them as a friend. As he reached the garden they put him to the test. Onsouri began improvising aloud a verse of remarkable beauty. Asdjedi, in his turn, recited another, a continuation of the same theme, not at all inferior to that of Onsouri. But hardly had Farrokhi added a third verse, equal in merit to those of his illustrious friends, when Ferdoussi replies by a stanza so exquisite in thought and language that the poet-trio sat in mute admiration. From this moment they treated him with the most cordial friendship. The incident is trifling, but I have related it because it paints so charmingly what seems to me a virgin society, fresh, naive, not an artificial society, worn out and effete like those of modern Europe or even our own. The Persians are a poetic people, and many a scene of beautiful, patriarchal simplicity might be cited in proof of this assertion. The poet had nobler desires than that each of his stanzas should bring its piece of gold; they were worthy, in his eyes, of something more and nobler-glory. The proposition of the minister was declined, perhaps, with too much spirit, perhaps, irritation, for the minister became the of the poet, taking occasion, whenever possible, to misrepresent him to the king, and accusing him of being infidel to the true faith. enemy There was, without doubt, jealousy in the heart of the minister, for power is always jealous of an intelligence which may rise above it. But whatever was the cause, his efforts were unsuccessful, and the glory of the poet continued to increase, particularly among the masses. They followed with admiration the progress of his labors, and gifts poured in upon him from every quarter. the intimate friend of the king, who every He was poetic effusions of the day. "For when I evening desired to hear from his lips the am oppressed with sorrow or care," Mohammed would say, "the verses of Ferdoussi alone can give me solace." Ferdoussi was presented by his new friends in all honor to the court, where Mohammed soon learned to admire his genius and poetic power. The recital of a poem relating the battles of Rustum and The Chah-Nameh was at last completed. Isfendiar enchanted the monarch to such a The composition of the sixty thousand degree that he immediately conferred upon stanzas cost Ferdoussi a labor of thirty him the honor of completing the Chah-years. The king penetrated with admiraNameh, ordering his minister to pay to the poet a thousand pieces of gold for every thousand stanzas of two lines; at the same time honoring him with the surname of Ferdoussi, because he had shed over his court the delights of paradise. (Ferdous signifying, in Persian, paradise.) Onsouri, whom his sovereign had previously appointed to fulfil the noble task which he now committed to Ferdoussi, submitted without regret to the humiliation, recognizing with a poet's soul the superior ge nius of his successor. tion of this magnificent monument of genius, which, more than all things else, would perpetuate his own name, determined to reward the poet with a magnificence corresponding, in some degree, with that of the work itself. minister not only to fill his mouth with He ordered his the most costly pearls and precious stones, but to present him with gold sufficient in amount to weigh down an elephant. No tale in the more unreal, yet it is nevertheless true. Arabian Night's" seems The minister offered to Ferdoussi the payment for his stanzas as he procceded, but the poet preferred to receive the price of his labor only when it should have been completed, desiring to leave at his disposal a sum of money sufficiently large to bestow a noble and lasting benefit on his native city. To this may without doubt be added a repugnance to be like a common laborer who receives, at stipulated periods, the dollars and cents his labor has earned. dares pay for my verses with silver? Only The hatred of the minister to Ferdoussi, command, and he determined to destroy never appeased, was augmented at this him, to humiliate him, if possible, well knowing that nothing would incense the poet like that. Instead of the marvellous gift ordered by the king, he sent the poet sixty thousand pieces of silver. Ferdoussi was at the moment of its arrival in a public bath. "Silver!" he exclaimed. "Who gold, the color of the sun can remunerate me for them." Irritated by the insult, he gave twenty thousand of the pieces to the bath-keeper, twenty thousand to the vender of refreshments, and twenty thousand to the slave who had brought the unworthy salary. "Tell the king," said he proudly," that Ferdoussi has not labored thirty years to be paid in silver. I despise and reject his gift." The minister had calculated well. The cool man is always sure of getting the advantage when he plays upon a man of strong passions. The minister related to Mohammed the story of the outrages of which Ferdoussi had been guilty, so exaggerating them, that the incensed king commanded that his favorite poet should, on the following morning, be trampled to death under the feet of an elephant, treating him to the last like a great man! Alas for him who must submit to be governed by despots! To-day, for his recompense, gold is cast into one basin of a vast balance, and an elephant in the other; tomorrow he may be condemned to be trampled by the same elephant. Struck with terror at this new royal edict, the unfortunate poet hastened to throw himself at the feet of the king, imploring his mercy and pronouncing a pompous eulogy on the glories of his reign, and the innate goodness and greatness of his heart. Touched by the extreme distress of his favorite, and dazzled anew by the splendor of his genius, the king finally revoked his order. But the humiliation of having praised what he in his heart despised, was too much for the noble heart of Ferdoussi. He felt that he had prostituted his great