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THE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
LOS ANGELES
GIFT OF FREDERIC THOMAS BLANCHARD
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Digitized by tine Internet Archive
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littp://www.arGliive.org/details/aldenscyclopedia08newy
ALDEN'S CYCLOPEDIA
Uniyersal Literature
PRKSENTHfO
BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES, AND SPECIMENS
FROM THE WRITINGS OF EMINENT AUTHORS
OF ALL AGES AND ALL NATIONS
VOL. VIII
NKW YORK JOHN B. ALDEN, PUBLISHER
1887
Copyright. 1887.
BY
THE PROVIDENT BOOK CO.
CONTENTS OF VOL. VIII.
PAGE.
Ferriera [fair-r^'e-ra], Antonio, {Port., 1528-1.5G9.)— Semi-Chorus in Ignes de Castro.— The Lament of Dom Pedro for Igrnes, - - - - - - 1
Fei-erbach [foi'er-bach]. Ludwig Andreas, {Germ., 1804 -I87i.)— Reason, "Will, Affection.— Man's Nature his sole Object of Consciousness. - - - - 5
Fel'illet [fuh'yay]. Octave, {Ft., 1813- .)— A Rustic Love-letter, - - - - - - - 10
FiCHTE [flh'teh], JoHANN GoTLiEB, {Germ., 1762-1814.)— Fichte's Philosophical Theory.— The Intellectual De- velopment of the Human Race. — Integrity in Study, 13
Field, Henry JIabtyk. (Amer., 1823- .)— Blarney Cas- tle. Ireland —In the Desert, - - - - 27
Fiel'dino. Henry, (Enrjl. 1707-17.^4.)— The Maiden's Choice.— Parting with his Wife and Children.— Mr. Paitri(lge«sees Garrick in '■ Hamlet," - - - 32
Fields, JAME.S Thomas (,-lmer., 1817-1881.)— Ballad of the Tempest. — T\w I.,ast of Thackeray. — Dirge for a Young Girl.- If I werea Boy a<:aiiL— Agassiz, - 40
FiGiiER [fee'gya], Imvis Guillaume, {FY., 1819- .)— Glaciers, . - . . - - 50
Fioi-ERo'A, Francisco de, {Span. 15.50-1621.) — On the Death of Garcilaso, - - - - - 53
Filica-ja [fee-lee-ca'ya] Vincenzo da, Utal., 1643-1707.) - Sonnet to Italy.— The Siege of Vienna, - - - 54
Fin'lay, George, {Brit., 1790-1875.)— The Vicissitudes of Nations, ...... 53
FiN'LEY, John, (^j/ier, 1797-1866.)— Bachelor's Hall, - 60 Fiudl-si [fwr-doo'see], AnuL Kasim, {Pera., 940-1020.)—
The Death of Soli rah, 61
FiKENzroLA [fee ren-thu-o'la], Agnouj, {Itnl., 1493-1.545.)
Upon Himself, - - - - - - 74
Fish'er, Georoe p., {Amrr., 18d7- .) — An InflniU; and
AbmAutv Being, - - . - - - 75
Fis'HKit. .John, (EikjI., 1459-1.^15.)— The Pious Countess of
Kichiiiond, - - - - - - - 78
FiHK, Wilbur, {Amcr., 1792-1«38.)-Sea-Slckne88, - 80
FiHKR, .loHN, (Amer., 1842- .)— The Scientific Moaning
of the Word " Force."- The Early Scttlen* of New
Kiigland, - - - - . - .84
Fitzokr'ai.d. Percy Hktherington (ICngl., 18.^1- .)—
GoJflMmllirs Comedy, - - - - - 68
Flaumarion (darn iriii'reon], Camii.lk {Fr. 18(2- .)
— IiiflLiteSimce, - - - - - - OJ
(;841>87
I CONTENTS.
FLAT'DKnT [flo-bair], GrsTAVE, {Fi:, 1821-1880.)-Under the Walls o( Carthage, - - - - • -94
Fletcii'eu, Andrkw, (Scot., 1053-17 16.)— Statoof Scotland in 1698, - - 98
Fletch'er, Giles, (Engl., 1584-1023.)— The Sorceress of Vain Delight, 100
Fletch'ek. John. See Beaumont and Fletcher, - 102
Fletch'er, John William, (Stviss.-Engl., 1729-1785.)— Trivial Sins, ia3
Fletcii'er, Maria Jane (Jewsrury), (Engl., 1800-1833.)— Birth-day Ballad, 106
Fletc'h'kr, Phineas, (Kngl., 1 583-1 GG5.)— The Decay of Human Greatness, - - - - . 107
Flint, Timothy, (Anier., 1780-1.S40.)— The Shores of the Ohio in 1815, 109
Fol'len, Adolf Ludwio, (Germ., 1794-1855.) — Bliicher's Ball, - - Ill
Fol'len, Charles, (Germ.-Amer., 1796-1840.) — The Prov- ince of the Psychologist, ..... 112
Fol'len, Eliza Lee (.Cadot), (Amer., 1787-1860.)— Charac- teristics of Charles Follen.— Evening, - - - 115
FoNBLANQUE [fon-hlank'], Albany William, {Engl., 1797- 1872.)— Daily Habits of the Duke of Wellington.— Le- gal Fictions.— The Irish Church, 1835, - - .118
FONTENELLE [fojlt-ncl |, BERNARD LE BOUVIER DE, (Fr., 10.57-
1757.)— Concerning the World iiuthe Moon, - -120
FoNviELLE [foji-vyel], Wilfrid de, (i^-., 1828- .)— Ter- restrial Waterspouts, ..... 133 FooTE, Mary (Hallock), (4nier., 1847- .)— Coming into
Camp, 134
FooTE, Samuel, (Engl., 1720-1777.)— Charlotte, Serjeant Circuit, and Sir Luke Limp, .... 136
ji^ORBES, Edward, (Engl., 181.5-1854.) .... 142
Ford, John, (Engl, 1.586-1640.)- Calantha and Penthea, 143 Ford, Hichard, (Engl., 1796^1858,)— Spain and the Span- iards in im), - - - - - - - 117
FoRs'TBR. John, (Bwfiri., 1812-1876.)- Swift and his Biog- laphers.— The Literary Profession and the Law of Copyright, - . - - - - - 150
Forsyth [fore-siihC], Jo.seph, (Engl, 176:j-lS15.)— The
Italian Vintage.— The Colosseum in 180.3, - -153
foBT'E.scL'E, Sir John, (Engl, 1.S95-1485.)— The Commons and the Kingdom, ...... igg
For'tcne, Robert, (Brit., 1813-1880.)— Chinese Thieves, 158
Fos'coLO, NicoLO Uoo, (Ital, 1778-1827.) — The Sepul- chres, - - - - - - .161
Fos'ter, .John, (Engl, 1770-1843.)— Changes in Life and
Ofiinions, ....... ]C7
Fos'ter. Stephen Collin.s, (Ainer., 1826-1864.)— Old Folks ftt Home, - - . . . , - 17i)
co^'TE^'Ts. i
- _ PAGE.
FouQrE [foo-kay]. Baron de la Motte, (Ger., 1777-1843.) —How Undine came to the Fisherman.— The Mar- riage and death of Huldebrand.— The Burial of Hul- debrand, •--.... 1-3
Fourier [foo-re-ay], Francois Chari.js Marie, (Ft., 1773- 1837. >— Affinities in Friendship.— The Univei-sal Side- real Language, jgo
Fox, Charub James, (Engl, 174ft-1806.)— Abolition of the Slave-Trade.— Motion for the Abolition of the Slave- Trade.— r.,etter to the Electors of Westminster.- Exe- cution of the Duke of Monmouth.— Plans of James II. 188
Fox, Georok. (Engl.. 1634-1690.^— Fox's Visions.— Mal- treatment at Ulverstone. — Interview with Oliver Cromwell.— A Waft of Death, - - - .200
FOXE. John. (Eiigl., 1J17-1587.)- Original Title of the Book of Martyrs.— The Martyrdom of William Hunter.- The Death of Anne Buleyn, - - . .205
Francil'lon, Robert Edward, (Engl., 1&41- .)— A Per- sistent Ixiver, - - . . . . - 211
Fban'cis. John Wakefield, (Anier., 1780-1S61.)— Recol- lections of Philip Freneau — Death Scene of Gouver- neur Morris, --..... 215
Fr.4n'ci8, Sir Philip, (Brit., 1740-1818.) — Junius to
George III., - . - . . . .217
Frank'lin, Benjamin, (Amer., 1706-1790.)-Early Practice in Ojmpositiou. — First Entry into Philadelphia. — Teetotalism in London.— Religi.. us Views at One-and- Twenty.— Speech in Favor of Daily Public Prayers.— His Epitaph for Himself. — His Dying Opinion of Christianity.— Poor Richards Almanac— The Chief Tax-(iatlierer. -Sloth and Industrj-. — FrugaUty.— Buying Superfluities. — Character of Whitefleld. — Paying to^) dear for the Whistle.— Paper : a Poem.— Sidi Mehemet on Algerine Piracy, - - - 223
Fha'8er, JAME.S Baillie, {Scot., 1783-1850.)— A Persian
Town.- Meeting of Warriors in the De.sert, - - 243
Freeman, Edward Auolstus, (Engl., 1823- .)— Signifi- cance of the Norman Compiest.— Comparative Mag- nitude of the Conquest.— Death of William the Con- queror —The Study of OrtM-k and Latin, - -247 Freiliorath (fri'lc-grut], Ferdinand, (Germ., 1810-1870.) -My Themes. -Sand-Songs.— The Lion's Ride.— The Sheik of Mount Sinai —The Emigrants, - . 256 FaftMONT. [fray mrm], Je.hsie Be.sto.n. (Amrr., 1824- .) —How Frr-montH Second Expe<lition was savefl.— An Irm in the Tyrol, --.... 267 FRiMONT [fray-m(m], John Charlm. (Amer., 1813- .)_ 8cop«? of the " MemoliH." — Carson, Owens, and Ciofley.-A Herd of Buffaloes. -A Fight with BulTa- loew.-Flrst Gliini)s.> of th.- It/M-ky Mountains. -On the Summit of the RfM;ky Mounlains. The (inat Sail Lake Valley in I8»3.-An Exploit of Curw.n and Oodey.- Preparing the Report of the Second Erpe-
6 CONTENTS.
PAGB.
dition.— The Treaty of Couenga.— Retrospective and Prospective, - - - - - - - S71
Frknkau [freno'], Phiup, (Amer., 1753-1R32.)— Advice to Authors.— Directions for Coiirtsliip.— The Early New EiiKlanders. — Tlie Dutcli and the Englisli in New York.— The Battle of Stoningtoii, Conn., August, 1814. —The Wild Honeysuckle.— May to April, - - 293
Frkre [freer], .John HooKriAM, (F/ngl., 1769-1846.)— An Exploit of the ("id.— King Arthur and his Round Table.— King Arthur's P'east at Carlisle.- Sir Laun- celot, Sir Tristram, and Sir Gawain. — The Marauding Giants.— The Monks and the Giants.- The Close of the War, 30J
Frkytaq [fry'tag], Gustav, (Ocrni., 1816- .)— The Bur- den of a Crime, ...... 3J7
Froissaht [frwah-sar], Jean, (Fr., 1337-1410.) -King Ed- ward III. and the Countess of Salisbury. — A Duel for Life or Death.— The Abdication of King Richard II. of England, 322
Fboth'ingiiam. Nathaniel Lanodon, {Amer., 1793-1870.) —The Sight of the Blind.— The McLean Asylum for the Insane, - - - - - - - 338
Froth'ingham, Octavius Brooks, (Amer., 1822- .)— The Beliefs of Unbelievers.— Theodore Parker, - 340
Froude [froodj, Jamks Anthony, (Engl., 1818- .)— Characttir of Henry VIII.— E.\ecution of Mary, Queen of Scots.— The White Terrace, Lake Tarawara, New Zealand.— The Devil's Hole. — Lunch- Time. —The Pink Terrace, Lake Tarawara. — England and her Colonies. — Erasmus in England, ..... 34G
Fcl'ler, Andrkw. (Knr/L, 1754-181.5.)— Mr. Fuller and Mr. Diver.— Call to the Ministry. — Doctrinal Views. —In- scription upon Fuller's Monument, - - - 3G5
Ful'ler, Margaret. See Ossoli, Margaret Fuller. 370
FUL'LER, Thomas, (.B(ir/Z., 1608-1661.)- The Good School- master.— On Books. — Henry de Essex, Standard- Bearer to Henry H.— Miscellaneous Aphorisms, - 371
Ful'lerton, Lady Gkorgiana, {Engl., 1812-1885.)— A Child of the Wilderness, 376
Fur'ness, Horace Howard, (ISK- .) — The " Fir.st Folio " of Shakespeare, .... . 3;'8
Fur'ness, William Hbnry, {Amer., 1802- .)— The Per- sonal Presence of Jesus.— A Single Eye. —Eternal Light, - - - 380
Fusina'to, Arnoldo, {Ital., 1817- .)— Venice in 1849, 383
Gaird'ner. James, {Engl., 1828- .)— The True Character of Richard III.— The Coronation of Richard III.— Richard III. after the Murder of His Nephews.— Per- sonal Appearance of Richard HI., - - -385
Gall, Richard, {Scot., 1776-1800.) — Farewell to Bonny Pood, 393
CONTENTS. 7
PAGE.
Gal'lagher, William D., (Am^., 1808- .)— Two Years. — Immortal Youth.— Early Autumn in the West, - 393
Galt, John, (Scot., 1779-1839.*— Installation of Rev. Micah Balwhidder. — Lawrie Todd's Second Marriage, - 396
Gal'tox. Francis, (En t^r, 1823- .)— Reckoning among the Damaras, ...... 40;}
Gam'bold, John, (Brtt., d. 1771.)— The Mystery of Life, 405
Gan'nett, William Channing, (.Amer., 1840- :) — Listen- ing for God, ...--. 406
Garcao [gar-thao], Pedro Antonio, (Port., 1734-1772.) — Dido, a Cantata, - - - - - - 407
Gar'diner, Sami'el Rawson, lEnoL, 1S39- .)— The Pro- jected Anglo-Spanish Alliance. — James I. and the Spanish Ambassador. — Negotiations for the Marriage. —Character of Prince Charles of England.— The In- fanta Maria of Spain. — Prince Charles tries to woo the Infanta, - - - - - - - 409
Gar'rison, William Lloyd, (Amer.. 1804-1879.)— The Les- sons of Independence Day. — Freedom of the Mind. — The Guiltless Prisoner. — To Benjamin Lundy, - 420
Garth, Sir Samuel. (Eiujl., 1G70-1719.)— The College of Physicians, .--.-.. 426
Gascoionk [gas-koin'l, George, (Engl, 1535-1577.) — Ladies of the Court.— The Lullabies, - - - 428
Gas'kell, Elizabeth Cleghorn, (Engl., 1810-1865.) — Green Hej's Fields, Manchester. — A Diffei'ence of Opmion. — Miss Matty's Confidences. — The Minister, 4:30
Ga-sparin. [gaspa-ra/i], Agenor Etienne, (Fr., 1810-1871.) —Tried and Finn, - - - - - -440
Gasparin [ga.s-pa-ra»i], Valerie, (Ft., 1815- .)— Behind a Veil. -October, 443
Gal-'des, John, (Engl, 1605-1662.) — From the " EikOn Ba.silik6." 444
Gal-tier [go-tya], TnfeopHiLE, (Fr., 1811-1872.*— The TiJLoy&l Sepulchres of Thebes. — The Close of Day.— The First Smile of Spring. — Departure of the Swallows. —Look- ing Upward, ------- 447
Gay, John, (Engl, 1688 -17.32.) -Walking the Streets of London.— The Hare witU Many friends.— Black-Eyed Susan, ....... 454
Gay, Marie Sophie, (Fr., 1776-1832.)— New Year's Gifts in France, - - - - - - - 460
Gay, Sydney Howard, (Amer., 1814- .)— The Mound- Builders of AnuTica, - . - . . 4(n
Gavarre [gfc'-ar-ray'). CirARLKS Aktiu'r, (Amer., 1805- .) — Orik'hi of till- History of Louisiana. Progress of the Work.— Close r>f the Ilistijrical lA-ctiires.- The Aborigines of L<>uiHiana.— Death of De Soto.— Iber- ville and Bienville. -The Deulh lied of Philip IL of Spain, 468
CYCLOPEDIA
OP
TJNTYERSAL LITERATURE.
FERRIEIKA, ANTO>no, a Portuguese poet and dramatist, boru in 1528, died in 1569. He became a professor at the Uni- versity of Coimbra, and subsequently held a high position at court. He wrote many sonnets, odes, and epigrams. His greatest ■work is the tragedy of Ignes de Castro^ composed in the antique manner, with a chorus of Coimbrian women.
SEMI-CHORUS IN lUNES DE CASTRO.
When first young Love was born, Earth was with life imbued ; The sun acquired his beams, the stars their Ugbt, Heaven shone in Nature's morn ; And, by the light subdued, Darkness revealed long-hidden charms to sight; And she the rosy-hued, Who rules heaven's fairest sphere, Daugliter of Ocean rude, She to the world gave Love, her offspring dear.
'Tis Love adorns our earth With verdure and soft dews; With colors docks the flowers, with leaves the Turns war to peace and mirth ; [groves ; O'er harshness softness strews ; And melts a thousand hates in thousand loves. Incessant he renews The lives stern Death consumes, Anrl gives the brilliant hues In which eartjj'a beauteous picture ever blooms. t
ANTONIO FERRIEIRA.— 3
The raging of liis flames
'Twere cowardice to fear;
For Love is soft and tender as a child ;
His rage entreaty tames ;
And passion's starting tear
He kisses from the eyes, tenderly mild.
Within his quiver hear
The golden arrows ring ;
Tlie deadly shafts appear,
But love-fraught, love-impelled, their flight they
T 1 • , fwing.
Love sounds m every lay, ^
In every tuneful choir ;
Tempestuous winds are lulled by his sweet voice ;
Sorrow is chased away ;
And in his genial fire
The limpid streams, the hills and vales rejoice.
Love's own harmonious lyre
In heaven is heard to sound ;
And while his flames inspire
Thy heart, thou, Castro, by Love's God art
crowned.
Transl. in For. Quart. Review.
THE LAMENT OF DOM PEDRO FOR IGNES.
Dom Pedro. — What should I say ? What do 1 What shriek or groan ? O fortune ! O barbarity ! O grief !
0 mine own Dona Ignes ! O my soul !
And art thou slain ? Hath Death the audacity To touch thee ? Do I hear it, and survive ?
1 live, and thou art dead ! 0 cruel Death ! My life thou'st slain, and yet I am not dead ! Open, thou earth, and swallow me at once ! Burst, burst away, my soul, from this evil body, Whose weight by force detains thee !
0 mine own Dona Ignes ! 0 my soul ! My love, my passion, my desire, my care. Mine only hope, my joy ; and art thou murdered? They've murdered thee ! Thy soul, so innocent, So beautiful, so humble, and so holy, Has left its home ! Thy blood has drenched their swords !
ANTONIO FERRIEIRA.-8
Thy blood ! What cruel swords I What cruel
hands ! How could they move against thee ? Those hard
weapons, How had they strength or edge, turned against
thee? How, cruel king, couldst thou allow the deed ? Mine enemy — not father — eneniv ! Wherefore ihiis murder me ? Ye savage lions, Ye tigers, serpents ! why, if for my blood Athirst, glutted ye not on me your rage ? Me had you slain, I might survive. IBarbarians, Wherefore not murder me ? If wronged by me, Mine enemies, why not on me revenge Your wrongs ? She had not wronged you — that
meek lamb. Innocent, beautiful, sincere, and chaste ; But you, as rancorous enemies, would slay me — Not in my life, but soul. Ye lieavons that saw Such monstrous cruelty, how fell ye not ? Ye mountains of Coimbra, 'neath your rocks. Why overwhelmed ye not such ministers? Why trembles not the earth ? Why opens not ? Wherefore supports it such barbarity ?
Messenger. — My lord, for weeping there is
ample leisure ; But what can tears 'gainst death ? I pray thee
now Visit the corse, and render it due honors.
Dom Pedro. — Sad honors! Other honors, Lady mine, I had in store for thee — honors thy due. . . . llow look upon those eyes, forever closed? Upon those tresses now not gold, but blood? Upon tliose hands, so cold and livid now, That used to be so white and delicate? On that fair bosom, pierced with cruel wounds? Upon that form, so often in mine arms. Clasped, living, beautiful, now dead and cold? How shall I see tlic picdifcs of our loves? O cruel father, didst thou not in them Behold thy son ? Thou hear'st not, my beloved 1 I
ANTONIO PERRIEIRA.-4
I ne'er sliall see thee morel Throughout thd
world Shall never find thee 1 — Weep my griefs with me, All you who hear me ! Weep with me ye rocks, Since in men's hearts dwells such barbarity I And thou, Coinibra, shroud thyself forever In melancholy ! Ne'er within thy walls Be laughter heard, or aught save tears and sighs ! Be thy Mondego's waters changed to blood ! Withered thy trees, thy flowers ! Help me to call Upon Heaven's justice to avenge my woes ! — I slew thee, Lady mine ! 'Twas I destroyed thee 1 With death I recompensed thy tenderness 1 But far more cruelly than thee they slew Will I destroy myself, if I avenge not Thy murder with unheard-of cruelties ! For this alone does God prolong my life ! — With mine own hands their breasts I'll open;
thence I'll tear out the ferocious hearts that durst Conceive such cruelty : then let them die ! Thee, too, I'll persecute, thou Icing, my foe ! Quickly shall wasting fires work ravages Amidst thy friends, thy kingdom! Thy slain
friends Shall look on others' deaths, whose blood shall
drown [stream,
The plains, with whose blood shall the rivers For hers in retribution ! Slay me thou. Or fly my rage ! No longer as my father Do I acknowledge thee ! Thine enemy I call myself — thine enemy ! My father Thou'rt not — I am no son — I'm an enemy ! — Thou, Ignez, art in heaven ! I remain Till I've revenged thee ; then I there rejoin theel Here shalt thou be a queen, as was thy due; Thy sons shall, only as thy sons, be princes. Thine innocent body shall in royal state Be placed on high ! Thy tenderness shall be Mine indivisible associate. Until I leave with thine my weary body, And my soul hastes to rest with thine for ever 1 Transl. in Blackwood' $ Magazine.
LUDWIQ ANDREAS FEUERBACH.— 1
FEUERBACH, Ludwig Andreas, a German philosophical writer, born in 1804; died in 1872. After studying theology for two years in the University of Heidelberg, he went, in 1824, to Berlin to attend the lectures of Hegel: The following year he abandoned theology for philosophy, of which in 1828 he became a teacher in the Univer- Bity of Erlangen. His first work, Thouglds on Death and Immortality^ was published anonymously in 1830. In this, as in his later Works, he combated the doctrine of immor- tality. His peculiarities of manner inter- fered with his success in teaching, and at length he relinquished the profession, mar- ried, and settled in the Castle of Brucksberg, a residence which formed part of his wife's dower. He had already written a History of Modern Philosophy (1833), Alelard and rleloise, or the Writer and the Man (1834), a Description^ Explanation, and Criticism of the Philosophy of Leihnitz (1837), and Pierre Bayle (1838). The Critique of He- gel followed in 1839, and The Essence of Christianity, his most important work, in 1841. In this work he claims to set forth a new philosophy, resting " not on an Under- standing per se, on an absolute nameless understanding, !)elonging, one knows not to whom, but on the understanding of man, though not on that of man enervated by speculation and dogma." He argues that man's highest good consists in resembling that ideal humanity which, created by man himself, is called God. Among his works not already mentioned are Grund- sdtze der Philotiophii'. der Zuknnft (1834), Da^ Wesen der 7i el l<ji on (184G-51), llieo- gonie (1857), and Gottheit, Erciheit, und UnsteiMiclikeit (1866).
LUDWlG ANCrEAS FEUERl3ACtt.-3
REASON, WILL, AFFECTION.
What, then, is the nature of man, of which he is conscious, or what constitutes tlie specific dis- tinction, the proper humanity of man? Reason, Will, Affection. To a complete man belong the power of Thought, the power of Will, the power of Affection. The power of Thought is tlie light of the intellect, the power of Will is energy of character, the power of Affection is love. Reason, love, force of will are perfections — the perfections of the human being — nay, more, they are abso- lute perfections of being. To will, to love, to think, are the highest powers, are the absolute nature of man as man, and the basis of his exist- ence. Man exists to think, to love, to will. Now that which is the end, the ultimate aim, is also the true basis and principle of a being. But what is the end of reason ? Reason. Of love ? Love. Of will? Freedom of the Will. We think for the sake of thinking ; love for the sake of loving ; will for the sake of willing — i.e., that we may be free. True existence is thinking, loving, willing existence. That alone is true, perfect, divine, which exists for its own sake. But such is love, such is reason, such is will. The divine trinity in man, above the individual man, is the unity of reason, love, will. Reason, Will, Love, are not powers which a man possesses, for he is nothing without them ; he is what he is only by them ; they are the constituent elements of his nature, which heneither has nor makes, the animating, determining, governing powers — divine, absolute powers — to which he can oppose no resistance.
How can the feeling man resist feeling, the loving one love, the rational one reason ? Who has not experienced the overwhelming power of melody ? And what else is the power of melody but the power of feeling ? Music is the language of feeling; melody is audible feeling — feeling communicating itself. Who has not experienced the power of love, or at least heard of it ? Which
LUDWIG ANDREAS FEUERBACH.— 3
is the stronger — love or the individual man ? Is it man that possesses love, or is it not much rather love that possesses man ? When love impels a man to suffer death even joyfully for the beloved one, is this death-conquering power his own indi- vidual power, or is it not rather the power of love ? And who that ever truly thought has not experienced that quiet, subtle power — the power of thought ? When thou sinkest into deep reflection, forgetting thyself and what is around thee, dost thou govern reason, or is it not reason which governs and absorbs thee ? Scientific enthusiasm — is it not the most glorious triumph of intellect over thee ? The desire of knowledge — is it not a simply irresistible and all-conquering power? And when thou suppressest a passion, renouncest a habit, achievest a victory over thy- self, is this victorious power thine own personal power, or is it not rather the energy of will, the force of morality, which seizes the mastery of thee, and fills thee with indignation against thy- self and thine individual weakness? — Essence of Christianity.
man's nature his sole object of conscious- ness.
Man is nothing without an object. The great models of humanity, such men as reveal to us what man is capable of, have attested the truth of this proposition by their lives. They had only one dominant passion — the realization of the aim which was the essential object of their activity. But the object to which a subject essentially, necessarily relates is nothing else than this sub- ject's own, but objective, nature. If it be an object common to several individuals of the same species, but under various conditions, it is still, at least as to the form under which it presents itself to each of them according to their respective modifications, their own, but objective, nature
In the object which he contemplates, therefore, man becomes acquainted with himself; conscious-
LUDWIG ANDREAS FEUERBACH.— 4
ncss of the objective is the self-consciousness of man. We know the man by the object, by his conception of what is external to himself ; in it his nature becomes evident; this object is his manifested nature, his true objective ego. And . this is true, not merely of spiritual, but also of sensuous objects. Even the objects which are most remote from man, because they are objects to him, and to the extent that they are so, are revelations of human nature. That he sees them and so sees them is an evidence of his own nature. The animal is sensible only of the beam which immediately affects life ; while man perceives the ray, to him physically indifferent, of the remoter star. Man alone has purely intellectual, disinter- ested joys and passions ; the eye of man alone
keeps theoretic festivals
The absolute to man is his own nature. The power of the object over him is therefore the power of his own nature. Thus the power of the object of feeling is the power of feeling itself ; the power of the object of the intellect is the power of the intellect itself ; the power of the object of the will is the power of the will itself. The man who is affected by musical sounds is governed by feeling ; by the feeling, that is, which finds its corresponding element in musical sounds. But it is not melody as such, it is only melody preg- nant with meaning and emotion, which has power over feeling. Feeling is only acted on by that which conveys feeling, i.e., by itself, its own nature. Thus also the will ; thus, and infinitely more, the intellect. Whatever kind of object, therefore, we are at any time conscious of, we are always at the same time conscious of our own nature ; we can affirm nothing without affirming ourselves. And since to will, to feel, to think, are perfections, essences, realities, it is impossible that intellect, feeling, and will should feel or per- ceive themselves as limited, finite powers, i.e., as worthless, as nothing. For finiteness and noth- ingness are identical ; finiteness is only a euphem- ism for nothingness. Finiteness is the meta-
LUDWIG ANDREAS FEUERBACH.— 5
physical, the theoretical — nothingness the patho- logical, practical expression. What is finite to the understanding is nothing to the heart.
But it is impossible that we should be conscious of will, feeling, and intellect as finite powers, be- cause every perfect existence, every original power and essence, is the immediate verification and aflirmation of itself. It is impossible to love, will, or think, without perceiving these ac- tivities to be perfections — impossible to feel that one is a loving, willing, thinking being without experiencing an infinite joy therein. Conscious- ness consists in a being becoming objective to itself ; hence it is nothing apart, nothing distinct from the being which is conscious of itself. How could it otherwise become conscious of itself? It is, therefore, impossible to become conscious of a perfection as an imperfection, impossible to feel feeling limited, to think thought limited. — Essence of Christianity.
OCTAVE FEUILLET.— 1
FEUILLET, Octave, a French novelist and dramatist, born at Saint L6, in 1812. He distinguished liimself at the college of Louis-le-Grand, in Paris, where he was edu- cated. He began his literary work with part of a romance entitled Le Grand Vieil- lard, to which two other authors also con- tributed. It was the beginning of a life of constant literary activity. Both as drama- tist and novelist he has been successful, and he has contributed many articles to news- papers and reviews. In 1862, he was elected a member of the French Academy. Among his dramatic works are Za Nuit Terrible (1845), La Crise (1848), Le Pour et le Con- tre (1849), Dellla (185T), Mojitjoye (1863), La Belle au Bois Dormant (1865), Le Cas de Conscience (1867), and Le Sphinx (1874). Among his novels are Punchinello (1846), Onesta (1848), Redemption (1849), Bellah (1850), Le Cheveu Blanc (1853), Le Roman d'u7i Jeune ILomme Paimre (1858), ILis- toire de Sihylle (1862), Monsieur de Ca- mo7's (1867), Un Mariage dans le Monde (1875), Le Journal dhine Femnie (1878), and La Morte^ translated under the title of Aliette, Many of these novels have been rendered into English. The most popular of his works has been Le Roinan dhcn Jeune ILomme Pauvre^ which has been translated into many languages. The Story of Sihylle has also had great popularity.
A RUSTIC LOVE-LETTER.
In the middle of an unusually laborious ascent a voice cried suddenly from the roadside, " Stop, if you please !" And a tall, bare-legged girl, holding a distaff in her hand, and wearing the antique costume and ducal cap of the peasants of the district, quickly crossed the ditch ; she up-
OCTAVE FEUILLET .— 2
set some terrified sheep, whose shepherdess she seemed to be, settled herself on the step, and showed us, in the frame of the carriage window, her brown, composed, and smiling face. " Ex- cuse me, ladies," she said, in the short, melodi- ous accents which characterize the speech of the people of the country; "would you be so kind as to read me that ?'' and she drew from her bosom a letter folded in the old fashion.
" Read it, sir," said Mile. Laroque, laughing ; " and read it aloud, if it is possible."
I took the letter, which was a love-letter. It was very minutely addressed to Mile. Christine
Oyadec, borough of , commune of ,
farm of . The writing was that of a very
uncultivated hand, but one that seemed sincere. The date proclaimed that Mile. Christine had received the missive two or three weeks before. Apparently the poor girl, not being able to read, and not wishing to reveal her secret to the ridi- cule of her neighbors, had waited till some pass- ing stranger, both benevolent and learned, should come and give her the key to the mystery which had lurked in her bosom for a fortnight. Her ■widely- opened blue eye was fi.ved on me with a look of irrepressible eagerness, while I painfully deciphered the slanting lines of the letter, which •was conceived in the following terms:
" Mademoiselle, this is to tell you that since the day when we spoke together on the moor after vespers, my mind lias not clianged, and that I am anxious to learn yours. My heart. Mademoiselle, is all yours, as I desire that yours should be all mine; and, if that is the case, you may be vorv sure and certain that there is not a more loving soul on earth or in heaven than your
friend , who docs not sign ; but you know
very well who, Mademoiselle."
" Why, you don't know who, do you, Made- moiselle Christine?" said I, giving her back the letter.
" Very possibly," slic said, showing lior wliite teeth, and gravely shaking her young head, ra-
OCTAVE FEUILLET.— 3
diant with happiness. " Thank you, ladies ; and you, sir."
She jumped down from tne step, and soon disappeared in the underwood, flinging towards the sky the joyous notes of a Breton soflg. Mnie. Laroque liad followed with evident delight all the details of this pastoral scene, which sweetly flattered her chimera; she smiled — she dreamed in the presence of that happy, barefooted girl — she was charmed. Still, when Mile. Oyadec was out of sight, a strange idea suddenly came into Mme. Laroque's thoughts. It was that, after all, she would not have done so much amiss to give the shepherdess a five-franc piece, besides her admiration. " Alain 1" she cried, " call her back !"
"What for, mother?" said Mile. Marguerite, eagerly, who had hitherto seemed to pay no at- tention to the occurrence.
" Why, my child, perhaps the girl does not understand altogether what pleasure I should find, and she herself ought to find, in running about barefoot in the dust. In any case I think it fitting to leave her something to remember me by."
" Money !" returned Mile. Marguerite. " Oh ! mother, don't do that ! Don't mix up money with the child's happiness !"
This expression of a refined feeling "which poor Christine, by the way, would perhaps not have immensely appreciated, did not fail to astonish me, coming from the mouth of Mile. Marguerite, who does not generally pique herself on this quintessence. I even thought that she was jok- ing, although her face showed no inclination to merriment. However that might be, her caprice, joke or no joke, was taken very seriously by lier mother, and it was enthusiastically decided that the idyl should be left with its innocence and bare feet. — The Romance of a Poor Young Man,
JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE.— 1
FICHTE, JoHANN Gottlieb, a German philosopher, born in 17G2; died in 1814. He was the son of a poor weaver, and owed his education to a wealthy nobleman, the Baron von Miltitz. He studied theology at Jena, Leipsie, and A^ittenberg; and afterwards became a tutor in several private families, in which capacity he was not successful.^ In 1790 he took up his residence at Leipsie, where he turned his liand to any kind of literary work. Here he became personally acquainted with Kant, of whose philosophy he was already an ardent admirer ; and soon after put forth anonymously his Essay to- wards a Critique of ^ all Revelation, which was by many attributed to Kant himself. His prospects now began to brighten. In 1794, through the influence of Goethe, he was made Professor of Philosophy in the University of Jena, and began a series of lectures on Wisseiischaftslehre ("The Sci- ence of Knowledge"). But after five years some of his teachings aroused opposition on account of tlieir alleged atheistical tendency, and Fichte was constrained to resign his professorship. During his stay at Jena he had fairlv formulated his metaphysical sys- tem. Tfie leading principles of this system are thus presented by Prof. Adamson in the EncyclopcBdia Britannica:
fichte's philosophical theory.
Philosophy is to Fichte the re-thinking of ac- tual cognition, tlic tlicor;/ of kno\vle(l<rc, the cmn- plete, systoiinitic exposition of the principles whicli lie at the basis of all reasoned cognition. It traces the necessary acts by which the cogni- tive consciousness comes to be what it is, hotli in form and content. Not that it is a natural his- tory or even a pheiiojiicnolor/i/ of consciousness ; only in the later writings did Fichto adopt even II
JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE.— 2
the genetic method of expression ; it is the com- plete statement of the pm"e principles of the understanding in their rational or necessary order. But if complete, this Wisscnschaftdehre (" Theory of Science") must he ahle to deduce the whole organism of cognition from certain fundamental actions, themselves unproved and incapable of proof ; only thus can we have a system of reason. From these primary axioms the whole body of necessary thoughts must be developed, and, as Socrates would say, the argument itself will indi- cate the path of the development.
Of such primitive principles, the absolutely necessary conditions of possible cognition, only three are tliinkable : — one, perfectly uncondi- tioned both in form and matter; a second, uncon- ditioned in form but not in matter ; a third, unconditioned in matter but not in form. Of these, evidently the first must be the fundamen- tal ; to some extent it conditions the other two ; though these cannot be deduced from it or proved by it. The statement of these principles forms the introduction to the Wissenschaftslehre.
The method which Fichte first adopted for stating these axioms is not calculated to throw full light upon them, and tends to exaggerate the ap- parent airiness and unsubstantiality of his deduc- tion. They may be explained thus: The primitive condition of all intelligence is that the Ego shall posit, affirm, or be aware of itself. The Ego is the Ego. Such is the first pure act of conscious intelligence, that by which alone consciousness can come to be what it is. It is what Fichte called a " Deed-act" [Thathandlunri)\ we cannot be aware of the process — the Ego is not until it has affirmed itself — but we are aware of the result, and can see the necessity of the act by which it is brought about. The Ego then posits itself as real. What the Ego posits is real. But in consciouaness there is equally given a primi- tive act of op-positing, or contra-positing, for- mally distinct from the act of position, but mate- rially determined, in so far as what is op-posited
JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE.-3
must be the negative of what is posited. The non-Ego — not, be it noticed, the world as we know it — is op-posed in consciousness to the Ego. The Ego is not the non-Ego. How this act of op-positing is possible and necessary, only be- comes clear in the practical philosophy, and even there the inherent difBculty leads to a higher view. But third, we have now an absolute an- tithesis to our original thesis. Only the Ego is real, but the non-Ego is posited in the Ego. The contradiction is solved in a higher synthesis, which takes up into itself the two opposites. The Ego and non-Ego limit one another; and, as limitation is negation of part of a divisible quantum, in this third act the divisible Ego is op-posed to a divisible non-Ego.
From this point onwards the course proceeds by the method already made clear. We progress by making explicit the oppositions contained in the fundamental synthesis, by uniting these oppo- sites, anal}'^ing the new synthesis, and so on, until we reach an ultimate pair. Xow, in the synthesis of the third act two principles may be distinguished: — (1) The non-Ego determines the Ego ; (2) The Ego determines the non-Ego. As determined the Ego is theoretical, as deter- mining it is practical ; ultimately the opposed principles must be united by showing how the Ego is both determining and determined.
From Jena Fichte went to Berlin, where by his writings, and particularly by his lec- tures, he exerted a powerful influence on the public mind. Two of his courses of lectures are worthy of special mention : Tlie Grundzi'ige des fjefjenwartigen Zcitalters ("Characteristics of the Present Age") and the ^Vewn dcH GeUlirien (''The Isaturc of the Scholar"]. These have been admirably translated into English by AVilliam Smith. Aniong the works of Fichte written after his removinf; to Berlin arc the Bestimmnng des Menscnen ('' Tlie Vocation of Man )
JOIIANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE.— 4
and the Anweisung zum Seligen Leben ("The Way to a Blessed Life"). The clos- ing years of Fichte's life were devoted to labors of a quite practical political and social character. In tlie Autumn of 1813 the hos- pitals at Berlin were filled with the sick and wounded from the campaign against Napo- leon. Among the most devoted of the vol- untary nurses in the hospitals was the wife of Fichte. She was seized with a severe at- tack of " hospital fever," from which, how- ever, she recovered ; but on the very day on which she was pronounced to be convales- cent, Fichte himself was stricken down by the same infectious disease, which proved fatal on January 27, 1814.
A complete edition of the Works of Fichte, including several posthumous writ- ings, was published in 13 vols., l"845-46 ; second edition 1862 ; by his son, Immandel Hekmai^ Fichte (1Y96-1878), himself a voluminous writer upon philosophical and theological subjects.
THE INTELLECTUAL DEVELOPMENT OF THE HUMAN RACE.
A philosophical picture of the Present Age is what we have promised in these lectures. But that view only can be called philosophical which refers back to the multiform phenomena that lie before us in experience to the unity of one com- mon principle, and, on the other hand, from that one principle can deduce and completely explain these phenomena. The mere Empiricist who should undertake a description of the Age, would seize upon some of its most striking phe- nomena just as they present themselves to casual observation, and recount these, without having any assured conviction that he had understood them all, and without being able to point out any other connection between them than their co- existence in one and the same time. The Fhi-
JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE.— 5
losopher who should propose to himself the task of such a description, would, independently of all experience, seek out an Idea of the Age (which in its own form — as Idea — cannot be directly apparent in experience), and would ex- hibit, as the necessary phenomena of the Age, the form in which this Idea would come to man- ifest itself in experience; and in so doing he would distinctly exhaust the circle of these phe- nomena, and bring them forth in necessary con- nection with each other, through the common Idea which lay 9t the bottom of them all. -The former would'be the Chronicler of the age ; the latter would have made a History of it a possible thing.
In the first place, if the Philosopher must de- duce from the Unity of his presupposed principle all the possible phenomena of experience, it is ob- vious that in the fulfilment of this purpose he does not require the aid of experience ; that in following it out he proceeds merely as a Philoso- pher, confining himself strictly within the limits which that character imposes upon him, paying no respect whatever to experience, and thus ab- solutely a priori to describe Time as a whole, and at all its possible Epochs. It is an entirely different question whether the present time be actually characterized by the phenomena that are deduced from the principle which he may lay down, and thus whether the Age so pictured by the speaker be really the present Age — should he maintain such a position, as we, for example, shall maintain it. On this part of the subject every man must consult for himself the experi- ence of his life, and compare it with the history of the Past as well as his antici[)ati()ns of the Future; for here the business of the Philosopher is at an end, and that of an Observer of the world and of men begins.
Every particular Epoch of Tinic — as wc have
alrcafly'hiuted— isthe fundamental Idea of apar-
ticular Age. Tlicse Epochs and fundamental
ldca.s of particular ages, however, can only be
11
JOHANN GOTTLIEB I^ICHTE.— 6
thoroughly understood by and through each other, and by moans of tlieir relations to Universal Time. Hence it is clear that the Philosopher, in order to be able rightly to characterize any indi- vidual Age, and, if he will, his own, must have d priori understood and thorouglily penetrated into the signification of Universal Time and all its pos- sible Epochs
The life of Mankind on this Earth stands here in place of the One Universal Life, and Earthly Time in place of Universal Time. Strictly speaking, and in the highest speculation. Human Life on Earth, and Earthly Time itself, are but necessary Epochs of the One Time and of the One Eternal Life ; and this Earthly Life, with all its subordinate divisions, may be deduced from the fundamental Idea of the Eternal Life already accessible to us here below. It is our present voluntary limitation alone which forbids us to undertake this strictly demonstrable deduction, and permits us here only to declare the fun- damental Idea of this Earthly Life, requesting every hearer to bring this Idea to the test of his own sense of truth, and, if he can, to approve it thereby.
Life of Mankind on Earth, we have said, and Epochs of this Life. We speak here only of the progressive Life of the Race, not of the Individ- ual. The Idea of a ^Yorld-Plan is thus implied in our inquiry, which, however, I am not at this time to deduce from tlie absolute source indicated above, but only to point out. I say, therefore — and thus lay the foundation of our intended edi- fice— The End of the Life of Mankind on Earth is this : That in this Life they may order all their relations with Freedom according to Reason.
With Freedom, I have said ; — their own Free- dom— the Freedom of Mankind in their collective capacity — as a Race. And this Freedom is the first accessory condition of our fundamental prin- ciple which I intend at ])resent to pursue, leaving the other conditions, which may likewise need explanation, until the subsequent lectures. This
JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE.— 7
Freedom must become apparent in the col- lective consciousness of the Race ; it must appear there as the proper Freedom of the Race — as a true and real fact — the product of the Race dur- ing its Life, and proceeding from its Life, so that the absolute existence of the Race itself is neces- sarily implied in the existence of this fact and product thus attributed to it. If a certain person has done something, it is unquestionably implied in that fact that the person has been in existence prior to the deed, in order that he might form the resolution so to act, and also during the ac- complishment of the deed, in order that he might carry his previous resolution into effect; and every one would accept the proof of non-existence at a particular time, as a proof of non-activity at the same time. In the same way — if Mankind, as a Race, has done something, and appeared as an actor in such a deed, this act must necessarily imply the existence of the Race at a time when the act had not yet been accomplished.
As an immediate consequence of this remark, the Life of Mankind upon our Earth divides itself, according to the fundamental Idea which we have laid down, into two principle Epochs or Ages : — the one in which the Race exists and lives with- out as yet having ordered its relations with Free- dom according to Reaaon; and the other, in which this Voluntary and Reasonable arrange- ment lias been actually accomplished.
To begin our farther inquiry with the first Epoch : — It does not follow, because the Race had not yet, by its own free act, ordered its rela- tions according to Reason, that therefore these relations are not ordered by Reason ; and hence the one assertion is by no means to be confounded with the other. It is possible that Reason of itself, by its own power, and without tiic co-op- peration of Ininian Frecdoiii, may have dcter- rained and ordered the relations of Mankind. And so it is in reality. Reason is the first law of tlie Life of a Race of Men, as of all Spiritual Life; and in this sense, and in no other, shall the word
JOHANN GOTTLlfeB FICHTE.-8
" Reason " be used in these lectures. Without the living activity of this law a Race of Men could never have come into existence ; or, even if it could be supposed to have attained to being, it could not, without this activity, maintain its existence for a single moment. Hence, where Reason cannot as yet work Freedom, as in the first Epoch, it acts as a law or power of Nature, and thus may be visibly present in consciousness and active there, only without insight into the grounds of its activity ; or, in other words, may exist as mere Feeling — for so we call Consciousness without this insight. In short, to express this in common language : — Reason acts as blind Instinct, where it cannot as yet through Free Will. It acts thus in the first Epoch of the Life of Mankind upon Earth ; and this first Epoch is thereby more closely characterized and more strictly defined.
By means of the stricter definition of the first Epoch we are also enabled, by contrast, more strictly to define the second. Instinct is blind — a Consciousness without insight. Freedom, as the opposite of Instinct, is thus seeing and clearly conscious of the grounds of its activity. But the sole ground of this free activity is Reason. Free- dom is thus conscious of Reason, of which In- stinct was unconscious. Hence between the do- minion of Reason through mere Instinct, and the dominion of the same Reason through Freedom, there arises an intermediate condition — the Con- sciousness or Knowledge of Reason.
But further : — Instinct as a blind impulse ex- cludes Knowledge ; hence the birth of Knowl- edge presupposes a liberation from the compul- sive power of Instinct as already accomplished ; and thus between the dominion of Reason as In- stinct and that of Reason as Knowledge there is interposed a third condition — that of Liberation from Reason as Instinct.
But how could Humanity free itself, or even wish to free itself, from that Instinct which is the law of its existence, and rules it with beloved and unobtrusive power ? Or how could the one Rea-
JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE.— 9
son which, while it speaks in Instinct, is likewise active in the impulse towards Freedom — how could this same Reason come into conflict and opposition with itself in human life ? Clearly, not directly ; and hence a new medium must in- tervene between the dominion of Reason as In- stinct and the impulse to cast off that dominion. This medium arises in the following way : — The results of Reason as Instinct are seized upon by the more powerful individuals of the Race — in whom, on this very account, that Instinct speaks in its loudest and fullest tones, as the nat- ural but precipitate desire to elevate the whole race to the level of their own greatness — or, rather, to put themselves in the room and place of the Race — and by them it is changed into an external ruling Author itj/, upheld through out- ward constraint; and then among other men Reason awakens in another form — as the impulse towards Personal Freedom, wliich, although it never opposes the mild rule of the inward In- stinct which it loves, yet rises in rebellion against the pressure of a stran'^er Instinct which has usurped its rights, and in this awakening it breaks the chains — not of Reason as Instinct it- self— but of the Instinct of foreign natures clothed in the garb of external power. And thus the change of the individual Instinct into a compul- sive Authority becomes the medium between the dominion of Reason as Instinct, and the libera- tion from that dominion.
And tinally, to complete this enumeration of the necessary divisions and Epochs of the Earth- ly Life of our liaco : — We have said that through liberation from the dominion of Reason as In- stinct, the Knowledge of Reason becomes pos- sible. By the laws of this Knowledge, all the relations of Mankind must be ordered and ^\- tiicX^iXhy their own free act. But it is obvious that mere cognizance of the law, which is never- theless all that Knowledge of itself can give us, is not fiufKcient for the attainment of this pur- pose, but that there is also needed a peculiar
JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE.— 10
practical capacity, which can only be thoroughly acquired by use : in a word, Art. This Art of orderiuij^ the whole relations of Mankind accord- ing to that Reason which has already been scien- tifically comprehended — (for in this higher sense we shall always use the word "Art" when we employ it without explanatory remark) — this Art must be universally applied to all the relations of Mankind, and manifested therein, until the Race become a perfect image of its everlasting arche- type in Reason : — and then shall the purpose of this Earthly Life be attained, its end become ap- parent, and Mankind enter upon the higher spheres of Eternity. — Characteristics of the Pres- ent Age. Transl. of William Smith.
INTEGRITY IN STUDY.
He who is to become a True Scholar, so that in him the Divine Idea of the world may attain to such a measure of clearness and influence over the surrounding world as is possible in his cir- cumstances, must be laid hold of by the Idea itself through its own inherent power, and by it be urged forward unceasingly towards the wishcd-for end. If the Student be really in- spired by the Idea — or, what is the same thing, if he possesses Genius and true talent — he is already far above all our counsels. Genius will fulfil its vocation in him without our aid, and even without his own concurrence.
But the I'rogressive Scholar can never deter- mine for himself whether or not he possesses Genius in our sense of the term ; nor can any one else determine it for him. Hence there is nothing left for him but with sincere and perfect Integrity so to act as if Genius, which must ulti- mately come to light, lay now concealed within him. True Genius, when present, manifests it- self precisely in the same way as does this Integ- rity in Study. Both assume the same form, and cannot be distinguished the one from the other. The Honest Schohir is to us the only True Scholar. The two ideas flow into each other. n
JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE.-ll
Integrity in the abstract is itself a Divine Idea ; it is the Divine Idea in its most general form, embracing all men. Hence, like the Idea itself, it acts by its own inherent power. It forms itself — as we said before of Genius — with- out aid from the personal feeling of the individ- ual— nay, annihilating his self-love as far as pos- sible— into an independent life in man, irresisti- bly urging him forward, and pervading all his thoughts and actions. His actions, I say ; . for the very idea of Integrity is an immediately prac- tical idea, determining the outward, visible, free doings of the man ; whereas the influence of Genius is, in the first place, internal — affecting spiritual insight. He who truly possesses Genius must be successful in his studies. To him light and knowledge will spring up on all sides from the objects of his contemplation. He who pos- sesses Integrity in Study, of him this success cannot be so surely predicted ; but should it not follow, he will at least be blameless, for he will neglect nothing within his power which may enable him to attain it; and even if he be not at last a sharer in the triumph, he shall at all events have deserved to be so.
We have said that the honest Man in general looks upon his free personal life as unalterably determined by the eternal thought of God. The honest Student in particnlar looks upon himself as designed by the thought of God to this end — that the Divine Idea of the constitution of the world may enter his soul, shine in him with steady lustre, and through him maintain a defi- nite influence upon the surrounding world. Thus does he conceive of his vocation ; for in this lies the essential Nature of the Scholar; so surely as he has entered upon his studies with Integrity, that is, with the persuasion that God has given a
f)urpose to his life, and that he must direct all lis free actions towards the fulfilment of that purpose — so surely has he made the supposition that it is the Divine Will that he should become a Scholar, It matters not whether wo havo
JOHANN GOTTLIEB PICHTE.— 13
chosen this condition for ourselves, with freedom and foresiglit, or others have chosen it for us, placed us in the way of preparation for it, and closed every other condition of life against us. How could any one, at the early age at which this choice of a condition usually occurs, and in most cases must occur, have attained the mature wisdom by which to decide for himself whether or not he is possessed of the as yet untried and undeveloped capacity for knowledge ? "When we come to exercise our own understanding, the choice of a condition is already made. It has been made without our aid, because we were in- capable at the time of rendering any aid in the matter; and now we cannot turn back — a neces- sity precisely similar to the unalterable conditions under which our freedom is placed by the Divine Will. If an error should occur in the choice thus made for us by others, the fault is not ours; we could not decide whether or not an error had been committed, and could not venture to pre- suppose one. If it has occurred, then it is our business, so far as in us lies, to correct it. In any case, it is the Divine Will that every one, in the station where he has been placed by neces- sity, should do all things which properly belong to that station. We have met together to study; hence it is assuredly the Divine Will that we consider ourselves as Students, and apply to our- selves all that is comprehended in that idea.
This thought, with its indestructible certainty, enters and fills the soul of every honest Stu- dent:— this namely — " I, this sent, this expressly commissioned individual, as I may now call my- self— am actually here, have entered into exist- ence for this cause and no other, that the eternal counsel of God in this universe may through me be seen of men in another hitherto unknown light, may be made clearly manifest, and shine forth with inextinguishable lustre over the world ; and this phase of the Divine Thought, thus bound up with my personality, is the only true living being within me ; all else, though looked
JOSANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE.— iS
upon even by myself as belonging to my being, is dream, shadow, nothing ; — this alone is imper- ishable and eternal within me ; all else shall again disappear in the void from which it has — seem- ingly, but never really — come forth." This thought tills his whole soul, whether or not it be itself clearly conceived, expressed, wished, or willed, is referred back to it as to its first con- dition, can only be explained by it, and only considered possible on the supposition of its truth.
Through this fundamental principle of all his thoughts, he himself, and Knowledge, the object of his activity, become to him, before all other things, honorable and holy. He himself becomes honorable and holy. Not, by any means, that he dwells with self-complacent pride on the superi- ority of his vocation — to share in some degree the counsel of God, and reveal it to the world — over other less distinguished callings, invidiously weighing them against each other, and thus esteeming himself as of more value than other men. If one form of human destiny appears to be superior to another, it is not because it offers a better field for personal distinction, but because in it the Divine Idea reveals itself with greater clearness. The individual man has no particular value beyond that of faithfully fulfilling his vocation, whatever that may be ; and of this all can partake, irrespective of the different natures of their callings.
Moreover, the Progressive Scholar does not even know whether he shall attain the proper end of his studies — the possessicm of the Idea; nor, therefore, if that noble vocation be really his. lie is only bound to supj)()se the possibility of it. The Perfect Scholar — oi whom we do not now speak — when he has the completed result in his possession, can then indeed with certainty know his vocation ; but even in him the cravings of the Idea f(ir more extended jnanifestation still continue, and shall continue while life endures; 80 that he siiall never have time to muse over the superiority of his vocation, even were such mus- »
JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICIITE.— 14
ings not utterly vain in tliemsclves. All pride is founded on what wo think we arc — are in settled and perfect being; and thus pride is in itself vain and contradictory ; for that which is our true being — that to which endless growth belongs — is precisely that to which we have not yet at- tained. Our true and underived being in the Divine Idea always shows itself as a desire of progress; and hence as dissatisfaction with our present state. And thus the Idea makes us truly modest, and bows us down to the dust before its majesty. By his pride itself, the proud man shows that — more than any one else — he lias need of humility; for while lie thinks of liiinsclf that he is something, |ie shows by his pride that he is really notliing.
Hence, in the thought to which we gave utter- ance, the Student is holy and honorable to him- self above everything else — not in respect to what he is, but of what he ought to be, and what he evermore must strive to become. The peculiar self-abasement of a man consists in this — when he makes himself an instrument of a temporary and perishable purpose, and deigns to spend care and labor on something else than the Imperish- able and the Eternal. In this view, every man should be honorable and holy to himself — and so too sliould the Scholar
And so does his own person ever become holier to him through the holiness of Knowledge ; and Knowledge again holier through the holiness of his person. His whole life, however unimportant it may outwardly seein, has acquired an inward meaning — a new significance. Whatever may or may not flow from it, it is still a god-like life. And in order to become a partaker in this life, neither the Student of science nor the follower of any other human pursuit needs peculiar talents, but only a living and active Integrity of purpose, to which the thought of our high vocation and of our allegiance to an Eternal Law, with all that flows from these, will be spontaneously revealed. — The Nature of the Scholar. Transl. of William Smith.
HENRY MARTYX FIELD.— 1
FIELD, Henky Martyn, an Ainerican clergyman and journalist, born at Stock- bridore, IMass., in 1S22. He is a son of Da- vid Dudley Field (1781-1S67), for more than sixty years minister at Haddam, Conn., and at Stockbridge, Mass. Four of tlie sons of David Dudley Field have attained eminence: David Dudley, born in 1805, prominent as a lawyer and publicist; Ste- phen Johnson, born in 1815, a lawyer and jurist, since 1803 one of the Justices of the Supreme Court of the United States; Cy- rus West, born in 1819, who had more than any other man to do with the success of the Atlantic Telegraph. Henry M. Field studied at Williams College ; in 1842 became pastor of a church in St. Louis, in 1851 of a church at West Springfield, Mass., and in 1854 became editor, and subsequently proprietor, of the New York Evangelist, He has several times visited Europe and the East. In 1875-76 he made a twelve months' tour around the world : from Kew York to Great Britain ; thence to Constanti- nople. Egypt, India, China, and Japan, re- turning l)y way of California. Soon after his return he published an acccount of this journey in two volumes, entitled respec- tively : From the Lakes of Killarney to the Golden Horn, and From E<}ypt to Japan (1876,1877). He has also written : The Irish Confederates and the liehellion of 1798 (1851), Summer PidnreKfrom Copenliafjen to Venice (1859), Jlistoi'ij of the Atlantic Telegraph (1860), Amomj the llohj U'dU and On the Desert (1883).
nLAHNEV fASTLE, IRELAND.
What fihall he naid of tlm first sitflit of a ruin ? Of coiirsf it was Jilanicy CaKtlc, which is iioar Cork, and famous for its Blarney Stone. A 11
HENRY MARTYN FIELD. -2
lordly castle indeed it must have been in the days of its pride, as it still towers up a hun- drcd'feet and more, and its walls are eight or ten feet thick ; so that it would have lasted for ages if Cromwell had not knocked some ugly holes through it a little more than two hundred years ago. But still the tower is beautiful, being cov- ered to the very top with ivy, which in England is the great beautifierof whatever is old, clinging to the mouldering wall, covering up the huge rents and gaps made by the cannon-balls, and making the most unsightly ruins lovely in their decay. We all climbed to the top, where hangs in air, fastened by iron clamps in its place, the famous Blarney Stone, which is said to impart to whoever kisses it the gift of eloquence which will make one successful in love and in life. As it was, only one pressed forward to snatch this prize which it held out to our em- brace
Before leaving this old castle — as we shall have many more to see hereafter — let me say a word about castles in general. They are well enough as ruins, and certainly, as they are scattered about Ireland and England, they add much to the pic- turesqueness of the landscapes, and will always possess a romantic interest. But viewed in the sober light of history they are monuments of an age of barbarism, when the country was divided among a hundred chiefs, each of whom had his stronghold, out of which he could sally to attack his less powerful neighbors. Everything in the construction — the huge walls, with narrow slits for windows through which the archers could pour arrows, or in later times the nuisketeers could shower balls on their enemies; the deep moat surrounding it; the drawbridge and portcullis — all speak of a time of universal insecurity, when danger was abroad, and every man had to be armed against his fellow. As a place of habita- tion, such a fortress was not much bcttei' than a prison. The chieftain shut himself in behind massive walls, under huge arches where the sun
89
HENRY MARTYN FIELD.— 3
could never penetrate, wliere all was dark and gloomy ;is a sepulchre. I know of a cottage in New England, on the crest of one of the Berk- shire Hills, open on ever}- side to light and air, kissed by the rising and the setting sun, in which there is a hundred times more of real com- fort than could have been in one of these old castles, where a haughty baron passed his exist- ence in gloomy grandeur, buried in sepulchral gloom.
And to what darker purposes were these castles sometimes applied ! Let one go down into the passages underneath, dark, damp, and cold as the grave, in which prisoners and captives were buried alive. One cannot grope his way into these foul subterranean dungeons without feeling that these old castles are the monuments of sav- age tyrants; that if these walls could speak they would tell many a tale, not of knightly chivalry, but of barbarous cruelty that would curdle the blood with liorror. These things take away somewhat of the charm wliifli ^Valter Scott has thrown about those old "gallant knights," wlio were often no better than robber chiefs ; and I am glad that Cromwell with his cannon battered their strongholds about their ears. Let those relics remain, covered with ivy, and picturesque as ruins, but let it never be forgotten that they are tlie fallen monuments of an age of barbarism, of terror, and of cruelty. — From Killarney to the Golden Horn.
IN' THE DESERT.
And now we are approaching tlie border line between Asia and Africa. It is an invisible line; no snow-cap[)ed mountains divide the mighty continents which wore the seats of the most an- cient civilization; no sea Hows between them. The Rod Sea terminates over seventy miles from the Mediterranean ; even the Suez Canal does not divide Asia and Afrioa, for it is wholly in Egypt, Nothing marks where Africa ends and Asia begins but a line in the desert, covered by
HENRY MARTYN FIELD.— 4
driftiiiijj siiiuls. And j'ct there is something wliieli strangely toiiclics tlie iinaj^ination as we move forward in the twiliglit, with the sun behind us setting over Afriea, and before us tlie black night coining on over the whole continent of Asia.
But what can one say of the desert? The subject seems as barren as its own sands. Life in the desert ? There is no life ; it is the very realm of death, where not a blade of grass grows, nor even an insect's wing flutters over the miglity desolation; the only objects in motion the clouds that flit across the sky, and cast tlieir shadoAvs on the barren waste below; and tlie only sign that man has ever passed over it, the bleaching bones that mark the track of caravans. But as we look, behold "a wind cometh out of the Nortli," and stirring the loose sand, whirls it into a column which moves swiftly towards us like a ghost, as if it said, " I am the Spirit of the I)cscrt ! Man, wherefore comest thou here ? Pass on ! If thou invadest long mv realm of solitude and silence, I will make thy gi'ave !"
AVe shall not linger; but only "tarry for a night," to question a little the mystery that lies hidden beneath these drifting sands. We look again, and we see shadowy forms coming out of the whirlwind — great actors in history, as well as figures of the imagination. Tlie horizon is filled with moving caravans and marching armies. An- cient con(|uerors pass this way for centuries from Asia into Africa, and back again — the wave of con- quest flowing and reflowing from the valley of the Tigris to the valley of the Nile. As w^e leave the Land of Goslien we hear behind us the tramp of the Israelites beginning their march ; and as the night closes in, we see in another quarter of the horizon the Wise Men of the East coming from Arabia, following their guiding star, which leads them to Bethlehem, where Christ was born. And so the desert which was dead becomes alive ; a whole living world starts up from the sands, and glides into view, appearing suddenly
HENRY MARTY N FIELD.— 5
like Arab horsemen, and then vanishing as if it had not been, and leaving no hole in the sands any more than is left by a wreck that sinks in the ocean. But like the sea it has its passing life, which has a deep human interest. And not only is there a life of the desert, but a literature which is the expression of that life ; a history and a poetry which take their color from these peculiar forms of nature ; and even a music of the desert, sung by the camel-drivers to the slow movement of the caravan, its plaintive cadence
keeping time to the tinkhng of the bells
A habitat so peculiar as the desert must pro- duce a life as j)eculiar. It is of necessitv alonclv life. The dweller in tents is a solitary man with- out any fixed ties or local habitation. Whoever lives in the desert must live alone, or with few companions, for there is nothing to support ex- istence. It must also he a nomadic life. If the Arab camps with his flocks and herds in some green spot beside a spring, yet it is only for a few days, for in that time his sheep and cattle have consumed the scanty herbage, and he must move on to some new resting-place. Thus the life of the desert is a life always in motion. The desert has no settled population, no towns or vil- lages, where men arc born, and grow up, and live and die. Its only " inhabitants" are the " stran- gers and pilgrims," tliat come alone or in cara- vans, and pitch their tents, and tarrrv for a night, and are gone. — From Egypt to Jajmn.
81
HENRY FIELDING.-l
FIELDING, Henry, an English novel- ist, dramatist, and essayist, born in 1707, died in 1754. Ho was of an ancient family which could trace its descent from the same stock as the imperial house of Hapsburg. After distinguishing himself at Eton, he was sent to the University of Leyden ; but he led so expensive a life that liis not over- rich father was obliged to recall him in his twentieth year. His father promised him an allowance of £200 a year, " which," said Fielding, " anybody might pay who would." He took up his residence in Lon- don, and began writing for the stage, hisiirst comedy. Love in Several Masks, being pro- duced while he was yet a minor. In his twenty-seventh year he married Miss Crad- dock, who had a fortune of only £1,500. He retired to a small estate worth about £200 a year which he had inherited from his mother, resolving to amend his loose way of life. He gave up writing for the stage, and ap])lied himself closely to literary studies. But his income was insufficient for his profuse expenses, and in three years he fell mto bankruptcy. He went back to London, entered himself as a student at the Inner Temple, and in due time was called to the bar. But repeated attacks of gout prevented him from travelling the cir- cuit, and con)pelled him to fall back to his pen for support. He wrote comedies and farces for the theatre ; essays, poems, and squibs for periodicals, and even produced an elaborate ti'eatise on Crown Law. The en- tire number of his dramatic pieces was alxjut thirty ; but the only ones which have kept the stage is his burlesque, Tom Thumb the Great, produced at twenty-three, and The Miser (an adaptation from the French),
HENRY FIELDING.— 3
three years later. Among the poems of Fielding the following is abont the only one worth reproducing :
THE maiden's choice.
Genteel in personage, Conduct and equipage ; Noble by heritage,
Generous and free ; Brave, not romantic ; Learned, not pedantic ; Frolic, not frantic —
This must he be.
Honor maintaining, Meanness disdaining, Still entertaining.
Engaging and new ; Neat, but not finical ; Sage, but not cynical ; Never tyrannical —
But ever true.
Fielding did not discover wherein his true strength lay until he had reached the age of thirty-four, when (in 1742) ap- peared his first novel, Joseph Andrews, which wa.s begun as a burlesque upon Richardson's Pameht, but which grew into something of a far higher order. Shortly after the publication of this novel, his wife died. He was sincerely attached to her, and mourned her deeply ; but in a few months he consoled himself by marrying her maid. In 174:3 he put forth three vol- umes of Miscellanies, including the Journey from this World to the Next, and soon after the great prose satire. The Jlistonj of Jonathan Wild. In 1740 appeared the second of his novel.-, and the best of all, Tom Jones, or the History of a Koundllng, which some have styled "the greatest of all compositions of its class." ilc had by his
HENRY FIELDING.— 3
pen (lone good service to the Wliig party of his day, and in 1749, when liis constitution had completely broken down, he received the appointment of Acting Magistrate for Westminster. The emoluments of this of- fice were small; and the duties, which were not onerous, seem to have been performed with great ability. In 1752 was published his third novel. The History of Amelia, in which he attempts to portray the virtues of his first wife, and the reckless conduct of his own early years. His health gave way wholly ; dropsy, with which he had long been troubled, assumed an aggravated form ; he was induced to make a voyage to Portu* gal, in the hope of being benefited by a mild- er climate. He sailed in the summer of 1754, but died in two months after reaching Lis- bon. Few authors have been so warmly praised by famous critics as Fielding has been. Perhaps the most genial of all of these eulogies is pronounced by Thackeray in his English Humorists of the Eighteenth Cen- tury.
During his voyage to Lisbon Fielding kept a journal, which, though he was suffer- ing the utmost pain, and was obliged to be continually tapped, shows that his intellect was as vigorous, and his affections as warm as they had ever been.
PARTING WITH HIS WIFE AND CHILDREN.
Wednesday, June 26, 1754. — On this day the most melancholy sun I had ever beheld arose, and found me awake at my house at Fordhook. By the light of tliis sun I was, in my own opin- ion, last to behold and take leave of some of those creatures on whom I doted with a mother- like fondness, guided by nature and passion, and uncured and unhardened by all the doctrine of that philosophical school where I had learned to
HENRY FIELDING.— 4
bear pains and despise death. In this situation, as I could not conquer nature, I submitted entirely to her, and she made as great a fool of me as she had ever done of any woman whatsoever ; under pretence of giving me leave to enjoy, she drew me into suffering the company of my little ones during eight hours ; and I doubt whether in that time I did not undergo more than in all my dis- temper. At twelve precisely my coach was at the door, which was no sooner told me than I kissed my children round, and went into it with some little resolution. My wife, who behaved more like a heroine and philosopher, though at the same time the tenderest mother in the world, and my eldest daughter, followed me ; some friends went with us, and otliers here took their leave ; and I lieard my behavior applauded, with many murmurs and praises to which I well knew I had no title ; as all other such philoso- phers may, if they have any modesty, confess on the like occasions. — Journal of Voyage to Lisbon.
MR. PARTRIDGE SEES GARRICK IN "HAMLET,"
In the first row, then, of 1h" first gallery, did Mr. Jones, Mrs. Miller, i t youngest daughter, and Partridge, take tlieir places. Partridge im- mediately declared it was the finest place he had ever been in. When the first music was plaved, he said " It was a wonder how so many fiddlers could play at one time without putting one an- other out." While the fellow was lighting the upper candles, he cried out to Mrs. Miller : " Look, look, madam ; the very picture of the man in the end of the common-prayer book, be- fore the gtmpowder treason service." Nor could he help observing, with a sigh, when all the can- dles were lighted: "That here were candles enougli burnt in one night to keep an honest poor family for a whole twelvemonth."
As soon as the play, which was Hamht, Prince of Denmark, began, Partriflgc was all attention, nor did he break silence till the entrance of the ghost ; upon which he asked Jones : " What
M
HENRY t'lELWNO.-S
tnan that was in the strange dress ; something," said he, " Uke what 1 liave seen in a picture. Sure it is not armor, is it T' Jones answered: " That is the ghost." To which Partridge replied, with a smile : " Persuade me to that, sir, if you can. Thougli I can't say I ever exactly saw a ghost in my life, yet I am certain I should know one if I saw him better than that comes to. No, no, sir ; ghosts don't appear in such dresses as that neither."
In this mistake, wliich caused mucli laughter in the neighborhood of Partridge, he was suffered to contimie till tlie scene between the ghost and Hamlet, when. Partridge gave that credit to Mr. Garrick which he liad denied to Jones, and fell into so violent a trembling that his knees knocked against each other. Jones asked him what was the matter, and whether he was afraid of the warrior upon the stage. "0 la ! sir," said he, " I perceive now it is what you told me. I am not afraid of anything, for I know it is but a play ; and if it was really a ghost, it could do one no harm at such a distance, and in so much company ; and yet if I was frightened, I am not the only person." " Why, who," cries Jones, " dost thou take to be such a coward here beside thyself ? " " Nay, you may call me a coward if you will ; but if that little man there upon the stage is not frightened, I never saw any man frightened in my life. Ay, ay ; go along with you ! Ay, to be sure ! Who's fool, then ? W^ill you ? Lud have mercy upon such foolhardiness ! Whatever happens, it is good enough for you. Follow you ! rd follow the devil as soon. Nay, perhaps it is the devil — for they say he can put on what like- ness he pleases. Oh ! here he is again. No fur- ther ! No, you have gone far enough already ; further than Fd liave gone for all the king's dominions." Jones offered to speak, but Partridge cried : " Hush, hush, dear sir ; don't you hear him ?" And during the whole speecli of the ghost, he sat with his eyes fixed partly on the ghost, and partly on Hamlet, and with his mouth open ;
fiENRY FIELDIXG.-6
the same passions which succeeded each other in Hamlet succeeding likewise in him.
When the scene was over, Jones said : " Why, Partridge, you exceed my expectations. You en- joy the play more than I conceived possible." " N'ay, sir," answered Partridge, " if you are not afraid of the devil, I can't help it ; but, to be sure, it is natural to be surprised at such things, though I know there is nothing in them : not that It was the ghost that surprised me neither ; for I should have known that to have been only a man in a strange dress ; but when I saw the little man so frightened himself, it was that which took hold of me."
" And dost thou imagine then. Partridge," cries Jones, " that he was really frightened ? " " Nay, sir," said Partridge, " did not you your- self observe afterwards, when he found it was his own father's spirit, and how he was murdered in the garden, how his fear forsook him by de- grees, and he was struck dumb with sorrow, as it were, just as I should have been had it been my own case. But hush ! O la ! what noise is that ? There he is again. Well, to be certain, though I know there is nothing at all in it, I am glad I am not down yonder where those men are." Then turning his eyes again upon Ham- let : " Ay, you may draw your sword ; what sig- nifies a sword against the power of the devil ? "
During the second act, Partridge made very few remarks. He greatly admired the fineness of the dresses ; nor could he help observing upon the king's countenance. " Well," said he, " how people may be deceived by faces! Nulla fde^ fronti is, I find, a true saying. Who would think, by looking in the king's face, that he had ever committed a munler <" He then inquired after the ghost; but Jones, who intended he should be surprised, gave him no other satisfaction than " that he might possibly see him again soon, and in a flash of fire."
Partridge sat in fearful expectation of this; and now, when the ghost made his next appear-
HENRY FIELDING.—'}'
ance, Partridge cried out : " There, sir, now *, what say you now ? is lie frightened now or no ? As much frightened as you think me, and, to be sure, nobody can lielp some fears, I would not be in so bad a condition as — what's liis name ? Squire Hamlet — is there, for all the world. Bless mc ! what's become of the sj)irit ? As I am a living soul, I thought I saw him sink into the earth." " Indeed you saw right," answered Jones. " Well, well," cries Partridge, " I know it is only a play ; and besides, if there was any- thing in all this, Madam Miller would not laugh so ; for, as to you, sir, you would not be afraid, I believe, if the devil was here in person. There, there ; ay, no wonder you are in such a passion ; shake the vile wicked wretch to pieces. If she was my own mother, I should serve her so. To be sure all duty to a mother is forfeited by such wicked doings. Ay, go about your busi- ness ; I hate the sight of you."
Our critic was now pretty silent till the play which Hamlet introduces before the king. This he did not at first understand, till Jones explained it to him ; but he no sooner entered into the spirit of it, than he began to bless himself that he had never committed murder. Then turning to Mrs. Miller, he asked her : " If she did not imagine the king looked as if he was touched ; though he is," said he, " a good actor, and doth all he can to hide it. Well, I would not have so much to ansjver for as that wicked man there hath, to sit upon a much higher chair than he sits upon. No wondw he ran away ; for your sake I'll never trust an innocent face again."
The grave-digging scene next engaged the at- tention of Partridge, who expressed much sur- prise at the number of skulls thrown upon the stage. To which Jones answered : " That it was one of the most famous burial places about town." " No wonder, then," cries Partridge, •' that the place is haunted. But I never saw in my life a worse grave-digger. I had a sexton
HENRY FIELDING.— 8
when I was clerk that should have dug three graves while he is digging one. The fellow handles a spade as if it was the first time he had ever had one in his hand. Ay, ay, you may sing. You had rather sing than work, I believe." Upon Hamlet's taking up the skull, he cried out: " Well ! it is strange to see how fearless some men are : I never could bring myself to touch any- thing belonging to a dead man on any account. He seemed frightened enough too at the ghost, I thought. Nemo omnibus hoi-is sapit."
Little more worth remembering occurred at the plav; at the end of which Jones asked him which of the players he had liked best. To this he answered, with some appearance of indignation at the question : "The king, without doubt." "In- deed, Mr. Partridge," says Mrs. Miller, " you are not of the same opinion with the town ; for they are all agreed that Hamlet is acted by the best plaver who ever was on the stage."
" He the best player !" cries Partridge, with a contemptuous sneer ; " why, I could act as well as he myself. I am sure if I had seen a ghost, I should have looked in the very same manner, and done just as he did. And then, to be sure, in that scene, as you called it, between him and his mother, where you told me he acted so fine, why, Lord help me! any man — that is, any good man — that had such a mother, would have done ex- actly the same. I know you arc only joking with mc I but, indeed, madam, though I was never at a play in London, yet I have seen acting before in the country : and the king for my money ; he speaks all his' words distinctly, half as loud again as the other. Anybody may see he is an actor." — Tom Jones.
JAMES THOMAS FIELDS. -1
FIELDS, James Thomas, an American
Sublisher and author, boru at Portsmouth, r. II., December 31, 1817, died at Boston, April 20, 1881. Ho was educated at the High School in his native town. At the age of seventeen he went to Boston, and was employed in a bookstore. A year after, he delivered the anniversary poem before the Boston Mercantile Library Association, the oration being delivered by Edward Everett. He had barely reached his major- ity when he became a partner in the house in which he was employed, the title of which in 18-14 became Ticknor and Fields, and in 1864 Fields, Osgood and Co. In 1870 he withdrew from the business, and devoted himself to lecturing and other literary occu- pations. Among the important enterprises in which Mr. Fields was personally engaged, was a Complete Collection of the Works of De Quincey, in 20 volumes, completed in 1858. In 1860 the Atlantic Magazine, which had been estalilished several years, passed into the hands of Ticknor and Fields, Mr. Fields for some time acting as Editor. He visited Europe several times, and was personally intimate with nearly every prom- inent American and English author. His published writings are not numerous. They include three small volumes of Poems (1849, 1854, 1858), Yesterdays with Au- thors (1871), and Underbrush (1877).
BALLAD OF THE TEMPEST.
We were crowded in tlie cabin, not a soul would
dare to sleep ; It was midniglit on the waters, and a storm was
on the deep. 'Tis a fearful thing in Winter to be shattered by
the blast, And to hear the rattling trumpet thunder, " Cut
away the mast !"
JAMES THOMAS FIELDS.— 3
So we shuddered there in silence, for the stoutest
held his breath, While the hungry sea was roaring, and the
breakers talked of Death.
As thus we sat in darkness, each one busy in his
prayers, " We are lost !" the captain shouted as he stag'
gered down the stairs. But his little daughter whispered, as she took his
icy hand: " Isn't God upon the ocean just the same as on
the land T' Then we kissed the little maiden, and we spoke
in better cheer, And we anchored safe in harbor when the morn
was shining clear.
THE LAST OF THACKERAY.
I parted with Thackeray for the last time in the street, at midnight, a "few months before his death. The Cornhill Magazine, under his editor- ship, having proved a very great success, grand dinners were given every month in honor of the new venture. We had been sitting late at one of these festivals, and as it was getting towards morning, I thought it wise, as far as I was con- cerned, to be moving homeward before the sun rose. Seeing my intention to withdraw, he in- si.sted on driving me in his brougham to my lodgings. When we reached the outside door of our host, Thackeray's servant, seeing a stranger with his master, touched his hat, and asked where he should drive us. It was then between one and two o'clock — time certainly for all decent diners-out to be at rest. Thackeray put on one of his most quizzical expressions, and said to John, in answer to his (juestion, "I think we will make a morning call on the Lord Bishop of London." John knew his master's (juips and cranks too well ti; suppose he was in earnest, so I gave him mv adclress, and we went on.
When we reached my lodgings the clocks were striking two, and the early morning air was
41
JAMES THOMAS FIELDS.— 3
raw and piorciiiu;. Opposiiifj all my entreaties for leavc-takiiij:; in the carriage, he insisted upon gettinj^ out on the sidewalk, and escorting me up to my door, saying, witli a mock-heroic protest to the heavens above us, tliat " It would be shameful for a full-blooded Britislier to leave an unprotected Yankee friend exposed to ruffians wlio prowl about the streets with an eye to plun- der." Then giving nic a gigantic embrace, he sang a verse of which lie knew me to be very fond ; and so vanished out of my sight tlie great- hearted author of Pcndcnnis and Vanity Fair. But I tliink of him still as moving, in liis own stately way, up and down tlie crowded thorough- fares of London, dropping in at the Garrick, or sitting at the window of the Atheufpum Club, and watcliing the stupendous tide of life that is ever moving past in tliat wonderful city.
Thackeray was a master in every sense, liaving, as it were, in himself a double quantity of being. Robust humor and lofty sentiment alternated so strangely in him that sometimes he seemed like the natural son of Rabelais, and at others he rose up a very twin brother of the Stratford Seer. There was nothing in him amorphous and uncon- sidered. Whatever lie chose to do, Avas always perfectly done. There was a genuine Thackeray flavor in everything he was willing to say or to write. He detected with unerring skill the good or the vile wherever it existed. lie had an un- erring eye, a firm understanding, and abounding truth. " Two of his great master powers," said the chairman at a dinner given to him many years ago in Edinburgh, "are satire and sympa- thy." George Brinley remarked that " he could not have painted Vanity Fair as he has, unless Eden had been shining in his inner eye." He had, indeed, an awful insight, with a world of .solemn tenderness and simplicity in his compo- sition. Those who heard the same voice that withered the memory of King George the Fourth repeat " The spacious firmament on high," have a recollection not easily to be blotted from th^
JAMES THOMAS FIELDS.— 4
tnind ; and I have a kind of pity for all who were born so recently as not to have heard and understood Thackeray's Lectures. But they can read him, and I beo- of them to try and appre- ciate the tenderer phase of his genius as well as the sarcastic one. He teaches many lessons to voung men ; and here is one of them, which I quote memoriter from Barry Lyndon : " Do you not, as a boy, i-eniember waking of bright sum- mer mornings and finding your mother looking over you? Ilad not the gaze of her loving eyes stolen into your senses long before you awoke, and cast over your slumbering spirit a sweet spell of peace, love, and fresh-springing joy?"
Thackeray was found dead in his bed on Christmas morning, 18G3, and he probably died without pain. His mother and his daughters were sleeping under the same roof when he passed away alone. Dickens told me that, look- ing on him as he lay in his cotfin, he wondered that the figure he had known in life as one of such a noble presence could seem so shrunken and wasted. But there had been years of sor- row, years of labor, years of pain, in that now exhausted life. It was his happiest Christmas morning when he heard the Voice calling him homeward to unbroken rest. — Yesterdays with Authors.
niltOE FOR A VOUNO GIRL.
Underneath the sod low-lying,
l)ark and drear, Sleepeth one who left, in dying,
Sorrow here.
Yes, they're ever bending o'er licr
Eyes that weep ; Forms, that to the cold grave bore her,
N'igil.s keep.
When the summer moon is shining
Soft and fair, Krien<ls she hjved in tears arc twining
Chaplcts there.
M
James Thomas fields.-5
Rest in peace, thou gentle spirit,
Tlironcd above; Souls like thine with God inherit
Life and love.
IF I WEUE A 130Y AGAlK.
When we are no longer young we look back and see where we might have done better and learned more; and the things we have neglected rise up and mortify us every day of our lives. May 1 enumerate some of the more important matters, large and small, that, if I were a boy again, I would be more particular about ?
I think I would learn to use my left hand just as freely as my right one, so that if anything happened to lame either of them, the other would be all ready to write and handle things, just as if nothing had occurred. There is no reason in the world why both hands should not be educated alike. A little practice would ren- der one set of fingers just as expert as the other; and I have known people who never thought, when a thing was to be done, which particular hand ought to do it, but the hand nearest the object took hold of it, and did it
I would learn the art of using tools of various sorts. I think I would insist on learning some trade, even if I knew there would be no occasion to follow it when I grew up. What a pleasure it is in after life to be able to " make some- thing," as the saying is! — to construct a neat box to hold one's pen and paper; or a pretty cabinet for a sister's library; or to frame a fa- vorite engraving for a Christmas present to a dear, kind mother. What a loss not to know how to mend a chair that refuses to stand up strong only because it needs a few tacks and a bit of leather here and there ! Some of us can- not even drive a nail straight ; and should we at- tempt to saw off an obtrusive piece of wood, ten to one we should lose a finger in the operation. It is a pleasant relaxation from books and study to work an hour every day in a tool-sliop ; and
44
JAMES THOMAS FIELDS.— 6
my friend, the learned and lovable Professor Oliver Wendell Holmes, finds such a comfort in " mending things," when his active brain needs repose, that he sometimes breaks a piece of fur- niture on purpose that he may have the relief of putting it together again much better than it was before. He is as good a mechanic as he is a poet
I think I would ask permission, if I happened to be born in a city, to have the opportunity of passing all my vacations in the country, that I might learn the names of trees and flowers and birds. We are, as a people, sadly ignorant of all accurate rural knowledge. We guess at many country things, but we are certain of very few. It is inexcusable in a grown-up person, like my amiable neighbor Simpkins, who lives from May to November on a farm of sixty acres, in a beau- tiful wooded country, not to know a maple from a beech, or a bobolink from a cat-bird. He once handed me a bunch of pansies, and called them violets; and on another occasion he mistook sweet-peas for geraniums. What right has a human being, while the air is full of bird-music, to be wholly ignorant of the performer's name ? When we go to the opera, we are fully posted up with regard to all the principal singers; and why should we know nothing of the owners of voices that far transcend the vocal powers of Jenny Lind and Christine Nillson ?
If I were a boy again, I would learn liow to row a boat and handle a sail ; and, above all, how to become proof against sea-sickness. I would conquer that malady before I grew to be fifteen years old. It can be done, and ought to be done in youth; for all of us arc more or less inclined to visit foreign countries, either in the way of business or mental iniprovement — to say nothing of plca.sure. Fight the sea-sick malady long enough, and it can be conquered at a very early age. Charles Dickens, seeing how ill his first voyage to Aintiricu made him, resolved after he got back to England to go into a regular battle
JAMES THOMAS FIELDS.-*?
with the wiiuls and waves ; and never left ofE crossing tlie British Channel, between Dover and Calais, in severe weather, until he was victor over his own stomach, and could sail securely after that in storms that kept the ravens in their nests. "Where there 's a will, there 's a way," even out of ocean troubles; but it is well to begin early to assert supremacy over salt-water difficul- ties
If I were a boy again I would have a blank- book in which I could record, before going to bed, every day's events just as they happened to me personally. If I began by writing only two lines a day in my diary, I would start my little book, and faithfully put down what happened to interest me. On its pages I would note down the habits of birds and animals as I saw them ; and if the horse fell ill, down should go the malady in my book ; and what cured him should go there too. If the cat or the dog showed any pe- culiar traits, they should all be chronicled in my diary ; and nothing worth recording should escape me
If I were a boy again, one of the first things I would strive to do would be this : I would, as soon as possible, try hard to become acquainted with, and then deal honestly with my><clf ; to study up my own deficiencies and capabilities: and I would begin early enough, before faults had time to become habits. I would seek out earnestly all the weak spots in my character, and then go to work speedily and mend them with better material. If I found that I was capable of some one thing in a special degree, I would ask counsel on that point of some judicious friend ; and if advised to pursue it, I would de- vote myself to that particular matter, to the ex- clusion of much that is foolishly allowed in boy- hood
If I were a boy again, I would school myself into a habit of attention oftener ; I would let nothing come between me and the subject in hand. I would remember that an expert on the
4(
JAMES THOMAS FIELDS.— 8
ice never tries to skate in two directions at once. One of our great mistakes wliilc we are young, is that we do not attend strictly to what we are about just then — at that particular moment. We do not bend our energies close enough to what we are doing or learning. We wander into a half-interest only, and so never acquire fully what is needful for us to become master of. The practice of being habitually attentive is one easily attained, if we begin early enough. I often hear grown-up people say. " I couldn't fix my atten- tion on the sermon or book, although I wished to do so." And the reason is that a hahit of attention was never formed in youth
If I were a boy again, I would know more about the history of my own country tlian is usual, I am sorry to say, witli young Americans. When in England I have always been impressed with the minute and accurate knowledge con- stantly observable in young P^nglish lads of aver- age intelligence and culture concerning the his- tory of Great Britain. They not only have a clear and available store of historical dates at band for use on any occasion, but they have a wonderfully good idea of the policy of govern- ment adopted by all the prominent statesmen in
different eras down to the present time
If the history of any country is worth an earnest study, it is surely the liistory of our own land; and we cannot licgin too early in our lives to ma.ster it fully and completely. What a confused notion of distinguished Americans a 1)oy must have to replv, as one did not long ago when asked by his teacher, " Who was Washington Irving?" " A General in the Revolutionary War, Sir." ....
If I were a boy again, I would strive to become a fearless person. I would cultivate courarfe as one of the liighest achievements of life. " Noth- ing is so mild and tientle as courage, nothing is 80 cruel and vindictive as cowardice," says the wise author of a late essay on "Conduct." Too many of us nowadays are overcome l)y fancied lions in the wav, that never existed out of our own brains. Nothing is so credulous as fear.
4t
JAMES THOMAS FIELDS.— 9
Sonic weak-minded lioisee are forever looking around for white stones to shy at ; and if we are hunting for terrors, tlicy will be sure to turn up in some shape or other. We are too pi'one to borrow trouble, and anticipate evils tliat may never appear. " The fear of ill exceeds the ill we fear." Abraham Lincoln once said that he never crossed Fox River, no matter how high the stream was, "until he came to it." Dangers will arise in any career, but presence of mind will often conquer the worst of them. Be prepared for any fate, and there is no harm to be feared.
If I were a boy again, I would look on the cheerful side of everything; for everything almost has a cheerful side. Life is very much like a mirror; if you smile upon it, it smiles back again on you ; but if you frown and look doubtful upon it, you will be sure to get a similar look in return. I once heard it said of a grumbling, un- thankful person, " He would have made an un- commonly fine sour apple, if he had happened to be born in that station of life." Liner sunshine warms not only the heart of the owner, but all who come in contact with it. Indifference begets indifference. " Who shuts love out, in turn shall be shut out of love."
If I were a boy again, I would demand of my- self more courtesy towards my companions and friends. Indeed I would rigorously exact it of myself towards strangers as well. The smallest courtesies, interspersed along the rough roads of life, are like the little English sparrows now sing- ing to us all winter long, and making that season of ice and snow more endurable to everybody. But I have talked long enough, and this shall be my parting paragraph : Instead of trying so hard to be happy, as if that were the sole purpose of life, I would, if I were a boy again, try still harder to deserve happiness. — Underbrush.
AGASSIZ.
Once in the leafy prime of spring, when blossoms
whitened every thorn, I wandered through the vale of Orbe, where
Agassiz was born.
JAI^IES tho:mas fields.— 10
The birds in boyhood he had known went flitting
through the air of May, And happy songs he loved to hear made all the
landscape gay.
I saw the streamlet from the hills run laughing
through the valleys green ; And, as I watched it run, I said, " This his dear
eyes have seen !" Far cliffs of ice, his feet had climbed, that day
outspoke of him to me ; The avalanches seemed to sound the name of
Agassiz !
And standing on the mountain crag, where loos- ened waters rush and foam,
I felt that, thcjugh on Cambridge side, he made that spot my home.
And looking round me as I mused, I knew no pang of fear or caro.
Or homesick weariness, because once Agassiz stood there.
I walked beneath no alit'ii skies, no foreign
heights I came to tread; For everywhere I looked, I saw his grand beloved
head. His smile was stamped on every tree ; the glacier
shone to gild his name; And every image in the lake reflected back his
fame.
Great keeper of the magic keys that could un- lock the magic gates,
Where Science like a monarch stands, and sacred Knowledge waits: —
Thine ashes rest on .Xuburn's banks: thy moni- ory all the world contains;
For thou couldst bind in hiniiaii love all hearts in golden chains I
Thine was the heaven-born spell that sets our warm and deep affections free: —
WIkj knew thee best n)ust love thee best, and longest mourn for thee!
LOUIS GUILLAUME FIGUIER.— 1
FIGUIEE, Loiis Guii.LAUME, a French scientific writer, born in 1819. He studied medicine under his uncle Pierre Oscar Fiffuier, Professor of Oiiemistry in the School of Pharmacy in Montpellier, and luivin^ taken his dejjree of M.I)., went to Paris in 1842, to continue his studies. Four years Uiter he was appointed a professor in the School of Pharmacy in his native town. He afterwards returned to Paris, became the sci- entific editor of ZaPresse^aml has since con- tributed numerous articles to scientific jour- nals. Among his works are : Expositiun and History of the jyrineipal Mothrn ScieiUiJic Discoveries {l^hl-^2>), History of the Won- ders of Modern Times (1859-60), Lives of Illnsirious Savants fro) n Antiquity to the Nineteenth Century\\^QQ), The World he- fore the Deluge, and The Yegetahle World (1867), The Ocean World, and The Insect
World (1868), Birds and Reptiles, The Mammalia, and rrimitive Man (18T0\ and TJte Human Race (18T2). Fignier is the editor of H Annee Scientifque et In
dustrielle.
GLACIERS.
