About Emma Lazarus. (Written For "The Century Magazine")

Born July 22, 1849; Died November 19, 1887.     One hesitates to lift the veil and throw the light upon a life so     hidden and a personality so withdrawn as that of Emma Lazarus; but     while her memory is fresh, and the echo of her songs still lingers     in these pages, we feel it a duty to call up her presence once more,     and to note the traits that made it remarkable and worthy to shine     out clearly before the world. Of dramatic episode or climax in her     life there is none; outwardly all was placid and serene, like an     untroubled stream whose depths alone hold the strong, quick tide.     The story of her life is the story of a mind, of a spirit, ever     seeking, ever striving, and pressing onward and upward to new truth     and light. Her works are the mirror of this progress. In reviewing     them, the first point that strikes us is the precocity, or rather     the spontaneity, of her poetic gift. She was a born singer; poetry     was her natural language, and to write was less effort than to speak,     for she was a shy, sensitive child, with strange reserves and     reticences, not easily putting herself "en rapport" with those around     her. Books were her world from her earliest years; in them she     literally lost and found herself. She was eleven years old when the     War of Succession broke out, which inspired her first lyric outbursts.     Her poems and translations written between the ages of fourteen and     seventeen were collected, and constituted her first published volume.     Crude and immature as these productions naturally were, and utterly     condemned by the writer's later judgment, they are, nevertheless,     highly interesting and characteristic, giving, as they do, the     keynote of much that afterwards unfolded itself in her life. One     cannot fail to be rather painfully impressed by the profound     melancholy pervading the book. The opening poem is "In Memoriam," -     on the death of a school friend and companion; and the two following     poems also have death for theme. "On a Lock of my Mother's Hair" gives     us reflections on growing old. These are the four poems written at     the age of fourteen. There is not a wholly glad and joyous strain in     the volume, and we might smile at the recurrence of broken vows,     broken hearts, and broken lives in the experience of this maiden just     entered upon her teens, were it not that the innocent child herself     is in such deadly earnest. The two long narrative poems, "Bertha" and     "Elfrida," are tragic in the extreme. Both are dashed off apparently     at white heat: "Elfrida," over fifteen hundred lines of blank verse,     in two weeks; "Bertha," in three and a half. We have said that Emma     Lazarus was a born singer, but she did not sing, like a bird, for     joy of being alive; and of being young, alas! there is no hint in     these youthful effusions, except inasmuch as this unrelieved gloom,     this ignorance of "values," so to speak, is a sign of youth, common     especially among gifted persons of acute and premature sensibilities,     whose imagination, not yet focused by reality, overreached the mark.     With Emma Lazarus, however, this sombre streak has a deeper root;     something of birth and temperament is in it - the stamp and heritage     of a race born to suffer. But dominant and fundamental though it was,     Hebraism was only latent thus far. It was classic and romantic art     that first attracted and inspired her. She pictures Aphrodite the     beautiful, arising from the waves, and the beautiful Apollo and his     loves, - Daphne, pursued by the god, changing into the laurel, and the     enamored Clytie into the faithful sunflower. Beauty, for its own     sake, supreme and unconditional, charmed her primarily and to the end.     Her restless spirit found repose in the pagan idea, - the absolute     unity and identity of man with nature, as symbolized in the Greek     myths, where every natural force becomes a person, and where, in turn,     persons pass with equal readiness and freedom back into nature again.     In this connection a name would suggest itself even if it did not     appear, - Heine, the Greek, Heine the Jew, Heine the Romanticist, as     Emma Lazarus herself has styled him; and already in this early volume     of hers we have trace of the kinship and affinity that afterwards so     plainly declared itself. Foremost among the translations are a     number of his songs, rendered with a finesse and a literalness that     are rarely combined. Four years later, at the age of twenty-one,     she published her second volume, "Admetus and Other Poems," which     at once took rank as literature both in America and England, and     challenged comparison with the work of established writers. Of     classic themes we have "Admetus" and "Orpheus," and of romantic the     legend of Tannhauser and of the saintly Lohengrin. All are treated     with an artistic finish that shows perfect mastery of her craft,     without detracting from the freshness and flow of her inspiration.     While sounding no absolutely new note in the world, she yet makes     us aware of a talent of unusual distinction, and a highly endowed     nature, - a sort of tact of sentiment and expression, an instinct     of the true and beautiful, and that quick intuition which is like     second-sight in its sensitiveness to apprehend and respond to external     stimulus. But it is not the purely imaginative poems in this volume     that most deeply interest us. We come upon experience of life in     these pages; not in the ordinary sense, however, of outward activity     and movement, but in the hidden undercurrent of being. "The epochs     of our life are not in the visible facts, but in the silent thoughts     by the wayside as we walk." This is the motto, drawn from Emerson,     which she chooses for her poem of "Epochs," which marks a pivotal     moment in her life. Difficult to analyze, difficult above all to     convey, if we would not encroach upon the domain of private and     personal experience, is the drift of this poem, or rather cycle of     poems, that ring throughout with a deeper accent and a more direct     appeal than has yet made itself felt. It is the drama of the human     soul, - "the mystic winged and flickering butterfly," "flitting     between earth and sky," in its passage from birth to death.     A golden morning of June! "Sweet empty sky without a stain."     Sunlight and mist and "ripple of rain-fed rills." "A murmur and a     singing manifold."         "What simple things be these the soul to raise          To bounding joy, and make young pulses beat          With nameless pleasure, finding life so sweet!"     