Published by BoD - Books on Demand, NorderstedtISBN: 9783748147305
Table of contents
Introduction.
Introduction: Dr. Kalff.
Vondel: His Life and Times.
The "Lucifer."
The Falling Morning Star
A Word to All Fellow-Academicians and Patrons of the Drama.
The Argument
Dramatis Personæ.
ACT I.
Act II.
ACT III.
ACT IV.
Act V.
Introduction.
It
has become a matter of literary tradition, in Holland and out of
it,
that the choral drama of "Lucifer" is the great masterpiece
of Dutch literature. The Dutch critics, however, are by no manner
of
means unanimous in this opinion. In point of fact, it has been
assigned by some a place relatively subordinate among the works of
this "Dutch Shakespeare," as they are fond of calling
Vondel at home. No other one, however, in the long list of his
dramas
and poems, from the "Pascha" of 1612 to his last
translations of 1671, the beginning and the end of a literary
career,
in which one of the greatest of Dutch writers on its history has
pronounced the poetry of the Netherlands to have attained its
zenith,
will, none the less, so strongly appeal to us, outside of Holland,
as
does the "Lucifer." Vondel's tragedy "Gysbreght van
Amstel" may have found far greater favor as a drama, and the
poet may possibly in his lyrics have risen to his greatest height;
but neither the one nor the other, in spite of this, can have such
supreme claims upon our attention.Why
this is so is dependent upon a variety of reasons. It is not solely
on account of the lofty character of the subject, nor because we
have
an almost identical one in a great poem in English literature,
between which and the "Lucifer" there is a more than
generic resemblance. The question of Milton's indebtedness to
Vondel
is no longer to be considered an open one, and has resolved itself
into an inquiry simply as to the amount of the influence exerted.
This is an interesting phase of the matter, and, since it involves
one of our great classics, an important one. The two poems,
nevertheless, however great this influence may be shown to be, are
by
no manner of means alike in detail, and one main source of interest
to us, to whom "Paradise Lost" is a heritage, is
undoubtedly to compare the treatment of such a subject by two great
poets of different nationalities. The paramount reason, however,
why
the "Lucifer" should appeal to us is because it is, in
reality, one of the great poems of the world; because of its
inherent
worth, its seriousness of purpose, the sublimity of its fundamental
conceptions, its whole loftiness of tone. When the critics praise
others of Vondel's works for excellences not shared by the
"Lucifer,"
they extol him immeasurably, for there is enough in this poem alone
to have made its author immortal.It
is a matter of surprise that down to the present time there has
been
no English translation of "Lucifer," although, after all,
its neglect is but a part of the general indifference among us to
the
literature of Holland in all periods of its history. Why this
should
be so is not quite apparent; for wholly apart from the important
question of action and reaction as a constituent part of the
world's
literature, the literature of Holland has in it, in almost every
phase of its development, sublimities and beauties of its own which
surely could not always remain hidden. An era of translation was
sure
to set in, and it is a matter of significance that its herald has
even now appeared.That
the first considerable translation of any Dutch poet into English
should be Vondel, and that the particular work rendered should be
the
"Lucifer," is, from the preëminent place of writer and
poem in the literature of the Netherlands, altogether apt.It
is particularly fitting, however, that such an English translation,
both because it is first and because it is Vondel, should be put
forth, beyond all other places, from this old Dutch city of New
York.
There is surely more than a passing interest in the thought that,
at
the time of the appearance of Vondel's "Lucifer" in old
Amsterdam, in 1654, its reading public was in part New Amsterdam,
as
well. Whether any copy of the book ever actually found its way over
to the New Netherlands is a matter that it is hardly possible now
to
determine; but that it might have been read in the vernacular as
readily here as at home is a fact of history. Only two years after
the publication of the "Lucifer," that is in 1656, Van der
Donck, as his title page states, "at the time in New
Netherland," printed his "Beschryvinge van
Nieuw-Nederlant," in which occurs the familiar picture of "Nieuw
Amsterdam op 't Eylant Manhattans," with its fort, and
flagstaff, and windmill, its long row of little Dutch houses, and
its
gibbet well in the foreground as an unmistakable symbol of law and
order.Strikingly
enough, too, during the lifetime of Vondel we were making our own
contributions to Dutch literature; modest they certainly may have
been, but real none the less. Jacob Steendam, the first poet of New
York, wrote here at least one of his poems, the "Klagt van
Nieuw-Amsterdam," printed in Holland in 1659, and from this same
period are the occasional verses of those other Dutch poets,
Henricus
Selyns, the first settled minister of Brooklyn, and of Nicasius de
Sille, first colonial Councillor of State under Governor
Stuyvesant.
