passed by; and the sound of her footsteps died\naway forever!\n\n\n\n\nAT THE CEMETERY[20]\n\n\n\"Come with me,\" he said, \"that you may see the contrast between poverty\nand riches, between the great and the humble, even among the ranks\nof the dead;--for verily it hath been said that there are sermons in\nstones.\"\n\nAnd I passed with him through the Egyptian gates, and beyond the pylons\ninto the Alley of Cypresses; and he showed me the dwelling-place of\nthe rich in the City of Eternal Sleep--the ponderous tombs of carven\nmarble, the white angels that mourned in stone, the pale symbols of the\nurns, and the names inscribed upon tablets of granite in letters of\ngold. But I said to him: \"These things interest me not;--these tombs\nare but traditions of the wealth once owned by men who dwell now where\nriches avail nothing and all rest together in the dust.\"\n\nThen my friend laughed softly to himself, and taking my hand led me to\na shadowy place where the trees bent under their drooping burdens of\ngray moss, and made waving silhouettes against the catacombed walls\nwhich girdle the cemetery. There the dead were numbered and piled away\nthickly upon the marble shelves, like those documents which none may\ndestroy but which few care to read--the Archives of our Necropolis.\nAnd he pointed to a marble tablet closing the aperture of one of the\nlittle compartments in the lowest range of the catacombs, almost level\nwith the grass at our feet.\n\nThere was no inscription, no name, no wreath, no vase. But some hand\nhad fashioned a tiny flower-bed in front of the tablet--a little garden\nabout twelve inches in width and depth--and had hemmed it about with a\nborder of pink-tinted seashells, and had covered the black mould over\nwith white sand, through which the green leaves and buds of the baby\nplants sprouted up.\n\n\"Nothing but love could have created that,\" said my companion, as a\nshadow of tenderness passed over his face;--\"and that sand has been\nbrought here from a long distance, and from the shores of the sea.\"\n\nThen I looked and remembered wastes that I had seen, where sand-waves\nshifted with a dry and rustling sound, where no life was and no leaf\ngrew, where all was death and barrenness. And here were flowers\nblooming in the midst of sand!--the desert blossoming!--love living in\nthe midst of death! And I saw the print of a hand, a child's hand--the\ntiny Angers that had made this poor little garden and smoothed the sand\nover the roots of the flowers.\n\n\"There is no name upon the tomb,\" said the voice of the friend who\nstood beside me; \"yet why should there be?\"\n\nWhy, indeed? I answered. Why should the world know the sweet secret of\nthat child's love? Why should unsympathetic eyes read the legend of\nthat grief? Is it not enough that those who loved the dead man know his\nplace of rest, and come hither to whisper to him in his dreamless sleep?\n\nI said _he_; for somehow or other the sight of that little garden\ncreated a strange fancy in my mind, a fancy concerning the dead. The\nshells and the sand were not the same as those usually used in the\ncemeteries. They had been brought from a great distance--from the\nmoaning shores of the Mexican Gulf.\n\nSo that visions of a phantom sea arose before me; and mystic ships\nrocking in their agony upon shadowy waves;--and dreams of wild coasts\nwhere the weed-grown skeletons of wrecks lie buried in the ribbed sand.\n\nAnd I thought--Perhaps this was a sailor and perhaps the loving ones\nwho come at intervals to visit his place of rest waited and watched and\nwept for a ship that never came back.\n\nBut when the sea gave up its dead, they bore him to his native city,\nand laid him in this humble grave, and brought hither the sand that the\nwaves had kissed, and the pink-eared shells within whose secret spirals\nthe moan of ocean lingers forever.\n\nAnd from time to time his child comes to plant a frail blossom,\nand smooth the sand with her tiny fingers, talking softly the\nwhile--perhaps only to herself--perhaps to that dead father who comes\nto her in dreams.\n\n\n\n\n\"A\u00cfDA\"[21]\n\n\nTo Thebes, the giant city of a hundred gates, the city walled up to\nheaven, come the tidings of war from the south. Dark Ethiopia has risen\nagainst Egypt, the power \"shadowing with wings\" has invaded the kingdom\nof the Pharaohs, to rescue from captivity the beautiful A\u00efda, daughter\nof Amonasro, monarch of Ethiopia. A\u00efda is the slave of the enchanting\nAmneris, daughter of Pharaoh. Radames, chief among the great captains\nof Egypt, is beloved by Amneris; but he has looked upon the beauty of\nthe slave-maiden, and told her in secret the story of his love.\n\n\nAnd Radames, wandering through the vastness of Pharoah's palace, dreams\nof A\u00efda, and longs for power. Visions of grandeur tower before him like\nthe colossi of Osiris in the temple courts; hopes and fears agitate\nhis soul, as varying winds from desert or sea bend the crests of the\ndhoums to the four points of heaven. In fancy he finds himself seated\nat the king's right hand, clad with the robes of honor, and wearing\nthe ring of might; second only to the most powerful of the Pharaohs.\nHe lifts A\u00efda to share his greatness; he binds her brows with gold,\nand restores her to the land of her people. And even as he dreams,\nRamphis, the deep-voiced priest, draws nigh, bearing the tidings of war\nand of battle-thunder rolling up from the land \"shadowing with wings,\"\nwhich is beyond the river of Ethiopia. The priest has consulted with\nthe Veiled Goddess--Isis, whose awful face no man may see and live. And\nthe Veiled One has chosen the great captain who shall lead the hosts\nof Egypt. \"O happy man!--would that it were I!\" cries Radames. But\nthe priest utters not the name, and passes down the avenue of mighty\npillars, and out into the day beyond.\n\n\nAmneris, the daughter of Pharaoh, speaks words of love to Radames. His\nlips answer, but his heart is cold. And the subtle mind of the Egyptian\nmaiden divines the fatal secret. Shall she hate her slave?\n\n\nThe priests summon the people of Egypt together; the will of the\ngoddess is made manifest by the lips of Pharaoh himself. Radames shall\nlead the hosts of Egypt against the dark armies of Ethiopia. A roar\nof acclamation goes up to heaven. A\u00efda fears and weeps; it is against\nher beloved father, Amonasro, that her lover must lead the armies of\nthe Nile. Radames is summoned to the mysterious halls of the Temple\nof Phthah: through infinitely extending rows of columns illumined by\nholy flames he is led to the inner sanctuary itself. The linen-mantled\npriest performs the measure of their ancient and symbolic dance; the\nwarriors clad in consecrated armor; about his loins is girt a sacred\nsword; and the vast temple re\u00ebchoes through all its deeps of dimness\nthe harmonies of the awful hymn to the Eternal Spirit of Fire.\n\nThe ceremony is consummated.\n\nThe monarch proclaims tremendous war. Thebes opens her hundred mouths\nof brass and vomits forth her nations of armies. The land shakes to\nthe earthquake of the chariot-roll; numberless as ears of corn are the\nspear-blades of bronze;--the jaws of Egypt have opened to devour her\nenemies!\n\n\nA\u00efda has confessed her love in agony; Amneris has falsely told her that\nher lover has fallen in battle. And the daughter of Pharaoh is strong\nand jealous.\n\n\nAs the white moon moves around the earth, as the stars circle in\nEgypt's rainless heaven, so circle the dancing-girls in voluptuous joy\nbefore the king--gauze-robed or clad only with jeweled girdles;--their\nlimbs, supple as the serpents charmed by the serpent charmer, curve\nto the music of harpers harping upon fantastic harps. The earth\nquakes again; there is a sound in the distance as when a mighty tide\napproaches the land--a sound as of the thunder-chanting sea. The hosts\nof Egypt return. The chariots roar through the hundred gates of Thebes.\nInnumerable armies defile before the granite terraces of the Palace.\nRadames comes in the glory of his victory. Pharaoh descends from his\nthrone to embrace him. \"Ask what thou wilt, O Radames, even though it\nbe the half of my kingdom!\"\n\nAnd Radames asks for the life of his captives. Amonasro is among them;\nand A\u00efda, beholding him, fears with an exceeding great fear. Yet none\nbut she knows Amonasro; for he wears the garb of a soldier--none but\nshe, and Radames. The priests cry for blood. But the king must keep\nhis vow. The prisoners are set free. And Radames must wed the tall and\ncomely Amneris, Pharaoh's only daughter.\n\n\nIt is night over Egypt. To Ramphis, the deep-voiced priest, tall\nAmneris must go. It is the eve of her nuptials. She must pray to the\nVeiled One, the mystic mother of love, to bless her happy union. Within\nthe temple burn the holy lights; incense smoulders in the tripods\nof brass; solemn hymns resound through the vast-pillared sanctuary.\nWithout, under the stars, A\u00efda glides like a shadow to meet her lover.\n\n\nIt is not her lover who comes. It is her father! \"A\u00efda,\" mutters the\ndeep but tender voice of Amonasro, \"thou hast the daughter of Pharaoh\nin thy power! Radames loves thee! Wilt thou see again the blessed\nland of thy birth?--Wit thou inhale the balm of our forests?--Wilt\nthou gaze upon our valleys and behold our temples of gold, and pray\nto the gods of thy fathers? Then it will only be needful for thee to\nlearn what path the Egyptians will follow! Our people have risen in\narms again! Radames loves thee!--he will tell thee all! What! dost\nthou hesitate? Refuse!--and they who died to free thee from captivity\nshall arise from the black gulf to curse thee! Refuse!--and the shade\nof thy mother will return from the tomb to curse thee! Refuse!--and I,\nthy father, shall disown thee and invoke upon thy head my everlasting\ncurse!\"\n\n\nRadames comes! Amonasro, hiding in the shadow of the palms, hears all.\nRadames betrays his country to A\u00efda. \"Save thyself!--fly with me!\" she\nwhispers to her lover. \"Leave thy gods; we shall worship together in\nthe temples of my country. The desert shall be our nuptial couch!--the\nsilent stars the witness of our love. Let my black hair cover thee as a\ntent; my eyes sustain thee; my kisses console thee.\" And as she twines\nabout him and he inhales the perfume of her lips and feels the beating\nof her heart, Radames forgets country and honor and faith and fame;\nand the fatal word is spoken. Napata!--Amonasro, from the shadows of\nthe palm-trees, shouts the word in triumph! There is a clash of brazen\nblades; Radames is seized by priests and soldiers: Amonasro and his\ndaughter fly under cover of the night.\n\nVainly tall Amneris intercedes with the deep-voiced priest. Ramphis\nhas spoken the word: \"He shall die!\" Vainly do the priests call upon\nRadames to defend himself against their terrible accusations. His lips\nare silent. He must die the death of traitors. They sentence him to\nliving burial under the foundations of the temple, under the feet of\nthe granite gods.\n\n\nUnder the feet of the deities they have made the tomb of Radames--a\nchasm wrought in a mountain of hewn granite. Above it the weird-faced\ngods with beards of basalt have sat for a thousand years. Their eyes\nof stone have beheld the courses of the stars change in heaven;\ngenerations have worshiped at their feet of granite. Rivers have\nchanged their courses; dynasties have passed away since first they took\ntheir seats upon their thrones of mountain rock, and placed their giant\nhands upon their knees. Changeless as the granite hill from whose womb\nthey were delivered by hieratic art, they watch over the face of Egypt,\nfar-gazing through the pillars of the temple into the palm-shadowed\nvalley beyond. Their will is inexorable as the hard rock of which their\nforms are wrought; their faces have neither pity nor mercy, because\nthey are the faces of gods!\n\n\nThe priests close up the tomb; they chant their holy and awful hymn.\nRadames finds his A\u00efda beside him. She had concealed herself in the\ndarkness that she might die in his arms.\n\nThe footsteps of the priests, the sacred hymn, die away. Alone in the\ndarkness above, at the feet of the silent gods, there is a sound as of\na woman's weeping. It is Amneris, the daughter of the king. Below in\neverlasting gloom the lovers are united at once in love and death. And\nOsiris, forever impassible, gazes into the infinite night with tearless\neyes of stone.\n\n\n\n\nEL V\u00d3MITO[22]\n\n\nThe mother was a small and almost grotesque personage, with a somewhat\nmedi\u00e6val face, oaken colored and long and full of Gothic angularity;\nonly her eyes were young, full of vivacity and keen comprehension. The\ndaughter was tall and slight and dark; a skin with the tint of Mexican\ngold; hair dead black and heavy with snaky ripples in it that made one\nthink of Medusa; eyes large and of almost sinister brilliancy, heavily\nshadowed and steady as a falcon's; she had that lengthened grace of\ndancing figures on Greek vases, but on her face reigned the motionless\nbeauty of bronze--never a smile or frown. The mother, a professed\nsorceress, who told the fortunes of veiled women by the light of a lamp\nburning before a skull, did not seem to me half so weird a creature as\nthe daughter. The girl always made me think of Sou they's witch, kept\nyoung by enchantment to charm Thalaba.\n\n\nThe house was a mysterious ruin: walls green with morbid vegetation of\nsome fungous kind; humid rooms with rotting furniture of a luxurious\nand antiquated pattern; shrieking stairways; yielding and groaning\nfloors; corridors forever dripping with a cold sweat; bats under the\nroof and rats under the floor; snails moving up and down by night\nin wakes of phosphorescent slime; broken shutters, shattered glass,\nlockless doors, mysterious icy draughts, and elfish noises. Outside\nthere was a kind of savage garden--torchon trees, vines bearing spotted\nand suspicious flowers, Spanish bayonets growing in broken urns,\nagaves, palmettoes, something that looked like green elephant's ears, a\nmonstrous and ill-smelling species of lily with a phallic pistil, and\nmany vegetable eccentricities I have never seen before. In a little\nstable-yard at the farther end were dyspeptic chickens, nostalgic\nducks, and a most ancient and rheumatic horse, whose feet were always\nin water, and who made nightmare moanings through all the hours of\ndarkness. There were also dogs that never barked and spectral cats that\nnever had a kittenhood. Still the very ghastliness of the place had its\nfantastic charm for me. I remained; the drowsy Southern spring came to\nvitalize vines and lend a Japanese monstrosity to the tropical jungle\nunder my balconied window. Unfamiliar and extraordinary odors floated\nup from the spotted flowers; and the snails crawled upstairs less\nfrequently than before. Then a fierce and fevered summer!\n\n\nIt was late in the night when I was summoned to the Cuban's bedside: a\nnight of such stifling and motionless heat as precedes a Gulf storm:\nthe moon, magnified by the vapors, wore a spectral nimbus; the horizon\npulsed with feverish lightnings. Its white flicker made shadowy the\nlamp-flame in the sick-room at intervals. I bade them close the\nwindows. \"El V\u00f3mito?