Such is youth, a June day, fair and fresh and tender with dreams and     longing and vague desire. The morn lingers and passes, but the noon     has not reached its height before the clouds begin to rise, the     sunshine dies, the air grows thick and heavy, the lightnings flash,     the thunder breaks among the hills, rolls and gathers and grows,     until             Behold, yon bolt struck home,          And over ruined fields the storm hath come."     Now we have the phases of the soul, - the shock and surprise of grief     in the face of the world made desolate. Loneliness and despair for     a space, and then, like stars in the night, the new births of the     spirit, the wonderful outcoming from sorrow: the mild light of patience     at first; hope and faith kindled afresh in the very jaws of evil;     the new meaning and worth of life beyond sorrow, beyond joy; and     finally duty, the holiest word of all, that leads at last to victory     and peace. The poem rounds and completes itself with the close of     "the long, rich day," and the release of         "The mystic winged and flickering butterfly,         A human soul, that drifts at liberty,         Ah! who can tell to what strange paradise,         To what undreamed-of fields and lofty skies!"     We have dwelt at some length upon this poem, which seems to us, in a     certain sense, subjective and biographical; but upon closer analysis     there is still another conclusion to arrive at. In "Epochs" we have,     doubtless, the impress of a calamity brought very near to the writer,     and profoundly working upon her sensibilities; not however by direct,     but reflex action, as it were, and through sympathetic emotion - the     emotion of the deeply-stirred spectator, of the artist, the poet who     lives in the lives of others, and makes their joys and their sorrows     his own.     Before dismissing this volume we may point out another clue as to the     shaping of mind and character. The poem of "Admetus" is dedicated     "to my friend Ralph Waldo Emerson." Emma Lazarus was between     seventeen and eighteen years of age when the writings of Emerson     fell into her hands, and it would be difficult to over-estimate the     impression produced upon her. As she afterwards wrote: "To how many     thousand youthful hearts has not his word been the beacon - nay,     more, the guiding star - that led them safely through periods of     mental storm and struggle!" Of no one is this more true than herself.     Left, to a certain extent, without compass or guide, without any     positive or effective religious training, this was the first great     moral revelation of her life. We can easily realize the chaos and     ferment of an over-stimulated brain, steeped in romantic literature,     and given over to the wayward leadings of the imagination. Who can     tell what is true, what is false, in a world where fantasy is as real     as fact? Emerson's word fell like truth itself, "a shaft of light     shot from the zenith," a golden rule of thought and action. His     books were bread and wine to her, and she absorbed them into her     very being. She felt herself invincibly drawn to the master, "that     fount of wisdom and goodness," and it was her great privilege during     these years to be brought into personal relations with him. From     the first he showed her a marked interest and sympathy, which became     for her one of the most valued possessions of her life. He criticised     her work with the fine appreciation and discrimination that made     him quick to discern the quality of her talent as well as of her     personality, and he was no doubt attracted by her almost transparent     sincerity and singleness of soul, as well as by the simplicity and     modesty that would have been unusual even in a person not gifted.     He constituted himself, in a way, her literary mentor, advised her     as to the books she should read and the attitude of mind she should     cultivate. For some years he corresponded with her very faithfully;     his letters are full of noble and characteristic utterances, and     give evidence of a warm regard that in itself was a stimulus and a     high incentive. But encouragement even from so illustrious a source     failed to elate the young poetess, or even to give her a due sense     of the importance and value of her work, or the dignity of her     vocation. We have already alluded to her modesty in her unwillingness     to assert herself or claim any prerogative, - something even morbid     and exaggerated, which we know not how to define, whether as over-     sensitiveness or indifference. Once finished, the heat and glow of     composition spent, her writings apparently ceased to interest her.     She often resented any allusion to them on the part of intimate     friends, and the public verdict as to their excellence could not     reassure or satisfy her. The explanation is not far, perhaps, to     seek. Was it not the "Ewig-Weibliche" that allows no prestige but     its own? Emma Lazarus was a true woman, too distinctly feminine to     wish to be exceptional, or to stand alone and apart, even by virtue     of superiority.     A word now as to her life and surroundings. She was one of a family     of seven, and her parents were both living. Her winters were passed     in New York, and her summers by the sea. In both places her life was     essentially quiet and retired. The success of her book had been     mainly in the world of letters. In no wise tricked out to catch the     public eye, her writings had not yet made her a conspicuous figure,     but were destined slowly to take their proper place and give her the     rank that she afterwards held.     For some years now almost everything that she wrote was published     in "Lippincott's Magazine," then edited by John Foster Kirk, and we     shall still find in her poems the method and movement of her life.     Nature is still the fount and mirror, reflecting, and again reflected,     in the soul. We have picture after picture, almost to satiety,     until we grow conscious of a lack of substance and body and of vital     play to the thought, as though the brain were spending itself in     dreamings and reverie, the heart feeding upon itself, and the life     choked by its own fullness without due outlet. Happily, however,     the heavy cloud of sadness has lifted, and we feel the subsidence     of waves after a storm. She sings "Matins:" -             "Does not the morn break thus,             Swift, bright, victorious,             With new skies cleared for us             Over the soul storm-tost?             Her night was long and deep,             Strange visions vexed her sleep,             Strange sorrows bade her weep,             Her faith in dawn was lost.             "No halt, no rest for her,             The immortal wanderer             From sphere to higher sphere             Toward the pure source of day.             The new light shames her fears,             Her faithlessness and tears,             As the new sun appears             To light her god-like way."     