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1872
FAIRY　TALES　OF　HANS　CHRISTIAN　ANDERSEN
THE　THORNY　ROAD　OF　HONOR
by　Hans　Christian　Andersen
　
AN　old　story　yet　lives　of　the　〃Thorny　Road　of　Honor；〃　of　a
marksman；　who　indeed　attained　to　rank　and　office；　but　only　after　a
lifelong　and　weary　strife　against　difficulties。　Who　has　not；　in
reading　this　story；　thought　of　his　own　strife；　and　of　his　own　numerous
〃difficulties？〃　The　story　is　very　closely　akin　to　reality；　but　still
it　has　its　harmonious　explanation　here　on　earth；　while　reality　often
points　beyond　the　confines　of　life　to　the　regions　of　eternity。　The
history　of　the　world　is　like　a　magic　lantern　that　displays　to　us；　in
light　pictures　upon　the　dark　ground　of　the　present；　how　the
benefactors　of　mankind；　the　martyrs　of　genius；　wandered　along　the
thorny　road　of　honor。

From　all　periods；　and　from　every　country；　these　shining　pictures
display　themselves　to　us。　Each　only　appears　for　a　few　moments；　but
each　represents　a　whole　life；　sometimes　a　whole　age；　with　its
conflicts　and　victories。　Let　us　contemplate　here　and　there　one　of
the　company　of　martyrs…　the　company　which　will　receive　new　members　until　the　world　itself　shall　pass　away。

We　look　down　upon　a　crowded　amphitheatre。　Out　of　the　〃Clouds〃　of
Aristophanes；　satire　and　humor　are　pouring　down　in　streams　upon　the
audience；　on　the　stage　Socrates；　the　most　remarkable　man　in　Athens；　he　who　had　been　the　shield　and　defence　of　the　people　against　the　thirty　tyrants；　is　held　up　mentally　and　bodily　to　ridicule…　Socrates；　who　saved　Alcibiades　and　Xenophon　in　the　turmoil　of　battle；　and　whose　genius　soared　far　above　the　gods　of　the　ancients。　He　himself　is
present；　he　has　risen　from　the　spectator's　bench；　and　has　stepped
forward；　that　the　laughing　Athenians　may　well　appreciate　the
likeness　between　himself　and　the　caricature　on　the　stage。　There　he
stands　before　them；　towering　high　above　them　all。

Thou　juicy；　green；　poisonous　hemlock；　throw　thy　shadow　over
Athens…　not　thou；　olive　tree　of　fame！

Seven　cities　contended　for　the　honor　of　giving　birth　to　Homer…
that　is　to　say；　they　contended　after　his　death！　Let　us　look　at　him
as　he　was　in　his　lifetime。　He　wanders　on　foot　through　the　cities；
and　recites　his　verses　for　a　livelihood；　the　thought　for　the　morrow
turns　his　hair　gray！　He；　the　great　seer；　is　blind；　and　painfully
pursues　his　way…　the　sharp　thorn　tears　the　mantle　of　the　king　of
poets。　His　song　yet　lives；　and　through　that　alone　live　all　the
heroes　and　gods　of　antiquity。

One　picture　after　another　springs　up　from　the　east；　from　the　west；
far　removed　from　each　other　in　time　and　place；　and　yet　each　one
forming　a　portion　of　the　thorny　road　of　honor；　on　which　the　thistle
indeed　displays　a　flower；　but　only　to　adorn　the　grave。

The　camels　pass　along　under　the　palm　trees；　they　are　richly
laden　with　indigo　and　other　treasures　of　value；　sent　by　the　ruler　of
the　land　to　him　whose　songs　are　the　delight　of　the　people；　the　fame　of
the　country。　He　whom　envy　and　falsehood　have　driven　into　exile　has
been　found；　and　the　caravan　approaches　the　little　town　in　which　he　has　taken　refuge。　A　poor　corpse　is　carried　out　of　the　town　gate；　and　the　funeral　procession　causes　the　caravan　to　halt。　The　dead　man　is　he　whom　they　have　been　sent　to　seek…　Firdusi…　who　has　wandered　the　Thorny　road　of　honor　even　to　the　end。

The　African；　with　blunt　features；　thick　lips；　and　woolly　hair；
sits　on　the　marble　steps　of　the　palace　in　the　capital　of　Portugal；　and
begs。　He　is　the　submissive　slave　of　Camoens；　and　but　for　him；　and
for　the　copper　coins　thrown　to　him　by　the　passers…by；　his　master；
the　poet　of　the　〃Lusiad；〃　would　die　of　hunger。　Now；　a　costly
monument　marks　the　grave　of　Camoens。

There　is　a　new　picture。

Behind　the　iron　grating　a　man　appears；　pale　as　death；　with　long
unkempt　beard。

〃I　have　made　a　discovery；〃　he　says；　〃the　greatest　that　has　been
made　for　centuries；　and　they　have　kept　me　locked　up　here　for　more　than　twenty　years！〃

Who　is　the　man？

〃A　madman；〃　replies　the　keeper　of　the　madhouse。　〃What　whimsical
ideas　these　lunatics　have！　He　imagines　that　one　can　propel　things　by
means　of　steam。〃

It　is　Solomon　de　Cares；　the　discoverer　of　the　power　of　steam；
whose　theory；　expressed　in　dark　words；　is　not　understood　by　Richelieu；　and　he　dies　in　the　madhouse。

