AP - NEW SERIES. {[SEPTEMBER, 1877.) Vou. Ill. No. 9.

c ~~

I, pTHE WESTERN:

A JOURNAL OF

LITERATURE, EDUCATION. AND ART.

H. H. MORGAN, EpirTor.

CONTENTS.

Beggars and Beggary—Joun C. LEARNED........+.......-000++-51] Makaria—a Play in Five Aets—S. STERNE...........000+0..000200e021 Ascetism—Translation by A. E. KROEGER.............--cee+++++.528

“

Shakespeare’s Historical Plays—D. J. Sniper

John Stuart Mill—ELLEN M. MITCHELL..........ccccccececcccecest 9D

BOOT RO VIO Wii occ cece cescsecccdescsqueccescsscsénccasneccenesccsesoscoessce ie

Noticeable Articles in Magazines and Reviews..............+++.0572 0

SAINT LOUIS, MO.

Published by Western Publishing Association, Z. @. WILLSON, PRESIDENT

oO

: BOOK AND NEWS COMPANY. sT. Lours, | GRAY, BAKER & CO.

NEW YORK, IVISON, BLAKEMAN, TAYLOR & CO. CHICAGO, IVISON, BLAKEMAN, TAYLOR & CO.

Terms: $2.00 ver annum, invariably in advance, Single Copies, 20 cts,

Prospectus of “The Western.”

The Western Publishing Association having purchased the right fo publish ** THE WEST- ERN ,”’ hope to conduct the magazine in consonance with the best literary effort of the past. Vol. I., No. 1, New Series, was issued January 1, 1875. The subscription price will be $2.00 per annum, payable invariably in advance; single copies can be obtained of news dealers, or of the publishers, at 20 cents each. Clubs of five, or more, supplied at the yearly rate of $1.50 per volume. All books for review, all applications for subscription or advertisement, al! letters of inquiry, and al! articles for insertion, should be addressed to the Editor of ‘‘ THE WESTERN,” P.O. Box 2422, St. Louis, Mo. Manuscript will not be returned unless accompanied by a request to that effect and sufficient postage to cover expenses; no notice will be taken of letters not pertaining to the business of ** THE WESTERN,” unless return postage is enclosed. THK WESTERN will aim to represent the various intellectual interests of St. Louis, »nd in addition, to present in the form of original matter, or threugh its editoria! department, the best results in all fields of intellectual effort. The co-operation of students is invited as ‘‘ THK WESTERN ” is substantially an organ for the expression of views too special to find an audience through the other magazines of the country. H. H. MORGAN, Editor and Publisher.

B. V. B. DIXON, w.J.8. BRYAN, GEO. B. MAC LELLAN, > Assistant Editors. .. J. BLOCK, H. W. JAMESON. | F. 1. DARCY, j

Any of these gentlemen, together with Z. G. Willson, President, and W. H. Kosenstengel, Vice President, are authorized to receive subscriptions; but «ll receipts must be signed by W. J.8. Bryan, Treasurer. Authorized Agents wil! be furnished by the Editor, with credentials.

TO SUBSCRIBERS.

All diligence is used in seeing that each month’s issue is mailed to the proper address. Any failure to receive THE WESTERN will be inquired into if notice be sent to Editor of THE WESTERN, P. 0. Box 2422. If the Journal shall have been properly mailed, we shall not ex- pect to be responsible for any irregularities of the mails. THE WESTERN is furnished at rates that preclude pecuniary profit, and subscribers receive their numers at about cost price. Sample copies will be sent on/y upon remitrance of the price for a single copy (twenty cents. Back numbers will be supplied at the same rates until the close of the volume, after which the price will be raised one-third.

£O ADVERTISERS.

THE WESTERN already has subscribers in twenty States, and reaches the principal! points throughout the country ; it therefore offers peculiar advantages for certain classes of advertise- ments. The attention of Schools, Universities, First-Class Publishing Houses, is specially in vited to this notice. All advertisements intended to reach the more cultivated portion of the community, as well as such as are addressed to travelers, will find a suitable andience, as the cireulation of THE WESTERN is confined to no section, and everywhere the Jour- ual finds its audience among those most likely to read advertisements which form part of the maga tine that is read. Our rates of adverti*ing are as low as those offered by any reputable journal, and we engage to see any obligations on our part properiy discharged.

