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THE CHAUTAUQUAN.

_A MONTHLY MAGAZINE DEVOTED TO THE PROMOTION OF TRUE CULTURE. ORGAN OF
THE CHAUTAUQUA LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC CIRCLE._

    VOL. III.      MAY, 1883.      NO. 8.


Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle.

_President_, Lewis Miller, Akron, Ohio.

_Superintendent of Instruction_, J. H. Vincent, D. D., Plainfield, N. J.

_General Secretary_, Albert M. Martin, Pittsburgh, Pa.

_Office Secretary_, Miss Kate F. Kimball, Plainfield, N. J.

_Counselors_, Lyman Abbott, D. D.; J. M. Gibson, D. D.; Bishop H. W.
Warren, D. D.; W. C. Wilkinson, D. D.




REQUIRED READING

FOR THE

_Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle for 1882-83_.

MAY.


HISTORY OF RUSSIA.

By MRS. MARY S. ROBINSON.

_CHAPTER X._

ALEXANDER NEVSKI—MIKHAIL OF TVER.

We have seen that Mstislaf the Brave defied the tyranny of Andreï
Bogoliubski, in his attempt to intimidate Novgorod the Great.[A] When
Vsevolod, surnamed Big Nest, by reason of his large family, would force
the city to his will, Mstislaf again came to its rescue; and when
Iaroslaf of the Big Nest family, continuing the feud, betook himself
to Torjok near the Volga, where he obstructed the passage of the
merchants and brought famine upon the great city, Mstislaf the Bold,
of Smolensk, son of the Brave, left his powerful capital, one of the
strongest of Russia’s fortified cities, and went to the help of the
distressed people. “Torjok shall not hold herself higher than the Lord
Novgorod,” he swore in princely fashion, “I will deliver his lands,
or leave my bones for his people to bury.” Thus he became champion
and prince of the Republic. Between Iaroslaf and his brothers Iuri of
Vladimir, and Konstantin of Rostof ensued one of the family wrangles
common to the times, that was settled on the field of Lipetsk (1216),
where Konstantin allied with Mstislaf won his cause, and Iaroslaf was
compelled to renounce both his claims and his captives. When the bold
Mstislaf had put the affairs of the principality in order, he took
formal leave of the _vetché_, assembled in the court of Iaroslaf, and
resisting their entreaties to abide with them, went as we have seen
to the aid of Daniel of Galitsch.[B] But according to his wish he
was buried beside his father, the Brave, who, when at the height of
his greatness was borne down with disease, commanded that he should
be carried to Saint Sophia in Novgorod, received there the eucharist
amid the congregated citizens, crossed his once mighty arms upon his
breast, and closed his eyes forever upon the scenes that had witnessed
his achievements. In the cathedral lie the two warriors in mute
company, with the consort of Iaroslaf the Great, his son Vladimir, who
laid its foundations, the archbishop Nikita, whose prayers extinguished
a conflagration, and a goodly company of other illustrious dead.

[Footnote A: _Vid._ THE CHAUTAUQUAN for January, 1883, p. 181, col. 2.]

[Footnote B: _Vid._ THE CHAUTAUQUAN for February, 1883, p. 13, col. 2.]

In course of time the Iaroslaf who had renounced his claim to the
Republic after the defeat at Lipetsk, was elected its prince, he being
also Prince of Suzdal; but he was compelled to make good his claim
before the Grand Khan in Asia, and perished in the desert journey. Of
his two sons, Andreï succeeded him at Vladimir (Suzdal), and Alexander
at Novgorod.

The incoming of the Tatars had left the Russian realm a prey to its
northern neighbors,—the Finnish tribes, the Livonians and Swedes. In
his early years Alexander proved his capacity for leadership by a
battle won against these united forces near one of the affluents of
the Neva—an exploit that gained him his surname Nevski, and that has
been commemorated in the historical ballads of his people. An Ingrian,
a newly Christianized chief in the Russian service, on the eve of the
engagement, beheld Boris and Gleb, the martyred sons Saint Vladimir,
the Castor and Pollux of Russian tradition, standing in a phantom boat,
rowed by phantom oarsmen, toward the camp of their countrymen—going
to the help of their kinsman Alexander. “Row, my men!” said one of
the brothers, “row, for the rescue of the Russian land!” In the hour
of conflict, one of the captains pursued Burger, the Swedish general,
through the water to his ship, but swam back successfully and mixed
again in the fray, when he reached the firm land. The exploits of
another knight are sung who brought in three Swedish galleys. Gabriel,
Skuilaf of Novgorod, tore away Burger’s tent and hewed down its ashen
post, amid the cheers of his men; and Alexander with a stroke of his
lance “imprinted his seal on Burger’s face.” Rough work was this,
in rude times; but thus was the national strength asserted, and the
national honor protected.