Steendam, after he had returned from these shores to the
Fatherland,
is still a New Netherlander in spirit, for he continued to sing in
vigorous, if homely, verses of the land he had left, which in his
long poems, "'T Lof van Nieuw-Nederland," and
"Prickel-Vaersen" he paints in glowing colors:Nieuw-Nederland,
gy edelste GewestDaar
d'Opperheer (op 't heerlijkst) heeft gevestDe
Volheyt van zijn gaven: alder-bestIn
alle Leden.Dit
is het Land, daar Melk en Honig vloeyd:Dit
is't geweest, daar't Kruyd (als dist'len) groeyd:Dit
is de Plaats, daar Arons-Roede bloeyd:Dit
is het Eden.A
translation of Vondel, from what has been said, is, accordingly, in
a
certain sense, a rehabilitation, a restoration to a former status
that through the exigency of events has been lost. While this may
be
considered from some points of view but a curiosity of coincidence,
it is in reality, as has been assumed, much more than that: it is a
pertinent reminder of our historical beginnings, a harking back to
the century that saw our birth as a province and as a city, to the
mother country and to the mother tongue.Of
the literature of Holland, from the lack of opportunity, we know
far
too little. The translation into English of Vondel's "Lucifer"
is not only in and for itself an event of more than ordinary
importance in literary history, but it cannot fail to awaken among
us
a curiosity as to what else of supreme value maybe contained in
Dutch
literature, and thereby, in effect, form a veritable "open
sesame" to unlock its hidden treasures.
Introduction: Dr. Kalff.
When
Vondel, in 1653, finished his "Lucifer," he stood,
notwithstanding his sixty-six laborious years, with undiminished
vigor upon one of the loftiest peaks in his towering career.A
long road lay behind him, in some places rough and steep, though
ever
tending upwards. What had he not experienced, what had he not
endured
since that day in 1605 when he contributed a few faulty strophes to
a
wedding feast—the first product of his art of which we have any
knowledge!After
a long and wearisome war, full of brilliant feats of arms, his
countrymen had, at length, closed a treaty full of glory to
themselves with their powerful and superior adversary. The Republic
of the United Netherlands had taken her place among the great
powers
of the earth. In the East and in the West floated the flag of
Holland. Over far-distant seas glided the shadows of Dutch
ships,
en route to other
lands, bearing supplies to satisfy their needs, or speeding
homewards
freighted with riches.Prince
Maurice was dead. Frederic Henry and William II. had come and gone.
De Witt, however, guided the helm of the ship of state; and as long
as De Ruyter stood on the quarter-deck of his invincible "Seven
Provinces" no reason existed to inspire an Englishman with a
"Rule Britannia."Knowledge
soared on daring wings. Art reigned triumphant. The Stadhuis at
Amsterdam was nearing completion. Rembrandt's "Night Patrol"
already hung in the great hall of the Arquebusiers, and his
"Syndics
of the Cloth Merchants" was soon to be begun.Fulness
of life, growth of power, and the extension of boundaries were
everywhere apparent. The life of the period is like an impressive
pageant: in front, proud cavaliers, in high saddles, on their
prancing steeds, with splendid colors and dazzling weapons, while
silk banners gorgeously embroidered are waving aloft; in the rear,
beautiful triumphal chariots and picturesque groups; around stands
a
clamorous multitude that for one moment forgets its cares in the
glow
of that splendor, though often only kept in restraint with
difficulty.In
the midst of this busy, murmurous scene, Vondel with steady feet
pursued his own way; often, indeed, lending his ear to the voices
with which the air reverberated, or feasting his eyes upon color
and
form; often, too, lifting his voice for attack or defence; though
still more often with averted glance, and lost in meditation,
listening to the voice within.Life
had not left him untried. In many a contest, especially in his
struggles against the Calvinistic clergy, he had strengthened his
belief on many a doubtful point, developed his powers, and
sharpened
his understanding.He
had lost two lovely children; his tenderly beloved wife, who lived
for him, had left him alone; his conversion to Catholicism had cost
him much internal strife, and had brought with it the loss of
former
friends; his oldest son, Joost, had plunged him into financial
difficulties, which resulted in ruin: yet beneath all this his
sturdy
strength did not fail him.The
fire of his spirit, not suppressed or smothered by the piled-up
fuel
of early learning, but constantly and richly fed with that which
was
best, burned with a fierce flame, ever hungry for new food.