The Western.

-@-

SEPTEMBER, 1877.

BEGGARS AND BEGGARY.*

( ve ELIA, the mother of the Gracchi, when visited by a lady of rank from a neighboring province, was asked

to show her ornaments. Delaying her vain guest with con- versation, until her boys Tiberius and Caius came home from school, she drew them to her side, saying, “‘ These are my jew- els.” With no less pride did St. Lawrence, witnessing the poor and needy who crowded about the Christian shrines

asking alms, say in the name of the church, ‘ These are our treasures.”

“ Poverty is my wife,” said St. Francis of Assissi : and there has been no blessing or promotion or honor in this life or in the life to come, which religion in the past has not given to this condition.

Montaigne, in his “ Journey into Italy,” speaks of the lordly style in which the beggars bear themselves; of the per- emptory and dictatorial tone in which they solicit alms. Lowell called beggary the fourth of the liberal professions in

* An Address delivered before the University Club, March 20th, and at the first publie meeting of the St. Louis Social Science Association, May 25th, 1877.

Vol 3—No. 9—33

512 The Western.

selves as especially worthy of the protection of the govern- ment; they feel wronged if any foreign competition is per- mitted. They regard maims and deformities as excellent stock in trade. “A withered arm they present to you asa highwayman would his pistol; a goitre is a life-annuity; a St. Vitus’ Dance is as good as an engagement as prima baller- ina at the Apollo; and -to have no legs at all is to stand on the best footing with fortune.” Of course the traveler gets their blessings and prayers for his dole. But they have their terms. A lady once gave the regular fee to an old woman : it was regarded too little for a foreigner to bestow. The re- sentment was not less real for being delicately expressed : “ Thanks signorina. God will reward even you!”

But perhaps it is in Spain that the beggar exists in his greatest glory. Poverty is the rule in this land of the sun. More than half the population are indigent. Yet only here is social or “ Christian” equality realized. Here the beggar is no outcast, or at enmity with society. He is regarded as a perfectly legitimate or even essential product,—honored by the Church, protected by the State, and every where hospit- ably treated and fed. A sentiment of poetry surrounds his life. He is the only really free and independent citizen. With- out cost and without concern he mingles in the throng that presses to participate in the most imposing religious rites ; he lingers in the midst of costly art and magnificence; he eats from the tables of the wealthy. No false modesty pre- vents him from asking alms; no sbame hinders him from ac- cepting it. Broken bread he will not touch: he asks and re- ceives with dignity.

To be sure, in the end, he dies on the ground, to be thrown for burial into a common ditch. But what of that? He has had, quite likely, a long life of freedom from care, and liberty

of spirit. In that beautiful climate he has had a really poet-

Beggars and Beggary 513

ic existence. He has had leisure to enjoy nature and art. He has at least dreamed of national grandeur, of personal riches and power, of loves and pleasures, of ruling the earth, of inheriting heaven.

And the time was when even the English beggar had only friends and defenders. Of how many an ancient legend or ballad is he the hero! Hale and hearty, or sick and needy, blind or lame, with wallet and staff, with dog and crutch, he was an essential figure in every landscape ; he was one of the sights or “lions” of the metropolis. The “ Board of For- eign Missions was not then established ; but not less consci- entiously were children taught to measure their own good- ness by the pennies saved—for the beggars by the wayside or at the door.

Charles Lamb, in his plea for beggars, calls him “ the only free man in the universe.” He alone is not compelled to fol- low the fashion. No one asks him to sign a note or lend money. No one troubles him about his religion or his poli- tics. And the crusade then beginning against the mendicant fraternity, our genial writer designates as the “ eleventh per- secution.” “Reader” he says, “do not be frightened at the hard words, imposition, imposture—give, and ask no questions. Cast thy bread upon the waters. Some have unawares... . entertained angels. Shut not thy purse-strings always against painted distress. Act a charity sometimes. When a poor creature (outwardly and visibly such) comes before thee, do not stay to inquire whether the ‘seven small children’ in whose name he implores thy assistance, have a veritable ex- istence. Rake not into the bowels of unwelcome truth to save @ half-penny. If he be not all that he pretendeth, give, and under a personate father of a family, think (if thou pleasest) that thou hast relieved an indigent bachelor. When they come with their counterfeit looks and mumping tones, think

514 The Western.

them players. You pay your money to see a comedian feigm

these things, which, concerning these poor people, thou canst not certainly tell whether they are feigned or not.”