Nature is the perpetual resource and consolation. "'T is good to be     alive!" she says, and why? Simply,                 "To see the light         That plays upon the grass, to feel (and sigh         With perfect pleasure) the mild breeze stir          Among the garden roses, red and white,          With whiffs of fragrancy."     She gives us the breath of the pines and of the cool, salt seas,     "illimitably sparkling." Her ears drink the ripple of the tide,     and she stops      "To gaze as one who is not satisfied         With gazing at the large, bright, breathing sea."     "Phantasies" (after Robert Schumann) is the most complete and perfect     poem of this period. Like "Epochs," it is a cycle of poems, and the     verse has caught the very trick of music, - alluring, baffling, and     evasive. This time we have the landscape of the night, the glamour     of moon and stars, - pictures half real and half unreal, mystic     imaginings, fancies, dreams, and the enchantment of "faerie," and     throughout the unanswered cry, the eternal "Wherefore" of destiny.     Dawn ends the song with a fine clear note, the return of day, night's     misty phantoms rolled away, and the world itself, again green,     sparkling and breathing freshness.     In 1874 she published "Alide," a romance in prose drawn from Goethe's     autobiography. It may be of interest to quote the letter she     received from Tourgeneff on this occasion: -     "Although, generally speaking, I do not think it advisable     to take celebrated men, especially poets and artists, as a     subject for a novel, still I am truly glad to say that I     have read your book with the liveliest interest. It is     very sincere and very poetical at the same time; the life     and spirit of Germany have no secrets for you, and your     characters are drawn with a pencil as delicate as it is     strong. I feel very proud of the approbation you give to     my works, and of the influence you kindly attribute to them     on your own talent; an author who write as you do is not     a pupil in art any more; he is not far from being himself     a master."     Charming and graceful words, of which the young writer was justly     proud.     About this time occurred the death of her mother, the first break in     the home and family circle. In August of 1876 she made a visit to     Concord, at the Emersons', memorable enough for her to keep a journal     and note down every incident and detail. Very touching to read now,     in its almost childlike simplicity, is this record of "persons that     pass and shadows that remain." Mr. Emerson himself meets her at the     station, and drives with her in his little one-horse wagon to his     home, the gray square house, with dark green blinds, set amidst noble     trees. A glimpse of the family, - "the stately, white-haired Mrs.     Emerson, and the beautiful, faithful Ellen, whose figure seems always     to stand by the side of her august father." Then the picture of     Concord itself, lovely and smiling, with its quiet meadows, quiet     slopes, and quietest of rivers. She meets the little set of Concord     people: Mr. Alcott, for whom she does not share Mr. Emerson's     enthusiasm; and William Ellery Channing, whose figure stands out like     a gnarled and twisted scrub-oak, - a pathetic, impossible creature,     whose cranks and oddities were submitted to on account of an innate     nobility of character. "Generally crabbed and reticent with     strangers, he took a liking to me," says Emma Lazarus. "The bond     of our sympathy was my admiration for Thoreau, whose memory he     actually worships, having been his constant companion in his best     days, and his daily attendant in the last years of illness and heroic     suffering. I do not know whether I was most touched by the thought     of the unique, lofty character that had inspired this depth and     fervor of friendship, or by the pathetic constancy and pure affection     of the poor, desolate old man before me, who tried to conceal his     tenderness and sense of irremediable loss by a show of gruffness and     philosophy. He never speaks of Thoreau's death," she says, "but     always 'Thoreau's loss,' or 'when I lost Mr. Thoreau,' or 'when Mr.     Thoreau went away from Concord;' nor would he confess that he missed     him, for there was not a day, an hour, a moment, when he did not     feel that his friend was still with him and had never left him. And     yet a day or two after," she goes on to say, "when I sat with him in     the sunlit wood, looking at the gorgeous blue and silver summer sky,     he turned to me and said: 'Just half of the world died for me when I     lost Mr. Thoreau. None of it looks the same as when I looked at it     with him.'. . . He took me through the woods and pointed out to me     every spot visited and described by his friend. Where the hut stood     is a little pile of stones, and a sign, 'Site of Thoreau's Hut,' and     a few steps beyond is the pond with thickly-wooded shore, - everything     exquisitely peaceful and beautiful in the afternoon light, and not     a sound to be heard except the crickets or the 'z-ing' of the locusts     which Thoreau has described. Farther on he pointed out to me, in     the distant landscape, a low roof, the only one visible, which was     the roof of Thoreau's birthplace. He had been over there many times,     he said, since he lost Mr. Thoreau, but had never gone in, - he was     afraid it might look lonely! But he had often sat on a rock in     front of the house and looked at it." On parting from his young     friend, Mr. Channing gave her a package, which proved to be a copy     of his own book on Thoreau, and the pocket compass which Thoreau     carried to the Maine woods and on all his excursions. Before leaving     the Emersons she received the proof-sheets of her drama of "The     Spagnoletto," which was being printed for private circulation. She     showed them to Mr. Emerson, who had expressed a wish to see them,     and, after reading them, he gave them back to her with the comment     that they were "good." She playfully asked him if he would not give     her a bigger word to take home to the family. He laughed, and said     he did not know of any; but he went on to tell her that he had     taken it up, not expecting to read it through, and had not been able     to put it down. Every word and line told of richness in the poetry,     he said, and as far as he could judge the play had great dramatic     opportunities. Early in the autumn "The Spagnoletto" appeared, - a     tragedy in five acts, the scene laid in Italy, 1655.     