Part 31

Fortunately for him, Gustavus III., who was himself a poet, became at this time king of Sweden. He was an adherent of the French school of poetry, and Bellman's muse could hardly be said to belong to this: but with considerable talent as a dramatic writer, Gustavus appreciated the dramatic quality in Bellman's songs; and when Bellman sent him a rhymed petition, still kept, in which he wrote that "if his Majesty would not most graciously give him an office, he would most obediently be obliged to starve to death before Christmas," the king made him secretary of the lottery, with the title of court secretary, and a yearly income of three thousand dollars. Bellman promptly gave half of this to an assistant, who did the work, and continued his troubadour life on the other half with a superb disdain of future needs. His affairs so well in order, he could afford to get married; and chose for his wife Lovisa Grönlund, a girl of a bright intellect and strong character, of which she ultimately had great need, the responsibilities of their married life being left altogether to her.

Bellman was now at his best; about this time he wrote most of 'Fredman's Songs' and 'Actions concerning the Chapter of Bacchus order.' both rich in lyric gems; he was the favorite companion of the King, to whom his devotion was boundless, and he was happy in his chosen friends whose company inspired him. Nevertheless he was now, as ever, in need of money. Atterbom tells that "One day the King met him on the street, so poorly dressed that he instinctively exclaimed, 'My dear Bellman, how poorly you are clad!' The poet answered with a bow, 'I can nevertheless most obediently assure your Majesty that I am wearing my entire wardrobe.'" His ready wit never left him. "How goes the world with you?" asked the King once when they met; "you don't look to me as if you could turn a single rhyme to-day." The poet bowed and replied on the spur of the moment:--

"No scrip my purse doth hold; My lyre's unstrung, alas! But yet upon my glass Stands Gustaf's name in gold."

Another time the King sent his men for him, with the order to bring him in whatever condition they found him. "He was found not entirely free from drink, and not very presentable, but was nevertheless carried off, zither and all, to Haga Castle, where he drank some champagne, sang some songs, drank a little more, and finally fell asleep. The King left him so to go to his supper; and when he returned and found his guest still sleeping, he remarked, 'I wonder what Bellman would say if I awoke him now and asked him to give me a song.' The poet sat up, blinked with his eyes, and said, 'Then Bellman would say,--listen;' whereupon he sang to the tune of 'Malbrouck s'en va-t-en guerre':--

"'Oh, so heavily, heavily trailing, The clouds over Haga are sailing, And the stars their bright glances are veiling, While woods in the gloom disappear. Go, King, thy rest is dear, Go, King, thy respite taking, Rest softly, rest softly, then waking, When dawn through the darkness is breaking, Thy people with mild rule thou cheer!'

Then he fell into his former position again, and was carried home asleep with a little gift in his hand."

The task of collecting, preserving, and publishing his works fell entirely upon his friends; if it had depended on him, they would probably never have been collected, much less published.

During the last fifteen years of his life, from 1780 to 1795, his health grew very poor. In 1791 he was invited to be present at the distribution of degrees at Upsala, and at the dinner he returned a toast with a song born of the moment; but his voice had grown so weak from lung trouble that only those nearest to him could hear him. To add to his sufferings, he had to meet the great sorrow of his King's death at the hand of a murderer, and his poem on the 'Death and Memory of the King' was not of a nature to make friends for him at the new court. Thus it happened that, poor and broken in health, he was put into the debtor's prison in the very castle where he had been so happy a guest. Hallman and Krexel and others of his best friends, as devoted to him as ever, were unable to obtain his release; but he was at last bailed out by some one, who as recompense asked him to sing one of his jolly songs, and in his poor broken voice he sang. 'Drink out thy glass, see, Death awaits thee.' Atterbom remarks about the man in question, "And maybe he did not find that song so jolly after all."

While in prison he sent in a petition to the King,--somewhat different from his first petition to Gustavus III.,--in which he asked permission to live in the castle until his death. The following is one of the verses:--

"Spring commands; the birds are singing, Bees are swarming, fishes play; Now and then the zephyrs stray, Breath of life the poet bringing. Lift my load of sorrow clinging, Spare me one small nook, I pray."