Treasures
of art and knowledge he had gathered, even as the honey-bee culls
her
store out of all meadows and flowers; for towards art and knowledge
his heart ever inclined—towards those muses of whom, in his
"Birthday Clock of William Van Nassau," he said:"For
whom all life I love; and without whom, ah me!The
glorious majesty of sun I could not gladly see."In
an awe-inspiring number of long and short poems, he had, since
those
first lame verses, developed his art; he had taught his
understanding
to make use of life-like forms in the construction of his dramas;
his
feelings he had made deeper and more refined; his taste he had
ennobled; his self-restraint he had increased; his technique he had
made perfect.Did
his Bible remain the fount from which he preferred to draw the
material for his dramas, he also gladly borrowed his motifs from
the
past of classical antiquity, and from the every-day Netherland life
around him. His own fiery belief and deep convictions, and
irrepressible desire to give vent to them, caused the person of the
poet to be seen more clearly in his characters than we observe to
be
the case in the productions of his masters, the classic
tragedians."Palamedes"
is a tempestuous defence of the great statesman Oldenbarneveldt—a
defence full of intemperate passion, bitter reproach, and burning
satire. How fiercely glows there, in each word, in each answer, in
transparent allusion and in scornful irony, the fire of party
spirit!
How often, too, do we there hear the voice of the poet himself, as
it
trembles with tender sympathy or with lofty indignation!"Gÿsbrecht
van Amstel," a subject dearer to the burghers of Amsterdam than
most others, is illuminated with the soft glimmer of altar-candles
mingled with airy incense. That same light, that same perfume, we
also perceive in "Maeghden," "Peter en Pauwels,"
and "Maria Stuart."The
Christ-like, humble thankfulness of a Dutch burgher falls upon our
ears in the "Leeuwendalers," that charming pastoral, in
which the wanton play of whistling pipe and reed is constantly
relieved by the silvery pure tones of ringing peace-bells.Does
the history of the development of the Vondelian drama teach us more
about the man Vondel, it also most clearly shows us the evolution
of
the artist. Especially after his translation of "Hippolytus"
he had weaned himself from the style of Seneca. More and more he
became filled with the grandeur of the Greek tragedians, Sophocles
and Euripides above all others. Æschylus he had not yet made his
own; that hour was not yet come.In
"Gÿsbrecht van Amstel" we feel, for the first time, that
Vondel acknowledges the Greeks as his masters, that he strives to
follow them in their sublime simplicity; in their naturalness, that
never degenerates to the gross; in their freedom of movement, so
different from the stiffness of the school of Seneca; in the
exquisitely delicate manner in which the lyric is introduced into
the
drama. In "Joseph in Dothan," "Leeuwendalers,"
and "Salomon," we behold the poet pursuing the same path,
and here the influence of the Greeks is still more
perceptible.We
have attempted in a few rapid strokes to give a brief outline of
the
time in which the tragedy "Lucifer" had its origin, and
also of the man, the poet, who created it.When
Vondel first conceived the plan of writing this tragedy is not
known.
However, it is well known that this subject had early made an
impression upon him. In the collection of prints entitled "Gulden
Winkel" (1613), for which Vondel wrote the accompanying mottoes,
we already find the Archangel whom God had doomed to the pit of
hell.