Here　stands　Columbus；　whom　the　street　boys　used　once　to　follow　and　jeer；　because　he　wanted　to　discover　a　new　world；　and　he　has　discovered　it。　Shouts　of　joy　greet　him　from　the　breasts　of　all；　and　the　clash　of　bells　sounds　to　celebrate　his　triumphant　return；　but　the　clash　of　the　bells　of　envy　soon　drowns　the　others。　The　discoverer　of　a　world…　he　who　lifted　the　American　gold　land　from　the　sea；　and　gave　it　to　his　king…　he　is　rewarded　with　iron　chains。　He　wishes　that　these　chains　may　be　placed　in　his　coffin；　for　they　witness　to　the　world　of　the　way　in　which　a　man's　contemporaries　reward　good　service。

One　picture　after　another　comes　crowding　on；　the　thorny　path　of
honor　and　of　fame　is　over…filled。

Here　in　dark　night　sits　the　man　who　measured　the　mountains　in
the　moon；　he　who　forced　his　way　out　into　the　endless　space；　among
stars　and　planets；　he；　the　mighty　man　who　understood　the　spirit　of
nature；　and　felt　the　earth　moving　beneath　his　feet…　Galileo。　Blind　and
deaf　he　sits…　an　old　man　thrust　through　with　the　spear　of　suffering；
and　amid　the　torments　of　neglect；　scarcely　able　to　lift　his　foot…　that
foot　with　which；　in　the　anguish　of　his　soul；　when　men　denied　the
truth；　he　stamped　upon　the　ground；　with　the　exclamation；　〃Yet　it
moves！〃

Here　stands　a　woman　of　childlike　mind；　yet　full　of　faith　and
inspiration。　She　carries　the　banner　in　front　of　the　combating　army；
and　brings　victory　and　salvation　to　her　fatherland。　The　sound　of
shouting　arises；　and　the　pile　flames　up。　They　are　burning　the　witch；
Joan　of　Arc。　Yes；　and　a　future　century　jeers　at　the　White　Lily。
Voltaire；　the　satyr　of　human　intellect；　writes　〃La　Pucelle。〃

At　the　Thing　or　Assembly　at　Viborg；　the　Danish　nobles　burn　the
laws　of　the　king。　They　flame　up　high；　illuminating　the　period　and
the　lawgiver；　and　throw　a　glory　into　the　dark　prison　tower；　where　an
old　man　is　growing　gray　and　bent。　With　his　finger　he　marks　out　a
groove　in　the　stone　table。　It　is　the　popular　king　who　sits　there；　once
the　ruler　of　three　kingdoms；　the　friend　of　the　citizen　and　the
peasant。　It　is　Christian　the　Second。　Enemies　wrote　his　history。　Let　us
remember　his　improvements　of　seven　and　twenty　years；　if　we　cannot
forget　his　crime。

A　ship　sails　away；　quitting　the　Danish　shores。　A　man　leans　against
the　mast；　casting　a　last　glance　towards　the　Island　Hueen。　It　is
Tycho　Brahe。　He　raised　the　name　of　Denmark　to　the　stars；　and　was
rewarded　with　injury；　loss　and　sorrow。　He　is　going　to　a　strange
country。

〃The　vault　of　heaven　is　above　me　everywhere；〃　he　says；　〃and　what
do　I　want　more？〃

And　away　sails　the　famous　Dane；　the　astronomer；　to　live　honored
and　free　in　a　strange　land。

〃Ay；　free；　if　only　from　the　unbearable　sufferings　of　the　body！〃
comes　in　a　sigh　through　time；　and　strikes　upon　our　ear。　What　a
picture！　Griffenfeldt；　a　Danish　Prometheus；　bound　to　the　rocky
island　of　Munkholm。

We　are　in　America；　on　the　margin　of　one　of　the　largest　rivers；
an　innumerable　crowd　has　gathered；　for　it　is　said　that　a　ship　is　to
sail　against　the　wind　and　weather；　bidding　defiance　to　the　elements。

The　man　who　thinks　he　can　solve　the　problem　is　named　Robert　Fulton。

The　ship　begins　its　passage；　but　suddenly　it　stops。　The　crowd　begins
to　laugh　and　whistle　and　hiss…　the　very　father　of　the　man　whistles
with　the　rest。

〃Conceit！　Foolery！〃　is　the　cry。　〃It　has　happened　just　as　he
deserved。　Put　the　crack…brain　under　lock　and　key！〃
Then　suddenly　a　little　nail　breaks；　which　had　stopped　the
machine　for　a　few　moments；　and　now　the　wheels　turn　again；　the　floats
break　the　force　of　the　waters；　and　the　ship　continues　its　course；
and　the　beam　of　the　steam　engine　shortens　the　distance　between　far
lands　from　hours　into　minutes。

O　human　race；　canst　thou　grasp　the　happiness　of　such　a　minute　of
consciousness；　this　penetration　of　the　soul　by　its　mission；　the　moment　in　which　all　dejection；　and　every　wound…　even　those　caused　by　one's　own　fault…　is　changed　into　health　and　strength　and　clearness…　when　discord　is　converted　to　harmony…　the　minute　in　which　men　seem　to　recognize　the　manifestation　of　the　heavenly　grace　in　one　man；　and　feel　how　this　one　imparts　it　to　all？

Thus　the　thorny　path　of　honor　shows　itself　as　a　glory；　surrounding
the　earth　with　its　beams。　Thrice　happy　he　who　is　chosen　to　be　a
wanderer　there；　and；　without　merit　of　his　own；　to　be　placed　between
the　builder　of　the　bridge　and　the　earth…　between　Providence　and　the
human　race。

On　mighty　wings　the　spirit　of　history　floats　through　the　ages；　and
shows…　giving　courage　and　comfort；　and　awakening　gentle　thoughts…　on　the　dark　nightly　background；　but　in　gleaming　pictures；　the　thorny　path　of　honor；　which　does　not；　like　a　fairy　tale；　end　in　brilliancy　and　joy　here　on　earth；　but　stretches　out　beyond　all　time；　even　into　eternity！
THE　END

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Written　By　Anderson