\"--already delirious; strange ravings; the fine\ndark face phantom-shadowed by death; singular and unfamiliar symptoms\nof pulsation and temperature; extraordinary mental disturbance. Could\nthis be V\u00f3mito? There was an odd odor in the room--ghostly, faint, but\nsufficiently perceptible to affect the memory:--I suddenly remembered\nthe balcony overhanging the African wildness of the garden, the strange\nvines that clung with webbed feet to the ruined wall, and the peculiar,\nheavy, sickly, somnolent smell of the spotted blossoms! And as I leaned\nover the patient, I became aware of another perfume in the room, a\nperfume that impregnated the pillow--the odor of a woman's hair, the\nincense of a woman's youth mingling with the phantoms of the flowers,\nas ambrosia with venom, life with death, a breath from paradise with an\nexhalation from hell. From the bloodless lips of the sufferer, as from\nthe mouth of one oppressed by some hideous dream, escaped the name of\nthe witch's daughter. And suddenly the house shuddered through all its\nframework, as if under the weight of invisible blows: a mighty shaking\nof walls and windows--the storm knocking at the door.\n\n\nI found myself alone with her; the moans of the dying could not be shut\nout; and the storm knocked louder and more loudly, demanding entrance.\n\"_It is not the fever_,\" I said. \"I have lived in lands of tropical\nfever; your lips are even now humid with his kisses, and you have\ncondemned him. My knowledge avails nothing against this infernal craft;\nbut I know also that you must know the antidote which will baffle\ndeath;--this man shall not die!--I do not fear you!--I will denounce\nyou!--He shall not die!\"\n\nFor the first time I beheld her smile--the smile of secret strength\nthat scorns opposition. Gleaming through the diaphanous whiteness of\nher loose robe, the lamplight wrought in silhouette the serpentine\ngrace of her body like the figure of an Egyptian dancer in a mist of\nveils, and her splendid hair coiled about her like the vip\u00e9rine locks\nof a gorgon.\n\n\"La voluntad de mi madre!\" she answered calmly. \"You are too late! You\nshall not denounce us! Even could you do so, you could prove nothing.\nYour science, as you have said, is worth nothing here. Do you pity the\nfly that nourishes the spider? You shall do nothing so foolish, se\u00f1or\ndoctor, but you will certify that the stranger has died of the v\u00f3mito.\nYou do not know anything; you shall not know anything. You will be\nrecompensed. We are rich.\" Without, the knocking increased, as if the\nthunder sought to enter: I, within, looked upon her face, and the face\nwas passionless and motionless as the face of a woman of bronze.\n\nShe had not spoken, but I felt her serpent litheness wound about\nme, her heart beating against my breast, her arms tightening about\nmy neck, the perfume of her hair and of her youth and of her breath\nintoxicating me as an exhalation of enchantment. I could not speak; I\ncould not resist; spellbound by a mingling of fascination and pleasure,\nwitchcraft and passion, weakness and fear--and the storm awfully\nknocked without, as if summoning the stranger; and his moaning ceased.\n\n\nWhence she came, the mother, I know not. She seemed to have risen from\nbeneath:\n\n\"The doctor is conscientious!--he cares for his patient well. The\nstranger will need his excellent attention no more. The conscientious\ndoctor has accepted his recompense; he will certify what we\ndesire--will he not, hija mia?\"\n\nAnd the girl mocked me with her eyes, and laughed fiercely.\n\n\n\n\nTHE IDYL OF A FRENCH SNUFF-BOX[23]\n\n\nThe old Creole gentleman had forgotten his snuff-box--the snuff-box\nhe had carried constantly with him for thirty years, and which he had\npurchased in Paris in days when Louisiana planters traveled through\nEurope leaving a wake of gold behind them, the trail of a tropical\nsunset of wealth. It was lying upon my table. Decidedly the old\ngentleman's memory was failing!\n\nThere was a dream of Theocritus wrought upon the ivory lid of the\nsnuff-box, created by a hand so cunning that its work had withstood\nunscathed all the accidents of thirty odd years of careless usage--a\nslumbering dryad; an amorous faun!\n\nThe dryad was sleeping like a bacchante weary of love and wine,\nhalf-lying upon her side; half upon her bosom, pillowing her charming\nhead upon one arm. Her bed was a mossy knoll; its front transformed by\nartistic magic into one of those Renaissance scroll-reliefs which are\ndreams of seashells; her ivory body moulded its nudity upon the curve\nof the knoll with antique grace.\n\nAbove her crouched the faun--a beautiful and mischievous faun. Lightly\nas a summer breeze, he lifted the robe she had flung over herself, and\ngazed upon her beauty. But around her polished thigh clung a loving\nsnake, the guardian of her sleep; and the snake raised its jeweled head\nand fixed upon the faun its glittering topaz eyes.\n\nThere the graven narrative closed its chapter of ivory: forever\nprovokingly motionless the lithe limbs of the dryad and the serpent\nthigh-bracelet and the unhappily amorous faun holding the drapery rigid\nin his outstretched hand.\n\n\nI fell asleep, still haunted by the unfinished idyl. The night filled\nthe darkness with whispers and with dreams; and in a luminous cloud I\nbeheld again the faun and the sleeping nymph and the serpent with topaz\neyes coiled about her thigh.\n\nThen the scene grew clear and large and warm; the figures moved and\nlived. It was an Arcadian vale, myrtle-shadowed, and sweet with the\nbreath of summer winds. The brooks purled in the distance; bird voices\ntwittered in the rustling laurels; the sun's liquid gold filtered\nthrough the leafy network above; the flowers swung their fragile\ncensers and sweetened all the place. I saw the smooth breast of the\nfaun rise and fall with his passionate panting; I fancied I could see\nhis heart beat. And the serpent stirred its jeweled head with the topaz\neyes.\n\nThen the faun moved his lips in sound--a sound like the cooing of a\ndove in the coming of summer, and an answering coo rippled out from\nthe myrtle trees. And softly as a flake of snow, a white-bosomed thing\nwith bright, gentle eyes alighted beside the faun, and cooed and cooed\nagain, and drew yet a little farther off and cooed once more.\n\nThen the serpent looked upon the dove--which is sacred to\nAphrodite--and glided from its smooth resting-place, as water glides\nbetween the fingers of a hunter who drinks from the hollow of his hand\nin hours of torrid heat and weariness. And the dove, still retreating,\ndrew after her the guardian snake with topaz eyes.\n\nThen with all her body kissed by the summer breeze, the nymph awoke,\nand her opening eyes looked into the eager eyes of the faun; and she\nstarted not, neither did she seem afraid. And stretching herself upon\nthe soft moss after the refreshment of slumber, she flung her rounded\narms back, and linked them about the neck of the faun; and they kissed\neach other, and the doves cooed in the myrtles.\n\nAnd from afar off came yet a sweeter sound than the caressing voices\nof the doves--a long ripple of gentle melody, rising and falling like\nthe sighing of an amorous zephyr, melancholy yet pleasing like the\nmelancholy of love--Pan playing upon his pipe!--\n\nThere was a sudden knocking at the door:\n\n\"Pardon, mon jeune ami; j'oubliais ma tabati\u00e8re! Ah! la voici! Je vous\nremercie!\"\n\nAlas! the vision never returned! The idyl remains a fragment! I cannot\ntell you what became of the dove and the serpent with topaz eyes.\n\n\n\n\nSPRING PHANTOMS[24]\n\n\nThe moon, descending her staircase of clouds in one of the \"Petits\nPo\u00e8mes en Prose,\" enters the chamber of a newborn child, and whispers\ninto his dreams: \"Thou shalt love all that loves me--the water that is\nformless and multiform, the vast green sea, the place where thou shalt\nnever be, the woman thou shalt never know.\"\n\nFor those of us thus blessed or cursed at our birth, this is perhaps\nthe special season of such dreams--of nostalgia, vague as the\nworld-sickness, for the places where we shall never be; and fancies as\ndelicate as arabesques of smoke concerning the woman we shall never\nknow. There is a languor in the air; the winds sleep; the flowers\nexhale their souls in incense; near sounds seem distant, as if the\nsense of time and space were affected by hashish; the sunsets paint\nin the west pictures of phantom-gold, as of those islands at the mere\naspect of whose beauty crews mutinied and burned their ships; plants\nthat droop and cling assume a more feminine grace; and the minstrel of\nSouthern woods mingles the sweet rippling of his mocking music with the\nmoonlight.\n\nThere have been sailors who, flung by some kind storm-wave on the\nshore of a Pacific Eden, to be beloved for years by some woman dark\nbut beautiful, subsequently returned by stealth to the turmoil of\ncivilization and labor, and vainly regretted, in the dust and roar and\nsunlessness of daily toil, the abandoned paradise they could never\nsee again. Is it not such a feeling as this that haunts the mind in\nspringtime;--a faint nostalgic longing for the place where we shall\nnever be;--a vision made even more fairylike by such a vague dream of\nglory as enchanted those Spanish souls who sought, and never found El\nDorado?\n\nEach time the vision returns, is it not more enchanting than before,\nas a recurring dream of the night in which we behold places we can\nnever see except through dream-haze, gilded by a phantom sun? It is\nsadder each time, this fancy; for it brings with it the memory of older\napparitions, as of places visited in childhood, in that sweet dim time\nso long ago that its dreams and realities are mingled together in\nstrange confusion, as clouds with waters.\n\nEach year it comes to haunt us, like the vision of the Adelantado of\nthe Seven Cities--the place where we shall never be--and each year\nthere will be a weirder sweetness and a more fantastic glory about\nthe vision. And perhaps in the hours of the last beating of the\nheart, before sinking into that abyss of changeless deeps above whose\nshadowless sleep no dreams move their impalpable wings, we shall see\nit once more, wrapped in strange luminosity, submerged in the orange\nradiance of a Pacific sunset--the place where we shall never be!\n\nAnd the Woman that we shall never know!\n\nShe is the daughter of mist and light--a phantom bride who becomes\nvisible to us only during those magic hours when the moon enchants the\nworld; she is the most feminine of all sweetly feminine things, the\nmost complaisant, the least capricious. Hers is the fascination of the\nsuccubus without the red thirst of the vampire. She always wears the\ngarb that most pleases us--when she wears any; always adopts the aspect\nof beauty most charming to us--blonde or swarthy, Greek or Egyptian,\nNubian or Circassian. She fills the place of a thousand odalisques,\nowns all the arts of the harem of Solomon: all the loveliness we love\nretrospectively, all the charms we worship in the present, are combined\nin her. She comes as the dead come, who never speak; yet without speech\nshe gratifies our voiceless caprice. Sometimes we foolishly fancy that\nwe discover in some real, warm womanly personality, a trait or feature\nlike unto hers; but time soon unmasks our error. We shall never see her\nin the harsh world of realities; for she is the creation of our own\nhearts, wrought Pygmalion-wise, but of material too unsubstantial for\neven the power of a god to animate. Only the dreams of Brahma himself\ntake substantial form: these are worlds and men and all their works,\nwhich shall pass away like smoke when the preserver ceases his slumber\nof a myriad million years.\n\nShe becomes more beautiful as we grow older--this phantom love,\nborn of the mist of poor human dreams--so fair and faultless that\nher invisible presence makes us less reconciled to the frailties and\nfoibles of real life. Perhaps she too has faults; but she has no faults\nfor us except that of unsubstantially. Involuntarily we acquire the\nunjust habit of judging real women by her spectral standard; and the\nreal always suffer for the ideal. So that when the fancy of a home\nand children--smiling faces, comfort, and a woman's friendship, the\nidea of something real to love and be loved by--comes to the haunted\nman in hours of disgust with the world and weariness of its hollow\nmockeries--the Woman that he shall never know stands before him like a\nghost with sweet sad eyes of warning--and he dare not!\n\n\n\n\nA KISS FANTASTICAL[25]\n\n\nCurves of cheek and throat, and shadow of loose hair--the dark flash\nof dark eyes under the silk of black lashes--a passing vision light\nas a dream of summer--the sweet temptations of seventeen years'\ngrace--womanhood at its springtime, when the bud is bursting through\nthe blossom--the patter of feet that hardly touch ground in their\nelastic movement--the light loose dress, moulding its softness upon the\nlimbs beneath it, betraying much, suggesting the rest; an apparition\nseen only for a moment passing through the subdued light of a\nvine-shaded window, briefly as an object illuminated by lightning--yet\nsuch a moment may well be recorded by the guardian angels of men's\nlives.\n\n\n\"Croyez-vous \u00e7a?\" suddenly demands a metallically sonorous voice at the\nother side of the table.\n\n\"Pardon!--qu'est ce que c'est?\" asks the stranger, in the tone of one\nsuddenly awakened, internally annoyed at being disturbed, yet anxious\nto appear deeply interested. They had been talking of Japan--and the\ntraveler, suddenly regaining the clue of the conversation, spoke of\na bath-house at Yokohama, and of strange things he had seen there,\nuntil the memory of the recent vision mingled fantastically with\nrecollections of the Japanese bathing-house, and he sank into another\nreverie, leaving the untasted cup of black coffee before him to mingle\nits dying aroma with the odor of the cigarettes.\n\n\nFor there are living apparitions that affect men more deeply than\nfancied visits from the world of ghosts;--numbing respiration\nmomentarily, making the blood to gather about the heart like a great\nweight, hushing the voice to a murmur, creating an indescribable\noppression in the throat--until nature seeks relief in a strong sigh\nthat fills the lungs with air again and cools for a brief moment the\nsudden fever of the veins. The vision may endure but an instant--seen\nunder a gleam of sunshine, or through the antiquated gateway one passes\nfrom time to time on his way to the serious part of the city; yet that\ninstant is enough to change the currents of the blood, and slacken\nthe reins of the will, and make us deaf and blind and dumb for a time\nto the world of SOLID FACT. The whole being is momentarily absorbed,\nenslaved by a vague and voiceless desire to touch her, to kiss her, to\nbite her.