To hem his watery march, and dam his streams,
And split his currents; that for many a league
The shorn and parcel’d Oxus strains along
Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles—
Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had
In his high mountain cradle in Pamere,
A foil’d circuitous wanderer—till at last
The long’d-for dash of waves is heard, and wide
His luminous home of waters opens, bright
And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bathed stars
Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea.204-27
Matthew Arnold was one of England’s purest and greatest men. As scholar, teacher, poet and critic he labored zealously for the betterment of his race and sought to bring them back to a clearer, lovelier spiritual life and to win them from the base and sordid schemes that make only for material success.
He was born in 1822 and was the son of Doctor Thomas Arnold, the great teacher who was so long headmaster of the famous Rugby school, and whose scholarly and Christian influence is so faithfully brought out in Hughes’s ever popular story Tom Brown’s School Days.
Matthew Arnold received his preparatory education in his father’s school at Rugby, and his college training at Oxford. He was always a student and always active in educational work, as an inspector of schools, and for ten years as professor of poetry at Oxford. He twice visited the United States and both times lectured here. His criticisms of America and Americans were severe, for he saw predominant the spirit of money-getting, the thirst for material prosperity and the absence of spiritual interests. In 1888, while at the house of a friend in Liverpool, he died suddenly and peacefully from an attack of heart disease.
Arnold was one of the most exacting and critical of English writers, a man who applied to his own works the same severe standards that he set up for others. As a result his writings have become one of the standards of purity and taste in style.
The story of Sohrab and Rustum pleased him, and he enjoyed writing the poem, as may be seen from a letter to his mother, written in 1853. He says:
“All my spare time has been spent on a poem which I have just finished, and which I think by far the best thing I have yet done, and I think it will be generally liked; though one can never be sure of this. I have had the greatest pleasure in composing it, a rare thing with me, and, as I think, a good test of the pleasure what you write is likely to afford to others. But the story is a very noble and excellent one.”
Two men, both competent to judge, have given at length their opinion of Matthew Arnold’s character. So admirable a man deserves to be known by the young, although most of his writings will be understood and appreciated only by persons of some maturity in years. Mr. John Morley says:
“He was incapable of sacrificing the smallest interest of anybody to his own; he had not a spark of envy or jealousy; he stood well aloof from all the hustlings and jostlings by which selfish men push on; he bore life’s disappointments—and he was disappointed in some reasonable hopes—with good nature and fortitude; he cast no burden upon others, and never shrank from bearing his own share of the daily load to the last ounce of it; he took the deepest, sincerest, and most active interest in the well-being of his country and his countrymen.”
Mr. George E. Woodbury in an essay on Arnold remarks concerning the man as shown in his private letters:
“A nature warm to its own, kindly to all, cheerful, fond of sport and fun, and always fed from pure fountains, and with it a character so founded upon the rock, so humbly serviceable, so continuing in power and grace, must wake in all the responses of happy appreciation and leave the charm of memory.”
173-1 The Oxus, 1300 miles long, is the chief river of Central Asia, and one of the boundaries of Persia.
173-2 Peran-Wisa was the commander of King Afrasiab’s troops, a Turanian chief who ruled over the many wild Tartar tribes whose men composed his army.
173-3 Pamir or Pamere is a high tableland called by the natives “the roof of the world.” In it lies the source of the Oxus. Arnold has named many places for the purpose of giving an air of reality to the poem. It is not necessary to locate them accurately in order to understand the poem, and so the notes will refer to them only as the story is made clearer by the explanation.
174-4 Samarcand is a city of Turkistan, now a center of learning and of commerce.
175-5 Common here means general. The idea is that little fame comes to him who fights in a general combat in which numbers take part. What is the real reason for Sohrab’s desire to fight in single combat? Arnold gives a different reason from that in the Shah Nameh. In the latter case it is that by defeating their champion Sohrab may frighten the Persians into submission.
176-6 Seistan was the province in which Rustum and his father Zal had ruled for many years, subjects of the King of Persia.
176-7 Whether that and Or in beginning the second line below may be understood to read Either because and Or because of.
177-8 Frore means frozen.
177-9 From mares’ milk is made koumiss, a favorite fermented drink of Tartar tribes.
178-10 Fix’d means halted. He caused his army to remain stationary while he rode forward.
178-11 The corn is grain of some kind, not our maize or Indian corn.
