The Book of the Epic: The World's Great Epics Told in Story

The third canto tells how, after wandering around all night, White Aster finally emerges at dawn on the top of a cliff, at whose base nestles a tiny village, with one of the wonted shrines. Making her way down to this place, White Aster kneels in prayer, but her attitude is so weary that an old peasant, passing by, takes pity upon her and invites her to join his daughter in their little cottage. White Aster thus becomes an inmate of this rustic home, where she spends the next few years, her beauty increasing every day, until her fame spreads all over the land. Hearing of her unparalleled loveliness, the governor finally decides to marry her, although she is far beneath him in rank, and sends a matrimonial agent to bargain for her hand. The old rustic, awed by the prospect of so brilliant an alliance, consents without consulting White Aster, and he and the agent pick out in the calendar a propitious day for the wedding.

When the agent has departed, the old man informs his guest how he has promised her hand in marriage, adding that she has no choice and must consent. But White Aster exclaims that her mother, on her way to the temple one day, heard a strange sound in the churchyard. There she discovered, amongst the flowers, a tiny abandoned girl, whom she adopted, giving her the name of the blossoms around her.

"Once," she said,
"Ere morn had scarce begun to dawn, I went
To worship at the temple: as I passed
Through the churchyard 'twixt rows of gravestones hoar,
And blooming white chrysanthemums, I heard
The piteous wailing of a little child.
Which following, I found, amidst the flowers,
A fair young child with crimson-mouthing lips
And fresh soft cheek—a veritable gem.
I took it as a gift that Buddha sent
As guerdon of my faith, and brought it up
As my own child, to be my husband's joy
And mine: and, as I found thee couched
Amidst white-blooming asters, I named thee
White Aster in memorial of the day."

The little maiden adds that her adopted mother made her promise never to marry any one save her so-called brother, and declares she is bound in honor to respect this maternal wish. The governor, anxious to secure this beautiful bride, meantime sends the agent hurrying back with a chest full of gifts, the acceptance of which will make the bargain binding. So the clever agent proceeds to exhibit tokens, which so dazzle the old peasant that he greedily accepts them all, while admiring neighbors gape at them in wonder.

Poor little White Aster, perceiving it will be impossible to resist the pressure brought to bear upon her, steals out of the peasant's house at midnight, and, making her way across damp fields to the river, climbs up on the high bridge, whence she intends to fling herself into the rushing waters. She pauses, however, to utter a final prayer, and, closing her eyes, is about to spring when a hand grasps her and a glad voice exclaims she is safe! Turning around, White Aster's wondering eyes rest upon the recluse, who ever since he escaped from the brigand's clutches has vainly been seeking her everywhere. He declares they shall never part again and tenderly leads her home, where she is overjoyed to find her father, who still mourns her absence.

Thankful for the return of his child, the father relates how, having fallen into a ravine,—where he found water and berries in plenty,—he vainly tried to scale the rocks, to escape from its depths and return home. All his efforts having proved vain, he was almost ready to give up in despair, when a band of monkeys appeared at the top of the cliff and by grimaces and sounds showed him how to climb out by means of the hanging vines. Trusting to these weak supports, the father scaled the rocks, but on arriving at the summit was surprised to discover no trace of the monkeys who had taught him how to escape. He remembered, however, that while hunting one day he had aimed at a mother monkey and her babe, but had not injured them because the poor mother had made such distressing sounds of despair. He adds it was probably in reward for this act of mercy that the monkeys saved his life.

"I spared her life;
And she, in turn, seeing my sorry plight,
Cried to me from the rocks, and showed the way
To flee from certain death."

Thus, this epic ends with a neat little moral, and with the comforting assurance that White Aster, her father, and husband lived happy ever afterward.

