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[Illustration: “_I began a systematic and determined effort to teach
Ulysses to read and write._”]




                              THE FALL OF
                               ULYSSES ❧
                           AN ELEPHANT STORY


                                  _by_

                         CHARLES DWIGHT WILLARD

                           _Illustrations by_

                             FRANK VER BECK

[Illustration]

                                New York
                        GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
                                  1912




                           Copyright 1912 by
                         CHARLES DWIGHT WILLARD




                        To Ulysses’ loyal friend
                                M. O. H.
                        this story is dedicated
                             by the Writer.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          THE FALL OF ULYSSES
                          _An Elephant Story_


I cannot deny that I was entirely to blame for the calamity that
overtook Ulysses; and if I call attention to the high social and
literary standing of the gentleman whom I employed as an accomplice in
the affair, it is not at all with the hope of thereby lessening my own
responsibility. It is certain that I furnished the unfortunate creature
the cause for his desperation. I ought also to confess that I felt a
sense of profound relief when he accepted the only means apparent to his
limited understanding of freeing himself from his dilemma. But what was
I to do? When a man has an elephant on his hands he should be judged
with a kindly consideration for the awkwardness of his situation.

My elephant was decidedly more trying than the average variety, for the
reason that he was not metaphorical, but real. What I mean is, that I am
not speaking in figurative language about some officious friend or
troublesome relative, but about a genuine Asiatic elephant, Ulysses by
name, who came into my possession several years ago, and of whom I have
but recently managed to rid myself. Physically he was a well-developed
specimen, having no special characteristics to distinguish him from the
rest of his kind. Intellectually, however, he was a species of monster,
and I was the unfortunate Frankenstein that was responsible for his
existence.

The purchase was effected by a series of complicated negotiations,
carried on in my behalf by a half breed elephant trainer, known as Jerry
Rhahob, with the owner of Ulysses. Had I undertaken the job myself I
might have found an elephant a more expensive luxury than I cared to
possess. My agent, the half breed, had the reputation of knowing more
than any man in Madras about the habits and characteristics of elephants
and the means by which they could be most successfully trained. For some
time he had been in charge of the yards where the animals owned by the
British government were prepared for service in war or road building.
Before setting out for my bungalow, I thought best to consult with
Jerry, who spoke English perfectly, as to the course of education to
which I proposed treating Ulysses.

“I intend to teach this animal all that an elephant can be made to
learn,” said I.

“You will not have time to do that,” said Jerry, significantly.

“Do you mean,” I asked, “that there is no limit to what an elephant can
be taught?”

“My experience has led me to believe that it depends upon the patience
of the man, and not upon the capacity of the brute, how far the
instruction may be carried.”

“Very well,” I said; “I shall have patience. What I most need is advice
about gaining the creature’s confidence and affection.”

The fact that I am a bachelor does not prevent my entertaining an
extensive code of opinions on the subject of the proper rearing of
children. The suggestions of Jerry Rhahob on the training of elephants
seemed to me much the same that I would have offered a young and
inexperienced parent if he had applied to me for advice about his
offspring. Reduced to its fundamental principles, Jerry’s theory was
that an elephant should be regarded as a dumb and deformed human being,
possessed of a keen appreciation of right and wrong, delicate
sensibilities, exceptional capacity and high character. From the mental
and moral qualities with which Jerry’s conception seemed to endow this
being, I would have accorded him a place in the human species, among the
class that is said to be born and not made, the “genus irritable.”

One piece of warning he gave me in conclusion.