In the "Brieven der Heilige Maeghden" (1642), and in
"Henriette Marie t'Amsterdam" (1642), we also find mention
of the revolt of the Archangel. In the first-named work the strife
between Michael and Lucifer, with their legions, is already seen in
prototype. About 1650 he had undoubtedly resolved upon a plan to
expand this subject into a tragedy.Was
the fallen Archangel for a long period thus ever present to the
poet's eye? Did that subject so enthrall him that, at last, he
could
no longer resist the impelling desire to picture it after his own
fashion? For the causes of this interest we shall not have far to
seek.The
seventeenth century was, more than almost any other, the age of
authority, and "Lucifer" is the tragedy of the individual
in his revolt against authority. Vondel, the Catholic Christian, to
whom the ruling power was holy—holy because it came from God;
Vondel, the Amsterdam burgher, reared in the fear of the Lord, and
full of reverence for those in authority as long as his conscience
approved; Vondel must thus have been deeply impressed by the
thought
of the presumptuous attempt of the Stadholder of God, "the
fairest far of all things ever by God created," in his revolt
against the "Creator of his glory." Out of this deep
agitation this tragedy was born.Only
a genius such as that of Vondel or Milton could bring itself to
undertake so dubious a task—out of such material to create a poem;
only the highest genius could succeed in such gigantic attempt.
Only
such a poet can translate us on the mighty wings of his imagination
into the portals of heaven; can present to us angels that at the
same
time are so human that we can put ourselves in their place, but
who,
nevertheless, remain for us a higher order of beings; can dare to
bring into a drama a representation of God, without offending His
majesty.With
chaste taste the poet has only rapidly sketched the scene of the
drama; by means of a few suggestive strokes, awaking in reader and
hearer a sympathetic conception: an illimitable spaciousness
radiant
with light; an eternal sunshine, more beautiful than that of earth,
mirroring itself in the blue crystalline, above which hover hosts
of
celestial angels; here and there in the background, the dazzling
pediments, towers, and battlements of ethereal palaces; far away,
upon the heights beyond, the golden port, from which God's "Herald
of Mysteries" came down into view. The earth lies immeasurably
far below; high, high above, "So deep in boundless realms of
light," God reigns upon His throne.In
that endless vast live and move the inhabitants of Heaven in
tranquil
enjoyment. "Grief never nestled 'neath those joyful eaves"
until the creation of man. Pride and envy now awake in the breasts
of
the angels, and their suffering begins.Lucifer's
passionate pride, which in its outbursts occasionally reminds us of
the heroes of Seneca; his dissimulation in the conversation with
the
rebellious angels; his wretchedness when Rafael has opened his eyes
to an appreciation of his position; his obstinate resistance and
untamed defiance—all this Vondel has portrayed for us in a masterly
manner. Belzebub, more than Lucifer, is the real genius of evil,
the
wicked one. He is this in his inclination towards subtle mockery
and
sarcasm; in his hypocrisy; in his wily use of Lucifer's weakness to
incite him to destruction; in the art with which he, while himself
behind the curtain, directs the course of events.After
the grand overture of the drama, wherein men and angels are placed
over against one another, we see how, in the second act, Lucifer
comes on the scene, mounted on his battle chariot, excited,
embittered; and then the action develops itself in a remarkably
even
manner. The clouds roll together; more threateningly, more heavily
they impend; the light that glows from the towers and battlements
of
Heaven grows tarnished; the seditious angels gradually lose their
lustre; the thunder approaches with dull rumblings; one moment it
is
stayed, even at the point of outbursting, where Rafael, "oppressed
and wan," throws himself appealingly on Lucifer's neck; then it
precipitates itself in a terrible storm of strife between desperate
rage and the powers above. The fall of man is the sombre afterpiece
of this intensely interesting drama.All
of this is discussed in verses that know not their equal in
nobility
of sound, in fulness and purity of tone, in rapidity of change from
tenderness to strength, in wealth of coloring.Through
its opulence and beauty this tragedy holds a unique place in our
literature. Only "Adam in Ballingschap" can be placed
beside it. Only Vondel can with Vondel be compared. If, however,
one
should compare this production with the best that has been produced
in this kind of poetry by other nations, its splendor remains
undimmed; beside the masterpieces of Æschylus, Dante, and Milton,
Vondel's maintain an equal place.To
this tragedy and to other works of Vondel and of some of our other
poets we proudly point, if strangers ask us in regard to our right
to
a place in the world's literature. It could, therefore, not be
otherwise than that a Netherlander who loves his countrymen should
be
glad when the bar between his literature and that of the outside
world is raised; when other nations are furnished occasion to
admire
one of our national treasures, and are thereby enabled to have a
better knowledge of the character and the significance of our
people.We
heartily rejoice over the fact that Vondel's drama has been
translated into English by an American for Americans, with whom we
Netherlanders have from time immemorial been on a friendly footing.