181-12 Kai Khosroo was one of the Persian kings who lived in the sixth century B. C., and is now understood to be Cyrus. He was the grandson of Kai Kaoos, in whose reign the Shah Nameh places the episode of Sohrab and Rustum. Here as elsewhere Arnold alters the legend to suit his convenience and to make the poem more effective. For instance, he compresses the combat into a single day, while in the Persian epic, the battle lasts three days. This change gives greater vitality and more rapid action to the poem.
181-13 Zal was born with snowy hair, a most unusual thing among the black-haired Persians. His father was so angered by the appearance of his son that he abandoned the innocent babe in the Elburz mountains, where, however, a great bird or griffin miraculously preserved the infant and in time returned it to its father, who had repented of his hasty action.
183-14 Ruksh, also spelled Raksh.
183-15 Tale means count or reckoning. The diver had gathered all the pearls required from him for the day.
184-16 This description by Arnold scarcely tallies with the idea we have obtained of the powerful Sohrab from reading the accounts taken from the Shah Nameh. Arnold’s is the more poetic idea, and increases the reader’s sympathy for Sohrab.
185-17 Be governed, that is, take my advice.
189-18 It is not natural for father and son to fight thus.
191-19 In the Shah Nameh Rustum overpowers Sohrab and slays him by his superior power and skill. Arnold takes the more poetic view that Sohrab’s arm is powerless when he hears his father’s name.
193-20 Sole means solitary, alone.
193-21 Glass her means reflect her as in a mirror.
195-22 He sees that this young men, as far as age and appearance are concerned, might be a son of his.
196-23 Again Arnold departs from the Persian tale, in which Sohrab wears a bracelet or amulet on his arm. Arnold’s work gives a more certain identification.
196-24 The griffin spoken of in note 13.
200-25 The Persian tradition is that over the spot where Sohrab was buried a huge mound, shaped like the hoof of a horse, was erected.
201-26 It is said that shortly after the death of Sohrab the king himself died while on a visit to a famous spring far in the north, and as the nobles were returning with his corpse all were lost in a great tempest. Unfortunately for Sohrab’s prophecy, Persian traditions do not include Rustum among the lost.
204-27 This beautiful stanza makes a peculiarly artistic termination to the poem. After the storm and stress of the combat and the heart-breaking pathos of Sohrab’s death, the reader willingly rests his thought on the majestic Oxus that still flows on, unchangeable, but ever changing. The suggestion is that after all nature is triumphant, that our pains and losses, our most grievous disappointments and greatest griefs are but incidents in the great drama of life, and that, though like the river Oxus, we for a time become “foiled, circuitous wanderers,” we at last see before us the luminous home, bright and tranquil under the shining stars.
FROM THE FRENCH OF EMILE SOUVESTRE
A young man was walking through a forest, and in spite of the approach of night, in spite of the mist that grew denser every moment, he was walking slowly, paying no heed either to the weather or to the hour.
His dress of green cloth, his buckskin gaiters, and the gun slung across his shoulder might have caused him to be taken for a sportsman, had not the book that half protruded from his game-bag betrayed the dreamer, and proved that Arnold de Munster was less occupied with observing the track of wild game than in communing with himself.
For some moments his mind had been filled with thoughts of his family and of the friends he had left in Paris. He remembered the studio that he had adorned with fantastic engravings, strange paintings, curious statuettes; the German songs that his sister had sung, the melancholy verses that he had repeated in the subdued light of the evening lamps, and the long talks in which every one confessed his inmost feelings, in which all the mysteries of thought were discussed and translated into impassioned or graceful words! Why had he abandoned these choice pleasures to bury himself in the country?
He was aroused at last from his meditations by the consciousness that the mist had changed into rain and was beginning to penetrate his shooting-coat. He was about to quicken his steps, but in looking around him he saw that he had lost his way, and he tried vainly to determine the direction he must take. A first attempt only succeeded in bewildering him still more. The daylight faded, the rain fell more heavily, and he continued to plunge at random into unknown paths.
He had begun to be discouraged, when the sound of bells reached him through the leafless trees. A cart driven by a big man in a blouse had appeared at an intersecting road and was coming toward the one that Arnold had just reached.
Arnold stopped to wait for the man and asked him if he were far from Sersberg.
“Sersberg!” repeated the carter; “you don’t expect to sleep there to-night?”