Without a doubt, every one in these days will take up with misgiving,     and like Mr. Emerson "not expecting to read it through," a five-act     tragedy of the seventeenth century, so far removed apparently from     the age and present actualities, - so opposed to the "Modernite,"     which has come to be the last word of art. Moreover, great names at     once appear; great shades arise to rebuke the presumptuous new-comer     in this highest realm of expression. "The Spagnoletto" has grave     defects that would probably preclude its ever being represented on     the stage. The denoument especially is unfortunate, and sins against     our moral and aesthetic instinct. The wretched, tiger-like father     stabs himself in the presence of his crushed and erring daughter, so     that she may forever be haunted by the horror and the retribution of     his death. We are left suspended, as it were, over an abyss, our     moral judgment thwarted, our humanity outraged. But "The Spagnoletto"     is, nevertheless, a remarkable production, and pitched in another     key from anything the writer has yet given us. Heretofore we have     only had quiet, reflective, passive emotion: now we have a storm     and sweep of passion for which we were quite unprepared. Ribera's     character is charged like a thunder-cloud with dramatic elements.     Maria Rosa is the child of her father, fired at a flash, "deaf, dumb,     and blind" at the touch of passion.          "Does love steal gently o'er our soul?"     she asks;              "What if he come,             A cloud, a fire, a whirlwind?"     and then the cry:                 "O my God!         This awful joy in mine own heart is love."     Again:         "While you are here the one thing real to me         In all the universe is love."     Exquisitely tender and refined are the love scenes - at the ball and     in the garden - between the dashing prince-lover in search of his     pleasure and the devoted girl with her heart in her eyes, on her     lips, in her hand. Behind them, always like a tragic fate, the     somber figure of the Spagnoletto, and over all the glow and color     and soul of Italy.     In 1881 appeared the translation of Heine's poems and ballads, which     was generally accepted as the best version of that untranslatable     poet. Very curious is the link between that bitter, mocking, cynic     spirit and the refined, gentle spirit of Emma Lazarus. Charmed by     the magic of his verse, the iridescent play of his fancy, and the     sudden cry of the heart piercing through it all, she is as yet unaware     or only vaguely conscious of the of the real bond between them: the     sympathy in the blood, the deep, tragic, Judaic passion of eighteen     hundred years that was smouldering in her own heart, soon to break     out and change the whole current of thought and feeling.     Already, in 1879, the storm was gathering. In a distant province     of Russia at first, then on the banks of the Volga, and finally in     Moscow itself, the old cry was raised, the hideous mediaeval charge     revived, and the standard of persecution unfurled against the Jews.     Province after province took it up. In Bulgaria, Servia, and, above     all, Roumania, where, we were told, the sword of the Czar had been     drawn to protect the oppressed, Christian atrocities took the place     of Moslem atrocities, and history turned a page backward into the dark     annals of violence and crime. And not alone in despotic Russia, but     in Germany, the seat of modern philosophic thought and culture, the     rage of Anti-Semitism broke out and spread with fatal ease and potency.     In Berlin itself tumults and riots were threatened. We in America     could scarcely comprehend the situation or credit the reports, and     for a while we shut our eyes and ears to the facts; but we were soon     rudely awakened from our insensibility, and forced to face the truth.     It was in England that the voice was first raised in behalf of     justice and humanity. In January, 1881, there appeared in the     "London Times" a series of articles, carefully compiled on the     testimony of eye-witnesses, and confirmed by official documents,     records, etc., giving an account of events that had been taking place     in southern and western Russia during a period of nine months,     between April and December of 1880. We do not need to recall the     sickening details. The headings will suffice: outrage, murder, arson,     and pillage, and the result, - 100,000 Jewish families made homeless     and destitute, and nearly $100,000,000 worth of property destroyed.     Nor need we recall the generous outburst of sympathy and indignation     from America. "It is not that it is the oppression of Jews by     Russia," said Mr. Evarts in the meeting at Chickering Hall Wednesday     evening, February 4; "it is that it is the oppression of men and     women, and we are men and women." So spoke civilized Christendom,     and for Judaism, - who can describe that thrill of brotherhood,     quickened anew, the immortal pledge of the race, made one again     through sorrow? For Emma Lazarus it was a trumpet call that awoke     slumbering and unguessed echoes. All this time she had been seeking     heroic ideals in alien stock, soulless and far removed; in pagan     mythology and mystic, mediaeval Christianity, ignoring her very     birthright, - the majestic vista of the past, down which, "high above     flood and fire," had been conveyed the precious scroll of the Moral     Law. Hitherto Judaism had been a dead letter to her. Of Portuguese     descent, her family had always been members of the oldest and most     orthodox congregation of New York, where strict adherence to custom     and ceremonial was the watchword of faith; but it was only during     her childhood and earliest years that she attended the synagogue,     and conformed to the prescribed rites and usages which she had now     long since abandoned as obsolete and having no bearing on modern     life. Nor had she any great enthusiasm for her own people. As late     as April, 1882, she published in "The Century Magazine" an article     written probably some months before, entitled "Was the Earl of     Beaconsfield a Representative Jew?" in which she is disposed to     accept as the type of the modern Jew the brilliant, successful, but     not over-scrupulous chevalier d'industrie. In view of subsequent,     or rather contemporaneous events, the closing paragraph of the article     in question is worthy of being cited: -     "Thus far their religion [the Jewish], whose mere preservation     under such adverse conditions seems little short of a miracle,     has been deprived of the natural means of development and     progress, and has remained a stationary force. The next     hundred years will, in our opinion be the test of their     vitality as a people; the phase of toleration upon which     they are only now entering will prove whether or not they     are capable of growth."     