So far for one side of the picture: there is another which gives no trace of romance. It affords no subject for poetry or for jest. The times have changed. The new age asks troublesome questions. Mendicancy learned its trade but too well. Everywhere successful it created organizations to en- large and perpetuate its success. Thousands who might have been self-supporting chose its sweet do-nothing life. Em- ployers were exacting; work drudgery; all trades except beggary precarious. At length as beggars multiplied, givers seemed to diminish. A coldness sprang up. Suspicion was frequent. The morality of the whole matter of almsgiving was finally brought to account: but not until eleemosynary endowments and charitable institutions had apparently made poverty the eternal heritage of civilization.

Look at London to-day. To say nothing of private alms- giving, which is past our power to compute, its organized charities, in which I include the poor-rates, the income of endowments, and the usnal expenditure of permanent associ- ations, amount annually to from 35 to 50 millions of dollars. Put the population of London at four millions. It is estim- ated that one person in every eight of this vast multitude is regularly assisted. But this even allows to every man, wom- an and child of the 500,000 poor, from seventy to one hun- dred dollars per annum, or to every family of five members, from three hundred and fifty to tive hundred dollars.

It has been said, with great appearance of truth, that the generosity of the English people is unequalled. And if that generosity, which consists in the expenditure of enormous sums for poverty and destitution deserves reward, they should be richly recompensed either here or hereafter. The Divine

~<a

Beggars and Beggary. 515

Intention would be a little clearer and more satisfactory if

they were permitted to see that their lavishly bestowed ben- efactions diminished or mitigated the evil which they seek to remedy. On the contrary the more they give, the worse the case becomes. Beggars swarm everywhere. Twenty thou- sand tramps range the streets of London. Wretchedness and filth steadily increase. They are not confined to the slums of St. Giles or ‘Bethnal Green. They encroach more and more upon the magnificent squares and regal terraces of the rich. “The most lordly streets are frequently but a mask for the squalid districts which lie behind them; whilst spots conse- crated to the most hallowed of purposes, are begirt by scenes of indescribable infamy and pollution; the blackest tide of moral turpitude that flows in the capital, rolls its fillhy wave- lets up to the very walls of Westminster Abbey; and the law-makers for one-seventh of the human race sit, night after night, for deliberation in the immediate vicinity of the most notorious haunts of law-breakers in the empire.

When to relieve the extraordinary distress of certain dis-

tricts, in 1866-’7, free dormitories and soup-houses were open-

-ed, and branch societies with distributors were stationed

there, these neighborhoods immediately became more and more thronged ; families flocked in from all quarters; and to add to the suffering and strengthen the plea for help, rents rose and wages fell. Over and over again visitors and com- missioners declared that the ordinary methods of relief seem- ed but a premium upon wasteful habits, upon idleness and imposition. After care and patient inquiry and long service, a clergyman identified with this work (A. W. H. C.) says that “with every gift of a shilling [soup] ticket, he had done four penny worth of good and eight penny worth of harm.”

In the city of Bristol, which has largely endowed charities, and consequently a large pauper class, high wages have over

516 The Western.

and over again proved powerless to attract hands to its man- ufactories and other industries, except from a distance. The same is true elsewhere. This has been noticed of certain cities of the Netherlands and of Brittany, and even of Hol- land. And what to do with the poor, or with the poor-funds,. has become one of the gravest questions of modern civiliza- tion. Says a writer on “ London Alms and London Pauperism,” in the Quarterly Review for October last, and to whom I am indebted for some of the facts already used, “ The proper ad- ministration of public alms is the greatest problem of our country.”