Of his death Atterbom writes as follows:--

"He had been the favorite of the nation and the King, content with the mere necessities of life, free from every care, not even desiring the immortality of fame; moderate in everything except in enthusiasm, he had enjoyed to the full what he wanted,--friendship, wine, and music. Now he lived to see the shadows fall over his life and genius. Feeling that his last hour was not far off, he sent word to his nearest friends that a meeting with them as in old times would be dear to him. He came to meet them almost a shadow, but with his old friendly smile; even in the toasts he took part, however moderately, and then he announced that he would let them 'hear Bellman once more.' The spirit of song took possession of him, more powerfully than ever, and all the rays of his dying imagination were centred in an improvised good-by song. Throughout an entire night, under continual inspiration, he sang his happy life, his mild King's glory, his gratitude to Providence, who let him be born among a noble people in this beautiful Northern country,--finally he gave his grateful good-by to every one present, in a separate strophe and melody expressing the peculiar individuality of the one addressed and his relation to the poet. His friends begged him with tears to stop, and spare his already much weakened lungs; but he replied, 'Let us die, as we have lived, in music!'--emptied his last glass of champagne, and began at dawn the last verse of his song."

After this he sang no more. A few days later he went to bed, lingered for ten weeks, and died on the 11th of February, 1795, aged fifty-four years. He was buried in Clara cemetery.

Bellman's critics have given themselves much trouble about his personal character. Some have thought him little better than a coarse drunkard; others again have made him out a cynic who sneered at the life he depicted; again others have laid the weight on the note found in 'Drink out thy glass,' and have seen only the underlying sad pathos of his songs. His contemporaries agree that he was a man of great consideration for form, and assert that if there are coarse passages in his songs it is because they only could express what he depicted. All coarseness was foreign to his nature; he was reserved and somewhat shy, and only in the company of his chosen few did he open his heart.

His critics have, moreover, assiduously sought the moral of his works. If any was intended, it may have been that of fighting sentimentality and all false feeling; but it seems more in accordance with his entire life that he sang out of the fullness of his heart, as a bird sings, simply because it must sing.

TO ULLA

Ulla, mine Ulla, tell me, may I hand thee Reddest of strawberries in milk or wine? Or from the pond a lively fish? Command me! Or, from the well, a bowl of water fine? Doors are blown open, the wind gets the blaming. Perfumes exhale from flower and tree. Clouds fleck the sky and the sun rises flaming, As you see! Isn't it heavenly--the fish market? So? "Heavenly, oh heavenly!" "See the stately trees there, standing row on row,-- Fresh, green leaves show! And that pretty bay Sparkling there?" "Ah yes!" "And, seen where sunbeams play, The meadows' loveliness? Are they not heavenly--those bright fields?--Confess!"-- Heavenly! Heavenly!

Skål and good-noon, fair one in window leaning, Hark how the city bells their peals prolong! See how the dust the verdant turf is screening, Where the calashes and the wagons throng! Hand from the window--he's drowsy, the speaker, In my saddle I nod, cousin mine-- Primo a crust, and secundo a beaker, Hochländer wine! Isn't it heavenly--the fish-market? So? "Heavenly, oh heavenly!" "See the stately trees there, standing row on row,-- Fresh, green leaves show! And that pretty bay Sparkling there?" "Ah yes!" "And, seen where sunbeams play, The meadows' loveliness? Are they not heavenly--those bright fields?--Confess!"-- Heavenly! Heavenly!

Look, Ulla dear! To the stable they're taking Whinnying, prancing, my good steed, I see. Still in his stall-door he lifts his head, making Efforts to look up to thee: just to thee! Nature itself into flames will be bursting; Keep those bright eyes in control! Klang! at your casement my heart, too, is thirsting. Klang! Your Skål! Isn't it heavenly--the fish-market? So? "Heavenly, oh heavenly!" "See the stately trees there, standing row on row,-- Fresh, green leaves show! And that pretty bay Sparkling there?" "Ah yes!" "And, seen where sunbeams play, The meadows' loveliness? Are they not heavenly--those bright fields?--Confess!"-- Heavenly! Heavenly!

CRADLE-SONG FOR MY SON CARL

Little Carl, sleep soft and sweet: Thou'lt soon enough be waking; Soon enough ill days thou'lt meet, Their bitterness partaking. Earth's an isle with grief o'ercast; Breathe our best, death comes at last, We but dust forsaking.

Once, where flowed a peaceful brook Through a rye-field's stubble, Stood a little boy to look At himself; his double. Sweet the picture was to see; All at once it ceased to be; Vanished like a bubble!

And thus it is with life, my pet, And thus the years go flying; Live we wisely, gaily, yet There's no escape from dying. Little Carl on this must muse When the blossoms bright he views On spring's bosom lying.

Slumber, little friend so wee; Joy thy joy is bringing. Clipped from paper thou shalt see A sleigh, and horses springing; Then a house of cards so tall We will build and see it fall, And little songs be singing.

* * * * *

AMARYLLIS

Up, Amarylis! Darling, awaken! Through the still bracken Soft airs swell; Iris, all dightly, Vestured so brightly, Coloreth lightly Wood and dell.