“The elephant knows as well as you do,” said he, “that he is an animal
and you are a man. He appreciates the distinction. He understands that
he is your physical superior, and that he could by a single blow of his
trunk dash the life out of you. As long as he is kindly treated he will
feel no desire to exercise that power. In the matter of intellect he
appreciates that you are greatly above him, and will obey and serve you
for that reason. Let him once get it into his head, however, that his
powers are on a level with your own, and his arrogance will become
insupportable. The relationship will be suddenly reversed, and you will
find yourself no longer his master, but his servant. Several years ago I
had a very intelligent elephant here in the yards whom I employed to
build stone walls. He became marvelously expert at it, picking out just
the right shaped rocks to fill the spaces with the best economy. The
stones are irregular in form, and you can imagine that no small degree
of skill is required. On one occasion he stood near watching me while I
endeavored to teach a younger elephant how the work was to be done. I
built several feet of wall, but the job was not a successful one—not, at
least, when compared with what Budan could do. Whenever I picked up the
wrong stone he gave a snort, and indicated a better one with his trunk.
At last he could stand it no longer, and brushing me aside, took hold of
the work himself, and soon had the young one taught. After that he made
no secret of his contempt for me. I saw that he was ruining my standing
with the rest of the herd, and I had to send him away.”

This story would have seemed quite ridiculous to me if I had not heard
many others more wonderful pass current without question, and had I not
often seen elephants employed in Madras at work which in America would
be assigned only to artisans of considerable skill.

“Believe anything you are told about the intelligence of an elephant,”
said a traveler from India to me once, before I visited that country;
“the chances are it is true.”

I engaged an experienced mahout, or driver, an intelligent native by the
name of Akbar. I determined, however, to make use of his services just
as little as possible, in order that Ulysses might learn to depend upon
myself alone. I attended personally to the matter of food and drink, and
took pains that my protegé should receive no favors from the hand of
anyone else. I soon learned the things that gave him pleasure, and put
myself to no little trouble to gratify him on every possible occasion. I
continued this process, combining with it instruction in such small
services as “house elephants” in India are always expected to perform,
until I saw that I had completely gained his confidence and affection.
During this period of his tutelage, Ulysses would have trusted and
obeyed me to any extent. I think he would willingly have laid down his
life or endured torture for my sake. Nothing made him happier than to be
near me as I sat under the banyan tree in my garden, smoking and
reading. When I opened his stall in the mornings and called to him to
come out, he fairly quivered with joy at the sound of my voice, and gave
vent to his satisfaction at seeing me by shrill trumpetings. His
devotion was annoying at times, and one of the first difficulties that I
experienced was in teaching him to be less demonstrative.

It is a fact, which most readers of this narrative have proved for
themselves by actual experiment, that animals may be taught the meaning
of words. An intelligent dog, for example possesses a considerable
vocabulary. I proposed to undertake a systematic course of instruction
in the English language with Ulysses and to ascertain to what extent he
was capable of acquiring our vernacular. Whenever he learned a new word
I made a note of it in a book, and by constant review contrived to fix
it in his memory. As soon as he began to comprehend what my purpose was,
as he did after I had been laboring with him a couple of weeks, he
became very eager to learn, and greatly increased the rapidity of the
work.

The process of teaching him nouns was simple and easy. Each day I would
produce several new articles, tell him their names, and have him hand
them to me as I called for them. I taught him to say “yes” and “no” by
the waving of his trunk, and made him appreciate that he was to use that
means of signifying to me whether he understood me or not.

After I was well into the work, the morning lesson would go somewhat as
follows:

“Are you ready for your lesson, Ulysses?”

Ulysses lifts his trunk affirmatively. Although he does not understand
“lesson,” the word “ready” is clear to him by frequent use.

I hold out a ball, a new object.

“This is a ball, Ulysses; a ball.”

I repeat it several times, until the sound has fastened itself in his
memory. Then I lay it on the table with a pipe, a cup and a book. I ask
for them, one after another, and he hands them to me. I add numerous
other objects, the names of which he has already learned, and thus
combine review with advance instruction.

Together with the noun “ball” I teach him the verbs “roll,” “throw” and
“drop,” and perhaps an adverb or two like “fast” or “slowly,” and an
adjective, “round.” Sometimes there is an awkward hitch and I have to
abandon the attempt to teach him some particular word, referring to it
again when his vocabulary has been increased in some other direction.