\n\n\nThe lemon-gold blaze in the west faded out; the blue became purple;\nand in the purple the mighty arch of stars burst into illumination,\nwith its myriad blossoms of fire white as a woman's milk. A Spanish\nofficer improved a momentary lull in the conversation by touching a\nguitar, and all eyes turned toward the musician, who suddenly wrung\nfrom his instrument the nervous, passionate, semi-barbaric melody of\na Spanish dance. For a moment he played to an absolutely motionless\naudience; the very waving of the fans ceased, the listeners held their\nbreath. Then two figures glided through the vine-framed doorway, and\ntook their seats. One was the Vision of a few hours before--a type of\nsemi-tropical grace, with the bloom of Southern youth upon her dark\nskin. The other immediately impressed the stranger as the ugliest\nlittle Mexican woman he had ever seen in the course of a long and\nexperienced life.\n\nShe was grotesque as a Chinese image of Buddha, no taller than a child\nof ten, but very broadly built. Her skin had the ochre tint of new\ncopper; her forehead was large and disagreeably high; her nose flat;\nher cheek-bones very broad and prominent; her eyes small, deeply set,\nand gray as pearls; her mouth alone small, passionate, and pouting,\nwith rather thick lips, relieved the coarseness of her face. Although\nso compactly built, she had no aspect of plumpness or fleshiness:--she\nhad the physical air of one of those little Mexican fillies which\nare all nerve and sinew. Both women were in white; and the dress of\nthe little Mexican was short enough to expose a very pretty foot and\nwell-turned ankle.\n\nAnother beautiful woman would scarcely have diverted the stranger's\nattention from the belle of the party that night; but that Mexican\nwas so infernally ugly, and so devilishly comical, that he could not\nremove his eyes from her grotesque little face. He could not help\nremarking that her smile was pleasing if not pretty, and her teeth\nwhite as porcelain; that there was a strong, good-natured originality\nabout her face, and that her uncouthness was only apparent, as she was\nthe most accomplished dancer in the room. Even the belle's movements\nseemed heavy compared with hers; she appeared to dance as lightly as\nthe hummingbird moves from blossom to blossom. By and by he found to\nhis astonishment that this strange creature could fascinate without\nbeauty and grace, and play coquette without art; also that her voice\nhad pretty bird tones in it; likewise that the Spanish captain was\nvery much interested in her, and determined to monopolize her as much\nas possible for the rest of the evening. And the stranger felt oddly\nannoyed thereat; and sought to console himself by the reflection that\nshe was the most fantastically ugly little creature he had seen in his\nwhole life. But for some mysterious reason consolation refused to come.\n\"Well, I am going back to Honduras to-morrow,\" he thought--\"and there\nthoughts of women will give me very little concern.\"\n\n\n\"I protest against this kissing,\" cried the roguish host in a loud\nvoice, evidently referring to something that had just taken place in\nthe embrasure of the farther window. \"On fait venir l'eau dans la\nbouche! Monopoly is strictly prohibited. _Our_ rights and feelings must\nbe taken into just consideration.\" Frenzied applause followed. What\ndifference did it make?--they were the world's Bohemians--here to-day,\nthere to-morrow!--before another moonrise they would be scattered west\nand south;--the ladies ought to kiss them all for good luck.\n\n\nSo the kiss of farewell was given under the great gate, overhung by\nvine-tendrils drooping like a woman's hair love-loosened.\n\n\nThe beauty's lips shrank from the pressure of the stranger's;--it was\na fruitless phantom sort of kiss. \"Y yo, se\u00f1or,\" cried the little\nMexican, standing on tiptoe as she threw her arms about his neck.\nEverybody laughed except the recipient of the embrace. He had received\nan electric shock of passion which left him voiceless and speechless,\nand--it seemed to him that his heart had ceased to beat.\n\nThose carmine-edged lips seemed to have a special life of their own as\nof the gymnotus--as if crimsoned by something more lava-warm than young\nveins: they pressed upon his mouth with the motion of something that\nat once bites and sucks blood irresistibly but softly, like the great\nbats which absorb the life of sleepers in tropical forests;--there was\nsomething moist and cool and supple indescribable in their clinging\ntouch, as of beautiful snaky things which, however firmly clasped, slip\nthrough the hand with boneless strength;--they could not themselves\nbe kissed because they mesmerized and mastered the mouth presented to\nthem;--their touch for the instant paralyzed the blood, but only to\nfill its motionless currents with unquenchable fires as strange as of\na tropical volcano, so that the heart strove to rise from its bed to\nmeet them, and all the life of the man seemed to have risen to his\nthroat only to strangle there in its effort at self-release. A feeble\ndescription, indeed; but how can such a kiss be described?\n\n. . . . . . . . .\n\nSix months later the stranger came back from Honduras, and deposited\nsome small but heavy bags in the care of his old host. Then he called\nthe old man aside, and talked long and earnestly and passionately, like\none who makes a confession.\n\nThe landlord burst into a good-natured laugh, \"Ah la dr\u00f4le!--la vilaine\npetite dr\u00f4le! So she made you crazy also. Mon cher, you are not the\nonly one, pardieu! But the idea of returning here on account of one\nkiss, and then to be too late, after all! She is gone, my friend, gone.\nGod knows where. Such women are birds of passage. You might seek the\nwhole world and never find her; again, you might meet her when least\nexpected. But you are too late. She married the guitarrista.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE BIRD AND THE GIRL[26]\n\n\nSuddenly, from the heart of the magnolia, came a ripple of liquid\nnotes, a delirium of melody, wilder than the passion of the\nnightingale, more intoxicating than the sweetness of the night--the\nmocking-bird calling to its mate.\n\n\"Ah, comme c'est coquet!--comme c'est doux!\"--murmured the girl who\nstood by the gateway of the perfumed garden, holding up her mouth to be\nkissed with the simple confidence of a child.\n\n\"Not so sweet to me as your voice,\" he murmured, with lips close to her\nlips, and eyes looking into the liquid jet that shone through the silk\nof her black lashes.\n\nThe little Creole laughed a gentle little laugh of pleasure. \"Have you\nbirds like that in the West?\" she asked.\n\n\"In cages,\" he said. \"But very few. I have seen five hundred dollars\npaid for a fine singer. I wish you were a little mocking-bird!\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because I could take you along with me to-morrow.\"\n\n\"And sell me for five hundred dol--?\" (A kiss smothered the mischievous\nquestion.)\n\n\"For shame!\"\n\n\n[Illustration: _Jutting Balconies in the Creole City_]\n\n\n\"Won't you remember this night when you hear them sing in the\ncages?--poor little prisoners!\"\n\n\"But we have none where I am now going. It is all wild out there; rough\nwooden houses and rough men!--no pets--not even a cat!\"\n\n\"Then what would you do with a little bird in such a place? They would\nall laugh at you--would n't they?\"\n\n\"No; I don't think so. Rough men love little pets.\"\n\n\"Little pets!\"\n\n\"Like you, yes--too well!\"\n\n\"Too well?\"\n\n\"I did not mean to say that.\"\n\n\"But you did say it.\"\n\n\"I do not know what I say when I am looking into your eyes.\"\n\n\"Flatterer!\"\n\n\nThe music and perfume of those hours came back to him in fragments\nof dreams all through the long voyage;--in slumber broken by the\nintervals of rapid travel on river and rail; the crash of loading under\nthe nickering yellow of pine-fires; the steam song of boats chanting\nwelcome or warning; voices of mate and roustabout; the roar of railroad\ndepots; the rumble of baggage in air heavy with the oily breath of\nperspiring locomotives; the demands of conductors; the announcement of\nstations;--and at last the heavy jolting of the Western stage over\nrugged roads where the soil had a faint pink flush, and great coarse\nyellow flowers were growing.\n\n\nSo the days and weeks and months passed on; and the far Western\nvillage, with its single glaring street of white sand, blazed under the\nsummer sun. At intervals came the United States mail-courier, booted\nand spurred and armed to the teeth, bearing with him always one small\nsatiny note, stamped with the postmark of New Orleans, and faintly\nperfumed as by the ghost of a magnolia.\n\n\"Smells like a woman--that,\" the bronzed rider sometimes growled out as\nhe delivered the delicate missive with an unusually pleasant flash in\nhis great falcon eyes--eyes made fiercely keen by watching the horizon\ncut by the fantastic outline of Indian graves, the spiral flight of\nsavage smoke far off which signals danger, and the spiral flight of\nvultures which signals death.\n\nOne day he came without a letter for the engineer--\"She's forgotten you\nthis week, Cap,\" he said in answer to the interrogating look, and rode\naway through the belt of woods, redolent of resinous gums and down the\nwinding ways to the plain, where the eyeless buffalo skulls glimmered\nunder the sun. Thus he came and thus departed through the rosiness of\nmany a Western sunset, and brought no smile to the expectant face:\n\"She's forgotten you again, Cap.\"\n\nAnd one tepid night (the 24th of August, 18--), from the spicy shadows\nof the woods there rang out a bird-voice with strange exotic tones:\n\"Sweet, sweet, sweet!\"--then cascades of dashing silver melody!--then\nlong, liquid, passionate calls!--then a deep, rich ripple of caressing\nmellow notes, as of love languor oppressed that seeks to laugh. Men\nrose and went out under the moon to listen. There was something at once\nterribly and tenderly familiar to at least One in those sounds.\n\n\"What in Christ's name is that?\" whispered a miner, as the melody\nquivered far up the white street.\n\n\"It is a mocking-bird,\" answered another who had lived in lands of\npalmetto and palm.\n\nAnd as the engineer listened, there seemed to float to him the\nflower-odors of a sunnier land;--the Western hills faded as clouds fade\nout of the sky; and before him lay once more the fair streets of a far\ncity, glimmering with the Mexican silver of Southern moonlight;--again\nhe saw the rigging of masts making cobweb lines across the faces\nof stars and white steamers sleeping in ranks along the river's\ncrescent-curve, and cottages vine-garlanded or banana-shadowed, and\nwoods in their dreamy drapery of Spanish moss.\n\n\n\"Got something for you this time,\" said the United States mail-carrier,\nriding in weeks later with his bronzed face made lurid by the sanguine\nglow of sunset. He did not say \"Cap\" this time; neither did he smile.\nThe envelope was larger than usual. The handwriting was the handwriting\nof a man. It contained only these words:\n\n    DEAR--, Hortense is dead. It happened very suddenly on the\n    night of the 24th. Come home at once.\n\n    S--\n\n\n\n\nTHE TALE OF A FAN[27]\n\n\nPah! it is too devilishly hot to write anything about anything\npractical and serious--let us dream dreams.\n\n. . . . . . . . .\n\nWe picked up a little fan in a street-car the other day--a Japanese\nfabric, with bursts of blue sky upon it, and grotesque foliage sharply\ncut against a horizon of white paper, and wonderful clouds as pink\nas Love, and birds of form as unfamiliar as the extinct wonders of\nornithology resurrected by Cuvieresque art. Where did those Japanese\nget their exquisite taste for color and tint-contrasts?--Is their sky\nso divinely blue?--Are their sunsets so virginally carnation?--Are the\nbreasts of their maidens and the milky peaks of their mountains so\nwhite?\n\nBut the fairy colors were less strongly suggestive than something\nimpalpable, invisible, indescribable, yet voluptuously enchanting which\nclung to the fan spirit-wise--a tender little scent--a mischievous\nperfume--a titillating, tantalizing aroma--an odor inspirational as of\nthe sacred gums whose incense intoxicates the priests of oracles. Did\nyou ever lay your hand upon a pillow covered with the living supple\nsilk of a woman's hair? Well, the intoxicating odor of that hair is\nsomething not to be forgotten: if we might try to imagine what the\nambrosial odors of paradise are, we dare not compare them to anything\nelse;--the odor of youth in its pliancy, flexibility, rounded softness,\ndelicious coolness, dove-daintiness, delightful plasticity--all that\nsuggests slenderness graceful as a Venetian wineglass, and suppleness\nas downy-soft as the necks of swans.\n\n. . . . . . . .\n\nNaturally that little aroma itself provoked fancies;--as we looked at\nthe fan we could almost evoke the spirit of a hand and arm, of phantom\nivory, the glimmer of a ghostly ring, the shimmer of spectral lace\nabout the wrist;--but nothing more. Yet it seemed to us that even odors\nmight be analyzed; that perhaps in some future age men might describe\npersons they had never seen by such individual aromas, just as in the\nArabian tale one describes minutely a maimed camel and its burthen\nwhich he has never beheld.\n\nThere are blond and brunette odors;--the white rose is sweet, but the\nruddy is sweeter; the perfume of pallid flowers may be potent, as that\nof the tuberose whose intensity sickens with surfeit of pleasures, but\nthe odors of deeply tinted flowers are passionate and satiate not,\nquenching desire only to rekindle it.\n\nThere are human blossoms more delicious than any rose's heart nestling\nin pink. There is a sharp, tart, invigorating, penetrating, tropical\nsweetness in brunette perfumes; blond odors are either faint as those\nof a Chinese yellow rose, or fiercely ravishing as that of the white\njessamine--so bewitching for the moment, but which few can endure all\nnight in the sleeping-room, making the heart of the sleeper faint.\n\n\nNow the odor of the fan was not a blond odor:--it was sharply sweet\nas new-mown hay in autumn, keenly pleasant as a clear breeze blowing\nover sea foam:--what were frankincense and spikenard and cinnamon and\nall the odors of the merchant compared with it?--What could have been\ncompared with it, indeed, save the smell of the garments of the young\nShulamitess or the whispering robes of the Queen of Sheba? And these\nwere brunettes.\n\nThe strength of living perfumes evidences the comparative intensity of\nthe life exhaling them. Strong sweet odors bespeak the vigor of youth\nin blossom. Intensity of life in the brunette is usually coincident\nwith nervous activity and slender elegance.--Young, slenderly graceful,\nwith dark eyes and hair, skin probably a Spanish olive!--did such an\none lose a little Japanese fan in car No.-- of the C. C. R. R. during\nthe slumberous heat of Wednesday morning?\n\n\n\n\nA LEGEND[28]\n\n\nAnd it came to pass in those days that a plague fell upon mankind,\nslaying only the males and sparing the females for some mysterious\nreason.\n\nSo that there was only one man left alive upon the face of the earth.\n\nAnd he was remarkably fair to behold and comely and vigorous as an\nelephant.