Novgorod, like all the republics of medieval times, recognized
the principle of caste distinctions, and hence was subject to the
dissensions consequent upon an enlarged freedom in conflict with these
class divisions. Its tendency was toward oligarchy. As monarchies
adjacent to it increased in size and strength, it was constrained to
form protective alliances now with the one, now with the other; but to
the latest period of its independence it cautiously guarded its civic
rights and laws against the encroachments of princely power. Some
differences between the citizens and Alexander led him to withdraw from
the city; but the incursions of the Sword-Bearers with their train of
northern tribes, made his presence again necessary at the head of the
army. He conducted a campaign characterized by extreme bitterness on
both sides, and ending in a conflict on Lake Peïpus, the Battle of the
Ice, in 1242, when a multitude of the Tchudi were exterminated and the
Livonian Knights were seriously crippled. The Grand Master expected to
see his redoubtable foeman before the walls of Riga; but Alexander
contented himself with reprisals, and a recovery of the lands wrested
from the Republic.

Through a score or more of years, partly by reason of its remote
northern location, and its relations with the western powers, Novgorod
had evaded the imposition of the Tatar yoke, put upon the rest of
the realm. But the time came when the khan at Saraï determined to
bring under his sway the region of the lakes; and Alexander, with his
brother Andreï, was summoned to the Horde for confirmation of their
duties as vassal princes. Batui, the khan, received the hero of the
Neva with consideration, and added to his domains large tracts of
Southern Russia, including the Principality of Kief; but with these
largesses was imposed the humiliating task of raising tribute for
the Mongol court. When the _posadnik_ announced this hard command to
the _vetché_ of Novgorod, the people, paying no heed to his cautious
and qualified phrasing, uttered a terrible cry, and tore him limb
from limb. A rebellion, headed by Alexander’s son, Vasili, gathered
force, till the rumor spread that the Asiatics were moving toward the
city. Yielding for a time to the necessity imposed upon them, the
people again rallied, this time around Saint Sophia, and declared they
would meet their fate, be it what it might, rather than submit to the
unendurable subjugation. Alexander sent them word that he must leave
them to themselves, and go elsewhere. The Mongol emissaries were at
the gates: the people in the acquiescence of despair admitted them
to their streets. During the days that the baskaks, census-takers
and tax-gatherers, went from house to house—and the days were many,
for the city covered an area hardly less than that of London in this
century—its industries were suspended, its stirring, joyous life
extinguished in silence and gloom. The priceless possession of the
state, its freedom and independence, was lost: and though the great
lords and wealthy burghers might still boast of their wealth, the
simple citizens had lost what they had believed to be an enduring
heritage, and what they had cherished as an enduring hope.

Yet a restricted freedom still remained: nor till three centuries
later was this sacrificed to the power of the Muscovite and the unity
of the Russias. Even then the history of the republic belonged to
the Empire. The right of representation, of government by laws, and
by the free consent of the governed, were matters of history not to
be forgotten. The most rigid of Russian despots could not utterly
ignore them, and they have produced an element of unrest that, however
painful in its immediate results, is yet inevitable and healthful and
hopeful. They have been one of the influences at work, bringing to
tens and hundreds of thousands of lips the watch-word uttered since
the reign of Nicholas, on the rivers, on the mountain boundaries, in
the mines, the residence of the noble, the factory, and the hut of the
peasant—_Svobodnaya Rossia_: Free Russia.

Everywhere the collection of the tribute was attended with revolts. One
in Suzdal, sure to bring terrible reprisals upon the people, compelled
Alexander to a second journey to the Horde, where he had also to excuse
himself for failure to send his military contingent. The chronicles
aver that the men were defending their western frontiers at this time.
The khan detained his noble vassal for a year. On his return journey
the prince, whose bravery had endured so sore a conflict with his
sagacity and prudence, and whose health had weakened, died at a town
several days’ journey from Vladimir. When the tidings were brought to
Novgorod, the Metropolitan Kyrill, who was celebrating a religious
service, announced to the congregation: “Learn, my dear children, that
the sun of Russia is set.” “We are lost,” they answered, and sobs were
heard from all parts of the church.