The fortunate spectator who could enibract with a bird's-eye view, or from the chariot of some adventurous aeronaut, tlicwliole of the vast Alpine chain, from the shores of the Mediterra- nean to those of the Adriatic, would hehold nearly every shining and silent peak draped in a dazzling robe of ice, which falls over the vast body of each mountain like a kingly shroud, ex- cept when broken here and there by the sharp points of rocks too precipitous to retain the de- scending snows. Beneath, far beneath these towering crests, he would mark a labyrinth of narrow valleys, whose inner flanks are rude with furrows of ice, like the fringes or tatters of tlie silver mantle spread about the summit. He would
LOUIS GUILLATBIE FIGUIER.— 2
perceive that these long- furrows penetrate to the very heart of the fertile regions which the sons of men call their own. If he removed his gaze from the centre of the Alpine mass, secondary and less important chains, ramifying in every di- rection, would offer him the same spectacle on a smaller scale. And if his wandering glances de- scended lower still, he would observe that the ice and snows graduallv disappear; that nature loses its savage and inhospitable aspect ; that the contours of the soil grow rounder and more soft- ened ; and finally, that the smiling vegetation and fairy-like bloom of the plains replace the desolate monotonousness of the bleak tields of snow.
These rivers of solidified water, which, in the Alps are found wherever the mountain-summits rise above tlie perpetual snow-line, and which descend into the valleys far below that boundary, perform no unimportant part in Nature's grand economy. On the awakening of Sj)ring, Nature too, awakes ; the budding trees announce and prepare the laughing verdure of the woods ; everywhere the gloom of Nature disappears be- fore the genial influence of A[)ril. The glaciers alone resj»ond not to the warm embraces of the .sun, and the summer heats apparently play upon their impa.'jsive surfaces without producing any impression. But when we reflect that these long, motionless, frozen rivers descend unbrokenly from the region of eternal snows, we easily di- vine that their origin must besought, no less than their sustenance, in the remote recesses of the mountain-summits. The glaciers are the advance- guards despatclicd from the inaccessible heights where reigns Eternal Winter; they are the emis- saries of those powers of frost wiiich clothe in snow and ice the suj)rcme elevations.
The snow which falls on the loftier mountains neviT melts; it [)reserves its condition of solidity u[)on all rocks whose temperat\ire never rises above zero. The masses which are thus accumulated year after year, would eventually, one might say, hi
LOUIS GUILLAUME FIGUIER.— 3
threaten the very sky ; they would gather in ever- succeeding strata on the summits, and deprive the phiins of the benelit of their waters if provident Nature had not guarded against so evil a result. And it guards against it by the formation of gla- ciers. A glacier is immovable only to the eye: in reality it is endowed with a progressive motion. This motion is miraculously slow, and in this very slowness of progression rests the providential intention of the phenomenon. Little by little the glaciers advance into the valleys; there they undergo the influence of the mild temperature of Spring and Summer; they melt away at their base ; and in this manner create inexhaustible springs and innumerable water-courses. Ascend the bed of an Alpine torrent; follow it up the course of the miry ravine which encloses it, and you will come upon a glacier. A glacier is, in fact, neither more nor less than a vast reservoir of con- gealed waters, which melt very slowly, and drag on their lingering way into the lower valleys, where they form a rapid stream, or broaden into a noble river. And if we would unveil the whole series of Nature's operations in this branch of her chemistry, we must add that, in the plains and the valleys, the heat of the sun, evaporating the water of brook and river, returns it to the atmos- phere in the condition of vapor; which, after awhile, descends again to earth in the form of snow, to be anew converted into ice, and then into vivifying springs ; accomplishing thus the most complete and marvellous circle of natural operations, a circle everlasting, which, like its Author, has neither beginning nor end. — Earth and Sea,
FRANCISCO DE FIGUEROA.— 1
FIGUEROA, Francisco de, a Spanish poet, born about 1550; died in 1621. He was a soldier by profession, and passed the
freater part of his life in Italy and Flanders. K)pe de Yega calls him ''the divine Fi- gueroa." Cervantes makes him and his friend Garcilaso interlocutors in his pastoral poem, Galatea. Of Figueroa, Mr. Ticknor says: "A gentleman and a soldier, whose few Castilian poems are still acknowledged in the more choice collections of his native literature, but who lived so long in Italy, and devoted himself so earnestly to the study of its language, that he wrote Italian verse -with purity, as well as Spanish." Just before his death he ordered that all of his poetical works should be burned ; but copies of some of them remained in the hands of his friends, and so escaped destruction.
ON THE DEATH OF GARCILASO.
0 beauteous scion from the stateliest tree That e'er in fertile mead or forest grew, With fresliest bloom adorned, and vigor new,
Glorious in form, and first in dignity !
The same fell tempest, which by Heaven's decree Around thy parent stock resistless blew, And far from Tejo fair its trunk o'erthrew.
In foreign clime has stripped the leaves from thee. And the same pitying hand has from the spot
Of cheerless ruin raised ye to rejoice, Where fruit immortal decks the withered stem.
1 will not, like the vul{,far, mourn your lot, Jiut with |)urc incense and exulting voice,
Praise your high worth, and consecrate your fame. 2' rand, of Herbert,
(9
VINCENZO DA FILICAJA.— 1
FI Lie A J A, ViNCENZo DA, an Italian poet, born at Florence in 1042 ; died tliere in 1707. He was of a noble family and stndied philosophy, jurisprudence, and tlieoloi»;y, writing poetry only by way of relaxation. Ills early j)oenis were of an amatory character, but the lady to whom he was attached died young, and he resolved thereafter to write only ujk)U sacred or heroic themes. After the raising of the Turkish siege of Vienna by John Sobieski, in 1685, Filicaja. celebrated the triumph of the Christian arms by six tri- umphal odes. His sonnet to Italy is es- teemed the best in the Italian language.
SONNET TO ITALY.
Italia, 0 Italia! hapless thou
Who didst the fatal gift of beauty gain,
A dowry frauglit with never-ending pain — A seal of sorrow stamped upon thy brow :
O were thy bravery more, or less thy charms ! Then should thy foes — they whom thy loveliness Now lures afar to conquer and possess —
Adore thy beauty less, or dread thine arms ! No longer then shonkl hostile torrents pour
Adown the Alps; and Gallic troops be laved In the red waters of the Po no more;
Nor longer then, by foreign courage saved. Barbarian succor sliould thy sons implore —
Vanquished or victors, still by Goths enslaved. Transl. in U. S. Literary Gazette.
THE SIEGE OF VIENNA.
How long, O Lord, shall vengeance sleep, And impious pride defy thy rod?
How long thy faithful servants weep,
Scourged by the tierce barbaric host? Where, where, of thine almighty arm, 0 God,
Where is the ancient boast? While Tartar brands are drawn to steep
Thy fairest plains in Christian gore. Why slumbers thy dcvourinf;; wrath. Nor sweeps the offender from thy path ?
M
VINCEKZO DA FILICAJA.-2
And wilt thou lioar tliy sons deplore Thy temples ritlod — shrines no more — Nor burst their s>-alling- chains asunder, And arm thee with avenging thunder?
See tiie black cloud on Austria lower, Bio; with terror, death and woe!
Behold the wild barbarians pour In riishiny torrents o'er the land ! Lo ! host on host, the iiilidel foe Sweep along the Danube's strand, And darkly serried spears the light of day o'erpower !
There the innumerable swords, The banners of the East unite ; All Asia girds her loins for fight :
The Don's barbaric lords,
Sarmatia's liaughty hordes. Warriors from Thrace, and many a swarthy file Banded on Syria's plains or by the Nile.
Mark the tide of blood that fiows Within Vienna's proud impcri;il walls!
Beneath a thousand deadly blows, Dismayed, enfeeb!e<l, sunk, subdued, Austria's <|ue('n of cities falls. Vain are her l«>fty ramparts to elude
The fatal triumph of her foes; Lo her earth-fast battlements
(Quiver and shake; hark to the thrilling cry
Of war that rends, the sky, Tlio groans of death, the wild laments, The sob of trembling innocents, Of wildereil matrons, pressing to their breast .\ll which they feared formostand loved the best!
Thine everbistinix hand Hxalt, (> Ijoril, that impious man may learn
How frail their armor to withstand Thy power — the power of (Jod supreme!
Let thy consuming vengeance burn The truiltv nations with its beam !
I'.iiid them in slavery's iron band, (.)r as tlie seatten-d dust in summer flics
VINCENZO DA FILICAJA.— 3
Cliascd by the rao'iiio; blast of heaven lieforc Thee be the Thracians driven? Let trophied cohiinns by the Danube rise, And bear the insc'ri[)tion to the skies: " Warring against the Christian Jove in vain, Here was the Ottoman Typhauis shiin !"....
If Destiny decree. If Fate's eternal leaves declare,
That Germany shall bend the knee Before a Turkish despot's nod, And Italy the ^b)slem ycdce shall bear,
I bow in meek humility. And kiss the holy rod.
Conquer — if such Thy will — Conquer the Scythian, while he drains The noblest blood from Europe's veins, And Havoc drinks her hll : We yield Thee tremblino- homage still ; We rest in Thy command secure ; For Thou alone art just, and wise, and pure.
But shall I live to see the day When Tartar ploughs Germanic soil divide,
And Arab herdsmen fearless stray.
And watch their flocks along the Ilhine, Where princely cities now o'erlook his tide ?
The Danube's towers no longer shine, For hostile flame has given them to decay :
Shall devastation wider spread Where the proud ramparts of Vienna swell, Shall solitary Echo dwell, And human footsteps cease to tread? O God, avert the omen dread ! If Heaven the sentence did record, Oh, let Thy mercy blot the fatal word !
Hark to the votive liymn resounding Through the^temple's cloistered aisles 1
See, the sacred shrine surrounding.
Perfumed clouds of incense rise ! The Pontiff opes the stately piles
Where many a buried treasure lies ; With liberal hand, rich, full, abounding.
He pours abroad the gold of Rome ;
VlNCENZO DA FILICAJA.— 4
He summons every Christian king
Ao'ainst the Moslemin to bring
Their forces leagued for Christendom :
The brave Teutonic nations come,
And warlike Poles like thunderbolts descend,
Moved by his voice their brethren to defend.
He stands upon the Esquiline, And lifts to heaven his holy arm.
Like Moses, clothed in power divine
While faith and hope his strength sustain. Merciful God I has prayer no charm
Thy rage to soothe, thy love to gain ? The pious king of Judah's line
Beneath thine anger lowly bended, And Thou didst give him added years; The Assyrian Nineveh shed tears Of humbled pride when death impended, And thus the fatal curse forefended : And wilt Thou turn away thy face When Heaven's vicegerent seeks thy grace ?
Sacred fury fires my breast, And fills my laboring soul.
Ye who hold the lance in rest,
And gird you for the holy wars. On, on, like ocean waves to conquest roll,
Christ and the Cross your leading star! Already He proclaims your prowess blest :
Sound the loud trump of victory ! Rush to the combat, soMiers of the Cross! High let your banners triuiiij)hant]y toss : Fc^r the heathen shall perisli, and songs of the
free Ring through the heavens in jubilee! Why delay ye? Bui;kle on the sword and the
targe. And charge, victorious champions, charge !
Transl. in U. S. Literary Gazette.
GEORGE FINLAY.-l
FINLAY, Gkokge, a British historian born in 1799; died at Atliens, Greece, in 1875. At the age of twenty, while a stu- dent at G<)ttinojen, he be<i::an to interest him- self especially in the affairs of Greece. In 1823 he resolved to go to that country in order that he might judge for himself as to the likelihood of success for the uprising of the Greeks against the Turks. Arriving at Cephalonia in November, he had some in- tercourse with Lord Byron, who had already eml)arked in that enterprise. In 1829, when the independence of Greece had been se- cured, Mr. Finlay took up his residence in Attica ; but the hopes which he had cher- ished of the regeneration of Hellas were not then realized ; he lost all his fortune, which he had invested in an attempt to improve the agricultural condition of what had be- come his adopted land. In the years ensu- ing, during a part of which he acted as a newspaper correspondent, he wrote several works relating to tlie later history of Greece. The principal of those are : The Hellenic Kingdom and the Greek Nation (1836), Greece under the Romans (1844, second ed- ition 1857), The History of the Greek and Byzantine Emjnres (1854), The History of Greece under the Othoman and Venetian Dominion (1856), and The History of the (rreek Revolution (1861). A new edition of Finlay's greatest work. The History of the Byzantine and Greek Empires^ practically re-written, and with many additions by the Ilev. II. F. Tozer, was brought out in 1877.
TUB VICISSITUDES OF NATIONS.
The vicissituflcs wliicli tlie jTrcat masses of the nations of the earth have inidor^one in past ages have hitherto received very little attention
S8
GEORGE FINLAY.— 2
from historians, who have adorned their pages with the records of kings, and the personal ex- ploits of princes and great men, or attached their narrative to the fortunes of the dominant classes, without noticing the fate of the people. History, however, continually repeats the lesson that power, numbers, and the highest civilization of an aristocracy are, even when united, insufficient to insure national prosperity, and establish the powers of the rulers on so firm and permanent a basis as shall guarantee the dominant class from annihilation. On the other hand, it teaches us that conquered tribes, destitute of all these ad- vantages, may continue to perpetuate their ex- istence in misery and contempt. It is that portion only of mankind which eats bread .raised from the soil by the sweat of its brow, that can form the basis of a permanent na- tional existence. The history of the Romans and of the Jews illustrates these facts. Yet even the cultivation of the soil cannot always insure a race from destruction, " for mata- bility is nature's bane." The Thracian race has disappeared. The great Celtic race has dwindled away, and seems hastening to complete absorption in the Anglo-Saxon. The Hellenic race, whose colonies extended from Marseilles to Bactria, and from the Cimmerian Bosphorus to the coast of Cyrenaica, lias become extinct in many countries where it once formed the bulk of the population, as in Magna Gnccia and Sicily. On the other hand, mixed races have arisen, and, like the Albanians and Wallachians, have in- truded themselves into the aneieat seats of the Hellenes. But these revolutions and changes in the p<>j)ulation of the globe imply no degradation of mankind, as some writers a[)pear t(^ think, f(jr the lioinans and English afford examples that mixed races may attain as high a degree of physical power and mental superiority as has ever been reached by races of the purest blood in ancient or modc.Tri times. — History of the Oreck and Byzantine Empires.
JOHN FINLEY.— 1
FINLEY, John, an American poet, born in liockbridge County, Virginia, in 1797 ; died in 186G, After serving an apprentice- ship as a tanner and currier, he went to Richmond, Indiana, of wliich place he was for a time Mayor. He wrote many short poems, which appeared in the newspapers. One of tliese, Bachelor's Hall, was for a long time attributed to Thomas Moore.
bachelok's hall. Bachelor's Hall ? What a quare-looking place it is! Kape me from sich all the days of my life ! Sure, but I think what a biu-niii' disgrace it is Niver at all to be gettiu' a wife.
See the old bachelor, gloomy and sad enough, Placing his tay kettle over the fire ;
Soon it tips over — Saint Patrick ! he's mad enough (If he were present) to fight with the Squire.
There like a hog in a mortar-bed wallowing.
Awkward enough, see him knading his dough ; Troth ! if the bread he could ate widout swallow-
How it would favor his palate, you know ?
His meal being over, the table's left setting so ;
Dishes, take care of yourselves if you can ! But hunger returns — then he's fuming and fret- ting so,
Och ! let him alone for a baste of a man.
Pots, dishes, pans, and such greasy commodi- ities,
Ashes and prata-skins kiver the floor ; His cupboard's a storehouse of comical oddities,
Sich as had niver been neighbors before.
Late in the night, then, he goes to bed shiver- inif :
Niver the bit is the bed made at all ! He crapes, like a tarrapin, under the kivering: —
Bad luck to the picter of Bachelor's Hall,
60
FIRDUSI.— 1
FLRDUSI (Abul Kasm), a Persian poet, bom about 940 ; died iu 10:20. He is said to have been the son of a gardener on the do- main of the Governor of Tus. He was carefully educated in the Arabic language and literature, the Old Persian, and the his- tory and traditions of his country. For many years he cultivated Ills poetical talents with success, and at length conceived the design of relating in an epic poem the his- tory (K the Persian kings. He began hia work when he was thirty-six years old. When he was more than tifty, he went to the court of the Sultan Mahmud ibn Sa- buktagin, drawn thither by the report that the monarch had directed the poets at his court to write a poetical version of the deeds of the ancient kings. For some time Fir- dusi remained at the court unnoticed ; but at length one of his friends presented to Mahmud tlie poet's version of the battles of Rustem and Isfendiyar. The Sultan im- mediately a])pointed him to complete the )Shdh-]\Mme/i, or jBook of' t/ie Kings, gave him the name of Firdusi, or " Paradise," and commanded his treasurer to pay him a thousand pieces of gold for every thousand verses of tlie poem. The poet chose to wait until the work was complete, and receive the entire ])ayment in a lump. The poem was at length completed in 00,000 verses. Mahmud professed himself delighted, and ordered paymejit to be made. But whetluu* through the j)arsimony of the king, or the treachery of his treasurer, silver was substi- tuted for gold ; the i>oet saw his splendid reward dwindle to paltry wages. lie was at the bath when the nK)ney was brought to him. In a transport of disappointment atjd rage, he immediately divided it into three equal parts, which he gave to the keeper of
FIRDUSI.— 2
the bath, the seller of refreshments, and the slave who brought the money. " The Sul- tan shall know," said he, " that I did not bestow the labor of thirty years on a work to be rewarded with silver." On learning that liis gift had been des})ised, Mali mud re- proached tlie treasurer, who conti'ived to throw the blame on Firdusi, and so inflamed the Sultan's rage that he condemned the poet to be trampled to death by an ele- phant on the following morning. lif an- guish Firdusi hastened to the Sultan, and besought his pardon. It was reluctantly granted, but the outraged poet fled, flrst giv- ing into the hands of the king's favorite a sealed paper containing a bitter satire on Mahmud. He first took refuge in Mazen- deran, and afterward at Bagdad, where in honor of its Caliph, Al Kader Billah, he composed a thousand additional verses to the Shah Ndmeh. He also wrote Yiisd' and ZuleiJca, a poem of 9000 couplets. He at length returned to his native town, where it is said that he lived obscurely until his death.
The Shcih Ndmeh is regarded by the Ori- entals as an authority in the ancient history of Persia ; but there are in it no pretensions to true history, chronology being disregard- ed, and some of the kings represented as reigning for hundreds of years. It is held in as high estimation, in com])arison with other Oriental poems, as are the works of Homer in comparison with otlier poems of the West. Hence, Firdusi has been called the Homer of the East. The principal hero is Rustem, the son of Zal and lludabeh, who in his eighth year, was as powerful as any hero of his time. Plis exploits in early youth, as recorded by Firdusi, were the mar- vel of the world. The story of Rustem and
FIRDUSI.— 3
his son Sohriib is i-eo:arded as the finest epi.^ode of the ShdJi A^aint/i.
While on a hnntino; excursion to Tunin, ItiLsteiu, overcome with fatigue after a long day's chase, lay down and fell asleep. His horse, Kakush, left to browse near him, was captured by a baud of Tartars, and led away. On waking Rustem traced his horse by his footprints to Samengan, a small principality on the border of Tunin. The king of Samengan went forth to meet him, begged that the hero would become his guest, and promised that his horse should be restored to him. Rustem accepted the king's hospi- tality, and was entertained at a feast, while servants were sent in search of Rakush. After the feast Rustem was shown to a handsome sleeping apartment. In the night he was awakened by a light shining across his eyes. On opening them he saw a beau- tiful girl attended by a female slave carry- ing a lamp. It was Tamineh, the king's daughter, who told him that the story of his wonderful deeds had captivated her heart, and that she had long before resolved to be the wife of no other man. Her beauty and tenderness instantly won his love, and he sent for her father, and asked his consent to their marriage. It was given, and the marriage was solemnized.
Rustem could spend but a short time with his bride. On parting with her he gave her his golden bracelet, telling her that if their fhild should be a daughter, she might bind the l)racelet in her hair, and if it should be a son, she might jilace it on his arm. Ta- ininah told him that it was she who had caused Rakush to be stolen, in order that she might obtain a horse of his famous breed. The horse was restored to liustem, and he returned to his king, and said nothing of his
FIRDUSI.— 4
inarriage. In due time a son was born to Taraiueh ; but when her husband sent her a rich present, and a message in regard to tlie child, she so feared to lose it that she re- plied that it was a daughter.
She named the boy Sohnib, and spared no pains on his education. When he was ten 3'ears old, she told liim the name of his father, but cautioned him against revealing it on account of enemies. One day he asked her for a suitable war-horse, and found none that could carry him until he tried the foal of Rakush, which had been trained in the royal stables. He now announced his intention of going to war with Kaiis, then king of Persia, and securing the kingdom for Rustem. On this, Afrasiyab, who had always borne Rustera malice for his former defeat, sent a message to Sohrab, telling him that Kaiis was also his enemy, and asking to join him against the king. Sohrab accepted bis offer, and Afrasiyab instructed Human and Barman, the leaders of his Tartar aux- iliaries, to prevent Rustem and Sohrab from recognizing each other, but to bring them to- gether in battle, when Sohrab, being young- er and stronger, would probably vanquish his father, and could then be slain by the followers of Afrasiyab, who would seize the kingdom for himself. Rustem was sum- moned by Kaiis to drive out the invaders of Persia.
Sohrab, bent on discovering his father, questioned Hujir, but was deceived by him in regard to his father's tent aiid horse. Rustem, seeing the remarkable likeness, of the young prince, only fourteen years of age, to his own grandfather, inquired anxiously about him ; but. remembering Tamineh's assertion that their child was a daughter, put the thought of kinship aside, and went
M
FIRDUSI.— 5
to meet Sohrab in single combat. The battle was fuught on three successive days, with spears, swords, clubs, bows and arrows, and finally by wrestling. Before every struggle, Sohrab, who instinctively loved Eustem, begged the champion to reveal his name. To the question, "Art thou not Rustem ? " the champion replied, " I am the servant of Eustem." For two days the young hero had the advantage, but spared his adversary. On the third day, he was thrown by Eustem, who, fearing that he could not hold him, drove a dagger into his side, giving him a mortal wound. While dying Sohrab revealed his identity to his father, who was overwhelmed with anguish at his deed. "We give large space to an ex- tract from the great Persian epic :
THE DEATH OF SOHRAB.
When the bright dawn proclaimed the ris- ing day,
The warriors armed, impatient of delay,
But first Solirdb, his proud confederate nigh,
Thus wistful spoke, as swelled the brooding sigh—
" Xow mark my great antagonist in arms !
Ilis noble form my filial bosom warms;
My mother's tokens shine conspicuous here,
And all the proofs my heart demands appear;
Sure this is Kustem, whom my eves engage !
Shall I, 0 grief I provoke my father's rage?
Offended nature then would curse my name,
And shuddering nations echo with mv shame." He ceased, then Human : " Vain, fantastic thought,
Oft have 1 been where Persia's champion fought,
And thou has lieard wliat wonders he per- formed,
When, in his prime, Mazinderdn was stormed ;
That horse resembles Rustem's, it is true,
But not 80 strong nor beautiful to view."
M
FIRDUSI.-6
Solu'cib now buckles on his wiir-attire,
His heart all softness, and his brain all lire;
Around his lips such smiles benignant played,
He seemed to greet a friend, as thus he said : " Here let us sit together on the plain.
Here social sit, and from the tight refrain ;
Ask we from Heaven forgiveness for the past.
And bind our souls in friendship tliat may last ;
Ours be the feast — let us be warm and free,
For powerful instinct draws me still to thee ;
Fain would my heart in bland affection join,
Then let thy generous ardor eipial mine ;
And kindlv sav with whom I now contend —
What name distinguished boasts my warrior- friend ?
Thy name unfit for champion brave to hide,
Thy name so long, hjng sought, and still denied ;
Say, art thou Rustem whom I burn to know ?
Ingenuous say, and cease to be my foe ! "
Sternly the mighty champion cried, "Away ! —
Hence with thy wiles — now practised to delay;
The promised struggle, resolute I claim,
Then cease to move me to an act of shame." Sohrab rejoined : " Old man ! thou wilt not hear
The words of prudence uttered in thine ear ;
Then, Heaven ! look on."
Preparing for the shock.
Each binds his charger to a neighboring rock;
And girds his loins, and rubs his wrists, and tries
Their suppleness and force with angry eyes.
And now they meet — now rise, and now de- scend.
And strong and fierce tlieir sinewy arms extend :
Wrestling with all their strength they grasp and strain.
And blood and sweat flow copious on the plain ;
Like raging elephants they furious close;
Commutal wounds are given, and wrenching blows.
Sohrab now clasps his hands, and forward springs
FIRDUSI.— 7
Impatiently and round the champion clings ; Seizes his girdle belt, with powers to tear The very earth asunder in despair.
Rustem, defeated, feels his nerves give way, And thundering falls. Sohrab bestrides his
prey : Grim as the lion, prowling through the wood, Upon a wild ass springs, and pants for blood. His lifted hand had lopt the gory head, But Rustem, quick, with crafty ardor said : " One moment, hold ! what, are our laws un- known ? A chief may fight until he is twice o'erthrown ; The second fall his recreant blood is spilt. These are our laws : avoid the menaced guilt."
Proud of his strength, and easily deceived, Tlie wondering youth the artful tale believed ; Released his prey, and wild as wind or wave. Neglecting all the prudence of the brave. Turned from the place, nor once the strife re- newed. But bounded o'er the plain, and other cares pur- sued, As if all memory of the war had died. All thoughts of him with whom his strength was
tried
When Rustem was relea.sed, in altered mood lie sought the coolness of the murmuring
flood ; There quenched his thirst and bathed his limbs,
and prayed. Beseeching Heaven to yield its strengthening aid. His pious [)raycr indul-^ent Heaven ap[)roved, And growing strength through all his sinews
moved ; Such as erewhile liis towering structure knew, ^^ hen his bold arm uriconqucred demons slew. Yet in his jiiicn no coiitidcnce appeared. No ardent hope his wounded spirits cheered.
Again tlioy met. A glow of youthful grace T)iffused its radiance o'er the stripling's face, And whrn he saw in renovated guise The foe, so lately mastered ; with surprise,
•7
FIRDUSI.— 8
He cried : " What ! rescued from tny power
again Dost tliou confront nic on tlic battle plain ? Or dost thou, wearied, draw thy vital breath, And seek from warrior bold the shaft of death ? Truth has no charms for thee, old man ; even
now. Some further cheat may lurk upon your brow ; Twice have I shown thee mercy, twice thy age Ilath been thy safety — twice it soothed my
rage." Then mild the champion : " Youth is proud
and vain ! The idle boast the warrior would disdain ; This aged arm perhaps may yet control The wanton fury that inflames thy soul."
Again, dismounting, each the other viewed' With sullen glance, and swift the fight re- newed ; Clinched front to front, again they tug and
bend. Twist their broad limbs as every nerve would
rend ; With rage convulsive Rustem grasps him round ; Bends his strong back, and hurls him to the
ground ; Him who had deemed the triumph all his own ; But dubious of his power to keep him down. Like lightning quick he gives the deadly thrust, And spurns the stripling withering in the dust. Thus as his blood that shining steel embrues, Thine too shall flow when destiny pursues : For when she marks the victim of her power, A thousand daggers speed the dying hour. Writhing with pain Sohrab in murmurs sighed — And thus to Rustem ; " Vaunt not in thy pride ; Upon myself this sorrow I have brought. Thou but the instrument of fate — which
wrought My downfall ; thou art guiltless — guiltless quite ; O had I seen my father in the fight. My glorious father ! Life will soon be o'er ; And his great deeds enchant my soul no more.
FIRDUSL— 9
Of him my mother gave the mark and sigilj For him I sought, and wliat an end is mine ! My only wish on earth, my only sigh, Him to behold, and with that wish I dici But hope not to elude his piercing sight, In vain for thee the deepest glooms of night-. Couldst thou through ocean's depths for refuge
fly,
Or 'midst the star-beams track the upper sky ! Rustem, with vengeance armed, will reach thee
there, His soul the prey of anguish and despair."
An icy horror chills the champion's heart, His brain whirls round with agonizing smart; O'er his wan cheek no gushing sorrows flow, Senseless he sinks beneath the weight of woe ; Relieved at length, with frenzied look, he cries : *' Prove thou art mine, confirm my doubting
eyes ! For I am Rustem ! " Piercing was the groan. Which burst from his torn heart — as wild and
lone, He gazed upon him. Dire amazement shook The dying youth, and mournful thus he spoke :
" U thou art Rustem, cruel is thy part, No warmth paternal seems to fill thy heart; Else hadst thou known me when, with strong
desire, I fondly claimed thee for my valiant sire ; Now from my body strip the shining mail. Untie these bands ere life and feeling fail ; And on my arm the direful proof behold! Thv sacred bracelet of refulgent gold! When the Unul brazen drums were lieard afar. And, echoing round, pr(jclaimcd the pending
war, Whilst parting tears my mother's eyes o'er-
flowed, This mystic gift her bursting heart bestowed : • Take this,' she said, ' thy father's token wear, And prfiinised glory will reward thy care.' The hour is come, but fraught with bitterest woe, Wc meet in blood to wail the fatal blow." «•
FIRDUSl.-lO
The loosened mail unfolds the bracelet bright, Unhapj)}' t:;it't! to lliistom's 'vvildered sight, Prostrate he falls — " l>y my unnatural hand. My son, my son is slain — and from the land Uprooted." Frantic, in the dust, his hair He rends in agony and deep despair; The western sun had disap[)eared in gloom, And still the champion wept his cruel doom ; His wondering legions marked the long delay, And, seeing Rakush riderless astray, The rumor quick to Persia's monarch spread, And there described the mighty Rustem dead. Kaiis, alarmed, the fatal tidings hears ; His bosom quivers with increasing fears. " Speed, speed, and sec what has befallen to-day To cause these groans and tears — what fatal
fray ! If he be lost, if breathless on the ground, And this young warrior with the conquest
crowned, Then must I, humbled, from my kingdom torn. Wander like Jemshid, through the world for- lorn." The army, roused, rushed o'er the dusty plain, Urged by the monarch to revenge the slain ; "Wild consternation saddened every face, Tiis winged with horror sought the fatal place. And thus beheld the agonizing sight — The murderous end of that unnatural fight. Sohrab, still breathing, hears the shrill alarms, His gentle speech suspends the clang of arms: " My light of life now Huttering sinks in shade. Let vengeance sleep, and peaceful vows be made. Beseech the king to spare the Tartar host. For they are guiltless, all to them is lost ; I led them on, their souls with glory fired. While mad ambition all my thoughts inspired. In search of thee, the world before my eyes. War was my clioice, and thou my sacred prize ; With thee, my sire! in virtuous league combined. No tyrant king should persecute mankind. That hope is past, the storm has ceased to rave, My ripening honors wither in the grave ;
70
FIRDUSL— 11
Tbon let no vengeance on my comrades fall,
Mine was the guilt, and mine the sorrow, all.
How often have I sought thee — of my mind
Figured thee to my sight — o'erjoyed to find
My mothers token ; disappointment came,
AVhen thou denied thy lineage and thy name ;
Oh ! still o'er thee my soul impassioned hung,
Still to my father fond affection clung !
But fate, remorseless, all my hopes withstood.
And stained thy reeking hand in kindred
blood."
Uis faltering breath protracted speech denied;
Still from his eyelids flowed a gushing tide :
Through Rustem's soul redoubled horror ran,
lleart-rending thoughts subdued the mighty
man.
And now, at last, with joy-illumined eye,
The Zabul bands their glorious chief descry ;
But when they saw^ his pale and haggard look,
Knew from what mournful cause he gazed and
shook,
With downcast mien they moaned and wept
aloud ;
While Rustem thus addressed the weeping
crowd :
" Here ends the war ! let gentle peace succeed
Enough of death, I— I have done the deed ! "
Then to his brother, groaning deep, he said :
" 0 what a curse upon a parent's head !
But go— and to the Tartar say— No more
Let war between us steep the earth with gore."
Zvidra flew, and wildly spoke his grief
To crafty Human, the Turanian chief.
Who, with dissembled sorrow, heard him tell
The dismal tidings which he knew too well ;
♦' And who," he said, " has caused these tears to
flow ?
Who, l)iit Hujir? He might have stayed the
blew;
But when Sohicib his father's banners sought,
He still denied that him the champion fought:
He spread the ruin, he the secret knew,
Hence .should hi.s crime receive the vengeance
due ! "
It
FIRDUSI.-13
Jiidra, frantic, breathed in Rustcm's ear The treachery of the captive chief llujir ; Whose headless trunk had weltered on the
strand, But prayers and force withheld the lifted hand. Then to liis dying son the champion turned, Remorse more deep within his bosom burned; A burst of frenzy lired his thrilling brain ; He clinched his sword, but found his fury vain ; The Persian chiefs the desperate act represt, And tried to calm the tumult in his breast. Thus Gudarz spoke : "Alas ! wert thou to give Thyself a thousand wounds, and cease to live ; What would it be to him thou sorrowest o'er ? It would not save one pang — then weep no
more ; For if removed by death, 0 say, to whom Has ever been vouchsafed a diflferent doom ? All are the prey of death — the crowned, the
low. And man, through life, the victim still of woe."
Then Rustem : " Fly ! and to the king relate The pressing horrors which involve my fate ; And if the memory of my deeds e'er swayed His mind, 0 supplicate his generous aid ; A sovereign balm he has whose wondrous power All wounds can heal and fleeting life restore; Swift from his tent his potent medicine bring."
But mark the malice of the brainless King! Hard as the flinty rock he stern denies The healthful draught, and gloomy thus replies : "Can I forgive his foul and slanderous tongue? The sharp disdain on me contemptuous flung? Scorned 'midst my army by a shameless boy. Who sought my throne, my sceptre to destroy ! Nothing but mischief from liis heart can flow, Is it then wise to cherish such a foe ? The fool who warms his enemy to life. Only prepares for scenes of future strife."
Gudarz, returning, told the hopeless tale —
And thinking Rustem's presence might prevail ;
w
FIRDUSI.— 13
The champion rose, but ere he reached the
throne, Sohrab had breathed the last expiring groan.
Now keener anguish racked the father's mind, Reft of his son, a murderer of his kind ; His guilty sword distained with filial gore ; He beat his burning breast, his hair he tore; The breathless corse before his shuddering view. A shower of ashes o'er his head he threw ; " In my old age," he cried, " what have I done ? Why have I slain my son, my innocent son ? Why o'er his splendid dawning did I roll The clouds of death, and plunge my burning soul In agony ? My son I from heroes sprung ; Better these hands were from my body wrung ; And solitude and darkness, deep and drear. Fold me from sight than hated linger here. But when his mother hears with horror wild, That I have shed the life-blood of her child, So nobly brave, so dearly loved, in vain. How can her heart that rending shock sustain?"
Xow on a bier the Persian warriors place The breathless vouth, and shade his pallid face; And turning from that fatal field away. Move toward the champion's home in long
array. Then Rustem, sick of martial pomp and show, Himself the spring of all this scene of woe. Doomed to the flames the pagantry he loved, Shield, spear, and mace, so oft in battle proved; Xow lost to ail, encompassed by despair ; His bright pavilion crackling blazed in air; The sparkling throne the ascending column fed ; In smoking fragments fell the golden bed; The raging fire red glimmering died away, And all the warrior's pride in dust and ashes
lay.
Translation of J. Atkinson.
AGNOLO FIRENZUOLA.— 1
FIRENZUOLA, Agnolo, an Italian poet, born in 1493, died about 1545. lie studied at Siena and Perugia ; entered npon an ec- clesiastical career, and finally became an Abate. His habits, however, were extremely loose, and his constitution was broken down in middle life. He translated into Italian the Golden Ass of Apuleius, and \vrote original poems, most of which are of a ques- tionable character, and also several works in prose. All his writings are, esteemed models of style, and are cited as authorities in the vocabulary of the Accademia della Ci'usca. None of his writings were pub- lished until several years after his death. They have since been frequently reprinted. The latest edition, in two volumes, appeared at Florence in 184S.
UPON HIMSELF,
0 thou, whose soul from the pure sacred stream,
Ere it was doomed this mortal veil to wear, Bathed by the gold-haired god, emerged so fair,
That thou like him in Delos born didst seem !
If zeal that of my strength would wrongly deem, Bade me thy virtues to the world declare, And in my highest flight, struck with despair,
I sunk unequal to such lofty theme : Alas ! I suffer from the same mishap
As the false offspring of the bird that bore The Phryaian stripling to the Thunderer's lap :
Forced in the sun's full radiance to gaze Such streams of light on their weak vision pour,
Their eyes are blasted in the furious blaze. Transl. in the London Magazine.
GEORGE PARK FISHER.— i
FISHER, George Park, an American clerg3'niau and author, born at Wrentliam, Mass., in 1S27. He graduated at Brown University, in 1S47, studied theology at Yale, Andover, and Halle. On his return from Germany in 1854 he was appointed Professor of Divinity at Yale, and in 1861 Professor of Ecclesiastical History in the Yale Divinity School. In 18G6 he became one of the editors of tlie New Englander. He is the author of Essays on the Super- natural Origin of Christianity (1865), A History of the Reformation (1873), Grounds of Thelstic and Ciiristian Be- liefs The ney inn 'nigs of Christianity^ Dis- cussions in History and Theology, Faith and Rationalism, The Christian Religion, and Outlines of Universal History (1886.)
AN INFINITE AND ABSOLUTE BEING.
It is objected to the belief that God is per- sonal, that pcrsonaHty impHes liiiiitation, and that, if personal, God could not be infinite and abso- lute. " Infinite," (and the same is true of " abso- lute") is an adjective, not a substantive. When used as a noun, preceded by the definite article, it signifies, not a Being, but an abstraction. When it stands as a predicate, it means that the 'subject, be it s|)ace, time, or some fjuality of a being, is witiioiit limit. Tiius, when I afHrm that space is infinite, I express a positive perception, or thought. I mean not only that imagination can set no bounds to space, but also that this inability is owing, not to any defect in the imagi- nation or conr.-ptive faculty, but to the nature of the ohjcct. U'hcn I say that (UA is infinite in power, 1 m<an that he caji do all things which are objects of power, or that his power is incapa- ble of increase. N'<» amount of power can he added to the power of which he is i)osse»sed. It is only when "the Infinite" is taken as the syn- onym of the sum of all existence, that personality w
GEORGE PARK FISHER.-2
is made to be incompatible \v\i\x God's infinitude. No such conception of liim is needed for the satisfaction of tlie reason or the lieart of man. Enouoli tliat he is the ground of the existence of all beings outside of himself, or the creative and
sustaining power
An absolute being is independent of all other beings for its existence and for the full realization of its nature. It is contended that, inasmuch as self-consciousness is conditioned on the distinction of the £(/o from tlie non-Ego, the subject from the object, a personal being cannot have the attribute of self-existence, cannot be absolute. Without some other existence than himself, a being cannot be self-conscious. The answer to this is, that the premise is an unwarranted generalization from what is true in the case of the human, finite personality of man, which is developed in connection with a body, and is only one of numerous finite personalities under the same class. To assert that self-consciousness cannot exist independently of such conditions, because it is through them that I come to a knowledge of myself, is a great leap in logic. The proposition that man is in the image of God does not neces- sarily imply that the divine intelligence is subject to the restrictions and infirmities that belong to the human. It is not implied that God ascertains truth by a gradual process of investigation or of reasoning, or that lie deliberates on a plan of action, and casts about for the appropriate means of executing it. These limitations arc characteristic, not of intelligence in itself, but of finite intelligence. It is meant that he is not an impersonal principle or occult force, but is self- conscious and self-determining. Nor is it asserted that he is perfectly comprehensible by us. It is not pretended that we are able fully to think away the limitations which cleave to us in onr character as dependent and finite, and to frame thus an adequate conception of a person infinite and absolute. Nevertheless, the existence of Buch a person, whom we can apprehend if not I*
GEORGE PARK FISHER.— 8
comprehend, is verified to our minds by sufficient evidence. Pantheism, with its imminent Abso- lute, void of personal attributes, and its self- developing universe, postulates a deity limited, subject to change, and reaching self-consciousness - — if it is ever reached — only in men. And Pantheism, by denying the free and responsible nature of man, maims the creature whom it pretends to deify, and annihilates not only mo- ralitv, but religion also, in any proper sense of the term.
The citadel of Theism is in the consciousness of our own personality. "Within ourselves God reveals himself more directly than through any other channel. He impinges, so to speak, on the soul which finds in its primitive activity an inti- mation and implication of an unconditioned Cause on whom it is dependent — a Cause self- conscious like itself, and speaking with holy authority in conscience, wherein also is presented the end which the soul is to pursue through its own free self-determination — an end which could only be set by a Being both intelligent and holy. The yearning for fellowship with the Be- inff'thus revealed — indistinct though it be, well- nigh stifled by absorption in finite objects and in the vain quest for rest and joy in them — is insep- arable from human nature. There is an unappeas- able thirst in the soul when cut off from God. It seeks for " living water." — Grounds of Theisiic and Christian Belief.
JOHN FISHER.— 1
FISHER, John, an Englisli clergyman, born in 1459 ; beheaded in 1535. In 1504 he was made Bishop of Rochester, and is supposed to have been the author of the treatise Assertio Septem Saci'mnentoruin^ for which Henry VIII. obtained the title of "Defender of tlie Faith." When in 1531 the claim of spiritual supremacy was broached for the king, Fisher refused to acknowledge it. Three years later he re- fused to take the oath of allegiance, and was committed to the Tower, his bishopric be- ing declared vacant. Soon after he was beheaded upon charge of denying the king's supremacy. Fisher wrote several contro- versial works, sermons, and devotional treatises. A copious Biography of him ap- peared in 1854. One of his sermons, preached in 1509, was in honor of the Count- ess of Richmond, the mother of King Henry YIL, in which he gives a picture of a pious lady of high rank.
THE PIOUS COUNTESS OF RICHMOND.
Her sober temperance in meats and drinks was known to all them that were conversant with her, wherein she lay in as great weight of herself as any person might, keeping alway her strait measure, and offending as little as any creature might : eschewing banquets, rere-suppors, juiceries betwixt meals. As for fasting, for age and feeble- ness, albeit she were not bound, yet those days that by the Church were appointed, she kept them diligently and seriously, and in especial the holy Lent throughout, that she restrained her appetite till one meal of fish on the day ; besides her other peculiar fasts of devotion, as St. An- thony, St. Mary Magdalene, St. Catharine, with other; and throughout all the year, the Friday and Saturday she full truly observed. As to hard clothes wearing, she had her shirts and girdles of hair, which, when she was in health,
18
JOHN FISHER.— 2
every week she failed not certain days to wear, sometime the one, sometime the other, that full often her skin, as I heard her say, was pierced therewith In prayer, every day at her up- rising, which commonly was not long after five of the clock, she began certain devotions, and so after them, with one of her gentlewomen, the matins of Our Lady ; then she came into her closet, where then with her chaplain she said also matins of the day ; and after that daily heard four or five masses upon her knees ; so continuing in her prayers and devotions unto the hour of dinner, which of the eating- day was ten of the clock, and upon the fasting- day eleven. After dinner full truly she would go her stations to three altars daily ; daily her dirges and commen- dations she wouKi say, and her even-songs before supper, both of the day and of Our Lady, beside many other prayers and psalters of David throughout the year; and at night before she went to bed, she failed not to resort unto her chapel, and there a large quarter of an hour to occupy her devotions. No marvel, through all this long time her kneeling was to lier painful, and so painful that many times it caused in her back pain and disease. And yet, nevertheless, daily when she was in health, she failed not to say the crown of Our Lady, which after the manner of Rome containeth sixty and three aves, and at every ave to make a kneeling. As for medita- tion, she had divers books in French, wherewith she would occupy herself when she was weary of prayer. Wlierefore divers she did translate out of the French into English. Her marvellous weeping they can bear witness of, wliich here before have heard her confession, wliieli be divers and many, and at many seasons in the year, lightly every third day. Can also record the same those that were present at any time when she was houshilde, [received tlic sacrament of the Lord's SuppcrJ which was full nigh a dozen timesevery year, what floods of tears there issued forth of her eyes !
WILBUR FISK.-l
FISK, Wilbur, an American clergyman and educator, born at Brattleboro, Vt., in 1792 ; died at Middletown, Conn., in 1838. He graduated at Brown University in 1815, and entered upon the study of law ; but in 1818 he entered the itinerant ministry of the Methodist Episcopal Church, and five years later was made Presiding Elder of the Vermont District. In 1826 he became Principal of an Academy at Wilbraham, Mass., of which lie was one of the found- ers. The Wesley an University at Middle- town, Conn., was founded in 1832 ; and Mr. Fisk, who had declined several import- ant educational positions, was chosen as first President of the new institution. In 1835- 36, on account of impaired health he made a tour in Europe. During his absence he was elected a Bishop of the Methodist Church, but declined the position. His principal works are : Sermons and Lectures On Univei'salism^ Reply to Pierpont on the Atonement^ The Calvinistic Controversy, and Travels in Europe. His Life has been written by Kev. Joseph Holdich (1842.)
SEA-SICKNESS.
If I supposed that any sketch of this disease would produce even the premonitory symptoms upon my readers, I could not find it in my heart to inflict the misery upon one of the sons of Adam — except on the physicians ; nor even upon them, except in hope that it would put them upon e-xtra exertions to find a cure. On board the steamboat which conveyed us down to Sandy Hook an eminent physician suggested and sanc- tioned the theory, which I believe has gained extensive authority with the faculty, and certainly seems very plausible, and accords well with many of the symptoms, that the disease is the inversion of the peristaltic motion of the digestive muscles through the stomach and viscera.
Wilbur fisk.— 2
Alas ! what a picture of this distressing dis- order. Only conceive the unpleasant sensation which this unnatural action must produce — the loathing, the shrinking back, and the spasmodic action of all the digestive organs. And when this system of " internal agitation" is begun, it is increased by its own action. The spasm in- creases the irritation, and the irritation increases the susceptibility to spasmodic action, until the coats of the stomach and all the abdominal vis- cera are convulsed. The sensations produced, however, are not those of pain, as we commonly use the term, but of loathing — of sickness — of death-like sickness — until nature is wearied, and the poor sufferer feels that life itself is a burden. He is told that he must not give up to it ; he must keep about, take the air, and drive it off. At first he thinks that he will — he believes that he can ; and, perhaps, after the first complete action of his nausea, feels relieved, and imagines that he has conquered; but another surge comes on, and rolls him and his vessel a few feet up- ward ; and again she sinks, and he with her : but not all of him. His body goes down with the vessel, as it is meet that it should, according to the laws of gravitation ; but that which his body contains cannot make ready for so speedy a de- scent. The contained has received an impetus upward, and it keeps on in this direction ; while the container goes down with the ship. The re- sult may be readily inferred.
But even then the worst is still to come. When the upward a<'tion, the distressing nausea, the convulsive ret(;hing continue, the deeper secretions are disturl)ed, and the mouth is liter- ally filled with "gall and bitterness." All objects around you now lose their interest; the sea has neither beauty nor sublimity; the roaring of the wave is like the wail of death ; the careering of the ship before the wind, "like a thing of life," is but the hastening and ag.'ravation of agony. Your sympathy, if not lost, is paralyzed. Your dear friend — perhaps the wife of your bosom —
61
WILBUR FISK.— 3
is suflEering at the same time ; but you have not the moral courage, if you have the heart, to go to her assistance. And even that very self, which is so absorbing and cxchisive, seems, by a strange paradox, hardly so interesting as to be worth an existence.
If the theory of the inversion of the peristaltic motion be true, it may yet be a curious, and per- haps not unprofitable physiological in<juiry. What are the intermediate links between the motion of the vessel — which is evidently the primurn mobile of all the agitation — and this in- verted action of the digestive organs? Is this latter the eflEect of a previous action upon the nervous system ? Is it the eSect of sympathy between the brain and the stomach ? If a nerv- ous derangement is a prior link, are the nerves wrought upon by the imagination? and if so, through what sense is the imagination affected ? Is it through the general feelings of the frame — the entire system — or is it chiefly through the organ of sight? I have not skill or knowledge sufficient to answer these questions. I cannot but think, however, that the eye has much to do in this matter. If you look at the vessel in mo- tion, it seems to increase the difficulty ; and hence, while under the influence of the disease, you cannot bear to look on anything around you, but are disposed to close the windows of the soul, and give yourself up to dark and gloomy endurance.
One of the social — or rather a7?ii-social — con- comitants of this disease is that it excites but little pity in those around you who are not suf- fering. One tells you, " It Avill do you good !" This is the highest comfort you get. Another assures you that " it is not a mortal disease," and that "you will feel a great deal better when it is over." Another laughs you in the face, with some atrocious pleasantry about " casting up ac- counts," or " paying duties to Old Neptune." A "searching operation," this paying custom to the watery king. If his Majesty demanded but a
WILBUR FISK.— 4
large percentage of your wares, it might be tol- erable ; but he takes all you have ; he searches you through and through.
Wearied out at length, you throw yourself into your berth, where, by keeping in a horizon- tal position, and sinking into the stupor of a mere oyster existence, you find the only mitigation of vour suffering. But here too you have painful annoyances. Is it cold : your extremities be- come numb and icy ; the system, as in the chol- era, has all the heat and action within, while the entire surface is torpid, and the extremities are cold as death. Is it hot : you have a sense of suf- focation for the want of air ; you open your eyes, and see the white drapery of your bed waving, and in a moment you anticipate the fanning of the breeze. Xo, no I that waving motion is not from the zephyr; it is from the same baleful agi- tation that is the source of all your distress.
To this hour I can scarcely think of the wav- ing of that white drapery in the stagnant air of my state-room without associating with it the idea of a ghostly visitant in the hour of mid- night, flapping his sepulchral wing about the bed of agony, and boding ill to the sufferer. Again you close your eyes. You think of home — of land an V where — of the terra frma beds of the lower animals, even of the worst accommo- dated among them — the horse or the swine — and you feel that their lodgment would be a Paradise compared with your billow-tossed couch. But all is in vain, and you find no other alternative but to give yourself up to pas- sive endurance. And such endurance ! You listen to the bell dividing off the hours — and you feel that Time, like the slow fires of savage torments, has slackened his pace to prolong your Huffcrings. Suffice it to say that T have been de- scribing what I have actually felt, in a greater or less degree, with ofcasional iiiterrujitions, for fif- teen davs during my voyage to Eurojic. — Truvvts in Europe.
JOHN FISKE.— 1
FISKE, John, an American author, born at Hartford, Conn., in 1842. He was edu- cated at Harvard University, and at the Dane Law School, from which he graduated in 1865. In 1809 he was appointed Lec- turer on Philosophy at Harvard, in 1870 Tutor in History, and in 1872 Assistant Librarian, which office he held until 1879. He has published Myths and Myth-makers (1872), Outlines of Cosmic Philosophy (1874), The Unseen World (1876), Bar- winism and Other Essays (1879), Excur- sions of an Evolutionist (1883), The Destiny if Man Vieived in the Light of His Origin (1884), The Idea of God as Affected hy Modern Knowledge^ and American Politi- cal Ideas (1885.)
THE SCIENTIFIC MEANING OF THE WORD " FORCE."
In illustration of the mischief that has been wrought by the Augustinian conception of Deity, we may cite the theological objections urged against the Newtonian theory of gravitation and the Darwinian theory of natural selection. Leib- nitz who, as a mathematician but little inferior to Newton himself, might have been expected to be easily convinced of the truth of the theory of gravitation, was nevertheless deterred by theo- logical scruples from accepting it. It appeared to him that it substituted the action of physical forces for the direct action of the Deity. Now the fallacy of this argument of Leibnitz is easy to detect. It lies in a metaphysical misconcep- tion of the meaning of the word " force." " Force" is implicitly regarded as a sort of entity or daemon which has a mode of action distin^ guishable from that of Deity; otherwise it is meaningless to speak of substituting one for the other. But such a personification of " force" is a remnant of barbaric thought, in no wise sanc- tioned by physical science. When astronomy speaks of two planets as attracting each other w
JOHN FISKE.— 2
with a " force" which varies directly as their masses and inversely as the square of their dis- tances apart, it simply uses the phrase as a con- venient metaphor by which to describe the man- ner in which the observed movements of the two bodies occur. It explains that in presence of each other the two bodies are observed to change their positions in a certain specified way, and this is all that it means. This is all that a strictly scientific hypothesis can possibly allege, and this is all that observation can possibly prove.
Whatever goes beyond this, and imagines or asserts a kind of " puil" between the two bodies, is not science, but metaphysics. An atheistic metaphysics may imagine such a " pull," and mav interpret it as the action of something that is not Deitv, but such a conclusion can find no support in the scientific theorem, which is simply a generalized description of phenomena. The general considerations upon which the belief in the existence and direct action of Deity is other- wise founded are in no wise disturbed by the establishment of any such scientific theorem. We are still perfectly free to maintain that it is the direct action of Deity which is manifested in the planetary movements; having done nothing more with our Newtonian hypothesis . than to construct a happy formula for express- ing the mode or order of the manifestation. We may have learned something new concerning the manner of divine action ; we certainly have not " substituted " any otlier kind of action for it. And what is thus obvious in this simple astro- nomical example is equally true in principle in every case whatever in which one set of phenom- ena is interpreted by reference to another set. In no case whatever can science use the words " force" or " cause" excoj)t as mcta[)horically de- scriptive of some observed or observalile seipiencc of phcnoini'iia. And conseriuently at no imagi- nable future time, so long as the essential con- ditions of human thinking are maintained, e;in science even attempt to substitute the uction of
JOHN FISKE.— 3
any other power for the direct action of Deity. — The Idea of Ood.
THE EARLY SETTLERS OF NEW ENGLAND.
The settlement of New England by the Puri- tans occupies a peculiar position in the annals of colonization, and without understanding tliis we cannot properly appreciate the character of the purely democratic society which I have sought to describe. As a general rule colonies have been founded, either by governments or by private enterprise, for political or commercial reasons. The aim has been — on the part of governments — to annoy some rival power, or to get rid of criminals, or to open some new avenue of trade ; or, on the part of the people, to escape from straitened circumstances at home, or to find a refuge from religious persecution. In the set- tlement of New England none of these motives were operative except the last, and that only to a slight extent. The Puritans who fled from Nottinghamshire to Holland in 1608, and twelve years afterwards crossed the ocean in the May- floiver, may be said to have been driven from England by persecution. But this was not the case with the Puritans who between 1G30 and 1650 went from Lincolnshire, Norfolk, and Suf- folk, and from Dorset and Devonshire, and founded the colonies of Massachusetts and Con- necticut. These men left their homes at a time when Puritanism was waxing powerful and could not be assailed with impunity. They belonged to the upper and middle classes of the society of that day, outside of the peerage.
Mr. Freeman has pointed out the importance of the change by which, after the Norman Con- quest, the Old-English nobility or thegnhood was pushed down into "a secondary place in the political and social scale." Of the far-reaching effects of this change upon the whole subsequent history of the English race I shall hereafter have occasion to speak. The proximate effect was that "the ancient lords of the soil, thus thrust
JOHN riSKE.— 4
down into the second rank, formed that great body of freeholders, the stoat gentry and yeomanry of Enghind, who were for so many ages the strength of the land." It was from this ancient theguhood that the Puritan settlers of New England were mainly descended. It is no unusual thing for a Massachusetts family to trace its pedigree to a lord of the manor in the thirteenth or fourteenth century. The leaders of the Xew England emi- gration were country gentlemen of good fortune, similar in position to such men as Hampden and Cromwell ; a large proportion of them had taken degrees at Cambridge. The rank and tile were mostly intelligent and prosperous yeomen. The lowest ranks of society were not represented in the emigration ; and all idle, shiftless, or disor- derly people were rigorously refused admission into the new communities, the early history of which was therefore singularly free from any- thing like riot or mutiny. To an extent unparal- leled, therefore, in the annals of colonization, the settlers of New England were a body of picked men. Their Puritanism was the natural outcome of their free-thinking, combined with an earnest- ness of character which could constrain them to any sacrifices needful for realizing their high ideal of life. They gave up pleasant homes in Eng- land, and they left thein with no feeling of ran- cor towards their native land, in order that, by dint of whatever hardship, they might establish in the American wilderness what should approve itself to their judgment as a God-fearing com- munity. It matters little that their conceptions were in sonic respects narrow. In the untlinch- iiig adherence to duty whicli prompted their cn- terjirisc, and in the sober intelligence with which it was carried out, we have, as I said before, tlie key to what is best in the history of the Ameri- can people. — American Political Ideas.
[ PERCY II. FITZGERALD.— 1
FITZGERALD, Percy Hetiierington, an Irish author, born in 1834. He was edu- cated at Trinity College, Dublin, was ad- mitted to the Irish bar, and was appointed a Crown Prosecutor on the Northeastern Circuit. Many of his novels first appeared in All the Year Bound, Once a Week, and Jlouse/iold Words. Among his works are Never Forgotten, The Second Mrs. Till at- son, The Bridge of Sighs, Bella Donna, Polly, The Sivord of Damocles, The Night Mail, Diana Gay, The Life of Sterne, The Life of Garrick, Charles Toionshend, A Famous Forgery, being the life of Dr. Dodd, Charles TMnib, Principles of Com- edy, Pictures of School Life and Boyhood, The Kemhles, Life and Adventures of Al- exander Dumas, The Romance of the Eng- lish Stage, Life of George LV., The World Behind the Scenes, A New Llistory of the English Stage, Recollections of a Literary Man, The Royal Dukes and Princesses of the Family of George LLT. (1882), The Recreations of a Literary Man, Kitigs and Queens of an Hour, Records of Love, Ro- mance, Oddity, and Adventure (1883), Lives of the Sheridans, and The Book- Fancier (1887.)
goldsmith's comedy.
That deliglitful comedy, She Stoops to Con- quer, would indeed deserve a volume, and is the best specimen of wliat an English comedy should be. It illustrates excellently what has been said as to the necessity of the plot depending on the characters, rather than the characters depending on the plot, as the fashion is at present. IIow would our modern playwright have gone to work, should he ha-ve lighted on this good sub- ject for a piece — that of a gentleman's house being taken for an inn, and the mistakes it might
MRCY H. FITZGERALD.— 2
give rise to ? He would have an irascible old proprietor, who would be thrown into contor- tions of furv by the insults he was receiving; visitors free and easy, pulling the furniture about, ransacking the wardrobes, with other farcical pranks, such as would betray that they were not gentlemen, or such as guests at an inn would never dream of doing. But farce would be got out of it somehow
Very different were the principles of Gold- smith. He had this slight shred of a plot to start with ; but it was conceived at the same mo- ment with the character of Marlow— the delicacy and art of which conception is beyond descrip- tion. It was the character of all others to bring out the farce and humor of the situation, viz., a character with its two sides — one that was for- ward and impudent with persons of the class he believed his hosts to belong to, but liable at any crisis, on the discovery of the mistake, to be re- duced to an almost pitiable state of shyness and confusion. It is the consciousness that this change is in petto at any moment — that the cool town man may be hoisted in a second on this petard — tliat makes all so piquant for the spec- tator. To make Marlow a more excpiisite would l»avc furnished a conventional dramatic contrast; but the addition of bashfulncss — and of bashful- ncss after this artistic view — more than doubles the dramatic force. A further strengthening was tlic letting his friend into the secret; so that this delightfully self-sufficient creature is the only one of all concerned — including audience — wlio is unaware of his situation
One could write on and on in praise of this delicious comedy. What was befi>re Gold- smith's mind was the local color, as background for Marlow — the picture of the old country- house and its old-fasliionc<l tenants, its regular types of cliaractcr, as full and round as the j)or- traits on 11m; wall. Then there is the artful con- trast of the characters, every figure in it scp.-irate, distinct, alive, colored, round, and to be thought •f
PERCY H. J^ITZGERALi).— 3
of, positively, like people we have known. Young Marlow, and Tony Luin])kin — old Hardcastle, and Diggory, and Mrs. Ilardcastlc — these arc things to be recalled hereafter, from being framed in an admirable setting at a theatre in this metropolis, where the background, the atmosphere, the scenery, and dress, is like a series of pictures, and helps us over many short- comings in the play. With excellent playing in one leading character, Tony, it haunts the mem- ory as something enjoyable ; and, to one who goes round the playhouses, it is as though he had been stopping at some cheerful country-house
from which he was loth to depart
What a play ! we never tire of it. How rich in situations, each the substance of a whole play ! At the very first sentence the stream of humor begins to flow. Mrs. Ilardcastle's expostulation against being kept in the country, and lier husband's grumbling defence ; the alehouse, and the contrast of the genteel travelers misdirected ; the drilling of the servants by Ilardcastle; the matchless scene between Marlow, his friend, and the supposed landlord; the interrupted story of the Duke of Marlborough, unrivaled in any comedy ; the scene between the shy Marlow and Miss Ilardcastle ; Hastings's compliments to Mrs. Hardcastle ; the episode of the jewels ; Marlow's taking Miss Hardcastle for the barmaid ; the drunken servant, and Hardcastle's fairly losing all patience ; and the delightful and airily deli- cate complications as to Marlow's denial of hav- ing paid any attentions; the puzzle of his father; the enjoyment of the daughter, who shares the secret Avith the audience — all this makes up an innumerable series of exquisite situations, yet all flowing from that one simple motif of the play — the mistaking a house for an inn ! Matchless piece ! with nothing forced, nothing strained, everything natural and easy. " Gay" would be the word to describe it. We regret when it is over, and look back to it with delight. — Prin- ciples of Comedy and Dramatic Effect. w
CAMILLE FLAMMARION.— 1
FLAMMAEIOX, Camille, a French astronomer and author, born at Montigny- le-Roi, in 1S42. He was educated in the ecclesiastical seminary of Langres, and at Paris, and studied in the Imperial Obser- vatory for four years. In 1862 he became editor of the Cosmos, and in 1865 scientific editor of the Siecle. He is the author of La Pluralite des Mondes Habites and Les ILthitans de V autre Monde (1862 >, Les Monde Lmaginaires et les Mondes Reels (1864), Les Merveilles Celestes, translated under the title of Wonders of the Heavens (1865), Dleu dans la Nature (1866), His- toire die Ciel (1877), Contetnplations Scien- tijiqiies and Yoi/ages Aeriens (1868), V At- niospJiere (1872), Ilistoire Wun Planete (1873), Les Terres da Ciel (1876), HAs- tronomie I^opulaire (1880), and Dans le Ciel et snr la Terre (1886.) In 1868 Flamraarion made several balloon ascents for the purpose of tiscertaining the condition of the atmosphere at great altitudes. In 1880 he received a prize from the French Academy for his work V Astronomie Pop- ulaire.
INFINITE SPACE.
There are truths before wliicli human thought feels itself liuiiiihated and perplexed, which it conteinj)latPs with fear, and without the power to face thein, ahli(nii;liit umlcrstands their existence and necessity ; such are those of the infinity of space and eternity of duration. Inipossihle to define — for all definition could onlv ilarkcn the first idea which is in us — these truths command and rule us. To try to explain them wouUl he a barren hope ; it suffices to kecj) them before our attention in order that they may reveal to us, at every instant, tiie inuncnsity of their value. A thousand definitions have been given ; we will, however, neither quote nor recall one of them,
CAMILLE FLAMMARION.— 3
But we wish to open space before us, and employ ourselves there in trying to penetrate its depth. The velocity of a cannon-ball from the mouth of the cannon makes swift way, 437 yards per second. But this would be still too slow for our journey through space, as our velocity would scarcely be 900 miles an hour. This is too little. In nature there are movements incomparably more rapid : for instance, the velocity of light. This velocity is 186,000 miles per second. This will do better ; thus we will take this means of transport. Allow me, then, by a figure of speech, to tell you that we will place ourselves on a ray of light, and be carried away on its rapid course.
Taking the earth as our starting-point we will go in a straight line to any point in the heavens. We start. At the end of the first second we have already traversed 186,000 miles; and at the end of the second, 372,000. We continue: Ten seconds, a minute, ten minutes have elapsed — 111,600,000 miles have been passed. Passing, during an hour, a day, a week, without ever slacking our pace, during whole months, and even a year, the time which we have traversed is already so long that, expressed in miles, the number of measurement exceeds our faculty of comprehension, and indicates nothing to our mind; there would be trillions, and millions, of millions. But we will not interrupt our flight. Carried on without stopping by tliis same rapidity of 186,000 miles each second, let us penetrate the expanse m a straight line for whole
years, fifty years, even a century Where
are we ? For a long time we have gone far beyond the last starry regions which are seen from the earth — the last that the telescope has visited ; for a long time we travel in other regions, ■ unknown and unexplored. No mind is capable of following the road passed over ; thousands of millions joined to thousands of millions express nothing. At the sight of this prodigious expanse the imagination is arrested, humbled. Well ! this is the wonderful point of
CAMILLE FLA.MMARION.— 3
the problem : we have not advanced a sintjle step in space. We are no nearer a limit than if we had remained in the same place. We should be able again to begin the same course starting from the point where we are, and add to ourvoyaoe a voyage of the same extent ; we should be able to join centuries on centuries in the same itinerary, with the same velocity, to continue the voyage without end and without rest ; we should be'able to guide ourselves in any part of space, left, right, forward, backward, above, below, in every direction ; and when, after centuries employed in this giddy course, we should stop ourselves, fas- cinated, or in despair before the immensity eternally open, eternally renewed, we should again understaiul that our secular flights had not measured for us the snmllest part of space, and that we were not more advanced than at our starting-point. In truth it is the infinite which surrounds us, as we before expressed it, or the in- finite number of worlds. We should be able to float for eternity without ever finding anything before us but an eternally open infinite.
Hence it follows that all our ideas on space have but a purely relative value. When we say, for instance, to ascend to the sky, to descend under the earth, these expressions are false in themselves, for being situated in the bosom of the infinite, we can neither ascend nor descend ; there is no above or below ; these words have only an acceptation relative to the terrestrial surface on which we live. The universe must, therefore, be represented as an expanse without limits, without shores, illimite<l, infinite, in tlie bosom of which float suns like that wliidi lights us, and earths like that which [)oises under our steps. Neither dome nor vaults, nor limits of any kind ; void in every direction, and in this v()i<l an immense nuiiiber of worMs, which we will soon describe, — Wonders of the Heavens.
GUST AVE FLAUBERT.— 1
FLAUBERT, Gustave, a French novel- ist, born in 1821; died in 1880. His father was Chief Surgeon of tlie Hotel Dieu in Kouen. His brother also was a j)hysiciaTi, and he himself studied medicine, which he relinquished for literature. In 1849 he set out on a journey through Northern Africa, Asia Minor, Syria, and Southern Europe. During liis travels he studied enthusiastic- ally all that related to the past in the countries he visited. On his return to France, he engaged in authorship. His first publication was a novel, Madame Bovary^ which appeared in the Revue de Paris, in 1857. Legal proceedings insti- tuted against him on account of its alleged immorality fell to the ground. The ne.xt year he went to Tunis, and then to the ruins of Carthage, where he remained for a long time. This journey resulted in the production of the author's greatest work, Salammho, published in 1862, and which has been called the "resurrection of Carth- age." It is founded upon the revolt, under Spendius, of the Barbarian followers of Hamilcar Barca, after the first Punic war, their siege of Carthage, and their terrible ])unishment. The heroine of the tale is Salanimbo, the daughter of Hamilcar, whose story has been grafted by the author on the historical foundation. Among Flaubert's other works are : Sentimental Education (1869), The Temptation of St. Anthony (1874), Hei'odias, St. Julian the Hospitaller, and A Simple Heart (1877), and Bouvard et Pecuehet (1880), completed a few weeks before the author's death.
UNDER THE WALLS OF CARTHAGE.
From the surrounding country the people, mounted on asses, or running on foot, pale,
»4
GUSTAVE FLAUBERT.— 2
breathless, wild with fear, came rushing into the city. They were flying before the Barbarian army, which, within three days, had traversed the road from Sicca, bent ou falling upon and exter- minating Carthage. Almost as soon as the citi- zens closed the gates, the Barbarians were descried, but they halted in the middle of the isthmus ou the lake shore. At first they made no sign whatever of hostility. Many approached with palms in their hands, only to be repulsed by the arrows of the Carthaginians, so intense was the terror prevailing throughout the city. During the early morning and at nightfall strag- glers prowled along the walls. A small man carefully enveloped in a mantle, with his face concealed under a very low visor, was specially noticeable. lie tarried for hours looking at the aqueduct, and with such {)ersistence, that he un- doubtedly desired to mislead the Carthaginians as to his actual designs. He was accompanied by another man, of giant-like stature, who walked about bareheaded.
Carthage was defended throughout the entire width of the isthmus ; first by a moat, succeeded by a rampart (jf turf; finallv by a double-storied wall, thirty cubits high, built of hewn stones. It contained stables for three hundred elephants, with magazines for their caparisons, shackles, and provisions, as well as other stables for a thousand horses with their harness a\\i\ fodder; also cas- ernes for twenty thousand soldiers, arsenals for their armor, and all the materials and necessaries for war. Towers were erected c)n the second story, furnished with battlements, clad on the exterior with bronze bucklers, suspended from cramp-irons.
The first line of walls immediately sheltered Mabjiia, the quarter inhabited by seafaring peoj)le and dvers of purple. I'oles were visible on whieh pur[)lo sails were drving, a!id beyond, on the last terraces, clay furnaces for cooking saiimure. At the back the city was laid out like an amphitheatre ; its high dwellings in the form
GUSTAVE FLAUBERT.— 3
of cubes were variously built of stone, planks, shingles, reeds, shells, and pressed earth. The groves of the temples appeared like lakes of ver- dure in this mountain of diversely colored blocks. The public squares levelled it at unequal distances, and innumerable streets intercrossed from top to bottom. The boundaries of the three old quar- ters could be distinguished, now merged together and here and there rising up like huge rocks or spreading out in enormous Hat spaces of walls — half-covered with flowers, and blackened by wide streaks caused by the throwing over of filth ; and streets passed through in yawning spaces like streams under bridges.
The hill of the Acropolis, in the centre of Byrsa, disappeared under a medley of monu- ments ; such as temples with torsel-columns, with bronze capitals, and metal chains, cones of unce- uiented stones banded with azure, copper cupolas, marble architraves, Babylonian buttresses, and obelisks poised on the points like reversed flam- beaux. Peristyles reached to frontons; volutes unrolled between colonnades ; granite walls sup- ported tile partitions. All these were mounted one above another, half-hidden in a marvelous incomprehensible fashion. Here one felt the succession of ages, and the memories of forgotten countries were awakened. Behind the Acropolis, in the red earth, the Mappals road, bordered by tombs, extended in a straight line from the shore to the catacombs; then followed large dwellings in spacious gardens ; and the third quarter, Megara, the new city, extended to the edge of cliffs, on which was erected a gigantic lighthouse where nightly blazed a beacon. Carthage thus deployed herself before the soldiers now en- camped on the plains.
From the distance the soldiers could recognize the markets and the cross-roads, and disputed among themselves as to the sites of the various temples. Khamofin faced the Syssites, and had golden tiles ; Mclkarth, to the left of EschmoCin, bore on its roof coral branches; Tanit, beyond, w
GUSTAVE FLAUBERT.-4
rounded up through the palm-trees its copper cupola ; and the black Moloch stood below the cisterns at the side of the lighthouse. One could see at the angles of the frontons, on the summit of the walls, at the corners of the squares, every- where, the various divinities with their hideous heads, colossal or dwarfish, with enormous or immeasurably flattened bellies, open jaws, and outspread arms, holding in their hands pitchforks, chains, or javelins. And the blue sea spread out at the ends of the streets, which the perspec- tive rendered even steeper.
A tumultuous people from morning till night filled the streets; young boys rang bells, crying out before the doors of the bath-houses; shops wherein hot drinks were sold sent forth steam ; the air resounded with the clangor of anvils; the white cocks, consecrated to the sun, crowed on the terraces ; beeves awaiting slaughter bellowed in the temples ; slaves ran hither and thither with baskets poised on their heads , and in the recesses of the porticoes now and again a priest appeared clothed in sombre mantle, barefooted, wearing a conical cap.
This spectacle of Carthage enraged the Bar- barians. They admired her; they execrated her; they desired at the same time to inhabit her, and to annihilate her. But what might there not be in the military port, defended by a triple wall ? Then behind the city, at the extremity of Mcgara, higher even than the Acro- polis, loomed up Ilamilcar's palace. — Salammbo.
ANDREW FLETCHER.— 1
FLETCHER, Anpkew (commonly known as Fletcher of Saltoun), a Scottish politician and author, born in 1653 ; died in 1716. He was educated under the care ot" Gilbert Burnet, then minister of the parisii of Saltuun ; ti-aveled extensively on the Continent, and in 1681 became a member of the Scottish Parliament, distinguishing him- self for his vehement opposition to the ar- bitrary measures undertaken by the English Government of Charles II. He fled to Holland, and failing to appear before the Privy Council, when summoned, his estates were confiscated. He took a prominent part in the Revolution of 1688, which placed William III. on the throne of Eng- land. His estates were restored to him ; but he soon became as ardent an opponent of William III. as he had been of Charles II. and James II. He opposed to the last the union between the kingdoms of Eng- land and of Scotland, and when the union was consummated, in 1707, he withdrew from public life. He wrote Discourse of Governm£7it (1698), two Discourses con- cerning the Affairs of Scotland (1698), Speeches (1703), The Right Regulation of Governments (1704.) These were published in a single volume in 1737; and in 1797 appeared an essay on his life and writings by the Earl of Buchan. Fletcher is the author of the fine saying, which has been erroneously attributed to the Earl of Chat- ham : " I knew a very wise man that be- lieved that if a man were permitted to make all the ballads, he need not care who should make the laws of a nation."
STATE OF SCOTLAND IN 1698.
There are at this day in Scotland — besides a great many poor famiUes very meanly provided
ANDREW FLETCHER.— 2
for by the church-boxes, with others, who, by living on bad food, fall into various diseases — two hundred thousand people begging from door to door. These are not only no way advantage- ous, but a very grievous burden to so poor a countrv. And though the number of them be perhaps double to what it was formerly, by rea- son of this present great distress, yet in all times there have been about one hundred thousand of those vagabonds, who liave lived without any regard or subjection either to the laws of the land, or even those of God and nature. No mag- istrate could ever be informed, or discover, which way one in a hundred of these wretches died, or that ever tliey were baptized. Many murders have been discovered among them ; and they are not only a most unspeakable oppression to poor tenants — who, if they give not bread, or some kind of provision, to perhaps forty such villains in one day are sure to be insulted by them — but they rob many poor people who live in houses distant from any neighborliood. In years of plenty many tliousands of them meet together in the mountains, where tliey feast and riot for many davs ; and at country-weddings, markets, burials, and the like public occasions, tliey are to be seen, V>oth men and women, perpetually drunk, cursing, blaspheming, and fighting together. These are such outrageous disorders, thai it were better for the nation they were sold to the galleys or West Indies, than that they sliould continue any longer to be a burden and curse upon us. — Disconrse on the Affairs of Scotland.
GILES FLETCHER.— 1
FLETCHER, Giles, an English clergy- man and poet, born in 1584; died in 1623. He was a brother of Phineas Fletcher, and son of the Rev. Giles Fletcher (1548-1610), an author of some repute. The younger Giles Fletclier was educated at Cambridge, and became Rector of Alderton, on the coast of Suffolk, where "his downish and low-parted parishioners valued not their pastor according to his worth, which dis- posed him to melancholy, and hastened his dissolution." A few months before his death he published The Reivard of the Faithful, a theological treatise in prose. While at Cambridge he wrote several minor verses and his great poem, Christ's Victory and Triumph, in Heaven, in Earth, Over and After Death (1610). From this poem Milton borrowed much in his Paradise Regained.
THK SORCERESS OF VAIN DELIGHT,
The garden like a lady fair was cut,
That lay as if she slumbered in delight, And to the open skies her eyes did shut;
The azure fields of Heaven were 'sembled
right In a large round, set with the ilowers of light: The flower-de-luce, and the round sparks of dew That hung upon their azure leaves, did shew Like twinkling stars, that sparkle in the evening blue
And all about, embayed in soft sleep,
A herd of charmed beasts aground were spread, Which the fair witch in golden chains did keep, And them in willing bondage fettered: Once men they lived, but now the men were dead, And turned to beasts ; so fabled Homer old. That Circ6 with her potion, charmed in gold, Used manly souls in beastly bodies to immould. 100
GILES FLETCHEti.— 2
Throiigli this false Eden, to his leman's bower— »
Whom thousand souls devoutly idolize — Our first destroyer led our Saviour ;
There in the lower room, in solemn wise, They danced a round, and poured their sacri- fice To plump Lyaeus, and among the restj The jolly priest, in ivy garlands drest. Chanted wild orgials, in honor of the feast, . . » . »
A silver wand the sorceress did sway<
And, for a crown of gold, her hair she wore ; Only a garland of rosebuds did play
About her locks, and in her hand she bore A hollow globe of glass, that long before She full of emptiness had bladdered. And all the world therein depictured : Whose colors, like the rainbow, ever vanished.
Such watery orbicles young boys do blow
Out from their soapy shells, and much ad- mire
The swimming world, which tenderly they row With easy breath till it be raised higher ; But if they chance but roughly once aspire,
The painted bubble instantly doth fall.
Here when she came she 'gan for music call,
And sung this wooing song to welcome him withal :
Love is tlie blossom where there blows Everything that lives or grows: Love doth make the heavens to move, And the sun doth burn in love; Love the strong and weak doth yoke, And inakes the ivy climl> the oak; Under whose shadows lions wild. Softened by love, grow tame and mild : Love no medicine can appease ; He burns the fishes in tlie seas; Not all the skill his wounds can stench, Not all the sea his fire can quencli ; Love did make the bloody spear Once a leafy coat to wear,
101
GILES FLETCHER.— 3
AVhile in Iiis leaves there slirouded lay Sweet birds, for love, that sing and play : And of all love's joyful flame I the bud and blossom am.
Only bend thy knee to me,
Thy wooing shall thy winning be
Thus sought the dire enchantress in his mind Her guileful bait to have embosomed :
But he her charms dispersed into wind, And her of insolence admonished. And all her optic glasses shattered.
So with her sire to hell she took her flight;
The starting air flew from the damned sprite;
Where deeply both aggrieved plunged themselves in night.
But to their Lord, now musing in his thought, A heavenly volley of light angels flew.
And from his Father him a banquet brought Through the fine element, for well they knew, After his Lenten fast, he hungry grew :
And as he fed, the holy choirs combine
To sing a liymn of the celestial Trine ;
All thought to pass, and each was past all thought divine.
The birds' sweet notes, to sonnet out tlieir joys, Attempered to the lays angelical;
And to the birds the winds attune their noise; And to the winds the waters hoarsely call, And echo back again revoiced all ;
That the whole valley rung with victory.
But now our Lord to rest doth homewards fly :
See how the night comes stealing from the moun- tains liigh.
ChrisCs Victory and Triumjjh.
FLETCHER, John. See Beaumont and Fletcher.
JOHN WILLIAM FLETCHER.— 1
FLETCHER, John "William [Flechieee, Jeass Guillaume], an English clergyman and author, born in Switzerland in 1729 ; died in England in 1785, He was educated at Geneva for the ministry, but finding him- self unable to subscribe to the doctrine of predestination, he entered the Portuguese military service, and was to sail for Brazil. Accident prevented his sailing, and he then entered the Dutch service. Peace put an end to his military life before it was fairly begun. He then went to England and be- came a tutor. In 1755 he became intimate with "Wesley, and in 1757 took orders in the Churcli of England. He declined a wealthy parish, and took that of Madeley, amongst a poor and neglected population, to whom he devoted himself. In 1769 he visited France, Switzerland, and Italy, and on his return was for a time at the head of the theological school at Trevecca, Wales. He made numerous missionary journeys with Wesley and Whitetield. Among his works are an Address to Seekers of Salvation, Checks to Ayitinomianism, Christian Per- fection^ and A Portrait of St. Paul, or the Sure Model for Christians and Pastors.
TRIVIAL SINS.
Every voluntary transgression argues a real contempt of tlic leijislator's authority ; and in such contempt there is found the seed of every sin that can possibly be committed, in ojiposition to liis express command. All the commands of God, whether they l»e great or small, have no other .sanction than that which consi.sts in his Divine authority, and this authority is trampled under foot by every pettv delin<)ucnt, as well as by every daring trans<rressor. Those which we usually esteem trivial sins are the more danger- ous on account of their bein<: less attended to.
JOHN WILLIAM FLETCHER.— 3
They are committed witliont fear, without re- morse, and generally without intermission. As there are more ships of war destroyed by worms than by the shot of the enemy, so the multitude of those wlio destroy themselves through ordi- nary sins exceeds tlie number of tliose who per- ish by enormous offences.
We have a thousand proofs that small sins will lead a man, by insensible degrees, to the commission of greater. Nothing is more com- mon among us than the custom of swearing and giving away to wrath without reason ; and these are usually regarded as offences of an inconsid- erable nature. But there is every reason to be- lieve that they who have contracted these vicious habits would be equally disposed to perjury and murder, were they assailed by a forcible tempta- tion, and unrestrained with the dread of forfeit- ing their honor or their life. If we judge of a commodity by observing a small sample, so, by little sins, as well as by trivial acts of virtue, we may form a judgment of the heart. Hence the widow's two mites appeared a considerable obla- tion in the eyes of Christ, who judged by them how rich an offering the same woman would have made had she been possessed of the means. For the same reason, those frequent exclamations, in which the name of God is taken in vain, those poignant railleries, and those frivolous lies, which are produced in common conversation, discover the true disposition of those persons, who, with- out insult or temptation, can violate the sacred laws of piety and love. The same seeds produce fruit more or less perfect, according to the steril- ity or luxuriance of the soil in which they are sown. Thus the very same principle of malice which leads a child to torment an insect, acts more forcibly on the heart of a slanderous wo- man, whose highest joy consists in mangling the reputation of a neighbor; nor is the cruel tyrant actuated by a different principle, who finds a barbarous pleasure in persecuting the righteous and shedding the blood of the innocent.
JOHN WILLIAM FLETCHER.— 3
If prejudice will not allow these observations to be just, reason declares the contrary. The very same action that, in certain cases, would be esteemed a failing, becomes, in some circum- stances, an enormous crime. For instance : if I despise an inferior, I commit a fault; if the offended party is my equal, my fault rises in magnitude ; if he is my superior, it is greater still ; if he is a respectable magistrate — a benefi- cent prince — if that prince is my sovereign lord, whose lenity I have experienced after repeated acts of rebellion ; who has heaped upon me many kindnesses; who means to bestow upon me still greater favors ; and if, after all, I have been led to deny and oppose him, my crime is undoubt- edly aggravated by all these circumstances to an extraordinary degree. But if this offended benefactor is Lord of lords, and King of kings, the Creator of man, the Monarch of angels, the Ancient of Days, before whom the majesty of all the monarchs upon earth disappears, as the lustre of a thousand stars is eclipsed by the presence of the sun — if this glorious Being has given his be- loved Son to suffer infamy and death, in order to procure for me eternal life and celestial glory, my crime must then be aggravated in proportion to my own meanness, the greatness of benefits received, and the dignity of my exalted Bene- factor. But our imagination is bewildered, when we attempt to scan the enormity which these accumulated circumstances add to those acts of rebellion, denominated sins. — Portrait of St. Paul.
MARIA JEWSBURY FLETCHER.— 1
FLETCIIER, Maria Jane (Jewsbury), an English |ioet, born in 1800; died in 1833. Slio was married in 1830 to the liev. Will- iam Fletcher, missionary to India, and died at Bombay very soon after her arrival. She wrote Three Histories, Letters to the You7ig, and Lays of Leisure Hours.
BIRTH-DAY BALLAD.
Thou art plucking spnng roses, Genie,
And a little red rose art thou ! Thou hast unfolded to-day, Genie,
Another hriglit leaf, I trow : But the roses will live and die, Genie,
Many and many a time Ere thou hast unfolded quite. Genie,
Grown into maiden prime.
Thou art looking now at the birds,Genie ;
But, oh ! do not wish their wing ! That would only tempt the fowler. Genie :
Stay thou on earth and sing ; Stay in the nursing nest. Genie,
Be not soon thence beguiled; Thou wilt ne'er find another, Genie,
Never be twice a child.
Thou art building up towers of pebbles. Genie ;
Pile them up brave and high, And leave them to follow a bee, Genie,
As he wandereth singing by : But if thy towers fall down, Genie,
And if the brown bee is lost. Never weep, for thou must learn, Genie,
How soon life's schemes are crossed.
What will thy future fate be. Genie,
Alas ! shall I live to see ? For thou art scarcely a sapling, Genie,
And I am a moss-grown tree : I am shedding life's blossoms fast, Genie,
Thou art in blossom sweet, But think of the grave betimes, Genie,
Where young and old oft meet.
PHINEAS FLETCHER.— 1
FLETCHER, Phixeas, an English clergy- man and poet, brother of Giles Fletcher, born in 1582 ; died about 1665. He was educated at Eaton and Cambridge, and be- came chaplain to 8ir Henry Willoughby, by whom he was presented to the rectorate of Hilgay, in Xorfolkshire. He brought out several works, in verse and prose. Among these are LocKstw, an invective against the Jesuits (1627), Joi/ in Tribulation, a theo- logical treatise (1632), Piscatory Eclogues^ etc. (1633), and A Father's Testament (pub- lished in 1670, some years after his death). His chief work is T/te Purple Island, an allegorical poem in twelve cantos, describ- ing the physical and mental constitution of the human l)eing: the bones being spoken of as mountains, the veins as rivers, und so on. Five cantos are occupied with the phe- nomena of the body, seven with those of the mind.
THE DECAY OF HUMAN GREATNESS.
Fond man, that looks on earth for happiness, And here long seeks what here is never found I For all our good \vc hoM from Heaven by lease,
With many forfeits and con<litions hound; Nor can we pay the tine, and rentage due: Though now hut writ, and sealed, and given
anew. Vet daily we it break, then daily must renew.
Why shouldst thou here look for perpetual good, At every h)ss 'gainst Heaven's faee repining? Do but behold where ghirioiis cities stood,
With gilded tops and silver turrets shining; There; now the hart, fearless of greyhound, feeds, And loving peliean in faney hree<ls ; There screeclung satyrs fill the people's empty stcdcs.
w
l^HlNEiVS t^LETCHER.— ^
Where is the Assyrian lion's golden hide,
That all the East once grasped in lordly paw ? Where that great Persian bear, whose swelling pride The lion's self tore out with ravenous jaw ! Or he which, 'twixt a lion and a pard. Through all the world with nimble pinions fared. And to his greedy whelps his conquered king- doms shared.
Hardly the place of such antiquity,
Or note of these great monarchies we find : Only a fading verbal memory,
And empty name in writ is left behind : But when this second life and glory fades. And sinks at length in time's obscurer shades, A second fall succeeds, and double death in- vades.
That monstrous beast, which, nursed in Tiber's fen. Did all the world with hideous shape affray ; That filled witli costly spoil his gaping den.
And trod down all the rest to dust and clay : His battering horns, pulled out by civil hands And iron teeth, lie scattered on the sands ; Backed, bridled by a monk, with seven heads yoked stands.
And that black vulture which with deathful wing O'ershadows half the earth, whose dismal sight Frightened the Muses from their native spring,
Already stoops, and flags with weary flight : Who then shall look for happiness beneath ? Where each new day proclaims chance, change,
and death. And life itself's as flit as is the air we breathe. The Purple Island.
TIMOTHY FLINT.— 1
FLINT, Tdiothy, an American clergy- man and author, born at North Eeading, Mas?., in ITSO ; died at Salem, in IS-iO. He graduated at Harvard in 1800 ; two years afterwards he entered the Congregational ministry, and preached at several places in New England until 1815, when he went to the West as a missionary. Enfeebled health compelled him to return to Massachusetts in 1825. In 1828 he removed to Cincin- nati, where for three years he edited the
Western Be view. He then came to New York, and was for a short time editor of the Knickerhocher Magazine. He subse- quently made his residence in Alexandria, Virginia, but usually passed the summer in New England. His principal works are : Recollections of Ten Years passed in the
Valley of the JL's.v'ssljypi (1826), Francis JBerrian, a novel (1826), Geography and History of the Western States (1828), Arthur Cle7ide7in i ng {182S), George Mason, or the Backivoodsinan (1830), Indian Wars in the West (1383). Memoirs of Daniel Boune (1834). In 1835 he contributed to the London Afhouimii a series of papers on American Literature.
THE SHORES OF THE OHIO IN 1815.
It was now tlie middle of November. The weather up to this time had been, with the ex- ception of a couple of days of fofj and rain, de- lightful. The sky has a milder and litrhtcr azure than that of tin; Nnithcrn States. The wide, clean sand-hars strotdiiiHi for miles tofjetlier, and now ami then a flock of wild preese, swans, or sanddiill cranes and p«'li(;ans, stalkint; along on them ; the infinite varieties of form of the tower- ing Muffs; the new trihes of shruhs and plants of the shores; the exuherant fertility of the soil, cvidenoinrj itself in the natural as well as culti- vated vegetation, in the height and size of the tot
TIMOTHY FLINT— :^
corn — of itself alone a matter of astonishment to an inhabitant of the Northern States — in the thrifty aspect of the youno- orchards, literally bendiiio; under their fruit; the surprising size and rankness of the weeds, and, in the enclosures where cultivation had been for a time suspended, the matted abundance of every kind of vegeta- tion that ensued — all these circumstances united to give a novelty and freshness to the scenery. The bottom-forests everywhere display the huge sycamore — the king of the Western forest — in all places an interesting tree, but particularly so here, and in autumn, when you see its wliite and long branches among its red and yellow fading leaves. You may add that in all the trees that have been stripped of their leaves, you see them crowned with verdant tufts of the viscus or mistle- toe, with its beautiful white berries, and their trunks entwined with grape-vines, some of them in size not much short of the human body.
To add to this union of. pleasant circumstances, there is a delightful temperature of the air, more easily felt than described. In New England, where the sky was partially covered with fleecy clouds, and the wind blew very gently from the southwest, I have sometimes had the same sensa- tions from the temperature there. A slight de- gree of languor ensues; and the irritability that is caused by the rougher and more bracing air of the North, and which is more favorable to physi- cal strength and activity than enjoyment, gives place to a tranquillity highly propitious to medi- tation. There is sometimes, too, in the gentle and almost iTuperceptible motion, as you sit on the deck of the boat and see the trees apparently moving by you, and new groups of scenery still opening upon your eyes, together with the view of those ancient and magnificent forests which the axe has not yet despoiled, the broad and beautiful river, the earth and the sky, which ren- der such a trip at this season the very element of poetry. — Recollections of the Valley of the Missis- sippi.
ti9
ADOLF LUDWIG FOLLEN.— 1
FOLLEX, Adolf Ludwig, a German poet, brother of Charles^ Follen, born at Darmstadt in 1794; died in 1855. He was educated at Giessen, aud subsequently be- came tutor in a noble family. In 1S14 he entered the army as a volunteer, and served in the eampaiD:n against Napoleon. He then became editor of a newspaper at Elber- feld. In 1819 he became implicated in revolutionary movements, and was impris- oned at Berlin until 1821, when he was lib- erated, and took up his residence in Switzer- land, where for several years he devoted himself to husbandry. He made excellent translations from Greek, Latin, and Italian, and wrote spirited German songs. A col- lection of his poems, Free Voices of Fresh Youth, appeared in 181'.>. In 1827 he put i'orth two volumes entitled B'ddersaal deut- scher Dichtung.
bllcher's ball.
[Battle of the Katzbaeh, Aug. 1813]
By the Katzbaeh, by tlie Katzbaeh, ha ! there
was a merry danee, Wild and weird and wliirlint; waltzes skipped ye
through, ye knaves of France ! For there struck the bass-viol an old German
master famed — Marshal Forward, Prince of Wallstadt, Gebhardt
Biucher, named. Up I the Bliichcr hath the ball-room lighted
with tlie cannon's glare I Spread yourselves, ye gay green carpets, that
the dancing moistens there I And his fiddle-bf>w at fir>t lie waxed with Gold- berg and with Jamr; Whew ! lie's drawn it now full length, his play
a stormv morning shower ! lla I the dance went briskly onward; tingling
madness seized them all, III
CHARLES FOLLEN.— 1
As when howling mighty tempests on the arms
of windmills fall. But the old man wants it cheery ; wants a pleas- ant dancinij; chime ; And with gun-stocks clearly, loudly, beats the old
Teutonic time. Say, who, standing by the old man, strikes so
hard the kettle-drum, And with crashing strength of arm, down lets
the thundering hammer come ? Gneisenau, the gallant champion : Allemania's
envious foes Smites the mighty pair, her living double-eagle,
shivering blows. And the old man scrapes the " Svveepout ;" hap- less Franks and hapless trulls ! Now what dancers leads the gray-beard ? Ila !
ha ! ha! 'tis dead men's skulls! But as ye too much were heated in the sultriness
of hell, Till ye sweated blood and brains, he made the
Katzbach cool ye well. From the Katzbach, while ye stiffen, hear the
ancient proverb say, " Wanton varlets, venal blockheads, must with
clubs be beat away."
Translation of C. C. Felton.