We rejoice, too, that this rendering into a language which is more
of
a world tongue than our own will also give to Englishmen an
opportunity to enjoy Vondel's work.Were
this translation an inferior one, or were it only mediocre, we
should
have no reason to be glad. Then, surely, it were better that the
translation had never been made; for to be unknown is better than
to
be misknown.But
in this case it is otherwise. Although no translation can entirely
compensate for the lack of the original, it is, however, possible
for
the original to be followed very closely. This is well shown by
this
rendering, which to a high degree possesses the merit of accuracy,
while, at the same time, the spirit and the character of Vondel's
tragedy are felt, understood, and interpreted in a remarkable
manner.Whoever
is in a position, by the comparison of the translation with the
original, to form an individual opinion of Van Noppen's work, will
probably be convinced, even as I have been, that here an
extraordinarily difficult task has been magnificently done. May
this
translation, therefore, aid in the spreading of Vondel's fame. May
it
also be followed by many another equally admirable rendering of the
poetry and prose of the Netherlands, and may thereby, furthermore,
the bond be drawn more closely between America and that land which
at
one time possessed the opportunity to be the mother-country.
Vondel: His Life and Times.
"Vondel!
thousand thousand voicesEcho
answer—grandly singPraises
to our greatest poet,Hailing
him the poets' king."Dr.
Schaepman.THE
DUTCH RENAISSANCE."Yes,
truly, it is a great thing for a nation that it get an articulate
voice—that it produce a man who will speak forth melodiously what
the heart of it means."Profounder
truth, that keen aphorist, the Sage of Chelsea, never cast into
heroic mould.The
consciousness of a great literature is a grander basis for national
exaltation than the possession of victorious fleets and invincible
battalions. The nation whose highest aspiration and most glorious
impulse, whose noblest action and deepest thought, have been
crystallized into fadeless beauty by the soul of native genius, has
surely more lasting cause for pride than she whose proudest boast
is
a superiority in mere material achievement.The
everlasting shall always have precedence over the momentary; the
time-serving heroics of to-day are the laughter-compelling
travesties
of to-morrow; the golden colossus of one age is the brazen pigmy of
the next. Beauty alone is unfading; art alone is eternal."All
passes: art aloneEnduring—stays
to us;The bust
outlasts the throne;The
coin, Tiberius."Even
the gods must go;Only
the lofty rime,Not
countless years o'erflow,Not
long array of time."Happy
the country blest with a heritage of noble deeds! Thrice happy she
whose glory is a treasury of noble words! Only from great actions
can
gigantic thoughts be born.Nowhere
was the Revival of Learning more joyfully received than in the
Netherlands. At the bidding of the Renaissance, the monasteries,
those storehouses of the knowledge of the past, unlocked their
precious lore. The classics were now for the first time
conscientiously studied; not so much for themselves, as to shed the
light of the past upon the present, to furnish suggestions for new
discoveries.Erasmus
was but the pioneer of a host of scholars and philosophers.