\n\nAnd feeling the difficulties of his position, the man fled away to the\nmountains, armed with a Winchester rifle, and lived among the wild\nbeasts of the forest....\n\nAnd the women pursued after him and surrounded the mountain; and\nprevailed upon the man, with subtle arguments and pleasant words, that\nhe should deliver himself up into their hands.\n\nAnd they made a treaty with him, that he should be defended from\nill-usage and protected from fury and guarded about night and day with\na guard.\n\nAnd the guard was officered by women who were philosophers, and\nwho cared for nothing in this world beyond that which is strictly\nscientific and matter of fact, so that they were above all the\ntemptations of this world.\n\nAnd the man was lodged in a palace, and nourished with all the dainties\nof the world, but was not suffered to go forth, or to show himself in\nthe streets; forasmuch as he was guarded even as a queen bee is guarded\nin the hive.\n\nNeither was he suffered to occupy his mind with grave questions or to\nread serious books or discourse of serious things or to peruse aught\nthat had not been previously approved by the committee of scientific\nwomen.\n\nFor that which wearieth the brain affecteth the well-being of the body.\n\nAnd all the day long he heard the pleasant plash of fountain waters and\ninhaled delicious perfumes, and the fairest women in the world stood\nbefore him under the supervision of the philosophers.\n\nAnd a great army was organized to guard him; and great wars were fought\nwith the women of other nations on his account, so that nine millions\nand more of strong young women were killed.\n\nBut he was not permitted to know any of these things, lest it might\ntrouble his mind; nor was he suffered to hear or behold aught that can\nbe unpleasant to mortal ears.\n\nHe was permitted only to gaze upon beautiful things--beautiful flowers\nand fair women, and matchless statues and marvelous pictures, and\ngraven gems and magical vases, and cunningly devised work of goldsmiths\nand silversmiths. He was only suffered the music created by the fingers\nof the greatest musicians and by the throats of the most bewitching of\nsingers.\n\n\nAnd once a year out of every ten thousand women in the world the\nfairest one and the most complete in all things was chosen; and of\nthose chosen ones the fairest and most perfect were again chosen; and\nout of these again the committee of philosophers selected one thousand;\nand out of these thousand the man chose three hundred.\n\nFor he was the only man in the whole world; and the committee of\nphilosophers ordained that he should be permitted to remain entirely\nalone for sixty-five days in the year, lest he might be, as it were,\ntalked to death.\n\nAt first the man fell occasionally in love and felt unhappy; but as the\ncommittee of philosophers always sent unto him women more beautiful and\nmore adorable than any he had seen before, he soon became reconciled to\nhis lot.\n\nAnd instead of committing the folly of loving one woman in particular,\nhe learned to love all women in general.\n\nAnd during fifty years he lived such a life as even the angels might\nenvy.\n\nAnd before he died he had 15,273 children, and 91,638 grandchildren.\n\nAnd the children were brought up by the nation, and permitted to do\nnothing except to perfect their minds and bodies.\n\nAnd in the third generation the descendants of the man had increased\neven to two millions of males, not including females, who were indeed\nfew, so great was the universal desire for males.\n\nAnd in the tenth generation there were even as many males as females.\n\nAnd the world was regenerated.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GYPSY'S STORY[29]\n\n\nThe summer's day had been buried in Charlemagne splendors of purple and\ngold; the Spanish sable of the night glittered with its jewel-belt of\nstars. The young moon had not yet lifted the silver horns of her Moslem\nstandard in the far east. We were sailing over lukewarm waves, rising\nand falling softly as the breast of a sleeper; winds from the south\nbore to us a drowsy perfume of lemon-blossoms; and the yellow lights\namong the citron trees seemed, as we rocked upon the long swell, like\nthe stars of Joseph's dream doing obeisance. Far beyond them a giant\npharos glared at us with its single Cyclopean eye of bloodshot fire,\ndyeing the face of the pilot crimson as a pomegranate. At intervals\nthe sea amorously lipped the smooth flanks of the vessel with a sharp\nsound; and ghostly fires played about our prow. Seated upon a coil of\nrope a guitarrista sang, improvising as he sang, one of those sweetly\nmonotonous ballads which the Andalusian gypsies term soleariyas. Even\nnow the rich tones of that solitary voice vibrate in our memory, almost\nas on that perfumed sea, under the light of summer stars:\n\n                     Sera,\n     Para mi er mayo delirio\n     Berte y no poerte habla.\n                   Gacho.\n     Gacho que no hab ya motas\n     Es un barco sin timon.\n                   Por ti,\n     Las horitas e la noche\n     Me las paso sin dormi.\n                   Sereno,\n     No de oste la boz tan arta\n     Que quieo dormi y no pueo.\n                   Marina,\n     Con que te lavas la cara\n     Que la tienes tan dibina?\n\nWhy he told me his story I know not: I know only that our hearts\nunderstood each other.\n\n\n\"Of my mother,\" he said, \"I knew little when a child; I only remember\nher in memories vague as dreams, and perhaps in dreams also. For\nthere are years of our childhood so mingled with dreams that we\ncannot discern through memory the shadow from the substance. But in\nthose times I was forever haunted by a voice that spoke a tongue only\nfamiliar to me in after years, and by a face I do not ever remember to\nhave kissed.\n\n\"A clear, dark face, strong and delicate, with sharp crescent brows and\nsingularly large eyes, liquidly black, bending over me in my sleep--the\nface of a tall woman. There was something savage even in the tenderness\nof the great luminous eyes--such a look as the hunter finds in the eyes\nof fierce birds when he climbs to their nests above the clouds; and\nthis dark dream-face filled me with strange love and fear. The hair,\nflowing back from her temples in long ripples of jet, was confined by a\nbroad silver comb curved and gleaming like a new moon.\n\n\"And at last when these dreams came upon me, and the half-fierce,\nloving eyes looked upon me in the night, I would awake and go out under\nthe stars and sob.\n\n\"A vast unrest possessed me; a new heat throbbed in my veins, and I\nheard forever flute-tones of a strange voice, speaking in an unknown\ntongue; but far, far off, like the sounds of words broken and borne\naway in fragments by some wandering wind.\n\n\"Ocean breezes sang in my ears the song of waves--of waves chanting the\ndeep hymn that no musician can learn--the mystic hymn whereof no human\near may ever discern the words--the magical hymn that is older than the\nworld, and weirder than the moon.\n\n\"The winds of the woods bore me odors of tears of spicy gums and the\nsounds of bird-voices sweeter than the plaint of running water, and\nwhispers of shaking shadows, and the refrain of that mighty harp-song\nwhich the pines sing, and the vaporous souls of flowers, and the\nmysteries of succubus-vines that strangle the oaks with love.\n\n\"Winds also, piercing and cold as Northern eyes, came to me from the\nabysses of the rocks, and from peaks whose ermine of snow has never\nsince the being of the world felt the pressure of a bird's foot; and\nthey sang Runic chants of mountain freedom, where the lightnings cross\ntheir flickerings. And with these winds came also shadows of birds, far\ncircling above me, with eyes fierce and beautiful as the eyes of my\ndream.\n\n\n\"So that a great envy came upon me of the winds and waves and birds\nthat circle forever with the eternal circling of the world. Nightly\nthe large eyes, half fierce, half tender, glimmered through my sleep:\nphantom winds called to me, and shadowy seas chanted through their\nfoam-flecked lips runes weird as the Runes of Odin.\n\n\n\"And I hated cities with the hatred of the camel--the camel that sobs\nand moans on beholding afar, on the yellow rim of the desert, the\ncorpse-white finger of a minaret pointing to the dome of Mahomet's\nheaven.\n\n\"Also I hated the rumble of traffic and the roar of the race for gold;\nthe shadows of palaces on burning streets; the sound of toiling feet;\nthe black breath of towered chimneys; and the vast machines, forever\nlaboring with sinews of brass, and panting with heart of steam and\nsteel.\n\n\"Only loved I the eyes of night and the women eyes that haunted me--the\nsilence of rolling plains, the whispers of untrodden woods, the shadows\nof flying birds and fleeting clouds, the heaving emerald of waves, the\nsilver lamentation of brooks, the thunder roll of that mighty hymn of\nhexameters which the ocean must eternally sing to the stars.\n\n\n\"Once, and once only, did I speak to my father of the dark and\nbeautiful dream that floated to me on the misty waves of sleep. Once,\nand once only; for I beheld his face grow whiter than the face of Death.\n\n\n\"Encompassed about by wealth and pleasure, I still felt like a bird in\na cage of gold. Books I loved only because they taught me mysteries of\nsky and sea--the alchemy of suns, the magic of seasons, the marvels of\nlands to which we long forever to sail, yet may never see. But I loved\nwild rides by night, and long wrestling with waves silver-kissed by the\nmoon, and the musky breath of woods, where wild doves wandered from\nshadow to shadow, cooing love. And the strange beauty of the falcon\nface, that haunted me forever, chilled my heart to the sun-haired\nmaidens who sought our home, fair like tall idols of ivory and gold.\n\n\"Often, in the first pinkness of dawn, I rose from a restless sleep to\nlook upon a mirror; thirsting to find in my own eyes some dark kindred\nwith the eyes of my dreams; and often I felt in my veins the blood of a\nstrange race, not my father's.\n\n\"I saw birds flying to the perfumed South; I watched the sea gulls\nseeking warmer coasts; I cursed the hawks for their freedom--I cursed\nthe riches that were the price of my bondage to civilization, the\npleasures that were the guerdon of my isolation among a people not my\nown.\n\n--\"'O that I were a cloud,' I cried, 'to drift forever with the hollow\nwind!--O that I were a wave to pass from ocean to ocean, and chant my\nfreedom in foam upon the rocks of a thousand coasts!--O that I might\nlive even as the eagle, who may look into the face of the everlasting\nsun!'\n\n\"So the summer of my life came upon me, with a madness of longing for\nfreedom--a freedom as of winds and waves and birds--and a vague love\nfor that unknown people whose wild blood made fever in my veins,--until\none starless night I fled my home forever.\n\n\n\"I slumbered in the woods at last; the birds were singing in the\nemerald shadows above when I awoke. A tall girl, lithe as a palm,\nswarthy as Egypt, was gazing upon me. My heart almost ceased to beat.\nI beheld in the wild beauty of her dark face as it were the shadow\nof the face that had haunted me; and in the midnight of her eyes the\neyes of my dream. Circles of thin gold were in her ears;--her brown\narms and feet were bare. She smiled not; but, keeping her great wild\neyes fixed upon mine, addressed me in a strange tongue. Strange as\nIndia--yet not all strange to me; for at the sound of its savage\nsyllables dusky chambers of memory long un visited reopened their\ndoors and revealed forgotten things. The tongue was the tongue spoken\nto me in dreams through all those restless years. And she, perceiving\nthat I understood, although I spoke not, pointed to far tents beyond\nthe trees, and ascending spirals of lazy smoke.\n\n\"'Whithersoever we go, thou shalt also go,' she murmured. 'Thou art of\nour people; the blood that flows in thy veins is also mine. We have\nlong waited and watched for thee, summer by summer, in those months\nwhen the great longing comes upon us all. For thy mother was of my\npeople; and thou who hast sucked her breasts mayst not live with the\npale children of another race. The heaven is our tent; the birds guide\nour footsteps south and north; the stars lead us to the east and west.\nMy people have sought word of thee even while wandering in lands of\nsunrise. Our blood is stronger than wine; our kindred dearer than gold.\nThou wilt leave riches, pleasures, honors, and the life of cities for\nthy heart's sake; and I will be thy sister.'\n\n\"And I, having kissed her, followed her to the tents of her people--my\npeople--the world wanderers of the most ancient East.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE ONE PILL-BOX[30]\n\n\nLike Nebuchadnezzar's furnace, the sun seemed to blaze with sevenfold\nheat; the sky glowed like steel in the process of blistering; a haze\nyellow as the radiance above a crucible gilded the streets; the great\nplants swooned in the garden--fainting flowers laid their heads on the\ndry clay; the winds were dead; the Yellow Plague filled the city with\ninvisible exhalations of death. A silence as of cemeteries weighed down\nupon the place; commerce slept a wasting slumber; the iron muscles and\nbrazen bones of wealth machinery relaxed, and lungs of steel ceased\ntheir panting; the ships had spread their white wings and flown;\nthe wharves were desolate; the cotton-presses ceased their mighty\nmastication, and no longer uttered their titanic sighs.\n\n\nThe English mill-master had remained at his post, with the obstinate\ncourage of his race, until stricken down. There was a sound in his\nears as of rushing waters; darkness before his eyes: the whispering of\nthe nurses, the orders of the physicians, the tinkling of glasses and\nspoons, the bubbling of medicine poured out, the sound of doors softly\nopened and closed, and of visits made on tiptoe, he no longer heard\nor remembered. The last object his eyes had rested upon was a tiny\nwhite-and-red pill-box, lying on the little table beside the bed.\n\nThe past came to him in shadowy pictures between dark intervals of\nhalf-conscious suffering--of such violent pain in thighs and loins\nas he remembered to have felt long years before after some frightful\nfall from a broken scaffolding. The sound in his ears of rushing water\ngradually sharpened into a keener sound--like the hum of machinery,\nlike the purring of revolving saws, gnawing their meal of odorous wood\nwith invisibly rapid teeth. Odors of cypress and pine, walnut and oak,\nseemed to float to his nostrils--with sounds of planing and beveling,\nhammering and polishing, subdued laughter of workmen, loud orders,\nhurrying feet, and above all the sharp, trilling purr of the hungry\nsaws, and the shaking rumble of the hundred-handed engines.