FOLLEN, Chaeles, brother of Adolf Follen, a German-American clergyman and author, born in Hesse Darmstadt, 1796; died in 1840. In 1813 he entered the University of Giessen, where, with other young men, he undertook to form a Burschenschaft which should embrace all students irrespec- tive of the particular German territory whence they came. Soon after taking his degree, in 1818, as Doctor of Civil Law, he became a lecturer in the University of Jena. His acquaintance with Sand, the assassinator of Kotzebne, led to his arrest. He was taken to Weimar and Mannheim, examined,
CHARLES FOLLEN.— 2
and acquitted ; but was forbidden to lecture at Jena ; and was at leiio'th forced to take refuge in Switzerland. In 1S21 he became Professor of Law at Basel, but his liberal sentiments drew upon him the disfavor of the Holy Alliance. An order for his arrest had been issued ; but he saved himself by flight to Paris, and thence to America. He first formed a class in Boston in civil law. In 1825 he was appointed Tutor of German at Harvard University ; in 1S28 Teaclier of Ecclesiastical History and Ethics in the Cambridge Divinity School, and in 1830 Professor of Cierman Literature at Harvard. He studied divinity, and in 1830 became pastor of the First Unitarian Church in New York. In addition to his pastoral work, he wrote various articles for the Christian Examiner and other papers, and lectured on literature. In 1839 he was called to the Unitarian Church at East Lex- ington, Mass., and on the 13th of January, 1840, set out to attend the dedication of the church there. The steamer Lexington, on which he had taken passage, was burned, and he was among those who perished. His works include tSe/-//io/is-, Lectures- on Moral I*hilof<(>2>liij, Sc/ii/lers LJfe and Draituis, and several essays on Psi/chology, The Slate of Man, and other subjects.
TIIK I'KOVINCE OK TIIK I'S VCMIOI.OCIST.
It is the prf)virire of the psyolio|o(;ist to notice the tnanifold iin[)r('ssioni*, rccollfctions, and forc- bodirifjs ; the divers pen'eplions, retlcclioiis and iinagininfjR; tlie over-vary ini; inclinatittns, tempt- ations and stnifjfjles of tlie sr)iil ; in sliort, all that is stirring, striving, and going on within us; and to trace all to its elements, its original con- stitution, and intended liarmonions progres- sion. It is the province of the psychologist to
lU
CHARLES FOLLEN.— 3
show how impressions c;ill forth thoughts, and ex- cite rival desires ; and how tlicse inward struggles end in the enslavement or enfranchisement of the soul. It is the high calling of the observer of the mind to watch its progress, from the dawn of intelligence, the unfolding of the affections, and the first experiments of the will, through all the mistakes, the selfish desires, and occasional deflections from duty, onward to the lofty dis- coveries, the generous devotion, and moral con- quests of the soul. Psychology leads us to the hidden sources of every action, every science and art, by making us acquainted with the mo- tives which prompt, and the faculties which en- able human beings to conceive of and carry into effect any practical and scientific or literary un- dertaking. The calculation of the orbit of a comet is an achievement vvhich, to him who has not advanced much beyond the multiplication- table, would appear impossible if he were not obliged to admit it as a fact. Yet an accurate knowledge of the power by which the orbits of the celestial bodies are revealed to man, would convince him, that the same capacity which en- ables him to cast his private accounts, is fitted to ascertain the courses of the stars. A poetic com- position like Hamlet or the Midsummer NiffhCs Dream is something so wholly beyond the ordi- nary attainments of men that the author must appear more than human, if an intimate acquaint- ance with the soul did not convince us, that the power which enables us to understand and enjoy a single line of those compositions, is the same that formed a Shakespeare. And thus the reso- lution of a child rather to expose himself to pun- ishment than to tell a falsehood, may be shown, by a strict psychological analysis, to be essen- tially the same that enables the martyr to endure the cross rather than deny his faith. — Psychology.
ELIZA LEE FOLLEN.— 1
FOLLEN, Eliza Lee (Cabot), an Americaa author, born in 1787 ; died in 1860. In 1828 she married Charles Follen. After his death in 1840, she established a school. She was the author of The Well- spent Hour and Selections from Fenelon (1828), Ttie Skeptic (1835), Married Ufe, and Little Somjs and Poems (1839), Twi- light Stories, and a second series of Little Songs (1859), The Life of Charles Follen, and several other works.
CHARACTERISTICS OF CHARLES FOLLEN.
From bis earliest youth, when but a boy of twehe years of age, he bad dwelt upon the idea of a state of suciety, in which every man, through his own free effort, should make bimself a true image of Jesus ; and bad tbougbt that thus the foundation would be laid for a reforma- tion wbicb should have no Hmit. All tyranny he considered sin. Every one, be tbougbt, was bound to resist it, but first within bis own breast; for it was his creed that no man is a free man who is tbe slave of any passion ; no man is free who fears death ; none but the believer in im- mortality can be truly free After having
6ubdue<l tbe enemy witbin, be tbougbt every one bound to resist, as far as be was able, all unjust dominion wherever be encountered it, beginning in tbe circle in wbicb be bajtpened to be placed, and extending bis efforts as bis powers and op- portunities enlarged. lie believed ' that mueb miglit be done for Germany by a reformation founded on tbese principles, and c<Mnmericed in tbe Universities by its bopeful youtb. lie tbougbt every man, wbo should act from tliese convictions, would find himself j)ossessed of an incalculable power, and might of bimself pro- duce an immeasurable efrect. He early began his practical illustration of bis theory by a life of purity and devotion to duly. lie became a freeman according to his own idea of a freeman, It*
ELIZA LEE FOLLEN.— 2
and thus consecrated himself to the work of a reformer by a perfect subjection of himself to the law of justice ami universal brotherhood, as taught by Jesus
He was exemplary in his devotion to study ; he was pure and upright in all actions ; so care- ful of the rights of others, and so free from all blemish himself, that even the malicious and the envious could not fiud aught against him. lie exercised a power that was felt by all. lie had perfected himself in all manly exercises. He was a skilful gymnast ; he was master of the broad- sword, and a powerful swimmer
He took an active part with other members of the Burschenschaft in the formation and estab- lishment of a court of honor among themselves, that should be empowered to settle all differences among them according to the rules of morality and justice. This was called the Ehrensjnegel^ or "Mirror of Honor." Their decisions were to be binding upon the students; and thus they hoped to check, not only the bad practice of duelling, but many other evils from which they suffered. This great idea of a Christian Brother- hood, to be first formed in the Universities, and afterward to be spread over all Germany, fired the hopeful and aspiring soul of Charles Follen. He met with violent opposition. He and those who were of his opinion, and cherished the same pur- poses, were nicknamed and insulted by the Landsmannschaften. They were called " Old Blacks," from the color of their academic coats. Great stories were told of their revolutionary purposes, and at last they were accused, to the Rector, of treasonable acts. The Rector was, in consequence, called upon by his office to make an investigation into the charge against some of the students, particularly the adherents of the Uhrenspier/el. As soon as the accused ascer- tained that this was the case, they made a state- ment of facts, put all the records of their meet- ings into the hands of the Rector, and challenged an investigation of all their purposes and actions,
ELIZA LEE FOLLEN.— 3
The trial and examination proved them innocent of any violation of the laws of the land or of the University. — Life of Charles Follen.
EVENING.
The sun is set, the day is o'er, And labor's voice is heard no more ; On high the silver moon is hung; The bu-ds their vesper hymns have sung, Save one, who oft breaks forth anew, To chant another sweet adieu To all the glories of the day, And all its pleasures passed away.
Her twilight robe all nature wears. And evening sheds her fragrant tears, Which every thirsty plant receives. While silence trembles on its leaves ; From every tree and every bush There seems to breathe a soothing hush, While every transient sound but shows How deep and still is the repose.
Thus calm and fair may all things be. When life's last sun has set with me ; And may the lamp of memory shine As sweetly o'er my day's decline As yon pale crescent, pure and fair. That hangs so safely in the air, And pours her mild, reflected light To sooth and bless the weary sight.
And mav mv spirit often wake Like thine, sweet bird, and singing, take Another farewell of the sun — Of pleasures past, of labors done. See, where the glorious sun has set, A line of light is hanging yet; Oh, thus may love awhile illume The silent darkness of my tomb ! in
ALBANY FONBLANQUE.— 1
FONBLANQUE, Albany William, an English journalist and publicist, born in 1707 ; died in 1872. He was the son of an eminent lawyer, and studied for the bar ; but he became a political writer upon the London Mornivg Chronicle. In 1820 he succeeded Leigh Hunt as editor of the Ex- amine)'^ which he conducted until 184:6. In 1852 he was made Director of the Statisti- cal Department in the Board of Trade. In 1837 he put forth, under the title England Under Seven Admin ii<trations^ a collection, in three volumes, of some of his papers in the Examiner. His nephew, E. B. de Fon- blanque, published in 1874 the Life and Labors of his uncle.
In 1828 the Duke of Wellington became Prime Minister. The English newspapers were full of the most minute details of his every-day habits and occupations. To ridi- cule these accounts, and incidentally the Duke himself, Fonblanque wrote this bur- lesque :
DAILY HABITS OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.
The Duke of Wellington generally rises at about eight. Before he gets out of bed, he com- monly pulls oflE his nightcap, and while he is dressing he sometimes whistles a tune, and occa- sionally damns his valet. The Duke of Welling- ton uses warm water in shaving, and lays on a greater quantity of lather than ordinary men. While shaving he chiefly breathes tli rough his nose, with a view, as is conceived, of keeping the suds out of his mouth ; and sometimes he blows out one cheek, sometimes the other, to present a better surface to the razor. When he is dressed he goes down to breakfast, and wliile descending the stairs he commonly takes occa- sion to blow his nose, which he does rather rap- idly, following it up with three hasty wipes of his handkerchief, which he instantly afterwards
ABLANY FOXBLAXQUE.— 3
deposits in his rijxht-liand coat pocket. The Duke of Wellingtoirs pockets are in the skirts of his coats, and the holes perpendicular. He wears false horizontal flaps, which have given the world an erroneous opinion of their position.
The Duke of Wellington drinks tea for break- fast, which he sweetens with white sugar and corrects with cream. He commonly stirs the fluid two or three times with a spoon before he raises it to his lips. The Duke of Wellington eats toast and butter, cold ham, tongue, fowls, beef, or eggs ; and sometimes both meat and eggs ; the eggs are generally those of the com- mon domestic fowl. During breakfast the Duke of Wellington has a newspaper either in his hand, or else on the table, or in his lap. The Duke of Wellington's favorite paper is the Ex- aminer. After breakfast the Duke of Welling- ton stretches himself out and yawns. He then pokes the fire and whistles. If there is no fire, he goes to the window and looks out.
At about ten o'clock the General Post letters arrive. The Duke of Wellington seldom or never inspects the superscription, but at once breaks the seal, and a|)plios himself to the con- tents. The Duke of Wellington appears some- times displeased with his correspondents, and s,n\?, pshaw, in a clear, loud voice. About this time the l)uke of Wellington retires for a few minutes, during which it is impossible to account for his motions with the desiraltle [)reeision.
At eleven o'clock, if the weather is fine, the Duke's liorse is brought to the door. The Duke's horse on these occasions is always saddled and bridled. The Duke's horse is ordinarily the same white horse lie rode at Waterloo, and whicli was eaten by the hounds at Strathfieldsaye. His hair is of a chestnut color. Before the Duke goes out, lie has his hat and gloves brought him by a servant. The Duke's daily manner of mountlni; his horse is the same that it was on the morning of the glorious battle of Waterloo. His Grjicc takes the rein in his left haiul, which 111
ALBANY FONBLANQUE.— 3
lie lays on tlic horse's iiiaiio ; he then puts his left foot in the stiiriip, ami with a sprinc; brings his body up, and his right leg over the body of the animal by the way of the tail, and thus places himself in the saddle. He then drops his right foot into the stirrup, puts liis liorse to a walk, and seldom falls off, being an admirable equestrian.
When acquaintances and friends salute the Duke in the streets, such is his affability that he either bows, touches his hat, or recognizes their civility in some way or other. The Duke of Wellington very commonly says, " How are you ?" " It's a fine day ! " " How do you do ?" and makes frequent and various remarks on the weather, and the dust or the mud, as it may be.
At twelve o'clock on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, the Duke's Master comes to teach him his Political Economy. The Duke makes wonderful progress in liis studies, and his in- structor is used pleasantly to observe that " The Duke gets on like a house on fire."
At the Treasury the Duke of Wellington does nothing but think. He sits on a leathern library chair, with his heels and a good part of his legs on the table. When thus in profound thought he very frequently closes his eyes for hours to- gether, and makes an extraordinary and rather appalling noise through his nose. Such is the Duke of Wellington's devotion to business, that he eats no luncheon.
In the House of Lords the Duke's manner of proceeding is this : He walks up to the fire- place, turns liis back to it, separates the skirts of liis coat, tossing them over the dexter and sinis- ter arms, thrusts his hands in his breeches pockets, and so stands at ease. The character- istic of the Duke's oratory is a brevity the next tiling to silence. As brevity is the soul of wit, it may confidently be aflarmed that in this quality Lord North and Sheridan were fools compared with him. — Under Seven Administrations.
ISO
ALBANY FONBLANQUD.— 4
LEGAL FICTIONS.
The forms of our law are of so happy a nature, that when they are employed on the gravest crimes, they cause a feeling of the ludicrous to spring up in the minds of the reader. The daily papers have given an abstract of the indictment against Corder, tlie murderer of Maria Marten, which abstract occupies about three fourths of a column of small print ; and we ask whether any mortal can glance his eye over tliis article with- out having his sentiment of horror at the crime disturbed by a sense of the ludicrous absurdity of the jargon in which it is set forth :
" First Count. — The jurors of our Lord the King, upon their oath, present that William Cor- der, late of the parish of Polstead, etc., Suffolk yeoman, on the 18th of May, etc., with force and arms, etc., in and upon one Maria Marten, in the fear of God, etc., then and there being, feloniously, wilfully, and of his malice aforethought, did make an assault, and that the said William Cor- der, a certain pistol of 2s. value, then and there charged with gunpowder and one leaden bullet (which pistol he the said William Corder, in his right hand, then and there liad and held) then and there feloniously, wilfully, and of liis malice afore- thought, did discharge and shoot off at, against, and upon the said Maria Marten ; and the said William Corder, with the leaden bullet aforesaid, out of the pistol aforesaid, by the said William Corder discharged and shot off, then and there feloniously, wilfully, etc., did strike, penetrate, and wound the said Maria Marten in and upon the left side of the face of her the said Maria Marten, etc., giving her the said Maria Marten one mortal wotmd of the depth of four inches, and of the breadth of half an inch, of which said mortal wound she the said Maria Marten then and there instantlv died; and so the jurors aforesaid, upon their oaths, etc., do say, that the said William Corder, her the said Maria Marten, did kill and murder."
ALBANY FONBLANQUE.— 5
As it would be impossible to proceed in the investigation of truth without the wholesome aid of a contradictory averment or a palpable lie, in the next count it is stated that William Corder killed Maria Marten with a sword of tlie value of one shilling. It may be asked of what im- portance is the value of the instrument. The answer is, that it serves to hang a falsehood on — which seems to be always good in the forms of the law ; the instrument being valued at a worth obviously stated at random and false. The naked state of the accusation of Corder is this : —
1. He killed one Maria Marten with a wound from a pistol bullet on the left side of the face. Of this wound she instantly died. — 2. He killed one Maria Marten with the blow of a one-shilling sword on the left side of the body, of which wound she instantly died. — 3. He killed one Maria Marten with the blow of a sword on the right side of the face. — 4. He killed one Maria Marten by a blow on the right side of the neck. — 5. He killed one Maria Marten by strangling her with a handkerchief.— 6. He killed one Maria Marten by shooting her with a charge of shot from a gun. — 7. He killed one Maria Mar- ten by throwing her into a hole and heaping upon her five bushels of earth of no value, and five bushels of clay of no value, and five bushels of gravel of no value, of all which load of fifteen bushels of no value she instantly died. — 8. He killed one Maria Marten by heaping fifteen bushels of clay, gravel, and earth, in equal quantities and equal worthlessness, upon her in a hole of a particular size. — 9. He killed one Maria Marten by stabbing her with a sharp in- strument, and also strangling her. — 10. He killed one Maria Marten by shooting her with a pistol loaded with shot, by stabbing her with a sharp instrument, also a one-shilling sword, by stran- gling her with a handkerchief, and throwing her into a hole, and heaping earth, gravel, and clay on her.
ALBANY FONBLANQUE— 6
Now it is loathematically certain, that if Cor- der killed only one Maria Marten, and not ten different Maria Martens, destroyed by different means, as set forth in the indictment, nine dis- tinct lies have been averred respecting the cir- cumstances. And it follows that no less than nine great lies, with their accompaniments, are absolutely necessary to the discovery of one truth, and the ends of justice.
If it had been simply set forth that Corder had killed Maria Marten, the minds of the jury would surely have been utterly at fault, and unequal to discover by the examination of the evidence whether he had indeed murdered the deceased, and by what means. How admirably promotive of the elucidation of the truth, and the detection of guilt, is that exact averment of the five bushels of clay, the five bushels of earth, and the five bushels of gravel I And what curious and pro- found effect there is in the statement that the earth, gravel, and clay were of " no value !" How directly all these points bear on the point at issue ! And while so much nicety is observed, how much latitude is allowed ! For example : exact in statement as these combined fifteen bushels sound, the clerk of the indictment might have made Corder either destroy Maria Marten in Pol- stead barn, with as much soil as would make a new world ; or he might have made him smother her by Hinging on her half a peck of mould.
Provided only a lie be told, English justice is satisfied. The effect of the lie is indifferent; all that is wanted is the customary and comforting example of falsehood. Whether you use a moun- tain ov a molehill in an indictment for murder is indifferent, provided you give it the necessary character of a lie. For example: to have said that Corder killed Maria Marten by heaping earth upon her, might have been true; but the exactness of stating that he killed lier with five bushels of earth, five of clay, and five of gravel, produces the desirable certainty of falsehood.
If falsehood wore supposed to be an exhaust- ible body, nothing could be conceived uioro m
ALBANY FONBLANQUE.— 7
politic than the system of English law, which would in this case expend so many lies on its own forms and proceedings, as to leave none for the use of rogues in evidence. But unfortunately such is not the moral philosophy, and the witness who goes into one of our courts, the vital atmo- sphere of which is charged with fiction, is too likely to have his inward and latent mendacity provoked by the example, lie sees in the re- puted sacred forms of justice, that the falsehood which is accounted convenient is not esteemed shameful ; and why, he considers, may not the individual man have his politic fictions as well as that abstraction of all possible human excellence, Justice. The end sanctions the means. We cannot touch pitch without defilement; and it is impossible that a people can be familiarized with falsehood, and reconciled to it on pretense of its utility, without detriment to their morals. — Under Seven Administnttions.
THE IRISH church: 1835.
The last attention to a feasted Esquimau who can swallow no more, is to lay him on his back, and to coil a long strip of blubber into his mouth till it is quite filled ; and then to cut off the superfluous fat close to his lips. With this full measure the Esquimau is content; for he is not an Ecclesiastical Body, and his friends do not cry out that he is starved because the surplus blubber is cut off, and ap[)ropriated to some empty stomach. The case of the Esquimau is the case of the Irish Church. It lies supine, full of fat things, and there is a superfluity which the Ministry is for cutting off smooth to the lips ; but its champions raise a cry of spoliation and famine.
The question at present [1835] in debate is simply whether Lazarus shall have the crumbs which fall from the table of established Dives. It is merely a question of the shaking of the table-cloth. No one proposes to give away a dish or a seat, but only just to allow morality the benefit of the broken bread. Dives pronounces
1»4
ALBANY FOXBLAN'QUE.— 8
this flat robbery ; says that he has a loan for every morsel ; and that if a crumb of his abund- ance be abridged, he shall be brought to beg- gary. And here we may observe, by-the-by, that future etymologists, noting how our Digni- taries of the Church cling to riches, and delight in purple and fine linen, may easily fall into the blunder of supposing that Divines derived their name from Dives, and were the elect representa- tives of the pomps and vanities of riches.
The sinecure cliaracter of the Irish Establish- ment, and its gilding, have a kind of consistency, looking upon it as a sign — a sign of ascendancy. As we pass along the streets we see signs of Golden Boots and Golden Canisters, and such like, and they are always of a huge size, and serving no purpose of boot or canister, or what- ever they represent ; and so it is with a Golden Priesthood. It stands out as a sign, but fulfils no purpose of the thing it represents. The Irish, who only see in it the sign of their yoke, have to pay extravagantly for the gilding ; and this is the hardship.
"What is proposed for the abatement of this huge abuse ? What is resisted as robbery, sacri- lege, and so forth ? A measure carrying the principle of justice feather-weight, and no more. The Virginius of Sheridan Knowles hears "a voice so fine, that nothing lives 'twixt it and silence." This is a reform so fine, that nothing lives 'twixt it and abuse. Yet, fine as it is, small as it is, it is consecrated by the spirit of justice, and is as acceptable to the long-oppressed people of Ireland as drops of water are to the parched wretch in the desert. The fault of the pending Bill is on the side of incfticiency ; it deals too tenderly with the abuse. But its moderation has certainly served the more strongly to expose the obstinate injustice of its opponents. It lias been made manifest that men who oppose a gentle palliative like this, are wilfully resolved to resist any measure having in it one particle of the substanrc or spirit of Ileform. — Under Seven Administrations.
FONTENELLE.— 1
FONTENELLE, Beknakd le Bovier de, a French author, born in 1057 ; died in 1757. His father was an advocate of Kouen, his mother a sister of Pierre and Thomas Cor- neille. He was educated at tlie College of the Jesuits at Ilouen, and studied law, which he abandoned on losing his first case. He then devoted himself to poetry. His tragedy, Asper (1080), was a failure, the more mortifying because it had been highly praised by Thomas Corneille. Of his other dramatic works : Psyche, Bellerojphon, Eii- dymlon, Thetis and Peleus, Lavinia, Bru- tus, Idalle, not one have kept the stage. His lirst literary success was the Dialogues des Morts, published in 1683. The En- tretiens sur la Pluralite des Moiides (1686), written for the purpose of setting forth at- tractively Decai'tes's theory of vortices, en- hanced his reputation. In 1687 Fontenelle removed to Paris, and published P Jlistoire des Oracles^ a translation and abridgment of the Latin of the Hollander, Dale. This work which takes the ground that oracles were not inspired by demons, and that they did not cease at the birth of Christ, was attacked by the Jesuit Battus, who main- tained the contrary. Fontenelle left his critic in possession of the field. " All quarrels displease me," he wrote to his friend Leclerc. " I would rather the devil had been the prophet, since the Jesuit father will have it so, and since he thinks that more ortho- dox." The controversy in regard to the respective merits of ancient and modern writers was then raging, and Fontenelle took the modern side in a Digression sur les Anciens et les Modem'^s (1688.) In the same year appeared his Poesies Pastorales, ftnd shortly afterward his Doutes sur le
FONTENELLE.— 2
Systeme Physique des Causes Occasion^ nelles, in opposition to Malebranclie. Racine and Boileau. who had always disliked Fon- tenelle, had four times succeeded in securing his rejection from the French Academy. In 1G91 he was admitted, notwithstanding their eiforts against hnn. He afterwards became a member of the Academy of In- scriptions and the Academy of Sciences, In 1699 he was nominated Perpetual Secretary of the latter body, and held the office for forty-two years. His lllstoire de VAca- daiiie de8 Sciences (1696-1699), and his hhjges des Acadcmiciens (1708-1719), are distin":uished for the beanty of their style. The KIngrs contain his best work. He was famous for the cliarm of his conversation as well as of his writings. He has been accused of heartlessuess. It is said that he neither laughed nor wept. His two mottoes, "Everything is possible," and "Everybody is right," may at once account for his nu- merous friends, and for the lack of true feel- ing in his poems. His last words when dying were, "I do nut suffer, my friends; but I feel a sort of ditRculty in living."
COXCERNIXO THE WOULD IN THE MOON.
The Marchioness was so intent upon lier no- tions, tliat she would faui liavo cnt^aged me next dav to proceed where I left off ; bul I told lier, since the moon and stars were become tlie sub- ject of our discourse, we should trust our chimeras with nobody else. At night, therefore, we went ajjain into tlie park, wliicli was now wholly dedicated to our learned conversation,
" Well, Madame," said I, " I have fjreat news for you ; that wliirh I told you last niylit, of the moon hein^ iidiabitcd, may l)c otherwise now; tli'ic is a new faney t;ot into my head, wiiich puts those [)e<>ple in great danger."
FONTENELLE.— 3
"I cannot," said licr ladyship, "suffer such whims to take place. Yesterday you were pre- paring me to receive a visit from the Lunarians, and now you would insinuate there are no such folks. You must not tritle with me thus: once you would have me believe the moon was inhab- ited ; I surmounted that dithculty, and do now believe it."
"You are a little too nimble," replied I; " did not I advise you never to be entirely convinced of thing's of this nature, but to reserve lialf of your understanding free and disengaged, that you might admit of a contrary opinion, if there should be occasion ?"
" I care not for your suppositions," said she, " let us come to inatters of fact. Are we not to consider the moon as St. Denis?"
" No," said I, " the moon does not so much resemble the earth as St. Denis does Paris: the sun draws vapors from the earth, and exhalations from the water, which, mounting to a certain height in the air, do there assemble and form the clouds; these uncertain clouds are driven irregu- larly^ round the globe, sometimes shadowing one country and sometimes another ; he, then, who beholds the earth from afar off, will see frequent alterations upon its surface, because a great country, overcast with clouds, will appear dark or light, as the clouds stay, or pass over it; he will see the spots on the earth often change their place, and appear or disappear as the clouds remove, but we see none of these changes wrought upon the moon, which would certainly be the case, -w-ere there but clouds about her; yet, on the contrary, all her spots are fixed and certain, and her light parts continue where they were at first, which indeed is a great misfortune ; for bv this reason the sun draws no exhalations or vapors above the moon ; so that it appears she is a body infinitely more hard and solid than the earth, whose subtle parts are easily separated from the rest, and mount upward as soon as lieat puts them in motion ; but it must be a heap of rock
F0NTENELLE.-4
and marble, where there is no evaporation ; be- sides, exhalations are so natural and necessary where there is water, that there can be no water at all where there is no exhalation. And what sort of inhabitants must those be whose coun- try affords no water, is aU rook, and produces nothing ? "
*' This is very fine," said the Marchioness ; «' vou have forgot, since you assured me we might from hence distinguish seas in the moon. Pray, what is become of your Caspian Sea and your Black Lake ? "
" All conjecture, Madame," replied I, "though for vour ladyship's sake, I am very sorry for it; for those dark places we took to be seas may perhaps be nothing but large cavities ; it is hard to guess right at so great a distance."
"But will this suffice, then," said she, " to ex- tirpate the people in the moon?"
" Not altogether," replied I; " we will neither determine for nor against them."
" I must own my weakness, if it be one," said she. " I cannot be so perfectly undetermined as you would have me to be, but must believe one way or another ; therefore, pray fix me quickly in my opinion as to the inhabitants of the moon : preserve or annihilate them, as you please; and yet methinks 1 have a strange inclination for iheni, and would not have them destroyed, if it were possible to save them."
" You know," said I, " Madame, I can deny you nothing; the moon shall be no longer a desert; to do you a service we will repeople her. Since to all appearance the spots on the moon do not change, I cannot conceive there arc any clouds about her that sometinies ol)Scurc one part, and sometimes another; yet this does not hinder but that the moon sends forth exhalations and vapors. It may so happen that the vapors which i.ssue from the moon may not assemble round her in clDuds, and may imt fall back again in rain but only in dews. It is sutticient for this that the m
FONTENELLE.— 5
air will) wliich the iiiooii is surrouiHlcd — for it is certain she is so as well as tho earth — should somewhat vary from mir air, and the va[)(>rs of the moon he a little diH\'reiit from those of tlie earth, which is very probable. Hereupon the matter being otherwise disposed in the moon than on the earth, the etfeets must be different; though it is of nogreat consequence whether they are or no; for from the moment we have found an inward motion in the parts of the rnoon, or one produced by foreign causes, here is enough for the new birth of its inhabitants, and a suf- ficient and necessary fund for their subsistence. This will furnish us with corn, fruit, water, and what else we {)lease ; I mean according to the custom or maimer of the moon, which 1 do not pretend to know ; and all pro[)ortional to the wants and uses of the inhabitants, with whom I own I am as little acquainted."
" That is to say," replied the Marchioness, "3'ou know all is very well, without knowing how it is so ; wliich is a great deal of ignorance, founded upon a veiy little knowledge. However, I comfort myself that you have restored to the moon her inhabitants again, and have enveloped her in an air of her own, without which a planet would seem to me very naked."
" It is these two different airs, Madame, that hinder the communication of the two planets; if it was only flying, as I told you yesterday, who knows but we might improve it to perfection, though I confess there is but little hope of it ; the great distance between the moon and the earth is a difiiiMilty not easy to be surmounted; yet were the distance but inconsiderable, and the two planets almost contiguous, it would still be im- possible to pass from the air of tlie one into the air of the other. The water is the air of fislits. They never pass into the air of the birds, nor the birds into the air of the fishes; and yet it is not the distance that liinders them, but both are im- prisoned by the air they breathe in. We find
130
F0NTENELLE.-6
our air consists of thicker and gTosser vapors than the air of the moon ; so that one of her inhabitants arriving at the confines of our world, as soon as he enters our air, will inevitably drown himself, and we shall see him fall dead on the earth."
" I should rejoice," said the Marchioness, " to see the wreck of a good number of these lunar people; how pleasant would it be to behold them lie scattered on the ground, where we might con- sider at our ease their extraordinary and curious figures I"
"But," replied T, " suppose they could swim on the surface of our air, and be as curious to see us, as you are to see them ; should they angle or cast a net for us, as for so many fisli, would that please you?"
'•Why not? "said she, smiling; "for my part, 1 v.ould go into their nets of my own accord were it but for the pleasure of seeing such strange fishermen."
" Consider, Madame, you would be very sick when you were drawn to the top of our air, for there is no respiration in its whole extent, as may be seen on the tops of some very liigh moun- tains. Here, tlien, are natural barricades, which defend the passage out of our world, as well as the entry into that of the moon ; so that, since we can only guess at that world, let us fancy all we can of it." — Convermtions on the Plurality of Worlds.
131
WILFRID De FONVIELLE.— 1
FONVIKLLE, Wilfrid de. a French Jiuthor boi-ii in \*m-\s in 1828. He was iirst a teacher of inatheniatics, then a journalist, and a writer on scientific. subjects. Among his works are: L Homme Fossil (18G5), Z(?s Merveilles du Monde Invisible (186G), Eclairs et Tonnerres^ translated into English under the title of Thunder and Ligldning (18G7), JJ Asti'onomie Moderne (1868), and Comment se font des Miracles en dehors VEglise in which he reviews, from the common-sense point of view the pretensions of the spiritualistic mediums, (1879.) He made several balloon ascents, and when Paris was besieged, escaped from the city in a balloon and w^ent to London, where he set forth the benehts which has been con- ferred upon the government by balloons. An account of his ascents, published in 1870, has been translated into English under the title of Travels in the Air.
TERRESTRIAL WATERSPOUTS.
When a cloud is thick enough, tenacious enough, and, perliaps, when the air is sufiiciently charged with moisture, the electric matter draws it towards the earth. It is no longer then a simple fulminating globe wliich precipitates itself with impetuosity towards us ; it is a threatening col- umn which descends from the skies. Sometimes this column progresses so slowly that a man can follow it on foot. But one must possess, it will be readily admitted, almost superhuman courage not to fly at once in an opposite direction. For these meteors sometimes break their connection with the earth, and the most frightful and incred- ible effects are the result. For instance, M. de Gasparin tells us that the waterspout of Cour- tizou overturned one of the walls of Orange. The extremity of this column of vapor having commenced whirling around like a sling hanging from the clouds, caused a breach in the mass of
131
WlLFtllt) De F0NVIELLE.-2
masonry, the opening of which was thirty-nine feet Ions:, sixteen feet high, and four feet widci This species of bastard liglitning tore up in an instant a mass of matter weighing at least 200 tons
It appears difficult to conceive a storm more favorable for observing the formation of these meteors than the frightful waterspout of Malau- nay. Effectively, in the early part of the day, two storm-clouds approached, driven violently one towards the other by contrary currents» These two masses being charged with the same kind of electricity, doubtless positive electricity, could not amalgamate into one cloud, nor could they discharge each other by giving birth to a brilliant flash of lightning. The higher storm- cloud, which appeared the stronger of the two, mnnaged, though not without difficulty, to push down the lower cloud. Who knows but that this happened by the intervention of the earth which, being powerfully electro-negative, attracted the vapor charged with positive electricity? As soon as the horn, pulled from the vanquished cloud, liad approached to within a few yards of the earth, its fire was seen to flow from it like a stream which had just found an issue, for the point of the horn was perfectly incandescent. The tail of a waterspout is almost always seen to be luminous when it approaches the ground with- out coming in contact with it; so powerful is the effect of the fluid which passes from the summit of the cone.
Sometimes the electric tube rises from the earth ; in this case it is not watery vapor which forms the threatening horn, but whirlwinds of dust which rise towards the clouds with a frightful gyratory motion. — Thunder and Lightniiii/. iw
MARY IIALLOCK FOOTE.— 1
FOOTE, Mary (Hallock), an American artist and novelist, born in New York in 1S4T. She studied art at the School of Desii^n fur Women in New York, and be- came an illustrator for several magazines. She soon began to write short stories, illustrating them with her own drawings. Among them are Friend Barton s Concern and A Stonj of a Dry Season. In 1882 she ]>ublished 77ie Led-Horm Claim, and in 1SS5 JoJtn Bodewin^s Testimony, novels of mining life.
COMING INTO CAMP.
Mr. Ncwbold and liis daughter rode back to the camp in the splendor of a sunset that loomed red behind the skeleton pines. Josephine let her horse take his own way down the wagon-track, while she Avatched its dying elianges. But she hist the last tints in her preoccupation with the dust and the sti'ange meetings and partings on the broad and level road by which they ap- proached the town. That quickening of the pulse which makes itself felt in every human commu- nity as day draws to a close had intensified the life of the camp. The sound of its voices and footsteps, the smoke of its fires, rose in the still, cool air.
Cradled between two ranges of the mother mountains of the continent, the little colony could hardly have been more inland in its situa- tion ; it had, nevertheless, in many respects the characteristics of a seaport. It owed its existence to hazardous ventures from a distance. Its shops were filled, not with the fruits of its soil or the labor of its liands, but with cargoes thiit had lieen rocked in the four-wheeled merchantmen of the plains. Bronzed-faced, hairy -throated men occupied more than their share of its sidewalks, spending carelessly in a few days and nights the price of months of hardship and isolation. Its hopes and its capital were largely bound up in the fate of adventurers into that unpeopled land
134
MARY H ALLEGE FOOTE— 2
which has no history except the records written in fire, in ice, and in water, on its rocks and river- beds ; the voyao-e across that inland sea where the smoke of lonely camp-fires goes up from wagon-roads that were once hunter-trails, and trails that were once the tracks of buffalo. There were men seen at intervals of many months in its streets, whom the desert and the mountains called, as the sea calls the men of the coast towns. It was a port of the wilderness.
The arrivals due tliat Saturday night were seeking their dusty moorings. Heavily loaded freighters were lurching in, every mule straining in his collar, every trace taut and quivering. Express wagons of lighter tonnage took the dust of the freighters, until the width of the road gave their square-trotting draught-horses a chance to swing out and pass. In and out among the craft of heavier burden, shuffled the small, tough bronchos. Their riders were for the most part light-built like their horses, with a bearing at once alert and impassive. Tliey were young men, notwithstanding the prevailing look of care and stolid endurance, due in some cases, possibly, to the dust-laden hollows under the sun- wearied eyes, and to that haggardness of aspect which goes with a beard of a week's growth, a flannel shirt loosely buttoned about a sunburned throat, and a temporary estrangement from soap and water. These were the doughty privateers- men, returning witli a convoy of pack-animals from the valley of the Gunnison or the Clear- water, or tlie tragic hunting-grounds of the In- dian Reservation. Taking the footpath way be- side liis loaded donkey trudged the humble "grub-stake," or the haggard-eyed cliarcoal- burner from liis smoking caii)[) in the nearest timber; while far u]) on the mountain, distinct in the reflected glow of sunset, a puff of white dust appeared from moment to moment, f<tllowingthc curves of the road, where the {)assenger-i'oac]i was making its be^it s[»ccrl, with brakes hard down, on the home gradi- from the summit of the pass. — John B'jddw'iHS Tcsliiaoni/.
SAMUEL FOOTE.— 1
FOOTE, Samuel, an English comic actor and luiinorist, born in 1720; died in 1777. He studied for a while at Worcester College, Oxford, but was obliged to leave at the age of twenty. He afterwards began the study of law ; but in consequence of his dissolute habits soon lost two fortunes, one of which he inherited from his uncle, the other from his father. In 1744 he betook himself to the stage, attempting both tragedy and comedv with slight success. But his talent for imitation came to his aid. In 1747 he opened the Haymarket Theatre with a piece called The I)'iversio7is of the Morning^ written by himself, and in which he was the principal actor. This was followed by Mr. Foote taking Tea with his Friends, The Auction of Pictures, and other pieces, all of which were successful, the main reason for their success being Foote's exag- gerated mimicry of any person of note whose appearance or manner was capable of being caricatured. For ten years he kept the theatre open, ehiding all attempts of the dramatic? licensers to close it. In 1767 a fall from his horse rendered necessary the am- putation of one of his legs. The Duke of York, who witnessed the accident, pro- cured for him a regular patent to open a theatre. This he carried on for ten years, mainly producing his own pieces. During this period he n)ade another fortune which he contrived to squander. In 1777, broken in health, he set out upon a journey to France, but died before he had left the shores of England. Foote produced in all about 25 dramatic pieces, and several others have been attributed to him. The best of these are : The Minor^ satirizing the Methodists (17G0), The Mayor of Garratt
SAMUEL FOOTE.— 2
(1Y63), The Devil upon Tioo Sticks (1Y68), The Lame Lover (1770), The Nahoh (17^2), and The Bankrupt (1773). A selection from the plays of Foote, with an entertain- ing Memoir, by "William Cooke, in three volumes, was published in 1805.
CHARLOTTE, SERJEANT CIRCTIT, AND SIR LUKE LIMP.
Char. — Sir, I have other proofs of our hero's vanity not inferior to that I have mentioned.
Serj. — Cite them.
Char. — The paltry ambition of levying and following titles.
Serj. — Titles ! I don't understand you.
Char. — I mean the poverty of fastening in public upon men of distinction, for no other rea- son but because of their rank ; adhering to Sir John till the baronet is superseded by my lord ; quitting the puny peer for an earl ; and sacrificing all three to a duke.
Serj. — Keeping good company ! — a laudable ambition !
Char. — True, sir, if the virtues that procured the father a peerage could with that be entailed on the son.
Serj. — Have a care, hussy ; there are severe laws against speaking evil of dignities.
C'Affr.— Sir !
Serj. — Scandalum magnatum is a statute must not be trifled with ; why, you are not one of those vulgar sluts that think a man the worse for being a lord \
Char. — No, sir; I am contented with only not thinking him the better.
Serj. — F<jr all this, I believe, hussy, a right honorai)Ic proposal would soon make you alter your mind.
Char. — Not unless the proposer liad other qualities than what ho possesses by patent. Be- sides, sir, you kn<jw Sir Luke is a devotee to the bottle.
Serj. — Not a whit the less honest fur that. ill
SAMUEL FOOTE.— 3
Char. — It occasions one evil at least, that when under its influence, he generally reveals all, sometimes more than he knows.
Serj. — Proofs of an open temper, you bag- gage ; but come, come, all these are but trifling objections.
Char. — You mean, sir, they prove the object a trifle.
Serj. — Why, you pert jade, do you play on my words ? 1 say Sir Luke is
Char. — Nobody.
Serj. — Nobody ! how the deuce do you make that out? He is neither a person attainted nor outlawed, may in any of his majesty's courts sue or be sued, appear by attorney or in propria persona, can acquire, buy, procure, purchase, possess, and inherit, not only personalities, such as goods and chattels, but even realties, as all lands, tenements, and hereditaments, whatsoever and wheresoever.
Char. — But, sir
Serj. — Nay, further, child, he may sell, give, bestow, bequeath, devise, demise, lease, or to farm let, ditto lands, or to any person whom- soever —and
Char. — Without doubt, sir; but there are, notwithstanding, in this town a great number of nobodies, not described by Lord Coke.
[Sir Luke Limp makes his appearance, and after a short dia- logue, enter a Servant, ivho delivers a card to Sir Luke.]
Sir Luke. — \^Ecads'\ " Sir Gregory Goose de- sires the honor of Sir Luke Limp's company to dine. An answer is desired." Gadso ! a little unlucky ; I have been engaged for these three weeks.
Serj. — What ! I find Sir Gregory is returned for the corporation of Fleecem.
Sir Luke. — Is he so ? Oh, oh ! that alters the case. George, give my compliments to Sir Gregory, and I'll certainly come and dine there. Order Joe to run to Alderman Inkle's in Thread- needle street ; sorry can't wait upon him, and confined to my bed two days with the new in- fluenza. [^Exit Servant.
SaMUEL FOOTE.— 4
Chat. — You make light, Sir Luke, of these sort of engagements.
Sir Luke. — What can a man do ! These fel- lows— when one has the misfortune to meet them — take scandalous advantage : When will you do me the honor, pray, Sir Luke, to take a bit of mutton with me ? Do you name the day. They are as bad as a beggar who attacks your coach at the mounting of a hill ; there is no getting rid of them without a penny to one, and a promise to t'other.
Serj. — True ; and then for such a time too — three weeks ! I wonder they expect folks to re- member. It is like a retainer in Michaelmas term for the summer assizes.
Sir Lukf. — Not but upon these occasions no
man in England is more punctual than
[Enter a Servant who gives Sir Luke a letter.] From whom ?
Serv. — Earl of Brentford. The servant waits for an answer.
Sir Luke. — Answer! By your leave, Mr. Serjeant and Charlotte. [Beads.] "Taste for music — Mons. Duport — fail — dinner on table at five." Gadso I I hope Sir Gregory's servant ain't gone.
Serv. — Immediately upon receiving the an- swer.
Sir Luke. — Run after him as fast as you can — tell him quite in despair — recollect an engage- ment that can't in nature be missed, and return in an instant. [LJjrit Scrvayit.
Char. — You see, sir, the knight must give way for my lord.
Sir Luke. — No, faith, it is not that, my dear Charlotte ; you saw that was quite an extempore business. No, hang it, no, it is not for the title; but, to tell you the truth, Brentford has more wit than any man in the world ; it is that makes me fond of his house.
Chnr. — By the choice of his company he gives an unanswerable instance of that.
Sir Luke, — You arc right, my dear girl, But ill
SAMUEL F0OTE.-5
now to give yon a proof of his wit; you know Brentford's finances are a little out of repair, which procures him some visits that ho would gladly excuse.
Scrj. — What need he fear ? His person is sacred ; for by the tenth of William and Mary
Sir Luke. — He knows that well enough, but for all that
Seij. — Indeed, by a late act of his own house — which does them infinite honor — his goods or chattels may be
Sir Luke. — Seized upon wlien they can find them ; but he lives in ready furnished lodgings, and hires his coach by the month.
Serj. — Nay, if the sheriff return " non inven- tus."
Sir Luke. — A plague o' your law; you make mo lose sight of my story. One morning a Welsh coachmaker came with his bill to my lord, whose name was unluckily Lloyd. My lord had the man up. You are called, I think, Mr. Lloyd? At your lordship's service, my lord. What, Lloyd with an Z ? It was with an L, in- deed, my lord. Because in your part of the world I have heard that Lloyd and Flloyd were synonymous, the very same names. Very often, indeed, my lord. But you always spell yours with an L ? Always. That, Mr. Lloyd, is a little unlucky ; for you must know I am now paying my debts alphabetically, and in four or five years you might have come in with an F ; but I am afraid I can give you no hopes for your L. Ha, ha, ha !
{Enter a Servant.]
Serv. — There was no overtaking the servant.
Sir Luke. — That is unlucky : tell my lord I'll attend him. I'll call on Sir Gregory myself.
\Exit Servant.
Serj. — Why, you won't leave us. Sir Luke ?
Sir Luke. — Pardon, dear Serjeant and Char- lotte ; I have a thousand things to do for half a million of people, positively ; promised to pro-
SAMUEL F00TE.-6
cure a husband for Lady Cicely Sulky, and match a coach-horse for Brigadier Whip ; after that must run into the city to borrow a thousand for young At-ali at Ahnack's ; send a Cheshire cheese by the stage to Sir Timothy Tankard in Suf- folk; and get at the Heralds' office a coat-of- arms to clap on the coach of Billy Bengal, a nabob newly arrived ; so you see I have not a moment to lose.
Seij. — True, true.
Sir Luke. — At your toilet to-morrow you may — ^Enter a Servant abruptli/ and runs against Sir Luke.'\ Can't you see where you are run- ning, you rascal ?
Serv. — Sir, his Grace, the Duke of
Sir Luke. — Grace ! where is he ? Where-
Serv. — In his coacli at the door. If you an't better engaged, would be glad of your company to go into the city, and take a dinner at Dolly's.
Sir Luke. — In his own coacli, did you say ?
Serv. — Yes, sir.
Sir Luke. — With tlie coronets — or •
Serv. — I believe so.
Sir Xt^Ar-— There's no resisting of that. Bid Joe run to Sir Gregory Goose's.
Serv. — He is already gone to Alderman Inkle's.
Sir Luke. — Then do you step into the knight — hcv ! — no — you must go in to my lord's — liold, hold, no — I liave it — step first to Sir Greg s, then pop in at Lord Brentford's just as the com- pany arc going to dinner.
Serv. — What shall I say to Sir Gregory?
Sir Luki'. — Anything — what I told you be- fore.
Serv. — And what to my lord?
Sir Luke. — Wiiat I — tell liim that my uncle from Epsom — no — that won't do, for he knows I don't care a farthing for him — hey? Why, tell him — hold, I have it. Tc-ll liim that as I was going into my chair to oboy liis commands, I was arrested by a couple of baililTs, forced into a
EDWARD i'ORBES.— 1
tackncy-coach, and carried into tlic Pied Bull in the Borougli; I beg ten thousand pardons for making his Grace wait, but liis Grace knows my misfor \^Excunt Sir Luke and Serv.
Char. — Well, sir, what d'ye think of the proofs? I flatter myself I have pretty well established my case.
Scrj. — Why, hussy, you have hit upon points; but then they are but trifling flaws; they don't vitiate the title ; that stands unimpcached. — The Lame Lover.
FOEBES, Edward, a British naturalist, born on the Isle of Man in 1S15 ; died near Edinburgh in ISS-i. He studied medicine at Edinburgh, but devoted himself mainly to scientific pursuits and to literature. He was among the earliest to collect specimens in natural history by means of deep-sea dredging. In 1842 he became Professor of Botany in King's College, London, and shortly afterwards was appointed Curator of the Museum of the Geological Society. His scientific publications were very numerous. Among his more important works was the preparation of a palreontological and geo- graphical map of the British Islands, with an explanatory dissertation upon the Distri- htition of Marine Life. In 1852 he was chosen President of tlie Geological So- ciety, and in 1853 was made Professor of Natural History in the University of Edin- burgh. A collection of his purely literary papers, with a Memoir by Prof. Huxley, appeared soon after his death.
JOHN FORD.— 1
FOED, John, an English dramatist, born in 1586 ; died about 1640. He was of good family, his grandfather and father having attained legal eminence. At sixteen he was entered as a student at law at the Inner Temple, was called to the bar, and practised until past tiftv, when he retired to his estate, and uothing further is recorded of him. He appears to have gained a competent fortune in his profession, so that he was able to write without regard to any pecuniary profit which he might gain from his dramas, and to disregard the ju-evailing taste of the thea- tre-goers of his time. Some of his dramas were produced in conjunction with others, especially with Kowley, Dekker, and "Web- ster, and it is impossible to fix with cer- tainty the respective shares of each. The titles of sixteen plays, wholly or in part by I'urd, have been preserved, but several of these are not now known to be extant ; some of them do not appear to have ever been printed. Love's MelancJiohj, probably the earliest of Ford's dramas, was first acted in 1628; "'TIS Pity She's a Whore, a powerful tragedy, was printed in 1633 ; The BroTcen Heart] upon the whole the best of Ford's dramas, was also ])rinte(l in 1633, bnt both were j)ro))ab]y i)rodiiced ujion the stage a little earlier ; ilw Ladijs TrUd was acted in 1638, and printed in the following year. The first complete edition of Ford's Worli^s^ edited by Weber, was pnblisiied in 1811 ; in 1827 appeared an edition edited by GifFord ; and in 1.S47 an ex|)nrg:ited edition was issued in "• Murray's Family Lii)rary." Gif- ford's edition, revised liy Dyce, with Notes and an Introduction (isr.l*^, is the best. An Essay on Ford, by Algernon Gharles Swin- burne, was pnblisiied among his " Notes and Essays" in 1875.
JOHN FORD.— 3
CALANTIIA AND PENTHEA,
Cal. — Being alone, Pcnthca, you have granted The opportunity you sought, and might At all times have commanded.
Fen. — 'Tis a benefit. [for.
Which I shall owe your goodness even in death My glass of life, sweet princess, hath few minutes Remaining to run down; the sands are spent: For, by an inward messenger, 1 feel The summons of departure short and certain.
Cal. — You feed too much your melancholy.
Pen. — Glories
Of human greatness are but pleasing dreams. And shadows soon decaying : on the stage Of my mortality my youth hath acted Some scenes of vanity, drawn out at length ; By varied pleasures sweetened in the mixture, But tragical in issue.
Cal. — Contemn not your condition for the proof. Of bare opinion only : to wliat end Reach all these moral texts ?
Pen. — To place before you
A perfect mirror, wherein you may see How weary I am of a lingering life, Who count the best a misery,
Cal. — Indeed,
You have no little cause; yet none so great As to distrust a remedy.
Pen. — That remedy
Must be a winding-sheet, a fold of lead, And some untrod-on corner in the earth. Not to detain your expectation, princess, I have an humble suit.
Cal. — Speak, and enjoy it.
Pen. — Vouchsafe, then, to be my executrix; And take that trouble on ye, to dispose Such legacies as I bequeath impartially: I have not much to give, the pains are easy. Heaven will reward your piety and thank it. When I am dead: for sure I must not live; I hope I cannot.
Cal. — Now beshrew thy sadness; Thou turn'st me too much woman.
144
JOHN FORD.— 3
Pen. — Her fair eyes
Melt into passion : then I have assurance Encourajring my boldness. In this paper My will was charactered ; which you, with par- don, Shall now know from mine own mouth.
Cal. — Talk on, prithee ;
It is a pretty earnest.
Pen. — I have left me
But three poor jewels to bequeath. The first is My youth ; for though I am much old in griefs, In years I am a child.
Cal — To whom that?
Pen. — To virgin wives ; such as abuse not wed- lock By freedom of desires, but covet chiefly The pledges of chaste beds, for ties of love Rather than ranging of their blood ; and next To married maids ; such as prefer the number Of honorable issue in their virtues. Before the flattery of delights by marriage ; May those be ever young.
Cal. — A second jewel
You mean to part ?
Pen. — 'Tis my fame ; I trust
By scandal yet untouched ; this I bequeath To Memory and Time's old daughter. Truth. If ever my unhappy name find mention, When I am fallen to dust, may it deserve Beseeming charity without dishonor.
Cal. — How handsomely thou play'st with harmless sport Of mere imau^ination ? Speak the last. I strangely like thy will.
Pen. — This jewel, madam,
Is dearly precious to me; you must use The best of your discretion, to employ This gift as I intend it.
Cal. — Do not doubt me.
I'en. — 'Tis long ago, since first I lost my heart ; Long I have lived without it : but instead Of it, to great Calantha, Sparta's heir,
JOHN FORD.— 4
By service bound, and by affertion vowed, I do bc(jucatli in holiest rites of love Mine only brother Ithocles.
Cal. — What saidst thou?
Pen. — Impute not, heaven-blest lady, to am- bition, A faith as humbly perfect as the prayers Of a devoted suppliant can endow it: Look on him, princess, with an eye of pity ; How like the ghost of what he late appeared He moves before you !
Cal, — Shall I answer here,
Or lend my ear too grossly ?
Pen. — First his heart
Shall fall in cinders, scorched by your disdain, Ere he will dare, poor man, to ope an eye On these divine looks, but with low - bent
thoughts Accusing such presumption : as for words. He dares not utter any but of service ; Yet this lost creature loves you. Be a princess In sweetness as in blood ; give him his doom, Or raise him up to comfort.
Cal. — What new change
Appears in ray behavior that thou darest Tempt my displeasure ?
Pen. — I must leave the world,
To revel in Elysium ; and 'tis just To wish my brother some advantage here. Yet by my best hopes, Ithocles is ignorant Of this pursuit. But if you please to kill him. Lend him one angry look, or one harsh word, And you shall soon conclude how strong a power Your absolute authority holds over His life and end.
Cal. — You have forgot, Penthea,
How still I have a father.
Pen. — But remember
I am sister: though to me this brother Hath been, you know, unkind, 0 most unkind.
Cal. — Christalla, Philcma, where are ye ? — Lady, Your check lies in my silence.
The Broken Heart.
RICHARD FORD.— 1
FORD, EicHABD, an English traveller and author, born in 1796, died in 1S5S. He was educated at "Winchester and at Trinity College, Cambridge, studied law at Lin- coln's Inn, and was called to the bar, l)ut never entered into practice. In 1839 he went to Spain, where he resided several years. From 1836 to 1857 he was a fre- quent contributor to the Qaartei'ly Review, his papers relating mainly to the life, litera- ture, and art of Spain. He prepared Mur- ray's Iland-Book for Sjjahi (1845 ; re- written and enlarged in 1855). He also wrote Gatherings in Spain (1848), and Tauromachia, the Bull Fights of Spain (1852).
SPAIN AND THE SPANIARDS IN 1840.
Since Spain appears on the map to be a square and most compact kingdom, politicians and geographers liave treated it and its inhabitants as one and the same ; practically, however, tliis is almost a geogra[)hieal expression, as the earth, air, and morals of tlie ditlcrent portions of this conventional whole are altoirether heterogeneous. Peninsular man has followed the nature by which he is surrounded ; mountains and rivers have walled and moated the dislocated land ; mists and gleams liave diversified tlie heavens; and dif- fering like si/il and sky, the people, in each of the once inde[)endent j)rovinces, now bound loosely to<'ether by one (gulden hoop, the crown, has its own particular character. To hate his neighbor i.s a second nature to the Spaniard ; no spick and span Constitution, be it printed on parchment or calico, can at once efface traditions and antipa- thies of a thousand years; the accidents of locali- ties and provincial nationalities, out of whicli thcv' have sprung, remain too deeply dyed to be forthwith <lischar;;ed liy tlii'orists.
The climate and productions vary lio less than do language, costume, and maimers; and so
RICHARD FORD.— 3
division and localism have, from time immemo- rial, formed a marked national feature. Spaniards may talk and boast of tlieir Putria, as is done by the similarly circumstanced Italians, but like them and the Germans, they have the fallacy, but no real Fatherland ; it is an aggregation rather than an amalgamation — every single indi- vidual in his heart really only loving his native province, and only considering as his fellow- countryman, su paisano — a most binding and endearing word — one born in the same locality as himself : hence it is not easy to predicate much in regard to " the Spains" and Spaniards in general which will hold quite good as to each particular poriion ruled by the sovereign of Las EsjMnas, the plural title given to the chief of the federal union of this really little united kingdom. £spanolismo may, however, be said to consist in a love for a common faith and king, and in a co- incidence of resistance to all foreign dictation. The deep sentiments of religion, loyalty and in- dependence, noble characteristics indeed, have been sapped in our times by the influence of Trans- Pyrenean revolutions. Two general ob- servations may be premised :
First, The people of Spain, the so-called lower orders, are superior to those who arrogate to themselves the title of being their betters, and in most respects are more interesting. The masses, the least spoilt and the most national, stand like pillars amid ruins, and on them the edifice of Spain's greatness is, if ever, to be reconstructed. This may have arisen, in this land of anomalies, from the peculiar policy of government in church and state, where the possessors of religious and civil monopolies, who dreaded knowledge as power, pressed heavily on the noble and rich, dwarfing down their bodies by intermarriages, and all but extinguishing their minds by inquisi- tions; while the people, overlooked in the ob- scurity of poverty, were allowed to grow out to their full growth like wild weeds of a rich soil. They, in fact, have long enjoyed, under despot^ m
RICHARD FORD.— 3
isras of church and state, a practical and personal independence, the good results of which are evi- dent in their stalwart frames and manly bearing. Secondly, A distinction must ever be made between the Spaniard in his individual and col- lective capacity, and still more in an official one. Taken by himself, he is true and valiant; the nicety of his Pundonor, or point of personal honor, is proverbial ; to him, as an individual, you may safely trust your life, fair fame, and purse. Yet history, treating of these individuals in the collective, juaiadus, presents the foulest examples of misbehavior in the field, of Punic bad faith in the cabinet, of bankruptcy and re- pudiation on the exchange. This may be also much ascribed to the deteriorating influence of bad government, by which the individual Spaniard, like the monk in a convent, becomes fused into the corporate. The atmosphere is too infectious to avoid some corruption, and while the Spaniard feels that his character is only in safe keeping w hen in his own hands, and no man of any nation knows better then how to up- hold it, when linked with others, his self-pride, impatient of any superior, lends itself readily to feelings of mistrust, until self-interest and pres- er^'ation become uppermost. From suspecting that lie will be sold and sacrificed by others, he ends by floating down the turbid stream like the rest: vet even official employment does not quite destroy all private good fjualitics, and the em- pleado may be appealed to as an individual.
JOHN FORSTER.— 1
FORSTEK, John, an English biograplier and historian, born in 1812 ; died in 1876. In 1828 he canie to London and attended law classes, but devoted himself mainly to journalism and literary work, although he was formally called to the bar. He was suc- cessively editor of the Foreign Quarterly Review, of the Daily News, succeeding Dickens, and of the Examiner, succeeding Fonblanque, holding this last position from 1847 to 1856. In 1861 he was appointed a Commissioner in Lunacy. In 1855 he married the wealthy widow of Henry Col- burn, the publisher. For many years he was a frequent contributor to the Edin- hurgh, Quarterly, and Foreign Quarterly Reviews. His biographical and historical works are numerous and valuable. The principal are: The Statesmen of the Com- momoealth of England (1840), Life of Goldsmith (1848, greatly enlarged in 1854), The Arrest of the Five Members hy Charles I., and Debates on the Great Remonstrance (1860), Sir John Eliot (1864), Life of Walter Savage Landor (1868), Life of Charles Dickens (1871-74), and Early Life of Jonathan Swift (1875). This last work is the first volume of a complete biography of Swift, upon which he had been engaged for several years ; but he died while he was en- gaged upon it.
SWIFT AND HIS BIOGRAPHERS.
Swift's later time, when he was governing Ire- land as well as his Deanery, and the world was filled with the fame of Gulliver, is broadly and intelligibly written. But as to all the rest, his life is a work unfinished ; to which no one has broui^ht the minute examination indispensably required, where the whole of a career has to be considered to get at the proper comprehension
m
JOHN FORSTER.— 2
of certain parts of it. The writers accepted as authorities for the obscurer portion of it are found to be practically worthless, and the defect is not supplied by the later and greater bio- graphers. Johnson did him no kind of justice, because of too little liking for hira ; and Scott, with much hearty liking, as well as a generous admiration, had too much other work to do. Thus, notwithstanding noble passages in both memoirs, and Scott's pervading tone of healthy, manly wisdom, it is left to an inferior hand to attempt to complete the tribute begun by these illustrious men, — Preface to Life of Swift.
THE LITERARY PROFESSION AXD THE LAW OF COPYRIGHT.
" It were well," said Goldsmith, on one occa- sion, with bitter truth, " if none but the dunces of society were combined to render the profes- sion of an author ridiculous or unhappy." The profession themselves have yet to learn the secret of co-operation ; they have to put away internal jealousies ; they have to claim for themselves, as poor Goldsmith, after his fashion, very loudly did, that defined position from which greater re- spect, and mure frequent consideration in public life, could not long be withlield ; in fine, they have frankly to feel that their vocation, properly regarded, ranks with the worthiest, and that, on all occasions, to do justice to it, and to each other, is the way to obtain justice from the world. If writers had been thus true to them- selves, the subject of copyright might have been e(jnitably settled when attention was first drawn to it; but while Defoe was urging the author's claim. Swift was calling Defoe a fellow that had been pilloried, and we have still to discuss as in formh pauperis the rights of the English autlior.
Confiscation is a hard word, but after the de- cision of the highest English court, it is the word which alone describes fairly tlie statute of Anne, for encouragement of literature. That is now
JOIiT^ FORStliR.-S
superseded by anotlicr statute, liaving the same gorgeous name, and tlie same inglorious mean- ing; for even this hist enactment, sorely resisted as it was, leaves England behind any otiier coun- try in the world, in the amount of their own property secured to her authors. In some, to tliis day, perpetual copyriglit exists; and though it may l)e reasonable, as Dr. Johnson argued, that it was to surrender a part for greater efficiency or protection to the rest, yet the commonest dic- tates of natural justice might at least require that an author's family should not be beggared of their inheritance as soon as liis own capacity to provide for them may have ceased. In every continental country this is cared for, the lowest term secured by the most niggardly arrangement being twenty-five years ; whereas in England it is the munificent number of seven. Yet the most laborious works, and often the most de- lightful, are for the most part of a kind which the hereafter only can repay. The poet, the his- torian, the scientific investigator, do indeed find readers to-day ; but if they have labored with success, they have produced books whose sub- stantial reward is not the large and temporary, but the limited and constant nature of their sale. No consideration of moral right exists, no prin- ciple of economical science can be stated, wliich would justify the seizure of such books by the public, before they had the chance of remunerat- ing the genius and the labor of their producers.
But though Parliament can easily commit this wrong, it is not in such case the quarter to look to for redress. There is no hope of a better state of things till the author shall enlist upon his side the power of which Parliament is but tlie inferior expression. The true remedy for literary wrongs must flow from a higher sense than has at any period yet prevailed in England of the duties and responsibilities assumed by the public writer, and of the social consideration and respect tliat their effectual discharge should have undisputed right to claim. — Life of Goldsmith.
JOSEPH FORSYTH.— 1
FOESYTH, Joseph, a Scottish traveller and author, born in 1763; died in 1815. He conducted for many years a classical semi- nary near London. In 1802 he set out upon a tour in Italy; in the next year he was arrested at Turin in pursuance of an^ order issued by Napoleon for the detention of all British subjects travelling in his domin- ions. He was not set at liberty until the downfall of Kapoleon in 1814. In the meantime he wrote out the notes which he had prepared of his visit to Italy. This was published in 1812. under the title, Remarks on Antiquities, Arts, and letters during an Excursion in Italy in the years 1802 and 1803. The immediate object of the publication was to enlist the syir.pathies ot Napoleon and of the leading members of the' National Institute in his behalf. The effoi-t was unsuccessful, and the author re- gretted that it had been made. The work has been several times reprinted ; a fourth edition was issued in 1835, being brought down to that date by another hand.
THE ITALIAN VINTAGE.
The vintage was in full glow, men, women, children, asses, all were variously engaged in the work. I remarked in the scene a prodigality and negligence which I never saw in France, The grapes dropped unheeded from the panniers, and hundreds were left undipped on the vines. The vintagers poured on us as we passed the rich- est rihaldry of the Italian language, and seemed to claim from llomor's old vindemiator a pre- scriptive right to abuse the traveller.
THE COLOSSEUM IK 1803.
A colossal taste gave rise to the Colosseum.
Here, indeed, uigantic dimensions were necessary ;
for thfui'jh hutidn-ds could enter at once, and
fifty thousand find seats, the space was still in-
III
JOSEPH FORSYTH.— S
sufficient for room, and the crowd for the morn- ing games began at midnight. Vespasian and Titus, as if presaging tlieir own deaths, hurried the building, and left several marks of their pre- cipitancy behind. In the upper walls they liave inserted stones which had evidently been dressed for a different purpose. Some of the arcades are grossly unequal; no mouldingpreserves the same level and form round the whole ellipse, and every order is full of license. The Doric has no tri- glyphs and tnetopes, and its arch is too low for its columns ; the Ionic repeats the entablature of the Doric ; the third order is but a rough cast of the Corinthian, and its foliage the thickest water- plants; the fourth seems a mere repetition of the third in pilasters ; and the whole is crowned by a heavy attic. Happily for the Colosseum, the shape necessary to an amphitheatre has given it a stability of construction sufficient to resist fires, and earthquakes, and lightnings, and sieges. Its elliptical form was the hoop which bound and held it entire till barbarians rent that consolidat- ing ring ; popes widened the breach ; and time, not unassisted, continues the work of dilapida- tion. At this moment the hermitage is threatened with a dreadful crash, and a generation not very remote must be content, I apprehend, with the picture of this stupendous monument. Of the interior elevation, two slopes, by some called meniana, are already demolished ; the arena, the podium, are interred. No member runs entire round the whole ellipse ; but every member made such a circuit, and reappears so often that plans, sections, and elevations of the original work are drawn with the precision of a modern fabric. When the whole amphitheatre was entire, a cliild might comprehend its design in a moment, and go direct to his place without straying in the por- ticos, for each arcade bears its number engraved, and opposite to every fourth arcade was a stair- case. This multiplicity of wide, straight, and separate passages proves the attention which the ancients paid to the safe discharge of a crowd ; it
JOSEPH FORSYTH.— 3
finely illustrates the precept of Vitruvius, and ex- poses the perplexity of some modern theatres.
Every nation has undergone its revolution of. vices ; and as cruelty is not the present vice of ours, we can all humanely execrate the purpose of amphitheatres, now that they lie in ruins. Mor- alists may tell us that the truly brave are never cruel ; but this monument says " No." Here sat the conquerors of the world, coolly to enjoy the tortures and death of naen who had never offended them. Two aqueducts were scarcely sufficient to wash the blood which a few hours' sport shed in this imperial shambles. Twice in one day came the senators and matrons of Rome to the butchery; a virgin always gave the signal for slaughter ; and when glutted with bloodshed, these ladies sat down in the wet and steaming arence to a luxurious supper ! Such reflections check our regret for its ruin. As it now stands the Colosseum is a striking image of Rome itself — decayed, vacant, serious, yet grand — half- gray, and half-green — erect on one side, and fall- en on the other ; with consecrated ground in its bosom — inhabited by a beadsman ; visited by every caste ; for moralists, antiquaries, painters, architects, devotees, all meeting here to meditate, to examine, to draw, to measure, and to pray. " In contemplating antiquities, says Livy, " the mind itself becomes antique." It contracts from such objects a venerable rust, which I prefer to the polish and the point of those wits who have lately profaned this august ruin with ridicule, It*
SIR JOHN FORTESCUE.— 1
FORTESCUE, Sm John, an English jurist, bom about 1305 ; died about 1485 ; but the exact dates are uncertain. He was born shortly after the accession of Henry IV., lived through his reign, and those of Henry V., Henry VI., Edward IV., Eich- ard III., and into that of Henry VII. In 1426 he w^is made one of the Governors of Lincoln's Inn, and in 1442 (during the reign of Henry VI.) Chief Justice of the King's Bench. During tlie War of the Roses he was a zealous Lancastrian, and when the Yorkists gained the preponder- ance in Parliament, a bill of attainder was passed against him, and he fled to Scotland and in 1564 to France. Returning to Eng- land, after some years, he was made prisoner by Edward IV. at the battle of Tewksbury (1471.) Having been pardoned by the vic- tor, he withdrew to his estate in Gloucester, and passed the remainder of his life in re- tirement. Fortescue wrote several notable books in Latin and in English. The most important of his English works is The Dif- ference between an Ahsolute and a Limited Monarchy^ first printed in 1714.
THE COMMONS AND THE KINGDOM.
Some men have said tliat it were good for the king that the commons of England were made poor, as be the commons of France. For then they would not rebel, as now they done oftentimes, which the commons of France do not, nor may do ; for they have no weapon, nor armour, nor good to buy it at withal. To these manner of men may be said, with the philosopher, Ad parva respicientes, de facili enunciant ; that is to say, they that seen few things woll soon say their ad^ vice. Forsooth those folks consideren little the good of the realm, whereof the miirht most stondeth upon archers, which be no rich meii, And if they were made poorer than they be, they
SIR JOHN FORTESCUE.— 2
should not have herewith to huy them bows, arrows, jacks, or any other armour of defence, whereby they might be able to resist our enemies when they list to come upon us, which they may do on every side, considering that we be an isl- and ; and, as it is said before, we may not have soon succours of any other realm. Wherefore we should be a prey to all other enemies, but if we be mighty of ourself, which might stondeth most upon our poor archers ; and therefore they needen not only to have such habiliments as now is spoken of, but also they needen to be much ex- ercised in shooting, which may not be done with- out right great expenses, as every man expert therein knoweth right well. Wherefore the mak- ing poor of the commons, which is the making poor of our archers, should be the destruction of the greatest might of our realm. Item, if poor men may not lightly rise, as in the opinion of those men, which for that cause would have the commons poor ; how then, if a miglity man made a rising, should he be repressed, when all the commons be so poor, that after such opinion they may not fight, and by that reason not lielp the king with fighting ? And why maketh the king the commons to be every year mustered, sithen it was good they had no harness, nor were able to fight? Oh, how unwise is the opinion of these men ; for it may not be maintained by any reason ! Item, when any rising liath been made in this land, before these days by commons, the poorest men thereof hath been the greatest causers and doers therein. And thrifty men have been loth thereto, for dread of losing of their goods, yet oftentimes they have gone witli them through mf naccs, or else the same poor men wouhl have taken their goods; wherein it socmeth that pov- erty have been the wliole and chief cause of all such rising. The poor man hath been stirred thereto by occasion of Jiis f»ovorty for to get good; an(l the rich men have gone with them because they wold not be poor by losing of their goods. What then would fall, if all" the pommons were poor ?
ROBERT FORTUNE.— 1
FORTUNE, RoBEKT, a British natural- ist and autiior, born in Scotland in 1813 5 died in 1880, He was trained as a horti- culturist ; was employed in tlie botanical gardens of Edinburgh, where he attended the lectures in the IJniversity. He was afterwards employed in the botanical gar- dens at Chiswick, near London, and in 1843 was appointed by the London Horticultural Society to collect plants in China, the ports of which had just been thrown open to Europeans. Upon his return he published Three Years' Wanderings in the Northern Provinces of China. In 1848 he was sent to China by the East India Company to in- vestigate the mode of cultivation of the tea- plant, collect seeds, and introduce its cul- ture into Northern India. Upon his return to Great Britain he published Tuio Visits to the Tea Cotinti'ies of China (1852.) Sub- sequently he made a third visit to China, of which he gave an account in his liesi- dence among the Chinese, Inland, on the Coast, and at Sea (185Y.) In 1857 he was deputed by the U. S. Patent Office to visit China to collect seeds of the tea-shrub and other plants. He was absent two years, having collected and shipped to the United States the seeds of a large number of plants. In 1863 he published, in London, Yedo and Pekin.
CHINESE THIEVES.
About two in the morning I was awakened by a loud yell from one of my servants, and I sus- pected at once tliat we "had had a visit from thieves, for I had frequently heard the same sound before. Like the cry one hears at sea when a man has fallen overboard, this alarm can never be mistaken when once it has been heard. JBefore I had time to inquire what was wrong,
IS8
ROBERT FORTUNE.— 3
one of mv servants and two of the boatmeti phincred into the canal and pursued the thieves. Thinking that we had only lost some cooking utensils, or things of little value that might have been lying outside the boat, I gave myself no uneasiness about the matter, and felt much in- clined to go to sleep again. But my servant, who returned almost immediately, awoke me most effectually. " I fear," said he, opening my door, " the thieves have been inside the boat, and have taken away some of your property." " Im- possible," said I ; " they caimot have been here." " But look," he replied ; " a portion of the side of your boat under the window has been lifted out."
Turning to the place indicated by my servant I could see, although it was quite dark, that there was a large hole in the side of the boat not more than three feet from where my head had been lying. At my right hand, and just under the win- dow, the trunk used to stand in which I was in the habit of keeping my papers, money, and other valuables. On the first suspicion that I was the victim, I stretched out my hand in the dark to feel if this was safe. Instead of my hand resting on the top of the trunk, as it had been accustomed to do, it went down to the floor of the boat, and I then knew for the first time tliat the trunk was gone. At the same mo- ment, my servant, Tuiig-a, came in with a candle, and Confirmed what 1 had just made out in the dark. The thieves had done tlieir work well — the boat was eniptv. My money, amounting to more than one Inindrcfl Sliangliae dollars, my accounts, ajid other papers — all, all were gone. The rascals liad not even left me the clothes I had thrown off when I went to bed.
But there was no time to lose ; and in order to make every effort to catch the thieves, or at least get back a portion of my property, I jumped into the canal, and made for the l)ank. The tirle had now risen, and instead of fintling only about two feet of water — the depth when wo 111
HOBERT FORTUNE.— 3
Went to bed — I now sank up to the neck, and found the stream very rapid. A few strokes with my arms soon brought me into shallow water and to the shore. IJere I found the boat- men rushing about in a frantic manner, examin- ing with a lantern the bushes and indigo vats on the banks of the canal, but all they had found was a few Manilla cheroots wliich the thieves had dropped apparently in their hurry. A watchman with his lantern and two or three stragglers, hearing the noise we made, came up and inquired what was wrong ; but wlien asked whether they had seen anything of the thieves, shook their heads, and professed the most pro- found ignorance. The night was pitch dark, everything was perfectly still, and, with the ex- ception of the few stragglers already mentioned, the wliole town seemed sunk in deep sleep. We were therefore perfectly helpless and could do nothing further. I returned in no comfortable frame of mind to my boat. Dripping with wet, I lay down on my couch without any inclination to sleep.
It was a serious business for me to lose so much money, but that part of the matter gave me the least uneasiness. The loss of my ac- counts, journals, drawings, and numerous mem- oranda I had been making during three years of travel, which it was impossible for any one to re- place, was of far greater importance. I tried to reason philosophically upon the matter; to per- suade myself that as the thing could not be helped now, it was no use being vexed with it ; that in a few years it would not signify much either to myself or any one else whether I had been robbed or not; but all this fine reasoning would not do. — Residence among the Chinese.
NICOLO UGO FOSCOLO.— 1
FOSCOLO, KicoLO Ugo, an Italian author, born on the island of Zante in 1778 ; died near London in 1827. Upon the death of his father, a physician at Spoletto, in Dal- matia, the family removed to Venice. Foscolo went to the University of Padua, where he made himself master of ancient Greek — modern Greek being his vernacular tongue. At the age of nineteen he produced his tragedy of Tieste, which was received with some favor at Venice. He had already be- gun to take part in the stormy political dis- putes growing out of the overthrow of the Venetian State. He addressed an adulatory Ode to Bonaparte, from whom he hoped not merely the overthrow of the Venetian oligarchy, but the establishment of a free Kepublic. Notwithstanding that in the autunjn of 1797 Venice was by treaty made over to Austria, he adhered to the French side, and when the hostilities again broke out between France and Austria he joined the French army, and was among those who were made prisoners at the taking of Genoa in 1800. After his release he took up his residence at Milan, where in 1807 he wrote the Canne mi Sepolo-i, the best of his poems, which reads like an effort to seek refuge in the pas-t from the misery of the present and the darkness of the future. In 1800 he received the appointment of Pro- fessor of Italian Eloquence at the University of Pavia ; but this ])rofessor6hip was before long al)olished by Napoleon. After many vicissitudes, in 1810 he went to England, which was thereafter his home. He entered upon a strictly Hterary life, contributed to reviews upon Italiaii sul)jects, and in 1821 wrote in English his essays upon Petrarch and Dante, which brought him fame and
NICOLO UGO FOSCOLO.— 2
uioney ; but liis irregular way of life in- volved him in constant pecuniary straits. In 1871, forty-four years after his death, his remains were removed to Florence, and de- posited in the niagjnilicent Church of Santa Croce. Italians place the name of Foscolo liigh ui)on the list of their great writers.
THE SEPULCHRES.
Beneath the cypress sliade, or sculptured urn By fond tears watered, is the sleep of death Less heavy ? When for me the sun no more Shall shine on earth, and bless with genial
beams This beauteous race of beings animate — When bright with flattering hues, the future
hours No longer dance before me, and I hear No more the magic of thy dulcet verse, Nor the sad gentle harmony it breathes — When mute within my breast the inspiring
voice Of youthful Poesy and Love, sole light To this my wandering life — what guerdon then For vanished years will be the marble, reared To mark my dust amid the countless throng Wherewith Death widely strews the land and
sea? And thus it is ! Hope, the last friend of man, Flics from the tomb, and dim Forgetfulness Wraps in its rayless night all mortal things. Cliange after change, unfelt, unheeded, takes Its tribute — and o'er man, his sepulchres. His being's lingering traces, and the relics Of earth and heaven, Time in mockery treads. Yet why hath man, from immemorial years, Yearned for the illusive power wliich may re- tain The parted spirit on life's threshold still ? Doth not the buried live, e'en though to him The day's enclianted melody is mute. If yet fond thoughts and tender uiemories ut
NICOLO UGO FOSCOLO.— 3
He wake in friendly breasts ? O, 'tis from
heaven, This sweet coinnninion of abiding love ! A boon celestial ! By its eharin we hold Full oft a solemn converse with the dead, If vet the pious earth, which nourished once Their ripening youth, in her maternal breast Yieldinir a last asylum, shall protect Their sacred relics from insulting storms, Or step profane — if some secluded stone Preserve their names, and flowery verdure wave Its fragrant shade above their honored dust. But he who leaves no heritage of love Is heedless of an urn — and if he look Beyond the grave, his spirit wanders lost Ainong the wailings of infernal shores; Or hiifes its guilt beneath the sheltering wings Of God's forgiving mercy ; while his bones Moulder unrecked of on the desert sand, "Where never loving woman pours her prayer, Nor solitary pilgrim hears the sigh Which mourning Nature sends us from the
tomb
From the days "When first the nuptial feast and judgment-seat And altar softened our untutored race, And taught to man his own and others' good. The living treasured from the bleaching storm And savage brute those sad and poor remains, By Nature destined for a lofty fate. Then tombs became the witnesses of pride. And altars for the young :— thence gods in- voked Uttered their solemn answers ; and the oath Sworn on the father's dust was thrice revered. Hence the rlevotion, which, with various rites, The warmth of patriot virtue, kindred love, Transmits through the countless lapse of years.
Not in those times did stones sepulchred pave The temple floors — nor fumes of shrouded
corpses, Mixed with the altar's incense, smite with fear The suppliant worshiper — nor cities frown,
KiCoLO UGO F6SC0L6.-4
Ohastly witli sculpt iiivd skeletons — while leaped Youno; niotlieis from their sleep in wild affright, Shielding tlieir helpless babes with feeble arm, And listening for the groans of wandering
ghosts. Imploring vainly from their impious heirg Their gold-bought masses. But in living green, Cvpress and stately cedar spread their shade O'er unforgotten graves, scattering in air Their grateful odors ; — vases which received The mourners' votive tears. Their pious friends Enticed the day's pure gleam to gild the gloom Of monuments ; for man his dying eye Turns ever to the sun, and every breast Heaves its last sigh towards the departing light, There fountains flung aloft their silver spray. Watering sweet amaranths and violets Upon the funeral sod ; and he who came To commune with the dead breathed fragrance
round.
Like bland airs wafted from Elysian fields
Happy, my friend, who in thine early years Hast crossed the wide dominion of the winds! If e'er the pilot steered thy wandering bark Beyond the ^gean Isles, thou heardst the
shores Of Hellespont resound with ancient deeds ; And the proud surge exult, that bore of old Achilles's armor to Rhseteum's shore, AVhere Ajax sleeps. To souls of generous
mould Death righteously awards the meed of fame ; Not subtle wit, nor kingly favor gave The perilous spoils to Ithaca, where waves, Stirred to wild fury by infernal gods. Rescued the treasures from the shipwrecked
bark. For me, whom years and love of high renown Impel through far and various lands to roam, The Muses, greatly waking in my breast Sad thoughts, bid me invoke the heroic dead. They sit and guard the sepulchres; and when
NICOLO UGO F0SC0L0.-5
Time with cold wing sweeps tombs and fanes to
ruin, The gladdened desert echoes with their song, And its loud harmony subdues the silence Of noteless ages.
Yet on Ilium's plain, Where now the harvest waves, to pilgrim eyes Devout gleams star-like an eternal shrine — Eternal for the Xymph espoused by Jove, Who gave her royal lord the son whence sprung Troy's ancient city, and Assaracus, Tho' fifty sons of Priam's regal line. And the wide empire of the Latin race. She, listening to the Fates' resistless call, That summolicd her from vital airs of earth To choirs Elysian, of heaven's sire besought One boon indying : — " O, if e'er to thee," She cried, " tliis fading form, these locks were
dear, And the soft cares of Love — since Destiny Denies me happier lot, guard thou at least That thine Electra's fame in death survive !" She prayed, and died. Then shook the Thun- derer's throne. And, bending in assent, the immortal head Showered down ambrosia from celestial locks, To sanctify her tomb. — Ericthon there Keposes — there the dust of llus lies. There Trojan matrons, with dishevelled hair. Sought vainly to avert impending fate From their doomed lords. There, too, Cassandra
stood, Inspired with deity, and UAd the ruin That hung o'er Troy — and poured her wailing
song To solemn shades — ami Ifd the children forth. And taught to youthful li[)s the fi<iu\ lament; Sighing, she said —
" If e'er the tiods permit Your safe return from Greece, where, exiled
slaves. Your hands shall feed your haughty conqueror's steeds,
IH
NICOLO UGO F'OSCOLO.— 6
Your country ye will seek in vain ! Yon walls By mighty Plicvhus reared, shall cumber earth, In smouldering ruins. Yet the Gods of Troy Shall hold their dwelling in these tombs ; — ■
Heaven grants One proud, last gift — in grief a deathless name. Ye cypresses and palms, by princely hands Of Priam's daughters planted ! ye shall grow, Watered, alas! by widows' tears. Guard ye My slumbering fathers ! He who shall withhold The impious axe from your devoted trunks Shall feel less bitterly his stroke of grief, And touch the shrine with not unworthy hand. Guard ye my fathers! One day shall ye mark A sightless wanderer 'mid your ancient shades : Groping among your mounds, he shall embrace The hallowed urns, and question of their trust. Then shall the deep and caverned cells reply In hollow murmur, and give up the tale Of Troy twiced razed to earth and twice rebuilt; Shining in grandeur on the desert plain. To make more lofty the last monument Raised for the sons of Pelcus. There the bard, Soothing their restless ghosts with magic song, A glorious immoitality shall give Those Grecian princes, in all lands renowned, Which ancient Ocean wraps in his embrace. And thou, too, Hector, shalt the meed receive Of pitying tears, where'er the patriot's blood Is prized or mourned, so long as yonder sun Shall roll in heaven, and shine on human woe." Transl. in Amer. Quarterly Review,
1£»
JOIIX FOSTER.— 1
FOSTER, Joiix, an English clergyman and essaj-ist, born in 1770; died in 1S43. In early life he was a weaver, but having united witli the Baptist Church at the age of seven- teen, he studied for the ministry at the Baptist College at Bristol, and commenced his labors as a preacher in 1797. He preached in several places, lastly at Frome, where he went in 1804. Here he wrote his four notable Essays, " On a Man's writing Memoirs of Himself," "On Decision of Character," " On the Application of the Epithet Romantic," and " On Some of the Causes by which Evangelical Religion has been Rendered Less Acceptable to Persons of Cultivated Taste." He became one of the principal contributors to the Eclectic Review, for which he wrote nearly two hundred articles during the ensuing thirteen vears. In 1820 he wrote the last of his great Essays, "On the Evils of Popular Ignorance." His health now gave way, and, afthough he preached at intervals during the remaining twenty-three years of his life, his labor was mainly that of preparing books for the press. Besides the writings already mentioned, Foster put forth two volumes of his Contributions to the Eclectic Review. After his death appeared two series of Lec- tures Delivered at Bristol (1844 and 1847,) and an Introductory Essay to Doddridge's Rise and Progress (1847.) The Life and Correspondence of Foster, edited by J. E. Ryland. published in 1846, has gone through several editions.
CIIANGKS IN I.IFK AND OPINIONS
Tlioujrli iti momoirs inteinlcd for puUlioation a laru"' share of incl<li-nt and action would <icn- orallv he ncccssarv, vet lli'TC arc sonic nu-n whose menial history ulonc might be very interesting
JOHN FOSTER.— 3
to reflective readers; as, for instance, that of a thinking man remarkable for a number of coni- plete changes of his specuhitive system. From observing the usual tenacity of views once delib- erately adopted in mature life, we regard as a curious phenomenon the man whose mind has been a kind of caravansera of opinions, enter- tained a while, and then sent on ])ilgrin)agc ; a man who has admired and then dismissed sys- tems with the same facility with which John Bunele found, adored, married, and interred liis succession of wives, each one being, for the time, not only better than all that went before, but the best in the creation. You admire the versatile aptitude of a mind sliding into successive forms of belief in this intellectual metempsychosis, by which it animates so many new bodies of doc- trines in their turn. And as none of those dying pangs which hurt you in a tale of India attend the desertion of each of these speculative forms which the soul has a while inhabited, you are ex- tremely amused by the number of transitions, and eagerly ask what is to be the next, for you never deem the present state of such a man's views to be for pcrnianence, unless perhaps when he has terminated his course of believing every- thing in ultimately believing nothing. Even then — unless he is very old, or feels more pride in being a skeptic, the concpieror of all systems, than he ever felt in being the champion of one — even then it is very possible he may spring up again, like a vapor of tire from a bog, and glim- mer through new mazes, or retrace his course through half of those which he trod before. You will observe that no respect attaches to this Pro- teus of opinion after his changes have been mul- tiplied, as no party exi)ect him to remain with them, nor deem him much of an acquisition if he should. One, or perhaps two, considerable changes will be regarded as signs of a liberal in- quirer, and therefore the party to which his first or his second intellectual conversion may assign him will receive him gladly. But he will be
1<3
JOHN F0STER.-3
deemed to have abdicated the dignity of reason when it is found that he can adopt no principles but to betray them ; and it will be perhaps justly suspected that there is something extremely in- firm in the structure of that mind, whatever vigor may mark some of its operations, to which a series of very different, and sometimes contrasted theories, can appear in succession demonstratively true and which intimates sincerely the perverse- ness which Petruchio only affected, declaring that which was yesterday to a certainty the sun, to be to-day Jis certainly the moon.
It would be curious to observe in a man who should make such an exhibition of the course of his mind, the sly deceit of self-love. "While he despises the system which he hiis rejected, he docs not deem it to imply so great a want of sense in liim once to have embraced it, as in the rest who were then or are now its disciples and advocates. No ; in him it was no debility of rea.son ; it was at the utmost but a merge of it ; and probably he is prepared to explain to you that such peculiar circumstances as might warp even a very strong and liberal mind, attended his consideration of the subject, and misled him to admit the belief of what others prove themselves fools by believing.
Another thing apparent in a record of changed opinions would be, what I have noticed before, that there is scarcely any such tiling in the world as simple conviction. It would be amusing to observe how reason had, in one instance, been overruled into acquiescence by tlie admiration of a celebrated name, or in another into opposition by the envy of it ; liow most opportunely reason discovered the truth just at the time that interest could be essentially served by avowing it; liow easily tlie impartial examiner could be induced to adopt some part of another man's O[)inion8, after that other had zealously approved souic favorite, especially if un[)opular part of liis, as the Phari.sees almost became partial even to Christ at the moment that lie defended one of
JOHN FOSTER.— 4
their doctrines against the Sadducccs. It would be curious to see how a professed respect for a man's character and talents, and concern for his interests, might be changed, in consequence of some personal inattention experienced from him, into illiberal invective against him or his intel- lectual performances; and yet therailer, though actuated solely by petty revenge, account him- self the model of equity and candor all the while. It might be seen how the patronage of power could elevate miserable prejudices into revered wisdom, while poor old Experience was mocked with thanks for her instruction ; and how the vicinity or society of the rich, and, as they are termed, great, could perhaps melt a soul that seemed to be of the stern consistence of early Rome into the gentlest wax on which Cor- ruption could wish to imprint the venerable creed — "The riijht divine of Kino-s to povern wrong," with the pious inference that justice was outraged when virtuous Tarquin was ex- pelled. I am supposing the observer to perceive all these accommodating dexterities of reason ; for it were probably absurd to expect that any mind should in itself be able in its review to de- tect all its own obliquities, after having been so long beguiled, like the mariners in a story which I remember to have read, who followed the di- rection of their compass, infallibly right as they thought, till they arrived at an enemy's port, where they were seized and doomed to slavery. It happened that the wicked captain, in order to betray the ship, had concealed a large loadstone at a little distance on one side of the needle.
On the notions and expectations of one stage of life I suppose all reflecting men look back with a kind of contempt, though it may be often with the mingling wish that some of its enthusi- asm of feeling could be recovered — I mean the period between proper childhood and maturity. Tlicv will allow that tlicir reason was then feeble, and they are prompted to exclaim : " What fools wc have been!" while they recollect how sin- no
JOHN FOSTER. -§
cerely tbey entertained and advanced the most ridiculous speculations on the interests of life and the questions of truth ; how regretfully aston- ished they were to find the mature sense of som^ of those around them so completely wrong; yet in numerous other instances, what veneration they felt for authorities for which they have since lost all their respect ; what a fantastic importance thev attached to some most trivial things ; what complaints against their fate were uttered on ac- count of disappointments which they have since recollected willi gaiety or self-congratulation; what happiness of Elysium they expected from sources which would soon have failed to impart even common satisfaction ; and how certain they were that the feelings and opinions then pre- dominant would continue through life.
If a reflective aged man were to find at the bottom of an old chest — where it had lain for- gotten fifty years — a record which he had writ- ten of himself when he was young, simply and vividly describing his whole heart and pursuits, and reciting verbatim many passages of the lan- guage which he sincerely uttered, would he not read it with more wonder than almost every other writing could at his age inspire? He would half lose the assurance of his identity, under the im- pression of this immense dissimilarity. It would seem as if it must be the tale of the juvenile days of some ancestor, with whom he had no connec- tion but that of name. — On a Man's Writing Memoirs of Himself.
STEPHEN CCLLINS FOSTER— 1
FOSTEK, Stephen Collins, an Ameri- can sonff-writer and composer, born at Pitts- burgh, Penn., in 1826; died at New York in 1864. His first published song, " Open Thy Lattice, Love," was written in 1842, when he was a mercliant's clerk at Cincin- nati. This was rapidly followed by maiiy others, the most popular of them being com- posed in the negro dialect ; but in his later years he rarely used this patois. Among the songs in good English are '* Willie, we have Missed You," "Jennie with the Light Brown Hair," and " Old Dog Tray." He pnblished more than one hundred songs, the music as well as the words of many of them being by himself.
OLD FOLKS AT HOME.
'Way down upon de Swannee Ribber,
Far, far away — Dar's whar my lieart is turning ebber—
Dar's whar de old folks stay. All np and down de whole creation,
Sadly I roam ; Still longing for de old plantation,
And for de old folks at home.
All round de little farm I wandered,
When I was young ; Den many happy days I squandered,
Many de songs I sung. When I was playing wid my brudder,
Happy was I ; Oh, take riie to my kind old mudder!
Dare let me live and die !
One little hut among the bushes —
One dat I love — Still sadly to my memory rushes,
No matter where I rove. When will I see de bees a-bumming,
All round de comb ? When will I hear de banjo tumming
Down in my good old home ? in
"Baron de la motte fouqu^.— i
FOUQUE, Feiedeich Heineich Kakl, Baeon de la Motte, a German novelist, dramatist, and poet, born in 1777; died in 1843. Sprung from a noble family, he served in the wars of the French Republic and against Napoleon, Having been dis- abled for military service, he left the army in 1813, and devoted himself to literary pur- suits. But before this he had been a volu- minous author, writing mainly under the pseudonym of '" Pellegrin." Towards the close of his life he lectured at Halle upon poetry and literature in general, and went to Berlin for the purpose of lecturing there ; but died suddenly before commencing his lectures. His works in prose and verse, and dramas, are very numerous, the earliest appearing in 1804, and the latest being published in 1844 — the year after his death. Two years before his death he prepared a col- lection oi his /Select Wo'rhs in twelve volumes. Of his tales T/ie Nagic lilng^ Slntram^ and Aslauga's Knight have been translated into English, the last by Carlyle, in his *' German Romance." The most popular of Fouque's worksis Undine, i\rst published in 1811, of which, up to 1881, twenty-four German editions had been published ; and it has been translated into nearly every European language. Fouque was thrice married. His second wife, Caeoline von RocHow (177^^1831), was an author of con- siderable repute. II i^! third wife, Alber- TiNE ToDE, wrote a romance, liein/iold, pub- lished in 1865.