Thomas-à-Kempis was but the forerunner of a race of distinguished
literati. The following generation also studied the moderns; and
the
wonderful genius of Italy, as well as the brilliant talent of
France,
now lighted up the dark recesses of the Cathedral of Gothic
art.The
Reformation, like a tiny acorn, first pierced the rich mould of
civil
life. Then bursting into the sunshine, it towered into the sky of
religious life an imperious oak. The dormant energies of the Low
Germans were now kindled into a blaze of creative activity. As in
Italy, this first revealed itself in the increased power of the
cities, the Tradesmen's Guilds, the Chambers of Rhetoric, and the
growing privileges of the citizens; for example, the burghers of
Utrecht and of Amsterdam. It next manifested itself in the
Universities and in the Church.Hand
in hand with this extraordinary intellectual development went the
sturdy manliness of a vigorous national life. It was the era of
enterprise and adventure; of invention and discovery. Daring was
the
spirit, attainment the achievement, of this age—this age that dared
all.Proud
in the philosophy wrested from experience, the race sought to
extend
its intellectual empire even in the domain of transcendentalism.
Knowledge, like Prometheus, bound for centuries to the gloomy cliff
of superstition, suddenly rent its bonds and stood forth in all of
its tremendous strength, gigantic and unshackled; a god, flaming to
conquer the benighted realms of ignorance! Imagination, like a
fire-plumed steed, preened for revelries, soared to the stars, and
roamed unbridled through the boundless deep of space.The
world ran riot for truth. In England, Italy, France, and Spain, as
well as in Holland, arose a race of explorers that gave to the
earth
another hemisphere, and discovered another solar system in the
universe of thought.The
world called loud for blood. Truth was not to be attained without
sacrifice; freedom was not to be won without battle. Universal
struggle was to precede universal achievement. A whirlwind of death
now swept over the earth, leaving in its wake carnage and disaster.
The passions of men burst asunder the chains of duty and religion,
and swooped on the nations with desolating rage.The
world was in travail. Hope was born, error vanquished, tyranny
dethroned. The dawn of a new life had come. The night was over. The
sparks of war became the seeds of art. The Netherland imagination
was
suddenly quickened into creative rapture by the contemplation of
the
heroism of the great Orange and the founders of the
Republic.A
generation of fighters is always the precursor of an epoch of
singers. The panegyrist and the historian ever follow in the train
of
the soldier and the statesman; the epic and the eulogy as surely in
the path of great deeds as the polemic and the satire in the track
of
wickedness and folly.The
sculptor and the painter are evoked from obscurity only by the call
of heroes. The musician and the poet—the voice of the ideal—stand
ever ready to blazon forth the glory of the real. Unworthy actions
alone are unsung.The
foundations of the Dutch Republic had been laid by a race of
Cyclops,
in whose battle-scarred forehead glowed the single eye of freedom.
A
race of Titans followed, and built upon this firm foundation a
magnificent temple of art and science, above whose four golden
portals were emblazoned, chiselled in "deathless diamond,"
the names, Vondel, Rembrandt, Grotius, and Spinoza, the
high-priests
of its worship.It
is of Vondel, the one articulate voice of Holland, whose heart ever
kept time with the larger pulse of his nation, that we would now
speak.
CHILDHOOD
AND YOUTH.