“Pardon me, but I do,” answered the young man.
“At Sersberg?” went on his interlocutor; “you’ll have to go by train, then! It is six good leagues from here to the gate; and considering the weather and the roads, they are equal to twelve.”
The young man uttered an exclamation. He had left the château that morning and did not think that he had wandered so far; but he had been on the wrong path for hours, and in thinking to take the road to Sersberg he had continued to turn his back upon it. It was too late to make good such an error; so he was forced to accept the shelter offered by his new companion, whose farm was fortunately within gunshot.
He accordingly regulated his pace to the carter’s and attempted to enter into conversation with him; but Moser was not a talkative man and was apparently a complete stranger to the young man’s usual sensations. When, on issuing from the forest, Arnold pointed to the magnificent horizon purpled by the last rays of the setting sun, the farmer contented himself with a grimace.
“Bad weather for to-morrow,” he muttered, drawing his cloak about his shoulders.
“One ought to be able to see the entire valley from here,” went on Arnold, striving to pierce the gloom that already clothed the foot of the mountain.
“Yes, yes,” said Moser, shaking his head; “the ridge is high enough for that. There’s an invention for you that isn’t good for much.”
“What invention?”
“The mountains.”
“You would rather have everything level?”
“What a question!” cried the farmer, laughing. “You might as well ask me if I would not rather ruin my horses.”
“True,” said Arnold in a tone of somewhat contemptuous irony. “I had forgotten the horses! It is clear that God should have thought principally of them when he created the world.”
“I don’t know as to God,” answered Moser quietly, “but the engineers certainly made a mistake in forgetting them when they made the roads. The horse is the laborer’s best friend, monsieur—without disrespect to the oxen, which have their value too.”
Arnold looked at the peasant. “So you see in your surroundings only the advantages you can derive from them?” he asked gravely. “The forest, the mountains, the clouds, all say nothing to you? You have never paused before the setting sun or at the sight of the woods lighted by the stars?”
“I?” cried the farmer. “Do you take me for a maker of almanacs? What should I get out of your starlight and the setting sun? The main thing is to earn enough for three meals a day and to keep one’s stomach warm. Would monsieur like a drink of cognac? It comes from the other side of the Rhine.”
He held out a little wicker-covered bottle to Arnold, who refused by a gesture. The positive coarseness of the peasant had rekindled his regret and his contempt. Were they really men such as he was, these unfortunates, doomed to unceasing labor, who lived in the bosom of nature without heeding it and whose souls never rose above the most material sensations? Was there one point of resemblance which could attest their original brotherhood to such as he? Arnold doubted this more and more each moment.
These thoughts had the effect of communicating to his manner a sort of contemptuous indifference toward his conductor, to whom he ceased to talk. Moser showed neither surprise nor pain and set to whistling an air, interrupted from time to time by some brief word of encouragement to his horses.
Thus they arrived at the farm, where the noise of the bells announced their coming. A young boy and a woman of middle age appeared on the threshold.
“Ah, it is the father!” cried the woman, looking back into the house, where could be heard the voices of several children, who came running to the door with shouts of joy and pressed around the peasant.
“Wait a moment, youngsters,” interrupted the father in his big voice as he rummaged in the cart and brought forth a covered basket. “Let Fritz unharness.”
But the children continued to besiege the farmer, all talking at once. He bent to kiss them, one after another; then rising suddenly:
“Where is Jean?” he asked with a quickness that had something of uneasiness in it.
“Here, father, here,” answered a shrill little voice from the farm-house door; “mother doesn’t want me to go out in the rain.”
“Stay where you are,” said Moser, throwing the traces on the backs of the horses; “I will go to you, little son. Go in, the rest of you, so as not to tempt him to come out.”
The three children went back to the doorway, where little Jean was standing beside his mother, who was protecting him from the weather.
He was a poor little creature, so cruelly deformed that at the first glance one could not have told his age or the nature of his infirmity. His whole body, distorted by sickness, formed a curved, not to say a broken line. His disproportionately large head was sunken between two unequally rounded shoulders, while his body was sustained by two little crutches; these took the place of the shrunken legs, which could not support him.
At the farmer’s approach he held out his thin arms with an expression of love that made Moser’s furrowed face brighten. The father lifted him in his strong arms with an exclamation of tender delight.
“Come!” he cried, “hug your father—with both arms—hard! How has he been since yesterday?”