gifts by so doing, though it was to save his life. He returned home and immediately commenced a keen and bitter satire on Mohammed, painting the hardness of his heart and selfishness of his soul with all the power of great genius. The satire completed, he remitted it to Ayase, one of his friends, charging him to deliver it to Mohammed in twenty days after his departure from Gazna. Ayasé was faithful to his trust, and de livered the poem, but with what result is not known. The poet had fled from the court, passing some time in various cities, and seeking refuge at last in Bagdad, at the court of the Caliph Elhader Billah, with whom he enjoyed the highest favor. He added a thousand stanzas to the Chah-Nameh in praise of the goodness of this prince, who ordered him to be clothed in a magnificent robe, and presented him with sixty thou sand pieces of gold. During his sojourn in this illustrious city, he wrote also a poem entitled Joseph. Mohammed at last learned the perfidy of his minister, and immediately banished him from his presence. He saw at a glance the extent of the injury he had done him in the eyes of posterity, who would load him with eternal contempt for his injustice and ingratitude towards a man who had, by his unequalled genius, elevated his throne so high. He hastened to send to Bagdad a present of sixty thousand pieces of gold, a robe of honor, with a letter containing all the apologies the proud heart of the poet could demand. It was too late. Ferdoussi was no longer in Bagdad. He had not been able to resist the desire to revisit his friends and native land, and breaking his voluntary exile, had returned to the place of his birth; it was a presentiment of an approaching end. One day the illustrious old man was walking in one of the parks of his native city, breathing with delight the air of his childhood, when he heard a young g'lad chanting one of his poems. After so long an exile to return and hear his poetry sung by the children of his early home was too violent a pleasure. He fainted, was carried home to his house, and died in a few hours. The messengers of Mohammed had followed him to Tous, and entered by one city gate with the pompous and sumptuous cortege which bore the presents of the king, just as Ferdoussi was being carried out in his coffin by another. He died at the age of eighty years, without having had the consolation of knowing that his sovereign had, at last, in the fullest manner, recognized and rewarded him with both wealth and glory. A daughter was his sole heir; she accepted the presents of the king only to fulfil the intentions of her father, who had destined the products of his glorious works to found useful establishments in his native city. His wishes were fulfilled, he bequeathed to his country utility and glory. The fate of Ferdoussi and the BastenNameh were similar. The book and the poet were persecuted and banished, and both returned to their country after wandering long in exile; the book returned to be clothed with a robe of honor by the poet; the poet, in his turn, would have received from the monarch a robe of honor, had not death stepped in with his robe of immortality. The story of the poet is told. A few words in relation to the general character of his work. It is prodigious. There are few nations but possess a collection, more or less complete, of their traditions, and the chronicles of their earlier times. The Hebrews have the Bible, the Greeks, their Iliad and their Odyssey, the Scandinavians, their Eddas, the Hindoos, their Mahabharata, the Spaniards, their romances, the Scots and English, their traidtional ballads, the French, their books of chivalry. The immense collections of chronicles and poems just enumerated are the work of various hands; many men and many centuries have contributed to them, but the Chah-Nameh issued in full panoply and splendor from the single brain of Ferdoussi. It is he alone who laid the foundations, hewed all the stones, lanced into the air the graceful columns and bold arches; he alone reared the exquisite temple, like the palace of Aladdin, in a single night, and all the Orient to-day does homage to Ferdoussi and his wonderful poem, which, marching on in the rich, sweet language of Persia, the followers of Mohammed hope to chant hereafter in the beautiful gardens of Paradise. Not in the achievment but in the endurance of the soul, does it show its divine grandeur and its alliance with the infinite God. THE RELIGIOUS FAITH OF THE POETS. Dear Mrs. Sawyer.-Can a true poet be other than a believer in our sublime faith? It seems to me not. Hence we see the sweet singers of all nations hymntention has been called so often to this fact, ing the songs of Universal Salvation. Atthat it is unnecessary for me to cite the oft-repeated instances but I have found one or two little poems recently, in the course of my desultory reading, which prove another very talented writer to belong to us. It is well to claim all that belong to us; therefore thinking, perhaps, some of the readers of the old favorite monthly, of our denomination, may not them to them, with your permission. I have seen them, I would like to present think they appeared first in the Home Journal, and are written by Hattie Tyng, a name new to literature, but called by many second only to Alice Cary among American poetesses. The first is entitled, THE MISSING SHIP. From out a sheltered sunny bay, But somewhere on the foaming deep, And we have spoken many a sail But never sounds the welcome name We cannot know until we gain The italics are my own. poem is called RUINS. Over sea and over desert Wandering many a weary mile By the lordly banks of Ganges, By the softly flowing Nile, Travellers wander, seeking ever Ruins which may tales unfold Of the rude barbaric splendor Of the mystic days of old. The other sired to see, and which, we trust, will