Justus
van den Vondel was the son of Dutch parents, and was born at
Cologne,
November 17, 1587. It is curious to note that above the door of the
house where the greatest bard of the Low Germans first saw the
light
hung the sign of a viol, a maker of that instrument having at one
time lived there. The poet used to point to this fact as having
been
prophetic of his poetic future; and it was, surely, not an
uninspiring coincidence.The
elder Vondel was a hatter, and had fled to Cologne from his native
city, Antwerp, to escape the persecution then raging against the
Anabaptists, of which church he was a zealous and devout
member.In
Cologne he had courted and married Sarah Kranen, whose father,
Peter
Kranen, also an Anabaptist, had likewise been driven from Antwerp
by
the fury of the Romanists. Peter Kranen was not without reputation
in
his native city as a poet, and had won some distinction in the
public
contests of the literary guilds, of one of which he was a shining
ornament. So it seems that our poet drank in the divine afflatus,
as
it were, with his mother's milk.It
is related that Kranen's wife, being pregnant, was unable to
accompany her husband in his hurried flight; and, being left
behind,
was confined in the city prison, where her severe fright
prematurely
brought on the crisis. Being strongly importuned by a cousin of the
young woman, who was required to furnish security for her
re-appearance, the magistrates finally permitted her to complete
her
travail at her home.After
the birth of her child, when her cousin again delivered her,
sorrowful and heavy at heart, into the custody of the jailer, he
whispered comfortingly in her ear, "With this hand I have
brought you here; but with the other I shall take you away
again."The
time of her execution drew nigh. It was intended that she should be
burnt at the stake with a certain preacher of her sect. When this
became known, the cousin went to the dignitaries of the Church and
asked if, in case one of her children be baptized by a Catholic
priest, the mother would have a chance for her life. The clergy,
ever
anxious to welcome an addition to the fold, and more desirous to
save
a soul than to burn a body, replied that it might be so
arranged.One
of the children, a daughter, who was already with the father at
Cologne, was then hastily summoned. Upon her arrival, accordingly,
she was baptized after the manner of the Catholic ritual, and
received into the Church.The
mother, now free, hastened to the arms of her joyful spouse, and
the
daughter who thus saved her mother's life afterwards became the
mother of Vondel.So
even Vondel's Romanism, of which much will be said farther on,
might
thus be considered as foreshadowed and inherited.The
year of Vondel's birth was also the year of the execution of Mary
Queen of Scots, whose tragic end he was destined to celebrate.
Shakespeare, the most illustrious poet of the hereditary enemies of
Vondel's countrymen, was just twenty-three years old, and had
already
been married four years to Anne Hathaway. William the Silent, "the
Father of his Country," had only three years before, in the
flower of his age, been cut off by the red hand of the
assassin.The
early childhood of the poet was spent at Cologne. He never forgot
the
town of his birth, and, after the manner of the poets of antiquity,
sang its glories in many an eloquent rime.After
the storm of persecution had spent its fury, the Vondels slowly
returned by way of Bremen and Frankfort to the Netherlands. They
rode
in a rustic wagon, across which were fastened two strong sticks.
From
these was suspended a cradle, in which lay their youngest child.
This
simplicity and their modest demeanor and unaffected piety so
impressed the wagoner that he was heard to say: "It is just as
if I were journeying with Joseph and Mary."The
family first stopped at Utrecht, where the young "Joost"
went to school. His early education, however, was very meagre,
ending
with his tenth year; so that he whose attainments were afterwards
the
admiration of his scholarly contemporaries, and the wonder of
posterity, commenced life with the most threadbare equipment of
learning.Surely
the plastic imagination of the boy must have been wonderfully
impressed by the grandeur of that gigantic Gothic pile, the Utrecht
Cathedral, and its tremendous campanile, pointing like a huge index
finger unerringly to God, and towering so sublimely above the
beautiful old town and the fertile meadows all around!In
1597 we find the family in Amsterdam, of which flourishing city the
elder Vondel had recently become a citizen, and where he had opened
a
hosiery shop.This
business must have proved remunerative, as one of his younger
children, his son William, afterwards studied law at Orleans, and
then travelled to Rome, where he applied himself to theology and
letters, a course of study which in that age, even more than
to-day,
must have been beyond the means of even the ordinary well-to-do
citizen.Though
the subject of our sketch was not so fortunate in this respect as
his
younger brother, yet he made good use of his opportunities; and it
is
recorded that, even before he had reached his teens, his rimes
attracted considerable attention among the friends of the
family.When
only thirteen years old, we find his verses complimented as showing
unusual promise. It was Peter Cornelius Hooft, the talented young
poet, son of the burgomaster of the city, who was at that time
pursuing a course of study in Italy, who incidentally made this