\n\n\nHe was again in the little office, fresh with odors of resinous\nwoods--seated at the tall desk whose thin legs trembled with the\npalpitation of the engine's heart. It seemed to him there was a vast\npress of work to be done--enormous efforts to be made--intricate\ncontracts to be unknotted--huge estimates to be made out--agonizing\nerrors to be remedied--frightful miscalculations to be corrected--a\nworld of anxious faces impatiently watching him. Figures and diagrams\nswam before his eyes--plans of fa\u00e7ades--mathematical calculations\nfor stairways--difficult angles of roofs--puzzling arrangements of\ncorridors. The drawings seemed to vary their shape with fantastic\nspitefulness; squares lengthened into parallelograms and distorted\nthemselves into rhomboids--circles mockingly formed themselves\ninto ciphers--triangles became superimposed, like the necromantic\nsix-pointed star. Then numerals mingled with the drawings--columns\nof magical figures which could never be added up, because they\nseemed to lengthen themselves at will with serpent elasticity--a mad\nprocession of confused notes in addition and subtraction, in division\nand multiplication, danced before him. And the world of anxious faces\nwatched yet more impatiently.\n\n\nAll was dark again; the merciless pain in loins and thighs had\nreturned with sharp consciousness of the fever, and the insufferable\nheat and skull-splitting headache--heavy blankets and miserable\nhelplessness--and the recollection of the very, very small pill-box on\nthe table. Then it seemed to him there were other pill-boxes--three!\nnine! twenty-seven! eight-one! one hundred and sixty-two! one hundred\nand sixty-two very small pill-boxes.\n\n\nHe seemed to be wandering in a cemetery, under blazing sunlight and\nin a blinding glare of white-washed washed tombs, whose skeletons of\nbrick were left bare in leprous patches by the falling away of the\nplastering. And, wandering, he came to a deep wall, catacombed from\nbase to summit with the resting-places of ten thousand dead; and there\nwas one empty place--one black void--inscribed with a name strangely\nlike his own. And a great weariness and faintness came upon him; and\nthe pains, returning, carried back his thoughts to the warmth and\ndimness of the sick-room.\n\n\nIt seemed to him that this could not be death--he was too weary even\nto die! But they would put him into the hollow void in the wall!--they\nmight: he would not resist, he felt no fear. He could rest there very\nwell even for a hundred years. He had a gimlet somewhere!--they would\nlet him take it with him;--he could bore a tiny little hole in the wall\nso that a thread of sunlight would creep into his resting-place every\nday, and he could hear the voices of the world about him. Yet perhaps\nhe should never be able to leave that dark damp place again!--It was\nvery possible; seeing that he was so tired. And there was so much to\nbe arranged first: there were estimates and plans and contracts; and\nnobody else could make them out; and everything would be left in such\nconfusion! And perhaps he might not even be able to think in a little\nwhile; all the knowledge he had stored up would be lost; nobody could\nthink much or say much after having been buried. And he thought again\nof the pill-boxes--one hundred and sixty-two very small pill-boxes.\nNo; there were exactly three hundred and sixty-six! Perhaps that was\nbecause it was leap year.\n\n\nEverything must be arranged at once!--at once! The pill-boxes\nwould do; he could breathe his thoughts into them and close them\ntightly--recollections of estimates, corrections of plans, directions\nto the stair-builders, understanding with contractors, orders to the\nlumber dealers, instructions to Texan and Mississippi agents, answers\nto anxious architects, messages to the senior partner, explanations\nto the firm of X and W. Then it seemed to him that each little box\nreceived its deposit of memories, and became light as flame, buoyant\nas a bubble;--rising in the air to float halfway between floor and\nceiling. A great anxiety suddenly came upon him;--the windows were all\nopen, and the opening of the door might cause a current. All these\nlittle thoughts would float away!--yet he could not rise to lock the\ndoor! The boxes were all there, floating above him light as motes in a\nsunbeam:--there were so many now that he could not count them! If the\nnurse would only stay away!... Then all became dark again--a darkness\nas of solid ebony, heavy, crushing, black, blank, universal...\n\nAll lost! Brutally the door opened and closed again with a cruel clap\nof thunder.... Yellow lightnings played circling before his eyes....\nThe pill-boxes were gone! But was not that the face of the doctor,\nanxious and kindly? The burning day was dead; the sick man turned his\neyes to the open windows, and beheld the fathomless purple of the\nnight, and the milky blossoms of the stars. And he strove to speak,\nbut could not! The light of a shaded lamp falling upon the table\nilluminated a tiny object, blood-scarlet by day, carmine under the\nsaffron artificial light. _There was only one pill-box._\n\n\n\n\nA RIVER REVERIE[31]\n\n\nAn old Western river port, lying in a wrinkle of the hills--a\nsharp slope down to the yellow water, glowing under the sun like\nmolten bronze--a broken hollow square of buildings framing it in,\nwhose basements had been made green by the lipping of water during\ninundations periodical as the rising of the Nile--a cannonade-rumble\nof drays over the boulders, and muffled-drum thumping of cotton\nbales--white signs black-lettered with names of steamboat companies,\nand the green lattice-work of saloon doors flanked by empty\nkegs--above, church spires cutting the blue--below, on the slope,\nhogsheads, bales, drays, cases, boxes, barrels, kegs, mules,\nwagons, policemen, loungers, and roustabouts, whose apparel is at\nonce as picturesque, as ragged, and as colorless as the fronts of\ntheir favorite haunts on the water-front. Westward the purple of\nsoftly-rolling hills beyond the flood, through a diaphanous veil of\ngolden haze--a marshaled array of white boats with arabesque lightness\nof painted woodwork, and a long and irregular line of smoking chimneys.\nThe scene never varied save with the varying tints of weather and\nseason. Sometimes the hills were gray through an atmosphere of\nrain--sometimes they vanished altogether in an autumn fog; but the\nport never changed. And in summer or spring, at the foot of the iron\nstairway leading up to a steamboat agency in the great middle building\nfacing the river, there was a folding stool--which no one ever tried\nto steal--which even the most hardened wharf thieves respected--and\non that stool, at the same hour every day, a pleasant-faced old man\nwith a very long white beard used to sit. If you asked anybody who\nit was, the invariable reply was: \"Oh! that's old Captain-; used to\nbe in the New Orleans trade;--had to give up the river on account of\nrheumatism;--comes down every day to look at things.\"\n\nWonder whether the old captain still sits there of bright afternoons,\nto watch the returning steamers panting with their mighty run from the\nFar South--or whether he has sailed away upon that other river, silent\nand colorless as winter's fog, to that vast and shadowy port where much\nghostly freight is discharged from vessels that never return? He haunts\nus sometimes--even as he must have been haunted by the ghosts of dead\nyears.\n\nWhen some great white boat came in, uttering its long, wild cry of\njoy after its giant race of eighteen hundred miles, to be re\u00ebchoed\nby the hundred voices of the rolling hills--surely the old man must\nhave dreamed upon his folding stool of marvelous nights upon the\nMississippi--nights filled with the perfume of orange blossoms under\na milky palpitation of stars in amethystine sky, and witchery of\ntropical moonlight.\n\nThe romance of river-life is not like the romance of the sea--that\nromance memory evokes for us in the midst of the city by the simple\nexhalations of an asphalt pavement under the sun--divine saltiness,\ncelestial freshness, the wild joy of wind-kissed waves, the hum of\nrigging and crackling of cordage, the rocking as of a mighty cradle.\nBut it is perhaps sweeter. There is no perceptible motion of the river\nvessel; it is like the movement of a balloon, so steady that not we but\nthe world only seems to move. Under the stars there seems to unroll\nits endlessness like an immeasurable ribbon of silver-purple. There\nis a noiseless ripple in it, as of watered silk. There is a heavy,\nsweet smell of nature, of luxuriant verdure; the feminine outlines\nof the hills, dotted with the chrome-yellow of window-lights, are\nblue-black; the vast arch of stars blossoms overhead; there is no\nsound but the colossal breathing of the laboring engines; the stream\nwidens; the banks lessen; the heavens seem to grow deeper, the stars\nwhiter, the blue bluer. Under the night it is all a blue world, as in\na planet illuminated by a colored sun. The calls of the passing boats,\nsonorous as the music of vast silver trumpets, ring out clear but\necholess;--there are no hills to give ghostly answer. Days are born in\ngold and die in rose-color; and the stream widens, widens, broadens\ntoward the eternity of the sea under the eternity of the sky. We sail\nout of Northern frosts into Southern lukewarmness, into the luxuriant\nand somnolent smell of magnolias and lemon-blossoms--the sugar-country\nexhales its incense of welcome. And the giant crescent of lights, the\nstream-song of joyous boats, the world of chimneys, the forests of\nspars, the burst of morning glory over New Orleans viewed from the deck\nof a pilot-house....\n\nThese may never be wholly forgotten; after the lapse of fifty years in\nsome dusty and dreary inland city, an odor, an echo, a printed name may\nresurrect their recollection, fresh as one of those Gulf winds that\nleave sweet odors after them, like coquettish women, like Talmudic\nangels.\n\nSo that we beheld all these things yesterday and heard all these dead\nvoices once more; saw the old Western port with its water-be-slimed\nwarehouses, and the Kentucky hills beyond the river, and the old\ncaptain on his folding stool, gazing wistfully at the boats; so that\nwe heard once more the steam whistles of vessels that have long ceased\nto be, or that, changed into floating wharves, rise and fall with the\nflood, like corpses.\n\nAnd all because there came an illustrious visitor to us, who reminded\nus of all these things; having once himself turned the pilot's wheel,\nthrough weird star-light or magical moonshine, gray rain or ghostly\nfog, golden sun or purple light--down the great river from Northern\nfrosts to tepid Southern winds--and up the mighty stream into the misty\nNorth again.\n\nTo-day his name is a household word in the English-speaking world;\nhis thoughts have been translated into other tongues; his written wit\ncreates mirth at once in Paris salons and in New Zealand homes. Fortune\nhas also extended to him her stairway of gold; and he has hobnobbed\nmuch with the great ones of the world. But there is still something\nof the pilot's cheery manner in his greeting, and the keenness of the\npilot's glance in his eyes, and a looking out and afar off, as of the\nman who of old was wont to peer into the darkness of starless nights,\nwith the care of a hundred lives on his hands.\n\nHe has seen many strange cities since that day--sailed upon many\nseas--studied many peoples--written many wonderful books.\n\nYet, now that he is in New Orleans again, one cannot help wondering\nwhether his heart does not sometimes prompt him to go to the river,\nlike that old captain of the far Northwestern port, to watch the white\nboats panting at the wharves, and listen to their cries of welcome or\nfarewell, and dream of nights beautiful, silver-blue, and silent--and\nthe great Southern moon peering into a pilot-house.\n\n\n\n\n\"HIS HEART IS OLD\"[32]\n\n\nChrystoblepharos--Elikoblepharos--eyelids grace-kissed--the eyes of\nLeucothea--the dreaming marble head of the Capitoline Museum--the\nface of the girl-nurse of the wine-god, with a spray of wine-leaves\nfilleting her sweet hair--that inexpressible, inexplicable, petrified\ndream of loveliness, which well enables us to comprehend old monkish\ntales regarding the infernal powers of enchantment possessed by the\nantique statues of those gods who Tertullian affirmed were demons.\nFor in howsoever thoughtless a mood one may be when he first visits\nthe arch\u00e6ological shrine in which the holiness of antique beauty\nreposes, the first glorious view of such a marble miracle compels the\nheart to slacken its motion in the awful wonder of that moment. One\nbreathes low, as in sacred fear lest the vision might dissolve into\nnothingness--as though the witchery might be broken were living breath\nto touch with its warm moisture that wonderful marble cheek. Vainly\nmay you strive to solve the secret of this magical art; the exquisite\nmystery is divine--human eye may never pierce it; one dare not laugh,\ndare not speak in its presence--that beauty imposes silence by its very\nsweetness; one may pray voicelessly, one does not smile in presence\nof the Superhuman. And when hours of mute marveling have passed,\nthe wonder seems even newer than before. Shall we wonder that early\nChristian zealots should have dashed these miracles to pieces, maddened\nby the silent glamour of beauty that defied analysis and seemed,\nindeed, a creation of the Master-Magician himself?\n\nAnd the Centauress, in cameo, kneeling to suckle her little one;--the\nsupple nudity of exquisite ephebi turning in eternal dance about the\ncircumference of wondrous vases;--gentle Psyche, butterfly-winged,\nweeping on a graven carnelian;--river-deities in relief eternally\nwatching the noiseless flow of marble waves from urns that gurgle\nnot;--joyous Tritons with knotty backs and seaweed twined among\ntheir locks;--luxurious symposia in sculpture, such as might have\nwell suggested the Oriental fancy of petrified cities, with their\ninnumerable pleasure-seekers suddenly turned to stone;--splendid\nprocessions of maidens to the shrine of the Maiden-Goddess, and\nBacchantes leading tame panthers in the escort of the Rosy God: all\nthese and countless other visions of the dead Greek world still haunted\nme, as I laid aside the beautiful and quaint volume of arch\u00e6ological\nlearning that inspired them--bound in old fashion, and bearing the\nimprint of a firm that had ceased to exist ere the close of the French\nRevolution--a Rococo Winkelmann. And still they circled about me, with\nthe last smoke-wreaths of the last evening pipe, on the moonlight\nbalcony, among the shadows.\n\n\nThen as I dreamed the beautiful dead world seemed to live again, in\na luminous haze, in an Elysian glow. The processions of stone awoke\nfrom their sleep of two thousand years, and moved and chanted;--marble\ndreams became lithe flesh;--the phantom Arcadia was peopled with\nshapes of unclad beauty;--I saw eyelids as of Leucothea palpitating\nunder the kisses of the Charities--the incarnate loveliness superhuman\nof a thousand god-like beings, known to us only by their shadows in\nstone;--and the efflorescent youth of that vanished nation, whose idols\nwere Beauty and Joy--who laughed much and never wept--whose perfect\nfaces were never clouded by the shadow of a grief, nor furrowed by the\nagony of thought, nor wrinkled by the bitterness of tears.