A certain point once passed, it was surprising with what rapidity I
proceeded. One word led to another, a number of words to phrases and
these to complete sentences. I finally dropped into a way of talking to
him about the objects with which we were working, much as I would have
talked to a bright child. I was conscious at times that only a small
part of what I was saying was understood, but it accustomed him to
hearing the words that he knew, used in association with others to form
complete statements.

In my search for objects to use in the instruction of Ulysses I happened
upon a lump of chalk. With this I sketched various things on a smooth
plank of dark wood, and found that they were readily recognized by my
pupil. From this I suddenly conceived a new idea. I sent to Madras and
had a large, firm blackboard made and ordered chalk and erasers. Then I
began a systematic and determined effort to teach Ulysses to read and
write.

There is one element that enters into all teaching, of which it is
difficult to give any conception in a narrative of results, and that is
time. I had been steadily at work with Ulysses for nearly a year before
I began to use the blackboard, and after I adopted that assistant it was
many months ere important results began to show themselves. Any one who
has ever labored with a well-meaning but obtuse pupil, will appreciate
how slow and discouraging at times my work must have been. He will also
understand how the progress, trifling, when considered day by day,
amounted to a good deal when viewed in the aggregate.

I readily taught Ulysses to hold the chalk in the fingers of his
proboscis, and to mark with it upon the blackboard. He understood that
he was to imitate, as nearly as possible, the marks that I made. In this
way I taught him to print the letters of the English alphabet in clumsy
characters several inches in size. Gradually he became more expert in
making them, and learned the names by which they were called. It was a
great triumph for me when I first succeeded in getting him to write the
letters of his own name as I called them off, and saw myself the proud
possessor of an elephant who could write his autograph, perhaps the
first of his species that ever performed that enlightened but
compromising feat.

All this was easy enough, but to make him comprehend that certain groups
of these peculiar marks formed pictures, which were to suggest definite
objects to him, was a very different sort of an undertaking. The hitch
in the proceedings at this point was so serious that, for a time, I gave
up all hope of accomplishing my object. It seemed impossible to
establish the necessary connection in his mind between the written
characters and the spoken word. At last, it suddenly dawned upon him,
and he learned (fatal omen!) the word “book.” The acquiring of one word
constituted the test in my calculations. That point being gained, the
rest was only a question of additional work and continued patience.

It was not long before Ulysses could write upon the board the names of
most of the objects that had been used in his instruction thus far,
and the verbs that I had taught him in connection with them. To
combine these words into sentences was largely a matter of imitation,
for he had already come to understand them when so arranged. In a
short time we were carrying on long conferences, and the vocabulary of
Ulysses had increased to the point of embracing most of the words used
in daily conversation. With the establishment of this mode of
inter-communication, Ulysses was able to explain to me what his
difficulties were, and I could proffer more available assistance. I
then, for the first time, enjoyed an intimate acquaintance with a
brain that was not human. I could look into it and study its character
and mode of action. I need not add that the occupation was a
fascinating one. Our conversations, which were at first limited to
visible actions and concrete objects, soon strayed into abstractions.
The rapidity with which he grasped the analogy between seeing and
thinking, and lifted himself out of the material into the metaphysical
plane, astonished me beyond measure. He possessed an over-ruling sense
of logic, keen and penetrating, and yet so swift that it seemed
transfigured to intuition. But the most wonderful feature of his
intellect was his memory. Now that words were supplied him, as tools
with which to conduct his thinking, what were before mere vague
impressions, became definite ideas, fixed and everlasting. I soon
found that it was necessary to be absolutely accurate in all that I
said to him, as he was quick to detect any inconsistency, and his
memory covered the full amount of all that I had said since he had
come to have command of the language.