It is scarcely more than a generation since it was said by Jno. Stuart Mill that the American population was all of the middle class. If there were no aristocracy or nobility, there were no millions of pro/etaires and indigent, no laboring class in ab- ject poverty as was to be found in the manufacturing towns and rural districts of European lands. This was cited as one of our qualifications for exercising universal suffrage, for maintaining a democratic form of government. But there have been changes since then. We find ourselves facing an- dreamt-of issues. The old world is thrusting its. problems upon us. Crime and poverty are born, and organize them- selves, even under republics. Pauperism or beggary, in any. thing like threatening magnitude, is a new thing to us. But in the last few years we have heard its demands and seen some of its grimmest features. The beggars that we have been making through the “ good times,” now the “ hard times” have come, seem multiplied a hundred-fold and de- mand their rights. Lest our own social eonditions should not beget the evil fast enough, ship-loads of paupers have been poured in upon us from abroad. The social system is already wellinoculated with this poison. It therefore becomes us be-

Beggars and Beggary. 517

fore we have made the almost irremediable mistakes of the older nations, to discuss this question in its various bearings.

Archbishop Whately is quoted as saying that, “‘ If you pay a man to work, he will work; if you pay him to beg, he will beg.” Let hard times come, as they do come and will come, and there are thousands of people in all our crowded towns, who if they once find that they can get their bread aud cloth- ing, or their coal and rent by applying to relief societies, or by begging from door to door, will cease to labor for any man for consecutive days, or for the consecutive hours of a single day. With all that class who are without trades, and with- out regular occupations, who follow that chance business of * doing jobs” for a living, beggary is but the next grade be- low them, into which they are constantly falling. And no one can know, who has not made the matter a subject of in- vestigation, in how short a time many a fairly capable and respectable family, suffering from some temporary misfortune, by relief continued beyond the absolute necessities of the case, comes to look upon charity as a matter of course or of right; loses that healthy sense of self-respect and indepen- dence which is essential to successful effort, and little by lit- tle sinks into shiftlessness and chronic wretchedness. The true friend of the poor finds it the hardest of lessons to teach to the benevolent and well-to-do public, that indiscriminating charity is in its consequences a criminal offense against civil- ization ; it is the feeding and fostering of a fatal cancer in the social body. Let me show you by a common-place illustra- tion or two how it works.

Some time since I was called to inquire into a case of des- titution in the neighborhood of the Four Courts. In a miser- able tenement house, fronting upon a narrow alley, up one flight, in one small dark room, I found six persons; two wom- en and four small children in a state of filth and abject

518 The Western.

wretchedness revolting to every sense of decency. To com- plete their helplessness, one of the mothers had a lameness which almost disabled her from walking, and the other was a confirmed paralytic. A tin pail of refuse vegetables boiling in water ov the stove, with no meat or bread for supper, told the tale of their extremity. The presence of a stranger in that forlorn neighborhood, possibly on some errand of char- ity, compelled me before I reached the fresh air of the street, to hear the recitals of distress from several families. Gen- erally there was no complaint or jealousy that the poor crea- tures whom I went to see, received aid. All seemed to feel that it was deserved: but that some others should be favored was looked upon with dislike. To one woman, who stood at the threshold of the only room that had an appearance of neatness, I said, as I passed, “ Well, you seem to be comfort-

”

able.” She almost broke down with emotion: but when she spoke she said, “Sir, I do the best I can. God knows to what straits I have been put. But I am not a beggar.”’ Upon questioning her, 1 found her the mother of four children, a widow for four years. And yet by going out to wash, she had managed to keep herself decent, and her boys in school a part of thetime. And then she spoke with some bitterness of some of her neighbors who lived by begging; who did nothing but roam the streets; who got theirclothing by going from house to house, their bread and coal from benevolent associations, their rent from the county court. They did nothing, while she worked; yet they had frequently abun- dance of fuel, and baskets of broken food, while she and her children had nothing to burn and scarcely a morsel to eat. The trouble is, the honest poor must live side by side with the dishonest poor. The industrious, the self-respecting, or the sick poor, are tenanted door to door with the poor who

Beggars and Beggary. 519

are strong, and lazy, and shiftless. And no superficial glance

can determine between them—only patient inquiry and actu- al acquaintance with the facts in the case.