HOW fNlJI.VK CAMK TO THE FISHERMAN.
It Ih now — tlin fiHhcrniaii .said — ahout fifteen years afjo that I was one day crossing the wild fofost with iny goods, on my way to tho city. My wife liad Htaycd at home, us her wont is;
Ml
liARON DE la MOTTE FOtJQUi).— 3
and at this particular time for a very good rea- son, for God had given us in our tolerably ad- vanced age a wonderfully beautiful child. It was a little girl ; and a question always arose between us whether for the sake of the new-comer we would not leave our lovely home that we might better bring up this dear gift of Heaven in some more habitable place. Well, the matter was tol- erably clear in my head as I went along. This slip of land was so dear to me, and I shuddered wlien amid the noise and brawls of the city I thought to myself, " In such scenes as these, or in one not much more quiet, thou wilt soon make thy abode !" But at the same time I did not murmur against the good God ; on the contrary, I thanked Him in secret for the new-born babe. I should be telling a lie, too, were I to say that on my journey through the wood, going or re- turning, anything befell me out of the common way ; and at that time I had never seen any of its fearful wonders. The Lord was ever with me in those mysterious shades.
On this side of the forest, alas ! a sorrow awaited me. My wife came to meet me with tearful eyes and clad in mourning. " Oh ! good God," I groaned, " where is our dear child ? Speak!" "With Him on whom you have called, dear husband," she replied; and we entered the cottage together, weeping silently. I looked around for the little corpse, and it was then only that I learned how it had all happened.
My wife had been sitting with the child on the edge of the lake, and she was playing with it, free of all fear and full of happiness; the little one suddenly bent forward, as if attracted by something very beautiful on the water. My wife saw her laugh, dear angel, and stretch out her little hands; but in a moment she had sprung out of her mother's arms and sunk beneath the watery mirror. I sought long for our little lost one ; but it was all in vain ; there was no trace of her to be found.
The same evening we, childless parents, were
BARON DE LA MOTTE FOUQUfi.— 3
sitUns; silently together in tlie cottage ; neither of us had any desire to talk, even had our tears allowed us. ' We sat gazing into the fire on the hearth. Presently we heard something rustling outside the door'; it flew open, and a beautiful little girl, three or four years old, richly dressed, stood on the threshold smiling at us. We were quite dumb with astonishment, and I knew not at first whether it were a vision or a reality. But I saw the water dripping from her golden hair and rich garments, and I perceived that the pretty child had been lying in the water, and needed help. " Wife," said I, " no one has been able to save our dear child ; yet let us at any rate do for others what would have made us so blessed." We undressed the little one, put her to bed, and gave her something warm. At all this she spoke not a word, and only fixed her eyes, that reflect- ed the blue of the lake and of the sky, smilingly upon us.
Next morning wc quickly perceived that she had taken no harm from her wetting, and I now inquired about her parents, and how she had come here. But she gave a confused and strange ac- count. She must have been born far from here, not only because for the fifteen years I have not been able to find out anything of her parentage, but because she then spoke, and at times still speaks, of such singular things that such as we are can- not tell but that she may have dropped upon us from the moon. She talks of golden castles, of crystal domes, and heaven knows what besides. The story that she told with most distinctness was, that she was out in a boat with her mother on the great lake, and fell into the water ; and tliat she onlv recovered her senses licre under the trees, where she felt herself quite happy on the mcrrv shore.
Wc liad still a great misgiving and perplexity weighing on our hearts. Wc had iri(leeii soon decided to keej) the child wc had found, and to bring hf-r up in the place of our lost darling; but who could tell us whether she had been baptized
BARON DE LA MOTTE FOUQUfi.— 4
or not ? She herself could give us no information on the matter. She generally answered our questions by saying that she well knew she was created for God's praise and glory, and that she was ready to let us do with licr whatever would tend to his honor and glory.
My wife and I thought that if she were not baptized there was no time for delay, and that if she were, a good thing could not be repeated too often. And in pursuance of this idea wo reflected upon a good name for the child, for we were often at a loss to know what to call her. We agreed at last that " Dorothea" would be the most suitable for her, for I had once heard that it meant a "gift of God," and she had been sent to us by God as a gift and comfort in our mis- ery. She, on the other hand, would not hear of this, and told us that she thought she had been called Undine by her parents, and that Undine she wished still to be called. Now this appeared to me a heathenish name, not to be found in any calendar, and I took counsel therefore of a priest in the city. He also would not hear of the name Undine ; but at my earnest request he came with me through the mysterious forest in order to perform the rite of baptism here in my cot- tage. The little one stood before us so prettily arrayed, and looked so charming, that the priest's heart was at once moved within him ; and she flattered him so prettily, and braved him so mer- rily, that at last he could no longer remember the objections he had ready against the name of Undine, She was therefore baptized " Undine," and during the sacred ceremony she behaved with great propriety and sweetness, wild and restless as she invariably was at other times, for my wife was quite right when she said that it has been hard to put up with her. — Undine.
The Knight Huldbrand, to whom the old fisherman told this story, was inarried to Undine, the Water-sprite. After a while he becomes wearied with the strange wajs
BARON DE LA MOTTE F0UQUf:.-5
of his always loving wife ; and is betrothed to the proud and selfish Bertalda — who turns out to be the long-lost daughter of the old fisherman, having been saved by the water-spirits, and was adopted by a noble- man and his wife. Undine mysteriously disappears, only to reappear at the close of the story.
THE MARRIAGE AND DEATH OF HULDBRAND.
If I were to tell you how the marriage-feast passed at the castle, it would seem to you as if you saw a heap of bright and pleasant things, but a gloomy veil of mourning spread over them all, the dark hue of which would make the splendor of the whole look less like happiness than a mockery of the emptiness of all earthly things. It was not that any spectral apparitions disturbed the festive company ; for, as we have told, the castle had been secured from the mis- chief by the closing up by Undine of the foun- tain in the castle courtyard. But the knight and the fisherman and all the guests felt as if the chief personage were still lacking at the feast ; and that this chief personage could be none other than the loved and gentle Undine. When- ever a door opened the eyes of all were involun- tarily turned in that direction, and it was noth- ing but the butler with new dishes, or the cup- bearer with a flask of still richer wine, they would look down again sadly, and the flashes of wit and merriment which had passed to and fro would be extinguished by sad remembrances. The bride was the most thoughtless of all, and therefore the most happy ; but even to her it sometimes seemed strange that she should be sit- ting at the head of the talile, wearing a green wreath and goid-cmbroidcred attire, while Undine was lying at the bottom of the Danube, a cold and stiff corpse, or floating away with the current into the ini(,dity f)cean. Kor ever since hor father had spoken of' something of the sort, his words
Ml
BARON DE La MOTTE FOUQU^.— 6
were ever ringing in lier car ; and tins day espe- cially tliey were not inclined to give place to other thouglits. The company dispersed early in the evening, not broken uj) by the bridegroom him- self, but sadly and gloomily by the joyless mood of the guests and their forebodings of evil. Bertalda retired with her maidens, and the knight with his attendants. But at this mournful festi- val there was no laughing train of attendants and bridesmen.
Bertalda wislied to arouse more cheerful tlioughts ; she ordered a splendid ornament of jewels wliich Huldbrand liad given her, together with rich apparel and veils, to be spread out be- fore her, that from these latter she might select the brightest and the best for her morning attire. But looking in the glass she espied some slight freckles on her neck, and remembering that the water of the closed-up fountain had rare cos- metic virtues, she gave orders that the stone with which Undine had closed it should be removed, and watched the progress of the work in the moon-lit court of the castle.
The men raised the enormous stone with an effort; now and then indeed one of the number would sigh as he remembered that they were de- stroying the work of tlieir former beloved mis- tress. But the labor was far lighter than they had imagined. It seemed as if a power within the spring itself were aiding them in raising the stone. " It is," said the workmen to each other in astonishment, "just as if the water within had become a springing fountain."
And the stone rose higher and higher, and al- most without the assistance of the workmen it rolled slowly down upon the pavement with a liollow soimd. But from the opening of the fountain there rose solemnly a white column of water. At first they imagined that it had really become a springing fountain, till they perceived that the rising form was a pale female figure veiled in white. She was weeping bitterly, rais- ing her hands wailingly above her head, and
118
BARON DE LA MOTTE FOUQUl— 7
•writiging tbem as she walked witli a slow and se- rious step to the castle building. The servants fled from the spring; the bride, pale and stiff with horror, stood at the window with her attend- ants. When the figure had now come close be- neath her room it looked moaningly up to her, and Bertalda thought she could recognize be- neath the veil the pale features of Undine. But the sorrowing form passed on, sad, reluctant, and faltering, as if passing to execution.
Bertalda screamed out that the knight was to be called ; but none of the maids ventured from the spot, and even the bride herself became mute, as if trembling at her own voice. While they were still standing fearfully at the window, mo- tionless as statues, the strange wanderer had reached the castle, had passed up the well-known stairs and through the well-known halls, ever in silent tears. Alas ! how differently had she once wandered through them.
The knight, partly undressed, had already dis- missed his attendants, and in a mood of deep dejection he was standing before a large mirror, a taper was burning dimly beside him. There was a gentle tap at his door. Undine used to tap thus when she wanted playfully to tease him. " It is all fancy," said he to himself ; " I must seek my nuptial bed." " So you must, but it must be a cold one," he heard a tearful voice say from without ; and then he saw in the mirror Ills door opening slowly — slowly — and the white figure entered, carefully closing it behind her. " Thev have opened the spring," said she softly, " and now you must die."
lie felt, in his paralyzed heart, that it could not be otherwise ; but, covering his eyes with his hand.s, he said, " Do not make me mad with terror in my hour of death. If you wear a liid- eous face behind that veil, do not raise it, but take my life, and let me see you not." " Alas!" replied the figure, " will you not look upon me once more ? 1 am .xs fair as wiien you wooed roc on the promontory." " Oh, that it were so !"
BARON DE LA. MOTTE FOUQUfi.— 8
sighed lluldbrand, " and that I might die in your fond embrace !" " Most gladly, my loved one," said she ; and throwing her veil back, her lovely face smiled forth, divinely beautiful.
Trembling with love and with the approach of death, she kissed him with a holy kiss ; but, not relaxing her hold, she pressed him fervently to her, and wept as if she would weep away her soul. Tears rushed into the knight's eyes, and seemed to surge through his heaving breast, till at length his breathing ceased, and he fell softly back from the beautiful arms of Undine, upon the pillows of his couch — a corpse. " I have wept him to death," said she to some servants who met her in the antechaniber ; and, passing through the affrighted group, she went slowly out toward the fountain. — Undine.
THE BURIAL OF HULDBRAND.
The knight was to be interred in a village churchyard which was filled with the graves of his ancestors ; and this church had been en- dowed with rich privileges and gifts both by his ancestors and himself. His shield and helmet lay already on the coffin to be lowered with it into the grave ; for Sir lluldbrand of Ringstetten had died the last of his race. The mourners be- gan their sorrowful march, singing requiems un- der the bright calm canopy of heaven. Father Heilmann walked in advance, bearing a high cru- cifix, and the inconsolable Bertalda followed, sup- ported by her aged father.
Suddenly in the midst of the black-robed at- tendants in the widow's train, a snow-white figure was seen, closely veiled, and wringing her hands with fervent sorrow. Those near whom she moved felt a secret dread, and retreated either backward or to the side, increasing by their movements the alarm of the others near to whom the white stranger was now advancing ; and thus a confusion in the funeral train was well-nigh beginning. Some of the military escort were so daring as to address the figure, and to attempt tq m
BARON DE LA MOTTE FOUQUfi.— 9
move it from the procession ; but she seemed to vanish from under their hands, and yet was im- mediately seen advancing with slow and solemn stop. At length, in consequence of the continued sluinking of the attendants to the right and the left, she came close behind Bertalda. The figure now moved so slowly that the widow did not perceive it, and it walked meekly and humbly behind her undisturbed.
This lasted until they came to the church- yard, where the procession formed a circle around the open grave. Then Bertalda saw her unbid- den companion, and starting up, half in anger and half in terror, she commanded her to leave the knight's last resting-place. The veiled figure, however, gently shook her head in refusal, and raised her hands as if in humble supplication to Bertalda, deeply agitating her by the action. Father lleilmann motioned with his hand, and commanded silence, as they were to pray in mute devotion over the body which they were now covering with the earth.
Bertalda knelt silently by, and all knelt, even the grave-diggers among the rest. But when they arose again, the white stranger had vanished. On the spot where she liad knelt there gushed out of the turf a little silver spring, which rippled and murmured away till it had almost entirely encircled the kiiitrht's grave; then it ran farther, and emptied itself into a lake which lay by the Bide of the burial-place. Even to this day the inhabitants of the village show the spring, and cherish the belief that it is the poor rejected Un- dine, who in tliis manner still embraces her hus- band in her loving arms. — Undine, 1*1
FRANCOIS CHARLES FOURIER.— 1
FOURIER, FuAN(;ois Charles Marie, a French author, born in 1772; died in 1837. He was the son of a liuen-draper of Besan- gon, was educated in his native town, and when eighteen years old became a clerk in a mercantile bouse in Lyons. Later he ob- tained a position as travelling clerk in France, Germany, and Holland. In 1703 he commenced business in Lyons with the capital left liim by his father ; but when Lyons was pillaged by the army of the Con- vention, he lost his property, and escaped death only by enlisting as a private soldier. At the end of two years he was discharged on account of ill health.
He had always disliked mercantile life, but there was no other way open to him, and he again became a clerk in a house, which employed him to superintend the de- struction of a large quantity of rice that had been spoiled by being kept too long, in order to force prices np during a time of scarcity. This added to his disgnst with commercial methods, and led him to devote himself to the study of social, commercial, and political questions, with a view to the prevention of abuses and the fuitherauce of human organization and progress. In 1799, believing that he had found a clue in " the universal laws of atti*action," he applied himself to construct his theory of Universal Unity, on which he based his plans of prac- tical association. His first work, a general prospectus of his theory, was published in 1808 under the title of I heorie des Quatre Mouvenients et dcs Destinees Generales. It attracted little attention, and was soon with- drawn by its author from circulation. In 1822 he published two volumes of his work on Universal Unity, entitled V Association
PRAKQOlS CHARLES FOURIER.— 2
Domcstique Agricole^ which appeared later as La Theorie de V Unite Universelle. Be- sides containing a variety of speculations on philosopliical and metaphysical questions, tlie work sets forth the author's theory and plans of association, involving many topics. Tlie remaining seven volumes of tlie work were not then published. In 1829 Fourier issued an abridgment in one volume, en- titled Le Noiiveau 2Ionde Industrielle et Societaire, which attracted attention, and led to a negotiation with Baron Capel, Min- ister of Public Works, for an experiment of the plan of association. The revolution of 1830 destroyed Fourier's hopes in this direction, but his theories had gained nu- merous con%'erts. and in 1832, Le Phalan- stere^ ou La lirforme Industrielle, a weekly journal, was established as an organ of the socialistic doctrines. A joint-stock com- pany was formed, and an estate was pur- chased, with a view to a practical experi- ment of association. The community who had begun the experiment was soon dis- persed for lack of money to carry it on. In 1835 Fourier published the first volume of a work entitled False Industry, Fragmcnt- anj, liCjjuJsive, and Laying, and the Anti- dote, a Natural, Cotnhined, Attractive, and Trxdhful Industry, giving Quadruple Products. A second volume of this work was in press at the time of his death in 1837.
AFFINITIES IN FRIENDSHIP.
Afriiiitics in frieiidsliij) arc then, it appears, of two kinds; then; is airinity of character, and atKnity of in(histrv or action. Let us choose the word nrdou, whicli is hcttcr united to onr jirejii- dicc.H, hccriiise our readers cannot conceive what is meant hv an aflinity in industry, nor liow the
lU
FRANCOIS CHARLES FOURIER.— 3
pleasure of making clogs can give birth amongst a collection of men to a fiery friendship and a devotion without bounds. They will be able to form an idea of affinity of action, if we apply it to the case of a meal ; this action makes men cheerful ; but industrial action is much more jovial in harmony than a cheerful meal is with us. Numerous intrigues prevail in the most trifling labor of the harmonians ; hence it comes that the affinity of action is to them as strong a friendly tie as the affinity of character. You will see the proof of this in the mechanism of the passional series, and you must admit pro- visionally this motive of the affinity of action, since we perceive even in the present day acci- dental proofs of it in certain kinds of work, w here enthusiasm presides without any interested motive.
It seems, then, that Friendship, so extolled by our philosophers, is a passion very little known to them. They consider in Friendship only one of two springs — the spiritual, or the affinity of characters ; and they regard even this only in its simple working, in the form of identity or accord of tastes. They forget that affinity of character is founded just as much upon contrast — a tie as strong as that of identity. An individual fre- quently delights us by his complete contrast to our own character. If he is dull and silent, he makes a diversion to the boisterous pastimes of a jovial man ; if he is gay and witty, he derides the misanthrope. "Whence it follows, that Friendship, even if we only consider one of its springs, is still of compound essence ; for the single spring of the affinity of character presents two diametrically opposite ties, which are : —
Affinitv -! ^P''"'^"'^'' ^y ifientity. •^ ( Spiritual, by contrast.
Characters that present the greatest contrasts become sympathetic when they reach a certain degree of opposition Contrast is as dif- ferent from antipathy as diversity is from dis-
FRANCOIS CHARLES FOURIER.— 4
cord. Diversity is often a gerni of esteem and friendsliip between two writers ; it establishes between them a homotjeneous diversity or emu- lative competition, which is in fact very opposite to what is called discord, quarrelintr, antipathy, heterogeneity. Two barristers, who had pleaded cleverly against each other in a striking cause, will mutually esteem each other after the struggle. The celebrated friendship of Theseus and Piri- thous arose from a furious combat, in which they long fought together and appreciated each other's bravery.
The existing friendship has not, therefore, pliilosophical insipidities as its only source. If we may believe our distillers of tine sentiments, it appears that two men cannot be friends except they agree in sobbing out tenderness for the good of trade and the constitution. We see, on the contrary, that friendships are formed between the most contrasted as well as between identical characters. Let us remark on this liead, that contrast is not contrariety, just as diversity is not discord. Thus in Lovu, as in Friendship, contrast and diversity are germs of sympathy to us, wliereas contrariety and discord are germs of antipathy.
The affinity of characters is, then, a com- pound and not a simple spring in Friendship, since it operates througli the two extremes, through contrast or counter-accord as well as through identity or accord. This spring is there- fore made up of two elements, which are identity and contrast.
If it can be proved (and I pledge myself to do it) that the other spring of Friendship, or affinity of industrial tsistes, is in like n)anner com- poaeii of two eh'tnents whi(;h form ties through contrast and identity, it will result from it, that Frifudship, strictly analvzcd, is composed of four elements, two of wlii(;li are furnished by the spiritual spring in identity and contrast, and two furnished by the material spring in identity and contrast. Friendship is not, therefore, a
PRANgOIS CHARLES FOURIER,— 5
passion of a compound essence, but of an essence bi-conipounded of four elements. — The Passions of the Human Soul.
THE UNIVERSAL SIDEREAL LAN&UAGE.
This is the phice to iislier on the stage the muse and the poetical invocations to the learned of all sizes. Come forth all 3'c cohorts, with all your -ologies and -isms — theologists of all de- grees, geologists, arclueologists, and chronolog- ists, psychologists and ideologists; you also na- tural philosophers, geometers, doctors, chemists, and naturalists; you, especially grammarians, who have to lead the march, figure in the ad- vance guard, and sustain the first tire; for it will be necessary to employ exclusively your ministry during one year at least, in order to collect and explain the signs, the rudiments and the syntax of the natural language that will be transmitted to us by the stars. Once initiated into this uni- versal language of harmony, the human mind will no longer know any limits; it will learn more in one year of sidereal transmissions than it would have learnt in ten thousand years of incoherent studies. The gouty, the rheumatic, the hydro- phobic, will come to the telegraph to ask for the remedy for their sufferings; one hour later, they will know it by transmission from those stars, at present the object of our jokes, and which will become shortly the objects of our idolatry. Each of the classes of savaris will come in turn to gain the explanation of the mysteries which for tliree thousand years have clogged science, and all the prol)lems will be solved in an instant.
The geometer who cannot pass beyond the problems of the fourth degree, will learn the theory that gives the solutions of the twentieth and hundredth degrees. The astronomer will be informed of all that is going on in the stars of the vault, and of the milky way, and in the uni- verses, whereof ours is only an individual. A hopeless problem like that of the longitudes, will be to him but the object of one hour's telegraphic
18«
FRANCOIS CHARLES FOURIER.— 6
communication ; the natural philosopher will cause to he explained to him in a few moments his insoluhie problems, such as the composition of light, the variations of the compass, etc.; he ■will be able to penetrate suddenly all the most hidden mysteries in organization and the proper- ties of beings. The chemist, emancipated from his gropings, will know at the first onset all the sources and properties of gases and acids ; the naturalist will learn what is the true system of nature, the unitary classification of the kingdoms in hieroglyphical relation with the passions. The geologist, the archaeologist, will know the mys- teries of the formation of the globe, of their anatomy and interior structure, of their origin and end. The grammarians will know the uni- versal language, spoken in all the harmonized Worlds, as well of the sidereal vault as of the planetary vortex which is its focus. The chron- ologist and the cosmogonist will know to a min- ute almost at what epoch the physical modifica- tions took place. One morning of telegraphic sitting will unravel all the errors of Scaliger, of Buffon, and the rest. The poet, the orator, will have communicated to them the masterpieces that have been for thousands of years the ad- miration of those worlds refined in the culture of letters and of arts. Every one will see the forms and will learn the properties of the new animals, vegetables, and minerals, that will be yielded to us in the course of the fourth and the following creations. Finally, the torrents of light will be so sudden, so in)mcnse, that the suvniiK will succumb beneath the weight, as the blind man operated on for cataract files for some days the rays <A the star of which he was so long deprived. — Pussionn of tite Human iSoul. Traml.
of MOKELL.
Ill
CHARLES JAMES FOX.— 1
FOX, Charles James, an English states- man and author, horn in 1749 ; died in 1806. He was a son of Henry Fox, the first Lord Holland, who amassed a large fortune as Paymaster of the Forces, and showed him- self the most indulgent of fathers. When the son was barely fourteen, his father took him to Bath, and was in the habit of giving him five guineas every night to play with. At this early agp Fox contracted the habit of gambling, at which he made and lost several fortunes. After studying at Eton, he went to Oxford ; but left College without taking a degree. He went to the Continent, in 1766. He returned to England in 1768, having been returned to Parliament for the " pocket borough " of Midhurst, and took his seat before he had attained his majority. Almost fi'om the outset he assumed a prom- inent place in political affairs ; and soon be- came acknowledged to be the most effective debater in Parliament, of which he was a member for one constituency or another during the remainder of his life. To write the life of Fox would be to write the polit- cal history of Great Britain for almost forty years. We touch only upon some of its salient points. He opposed the action of the Government towards the revolted American colonies; he supported proposals for Parliamentary reform ; he strove against the misgovern ment of India, and was prom- inently associated with Burke in conducting the impeachment of Warren Hastings ; he opposed the hostile attitude of Great Britain towards the French Kevolution ; he was for a score of j^ears among the most earnest and persistent advocates of the abolition of the slave-trade.
Fox's fame rests mainly upon his unrir
CHARLES JA^IES FOX.— 2
vailed power as a Parliamentary orator and debater. A collection of his speeches in the House of Commons, in six volumes, was made in 1S15. These, however, give no idea of his power as an orator. He never wrote his speeches, and rarely if ever even revised the reports made of them. The speeches, as published, are the abstracts made by the Parliamentary reporters without the aid of stenography. A great part of them profess to be only minutes of the leading points. Some of them — especially the later ones — seem to be tolerably full. The earliest of these parliamentary speeches was delivered January 9, 1770 f the last June 10, 1806 ; the whole number is not less than five hun- dred. The last of these speeches, which is apparently reported nearly verbatim, is upon the Abolition of the Slave-trade, which concludes thus :
ABOLITION OF THE SLAVE-TRADE.
I do not suppose that tlicrc can be above one, or perhaps two, nienihers of this House who can object to a condemnation of the nature of the trade; and sliall now proceed to recall the atten- tion of the House to what has been its uniform, consistent, and unclianjreahle opinion for the last eighteen years, during which we should blush to have it stated that not one step has yet been taken towards the abolition of the trade. If, then, we have never ceased to express our reprobation, surely the House must think itself bound by its character, and the consistency of its proceedings, to condemn it now.
The first time this measure was proposed on the motion of my honorable friend JMr. Wilber- force], which was in th(! year 1791, it was, after a long and warm discussion, rejected. In the follow- ing year, 17(»2, after the (pieslion had been during the interval better consi<iered, there appeared to b« a very strong disposition, generally, to adopt it
CHARLES JAMES FOX.— 3
to the full ; but in the coiiiiiiittee the question for its gradual abolition was carried. On that occasion, when the most strenuous efforts were made to specify the time when the total abolition should take place, there were several divisions in the House about the immber of years, and Lord Melville, wlio was the leader and proposer of the gradual abolition, could not venture to push the period longer than eight years — or the'y ear 1800 — when it was to be totally abolished. Yet we are now in the year 1806, and while surrounding na- tions are rej)roaching us with neglect, not a single step has been taken toward this just, humane, and politic measure. When the question for a gradual abolition was carried, there was no one could suppose that the trade would last so long ; and in the meantime we have suffered other nations to take the lead of us. Denmark, much to its honor, has abolished the trade ; or, if it could not abolish it altogether, has at least done all it could, for it has prohibited its being carried on in Dan- ish ships or by Danish sailors. I own that when I began to consider the subject, early in the pres- ent session, my opinion was that the total abo- lition might be carried tliis year ; but subsequent business intervened, occasioned by the discussion of the military plan; besides which there was an abolition going forward in the foreign trade from our colonies, and it was thought right to carry that measure through before we proceeded to the other. That bill has passed into a law, and so far we have already succeeded ; but it is too late to carry the abolition through the other House. In this House, from a regard to the consistency of its own proceedings, we can indeed expect no great resistance ; but the impediments that may be opened in another would not leave sufficient time to accomplish it.
No alternative is therefore now left but to let it pass over for the present session ; and it is to afford no ground for a suspicion that we have abandoned it altogether, that we have recourse to the measure which 1 am about to propose. The
CHARLES JAMES F0X.-4
motion will not mention any limitation, either as to the time or manner of abolishinu: the trade. There have been some hints indeed thrown out in some quarters that it would be a better meas- ure to adopt something that must inevitably lead to an abolition; but after eighteen years of close attention which I liave paid to the subject, I cannot think anything so etfectual as a direct law for that purpose. The next point is as to the time when the abolition shall take place ; for the same reasons or objections which led to the gradual measure of 1V92 may occur again. That also 1 leave open ; but I have no hesi- tation to state that with respect to that my opinion is the same as it is with regard to the manner, and that 1 think it ought to be abolished immediately. As the motion, therefore, which I have to make will leave to the House the time and manner of abc^lition, I cannot but confidently express my hope and confident expectation that it will be unanimously carried.
Mr. Fox. at the close of Lis speecli, pre- sented tlie followint^ resolution. An ex- tended debate ensued. Among those who spoke in favor of the motion were Sir Sam- uel Komilly, Mr. Wilherforce, Mr. Canning, and Mr. Windham. Among those who spoke against it were Lord Castlereigh, Sir William Young, and (rcneral Tarleton. The motion was carried, the vote being 114 yeas and 15 nays.
MR. fox's motion KOFI THE ABOLITION' OF THE SLAVE-TRADE.
Resolved, That this House, conceiving the African slave-trade to be contrary to tlie laws of justice, humanity, and sound policy, will with ail [)ractical)lc expedition proceed to take effec- tual measures for abolishing the said trade, in audi manner, and at such period, as may be deemed expedient,
111
CHARLES JAMES FOX.— 6
This was the last public act perforrped by Charles James Fox. Within a week he be- came so seriously ill that he was forced to discontimie his attendance in Parliament. In his speech he had said : " So fully am I impressed with the vast importance and ne- cessity^ of attaining what will he the object of my motion this night, that if during the almost forty years that I have had the honor of a seat in Parliament, I had been so for- tunate as to accomi)lish that, and that only, I should think 1 had done enough, and could retire from public life with comfort, and the satisfaction that I had done ray duty." The bill for the abolition of the slave-trade was passed in Parliament the next year (1807), but months before, Fox was dead. Dropsical symptoms had manifested themselves ; these increased rapidly. The usual surgical operation was twice per- formed on the Tth and 31st of August, and after each operation he fell into a state of exhaustion from which he only partially rallied. On the 7th day of September his physicians gave up all hope ; he died on the evening of the 13th, in the fifty-eighth year of his age ; and his remains were interred by the side of those of Pitt in Westminster Abbey.
Perhaps the best idea of Fox as an orator may be gained from his letter to the elec- tors of Westminster, which though not de- liv^ered orally is in all respects a labored speech, prepared under circumstances which must have called forth his best powers. His course in 1792 in regard to the relations between the British Government and the French Pepublic occasioned bitter censures from almost every quarter. To explain his course, and to defend it, Fox addressed a
CHARLES JAMES FOX.— 6
loDg letter to bis constituents, the electors of Westminster.
LETTER TO THE ELECTORS OF WESTMIXSTER.
To vote in small minorities is a misfortune to which I have been so much accustomed, that I cannot be expected to feel it very acutely. To be the object of calumny and mis- representation gives me uneasiness, it is true, but an uneasiness not wholly unmixed with pride and satisfaction, since the experience of all ages and countries teaches us that calumny and misrepresentation are frequently the most un- equivocal testimonies of the zeal, and possibly the effect, with which he, against whom they are directed, has served the public. But I am in- formed that I now labor under a misfortune of a far different nature from these, and which can excite no other sensations than those of concern and humiliation. I am told that you in general disaprove of my late conduct ; and that, even among those whose partiality to me was most conspicuous, there are many who, when I am attacked upon the present occasion, profess them- selves neither able nor willing to defend me.
That your unfavorable opinion of me (if in fact you entertain such) is owing to misrepre- sentation, I can have no doubt. To do away with the effects of this misrepresentation is the object of this letter ; and I know of no mode by which I can accomplish this object at once so fairlv, and (as I hope) so effectually, as by stating to you the different motions which I made in the House of Commons in the first days of this ses- sion, together with the motives which induced me. [Here follow the statement and the justifica- tion.]
I have now stated to you fully, and I trust fairly, the arguments which persuaded me to the course of conduct which I have i)ursued. In these consists my defense, u[)(»n which vou are to pronounce ; and I hopie I shall not be thought presumptuous when I say that I expect with con- ita
CHARLES JAMES FOX.— 7
fidence a favorable verdict. If the reasonings which I liave adduced fail of convincing you, 1 confess that I shall be disappointed, because to my understanding they appear to have more of irrefragible demonstration than can often be hoped for in political discussions. But even in this case, if you see in them probability strong enough to induce you to believe that, thougli not strong enough to convince you, they — and not any sinister or oblique motives — did in fact actuate me, I still have gained my cause; for in this supposition, though the propriety of my conduct may be doubted, the rectitude of my in- tentions must be admitted.
Knowing therefore the justice and candor of the tribunal to which I have appealed, I await your decision without fear. Your approbation I anxiously desire, but your acquittal 1 confidently expect. Pitied for my supposed misconduct by some of my friends, openly renounced by others, attacked and misrepresented by my enemies, to you I have recourse for refuge and protection. And conscious that if I had shrunk from ray duty I should have merited your censure, I feel myself equally certain that by acting in confor- mity to the motives which I have explained to you, I can in no degree have forfeited the es- teem of the City of Westminster, which it has so long been the first pride of my life to enjoy, and which it shall be my constant endeavor to preserve.
As an author, in the strict sense of the word, Fox is to be judged solely by his fragment of a Jlistonj of James II. This was written in 1797. He had e%adentlj purposed to write a history of the entire •reign of that monarch ; bat he brought it only through the first two years of that reign, ending with the execution (July 15, 1685) of the Diike of Monmouth, an illegit- imate son of Charles 11., and nephew of James. This fragment, containing about
CHARLES JAMES FOX.— 8
half as much matter as a volume of this C}'clopecHa, must be regarded merely as an evidence of what Fox could have done as a historian.
EXECUTION' OF THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH.
At ten o'clock on the loth of July, 1685, Monmouth proceeded in a carriao-e of the Lieu- tenant of tlie Tower to Tower-hill, the place des- tined for his execution. The two bishops [Tur- ner and Kenn] were in the carriage with him, and one of them took the opportunity of informing him that their controversial alter- cations were not at an end; and that upon the scaffold he would again be pressed for explicit and satisfactory declarations of repentance. When arrived at the bar which had been put up for the purpose of keeping out the multitude, Monmouth descended from the car- riage, and moimted the scaffold with a firm step, attended by liis s[)iritual assistants. The sheriffs and executioners were already there. The concourse of spectators was innumerable ; and if we are to credit traditional accounts, never was the general comp;u<sion moreaffcctingly expressed. Tlie tears, sighs, and groans whicli the first sight of this lieart-rending spectacle produced, were soon succeeded by an universal and awful silence ; a respectful attention and affectionate anxiety to hear every syllable that should pass the lips of the sufferer.
The Duke began by saying he should speak little; he came to die, and he sliould die a Pro- testant of the Church of Eiighind. Here he was interrupted \iy the assistants, and told that if he was of the Church of England, ho must acknowl- edge the doctrine of non-resistance to be true. In vain did ho reply that if he acknowl- edged the doctrine of the Chinch in general, it include*! all. They insisted ho should own that doctrine partinilarly with respect to his e.-ise; and urged much more concerning their favorite point, upon which, however, they obtained no-
IM
CHARLES JAMES FOX.— 9
thing but a repetition in substance of former an- swers, lie was then proceeding to speak of Lady Harriet Wentworth — of his liigh esteem for her, and of his confirmed opinion that their connection was innocent in tlie sight of God — ■when Goslin, tlie sheriff, asked him, with all the unfeeling bhintness of a vulgar mind, whether he was ever married to her. Tlie Duke refusing to answer, the same magistrate, in the like strain, though changing his subject, said he hoped to liave heard of his repentance for the treason and bloodshed which had been committed ; to which the prisoner replied, with great mildness, that he died very penitent. Here the churchmen again interposed, and renewing their demand of particular penitence and />«6//c acknowledgment upon public affairs, Monmouth referred them to the following paper, which he signed that morn- ing : " I declare that the title of king was forced upon me, and that it was very much con- trary to my opinion when I was proclaimed. For the satisfaction of the world, I do declare that the late King told me he was never married to my mother. Having declared this, I hope the King who is now, will not let my children suffer on this account. And to this I put my hand this fifteenth day of July, 1685. — Monmouth." There was nothing, they said, in that paper about resistance ; nor — though Monmouth, quite worn out with their importunities, said to one of them, in the most affecting manner, " I am to die, pray my lord, I refer to my paper " — would those men think it consistent with their duty to desist. There were only a few words they desired on one point. The sub- stance of these applications on one hand, and an- swers on the other, was repeated over and over again, in a manner that could not be believed if the facts were not attested by tlie signatures of the persons principally concerned. If the Duke, in declaring his sorrow for what had passed, used the word invasion, " Give it the true name," said they, " and call it rebellion^ " What name
CHARLES JAMES FOX.— 10
you please," replied the mild-tempered Moii- mouth. He was sure be was going to everlast- ing happiness, and considered the serenity of his mind in his present circumstances as a certain earnest of the favor of his Creator. His repent- ance, he said, must bie tirue, for he had no fear of dying ; he should die like a lamb. " Much may come from natural courage," was the unfeeling and brutal reply of one of the assistants. Mon- mouth, with that modesty inseparable from true bravery, denied that he was in geheral less fear- ful than other men, maintaining that his present courage was owing to his consciousness that God had forgiven him his past transgressions, of all which generally he repented with all his soul.
At last the reverend assistants consented to join with him in prayer; but no sooner were they risen from their kneeling posture than they re- turned to their charge. Not satisfied with what had passed, they exhorted him to a true and thorough repentance: would he not pray for the King? and send a dutiful message to his Majesty to recommend the Duchess and his children? "As you please," was the reply; "I pray for him and for all men." He now spoke to the executioner, desiring that he might have no cap over his eyes, and began undressing. One would liave thought that in this last sad cere- mony the poor prisoner might have been unmo- lested, and that the divines might have been sat- isfied that prayer was the only part of their function for which their duty now called upoi. them.
Thev judged differently, and one of them had the fortitude to request the Duke, even in this stage of the business, that he would address him- self to the soldiers then present, to tell them he stood a sad example of rebellion, and entreat the
{)coplc to be loyal and obedient to the King. " I lave Baifl 1 will make no speeches," repeated Monuioiith, in a tone jnore peremptory than he had before been provoked to ; " I will make no speeches, I come to die." " My Lord, ten words in
CttAhLfiS JAMES J'O^t.-U
Will l)C ctiough," said the persevering divine ; to which the Duke made no answer, but turning to the executioner, expressed a hope that he would do his work better now than in tlie case of Lord Russell, lie then felt the axe, which he appre- hended was not sharp enough ; but being assured that it was of proper sharpness and weight, he laid down his head. In the meantime many fer- vent ejaculations were used by the reverend as- sistants, who, it must be observed, even in these niouicnts of horror, showed themselves not un- mindful of the points upon which they had been disputing — praying God to accept his imperfect and (feneral repentance.
The executioner now struck the blovv, but so feebly or unskilfully, tliat Monmouth, being but slightly wounded, lifted up his head and looked him in the face as if to upbraid him, but said nothing. The two following strokes were as in- effectual as the first, and the headsman, in a fit of horror, declared that he could not finish his work. The sheriffs threatened him ; lie was forced again to make a further trial, and in two more strokes separated the head from the body. Thus fell, in the thirty-sixth year of his age, James, Duke of Monmouth, a man against whom all that has been said by the most inveterate en- emies both to him and his party, amounts to lit- tle more than this — that he had not a mind equal to the situation in which his ambition, at different times, engaged him to place himself. — History of James the Second.
Besides the history as it thus concludes, there are a few short paragraphs evidently intended for a succeeding chapter. Of these the following is the longest :
PLANS OF JAMES II.
James was sufficiently conscious of the in- creased strength of his situation, and it is prob- able that the security he now felt in his power inspired him with the design of taking more de-
CHARLES JAMES FOX.— 13
cided steps in favor of the popish religion and its professors than his connection with the Church of Encrland party had before allowed him to en- tertain. That he from this time attached less importance to the support and affection of the Tories is evident from Lord Rochester's [Lawrence Hyde] observations, communicated afterwards to Burnet. This nobleman's abilities and experience in business, his hereditary merit, as son of Lord Chancellor Chirendon, and his uniform opposi- tion to the Exclusion Bill, had raised him high in the esteem of the Church party. This circum- stance, perhaps, as much or more than the King's personal kindness to a brother-in-law, had contributed to his advancement to the first office in the state. As long, therefore, as James stood in need of the support of the party, as long as he meant to make tliem the instruments of his power and the channels of his favor, Rochester was in every respect the fittest person in whom to con- fide; and accordingly, as that nobleman related to Burnet, His Majesty honored him with daily confidential communications upon all his most secret schemes and projects. But upon the defeat .of the rebellion, an immediate change took place, and from the day of Monmouth's execution, the King confined his conversation with the Treas- urer to the mere Inisiness of his office.
In writing the HisUjry of Jam^s 11.^ Fox laid it down as a principle that he "would admit into the work no word for which he had not the authority of Dryden." Among the numerous works relating to Fox, tlie most notable is the Memoi'ials and Cnrrt'Kpondenre of Charlea James Fox^ edited by Lord John Russell (3 vols., 1854).
GEORGE FOX.-l
FOX, George, the founder of the " So- ciety of Friends" or Quakers, born in Der- byshire, Enghmd, in 1624; died at London in 1690. His father was a pious weaver, but too poor to give his son any education beyond reading and writing. He was ap- prenticed to a shoemaker, but at the age of nineteen he abandoned this occupation, and for some years led a solitary and wandering life preparing himself for the mission to which he believed himself divinely called. In his Journal he thus describes some of the visions which marked his spiritual career :
fox's visions. One morning, as I was sitting by the fire, a great cloud came over me, and a temptation be- set me, and I sate still. And it was said, " All things come by nature ;" and the Elements and Stars came over me, so that I was in a moment quite clouded with it ; but inasmuch as I sat still and said nothing, the people of the house perceived nothing. And as I sate still under it and let it alone, a living hope rose in me, and a true voice arose in me which cried: "There is a living God who made all things." And imme- diately the cloud and temptation vanished away, and the life rose over it, and all my heart was
glad, and I praised the living God After-
■ wards the Lord's power broke forth, and I had great openings and prophecies, and spoke unto the people of the things of God, which they hieard with attention and silence, and went away and spread the fame thereof.
Fox made his first public appearance as a preacher at Manchester, in 1648, and he was put in prison as a disturber of the peace. He was subsequently for nearly forty years beaten and imprisoned times almost with- out number. He thus describes one of the earliest of these experiences :
GEORGE FOX.— 3
MALTREATMENT AT ULVERSTONE.
The people were in a rage, and fell upon me in the steeple-house before his [Justice Sawrey's] face, knocked me down, kicked me, and trampled upon me. So great was the uproar, that some tumbled over their seats for fear. At last he came and took me from the people, led me out of the steeple-house, and put me into tlie hands of the constables and other officers, bidding them whip me, and put me out of the town. Many friendly people being come to the market, and some to the steeple-house to hear me, divers of these they knocked down also, and broke their heads, so that the blood ran down several ; and Judge Fell's son running after to see what they would do with me, they threw him into a ditch of water, some of them crying : " Knock the teeth out of his head." When they had hauled me to the common moss-side, a multitude following, the constables and other officers gave me some blows over my back with willow-rods, and thrust me among the rude multitude, who, having fur- nished themselves with staves, hedge-stakes, holm or holly bushes, fell upon me, and beat me upon the head, arms, and shoulders, till they had deprived me of sense ; so that I fell down upon the wet common. Wlien I recovered again, and saw myself lying in a watery common, and the people standing about me, I lay still a little while, and the power of the Lord sprang through me, and the eternal refreshings revived me, so that I stood up again in the strengthening power of the eternal God, and stretching out my arms amongst them, I said with a loud voice : " Strike again I here are my arms, my head, and cheeks!" Then they began to fall out among themselves. — Journal.
In 1655 Fox was sent up as a prisoner to London, where he liarl an interview witli the Lord Protector, Oliver Cromwellj which be thus describes :
GEORGE FOX.— 3
INTERVIEW WITH OLIVER CROMWELL.
After Captain Drury had lodged me at the Mermaid, over acjainst the Mews at Charing Cross, lie went to give tlie Protector an account of me. When he came to me again, he told me the Protector required that I should promise not to take up a carnal sword or weapon against him or the government, as it then was ; and that I should write it in what words I saw good, and set my hand to it. I said little in reply to Cap- tain Drury, but the next morning I was moved of the Lord to write a paper to the Protector, by the name of Oliver Cromwell, wherein 1 did, in the presence of the Lord God, declare that I did deny the wearing or drawing of a "carnal sword, or any other outward weapon, against him or any man ; and that I was sent of God to stand a wit- ness against all violence, and against the works of darkness, and to turn people from darkness to light; to bring them from the occasion of war and lighting to the peaceable Gospel, and from being evil-doers, which the magistrates' sword should be a terror to." When I had written what the Lord had given me to write, I set my name to it, and gave it to Captain Drury to hand to Oliver Cromwell, which he did.
After some time, Captain Drury brought me before the Protector himself at Whitehall. It was in a morning, befoie he was dressed ; and one Harvey, who had come a little among Friends, but was disobedient, waited upon him. When I came in, I was moved to say : " Peace be in this house;" and I exhorted him to keep in the fear of God, that he might receive wisdom from him ; that by it he might be ordered, and with it might order all things under his hand unto God's glory. I spoke much to him of truth; and a great deal of discourse I had with him about religion, wherein he carried himself very moderately. But he said we quarrelled with the priests, whom he called ministers. I told him "I did not quarrel with them, they quarrelled with mo and my friends, But, said I,
GEORGE POX.— 4
if we own the prophets, Christ, and the apostles, we cannot hold up such teachers, prophets, and shepherds, as the prophets, Christ, and the apostles declared apiinst ; but we must declare as^ainst them by the same power and spirit." Then I showed him that the prophets, Christ, and the apostles declared freely, and declared asrainst them that did not declare freely ; such as preached for tilthv lucre, divined for money, and preached for hire, and were covetous and greedy, like the dumb dogs that c%)uld never have enough ; and that they wlio have the same spirit that Christ, and the prophets, and the apostles had, could not but declare against all such now, as they did then. As I spoke, he several times said it was verv good, and it was truth. I told him : "That all Christendom, so called, had the Scrip- tures, but they wanted the [lower and spirit that those had who gave forth the Scriptures, and that was the reason they were not in fellowship with the Son, nor with the Father, nor with the Scrip- tures, nor one with another."
Many more words I had with him, but people coming in, I drew a little back. As I was turn- ing, lie catched me by the hand, and with tears in his eyes said : " Come again to my house, for if thou and I were but an hour of a day together, we should be nearer one to the other; adding, that he wished me no more ill than he did to his own soul. I told him, if he did, he wronged his own soul, and admonished him to hearken to God's voice, that he might stand in his counsel, and obey it; and, if he did so, that would keep him from hardness of heart ; but if he did not hear God's voice, his heart would be hardened. lie saiil it was true.
Then I went out; and when Captain I>rury came out after me, he tobl me the Lord Protector said I was at liberty, and might go whither I would. TIj'Ti I was brought into a great hall, where the Prf>t«'ctor's gj-ntlemen were to dine. I asked them what they brought me thither for. They said it was by the Protector's order, that I tot
GEORGE F0X.-5
might dine with them. I bid them let the Pro- tector know I would not eat of his bread, nor drink of his drink. When he heard this, he said : " Now 1 see there is a people risen that I cannot win, either with gifts, honors, offices, or places ; but all other sects and people I can." It was told him again, " That we had forsook our own, and were not like to look for such things from him." — Journal.
Three years hiter Fox Lad one more brief meeting with Oliver, 'not many days before his death :
A WAFT OF DEATH.
The same day, taking boat, I went down to Kingston, and from thence to Hampton Court, to speak with the Protector about the sufferings of Friends. I met him riding into Hampton Court Park ; and before I came to him, as he rode at the head of his life-guard, I saw and felt a waft of death go forth against him : and when I came to him he looked like a dead man. After I had laid the sufferings of Friends before him, and had warned him according as I was moved to speak to him, he bade me come to his house. So 1 returned to Kingston, and the next day went up to Hampton Court to speak further with him. But when I came, Harvey, who was one that waited on him, told me the doctors were not willing that I should speak with him. So I passed away, and never saw him more. — Journal.
After the restoration of Charles IL, Fox was subjected to repeated imprisonments. In 1669 be married Margaret Fell, the widow of a Welsh judge, who bad been among bis earliest converts. Soon after- wards be set out upon a missionary tour to the West Indies and North America. In bis later years be seems to have encountered little annoyance from the Government.'
JOHN FOXE.— 1
FOXE, or FOX, John, an English mar- tyrologist, born in 1517; died in 15S7. He was educated at Oxford, and in 1543 was elected a Fellow of Magdalen College, but having embraced the principles of the Re- formation, he was two years afterwards de- prived of his Fellowship; his stepfather also succeeded in depriving him of his patrimony. Subsequently we find him act- ing as tutor to the children of Sir James Lucy (Shakespeare's ''Justice Shallow.") In 1550 he was ordained' as deacon by Bishop Ridley, and settled at Reigate. After the accession of Queen Mary Tudor, he was obliged to seek refuge on the Con- tinent, taking up his residence at Basel, Switzerland, where he maintained hiniself as a corrector of the press for the printer Oporinus. At the suggestion of Lady Jane Grey, he had already begun the composition of his Acta et 21onumtnta Ecdexia^ com- monly known as Foxe^'i Booh of Martyrs^ in which he received considerable assistance from Grindal, afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury, and from Aylmer, afterwards Bishop of London, who became one of the most zealous opponents of the Puritans. He returned to England soon after the ac- cession of Elizabeth, and rose into favor with the new Government, to which he had rendered notable service by his pen. Cecil, Lord Burleigh, made him a prebend in Salisbury Cathedral, and for a short time he held the living of Cripj)k'gate, London ; but true to his Puritan ])rinci})les, he refused to Kubscrilte to the Articles, and declined to ac- cept further j)refern)ents which were offered to iiini.
The first outline of the Ada apjK'arcd at Basel in 1554, and the first complete edition
JOHN FOXE.— 2
five years later. The first English edition was printed in 15();}. The book became higlily popular with a people who had just gone through the horrors of the Marian persecution ; and Government directed that a copy should be placed in every parish church. The title of the work will best set forth its scope and design :
ORIGINAL TITLE OF THE " BOOK OF MARTYRS."
Acts and Momnnciits of these latter and Peril- Ions Dayes, touclung matters of the Church, wherein are conipreliended and described the great Persecutions and horrible Troubles that have been wrought and practised by the Koinishe Prelates, espcciallye in this Realme of England and Scotland, from the yeare of our Lorde a thousand to the time now present. Gathered and collected according to the true Copies and Wrytinges certificatorie as well of the Parties themselves that Suffered, as also out of the Bishops' Registers, which were the doers thereof, by John Foxe.
One of the most notable of the martyr- doms recorded by Foxe is prefaced by the following heading : "A Notable History of "William Hunter, a Young Man of 19 Years, pursued to death by Justice Brown, for the Gospel's Sake, Worthy of all Young Men and Parents to be read :"
THE MARTYRDOM OF WILLIAM HUNTER.
In the meantime, William's father and mother came to him, and desired heartily of God that he might continue to the end in that good way which he had begun ; and his mother said to him that she was glad that ever she was so happy to bear such a child, wliicli could find in his lieart to lose his life for Christ's name sake.
Then William said to his mother: " For my little pain which I shall suffer, which is but a sot
JOHN FOXE.— 3
short braid, Christ hath promised me, mother," said he, •' a crown of joy : may you not be glad of that, mother T' Withthat, his mother kneeled down on her knees, saying; "I pray God strengthen thee, my son, to the end : yea, I think thee as well bestowed as any child that ever I bare."
At the which words. Master Higbed took her in his arms, saying : " I rejoice" (and so said the others) "to see yon in this mind, and you have a good cause to Vejoice." And his father and mother both said that they were never of other mind, but prayed for him, that as he had begun to confess Christ before men, he likewise might so continue to the end. William's father said : " I was afraid of nothing, bnt that my son should have been killed in the prison for hunger and cold, the bishop was so hard to him." But William confessed, after a month that his father was charged with his board, that he lacked nothing, but had meat and clothing enough, yea, even out of the court, both money, meat, clothes, wood, an<l coals, and all things necessary.
Thus thev continued in their inn, being the Swan in Bruiitwood, in aparlour, whither resorted many people of the country, to see those good men'which were there; and many of William's acquaintance came to him, and reasoned with him, and he witli them, exhorting them to come awav from the abomination of popish supersti- tion and idolatry.
Thus passing away Saturday, Sunday, and Monday, on Monday, at night, it happened that Wiiliam had a dream about two of the clock in the morning, which was this: how that he was at the place where the stake was piglit, whore he shouM be burnetl, which (as lie thought in his dream) was at the town's end whore the butts stood, which was so in<lood; and also he dreamed that he met with his father, as he went to the stake, and also that there was "a priest at the stake, which went about to have hint recant. To whom he said (as he thought in his dream), how
Ml
JOHN FOXE.— 4
that he bade him away false prophet, and how that he exliorted the people to beware of him and such as he was ; which things came to pass indeed. It happened that William made a noise to himself in his dream, which caused M. Higbed and the others to wake him out of hia sleep, to know what he lacked. When he awaked, he told them his dream in order as is said.
Now, wlicn it was day, the sheriff, M. Brocket, called on to set forward to the burning of Will- iam Hunter. Then came the sheriff's son to William Hunter, and embraced him in his right arm, saying : " William, be not afraid of these men, which are here present with bows, bills, and weapons ready prepared to bring you to the place where you shall be burned." To whom William answered: "I thank God I am not afraid ; for I have cast my count what it will cost me, already." Then the sheriff's son could speak no more to him for weeping.
Then William Hunter plucked up his gown, and stepped over the parlor grounsel, and went forward cheerfully, the sheriff's servant taking him by one arm, and his brother by another; and thus going in the way, he met with his father, according to his dream, and he spake to his son, weeping, and saying : " God be with thee, son William;" and William said: "God be with you, good father, and be of good com- fort, for I hope we shall meet again, when we shall be merry." His father said : " I hope so, William," and so departed. So William went to the place where the stake stood, even accord- ing to his dream, whereas all things were very unready. Then William took a wet broom fagot, and kneeled down thereon, and read the 51st psalm, till he came to these words : " The sacri- fice of God is a contrite spirit; a contrite and a broken heart, 0 God, thou wilt not despise."
Then said Master Tyrell of tlie Bratches, called William Tyrell: "Thou licst," said he; "thou readest false, for the words are, 'an
30«
JOHN FOXE.— 5
spirit.'" But William said: "The translation saitli ' a contrite heart.' " " Yes," quoth Mr. Tvrell, "the translation is false; ye translate books as ye list yourselves, like here- tics." " Well," quoth William, " there is no great difference in those words." Then said the sheriflf : " Here is a letter from the queen ; if thou wilt recant, thou shalt live ; if not, thou shalt be burned." " No," quoth William," " I will not recant, God willing." Then William rose, and went to the stake, and stood upri<rht to it. Then came one Richard Pond, a bailiff, and made fast the chain about William.
Then said Master Brown ; " Here is not wood enough to burn a leg of liim." Then said Will- iam : "Good people, pray for me; and make speed, and desjtatch quickly ; and- pray for me while ye see me alive, good people, and I will pray for you likewise." " How !" quoth Master Brown, "pray for tliee? I will pray no more for thee than I will pray for a dog." To whom William answered: "Master Brown, now you have that which you souglit for, and I pray God it be not laid to your charge in the last day ; howbeit, I forgive you." Then said Master Brown : " I ask no forgiveness of thee." " Well," said William, " if God forgive you not, I shall require my blood at your hands."
Then said William : " Son of God, sliinc upon mc !" and immediately the sun in tlie element slionc out of a dark cloud so full in his face that he was constrained to look another way ; whereat the people mused, because it was so dark a little time afore. Then William took up a fagot of broom, and embraced it in his arm?.
Then this priest which William dreamed of came to liis brother Robert with a popish >)ook to carry to William, that lie might recant ; which book his brother would not meddle withal. Then William, seeing the priest, and perceiving how he would have shewed him the book, said : "Away, thou false proplietl Beware of them, good people, and counr away from their abomi-
JOHN FOXE.— 6
nations, lest tliat you be {)artakers of their plagues." Then quoth the priest : " Look how thou burnest liere ; so shalt thou burn in hell." William answered: "Thou best, thou false prophet ! Away, thou false prophet ! away !"
Then there was a gentleman which said : " I pray God have mercy upon liis soul." The people said : " Ainen, Amen."
Immediately lire was made. Then William cast his psalter right into his brother's hand, who said : " William, think on the holy passion of Christ, and be not afraid of death." And William answered: " I am not afraid." Then lift he up his hands to heaven, and said : " Lord, Lord, Lord, receive my spirit !" And casting down his head again into tlie smothering smoke, he yielded up -liis life for the truth, sealing it with his blood to the praise of God. — Book of Mar- tyrs.
THE DKATH OF ANNE BOLEYN.
And this was the end of that godly lady and queen. Godly I call her, for sundry respects, whatever the cause was, or quarrel objected against her. First, her last words, spoken at her death, declared no less her sincere faith and trust in Christ than did her quiet modesty utter forth the goodness of the cause and matter, whatsoever it was. Besides that, to such as can wisely judge upon cases occurrent, this also may seem to give a great clearing unto her, that the king, tlie third day after, was married unto an- other. Certain this was that for the rare and singular gifts (jf her mind, so well instructed, and given toward God with such a fervent desire unto the truth, and setting forth of sincere re- ligion, joined with like gentleness, modesty and pity toward all men, there have not many such queens before her borne the Crown of England. Principally this one commendation she left be- hind her, that during her life the religion of Christ most happily flourished, and had a right prosperous course. — Book of Martyrs.
"ROBERT EDWARD FRANCILLON.— 1
FRANCILLON, Egbert Edward, an English novelist and miscellaneous writer, born at Gloucester, in 1841. He was edu- cated at Cheltenham College and at Oxford, studied law, and was admitted to the har in 1864. In 1867 he edited the Law Maga- zine. The next year his lirst work of fic- tion, Grace Oweii's Engagement, was pub- lished in Blael: icoo(V s Jlagazim. Since that time he has contributed many novel- ettes and short stories and articles social and critical to various magazines ; has written songs for music, and has served on the edi- torial staff of the Glohe newspaper. Among his novels are Earle's Dene (1870), Pearl and Emerald (1872), Zelda's Eortune (1873), Oh/mpia (1874), A Bog and his h/tadoio (1876), Rare Good Luek and In the Dark (1877), Strange Waters and Left- Ilanded Lisa (1879), Queen Cophetua, 'Under Slieve Ban, Quits at Last, Bij Day and Night, A Real Queen, and Jack Doyle's Daxighter.
k PERSISTENT LOVER.
Things happened slowly at Dunmoylc. Even the harvest was hiter there than elsewhere. But still the harvest did come — sometimes; and things did happen now and then. Everything had gone wrong since I'hil Ryan was drowned. And now Kate's grandmother, who had been nothing hut a hurden to all who knew her for years, fell ill, and became what most people would have called a burden upon Kate also. But as f<)r Kate, she bore it bravely ; and not even her poet lover had the heart to call her dull any more. lie did not lielp her nnich, but he sat a great deal on the three-legged stool, and discoursed to the old woman so comfortably and philoso[)hically when Kate happened to be ab- sent, that the familiar ecclesiastical sound of his profane Latin often d(-ceived her into crossing
ROBERT EDWARD FRANCILLOK— 3
herself devoutly at the names of Bacchus and Apollo. Grotesque enough was the scene at times when, in the smoky twilight, the school- master sat and spouted heathen poetry to the bedridden old peasant woman, looking for all the world like a goblin who had been sent expressly to torment the deathbed of a sinner. And no impression could have been more untrue. For a too intimate knowledge of how potheen may be made and sold without enriching the King is scarcely a sin, and had it not been for the gob- lin, Kate would never have been able to go out- side the door.
Father Kane, too, came often, and discoursed a more orthodox kind of learning. But Michael Fay came nearly every day ; and whenever he and Kate were in the room together, the goblin would creep out and leave them by themselves. Michael was indeed of unspeakable help to her in those days. The shyness that Denis Rooney had planted left her, and she was not afraid to tell herself that she looked up to Michael as to a brother — and in that at least there was no treason to Phil. But at last all was over, and Kate was alone in the world — not less the great world, cold and wide, though it was only Dunmoyle.
" Kate," said Michael, at the end of about a week after the funeral. It is not much of a speech to write, but her name was always a great thing for him to say. They were in the cabin where her grandmother had died, and it had be- come a more desolate place than ever. She had gone back to her spinning. But he did not oc- cupy the three-legged stool — not, by any means, because he was afraid of losing dignity, but sim- ply because his weight would most inevitably have changed its three legs into two.
He was leaning against the wall behind her, so that he could see little of her through the darkness — there was no smoke to-day because there was no fire — exept her cloaked shoulders and coil of black hair, and she saw nothing of him at all. She did not hear, even in his " Kate," lit
ROBERT EDWARD FRANCILLON.— 3
more than a simple mention of her name. "Kate" certainly did not seem to call for an an- swer. But it was some time before he said any- thing more. To his own heart he had already said a great deal.
" Kate," he said again at last, " there's some- thing I've had in my heart to tell ye for a long
while 'Tisthis, ye see Ye're all alone
by yourself now, and so am I. Not one of us has got a living soul but our own to care for : all of my kin are dead and gone, and there's none left of
vours Why wouldn't we — why wouldn't
we be alone together, Kate, instead of being alone by ourselves ? I don't ask for more than ve've got to give me. 'Tis giving, I want to be, not taking, God knows. I've always loved ye — from the days when ye weren't higher than that stool ; and I've never seen a face to come between me and yours, and I never will. But I've never loved ye like now. And I wouldn't spake while ye weren't alone ; Init notv I want to give ye my hands and my soul and my life, to keep yc from all harm. It's not for your love I'm askin' ; it's to let me love yoM."
The passion in his voice had deepened and quickened as lie went on. But he did not move. He was still leaning against the wall, when she turned round and faced him — a little pale, but unconfused.
" And are ye forgettin' !" she said, quietly and sadlv, "that I'm the widow of Phil Ryan that's drowned?"
" And if — if ye were his real widow — if yc wore his ring — would ye live and die by yourself, and break the heart of a livin' man for the sake of one that's gone ?"
" Not gone to me," said she. " Oh, Michael, why do yc say »uch things? Aren't wc own brother and sister, as if we'd been in the same cradle, and had both lost the same kin ? Wouhl yc ask me to be false tf> the boy I swore to marry, and none but him? Why will ye say things
91}
ROBERT EDWARD FRANCILLON.— 4
that'll make me go away over the hills and never see yc again?"
It was not in human nature, however patient, to liear her set up the ghost of this dead sailor lad, drowned years ago, as an insuperable barrier between her and her living lover, without some touch of jealous anger. Have I not, felt Michael, served my time for her, and won her well ? Could that idle vagabond have given her half the love in all her life that I'm asking her to take this day ? But he said nothing of his feeling. He thought ; and he could find no fault with what was loyal true.
" I'm the last to blame ye for not forgettin', Kate," said he. " It's what I couldn't do myself. But I'm not askin' ye to forget — I'm askin' ye to help a livin' man live, and that doesn't want ye to give him your life, but only to give you his own. Ye can feel to me like a sister, Kate, if ye plase, till the time comes for better things, as maybe it will, and as it will if I*can bring it anyhow. If ye were my own sister, wouldn't ye come to me? And why wouldn't ye come now, when ye say your own self ye're just the same as if ye were ? It's for your own sake I'm askin' ye — but it's for my own too. Live without ye ? Indeed, I won't know how."
" His last words were to the purpose ; for it is for his own sake that a woman, as well in Dun- moyle as elsewhere, would have a man love her, and not for hers. But she only said, as she bent over her wheel,
" It can't be, Michael. Don't ask me again."
" 80 finely and yet so tenderly she said it that he felt as if he had no more to say. He could only leave her, then ; though he no more meant to give up Kate than he meant to give up Rath- cool. — Under Slieve Ban. 914
JOHN WAKEFIELD ERANClS.— 1
FRANCIS, JoHX Wakefield, an Amer- ican physician and author, born at New York in 1789: died therein 18G1. After learning the printer's trade, he entered an advanced class in Colnnibia College, where he graduated in 1809. He studied medicine partly under Dr. Hosack, with whom he en- tered into partnership. In 1816 he went to Europe, where lie continued his medical studies under Abernethy ; and upon his re- turn the following year was made Professor of the Institutes of Medicine, and subse- quently of Medical Jurisprudence and Ol> stetrics in the College of Physicians and Sur- geons, Besides his numerous profession'al wntings he was a frequent contributor to medical and literary journals, and wrote biogra])hical sketches of many distinguished men. His principal work is Old jS^cv: York, or Revi'inhrences <>ftli(:'j*a.st Si.rfi/ Years (1857 ; republished in 1805. with a Memoir by H. T. Tuckerman.)
RECOLLECTIONS OF PUILIP FKEXEAU.
I liad, wlien very young, ro;id the poetry of Frcnoau, and as we instinctively bcconio attached to the writers who first captivate our imaginations, it was with much zest that I formed a personal aoquaintanoe with the Kevolutionary bard. lie was at that time [18-J8J about seventy-six years oM when he first introduced himself to me in my Iil)rarv. I gave him an earnest welcome. He was somewhat below the ordinary height; in per- son thin vet muscular, with a firm step, tliougb a little inclined to stoop. His countenance wore traces of care, yet lightened with intelligence as he s[ioko. He was mild in enunciation, neither rapid nor slow, but clear, distinct, and emphatic. His forehead was rather beyond the medium elevation ; liis eyes a dark gray, occupying a Bocket (ieej)er than common ; his hair must once have been beautiful ; it was now thinned and of
John wakefield francis.— 2
an iron gray. He was free of all ambitious dis- plays ; liis habitual expression was pensive. Ilis dress might have passed for that of a farmer. New York, the city of his birth, was his most in- teresting theme ; his collegiate career with Mad- ison, next. His story of many of his occasional poems was (juite romantic. As he had at com- mand types and a printing-press, when an inci<lont of moment in the Revolution occurred, he would retire for composition, or find shelter under the shade of some tree, indite his lyrics, repair to the press, set up his types, and issue his j)roductlons. There was no difhculty in versification with him.
It is remarkable how tenaciously Freneau
preserved the acquisitions of his early classical studies, notwithstanding he had for many years, in the after-portions of his life, been occupied in pursuits so entirely alien to books. There is no portrait of the p;itriot Freneau ; he always firmly declined the painter's art, and would brook no "counterfeit presentment." — Old New York.
DEATH SCENE OF GOUVERNEUR MORRIS.
When he was about dying, he said to a friend at Morrisania: "Sixty years ago it pleased the Almighty to call me into existence, here, in this very room ; and how shall I complain that he is pleased to call me hence?" From the nature of his disease, he was aware that his hours were numbered. On the morning of his death, he inquired of a near relative what kind of a day it was. " A beautiful day," answered his nephew ; "the air is soft, the sky cloudless, the water like crystal ; you hear every ripple, and even the plash of the steamboat wheels on the river : it is a beautiful day." The dying man seemed to take in this description with that zest for nature which accorded with the poetic interest of his character. Like Webster, his mind reverted to Gray's Elegy; he looked at the kind relative, and repeated his last words : " A beautiful day ; yes, but
" ' Who to dumb foriretfiilness a prey,
This pleasing anxious biins,^ e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind.' " tit
&ra PHILIP FRANCIS.— 1
FRAN"CIS, Sir Philip, a British politi- cian and pamphleteer, born at Dublin in 1740; died at London in 1818. He was a son of the Rev. Philip Francis, one of the best of the English translators of Horace, who left Ireland for England in 1750. The elder Francis was a protege of Henry Fox, then Secretary of State, by whom the son was brought into office. In 1773 he was sent to India as one of the Council of State, with a salary of £10,000 a year. He re- mained in India six 3'ears, when he became involved in a quarrel with Warren Hastings, which resulted in a duel in which Francis was severely wounded. Returning to Eng- land he entered into politics ; became a meuiber of Parliament, but gained no com- manding position in public life, from which he retired in 1807, having been knighted the preceding year.
Francis was the acknowledged author of some thirty political pamphlets ; but his only claim to remembrance rests upon his sup- posed authorship of the " Letters of Junius," a series of brilliant newsj)aper articles which appeared at intervals in the Pnhl'tc Adver- iixer between January, 17(50, and January, 1772. In the first authorized collection of these letters there were 44 beariii<; the sijj- nature of ''Junius," and 15 signed "Philo- Junius." Besides these appeared from time to time more than 100 others, under various signatures, which, with more or less proba- bility, were attributed to " Junius." These letters assaileil the CTOvcrnment with such audacity that every effort was made to dis- cover who was th(! writer. Put the secret was never certainly discovered, and there is no probability that it will ever be divulged. The authorship has been claimed by or for
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not less than forty persons, among wliom are Etlinund Burke, Lord Cliatliam, Ed- ward Gibbon, Joliu llorne Tooke, and John Wilkes. Macaulay was clearly convinced that Francis was the author. He says: " The case against Francis — or, if you please, in favor of Francis — rests on coincidences sufficient to convict a murderer." One signilicant fact is, that these letters ceased not long before the appointment of Francis to the lucrative position in India ; and it has been imagined that this a})pointment was the price paid by Government for the future silence of the author; and there is nothing in the character of Francis to render it improbable that lie could be thus bought off. If this were the case, he would never directly avow the authorship; but it is cer- tain that he was nowise averse to having it whispered that he was the writer. One of the most spirited and audacious of these letters was a long one addressed to the Xing, George III., December 19, 1769 :
JUNIUS TO GEORGE THE THIRD.
Sir — When the complaints of a brave and powerful people are observed to increase in pro- portion to the wronu's they have suffered ; when, instead of sinkint); into submission, tliey arc roused to resistance, the time will soon arrive at which every inferior consideration must yield to the security of the sovereign, and to the general safety of the state. There is a moment of diffi- culty and danger, at which flattery and falsehood can no longer deceive, and siun)licity itself can no longer be misled. Let us suppose it arrived. Let us suppose a gracious, well-intentioned prince made sensible at last of the great duty he owes to his people, and of his own disgraceful situation ; that he looks round him for assistance, and asks for no advice but how to gratify the wishes and
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Rccure the happiness of his subjects. In these circumstances, it may he matter of curious spec- ulation to consider, if an honest man were per- mitted to approach a king, in what terms he would address himself to his sovereign. Let it he imagined, no matter how improbable, that the first j)rejudice against his character is removed ; that the ceremonious difficulties of an audience are surmounted ; that he feels himself animated by the purest and most honorable affection to liis king and country ; and that the great person wliom he addresses has spirit enough to bid him speak freely, and understanding enough to listen to liim with attention. Unacquainted with the vain impertinence of forms, he would deliver his sentiments with dignity and firmness, but not without respect :
Sir — It is the misfortune of your life, and originally the cause of every reproach and distress which has attended your government, that you should never liave been acquainted with the lan- guage of truth till you heard it in the complaints of your people. It is not, however, too late to correct the error of your education. We are still inclined to make an indulgent allowance for the pernicious lessons you received in your youth, and to form the most sanguine liopcs from the natural benevolence of your disposition. We are far from thinking you capable of a direct delib- erate purpose to invade those original rights of your subjects on which all their civil and political liberties depend. Had it been possible for us to entertain a suspicion so dishonorable to your character, we should long since have adopted a style of remonstrance very distant from the hu- mility of complaint. The doctrine inculcated by our laws, " that the king can do no wrong," is admitted without rehn;tancc. \Vc separate tlie amiable good-natured prince from the folly and treachery of his servants, an<l the private virtues of the man from the vices of his government. Were it not for this just distinction, I know not whether your majesty's coii(liti(jii, or that of the
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English nation, would deserve most to be la- mented. I would prepare your mind for a favor- able reception of truth, by removing every pain- ful offensive idea of personal reproach. Your subjects, sir, wish for nothing but that, as they are reasonable and affectionate enough to separate your person from your government, so you, in your turn, would distinguish between the conduct which becomes the permanent dignity of a king, and that which serves only to promote the tem- porary interest and miserable ambition of a min- ister.
You ascended the throne with a declared — and, I doubt not, a sincere — resolution of giving universal satisfaction to your subjects. You found them pleased witli the novelty of a young prince, whose countenance promised even more than his words, and loyal to you not only from principle but passion. It was not a cold profes- sion of allegiance to the first magistrate, but a partial, animated attachment to a favorite prince, the native of their country. They did not wait to examine your conduct, nor to be determined by experience, but gave you a generous credit for the future blessings of your reign, and paid you in advance the dearest tribute of their affections. Such, sir, was once the disposition of a people who now surround your throne with reproaches and complaints. Do justice to yourself. Banish from your mind those unworthy opinions with which some interested persons have labored to possess you. Distrust the men who tell you that the English are naturally light and inconsistent} that they complain without a cause. Withdraw your confidence equally from all parties; from ministers, favorites, and relations ; and let there be one moment in your life in which you have consulted your own understanding
While the natives of Scotland are not in actual rebellion, they are undoubtedly entitled to pro- tection ; nor do I mean to condemn the policy of giving some encouragement to the novelty of their affection for the house of Hanover. I ana
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ready to hope for everytliing from their new-born zeal, and from the future steadiness of their alle- giance. But hitherto they have no claim to your favor. To honor them with a determined pre- dilection and confidence, in exclusion of your English subjects — who placed your family, and, in spite of treachery and rebellion, have sup- ported it, upon the throne — is a mistake too gross for even the unsuspecting generosity of youth. In this error we see a capital violation of the most obvious rules of policy and prudence. "We trace it, however, to an original bias in your education, and are ready to allow for your inex- perience.
To the same early influence we attribute it that you have descended to take a share, not only in the narrow views and interests of particular per- sons, but in the fatal malignity of their passions. At your accession to the throne the whole system of government was altered ; not from wisdom or deliberation, but because it had been adopted by your predecessor. A little personal motive of pique and resentment was sufficient to remove the ablest servants of the crown; but it is not in this country, sir, that such men can be dishon- ored by the frowns of a king. They were dis- missed, but could not be disgraced
Without consulting your minister, call togetlier your whole council. Let it appear to the public that you can determine and act for yourself. Come forward to your people ; lay aside the wretched formalities of a king, and speak to your subjects witli the .spirit of a man, and in the lan- guage of a gentleman. Tell them you have been fatally deceived: the acknowledgment will be no disgrace, but rather an honor, to your understand- ing. Tell them you are determined to remove every cause of complaint against your government; that you will give your confidence to no man that does not possess the confidence of your subjects ; and leave it to themselves to determine, by their conduct at a future election, whether or not it bo in reality the general sense of the nation, that
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their rights have been arbitrarily invaded by the present House of Commons, and the constitution betrayed. They will then do justice to their rep- resentatives and to themselves.
These sentiments, sir, and the style they are conveyed in, may be offensive, perhaps, because they are new to you. Accustomed to the lan- guage of courtiers, you measure their affections by the vehemence of their expressions: and ■when they only praise you indirectly, you admire their sincerity. But this is not a time to trifle with your fortune. They deceive you, sir, who tell you that you have many friends whose affec- tions are founded upon a principle of personal attachment. The first foundation of friendship is not the power of conferring benefits, but the equality wi^i which they are received, and may be returned. The fortune which made you a king, forbade you to have a friend ; it is a law of nature, which cannot be violated with im- punity. The mistaken prince who looks for friendship will find a favorite, and in that favorite the ruin of his affairs.
The people of England are loyal to the House of Hanover, not from a vain preference of one family to another, but from a conviction that the establishment of that family was necessary to the support of their civil and religious liberties. This, sir, is a principle of allegiance equally solid and rational ; fit for Englishmen to adopt, and well worthy of your majesty's encouragement. We cannot long be deluded by nominal distinctions. The name of Stuart of itself is only contempt- ible : armed with the sovereign authority, their principles are formidable. The prince who imi- tates their conduct should be warned by their example ; and while he plumes himself upon the security of his title to the crown, should remem- ber that, as it was acquired by one revolution, it paay be lost by another.
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.-l
FRAJN^KLIN, Benjamin, an American statesman and philosopher, born in Boston, January 17, 170G; died in Philadelphia, April IT, 1790. His father was originally a dyer, and subsequently a tallow-chandler. At the age of twelve the son was appren- ticed to his elder brother, a printer, and publisher of a newspaper, the jXew Eiujland Courant^ for which Benjamin wrote much. In consequence of a quarrel between the brothers, Ijenjamiu went, at the age of seven- teen, to Philadelphia, where he obtained employment at his trade. The Governor of the Province discovered his abilities, promised to set him up in Inisiness, and in- duced him to go to England to purchase the necessary printing material. The Gov- ernor, however, failed to supply the neces- sary funds, and Franklin went to work as a f)rinter in London. After eighteen months le returned to Philadelphia. J3efore long he established himself as a printei", and set up a newsj)aper, called the PhiUuhlphia Ga- zette. In 1732, under the assumed name of "Richard Saunders," he commenced the issue of Poirr RichanVs Ahiianac^ which he continued for twenty-five years.
By the time he had reached his fortieth year he had acquired a conq)etence suthcient to enal)le him to withdraw from active busi- ness, and devote himself to philosophical re- search, for which he had already manifested marked capacity. Just i)eforc this several European philosophers had noticed some points of rcs(;mblaiK'e between ele(;tricity and lightning. Franklin was the first MK>ut W.^)) t<j dj-monstrate the identity of ine two ))h(jnomena, and to |)ro pound the idea of the lightning-rod as a safeguard from lightning.
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Of tlie public career of Franklin it is necessary here to give merely a bare outline. He was elected a member of tlic Pennsyl- vania Assembly in 1Y50 ; was made Deputy Postmaster-General in 1753; and the next year, the French and Indian war impend- ing, lie was sent as delegate to a general Congress convened at Albany, where he drew up the plan of a union between the separate colonies. This was unanimously adopted by the Congress, but was rejected by the Board of Trade in England. Dis- putes having arisen in 1757 between the Pennsylvania "• Proprietors " and the in- habitants, Franklin was sent to England as agent to represent the cause of the people of the colony of Pennsylvania; the people of Massachusetts, Maryland, and Georgia also constituted him their agent in Great Britain. He returned to Pennsylvania in 1762; but was sent back to London two years after to remonstrate against the pro- posed measure for taxing the American colonies. When the war of the Revolution was on the point of breaking out, Franklin left Great Britain, reaching his home six- teen days after the battle of Lexington. As a member of the first American Congress he was one of the committee appointed to draft the Declaration of Independence. Shortly after this he w^as sent to France as one of the Commissioners Plenipotentiary from the American States. In 1782 he signed the treaty of peace between the United States and Great Britain, and sub- sequently concluded treaties with Sweden and Prussia. He returned to America igi|^ 1785, after more than fifty years spent in the public sejvice. He was immediately elected President of Pennsylvania, his
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adopted State. Three vears afterwards, at the age of eighty-two, he was appointed a delegate to the Convention for framing the Federal Constitution, in which he took an active i)art, and lived lung enough to see it adopted by the several States, and so become the supreme law of the land. A few months before his death he wrote to Wash- ington : " For mj personal ease I should have died two years ago ; but though those years have been spent in excruciat- ing pain, I am glad to have lived them, since I can look upon our present situa- tion."
A partial collection of the works of Franklin was published (1816-19) by his grandson, William Temple Franklin, A tolerably complete edition, in ten volumes, edited, with a Memoir^ by Jared Sparks, appeared in 1830-40. In 1887 some addi- tional writings were discovered, which were edited bv Edward Everett Hale, under the title '■'' franklin in Paris.'''' Franklin's Autohiorjrajylti/, bringing his life down to his fifty-seventh year, ranks among the fore- most works of its chiss. The history of the book is curious. It was first publislied in a French translation in 1791 ; two years after- wards this French version was re-translated into English, and in 1798 this English translation was rendered back into French. The earliest apnearance of the work as writ- ten by the author was in 1817 in the edi- tion propare<l by his son. In 1808 Mr. John Bigelow, lately U. S. ^linistcr to I' ranee, came upon an original autograph of the Autoh'trxji'djihij^ which he pul)lishcd with notes. The Life of Franhl'm has been written bv many persons, notably by James Parton (2 vols., 180-4.)
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EARLY PRACTICE IN COMPOSITION.
About tliis time [at about fifteen] I met with an odd volume of The Spectator. I had never before seen any of tliem. I bought it, read it over and over, and was much delighted with it. I thought the writing excellent, and wished if possible to imitate it. With that view I took some of the papers, and making short hints of the sentiments in each sentence, laid them by for a few days, and then, without looking at the book, tried to complete the papers again, by ex- pressing each hinted sentiment at length, and as fully as it had been expressed before, in any suitable words that should occur to me. Then I compared my Spectator with the original, discov- ered some of my faults and corrected them
Sometimes I had the pleasure to fancy that in certain particulars of small consequence, I had been fortunate enough to improve the method or the language ; and this encouraged me to think that I might in time come to be a toler- able English writer, of which I was extremely ambitious. The time I allotted to writing exer- cises and for reading was at night, or before work began in the morning, or on Sundays, when I contrived to be in the printing-house, avoiding as nmch as I could the constant attendance at public worship, which my father used to exact of me when 1 was under his care. — Autobiog- raphy, Chap. I.
FIRST ENTRY INTO PHILADELPHIA.
I was [then aged seventeen] in my working dress, my best clothes coming round by sea. I was dirty from my being so long in the boat. My pockets were stuffed out with shirts and stockings, and I knew no one, nor where to look for lodging. I was very hungry ; and my whole stock of cash consisted in a single dollar, and about a shilling in copper coin, which I gave to the boatmen for my passage. At first they re- fused it, on account of my having rowed ; but I insisted on their taking it. I walked towards
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the top of the street, gazing about till neaf Market Street, where I met a boy with bread. I had often made a meal of dry bread, and, inquir- ing where he had bought it, I went immediately to the baker's he directed me to. I asked for biscuits, meaning such as we had at Boston. That sort, it seems, was not made in Philadel- phia. I then asked for a three-penny loaf, and was told they had none. Not knowing the dif- ferent prices, nor the names of the different sorts of bread, I told him to give me three-penny worth of any sort. He gave me accordingly three great puffy rolls. I was surprised at thd quantity, but took it, and, having no room in my pockets, walked off with a roll under each arm, and eating the other.
Thus I went up Market Street as far as Fourth Street, passing by the door of Mr. Read, my future wife's father ; when she, standing at the door, saw me, and thought I made — as I certainly did — a most ridiculous appearance. Then I turned and went down Chestnut Street and part of Walnut Street, eating my roll all the way, and, coming round, found myself again at Market Street wharf, near the boat I came in, to which I went for a draught of the river water; and being filled with one of my rolls, gave the other two to a woman and her child that came down the river in the boat with us, and were waiting to go farther.
Thus refreshed I walked up the street, which by til is time had many clean-dressed people in it, who were all walking the same way. I joined them, an<l thereby was led into the great meet- ing-house of the Quakers, near the market. 1 sat down among them, and, after looking round awhile, and hearing nothing said, and being very drowsy through laiior and want of rest the pre- ceding night, I fell fast asleep, and continued so till the meeting broke up, when some one was kind enough to rouse me. This, therefore, was the first house I was in, or slept in, in I'hiladeb phia. — AuloUot/raphi/, Chap. II. m
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TEETOTALISM IN LONDON.
At my first admission [aged nineteen] into the printing-house I took to working at press, im- agining I felt a want of the bodily exercise I had been used to in America, where press-work is mixed with the composing. I drank only water; the other workmen — near fifty in number — were great drinkers of beer. On one occasion I car- ried up and down stairs a large form of type in each hand, when the others carried only one in both hands. They wondered to see, fl-om this and several instances, that the " Water Ameri- can," as they called me, was stronger than them- selves, who drank strong beer. We had an ale- house-boy who attended always in the house to supply the workmen. My companion at the press drank every day a pint before breakfast, a pint at breakfast with his bread and cheese, a pint between breakfast and dinner, a pint at din- ner, a pint in the afternoon about six o'clock, and another when he had done his day's w^ork. 1 thought it a detestable custom ; but it was necessary, he supposed, to drink strong beer that he might be strong to labor. I endeavored to convince him that the bodily strength afforded by beer could be only in proportion to the grain or flour of the barley dissolved in the water of which it was made; that there was more flour in a pennyworth of bread; and therefore if he could eat that with a pint of water, it would give liim more strength than a quart of beer. He drank on, however, and had four or five shillings to pay out of his wages every Saturday night for that vile liquor; an expense I was free from. And thus these poor devils keep themselves always under. — Autobiography, Chap. III.
RELIGIOUS VIEWS AT ONE-AND-TWENTY.
My parents had early given me religious im- pressions, and brought me through my childhood in the Dissenting way. But I was scarce fifteen when, after doubting by turns several points, .is I found them disputed in the different books I
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read, I began to doubt of the Revelation itself. Some books against Deism fell into my hands ; they were said to be the substance of the ser- mons which had been preached at Boyle's Lec- tures. It happened that they wrought an effect on me quite contrary to what was intended by them. For the arguments of the Deists, which were quoted to be refuted, appeared to me much stronger than theirs; in short, I soon became a thorough Deist. My arguments perverted some others,''particularly Collins and Ralph ; but each of these having wronged me greatly without the least compunction ; and recollecting my own con- duct, which at times gave me great trouble, I began to suspect that this doctrine, though it
might be true, was not very useful My own
pamphlet [printed two years before] in which I argued, from the attributes of God, his infinite wisdom, goodness, and power, that nothing could possibly be wrong in the world — and that vice and virtue were empty distinctions — no such things existing — appeared now not so clever a performance as I once thought it ; and I doubted whether some error had not insinuated itself un- perceived into my argument, so as to infect all that followed, as is common in metaphysical reasonings.
I became convinced that truth, sinceriti/, and integrity in dealings between man and man were of the utmost importance to the felicity of life; and I formed written resolutions to practise them ever while I lived.
Revelation had indeed no weight with me as such ; but I entertained an opinion that, though certain artions might not be bad bcanisc they were forbidden by it, or good hrcause it com- manded them ; yet probably those actions might be forbidden hccnnsc they were l)ad for us, or commanded hrcdnse they were beneficial to us, in their own natures, all the circumstances of things considered. And this persuasion — with the Kin<i liand of I'rovidencc, or some guardian angel, or accidental favorable circumstances and
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situations, or all together — preserved me through this dangerous time of youth, and the hazardous situations I was sometimes in among strangers, remote from the eye and advice of my father, free from any wilful gross immorality or injus- tice, that might have been expected from my want of religion. I say wilful, because the in- stances I have mentioned had something of neces- siti/ in them, from mv youth, inexperience, and the knavery of others. I had therefore a tolerable character to begin tlie world with ; I valued it properly, and determined to preserve it. — Auto- hi()r/raph>/, Chap. IV.
When this Autobiography was written, Franklin was vei'ging upon threescore and- ten, and was recalling his young days. It is certain that the feeling of an overruling and protecting Deity was predominant at least during his mature years. At the Constitu- tional Convention of 1787, he moved that the daily proceedings should be opened by prayers.
SPEECH IN FAVOR OF DAILY PUBLIC PRAYERS.
In the beginning of the contest with Britain, when we were sensible of danger, we had daily prayers in this room for the Divine protection. Our prayers. Sir, were heard, and they were graciously answered. All of us who were en- gaged in the struggle must have observed fre- quent instances of a superintending Providence in our favor. To that kind Providence we owe this happy opportunity of consulting in peace on the means of establishing our future national felicity. And have we now forgotten this power- ful friend? or do we imagine we no longer need His assistance ? I have lived. Sir, a long time [eighty-one years], and the longer I live the more convincing proofs I see of this truth : that God governs in the aifairs of man. And if a sparrow cannot fall to the ground without His notice, is it probable that an empire can rise with- out His aid ? We have been assured, Sir, in the
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Sacred Writings that " except the Lord build the house, they labor in vain that build it." I firmly believe this. I also believe that without His concurring aid we shall succeed in this political building no better than the builders of Babel ; we shall be divided by our little partial local inter- ests ; our projects will be confounded ; and we ourselves shall become a reproach and a byword down to future ages. And what is worse, man- kind may liereafter, from this unfortunate in- stance, despair of establishing human govern- ment by human wisdom, and leave it to chance, war, or conquest. I therefore beg leave to move that henceforth prayers, imploring the assistance of Heaven and its blessing on our deliberations, be held in this assembly every morning before we proceed to business ; and that one or more of the clergv of this city be requested to officiate in that service.
Many years before liis death, Franklin wrote the following epitaph for his own tombstone :
FRANKLIX'S EPITAPH FOR HI.MSELF.
The Body of Benjamin Franklin, Printer, (like the cover of an old book, its contents torn out, and stript of its lettering and gilding,) lies here food for worms. Yet the Work itself shall not be lost; for it will (as he believed) appear once more in a new and more beautiful Edition, cor- rected and amended by the Author.
Franklin, when near the close of his life, wrote to Thomas Paine, who was proposing the publication of the A(/e of Reason^ the manuscript of which appears to have been submitted to his perusal : "I would advise you not to attempt uiicliainini; the tiger, l)iit to burn this piece before it is seen by any fttlier person. If men are so wicked ^inth religion, what would they he without it?" Six weeks before his death he wrote to the Rev. Dr. Stiles :
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HIS DYING OPINION ON CHRISTIANITY.
As to Jesus of Nazareth, my opinion of whom you particularly desire, I think the system of morals, and his religion, as he left them to us, the best the world ever saw, or is likely to see; but I apjtrehend it has received various corrupt- ing changes; and I have, with most of the present Dissenters in England, some doubts as to his Divinity.
Poor RicharcVs Almanac in its day was a power in the land. Franklin himself thus speaks of the work :
POOR Richard's almanac.
In 1732 [at the age of twenty-seven] I first published my Almanac, under the name of " Richard Saunders." It was continued by me about twenty-five years, and commonly called Poor Richard's Almanac. I endeavored to make it both entertaining and useful ; and it accordingly came to be in such demand that I reaped considerable profit from it, vending an- nually near ten thousand. And observing that it was generally read — scarce any neighborhood in the Province being without it — I considered it a proper vehicle for conveying instruction among the common peoplCj who bought scarcely any other books. I therefore filled all the little spaces that occurred between the remarkable days in the Calendar with proverbial sentences, chiefly such as j,nculcated industry and frugality as the means of procuring wealth, and thereby securing virtue ; it being more difficult for a man in want to act always honestly, as, to use here one of those proverbs, " It is hard for an empty sack to stand upright."
These proverbs, which contained the wisdom of many ages and nations, I assembled and formed into a connected discourse prefixed to the Almanac of l7o7, as the harangue of a wise old man to the people attending an auction. The bringing of all these scattered counsels thus into a focus enabled them to make greater impression.
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The piece being universally approved was copied in all the newspapers of the American continent, reprinted in Britain on a large sheet of paper to be stuck up in houses. Two translations were made of it in France ; and great numbers of it were bought by the clergy and gentry, to dis- tribute gratis among their poor parishioners and tenants. In Pennsylvania, as it discouraged use- less expense in foreign superfluities, some thought it had its share of influence in producing that growing plenty of money which was observable several years after its publication. — Autobiog- raphy, Chap.. VII.
This Collection of Poor Richard's Sayings was put forth under the title of " The Way to "Wealth,'' The brochure thus begins :
THE CHIEF TAX-GATHERERS.
I stopped my horse lately, where a great num- ber of people were collected at an auction of merchant's goods. The hour of sale not being come, they were conversing on the badness of the times ; and one of the company called to a plain, clean old man, with white locks : " Pray, Father Abraham, what think you of the times? Will not these heavy taxes quite ruin the coun- try ? How shall we ever be able to pay them ? What would you advise us to do?" Father Abraham stood up and replied, " If you would have my advice, I will give it you in short; for A word to the wise is enough, as Poor Richard says." They joined in desiring him to speak his mind, and gathering round him, he proceeded as follows:
" Friends," said he, " the taxes arc indeed very heavy, aiid if those laid on by the Government were the only ones we had to pay, wc might more easily discharge them; but wc have many others, and much more grievous to some of us. Wc are taxed twice as much by our idleness, three times as much by our pride, and four times as much by our f<^liy ; and from these taxes the Commiaaioncrs cannot case or deliver us, by al- m
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lowing an abatement. However, let us hearten to good advice, and something may be done for us; God helps them that help themselves, as Poor Richard says.''— The Wai/ to Wealth.
SLOTH AND INDUSTRY.
" If time be of all things the most precious, wasting time must he, as Poor Richard says, the greatest prodigalitg ; since, as he elsewhere tells us, Lost time is never found again; and what we call time enough alioays proves little enough. Let us then up and be doing, and doing to the pur- pose ; so by diligence shall we do with less per- plexity. Sloth makes all things difficult, but in- dustry all easy, and he that riseth late must trot all day, and shall scarce overtake his business at night ; while Laziness travels so slowly that Pov- erty soon overtakes him. Drive thy business, let not that drive thee ; and Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise, as Poor Richard says." — The Way to Wealth.
FRUGALITY.
" So much for industry and attention to one's business ; but to these we must add frugality, if we would make our industry more certainly suc- cessful. A man may, if he knows not how to save as he gets, keep his nose all "liis life to the grindstone, and die not worth a groat at last. A fat kitchen makes a lean ivill ; and Many estates are spent in the getting. Since women for tea forsook spinning and knit- ting. And men for punch forsook hewing and split- ting. If you ivould be ivealthy, think of saving as ivell as of getting. The Indies have not made Spain rich, because her outgoes are greater than her in- come. Away then with your expensive follies, and you will not have so much cause to complain of hard times, heavy taxes, and chargeable fami- lies; for
Women and wine, game and deceit, Make the tvealth small and the want great.