For some time we conversed together every day, I talking or writing, and
he using the blackboard. As print was too slow for practical use, I
taught him to write short-hand. One day he made some inquiry of me
concerning the novel I happened to have in hand, and I read him several
chapters of it. His delight at gaining so much knowledge in so short a
time was unbounded. I discovered that he regarded it as authentic
history, and hastened to undeceive him. He was greatly shocked to find
that anything could be said or written which was not true. This led me
into something of a dissertation upon the forms of literature and the
canons of taste. He listened with an absorbed interest. The bent of his
mind was evidently not practical, but literary and artistic.

[Illustration: “_Ulysses was now ready to begin his literary
researches._”]

Ulysses’ fondness for hearing me read gave me an idea as to a means of
freeing myself from the importunities for instruction and discussion to
which he was now treating me, and which were becoming decidedly irksome.
I sent Akbar, the mahout, to Madras with a letter to a French oculist.
He brought back a large monocle which I had ordered made for the use of
my pupil. There was a hole in one of Ulysses’ ears, drilled there by
some former, less appreciative owner, through which I passed a light
silk cord, allowing the glass to hang conveniently pendant. I had a
wooden rack constructed by a neighboring rayat, who did carpenter work,
which held the volume open and at the right altitude. Ulysses was now
ready to begin his literary researches independent of my aid. Kneeling
before the rack, in which he soon learned to fasten the book himself, he
lifted the monocle to his eye, with the fingers of his trunk, and
commenced to read. At first he proceeded slowly, and was often compelled
to summon me to his assistance. After I explained to him the use of the
dictionary and allowed him to keep one near at hand, this source of
annoyance ceased, and he worked away by himself with a steadily
increasing ease and rapidity.

There was one person who had observed all these proceedings with
astonishment and disapproval. This was Briggs, the English gardener who
took care of my place. I think he had an idea that I was violating the
laws of the Church of England in some way, I scarcely know how. On one
occasion, when I happened to be in Madras, Ulysses discovered, by
appealing to him for the meaning of certain words and phrases, that all
mortals were not endowed with the same fund of information that I
happened to possess. No sooner did he find out that Briggs knew less
about such matters than he did himself than he began to treat him with
open contempt, slowly bringing up his eyeglass and inspecting him with
cold hauteur whenever he happened to come in sight.

“That there helephant,” Briggs complained to me, “do treat me most
harrogant, sir. I didn’t never expect to come to this ’ere.”

I spoke to Ulysses about the matter, and remonstrated with him.

“I cannot understand it,” he wrote in reply. “I asked the man about
Schopenhauer’s Four-fold Root of Sufficient Reason to which I found a
reference in a volume of essays by Frederic Harrison. He said he never
had heard of any such root. Can he not read and talk as you do, and as
all mortals do? How does it happen that he is ignorant of these things?”

I explained to him that only a small part of the human race was
interested in affairs of the intellect, and that millions of men were
still in the condition of unhappy mental blindness from which he had so
recently emerged. He was aghast at this statement, but it did not tend
to re-establish Briggs in his respect.

It was now the season of the year when I was accustomed to make a tour
among the neighboring coffee plantations, to estimate and bid on the
crops. I was not able to take Ulysses with me conveniently, so I left
him in the care of Briggs and Akbar. To Briggs I gave the key to my
library, with orders to supply Ulysses with whatever he might demand,
and I prepared for my pupil’s use a catalogue of all the books in my
collection. The library was chiefly made up of works of history,
philosophy and criticism, admirably suited to the special tastes of
Ulysses.

[Illustration: “_To Briggs I gave the key to my library, with orders to
supply Ulysses with whatever he might demand._”]

My absence lasted during a period of nearly three months, and on my
return I found Ulysses almost in a condition of “must,” or insanity. He
had read all, or nearly all, the books that I had placed upon the list,
and had gained through that extraordinary memory of his an immense mass
of fact and opinion. He was now suffering from intellectual dyspepsia. I
consulted him about his troubles, and got in reply an avalanche of
questions on every variety of subject. His confidence in my knowledge
was, apparently, unlimited. It would have been a source of inexpressible
gratification to me if I could have shared it.