AMERICAN EPICS

When Europeans first landed on this continent, they found it occupied by various tribes of Indians, speaking—it is estimated—some six hundred different languages or dialects. At first no systematic effort could be made to discover the religion or traditions of the native Americans, but little by little we have learned that they boasted a rich folk-lore, and that their nature-myths and hero-tales were recited by the fireside from generation to generation. Because there were tribes in different degrees of evolution between savagery and the rudimentary stages of civilization, there are more or less rude myths and folk-tales in the samples with which we have thus become familiar.

Among the more advanced tribes, Indian folk-lore bears the imprint of a weirdly poetical turn of mind, and ideas are often vividly and picturesquely expressed by nature similes. Some of this folk-lore is embodied in hymns, or what have also been termed nature-epics, which are now being carefully preserved for future study by professional collectors of folk-lore. Aside from a few very interesting creation myths and stories of the Indian gods, there is a whole fund of nature legends of which we have a characteristic sample in Bayard Taylor's Mon-da-min, or Creation of the Maize, and also in the group of legends welded into a harmonious whole by Longfellow in the "American-Indian epic" Hiawatha.

The early European settlers found so many material obstacles to overcome, that they had no leisure for the cultivation of literature. Aside from letters, diaries, and reports, therefore, no early colonial literature exists. But, with the founding of the first colleges in America,—Harvard, Yale, William and Mary, the College of New Jersey, and King's College (now Columbia),—and with the introduction of the printing press, the American literary era may be said to begin.

The Puritans, being utterly devoid of aesthetic taste, considered all save religious poetry sinful in the extreme; so it was not until the middle of the seventeenth century that Fame could trumpet abroad the advent of "the Tenth Muse," or "the Morning Star of American Poetry," in the person of Anne Bradstreet! Among her poems—which no one ever reads nowadays—is "An Exact Epitome of the Three First Monarchies, viz., the Assyrian, Persian, and Grecian, and the Beginning of the Roman Commonwealth to the End of their Last King," a work which some authorities rank as the first American epic (1650). This was soon (1662) followed by Michael Wigglesworth's "Day of Doom," or "Poetical Description of the Great and Last Judgement," wherein the author, giving free play to his imagination, crammed so many horrors that it afforded ghastly entertainment for hosts of young Puritans while it passed through its nine successive editions in this country and two in England. Although devoid of real poetic merit, this work never failed to give perusers "the creeps," as the following sample will sufficiently prove:

Then might you hear them rend and tear
The air with their outcries;
The hideous noise of their sad voice
Ascendant to the skies.
They wring their hands, their caitiff hands,
And gnash their teeth for terror;
They cry, they roar, for anguish sore,
And gnaw their tongue for horror.
But get away without delay;
Christ pities not your cry;
Depart to hell, there may you yell
And roar eternally.

The Revolutionary epoch gave birth to sundry epic ballads—such as Francis Hopkinson's Battle of the Kegs and Major André's Cow Chase—and "to three epics, each of them almost as long as the Iliad, which no one now reads, and in which one vainly seeks a touch of nature or a bit of genuine poetry." This enormous mass of verse includes Trumbull's burlesque epic, McFingal (1782), a work so popular in its day that collectors possess samples of no less than thirty pirated editions. Although favorably compared to Butler's Hudibras, and "one of the Revolutionary forces," this poem—a satire on the Tories—has left few traces in our language, aside from the familiar quotation:

A thief ne'er felt the halter draw
With good opinion of the law.

The second epic of this period is Timothy Dwight's "Conquest of Canaan" in eleven books, and the third Barlow's "Columbiad." The latter interminable work was based on the poet's pompous Vision of Columbus, which roused great admiration when it appear (1807). While professing to relate the memorable voyage of Columbus in a grandly heroic strain, the Columbiad introduces all manner of mythical and fantastic personages and events. In spite of its writer's learning and imagination, this voluminous epic fell quite flat when published, and there are now very few persons who have accomplished the feat of reading it all the way through. Still, it contains passages not without merit, as the following lines prove:

Long on the deep the mists of morning lay,
Then rose, revealing, as they rolled away,
Half-circling hills, whose everlasting woods
Sweep with their sable skirts the shadowy floods:
And say, when all, to holy transport given,
Embraced and wept as at the gates of Heaven,
When one and all of us, repentant, ran,
And, on our faces, blessed the wondrous man:
Say, was I then deceived, or from the skies
Burst on my ear seraphic harmonies?
"Glory to God!" unnumbered voices sung:
"Glory to God!" the vales and mountains rang.
Voices that hailed Creation's primal morn,
And to the shepherds sung a Saviour born.
Slowly, bare-headed, through the surf we bore
The sacred cross, and, kneeling, kissed the shore.
'But what a scene was there? Nymphs of romance,
Youths graceful as the Fawn, with eager glance,
Spring from the glades, and down the alleys peep,
Then headlong rush, bounding from steep to steep,
And clap their hands, exclaiming as they run,
"Come and behold the Children of the Sun!"

Not content with an epic apiece, Barlow and Trumbull, with several other "Hartford wits," joined forces in composing the Anarchiad, which exercised considerable influence on the politics of its time.

In 1819 appeared Washington Irving's Sketch-Book, which contains the two classics, Legend of the Sleepy Hollow, and Rip Van Winkle, which are sometimes quoted as inimitable samples of local epics in prose. Cooper's Leather-stocking series of novels, including the Deerslayer, The Last of the Mohicans, The Pathfinder, The Pioneers, and The Prairie, are also often designated as "prose epics of the Indian as he was in Cooper's imagination," while some of his sea-stories, such as The Pirate, have been dubbed "epics of the sea." Bryant, first-born of our famous group of nineteenth-century American poets, made use of many of the Indian myths and legends in his verse. But he rendered his greatest service to epic poetry by his translations of the Iliad and the Odyssey, accomplished when already eighty years of age.

There are sundry famous American heroic odes or poems which contain epic lines, such as Halleck's Marco Bozzaris, Dana's Buccaneers, Lowell's Vision of Sir Launfal, and Biglow Papers, Whittier's Mogg Megone, Holmes's Grandmother's Story of Bunker Hill Battle, Taylor's Amram's Wooing, Emerson's Concord Hymn, etc., etc. Then, too, some critics rank as prose epics Hawthorne's Scarlet Letter, Poe's Fall of the House of Usher, Hale's Man Without a Country, Bret Harte's Luck of Roaring Camp, Helen Hunt Jackson's Ramona, etc., etc.

It is, however, Longfellow, America's most popular poet, who has written the nearest approach to a real epic, and the poems most likely to live, in his Wreck of the Hesperus, Skeleton in Armor, Golden Legend, Hiawatha, Tales of a Wayside Inn, Courtship of Miles Standish, and Evangeline, besides translating Dante's grand epic The Divine Comedy.

In Longfellow's Wreck of the Hesperus we have a miniature nautical epic, in the Skeleton in Armor our only epic relating to the Norse discovery, in the Golden Legend, and in many of the Tales of a Wayside Inn, happy adaptations of mediaeval epics or romances.

Hiawatha, often termed "the Indian Edda," is written in the metre of the old Finnish Kalevala, and contains the essence of many Indian legends, together with charming descriptions of the woods, the waters, and their furry, feathered, and finny denizens. Every one has followed entranced the career of Hiawatha, from birth to childhood and boyhood, watched with awe his painful initiation to manhood and with tender sympathy his idyllic wooing of Minnehaha and their characteristic wedding festivities. Innumerable youthful hearts have swelled at his anguish during the Famine, and countless tears have silently dropped at the death of the sweet little Indian squaw. After connecting this Indian legend with the coming of the White Man from the East, the poet, knowing the Red man had to withdraw before the new-comer skilfully made use of a sun-myth, and allowed us to witness Hiawatha's departure, full of allegorical significance:

Thus departed Hiawatha,
Hiawatha the Beloved,