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lines from tan * © # t * e ConftreJan system , and ' retiring from Mencius toCohf&cius , find * tke-- sources- of Chinese philosophy in the works of Fan-te , who ffourished < Sw * n « y ^ tnree generations before the chronological era . We now ¦ discover * a due to the method by which the new sinologists obtain their chronological * results .. Like the decipherers of Egyptian monuments , they estimate and ' calculate , and placegeneration befbregenerationj , calendar upon calendar ^ iaa long ascending line > until the names of dynasties , kings , and teachers : of ; men . are placed in , distinct positions , beyond the reach of chronicle oc criticism * Four works constitute the whole of the ancient literature of China and these , with a fifth attributed to Confucius , form the canonical booksi which -we *© nnfc printed during the first nine hundred years of the Christian eraf yet upon bases sli g ht as these , the chronologers lay down the tpacfes- of * Chinese * history to within two thousand years of the date assigned by poputef tradition to the creation of the world . Mr-f Meadows , to all' appearances , has been fascinated by the parallelo-< rr 3 Tnik institutions of China ; the tendency of his mind in this direction is ¦
exhibited" in his voluminous essay on civilization—the balance and the burden of his work . He adopts the pleasant , illusive method of tracing men from tEe . savage to the polished state , and , in his credulity , is almost as ready as Rousseau * But his- argument runs , in all parts , parallel with China . Avowing certain ; special defects in . the institutions and morals of that empire , he obviously sees in ; it the type of English reform , and recommends it to the world afr large . We wish his-speculation-had been placed before the reader . in * more attractive shape . Bte has so overlaid his subject with digressions , and so confused it with retrospects and parenthetical summaries , that bis three ' projected works—of which the preface is a prospectus—seem to have run together ; and ' so produce the effect of an encyclopaedia ^ disarranged . In a general sense ,, moreover , though the book presents a variety of instructive explanations on Chinese habits and character , it is a mistake . The speculations of Orientalists on the philosophy of those Egyptians of Asia have been advanced , too far , with too-many successful results , to be confounded by the ^'' bright-eyed ease" of Mir .. Thomas Taylor Meadows .
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PATIENT GK . ISSEJLL . Grisdda : a Tragedy ; and Other Po&ms . By Edwin Arnold , Author of " Poems , Narrative and LyricaL" London : Bogue . Jjs the year 1868 ( according to an apocryphal * but not improbable , story ) , the English , poet Chaucer , being then in attendance on Lionel , Duke of ¦ Clarence , made brief acquaintanceship , on the occasion of that nobleman marrying- the daughter of the Duke of Milan , with the Italian poet Pe-* rarch i and afterwards , at Padua , learned from his own lips the narrative of " patient Grissell . " But whether or not , in that fair " nursery of arts , " that learned and stately town of Lombardy , the poet from the far northern island ever conversed with the southern singer who has embalmed the name of Laura for all time , it is certain that from a poem by Petrarch was derived that celebrated , story which Chaucer was the first to introduce to the English mind , and which has [ since rendei'ed the name of Griselda almost a sj-nonym for patience . The tale was an old one in Italy , and was so popular
there that Petrarch ' s contemporary , Boccaccio , has told it in the "Decameron , " after his slumberous , passionless , and diffusive manner , placing it . as the concluding novelette of the work , as if nothing were worthy to come after it ; and in England the fiction has become a sort of household word , has been brought on to the stage , and has even found its way into collecr tibns of children ' s tales , where some of the language of the reverend old poet of the days of Edward IIL may be found transmuted into modern English . Qn what grounds , therefore , are we to have a new version of what is already known to all who care to know anything beyond the facts of the day ? For the humble and ill-informed , there is tradition ; for the lover of old English poetry , there , is the wonderful fabric reared upon the vast and enduring pedestal of Chaucer ' s genius ; for the scholar , there are Petrarch and Boccaccio . Yet here is a gentleman who thinks he can infuse some newer , stronger vitality into a story already wafted into the popular heart by tradition , already enthroned in the classical literature of two great countries by the triad whose names have just been mentioned .