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.— 13
And further, What maintains one vice would bring up two children. You may think, perhaps, that a little tea or a Uttle punch now and then, diet a Uule more costly, clothes a little finer, and a little entertainment now and then, can be no great matter ; but remember, Many a micMe makes a muckle. Beware of little expenses ; A small leak will sink a great ship, as Poor Richard says ; and again, Who dainties love, shall beggars prove; and moreover. Fools make feasts, and wise men eat them.'" — The Way to Wealth.
BUYING SUPERFLUITIES.
" Here you are all got together at this sale of fineries and knick-knacks. You call them ' goods ' ; but if you do not take care, they will prove 'evils' to some of you. You expect they will be sold cheap, and perhaps they may for less than they cost ; but if you have no occasion for them they must be dear to you. Remember what Poor Richard says : Buy ivhat thou hast no need of, and ere long thou shall sell thy neces- saries. And again. At a great pennyworth pause a little. lie nieans that perhaps the cheapness is apparent only, and not real ; or, the bargain, by straitening thee in thy business, may do thee more harm than good. For in another place he says, Many have been ruined by buying good pennyworths. Again, It is foolish to lay out money in a purchase of repentance ; and yet this folly is practised every day at auctions for want of minding the Alinanac. Many a one, for the sake of finery on tlic back, has gone with a hungry belly,' and half-starved their families. Silks and satins, scarltt and velvets, put out the kitchen fre, as Poor Richard says. A plough- man on his legs is higher than a gentleman on his knees, as Poor Ridiard says. Always taking out of the meal-tub, and never putting in, soon comes to the bottom, as Poor Richard saya ; and then, When the well is dry thry know the worth of water. But this they might have known before, if they had taken his advice. And again Poor
BfiNJAMIN t^RAKllLm.-l4
Dick says, Pride is as loud a hegr/ar as Want, and a great deal more saucij. When you have bought one fine thing, you must buy ten more, that your appearance may be all of a piece ; but Poor Dick says. It is easier to sujij^ress th". first desire than to satisfy all that follow it. And it is as truly folly for the poor to ape the ricli, as for the frog to swell in order to equal the ox." — The Way to Wealth.
CHARACTER OF WHITEFIELD.
He had a loud and clear voice, and articulated his words so perfectly that he might be heard and understood at a great distance; especially as his auditors observed the most perfect silence.
[On one particular occasion when he
heard A\ hitefield preach in the open air] I com- puted that he might well be heard by more than thirty thousand. This reconciled me to the newspaper accounts of his having preached to twenty-five thousand. By hearing him often, I came to distinguish easily between sermons newly composed and those which he had often preached in the course of his travels. His delivery of the latter was so improved by frequent repetition, that every accent, every emphasis, every modu- lation of voice, was so perfectly well turned and well placed, that, without being interested in the subject, one could not help being pleased with
the discourse His writing and printing
from time to time gave great advantage to his enemies Critics attacked his writings vio- lently, and with so mucli appearance of reason, as to diminish the number of his votaries, and prevent their increase. So that I am satisfied that if he had never written anything, he would have left behind him a much more numerous and important sect; and his reputation might in that case have been still growing even after liis death. — Autobiogra2yhy, Chap. VHI.
PAYING TOO DEAR FOR THE WHISTLE.
In my opinion, we might all draw more good from the world than we do, and suffer less evil, tat
BENJAl^nN FRANKLIN.— IS
if we would take care not to give too much for whistles. You ask what I mean ? You love sto- ries, and will excuse my telling one of myself:
When I was a child of seven years old, my friends on a holiday filled my pocket with cop- pers. I went directly to a shop where they sold toys for children ; and, being charmed with the sound of a whistle that I met by the way in the hands, of another boy, I voluntarily offered and gave all my money for one. I then came home, and went whistling all over the house, much pleased with my tvhistle, but disturbing all the family. My brothers and sisters and cousins, understanding the bargain T had made, told me I had given four times as much for it as it was worth ; put me in mind what good things I might have bought with the rest of my money ; and laughed at me so much for my folly, that I cried with vexation ; and the reflection gave me more chagrin than the whistle gave me pleasure.
This, however, was afterwards of use to me, the impression continuing on my mind ; so that often when I was tempted to buy some unneces- sary tiling, I said to myself, DorCt give too much for the whistle ; and I saved my money. As I grew up, came into the world, and ob- served the actions of men, I thought I met with many, very many, who gave too much for their whistles :
When I saw one too ambitious of Court favor, sacrificing his time in attendance on levees, his repose, his liberty, his virtue, and perhaps his friends, to attain it, I have said to myself, This man gives too 7iinch for his whistle.
When I saw another fond of popularity, con- stantly employing himself in political bustles, neglecting his own affairs, an<l ruining them by tliat neglect, Ife pags, inflred, said I, too much for his whistle.
If I knew a miser who gave up every kind of
comfortable living, all the pleasure of doing good
to others, all the esteem of his fellow-citizens,
and the joys of benevolent friendship, for the
m
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.— 16
sake of accuinulatino; wealth, Poor man, said I, you "pay too much for your whistle.
When I met witli a man of pleasure, sacrific- ing every laudable improvement of the mind, or Ills fortune, to mere corporeal sensations, and ruining his licalth in their pursuit, Mistaken man, said I, you are j)rovidi7iy much pain for yourself, instead of jyleasurc; yoU give too much for your whistle.
If I see one fond of appearance, or fine clothes, fine houses, fine furniture, fine equipages, all above his fortune, for which he contracts debts, and ends his career in a prison, Alas ! say I, he has paid dear, very dear, for his whistle.
When I see a beautiful, sweet-tempered girl married to an ill-natured brute of a husband, What a pity, say I, that she should pay so much for a whistle.
In short, I conceive that a great part of the miseries of mankind are brought upon them by the false estimates they have made of the value of things, and by their yiving too much for their whistles. — Letter to Madame Brillon, 1779.
paper: a poem.
[This poem is attributed to Fi-anklin; but it is not alto- gether certain that it was written by him. No other author- ship, however, has been assigned to it.]
Some wit of old — such wits of old there were — Whose hints showed meaning, whose allusions
care. By one brave stroke to mark all human kind. Called clear blank paper every infant mind; Where still, as opening sense her dictates wrote, Fair Virtue put a seal, or Vice a blot. The thought was happy, pertinent, and true ; Methinks a genius might the plan pursue. I, (can you pardon my presumption ?) I — No wit, no genius^yet for once will try : — Various the papers various wants produce, The wants of fashion, elegance, and use. Men are as various ; and if right I scan, Each sort of Paper represents some Man. Pray note the Fop — half powder and half lace^
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.— 17
Nice as a bandbox were his dwelling-place. He's the Gilt Paper, which apart you store, And lock from vulgar hands in the 'scrutoire. Mechanics, Servants, Farmers, and so forth, Are Copy-Paper of inferior worth; Less prized, more useful, for your desk decreed, Free to all pens, and prompt at every need. The wretch whom Avarice bids to pinch and spare, Star\-e, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir. Is coarse Broicn Paper ; such as pedlers choose To wrap up wares which better men will use.
Take next the miser's contrast : who destroys Health, fame, and fortune, in a round of joys; Will any Paper match him ? Yes, throughout. He's a true Sinking Paper, past all doubt. The retail Politician's anxious thought Deems this side always right, and that stark
naught ; He foams with censure ; with applause he
raves — A dupe to rumors, and a tool to knaves : He'll want no type his weakness to proclaim. While such a thing as Foolscap has a name.
The Hastv Gentleman, whose blood runs high. Who picks a quarrel, if you step awry, Who can't a jest or hint or look endure — What's he? What? Touch-Pa})er, Xoha &mc. What arc our Poets, take them as they fall — Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all? Them and their works in the same class you'll find ; Tlicy are the more Waste-Paper of mankind.
Observe the Maiden, innocently sweet; She's fair White Paper — an unsullied sheet, On which the happy man, whom fate ordains. May write his name, and take her for liis pains.
One instance more, and only one, PU bring: 'Tis the Great Man who scorns a little thing, Wlioso thoughts, whose deeds, wlio.se maxims arc
his own — Formed on the feelings of his heart alone: True, gfTiniiie Royal Paper is his breast ; Of all the kinds most precious, purest, best.
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. -18
Probably the last thing written by Frank, lin was a parody on a speech delivered in Congress in defense of the slave-trade. It purports to be a reproduction of a speech made by Sidi Mehemet Ibrahim, a member of the Divan of Algiers, in opposition to granting the petition of the sect called JErihi, who asked for the abolition of Al- gerine piracy. This paper is dated March 23, 1790, twenty-four days before the death of Franklin.
SIDI MEHEMET ON ALGERINE PIRACY.
Have these Erika considered the consequences of granting their petition ? If we cease our cruises against the Christians, how shall we be furnished with the commodities their countries produce, and which are so necessary for us ? If we forbear to make slaves of their people, who in this hot climate are to cultivate our lands? Who are to perform the common labors of our city and in our famiUes ? Must we not then be our own slaves? And is there not more com- passion and more favor due to us as Mussulmans than to these Christian dogs ? We have now above fifty thousand slaves in and near Algiers. This number, if not kept up by fresh supplies, will soon diminish, and be gradually annihilated. If we then cease taking and plundering the in- fidel ships, and making slaves of the seamen and passengers, our lands will become of no value for want of cultivation ; the rents of houses in the city will sink one half ; and the revenue of gov- ernment arising from its share of prizes be totally destroyed ! And for what ? To gratify the whims of a whimsical sect who would have us not only forbear making more slaves, but even manumit those we have.
But who is to indemnify their masters for the loss ? Will the State do it ? Is our treasury sufficient ? Will the Erika do it ? Can they do it ? Or would they, to do what they think jus- tice to the slaves, do a greater injustice to the
340
feENJAMlX FRANKLIN.— 19
Owners ? And if we set our slaves free, what is to be done with them ? Few of them will re- turn to their countries ; they know too well the greater hardships they must there be subject to. They will not embrace our holy religion ; they will not adopt our manners ; our people will not pollute themselves by intermarrying with them. Must we maintain them as beggars in our streets, or suffer our properties to be the prey of their pillage? For men accustomed to slavery will not work for a livelihood when not compelled.
And what is there so pitiable in their present condition ? Were they not slaves in their own countries ? Are not Spain, Portugal, France, and the Italian States governed by despots who hold their subjects in slavery without exception? Even England treats its sailors as slaves ; for they are, whenever the government plea.ses, seized, and confined in ships of war ; condemned not only to work, but to fight, for small wages or a mere subsistence, not better than our slaves are allowed by us. Is their condition then made worse by falling into our hands? No; they have only exchanged one slavery for another, and, I may say, a better; for here they are brought into a land where the sun of Islamism gives forth its light, and shines in full splendor ; and thus have an opportunity of making them- selves acquainted with the true doctrine, and thereby saving their immortal souls. Those who remain at home have not that happiness. Send- ing the slaves home, then, would be sending them out of llglit into darkness.
I repeat the question, what is to be done with them ? I have heard it suggested that they may be planted in the wilderness, where there is plenty of land for them to subsist on, and where tliev may flourish as a Free State. Hiittliey are, I doubt, too little disposed to labor without com- pulsion, as well as too ignorant to establisli a good government; aiul the wild Arabs would soon moI(;st and dcHtroy or again enslave tlicm. "While scning u.h, wc take care to provide them
Ml
feENJAMIN FRANKLIN.— 20
with everything, and tliey are treated with hu- manity. The laborers in tlieir own country are, as I am well informed, worse fed, lodged, and clothed. The condition of most of them is therefore already mended, and requires no further improvement. Here their lives are in safety. They are not liable to be impressed for soldiers, and forced to cut one another's Christian throats, as in the wars of their own countries. If some of the religious mad bigots, who now tease us with their silly petitions, have in a fit of blind zeal freed tlieir slaves, it was not generosity, it was not humanity, that moved them to the action. It was from the conscious burthen of a load of sins, and a hope, from the supposed merits of so good a work, to be excused from damnation.
How grossly are they mistaken to suppose slavery to be disallowed by the Alcoran ! Are not the two precepts — to quote no more — " Mas- ters, treat your slaves with kindness;" "Slaves, serve your masters with cheerfulness and fidelity," clear proofs to the contrary ? Nor can the plundering of Infidels be in that sacred book forbidden ; since it is well known from it that God has given the world, and all that it contains, to his faithful Mussulmans, who are to enjoy it of right as fast as they conquer it. Let us then hear no more of this detestable proposition — the manumission of Christian slaves — the adoption of which would, by depreciating our lands and houses, and thereby depriving so many good citizens of their properties, create universal dis- content, and provoke insurrections, to the en- dangering of government, and producing general confusion. I have, therefore, no doubt but this wise Council will prefer the comfort and happi- ness of a whole nation of True Believers to the whim of a few Erika, and dismiss their petition.
JAMES BAILLIE FRASER.— 1
FRASEK, J.VMES Baillie, a Scottish trav- eller and novelist, born in 1783; died in 1856. After travelling extensively in vari- ous parts of the earth he was in 1836 sent on a diplomatic mission to Persia, making a re- markable horseback journey through Asia Minor to Teheran. His health having been impaired by his exposures, he retired to his estate in Scotland, where the remainder of his life was passed. Among his numerous books of travels are : Journal of a Tour through part of the Snowy Range of the Himela Mountains (1820), Narrative of a Journey into Khorassan (1825), A Wiiiter Journey from Constantinople to Teheran (1838), and Travels in Koordistan and Mesopotamia (18-10). He also wrote for "The Edinburgh Cabinet Library" The History of Mesopotamia and Assyria, and a History of Persia (1847.)
A PERSIAN TOWN.
Viewed from a commanding situation, the ap- pearance of a Persian town is most uninteresting; the houses, all of mud, differ in no respect from the earth in color, and from the irregularity of their construction, resemble inequalities on its surface rather than human dwellings. The houses, even of the great, seldom exceed one story ; and the lofty walls which shroud them from view, without a window to enliven them, have a most monotonous effect. There are few domes or minarets, and still fewer of those that exist arc cither splendid or elegant. There are no public buildings but tlic mosques and medres- scs; and these are often as mean as the rest, or perfectly excludf;d from view by ruins. The general conp-d'oil presents a succession of flat roofs and bnig walls of mud, thickly interspersed with ruins; and the only relief to its monotony is found in the ganh^ns adorned with chinar, poplars, and cypresses, with which tlm townsand villagea arc often surrounded and iuterniinglcd.
JAMES BAILLIE FRASER.— 9
Mr. Fraser wrote The Kuszilbash^ a Tale of Khorasmn (1828.) The word Kuzzil- hash means simply " Red-head," and is used to designate a soldier ; in 1830 he put forth a continuation of this novel under the title The Persian Adventarer. This was followed in 1833 by The Khan's Tale, the scene of which is also laid in Khorassan. At a still later period he wrote several other less successful novels, the scene of which was placed in Scotland.
MEETING OF WARRIORS IN THE DESERT.
By the time I reached the banks of this stream the sun had set, and it was necessary to seek some retreat where I might pass the night and re- fresh myself and my liorse without fear of dis- covery. Ascending the river-bed, therefore, with this intention, I soon found a recess where I could repose myself, surrounded by green pasture in which my horse might feed ; but as it would have been dangerous to let him go at large all night, I employed myself for a while in cutting the longest and thickest of the grass which grew on the banks of the stream for his night's repast, permitting him to pasture at will until dark ; and securing him then close to the spot I meant to occupy, after a moderate meal, I commended myself to Allah and lay down to rest.
The loud neighing of my horse awoke me with a start, as the first light of dawn broke in the east. Quickly springing on my feet, and grasp- ing my spear and scimitar, which lay under my head, I looked around for the cause of alarm. Nor did it long remain doubtful ; for at the dis- tance of scarce two hundred yards, I saw a single horseman advancing. To tighten my girdle around my loins, to string my bow, and prepare two or three arrows for use, was but the work of a few moments; before these preparations, how- ever, were completed, the stranger was close at hand. Fitting an arrow to my bow, I placed myself upon guard, and examined him narrowly
JAMES BAILLIE FRASER.— 3
as he approached. He was a man of goodly stat« ure and powerful frame ; his countenance, hard, strongly marked, and furnished with a thick, black beard, bore testimony of exposure to many a blast, but it still preserved a prepossessing ex- pression of good humor and benevolence. His turban, which was formed of a cashmere shawl, sorely tashed and torn, and twisted here and there with small steel chains, according to the fashion of the time, was wound round a red cloth cap that rose in four peaks high above the head. His oeinah or riding coat, of crimson cloth, much stained and faded, opening at the bosom showed the links of a coat-of-mail which he wore below ; a yellow shawl formed his girdle ; his huge shuhvars, or riding trousers, of thick fawn-colored Kerman woollen stuff, fell in folds over the large, red leather boots in which his legs were cased ; by his side hung a crooked scimitar in a black leather scabbard, and from the holsters of his saddle peeped out the butt-ends of a pair of pis- tols— weapons of which I then knew not the use, anymore than the matchlock which was slung at his back. He was mounted on a powerful but jaded horse, and appeared to have already trav- elled far.
\Vhen the striking figure had approached within thirty yards, I called out in the Turkish language, commonly used in the country : " Whosoever thou art, come no nearer on thy peril, or I shall salute thee with this arrow from my bow!" " Why, boy," returned the stranger in a deep manly voice, and speaking in the same tongue, " thou art a bold lad, truly ! but set thy heart at rest, I mean thee no harm." " Nay," rejoined I, " I am on foot and alone. I know thee not, nor tliy iiitontioiis. Either retire at once, or show thy sincerity by setting thyself on equal terms with me; dismount from thy steed, and then I fear thee not, whatever be thy designs. Beware !" And so saying I drew my arrow to the head, and pointed it towards him. " By the bead of my father !" cried the stranger, " thou art
JAMES BAILLIE ERASER. —4
an absolute youth ! but I like thee well ; thy heart is stout, and thy demand is just; the sheep trusts not the wolf when it meets him in the plain, nor do we acknowledge every stranger in the desert for a friend. See," continued he, dismounting actively, yet with a weight that made the turf ring again — "see, I yield my advantage ; as for thy arrows, boy, I fear them not."
With that he slung a small shield, which he bore at his back, before him, as if to cover his face, in case of treachery on my part, and leaving his horse where it stood, he advanced to me. Taught from youth to suspect and guard against treachery, I still kept a wary eye on the motions of the stranger. But there was something in his open though rugged countenance and manly bearing that claimed and won my confidence. Slowly I lowered my hand, and relaxed the still drawn string of my bow, as he strode up to me with a firm, composed step.
"Youth," said he, "had my intentions been hostile, it is not, thy arrows or thy bow, no, nor thy sword and spear, that could have stood thee much in stead. I am too old a soldier, and too well defended against such weapons, to fear them from so young an arm. But I am neither enemy nor traitor to attack thee unawares. I have trav- elled far during the past night, and mean to re- fresh myself awhile in this spot before I proceed on my journey ; thou meanest not," added he, with a smile, " to deny me the boon which Allah extends to all his creatures ? What, still sus- picious? Come, then, I will increase thy advantage, and try to win thy confidence." With that he unbuckled his sword and threw it, with his matchlock, upon the turf a little way from him. " See me now unarmed ; wilt thou yet trust me?" Who could have doubted fonger? I threw down my bow and arrows : " Pardon," cried I, " my tardy confidence ; but he that has escaped with difiiculty from many perils, fears even their shadow." — The Kuzzilbash.
}4(
EDWARD AUGUSTUS FREEMAN.— 1
FEEEMAX, Edwaed Augl'stus, an Eng- lish historical writer, born in 1823. He was educated at Trinity College, Oxford, of which he was elected Scholar in 1841, Fel- low in 1845, and Honorary Fellow in 1880. He filled the office of Examiner in the School of Law and Modern History in 1857-8 and in 1863-4, and in tlie School of Modem History in 1873. He reeeiyed the honorary degree of D.C.L. from the Uni- versity of Oxford in 1870, and that of LL.D. from the University of Cambridge in 1874, and is an honorary member of numerous learned societies in Europe and America. His writings, mainly upon historical and architectural subjects, are very numerous. Among them are llistorij of Architecture (1849), Enmys on Window Tracery (1850), The History and Con<iuexts of the Saracens (185G), History of the Federal Government (vol. 1., 1863), llistori/ of the Norman Con- quest (5 vols., 1867-76), OU English His- tory (1^^^), Groicthof the English Constitu- tion (1872), General Sketch of Euro2>ean History (1872), Historical Essays (3 vols., 1872-79), Historical and Architectural Sketches, chiefly Itcdian (1876), The Otto- man Power in Europe (1877), The Histor- ical Geography of Europe (1881), The Reign of niUiani Ilufus and Henry I. (1882), Introduction to American Institxi- tional Ilixtory (1882), Lectures to Ameri- can AudienrrH (1882.) He has also con- tributed largely to periodicals upon kindred subjects.
BICiMKICANTE OF THE NORMAN' CONQT'EST.
Tlie Norman CoiKjucst is the great turning- point in the lii.story of the Kn^li^li nation. Since the first sottlcnicnt of the English in Britain, the introduction of Christianity ia the only event
EDWAKD AUGUSTUS FREEMAN.— 3
which can compare with it in importance. And there is this wide difference between the two. The introduction of Christianity was an event which could hardly fail to happen sooner or later ; in accepting the Gospel the English only fol- lowed the same law which, sooner or later, affected all the Teutonic nations. But the Norman Con- quest is something which stands without a par- allel in any other Teutonic land. If that Con- quest be looked on its true light, it is impossible to exaggerate its importance. And there is no eA'ent whose true nature has been more common- ly and more utterly misunderstood. No event is less fitted to be taken, as it so often has been, for the beginning of the national history. For its wliole importance is not the importance which belongs to a beginning, but the import- ance which belongs to a turning-point. The Norman Conquest brought with it a most exten- sive foreign infusion, which affected our blood, our language, our laws, our arts ; still it was only an infusion ; the older and stronger elements still survived, and in the long run they again made good their supremacy. So far from being the beginning of our national history, the Nor- man Conquest was the temporary overthrow of our national being. But it was only a tempo- rary overthrow. To a superficial observer the English people might seem for a while to be wiped out of the roll-call of the nations, or to exist only as the bondmen of foreign rulers in their own land. But in a few generations we led captive our conquerors ; England was Enof- land once again, and the descendants of the Norman invaders were found to be among the truest of Englishmen. England may be as justly proud of rearing such step-children as Simon of Montfort and Edward the First as of being the natural mother of Alfred and of Harold.
In no part of history can any event be truly understood without reference to the events which went before it and which prepared the way for it. But in no case is such reference more need-
EDWARD AUGUSTUS FREEMAN.— 3
fill than in dealing with an event like that with which we are now concerned. The whole im- portance of the Xorman Conquest consists in the effect which it had on an existing nation, humbled indeed, but neither wiped out nor utterly enslaved ; in the changes which it wrought in an existing constitution, which was by degrees greatly modified, but which was never either wholly abolished or wholly trampled under foot. "William, King of the English, claimed to reign as the lawful successor of the kings of the Eng- lish who reigned before him. He claimed to inherit their rights, and he professed to govern according to their laws. This position, therefore, and the whole nature of the great revolution which he wrought, are utterly unintelligible with- out a full understanding of the state of things which he found existing. Even when one na- tion actually displaces another, some knowledge of the condition of the displaced nation is neces- sary to understand the position of the displacing nation. The English Conquest of Britain cannot be thoroughlv understood without some knowl- edge of the earlier liistory of the Celt and the Roman. But when there is no displacement of a nation, when thcpc is not even the utter over- throw of a constitution, when there are only changes, however many and important, wrought in an existing system, a knowledge of the earlier state of things is an absolutely essential part of any knowledge of the latter. Tlie Norman Con- quest of England is sim[)ly an insoluble puzzle without a clear notion of the condition of Eng- land ami the ?]nglish people at the time when the Conqueror and his followers first set foot on our shores. — The Norman Conquest, Introduc- tion.
COMPARATIVE MAGNITUDE OF THE COKQUEST.
The Norman Conquest again is an event which stands by itself in the history of Europe. It took place at a transitional period in the world's development. Those elements, Roman and Ten-
EDWARD AUGUSTUS FREEMAN.-4
tonic, Imperial and Ecclesiastical, which stood, as it were, side by side in the system of the early middle ay^e, were then beiiiij; fused together into the later system of feudal, papal, crusading Europe. The Concpiest was one of the most im- portant steps in the change. A kingdom which had hitherto been ])urely Teutonic was brought within the sphere of the laws, the manners, the speech of the Romanic nations. At the very moment when Pope and Ctesar held each other in the death-grasp, a Church which had hitherto maintained a sort of insular and barl>aric inde- pendence was brought into a far more intimate connection with the Roman See. And as a con- quest, compared with earlier and with later con- quests, the Norman Conquest of England liolds a middle position between the two classes, and shares somewhat of the nature of both. It was something less than such conquests as form the main subject of history during the great Wander- ing of the Nations. It was something more tlian those political concpiests which fill up too large a space in the history of modern tiiiies. It was much less than a natural migration ; it was mucli more than a mere change of frontier or dynasty. It was not such a change as when the first Eng- lish con(pierors slew, expelled, or enslaved the whole nation of the vampiished Britons. It was not even such a change as when the Goths or Biirgundians sat down as a ruling people preserv- ing their own language and their own law, and leaving the language and law of Rome to the vanquished Romans. But it was a far greater change than commonly follows on the transfer of a province from one s(jvereign to another, or even the forcii>le acquisition of a crown by an alien dynasty.
The Conquest of England by William wrought less imme<liate change than the Conquest of Africa by Genseric; it wrought a greater imme- diate change than the Conquest of Sicily by Charles of Arat^on. It brought with it not only u new dynasty, but a new nobility ; it did not
, EDWARD AUGUSTUS FREEMAN.^
expel or transplant the English nation, or any ~ part uf it, hut it graihially deprived the leading ' men and fauiiiies uf England of their lands and ^ oflBces, and thrust them down into a secondary position under alien intruders. It did not at ' once sweep away the old laws and liberties of the land ; but it at once changed tlie manner and spirit of their administration, and it opened the way for endless later changes in the laws them- selves. It did not abolish the English language ; but it brought in a new language by its side, which for a while supplanted it as the language of polite intercourse, and which did not yield to the surviving elder speech till it had affected it by the largest infusion that the vocabulary of one European tongue ever received from another. The most important of the formal changes in legislation, in language, in the system of govern- ment, were no immediate consequences of the CoiKjuest, no mere innovations of the reign of William. They were the gradual developments of later times, when the Norman as well as the Englishman found himself under the yoke of a foreign master. But the reign of William paved the way for all the later changes which were to come, and the immediate clianges which he him- self wrought were, after all, great and weight}'. They were none the less great and weighty be- cause tliey affe<:te<l the practical condition of the peojile far mure than they affected its written laws and institutions. When a nation is driven to receive a foreigner as its King, wlien that for- eign King divides the highest oflices and the greatest estates of the lan<l among his foreign followers, though such a change must be carefully distinguislie<l from changes itj the written law, still the change is, for the time, practically tho greatest whicli a nation and its leaders can undergo. — T/ir Xnnnun Cont/ucul, Introduction.
DEATH OK WII.I.IAM TMK CONQUEROR.
Tlio deathbed of William was a death-bed of all fornial devotion, a death-bed of penitence
EDWARD AUGUSTUS FREEMAN.— fl
wliicli we may trust was more than formal. The English Chronicler, William of Malmesbury, after weighing the good and evil in him, sends him out of the world with a charitable prayer for his soul's rest; and his repentance, late and fearful as it was, at once marks the distinction between the Conqueror on his bed of death and his successor cut ofE without a thought of peni- tence in the midst of his crimes. Ue made his will. The mammon of unrighteousness which lie h;id gathered together amid the groans and tears of England he now strove so to dispose of as to pave his way to an everlasting habitation. All his treasures were distributed among the poor and the churches of his dominions. A special sum was set apart for the rebuilding of the churches which had been burned at Mantes, and gifts in money and books and orna- ments of every kind were to be distributed among all the churches of England according to their rank. He then spoke of his own life and of the arrangements which he wished to make for his dominions after his death. The Normans, he said, were a brave and unconquered race ; but they needed the curb of a strong and a righteous master to keep them in the path of order. Yet the rule over them must by all law pass to- Robert. Robert was his eldest born ; he had promised him the Norman succession before he won the crown of England, and he had received the homage of the barons of the Duchy. Nor- niandy and Maine must therefore pass to Robert, and for them he must be the man of the French king. Yet he well knew how sad would be the fate of the land which had to be ruled by one so proud and foolish, and for whom a career of shatne and sorrow was surely doomed.
But what was to be done with England ? Now at last the heart of William smote him, To Eng- land he dared not appoint a successor \ he could only leave the disposal of the island realm to the Almighty Ruler of the world. The evil deeds pf his past life crowded upon his soul. Now at
EDWARD AUGUSTUS FREEMAN.— 7
last his heart confessed that he had won Eng- land by no right, by no claim of birth ; that he had won the English crown by wrong, and that what he had won by wrong he had no right to give to another. He had won his realm by war- fare and bloodshed ; he had treated the sons of the English soil with needless harshness ; he had cruelly wronged nobles and commons ; he had spoiled many men wrongfully of their inherit- ance ; he had slain countless multitudes by hunger or by the sword. The harrying of Northumberland now rose up before his eyes in all its blackness. The dying man now told how cruelly he had burned and plundered the land, what thousands of every age and sex among the noble nation which he had conquered had been done to death at his bidding. The sceptre of the realm which he had won by so many crimes he dared not hand over to any but to God alone. Yet he would not hide his wish that his son Wil- liam, who had ever been dutiful to him, might reign in England after him. He would send him beyond the sea, and he would pray Lanfranc to place the crown upon his head, if the Primate in his wisdom deemed that such an act could be rightly done.
Of the two sons of whom he spoke, Robert was far away, a banished rebel ; William was by hi.s bedside. By his bedside also stood his youngest son, the English ^F^theling, Henry the Clerk. " .\tid what dost thou give to me, my father?" said the youth. " Five thousand pounds of silver from my hoard," was the Conqueror's answer. " But of what use is a hoard to me if I have no place to <l\vell in ?" " Be patient, my son, and trust in the Lord, and let thine ddors go before tlicc." It is perhaps by the light of later events that our clironicl(;r goes on to make Wil- liam tell his youngest son that the day would come when ho would succeed both his brothers in their dominions, aixl would be richer and mightier than either of them. The king then dictated a letter to Lanfranc, setting forth his nt
EDWARD AUGUSTUS FREEMAN.— 8
wishes with regard to tlic kingdom. He sealed it and gave it to his son William, and bade him, with Ids last blessing and his last kiss, to cross at once into England. William llufus straightway set fortli for Witsand, and there heard of his father's deatli. Meanwhile Henry, too, left his father's bedside to take for himself the money that was left to him, to see that nothing was lack- ing in its weight, to call together his comrades on whom he could trust, and to take measures for stowing the treasure in a place of safety. And now those who stood around the dying king be- gan to implore his mercy for the captives whom he held in prison, lie granted the prayer
The last earthly acts of the Conqueror were now done. He had striven to make his peace with God* and man, and to make such provision as he could for the children and the subjects whom he had left bcliind him. And now his last hour was come. On a Thursday morning in September, when the sun had already risen upon the earth, the sound of the great bell of the me- tropolitan minster struck on the ears of the dy- ing king. lie asked why it sounded. He was told that it rang for prime in the church of our Lady. William lifted his eyes to heaven, lie stretched forth his hands, and spake his last words : " To my Lady Mary, the Holy Mother of God, I commend myself, that by her holy prayers she may reconcile me to her dear Son, our Lord Jesus Christ." He prayed, and his soul passed away. William, king of the English and duke of the Normans, the man whose fame has filled the world in his own and in every follow- ing age, had gone the way of all flesh. No king- dom was left him now but his seven feet of ground, and even to that his claim was not to be undisputed.
The death of a king in those days came near to a break-up of all civil society. Till a new. king was chosen and crowned, there was no longer a power in the land to protect or to cbarf- tise. All bonds were loosed : all public authority
EDWARD AUGUSTUS FREEMAN.— 9
was in abeyance ; each man had to look to his own as he best might. Xo sooner was the breath out of William's body than the great company which liad patiently watched around him during the night was scattered hither and thitlier. The great men mounted their horses and rode with all speed to their homes, to guard their houses and goods against the outburst of lawlessness which was sure to break forth now that the land had no longer a ruler. Their servants and fol- lowers, seeing their lords gone, and deeming that there was no longer any fear of punishment, be- gan to make spoil of the royal chamber. Weap- ons, clothes, vessels, the royal bed and its furni- ture, were carried otf, and for a whole day the body of the Con4ueror lay well-nigh bare on the floor of the room in which he died. — The Nor- man Conquest.
THE STUDY OF GREEK AXD LATIN.
The weak side of the old study of Greek and Latin lay in this, that they were studied apart from other languages. They were su^jposed to have some mysterious character about them, some supreme virtue peculiar to themselves, which made it needful to look at them all by themselves, and made it in a manner disrespectful to class any other languages with them. This belief, or rather feeling, grew naturally out of the circumstances of what is called the revival of learning in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. The learning then revived was an exclusively Greek and Latin learning, and it could hardly have been otherwise. And besides this, the crnM', like othei errors, contains a certain measure of truth : it is a half- truth thrust out of its proper place. For pur- poses purely educational the Greek and Latin tongues have Homcthing which is peculiar to themselves, something which does set them apart from all others. That is, they arc better suited than any other languages to be the groimdwork of study. — Esmy on Language and Literature,
FERDINAND FREILIGRATH.— 1
FREILIGKATII, Ferhinand, a German poet, born in 1810 ; died in 1876. At the age of tifteen he was apprenticed to a gro- cer at Soest, and wassul)seqi]ently employed in mercantile clerkships at various places. While serving his apprenticeship, lie mas- tered the English. French, and Italian lan- guages, and began to write verses for news- papei's. His first book, a series of transla- tions from the Odes and Songs of Victor Hugo, appeared in 1830. This was followed two years later by his first oi'iginal volume of Gedlchte. In 1842 he endeavored to es- tablish a periodical to be called Britannica : fur Englisches Lehen iind Englische Lit- erature and received promises of contribu- tion from Bulwer and Dickens ; and in that year he received a pension of 300 thalers from King William IV. of Prussia. Up to this time he had taken no part in polit- ical agitations ; but about 184-1 he threw up his pension, identitied himself with the liberal party in Germany, and was forced to leave the country. In 1848 he was on the point of emigrating to America. The amnesty of 1849 permitted him to return to Germany, taking up bis residence at Diisseldorf ; but he was soon after prose- cuted on account of a poem entitled Die Todten an die Lehenden ; he was acquit- ted by the jury ; but new prosecutions drove him to London in 1851, where he became a clerk in a banking establish- ment, at the same time making adnn'rable translations into German from British poets. A volume of these translations appeared in 1854 under the title of The Rose, Thistle, and Shamroch. Among his nnmci'ous translations from the English into German are Shakespeare's Cymheline and Winter's
FERDINAND FREILIGRATH.— 2
Tale, Longfellow's IIiav:atha, and nearly the whole of the poems of Burns. He re- sided in England until ISGG, when the sus- pension of the banking institution bv which he was employed threw him into pecuniary straits. But a national subscrij^tiou, amount- ing to 60,000 thalers, was raised in Germany, with which an ample annuity was purchased fur him. A general amnesty for all political offenders was proclaimed in Germany in 1808, and Freiligrath returned to his native country, settling at Stuttgart, and in 1875 at Cannstadt, where he died the next year. An edition of his collected works in six volumes appeared in New York in 1859. After this, during the Franco-German Avar, he wrote the popular songs Hurrah Germania ! the Trompete con Gravelotte, and some others. The year after his death appeared in Ger- niany a new and much enlarged edition of his works. A volume of selections from his Poems, not very well translated into English by his daughter, appeared in 1870, in Tauchnitz's '• Collection of German Authors." Freiligrath's political poems are perhaps more highly esteemed in Germany than his earlier works. He is there stvled " the poet-martyr,'' •' the bard of freedom," and " the inspired singer of the revolution." But for readers of the English language translations of his earlier non-political i)oems will give a better idea of his peculiar genius.
MV rriKMES.
" Most weary man ! why wrcatlicst thou Again and yet again," nictiiinks I hear yon ask, " The turban on thy snnhnrnt brow \ ' Wilt never varv Thy tri.stful task ; But sing, still sing, of sand and seas, as now Housed in thy willow zund^ul on the dromedary? m
FERDINAND FREILIGRATH.— 3
" Tliy tent lias now o'er many times Been pitched in treeless places on old Ammon's plains ; We long to greet in blander climes The love and laughter Thy soul disdains. "Why wanderest ever thus, in prolix rhymes, Through snows and stony wastes, while we come toiling after ? " Awake ! thou art as one who dreams ! Thy quiver overflows with melancholy sand ! Thou faintest in the noontide beams ! Thy crystal beaker Of juice is banned ! Filled with juice of poppies from dull streams In sleepy Indian dells, it can but make thee weaker ! " 0, cast away the deadly draught, And glance around thee, then, with an awakened eye! The waters healthier bards have quaffed At Europe's fountains Still bubble by, Bright now as when the Grecian Summer laughed And Poesy's first flowers bloomed on Apollo's mountains ! " So many a voice thine era hath, And thou art deaf to all ! 0, study mankind ! probe The heart I lay bare its love and wrath. Its joys and sorrows ! Not round the globe, O'er flood and field and dreary desert-path, But, into thine own bosom look, and thence thy marvels borrow ! " Weep ! Let us hear thy tears resound From the dark iron concave of life's cup of woe ! Weep for the souls of mankind bound In chains of error ! Our tears will flow
FERDINAND FREILIGRATH.-4
In sympathy with thine when thou hast wound Our feelings up to the proper pitch of grief or terror. " Unlock the life-gates of the flood That rushes through thy veins ! Like vultures we delight To glut our appetites with blood ! Remorse, Fear, Torment, The blackening blight Love smits young hearts withal — these be the food For us! without such stimulants our dull souls lie dormant ! " But no long voyages — 0, no more Of the weary East or South — no more of the Si- moom— No apples from the Dead Sea shore — No fierce volcanoes, All fire and gloom ! Or else, at most, sing basso, we implore, Of Orient sands, whilst Europe's flowers Monopolize thy sopranos/ " Thanks, friends, for this, your kind advice ! Would I could follow it — could bide in balmier land! But those far Arctic tracts of ice, Those wildernesses Of wavy sand, Are the only home I liavc. They must suffice For one whose lonely hearth no smiling Peri blesses. Yet count me not the more forlorn F'or my barbarian tastes. Pity me not. 0, no ! The heart laiil waste l>y grief or scorn, Which oi.ly knoweth Its own dceit woe, Is the only desert. T/iere no spring is born Amid the sands — in that no shady palm-tree groweth.
Transl. in Dnhlin Univ. Magazine, nt
FERDINAND FREILIGRATH.— 5
SAND-SONOS. I.
Sing of sand ! — not such as gloweth Hot upon the path of the tiger and the snake : Rather such sand as, wlien the loud winds wake,
Each ocean wave knoweth.
Like a Wraith with pinions burning. Travels the red sand of the desert abroad ; While the soft sea-saud glisteneth smooth and untrod
As eve is returning.
Here no caravan or camel ; Here the weary mariner alone finds a grave, Lightly mourned by the moon, that now on yon grave
Sheds a silver enamel.
II. Weapon like, this ever-wounding wind
Striketli sharp upon the sandf ul shore ; So fierce Thought assaults a troubled mind,
Ever, ever, evermore.
Darkly unto past and coming years,
Man's dee|) heart is linked by mystic bands ;
Marvel not tlien if his dreams and fears Be a myriad like the sands.
III. 'Tvvere worth much love to understand Thy nature well, thou ghastly sand, Who wreckest all that seek the sea. Yet savest them that cling to thee.
The wild-gull banquets on thy charms. The fish dies in thy barren arms ; Bare, yellow, flowerless, there thou art. With vaults of treasure in thy heart !
T met a wanderer, too, this morn, Wlio eyed thee with such sullen scorn : Yet I, when with thee, feel my soul Flow over, like a too-full bowl.
f'ERDINAND FREILIGRATH.— 6
IV.
Gulls ire flying-one, two; three; Silently and heavily. Heavily as winged lead, Through the sultry air over my languid heai Whence they come, or whither they flee> They, nor I, can tell ; I see On the bright brown sand I tread. Only the black shadows of their wings outspread. Ha I a feather flatteringly Falls down at my feet for me ! It shall serve my turn, instead Of an eagle's quill, till all my songs be read. Transl. in Dublin Univ. Magazine.
THE lion's ride.
The lion is the desert's king ; through his do- minion so wide
Right swiftly and right royally this night he means to ride.
By the steady brink, where the wild herds drink, close crouches the grim chief :
The trembling sycamore above whispers with every leaf.
At evening on the Table Mount, when ye can see
no more The changeful play of signals gay ; when the
gloom is speckled o'er With kraal- fires, when the Kaffir wends home
through the lone karroo, When the boshl.ok in the thicket sleeps, and by
the stream the gnu. Then bend your gaze across the waste : — what
sec ye? The giraffe Majestic stalks towards the lagoon, the turbid
lymph to fjuaff; With outst retched neck and tongiic adust, he
knocis him down to cof)I His hot thirst with a welcome draught from the
foul and brackish pool. A rustling sound — a roar — a bound — the lion sits
astride
3*1
FEllDINANb FRElLIGRATfl.-*^
Upon his giant courser's back. Did ever king sd
ride ? Had ever king a steed so rare, caparisons of
state, To match that dappled skin whereon that rider
sits elate ?
In the muscles of the neck his teeth are plunged with ravenous greed ;
His tawny mane is tossing round the withers of the steed.
IJpleaping with a hollow yell of anguish and sur- prise,
Away, away, in wild dismay, the camelopard flies.
His feet have wings ; see how he springs across
the moonlit plain ! As from the sockets they would burst, his glaring
eyeballs strain ; In thick black streams of purling Hood full fast
his life is fleeting, The stillness of the desert hears his heart's tu- multuous beating. Like the cloud that through the wilderness the
path of Israel traced — Like an airy phantom, dull and wan, a spirit of
the waste — From the sandy sea uprising as the water-spout
from ocean ; A whirling cloud of dust keeps pace with the
courser's fiery motion.
Croaking companions of their flight, the vulture whirs on high.
Below, the terror of the fold, the panther fierce and sly.
And the hyenas foul, round graves that prowl, join in the horrid race ;
By the footprints red with gore and sweat, their monarch's course they trace.
They see him on his living throne, and quake with fear, the while
With claws of steol lie tears piecemeal his cush- ion's painted pile.
iti
FERDINAND FREILIGRATH.— 8
On, on ! no pause nor rest, giraffe, while life and
strength remain ! The steed by such a rider backed, may madly
plunge in vain.
Reeling upon the desert's verge, he falls and
breathes his last; The courser, stained with dust and foam, is the
rider's dread repast. O'er Madagascar, eastward far, a faint flush is
descried : — Thus nightly o'er his broad domain the king of
beasts doth ride.
Transl. Anonymous.
THE SHEIK OF MOUNT SINAI. [A Narrative of 1830.]
" How sayest thou ? Came to-day the caravan From Africa ? And is it here ? 'Tis well ; Bear me beyond the tent, me and mine otto- man; I would myself behold it. I feel eager To learn the youngest news. As the gazelle Rushes to drink, will I to hear, and gather thence fresh vigor."
So spake the Sheik. They bore him forth, and
thus began the Moor : — " Old man ! upon Algeria's towers the tri-color is
flying. Bright silks of Lyons rustle at each balcony and
door; In the streets the loud reveil resounds at break of
day ; Steeds prance to the Marseillaise o'er heaps of
dead and dying : The Franks came from Toulon, men say.
" Southward their legions marched through burn- ing lands ; The Barbary sun flashed on their arms ; about Their chargers' manes were blown clouds of Tu- nisian sands. Knowest thou where the giant Atlas rises dim In the hot sky ? Thither in disastrous rout,
FERDINAND FREILIGRATH.— 9
The wild Kabyles fled with their herds and
women. " The Franks pursued. Hu ! Allah ! — each de*
file Grew a very liell-gulf then, with smoke, and fire,
and bomb ! The lion left the deer's half-cranched remains
the while ; Ho snuffed upon the winds a daintier prey ! Hark the shout, ' En Avant ! ' To the topmost
peak upclomb The conquerors in that bloody fray ! " Circles of glittering bayonets crowned the moun- tain's height. The hundred cities of the plain, from Atlas to the
sea afar, From Tunis forth to Fez shone in the noonday
light. The spearmen rested by their steeds, or slacked
their thirst at rivulets ; And round them through dark myrtles burned
each like a star. The slender golden minarets. " But in the valley blooms the odorous almond- tree. And the aloe blossoms on the rock, defying
storms and suns. Here was their conquest sealed. Look ! — yonder
heaves the sea. And far to the left lies Franquistan. The banners
flouted the blue skies; The artillery-men came up. Mashallah ! how the
guns Did roar to sanctify their prize ! " "'Tis they," the Sheik exclaimed, "I fought
among them, I, At the battle of the Pyramids ! Red, all along
the day, ran — Red as thy turban folds — the Nile's high billows
by! But their Sultan ? Speak ! — he was once my
guest
FERDINAND FREILIGRATH.— 10
His lineaments — gait — garb ? — Sawest thou the
man ? " The Moor's hand slowly felt its way into his
breast. " No," he replied, " he bode in his warm palace
halls. A Pasha led his warriors through the fire of hos- tile ranks ; An Aga thundered for him before Atlas's iron
walls. His lineaments, thou sayest? On gold, at least,
they lack The kingly stamp. See here ! A Spahi of the
Franks Gave me this coin, in chaffering, some days
back."
The Kasheef took the gold ; he gazed upon the
head and face. Was this the great Sultan he had known long
years ago ? It seemed not ; for he sighed, as all in vain to
trace The still remembered features. " Ah, no ! — this,"
he said, "is Not his broad brow and piercing eye. Who this
man is I do not know : How very like a pear his head is."
Transl. in the Dublin Univ. Magazine.
THE EMIGRANTS.
I cannot take my eyes away
From you, yc busy bustling band !
Your little all to see you lay.
Each in the waiting seaman's hand !
Ye men, who from your necks set down
The heavy basket on the earth, Of broad from German corn, baked brown,
By German wives, on German hearth.
And you with braid queues so neat, Black-Forest maidens, slim and brown,
How careful on the sloop's green scat You set your pails and pitchers down !
FERDINAND FREILIGHATn.— 11
Ah ! oft liavc liome's cool shady tanks These pails and pitchers filled for you:
On far Missouri's silent hanks
Shall these the scenes of home renew : —
The stone-rinmied fount on village street, That, as ye stopped, hetrayed your smiles;
The hearth, and its familiar seat; The mantel and the pictured tiles.
Soon, in the far and wooded West,
Shall log-house walls therewith be graced,
Soon, many a tired tawny guest
Shall sweet refreshment from tliem taste.
From them shall drink the Cherokee, Faint from the hot and dusty chase;
No more from German vintage ye
Shall bear them home in leaf-crowned grace.
0, say, why seek ye other lands ?
The Neckar's vale hath wine and corn, Full of dark firs the Schwarzwald stands.
In Stressart rings the Alp-herd's horn.
Ah! in strange forests how ye'U yearn For the green mountains of your home,
To Deutschland's yellow wheat-fields turn, In spirit o'er her vine-hills roam.
How will the forms of days grown pale In golden dreams float softly by ?
Like some unearthly mystic tale,
'Twill stand before fond memory's eye. .
The boatman calls ! go hence in peace !
God bless ye, man and wife and sire? Bless all your fields with rich increase,
And crown each true heart's pure desire ! Transl. of Charles T. Brooks,
JESSIE BEXTOX FRf:MONT.— 1
FREMONT, Jessie (Bexton), daughter of Tliomas H. Benton, born in Virginia, in 1S24. In 1841 she married John C. Fre- mont, whom she has aided most effectually in all his labors. She has written Tlie Story of the Guard (1863), ^-1 Year of American Travel (1878), and Souvenirs of my Time (1887.) To her husband's Memoirs (1887) she prefixed a biographical sketch of her father. HOW fb^mgn't's second expedition was saved.
Coining lionie from scliool in an Easter holi- day, I found Mr. Fremont part of my father's "Oregon work." It was the Spring of 1841; in October wc were married; and in 1842 the first expedition was sent out under Mr. Fremont. This first encouragement to the emigration west- ward fitted into so large a need that it met in- stant favor, and a second was ordered to connect with it further survey to the sea-coast of Oregon. At last my father could feel his idea " moved." Of his intense interest and pride and joy in these expeditions I knew best ; and when it came in my way to be of use to them, and protect his life-work, there was no shadow of hesitation.
In May, 1843, Mr. Fremont was at the frontier getting his camp into complete traveling condi- tion for his second expedition, when there came an order recalling him to NN'ashington, where lie was to explain wliv he had armed his party with a howitzer; tliat the howitzer had been charged to him ; that it was a scientific and not a military expedition, and should not have been so armed ; and that he must return at once to Washington and " explain." Fortunately I was alone in St. Louis, my father being out of town. It was be- fore telegraphs; and nearly a week was re(piircd to get letters cither to the frontier or to Wash- ington. I was but eighteen — an age at which consequences do not weii^h against the present. The important thing was to save the expedition, and gain time for a good start which sliould put
■:»
JESSIE BENTON FREMONT.— 2
it beyond interference. I liurried off a mes^ senger to Mr. Fremont, writing that he must start at once, and never mind the grass and ani- mals; they could rest and fatten at Bent's Fort : only go, and leave the rest to my father; that he could not have the reason for haste — but there was reason enough.
To the Colonel of the Topographical Bureau, who had given the order of recall, I answered more at leisure. I wrote to him exactly what I had done, and to him I gave the reason ; that I liad not sent forward the order, nor let Mi'. Fi'e- mont know of it, because it was given on insufii- cient knowledge, and to obey it would ruin the expedition ; that it would require a fortnight to settle the party, leave it, and get to Wasliington, and indefinite delay there ; another fortnight for the return — and by that time tlie early grass would be past its best, and the underfed animals would be thrown into the mountains for the win- ter; that the country of the Blackfeet and other fierce tribes had to be crossed, and they knew nothing of the rights of science.
AVhen my father came, he approved of my wrong-doing, and wrote to Wasliington that he would be responsible for my act ; and that lie would call for a court-martial on the point charged against Mr. Fremont. ]5ut there was never further question of the wisdom of arming his party sufficienlly. The precious time had been secured, and " they'd have fleet feet who fol- low," when such purpose leads the advance. I had grown up to and into my father's large pur- pose ; and now that my husband could be of such aid to him in its accomplishment, I had no hesitation in risking for him all the consequences. We three understood each other and acted to- gether— then and later^without question or delay.
That expedition led directly to our acquiring
California, which was accomplished during the
third, and last, of the expeditions made under
the government. My father was a man grown
se»
JESSIE BENTON FREMONT.— 3
when our western boundary was on the Missis- sippi; in 1821 he commenced in the Senate his championship of a quarter of a century for our new territory on the Pacitic ; now, with Cali- fornia added, he could say in that Senate : " We own the country from sea to sea — from the At- lantic to the Pacific — and upon a breadth equal to the lencrth of the Mississippi, and embracing the whole Temperate Zone." The long contest — the indifference, the ignorance, the sneering doubts, were in the past. . From his own hearth had gone forth the one who had carried his hopes to their fullest execution ; and who now, after many perils and anxieties, was back in safety, even to a seat in the Senate beside him ; who had enabled him to make true his prophetic words carved on the pedestal of his statue in St. Louis, wliose bronze hand points West : " There is the East ; there is the road to India." — Sketch of Benton.
AN IXN IX THE TYROL.
We stopped over night at such an inn in the village of Werfen ; just a street of detached, low, stone houses, but with a village square and foun- tiiin where the women gathered before sundown with their pitchers and gossipped. Costumes, fountain, gossips, all was a scene from Faust. High mountains shut in the narrow line of vil- lage. On a height above it w;ts an old fortified castle, now used as a military prison. The others walked up there — a ladder-like climb I was not up to, as I had lamed my knee in Denmark, and for want of rest had been getting seriously lamed. But I looked out at the Faust scene and the sunset lights on tin- inountaitis, and the landla<lv and myself h.nl a talk in pantomime all to ourselves. Their (rcrman had become a dia- lect here, and my German was scant anyway ; but when two women want to talk they can man- age with eyes and. hands and Oh's and Ah's, and so wc progres,sc<l, 1 assenting to all she proposed for dinner, checking off on her fingers
3«>
i^SSl^ BENTON FREMONT. -4
unknown dishes, to which I nodded approval until she'cYicd " enough." Then she led me to tlie oak presses which were in my room and, un- locking them with pride, displayed her treasures to me. She had reason for liousewifely pride in them. Piled up in quantity was fine linen for bed and table. Napkins tied in dozens with their original ribbons — lier marriage portion. " Meinc nuidder" had given her this and that. She led me to a window looking down upon the crowded gravestones of the clmrch adjoining her inn — " Meine mudder" was there ; touching her black head-dress and woolen mourning gown ; her husband too ; it was bright with growing flowers, dahlias chiefly then, and wreaths on the crosses.
But she smiled again when she displayed her many eider-down puffy quilts of bright-colored silks and satins, and taking her favorite she spread it over my bed, first smiling and putting its clear blue near my white hair to show it would be becoming. Then, incjuiringly. Would I choose for the others ? So the General had green for the hills, and Frank his gold color, while, as I had the blue, the girls had to take pink and crimson. It was charming to feel the friendly one-ness of hospitality which was quite apart from the relation of traveller ami hostess, and which belonged in with the courtesy of the people everywhere in Austria. Her best silver, each spoon and fork wrapped separately in silver paper, she also took out from this range of oak presses which made one wall of a large room.
When the others came back, they found the wood-fire bright in the open part of the huge white porcelain stove, the table with wax lights in twisted-branched silver candlesticks, flowers (dahlias from the graveyard, and geraniums — I saw the daughter cutting these funeral-grown flowers for the feast), and in their rooms more silver candlesticks on lace-trimmed toilet tables, lighting up the pretty satin quilts. — Souvenirs of my Time.
JOHN CHARLES FRf:MONT.— 1
FREMONT, John Chakles, au Amer- ican soldier and explorer, born at Savannah, Georgia, January 21, 1S13. At lifteen he entered the junior class at Charleston Col- lege; but remained only a short time, after which he became a private tutor. In 1833 was appointed teacher of mathematics on the U. S. sloop-of-war Natchez, which was about to sail upon a two years' cruise to the coast of South America. Upon his return he became a railroad surveyor and engineer. In 1838 he received a commission as Second Lieutenant iu the U. S. Corps of Topogra- phical Engineers. In 1841 he was married to a daughter of Thomas H. Benton, U. S. Senator from Missouri. In the follo\ving year he projected a geographical survey of the entire territory of the United States from the Missouri River to the Pacific Ocean ; and was instructed, to explore the Rocky Mountain region. This exploration occupied four months. He then planned a second and more extensive expedition, to explore the then unknown region lying between the Rocky M<juntuins and the Pacitic Ocean. Ti)e expedition, consisting of 30 men, set out in May, 1S43, and early in September came in sight of the Great Salt Lake, of which nothing reliable was as yet known. From the Great Salt Lake he proceeded to the upper tributaries of the Columbia River, down which he went nearly to the Pacific ; and in Novdmber set out to return to the States by a different route, much of it through an almo.^t unknown region crossed by high and rugged mountain chains. Early in March he reached Sutter's Fort on the Sacranient^j River, in California, having RufTcred severe hardships, and lost half of the horses and mules with whicli he had set
JOHN CHARLES FREMONT.— 3
out. He finally returned to the States in July, 1844, after an absence of fourteen months.
In the Spring of 1845, Fremont, who had been brevetted as captain, set out upon a third expedition to explore the Great J3asin and the maritime region of Oregon and California. In May, 1846, when making liis way homeward, he received dispatches from the Government, directing him to look after the interests of the United States in California, there being reason to apprehend that this province would be transferred by the Mexicans to Great Britain. He retraced his steps to California. Early in 1847 he concluded a treaty with the California population, which terminated the war in California, leaving that country in the pos.- session of the United States. In the mean while a question had arisen between Com- modore Stockton and General Kearny, as to which should hold the command in Cali- fornia. The upshot was that Kearny pre- ferred charges against Fremont, who de- manded a speedy trial by court-martial. The court found him guilty of the charges, and sentenced him to be dismissed from the service. President Polk confirmed a part of the verdict, but remitted the pen- alty. Fremont at once resigned his com mission as Lieutenant Colonel.
In October, 1848, he organized a fourth expedition at his own expense, the oMect being to find a practicable route to Cali- fornia, where he had acquired large landed interests. He subsequently took up his residence in California, and when the Terri- tory was admitted into the Union as a State, he was elected one oi the U. S. Senators. In drawing lots for the long or short term,
JOHN CHARLES FREMONT.— S
he received tlie latter, so that his senator- ship lasted only three weeks. In 1852 he went to Europe ; but in the following year Congress made an appropriation for the survey of three routes from the Mississippi valley to the Pacitic. He organized on his own account a fourth party to complete the explorations which he had begun in 1848.
In 1850 Fremont was made the Presi- dential candidate of the newly-formed Re- publican party. He received the 114 electoral votes of eleven States; Mr. Buchanan, the Democratic candidate, hav- ing the 174 electoral votes of nineteen States. The popular vote stood 1,838,000 for Puchanan ; 1,341,000 for Fremont ; and 874,000 for Fillmore, who receiv^ed no electoral vote.
Soon after the breaking out of the Civil War Fremont was made a Major-General in the U. S. Army, and was assigned to the command of the Western District. On August 30, 1801, he issued an order emanci- pating the slaves of those persons in his district who were in arms against the United States. This order Mas annulled by Presi- dent Lincoln, and Fremont was relieved from his command ; but at the beginning of 1802 he was placed in command of the "Mountain District,'' comj>rising parts of Virginia, Kentucky, and Tennessee. In June, (jeii. Pop(; was placed in command of the forces in Xortlierii Virgitiia. Fremont claimed that he outranked Pope, refused to serve under him, and resigned his com- mission.
After the conclusion of the war, Fre- mont busiofl himself in ])ronioting the con- struction of a southern railroad across the continent. In connection with this enter-
JOHN caARLES FRiiMONT.— 4
prise he was in 1873 charged with fraud- ulent transactions in France ; was tried dur- ing his absence from that country, and sentenced to line and imprisonment. From 1878 to 1881 he was Governor of the Terri- tory of Arizona, lie then began the com- position of his autobiography, the first vol- ume of which appeared in 1887, the title being Memoirs of unj Life^ hy John Charles Fremont. This volume, the only one which has yet appeared (November, 1887) brings the narrative down to the close of liis third expedition, 1846. He thus sets forth tlie scope of the entire work :
SCOPE OF THE " MEMOIRS."
The narrative contained in these volumes is personal. It is intended to draw together the more important and interesting parts in the journals of various expeditions made by me in the course of Western exploration, and to give my knowledge of political and military events in which I have myself liad part. The principal subjects of which the book will consist, and which with me make its raison cVetre, are three : The Geographical Explorations made in the in- terest of Western expansion; the Presidential Campaign of 1856, made in the interest of an undivided country ; and the Civil AVar made in the same interest. Connecting tliese, and natu- rally growing out of them, will be given enough of the threads of ordinary life to justify the claim of the work to its title of Memoirs : pur- porting to be the history of one life, but being in reality tliat of three, because in substance the course of my own life was chiefly determined by its contact with the other two — the events recorded having in this way been created, or directly inspired and influenced, by tliree dif- erent minds, each having the same objects for a principal aim
Concerning the Presidential Campaign of
JOHN CHARLES FREMONT.— 5
.1856, in which I was engaged, statements have been made which I wish to correct ; and in that of 1864 there were governing facts which have not been made public. These I propose to set out. Some events of the Civil War in which I ■was directly concerned have been incorrectly stated, and I am not willing to leave the result- ing erroneous impressions to crystallize and harden into the semblance of facts.
The general record is being made up. This being done from different points of view, and as this view is sometimes distorted by in)perfect or prejudiced knowledge, I naturally wish to use the fitting occjision which offers to make my own record. It is not the written, but the pub- lished fact, which stands ; and it stands to hold its ground as fact when it can meet every chal- lenge by the testimony of documentary and re- corded evidence.
Towards the close of the volume Fre- mont thus characterizes three of his com- rades who figure largely throughout the • entire narrative of his explorations :
CARSON", OWENS, AND GODEY.
From Fort Benton I sent [August, 1845,] an express to Carson at a ranc/io, or stock-farm, which with his friend Richard Owens he had established on the Cimarron, a tributary to the Arkansas River ; but he had promised that in the event I shoiiM need him he would join me, and I knew tliat lie would not fail to come. My messenger foutnl him busy starting the congenial work of making up a stock-ranch. There was no time to be lost, and he did not hesitate. He sold everything at a sacrifice — farm and cattle — and not only came himself, but brought his friend Owens to join the f)arty. This was like Carson — projupt, self-sacrificing, and true. That Owens was a goo'l man, it is enough to say that he and Carson were friends. Cool, brave, and of good judgment ; a good hunter and good
JOHN CHARLES FRMoNT.— fl
shot, experienced in mountain life, he was an acquisition, and proved valuable through the campaign.
Godey had proved himself during the pre- ceding journey, which liad brought out his dis- tinguishing qualities of resolute and aggressive courage. Quick in deciding and prompt in act- ing, he had also the French elan and their gayety of courage : " Gal, gal, avanfons nous.'^ 1 mention him here because the three men come fitly together; and because of the peculiar qual- ities which gave them in the highest degree efficiency for the service in wliich they were engaged. The three, under Napoleon, might have become Marshals — chosen as he chose men. Carson, of great courage; quick and complete perception, taking in at a glance the advantages, as well as the chances for defeat. Godey, in- sensible to danger, of perfect coolness and stub- born resolution. Owens, equal in courage to the others, and in coolness equal to Godey, "had the coup-d'all of a chess-player, covering with a glance that sees the best move. Ilis dark hazel eye was the marked feature of his face — large ' and flat and far-sighted.
Godey was a Creole Frenchman of St. Louis, of medium height, with black eyes, and silky, curling black hair. In all situations he had that care of his person which good looks encourage. Once when we were in Washington, he was at a concert; immediately behind him sat the wife of the French Minister, Madame Pageot, who, with the lady by her, was admiring his hair; which was really beautiful. But, she said, "cV«< unc perruque.'''' They were speaking unguardedly in French. Godey had no idea of having his hair disparaged ; and with the prompt coolness Avith which he would have repelled any other in- dignity, turned instantly to say, " Pardon, Ma- dame, c'est hlca a moiy The ladies were silenced as suddenly as the touch of a tree-trunk silences a katydid. — Memoirs, Chap. XII.
itlorninfl pragcr?,
JOHN CHARLES FRfiMONT.— 7
A HERD OF BUFFALOES.
The air was keen at sunrise [June 30, 1842,] the thermometer standing at 44 . A few miles brought us into the midst of the buffalo, swarm- ing in immense numbers over the plains where they had left scarcely a blade of grass standing. Mr. Preuss, who was sketching at a little distance in the rear, had at first noted them as large groves of timber. In the sight of such a mass of life the traveler feels a strange emotion of grand- eur. We had heard from a distance a dull and confused murmuring, and when we came in view of their dark masses there was not one among us who did not feel his heart beat quicker. It was the early part of the day, when the herds are feeding; and everywhere they were in mo- tion. Here and there an old bull was rolling in the grass, and clouds of dust rose in the air from various parts of the bands, each the scene of some obstinate fight. Indians and buffalo make the poetry and life of the pniirie. and our camp was full of their exhilaration. In place of the quiet monotony of the march, relieved only by the cracking of the whip, and an " Avance done f enfant de yurce T shouts and songs resounded from every part of the line, and our evening camp wjus alwavs the commencement of a feast which terminated only with our departure on the following morning. At any time of the night might be seen pieces of the most delicate and choicest meat roasting en oppolas on sticks around the fire, and the guard were never with- out con)pany. With j)Ieasant weather, and no enemy to fear, an abundance of tiie most excel- lent of meat, an<l no scarcity of bread or tobacco, they were enjoying the oasis of a voyagour's life. Three cows were killed to-day. Kit Carson had shot one, and was continuing the cliasc of an- other herd, when his horse; fell headlong, but Bpning iij) and joined the flying band, 'i'liough consiijcrably hurt, In; had the good fortune to break no bones; and Maxwell, who was mounted on a fleet hunter, captured tlie runaway after a VI
JOHN CHARLES FUliMONT.— 8
hard chase. Astronomical observations placed us in longitude 100° 05' 47", latitude 40° 49' 55". — Memoirs, Chap. IV.
A FIGHT WITH BUFFALOES.
Next morning [July Ij as we were riding quietly along the bank, a grand herd of buffaloes, some seven or eight hundred in number, came crowding up from the river where they had been to drink, and commenced crossing the plain slowly, eating as they went. The ground was apparently good, and the distance across the prairie (two or three miles) gave us a fine oppor- tunity to charge them before they could get among the river hills. Halting for a few mo- ments, the hunters were brought up and saddled, and Kit Carson, Maxwell, and I started together. The buffaloes were now somewhat less than half a mile distant, and we rode easily along until within about three hundred yards, when a sudden agitation, a wavering in the band, and a gallop- ing to and fro of some that were scattered along the skirts gave us the intimation that we were discovered. We started together at a hand-gallop, riding steadily abreast of each other. We were now closing upon them rapidly, and the front of the mass was already in rapid motion for the hills, and in a few seconds tlie movement had communicated itself to the whole herd.
A crowd of bulls, as usual, brought up the rear, and every now and then some of them faced about, and then dashed on after the band a short distance, and turned and looked again, as if more than half inclined to fight. In a few moments, how- ever, during which we had been quickening our pace, the rout was universal, and we were going over the ground like a hurricane. When at about thirty yards, we gave the usual shout (the hunter's pas dc charge), and broke into the herd. We entered on the side, the mass giving way in every direction in their heedless course. Many of the bulls, less active and fleet than the cows, paying no attention to the ground, and occupied
818
JOHN CHARLES FREMONT.- 9
solely with the hunter, were precipitated to the earth with great force, rolling over and over with the violence of the shock, and hardly dis- tinguishable in the dust.
We separated on entering, each singling out his game. My horse was a trained hunter, famous in the West under the name of " Pro- veau ;" and with his eyes flashing and the foam flying from his mouth, sprang on after the cow like a tiger. In a few moments he brought me alongside of her, and rising in the stirrups I fired at the distance of a yard, the ball entering at the termination of the long hair, and passing near the heart. She fell headlong at the report of the gun ; and, checking my horse, I looked around for my companions. At a little distance Kit was on the ground, engaged in tying his horse to the liorns of a cow he was preparing to cut up. Among the scattered bands, at some distance below, I caught a glimpse of Maxwell ; and while I was looking, a light wreath of smoke curled away from his gun, from which I was too far to hear the re[)ort.
Nearer, and between me and the hills towards which they were directing their course, was the body of the herd ; and giving my liorse the rein, we dashed after them. A thick cloud of dust hung uj)on their rear, which tilled my mouth and eyes, and nearly smothered me. In the n)idst of this I could see nothing, and the bi'ffaloes were not distinguishable until within thirty feet. They crow(k'(l together more densely still as I came upon them, and rushed along in such a compact bodv that 1 could not obtain an en- trance— t!)e horse almost leajiing upon them. In a few momenta the tnass divided to the right and left, the horns clattering with a noise lieard above cvcrytliing else, and my liorsc darted into the opening. Five or six bulls charged on us as we dasliod along the line, but were left far be- liind ; and singling out a cow, I gave lier my fire, but struck too high. She gave a tremendous leap, and scoured on swifter than before. 1 111
JOHN CHARLES FREMONT.— 10
reined up my horse, and tlie band swept on like a torrent, and left the place quiet and clear.
Our chase had led us into dangerous ground. A prairie-dog village, so thickly settled that there were three or four holes in every twenty yards square, occupied the whole bottom for nearly two miles in length. Looking around, I saw only one of the hunters, nearly out of sight, and the long dark line of our caravan crawling along three or four miles distant. After a march of twenty-four miles we encamped at nightfall one mile and a half above the lower end of Brady's Island. The breadth of this arm of the river was 880 yards, and the water nowhere two feet in depth. The island bears the name of a man killed on this spot some years ago. — Memoirs, Chap. IV.
FIRST GLIMPSE OF THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS.
On the morning of July 9 we caught the first faint glimpse of the Rocky Mountains, about sixty miles distant. Though a tolerably bright day, there was a slight mist, and we were just able to discern the snowy summit of " Long's Peak" [Les Devx OreUles of the Canadians), showing itself like a cloud near the horizon. I found it easily distinguishable, there being a perceptible difference in its appearance from the white clouds that were floating about the sky. I was pleased to find that among the traders the name of " Long's Peak" had been adopted, and become familiar in the country. — Memoirs, Chap. IV.
ON THE SUMMIT OF THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS.
August 15. — We were of opinion that a long defile which lay to the left of yesterday's route would lead us to the foot of the main peak ; and we determined to ride up the defile as far as possible, in order to husband our strength for the main ascent. Though this was a fine pas- sage, still it was a defile of the most rugged mountains known. The sun rarely shone here; snow lay along the border of the main stream
John charlbs FRf:Mo.NT.— li
which flowed through it, and occasional icy passages made the footing of the nuiles very in- secure, and the rocks and ground were moist •with the trickling waters in tliis spring of mighty rivers. We soon had the satisfaction to tind ourselves riding along the huge wall which forms the central summits of the chain. There at last it rose by our sides, a nearly perpendicular mass of granite, terminating 2,000 to 3,000 feet above our heads in a serrated line of broken, jagged cones. We rode on until we came almost im- mediately below the main peak, which I denomi- nated the Snow Peak, as it exhibited more snow to the eye than any of the neighboring summits. Here were three small lakes, perhaps of 1,000 feet diameter.
Having divested ourselves of every unneces- sary encumbrance, we commenced the ascent. We did not press ourselves, but climbed leisurely, sitting down so soon as we found breath begin- ning to fail. At intervals we reached places where a number of springs gushed from the rocks, and about 1 800 feet above the lakes came to the snow-line. From this point our progress was uninterrupted climbing. I availed myself of a sort of coml) of the mountain, which stood against the wall like a buttress, and which the wind and the solar radiation, joined to the steep- ness of the smooth rock, had kept almost entirely free from snow. Up this I made my way rapidly.
In a few minutes we reached a point where the buttress was overhanging, and there was no other way of surmounting the dilli( ulty than by pass- ing around one side of it, which was the fac-e of a vortical precipice of several hundred feet. Putting hands and feet in the crevices between the rocks, 1 sufrccded in getting over it; and when I reached the top, foimd my companions in a small valley below. Descending tf) them, we continued (•liinl)itig, and in a short time reached the crest. I sprang upon the summit, and another step would liave precipitated mo
JOHN CIIAKLES FRl^MONT.— 12
into an immense snow-ficlJ five hundred feet below. To the edi^e of this field was a slicer icy precipice; and then, with a gradual fall, tlie field sloped off for about a mile, until it struck the foot of another lower ridge. I stood on a nar- row crest, about three feet in width, with an in- clination of about 20° N., 51° E.
As soon as I had gratified my first feelings of curiosity, I descended, and each man ascended in his turn; for I would allow only one at a time to mount the unstable and precarious slab, which it seen)ed a breath would hurl into the abyss below. We mounted the barometer in the snow of the summit, and fixing a ramrod in a crevice, unfurled the national flag to wave in the breeze, wliere never flag waved before.
During our morning's ascent we had met no sign of animal life except a small sparrow-like bird. A stillness the most profound, and a terrible solitude, forced themselves constantly on the mind as the great features of the place. Here on the summit wliere the silence was abso- lute, unbroken by any sound, and solitude complete, we thought ourselves beyond the region of animated life; but while we were sitting on the rock, a solitary bee [Bromiis, "the humble- bee") came winging his flight from the eastern valley, and lit on the knee of one of the men. It was a strange place — the icy rock and the highest peak of the Rocky Mountains — for a lover of warm sunshine and flowers; and we pleased ourselves with the idea that he was the first of his species to cross the mountain barrier — a solitary pioneer to foretell the advance of civilization. I believe that a moment's thought would have made us let him continue his way unharmed. But we carried out the law of this country, where all animated nature seems at war ; and seizing him immediately, put him in at least a fit place — ^in the leaves of a large book, amont; the flowers we had collected on our way. The barometer stood at 1 8-293, the attached ther- mometer at 4i'^ ; givmg for the elevation of this
S8S
JOHN CHARLES FREMONT— IS
summit 13,570 feet above the Gulf of Mexico, which may be called the highest flight of the bee. It is certainly the highest known flight of that insect. — Memoirs, Chap. V.
The foregoing extracts relate to Fre- mont's first expedition, made in 1842. Those which ensue belong to the second expedition, 1843-44.
THE GREAT SALT LAKE VALLEY IN 1843.
August 21. — An hour's travel this morning brought us into the fertile and picturesque val- ley of Bear Ilivcr, the principal tributary to the Great Salt Lake. The stream is here two hun- dred feet wide, fringed with willows and occa- sional groups of hawthorn. AVe were now entering a region which for us possessed a strange and extraordinary interest. We were upon the waters of the famous lake which forms a salient point among the remarkable geographi- cal features of the country, and around which the vague and superstitious accounts of the trappers had thrown a delightful obscurity which we anticipated pleasure in dispelling; but which in the mean time left a crowded field for the ex- ercise of the imagination. In our occasional conversations with the few old hunters who had visited the region, it had been a subject of fre- quent speculation ; and the wonders which they related were not the less agreeable because they were highly exaggerated and impossible.
Hitherto this lake had been seen only by trappers who were wandering through the coun- try in search of new beaver-streams, caring very little for geography. Its islands had never been visited, and none were found who had entirely made the circuit of its shores; and no instru- mental observations or geographical survey of any description had ever been made anywhere in the neighboring region. It was generally supposed that it iiad no visible outlet ; but anjong the trappers — including those in my own camp — were many who believed that somewhere
»«n
JOHN CHARLES PR]5mONT.-14
on its surface was a terrible whirlpool through which its waters found their way to the ocean by some subterranean communication. All these things had made a frequent subject of discussion in our desultory conversations around the fires at night; and my own mind had be- come tolerably well filled with their indefinite pictures, and insensibly colored with their romantic descriptions, which, in the pleasure of excitement, I was well disposed to believe, and lialf expected to realize.
Where we descended into this beautiful val- ley it is three to four miles in breadth, perfectly level, and bounded by mountainous ridges, ono above another, rising suddenly from the plain. AVe continued our road down the river, and at night encamped with a family of emigrants — two men, women, and several children, who ap- peared to be bringing up the rear of the great caravan. It was strange to see one small family traveling along through such a country, so re- mote from civilization. Some nine years since such a security might have been a fatal one; but since their disastrous defeats in the country a little north, the Blackfeet have ceased to visit these waters. Indians, however, are very un- certain in their localities ; and the friendly feel- ings also of those now inhabiting it may be changed.
According to barometrical observation at noon, the elevation of the valley was 6,400 feet above the sea ; and our encampment at night in' lati- tude 42° 03' 47", andlongitudelll°'lO' 53' by observation. This encampment was therefore within the territorial limit of the United States; our traveling from the time we entered tin; val- ley of the Green River on the 15th of August having been south of 42° north latitude, and consequently on Mexican territory; and this ia the route all the emigrants now travel to Oregon.
The next morning, in about tliree miles from our encampment, we reached Smith's Fork, a stream of clear water, about 50 feet in breadth,
JOHN CHARLES FREMONT.— 15
It is timbered with cotton-wood, willow, and aspen, and makes a beautiful deboucheraent through a pass about 600 yards wide, between remarkable mountain hills, rising abruptly on either side, and forming gigantic columns to the gate by which it enters Bear Kiver Valley. The bottoms, which below Smith's Fork had been two miles wide, narrowed as we advanced to a gap 500 yards wide ; and during the greater part of the day we had a winding route ; the river making very sharp and sudden bends; the mountains steep and rocky ; and the valley occasionally so n;irrow as only to leave space for
a passage through
Crossing, in the afternoon, the point of a nat- ural -spur, we descended into a beautiful bottom, formed by a lateral valley, which presented a picture of home beauty that went directly to our hearts. The edge uf the wood for several miles along the river was dotted with the white covers of the emigrant-wagons, collected in groups at different camps, where the smoke was rising lazily from the fires, around which the women were occupied preparing the evening meal, and the children playing in the grass; and herds of cattle, grazing about ip the bottom, had an air of quiet security and civilized comfort that made a rare sight for the traveler in such a remote wilderness. In common with all the emigration, they had been reposing for several davs in this delightful valley in order to recruit their animals on its luxuriant pasturage after their lung jour- ney, and prepare tiiem for the hard travel along the C(>inj)arativ('ly sterile banks of the Upper (Jolumbia. — Memoirn, Chap. VI.
A.V EXPLOIT OF CAUSON AND OODET
In the afternoon [of April 27, 1844,| a war- whoop wa.s heard, such na Indians make when returning from a victorious enterprise; and soon Carson and Codt-y ap[)eared, driving before them a band of horses, rcfognized l»y Kuentcs to be part of those ho had lost. Two bloody scalps
JOHN CHARLES FREMONT.— 16
dangling from tlic end of Godcy'sgun announced that they liad overtaken the Indians as well as the horses. .
Tliey informed us that after Fuentes left them, from the failure of his horse, they con- tinued the pursuit alone, and towards nightfall entered the mountains into^ which the trail led. After sunset the moon gave light, and they fol- lowed the trail by moonshine until late in the night, when it entered a narrow defile, -and was ditKcult to follow. Afraid of losing it in the darkness of the defile, they tied up their horses, struck no fire, and lay down to sleep in silence and in darkness. Here they lay from midnight until morning. At daylight they resumed the pursuit, and about sunrise discovered the horses; and immediately dismounting and tying up their own, they crept cautiously to a rising ground which intervened, from the crest of which they perceived the encampment of four lodges close by. They proceeded quietly, and had got within thirty or forty yards of their ob- ject, when a movement among the horses dis- covered them to the Indians. Giving the war- shout, they instantly charged into the camp, re- gardless of the numbers which the four lodges would imply.
The Indians received them with a flight of arrows shot from their long-bows, one of which passed through Godey's shirt-collar, barely miss- ing the neck. Our men fired their rifles upon a steady aim, and rushed in. Two Indians were stretched upon the ground, fatally pierced with ballets; the rest fled, except a little lad that was captured. The scalps of the fallen were in- stantly stripped off; but in the process one of them, who had two balls through his body, sprang to his feet, the blood streaming from his head, and uttering a hideous howl. An old squaw, possibly his mother, stopped and looked back from the mountain-side she was climbing, threatening and lamenting. The frightful spec- tacle appalled the stout hearts of our men ; but
JOHN CflARLES FREMONT.— 17
they did what humanity required, and quickly terminated the agonies of the gory savage.
Tliey were now masters of the camp, which was a pretty little recess in the mountain, with a fine spring, and apparently safe from invasion. Great preparations had been made to feast a large party, for it was a very proper place to rendezvous, lindforthe celebration of such orgies as robbers of the desert would delight in. Several of the best horses had been killed, skin- ned, and cut up ; for the Indians, living in the mountains, and only coming into the plains to rob, and murder, make no other uses of horses than to eat them. Large earthen vessels were on the fire, boiling and stewing the horse-beef; and several baskets, containing fiftv or sixty pairs of moccasins, indicated the presence, or expecta- tion, of a considerable party. They released the boy, who had given strong evidence of the stoicism, or something else, of the savage charac- ter, in comjnencing his breakfast upon a horse's licad, as soon as he found that he was not to be killed, but only tied as a prisoner. Their object accomplished, our men gathered up all the sur- viving horses, 15 in number, returned upon their trail, and rejoined us at our camp in the after- noon of the same day. They had rode about 100 miles, in the pursuit and return, and all in .30 hours.
The time, place, object, and numbers con- sidered, this expedition of Carson and Godey may be consirlered among the l»ol(h»st and most disinterested which the annals of Western ad- venture, so full of daring deeds, can present. Two men, in a savage desert, pursue day and night an unknown body of Indians into a defile of an unknown mountain; attack them on sight, without counting numbers, and defeat them in an instant — and for what ? To punish the rob- bers of the desert, and to avenge the wrongs of Mexicans whom they did not know. I repeat : It was Carson and Godey wjio did tliis : the former an American, born in Boonslick County, mi
j"OIlN CHARLES FKI;M0NT.-18
Missouri, the latter a Frenchman, born in St. Louis, and both trained to Western enterprise from early life. — Memoirs, Chap. X.
This second exploring expedition started from " the little town of Kansas, near the junction of the Kansas river with the Mis- souri," in May, 1843. In September, 1844, Fremont returned to Washington, and set himself to the work of preparing his official Report of that expedition, most of which is embodied in the Memoirs.
PREPARING THE REPORT OF THE SECOND EXPE- DITION.
The interesting character of the regions visited by this expedition — California chiefly — drew much attention, and brought me many letters and personal inquiries. It became impossible to reconcile attention to visitors with work in hand ; and in order therefore to avoid this serious em- barrassment, I took for my workshop a small wooden two-story house, not far from the resi- dence of Mr. Benton. This was well apart from other buildingp, and had about it large enclosed grounds. I had here with me as assistant, Mr. Joseph C. Hubbard, who, although no older than myself, was already a practical astronomer and a rapid and skilful computer, and with his aid the various calculations went fast. This was the occupation of the daylight. To keep ourselves in practice — both being fond of astronomical obser- vations— we mounted a transit instrument, and the house being isolated, we were able to vary our work and have still an interesting point to it.
Wishing to prove the accuracy of a sextant by trying it against other observations, we went for several nights together, quite late, when the streets were quiet, and few passers to disturb the mercury, to a church near by, where there was a large stone carriage-step near the curb on which to set the horizon. AVaiting for the stars which
S8»
JOHN CHARLES. FlliMONT.— 19
I wanted to come into position, I rested more agreeably on the ground, half lying against the stone. A few days afterward a deacon of this church, who lived opposite, called upon Mr. Benton, regretting that he had disagreeable in- formation to give, which still he thought it his duty to impart to him. He said that for several nights he had seen his son-in-law, in a state of gross intoxication, lying on the pavement in front of the church, and apparently unwilling to allow a more sober companion who was with him, to take him to the house. Mr. Benton did not receive this charitable information in the grateful spirit which the informer had expectc<L
After the computation, came the writing of the Report. This had its great interest, but was still a task which required concentrated, systematic labor. Mrs. Fremont now worked with me daily at the little wooden house; but for her the work had its peculiar interest. Talk- ing incidents over made her familiar with the minuter details of the journey, outside of those which we recorded, and gave her a realizing sense of the uncertainties and precarious chances that attend such travel, and which day and night lie in wait ; and it gave her for every day an object of interest unusual in the life of a woman. There was but brief tin)e in which to do this writing. In the evenings the note-books were consulted, and the work thought out and prepared for the morning. Jacob kept up the camp habit, and very early brought me coffee ; and punc- tually at nine o'clock Mrs. Fremont joined mc at the workshop. From that hour until one, the writing went on, with seldom anything to break the thread — tlie dictation sometimes continuing' for liours, interrupt<'d only when an occasional point of cxooi)tioiial interest brought out in- fpiiry or discussion. After the four-hours' stretch there was tea, with a sliglit luncheon, and then a walk to the river; and after, work again until dusk
The completed lieport of the journey was m
JOHN CHARLES FRf:MONT.— 20
given in on March 1st, 1845, and 10,000 extra copies of the First and Second Reports were ordered by Congress. An important event conse- quent upon the publication of these Reports was the settlement by the Mormons of the valley of the Great Salt Lake. — Memoirs, Chap. XII.
Mr. Fremont goes on to give a detailed narrative of his third expedition, 1845-46, which involved more adventure tlian either of the previous ones, and resulted in the taking possession of California by the United States. The concluding act of this series of transactions is thus described :
THK TREATY OF COUENGA.
We entered the Pass of San Bernardo on the morning of the 12th of January, 1847, expecting to find the enemy there in force ; but the Cali- fornians had fallen back before our advance, and the Pass was undisputed.' In the afternoon wc encamped at the Mission of San Fernando, the residence of Don Andres Pico, who was at pres- ent in chief command of the Californian troops. Their encampment was within two miles of the Mission, and in the evening Don Jesus Pico, a cousin of Don Andres, with a message from me, made a visit to Don Andres. The next morning, accompanied only by Don Jesus, I rode over to the camp of the Californians ; and, in a conference with Don Andres, the important features of a treaty of capitulation were agreed upon. A truce was ordered; commissioners on each side appointed, and the same day a capitu- lation agreed upon. This was approved by my- self, as Military Commandant representing the United States, and Don Andres Pico, Com- mander-in-Chief of the Californians. Witli this treaty of Couenga hostilities ended, and Cali- fornia left peaceably in our possession ; to be finally secured to us by the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, in 1848. — Memoirs, Chap. XV.
Mr. Fremont thus closes the First Yol-
JOHN CHARLES FRflMONT.— 21
ume of his Memoirs — which brings the narrative down to within a week of his thirty-lif th birthday :
RETROSPECTIVE AND PROSPECTIVE.
With this event [the treaty of CoiiengaJ I close the volume which contains that part of my life which was of m}' own choosing ; which was occu- pied in one kind of work, and had but one chief aim. I lived its earlier part with the true Greek joy in existence — in the gladness of living. An unreflecting life, among ehosen companions; all with the same object — to enjoy the day as it came, without thuught for the morrow that brought with it no reminders, but was all fresh with its own promise of enjoyment. Quickly, as the years rolled on, and life grew serious, the light pleas- ures took wing; and the idling days became full of purpose; and, as always, obstacles rose up in the way of the fixed objects at which I had come to aim. But it had happened to me that the obstacles which I had to encounter were natural ones, and I could calculate unerringly upon the amount of resistance and injury I should have to meet in surmounting them. Their very opposition roused strength to overcome them
So that all this part of my narrative has been the story c)f an unrestrained life in the open air, and the faces which I had to look upon were those of Nature's own — unchanging and true. Now this was to end. I was to begin anew, and what I have to say would be from a dilfer- ent frame of miixl. I close the page because my path of life led me out from among tho grand and lovely features of Nature, and itsi pure and wholesome air, into the poisoned atmosphere an<l jarring circuniBtances of conflict among men made subtle and malignant by clash- ing interests. — Memoirs, Chap. XV.
i*HILIP FRENEAU.— 1
FRENEAIT, Philip, an American sea- captain, journalist, and poet, born in New York, in 1752 ; died near Freehold, N. J., in 1832. lie studied at the College at Princeton, N, J., where James Madison was his room-mate, and where he wrote his Poetical History of the PropJiet Jonah. During the war of the Revolution he wrote numerous burlesques in prose and verse, which were very ])opular at the time. These were jniblisked in book- form sev- eral times during the author's lifetime, and were in 1805 brought together and edited, with a Memoir and Notes, by Evert A. Duyckinck. Freneau had intended to study law, but instead of tliis he "followed the sea." In 1780, while on a voyage to the AVest Indies, he was captured by a British vessel, and confined in the prison-ship at New York, an event which he commem- orated in his poem 71ie British Prison /Ship. In 1789 Mr. Jefferson became Sec- retary of State, and to Frenean was given the place of French translator in his de- partment, and at the same time he was editor of the Hatio^ial Gazette, a newspaper hostile to the administration of Washing- ton. This journal was discontinued in 1793, and two years after he started a newspaper in New Jersey, and still later, in New York, The Time I'iene, a tri-weekly, in which ap- peared his cleverest prose essays. His newspaper undertakings were unsuccessful, and he again entered upon sea- faring occu- pations. During the second war with Gi'cat Britain he wrote several spirited poems, glorifying the successes of the American arms. His mercantile undertakings were not prosperous, and he at length retired to a little farm which he had in New Jersey. m
PHILIP FRENEAU.— 2
At the age of eighty lie lost his way at night in a violent snow-storm, and was found next morning dead in a swamp near his re- sidence.
Freneau may fairly he styled the earliest American poet ; and apart from this, not a . few of his poems deserve a permanent place in our literature. Some of his prose essays are clever and witty. Of these we present portions of .two:
ADVICE TO AITHORS.
If vou are so poor that you arc compelled to live in some miserable garret or cottage, do not repine, but give thanks to Heaven tliat you are not forced to pass your life in a tub, as was the fate of Diogenes of old. Few authors in any country are rich, because a man must first be re- duced to a state of penury before he will com- mence author. Being poor therefore in externals, take care, gentlemen, that you say or do nothing that may argue a poverty of spirit. Riches, we have often heard, are by no means the standard of the value of a man. This maxim the world allows to be true, and yet contradicts it every hour and minute of the year. Fortune most commonly bestows wealth and abundance upon fools and idiots ; and men of the dullest natural
f)arts are, notwithstanding, generally best calcu- ated to acf^uire large estates, and hoard up im- mense sums from small bcgiimings.
Never borrow money of any man, for if you should once be mean enough to fall into such a habit you will find yourselves unwelcome guests everywhere. If upon actual trial you are at length convinced you possess no abilities that will command the esteem, veneration, or gratitude of mankind, a[)ply yourselves without loss of time to soMJC of the lower arts, since it is far more honorable to be a good bricklayer or a skilful weaver than an inditTerent poet. If you cannot at all exist without now and then gratify- ing your itch for scril)bling, follow my example,
PHILIP FRENEAU.-3
who can both weave Rtockin2;s and write poemS. ]>ut if you really possess that sprightliness of fancy and elevation of soul which alone con- stitute an author, do not on that account be troublesome to your friends. A little rejection will point out other means to extract money from the hands and pockets of your fellow-citizens than by poorly borrowing what perhaps you will never be able to repay
If you are in low circumstances, do not forget that there is such a thing in the world as a decent pride. They arc only cowards and mis- creants that poverty can render servile in their behavior. Your haughtiness should always rise in proportion to the wretchedness and desperation of your circumstances. If you have only a single guinea in the world, be complaisant and obliging to every one. If you are absolutely destitute of a shilling, imjnediately assume the air of a despot ; pull off your hat to no one ; let your discourse in every company turn upon the vanity of riches, the insignificancy of the great men of the earth, the revolution of empires, and the final consummation of all things. By such means you will at least conceal a secret of some importance to yourself — that you have not a shilling in the world to pay for your last night's lodgings
If fortune seems absolutely determined to starve you, and you can by no means whatever make your works sell, to keep up as much as in you lies the dignity of authorship, do not take to drinking, gambling, or bridge-building, as some have done, thereby bringing the trade of authorship into disrepute; but retire to some uninhabited island or desert, and there, at your leisure, end your life with decency.
DIRECTIONS FOR COURTSHIP.
When you discover a serious liking to a young woman, never discover your passion to her by way of letter. It will cither give the lady an idea that you are a bashful booby, or that you
PHILIP FRENEA.U.— 4
have not any address in conversation : both which defects are sufficient to ruin you in the estimation of only tolerable good sense.
During the time of courtship be careful never to discourse with the lady upon serious subjects, or matters that are not immediately pertinent to the purpose you are upon. If she asks you what news, you must not tell her a long story out of the Dutch or English gazettes about the decline of trade, the fall of stocks, or the death of Mynheer Van dcr Possum. She looks for no such answers. You must relate a melancholy tale of two or three young gentlemen of fortune and handsome expectations, that have lately drowned themselves in the Schuylkill, or thrown themselves headlong from their third-story win- dows, and been dashed to pieces on the pave- ment, for the sake of a certain inexorable fair one, whose name you cannot recollect; but the beauty and s])afts of whose eyes these poor young gentlemen could not possibly w ithstand. Such intelligence as this will instantly put her into good humor
Have a care that you do not pester her with descriptions of the Al[)s, the Apennines, and the river I'o. A lady is not supposed to know any- thing of such matters; besides, you must be a very cold lover if those far-fetclicd things can command your attention a moment in the com- pany of a fine woman. Whatever she thinks proper to assert, it is your business to defend, .and prove to be true. If she says black is w hite, it is not for men in your probationary situation to contradict her. On tlie contrary, you must swear and protest that she is right ; and in de- monstrating it, be very cautious of using pedantic arguments, making nice logical distim'tions, or affecting hard and unintelligible terms.
TIIK EARLY NEW ENOI.ANDEIIS.