The mother shook her head.
“Always the cough,” she answered in a low tone.
“It’s nothing, father,” the child answered in his shrill voice. “Louis had drawn me too fast in my wheeled chair; but I am well, very well; I feel as strong as a man.”
The peasant placed him carefully on the ground, set him upon his little crutches, which had fallen, and looked at him with an air of satisfaction.
“Don’t you think he’s growing, wife?” he asked in the tone of a man who wishes to be encouraged. “Walk a bit, Jean; walk, boy! He walks more quickly and more strongly. It’ll all come right, wife; we must only be patient.”
The farmer’s wife made no reply, but her eyes turned toward the feeble child with a look of despair so deep that Arnold trembled; fortunately Moser paid no heed.
“Come, the whole brood of you,” he went on, opening the basket he had taken from the cart; “here is something for every one! In line and hold out your hands.”
The peasant had displayed three small white rolls glazed in the baking; three cries of joy burst forth simultaneously and six hands advanced to seize the rolls, but they all paused at the word of command.
“And Jean?” asked the childish voices.
“To the devil with Jean,” answered Moser gayly; “there is nothing for him to-night. Jean shall have his share another time.”
But the child smiled and tried to get up to look into the basket. The farmer stepped back a pace, took off the cover carefully, and lifting his arm with an air of solemnity, displayed before the eyes of all a cake of gingerbread garnished with almonds and pink and white sugar-plums.
There was a general shout of admiration. Jean himself could not restrain a cry of delight; a slight flush rose to his pale face and he held out his hands with an air of joyful expectancy.
“Ah, you like it, little mole!” cried the peasant, whose face was radiant at the sight of the child’s pleasure; “take it, old man, take it; it is nothing but sugar and honey.”
He placed the gingerbread in the hands of the little hunchback, who trembled with happiness, watched him hobble off, and turning to Arnold when the sound of the crutches was lost in the house, said with a slight break in his voice:
“He is my eldest. Sickness has deformed him a little, but he’s a shrewd fellow and it only depends upon us to make a gentleman of him.”
While speaking he had crossed the first room on the ground-floor and led his guest into a species of dining-room, the whitewashed walls of which were decorated only with a few rudely colored prints. As he entered, Arnold saw Jean seated on the floor and surrounded by his brothers, among whom he was dividing the cake given him by his father. But each one objected to the size of his portion and wished to lessen it; it required all the little hunchback’s eloquence to make them accept what he had given them. For some time the young sportsman watched this dispute with singular interest, and when the children had gone out again he expressed his admiration to the farmer’s wife.
“It is quite true,” she said with a smile and a sigh, “that there are times when it seems as though it were a good thing for them to see Jean’s infirmity. It is hard for them to give up to each other, but not one of them can refuse Jean anything; it is a constant exercise in kindness and devotion.”
“Great virtue, that!” interrupted Moser. “Who could refuse anything to such a poor, afflicted little innocent? It’s a silly thing for a man to say; but, look you, monsieur, that child there always makes me want to cry. Often when I am at work in the fields, I begin all at once to think about him. I say to myself Jean is ill! or Jean is dead! and then I have to find some excuse for coming home to see how it is. Then he is so weak and so ailing! If we did not love him more than the others, he would be too unhappy.”
“Yes,” said the mother gently, “the poor child is our cross and our joy at the same time. I love all my children, monsieur, but whenever I hear the sound of Jean’s crutches on the floor, I always feel a rush of happiness. It is a sign that the good God has not yet taken our darling away from us. It seems to me as though Jean brought happiness to the house just like swallows’ nests fastened to the windows. If I hadn’t him to take care of, I should think there was nothing for me to do.”
Arnold listened to these naive expressions of tenderness with an interest that was mingled with astonishment. The farmer’s wife called a servant to help set the table; and at Moser’s invitation, the young man approached the brushwood fire which had been rekindled.
As he was leaning against the smoky mantelpiece, his eye fell upon a small black frame that inclosed a withered leaf. Moser noticed it.
“Ah! you are looking at my relic. It’s a leaf of the weeping-willow that grows down there on the tomb of Napoleon! I got it from a Strasbourg merchant who had served in the Old Guard. I wouldn’t part with it for a hundred crowns.”
“Then there is some particular sentiment attached to it?”