We must confess , individually—we know it is heresy to say so , but we say it—that we do not think the story was . ever worth the . telling , or , indeed , fit to be told . It requires some boldness to speak what we think on this matter ; but ,, to . our minds , the narrative ia repulsive , and devoid of any moral , worthy , to bo so callod . Nay , if men did not instinctively revolt from it , notwithstanding alL their fancied admiration ( which is a mere self-deceit of the intellect ) , the effect of the story would be absolutely corrupting . A woman of humble birth , in order to show the profundity of her submission to the sovereign prince who marries her—and the submission is p laced as much on this Tow ground of grovelling before tlie occupant of a high place , as on that of an ultra acknowledgment of the divine right of husbandsconsents , without a murmur , without a welcome the loss for the fantastical tyrant who thus uses her , to violate the most sacred instincts of nature and of God ; consents to the supposed murder of her own children , and smilingly nraisesher lordfor his great benignity and his noble soul . It is the fnshion to human mother thetrue
caUGiiselda " the divine wife , ! ' "the sweet , " " woman . " Wo ought rather to say that sho is a monstrous deformity of wickedness—a wretched female flunkey , worse even than her despicable husband , who subjects her ta a torture of twelve years , iu order that ho may please himself with' trying how fur her patience will go ! But in truth sho is a mere phantom . Let us'be 1 thankful that there never yet was such a woman ; let us hope that there never may be . Wo know that this is not the opinion of the critics ; but we believe itr is the feeling of those who in auch mattors are of greater authority than , the critios—we mean of the women themselves . Thus much by the way , and . beoauBe it scorns to us that the . truth about Griseldo . has been * unduly suppressed , to the outrage of all true morality . L * tf th&framara , af the ladioa ! petition on tho wrongs of wornem and the women o £ Leioeater . in < public ) mooting assembled , look to it . And so , having vented oursdLva * yra return to Mr . Arnold ' s volume , and proceed to examine whabamthe diatinotive features which have justified tho author to his own mind in < gilding' « ho refined gold of Cliuucor , painting tho lily of Boccaccio ,
and adding a perfume to the violet of Petrarch . And in the first instance we are rather surprised at not Ending a scrap of prefatory matter—not the most distant allusion to Mr . Arnold ' s predecessors . However , it might be contended that every one is aware of the pedigree of the tale , and that it would be superfluous to prattle about it . So let that pass ; and now for a taste of the original treatment which shall freshen this old tale ' with the light - of a new genius . • What do we find ? We find the well-known incidents , of coarse . We ' find some rather feeble and faint treatment ; we also find evidences of tenderness , grace , and gentle pathos ; likewise stray gleams and flutterings of poetry . And furthermore we find this : —
[ Arnold . ]] Griselda ^/ & a cup and presents- it . The Marquis drinks , and turning round , addresses her . Griselda , How Iiketh thee my wife ? Seem these young roses Fair enough for a lord to wear at heart ? Griselda . Right so , my lord ; for in good faith and truth , A fairer saw I never one than she ; I pray they wither not : I pray to God To send , you both of his good grace delights , And pleasance , and fair fortunes , and long loves , Unto your life ' s end . ( None speak . Griselda turns to the Princess . ) Thou bad ' st me tell thee what I was at Court , Fair mistress mine . I was what thou -wilt be , There were some few did love me , —for my sake I bid them love my sweet supplanter so ! ( Griselda turns to the Marquis . ) I shall not speak again . Let me say this , I do beseech- you , and I humbly warn , That , as ye have this tender maiden ta ' , Ye try her not ; nor grieve her tenderness . I pray you think I say it of true heart , For your dear peace . She is not like as I , — She hath been fostered with high nourishing More daintily ; and to my thinking , lord , She micrht not all adversitv endure .