yet be performed, the work of presenting, in a compact form, the mass of evidence to prove that the best of modern literary writers-especially the poets of England and America-are Universalist to the core. Not that we, by any means, say that they belong to that communion, or publicly fraternize with the denomination, but that they do, consciously or unconsciously, receive its fundamental doctrines, and most plainly and undisguisedly teach them. And they watch with straining vision, And they know not that around them Have not half the depths of meaning Everywhere throughout the man-world, But when eyes and hearts are heavy It is thus that these sentiments of ours are being preached, perhaps, more effectually than in any other way, by writers in all secular publications, who reach an audience whom we should never be able Who will perform this work for us, and strike the popular communions dumb by its results? That it would do this there is not the slightest doubt, and we owe it to our denomination and to liberal sentiments at large, to shew plainly where the wisest and most intellectual stand on this great and momentous subject of the future destiny of the race. We hope some one competent, and we have several such, will ere long address himself to this work.-ED. ARTHUR HALLAM: A LIFE SKETCH. The deeply loved and lamented friend of Tennyson, was born in London, Feb. 1st, 1811. He was the eldest son of the eminent historian, Henry Hallam. His father was devoted to his son's education, and was proud of his capacity for acquir ing knowledge. Arthur was no less distinguished for quick mental perception, than sweetness of disposition and gentleness of manners. At eight years of age he made a short tour to the Continent. At nine he read Latin and French with ease, and evinced rhymes. At ten he was put under the strong love of poetry, and even made care of a Clergyman at Putney, and continued there two years. took him to the Continent, and together His father again Germany, and Switzerland. On their rethey travelled eight months in France, turn, Arthur went to Eton School, where he remained five years. He was not am to reach by periodicals, or articles published expressly by us as a denomination. Thus is public sentiment being educated by writers whose truth and beauty will in-bitious to attain a high standing in abstract evitably attract public attention. We have discovered one more sister-let us best energies to the study of English liter sciences; he chose rather to devote his welcome her. Yours, fraternally, ature. Shelly and Wordsworth were his favorite authors. G. S. RICHARDS. We are pleased with the foregoing letter, and much obliged to its writer. It is the commencement of a work which we have long de He is described as a sweet-voiced lad, fond of sport, always attracting and entertaining his school fellows with stories and games. At an early age he contributed both prose and poetry to the best Miscellanies of the country. In 1827, he and his father made another visit to the Continent, spending most of their time in Italy. An Abbate, becoming strongly attached to Arthur, devoted himself to the task of aiding him in the study of Italian literature and poetry. He read Dante's "Divina Commedia "" with the deepest interest. He also studied the Schools of Art with equal devotion, and was at home in the Venetian, Tuscan, and Roman Galleries. In 1828, he returned to enter Trinity College, where his name had been entered previous to his last tour. His health, which had been poor, improved at College. He drank as deeply at the fountain of true friendship as of learning. Hallam and Tennyson loved each other devotedly. They agreed to labor in the literary field, and to publish together. Arthur was the personal friend of Coleridge and Wordsworth; his visits to the latter are immortalized in verse. The superior excellence of his character was in his meekness, and Christian devotion. At the close of his College studies he returned to London, to study law in his father's office. Again were father and son brought into near and happy relations with each other. But Arthur did not give up his literary studies. He improved all his leisure hours in his favorite pursuit. He was too soon interrupted by sickness. Besides a fever, he had symptoms of a brain disease. Again his father travelled with him, visiting Germany and other countries, Arthur ROMANCES AND BALLADS. From the German. BY MRS. C. M. SAWYER. The Burial in the Busento. As a wailing dirge-like strain, For their nation's noblest dead. Here for him they seek a grave, That their oath they may redeem, Dig a grave, and then the corse In his mail and on his horse. -AUGUST VON PLATEN. MORNING. BY HELEN M. RICH. still improving every opportunity to add I sit at my window, the river below, to his stores of knowledge. While in Vienna he was seized anew with a fever, which suddenly terminated his life, Sept. 15, 1833. All who knew him, deeply mourned his loss; but none so deeply as his affianced bride, and her brother, Tennyson, and the desolate and broken hearted father. The reader will remember, with profound admiration, that The soft bending sky of a morning in June Above me, and there where the birds carol so, The island with wild flowers thickly is strown. The oak and the maple, the elm and the pine. To the breezes. sway lightly and gently as stray; Through the locks these pale fingers are wont to entwine, Ah? can it be morning when thou art away? THE GOLDEN ORIOLE. sad, sweet monument to his memory-Poised on a leafy branch, glorious with song Tennyson's "In Memoriam,"-and feel, and beauty, as all must, that Carrara never afforded, The Oriole looketh down upon the river; nor Canova chiselled, a marble so beauti. Thus art thou beloved, the bird that maketh ful and so enduring as that poem. music ever, Above the silent river of my life. |