These exiles were formed in a whimsical mould, And were awed by their priests, like the He- brews of old,
PHILIP FRENEAU.— 6
Disclaimed all pretenses to jesting and laughter, And sighed their lives through to be happy here- after. On a crown immaterial their hearts were intent, Tliey looked toward Zion, wherever they went. Did all things in hopes of a future reward, And worried mankind — for the sake of ih6
Lord
A stove in their churches, or peAvs lined with
green, "Were horrid to think of, much less to be seen ; Their bodies were warmed with the linings of
love, And the fire was sufficient that tlashed from
above
On Sundays their faces were dark as a cloud; The road to the meeting was only allowed ; And those they caught rambling, on business or
pleasure, Were sent to the stocks, to repent at their leisure. This day was the mournfulest day of the week ; Except on religion none ventured to speak; This day was the day to examine their lives, To clear off old scores, and to preach to their
wives
This beautiful system of Nature below They neither considered, nor wanted to know, And called it a dog-house wherein they were pent, Unworthy themselves, and their mighty descent. They never perceived that in Nature's wide plan There must be that whimsical creature called
Man — Far short of the rank he affects to attain, Yet a link, in its place, in creation's vast
chain
Thus feuds and vexations distracted theirreign — And perhaps a few vestiges still may remain ; — But time has presented an offsprmg as bold. Less free to believe, and more wise than the
old
Proud, rough, independent, undaunted and free. And patient of hardships, their task is the sea; Their country too barren their wish to attain,
PHILIP FRENEAU.— 6
They make up the loss by exploring the main. Wherever bright Phoebus awakens the gales, I see the bold Yankees expanding their sails, Throughout the wide ocean pursuing their
schemes, And chasing the whales on its uttermost streams. No climate for them is too cold or too warm ; They reef the broad canvas, and fight with the
storm ; In war with the foremost their standards display. Or glut the loud cannon with death, for the fray. No valor in fable their valor exceeds ; Their spirits are fitted for desperate deeds ; No rivals have they in our annals of fame. Or, if they are rivaled, 'tis York has the claim.
THE DCTCH AND THE ENGLISH IX NEW YORK.
The first that attempted to enter this Strait (In anno one thousand six hundred and eight) Was Hudson (the same that we mentioned be- fore), Who was lost in the gulf that he went to explore. For a sum that they paid him (we know not how
much) This captain transferred all his rights to the
Dutch; For the time has been here (to the world be it
known), When all a man sailed by, or saw, was his own. The Dutch on their purchase sat quietly down. And fixed on an island to lay out a town ; They modelled their streets from the horns of a
ram ; And the name that best pleased them was New
Amsterdam. Tlu-y purchased largo tracts from the Indians for
beads. An 1 sadly tormented some runaway Swedes, \\ b«> (none knows for what) from their country
had flown. To live here m peace, undisturbed and alone. New Belgia the Dutch called their province, be
sure;
MT
PHILIP FRENEAU.— 7
But names never yet made possession secure, For Charley (the Second tliat honored the name) Sent over a squadron asserting his claim. Had his sword and his title been equally slender, In vain had they summoned Mynheer to sur- render. The soil they demanded, and threatened the worst. Insisting that Cabot had looked at it first. The want of a squadron to fall on their rear Made tlie argument perfectly plain to Mynheer. Force ended the contest ; the right was a sham, And the Dutch were sent packing to hot Surinam. 'Twas hard to be thus of their labors deprived. But the Age of Republics had not yet arrived. Fate saw (though no wizard could tell them as
much) That the Crown, in due time, was to fare like the Dutch.
THE BATTLE OF STONINGTON, CONN., AUGUST, 1814.
Four gallant ships from England came Freighted deep with fire and flame, And other things we need not name, To have a dash at Stonington.
Now safely moored, their work begun ; They thought to make the Yankees run, And have a mighty deal of fun
In stealing sheep at Stonington.
A deacon then popped up his head. And Parson Jones his sermon read, In which the reverend Doctor said
•That they must fight for Stonington,
A townsman bade them, next, attend
To sundry resolutions penned,
By which they promised to defend
With sword and gun old Stonington.
The ships advancing different ways, The Britons soon began to blaze. And put old women in amaze.
Who feared the loss of Stonington,
PfilLlP FRENEAU.— 8
The Yankees to their fort repaired, And njade as though they little cared For all that came — tliougli very hard
The cannon played on Stonington. The "Raniilies" began the attack, " Despatch" came forward, bold and black, And none can tell what kept them back
From settinii; fire to Stonino;ton. The bombardiers, with bomb and ball, Soon made a farmer's barrack fall, And did a cow-house sadly maul.
That stood a mile from Stonington. They killed a goose, they killed a hen, Three hogs they wounded in a pen ; They dashed away, and pray what then? —
This was not taking Stonington.
The shells were tlirown, tlic rockets flew, But not a shell of all they threw — Tliougli every house was full in view —
Could burn a house at Stonington. To liave tlieir turn they thouglit but fair; The Yankees brought two guns to bear; And, Sir, it would have made you stare P This smoke of smokes at Stonington.
They bored the " Pactolus" through and through, And killed and wounded of her crew So many, that she bade adieu
To the gallant boys of Stonington.
The brig "Despatch" was hulled and torn — So crippled, riddled, so forlorn. No more she cast an eye of scorn
On the little fort at Stonington. The "Ramilies" gave up the affray, And with her comrades sneaked away: Such was the valor, on that dav.
Of IJriti.sh tars near Stonington. But some assert, on certain ground."^ —
Besides the dama'^c and tlie wounds
It cost the king ten thousand pounds
To have a daah at Stonington.
PHILIP FRENEAU.-9
THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE.
Fair flower, that dost so comely grow,
Hid in this silent dull retreat, Untouched thy honeyed blossoma blow, Unseen tliy little branches greet.
No roving foot shall find thee here, No busy hand provoke a tear.
By Nature's self in white arrayed,
She bade thee shun the vulgar eye. And planted here the guardian shade And sent soft water inunnuriiig by. Thus quietly thy Summer goes, Thy days declining to repose.
Sniit with tliese charms that must decay,
I grieve to see thy future doom ; They died — nor were those flowers less gay (The flowers that did in Eden bloom).
Unpitying Frost, and Autumn's power. Shall leave no vestige of this flower.
From Morning suns and Evening dews
At first thy little being came : If nothing once, you nothing lose, For when you die you are tlie same ;
The space between is but an hour.
The mere idea of a flower.
MAY TO APRIL.
Without your showers
I breed no flowers; Each field a barren waste appears ;
If you don't weep
My blossoms sleep. They take such pleasure in your tears.
As your decay
Made room for May, So must I part with all that's mine ;
My balmy breeze.
My blooming trees, To torrid suns their sweets resign.
• 800
JOHN HOOKHAM FRERE.— 1
FEEEE, John Hookham, an English diplomatist, scholar, and poet, born at London in 1769 ; died at Malta in 1846. He was educated at Eton and Cambridge. At Eton be was one of the brilliant lads who carried on that clever journal called The Mi<-/'oco!>m, and afterwards he was associated with Canning and others in the conduct of Anti-Jacohin. Several of the cleverest pieces in this journal were the joint pro- duction of Frere and Canning. Frere en- tered public service in the Foreign Office during the administration of Lord Gren- ville, and from 1796 to 1802 sat in Parlia- ment fur the '' pocket borouglr'' of Love. In 1799 he succeeded Canning as Under Secretary of State; in 1800 he was sent a8 Envoy Extraordinary to Portugal, and in 1802 he was transferred to Spain, whither he was again sent in 180S. But he incurred no little censure at home on account of his Ijaving urged Sir John Moore to undertake his disastrous retreat to Corunna; and he was in 1809 recalled, being succeeded by the ^larquis of Wellesley. "With this recall the official career of Frei-e came to an early close, although the embassy to Kussia was j)roffered to him, and he twice refused the offer of a |)eerage. In 1820 he took up his residence at Malta, on account of the fee- ble health of his wife ; and that island was thenceforth liis home, although he made sev- eral extended visits to London. During his abode at Malta he devoted his leisure to lit- erary pur>uits: studied some of his favorite Greek authors, and made admiral)le transla- tions of several of the comedies of Aristo))h- ancs, and from Theognis. In 1871 his entire works were edited l>y his nei)hews W. E. and Sir Bartle Frere, with a Memoir by the
JOHN HOOKHAM FRERE.— 2
latter (born in 1815), who has also done good service as a diplomatist.
Among the minor productions of Frere is a translation from one of the Spanish Ro- mances of the Cid, which was greatly ad- mired by Sir Walter Scott.
AN EXPLOIT OF THE CID.
The gates were tlien thrown open, and forth at once they rushed,
The outposts of tlie Moorish hosts back to the camp were pushed ;
The cainp was all in tumult, and there was such a thunder
Of cymbals and of drums, as if the earth would cleave in sunder.
There you might see the Moors arming them- selves in haste,
And the two main battles, how they were form- ing fast ;
Ilorsemen and footmen mixt, a countless troop and vast.
The Moors are moving forward, tlie battle soon must join !
" My men, stand here in order, ranged upon a line !
Let not a man move from his rank before I give the sign ! "
Pero Berrauez heard the word, but he could not refrain ;
He held the banner in his hand, he gave the horse the rein;
" You see yon foremost squadron there, the thick- est of the foes ;
Noble Cid, God be your aid, for there your ban- ner goes !
Let him that serves and lionors it, show the duty that he owes ! "
Earnestlv the Cid called out, " For Heaven's sake, be still ! "
Bermuez cried, " I cannot hold ! " so eager was his will.
He spurred his horse, and drove him on amid the Moorish rout ;
JOHN HOOKHAM FRERE.-3
They strove to win the banner, and compassed
him about. Had not his armor been so true, he had lost
either life or limb ; The Cid called out again, " For Heaven's sake
succor him ! " Their shields before their breasts, forth at once
they go, Their lances in the rest, leveled fair and low. Their banners and their crests waving in a row. Their heads all stooping down towards the saddle- bow. The Cid was in the midst, his shout was heard
afar: " I am Rui Diaz, the champion of Bivar I Strike among them, gentlemen, for sweet mercy's
sake ! " There where Bermuez fought amidst the foe
they brake ; Three hundred bannered knights — it was a gal- lant sliow ; Three hundred Moors they killed — a man at
every blow ; When they wheeled and turned, as many more
lay slain ; You might see them raise their lances, and level
them again. There you might see the breastplates, how they
were cleft in twain, And many a Moorish shield lie scattered on the
plain. The pennons that were white marked with a
crimson stain ; The jjorses running wild whose riders liad been
slain.
Ill 1817 appeared anonymously tlic most notable of Frere's <»riginal poeiiip. It was a small volume of mofk-lieroic verse cnti- tlefl, " Prospoetus and Specimen of an in- tended National Work by William and IJol)- crt Wliintlecraft, of Stowmarket, in Suffolk, Harness and Collar Makers, intended to
Ml
JOHN IIOOKHAM FRERE.— 4
comprise the most interesting particulars relating to King Arthur and his Round Ta- ble." The poem isin four Cantos, with an explanatory rrologue :
KING ARTHUR AND IIIS ROUND TABLE. I.
I've often wished tliat I could write a book, Such as alf English people might peruse ;
I never should regret the pains it took,
That's just the sort of fame that I should choose.
To sail about the world like Captain Cook, I'd sling a cot up for my favorite Muse,
And we'd take verses out to Demarara,
To New South Wales, and up to Niagara.
VII.
I think that Poets (whether Whig or Tory), (Whether they go to meeting or to church),
Should study to promote their country's glory With patriotic, diligent research ;
That children yet unborn may learn the story, With grammars, dictionaries, canes, and birch :
It stands to reason. — This was Homer's plan.
And we must do — like him — the best we can.
IX.
King Arthur, and the Knights of his Round Table,
Were reckoned the best King and bravest Lords, Of all that flourished since the Tower of Babel,
At least of all that history records; Therefore I shall endeavor, if I'm able.
To paint their famous actions by my Avords : Heroes exert themselves in hopes of Fame, And having such a strong decisive claim,
X.
It grieves me much, that names that were re- spected
In former ages, persons of such mark. And countrymen of ours, should be neglected.
Just like old portraits lumbering in the dark.
JOHN iiOOKIlAM FREilE.— 5
An error such a;; this should he corrected
And if my muse can strike a single spark, Why then (as poets say) Til string my lyre ; And then I'll light a great poetic fire.
The Prologue.
KING Arthur's feast at Carlisle. I. Beginning (as my Bookseller desires)
Like an old minstrel with his gown and beard, " Fair Ladies, gallant Knights, and gentle Squires,
Now the lust service from the board is cleared, And if this noble Company requires,
And if amidst your mirth I may be heard, Of sundry strange adventures 1 could tell • That oft were told before, but never told so well.
II. The great King Artliur made a sumptuous Feast,
And held his Koyal Christmas at Carlisle, And thither came the Vassals, most at least,
From every corner of the British Isle ; And all were entertained, l)0th man and beast,
According to their rank, in proper style ; The steeds were fed and littered in the stable, The ladies and the knights sat down to table.
III. The bill of fare (as you may well suppose)
Was suited to those i»lentifnl old times, Before our modern luxuries arose,
With trutHi's and ragouts, and various crimes; And thcreffjpc, from the original in prose
I sliall arrange the catalogue in rhymes: They sf'rv?d up salmon, venison, and wild boars.
By hundreds, and by dozens, and by scores.
IV.
Hogsheads of hoiiov, kilderkins of mustard. Muttons and fatted beeves, and bacon swine;
Herons and bitterns, peacock, swan, and bustard. Teal, mallard, pigeons, widgeons, and, in fine,
I'lunj-[)nddings, j)an'akcs, ap[)le-pies and custard: And tlicniwitlial tliov drank good (iascon wine.
With mcail, an<l ale, ;uiil cider of our own,
For porter, punch, an<l negus were not known.
10*
JOHN nOOKHAM PRERE.-6
VII,
All sorts of people there were seen together, All sorts of characters, all sorts of dresses;
The fool with fox's tail and peacock's feather, Pilgrims, and penitents, and grave burgesses;
The country people with their coats of leather, Vintners and victuallers with cans and messes,
Grooms, archers, varlets, falconers, and yeomen,
Damsels and waiting-maids, and waiting women.
X.
And certainly they say, for fine behaving
King Arthur's Court has never had its match ;
True point of honor, without pride or braving, Strict etiquette forever on the watch :
Their manners were refined and perfect — saving Some modern graces which they could not catch.
As spitting through the teetli, and driving stages,
Accomplishments reserved for distant ages.
XII.
The ladies looked of an heroic race —
At first a general likeness struck your eye,
Tall figures, open features, oval face.
Large eyes, with ample eyebrows arched and high ;
Their manners had an odd, peculiar grace, Neither repulsive, affable nor shy,
Majestical, reserved and somewhat sullen ;
Their dresses partly silk, and partly woolen.
Canto I.
SIR LAUNCELOT, SIR TRISTRAM, AND SIR GAWAIN. XIII.
In form and figure far above the rest, Sir Launcelot was chief of all the train,
In Arthur's Court an ever welcome guest ; Britain will never see his like again.
Of all the Knights she ever had the best. Except, perhaps, Lord Wellington in Sj)ain :
1 never saw his picture nor his print.
From Morgan's Chronicle I take my hint.
30«
JOHN HOOKHAM FRERE.-7
XV.
Yet oftentimes his courteous cheer forsook His countenance, and then returned again,
As if some secret recollection shook
His inward heart with unacknowledged pain ;
And something haggard in his eyes and look (More than his years or hardships could ex- plain)
Made him appear, in person and in mind,
Less perfect than what nature had designed.
XVI,
Of noble presence, but of different mien,
Alert and lively, voluble and gay. Sir Tristram at Carlisle was rarely seen.
But ever was regretted while away ; With easy mirth, an enemy to spleen,
His ready converse charmed the wintry day ; No tales he told of sieges or of fights, Of foreign marvels, like the foolish Knights.
XVII.
Songs, music, languages, and many a lay Asturian or Armoriac, Irish, Basque,
His ready memory seized and bore away; And ever when the ladies cliose to ask.
Sir Tristram was prepared to sing and play. Not like a minstrel earnest at his task,
But witli a sportive, careless, easy style.
As if he seemed to mock himself the while.
XXIII.
Sir Gawain may be painted in a word —
He was a perfect loyal Cavalier. His courteous manners stand upon record,
A stranger to the very thought of fear. Tiic proverb says, "As brave as his own sword ; "
And like his wca|)on was that worthy Peer, Of admirable temper, dear anrl bright. Polished yet keen, though pliant yet upright.
XXIV.
On every point, in earnest or in jest,
His jndfjineiit, and his prudence, and liis wit,
Were deemed the virry touchstone and the test Of what was proper, graceful, just, and fit;
Ml
JOHN HOOKHAM FRERE.-8
A word from him set everything at rest, His short decision never failed to hit ; His silence, his reserve, his inattention, Were felt as the severest reprehension.
XXVIII.
In battle he was fearless to a fault ,
The foremost in the thickest of the field ;
His eager valor knew no pause nor halt, And the red rampant Lion in his shield
Scaled towns and towers, the foremost in assault, With ready succor where the battle reeled :
At random like a thunderbolt he ran,
And bore down shields and pikes, and horse and man.
Canto I.
THE MARAUDING GIANTS. IV.
Before the Feast was ended, a report
Filled every soul with horror and dismay ;
Some Ladies on their journey to the Court, Had been surprised, and were conveyed away
By the Aboriginal Giants to their fort —
An unknown fort — for Government, they say,
Had .ascertained its actual existence.
But knew not its direction nor its distance.
V.
A waiting-damsel, crooked and mis-shaped. Herself a witness of a woful scene.
From which, by miracle, she had escaped. Appeared before the Ladies and the Queen.
Her figure was funereal, veiled and craped. Her voice convulsed with sobs and sighs be- tween.
That with the sad recital, and the sight,
Revenge and rage inflamed each worthy Knight.
VI.
Sir Gawain rose without delay or dallying ;
" Excuse us, Madame, we've no time to waste :" And at the palace-gate you saw him sallying.
With other Knights equipped and armed in haste ;
EOI
JOHN HOOKHAM FRERE.— 9
And there was Tristram making jests, and rally. ing The poor mis-shapen damsel, whom he placed Behind him on a pillion, pad, or pannel ; lie took, besides, his falcon and his spaniel
VII.
But what with horror, and fatigue and fright, Poor soul, she could not recollect the way.
They reached the mountains on the second night, And wandered up and down till break of day,
AVhen they discovered by the dawning light, A lonely glen, where heaps of embers lay.
They found unleavened fragments scorched and toasted.
And the remains of mules and horses roasted.
VIII.
Sir Tristram understood the Giants' courses ;
He felt the embers but the heat was out ; He stood contemplating the roasted iiorses;
And all at once, without suspense or doubt, His own decided judgment thus enforces :
" The Giants must be somewhere hereabout." Demonstrating the carcasses, he shows That they remained untouched by kites or crows
IX.
" You see no traces of their sleeping here, No heap of leaves or heath, no Giant's nest ;
Their usual habitation must be near : They feed at sunset, and retire to rest ;
A moment's search will set the matter clear." — Tin; fact turned out precisely as he guessed ;
And shortly after, scrambling through a gully,
He verified his own conjecture fully.
X.
He fountl a valley, closed on every side. Resembling that which Kasselas describes;
Six miles in length, and half as many wide. Whore the dcscniKlants of the Giant tribes
Lived in their aiificnt fortress undescried. (Invadffs troad upon oarh other's kibes)
First came the I>riton, afterward the Koinan ;
Our patrimonial lands belong to no mau,
5<.»
JOHN HOOKHAM FRERE.— 10
XII.
Huge mountains of immeasurable height, Encompassed all the level valley round,
With mighty slabs of rock that sloped upright, An insurmountable, enormous mound ;
The very river vanished out of sight.
Absorbed in secret channels underground.
That vale was so sequestered and secluded,
All search for ages past it had eluded.
XIII.
High overhead was many a cave and den,
That, with its strange construction seemed to mock
All. thought of how they were contrived, or when Hewn inward in the huge suspended rock
The tombs and monuments of mighty men : Such were the patriarchs of this ancient stock.
Alas ! what pity that the present race
Should be so barbarous, and depraved, and base.
XIV.
For they subsisted (as I said) by pillage.
And the wild beasts which they pursued and chased ;
Nor house, nor herdsman's hut, nor farm, nor vil- lage. Within the lonely valley could be traced,
Nor roads, nor bounded fields, nor rural tillage ; But all was lonely, desolate, and waste.
The Castle which commanded the domain
Was suited to so rude and wild a reign.
XVII.
Sir Gawain tried a parley, but in vain :
A true-born Giant never trusts a Knight. —
He sent a herald, who returned again
All torn to rags and perishing with fright.
A trumpeter was sent, but he was slain : — To trumpeters they bear a mortal spite.
When all conciliatory measures failed.
The castle and the fortress were assailed.
XVIII.
But when the Giants saw them fairly under, They shoveled down a cataract of stones,
JOHN HOOKHAM PRERE.— 11
A hideous volley like a peal of thunder,
Bouncing and bounding down, and breaking bones,
Rending the earth, and riving rocks asunder. Sir Gawain inwardly laments and groans.
Retiring last, and standing most exposed ; —
Success seemed hopeless, and the combat closed.
XIX.
A council then was called, and all agreed To call in succor from the country round;
By regular approaches to proceed,
Intrenching, fortifying, breaking ground.
That morninLT Tristram happened to secede : It seems his falcon was not to be found.
He went in search of her; but some suspected
He went lest his advice should be neglected.
XX.
At Gawain's summons all the country came;
At Gawain's summons all the people aided ; They called upon each other in his name.
And bid their neighbors work as hard as they did.- So well beloved was he, for very shame
They dug, they delved, they palisaded, Till all the fort was thoroughly blockaded And every ford where Giants might have waded.
XXIV.
Good humor was Sir Tristram's leading quality, An<l in the present case he j)rovcd it such;
If he forebore, it was that in reality
His conscience smote him with a secret touch,
For liaving shocked liis worthy friend's formal- ity- He thought SirGawain had not said too much ;
He walks apart with him; and he discourses
About their pre[)aration and their forces:
XXV.
Approving everything that had l)ecn done ; — " It serves to [)ut the Giants off their guard ;
Less hazard and less daiiLCer will be run ; I doubt not we shall find theiu unprepared. Ill
John iiookiiam frere.— la
The castle will more easily l»e won,
And many valuable lives be spared ; The Ladies else, while we blockade and threaten, Will most infallibly be killed and eaten."
XXVI.
Sir Tristram talked incomparably well ;
His reasons were irrefragably strong. As Tristram spoke Sir Gawain's spirits fell,
For he discovered clearly before long (What Tristram never would presume to tell),
Tliat his whole system was entirely wrong. In fact, his confidence had much diminished Since all the preparations had been finished.
XXVII.
"Indeed," Sir Tristram said, "for aught we know —
For aught that we can tell — this very night The valley's entrance may be closed with snow.
And we may starve and perish here outright. 'Tis better risking a decisive blow. —
I own this weather puts me in a fright." In fine, this tedious confeilince to shdrten, Sir Gawain trusted to Sir Tristram's fortune.
XLIX.
Behold Sir Gawain with liis valiant band :
Ue enters on the work with warmth and haste,
And slays a brace of Giants out of hand.
Sliced downwards from the shoulder to the waist.
But our ichnography must now be planned, The Keep or Inner Castle must be traced.
I wish myself at the concluding distich,
Although I think the thincf characteristic.
Facing your entrance, just tliree yards behind. There was a mass of stone of moderate height ;
It stood before you like a screen or blind ; And there — on either hand to left and right —
Were sloping parapets or planes inclined.
On which two massy stones were placed up- right,
JOHN HOOKHAM FRERE.— 13
Secured by staples and by leathern ropes AVhich hindered thorn from sliding down the slopes.
LI.
" Cousin, these dogs have some device or gin !
I'll run the gauntlet and I'll stand a knock ! " — He dashed into the gate through thick and thin ;
He hewed away the bands which held the block ; It rushed along the slope with rumbling din,
And closed the entrance with a thundering shock, (Just like those famous old Symplegades Discovered by the classics in their seas.)
LII.
This saw Sir Tristram : As you may suppose, He found some Giants wounded, others dead;
He shortly equalizes these with those.
But one poor devil there was sick in bed,
In whose behalf the Ladies interpose.
Sir Tristram spared his life, because they said
That he was more Inimane, and mild, and clever,
And all the time had had an a^ue-fever.
LIII.
The Ladies ? — They were tolerably well ;
At least as well as could have been expected. Many details I must forbear to tell :
Their toilet had been very much neglected ; But by supreme good luck it so befell
That when the Castle's capture was effected, When those vile cannibals were overpowered, Only two fat duennas were devoured.
LI v. Sir Tristram having thus secured the fort,
And seen all safe, was climbing to the wall, (Meaning to leap into the outer court;)
But when he came, he saved himself the fall. Sir Gawain had l»een spoiling all the spurt:
The Giants wen; demolished one and all. He pulled them u[) the wall. Tiny ( liiiib and
enter : Such was the winding up of this adventure.
Canto II,
JOHN HOOKHAM FREtlE.-14
A PAUSE IN THE STORY.
And now tlic tliread of our romance unravels, Prcscntiiiii new performances on tlic stage :
A Giant's education and liis travels
Will occupy the next succeeding page. —
But I begin to tremble at the cavils Of this fastidious, supercilious age.
Reviews and paragraphs in morning papers;
The prospect of them gives my Muse the vapors.
Close of Canto II.
THE MONKS AND THE GIANTS. IV.
Some ten miles off, an ancient abbey stood,
Amidst the mountains, near a noble stream ; A level eminence, enshrined with wood.
Sloped to the river's bank and southern beam ; Within were fifty friars fat and good,
Of goodly presence and of good esteem. That passed an easy exemplary life,
Remote from want and care, and worldly strife.
V.
Between the Monks and Giants there subsisted, In the first Abbot's lifetime, much respect;
The Giants let them settle where they listed : The Giants were a tolerating sect.
A poor lame Giant once the Monks assisted. Old and abandoned, dying with neglect;
The Prior found him, cured his broken bone,
And very kindly cut him for the stone.
VI.
This seemed a glorious, golden opportunity To civilize the whole gigantic race ;
To draw them to pay tithes, and dwell in unity. The Giants' valley was a fertile place,
And might have much enriched the whole com- munity. Had the old Giant lived a longer space.
But he relapsed, and though all means were tried,
They could but just baptize him — when he died.
JOHN HOOK HAM FRERE.— 15
VIII.
They never found another case to cure, But their demeanor cahn and reverential,
Their gesture and their vesture grave and pure, Their conduct sober, cautious and prudential,
Engaged respect, sufficient to secure
Their properties and interests most essential ;
They kept a distant courteous intercourse,
Salutes and gestures were their sole discourse.
XV.
In castles and in courts Ambition dwells. But not in castles or in courts alone ;
She breathes a wish throughout those sacred cells, For bells of larger size and louder tone.
Giants abominate the sound of bells.
And soon the fierce antipathy was shown.
The tinkling and the jingling and the clangor,
Roused their irrational, gigantic anger.
XVI.
Unhappy mortals! ever blind to fate !
Unhappy Monks ! you see no danger nigh ; Exulting in their sound and size and weight.
From morn till noon the merry peal you ply ; The belfry rocks, your bosoms are elate,
Your spirits with the ropes and pulleys fly ; Tired but transported, panting, ])ulliiig, hauling. Ramping and stampmg, overjoyed and bawling.
XVII.
Meanwhile the solemn mountains that surrounded The silent valley where the convent lay,
With tintinnabular uproar were astounded. When the first peal broke forth at break of day ;
Feeling their granite ears severely wounded. They scarce knew what to think or what to «ay.
And (though large mountains commonly conceal
Their sentiments, dissembling what they feel),
XIX.
Those giant mountains inwardly were moved, Jiut never made an outward change of place.
JOHN HOOKHAM FRERBr-16
Not so the Mountain-Giants (as behoved A more alert and locomotive race),
Hearing a clatter vvliich they disapproved
They ran straight-forward to besiege the place
With a discordant, universant yell,
Like house-dogs howling at a dinner-bell.
XX.
Historians are extremely to be pitied, Obliged to persevere in the narration
Of wrongs and horrid outrages committed, Oppression, sacrilege, assassination ;
The following scenes I wished to have omitted, But truth is an imperious obligation.
So " my heart sickens and I drop ray pen,"
And am obliged to pick it up again.
Canto III.
THE CLOSE OF THE WAR.
XLVIII. ^
The Giant-troops invariably withdrew
(Like mobs in Naples, Portugal, and Spain),
To dine at twelve o'clock and sleep till two, And afterwards (except in case of rain)
Returned to clamor, hoot, and pelt anew. The scene was every day the same again.
Thus the blockade grew tedious, I intended
A week ago, myself to raise and end it.
LVI.
Our Giants' memoirs still remain on hand, For all my notions being genuine gold,
Beat out beneath the hammer and expand And multiply themselves a thousandfold
Beyond the first idea that I planned.
Besides — thus present copy must be sold;
Besides — I promised Murray t'other day.
To let him have it by the lenth of May.
Canto IV.
■ GUSTAV FREYTAG.— 1
FREYTAG, Gustav, a German novel- ist, dramatist, and journalist, born in 1816. He was educated at Oels, Breslau, and Ber- lin, and received bis degree of Doctor of Pbilosopby in 1S38. In 1845 be publisbed a volume of iwems eutitled I71 £reslmi, ^nd an historical comedy, 77ie Espousal of Kuntz von Rosen. He went in 1847 to Leipsic and, in conjunction with Julian Schmidt, became editor of Grenzhoten " The Messenger of the Frontier." In this and the following year, he published the dramas Val- entine and Count Waldeinar, in 1854, a comedy, Die Journalisten, and in 1859 a classical drama Die Fabier. Others of his dramatic works are Der Gelehrte^o. irdigedy^ and Eine arme Schneiderseele^ a comedy. His novel. Soil %md Hahen (1855) at once •gave him a high place among German writers of fiction. It was translated into English under the title of *^ Debit and Credits Bilder axis der Deutschen Ver- gangenheit was followed in 1862 by Neue Bilder aus dem Lehen des Deutschen Volkes, translated into English under the title of " Pictures of German Life." Another novel, Die Verlorne Ilandschrift, appeared in 1864, and a series of tales collected under the title of Die Ahnen ("Presentiments") in 1876. In 1870 Freytag resigned the editor- ship of the Grenzhoten^ and took charge of Im neuen lieich, a weekly journal at Leipsic.
THE BURDEN OF A CRIME.
The murderer stood for a few moments mo- tionless in the darkness, leanini^ against tho staircase railings. Then lie .slowly went up tho steps. While doing so he felt his trousers to see how high they were wet. He thought to himself that he must dry them at the stove this very night, and saw in fancy the lire in the an
GUSTAV FREYTAG.— 3
stove, and himself sitting before it in his dressing-gown, as he was accustomed to do when tlunl<ing over liis business. If he had ever in his life known comfortable repose, it had been when, weary of the cares of the day, he sat before his stove-tire and watched it till his heavy eyelids drooped. He realized how tired he was now, and what good it would do him to go to sleep before a warm fire. Lost in the thought, he stood for a moment like one overcome with drowsiness, when suddenly he felt a strange pressure within him — something that made it difficult to breathe, and bound his breast as with iron bars. Then he thought of the bundle that he had just thrown into the river; he saw it cleave the Hood ; lie .heard the rush of water, and remembered tliat the hat which he had forced over the man's face had been the last thing visible on the surface — a round, strange-looking thing. He saw the hat quite plainly before him — battered, the rim half off, and two grease-spots on the crown. It had been a very shabby hat. Thinking of it, it occurred to him that he could smile now if he chose. But he did not smile.
Meanwhile he had got up the steps. As he opened the staircase door, he glanced along the dark gallery through which two had passed a few minutes before, and only one returned. He looked down at the gray surface of the stream, and again he was sensible of that singu- lar pressure. He rapidly crept tlirough the large room and down the steps, and on the ground floor ran up against one of the lodgers in the caravansera. Both hastened away in dif- ferent directions witliout exchanging a word.
This meeting turned his thoughts in another direction. Was he safe? Tlie fog still lay thick on the street. No one had seen him go in witli Hippas, no one liad recognized him as he went out. The investigation would only begin when they found the old man in the river. Would he be safe then ? These thoughts
GUSTAV FREYTAG.— 3
passed through the murderer's mind as calmly as though he was reading them in a book. Mingled with them came doubts as to whether he had his cigar-case with him, and as to why he did not smoke a cigar. He cogitated long about it, and at length found himself returned to his dwelling. He opened the door. The last time he had opened the door a loud noise had been heard in the inner room ; he listened for it now ; he would give anything to hear it. A few minutes ago it had been to be heard. Oh, if those few minutes had never been ! Again he felt that hollow pressure, but more strongly, even more strongly than before.
He entered the room. The lamp still burned, the fragments of the rum-bottle lay about the sofa, the bits of broken mirror shone like silver dollars on the floor. Veitel sat down exhausted. Then it occurred to him that his mother had often told him a childish story in which silver dollars fell upon a poor man's floor. He could see the old Jewess sitting at the hearth, and he,. a small boy, standing near her. He could see himself lookinij an.xiously down on the dark earthen floor, wondering whether the white dol- lars would fall down for him. Now he knew — his room looked just as if there had been a rain of white dollars. He felt something of the rest- less delight which that tale of his mother had always awaked, when again came suddenly that same hollow pressure. Heavily he rose, stooped, and collected the broken glass. He put all the pieces into the corner of the cup- board, detached the frame from the wall, and put it wrong-side out in a corner. Then he took the lamp, and the glass which he used to fill with water for the night; but as lie touched it a shudder came over him, and he put it down. He who was no more had drunk out of that glass. He took the lamp to his bedside, and undressed. He hid his trousers in the cup- board, and brought out another pair, which he rubbed against his boots till they were dirty at
GUST A V PREYTAG.-4
the bottom. Then lie put out the lamp, and as it flickered before it went quite out, the thought struck him that human life and a flame had something in common. He had extinguished a flame. And again that ])ain in the breast, but less clearly felt, for his strength was exhausted, his nervous energy spent. The murderer slept.
But v^hen he wakes ! Then the cunning will be over and gone with which his distracted mind has tried, as if in delirium, to snatch at all manner of trivial things and thoughts in order to avoid the one feeling which ever weighs him down. When he wakes ! Henceforth, while still half asleep, he will feel the gradual en- trance of terror and misery into his soul. Even in his dreams he will have a sense of the sweet- ness of unconsciousness and the horrors of thought, and will strive against waking; while, in spite of his strivings, his anguish grows stronger and stronger, till, in despair, his eye- lids start open, and he gazes into the hideous .present, the hideous future.
And again his mind will seek to cover over the fact with a web of sophistry ; he will reflect how old the dead man was, how wicked, how wretched; he will try to convince himself that it was only an accident that occasioned his death — a push given by him in sudden anger — how unlucky that the old man's foot should have slipped as it did ! Then will recur the doubt as to his safety ; a hot flush will suffuse his pale face, the step of his servant will fill him with dread, the sound of an iron-shod stick on the pavement will be taken for the tramp of the armed band whom justice sends to apprehend him. Again he will retrace every step taken yesterday, every gesture, every word, and will seek to convince himself that discovery is im- possible. No one had seen him, no one had heard ; the wretched old man, half crazy as he was, had drawn his own hat over his eyes and drowned himself.
And yet, through all this sophistry, he is con-
GUSTAV FREYTAG.— 5
scions of that fearful weight, till, exhausted by the inner conflict, he flies from his house to his business, amid the crowd anxiously desiring to find something that shall force him to forget. If any one on the street looks at him, he trem- bles; if he meet a policeman, he mitst rush home to hide his terror from those discernino- eyes. Wherever he finds familiar faces, he will press into the thick of the assembly, he will take an interest in anything, will laugh and talk more than heretofore; but his eyes will roam recklessly around, and he will be in constant dread of hearing something said of the mur- dered man, something said about his sudden end. . . .
And when, late of an evening, he at length returns home, tired to death and worn out by his fearful struggle, he feels lighter hearted, for he has succeeded in obscuring the truth, he is conscious of a melancholy pleasure in his weari- ness, and awaits sleep as the only good thing earth has still to offer him. And again he will fall asleep, and when he awakes the next morn- ing he will have to begin his fearful task anew. So will it be this day, next day, always, so long as he lives. Ilis life is no longer like that of another man ; his life is henceforth a horrible battle with a corpse, a battle unseen by all, yet constantly going on. All his intercourse with living men," whether in businessor in society, is but a mockery, a lie. Whether he laughs and shakes hands with one, or lends money and takes fifty per cent from another, it is all mere illusion on their part. He knows that he is severed from liuman companionship, and that all lie docs is but empty seeming; there is only one who occupies him, against whom he struggles, because of whom he drinks and talks, and mingles with the crowd, and that (.no is the corpse of the old man in the water. — Debit and Credit, vn
JEAN FROISSART.— 1
FKOISSART, Jean, a Frencli ecclesi- astic and chronicler, born at Valenciennes in 1337 ; died about 1410. He was educated for the Church, and at the age of eighteen he Lad not only mastered the usual course of study, but had gained some repute as a versifier. At twenty, upon the request of Robert of Namur, he undertook to compile from the Chronicle of Jean le Bel a rhymed account of the wars of his time. In 1360 he went to England, pi'ovided with letters of recotnmendation from his uncle to Philippa of Hainault, the Queen of Edward III., who made him her secretary and clerk of her chapel. King John of France, who had been captured at tlie battle of Poitiers, was now a prisoner in England, and Frois- sart became one of his household. By this twofold connection Froissart was brought into close intercourse with many men who had acted an important part on both sides during the war betw^een the English and the French. Queen Philippa urged him to con- tinue his rhymed chronicle ; and to gather information he made journeys into Scotland and Wales. Then he went to the Continent, staying for awhile at the English Court in Bordeaux, and Avas there at the time of the birth of Richard (afterwards the unfortunate Richard II.) the son of the English " Black Prince." In 1369 he went to his native district, where the living of Lestines was conferred upon him. But the duties of his clerical office were nowise to his liking; and from time to time he attached himself to the Duke of Brabant, the Count of Blois, and the Count of Foix ; the latter of whom made him Canon and Treasurer of the church at Chimay and urged him to write in prose a continuous chronicle of the events of his own time.
nt
JEAN FROISSART.— 2
Froissart, now nearly forty, fell in with this suggestion, and travelled far and wide in order to glean the information Avliicli he wanted. The Chronicles were the work of more than a quarter of a century, and ap- peared at intervals in detached portions, as they were written. Thev begin with the reign of Edward III. of England (1327-7T), and properly end with the death of Richard 11. (1400), but there are a few paragraphs relating to events which took place as late as l-iO-T. It is uncertain how long Froissart lived after this, but it is probable that he was alive in 1410. Some accounts say that he died in great povertv not earlier than 1420.
The Chronicles of Froissart, which were widely circulated in manuscript, were iirst printed at Paris in 1498, in four folio vol- umes under the title Chroniques de France^ (T Amjleterre, (TEcosse, de Bretagne^ de Gas- cofjne, Flanders et lieux d'alentorir. They were translated into English during the reign of Henry VIII., by Lor<l Berners [q.v.). His version is spirited, though not al- ways quite accui'ate. A better translation, upon the whole, is that of Thomas Johnes (12 vols., 1805, and subse({uently reprinted in many forms.) The first of the following citations is from the translation of Lord Berners; the original spelling being re- tained. The other citations are from the translation of Johnes.
KINO EDWARD III. AND THE COINTESS OF HALISIUIIV.
As sonc as tlic lady kncwc of tlir Kyngcs coinyiig, slic set o[)yti tlio gates and came out so riolily bosf-nc tliat ouory man manicylcd of licr beauty, and ooiule nat cease to reganl lier noble- ness, with her great beauty and the gracyoua
iTEAN FR0ISSART.-8
Wordes and countenanncc that she made. When she came to the Kyiig slic kiielyd dovvne to the yerth, thanking liyni of his sucours, and so ledde hym into the castell to make hym chere and honour as she that coudc rylit well do iti Eilery man regarded lier manichisly ; the Kynge hym- selfe coud not witliolde liis regardyng of her, for he tlioiiglit tliat he neuer saw before so noble nor so fayrc a lady : lie was stryken therwith to the hert with a spcrcle of fine lone that en- dured long after ; he thought no lady in the worlde so worthy to be beloued as she. Thus they entered into the castell hande in hande ; the lady ledde hym first into the hall, and after into the chambre nobly aparelled. The King regarded so the lady that she was abasshcd ; at last he went to a wyndo to rest hym, and so fell into a great study. The lady went about to make chore to the lordes and knyghtes that were ther, and comaunded to dresse the hall for dyner. When she had al deuysed and comaunded them she came to the Kynge with a mery chere (who was in a great study) and she said,
" Dere sir, why do you study so, for your grace nat dys})leased, it aparteyneth nat to you so to do: rather ye shulde make good chere and be joyfull seying ye liane chased away your enmies who durst nat abyde you ; let other men study for the remynant."
Then the Kyng sayd, " A, dere lady, know for treuthe that syth I entred into the castell ther is a study come to my mynde so that I can nat chuse but to muse, nor can I nat tell wliat shall fall thereof; put it out of my herte I can nat."
" A, sir," quotli the lady, " ye ought alwayes to make good chere to comfort therewitli your peple. God liath ayded you so in your besynes and hath shewn you so great graces that ye be the moste douted and honoured prince in all the ertlie, and if the Kynge of Scotts haue done you any despyto or damage ye may well amende it whan it shall please you, as ye haue done
894
JEAN FROISSART.— 4
dyaers lymes or this. Sir, leaue your musing and come into the hall If it please you ; your dyner is all redy."
' " A, fayre lady," quoth the Kyng, " other thynges lyeth at my hert that ye know not of, but surely your swete behauyng, the perfect wvsedom, the good grace, noblcncs and ex- cellent beauty that I see in you, hath so sore surprised my hert that I can not but loue yoii; and without your loue I am but deed."
Then the lady sayde : " A, ryght noble prince for Goddes sakemocke hor tempt me nat; I can nat beleue that it is true that ye say, nor that so noble a prince as ye be wolde thynke to dys- honour me and my lorde my husbande, who is so valyant a knyght and hath done your grace so gode service and as yet lyeth in prison for your quarel. Certely sir ye shulde in this case haue but a small prayse and nothing- the better therby. I had neuer as yet such a thoght in my hert, nor I trust in God, neuer shall have for no man lyueng : if I had any such intencyon your grace ought nat all onely to blame me, but also to pun- ysshe my body, jie and by true iustice to be dis- m em bred."
Therwith the lady departed fro the Kyng and went into the hall to hast the dyner; then she returned agayne and broght some of hisknyghtcs with her, and sayd, " Sir, yf it please you to come' into the hall your knygtes abideth for you to wasshe; ye have ben to long fastyng."
Then the King went into the hall and wassht, and sat down among liis lordes and the la<ly also. The Kyng ate but lytell ; lie sat sty II miising, and as he durst he cast his eyen upon the lady. Of his sadncsse his knyghtes liad maruel for he was not accustomed so to be ;i s«jme thought it was ])e(";iusc the Scotts were cs-' caj)cd fro Iiym. All that day the Kvng taryd thcr and wyst nat what to «lo. Sometime ho ymagined that honour and troutli defended hym: to wt his h(!rt in such a ca.sc to dy.shonour such a lady an<i so true a knight a.s her husband was an
JEAN FROISSAIit.— S
who had alwayes well and truely scrued hym. Oil thothor part lone so constrayned hym that the power tlicrof surmounted honour and troiith. Thus the Kyng debated in hymself all that day and all that night. In the mornynghe arose and dysslogcd all his hoost and drewe after the Scottes to chase them out of his realme. Then lie toke leaue of the lady, saying, " My dere lady to God I comende you tyll I returne agayne, requiryng you to aduyse you otherwyse tlian ye haue sayd to me."
" Noble prince," quoth the lady, " God the father glorious be your conduct, and put you out of all vylayne thoughts. Sir, I am and ever shel be redy to do your grace servyce to your honour and to myne." Therwith the Kyng departed all abashe. — Trans, of Lord Berners.
A DUEL FOR LIFE OR DEATH.
About this time (1386) there was much con- versation in France respecting a duel which was to be fought for life or death at Paris. It had been thus ordered by the Parlement of Paris, where the cause, which had lasted a year, had been tried between a squire called James le Gris and John de Carogne, both of them of the household of Peter, Count d'Alcn90n, and es- teemed by him ; but more particularly James le Gris, whom he loved above all others, and placed his whole confidence in him. As this duel made a great noise, many from distant parts on hearing it came to Paris to be spectators. I will relate the cause as I was then informed.
It chanced that Sir John de Carogne took it into his head lie should gain glory if he under- took a voyage to the Holy Land, having long had an inclination to go thither. He took leave of his lord, the Count d' Alen^on, and of his wife, who was then a young and handsome lady, and left her in his castle, called Argenteil, on the borders of Perche, and began his journey to- wards the seaside. The lady remained in this castle living in the most decent manner. Now it
JEAN FROISSART.— 6
happened (this is the matter of quarrel) that the devil, by divers and perverse temptations, entered the body of James le Gris, and induced him to commit a crime for which he afterwards paid.
He cast his thoughts on the lady of Sir John de Carogne whom he knew to be residing with her attendants at the castle of Argenteil. One day therefore, he set out, mounted on the finest horse of the Count, and arrived, full gallop at Argenteil, where he dismounted. The servants made a handsome entertainment for him, because they knew he was a particular friend, and at- tached to the same lord as their master ; and the lady thinking no ill, received him with pleasure, led him to her apartments and showed him many of her works. James, fully intent to accomplish liis wickedness, begged of her to conduct him to the dungeon, for that his visit was partly to examine it. The lady instantly complied, and led him thither; for as she had the utmost confidence in his honor, she was not accompanied by valet or chambermaid. As soon as they had entered the dungeon James Ic Gris fastened the door, unnoticed by the lady, who was before him, thinking it might have been the wind, as he gave her to understand.
When they were thus alone, James embraced lier, and discovered what his intentions were. Tiie lady was much astonished, and would will- ingly have escaped liad she been able, but the door was fastened ; and James, who was a strong man, held her tight in his arms, and flung her down on the floor, and had his will of her. Im- mediately afterwards he opened the door of the dungeon, and made himself ready to depart. The lady, exasperated with rage at what had passed, remained silent in tears ; but on his departure she said to him, " James, James, you have not done well in thus deflowering me ; the blame liowever, shall not be mine, but the whole be laid on you, if it please God my liusband ever return."
James mounted his horse, and, quitting the
JEAN FROISSART.— 7
'castlo hastened back to his lord, the Count d'x\Icn9on, in time to attend his rising at nine o'clock. He had been in the hotel of the Count at four o'clock that morning. I am thus particular because all these circumstances were inquired into, and examined by the commission- ers of the Parlement when the cause was before them.
The Lady de Carogne, on the day this un- fortunate event befel her, remained in her castle, and passed it off as well as she could, without mentioning one word of it to either chamber- maid or valet, for she thought by making it public she would have more shame than honor. But she retained in her memory the day and hour James le Gris had come to the castle.
The Lord de Carogne returned from his voyage, and was joyfully received by his lady and household, who feasted him well. When night came Sir John Avent to bed, but his lady excused herself ; and on his kindly pressing })er to come to him, she walked very pensively up and down the chamber. At last, when the house- hold were in bed, she flung herself on her knees at his bedside, and bitterly bewailed the insult she had suffered. The knight would not believe it could have happened : but at length she urged it so strongly he did believe her, and said, " Cer- tainly, lady, if the matter has passed as you say, I forgive you ; but the Squire shall die ; and I shall consult your and my relations on the subject. Should you have told me a falsehood, never more shall you live with me." The lady again and again assured him that what she had said was the pure truth.
On the morrow the Knight sent special mes- sengers with letters to his friends and nearest relations of his wife, desiring them to come instantly to Argenteil, so that in a few days they were all at his castle. When they were assem- bled lie led them into an apartment, and told them the reason of his sending for them, and made his lady relate most minutely everything
JEAN FE0ISSART.-8
that had passed during his absence. "When they had recovered their astonishment he asked their advice how to act. They said he sliould wait on his lord, the Count d'AJengon, and tell him the fact. This he did ; but the Count, who much loved James le Gris, disbelieved it, and appointed a day for the parties to come before him, and desired that the lady might attend to give her evidence against the man whom she thus accused. She attended as desired, accompanied by a great number of her relations ; and the examinations and pleadings were carried on before the court to a great length. James le Gris boldly denied the charge, declared that it was false, and wondered how he could have incurred such mortal hatred from the lady. lie proved by the household of the Count that he had been seen in the castle at four o'clock in the morning; the Count said that he was in his bed-chamber at nine o'clock, and that it was quite impossible for any one to have ridden three-and-twenty leagues, and back again, and do what he was charged with, in about four hours and a half. The Count told the lady he would support his squire, and that she must have dreamed it. H-e commanded that henceforward all must be buried in oblivion, and, under pain of incurring his displeasure, nothing further be done in the business. The Knight, being a man of courage, and believing what his wife had told him, would nut submit to this, but went to Paris and appealed to the Parlcment. The Parlement summoned James le Gris, who rej)lied, and gave pledges to obey whatever judgment they should give.
The cause lasted upwards of a year, and they could not any way compromise it; for the Knight was positive, from his wife's information of the fact, and declared that, since it was now so public, he would pursue it until death. The Count d'Alcn(;on for this conceived a great dislike against the Knight, and would have had him put to death, had he not {>laccd himself uii ier the safeguard of the rarlcmcnt. It was long pleaded,
JEAN FROISSART.— 9
and the Pailemcnl at last, because tlicy could not produce other evidence than herself against James le Gris, jiulij;ed it should be decided in the tilt-yard by a duel for life or death. The Knight the Squire, and the lady, were instantly put under arrest, until the day of this mortal combat, which, by order of Parlement, was fixed for the ensuing Monday in the year 1387; at which time the King of France and his barons were at Shiys, intending to invade England.
The King, on hearing of this duel, declared he would be present at it. The Dukes of Berry, Burgundy, Bourbon, and the Constable of France, being also desirous of seeing it, agreed it was proper he should be there. The King, in consequence, sent orders to Paris to prolong the day of the duel, for that he would be present. This order was punctually obeyed, and the King and his lords departed for France. The King kept the Feast of the Kalends at Arras, and the Duke of Burgundy at Lillo. In the mean time the men-at-arms made for their different homes, as had been ordered by the marshals; but the principal chiefs went to Paris to witness the combat.
When the King of France was returned to Paris, lists were made for the champions in the Place of St. Catherine, behind tlic Temple ; and the lords had erected on one side scaffolds, the better to see the sight. The crowd of people was wonderful. The two champions entered the lists armed at all points, and each was seated in a chair opposite the other. The Count de St. Pol directed Sir John dc Carogne, and the retainers of the Count de Alen^on James le Gris. On the Knight entering the field he went to his lady, who was covered with black and seated on a chair, and said: "Lady, from your accusation, and in your quarrel, am I thus venturing my life to combat James le Gris: you know whether my cause be loyal and true." " My lord," she rei)licd, " it is so ; and you may fight it securely, for your cause is good."
JEAN FROISSART.— 10
The lady remained seated, inalcing fervent pray- ers to God and tlie Virgin, entreating humbly that through her grace and intercession she might gain the victory, according to her right. Her affliction was great, for her life depended on the event; and should her husband lose the victory, she would have been burnt, and he would have been hanged. I am ignorant (for I never had any conversation with her or the Knight) whcthe! she had not frequently repented of having poshed matters so far as to place herself and her husband in such peril. But it was now too late, and she must abide the event.
The two champions were then advanced and placed opposite to each other ; when they mount- ed their horses, and made a handsome appearance, for they were botli expert men-at-arms. They ran their first course without hurt to either. After the tilting they dismounted, and made ready to continue the fight. They behaved with courage; but Sir John de Carogne was at the first onset wounded in the thigh, which alarmed all his friends. Notwithstanding this, he fought so desperately that he struck down his adver- sarv, and, thrusting his sword through the body, caused instant death ; when he demanded of the spectators if he had done his duty. They re- plied that he had.
The body of James le Gris was delivered to the hangman, who dragged it to Montfaucon, and there hanged it. Sir John de Carogne ap- proached the King and fell on his knees. The King made him rise, and ordered one thousand francs to be paid him that very day. He also retained him of his household, with a pension of two huridrcrl livrcs a year, which he received as long as he lived. Sir John, after thanking the King ami his lords, went to liis lady an<l kissed her. Th(!y went together to make their offering in the (Church of Notre I>iiiMe, aiicl then returned to their home. — I'rannl. of Johnes. n\
JEAN FROISSARt.-U
THE ABDICATION OF KING UICIIARD II. OP ENGLAND.
Ititelliiiencc was carried to the Duke of Lan- caster [King Henry I V.J that Richard of Bor- deaux liad a great desire tG speak to him. The Duke left his house in the evening, entered his barge with liis kniglits, and was rowed down the Thames to the Tower, which he entered by a postern gate, and went to the apartment of the King. The King rcceired liim with great kind- ness, and humbled himself exceedingly, like to one who perceived that he is in a dangerous state. He addressed him :
" Cousin, I have been considering my situa- tion, which is miserable enough, and I have no longer thoughts of wearing my crown or govern- ing my people. As God may have my soul, I wish 1 were at this moment dead of a natural death, and the King of France had his daughter again ; for we have never had any great happi- ness together, nor, since I brought her hither, have I had the love my {)cople bore me formerly. Cousin of Lancaster, when I look back I am convinced I have behaved very ill to vou, and to other nobles of my blood ; for which I cannot expect peace nor pardon. All things, therefore, considered, I ani willing freely to resign to you the crown of f]ngland ; and I beg you will accept the resignation as a gift."
The Duke replied, "That it would be neces- sary the three estates of the realm should hear this : I have issued summonses for the assem- bling the nobles, the prelates, and deputies from the principal towns; and within three days a sufficiency will be collected for you to make your resignation in due form. By this act you will greatly appease the hatred of the nation against you.
" To obviate the mischief that had arisen from the courts of justice being shut, and which had created an almost universal anarchy, I was sent for from beyond the sea. The people wanted to crown me ; for the common report in the country m
JEAN FROISSART.-IS
is, that I have a better right to the crown than you have. This was told to our grandfather, King Edward, of happy memory, when he educated you, and had you acknowledged heir to the throne ; but his love was so strong for his son, the Prince of Wales, nothing could make hira alter his purpose, but that you must be king. If you had followed the example of the Prince, or at- tended to the advice of his counsellors, like a good son, who should be anxious to tread in the steps of a father, you might still have been king. But you have always acted so contrary as to occasion the rumor to be generally believed throughout England and elsewhere, that you are not the son of the Prince of Wales, but of a priest or canon.
" I have heard several knights who were of the household of my uncle the Prince, declare that he was jealous of the Princess's conduct. She was cousin-gcrman to King Edward, who began to dislike her for not having children by liis son, since he had, by her former marriage with Sir Thomas Holland, stood godfather to two sons. She knew well how to keep the Prince in her chains, liaving through subtlety enticed liim to marry ; but fearful of being divorced by his father, for want of heirs, and that the Prince would marry again, it was said that she got connected with some one, by whom she had you and another son, who died in his infancy, and no judgment can be formed of liis character. But you, from your planners and mode of acting — so contrary to the gallantry and prowess of the Prince — are thought to be the son of a priest or canon : for at tlie time of your birth there were many young and handsome onos in the household of the Prince at Ilxnlcaux. Such is the report of this oountrv, which vour ronducf has fonfirmed ; for vou have ever sliown great affection to the French, and an inclination to live f n good terms with them, to tlie loss and dishonor of England. P>ecjiuse my uncle of (iloucpster and the Karl of Arundel wished you would loyally defend the honor of m
JEAN FROISSART.— 13
tlie kingdom, by following the steps of your ancestors, you have treacherously put them to death.
" With regard to yon, I have taken you under niy protection, and will guard and preserve your life, through compassion, as long as I shall be able. I will likewise entreat the Londoners on your behalf, and the heirs of those you have put to death."
" Many thanks," answered the King : " I have greater confidence in you than in any other per- son in England."
" You are in the right," replied the Duke ; " for had I not stepped forward between you and the people, they would have seized you, and dis- gracefully killed you, in return for all your wicked acts, which are the cause of the danger- ous state you are now in."
King Richard heard all this patiently, for he saw that neither arguments nor force could avail, and that resignation and humility were his only arms. He therefore humbled himself exceed- ingly to the Duke, earnestly begging that his life might be spared. The Duke of Lancaster remained with the King upward of two hours, and continued in his conversation to reproach him for all the faults he was accused of. He then took leave, re-entered his barge, and returned to his house ; and on the morrow renewed his orders for the assembly of the three estates of the realm.
The Duke of York and his son, the Earl of Rutland, came to London, as did the Earl of Northumberland and his brother. Sir Thomas Percy, to whom the Duke of Lancaster gave a hearty welcome, with numbers of prelates, bishops and abbots. The Duke of Lancaster, accompanied ])y a large body of dukes, prelates, earls, barons, knights, and principal citizens, rode to the Tower of London, and dismounted in the court. King Richard was released from his prison, and entered the hall which had been prepared for the occasion, royally dressed, the
S34
JEAN FROISSART.— 14
sceptre in his hand, and the crown on his head, but without supporters on either side. He addressed the company as follows :
" I have reigned King of England, Duke of Aquitaine, and Lord of Ireland, about twenty- two years, which royalty, lordsliip, sceptre, and crown, I now freely and willingly resign to my cousin, Henry of Lancaster, and entreat him, in the presence of you all, to accept the sceptre."
He then tendered the sceptre to the Duke of Lancaster, who took it and gave it to ,the Arch- bishop of Canterbury. King Richard next raised the crown with his two hands from his head ; and placing it before him said : " Henry, fair cousin, and Duke of Lancaster, I present and give to you this crown with which I was crowned King of England, and all the rights dependent upon it."
The Duke of Lancaster received it and de- livered it over to the Arclibisliop of Canterbury, who was at hand to take it. These two things being done, and the resignation accepted, the Duke of Lancaster called in a public notary, that an authentication should be drawn up of this proceeding, and witnessed by the lords and prelates then present. Soon after, the King was conducted to where he had come from, and the Duke and other Lords mounted their horses to return home. The two jewels were safely packed up, and given to proper guards, to place them in the treasury of Westminster Abbey, until they should be called for when the Parlia- ment were assembled.
On a Wednesday, the last day of September, 1399, Henry Duke of Lancaster held a Parlia- ment at Westminster, at which were assembled the greater part of the clergy and nobility of England, and a sufficient number of deputies from the different towns according to tlieir extent and wealth. In this Parliament the Duke of Lancaster cliallcnged the crown of England, and claimed it as his own for three reasons: First, by conquest ; secondbj, from being the right
JEAN FROISSART,— 15
heir to it ; and thirdly, from the pure and free resignation of it to him by King Richard, in the presence of the prelates, dukes, and earls in the hall of the Tower of London. These three claims being made, he required the Parliament to declare their opinion and will. Upon this they unanimously replied tliat it was their will that he should be King, for they would have no other. Ue again asked if they were positive in their declaration ; and when they said they were, he seated himself on the royal throne. The throne was elevated some feet from the floor, with a rich canopy of cloth of gold, so that he could be seen by all present. On the King's taking his seat, the people clapped their hands for joy, and held them up, promising him fealty and homage. The Parliament was then dissolved, and the day of coronation was appointed for the Feast of St. Edward, which fell on a Monday,
the 13th of October
The procession [at the coronation] entered the church about nine o'clock ; in the middle of which was a scaffold covered with crimson cloth, and in the centre a royal throne of cloth of gold. When the Duke entered the church, he seated himself on the throne, and was thus in royal state except having the crown on his head. The Archbishop of Canterbury pro- claimed from the four corners of the scaffold how God had given them a man for their lord and sovereign, and then asked the people if they were consenting to his being conse- crated and crowned king. They unanimously shouted out, " Aye I " and held up their hands promising fealty and homage. After this the Duke descended from his throne, and advanced to the altar to be consecrated. The ceremony was performed by two archbishops and ten bishops. He was stripped of all his royal state before the altar, naked to his shirt, and was then anointed and consecrated at six places; that is to say, on the head, the breast, the two bhoiilders, before and behind, on the back and
^AN FR0ISSART.-16
hands. They then placed a bonnet on his head; and while this was doing, the clergy chanted the litany, or the service that is now performed to hallow a font.
The King was now dressed in a churchman's clothes like a deacon ; and they put on him shoes of crimson velvet, after the manner of a prelate. They then added spurs with a point, but no rowel, and the sword of justice was drawn, blessed, and delivered to the King, who put it into the scabbard, when the Archbishop of Canterbury girded it about him. The crown of St. Edward, which is arched over like a cross, was next brought and blessed, and placed by the Archbishop on the King's head. When Mass was over, the King left the church, and returned to the palace in the same state as before. There w^as in the court yard a fountain that constantly ran with red and white wine from various mouths. The King went first to his closet, and then returned to the hall to dinner
When dinner was half over, a knight of the name of Dymock entered the hall completely armed, and tnounted on a handsome steed, richly barbed, with crimson housings. The knight was armed for wager of battle, and was preceded by another kniglit bearing his lance; he him- self had his drawn sword in one hand, and his naked djigger by his side. The knight presented the King with a written paper, the contents of which were, that if any knight or gentleman sliould dare to maintain that King Henry was not a lawful sovereign, he was ready to offer him c(5mbat in the presence of the King, when and where he should be pleased to appoint. The King ordered this cliHllengo to be proclaimed by heralds in six different parts of the town and the hall, to which no answer whs made. After King Henry had dined, and partaken of wine and Hpiccs in the hall, lie retired to hi.s private apartments, and all the company went to their homes, 'J'hus passed the coronation day of King Henry. — Trand. of Johnes.
U1
NATHANIEL L. FROTHlNGHAM.— 1
FROTHINGHAM, Nathaniel Lang- don, an American clergyman and poet, born at Boston in 1793 ; died there in 1870. Ho graduated at Harvard in 1811, and in the fol- lowing year became instructor there in rhetoric and oratory. In 1815 he was or- dained pastor of the First Congregational Church in Boston, retaining that position until 1850, when impaired health compelled him to resign. He published a volume of Sermons m 1852, and in 1855 a collection of Metrical Pieces, Translated arid Original. Towards the close of his life he became blind, a calamity indicated in the following poem:
THE SIGHT OF THE BLIND.
" I always see in dreams," she said, " Nor then believe that I am bUnd." That simple thought a shadowy pleasure shed Within my mind.
In a like doom, the nights afford A like display of mercy done : How oft I've dreamed of sight as full restored 1 Not once as gone.
Restored as with a flash ! I gaze On open books with letters plain , And scenes and faces of the dearer days Are bright again.
O Sleep ! in pity thou art made A double boon to such as we : Beneath closed lids and folds of deepest shade ^ We think we see.
O Providence ! when all is dark Around our steps, and o'er Thy will, The mercy-seat that hides the covenant-ark lias angels still.
Thou who art light! illume the page \Yithin ; renew these respites sweet, And show, beyond the films and wear of age, Both walk and seat.
NATHANIEL L. FROTHINGHAM.— 2
THE M'LEAN asylum FOK THE INSANE.
A rich, gay mansion once wert thou ;
And he who built it, chose its site On that hill's proud but gentle brow,
For an abode of splendor and delight.
Years, pains, and cost have reared it high,
The stately pile we now survey. Grander than ever to the eye ;
But all its fireside pleasures — where are they ?
A stranger might suppose tlie spot
Some seat of learning, shrine of thought;
Ah ! here alone Mind ripens not.
And nothing reasons ; nothing can be taught.
Or he might deem thee a retreat
For the poor body's need and ail, When sudden injuries stab and beat,
Or in slow waste its inward forces fail.
Ah, heavier hurts and wastes are here !
The ruling brain distempered lies; When Mind flies reeling from its sphere,
Life, health, aye, mirth itself, are mockeries.
0 House of Sorrows ! Sorer shocks
Than c;in our frame or lot befall Arc hid behind thy jealous locks;
Man's Thought Jin infant, and his Will a thrall.
0 House of Mercy ! Refuge kind
For Nature's most unnatural state! Place for the absent, wandering mind;
Its healing helper and its sheltering gate.
Yes, Love has planned thee, Love endowed ; — And blessings on each pitying heart.
That from the first its gifts bestowed.
Or bears in thee each day its healthful part.
Was e'er the Christ diviner seen
Than when tlie wretch no force could bind — The roving, raving Gadarene —
Sat at llis blessed feet, and in his perfect naind? »»?
OCTAVIUS B. FROTHINGHAM.— 1
FROTIIINGHAM, Octavius Brooks, an Amerieau clergyman, son of N. L. Frothinghani, born at Boston in 1822. He graduated at Harvard in 1843, studied at the Cambridge Divinity School, and in 1847 became pastor of the North Church (Unita- rian), Salem, Mass. In 1855 he removed to Jersey City, and in 1860 became minis- ter of a newly-formed society in New York, which took the name of the " Third Unitarian Congregational Church." He re- tained this position until 1879, when the society was dissolved, and Mr. Frothingham spent the subsequent two years in Europe. After his return he devoted himself en- tirely to literary work. Besides numerous published sermons, and frequent contribu- tions to periodicals, he has put forth The ParaMes (1864); HeUgion of I hi inanity (1873) ; Life of^ Theodore Parker (1874) ; Transcendentalisra in New England (1 876) ; Smrit of the New Faith (1877) ; Biography of Gei'rit Smith (1878); with Felix Adler, The Badical Pulpit (1883) ; and Metiioir of William Ellery Channing (1887.)
THE BELIEFS OF UNBELIEVERS.
In every age of Christendom there have been men wlioin the Churcli named " infidels," and thrust down into the abyss of moral reprobation. The oldest of these are forgotten with the gen- erations that gave them birth. Tlic only ones now actively anathematized Uved within the last hundred years, and owe the blackness of their reputation to the assaults they made on supersti- tions that are still powerful, and dogmas that arc still supreme. The names of Chubb, Toland, and Tindal, of Herbert of Cherbury, Shaftes- bury, and Bolingbrokc, though seldom spoken now, are mentioned, when they are mentioned, with bitterness. The names of Voltaire and
OCTAVIUS B. FROTHINGHAM.— 2
Rousseau recall at once venomous verdicts that our own ears have heard. The memory of Thomas Paine is still a stench in modern nostrils, thouo;h he has been dead sixty years, so deep
a damnation has been fixed on his name . .
Skeptics these men and others were : I claim for them that honor. It is their title to immor- talitv. ^Doubtless they were, in many things, dcniers — "infidels," if you will. They made short work of creed and catechism, of sacra- ment and priest, of tradition and formula. Mirac- ulous revelations, inspired Bibles, authoritative dogmas, dying Gods, and atoning Saviours, in- falfible apostles, and churches founded by the Uoly Ghost, ecclesiastical heavens and hells, with other fictions of the sort, their minds could not harbor. They criticised mercilessly the drama of the Redemption, and .spoke more roughly than prudently of the great mysteries of the' Godhead. But, "after their fashion, they were great believers.' In the interest of faitli they doubted ; in the interest of faith they de- nied. Tlieir " Nay" was an uncouth method of pronouncing " Yeii." They were after the truth, and supposed themselves to be removing a rub- bish pile to reach it. Toland, whose Chrislianity not Mi/sterioHs was presented by the Grand Jury of Dublin, and condemned to the flames by the Irish Parliament, while the author tied from Government prosecution to England, pro- fessed himself sincerely attached to the pure religion of Jesus, and anxious to exhibit it free from the corruption of after-times. Thomas Paine wrote his A 'jc of Reason as a check to the progress of French atheism, fearing " lest in the general wreck of superstition, of false sys- tems of government, and false theology, wc lose sight of morality, of humanity, and of the theol- ogy that is true."
i'liese devout unbeliefs were born of the spirit of the age. It was an age — rather let me call it a series of ages — in which groat events oc- curred. There had been a terrible shaking of
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OCTAVIUS B. FROTHINGHAM.— 8
thrones and altars. The axe had fallen on the neck of a king, and the halberd had smitten the image of many saints. Scarcely an author- ity stood fast. None was unchallenged. The brain of Bacon had discharged its force into the intellectual world. Newton's torch was flinging its beams to the confines of creation. The national genius sparkled in constellations of brilliant men ; Continental literature was pour- ing into England the speculative mind of Hol- land, the dramatic writing and criticism of France. There was new thought and fresh pur- pose ; a determination to know and do some- thing ; a sense of intellectual and moral power, that portended great changes in Church and State. The infidels were the men who felt this spirit first. They were its children ; they gave it voice ; it gave them strength. They trusted in it. Fidelity to its call was their faith. They believed in the sovereignty of Reason, the rights of the individual Conscience ; and they cher- ished a generous confidence in the impulses of an emancipated and ennobled humanity. They had that faith in human nature which, indeed, is, and ever has been, the faith of faiths. It is a faith hard to hold. These infidels must have found it so in their times. "When shall we honor, at its due, the heroism of Protest, the valor of Disbelief? When shall we give to the martyr- dom of Denial its glorious crown ? — Belief of the Unbelievers.
THEODORE PARKER.
With him the religions element was supreme. It had roots in his bt-itig wholly distinct from its mental or sensible forms of ex[)ression — com- pletely distinguished from theology, which claimed to give an account of it in words, and from cere- monies, which claimed to embody it in rites and symbols. Never evaporating in mystical dreams, nor entangled in the meshes of cunning specula- tion, it preserved tlie freshness and bloom and fragrance in every passage of his life, lljs sense
OcTAVirs B. PROTHINCHAM.— 4
of divine things was as strong as was ever felt by a man of such clear intelligence. His feel- ing for divine things never lost its glow ; never was damped by misgiving, dimmed by doubt, or clouded by sorrow. The intensity of his faith in Providence, and of his assurance of personal immortality, seems almost fanatical to modern men who sympathize in general with his phi- losophy All the materialists in and out of
Christendom, had no power to shake his convic- tion of the infinite God, and the immortal exist- ence: nor would have had, had he lived until he was a century old ; for, in his view the convic- tions were phmted deep in human nature, and were demanded by the exigencies of human life. The services they rendered to mankind would have been their sutiicient justification, had he found no other ; and in this aspect they inter- ested him chiefly
It has been said that Parker accomplished nothing final as a religious reformer; that if he thought of himself as the inaugurator of a sec- ond Reformation — a reformation of Protestant- ism— the leader of a new " departure," as sig- nificant and momentous as that of the sixteenth century, he dec<.ived himself. Luther, it is said, found a stopping-place, a terminus, and erected a "station," where nearly half of Christendom liavc been content to stay for three hundred years, and will linger, perhaps, three hundred years longer, Parker stretched a tent near what j)roved to be a " branch-road," where a consider- able number of travellers will pause on their journey, and refresh themselves, while waiting for the " through-train." That Parker thought ollierwise, that he believed himself sent to j)ro- claim and dc-fitie the faith of the next thousand years, merely gives another illustration of the delusions to whieh even great min<ls are subject. Alrcarly thought has swept beyond him ; already faith has struck into other f>aths, and taken up new positions. The scientific method has sup- plemented the theologieal and the sentimental,
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OCTAVIUS B. FR0THINGHAM.-5
and has carried many over to the new regions of belief. Parker is a great name, was a great power, and will be a great memory; but it is doubtful if he did the work of a Voltaire or a Kousseau : that he did not do the work of a
Luther is not doubtful at all Certainly,
Parker was not a discoverer. He originated no doctrine; he struck out no path. Ills religious philosophy existed before his day, and owed to him no fresh development. But he was the first great popular expounder of it; the first who undertook to make it the basis of a faith for the common people ; the first who planted it as the corner-stone of the working-religion of man- kind, and published it as the ground of a new spiritual structure, distinct from both Romanism
and Protestantism
The ethics of Theodore Parker grew from the same root as his religion, and were part of the same system. These, too, rested on the spiritual philosophy — the philosophy of intui- tion. He l)clieved that to the human conscience was made direct revelation of the eternal law ; that the moral nature looked righteousness in the face. He was acquainted with the objec- tions to this doctrine. The opposite philosophy of Utilitarianism — whether taught by Benthani or by Mill — was well known to him, but was wholly unsatisfactory. Sensationalism in mor- als was as absurd, in his judgment, as sensation- alism in faith. The Quaker doctrine of the I' inner light" was nearer the truth, as he saw it, than the " experience" doctrine of Herbert Spencer. Experience might assist conscience, but create it never. Conscience might consult even expediency for its methods ; but for its parentage it must look elsewhere. Conscience, for him, was the authority, divine, ultimate. He obeyed, even if it commanded the cutting oS of the right hand or the plucking out of the right eye. He would not compromise a princi- ple, wrong a neighbor, take what was not fairly his, tell a falsehood, betray a trust, break a
OCTAVIUS B. FROTHINGHAM.— 6
pledge, turn a deaf ear to the cry of human miser}', for all the world could give him. At the heart of every matter there was a right and a wrong, both easily discernible by the simplest mind. The right was eternally right; the wrong was eternally wrong ; and eternal conse- quences were involved in either. Philosophers might find fault with his psychology — they did find fault with it. He answered them, if he could ; if he could not, he left them answerless : but for himself, he never doubted, but leaned against his pillar. A cloudy pillar it was: both base and capital were lost in the mist of eternity ; but so long as it bore up the moral universe, he cared not what it was made of. No casuist he. The school of fidelity was for him the school of wisdom. — Biography of llieodore Parker.
James antiiony froude.— i
FROUDE, James Anthony, an English Iiistorian and Liograplier, born in 1818. He was educated at Westminster School, and at Oriel College, Oxford, and in 1842 became a Fellow of Exeter College, In 1844 he was ordained a deacon in the Established Church, and for some time was reckoned as one of the High Church party of whom J. H. Newman was a leader. At this time he wrote many biographies in the series enti- tled Lives of the English Saints. In 1847 he published anonymously a volume of fiction entitled Shadows of the CUmds. In 1848 appeared his Nemesis of Faith, which evinced that he had come to differ widely from the doctrines of the Anglican Chuich. His two works were severely cen- sured by the authoi'ities of the University. He then resigned his Fellowship, and was obliged to give up an ap])ointment which he had received of a teachei'ship in Tasmania. After this, for some years he wrote largely for the Westminster Becieic and for Era- ser's Magazine, becoming ultimately for a short time the editor of the latter period- ical. He had in the mean time begun his History of England from the Fall of Wolsey to tlie Defeat of tlw Spanish Ar- mada. This History extends to twelve volumes, of which the first two appeared in 1850, and the last two in 1870. In 1867 lie put forth a volume of Sho?'t Studies on Great Suhjects, consisting of Essays which h^d already been printed in various peri- odicals, in 1842 he formally laid down his function of deacon in tlie Anglican Church, and in the same year made a tour in the United States, where he delivered a series of lectures on the relations existing between England and Ireland. Near the
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE.— 2
close of 1874, Mr. Froiide was commis- sioned by the Secretary of State for the Colonies to visit the Cape of Good Hope in order to investigate the causes which led to the CaflFre insurrection. His latest works are. The English in Ireland in the Eigh- teenth Centu/'i/ {lSll-74:), CcBsar, a Sketch, (1879), Biograpliy of Thomas Carlyle (188^84), and Oceana^ an account of a tour through the British Colonial posses- sions (1886). Besides writing the " Biog- raphy of Carlyle," he edited his " Remi- niscences.''
CHARACTER OF IIEXRY VIII.
Nature had been prodigal to liim of her rarest gifts. In person he is said to have resembled his grandfather, Edward IV., who was the hand- somest man in Europe. His form and bearing were princely; and amidst the easy freedom of his address, his manner remained majestic. No knight in England could match him in the tour- nament, except the Duke of Suffolk ; lie drew with case as strong a bow as was borne by any yeoman of his guard ; and these powers were sustained in unfailing vigor by a temperate habit and by constant exercise. Of his intellectual ability we are not left to judge from the suspi- cious panegyrics of his contemporaries. His state-papers and letters- may be placed by the side of those of Wolsey or of Cromwell, and they lose nothing in the comparison. Though they arc broadly different, the perception is equally clear, the expression equally powerful, and they breathe throughout an irresistible vigor of purpose. In atMition to this, ho had a fine musical taste, carefully cultivated ; he spoke and wrote in four languages ; and liis knowledge of a miiltituilc of other subjects, with which hi.s versatile ability made liim convers.mt, would have foniu'cl the reputation f)f any ordinary man,
lie was amonu the best physicians of his a<rc : 1 1 ■ ... f> ^
(jc wa.s Ills own engineer, inventing improvemcnta
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE.— 3
in artillery, and new constructions in sliip-build- ing ; and this not with the condscending incapa- city of a royal amateur, but with thorough work- manlike understanding. His reading was vast, especially in theology, whicli has been ridicu- lously ascribed by Lord Herbert to his father's intention of educating him for the archbishopric of Canterbury — as if the scientific mastery of such a subject could have been acquired by a boy of twelve years of age — for lie was no more when he became Prince of Wales. He must have studied theology with the full maturity of his understanding ; and he had a fixed, and pcr- ha})s unfortunate, interest in the subject itself.
In all directions of human activity, Henry dis- played natural powers of the highest order, at the highest stretch of industrious culture. He was " attentive," as it is called, to his " religious duties," being present at the services in the chapel two or three times a day with unfailing regulari- ty, and showing to outward appearance a real sense of religious obligation in the energy and purity of his life. In private, he was good- humored and good-natured. His letters to his secretaries, though never undignified, are simple, easy and unrestrained ; and the letters written by them to him are similarly plain and business-like, as if the writers knew that the person whom they were addressing disliked compliments, and chose to be treated as a man. Again, from their correspondence with one another, when they de- scribe interviews with him, we gpther the same pleasant impression. He seems to have been always kind, always considerate ; inquiring into their private concerns with genuine interest, and winning, as a consequence, their warm and un- affected attachment.
As a ruler, he had been eminently popular. AH his wars had been successful. He had the splendid tastes in which the English people most delighted, and he had substantially acted out his own theory of his duty, which was expressed in the following words :
348
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE.— 4
" Scripture taketli princes to be, as it were, fathers and nurses to their subjects, and by- Scripture it appeareth that it appertaineth unto the office of princes to see that right religion and true doctrine be maintained and taught, and that tlieir subjects may be well ruled and gov- erned by good and jUst laws ; and to provide and care for them that all things necessary for them may be plenteous ; and that the people and commonweal may increase ; and to defend them from oppression and invasion, as well within the realm as without ; and to see that justice be ad- ministered unto them indifferently ; and to hear benignly all their complaints ; and to shew to- wards them, although they offend, fatherly pity."
These principles do really appear to have de- termined Henry's conduct in his earlier years. He had n)ore than once been tried with insur- rection, wlucli lie had soothed down without bloodshed, and extinguished in forgiveness; and London long recollected the great scene which followed "evil May-day," 1517, when the ap- prentices were brought down to Westminster Hall to receive their pardons. There had been a dangerous riot in the streets, which miglit have provoked a mild government to severity; but the king contented himself with punishing the five ringleaders, and four liundred otlicr prisoners, after being paraded down the streets in wliite sliirts witli lialters round tlicir necks, were dis- missed with an a(hiionition, Wolsey weeping as he pronounced it. — Jliatory of England.
KXECI'TION OF MARY, QL'EEH OF SCOTS.
Briefly, solemnly, and sternly, the Commis- sioners delivered tlieir awful inessage. They in- formed her that tlicy had received a eommission under the great seal to sec her executed, and she was told tliat. bIic must prepare to suffer on the following morning. She was dreadfully agi- tated. For a moment slic refused to believe them. Then, as tlic truth forced itself upon
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JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE.— 5
her, tossing lier head in tlisilain, and struggling to control herself, she called her physician, and began to speak to him of money that was owed to her in France. At last it seems that she broke down altogether, and they left her with a fear cither that she would destroy herself in the night, or that she would refuse to come to the scaffold, and that it might be necessary to drag her there by violence.
The end had come. She had long professed to expect it, but the clearest expectation is not certainty. The scene for which she had affected to prepare she was to encounter in its dread reality, and all her bnsy schemes, her dreams of vengeance, her visions of a revolution, with her- self ascending out of the convulsion and seating herself on her rival's throne — all were gone. She had played deep, and the dice had gone against her.
Yet in death, if she encountered it bravely, victory was still possible. Could she but sustain to the last the character of a calumniated sup- pliant accepting heroically for God's- sake and her creed's the concluding stroke of a long series of wrongs, she might stir a tempest of indigna- tion which, if it could not save herself, might at least overwhelm her enemy. Persisting, as she persisted to the last, in denying all knowledge of Babington, it would be affectation to credit her with a genuine feeling of religion; but the im- perfection of her motive exalts the greatness of her fortitude. To an impassioned believer death is comparatively easy
At eight in the morning the provost-marshal knocked at the outer door which communicated with her suite of apartments. It was locked, and no one answered, and he went back in some trepidation lest the fears might prove true which liad been entertained the [)receding evening. On his return with the sheriff, however, a few min- utes later, the door was open, and they were confronted with the tall, majestic figure of Mary Stuart standing before them in splendor, Th^
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE.— 6
plain gray dress had been exchanged for a robe of black satin; her jacket was of black satin also, looped and slashed and trimmed with velvet. Her false hair was arranged studiously with a coif, and over her head and falling down over her back was a white veil of delicate lawn. A crucifix of gold hung from her neck. In her hand she held a crucifix of ivory, and a number of jewelled paternosters was attached to her gir- dle. Led by two of Paulet's gentlemen, the sheriff walking before her, she passed to the chamber of presence in which she had been tried, where Shrewsbury, Kent, Paulet, Drury, and others were waiting to receive her. Andrew Melville, Sir Robert's brother, who had been master of lier household, was kneeling in tears. " Melville," she said, " you should rather rejoice than weep that the end of my troubles is come. Tell my friends I die a true Catholic. Commend me to my son. Tell him I have done nothing to prejudice his kingdom of Scotland, and so, good Melville, farewell." She kissed him, and turning, asked for her chaplain Du Preau. He was not present. There had been a fear of some reli- gious melodrama which it was thought well to avoid. Her ladies, who had attempted to follow her, had been kept back also. She could not afford fo leave the account of her death to be re- ported by enemies and Puritans, and she rc(|uired assistance for the scene which she meditated. Missing them, she asked the reason of their absence, and said slie wished them to see her die. Kent said he feared they might scream or faint, or attempt perhaps to dip their liandker- chiefs in her blood. She undertook that they should be qui<;t and obedient. "The queen," she said, " would never deny lier so slight a request ;" and when Kent still hesitated, she added, with tears, " Vou know I am cousin to your Queen, of the blood of Henry the Seventh, a married Queen of France, and anointed Queen of Scotland."
It was impossible to refuse. She was allowed
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JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE.— "S*
to take six of lier own people with lier, and select them herself. She chose her physician Bur- goyne, Andrew Melville, the apothecary Gorion, and her surgeon, with two ladies, Elizabeth Ken- nedy and Curie's young wife Barbara Mowbray, whose child she had baptized. " AUons donc,^^ she then said, " let us go ;" and passing out attended by the earls, and leaning on the arm of an officer of the guard, she descended the great staircase to the hall. The news liad spread far through the country. Thousands of people were collected outside the w^alls. About tliree hundred knights and gentlemen of the country had been admitted to witness the execution. The tables and forms ]>ad been removed, and a great wood fire was blazing in the chimney. At tlie upper end of the hall, above the fireplace, but near it, stood the scaffold, twelve feet square, and two feet and a half high. It was covered with black cloth ; a low rail ran round it covered with black cloth also, and the sheriff's guard of halberdiers were ranged on the floor below on the four sides, to keep off the crowd. On the scaffold was the block, black like the rest; a square black cushion was placed behind it, and behind the cushion a black chair ; on the right were two other chairs for the earls. The axe leant against the rail, and two masked figures stood like mutes "on either side at the back. The Queen of Scots, as she swept in, seemed as if coming to take a part in some solemn pageant. Not a muscle of her face could be seen to quiver ; she ascended the scaf- fold with absolute composure, looked round her smiling, and sat down. Shrewsbury and Kent followed, and took their places, the sheriff stood at her left hand, and Beale then mounted a plat- form, and read the warrant aloud
She laid her crucifix on her chair. The chief executioner took it as a perquisite, but was or- dered instantly to lay it down. The lawn veil was lifted carefully off, not to disturb the hair, and was hung upon the rail. The black robe was next removed. Below it was a petticoat of crim-
3(S
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE.— 8
son velvet. The black jacket followed, and under the jacket was a body of crimson satin. One of her ladies handed her a pair of crimson sleeves, with which she hastily covered her arms : and thus she stood on the black scaffold •with the black figures all around her, blood-red from head to foot. Her reasons for adopting so extraordinary a costume must be left to conjec- ture. It is only certain that it must have been carefully studied, and that the pictorial effect must have been appalling.
The women, whose firmness had hitherto borne the trial, began now to give way ; spas- modic sobs bursting from them which they could not check. '■'■Ne criez vous,^'' she said, "fay 2^^'Oinis pour vousy Struggling bravely, they crossed their breasts again and again, she crossing them in turn, and bidding them pray for her. Then she knelt on the cushion. Barbara Mowbray bound her eyes with her handkerchief. "xlrfi'eM," she said, smiling for the last time, and waving her hand to tliem ; " adieu, au revob-y They stepped back from off the scaffold, and left her alone. On her knees she repeated the psalm, " In te, Dom'me, conjido," " In thee, O Lord, have I put my trust."' llcr shoulders being exposed, two scars became visible, one on cither side, and the earls being now a little be- hind her, Kent pointed to them with his white wand, and looked inquiringly at his companion. Shrewsbury whispered that they were the remains of two abscesses from which she had suffered while living with him at Sheffield.
When the j).salni was finished she felt for the block, and, laying down her head, muttered: "In mannn, Dniiiinc, (na.<i, coiamendo (inimam meam.'" The hard wood seemed to hurt her, for she placed her hands under licr neck. The oxecutioners gontly removed them, lest they slioidd deaden the l>low, and then one of them holding her slightly, tlic other raised the axe and struck. The scene had been too trying even for the practised licadsman of the tower.
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JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE.— 9
His aim wandered. Tlie blow fell on the knot of the haiidkei chief, and scarcely broke the skin. She neither spoke nor moved. lie struck again, this time effectively. The head hung bv a shred of skin, which he divided without with- drawing the axe ; and at once a metamorphosis was witnessed, strange as was ever wrought by wand of fabled enchanter. The coif fell off and the false plaits. The labored illusion van- ished. The lady who had knelt before the block was in the maturity of grace and loveliness. The executioner, when he raised the head, as usual, to show to the crowd, exposed the with- ered features of a grizzled, wrinkled old woman. "So perish all enemies of the Queen," said the Dean of Peterborough. A loud amen rose over the hall. " Such end," said the Earl of Kent, rising and standing over the body, " to the Queen's and the Gospel's enemies." — His- tory of England.
THE WHITE TERRACE, LAKE TARAWARA, NEW ZEALAND.
In the morning we had to start early, for we had a long day's work cut out for us. We were on foot at seven. The weather was fine, with a faint cool breeze, a few clouds, but no sign of rain. Five Maori boatmen were in attendance to carry coats and luncheon-basket. Kate * prc-
* Kate had already been described, "a bi.ir, l)alf- caste, bony woman of forty, stone-deaf, witli a form like an Amazon's, features liice a prize-fighter's, and an arm that would fell an ox. Slie liad a blue petti- coat on, a brown jacket, and a red liandliercliief about her hair. I inquired if this virago (for such slie appeared) liad a husband. I was told that she had had eight iuisbands, and on my asking what iiad become of them, I got for answer iliat lliey had died away someliow. Poor Kate! I don't know tiiat she had ever had so much as one. Tliere were lying tongues at Wairoa as well as in other places. She was a little elated; I believe, wiien we first saw her; but was quiet and womanly eiiougli next day. Her strengtli slie had done good service with, and she herself was probably better, and not worse, thaa many of her neighbors."
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE.— 10
sented herself with a subdued demeanor, a^ aorreeable as it was unexpected. She looked pic- turesque, with a gray, tight-fitting woollen bod- dice, a scarlet skirt, a light scarf about her neck, and a grav billicock hat with a pink ribbon. She had a' headache, she said, but was mild and gentle. I disbelieved entirely in the story of the eight husbands.
"\Ve descended to the lake head. The boat was a long, light gig, unfit for storms, but Lake Tarawara lay unruffled in the sunshine, tree and mountain peacefully mirrored on the surface. The color was again green, as of a shallow sea. Heavy bushes fringed the shore ; high, wooded mountains rose on all sides of us, as we left the creek and came out upon the open water. The men rowed well, laughing and talking among themselves, and carried us in a little more than an hour to a poiTit eight miles distant. We were now in an arm of the lake which reached throe miles further. At the head of this we landed by the mouth of a small rapid river, and looked about us. It was a pretty spot, overhung by precipitous cliffs, with ivy fern climbing over them. A hot-spring was bubbling violently through a hole in the rock. The ground was littered with the sliells of unnumbered crayfish wliicli had been boiled in this caldron of Nature's providing.
Uerc we were joined by a native girl, Mari- leha by name, a bright-looking lass of eigh- teen witli merry eyes, and a thick well-combed mass of raven hair (shot with orange in the sun- light) which she tossed about over her shoulders. On her back, thrown jaujitily on, she had a shawl of feathers, which Eli)hinstonc wanted to l)iiv, but found tlie young lady coy. She was a friend of Katij's, it appeared, was (|ualifyiiig for a guide, and wa.s to be o.ir companion, we were told, through the day. I licard the news with some anxiety, for there was said to he a delicious basin of lukewarm water on one of the terraces, in which custom required us to bathe. Our two
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JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE.— 11
lady-gnidcs would provide towels, and officiate, ill fact, as batliing-wometi. Tlie fair Polycasta had bathed Tclcinaclms, and the (jueenly Helen with her own royal hands had bathed Ulysses when he came disguised to Troy. So Kate was to bathe us, and Miss Marileha was to assist in the process.
We took off our boots and stockings, and put on canvas shoes which a wetting would not spoil, and followed our two guides through the bush, waiting for what fate had in store for us, Miss Mari laughing, shouting, and singing, to amuse Kate, whose head still ached. After a winding walk of half a mile, we came again on the river, which was rushing deep and swift through reeds and Ti-tree. A rickety canoe was waiting there, in which we crossed, climbed up a bank, and stretched before us we saw the White Terrace in all its strangeness; a crystal staircase, glittering and stainless as if it were ice, spread- ing oat like an open fan from a point above us on the hillside, and projecting at the bottom into a lake, where it was perhaps two hundred yards wide. The summit was concealed behind the volumes of steam rising out of the boiling foun- tain, from which the siliceous stream proceeded. The stairs were twenty in number, the height of each being six or seven feet. The floors divid- ing them were horizontal, as if laid out with a spirit- level. They were of uneven breadth ; twenty, thirty, fifty feet, or even more; each step down being always perpendicular, and all form- ing arcs of a circle of which the crater was the centre. On reaching the lake the silica flowed away into the water, where it lay in a sheet half- submerged, like ice at the beginning of a thaw. There was nothing in the fall of the ground to account for the regularity of shape.
A crater has been opened through the rock 120 feet above the lake. The water, which comes up boiling from below, is charged as heavily as it will bear with silicic acid. The silica crystalizes as it is exposed to the air. The
JAMES ANTHONY FR0UDE.-12
water continues to flow over the hardened sur- face, continually adding a fresh boating to thfe deposits already laid down ; and, for reasons which men of science can no doubt supply, th^ crystals take the form which I have described: The process is a rapid one; A piece of newspa^ per left behind by a recent visitor^ was already stifi as the starched collar of a shirt; Tourists ambitious of immortality have pencilled theit' names and the date of their visit on the white surface over which the stream was running. Some of the inscriptions were six and seven years old, yet the strokes were as fresh as on the day thev were made, being protected by tne film of glass which was instantly drawn over them.