Two instances occur to me in the same neighborhood. One a young woman with three small children, husband out of work, strangers here. Beside the hard times they had sick- ness. Still they kept up quite a show of decency; but des- peration finally made them ask help of a neighbor. They came to the city fortunately with a very good supply of cloth- ing and bedding. But when the rent was due and the flour was out, though the weather was at the coldest, piece after piece went to the pawnshop, to help them from day to day. The mother cut up almost every garment she had to cover the nakedness of the children. I shall never forget the lcok of despair on this woman’s worn and delicate face, as she took out of a trunk ticket after ticket received of the pawn- broker, showing me how she had met the sad necessities of her lot.

Near by was an oldish woman, mother of grown-up boys. A friend had sent me her address, believing ber to be in ur- gent need. She evidently was not expecting a visitor; but finding me, as she thought, on a charitable mission, she peur- ed forth an almost interminable tale of woes. She could not walk now for some time she said; and she had no money to buy camphor for her rheumatic limbs. Her sons and her hus- band did nothing for her support. Her rent was due and she had little to eat. Seeing that now she could not rise from her chair for lameness, I asked her how it happened that the day before she was nearly a mile away from home, asking for assistance? The question was so troublesome she became confidential. She admitted that she had been trying to raise a little money by a raftle: the prize a quilt; shares twenty- five cents. And the list of purchasers showed the usual num-

520 The Western.

ber of “ cash” subscribers, with quite a fair sprinkling of well-known citizens and housewives—“ Drawing” to take place next week. I was a good deal interested in this little enterprise, and remarked that it must be quite a nice way to raise a little money. [ asked her who drew up the paper, she said a boy who lived near by, who could write better than she could. And then she got up, and going to a chest took out at least three similar papers, all pretty well filled up, some showing a good deal of wear and tear. None of them had been drawn yet—nor were they ever meant to be. As I glanced over the apartment there was no lack of clothing. There was unused bedding, and there was hanging at one side a quite large assortment of women’s wear (second-hand, to be sure), but forming a very considerable stock in trade. Moreover before I left, she admitted that the county court paid her rent, while a benevolent association gave her bread and coal. Thus while she was probably able to work and earn her support, she was living easily on false representa- tions, exemplifying the common saying of the London beg. gars, “that those who tells most lies gets most.”

The great harm lies in this: that giving to the dishonest and shiftless is an injustice and hardship to the deserving. A little girl that I know of, belonging to a worthless family, managed to get, by begging, gifts for a Christmas tree which few families of our middle class could afford to have—the en-— vy of scores of children in the neighborhood who could only. enjoy such a luxury for themselves by going out begging too. Another little girl of twelve years, never going to school, al- ways tramping the streets, whose family needed no such fav- ors, got a complete outfit of new clothes, which was but a les- son to the poor of her neighborhood, that if they would dress as well, they too, with no thought of education or of work, should ask for what they want from house to house. Well

523

Makaria.

has it been said that the successful beggary of one drone, de- moralizes a. whole hive of hard-pressed workers. JOHN ©. LEARNED (‘To be continued. )

MAKARIA.

A PLAY IN FIVE ACTS.

S. STERNE. Dramatis Persone. DEMOPHOON—King of Athens, son of Theseus. Jouaus—Nephew of Hercules, and Leader of the Heraclides. ADRASTUS—Son of Jolaus’s friend, and under his protection. ALKMENE—Mother of Hercules. Makarta—Daughter of Hercules. Tue Heraciipes—His Sons. Kropgeus—Herald to King Eurystheus. MiLos—An Old Athenian. Tue PrriestEss, at Delphi. Messengers, Women, Citizens of Athens, gc. ACT IV. Scene—High ground, on an island. The sea is seen in the distance. On-

one side a hut, on the other rocks, over which a path leads down to the: shore.

Mak. (Alone, seating herself.) I’}l seat myself on these stones here, And wait till eve,—until he comes again !—

The Western.