“Sentiment, no,” answered the peasant; “but I too was discharged from the Fourth Regiment of Hussars, a brave regiment, monsieur. There were only eight men left of our squadron, so when the Little Corporal passed in front of the line he saluted us—yes, monsieur, raised his hat to us! That was something to make us ready to die to the last man, look you. Ah! he was the father of the soldier!”
Here the peasant began to fill his pipe, looking the while at the black frame and the withered leaf. In this reminder of a marvelous destiny there was evidently for him a whole romance of youth, emotion, and regret. He recalled the last struggles of the Empire, in which he had taken part, the reviews held by the emperor, when his mere presence aroused confidence in victory; the passing successes of France’s famous campaign, so soon expiated by the disaster at Waterloo; the departure of the vanquished general and his long agony on the rock of Saint Helena.
Arnold respected the old soldier’s silent preoccupation and waited until he should resume the conversation.
The arrival of supper roused him from his reverie; he drew up a chair for his guest and took his place at the opposite side of the table.
“Come! fall to on the soup,” he cried brusquely. “I have had nothing since morning but two swallows of cognac. I should eat an ox whole to-night.”
To prove his words, he began to empty the huge porringer of soup before him.
For several moments nothing was heard but the clatter of spoons followed by that of the knives cutting up the side of bacon served by the farmer’s wife. His walk and the fresh air had given Arnold himself an appetite that made him forget his Parisian daintiness. The supper grew gayer and gayer, when all at once the peasant raised his head.
“And Farraut?” he asked. “I have not seen him since my return.”
His wife and the children looked at each other without answering.
“Well, what is it?” went on Moser, who saw their embarrassment. “Where is the dog? What has happened to him? Why don’t you answer, Dorothée?”
“Don’t be angry, father,” interrupted Jean; “we didn’t dare tell you, but Farraut went away and has not come back.”
“A thousand devils! You should have told me!” cried the peasant, striking the table with his fist. “What road did he take?”
“The road to Garennes.”
“When was it?”
“After dinner: we saw him go up the little path.”
“Something must have happened to him,” said Moser, getting up. “The poor animal is almost blind and there are sand pits all along the road! Go fetch my sheepskin and the lantern, wife. I must find Farraut, dead or alive.”
Dorothée went out without making any remark either about the hour or the weather, and soon reappeared with what her husband had asked for.
“You must think a great deal of this dog,” said Arnold, surprised at such zeal.
“It is not I,” answered Moser, lighting his pipe; “but he did good service to Dorothée’s father. One day when the old man was on his way home from market with the price of his oxen in his pocket, four men tried to murder him for his money, and they would have done it if it had not been for Farraut; so when the good man died two years ago, he called me to his bedside and asked me to care for the dog as for one of his children—those were his words. I promised, and it would be a crime not to keep one’s promise to the dead. Fritz, give me my iron-shod stick. I wouldn’t have anything happen to Farraut for a pint of my blood. The animal has been in the family for twenty years—he knows us all by our voices—and he recalls the grandfather. I shall see you again, monsieur, and good-night until to-morrow.”
Moser wrapped himself in his sheepskin and went out. They could hear the sound of his iron-shod stick die away in the soughing of the wind and the falling of the rain.
After awhile the farmer’s wife offered to conduct Arnold to his quarters for the night, but Arnold asked permission to await the return of the master of the house, if his return were not delayed too long. His interest in the man who had at first seemed to him so vulgar, and in the humble family whose existence he had thought to be so valueless, continued to increase.
The vigil was prolonged, however, and Moser did not return. The children had fallen asleep one after another, and even Jean, who had held out the longest, had to seek his bed at last. Dorothée, uneasy, went incessantly from the fireside to the door and from the door to the fireside. Arnold strove to reassure her, but her mind was excited by suspense. She accused Moser of never thinking of his health or of his safety; of always being ready to sacrifice himself for others; of being unable to see a human being or an animal suffer without risking all to relieve it. As she went on with her complaint, which sounded strangely like a glorification, her fears grew more vivid; she had a thousand gloomy forebodings. The dog had howled all through the previous night; an owl had perched upon the roof of the house; it was a Wednesday, always an unfortunate day in the family. Her fears reached such a pitch at last that the young man volunteered to go in search of her husband, and she was about to awaken Fritz to accompany him, when the sound of footsteps was heard outside.
“It is Moser!” said the woman, stopping short.
“Oho, there, open quickly, wife,” cried the farmer from without.