\n\nI found myself in the honeyed heart of that world, where all was youth\nand joy--where the very air seemed to thrill with new happiness in a\nparadise newly created--where innumerable flowers, of genera unknown\nin these later years, filled the valley with amorous odor of spring.\nBut I sat among them with the thoughts of the Nineteenth Century, and\nthe heart of the Nineteenth Century, and the garb of the Nineteenth\nCentury, which is black as a garb of mourning for the dead. And they\ndrew about me, seeing that I laughed not at all, nor smiled, nor\nspoke; and low-whispering to one another, they murmured with a silky\nmurmur as of summer winds:\n\n\"His heart is old!\"\n\n\nAnd I pondered the words of the Ecclesiast: \"Sorrow is better than\nlaughter; for by the sadness of the countenance the heart is made\nbetter.... It is better to go to the house of mourning than to the\nhouse of feasting; and the day of one's death is better than the day of\none's birth.\" But I answered nothing; and they spake again, whispering,\n_\"His heart is old!_\" And one with sweet and silky-lidded eyes, lifted\nher voice and spake:\n\n\"O thou dreamer, wherefore evoke us, wherefore mourn us--seeing that\nthere is no more joy in the world?\n\n\"Ours was a world of light and of laughter and of flowers, of\nloveliness and of love. Thine is smoke-darkened and sombre; there is no\nbeauty unveiled; and men have forgotten how to laugh.\n\n\"Ye have increased wisdom unto sorrow, and sorrow unto infinite\ndespair;--for there is now no Elysium--the vault of heaven has sunk\nback into immensity, and dissolved itself into nothingness; the\nboundaries of earth are set, and the earth itself resolved into a\ngrain of dust, whirling in the vast white ring of innumerable suns\nand countless revolving worlds. Yet we were happier, believing the\nblossoming of stars to be only drops of milk from the perfect breast of\na goddess.\n\n\"Nymphs haunted our springs; dryads slumbered in the waving shadows of\nour trees; zephyrs ethereal rode upon our summer winds; and great Pan\nplayed upon his pipe in the emerald gloom of our summer woods. Ye men\nof to-day have analyzed all substances, decomposed all elements, to\ndiscover the Undiscoverable, and ye have found it not. But in searching\nfor the unsearchable, ye have lost joy.\n\n\"We loved the beauty of youth--the litheness of young limbs--the rosy\ndawn of maturity--the bloom of downy cheeks--the sweetness of eyes\nsweetened by vague desires of life's spring--the marvelous thrill of a\nfirst kiss--the hunger of love which had only to announce itself to be\nappeased--and the glory of strength. But ye have sought the secret of\nthe Universal life in charnel-houses--dismembering rottenness itself\nand prying open the jaws of Death to view the awful emptiness therein.\nLearning only enough to appall you, ye have found that science can\nteach you less of beauty than our forgotten gymnasiums; but in the mean\ntime, ye have forgotten how to love.\n\n\"We gave to the bodies of our well-beloved the holy purification of\nfire; ye confide them to the flesh-eating earth, filling your cities\nwith skeletons. For us Death was bodiless and terrible; for you she is\nvisible and yet welcome;--for so weary have men become of life that\nher blackness seems to them beauty,--the beauty of a mistress, the\nuniversal Pasiphila, who alone can give consolation to hearts weary of\nlife. So that ye have even forgotten how to die!\n\n\"And thou, O dreamer, thou knowest that there was no beginning and that\nthere shall be no end; but thou dost also know that the dust beneath\nthy feet has lived and loved, that all which now lives once lived not,\nand that what is now lifeless will live again;--thou knowest that\nthe substance of the sweetest lips has passed through myriad million\ntransformations, that the light of the sweetest eyes will still pass\nthrough innumerable changes after the fires of the stars have burnt\nthemselves out. In seeking the All-Soul, thou hast found it in thyself,\nand hast elevated thyself to deity, yet for thee are vows vain and\noracles dumb. Hope is extinguished in everlasting night; thou mayst\nnot claim even the consolation of prayer, for thou canst not pray\nto thyself. Like the Mephistopheles of thy poet, O dreamer of the\nNineteenth Century, thou mayst sit between the Sphinx of the Past and\nthe Sphinx of the Future, and question them, and open their lips of\ngranite, and answer their mocking riddles. But thou mayst not forget\nhow to weep, even though thy heart grow old.\"...\n\nBut I could not weep!--And the phantoms, marveling, murmured with a\nstrange murmur--\"The heart of Medusa!\"\n\n\n\n\nMDCCCLIII[33]\n\n\nSomebody I knew was there--a woman....\n\nHeat, motionless and ponderous, as in some feverish colonial city\nrising from the venomous swamps of the Ivory Coast. The sky-blue seemed\nto bleach from the horizon's furnace edges--even sounds were muffled\nand blunted by the heaviness of that air--vaguely, as to a dozing\nbrain, came the passing reverberation of footsteps;--the river-current\nwas noiseless and thick and lazy, like wax-made fluid.... Such were the\ndays--and each day offered up a triple hecatomb to death--and the faces\nof all the dead were yellow as flame....\n\nNever a drop of rain:--the thin clouds which made themselves visible of\nevenings only, flocking about the dying fires of the west, seemed to\ndwellers in the city troops of ghosts departing with the day, as in the\nfantastic myths of the South Pacific.\n\n...I passed the outer iron gate--the warm seashells strewing the way\nbroke under my feet with faint saline odors in the hot air:--I heard\nthe iron tongue of a bell utter ONE, with the sinister vibration of a\nknell--signaling the eternal extinction of a life. Seven and seventy\ntimes that iron tongue had uttered its grim monosyllable since the last\nsetting of the sun. The grizzled watcher of the inner gate extended\nhis pallid palm for that eleemosynary contribution exacted from all\nvisitors;--and it seemed to me that I beheld the gray Ferryman of\nShadows himself, silently awaiting his obolus from me, also a Shadow.\nAnd as I glided into the world of agony beyond, the dead-bell moved its\niron tongue again--once....\n\nVast bare gleaming corridors into which many doors exhaled odors of\nmedicines and moans and sound of light footsteps hurrying--then I\nstood a moment all alone--a long moment that I repass sometimes in\ndreams. (Only that in dreams of the past there are no sounds--the dead\nare dumb; and the fondest may not retain the evanescent memory of a\nvoice.) Then suddenly approached a swift step--so light, so light that\nit seemed the coming of a ghost; and I saw a slight figure black-robed\nfrom neck to feet, the fantastically winged cap of a Sister, and\nbeneath the white cap a dark and beautiful face with very black\neyes. Even then the iron bell spake again--once! I muttered--nay, I\nwhispered, all fearful with the fearfulness of that place, the name of\na ward and--the name of a Woman.\n\n\"Friend, friend! what do you want here?\" murmured the Sister, who saw\nthat the visitor was a stranger. Hers was the first voice I had heard\nin that place of death, and it seemed so sweet and clear--a musical\nvibration of youth and hope! And I answered, this time audibly. \"You\nare not afraid?\" she asked. \"Come!\"\n\nTaking my hand, she led me thither--through spaces of sunlight and\nshadow, through broad and narrow ways, and between rows of beds white\nlike rows of tombs. Her hand was cool and light as mist--as frost--as\nthe guiding touch of that spirit might be whom the faithful of many\ncreeds believe to lead their dead out of the darkness, into some vast\nnew dawning beyond.... \"You are not afraid?--not afraid?\" the sweet\nvoice asked again. And I suddenly became aware of the dead, lying\nbetween us, and the death-color in her face, like a flare of sunset....\n\nThen for an instant everything became dark between me and the Sister\nstanding upon the other side of the dead--and I was groping in that\ndarkness blindly, until I felt a cool hand grasp mine, leading me\nsilently somewhere--somewhere into the light. \"Come! you have no claim\nhere, friend! you cannot take her back from God!--let us leave her with\nHim!\" And I obeyed all voicelessly. I felt her light, cool hand leading\nme again between the long ranks of white beds, and through the vast,\nbare corridors, and the shining lobbies, and by the doors of a hundred\nchambers of death.\n\nThen at the summit of the great stairway, she turned her rich gaze\ninto my eyes with a strange, sweet, silent sympathy, pressed my hand\nan instant, and was gone. I heard the whisper of her departing robe;\nI saw the noiseless fluttering of her white cap;--a great door opened\nvery silently, closed inaudibly; and I was all alone.--(Some one told\nme, only a few days later, that the iron bell had also spoken for her,\nthe little Sister of Charity--in the middle of the night--once!)\n\nAnd I, standing alone upon the stairs, felt something unutterably\nstrange within me--the influence of that last look, perhaps still\nvibrating, like an expiring sunbeam, a dying tone. Something in her\neyes had rekindled into life something long burned out within my\nheart--the ashes of a Faith entombed as in a sepulchral urn.... Yet\nonly a moment; and the phantom flame sank back into its ashes; and I\nwas in the sunlight again, iron of purpose as Pharaoh after the death\nof his first-born. It was only a dead emotion, warmed to resurrection\nby the sunshine of a woman's eyes.\n\n...Nevertheless, I fancy that when the Ringer is preparing to ring for\nme--and the great darkness deepens all about me--when sounds sink to\ntheir whispers and questions must remain eternally unanswered--when\nmemory is fading out into the infinite blackness, and those strange\ndreams that precurse the final dissolution marshal their illusions\nbefore me--I fancy that I might hear again the whisper of a black\nrobe, and feel a hand, light as frost, held out to me with the sweet\nquestioning--\"_Come! You are not afraid?_\"\n\n\n\n\nHIOUEN-THSANG[34]\n\n\n    The story of him who gave the Lotus of the good Law unto\n    four hundred millions of his people in the Middle Kingdom,\n    and remained insensible unto honors even as the rose-leaf to\n    the dewdrop....\n\n\nTwelve hundred years ago, in a town of China, situated in the inmost\nrecesses of the kingdom called Celestial, was born a boy, at whose\nadvent in this world of illusions the spirits of good rejoiced, and\nmarvelous things also happened--according to the legends of those\nyears. For before his birth, the mother dreaming beheld the Shadow of\nBuddha above her, radiant as the face of the Mountain of Light; and\nafter the Shadow had passed, she was aware of the figure of her son,\nthat was to be, following after It over vast distances to cities of an\narchitecture unknown, and through forests of strange growth that seemed\nnot of this world. And a Voice gave her to know that her boy would\nyet travel in search of the Word through unknown lands, and be guided\nby Lord Buddha in his wanderings, and find in the end that which he\nsought....\n\nSo the boy grew up in wisdom; and his face became as the white face\nof the God in the Temple beyond Tientsin, where the mirage shifts its\nspectral beauties forever above the sands, typifying to the faithful\nthat the world and all within it are but a phantasmagoria of illusion.\nAnd the boy was instructed by the priests of Buddha, and became wiser\nthan they.\n\nFor the Law of Buddha had blossomed in the land unnumbered years, and\nthe Son of Heaven had bowed down before it, and there were in the\nEmpire many thousand convents of holy monks, and countless teachers\nof truth. But in the lapse of a thousand years and more the Lotus\nFlower of the Good Law had lost its perfume; much of the wisdom of the\nWorld-honored had been forgotten; fire and the fury of persecution had\nmade small the number of holy books. When Hiouen-thsang sought for the\ndeeper wisdom of the Law he found it not; nor was there in all China\none who could inform him. Then a great longing came upon him to go to\nIndia, the land of the Savior of Man, and there seek the wondrous words\nthat had been lost, and the marvelous books unread by Chinese eyes.\n\n\nBefore the time of Hiouen-thsang other Chinese pilgrims had visited\nthe Indian Palestine;--Fabian had been sent thither upon a pilgrimage\nby a holy Empress. But these others had received aid of money and of\nservants--letters to governors and gifts to kings. Hiouen-thsang had\nneither money nor servants, nor any knowledge of the way. Therefore he\ncould only seek aid from the Emperor, and permission. But the Son of\nHeaven rejected the petition written upon yellow silk, and signed with\ntwo thousand devout names. Moreover, he forbade Hiouen-thsang to leave\nthe kingdom under penalty of death.\n\nBut the heart of Hiouen-thsang told him that he must go. And he\nremembered that the caravans from India used to bring their strange\nwares to a city on the Hoang-ho--on the Yellow River. Secretly\ndeparting in the night, he traveled for many days, succored upon his\nway by the brethren, until he came to the caravansary, and saw the\nIndian merchants with their multitude of horses and of camels, resting\nbeside the Hoang-ho.\n\nAnd presently when they departed for the frontier, he followed secretly\nafter them, with two Buddhist friends.\n\n\nSo they came to the frontier, where the line of the fortifications\nstretched away lessening into the desert, with their watch-towers\nfantastically capped, like Mandarins. But here only the caravan could\npass; for the guards had orders from the Son of Heaven to seize upon\nHiouen-thsang;--and the Indian merchants rode away far beyond the line\nof the watch-towers; and the caravan became only a moving speck against\nthe disk of the sun, to disappear with his setting. Yet in the night\nHiouen-thsang passed with his friends, like shadows, through the line\nof guards, and followed the trail.\n\nHappily the captain in charge of the next watch-tower was a holy man,\nand moved by the supplications of the Buddhist priests, he permitted\nHiouen-thsang to pass on. But the other brethren trembled and returned,\nleaving Hiouen-thsang alone. Yet India was still more than a thousand\nmiles distant, by the way of the caravans.\n\nOnly the men of the last watch-tower would not allow Hiouen-thsang\nto pass; but he escaped by them into the desert. Then he followed\nthe line of the caravan, the prints of the feet of camels and horses\nleading toward India. Skeletons were whitening in the sands; the\neyeless sockets of innumerable skulls looked at him. The sun set and\nrose again many times; the sand-sea moved its waves continually with\na rustling sound; the multitude of white bones waxed vaster. And as\nHiouen-thsang proceeded phantom cities mocked him on the right hand and\nupon the left, and the spectral caravans wrought by the mirage rode by\nhim shadowlessly. Then his water-skin burst, and the desert drank up\nits contents; the hoof-prints disappeared. Hiouen-thsang had lost his\nway....