(Rising). Yet no, l’ll not !—(Looking after him with out-

stretched hands.) O love, my love, farewell ! Thee | have loved past all things, O farewell, Farewell forever!— Something here, some dark Foreboding in this bleeding heart, tells me I shall not see him at the early eve, Nor yet at early morn, nor any hour, But never, nevermore !—these weeping eyes Have loeked their last upon his face and form !— He did put on a peaceful outward mien, A safe assurance, to soothe my despair, But yet I read full plainly through it all, His heart knew nothing of this confidence, His inmost soul was filled with anxious trouble, With fearful apprehensions, like my own, Else was he moved so easily not to go, Nor yet so hurriedly departed, leaving Me here alone!— O heaven, and how, in truth, Should he not tremble !—theugh I know not if My agony be greater than is his, Because that love is weaker in my soul, Or conscience stronger!— Conscience!— He knows not How our dread sin rose up a threatening image Each night beside our pillow while he slumbered, But my hot eyes closed not in lightest sleep, How the black, ghastly shape haunted, pursued me, Clung closely as my shadow to my heels Where’er I went,—sat at our board with us, Glided between us when he kissed my lips,

Cast a dark, withering blight o’er all things joyous !— & Dlig 85 JO!

O fearful consequence of guilt and sin!

—And now, what will he learn?— A shuddering tale

Of carnage, blood and slaughter, the destruction

Of all of them wrapped in one cruel fate,

My Brothers and the King, our generous friend !

Demophoon!— O thus have | repaid The thousand benefits he showered on us!

Makaria.

Aye, and he loved me well!— O and my Brothers! Have I thus given you over to swift death, Even I, that should have saved you!— O my soul! O most intolerable, maddening thought ! (Kneeling.) Great gods, immortal powers!— If | may venture Once more to offer up most humble prayer, If ye yet look on me, my voice may reach you, And if ye have not yet turned your hearts and faces Wholly away in wrath from such as me, Her whi has sinned past every hope of pardon,— If ye yet deign to work the feeblest good Through so unworthy instrument,—if yet In this great crime there may be aught undone, In this great disaster aught repaired or helped,— Show me the means whereby it be accomplished, And as | live, I swear by yonder heavens, [I will perform it!— Naught could prove too hard, Too difficult! (Rising.) Ay, now let me consider it, While yet Adrastus is away, while not The magic of his presence holds me fettered, Lames heart and head and action and resolve !— Ah !—this perchance,— !— (Enter Milos.)

«Mil. Good day to you, fair Lady!

Mak. (Starting.) (s. v.) What voice speaks there!— A poor Old Man!— What

would he?

(al.) ‘Thanks, Father, thanks!— But pray how came you here? —’Tis rare to see a stranger in these parts !— Save ours, methinks there’s but a single hut Close to the shore, on all the Island, wherein Dwells an aged fisherman with his good wife, And I knew not that they—

Mil. Ay, ay, dear Lady, And ’twas to them, who are my friends, I fled, To save— But pardon | am faint!— Have you Some little food to spare, perchance, then pray

In mercy’s name—

The Western.

Mak. Ay, surely !—

(She enters the hut and returns in a

moment with bread and wine. Old Man seats him-

self.) Here my Father ! With the gods’ blessing, eat and drink and be Refreshed and strengthened.— What we have ourselves Take with best welcome! Mil. Ah thanks, thanks, sweet daughter !

(Eats anddrinks.) Pardon my boldness, but I’m well nigh

perished With hunger and fatigue !— Praised be the gods I found your house at last, else must I surely Have sunk and died ere long !—I lost my way And wandered without food a day and night Among these mountains, where | climbed to find If from some lofty peak | might not get Some view perchance of distant Athens, whence I came two days ago. Mak. From Athens, say you? And pray, how looksit there?— O speak, good Father, Il conjure you!— What news?— How goes the war, How fares the King and all the City,—how— Mil. O ill, ill, ill, dear Lady, in good truth !— It is but evil tidings I can give you, Who seem so anxious for the City’s fate! But sad return of sorrow I can make you For all the good that you’ve done me!— Woe, woe To all the town and her unhappy people !— Disaster on disaster rolls its floods O’er her and our good King, and must ere long Sweep all away to ruin! Mak, (hiding her face.) O my soul, Didst thou not tell me all! Mil. Curst be the brood ‘Of those Heraclides whom we gave refuge !— With them came all misfortune! Mak. (s. Vv.) O too true!— Mil. After the day Makaria should have died, And the gods bore her off,—

Muakaria.