By a curious, almost fateful juxtaposition, in the same number of     the magazine appeared Madame Ragozin's defense of Russian barbarity,     and in the following (May) number Emma Lazarus's impassioned appeal     and reply, "Russian Christianity versus Modern Judaism." From     this time dated the crusade that she undertook in behalf of her race,     and the consequent expansion of all her faculties, the growth of     spiritual power which always ensues when a great cause is espoused     and a strong conviction enters the soul. Her verse rang out as it     had never rung before, - a clarion note, calling a people to heroic     action and unity, to the consciousness and fulfillment of a grand     destiny. When has Judaism been so stirred as by "The Crowing of     the Red Cock" and              The Banner Of The Jew.          Wake, Israel, wake! Recall to-day          The glorious Maccabean rage,          The sire heroic, hoary-gray,          His five-fold lion-lineage;          The Wise, the Elect, the Help-of-God,          The Burst-of-Spring, the Avenging Rod.          From Mizpeh's mountain ridge they saw          Jerusalem's empty streets; her shrine          Laid waste where Greeks profaned the Law          With idol and with pagan sign.          Mourners in tattered black were there          With ashes sprinkled on their hair.          Then from the stony peak there rang          A blast to ope the graves; down poured          The Maccabean clan, who sang          Their battle anthem to the Lord.          Five heroes lead, and following, see          Ten thousand rush to victory!          Oh for Jerusalem's trumpet now,          To blow a blast of shattering power,          To wake the sleeper high and low,          And rouse them to the urgent hour!          No hand for vengeance, but to save,          A million naked swords should wave.          Oh, deem not dead that martial fire,          Say not the mystic flame is spent!          With Moses' law and David's lyre,          Your ancient strength remains unbent.          Let but an Ezra rise anew,          To lift the BANNER OF THE JEW!          A rag, a mock at first, - erelong          When men have bled and women wept,          To guard its precious folds from wrong,          Even they who shrunk, even they who slept,          Shall leap to bless it and to save.          Strike! for the brave revere the brave!     The dead forms burst their bonds and lived again. She sings "Rosh     Hashanah" (the Jewish New Year) and "Hanuckah (the Feast of Lights): -      "Kindle the taper like the steadfast star         Ablaze on Evening's forehead o'er the earth,         And add each night a lustre till afar         An eight-fold splendor shine above thy hearth.         Clash, Israel, the cymbals, touch the lyre,         Blow the brass trumpet and the harsh-tongued horn;         Chant psalms of victory till the heart take fire,         The Maccabean spirit leap new-born."     And "The New Ezekiel:" -      "What! can these dead bones live, whose sap is dried         By twenty scorching centuries of wrong?         Is this the House of Israel whose pride         Is as a tale that's told, an ancient song?         Are these ignoble relics all that live         Of psalmist, priest, and prophet? Can the breath         Of very heaven bid these bones revive,         Open the graves, and clothe the ribs of death?         Yea, Prophesy, the Lord hath said again:         Say to the wind, come forth and breathe afresh,         Even that they may live, upon these slain,         And bone to bone shall leap, and flesh to flesh.         The spirit is not dead, proclaim the word.         Where lay dead bones a host of armed men stand!         I ope your graves, my people, saith the Lord,         And I shall place you living in your land."     Her whole being renewed and refreshed itself at its very source. She     threw herself into the study of her race, its language, literature,     and history.     Breaking the outward crust, she pierced to the heart of the faith     and "the miracle" of its survival. What was it other than the ever-     present, ever-vivifying spirit itself, which cannot die, - the     religious and ethical zeal which fires the whole history of the     people, and of which she herself felt the living glow within her own     soul? She had come upon the secret and the genius of Judaism, - that     absolute interpenetration and transfusion of spirit with body and     substance which, taken literally, often reduces itself to a question     of food and drink, a dietary regulation, and again, in proper     splendor,     incarnates itself and shines out before humanity in the prophets,     teachers, and saviors of mankind.     Those were busy, fruitful years for Emma Lazarus, who worked, not     with the pen alone, but in the field of practical and beneficent     activity. For there was an immense task to accomplish. The tide of     immigration had set in, and ship after ship came laden with hunted     human beings flying from their fellow-men, while all the time, like     a tocsin, rang the terrible story of cruelty and persecution, - horrors     that the pen refuses to dwell upon. By the hundreds and thousands     they flocked upon our shores, - helpless, innocent victims of injustice     and oppression, panic-stricken in the midst of strange and utterly     new surroundings.     Emma Lazarus came into personal contact with these people, and     visited them in their refuge on Ward Island. While under the     influence of all the emotions aroused by this great crisis in the     history of her race, she wrote the "Dance of Death," a drama of     persecution of the twelfth century, founded upon the authentic     records, - unquestionably her finest work in grasp and scope, and,     above all, in moral elevation and purport. The scene is laid in     Nordhausen, a free city in Thuringia, where the Jews, living, as the     deemed, in absolute security and peace, were caught up in the wave of     persecution that swept over Europe at that time. Accused of poisoning     the wells and causing the pestilence, or black death, as it was called,     they were condemned to be burned.     We do not here intend to enter upon a critical or literary analysis     of the play, or to point out dramatic merits or defects, but we     should like to make its readers feel with us the holy ardor and     impulse of the writer and the spiritual import of the work. The     action is without surprise, the doom fixed from the first; but so     glowing is the canvas with local and historic color, so vital and     intense the movement, so resistless, the "internal evidence," if we     may call it thus, penetrating its very substance and form, that we are     swept along as by a wave of human sympathy and grief. In contrast     with "The Spagnoletto," how large is the theme and how all-embracing     the catastrophe! In place of the personal we have the drama of     the universal. Love is only a flash now, - a dream caught sight of     and at once renounced at a higher claim.      "Have you no smile to welcome love with, Liebhaid?         Why should you tremble?         Prince, I am afraid!         Afraid of my own heart, my unfathomed joy,         A blasphemy against my father's grief,         My people's agony!      "What good shall come, forswearing kith and God,         To follow the allurements of the heart?"     asks the distracted maiden, torn between her love for he princely     wooer and her devotion to the people among whom her lot has been cast.                      "O God!         How shall I pray for strength to love him less         Than mine own soul!                      No more of that,         I am all Israel's now. Till this cloud pass,         I have no thought, no passion, no desire,         Save for my people."     Individuals perish, but great ideas survive, - fortitude and courage,     and that exalted loyalty and devotion to principle which alone are     worth living and dying for.     The Jews pass by in procession - men, women, and children - on their     way to the flames, to the sound of music, and in festal array,     carrying     the gold and silver vessels, the roll of the law, the perpetual lamp     and the seven branched silver candle-stick of the synagogue. The     crowd hoot and jeer at them.         "The misers! they will take their gems and gold         Down to the grave!"                  "Let us rejoice"     sing the Jewish youths in chorus; and the maidens: -         "Our feet stand within thy gates, O Zion!          Within thy portals, O Jerusalem!"     The flames rise and dart among them; their garments wave, their jewels     flash, as they dance and sing in the crimson blaze. The music ceases,     a sound of crashing boards is heard and a great cry, - "Hallelujah!"     What a glory and consecration of the martyrdom! Where shall we find a     more triumphant vindication and supreme victory of spirit over matter?                 "I see, I see,         How Israel's ever-crescent glory makes         These flames that would eclipse it dark as blots         Of candle-light against the blazing sun.         We die a thousand deaths, - drown, bleed, and burn.         Our ashes are dispersed unto the winds.         Yet the wild winds cherish the sacred seed,         The fire refuseth to consume.         . . . . . . . . .         Even as we die in honor, from our death         Shall bloom a myriad heroic lives,         Brave through our bright example, virtuous         Lest our great memory fall in disrepute."     The "Dance to Death" was published, along with other poems and     translations from the Hebrew poets of mediaeval Spain, in a small     column entitled "Songs of a Semite." The tragedy was dedicated, "In     profound veneration and respect to the memory of George Eliot, the     illustrious writer who did most among the artists of our day towards     elevating and ennobling the spirit of Jewish nationality."     For this was the idea that had caught the imagination of Emma Lazarus,      - a restored and independent nationality and repatriation in Palestine.     In her article in "The Century" of February, 1883, on the "Jewish     Problem," she says: -     "I am fully persuaded that all suggested solutions other     than this are but temporary palliatives. . . . The idea     formulated by George Eliot has already sunk into the minds     of many Jewish enthusiasts, and it germinates with miraculous     rapidity. 'The idea that I am possessed with,' says Deronda,     'is that of restoring a political existence to my people;     making them a nation again, giving them a national centre,     such as the English have, though they, too, are scattered     over the face of the globe. That task which presents itself     to me as a duty. . . . I am resolved to devote my life to     it. AT THE LEAST, I MAY AWAKEN A MOVEMENT IN OTHER MINDS     SUCH HAS BEEN AWAKENED IN MY OWN.' Could the noble     prophetess who wrote the above words have lived but till to-     day to see the ever-increasing necessity of adopting her     inspired counsel, . . .she would have been herself astonished     at the flame enkindled by her seed of fire, and the practical     shape which the movement projected by her poetic vision is     beginning to assume."     In November of 1882 appeared her first "Epistle to the Hebrews," -     one of a series of articles written for the "American Hebrew,"     published weekly through several months. Addressing herself now     to a Jewish audience, she sets forth without reserve her views and     hopes for Judaism, now passionately holding up the mirror for the     shortcomings and peculiarities of her race. She says: -     "Every student of the Hebrew language is aware that we have     in the conjugation of our verbs a mode known as the 'intensive     voice,' which, by means of an almost imperceptible modification     of vowel-points, intensifies the meaning of the primitive root.     A similar significance seems to attach to the Jews themselves     in connection with the people among whom they dwell. They are     the 'intensive form' of any nationality whose language and     customs they adopt. . . . Influenced by the same causes, they     represent the same results; but the deeper lights and shadows     of the Oriental temperament throw their failings, as well as     their virtues, into more prominent relief."     In drawing the epistles to a close, February 24, 1883, she thus     summarizes the special objects she has had in view: -     "My chief aim has been to contribute my mite towards arousing     that spirit of Jewish enthusiasm which might manifest itself:     First, in a return to varied pursuits and broad system of     physical and intellectual education adopted by our ancestors;     Second, in a more fraternal and practical movement towards     alleviating the sufferings of oppressed Jews in countries less     favored than our own; Third, in a closer and wider study of     Hebrew literature and history and finally, in a truer recognition     of the large principals of religion, liberty, and law upon     which Judaism is founded, and which should draw into harmonious     unity Jews of every shade of opinion."     Her interest in Jewish affairs was at its height when she planned a     visit abroad, which had been a long-cherished dream, and May 15, 1883,     she sailed for England, accompanied by a younger sister. We have     difficulty in recognizing the tragic priestess we have been portraying     in the enthusiastic child of travel who seems new-born into a new     world. From the very outset she is in a maze of wonder and delight.     At sea she writes: -     "Our last day on board ship was a vision of beauty from     morning till night, - the sea like a mirror and the sky     dazzling with light. In the afternoon we passed a ship     in full sail, near enough to exchange salutes and cheers.     