Long will this Alexander, “helper of men,” be revered by his
countrymen. Religion and patriotism with them are one; hence it is
not strange that he is enrolled among the saints of the Church. As
protector of the modern capital, his name is given to its stateliest
promenade. The monastery dedicated to his memory is one of the three
Lauras, or seats of the Metropolitans, filled with treasures and
shrines of the illustrious dead. Thither repair the sovereigns before
the undertaking of momentous enterprises, even as the Nevski bowed
before the Divine Justice in Saint Sophia, ere he went forth upon his
expeditions and journeys. His timely submission saved the realm from
further exhaustion, while his military successes preserved it from
sinking under the hardest subjection that has ever been imposed upon a
European people.

Daniel, a son of this renowned prince, received as part of his appanage
the devastated town of Moscow, which up to this time had been an
obscure place, unnoticed by the annalists, beyond the mention of its
origin. They record that in 1043 the Grand Prince Iuri Dolgoruki,[C]
while on a journey, tarried at the domain of a boyar who for some
reason he caused to be put to death; that having his attention directed
to certain heights washed by the river Moskova, he brought settlers
thither, who built a village on the spot at present covered by the
Kreml. A little church, Our Savior of the Pines, is still preserved,
a relic of these early days. Daniel and his sons increased their
domains by the annexation of several cities; and during the life of
Iuri, the second son, was initiated a feud with the house of Tver,
that endured through eighty years ere it was closed by the merging
of the principality into that of Moscow. The contests of the two
kinsmen at the court of the Horde, illustrate the subserviency of
the princes to their conquerors. With many of them no deceptions or
malice were too base for the forwarding of their purposes. Iuri, by his
representations, contrived to obtain the arrest of the Prince of Tver.
While the khan was enjoying the chase in the region of the Caucasus,
Mikhail was pilloried in the market-place of a town of Daghestan, an
object of wondering comment to the populace. Both there and when held a
prisoner in his tent, he bore his sufferings with fortitude, consoling
himself with prayer and with the Psalms of David. As his hands were
bound, an attendant held the open book before him. His nobles would
have contrived his escape, but he remonstrated: “Escape and leave you
to the anger of my foe? Leave my principality to go down without its
ruler and father? If I can not save it, I can, at least, suffer with
it.” Later, when speaking with his young son, Konstantine, of their
far-off home, tears filled his eyes, and his soul was troubled. He
repeated the words of the Fifty-fifth Psalm: “Fearfulness and trembling
are come upon me, and horror hath overwhelmed me.” An attendant priest
endeavored to console him with the words: “Cast thy burden upon the
Lord and he shall sustain thee. He suffers not the righteous to be
moved.” The prince responded: “O, that I had wings like a dove; then
would I flee away and be at rest.” Iuri had procured a death-warrant
for his cousin, and attended by hired ruffians approached the tent,
from which the boyars and attendants had been ordered away. “I know
his purpose,” said Mikhail, as they took his hand in parting. When
the murder was done, Kavgadi, a Tatar, beholding the torn and naked
body, exclaimed against the indignity, and ordered it to be covered
with a mantle. Long did the Tverians bewail their martyred prince.
His body, incorruptible, it was averred, was recovered and laid to
rest in their cathedral, where the pictured record of his fate is
still vivid on its walls. He, too, is a saint, exalted by suffering,
as Alexander was exalted by heroism. Some years later, when his son,
Dmitri of the Terrible Eyes, met at Saraï the murderer of his father,
“his sword leaped from its scabbard,” and laid him low. He rendered
not unwillingly his own life in its prime as atonement for this act
of filial vengeance. Then, as now, a quick, and, as they say, an
uncontrollable impulse moved many a Russ to similar, sometimes to
inexplicable acts.

[Footnote C: _Vid._ THE CHAUTAUQUAN for January, p. 180, col. 1.]