She ran to draw the bolt, and Moser appeared, carrying in his arms the old blind dog.
“Here he is,” he said gayly. “God help me! I thought I should never find him: the poor brute had rolled to the bottom of the big stone quarry.”
“And you went there to get him?” asked Dorothée, horror-stricken.
“Should I have left him at the bottom to find him drowned to-morrow?” asked the old soldier. “I slid down the length of the big mountain and I carried him up in my arms like a child: the lantern was left behind, though.”
“But you risked your life, you foolhardy man!” cried Dorothée, who was shuddering at her husband’s explanation.
The latter shrugged his shoulders.
“Ah, bah!” he said with careless gayety; “who risks nothing has nothing; I have found Farraut—that’s the principal thing. If the grandfather sees us from up there, he ought to be satisfied.”
This reflection, made in an almost indifferent tone, touched Arnold, who held out his hand impetuously to the peasant.
“What you have done was prompted by a good heart,” he said with feeling.
“What? Because I have kept a dog from drowning?” answered Moser. “Dogs and men—thank God I have helped more than one out of a hole since I was born; but I have sometimes had better weather than to-night to do it in. Say, wife, there must be a glass of cognac left; bring the bottle here; there is nothing that dries you better when you’re wet.”
Dorothée brought the bottle to the farmer, who drank to his guest’s health, and then each sought his bed.
The next morning the weather was fine again; the sky was clear, and the birds, shaking their feathers, sang on the still dripping trees.
When he descended from the garret, where a bed had been prepared for him, Arnold found near the door Farraut, who was warming himself in the sun, while little Jean, seated on his crutches, was making him a collar of eglantine berries. A little further on, in the first room, the farmer was clinking glasses with a beggar who had come to collect his weekly tithe; Dorothée was holding his wallet, which she was filling.
“Come, old Henri, one more draught,” said the peasant, refilling the beggar’s glass; “if you mean to finish your round you must take courage.”
“That one always finds here,” said the beggar with a smile; “there are not many houses in the parish where they give more, but there is not one where they give with such good will.”
“Be quiet, will you, Père Henri?” interrupted Moser; “do people talk of such things? Drink and let the good God judge each man’s actions. You, too, have served; we are old comrades.”
The old man contented himself with a shake of the head and touched his glass to the farmer’s; but one could see that he was more moved by the heartiness that accompanied the alms than the alms itself.
When he had taken up his wallet again and bade them good-by, Moser watched him go until he had disappeared around a bend in the road. Then drawing a breath, he said, turning to his guest:
“One more poor old man without a home. You may believe me or not, monsieur, but when I see men with shaking heads going about like that, begging their bread from door to door, it turns my blood. I should like to set the table for them all and touch glasses with them all as I did just now with Père Henri. To keep your heart from breaking at such a sight, you must believe that there is a world up there where those who have not been summoned to the ordinary here will receive double rations and double pay.”
“You must hold to that belief,” said Arnold; “it will support and console you. It will be long before I shall forget the hours I have passed in your house, and I trust they will not be the last.”
“Whenever you choose,” said the old soldier; “if you don’t find the bed up there too hard and if you can digest our bacon, come at your pleasure, and we shall always be under obligations to you.”
He shook the hand that the young man had extended, pointed out the way that he must take, and did not leave the threshold until he had seen his guest disappear in the turn of the road.
For some time Arnold walked with lowered head, but upon reaching the summit of the hill he turned to take a last backward look, and seeing the farm-house chimney, above which curled a light wreath of smoke, he felt a tear of tenderness rise to his eye.
“May God always protect those who live under that roof!” he murmured; “for where pride made me see creatures incapable of understanding the finer qualities of the soul, I have found models for myself. I judged the depths by the surface and thought poetry absent because, instead of showing itself without, it hid itself in the heart of the things themselves; ignorant observer that I was, I pushed aside with my foot what I thought were pebbles, not guessing that in these rude stones were hidden diamonds.”
About a hundred years ago, a young man, little more than a boy, was drawing large audiences to the theaters of our eastern cities. New York received him with enthusiasm, cultured Boston was charmed by his person and his graceful bearing, while warm-hearted Baltimore fairly outdid herself in hospitality. Until this time five hundred dollars was a large sum for a theater to yield in a single night in Baltimore, but people paid high premiums to hear the boy actor, and a one-evening audience brought in more than a thousand dollars.