Amaryllis, thy sweet name pronouncing, Thee in Neptune's cool embrace announcing. Slumber's god the while his sway renouncing, O'er your eyes sighs, and speech yields his spell.

Now comes the fishing! The net we fasten; This minute hasten! Follow me! Don your skirt and jacket And veil, or you'll lack it; Pike and trout wait a racket; Sails flap free. Waken, Amaryllis, darling, waken! Let me not by thy smile be forsaken: Then by dolphins and fair sirens overtaken, In our gay boat we'll sport in company.

Come now, your rods, lines, and nets with you taking! The day is breaking; Hasten thee nigh! Sweet little treasure, Think ill in no measure; For thee 'twere no pleasure Me to deny. Let us to the little shallows wander, Or beside the inlet over yonder, Where the pledge-knot made our fond love fonder, O'er which Thyrsis erst was moved to sigh.

Step in the boat, then--both of us singing, Love his wand swinging Over our fate. Æol is moving, But though wild proving, In your arms loving Comfort doth wait. Blest, on angry waves of ocean riding, By thee clasped, vain 'twere this dear thought hiding: Death shall find me in thy pathway biding. Sirens, sing ye, and my voice imitate!

ART AND POLITICS

"Good servant Mollberg, what's happened to thee, Whom without coat and hatless I see? Bloody thy mouth--and thou'rt lacking a tooth! Where have you been, brother?--tell me the truth." "At Rostock, good sir, Did the trouble occur. Over me and my harp An argument sharp Arose, touching my playing--pling plingeli plang; And a bow-legged cobbler coming along Struck me in the mouth--pling plingeli plang.

"I sat there and played--no carouse could one see-- The Polish Queen's Polka--G-major the key: The best kind of people were gathered around, And each drank his schoppen 'down to the ground.' I don't know just how Began freshly the row, But some one from my head Knocked my hat, and thus said: 'What is Poland to thee?'--Pling plingeli plang-- 'Play us no polka!' Another one sang: 'Now silent be!'--Pling plingeli plang.

"Hear, my Maecenas, what still came to pass. As I sat there in quiet, enjoying my glass, On Poland's condition the silence I broke: 'Know ye, good people,' aloud thus I spoke, 'That all monarchs I On this earth do defy My harp to prevent From giving song vent Throughout all this land--pling plingeli plang! Did only a single string to it hang, I'd play a polka--pling plingeli plang!'

"There sat in the corner a sergeant old, Two notaries and a dragoon bold, Who cried 'Down with him! The cobbler is right! Poland earns the meeds of her evil might!' From behind the stove came An old squint-eyed dame, And flung at the harp Glass broken and sharp; But the cobbler--pling plingeli plang-- Made a terrible hole in my neck--that long! There hast thou the story--pling plingeli plang.

"O righteous world! Now I ask of thee If I suffered not wrongly?" "Why, certainly!" "Was I not innocent?" "Bless you, most sure!" "The harp rent asunder, my nose torn and sore, Twas hard treatment, I trow! Now no better I know Than to go through the land With my harp in my hand, Play for Bacchus and Venus--kling klang-- With masters best that e'er played or sang; Attend me, Apollo!--pling plingeli plang."

DRINK OUT THY GLASS

Drink out thy glass! See, on thy threshold, nightly, Staying his sword, stands Death, awaiting thee. Be not alarmed; the grave-door, opened slightly, Closes again; a full year it may be Ere thou art dragged, poor sufferer, to the grave. Pick the octave! Tune up the strings! Sing of life with glee!

Golden's the hue thy dull, wan cheeks are showing; Shrunken's thy chest, and flat each shoulder-blade. Give me thy hand! Each dark vein, larger growing, Is, to my touch, as if in water laid. Damp are these hands; stiff are these veins becoming. Pick now, and strumming, Empty thy bottle! Sing! drink unafraid.

. . . . .

Skål, then, my boy! Old Bacchus sends last greeting; Freya's farewell receive thou, o'er thy bowl. Fast in her praise thy thin blood flows, repeating Its old-time force, as it was wont to roll. Sing, read, forget; nay, think and weep while thinking. Art thou for drinking Another bottle? Thou art dead? No Skål!

JEREMY BENTHAM

(1748-1832)

Bentham, whose name rightly stands sponsor for the utilitarian theory of morals in legislation, though not its originator, was a mighty and unique figure in many ways. His childhood reminds us of that of his disciple John Stuart Mill in its precocity; but fortunately for him, life had more juice in it for young Bentham than it had for Mill. In his maturity and old age he was widely recognized as a commanding authority, notwithstanding some startling absurdities.