passing reference in an interesting rimed epistle to the Chamber of
the Eglantine at Amsterdam.This
Chamber was one of the literary guilds founded in imitation of the
French Collèges de
Rhétorique; and it
played so important a part in the literary history of the city and
in
the life of our poet that we ask indulgence if an account of it
cause
what may seem a little digression.Under
the rule of the House of Burgundy, the French feeling for dramatic
poetry had been introduced into the Netherlands. This was fostered,
not only by the exhibitions of the travelling minstrels, but also
by
the impressive and often gorgeous Miracle and Mystery Plays of the
clergy. In the wake of these followed the more artistic Morality
Plays. These allegorical representations did much to create a purer
taste and to waken a greater demand for the drama.The
people suddenly began to take unusual interest in declamation and
in
dramatic exhibitions; and Chambers of Rhetoric, for the indulgence
of
this new taste, were soon established in all of the prominent
cities
of the country.These
societies also began sedulously to cultivate rhetorica, or
literature, and soon became nothing less than an association of
literary guilds, bound together in a sort of social Hanseatic
league,
designed for their own defence and for the fostering of their
beloved
art.Each
was distinguished by some device, and usually bore the name of some
flower. They were wont also to compete against each other in
rhetorical contests called "land-jewels," to which they
would march, costumed in glorious masquerade, and to the sound of
pealing trumpets and of shrill, melodious airs.As
was natural, the follies of the Church were too tempting a subject
for these Chambers to resist; and many of them, long before the
thundering polemics of Luther were heard, had dramatized a stinging
satire on the clergy, revealing their vices in all of their hideous
coarseness, and making their follies the butt of their unsparing
mockery.When
the Reformation, therefore, trumped her battle-cry, there throbbed
a
responsive echo in the hearts of the Netherlanders, long disgusted,
as they were, with the excesses of a dissolute priesthood.These
societies, therefore, exerted no little influence on the social,
religious, and intellectual life of the country, and became a
powerful aid to the awakening of a national consciousness and to
the
up-building of the language and the literature.Among
them all, no other attained the distinction of the Chamber of the
Eglantine at Amsterdam. This Chamber, whose device was "Blossoming
in Love," was founded by Charles V., and to it belonged many of
the most prominent citizens of that opulent city. All religious
discussions were forbidden within its walls; and there, in that age
of religious discord and rabid intolerance, both Catholic and
Protestant met together in the worship of Apollo. It was to this
honored body that the name of the young Vondel was introduced, and
upon him, therefore, its members kept an attentive eye.We
next hear of Vondel as a youth of seventeen. He had, it seems, all
the while been assisting his father in the cares of the little
hosiery shop; but his mind was with his books, and he employed
every
spare moment in reading or in study.About
this period a friend of the family was married, and the young poet
must needs try his wings. Accordingly, he wrote an epithalamium,
which, unfortunately for the poet, still survives. As might have
been
expected, the too-aspiring youth soared on Icarian wings. However,
he
was not conscious of this at the time; and lame and faulty as these
first efforts are, it may yet be surmised that he felt the thrill
of
inspiration and the rapture of creating no less than when, in later
life, he forged those Olympian thunderbolts that fulmined over
Holland, causing tyrants to shake and multitudes to tremble.Soon
after the wedding-verses, Vondel wrote a threnody on the
assassination of Henry IV. of France, which was but little better
than his former effort.We
hear no more of our young poet till, like the deer-stealing youth,
Shakespeare, he stands, in his young and vigorous manhood, blushing
at the altar. Maria de Wolff was the name of the bride that the
twenty-three-year-old husband had won to share his destiny.History
does not record the circumstances nor the incidents of his wooing;
but from what we know of his character, we will venture to say that
it was ardently done.Of
the sonnets and the love-verses that this passion must have
inspired
in the soul of the young poet nothing, unfortunately, seems to be
known. He who had, as a boy, written tolerable verses at the
marriage
of another must surely, as a man, have done something better at his
own."All
the world loves a lover," be he ever so humble. But the loves of
the poets are of especial interest.We
therefore confess our disappointment that no record exists wherein
we
could see the poet in the sweet throes of that heart-consuming
passion. But, for all that, we feel that he loved like a poet, and
we
know that his marriage proved to be a most happy one.His
wife was in full sympathy with his every thought and aspiration,
and
wisely left her star-gazing husband to write verses while she
stayed
behind the counter and sold stockings. She was the daughter of a
prosperous linen-merchant of Cologne, and was fortunately of a
practical turn of mind.Thus,
when Vondel succeeded to the business of his father, she took upon
herself not only the management of the shop, but attended to the
house-keeping as well.
ASPIRATION.