I was not unmindful of the fate which had befallen poor Briggs,
nevertheless I felt it my duty to help Ulysses out of his difficulties.
I did not imagine that his questions would occasion me much trouble, and
if they should, I thought myself the possessor of sufficient savoir
faire to get out of it in some way. I avoided some things merely by
assuring him that he would understand them better when he had read more.
When I essayed an answer to any of his interrogatories, he had an
unpleasant habit of pinning me down to exact statements and definite
opinions. I had never appreciated the extent and variety of my ignorance
until it was subjected to this test; and although Ulysses’ attitude
toward me was always that of pupil to teacher, yet I saw at times traces
of the Socratic method in the long series of questions that he put to
me, and I was compelled, not infrequently, to squirm out of some
inconsistency in most undignified fashion.

This inquisition continued for a number of days after my return, and I
could not close my eyes to the fact that I was failing to hold my own in
the estimation of Ulysses. From a cyclopedia of literature, which
happened to be in my library, Ulysses had stored his mind with an
enormous fund of information on subjects of which I was completely
ignorant. In this field I was continually falling into traps. There were
also translations of Comte and Hegel, to which he had devoted
considerable study, but I checkmated him there by talking wordy
nonsense, which I was sure he could not distinguish from metaphysics. It
was evident, however, that he was beginning to appreciate that something
was the matter. Although he had not come to the point of ranking me with
Briggs, still my position was getting to be a precarious one, and I saw
the necessity for great care.

For some time I avoided being drawn into conversation with Ulysses,
keeping him at bay with a number of new books, which I had brought with
me from Madras. He was not long in appreciating that there was some
purpose lying back of this policy, and demanded an explanation of me. I
was confused by his point blank questions, and only managed to make
things worse. After that I was clay in his hands. Every day he branched
out into some new field of discussion, tested me and found me wanting. I
tried in vain to conceal my failures under a dignified exterior. Ulysses
at first seemed pained and surprised, but there finally showed itself in
his bearing toward me an air of satisfaction and triumph, which was not
easy to endure. To have been arrogantly treated by a member of my own
species would have been a new experience to me, and one which I would
have vigorously resented; this exhibition of superciliousness from an
animal below me in the scale of creation was more than I proposed to put
up with.

One morning, as I sauntered out to the banyan tree, wondering what was
to be the outcome of this absurd situation, Ulysses motioned to me, and
pointed to the blackboard, which I saw was covered with finely written
characters.

“No, Ulysses,” I said, “I am tired this morning, and it is very hot. I
do not wish to get into a discussion with you.”

Ulysses waved his trunk emphatically, and pointed again to the
blackboard. Then he gave a fierce trumpet, and glared at me in a way
that gave me a start of terror.

I saw that some sort of a crisis was ahead, but determined to defer it,
if possible, until I could decide what was the best course to pursue. I
approached the board and read the following message, addressed to
myself:

“Master—You are deceived if you think I am ignorant of the change which
has gradually come to pass in our relationship. You have been my
superior thus far in life, not by reason of your greater physical power,
for I can strike you dead with one blow, whereas you, without the aid of
tools, could not give me even external pain. Your sole claim to command
over me lay in your intellectual superiority. This superiority I am now
compelled to question. Yesterday you admitted that you had never read
any of Henry Mackenzie’s novels; you showed complete ignorance
concerning Bishop Berkeley’s Alciphron; and when I asked why Henry
Vaughn, the poet, was called the ‘Silurist,’ you had no answer to give
me. In the conversations of the last few days you have made countless
blunders in matters of history, science and literature. Your ideas in
metaphysics are those of a dotard, and your judgment in belles-lettres
is execrable. I do not see on what ground you arrogate to yourself a
position above me. If you are not entitled to the place that I have
given you in my consideration, if the idea which I have entertained with
regard to our respective positions is erroneous, then it is clearly a
matter of justice that we should straightway change places. I will be
the master hereafter and you the servant. Can you show me any good
reason why this revolution should not come to pass?”