The thickness of the crust is, I believe, unas- certained>. the Maoris objecting to scientific ex- amination of their treasure. It struck me, how- ever, that this singular cascade must have been of recent-^indeed measurably recent — origin. In the middle of the terrace were the remains of a Ti-tree bush, which was standing where a small patch of soli was still uncovered. Part of this, where the silica had not reached the roots, was in leaf and alive. The rest had been similarly alive withm a year or two, for it had not yet rotted, but had died as the crust rose round it. It appeared to mc that this particular staircase was not perhaps a hundred years old, but that terraces like it had successively been formed all along the hillside, as the crater opened now at one spot, and now at another. Wherever the rock showed elsewhere through the soil, it was of the same material as that whicli I saw grow- ing. If the supply of silicic acid was stopped, tlic surface would dry and crack. Ti-trees would then spring up over it. The crystal steps would crumble into less regular outlines, and in a cen- tury or two the fairy-like wonder which we were gazing at would be indistinguishable from the adjoining slopes. We walked, or rather waded ujiward to the boiling pool. It was not in this tliat we were to be bathed. It was about sixty
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE.— 1^
feet across, and was of unknown depth. The licat was too intense to allow us to a{)])roacli tlie edge, and we could sec little from the dense clouds of steam wliich la\- upon it. We were more fortunate afterwards' at the crater of the second terrace. The crystallization is ice-like, and the phenomena, except for the alternate liori- zontal and vertical arrangement of the deposited silica, is like what would be seen in any North- ern region when a severe frost suddenly seizes hold of a waterfall before snow has fallen and buried it. — Oceana, Chap. XVI.
THE devil's hole.
A fixed number of minutes is allotted for each of the "siglits." Kate was peremptory with Eli)hinstone and myself. Miss Marilelia had charge of my son. ''Come along, boy !" I heard lier say to liim. We were dragged off the White Terrace in'spite of ourselves, "but soon forgot it in the many and various wonders which were waiting for us. Columns of steam were risijig all round us. We had already lieard, near at liand, a noise like tlie l)last-pipc of some enor- mous steam-engine. Climbing up a rocky path through the bush, we came on a black gaping chasm, the craggy sides of which we could just distinguish through the vapor. Water was boil- ing furiously at the bottom, and it was as if a legion of imprisoned devils were warring to be let out. " Devil's Hole" they called the place, and the name suited well with it. Behind a rock a few yards distant we found a large open pool, boiling also so violently that great columns of water heaved and rolled and spouted as if m »■ gigantic saucepan standing over a furnace. It was full of sulphur. Heat, noise, and smoke were alike intolerable. To look at the thing and then escape from it, was all that we could do; and we were glad to be led away out of sight and hearing.
Again a climb, and we were on an open level plateau, two acres or so in extent, smoking rocks
JAMES a^-tho:ny FKOUDE.— 14
all round it, and scatteicd ovci* its surface a number of pale brown nuid-hills, exactly like African ant-hills. Each of these was the cone of some sulphurous Geyser. Some were quiet, some were active. Suspicious bubbles of steam spurted out under our feet as we trod, and we were warned to be careful where we went. Here we found a photographer, who had bought permission from the Maoris, at work with his instruments, and Marileha was made to stand for her likeness on the top of one of the mud-piles. We did not envy him his occupa- tion, for the whole place smelt of brimstone and of the near neighborhood of the Nether Pit. Our own attention was directed especially to a hole filled with mud of a peculiar kind, much rel- ished by the natives, and eaten by them as por- ridge. To us, who had oecn curious about their food, this dirty mess was interesting. It did not, however, solve the problem. Mud could hardly be as nutritious as they professed to find it, though it may liave had medicinal virtues to as- sist the digestion of the crawfish. — Oceana, Chap. XVI.
Ll'.VCH-TIME.
The lake into which the Terrace descended lay close below us. It was green and hot (the temperature near 100°), patclied over with beds of rank reed and rush, which were forced into unnatural luxuriance. After leaving the mud- heaps we wont down to the water- side, where we found our luncheon laid out in an open-air saloon, with a smooth floor of silica, and natural slabs of silica ranged round the sides as benrhes. Steam- fountains were playing in half-a-dozen {)laccs. The floor was hot — a mere skin between us and Cocytus. The slabs were hot just to the point of being agreeable to sit upon. This spot was a favorit(! winter resort of the .Maori — their palav- ering liall, where they had their Constitutional DebateH, tlicir store-room, their kitchen, ami their <lining-rooin. I lore they had their inno- cent meals on dried fish and fruit ; here also their u»
JAMES ANTHONY FllOUDE.— 15
less innocent, on dried slices of their enemies. At present it seemed to be made over to visitors like ourselves. — Oceania, Chap. XVI.
THE PINK TERRACE, LAKE TARAWARA.
We were now to be ferried across the lake. The canoe had been brought up — a scooped-out tree-trunk as long as a racing eight-oar, and about as narrow. It was leaky, and so low in the water that the lightest ripple washed over the gunwale. The bottom, however, was littered with fresh- gathered fern, which for the present was dry, and we were directed to lie down upon it. Marileha stood in the bow, wielding her paddle, with her elf-locks rolling wildly down her back. The hot waves lapped in, and splashed us. The lake was ■weird and evil-looking. Here Kate had earned her medal from the Humane Society. Some gentleman, unused to boats, had lost his balance, or his courage, and had fallen overboard. Kate had dived after him as he sank, and fished him up again.
The Pink Terrace, the object of our voyage, opened out before us on the opposite shore. It was formed on the same lines as the other, save that it was narrower, and was flushed with a pale rose-color. Oxide of iron is said to be the cause, but there is probably something besides. The water has not, I believe, been completely analyzed. Miss Mari used her paddle like a mistress. She carried us over with no worse misfortune than a slight splashing, and landed us at the Ter- race-foot. It was here, if anywhere, that ablu- tions were to take place. To my great relief I found that a native youth was waiting with the towels, and that we were to be spared the ladies' assistance. They — Kate and Mari — withdrew to wallow, rhinoceros-like, in a mud-pool of their own.
The youth took charge of us, and led us up the shining stairs. The crystals were even more beautiful than those which we had seen, falling like clusters of rosy icicles, or hanging in festoons
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE.— 16
like creepers trailing from a rail. At the foot of each cascade the water lay in pools of ultra- marine, their exquisite color being due in part, I suppose, to the light of the sky, refracted up- wards from the bottom. In the deepest of these we were to bathe. The temperature was 94^^ or 9.5*^. The water lay inviting in its crystal basin. Tlie warer was deep enough to swim in comfort- ably, though not over our heads. We lay on our backs and floated for ten minutes in exquis- ite enjoyment, and the alkali or the flint, or the perfect purity of the clement, seemed to saturate our systems. I, for one, when I was dressed again, could have fancied myself back in the old days when I did not know that I had a body, and could run up hill as lightly as down.
The bath over, we pursued our way. The niarsel of the Terrace was still before us, re- served to the last, like the finish in a pheasant battue. The crater at the Wjiite Terrace had been boiling; the steam rusliing out of it had filled the air with a cloud ; and the scorching heat had kept us at a distance. Here the tempera- ture was twenty degrees lower; there was still vapor hovering over the surface, but it was lighter and more transparent, and a soft breeze now and then blew it completely aside. We could stand on the brim and gaze as through an opening in the earth into an azure infinity beyond. Down and down, and fainter and softer as they receded, the white crystals projected from the rocky walls over the abyss, till they seemed to dissolve not into darkness but into light. The hue of the water was something which I had never seen, and shall never again see on this side of eternity. Not the violet, not the harebell, nearest in its tint to heaven of all nature's flow- ers; not turquoise, not sapphire, not the unfath- omable a-llier itself, could convey to one who had not looked on it, a sense of that supernatu- ral loveliness. The only color I ever saw in sky or oti earth in the lea-st rosoinbling the aspect of this extraordinary pool wxs the flame of burning
2(1
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE.— 17
sulphur. Here was a bath, if mortal flesh could have borne to dive into it ! Had it been in Nor- way, we should have seen far do^vn the floating Lorelei inviting us to })hinge, and leave life and all belonging to it for such a home and such companionship. It was a bath for the gods and not for man. Artemis and her nymphs should have been swimming there, and we Actieons dar- ing our fate to gaze on them. — Oceana, Chap.
xVi.
The visit to tlie Pink and White Terraces of LakeTarawara took place in March, 1885 — that is, in early Autumn in the Southern Hemispliere. A year or so afterwards these wonderful Terraces were well-nigh de- stroyed by the great cataclysm of 1886.
ENGLAND AND HER COLONIES.
The Colonists are a part of us. They have as little thought of leaving us as an affectionate wife thinks of leaving her husband. The mar- ried pair may have their little disagreements, but their partnership is for "as long as they both shall live." Our differences with the Colonists have been aggravated by the class of persons with whom they 'have been brought officially into contact. The administration of the Colo- nial Oflice has been generally in the hands of men of rank, or of men who aspire to rank ; and altliough these high persons are fair representa- tives of the interests which they have been edu- cated to understand, they' are not the fittest to con- duct our relations with connnunities of English- men with whom they have imperfect sympathy, in the absence of a well-informed public ojjinion to guide them. The Colonists are socially their inferiors, out of their sphere, and without, per- sonal point of contact. Secretaries of State lie yet under the shadow of the old impression that Colonies exist only for the benefit of the Mother Country. When they found that they could no longer tax the Colonics, or lay their trade under
Hi
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE.— 18
restraint, for England's supposed advantage, they utilized them as penal stations. Tliey distrib- uted the colonial patronage, the lucrative places of public eniplo3ment, to j)rovide for friends or for pofttical supporters. When this, too, ceased to be possible, they acquiesced easily in the theory that the Colonies were no longer of any use to us at all. The alteration of the suffrage may make a difference in the personnel of our Departments, but it will not probably do so to any great ex- tent. A seat in the House of Commons is an expensive privilege, and the choice is 'practically limited. Not every one, however public-spirited he may be, can afford a large sum for the mere honor of serving liis country ; and those whose fortune and station in society is already secured, and who have no private interests to serve, are, on the whole, the most to be depended upon. But the People are now sovereign, and ofhcials of all ranks will obey their masters. It is with the People that the Colonists feel a real relation- ship. Let the Peo{)le give the otheials to under- stand that the bond which holds the Empire to- gether is not to be weakened any niore, but is to be maintained and strengthened, and they will work as readily for purposes of union as they worked in the other direction, when "the other
direction" was the prevvailing one
After all is said, it Is on ourselves that the fu- ture depends. We are passinir through a crisis in our national existence, atnl the wisest can not say what lies before us. If the English charac- ter comes out of the trial true to its old tradi- tions— bold in heart and clear in eye, seeking notliing which is not its own, but resolved to maintain its own with its' hand upon its sword — the far-olT Kiigli^h dependi-ncies will cling to their old h<»me, and will look up io her and be still proud to belong to her, and will seek tlieir own greatness in promoting hers. If, on the contrary (for among the possibilities there is a contrary), the erratic policy is to be continued whicli for the hist few years hun been the world'*
Ml
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE— 19
wonder ; if \vc sliow that we have no longer any settled principles of action, that we let ourselves drift into into idle wars and unprovoked blood- shed ; if we are incapable of keeping- or4,er even in our own Ireland, and let it fall away from us or sink into anarchy ; if, in short, we let it be seen that we have chanoed our nature, and arc not the same men with those who once made our name feared and honored, then, in ceasing to de- serve respect, we shall cease to be respected. The Colonies will not purposely desert us, but they will look each to itself, knowing that from us, and from their connection with us, there is nothing more to be hoped for. The cord will Avear into a thread, and one accident will break it. — Oceana, Chap. XXI.
EKASMUS IN ENGLAND.
Erasmus was a restless creature, and did no like to be caged or tethered. He declined the ofier of a large pension which King Henry made him if he would remain in England, and Mountjoy settled a pension on him instead. He had now a handsome income, and he under- stood the art of enjoying it. He moved about as he pleased — now to Cambridge, now to Oxford, and, as the humor took him, back again to Paris; now staying with Sir Thomas More at Chelsea, now going a pilgrimage with Dean Colet to Becket's tomb at Canterbury — but always studying, always gathering knowl- edge, and throwing it out again, steeped in his own mother-wit, in shining Essays or Dialogues, which were the delight and the despair of his contemporaries. Everywhere, in his love of pleasure, in his habits of thought, in his sarcas- tic skepticism, you see the healthy, clever, well- disposed, tolerant, epicurian, intellectual man of the world. — Historical Essays.
^ ANDREW FULLER.-l
FULLER, Andrew, an English clergy- man, born in 175-i; died in 1815. In 1775 he became minister of a Baptist congrega- tion at Soham. and in 1782 of one at Ket- tering, in Northamptonshire, the place of his birth, and of his residence daring the remainder of his life. His first published work was a treatise entitled The Gospel Worthij of All Acceptation (1781:). In 1799-1806 he put forth a series of Dia- logues and Letti^rs. In 1791: he published The Calvinistic and Socinian System com- pared. To this Dr. Toulmin replied in a work defending the Unitarian doctrine, and Mr. Fuller rejoined in a treatise enti- tled Socinianisni indefensible, on the Ground of its Moral Tendency. He pub- lished many sermons and other theological treatises, and took an active part in the es- tablishment and management of the Bap- tist Missionary Society, of which he was the first Secretary. His Complete Works ■were published in 8 octavo volumes in 1824: ; and in 1852 in one large volume, with a Miinoir by his son. This Memoir em- bodies much autobiography, some of the salient points of which are here presented :
MR. FILLER ANU MR. DIVER.
Tlie Summer of 1770 was a time of great re- ligious pleasure. I loved my pastor, and all my bretiiren in the cliurcli ; and tliey expressed great affection towards mc in return. I e9tcemo(l the righteous as the most excellent of the earth, in whom was all my delight. Those who knew not Christ seemed to mc almost another species, to- wards whom I was incapahle of attachment. About this time I formed an intimacy with a Mr. Joseph Diver, a wise and good man, who had been baptized with mc. He was about forty years of age, and liad lived many years in a
ANDREW FULLER.— 2 '
very recluse wav, giving liiinself much to read- ing and reflection, lie liad a great deliglit in searching after truth, which rendered his conver- sation, peculiarly interesting to me; nor was he less devoted to universal practical godliness. I count this connection one of the greatest bless- ino-s of my life. Notwithstanding the disparity as to years, we loved each otlier like David and Jonathan.
CALL TO THE MINISTRY,
In November, lYVl, as I was riding out on business, on a Saturday morning, to a neighbor- ino- village, my mind fell into a train of interest- ing and affecting thoughts, from that passage of Scripture, " Weeping may endure for a night; but joy Cometh in the morning." I never had felt such freedom of mind in thinking upon a divine subject before ; nor do I recollect ever having had a thought of the ministry ; but I then felt as if I could preach from it, and indeed I did preach, in a manner, as T rode along. I thought no more of it, however, but returned home, when I had done my business. In the afternoon I went to see my mother. As we rode a few miles together, she told me she had been thinking much about me, while in town, and added, " My dear, you have often expressed your wish for a trade. I have talked with your uncle at Kensington, and he has procured a good place for you, where, instead of paying a pre- mium, you may, if you give satisfaction, in a lit- tle time receive wages and learn the business.
That which my mother suggested, was
very true. I had always been inclined to trade ; but, how it was I cannot tell, my heart revolted at the proposal at this time. It was not from any desire or thought of the ministry, nor any- thing else in particular, unless it were a feeling towards the little scattered Society of which I was a member. I said but little to my mother, but seemed to wish for time to consider it. This was on Saturday evening.
The next morning, as I was walking by myself
3««
ANDREW FULLER.— 3
to meeting, expecting to hear the brethren prav, and ray friend Joseph Diver expound the Scriptures, I was met by one of the members whom he had requested me to see, who said, " Brother Diver has by accident sprained his ankle, and cannot be at meeting to-day, and he wishes me to say to you that he hopes the Lord will be with youT — " The Lord be with me ! "' thought L " What does Brother Diver mean ? He cannot suppose that I can take his place, see- ing that I have never attempted anything of the kind, nor been asked to do so." It then oc- curred, liowever, that I had had an interesting train of thought the day before, and had imag- ined at the time I could speak it, if I were called to do it. But though I had repeated- ly engaged in prayer publicly, yet I had never been requested to attempt anything further, and
therefore I thought no more of it
Early in 1773, Brother Diver was absent again through an affliction, and I was invited once more to take his j)lace. Being induced to renew the attempt, I spoke from tliose words of Our Lord, " The Son of Man came to seek and save that wliich is lost." On this occasion I not only felt greater freedom tlian I had ever found before, but the attention of the people was fixed, and several young persons in the congregation were impressed with tlie subject, and afterwards joined the church. From this time the brethren seemed to entertain the idea of my engaging in the ministrv, nor was I without serious thoughts of it myself. Some- times I felt a desire after it ; at other times I was much discouraged, especially through a con- RcioiisncsR of my want of spirituality of mind, which I considered as a qualification of the first importance
DOCTRINAL VIEWS.
Being now devoted to the ministry, I took a review of the doctrine I should preaoii, and spent pretty much of my time in reading, and in
Ml
ANDREW FULLER.— 4
making up my mind as to various things rela- tive to the gospel With respect to the
system of doctrine which I had been accus- tomed to hear from my youth, it was in the high Calvinistic — or rather hyper-Calvinistic strain — admitting nothing spiritually good to be the duty of the unregencrated, and nothing to be addressed to them in a way of exhortation, excepting what related to external obedience. Outward services might be required : such as attendance on the means of grace; and abstinence from gross evils might be enforced; but nothing was said to them from the pulpit, in the way of warning them to flee from the wrath to come, or inviting them to apply to Christ for salvation.
Though our late disputes had furnished me with some few principles inconsistent with these notions, yet I did not perceive their bearings at first ; and durst not for some years address an in- vitation to the unconverted to come to Jesus. I began, however, to doubt whether I had got the truth respecting this subject. This view of things did not seem to comport with the idea which I had imbibed, concerning the power of man to do the will of God. I perceived that the will of God was not confined to mere out- ward actions ; but extended to the inmost thoughts and intents of the heart. The distinc- tion of duties, therefore, into internal and exter- nal, and making the latter only concern the unre- generate, wore a suspicious appearance. But as I perceived that this reasoning would affect the whole tenor of my preaching, I moved on with slow and trembling steps ; and having to feel my way out of a labyrinth, it was a long time ere I felt satisfied.
Here must be briefly noted, as told by his son, some incidents relating to the early years of the ministry of Andrew Fuller. "His whole yearly income from the people having never exceeded £13, and his at- tempts to derive support, first from a small
ANDREW FULLER.— 5
shop and then from a school, both proving unsuccessful ; so that, notwithstanding all his exertions, he could not prevent an an- nual inroad upon his little property, most distressing to himself, and ruinous to the prospects of a rising family. Under such complicated trials his health suffered a shock from which he with ditiiculty recov- ered." Indeed, there seems to iiave been a mighty amount of praying and psalm-sing- ing, and all that ; but someliow the brethren at Soha:m, where Andrew Fuller began his ministry, kept a close grip upou their pocket-books; as witness the following memorandum made by a good deacon ^Vallis, who was empowered to lay certain questions in controversy before a Mr. Kubiuson, of Cambridge, who should pro- nounce judgment as to what should be done. Mr. Robinson's decision was, "That Mr. Fuller ought to continue pas- tor of the said church for one whole year, from this day, and after that time if it should aj)pear that he can live on his in- come ; and that the people ought to abide by their proposal to raise Mr. Fuller's in- come to £25 a year, as they had proposed, clear of all deductions."
As a preacher Andrew Fuller never mini.stered except to a small congregation l)eloiiging to a small and, in his day and country, a thoroughly de.'^pised sect. In fact, a century ago, it would have been thought less contemptuous to call a man an "Iiitidel" than to call him a '-Baptist." His written works are his best monument. The tablet ])laced near by the ])ulpit at Kettering bears an inscription which may take the place of any extended biography :
ANDREW t'tJLLER.-e
Inscription upon andrkw fuller's monu- ment.
In memory of their revered Pastor, the Rev- erend Andrew Fuller, the Church and Conjrrega- tion have erected tliis Tablet. — His ardent Piety, the strength and soundness of his Judgment, his intimate knowledge of the Human Heart, and his profound acfjuaintance witli the Scriptures, eminently qualified liim for the Ministerial Office, which lie sustained amongst them thirty- two years. The force and originality of his Genius, aided by undaunted Firmness, raised him from obscurity to high distinction in the Reli- gious World. By the wisdom of his plans, and by his unwearied diligence in executing them, he rendered the most important services to the Bap- tist Missionary Society, of which he was the Sec- retary from its commencement, and to the pros- perity of which he devoted his life. In addition to his other labors, his writings are numerous and celebrated.
FULLER, MarG'Veet. See Ossoli, Maegabet Fuller, Marchioness.
THOMAS FULLER.— 1
FULLER, Thomas, an English clergy- man and author, born in 1608; died in 1661. He was educated at Queen's College, Cam- bridge, winning the highest university hon- ors, and was presented to the living of St. Benoits, Cambridge, where he came to be noted as an eloquent preacher, and was also made Prebendary of Salisbui-y. After some years he went to London, where he received the lectureship of the Savoy. Upon the outbreak of the civil war between the Parliament and Charles I., Fuller warm- ly espoused the royal cause, became a chap- lain in the army, and suffered some in- conveniences during the Protectorate of Cromwell. After the restoration of Charles IL, he was made chaplain-extraordinary to the King, regained his prebendary of which he had been deprived, and it was in con- templation to raise liim to a bishopric; but he died before this intention was carried out. His principal works are: llistorie of the IL,hj Warre (1039), IloJy and Profane Statt'^ proposing examples for imitation and avoidance (1042;, Church History of Brit- ain from the Birth of Jesus Christ until the 'Year MDCXL VIII (1055), and IIIh- tonj of the Worthies of KuijlamJ, jjublished in 1002, soon after his death. This last work, a collection of out-of-the-way biogni-
Ehies, is the one by which Fuller is now est known. This was reprinted in 1811, and again in 1840.
TIIK C;OOU SCHOOLMASTER.
There is scarcely any profession in the com- moriwfallh more necessary, wliich is so slit^litly pcrforiiictl. The reasons whereof I conceive to be these : First, yonn<^ schohirs make this call- in<5 their refiitjo ; yea, percliance, before they have taken any degree in the university, coiiv ni
THOMAS FULLER.— 3
mcnce schoolmasters in the country, as if noth- ing else were required to set up this profession but only a rod and a fcruhi. Secondly, others wlio are ahle, use it only as a passage to better preferment, to patch the rents in their present fortune, till they can provide a new one, and be- take then:selves to some more gainful calling. Thirdly, they are disheartened from doing their best with the miserable reward which in some places they receive, being masters to their chil- dren and slaves to their parents. Fourthly, be- ing grown rich, they grow negligent, and scorn to touch the school, but by the proxy of the usher. But see how well our schoolmaster be- haves himself
He studieth his scholar's natures as carefully as they their books ; and ranks their dispositions into several forms. And though it may seem difficult for him in a great school to descend to all particulars, yet experienced schoolmasters may quickly make a grammar of boys' natures, and reduce them all — saving some few exceptions — to these general rules :
1. Those that are ingenious and industrious. The conjunction of two such planets in a youth presage much good unto him. To such a lad a frown may be a whipping, and a whipping a death ; yea, where their master whips them once, shame whips them all the week after. Such na- tures he uscth with all gentleness.
2. Those that are ingenious and idle. These think, with the hare in the fable, that running with snails — so they count the rest of their schoolfellows — they shall come soon enough to the post, though sleeping a good while before their starting. 0 ! a good rod would finely take them napping !
3. Those that are dull and diligent. Wines, the stronger they be, the more lees they have when they are new. Many boys are muddy- headed till they be clarified with age, and such afterwards prove the best. Bristol diamonds are both bright, and sqiiared, and pointed by na-
THOMAS FULLER.— 3
ture, and yet are soft and worthless ; whereas orient ones in India are rough and rugged nat- urally. Hard, rugged, and dull natures of youth acquit themselves afterwards the jewels of the country, and therefore their dulness at first is to be borne with, if they be diligent. The school- master deserves to be beaten himself who beats nature in a boy for a fault. And I question whether all the whipping in the world can make their parts which are naturally sluggish rise one minute before the hour nature hath appointed.
4. Those that are invincibly dull, and negli- gent also. Correction may reform the latter, not amend the former. All the whetting in the world can never set a razor's edge on that which hath no steel in it. Such boys he consigneth over to other professions. Shipwrights and boat-makers will choose those crooked pieces of timber which other carpenters refuse. Those may make excellent merchants and mechanics who will not serve for scholars.
He is able, diligent, and methodical in his teaching; not leading them rather in a circle than forwards. He minces his precepts for children to swallow, hanging clogs on the nim- blencss of liis own soul, that liis scholars may go along with him. — The Ilobj and Profane State.
ON" noOKS.
It is a vanity to persuade the world one hath much learning by getting a great library. As soon shall I ln-licve every one is valiant that hath a well-furnished armory. I guess good house- keeping by the smoking, not the number of the tunnels, as knowing that many of tliem — built merely for uniformity — are without chinmeys, and more without tires.
Some bfxjks arc only cursorily to be tasted of : namely, first, vobiniinous books, the task of a man's life to read them over; secondlv, auxili- ary lM)oks, only to be r('|)aired to on occasions; thirdly, such as arc mere pieces of formalityj so tiiat if you look on them you look through them, ait
THOMAS FULLER.— 4
and he that peeps through the casement of the index, sees as much as if he were in the liouse. But the laziness of those cannot be excused who perfunctorily pass over authors of conse- quence, and only trade in their tables and con- tents. These, like city cheaters, having gotten the names of all country gentlemen, make silly peo- ple believe they have long lived in those places wliere they never were, and flourish with skill in those authors they never seriously studied, — The Holy and Profane State.
HENRY DE ESSEX, STANDARD-BEARER TO HENRY II.
It happened in the reign of this king there was a fierce battle fought in Flintshire, in Coles- hall, between the English and Welsh, wherein this Henry de Essex animum et signum simul abjecit — betwixt traitor and coward, cast away both his courage and banner together, occasion- ing a great overthrow of English. But he that had the baseness to do, had the boldness to deny the doing of so foul a fact ; until he was chal- lenged in combat by Robert de Momford, a knight, eye-witness thereof, and by him over- come in a duel. AYhereupon his large inheri- tance was confiscated to the king, and he him- self, partly thrust, partly going, into a convent, hid his head in a cowl; under which, between shame and sanctity, he blushed out the remain- der of his life. — The Wor tides of England.
Fuller is especially notable for the quaint and pitlij sayings scattered through his writings, often where one would least ex- pect them. Thus he says : " The Pyramids, themselves doting with age, have forgotten the names of their founders." Negroes are felicitously characterized as " God's image cut in ebony," And again, he says, " As smelling a turf of fresh earth is whole- some for the body, no less are one's tlionghts of mortality cordial to the soul." The fol- lowing are selected at random from several of Fuller's books :
374
TfiOMAS i?ULLER.— 5
MISCELLAXEOrS APHORISMS.
It is dangerous to gather flowers that grow on the banks of the pit of hell, for fear of falling in ; yea, they which play with the devil's rattles will be brought by degrees to wield his sword ; and from niakiug'of sport, they couie to doing of mischief.
The true cliurch antiquary doth not so adore the ancients as to despise the moderns. Grant them but dwarfs, yet stand they on giants' shoul- ders, and may see the farther.
Light, Heaven's eldest daughter, is a principal beauty in a building, yet it shines not alike from all parts of lieaven. An east window welcomes the beams of the sun before they are of a strength to do any harm, and is offensive to none but a sluggard. In a west window, in sum- mer time towards night, the sun grows low and over-familiar, with more light than delight.
A public office is a guest which receives the best usage from them who never invited it.
Scoff not at tlie natural defects of any, which are not in their power to amend. Oh! 'tis cru- elty to beat a cripple with his own crutclies.
"Generally, nature hangs out a sign of simplic- ity in the face of a fool, and there is enough in his countenance for a hue and cry to take him on suspicion ; or else it is stamped in the figure of his body ; their heads sometimes so little, that tliere is no room for wit ; sometimes so long, that there is no wit for so much room.
Learning has gained most by those books by wliich the printers liavc lost.
Is there no way to bring home a wandering sheep but by worrying liim to death ?
Moderation is the silken string running thri)U<,'h the yx'arl-cliain of all virtues.
Tombs are the clothes of the dead. A grave is but a jtlain suit, and a rich monument is one embroidered.
m
LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTON.— 1
FULLERTON, Lady Georgiana Chab- LOTi'E an English author, born in 1812. She was the second daughter of the first Earl of CTranville. In 1833 she married Captain Fullerton, and removed to Ire- land. Her iirst novel, Ellen 3fiddleton, was published in 1844. She subsequently wrote many works, among them, Grantley Manor (1849), Lcuhj-Bird (1852), The Life of St. Francis of Borne (1855), La Comtesse de Bonneval and Histoire du Temps de LotiisXI V. (1857), Base Leblanc (I860), Laureidia, a Tale of Japan (1861), Too Strange Not to he True (18G4), Con- stance Sherwood (1865), A Stormy Life (1867), J/7'5. Gerald's Niece {\m% The Gold-Digger and Other Verses (1872), and Dramas from the Lives of the Saints (1872.) She also made many translations from the French.
A CHILD OF THE WILDERNESS.
Maitre Simon's barge was lying at anchor near the village. It had just huided a party of emi- grants on their way back from the Arkansas to NeAv Orleans, lie was storing it with provisions for the rest of the voyage, and was standing in the midst of cases and barrels, busily engaged in this labor, when Colonel d'Auban stepped into the boat, bade him good morning, and inquired after his daughter. On his first arrival in America he had made the voyage up the Mis- sissippi in one of Simon's boats, and the barge- man's little girl, then a child of twelve years of age, was also on board. Simonette inherited from her mother, an Illinois Indian, the dark complexion and peculiar-looking eyes of that race ; otherwise she was thoroughly French, and like her father, whose native land was Gascony. From her infancy she had been the plaything of the passengers on his boat, and they were, indeed, greatly in need of amusement during the
LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTOK— 2
wearisome weeks when, lialf imbedded in the floating vegetation of the wide river, they slowly made their way against its mighty cur- rent. As she advanced in years; the child be- came a sort of attendant on the women on board, and rendered them many little services.
She was an extraordinary being. Quicksilver seemed to run in her veins. She never remained two minutes together in the same spot or the same position. She swam like a fish, and ran like a lapwing. Iler favorite amusements were to leap in and out of the boat, to catch hold of the swinging branches of the wild vine, and run up the trunks of trees with the agility of a squirrel, or to sit laughing with her playfellows, the monkeys, gathering bunches of grapes and handfuls of wild cherries for the passengers. She had a wonderful handiness, and a peculiar talent for contrivances. There were very few things Simonette could not do, if she once set about them
Simonette heard Mass on Sunday, and said short prayers night and morning; but her piety was of the active order. She studied her cate- chism up in some tree, seated on a branch, or else swinging in one of the nets in which Indian women rock their children. She could hardly sit still during a sermon, and from sheer rest- lessness envied the birds as they flew past the windows. But if Father Maret had a message to send across the prairie, or if food and medi- cine were to be carried to the sick, she was his ready messenger — his " carrier pigeon," as he called her. Through tangled thickets and marshy lands she made her way, fording with her naked feet the tributary streams of the great river, or swimming acri>ss them if neces- sary ; jumping over fallen trunks, and singing as she went, the bird-like creature made friends and played with every anin)al .she met, and fed on berries and wild honey. — Too Stramjc Not to be True.
HORACE HOWARD FURNES9.-1
FUENESS, Horace Howard, an Ameri- can Sliakespearean scliolar, son of William H. Furness, born at Philadelphia, in 1833. He was educated at Harvard University, studied law, and was admitted to the Phila- delphia bar in 1859. He has edited a V(i7"io- Tuin Edition of Shakespeare^ a valuable con- tribution to Shakespearean literature (1871.)
THE " FIRST FOLIO " OF SHAKESPEARE.
When reading Shakespeare, we resign our- selves to the mighty current, and let it bear us along whithersoever it will ; we sec no shoals, heed no rocks, need no pilot. Whether spoken from rude boards or printed in homely form, the words are Shakespeare's, the hour is his, and a thought of texts is an impertinence. But when we study Shakespeare, then our mood changes ; no longer are we ' sitting at a play,' tlie passive recipients of impressions through the eye and ear, but we weigh every word, analyze every expression, sift every phrase, that no grain of art or beauty, which we can assimilate, shall escape. To do this, we must have Shakespeare's own words before us. No other words will avail, even though they be those of the wisest and most inspired of our day and generation. We must have Shakespeare's own text; or, fail- ing this, the nearest possible approach to it. We shall be duly grateful to the wise and learned, who, where phrases are obscure, give us the words which we believe to have been Shake- speare's ; but as students we must have under our eyes the original text, which, howcvei stub- born it may seem at times, may yet open its treasures to our importunity, and reveal charms before undreamed of.
This original text is to be found in the first edition of liis Works, published in 1623, and usually known as the '■'■Fh-Ht Fol'io^'' which was presumably printed from the words written by Shakespeare's own hand or from stage copies adapted from his mamiscrij^ts. Be it that the
HORACE HOWARD FURNESS.—S
pages of this First Folio are little better than proof-sheets, lackino; supervision of the author or of any other, yet • those who had Shakespeare's manuscript before them were more likely to read it right than we who read it only in imagination,' as Dr. Johnson said. Even grant that the First Folio is, as has been asserted, one of the most care- lessly printed books ever issued from the press, it is, nevertheless, the oidy text that we have for at least sixteen of the plays ; and condemn it as we may, ' still is its name in great account, it
hath power to charm ' for all of them If
misspellings occur here and there, surely our com- mon-school education is not so uncommon that we cannot silently correct them. If the punc- tuation be deficient, surely it can be supplied without an exorbitant demand upon our in- telligence. And in lines incurably maimed by the printers, of what avail is the voice of a solitary editor amid the Babel that vociferates around, each voice proclaiming the virtues of its own specific ? Who am I that I should thrust myself in between the student and the text, as though in me resided the power to restore Shake- speare's own words. Even if a remedy be pro- posed which is by all acknowledged to be effica- cious, it is not enough for the student that he should know the remedy ; he must see the ail- ment. Let the ailment, therefore, appear in all its severity in the text, and let the remedies be exhibited in the notes; by this means we may make a text for ourselves, and thus made, it will become a part of ourselves, and speak to us with more power than were it made for us by the wisest editor of them all. — Preface to The Moor of Venice.
WILLIAM HENRY FURNESS.— 1
FURNESS, William Henry, an Ameri- can clergyman and author, born in Boston, in 1802. He M'as educated at Harvard Uni- versity, studied theology at Cambridge, and in 1825 became pastor of the First Congre- gational (Unitarian) Church in Philadelphia. He is the author of Remarks on the Four Gospels (1836), Jesus and His Biographers (1838), a lUstorij of Jesus (1850), Thoughts on tJie Life and Character of Jesus of Nazareth (1859), The Veil partly Lifted and Jesus hecoming Visible (1864), Jesus (1870), and The Story of the Resurrection of Christ Told Once More (1885.) He has also published Domestic Worship, a volume of prayers (1850), a volume of Discourses (1855); and numerous L^oems, original, or translated from the German.
THE PERSONAL PRESENCE OF JESUS.
Tlie jyreatest act may be spoiled by the way in which it is done, and the homeliest office of kind- ness may be discharged with a grace that shall hint of heaven. It is not in the form or in the word, but in the spirit that lies the power. And the great personal power of Jesus cannot, I con- ceive, be fully accounted for without bringing distinctly into view what it seldom occurs to us to think of, as it is scarcely once alluded to in the Gospels, and if it wore alluded to, was not a thing that admitted of being readily described: His personal presence, in a word, his manner. All that we read in the records in regard to it is, that his teaching was marked by a singular air of authority. No, this was not a thing to be described. It was felt too deeply. It penetrated to that depth in the hearts of men whence no words come, whither no words reach. It was the strong humanity expressed in the whole air of him, and unabstracted by any thought of him- self, that drew the crowd around him, or at l^ast
WILLIAM HENRY FURNESS.-9
fixed them in the attitude of breathless attention. Many a heart, I doubt not, was made to thrill and glow by the intonations of his voice attuned to a divine sincerity, or by the passing expression of his countenance beaming with the truth, which is the presence and power of the Highest. In fine, it was his manner that rendered perfect* the expression of his humanity, and gave men as- surance of his thorough sincerity. And the peculiar charm of His humanity is, that it bloomed out in this fulness of beauty, not in the sunlight of joy, but under the deep gloom of an early, lonely, and cruel death, ever present to him as the one special thing which he was bound to suffer.
Although he had renounced every private con- cern, and bound himself irrevocably to so terrible a fate, he nevertheless retained the healthiest and most cordial interest in men and things. Life lost not one jot of value in his eyes, although he knew that he had no lot in it but to die in torture, forsaken and defamed. On the con- trary, who ever, within so brief a space of time — or indeed in any space of time, though extended to the utmost limit of this mortal existence — made so much out of it, or so enhanced its value, as he ? With what light and beauty has he transfigured this life of ours ! The world had nothing for him but the hideous Cross, and yet he has flooded tlie world through that Cross with imperishable splendors, unconcpiorablc Faith, and immortal Hope. Notwithstanding the deadly hatred of men, he h^vcd them with a love stronger than death, and put faith in them jis no otlier ever has done. The outcast he treated with a brother's tenderness, identifying himself with the meanest of his fellow-men, and in the most emphatic manner teaching that sympathy withheld from the least is dishonor cast upon the greatest. — The Veil parity Lifted,
WILLIAM HENRY FURNESS.— 3
A SINGLE EYE.
Lot tliine eye be single,
And no carlh-born visions mingle
With thy j)iire ideal. Then will its iindimmed liglit Make all within thee bright,
And all around thee real.
But if thine eye be double, Black care will rise to trouble
And veil that light. Then blindly wilt thou grope, Cheated of faith and hope
By pliantoms of the night.
ETERNAL LIGHT.
Slowly, by God's hand unfurled, Down around the weary world, Falls the darkness ; 0 how still Is the working of his will 1
Mighty Spirit, ever nigh. Work in me as silently; Veil the day's distracting sights, Show me heaven's eternal lights.
Living stars to view be brought In the boundless realms of thought; High and infinite desires, Flaming like those upper fires.
Holy Truth, Eternal Right, Let tliem break upon my sight; Let them sliine serene and still, And with light my being fill.
ARNOLDO FUSINATO.— 1
rUSIKATO, Arxoldo, an Italian poet, born near Vicenza in 1817. ILe was edu- cated at the seminary of Padua, studied law, and received bis degree, but gave more at- tention to poetry than to legal practice. A sumptuous edition of his I^oesies was pub- lished at Venice in 1853. In 1870 he went to Rome as Chief lievisor of the Steno- graphic Parliamentary Reports. In 1871 appeared at Milan a volume of his Po- esie patriottlcJie inedlte, which contained, among other pieces the popular Students of Padua. In 1849 the Austrians, who had some months before been driven from Ven ice, returned, and bombard cd the city, which, having been reduced to famine, and tlie cholera prevailing, surrendered, raising the white flag over the lagoon bridge, by which the railway traveler enters the city. The poet imagines himself in one of the little towns on the nearest mainland :
VENICE IN 1849. The twilitrlit is deepening, still is the wave; I sit by the window, mute as by a grave; Silent, companionlcss, secret I pine; Through tears where thou licst I look, Venice
mine. On the clouds brokenly strewn through the west Lies the last ray of the sun sunk to rest ; And a sad sil>ilaiifc under the iiioon Sighs from the broken heart of the lagoon.
Out of the city a boat drawcth near : "You of the gondola! tell us what cheer!" " Bn-ad lacks, the cholera deadlier grows; From the lagoon bridge the white banner blows."
No, no, nevermore on so great woe. Bright sun of Italy, nevermore glow 1 But o'er Venetian hopes shattered so soon, Moan in tliy sorrow forever, lagoon I
ARNOLDO FUSINAT0.-2
Venice, to thee comes at last tlie last hour ; Martyr illustrious, in thy foe's power; Bread lacks, the cholera deadlier grows ; From the lagoon bridge the white banner blows.
Not all the battle-flames over thee streaming; Not all the numberless bolts o'er thee screaming ; Not for these terrors thy free days are dead : Long live Venice ! She's dying for bread !
On thy immortal page sculpture, 0 Story,
Others' iniquity, Venice's glory ;
And three times infamous ever be he
Who triumphed by famine, 0 Venice, o'er thee.
Long live Venice ! Undaunted she fell ; Bravely she fought for her banner and well ; But bread lacks ; the cholera deadlier grows ; From the lagoon bridge the white banner blows.
And now be shivered upon tlie stone here Till thou be free again, 0 lyre I bear. Unto thee, Venice, shall be my last song, To thee the last kiss and tlie last tear belong.
Exiled and lonely, from hence I depart. But Venice forever shall live in my heart; In my heart's sacred place Venice shall be As is the face of my first love to me.
But the wind rises, and over the pale Face of its waters the deep sends a wail ; Breaking, the chords shriek, and the voice dies. On the lagoon bridge the white banner flies. Trans, of W. D. Uowells.
<84
JAMES GAIRDNER.— 1
GAIRDXER, James, a British his- torian, born at Edinburgh in 1828. He was educated at Edinburgh, and in 1846 re- ceived an appointment as clerk in the Pub- lic Record Otiice, London, of which he was made Assistant Keeper in 1859. He has edited several ancient works, the manu- scripts of which are preserved in the Record Office and elsewhere, notable among which is a very much enlarged edition of The Faston Letters. His principal original works are : The Houses of Lancaster and York (1874), History of the Life and Reign (f Richard III. (1878), and Stud- ies in LngJi'^h History, consisting of essays by himself and Henry Spedding, repub- lished from various periodicals (1886.)
THE TRUE CHARACTER OF RICHARD III.
It is a good quarter of a century since I first read Walpole's Historic Doubts; and tbey cer- tainly exercised upon me, in a very strong de- gree, the influence which I perceive they have had on many other minds. I hegan to doubt whether Richard III, was really a tyrant at aU. I more than doubted that principal crime of which he is so generally reputed guilty ; and as for everything else laid to his charge it was easy to show that the evidence was still more un- satisfactory. The slendcrness and insufficiency of the original testimony could hardly be de- nied ; and if it were only admitted that the prejudices of Lancastrian writers mi;;ht have perverted facts, which tiie policy of the Tudors would not have allowed otiier writers to state fairly, a very plausihle case might have been established for a more favorable rendering of Richard's cliaractcr.
It was the opinion of the late Mr. Buckle that a certain skeptical tr'n<lcncy — a predisposi- tion to douht all comiMMhly received o[iini(ms until they were found to stand the test of argu-
JAMES GAIRDNER.— 2
ment — was the first essential to the discovery of new truth. I must confess that uiy own experi- ence does not verify this remark ; and whatever may be said for it as regards science, I cannot but think the skeptical spirit a most fatal one in history. It is an easy thing to isolate particular facts and events, cross-examine to our own satis- faction the silent witnesses or first reporters of a celebrated crime, and appeal to the public for a verdict of " not proven." But, after all, we have only raised a question ; we have not ad- vanced one step toward its solution. We have succeeded in rendering a few things doubtful, which may have been too hastily assumed before. But if these doubts are to be of any value as the avenue to new truths, they must lead to a complete reconsideration of very many things besides the few dark passages at first isolated for investigation. They require, in the first place, that the history of one particular epoch should be re-written ; in the second, that the new version of the story should exhibit a certain moral har- mony with the facts both of subsequent times and of the times preceding. Until these two conditions have been fulfilled, no attempt to set aside traditional views of history can ever be called successful.
The old traditional view of Richard III. has certainly not yet been set aside in a manner to satisfy the world. Yet there has been no lack of ingenuity in pleading his cause, or of research in the pursuit of evidence. Original authorities have been carefully scrutinized ; words have been exactly weighed ; and ])lausible arguments have been used to show that for all that is said of him by contemporary writers he jnight have been a very different character from what he is supposed to have been. Only, the malign tradi- tion itself is not well accounted for; and we are not clearly shown that the story of Richard's life is more intelligible without it. On the con- trary I must record my impression that a minute study of the facts of Richard's life has tended
JAMES GAIRDNER.-3
more and more to convince me of the general fidelity of the portrait with wliich we have been made familiar by Shakespeare and Sir Thomas More.
I feel quite ashamed, at this day, to think how I mused over this subject long ago, wasting a great deal of time, ink, and paper in fruitless efforts to satisfy even my own mind that tradi- tional black was real historical white, or at worst a kind of gray. At last I laid aside my incom- plete manuscript, and applied myself to other subjects, still of a kindred nature; and the larger study of history in other periods convinced me that my method at starting had been altogether wrong. The attempt to discard tradition in the examination of original sources of history is, in fact, like the attempt to learn an unknown lan- guage without a teacher. We lose the benefit of a living interpreter, who may, indeed, misappre- hend to some extent the author whom we wish to read ; but at least he would save us from in- numerable mistakes if we had followed his guid- ance in the first instance. I have, therefore, in working out this subject always adhered to the plan of placing my chief reliance on contempo- rary information ; and, so far as I am aware, I have neglected nothing important that is cither directly stated by original authorities and con- temporary records, or that can be reasonably in- ferred from what they say. — History of Rich- ard III., Preface.
THE CORONATION OF RICHARD lit.
By all accounts the magnificence of Richard's coronation was unsurpassed by tliat of any of his {)rcdoccs8ors. The ceremony must have lasted soMK! hours. When the King had reached St. Edward's shrine, and was seated in his chair of sUitc, a royal service was sung that had been prepared for the ocrasion. Afterwards the King and Queen coining down from their scats to the high altar, there were further solemn services, during which both King and Queen put off
Ml
JMIES GAIRDNER.-4
their robes, and, standing naked from the iniddk upwards, were anointed by the bishop. They then changed their robes for cloth of gold, and Cardinal Bonrchier crowned them both, while organs softly played. The bishop tlien put upon the King St. Edward's cope, and the cardinal censed both King and Queen. The King then took the cross with the ball in his right hand, and the sceptre in his left, and a grand Te Deum was sung by the priests and clergy. The cardinal next sang mass, and the King and Queen re- turned to their chairs of state. Two bishops now came up to the King, knelt before him, rose up again and kissed him, one after the other, and t/ien took their stations beside him, one on the right hand and the other on the left. The Dukes of ]>uckingham and Norfolk, with the other leading nobles, next took up positions about the King, the Earl of Surrey standing be- fore him with a sword in his hand, which he held upright during the whole of the mass; while, at the same time, the Queen had a bishop standing on each side of her. The Duchess of Norfolk also sat on the Queen's right hand, and the Countess of Richmond on her left, the Duchess of Norfolk and other ladies kneeling behind her till the mass was done. The King and Queen sat still till the pax was given. After kissing it they came down and knelt at the high altar, where they received the sacrament. The King then returned to St. Edward's shrine and offered up St. Edward's crown and other relics. Then the lords set his own crown on his head, and the whole company began to move out of the church in grand procession. The King again bore the cross and ball, in his right hand, with the sceptre in his left. The Duke of Nor- folk bore the cap of maintenance before him. The Queen bore her sceptre in her right hand, and the rod with the dove in her left. And so, with great solemnity, they proceeded to West- minster ILilI, where the banquet began at the late hour of four o'clock in the afternoon. In.
JAMES GAIRDNER.-5
the middle of the second course, Sir Robert Dyinock, the King's Champion, rode into the Ilall upon a horse trapped with white and crim- son silk, and challenged any man to dispute the King's title. A momentary silence followed; find theil the cry of " King Richm-d ! King Rich- ard !" resounded on every side; Whatever de- ficiency tliere niight have been in Richard's title Vfus, now remedied. He had become an an- ointed King. A religious rite had invested his person with a sanctity which it had not before; and. he had spared no pains to make it as splen- did and imposing as any such rite should be.—' History of Richard III., Chap. IV.
mCHARD ill. AFTER THE MTUDER OF HIS NEPHEWS.
Hitherto Richard's life, though not unmarked bv violence, liail been free from violence to his. own tiesh an<l blood. Even his most unjustifia- ble measures were somewhat in the nature of self-defence; or if in any case he had stained liis hands witli the blood of persons absolutely innocent, it was not in his own interest, but in that of his brother, Edward IV. The rough and illegal retribution which he dealt out to Riv- ers, Vaughan, Hawte, Lord Richard Grey, and Lord Hastings, was not more severe than per- liaps law itself might iiave authorized. The dis- orders of civil war had accustomed the nation to see justice sometimes executed without the due formalities ; and his neglect of those formalities had not iiitherto ma<b! Iiim unpopular. But the license of iinidieckcd power is dangerous, no less to tliose wlio wield than to those; who suffer from it ; and it was particularly so to one of Richard's violent anrl impatient tiMUper. He had lieen alloweil so far to act upon iiis own ar- bitrarv judi^ment or will, that expeiliencv was fast l»(;c<iuiing his oiilv motive, ami extitigiiishing within liirn b(»tii humanity an<l natural affection.
Ni'verthelcHs lie was not vet sunk so low as to regard his own unnatural eondu(;t with indiffcr- ut
JAMES GAIRDNER.-e
ence. Deep and bitter remorse deprived him of all that tnuiquilUty in the possession of power, for the attainment of which had iiubnied his Lands in blood. " I have heard by credible re- port," says Sir Thomas More, "of snch as were secret with his chamberers, that after this abomi- nable deed done lie never had quiet in his mind, he never thought himself sure. Where he went abroad, his eyes whirled about, his body privily fenced, his hand ever on his dagger, his counte- nance and manner like one always ready to strike again, lie took ill rest at nights, lay long wak- ing and musing; sore wearied with care and watch, he rather slumbered than slept. Trou- bled with fearful dreams, suddenly sometimes he started up ; leapt out of his bed and ran about the chamber. So was his restless heart continu- ally tossed and tumbled with the tedious impres- sion and stormy remembrance of his most abomi- nable deed." Such was the awful retribution that overtook this inhuman king during the two short years that he survived his greatest crime, till the battle of Bosworth completed the meas- ure of his punishment. — History of Richard III.., Chap. IV.
PERSONAL APPEARANCE OF RICHARD III.
His bodily deformity, though perceptible, was probably not conspicuous. It is not alluded to by any strictly contemporary writer except one. Only Rous, the Warwickshire hermit, tells us that his shoulders were uneven ; while the in- defatigable Stowe, who was born forty years after Richard's death, declared that he could find no evidence of the deformity commonly im- puted to him, and that he had talked with old men who had seen and known King Richard, wlio said that " he was of bodily shape comely enough, only of low stature."
The number of portraits of Richard which seem to be contemporary is greater than might have been expected considering the remoteness of the times in which he lived, and the early
JAMES GAIRDNER.— 7
stage at wbicli he died The face in all the
portraits is a remarkable one — full of energy and decision, yet gentle and sad-looking; sug- gesting the idea not so much of a tyrant as a man accustomed to unpleasant thoughts. No- where do we find depicted the warlike, hard- favored visage attributed to him by Sir Thomas More ; vet there is a look of reserve and anxiety which, taken in connection with the seeming gentleness, enables us somewhat to realize the criticism of Polydore Vergil and Ilall, that his aspect carried an unpleasant impression of malice and deceit. The face is long and thin, the lips thin also; the eyes are gray, the features smooth. It cannot certainly be called quite a pleasing countenance, but as little should we suspect in it the man he actually was. The features doubt- less were susceptible of great variety of expres- sion ; but we require the aid of language to understand wliat liis enemies read in that sinister and over-thoughtful countenance. " A man at the first aspect," says Hall, " would judge it to savor of malice, fraud, and deceit. When he stood musing he would bite and chew busily his nether lip, as who said that his fierce nature in his cruel body always cliafed, stirred, and was ever unquiet. Beside tliat the dagger that he ware lie would, when he studied, with his hand pluck up and down in the sheath to the midst, never drawing it fully out. His wit was preg- nant, quick, and ready, wily to feign and apt to dissemble; he had a proud and arrogant stom- ach, the which accompanied him to his death, which he, rather desiring to suffer by sword than, being forsaken and destitute of his untrue companions, would by coward fliglit preserve his unrcrtain life. — History of Richard III,, Chap. VI.
Ml
laClIAKD GALL.— 1
GALL, EicHARD, a Scottish printer and poet, born in 1776 ; died in 1800. He wrote several poems in the Scottish dialect, which would have done no discredit to Burns. The following verses have been printed as the composition of Burns, a copy of them in his handwriting having been found among his papers :
FAREWELL TO BONNV DOON.
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Scenes that former thoughts renew ; Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Now a sad and last adieu ! Bonny Doon, sae sweet at gloaming,
Farc-thce-weel before I gang — Bonny Doon, where, early roaming.
First I weaved the rustic sang !
Bowers, adieu ! where love decoying.
First enthralled this heart o' mine ; There the saftcst sweets enjoying,
Sweets that memory ne'er shall tine ! Friends so dear my bosom ever,
Ye hae rendered moments dear; But, alas ! when forced to sever,
Then the stroke, oh, how severe !
Friends, that parting tear reserve it.
Though 'tis doubly dear to me ; Could I think I did deserve it,
How much happier would I be ! Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Scenes that former thoughts renew ; Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure;
Now a sad and last adieu !
WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER.— 1
GALLAGHER, William D., an Ameii- can journalist and poet, born at Philadelphia in 1808. He learned the trade of a printer, went to the West, and became connected, as editor or contributor, with several jour- nals. He also held, at one time or another, honorable othcial positions. Most of his works are scattered through the pages of periodical literature, although in 1835 he put forth, under the title of Erato a small volume of his early poems, and in 1846 a volume of later poems.
TWO YEARS.
When last the maple bud was swelling
When last the crocus bloomed below, Thy heart to mine its love was telling ;
Thy soul with mine kept ebb and flow. Again the maple bud was swelling,
Again the crocus blooms below: — In heaven thy lieait its love is telling,
But still our souls keep ebb and flow. Wiien last the April bloom was flinging
Sweet odors on the air of Spring, In forest aisles thy voice was ringing,
Where thou didst with the red-bird sing. Again the April bloom is flinging
Sweet odors on tiic air of Spring, But now in heaven thy voice is ringing
Where thou dost with the angels sing.
IMMORTAL VOUTH.
Beautiful, beautiful youth ! that in the soul
Livctb for ever, where sin livcth not — How fresh Creation's chart doth still unroll
Before our eyes, althouj^h the little spot That knows us now shall know us soon no more Forever ! We look backward and before,
And inward, and we feel there is a life Impelling us, that need not with this frame Or flesh f,'row feeble ; but for aye the same
May live on, e'en amid this worldly strife, Clothed with the beauty and the freshness still
WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER.— 3
It brought with it at first ; and that it will Glide ahnost imperceptibly away, Taking no tint of tliis dissolving clay;
And joining with the incorruptible And sj)iritual body tiiat awaits Its coming at the starred and golden gates
Of Ueaven, move on with the celestial train Whose shining vestments, as along tliey stray Flash with the splendors of eternal day ;
And mingle with its primal Source again,
Where Faith, Hope, Charity, and Love, and
Truth, Swell with the Godhead in immortal youth.
EARLY AUTUMN IN THE WEST.
The Autumn time is with us ! Its approach Was heralded, not many days ago, By hazy skies that veiled the brazen sun. And sea-like murmurs from the rustling corn. And low-voiced brooks that wandered drowsily By purpling clusters of the juicy grape, Swinging upon the vine.
And now 'tis here! And what a change has passed upon the face Of Nature ; where the waving forest spreads. Then robed in deepest green ! All through the
night The subtle Frost hath pl'ed its mystic art ; And in the day tlie golden sun liath wrought True wonders ; and the winds of morn and even Have touched with magic breath the changing
leaves. And now, as wanders the dilating eye Atliwart the varied landscape, circling far — What gorgeousness, wliat blazonry, what pomp Of colors bursts upon the ravished sight! Here, where the Maple rears its yellow crest, A golden glory ; yonder where the Oak Stands monarch of the forest, and the Ash Is girt with flaine-likc parasite ; and broad The Dog-wood spreads beneath a rolhng field Of deepest crimson ; and afar, where looms The gnarled Gum, a cloud of bloodiest red !
'8M
^VILLIAM D. GALLAGHER— 3
Out in the woods of Autmnii I — I have cast Aside the shackles of the town, that vex Tiie fetterless soul, and come to hide myself. Miami ! in thy venerable shades Low on thy bank, where spreads the velvet moss, My limbs recline. Beneath me, silver-bright. Glide the clear waters with a plaintive moan For Summer's parting glories. High o'erhead, Seeking tlie sedgy lakes of the warm South, Sails tireless the unerring "VVa4er-fowl Screaming among the cloud-racks. Oft from
where Erect on mossy trunk, the Partridge stands. Bursts suddenly the whistle clear and loud. Far-echoing through the dim wood's fretted
aisles. Deep murmurs from the trees, bending with
brown And ripened mast, are interrupted now By sounds of dropping nuts ; and warily The Turkey from the thicket comes, and swift As flies an arrow, darts the Pheasant down. To batten on the Autumn; and the air. At times, is darkened by a sudden rush Of myriad wings as the Wild Pigeon leads Uis squadrons to the banquet.
John galt.-i
GALT, John, a Scottish author, born in 1779 ; died in 1839. He was the son of the captain of a merchant- vessel engaged iti the West India trade. He eaHy shbt^'ed ii foridness for literature, and at the 'ig<e bf Wentj-five went to London in order to push his fortune there. lie entered into some unsuccessful mercantile enterprises, after which he began reading for the bar. His health failing, he set out in 1809 upon a toilr in the Levant. This lasted three years, and upon his return to England he pub- lished Letters from the Levant, and Voyages and Travels. He married a daughter of the proprietor of the Star newspaper, and was for a time employed upon that journal. For some years he tried his hand at almost every species of literary composition. His first successful work was a novel, The Ayr- shire Legatees, which appeared in lUach- wood''s Magazine in 1820-21. This was followed during the next three years by several other tales, among which are the Annals of the Parish, and The Prevost, which are considered the best of his works. In 1826 he w^ent to Canada as agent of a Land C<^mpany ; but a dispute arising be- tween him and the company, he returned to England in 1829, and resumed his lite- rary life. He wrote ^ LJfe of Pyron,^\\ Atitohiograjjhy, a collection of Miscella- nies, and several novels, the best of which is Laiorie Todd (1830), which is partly founded upon the experiences of Grant Thorburn, an eccentric Scotsman who, orig- inally a nail-maker, became a flourishing seedsman iu New York. Several years before his death Gait was seized with a spi- nal disease which resulted in repeated par- alytic attacks, which in time deprived him
JOHN GALt.-S
\vholly of the use of his Hmbs, so that his later works were dictated to an amanuensis. SiK Alexaxdee Galt, a son of John Gah, born in 1816, has risen to high honor in Canada. At sixteen he entered the em- ployment of the Land Company, and from 1844 to 1850 was the acting Manager of its affairs. After the establishment of the confederation known as the " Dominion of Canada," he became Minister of FinancCj and after resigning that position in 1867, he occupied several other responsible sta- tions in the Canadian administration.
INSTALLATION OF THE REV. MICAII BALWHIDDER.
It was a great affair ; for I was put in by the patron, and tlie people knew notliinif whatsoever of me, aTid their he;irts were stirred into strife on the occasion, and they did all that lay within the compass of their power to keep me out, in- somuch that there was obliged to be a guard of soldiers to protect the presbytery ; and it was a thing that made my heart grieve when I heard the drum beating and tlic fife playing as we were going to the kirk. The people were really mad and vicious, and flung dirt upon us as we passed, and reviled us all, and held out the fin- ger of scorn at me ; but I endured it with a re- signed spirit, comi)assi()nating their wilfulness and blindness. I'oor old Mr. Kilfaddy of the Braohill got sucli a clash of glaur [mire] on tho side of his face, that his eye was almost cxtin- guislie(b
When wo got to the kirk door, it was found to be nailed up, so as by no possihility to be opened. The sergeant <jf the soldiers wanted to break it, but 1 was afraid that the heritors wouM gnuige and complain <if the expense of a new rloor, and I supplicated him to let it be as it was; we were therefore ohligated to go in by a window, aii<l the crowd followed tis in the most unrcverent manner, making the Lord's
Ml
JOHN GALT.— 3
house like an inn on a fair-day with their griev- ous yelly-hooing. Daring the time of the psahn and the sermon they bciiaved themselves bet- ter, but when the indnction came on, their clamor was dreadful ; and Thomas Thorl, the weaver, a pious zealot in that time, got up and protested, and said : "Verily, verily, I say unto you, he tliat entereth not by the door into the sheepfold, but cliinbeth up some other way, the same is a thief and a robber." And I thought I would have a liard and sore time of it with such an outstrapolous people. Mr. Given, that was then the minister of Lugton, was a jocose man, and would liave his joke even at a solem- nity. When the laying of the hands upon mo was adoing, he could not get near enough to put on his, but he stretched out his stafE and touched my head, and said, to the great diversion of the rest: "This will do well enough — timber to tim- ber ;" but it was an unfriendly saying of Mr. Given, considering the time and the place, and the temper of my people.
After the ceremony we then got out at the window, and it was a heavy day to nie ; but we went to the manse, and there we had an excel- lent dinner, which Mrs. Watts of the new inn of Irville prepared at my request, and sent Iter chaise-driver to serve, for he was likewise her waiter, she having then but. one chaise, and that not often called for.
But although my people received me in this unruly manner, I was resolved to cultivate civil- ity among them ; and therefore the very next morning I began a round of visitations ; but oh ! it was a steep brae that I had to climb, and it needed a stout heart, for I found the doors in some places barred against me ; in others, the bairns, when they saw me coming, ran crying to their mothers : " Here's the feckless Mess-John ;" and tlien, when I went in into the houses, their pa- rents would not ask me to sit down, but with a scornful way said : " Honest man, what's your pleasure here ? " Nevertheless, I walked about
JOHN GALT.— 4
from door to door, like a dejected beggar, till I got the almous deed of a civil reception, and — who would have thought it? — from no less a per- son than the same Thomas Thorl, that was so bit- ter against me in the'Jkirk on the foregoing day.
Thomas was standing at the door with his green dutfle apron and his red Kilmarnock night- cap— I mind him as well as if it were but yes- tcrdav — and he had seen me going from house to house, and in what manner 1 was rejected, and his bowels were moved, and he said to me in a kind manner: "Come in, sir, and ease yoursel' ; this will never do; the clergy are God's corbies, and for their Master's sake it behooves us to re- spect them. There was no ane in the whole par- ish mair against you than mysel', but this early visitation is a symptom of grace that I couldna have cxpectit frum a bird out of the nest of pat- ronage." I thanked Thomas, and went in with liim,"and we had some solid conversation togeth- er, and I told him that it was not so much the pastor's duty to feed the flock, as to herd them well ; and that, although there might be some abler with tlie head than me, there wasna a he within the bounds of Scotland more willing to watch the fold by night and by day. And Thom- as said he had not heard a mair sound observe for some time, and that if I held to that doctrine in the poopit, it wouMiia be lang till I wonld work a change. "I was mindit," quoth he, "never to set my foot within the kirk door wliile vou were there ; but to testify, and no to con- demn without a trial, I'll be there next Lord's day, and egg my neighbours to be likewise, so vc'll no have to preach just to the bare walls and the laird's family." — The Annals of t/tc Pnrinh.
LAWRIE TODd's SECOND MAIlRIACiE.
Mv young wife was dead, leaving me an infant son. If a man marry once for love, he is a fool to expect he may do so twice ; it cannot be. Therefore, I say, in the choice of a second wife
JOHN GALT.-5
one scruple of prudence is wortli a pound of pas- sion. I do not assert that he should have an eye to a dowry ; for unless it is a great sum, such as will keep all the family in gentility, I think a small fortune one of the greatest faults a woman can have ; not that I object to money on its own account, but only to its effect in the airs and vanities it begets in the silly maiden — especially if her husband profits by it.
For this reason, I did not choose my second wife from the instincts of fondness, nor for her parentage, nor for her fortune ; neither was I deluded by fair looks. I had, as I have said, my first-born needing tendance ; and my means were small, while my cares were great. I ac- cordingly looked about for a sagacious woman — one that not only knew the use of needles and sliears, but that the skirt of an old green coat might, for lack of other stuff, be a clout to the knees of blue trowsers. And such a one I found in the niece of my friend and neighbor, Mr. Ze- robabel L. Hoskins, a most respectable farmer from Vermont, who had come to New York about a cod-fish adventure that he had sent to the Mediterranean, and was waiting with his wife and niece the returns from Sicily.
This old Mr. Hoskins was, in his way, some- thing of a Yankee oddity. He was tall, thin, and of an anatomical figure, with a long chin, ears like trenchers, lengthy jaws, and a nose like a schooner's cut-water. His hair was lank and oily ; the tie of his cravat was always dislocated ; and he wore an old white beaver hat turned up behind. His long bottle-green surtout, among other defects, lacked a button on the left promon- tory of his hinder parts, and in the house he always tramped in slippers.
Having from my youth upward been much addicted to the society of remarkable persons, soon after the translation of my Rebecca, I hap- pened to fall in with this gentleman, and, with- out thinking of any serious purpose, I sometimes of a Sabbath-evening, called at the house where
400
JOHN GALT.— 6
he boarded with his family ; and there I discov- ered in the household talents of Miss Judith, his niece, just the sort of woman that was wanted to heed to the bringing up of my little boy. This discovery, however, to tell the truth quietly, was first made by her uncle.
" I guess, "Squire Lawrie," said he one evening, " the Squire has considerable muddy time on't since his old woman went to pot."
Ah, Rebecca I she was but twenty-one.
«' Now, Squire, you see," continued Mr. Zero- babel L. Hoskins,' " that ere being the cVrcura- stance, you should be a-making your calcula- tions for another spec ;" and he took his cigar out of liis mouth, and trimming it on the edge of the snuffer-tray, added, " Weil, if it so be as you're agoing to do so, don't you go to stand like a pump, with your arm up, as if you would give the sun a black eye ; but do it right away."
I told him it was a thing 1 could not yet think of ; that my wound was too fresh, my loss too recent.
" If thatbain't particular," replied he, "Squire Lawrie, I'm a pumpkin, and the pigs may do their damncdst with me. But I ain't a pumpkin ; the Squire he knows that."
I assured hiin, without very deeply dunkling the truth, that I had met with few men in Amer- ica who better knew how many blue beans it takes to tnakc five.
" I reckon Squire Lawrie," siiid he, " is a-par- Icyvoo; but I sells no wooden nutmegs. Now look yc here, Scjuire. There be you spinning your tiiumhs with a small child that ha'n't got no mother; so I calculate, if you make Jerusa- lem fine nails, I guess you can't a-hippen such a small child fnr no man's money ; wjiich is tar- nation had."
I could not but acknowledge the good sense of his remark. lit; drew his chair close in front of me ; and taking the cigar out of his mouth, and beating off tlio aslies on his left thumb nail, re[)laced it. Having tlien given a puff, he
JOtiN GALT.— 7
faiscd his riglit hand aloft, and laying it emphat- ically down on his knee, said in his wonted slow and phlegmatic tone —
"Well, I guess that 'ere young woman, my niece, she baint five-and-twenty — she'll make a heavenly splice ! — I have known that 'ere young woman 'live the milk of our thirteen cows afore eight a-morning, and then fetch Crumple and her calf from the bush — dang that 'ere Crumple ! we never had no such heifer afore ; she and her calf cleared out every night, and wouldn't come on no account, no never, till Judy fetched her right away, when done milking t'other thirteen."
*' No doubt, Mr. Hoskins," said I, " Miss Ju- dith will make a capital farmer's wife in the country ; but I have no cows to milk ; all my live-stock is a sucking bairn."
" By the gods of Jacob's father-in-law ! she's just the cut for that. But the Squire knows I aint a-going to trade her. If she suits Squire Lawrie — good, says I — I shan't ask no nothing for her ; but I can tell the Squire as how Benja- min S. Thuds — what is blacksmith in our village — offered me two hundred and fifty dollars — gos- pel by the living jingo ! — in my hand right away. But you see as how he was an almighty boozer, though for blacksmithing a {)rime ham- mer. I said. No, no ; and there she is still to be had ; and I reckon Squire Lawrie may go the whole hog with her, and make a good opera- tion."
Discovering by this plain speaking how the cat jumped — to use one of his own terms — we entered more into the marrow of the business, till it came to pass that I made a proposal for Miss Judith ; and soon after a paction was set- tled between me and her, that when the Fair Aincricdn arrived from Palermo, we should be married ; for she had a share in that codfish ven- ture by that bark, and we counted that the profit might prove a nest-egg; and it did so to tlie blitliesome tune of four hundred and thirty-three dollars, which the old gentleman counted out to me in the hard-on wedding-day. — Lawrie Todd,
FRA.NCIS GALTON.— 1
G ALT OX, Francis, an English author, born near Birmingham, in 1822. He stud- ied medicine in the Birmingham Hospital, and in King's College, London, and gradu- ated from Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1844. He then made two journeys of ex- ploration, one in North Africa, and one in South Africa. In 1853 he published an ac- count of the latter journey in a Narrative of an Explorer in Tropical South Africa. Among his other works are: The Art of Travel, or S/iift« and Contrivances in Wild Countnes (1855), Hereditary Genius, its Laws and Consequences (1869), English Men of Science: their Nature and Nur- ture (1874), and Inquiries into Human Faculty and its Development (1883.)
RECKONING AMONG THE DAMARAS.
They have no comparative in their langnag^e, so that you cannot say to them, " Which is the longer of tlie two, the next stage, or the last one ?" but you uuist say, " The last stage is little ; the next, is it great?" The reply is not, "It is a little longer," " nuicli longer," or "very uuich longer;" but simply, " It is so," or" It is not so." Thcv have a very poor notion of time. If you sav," Suppose we start at sunrise, where will the sun be when we arrive?" they make the wildest points in the sky, though they are something of astronomers, and give names to several stars. Thoy have no way of distinguishing days, but reckon by the rainy seitson, the dry season, or the pig-nut season. When iiKjuiries are nwidc about liow many days' journey oil a place may be, th«'ir ignorance of all numerical ideas is very annoying. In practice, whatever tlicy may possess in their language, they certainly use no numeral greater than three. When they wish to express four, they take to their fingers, which are to them as formidable instrumcntH of calculation as a Blidiag-rulc is to an English school-boy
4t<
FRANCIS GALT0N.-3
They puzzle very much after five, because no spare hand remains to grasp and secure the fin- gers that are required for " units."
When bartering is going on, each sheep must be paid for separately. Thus, suppose two sticks of tobacco to be the rate of exchange for one sheep, it would sorely puzzle a Damara to take two sheep and give him four sticks. I have done so, and seen a man first put two of the sticks apart and take a sight over them at one of the sheep he was about to sell. Having satis- fied himself that that one was honestly paid for, and finding to his surprise that exactly two sticks remained in hand to settle the account for the other sheep, he would be afflicted with doubts; the transaction seemed to come out too " pat" to be correct, and he would refer back to the first couple of sticks, and then his mind got hazy and confused, and wandered from one sheep to the other, and he broke off the trans- action until two sticks were put into his hand and one sheep driven away, and then the other two sticks given him, and the other sheep driven away. When a Damara's mind is bent upon number, it is too much occupied to dwell upon quantity : thus, a heifer is bought from a man for ten sticks of tobacco ; his large hands being both spread out upon the ground, and a stick placed on each finger, he gathers up the tobacco ; the size of the mass pleases him, and the bargain is struck. You then want to buy a second heifer : the same pro- cess is gone through, but half sticks instead of whole ones arc put upon his fingers ; the man is equally satisfied at the time, but occasionally finds it out, and complains the next d&y,-^Tropi- cal South Africa.
JOHN GAMBOLD.— 1
GAMBOLD, JoHif, a bishop of the Mo- ravian Brethren ; died in 1771. He was born in Wales, was educated at Christ Church, Oxford, and was for some time a clergyman of the Church of England. He was one of the principal translators, from the " High Dutch," of Crantz's Ilistonj of Greenland (1767), and wrote a tragedy, and many discourses, hymns, and poems. ^An edition of his works was published in 1789 ; new edition, at Glasgow, in 1822.
THE MYSTERY OF LIFE.
So many years I've seen the sun,
And called these eyes and hands my own,
A thousand little acts I've done,
And childhood have and manhood known :
Ob, what is Life ?— and this dull round
To tread, why was ray spirit bound ?
So many airy draughts and lines, And warm excursions of the mind,
Have filled my soul with great designs, Wliile practice groveled far behind :
Oh, what is Thought? — and where withdraw
The glories which my fancy saw ?
So many wondrous gleams of light.
And gentle ardors from above. Have made me sit, like seraph bright.
Some moments on a throne of love: Oh, what is Virtue? — why had I, Who am so low, a tJiste so high ?
H)rc long, when Sovereign Wisdom wills, My soul an unknown path shall tread,
And strangely leave — who strangely fills TIiIk frame — and waft me to the dead I
Oh, what is Death ? — 'tis Life's last shore,
Where V'anitifs are vain no more;
Where nil y)ursuits their goal obtain,
And Life is all retouched again;
Wherein their bright result shall rise
fhoughts, Virtues, Friendships, Griefs, and Joysl
WILLIAM CHANNING GANNETT.— 1
GANNETT, William Channing, an American clergyman and poet, born at Bos- ton in 1840. He graduated at Harvard in 1860 ; was a teacher at Newport, R.I.; then studied theology, and became pastor of a church at Milwaukee. He has written many hymns and other poems which have ap- peared in periodicals.
LISTENING FOR GOD.
I hear it often in the dark, I hear it in the Hght : —
Where is tlie voice that calls to mc with such a quiet might ?
It seems but echo to my thought, and yet be- yond the stars ;
It seems a heart-beat in a hush ; and yet the planet jars.
Oh, may it be that far within my inmost soul there lies
A spirit-sky that opens with those voices of sur- prise ?
And can it be, by night and day, that firmament serene
Is just the heaven where God himself, the Father, dwells unseen ?
O God within, so close to me that every thought
is plain. Be Judge, be Friend, be Father still, and in thy
heaven reign ! Thy heaven is mine — my very soul ! Thy words
are sweet and strong; They fill my inward silences with music and
with song.
They send me challenges to right, and loud re- buke my ill ;
They ring my bells of victory ; they breathe my " Peace, be still ! "
They even seem to say, ** My child, why seek me so all day ?
Now journey inward to thyself, and listen by the way."
PEDRO ANTONIO GAt^CAO.— 1
GAECAO, Pedro Antonio, a Portu- guese poet, born in 1724; died in 1772. Having given offence to the government, he was thrown into prison, where he died. He formed his style upon the classic models, and has been called " the Second Portu- guese Horace." Portuguese critics, some- what extravagantly, style his Cantata de Dido "one ot the most sublime conceptions of human genius."
DIDO : A CANTATA.
Already in the ruddy east shine white
The pregnant sails that speed the Trojan fleet;
Now wafted on tlie pinions of the wind,
They vanish 'midst the o-olden sea's blue waves.
The miserable Dido Wanders loud slirieking through her regal halls, With dim and turbid eyes seeking in vain
The fugitive yEneas. Only deserted streets and lonely squares Her new-built Carthage offers to her gaze ; And frightfully along the naked shore The solitary billows roar i' th' night,
And 'midst the gilded vanes
Crowning the splendid domes Nocturnal birds hoot their ill auguries.
Deliriously she raves ;
Pale is her beauteous face, Her silken tresses all disheveled stream And with uncertain foot, scarce conscious, she
That liaj)py chamber seeks,
Wiierc she with melting heart
llcr faithless lover heard Whisper imp!i.ssioncd sighs and soft complaints. There the inhuman Fates before lier sight. Hung o'er the gilded nuptial couch displayed TlieTeucrian mantles, whose loose folds disclosed The histriouH shield and the Dardanian sword. She startecl ; suddenlv, with hand eonvulseib From out the sheath the glittering blade she snatched,
«n
^EDRO ANTONIO QARCAO.— 9
And on the tempered, penetrating steel
Her delicate, transparent bosom cast ;
And murnuiring, gushing, foaming, the warm
blood Bursts in a fearful torrent from the wound; And, from the cncrimsoned rushes, spotted red, Tremble the Doric columns of the hall.
Thrice she essayed to rise; Thrice fainting on the bed she prostrate fell, And, writhing as she la}^ to heaven upraised
Her quenched and failing eyes Then earnestly upon the lustrous sail
Of Ilium's fugitive Fixing her look, she uttered these last -words; And hovering 'midst the golden vaulted roofs, The tones, lugubrious and pitiful. In after days were often heard to moan ! —
" Ye precious memorials Dear sources of delight, Enrapturing my sight, "Whilst relentless Fate, Whilst the gods above, Seemed to bless my love, Of the wretched Dido The spirit receive ! From sorrows whose burden Her strength overpowers The lost one relieve ! The hapless Dido Not timclessly dies; The walls of her Carthage, Loved child of her care, High towering rise. Now, a spirit bare, She flies the sun's beam; And Phlegethon's dark And horrible stream, In Charon's foul bark. She lonesomely ploughs." Transl. in Foreign Quarterly .Review ,
Samuel rawson gardiner.— i
GAKDIXER, Samuel Rawson, an Eng- lish historian, born in 1829. He was edu- cated at Winchester and at Christ-church College, Oxford, and became Professor of Modern History at Kintr's College, London. In 1882 a Civil List pension was conferred upon him "in recognition of his valuable contributions to the History of England." His principal historical works are : JIhtory of KiKjland from the Accef>sio?i of 'James I. to the Disgrace of Chief Justice Coke (1863), Prince Charles and the Spanish Marriage (1869),' England under the DuJc£ of Buckingham and Charles I. (1875), TJie Personal Government of CharUs I. (1877), The Fcdl of the Mon- archy of Charles L (1881), The History of tfie Great Civil War (1886.)
THE PROJECTED ANGLO-SPANISH ALLIANCE.
The wooing of princes is not in itself more worthy of a place in history tlian the wooing of ordinary men ; and there is certainly nothing in Charles's own character which would lead us to make any exception in his favor. But the Spanish alliance, of which the hand of the In- fanta was to have been the symbol and the plftlge, was a great event in our history, though chiefly on acci>unt of the conse(juences which resulted from it indirectly. When the marriage was first agitated, the leading minds of the age were tending in a direction adverse to Puritan- ism, and were casting about in search of some Bystcm of belief which should soften down the asperities which were the sad legacy of the last generation. When it was finally broken off, the leading minds of the age were tending in j)re- cisely the op{)08ite direction ; and that period of our history commenced which lc(l up to the anti- cj>iscopalian fervor of the Long I'arliament, to the I'uritan monarchy of Cromwell, atnl in general to the rc-invigoration of that which Mr. Matthew
SAMUEL HAWSON GARDINER. -a
Arnold lias called the Hebrew element in our civilization. If, therefore, the causes of moral chanojes form the most interesting subject of liistorical investigation, the events of these seven years can yield in interest to but few periods of our history. In the miserable catalogue of errors and crimes, it is easy to detect the origin of that repulsion which moulded the intellectual conceptions, as well as the political action, of tlio rising generation. Few blunders have been greater than that which has made the popular knowledge of the Stuart reign commence with the accession of Charles I., and which would lay down the law upon the actions of the King whilst knowing nothing of the Prince. — Prince Charles and the Spanish Marriage, Preface.
JAMES I. AND THE SPANISH AMBASSADOR.
A few days after the dissolution of Parlia- ment, in June, 1514, James sent for Sarmiento, and poured into his willing car his complaints of the insulting behavior of the Commons. " I hope," said he, when he had finished his storj', " that you will send the news to your master as you hear it from me, and not as it is told by the gossips in the streets." As soon as the ambas- sador had assured him that he would comply with his wishes, James went on with his cata- logue of grievances. " The King of Spain," he said, " has more kingdoms and subjects than I liave, but there is one tiling in which I surpass liim. He has not so large a Parliament. The Cortes of Castile are composed of little more than thirty persons. In my Parliament are nearly five hundred. The House of Commons is a body without a head. The members give their opinions in a disorderly manner. At their meetings nothing is heard but cries, shouts, and confusion. I am surprised that my ancestors should ever have permitted such an institution to come into existence. I am a stranger, and I found it here when I came, so that I am obliged to put up with what I cannot get rid of."
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Here James colored, and stopped short. He had been betrayed into an admission that there was sotnething in his dominions which he could not get rid of if he pleased. Sarmiento, witli ready tact, came to his assistance, and reminded him that he was able to summon and dismiss this formidable body at his pleasure. " That is true," replied James, delighted at the turn which the conversation had taken ; " and what is more, without my assent the words and acts of Parlia- ment are altogether worthless." Having thus maintained his dignity, James proceeded to assure Sarmiento that he would gladly break off the negotiations with France, if only lie could be sure that the hand of the Infanta would not be accompanied by conditions which it would be impossible for him to grant. The Spaniard gave him every encouragement in his power, and promised to write to Madrid for further instruc- tions.— Prince Charles and the Sjmnish Mar- riarje, Vol. I., Chap. I.
KEGOTIATIONS FOR THE MARRIAGE.
The cessation of the war with Spain had led to a reaction atrainst extreme Puritanism, now no longer strengthened by the patriotic feeling that whatever was most opposed to the Church of Rome was most opposed to the enemies of Eng- land. And as the mass of the people was set- tling down into content with the rites and with the teachings of the Ktiglish Church, there were some who floated still fiiitlier with tlie returning tide, and who were beginning to cast longing looks towards Pwome. From time to time the priests brought word to the Spanish ambassador that the number of their converts was on the increase; and they were occasionally able to rej)ort that some great lord, or some member of tlie Privy Council, was added to the list. Already, he be- lieved, a <|iiarter of the population were Catho- lics at heart, and anf>tli«T (piarter — being without any relii,'ion at all — would be readv to rally to
their side if they proved to bo tlic strOngest
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SAMUEL RAWSON GARDINER— 4
Sarmiento knew tliat he would have consider- able difficulty in gaining his scheme of marrying Prince Charles to the Infanta ; and especially in persuading his master to withdraw his demand for the immediate conversion of the Prince. He, therefore, began by assuring him tliat it would be altogether useless to persist in asking for a concession which James was unable to make without endangering both his own life and that of his son. Even to grant liberty of conscience, by repealing the laws against the Catholics, was beyond the power of the King of England, unless he could gain the consent of his Parliament. All that he could do would be to connive at the breach of the penal laws by releasing the priests from prison, and by refusing to receive the fines of the laity. James was willing to do this ; and if this offer was accept- ed, everything else would follow in course of time
Philip — or the great men who acted in his name — determined upon consulting with the Pope. The reply of Paul V. was anything but favorable. The proposed union, he said, would not only imperil the faith of the Infanta, and the faith of tlie children she might have, but would also bring about increased facilities of communi- cation between the two countries, which could not but be detrimental to the purity of religion in Spain. Besides this, it was well known that it was a maxim in England that a King was justified in divorcing a childless wife. On these grounds he was unable to give his approbation to the marriage.
In the eyes of tlie Pope marriage was not to be trifled with, even when the political advan- tages to be gained by it assumed the form of the propagation of religion. In his inmost heart, most probably, Philip tliouglit the same. But Philip was seldom accustomed to take the initiative in matters of importance ; and, upon the advice of the Council of State, he laid the V'hole Question before a junta of theologians. It
SA3IUEL RAW SON GARDINER.— 5
was arranged that the theologians should be kept in ignorance of the Pcfpe's reply, in order that they might not be biased by it in giving their opinion. The hopes of the conversion of Eng- land, which formed so brilliant a picture in Sar- miento's despatches, overcame any scruples which they may have felt, and they voted in favor of the marriage on condition that the Pope's con- sent could be obtained. The Council adopted their advice, and ordered that the articles should be prepared. On one point only was there much discussion. Statesmen and theologians were agreed that it was unwise to ask for the conver- sion of the Prince. But they were uncertain whether it would be safe to content themselves with the remission of tiie lines by the mere con- nivance of the King. At last one argument turned the scale : A change in the law which would grant complete veligious liberty would probably include the Puritans and the other Protestant sects ; the remission of penalties by the royal authority would l)enetit the Catholics alone. — Prince Chirles and the Spanish Mar- riaf/e, Vol. I., chap. I.
CHARACTER OF PKIN'CE CHARLES OF EN'GLAND,
Charles had now [102:^] nearly completed his twenty-second year. To a superficial observer he was everything that a young prince should be. Ills bearing — unlike that of his father — was graceful and dignified. His only blemish was the size of his tongue, which was too large for his mouth, and which, especially when he was excited, gave him a difficulty of ex[»rcs.sion almost ajiiounting to a stammer. In all bodily exercises his supremacy was undoubted. He could ri<le better than any other man in England. Ifis fondness for hunting was such that James was heard \<) exclaim that by this he recognized him as his true and worthy son. In the tennis-court and m the tiltiiig-yar<l he snr- [)a.ssed all competitors. No one lia<l so exipiisitc an uar for mubic, could look at u line picture with
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SAMUEL RAWSON GARDINER.— 6
greater appreciation of its merits, or could keep time more exactly when called to take part in a dance. Yet these, and such as these, were the smallest of his merits. Regular in his habits, his household was a model of economy. His own attire was such as in that age was regarded as a protest against the prevailing extravagance. His moral character was irreproachable ; and it was observed that he blushed like a girl when- ever an immodest word was uttered in his pres- ence. Designing women, of the class which had preyed upon his brother Henry, found it ex- pedient to pass liim by, and laid their nets for more susceptible hearts than his.
Yet, in spite of all these excellences, keen- sighted observers who were by no means blind to his merits, were not disposed to prophesy good of his future reign. In truth, his very virtues were a sign of weakness. He was born to be the idol of schoolmasters and the stum- bling-block of statesmen. His modesty and decorum were the result of sluggishness rather than of self-restraint. Uncertain in judgment, and hesitating in action, he clung fondly to the small proprieties of life, and to the narrow range of ideas which he had learned to hold with a tenacious grasp ; whilst he was ever prone, like his unhappy brother-in-law, the Elector-Palatme, to seek refuge from the uncertainties of the present by a sudden plunge into rash and ill- considered action.
With such a character, the education which he had received liad been the worst possible. From his father he had never had a chance of acquiring a single lesson in tlie first virtue of a ruler — that love of truth which would keep his ear open to all assertions and to all complaints, in the liope of detecting something which it might be well for him to know. Nor was the injury which his mind thus received merely negative; for James, vague as his political theories were, was intolerant of contradiction, and Iiis im- patient dogmatism had early taught his soil to 414
SAJItJEL RAWSOX GARDINER.— 7
conceal his thoughts in sheer diffidence of his own powers. To hold his tongue as long as possible, and then to say not what he believed to be true, but what was likely to be pleasing, became his daily task till he ceased to be capable of looking ditticulties fully in the face. The next step in the downward path was but too in- vitin"-. As each question rose before him for solution, his tirst thouglit was how it might best be evaded ; and he usually took refuge either in a studied silence, or in some of those varied forms of equivocation which are usually supposed by weak minds not to be equivalent to falsehood.
Over such a character Buckingham had found no difficulty in obtaining a thorough mastery. On the one condition of making a show of re- garding his wishes as all-important, he was able to mould those wishes almost as he pleased. To the reticent, hesitating youth it was a relief to find some one who would take the lead in amuse- ment and in action ; who could make up his mind for liim in a moment when he was him- self plunged in hopeless uncertainty, and who possessed a fund of gaiety and liglit-licartedncss which was never at fault.-— Pr/nre Charles and the Spanish Marriar/e, Vol. II., Chap. X,
THE INFANTA MARIA OF SPAIN,
The Infanta Maria had now entered upon her seventeenth year. Her features were not beau- tiful, but the sweetness of lier disposition found expression in lier face, and lier fair complexion and lu.-r delicate white hands drew forth raptur- ous admiration from the contrast which they preseiitc'fl to the olive tints of the ladies by whom »lic was surrounded. The mingled dignity and gentleness of her bearing made her an especial favorite with her brother the King. Her life was moulded after the best type of the devotional piety of her (!hureh. Two hours of every day she spent in praver. Twice evcrv week she con- fessed, and p.'irtook of the Holy Communion. llcr chief delight was in meditating upon tbo
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Imniaculate Conception of the Virgin, and pre- paring lint for tlie use of the hospitals. The money which her hrother allowed her to be spent at play, she carefully set aside for the use of the poor.
Her character was as remarkable for its self- possession as for its gentleness. Except wlien she was in private amongst her ladies, her words ■were but few ; and though those who knew her well were aware that she felt unkindness deeply, she never betrayed her emotions by speaking harshly of those by whom she had been wronged. When she had once made up her mind where the path of duty lay, no temptation could induce her to swerve from it by a liair's breadth. Nor was her physical courage less conspicuous than her moral tirniness. At a Court entertainment given at Aranjuez a fire broke out amongst the scaffolding which supported the benches upon which the spectators were seated. In an instant the whole place was in confusion. Amongst the screaming throng the Infanta alone retained her presence of mind. Calling Olivares to her help, that he might keep off the pressure of the crowd, she made her escape without quickening her usual pace.
There were many positions in which such a woman could hardly have failed to pass a happy and a useful life. But it is certain that no one could be less fitted to become the wife of a Protestant king, and the Queen of a Protestant nation. On the throne of P]ngland her life would be one of continual martyrdom. Ilcr own dislike of the marriage was undisguised, and her instinctive aversion was confirmed by the re- iterated warnings of her confessor. A lieretic, he told her, was worse than a devil. " What a comfortable bed-fellow you will liave," he said. " He who lies bv your side, and who will be the father of your children, is certain to go to hell."
It was only lately, however, that she had taken any open step in the matter. Till recently, indeed, the marriage bad hardly been regarded
SA3IUEL RAWSON GARDINER.— 9
at Court in a serious liglit. Kut the case was now altered. A Junta had been appointed to settle the articles of marriage with the English Ambassador, and although the Pope's adverse opinion had been given, it seemed likely that the Junta, under Gondoinar's influence, would urge him to reconsider his determination. Under these circumstances the Infanta proceeded to plead her own cause with her brother.
The tears of the sister whom he was loth to sacrifice were of great weight with I'hilip IV. ; but she had powerful influences to contend with. Olivares, upon whose sanguine mind the hope of converting England was at this time exercising all its glamour, protested against the proposed change — to marry the Infanta to the p]mperor's son, the Archduke Ferdinand, and to satisfy the Prince of Wales with the hand of an archduchess; and Phili[), under the eye of his favorite, made every effort to shake his sister's resolution. The confessor was threatened with removal from his post if he did not change his language; and divines of less unbending severity were sum- moned to reason with the Infanta, and were in- stigated to paint in glowing colors the glorious and holy work of bringing back an apostate nation to the faith.
For a moment the unhappy girl gave wav before the array of her counsellors, and she told her brother that, in order to serve God and obey the King, she was ready to submit to anything. In a few days, however, this momentary phase of feeling had passed away. Her woman's instinct told her that she lia<l been in the right; and that, with all tlieir learning, the statesmen and divines had been in the wrong. She sent to Olivarez to tell iiiin that if Ik; did not fiml some way to save her from the hittcrness In-fore her, Kho would cut the knot herself by taking refuge in a nunnery ; and when i'hilip returned from his liunting in November, he foutnl himself he- Bioged by all the weaj)oiis <»f a woiiian's despair.
Philip was not proof against his sister's misery.
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Upon the politicul clioct of tlio decision wliich he now took, he scarcely bestowed a thought. It was his business to hunt boars or stags, or to dis- phiy liis ability in the tilt-yard ; it was the busi- ness of Olivares and the Council of State to look after politics. The letter in which he announced his intention to Olivares was very brief : " My father," he wrote, " decUxred his mind at liis death- bed concerning the niatcli with England, which was never to make it; and your uncle's intention, according to that, was ever to delay it ; and you know likewise how averse my sister is to it. I think it now time that I should find some way out of it; wherefore I require you to find some other way to content the King of England, to wlioin I think myself much bound for his many expressions of friendship." — Prince Charles and the Spanish Marriar/e, Vol. II., Chap. X.
PRINCE CHARLES TRIES TO WOO THE INFANTA.
As yet [April, 1G23] Charles had never been allowed to see the Infanta except in public, and bad never had an opportunity of speaking to her at all. Every excuse which Spanish customs could suggest had been made without giving the slightest satisfaction. The knotty point was seriously debated in the Council of State, and it was at last decided that on Easter Day, April 7, the long desired visit should take place. Ac- cordingly the King, accompanied by a long train of grandees, came to fetch him, and led him to the Queen's apartment, where they found licr Majesty seated with the Infanta at her side. After paying his respects to the Queen, Charles turned to address his mistress. It had been in- tended that he should confine himself to the few words of ceremony which had been set down beforehand ; but in the presence in wliich he was, he forgot the rules of ceremony, and was beginning to declare his affection in words of his own choice. He had not got far before it was evident that tliere was something wrong. The bystanders began to whisper to one another.