Mak. The gods!— Mil. Ay,some Do say so in the town, for it appears She’s vanished from the earth,—they cannot find her Though they searched far and near.— But I myself Believe it was some damned sacrilege, By oue comniitted— Mak. (s.v.) O the fearful truth! Mil. Daughter, heard you of that ? Mak. Ay, ay, say ou! What followed after? Mil. A great, bloody battle Was fought but half a league outside the Gates, By tierce Eurystheus, who laid waste the country, And fell on Hillus’ armies and the King’s,

ee ee

Ere they could join their forces.— Our brave hosts Were routed, broke and fled.— A thousand youths 4 The noblest flower of the land, lie slain,—

‘The City’s filled with mourners, dead and wounded !— Mak. (s.v.) O my distracted soul! Mil. Ay, and no marvel It happened thus!— ‘The Immortals were against us, For they are wrath, past doubt! “Mak. (s.v.) O they have cause! Mil. If we do suffer one more such defeat, ‘rhe way unto our very heart lies open, The town is doomed past help and hope and mercy, Delivered to the enemy’s wrath and vengeance, Fire, sword ant every horror!—The next battle Must bring decision of our fate, so that For this we put forth all our nerve and strength, Mustered all forces, every man and youth Fit to bear arms, was called ‘to join the King, ; And so my two fair, hopeful sons set out,— The gods go with them !—they were all I had !— Beseeching me to fly, seeing | am To oldto serve or be of help, and fearing Disastrous issue of the fray.— And so

The Western.

I made my way here. Mak. (s.v.) O and this all this Through me, through me:! Mil. All the whole town’s astir,— ‘Ten thousand straining eyes watch day and night For news from off the battlefield, the altars Steam with unceasing prayer and sacrifice, And old Alkmene, Mother to Hercules, Her gray hair stréaming in the wind behind her, Speeds through the:streets, calling upon young boys And white-haired men, to rise and arm,— . Mak. Alkmene! Mil. Even the women to prepare them to Protect their homes. Mak. (s. v.) Alkmene, my aged Grandam, In the loud streets with her gray hair unbound! O this is sharper than a thousand deaths !— No fiercer blow can come ! Mil. And cursing her Caused all this misery, for ’tis her faith too— Mak. No more, no more, Old Man!— Father [’ve hea: Enough and overmuch! (s.v.) And cursing her Caused all this misery!— It is just, just, just! I bow me in submission. Mil. (as.) Sheis young And passing fair,—and has the golden locks They told me that,— And she is strangely moved, Ay, past all natural measure, so methinks, By my ill news,— Were she perchance,— (al) Good daughter, Is’t long since you’ve dwelt here ? Mak. Ay,—very long! Ten weary years!— Yet no, no, no, what say L! *Tis not so long as that,—nof near so long! Seems but so endless time since I left Athens, And I’ve those there are passing dear to me, So that the City’s fate doth greatly shake And wring my heart! Mil. And live you here alone?

lieniinamte nnd iil

ne eae ere

i Teen. anivo

Makaria.

(as.) Nay, (ll be silent!— Whosoe’er she be Let me not question more!— She showed me kindness, And this seemed like base treachery!— I'd not know

Her name, or what her wrong perchance,—for she Is rent, I well can see, by some great anguish ! Ay, poor, young creature!

Mak. (as.) Itis well, great gods! Ye deigned to cast upon this barren shore, From out the seething ovean of destruction, This poor, stray, drifting spar, to tell me of The wreck and ruin I have made!— It ripens ‘lo instant action the resolve that slowly Took root and germined in my heart!— (al.) Father, { must away upon an errand now ‘That may no longer be delayed, and wherefrom I know not when I may return!— _ If while You tarry here,—and you'd much favor me Did you consent to stay for oue of us, You’ll find a couch in there and meat and drink For several days,—

Jil. With all my heart!— I'l gladly Serve you in this!

Mak. My love return, ere you See me again— Ah but you know him not!— If one should come who has the brow and eyes Of young Apollo, and a smile like sunshine.— Tell him some weighty business called me off, But that Pll speed me back soon as I may,— In a brief day or two,— Yet no, no, no, Tell him not this!— I know not if | ever May come again!— Yet O they’ll surely suffer That 1 return once more,—but once!— Say to him I left him thousand greetings! No, say naught,—! But if I am before him, I will stand

Upon that ledge of rock there, watching for him !—

(Exit hastily.)