A third Prince of Tver escaped from the plots of his grasping Muscovite
neighbor, Ivan Kalita, or Alms-bag, (1328) so called from that article
that hung ever at his girdle. Yet as he acquired great wealth by his
prudent management, which increased the commerce and industries of
his realm, he had not repute for self-denying charity. He established
markets and fairs along the Volga, that added to his revenues with many
hundred pounds of silver: probably in the _poltiras_, or half-pounds,
current from the time of Saint Vladimir to the fifteenth century.
About the year 1389 coins of silver and copper were substituted for
the marten skins that had been used as a medium of barter. A hundred
and fifty years later were introduced the rouble and copek,[D] the
coins most in use of the modern currency. Ivan also enriched the
Kreml with several stately churches, among them the Cathedral of the
Assumption—Uspenski Sobor—where for above three hundred years the tsars
have crowned themselves,—the most sacred of all the Russian churches
in the estimation of the people. From one of its interior corners
rises the shrine of the Metropolitan, Saint Peter, who is said to have
prophesied to his sovereign: “If thou wilt comfort my hoary years, wilt
build here a temple worthy of thy estate, and our religion; this thy
city shall be chief of all the cities of Russia. Through many centuries
shall thy race reign here in strength and glory. Their hands shall
prevail against their enemies, and the saints shall dwell in their
borders.”

Kalita is regarded as the first of the Muscovite princes.

    [To be continued.]

[Footnote D: Rouble signifies a piece broken off. Copek is thought to
be derived from the Russian word for lance, referring to the weapon of
Saint George stamped upon the coin.]




A GLANCE AT THE HISTORY AND LITERATURE OF SCANDINAVIA.

By L.A. SHERMAN, PH.D.


VII.—ESAIAS TEGNÉR: JOHANN LUDVIG RUNEBERG.

Now that we have finished our Carolinian romance, shall we hear
something of the author? He is certainly a brilliant poet, for
his story which we have been reading is no deep-planned and long
worked-over effort, but was written in the few days after a severe
sickness when the author could not yet leave his couch. He wrote
it to occupy his mind, and beguile the time. How is he esteemed in
Sweden? Will it be thought incredible when I say no old hero, not even
Charles XII., is reverenced there more deeply, no name is cherished so
fondly,—that no man so nearly seems worthy to be called the father of
his country, as this same poet-bishop, Esaias Tegnér?

All this is hard to explain, so many-sided was the life he led. We need
to realize that he was more active as a bishop and party-leader than a
poet. Then to appreciate him in the last capacity we must go among the
Swedes themselves. We shall find in him the bond of unity of a whole
nation, in that he has sung best the ancient glory of the race, and
discovered to the world the heroic integrity of the Northern character.
We shall note that it is he whose words are most, next to the Bible, on
the lips of every Swede. If we go into a peasant’s cottage, far from
railways and culture, we shall be sure to find some one who has not
only heard of the great poet, but can even repeat for us whole cantos
from his “Frithiof’s Saga,”—perhaps all of “Axel” itself. And nobody
even sets about learning these poems by heart: they cling to the memory
in spite of the reader.

But we must begin our history. Who were Tegnér’s parents? What was
their rank in life? C. W. Böttiger, Tegnér’s son-in-law, who wrote a
short life of the poet, shall answer for us:—

“A few years ago north of the church in Tegnaby, there was seen a
gray cottage fallen into ruins, with moss-grown walls and two little
windows of which one, according to the ancient custom of the province,
was in the roof. The people regarded it with a kind of reverence; and
if one asked the reason, the hat was raised with the answer: ‘The
Bishop’s grandfather once lived there.’ His name was Lucas Esai´asson,
his wife’s Ingeborg Mänsdotter. According to testimony handed down
traditionally in the parish, this Lucas Esaiasson was a poor but
exceedingly industrious and pious man. A peasant during a greater part
of the time when Charles XII. was king, he continued yet twenty years
after the ‘shot,’ a Carolinian at the plow. This and his Bible were his
dearest treasures, and all he had to leave to fourteen children, for
whom he procured bread with the plow after he had given them names from
the Scriptures. There was one called Paul, another John, a third Enoch,
and so on. A whole temple-progeny was growing up under his lowly roof:
the Old and New Testaments were embracing each other in his cottage.
The youngest son, born on the day of King Charles’s death, was named
Esaias. The older brothers inherited their father’s plow, and became
peasants; Esaias inherited his father’s Bible and became a minister.”

We wish we could continue to quote Mr. Böttiger, but his story proceeds
too slowly. This Esaias was the father of our poet. Showing unusual
aptitude for books, he was taken from the farm where he had gone out
to service, and placed in the school of Wexiö. Coming from the _by_
or village of Tegn, and having but one name, he was entered in the
school register, kept after the manner of the time in Latin, as Esaias
Tegnérus. The latter, the Latin suffix _us_ being omitted, became
afterward the family name.