As could a poorly fostered peasant-girl ! ( The Marquis starts from his seat , and embraces her with passionate-fondness . ) Marquis . This is enough ! Griselda mine ! end fear , Die doubt ! Oh , now my heart hath room to beat ! Oh , sorely , surely tried , —oh , great of heart ; Oh , noble wifely patience , —novr I know-That nothing breaks it ! Brave heart , paTdon me ! ( Griselda is speechless and amazed . ) Oh , dost thou doubt me yet ? Griselda , by the God that for us died , Thou art my wife ! no leave to change I had , Nor wished for ; so God save me ! This fair child la daughter of thy body , and this boy Her twin-born brother ! See , I kept them safe ! They were at Padua , —oh , not dead !—not dead ! Take them with twelve years' beauty more than when Thou gavest them me . And let no man bethink 111 of this dced , <—it was not idly done ; But for to try thoo in thy womanhood , And guerdon theo and mo ! ( Ghiselda Jails down sioooning , then recovering , calls to her children , piteousbj embraces them . ' ) Grxsklda . God thank it you ! God thank it you , Bweot lord ! That you have saved mo so my children I dear ! I 1 reck not to be dead now those are hero , ' And I stand in your lovo ! My tender ones , | Your woeful mother weened thut cruel ! hounds " Had eaton you ! But God , of his good j And your good father ' s lovo , hath kept you 1 well ! ! Kiss me ! ' cling both to mo ! '¦ ( . She swoons ogam , and tfiey separate 7 ier children from her arms with difficulty . )
[[ Chauceev ] Grisilde ( quod he , as it were in his play ) How Iiketh thee my wife and her beautee?—Right well , my lord , quod she , for , in good fay , A fairer saw I never non than she . * ¦ • • 0 thing beseche I you , and warne also , That ye ne prickke with no turmenting This tendre maiden , as ye han do mOj For she is fostred in hire norishing More tendrely , and , to my supposing , She mighte not adversitee endure As eoude a poure-fostred creature . This is ynough , Grisildis mine , quod he ; Be now no more aghast , ne evil afraid ; 1 have thy faith and thy benignitee , As well as ever woman was , assaid In gret estat and pourelich arraid : Now know I , dere wife , thy stedefastnease . And hire in armes he toke , and gan to kesse , And she for wonder toke of it no kepe . a • • • Grisilde , quod he , by God "that for us deid , Thou art my wife ; that other faithfully Shal be min heir , as I have ay disposed ; . Thou bare hem of thy body trewely ; At Boloigne have I kept hem prively : Take hem agen , for now maist thou not
say That thou hast lorn none of thy children , tway . And folk that otherwise han said of me ,. I warne hem wel that I have done this dede For no malice , ne for no crueltee , But for to assay in thee thy wonxanhede . When she this herd , as wouno doun aha falleth For pitous joy ; and , after hire swounin ^ ,. She' both ' e hire yonge children to hire calleth , And in hire armes , pitously weping , Embraceth hem , and , tendrely kissing " , Full like a modor , with hire salte tores , She bathed both their visage and tfheir heres . . > . . * Grand mercy ! Lord , God thank it you . ( quod she ) , That ye han saved me my children dere : Now rekko I never to be ded right here , Sin I stond in your love and in your grace . O tondre , O dero , O yonge children mino f Your woful mother woned stedfastly That cruel houndoa , or aomo foul vermin * Hud eton you ; but God of his mercy , And your benigno fader tendrely Hatli don you kope : and , in that , samo atomic ] , Al aodenly uho swapt adoun to ground . And in hire awough so sadly holdeth a h * Hire childron two , when aho gan hem embrace , That with grot sleight and grct difficultea Tho childron from their arm they gan ; araco .
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tex * -ie * ismv the leader ; Mi
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Leader (1850-1860), May 10, 1856, page 451, in the Nineteenth-Century Serials Edition (2008; 2018) ncse2.kdl.kcl.ac.uk/periodicals/l/issues/vm2-ncseproduct2140/page/19/
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