He was born in London, February 15th, 1747-8; the child of an attorney of ample means, who was proud of the youth, and did not hesitate to show him off. In his fourth year he began the study of Latin, and a year later was known in his father's circle as "the philosopher." At six or seven he began the study of French. He was then sent to Westminster school, where he must have had a rather uncomfortable time; for he was small in body, sensitive and delicate, and not fond of boyish sports. He had a much happier life at the houses of his grandmothers at Barking and at Browning Hill, where much of his childhood was spent. His reminiscences of these days, as related to his biographer, are full of charm. He was a great reader and a great student; and going to Oxford early, was only sixteen when he took his degree.

It must be confessed that he did not bear away with him a high appreciation of the benefits which he owed to his alma mater. "Mendacity and insincerity--- in these I found the effects, the sure and only sure effects, of an English university education." He wrote a Latin ode on the death of George II., which was much praised. In later years he himself said of it, "It was a mediocre performance on a trumpery subject, written by a miserable child."

On taking his degree he entered at Lincoln's Inn, but he never made a success in the practice of the law. He hated litigation, and his mind became immediately absorbed in the study and development of the principles of legislation and jurisprudence, and this became the business of his life. He had an intense antipathy to Blackstone, under whom he had sat at Oxford; and in 1776 he published anonymously a severe criticism of his work, under the title 'Fragments on Government, or a Commentary on the Commentaries,' which was at first attributed to Lord Mansfield, Lord Camden, and others. His identification as the author of the 'Fragments' brought him into relations with Lord Shelburne, who invited him to Bowood, where he made a long and happy visit, of which bright and gossipy letters tell the story. Here he worked on his 'Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation,' in which he developed his utilitarian theory, and here he fell in love with a young lady who failed to respond to his wishes. Writing in 1827, he says:--

"I am alive, more than two months advanced in my eightieth year, more lively than when you presented me in ceremony with a flower in Green Lane. Since that day not a single one has passed, not to speak of nights, in which you have not engrossed more of my thoughts than I could have wished.... Embrace----; though it is for me, as it is by you, she will not be severe, nor refuse her lips to me as she did her hand, at a time perhaps not yet forgotten by her, any more than by me."

Bentham wrote voluminously on morals, on rewards and punishments, on the poor laws, on education, on law reform, on the codification of laws, on special legislative measures, on a vast variety of subjects. His style, at first simple and direct, became turgid, involved, and obscure. He was in the habit of beginning the same work independently many times, and usually drove several horses abreast. He was very severe in his strictures upon persons in authority, and upon current notions; and was constantly being warned that if he should publish such or such a work he would surely be prosecuted. Numerous books were therefore not published until many years after they were written. His literary style became so prolix and unintelligible that his disciples--Dumont, Mill, and others--came to his rescue, and disentangled and prepared for the press his innumerable pamphlets, full of suggestiveness and teeming with projects of reform more or less completely realized since. His publications include more than seventy titles, and he left a vast accumulation of manuscript, much of which has never been read.

He had a wide circle of acquaintances, by whom he was held in high honor, and his correspondence with the leading men of his time was constant and important. In his later years he was a pugnacious writer, but he was on intimate and jovial terms with his friends. In 1814 he removed to Ford Abbey, near Chard, and there wrote 'Chrestomathea,' a collection of papers on the principles of education, in which he laid stress upon the value of instruction in science, as against the excessive predominance of Greek and Latin. In 1823, in conjunction with James Mill and others, he established the Westminster Review, but he did not himself contribute largely to it. He continued, however, to the end of his life to write on his favorite topics.

Robert Dale Owen, in his autobiography, gives the following description of a visit to Bentham during the philosopher's later years:--

"I preserve a most agreeable recollection of that grand old face, beaming with benignity and intelligence, and occasionally with a touch of humor which I did not expect.... I do not remember to have met any one of his age [seventy-eight] who seemed to have more complete possession of his faculties, bodily and mental; and this surprised me the more because I knew that in his childhood he had been a feeble-limbed, frail boy.... I found him, having overpassed by nearly a decade the allotted threescore years and ten, with step as active and eye as bright and conversation as vivacious as one expects in a hale man of fifty....

"I shall never forget my surprise when we were ushered by the venerable philosopher into his dining-room. An apartment of good size, it was occupied by a platform about two feet high, and which filled the whole room, except a passageway some three or four feet wide, which had been left so that one could pass all round it. Upon this platform stood the dinner-table and chairs, with room enough for the servants to wait upon us. Around the head of the table was a huge screen, to protect the old man, I suppose, against the draught from the doors....

"When another half-hour had passed, he touched the bell again. This time his order to the servant startled me:--

"'John, my night-cap!'