\n\n\nFrom the past of twelve hundred years ago, we can hear the breaking of\nthat water-skin;--we can feel the voiceless despair that for a moment\nchilled the heart and faith of Hiouen-thsang--alone in the desert of\nskeletons--alone in the infinite platitude of sand broken only by the\nmockeries of the mirage. But the might of faith helped him on; prayers\nwere his food, Buddha the star-compass that illuminated the path to\nIndia. For five days and five nights he traveled without meat or drink\nunder blistering suns, under the vast throbbing of stars--and at last\nthe sharp yellow line of the horizon became green!\n\nIt was not the mirage--it was a land of steel-bright lakes and long\ngrass--the land of the men who live upon horseback--the country of the\nOigour Tartars.\n\n\nThe Khan received the pilgrim as a son; honors were showered upon\nhim--for the fame of Hiouen-thsang as a teacher of the Law had reached\ninto the heart of Asia. And they desired that he should remain with\nthem, to instruct them in the knowledge of Buddha. When he would\nnot--only after having vainly essayed upon him such temptation and\ncoercion by turns that he was driven to despair, the Khan at last\npermitted him to depart under oath that he would return. But India was\nstill far away. Hiouen-thsang had to pass through the territories of\ntwenty-four great kings ere reaching the Himalayas. The Khan gave him\nan escort and letters to the rulers of all kingdoms, for his memory is\nyet blessed in the Empire Celestial.\n\nIt was in the seventh century. Rivers have changed their courses since\nthen. Hiouen-thsang visited the rulers of kingdoms that have utterly\ndisappeared; he beheld civilizations where are now wastes of sand; he\nconversed with masters of a learning that has vanished without leaving\na trace behind. The face of the world is changed; but the words of\nHiouen-thsang change not;--lakes have dried up, yet we even now in\nthis Western republic drink betimes from that Fountain of Gold which\nHiouen-thsang set flowing--to flow forever!\n\nSo they beheld at last, afar off, the awful Himalayas, whose white\nturbans touch the heaven of India, vested with thunder-clouds, belted\nwith lightnings! And Hiouen-thsang passed through gorges overhung by\nthe drooping fangs of monsters of ice--through ravines so dark that\nthe traveler beholds the stars above him at noonday, and eagles like\ndots against the sky--and hard by the icy cavern whence the sacred\nriver leaps in roaring birth--and by winding ways to valleys eternally\ngreen--and ever thus into the glowing paradise of Hindustan. But of\nthose that followed Hiouen-thsang, thirteen were buried in the eternal\nsnow.\n\nHe saw the wondrous cities of India; he saw the sanctuaries of Benares;\nsaw the great temples since destroyed for modern eyes by Moslem\nconquerors; saw the idols that had diamond eyes and bellies filled with\nfood of emeralds and carbuncles; he trod where Buddha had walked; he\ncame to Maghada, which is the Holy Land of India. Alone and on foot\nhe traversed the jungles; the cobra hissed under his feet, the tiger\nglared at him with eyes that flamed like emeralds, the wild elephant's\nmountain-shadow fell across his path. Yet he feared nothing, for he\nsought Buddha. The Phansigars flung about his neck the noose of the\nstrangler, and yet loosened him on beholding the holiness of his face;\nswarthy robbers, whose mustaches were curved like scimitars, lifted\ntheir blades to smite, and beholding his eyes turned away. So he came\nto the Dragon-Cavern of Purushapura to seek Buddha. For Buddha, though\nhaving entered Nirvana a thousand years, sometimes there made himself\nvisible as a luminous Shadow to those who loved him.\n\n\nBut in the cavern was a darkness as of the grave, a silence as of\ndeath; Hiouen-thsang prayed in vain, and vainly wept for many hours in\nthe darkness. At last there came a faint glow upon the wall, like a\nbeam of the moon--and passed away. Then Hiouen-thsang prayed yet more\nfervently than before; and again in the darkness came a light--but a\nfierce brightness as of lightning, as quickly passing away. Yet a third\ntime Hiouen-thsang wept and prayed; and a white glory filled all the\nblack cavern--and brighter than the sun against that glory appeared\nthe figure and face of Buddha, holier of beauty than all conceptions\nof man. So that Hiouen-thsang worshiped with his face to the earth.\nAnd Buddha smiled upon him, making the heart of the pilgrim full of\nsunshine--but the Divine spoke not, inasmuch as he had entered into\nNirvana a thousand years.\n\nAfter this Hiouen-thsang passed sixteen years in the holy places,\ncopying the Law, and seeking the words of Buddha in books that had\nbeen written in languages no longer spoken. Of these he obtained one\nthousand three hundred and thirty-five volumes. Other volumes there\nwere in the Island of Elephants far to the South--in sultry Ceylon; but\nthither it was not permitted him to go.\n\nHe was a youth when he fled from China into the desert; he was a\ngray man when he returned. The Emperor that had forbade his going\nnow welcomed his return, with processions of tremendous splendor, in\nwhich were borne the Golden Dragon and numberless statues in gold.\nBut Hiouen-thsang withdrew from all honors into a monastery in the\nmountains, desiring to spend the rest of his life only in translating\nthe word of Buddha contained in those many hundred books which he had\nfound. And of these before his death he translated seven hundred and\nforty into one thousand three hundred and thirty-five volumes, as the\nbooks of the Chinese are made. Having completed his task, he passed\naway in the midst of great sorrow;--the Empire wept for him--four\nhundred millions mourned for him.\n\n\nDid he see the Shadow of Buddha smile upon him before he passed away,\nas he saw it in the Dragon-Cavern at Purushapura?... It is said that\nfive others with him also beheld that luminous presence in the cave.\nYet we may well believe that he only saw it--faith-created; for Buddha\nhaving passed into Nirvana may be sought only in the hearts of men, and\nseen only by the eyes of faith!\n\nTwelve hundred years ago Hiouen-thsang devoted his life to the pursuit\nof that he believed to be Truth--abandoned all things for what he held\nto be Duty--encountered such hardships as perhaps no other man ever\nencountered in the search for Wisdom. To-day nations that were unborn\nin his years are reaping the fruits of his grand sacrifice of self. His\ntravels have been recently translated into the French tongue; his own\ntranslations are aiding the philologists of the nineteenth century to\nsolve historical and ethnical problems; Max M\u00fcller lectures[35] upon\nhis wonderful mission to India in the seventh century; and stories from\nthe books he brought back from Maghada are in the hands of American\nreaders. Who shall say that there is no goodness without the circle of\nChristianity!--who declare that heroism and unselfishness, and truth,\nand purest faith may not exist save within the small sphere of what\nwe fancy the highest ethical civilization! The pilgrims to the Indian\nPalestine, the martyrs of the Indian Christ, are surely the brethren of\nall whom we honor in the history of self-abnegation and the good fight\nfor truth.\n\n\n\n\nL'AMOUR APR\u00c8S LA MORT[36]\n\n\nNo rest he knew because of her. Even in the night his heart was ever\nstartled from slumber as by the echo of her footfall; and dreams mocked\nhim with tepid fancies of her lips; and when he sought forgetfulness\nin strange kisses her memory ever came shadowing between.... So that,\nweary of his life, he yielded it up at last in the fevered summer of a\ntropical city,--dying with her name upon his lips. And his face was no\nmore seen in the palm-shadowed streets;--but the sun rose and sank even\nas before.\n\n\nAnd that vague Something which lingers a little while within the tomb\nwhere the body moulders, lingered and dreamed within the long dark\nresting-place where they had laid him with the pious hope--Que en paz\ndescanse!\n\nYet so weary of his life had the Wanderer been that the repose of the\ndead was not for him. And while the body shrank and sank into dust,\nthe phantom man found no rest in the darkness, and thought dimly to\nhimself: _\"I am even too weary to find peace!_\"\n\nThere was a thin crevice in the ancient wall of the tomb. And through\nit, and through the meshes of a web that a spider had woven athwart\nit, the dead looked and beheld the amethystine blaze of the summer\nsky--and pliant palms bending in the warm wind--and the opaline glow of\nthe horizon, and fair pools bearing images of cypresses inverted--and\nthe birds that flitted from tomb to tomb and sang--and flowers in the\nshadow of the sepulchres ...And the vast bright world seemed to him not\nso hateful as before.\n\nLikewise the sounds of life assailed the faint senses of the dead\nthrough the thin crevice in the wall of the tomb:--always the far-off,\ndrowsy murmur made by the toiling of the city's heart; sometimes\nsounds of passing converse and of steps--echoes of music and of\nlaughter--chanting and chattering of children at play--and the liquid\nbabble of beautiful brown women.\n\n...So that the dead man dreamed of life and strength and joy, and the\nlitheness of limbs to be loved: also of that which had been, and of\nthat which might have been, and of that which now could never be. And\nhe longed at last to live again--seeing that there was no rest in the\ntomb.\n\nBut the gold-born days died in golden fire; and blue nights unnumbered\nfilled the land with indigo-shadows; and the perfume of the summer\npassed like a breath of incense--and the dead within the sepulchre\ncould not wholly die.\n\nStars in their courses peered down through the crevices of the tomb,\nand twinkled, and passed on; winds of the sea shrieked to him through\nthe widening crannies of the tomb; birds sang above him and flew to\nother lands; the bright lizards that ran noiselessly over his bed of\nstone, as noiselessly departed; the spider at last ceased to repair her\nweb of elfin silk; years came and went with lentor inexpressible; but\nfor the dead there was no rest!\n\nAnd after many tropical moons had waxed and waned, and the summer was\ndeepening in the land, filling the golden air with tender drowsiness\nand passional perfume, it strangely came to pass that _She_, whose\nname had been murmured by his lips when the Shadow of Death fell upon\nhim, came to that city of palms, and even unto the ancient place of\nsepulture, and unto the tomb that was nameless.\n\nAnd he knew the whisper of her raiment--knew the sweetness of her\npresence--and the pallid hearts of the blossoms of a plant whose blind\nroots had found food within the crevice of the tomb, changed and\nflushed, and flamed incarnadine....\n\nBut She--perceiving it not--passed by; and the sound of her footstep\ndied away forever.\n\n\n\n\nTHE POST-OFFICE[37]\n\n\nI\n\nThe little steamer will bear you thither in one summer day--starting\nat early morning, arriving just as the sun begins to rest his red chin\nupon the edge of the west. It is a somewhat wearisome and a wonderfully\ntortuous journey, through that same marshy labyrinth by which the\nslavers in other days used to smuggle their African freight up to\nthe old Creole city from the Gulf.... Leaving the Mississippi by a\nlock-guarded opening in its western levee, the miniature packet first\nenters a long and narrow canal--cutting straight across plantations\nconsiderably below the level of its raised banks--and through this\nartificial waterway she struggles on, panting desperately under the\nscorching heat, until after long hours she almost leaps, with a\ngreat steam-sigh of relief, into the deeper and broader bayou that\nserpentines through the swamp-forest. Then there is at least ample\nshadow; the moss-hung trees fling their silhouettes right across the\nwater and into the woods on the other side, morning and evening.\nGrotesque roots--black, geniculated, gnarly--project from the crumbling\nbanks like bones from an ancient grave;--dead, shrunken limbs and\nfallen trunks lie macerating in the slime. Grim shapes of cypress\nstoop above us, and seem to point the way with anchylosed knobby\nfinger--their squalid tatters of moss grazing our smoke-stack. The\nbanks swarm with crustaceans, gnawing, burrowing, undermining; gray\nsaurians slumber among the gray floating logs at the edge; gorged\ncarrion-birds doze upon the paralytic shoulders of cypresses, about\nwhose roots are coiled more serpents than ever gnawed Yggdrasil.\nThe silence is only broken by the loud breathing of the little\nsteamer;--odors of vegetable death--smells of drowned grasses and\ndecomposing trunks and of eternal mould-formation--make the air weighty\nto breathe; and the green obscurities on either hand deepen behind the\ncrests of the water-oaks and the bright masses of willow frondescense.\nThe parasitic life of the swamp, pendent and enormous, gives the scene\na drenched, half-drowned look, as of a land long-immersed, and pushed\nup again from profundities of stagnant water--and still dripping with\nmoisture and monstrous alg\u00e6....\n\nThe ranks of the water-oaks become less serried--the semi-tropical\nvegetation less puissant--the willows and palmettoes and cypresses\nno longer bar out the horizon-light; and the bayou broadens into a\nshining, green-rimmed sheet of water, over which our little boat puffs\na zigzag course--feeling her way cautiously--to enter a long chain\nof lakelets and lakes, all bayou-linked together. Sparser and lower\nbecomes the foliage-line, lower also the banks; the water-tints\nbrighten bluely; the heavy and almost acrid odors of the swamp pass\naway. So thin the land is that from the little steamer's deck, as from\na great altitude, the eye can range over immense distances. These\nare the skirts of the continent, trending in multitudinous tatters\nsouthward to the sea;--and the practiced gaze of the geologist can\ndiscern the history of prodigious alluvial formation, the slow creation\nof future prairie lands, in those long grassy tongues--those desolate\nislands, shaped like the letters of an Oriental alphabet--those reaches\nof flesh-colored sand, that shift their shape with the years, but never\ncease to grow.\n\nMiles of sluggish, laboring travel--sometimes over shallows of less\nthan half a fathom--through archipelagoes whose islets become more\nand more widely separated as we proceed. Then the water deepens\nsteadily--and the sky also seems to deepen--and there is something in\nthe bright air that makes electrical commotion in the blood and fills\nthe lungs with richer life. Gulls with white breasts and dark, broad\nwings sweep past with sharp, plaintive cries; brown clouds of pelicans\nhover above tiny islands within rifle-shot--alternately rising and\ndescending all together. Through luminous distances the eye can just\ndistinguish masses of foliage, madder-colored by remoteness, that seem\nto float in suspension between the brightness of the horizon and the\nbrightness of water, like shapes of the Fata Morgana. And in those\nfar, dim, island groves prevails, perhaps, the strange belief that\nthe Universe itself is but a mirage; for the gods of the most eastern\nEast have been transported thither, and the incense of Oriental prayer\nmounts thence into the azure of a Christian heaven. Those are Chinese\nfishing-stations--miniature villages of palmetto huts, whose yellow\npopulations still cling to the creed of Fo--unless, indeed, they\nfollow the more practical teachings of the Ancient Infant, born with\nsnow-white hair--the doctrine of the good Thai-chang-lao-kinn, the\nsublime Loo-tseu...