There was no mistaking the tone and purport of this communication. It
was at once a declaration of independence and a manifesto of
sovereignty. Not merely must I exercise no more authority over Ulysses,
but I must yield gracefully and submissively to his rule. I did not
know, either by experience or hearsay, what kind of a master an elephant
would make, but from the intensely logical quality that Ulysses had
always shown, I had a suspicion that he would prove at least severe and
intolerant.

The dilemma was a hard one. I took up the chalk, intending to write my
answer rather than speak it, that I might have time for reflection. As I
did so, an idea suddenly occurred to me—a plan by which I could beat
Ulysses at his own game. I immediately became so confident of its
success that I did not hesitate to stake my personal liberty on the
chance of his discomfiture.

“Ulysses,” I said, “I cannot deny that in many directions you have shown
a mental grasp that I never expected to see developed elsewhere than
among the best of my own species. But all this is not enough. There is
still one test, the last and severest to which culture and intelligence
may be submitted. If you can meet this satisfactorily, I shall no longer
question your superiority over myself.”

“That is all I ask,” wrote Ulysses, “a fair trial.”

I stepped into the house, and returned with a book which I had recently
brought from Madras, and which Ulysses had not seen. I laid it open upon
the rack before him. He brought up his monocle and glanced at the title
and the author.

“Aha!” he wrote; “I have heard of this man, and have long wished to see
some of his work.”

“You know what position he occupies in letters?” I asked.

“I do,” wrote Ulysses; “I have read what his admirers say of him.”

“Very well,” I answered; “you know, then, what is demanded of you—that
you should understand and enjoy this work. If you cannot meet both these
requirements, then you have failed.”

Ulysses shrugged his trunk with easy indifference, raised his eye glass,
and began to read. I lay some distance away, dozing in my hammock, and
awaited results. They were not long in coming.

At the end of about half an hour he trumpeted to me in an indignant tone
of voice, and inquired on the blackboard whether I had given him the
original English or some kind of a translation.

I answered this satisfactorily, and for more than an hour he toiled
away, breathing hard at times and swaying from side to side, whenever he
thought he was about to find a clew.

Presently he called to me again.

“I forgot to ask,” said he, “whether this was to be read backwards or
sideways.”

“Straight ahead,” I answered.

I saw that he was getting involved in the toils, and knew that they
would soon close on him. It must be remembered that I had never deceived
Ulysses, and the thought that I, or any one else, could feign an opinion
which was not genuine, had never occurred to him. The book had been
submitted to him about the middle of the morning. Ulysses took no
refreshment that day, neither water nor food. When I came out of the
house after “tiffin,” I advised him to lay the volume aside, and look at
it again the next day. He seemed to feel that this would be a confession
of failure, and refused.

“Tell me,” he wrote, “are there many of your species that understand and
really enjoy this book?”

“They are not many in number,” I answered; “but their position in the
society of culture and taste is an exalted one. Within the last few
years it has come to pass that the understanding and appreciation of
this work is a shibboleth by which the true disciples of sweetness and
light may distinguish themselves from the miscellaneous herd of
Philistines. Do not be discouraged because you have failed,” I added, in
a kindly, patronizing tone. “There are many estimable mortals in the
same situation. You understand, however, that you cannot be admitted to
the elect, much less claim superiority to myself.”

Ulysses wrote upon the blackboard several profane expressions, which I
suppose he had learned from Briggs, and resumed his study.

It was nearly evening when Akbar came to me, and said that Ulysses was
showing decided symptoms of becoming “must.” I went out with the
intention of taking the book away from him, but stopped several yards
away, struck by his changed appearance. His eyes were wild and
bloodshot, his ears erect, his legs spread apart. He was beating his
sides with his trunk, and at times trumpeting in low, bass tones. When
he saw us approach he seized the book from the rack and dashed it at me
with all his force.