After tossing about for six days without seeing a human     being, except those on our vessel, even this was a sensation.     Then an hour or two before sunset came the great sensation     of - land! At first, nothing but a shadow on the far horizon,     like the ghost of a ship; two or three widely scattered rocks     which were the promontories of Ireland, and sooner than we     expected we were steaming along low-lying purple hills."     The journey to Chester gives her "the first glimpse of mellow     England," - a surprise which is yet no surprise, so well known and     familiar does it appear. Then Chester, with its quaint, picturesque     streets, "like the scene of a Walter Scott novel, the cathedral     planted in greenness, and the clear, gray river where a boatful of     scarlet dragoons goes gliding by." Everything is a picture for her     special benefit. She "drinks in, at every sense, the sights, sounds,     and smells, and the unimaginable beauty of it all." Then the     bewilderment of London, and a whirl of people, sights, and     impressions.     She was received with great distinction by the Jews, and many of the     leading men among them warmly advocated her views. But it was not     alone from her own people that she met with exceptional consideration.     She had the privilege of seeing many of the most eminent personages     of the day, all of whom honored her with special and personal regard.     There was, no doubt, something that strongly attracted people to her     at this time, - the force of her intellect at once made itself felt,     while at the same time the unaltered simplicity and modesty of her     character, and her readiness and freshness of enthusiasm, kept her     still almost like a child.     She makes a flying visit to Paris, where she happens to be on the 14th     of July, the anniversary of the storming of the Bastile, and of the     beginning of the republic; she drives to Versailles, "that gorgeous     shell of royalty, where the crowd who celebrate the birth of the     republic wander freely through the halls and avenues, and into the     most sacred rooms of the king. . . . There are ruins on every side in     Paris," she says; "ruins of the Commune, or the Siege, or the     Revolution; it is terrible - it seems as if the city were seared with     fire and blood."     Such was Paris to her then, and she hastens back to her beloved London,     starting from there on the tour through England that has been mapped     out for her. "A Day in Surrey with William Morris," published in     "The Century Magazine," describes her visit to Merton Abbey, the     old Norman monastery, converted into a model factory by the poet-     humanitarian, who himself received her as his guest, conducted her     all over the picturesque building and garden, and explained to her     his views of art and his aims for the people.     She drives through Kent, "where the fields, valleys, and slopes are     garlanded with hops and ablaze with scarlet poppies." Then Canterbury,     Windsor, and Oxford, Stratford, Warwick, the valley of the Wye, Wells,     Exeter, and Salisbury, - cathedral after cathedral. Back to London,     and then north through York, Durham, and Edinburgh, and on the 15th     of September she sails for home. We have merely named the names,     for it is impossible to convey an idea of the delight and importance     of this trip, "a crescendo of enjoyment," as she herself calls it.     Long after, in strange, dark hours of suffering, these pictures of     travel arose before her, vivid and tragic even in their hold and     spell upon her.     The winter of 1883-84 was not especially productive. She wrote a     few reminiscences of her journey and occasional poems on the Jewish     themes, which appeared in the "American Hebrew;" but for the most     part gave herself up to quiet retrospect and enjoyment with her     friends of the life she had had a glimpse of, and the experience she     had stored, - a restful, happy period. In August of the same year     she was stricken with a severe and dangerous malady, from which she     slowly recovered, only to go through a terrible ordeal and affliction.     Her father's health, which had long been failing, now broke down     completely, and the whole winter was one long strain of acute anxiety,     which culminated in his death, in March, 1885. The blow was a     crushing one for Emma. Truly, the silver cord was loosed, and the     golden bowl broken. Life lost its meaning and charm. Her father's     sympathy and pride in her work had been her chief incentive and     ambition, and had spurred her on when her own confidence and spirit     failed. Never afterwards did she find complete and spontaneous     expression. She decided to go abroad as the best means of regaining     composure and strength and sailed once more in May for England,     where she was welcomed now by the friends she had made, almost as     to another home. She spent the summer very quietly at Richmond, an     ideally beautiful spot in Yorkshire, where she soon felt the     beneficial influence of her peaceful surroundings. "The very air     seems to rest one here," she writes; and inspired by the romantic     loveliness of the place, she even composed the first few chapters     of a novel, begun with a good deal of dash and vigor, but soon     abandoned, for she was still struggling with depression and gloom.     "I have neither ability, energy, nor purpose," she writes. "It is     impossible to do anything, so I am forced to set it aside for the     present; whether to take it up again or not in the future remains     to be seen."     In the autumn she goes on the Continent, visiting the Hague, which     "completely fascinates" her, and where she feels "stronger and more     cheerful" than she has "for many a day." Then Paris, which this time     amazes her "with its splendor and magnificence. All the ghosts of     the Revolution are somehow laid," she writes, and she spends six     weeks here enjoying to the full the gorgeous autumn weather, the     sights, the picture galleries, the bookshops, the whole brilliant     panorama of the life; and early in December she starts for Italy.     And now once more we come upon that keen zest of enjoyment, that     pure desire and delight of the eyes, which are the prerogative of     the poet, - Emma Lazarus was a poet. The beauty of the world, - what     a rapture and intoxication it is, and how it bursts upon her in the     very land of beauty, "where Dante and Petrarch trod!" A magic glow     colours it all; no mere blues and greens anymore, but a splendor of     purple and scarlet and emerald; "each tower, castle, and village     shining like a jewel; the olive, the fig, and at your feet the roses,     growing in mid-December." A day in Pisa seems like a week, so crowded     is it with sensations and unforgettable pictures. Then a month in     Florence, which is still more entrancing with its inexhaustible     treasures of beauty and art; and finally Rome, the climax of it all, -     "wiping out all other places and impressions, and opening     a whole new world of sensations. I am wild with the     excitement of this tremendous place. I have been here a     week, and have seen the Vatican and the Capitoline Museums,     and the Sistine Chapel, and St. Peter's, besides the ruins     on the streets and on the hills, and the graves of Shelley     and Keats.     "It is all heart-breaking. I don't only mean those beautiful     graves, overgrown with acanthus and violets, but the mutilated     arches and columns and dumb appealing fragments looming up in     the glowing sunshine under the Roman blue sky."     True to her old attractions, it is pagan Rome that appeals to her     most strongly, -     "and the far-away past, that seems so sad and strange and     near. I am even out of humor with pictures; a bit of broken     stone or a fragment of a bas-relief, or a Corinthian column     standing out against this lapis-lazuli sky, or a tremendous     arch, are the only things I can look at for the moment, -     except the Sistine Chapel, which is as gigantic as the rest,     and forces itself upon you with equal might."     Already, in February, spring is in the air; "the almond-trees are in     bloom, violets cover the grass, and oh! the divine, the celestial,     the unheard-of beauty of it all!" It is almost a pang for her, "with     its strange mixture of longing and regret and delight," and in the     midst of it she says, "I have to exert all my strength not to lose     myself in morbidness and depression."     Early in March she leaves Rome, consoled with the thought of returning     the following winter. In June she was in England again, and spent     the summer at Malvern. Disease was no doubt already beginning to     prey upon her, for she was oppressed at times by a languor and     heaviness amounting almost to lethargy. When she returned to London,     however, in September, she felt quite well again, and started for     another tour in Holland, which she enjoyed as much as before. She     then settled in Paris, to await the time when she could return to     Italy. But she was attacked at once with grave and alarming symptoms,     that betokened a fatal end to her malady. Entirely ignorant, however,     of the danger that threatened her, she kept up courage and hope,     made plans for the journey, and looked forward to setting out at     any moment. But the weeks passed and the months also; slowly and     gradually the hope faded. The journey to Italy must be given up;     she was not in condition to be brought home, and she reluctantly     resigned herself to remain where she was and "convalesce," as she     confidently believed, in the spring. Once again came the analogy,     which she herself pointed out now, to Heine on his mattress-grave     in Paris. She, too, the last time she went out, dragged herself to     the Louvre, to the feet of the Venus, "the goddess without arms, who     could not help." Only her indomitable will and intense desire to     live seemed to keep her alive. She sunk to a very low ebb, but, as     she herself expressed it, she "seemed to have always one little     window looking out into life," and in the spring she rallied     sufficiently to take a few drives and to sit on the balcony of her     apartment. She came back to life with a feverish sort of thirst and     avidity. "No such cure for pessimism," she says, "as a severe     illness; the simplest pleasures are enough, - to breathe the air and     see the sun."     Many plans were made for leaving Paris, but it was finally decided     to risk the ocean voyage and bring her home, and accordingly she     sailed July 23rd, arriving in New York on the last day of that month.     She did not rally after this; and now began her long agony, full     of every kind of suffering, mental and physical. Only her intellect     seemed kindled anew, and none but those who saw her during the last     supreme ordeal can realize that wonderful flash and fire of the     spirit before its extinction. Never did she appear so brilliant.     Wasted to a shadow, and between acute attacks of pain, she talked     about art, poetry, the scenes of travel, of which her brain was so     full, and the phases of her own condition, with an eloquence for     which even those who knew her best were quite unprepared. Every     faculty seemed sharpened and every sense quickened as the "strong     deliveress" approached, and the ardent soul was released from the     frame that could no longer contain it.     We cannot restrain a feeling of suddenness and incompleteness and     a natural pang of wonder and regret for a life so richly and so     vitally endowed thus cut off in its prime. But for us it is not     fitting to question or repine, but rather to rejoice in the rare     possession that we hold. What is any life, even the most rounded     and complete, but a fragment and a hint? What Emma Lazarus might     have accomplished, had she been spared, it is idle and even     ungrateful to speculate. What she did accomplish has real and     peculiar significance. It is the privilege of a favored few that     every fact and circumstance of their individuality shall add lustre     and value to what they achieve. To be born a Jewess was a distinction     for Emma Lazarus, and she in turn conferred distinction upon her     race. To be born a woman also lends a grace and a subtle magnetism     to her influence. Nowhere is there contradiction or incongruity.     Her works bear the imprint of her character, and her character of     her works; the same directness and honesty, the same limpid purity     of tone, and the same atmosphere of things refined and beautiful.     The vulgar, the false, and the ignoble, - she scarcely comprehended     them, while on every side she was open and ready to take in and     respond to whatever can adorn and enrich life. Literature was no     mere "profession" for her, which shut out other possibilities; it     was only a free, wide horizon and background for culture. She was     passionately devoted to music, which inspired some of her best poems;     and during the last years of her life, in hours of intense physical     suffering, she found relief and consolation in listening to the     strains of Bach and Beethoven. When she went abroad, painting was     revealed to her, and she threw herself with the same ardor and     enthusiasm into the study of the great masters; her last work (left     unfinished) was a critical analysis of the genius and personality     of Rembrandt.     And now, at the end, we ask, Has the grave really closed over all     these gifts? Has that eager, passionate striving ceased, and "is     the rest silence?"     Who knows? But would we break, if we could, that repose, that     silence and mystery and peace everlasting?