\n\n\n\nII\n\nGlassy-smooth the water sleeps along the northern coast of our island\nsummer resort, as the boat slowly skirts the low beach, passing bright\nshallows where seines of stupendous extent are hung upon rows of high\nstakes to dry;--but already the ear is filled with a ponderous and\npowerful sound, rolling up from the south through groves of orange\nand lemon--the sound of that \"great voice that shakes the world.\" For\nless than half a mile away--across the narrow island--immense surges\nare whitening all the long slant of sand.... Divinely caressing the\nfirst far-off tones of that eternal voice to one revisiting ocean\nafter absence of many weary and dusty summers--tones filling the mind\nwith even such vague blending of tenderness and of awe as the pious\ntraveler might feel when, returning after long sojourn in a land of\nstrange, grim gods, whose temple pavements may never be trodden by\nOccidental feet, he hears again the pacific harmonies of some cathedral\norgan, breaking all about him in waves of golden thunder.\n\n...Then with a joyous shock we bump the ancient wooden wharf--where\ngroups of the brown island people are already waiting to scrutinize\neach new face with kindliest curiosity; for the advent of the\nmail-packet is ever a great and gladsome event. Even the dogs bark\nmerry welcome, and run to be caressed. A tramway car receives the\nvisitors--baggage is piled on--the driver clacks his tongue--the mule\nstarts--the dogs rush on in advance to announce our coming.\n\n\n\nIII\n\nIn the autumn of the old feudal years, all this sea-girdled land was\none quivering splendor of sugar-cane, walled in from besieging tides\nwith impregnable miles of levee. But when the great decadence came,\nthe rude sea gathered up its barbarian might, and beat down the strong\ndikes, and made waste the opulent soil, and, in Abimelech-fury, sowed\nthe site of its conquests with salt. Some of the old buildings are\nleft;--the sugar-house has been converted into an ample dining-hall;\nthe former slave-quarters have been remodeled and fitted up for\nguests--a charming village of white cottages, shadowed by aged trees;\nthe sugar-pans have been turned into water-vessels for the live-stock;\nand the old plantation-bell, of honest metal and pure tone, now summons\nthe visitor to each repast.\n\nAnd all this little world, though sown with sand and salt, teems with\nextraordinary exuberance of life. Night and day the foliage of the\nlong groves vibrates to chant of insect and feathered songster; and\nbeyond reckoning are the varieties of nest-builders--among whom very\noften may be perceived rose-colored or flame-colored strangers of the\ntropics--flown hither over the Caribbean Sea. The waters are choked\nwith fish; the horizon ever darkened with flights of birds; the very\nsoil seems to stir, to creep, to breathe. Every little bank, ditch,\ncreek, swarms with \"fiddlers,\" each holding high its single huge white\nclaw in readiness for battle; and the dryer lands are haunted by\nmyriads of ghostly crustacea--phantom crabs--semi-diaphanous creatures\nthat flit over the land with the speed and lightness of tarantulas,\nand are so pale of shell that their moving shadows first betray their\npresence. There are immense choruses of tree-frogs by day, bamboulas\nof water-frogs after sundown. The vast vitality of the ocean seems\nto interpenetrate all that sprouts, breathes, flies. Cattle fatten\nwonderfully upon the tough wire-grass; sheep multiply exceedingly. In\nevery chink something is trying to grow, in every orifice some tiny\nlife seeks to hide itself (even beneath the edge of the table on which\nI wrote some queer little creatures had built three marvelous nests of\ndry mud);--every substance here appears not only to maintain life but\nto create it; and ideas of spontaneous generation present themselves\nwith irresistible force.\n\n\n\nIV\n\n...And children in multitude!--children of many races, and of many\ntints--ranging from ivorine to glossy bronze, through half the shades\nof Broca's pattern-colors;--for there is a strange blending of tribes\nand peoples here. By and by, when the youths and maidens of these\npatriarchal families shall mate, they will build for themselves funny\nlittle timber-homes--like those you see dotting the furzy-green\nplain about the log-dwelling of the oldest settler--even as so many\ndove-cots. Existence here is so facile, happy, primitively simple,\nthat trifles give joy unspeakable;--in that bright air whose purity\ndefies the test of even the terrible solar microscope, neither misery\nnor malady may live. To such contented minds surely the Past must\never appear in a sunset-glow of gold; the Future in eternal dawn of\nrose;--until, perchance, the huge dim city summon some of them to her\ndusty servitude, when the gray elders shall have passed away, and the\nlittle patches of yellow-flowered meadow-land shall have changed hands,\nand the island hath no more place for all its children.... So they\nlive and love, and marry and give in marriage, and build their little\ndove-cots, and pass away forever--either to smoky cities of the South\nand West, or, indeed, to that vaster and more ancient city, whose\nstreets are shadowless and voiceless, and whose gates are guarded by\nGod.\n\nBut the mighty blind sea will ever chant the same mysterious hymn,\nunder the same infinite light of blue, for those who shall come after\nthem....\n\n\n\nV\n\n...No electric nerves have yet penetrated this little world, to connect\nits humble life with the industrial and commercial activities of the\ncontinent: here the feverish speculator feels no security:--it is a fit\nsojourn for those only who wish to forget the harsh realities of city\nexistence, the burning excitement of loss and gain, the stern anxieties\nof duty--who care only to enjoy the rejuvenating sea, to drink the\nelixir of the perfect air, to dream away the long and luminous hours,\nperfumed with sweet, faint odors of summer. The little mail-boat,\nindeed, comes at regular intervals of days, and the majesty of the\nUnited States is represented by a post-office--but the existence of\nthat office could never be divined by the naked eye.\n\nA negro, who seemed to understand Spanish only, responded to my\ninquiries by removing a pipe from his lips, and pointing the cane-stem\nthereof toward a building that made a dark red stain against the green\ndistance--with the words: \"Casa de correo?--si, se\u00f1or! directamente\ndetras del campo, se\u00f1or;--sigue el camino carretero \u00e0 la casa colorada.\"\n\nSo I crossed plains thickly grown with a sturdy green weed bearing\nsmall yellow flowers, and traversed plank-bridges laid over creeks in\nwhich I saw cats fishing and swimming--actually swimming, for even the\nfeline race loses its dread of water here;--and I followed a curving\nroadway half obliterated by wire-grass--until I found myself at last\nwithin a small farmyard, where cords of wood were piled up about an\nantique, gabled, chocolate-colored building that stood in the midst.\nI walked half around it, seeking for the entrance--hearing only the\nsound of children's voices, and a baby's laughter; and finally came in\nfront of an open gallery on the southern side, where a group of Creole\nchildren were--two pretty blond infants, with an elder and darker\nsister. Seated in a rocking-chair, her infant brother sprawling at her\nfeet, she was dancing a baby sister on her knee, chanting the while\nthis extraordinary refrain:\n\n    \"Zanimaux caqu\u00e9ne so mani\u00e9 galoup\u00e9;--bourique--tiquiti,\n    tiquiti, tiquiti; milet--tocoto, tocoto, tocoto;\n    \u00e7ouval--tacata, tacata, tacata.\"\n\n\nAnd with the regular crescendo of the three onomatopes, the baby went\nhigher and higher.... My steps had made no sound upon the soft grass;\nthe singer's back, inundated with chestnut hair, was turned toward\nme; but the baby had observed my approach, and its blue stare of\nwonder caused the girl to look round. At once she laid the child upon\nthe floor, arose, and descended the wooden step to meet me with the\nquestion--\"Want to see papa?\"\n\nShe might perhaps have been twelve, not older--slight, with one of\nthose sensitive, oval faces that reveal a Latin origin, and the\npinkness of rich health bursting through its olive skin;--the eyes that\nquestioned my face were brown and beautiful as a wild deer's.\n\n\"I want to get some stamped envelopes,\" I responded;--\"is this the\npost-office?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir; I can give them to you,\" she answered, turning back toward\nthe gallery steps;--\"come this way!\"\n\nI followed her as far as the doorway of the tiniest room I had ever\nseen--just large enough to contain a safe, an office desk, and a chair.\nIt was cozy, carpeted, and well lighted by a little window fronting the\nsea. I saw a portrait hanging above the desk--a singularly fine gray\nhead, with prophetic features and Mosaic beard--the portrait of the\nisland's patriarch....\n\n\"You see,\" she observed, in response to my amused gaze, while she\ncarefully unlocked the safe--\"when papa and mamma are at work in the\nfield, I have to take charge. Papa tells me what to do.--How many did\nyou say?--four!--that will be ten cents.--Now, if you have a letter to\npost, you can leave it here--if you like.\"\n\nI handed her my letter--a thick one--in a two-cent envelope. She\nweighed it in her slender brown hand;--I suspected the postage was\ninsufficient.\n\n\"It is too heavy,\" she said;--\"you will have to put another stamp on\nit, I think.\"\n\n\"In that case,\" I replied, \"take back one of the stamped envelopes, and\ngive me instead a two-cent stamp for my letter.\"\n\nShe hesitated a moment, with a pretty look of seriousness--and then\nanswered:\n\n\"Why, yes, I could do that; but--but that would n't be doing fair\nby you\"--passing her fine thin fingers through the brown curls in a\npuzzled way;--\"no, that would n't be fair to you.\"\n\n\"Of course it's fair,\" I averred encouragingly--\"we can't bother with\nfractions, and I have no more small change. That is all right.\"\n\n\"No, it is n't all right,\" she returned--making the exchange with some\nreluctance;--\"it isn't right to take more than the worth of our money;\nbut I don't really know how to fix it. I'll ask papa when he comes\nhome, and we'll send you the difference--if there is any.--Oh! yes, I\nwill!--I'll send it to the hotel.--It would n't be right to keep it.\"\n\nAll vain my protests.\n\n\"No, no! I'm sure we owe you something. Valentine! L\u00e9onie!--say\ngood-bye--nicely!\"\n\nSo the golden-haired babies cooed their \"goo'-bye,\" as I turned the\ncorner, and waved them kisses;--and as I reached the wagon-road by the\nopen gate, I heard again the bird-voice of the little post-mistress\nsinging her onomatopoetic baby-song:\n\n    \"Bourique--tiquiti, tiquiti, tiquiti; milet--tocoto, tocoto,\n    tocoto; \u00e7ouval--tacata, tacata, tacata.\"\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\n... O little brown-eyed lamb, the wolfish world waits hungrily to\ndevour such as thou!--O dainty sea-land flower, that pinkness of thine\nwill not fade out more speedily than shall evaporate thy perfume of\nsweet illusions in the stagnant air of cities! Many tears will dim\nthose dark eyes, nevertheless, ere thou shalt learn that wealth--even\nthe wealth of nations--is accumulated, without sense of altruism,\nin eternal violation of those exquisite ethics which seem to thee\nof God's own teaching. When thou shalt have learned this, and other\nand sadder things, perhaps, memory may crown thee with her crown of\nsorrows--may bear thee back, back, in wonderful haze of blue and gold,\nto that island home of thine--even into that tiny office-room, with\nits smiling gray portrait of thy dead father's father. And fancy may\noften re-create for thee the welcome sound of hoofs returning home:\n\"\u00e7ouval--tacata, tacata, tacata.\"...\n\nAnd dreaming of the funny little refrain, the stranger fancied he could\nlook into the future of many years.... And in the public car of a\ncity railroad, he saw a brown-eyed, sweet-faced woman, whom it seemed\nhe had known a child, but now with a child of her own--asleep there in\nher arms--and so pale! It was sundown; and her face was turned to the\nwest, where lingered splendid mockeries of summer seas--golden Pacifics\nspeckled with archipelagoes of rose and fairy-green. But he knew in\nsome mysterious way that she was thinking of seas not of mist,--of\nislands not of cloud, while the heavy vehicle rumbled on its dusty\nway, and the hoofs of the mule seemed to beat time to an old Creole\nrefrain--Milet--tocoto, tocoto, tocoto.\n\n\n[Footnote 1: _Item_, September 14, 1879.]\n\n[Footnote 2: _Item_, September 24, 1879. Hearn's own title.]\n\n[Footnote 3: _Item_, November 1, 1879. Hearn's own title.]\n\n[Footnote 4: _Item_, November 2, 1879. Hearn's own title.]\n\n[Footnote 5: _Item_, December 6, 1879. Hearn's own title.]\n\n[Footnote 6: _Item_, April 17, 1880.]\n\n[Footnote 7: _Item_, April 17, 1880.]\n\n[Footnote 8: _Item_, June 18, 1880.]\n\n[Footnote 9: _Item_, July 31, 1880.]\n\n[Footnote 10: _Item_, July 24, 1880.]\n\n[Footnote 11: _Item_, July 29, 1880.]\n\n[Footnote 12: _Item_, August 13, 1880.]\n\n[Footnote 13: _Item_, September 7, 1880.]\n\n[Footnote 14: _Item_, September 18, 1880.]\n\n[Footnote 15: _Item_, September 25, 1880.]\n\n[Footnote 16: _Item_, October 9, 1880.]\n\n[Footnote 17: _Item_ October 12, 1880.]\n\n[Footnote 18: _Item_, October 15, 1880.]\n\n[Footnote 19: _Item_, October 21, 1880.]\n\n[Footnote 20: _Item_, November 1, 1880. Hearn's own title.]\n\n[Footnote 21: _Item_, January 17, 1881. Hearn's own title.]\n\n[Footnote 22: _Item_ March 21. 1881.]\n\n[Footnote 23: _Item_, April 5, 1881. Hearn's own title.]\n\n[Footnote 24: _Item_, April 21, 1881. Hearn's own title.]\n\n[Footnote 25: _Item_, June 8, 1881. Hearn's own title.]\n\n[Footnote 26: _Item_, June 14, 1881.]\n\n[Footnote 27: _Item_ July 1, 1881. Hearn's own title.]\n\n[Footnote 28: _Item_, July 21, 1881. Hearn's own title.]\n\n[Footnote 29: _Item_, August 18, 1881.]\n\n[Footnote 30: _Item_ October 12, 1881.]\n\n[Footnote 31: _Times-Democrat_, May 2, 1882.]\n\n[Footnote 32: _Times-Democrat_, May 7, 1882.]\n\n[Footnote 33: _Times-Democrat_, May 21, 1882. Hearn's own title.]\n\n[Footnote 34: _Times-Democrat_, June 25, 1882. Hearn's own title.]\n\n[Footnote 35: _Vide Chips from a German Workshop._]\n\n[Footnote 36: _Times-Democrat_, April 6, 1884. Hearn's own title.\nSigned. Almost identical with the _Item_ \"Fantastic\" of October 21,\n1879.]\n\n[Footnote 37: _Times-Democrat_, October 19, 1884. Hearn's own tide.\nSigned.]\n\n\nEND OF VOLUME II","title":"Stray leaves from strange literature; and, Fantastics and other fancies","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":83463}