“Ulysses,” I said, “keep calm.”

“Look out!” cried Akbar; “he is ‘must.’ Beware!”

With a terrific roar Ulysses turned, and sprang in great, ponderous
leaps out of the garden. Briggs, who was in his path, dropped his rake
and flung himself into some bushes.

[Illustration: “_Look out!” cried Akbar; “He is ‘must.’ Beware!_”]

“After him, Akbar!” I cried; “see where he goes.”

Ulysses ran toward a clump of woods, which grew over a knoll a short
distance away. Into this he plunged, and was soon out of sight. We could
hear the limbs crash as he tore away into the thick foliage. Akbar
followed cautiously. The direction which Ulysses had taken caused a
suspicion of possible calamity to dawn on my mind, and I waited uneasily
for the mahout’s return. It was not long before Akbar emerged from the
woods and ran toward me.

“Praise be to our fathers, he is dead!” he shouted. Akbar had come to
fear and hate Ulysses.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“May the hyenas eat my grandfather!” said he, solemnly. “You, who know
only the truth, remember the rocky bank beyond the hill, which slopes
off to destruction? Your servant, Ulysses, rushed thither and flung
himself down, bursting his head against the stones. I myself saw him
there, lying motionless and dead.”

This was the end of Ulysses. I have already remarked at the beginning of
this narrative that I felt less of sorrow than of relief over the
catastrophe. Long association had made him dear to me in many ways, yet
I was not prepared to endure him as master. There could be no other
outcome to the unhappy situation than a tragedy of some kind. I sadly
gave orders for the interment of his body, and returned to the house,
taking with me the torn and disfigured copy of Browning’s “Sordello.”

[Illustration: FINIS]




                         _Note by the Author._


The reason that prompted Ulysses’ master to select “Sordello” as the
agent of his discomfiture was, no doubt, that of all the blind and
obscure work of the great poet, this is generally rated the most
mysterious and perplexing. In the days when the Browning conflict raged,
“Sordello” was the touchstone of the cult. To refresh the reader’s
memory of its difficulties, here are reproduced a few passages taken
almost at random from the poem. None of these is dependent on context
for meaning, so they constitute a fair test; and the reader can put
himself in Ulysses’ place.

             FROM “SORDELLO”—BOOK ONE.

                                   ... To remove
           A curse that haunts such natures—to preclude
           Their finding out themselves can work no good
           To what they love nor make it very blest
           By their endeavor.—they are fain invest
           The lifeless thing with life from their own soul
           Availing it to purpose, to control,
           To dwell distinct and have peculiar joy
           And separate interests that may employ
           That beauty fitly, for its proper sake.

           This world of ours by tacit pact is pledged
           To laying such a spangled fabric low,
           Whether by gradual brush or gallant blow.
           But its abundant will was balked here: doubt
           Rose tardily in one so fenced about
           From most that nurtures judgment, care and pain:
           Judgment, that dull expedient we are fain,
           Less favored, to adopt betimes and force
           Stead us, diverted from our natural course
           Of joys—contrive some yet amid the dearth,
           Vary and render them, it may be, worth
           Most we forgo.


                       FROM BOOK THREE.

           Let stay those girls (e’en her disguised
           —Jewels i’ the locks that love no crownet like
           Their native field-buds and the green wheat spike,
           So fair!—who left this end of June’s turmoil,
           Shook off, as might a lily its gold soil,
           Pomp, save a foolish gem or two, and free
           In dream, came to join the peasants o’er the sea.)
           Look they too happy, too tricked out? Confess
           There is such niggard stock of happiness
           To share, that, do one’s uttermost, dear wretch,
           One labors ineffectually to stretch
           It o’er you so that mother and children, both
           May equitably flaunt the sumpter-cloth!

(Reader, are _you_ “must?”)

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
 2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.
 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.





End of Project Gutenberg's The Fall of Ulysses, by Charles Dwight Willard