Mil. (Alone, looking after Mak.) How swift and safe she speeds her down the hill,

Vol 3—No. 9—34.

The Western.

Like a young deer !—gliding from stone to stone, And never missing of her foothold!— There,

She’s well nigh gained the shore!— She’s out of sight now,

Or my old eyes can follow her no further !—

Strange, strange,—!— Well, heaven protect her!— I'll not muse Longer on’t now!— (I'll in and rest awhile,

The sun grows hot, and my poor bones are broken !—

(Enters hut.)

ASCETISM.

Translated from the German of J. G. Fichte for the Western, by A. E. KROEGER

Ill. SKETCH OF

THE

ESSENTIAL OF ASCETISM.

BOVE all things it is our task now, to look up more definitely the origin of those inclinations, which put us in danger of forgetting our duty, since we can find out no remedy for an evil until we know its precise origin. I deduce inclinations, affections, passions, &c., in the following manner : Nature produces in man a determined tendency, such as in t:e plants and in the animals has causality. But in man, as sure as man is free,—i. e., as sure as he has that freedom which in our system we have hitherto called formal freedom, and the neglect to distinguish which has produced so much evil in practical philosophy—it remains only a tendency. Before man is man (or free), (for instance as an unconscious child, or an idiot, cretin, &c.) this natural tendency has caus- ality, precisely as in animals and plants, and it has this

Ascetism. 529

causality until the natural impulse has been broken through the individual or through freedom. But the moment man ele- vates himself to consciousness, he tears himself loose from the chain of natural mechanism and organism: that which he does thereafter he must do altogether himself. Man as such, i. €., a8 free, as consciousness, has no natural inclinations, af- fections or passions at.all. He depends altogether upon his freedom. An important proposition !

It is known to my readers what a synthetical connection in reason is. That which the synthesis involves, is not in it- self developed into consciousness ; we can elevate it to clear- ness only through analysis. Hence it is possible, that man, through the application, or non-application of freedom, may produce a connection amongst the manifold objects of free- dom in himself very like thatsynthetical connection in reason; and this synthesis really does occur: for instance, the repre- sentation x involves in man a whole manifold of other repre- sentations, a, b, c, as a successive series, each of which is, in this connection, in itself dependent upon freedom, and did ac- tually depend upon freedom in this particular individual at first, but has now through repeated realization of the same synthesis become connected with x in a manner equal to the synthetical connection in reason.

For instance: when you write, you certainly do not consid- er every stroke of your pen and every letter separately and definitely, determining yourself to produce it thus? You merely think the word and at the same time you write it. But when you first began to write you had maturely to consider every pen-stroke and every letter and to determine yourself to produce it thus.

This connection we have called an association of ideas, and shall hereafter so call it. Nowsuch a connection is certainly not synthetical, for it is accidental, changeable and individu-

530 The Western.

al; but neither is it a product of conscious freedom : it is as- sociation. We can illustrate it likewise by the theory of dim conceptions. Such conceptions are dim, because they are un- conscious premises of our judgments; and they are conceptions because they are universal, and can be elevated to conscious universality through freedom of thinking.

Let us take an example from our own Science of Morality. The angry man soon flies into a passion, and immediately be- gins to scold, kick, &c. Now this scolding, kicking, &c., cer- tainly depends upon freedom. Of course;—for us others, nay even for himself it depends in itself upon his own free- dom, or, at least, did at one time so depend ; but at present he cannot well act differently. He would, however, be easily able to act differently, if he could reflect upon himself and his freedom. But this very mediating act of considerateness is what he lacks ; association of ideas deprives him of that free- dom. But through however long a series this association may extend, and however deeply-rooted the habit may have be- come, it nevertheless always starts from a first point, which man has under his free control. Hence, even if we admit to the angry man, that now when bis anger deprives him of all consideration, he cannot well act otherwise than he does, we still should say to him: you ought to have been on your guard against the first outbreak of your anger.

In short, through the passions, which have arisen in an indi- vidual previous to his reform and rooted