In due time this Esaias Tegnér passed to the university, and after
graduation was ordained as we have seen, a minister. He is remembered
as a talented preacher, and merry man of society. He married a pastor’s
daughter whose mother was celebrated for wit, force of character,
and poetic gifts. Like qualities reappear in a marked degree in our
poet, who was the fifth son of this marriage. He was born in Kykerud
[Chikerood], November 13, 1782, and took his father’s name.

Ten years later the minister’s family was broken up by the death of
the father. Two daughters and four sons were thus left in a measure
to the charity of the world. The young Esaias was soon taken into the
counting-room of one Jacob Branting, a crown-bailiff of the province
and friend of the deceased pastor. Here he learned to keep accounts
and developed rapidly into a valuable clerk. All the leisure he could
command was given steadily to books. He read everything he could find,
particularly the old Norse sagas, and amused himself by turning some
of the driest themes of history and biography into poetical form. The
crisis in his life came early. He had been in Branting’s office four
years, and so won the respect and love of his employer as to be thought
of already as the future son-in-law and successor to the office of
bailiff. But Branting had observed the lad’s genius for books, and was
beginning to think him fitted for something higher. One night, as they
were riding together, Esaias astonished him by rehearsing with some
minuteness the principles of astronomy, which he had gathered from his
reading. Branting’s decision was at once made. “You shall study,” said
he. “As for the means, God will supply the sacrifice, and _I_ will not
forget you.”

Young Esaias commenced at once to study Latin, Greek, and French.
So remarkable was his memory that he was able, after glancing a few
times over a list of fifty or sixty words, to repeat them with their
meanings. To his other tasks he added later, the study of English,
which he learned by the aid of a translation of Ossian. A change soon
follows. Lars Gustaf, his oldest brother, not yet graduated from the
university, had been asked to serve as tutor in the family of a rich
manufacturer and owner of mines in Rämen. Lars consented on condition
that he might bring with him Esaias; for during his temporary absence
from the university he had undertaken to guide his brother’s work. The
rich proprietor into whose house they were to enter was Christopher
Myhrman, a name prominent in the history of Swedish manufactures.
He had himself built up the foundries and mills of Rämen, turning
the wilderness into a large and flourishing town. Amid his multifold
business cares he always found time to read his favorite Latin authors,
and enjoy the society of his family, whose circle at that time
comprised eight vigorous sons and two blooming daughters.

“To this place, and to this circle it was,” says Mr. Böttiger, “that
Lars Gustaf and Esaias Tegnér betook themselves one beautiful summer
afternoon in July, 1797. They had traveled in a carriage over the road
on which the owner of the mills had been obliged, twenty years before,
to bring his wife home upon a pack-saddle; but they left the coach
behind them and now came on foot at their leisure through the forest.
Suddenly there burst upon their gaze the loveliest prospect. On a point
of land, extending out into the water thickly set with islands, and
encircled with birch and fir, lay like a beautiful promise the pleasant
garden sloping in terraces to the sea, girded with the setting sun and
covered with shady trees. ‘Who knows what dwells under their branches,’
perhaps the poet-stripling was already asking, with quickened pulses.
_We_ know what dwelt beneath them. It was his good fortune he was
coming here to meet; it was amidst this smiling and magnificent nature
that his talents were destined to develop, his powers to be confirmed,
his wit to grow; it was over the threshold of this patriarchic
tabernacle that his knowledge was to be brought to ripeness, and his
heart find a companion for life.

“What here in the first room attracted his attention was the big
book-cases. He found them richly supplied not only with Swedish,
English, and French works, but also Greek and Roman authors of every
sort. With greedy eyes he fixed himself especially by the side of a
folio, on whose leathern back he read: _Homerus_. It was Castalio’s
edition, printed in Basel in 1561. Here was an acquaintance to make. He
made it immediately, and in a manner of which his own account is worthy
of being told:—

“‘So without any grammatical foundation, I resolved to attempt
the task immediately. At the outset it naturally proceeded slowly
and tediously. The many dialectic forms of which I had no idea at
all, laid me under great difficulties, which would probably have
discouraged any less energetic will. The Greek grammar I had used was
adapted to prose writers: of the poetic dialects nothing was said.
I was therefore compelled just here to devise a system for myself,
and further, to make notes from that time, which now show that among
many mistakes I sometimes was right. To give way before any sort of
difficulty was not at all my disposition; and the farther I went, the
easier my understanding of the poet became. With the prose writers
Xenophon and Lucian, I also made at this time a flying acquaintance;
but they interested me little, and my principal work continued to be
with Homer, and also Horace in Latin,