About the same time in England another boy actor, Master Betty, was creating great excitement, and him they called the Young Roscius, a name that was quickly caught up by the admirers of the Yankee youth, who then became known as the Young American Roscius.
He was a wonderful boy in every way, was John Howard Payne. One of a large family of children, several of whom were remarkably bright, he had from his parents the most careful training, though they were not able always to give him the advantages they wished. John was born in New York City, but early moved with his parents to East Hampton, the most eastern town on the jutting southern point of Long Island. Here in the charming little village he passed his childhood, a leader among his playmates, and a favorite among his elders. His slight form, rounded face, beautiful features and graceful bearing combined to attract also the marked attention of every stranger who met him.
At thirteen years of age he was at work in New York, and soon was discovered to be the editor in secret of a paper called The Thespian Mirror. The merit of this juvenile sheet attracted the attention of many people, and among them of Mr. Seaman, a wealthy New Yorker who offered the talented boy an opportunity to go to college free of expense. Young Payne gladly accepted the invitation, and proceeded to Union College, where he soon became one of the most popular boys in the school. His handsome face, graceful manners and elegant delivery were met with applause whenever he spoke in public, and a natural taste led him to seek every chance for declamation and acting. Even as a child he had showed his dramatic ability, and more than once he was urged to go upon the stage. But his father refused all offers and kept the boy steadily at his work.
When he was seventeen, however, two events occurred which changed all his plans. First his mother died, and then his father failed in business, and the young man saw that he must himself take up the burdens of the family. Accordingly he left college before graduation and began his career as an actor.
His success was immediate and unusual, if we may judge from the words of contemporary critics. His first appearance in Boston was on February 24, 1809, as Douglas in Young Norval. In this play occurs the speech that countless American boys have declaimed, “On the Grampian Hills my father feeds his flocks.” Of Payne’s rendition a critic says, “He had all the skill of a finished artist combined with the freshness and simplicity of youth. Great praise, but there are few actors who can claim any competition with him.” Six weeks later he was playing Hamlet there, and his elocution is spoken of as remarkable for its purity, his action as suited to the passion he represented, and his performance as an exquisite one that delighted his brilliant audience.
“Upon the stage, a glowing boy appeared
Whom heavenly smiles and grateful thunders cheered;
Then through the throng delighted murmurs ran.
The boy enacts more wonders than a man.”
Another, writing about this time, says, “Young Payne was a perfect Cupid in his beauty, and his sweet voice, self-possessed yet modest manners, wit, vivacity and premature wisdom, made him a most engaging prodigy.”
And again, “A more engaging youth could not be imagined; he won all hearts by the beauty of his person and his captivating address, the premature richness of his mind and his chaste and flowing utterance.”
His great successes here led him to go to England, where his popularity was not nearly so great, and where the critics pounced upon him unmercifully, hurting his feelings beyond repair. Still he succeeded moderately both in England and on the Continent, until he turned his attention to writing rather than to acting. Brutus, a tragedy, is the only one of the sixty works which he wrote, translated or adapted, that ever is played nowadays. In Clari, the Maid of Milan, one of his operas, however, appeared a little song that has made the name of John Howard Payne eternally famous throughout the world.
Home, Sweet Home had originally four stanzas, but by common consent the third and fourth have been dropped because of their inferiority. The two remaining ones are sung everywhere with heartfelt appreciation, and the air, whatever its origin, has now association only with the words of the old home song. Miss Ellen Tree, who sang it in the opera, charmed her audience instantly, and in the end won her husband through its melody.
In 1823, 100,000 copies were sold, and the publishers made 2,000 guineas from it in two years. In fact, it enriched everybody who had anything to do with it, except Payne, who sold it originally for £30.
Perhaps the most noteworthy incident connected with the public rendition of Home, Sweet Home occurred in Washington at one of the theaters where Jenny Lind was singing before an audience composed of the first people of our land. In one of the boxes sat the author, then on a visit to this country, and a favorite everywhere. The prima donna sang her greatest classical music and moved her audience to the wildest applause. Then in response to the renewed calls she stepped to the front of the stage, turned her face to the box where the poet sat, and in a voice of marvelous pathos and power sang:
“Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home!
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek through the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere.
Home, Home! Sweet, sweet Home!
There’s no place like Home!
There’s no place like Home!