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The Queen cast glances of displeasure at the daring youth. Charles hesitated and stopped short. The Infanta herself looked seriously an- noyed ; and when it came to her turn to reply, some of those who were watching her expected her to show some signs of displeasure. It was not so long ago that she had been heard to de- clare that her only consolation was that she should die a martyr. But she had an unusual fund of self-control, and she disliked Charles too much to feel in the slightest degree excited by his speeches. She uttered the few commonplace words that had been drawn up beforehand, and the interview was at an end. — Prince Charles and the Spanish Marriage, Vol. II., Chap. XL
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WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON.— 1
GARRISON,WiLLiAM Lloyd, an Ameri- can philanthropist and journalist, born at Newburyport, Mass., in 1804; died at New- York in 1879. On the death of his father in straitened circumstances, he was appren- ticed to a shoemaker in Lynn, but after- wards returned to Newburjport, and went to school, partly supporting himself by sawing wood. In 1818 he was apprenticed to a printer, the publisher of the Newhury- jport Herald^ to which, when seventeen or eighteen years of age, he began to contrib- ute articles on political and other subjects. He wrote for other papers, and in 1826 be- came editor and proprietor of the Neivhury- port Free Press, which was unsuccessful. The next year he edited the National PhilantJirojnst, a paper advocating total abstinence, and in 1828 was connected with the Journal of the Times^ published at Bennington, Vermont, in the interests of peace, temperance, and anti-slavery. In 1829 he joined Benjamin Lundy in pub- lishing The Genius of Universal Emanci- ' pation at Baltimoi'e. He advocated the im- mediate abolition of slavery, and condenmed the colonization of the negroes in Africa, while Lundy favored gradual emancipation. In 1830 Garrison's denunciation of the tak- ing of a cargo of slaves from Baltimore to New Orleans, as " domestic piracy," led to his indictment for libel. He was tried, con- vncted, and fined ; and being unable to dis- charge his fine, was imprisoned, until the generous act of a New York merchant re- leased him. He now began a course of anti-slavery lectures in Boston, New York, and other cities, hoping to obtain the means of establishing a journal in support of his convictions.
Willi A3I lloyd garrison. -2
On the first of January, 1831, in con- junction with Isaac Knapp, he issued the first number of The Liberator^ in which he spared neither man nor system that advocat- ed, protected, or excused slavery. Imme- diate einancipation M'ithout regard to conse^ quences, or provision for the future, wa^ his demand; The greatest excitement en- sued; AboHtionists were denounced as enemies of the Union, their meetings were broken up, tliey were hunted like criminals, and those who attempted to educate the negroes were prosecuted. In 1832 Garri- son went to England, hoping to enlist sym- Eathy for American emancipation, and on is return assisted \w organizing the Ameri- can Anti-Slavery Society in Pliihidelphia, and prepared their Declaration of Senti- ments. In 1838 he was one of the organ- izers of the !New England Non-Resistance Society. In 1840 he was one of the dele- gates to the World's Anti Slavei'y Conven- tion in England, and refused to take his seat because tlie femnle delegates were excluded. In 1843 he became President of the Anti-Slavery Society, and held office until 1805. He issued the last number of The Liberator in the same year. Mr. Garrison was the author of immerous poems, a volume of which, entitled Soiinfds and other Poeinn, was ])nblished in 1843. In 1852 a volume of Selections from his writings appeared. He had previously publinned Thoughts on African Coloniza- tion (1832.)
THE I.ESSO.Vfl OK INDEPENDENCK DAV.
I [)rcsorit inyHtilf as the a<lv()oatc of iiiv on- slaved coiintrymon, at a time when their claiins cannot be HJnitlled out of siglit, and on an occa- sion which entitles nic to a respectful hearing in
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WiLtiAM LLOYD GARRISOi^.-S
their bclialf. If I am asked to prove tlieir title to liberty, my answer ia, that tlie Fourth of July is not a day to be wasted in establisliing "self' evident truths." In the name of God who has made us of one blood, and in wliose image we arc created ; in the name of the Messiali, who came to bind up the broken-hearted, to proclaim liberty to tlie captives, and tlie opening of the prison to tliem that are bound ; 1 demand the immediate emancipation of those who are pining in slavery on the American soil, whether they arc fattening for the shambles in Maryland and Virginia, or are wasting, as with a pestilent dis- ease, on the cotton and sugar plantations of Alabama and Louisiana ; whether they are male or female, young or old, vigorous or infirm. I make this demand, not for the children merely, but the parents also; not for one, but for all; not with restrictions and limitations, but uncon- ditionally. I assert their perfect equality with ourselves, as a part of the human race, and their inalienable right to liberty, and 'the pursuit of liappiness.
That this demand is founded in justice, and is therefore irresistible, the whole nation is this day acknowledging, as upon oath at the bar of the world. And not until, by a formal vote, the people repudiate the Declaration of Independence as a false and dangerous instrument, and cease to keep this festival in honor of liberty, as unworthy of note and remembrance ; not until they spike every cannon, and muffle every bell, and disband every procession, and quench every bonfire, and gag every orator ; not until they brand Washing- ton and Adams, and Jefferson and Hancock, as fanatics and madmen ; not until they place them- selves again in the condition of colonial subser- viency to Great Britain, or transform this repub- lic into an imperial government ; not until they cease pointing exultingly to Bunker Hill, and the plains of Concord and Lexington ; not, in fine, until they deny the authority of God, and proclaim themselves to be destitute of principle
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WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON.— 4
and humanity, will I argue the question, as one of doubtful disputation, on an occasion like this, whether our slaves are entitled to the rights and privileges of freemen. That question is settled irrevocably.
There is no man to be found, unless he has a brow of brass and a heart of stone, who will dare to contest it on a day like this. A state of vas- salage is declared by universal acclamation to be such as no man, or body of men, ought to sub- mit to for one moment. I therefore tell the American slaves, that the time for their emanci- pation is come ; that — their own taskmasters being witnesses — they are created equal to the rest of mankind ; and possess an inalienable right to liberty ; and that no man has a right to hold them in bondage. I counsel them not to fight for their freedom, both on account of the hopelessness of the effort, and because it is ren- dering evil for evil ; but I tell them, not less emphatically, it is not wrong for them to refuse to wear the yoke of slavery any longer. Let them shed no blood — enter into no conspiracies — raise. no murderous revolts; but, whenever and wlicrcver they can break their fetters, God give tliem courage to do so ! And should they attempt to elope from tlicir house of bondage, and come to the North, may each of them find a covert from the search of tlio spoiler, and an invincible public sentiment to shield them from the grasp of the kidnapper ! Success attend them in their flight to Canada, to touch whose monarchical soil insures freedom to every repub- lican slave !
The object of the Anti-Slavery Association is not to destroy men's lives — despots tlioiigli they Ijc — but to prevent the spilling of human blood. It is to enlighten the understanding, arouse tho conscience, affect the heart. ^Ve rely upon moral power alone for surcess. The ground upon whicli we stand lielongs to no sect or party — it is lioly ground. Wliatcvcr else may divide us in opinion, in this one thing wc arc
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agreed — that plavcholding is a crime under all circumstances, and ouglit to be immediately and unconditionally abandoned. Wc enforce upon no man cither a political or a religious test as a condition of membership ; but at the same time we expect every abolitionist to carry out his principles consistently, impartially, faithfully, in whatever station he may be called to act, or
wherever conscience may lead him to go
Genuine abolitionism is not a liobby, got up for personal or associated aggrandizement ; it is not a political ruse ; it is not a spasm of sympa- thy, which lasts but for a moment, leaving the system weak and worn ; it is not a fever of en- thusiasm ; it is not the fruit of fanaticism ; it is not a spirit of faction. It is of heaven, not of men. It lives in the heart as a vital principle. It is an essential part of Christianity, and aside from it there can be no humanity. Its scope is not confined to tlie slave population of the United States, but embraces mankind. Opposi- tion cannot weary it, force cannot put it down, fire cannot consume it. It is the spirit of Jesus, who was sent " to bii.d up the broken-hearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the open- ing of the prison to them that are bound ; to proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord, and the day of vengeance of our God." Its princi- ples are self-evident, its measures rational, its purposes merciful and just. It cannot be di- verted from the path of duty, though all earth and hell oppose; for it is lifted far above all earth-born fear. When it fairly takes possession of the soul, you may trust the soul-carrier any- where, that he will not be recreant to humanity. In short, it is a life, not an impulse — a quench- less flame of philanthropy, not a transient spark of sentimentalism. — Address, July 4, 1842,
FREEDOM OF THE MIND,
High walls and huge the body may confine, And iron gates obstruct the prisoner's gaze,
And massive bolts may baffle his design And vigilant keepers watch his devious ways ;
WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON.— 6
Yet scorns the immortal mind this base control :
No chains can bind it, and no cell eficlose ; Swifter than liirht it flies from pole to pole,
And in a flash from earth to heaven it goes. It leaps from mount to mount ; from vale to vale
It wanders, plucking honeyed fruits and flowers ; It visits home, to hear the household tale,
Or in sweet converse pass the joyous hours ; 'Tis up before the sun, roaming afar, And in its watches wearies every star.
THE GUILTLESS PRISONER.
Prisoner ! within these gloomy walls close pent,
Guiltless of horrid crime or venal wrong — Bear nobly up against thy punishment.
And in thy innocence be great and strong! Perchance thy fault was love to all mankind ;
Thou didst oppose some vile oppressive law, Or strive all human fetters to unbind ; Or would not bear the implements of war.
What then ? Dost thou so soon repent the A martyr's crown is richer than a king's ! [deed ? Think it an honor with thy Lord to bleed.
And glory 'mid intensest sufferings! Though beat, imprisoned, put to open shame, Time shall embalm and magnify thy name.
TO BENJAMIN LUNDY.
Self-taught, tinaidcd, poor, reviled, contemned,
Beset with enemies, by friends betrayed ; As madman and fanatic oft condemned.
Yet in thy noble cause still undismayed ; Lconidiis could not thy courage boast ;
Less numerous were his foes, his band more strong ; Alone unto a more than Persian liost.
Thou hast undauntedly given battle long. Xor shalt thou singly wage the unequal strife;
Unto thy aid, with spear and shield, I rush, And freely do I offer iij) my life.
And bid my lieart's blood find a wound to New volunteers arc trooping to the field ; [gush 1 To die wc arc prepared, but not an inch to yield.
SAMUEL GARTH. -1
GAEXH, Samuel, an English physician and poet; born about 1670 ; died in 1719. He studied medicine at Cambridge, settled in London in 1093, and rose rapidly to pro- fessional and social distinction. lie edited a translation of the Metamorphoses of Ovid, some of the versions being by himself, others by Dryden, Addison, and Gay. In 1714 he was knighted by George I. Be- sides several short ])ieces he wrote The Dispensary^ a mock-heroic poem in support of the physicians who were engaged in a quarrel with the apothecaries upon the question of establishing a free dispensary for the poor.
THE COLLEGE OF PHYSICIANS.
Not far from that most celebrated place ^Vliere angry Justice shews her awful face; Where little villains must submit to fate, That great ones may enjcy the world in state; There stands a dome, majestic to the sight, And sumptuous arches bear its oval height ; A golden globe, placed high with artful skill, Seems, to the distant sight, a gilded pill ; This pile was, by tlie pious patron's aim, Eaised for a use as noble as its frame ; Nor did the learned Society decline The propagation of that great design ; In all her mazes, Nature's face they viewed, And, as she disappeared, their search pursued. "Wrapt in the shade of night the goddess lies. Yet to the learned unveils her dark disguise, But shuns the gross access of vulgar eyes.
Now she unfolds the faint and dawning strife Of infant atoms kindling into life; How ductile matter new meanders takes, And slender trains of twisting fibres makes; And how the viscous seeks a closer tone, By just degrees to liarden into hone; While tlie more loose flow from the vital urn. And in full tides of purple streams return ;
SAMUEL GARTH.— 3
How lambent flames from life's bright lamps arise, And dart in emanations through the eyes ; llow from each sluice a gentle torrent pours, To slake a feverish heat with ambient showers ; Whence their mechanic powers the spirits claim ; How great their force, how delicate their frame; How the same nerves are fashioned to sustain The greatest pleasure and the greatest pain ; Wliv bilious juice a golden light puts on, And' floods of chyle in silver currents run ; How the dim speck of entity began To extend its recent form, and stretch to man | Why Envy oft transforms with wan disguise, And why gay Mirth sits smiling in the eyes; AVhence Milo's vigour at the Olympic 's shewn, Whence tropes to Finch, or impudence to Sloane ; How matter, by the varied shape of pores Or idiots frames, or solemn Senators.
Hence 'tis we wait the wondrous cause to find. How body acts upon impassive mind ; How fumes of wine the tliinking part can fire. Past hopes revive, and present joys inspire ; Why our complexions oft our soul declare. And how the passions in the features are; How touch and harmony arise between Corporeal figure and a form unseen ; How (piick their faculties the limbs fulfil, And act at every summons of the will : With mighty truths, mysterious to descry. Which in the womb of distant causes lie.
But now no grand inquiries are descried ; Mean faction reigns where knowledge should
preside ; Feuds arc increased, and learning laid aside; Thus Synods oft concern for Faith conceal. And for important nothings shew a zeal : The; drooping Sf.ienci^s noglocted pine, And I'ji-an's hcarns with failing lustre shine. No readers hero with hectif looks are found, Nor ovcft in rlifiin), thrfnigh midnight watching The lonelv odifico in sweats complains [drowned ; That nothing there but sullen silcnro reigns.
71ic Uispcnsanj.
GEORGE GASCOlGNfi.— 1
GASCOIGNE, G EORGE, an English dram- atist and poet, born about 1535 ; died about 1577. He studied law at one of. the Inns, but being disinherited by his father he en- listed in the Dutch service, and served against the Spaniards, but was taken ])ris- oner and detained for four months. Getting back to England he collected his poems, and rose into favor with Queen Elizabeth and her favorite liobert Dudley, Earl of Leices- ter, Besides producing dramatic entertain- ments he wrote The Steele Glass, a satire in blank vei'se, Certayne Notes of Instruction in English Verse, and a number of minor poems.
LADIES OF THE COURT.
Behold, my Lord, what monsters muster here With angels' face and harmful hellish hearts, "With smiling looks, and deep deceitful thoughts, With tender skins and stony cruel minds, With stealing steps, yet forward feet to fraud. The younger sort come piping on apace, In wliistlcs made of fine enticing wood. Till they have caught the birds for whom they
birded. The elder sort go stately stalking on, And on their backs they bear both land and fee, Castles and towers, revenues and receipts, Lordships and manors, fines ; yea farms and
all!— What should these be ? Speak you my lovely
Lord. They be not men, for why, they have no beards ; They be no boys, wliich wear such sidelong
gowns ; They be no gods, for all their gallant gloss ; They be no devils, I trow, that seems so saintish What be they ? Women masking in men's weeds, With Dutchkin doublets, and with gerkins jagged, Witli Spanish' spangs, and rufiles fet out of
France,
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GEORGE GASCOIGNE.— 2
"Witli hijjh-copt hats, and feathers flaunt-a-flaunt : They, to'be sure, seem even Wo to Men indeed ! ^ The Steele Glass.
THE LULLABIES.
First, lullaby my Youthful Years :
It is now time to go to bed ; For crooked age and hoary hairs
Have wore the haven within mine head. With lullaby, then, Youth, be still. With lullaby content thy will ; Since Courage quails and coincs behind, Go sleep, and so beguile thy mind.
Next, lullaby my gazing Eyes,
Which wonted wore to glance apace ;
For every glass may now suffice To show the furrows in my face.
With lullaby, then, wink awhile;
With lullaby your looks beguile ;
Let no fair "face or beauty bright
Entice you eft with vain delight.
And lullaby my wanton Will :
Let Reason's rule now rein my thought, Since, all too late, I find by skill
IIow dear 1 have thy fancies bought. With lullaby now take thine ease, WitJ^ lullaby thy doubt appease; For trust in" this — if tliou be still, My body shall obey thy will.
Tims lullaby, mv Youth, mine Eyes, My Will, my 'Ware, and all that was:
I can no more delays devise,
I'.iit wokoiiic I'ai'n, let IMcasure pass.
With lullaby now take your leave;
With lullaby your dreams d<cive;
And whi-n you rise with waking eye,
licmcrabcr then this lullaby.
ELIZABETH C. GASKELL.— 1
GASKELL, Elizabeth Cleohoen (Ste- venson), an English novelist, horn in 1810; died in 1865. Her futlier, WilHam Steven- son, a tutor and pi'cacher, relinquished preaching for farmin^^ because he thought it Wrong to be a "hired teacher of re- ligion." He was for a time editor of the Scots Magazine. He contributed to the Kdwhuryh Bevieii\ and became Keeper of the Records to the Treasury. Her mother died in giving her birth, and she was adopted by an aunt. She was partly edu- cated in a school at Stratford-upon-Avon, and then returned to her father, who super- intended her studies. She married William Gaskell, a clergyman of Manchester, and gave all her leisure to ministry among the poor of that city, and thus became inti- mately acquainted with the lives of opera- tives in the factories. Her first literary work was a paper entitled An Accowit of Clopton Ilall^ written for William How- itt's Visits to Remarkaljle Places. This was followed by short tales contributed to the PeopWa Journal. Mary Barton, her first novel, a story of manufacturing life, was published in ISIS. Her next publica- tion was The Moorland Cottage (1850.) liuth, a novel, and Cr an ford., a series oi sketches of life in a rural town, appeared in 1853. Mrs. Gaskell's other works are North and So^Uh (1855), a Life of Charlotte Bronte (1857), Round the Sofa (1859), Right at Last (1860), Sylvia^s L.overs (1863), Cousin Rhillis, and Wives and Daughters, the last of which was not quite completed, at the time of her sudden death from lieart-disease.
GREEN HEYS FIELDS, MANCHESTER.
There are some fields near Manchester, well
43Q
ELIZABETH C. GASKELL.— 2
known to the inhabitants as Green Heys Fields, through which runs a public footpath to a little village about two miles distant. In spite of these fields being flat and low — nay, in spite of the want of wood (the great and usual recom- mendation of level tracts of land), there is a charm about them which strikes even the inhab- itant of a mountainous district, who sees and feels the effect of contrast in these commonplace but thoroughly rural fields, with the busy bustling manufacturing town he left but half an hour ago. Hire and there an old black and white farm- house, with its rambling outbuildings, speaks of other times and other occupations than those which now absorb the population of the neigh- borhood. Here in their seasons may be seen the country business of hay-making, ploughing, etc., which are such pleasant mysteries for towns- people to watch : and here the artisan, deafened with noise of tongues and engines, may come to listen awhile to the delicious sounds of rural life — the lowing of cattle, the milkmaid's call, the clatter and cackle of poultry in the old farm- yards. You cannot wonder, then, that these fields are popular places of resort at every holi- day-time; and you would not wonder, if you could see, or I properly describe, the charm of one particular stile, that it should be, on such oc- casions, a crowded halting-place. Close by it is a deep, clear pond, reflecting in its dark-green depths the shadowy trees that bend over it to exclude tiic sun. The only place wlierc its banks are shelving is on the side next to a ram- bling farm-yard, belonging to one of those old- world, gabled, black and white houses I named above, overlooking the field through which the
f)nblic footpath leads. The porch of this farni- lousc is covered by a rose-tree; and the little garden surrounding it is crowded with a medley of old-fashioned herbs and flowers, ijilanted long ago when the garden was the only druggist's shop within rearli, and allowed to grow in scram- bling and wild luxuriance — roses, lavender, sage,
4U
ELIZABETH C. GASKELL.— 3
balm (for tea), rosemary, pinks and wallflowers, onions and jessamine, in most republican and in- discriminate order. This farm-house and garden are within a hundred yards of the stile of which I spoke, leading from the large pasture-field into a smaller one, divided by a hedge of hawthorn and blackthorn; and near this stile, on the fur- ther side, there runs a tale that primroses may often be found, and occasionally the blue sweet violet on the grassy hedge-bank.
I do not know whether it was on a holiday granted by the masters, or a holiday seized in right of nature and her beautiful spring-time by the workmen ; but one afternoon — now ten or a dozen years ago — these fields were much thronged. It was an early May evening — the April of the poets; for heavy showers had fallen all the morning, and the round, soft white clouds which were blown by a west wind over the dark- blue sky, were sometimes varied by one blacker and more threatening. The softness of the day tempted forth the young green leaves, which almost visibly fluttered into life ; and the willows, which that morning had had only a brown re- flection in the water below, were now of that tender gray-green which blends so delicately with the spring harmony of colors.
Groups of merry, and somewhat loud-talking girls, whose ages might range from twelve to twenty, came by with a buoyant step. They were most of them factory-girls, and wore the usual out-of-doors dress of that particular class of maidens — namely, a shawl, which at mid-day, or in fine weather, was allowed to be merely a shawl, but towards evening, or if the day were chilly, became a sort of Spanish mantilla or Scotch plaid, and was brought over the head and hung loosely down, or was pinned under the chin in no unpicturcsque fashion. Their faces were not remarkable for beauty ; indeed, they were below the average, with one or two excep- tions ; they had dark hair, neatly and classically arranged, dark eyes, but sallow complexions and
433
ELIZABETH C. GASKELL.— 4
irregular features. The o;ily thing to strike a passer-by was an acntcness and intelligence of countenance which has often been noticed in a manufacturing population.
There were also numbers of boys, or rather young men, rambling among these fields, ready to bandy jokes with any one, and particularly ready to enter into conversation with the girls, who, however, held themselves aloof, not in a shy, but rather in an independent way, assuming an indifferent manner to the noisy wit or ob- streperous compliments of the lad.s. Here and there came a sober, quiet couple, either whisper- ing lovers, or husband and wife, as the case might be; and if the latter, they were seldom unencumbered by an infant, carried for the most part by the father, while occasionally even three or four little toddlers have been carried or dragged thus far, in order that the whole family might enjoy the delicious May afternoon to- gether.— Mary Barton.
A DIFFERENCE OF OPINION.
When the trays reappeared with biscuits and wine, punctually at a quarter to nine, there was conversation, comparing of cards, and talking over tricks; but by-and-by Captain Brown sported a bit of literature. " Have you seen any numbers of the Pickwick Papers T^ said he. (Thev were then publisliin<4 in parts.) " Capital thing!"
Now Miss Jenkyns was daughter of a deceased pastor of Cranford ; and on the strength of a number of manuscript^ sermons, and a pretty gooil library of divinity, considered herself lite- rary, and looked upon any con\ersation about books as a challenge to her. So she answered and said, "Yes, she h;id seen them ; indeed, she might sav she had read them."
*' .\nd what<lo you think of thom ?" exclaimed Captain Brown. " .Aren't they famously good ?"
So urged, Miss Jenkyns conhl not but sj)eak. " I must say, I don't think they are by any means
Ui
ELIZABETH C. GASKELL.— 5
equal to Dr. Jolinson. Still, pcrliaps, the author is young. Let him persevere, and who knows what he may become if he will take the great Doctor for his model."
This was evidently too much for Captain Brown to take placidly ; and I saw the words on the tip of his tongue before Miss Jenkyns had finished lier sentence.
" It is quite a different sort of thing, my dear madam," he began.
" I am quite aware of that," returned she, " and I make allowances, Captain Brown."
" Just allow me to read yuu a scene out of this month's number," pleaded lie. " I had it only this morning, and I don't think tlie company can have read it yet."
" As you please," said she, settling herself with an air of resignation. He read the account of the " swarry" which Sam Weller gave at Bath. Some of us laughed heartily. / did not dare, because I was staying in the house. Miss Jen- kyns sat in patient gravity. When it was ended, slie turned to me and said, with mild dignity, " Fetch me Hasselas, my dear, out of the book- room."
When I brought it to her, she turned to Cap- tain Brown. " Now allow me to read you a scene, and then the present company can judge between your favorite, Mr. Boz, and Dr. John- son."
She read one of the conversations between Rasselas and Imlac, in a high-pitched, majestic voice ; and when she had ended, she said, " I imagine 1 am now justified in my preference of Dr. Johnson as a writer of fiction." The captain screwed his lips up, and drummed on the table, but he did not speak. She thought she would give a finishing blow or two.
" I consider it vulgar, and below the dignity of literature, to publish in numbers."
"How was the Rambler published, ma'am?" asked Captain Brown, in a low voice, which I think Miss Jenkyns could not have heard.
ELIZABETH C. GASKELL.— 6
" Dr. Johnson's style is a model for young be- ginners. My father recomuaended it to me when I began to write letters. I have formed my own style upon it ; I recommend it to your favorite."
" I should be very sorry for him to exchange his style for any such pompous writing," said Captain Brown.
Miss Jenkyns felt this as a personal affront, in a way of which the captain had nut dreamed. Epis- tolary writing she and her friends considered as her forte. Many a copy of many a letter have I seen written and corrected on the slate before she " seized the half-hour just previous to post- time to assure" her friends of this or of that ; and Dr. Johnson was, as she said, her model in these compositions. She drew herself up with dignity, and only replied to Captain Brown's last remark by saying with marked emphasis on every syl- lable, " 1 prefer Dr. Johnson to Mr. Boz." — Cran- ford.
MISS MATTV'S CONFIDENCES.
We were thankful, as Miss Pole desired us to be, that we had never been nuirried, but I think of the two we were even more thankful that the robbers liad left Cranford ; at least I judge so from a speech of Miss Matty's that evening as we sat over the fire, in which she evidently looked upon a husband as a great protection against thieves, l>urglars, and glnjsts ; and said that she did nut think that she should dare to be alwavs warning voung people against matrimony as Miss Tuie did continually ; to be sure, mar- riage wjis a risk, as she saw, now that she had some experience ; but she remembered the time wlien she had looked forward to being mar- ried as much as any one. " Not to any particu- lar person, my dears," said she, hastily checking herself uji as if she were afraid of having ad- mitted too much: "only the old story, you know, of ladies always saying ' H7(((7i I marry,' and gcntkuKn, *//' I marry.' " It was a joK<j
ELIZABETH C. GASKELL.— 7
spoken in rather a sad tone, and I doubt if either of us smiled ; but 1 could not see Miss Matty's face by the flickering firelight. In a little while she continued :
" But, after all, I have not told you the truth. It is so long ago, and no one ever knew how much I thought of it at the time, unless, indeed, my dear mother guessed ; but I may say that there was a time when I did not think I should have been only Miss Matty Jenkyns all my life ; for even if I did meet with any one who wished to marry me now (atid, as Miss Pole says, one is never too safe), I could not take him, I hope he would not take it too much to heart, but I could not take him — or any one but the person I once thought I should be married to ; and he is dead and gone, and he never knew how it all came about that I said ' No,' when I had thought many and many a time — Well, it's no matter what I thought. God ordains it all, and I am very happy, my dear. No one" has such kind friends as I," continued she, taking my hand and holding it in hers.
If I had not known of Mr. Holbrook, I could have said something in his praise, but as I liad, I could not think of anything that would come in naturally, and so we both kept silence for a little time.
" My father once made us," she began, " keep a diary in two columns; on one side we were to put down in the morning what we thought would be the course and events of the coming day, and at night we were to put on the other side what really had happened. It would be to some people rather a sad way of telling tlieir lives" (a tear dropped upon my hand at these words) — " I don't mean that mine has been sad — only so very different to what I expected. I remember, one winter's evening, sitting over our bed-room fire with Deborah — I remember it as if it were yesterday — and wc were planning our future lives; both of us were planning, thongli only she talked, about it. She said she should like to
m
ELIZABETH C. GASKELL.— 8
marry an Archdeacon, and write his charges; and you know, my dear, she never was married, and, for aught I know, she never spoke to an un- married Archdeacon in her life. I never was ambitious, nor could I have written charges, but 1 thought I could manage a house (my mother used to call me her right hand), and I was always so fond of little children — the shyest babies would stretch out their little arms to come to me; when I was a girl, I was half my leisure time nursing in the neighboring cottages ; but I don't know how it was, when I grew sad and grave — which I did a year or two after this time — the little things drew back from me, and I am afraid I lost the knack, though lam just as fond of children as ever, and have a strange yearning at nly heart whenever I see a mother with her babv in her arms. Nay, my dear" (and by a sudden blaze which sprang up from a fall of the unstirred coals, I saw that her eyes were full of tears — gazing intently on some vision of what miglit have been), " do you know, I dream some- times that I have a little child — always the same — a little girl of about two years old ; she never grows older, though I have dreamt about her for many years. I don't think I ever dream of any words or sound she makes ; she is very noiseless and still, but she comes to me when she is vorv sorrv or verv glad, and 1 have wakened with the clas|) of licr dear little arms, round my neck. Only last night — perhaps because 1 had gone to sleep thinking of this ball for I'hcebe — my little darling came in my dream, and put up licr mouth to be kissed, fust as I have seen real babies do to real mothers before going to bed. But all this is nonsense, dear! only don't be frightened by Miss Pole from being married. I can fancy it may be a very happy state, and a little credulity helps one on through life very smoothly— better than always doubting and doubting and seeing dillicultics and disagreeables m every thing. — Cranford.
ELIZABETH C. GASKELL.-9
THE MINISTER.
" There is Father !" she exclaimed, pointing out to me a man in liis shirt-sleeves, taller by the head than the other two with wlioin he was working. We only saw him through the leaves of the ash-trees growing in the hedge, and I thought I must be confusing the figures, or mis- taken : that man still looked like a very power- ful laborer, and had none of the precise demure- ness of appearance which I had always imagined was the characteristic of a minister. It was the Reverend Ebenezer llolman, however. He gave us a nod as we entered the stubble-field, and I think he would have come to meet us but that he was in the middle of giving directions to his men. I could see that Phillis was built more after his type than her mother's. He, like his daughter, Avas largely made, and of a fair, ruddy complexion, whereas hers was brilliant and deli- cate. His hair had been yellow or sandy, but DOW was grizzled. Yet his gray hairs beto- kened no faikire in strength. I never saw a more powerful man — deep chest, lean flanks, well-planted head. By this time we were nearly up to him, and he interrupted himself and stepped forwards, holding out his hand to me, but addressing Phillis.
" Well, my lass, this is Cousin Manning, I sup- pose. Wait a minute, young man, and I'll put on my coat, and give you a decorous and formal welcome. But, Ned Hall, there ought to be a water-furrow across this land : it's a nasty, stiff, clayey, dauby bit of ground, and thou and I must fall to, come next Monday — I beg your pardon. Cousin Manning — and there's old Jem's cottage wants a bit of thatch ; you can do that job to-morrow while I am busy." Then, sud- denly changing the tone of his deep bass voice to an odd suggestion of chapels and preachers, he added, " Now, I will give out the psalm, ' Come all harmonious tongues,' to be sung to ' Moum Ephraim' tune."
438
ELl2At3ETH C. GASK£Lt.-lO
He lifted his spade in liis Land, and bcgrn to beat time with it ; the two laborers seemed to know both words and music, though I did not ; and so did Philiis : her rich voice followed her father's as he set the tune, and the men came in with more uncertainty, but harmoni- ously. Philiis looked at me once or twice with a little surprise at my silence ; but I did not know the words. There we five stood, bare- headed, excepting Philiis, in the tawny stubble- field, from which all the shocks of corn had not vet been carried — a dark wood on one side, where the wood-pigeons were cooing ; blue dis- tance seen through the ash-trees on the other. Somehow, I think that if I had known the words, and could have sung, my throat would have been choked up by the feeling of the unaccus- tomed scene.
The hvmn was ended, and the men had drawn off before I could stir. I saw the minister begin- ning to put on his coat, and looking at me with friendly inspection in his gaze before I could rouse myself.
" I dare say you railway gentlemen don't wind up the day with singing a psahu together," said he, "but it is not a bad practice — not a bad prac- tice. We have had it a bit earlier to-day for hospitality's sake — that's all."
I liad' nothing to say to this, though I was tliinking a great deal. From time to time I stole a look at mv companion. His coat was black, and so was his waistcoat; neckcloth he had none, his strong, full throat being bare above the snow- white shirt. lie wore drab-colored knee-breeches, gray worstc(l stockings (I thought I knew the maker), and strong-nailed shoes. He carried his hat in hi-* hand as if he liked to feel the coming l.n-c/.i' !iftin'_' his hair. After a while, I saw that the father took hold of the daughter's hand, and .'io tliov, holding each other, went along towards bomc. — Cousin Philiis.
4»
AGi?:N01l triENNE GASPARIN.— 1
GASPARIN, Agknor I^tienne, Comte DE, a French publicist and author, born in 1810; died in 1871. He was the eldest son of Count Adrien Pierre de Gasparin. He was employed by Guizot as his secretary in the Department of Public Instruction, and when his father became Minister of the Interior in 183(), served also as secre- tary in that department. In 1842 he was elected deputy for tlie arrondissement of Bastia, in Corsica. A zealous Protestant, he advocated religious liberty, prison re- form, emancipation of slaves, and social purity. He was not re-elected in 184G. Disapproving the course of Louis Napoleon, he left France, and took up his residence near Geneva, where he lectured upon econ- omy, history, and religion. He wrote nu- merous pamphlets on slavery and other abuses, and contributed articles to the Journal des Dehats^ and the Revue des deux Mondes. Two remarkable works ad- vocating the Union cause were written by him during the rebellion, and were trans- lated under the titles of Tfie Uprising of a Gi'eat People : the United States in 1861, and America he/ore Europe (1862.) Among his other works are Slavery and the Slave Tixide (1838), Christianity and Paganism (1850), The Schools of Douht and the School of Faith (1853), Turning Tahles, the Sup)ernatural in General and Spirits (1854), The Question of Neufchdtel (1857), The Family : its Duties, Joys, and Sorrows, and Moral Liberty (1868)," a Life of Innocent LIL, and The Good Old Times, the last two works being published after his death, which was hastened by his cares for fugitive and wounded soldiers in 1871.
TRIED AND FIRM.
It might have been said formerly that the
Ag£nor £tienne gasparin.— ^
United States subsisted only through their privi- leged position — witliout neighbors, consequently without enemies. Exempt from the efforts ex- acted by war, life had been easy to them ; their vast political edifice had not been tried, for it had struggled against no tempest, and there was a right to suppose that the first torrent which beat against the wail would overthrow or shake the foundations. To-day the torrent has come, and the foundation remains. The impotent nation- ality which has been shown us submerged be- neath the waves of immigration, has been found an energetic and long-lived nationality. In the face of the rebellious South, as in tlie'faceof the menacing South, there is found an American na- tion. It has broken forever — yes, broken, even in the event of the effective separation of a por- tion of the South — the perfidious weapon of sepa- ration. It has p;issed through the triple ordeal which all governiiieiits must endure — the ordeal of foundation, of independence, of revolution. It has affranchised with one blow, its present and its future. At tlie hour of disasters, it has displayed the rarest quality of all — patience to repair the evil. . . .1 sliall not waste my time in demonstrating that, if the Union come out of the crisis victorious, it will come out aggrandized. The upriKiiui of a (jreat ]ieople will then have nu- merous partisans, and my paradox will become a commonplace. I have been anxious to establish another theory, no less true, but less p(jpiilar — to-day, during tlie crisis, in the midst of diflicul- ties and perils, whatever may be the issue of the struggle, the uprising is already accomplished. Already it has accepted heavy charges which will leave their traces on the American budget, like tlie noMe Hcars wlii(;h remain stampid on the countenance of c(»n()uerors. Tlie uprisintf is therefore already accomplished. It mav Ix; lliat the I United Slat<'s will .still combat and suffer, but their cause will not perish, and their cau-sc is their jp-eatnc88. — America before Europe,
Ml
VALERIE DE GASPARIK.— 1
GASPARIN, Valerie (Boissier) de, a French author, wife of the preceding, born in Geneva in 1815. She was the author of several works, one of which, Marriage from the Christian Point of View (1842), obtained a prize at the French Academy. Among her otiier works are. There are Poor in Paris and Elsewhere (18-16), Monastic Corporations in the Heart of Protestantism (1855), Near Horizons, ileavenly Horizons, Vespers, and Hu7nan Sadness.
BEHIND A VEIL.
Here again comes tlia stiffness of convention- ality to paralyze a character all made up of light and motion. Spontaneous, unpremeditated, it has the gaiety of a child ; it has sadness as well, sudden bursts, impulses, enthusiasms, all of which I grant you are not in very perfect proportion ; — the laughter is sometimes a little loud ; tears come like those thunder-showers that all at once drown the sun out of sight; hut such as it is, it is natural and it is charming. I add that when tempered it is excellent, because it is true. Now then let come traditions, let come the world with its good society amazement, and this poor soul is afraid of being itself. Ere long it grows ashamed of it; it dares no longer laugh or weep; it takes refuge in an artificial coldness. Here and there some eccentricity — one of those shoots of impetuous vegetation which pierce through old walls to open out to the light — escapes in look or tone ; instantly there is a hue and cry. Quick, down with the portcullis, up with the drawbridge ! There where a coppice full of songs grew green, a gray fortress is rising now ; passers-by measure its height ; they feel an icy shadow fall athwart them ; they quicken their steps towards the flowery field beyond. And yet a heart was beating there ; a getiial spirit gave out fitful rays; there was life still, there might have been happiness.
VALERIE DE GASPARIN.— 2
If, at the least, the mistake once committed might become at length a kind of reality ; if one but moved freely beneath the borrowed garment ! But no ! it was made to fit some one else ; we are not only uncomfortable in it, but we are awk- ward as well. These disguises only half deceive ; they suflBce to embarrass ; not to give one a home- feeling of ease
Alas! and one may go on thus to the very end! When the end is come, the indifferent crowd permits you to be buried without your disguise. Sometimes it happens that a curious on-looker stops and contemplates you ; sometimes at the supreme parting hour a fold of the veil gets disarranged, and then your true visage appears. There it is all radiant, or all pale. There is the sweet smile; when just about to be for ever extinguished, it at length ventures forth upon the dying lips; the glance is fraught with emo- tion, tears warm the marble face ! That then was the real man, the real woman ! Wh.'it ! so beautiful, so touching, and I had never found it out ! — Human Sadness.
OCTOBER.
On one of those October days which rise all radiant after they have once shaken off their mantle of mist, let us take our way into lonely places. The brambles are reddening on the mountains; we hear the lowing of the herds shaking their bells in the pastures, ilcrc and there some fire rolls out its smoke ; insects rise slowly with their little balloons (.f white silk ; the bushes, deceived by the mildness of tho nights, put forth fresh shoots; tin- great daisies, the scarlet pinks, the sage-plants that had flowcn-d in June, open out a few bright petals here and there. This will not l.-iMt ; winter is coming on. What of that? This last smile tells me that
(iod loves and means to console me Human
Sadness.
JOHN GAUDEN.— 1
GAUDEN, John, an English clergyman, born in 1605; died in 1662. Having preached a successful sermon before Parlia- ment, he was in 1640 rewarded by the rich deanery of Booking, and other preferments. After the breaking out of the civil war, he submitted to the Presbyterian order of Church Government, and thus retained his preferments. In 1648, after the execution of Charles I., be wrote A Just Invective against those of the Ai'iny and their Abet- tors who nmrthered King Charles I. This, however, was not printed until after the Kestoration of Charles II. Immediately after the Restoration Gauden was made chaplain to the King, then Bishop of Exe- ter, and in 1662 Bisliop of Worcester. Be- tween 1653 and 1660 he wrote a number of treatises in vindication of the Church of England and its clergy, among which are A Petitionary Remonstrance to Oliver Cromwell in hehctJf of the Clergy of Eng- land, and The Tear^, Sighs, and Com- jplaints of the Church of England (1659), Antisacrilegus (1660), besides several pub- lished Sermons.
Gauden's chief claim to a place in the history of literature rests upon his connec- tion with the EikOn Basilike, or the Pour- traicture of his sacred Majestic in his Soli- tudes and Svfferings. This work, l)earing date of 1648, was published soon after the execution of the King, by whom on its face it purports to have been written. The work was received by the Royalists as the composition of "the Royal Martyr;" but by others the authorship was attributed to Gauden. Volume upon volume has been written upon both sides of this controversy, which, perhaps, can hardly be even now
JOHN GAUDEN.— 2
definitely settled, since as late as 1829 the Rev. Dr. "Wordsworth put forth an elabor- ate argument to show that King Charles was actually the author. But Mackintosh, Todd, and Macaiilay hold that the work belongs to Gauden.
FROM TUE "EIKON BASILIk£"
The various successes of this unhappy war have at least afforded me variety of good medi- tations. Sometimes God was pleased to try me with victory, by worsting my enemies, that 1 might know how witli moderation and tlianks to own and use His power, who is only the true Lord of Hosts, able, when he pleases, to repress the confidence of those that fought against me with so great advantages for power and number. From small beginnings on my part, lie let me see that I was not wholly forsaken by iiiy peo- ple's love or His protection. Other times God was pleased to exercise my patience, and teach me not to trust in the arm of flesh, but in the living God. My sins sometimes prevailed against the justice of my cause ; and those that were with me wanted not matter and occasion for his just chastisement both of them and me. Nor were my enemies loss punished hy that pros- perity, which hardened them to continue that injustice by open hostilitv, which was begun by most riotous and unparliamentary tumults.
There is no doubt but personal and private sins may ofttinies overbalance the justice of pub- lic engagements; nor doth God account every gallant man, in the world's esteem, a fit instru- ment to assert in the way of war a righteous cause. The more men arc prone to arrogate to their own skill, valor and strength, the less doth God ordinarily work by them for his own glory. I am sure the event of success can never state the justice of any cause, nor the peace of men's con- Bcicnccs, nor the eternal fate of their souls.
Those with uue had, I think, clearly and uu- m
JOHN GAUDEN.— 3
doubtedly for tbcir justification the Word, of God and the laws of the land, together with their own oaths ; all requiring obedience to my just commands ; but to none other under heaven without mc, or against me, in the point of rais- ing arms. Those on the other side are forced to fly to the shifts of some pretended fears, and wild fundamentals of state, as they call them, which actually overthrow the present fabric both of Church and State ; being such imaginary rea- sons for self-defense as are most impertinent for those men to allege, who, being my subjects, were manifestly the first assaulters of me and the laws, first by unsuppressed tumults, after by listed forces. The same allegations they use, will fit any faction that hath but power and confi- dence enough to second with the sword all their demands against the present laws and governors, which can never be such as some side or other will not find fault with, so as to urge what they call a feformation of them to a rebellion against them.
The eminent Dr. South seems to have had no doubt tliat Charles I. was really the author of the EikOn Basllihe. He says : " To go no further for a tes imony, let his own writings witness, which speak him no less an author than a monarch, composed with such a commanding majestic pathos as if they had been writ not with a pen but a sceptre; and for those whose virulent and ridiculous calumnies ascribe that incompar- able piece to others, I say it is a sufficient argument that those did not write it, because they could not."
THEOPIIILE GAUTlElt.— 1
GAUTIER, Theophile, a French poet, novelist, and critic, born in 1811 ; died in 1872. He was a native of Tarbes, Gas- conj, was educated at the Ljcee Charle- magne, Paris, and on completing his college course, entered the studio of Rioult, intend- ing to become a painter. After two years' study, he turned from art to literature, and joined in the revolt against the formalism of the French classic school. His first vol- ume of Poesies (1830) was followed, in 1832, by Alberfus, a "theological legend." In 1833, he published a volume of tales, Les Jeunes-Frcuice^ and in 1835 Mademoi- selle de Mcnijjln, a novel wliicli was pro- nounced, even in France, immoral. To this time belongs a scries of critical pnpcrs on the poets of the time of Louis XIIL, which were afterwards published in 1843,%under the title of Les Grotesques. These were written for La France Litteraire, of which Gautier was editor. He also contributed to the Revue dc Paris^ L''Arflf<t>\ and other papers. In 1S3G he became literary and dramatic editor of La Presse^ in 1854: of Lie MoniUxLr flniversel^ and in 1809 of L^e Journal (^fffifiel. His journalistic labors alone were enormous. It is said that a complete collcftion of his articles would fill 300 volumes. He continued to write novels and poems. La ( 'omrdir de la Morte (1838), Poesii'S (1840), and fuiianx et Cainees (1852), all. display tnic ])oetic feeling and a marvelous command of ])oetic form. Gau- tier traveled in most of the countries of Europ(!, and wrote several books embody- ing his ffbfiervatioriH ; among them Italia (1853k and (Jimstantinnjih' ( 1 S54.) I le wrote also tor the stager, Lji Tricoriu' Knehantc (1845), being perha[)8 his best play. Ilia
Tn^OPHILE GAUTIER.-3
sliort stones stand in the first rank of this class of fiction. The best of his novels are Militona (1S47), Le Roman tie la Momie (1856), Le Capitalne Fracasse (18G3), and Spirlte (18GG.) Besides the works of travel already mentioned are, (Japrices et Zigzags, Voyage en /lassie, and Voyage en Espagne. L'llistoire de VArt JJrqmatiqueen Jf ranee depuis vingtcinq Ans, contains some of his best critical papers. His last work, T(djleaiix du Siege, gives a vivid picture of Paris at the time of its investment by the German troops.
THE ROYAL SEPULCHRES OF THEBES.
Tlie director of excavations went on a little in advance of tlie nobleman and the savant, with the air of a well-bred person who knows the rules of etiquette, and his step was firm and brisk, as tliougli he were quite confident of success. They soon reached a narrow defile leading into the valley of liiban-cI-Molook. It looked as if it had been cut by the hand of man through the thick wall of the mountain instead of being a natural cleft, as if the spirit of solitude had sought to render inaccessible this kingdom of the dead. On the perpendicular walls of the riven rock the eye could discern imperfect remains of sculptures, injured by the ravages of time, that might have been taken for inequalities of the stone, aping the crippled personages in a half- effaced bas relief, lieyond the gorge the valley widened a little, presenting a spectacle of the most mournful desolation. On eitlier side rose in steep crags enormous masses of calcareous rock, corrugated, splintered, crumbling, exhausted, and dropping to pieces in an advanced state of de- composition under an implacable sun. These rocks resembled the bones of the dead, calcined on a funeral pyre, and an eternity of weariness was expressed in the yawning mouths, imploring the refreshing drop that never fell. Their walls
THfiOPHlLE GAUTIER.— 3
rose almost in a vertical line to a great height, marking out their indented tops of a grayish white against a sky of deepest indigo, like the turrets of some gigantic ruined fortress. A part of the funeral valley lay at a white heat under the rays of the sun ; the rest was bathed in that crude bluish tint of torrid lauds, which seems unreal at the North when artists reproduce it, and which is as clearly defined as the shadows on an architectural plan.
The valley lengthened out, now making an angle in one direction, now entangling itself in a gorge in another, as the spurs and projections of the bifurcated chain advanced or receded. According to a peculiarity of climates when the atmosphere, entirely free from moisture, pos- sessed a perfect transparence, aerial perspective did not exist in this theatre of desolation ; every little detail was sketched in, as far as the eye could reach, with a painful accuracy, and their distance made evident only by a decrease in size, as if a cruel Xatu'e did not care to hide any of the poverty or misery of this barren spot, more dead itself than those whom it covered.
Over the wall, on the sunny side, fell a fiery stream of blinding light such as emanates from metals in a state <jf fusion. Every rocky surface, transformed into a liuniirig mirror, sent it glanc- ing back with even greater intensity. These re- acting rays, joined to the scorching beams that fell from the heavens, and were reflected again from the earth, produced a heat equal to that of a furnace, and the poor German doctor constantly sponged his fa<;c with his blue-checked handker- chief, that lookeil as if it had been di[)ped in water. You could not have found a handful i){ soil in the whole valley, so there was no blade of gra.s», no bramble, no creeping vine of any kind, nor growth of lichon, to Im-ak the uniform whiteness of the torrified ground. The crevicci and dents in the rocks did not contain enough moisture to feed even the slender tiiread-liko roots of the poorest wall plant. It wus like a vast
TIlfiOPlIILE GAUTIER.— 4
bed of cinders left from a chain of mountains burnt out in some ijrcat planetary fire in the day of cosmic catastro{)lics : to make the compari- son more complete, luiii;; black streaks, like scars left by cauterizing-, ran clown the chalky sides of the peaks. A'^'^^olute silence reigned over this scene of devastation ; not a breath of life dis- turbed it; there was no flutter of wings, no hum of insects, no rustling of lizards and other i"ep- tiles ; even the tiny cymbal of the grasshopper, that friend of arid wastes, could not be heard. A sparkling, micaceous dust, like powdered sand- stone, covered the ground, and here and there formed mounds over the stones dug from the depths of the chain with the relentless pickaxes of past generations and the tools of troglodyte workmen preparing under ground the eternal dwelling-places of the dead. The fragments torn from the interior of the inountain had made other hills friable heaps of stones, that might have been taken for a natural ridge. In the sides of the rock were black holes, surrounded by scattered blocks of stone — square openings flanked by pillars covered with hieroglyphics, and having on their lintels mysterious cartouches that contained the sacred scarabajus in a great yellow disk, the Sun as a ram's head, and the goddesses Isis and Nephthys, standing or kneel- ing. These were the royal sepulchres of Thebes. — The Romance of a Mummy. Transl. of Augusta McC. Wright.
the close of day.
The daylight died : a filmy cloud
Left lazily the zenith height, In the calm river scarcely stirred,
To bathe its flowing garment white.
Night came : Night saddened but serene, In mourning for her brother Day ;
And every star before the queen
Bent, robed in gold, to own her sway.
4N
THf:OPHILE GAUTIER.— 5
The turtle-dove's soft wail was lieard, The children dreaming in their sleep ;
The air seemed filled with rustling wings Of unseen birds in downy sweep.
Heaven spake to earth in murmurs low, As when the Hebrew prophets trod
Her hills of old ; one word I know Of that mysterious speech : — 'tis God. Transl. o/" Amelia D. Alden.
THE FIRST SMILE OF SPRING.
While to their vexatious toil, breathless, men
are hairrying, March, who laughs despite of showers, secretly
prepares the Spring.
For the Easter daisies small, while they sleep, the cunning fellow
Paints anew their collarettes, burnishes their but- tons yellow ;
Goes, the sly pcrruquier, to the orchard, to the
vine. Powders white the almond-tree with a puff of
swan's-down fine.
To tlie garden bare he flics, while dame Nature still reposes;
In their vests of velvet green, laces all the bud- ding roses ;
Whistles In the blackbird's car new roulades for
him to ffjllow ; .Sows the snow-drop far and iir:ar, and the violet
in the hollow.
On the margin of the fountain, where the stag drinks, listening,
From his hidden hand he Hcattcrs silvery lily- buds for Spring ;
Ml
TH^OPHILE GAUTIEII.— 6
Ilides the crimson strawberry • in the grass, for
thee to seek ; Plaits a leafy hat, to shade from the glowing sun
thy cheek.
Then, when all his task is done, past his reign, away he hies ;
Turns his head at April's threshold ; — " Spring- time, you may come !" he cries.
Transl. q/" Amelia D. Alden.
DEPARTURE OF THE SWALLOWS.
The rain-drops plash, and the dead leaves fall,
On spire and cornice and mould ; The swallows gather, and twitter and call, " We must follow the Summer, come one, come all,
For the Winter is now so cold."
Just listen awhile to the wordy war,
As to whither the way shall tend. Says one, " I know the skies are fair And myriad insects float in air
Where the ruins of Athens stand.
" And every year, when the hrown leaves fall,
In a niche of the Parthenon I build my nest on the corniced wall. In the trough of a devastating ball
From the Turk's besieging gun."
Says another, " My cosey home I fit
On a Smyrna grande cafe, Where over the threshold Iladjii sit. And smoke their pipes and their coffee sip,
Dreaming the hours away."
Another says, " I prefer the nave
Of a temple in Baalbec ; There my little ones lie when the palm-trees
wave, And, perching near on the architrave,
I fill each open beak."
THfiOPHILE GAUTIER.— 7
^' Ah !" says the last, " I build my nest
Far up on the Xile's green shore, Where Memnon raises his stony crest, And turns to the sun as he leaves his restj
But greets him with song no more.
" In his ample neck is a niche so widej
And withal so deep and free, A thousand swallows their nests can hide, And a thousand little ones rear beside — -
Then come to the Nile with me/'
They go, they go to the river and plain,
To ruined city and town, They leave me alone with the cold again, Beside the tomb where my joys have lain,
"With hope like the swallows flown.
Trunsl. of Henri Van Laun.
LOOKING UPWARD.
From Sixtus' fane when Michael Angelo
His work completed radiant and sublime, The scaffold left and sought the streets below,
Nor eyes nor arms would lower for a time ;
Ilis feet know not to walk upon the ground, Unused to earth, so long in heavenly clime.
Upwards lie gazed while three long months went round ; So might an angel look who shouM adore The dread triangle mystery profound.
My lirothcr poets, while their spirits soar,
III the World's ways at every moment trip. Walking in dreams while thry the heavens cxplure.
Transl. of Hknri Va.v Lain.
JOtiN CAY.-l
GAY, John, an Eng1iv<;li poet, born in 1G88, died in 1732. lie was apprenticed to a silk-mercer in London, bnt turned his at- tention to literary pursuits. In 1711 he published Rural 8ports^ a poem dedicated to Pope, which led to a close friendship be- tween the two poets. This was followed by The Shepherd's Week, a kind of parody on the Pastorals of Ambrose Philips. He subsequently wrote several comedies ; and in 1727 brought out the Be^jgar's Opera^ which produced fame and money. This was followed by the comic opera of Polly, the representation of which was forbidden by the Lord Chamberlain ; it was printed by subscription, and netted some £1000 or £1200 to the author. Gay lost nearly all of his considerable property in the " South Sea Bubble," and during the later years of his life he was an inmate of the house of the Duke of Queen sherry. Apart from the two comic operas, Gay's best worts are : THvia, or the Art of Wall'hig the Streets of London, and the Fables, of which a very good edition was ])ublished in 1856.
WALKING THE STREETS OF LONDON.
Through winter streets to steer your course
aright, How to walk clean by day, and safe by night ; How jostling crowds with prudence to decline, When to assert the wall, and when resign, I sing ; tliou, Trivia, goddess, aid my song, Through spacious streets conduct thy bard along: By thee transported, I securely stray AVherc winding alleys lead the doubtful way ; The silent court and opening square explore, And long perplexing lanes untrod before. To pave thy realm, and smooth the broken ways, EjiHh from her womb a flinty tribute pays :
4C4
JOHN GAY.— 2
For thee the sturdy pavior thumps the ground, Whilst every stroke his laboring lungs resound; For thee the' scavenger bids kennels glide Within their bounds, and heaps of dirt subside. My youthful bosom burus with thirst of fame, From the great theme to build a glorious name ; To tread in paths to ancient bards unknown, And bind my temples with a civic crown: But more my country's love demands my lays ; My country's be the profit, mine the praise !
When tiie black youth at chosen stands rejoice, And " Clean your shoes 1" resounds from every
voice, When late their miry sides stage-coaches show, And their stiff horses through the town move
slow ; When all the Mall in leafy ruin lies, And damsels first renew tlieir oyster-cries; Then let the prudent walker shoes provide. Not of the Spanish or Morocco hide ; The wooden hocl may raise the dancer's bound, And with the scalloped top his step be crowned : Let firm, well-hammered soles protect thy feet Througii freezing snows, and rains, and soaking
sleet. Should the- big last extend the shoe too wide, Each .stone will wrench the unwary ste{) aside ; The sudden turn may stretch the swelling vein, Thy cracking joint uidiinge, or ankle sprain ; And when too short the modish shoes arc worn, You'll judge the sea.sons by your shooting corn.
Nor should it prove thy less important care To choose a proper coat for winter's wear. Now in thy trunk thy D'Oily habit fold, The silken drugget ill can fence the cold; The frieze's spongy nap is soaked with rain, And showers soon drench the cambltt's cockled
grain ; True Witney broadcloth, with its shag un.shorn, Unpicrced is in the lasting tempest worn : J3c this the horseman's fence, for who would
wear Amid the town the spoils of Uussia'B bear? m
JOHN GAY.— 3
Within the roquelaure's clasp thy hands are
pent, Hands, that, stretched forth, invading harms
prevent. Let the looped bavaroy the fop embrace, Or his deep cloak bespattered o'er with lace. That garment best the winter's rage defends, Whose ample form without one plait depends; By various names in various counties known, Yet held in all the true surtout alone ; Be thine of kersey firm, though small the cost, Then brave iinwet the rain, unchilled the frost. If thy strong cane support thy walking hand, Chairmen no longer shall the wall command ; Even sturdy carmen shall thy nod obey. And rattling coaches stop to make thee way : This shall direct thy cautious tread aright. Though not one glaring lamp enliven night. Lot beaux their canes, with amber tipt, produce ; Be theirs for empty show, but thine for use. In gilded chariots while they loll at ease. And lazily insure a life's disease ; While softer chairs the tawdry load convey To Court, to White's, assemblies, or the play; Rosy-complexioned Plealth thy steps attends, And exercise thy lasting youth defends.
Trivia.
THE HARE WITH MANY FRIENDS.
Friendship, like love, is but a name. Unless to one you stint the flame. The child whom many fathers share, Hath seldom known a father's care. 'Tis thus in friendship : who depend On many, rarely find a friend.
A Hare, who, in a civil way. Complied with everything, like Gay, Was known by all the bestial train Who haunt the wood or graze the plain : Her care was never to offend. And every creature was her friend.
As forth she went at early dawn, To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn,
JOHN GAY.— 4
Behind she hears the hunter's erics, And from the deep-mouthed tluinder flics. She starts, she stops, she pants for breath ; She hears the near advance of death ; She doubles, to mislead the hound, And measures back her mazy round; Till, fainting in the public way. Half-dead with fear she gasping lay; AVhat transport in her bosom grew, When first the Horse appeared in view! " Let me," says she, " your back ascend, And owe my safety to a friend. You know my feet betray my flight ; To friendship every burden 's light."
The Horse replied : " I'oor Honest Puss, It grieves my lieart to sec you thus ; * Be comforted ; relief is near. For all your friends are in the rear."
She next the stately Bull implored, And thus replied the mighty lord : " Since every beast alive can tell That I sincerely wish you well, I may, without offence, pretend To take the freedom of a friend. Love calls me hence; a favorite cow Expects me near yon barley-mow; And when a lady's in the case, You know, all other things give place. To leave you thus might seem unkind ; But see, the Goat is just behind."
The Goat remarked licr pulse was high, Her languid head, her heavy eye ; "My back," says lie, " may do you harm ; The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm."
The Sheep was feeble, and complained His sides a load of wool sustained: Said he was slow, confessed his fears. For hounds cat sheep as well as hares.
She now the trotting Calf addressed, To save from death a friend distressed. "Shall I," says he, " of tondcr ago, In this impoitant care engage ?
JOHN GAY.— 5
Older and abler passed you by ; How strong are those, hov weak am I! Should I presume to bear you hence, Those friends of mine may take offence. Excuse me, then. You know my heart; But dearest friends, alas ! must part. How shall we all lament! z\dieu ! For, see, the hounds are just in view !"
BLACK-EYED SUSAN.
All in the Downs the fleet was moored, The streamers waving in the wind,
When black-eyed Susan came aboard: "Oh ! where shall I my true love find?
Tel^me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true,
If my sweet William sails among the crew !"
William, who high upon the yard Rocked with the billow to and fro,
Soon as her well-known voice he heard. He sighed, and cast his eyes below :
The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands.
And, quick as lightning on the deck he stands.
So the sweet lark, high poised in air, Shuts close his pinions to his breast,
If chance his mate's shrill call he hear, And drops at once into her nest.
The noblest captain in the British fleet
Might envy William's lips those kisses sweet.
" 0 Susan, Susan, lovely dear.
My vows shall ever true remain ; Let me kiss off that falling tear ;
We only part to meet again. Change as ye list, ye winds ! my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee.
*' Believe not what the landsmen say,
Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind ;
They'll tell thee, sailors when away, In every port ^ mistress find.
4S8
JOHN GAY.— 6
Yes, yes, believe tbem when tbey tell thee so, For thou art present v\'beresoe'cr I go,
" If to fair India's coast we sail,
Tby eyes arc seen in diamonds brigbt,
Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, Thy skin is iv'ory so white.
Thus every beauteous object that I view
Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.
" Though battle call me from thy arms.
Let not my pretty Susan mourn ; Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms,
William shall to his dear return. Love turns aside the balls that round me fly. Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye."
The boatswain gave the dreadful word ;
The sails their swelling bosoms spread; No longer must she stay aboard ;
They kissed — she sighed — he hung his head. Iler lessening boat unwilling rows to land, " Adieu !" she cries, and waved her lily hand.
4i»
MARIE FRAN(;0I^E SOPHIE GAY.— 1
GAY, Marie Fkan^oise Sophie (de la Valette), a French novelist, born in 1776 ; died in 1852. She was the daughter of a financier to " Moiisieur," afterwards Louis XVIII., and was carefully isducated by her father. When seventeen years of age she entered upon an unhappy marriage, but ob- tained a divorce in 179^. She afterwards married M. Gay, Receiver-General in the department of Roer, and went to reside at Aix-la-Chapelle. Her beaiity, wit, and amia- bility attracted all who knew her, and her husband's position widened her circle of acquaintances, until it included the most distinguished actors, musicians, and men of letters. She was a fine musician, a per- former on the piano and harp, and com- posed both M'ords and music of several romances. Her first literary work, a de- fense of Mme. de i^tni'VsDelphme, was pub- lished in 1802 in the Journal de Paris. In the same year she published anonymous- ly a romance, Lanre (VEstell. Leonie de Monthrcuse (1813) was her next novel. It was followed in 1815 by Anatole, the most popular of her works. She contributed to Z« Presse and other papers, and wrote several successful dramas. Among her other works are Theohald (1828), TJn Mariage sous V Empire (1832), Scenes du Jeune Age (1823), /Souvenirs d\me Vieille Fenime (1834), Les Salons Celehres (1837), Marie- Louise dWrleans (1842), Le Faux Frere and Le Cornte de Guiclie (1845.)
NEW year's gifts IN FRANCE.
The reunions begin ; already some persons have appointed tlieir reception evenings, but the soirees are not complete ; for those husbands who are great .proprietors make a pretext of their
iiAElfi ^RANt;!OlSE sbPHIE GATT.— 2
plantations and agricultural cares, to keep their young wives, as long as possible, far from the pleasures the city offers ; not reflecting that the richest love to pass over the season for gifts, considering them a species of tax imposed upon the vanity of the avaricious, as well as that of the lavish, from which distance and solitude can alone disfranchise.
It is towards the 20th of December that the scourge begins to be felt ; first, a general agitation is perceived, arising from perplexity in the choice of objects that will gratify the recipients ; to this succeeds despair of ever reconciling the gift one selects with the price she can or will give. Oh ! the sleepless nights that follow days of anxious thought; the fear lest the present should be too useful, and hurt the pride of the friend, or too fanciful, and imply that she is capricious ; but it is less dangerous to consult her caprices than her needs, and the talent ef divining the one or the other is seldom attended with success.
Nothing can equal the tacit ambition of the receivers of the New Year's gifts. Already the caresses of the children, the assiduity of the 8er\-ants, is in ratio to the gifts they hope to receive from their relations or masters. Already the jewelers polish their old jewels, that they may sell them as new to strangers and pro- vincials, wlio would be ill received on their return home, if not tlic envoys of robes, hats, and jewels, esteemed in tlie mode. She is the passport to a welcome from their families
If this month has its charges, it has also its profits; the service in every liousc is performed with more exactness ; tliere are no letters lost, no journals missing, the visiting rards are punc- tually (IciiTcrcfl to those who claim tlTcMi, the lodger no longer knocks twenty times at tiic carriage entrance before the gate is opened, tlio boxkeeper does not keep you waiting in the lobby of the theatre, tlie coachman is metre seldoni drunk, the cook leaves in repose the cover of the basket, the chambermaid grumbles no longer,
Ml
MARIE FRANQOISE SOPHIE GAY.— S
the children do not cry wlicn nothing is the matter, the governesses intermit their beatings, everything goes on more easily, each one does liis duty, every conrtier is at his post — for each one hopes to have liis name inscribed on the list for favors; the salons of the ministers are filled, government meets with less resistance, princes with fewer assassins.
But how many deceptions, jealousies, even enmities, date their birth from this deceitful month ! What constrained visages, what con- tortions and grimaces of gratitude, without counting the conjugal his ! We will favor our friends with titles of the different species of New Year's gifts :
First, the duty gift, given and received as the payment of a bill of exchange; that is to say, grudgingly on one side, and with no gratitude on the other.
Next, the impost duty, which it is necessary to satisfy ; under penalty of being served the last, or even not all, when you dine with your friends.
The chalice gift, which simply consists in giving this year to the new friends the little presents tliat were received the year before from the old ones. This is the ass's bridge of the vain economists.
The fraudulent gift, which is particularly flattering, as it purports to have been purchased for the friend, or to have been sent by an old aunt, whose three years' revenue could not pay for this lying gift.
The loaning gift. This reveals the phases and revolutions foreseen by astronomers of tlie licart, where love passes to friendship, friendship to habit, habit to indifference. This species of gift commences ordinarily with some rich talis- man, the luxury of which, above all, consists in its uselessness, and ends with a bag of con- fectionery.
We have also the politic gift, the most in- genious of all, invented by fortune-hunters, so- licitors, and artful women.
MARIE FRANgOISE SOPHIE GAY.— 4
It is only a few clioice spirits who have the finesse essential to success in this last present. They must not only give but little to obtain much; but the choice of the present, and the means of making it available, require shrewdness and address. "SVish you some place dependent upon a minister? Gain an introduction to his wife, or, if faithless to her, to the concealed object of his passion ; study her caprice that he has forgotten to satisfy; send your offering anonymously ; your meaning will be divined by licr, and the office you desire be obtained from him. Does your fate depend upon a brave ad- ministrator whose wife is faithful ? Fear not ruining yourself in baubles for the children ; your place is more sure than the revenues of Spain.
Do you wish to assure yourself of an inheri- tance from some okl relation ? Observe his mania; endeavor to discover what is the piece of furniture, tlio book, or the exquisite dish that his avarice refuses him ; give a watch to his house- keeper's little son ; persuade her to obtain a pension from the old man for the child, and you will not miss of the inheritance. This is the politic gift in all its diplomacy. As to the calculations of the woman who constrains or excites the generosity of her friends by lier rich offerings, that is to be classed among vulgar speculations. — Celebrated Salons. Transl. of i.
WlLLARU.
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SYDNEY HOWARD GAY.— 1
GAY, Sydney Howard, an American journalist and historian, born at Bingham, iMass., in 1814. He entered Harvard College at fifteen, but left without graduating, on ac- count of ill health. After spending some years in a counting-house, he began the study of law ; this he abandoned for the reason that he could not conscientiously take the oath to maintain the Constitution of the United States, which required the surrender of fugitive slaves. In 1842 he became an anti-slavery lecturer ; in 1844 editor of the Anti-Slavery Standard., retain- ing that position until 1857, when he joined the editorial staff of iheNew York Tribune.^ of which he was " Managing Editor" from 1802 to 1866. From 1867 to 1871 he was Managing Editor of the Chicago Tribune. In 1872 he became one of the editors of the New York Evenhtg Post. Two years after- wards William Cullen Bryant was asked by a publishing house to undertake the pre- paration of an illustrated History of the United States. He consented upon condi- tion that the work should be actually exe- cuted by Mr. Gay, his own advanced age rendering it impossible that he should un- dertake a labor of such magnitude. This History of the United States., comprising four large volumes (1876-1880), was really written by Mr. Gay, Avith the aid in the latter portion of several collaborators, among whom were Alfred H. Guernsey, Edward Everett Hale, Henry P. Johnson, Rossiter Johnson, and Horace E. Scudder. Mr. Gay has also written a Life of James Madi- son (1884) and was engaged upon a Life of Edmund Qiiiney^ when the work was inter- rupted by a long and serious illness.
SYDNEY HOWARD GaY.-^2
THE MOUND-BUILDERS OF AMERICA.
The dead and buried culture of the ancient people of North America, to whose memory they themselves erected such curious monu- ments, is specially noteworthy in that it differs from all other extinct civilizations. Allied, on the one hand, to the rude conditions of the Stone Age, in which the understanding of man does not aim at much beyond some appliance that shall aid his naked hands in procuring a supply of daily food, it is yet far in advance of that rough childhood of the race ; and while it touches the Age of Metal, it is almost as far be- hind, and suggests the semi-civilization of other pre-historic races who left in India, in Egypt, and the centre of the Western Continent, magnificent architectural ruins and relics of the sculptor's art, which, though barbaric, were nevertheless full of power peculiar to those parallel regions of the globe.
It is hardly conceivable that those imposing earthworks were nieant for mere outdoor occu- pation. A people capable of erecting fortifica- tions which could not be much improved upon by modern military science as to position, and, considering the material used, the method of construction ; and who could combine for reli- gious obsorvancos enclosures in groups of elabo- rate design, extending for more than twenty miles, would probablv crown such works with structures in liarmony with their importance and the skill and toil bestowed upon their erection. Such woollen edifices — for wood they must have been — would long ago have crumbled into dust; but it in not a fanciful suggestion that probably Bomething more imposing than a rude hut once stood upon tumuli evidently meant for occupa- tion, and sometimes ap[»ri>;iehing the I'yramids of Kgypt in si/,*! ami grandeur. These circum- vallatioiiHof mathematical figures, bearitig to each otlier certain well-defined relations, an<l made — though many miles apart — in accordance with
SYDNEY HOWARD GAY.— 3
some exact law of measurement, no doii^jt sur- rounded somctliing better tlian an Indian's wig- wam. That which is left is the assurance of that which has perished ; it is the scarred and broken torso bearing witness to the perfect work of art as it came from the hands of the sculptor.
Nor is this the only conclusion that is forced upon us. These people must have been very numerous, as otherwise they could not have done Avhat we see they did. They were an industrious, agricultural people ; not like the sparsely scattered Indians, nomadic tribes of hunters ; for the mul- titudes employed upon the vast systems of earth- works, and who were non-producers, must have been supported by the products of the labor of another multitude who tilled the soil. Their moral and religious natures were so far developed that they devoted much tiine and thouglit to oc- cupations and subjects which could have nothing to do with their material welfare : a mental condi- tion far in advance of the savage state. And the degree of civilization which they had reached — trifling in some respects, in others full of promise — was peculiarly their own, of which no trace can be discovered in subsequent times, unless it be among other and later races south and west of the Gulf of Mexico.
Doing and being so much, the wonder is that they should hot have attained to still higher things. But the wonder ceases if we look for the farther development of their civilization in Mexico and Central America. If they did not die out, destroyed by pestilence or famine ; if they were not exterminated by the Indians, but were at last driven away by a savage foe against whose furious onslaughts they could contend no longer, even behind their earthen ramparts, their refuge was probably, if not necessarily, farther south or southwest. In New Mexico they may have made their last defense in the massive stone fortresses, which the bitter experience of the past had taught them to substitute for the earth-works they had been compelled to abandon. Thence
SYDNEY HOWARD GAY.— 4
extending southward they may, in successive periods, have found leisure, in the perpetual sum- mer of the tropics, where nature yielded a sub- sistence almost unsolicited for the creation of that architecture whose ruins are as remarkable as those of any of the pre-historic races of other continents. The sculpture in the stone of those beautiful temples may be only the outgrowth of that germ of art shown in the carvings on the pipes which the Mound-Builders left on their buried altars. In these pipes a striking fidelity to nature is shown in the delineation of animals. It is reasonable to suppose that they were equally faithful in portraying their own features in their representations of the human head and face ; and the similarity between these and the .sculptures upon the ancient temples of Central America and Mexico is seen at a glance. Then also it may be that they discovered how to fuse and combine the metals, making a harder and a better bronze than the Europeans had ever seen ; to execute work in gold and silver which the mo.st skilled Europeans did not pretend to e.vccl ; to manufacture woven stuffs of fine tex- ture, the beginnings whereof are found in tlie fragments of coarse cloth ; in objects of use and ornament, wnjught in metals, left among the otiiej" relics in the earlier nurtheni homes of their race. In the art of the southern people there wa« nothing imitative; the works of the Mound- liuildcrs .stand as distinctly original and indepen- dent of any foreign influence. Any similarity in cither that can be traced to anything else is in the apparent growth of the first rude culture of the ncjrthern race into the higher civilization of that of the Houth. It certainly is not a violent supposition that the people who (lisap[)eared at one period from one part of the continent, leaving bcliimi them certain unmistakable marks of pro- gress, had rriappeared at another time in another place, where the satnc marks were foutid in largo <Icvelo|>in<iit. — llislonj of the United tSlatcSj Vol. 1., Chap. IL
Ml
CHARLES ARTHUR GAYARRfe.— 1
GAYARRE, Ciiables Arthur, anr American historian, born in Louisiana in- 1805. He was educated at the University of New Orleans, studied law at Philadel- phia, and was admitted to the bar in 1829. ' In 1830 he was appointed Deputy Attor-' ney-General of Louisiana, and in 1833 pre^'^ siding Judge of tlie City Court of ISew Orleans. In 1835 he was chosen to the United States Senate, but impaired health prevented him from taking his seat. He went to Europe, where he remained forv about eight years. Eeturning to New Or-,, leans he was elected to the Legislature in- 181:1:, and again in 1846. He was appointed. Secretary of State in Louisiana, and held- the office for seven years, after which he retired from public service. His writings relate mainly to the history of 'Louisiana. They are : Jissai Historique sur la Louis- iane (1830), Histoire de la Louisiane (1848), Louisiana^ its Colonial History and liomance (1851), Lo^iisiana^ its His- tory as a French Colony (1852), History of the SjMnish Domination in Louisiana (1854). He has also written Philij) II. of Sjyain, a biographical sketch (1866), Fer- nando de Lemos, a novel (1872), and a con- tinuation of it, Albert Hubayet {1882.)
ORIGIN OF THE HISTORY OF LOUISIANA.
If every man's life were closely analyzed, acci- dent— or wliat seems to be so to human appre- licnsion, and whatever usually goes by that name, whatever it may really be — would be discovered to act a more conspicuous part, and to possess a more controlling influence than preconception, and that volition which proceeds from long- meditated design. My writing the liistory of Louisiana from the expedition of De Soto in
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CHARLES ARTHUR GAYARR^— 3
1539 to the final and complete establishment of the Spanish oovernment in 1769, after a spirited resistance from the French colonists, was owing to an accidental circumstance, which, in the shape of disease, drove me from a seat I had lately obtained in the Senate of the United States ; but which, to my intense regret, I had not the good fortune to occupy. Traveling for health, not from free agency, but a slave to compulsion, I dwelt several years in France. In the peculiar state in which my mind then was, if its attention had not been forcibly diverted from what it brooded over, the anguish under which it sickened, from many causes, would soon not have been endurable. 1 sought for a reme- dy ; I looked into musty archives ; I gathered materials ; and subsequently became a historian — or rather a mere pretender to that name.— Preface to First Scries of Colonial History and Jiomance.
PROGRESS OF THE WORK.
The success of my Jiomance of the History of Louisiana from the discovery of that country by De Soto, to the surrender by Crozat of the charter which he had obtained from Louis XIV. in re- lation to that French colony, has been such that I deem it my duty to resume my pen and to present the following work to the kind and friondiv regard of my patrons. AVhen I wrote the j)rcccdeiit one, I said, in the words of Spen- ser's Faerie Quccnc, while I mentally addressed the public :
" Riglit T note, most mighty Rouveraino, That all this famous antique history Of some tir abonndanre of an idle brainc, Will jii'lgd'd be, and painted forgery, Rath'T than matter of just memory."
Nor was I n)iiitak<'n : for I was infonnrd that manv liad fakf-n for tlif? invontion of tlm brain wljut was historical truth set in u gilded frame,
CHARLES ARTHUR GAYARR!^.— 3
■when — to use the expression of Sir Joshua Rey- nolds— I had taken but insignificant liberties with facts, to interest my readers, and make my narration more delightful — in imitation of the painter who, though his work is called history- painting, gives in reality a poetical representa- tion of the facts. The reader will easily per- ceiv'e that in the present production I have been more sparing of embellishments, although "I well noted, with that worthy gentleman. Sir Philip Sidney," as Raleigh says in his History of the World, that " historians do borrow of poets not only nmch of their ornament, but somewhat of their substance."
Such is not the case on this occasion ; and I can safely declare that the substance of this work — embracing the period from I7l7 to 1743, when Bienville, who with Iberville, had been the founder of the colony, left it forever — rests on such foundations as would be received in a court of justice ; and that what I have borrowed of the poet for the benefit of the historian, is hardly equivalent to the delicately wrought dra- pery which even the sculptor would deem neces- sary as a graceful appendage to the nakedness of the statue of Truth. — Preface to Second Series of Colonial History and Romance.
CLOSE OF THE HISTORICAL LECTURES.
This is tlie third and last series of the Histori- cal Lectures on Louisiana, embracing a period which extends from the discovery to 17G9, when it was virtually transferred by the French to the Spaniards, in virtue of the Foiitainebleau treaty
signed in November, 1762 T looked upon
the first four Lectures as nugce seria, to which I attached no more importance than a child does to the soap-bubbles which he puffs through the tube of the tiny reed, picked up by him for tlie amusement of the passing hour. But struck with the interest which I had excited, I exam- ined, with more sober thoughts, the flowery field in which I bad sported, almost with the buoy-
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CllAULKS AKTJIUR GAYARR:^.— 4
ancv of a schoolboy. Checking the freaks of my' imagination — that boon companion with whom I had been gamboUng — I took to the plough, broke the grouncJ, and turned myself to
a more serious and useful occupation
Should the continuation of life and the enjoy- ment of leisure permit me to gratify my wishes, I purpose to write the history of the Spanish domination in Louisiana, from 1VC9 to 1803, when was effected the almost simultaneous ces- sion of that province, by Spain to France and by France to the United States of America, Embracing an entirely distinct period of history, it will be a different work from the preceding, as much, perhaps, in point of style, and the other elements of composition, as with regard to the characteristic features of the new lords of the land. — Preface to Louisiana us a French Colony.
THE ABORIGINES OF LOUISIAKA.
Three centuries have liardly elapsed since that immense territory which extends from tlie Gulf of Mexico to the Lakes of Canada, and which was subsc<iuently known under the name of Louisiana, was slumbering in its cradle of wilder- ness, unknown to any of the wliite race to which wo belong. Man was there, however — but man in his primitive slate, claiming, as it were, in api)earance at lea.st, a different origin from ours; or bcint; at best a variety of our species. There was the hereditary domain of the Red M;in, liv- ing in scattered tribes over that magnificent counlry. These tribes earned their precarious subsistence chiefly by jtursuing the inhabitants of the earth and ()f the water. They sheltered themselves in miserable hut«, B[»oke different laiiiruagcs ; observed coi.tradictory customs ; and wai^cfl fierce war upon each other. Whence they came, none knew ; none knows, with abso- lute certainty, to the [iresent day ; and the faint glinimcritigH of vague tradition have affnrdcd little or no light to penetrate into the darkness
CHARLES ARTHUR QAYARRlfc.— 5
of tlicir mysterious origin. — Colonial History and Romance.
DEATH OF DE SOTO.
It would be too Ioiil;: to follow Do Soto in his peregrinations during two years, through part of Alabama, Mississippi, and Tennessee. At last he stands on the banks of the Mississippi, near the spot where now flourishes the Egyptian-named city of Memphis, lie crosses the mighty river, and onward he goes, up to the White River, while roaming over the territory of the Arkansas. Meeting with alternate hospitality and hostility on the part of the Indians, he arrives at the mouth of the Red River, within the present limits of the State of Louisiana. There he was fated to close his adventurous career.
Three years of intense bodily fatigue and men- tal excitement had undermined the hero's consti- tution. Alas! well might the spirit droop within him ! lie had landed on the shore of the North American continent with high hopes, dreaming of conquest over wealthy nations and magnificent cities. What had he met ? Interminable forests, endless lagoons, inextricable marshes, sharp and continuous conflicts with men little superior, in his estimation, to the brutish creation, lie who in Spain was cheered by beauty's glance, by the songs of the minstrel, when he sped to the con- test with adversaries worthy of his prowess — with the noble and chivalric Moors ; he who had revelled in the halls of the imperial Incas of Peru, and who had there amassed princely wealth ; he the flower of knightly courts, had been roaming like a vagrant over an immense territory, where he had discovered none but half- naked savages, dwelling in miserable huts, ignobly repulsive when compared with Castilla's stately domes, with Granada's fantastic palaces, and with Peru's imperial dwellings, massive with gold! His wealth was gone; two-thirds of his brave companions were dead. What account of them would he render to their noble families ?
CHARLES ARTHUR GAYARRI:.— 6
He, the bankrupt in fame and in fortune, how would he withstand the gibes of envy ? Thought — that scourge of Ufe, that inward consumer of man — racks his brain ; his heart is seared with deep anguish ; a slow fever wastes his powerful frame; and he sinks at last on the couch of sickness, never to rise again.
The Spaniards cluster round him, and alter- nately look with despair at their dying chieftain, and at the ominous hue of the bloody river, known at this day as the Red River. But not he the man to allow the wild havoc within the soul to betray itself in the outward mien ; not he, in common with the vulgar herd, the man to utter one word of wail ! AVith smil- ing lips and serene brow he cheers his com- panions, and summons them, one by one, to swear allegiance in his hands to Muscoso do Alva- rado, whom he designates as his successor. "Union and perseverance, my friends," he says; " So long as breath animates your bodies, do not falter in the enterprise you have undertaken. Spain expects a richer harvest of glory, and more ample domains, from her children !" These are his last words, and then he dies. Blest be the soul of the noble kniglit and of the true Chris- tian! Rest his mortal remains in peace within that oaken trunk scooped by his companions, and by them sunk many fathoms deep in the bud of the Mississippi! — Colonial Historij and Romance.
inEUVILLE AND BIENVILLE.
High on the quarter-deck stood the captain, with the spy-glass in his hand, ajid surrounded by his oflicers. After a minute survey of the unknown vessels, as they appeared with outlincn faint ami hardly visible from the distance, and with the tip of their masts gradually ctncrgiiig, as it were, from the waves ; he had dropped lii» glass, and said to the bystanders, " (jtentlcMicn, they are vessels of war, and iJritish " Then lie instinctively cast a rapid glance upward at tho
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CHARLES ARTHUR GAYARR^.— t
ngc;ing of his ship, as if to satisfy himself that notliing had happened thereto mar that symmet- rical neatness and scientific arrangement which liavc ever been held to be a criterion of nautical knowledge, and therefore a proper source of pro- fessional pride
In the mean time the vessels which had been descried at the farthest point of the horizon, had been rapidly gaining ground upon the inter- vening distance, and were dilating in size as they approached. It could be seen that they had separated from each other, and they appeared to be sweeping round the Pelican (for such was the name of the French ship), as if to cut her oflE from retreat. Already could be plainly dis- covered St. George's Cross flaunting in the wind. The white cloud of canvas that hung over them seemed to swell with every flying minute, and the wooden structures themselves, as they plunged madly over the furrowed plains of the Atlantic, looked not unlike Titanic race-horses, pressing for the goal. Their very masts, Avith their long flags streaming like Gorgon's disheveled locks, seemed as they bent under the wind, to be quiv- ering with the anxiety of the chase. But, ye sons of Britain, Avhy this hot haste ? Why urge ye into such desperate exertions the watery steeds which ye spur on so fiercely ? They of' the white flag never thought of flight. See! they shorten sail as if to invito you to the approach
Now the four vessels are within guns])ot, and the fearful struggle is to begin. One is a British ship of the line, showing a row of 52 guns, and her companions are frigates armed with 42 guns each. To court such unequal contest, must not that French commander be the very imperson- ation of madness?
There he stands on tlie quarter-deck, a man ap{>arently of thirty years of age, attired as if for a courtly ball, in the gorgeous dress of the time of Louis the Fourteenth. The profuse curls of his perfumed hair seem to be bursting
CHARLES ARTHUR GAYARR^.— 8
from the large slouched gray hat which he wears on one side inclined, and decorated with a red plume, horizontally stuck to the broad brim, ac- cording to the fashion of the day. What a no- ble face! If I were to sculpture a hero, verily I would put such a head on his shoulders ; — nay, I would take the whole man for my model. I feel that I could shout with enthusiasm, when I see the peculiar expression which has settled in that man's eye, in front of such dangers thick- ening upon him.
Ila! what is it? What signify that convul- sive start which shook his frame, and that death- like paleness which has flitted across his face I What woman-like softness has suddenly crept into those eyes ? I understand it all ! That boy — so young, so effeminate, so delicate, but who, ifi an under-officer's dress, stands with such manly courage by one of the guns — he is) our brother, is he not? Perhaps he is doomed to death ; and you think of his aged mother ! W' ell may the loss of two such sons crush her at once. When I see such exquisite feelings tu- multuously at work in a heart as soft as ever throbbed in a woman's breast — when I sec you, Iberville, resolved to sacrifice so much rather than to fly from your country's enemies, even when it could be done without dishonor — stranger as you arc to me, I wish I could stand by you on that deck and hug you to my bo- som
That storm of human warfare has lasted about two hours ; but the French ship, salainander- likc, seems to live safely in that atmosphere of fire. Two hours I I do not think I can stand this excitement longer ; and yet every minute is adding fresh fuel to its intensity. But now comes the crisis. The Prlican has almost si- lenced the guni of the English 52, and is bcar- iuT down uf>on hor evidently with the intention to board. IJiit strange ! she veers round. Oh ! I Rcc. God of mercy! I feel faint at heart I The 52 i& sinking — slowly .she settles in the surg-
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CHARLES ARTHUR GAYARRI).— 9
ing sea — there — there — there — down ! "What a yell of defiance! But it is the last. What a rushing of waters over the engulfed mass ! Now all is over, and the yawning abyss has closed its lips. AVhat remains to be seen on that bloody theatre ? One of the English 42's, in a disman- tled state, is dropping slowly at a distance under the wind, and the other has already struck its flag, and is lying motionless on the ocean, a floating ruin ! — The French ship is hardly in a better plight, and the last rays of the setting sun show her deck strewed with the dead and the dying. But the glorious image of victory flits before the dimmed vision of the dying, and they expire with the smile of triumph on their lips, and with the exulting shout of " France forever /"
But where is the conqueror? Where -is the gallant commander whose success sounds like a fable ? My heart longs to see him safe, and in the enjoyment of his well-earned glory. Ah ! there he is, kneeling and crouching over the prostrate body of that stripling whom I have de- picted. He addresses the most tender and pas- sionate appeals to that senseless form ; he covers with kisses that bloody head ; he weeps and sobs aloud, unmindful of those that look on. In faith ! I weep myself to see the agony of that noble heart : and why should that hero blush to moan like a mother — he who showed more than human courage, when the occasion required fortitude ? Weep on, Iberville, weep on ! Well may such tears be gathered by an angel's wings, like dew-drops worthy of heaven, and, if carried by supplicating mercy to the foot of the Almighty's throne, they may yet redeem thy brother's life.
Happily, that brother did not die. He was destined to be known in history under the name of Bienville, and to be the founder of one of America's proudest cities. To him New Orleans owes its existence ; and his name, in the course of centuries, will grow in the esteem of posterity, proportionately with the aggrandizement of the
CHARLES ARTHUR GAYARRf.— 10
emporium of so many countless millions of hu- man beings.
The wonderful achievement which I have re- lated is a matter of historical record, and throws a halo of glory and romance around those two men who have since figured so conspicuously in the annals of Louisiana, and who, in the begin- ning of March, 1699, entered the Mississippi, ac- companied by Father Anastase, the former com- panion of La Salle in his expedition down the river in 1682. What a remarkable family ! The father, a Canadian by birth, had died on the field of battle, i« serving his country ; and out of eleven sons, the worthy scions of such a stock, five had perished in the same cause ; but of the six who remained, five were to consecrate themselves to the establishment of a colony in Louisiana. — Colonial History and Romance.
THE DEATH-BED OF PHILLIP II. OF SPAIN.
The King, with the complication of diseases under which he was sinking, became so weak that his physicians were much alarmed. It was a tertian fever, and although it was with much difficulty stopped for sometime, it returned with more violence, with daily attacks, and within shortening intervals. At the end of a week a malignant tumor manifested itself in his right knee, increased prodigiously, and produced the most intense pain. As the last resort, when all other modes of relief had been exhausted, the physicians resolved to open the tumor ; and as it was feared that the patient, from his debility, would not be al)lo to bear the operation, the phvsi(;ians, with nnioh precaution, communicated to him their apprehensions. He received this inforiiiation with great fortitude, and prepared liiniself bv a general confession for what might hapi>( n. He caused some relics to be brought to liiin, and often liaving adored and kissed them with much devotion, he put his body at the disposal of his mediral attendants. The operation was performed by the skilful surgeon,
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CHARLES ARTHUK GAYARR^.— 11
Juan do Vergara, It was a very painful one, and all who were present were amazed at the patience and courage exhibited by Philip.
His condition, however, did not improve. The hand of God was upon him who had caused so many tears to be shed during his long life, and no human skill could avail when divine justice seemed bent to enforce its decree of retribution. Above the gash which the operator's knife had made, two large sores appeared, and from their hideous and ghastly lips there issued such ■ a quantity of matter as hardly seems credible. To the consuming heat of fever, to the burning thirst of dropsy, were added the corroding itch of ulcers, and the infection of the inexhaustibla streams of putrid matter which gushed from liis flesh. The stench around the powerful sovereign of Spain and the Indies was such as to be insup- portable to the bystanders. Immersed in this filth, the body of the patient was so sore that it could be turned neither to the right nor to the left, and it was impossible to change his clothes or his bedding.
So sensitive had he become that the slightest touch produced the most intolerable agony ; and the haughty ruler of millions of men remained helplessly stretched in a sty, and in a more piti- able condition than that of the most ragged beggar in his vast dominions. But his fortitude was greater than his sufferings. Not a word of complaint was heard to escape from his lips; and the soul remained unsubdued by these ter- rible infirmities of the flesh. He had been thirty-five days embedded in this sink of corrup- tion when, in consequence of it, his whole back became but one sore from his neck down- ward
It seemed scarcely possible to increase the afflictions of Philip, when a chicken broth sweet- ened with sugar, which was administered to him, gave rise to other accidents, which added to the fetidness of his apartment, and which are repre- sented, besides, aa being of an extraordinary and
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CHARLES ARTHUR GAYARRi:.— 12
horrible character. He became sleepless, with occasional short fits of letharo;y ; and, as it were to complete this spectacle of human misery and degradation, the ulcers teemed with a prodigious quantity of worms, which reproduced themselves with such prolific abundance that they defied all attempts to remove their indestructible swarms. In this condition he remained fifty- three days, without taking anything which could satisfactorily explain the prolongation of his existence
In the midst of these excruciating sufferings, his whole bodv being but one leprous sore, his emaciation being such tliat his bones threatened to pierce through his skin, Philip maintained unimpaired the serenity of mind and the won- derful fortitude which he had hitherto displayed. To reliijcion alone — or what to him was religion — he looked for consolation. The walls of the small apartment in which he lay were covered with crucifixes, relics, and images of saints. From time to time he would call for one of them and apply it to his burning lips, or to one of his sores, with the utmost fervor and faith. In tliosc days of trial he made many pious dona- tions, and ap[)ropriated large sums to the dota- tion of establishments for the relief of widows and orphans, and to the foundation of hospitals and sanctuaries.
It is strange that in the condition in wliich we liavc represented him to be, lie could turn liis attention to temporal affairs, and had suflicient strr-ni^th of mitnl to dictate to his minister and confidential secretary, f'ristoval de Mora, some of liis views ami intentions for the conduct of the government: or, rather, it was not strange; for it was the ruling [tassion strong in death. In old age, and amidst nuoh torments as appalled the worbl, I'liilij) displayed the same tenacity of pnr[)OHe and love f)f jtower which had charactcr- izcfl him when flnslicd with the aspirations of youth and health, and subsequently when
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Charles arthur gayarrI— 13
glorying in the strength and experience of man- hood
On the lltli of September, two days before his death, he called the Hereditary Prince his son, and the Infanta liis daughter, to his bedside. He took leave of them in the most affectionate manner; and, with a voice scarcely audible from exhaustion, he exhorted them to persevere in the true faith, and to conduct themselves with pru- dence in the government of those States which he would leave to them. He handed to his suc- cessor the celebrated testamentary instructions bequeathed by St. Louis of France to the heir of his crown, and requested tlie priest to read them to the Prince and Princess, to whom he afterward extended his fleshless and ulcered liand to be kissed, giving them his blessing, and dismissing them melting into tears.
On the next day the physicians gave Cristoval de Mora the disagreeable mission of informing Philip that his last hour was rapidly approach- ing. The dying man received the information with his usual impassibility. He devoutly lis- tened to the exhortations of the Archbishop of Toledo, made his profession of faith, and ordered that the Passion of Chi'ist, from the Gospel of John, should be read to him. Shortly after he was seized with such a fit that he was thought to be dead, and a covering was thrown over his face. But he was not long before coming again to his senses, and opening his eyes, he took the crucifix, kissed it repeatedly, listened to the prayers for the souls of the departed, which the Prior of the monastery was reading to him, and with a slight quivering passed away, at five o'clock in the morning, on the 13th of Septem- ber, 1598. Philip had lived seventy-one years, three months, and twenty-two days ; and reigned forty-two years. — Philip II. of Sx>ain.
y.-'
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